“Where is he now?” asked Lucrezia in anguish.
“He went to Castel Sant’ Angelo for safety.”
“And the children?”
“They went with him. Your son Roderigo and the Infante Romano.” Alfonso burst out laughing. “Do not look so downcast. He had his ladies with him. Sanchia of Aragon was there and Dorotea, the girl he abducted. I wonder how they liked each other.”
“My brother … a prisoner!”
“Your brother a prisoner. How else could it be? He conquered many towns, and the whole of Italy feared him. He strutted about like a conqueror, did he not? But he took his power from the Papal standards, and suddenly … he finds himself a sick man and the Papal influence withdrawn from him.”
Lucrezia had taken her husband’s arm and was shaking it in her distress.
“Oh, tell me everything … everything!” she begged. “Can you not see that it is agony for me to remain in suspense?”
“The French King has withdrawn his support from your brother. All the small states are rising against him. Why should they not at such a time regain what was theirs? Even that first husband of yours, even Giovanni Sforza, is back in Pesaro.”
Lucrezia dropped his arm. She turned away from him that he might not see her face.
“Holy Mother of God,” she murmured. “I have been immersed in my own selfish grief while Cesare is in trouble, Cesare is in danger.”
Thus in the brutal frankness of a few minutes Alfonso had done more to make her forget her grief in her father’s death than Pietro had, with all the gentle comfort he had to offer, because in her fear for her brother she could best forget her sorrow for her father.
Fortunately for his peace of mind Cesare was too ill to realize the full extent of his defeat. The shock to his system, which drinking the diluted but poisoned wine had given it, although it was not fatal had deeply aggravated that other disease of which he had been a victim for so many years. During the sojourn in Castel Sant’ Angelo he was not only sick in body but in mind, and therefore only half aware of what was happening in the world outside.
A new Pope had been elected. At such a time of unrest it had seemed advisable to the Cardinals to elect a very old man until the situation became more stable. The old man, Pius III, was almost on his death-bed when elected and therefore not inclined to meddle in Cesare’s affairs. It was thus that the latter was able to earn that respite in Castel Sant’ Angelo. But Pius died after a reign of twenty-six days, and there was all the furore which attended a Papal election to begin again.
Cardinal Giuliano della Rovere, that old enemy of the Borgias, now had his eyes on the Papacy; he had hoped for it at the time of Alexander’s election and he was determined to secure it now, for if he did not he would most certainly never do so.
He was shrewd; he was clever; he was, indeed, a man of immense vitality. He was of the same type as Alexander himself, and this may have been due to the fact that they had both been born poor, although each had possessed a powerful Pope for an uncle. Sixtus IV had advanced his nephew della Rovere even as Calixtus III had given his nephew Roderigo Borgia his start in life; and both of these nephews had decided that they would one day wear their uncles’ robes.
The time of Conclave was one of great tension for every Cardinal, as even to those who did not expect themselves to be elected Pope it was of the utmost importance which Pope was elected, since a friend or an enemy in the Vatican could make all the difference to their future.
Cesare, a sick man, with much of his conquered kingdom restored to those from whom he had taken it, was still a power in the Vatican, for Alexander had practiced nepotism as blatantly as any of his forbears, which meant that there were several Borgia Cardinals whose fates were so bound up with their family that they would vote for the man Cesare chose. Therefore Cesare still retained a certain influence, and della Rovere needed every vote he could lay his hands on.
He came to Rome and went to see Cesare.
He feigned shock at the sight of Cesare’s emaciated body and the ravages of sickness on his face; inwardly he was filled with exultation. He had always hated the Borgias. Alexander had been his great rival, and now he turned the full force of that hatred on Alexander’s son.
“My lord,” said the wily Cardinal, “you are very sick. You should not be in Rome. You need the sweet air of the country.”
“This is a time,” said Cesare, “when men such as we are must be in Rome.”
“Ah, the election. Poor Pius! But he served his purpose. He gave us that breathing space which was so necessary.”
“It is to talk of the election that you have come to see me?” asked Cesare.
Della Rovere replied: “I will not deny it.”
“It surprises me that you should come to me for help.”
Cesare was looking back over the years. He knew that his father had never trusted this man, had looked upon him as one of his greatest enemies, had known how desperately he desired the papal chair; he remembered he had said that della Rovere was an enemy to be watched with care because he was one of the cleverest and therefore most dangerous men in Italy as far as the Borgias were concerned.
Della Rovere smiled with an air of candor. “Let us be frank. A few months have changed our positions. You were a short while ago Duke of a large territory and there was not a state in Italy which did not tremble at the mention of your name. My lord, your kingdom has shrunk since the death of your father.”
Cesare clenched his hands firmly. He retorted coldly: “Everything I have lost shall be regained.”
“It may be so,” answered della Rovere, “but you will need a friend in the Vatican to replace the one whom you have lost.”
“Could there ever be one to replace my father?”
“There could be one who would give help for help.”
“You mean … yourself?”
Della Rovere nodded. “My lord Duke, look clearly at the position before us. You have been sick. You have been near to death, and your enemies have taken advantage of that. But already you recover. Much power still lies in your hands. It is for you to strengthen that power. You could not make a Pope, but you could prevent any Cardinal’s election by withholding the votes you command through the Borgia Cardinals. You need help now. You need it desperately. I need your votes. Make me Pope and I will make you Gonfalonier and Captain-General of the Church.”
Cesare pondered in silence. Della Rovere had risen; he stood by Cesare’s couch, his arms folded, and Cesare saw in him that glowing vitality, that power which had been so much a characteristic of Alexander.
Cesare tried to see into the future. Gonfalonier and Captain-General of the Church? It would be a blow to his enemies. He saw himself marching to conquest; he was visualizing the recapture of all that he had lost; he could see his enemies cringing before him.
Della Rovere bent over him swiftly and murmured: “Think of it.”
Then he was gone.
Cesare lay thinking, and a letter was brought to him from Lucrezia. He read it and smiled; it was an expression of devotion. She had heard of his plight; she had forgotten her terrible grief over her father in her anxiety for him. She could find little support for his cause in Ferrara, but she herself would raise men; she had valuable jewels which she could sell.
He kissed the letter. It seemed to him symbolic that it should arrive close on the visit of della Rovere. It was a good omen. He had but to recover his health and the world was waiting, waiting for him to conquer.