Roderigo was possessed of great charm. It was not that he was very handsome; his features were too heavy for good looks, but his dignity and his presence were impressive; so was his courtly grace which rarely failed to arouse the devotion of almost all who came into contact with him.
Oddly enough those people who were raging against him parted to let him pass on his way to St. Peter’s while benignly he smiled at them and gently murmured: “Bless you, my children.” And they knelt and kissed his hand or the hem of his robes.
Was that one of the most triumphant hours of his life? There had been triumphs since; but perhaps on that occasion he first became aware of this great power within him to charm and subdue by his charm all who would oppose him.
So he had prayed for his uncle and had stayed with him at his bedside while all others had fled; and although his magnificent palace had been sacked and looted, he remained aloof and calm, ready to cast his deciding vote at the Conclave which would follow and which assured Aeneas Sylvius Piccolomini of becoming, as Pius II, the successor of Calixtus.
Pius must be grateful to Roderigo, and indeed he was.
Thus Roderigo came successfully through the first storm of his life and had assured himself that he was able to stand on his own feet, as poor Pedro Luis had not been able to do.
Roderigo collected his brother’s wealth, mourned him bitterly—but briefly, for it was not in Roderigo’s nature to mourn for long—and found himself as powerful as he had ever been, and as hopeful of aspiring to the Papal throne.
Roderigo now wiped his brow with a perfumed kerchief. Those had been times of great danger, and he hoped never again to see the like; yet whenever he looked back on them he was aware of the satisfaction of a man who has discovered that the dangerous moment had not found him lacking in shrewd resourcefulness.
Pius had indeed been his good friend, but there had been times when Pius had found it necessary to reprove him. He could recall now the words of a letter which Pius had sent to him, complaining of Roderigo’s conduct in a certain house where courtesans had been gathered to administer to the pleasures of the guests. And he, young handsome Cardinal Roderigo, had been among those guests.
“We have been informed,” wrote Pius, “that there was unseemly dancing, that no amorous allurements of love were lacking, and that you conducted yourself in a wholly worldly manner.”
Roderigo threw back his head and smiled, remembering the scented garden of Giovanni de Bichis, the dancing, the warm perfumed bodies of women and their seductive glances. He had found them irresistible, as they had him.
And the reproof of Pius had not been serious. Pius understood that a man such as Roderigo must have his mistresses. Pius merely meant: Yes, yes, but no dancing in public with courtesans, Cardinal. The people complain, and it brings the Church into disrepute.
How careless he had been in those days, so certain was he of his ability to win through to his goal. He had determined to have the best of both ways of life. The Church was his career, by means of which he was going to climb to the Papal throne; but he was a sensualist, a man of irrepressible carnal desires. There would always be women in his life. It was not an uncommon foible; there was hardly a priest who seriously took his vows regarding celibacy, and it had been said by one of the wits of Rome that if every child came into the world with its father’s clothes on, they would all be dressed as priests or Cardinals.
Everyone understood; but Roderigo was perhaps more openly promiscuous than most.
Then he had met Vannozza, and he had set her up in a fine house, where now they had their children. Not that he had been faithful to Vannozza; no one would have expected that; but she had remained reigning favorite for many years and he adored their children. And now there was to be another.
It was irksome to wait. He, who was fifty, felt like a young husband of twenty, and if it were not for the fear of hearing Vannozza’s crying in her pain he would have gone to her apartment. But there was no need. Someone was coming to him.
She stood before him, flushed and pretty, Vannozza’s little maid. Even on such an occasion Roderigo was aware of her charms. He would remember her.
She curtseyed. “Your Eminence … the child is born.”
With the grace and agility of a much younger man he had moved to her side and laid beautiful white hands on her shoulders.
“My child, you are breathless. How your heart beats!”
“Yes, my lord. But … the baby is born.”
“Come,” he said, “we will go to your mistress.”
He led the way. The little maid, following, realized suddenly that she had forgotten to tell him the sex of the child, and that he had forgotten to ask.
* * *
The baby was brought to the Cardinal who touched its brow and blessed it.
The women fell back; they looked shame-faced as though they were to be blamed for the sex of the child.
It was a beautiful baby; there was a soft down of fair hair on the little head, and Roderigo believed that Vannozza had given him another golden beauty.
“A little girl,” said Vannozza, watching him from the bed.
He strode to her, took her hand and kissed it.
“A beautiful little girl,” he said.
“My lord is disappointed,” said Vannozza wearily. “He hoped for a boy.”
Roderigo laughed, that deep-throated musical laugh which made most people who heard it love him.
“Disappointed!” he said. “I?” Then he looked round at the women who had come closer, his eyes resting on them each in turn, caressingly, speculatively. “Disappointed because she is of the feminine sex? But you know … every one of you … that I love the soft sex with all my heart, and I can find a tenderness for it which I would deny to my own.”
The women laughed and Vannozza laughed with them; but her sharp eyes had noticed the little maid who wore an expectant expression as Roderigo’s glance lingered upon her.
