His eyes blazed suddenly; he clenched his fists, and Lucrezia saw that he was shaking with rage.
“Do not talk of these matters! Lucrezia, I demand that you stop. Archbishop of Valencia! Do I look like an Archbishop? I tell you, Lucrezia, I will not be forced to continue this life. I was never meant for the Church.”
“No, Cesare, you were not, but …”
“But one of us must go into the Church. One of us, and that one must be myself. I am the eldest but I am the one who must stand aside for my brother. He will soon be home. One imagines the preparations there will be for him. Giovanni, Duke of Gandia! Our father cares more for his little toe than for the whole of my body.”
“It is not true,” she cried, distressed. “It is not true.”
“It is true.” His eyes seemed murderous as they were turned upon her. “Do not contradict me, child, when I tell you it is true. I will not remain in the Church, I will not.…”
“You must tell our father,” said Lucrezia soothingly.
“He will not listen. By all the saints, I swear it.” He went to the shrine and, lifting his hands as one who was about to take a solemn oath, he cried: “Holy Mother of God, I swear I will not rest until I am free to lead the life I wish. I will allow no one to bind me, to lead me. I, Cesare Borgia, am my own master from this day on.”
He had changed, Lucrezia realized; he had grown more violent, and she was afraid of him.
She laid her hand pleadingly on his arm. “Cesare,” she said, “you will do what you wish. No one shall lead you. You would not be Cesare if you allowed that.”
He turned to her and all the passion seemed to have left him; but she saw that he still shook with the violence of his emotion.
“My little sister,” he said, “we have been long separated.”
She was anxious to turn the subject away from the Church. “I have heard news of you from time to time, how you excelled in your studies.”
He touched her cheek gently. “Doubtless you have heard many tales of me.”
“Tales of daring deeds.”
“And foolish ones?”
“You have lived as men do live … men who answer to none.”
He smiled tenderly. “You know how to soothe me,” he said. “And they will marry you to that oaf from Pesaro, and doubtless they will take you away from me.”
“We shall visit often, Cesare … all of us, you, Giovanni … Goffredo.…”
His face darkened. “Giovanni,” he cried with a sneer. “He will be on his brilliant campaigns, subduing all Italy with his armies. He will have little time to be with us.”
“Then you will be happy, Cesare, for you always hated him.”
“And you … like the rest … worshipped him. He was very handsome, was he not? Our father doted on him—so much that he forces me to go into the Church when that is where Giovanni should go.”
“Come, tell me about your adventures. You were a gay young man, were you not? All the women of Perugia and Pisa were in love with you, and you, by all accounts, were not indifferent to them.”
“There was not one of them with hair as golden as yours, Lucrezia. There was not one of them who knew how to soothe me with sweet words as you do.”
She laid her cheek against his hand. “But that is natural. We understand each other. We were together when we were little. That is why, of all the men I ever saw, there was not one as beautiful in my eyes as my brother Cesare.”
“What about your brother Giovanni?” he cried.
Lucrezia, remembering the old games of coquetry and rivalry, pretended to consider. “Yes, he was very handsome,” she said; then, noticing the dark look returning to Cesare’s face, she added quickly: “At least I always thought so until I compared him to you.”
“If he were here, you would not say that,” accused Cesare.
“I would, I swear I would. He’ll soon be here. Then I’ll show that I love you best.”
“Who knows what gay manners he has picked up in Spain! Doubtless he will be irresistible to the whole world, as he now is to my father.”
“Let us not talk of him, Cesare. So you have heard that I am to have a husband?”
He laid his hands on her shoulders and looked into her face.
He said slowly: “I would rather talk of my brother Giovanni and his beauty and his triumphs than of such a matter.”
Her eyes were wide and their innocence moved him to a tenderness which was unusual with him.
“Do you not like this alliance with the Sforzas?” she asked. “I heard that the King of Aragon is most displeased. Cesare, perhaps if you are against the match and have good reason … Perhaps if you speak to our father …”
He shook his head.
“Little Lucrezia,” he said quietly, “my dearest sister, no matter whom they chose for your husband, I should hate him.”
It was hot June and everywhere throughout the city banners fluttered. The Sforza lion was side by side with the Borgia bull, and every loggia, every roof, as well as the streets, was filled to see the entry into Rome of the bridegroom whom the Pope had chosen for his daughter.
Giovanni Sforza was twenty-six, and a widower who was of a morose nature and a little suspicious of the bargain which was being offered him.
The thirteen-year-old child who was to be his bride meant nothing to him as such. He had heard that she was beautiful, but he was a cold man, not to be tempted by beauty. The advantages of the match might seem obvious to some, but he did not trust the Borgia Pope. The magnificent dowry which had been promised with the girl—thirty-one thousand ducats—was to be withheld until the consummation of the marriage, and the Pope had strictly laid down the injunction that consummation was not to take place yet because Lucrezia was far too young; and should she die childless, the ducats were to go to her brother Giovanni, the Duke of Gandia.
Sforza was no impetuous youth. He would wait, before congratulating himself, to see whether there was anything about which to be congratulated.
He had a natural timidity which might have been due to the fact that he came of a subordinate branch of the Sforzas of Milan; he was the illegitimate son of Costanzo, the Lord of Cotignolo and Pesaro, but he had nevertheless inherited his father’s estate; he was impecunious, and marriage with the wealthy Borgias seemed an excellent prospect; he was ambitious, and that, could he have trusted the intentions of Alexander, would have made him very happy with the match.
But he could not help feeling uneasy when trumpets and bugles heralded his approach as he came through the Porta del Popolo, whither the Cardinals and high dignitaries had sent important members of their retinues to greet him and welcome him to Rome.
In that procession rode two young men, more magnificently, more elegantly attired than any others. They were two of the most strikingly handsome men Sforza had ever seen, and he guessed by their bearing who they must be. He was thankful that he could cut a fine figure on his Barbary horse, in his rich garments and the gold necklaces which had been lent to him for the occasion.
The younger of these men was the Duke of Gandia, recently returned from Spain. He was very handsome indeed, somewhat solemn at the moment because this was a ceremonial occasion and he, having spent some years at a Spanish Court, had the manners of a Spaniard. Yet he could be gay and lighthearted; that much was obvious.
But it was the elder of the men who demanded and held Sforza’s attention. This was Cesare Borgia, Archbishop of Valencia. He had heard stories of this man which made him shudder to recall them. He too was handsome, but his was a brooding beauty. Certainly he was attractive; he would dominate any scene; Sforza was aware that the women in the streets, who watched the procession from loggia and rooftop, would for the most part focus their interest on this man. What was it about him? He was handsomely dressed; so was his brother. His jewels were glittering; but not more so than his brother’s. Was it the manner in which he held himself? Was it a pride which excelled all pride; a certainty that he was a god among men?