Madonna of the Seven Hills: A Novel of the Borgias

by Jean Plaidy

  When Uncle Roderigo came she liked to climb over him looking close into his face, perhaps putting out a delicate finger to touch the nose which seemed gigantic, to caress the heavy jowls, to bury her face in his scented garments and to tell him that the smell of him reminded her of her mother’s flower gardens.

  Uncle Roderigo loved them all dearly, and came often with presents; he would have them stand round him while he sat on the ornamental chair which their mother kept for him, and he would look at them all in turn—his beloved children whom, he told them, he loved beyond all things on Earth; his eyes rested most fondly of all on Giovanni. Lucrezia was aware of this; and sometimes when she saw the dark look it brought to Cesare’s face she would run to Uncle Roderigo and throw herself at him in order to turn his attention from Giovanni to herself.

  She was often successful, for when Uncle Roderigo’s long fingers caressed her yellow hair, when his lips touched her soft cheek, there would be a special tenderness which he could only give to her. He would hold her more tightly to him and kiss her more often.

  “My enchanting little one,” he would murmur. “My little love.”

  Then he ceased to watch Giovanni so devotedly and that pleased Cesare who did not mind Uncle Roderigo’s loving Lucrezia. It was only Giovanni who aroused his jealousy.

  Then Vannozza might appear at the door holding little Goffredo by the hand, pushing him forward; and Goffredo would break from his mother and run shrieking with joy, shouting: “Uncle Roderigo, Goffredo is here.” He would be dressed in his blue tunic, which made him look as beautiful as a painted angel in one of the pictures which their mother cherished; and Uncle Roderigo would hesitate—or pretend to hesitate—for one second before he picked up the beautiful little boy. But only when Vannozza had gone would he smother him with kisses and take him on his knee and let him pull gifts from the pockets of his robes, while he called him “My little Goffredo.”

  Ottaviano never came. Poor Ottaviano, the outsider; he was pale and delicate and he coughed a great deal. He was very like Giorgio, who was kind but who must be, so Cesare commanded, ignored by them all, since he had nothing to do with them.

  But it was through Ottaviano and Giorgio, those two who were regarded as insignificant by the three children in the nursery, that change came into their lives.

  They grew listless, both of them. The weather was sultry and it was said that there was pestilence in the air. Giorgio grew paler and thinner each day until he took to his bed and there was quiet throughout the house.

  Vannozza wept bitterly, for she had come to love her meek husband, and when he died she was very sad. It was not long afterward that little Ottaviano, suffering in the same way as his father had, took to his bed and died. Thus in a few months the household had lost two of its members.

  Lucrezia wept to see her mother unhappy. She missed little Ottaviano too; he had been one of her most faithful admirers.

  Cesare found her crying and wanted to know why.

  “But you know,” she said, her light eyes wide and wondering. “Our father is dead and our little brother with him. Our mother is sad and so am I.”

  Cesare snapped his fingers angrily. “You should not weep for them,” he said. “They are nothing to us.”

  Lucrezia shook her head and for once she would not agree with him. She had loved them both; she found it easy to love people. Giorgio had been so kind to her, Ottaviano had been her dear little brother, so she would insist on weeping even though Cesare forbade her.

  But Cesare must not be crossed. She saw the dark angry look come into his eyes.

  “Lucrezia, you shall not cry for them,” he insisted. “You shall not, I say. Dry your eyes. Look here is a kerchief. Dry them and smile. Smile!”

  But it was not possible to smile with all her grief upon her. Lucrezia tried, but she remembered the kindness of Giorgio and how he had carried her on his shoulder and looked so pleased when people had admired her yellow hair; she remembered how little Ottaviano had a habit of creeping close to her and slipping his little hand in hers; she remembered how he used to lisp her name. She could not smile, because she could not forget that she would never see Giorgio and Ottaviano again.

  Cesare seemed as though he were finding it difficult to breathe, which meant he was very angry. He took her by the neck, and this time there was more anger than tenderness in the gesture.

