The Scarlet Contessa

by Jeanne Kalogridis

  “I am so glad that you have come, Madonna,” Lucrezia said, smiling faintly across the table at me. Lorenzo sat beside her; Giuliano and Marsilio, on either side of me. “Lorenzo says that he made your acquaintance in Pavia.” She paused to stare down at her steaming bowl; her gaze turned inward for an instant as she contemplated her words. “We were heartbroken when we heard of Matteo’s passing,” she added finally. “Tell me, did he ever speak of us to you?”

  “No,” I answered awkwardly. “Well, that is, I knew that he was friends with Ser Lorenzo.”

  “My late husband, Piero, saw to Matteo’s education,” Lucrezia responded. “Marsilio here was his teacher.” She took up her spoon, the signal for the rest of us to begin eating.

  Marsilio let go a sad, small sigh; his pale eyes were bright with affection. He was more emotional than the others, quicker to gesture, to smile, to weep, with a dreamy distraction in his gaze that marked artists and scholars.

  “A gentler, kinder lad never lived,” Marsilio said. “Nor a quicker one. He took to Greek and Latin as if he had been born knowing them; of course, he already had his French.” He colored suddenly, as though realizing he had said too much.

  I ventured the truth. “I have read the manuscript you gave Matteo, the one by Iamblichus. When my husband was dying, he told me where to find his hidden papers. I found Iamblichus, and three rituals—”

  “We will speak of that, and many other things,” Lucrezia said swiftly, pointedly, “after we have dined. There is much to discuss in private. But for now, let us speak of Matteo’s youth.”

  And she proceeded to tell me how one day an eleven-year-old boy came to scrub the floor of old Cosimo de’ Medici’s cell at San Marco. Cosimo had left him to his work, and returned to find the boy absorbed in reading a manuscript in Latin: one of Plato’s works, recently translated for Cosimo by his grandsons’ tutor, Marsilio Ficino. The boy apologized profusely for abandoning his scrubbing and for touching the manuscript. But when Cosimo asked him a few questions about what he had read, the boy responded with such intelligence that Cosimo was deeply impressed. He went to the abbot, and learned the boy was orphaned; his mother had died the year before, and he claimed to know nothing of his father.

  “And so,” Lucrezia said, “with Cosimo’s blessing, my husband, Piero, took charge of the boy’s education. Though he lived at San Marco with the monks, we often brought him here to play with the boys and take lessons from Marsilio. On holidays, we brought him here so that he could celebrate them with a family. And when he grew older, Piero sent him to the University of Pavia.

  “Lorenzo here often visited Duke Galeazzo—God rest his soul—in order to maintain good relations with Milan. While he was there on business on his father’s behalf, he learned that the duke’s secretary was looking for a good apprentice. And so we recommended Matteo to him.”

  Next to me, Giuliano half turned, smiling. His eyes held an exuberance that his brother’s lacked; his full lips were framed by fetching dimples. “He used to go with us to the Epiphany celebrations. He was my age, and he and Lorenzo and I would walk together behind the horses.”

  “Not too closely, and even then with great care where we stepped,” Lorenzo observed drily, and Giuliano responded with a short laugh before continuing.

  “Epiphany is tomorrow,” Giuliano said. “There will be a street procession from the House of Lords all the way to San Marco; Lorenzo will be on horseback dressed as Balthazar, one of the three Wise Men. Two other notable men have been selected to play magi, and I will be riding in Lorenzo’s entourage. It’s quite a beautiful old pageant. We were hoping that you might take part in it this year, and join us afterward for the feast.”

  He spoke with such warmth, such poignance, that I was moved, yet grief left me unwilling to countenance anything so festive. My eyes burned, and as they filled, Giuliano saw and took my hand in brotherly fashion.

  “Oh, dear Madonna Dea,” he said, genuinely stricken. “I did not mean to make you cry.” He cast about for something to cheer me, and said, “Perhaps I should now tell you how Matteo used to carry a slingshot, and one year struck the rump of one of the Wise Men’s mounts with a stone. The poor horse reared and sent the crowd scattering; it was a miracle the rider held on.”

