Madonna of the Seven Hills: A Novel of the Borgias

by Jean Plaidy

  “Since you ask it, it shall be,” she temporized, “but my lord, I beg of you remember that we must not arrive late at the Vatican.”

  He nodded his head, and Adriana signed to all the attendants to leave with her.

  When they had gone Lucrezia cried: “Cesare, there is little time. I should be prepared.…”

  “You should be prepared to give me a little of your time. Have you forgotten, now that you have a bridegroom, how you swore that you would never love any as you loved me?”

  “I do not forget, Cesare. I never shall.” She was thinking of herself crossing the square, imagining the cries of admiration; she could smell the incense and the scent of flowers.

  “You are not thinking of me,” said Cesare. “Who does? My father thwarts me, and you … you are as light-minded as any harlot.”

  “But Cesare, this is my wedding day.”

  “It is little to rejoice in. Sforza! Do you consider him a man? Yet I would rather see you married to him, than to some, for I swear he is little more than a eunuch.”

  “Cesare, you must not be jealous.”

  Cesare laughed. He came to her and gripped her neck in the gesture she remembered so well. She cried out in alarm because she was afraid for her jeweled net.

  “The marriage shall not be consummated.” He laughed. “I made our father see the wisdom of that. Why, who knows, if the scene changes these Sforzas may not be worthy of our friendship, and then it may well be that the Holy Father will wish he had not been so eager to get his daughter married.”

  “Cesare, why are you upset about this marriage? You know I have to marry, and it makes no difference to my love for you. I could never love any as I love you.”

  He continued his hold on her neck; his fingers would mark it—they always did—and she longed to beg him to release his hold, but she dared not. She enjoyed being with him as she always did, but now, as ever, that excitement which he aroused had its roots in a certain fear which she did not understand and which repelled her while it enticed.

  “I believe that to be so,” he said. “No matter what happens to you or to me … there will always be this bond between us. Lucrezia and Cesare … we are one, little sister, and no husband of yours, nor wife of mine could ever change that.”

  “Yes, yes,” she said breathlessly. “It is true. I know it is true.”

  “I shall not be at the supper party after the ceremony,” said Cesare.

  “Oh, but you must, brother. I so look forward to dancing with you.”

  Cesare looked down at his Archbishop’s robes. “It is not meet, sister, that men of the Church should dance. You will be dancing with your brother, the Duke of Gandia. He will make a splendid partner, I doubt not.”

  “Cesare, you will surely be there!”

  “At your nuptial celebration. Certainly I shall not. Do you think I can bear to see you making merry at such a time?”

  “Giovanni will be there, and mayhap Goffredo.…”

  “One day, sister, you will understand that my feeling for you is stronger than anything Giovanni could feel for anyone.”

  There were shouts in the square and Cesare strode to the window.

  Lucrezia stood beside him, but she could no longer feel the same pleasure in all the pomp which was being prepared for her, because she was deeply aware of the clenching and unclenching of Cesare’s hands and the angry expression on his face.

  “He comes,” said Cesare. “The handsome Duke of Gandia.”

  “He is to conduct me to the Vatican,” said Lucrezia. “I should be ready by now. Oh, we shall be late. Cesare, we must bring back Adriana and Giulia. Giovanni is here and I am not ready.”

  But Adriana, hearing the sounds of Giovanni’s approach, decided that it was necessary for her to risk Cesare’s anger, and she came into the room followed by Giulia and Lucrezia’s attendants.

  “The Duke is here,” she said. “Come now, let me see if your net is in place. Ah yes, and where is the black dwarf? Here, dwarf. Take Madonna Lucrezia’s train and stand there.…”

  Cesare watched the preparations frowning, and Lucrezia aware of him felt that his jealousy was clouding this happy day.

  Giovanni entered.

