Madonna of the Seven Hills: A Novel of the Borgias

by Jean Plaidy

  He believed in that moment that the Giovanni Sforza whom he had seen in his dreams might have existence in reality.

  But Giovanni Sforza could not believe in his happiness. He must torture himself—and Lucrezia.

  He was continually discovering new ornaments in her jewel cases.

  “And whence came this trinket?” he would ask.

  “My father gave it to me,” would invariably be the answer. Or: “It is a gift from my brother.”

  Then Giovanni would throw it back into the box, stalk from the room or regard her with glowering eyes.

  “The behavior at the Papal Court is shocking the world!” he declared. “It is worse since the woman from Naples came.”

  This made Lucrezia unhappy; she thought of Sanchia and Cesare together, of Goffredo’s delight that his wife should so please his brother, of Alexander’s amusement and her own jealousy.

  We are indeed a strange family, she thought.

  She would look across the sea, and there was a hope in her eyes, a hope that she might conform with the standards of goodness set up by such men as Savonarola, that she might live quietly with her own husband in their mountain stronghold, that she might curb this desire to be with her own disturbing family.

  But although Giovanni had no help to offer her, and only gave her continual reproaches, she was determined to be patient; so she listened quietly to his angry outbursts and only mildly tried to assure him of her innocence. And there were occasions when Giovanni would throw himself at her feet and declare that she was good at heart and he was a brute to upbraid her continually. He could not explain to her that always he saw himself as a poor creature, despised by all, and that the conduct of her family and the rumors concerning them made him seem ever poorer, even more contemptible.

  There were times when she thought, I can endure this no longer. Perhaps I will hide myself in a convent. There in the solitude of a cell I might begin to understand myself, to discover a way in which I can escape from all that I know I should.

  Yet how could she endure life in a convent? When letters came from her father, her heart would race and her hands tremble as she seized on them. Reading what he had written made her feel as though he were with her, talking to her; and then she realized how happy she was when she was in the heart of her family, and that only then could she be completely content.

  She must find a compensation for this overpowering love which she bore toward her family. Was a convent the answer?

  Alexander was begging her to return. Her brother Giovanni, he pointed out, was in Rome, even more handsome, more charming than he had been when he went away. Each day he asked about his beloved sister and when she was coming home. Lucrezia must return at once.

  She wrote that her husband wished her to remain in Pesaro, where he had certain duties.

  The answer to that came promptly.

  Her brother Giovanni was about to set out on a military campaign which was to be directed first against the Orsini, and which was calculated later to subdue all the barons who had proved themselves to be helpless against the invader. The rich lands and possessions of these barons would fall into the Pope’s hands. Lucrezia knew that this was the first step on that road along which Alexander had long planned to go.

  Now, his dear son-in-law, Giovanni Sforza, could show his mettle and win great honors for himself. Let him collect his forces and join the Duke of Gandia. Lucrezia would not wish to stay on at Pesaro alone, so she must return to Rome where her family would prepare a great welcome for her.

  When Giovanni Sforza read this letter he was furious.

  “What am I?” he cried. “Nothing but a piece on a chequer-board to be moved this way and that. I will not join the Duke of Gandia. I have my duties here.”

  So he stormed and raged before Lucrezia, yet he knew—and she knew also—that he went in fear of the Pope.

  However, on this occasion he determined to try compromise. He gathered together his men but, instead of leaving with them, he wrote to the Pope and explained that his duties in his own dominion prevented his leaving at this time.

  He and Lucrezia waited for the command to obey, the expressions of angry reproach.

  There was a long silence; then from the Vatican came a soothing reply. His Holiness fully understood Giovanni Sforza’s reasons; he no longer insisted that he should join the Duke of Gandia. At the same time he would like to remind his son-in-law that it was long since he had seen him in Rome, and it would give him the utmost pleasure to embrace Giovanni and Lucrezia once more.

