XI. THE NIGHT OF HATE--The Murder Of The Duke Of Gandia
The Cardinal Vice-Chancellor took the packet proffered him by thefair-haired, scarlet-liveried page, and turned it over, considering it,the gentle, finely featured, almost ascetic face very thoughtful.
"It was brought, my lord, by a man in a mask, who will give no name. Hewaits below," said the scarlet stripling.
"A man in a mask, eh? What mystery!"
The thoughtful brown eyes smiled, the fine hands broke the fragment ofwax. A gold ring fell out and rolled some little way along the blackand purple Eastern rug. The boy dived after it, and presented it to hislordship.
The ring bore an escutcheon, and the Cardinal found graven upon thisescutcheon his own arms the Sforza lion and the flower of the quince.Instantly those dark, thoughtful eyes of his grew keen as they flashedupon the page.
"Did you see the device?" he asked, a hint of steel under the silkinessof his voice.
"I saw nothing, my lord--a ring, no more. I did not even look."
The Cardinal continued to ponder him for a long moment very searchingly.
"Go--bring this man," he said at last; and the boy departed, soonto reappear; holding aside the tapestry that masked the door to givepassage to a man of middle height wrapped in a black cloak, his faceunder a shower of golden hair, covered from chin to brow by a blackvisor.
At a sign from the Cardinal the page departed. Then the man, comingforward, let fall his cloak, revealing a rich dress of close-fittingviolet silk, sword and dagger hanging from his jewelled girdle; heplucked away the mask, and disclosed the handsome, weak face of GiovanniSforza, Lord of Pesaro and Cotignola, the discarded husband of MadonnaLucrezia, Pope Alexander's daughter.
The Cardinal considered his nephew gravely, without surprise. He hadexpected at first no more than a messenger from the owner of thatring. But at sight of his figure and long, fair hair he had recognizedGiovanni before the latter had removed his mask.
"I have always accounted you something mad," said the Cardinal softly."But never mad enough for this. What brings you to Rome?"
"Necessity, my lord," replied the young tyrant. "The need to defend myhonour, which is about to be destroyed."
"And your life?" wondered his uncle. "Has that ceased to be of value?"
"Without honour it is nothing."
"A noble sentiment taught in every school. But for practical purposes--"The Cardinal shrugged.
Giovanni, however, paid no heed.
"Did you think, my lord, that I should tamely submit to be a derided,outcast husband, that I should take no vengeance upon, that villainousPope for having made me a thing of scorn, a byword throughout Italy?"Livid hate writhed in his fair young face. "Did you think I should,indeed, remain in Pesaro, whither I fled before their threats to mylife, and present no reckoning?"
"What is the reckoning you have in mind?" inquired his uncle, faintlyironical. "You'll not be intending to kill the Holy Father?"
"Kill him?" Giovanni laughed shortly, scornfully. "Do the dead suffer?"
"In hell, sometimes," said the Cardinal.
"Perhaps. But I want to be sure. I want sufferings that I can witness,sufferings that I can employ as balsam for my own wounded honour. Ishall strike, even as he has stricken me--at his soul, not at his body.I shall wound him where he is most sensitive."
Ascanio Sforza, towering tall and slender in his scarlet robes, shookhis head slowly.
"All this is madness--madness! You were best away, best in Pesaro.Indeed, you cannot safely show your face in Rome."
"That is why I go masked. That is why I come to you, my lord, forshelter here until--"
"Here?" The Cardinal was instantly alert. "Then you think I am as mad asyourself. Why, man, if so much as a whisper of your presence in Rome gotabroad, this is the first place where they would look for you. If youwill have your way, if you are so set on the avenging of past wrongsand the preventing of future ones, it is not for me, your kinsman,to withstand you. But here in my palace you cannot stay, for your ownsafety's sake. That page who brought you, now; I would not swear he didnot see the arms upon your ring. I pray that he did not. But if he did,your presence is known here already."