  I managed a small smile, which satisfied him. Meanwhile, his mother said, “Don’t press her, Giuliano. Madonna Dea is in mourning and may well wish to forgo the procession.”

  “Please,” I said to them both, overwhelmed by the affection with which they spoke of Matteo and showed toward me. “Please call me Dea.”

  “Dea, then,” Lorenzo said with authority, as if establishing it for all. “Matteo has entrusted you with a great deal, Dea. He wrote to us of you.” He gave his mother a knowing look; Lucrezia responded with a nod, then spoke to the servants.

  “Matilda, Agnes,” she said, “and Donato, would you excuse us? We will summon you when we are ready for the next course.”

  The servants quietly took their leave. Once the great door was shut, and we four were alone, Lorenzo said softly, “Epiphany is very important to us Medici. Seven generations ago”—his voice took on a storyteller’s rhythm, as though he uttered a speech often rehearsed—“my family was entrusted with a great deal of oral wisdom—knowledge that was at once both a great privilege and a great burden—by a wise man of Egypt who called himself Baldazar. It was nothing less than the spiritual tradition of the ancients, and was later confirmed in writing by several sacred texts which my grandfather Cosimo was blessed to discover.”

  “A spiritual tradition?” I half whispered.

  “A means,” Marsilio interjected, in his breathy tenor, “by which the soul might unite itself with God.”

  “We are the bearers of holy gifts,” Lorenzo said softly. “Each man, each woman. Like the magi of old, we follow the star, knowing it will guide us to even greater treasure. Those of us who have been granted the knowledge and conversation of the angel have a duty to use our gifts to shine the light of the sacred star on others, not just for the good of Florence, but for the good of Italy, for the good of the world. This is why we Medici collect all the sacred things, all the ancient things; it is our duty, so that the old wisdom is not forgotten. It is why we have painted the Procession of the Magi on our chapel walls, why our family celebrates Epiphany as our special day.”

  “The angel,” I murmured, and when Lorenzo looked askance at me, I added, “the Holy Guardian Angel, the one Marsilio mentioned in his letter . . .”

  “The same,” he answered shortly. “We vow to obey that divine inner genius, even unto death. But it is something to be experienced, not discussed.”

  “Matteo must have known the angel,” I said, struggling to understand.

  “And he sent you to us, with his dying breath,” Lucrezia said. “Clearly, he wanted you to know this, else he would not have allowed you access to his papers.” She paused. “There is much we have to discuss, Dea, and more we will explain. In the meantime, it would be best for us to finish our luncheon.” She nodded to Giuliano, who reached behind him to pull a tasseled cord hanging from the ceiling.

  In less than a minute, the servants reappeared, bearing more food. We finished eating while the others told me humorous stories about Matteo’s youth. I treasured each one, yet none of them explained the secret that troubled me most of all: why my husband would not take me to his bed.

  After the meal, Lucrezia wished to speak to me alone; we left the men downstairs and went up to her chambers on the third level. Although the rest of the rooms were filled with exquisite paintings, relics, busts, and jewels on display, Lucrezia’s suite was austerely elegant, without a single painting on the wall save one of an angel announcing the coming of the Christ child to a young, golden-haired Mary. It was also entirely empty; the Medici matron had apparently informed her staff of her desire for privacy.

  Lucrezia settled in the antechamber, in a padded chair in front of a writing desk by the flickering hearth. A second chair had b
een set beside hers, and she patted it in invitation. I sat, struggling to digest what I had already learned.

  Clearly, Matteo, Lorenzo, Marsilio, and probably Giuliano had all performed the rituals I had discovered in my husband’s secret cabinet, and had evoked the angel.

  It was also becoming clear to me that my husband—a close intimate of the Medici, gone to serve at Galeazzo’s court—had also served as Lorenzo’s spy. Why else had Lorenzo, a secret visitor to Milan before Christmas, been eagerly awaiting a message from Matteo? A message that had been utterly cryptic: Romulus and the Wolf mean to destroy you.

