“Ah, you are fortunate indeed! Come to the window, and we shall witness a magnificent spectacle.” The sun was setting; its rays like delicate long fingers bedecked with many jewels, lay languidly upon the garden, making it glitter.
A soldier opened the large brass gate to the west of the garden. Four stallions, two black, two white, dashed in. They galloped about for a few moments, then trotted quietly, their fine heads erect, their step elastic.
The Pope nodded. At one of the open windows of the Vatican, a young man and woman, holding hands, were smiling at the spectacle.
They were nearly of the same height, had the same raven-black hair, large dark-brown eyes, which they squinted a little, due to the light or to myopia. Their noses were strongly aquiline, rapacious as the beaks of birds of prey. Their lips, heavy and shapeless, pouted in perennial mockery. Debauchery was beginning to erase the more delicate lines of their chins. Their foreheads, rising above their heads like superimposed structures, radiated remarkable intelligence and unsavory subtlety.
Cæsar and Lucretia Borgia were undeniably their father’s children.
His Holiness waved his hand. Cæsar answered the greeting by a similar gesture. Lucretia threw him a kiss. The young woman glanced at her incestuous companion,—a significant glance, pregnant with meaning. Cæsar crushed her hand violently. She closed her eyes, and clenched her teeth.
‘Poppaea!’ I thought.
His Holiness opened a little his mouth, and breathed deeply. I no longer doubted the rumor of the libidinous ties which united the Holy Father with his unholy family.
Meanwhile, the gate opened once more and two mares, as vigorous and proud as the stallions, rushed in. The latter stopped in their easy perambulation, sniffed and neighed noisily.
The mares ran to a corner of the garden as if seeking shelter. The stallions approached them. They ran away a short distance, and stopped again. The stallions dashed toward them. One of them touched a mare with the tip of his muzzle. The others rushed at him and bit him. He turned upon them, biting, kicking.
A terrific battle ensued. Blood and thick foam streamed to the ground. The hoofs, striking the earth, scattered sparks. The mares looked on tranquilly, chewing the sparse blades of grass, that grew between the crevices of stones.
A white stallion fell, his legs in the air. His enormous belly was ripped. The other three continued their warfare, neighing and snorting and stamping their hoofs. A black stallion looked up. Realizing, suddenly, the reason of the battle, he dashed toward the mares. His head was covered with blood and muddy foam, and his wet mane hung in clusters over his eyes. He pawed the ground and neighed vociferously.
One of the mares ran away. The other faced him for a while, then ran in a circle. He followed her, but not too closely for at every few steps, she made a threatening gesture.
The circles, however, became smaller and the kicking less vigorous. Suddenly the stallion reared into the air. The mare remained still accepting the virile tribute of her conqueror.
The two remaining stallions were struggling wearily until, exhausted, one fell, his large tongue licking the great red wound from which oozed a thin stream of blood. The other breathed deeply, shaking his head violently to relieve himself of a heavy mass of foam. The second mare passed by. He neighed, lowered his head as if tossing an imaginary horn intended to pierce a foe. She turned as if attempting to dash away. His teeth caught her mane…
Pope Alexander and his children observed with glistening eyes the performance of the most ancient of cosmic rites. Alexander remained at the casement for some time, then turning to me said, his voice hoarse and trembling, “How beautiful! Alas, the gods have not made man to enjoy himself!”
Tall and grim, the Pope’s secretary entered. “Your Holiness, it is time for Mass.”
“Tell the Cardinal to celebrate Mass today. I am not well.”
“Saint Peter’s is filled with people.”
“I have spoken. Go!”
The secretary retired slowly, lips tightened in a gesture of disgust. At the door, he turned once more and made the sign of the cross.
Alexander smiled sardonically, more Pan than Pope.
I looked at his feet, half expecting to see hoofs under the white satin shoes!
“What strength!” he continued, as if he had never been interrupted. “What a magnificent motion! And the charming coquetry of the mares! How many women are as capable of arousing such passion? What sustaining power! For how many women would we sacrifice our lives…?”
He walked up and down for a few minutes, as if to regain his composure.
“Is what you told me the truth, Count?” he asked suddenly.
“Yes, Your Holiness.”
“Then—you are now nearly fifteen centuries old.”
“Yes, Your Holiness.”
He smiled cynically. “Do you feel the burden of the years?”
“No, Your Holiness.”
He remained silent.
“How could you live so long without being seriously ill without being wounded or scarred?”
“I have been ill, and wounded and scarred, Your Holiness.”
“But you always recuperate?”
“Yes, Your Holiness.” His tone had changed considerably. He seemed annoyed at me, either because he was unable to prove that my statements were lies or because if what I said was the truth, I was incomparably his superior. Alexander VI knew he was mortal.
His silence perturbed me. In order to break it, I said: “Your Holiness, once by accident, I cut off part of my small finger. A hundred years later the finger, healing almost imperceptibly, was restored to its former size. I imagine, therefore, that all severed parts would grow back again, if man lived as long as the crocodile and the tortoise, who are well-nigh immortal.”
“You were circumcised as a boy, I take it?” the Pope asked, raising his left eyebrow, and screwing his lips into a cynical smile.
“Yes, Your Holiness.”
“Well, has beneficent Nature restored that whereof you were deprived?”
I was startled. It had never occurred to me to think of it.
“No, Your Holiness.”
He laughed.
I smiled.
“I am, after all, the Wandering Jew…”
“This is ingenious, Cartaphilus, but it is not the truth.”
I did not answer.
“Not the truth!” he exclaimed. “Acknowledge it!”
I remained silent.
He rang the bell three times. Almost instantly, three officers stood at the doors with drawn swords.
“Tomorrow, we shall see whether you are telling the truth or a lie. The rack will make you speak if I cannot. Besides, it will prove to you most emphatically whether in reality the beneficent forces of Nature can mend your broken limbs, whether you are indeed the equal of the Crustaceans and the Olympians…”
I rose.
“Holy Father, you are jesting. What will the world say if the Vicar of Christ violates the sanctity of the confessional?”
He rose in his turn and placed his hand upon the diamond studded hilt of a small dagger concealed under his robe. He spoke almost gently. “Alexander VI is not a simpleton like your Armenian Bishop. You know too much for the welfare of Christendom…”
“Holy Father, is this the reward for—?” I pointed to the Holy Grail.
“For that we shall make you a beautiful legend. Cardinals shall read masses to your soul when you are dead—if you are dead—for ninety-nine years. No one may live who has listened to all I have told you.”
“I have learned to forget, Your Holiness.”
“Only the dead forget… Besides,” he continued almost caressingly, “you cannot die.” Turning to the officer: “Surrender this man to the Fathers of the Inquisition. Order them to postpone all other trials until they have wrung a confession from him. My secretary will prepare the details of the indictment at once.”
“Holy Father– —” I pleaded.