Light on Lucrezia (43 page)

Lucrezia, weak from that recent illness which had almost proved fatal, Pietro seeking a sensation which would lift his muse to even greater heights, found in each other all that, at this time in their lives, they longed for. Each of them felt exalted—together, apart from the rest of the world.

Strozzi looked on, content. This was as he wished. He had brought them together; he could watch them indulge in their unusual relationship and know that it was what he had intended. He could feel godlike; he could say to himself: I took these two prominent people and brought them together, I knew that they would behave thus, and it is what I wished. It would be interesting to see how long the friendship lasted on this level, how long before passion gained control and brought them tumbling from their lofty eminence down to earthly pleasures. Two beautiful sensual people, mused Strozzi; how long before they went the way of all flesh?

He believed he could keep them where they were or bring them down to Earth. It was a sensation of power which appealed to him mightily, which soothed the pain in his leg, which eased the fatigue which came so readily because of that pain, which made him say to himself: Ercole Strozzi, if you can rule the lives of two such people, why could you not rule the world?

Angela, so abandonedly in love with Giulio now that she made no secret of the fact that she spent half her nights in his company, was delighted by Lucrezia’s friendship with Pietro.

“Why, cousin,” she cried, “Giulio tells me that his sister Isabella is furious because Pietro comes here. She prides herself that all great poets are her property. How glad I am that
we
have secured him.”

Lucrezia smiled gently at her exuberant cousin. Poor wayward Angela, thought Lucrezia, she would never understand the delights of spiritual love.

“Giulio tells me that Isabella is offering him bribes to go to her in Mantua,” went on Angela. “She wants him there, not only because he is a great poet, but because he is so devoted to you. At last you have a chance to pay her back for all the insults she heaped on you at the time of the wedding. It must give you great pleasure to contemplate that.”

But spiritual love was certainly beyond Angela’s comprehension. It seemed a strange way for two lovers to behave … to meet only to quote poetry.

“It will not last,” she said to Nicola. “You wait. Soon they will be lovers in the true sense.”

Nicola was not sure. Angela was such a sensual little animal, a madcap who might one day find herself in a difficult position. Nicola, now that her love affair with Ferrante had faded, was quite ready to believe in the beauty of that new kind of love practiced by her mistress and the poet. Indeed the
character of Lucrezia’s little court had changed. There was less pandering to sensation. Instead of aromatic baths and leisure hours spent in Moorish shirts, there was continual reading of poetry and playing of music.

Only Angela went on in the old way.

One day Ercole Strozzi gave a grand ball in his palace in Ferrara to which the whole court was invited. Alfonso, back from his inspection of the fortifications, was present; so were all his brothers.

Pietro Bembo was naturally a guest, and it delighted Strozzi to watch his two Platonic lovers together. Lucrezia had changed. In this sedate ethereal young woman it was almost impossible to recognize the girl who, during her wedding celebrations, had taken her castanets and danced the erotic dances of Spain for the amusement of the court.

Strozzi guessed that Alfonso was thinking that it was time they attempted to get an heir for Ferrara, and decided it would be interesting to see how Lucrezia kept these two relationships apart—that entirely physical one which she would be forced to share with her husband, and the Platonic one with Bembo.

It seemed that Lucrezia had discovered the art of dividing her personality. She showed no revulsion for Alfonso, and at the same time she preserved that unworldly air of a woman spiritually in love with an ideal.

Duke Ercole’s agreement to pay her 12,000 ducats a year was proving to be a small victory for Lucrezia since he paid the difference in kind, as he had said he would; and there was continual complaint about the quality and short weight of the goods he supplied.

Lucrezia however, immersed in her devotion to her poet, could not concern herself, as she had previously, with material matters; she accepted the stinginess of Duke Ercole without complaint; and while she continued to receive Bembo at her gatherings Duke Ercole left the court for a quiet sojourn in Belriguardo, taking with him the State ledgers so that in the peace of his retreat he could go over his accounts and try to discover a way of saving money.

In Rome Cardinal
Ippolito was learning how dangerous life could be for those who incurred the dislike of the Borgias, and those days when
Lucrezia lay between life and death were very difficult for him, as the Pope made no secret of his suspicions regarding the Este family. He railed against Duke Ercole in the presence of Ippolito, and it was not easy to stand by and listen to complaints against one’s own father.

The Pope had given Ippolito an income of 3,000 ducats a year that he might live in the style expected of him during his stay in Rome, but he did not allow Ippolito to forget that he was a hostage for the good behavior of the Este family toward Lucrezia.

“I begin to doubt,” said the Pope ominously one day, “whether my daughter is being treated with due consideration in Ferrara.”

Ippolito shivered at those words. He was not a coward, but the rumors concerning the Borgias’ methods of disposing of their enemies were enough to make anyone who might be deemed an enemy shiver. The terrible Cantarella was not a myth. During his stay in Rome Ippolito had seen strange things happen to men who ate at the Borgia table. Others disappeared, to be discovered later in the Tiber. It was slyly said of Alexander in Rome that he was the true successor of St. Peter, for without doubt he was a fisher of men.

Sanchia, Ippolito’s mistress, warned him.

“If Lucrezia dies you should not stay another hour in Rome,” she told him.

“Of what use would my death be to them?” demanded Ippolito. “Could it bring Lucrezia back to health?”

Sanchia looked steadily at her lover. “If Lucrezia dies,” she said, “the Borgia will no longer be the Grazing Bull. It will be the mad bull and the devil himself could not protect a man who stood in the way of that animal.”

“The Pope is a man of good sense. He would see that my death could avail him nothing.”

“Do you know nothing of the affection between members of this family? They are not normal, I tell you. They are a trinity … an unholy trinity if you like, but they are as one. If you have not seen them together, then you would not understand.”