  “This has not been an easy day for you,” she remarked, drawing me from my thoughts. “Too sad, and filled with too many shocks.” She opened the little desk drawer and pulled out a small rectangular bundle wrapped in black silk. “I’m afraid it isn’t over yet.”

  She set the bundle upon the dark glossy wood and untied the silk, then spread it out over the desktop, revealing the hidden contents.

  It was a deck of triumph cards—not so large as those Lorenzo had given Bona, nor as fine, though the backs of the cards bore a similar design, of vases, twining leaves, and flowers. But the thin film of gesso plaster on which the illustrations had been painted was cracked and chipped in places from heavy use.

  I gasped and picked them up without asking permission, turned them over, and fanned them in my hands. Here were images I had known since childhood: the terrifying Tower, with its lightning bolt and shattered stone; the barefoot pauper called the Fool; the Wheel of Fortune; and, of course, the Papess, in her golden tiara and white veil.

  The Papess. I looked up at Lucrezia, and recognized her at once.

  “Do you remember these cards?” she asked softly.

  “I do . . .” I spread them out upon the table; the chalices, the swords, the coins, the batons: I knew them all, yet did not remember how. I fingered the cards wistfully, tenderly. There, the Hanged Man, my poor sacrificed Matteo. There, the flighty, vengeful Knave of Swords, the courageous Queen of Batons. I caressed them as I would family.

  “These were your mother’s,” Lucrezia said.

  I glanced up, dumbstruck. My hand, which had been hovering over the Queen of Batons, picked her up and clutched her tightly.

  “Before she died, she came here to Florence,” Lucrezia continued. “To the convent of Le Murate. The Medici men support San Marco, and go there to meditate and pray; we Medici women do the same for Le Murate. The abbot, the abbess, are our dear friends. Nothing happens at either cloister that we do not soon learn about.”

  I closed my eyes briefly and thought of the great cedar in the convent garden; I understood now why its fragrance had provoked my tears.

  “Do you remember anything about your mother?” she asked gently.

  I shook my head.

  “Matteo indicated to us that you did not.” She drew a long breath. “I know only that her name was Elisabeth, that she was French, that her husband had cast her from his house when you were very small. She fled to Milan first, and there she suffered the misfortune of reading Duke Galeazzo’s future.” She paused; her voice dropped to a low murmur. “Your mother was a very beautiful woman.”

  My hand, which still gripped the Queen of Batons, began to tremble. “You needn’t say more; I know what the duke did to beautiful women.”

  She bowed her head. “Elisabeth foretold a bad end for the duke, and warned him to change his ways, or he would die at the hands of his enemies. Such talk enraged Galeazzo, who beat her almost to death, then raped her.”

  The light dimmed suddenly, as if someone had blown out a taper; the walls in the spacious antechamber grew abruptly close. I closed my eyes and saw the duke staring down at the Tower card: Mother of God, it’s she! A ghost come back to haunt me!

  Lucrezia’s gaze was focused on the distant past. “After the duke was finished with her, her young son struck Galeazzo with a candlestick and they managed to escape. Galeazzo’s secretary, Cicco Simonetta, is a decent man who abhorred his master’s cruelty. While the duke was incapacitated, Cicco saw her and her children to the stables, gave her a horse and provisions and instructed her to head to Florence, where she would be safe.

  “She rode with her children here, and sought refuge at Le Murate. The attack left her pregnant; even though the nuns took good care of her, she lost the baby. Afterward . . . she was never the same. She lost her reason, and desired only revenge against the duke.” Lucrezia sighed. “As a mother, I understand. There were rumors that Galeazzo had vowed revenge against her little boy. And so one day she left her children behind to return to Milan. She had acquired a dagger, and managed to get near enough to him to graze him with it, but she was quickly surrounded by guards.” She dropped her gaze. “She was hung in the public square outside the cathedral in Milan.”

  “Children,” I said. “So I was not the only one. Are the others still alive?”

