The Scarlet Contessa

by Jeanne Kalogridis

  “Witless dolt,” Caterina muttered under her breath, then raised her voice again. “I cannot leave the Castel Sant’Angelo until we have a new pontiff. I invite my nephew to come inside the fortress, where I will be happy to discuss whatever he wishes. I guarantee his safety.”

  After a pause, the priest responded, “Please, Your Illustriousness. You are with child, and this”—he gestured sweepingly at the fortress—“is no place for a woman. My master begs you to go to your husband. He and the other cardinals intend to deal most generously with you and your family.”

  Caterina laughed heartily. “Tell me, Father,” she shouted, grinning, “does Raffaele believe me to be completely stupid?”

  The priest answered with perplexed silence.

  Caterina leaned forward, hands resting upon her thighs; her smile vanished at once, replaced by honest fury. “Answer this, then: Do you know who my father was?”

  The priest and his fellows looked at each other in confusion. “Galeazzo Sforza,” the priest called, “Duke of Milan.”

  “One of the most intelligent men ever to grace Milan’s throne,” the contessa said. “I may be a woman, but I have my father’s brain! I am not fool enough to leave the fortress. Go tell your master that!”

  With that, she turned her back to him, and climbed down from the battlement.

  The days grew tedious. The heat was sweltering, the food and drink disgusting, and the news less than encouraging. Tired of camping with his men outside the city gates, Girolamo decided to passively await news of his fate in the nearby Orsini stronghold of Isola, where he and his children were luxuriously housed and fed. He sent his wife a letter commanding her to join him; furious, Caterina secretly fed the letter to the lamp’s flame and lied to her troops.

  Meanwhile, she and I listened to distant battles in Rome’s streets as cardinals and clans struggled for power. On our eleventh day in the fortress, we watched as a fresh army of five hundred marched through the Porta Maggiore into the city. For a glimmering instant, Caterina hoped that Girolamo had finally found his courage, but as the army neared, its brilliant red and yellow banners came into view. It was the standard of the Colonna, with a golden crown topping a large white Roman column. My lady cursed her husband beneath her breath as the Colonna troops encamped on the other side of the Tiber.

  “He could have taken the Castel Sant’Angelo,” she said angrily. “I told him again and again that we had to be ready to take it, in the event of Sixtus’s death, but he would never respond to me. Now . . .” She could not bring herself to continue.

  On the following day, the twenty-fourth of August, came the worst news of all. Girolamo had signed a contract with the Sacred College, forfeiting his position as captain of the papal army and surrendering the Castel Sant’Angelo in exchange for four thousand ducats, restitution for his destroyed palazzo, and a guarantee that the future pope would recognize him as the lord of Forlì and Imola.

  “At the very least,” Caterina said, “my husband could have supported me, could have sent more troops. And we could have negotiated with the new pope, whoever he might be. Now it’s ruined.”

  Cardinal Giuliano della Rovere had been one of the architects of the agreement. His dislike of Girolamo had clearly outweighed any familial loyalty or promises to Caterina.

  In bed that night, Caterina told me that Borgia had at least been honest about his aims and truly smitten by her boldness. “I should have thrown in my lot with him,” she moaned, and sat up suddenly to cover her face with her hands. She did not weep, though she had every right to. Late pregnancy left her exhausted and physically miserable, yet she had pushed herself past the limits of endurance, surviving on little sleep and poor food; worse, her amazing efforts had all been for nothing.

  When she could speak again, she confessed, “I cannot hold the fortress. Girolamo’s letter warned that Florence and Siena are gathering troops to force me to surrender. And it’s only a matter of time before the Colonna’s army attacks us.”

  Caterina did not sleep at all that night. By dawn, she had written two letters, one to Girolamo and one to the Sacred College. By noon, she had received replies from both, which included permission to take one hundred and fifty armed men as her escort through the streets of Rome, back to her children. Her husband was already in the city, settling his monetary accounts.

