26

SILVERLAKE WAS BEAUTIFUL that spring. Cesare and Lucrezia made a handsome couple as they walked along the shore, she in her jeweled cape and hood and he in his black velvet, his beret studded with feathers and precious stones. They had returned to the place where they had spent their happiest moments, for their time together would be scarce now that her marriage to Alfonso d’Este was close at hand.

Cesare’s auburn hair shone bright in the sunlight, and despite his usual black mask the smile on his face was evidence of his joy at being with his sister.

“So next week you will be a d’Este,” Cesare said teasingly. “You will then have the responsibility as well as the good fortune of being a member of a distinguished family.”

“I’ll always be a Borgia, Chez,” Lucrezia said. “And there is no reason for jealousy in the case of this alliance, for I have not fooled myself into believing that this marriage is for love. This Alfonso is as reluctant to have me as a wife as I am to have him as a husband. But, as I am my father’s daughter, he is his father’s son.”

Cesare smiled fondly at her. “You have grown more beautiful through your misfortunes. And this marriage will allow you to do many of the things you enjoy. The d’Este love the arts, the gathering of poets and sculptors. Ferrara is steeped in culture and humanities, the very subjects that breathe life into you. It is also fortunate for me that it rests alongside my territories in the Romagna, and that King Louis directs the duke with a strong hand.”

“Will you see that Giovanni and Rodrigo are well whenever you are in Rome? For I despise having to be without them for even a short time in Ferrara. Will you care for them and let them feel your strong arms around them, and treat one as important as the other—for me?” she asked.

“There is no question. For one child is more of me, the other more of you—so both have my everlasting love,” Cesare reassured her. “Crezia, if Father had not allied you with the d’Este, would you have passed your life in widow’s weeds, living and governing Nepi?”

“I considered this decision carefully before I agreed,” Lucrezia told him. “And though I know Father could have forced my hand, he would have discovered I had hidden away in a convent, even become a nun, if I were violently opposed to this alliance. But I have learned to govern, and believe that in this place, I may find my own. There is also the matter of you and the children to consider. A convent is not the best place for children, and I cannot imagine living my life without them.”

Cesare stopped and faced his sister with admiration. “Is there nothing you have failed to consider? Nothing you cannot adapt to with grace and intelligence?”

A look of sadness, like a shadow, passed across her face. “One small problem I have not managed to find a solution for. And though it is tiny compared to all the other issues, it seems to cause me some unhappiness.”

“Must I torture you to pull this truth from you,” he joked, “or will you confess it voluntarily, to see if I might help?”

Lucrezia shook her head. “I cannot call this new husband Alfonso without my heart recoiling when I compare him to my last. And yet I know no other way to modify his name.”

Cesare’s eyes glistened with amusement. “There is no problem too large for me to solve, and so I may have the answer to your prayers. You say he is his father’s son; why not call him Sonny? Say it the first time on your marriage bed, with great affection, and he will believe it is a term of endearment.”

Lucrezia wrinkled her fine nose, and laughed aloud. “An aristocratic d’Este? Sonny?” But the more she thought of it, the more comfortable she became.

They walked to the end of the old dock from which they had fished and dived as children, splashing in the water with complete freedom. Then their father sat close, watching them, protecting them, and making them feel safe. Now, this many years later, they sat on that same dock and looked out at the rippling water, which sparkled like a million tiny diamonds reflecting the afternoon sun. Lucrezia leaned against her brother, and he wrapped his arms around her.

Her voice was soft and serious. “Chez, I’ve heard about the ill-fated poet Filofila.”

“Oh?” Cesare said without emotion. “Did his death disturb you? For he felt no such affection for you, or he would not have been able to write such evil rhyme and verse.”

Lucrezia turned and touched his face. “I know that, Chez,” she said. “And I suppose I should thank you for all you do to defend me—in spite of Alfonso’s death, for even that I have long understood. It is your well-being that concerns me. For you seem to kill so readily of late. Are you not concerned for your own soul?”

Cesare explained. “If there is a God, as the Holy Father describes him, he does not mean we must never kill—for otherwise there could be no holy wars. What is meant by ‘Thou shalt not kill’ is that killing without good and honorable cause becomes a sin. We know that it is not a sin to hang a murderer.”