  The letter made Lucrezia very happy. “I feared,” she told her husband, “that your refusal to join my brother would have angered my father. But how benevolent he is! He understands, you see.”

  “The greater your father’s benevolence, the more I fear him,” growled Giovanni.

  “You do not understand him. He loves us. He wishes to have us in Rome.”

  “He wishes you to be in Rome. I do not know what he wishes for me.”

  And Lucrezia looked at her husband and shivered imperceptibly. There were times when she felt there was no escape from the destiny which her family was preparing for her.

  Cesare had rarely been so happy in the whole of his life as he was at this time.

  His brother Giovanni was helping to prove all that he, Cesare, had been at such pains to make their father realize. How angry he had been at that ceremony when Giovanni had been invested with the standard, richly embroidered, and the sword, richly jeweled, of Captain General of the Church! How the fury had welled up within him to see his father’s eyes shining with pride as he beheld his favorite son!

  “Fool!” Cesare had wanted to cry. “Do you not see that he will bring disgrace on your armies and the name of Borgia?”

  And Cesare’s prophecies were coming true. That was what gave him this great pleasure. Now surely his father must see the folly of investing his son Giovanni with military honors which he could not uphold, and the crass stupidity of preventing the brave bold Cesare from taking over the command which, in a fond father’s folly, had been given to Giovanni.

  Everything was in Giovanni’s favor. The wealth and might of the Pope was behind him. The great Captain Virginio Orsini was still a prisoner in Naples and could not take part in his family’s defense. To any with an ounce of military knowledge, so reasoned Cesare, the campaign should have been swift and victorious.

  And at first it seemed as though it would be so, for, with Virginio a prisoner, the Orsinis appeared to have no heart for the fight, and one by one surrendered to Giovanni’s forces as they had to the French. Castle after castle threw open its gates, and in marched the conqueror without the shedding of one drop of blood.

  In the Vatican the Pope rejoiced; even in Cesare’s presence, knowing how galling it was to his eldest son, he could not hide his pride.

  That was why the new turn of events was so gratifying to Cesare.

  The Orsini clan were not so easily overcome as the brash young Duke of Gandia and his doting father had believed. They had gathered in full force at the family castle of Bracciano under the leadership of the sister of Virginio. Bartolommea Orsini was a brave woman. She had been brought up in a military tradition and she was not going to submit without a fight. In this she was helped by her husband and other members of the family.

  Giovanni Borgia was startled to come up against resistance. He had had no experience of war, and his methods of breaking the siege at Bracciano seemed to the experienced warriors on both sides, both childish and foolish. He had no wish to fight, for Giovanni was a soldier who had more affection for jeweled sword and white stick of office than for battle. He therefore sent messages to the defenders of the castle, first wheedling, then threatening, telling them that their wisest plan would be to surrender. It was uncomfortable, camping outside the castle; the weather was bad; and Giovanni’s gorgeous apparel unsuited to it. His most able captain, Guidobaldo of Montefeltro, the Duke of Urbino, was badly wounded and forced to retire, which meant tha
t Giovanni had lost his best adviser.

  Time passed and Giovanni remained outside the stronghold of Bracciano. He was tired of the war, and he had heard that the whole of Italy was laughing at the Commander of the Pope’s forces, and moreover he guessed how his brother was enjoying this turn of events.

  The people of Rome whispered about the grand Captain: “How fares he now? Does he look quite so gorgeous as he did when he set out? The rain and wind will not be good for all that velvet and brocade.”

  Alexander was filled with anxiety, and declared he would sell his tiara if necessary to bring the war to a satisfactory conclusion. He could not bear the company of his elder son Cesare, for Cesare did not attempt to hide his delight at the way things were going. This hatred of brother for brother, thought Alexander, was folly of the first order. Had Cesare and Giovanni not yet learned that strength was in unity?

  Cesare was with him when the news came to him that Giovanni was still waiting outside the castle and that Urbino had been wounded.

