Madonna of the Seven Hills (4 page)

Lucrezia’s wide wondering eyes would peer through gaps in the masonry as her fat little fingers curled about the pillars.

She was two years old but life with her brothers had made her appear to be more. The women of the nursery loved her dearly for, although she was like her brothers in appearance, she was quite unlike them in character. Lucrezia’s was a sunny nature; when she was scolded for a fault, she would listen gravely and bear no malice against the scolder. It was small wonder that in that nursery, made turbulent by the two boys, Lucrezia was regarded as a blessing.

She was very pretty, and the women never tired of combing or
adorning that long hair of the yellow-gold color which was so rarely seen in Rome. Lucrezia was already, at two—like her brothers she was precocious—aware of her charm, but she accepted this in quiet contentment as she accepted most things.

Today there was a hush over the house, because something important was happening, and Lucrezia was aware of the whispers of serving men and maids, and of the presence of strange women in the house. It concerned her mother, she knew, because she had not been allowed to see her for a whole day. Lucrezia smiled placidly as she looked on the piazza. She would know in time, so she would wait until then.

Her brother Giovanni came and stood beside her. He was six years old, a beautiful boy with auburn hair like his mother’s.

Lucrezia smiled at him and held out her hand; her brothers were always affectionate toward her and she was already aware that each of them was doing his best to be her favorite. She was coquette enough already to enjoy the rivalry for her affections.

“For what do you watch, Lucrezia?” asked Giovanni.

“For the people,” she answered. “See the fat lady with the mask!”

They laughed together because the fat lady waddled, said Giovanni, like a duck.

“Our uncle will soon be here,” said Giovanni. “You are watching for him, Lucrezia.”

Lucrezia nodded, smiling. It was true that she always watched for Uncle Roderigo. His visits were the highlights of her life. To be swung in those strong arms, to be held above that laughing face, to smell the faint perfume which clung to his clothes and watch the twinkling jewels on his white hands and to know that he loved her—that was wonderful. Even more wonderful than being loved so much by her two brothers.

“He will come today, Lucrezia,” said Giovanni. “He surely will. He is waiting for a message from our mother.”

Lucrezia listened, alert; she could not always understand her brothers; they seemed to forget that she was only two years old, and that Giovanni who was six and Cesare who was seven seemed like adults, grand, large and important.

“Do you know why, Lucrezia?” said Giovanni.

When she shook her head, Giovanni laughed, hugging the secret,
longing to tell yet reluctant to do so because the anticipation of telling so pleased him. He stopped smiling at her suddenly and Lucrezia knew why. Cesare was standing behind them.

Lucrezia turned to smile at him, but Cesare was glaring at Giovanni.

“It is not for you to tell,” said Cesare.

“It is as much for me as for you,” retorted Giovanni.

“I am the elder. I shall tell,” declared Cesare. “Lucrezia, you are not to listen to him.”

Lucrezia shook her head and smiled. No, she would not listen to Giovanni.

“I shall tell if I want to,” shouted Giovanni. “I have as much right to tell as you. More … because I thought to tell first.”

Cesare had his brother by the hair and was shaking him. Giovanni kicked out at Cesare. Cesare kicked back, Giovanni yelled and the two boys were rolling on the floor.

Lucrezia remained placid, for such fights were commonplace enough in the nursery, and she watched them, content that they should be fighting over her; she was nearly always the cause of these fights.

Giovanni was yelping with pain, while Cesare shrieked with rage. The maid-servants would not come near them while they fought thus. They were afraid of those two boys.

Giovanni who was being held down to the floor by Cesare, shouted: “Lucrezia … our mother is …”

But he could say no more because Cesare had his hand over his brother’s mouth. His eyes looked black with rage and his face was scarlet. “I shall tell. It is my place to tell. Our mother is having a baby, Lucrezia.”

Lucrezia stared, her eyes wide, her soft babyish mouth open in astonishment. Cesare, watching her amazement, was placated. She was looking at him as though he were responsible for this strange thing. She made him feel powerful, as she had ever since she had been a baby and he had hung over her crib and watched her little fingers curl about his thumb.

He released Giovanni and both boys got to their feet. The fight was over; it was one of many which took place every day in the nursery. Now they were ready to talk to their little sister about the new baby, to strut before her and boast of all that they knew concerning the great events which went on outside their nursery.

Vannozza lay waiting
for the Cardinal to visit her. A boy this time, but she was uneasy.

She had good reason to be.

The Cardinal had continued his visits during the two years of her marriage, but they had been less frequent and she had heard a great deal of gossip about the charming young women in whom he was interested.

Giorgio was a good man, a meek man, as the Cardinal had declared him to be; but even the meekest men are yet men, and Vannozza was possessed of voluptuous and irresistible charm. There had been long summer evenings—the cool of the evening was the best part of the day—when they supped in her lovely vineyard in the Suburra, when they had talked and grown drowsy and afterward gone into the house, each feeling stimulated by the presence of the other.

After all, they were married, and Roderigo’s visits were so infrequent.

It was to be expected, of course, even though the rule had been laid down that Giorgio was merely to share the public rooms of her house.