“Chez, do we know that?” she asked. Lucrezia shifted to face him as she spoke, for this subject was important to her. “Is it not an arrogance to decide what is a good and honorable cause? To the Infidel it is good and honorable to slay the Christian, but to the Christian the opposite is true.”

Again Cesare paused, amazed as he often was by his sister.

“Crezia,” he said. “I try never to kill for personal satisfaction, only for the good of us all.”

Lucrezia’s eyes filled, but she tried to keep her voice steady. “Will there be that many more killings, then?”

“Certainly in war there will be, Crezia. But aside from war, we sometimes must take lives for a greater good as well as for our own protection,” he said. Then he described his own decision to hang the chicken thieves on his last campaign in Cesena.

Lucrezia hesitated before responding, for she was not convinced. “It worries me, Cesare, that you may find yourself using ‘the greater good’ as an excuse to eliminate troublesome men. And life is full of troublesome men.”

Cesare stood gazing out at the lake. “It is lucky for all of us that you are not a man, for you tether yourself with doubt, Crezia, and it could stop you from acting.”

“I’m certain you are right, Chez,” Lucrezia said thoughtfully. “But I’m not sure that’s bad . . . ” She was no longer so certain that she understood evil, especially once it was hidden in the shadows of the hearts of those she loved.

As the pink dusk fell over the silvery lake, Lucrezia took her brother’s hand and led him back along the path to the cottage. Inside they lay naked together on the white fur rug in front of the warm fire which crackled and blazed in the stone fireplace. Cesare marveled at the fullness of his sister’s breasts, the softness of her belly, transfixed by how much of a woman she had become and how drawn to her he was by an even greater passion.

Lucrezia spoke in a tender, affectionate voice. “Chez, remove that mask before you kiss me? For with it on you could be anyone.”

The smile fell from his lips, and his eyes lowered self-consciously. “I will be unable to make love to you if I see your eyes fill with pity for my pockmarked face,” he said. “It will keep me from enjoying what may be our last time together.”

“I swear I will not look upon your face with pity,” she said. And then she tickled him as she said, “I may even laugh, and then you will stop this senseless drivel. For I have loved you from the time my eyes first opened, and you stood above me smiling. I have played with you and bathed with you as we were growing up. I have seen you look so handsome that I had to turn away, or give myself away, and I have seen you when your heart has broken and the sadness in your eyes has forced my own eyes to fill with tears. But I have never once thought you less, or loved you less, for some small marks on your face.”

She bent over him then, her lips covering his, her body already trembling. When she lifted her head again, she looked into his eyes and said, “I just wish to touch you, to see your eyelids closed in ecstasy, to run my fingers gently down your nose, to feel your sweet full lips. I wish no barrier between us, my brother, my lover, my friend. For, from this night on, all that is left of my passion will rest with you.”

Cesare sat up and slowly removed his mask.

Lucrezia married Alfonso d’Este by proxy in Rome the following week. With the contract of their marriage he had sent a small portrait, which showed a tall, rather stern-looking man, not unattractive, who held himself with strict reserve. He was dressed in the dark uniform of state, with many medals and ribbons to decorate it; just beneath his long fine nose a mustache tickled his top lip, though it did not make him smile. His curly dark hair neatly capped his head, with no stray strands let loose. She could not imagine this Alfonso loving or making love with wild abandon.

She was to join him in Ferrara, where they would live. Yet in Rome wedding festivities were being celebrated—festivals far more lavish and costly than her wedding to Giovanni, and many times what they had been in her marriage to her beloved Alfonso. In fact, it was more extravagant than any celebration the citizens had ever seen.

The palaces of noble families were numerous and opulent. Still, they were all given stipends to offset the costs of these feasts and festivals. The Pope seemed prepared to empty the Vatican treasury in celebration of his daughter’s brilliant match. He decreed a holiday for all Roman workers, and throughout the following week there were new pageants, processions, and festivals. Bonfires were lit in front of the Vatican, as well as before all the large castles—the one in front of Santa Maria of Portico the largest of all.

On the day the wedding contract was signed and the Pope gave his blessings, Lucrezia wore a gown of gold covered with precious jewels, which she then threw from the balcony to the crowd below as soon as the ceremony was over. It landed on a court jester, who ran through the streets crying, “Long live the duchess of Ferrara! Long live Pope Alexander!”

