The Scarlet Contessa

by Jeanne Kalogridis

  I rose from the chair. “With your permission, Madonna. I should like to fetch the triumph cards.”

  She shrugged. “Why? To tell me of further sorrows to come? I already know my end . . . the Tower, just as my father. Whatever kingdom I have on earth will shatter around me.”

  But she did not stop me from going into the closet and retrieving the black silk bundle from my trunk. I sat down in the chair beside her, unwrapped the bundle, and spread the black silk atop the mattress, just next to where she lay.

  I shuffled the gilded cards atop the silk and pushed them toward her hand. “Take these, Madonna,” I said, “and shuffle or cut them as you wish.”

  She pushed herself to a half-sitting position and with great reluctance, cut the cards into four stacks.

  I told Caterina to turn the top cards of each pile over, one at a time. The first she turned over was the Knight of Chalices, and I gestured for her to wait before revealing the others.

  “This is the future that results from the Hanged Man,” I said, listening to the words issuing from my mouth as if they were being said by another.

  “See here the Knight of Chalices.” I pointed at the card, which showed a handsome man astride a golden horse; in his hands, he carried an engraved golden chalice.

  Caterina looked down at the card with dull resentment; had she possessed any energy, she might have hurled the cards to the floor.

  I spoke swiftly, soothingly. “This is a real man, Madonna, one who will come to you bearing gifts, and much more. A chalice holds feeling: sorrow or happiness, love or hatred. I am not yet sure what he brings, but I know that he will be an ally.”

  Caterina shrugged, though I saw a glimmer of faint interest in her eyes. “When will he come?”

  I stared down at the card; years would pass before this man appeared in the flesh. “In time,” I said finally. “I will know more when the other cards appear.”

  Caterina turned over the second card.

  Against the card’s white background, surrounded by scrolling green vines and flowers, were two great goblets, representations of the gift that the Knight of Chalices would bring. Filled to the brim with emerald liquid, one cup stood above the other, and between them was a white banner that read amor mio. My love.

  Despite the horror of the preceding day, I managed a wan grin. “I believe you can read the banner, Madonna. See the green liquid? It represents love and fertility—most specifically, love between a man and a woman.” I paused and said with honest cheer, “I do not exaggerate, Madonna. The cards are clear: your true love, the Knight of Chalices, will come to you.”

  I glanced up at Caterina, whose eyes were wide and focused on the Two of Chalices. Her brow was furrowed and she was breathing heavily, as if trying to hold back tears; at the same time, her gaze was wistful. Her fingers were unsteady as they flipped over the third card.

  Against a gilded background, a young warrior, clad in full body armor and bearing shield and halberd, rode astride a caparisoned white stallion. The warrior’s shield was lowered; he was not at war, but placid and content to recall his past successes in battle.

  He was the Knight of Swords, and he was oriented so that he and the Knight of Chalices stared at each other, with the Two of Chalices between them.

  “The father,” I said, gesturing at the Knight of Swords, “and the son.” I pointed at the knight in armor, and my voice dropped in amazement. “Your son, Madonna. A great warrior, courageous and skilled in battle. If you are willing to open your heart.”

  “You would not lie to me,” Caterina said tremulously.

  I took her clammy hand and stared into her eyes. “I would not. And I have never. You cut the cards, not I.”

  “It’s hard now to believe fate could ever be kind. My father and my baby, gone . . . and Bona banished; I have lost Milan now, too.” She looked down at the last card mistrustfully. “What if it is the Tower, or the Hanged Man, or something worse?”

  She let her long fingers hover above the card for a moment before finally turning it over. It was the Six of Batons, three golden scepters crossed diagonally over three identical ones. Caterina looked anxiously to me for an explanation.

  “Victory,” I said, smiling with relief. “Victory, Madonna! See, these are scepters. This child will be very powerful, and his acts will lead to great success. He will be known throughout the world.”

  She scrutinized me for several seconds, and apparently grew convinced of my sincerity, as the furrows in her brow melted away. The sorrow in her eyes eased slightly.

  “I am very thirsty,” she said, “and still in pain. But I should like to bathe before I make use of the midwife’s powder.”