  He had changed a great deal since he had gone to Spain. Tall and very elegant, he had led a life of debauchery but at seventeen this had left very little mark on his face. He wore a golden beard which softened the sensual cruelty of his mouth, and his eyes, pale, transparent and so like Lucrezia’s own, though beautifully shaped and dark-lashed, lacked the serene gentleness of his sister’s and were in contrast cold and hard. But he had that Borgia fascination which he had inherited from his father, and in his fine colorful garments, which consisted of a Turkish robe à la Française so long that it swept the floor, made of curling cloth of gold with immense pearls sewn into the sleeves and a cap adorned with an enormous gem, he was a magnificent spectacle. Jewels sparkled on his person and about his neck was a long necklace entirely composed of rubies and pearls.

  Lucrezia caught her breath as she looked at him.

  “Why, Giovanni,” she cried, “you look magnificent.”

  For a moment she forgot Cesare glowering there. To him it seemed symbolic of his father’s wish to humiliate him. Here before Lucrezia stood her two brothers, the rivals; and one, through the grace and bounty of their father, could come like a prince while the other must wear the comparatively drab garments of the Church.

  Cesare felt one of those moods of rage sweeping over him. When they possessed him he wanted to put his hands about the throats of those who fostered these moods, and squeeze and squeeze that he might soothe his hurt vanity by their screams for mercy.

  He could not squeeze that elegant throat. There had been a hundred times in his life when he had longed to. One must not touch the Pope’s beloved. One day, he thought, I shall be unable to restrain myself.

  Giovanni, understanding the mood of his brother, looked slyly from him to Lucrezia. “Ah, my little sister, my beloved Lucrezia, you say I look magnificent, but you … you are like a goddess. I do not believe you can be my pretty little sister. No human being could possess such beauty. How you sparkle! How you glitter! Even my lord Archbishop looks the brighter for your closeness to him. I hear you are not coming to our father’s party, brother. Mayhap it is as well. The somber garb of you men of the Church is apt to have a sobering effect, and there must be naught but gaiety this night.”

  “Silence!” cried Cesare. “Silence, I say!”

  Giovanni raised his eyebrows and Adriana cried: “My lord, we must go. As it is, we shall be late.”

  Cesare turned and strode out of the room. His attendant, who had been waiting outside the apartment, prepared to follow him. Cesare turned to the boy—he was little more. “You smile,” he said. “Why?”

  “My lord?”

  Cesare had the boy by the ear. The pain was almost unbearable.

  “Why?” screamed Cesare. “I asked why.”

  “My lord … I do not smile.”

  Cesare knocked the boy’s head against the wall. “You would lie then. You have been listening, and what you overheard amused you.”

  “My lord … my lord!”

  Cesare took the boy roughly by the arm and pushed him toward the staircase. The boy lifted his hands as he fell and Cesare heard his screams as he tumbled headlong down the stairs. He listened, his eyes narrowed, his mouth slightly turned down. The cries of others in pain never failed to soothe the pain within himself, the pain born of frustration and fear that there were some in the world who did not recognize him as of supreme importance.

  Led by her brother Giovanni, Lucrezia entered the Pope’s new apartment at the Vatican. The apartments were already crowded by all the most important people of Rome and representatives from the courts of other states and dukedoms.

  Lucrezia had forgotten Cesare in the excitement of crossing the square, from the Palace to the Vatican; the shouts of the people were still in her ears and she could still smel
l the scent of the flowers which had been strewn in her path. And here on the Papal throne was her father, magnificent in his white and gold vestments, his eyes shining with love and pride as they rested upon her. Those eyes, however, quickly strayed to his beloved and beautiful Giulia who stood on one side of Lucrezia; on the other was another beautiful young girl, Lella Orsini, who had recently married Giulia’s brother Angelo Farnese.

  The bridegroom came forward. He looked almost shabby compared with the glory of that other Giovanni, the bride’s brother. Giovanni Sforza, conscious of lacking the Spanish elegance of the Duke of Gandia, was remembering that even the necklace he wore about his neck was borrowed.

  As for Lucrezia, she was scarcely conscious of him. To her, this marriage was nothing more than a brilliant masque. Sforza must be there because without him she could not play her part, and since there was to be no consummation for a long time she knew that life was going on exactly as it always had.

