The Scarlet Contessa

by Jeanne Kalogridis

  Guards lifted their swords at the sound of our approach; Antonio called to them, and quickly explained our need to reach the nearby Castel Sant’Angelo.

  “Take care,” called one of the artillerymen. “We can protect you here in the square, but not beyond. You will have to pass through a dangerous area.”

  “Then give me more men,” Caterina demanded indignantly, “for I must obey my husband’s command!”

  “Forgive me, Madonna,” the weary artilleryman replied with a bow. “With all my heart, I would follow Captain Girolamo’s order. But we are too few; if any of us desert our posts . . . Well, His Holiness’s fleeing servants stripped his apartments of many valuables already, which is bad enough. But if the crowd gets into the basilica or the Vatican, they will steal everything and desecrate what is left.”

  Caterina could not argue with the man’s logic. We made our way across the square, and paused at the archway leading out into the street. The Castel Sant’Angelo was only a five-minute ride straight ahead, down through the narrow street that cut through the heart of the neighborhood known as the Borgo.

  I peered over Caterina’s shoulder through the archway at what lay before us. The night was black and the way unlit, save for the sweep of torchlight from those fighting in the street. Darkness alternated with shards of yellow light that revealed a glimpse of a contorted face, the fleeting gleam of steel. Amid the groans and screams came battle cries:

  Colonna! Death to the Riario!

  Orsini! Orsini! Girolamo!

  Our protectors closed ranks around Caterina, who drew her scimitar and ordered, “Onward!”

  I held tightly to Caterina as we cantered into the chaos. Our lanterns revealed a swarm of men fighting on foot in the near distance in front of the fortress, its exterior lit by sconces encircling the second floor. The muzzle of a cannon peeked out from each upper battlement.

  Unfortunately, our lanterns also revealed our presence. As our horses’ canters became full gallops, some of the fighters turned from battle toward us. Our soldiers’ uniforms revealed our loyalties, which caused fresh chanting: Colonna! Death to the Riario!

  A few of those who took up the cry ran directly at us with long swords. In the tumult, the two pike-bearing soldiers guarding our front were forced to veer off to one side in order to fight off the attackers. In the next instant, the two at our side were forced to engage in swordplay.

  A great brute bearing a monstrous longsword rushed toward Caterina, crying with delight, “It’s her! The contessa—Girolamo’s wife! Get her!”

  He reached with an impossibly long arm and grabbed her right stirrup; the horse reared, and I slipped from its backside directly onto the brick paving. It knocked the breath from me, and I lay stunned, watching as the brute tried to seize the horse’s reins. He nearly succeeded, but Caterina caught them first, and when the horse brought its front legs down, she leaned forward over the horse’s neck, balancing her heavily pregnant body with grace, and brought the scimitar down on the brute’s bald head.

  A faint red mist sprayed upward from his crown as the blade sank into his scalp; there came a muffled crack as the steel bit into his skull. As Caterina pulled the scimitar up, ready to strike again, blood gushed from the wound with such force that the brute’s face was immediately covered with blood. He dropped to his knees.

  Only then did Caterina turn. “Dea!” she shouted, scanning the dark ground for me.

  I found myself able to breathe again, and exhaled a scream as I struggled to my feet. Antonio was beside me, and reached down to pull me up into his saddle. As he did, one of our troops retook his place in front of us, and used his boot heel to push the impaled body of one of our enemies from his pike.

  The group that had proclaimed itself loyal to Girolamo and the Orsini surrounded us, fighting off our attackers and allowing us to make our way quickly up to the cylindrical fortress. We rode up a walled-in spiral ramp that led to an impenetrably thick metal gate, and as our protectors worked the brass knocker, Caterina cupped her hands about her mouth and bellowed, “Girolamo! Girolamo! I come with orders from Count Girolamo!”

  A man’s face appeared at one of small, barred windows two floors above us. “I am the castellan, Vittorio de’ Lampugnani. Who calls?”

  Lampugnani had been the surname of Duke Galeazzo’s assassin, but Caterina did not flinch. This man was no relation.