“It would seem,” said Ippolito lightly, “that you are tired of your lover and would wish him gone, so that you might spend your time with others.”

“Your presence here, my love, would not prevent me spending my time with others.”

“And does not,” said Ippolito lightly.

She laughed. “You would be unique if you could alone satisfy me. But I am fond of you, my little Cardinal. That is why I warn you. Be ready to fly.”

There were times when he did not take her seriously; others when he did. When Alexander read letters from Ferrara and he saw the emotion in his face, he believed what Sanchia told him.

But the news was good. Lucrezia recovered. Bells rang throughout Rome, and the Pope went from church to church giving thanks that his treasure was spared him.

He was not going to wait any longer, he declared. He was going to Ferrara as soon as he had made his preparations to do so, and those preparations were to begin at once.

He went about Rome, a delighted smile on his face, a song on his lips. He was like a young man again; and watching, Ippolito was inclined to agree that there was something superhuman about these Borgias.

Cesare returned to Rome, and Ippolito prepared to welcome him, for there had been a time when friendship had blossomed between them; it was not long ago, at the time of Lucrezia’s departure for Ferrara, when they had discovered a mutual dislike for Cardinal’s robes.

Cesare came riding into Rome, and the faces of the people were averted and cautious while they hailed him as the conqueror. There were whispers of the cruelties he had inflicted on his victims, of the harsh rule of his new territories; and it was known throughout Rome that even Alexander now bowed to Cesare, and it was the son, not the father, who ruled the city.

Ippolito was with Sanchia when Cesare called on her. Tension was apparent, and Sanchia, chatting lightly with her two lovers, was aware of this.

Ippolito left her with Cesare. He was not a coward, but he could not escape that sense of threat which seemed now to emanate from Cesare wherever he went.

Cesare was clearly not pleased to find him with Sanchia, and it was obvious that any friendship which had ever existed between them was rapidly fading.

Sanchia sent for him a few hours later.

She put her arms about his neck, and her blue eyes were affectionate.

“Ippolito, my dear Cardinal,” she said, “I shall miss you bitterly, but take my advice and leave Rome at once.”

“Why so?” asked Ippolito.

“Because I have loved this handsome body of yours dearly, and I do not
wish to think of it as a corpse. Go straight from here, take your friends and ride out of Rome. Ride for Ferrara as fast as you can. You may be in time to save your life.”

“From whom?”

“You waste time in asking. You know. He strikes quickly. He is so practiced. No need now to make plans. He merely says, Method number one, or two, or three … and the person who has irritated him is no more.”

“I have not irritated him.”

“You have been my lover. Occasionally Cesare decides that he does not like my lovers.”

Ippolito stood staring at her.

“Ippolito!” she cried. “You fool! Go … go while you have time. Give my love to Lucrezia. Tell her I miss her. But hesitate not a moment. I tell you, your life is in danger.”

Ippolito left her and went down to where his groom was waiting for him with two squires. They were nervous. He saw that. The whole of Rome was nervous, and all those who caused annoyance—however slight—to Cesare Borgia should beware.

Within an hour Ippolito was riding away from Rome.

Pietro Bembo was now recognized as Lucrezia’s court poet. They exchanged letters, cautiously written yet brimming over with love and devotion; they were both careful to keep their relationship on its Platonic footing, both fearing that to change it would in some measure degrade it.

Those were happy days for them both. They lived for each other; and Lucrezia felt that she had never been so peacefully happy as she was at this time.

She could not understand how she, who had taken such delight in physical love, could find this contentment in such a different relationship. Perhaps she missed her family very much; perhaps when she was with one who loved her carnally she remembered them too vividly. She was, after all, still seeking that escape, that opportunity to be herself—and herself alone—which had made her long to leave Rome for Ferrara.

Ippolito arrived and, although she had during the first weeks of their meetings been attracted by him, she was disturbed by his presence at court.

He was determined to be her devoted brother-in-law. All her brothers-in-law were her devoted friends, but Ferrante and Giulio were always busy with
their love affairs, and Sigismondo with his religion, so that they had no time to pry into her affairs.

Ippolito however was ready to be very interested, and she feared his curiosity concerning her friendship with Pietro. There was scarcely a person at court who would believe in its Platonic nature, and Lucrezia was aware that there were many who would like to catch the lovers in a compromising situation so that they might explode this story of Platonic love between a poet and a Borgia.

Moreover the Ippolito who returned did not seem the same man as the Ippolito whom she had known in Rome. Nor was he. He had run away from Cesare Borgia and he was ashamed of himself. Always haughty and quick tempered, these qualities seemed to have been magnified by what had happened to him. He was charming to Lucrezia and bore her no grudge because it was her brother who had made him run from Rome, but his conduct in Ferrara was at times rather like that of Cesare himself. For instance when he imagined himself insulted by one of Alfonso’s soldiers he flogged the man so unmercifully that he almost beat him to death. Alfonso was furious, but the harm was done before he could intervene, and Alfonso was not one to make much of what could not be mended.

It seemed to all in Ferrara that the Cardinal must be treated with the utmost respect lest his anger should be aroused and that happen to them which had happened to Alfonso’s soldier; which was exactly the impression Ippolito had wished to create.

Ippolito was now at Lucrezia’s side most of the day, which made it difficult for her to snatch those precious hours alone with Pietro, but Strozzi was doing his best to make communication easy between the lovers; one day he wrote a letter to Pietro in which he described conversations between himself—Strozzi—and Lucrezia, and told of the flattering things which had been said of Pietro. Lucrezia read the letter before it was sent and, because Strozzi had deliberately not signed it, she wrote her name at the bottom so that it should be known that she endorsed all that it contained.