Light on Lucrezia (16 page)

She understood the meaning in those eyes of his. She was not alarmed; in fact she was excited; although she would not let him know this. His very cruelty and the rumors she had heard of his barbarism made an appeal to her wild nature.

“What would you have of me?” she asked, putting out a hand to ward him off.

He struck down the hand and she winced.

“I demand the
droit de seigneur.”

Caterina’s eyes flashed. “Not content with the rape of my city you would rape my person?”

“I see you understand your predicament perfectly,” said Cesare.

“I ask you to leave me.”

“It is not for you to ask, but to submit,” said Cesare, his eyes glowing with sudden lust as he seized her by the shoulder. She would fight, this wild woman, and he would enjoy an encounter such as those he had shared with Sanchia.

He called aloud: “You may all leave me with the Countess.”

She sought to evade him, and the struggle began.

Cesare’s laughter was demoniacal. She would fight, and she must surely be the loser. She should remember that he had stormed the castle; she should know that every stronghold must fall before him.

It was more than a sexual adventure, this; it was a symbol.

Cesare was returning
to Rome. He came as a conquering hero, and the Pope was preparing a magnificent ceremony that all might realize his pride in his son.

In truth Cesare was returning in a far from triumphant mood. It was merely to raise money and change his plans that he had been forced to return to Rome, for unexpectedly, Ludovico, being helped by Maximilian of Austria, had reconquered Milan and the French had found it necessary to recall all their troops to the troubled area of Lombardy. As Cesare had been fighting his battles with the help of his French allies he suddenly found his armies so denuded that he had scarcely enough men to leave guarding the towns which he had conquered. Accordingly there was nothing he could do but return to Rome.

But he was not eager for the world to know how much he had relied on the French; therefore Cesare must return in triumph as the victorious Romans had done in the past.

Cesare’s motto was
Caesar aut nihil
. He was determined to hold what he had gained and gain still more.

Soon after the capture of Forlì, Cardinal Giovanni Borgia had come to the town in order to congratulate his kinsman on his victory; he had however been suddenly seized with a violent sickness, and died within a few hours of being taken ill.

There were whispers of Cantarella and, although there seemed to be little motive, Cesare was suspected of murdering his kinsman. It was known that
Cesare needed little motive—a look would suffice to annoy him and bring him to the decision that the one who had given it was unfit to live.

On account of the Cardinal’s death, Cesare decided to enter Rome in mourning. It was an effective spectacle and the people who watched it did so in silence. The carriages—one hundred of them—which came in advance of the soldiers were draped in black; there were no drums nor fifes, and the only sound heard in the streets of Rome was the tramp of feet and the roll of carriage wheels. The Swiss guards wore black velvet, and the great black plumes in their hats made them look like menacing birds of prey as they marched.

Cesare himself was a somber figure in black velvet, its darkness accentuating the bright auburn of his hair and beard. Beside him rode his brother Goffredo with Alfonso who, on the Pope’s instructions, had gone to the gates of the city to ride with Cesare.

Above the soldiers, floated the banners with their emblems of the Grazing Bull and the Golden Lilies of France.

Lucrezia, watching from the balcony, could not take her eyes from the three men—all of them so handsome—Cesare in the center, aloof in his black velvet doublet from the brilliantly clad and bejeweled young men on either side of him.

Lucrezia saw that her handsome husband was nervous. There was in his eyes that expectancy, that furtive horror, which she had noticed before when he was in the company of her brother Cesare.

Cesare had arrived
in Carnival time, and the people were given a subject for their revelry which was certain to please the Pope. There were masques depicting Cesare’s victories over his enemies; poems and songs were written of his brilliant soldiery and his daring campaigns.

Cesare was in good spirits. He had no doubt that he would achieve his destiny. He danced with Lucrezia in the presence of his father and their dances were those of Spain. He had renewed his pursuit of Sanchia, and it was reported throughout Rome that they were lovers again. Goffredo worshipped his brother and sought to copy him in everything; he was delighted that his wife pleased the great Cesare, and took to himself great credit for having
married her that he might provide Cesare with the best mistress he had ever had.

As for Sanchia, her feelings toward him were mingled; she hated him yet she found him irresistible; and as before, her hatred increased her passion.