  I rode on horseback beside my mistress, who held herself with regal poise as she rode through the restless streets on a great white palfrey. There was no self-pity in her aspect when she gazed for the final time upon the Castel Sant’Angelo, the Vatican, or Saint Peter’s, nor did she so much as glance in the direction of the rubble that had been the Palazzo Riario. But as she passed through the gate of Porta Maggiore and out of the city at last, her features hardened into an expression of bitterness.

  PART III

  Forlì

  1484–1500

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The road back to Forlì was a bitter one, paved with Girolamo’s sullen defensiveness and Caterina’s simmering fury over his monumental failure. The two would not look at each other when our small caravan came to rest. Girolamo had left the city with little more than forty-four hundred ducats—less than the cost of Caterina’s wedding gown, which had perished in the fire.

  I, however, was ecstatic to find Luca whole and healthy, and with Caterina’s glum permission, I rode beside him on a mule; we talked much of the day, and always at night, when we had encamped and the others were sleeping, we stole from our tents and held each other beneath the starlight.

  Three days into our journey, a messenger from Cardinal Giuliano della Rovere intercepted us. “Habemus papum!” he cried as he galloped up to Girolamo, who was astride his horse.

  The count ordered our caravan to stop. Caterina, who had seen the messenger arrive, jumped out of her carriage and ran as fast as eight months of pregnancy would permit.

  To her relief, Borgia had not been elected pope, but neither had Cardinal della Rovere. Their fierce battle over the papacy had created such turmoil in the Sacred College that none of the others would vote for either of them. Instead, della Rovere’s message claimed, he had suggested that his supporters elect his protégé, an Italian-born Greek named Cardinal Giovanni Battista Cibo. Cardinal Cibo, now Innocent VIII, was an affable man who had given no one reason to dislike him; even Borgia had been persuaded to vote for him. And, della Rovere gloated, Cibo would do exactly as he was told, for it was della Rovere who had persuaded Sixtus to give Cibo his red hat.

  Girolamo received such news with a faint smile; at least a della Rovere was behind the Throne of Peter. Caterina turned away without comment. Della Rovere could brag all he wanted to, but he had lost the papacy and refused to help Caterina in her darkest hour.

  Even Forlì failed to celebrate the arrival of the count and contessa. We passed through the gate in the city walls, where not a soul waited to greet us; as we rolled past streets lined with the drab, sturdy cottages of the workingmen, people stared at us from open doorways but did not cheer. As we made our way into the largest square in the center of town, past a small but bustling marketplace, merchants, farmers, and housewives grew still and watched us silently.

  Not until we reached the wealthiest neighborhood and the house of the mayor, Luffo Numai, were we received with anything resembling hospitality. Numai’s house reminded me of the Palazzo Medici in Florence; it was three stories high, with rows of tall, evenly spaced rectangular windows set in pale brown rusticated stone. Like the Medici palace, Numai’s dwelling was bare of any adornment—a dreary sight for those used to the glittering façades of the palazzi in Rome.

  A scullery maid with a filthy apron answered Girolamo’s knock. So unnerved was she by the Lord of Forlì’s appearance that she turned her back to him and left him standing outside the open door while she shouted up the stairs for her master to come.

  Luffo Numai had been the chief political adviser and go-between for Pino Ordelaffi, then his son, Sinibaldo, until it beca
me clear that Girolamo would succeed them. At that point, he switched loyalties to the new Lord of Forlì so convincingly that Girolamo had entrusted him with the key to the Riario’s new palazzo in Forlì.

  My first glimpse of Ser Luffo came as he ran from the staircase to the doorway and clapped his hands in an overly dramatic display of joy at the sight of Forlì’s newest permanent residents. So grand and exaggerated was his bow that, had I and the others not been so exhausted and disheartened, I would have giggled at the sight.

  Numai ran back up the stairs and returned with a ring of keys, which he pressed into the count’s palm. As Girolamo headed back to his mount, Numai ran to Caterina’s carriage.

  Ser Luffo was dressed like a merchant in a tunic of crude gray silk over plain black leggings; he wore no gold, no jewelry. He was completely bald to his mid-crown, where a shock of thin, dark hair began and fell to his shoulders. He wore round spectacles, which he kept unconsciously adjusting. I judged him to be late in his fifth decade.