  He watched the red blood flood his father’s face and, as he stood there, exulting, Alexander swayed and would have fallen had not Cesare rushed forward to catch him.

  Looking at his father, whose face was dark with rich purple blood, the whites of his eyes showing red, and the veins knotted at his temples, Cesare had a sudden terrible fear of a future in which there would be no Alexander to protect his family. Then did he realize how much they owed to this man—this man who hitherto had been renowned for his vitality, this man who surely must possess true genius.

  “Father!” cried Cesare aghast. “Oh, my beloved father!”

  The Pope opened his eyes and became aware of his son’s anxiety.

  “Dear son,” he said. “Fear not. I am with you still.”

  Once again that exceptional vitality showed itself. It was as though Alexander refused to accept the ailments of encroaching age.

  “Father,” cried Cesare in anguish, “you are not ill? You cannot be ill.”

  “Help me to my chair,” said Alexander. “There! That is better. It was a momentary faintness. I felt the blood pounding in my veins, and it seemed that my head would burst with it. It is passing. It was the shock of this news. I must control myself in future. There is no need to fret about that which has not yet happened.”

  “You must take greater care, Father,” Cesare warned him.

  “Oh my son, my son, do not look so distressed. And yet I feel happy to see that you care so much for me.”

  Alexander closed his eyes and lay back in his chair smiling. The astute statesman, always wilfully blind where his family was concerned, allowed himself to believe that it was out of affection for his father that Cesare was alarmed, not because he was aware of the precarious position he, with the rest of his family, would be in if the Pope were no longer there to protect them.

  Cesare then begged his father to call his physician, that he might be examined; and this Alexander at length promised he would do. But the Pope’s resilience was amazing and, a few hours after the fainting fit, he was making new plans for Giovanni’s success.

  Alas, eventually even Alexander had to face the fact that Giovanni was no soldier, for this became undeniable when help came to the Orsini from the French, and they were able to attack the besiegers of the castle.

  Faced with real battle Giovanni proved himself to be a hopeless leader, and the engagement went badly for the Papal forces; the only man among them who distinguished himself was the Duke of Urbino who, recovered from his wounds, was taken prisoner by the Orsini. As for Giovanni, he was wounded, but slightly, and realizing that he was in a somewhat ridiculous position, from which above all things he longed to extricate himself, he declared that being wounded he was unable to carry on, and must leave his armies to finish the conflict under a new commander.

  Now the whole of Italy was laughing at the adventures of the Pope’s son. They remembered the ceremony at which he had been made head of the Papal armies; when he had led his armies out of Rome, he had marched like a conqueror.

  This was very amusing to the Romans; and many people were pleased. This should teach the Pope that it was dangerous to his own interests to carry nepotism too far.

  Cesare had recovered from his alarm over the Pope’s fainting fit, for Alexander was as full of vitality as ever, and Cesare was not going to lose this opportunity of scoring over his brother.

  He called his friends to him and together they devised brilliant posters which they set up on various important roads throughout the city.

  “Wanted,” ran the words on these posters, “those who have any news concerning a certain army of the Church. Will anyone having such information impart it at once to the Duke of Gandia.”

  Giovanni came home, where he was received with undiminished affection by his father, who immediately began making excuses for his son and assuring everyone that, had Giovanni not had the ill luck to be wounded, there would have been a different tale to tell.

  And all who heard marvelled at the dissembling of Alexander who so delighted to deceive himself. But they were soon admiring his diplomacy, for it appeared that the Pope never lost a war. Defeated in battle he might be, but terms followed battle, and from these terms the Pope invariably emerged as the victor.

  Cesare went to see his father, and found Giovanni with him.

  As Cesare looked at his brother he could not prevent a sneer from curling his lips.

  “So,” he cried, “you have not rejoined your army, General.”

  “Cardinal, my army and I have parted company,” said Giovanni lightly. “We wearied of each other.”

  “So I hear.” Cesare laughed. “All Rome talks of it. There are even posters on the city’s walls.”