But there was one thing which struck Cesare during this time. Lucrezia was no longer a child, no longer so pliable; and he realized with a shock that her loyalty to her husband might prove greater than that which she had for him.

Lucrezia had been present at those occasions when members of the Neapolitan and Milanese factions had put their heads together and plotted against Cesare Borgia. Lucrezia, his own sister, might be working against him!

Cesare noted the Pope’s devotion to his grandson. If the baby was in the Vatican gardens, Alexander would find some pretext for going out to him. He was becoming almost foolish in his adoration of his grandchild, and this was to a certain extent the measure of his love for Lucrezia.

With growing suspicion Cesare began to reassess the state of affairs in the Vatican. His sister’s husband was his enemy and had great influence with his sister, who in her turn had great influence with the Pope.

There was only one person who must be allowed to dominate the Pope; and there was only one whom his sister must serve: Cesare Borgia.

He began to make plans concerning that very handsome but very weak boy to whom they had married Lucrezia.

He found it difficult to be polite to the young fool, and increasingly irksome to see them together, to witness a hundred little signs of their fond and foolish love. The thought of their eagerness for each other drove Cesare to something like a madness, from which even the inordinate sensuality of Sanchia could not relieve him.

He would sit in his rooms above the Pope’s in the Vatican, for on his return to Rome he had not gone to his own palace, and there he would make plans. He would look out over Rome, of which he was now master, as his troops were camped all around the city and in their hands was the law. If any committed a misdemeanor—and a misdemeanor could be an idle word spoken in a tavern against Cesare Borgia—they would not repeat it. The gallows on the St. Angelo’s Bridge was well supplied with hanging corpses, a lesson for all to see.

He was lord of Rome. He was Cesare.

So why should he allow an insignificant and foolish youth to irritate him?

Thunder and lightning
rent the darkness over the eternal city. It was the Feast of St. Peter, and there was not a soul to be seen in the streets, for all had scuttled to safety as the first great raindrops had begun to fall. The rain splashed down in the streets and danced back as though in fury. Overhead the sky was black; and in their houses the people trembled.

Alexander was in his apartments with the Bishop of Capua and his chamberlain, Gasparre, executing some formal and unimportant business.

“How dark it is!” he said, looking up. “I cannot see to read.”

“The storm grows fierce, Most Holy Lord,” said the Bishop.

“We shall have to have lights,” replied the Pope. “And see, the rain is coming in through the windows.”

Gasparre was on his way across the apartment to call for lights and the Bishop had gone to the window when the roof immediately above the Papal chair collapsed.

Gasparre cried out in alarm and he and the Bishop, choking with the dust which filled the air, ran to that spot where the Pope had been sitting.

They could not lift the heavy beams, so they ran from the apartment shouting for help.

“The Pope is dead,” cried Gasparre. “The roof has collapsed and he in the chair is buried beneath the masonry.”

Guards and officials were running into the apartments; and it was not long before the news was spreading through Rome: “The Pope is dead. This is the work of God. He has been struck down because of his evil deeds. God has taken his life, as he and his son have taken the lives of so many.”

The people were preparing to riot, as they invariably did on the death of the Pope. The wise ones barricaded themselves in their houses; and guards were placed at the gates of the Vatican.

In the Pope’s
apartment men worked hard to lift the fallen masonry.

“He cannot be alive,” they said.

They crossed themselves; they believed that what they saw was the work
of God. They were astonished though that God had not taken Cesare with his father. Cesare’s rooms above the Pope’s had been hit; his floor had collapsed and it was under this that the Pope now lay buried; but Cesare had left his apartments only a few moments before the lightning had struck a chimney and a thunderbolt had crashed through the roof.

Cesare heard the news and came hurrying to his father’s apartment.

He was horrified. In those moments he realized that he needed his father as much now as he had needed him all his life. If the Pope died there would be a new Pope, and what of Cesare’s grandiose plans then? How could he carry them out without the help of the Holy Father? Who would respect him without the might of his father behind him?

“Oh my father,” he cried. “You must not die. You shall not die.”

Calling for shovels and axes, he tore at the masonry, his hands bleeding, the sweat pouring down his face.

“My lord,” gasped Gasparre, “His Holiness cannot be alive.”

Cesare turned and struck the chamberlain across the face.