by Jean Plaidy
Cesare laughed inwardly as he watched his brother’s sullen looks.
Giovanni was angry. Life in Rome suited his temperament far better than the Spanish mode of living. In Spain a man of rank was stifled by etiquette; and Giovanni had no fancy for the pallid, long-faced bride, Maria Enriques, whom he had inherited from his dead brother. It was true that Maria was a cousin of the King of Spain and that marriage with her would forge a strong link with the Spanish Royal house and secure for him royal protection. But what did Giovanni care for that? He wanted to be in Rome, which he thought of as home.
He would rather be recognized as the son of the Pope than cousin, by marriage, to the King of Spain. He had felt homesick while he was away. He had imagined himself riding about Rome, and, cynic though he was concerning most things, tears would come to his eyes when he thought of entering the Porta del Popolo and watching the races to the Piazza Venezia in Carnival week. There seemed nothing like it in Spain—the Spanish were a melancholy people compared with the gay Italians. He had found great pleasure and sadness in thinking of the crowds, in the grand stand in the Piazza del Popolo, who had assembled to watch the race of riderless horses. How he had enjoyed those races, how he had shouted with glee to see the frightened beasts let loose, with pieces of metal tied to them to make a noise and frighten them still further as they galloped, the devilish type of spurs fastened midway between withers and shoulders, leaded and pear-shaped, the heavy end having seven spikes which prodded the horse at every step! The terrified horses, as they thundered along the Corso, provided a sight not to be missed. Yet in Spain he had sadly missed it. He had longed to wander along the Via Funari where the rope-makers lived, and the Via Canestrari where the basket-makers lived, to the Via dei Serpenti; to gaze at the Capitol and think of the heroes of Rome who had been crowned with glory there, and to see the Tarpeian Rock from which guilty men were thrown; to laugh at the old saying that glory was but a short way from disgrace, and to answer it with: Not for a Borgia; not for the son of the Pope!
All this was Rome, and Rome was where he belonged; yet he was so unfortunate as to be sent away from it.
He sought to postpone the hour of his departure. He threw himself madly into pleasure. He roamed the streets with a band of selected friends, and there was not a beautiful young woman—or man—who was safe, once Giovanni had set eyes on her or him.
He favored the most notorious of the courtesans. He roamed the Ponte district in their company. He liked courtesans; they were experienced, as he was; he liked also very young girls, and one of his favorite pastimes was seducing or forcing young brides before their marriage took place. Giovanni, he himself knew, would never be a brave soldier, and instinct told him that Cesare, who was no coward, was aware of that streak of cowardice in him, and that Cesare exulted because of it whilst raging at the unfairness which had made Giovanni a soldier and himself a man of the Church.
Giovanni sought to hide that streak of weakness within him, and how could he do this better, he thought, than by inflicting cruelty on those who could not retaliate? If he abducted a bride about to be married, who could complain against the beloved son of an all-powerful Pope? Such adventures lulled his fear of inadequacy and, he felt, made him appear as a lusty adventurer.
There was one person in whose company he found great delight. This was a Turkish Prince whom the Pope was holding as hostage in the Vatican. Djem was of striking appearance; his Asiatic manners amused Giovanni; his Turkish costume was picturesque and he was more cunning and more coldly barbarous than anyone Giovanni had ever known.
Giovanni had struck up a friendship with Djem and they were often seen about the city together. Giovanni appeared in Turkish costume; it suited him, and Djem with his dark looks made a striking contrast to the golden beauty of Giovanni.
They were together in Alexander’s cortège when it traveled from church to church; and it seemed strange to the people of Rome to see two prominent figures on a pair of matched horses, both dressed in turbans and colorful oriental costume.
Most people were horrified to see the Turk in this procession for the Turk was an infidel; but Giovanni insisted that his friend accompany them, and the Turk smiled at the horrified looks of the people in his slow indolent way which everyone knew was a veil to hide his barbarism. From him they looked to the handsome Duke of Gandia whose keen eyes were on the look-out for the most beautiful young women, marking the spot where they could later be found, and pointing them out to Djem, who would be planning that night’s adventures.
