“Welcome, Your Excellency!” Caterina greeted him as he set foot inside the fortress proper, but she did not step back or gesture for him to follow her; instead she moved to block his way. Soderini could not see the armed guards that waited around the first corner, nor did he realize that his next few answers would seal his fate.
Soderini bowed. “Your Illustriousness! I bring greetings from His Holiness Pope Alexander in Rome.”
Caterina’s smile never wavered, but a faint hardness crept into her gaze. “And pray tell, Bishop Soderini, what business brings you here? Your letter was rather vague.”
Soderini suddenly grinned. “Business of the happiest sort, Your Illustriousness. I guarantee that you will be jubilant! But . . .” He looked uncertainly at the gatehouse’s mildewed walls. “It would be wrong of me to dilute the impact of such a joyous announcement here. Is there a place where my attendants and I might retire and refresh ourselves after a long journey?”
I stood to one side just behind Caterina, and saw the hidden guards watching her keenly for a signal. She folded her hands carefully behind her back as she considered Soderini’s question. A lift of one finger, and Soderini would be cut to pieces and sent back to Alexander in reply.
Caterina laughed quietly. “Forgive me, Your Excellency, but I am known for my impatience. I am eager to hear of this happy thing. Can you not give me one hint?”
Soderini gave a gaunt grin. “Very well, one hint. It has to do with a wedding!”
Kill him, I thought, and looked at Caterina’s now-clenched fists. She studied the bishop and his attendants carefully, and curiosity crept over her features. The signal was never given.
“Thank you,” she said earnestly, and turned to lead her guests up to her apartments.
Soderini and his group of priests and lay brothers were treated to a small but adequate banquet and plied with wine. Ottaviano’s presence was requested and he, uncomfortable with unguided conversation and social niceties, spoke not a word unless pressed, in which case, he offered up monosyllables. Only those of us who passed in and out of the adjacent kitchen saw our lady’s armed guards waiting, lest she call.
When the meat course was finished and the kitchen maid carried away the dirty plates, the tipsy bishop turned to his tense but faintly smiling hostess, and announced: “You and your family are privileged indeed, Madonna Caterina! His Holiness has entrusted me with a happy invitation. Ser Ottaviano, Pope Alexander is offering the hand of his beautiful daughter, Lucrezia, to you!”
Caterina drew in a sharp breath. It was not the judgment she feared, but certainly not what she expected. With the eyes of Soderini and his entourage upon her, she said, dazed, “I never expected this! We are so . . . honored.”
What that, she glanced pointedly at Ottaviano, who could only repeat his mother’s words. He looked to her, uncertain whether he should be fearful or rejoicing.
For Soderini’s sake, Caterina forced a smile. “You must forgive us, Excellency. Such incredible news has left us stunned and overwhelmed. And as a mother, I am obliged to put at least a day’s consideration into the matter. But here! Let us celebrate the honor itself! Let us drink to the health of His Holiness!”
She lifted her cup, and the others followed suit. At that point, she ordered several bottles of finer wine to be brought up from the cellar, and saw to it that the bishop and his companions drank their fill. By the time Caterina left, Soderini was incoherent and his head was starting to droop toward his plate.
Caterina, however, was fully sober and her mood was growing fouler by the moment as the implications began to occur to her. I half ran to keep up with her as she headed for the desk in her sitting room, and hurriedly supplied her with paper, quill, ink.
“To Florence,” she dictated, “and Giovanni . . .”
My love,
The Bishop of Volterra, Soderini, has come from Pope Alexander, who has offered Ottaviano the hand of his daughter, Lucrezia.
Some would see this as an advantage; Ottaviano, after all, would have an indirect influence upon the papacy, and Forlì would at last have powerful military backing, no less than the might of Rome.
But I tell you that I know the mind of Rodrigo Borgia better than most. My time in Rome taught me that he can never be trusted. In fact, he tried to convince me to murder my own husband—which, of course, I would not consider—as part of his scheme to steal the papacy.
