The Scarlet Contessa

by Jeanne Kalogridis

  “The names of God,” Lucrezia corrected. “And the Greek word daemon usually refers to a divine genius, not an evil spirit.” She gestured at the cards. “Dea, do you truly believe these are evil?”

  “Bona says they are,” I said, and stopped myself. What did I believe? “They represent . . . people, sometimes. And forces, like fire, or the wind.” I pondered it a moment. “I suppose the wind is neither good nor evil.”

  “It can destroy and shatter,” Lucrezia agreed, “or power a great ship. Forces simply are, Dea. Their worth depends upon the purpose for which they are used.” She gathered up the cards in her long, bony hands and held them out to me. “These are yours now. So are the rituals and the manuscript that Matteo left for you.”

  I hesitated. “The ritual is for summoning the angel?”

  Lucrezia nodded.

  “And if I summon it, then what?”

  She smiled faintly. “That is between you and the angel. It will show you the purpose of the life God has given you, and give you special help so that you might fulfill it.”

  I took the cards. They were warm from Lucrezia’s touch, and worn from my mother’s hands.

  I had many more questions for Lucrezia, some of which she answered that day. For example, the brown powder in the little pouch—“which must never be discussed, as the profane cannot understand it,” she said—was to be taken in a bit of wine just before the ritual was begun, and all three rituals were to be performed in a certain order.

  The revelations of the day strained my nerves and emotions and left me exhausted. Lucrezia insisted that I stay the night at the Palazzo Medici, and sent word of the fact to my driver, asking that my things be brought to me. I stayed alone in the modest bedroom that had belonged to Lucrezia’s now-married eldest daughter, Nannina, which overlooked the courtyard.

  I did not have the will to come down to supper, or to join the carnival celebrations beginning outside in the street; instead, I lay on Nannina’s straw and feather bed and stared up at the stucco ceiling, overwhelmed by sadness, regret, love, and bittersweet gratitude.

  I was filled with other, darker emotions, too: hatred, and the craving for swift and bloody justice. I was pleased that Duke Galeazzo had died violently, as my mother and I had predicted; her death had already been avenged. But Matteo’s had not.

  I decided that I already knew my life’s purpose: that of taking revenge on my brother’s murderers—on the Wolf and Romulus, whether Lorenzo was willing to reveal their identities or not. And so I resolved to use the powder, the rituals, and the angel for a cause I believed to be just.

  A maid brought me a warm supper that evening. The singing and shouting out in the broad Via Larga kept me awake until very late, as did the happy voices of visitors inside the palazzo.

  I woke the next morning to a muted cascade of church bells from San Marco, not far down the broad cobblestoned street, and San Lorenzo just to the east, and from the magnificent Duomo farther south. I opened my eyes knowing that I would tell Bona I had discovered Matteo’s surviving family—it was not entirely a lie—and wanted nothing more than to return to Florence, and to them. I knew that if I made my plea passionately, she would grant it. After all, Lorenzo was my one connection to the Wolf and Romulus; he had the answers I sought.

  I declined that morning to join the parade through the city streets. Instead, I attended mass with Lucrezia in the Medici family chapel, whose walls were adorned with a fresco of the procession of the Magi, rendered in vivid scarlets, greens, and sapphires, all gilded and gleaming with candlelight. Afterward she and I went up to a second-floor window and waited for the pageant to pass by in the street below.

  Clad in black and white, the trumpeters marched at the head of the parade, blaring notice of their arrival. Behind them strode the standard-bearers, dressed in brilliant stripes of saffron, red, and blue and carrying the red and white flags that bore the fleur-de-lis of Florence. Next came costumed pedestrians, some of who threw brightly colored streamers of cloth into the cheering crowd.

  And then came Lorenzo, first of the Magi, upon a white horse grandly caparisoned in gold and red; the rider was similarly dressed in gold brocade and a red velvet cape, with a tasseled Moorish turban upon his head. Lorenzo’s smile was broader, more carefree, than I’d ever seen it; in a grand, giddy gesture, he threw coins into the crowd. Beside him, dressed in a red felt cap and the plain tunic of a servant, was his younger brother, Giuliano. I stared down at them, at the fluttering gold and blue pennants, and could think only of how Matteo must have looked riding there.