Giovanni was perturbed.
"But if not here, where, then, in Rome should I be safe?"
"Nowhere, I think," answered the ironical Ascanio. "Though perhaps youmight count yourself safe with Pico. Your common hate of the Holy Fathershould be a stout bond between you."
Fate prompted the suggestion. Fate drove the Lord of Pesaro to actupon it, and to seek out Antonio Maria Pico, Count of Mirandola, in hispalace by the river, where Pico, as Ascanio had foreseen, gave him acordial welcome.
There he abode almost in hiding until the end of May, seldom issuingforth, and never without his mask--a matter this which excited nocomment, for masked faces were common in the streets of Rome in theevening of the fifteenth century. In talk with Pico he set forthhis intent, elaborating what already he had told the CardinalVice-Chancellor.
"He is a father--this Father of Fathers," he said once. "A tender,loving father whose life is in his children, who lives through themand for them. Deprive him of them, and his life would become empty,worthless, a living death. There is Giovanni, who is as the apple of hiseye, whom he has created Duke of Gandia, Duke of Benevento, Princeof Sessa, Lord of Teano, and more besides. There is the Cardinal ofValencia, there is Giuffredo, Prince of Squillace, and there is my wife,Lucrezia, of whom he has robbed me. There is, you see, an ample heel toour Achilles. The question is, where shall we begin?"
"And also, how," Pico reminded him.
Fate was to answer both those questions, and that soon.
They went on June 1st--the Lord of Pesaro, with his host and his host'sdaughter, Antonia--to spend the day at Pico's vineyard in Trastevere. Atthe moment of setting out to return to Rome in the evening the Count wasdetained by his steward, newly returned from a journey with matters tocommunicate to him.
He bade his guest, with his daughter and their attendants, to ride on,saying that he himself would follow and overtake them. But the stewarddetained him longer than he had expected, so that, although the companyproceeded leisurely towards the city, Pico had not come up with themwhen they reached the river. In the narrow street beyond the bridge thelittle escort found itself suddenly confronted and thrust aside by amagnificent cavalcade of ladies and gallants, hawk on wrist and followedby a pack of hounds.
Giovanni had eyes for one only in that gay company--a tall, splendidlyhandsome man in green, a Plumed bonnet on his auburn head, and aroguish, jovial eye, which, in its turn, saw nobody in that moment butMadonna Antonia, reclining in her litter, the leather curtains of whichshe had drawn back that she might converse with Giovanni as they rode.
The Lord of Pesaro beheld the sudden kindling of his brother-in-law'sglance, for that handsome gallant was the Duke of Gandia, the Pope'seldest son, the very apple of the Holy Father's eye. He saw the Duke'salmost unconscious check upon his reins; saw him turn in the saddle tostare boldly at Madonna Antonia until, grown conscious of his regard,she crimsoned under it. And when at last the litter had moved on, hesaw over his shoulder a mounted servant detach from the Duke's side tofollow them. This fellow dogged their heels all the way to the ParioneQuarter, obviously with intent to discover for his master where thebeautiful lady of the litter might be housed.
Giovanni said naught of this to Pico when he returned a little later.He was quick to perceive the opportunity that offered, but far from surethat Pico would suffer his daughter to be used as a decoy; far, indeed,from sure that he dared himself so employ her. But on the morrow,chancing to look from a window out of idle curiosity to see what horseit was that was pacing in the street below, he beheld a man in a richcloak, in whom at once he recognized the Duke, and he accounted that thedice of destiny had fallen.
Himself unseen by that horseman, Giovanni drew back quickly. On the spurof the moment, he acted with a subtlety worthy of long premeditation.Antonia
and he were by an odd fatality alone together in that chamber ofthe mezzanine. He turned to her.
"An odd fellow rides below here, tarrying as if expectant. I wondershould you know who he is."
