Madonna of the Seven Hills: A Novel of the Borgias

by Jean Plaidy

  Giacomino had taken the stool she had indicated. He seemed to grow more miserable with every passing moment, as though he were already wondering how he, his master’s most loyal servant, was going to repulse her. But at length she heard the sound for which she was waiting, and greatly relieved, sprang up, crying: “Giacomino, my brother is on his way here.”

  “I must go at once, Madonna,” said the agitated Giacomino.

  “But wait. If you leave through the door he will see you, and my brother would not be pleased to see you here, Giacomino.”

  What fear Cesare inspired in everyone! The young man had grown pale, his discomfort turning to terror.

  “Oh Madonna, what shall I do?” stammered Giacomino.

  “I will hide you here. Quick! Get you behind this screen and I will place these draperies over you. If you keep perfectly still you will not be discovered. But I implore you to be as still as you possibly can, for if my brother were to discover you in my apartments …”

  “I will be still, Madonna.”

  “Your teeth are chattering, Giacomino. I see you realize full well the dangerous position in which you find yourself. My brother does not like me to receive young men in friendship. It angers him. Oh, do take care, Giacomino.”

  As she spoke she was pushing him behind the screen and arranging the draperies over him. She looked at her work with satisfaction; the chamberlain was completely hidden.

  Then she hurried to her chair and was sitting there assuming a pensive attitude when Cesare came into the room.

  “Lucrezia, my dearest.” He took both her hands and kissed them, as he smiled into her face. “I see you are prepared for me, and have arranged that we should be alone.”

  “Yes, Cesare, you have something to say to me?”

  “It was dangerous to talk last night in the streets, sister.” He went to the window and looked out. “Ah, the revelries still continue. The mumming and masquing goes on. Is Giovanni Sforza out there in the streets this day, or is he moping in his apartment dreaming of dear dull Pesaro?”

  “Dreaming of Pesaro,” said Lucrezia.

  “Let him dream while he may,” cried Cesare grimly. “There is not much time left to him for dreaming.”

  “You refer to the plans you have made for him?”

  “I do, sister. Oh, it has maddened me to think of you with that provincial boor. He deserves to die for having presumed to marry my sweet sister.”

  “Poor Giovanni, he was forced into it.”

  “You yearn for freedom, dearest sister, and because I am the most indulgent brother in the world, I long to give you all you desire.”

  “You do, Cesare. I am happy when I am with you.”

  Cesare had begun to pace the floor.

  “Our father and I have not told you of our plans before. This is because we know you to be young and tender. You were ever one to plead for the meanest slave who was in disgrace, and ask that punishment be averted. It may be, we thought, that you would plead for your husband. But we know that you long to be free of him … even as we long to see you free.”

  “What do you plan to do, Cesare?” asked Lucrezia slowly.

  “To remove him.”

  “You mean … to kill him?”

  “Never mind how we do it, sweet sister. Before long he will cease to worry you.”

  “When do you propose to do this deed?”

  “Within the next few days.”

  “You will ask him to a banquet or … will it be that he meets his assassins by night in some dark alley near the Tiber?”

  “Our little Sforza is not without friends,” said Cesare. “I think a banquet would suit him better.”

  “Cesare, there is talk of a poison which you use—cantarella. Is it true that the secret is known only to you and to our father, and that you are able not only to kill people but decide on the day and even hour of their death?”

  “You have a clever brother, Lucrezia. Does it make you happy to know that he puts all his skill at your disposal?”

  “I know that you would do anything in the world for me,” she told him. She moved to the window. “Oh Cesare,” she went on, “I long to go out into the streets. I long to mingle with the revelers as we did last night. Let us ride out to Monte Mario as we did in the old days, do you remember? Let us go now.”

  He came to her and laid his hands on her shoulders. “You want to feel the air on your face,” he said. “You want to say to yourself, Freedom is one of the greatest gifts life can offer, and soon it will be mine!”

  “How well you know me,” she said. “Come, let us go now.”

  Only when they had left the Palace could she breathe freely. She was astonished at the cleverness with which she had been able to play her part.

  Every minute had been fraught with terror that something would betray the presence of a third party in the room; and even more terrifying had been the constant thought: Cesare, my dearest, my beloved, I am betraying you.

  Giacomino extricated himself from the draperies and made all haste to his master’s apartments. He was breathless and begged Giovanni Sforza to see him privately.

  “My lord,” he stammered as soon as they were alone, “Madonna Lucrezia sent for me, I know not why, unless it was to give me some message to bring to you, but while I was in her apartments Cesare Borgia arrived and Madonna Lucrezia, fearing his anger, forced me to hide behind a screen. There I heard that he and the Pope are planning to murder you.”

  Sforza’s eyes dilated with terror.

  “I suspected it,” he said.

  “My lord, there is not a moment to spare. We must leave Rome with all speed.”

  “You are right. Go prepare the strongest horses we have. We will set out at once for Pesaro. Only there can I be safe from my murderous relations.”

  So Giacomino obeyed, and in less than an hour after the chamberlain had heard Cesare and Lucrezia talking together, he and Sforza were riding at full gallop out of Rome.