  I attended the banquet that afternoon. The sweetly beaming Marsilio attended, along with a number of young men whose names sounded vaguely familiar, among them Leonardo da Vinci and Alessandro Botticelli. Lucrezia sat at my side and smoothly answered questions on my behalf, deftly disarming any that were too prying, too painful.

  Afterward the men adjourned to a meeting hall on the ground floor; Lucrezia took my elbow and steered me away, whispering, “It is a meeting of the Society of the Magi, for those who are initiated. Don’t worry, Lorenzo will merely repeat what he told you before. I’m afraid we women are not allowed to attend, as most of the men are too foolish to realize that we are just as capable of spiritual attainment as they are.” She chuckled softly. “May God grant them all wisdom.”

  By then, I had resolved to leave for Milan as soon as possible, and informed her. She was sad that I would be leaving so soon, but I told her of my intent to return to Florence very quickly, and to remain here forever.

  I asked her then whether she would read my triumph cards for me; she hesitated, and shook her head. “That is not my gift, but yours.”

  “And what is your gift?” I asked.

  She gave a secretive little smile. “Similar to yours. But I use no cards. I simply see.”

  Quietly, so that servants passing in the hall might not hear, I murmured, “And what do you see for me, Madonna Lucrezia?”

  The smile faded; her gaze grew somber. “A longer and more unusual journey than you expect, dear Dea.”

  She would not elaborate. I sat with her an hour that evening, asking questions about Matteo—what he had been like as a boy, what he had said about me. She showed me the most recent letter he had written to her in his lovely cipher; Marsilio had kindly written the decrypted message above it, in his distinctive hand.

  My brother described me as intelligent, beautiful, generous, and thoughtful. He spoke of how the deception of marrying me broke his heart, though it was necessary to protect me from physical abuse; he spoke of his worry that I would never trust him again once I learned the truth. I could not listen to his words without weeping.

  When all the servants were out of earshot, I whispered to Lucrezia, “When should I perform them? The rituals to summon the angel?”

  She raised her thin dark brows in mild surprise. “That is not for me to answer, child. You will know when it is time.”

  Worn from emotion, I again retired early to Nannina’s bedchamber, and when the maid left me for the night, I took out my mother’s triumph cards. Sitting upon the bed, I mumbled a prayer to the angel—whatever, whoever it might be—then set out three cards facedown, just as I had for Caterina.

  Past, present, future.

  I turned over the first card. Upon a white background, four gold-tipped swords pointed at the ground; a second set of four downward-pointing swords crossed them, forming a diamond-shaped lattice at the card’s center. I sensed steel clashing against steel: there was dissension here, interference of an internal sort, deception and confusion; and when I saw a ninth sword, its hilt upon the ground, its tip pointing straight up through the center of the crossed blades, I felt as though it pierced me to my core.

  The Nine of Swords represented the past, one that held pain to the point of madness. As I stared at the swords, I fancied blood dripping like tears from the tip of each blade, and felt a strong sense that while this had been my past, it might also be my present and future unless th
is pain was resolved.

  “The present,” I said aloud, and turned over the Fool.

  At the sight of it, I felt an unreasoning dismay. This is wrong, I thought involuntarily; this was someone else’s destiny, not mine. But then I cast about for ways that it might have a desired meaning; and, as minds often do, mine misled me, with the comforting notion that This is merely the trip back to Pavia, then to Florence again. Not such a long journey after all. It was coincidence, and nothing more, that I had drawn the same card I had given Caterina.

  At least, I convinced myself of it, until I turned over the third card representing the future, and saw the Tower.

  Caterina’s terrified words echoed in my mind. It’s a trick, all of it! You’re doing this to frighten me!

  The stucco and tapestry of Nannina’s bedroom walls changed suddenly to the thick stone of a castle keep. Thunder roared in my ears so violently that I reached out to press a hand to the stone, and felt it shudder violently.