  By spring of 1482, the papal army and Venice had begun their war against Naples and Ferrara. Pope Sixtus demanded that those who had earlier fought with Naples’s king against Lorenzo return at once to Rome to pledge their loyalty to the papacy. The Orsini clan obeyed, but most of the powerful Colonna family sided with Naples, as did Florence, Urbino, Mantua, Bologna, Faenza, and, to Caterina’s dismay, Milan, under her uncle Ludovico. Caterina’s ties to Milan were frayed almost to the breaking point, as was her usefulness to the Riario clan. She had grown up without coming to know Ludovico, so the two were near strangers, without a bond of affection to guarantee familial loyalty.

  Naples responded by sending a massive army northward to Rome, so quickly that Girolamo could not lead his troops to Florence, but was obliged to fight to hold papal territories perilously close to Rome’s ancient walls.

  At first, Girolamo was victorious against the Neapolitans, until Lorenzo de’ Medici shrewdly sent an army directly to Forlì, overwhelming the town’s defenses. He read his enemy well: Girolamo immediately sent a large contingent of soldiers—one he could not spare—to Forlì, as he could not bear the thought of losing his tiny domain.

  Although Girolamo managed to hold on to Forlì, the army that remained with him in the Roman countryside could not withstand the mighty Neapolitans, who soon captured fortress after fortress outside of Rome.

  By December 1482, winter had called a temporary halt to hostilities, and a restless, sullen Girolamo returned home to his wife. Pressing their strong advantage, Naples, Florence, and Milan announced that they intended to prosecute Sixtus for various crimes, including the murder of Lorenzo’s brother.

  Sixtus had no defense for several of the charges, and there were far too many witnesses to his conspiracy against the Medici. Disgusted, His Holiness agreed to a truce, although it destroyed his hopes of gaining power and stability for his son Girolamo.

  During all this time, Caterina refrained from any affairs, instead spending her free time with her children. She was awkward around them at first, and they around her, for they did not know each other well. But Caterina persisted, and soon became the children’s favorite, for she had a gleeful imagination and created games to occupy them. She often visited Sixtus as well, as he was in ill health, and met Cardinal della Rovere—Sixtus’s choice for his successor—whenever possible.

  The year 1484 began with dire warnings from horoscopists: the stars and planets were moving into positions that augured major disasters, war, and the deaths of prominent persons. Not soon after, Sixtus suffered an attack that left the right side of his face immobile. His speech became increasingly slurred, and he could no longer swallow solid food without choking; in addition, his gout had become so painful that he could not take a single step unaided. Most times, he relied on a litter and was carried about the Vatican.

  Caterina responded by visiting Sixtus more frequently; the old man adored her company, not just because of her beauty, but because she regaled him with stories that made him laugh and was so vehemently cheerful that the mere sight of her made him smile, despite his physical misery. Cardinal Giuliano della Rovere, Sixtus’s favorite, often joined the two. Her insistent friendship with the cardinal suddenly made sense to me, especially now that she could not count on political support from Milan.

  On one s
uch informal occasion, Caterina met with His Holiness in early spring, on an unusually cold afternoon. The contessa was pale that day; she had been unable to keep her breakfast down, and refused lunch. Both she and I suspected pregnancy, though it was far too early to be certain. Yet by the time she entered the sitting room in the papal apartments, her gaiety and energy seemed genuine.

  The former Francesco della Rovere sat in a high-backed, thronelike chair with extra padding for his aching bones. His huge bare feet—an alarming shade of violet, and so grotesquely swollen that his ankles had disappeared—rested on an ottoman topped by two feather pillows. The ottoman was placed next to a blazing hearth that made the room oppressively warm, but His Holiness still shivered, despite being wrapped in a heavy fur throw. His girth was now so great that his throne had no arms, lest his massive bulk should become stuck in the chair; instead, it hung over the edges of the seat. The keen, jaded look in his eyes was gone, replaced by one of vague, anxious impotence. Cardinal Giuliano della Rovere sat opposite him, and got to his feet when we entered.

  “Caterina, my darling,” the pope said weakly. Though I always accompanied the contessa on her visits to the Vatican, Sixtus viewed me as a servant, not a family member, and ignored my existence.

