When della Rovere was elected Pope and was reigning as Julius II, Cesare waited for him to fulfill his promises.
There were many men living—among them the great Machiavelli himself—who marveled at Cesare’s simplicity in trusting Julius. It seemed to these men that Cesare’s illness had indeed weakened his mind.
Cesare set out from Rome for that part of Romagna which his troops had been able to maintain. He was full of hope. He knew that the King of France had immediately on the death of Alexander withdrawn his support. The King of Spain had not forgiven the Borgias for their alliance with the French; and now Spain was in possession of a great part of Southern Italy. Cesare, his forces considerably depleted, stood alone, and his enemies watched him, wondering what he would do next. They were astonished that he did not seem to realize the desperate position in which he found himself. Rarely had a man been stripped of his power so quickly as had Cesare Borgia. Alexander had died, taking the Borgia glory with him; but Cesare, it seemed, had yet to learn this.
Della Rovere had no intention of bestowing on Cesare the titles he had promised. He was secure in the Vatican and he wanted no more of Cesare Borgia. He was prepared however to let him escape from Rome, though for this concession he was going to demand the surrender of all that part of Romagna which was still in Cesare’s hands.
So when Cesare was ordered to surrender Romagna, and refused, he was taken prisoner by the Papal forces and imprisoned in a fortress at Ostia.
Here he was treated well, and did not believe he was in truth a prisoner. He would not believe it. He dared not. The new weakness within him frightened him so much that he would not contemplate it. From the battlements of the fortress he fired salvoes into the sea and shouted with mad ferocity as he did so. Those who were aware of what he did marveled at his conduct, yet they knew that he was in some way deceiving himself, deluding himself into believing that he was firing at an enemy.
Since Cesare refused to give up Romagna, della Rovere decided that he must be brought back to Rome. He must understand that the days of Borgia greatness were over, and that he was no longer a mighty conqueror.
So back to Rome he was brought while della Rovere considered what to do with him.
It was impossible to believe that this man was the brilliant Cesare Borgia. He seemed to have lost his sense of judgment completely. It was as though something of him had died with Alexander—his fire, his cunning; was there something superhuman about these Borgias? Were they different from all others? Was there some family unity which was not understood by ordinary men, so that when one died part of the others died also?
“His mind has been affected by his misfortunes,” said della Rovere. “We will have him put in those apartments where the young Duke of Bisceglie was lodged at the time of his murder. How will this weakened Cesare feel when he is forced to live with the ghost of a man he has murdered?”
It would suit della Rovere very well if Cesare Borgia went mad.
Lucrezia was back in Ferrara for the state visit of Francesco Gonzaga, Marquis of Mantua.
Lucrezia, still in mourning for her father, had taken to wearing flowing robes in thin material which clung to her figure and made her look more slender than ever; she was once more washing her hair frequently, and against the dark draperies it seemed more golden than ever.
She was conscious of the lack of sympathy in the court; she longed for her solitary meetings with Bembo. But when they met, others were usually present and he had recently been called to Venice on the death of his young brother.
Both her husband and her father-in-law were irritated by her sadness; Ercole took no pains to hide his jubilation at the death of one whom he considered his old enemy, and it was obvious that but for the rich dowry he would have availed himself of the French King’s suggestion to annul the marriage. Alfonso was indifferent to his father’s rancor and his wife’s suffering. Both seemed to him a waste of time. His military duties and the work of his foundry occupied him fully; and he had his mistresses for his night time, as well as Lucrezia to get with child.
Both the Duke and his son were not very pleased by the coming visit of Gonzaga. They did not like him, and it was very rarely that he came to Ferrara although the distance between the Este territory and that of Mantua was not great.
The Este family thought that their Isabella was far too good for the Marquis of Mantua, and they made this plain. Clearly they thought he should have handed over the entire government of Mantua to the capable Isabella, and since—easy-going as he might be—Gonzaga had not done this, they were inclined to be resentful.
Thus the visit was to be a very formal one.
Francesco, as he rode with his cavalcade toward Ferrara, was thinking of Lucrezia Borgia. He smiled wryly recalling his wife’s animosity at the time of the wedding. Not that it had decreased since. Isabella was furious because of the way in which Lucrezia kept the poet, Pietro Bembo, in Ferrara. Isabella believed that all poets and artists belonged to her. Often she had tempted Pietro to come to Mantua, and always he had refused.
Isabella had ranted and raged. “He is her lover, doubt it not! The sly-faced creature. So demure! So gentle! A Borgia! My brother should be warned lest she decide to introduce him to Cantarella. You must warn Alfonso when you are in Ferrara.”
He smiled. Did she think that because she had behaved badly to Alfonso’s bride he was going to be ordered to do the same?
He was chivalrous by nature, and, as he remembered her, there had been something fragile and feminine in that young Lucrezia whom he had met—it must be nearly ten years ago—which had appealed to his gallantry even then. It must have appealed a great deal because he could recall it vividly now.
And so he rode into Ferrara.
The old Duke, he thought, was ailing, and could not last much longer; Alfonso was as bucolic as ever; Ippolito even more haughty; Ferrante more thoughtless; Sigismondo more pious; and Giulio more vain. He was going to be somewhat bored in Ferrara.
Then he met Lucrezia. He caught his breath at the sight of her; she was more fair and fragile than he had been thinking her. Her grief was so recent that it seemed to hang about her in an aura of melancholy. Slender as a young girl in her flowing draperies, her jewels restricted to a few brilliant diamonds, she was almost unearthly in her beauty; and he was deeply moved by the sight of her.
He kissed her hands and managed to infuse a tender sympathy into the kiss. He felt that he wanted to make up for all the insults and humiliations which his wife had administered.
“It was with the utmost sorrow,” he said in a low and tender voice, “that I heard of your loss.”
Tears came to her eyes, and he hurried on: “Forgive me. I should not have recalled it.”
She smiled gently. “You did not recall it. It is always with me. It will be with me until I die.”
She enchanted him, this girl with one of the most evil reputations in Italy, who yet could look so innocent. He longed then to discover the true Lucrezia, and he was determined to do so before he returned to Mantua.
The visit was to be a brief one, so there was not much time for him to do this; moreover he sensed an aloofness in Lucrezia. She was genuinely concerned, he knew, with her father’s death; and if it were true, as Isabella insisted, that Pietro Bembo was her lover, that would account for her polite indifference to his offer of friendship. She was charming of course, but he sensed she would always be that. He wanted to bring a sparkle to her eyes; to see them light up when he approached as he felt sure they would for a good friend. After all, the poor girl had not many friends whom she could trust—friends of some power, that is to say. Ercole was a hard, mean man; and Alfonso’s indifference to the sort of wife he had was obvious. Her father dead, herself childless—as far as Ferrara was concerned—the French King suggesting there might be a divorce, her brother a prisoner of the new Pope … poor girl, did she not realize the difficult position in which she stood? She should do everything in her power to win the support of a man such as the Marquis of Mantua. But she did not seem to think of her own position. She did not seem to care.