  “I, Caterina Sforza. I bring orders from Captain Girolamo!”

  The face disappeared at once. As we waited, one of the pro-Orsini street fighters ran up the ramp behind us. His sword was sheathed and he held out his empty hands to show he meant no harm.

  “Your Illustriousness,” he called to Caterina. “Is it truly you?”

  “It is,” Caterina said, impatiently glancing up at the fortress window.

  “May I have a word with you, on behalf of my master? My name is Luigi da Volterra.”

  The soldier Antonio put a hand on his hilt. “And who, pray tell, is your master?”

  Luigi, a broad-chested young man, looked to Caterina. “I would prefer to share that with Her Illustriousness. Perhaps she might understand why—”

  “Let him come to me,” Caterina told Antonio and the others as she dismounted and tossed her reins to the nearest soldier. Our men moved their horses only a few steps away in order to let Luigi pass. As they did, I dismounted from Antonio’s horse and went to stand beside Caterina. Antonio did not trust Luigi, either; he kept the point of his sword aimed directly at Luigi’s back.

  Caterina waited until Luigi was close enough to hear her whisper, “Who is your master?”

  “Your cousin, Cardinal Giuliano della Rovere. On the day the Holy Father died, our forces arrived here at the same time as Borgia’s; thus far, we are at a stalemate because my master did not anticipate that so many men would be needed to guard the palazzo. But while your husband’s forces have kept Borgia’s men at bay, they will not let us enter to claim the fortress.” He blinked at the contessa’s swollen belly. “May God protect you; you are with child, yet you ride on such dangerous streets?”

  Caterina’s expression was opaque. “Tell your master I thank him for the protection he provided me tonight. Reassure him that I will keep the Castel secure until a new pope has been elected. But tell Cardinal della Rovere that he should use his troops for his own protection. Let him tend to his business, and I will tend to mine.

  “In fact, you must tell his men to retreat and leave the square at once, for I intend to disperse Borgia’s men most forcefully.”

  Luigi blinked rapidly; his lips parted in surprise. “But Your Illustriousness, it would be an enormous advantage to my master if we gain the fortress. . . .”

  “I will cede it to him after he is elected,” Caterina hissed. “Otherwise, he will draw the ire of everyone in the streets who now hate the Riario, and his election will not seem legitimate. In the meantime, I will hold the Castel safely for him. Now tell your men to retreat. I have given you fair warning.”

  Luigi had no chance to reply; as the contessa finished speaking, the great gate rumbled open before us, revealing the castellan, Ser Vittorio, surrounded by a score of armed soldiers. Behind them was a poorly lit, dank-smelling dungeon.

  As Luigi ran back to the fighting, the rest of us hurried inside the fortress and the gate behind us rumbled shut. Our protectors rode on, their steeds’ hooves ringing against the stone until they found their way outside to the stables.

  Caterina stepped up to the grizzled Vittorio, who eyed his new commander: a twenty-one-year-old woman wearing a French hat with plumes bedraggled by the hard ride, a fine beige silk gown, and an ill-fitting breastplate, from beneath which the lower half of her heavily pregnant belly protruded. Another man might have laughed, but Vittorio and his men had been drilled by the contessa many times, and knew that she would not tolerate disobedience.

  “Your Illustriousness,” Ser Vittorio said, as he and his troops bowed to her.

  “For now,” Caterina told them, h
er voice loud and echoing off the ancient stone walls, “I am your captain, by order of my lord Girolamo. You are to obey me as you would him.”

  There followed a palpable pause; some of the men shifted their feet and looked uncertainly to Ser Vittorio, who was already locking the bolts. “We are obliged to carry out our lord’s orders until a new papal captain has been appointed,” he said firmly.

  Caterina returned to face those remaining, and pointed the tip of her scimitar’s blade to the sky.

  “Let there be no question of motive,” she told the troops. “We will hold the Castel Sant’Angelo safely for my lord and husband until order can be restored! Let us allow no invader to seize the fortress and impose his will upon the papal election!” She drew a deep breath, and shouted with irresistible ferocity: “Girolamo, Girolamo! Success to the Riario!”

