Madonna of the Seven Hills

by Виктория Холт

  For all his demonstrations of affection the Pope had not assigned to her that position at the Papal Court for which she longed. She was merely the wife of Goffredo, himself suspected of having a father other than Alexander; it would have been different had she been the wife of Cesare.

  But her sensuous nature made it possible for her to forget all else in the pursuit of sexual satisfaction. That satisfaction dominated her life. It was not so with Cesare. He craved carnal pleasures but he had other desires as insistent. His love of power was greater than his desire for women.

  She, who had known so many men that she read them easily, was aware of this, and she determined now to make Cesare forget his ambitions in his pursuit of her. They were both experienced, and they would find great pleasure in surprising each other by their accomplishments. Each was aware of this as they danced; and each was asking: Why delay longer? Delay was something which neither of them would tolerate.

  “You are all that I heard you were,” Sanchia told him.

  “You are all that I hoped you would be,” he answered her.

  “I wondered when you and I would be able to talk together. This is the first time it has happened, and all eyes are on us now.”

  “They were right,” said Cesare, “when they said you were the most beautiful woman in the world.”

  “They were right when they said there was something terrifying about you.”

  “Do you find me terrifying?”

  She laughed. “No man terrifies me.”

  “Have they always been so kind?”

  “Always,” she said. “From the time I was able to talk, men have been kind to me.”

  “Are you not weary of my sex, since you know it so well?”

  “Each man is different from all others. That is what I have found. Perhaps that is why I have always discovered them to be so fascinating. And none that I have ever known has been remotely like you, Cesare Borgia; you stand apart.”

  “And you like this strangeness in me?”

  “So much that I would know it so well that it ceases to be strangeness and is familiar to me.”

  “What tales have you heard of me?”

  “That you are a man who will never take no for an answer, that men fear your frown, and that when you beckon a woman she must obey, in fear if not in desire. I have heard that those who displease you meet ill fortune, that some have been discovered in alleys, suffocated or with knives in their bodies. I have heard that some have drunk wine at your table and have felt themselves to be merely intoxicated, only to learn that they are dying. These are the things which I have heard of you, Cesare Borgia. What have you heard of me?”

  “That you practice witchcraft so that all men whom you desire fall under your spell, and that having once been your lover none can ever forget you.”

  “And do you believe these tales of me?”

  “And do you believe the tales of me?”

  She looked into his eyes and the flame of desire in hers was matched by that in his.

  “I do not know,” she said, “but I am determined to discover.”

  “Nor do I know,” he answered; “and I think I am as eager to make my discoveries as you are.”

  His hand tightened on hers.

  “Sanchia,” he said, “this night?”

  And she closed her eyes and nodded.

  * * *

  They were watched.

  The Pope smiled affectionately. It was inevitable. How could it have been otherwise? Cesare and Sanchia! They were well matched, and from the moment Cesare had heard of her he had determined it should be so.

  Now we shall have the tiresome scandalmongers whispering, mused Alexander, now we shall have the Cardinals raising shocked hands and voices; and Savonarola will be thundering from his pulpit of the vice which goes on at the Papal Court.

  The Pope sighed, faintly envious of his son, laughing slyly to himself; he would prevail upon Cesare to give him a full account of the affair.

  Goffredo watched delightedly. How handsome they looked dancing together. My wife and my brother. They are the two most distinguished people in the ballroom. All watch them. And they find each other delightful.

  Cesare, great Cesare, will be grateful to me because I have brought him Sanchia. And Sanchia, she is clearly delighted to meet Cesare. All her lovers must seem so unworthy when she compares them with him!

  Lucrezia watched.

  So, she thought, Goffredo’s wife has now determined to take Cesare as her lover. She knows how to lure him, how to please him.

  Lucrezia wanted to bury her face in her hands and sob; and fervently she wished that Sanchia had never come to Rome.

  * * *

  They lay together on Sanchia’s bed.

  Sanchia was smiling, glancing sideways at her lover. It is true, she thought exultantly, he is as no other man. He has the virility of two men; he is skilled and yet eager to discover; he is ardent and yet aloof, passionate and yet cold. In all her experience she had never known a lover such as Cesare Borgia.

  She turned to him and said languidly: “They should have married me to you … not to Goffredo.”

  She saw the change creep into his face; the slack sensuality disappeared and in its place was sudden anger so intense that it shocked her even in her present mood of indolence.

  He clenched his fists and she realized that he was fighting with himself to hold back his anger.

  “My father,” he said, “saw fit to send me to the Church.”

  “It is incomprehensible,” she answered soothingly, and she laid her hand on his arm to draw him to her, once more to court desire.

  But he was not to be seduced from his anger.

  “I have two brothers,” he said, “and yet I was the chosen one.”

  “You will be Pope,” she told him; “and that need not prevent your enjoying adventures such as this, Cesare.”

  “I wish to command the armies,” he said. “I wish to have sons … legitimate sons. I wish to cast aside my Cardinal’s robe. I loathe the thing and all connected with it.”

