Cesare was smiling.

Holy Mother of God, said the Pope to himself, how beautiful are my children and how my heart trembles with the love I bear them.


* * *

Alfonso Duke of Bisceglie rode quietly into Rome. There were no crowds to line the streets and strew flowers in his path. He came unheralded. The Pope had wished that there would be no ceremonial entry. The scandal of Lucrezia’s divorce was too recent, having taken place only six months previously, and since during that time Lucrezia had borne a child—and how was it possible, however many precautions were taken, to keep these matters entirely secret?—it was better for the new bridegroom to come unheralded.

So Alfonso apprehensively came to Santa Maria in Portico.

Sanchia, awaiting his arrival was with Lucrezia. She guessed what his feelings would be. She knew he would come reluctantly, and she was fully aware of the tales he would have heard regarding the notorious family into which he was to marry. He did not come as a respected bridegroom, as a conquering prince, but as a symbol of the desire of Naples for friendship with the Vatican.

“Have no fear, little brother,” murmured Sanchia. “I will take care of you.”

She would demand of Cesare that he be her brother’s friend; she would make it a condition for Cesare was her lover. If Cesare showed friendship for young Alfonso—and Cesare could be charming when he so desired—others would follow. The Pope, whatever he was planning, would be gracious; and Lucrezia, however much she mourned Pedro Caldes, would be gentle with Alfonso.

Sanchia was longing to show her brother the power she held at the Vatican. Her love for other men waxed strongly and waned quickly, but her love for her young brother was constant.

Lucrezia, with Sanchia and their women, went down to greet her betrothed; and as soon as she saw him her interest was stirred, and it was as though the idealized shadow of Pedro Caldes receded a little. Alfonso was such a handsome boy. He was very like Sanchia, having the same vivid coloring, but he appeared to lack Sanchia’s wantonness, and there was about him an earnest desire to please which Sanchia lacked and which was endearing.

Lucrezia was moved by the way he clung to his sister and the display of emotion between them.

Then he was standing before his bride, those beautiful blacklashed blue eyes wide with a surprise which he found it impossible to suppress.

“I am Lucrezia Borgia,” said Lucrezia.

It was easy to read his thoughts, for there was a simplicity about him which reminded her that she was his senior, if only by a little. He had heard evil tales of her and he had expected … What had he expected? A brazen, depraved creature to strike terror into him? Instead he found a gentle girl, a little older than himself but seeming as young, tender, serene, gentle and very beautiful.

He kissed her hands, and his lips were warm and clinging; his blue eyes were filled with emotion as they were lifted to her face.

“My delight is beyond expression,” he murmured.

They were not idle words; and in that moment, a little of the dark sorrow which had overshadowed her during the last months was lifted.


* * *

Sanchia was reclining on a couch, surrounded by her ladies, when Cesare was announced.

She had been telling them that before long they would have to say good-bye to little Goffredo, because he would no longer be her husband. The method employed in the Sforza divorce had been so successful that His Holiness was tempted to repeat it.

“But I,” she was saying, “shall not be six months pregnant when I stand before the Cardinals and declare my marriage has not been consummated.”

Loysella, Francesca, and Bernardina laughed with delight. Their mistress’s adventures were a source of great pleasure to them and were emulated by them to the best of their ability.

She had made them swear to secrecy, and this they had done.

“Your future husband is at the door,” whispered Loysella.

Sanchia tapped her cheek playfully. “Then you had better leave me. I asked him to come. I demanded that he should.”

“You must get him accustomed to obedience,” laughed Bernardina.

But Cesare was already in the room and even their frivolity was stemmed. He looked at them imperiously, not assessing their obvious charms as he sometimes did, but impatiently as though they were inanimate objects which offended his eyes. They might joke about him when he was not present, but as soon as he made his appearance they were conscious of that power within him to strike terror.

They curtsied hurriedly and went out of the room, leaving him alone with their mistress.

Sanchia lifted a hand. “Come, Cesare,” she said, “sit beside my couch.”

“You wished to see me?” he asked, sitting down.

“I did. I am not very pleased with you, Cesare.”