  “Girolamo, Girolamo!” Ser Vittorio roared in reply, lifting his own weapon; his men took up the cry, their reluctance transformed into enthusiasm.

  I cannot forget Caterina’s expression at that instant: triumphant, transcendent, fully alive. Until that moment, I had not fully believed her claim that she was born to lead in battle, but the proof was there, in the soldiers’ cheers, in the utter joy illuminating my lady’s face.

  I smiled, but did not join in the chanting; the contessa’s happiness would be at best fleeting. Like the Palazzo Riario, the life that we had known in Rome was lost forever. We had entered, for the first time, the world of the Tower.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  That night, I followed dutifully as Ser Vittorio escorted Caterina around the Castel, explaining the military situation: only three hundred troops currently inhabited the fortress, which held adequate food, weapons, and ammunition to last a month, by which time a new pope would surely have been chosen; all of the men were trained in artillery and swordsmanship, save for some twenty experienced archers.

  The fortress itself had three distinct sections: a vast dungeon below ground level, the soldiers’ quarters on the first three floors, and the grandly furnished papal apartments on the upper floors. The ground level led to a large open courtyard where the troops drilled. The soldiers’ area consisted of endless low-ceilinged, poorly lit rooms whose walls were stained by rust and mildew. The rooftop was equipped with a cannon at every battlement; beside each cannon were pyramids of stone cannonballs, heaped as high as Vittorio’s head.

  Caterina peered down from the battlements at the shadowy figures down in the street below. Apparently, Cardinal della Rovere’s men had taken her advice and fled, for the fighting had stopped, and those remaining had gathered in a circle to listen to instructions.

  “Rouse the longbowmen,” she told Vittorio. “And have them kill as many of those men as possible. These are Borgia’s troops, and at the first opportunity they will seize this fortress. Tell me the outcome, no matter the hour.”

  Vittorio readily agreed, then led us to our temporary quarters: the lavish papal apartments. He apologized for the fact that there were no servants to attend us, or hot water, or food beyond tasteless military fare, which he brought us himself on a scarred wooden tray, along with mead, which Caterina drank greedily while proclaiming it tasted like piss. He also brought us a bucket of water, and after I removed Caterina’s armor, dress, and chemise to air them out, I poured some into a silver basin, so that my lady and I could wash away the accumulated dust and sweat of the harrowing day’s efforts.

  Caterina refused to retire naked, given the need for readiness; I solved the problem by finding two lawn nightshirts that had obviously belonged to someone far more ample than either of us. Once Caterina slipped one on, she crawled onto the huge bed, its gold brocade cover embroidered with Sixtus’s emblem of the golden oak above the papal keys. She did not bother to climb beneath the sheets, but laid her head upon the pillow and let go a poignantly weary sigh. I lay down beside her and blew out the lamp.

  “So now you understand the affair with Borgia,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Borgia,” she answered drowsily. “He told me that if I killed della Rovere and held the Castel Sant’Angelo for him when Sixtus died, he would become pope and give me all the land in the Romagna that I wanted. And a grand estate in Rome. And a secret position as his military adviser.” She giggled faintly. “I am so tired . . . I should not be telling you these things.”

  Her words brought me back from the edge of sleep at once. “He said these things to you . . . and you agreed to them?” I asked, appalled. “You knew he was capable of murder, yet you slept with him?”

  “I did,” she said. “I agreed with his plan at first because I was naïve enough to hope that he would bring me such power. Once I came to know him, I realized that he would never let me have such things. He is too clever, and I knew that, should I ever displease him, I would be destroyed.”

  “Do you think he might still try to kill you?”

  Her tone grew grim. “He would find a way to do something worse. Disgrace me publicly, strip me of my title, perhaps, but not kill me.”

  “Did you really consider killing della Rovere?”