  She sat up in bed, her long hair falling about her nakedness. Her blue eyes shone. She wanted now to turn him from his anger, to bring him back to making love. It was a challenge. Is his anger more important to him than I am? What sort of man is this to talk of his ambitions while he lies in bed with me?

  She took his hands and smiled at him.

  “I doubt not all that you desire will be yours, Cesare Borgia.”

  “Are you a witch?” he asked.

  She nodded slowly and laughed showing her red tongue.

  “I am a witch, Cesare Borgia, and I promise you this … a soldier’s uniform, a wife and legitimate offspring.”

  He was looking at her intently; at least she had focused his attention on herself, even if it was the possible power of prophecy, rather than her body, which attracted him.

  Her eyes were wide. “One of the family must go into the Church,” she went on. “It should have been little Goffredo. Why should it not be Goffredo?”

  He knelt on the bed beside her; he took her by the shoulders and looked into her wild blue eyes.

  “Yes,” she said. “Here is the answer. There should be a divorce. Little Goffredo should wear the Cardinal’s robes and Sanchia and Cesare should be man and wife.”

  “By the saints!” cried Cesare, “it is a good plan.”

  Then he seized her and kissed her wildly.

  She laughed. “I trust my lord likes me no less because I might one day be his bride. They say the gentlemen of Rome find the mistresses they discover for themselves more to their liking than the wives who are found for them.”

  “Have done,” he said fiercely.

  “First,” she cried, “you must declare that you wish to be my husband.…”

  She fell back laughing, and they struggled for a while.

  “Cesare,” she murmured blissfully, “you have the strength of ten men.”

  * * *

  Lucrezia begged audie
nce of her father.

  Alexander studied his daughter anxiously. She looked pale and unhappy.

  “What is it, my dearest?” he asked.

  She lowered her eyes. She hated lying to him, yet she could not bring herself to tell him the truth.

  “I feel unwell, dearest Father,” she said. “There is plague in the air of Rome, and I think it affects me. I have suffered from a slight fever these last days and nights.”

  His cool jeweled hands were on her forehead.

  “My blessed one,” he murmured.

  “I crave your pardon,” said Lucrezia, “because I am going to ask something which I know you will not be anxious to grant me. I feel I need a change of air, and I would go for a short while to Pesaro.”

  There was silence.

  Her husband would be there, thought the Pope; and he was becoming increasingly dissatisfied with his daughter’s marriage. But Lucrezia looked wan, and he longed to make her happy.

  She let her eyes linger on the red velvet cushion on which she knelt.

  She felt that she was a strangely bewildered girl, who did not understand herself. She hated Sanchia—Sanchia with her bright blue eyes, wild laughter and deep, deep knowledge.

  Sanchia treated Lucrezia as a child, and Lucrezia knew that in worldly matters she would remain a child while her emotions were such as she did not understand. She only knew that she could not bear to see Sanchia and Cesare together; that she hated the complaisance of Goffredo, the giggling of those three women who served Sanchia.

  Often she had thought of Pesaro during the last weeks, when she had gone to Sanchia’s apartments because she knew that Cesare would be there and that if she did not go she would miss seeing him that day.

  Pesaro, that quiet little town with the hills which formed a semi-circle about it and the blue sea washing its shores, Pesaro, where she could live with her husband and behave as a normal wife. In Pesaro she had felt herself to be as other women, and that was how she wanted to be.

  Her father’s fingers were caressing her hair; she heard his voice, very gentle and tender, as though he understood: “My dearest, if it is your wish that you should go to Pesaro, then to Pesaro shall you go.”

  * * *

  Alexander met his son in the Papal apartments.

  “I have news for you, Cesare,” he said.

  Alexander was uneasy, but the news had to be broken soon, and Cesare was deep in a love affair with Sanchia which was proving to be an absorbing one. Alexander had no doubt of that. Therefore with Cesare satisfied, this was a good moment to tell him that which he had long wished to tell and which could not much longer be kept a secret from him.

  Cesare answered: “Yes, Most Holy Father?”

  “Giovanni is coming home.”

  Alexander quickly slipped his arm through that of his son; he did not want to see the blood rush into Cesare’s cheeks; he did not want to see the angry red in his eyes.

  “Yes, yes,” said Alexander, walking toward the window and gently pulling Cesare with him. “I am growing old and I shall be a happy man to have all my family about me once more.”

  Cesare was silent.

  No need yet, thought Alexander, to tell Cesare that Giovanni was being brought home to conduct a campaign against the Orsini who must be punished for going over to the French without a fight during the invasion. No need to say, When Giovanni comes I shall make him commander of the Papal forces. Cesare would have to know … but later.

  “When he returns,” said Alexander lightly, “we must recall little Lucrezia. I long for the day when I have every member of my beloved family sitting at my table, that I may feast my eyes upon them.”

  Still Cesare did not answer. His fingers twitched as he pulled at his Cardinal’s robes. He did not see the piazza beyond the window; he was unaware of Alexander, standing beside him.

  All he could think of was that Giovanni, the envied, the hated one, was coming home.

  ROMAN CARNIVAL

  T he two brothers met at the Porta Portuense. Cesare, as tradition and his father insisted, set out at the head of that procession which was made up of the Cardinals and their splendid households, to greet the brother whom he hated more than anyone in the world.