  “It is time you knew the truth,” he said. “Have you not guessed who our father is?”

  She had not thought of possessing a father until Giorgio came into the house, and then, as Vannozza called him husband, she had thought of him as father, but she knew better than to say that Giorgio was their father; so she was silent, hoping Cesare would relax his hold on her neck and let the tenderness return to his fingers.

  Cesare had put his face close to hers; he whispered: “Roderigo, Cardinal Borgia, is not our uncle, foolish child; he is our father.”

  “Uncle Roderigo?” she said slowly.

  “Of a certainty, foolish one.” Now his grip was tender. He laid his lips on her cool cheek and gave her one of those long kisses which disturbed her. “Why should he come here so often, do you think? Why should he love us so? Because he is our father. It is time you knew. Now you will see that it is unworthy to cry for such as Giorgio and Ottaviano. Do you see that now, Lucrezia?”

  His eyes were dark again—not with rage perhaps, but with pride because Uncle Roderigo was their father and he was a great Cardinal who, they must pray each day, each night, might one day be Pope and the most powerful man in Rome.

  “Yes, Cesare,” she said, for she was afraid of Cesare when he looked like that.

  But when she was alone she went into a corner and continued to weep for Giorgio and Ottaviano.

  But even Cesare was to discover that the death of those whom he had considered insignificant could make a great difference to his life.

  Roderigo, still solicitous for the welfare of his ex-mistress, decided that, since she had lost her husband, she must be provided with another; therefore he arranged a marriage for her with a certain Carlo Canale. This was a good match for Vannozza since Carlo was the chamberlain of Cardinal Francesco Gonzaga, and a man of some culture; he had encouraged the poet, Angelo Poliziano, in the writing of Orfeo, and had worked with distinction among the humanists of Mantua. Here was a man who could be useful to Roderigo; and Canale was wise enough to know that through Roderigo he might acquire the riches he had so far failed to accumulate.

  Roderigo’s notary drew up the marriage contracts and Vannozza prepared to settle down with her new husband.

  But as she had gained a husband she was to lose her three eldest children. She accepted this state of affairs philosophically for she knew that Roderigo could not allow their children to remain in her house beyond their childhood; the comparatively humble home of a Roman matron was not the right setting for those who had a brilliant destiny before them.

  Thus came the greatest change of all into Lucrezia’s life.

  Giovanni was to go to Spain, where he would join his eldest brother, Pedro Luis, and where his father would arrange for honors to fall to him; and those honors should be as great as those which he had given to Pedro Luis. Cesare was to stay in Rome. Later he was to train for a Spanish Bishopric, and to do this he must study canon law at the universities of Perugia and Pisa. For the time being he was with Lucrezia but they were soon to leave their mother’s house for that of a kinswoman of their father’s; therein they would be brought up as fitted their father’s children.

  It was a staggering blow to Lucrezia. All that had been home to her for six years would be home no longer. The blow was swift and sudden. The only one who rejoiced in that household on the Piazza Pizzo di Merlo was Giovanni, who strutted about the nursery, wielding an imaginary sword, bowing in mock reverence before Cesare whom he called my lord Bishop. Giovanni, intoxicated with excitement, talked continually of Spain.

  Lucrezia watched Cesare, his arms folded across his breast, his face
white with suppressed anger. Cesare did not rage, did not cry out that he would kill Giovanni; for once Cesare was beaten.

  The first important change of their lives had been reached and they all had to accept the fact that however much they might boast in the nursery, they had no alternative but to obey orders.

  Only once, when he was alone with Lucrezia, did Cesare cry out as he thumped his fist on his thighs so violently that Lucrezia was sure he was hurting himself: “Why should he go to Spain? Why should I have to go into the Church? I want to go to Spain. I want to be a Duke and a soldier. Do you think I am not more fitted to conquer and rule than he is? It is because our father loves him better than he loves me that Giovanni has cajoled him into this. I will not endure it. I will not.”