  Panicked, I tried desperately to remember what I had told Caterina.

  This does not mean death. But this is an upheaval, an end to old ways. This is destruction. . . .

  You have a long journey ahead of you. A journey, I knew, of years. Perhaps along the way, you will find a way to avert whatever disaster this card represents.

  “I do not want this,” I hissed. I wanted nothing to do with spoiled, selfish Caterina and her undoubtedly well-deserved fate.

  I put the cards away and did my best not to think of them again that night. The destiny they revealed seemed senseless, the angel a vague and distant philosophical concept.

  Nonetheless, I spent the hours before sleep studying the three rituals. Even after I blew out the lamp, I lay on the bed, arm raised, and, just as I had seen Matteo do, traced stars in the dark.

  In the early morning, my driver and wagon were waiting for me out in the Via Larga. I took my leave of Lucrezia with a familial embrace and kiss; I did not have the opportunity to say good-bye to Lorenzo or his brother, who were both still sleeping after the previous day’s revelries. Hidden in my cloak pocket were the rituals, the powder, and my mother’s triumph cards.

  The first two days of travel were uneventful. The weather remained unusually warm, and the driver’s wife’s health was much improved; she sat on the seat beside her husband while I sat inside, the canvas flap closed, and set to memorizing the barbarous calls that were to accompany the drawing of the stars and circle.

  By the evening of the third day, a cold breeze stirred and sent dark clouds scurrying across the sky. The air smelled of rain, and the driver stopped at the inn a few hours’ south of Modena, where we had stayed before. I dined on cabbage, bread, and wild boar, then bought a half flagon of wine and carried it to my private room. Although it had no hearth, the innkeeper’s wife brought me heated bricks for the bed.

  I bolted the door, shuttered the windows, undressed to my wool chemise, and drank most of the wine; the prospect of asking Bona to release me from her service made me anxious. In time, I fell into an uneasy sleep.

  Some hours later, a boom jolted me full awake. I sat, heart pounding, and listened to thunder roll off the nearby mountains. I felt an odd anticipation, as if an event of enormous import were about to pass.

  A profound determination seized me: it was the time to summon the angel.

  The thought left me exhilarated and terrified; my hands shook as I laid the rituals out upon the bed and found the little pouch containing the powder. As Lucrezia had instructed, I put some of the powder into the wine—only a pinch at first, then another, then a third, and finally, a larger amount, for I suddenly could not remember how much I was to use.

  The draught was noxious. I downed half of it before deciding that I had probably added too much powder, and set to performing the rituals at once. The whole business took half an hour. At the end, I stood in the center of my invisible circle, waiting for the angel to appear.

  Nothing happened. I felt a sudden hot flush, followed by nausea, and staggered to the bed, realizing that my limbs were difficult to move. I lay down beneath a crushing heaviness and closed my eyes; even so, I felt the walls slowly revolving around me.

  After a period of misery, the nausea grew urgent; I leaned over the edge of the bed and emptied my stomach onto the worn stone floor. Relief came immediately; with the dizziness gone, I fell back into a delightful languor.

  The low, many-times-patched ceiling no longer spun. Instead, it began to shimmer, as if each tiny, golden atom were dancing and twinkling like stars. I watched, delighted, as they began to form shapes: wreaths inside infinite wreaths of bas relief flowers and vines, as if the creamy stucco were blooming tondi sculpted by artists, as if I lay staring up at the inner dome of a great cathedral and not the tired ceiling of an aging inn. The wreaths swelled like clouds, like rising dough, then sank again, only to repeat the process.

  Abruptly, the walls fell away: I lay alone on the bed in the center of the inky storm. Overhead, rain fell in sheets, though magically none of it struck me; it pulsed with distant lightning while the racing clouds parted fleetingly to reveal glimpses of a filmy, luminous moon. Images born from the storm coalesced, only to be dissolved again by the wind: the Tower, whole and as yet unshattered; the Fool, one foot lifted in mid-step toward the chasm; the Nine of Swords, every blade dripping blood. Each time lightning kissed the dark, distant Apennines, coins, chalices, swords, and batons glittered in the sky.

