Among his legion of enemies it was certainly necessary to number the new Pope, Julius II, a harsh autocrat who had long been a Borgia rival and was certainly no friend to Valentino now.
I found Madonna Lucrezia predictably in Ferrara, to all appearances happily and comfortably settled in there with her third husband, the fortunate Duke, and their several bambini. It was apparent to me at once that she had no wish ever again to play a role upon the world's stage, that great arena in which the power-hungry, vengeful, and materially ambitious act out their lives.
Meanwhile, Lucrezia herself, in opting to remain in Ferrara, enjoying the consolations of religion, and sharing the life of the breathing man who had given her a decent life along with their children, had with clear eyes given up all thought of vampirism—for herself. She was not even tempted, finding the idea increasingly repulsive despite its promise of certain enhanced powers and a much extended life.
She was, however, even more concerned about her brother than her message had indicated. And she knew that her brother would never rest, in this world, until he could get back upon that stage himself.
Adding to Lucrezia's burden, so she informed me, was her increasing concern lest Cesare become a vampire, whether fully intending to do so or not; and she persisted in viewing this outcome as somehow bad for his soul. Madonna had some difficulty in expressing this latter objection in plain terms, at least to me, but eventually I managed to grasp her meaning.
"But that is not his main problem at the moment, dearest Vlad. He now serves King Jean of Navarre. At that court intrigue is rife." She nodded solemnly.
"Indeed?" And at what court, I wondered silently, was it not?
"Oh, you are right, perfectly right, to look at me with such cynicism. But my brother has repented his shameful treatment of you. The more he has seen of adversity, the more he has come to respect a man of honor like yourself. If you were only there to counsel him! I will be very grateful indeed—words alone will certainly not be able to express my gratitude—if you will help him now."
How could I refuse?
As I was on the point of leaving, Madonna Lucrezia provided me with several small glass jars, cryptically labeled, each containing a different potion. Cesare would have need of these, she said, among such dangerous surroundings as the royal court of Navarre—as a matter of self-protection, of course. And as I wasmaking the trip so speedily, I could bring them to him.
Before I left Lucrezia in Ferrara, I renewed in the most solemn terms my vow to her that, no matter what new disagreements might arise between us, I would never kill Cesare; nor would I ever do him any harm except when absolutely necessary to preserve my own honor or my life. She would have liked to extract an even stronger pledge, but beyond what I had already given I would not go.
And that, dear reader, was the last I ever saw of Lucrezia Borgia. It was at about this time, I believe, that she began her affair with a certain breathing poet, Pietro Bembo. Fortunately for Bembo, I was not in those days—in the case of Lucrezia, at least—a particularly jealous man.
Inhabitants of the late twentieth century know the district of Navarre, if they are aware of it at all, as one of the northern provinces of Spain. But at the time of which I write, it persisted as a rather more than semi-independent kingdom. The land was, and is, beautiful in its own way, delighting the traveler who is susceptible to such things with a great variety of scenery. As I made my way in that direction, as always keeping my eyes and ears open in inns, taverns, and along the roads, particularly as I approached my goal, I had little difficulty in gathering bits of information from which to piece together the latest adventures of Cesare.
***
Viana, the town near which I was advised to look for Cesare, lay near the frontier between Navarre and Castile. A few months past, Borgia had taken service under Jean d'Albret, King of Navarre, who happened to be the brother of Cesare's long-suffering and almost forgotten wife. I have had no reason to mention the name of that unfortunate woman in these pages previously, and I see no reason to introduce it now.
The King of Navarre's chief problem was not very unusual. Don Juan, rebellious Count of Beaumont, held a nearby castle in defiance of his monarch, and Cesare Borgia, who had once threatened to make himself King of Italy, had been given the task of putting down this minor-league rebellion against his brother-in-law. It was almost as if the Pope himself, demoted to the office of priest in some obscure parish, were sent to a remote village to hear a few confessions and teach a class in catechism.
It caused me no surprise, on reaching the vicinity of Viana, to find that my old friend Constantia was there, keeping attendance on the man she loved. I talked with her briefly on the evening of my arrival, before I presented myself to Cesare, and expressed to her my doubts as to whether Lucrezia might have been over-optimistic about her brother's desire for a reconciliation with me.
My little gypsy vampire nervously twisted a strand of her long hair. "No—no, he wants you as his friend. I am sure of that."
I was surprised to hear her say that. Constantia's attitude toward me during this meeting was somewhat awkward and strained. But when I pressed her to tell me what was wrong, she assured me there was nothing. At one point I considered showing her the poison jars that had been entrusted to me by Lucrezia, but in the end I decided not to do so.
In the course of this encounter Constantia told me wistfully of her hope—it was scarcely any longer a plan—that she could someday convert Borgia to a vampire, perhaps even without his specific approval. Though this would necessarily mean the end of their passionate love, yet she thought it would save his life.
She had evolved a scheme, she told me, in which Cesare's death in a skirmish would be faked. He would then disappear and take up a new nosferatu life. All his breathing enemies would be convinced that he was indeed dead.
"But your lover, I suppose, will have none of this."
"No, he will not," Constantia admitted softly. Then she burst out: "Vlad, Vlad, will you help him?"
I thought. "I make no promises," I said at last. "At least I must speak to the man himself again before I can promise anything."
Half an hour later, arriving officially at Cesare's camp in the guise of a breathing messenger from his sister in Ferrara, I found him living in a military tent again. It was a scene somewhat reminiscent of our first meeting.
Michelotto, who had been with us then, was present once more, to improve the similarity. Corella from his first sight of me watched me warily, as I had known he must if ever we met again. But still he greeted me cordially enough and seemed ready to let bygones be bygones, to accept me once more as his comrade in arms if fate should so decree.
And Cesare himself was—penitent. There was really no other word. I was reminded of the repentant Bogdan.
As I entered the tent Duke Valentino rose from his folding camp chair, his dark eyes lighting up with joy at the sight of my face. "Drakulya! It has been many years—far too long a time! Not that I blame you—you have had good cause to turn away from me. But a man of your generous soul cannot forever hold against me what I said in fever, on the day of my father's death."