Obeying his suggestion, she rose--a tall, slim child of some eighteenyears, of a delicate, pale beauty, with dark, thoughtful eyes and long,black tresses, interwoven with jewelled strands of gold thread. Sherustled to the window and looked down upon that cavalier; and, as shelooked, scanning him intently, the Duke raised his head. Their eyes met,and she drew back with a little cry.
"What is it?" exclaimed Giovanni.
"It is that insolent fellow who stared at me last evening in the street.I would you had not bidden me look."
Now, whilst she had been gazing from the window, Giovanni, moving softlybehind her, had espied a bowl of roses on the ebony table in the room'smiddle. Swiftly and silently he had plucked a blossom, which he now heldbehind his back. As she turned from him again, he sent it flying throughthe window; and whilst in his heart he laughed with bitter hate andscorn as he thought of Gandia snatching up that rose and treasuring itin his bosom, aloud he laughed at her fears, derided them as idle.
That night, in his room, Giovanni practised penmanship assiduously,armed with a model with which Antonia had innocently equipped him. Hewent to bed well pleased, reflecting that as a man lives so does he die.Giovanni Borgia, Duke of Gandia, had been ever an amiable profligate, aheedless voluptuary obeying no spur but that of his own pleasure, whichshould drive him now to his destruction. Giovanni Borgia, he consideredfurther, was, as he had expressed it, the very apple of his father'seye; and since, of his own accord, the Duke had come to thrust hisfoolish head into the noose, the Lord of Pesaro would make a sweetbeginning to the avenging of his wrongs by drawing it taut.
Next morning saw him at the Vatican, greatly daring, to deliver inperson his forgery to the Duke. Suspicious of his mask, they asked himwho he was and whence he came.
"Say one who desires to remain unknown with a letter for the Duke ofGandia which his magnificence will welcome."
Reluctantly, a chamberlain departed with his message. Anon he wasconducted above to the magnificent apartments which Gandia occupiedduring his sojourn there.
He found the Duke newly risen, and with him his brother, theauburn-headed young Cardinal of Valencia, dressed in a close-fittingsuit of black, that displayed his lithe and gracefully athleticproportions, and a cloak of scarlet silk to give a suggestion of hisecclesiastical rank.
Giovanni bowed low, and, thickening his voice that it might not berecognized, announced himself and his mission in one.
"From the lady of the rose," said he, proffering the letter.
Valencia stared a moment; then went off into a burst of laughter.Gandia's face flamed and his eyes sparkled. He snatched the letter,broke its seal, and consumed its contents. Then he flung away to atable, took up a pen, and sat down to write; the tall Valencia watchinghim with amused scorn a while, then crossing to his side and setting ahand upon his shoulder.
"You will never learn," said the more subtle Cesare. "You must foreverbe leaving traces where traces are not to be desired."
Gandia looked up into that keen, handsome young face.
"You are right," he said; and crumpled the letter in his hand.
Then he looked at the messenger and hesitated.
"I am in Madonna's confidence," said the man in the mask.
Gandia rose. "Then say--say that her letter has carried me to Heaven;that I but await her commands to come in person to declare myself. Butbid her hasten, for within two weeks from now I go to Naples, and thenceI may return straight to Spain."
"The opportunity shall be found, Magnificent. Myself I shall bring youword of it."
The Duke loaded him with thanks, and in his excessive gratitude pressedupon him at parting a purse of fifty ducats, which Giovanni flung intothe Tiber some ten minutes later as he was crossing the Bridge of Sant'Angelo on his homeward way.
The Lord of Pesaro proceeded without haste. Delay and silence he knewwould make Gandia the more sharp-set, and your sharp-set, impatientfellow is seldom cautious. Meanwhile, Antonia had mentioned to herfather that princely stranger who had stared so offendingly one evening,and who for an hour on the following morning had haunted the streetbeneath her window. Pico mentioned it to Giovanni, whereupon Giovannitold him frankly who it was.