  The absurdity of the present moment struck me: of my lying there in the storm, of Matteo poisoned and dead, of my mother’s cards, still hidden in the cloak upon the chair, of Duke Galeazzo crying I am dead! It was so hideous that I wept, so meaningless that I laughed. So much struggling, so much pain, and all of it for nothing.

  At the clutch of grief, I told myself not to weep; Matteo was at peace, with God, his suffering ended. Or was it? If God did not hear my prayers, if God had let Matteo die, then how did I know He would take him to Heaven?

  Worse, if the angel had let Matteo die, then how could I trust it?

  “Matteo,” I groaned aloud, clutching my head, then laughed to remember that he had been my own brother all along, and I too much of a fool to see it.

  The nocturnal scene above me shuddered. I sat up to find that the bare wall had been replaced by smoke; fingers of white mist were streaming up from the threshold where the wall had once met the floor. They rose, swirling against the backdrop of dark sky to form a column slightly broader and taller than I. Faster, faster the mist swirled, until it grew entirely opaque; just as swiftly it stilled, and began to part.

  In its place stood the living night: the outline of a grown man, its form blacker than the sky surrounding us, and darkly glittering, like coal. Its features, hair, and dress were obscured by impenetrable shadow, yet I knew it faced me. For long seconds, we remained motionless, watching each other.

  “Who are you?” I breathed at last, and remembered enough of Matteo’s instructions to demand: “By what name shall I call you?”

  The sentient darkness took a step toward me; as it did, the sky behind it transformed into a yellowed stucco wall with scarred wainscoting. In a wholly human gesture, it lowered itself onto its haunches and leaned, glistening onyx, against the wall.

  I stared, transfixed, terrified, exhilarated.

  Dea. The words formed themselves distinctly inside my skull, but they were not my thoughts. You will know that only after you vow to obey me unto death. Only then will I be able to share with you my secrets.

  Thinking myself clever, I countered, “How can I do that, when I cannot even see who or what you are?”

  You know me. You’ve always known me. If you cannot see me, it is because I reflect the darkness in your own soul.

  “What darkness?” I had spent my entire life trying to be good, to please God and Bona and everyone but myself. It was not my fault that God had failed me.

  It gnaws at you. If you do not expel it, it will ultimately devour you.

 
“What darkness?” I insisted.

  The key to it has already come to you in the cards. The key to your past. It must be expunged if you are to move into the present, into the future . . . toward your destiny, as one of the magi.

  “But I have done nothing wrong! I am an innocent victim trying to discover who . . .” My words grew thick. “Who killed my brother. Please, help me.”

  The angel was suddenly upon his feet; the swirling darkness that was his form dulled as its glittering motion slowed.

  The key to your own darkness has already come to you in the cards. When you have mastered it and taken the vow, you will see me. I am but a mirror of your soul.

  “Can you not help me now?”

  The help you need is not the help you seek. Vow to obey me unto death, and I will reveal all.

  I hesitated. Even though my darling Matteo had trusted the angel enough to have left me instructions for contacting it, it had not protected him from a terrible death. And I had no intention of giving up my quest to find his killer.

  “I will obey,” I replied cautiously, adding silently insofar as I am able. I bowed my head. “Please, come to me, and reveal your name. Reveal how and why my brother died, and I shall trouble you no more.”

  My feeble attempt at deception failed.

  I am already here. But your darkness shackles my tongue and hides my true form. If you would be a true magus, and know all things, seek me honestly.

  A cold gust howled through the room, lifting my hair and chilling me to the core. I lifted an arm to shield my eyes, and watched as the black form began again to swirl and glitter like coal dust. Invisible drops of freezing rain stung my face, my shoulders.

  “Tell me what I must do!” I cried, but my words were swallowed by the gale.

  The angel’s form grew thinner, sheerer, until I could see the wall behind it; the words that had sounded so clearly in my head now faded to something less than a whisper.

  The key has already come to you in the cards. . . . The key to your past is also the key to your future. . . .