  SAN SISTO

  The Pope and Cesare were annoyed by Sforza’s flight. Already the news was being whispered throughout Rome that he had fled because he feared the dagger or the poison cup which the Borgias were preparing for him.

  “Let him not think to escape,” raged Cesare.

  Alexander was serene.

  “Calm yourself, my dear son,” he said. “The only matter which concerns us is his separation from your sister. He is suspicious of our feelings toward him. It would be dangerous now to go the way we planned. There is only one course left open to us. I do not like it. As a Churchman I find it distasteful. The other would have been so much more convenient. I fear, Cesare, that we are left with divorce.”

  “Well then, let us set about procuring it as soon as possible. I have promised Lucrezia her freedom and I intend her to have it.”

  “Then let us study this matter of divorce. There are two alternatives, as I see it. First we could declare that the marriage was invalid because Lucrezia had never been released from a former entanglement with Gasparo di Procida.”

  “I fear, Father, that that would be difficult to prove. Lucrezia was released from that betrothal, and there would be many to point to the proof of this. We should have Ludovico and Ascanio coming to their kinsman’s aid if we put forward such a reason.”

  “You are right there, my son. That leaves us the other alternative. We will ask for a divorce on the grounds that the marriage has never been consummated.”

  “But this is not so.”

  “My dear son, who shall say that it has been consummated? Is there a child to confirm it?”

  “It is a barren marriage, Father, but consummation has surely taken place.”

  “Who shall swear to this?”

  “Sforza. He will not wish his impotence to be proclaimed to the world.”

  “But Lucrezia will say what we wish her to.”

  “Sforza will protest, he will protest vigorously.”

  “We will protest with equal vigor.”

  “It
is the answer. Truly, Father, you have genius.”

  “Thank you, my son. Are you beginning to realize that I know how to manage my family’s affairs and do what brings my children the most good?”

  “You have done much for Giovanni,” said Cesare with a hint of sullenness; “and now I see that you will do what is best for Lucrezia.”

  Alexander patted his son’s shoulder affectionately. “Send for the sweet creature,” he said. “Let us tell her of the joy we are preparing for her.”

  Lucrezia came to them. She was full of fears but, because she was growing up and learning the art of dissimulation which they practiced so expertly, she managed to hide the state of her mind from their searching eyes.

  “My dearest,” said the Pope embracing her, “Cesare and I could not resist the pleasure of bringing you here. We have great news for you. You are to be freed from Sforza.”

  “In what way, Father?”

  “There will be a divorce. We do not like divorce, but there are times when it is necessary. So we shall use it to free you from Sforza.”

  A feeling of relief swept over her. So they had abandoned their plans to murder him, and she had saved him.

  The men noticed this relief and they smiled at one another. Their dear Lucrezia would be very grateful to them.

  “Unfortunately,” declared the Pope, “the Church is opposed to divorce, and my Cardinals will demand a very good reason if we are to grant it.”

  “It will be a simple matter,” added Cesare, “as the marriage has not been consummated.”

  Lucrezia said quickly: “But it has been consummated.”

  “No, my child,” contradicted the Pope, “it has not.”

  “Father, we have shared the same bed on countless occasions.”

  “Sharing a bed is not necessarily tantamount to consummation. My dear sweet innocent child, there is much you do not know. The marriage has not been consummated.”

  “But Father, I swear it has.”

  The Pope looked uneasily about him.

  “All is well,” whispered Cesare. “No one would dare remain within hearing when I have given orders that they should not.”

  “My child,” went on the Pope, “consummation is not what you think.”

  “I know full well,” persisted Lucrezia, “that my marriage has been consummated.”

  The Pope patted her cheek. “They may insist,” he said to Cesare, “on an examination of the child. They are full of doubts and suspicions.”

  “Father, I must assure you that I …”

  “Have no fear, my child,” whispered the Pope. “Such examinations have taken place before. It is so easy. The virgin, veiled on account of modesty. You understand. You yourself need not submit. We shall find a suitable virgin, and all will be well. All you would have to do would be to swear before the jurists and Cardinals of a commission.”

  “Father, I could not so swear.”

  The Pope smiled. “You fret too much, my child. There are times when it is necessary for us to diverge from the truth, if not for the sake of ourselves, for the happiness of others.”

  She was aghast. She looked from one to the other of these two men whom she loved beyond all others in the world. She knew that whatever the future held she must continue to love them, that they must mean more to her than anyone else, that she was bound to them in more ways than she understood; she belonged to them, and they to her; she was bound to them by bonds of affection and a family feeling which was stronger than any other she had known; and she knew them to be dissemblers, treacherous liars and murderers.

  She could not endure any more. She said: “Father, I pray you give me leave to retire. I would consider this matter.”

  They kissed her tenderly, brother and father; and she left them, talking together of their plans to overcome any opposition.

  As to Lucrezia, they did not expect any trouble from her.

  She would not sign the monstrous document. It was a lie, a blatant lie.