"It was that libertine brother-in-law of mine, the Duke of Gandia," hesaid. "Had he persisted, I should have bidden you look to your daughter.As it is, no doubt he has other things to think of. He is preparingfor his journey to Naples, to accompany his brother Cesare, who goes aspapal legate to crown Federigo of Aragon."
There he left the matter, and no more was heard of it until the night ofJune 14th, the very eve of the departure of the Borgia princes upon thatmission.
Cloaked and masked, Giovanni took his way to the Vatican at dusk thatevening, and desired to have himself announced to the Duke. But he wasmet with the answer that the Duke was absent; that he had gone to takeleave of his mother and to sup at her villa in Trastevere. His returnwas not expected until late.
At first Giovanni feared that, in leaving the consummation of his plotuntil the eleventh hour, he had left it too late. In his anxiety he atonce set out on foot, as he was, for the villa of Madonna Giovanna deCatanei. He reached it towards ten o'clock that night, to be informedthat Gandia was there, at supper. The servant went to bear word tothe Duke that a man in a mask was asking to see him, a message whichinstantly flung Gandia into agitation. Excitedly he commanded that theman be brought to him at once.
The Lord of Pesaro was conducted through the house and out into thegarden to an arbour of vine, where a rich table was spread in theevening cool, lighted by alabaster lamps. About this table Giovannifound a noble company of his own relations by marriage. There wasGandia, who rose hurriedly at his approach, and came to meet him; therewas Cesare, Cardinal of Valencia, who was to go to Naples to-morrow aspapal legate, yet dressed tonight in cloth of gold, with no trace of hischurchly dignity about him; there was their younger brother Giuffredo,Prince of Squillace, a handsome stripling, flanked by his wife, thefree-and-easy Donna Sancia of Aragon, swarthy, coarse-featured, andfleshy, despite her youth; there was Giovanni's sometime wife; thelovely, golden-headed Lucrezia, the innocent cause of all this hate thatfestered in the Lord of Pesaro's soul; there was their mother, the noblyhandsome Giovanozza de Catanei, from whom the Borgias derived theirauburn heads; and there was their cousin, Giovanni Borgia, Cardinal ofMonreale, portly and scarlet, at Madonna's side.
All turned to glance at this masked intruder who had the power so oddlyto excite their beloved Gandia.
"From the lady of the rose," Giovanni announced himself softly to theDuke.
"Yes, yes," came the answer, feverishly impatient. "Well, what is yourmessage?"
"To-night her father is from home. She will expect your magnificence atmidnight."
Gandia drew a deep breath.
"By the Host! You are no more than in time. I had almost despaired,my friend, my best of friends. To-night!" He pronounced the wordecstatically. "Wait you here. Yourself you shall conduct me. Meanwhile,go sup."
And beating his hands, he summoned attendants.
Came the steward and a couple of Moorish slaves in green turbans, towhose care the Duke commanded his masked visitor. But Giovanni neitherrequired nor desired their ministrations; he would not eat nor drink,but contented himself with the patience of hatred to sit for two longhours awaiting the pleasure of his foolish victim.
They left at last, a little before midnight the Duke, his brotherCesare, his cousin Monreale, and a numerous attendance, his own retinueand those of the two cardinals. Thus they rode back to Rome, the Borgiasvery gay, the man in the mask plodding along beside them.
They came to the Rione de Ponte, where their ways were to separate, andthere, opposite the palace of the Cardinal Vice-Chancellor, Gandia drewrein. He announced to the others that he went no farther
with them,summoned a single groom to attend him, and bade the remainder return tothe Vatican and await him there.
There was a last jest and a laugh from Cesare as the cavalcade went ontowards the papal palace. Then Gandia turned to the man in the mask,bade him get up on the crupper of his horse, and so rode slowly offin the direction of the Giudecca, the single attendant he had retainedtrotting beside his stirrup.
