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kill him … no, but to maim him so that he will never walk or run or leap again, never make love to his Carlotta of Naples. Carlotta of Naples! Much chance he has! But let him lose his beauty, and his manhood be spoiled, so that I may go to him and laugh in his face and taunt him as he has taunted me.
    Among those who watched there were others who remembered suffering caused them by Cesare Borgia, many who prayed for his death.
    But had Cesare died that day there would have been three to mourn him with sincerity—the Pope who watched him with the same mingling of pride and fear as Lucrezia’s; Lucrezia herself; and a red-headed courtesan named Fiametta, who had sought to grow rich by his favors and found that she loved him.
    But, for all the wishes among the spectators in the ring that day, Cesare emerged triumphant. He slew his bulls. He stood the personification of elegance, indolently accepting the applause of the crowds. And he seemed a symbol of the future, there with his triumph upon him. His proud gestures seemed to imply that the conqueror of bulls would be the conqueror of Italy.

     
    The Pope sent for his son that he might impart the joyful news.
    “Louis promises not to be ungenerous, Cesare,” he cried. “See what he offers you! It is the Dukedom of Valence, and a worthy income with the title.”
    “Valence,” said Cesare, trying to hide his joy. “I know that to be a city on the Rhône near Lyons in Dauphiné. The income … what is that?”
    “Ten thousand
écus
a year,” chuckled the Pope. “A goodly sum.”
    “A goodly sum indeed. And Carlotta?”
    “You will go to the French Court and begin your wooing at once.” The Pope’s expression darkened. “I shall miss you, my son. I like not to have the family scattered.”
    “You have your new son, Father.”
    “Alfonso!” The Pope’s lips curled with contempt.
    “It would seem,” muttered Cesare, “that the only member of the family who is pleased with its new addition is Lucrezia.”
    The Pope murmured indulgently: “Lucrezia is a woman, and Alfonso a very handsome young man.”
    “It sickens me to see them together.”
    The Pope laid his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Go to France, my son. Bring back the Princess Carlotta as soon as you can.”
    “I will do so, Father. And when Carlotta is mine I shall stake my claim to the throne of Naples. Father, no one shall prevent my taking that to which I have a claim.”
    The Pope nodded sagely.
    “And,” went on Cesare, “if I am heir to the crown of Naples, of what use to us will Lucrezia’s little husband be?”
    “That is looking some way ahead,” said Alexander. “I came through my difficulties in the past because I did not attempt to surmount them until they were close upon me.”
    “When the time comes we shall know how to deal with Alfonso, Father.”
    “Indeed we shall. Have we not always known how to deal with obstacles? Now, my son, our immediate concern is your own marriage, and I shall not wish you to appear before the King of France as a beggar.”
    “I shall need money to equip me.”
    “Fear not. We’ll find it.”
    “From the Spanish Jews?”
    “Why not? Should they not pay for the shelter I have given them from the Spanish Inquisition?”
    “They will pay … gladly,” said Cesare.
    “Now my son, let us think of your needs … your immediate needs.”
    They planned together, and the Pope was sad because he must soon say good-bye to his beloved son, and he was fearful too because he had once vowed that Cesare should remain in the Church, and now Cesare had freed himself. Alexander felt suddenly the weight of his years, and in that moment he knew that that strong will of his, which had carried him to triumph through many turbulent years, was becoming more and more subservient to that of his son Cesare.

     
    The days of preparation were over. The goldsmiths and silversmiths had been working day and night on all the treasures which the Duke of Valence