Madonna of the Seven Hills

by Виктория Холт

  Alexander bade him rise; his manner was paternal and benign.

  “So, my son,” he said, “we meet.”

  And from that moment he was in command; Charles could not think of himself as the conqueror in this presence; he could only speak with the utmost respect to the Holy Father who spoke to his son, as though bidding him take courage in spite of the predicament in which he found himself.

  It was quite ridiculous, but nevertheless Charles stammered that he wished free passage through the Papal States, and that he had come to demand it.

  The Pope’s eyebrows shot up at the word demand, but even as Charles was speaking he heard sounds of looting in the streets below and was brought back to reality, remembering that he was a conqueror and that the Pope was in his power.

  “So you would ask for free passage,” mused the Pope. He looked beyond the French King, and he was smiling serenely as though he were looking into the future.

  “Yes, Holiness.”

  “Well, my son, we will grant you that, if you and your soldiers will leave Rome immediately.”

  The King looked at one of his men who had stepped forward—a bold soldier who would not be impressed by his surroundings or the majestic personality of Alexander.

  “The hostages, Sire,” he said.

  “Ah yes, Most Holy Father,” said the King, “we should need hostages if we left you free in Rome.”

  “Hostages. It seems a just demand.”

  “Right glad I am that Your Holiness agrees on this. We have decided on Cesare Borgia and the Turkish Prince Djem.”

  The Pope was silent for a while. Prince Djem, yes. They were welcome to him. But Cesare!

  Outside he heard the piteous wails of women; he could smell smoke. Rome was being ravished. She was in flames and crying out to her Holy Father in her agony. He must save Rome through Cesare and Djem.

  * * *

  Looking out over the beautiful Adriatic Sea, Lucrezia felt her uneasiness growing. She knew that Giovanni was in a desperate situation; he was in the pay of the Pope and the Neapolitans, and was working for Milan. How could she blame him? Nothing would have induced her to work against her own family, so how could she blame Giovanni for what he was doing? Lucrezia characteristically tried not to think of her husband; he was an unpleasant subject.

  But to brood on the affairs of her family seemed even more so. What was happening to the Borgias? When travelers arrived at the Sforza palace Lucrezia had them brought immediately to her; she would give them food and shelter and implore them to tell her what was happening to her father.

  She tried to visualize the situation. The French in Rome; her mother’s house pillaged; her father forced to receive the little King of France and listen to his terms. And Cesare—proud Cesare—to be forced to ride out of Rome, a hostage of the conquerors. That was the worst thing that could have happened. She pictured his rage, and as she sat brooding, trying to turn her mind from unpleasantness, working a little with her needle, idly playing her lute, she was aware of disturbance below and, putting aside her work, she hurried down in case it should be messengers with news.

  The arrival turned out to be that of a friar, humble and hungry, who was calling on the Lady of Pesaro to tell her the news—great news from Rome.

  Lucrezia found it difficult to show him how delighted she was. She clapped her hands for slaves to bring him water with which to wash his tired feet; they brought wine and food for him; but before he was refreshed Lucrezia insisted on his telling her whether the news was good or bad.

  “Good, lady,” he cried. “The best of good news. As you know, the French conqueror had audience with the Holy Father in the Vatican, and there it was necessary for his Holiness to come to terms.”

  Lucrezia nodded. “And I know the terms included the giving of hostages, and that one of these was my brother Cesare.”

  “ ’Tis so, Madonna. They rode out of Rome with the conquerors. The Cardinal Borgia and the Turkish Prince.”

  “How was my brother? Tell me that. Angry I know he must have been since his pride was brought so low.”

  “No, Madonna. The Cardinal was serene. All those who watched him marvelled—not only at his calmness but also at that of the Holy Father who could watch his son depart with what seemed like indifference. We did not understand then. The Cardinal took with him much baggage. There were seventeen wagons all covered with velvet, and this caused much amusement among the French. ‘What sort of a Cardinal is this,’ they asked each other, ‘to be so concerned with his possessions!’ And, as you will guess, Madonna, the Turkish Prince traveled with equal splendor.”

  “So he rode out to the jeers of our enemies,” said Lucrezia, “yet he rode with serenity and dignity. Oh, but how angry he must have been.”

  “He surprised them when the soldiers encamped at the end of the first day. I have heard that it was a sight to behold when he threw off his Cardinal’s robes and, stripped to the waist, wrestled with them and threw their champions.”

  Lucrezia clasped her hands and laughed. “That would have delighted him. I know it.”

  “They were astonished that a Cardinal should behave thus, Madonna. But the next night he had a greater surprise for them.”

  “Tell me quickly, I beg of you. I cannot endure the suspense of waiting.”

  “The second night they halted at Velletri, on the edge of the Pontine Marshes. All was quiet and none noticed when one of the muleteers rose and moved silently among the foreign soldiers. That muleteer made his way to a tavern in the town and there he found a servant waiting with horses. The muleteer mounted a horse, and he and the servant rode hotfoot to Rome.”

  “It was Cesare, my brother!”

