Madonna of the Seven Hills: A Novel of the Borgias

by Jean Plaidy

  They placed their ballot papers on the shallow dish which covered the chalice, and tipped the paten until the paper slid into the chalice; then slowly and solemnly, each purple-clad figure returned to his throne.

  At the first counting of votes Roderigo had seven, but Carafa had nine, Costa and Michiel, the Cardinal of Venice, also had seven, and della Rovere five. As for Ascanio Sforza he had none, and it was clear from the beginning that none of the Cardinals was ready to see a man so young on the Papal throne.

  This was deadlock, for there must be a majority of two-thirds for one candidate before he was elected.

  A fire was made and the papers burned; and all those waiting in St. Peter’s Square to hear the result of the election, seeing the smoke, excitedly called each other’s attention to it and knew that the first scrutiny had been ineffectual.

  Roderigo now decided that he must act quickly. In his own cell he laid his plans and when he mingled with his fellow Cardinals, he lost no time in getting to work.

  He began with Ascanio Sforza, begging him to walk with him in the galleries after the siesta. Ascanio, realizing he had no chance of being elected, hinted that he was ready to gain what he could. Roderigo could offer him bigger bribes than any.

  “If I were elected Pope,” Roderigo promised, “I would not forget you. Yours should be the Vice-Chancellorship and I would also give you the Bishopric of Nepi.” It was a good consolation prize, and Ascanio wavered only a little before he agreed. And as with Ascanio, so with others who quickly realized that they were out of the running yet could come out of the Conclave richer men than when they went into it.

  So while Rome sweated and waited for the results, that sly fox Roderigo worked quietly, stealthily and with the utmost speed within the Conclave. He had to. He had made up his mind that this time he must succeed, for how could he tell when there would be another chance.

  It was August 11th, five days after the Conclave had begun. In the Piazza San Pietro people who had been waiting all through the night watched, their eyes on the walled-up window.

  As the dawn lightened their eager faces there was a sudden shout and excitement was at fever-pitch for the bricks had begun to fall from the walled-in window.

  The election was over. After the fourth scrutiny there had been an unanimous choice.

  Roderigo Borgia had been elected Pope, and from now on he would be known as Alexander VI.

  Roderigo stood on the balcony listening to the acclaim of the people. This was the greatest moment of his life. The crown, for which he had fought ever since his uncle, Calixtus III, had adopted him and his brother, was now his. He felt powerful as he stood there, capable of anything. Who would have believed five days ago that he would be the chosen one? Even his old enemy, della Rovere, had given him his vote. It was wonderful what a little persuasion could do, and who could resist persuasion such as a rich abbacy, the legation of Avignon and the fortress of Ronciglione? Not della Rovere. A great deal to pay for a vote? Not at all. He had bought power with the wealth he had accumulated over the years, and he was going to make sure that it became unlimited power.

  He held out his hands and for a few seconds there was complete silence among the multitude.

  Then he cried: “I am the Pope and Vicar of Christ on Earth.”

  There was loud acclamation. It was of no importance how he had reached this eminence. All that mattered was that it was his.

  The Coronation of Alexander VI was the most magnificent Rome had ever seen. Lucrezia, watching from a balcony of a Cardinal’s palace, was overwhelmed with pride and joy in this man who—apart from Cesare, whom she had not seen for so long—she loved best in the world.

  This was her father, this handsome man, in his rich robes, sitting so straight on his white horse, blessing the multitudes who crowded about him, the center of all the pageantry, this man was her father.

  Alexander was fully aware that there was nothing the people enjoyed more than pageantry, and the more brilliant, the better they liked it; and the more splendid it was, the greater would be the respect they had for him. Therefore he was determined to outdo all previous coronations. No expense must be spared, he had commanded; nor was it. The people of Rome were going to rejoice that day because Alexander VI was their Pope.

