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  “I would remember him all my life, no matter what had happened.”

  “Lucrezia, he was your first lover. That man they married you to—Giovanni Sforza!” Sanchia wrinkled her nose with disgust. “You never loved him.”

  “It is true,” said Lucrezia. “I never loved him, and now … I think I hate him.”

  “He is no friend of yours. Who could expect it? He is branded as impotent. He’ll never forgive you that, Lucrezia. He’ll be your enemy for life.”

  “I lied,” said Lucrezia. “I signed the document because they insisted and I was weak. Perhaps God punishes me because of the lie I told.”

  Sanchia shook her head impatiently. “You had no alternative but to sign the document. Had not His Holiness and Cesare determined that you should sign?”

  “But I should have stood out against them. Our marriage was consummated … many times.”

  “Hush! It is something we know but never mention. And you are divorced now, sister, free of Sforza. Never say aloud those words, never admit your marriage was consummated. But Lucrezia, do stop grieving. Pedro is dead; nothing can bring him back, and that is an episode which is over. Learn to forget. He was your first love, I know, and you remember. But when you have had many lovers you will find it hard to remember what he looked like.”

  “You forget—you, Sanchia, who have had lovers since you were a child, who have known so many that you cannot remember them all—you forget that we planned to marry, that we have a child.”

  “You should not grieve for the child. He will be taken good care of.”

  “Don’t you understand, Sanchia? Somewhere a baby lives … my baby. Some strange woman feeds him and soothes him when he cries. He is my baby … my own son—and you ask me to forget him!”

  “You should not have had the child, Lucrezia.” Sanchia laughed suddenly. “I cannot help it. I think of you, standing before the dignitaries, solemnly swearing that your marriage to Sforza had not been consummated, and as a consequence you were virgo intacta, when actually you were pregnant … and in three months’ time your child would be born.”

  “Do not speak of it, Sanchia; it is more than I can bear.”

  “Dear sister, it is because you are young that you suffer so deeply. I tell you this, that when my brother comes it will be a different story. Oh, why is he not here! Shall I weary you with the stories of his many virtues, and how he and I were such good friends when we were very young? Shall I tell you how we escaped to the island of Ischia at the time of the French invasion? But I have told you of these matters before. I will tell you something else, Lucrezia. Yes, I will talk of myself, that you may forget your own sorrows. I and Goffredo are to be divorced.”

  “That cannot be so.”

  Sanchia’s blue eyes sparkled. “Oh, but it is! That is why I sent the women away. It is not yet the moment to let them into this secret.”

  “Goffredo will be heartbroken. He worships you.”

  “His future is being taken care of, and he’ll be pleased to pass me over to my new husband.”

  “And why so?”

  “Because my new husband is to be one whom he adores: Cesare.”

  “But that is not possible,” said Lucrezia quickly.

  “If the Pope and Cesare decide that they desire it, it will be done.”

  “Cesare has long wished to leave the Church, and always our father has opposed it.”

  Sanchia came a little closer to Lucrezia and spoke in a whisper: “Do you know who is the master now?”

  Lucrezia was silent. Sanchia had done what she had set out to do; she had diverted Lucrezia’s thoughts from her own unhappiness.

  “I have noticed often,” said Sanchia, “how His Holiness defers to Cesare, how he seeks always to please him. It seems that Cesare is loved even more than Giovanni Borgia was ever loved. Have you not noticed it? Cesare wants a wife, and who is more suited to be his wife than I?” Sanchia laughed slyly, her eyes looking beyond Lucrezia so that the younger girl knew that she was thinking of many passionate encounters with Cesare, the strongest and most feared personality in Rome, the most fascinating of men, the only one whom Sanchia considered worthy to be her husband.

  “Do you mean,” said Lucrezia, “that they are seriously considering this matter?”

  Sanchia nodded.

  “But my father always wished one of his sons to follow him to the Papal chair. That was what Cesare was to do.”

  “Well, there is Goffredo.”