  “It was the Cardinal himself, Madonna. He has rejoined the Holy Father in Rome, and I heard that there is much laughter and merrymaking in the Vatican on this account.”

  Lucrezia laughed with pleasure.

  “It is the best news I have heard for a long time. How he would have enjoyed that! And poor fat Djem, he did not escape?”

  “Nay, the Prince remains with his captors. It is said that he lacked the stamina of His Eminence. He could not wrestle with the French; nor could he have managed to escape. He stays behind. But they have only one hostage where they wished for two; and the more important of the two—the Pope’s own son—has escaped them.”

  Lucrezia rose to her feet and there before the friar danced a few steps of a Spanish dance.

  The friar watched in astonishment, but Lucrezia only threw back her head and laughed as she whirled round and round until she was breathless.

  Then she paused and explained: “I am carried away with joy. This is an omen. My brother has made a laughing stock of the French. It is a beginning. My father will rid Italy of the conquerors, and all men throughout the land will be grateful to him. This is the beginning, I tell you. Come! Now you shall eat your fill of the best we have in this palace. You shall drink the best wine. You must be merry. This night there shall be a banquet in the palace and you shall be our guest of honor.”

  “Madonna, you rejoice too soon,” murmured the friar. “This is but the escape of a hostage. So much of Italy lies in the hands of the conqueror.”

  “My father will save all Italy,” said Lucrezia solemnly.

  But she was solemn only for a moment. Now she was calling to her slaves and attendants. She wanted them to prepare a banquet; there would be dancing and revelry in the palace this day.

  Cesare had triumphed, and Cesare’s triumphs were as important to her as her own.

  * * *

  Lucrezia was right. That was the beginning of brighter prospects. The French were furious at the hoax played on them by Cesare, but there was nothing they could do about it. A protest to Alexander made him shake his head sorrowfully. “The Cardinal has behaved badly, very badly,” he murmured; and had to retire hastily to give vent to the laughter which shook him.

  Fat little Djem could not stand up to the rigors of life with an army; he was stricken wit
h fever and died. Thus in a short while the French were robbed of both their hostages.

  However, they went marching on to Naples, where Alfonso, the King, hearing of their approach, hurried to Sicily leaving his kingdom in the hands of his son Ferrandino. But Ferrandino proved to be no soldier, and when he saw the French armies approaching, followed his father’s example—choosing the island of Ischia for his refuge, whither he went with his court—leaving Naples open to the invaders.

  This seemed good luck for Charles, but the French King had reckoned without the climate and the indolence of his soldiers. Italy lay behind them, a conquered country, and they were encamped in sunny Naples. The women were luscious, the brothels were numerous, and the soldiers determined to enjoy a rest from the march.

  Meanwhile Alexander had not been idle. Messengers had been riding hard back and forth between the Vatican and Venice, to Milan, to the King of Spain and to the Emperor Maximilian.

  Alexander pointed out that unless they quickly became his allies, Italy would fall completely under the dominion of the French, and that this would be to the advantage of none of them.

  When the French King heard of the alliances which were being formed he became alarmed. His soldiers were in a debilitated condition; moreover they were becoming insubordinate, and many of them were sick. Charles was about to receive the crown of Naples, when it occurred to him that this crown would be of little use to him if he was to wear it but for a week or so before his enemies overcame him.

  There was only one way out of his difficulty. He must leave Italy with all speed. But on his way he would see the Pope, whom he rightly suspected of organizing his, Charles’s, enemies against him, and he would demand from him the investiture of Naples.

  Charles left Naples and started the march northward, but Alexander, hearing of his approach, immediately left Rome for Perugia, so that when Charles reached Rome he found the Vatican deserted.

  Fuming with anger, he could do nothing but continue his march.

  He was bewildered. He had conquered the land with his victorious armies, and the rulers of states had fallen before him; then he had come to Rome, believing that the Borgia Pope was as much his vassal as those heads of states who had stood aside for him. It had seemed so. And yet … it was not so.

  Charles went marching on, cursing the wily fox of the Vatican.

  * * *

  Alexander found life amusing at Perugia. Once again he had proved his strategy to be sound. It was as it had been at the time of the death of Calixtus. He had waited then, as now, serene, accommodating; and now, as then, his enemies had played into his hands.

  With him were Giulia and Cesare; but there was one whom he sadly missed; his dearest daughter.

  “Lucrezia must come to us here,” he told Cesare. “She has been parted from us too long.”

  Cesare smiled at the prospect of seeing his sister again. He was feeling happier. His father had been highly amused by his adventure. Was he beginning to see what an asset Cesare would be as a commander of the armies? It was not like a Cardinal to wrestle, as he had, with soldiers, and to accomplish such a spectacular escape.

  Cesare was twenty; he was growing in stature; and the Pope, for all his miraculous virility, was sixty-four years of age.

  Cesare began to think of the day when his father would turn to him for advice, and when he, Cesare, would make the decisions.

  Now they were in perfect accord, for they had both determined that Lucrezia should come to them at Perugia.

  * * *

  Giovanni Sforza, who was back in Pesaro, was not pleased by the message from the Pope.

  He stormed into Lucrezia’s apartment where she was giving orders as to the packing of her baggage.

