He set about amusing himself but so promiscuously did he do this that it was not long before he was again smitten with that disease which he had contracted in his early youth, from which he suffered periodic attacks and which was known throughout Italy as the male francese.

This sickness, exhausting him physically as it did, never failed to have its effect on his mind. His wildness increased with it; his anger was even more easily aroused; suffering pain as he did, he seemed to be filled with a demoniacal desire to inflict it on others.

There was a shiver through the whole of Rome when Cesare returned to recuperate and join in the celebrations of his sister’s coming marriage.


* * *

Alfonso d’Este, working in his foundry by day and amusing himself with his countless mistresses by night, was the least disturbed member at his father’s court.

“All this fuss about a marriage!” he guffawed. “Let us get the matter done with.”

His brothers, Ippolito, Ferrante and Sigismondo who would travel to Rome to escort Lucrezia back to Ferrara, argued with him. He scarcely listened. There were continual arguments in the family, which was perhaps not so surprising when there were so many brothers, all of different opinions.

Ippolito, the fastidous Cardinal who longed to wear jewels and tasteful garments and had even designed a Cardinal’s robe of his own, declared that he was all eagerness to see the bride. He had heard such stories about her. She was reputed to be beautiful with wonderful yellow hair which was probably dyed or brightened in some way. He felt that a woman with such a history would be interesting.

Ferrante declared that he was longing to see her. An incestuous murderess would make life exciting in Ferrara!

Sigismondo crossed himself hastily and said that they should go down on their knees and pray that no harm should grow out of the marriage.

Alfonso laughed at them. “Have done,” he said. “This is a woman like ten thousand others.”

“There you are wrong, brother,” said Ferrante. “She is a seductress, and it is said that her brother, Cesare Borgia, murdered his brother and her husband out of desire for her.”

Alfonso spat over his shoulder. “I could find a dozen like her any night in any brothel in Ferrara.” He yawned. He was going back to his foundry.

Ercole called Ippolito to him. It was no use talking to Alfonso. Now more than ever he found it difficult to believe Alfonso was his son. It was distressing to witness his low tastes, his animal sexuality. Ercole had prided himself that the Este court was the center of culture. How could it continue so when he was dead and Alfonso ruled in his place? He himself had lived as chastely as a man of his time could have been expected to live. His wife, Eleanora of Aragon, had been virtuous; she had borne him six children, and four of these had been sons. His daughters had been a credit to him—his dear Isabella, who now ruled in Mantua, and Beatrice who had been the wife of Ludovico of Milan but was unfortunately now dead. He himself had only two mistresses (having fewer he would have been suspected of impotence) and one of these had borne him a daughter named Lucrezia, and the other—beautiful Isabella Arduino—had presented him with his beloved son Giulio who was admired throughout the court for those wonderful flashing dark eyes of his, so like his mother’s that he was a continual reminder of past passion.

Ercole was a cultured gentleman; Alfonso, apart from his one talent for playing the viol, was a boor.

So it was to Ippolito that he must talk of this marriage, and as he talked, regretted, as he had so many times before, that Ippolito was not his eldest son.

“I do not despair altogether,” he said, “of foiling the Pope’s plans.”

Ippolito was surprised. “At this late stage, Father?”

“Until the woman is actually here, there is hope. The Pope is urging that you set out for Rome at once. Thus you will reach the city before the winter.” Ercole laughed. “I am delaying. I am telling him that the dowry must be paid in large ducats and not chamber ones, and he is protesting.”

“You think that will hold up matters?”

Ercole chuckled. “I do indeed. Then the winter will be upon us, and who knows what will have happened by the spring?”

“Father, what arrangements are you making for the traveling of Sister Lucia’s nuns?”

Ercole’s face lengthened. Ippolito had introduced a subject which involved the spending of money, and such subjects always upset Ercole.

“It will be an expensive matter to transport them from Viterbo to Ferrara,” went on Ippolito. “And I fear, my dear father, that you will be asked to pay for the journey.”

Ercole was thinking of Sister Lucia da Narni whom he cherished here in Ferrara. Being very interested in theological matters he had been always impressed by miracles, and any who could provide them was sure of a welcome at his court. Some years ago Sister Lucia, who was in a Dominican convent in Viterbo, had begun to see the stigmata forming on her hands. This phenomenon appeared every Friday, and Ercole had been so impressed by what he heard of this miracle and so certain that Sister Lucia must be a very holy woman, that he had wished her to leave Viterbo and come to Ferrara.

Sister Lucia was not unwilling, but her superiors would not allow her to leave them, for they saw that she would bring much gain and glory to them. However, the sister was put in a basket, smuggled out of the convent, and brought to Duke Ercole who, delighted with his acquisition, installed her in a convent of her own, visited her frequently, looking upon the stained rags which she produced on Fridays as holy relics.

But she wished to have those nuns about her with whom she had lived at Viterbo, and after many negotiations it was agreed that certain of the nuns should come to share the Ferrara convent with Sister Lucia.

It was the transportation of these nuns which was now causing Ercole some concern. And Ippolito, watching his father slyly, said suddenly: “The nuns would have to pass through Rome. Why should they not travel with the bride and her company?”

Ercole was looking at his son speculatively.

Ippolito went on: “Why then, Father, they could travel at her expense.”

