As for Francesco, he rode into Mantua marveling at himself. What were these promises he had made? Was it possible for him to advise Julius to pardon the son of his oldest and most bitter enemy? Should not the heads of states such as Mantua be greatly relieved to have Cesare under lock and key?

But he had told the truth when he had said that above all things he wished to please Lucrezia.


* * *

Cesare lay on his bed, his drawn sword by his side.

In this room little Alfonso of Bisceglie had waited for his death. They had put him here, Cesare knew, hoping to unnerve him, to remind him of that long-ago crime. They were wrong if they thought they could do that. There had been many murders in his life and he did not look back through a mist of remorse. He did not feel remorse; he felt only frustration. He, Cesare, who felt the spirit of emperors within him, who knew that he had had a genius for military conquest, believed that ill-luck had dogged him throughout his life.

He thumped his pillow in sudden rage against fate, which had made him first fight to free himself from the Church and then had taken that great prop, his father’s power, from beside him before he was strong enough to stand alone. Worst of all was that ill-fate which had struck him with a sickness at the time when he most needed his strength.

But he would come back to greatness. He swore it.

He felt the power within him. That was why he lay in the darkness of this room, which for weaker men would have been haunted by the ghost of a murdered young man, and laughed at the darkness, laughed at Alfonso’s ghost, for he was truly unafraid.

He must get well again. He must eat heartily and sleep for long periods, that he might cast off the lassitude of the last weeks.

He began to carry out his plans. Special meals were prepared at his command, and he spent much time—he had plenty to spare—discussing the menus; he retired to his bed early and rose late. He engaged in card games with his guards; and he exulted because he felt his strength returning to him.

His guards grew friendly; they looked forward to the games; this Cesare Borgia, whom they had expected to dread, seemed but a mild man after all. They told him they marveled at his calm.

He shrugged his shoulders. “I put many people in positions similar to that in which I find myself,” he said. “I remember this now, and mayhap that is why I am so calm. Some of them were freed. I do not believe that this will be my home forever.”

The jailers exchanged glances; they watched him regaining his strength.

“My lord Duke,” they would ask, “is there aught we can do for you?”

He would give them small commissions and he noticed their increasing respect. It filled him with exultation. It meant that men still feared Cesare Borgia. It meant that they too believed a prison in the Borgia Tower would not always be his home.


* * *

With Francesco gone and Bembo far away, Lucrezia brooded continually on the plight of Cesare.

Something must be done, she was convinced. Cesare could not remain indefinitely a prisoner in the Borgia Tower. The subtle cruelty of choosing such a place for him was not lost on Lucrezia; for although she knew him well enough to realize that he would suffer little remorse for the murder of her husband which had taken place in those rooms, it was in those very apartments that he had sat with their father and discussed great plans. She believed that Cesare must be near to madness, and that he must be released at all cost.

Therefore she went to see Duke Ercole and, throwing herself on her knees before the old man, she cried: “My dear father, I have come to ask you to grant me one request. I have asked for little since I have been here and I trust you will bear this in mind.”

The old Duke looked at her sourly. He was feeling ill and was displeased with life. Often he wondered what would happen to Ferrara when it was ruled by his son Alfonso; he remembered too that he hated the marriage which had allied his house with that of the Borgias—a family which was now of no consequence in Italy; moreover there was no son yet. If this marriage was going to prove unfruitful he would do all in his power to undo it—ducats or no ducats.

“Well,” he said, “what is this you would ask?”

“I would ask you to allow me to invite my brother to Ferrara.”

“Are you mad?”

“Is it mad to wish to see a member of my family?”

“It would be madness to invite your brother here.”

“My brother is sick. Remember how he brought me back to life. He needs nursing. Who should do that but his sister?”

Ercole smiled unpleasantly. “We want no scandals brought into Ferrara,” he said.

“I promise you there would be none.”

“There always will be scandal where two Borgias are together,” retorted the Duke cruelly.

“You are a man with a family,” persisted Lucrezia, “you must know something of the ties which bind families together.”

“I understand nothing of the ties which bind the Borgias. Nor do I wish to.”

“But you must hear me. Allow me to invite my brother and the children of the Vatican to Ferrara. Let it be a short visit. I promise you it shall be so. But I beg of you, give me your permission to ask my brother here. He would not wish to stay. Maybe he would go into France. He has estates there.”

“The King of France has written to me that on no account will he be allowed into France in spite of your supplications. He advises me to have nothing to do with the priest’s bastard.”

Lucrezia was unpleasantly startled. She had had high hopes of Cesare’s being able to go to France. The French King had always been his friend, she had believed; and he had a family there.

She looked pleadingly into the tight-lipped gray old face, but the Duke was adamant.

He closed his eyes. “I am very tired,” he said. “Go now and be thankful that you made a good match before it was too late to do so.”

“A good match?” she said with an air of defiance. “Do you think I am so happy here?”

“You’re a fool if you prefer a prison in Rome to your apartments in the palace here.”

“I see,” said Lucrezia, “that I was foolish to hope … for kindness … for sympathy.”

“You were foolish if you thought I would have more than one Borgia at my court.”

