The wind roared in my ears; thunder rolled off the mountains. I shut my eyes against the stinging rain, covered my ears with my hands, and howled.
By morning the storm had passed, and I had mostly returned to my senses, save for a lingering appreciation of color and form. I remembered the encounter with the angel vividly, and over the next two days of travel, sat inside the wagon meditating on my mother’s triumph cards—specifically, those of the Fool, the Tower and, especially, the Nine of Swords.
The key to your past . . .
I set the three cards beside me on the cushion, faceup, then fanned the others in my hands and stared at them: trumps, batons, swords, chalices, coins. Words came to mind, words that seemed to spring from an external source.
Batons represent will; swords, thoughts; chalices, feelings; coins, material goods. Trumps represent experiences that all of us must pass through, in this life or another. . . .
I stared back down at the Nine of Swords, and heard: Cruelty, and self-cruelty. Pain to the point of madness. I closed my eyes, and saw blood dripping from the blades of the eight lowered swords—and from the one sword pointed heavenward.
If there had been cruelty in my past, I told myself, it had never been self-directed. The duke had killed my mother, and a different monster my brother. Any wound I suffered was their fault, not mine.
Thus deluded, I rolled through the Emilia into Lombardy, and back to the Castle Pavia.
We arrived home in the late afternoon of a fine, sunny winter’s day. I went from the stables to Matteo’s room. I intended to sleep there from now on, with Bona’s permission. I needed privacy to decipher Matteo’s letters, to work with the cards, and to communicate further with the angel.
I bathed and dressed and went to seek the duchess. I waded through a crowd of courtiers and petitioners waiting in the hall to find Bona in Duke Galeazzo’s gilded, mirrored office, looking dwarfed by his enormous carved desk. Bona was quite short, and the effect would have been enhanced had she not replaced his thronelike seat with her own smaller, feminine chair. She was dressed with more care than she had ever been; her black mourning gown had a bodice quilted with thread of gold and studded with seed pearls. Rubies sparkled at her ears and throat, and her veil was held in place with a headband of gold filigree inlaid with tiny diamonds.
Cicco Simonetta, tall and thick as an oak at sixty years, stood beside her as she squinted down at a letter on the desk. Across from her stood a nervous young lad in noble dress.
I pressed to the front of the crowd and bowed low. “With your permission, Your Grace,” I called, ignoring the guards flanking the doorway, each of whom directed a scowl at me for calling to the duchess out of turn.
Bona looked up. She seemed weary, and her brow was lined; her pale, small eyes were limned by purple shadows. But at the sight of me, she broke into a bright smile and waved for me to approach.
“Dea! Dea, my darling, my prayers have been answered! God has brought you safely home to me! How do you fare?” She did not rise from her seat—though before the duke died, she would have rushed to embrace me—but instead held out her jeweled hands and inclined her cheek toward me. “Come, come!”
Dutifully, I kissed the proffered cheek and took her hand; it was cold, even though the room was stiflingly warm from the blaze in the fireplace. She maintained a slight air of formality—great responsibility had changed her—and beyond that, an odd emotional distance.
“You look well,” she said, smiling.
“And you look grand, Your Grace.”
“How was your journey?”
“Uneventful,” I said.
She let go of my hand to cross herself. “Thank God!” She paused. “I am afraid I have little time now for conversation, but perhaps after supper, we shall speak again. As you can see, I have more petitioners than I have minutes in a day. However . . . if there is anything you have need of today, on your return, ask it now, and I will grant it.”
I had not meant to speak of my plans so soon or so publicly, but I could see how enormously busy she was; it might be impossible to get her attention for some time in the future. “Your Grace,” I said, “I do have a petition of my own.”
Bona smiled, waiting.
“I discovered that Matteo had family in Florence. It is my hope that I might return to live there, to be near them. However, I can remain here for as long as Your Grace wishes, of course . . .”
Bona listened, her expression mildly pleasant; if she was offended that I wished to spurn her generosity, she showed no sign. “You had best take this up with Madonna Caterina,” she said.