  They knelt together on a cushion at the feet of Alexander and when the notary asked Sforza if he would take Lucrezia as his wife, the bridegroom answered in loud and ringing tones: “I will with a good heart!” And Lucrezia echoed his words. The Bishop put the rings on their fingers while a nobleman held a naked sword over their heads; and after that the Bishop preached a touching sermon concerning the sanctity of marriage, to which neither Lucrezia nor her husband paid a great deal of attention.

  Alexander himself was impatient. There were too many such ceremonies in his life, and he was eager to proceed with the merrymaking.

  Now celebrations began, and there were many churchmen present who wondered at the ease with which the Pope could cast aside his role of Holy Father and become the jocular host who is determined that all shall rejoice at his daughter’s wedding.

  None laughed more heartily than the Pope at the somewhat bawdy jokes which were circulated and which were considered to be a necessary part of wedding celebrations. A comedy was performed for the enjoyment of the company, obscene songs were sung; riddles were asked and answered, and all these had a sly allusion to the married state. Hundreds of pounds of sweetmeats were distributed among the guests—the Pope and all the Cardinals being served first, followed by the bride and bridegroom, the ladies, the prelates and the remaining guests. The fun was hilarious when the sweets were dropped down the bodices of the women’s gowns and there were shrieks of delight as these were retrieved. When the company was tired of this game the remains of the sweetmeats were thrown from the windows and the crowds who were waiting below scrambled for them.

  Later the Pope gave a dinner-party in the pontifical hall and, when the company had feasted, the dancing began.

  The bride sat beside her husband, who glowered at the dancers; he disliked such entertainments and was longing for this one to end. Not so Lucrezia; she longed for her husband to take her hand and lead her in the dance.

  She glanced sideways at him. He seemed very old, she thought, very stern. “Do you not like to dance?” she asked him.

  “I do not like to dance,” he answered.

  “But does not the music inspire you to do so?”

  “Nothing inspires me to do so.”

  Her feet were tapping, and her father was watching her; his face was a little flushed with so much feasting and merry-making, and she knew that he understood how she was feeling. She saw him glance at her brother Giovanni, who had interpreted the glance. In a moment he was beside her.

  “Brother,” he said, “since you do not partner my sister in the dance, I will do so.”

  Lucrezia looked at her husband, thinking that perhaps now she would have to ask his permission; she was a little apprehensive, knowing that neither of her brothers would allow any to stand in the way of what they wanted to do.

  She need not have worried. Giovanni Sforza was quite indifferent as to whether his wife danced or stayed at his side.

  “Come,” said the Duke of Gandia. “A bride should dance at her wedding.”

  So he led her into the very center of the dancers and holding her hand, he said: “Oh, my sister, you are the fairest lady of the ball, which is as it should be.”

  “I verily believe, dear brother,” she said, “that you are the handsomest of the men.”

  The Duke bowed his head and his eyes gleamed at her, amused and passionate as they had been in the nursery days.

  “Cesare would be beside himself with envy if he saw us dance together.”

  “Giovanni,” she said quickly, “you should not provoke him.”

  “ ’Tis one of the joys of my life,” he murmured, “provoking Cesare.”

  “Why so, Giovanni?”

  “Someone must provoke him, and everyone else, except our father, would seem to be afraid to.”

  “Giovanni, you are not afraid of anything.”

  “Not I,” said Giovanni. “I would not be afraid of your bridegroom if he, being jealous to see his bride look so lovingly at me, should challenge me to a duel.”

  “He will make no such challenge. I fancy he is glad to be rid of me.”

  “By the saints, then perhaps I should run him through for his neglect of my lovely sister. Oh, Lucrezia, how happy I am to be with you once more! Have you forgotten the days in our mother’s house … the quarrels, the dances? Ah, those Spanish dances. Do you remember them?”

  “I do, Giovanni.”

  “And do you not think them more inspiring, more full of meaning than these of Italy?”

  “Yes, Giovanni.”

  “Then we will dance them, you and I.…”

  “Giovanni, dare we?”

  “We Borgias dare anything, sister.” He drew her to him and there was light in his eyes which reminded her of Cesare’s. “Do not forget,” he went on, “that though you have married a Sforza, you are a Borgia … always a Borgia.”

  “No,” she answered, and she was breathless with sudden excitement. “I shall never forget it.”