  His Papal guards were so splendidly attired that even great Princes looked drab beside them; their long lances and shields glittered in the sunshine, and they looked like gods. Cardinals and high dignitaries who took part in the procession with their retinues, were all determined to outdo each other in their splendor, and so long was the procession that it took two hours for it to pass from St. Peter’s to St. John Lateran. And in the center of it all was the Pope on his snow-white horse, the sixty-year-old Pope who seemed to have the vigor of a man of twenty. It was small wonder that the people—even as Lucrezia did—believed the new Pope to be more than human.

  The procession was stopped here and there that Alexander’s admirers and supporters—who now comprised the whole of Rome, it seemed—might pay their homage.

  “Vive diu bos, vive diu celebrande per annos,

  Inter Pontificum gloria prima choros,” chanted one handsome boy on behalf of his noble family who wished to show they were wholeheartedly in support of the new Pope.

  Others strewed flowers before him and cried: “Rome raised Caesar to greatness—and now here is Alexander; but one was merely a man, the other is a god.”

  Alexander received all this homage with a charm and courtesy which won the hearts of all who saw him.

  What a moment of triumph! Everywhere was the emblem of the grazing bull. Alexander lifting his eyes saw it; he also noticed the golden-haired girl on the balcony, the only one of his children to witness this triumph. There was Giovanni in Spain, Cesare in his university of Pisa, and little Goffredo (whom he accepted partly because he loved the boy, partly because sons were so necessary to him) was too young to make an appearance. His children! They would all have their parts to play in his dream of power. Little Lucrezia standing there, eyes wide with awe and wonder, accepting him, as did these people in the streets this day, as a god among them, was the representative of his children.

  The homage of the people, the shouts of acclamation, the intoxicating sense of power, they were the narcotic which lulled a man to sleep in which he dreamed of greatness; and all greatness must first take its shape in dreams.

  “Blessings on the Holy Father!” cried the crowd.

  Aye! thought Alexander. Let the blessings of the saints fall upon me, that I may realize my dreams and unite all Italy under one ruler; and let that ruler be a Borgia Pope.

  SANTA MARIA IN PORTICO

  Lucrezia soon understood how much more gratifying it was to be the daughter of a Pope than that of a Cardinal.

  Firmly on the Papal throne, Alexander made no secret of his intentions. Giovanni was to return from Spain that Alexander might put him in charge of the Papal armies; Cesare was to be made Archbishop of Valencia; as for Lucrezia she was to be given a palace of her own—that of Santa Maria in Portico. Lucrezia was delighted with this honor, and especially so because she might now move from the gloomy fortress of Monte Giordano into the center of the City.

  Alexander had a double purpose in giving Lucrezia this palace; it adjoined the Church of St. Peter’s and there was a secret passage which connected it with the church and continued into the Vatican. Adriana and Giulia were to be of Lucrezia’s household; Orsino would accompany them, but of course he was of no account.

  Lucrezia looked forward to the new life with zest. It was wonderful to be grown up. Her brother Giovanni would soon be in Italy and Cesare, so her father had told her, was to be recalled to Rome. He was only being kept away for a short while because Alexander did not want the people to think he was continuing his policy of nepotism since, before his election, he had promised to abandon it. Cesare was already an Archbishop, and Alexander knew that if his son were in Rome it would become very difficult not to shower more honors upon him. So
, for the moment, Cesare should remain at Pisa—but it would only be for the present.

  Lucrezia had a great deal to look forward to. She saw her father often, saw him in the midst of all his pomp and ceremony, and thus he seemed to grow more splendid, more magnificent.

  All day she would hear the bells of St. Peter’s; and while she worked at her embroidery or sat at her window watching the passing pageants, the scent of incense and the sound of chanting voices came to her seeming to promise her a wonderfully exciting future.

  Adriana had put off her mourning and was as respectful to Lucrezia as she was devoted to Giulia, who had even more influence at the Vatican than Lucrezia had.

  Lucrezia understood why. She was not surprised if, looking in on Giulia’s bedchamber, she found the young girl absent. The sound of footsteps, late at night or in early morning, in that corridor from which led the secret passage to the Vatican, did not surprise her.