In this Asiatic, who was capable of devising strange orgies of calculated cruelty and extraordinary eroticism, Giovanni had found a congenial companion.
Here was another reason why he had no wish to leave Rome.
As for Alexander, he knew of the complaints against Giovanni; he knew that the people were shocked by the appearance of the Pope’s son in Turkish costume; but he merely shook his head and smiled indulgently.
“He means no harm,” he said. “He is young yet, and it is merely high spirits which cause him to play his merry pranks.”
And Alexander was as loth to let his beloved Giovanni leave Rome as Giovanni was to go.
Lucrezia sat with Giulia; there was a piece of embroidery before her and she was smiling at it. She enjoyed working the beautiful pattern on silk in gold, scarlet and blue threads. Bending over the work she looked, thought Giulia, like an innocent child, and Giulia felt slightly impatient. Lucrezia was now a married woman, and though the marriage had not been consummated she had no right to look such a baby.
Lucrezia, thought Giulia, is different from the rest of us. Lucrezia is apart. She is like her father, yet lacking his wisdom and understanding of life; she has the same way of turning away from the unpleasant and refusing to believe in its existence; and she has a tolerance besides. I believe she makes excuses for the cruelty of people, almost as though she understands what makes them act cruely; and that is part of her strangeness, for Lucrezia is never cruel herself.
All the same Giulia felt impatient in her company, for Giulia was uneasy. She hated Cesare and Giovanni; they had always made her uncomfortable, but now she knew that they were deliberately trying to oust her from her position. Sexually she was out of reach. She was, after all, their father’s mistress and the bond between Giulia and the Pope was a strong one as he did not feel toward her as he would toward any light love of a night or so. Therefore his sons, while desiring her as they would desire any beautiful woman, were forced to respect her; consequently they were piqued about this, and it was part of their arrogance that they should dislike any who brought home to them the fact that they could not have all their own way in all directions. The Pope towered above his sons; he was the fount from whom all blessings flowed; and although he was the most indulgent of fathers, the most generous of benefactors, there were some bounds beyond which even they might not go.
Giulia’s was a case which underlined this fact, and they resented her because of it. Accordingly they endeavored to destroy her influence.
She knew that they sought the most beautiful young people in Rome, and that they introduced the girls to their father. (Alexander had never been interested in their young male friends.) The Pope had been greatly taken with a certain Spanish nun whom Giovanni had brought with him in his retinue. The result was that the Holy Father had been too busy to see Giulia for some days. Giulia was furious, and she knew whom to blame.
Impetuous as she was, she wanted to storm into the Papal apartments and denounce Giovanni; but that would be folly. Much as the Pope liked to please his beautiful young mistress, and indeed found it difficult to refuse the request of any pretty young woman, there was one for whom he cared more than any woman—his precious Giovanni.
And if the Spanish nun was proving very delectable he might feel just a little more impatient than he would otherwise have done, if Giulia railed against Giovanni. Alexander might love various women in various degrees, but his love for his children never faltered.
Now Giulia,
looking at the fair young face bent over the embroidery, said slyly: “Lucrezia, I am worried about Giovanni.”
Lucrezia’s innocent eyes were wide with surprise. “You are worried about him? I thought you did not like him.”
Giulia laughed. “We banter … as brother and sister might. I would not say that I loved him as you do. I would never have that blind adoration for a brother which you have for yours.”
“I think you are very fond of your brother Alessandro.”
Giulia nodded. It was true. She was fond of Alessandro to the extent that she was determined to secure for him his Cardinal’s hat before long. But that was different from this passionate attachment which seemed to exist between the Borgia brothers and their sister.
“Oh, fond enough,” she said lightly. “But I was talking of Giovanni. There is a great deal of gossip in the streets concerning him.”
