Madonna of the Seven Hills (36 page)

Alas, eventually even Alexander had to face the fact that Giovanni was no soldier, for this became undeniable when help came to the Orsini from the French, and they were able to attack the besiegers of the castle.

Faced with real battle Giovanni proved himself to be a hopeless leader, and the engagement went badly for the Papal forces; the only man among them who distinguished himself was the Duke of Urbino who, recovered from his wounds, was taken prisoner by the Orsini. As for Giovanni, he was wounded, but slightly, and realizing that he was in a somewhat ridiculous position, from which above all things he longed to extricate himself, he declared that being wounded he was unable to carry on, and must leave his armies to finish the conflict under a new commander.

Now the whole of Italy was laughing at the adventures of the Pope’s son. They remembered the ceremony at which he had been made head of the Papal armies; when he had led his armies out of Rome, he had marched like a conqueror.

This was very amusing to the Romans; and many people were pleased. This should teach the Pope that it was dangerous to his own interests to carry nepotism too far.

Cesare had recovered from his alarm over the Pope’s fainting fit, for Alexander was as full of vitality as ever, and Cesare was not going to lose this opportunity of scoring over his brother.

He called his friends to him and together they devised brilliant posters which they set up on various important roads throughout the city.

“Wanted,” ran the words on these posters, “those who have any news concerning a certain army of the Church. Will anyone having such information impart it at once to the Duke of Gandia.”

Giovanni came home, where he was received with undiminished affection by his father, who immediately began making excuses for his son and assuring everyone that, had Giovanni not had the ill luck to be wounded, there would have been a different tale to tell.

And all who heard marvelled at the dissembling of Alexander who so delighted to deceive himself. But they were soon admiring his diplomacy, for it appeared that the Pope never lost a war. Defeated in battle he might be, but terms followed battle, and from these terms the Pope invariably emerged as the victor.

Cesare went to see his father, and found Giovanni with him.

As Cesare looked at his brother he could not prevent a sneer from curling his lips.

“So,” he cried, “you have not rejoined your army, General.”

“Cardinal, my army and I have parted company,” said Giovanni lightly. “We wearied of each other.”

“So I hear.” Cesare laughed. “All Rome talks of it. There are even posters on the city’s walls.”

“It would be interesting to discover who put them there.” Giovanni’s eyes gleamed murderously.

“Be at peace, my sons,” put in Alexander. “What is done is done. We have suffered ill-fortune and we will now make peace.”

“We have to sue for peace!” Cesare’s tone was grim. “A pretty pass.”

“We’ll make it a pretty pass in all truth,” mused Alexander. “The Orsini are in no mood to continue the fight. I have offered my terms to them now and they will be accepted.”

“Your terms, Holiness?”

“My terms and their terms,” said Alexander lightly. “I shall allow them to buy back their castles. You will see that we shall lose nothing from this war.”

“And Urbino?” asked Cesare. “He is a prisoner. What ransom will be asked for him?”

The Pope shrugged the question aside. “Doubtless his family are gathering together the ransom.”

Cesare’s eyes narrowed. This brilliant man who was their father was in actuality turning Giovanni’s defeat into victory. Giovanni was watching his brother slyly.

He said: “Being weary of war, I rejoice that to-morrow the carnival begins.”

There was hatred in Giovanni’s eyes to match that in Cesare’s. You have sought to disparage me in our father’s eyes, Cesare Borgia, he was thinking; do not imagine that I shall allow you to attack me with impunity. Have a care, for I will find a way to turn the tables, my lord Cardinal!

It was with
Cesare that the Pope discussed the peace terms. Giovanni was too busy contriving his costume for the carnival and planning his own revels. He missed Djem who had always had some bizarre and fantastic suggestion to make at such a time.

There must come a day, Cesare was thinking, when our father realizes that I am the one to stand beside him, to share his ambition. How can a man, so brilliant as he is, continue to risk our position through this blind and foolish trust in one son at the expense of the other?

At such times as this Cesare was almost happy. There was no need now to call attention to Giovanni’s shortcomings; they must be perfectly obvious even to the besottedly devoted Alexander.

“My father,” he said now, “you astonish me. We Borgias have just suffered defeat which would have proved disastrous to many, and you are fast turning that defeat into victory.”

Alexander laughed. “My son, more is won at the council table than on the battlefield.”

“That, I venture to suggest, Holiness, might depend on the soldiers. Had I been a soldier I would have carried my banner into the enemy stronghold. I would have placed my heel on the enemy’s throat, and the terms I made would have been all my terms. Indeed, there would be no terms. I should have been conqueror of their estates and castles.”

“Nobly spoken, my son.”

Cesare was alert. Did he detect a certain speculative light in his father’s eyes? Was Alexander going to be reasonable at last?