Could Roderigo blame her? She did not think he would. But if there was a question of the child being his, he might feel less inclined to do for it what he planned to do for the others.

When a woman held a child in her arms, a child of a few hours, how could she help it if for a short while that child seemed more precious to her than anything else on Earth? Cesare would always hold first place in her affections; but at this time as she lay exhausted in her bed the little newcomer—her Goffredo—being the most helpless of her brood, must, she decided, have the same opportunities as his brothers.

He looked exactly as the others had; indeed it might be little Lucrezia who lay in her arms now, a baby a few hours old; and there was no doubt who her father was. Goffredo might be Roderigo’s son. With such a lover and a husband living under her own roof, even Vannozza could not be sure. But she must do all in her power to make the Cardinal sure he was the child’s father.

He was coming to her bedside now. Her women stepped back in awed reverence as he approached.

“Vannozza, my dear!” His voice sounded as tender as ever, but he rarely showed anger, and she could not tell what his feelings were toward the child.

“A boy this time, my lord. He is very like Lucrezia … and I fancy I see Your Eminence in that child every day.”

A plump white hand, sparkling with gems, touched the baby’s cheek. It was a tender, paternal gesture, and Vannozza’s spirits rose.

She picked up the child and held him out to the Cardinal who took him from her; she saw his face soften in a look of pride and joy. It was small wonder, she thought then, that many loved Roderigo; his love of women and children made them eager to please and serve him.

He walked up and down with the child, and in his eyes was a faraway look as though he were seeing into the future. Surely that meant that he was making plans for the new-born boy. He did not suspect. He must have compared himself with Giorgio and asked himself how any woman could consider the little apostolic clerk, when she must compare him with the charming and mighty Cardinal.

He put the baby back into her arms and stood for a while smiling benignly down at her.

Then he said slyly, “Giorgio? He is pleased?”

There was a
period in Lucrezia’s life which she would remember until the day of her death. She was only four years old, yet so vivid was the memory that it was imprinted forever on her mind. For one thing it was the beginning of change.

Before that time she had lived the nursery life, secure in the love of her mother, looking forward to the visits of Uncle Roderigo, delighting in the battle of her brothers for her affection. It had been a pleasant little world in which Lucrezia lived. Each day she would take her stand on the loggia and watch the colorful world go by, but all that happened beyond her mother’s house seemed to her nothing more than pictures for her idle pleasure; there was an unreality about all that happened on the other side of the loggia and Lucrezia was safe in her cozy world of love and admiration.

She knew that she was pretty and that no one could fail to notice this because of her yellow hair and her eyes which were light blue-gray in color; her eyelashes and brows were dark and inherited from her Spanish ancestors, it was said; and it was this combination which, partly because it was so unusual, was so attractive. She had the arresting looks of one who was only part Italian, being also part Spanish. Her brothers also possessed this charm.

The serving-maids could not help embracing her, patting her cheeks or stroking her lovely hair. “Dearest little Madonna,” they would murmur, and they would whisper together about those enchanting
occhi bianchi
which were going to make a seductress of their little Madonna.

She was happy in their affection; she would snuggle up to them, giving love for love; and she looked forward to a career as a seductress with the utmost pleasure.

Little Lucrezia up to that time believed that the world had been made for her pleasure—her brothers had the same feeling in regard to themselves—but because Lucrezia was by nature serene, ready to be contented, and could only be pleased herself when she pleased others, her character was quite different from those of her brothers. Cesare’s and Giovanni’s young lives were darkened by their jealousy of each other; Lucrezia knew no such jealousy. She was the Queen of the nursery, certain of the love of all.

And so, up to her fourth birthday the little girl remained shut in her world of contentment which wrapped itself about her like a cozy cocoon.

But with the fourth birthday came the first indication that life was less simple than she had believed it to be, and that it did not go on forever in the same pleasant pattern.

At first she noticed the excitement in the streets. There was much coming and going across the bridge. Each day great Cardinals, their retinues with them, came riding into Rome on their mules. People stood about in little groups; some talked quietly, some gesticulated angrily.

All day she had waited for a visit from Uncle Roderigo, but he did not come.

When Cesare came into the nursery she ran to him and took his hands, but even Cesare had changed; he did not seem as interested in her
as before. He went to the loggia and patiently she stood beside him, like a little page, humble, waiting on his pleasure as he liked her to; yet he said nothing, but stood still, watching the crowds in the streets.

“Uncle Roderigo has not come to us,” she said wistfully.

Cesare shook his head. “He will not come, little sister. Not today.”

“Is he sick?”

Cesare smiled slowly. His hands were clenched, she saw, and his face grew taut as it did so often when he was angry or determined about something.

She stood on the step which enabled her to be as high as his shoulder, and put her face close to his that she might study his expression.

“Cesare,” she said, “you are angry with Uncle Roderigo?”

Cesare caught her neck in his strong hands; it hurt a little, this trick of his, but she liked it because she knew that it meant: See how strong I am. See how I could hurt you, little Lucrezia, if I wished to; but I do not wish to, because you are my little sister and I love you because you love me … better than anyone in the world … better than our mother, better than Uncle Roderigo, better, certainly better, than Giovanni.