They remembered with chagrin the recent divorce when so many of them had been deceived by the innocent looks of Lucrezia Borgia. They were fully aware that the Pope and his family were going to score another triumph over them.

Alexander watched Cesare as he took his stand before the assembly, and did his best to subdue the pride within him. Cesare was right. He was the man made to rule Italy, and he could best achieve his ambitions in freedom from the Church.

In his slender fingers Cesare held the scroll on which Alexander and he had spent so much time, while he begged his fellow Cardinals to give him their attention.

Cesare’s voice was gentle. Alexander had warned him to be humble and, astonishingly, Cesare was obeying his father in this respect. Alexander was a man who must have his way but who always sought to have it peaceably if possible. There he differed from Cesare who was so impatient to achieve his desires that he often did not care how he did so.

“It was not of my own free will that I entered the Church,” he was saying now. “I have never had a vocation.”

Aware that many eyes were turned upon him, Alexander let his head fall on to his chest in an attitude of dejection as though what his son was saying caused him the utmost pain. In spite of his display of surprise and anguish, all knew of course that it was Alexander’s wish that Cesare should be released, and that he had composed the very words which Cesare was now uttering. They also knew that those Cardinals who refused to act in accordance with his wishes should beware of reprisals.

“My conscience demands that I lay these facts before you,” went on Cesare, “for I see no other course than to appeal to your mercy and goodness, and I trust that in your compassion you will see fit to release me from my vows.”

There was silence. The Cardinals had once more turned their gaze upon the Holy Father, who had now lifted his face so that all could see the concern thereon.

Cesare appealed to the Pope. “Were I free,” he cried, in loud and confident tones, “my life should be dedicated to my country. I would visit the French—from whom we all stand in great danger—and I would give my life to save our country from invasion, and bring peace to the land.”

Alexander spoke then. “That which is asked by the Cardinal Cesare Borgia of Valencia is a grave matter. It demands deep thought and deliberation from this assembly, so that a reply cannot at once be given.”

Cesare retired while the Cardinals discussed his case. There was not a man among them who did not regard the whole procedure as farcical. The Borgia Pope desired Cesare to be released from his vows; and who dared oppose the Borgia Pope?

Cesare went away with a light heart, knowing that before the week was out he would have achieved a lifelong ambition. He would be a soldier leading his armies, free of the restricting influence of the Church.


* * *

He came to his sister’s apartments where she was with her husband. Alfonso, the happy bridegroom, involuntarily moved closer to his wife as his brother-in-law came in.

“Ha!” cried Cesare. “The happy pair. Why sister, why brother, all Rome talks of your pleasure in each other. Do they speak truth?”

“I am very happy,” Lucrezia told him.

“We are happy in each other,” added Alfonso.

Cesare smiled his slow sardonic smile and as he looked at the handsome boy, a momentary anger possessed him. Such a boy! Scarce out of the nursery. Smooth-cheeked and pretty! Cesare’s once beautiful skin was marred now and would doubtless remain so for the rest of his life. It was strange that he, who felt that it would not be long before the whole of Italy was at his feet, should thus feel envy of the smooth cheeks of a pretty boy.

“Why,” he cried, “you do not seem pleased to see me!”

“We are always pleased to see you,” said Lucrezia quickly.

“Do not allow your wife to speak for you, brother,” put in Cesare, a faint sneer turning up the corners of his mouth. “You should be master, you know.”

“Nay,” said Alfonso, “it is not thus with us. I wish to please my wife, nothing more.”

“Devoted husband!” murmured Cesare. “Lucrezia, we are going to have days of celebration. Prepare yourself. What sort of fête shall I arrange for your pleasure?”

“There have been so many celebrations,” said Lucrezia. “Alfonso and I are happy enough without them. We have our hunting, our dancing and music.”

“And other pleasures in each other’s company I doubt not. Oh, but you are so newly wed. Nevertheless there shall be celebrations. Do you know, Lucrezia, that before long I discard my Cardinal’s robes?”

“Cesare!” She ran to him and threw herself into his arms. “But I am so happy. It is what you have wanted for so long. And at last it has come. Oh dearest brother, how I rejoice with you!”

“And you are ready to dance with me at a ball I shall give. You are ready to watch me kill a bull or two?”

“Oh Cesare … not that. It frightens me.”

He kissed her tenderly, and putting his arm about her he drew her to an embrasure; he stood looking at her, his back turned to Alfonso who, as Cesare intended he should, felt himself to be excluded.

Alfonso stood awkwardly, watching; and suddenly all his fears returned to him and he found he could not control his shivers. He could not take his eyes from them—the most discussed brother and sister in Italy, so graceful, both of them, with that faint resemblance between them, yet that vivid contrast. There was Cesare fierce and frightening, determined to dominate, and Lucrezia slender and clinging, wishing to be dominated. Seeing them thus, all Alfonso’s doubts and suspicions returned, and he wanted to beg Lucrezia to leave this place which now seemed to him evil. He wanted to rescue Lucrezia who, although she was born of them, was not one of them; he wanted to take her right away from her family and live in peace with her.

He heard their voices. “But you would not have me stand aside while others killed the bulls?”

“I would. Indeed I would.”

“But my dearest, you would then be ashamed of your brother.”

“I should never be ashamed of you. And you risk your life with the bulls.”

“Not I. I’m a match for any bull.”