“But,” went on the Pope, “we are in a certain position now, and we must extricate ourselves from it. The important point in the present case is speed. If
we
have been humiliated, my son,
they
are exhausted. They dread further fighting; that is why they are ready to make terms.”

Cesare laughed in admiration. “And you have made them buy back their castles!”

“For 50,000 golden florins.”

“But you would rather have kept the castles, Father; which you would have done had you defeated them completely.”

“We are 50,000 florins the richer.”

“This was to be a beginning. We but started with the Orsini. And now?”

“We shall resort to peace for a while.”

“And the Orsini, when they have recovered from their weakness?”

The Pope looked straight at his son. “There is one clause in the treaty to which I have had to agree. Virginio Orsini was in prison in Naples during the conflict.…”

Cesare snapped his fingers. “And if he had not been, oh my father, that would have been very unfortunate for us.”

The Pope agreed to this. Cesare was smiling; he was remembering those days long ago when he had left his mother’s house and lived for a year in Monte Giordano. He remembered the coming of the great soldier to the Orsini stronghold, and how his young boy’s heart had rejoiced in that man; he thought of the long rides, of Virginio’s grim yet affectionate way with him. During that year one of the heroes of Cesare’s life had been Virginio Orsini. Cesare had been proud when Virginio had wished that he had been his son; and if he had been, he would have made a soldier of him.

“You admire him, I see,” said Alexander.

“He is a great soldier.”

“Not so reliable when the French invaded Italy.”

“Doubtless he had his reasons, Father. The Orsinis have made themselves allies of the French.”

“Against us,” said the Pope. “But this clause in the treaty.… The Orsini demand that Virginio be immediately released from his prison.”

“I see, Father, that you do not wish to release Virginio.”

“You have said yourself that it would have been a different state of affairs had Virginio been at hand to lead his family’s forces. They are our enemies still. At this time they are exhausted by the recent conflict; they are without a true leader; but if they had such a leader …” The Pope shrugged his shoulders. “My son, it occurs to me that the Orsini may be so ready to agree to my terms, insisting only that Virginio be free, so that when he is among them again they may band themselves against us. Virginio must not be freed.”

“Yet you say this is the clause they insist on.”

“It is.”

“And you have agreed to it?”

“I have.”

“So Virginio will in a very short time
be free
.”

“He should not leave his prison.”

“Yet you have agreed.…”

“We have friends in Naples. There are a few days yet. Cesare, I charge you with this. You have always sought to show me your subtlety. Great commanders must be possessed, not only of courage, but resource.”

“When I was a boy and lived at Monte Giordano I knew him well,” said Cesare slowly.

“That was long ago, my son.”

“Yes,” said Cesare, “long ago.”

The Pope laid his hand on his son’s shoulder.

“You will know how to do what is best for our family,” he said.

It was foolish
to harbor sentimental feelings.

Cesare paced up and down his own apartments. It was unlike him to delay when he knew something must be done which would redound to his advantage. And yet, memories would keep recurring. He could see himself riding behind that stalwart figure; he could feel again the admiration he had known.

Virginio Orsini, the man who had made life at Monte Giordano tolerable; Virginio who had wanted to make a soldier of him.

There was no time for delay. A message must be taken at once to Naples. A small quantity of a white powder must be carried there and instructions given.

Virginio Orsini would soon be taking his last meal in the prison.

If it were another I would not hesitate, thought Cesare. I would not give the matter a second thought. But Virginio! Oh nonsense, nonsense! What was a boy’s hero-worship?

Yet he had been kind.

Kind! What had kindness to do with Cesare Borgia?

Still he continued to pace up and down his apartment.

“Not Virginio,” he murmured, “not Virginio Orsini.”

In the streets
the Carnival was at its height, and the people of Rome were bent on enjoying themselves. The Pope, with that mental dexterity which amazed all who came into contact with it, had once more brought diplomatic victory out of military defeat with the sleight of hand of a conjuror. The Orsinis had been the victors. But what had they won? A cessation of hostilities merely. They had paid heavily to regain their castles; and the head of their family, Virginio Orsini, although the Pope had granted his release, had died suddenly a few hours before he was due to leave his prison.

The people laughed at the wily ways of the Holy Father as they gave themselves up to enjoying themselves.

Men and women in masks and fancy dress filled the streets. Processions passed along, among which some carried grotesque figures held high over the heads of the revelers; others manipulated fantastic bizarre figures, puppets which performed lewd gestures to the immense amusement of the crowd. There was music, dancing and general revelry, and wars and political intrigue seemed far away.

From his apartment Cesare looked out on the revelers in the square and was angry with himself because he could not erase the memory of Virginio Orsini from his mind; when he slept he would awake startled, imagining that the tall stern figure stood at his bedside watching him reproachfully.