Light on Lucrezia (45 page)

Cesare was furious when he heard that the Pope had agreed to the release of the Cardinal.

He raged about his father’s apartments. “He will disclose the fact that he has been tortured. There will be more evil rumors concerning us than ever. Moreover, we want the death of this man.”

Alexander smiled serenely at his son. “There are times when I feel you do not understand your father,” he murmured.

“I understand you well,” stormed Cesare. “You have only to hear a request from the lips of a pretty woman and you must grant it.”

“We have the pearl. Do not forget that.”

“We could have had the pearl and his life.”

The Pope was smiling pleasantly. “I see we think alike. This lovely woman must receive her lover, since I have promised her that. Already he has been given his goblet. She will receive her lover this day. I did not say whether he would be alive or dead. We have this priceless pearl and, in exchange, our little friend will have the Cardinal’s corpse.”

Other members of the Orsini family had been murdered recently. These were Paolo Orsini and the Duke of Gravina. The Orsinis were friends of the French, and Louis, furious when Alexander put Goffredo in charge of a company and sent him against the family, declared that his friends must be no more molested. Alexander ignored him.

It was during August when Cardinal Giovanni Borgia of Monreale died suddenly. The Cardinal was a very rich man; he had been a miser, and his death revealed that he was even richer than had been hoped. The Pope and Cesare could not fail to be delighted with his wealth which fell into their hands.

A few days after the death of this Cardinal there came to Cesare and his father an invitation to a supper party in the vineyard of Cardinal Adriano Castelli da Corneto outside the city.

Corneto was one of the richest of the Cardinals and was having a palace built for him in the Borgo Nuovo by the brilliant architect Bramante. He urged the Pope and Cesare to come, that they might first inspect the building which he was sure would be of great interest to them, and afterward retire to his vineyard for the party, which should not be large but nevertheless worthy of Their Eminences.

Cesare and his father were delighted with the invitation. They made their plans.

Cesare had his
men in every important household in Rome. He issued orders that a dose of Cantarella should be slipped into the Cardinal’s wine. Not a big dose. The Cardinal should not be immediately smitten. His death should not occur until a few days after the banquet.

They set out for the Borgo Nuovo where, at his unfinished house, Cardinal Corneto was waiting to receive them.

“It is a great honor,” murmured the Cardinal. “I appreciate your coming on such a night. The heat is overpowering.” The Pope laughed lightly, implying that the heat did not disturb him; he was as strong as a man half his age.

Cesare, admiring the work, declared that Bramante should build a house for him, and his smile was sardonic as he glanced at his father. Bramante was an artist; he should be allowed to finish his work, but it would not be for Corneto; it would be for the Borgias. It was a situation which appealed to Cesare. The poor fool was boasting of his treasures, little knowing that they would not long be his to boast about. But both the Pope and his son showed a deep and unfeigned interest in everything they saw. The wealth of Corneto would be a fine acquisition.

“Come,” said the Cardinal at length, “let us ride to my vineyard. ’Tis thirsty work, on such a night, inspecting a palace in the process of being built.”

“I confess to a thirst,” said the Pope.

So they came to the vineyard where the alfresco supper was ready for them.

“We will first slake our thirst,” cried Corneto; and Trebbia wine was served.

The Pope was very thirsty; he drank deeply of the wine; Cesare watered his a little, and Corneto watered his considerably, as did the few others present.

When the feasting began Cardinal Corneto gave no sign of the uneasiness he was feeling as he covertly watched his guests.

How heartily the Pope’s laughter rang out! How smugly contented was Cesare! Did it never occur to them to count their enemies? Did they not realize that there might be people who were ready to risk their own lives for revenge? They had made life cheaper, yet they did not understand this. There might be a slave whose daughter or son had been taken by Cesare for half an hour’s amusement, or perhaps had offended the Lord of Romagna in some way and had lost a hand or a tongue because of it. Were Cesare and his father so ignorant of human nature that they thought a slave had no feelings? Such a man, who had suffered through loved ones, would be ready to risk twenty lives, if he had them, for a glorious moment of revenge.

And the Cardinal himself? He had possessions which were envied, and his life was in danger. It did not seem to him an unworthy action to save the lives of others which were threatened while he saved his own.

