Madonna of the Seven Hills (5 page)

And when she squealed and showed by her face that he was hurting—only a little—that meant: Yes, Cesare, my brother. You I love better than any in the world. And he understood and his fingers became gentle.

“One is not angry with Uncle Roderigo,” Cesare told her. “That would be foolish, and I am no fool.”

“No, Cesare, you are no fool. But are you angry with someone?”

He shook his head. “No. I rejoice, little sister.”

“Tell me why.”

“You are but a baby. What could you know of what goes on in Rome?”

“Does Giovanni know?” Lucrezia, at four, was capable of sly diplomacy. The lovely light eyes were downcast; she did not want to see Cesare’s anger; like Roderigo she turned from what was unpleasant.

The trick was successful. “I will tell you,” said Cesare. Of course he would tell. He would not allow Giovanni to give her something which
he
had denied her. “The Pope, who you know is Sixtus IV, is dying. That is why they are excited down there; that is why Uncle Roderigo does not come to see us. He has much to do. When the Pope dies there will be a Conclave and then, little sister, the Cardinals will choose a new Pope.”

“Uncle Roderigo is choosing; that is why he cannot come to see us,” she said.

Cesare stood smiling at her. He felt important, all-wise; no one made him feel so wise or important as his little sister; that was why he loved her so dearly.

“I wish he could choose quickly and come to see us,” added Lucrezia. “I will ask the saints to make a new Pope quickly … so that he can come to us.”

“No, little Lucrezia. Do not ask such a thing. Ask this instead. Ask that the new Pope shall be our Uncle Roderigo.”

Cesare laughed, and she laughed with him. There was so much she did not understand; but in spite of the threatening strangeness, in spite of the gathering crowd below and the absence of Uncle Roderigo, it was good to stand on the loggia, clinging to Cesare’s doublet, watching the excitement in the square.

Roderigo was not
elected.

The excitement, watched by the children, persisted throughout the city. The scene had changed. Lucrezia heard the sounds of battle in the streets below, and Vannozza, in terror, had barricades put about the house. Even Cesare did not know exactly what it was all about, although he and Giovanni, strutting around the nursery, would not admit this. Uncle Roderigo only visited the house briefly to assure himself that the children were as safe as he could make them. His visits now were merely to see the children; since the birth of little Goffredo he had ceased to regard Vannozza as his mistress, and now there was another baby, Ottaviano, whom Vannozza made no pretence of passing off as his. As for little Goffredo, Roderigo was enchanted by the child, who was turning out to be in every way as beautiful as his elder brothers and sister. Roderigo, having need of sons and being susceptible to beautiful children, was more often than not inclined to give Goffredo the benefit of the doubt, and the attention he bestowed on the others was then shared by the little boy. Poor little Ottaviano was an outsider, ignored by Roderigo, though dearly loved by Vannozza and Giorgio.

But during those weeks there was little time even to regret Roderigo’s absence; the children could only look out on the piazza with amazement at the changing scene.

Innocent VIII had become Pope and he had allowed Cardinal della Rovere, who was the nephew of the deceased Sixtus, to persuade him to make war against Naples. The powerful Orsinis who, with the Colonnas, dominated Rome, were friends and allies of the Neopolitans, and this gave them an excuse for rising against the city. They put Rome almost into a state of siege and their old enemies, the Colonnas, lost no time in going into battle against them. Therefore, the streets of Rome, during that period which followed the death of Sixtus and the election of Innocent were the scenes of many a fierce battle.

The children—Cesare, Giovanni and Lucrezia—watching behind the barricades saw strange sights in the city of Rome. They saw the fierce Orsinis coming out in force from Monte Giordano to attack the equally fierce and bloodthirsty Colonnas. They watched men cut each other to pieces in the piazza immediately before their eyes; they saw the way of lewd soldiery with the girls and women; they smelled the hideous smells of war, of burning buildings, of blood and sweat; they heard the cries of victims and the triumphant shouts of raiders.

Death was commonplace; torture equally so.

Little Lucrezia, four years old, looked on at these sights at first with wonder and then almost with indifference. Cesare and Giovanni watched with her and she took her cue from them.

Torture, rape, murder—they were all part of the world outside their nursery. At four years of age children accept without surprise that which is daily paraded before their eyes and Lucrezia was to remember this time of her life not as one of horror, but of change.

The fighting died
down; life returned to normal; and two years passed before there was another and this time a more important change for Lucrezia, a change which marked the beginning of the end of childhood. She was nearly six, a precocious six. Cesare was eleven and Giovanni ten; she had been so much their companion that she had learned more than most
children know at six years of age. She was as serene as ever, perhaps a little more eager now to provoke that rivalry between her brothers than she had been, understanding more than ever what power it gave her, and that while each sought to be her favorite, she could be the most powerful person in the nursery.

Certainly she was serene, for she was wise; she had come to her power through her brothers’ rivalry and all she had to do was award the prize—her affection.

She remained the darling of the nursery. The maids could be sure that there would be no tantrums from Lucrezia; she was kind to little Goffredo whom his brothers scarcely deigned to notice on account of his youth; and she was equally kind to little Ottaviano whom her brothers would not notice at all. They knew something about Ottaviano which made them despise him, but Lucrezia was sorry for him, so she was particularly kind.