  Then he took Lucrezia by the shoulders, and his blazing eyes frightened her.

  “I swear to you, little sister, that I shall not rest until I am free … free of my father’s will … free of the will of any who seek to restrain me.”

  Lucrezia could only murmur: “You will be free, Cesare. You will always do what you want.”

  Then he laughed suddenly and gave her one of those fierce embraces which she knew so well.

  She was anxious about Cesare, and that meant that she did not worry so much about her own future as she might otherwise have done.

  MONTE GIORDANO

  Adriana of the house of Mila was a very ambitious woman. Her father, a nephew of Calixtus III, had come to Italy when his uncle became Pope, because it seemed that under such benign and powerful influence there might be a great future for him. Adriana was therefore related to Roderigo Borgia, who held her in great esteem, for she was a woman not only of beauty but of intelligence. It was owing to these qualities that she had married Ludovico of the noble house of Orsini, and the Orsini was one of the most powerful families in Italy. Adriana had a son who had been named Orsino; this boy was sickly and, having a squint, rather unprepossessing, but on account of his position—as the heir to great wealth—Adriana hoped to make a brilliant marriage for him.

  The Orsinis had many palaces in Rome but Adriana and her family lived in that on Monte Giordano, near the Bridge of St. Angelo. And it was to this palace that Lucrezia and Cesare were taken when they said good-bye to their brothers and their mother.

  Here life was very different from what it had been in the house on the Piazza Pizzo di Merlo. With Vannozza there had been light-hearted gaiety, and the children had enjoyed great freedom. They had been allowed to wander in the vineyards, or to enjoy trips on the river; they had often visited the Campo di Fiore where it had given them great delight to mingle with all kinds of people. Cesare and Lucrezia realized that life had indeed been changed.

  Adriana was awe-inspiring. She was a beautiful woman but always dressed in ceremonial black, insisting constantly that it must not be forgotten that this was a Spanish household even though it was in the heart of Italy. With its great towers and crenellations dominating the Tiber, the palace was gloomy; its thick walls shut out the sunshine and the gaiety of the Rome which the children had known and loved. Adriana never laughed as Vannozza had laughed, and there was nothing warm and loving about her.

  She had many priests living in the palace; there were constant prayers, and consequently Lucrezia believed in those first years in the Orsini palace that her foster-mother was a very virtuous woman.

  Cesare chafed against the discipline, but even he was unable to do anything about it, even he was overawed by the gloomy palace, the many prayers and the feeling that the palace was a prison in which he and Lucrezia had been incarcerated while Giovanni had been allowed to go in pomp and splendor to Spain and glory.

  Cesare brooded silently. He did not rage as he had in his mother’s house; he was sullen and sometimes his quiet anger frightened Lucrezia. Then she would cling to him and beg him not to be sad; she would cover him with kisses and cry out that she loved him best of all … better than anyone else in the whole world, that she would love him today, the next day and forever.

  Even this declaration could not appease him, and he remained brooding and unhappy, but sometimes he would turn to her and seize her in one of those fierce embraces which hurt her and excited her. Then he would say: “You and I are together, little sister. We’ll always love each other … best in the world … best in the whole world. Swear it to me.”

  And she swore it. Sometimes they would lie together on her bed or his. She would go there to comfort him, or he would come to her for comfort. Then he would talk of Giovanni and how unfair life was. Why did their father love Giovanni? Cesare would demand. Why should not Cesare have been the one who was chosen to go to Spain? Cesare would never go into the Church. He hated the Church, hated it … hated it.

  His vehemence frightened her. She crossed herself and reminded him that it was unlucky to talk thus against the Church. The saints, or perhaps the Holy Ghost might be angry and come to punish him. She was afraid, she said; but she said it to give him the chance of comforting her, to remind him that he was great Cesare, afraid of none, and she was little Lucrezia who was the one to be protected.

  Sometimes she made him forget his anger against Giovanni. Sometimes they laughed together and remembered the fun they had had on their jaunts to the Campo di Fiore. Then they would swear that no matter what happened they would always love each other best in the world.