  “It would be interesting to discover who put them there.” Giovanni’s eyes gleamed murderously.

  “Be at peace, my sons,” put in Alexander. “What is done is done. We have suffered ill-fortune and we will now make peace.”

  “We have to sue for peace!” Cesare’s tone was grim. “A pretty pass.”

  “We’ll make it a pretty pass in all truth,” mused Alexander. “The Orsini are in no mood to continue the fight. I have offered my terms to them now and they will be accepted.”

  “Your terms, Holiness?”

  “My terms and their terms,” said Alexander lightly. “I shall allow them to buy back their castles. You will see that we shall lose nothing from this war.”

  “And Urbino?” asked Cesare. “He is a prisoner. What ransom will be asked for him?”

  The Pope shrugged the question aside. “Doubtless his family are gathering together the ransom.”

  Cesare’s eyes narrowed. This brilliant man who was their father was in actuality turning Giovanni’s defeat into victory. Giovanni was watching his brother slyly.

  He said: “Being weary of war, I rejoice that to-morrow the carnival begins.”

  There was hatred in Giovanni’s eyes to match that in Cesare’s. You have sought to disparage me in our father’s eyes, Cesare Borgia, he was thinking; do not imagine that I shall allow you to attack me with impunity. Have a care, for I will find a way to turn the tables, my lord Cardinal!

  It was with Cesare that the Pope discussed the peace terms. Giovanni was too busy contriving his costume for the carnival and planning his own revels. He missed Djem who had always had some bizarre and fantastic suggestion to make at such a time.

  There must come a day, Cesare was thinking, when our father realizes that I am the one to stand beside him, to share his ambition. How can a man, so brilliant as he is, continue to risk our position through this blind and foolish trust in one son at the expense of the other?

  At such times as this Cesare was almost happy. There was no need now to call attention to Giovanni’s shortcomings; they must be perfectly obvious even to the besottedly devoted Alexander.

  “My father,” he said now, “you astonish me. We Borgias have just suffered defeat which would have proved disastrous to many, and you are fast
turning that defeat into victory.”

  Alexander laughed. “My son, more is won at the council table than on the battlefield.”

  “That, I venture to suggest, Holiness, might depend on the soldiers. Had I been a soldier I would have carried my banner into the enemy stronghold. I would have placed my heel on the enemy’s throat, and the terms I made would have been all my terms. Indeed, there would be no terms. I should have been conqueror of their estates and castles.”

  “Nobly spoken, my son.”

  Cesare was alert. Did he detect a certain speculative light in his father’s eyes? Was Alexander going to be reasonable at last?

  “But,” went on the Pope, “we are in a certain position now, and we must extricate ourselves from it. The important point in the present case is speed. If we have been humiliated, my son, they are exhausted. They dread further fighting; that is why they are ready to make terms.”

  Cesare laughed in admiration. “And you have made them buy back their castles!”

  “For 50,000 golden florins.”

  “But you would rather have kept the castles, Father; which you would have done had you defeated them completely.”

  “We are 50,000 florins the richer.”

  “This was to be a beginning. We but started with the Orsini. And now?”

  “We shall resort to peace for a while.”

  “And the Orsini, when they have recovered from their weakness?”

  The Pope looked straight at his son. “There is one clause in the treaty to which I have had to agree. Virginio Orsini was in prison in Naples during the conflict.…”

  Cesare snapped his fingers. “And if he had not been, oh my father, that would have been very unfortunate for us.”

  The Pope agreed to this. Cesare was smiling; he was remembering those days long ago when he had left his mother’s house and lived for a year in Monte Giordano. He remembered the coming of the great soldier to the Orsini stronghold, and how his young boy’s heart had rejoiced in that man; he thought of the long rides, of Virginio’s grim yet affectionate way with him. During that year one of the heroes of Cesare’s life had been Virginio Orsini. Cesare had been proud when Virginio had wished that he had been his son; and if he had been, he would have made a soldier of him.