  “The Cardinals will never agree.”

  “Do you not know your family yet, Lucrezia?”

  Lucrezia shivered. She did know them: she knew them too well, for the murderers of her lover had been her father and her brother.

  Sanchia stretched herself like a cat in the sunshine, and the gesture was erotic and expectant.

  Lucrezia, watching, felt renewed fear of the future.

  * * *

  In his apartments at the Vatican the Pope received his son Cesare, and when his attendants had bowed themselves out and father and son were alone, Alexander laid his hand on Cesare’s shoulder and, drawing him close, murmured: “My son, I think our little plan is going to work out in a manner which will be pleasing to you.”

  Cesare turned and gave his father a dazzling smile which warmed the Pope’s heart. Since the mysterious death of his son Giovanni, Alexander had redoubled his devotion toward Cesare. Giovanni had been Alexander’s favorite son, yet, although Alexander knew that Cesare was his brother’s murderer, this son of his had been given that affection which had previously been Giovanni’s, together with the honors which had substantiated it.

  There was a bond between these Borgias which seemed incomprehensible to those outside the family. No matter what its members did, whatever suffering they brought on one another, the bond was not slackened. Between them all was a feeling so strong—in most cases it was love, but in that of Giovanni and Cesare it had been hate—that all other emotion paled before this family feeling.

  Now Alexander looked at this son of his who was known as the most vicious man in Italy, and had no wish to please him. Cesare was handsome—all the Pope’s children were handsome—and his hair had the auburn coloring which was shared by Goffredo. His features were bold, his body graceful, his manners those of a king; his skin at this time was slightly marred—the aftermath of an attack of the male francese.

  Cesare wore his Cardinal’s robes with an arrogant disdain; but there was now a light in his eyes because he had great hopes of discarding those robes before long. And Alexander was happy because he was going to make Cesare’s wish come true.

  “Well, Father?” said Cesare, the faintest hint of impatience in his voice.

  “I am beginning to feel that it was a happy event when French Charles decided he would watch a game of tennis after his dinner.” The Pope smiled. “Poor Charles! I picture him with his Queen at Amboise. Who would have thought that such an innocent diversion as watching a game of tennis could have been so important to him … and to us?”

  “I know,” said Cesare, “that he went into the fosses of the castle at Amboise and passed through the opening in the gallery and that it was very low—that opening—and our little Charles struck his head against the arch.”

  “Such a little blow,” went on the Pope, “that he scarce felt it, and it was only afterward when he was returning to his apartments in the castle that he collapsed and died.”

  “And now Louis XII is on the throne, and I hear he is as determined to win back what he calls French claims in Italy as his predecessor was.”

  “We have rid ourselves of Charles. So shall we of Louis if need be,” said Alexander. “But Louis, I believe, is going to be very useful to us. I have decided that Louis shall be our friend.”

  “An alliance?”

  The Pope nodded. “Speak low, my son. This is a matter to be kept secret between us two. King Louis XII wishes to divorce his wife.”

  “That does not surprise me.”

  “Oh come
, she is a pious woman, a good creature, and the people of France revere her.”

  “Hump-backed, ugly and barren,” murmured Cesare.

  “But pious withal. She is ready to denounce her throne and retire to a convent at Bourges. That is, of course, if a divorce is granted King Louis.”

  “He’ll need a dispensation from Your Holiness if he is to gain that,” said Cesare with a grin.

  “He asks much. He would marry his predecessor’s wife.”

  Cesare nodded. “I have heard Anne of Brittany is a pretty creature, though a little lame, but they say that her wit and charm more than make up for her lameness.”

  “Her estates of Brittany are vast and rich,” added the Pope. “So … Louis hungers for them—and for her.”

  “And how does Your Holiness feel regarding the granting of his requests?”

  “That is what I wish to discuss. I shall send a message to the King of France that I am deeply considering the possibility of granting that dispensation. Then I shall tell him of my son—my beloved son—who desires to leave the Church.”