She decided that, as soon as they returned to Rome, that child should be dismissed and, if Roderigo should look for her, he would look in vain.
“So my lord is pleased with our daughter?” murmured Vannozza, and signed to the women to leave her with the Cardinal.
“I verily believe,” said Roderigo, “that I shall find a softer spot in my heart for this sweet girl even than for those merry young rogues who now inhabit your nurseries. We will christen her Lucrezia; and when you are recovered, Madonna, we will return to Rome.”
* * *
And so on that April day in the Borgia castle at Subiaco was born the child whose name was to be notorious throughout the world: Lucrezia Borgia.
THE PIAZZA PIZZO DI MERLO
H ow delighted Vannozza was to be back in Rome! It seemed to her during those months which followed the birth of Lucrezia that she was the happiest of women. Roderigo visited her nurseries more frequently than ever; there was an additional attraction in the golden-haired little girl.
She was a charming baby—very sweet-tempered—and would lie contentedly in her crib giving her beautiful smile to any who asked for it.
The little boys were interested in her. They would stand one on either side of the crib and try to make her laugh. They quarrelled about her. Cesare and Giovanni would always seize on any difference between them and make a quarrel about it.
Vannozza laughed with her women, listening to their bickering: “She’s my sister.” “No, she’s my sister.” It had been explained to them that she was the sister of both of them.
Cesare had answered, his eyes flashing: “But she is more mine than Giovanni’s. She loves me—Cesare—better than Giovanni.”
That, the nursemaid told him, will be for Lucrezia herself to decide.
Giovanni watched his brother with smoldering eyes; he knew why Cesare wanted Lucrezia to love him best. Cesare was aware that when Uncle Roderigo called it was always Giovanni who had the bigger share of sweetmeats; it was always Giovanni who was lifted up in those strong arms and kissed and caresse
d before the magnificent Uncle Roderigo turned to Cesare.
Therefore Cesare was determined that everyone else should love him best. His mother did. The nurserymaids said they did; but that might have been because, if they did not, he would have his revenge in some way, and they knew that it was more unwise to offend Cesare than Giovanni.
Lucrezia, as soon as she was able to show a preference, should show it for him. He was determined on that. That was why he hung about her crib even more than Giovanni did, putting out his hand to let those little fingers curl about his thumb.
“Lucrezia,” he would whisper. “This is Cesare, your brother. You love him best … best of all.” She would look at him with those wide blue eyes, and he would command: “Laugh, Lucrezia. Laugh like this.”
The women would crowd round the crib to watch, for strangely enough Lucrezia invariably obeyed Cesare; and when Giovanni tried to make her laugh for him, Cesare would be behind his brother pulling such demoniacal faces that Lucrezia cried instead.
“It’s that demon, Cesare,” said the women to one another, for although he was but five years old they dared not say it to Cesare.
One day, six months after Lucrezia’s birth, Vannozza was tending her vines and flowers in her garden. She had her gardeners but this was a labor of love. Her plants were beautiful and it delighted her to look after them herself for her garden and her house were almost as dear to her as her family. Who would not be proud of such a house with its façade, facing the piazza, and the light room with the big window, so different from most of the gloomy rooms in other Roman houses. She had a water cistern too, which was a rare thing.
Her maid—not the one whom Roderigo had admired; she had long since left Vannozza’s service—came to tell her that the Cardinal had called, and with him was another gentleman; but even as the girl spoke Roderigo stepped into the garden, and he was alone.
“My lord,” cried Vannozza, “that you should find me thus.…”
Roderigo’s smile was disarming. “But you look charming among your plants,” he told her.
“Will you not come into the house? I hear you have brought a guest. The women should have attended to you better.”
“But it was my wish to speak to you alone … out here while you worked among your flowers.”
She was startled. She knew that he had something important to say, and she wondered whether he preferred to say it out of doors because even in well-ordered houses such as hers servants had a habit of listening to what they should not.
A cold fear numbed her mind as she wondered if he had come to tell her that this was the end of their liaison. She was acutely conscious of her thirty-eight years. She guarded her beauty well, but even so, a woman of thirty-eight who had borne several children could not compete with young girls; and there could scarcely be a young girl who, if she could resist the charm of the Cardinal, would be able to turn away from all that such an influential man could bring a mistress.
“My lord,” she said faintly, “you have news.”
The Cardinal lifted his serene face to the sky and smiled his most beautiful smile.
“My dear Vannozza,” he said, “as you know, I hold you in the deepest regard.” Vannozza caught her breath in horror. It sounded like the beginning of dismissal. “You live here in this house with our three children. It is a happy little home, but there is something missing; these children have no father.”
Vannozza wanted to cast herself at his feet, to implore him not to remove his benevolent presence from their lives. They might as well be dead if he did. As well try to live without the sun. But she knew how he disliked unpleasant scenes; and she said calmly: “My children have the best father in the world. I would rather they had never been born than that they should have had another.”
“You say delightful things … delightfully,” said Roderigo. “These are my children and dearly I love them. Never shall I forget the great service you have done me in giving them to me, my dearest love.”
