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  “Would it please you to have me lie on my stomach?” she asked him. “And then, you above me?”

  “I fear to damage you,” he told her. “I prefer that I lie on my back and you ride me as you will. In that way you may control the amount of your own passion, and receive as much pleasure as you can bear.”

  He’d considered it often, the childlike innocence of Julia as she let down her hair like those goddesses of ancient myth and story, those temptresses who cast a spell to keep a prince imprisoned against his will forever.

  Each time he lay on his back and looked up at her face, her eyes closed with pleasure, her head thrown back in abandon, he believed the carnal pleasure he felt was a gift of surrender to the Heavenly Father. For who else except a Beneficent Father would provide man such heavenly grace on earth?

  Before Julia left his chambers that morning, he gave her a gold filigree cross he had commissioned from one of the finest goldsmiths in Florence. She sat on the bed, unclothed, and let him place it around her neck. Sitting there, she looked the image of grace, and in the beauty of her face and body, Pope Alexander was again assured there was a Heavenly Father, for no one on earth could conceive of such perfection.

  7

  THE POPE’S PHYSICIAN rushed to the Vatican with an urgent report of an outbreak of plague in the city of Rome. Now, sitting at his throne, in the Hall of Faith, and hearing of the coming of the Black Death, Alexander was alarmed. He quickly called his daughter to his chambers.

  “It is time for you to leave for Pesaro, to seek sanctuary with your husband,” he said simply.

  “But Papa,” she cried, kneeling at his feet and holding to his legs, “how can I leave you? How can I leave my brothers, and my dearest Adriana, and our Julia? How can I live in that place so far from this city I love?”

  Under normal circumstances Alexander would have bargained for more time with his precious daughter, but now, with this new and dangerous circumstance, he found he must insist that she go. “Papa will send Madonna Adriana and dear Julia with you to Pesaro,” he told her. “And we will send messages each day, so neither of us will be lonely, my sweet child.”

  But Lucrezia was inconsolable. She stood now, her usual soft eyes blazing. “I would prefer to die a Black Death in Rome than live with Giovanni Sforza in Pesaro. He is impossible. He never looks at me, rarely speaks to me, and when he does it is all about himself, or to order me to do something I hate.”

  Pope Alexander drew her into an affectionate embrace and tried to comfort her. “Have we not spoken of this before? Of the sacrifices we each must make in order to maintain the well-being of the family and the power of God in the world? Our dear Julia has told me of your admiration of Saint Catherine. Would she object, as you are doing, to the call of the Heavenly Father? And is not your papa the voice of the Heavenly Father on earth?”

  Lucrezia stood back and looked at her father. With her lower lip still in a pout, she said, “But Catherine of Siena is a saint; I am but a girl. It is not necessary for girls to do as saints do. For being the daughter of a Pope should not make me a martyr.”

  Pope Alexander’s eyes lit up. Only a rare man would have been able to resist his daughter’s passionate argument, yet he found himself enchanted and amused by her reluctance to leave him.

  He took her delicate hand in his. “Ah, your papa too has to sacrifice for the Heavenly Father, for there is no one in this world whom I love above you, my child.”

  Now Lucrezia looked at her father coyly. “Not even Julia?”

  The Pope made the sign of the cross over his chest. “With the Lord as my witness, I say again, there is no one I love above you.”

  “Oh, Papa,” Lucrezia said, throwing her arms around his neck and breathing in the scent of incense from his golden garments. “Will you promise to send message after message without ever stopping? And will you promise to send for me whenever you see I cannot bear it any longer? For if not I will fade away from despair, and you will never lay eyes on me again.”

  “I promise,” he said. “Now gather your ladies-in-waiting, and I will inform your husband that you will be leaving immediately for Pesaro.”

  As Lucrezia left she bent to kiss the Pope’s ring, and when she lifted her head she asked, “Shall I tell our Julia or will you?”

  The Pope smiled. “You may tell her,” he said, pretending seriousness. “Now go . . . ”

  On the last day of their five-day journey to Pesaro, the rain was falling in heavy sheets, drenching Lucrezia, Julia, and Adriana, as well as all their servants and supplies.

