“He will come today, Lucrezia,” said Giovanni. “He surely will. He is waiting for a message from our mother.”
Lucrezia listened, alert; she could not always understand her brothers; they seemed to forget that she was only two years old, and that Giovanni who was six and Cesare who was seven seemed like adults, grand, large and important.
“Do you know why, Lucrezia?” said Giovanni.
When she shook her head, Giovanni laughed, hugging the secret, longing to tell yet reluctant to do so because the anticipation of telling so pleased him. He stopped smiling at her suddenly and Lucrezia knew why. Cesare was standing behind them.
Lucrezia turned to smile at him, but Cesare was glaring at Giovanni.
“It is not for you to tell,” said Cesare.
“It is as much for me as for you,” retorted Giovanni.
“I am the elder. I shall tell,” declared Cesare. “Lucrezia, you are not to listen to him.”
Lucrezia shook her head and smiled. No, she would not listen to Giovanni.
“I shall tell if I want to,” shouted Giovanni. “I have as much right to tell as you. More … because I thought to tell first.”
Cesare had his brother by the hair and was shaking him. Giovanni kicked out at Cesare. Cesare kicked back, Giovanni yelled and the two boys were rolling on the floor.
Lucrezia remained placid, for such fights were commonplace enough in the nursery, and she watched them, content that they should be fighting over her; she was nearly always the cause of these fights.
Giovanni was yelping with pain, while Cesare shrieked with rage. The maid-servants would not come near them while they fought thus. They were afraid of those two boys.
Giovanni who was being held down to the floor by Cesare, shouted: “Lucrezia … our mother is …”
But he could say no more because Cesare had his hand over his brother’s mouth. His eyes looked black with rage and his face was scarlet. “I shall tell. It is my place to tell. Our mother is having a baby, Lucrezia.”
Lucrezia stared, her eyes wide, her soft babyish mouth open in astonishment. Cesare, watching her amazement, was placated. She was looking at him as though he were responsible for this strange thing. She made him feel powerful, as she had ever since she had been a baby and he had hung over her crib and watched her little fingers curl about his thumb.
He released Giovanni and both boys got to their feet. The fight was over; it was one of many which took place every day in the nursery. Now they were ready to talk to their little sister about the new baby, to strut before her and boast of all that they knew concerning the great events which went on outside their nursery.
* * *
Vannozza lay waiting for the Cardinal to visit her. A boy this time, but she was uneasy.
She had good reason to be.
The Cardinal had continued his visits during the two years of her marriage, but they had been less frequent and she had heard a great deal of gossip about the charming young women in whom he was interested.
Giorgio was a good man, a meek man, as the Cardinal had declared him to be; but even the meekest men are yet men, and Vannozza was possessed of voluptuous and irresistible charm. There had been long summer evenings—the cool of the evening was the best part of the day—when they supped in her lovely vineyard in the Suburra, when they had talked and grown drowsy and afterward gone into the house, each feeling stimulated by the presence of the other.
After all, they were married, and Roderigo’s visits were so infrequent.
It was to be expected, of course, even though the rule had been laid down that Giorgio was merely to share the public rooms of her house.
Could Roderigo blame her? She did not think he would. But if there was a question of the child being his, he might feel less inclined to do for it what he planned to do for the others.
When a woman held a child in her arms, a child of a few hours, how could she help it if for a short while that child seemed more precious to her than anything else on Earth? Cesare would always hold first place in her affections; but at this time as she lay exhausted in her bed the little newcomer—her Goffredo—being the most helpless of her brood, must, she decided, have the same opportunities as his brothers.
He looked exactly as the others had; indeed it might be little Lucrezia who lay in her arms now, a baby a few hours old; and there was no doubt who her father was. Goffredo might be Roderigo’s son. With such a lover and a husband living under her own roof, even Vannozza could not be sure. But she must do all in her power to make the Cardinal sure he was the child’s father.
He was coming to her bedside now. Her women stepped back in awed reverence as he approached.
“Vannozza, my dear!” His voice sounded as tender as ever, but he rarely showed anger, and she could not tell what his feelings were toward the child.
“A boy this time, my lord. He is very like Lucrezia … and I fancy I see Your Eminence in that child every day.”
A plump white hand, sparkling with gems, touched the baby’s cheek. It was a tender, paternal gesture, and Vannozza’s spirits rose.
She picked up the child and held him out to the Cardinal who took him from her; she saw his face soften in a look of pride and joy. It was small wonder, she thought then, that many loved Roderigo; his love of women and children made them eager to please and serve him.