“My lord.…” The tears had come to her eyes and she dashed them away, but Roderigo was looking at the sky, so determined was he not to see them.
“But it is not good that you should live in this house—a beautiful and still young woman, with your children about you, and only the uncle of those children to visit you.”
“My lord, if I have offended you in some way I pray you tell me quickly where I have been at fault.”
“You have committed no fault, my dear Vannozza. It is but to make life easier for you that I have made these plans. I want none to point at you and whisper: ‘Ah, there goes Vannozza Catanei, the woman who has children and no husband.’ That is why I have found a husband for you.”
“A husband! But, my lord …”
Roderigo silenced her with an authoritative smile. “You have a young baby in this house, Vannozza; she is six months old. Therefore you must have a husband.”
This was the end. She knew it. He would not have provided her with a husband if he had not tired of her.
He read her thoughts. But it was not entirely true that he was weary of her; he would always have some affection for her and would continue to visit her house, but that would be mainly to see his children; there were younger women with whom he wished to spend his leisure. There was some truth in what he was telling her; he did think it wise that she should be known as a married woman, for he could not have it said that his little ones were the children of a courtesan.
He said quickly: “Your husband’s duties will be to live in this house, to appear with you in public. They will end there, Vannozza.”
“Your lordship means?”
“Do you think that I could mean anything else? I am a jealous lover, Vannozza. Have you not yet learned that?”
“I know you to be jealous when you are a lover, my lord.”
He laid his hand on her shoulder. “Have no fear, Vannozza. You and I have been together too long to part now. It is solely for the sake of our children that I take this step. And I have chosen a quiet man to be your husband. He is a good man, a man of great respectability, and he is prepared to be the only sort of husband I could content myself with giving you.”
She took his hand and kissed it.
“And your Eminence will come and visit us now and then?”
“As ever, my dear. As ever. Now come and meet Giorgio di Croce. You will see that he is a mild-tempered man; you will have no difficulty with such a one, I do assure you.”
She followed him into the house, wondering what inducement had been offered to this man that he had agreed to marry her. It was not difficult to guess. There would be scarcely a man in Rome who would refuse to marry a woman whom the influential Cardinal had selected for him.
Vannozza was uneasy. She did not care to be bartered thus, as though she were a slave. She would certainly keep Giorgio di Croce in his place.
In her room which overlooked the piazza he was waiting. He rose as they entered and the Cardinal made the introductions.
The mild-tempered man took her hands and kissed them; she studied him and saw that his pale eyes gleamed as he took in her voluptuous charm.
Did the Cardinal notice? If so, he gave no sign.
* * *
From the loggia of her mother’s house Lucrezia looked out on the piazza and watched with quiet pleasure the people who passed. The city of the seven hills outside her mother’s house fascinated her, and it was her favorite pleasure to slip out to the loggia and watch people passing over the St. Angelo Bridge. There were Cardinals on white mules whose silver bridles gleamed in the sunshine; there were masked ladies and gentlemen; there were litters, curtained so that it was impossible to see the occupants.
Lucrezia’s wide wondering eyes would peer through gaps in the masonry as her fat little fingers curled about the pillars.
She was two years old but life with her brothers had made her appear to be more. The women of the nursery loved her dearly for, although she was like her brothers in appearance, she was quite unlike t
hem in character. Lucrezia’s was a sunny nature; when she was scolded for a fault, she would listen gravely and bear no malice against the scolder. It was small wonder that in that nursery, made turbulent by the two boys, Lucrezia was regarded as a blessing.
She was very pretty, and the women never tired of combing or adorning that long hair of the yellow-gold color which was so rarely seen in Rome. Lucrezia was already, at two—like her brothers she was precocious—aware of her charm, but she accepted this in quiet contentment as she accepted most things.
Today there was a hush over the house, because something important was happening, and Lucrezia was aware of the whispers of serving men and maids, and of the presence of strange women in the house. It concerned her mother, she knew, because she had not been allowed to see her for a whole day. Lucrezia smiled placidly as she looked on the piazza. She would know in time, so she would wait until then.
Her brother Giovanni came and stood beside her. He was six years old, a beautiful boy with auburn hair like his mother’s.
Lucrezia smiled at him and held out her hand; her brothers were always affectionate toward her and she was already aware that each of them was doing his best to be her favorite. She was coquette enough already to enjoy the rivalry for her affections.
“For what do you watch, Lucrezia?” asked Giovanni.
“For the people,” she answered. “See the fat lady with the mask!”
They laughed together because the fat lady waddled, said Giovanni, like a duck.
“Our uncle will soon be here,” said Giovanni. “You are watching for him, Lucrezia.”
Lucrezia nodded, smiling. It was true that she always watched for Uncle Roderigo. His visits were the highlights of her life. To be swung in those strong arms, to be held above that laughing face, to smell the faint perfume which clung to his clothes and watch the twinkling jewels on his white hands and to know that he loved her—that was wonderful. Even more wonderful than being loved so much by her two brothers.
Madonna of the Seven Hills Page 2