He raised his eyebrows haughtily, and her blue eyes shone with sudden anger as she went on: “My brother is in Rome. He has been here a whole day and night, yet you have ignored him. Is this the courtesy you have to show to a Prince of Naples?”

“Oh … but a bastard,” murmured Cesare.

“And you … my fine lord … what are you, pray?”

“Soon to be the ruler of Italy.”

Her eyes flashed. It would be so. She was sure of it, and she was proud of him. If any could unite Italy and rule it, that man was Cesare Borgia. She would be beside him when he reigned supreme. Cesare Borgia would need a queen, and she was to be that queen. She was exultant and intensely happy, for there was one man to whom she longed to be married, and that was this man, Cesare Borgia. And it would be so. As soon as she was divorced their marriage would take place, and the whole of Italy would soon have to recognize her as its Queen.

He was looking at her now, and she held out her arms. He embraced her, but even as she put her arms about his neck she sensed his absentmindedness.

She withdrew herself and said: “But I demand that you pay my brother the respect due to him.”

“That have I done. He merits little.”

She brought up her hand and slapped his face. He took her by the wrist and a smile of pleasure crossed his face as he twisted her arm until she squealed with the pain.

“Stop,” she cried. “Cesare, I implore you. You will break my bones.”

“ ’Twill teach you not to behave like a beggar on the Corso.”

Freed, she looked angrily at the marks on her wrist.

“I ask you,” she said sullenly, “to call on my brother, to welcome him to Rome.”

Cesare shrugged aside her request.

“If,” she went on, “he is to be your brother in very truth …”

“I never looked on Lucrezia’s first husband as my brother. Nor shall I on her second.”

“Jealous!” snapped Sanchia. “Insanely jealous of your sister’s lovers. It is small wonder that there is scandal concerning your family throughout Italy.”

“Ah,” he said, smiling slowly, “we are a scandalous family. I fancy, my dear Sanchia, that scandal has not grown less since you joined us.”

“I insist that you welcome my brother.”

“It is enough that my father sent for him and that he is here.”

“But Cesare, you must do him some small honor. You must show the people that you do so—if not because he is to be Lucrezia’s husband, then because he is my brother.”

“I do not understand,” said Cesare with cruel blankness.

“But if I am divorced … if I am free of Goffredo and we are married …”

Cesare laughed. “My dear Sanchia,” he said, “I am not going to marry you.”

“But … there is to be a divorce.”

“His Holiness is not eager for another divorce in the family. The Church deplores divorce, as you know. Nay, you shall stay married to your little Goffredo. Of what can you complain in him? Is he not a kind and complaisant husband? As for myself, when I am free of these garments, I shall seek me a wife elsewhere.”

Sanchia could not speak; it seemed to her that her fury was choking her.

“Moreover,” went on Cesare, savoring her efforts to keep that fury under control, “when I acquire my titles—and I can assure you they will be mighty titles—I must look farther than an illegitimate Princess, Sanchia. You will readily understand that.”

Still she could not speak. Her face was white, and he noticed her long slender fingers plucking at the skirt of her dress. He could still feel the sting of those fingers on his cheek; he could still see the mark of his on her wrist. Their relationship had always been a fiery one; they had inflicted their passion on one another, and many of their most satisfactory encounters had begun with a fight.

“My bride,” went on Cesare, flaying those wounds he had laid open with the whip of humiliation likely to cause most pain, “will doubtless be a near relative of yours: the daughter of your uncle, the King of Naples, his legitimate daughter, the Princess Carlotta.”

“My cousin Carlotta!” cried Sanchia. “You deceive yourself, Cardinal Borgia! Bastard Borgia! Do you think my uncle the King would allow you to marry his daughter?”

“His Holiness and I have very good reason to believe that he is eager for the match.”

“It is a lie.”

Cesare lifted his shoulders lightly. “You will see,” he said.

“See! I shall not see. It will never come to pass. Do you think you will have Carlotta? My uncle will want a prize for her.”

“It might be,” Cesare retorted, “that he will be wise enough to see in me what he seeks for her.”