He walked up and down with the child, and in his eyes was a faraway look as though he were seeing into the future. Surely that meant that he was making plans for the new-born boy. He did not suspect. He must have compared himself with Giorgio and asked himself how any woman could consider the little apostolic clerk, when she must compare him with the charming and mighty Cardinal.
He put the baby back into her arms and stood for a while smiling benignly down at her.
Then he said slyly, “Giorgio? He is pleased?”
* * *
There was a period in Lucrezia’s life which she would remember until the day of her death. She was only four years old, yet so vivid was the memory that it was imprinted forever on her mind. For one thing it was the beginning of change.
Before that time she had lived the nursery life, secure in the love of her mother, looking forward to the visits of Uncle Roderigo, delighting in the battle of her brothers for her affection. It had been a pleasant little world in which Lucrezia lived. Each day she would take her stand on the loggia and watch the colorful world go by, but all that happened beyond her mother’s house seemed to her nothing more than pictures for her idle pleasure; there was an unreality about all that happened on the other side of the loggia and Lucrezia was safe in her cozy world of love and admiration.
She knew that she was pretty and that no one could fail to notice this because of her yellow hair and her eyes which were light blue-gray in color; her eyelashes and brows were dark and inherited from her Spanish ancestors, it was said; and it was this combination which, partly because it was so unusual, was so attractive. She had the arresting looks of one who was only part Italian, being also part Spanish. Her brothers also possessed this charm.
The serving-maids could not help embracing her, patting her cheeks or stroking her lovely hair. “Dearest little Madonna,” they would murmur, and they would whisper together about those enchanting occhi bianchi which were going to make a seductress of their little Madonna.
She was happy in their affection; she would snuggle up to them, giving love for love; and she looked forward to a career as a seductress with the utmost pleasure.
Little Lucrezia up to that time believed that the world had been made for her pleasure—her brothers had the same feeling in regard to themselves—but because Lucrezia was by nature serene, ready to be contented, and could only be pleased herself when she pleased others, her character was quite different from those of her brothers. Cesare’s and Giovanni’s young lives were darkened by their jealousy of each other; Lucrezia knew no such jealousy. She was the Queen of the nursery, certain of the love of all.
And so
, up to her fourth birthday the little girl remained shut in her world of contentment which wrapped itself about her like a cozy cocoon.
But with the fourth birthday came the first indication that life was less simple than she had believed it to be, and that it did not go on forever in the same pleasant pattern.
At first she noticed the excitement in the streets. There was much coming and going across the bridge. Each day great Cardinals, their retinues with them, came riding into Rome on their mules. People stood about in little groups; some talked quietly, some gesticulated angrily.
All day she had waited for a visit from Uncle Roderigo, but he did not come.
When Cesare came into the nursery she ran to him and took his hands, but even Cesare had changed; he did not seem as interested in her as before. He went to the loggia and patiently she stood beside him, like a little page, humble, waiting on his pleasure as he liked her to; yet he said nothing, but stood still, watching the crowds in the streets.
“Uncle Roderigo has not come to us,” she said wistfully.
Cesare shook his head. “He will not come, little sister. Not today.”
“Is he sick?”
Cesare smiled slowly. His hands were clenched, she saw, and his face grew taut as it did so often when he was angry or determined about something.
She stood on the step which enabled her to be as high as his shoulder, and put her face close to his that she might study his expression.
“Cesare,” she said, “you are angry with Uncle Roderigo?”
Cesare caught her neck in his strong hands; it hurt a little, this trick of his, but she liked it because she knew that it meant: See how strong I am. See how I could hurt you, little Lucrezia, if I wished to; but I do not wish to, because you are my little sister and I love you because you love me … better than anyone in the world … better than our mother, better than Uncle Roderigo, better, certainly better, than Giovanni.
And when she squealed and showed by her face that he was hurting—only a little—that meant: Yes, Cesare, my brother. You I love better than any in the world. And he understood and his fingers became gentle.
“One is not angry with Uncle Roderigo,” Cesare told her. “That would be foolish, and I am no fool.”
“No, Cesare, you are no fool. But are you angry with someone?”
He shook his head. “No. I rejoice, little sister.”
“Tell me why.”
“You are but a baby. What could you know of what goes on in Rome?”
“Does Giovanni know?” Lucrezia, at four, was capable of sly diplomacy. The lovely light eyes were downcast; she did not want to see Cesare’s anger; like Roderigo she turned from what was unpleasant.
The trick was successful. “I will tell you,” said Cesare. Of course he would tell. He would not allow Giovanni to give her something which he had denied her. “The Pope, who you know is Sixtus IV, is dying. That is why they are excited down there; that is why Uncle Roderigo does not come to see us. He has much to do. When the Pope dies there will be a Conclave and then, little sister, the Cardinals will choose a new Pope.”
