Madonna of the Seven Hills (22 page)

“I heard the shouting. Please sit down. I will bathe your forehead.”

She clapped her hands and a slave came running.

“Bring me a bowl of water and soft cloths,” she cried, “and tell none why you bring them.”

Giulia looked at Lucrezia earnestly. “They called me lewd names,” she said. “And they mentioned the Holy Father.”

“They … they dare not!”

“But they
dared
, Lucrezia. That means that something more than we realize is happening in the city.”

“Do you think they mean to depose him?”

“He’ll never allow them to do that.”

The slave came in with the water. Lucrezia took it and Giulia said: “I fell as I stepped on to the balcony and I have grazed my forehead.”

The slave bowed and went away, but she did not believe Giulia.

They know of this trouble, thought Lucrezia. They know more than we have been allowed to.

It was impossible
to keep secret the news that stones had been thrown at the Pope’s mistress who was on a balcony of Lucrezia’s palace. When Alexander heard of it he came hurrying to them.

In spite of the dangerous position in which Alexander knew himself to be, his greatest concern at that moment was the safety of his mistress and daughter.

He embraced them tenderly and for the first time since the war clouds had appeared over his head he showed anxiety.

“But, my darling, let me see this wound. We must make sure there is no infection. Holy Mother of God, it might have been your eye. But the saints have preserved you, my precious one, and the wound is not great. And, Lucrezia, oh, my precious little daughter, you were unhurt. I thank the Virgin for that.”

He held them both against him as though he would never let them go, and as each looked up into his face, she was aware of the conflict there.

“You must not be anxious, dearest Father,” said Lucrezia. “We will take the greatest care. We will not venture on to the balcony until all this trouble is over.”

The Pope released them and went thoughtfully to the figure of the Madonna. He stood beside it, his lips moving slightly. He was praying, and they were both aware that he was urging himself to make a decision.

Slowly he turned to them, and he was the old firm Alexander again.

“My darlings,” he said, “I now have to do something which grieves me as nothing else could. I am going to send you away from Rome.”

“Please do not do that, Father,” begged Lucrezia. “Let us stay with you. We will promise
never
to go out. But to be away from you would be the worst that could befall us.”

He smiled and laid a hand on her head.

“And my Giulia, what has she to say?”

Giulia had thrown herself at his feet and taken his hand. Giulia was thinking: Something more terrible than even the plague is threatening Rome. The French armies may invade us … they will set up a Pope of their own choosing, and who knows what will happen to Alexander?

Giulia had found Alexander a very satisfactory lover, accomplished and experienced; she did not doubt that she had been fortunate in having the best tutor in Rome. But part of Alexander’s attraction had been his power; the knowledge, first that he was the richest Cardinal in Rome, and later the Pope himself. Such was Giulia’s nature that all this had added to her pleasure. To imagine him without his glory, perhaps a humiliated prisoner of the French, made him appear a different person from the all-powerful, ever-indulgent and generous lover by whom it was an honor to be loved.

Giulia was therefore not entirely dismayed by the thought of retirement
to a safe place until it had been settled whether or not Alexander was to retain his power.

She gave no sign of this; and Alexander who would have immediately detected duplicity in a statesman, was unaware of it in his mistress. This was partly due to that constant desire to see only that which he wished to see.

He was as devoted to Giulia as ever. The gap in their years made her seem, even now that she was a mother, a young and artless girl. Her passion had always seemed spontaneous; her joy in him as great as his in her. Therefore he believed that she would be as heartbroken to leave him as he would be to lose her.

“We will not leave you,” said Giulia. “We will face anything, Holy Father, rather than do so. I would rather die of the plague or at the sword of foreign soldiers than …”

“Stop, I beg you,” said Alexander wincing. “You know not what you are saying.”

Giulia had recovered herself; she stood up and her face was as guileless as Lucrezia’s. She said: “Tis true, is it not, Lucrezia? We would rather face … anything … anything …” She paused that Alexander might visualize the utmost horrors.… “Yes,” she continued, “anything rather than leave you.”

Lucrezia threw her arms about her father. “It is true, dearest Father,” she cried; and she meant it.

“My darling girls!” murmured Alexander, and his voice was broken with emotion. “But it is because I love you as I do that I must be relentless in this matter. I cannot allow you to stay. I cannot imagine how dark my life will be without you; all I know is that it would be even darker if aught happened to you through my selfishness in keeping you here. The French are gathering their forces. They are a strong nation, and determined to have Naples. But they will not be content with Naples. Who can tell, we may see foreign soldiers in Rome. And my beloved, my Giulia, you think of death at the hands of foreign soldiers, but it is not always as simple as that. You are so young … so very beautiful. There were never two more lovely creatures in the world. And what would your fate be if you were to fall into the hands of brutal soldiery, think you? I will not think of it. I
dare not think of it. I prefer to lose the brightness of your presence rather than think of it.”

“Then let us go away for as short a time as is necessary to ease your mind,” soothed Giulia.

“I hope it will not be too far from Rome,” added Lucrezia wistfully.