Cesare himself played a great part in this wedding of his sister’s, and showed his skill as a horseman by leading a street march in his sister’s honor.

That night, at the wedding celebration for all the family and their closest friends, Lucrezia performed several of her Spanish dances for the pleasure of her father.

Alexander, his face radiant, sat on the throne clapping his hands with enjoyment. Cesare, his eyes shining through his carnival mask of gold and pearl, stood behind the Pope to his right. Jofre stood to his left.

Now Alexander, clad in his finest papal vestments, stood up and slowly descended the stairs to walk across the ballroom floor toward his daughter. A hush fell over the crowd and all laughter ceased.

“Will you honor your father with this dance?” Alexander asked. “For soon you will be too far away.”

Lucrezia curtsied and took his hand. Turning to the musicians, Alexander instructed them to play, and then he took his daughter in his arms. She marveled that he was still so strong, his smile so radiant, his step so light and smooth. She felt as though she were a child again, remembering how she had placed her own tiny feet in her pink satin slippers upon her father’s, and riding his steps, how she glided along. Then, she loved her father more than life itself. It was a magical time for her when all things were possible, long before she realized that life required sacrifice.

Suddenly she raised her head and looked over her father’s shoulder, to see her brother Cesare standing just behind him. “May I, Father?” he asked.

Alexander turned and looked at Cesare with slight surprise, but he quickly recovered, and said, “Of course, my son.” Still, rather than letting go of Lucrezia’s hand and handing her to Cesare, Alexander instructed the musicians to play on . . . a light and happy tune.

The Pope stood between his children, one hand holding his daughter’s, the other holding his son’s, and with a great smile and a boisterous laugh he began to dance with both of them. With incredible energy, he began to whirl and spin, taking them with him. And his face was aglow with ecstasy.

The crowd began to laugh until their breath came short. They cheered and clapped and finally joined in, until the entire room was filled with people dancing in a frenzy.

There was only one who stood aside, one who did not dance. Behind the Pope’s throne, Alexander’s younger son, Jofre, tall and brooding, stood silent and unsmiling as he watched.

Shortly before Lucrezia was to leave for Ferrara, the Pope hosted a stag banquet to which all of Roman male society was invited. He had summoned dancing girls to entertain, and he filled the hall with card and gaming tables in celebration of his new alliance.

Alexander, Cesare, and Jofre sat at the head table with the aging duke of Ferrara, Ercole d’Este, and his two young nephews. Alfonso d’Este, the bridegroom, had stayed in Ferrara to rule in his father’s place.

The dinner was a sumptuous feast with all manner of delicacies, and an array of large carafes of wine added to the gaiety and good humor of the guests.

When the plates had been cleared by the servants, Alexander’s son Jofre suddenly rose unsteadily and raised his goblet in a toast. “As a gift from my family in Naples, and in honor of my new family, the d’Este, a very special entertainment has been arranged . . . something not seen in Rome for many years.”

Alexander and Cesare were surprised at this announcement, and embarrassed at Jofre’s crude presumption in referring to his “new family.” They wondered, with great anxiety, what he had in store for them, as the guests looked around in anticipation.

The great carved wooden doors swung open, and four footmen entered the room. Without a word, they scattered golden chestnuts across the floor in the center of the room. “My God,” Cesare thought, looking toward his father. In a sudden flash of horror, he realized what was about to happen. He called to his brother, “Jofre! Don’t do this,” but it was already too late.

To the sound of trumpets, Jofre opened another door and let in a procession of twenty naked courtesans, their dark hair loose, their soft skin oiled and perfumed. Each had a small silk purse dangling from a thong around her waist.

Jofre was loud, giddy with wine, as he continued. “What you see on the floor before you are chestnuts of pure gold. And these lovely ladies will be pleased to bend over so that you may see them from a different angle. This will be a new treat . . . at least for some of you.”

The guests roared with laughter. But both Cesare and Alexander tried to stop the lewd display before too much damage had been done.