“There is always gossip,” murmured Lucrezia lightly, picking up her needle.
“That’s true, but this is a time when gossip could be very harmful to Giovanni.”
Lucrezia lifted her head from her work.
“On account of his marriage,” went on Giulia impatiently. “I have heard it said, by friends who have come from Spain, that there is talk at the Court there of Giovanni’s wild behavior, of his friendship with Djem, and how they spend their time. There is some displeasure in quarters where it could prove harmful to Giovanni.”
“Have you told my father this?”
Giulia smiled. “If it came from me he would feel I was jealous of Giovanni. He knows that I am aware of the affection between them.”
“Yet he should know,” said Lucrezia.
Giulia was well pleased. It was easy to lead Lucrezia the way in which one wanted her to go.
“Indeed he should.” Giulia looked out of the window to hide the sly smile playing about her lips. “If it came from you it would carry weight.”
Lucrezia rose. “Then I shall tell him. I shall tell him at once. He would be distressed if aught should happen to prevent Giovanni’s marriage.”
“You are wise. I have it from a very reliable source that his future father-in-law is considering the annulment of the betrothal, and that if Giovanni does not claim his bride within the next few months another husband will be found for her.”
“I will go to my father at once,” said Lucrezia. “He should know of this.”
Giulia followed her. “I will accompany you,” she said, “and if the Holy Father feels disposed to see me, there I shall be.”
Alexander wept as he embraced his son.
“Father,” cried Giovanni, “if you love me as you say, how can you bear that I should leave you?”
“I love you so much, my son, that I can let you go.”
“Could not there be a more worthwhile marriage for me here in Rome?”
“No, my son. We have the future to think of. You forget you are Duke of Gandia and that when you are married to Maria you will have the might of Spain behind you. Do not underestimate the importance of this tie with the Spanish royal house.”
Giovanni sighed, but the Pope put his arm about him. “Come, see what wedding presents I have for you and your bride.”
Giovanni looked almost sullenly at the furs and jewels, and the chests which were decorated with beautiful paintings. In the last weeks all the best jewelers of Rome had been busy buying the best stones, and resetting them in exquisite ornaments for the Duke of Gandia. Alexander opened a chest and showed his son sables and ermine and necklaces of pearls and rubies until he made the young man’s eyes glisten with eagerness to wear them.
“You see, my son, you will go to Spain in all the splendor of a Prince. Does not that delight you?”
Giovanni admitted grudgingly that it did. “But,” he added, “there is still much I regret leaving.”
The Pope embraced him. “Be assured, my beloved, that you do not hate going more than I hate to see you go.” Alexander put his face close to his son’s. “Marry your Maria,” he said; “get her with child. Get yourself an heir … and then, why should you not come back to Rome? Rest assured none here will scold you for not remaining once you have done your duty.”
Giovanni smiled. “I will do it, Father,” he said.
“And remember, Giovanni, while you are in Spain you must behave as a Spaniard.”
“They are so solemn.”
“On ceremonious occasions only. I ask nothing more of you but this, my dearest boy: Marry, get an heir and conduct yourself in a manner not to offend the Court of Spain. Apart from that … do as you will. Enjoy your life. Your father would have you happy.”
Giovanni kissed his father’s hand and left him to join Djem who was waiting for him.
They rode out into the City on one of their adventures, more gay, more bizarre than ever. Giovanni felt he must cram as much excitement as possible into the short time left to him.
When his son had gone, the Pope sent for two men: Ginès Fira and Mossen Jayme Pertusa.
“You are making your preparations?” asked the Pope.
“We are ready to leave for Spain at a moment’s notice, Most Holy Lord,” answered Ginès.
“That is well. Keep close to my son and report to me everything that happens to him; however insignificant, I wish to hear of it.”
“We are your servants, Holiness.”
“If I should discover that you have withheld any detail—however small—I shall excommunicate you, and you may look forward to eternal damnation.”