  They faced each other. Giovanni had changed a little since he had gone to Spain. He was more arrogant, more magnificent and the lines of cruelty about his mouth had deepened. Dissipation had marked his features, but he was very handsome still. His dress was more grand than anything Cesare had ever seen him wear before. His red velvet cape was decorated with pearls, and his waistcoat of the same material in a light shade of brown was ablaze with pearls and glistening jewels of all colors. Even his horse was made brilliant by golden ornaments and silver bells. Giovanni was a dazzling sight as he entered the city of Rome, and the citizens were astonished to behold him.

  As they rode side by side to the Apostolic Palace, which was to be the Duke’s home, Giovanni could not help taking sly glances at his brother, letting him know that he was fully aware of the enmity which existed between them and that, now he was a great Duke with a son and another child shortly expected, now that he came home at their father’s request to command their father’s forces, he realized that Cesare’s envy was not likely to have abated in the smallest degree.

  * * *

  The Pope could not contain his joy at the sight of his best-loved son.

  He embraced him and wept, while Cesare watched, standing apart, clenching his hands and grinding his teeth, saying to himself, Why should it be so? What has he that I lack?

  Alexander looking toward Cesare guessed his feelings and, as he knew that Cesare must certainly feel still more angry when he understood in full the glory which was to be Giovanni’s, he stretched out his hand to Cesare and said tenderly: “My two sons! It is rarely nowadays that I know the pleasure of having you both with me at the same time.”

  When Cesare ignored the hand, and strolled to the window, Alexander was uneasy. It was the first time Cesare had openly rebuffed him, and that it should have happened in the presence of a third party was doubly disturbing. He decided that the best thing he could do was to ignore the gesture.

  Cesare said without turning his head: “There are crowds below. They wait, hoping to catch further glimpses of the splendid Duke of Gandia.”

  Giovanni strode to the window; he turned to Cesare, smiling that insolent smile. “They shall not be disappointed,” he said, looking down at his bejeweled garments and back at Cesare. “A pity,” he went on, “that the comparatively somber garments of the Church are all you have to show them, brother.”

  “Then you understand,” Cesare answered lightly, “that it is not the Duke whom they applaud, but the Duke’s jeweled doublet.”

  Alexander had insinuated himself between them, putting an arm about each.

  “You will be interested to meet Goffredo’s wife, my dear Giovanni,” he said.

  Giovanni laughed. “I have heard of her. Her fame has traveled even to Spain. Some of my more prudish relatives speak her name in whispers.”

  The Pope burst into laughter. “We are more tolerant in Rome, eh, Cesare?”

  Giovanni looked at his brother. “I have heard,” he said, “that Sanchia of Aragon is a generous woman. So generous indeed that all she has to bestow cannot be given to one husband.”

  “Our Cesare here, he is a fascinating fellow,” said Alexander placatingly.

  “I doubt it not,” laughed Giovanni.

  Determination was in his eyes. Cesare was looking at him challengingly, and whenever a challenge had been issued by one brother to the other it had always been taken up.

  * * *

  Giovanni Sforza rode toward Pesaro.

  How thankful he was to be home. How tired he was of the conflicts raging about him. In Naples he was treated as an alien, which he was; he was suspected of spying for the Milanese, which he had. The last year had brought nothing to enhance his opinion of himself. He was more afraid, and of more people, than he had ev
er been in his life.

  Only behind the hills of Pesaro could he be at peace. He indulged in a pleasant daydream as he rode homeward. It was that he might ride to Rome, take his wife and bring her back with him to Pesaro—defying the Pope and her brother Cesare. He heard himself saying: “She is my wife. Try to take her from me if you dare!”

  But they were dreams. As if it were possible to say such things to the Pope and Cesare Borgia! The tolerance which the Pope would display toward one who he would believe had lost his senses, the sneers of Cesare toward one whom he knew to be a coward parading as a brave man—they were more than Giovanni Sforza could endure.

  So he could only dream.

  He rode slowly along by the Foglia River, in no hurry now that Pesaro was in sight. When he reached home he would find it dreary; life would not be the same as it had been during those months when he had lived there with Lucrezia.

  Lucrezia! At first during those months before the marriage had been consummated, she had seemed but a shy bewildered child. But how different he had discovered her to be! He wanted to take her away, make her his completely and gradually purge her of all that she had inherited from her strange family.

  He could see the castle—strong, seeming impregnable.

  There, he thought, I could live with Lucrezia, happy, secure, all the days of our lives. We should have children and find peace in our stronghold between the mountains and the sea.

  His retainers were running out to greet him.

  “Our Lord has come home.” He felt grand and important, he the Lord of Pesaro, as he rode forward. Pesaro might have been a great dominion; these few people might have been a multitude.

  He accepted the homage, dismounted and entered the palace.

  It was a dazzling manifestation of his dream, for she stood there, the sun shining on her golden hair which fell loose about her shoulders, and lighting the few discreet jewels she wore—as became the lady of a minor castle.

  “Lucrezia!” he cried.