Cesare had been brought back to Rome on the news of his father's election. Cardinal Roderigo felt it only fitting that his son, whom he hoped would one day succeed him, should be present at the ceremony.
Ever since his adventure with his sister, Cesare had been in a fever heat to renew his relationship with her, but there had been no opportunity.
Over and over in his mind he had relived those furiously passionate moments by the pool, over and over he had thought of how next time he would be less embarrassed, more expert, more concerned with prolonging the pleasure. His incestuous lovemaking had given him a new awareness of women as well. In Perugia he had watched them walking down the street with their bosoms soaring, had imagined their breasts untrammeled by clothes. He had stared at the occasional traces of a round and protruding buttock under a dress such as the peasant girls wore and had longed to move up behind and place his hand on that undulating mound of firmness. He had longed for lips, for fondling hands, for the aching sensation of that body-grip on his penis-until he walked around with an almost permanent erection and a slight flush always on his face. At night he was haunted by dreams of his sister's passion-wracked body, images of other bodies. He masturbated with a new vigor. He almost wept with desire for a good screw. And on return to Rome he conceived of a daring plan to achieve the aided orgasm he so desperately needed.
The interregnum between the death of one Pope and the election of another was invariably filled with a furious outburst of lawlessness in Rome. Bands of lawbreakers would roam the streets. Murders were committed on an average of several a day, robberies took place on an unprecedented scale and rapes were so numerous that count was lost. It was this savage jungle state within the city that Cesare decided should cover his own fulfillment of his desires.
In the grounds of Cardinal Roderigo's house was a gardener's shed in which Cesare had previously noted some old, cheap clothing such as would be worn by the ordinary citizen. This, he decided, he would don one evening when his father was not at home. He would rub grime into his face, tousle his hair and, with his gold-hilted dagger in his belt under his doublet, sally out into the lawless streets in search of a woman.
It was a wild plan, he realized. It was full of dangers. He, himself, might be attacked; he might be caught in the act of rape; he might be beaten up by the city guard which functioned in a desultory fashion from time to time. But on the first count he hoped his old clothes would make him seem too worthless an object to make it worth anybody's while to assault him-and on the others he'd take a chance, so dearly did he need to plunge his dagger of genital flesh into a female sheath.
For a couple of days, while he awaited his opportunity, Cesare wandered through the city, which was calmer by daytime, watching the women who quickly came and went, or-in large bands for safety-washed their clothes down at the river's edge. He particularly frequented the poorer sections of the city as it was here that he was more likely to succeed in his plan without too many later investigations being made. And it was in one of these quarters that he found the sort of situation he had been seeking.
At dusk, he noted, at a particular spot, three goat-swains-two men and a girl-were in the habit of driving a large herd of goats from the city gates into their pen within the city. They all stayed together until a point near the Bridge of St. Angelo across the river where the girl would bid them good-night and slip across the bridge to her house which was close to the far bank. The two men would continue with the goats under the assumption that their companion was safe with only such a little distance to go alone.
Cesare made a survey of the area. His heart raced in anticipation of the deed. As he marked the spot-dangerously near her home-where he could drag her over the low parapet onto the shrub-covered, shelving bank, his breath came quickly as if he were already lying between her legs.
The girl, herself, was a peasant girl with a saucy, good-looking face and a strong, loose-limbed body with large breasts and a behind that was pert under the thin country dress she wore. She would be no easy conquest. Cesare was well aware. But he thought he could subdue her and the sight of her body, revealed in a way that only peasant clothing would allow, infused him with a nervous excitement that gave him butterflies in his stomach.
The day fixed for the crowning of the new Pope came nearer and Cardinal Roderigo spent more and more time away from his house fixing the details of the ceremony.
Cesare's chance came at last. In a sudden fit of trembling he donned the old clothes in the gardener's shed. The hose he slit between the legs-just enough so that another tug would give his organ free exit. The doublet came down far enough to hide the spot.
He stole out of the house, leaving a door to the grounds unlatched for his re-entry, hoping that no would-be robbers would discover it before he got back.
Along the main streets people were still passing in groups, sometimes singly. He avoided these more frequented places after a time and set out through the growing twilight to the poor quarter.
Narrow, cobbled streets led him down toward the river. Sometimes someone flitted quickly from one doorway to another, sending his heart into his mouth, sometimes a shutter would slam, making him jump and twice he brazened it past a group of men who peered at him in the half-light but made no move to interfere with him. At the bridge across the river he stopped and leaned on the parapet for a moment to calm himself and quell the thumping of his heart. He peered through the gloom. He was sure they hadn't yet come. Below, the river was a smooth, dark sheet, behind him odd noises rang out from the Castle of St. Angelo which towered up in ghostly form. In the distance he could still dimly see the outline of St. Peter's. There was nobody about, now. The majority of honest citizens who were able would now be safely locked behind their doors with the shutters barred.