  She agreed with Adriana that Giulia was indeed fortunate to be loved by one so magnificent as Alexander.

  Many important visitors—ambassadors and other dignitaries from the various states—called at the palace of Santa Maria and, under Adriana’s guardianship, Lucrezia knew how to receive them. None came without bringing gifts—some for Lucrezia, some for Giulia.

  “How kind they are!” said Lucrezia one day when she was examining a beautiful set of furs. “None comes empty-handed.”

  Giulia laughed at her simplicity. “Do not be quite so grateful, dearest Lucrezia,” she advised. “They only give because they hope to get in return something which means far more to them.”

  Lucrezia was reflective. “It spoils the gift,” she said. “Indeed it makes no gift at all.”

  “Of course it is no gift. It is a payment for favors they hope to receive.”

  “The furs no longer seem so beautiful,” sighed Lucrezia.

  Giulia looked at her fondly and thought what a long time it took for her to grow realistic. If Lucrezia had been born poor what a good-hearted little simpleton she might have been!

  Was she not aware that, as the Pope’s beloved daughter, she had great influence with him?

  Lucrezia did know, for she was quickly made aware of this. Adriana believed that Alexander did not want a simpleton for a daughter, therefore this simplicity, this generous open-heartedness of Lucrezia must be checked. Such qualities were foolish.

  It was necessary for her to have many rich possessions, Adriana implied. Did she mean to rely entirely on her father for them? No, let her be subtle. Let her use her own shrewdness, so that the Pope realized that he had a clever little daughter and could be proud of her.

  Did she love fine clothes? None more. Lucrezia had always been a little vain of her beauty, and what could show it to better advantage than beautiful furs and fine brocades? Then let her make those who sought her favors aware of this. Let them know that, if they made her presents which pleased her, she would show her gratitude by begging her father to give them the help they needed.

  “Why,” said Adriana, “Francesco Gonzaga will be coming to see you soon. He greatly desires that his brother Sigismondo should become a Cardinal.”

  “He comes to ask me this?”

  “A word to your father from you would help his cause.”

  “But how could I who know so little of such matters influence my father?”

  “Your father wishes you to show yourself to be a Borgia. He would be pleased to do what you ask of him, and he would like Gonzaga to know in what esteem he holds you. If Gonzaga brought you a valuable present and you could say to your father: ‘See what Gonzaga has brought me!’ why then His Holiness would be pleased at the honor done you and would be ready, I doubt not, to grant favors to one who had shown he knew how to pay for them.”

  “I see,” said Lucrezia. “I did not know that these matters were arranged thus.”

  “Then it is time you learned. You love pearls, do you not?”

  Lucrezia’s eyes sparkled. She did love pearls. They suited her fair skin; when she put on the beautiful necklace which Giulia had been given by Alexander she was sure she looked as beautiful as Giulia.

  “I will tell Gonzaga that you are excessively fond of pearls,” said Adriana, smiling knowledgeably.

  And it surely would be wonderful, thought Lucrezia, to possess pearls like Giulia’s.

  So this was the way a Pope’s daughter lived. It was wonderfully exciting and very profitable. Who was Lucrezia—rather lazy Lucrezia, who more than most girls loved fine clothes and becoming ornaments—who was she to disagree with this mode of living?

  Alexander received his daughter in his apartments at the Vatican; with her, as companion, came Giulia. Alexander still doted on the latter and could scarcely let a day pass without seeing her.

  When Alexander received these two beloved ones he liked to do so in the utmost intimacy, so he dismissed all his attendants when they arrived, and had the girls sit, one on either side of him that he might put an arm about each.

  How beautiful they were, he thought, with their young smooth skins and their shining golden hair—surely two of the loveliest girls in Rome. Life seemed good when he at sixty had the vigor of a young man, and he was certain that Giulia was making no pretense when she showed so clearly that her passion for him was as great as his for her, and that her poor little squint-eyed husband, young as he was, had no charm for her.