The men grew pale. Then they fell to their knees and swore that, as far as it was in their power, they would report every detail of the life of the Duke of Gandia; they had no wish on Earth but to serve his Holiness.
Lucrezia had been riding out to Monte Mario to watch the falcons and, as she returned to the Palace, a slave ran to her to tell her that Madonna Adriana was looking for her.
Lucrezia made her way to the apartment where she found Adriana somewhat disturbed.
“The Holy Father wishes you to go to him,” she said. “There is news of some sort.”
Lucrezia’s eyes widened and her lips fell slightly apart, a characteristic expression which, with her receding chin, made her look more like a girl of ten than one approaching fourteen.
“Bad news?” she asked, fear creeping into her eyes.
“It is news from Spain,” said Adriana. “I know nothing else.”
News from Spain must involve Giovanni. Indeed during the last months no one had been able to forget Giovanni. Alexander was preoccupied at all times by thoughts of his beloved son.
When bad news came from Spain he shut himself away and wept, and he would be quite unhappy for perhaps a day—which was a long time for him to grieve; then he would brighten and would say: “One cannot believe all one hears. Such a magnificent Prince must naturally have enemies.”
The news had always been bad, so Lucrezia was fearful as she heard of the summons to go to her father.
She said: “I will take off my habit and go to him at once.”
“Do so,” said Adriana; “he is impatient for you.”
She went to her apartments and Giulia followed her there. Giulia was pleased because she had regained all her old power over the Pope. She had learned that she must shrug aside his light preference for Spanish nuns or Moorish slaves; such desires passed. Lucrezia had told her of her mother’s attitude toward her father’s lighter loves; Vannozza had laughed indulgently, and he had always cared for Vannozza; he had given her two husbands, and Canale was treated as a member of the family; even Cesare had some regard for him out of respect for their mother. And look how the Pope had loved Vannozza’s children, showering on them such loving care that could not have been exceeded even if he had been able to marry Vannozza and they were his legitimate offspring.
Lucrezia was right; and Giulia was determined that her little Laura should be treated with the same loving care. Alexander certainly doted on the little girl, and as a sign of his love of her mother had
promised to bestow the Cardinal’s hat on Alessandro Farnese. Her family could not tell her often enough how they admired her and depended on her.
But now Giulia wondered about this news which the Pope wished to impart to his daughter. In the old days she would have been rather piqued that he had not told her first, but now she was able to adapt herself and hide any resentment she felt.
“My father awaits me,” said Lucrezia as her slave helped her to take off her riding habit.
“I wonder what fresh trouble there has been,” said Giulia.
“It may not be trouble,” said Lucrezia. “It could be good news.”
Giulia laughed at her. “You do not change at all,” she said. “You have been married nearly a year and yet you are the same as you were when we first met.”
Lucrezia was not listening; she was thinking of all the preparations previous to Giovanni’s departure. She knew how important Giovanni was to Alexander; she knew that he had gone to the utmost trouble to ensure that his son should please the Spanish Court; she knew about the Bishop of Oristano, into whose care the Pope had put Giovanni from the moment he stepped on to Spanish soil; she knew of the orders which had been issued to Ginès Fira and Pertusa. Poor men, how could they prevent Giovanni from disobeying his father’s orders!
And poor Giovanni! Not to go out at night. Not to play at dicing. To keep his wife company and sleep with her every night until a child was conceived. To wear gloves all the time he was at sea because salt was harmful to the hands, and in Spain a nobleman was expected to have soft white hands.
And Giovanni, of course, had disobeyed his father. Letters came from Fira and Pertusa telling of these matters, and those letters plunged the Pope into gloom—temporary gloom, it was true—before he roused himself and said that in spite of everything he knew his dearest son would do all that was expected of him.
There had been gloomy letters from Giovanni. His marriage had taken place at Barcelona, and the King and Queen of Spain had been present, which was a great honor and showed in what esteem they held Maria; but wrote Giovanni, he had no taste for his wife; she was dull and her face was too long; she repelled him.