I looked up. “Caterina?”
Bona let go a sigh. “She is your mistress now. She was so distraught when you left that she came to me weeping and begged me to place you in her service. Her father’s death has not been easy for her, and she said your company would give her great comfort. What else could I do?” She rubbed her eyes, then gazed back down at the letter upon her desk; her tone grew distracted. “I will abide by whatever she says.”
With those words, I was dismissed from Her Grace’s care and presence.
Chapter Ten
Caterina was at the hunt, taking advantage of the warmer weather. I went to the stables and watched the riders return, their forms dark against the coral glow at the horizon. Caterina rode at the head astride a chestnut mare, her stockinged calves bared, one hand on the reins, the other dangling a dead hare by the scruff of the neck to tease the pair of eager hounds in the basket fastened to her saddle. Her hair had been woven into a single plait, to keep it out of her eyes, but her headdress had come off during the hard ride, leaving a disheveled gold halo about her head. Her face was flushed from exercise and sun; the young master of the hunt rode beside her, and laughed with her at the hounds’ desperation.
There was something newly womanish in her appearance and manner; she had passed her fourteenth birthday in my absence and, I suspected, a feminine milestone. Over the past year, her cheeks had thinned, losing their girlish plumpness; her breasts had grown full, her waist narrow. Now, for the first time, I watched her flirt with a man. She made a saucy comment to the master, and tossed her head, laughing, as she gazed sideways at him.
I watched unobserved until Caterina finally glanced in my direction. She urged her tired mare into a trot, deserting the others, and came to a halt a few arms’ lengths away. She ignored the help proffered by a stablehand, gathered up her skirts and neatly swung down from her mount, then tossed the reins to the groom.
She strode up to me, and, to my utter astonishment, embraced me so urgently that it pushed the breath from me; her heart was hammering beneath her bodice.
Just as suddenly, she pushed me away, and struck me so hard across the cheek that it sent me staggering; I bit my tongue, and spat blood upon the damp earth.
When I looked up, her blue eyes were narrowed and gleaming with tears.
“You will never leave me again!” Her voice was hoarse, her tone bitter. “Never again, do you hear?!”
Imperious, furious, she turned and left me standing there, with my hand to my jaw.
I did not dare broach the subject of Florence with Caterina for some weeks. By then I had learned that Bona, worried about uprisings and eager to gain the protection of the pope’s army, had agreed with Pope Sixtus IV that the best strategy would be to marry Caterina off quickly to her betrothed: Girolamo Riario, the pope’s nephew (such was the euphemism for Sixtus’s son) and captain general of the Papal Army.
In February, Pope Sixtus sent Cardinal Mellini to Milan to arrange a proxy wedding. When spring arrived, Caterina was to travel to Rome to meet her new husband and take up permanent residence with him there.
And I was to go with her, as her first lady-in-waiting.
It was an honor, Bona chided me, when I finally went to her, weeping, begging to be permitted to go to Florence, or at the very least, to remain with Her Grace—anything but be forced to go to Rome with the duke’s spoiled daughter.
Caterina reminded me at least daily, sometimes hourly, that I was to remain by her side, and to keep the triumph cards nearby so that she could consult them whenever she wished. I never slept again in Matteo’s chamber, but in Caterina’s bed. She was slow to forget her bitterness over my departure, with the result that I found myself in the odd position of being both favored—with sumptuous clothes, jewelry and perfumes, and the choicest food—and constantly chastised for all manner of imaginary misdeeds.
After one such scolding—when I was slapped at the dining table by Caterina, who claimed that the goblet she knocked over herself was somehow my fault—I reached my limit and strode away from the table, brazenly refusing to ask my lady’s permission. I knew I would be punished, but did not care. I half ran to Matteo’s chamber, and bolted the door behind me.
“Tell me,” I whispered passionately to the angel. “Must I go to Rome? Can I not go to Florence?” I bowed my head, awaiting an answer. But in my heart, my head, there came only silence.