  “You shall not go,” he said.

  “Not go?” The light eyes were wide with incredulity. “But these are orders from my father.”

  “I am your husband. It is I who shall say where you may go.”

  “Giovanni, you cannot refuse to allow me to go.”

  “I can and I will.”

  He was bold; that was because he was thinking of the miles between Perugia and Pesaro. Poor Giovanni! thought Lucrezia. He is not a bold man.

  But almost immediately she was alarmed, for she too remembered the distance between Pesaro and Perugia.

  Giovanni was a weak man and as such he was always eager to show his strength when he thought he had a chance of doing so. Now he turned to her servants. “Take out the Countess’s gowns,” he said. “Put them back where they belong.”

  Then he turned and left her.

  Lucrezia did not storm or rage. She was like her father and was aware of the efficacy of diplomacy. She was convinced that after a short delay, she would be on her way to Perugia. So she smiled regretfully and sat down to pen a letter to her father.

  Giovanni had his price. He was learning the necessity of bargaining. He was kept poor and of no importance, but the Borgias must remember that although his wife was the Pope’s daughter, as her husband he, Giovanni, had some control over her. Since she was so precious to them, they must show some respect to her husband.

  He wanted to be freed from the invidious position into which they had thrust him. He wanted a new command; and since the Pope had made an alliance with Venice, why should he not be enrolled as a Captain in the Venetian army? The Pope could easily arrange this for his son-in-law; let him do it and, for such services, Giovanni Sforza would place no restrictions on his wife’s movements.

  When the Pope heard of Sforza’s aspirations, he laughed aloud.

  “Why,” he said to Cesare, “there is some spirit in the poor thing after all. I will see what can be arranged with the Doge.”

  Cesare was scornful of his brother-in-law. He would have hated him, whoever he was, simply because he was Lucrezia’s husband, but it seemed humiliating to him that his sister should have had to accept such a man.

  “ ’Tis a pity,” he said to his father, “that we cannot find some means of ridding Lucrezia of Sforza.”

  The Pope’s gaze shifted a little. “Mayhap …” he murmured. “Sometime.… At the moment we will pass him to the Doge.”

  * * *

  Giovanni stormed up and down his wife’s apartments.

  “So,” he cried, “I am to have a condotta in the Venetian army!”

  “And you are glad, are you not?” asked Lucrezia lightly. “Was not that what you wanted?”

  “I should have equal treatment with your brother,” shouted Giovanni.

  “Is that not what you have? Giovanni Sforza and Giovanni Borgia both have commands in the Doge’s army. Is that not so?”

  “Yes, it is so. We both have commands. But there is a difference. Your father has seen to that. I am to get four thousand ducats … your brother thirty-one thousand!”

  “But Giovanni,” soothed Lucrezia, “if you had not heard what my brother was to have, you would have been happy with your four thousand.”

  “But I have heard!” Giovanni’s veins stood out at the temples. “I am treated thus to show that I am of no importance beside your brother. Your father deliberately insults me. I shall not let you go.”

  Lucrezia was silent for a few seconds; then she said demurely: “If you do not, then even the four thousand ducats will not be yours.”

  Giovanni clenched his fists and stamped his foot. He looked as though he would burst into tears.

  Lucrezia watched him dispassionately. She thought: Soon we shall set out for Perugia and when he has taken me there he will leave us.

  She gave herself up to the pleasure of contemplating reunion with her father and Cesare.

  CESARE

  L ucrezia was embraced by her father and Cesare, and how warm, how passionate were those embraces!

  “I cannot understand how we managed to live without you,” declared the Pope.

  “We have missed you more than we can tell,” Cesare murmured.

  She turned from one to the other, taking their hands and kissing them. “Oh m
y father, oh my brother!” she cried. “Why is it that all other men seem small and insignificant beside you?”

  They made her turn about as they studied each detail of her appearance. She had changed, declared Cesare; and temporarily his brow darkened; he was remembering that her marriage had now been consummated.

  “Our little one grows up,” murmured the Pope. “I reproach myself. It would have been possible to have kept you with me, my dearest, through all the troubles.”

  “There were many uneasy moments,” mused Cesare, “I think we should have suffered agonies of anxiety, Holiness, if our beloved one had been exposed to danger.”

  “You are right, my son. And why should we grieve over what is past. Let there be a banquet to welcome my dearest child, and let me see you two dance and sing together.”

  Cesare had taken her hand. “And what say you sister?”

  “I long to dance with you. I long to show everyone how happy I am that we are re-united.”

  Cesare had taken her face in his hands and was studying it intently. “How have you changed, sister?”

  “I am a little older, nothing more.”

  “More learned in the ways of the world,” said the Pope fondly and almost archly.

  Cesare kissed her. “I trust, dearest sister, your ordeal has not been too tedious?”

  She knew what he meant, and she laughed. “No, it was well enough.”

  The Pope, watching them, laid his hand on Cesare’s shoulder. “Let her go now. Let her women dress her for our banquet. Then I shall see you two dancing together and I shall feel so happy because I have two of my dear ones under the same roof as myself.”