  Caterina knelt beside him, where the arm of the chair would have been. “I will not ask to kiss your slipper, Holy Father,” she said.

  One of Sixtus’s talonlike hands obligingly appeared from somewhere inside his fur covering; he held out the gold Ring of the Fisherman for Caterina to kiss. “Such formality,” he sighed. “Will you never call me Uncle Francesco?”

  Caterina rose gracefully and kissed his ponderous cheeks. “I call you Father,” she said, “because that is how I love you, as I would my own father; and I say Holy in order to show the respect I have for you and the office you bear.”

  Sixtus grinned, pleased, as did the handsome Cardinal della Rovere, who embraced Caterina as a relative, with a solemn kiss on each cheek.

  “Shall I remain?” he asked Sixtus politely. Obviously, his had been a friendly, not political, visit.

  “Of course, of course,” Sixtus replied. “I am always happy to see family. I have nothing better to do these days, thanks to this accursed gout.” He frowned down at his glaringly red feet. “I would as soon cut them off; they pain me so that I cannot bear the weight of the sheerest linen upon them.” He looked up at Caterina and the cardinal, and waved an impatient hand at them. “Sit, sit! Formality is pointless; look at me, with my bare feet! Sit and talk with me, Caterina.”

  Della Rovere pulled another chair close to the pontiff, so that Caterina could sit next to Sixtus while the cardinal returned to his own chair in front of the hearth. I unobtrusively edged my way back toward the door, knowing that the offer did not extend to me, and watched the group from a short distance.

  Caterina proceeded to deliver a lively monologue about her children—Sixtus’s grandchildren: Bianca was six now, very studious and good at her letters; the best that could be said of Ottaviano was that he was five and looked almost exactly like his father. Four-year-old Cesare had a great fondness for his mother’s hunting dogs and loved to play with them.

  His Holiness drank it all in greedily, but when Caterina began to speak of the war against the Colonna, and her hopes for Girolamo’s success and safety, Sixtus’s expression darkened.

  “Damn the Colonna!” he interrupted, his yellowed eyes narrowing. “They are nothing but traitors deserving of excommunication!”

  Just as the pontiff let go his exclamation, I became aware of a charming little girl standing in the doorway. She could not have been more than five years old, at most, and was as dainty as a doll. Long, perfectly crimped golden curls spilled over her shoulders, covered by a miniature brocade gown of light blue. Both of her little hands gripped a woven basket so large she could scarcely manage it; inside the basket was a spray of delicate purple irises.

  As everyone’s gaze turned to her, she performed an impressive curtsy; as she rose, she asked, in a high, sweet voice, “Holy Father, may I have permission to enter? They say you are sick, so I have brought you some flowers.”

  Sixtus clapped his hands in delight. “Enter, my child! What a lovely little sight you are.”

  The girl entered with faint timidity, and paused in front of Sixtus’s swollen feet. Laughing, he proffered his ring for her to kiss, which she could manage only standing up, but once she had kissed the ring, she stepped backward and knelt.

  “Stand up, my darling! Stand up! I know you, of course, but I have forgotten your name.”

  “Lucrezia,” a deep male voice said from the doorway, as Rodrigo Borgia stepped into my line of sight. He met first della Rovere’s, then Caterina’s gaze with one that was faintly menacing. “Forgive me if she has offended you in any way, Holiness, but she was very troubled to hear you were not feeling well, and wanted to do something to cheer you.”

  Borgia’s hands rested on the shoulders of two boys, a few years apart in age, who stood in front of him. The elder was markedly taller, and would clearly grow into a very handsome man; he stood straight and eyed the adults directly but courteously. The second was less impressive, and could not bring himself to look at anyone, but hid his face in his father’s scarlet robe. Both boys sported their father’s dark hair and eyes.

  “She is delightful,” Sixtus said, motioning for little Lucrezia to rise. I stepped forward to take the basket from her, and set it on a table near the pontiff, where it could be properly displayed. “And these are the boys?”

  “Juan,” Borgia said, patting the shoulder of the shy boy, “and of course, my eldest, Cesare, who is almost nine now. They, too, are concerned for you.”