He knew he could trust his servant who had good reasons to hate the Borgias. The powder which the Borgias had intended should be put into Cardinal Corneto’s wine should be put into that of the Pope and his son. But the Cardinal had decided that all his guests must take a little of the poison so that every one at that supper table should suffer slightly. Then it might be believed that the malady which he intended should kill the Pope and his son would appear to have been caused by some poison in the air, for at this time of the year the condition of the Roman streets had a poisonous effect and many people suffered “summer sickness” on account of it. But even if it were suspected that the Borgias had died of poison, everyone would be ready to believe that there had been a mistake and the wine intended for the Cardinal had been given to the Borgias.

The Cardinal was waiting for the effect of that poisoned wine, but it seemed to have none whatever on the Pope who had drunk it without water. He continued to amuse the company with his brilliant conversation and when he left both he and Cesare seemed unaffected.

All through the next day—it was the 11th of August—the Cardinal waited in vain for news from the Vatican of the Pope’s death. He called on the Pope to find that Alexander was his jovial self.

Is it true, wondered the Cardinal, that these Borgias have supernatural powers? Are they really in league with the devil?

The Pope awoke
early on the morning of the 13th August. For the moment he could not remember where he was. He tried to rise and as he did so was stricken with a terrible pain in his abdomen.

He called to his attendants, who came running to his bedside.

“Holiness,” they began, and stopped, to stare at him.

The Pope tried to demand why they stared, but he found it difficult to form the words.

“Help me … Help me … to rise,” he muttered.

But when they tried to obey him, he sank back swooning on the bed, and for some minutes he lay there, the sweat pouring from his body, the pain so overwhelming him that he could think of little else.

Then that dominant will asserted itself, as always in moments of crisis it had. He lay very still, fighting pain and sickness, forcing himself to remember who he was: Alexander the invincible. Alexander who had conquered the Sacred College and ruled the Papacy, Alexander whose son was one day going to rule Italy and the world.

And because of that great power within him which he had nourished until he really believed it was invincible, Alexander triumphed over his pains. He began to think clearly of what had happened during the last few days, and he said to himself: “I have been poisoned.”

He thought of the supper party, of sly-eyed Corneto. Could it be possible that someone had blundered? Or was the blunder deliberate? He remembered the visit to the half-built palace, and how thirsty he had been. He remembered sitting at the table, and the slave who had handed him the wine.

Was it a mistake? If so … he was doomed. No, he was not. Other men might be. Not so Alexander. He could not die yet. He dared not die. Cesare, not yet secure in Romagna, needed him. Lucrezia needed him. How would she be treated in far-off Ferrara if her father was not waiting to avenge any insult directed against her? He must not die.

The pain was coming in waves, and he knew he was fighting with Cantarella, that old friend turned enemy.

He stammered: “Go to the Duke of Romagna, and bid him come to me. I must have speech with him at once.”

He was trying to concentrate on the fight, but the enemy was a bitter one.

Cantarella seemed to be mocking him: Now you know, Holiness, how it has been with others. This torment was inflicted a hundred times on your enemies. Now, by some fluke of fortune, it is for you to suffer.

Never, thought the Pope. It shall not happen to me. Nothing can defeat me. I have risen above all my difficulties. Corneto shall suffer for this. When Cesare comes.…

Men were coming into the room but Cesare was not with them. Where was Cesare?

Someone was bending over the bed. His voice sounded like a whisper, then a roar.

“Most Holy lord, the Duke of Romagna is sick … even as is Your Holiness.”

Cesare, twisting in
agony on his bed, cried out: “Where is my father? Bring him to me. This instant, I tell you. If he is not here within five minutes someone shall suffer.” But his voice had sunk to a whisper and those about his bedside looked on, feigning horror; they believed that Cesare Borgia was on his death-bed.

“My lord Duke, the Pope has sent for you. He cannot come to you. He too is sick.”

The words danced in Cesare’s brain like mocking devils. “He too is sick.” So they had both drunk of the wrong wine. He remembered even as his father had. The thirst after the visit to the half-finished palace in the Borgo Nuovo, the pleasure of the shady vineyard, and the cool sweet wine.

He tried to rouse himself. A trick had been played, a foul trick, he thought. He wanted vengeance.

He cried: “Send for Cardinal Corneto. I would speak with him. Bring him to me at once. Tell him it would be wiser for him not to delay.… Holy Mother of God …” he whispered, “this agony … it is hell … surely hell.”

The news was brought to him. “Cardinal Corneto cannot wait on your lordship. He is confined to his bed with a sickness similar to your own.”

Cesare buried his face in his pillows. Someone had blundered.