“Uncle Roderigo is choosing; that is why he cannot come to see us,” she said.
Cesare stood smiling at her. He felt important, all-wise; no one made him feel so wise or important as his little sister; that was why he loved her so dearly.
“I wish he could choose quickly and come to see us,” added Lucrezia. “I will ask the saints to make a new Pope quickly … so that he can come to us.”
“No, little Lucrezia. Do not ask such a thing. Ask this instead. Ask that the new Pope shall be our Uncle Roderigo.”
Cesare laughed, and she laughed with him. There was so much she did not understand; but in spite of the threatening strangeness, in spite of the gathering crowd below and the absence of Uncle Roderigo, it was good to stand on the loggia, clinging to Cesare’s doublet, watching the excitement in the square.
* * *
Roderigo was not elected.
The excitement, watched by the children, persisted throughout the city. The scene had changed. Lucrezia heard the sounds of battle in the streets below, and Vannozza, in terror, had barricades put about the house. Even Cesare did not know exactly what it was all about, although he and Giovanni, strutting around the nursery, would not admit this. Uncle Roderigo only visited the house briefly to assure himself that the children were as safe as he could make them. His visits now were merely to see the children; since the birth of little Goffredo he had ceased to regard Vannozza as his mistress, and now there was another baby, Ottaviano, whom Vannozza made no pretence of passing off as his. As for little Goffredo, Roderigo was enchanted by the child, who was turning out to be in every way as beautiful as his elder brothers and sister. Roderigo, having need of sons and being susceptible to beautiful children, was more often than not inclined to give Goffredo the benefit of the doubt, and the attention he bestowed on the others was then shared by the little boy. Poor little Ottaviano was an outsider, ignored by Roderigo, though dearly loved by Vannozza and Giorgio.
But during those weeks there was little time even to regret Roderigo’s absence; the children could only look out on the piazza with amazement at the changing scene.
Innocent VIII had become Pope and he had allowed Cardinal della Rovere, who was the nephew of the deceased Sixtus, to persuade him to make war against Naples. The powerful Orsinis who, with the Colonnas, dominated Rome, were friends and allies of the Neopolitans, and this gave them an excuse for rising against the city. They put Rome almost into a state of siege and their old enemies, the Colonnas, lost no time in going into battle against them. Therefore, the streets of Rome, during that period which followed the death of Sixtus and the election of Innocent were the scenes of many a fierce battle.
The children—Cesare, Giovanni and Lucrezia—watching behind the barricades saw strange sights in the city of Rome. They saw the fierce Orsinis coming out in force from Monte Giordano to attack the equally fierce and bloodthirsty Colonnas. They watched men cut each other to pieces in the piazza immediately before their eyes; they saw the way of lewd soldiery with the girls and women; they smelled the hideous smells of war, of burning buildings, of blood and sweat; they heard the cries of victims and the triumphant shouts of raiders.
Death was commonplace; torture equally so.
Little Lucrezia, four years old, looked on at these sights at first with wonder and then almost with indifference. Cesare and Giovanni watched with her and she took her cue from them.
Torture, rape, murder—they were all part of the world outside their nursery. At four years of age children accept without surprise that which is daily paraded before their eyes and Lucrezia was to remember this time of her life not as one of horror, but of change.
* * *
The fighting died down; life returned to normal; and two years passed before there was another and this time a more important change for Lucrezia, a change which marked the beginning of the end of childhood. She was nearly six, a precocious six. Cesare was eleven and Giovanni ten; she had been so much their companion that she had learned more than most children know at six years of age. She was as serene as ever, perhaps a little more eager now to provoke that rivalry between her brothers than she had been, understanding more than ever what power it gave her, and that while each sought to be her favorite, she could be the most powerful person in the nursery.
Certainly she was serene, for she was wise; she had come to her power through her brothers’ rivalry and all she had to do was award the prize—her affection.
She remained the darling of the nursery. The maids could be sure that there would be no tantrums from Lucrezia; she was kind to little Goffredo whom his brothers scarcely deigned to notice on account of his youth; and she was equally kind to little Ottaviano whom her brothers would not notice at all. They knew something about Ottaviano which made them despise him, but Lucrezia was sorry for him, so she was particularly kind.
Lucrezia enjoyed her life; it was amusing to
play one brother off against the other, to worm their secrets from them, to use this rivalry. She liked to walk in the gardens, her arms about Giovanni, being particularly loving when she knew Cesare could see her from the house. It made her feel warm and cozy to be loved so much by two such wonderful brothers.
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.”
Madonna of the Seven Hills Page 3