  One by one the other dancers fell away from them, so that after a while there was none dancing but the Duke of Gandia and his sister. The dances were those of Spain—throbbing with passion, the sort of dances which a bride and bridegroom might have performed together, portraying love, desire, fulfillment.

  Lucrezia’s long hair escaped from its net in the abandonment of the dance; and there were many who whispered: “How strange that the sister and brother should dance thus while the bridegroom looks on!”

  The Pope watched with benign affection. These were his best-loved children, and it did not seem strange to him to see them dance thus: Lucrezia expectant, on the brink of womanhood, and Giovanni with the light of a demon in his eyes, and a malicious glance over his shoulder for the dull bridegroom—and for another perhaps, another who wished he was present to watch this almost ritual dance with their sister.

  Giovanni Sforza yawned in his indifference. Yet he was less indifferent than he seemed. Not that he had any deep feelings for the golden-haired child who was his wife; but it had occurred to him that the Borgias were a strange family, alien to Rome; their Spanish blood made them that; and he felt faintly uneasy sitting there, and although he was in a semistupor through too much food and wine, too much heat, too many celebrations, he was conscious of a warning voice within him: “Beware of these Borgias. They are a strange, unnatural people. One must be prepared for them to do anything … however startling, however strange. Beware.… Beware of the Borgias!”

  LUCREZIA MARRIED

  Those weeks which followed her wedding were full of pleasure for Lucrezia. She saw little of her husband, and her brothers were constantly with her. The old rivalry was revived and, although Lucrezia was aware that there was now an even more dangerous element in this than there had been in nursery days, she could not help being stimulated by it.

  It was an unusual situation; the bride and bridegroom indifferent to each other, while the bride’s brothers strutted before her, as though they were trying to woo her, each trying to persuade her that he was a better man than the other.


  The brothers invaded Lucrezia’s apartments day and night; each planned spectacles in which he played the leading part and Lucrezia that of honored guest.

  Adriana protested, but Giovanni ignored her, and Cesare’s eyes blazed with anger. “The insolence of the woman is beyond endurance!” he cried, and there was a threat in his words.

  Giulia remonstrated with Lucrezia.

  “This is a strange mode of behavior,” she declared. “Your brothers attend you as though you were something more than a sister.”

  “You do not understand,” Lucrezia explained. “We were together in the nursery.”

  “Brothers and sisters often are.”

  “Our childhood was different. We sensed the mystery which surrounded us. We lived in our mother’s house, but we did not then know who our father was. We loved each other … we were necessary to each other, and then we were parted for so long. That is why we love more than most families.”

  “I would rather see you take a lover.”

  Lucrezia smiled gently; she was too good-hearted to tell Giulia that she understood the reason for her concern; the Pope still doted on her and she remained his favorite mistress, but all lovers of members of the Borgia family must be jealous of that family’s feelings for its own members. Giulia was thinking that, now Cesare and Giovanni were in Rome, the love their father bore them and his daughter far exceeded that which he had for herself, and she was frankly jealous.

  Lucrezia was fond of Giulia; she understood her feelings; but the bond between herself and her brothers could not be broken by anyone.

  Meanwhile the weeks passed. She would go to the Campo di Fiore to watch Giovanni joust; then Cesare staged a bull-fight in that same spot, himself acting as the brave matador. He arranged that there were crowds to watch, and in the place of honor, where she might miss nothing, was Lucrezia, to tremble when she saw him face death, to exult when she saw him triumph.

  All her life Lucrezia would never forget that occasion; the moment of fear when she saw the bull charge and heard the deep sigh of the crowd; she herself had almost swooned with fear, in one terrible second visualizing a world without Cesare. But Cesare was supreme; light as a dancer he had stepped aside as the angry bull thundered past. How handsome he looked! How graceful! He might, thought Lucrezia, have been dancing the old farraca, that dance in which a man mimed his play with the bull, so unconcerned did he seem. She would never dance the farraca herself nor see others dance it without recalling this moment of fear and exultation; she would always remember the hot sun in the Campo di Fiore and the realization that Cesare was to her the most important person in the world.