Lucrezia enjoyed her life; it was amusing to play one brother off against the other, to worm their secrets from them, to use this rivalry. She liked to walk in the gardens, her arms about Giovanni, being particularly loving when she knew Cesare could see her from the house. It made her feel warm and cozy to be loved so much by two such wonderful brothers.

When Uncle Roderigo came she liked to climb over him looking close into his face, perhaps putting out a delicate finger to touch the nose which seemed gigantic, to caress the heavy jowls, to bury her face in his scented garments and to tell him that the smell of him reminded her of her mother’s flower gardens.

Uncle Roderigo loved them all dearly, and came often with presents; he would have them stand round him while he sat on the ornamental chair which their mother kept for him, and he would look at them all in turn—his beloved children whom, he told them, he loved beyond all things on Earth; his eyes rested most fondly of all on Giovanni. Lucrezia was aware of this; and sometimes when she saw the dark look it brought to Cesare’s face she would run to Uncle Roderigo and throw herself at him in order to turn his attention from Giovanni to herself.

She was often successful, for when Uncle Roderigo’s long fingers caressed her yellow hair, when his lips touched her soft cheek, there would be a special tenderness which he could only give to her. He would hold her more tightly to him and kiss her more often.

“My enchanting little one,” he would murmur. “My little love.”

Then he ceased to watch Giovanni so devotedly and that pleased Cesare who did not mind Uncle Roderigo’s loving Lucrezia. It was only Giovanni who aroused his jealousy.

Then Vannozza might appear at the door holding little Goffredo by the hand, pushing him forward; and Goffredo would break from his mother and run shrieking with joy, shouting: “Uncle Roderigo, Goffredo is here.” He would be dressed in his blue tunic, which made him look as beautiful as a painted angel in one of the pictures which their mother cherished; and Uncle Roderigo would hesitate—or pretend to hesitate—for one second before he picked up the beautiful little boy. But only when Vannozza had gone would he smother him with kisses and take him on his knee and let him pull gifts from the pockets of his robes, while he called him “My little Goffredo.”

Ottaviano never came. Poor Ottaviano, the outsider; he was pale and delicate and he coughed a great deal. He was very like Giorgio, who was kind but who must be, so Cesare commanded, ignored by them all, since he had nothing to do with them.

But it was through Ottaviano and Giorgio, those two who were regarded as insignificant by the three children in the nursery, that change came into their lives.

They grew listless, both of them. The weather was sultry and it was said that there was pestilence in the air. Giorgio grew paler and thinner each day until he took to his bed and there was quiet throughout the house.

Vannozza wept bitterly, for she had come to love her meek husband, and when he died she was very sad. It was not long afterward that little Ottaviano, suffering in the same way as his father had, took to his bed and died. Thus in a few months the household had lost two of its members.

Lucrezia wept to see her mother unhappy. She missed little Ottaviano too; he had been one of her most faithful admirers.

Cesare found her crying and wanted to know why.

“But you know,” she said, her light eyes wide and wondering. “Our father is dead and our little brother with him. Our mother is sad and so am I.”

Cesare snapped his fingers angrily. “You should not weep for them,” he said. “They are nothing to us.”

Lucrezia shook her head and for once she would not agree with him. She had loved them both; she found it easy to love people. Giorgio had been so kind to her, Ottaviano had been her dear little brother, so she would insist on weeping even though Cesare forbade her.

But Cesare must not be crossed. She saw the dark angry look come into his eyes.

“Lucrezia, you shall not cry for them,” he insisted. “You shall not, I say. Dry your eyes. Look here is a kerchief. Dry them and smile. Smile!”

But it was not possible to smile with all her grief upon her. Lucrezia tried, but she remembered the kindness of Giorgio and how he had carried her on his shoulder and looked so pleased when people had admired her yellow hair; she remembered how little Ottaviano had a habit of creeping close to her and slipping his little hand in hers; she remembered how he used to lisp her name. She could not smile, because she could not forget that she would never see Giorgio and Ottaviano again.

Cesare seemed as though he were finding it difficult to breathe, which meant he was very angry. He took her by the neck, and this time there was more anger than tenderness in the gesture.

“It is time you knew the truth,” he said. “Have you not guessed who our father is?”

She had not thought of possessing a father until Giorgio came into the house, and then, as Vannozza called him husband, she had thought of him as father, but she knew better than to say that Giorgio was their father; so she was silent, hoping Cesare would relax his hold on her neck and let the tenderness return to his fingers.

Cesare had put his face close to hers; he whispered: “Roderigo, Cardinal Borgia, is not our uncle, foolish child; he is our father.”

“Uncle Roderigo?” she said slowly.

“Of a certainty, foolish one.” Now his grip was tender. He laid his lips on her cool cheek and gave her one of those long kisses which disturbed her. “Why should he come here so often, do you think? Why should he love us so? Because he is our father. It is time you knew. Now you will see that it is unworthy to cry for such as Giorgio and Ottaviano. Do you see that now, Lucrezia?”

His eyes were dark again—not with rage perhaps, but with pride because Uncle Roderigo was their father and he was a great Cardinal who,
they must pray each day, each night, might one day be Pope and the most powerful man in Rome.

“Yes, Cesare,” she said, for she was afraid of Cesare when he looked like that.