  Lucrezia was disappointed, for she had hoped to look her very best on her arrival; after all, she was their duchess. With the pride and excitement of a child pretending, Lucrezia wanted to enjoy the admiration and affection she hoped to see on the faces of those people who now would be her subjects.

  A caravan of horses carried their precious cargo in peasant carts as they journeyed through the beautiful countryside along the rough dirt road. Though Michelotto and several of his armed men accompanied Lucrezia and her company to protect them from the dangers of attack by bandits, and the hazards of robbery, they were still forced to stop each night when darkness fell. But there were few accommodations along the road from Rome to Pesaro, and often they had to set up an encampment.

  Several hours before they arrived, Lucrezia asked her envoy to put up shelter so she and Julia could prepare themselves. They had been on the road for many days now, and her fresh young face and clean hair had wilted with the weather—to say nothing of the mud caked on her shoes and gown. She asked her ladies-in-waiting to take down her hair, dry it with new cotton cloths, and apply balm to her tresses to give the gold a special sheen. But when she slipped out of her gown to put on another, she suddenly felt dizzy. “I have a chill,” she told her lady, and then reached out to grab the shoulder of the girl in order to steady herself.

  Adriana looked concerned, for Lucrezia’s cheeks appeared rosy with fever. “Are you feeling sickly?” she asked.

  Lucrezia smiled, her eyes shinier than usual. “I feel well,” she lied, but Adriana noticed the gooseflesh on her arms. “As soon as we arrive and I have some hot tea, I’m sure I’ll feel better. But let us get started, for I’m certain there are festivities awaiting us, and we do not want to weary the loyal citizens.”

  They traveled on to Pesaro, where miles before they reached the gates they saw the crowds of men, women, and children who had gathered, some holding boards or cloth above their heads to shelter themselves from the hard driving rain. But still they sang to her and clapped for her while they shouted happy greetings. They threw flowers and lifted children for her to touch.

  But by the time they arrived at the gate, Lucrezia’s head was spinning. And when Giovanni greeted her with a smile, and said, “Welcome, my duchess,” she hardly heard him before she swooned from weakness and slipped from her horse.

  One of the manservants caught her in his arms, and carried her into the palace. Amazed at how little she weighed and impressed by her blond beauty, he placed her gently on the feather bed in the grand bedroom and went back to tell the others all about the duke’s new bride. Adriana and Julia fussed about her, asking for tea and soup to help warm her, but by then Giovanni had gone back to the crowds, telling them that the duchess would formally greet them the following day once she had rested and managed to renew herself.

  That night, in the darkened room in a strange city, Lucrezia lay in bed, said her prayers, and tried to sleep. She missed her father terribly, but even more she missed her brother Cesare.

  On the day she left Rome Cesare had promised to visit her in Pesaro, but if for any reason that became impossible, he promised he would send Don Michelotto to accompany her to meet him at Silverlake, which was halfway between Rome and Pesaro. There they could spend time alone. They could speak without anyone hearing; they could play in the fields as they did as children, far from the prying eyes of the Pope and those others who were sworn to safeguard them.
/>   The thought of Cesare comforted her, and finally, when she closed her eyes and imagined her brother’s lips upon hers, she fell asleep.

  When she awoke the following morning she still felt feverish, but refused to stay in bed, for she didn’t want to waste another day without seeing Pesaro and greeting the citizens she knew had been waiting to see her. The rain had cleared and now the sun was shining into her room, making it look warm and cozy. Some of the citizens had stayed through the night and were still standing in the square outside the castle; she could hear them singing through her open windows.

  Giovanni had promised Lucrezia that there would be grand balls and parties to attend. She had to prepare. With Julia and Adriana and the ladies-in-waiting, she managed to choose a gown that was both simple and elegant, of pink satin with a bodice of fine Venetian lace. She wore a beaded headdress of gold and pearls, with her hair tied up at the sides, but left long and flowing in back. When she presented herself to Julia, she spun around joyfully. “Do I look like a duchess?”