Giovanni directed his brother-in-law, not to the main entrance of thehouse, but to the garden gate, which opened upon a narrow alley. Herethey dismounted, flinging the reins to the groom, who was bidden towait. Giovanni produced a key, unlocked the door, and ushered the Dukeinto the gloom of the garden. A stone staircase ran up to the loggiaon the mezzanine, and by this way was Gandia now conducted, treadingsoftly. His guide went ahead. He had provided himself with yet anotherkey, and so unlocked the door from the loggia which opened upon theante-room of Madonna Antonia. He held the door for the Duke, whohesitated, seeing all in darkness.
"In," Giovanni bade him. "Tread softly. Madonna waits for you."
Recklessly, then, that unsuspecting fellow stepped into the trap.
Giovanni followed, closed the door, and locked it. The Duke, standingwith quickened pulses in that impenetrable blackness, found himselfsuddenly embraced, not at all after the fond fashion he was expecting. Awrestler's arms enlaced his body, a sinewy leg coiled itself snake-wiseabout one of his own, pulling it from under him. As he crashed downunder the weight of his unseen opponent, a great voice boomed out:
"Lord of Mirandola! To me! Help! Thieves!"
Suddenly a door opened. Light flooded the gloom, and the writhing Dukebeheld a white vision of the girl whose beauty had been the lure thathad drawn him into this peril which, as yet, he scarcely understood. Butlooking up into the face of the man who grappled with him, the man whoheld him there supine under his weight, he began at last to understand,or, at least, to suspect, for the face he saw, unmasked now, leering athim with hate unspeakable through the cloud of golden hair that halfmet across it, was the face of Giovanni Sforza, Lord of Pesaro, whom hisfamily had so cruelly wronged. Giovanni Sforza's was the voice that nowfiercely announced his doom.
"You and yours have made me a thing of scorn and laughter. Yourself havelaughed at me. Go laugh in hell!"
A blade flashed up in Giovanni's hand. Gandia threw up an arm to fendhis breast, and the blade buried itself in the muscles. He screamed withpain and terror. The other laughed with hate and triumph, and stabbedagain, this time in the shoulder.
Antonia, from the threshold, watching in bewilderment and panic, senta piercing scream to ring through the house, and then the voice ofGiovanni, fierce yet exultant, called aloud:
"Pico! Pico! Lord of Mirandola! Look to your daughter!"
Came steps and voice, more light, flooding now the chamber, and throughthe mists gathering before his eyes the first-born of the house ofBorgia beheld hurrying men, half dressed, with weapons in their hands.But whether they came to kill or to save, they came too late: Ten timesGiovanni's blade had stabbed the Duke, yet, hindered by the Duke'sstruggles and by the effort of holding him there, he had been unable tofind his heart, wherefore, as those others entered now, he slashed hisvictim across the throat, and so made an end.
He rose, covered with blood, so ghastly and terrific that Pico, thinkinghim wounded, ran to him. But Giovanni reassured him with a laugh, andpointed with his dripping dagger.
"The blood is his--foul Borgia blood!"
At the name Pico started, and there was a movement as of fear from thethree grooms who followed him. The Count looked down at that splendid,blood-spattered figure lying there so still, its sightless eyesstaring up at the frescoed ceiling, so brave and so pitiful in hisgold-broidered suit of white satin, with the richly jewelled girdlecarrying gloves and purse and a jewelled dagger that had been so uselessin that extremity.
"Gandia" he cried; and looked at Giovanni with round eyes of fear andamazement. "How came he here?"
"How?"
With bloody hand Giovanni pointed to the open door of Antonia's chamber.
"That was the lure, my lord. Taking the air outside, I saw him slinkinghither, and took him for a thief, as, indeed, he was--a thief of honour,like all his kind. I followed, and--there he lies."
"My God!" cried Pico. And then hoarsely asked, "And Antonia?"
Giovanni dismissed the question abruptly.
"She saw, yet she knows nothing."