  Lucrezia nestling against her father was admiring the splendor of his apartments. The ceiling was gilded and the walls of delicate colors; there were oriental carpets on the floor, and the great artist Pinturicchio had begun the murals; but these did not yet cover the walls, and below them were hangings of the finest silk. There were many chairs, stools and cushions of silk and velvet in brilliant colors; and dominating all was the glory of the Papal throne.

  All this belonged to this godlike person who, it seemed impossible to believe, was her tender and loving father, and who when he was alone with his beloved girls would seem to imply that his greatest joy in life was pleasing them.

  “I have sent for you this day because I have something to tell you, daughter,” he said. “We are going to cancel the arrangements we have made for your marriage to Don Gasparo di Procida.”

  “Is that so, Father?” she asked.

  Giulia laughed. “She does not mind. She does not mind in the least.”

  The Pope caressed his daughter’s cheek, and Lucrezia was reminded of the pleasure she had derived from Cesare’s caresses.

  “Father,” she cried, “when shall I see Cesare?”

  Giulia and the Pope laughed together and exchanged glances.

  “You see I am right,” said Giulia. “Poor Lucrezia! She has never had a lover.”

  It was hardly a frown which crossed the Pope’s face; he rarely showed displeasure with his loved ones, but Giulia was aware that her remark had disturbed him. She was however too sure of her power to be afraid of displeasing. “It’s true,” she said almost defiantly.

  “One day,” said Alexander, “my daughter will find great joy in love, I doubt not. But she will wait until the time when she is ready.”

  Lucrezia took her father’s hand and kissed it.

  “She cares more for her father and brothers than for any others,” said Giulia. “Why, she says of every man she sees: ‘How insignificant he is beside my father … or Cesare or Giovanni!’ ”

  “Lucrezia is a Borgia,” said Alexander, “and Borgias see great virtue in Borgias.”

  “They are not the only ones,” said Giulia, laughing and holding his arm against her. “I pray you, beloved and Holy Father, tell us who will now be Lucrezia’s bridegroom.”

  “A man of great importance. His name is Giovanni Sforza.”

  “Is he an old man?” asked Giulia.

  “What has age to do with love?” demanded the Pope, and this time there was reproach in his voice.

  But Giulia was quick with her soothing reply. “It is only gods who have the gift of remaining forever youn
g. Giovanni Sforza, I’ll swear, is but a man.”

  Alexander laughed and kissed her. “It is a good match. My beloved daughter will bless me for arranging it. Come, Lucrezia, are you not going to show your pleasure?”

  Lucrezia kissed him dutifully. “But I have been betrothed so many times. I will wait until I see him and then until I am married to him before I am too grateful.”

  The Pope laughed. They amused him with their chatter and he was sorry to have to send them away because official matters must be settled.

  Surrounded by their attendants they left the Vatican, and as they were crossing the square an unkempt vagabond peered at Giulia insolently and cried out: “Why, ’tis the bride of Christ!”

  Giulia’s eyes flashed, but the man lost no time in running as fast as his legs could carry him, and had disappeared before Giulia could send anyone after him.

  “You are angry, Giulia,” said Lucrezia, “angry at the words of a beggar.”

  “I do not care to be insulted,” retorted Giulia. “You know what he meant.”

  “That you are my father’s mistress. That is no insult. Think of all those who come to pay court to you because of that!”

  “The common people consider it an insult,” said Giulia. “I wish I could have that man put in prison. I’d have him punished.”

  Lucrezia shivered. She knew that often men who insulted those in high places had their tongues cut out.

  She would not think of that. Perhaps she would have to learn to contemplate such things with indifference, as she had had to learn to accept the relationship between her father and Giulia and pious Adriana’s acceptance of it, and as she had had to accept the fact that she must make herself rich and important by taking bribes. She doubted not that in time she would grow as indifferent as others to these matters; but there was a softness within her which made it difficult for her.

  She must conform. She must be like those who lived about her. But for the time being she would refuse to think of the cruel things which could happen to men and women, merely because they spoke too freely.