So he had prayed for his uncle and had stayed with him at his bedside while all others had fled; and although his magnificent palace had been sacked and looted, he remained aloof and calm, ready to cast his deciding vote at the Conclave which would follow and which assured Aeneas Sylvius Piccolomini of becoming, as Pius II, the successor of Calixtus.

Pius must be grateful to Roderigo, and indeed he was.

Thus Roderigo came successfully through the first storm of his life and had assured himself that he was able to stand on his own feet, as poor Pedro Luis had not been able to do.

Roderigo collected his brother’s wealth, mourned him bitterly—but briefly, for it was not in Roderigo’s nature to mourn for long—and found himself as powerful as he had ever been, and as hopeful of aspiring to the Papal throne.

Roderigo now wiped his brow with a perfumed kerchief. Those had been times of great danger, and he hoped never again to see the like; yet whenever he looked back on them he was aware of the satisfaction of a man who has discovered that the dangerous moment had not found him lacking in shrewd resourcefulness.

Pius had indeed been his good friend, but there had been times when Pius had found it necessary to reprove him. He could recall now the words of a letter which Pius had sent to him, complaining of Roderigo’s conduct in a certain house where courtesans had been gathered to administer to the pleasures of the guests. And he, young handsome Cardinal Roderigo, had been among those guests.

“We have been informed,” wrote Pius, “that there was unseemly dancing, that no amorous allurements of love were lacking, and that you conducted yourself in a wholly worldly manner.”

Roderigo threw back his head and smiled, remembering the scented garden of Giovanni de Bichis, the dancing, the warm perfumed bodies of women and their seductive glances. He had found them irresistible, as they had him.

And the reproof of Pius had not been serious. Pius understood that a man such as Roderigo must have his mistresses. Pius merely meant: Yes, yes, but no dancing in public with courtesans, Cardinal. The people complain, and it brings the Church into disrepute.

How careless he had been in those days, so certain was he of his ability to win through to his goal. He had determined to have the best of both ways of life. The Church was his career, by means of which he was going to climb to the Papal throne; but he was a sensualist, a man of irrepressible carnal desires. There would always be women in his life. It was not an uncommon foible; there was hardly a priest who seriously took his vows regarding celibacy, and it had been said by one of the wits of Rome that if every child came into the world with its father’s clothes on, they would all be dressed as priests or Cardinals.

Everyone understood; but Roderigo was perhaps more openly promiscuous than most.

Then he had met Vannozza, and he had set her up in a fine house, where now they had their children. Not that he had been faithful to Vannozza; no one would have expected that; but she had remained reigning favorite for many years and he adored their children. And now there was to be another.

It was irksome to wait. He, who was fifty, felt like a young husband of twenty, and if it were not for the fear of hearing Vannozza’s crying in her pain he would have gone to her apartment. But there was no need. Someone was coming to him.

She stood before him, flushed and pretty, Vannozza’s little maid. Even on such an occasion Roderigo was aware of her charms. He would remember her.

She curtseyed. “Your Eminence … the child is born.”

With the grace and agility of a much younger man he had moved to her side and laid beautiful white hands on her shoulders.

“My child, you are breathless. How your heart beats!”

“Yes, my lord. But … the baby is born.”

“Come,” he said, “we will go to your mistress.”

He led the way. The little maid, following, realized suddenly that she had forgotten to tell him the sex of the child, and that he had forgotten to ask.


* * *

The baby was brought to the Cardinal who touched its brow and blessed it.

The women fell back; they looked shame-faced as though they were to be blamed for the sex of the child.

It was a beautiful baby; there was a soft down of fair hair on the little head, and Roderigo believed that Vannozza had given him another golden beauty.

“A little girl,” said Vannozza, watching him from the bed.

He strode to her, took her hand and kissed it.

“A beautiful little girl,” he said.

“My lord is disappointed,” said Vannozza wearily. “He hoped for a boy.”

Roderigo laughed, that deep-throated musical laugh which made most people who heard it love him.

