Madonna of the Seven Hills (31 page)

“You may pet him all you wish,” Sanchia promised her. “But I pray you keep him from my bedchamber. Where is he now? Let us have him come to us and tell us about his brother. After all, he knows more of Cesare Borgia than any one of us.”

They helped Sanchia into her gown, and she was lying back on her pillows when Goffredo came in.

He was very pretty and looked younger than his years, for he was nearly fourteen.

He ran to the bed and threw himself down beside his wife. She put out an arm and held him against her while she stroked his beautiful hair, which was touched with tints of copper. His long-lashed eyes looked at his wife with admiration. He knew that he had married a woman who was said to be the most lovely in all Italy. He had heard her beauty compared with that of his sister, Lucrezia, and his father’s mistress, Giulia; and most of those who had seen the three beauties declared that Sanchia had beauty to equal the others and something more—there was a witchery about
Sanchia, something which made her unique. She was insatiably sensual; she scattered promises of undreamed-of delight on all those of the opposite sex who came near her. Thus, although the golden beauty of Lucrezia and Giulia was admired, the dark beauty of Sanchia was more than admired; it was never forgotten.

“And what has my little husband been doing this day?” asked Sanchia.

He put up his face to kiss the firm white chin. “I have been riding,” he said. “What a pretty necklace!”

“It was given me last night.”

“I did not see you last night. Loysella said I must not disturb you.”

“Wicked Loysella,” said Sanchia lightly.

“You had a lover with you,” stated Goffredo. “Was he pleasing?”

She kissed his head absently, thinking of last night’s lover.

“I have known worse, and I have known better,” she pronounced judgment.

Goffredo laughed and lifted his shoulder slightly, as a child does in pleasure. He turned to Loysella and said: “My wife has had more lovers than any other woman in Naples—except courtesans of course. You cannot include courtesans, you will agree.”

“Agreed,” said Francesca.

“Now,” demanded Sanchia, “tell us about your brother. Tell us about the famous Cesare Borgia.”

“You will never have known a man like my brother Cesare.”

“All that we have heard leads us to believe it,” Sanchia answered.

“My father loves him dearly,” boasted Goffredo, “and no woman has ever said no to him.”

“We have heard that women are punished for saying no to him,” said Loysella. “How can that be, if none ever do?”

“Because they know he would punish them if they said no. They would be afraid to say it. Therefore they do not say no, but yes … yes … yes.”

“It’s logic,” said Sanchia, “So must we all prepare ourselves to say yes … yes … yes.”

She popped a sweetmeat into Goffredo’s mouth; he lay back against her, sucking contentedly.

“Francesca,” commanded Sanchia, “comb my little husband’s hair. It is such pretty hair. When it is brushed it glows like copper.”

Francesca obeyed; the other two girls stretched themselves out at the foot of the bed. Sanchia lay back sleepily, her arm about Goffredo. Occasionally she would reach for a sweetmeat and nibble a piece before putting it into Goffredo’s mouth.

Goffredo, well contented, began to boast.

He boasted about Cesare—Cesare’s prowess, Cesare’s cruelty.

Goffredo did not know for whom his admiration was the greater: for his brother at whose name everyone in Rome trembled, or for his wife who had taken more lovers than any woman in Naples, except of course courtesans—which was an unfair comparison.

The cavalcade which
made its way toward Rome was a merry one, for in its center rode the lovely Sanchia with her little husband and her three devoted ladies-in-waiting. Sanchia had the bearing of a queen; it might have been because she was the illegitimate daughter of the King of Naples that in public she assumed an air of royalty; this enhanced her startling attractiveness because, underlying the air of royalty, was that look of promise which was directed toward any personable young men she encountered, no matter if they were no more than grooms.

Her ladies-in-waiting laughed at her promiscuity; they themselves were far from prudish; lighthearted in their love affairs as butterflies on a sunny day, they flitted from lover to lover: but they lacked the stamina of Sanchia.

Sanchia had ceased to regret that she had not stayed behind in Naples during the French invasion. She had ceased to care because she had not been allowed to meet the French King. Cesare Borgia, she felt sure, would be a more amusing and exciting lover than poor little Charles.

In any case Sanchia was not one to repine. Life was too full of pleasure for such as she was;
her
kingdom was within her reach. Sad and terrible things might happen to those about her. Her father had been driven to exile and to madness. Poor Father! He had been heartbroken when the French took his kingdom.

Knowing of his anguish, Sanchia was determined not to set store on such treasures as those which delighted her father.

When she had heard that they were to marry her to a little boy—a Pope’s bastard and not even a favorite bastard at that—she had at first been piqued. That was because the proposed marriage had shown her clearly that she was not of the same importance as her half-sister who was the legitimate daughter of King Alfonso.