  But during those first months the children felt that they were prisoners.

  Roderigo visited them at Monte Giordano.

  In the early days Cesare asked that they might go home, but Roderigo, fond father though he was, could be firm when he felt himself to be acting for the good of his children.

  “My little ones,” he said, “you have been running wild in the house of your mother. But to run wild is for little children, not for big ones. It is not meet that you should pass your time in that humble house. A great future awaits you both. Trust me to judge what is best for you.”

  And Cesare knew that when his father’s face was set in those lines there was nothing to be done about it. He had to obey.

  “Very soon,” Roderigo told Cesare, “you will be leaving this house. You will be going to the university. There you will have great freedom, my son; but first I would have you know how to act like a nobleman, and although there is discipline here such as you have never encountered before, this is necessary to make you worthy of what you will become. Have patience. It is but for a little while.”

  And Cesare was mollified.

  The head of the house of Orsini was Virginio, one of the great soldiers of Italy, and when he was at Monte Giordano, the palace resembled a military camp. Virginio shouted orders to all, and the serving men and maids scurried hither and thither, in fear of displeasing the great commander.

  Strangely enough Cesare, who so longed to be a soldier, had no objection to this stern rule; and for the first time in her life Lucrezia saw her brother ready to bend to the will of another. Cesare rode behind Virginio, straight as a soldier, and Virginio would often watch him and do his utmost to hide the smile of approval which touched his lips. He would watch Cesare, bare to the waist, learning to wrestle with some of the best teachers in the whole of Italy; the boy gave a good account of himself.

  “That boy for the Church!” said Virginio to Adriana and Ludovico her husband. “He’s made for a military career.”

  Adriana answered: “Careers in the Church, my dear Virginio bring a man more profit than those of soldiering.”

  “ ’Tis a tragedy to make a prelate of him. What is Roderigo Borgia thinking of?”

  “His future … and the future of the Borgias. That boy is destined to be Pope, I tell you. At least that is what Roderigo Borgia plans to make him.”

  Virginio swore his soldier’s oaths and set the boy more arduous tasks, shouted at him, bullied him and Cesare did not object. He dreamed of being a great soldier. Virginio approved of his dreamings, and even went so far as to wish the boy was his son.

  Thus that year was
made tolerable for Cesare and, such was Lucrezia’s nature that, seeing her brother reconciled, she could become reconciled too.

  But by the end of the year Cesare had left the Orsini palace for Perugia, and Lucrezia wept bitterly in her loneliness. Then she suddenly began to realize that with Cesare absent she enjoyed a certain freedom, a certain lack of tension; she found that she could begin to consider what was happening to herself irrespective of Cesare.

  Lucrezia was growing up and her religious education must not be neglected, since that formed the background of the education of all Italian girls of noble birth. Most of them went into convents, but Roderigo had given much anxious thought to this matter, for the behavior in convents was not always above reproach and he was determined to protect his Lucrezia. The Colonnas sent their daughters, it was true, to San Silvestro in Capite, and the convents of Santa Maria Nuova and San Sisto he believed were equally worthy; so he decided that it should be San Sisto’s on the Appian Way to which Lucrezia should go for religious instruction. She was to stay there only for brief periods though, and she returned often to Monte Giordano where she was instructed in languages—Spanish, Greek and Latin—as well as painting, music and fine needlework.

  It was not necessary, Roderigo had pointed out to Adriana, that his little daughter should become a virago (a term which in those days simply meant a learned woman). He wished his Lucrezia to be highly educated that she might be a worthy companion for himself. It was vital that she should be instructed in deportment, that she should acquire the airs and graces of a noblewoman and be able to take her place among Kings and Princes; he wished her to be modest in her demeanour. Her serenity of character gave her a charming graciousness which was apparent even at the age of seven, when she began this course of grooming; that, Roderigo wished to be preserved, for, as he saw his little daughter growing in beauty every day, he was becoming more and more ambitious on her account.