  Julia, her blue eyes shining, said, “Rather like a princess to me.”

  Adriana agreed. “A perfect angel.”

  Lucrezia walked out onto the balcony and waved to the crowd in the square. They clapped and cheered for her, and threw crowns woven of flowers. She bent and lifted one from the floor of the balcony and placed it on her head. And the crowd cheered even louder.

  Then there was music in the city, with jugglers, jousters, and jesters running through the streets just as there had been in Rome, and again she was overcome with happiness at all the attention being paid to her. She had always wondered why her father and her brothers so enjoyed the marches through the city and the power of position, but now she felt she understood. Looking into the faces of all the men, women, and children gazing up at her, Lucrezia felt much less lonely. Maybe she too had been born to this.

  Pesaro was beautiful; its countryside, dotted with olive trees, was lush and green. Surrounding it, protecting it, the huge and graceful Apennine Mountains cradled the city. Lucrezia knew she could be truly happy here—happier still if she could find a way to tolerate her husband, Giovanni.

  It was well known throughout France that King Charles placed great faith not only in the Holy Roman Catholic Church, but also in the alignment of the stars in the heavens. And so it followed that his most trusted advisor was the physician and astrologer Simon of Pavia. Simon had read the celestial map on the occasion of Charles’s birth, and it was he who proclaimed the young king’s future destiny as leader of the new Crusade against the Infidel Turks. From the time Charles was a child, he embarked upon no important assignment without the counsel of his astrologer.

  It was due not only to great skill but also to great fortune that Duarte Brandao came upon this important piece of information, and conceived of a brilliant strategy. He was in such high spirits, he rushed into the Pope’s chambers to speak to him.

  Pope Alexander was sitting at his desk, signing a large pile of papal bulls. When he looked up and saw Duarte, he smiled amiably and dismissed everyone else in the room.

  Alexander stood and walked over to his favorite chair. But when Duarte bent to kiss his ring, the Pope pulled his hand away impatiently. “My friend, save all this ceremony for public occasions or when we are in the company of others, for in private I acknowledge that it is you that I trust above all—even my children. And that responsibility imposes a certain equality, even upon the Vicar of Christ. For I, Alexander the man, cherish your loyalty and value your friendship.”

  He waved his hand to indicate a chair opposite him, but Duarte was unable to sit still as he explained what he had learned.

  Pope Alexander listened carefully. Then he asked, “Do you, yourself, believe the stars rule?”

  Duarte shook his head. “Your Holiness, what I believe can hardly matter.”

  “And yet it does,” the Pope said.

  “I believe the stars affect one’s life, yet no one but the man himself and our Heavenly Father rules his life.”

  The Pope reached to touch the amber amulet that always hung around his neck, and rubbed it affectionately. “Each of us believes there is a charm to our life, and so this Charles is not much different.” He smiled at Duarte. “But you must have a plan you have brought me, for I can see it on your face, so speak of it now.”

  Duarte’s voice was almost a whisper. “Let me go to this man, this Simon of Pavia, in advance of the invasion, with a ‘professional fee.’ An act of confidence.”

  “In what amount?” Alexander asked.

  Duarte hesitated a moment, for he knew of the Pope’s frugal nature when dealing with anything but state ceremony and family. “I would offer twenty thousand ducats . . . ”

  Alexander’s eyes widened, and he tried to control the surprise in his voice. “Duarte? We could outfit an army with horses for such a sum. Twenty thousand ducats is not a professional fee, it is a colossal bribe . . . ”

  Brandao smiled. “Holiness, we must not quibble over a few pieces of gold. We must ensure a favorable reading by this physician, for he has earned the trust of the king of France.”

  The Pope sat in quiet consideration for several minutes, and then he agreed. “Duarte, as usual, you are correct. Pay the dottore his fee, as you suggest. Astrology itself denies the God-given gift of free will. It is forbidden by canon law. So it is not as though we are opposing a lawful Christian process. Our interference with it does not stain our immortal soul.”