Goffredo Borgia, the son of Vannozza Catanei and possibly the Borgia Pope—and possibly not! She knew that there had been suspicions as to her little husband’s birth and that at times even the Pope had declared the boy to be no son of his. Should Sanchia, daughter of the King of Naples—illegitimate though she might be—be given in marriage to such as Goffredo?

But they had explained to her: Whether or not he is the Pope’s bastard, the Pope accepts him, and that is all that matters.

They were right. The Pope sought alliance with Naples and it was for this reason that the marriage was arranged. But suppose there should be a time when the Pope fell out with Naples and no longer considered the marriage could bring him good?

She had heard how Giovanni Sforza had fallen out of favor with the Pope, and how shabbily he was treated in Vatican circles.

But that was different. Sforza was a man, not very attractive, not prepossessing, and of a nature which could not be called charming. Sanchia would know how to take care of herself, as poor Giovanni Sforza had not.

So she had become reconciled to her marriage, and she had grown fond of the little boy they had brought to her; she had joined in the sly jokes about the marriage and there had been many, for the whole Court knew that she had her lovers, and they could not hide their amusement at the thought of their experienced and accomplished Princess with this young boy.

Such a pretty little boy he had been when they had brought him to her. And, when they had been put to bed and he had been a little frightened by those who had crowded about them with their crude jokes and lewd gestures, she had answered them with dignity; and when she was alone with her husband she had taken him in her arms, wiped away his tears and told him not to fret. There was nothing he need worry about.

Being Sanchia she had been glad of such a husband. It was so simple to leave him in the care of those devoted ladies of hers while she entertained her lovers.

Thus it was with Sanchia. Life would always be merry. Lovers came into her life and passed out of it; her reputation was known throughout Italy; and she believed there were few men who would not have been delighted to become the lover of Madonna Sanchia.

And so to Rome to become a member of that strange family regarding whom there were so many rumors.

In her baggage were the gowns she would wear when she visited the Pope in the Vatican; there was the gown in which she would make her entry. She must be beautiful for that because, if accounts could be relied upon, she had a rival in her sister-in-law, Lucrezia.

Rome was in
a fever of excitement. All through the night the citizens had been congregating to line the streets. It would be a brilliant procession; the people were sure of that, for the Pope’s youngest son was bringing his bride to Rome, and one of the greatest accomplishments of the Borgias was their ability to organize brilliant pageants.

In the Vatican the Pope waited with obvious eagerness. It was noted that he was absentminded concerning his duties, but that he was deeply interested in the preparations which were being made for the reception of his daughter-in-law.

Cesare was also eagerly awaiting the arrival, although he did not express his joy as openly as did his father.

In the Palace of Santa Maria in Portico, Lucrezia was more anxious than any, as she was a little afraid of all she had heard concerning her sister-in-law.

Sanchia was beautiful. How beautiful? Lucrezia studied herself anxiously in her mirrors. Was her hair as golden as it had been? It was a pity Giulia was scarcely seen nowadays; being no longer in favor she was a rare visitor at the Vatican and at Santa Maria. Giulia would have offered comfort at a time like this. Lucrezia was aware of a slight feeling of anger,
which was alien to her nature, when she thought of how Cesare and her father talked constantly of Madonna Sanchia.

“The most beautiful woman in Italy!” She had heard that again and again. “She has but to look at a man and he is her slave. It is witchcraft, so they say.”

Now Lucrezia was beginning to know herself. She was envious of Sanchia. She herself wished to be known as the most beautiful woman in Italy; she wished men to look at her and become
her
slaves; and she longed to be suspected of witchcraft because of her extraordinary powers.

And she was jealous … deeply jealous because of the attention Cesare and her father had given to this woman.

Now the day
had arrived. Very soon Sanchia of Aragon would be riding up the Appian Way. Very soon Lucrezia would see whether rumor had lied.

She felt vaguely unhappy. She had not wanted to go to meet her sister-in-law, but her father had insisted: “But of course, my dearest, you must go to meet her. It is the respect due to your sister. And what a pleasant picture you will make—you and your ladies, she and hers. You two must be the most lovely creatures in the country.”

“I have heard it said that she is. Do you not think that she will put me in the shade?”

The Pope pinched his daughter’s cheek affectionately, murmuring: “Impossible! Impossible!”

But his eyes were gleaming and she, who had observed his absorption in Giulia at the beginning, knew that his thoughts were with Sanchia, not with his daughter.

Lucrezia wanted to stamp her foot, to shout at him: “You go and meet her, since you’re so eager for her arrival.” But being Lucrezia she merely bowed her head and suppressed her feelings.

So now she was preparing herself.

She stood in her apartment while her green and gold brocade dress was slipped over her head. There was a murmur of admiration from her women.

“Never, never, Madonna, have you looked so lovely,” she was told.

“Yes, yes,” she said, “here in the apartment among you all who are dressed without splendor. But how shall I look when we meet at the Lateran Gate? Suppose she is dressed more splendidly? How shall I look then, for they say she is the most beautiful woman in Italy, and that means in the world?”