At last I lifted my face as, for the first time, reason dawned. Matteo had died returning from Rome. He had been traveling with papal legates, had he not? And the mysterious rider who had delivered him had also spoken with a Roman accent.
His murderer was in Rome. Fate—and perhaps the angel—had not failed me after all.
“Very well,” I whispered. “I will go to Rome. I will obey you. Now reveal yourself to me.”
A long silence followed; the angel was not fooled. But I was resigned to my fate. I slowly returned, back through the courtyard and up the stairs to face my punishment.
A fortnight later, Caterina and a small entourage traveled to the castle of Porta Giovia in Milan, still draped in black in honor of the late duke. We went to meet Cardinal Mellini, who had arrived earlier from Rome. There, in a solemn, hushed ceremony, Caterina was wed by proxy to her betrothed, Girolamo Riario, who was far too preoccupied to attend the ceremony. Because of the official state of mourning, no celebrations followed.
Now a contessa, Caterina was eager to leave the memory of her father’s assassination behind in order to head to Rome. But Girolamo was adamant; a spell of abnormally hot weather had brought an outbreak of deadly fever to the Holy City. Worse, there had been unrest among feuding noble families, which had led to battles just outside the city walls. The situation had grown so grave that Girolamo had narrowly escaped assassination. I cannot in good conscience expose my young bride to such dangers, he wrote.
Caterina and patience, however, remained strangers. At least once a day, she disturbed the overburdened Bona to make her case for an immediate departure for Rome. Worn down, Bona at last wrote Girolamo asking for permission to send him his eager bride. It was all the duchess-regent could do to make Caterina wait long enough to receive a reply.
Girolamo was a determined man: Under no circumstances can I permit her to come to Rome at this dangerous time, he wrote. But if she will not be placated, let her start her journey southward and go to Imola. I will notify the townspeople that she is coming, and make certain that she is feted and well cared for. But she must stay there until I send for her.
Imola—a little town in the Romagna, south of Milan and north of Rome—had long been owned by the Sforza; upon Caterina’s engagement, it had been promised as her dowry to Girolamo, who eagerly accepted the terms. Born of peasant stock, Girolamo had been a customs clerk in a fishing village until his “uncle’s” elevation thrust him into a more glorious role, and Imola gave him the opportunity to finally acquire the title of count. All of Imola would turn out to properly welcome Caterina, their contessa, and would see that she was well cared for until her husband summoned her to Rome.
Caterina accepted the invitation with great excitement, and was elated when Girolamo insisted on sending an escort of more than a hundred men, including the bishop of Cesena and the governor of Imola, as well as trumpeters, guards, and assorted dignitaries from Caterina’s new kingdom. On a bright morning in late April, I took my place beside her in a luxuriously appointed carriage, and left the life I had known at the court of Milan behind forever.
PART II
Rome
April 1477–October 1484
Chapter Eleven
We made our way southwest over the ancient Via Emilia, worn by the tread of Roman legions. It was the very path Matteo had taken on his last journey, and I thought often of him as our great caravan wended its way from town to town, from Piacenza to Reggio nell’Emilia, and beyond. The road was level and boringly straight; we passed dozens of travelers who paused to gape at our magnificent cavalcade with its fluttering flags and banners: the crimson and white Sforza arms of a basilisk swallowing a naked child, the golden oak against sky blue of the della Rovere and Riario, and the golden tiara and keys of Pope Sixtus himself. At every city, our messengers rode ahead to announce the imminent arrival of Her Illustrious Highness, Caterina Sforza, and all the local dignitaries rode out to greet her, to the blaring of trumpets and cheering of hastily assembled crowds.
She dined and slept in the palaces of the ruling families, who publicly praised her grace, beauty, and manner and sent additional escorts with her to add to the carnival atmosphere. With each day, her bearing grew prouder, her behavior toward underlings ruder; by the time we reached Bologna to be welcomed by the family Bentivoglio, she had adopted her father’s arrogance. During the day, she treated me with such contempt that I came to despise her for it; only at night, when I lay beside her in a strange bed, did she sound like the frightened child who had wept when I abandoned her.