  “Father!”

  There were tears in Alexander’s eyes. It delighted him to bring such pleasure to his loved one.

  “I doubt not, my dearest son, that before long you will find yourself enabled to cast off the purple for which so many crave and from which you so long to escape.”

  “You understand my feelings, Father. It is because I know my destiny does not lie within the Church.”

  “I know, my dearest son, I know.”

  “Father, bring about my release and I’ll promise you shall not regret it. Together we will see all Italy united under the Borgia Bull. Our emblem shall shine forth from every town, every castle. Italy must unite, Father; only thus can we take our stand against our enemies.”

  “You are right, my son. But do not talk to others of these matters as you talk to me. Our first task is to free you from the Church, and I shall demand Louis’ help in exchange for his divorce. But I shall ask more than that. You shall have an estate in France and … a wife.”

  “Father, how can I show my gratitude?”

  “Let there be no such talk between us,” said the Pope. “You are my beloved son, and my greatest wish is to bring honor, glory and happiness to my children.”

  “This talk of a divorce between Sanchia and Goffredo?”

  The Pope shook his head. “On the grounds of the non-consummation of the marriage! I like it not. People will be talking of Lucrezia’s divorce from Sforza, and we shall have that scandal revived. I hope soon to have the little boy brought to me here, and I long for that day. No, as yet there shall be no divorce. And you, my son, with the titles which will come to you when you leave the Church, will not wish for marriage with your brother’s divorced wife. Why should you? Oh, Sanchia is a beautiful woman, well skilled in the arts of love; but do you need marriage to enjoy those? Not you, my son. You have been enjoying all you could get as Sanchia’s husband, these many months. Continue in your pleasure. I would not have you curb it. But marry Sanchia! A Princess, I grant you, but an illegitimate one. What say you to a legitimate Princess of Naples, Cesare?”

  Cesare was smiling.

  Holy Mother of God, said the Pope to himself, how beautiful are my children and how my heart trembles with the love I bear them.

  * * *

  Alfonso Duke of Bisceglie rode quietly into Rome. There were no crowds to line the streets and strew flowers in his path. He came unheralded. The Pope had wished that there would be no ceremonial entry. The scandal of Lucrezia’s divorce was too recent, having taken place only six months previously, and since during that time Lucrezia had borne a child—and how was it possible, however many precautions were taken, to keep these matters entirely secret?—it was better for the new bridegroom to come unheralded.

  So Alfonso apprehensively came to Santa Maria in Portico.

  Sanchia, awaiting his arrival was with Lucrezia. She guessed what his feelings would be. She knew he would come reluctantly, and she was fully aware of the tales he would have heard regarding the notorious family into which he was to marry. He did not come as a respected bridegroom, as a conquering prince, but as a symbol of the desire of Naples for friendship with the Vatican.

  “Have no fear, little brother,” murmured Sanchia. “I will take care of you.”

  She would demand of Cesare that he be her brother’s friend; she would make it a condition for Cesare was her lover. If Cesare showed friendship for young Alfonso—and Cesare could be charming when he so desired—others would follow. The Pope, whatever he was planning, would be gracious; and Lucrezia, however much she mourned Pedro Caldes, would be gentle with Alfonso.

  Sanchia was longing to show her brother the power she held at the Vatican. Her love for other men waxed strongly and waned quickly, but her love for her young brother was constant.

  Lucrezia, with Sanchia and their women, went down to greet her betrothed; and as soon as she saw him her interest was stirred, and it was as though the idealized shadow of Pedro Caldes receded a little. Alfonso was such a handsome boy. He was very like Sanchia, having the same vivid coloring, but he appeared to lack Sanchia’s wantonness, and there was about him an earnest desire to please which Sanchia lacked and which was endearing.

  Lucrezia was moved by the way he clung to his sister and the display of emotion between them.

  Then he was standing before his bride, those beautiful blacklashed blue eyes wide with a surprise which he found it impossible to suppress.

