This was not the case with della Rovere, but although he was eligible, he had a bitter tongue which offended people. He might have supporters, but he also had many enemies.

The favorite was perhaps the Portuguese Cardinal Costa, who was eighty years of age. At such a time it was often felt to be advisable to elect a very old man, to give a short breathing space before there was another Conclave. If Cardinal Costa were elected, it would not be such a tragedy as the election of della Rovere or—the saints forbid it—Ascanio Sforza.

But Roderigo was determined that none should be elected but himself.

There was also among the several candidates Cardinal Oliviero Carafa whom Ascanio—feeling that on account of his youth he himself had a poor chance—was supporting because Carafa was an enemy of Ferrante.

Another candidate—Roderigo Borgia—did not seem to be in the running; but Roderigo was standing quietly, slyly waiting.

Roderigo was the richest of the Cardinals, and he knew what an important factor wealth was at such times. A little bribe here, a fat one there, a promise of gold and silver, a hint of what a man of his wealth could pay for votes—and who knew, the Papal throne might well be his while the others were wrangling amongst themselves.

The Cardinals were walled-up and the Conclave began. It was a period of intense strain for Roderigo yet he managed to conceal his feelings. As he attended morning Mass and Communion he was considering how he could win the votes he needed. At this time it seemed a hopeless task which lay before him, yet as he made his way to the Sistine Chapel lighted in readiness with candles on the altar and on the desk before each of the thrones, he seemed perfectly calm. He looked about him at his fellow Cardinals in their rustling violet robes and white rochets, and he knew that within none of them did the fire of ambition burn as fiercely as it did in him. He must succeed.

It seemed to him that the procedure was slower than it had ever been, but eventually the Cardinal-Scrutators were elected and he was sitting at his desk. There was no sound in the chapel but the scratching of many pens as each Cardinal wrote: “I, Cardinal … elect to the Supreme Pontificate the Most Reverend Lord my Lord Cardinal …”

Oh why, fumed Roderigo, could one not vote for oneself!

He rose with the rest and joined in the ceremonial walk to the altar. He knelt and murmured: “I attest before Christ who is to be my judge, that I chose him whom I think fittest to be chosen if it is according to God’s will.”

They placed their ballot papers on the shallow dish which covered the chalice, and tipped the paten until the paper slid into the chalice; then slowly and solemnly, each purple-clad figure returned to his throne.

At the first counting of votes Roderigo had seven, but Carafa had nine, Costa and Michiel, the Cardinal of Venice, also had seven, and della Rovere five. As for Ascanio Sforza he had none, and it was clear from the beginning that none of the Cardinals was ready to see a man so young on the Papal throne.

This was deadlock, for there must be a majority of two-thirds for one candidate before he was elected.

A fire was made and the papers burned; and all those waiting in St. Peter’s Square to hear the result of the election, seeing the smoke, excitedly called each other’s attention to it and knew that the first scrutiny had been ineffectual.

Roderigo now decided that he must act quickly. In his own cell he laid his plans and when he mingled with his fellow Cardinals, he lost no time in getting to work.

He began with Ascanio Sforza, begging him to walk with him in the galleries after the siesta. Ascanio, realizing he had no chance of being elected, hinted that he was ready to gain what he could. Roderigo could offer him bigger bribes than any.

“If I were elected Pope,” Roderigo promised, “I would not forget you. Yours should be the Vice-Chancellorship and I would also give you the Bishopric of Nepi.” It was a good consolation prize, and Ascanio wavered only a little before he agreed. And as with Ascanio, so with others who quickly realized that they were out of the running yet could come out of the Conclave richer men than when they went into it.

So while Rome sweated and waited for the results, that sly fox Roderigo worked quietly, stealthily and with the utmost speed within the Conclave. He had to. He had made up his mind that this time he must succeed, for how could he tell when there would be another chance.


* * *

It was August 11th, five days after the Conclave had begun. In the Piazza San Pietro people who had been waiting all through the night watched, their eyes on the walled-up window.