Jofre, ignoring the signals being given by his father and brother, continued, “You gentlemen may mount these mares any time you like. Mind you, you must mount standing up from the rear. And for each successful mount, your lady may pick one golden chestnut from the floor and place it in her purse. It goes without saying that the ladies may keep the chestnuts they gather as gifts for the entertainment they have provided.”

The courtesans began to bend over and wiggle their naked asses sensuously at the male diners.

Ercole d’Este, shocked by the vulgar display, grew pale in astonishment.

Yet, one by one, the noblemen of Rome began to stand and drift away from the tables, moving toward the beckoning, bending courtesans. Some, though they didn’t mount, grabbed lustily at the mounds of courtesan flesh.

In his youth Alexander had enjoyed such events, but now he was mortified, aware that on this occasion it was grotesquely out of place. And he was certain that it was meant to be, for he understood the ill reflection on his family’s sophistication—and judgment—this represented.

The Pope approached Ercole d’Este and tried vainly to apologize. But Ercole, shaking his head, told himself that if the proxy wedding had not already taken place, he would cancel the match and take his chances with the French and with Cesare’s armies—ducats or no ducats. Since he had already banked the gold, now he simply left the room, muttering “Borgia peasants.”

Later that night, Cesare received news that disturbed him even more. The body of Astorre Manfredi had been found floating in the Tiber. Cesare had promised him safe conduct after the fall of Faenza, and this news would make it seem to many as if he had broken his word. Cesare knew that once again he would be suspected. There were those who would believe that he had killed once more: with Michelotto, Cesare certainly had the means. But who would do this? And why?

Two days later, upstairs in the room called the Pappagallo, the Pope bid his daughter good-bye. She was sad to be leaving her father, despite all the trouble he’d caused. The Pope himself attempted to appear more jovial than he felt, for he would sorely miss this daughter. “If you are ever unhappy,” he told her, “send a message, for I will employ my greatest influence to see it made right. And do not worry about the children, for Adriana is well suited to caring for them, as you well know.”

“But Papa,” Lucrezia said. “I have learned so much about entertaining and governing, and yet I am frightened to go to this new place, where I know no one favors me.”

“In no time they will be as much in love with you as we are,” Alexander said. “You need only think of me, and I will know it,” he said. “And each time I think of you, you will know it.” He kissed her on the forehead then. “Go. It is unseemly for a Pope to shed tears over the loss of one of his children.”

Alexander watched from the window. As Lucrezia prepared to leave, he waved and shouted from the window. “Be of good cheer! For anything you wish for is already granted.”

Lucrezia set out for Ferrara, accompanied by a thousand richly attired nobles, servants, musicians, and entertainers. The nobles rode on fine horses or in splendid coaches. Lucrezia herself rode a small Spanish horse, richly caparisoned and fitted with a gold-studded saddle and bridle. The rest rode on donkeys or in crude wagons. Some walked.

They stopped at each of the territories Cesare had conquered, so that Lucrezia could wash her hair and bathe. In each city the children ran excitedly to meet her party, dressed in the red and yellow that were Cesare’s colors. All along the journey, the entire entourage stopped for fantastic and hugely expensive balls and other celebrations.

The spectacular journey took more than a month to travel from Rome to Ferrara, and on the way it emptied the purses of many a local host.

Ercole d’Este, duke of Ferrara, was a man known for his stinginess, and within days he had sent most of Lucrezia’s expensive entourage back to Rome. She was forced to fight for every attendant and aide she wanted to keep in her new Ferrara household.

When most of the disappointed Romans and Spanish who had accompanied Lucrezia left on the duke’s orders, Ercole gave Lucrezia a dramatic lesson on how things were done in Ferrara. He led Lucrezia up a narrow spiral staircase to a room near the top of the castle. There he pointed to a dark brown stain on the stone floor and told her, “An earlier duke beheaded his wife and his stepson, for he discovered they were lovers. Look, my dear,” he cackled. “You can still see their blood.”

Lucrezia shuddered at the stains on the floor.

Only a few months after living with Alfonso d’Este, Lucrezia was pregnant. The people of Ferrara were overcome with happiness, for they had prayed for a male heir. But in an unfortunate circumstance, that summer was humid in Ferrara, and it became a breeding ground for the mosquitoes which carried malaria. Lucrezia fell ill.

