Light on Lucrezia (15 page)

Lucrezia was delighted to have her with her; Alfonso was more than delighted; he was relieved. He could not have too many friends about him and he trusted his sister completely.

This was the day of the christening of the infant Roderigo, and there was great ceremony in the Palace of Santa Maria in Portico. No one would
have guessed that so recently the Pope had declared that the lords of Pesaro, Forlì, Urbino, Imola and Faenza had forfeited their rights to these dominions because they had failed to pay their tithes to the Church, and that this declaration was the sign for Cesare to begin his series of attacks.

All was gaiety in Lucrezia’s palace for the christening of her baby boy. She was too weak to be up, so she lay in her bed among her pillows of red satin embroidered with gold; and the room in which she lay had been hung with velvet of that delicate blue made fashionable by Lucrezia herself and called Alexandrine blue.

Guests came to her bedside—all the most important men and women of Rome; they brought gifts and compliments, and they all declared their good wishes for the baby’s health and prosperity.

Lucrezia was very tired, but she sat up on her cushions bravely smiling while her father looked on with approval. This was his way of showing his love for her child, of telling her that this little Borgia should have his share of that indefatigable love and devotion which Lucrezia knew so well because she had shared it.

Many Cardinals had gathered in the chapel, and when the time for the christening drew near they went in a splendid procession from the palace chapel to the Sistine Chapel which was adorned with Botticelli’s Daughters of Jethro and Perugino’s Handing over of the Keys.

Holding the baby was Juan Cervillon, the brave Spanish Captain whom Lucrezia had come to look upon as her friend; and very splendid was the little Roderigo in his ermine-edged gold brocade.

At the altar the Archbishop of Cosenza (Francesco Borgia) took the baby from Cervillon and carried it at the font while Cardinal Carafa performed the baptismal ceremony.

It had been the Pope’s wish that after the ceremony the baby should be handed to a member of the Orsini family, that all present might take this as a sign of his desire for friendship with them.

The effect was spoilt when the young Roderigo, having behaved perfectly from the moment he left Santa Maria in Portico and all through the ceremony in the Sistine Chapel, set up a wail of anguish as the Orsini took him, and continued to cry fiercely until he was taken into another pair of arms.

An evil omen, said the watchers. The Orsinis should beware of the Holy Father and he of them.

The days which
followed the baptism were uneasy, and even Lucrezia and Alfonso could not escape the tension.

Lucrezia’s friend, Juan Cervillon, came to her the day after the baptism and told her that he had been long from his home, and wanted to return to Naples that he might see his wife and family.

“You must go, Juan,” Lucrezia told him. “It is not to be expected that you should be separated from them for so long.”

“I have asked the permission of His Holiness,” he told her.

“And it has been given?”

“Yes, but somewhat reluctantly.”

Alfonso, who had joined them and stood listening, said: “That is to be understood. You have served him well.”

“I shall never forget,” said Lucrezia, “that it was you, Juan, who persuaded King Federico to allow my husband to come to me at Spoleto.”

“I was merely the ambassador of His Holiness.”

“But you worked well for us, I know, dear Juan. Do not slip away without saying good-bye to us; and when you say good-bye I shall want you to promise that you will not stay long away from us.”

He kissed her hand. “I promise that,” he said.

That day Cesare came home. He was eager to raise more money for his campaign, and spent long periods shut in with the Pope discussing his plans.

He came to see Lucrezia, told her that she looked wan, and was curt to Alfonso as though he blamed him for Lucrezia’s fragility; and he scarcely looked at the baby.

It was reported to Lucrezia that he had cut short the Pope’s eulogies on his grandson.

“He is jealous,” said Alfonso to Lucrezia, and she noticed that the fear was back in his eyes and that when Cesare was near he was a changed man. “He is jealous of my love for you and yours for me, of your father’s love for you and our child.”

“You are wrong,” soothed Lucrezia. “He is over-anxious because I have taken so long to recover from little Roderigo’s birth. We have always been such an affectionate family.”

“An affectionate family!” cried Alfonso. “So affectionate that one brother murders another.”

She looked at him with that hurt expression in her eyes which made him hasten to soothe her. “I spoke without thinking. I repeated idle gossip. Forgive me, Lucrezia. Let us forget I have spoken. Let us forget everything but that we love and are together.”

But how was it possible to forget those fears when a terrible tragedy occurred two days later.

Alfonso heard of it and came pale-faced and trembling to Lucrezia.

“It is Juan Cervillon,” he stammered; “he will never go home to Naples now. His wife and children will never see him, as they hoped. He was stabbed to death late last night when leaving a supper party.”

“Juan … dead! But it was only yesterday that he was with us.”

“Men die quickly in Rome.”

“Who has done this terrible thing?” cried Lucrezia.

Alfonso looked at her but did not answer.

“They will bring his murderers to justice,” Lucrezia said.

Alfonso shook his head and said bitterly: “People recall the death of your brother, the Duke of Gandia. He died after he left a supper party. Juan has already been buried in Santa Maria in Transpontina in the Borgo Nuovo, and it is said that none was allowed to see his wounds.”

Lucrezia covered her face with her hands. Alfonso went on almost hysterically: “He was heard, shortly before he died, talking scathingly of the affair of Sanchia and your brother Cesare, and it is said that he knew too many Papal secrets to be allowed to take them out of Rome.”