  “Oh, Your Most Illustrious Highness!” he exclaimed, clasping his hands as if overwhelmed, as Caterina leaned out the window of the carriage. “I had forgotten your dazzling beauty! Each time I see it, it amazes me even more! Please, please, will you do me the honor of dining with me this evening? Your husband our lord the count said I should ask you for an answer. I should so like to welcome you properly to our city!” All of this was punctuated with sweeping, obsequious gestures.

  Caterina gave a slight, insincere smile and nod. “Ser Luffo,” she said wearily, by way of greeting, and retreated from the window.

  Our caravan set off again; within minutes, we had arrived at the new Palazzo Riario. Barely larger than Numai’s house, it was a long rectangle built of unevenly sized bricks in shades of orange, white, and gray, all bleached pale by the sun. The front façade was broken by two rows of a dozen tall identical arched windows, six on either side of the wooden door; a third row of small circular windows marked the top floor.

  I went with Caterina, the children, and the nurse, Lucia, into the house in search of the nursery. There were no sweeping marble floors or staircases, no walls covered with glittering thread-of-gold tapestries, only uneven wooden floors that creaked, covered for the most part with worn, dirty carpets. The walls were grimy stucco, cracked and clumsily plastered; as we headed up the stairs, the wooden railing wobbled alarmingly. Here and there were whispers of our former life—a portrait of Caterina, a priceless vase, golden candlesticks, a fine bedspread—but for the most part, the house seemed common, old, and grim.

  Caterina had lived here for a few months some years ago; her letters from Forlì had held no complaints about the residence. Perhaps, I told myself, the new Palazzo Riario had seemed quaint and rustic then, an acceptable place to visit so long as one could always return to Rome.

  I helped the nurse, Lucia, find the children’s things and get them settled for the night. Afterward I made my way down dark, narrow halls in search of my mistress’s chamber. Unfortunately, I encountered Ser Luffo, who had brought two servants who knew where everything was kept in the house, and were happy to assist us for the first week at no cost.

  He had presented them to Girolamo, and was now wandering about the house alone and unescorted in search of the Lady of Forlì, ostensibly to remind her of his invitation to supper. We were headed toward each other at a quick pace in the dim light, and almost collided.

  “Ah!” he said, recoiling slightly. “You I have not seen before.” He pushed his spectacles up his nose and leaned toward me, squinting. Behind the lenses, his magnified eyes crinkled lecherously at the corners. “And what a comely one you are, too. Are you one of Madonna Caterina’s ladies?”

  Before I could answer, his hands attached themselves to the front of my bodice and squeezed, as if they were testing the ripeness of plums. Ser Luffo stepped up to me, the front of his body touching mine, and whispered in my ear.

  “Your mistress is famed for her loveliness, but I tell you, you are more beautiful by far. Your black hair and eyes, your nose and lips . . .”

  He tried to worm a hand beneath my bodice. I drew back and slapped him with all my strength, sending the spectacles flying.

  “Bitch,” he gasped, more out of surprise than anger. He dropped to his knees and began groping the thin carpet in search of the lost spectacles.

  I could see them clearly, but was so exhausted by the events of the past two months that I did not care what the second most powerful man in Forlì thought of me.

  As he scrabbled about on the floor, I said icily, “I am Her Illustriousness’s sister, raised with her at the court of Milan. And you will never lay a hand on me again.”

  He patted the floor as I spoke, and discovered the glasses. At my former statement, he put them on, still sitting on the carpet, and looked up at me in disbelief but, surprisingly, no anger.

  “Ah,” he said, scrutinizing my face with an eerie reverence. “I see it now. You are unmistakably Duke Galeazzo’s daughter.”

  “Duchess Bona adopted me,” I snarled. “Now let me pass.”

  An odd, excited light shone in Ser Luffo’s eyes as he touched his fingertips to his offended cheek. “What a strong thing you are! I will not harm you, my dear. And I apologize thoroughly for upsetting you. Only . . .” He pitched himself forward, his face pressed to the floor in craven submission. “Only pray tell me your name! It shall be on my lips always!”