“Disappointed!” he said. “I?” Then he looked round at the women who had come closer, his eyes resting on them each in turn, caressingly, speculatively. “Disappointed because she is of the feminine sex? But you know … every one of you … that I love the soft sex with all my heart, and I can find a tenderness for it which I would deny to my own.”

The women laughed and Vannozza laughed with them; but her sharp eyes had noticed the little maid who wore an expectant expression as Roderigo’s glance lingered upon her.

She decided that, as soon as they returned to Rome, that child should be dismissed and, if Roderigo should look for her, he would look in vain.

“So my lord is pleased with our daughter?” murmured Vannozza, and signed to the women to leave her with the Cardinal.

“I verily believe,” said Roderigo, “that I shall find a softer spot in my heart for this sweet girl even than for those merry young rogues who now inhabit your nurseries. We will christen her Lucrezia; and when you are recovered, Madonna, we will return to Rome.”


* * *

And so on that April day in the Borgia castle at Subiaco was born the child whose name was to be notorious throughout the world: Lucrezia Borgia.

THE PIAZZA PIZZO DI MERLO

How delighted Vannozza was to be back in Rome! It seemed to her during those months which followed the birth of Lucrezia that she was the happiest of women. Roderigo visited her nurseries more frequently than ever; there was an additional attraction in the golden-haired little girl.

She was a charming baby—very sweet-tempered—and would lie contentedly in her crib giving her beautiful smile to any who asked for it.

The little boys were interested in her. They would stand one on either side of the crib and try to make her laugh. They quarrelled about her. Cesare and Giovanni would always seize on any difference between them and make a quarrel about it.

Vannozza laughed with her women, listening to their bickering: “She’s my sister.” “No, she’s my sister.” It had been explained to them that she was the sister of both of them.

Cesare had answered, his eyes flashing: “But she is more mine than Giovanni’s. She loves me—Cesare—better than Giovanni.”

That, the nursemaid told him, will be for Lucrezia herself to decide.

Giovanni watched his brother with smoldering eyes; he knew why Cesare wanted Lucrezia to love him best. Cesare was aware that when Uncle Roderigo called it was always Giovanni who had the bigger share of sweetmeats; it was always Giovanni who was lifted up in those strong arms and kissed and caressed before the magnificent Uncle Roderigo turned to Cesare.

Therefore Cesare was determined that everyone else should love him best. His mother did. The nurserymaids said they did; but that might have been because, if they did not, he would have his revenge in some way, and they knew that it was more unwise to offend Cesare than Giovanni.

Lucrezia, as soon as she was able to show a preference, should show it for him. He was determined on that. That was why he hung about her crib even more than Giovanni did, putting out his hand to let those little fingers curl about his thumb.

“Lucrezia,” he would whisper. “This is Cesare, your brother. You love him best … best of all.” She would look at him with those wide blue eyes, and he would command: “Laugh, Lucrezia. Laugh like this.”

The women would crowd round the crib to watch, for strangely enough Lucrezia invariably obeyed Cesare; and when Giovanni tried to make her laugh for him, Cesare would be behind his brother pulling such demoniacal faces that Lucrezia cried instead.

“It’s that demon, Cesare,” said the women to one another, for although he was but five years old they dared not say it to Cesare.

One day, six months after Lucrezia’s birth, Vannozza was tending her vines and flowers in her garden. She had her gardeners but this was a labor of love. Her plants were beautiful and it delighted her to look after them herself for her garden and her house were almost as dear to her as her family. Who would not be proud of such a house with its façade, facing the piazza, and the light room with the big window, so different from most of the gloomy rooms in other Roman houses. She had a water cistern too, which was a rare thing.

Her maid—not the one whom Roderigo had admired; she had long since left Vannozza’s service—came to tell her that the Cardinal had called, and with him was another gentleman; but even as the girl spoke Roderigo stepped into the garden, and he was alone.

“My lord,” cried Vannozza, “that you should find me thus.…”

Roderigo’s smile was disarming. “But you look charming among your plants,” he told her.