  Her father and Cesare pleaded with her. She must throw aside her scruples; she must remember what was at stake. Her brother Giovanni joined his pleas to those of Cesare and Alexander. It was degrading, he declared, that Lucrezia Borgia should remain married to such a man as Giovanni Sforza. Certainly her family wished to bring about her release. She was foolish to hesitate. What was the mere signing of a document?

  “But it is a lie … a lie,” cried Lucrezia.

  The Pope was gentle in his explanations, but astonished, he said, that his little daughter—the best loved of all his children—should so grieve her father.

  “It is not the lie, so much, Father,” she tried to explain, “but the hurt it will give to my husband. He will be branded as impotent, and you know what humiliation that will cause him.”

  “You must not worry so much on account of others, my child. He will be free to marry again and prove himself.”

  “But who will wish to marry a man who, it is declared, cannot give children?”

  “This is a little foolish, my child. Sign the document. It is so simple. Your name here … and in a short time all will be well.”

  But again and again she refused.

  Meanwhile Giovanni Sforza, enraged at the terms on which the Pope intended to procure a divorce, protested loudly and vigorously.

  It was a lie to say that the marriage had not been consummated, he declared. It had been consummated a thousandfold.

  He decided that there was only one place to which he could go for help. He would ride with all speed to Milan and seek the aid of his Sforza cousins. They had not shown themselves very eager to help in the past, but surely a family must stand together when one of its members was so insulted.

  Having his own worries Ludovico was not very pleased to see his cousin. It might be that the French would return to Italy, and if they did Milan would be one of their first targets. If such circumstances arose, Ludovico would need the help of Alexander; and for what could he hope if he opposed the Pope in this matter? Ludovico obviously could offer little help to poor Giovanni Sforza.

  “My dear cousin,” said Ludovico, “why do you not agree to the divorce? It would be quickly over and there would be an end to the matter.”

  “Do you not understand this monstrous suggestion?”

  “I see that the Pope will allow you to retain Lucrezia’s dowry if you agree. He also says you shall keep his goodwill.”

  “Dowry! Goodwill! I am to retain these if I allow him to bruit it abroad that I am impotent!”

  “It was a handsome dowry, and Papal goodwill is not to be despised.”

  “Cousin, I ask you this: Had such a slur been thrown on your virility, how would you act?”

  Ludovico was thoughtful for a few seconds, then he said: “Well, Giovanni, my cousin, there is a way in which you could prove the Borgia’s allegations to be wrong.”

  “How so?” asked Giovanni eagerly.

  “Prove it without doubt in the presence of our ambassador and the Papal Legate. Lucrezia could come to the castle of Nepi, and there you could show us publicly that you are capable of being a good husband.”

  Giovanni shrank from his cousin in horror at the suggestion.

  “But my dear cousin,” said Ludovico mildly, “it has been done before. And if Lucrezia refuses to come, why then I could arrange for several courtesans to be in attendance. You could take your choice, and I can assure you that our Milanese women are as desirable as any they have in Rome.”

  “It would be quite impossible.”

  “I have made the suggestion,” said Ludovico, shrugging his shoulders. “If you refuse to consider it, then people will draw their own conclusions.”

  “I refuse to make a public spectacle of myself.”

  “It seems to me the only way to counter this charge.”

  “In the presence of the Milanese ambassador and the Papal Legate!” cried the outraged Giovanni. “And who is the Papal Legate? Another Giovanni Borgia, a nephew of His Holiness. Why, I doubt not that, whate
ver I did in his presence, he would swear I was impotent. He is another example of the incessant nepotism of the Pope! And the Milanese ambassador! Doubtless he would be bribed to speak against me, or threatened if he refused.”

  Ludovico looked at his relative sadly, but there was no other advice he could offer. Giovanni Sforza was an unlucky man; he had aroused the contempt and dislike of the Borgias. He was also a foolish man; because the Borgias wished to be rid of him, and he was making it difficult for them.

  Lucrezia knew that she must sign. She could not hold out against them any longer. Each day they visited her or she was summoned to the Pope’s presence. They all assured her that she must sign. There was her father, benevolent still but giving the faintest hints of losing patience; Cesare, growing angry with her now and then as he had never been before; Giovanni, telling her she was a stupid little girl who did not know what was good for her.

  She did not know where her husband was. At first she had considered leaving Rome by stealth and fleeing to Pesaro, but when she had heard of the cruel things which Giovanni had said about her she no longer wanted to do that; for Giovanni Sforza, humiliated and angry, had declared that the Pope was eager for a divorce because he wanted his daughter to live in his immediate circle that he might take the place of her husband.

  This was the first time that Lucrezia had heard this evil rumor concerning herself, and she shrank from the man who could spread it.

  She had never felt so much alone as she did at that time. She longed to have someone like Giulia to confide in, but she never saw Giulia now; Sanchia was too immersed in her own affairs and the battle between Cesare and Giovanni for her favors which she was engendering.

  And so there came the day when she signed the document which they had prepared for her, in which she declared that, owing to her husband’s impotence, she was still virgo intacta.

  There was laughter in Rome.

  A member of the most notorious family in Europe had declared her innocence. It was the best joke that had been heard in the streets for many years.