  Juan continued to hide his face, while Cesare executed a perfect courtier’s bow. “May I address you, Your Holiness?” Cesare asked. He was extremely precocious for his age; his diction and intonation were those of an adult.

  Sixtus nodded, smiling.

  “We pray for your health every morning and every night, Your Holiness. I am sorry to see you unwell and hope you are restored quickly to robust good health. As for my brother . . . please forgive his behavior. He was born bashful, but he has expressed to all of us his good wishes for you.”

  At that, Juan reached out and punched his brother in the ribs; Cesare let go a gasp, but regained his composure immediately, and did not retaliate.

  “Juan!” Borgia hissed sharply. “Have you no manners at all?” Aware that he was losing control, the Spanish cardinal tightened his grip on his younger son, and with a bow, addressed Pope Sixtus.

  “Forgive me, Your Holiness, but I think it is best the children and I leave now. One in particular is growing rather restless.” He shot Juan a dark look just as Lucrezia let go a whine of disappointment.

  “Come, Lucrezia,” Borgia commanded; after another curtsy to Sixtus, the little girl ran toward her father, her long golden ringlets bouncing.

  Just before she could take Borgia’s outstretched hand, Juan stuck out his foot diagonally, tripping Lucrezia so that she fell hard against her father. Borgia staggered backward; Lucrezia would have struck the floor, had Cesare not caught her.

  In a thrice, he set Lucrezia out of harm’s way and slapped his younger brother. “Don’t hurt her!” he shouted, with true anguish. “Don’t you ever dare lay a hand on her!”

  Borgia had to hold him back. “With your permission, Holiness,” he said grimly, his black brows knit together with barely repressed paternal rage.

  “Children are so unpredictable.” Sixtus sighed, and dismissed the four of them with a careless, backhanded wave; they disappeared noisily down the corridor.

  “Dea,” Caterina asked softly, casually, “could you find a vase and some water for the flowers before they fade?”

  I nodded, although Sixtus could easily have rung for an attendant. As I stepped from the chamber, I heard someone arguing in the alcove at the end of the corridor, perhaps a dozen paces directly in front of me. Out of courtesy I
paused and stood, silent and unobtrusive, against the wall, praying the parties involved would soon leave so that I could continue in their direction.

  Rodrigo Borgia faced his children, who were lined up opposite him. Surprisingly, he was not chastising Juan, but Cesare. The cardinal had seized his elder son’s wrist with such force that the boy winced at the pain.

  “Why must you always fight your brother?” Borgia demanded, in a tone that threatened violence; the fury in his eyes terrified even me, an observer.

  He bent down and thrust his face into his son’s, tightening his grip on Cesare’s wrist. The boy paled and pressed his lips more tightly together, though he would not cry out. Beside him, little Lucrezia wept softly while on his other side, Juan smirked.

  “Because he hurts her!” Cesare shouted angrily; he did not shrink from his father’s fury, but instead glared back at him with pure hatred. “She’s only a baby, and my sister, and I will not tolerate her being hurt any longer by anyone! Do you understand me, Father?”

  Murderous rage flared in Borgia’s eyes. He crushed Cesare’s wrist until the boy cried out; with a swift, violent movement, Borgia used his powerful grip to push the boy onto his back against the hard marble floor. Lucrezia let go a shrill cry and threw herself upon her brother.

  “Don’t hurt him,” she sobbed. “Please, Papa . . . Cesare, are you all right?”

  “I have put all my hope in you,” Borgia hissed at his fallen son. “I will give you the world—only do not disappoint me. You must never behave so in front of any person of import, much less the pope!”

  In reply, Cesare struggled to his feet, and took his sister’s hand; Lucrezia peered up at him with slavish adoration. In a voice just as deadly as his father’s, he vowed softly, “I will kill whoever harms her again, I swear.”

  Clutching Lucrezia’s hand, the boy turned his back to Borgia and stalked off rapidly. Juan sniggered, and Borgia raised his hand as if to strike him, which immediately turned Juan’s expression to one of respectful somberness.

  The cardinal grabbed Juan by his elbow and hurried off after the other children. I did not move until they were all out of sight.