“Rest assured, my precious ones, that as soon as it is safe for you to be here, I shall hold you in my arms again.”

He embraced them both and continued to hold them against him.

“These are my plans, my dearest girls. Lucrezia shall visit her husband’s domain of Pesaro. It is to Pesaro that I propose to send you both.”

There was one
who was filled with delight at the prospect of leaving Rome, and that was Giovanni Sforza. He assured the Pope that his first care should be the two girls whom the Holy Father was placing under his protection, and he fervently agreed with His Holiness that Rome in this May of the year 1494 was no place for them.

So on a beautifully sunny day there was gathered in St. Peter’s Square a crowd of babbling servants and excited slaves to complete the cortège which was to journey to Pesaro. Giulia declared that she could not travel without her hairdressers, dressmakers, and all the servants necessary to her comfort; Lucrezia, knowing how those of her retinue would grieve if left behind, was equally insistent that hers should accompany her. In vain did Giovanni Sforza point out that they would have less need of all their fripperies in quiet Pesaro; the girls would not listen; and Giovanni, eager only to escape from Rome as quickly as possible, gave way.

Adriana, with her priests and servants, was also in the procession; and the Pope stood on his balcony watching until he could see the last of those two golden heads which brought so much pleasure into his life.

When they had gone he retired to his apartments and shut himself away to mourn their absence. He gave himself up to the study of the political stiuation, determined that he would employ every ounce of energy he possessed to make Rome a safe place, so that he might bring back his beloved girls to brighten his life.

As they left Rome behind them Lucrezia was surprised to see how Giulia’s spirits rose.

“One would think,” she said, “that you are glad to leave the Holy Father.”

“It is no use harboring melancholy which can do nothing but make further melancholy. Let us forget we are in exile from our Holy Father and our beloved city. Let us make the most of what we have.”

“That will not be easy,” said Lucrezia. “Did you not notice how sad he was?”

“He is the wisest man in Rome,” Giulia assured her. “He will very soon cast off his sorrow. It is he who has taught me my philosophy of life. He’ll soon be making merry. Therefore let us also make as merry as we can.”

“That is certainly his philosophy,” agreed Lucrezia.

“Then let us be gay … I wonder what kind of city this Pesaro is.”

On they went northwards across the leg of Italy, and through every town they passed the people turned out to see the strangers from Rome. They marvelled at the two golden-haired beauties in their rich dresses; they stared at little Laura, who was with her mother, and marvelled because they had heard rumors that this child, like the golden-haired Lucrezia, was the Pope’s own daughter.

They hung out banners of welcome, and the lords of the various towns through which they passed entertained them royally. Such entertainments amused the people and, as no one was sure yet that Alexander would be deposed, it would be unwise to offend, at this stage, one who, legend had it, was endowed with superhuman powers.

Giovanni Sforza’s spirits rose as the distance between himself and Rome increased. He took on new stature; he even became something like the lover of whom Lucrezia had dreamed; and she, always ready to be contented, found that, as far as her married life was concerned, she had never been happier.

How Giovanni glowed with pride to see the banners displayed in their honor, to be treated as an equal by some of the lords such as those of Urbino who had previously thought themselves far above him.

Giovanni was realizing at last the honor which could come to him through his union with the Borgias, and that made him tender toward his
wife and very eager to please her; and since she was ready to be pleased, the harmonious relationship between them continued all through that journey.

Sforza sent notice of their impending arrival to Pesaro and instructed his servants there that he wanted a welcome such as they had never given before; he wished flowers to be strewn in the streets and banners to be set up; he wanted verses to be written so that on their arrival they might be recited to him and his bride.

And so he was delighted as they made the arduous journey across the Apennines, and he congratulated himself on having a wife who was not only easy to arouse to ardor, who was not only a beauty, but the daughter of a man who, even if his power was threatened, most would agree, was the mightiest in Italy.

So he prepared for the triumphant entry into Pesaro.

Lucrezia and Giulia had not failed to wash their hair the night before the day of the entry. Lucrezia was to wear a rich gown embroidered with gold, and her golden hair was to be caught up in a net set with many jewels.

She lay beside her husband thinking of the next day, sleepily remembering the passion he had shown during the journey, passion of which she had not thought him capable. She wished that he would wake up and that there might be more lovemaking.

Then she wondered what was happening in Rome and whether her father had recovered from his unhappiness. Giulia did not seem to regret very much that they had left him, although it was certain that he would have found comfort with another woman.

Strange that Giulia did not care. But perhaps it was as well, for if Giulia had cared she would be unhappy, and as the Pope would undoubtedly find means of comforting himself, it was fortunate that Giulia should be reconciled to the parting.

The wind was rising, and she could hear the rain beating down.

She hoped the sun would be shining in the morning.

“Giovanni,” she murmured, “do you hear the wind rising?”

He was not very handsome; he was not like the lover of whom she had dreamed; but she had always been ready to compromise. She would endow him with beauty and with qualities he did not possess, and think of him as she wished him to be, rather than as he was.

She touched his cheek lightly with her finger. His face twitched and he put up a hand as though to brush away a fly.