Because I refused him, he would not hesitate to strike back at me, even now.
My cousin Giovanni Sforza of Pesaro married Lucrezia, though, as you know, the marriage was annulled. He wrote to me about the Borgia household and the insults and threats he was forced to endure. I thought he was crazy at first because of the unbelievable, revolting charges he made—that Lucrezia was having affairs with both her father and eldest brother. I never doubted him, though, when he said he feared for his life. He was convinced that Borgia meant to poison him and seize Pesaro.
If I say yes to Borgia, my poor, unwitting Ottaviano will descend into that viper’s pit in Rome. Borgia would claim his property, and Ottaviano would put up no defense. Imola and Forlì—and, I have no doubt, my poor son—would be lost.
If I say no, Borgia will find another cause to strip my lands from me.
Either way, this invitation strikes me as an omen that Borgia’s lustful eye has finally taken notice of my possessions. It can only be a matter of time before he takes his revenge.
If you have other information, or are certain that my reasoning is faulty in some respect, send a messenger at once. Otherwise, I shall write a letter for His Holiness’s eyes only and send it with the bishop.
So now you must come home. You know how terribly I love and miss you. Little Giovanni yearns for his papa’s knee.
Your loving wife,
Caterina
Giovanni apparently concurred with his wife, for over the next week of entertaining Bishop Soderini and his entourage, Caterina received no urgent messages from Florence. On the last day of Soderini’s stay, he again pressed the Lady of Forlì for an answer; she demurred, but gave him a sealed letter to deliver personally to Borgia. I wrote the text of the letter as Caterina dictated, and agreed with her logic: regardless of whether Ottaviano married Lucrezia or not, Forlì and Imola were in danger. Why risk the life of her son unnecessarily?
To His Holiness the Pope, Alexander the Sixth
Most Holy Father,
Greetings from Forlì. May this letter find you well.
My son Ottaviano and I were deeply honored by the offer of your charming and beautiful daughter’s hand. We do not take your favor and generosity lightly; indeed, we were surprised and overjoyed when Bishop Soderini relayed the happy news.
It is precisely because I take your offer so seriously that I must, for now, decline, though I am sorely tempted. I have not forgotten our friendship of years earlier, and I remember too well the beautiful, well-mannered little Lucrezia, with her golden curls. I was always fond of her and would never wish to mar her happiness.
For that reason, I must tell you that Ottaviano has been slow to mature and as yet lacks the discipline to be a good husband or papal emissary. I have recently secured for him a condotta, whereby he can receive a year of military training. This is necessary for the development of his body and mind.
Your Holiness’s affairs are too pressing for such a humble soul as I to demand that you wait in your search for a proper suitor. Rather than insult you with such a request, I instead humbly withdraw Ottaviano from your consideration. You and the lovely Lucrezia will surely be better served by a more worthy candidate.
Your humble servant in Christ,
Caterina Sforza
Regent of Forlì
A few days after Bishop Soderini and his minions departed, sentinels spotted Ser Giovanni’s traveling party on the outskirts of Forlì. Excited, Caterina changed quickly into one of her better dresses and I accompanied her, carrying little Giovanni downstairs so that he could be one of the first to greet
his father.
Giovanni’s unmarked carriage stopped in front of the lowered drawbridge. It was Giovanni’s habit to throw open the door of his carriage, sprint across the bridge, and take Caterina in his arms. This time, the gleaming black carriage door stayed shut too long; Caterina frowned at the delay, and the baby grew restless. Eventually, Caterina stepped onto the bridge herself.
Two of Giovanni’s strongest guards emerged from the far side of the carriage, their arms linked to form a chair between them. Giovanni sat in that chair of flesh, his arms wrapped about the guards’ solid shoulders. He wore no boots; part of his left legging had been cut away to expose his foot and ankle. The same leg was extended straight in front of him, and supported gingerly beneath the knee and shin by a slender young page. With Giovanni’s left foot leading, the awkward quartet made their way haltingly across the narrow wooden bridge.