He watched her sardonically as she left him.


* * *

Cesare took a last look round the apartments. No more would he lie on that bed, his drawn sword at his side, no more order those elaborate meals, nor play cards with his jailers. He had done that which, such a short while ago, he had sworn he would never do. He had surrendered Romagna as the price of freedom. Now he could walk out of his prison; but he must leave Rome.

He was filled with hope. His sojourn in the Borgia Tower had given him back his strength. In some safe place he would make his plans, and within a few months he would win back all he had lost.

He wished that he could go to Ferrara. He needed Lucrezia at such a time. By the saints, he thought, I’ll remember old Ercole for this insult. He shall wish that he had never been born before I have done with him.

But at the moment Ferrara was no place for him.

There was one other: Naples. At Naples he could make his plans.

Naples. It was now in the hands of the Spanish, which was perhaps better than being in the hands of the French. The Spanish King had been annoyed at Cesare’s one-time friendship with the King of France, but that was over now, and the Borgias were after all Spanish. Oh yes, it was at Naples that he could expect to find that temporary refuge which he sought.

So he set out for Naples and during the ride south great plans were forming in his head. He must find new allies. Sanchia was in Naples; he flattered himself that he had always been able to subdue Sanchia; his brother Goffredo was there, and Goffredo was still eager to tell the world that he was a Borgia, so Cesare could count on Goffredo’s loyal support. The children of the Vatican had also been taken there, so there would be an element of Rome at the Naples court.

Perhaps there would be others less pleased to see him; for instance there would be the relations of Lucrezia’s second husband, the Duke of Bisceglie. They might still harbor resentment, but he had no fear of them. In Naples he would make new plans.

The first of these would be to strengthen his friendship with the man who had been set up in charge of Naples by orders of the King of Spain. This was a pleasure-loving handsome young man, Consalvo de Cordoba, who was known as the Great Captain. He had been a friend of the Borgia family, and Cesare saw no reason why, with this man’s help, he should not find sanctuary while he gathered together an army and prepared to go into battle.

How different was this journey into Naples from others in which he had taken part! He remembered riding in triumph, the people running from their houses to look at him, calling a welcome to him, while the fear of him showed in their faces.

Now he rode in unheralded.


* * *

When he was installed in the lodgings allotted to him he was told that a visitor had called and was asking to be brought into his presence.

“Is it the Captain?” he asked.

“My lord,” he was told, “it is a lady.”

That made him smile. He guessed who it was, and he had expected her.

She came into his presence and, when they were alone, she threw off the cape and flung aside the mask she was wearing.

Her adventures had not impaired her beauty. There was Sanchia, voluptuous as ever, her dark hair falling about her shoulders, her blue eyes flashing.

“Sanchia,” he cried and would have embraced her, but she held up an imperious hand.

“Times have changed, Cesare,” she said.

“Yet you come hot-foot to see me, the moment I arrive in Naples.”

“For the sake of old friendship,” she said.

He took her hand and kissed it. “For what else?” he asked.

She tore her hand away and he caught her by the shoulders. Her eyes flashed. She cried: “Have a care, Cesare. The Captain is my very good friend, and you do not come this time as a conqueror.”

He dropped his hands and throwing back his head burst into loud laughter.

“The Captain is your friend!” he sneered. “Well, it is what we must expect. He is in command here, and Sanchia must command him. Is it due to you that I owe the hospitality I now receive?”

“It might be so,” she said. “At least it is friendship which brings me here. I have come to warn you.”

He looked disappointed. “I thought you had come to recall—and relive—old times.”

“Nothing of that sort!” she flashed. “Everything of that nature is over between us. I see that though you have lost Romagna you have lost little of your arrogance, Cesare. Times change and we must change with them.”

“That which I have lost, I will regain.”

“You will need to go very carefully if you are to do so, and it is for that reason that I have come to warn you.”

“Well, what are these dire warnings you have to offer?”

“Firstly do not arouse the Captain’s jealousy.”

“That will be difficult to avoid, dear Sanchia. You are as desirable as ever, and I am but human.”

“Your life is in his hands. He is a good man who does not forget his friends in adversity; but you need to be careful. Your only friend in this court is your brother Goffredo.”

“Where is he now?”

“I know not. He and I rarely meet.”

“I see the Captain is a jealous man who will not tolerate husbands!”

She lifted her shoulders. “The court abounds with your enemies, Cesare. Naples did not love you after the murder of my brother.”

“Yet you continued to love me.”

“If I ever loved you Cesare, I ceased to do so then. There was passion between us afterward, but it was the passion of hate rather than love. Do you remember Jeronimo Mancioni?”

Cesare shook his head.

“You would not of course remember such a trivial incident. There have been so many like it in your life. He wrote an essay on what took place during the capture of Faenza. Doubtless it was a true account, but it did not please you. No, of course you would not remember Jeronimo. He remembers you though. His family remember also. Payment was demanded of him for writing that essay—his right hand was cut off and his tongue cut out. Such things are remembered, Cesare, when a man is in decline. I warn you, that is all. Have a care. You will need to walk more warily here in Naples than you ever did in your Roman prison.”