Lucrezia kept her face hidden. She did not want to see the haunting fear in her husband’s.

The death of Juan seemed to be the beginning of a new terror. There were several deaths—from stabbing, in alleys after dark; some bodies were recovered from the river; and there were many who passed mysteriously away and in such a manner that none could say how they had died. They were attacked by sicknesses of varying symptoms; some seemed to become intoxicated and die in their sleep. There was one fact which was the same in the cases of many mysterious deaths; those who suffered from them had supped at the Borgia table not long before their deaths.

The Borgias had a new weapon; all Rome knew what it was: Poison. They had their special apothecaries working for them, compounding and perfecting from their poisons recipes, it was said, which they had brought with them from Borja, their native town on the borders of Aragon, Castile and Navarre; and these secrets they had learned from the Moors. Spanish Moors and subtle Italians, a formidable combination, and from it was concocted Cantarella, that powder which was becoming feared by all whose daily life brought them into contact with the Borgias.

Ferninando d’Almaida, the Portuguese Bishop of Ceuta, was the next victim of note. He had been with Cesare in France, and it was said that he had seen Cesare humiliated more than once. He died mysteriously in camp with Cesare.

Meanwhile Cesare’s military operations were going forward with the utmost success, and he was now ready to turn his attention to Forlì which was in the hands of the Countess of Forlì, Caterina Sforza, reputed to be one of the bravest women in Italy.

She was fully aware that she could not hold out against Cesare. Imola, Caterina’s first stronghold, had already fallen to his troops, and she sent messengers from Forlì to Rome imploring the Pope for mercy.

The Pope had no intention of granting mercy since Forlì must fall to Cesare, and was chosen to be an important part of the Kingdom of Romagna; so he had the messengers arrested, and when they were tortured they “confessed” that the letter they brought to the Pope had been treated with a poison which was intended to bring about his speedy death.

There was consternation in the Vatican. When Lucrezia heard the news she ran to her father and burst unceremoniously into his presence. She flung herself into his arms and kissed him again and again.

“There, there!” soothed Alexander, stroking the long golden hair. “What is there to feel so excited about?”

“They might have killed you!” cried Lucrezia.

“Ah,” said Alexander, “it is worth the risk to see how much my beloved daughter cares for her father.”

“Father, life without you would be intolerable.”

“And you a wife! And you a mother!”

His eyes were alert, watching. The desired answer was: What are these
to me without my beloved, my sacred Holy Father, my affectionate earthly father?

She kissed his hands and he felt her warm tears on them. Such tears did not displease him.

“All is well, my dearest,” he murmured. “All is well. We are too wily for them, we Borgias.”

“That they should dare!” she cried.

Then she stopped, as she remembered the rumors she had heard of how men supped at the Borgia tables and said good-bye to life. She thought of poor Juan Cervillon, who had been so gay and happy one day, anticipating his return to his family, and whose body was in the grave less than twenty-four hours later.

Cesare marched on
Forlì, determined to revenge the threat to his father’s life. He would have no mercy on Forlì, whose Countess had dared attempt to give the Borgias a dose of their own medicine. She must understand the might of the Grazing Bull.

From the battlements of her castle Caterina watched the soldiers encamped below. Her case was hopeless but she was not going to give way until she had inflicted great damage on the enemy. It was not in Caterina’s nature to give way without a fight. She was the illegitimate daughter of Duke Galeazzo Maria Sforza, and thus her ancestor was the famous
condottiere
, Francesco Sforza. She had been only sixteen when she was married to Gerolamo Riario, nephew of Pope Sixtus who made him Count of Forlì. This man had been notorious for his cruelty and, shortly after his marriage to Caterina, the people had risen against him, entered his castle, stripped him and thrown his naked body from the towers. She was afterward married to Giacomo de Feo who met a similar fate at the hands of the mob; but this time Caterina was older and, determined on revenge, assembled her soldiers and pursued her husband’s murderers to their village, where she ordered that every man, woman and child in that village should be hacked to pieces; and this was done. That was the sort of woman Caterina had become.

Now she stood in the forefront of the battle directing her soldiers, fighting till the last, extracting every sacrifice from Cesare and his men, knowing
that in the end, because of their superior weapons and numbers, they must defeat her.

When Cesare broke through and forced his way into the castle she was waiting for him, her long hair falling in disorder about her shoulders, a mature woman but a tempestuous and beautiful one.

“I surrender,” she said with dignity.

“Having no alternative,” Cesare reminded her.

Cesare came close to her and stood watching her; their eyes met and his were full of latent cruelty.

This was the woman who had attempted to poison his father, so her messengers had said when the Question was applied to them. He would let her see what befell those who thought they could oppose the Borgias.

Caterina measured her opponent. She had heard stories of the chivalry of the French, and she remembered that when Giulia Farnese had fallen into the hands of Yves d’Allegre, that gallant French captain, she had emerged unscathed.

“I demand,” she went on, “that I be handed over to the French.”

“Why so?” said Cesare. “Are you not my prisoner? Do not imagine that I shall let you go.”

Caterina thought in that moment how glad she was that she had sent her children away. For herself, she was a woman who had enjoyed many adventures and it had been said with some truth that since the death of her husbands she had surrounded herself with men who would work wholeheartedly for her, their only reward being a share of her bed.