Cesare listened. On the still air he heard the faint bleat of a goat.
Quickly he set off across the broad bridge. His heart was still pounding wildly. The seriousness of what he was doing crept over him and in the middle of his hurrying he wondered, without slowing his place, if he shouldn't just turn back and get home as quickly as possible. But in his head he had an image of the goat-girl with her loose-limbed walk and her body curves embraced in her peasant dress, and he hurried on.
By now the dusk was settling in; in a short time it would be completely dark.
He reached the point where the bridge ran into the far bank. He took a quick look around. He could almost see the girl's house to which he'd followed her twice already. Then he swung himself lightly over the parapet and crouched down out of sight.
The parapet at this point was only three feet high and there was a further six-inch drop on the bankside. From where Cesare crouched, trying to still his heaving breath, the bank, divided into patches of knee-high scrub and dusty sand, stretched gently down to the still edge of the river.
There he waited, not daring to look back over the parapet. He was so nervous that he ripped open the slit in his hose and urinated quickly against the wall of the bridge. He need still do nothing, he told himself. He could just let her go by and then go home. He still hadn't definitely decided he was going through with it when he heard her light footfall on the bridge.
He pulled the dagger from the belt under his doublet. His hand was trembling as he put it over his mouth to try and quiet his breath. In spite of his bladder-emptying, his organ was at half-cock with nervous excitement.
Suppose she was not alone today. Suppose someone came toward the bridge from the opposite direction and saw them. Suppose she broke away from him and screamed for the city guard. What would happen to him? What would his father say? A thousand doubts sprang in on him. But there was her footfall, unsuspecting and so close. He held his breath. There was no other noise at all. She was alone as usual.
Tense as a bowstring he waited. Now she was about ten paces away, now nine, now eight… now one… He put his hands on the parapet in the half-darkness, and with a spring he was up and over it just behind her.
The girl half-turned in horror before his hand clapped over her mouth and he flashed the dagger in front of her eyes.
“If you scream or make any sound I'll kill you,” he whispered fiercely.
The girl stared at him with wide, horrified dark eyes. It was rather a shock to find himself so near her, touching her, the object of her terrified attention, after watching her from a distance for two nights.
Her body was very warm against him through her thin dress. She held herself taut, but didn't make a sound.
Still holding one hand over her mouth, Cesare, glancing nervously across the bridge, prodded her toward the parapet.
“Climb over and drop down the other side,” he ordered. “And don't make a sound. I don't intend to kill you and I shan't unless you scream.”
For a moment the girl wouldn't move and he thought she was going to resist. He prodded her side with the point of the dagger and she went in front of him to the parapet and swung over it, dropping down with him to the other side.
Cesare prodded her on down the bank toward the water's edge and away from the bridge. Behind them on the land side, the bank ended some distance up in a high wall. He was safe from that direction.
The girl made no sound as he walked with her, hand still on her mouth in case she tried to shout. It had all been very easy. Through his excitement he looked down sideways at the bulge of her breasts. It was really here at last — and so easy.
At a distance from the bridge they stopped. Cesare glanced quickly back. Nobody on the bridge could see them at that distance. He jabbed the girl with the knife.
“Lie down-and if you try to shout I'll slit your throat.”
The girl looked around at him. She had long dark hair which was mussed up now around her dark face. Her eyes had lost some of their startled horror and were gleaming with anger.
“What do you want?” she said fiercely. “I am poor-I have no money.”
Cesare was beginning to feel very sure of himself.
“You have something worth its weight in gold,” he said softly. “Now lie down and I will show you.”
The girl's sudden defense took him unawares. He had come to expect an easy victory. She twisted suddenly from his grasp and took a half step toward the bridge. But Cesare's reaction was quick. He caught her again before she had even the time to cry out. He clamped his hand roughly over her mouth and pushed her to the ground. She fell under him and he dug the knife at her ribs.
“I told you I'll kill you,” he hissed.
But this time his warning had no effect. The girl probably thought he would slit her throat anyway when he'd finished with her and she resolved to sell her life dearly.
She twisted over and struggled furiously with him so that Cesare, who'd had no intention of using the knife and adding murder to his crime, was forced to drop the weapon and use both hands in an effort to overcome her.
His prick, which was erect as a raised drawbridge, had flipped out of the slit in his clothing and was crushed and rubbed between them as they struggled.
He managed to stretch her arms out on either side, but her legs continued to writhe and buffet him as he lay along her.
