The Family - Mario Puzo [24]
The procession would follow this envoy on its return, past the palace of his uncle, Ascanio Sforza, the vice-chancellor, where the young duke would stay until his wedding night. It would then continue through the streets until it reached the Vatican. Alexander had instructed his sons to ride past Lucrezia’s palace in order to allow her to see her future husband. Though her father had tried to allay her fears by promising her that she could stay in her own palace at Santa Maria of Portico with Julia and Adriana after her marriage, and not be required to travel to Pesaro for a year, Lucrezia still seemed upset. And Alexander was never at peace when his daughter was unhappy.
The preparations for the procession had taken many weeks, but now everything was in place. There were jesters in green and bright yellow velvet suits, jugglers twirling gaily colored sticks and tossing gaudy papier-mâché balls into the air while the intoxicating tempo from the fife and trumpet brigades rang out musical notes to brighten the spirits of the crowds of Roman citizens who had gathered along the route to see this duke of Pesaro who was to wed the Pope’s young daughter . . .
But early that morning Cesare had awakened in a foul humor, with an ache that made his head throb wickedly. He tried to excuse himself from greeting his future brother-in-law, for he thought it an unpleasant obligation, but his father would hear none of it. “As a representative of the Holy Father, you will not be released from your duty unless you are on your deathbed from plague or malaria,” the Pope had said sternly. Then he stormed out.
Cesare would have argued had not his sister come into his room to plead with him. She had run through the tunnel from her own palace as soon as she heard he was ill. Now she sat on his bed, rubbing his head gently, and asked, “Chez, who but you will tell me the truth about this man I am to marry? Who else can I trust?”
“Crezia, what difference can it make?” he asked. “You are already promised, and about that I can do nothing.”
Lucrezia smiled at her brother and ran her fingers through his hair. She bent to kiss his lips tenderly and smiled. “Is this as difficult for you as it is for me?” she asked. “For I hate the idea of another man in my bed. I will weep and cover my eyes, and though I will not be able to keep him from the contract, I will refuse to kiss him. I swear I will, my brother.”
Cesare took a deep breath and resolved to do as his sister wished. “I hope he is not a beast, for both our sakes,” he said. “Or I shall have to kill him before he ever touches you.”
Lucrezia giggled. “You and I will begin a holy war,” she said, pleased by Cesare’s reaction. “Papa will have even more to do than he does now. He will have to pacify Milan once you’ve killed Giovanni; then Naples will come to beg for alliance. Il Moro may capture you and take you to the dungeon of Milan to torture you. While Papa is using the papal army to try and save you, Venice will surely have something up their sleeve in order to conquer our territories. And Florence will have their finest artists paint unflattering portraits of us, and their prophets curse us with eternal damnation!” She laughed so hard she fell backward onto the bed.
Cesare loved to hear his sister laugh. It made him forget all others existed, and even soothed his anger toward his father. Now the throbbing in his head seemed to subside. And so he agreed to go . . .
As soon as Lucrezia heard the music of the approaching procession, she ran up the stairs to the second floor, to the main room of the castle from which the loggia, or balcony, extended like the hand of a great giant, fingers curled. Julia Farnese, who had been the Pope’s mistress for more than two years now, helped Lucrezia choose a gown of deep green satin with cream-colored sleeves and a jeweled bodice. Then she dressed Lucrezia’s hair and