And then on another note:
"Up now, Pico!" he cried. "Arouse the city, and let all men know howGandia died the death of a thief. Let all men know this Borgia brood forwhat it is."
"Are you mad?" cried Pico. "Will I put my neck under the knife?"
"You took him here in the night, and yours was the right to kill. Youexercised it."
Pico looked long and searchingly into the other's face. True, all theappearances bore out the tale, as did, too, what had gone before andhad been the cause of Antonia's complaint to him. Yet, knowing what laybetween Sforza and Borgia, it may have seemed to Pico too extraordinarya coincidence that Giovanni should have been so ready at hand to defendthe honour of the House of Mirandola. But he asked no questions. He wascontent in his philosophy to accept the event and be thankful for it onevery count. But as for Giovanni's suggestion that he should proclaimthrough Rome how he had exercised his right to slay this Tarquin, theLord of Mirandola had no mind to adopt it.
"What is done is done," he said shortly, in a tone that conveyed much."Let it suffice us all. It but remains now to be rid of this."
"You will keep silent?" cried Giovanni, plainly vexed.
"I am not a fool," said Pico gently.
Giovanni understood. "And these your men?"
"Are very faithful friends who will aid you now to efface all traces."
And upon that he moved away, calling his daughter, whose absence wasintriguing him. Receiving no answer, he entered her room, to find herin a swoon across her bed. She had fainted from sheer horror at what shehad seen.
Followed by the three servants bearing the body, Giovanni went downacross the garden very gently. Approaching the gate, he bade them wait,saying that he went to see that the coast was clear. Then, going forwardalone, he opened the gate and called softly to the waiting groom:
"Hither to me!"
Promptly the man surged before him in the gloom, and as promptlyGiovanni sank his dagger in the fellow's breast. He deplored thenecessity for the deed, but it was unavoidable, and your cinquecentistnever shrank from anything that necessity imposed upon him. To let thelackey live would be to have the bargelli in the house by morning.
The man sank with a half-uttered cry, and lay still.
Giovanni dragged him aside under the shelter of the wall, where theothers would not see him, then called softly to them to follow.
When the grooms emerged from Pico's garden, the Lord of Pesaro wasastride of the fine white horse on which Gandia had ridden to his death.
"Put him across the crupper," he bade them.
And they so placed the body, the head dangling on one side, the legs onthe other. And Giovanni reflected grimly how he had reversed the orderin which Gandia and he had ridden that same horse an hour ago.
At a walk they proceeded down the lane towards the river, a groomon each side to see that the burden on the crupper did not jolt off,another going ahead to scout. At the alley's mouth Giovanni drew rein,and let the man emerge upon the river-bank and look to right and left tomake sure that there was no one about.
He saw no one. Yet one there was who saw them--Giorgio, the timbermerchant, who lay aboard his boat moored to the Schiavoni, and who,three days later, testified to what he saw. You know his testimony. Ithas been repeated often--how he saw the man emerge from the alley andlook up and down, then retire, to emerge again, accompanied now by thehorseman with his burden, and the other two; how he saw them take thebody from the crupper of the horse, and, with a "one, two, and three,"fling it into the river; how he heard the hors
eman ask them had theythrown it well into the middle, and their answer of, "Yes my lord"; andfinally, when asked why he had not come earlier to report the matter,how he had answered that he had thought nothing of it, having in histime seen more than a hundred bodies flung into the Tiber at night.
Returned to the garden gate, Giovanni bade the men go in withouthim. There was something yet that he must do. When they had gone, hedismounted, and went to the body of the groom which he had left underthe wall. He must remove that too. He cut one of the stirrup-leathersfrom the saddle, and attaching one end of it to the dead man's arm,mounted again, and dragged him thus--ready to leave the body and rideoff at the first alarm--some little way, until he came to the Piazzadella Giudecca. Here, in the very heart of the Jewish quarters, he leftthe body, and his movements hereafter are a little obscure. Perhaps heset out to return to Pico della Mirandola's house, but becoming, as wasnatural, uneasy on the way, fearing lest all traces should, after all,not have been effaced, lest the Duke should be traced to that house, andhimself, if found there, dealt with summarily upon suspicion, heturned about, and went off to seek sanctuary with his uncle, theVice-Chancellor.