Her face, wrinkled with dark fury, was directly below his. With a little gust of triumph he closed his mouth over hers as she struggled. He could tell he was much stronger than she. When he took his face away she spat in his face. He released one of her arms and slapped her face with his free hand. She pushed with her released arm, jabbing him with her elbow and he fell off. The girl took full advantage of her gain and slithered out from under him, rolling over on top, clawing at him, reaching for his throat with strong fingers.
Surprised, Cesare decided that the time had come for stronger measures. He was afraid someone might hear their scuffling from the bridge-and apart from that he was almost coming against her wriggling body.
He pulled back his right fist, pushing her wrists away with his left, and punched hard and straight into her belly.
The girl collapsed on him, gasping with pain and he rolled her off and swayed over on top of her again. She was completely winded. She lay there helpless for the moment, with her dress halfway up her strong, naked thighs.
Cesare lost no time, now. He was very scared that somebody might have heard the noise. He ripped her dress up what remained hidden of her thighs, felt between her legs for the love-slit she was in no position to protect and guided his hungry prick at it.
He held the girl's arms with his hands once his knob was against her lower lips-and then he pushed in against her.
For several seconds he couldn't seem to make progress. He released an arm and reached down again, feeling for the opening. He pulled her flopping thighs apart to facilitate his entry and pushed again.
The girl squealed even through her lack of breath when his throbbing knob pierced into her. Automatically she swung her arm up and tried to push him off, gasping with the pain in her belly and the fresh pain down at her treasured vagina.
Cesare caught the arm and forced it down again. He was really in now. And it was tight enough to hurt. He was flooded with a great sense of relief, as if the frustrations of a lifetime had suddenly been put right.
The girl was squirming with pain. But his push had so hurt and winded her that she could hardly groan, let alone put up any serious opposition to his assault on her maidenhood.
Cesare breathed out his relief. At last he was able to quench his desire in a tight, loving, tender body. He thrust in as if he were ramming shot into a cannon and with each thrust he expelled a toe-shaking sigh of relief.
With his body quivering all over he wriggled his loins into her pelvis. He didn't want to take long now that he'd succeeded at last. His prick was heavy and prickling and the girl, her face creased in pain, had almost given up struggling under the fury of his attack.
Cesare lowered his face onto hers and kissed her lips. Her lips were unresponsive, tight together and she forced her face away from him. So he kissed her dark neck as his prick seared up into her clam-gripping vagina. He wriggled in and in until, for the first time, his whole prick from throbbing knob to tingling base was buried in a soft female passage.
He shagged her furiously with quick hard strokes. He couldn't take too much time, but he had to have that final world-shattering explosion; that had to take place in her soft, tight body.
The girl lay under him, still too wounded in her belly to resist. He let go of her arms and put his hands under her buttocks, scraping the backs of his fingers against the sand. Her rump was firm and springy. The feel of it sent a new zest winging through his hot ramrod. He pulled her belly up against him so that it seemed as if he was holding her vagina in a framework for his prick. He looked down at her belly which he could see, dimly white in the darkness. He could also see his weapon, dimly white, moving into the cranny at her thigh-junction.
He held her buttocks tightly. Each stroke now was as if he were bursting into her for the first time. His prick had grown tight, intense with sensation. It was coming. He gritted his teeth and fixed his eyes on her dim face, turned sideways, still creased in pain. She was a stranger, a total stranger. And he was joined with her here in this most complete of intimacies! They were one flesh-united by his bridge of penis!
As he felt the soaring mount in him he never took his eyes from her face. She moved her legs occasionally, but simply because she was uncomfortable. From start to near finish there had been little resistance.
He burst in and in and with each burst he felt the moment edge excruciatingly nearer. He was trying to keep his noises back in his throat. There he was, coughing and growling, trying not to lose control.
He felt the last movement in his loins. It was joy and beauty and savagery all combined in his screwing into this firm and beautiful unknown body. He squeezed the buttocks in his hands as he thrust, and his thrusts slowed to grinding heaves. He was losing control. It was heaven. It was hell. He couldn't keep it back. It was coming, coming, into the body of this strange, prostrate girl whose buttocks were in his hands, whose tight, clinging vagina was around his prick, whose face was there pressed into the sand in the darkness. It was coming, whirling, here, oh God, here… “Aaaaaaaah!”… the final cry groaned from his throat, forcing his lips apart and he flopped and bit her strained neck as he shot his sperm into her helpless, wide-open passage.
The girl lay as though dead and after a while he pulled his hands out from under her behind and rolled off her. Now that it was over he felt a flatness. It certainly didn't seem worth the extreme and violent measures he'd gone to to get it.
His thoughts, as he tucked his limp penis into the slit in his hose, turned on the difficulty of getting home, of getting away from the girl- it seemed too unnatural just to get up and walk off-of keeping clear of her in future, of avoiding recognition. It was chilly, too, now.