“Is he injured? Did he fall?” Caterina shouted anxiously at the guards.
In reply, Giovanni shook his head and motioned for her to go back and wait. When the four made it across the bridge, Giovanni, who was clearly in a great deal of pain and could only manage a sickly smile for his wife, warned us all to stay clear of the foot and not even brush up against it.
Only then did he kiss Caterina and say sheepishly, “Gout.”
A glance at his left lower leg confirmed it. His great toe was an alarming shade of deep red, and so swollen that the skin looked shiny and ready to burst from the pressure. The outer joint of the toe bulged outward.
Caterina looked stricken. Gout was not uncommon and often struck wealthy, corpulent men after an excess of meat and wine. But the form of gout that tormented the Medici family was especially virulent, attacking not just the joints but also the internal organs, and had brought Il Magnifico and his father early, agonizing ends.
Giovanni tried to kiss his squirming son, but the baby landed an innocent kick in his father’s midsection that caused the latter to wince; I took the child back and followed as the largest man at arms scooped Giovanni up and carried him to the bedroom he shared with Caterina.
All linens were pulled aside, as Giovanni could not tolerate the touch of them against his inflamed skin. As the giant guard lowered his master carefully onto the mattress, Giovanni could not repress a cry of pain as his left heel touched down. His inner ankle and all the surrounding flesh were fiery red and puffy, and during the last part of the journey, his knee had begun to ache as well. Caterina cut away the leggings and pulled it back to reveal the angry, swollen joint, while Giovanni gritted his teeth and moaned.
Caterina called at once for the physician who had attended him on his trip.
“Poppy is the only thing that can ease this sort of pain,” the doctor said. “Large amounts of cherries also help to lessen the severity of the attack, but he would not eat enough to prevent this one. Give him quantities of water, and no wine or spirits until the attack has passed.”
With that, he mixed up a bitter potion that Giovanni drank eagerly. Within half an hour, Giovanni was groggy but in much less pain. Caterina brought a chair to his bedside and sat with him for hours, talking, though she said nothing about spurning Borgia’s marriage offer to Ottaviano. Instead, she spoke cheerfully about little Giovanni and successful business matters as the elder Giovanni drifted drowsily in and out of the conversation.
When Giovanni finally fell asleep, Caterina took the doctor aside.
“There is no cure for the disease,” the doctor said, “and no reliable treatment from preventing the attacks; each new one does fresh damage. But it’s summer, and you should be able to buy fresh cherries; dried are good, too. I will show the kitchen how to cook them down to make a syrup, which he must take several times a day. His kidneys are paining him as well. This syrup will help dissolve any stones.”
“We will administer it to him faithfully. But is there nothing we can do to ease this attack?” Caterina demanded. “Giovanni cannot spend his days sleeping, and I can’t bear to see him in such agony.”
The doctor hesitated a moment. “There is a natural spring only a few hours’ ride from here,” he said. “San Piero in Bagno. Have you heard of it?”
Caterina nodded.
“Other physicians and patients swear by it. There is some sort of mineral in the water that miraculously relieves the pain, cheers the spirit, and shortens the attacks. Overall, the effect of soaking the affected limb in the water for some hours, as well as drinking the water, is salutary.” The doctor’s tone grew candid. “You are braver than most women, so I shall tell you the truth: Ser Giovanni might well have died from this attack—not so much for what it has done to his legs as to his heart. He is very weak right now and needs a long convalescence. If he does not rest, but continues to have these attacks, I would not expect him to live many more years.”
Caterina did not shrink from the truth, but asked bluntly, “If your wife were as ill as Giovanni—God forbid—would you send her to San Piero?”
“I would do so immediately, Madonna—the minute he is able to walk again. The journey is a short one, else I would not recommend it.”
Caterina sighed. “Then it is done.”