  The mattress shifted as she shrugged in the darkness. “For an instant, perhaps. Until I learned that della Rovere has more money and influence than Borgia. If we are lucky”—she paused to let go a yawn—“della Rovere will become pope. He promised that he would keep Girolamo as his army captain when I swore that I would keep the Castel Sant’Angelo out of Borgia’s hands. But then, della Rovere also claimed that he had enough troops at his disposal to take the fortress.

  “So perhaps he is wrong about being able to buy the papacy easily. And if that is the case, then it’s wisest for me simply to hold the fortress until I can negotiate for more land. Otherwise, Girolamo and I are left with nothing . . . except Forlì and Imola.”

  Caterina hesitated such a long moment that I thought she had fallen asleep. Abruptly, she asked, “Dea . . . is this what the Tower card predicted? Am I going to fail?”

  I, too, paused as I considered my answer.

  “Do you remember what I told you years ago? The card spoke of an upheaval, of the destruction of a way of life. Like the Palazzo Riario being burned. Whatever happens, your life will never be the same.”

  I waited for a reply, and was answered seconds later by light snoring.

  The next morning I woke to the teeth-chattering boom of the cannon on the roof above me. Caterina had dressed and gone. I pulled on my own clothing; as I dressed, the cannon sounded again.

  I found the staircase leading up to the roof of the fortress, where the sun was already shining. By then the cannon fire had ended, although the tang of gunpowder was still in the air. As she stood near one of the battlements with the artillerymen, Caterina spotted me and walked across the roof to greet me. Her manner was brisk, but not cheerful.

  “We have routed Borgia’s men,” she reported, “at least, those who survived the longbows last night. They won’t return for some time.” She paused, and her expression briefly darkened. “As for Girolamo . . .”

  Her lips twisted in an effort to contain a swift-welling rage. “My lord received the news of the pope’s death shortly after we did. He chose . . .” Her voice began to shake with anger, and she paused until she could control its trembling. “He retreated,” she said, clipping the words, “and ran back toward Rome. So Paliano is safely back in the hands of the Colonna, as are Cave and Capranica, the towns we conquered. All of our effort was for nothing.”

  She directed her furious gaze downward, lest the troops see her emotion. “Girolamo led his army to the outskirts of the city. He could easily have made it back to the Castel Sant’Angelo, but the conclave of cardinals ordered him to stay outside the city gates until the new pope was elected.” She glared up at me. “And Girolamo, the idiot, is obeying them! He will ruin us!”

  “I am sorry, Madonna,” I whispered.

  “My only hope is that della Rovere manages to bribe his fellows into choosing him,” she replied bitterly
. She paused, and her tone grew calmer. “Go down to the second floor,” she said, “and eat at the officers’ mess. Then go back to the papal chambers; it’s safest there, and you’ll be out of our way.”

  Before we parted, a trumpet blared in the street below.

  Ser Vittorio, the castellan, peered over the battlement and cried out, “Who goes there?”

  I hurried to the battlement to look down with the others.

  Six men on horseback waited in the street; four of them brandished halberds, one waved a white flag, and one wore a priest’s cassock. The priest shouted while all of us strained to listen.

  “I bring an urgent message to deliver directly to Her Illustrious Highness, Caterina Sforza.”

  Caterina stepped out onto the edge of the battlement. “I am here,” she shouted. “Who sends you?”

  The priest executed a courtly bow in his saddle. “Your nephew, His Holiness Raffaele Riario.”

  I frowned. Though he had been an infrequent visitor to the Palazzo Riario, I remembered Raffaele well. He had received his cardinal’s cap from his great-uncle Sixtus at a scandalously tender age, and had unwittingly accompanied the late Archbishop Salviati to Florence on the failed mission to assassinate Lorenzo de’ Medici. After his brother Giuliano’s murder, Lorenzo had taken pity on the terrified young Raffaele, and sent him safely back to Rome with an armed guard.

  “What news?” Caterina demanded curtly. She had never been fond of Raffaele, whom she considered cowardly.

  “He fears for his aunt Caterina’s safety, and that of her unborn child,” the priest called back. “And he urges you to come discuss the holding of the fortress with him. We are here to escort you to a protected place where you can meet him.”