He glanced back at the bridge, wondering if anyone had heard the cry of his climax. As far as he could see nobody was there. But, by now, it was impossible really to see anything at that distance.
A slithering movement beside him brought his glance quickly back to the girl. He recoiled. Having had time, at last, to recover from her winding, she'd reached out and grabbed the dagger which he, so carelessly, had left lying beside them on the sand.
Now she had drawn herself up onto her knees and was glaring at him with eyes whose gleaming fury he could feel even through the gloom.
He drew back, without a word, slithering back onto his knees, getting warily to his feet as she did.
“Now I shall kill you,” she said with a quiet intensity. “Now I have the dagger and I shall kill you.”
He didn't answer. He kept his eyes on her and the dagger, whose gold handle gave off a slight luster in the darkness.
Crouching, she came toward him. He faced her, arms bent out toward her like a wrestler, watching intently. There was danger in running. He might fall; she might overtake him on the rough ground and stab him from behind. He waited for her to come at him.
When she did, leaping forward suddenly with the knife upraised, his foot lashed out and caught her in the groin. She fell on one knee and he leapt on her. In spite of her pain, she clung desperately to the dagger. But he was too strong for her. Slowly he forced her arm down until the knife was between them. He brought up his knee under her elbow from his standing position and the knife fell from her momentarily paralyzed fingers.
He pushed her back with his foot and groped quickly for the knife. He was half aware of her body flying at him once more as he rose with the knife. There was a slight moan from her lips and she fell heavily against him.
He twisted and leapt away. But the knife didn't come away in his hand. Behind him the girl slumped heavily to the ground and lay face down without a tremor.
Cesare stayed stock-still where he was. A flush of horror washed over him. He waited for her to move, to groan, but she lay like a corpse.
Cautiously he moved back to where she lay. He looked around for the knife, but he couldn't find it. He looked back at her still figure, chilled. He stood over her. He could see both her hands and the knife wasn't in either of them. Overcoming a sudden urge just to leave, to rush off into the night, he bent and turned her over. The cold sight of what he had known from her stillness petrified him. The dagger was buried in her breast almost to the gold hilt. Around it her brown, peasant dress was stained a darker brown. Her eyes were open, but unseeing.
Cesare's mind became a confusion of irrelevant, frightened thoughts. It was some minutes before he was able to think with any clarity. Then he forced himself to be calm and work out what to do. The main thing, he told himself tensely, was to be quick. The next, leave nothing to identify himself. He looked down at the hilt of the dagger and shuddered. He stopped his gaze from rising to the girl's face just in time and, closing his eyes, caught the handle of the knife and pulled. It came away with a smooth springy pressure and when he opened his eyes it was wet and dripping in his hand.
Have to wash it. He glanced around at the river a dozen paces away. He started toward it and then stopped and looked back at the body. He went back to it and put his hand on the girl's breast. No, of course she was dead. Steeling himself, he took her under each armpit and dragged her as quietly as he could manage to the edge of the bank. He swilled the knife in the almost still water of the river and wiped it on her dress. Then, very gently and carefully, he rolled her over into the water.
He stood up, breathing quickly. Now the city guard wouldn't see the body immediately if they came down onto the bank. He glanced back at the bridge which was like some great conscious presence, a witness to the drama. Suppose her people were out looking for her there, wondering why she hadn't got home. But surely they'd have come straight down onto the bank. Maybe there were a dozen reasons why she might be late on any particular day. He'd only watched her for three days in all-far from conclusive evidence that she followed an unchanging pattern.
Cesare stuffed the dagger back into his belt. He glanced at his hose and then pulled his doublet down as far as possible, hiding the slit as best he could. He didn't look back at the river.
At the parapet he heard voices. They filled him with a consuming dread. He knew they were looking for her. The voices came from people who must be standing on the bridge. There were several voices. He listened. A voice came out distinctly from the others…
“She came across the bridge just like everyday…”
And then another.
“Never should have left her. It was so near…”
Cesare didn't stay to hear any more. With his heart in his mouth, he crept down toward the river and slipped into the darkness of one of the great spans of the bridge. There he waited, quietly, hardly daring to breathe, hoping that the obvious wouldn't occur to them- to come down and scour the river bank.
For half an hour he waited, but nobody came down onto the bank and after a few minutes he crept slowly back to the Parapet higher up. The voices had gone; there was nobody about.
Not much later he let himself into the grounds of Cardinal Roderigo's house. His clothes were still in the garden shed. He changed, rolled the others into an unrecognizable ball and went into the house to his room. He was there, reading, when his father came to see him much later and tell him the news of the morrow-it was to be the crowning day for Christ's Vicar.