“It is a good idea, my son,” said Ercole.

“And think, Father, if you successfully oppose the match, in addition to all those ducats you will lose, you will have to pay for the nuns’ journey yourself. You stand to lose, my father, if you do not accept Lucrezia.”

Ippolito was filled with secret laughter as he watched avarice and family pride grapple with one another.


* * *

Cesare sought his sister. She was surrounded by her women, and there were rolls of beautiful material in the apartment. Lucrezia was draping some of this about one of them and indulging in one of her favorite occupations—designing her own dresses.

The brocade of that shade of deep crimson, which had a hint of blue in it and which was called morello, fell from her hands as she saw Cesare. She felt the blood leave her face and she appeared to be without life, unable to move. Every time she saw him, she seemed to sense change in him. She was moved by pity, by fear and by admiration. There was no one like him in the world, no one else who could ever have the same power to move her, to hurt her, to fill her with tenderness and with fear.

“Why Cesare …” she began.

He smiled sneeringly at the fine materials. “So,” he said, “you are preparing for the wedding.”

“There is a great deal to do,” she said. She waved her hand and the women were only too ready to leave her.

“My brother,” she said, “it makes me happy to see you back in Rome.”

He laughed, and touched his face with beautiful slender fingers, so like his father’s. “The reason for my return does not make me happy.”

“You suffer so. I trust the cure has done its work.”

“They tell me it has, but I wonder sometimes whether the foulness will ever leave me. If I but knew who brought it to me this time …” His eyes were cruel, and she shuddered. Stories of his barbaric cruelty to the Neapolitans had reached her and she, who deplored cruelty and whose great desire was to live in peace with all around her, longed for him to curb his violence.

“Well, sister,” he said, “you do not seem pleased to see me.”

“Then it is because I see you not looking as well as I would wish to see you.”

He took her by the arm, and she tried not to show that his grip hurt her.

“This man to whom they are marrying you,” he said, “he is a boor, I hear. Alfonso. Alfonso the Second! He will bear no resemblance to the first Alfonso … that little one who so delighted you.”

She would not look at him. She whispered: “It is our fate to marry when we are told to marry, and accept the partners chosen for us.”

“My Lucrezia!” he said. “Would to God …”

She knew what he meant but she would not let him say it. She interrupted quickly: “We shall meet often. You shall visit me in Ferrara; I shall visit you in Romagna.”

“Yes,” he said. “That must be so. Nothing should part us, Lucrezia. Nothing shall, as long as there is life in this body.” He put his face close to hers. He whispered: “Lucrezia … you tremble. You are afraid of me. Why, in the name of all the saints? Why?”

“Cesare,” she answered him, “soon I have to leave Rome. Soon … I must go to my marriage.…”

“And you are afraid … afraid of the brother who loves you. Afraid because he is your brother … Lucrezia, I will not have you afraid. I will have you welcome me … love me … love me as I love you.”

“Yes, Cesare.”

“For love you I do, as I love no other. Always, no matter whom I am with, it is Lucrezia I love. All others are dull … they tire me. They are not Borgias. Lucrezia … Lucrezia … I would give so much … years of my life if …”

“No,” she said fiercely, “no!”

“But I say Yes,” he told her.

His hand was at the nape of her neck. She thought in that moment that he was going to kill her because he was imagining her with her new husband, and could not bear to see such images.

Then suddenly he released her. He laughed, and his laughter was bitter.

“The Borgia in you, Lucrezia, is hidden by the gentle serenity of the woman who would wish to be like all others … the gentle Lucrezia who longs to be a wife and mother … meek and mild—Lucrezia who would deny her Borgia blood for the sake of peace. You shall come to my apartments tonight. There shall be a supper party. Our father will be there and others. And this party shall be for your delight.”

“I shall come with the greatest pleasure,” she said.

“Yes, Lucrezia,” he told her, “you shall come.”


* * *

In Cesare’s apartments there took place that night an orgy which would be remembered as long as the name of Borgia would be.

It was of Cesare’s own invention; and his apartments were lighted by many brilliant candelabra and therein he had set up a Papal throne, elaborately covered with the finest brocade. Upon it was seated the Pope, and next to him Lucrezia, and on her other side Cesare himself.

There was feasting, and the conversation was lewd. Cesare set the pace, and he was fresh from the campaign in Naples, during which his barbarism and love of orgiastic spectacle had become intensified. The Pope was expectant. There was nothing he liked better than what he called goodly company, and he was not the man to turn from lewd talk nor from lewd behavior.

Cesare had ordered that fifty courtesans be brought to the apartment, and they came, some of the most notorious in Rome, ready to do whatever they should be asked, providing they received adequate payment; and payment or not, none would dare offend Cesare Borgia.

The payment for this night’s work was to be very high indeed, and in addition they had the honor of working for Cesare and entertaining the Holy Father and the bride-to-be.

They began by dancing, and as the music grew wilder, so did their dancing. There was one theme: seduction and fulfillment; and this they stressed again and again. Cesare watched intently. He had placed on a small table a selection of dresses made of the finest silk, leather shoes and hats; and these he said were prizes which he wished Lucrezia to distribute. She must watch carefully, for he wished her to bestow the prizes on those whom she thought most worthy.