Alfonso d’Este sent a message to the Pope, explaining that the duchess of Ferrara, Alexander’s daughter, was suffering from the fever, shaking chills, and sweats. He explained that she had recently fallen into a serious delirium, and that Alexander might wish to send his own physicians from Rome.

Alexander and Cesare were terrified at the thought of losing Lucrezia. Both feared she might have been poisoned. And so the Pope sent instructions, written in his own hand, that only the physician he was sending was to treat her.

On that very night, Cesare, disguised as a Moorish peasant, with darkened skin and a hooded gown, accompanied this physician to Lucrezia’s bedside.

Not knowing who these men were when they arrived in Ferrara—just that they were sent from Rome—both Alfonso and Ercole d’Este stayed in their own quarters while a manservant led Cesare and the physician up the stairs to Lucrezia’s room.

Though she was lethargic and delirious, Lucrezia recognized Cesare at once. Her skin was white and pale, her pasty lips cracked with fever and her stomach too tender to touch from the constant vomiting that had plagued her for more than two weeks now. She tried to greet Cesare, but her voice was so hoarse and weak that no sound escaped her lips.

Once the manservant had gone, Cesare bent to kiss her. “My princess looks a little pale tonight,” he whispered to her. “The glow of rosy cheeks does not grace your face. Could it be that love eludes you in this place?”

Lucrezia tried to smile back, to acknowledge his humor, but she could not even lift her arm to touch his face.

It was apparent that her condition was critical; still, Cesare became more upset when the physician confirmed it.

Cesare strode to the washstand, shed his hooded robe, and scrubbed the stain from his face. Then he ordered a servant to fetch the duke.

Moments later Ercole arrived, plainly alarmed at being summoned to Lucrezia’s room. He saw Cesare at once.

“Cesare Borgia!” Ercole gasped. “Why are you here?”

Cesare’s voice harbored no warmth. “I have come to visit my sister. Am I not welcome? Is there something in the shadows I should not see?”

“No, of course not,” Ercole said, stammering with nervousness. “I . . . I am just surprised to see you.”

“I will not stay long, dear Duke,” Cesare said. “Only long enough to deliver a message from my father—and from me as well.”

“Yes?” Ercole said, his eyes narrowed now with suspicion and dread.

Cesare put his hand on his sword as if ready to fight all of Ferrara. Yet his voice was cold and reasonable as he moved close to Ercole and spoke. “The Holy Father and I are most desirous that my sister be restored to health. If she should die, we will surely blame her hosts and their city. Am I clear?”

“Am I to assume this is a threat?” Ercole asked.

“I believe you understand me,” Cesare said, his voice more steady than he felt. “My sister must not die. For if she does, she will not die alone!”

Cesare and the physician stayed for several days. Finally, it was decided that for a cure, Lucrezia must be bled. But she refused it.

“I will not be drained white,” she cried, shaking her head and kicking her legs with what little energy she had.

Cesare sat beside her, holding and soothing her, imploring her to be brave. “You must live for me,” he whispered. “For what other reason should I live?”

Lucrezia finally stopped struggling and hid her face in Cesare’s chest so as not to see what was being done. As Cesare held her foot the doctor made several small cuts in her ankle and on the tops of her feet, until enough blood was let that the physician felt she could recover.

Before he left, Cesare kissed Lucrezia and promised to visit her again shortly, for now he was living in Cesena, only hours from Ferrara.

Lucrezia did not die. Over the following weeks, she began to heal. She began to feel warm again, her soaking sweats ceased, and she remained awake more of the time, without falling into the deep and dreamless sleep of her darkest nights. Although her child was stillborn, she gradually regained her health and vitality.

It was only in the quiet moments of the dark night that she grieved for this small child, for she had come to understand that time spent in grief was time wasted—that there had been too much grief in her life. And if she were to make the most of what she had been given, and do the greatest good, she must focus on what could be done, not on what she was powerless to change. And so it was that she began to live a life of virtue.

By her first anniversary in Ferrara, she had begun, gradually, to win the love and respect of her subjects, as well as the love of the strange and powerful d’Este family with whom she now lived.

The old duke, Ercole himself, was the first to appreciate her shining intelligence. As the months passed he began to value her counsel even more than that of his sons, and to assign critical government decisions and duties to her care.