Cesare turned and drew her to him and over her head smiled for a second of triumphant mockery at Alfonso. Then he released her suddenly and cried: “But we have forgotten your little bridegroom, Lucrezia. I declare he looks as though he is about to burst into tears.”

Alfonso felt the blood rush to his face. He started forward but Cesare stood between Lucrezia and her husband, legs apart, his hand playing with the hilt of his sword; and although Alfonso wanted to draw his own sword and challenge this man here and now to fight, and fight to the death if need be, he felt as though his limbs would not move, that he was in the presence of the devil, who had laid a spell upon him.

Cesare laughed and went out; and when he was no longer there Alfonso’s courage came back to him. He went to Lucrezia and took her by the shoulders. “I like not his manners,” he said. Lucrezia’s eyes were wide and innocent. “He … he is too possessive. It is almost as though …” But he could not say it. He had not the courage. There were questions he wanted to ask, and he was afraid to ask them. He had been so happy, and he wanted to go on being happy.

Lucrezia put her arms about his neck and kissed him in that gentle way which never failed to be a source of excitement to him.

“He is my brother,” she said simply. “We were brought up together. We have shared our lives and it has made us good friends.”

“It would seem when he is by that you are unaware of any other.”

She laid her head against his chest and laughed. “You are indeed a jealous husband.”

“Lucrezia,” he cried, “have I cause to be?”

Then she lifted her face to his and her eyes were still full of limpid innocence. “You know I want no other husband,” she said. “I was unhappy, desperately unhappy, and I thought never to laugh in joy again. Then you came, and since you came, I have found happiness.”

He kissed her with increasing passion. “Love me, Lucrezia,” he pleaded. “Love me … only.”

They clung together, but even in the throes of lovemaking Alfonso could not rid himself of the memory of Cesare.


* * *

Cesare was in the ring. The assembled company watched him with admiration, for he was the most able matador in Rome. His Spanish origin was obvious as, lithe and graceful, he twisted his elegant body this way and that, springing from the path of the onrushing bull at that precise moment in time when death seemed inevitable.

Alfonso, sitting beside Lucrezia and watching her fingers twisting the embroideries on her dress, was aware of the anxiety she was experiencing. Alfonso did not understand. He could have sworn that she was glad because Cesare would soon be leaving for France; yet now, watching his antics in the bullring, he was equally sure that she was conscious of no one but her brother.

Alfonso murmured: “God in Heaven, Holy Mother and all the saints, let him not escape. Let the furious bull be the instrument of justice—for many have died more horribly at his hands.”

Smiling coolly Sanchia watched the man who had been her lover. She thought: I hope the bull gets him, tramples him beneath those angry hoofs … not to kill him … no, but to maim him so that he will never walk or run or leap again, never make love to his Carlotta of Naples. Carlotta of Naples! Much chance he has! But let him lose his beauty, and his manhood be spoiled, so that I may go to him and laugh in his face and taunt him as he has taunted me.

Among those who watched there were others who remembered suffering caused them by Cesare Borgia, many who prayed for his death.

But had Cesare died that day there would have been three to mourn him with sincerity—the Pope who watched him with the same mingling of pride and fear as Lucrezia’s; Lucrezia herself; and a red-headed courtesan named Fiametta, who had sought to grow rich by his favors and found that she loved him.

But, for all the wishes among the spectators in the ring that day, Cesare emerged triumphant. He slew his bulls. He stood the personification of elegance, indolently accepting the applause of the crowds. And he seemed a symbol of the future, there with his triumph upon him. His proud gestures seemed to imply that the conqueror of bulls would be the conqueror of Italy.


* * *

The Pope sent for his son that he might impart the joyful news.

“Louis promises not to be ungenerous, Cesare,” he cried. “See what he offers you! It is the Dukedom of Valence, and a worthy income with the title.”

“Valence,” said Cesare, trying to hide his joy. “I know that to be a city on the Rhône near Lyons in Dauphiné. The income … what is that?”

“Ten thousand écus a year,” chuckled the Pope. “A goodly sum.”

“A goodly sum indeed. And Carlotta?”

“You will go to the French Court and begin your wooing at once.” The Pope’s expression darkened. “I shall miss you, my son. I like not to have the family scattered.”

“You have your new son, Father.”

“Alfonso!” The Pope’s lips curled with contempt.

“It would seem,” muttered Cesare, “that the only member of the family who is pleased with its new addition is Lucrezia.”

The Pope murmured indulgently: “Lucrezia is a woman, and Alfonso a very handsome young man.”

“It sickens me to see them together.”

The Pope laid his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Go to France, my son. Bring back the Princess Carlotta as soon as you can.”

“I will do so, Father. And when Carlotta is mine I shall stake my claim to the throne of Naples. Father, no one shall prevent my taking that to which I have a claim.”

The Pope nodded sagely.

“And,” went on Cesare, “if I am heir to the crown of Naples, of what use to us will Lucrezia’s little husband be?”

“That is looking some way ahead,” said Alexander. “I came through my difficulties in the past because I did not attempt to surmount them until they were close upon me.”

“When the time comes we shall know how to deal with Alfonso, Father.”

“Indeed we shall. Have we not always known how to deal with obstacles? Now, my son, our immediate concern is your own marriage, and I shall not wish you to appear before the King of France as a beggar.”