For three days, Giovanni languished, three pillows propped beneath his left foot and knee. He was restless and despite the poppy’s sedating effect, managed to accomplish a good deal of business from his bed. When the swelling and redness finally retreated, he began to make his way around the apartment with a cane, cheerfully joking about his infirmity.
At that point, Caterina shared the doctor’s grim assessment with her husband. She spared him nothing; she was frightened, and wanted Giovanni to be frightened, too—enough to take his cherry potion with him to San Piero in Bagno. At the same time, she was unhappy to contemplate his departure; she had missed him terribly during his absence, and could not bear the thought of being separated from him when he was ill.
Giovanni resisted. His doctor could care for him adequately at Ravaldino—wasn’t the fact that he was better so soon proof of it? And he, too, hated the thought of leaving his wife and little son behind again for an indefinite period of time.
Yet Caterina persisted. Logic was on her side, and Giovanni eventually yielded. On the day he departed for San Piero, he stood with her on the opposite bank of the moat and embraced her as though he never intended to let go.
I waited just inside the fortress as Giovanni and Caterina reluctantly parted, and he balanced upon his cane and the coachman’s shoulder in order to climb gingerly into the carriage. As it rolled off, Caterina stood in the meadow, waving and watching until it was out of sight.
Later that afternoon, a ragamuffin appeared at Ravaldino with a letter addressed to The Lady Dea, Ravaldino Fortress, Forlì. I excused myself in order to read it in the privacy of my downstairs bedchamber.
I recognized the handwriting on the address immediately, but was disturbed by the fact that the letter was somewhat thicker than usual; had something untoward happened to Luca? Was this some sort of good-bye letter explaining his reasons?
Anxiously, I slipped a letter knife beneath the unengraved seal and read:
Dearest beloved,
With each passing day, I love you more.
Today, I am moved to warn you: Forlì and Imola are not safe.
Another day, and Pope Alexander’s alliances change again. Young Cesare Borgia has been named captain general of the papal army. He and his father are negotiating a secret agreement with Louis XII. They have offered Milan and Naples to France in exchange for the French army’s support in taking the entire Romagna. Cesare has dreams of ruling the region, and will be dubbed “Duke of Romagna” once the invasion has been successful. Right now only the might of Venice stands in their way.
In May, Cesare married one of King Louis’s cousins. He was made Duke of Valence, and has taken to calling himself Valentino.
I fear for you. Go to Florence; it is your best hope for safety.
These are exceedingly dangerous people; their word cannot
be trusted. All the rumors you have heard are true. Cesare despises his father bitterly for taking liberties with his sister from the time she was a tiny child, yet Cesare now schemes with his father all the same, as Alexander is his one means to power. Still, Cesare loves Lucrezia desperately, and will stop at nothing to protect her; there are some who say he loves her too well.
I pray that you remain in good health. How I miss you!
I did not share this immediately with Caterina, as she was still undone by worry over Ser Giovanni’s illness.
Surely Luca knew that I could not leave Ravaldino without Caterina, and that Caterina had recently written to her uncle Ludovico saying, “If I must die, then I will die like a man, in battle.” My existence was, as it had always been, in the Lady of Forlì’s hands.
I waited a few days, but by then, Caterina was overcome by joy at receiving her first letter from her husband, stating that he had arrived safely and that the accommodations were adequate, if interesting. His note was intentionally cheerful and comforting, and for a day, Caterina forgot her cares.
The nearness of San Piero allowed for easy, quick correspondence; Caterina was able to read about what Giovanni had done only the day before. For the first week, she received a letter from him every day, describing his fellow sufferers, the pools made by the rocks and the “brimstone-scented” waterfalls that filled them.
The second week, she received only two letters from her husband. Both were cheerful, but held fewer details. She wrote a private letter to Giovanni’s physician; the doctor admitted that his patient had “suffered a small setback,” but that he hoped for a full recovery. Only the doctor’s reassuring tone kept her from hurrying to Giovanni’s side.
The Scarlet Contessa Page 43