  That very night Duarte rode in disguise through the French lines. He rode for several days to reach his destination—a small cottage in the woods. There he arrived in time to find Simon of Pavia frolicking in the arms of a very rotund whore. Brandao, always a gentleman, politely convinced Simon to excuse himself from the lady and join him in the living quarters, for he had a message of great importance to deliver.

  It only took a few moments for Duarte to present the agreement and pay the physician his fee.

  Still in disguise, assured of the success of his mission, Brandao mounted his horse and rode back to Rome.

  Ah, that a Pope could have only the heart and soul of a saint instead of the worldly desires of a mortal man. But as embroiled as Alexander was in political intrigue, he was now constantly distracted by his personal affairs. His young mistress, Julia Farnese, who had traveled with Lucrezia to Pesaro, had been forced to stay away weeks longer than expected after Lucrezia fell ill, in order to care for her. Once Lucrezia had recovered enough for Julia to leave with a clear conscience, she decided to visit her husband, Orso, at the Castel of Bassanello, for a reason Alexander could not comprehend. But first, she implored the Pope, she must stop to visit her mother and sick brother at Capodimonte.

  When Alexander read Julia’s request, he forbade it; her husband, Orso, was a soldier, he insisted, and had been sent away on papal business. But Julia, young and spirited, rebelled against the Pope’s instructions to return to Rome immediately. She penned a second letter begging Alexander’s forgiveness for her disobedience, but insisted she could not return just yet. And to add to her betrayal, she took her mother-in-law, Adriana, along with her to Capodimonte.

  When Alexander received her next message, he was furious. If he could not bear to be without his Julia, how then could she bear to be without him? Faithless girl! Now the Pope flew into a rage at everyone in his service. He lay awake at night, sleepless, not over any political threat, but out of longing for the touch of Julia’s hand, the scent of her hair, the comfort of her warm body. Finally, when he could bear it no longer, he kneeled at his altar and prayed that the demon of his insatiable appetites be shriven from his heart. When Cardinal Farnese tried to reason with him—explaining that his sister had no choice, for Orso had sent for her and he was after all her husband—the Pope dismissed him with a shout. “Ingrazia!”

  For days Alexander fumed. He paced his chambers and repeated long lists of the vices of his mistress, her husband, and his favorite cousin. He would excommunicate them. They wo
uld surely be sent to hell for this betrayal.

  But it was young Orso who finally helped relieve the Pope’s anguish. Hearing of Alexander’s distress, and fearing for his own position, he forbade his wife to come to Bassanello. Instead he instructed her to return home to Rome at once, for there was danger on the roads of Rome from the French invasion. And, because he was her husband, she was obliged to obey.

  When King Charles moved his powerful army across the Alps into Italian territory, the bitter, angry Cardinal della Rovere was at his side, goading him, insisting that an attack on the Borgia Pope was more important than any against the Infidel Turks.

  As the French troops moved southward toward Naples, no one took action to stop them—not Milan, not Bologna, not Florence.

  Pope Alexander, hearing of their approach, prepared to defend Rome and the Vatican. He set his trust in King Ferrante’s captain general, Virginio Orsini, head of the Orsini family. Virginio had convinced the Pope of his good faith by paying the necessary tax on his castles; Alexander knew that Virginio could call upon more than twenty thousand vassals, and with his great fortress, the impregnable Bracciano, they were almost invincible.

  But the seeds of treachery and avarice can hide in the hearts of the most courageous of men, and even the Holy Father could not portend their development.

  Duarte Brandao now rushed into the chambers of Pope Alexander. “I have received word, Your Worthiness, that our former friend Virginio Orsini has gone over to the French.”

  Pope Alexander, hearing the news, said, “He must have lost his wits . . . ”

  Duarte, whose composure was legendary, now looked upset.

  “What is it, my friend?” the Pope asked. “It is just a change of strategy that is needed here. Now, rather than fight this King Charles, we must just outthink him.”

  Duarte lowered his head and his voice. “There is more distressing news, Your Omnipotence. The French have captured Julia Farnese and Madonna Adriana on their way back from Capodimonte. They are being held at the headquarters of the cavalry, even now.”