  She shook her head sadly. “There was only one other, a boy. He was older than you, perhaps ten, when it happened; you were only three. You must have seen it all. When his mother was attacked, the boy threw himself on the duke and pummeled him; the duke struck him so hard that he was slammed back against the wall.

  “Elisabeth fled Milan in part because she was terrified for her son’s sake; striking the duke’s royal person is a crime punishable by death. So when she came to Le Murate, she asked that the boy be moved to San Marco, and his name changed.”

  “What was his name?” I pressed.

  “Guillaume. And yours was Desiree.”

  The names were meaningless to me. I drew a deep breath and asked a question whose answer I feared. “What happened to him?”

  Lucrezia faced me squarely. Her eyes were very large and sorrowful. “He died. But not before he grew into a man. We educated him and sent him to the university at Pavia. Because of his great heart and talent, Marsilio initiated him into the secrets of the Magi. But once he learned that he had a sister at the court of Milan, he insisted on finding employment there, so that he could watch over her himself. He could not tell her the truth, lest the duke get wind of it and punish him and his sister. But he intended to bring her to Florence eventually, and to reveal all. Of course, he had pressing business to finish for Lorenzo before he could leave the duke’s employ.”

  I heard my husband whisper: Perhaps we could go together to Florence, to meet some of my friends there.

  The Queen of Batons slipped from my fingers; I pressed my palms hard against my eyes. “Matteo,” I whispered, and drew a ragged, hitching breath, then released it as a wail. “Oh, Matteo, my dear brother . . .”

  Chapter Nine

  All my doubts concerning Matteo’s affection for me fell away. I had never realized just how deep and constant his love for me had been.

  “Why did no one tell me he was my brother?” I moaned, bitter at the realization that I had lost my only surviving family member. “Why?”

  Lucrezia wrapped her arms about me tightly until I grew calm enough to listen again.

  After my mother had left me in the nuns’ care to meet her fate in Milan, I became withdrawn and mute and forgot everything about my former existence, including my family. For almost five years I lived at Le Murate as an orphan until I came to Lucrezia’s attention; the abbess had kept her promise to my mother to reveal my identity to no one, for my own safety. But two years later, the abbess and many of the sisters died during an outbreak of plague in the convent; only one surviving sister remembered my story and relayed it to Lucrezia some time after. She in turn compared notes with her husband, Piero, and realized that she had finally located Matteo’s lost sister.

  But by then, Bianca Maria, the duke’s mother, had learned from Cicco that the boy and girl of the hanged mother were in Florence. Eager to make amends for her son’s wickedness, Bianca Maria secretly searched for them, hoping to adopt them. She could not locate Matteo at all, and by the time she located me at Le Murate, she was dying, so she confided in the duke’s good-hearted new
wife, Bona of Savoy, who was also determined to right Galeazzo’s wrongs.

  In the middle of the night, Bona’s agents stole into the convent and took me away, back to Milan, where I became the “natural daughter” of one of Bona’s “disgraced but noble” cousins.

  Lucrezia was terrified that the duke had taken revenge on me; it took her months to discover what had actually happened. By then, she deemed it safest to let me remain under Bona’s gentle care. But Matteo was inconsolable at the thought of his sister living under the same roof as their mother’s murderer. As soon as he was grown, he went to Milan to look after me . . . and, in time, to bring me back to Florence.

  “The nun who took care of your mother at Le Murate kept the cards because Elisabeth asked that they be given to you, when you were old enough,” Lucrezia told me, after I had calmed. A note of regret crept into her tone. “I wish I had had the chance to meet her, because such a talent must not be misused. I would have offered her the secrets of the Magi . . . and the knowledge of the angel, so that she could have offered her ability up to God. Instead, her anger destroyed her.”

  She paused and leveled her serene, knowing gaze at me. “You have your mother’s gift, Dea. Lorenzo saw it, and Matteo told us as much.”

  “How do I know it doesn’t come from the Devil?” I demanded, suddenly fearful. “The manuscript spoke of demons, not angels, and of pagan gods. And the rituals Matteo left behind . . . they use stars and circles and barbarous names.”