  He crawled closer on his elbows and knees until he found the tip of my slipper, and kissed it.

  I was too taken aback to say anything but the truth. “Dea.”

  He gazed raptly up at me. “Dea,” he murmured. “I should have known; you are indeed a goddess!”

  I flushed. “Ser Luffo, please rise and make way.” These were not the halls of Rome; the corridor was too narrow for me to step past his huddled body.

  “I will, I will, most beautiful goddess! But . . . perhaps you will have to kick me before I am able to rise.”

  “Please,” I hissed. “Get up.”

  Ser Luffo responded by pressing his face into the carpet again and cradling his head in his arms in preparation for the blow.

  I was tired and impatient, eager to find Caterina and make sure her bedchamber was arranged so that she and I could lie down upon a real mattress after a week of travel. Although it went against everything Bona had ever taught me, I timidly tapped Ser Luffo’s knuckles, laced over his bald crown, with the toe of my slipper.

  “Harder,” he urged, his voice muffled.

  I kicked him again, this time with moderate force.

  “Harder,” he begged again, and the third time, I delivered, kicking him hard enough to make him list to one side.

  “Now get up at once!” I ordered sternly.

  Ser Luffo rose, panting with desire. “Dea, my darling Dea, I shall dream of you tonight! The day will come when you desire my help, or have need of something. And when you come to me, behaving as you did just now, I will give you anything. Anything! Only ask it . . .”

  He lurched at me as if to seize me again, but I raised my hand in warning, and he stilled.

  From the corridor behind him came a muted giggle. I looked in its direction, as did he, to see Caterina standing four paces away.

  She smirked at Ser Luffo as he scrambled to his feet and told her that he had only come to deliver the servants, and that he could see she was quite tired. He promised to deliver the banquet to our palazzo rather than require us to come to his house that night.

  With that, he retreated swiftly; Caterina grinned as she watched him take flight. “I see you have met Ser Luffo,” she said. “He has a certain weakness, which you can certainly turn to your advantage.”

  For the first time in a month, she and I laughed together.

  She led me back to her bedchamber, where Marta—an older woman, who in Rome had overseen scores of chambermaids for the Palazzo Riario—was helping my lady unpack. Of the hundreds of servants, aides, secretaries, cooks, and laundresses who
had previously comprised the Riario household staff, we were obliged to make do with twenty. The children now had one nurse, not three, and Caterina no longer had a dozen chambermaids to attend her, but only Marta and myself.

  At the end of a very long day, Caterina and I fell exhausted into bed, which happily was covered in a fine spread and pillows and linens from Rome. It was only then that Caterina finally permitted herself to cry after the bitter disappointment of being forced from the Holy City. Once she began, she found it difficult to stop, and I held her in my arms like a child.

  Three weeks later, Caterina gave birth to a healthy son, Giovanni Livio. It should have been cause for the father, Girolamo, to rejoice; with three sons, the Riario-Sforza lineage would clearly continue for at least another two generations. But, shattered by the loss of wealth and prestige, Girolamo had taken to drinking and gambling all day in his dining chamber, ignoring the fact that he now had no income at all, since his subjects paid no taxes. He left all governing and financial affairs in his wife’s capable hands, though she was far too busy overseeing the repairs of their new residence. At the same time, Girolamo resented her deeply, for her courage served to underscore his cowardice. Yet he let her have her way in almost everything, perhaps because he secretly admired her brave attempt to hold the Castel Sant’Angelo; this fact eventually brought me great joy.

  All the secretaries, scribes, and personal attendants who had served Count Girolamo in Rome had been paid for by the Vatican, with the exception of four: an aging valet named Niccolò, a chamberlain, a cupbearer, and Luca. Now that his master had given up politics and correspondence to spend his days at the gaming table, Luca had a great deal of free time, which he spent helping his three peers. When his assistance was not required in the count’s wing, he spent it doing odd jobs for the contessa, which meant that he spent more time with me.

  Perhaps Luca’s presence reminded Caterina of his love for me, or perhaps she noticed the glances Luca and I shared. I prefer to think that I had simply underestimated my mistress.