After eleven days of torturously slow progress, we rolled into the lush, fertile region dotted with orchards, vineyards, and wheat fields known as the Romagna.
By Milanese standards, the Romagna was provincial and fiercely independent; the region was broken into several small fiefdoms. The Malatesta family held the town and outlying areas of Rimini, and the Ordelaffi clan the town of Forlì; various other families claimed other towns, and skirmishes between rivals were common. They agreed on only one thing: their shared disdain for the pope, who yearned to unite them, preferably under his rule.
An hour before sunset, our carriage rolled over a slight promontory. When we reached the crest, Imola lay before us, a trifling town with its eastern flank nestled against the languidly snaking Santerno River.
At the sight of it, Caterina let go a small gasp of delight and beamed.
I followed her gaze, perplexed; had I been in her place, I would have been painfully disappointed. Compared to Milan or even bucolic Pavia, Imola was one of the more provincial hamlets we had passed. West of it stood a great square fortress, its towers bleached to bone by the sun, its base ringed in dark green mold from the moat. Beyond it lay the redbrick city walls; inside them was a sparse collection of buildings set upon a few dusty roads. I counted five churches and as many convents, a small government hall, a marketplace, and a half dozen dwellings suitable for nobility. The rest of Imola was given over to pasture, crops, or hovels for the poor, most of the latter huddled on the riverbank.
“All mine,” Caterina whispered to herself, her eyes wide with awe and desire. She was staring at the garlands of flowers set upon either side of the road leading to the gate, its doors thrown open beneath a huge crimson and white Sforza banner, with smaller banners of the Riario and Sixtus flanking it. A crowd had gathered to welcome the new mistress; church bells rang in a sonorous cascade.
We were covered with dust from travel, and the contessa bedraggled from the heat. Caterina ordered the caravan to stop at a nearby castle outside town. There she bathed, and I directed the chambermaids as they dressed her—first in a gleaming wh
ite chemise of the finest spun silk, then a kirtle of white satin to which was sewn gold braid. The sleeves were tight and slashed, and the silvery-white chemise was pulled through the slashes and puffed. Over all this went an overdress, open at the sides and cut deep at the neckline, of pure, glittering gold brocade textured to create a pattern of stylized pomegranates. I tucked Caterina’s long braids into her favorite gold and diamond snood, and drew forth tendrils round her face; a poker, swiftly heated in the kitchen hearth, coaxed them into tight ringlets. Upon her head went a veil so gossamer as to be invisible; around her neck, a heavy gold necklace studded with large diamonds; and around her shoulders—at her insistence, despite the heat—went a cloak of rich sable velvet, lined in gold satin. Imola was in the grip of unusually warm weather for the first of May; sweat was trickling from Caterina’s forehead by the time we set off again, but she scowled at my suggestion that she looked just as splendid without the cloak.
My lady set off upon a horse, caparisoned in crimson and white; I rode close behind, with her two maids. Preceded by the trumpeters and Girolamo’s escort, heralded by church bells, Caterina rode through the gate onto streets covered with garlands of spring flowers and lined by townsfolk, who cheered her beauty.
Our procession stopped at a pavilion draped with banners, where Girolamo’s sister, Violantina, wife of the governor, stood waiting alongside the dignitaries of the town. When Caterina dismounted, several lads came to blows over the honor of claiming her horse, which delighted her further.
By the time she had been properly welcomed, with speeches, the keys to the city, poems, and the songs of a children’s choir, her features were incandescent with joy; I had never seen her behave with such charm, such poise, such confident authority. Violantina then led us to the Palazzo Riario, a stern square building covered in the ubiquitous terra-cotta. Caterina’s chamber walls and ceiling had been covered in white silk and gold brocade, but the view from the windows was still that of a small, dreary town, whose most notable landmarks were the house in which we resided and the grim, weathered fortress on its outskirts.
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