The Duke's horse, which he had ridden, he turned loose in the streets,where it was found some hours later, and first gave occasion to rumoursof foul play. The rumours growing, with the discovery of the body ofGandia's groom, and search-parties of armed bargelli scouring Rome, andthe Giudecca in particular, in the course of the next two days, forth atlast came Giorgio, that boatman of the Schiavoni, with the tale of whathe had seen. When the stricken Pope heard it, he ordered the bed of theriver to be dragged foot by foot, with the result that the ill-starredDuke of Gandia was brought up in one of the nets, whereupon theheartless Sanazzaro coined his terrible epigram concerning thatsuccessor of Saint Peter, that Fisherman of Men.
The people, looking about for him who had the greatest motive for thatdeed, were quick to fasten the guilt upon Giovanni Sforza, who by thattime was far from Rome, riding hard for the shelter of his tyranny ofPesaro; and the Cardinal Ascanio Sforza, who was also mentioned, andwho feared to be implicated, apprehensive ever lest his page should haveseen the betraying arms upon the ring of his masked visitor--fled also,nor could be induced to return save under a safe-conduct from the HolyFather, expressing conviction of his innocence.
Later public rumour accused others; indeed, they accused in turn everyman who could have been a possible perpetrator, attributing to some ofthem the most fantastic and incredible motives. Once, prompted no doubtby their knowledge of the libertine, pleasure-loving nature of the deadDuke, rumour hit upon the actual circumstances of the murder so closely,indeed, that the Count of Mirandola's house was visited by the bargelliand subjected to an examination, at which Pico violently rebelled,appealing boldly to the Pope against insinuations that reflected uponthe honour of his daughter.
The mystery remained impenetrable, and the culprit was never brought tojustice. We know that in slaying Gandia, Giovanni Sforza vented a hatredwhose object was not Gandia, but Gandia's father. His aim was to dealPope Alexander the cruellest and most lingering of wounds, and if helacked the avenger's satisfaction of disclosing himself, at least hedid not lack assurance that his blow had stricken home. He heard--as allItaly heard--from that wayfarer on the bridge of Sant' Angelo, how thePope, in a paroxysm of grief at sight of his son's body fished from theTiber, had bellowed in his agony like a tortured bull, so that hiscries within the castle were heard upon the bridge. He learnt how thehandsome, vigorous Pope staggered into the consistory of the 19th ofthat same month with the mien and gait of a palsied old man, and, in avoice broken with sobs, proclaimed his bitter lament:
"Had we seven Papacies we would give them all to restore the Duke tolife."
He might have been content. But he was not. That deep hate of hisagainst those who had made him a thing of scorn was not so easily to beslaked. He waited, spying his opportunity for further hurt. It came ayear later, when Gandia's brother, the ambitious Cesare Borgia, divestedhimself of his cardinalitial robes and rank, exchanging them fortemporal dignities and the title of Duke of Valentinois. Then it wasthat he took up the deadly weapon of calumny, putting it secretly aboutthat Cesare was the murderer of his brother, spurred to it by worldlyambition and by other motives which involved the principal members ofthe family.
Men do not mount to Borgia heights without making enemies. The evil talewas taken up in all its foul trappings, and, upon no better authoritythan the public voice, it was enshrined in chronicles by every scribblerof the day. And for four hundred years that lie has held its place inhistory, the very cornerstone of all the execration that has beenheaped upon the name of Borgia. Never was vengeance more terrible,far-reaching, and abiding. It is only in this twentieth century of oursthat dispassionate historians have nailed upon the counter of truth thebase coin of that accusation.
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