  “I am Lucrezia Borgia,” said Lucrezia.

  It was easy to read his thoughts, for there was a simplicity about him which reminded her that she was his senior, if only by a little. He had heard evil tales of her and he had expected … What had he expected? A brazen, depraved creature to strike terror into him? Instead he found a gentle girl, a little older than himself but seeming as young, tender, serene, gentle and very beautiful.

  He kissed her hands, and his lips were warm and clinging; his blue eyes were filled with emotion as they were lifted to her face.

  “My delight is beyond expression,” he murmured.

  They were not idle words; and in that moment, a little of the dark sorrow which had overshadowed her during the last months was lifted.

  * * *

  Sanchia was reclining on a couch, surrounded by her ladies, when Cesare was announced.

  She had been telling them that before long they would have to say good-bye to little Goffredo, because he would no longer be her husband. The method employed in the Sforza divorce had been so successful that His Holiness was tempted to repeat it.

  “But I,” she was saying, “shall not be six months pregnant when I stand before the Cardinals and declare my marriage has not been consummated.”

  Loysella, Francesca, and Bernardina laughed with delight. Their mistress’s adventures were a source of great pleasure to them and were emulated by them to the best of their ability.

  She had made them swear to secrecy, and this they had done.

  “Your future husband is at the door,” whispered Loysella.

  Sanchia tapped her cheek playfully. “Then you had better leave me. I asked him to come. I demanded that he should.”

  “You must get him accustomed to obedience,” laughed Bernardina.

  But Cesare was already in the room and even their frivolity was stemmed. He looked at them imperiously, not assessing their obvious charms as he sometimes did, but impatiently as though they were inanimate objects which offended his eyes. They might joke about him when he was not present, but as soon as he made his appearance they were conscious of that power within him to strike terror.

  They curtsied hurriedly and went out of the room, leaving him alone with their mistress.

  Sanchia lifted a hand. “Come, Cesare,” she said, “sit beside my couch.”

  “You wished to see me?” he asked, sitting down.

  “I did. I am not very pleased with you, Cesare.”

  He raised his ey
ebrows haughtily, and her blue eyes shone with sudden anger as she went on: “My brother is in Rome. He has been here a whole day and night, yet you have ignored him. Is this the courtesy you have to show to a Prince of Naples?”

  “Oh … but a bastard,” murmured Cesare.

  “And you … my fine lord … what are you, pray?”

  “Soon to be the ruler of Italy.”

  Her eyes flashed. It would be so. She was sure of it, and she was proud of him. If any could unite Italy and rule it, that man was Cesare Borgia. She would be beside him when he reigned supreme. Cesare Borgia would need a queen, and she was to be that queen. She was exultant and intensely happy, for there was one man to whom she longed to be married, and that was this man, Cesare Borgia. And it would be so. As soon as she was divorced their marriage would take place, and the whole of Italy would soon have to recognize her as its Queen.

  He was looking at her now, and she held out her arms. He embraced her, but even as she put her arms about his neck she sensed his absentmindedness.

  She withdrew herself and said: “But I demand that you pay my brother the respect due to him.”

  “That have I done. He merits little.”

  She brought up her hand and slapped his face. He took her by the wrist and a smile of pleasure crossed his face as he twisted her arm until she squealed with the pain.

  “Stop,” she cried. “Cesare, I implore you. You will break my bones.”

  “ ’Twill teach you not to behave like a beggar on the Corso.”

  Freed, she looked angrily at the marks on her wrist.

  “I ask you,” she said sullenly, “to call on my brother, to welcome him to Rome.”

  Cesare shrugged aside her request.

  “If,” she went on, “he is to be your brother in very truth …”

  “I never looked on Lucrezia’s first husband as my brother. Nor shall I on her second.”

  “Jealous!” snapped Sanchia. “Insanely jealous of your sister’s lovers. It is small wonder that there is scandal concerning your family throughout Italy.”