As the dawn lightened their eager faces there was a sudden shout and excitement was at fever-pitch for the bricks had begun to fall from the walled-in window.

The election was over. After the fourth scrutiny there had been an unanimous choice.

Roderigo Borgia had been elected Pope, and from now on he would be known as Alexander VI.


* * *

Roderigo stood on the balcony listening to the acclaim of the people. This was the greatest moment of his life. The crown, for which he had fought ever since his uncle, Calixtus III, had adopted him and his brother, was now his. He felt powerful as he stood there, capable of anything. Who would have believed five days ago that he would be the chosen one? Even his old enemy, della Rovere, had given him his vote. It was wonderful what a little persuasion could do, and who could resist persuasion such as a rich abbacy, the legation of Avignon and the fortress of Ronciglione? Not della Rovere. A great deal to pay for a vote? Not at all. He had bought power with the wealth he had accumulated over the years, and he was going to make sure that it became unlimited power.

He held out his hands and for a few seconds there was complete silence among the multitude.

Then he cried: “I am the Pope and Vicar of Christ on Earth.”

There was loud acclamation. It was of no importance how he had reached this eminence. All that mattered was that it was his.


* * *

The Coronation of Alexander VI was the most magnificent Rome had ever seen. Lucrezia, watching from a balcony of a Cardinal’s palace, was overwhelmed with pride and joy in this man who—apart from Cesare, whom she had not seen for so long—she loved best in the world.

This was her father, this handsome man, in his rich robes, sitting so straight on his white horse, blessing the multitudes who crowded about him, the center of all the pageantry, this man was her father.

Alexander was fully aware that there was nothing the people enjoyed more than pageantry, and the more brilliant, the better they liked it; and the more splendid it was, the greater would be the respect they had for him. Therefore he was determined to outdo all previous coronations. No expense must be spared, he had commanded; nor was it. The people of Rome were going to rejoice that day because Alexander VI was their Pope.

His Papal guards were so splendidly attired that even great Princes looked drab beside them; their long lances and shields glittered in the sunshine, and they looked like gods. Cardinals and high dignitaries who took part in the procession with their retinues, were all determined to outdo each other in their splendor, and so long was the procession that it took two hours for it to pass from St. Peter’s to St. John Lateran. And in the center of it all was the Pope on his snow-white horse, the sixty-year-old Pope who seemed to have the vigor of a man of twenty. It was small wonder that the people—even as Lucrezia did—believed the new Pope to be more than human.

The procession was stopped here and there that Alexander’s admirers and supporters—who now comprised the whole of Rome, it seemed—might pay their homage.

“Vive diu bos, vive diu celebrande per annos,

Inter Pontificum gloria prima choros,” chanted one handsome boy on behalf of his noble family who wished to show they were wholeheartedly in support of the new Pope.

Others strewed flowers before him and cried: “Rome raised Caesar to greatness—and now here is Alexander; but one was merely a man, the other is a god.”

Alexander received all this homage with a charm and courtesy which won the hearts of all who saw him.

What a moment of triumph! Everywhere was the emblem of the grazing bull. Alexander lifting his eyes saw it; he also noticed the golden-haired girl on the balcony, the only one of his children to witness this triumph. There was Giovanni in Spain, Cesare in his university of Pisa, and little Goffredo (whom he accepted partly because he loved the boy, partly because sons were so necessary to him) was too young to make an appearance. His children! They would all have their parts to play in his dream of power. Little Lucrezia standing there, eyes wide with awe and wonder, accepting him, as did these people in the streets this day, as a god among them, was the representative of his children.

The homage of the people, the shouts of acclamation, the intoxicating sense of power, they were the narcotic which lulled a man to sleep in which he dreamed of greatness; and all greatness must first take its shape in dreams.

“Blessings on the Holy Father!” cried the crowd.

Aye! thought Alexander. Let the blessings of the saints fall upon me, that I may realize my dreams and unite all Italy under one ruler; and let that ruler be a Borgia Pope.


SANTA MARIA IN PORTICO