The Scarlet Contessa

by Jeanne Kalogridis

  Past the shops and Duomo, the trees grew more numerous, providing privacy in summer for the homes of the wealthy. The leaves were all gone now, and the bare, skeletal branches served as reminders of winter’s bleakness.

  Luffo Numai’s house was the second grand palace in the neighborhood, buffered from the street by a large island of trees—some evergreens—and a now-dead flower garden. Between the house and trees was a broad, curving driveway covered with cobblestones, and a tiny plaza.

  I stole up to an evergreen in the island and stood in its shadow to assess what lay before me. A campfire had been lit in the driveway, not far from the main entry, and four soldiers huddled around it as they passed around a jug of wine. Like me, they wore drab wool cloaks and scarves over their mouths and noses, but their brows were colored sunset by the blaze, which seemed far more alive and beautiful.

  Just beneath my euphoria lay panic. I had thought of some clever tactic to distract the guards, so that I could speak to Ser Luffo alone—and now, I had abruptly forgotten it. I had to make a decision, and quickly, but I was beginning to lose my bearings to the drug.

  I stared at the men huddled off to one side of the fire, and as I stared at their dark cloaks, I imagined I saw another form in between them, dark and glistening.

  Obey me, the angel said, and I will show myself.

  Get me inside Numai’s house, to Cesare Borgia, I answered silently, and I will obey you for the rest of my life. No matter that I didn’t expect it to last very long.

  There seemed no way around the four soldiers, and the sides and back of the palace were sealed off by a tall stone fence. The only hope I had of getting past the men was to reveal myself. Intuition and the angel both failed me. Shivering violently, I thought of Caterina. She would not have feared these men; she would have approached them boldly.

  I let go a breath of pure desperation and forced myself into motion. I crashed out of the trees and onto the cobblestone, waving to the soldiers to get their attention, and calling in the deepest voice I could muster:

  “Numai! Numai! I must speak to Ser Luffo at once!”

  Obviously, my appearance was less than daunting; the soldiers turned toward me with a look of vague amusement mixed with puzzlement, as if they suspected someone was playing a joke on them.

  “Who is this?” one asked in a thick French accent.

  Another—an Italian, with a distinctly Roman intonation—rose from his haunches to study me. “Lad, you’re very drunk.”

  A third said, with disinterest, “He doesn’t sound like a Forlivese, does he?”

  “I have a message for Luffo Numai, for his ears only,” I said in a deep alto. I wanted badly to lie down and stare up at the night sky, or watch the beautiful fire; at the same time, I was afraid for my life.

  The Italian studied me curiously. “And why should we let you speak to Ser Luffo? What proof do you have?”

  “I am his cousin,” I answered gruffly. “Tell him I bring a message from the Lady Dea. He will want to see me.”

  The Frenchman glanced up at the Italian. “There is no harm in telling Ser Luffo, is there?”

  The Italian considered this thoughtfully. “No,” he answered at last, and beneath my scarf, I beamed with triumph. “Of course,” he said to me, “even if you are Ser Luffo’s cousin, we will still have to search you for weapons.”

  “Here,” I said and, like an idiot, held the stiletto out to him. “You needn’t search me. This is the only weapon I have.”

  The other three soldiers burst into laughter; beneath his woolen muffler, the Italian’s lips moved, and the corners of his eyes crinkled deeply.

  “Oh,” he said cheerfully, “now you most definitely will be searched!”

  He reached for me and I pulled back from him, almost falling into the fire. As I regained my footing, the Frenchman came up behind me and pinned my arms. I howled Numai’s name repeatedly as the Italian parted my cloak to feel for hidden weapons.

  When he reached my breasts, he drew back, grinning, and pulled down the scarf, revealing my face. “Oho, boys, we have here a lady! Would this be the Dea who has a message for Ser Luffo?”

  He pushed me over to one of his fellows, who gave my breasts a quick squeeze before pulling off my hat to reveal the long braid coiled at my crown. In an instant, the others were upon me, groping me, pulling the pins from my hair. I struck out with my fists, my boots, screaming for Numai.

  The torment lasted until a window on the second floor opened and a man stuck out his head to bark, “Enough noise! What the hell are you doing down there with a woman? You’re on duty!”

  The soldiers immediately unhanded me and came to attention. “Ser Luffo,” the Italian called, “a woman came to see you, dressed as a lad. We were searching her for weapons.”

  “Ser Luffo,” I called up, too inebriated to consider the fact that Cesare Borgia might hear. “It’s I, Dea. I’ve come to see you.”

  He leaned down to peer more closely at me, his bald crown looming, his coarse black hair falling forward about his face in long, limp strands. “Dea,” he said, in recognition and disbelief. “Have you a message?”

  “Yes,” I called. “My own.”

  He lifted a brow at that, and addressed the guard. “Go ahead and search her thoroughly for weapons,” he said. “I will come down and escort her in.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Ser Luffo appeared at the front entrance in a burgundy brocade dressing gown trimmed in black velvet. I winced at the glaring lamplight in the foyer and the pair of guards sitting just inside the door.

  “Dea!” Ser Luffo whispered as he studied me, his brow furrowed in dismay and disbelief. “My God, what has happened to you?”

  “Please,” I whispered back, glancing at the curious guards. “Ser Luffo, may I speak to you? In private?”

  “Of course,” he said, and snapped at the soldiers, “She is, in fact, my cousin.”

  We trod softly on the stairs, I clutching the railing to keep from stumbling. By then, it was almost midnight, and it was clear that Numai had guests he did not want to wake. He led me into a small bedchamber on the second floor, with a pair of chairs by the hearth to serve as an antechamber. Cesare, no doubt, was sleeping in Numai’s magnificent apartments.

  I stumbled inside and sagged into a chair to soak up the fire’s glorious warmth. Numai did not light the lamp; the hearth’s glow was sufficient. Indeed, I shielded my eyes from it while Numai sat across from me and stared. The golden glow pulsed upon his features, which at times swirled and shifted so that he seemed a stranger.

  “Look at you, darling,” he breathed. “You’re as dirty as the artillerymen. Why are you here, Madonna Dea? Do you bring a message from Madonna Caterina?”

  As lost as I was, I registered the intentional omission of my lady’s title. I shook my head. “I’ve come of my own accord,” I said.

  “If it is to seek sanctuary,” he answered with a faint leer, “you have come to the right place. I will tell no one who you are.” He glanced at his empty bed, then back at me. “I will, of course, keep your secret . . . provided you cooperate sincerely. Perhaps I might mention that I sent my wife and children away before His Grace, the Duke of Valentino, arrived in Imola.”

  “I . . . Ser Luffo, I must see Cesare Borgia.” Angel, only let me get to Cesare Borgia, and I will obey you in all things. . . .

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Why?”

  “I need only a moment with him. Only a moment . . . As you can see, I have no weapons.”

  “That would be impossible, of course. There are two guards at his door. Even if you got past them, His Grace is extremely athletic and an excellent swordsman. Of course, he is partial to beautiful women and might wait to hear you out before he kills you.”

  “Please.” I dropped from the chair onto my knees, but found myself unable to clasp my hands in a pleading gesture; instead, I sank onto all fours. “If you could get me past the guards . . .”

  Numai was unimpressed. �
��So that you can assassinate him? They would quarter me and hang the pieces in the public square!” His tone grew wheedling. “My darling Dea, you are clearly drunk—and perhaps even a bit mad—after so much time under siege. Stay with me, and I’ll protect you. I can promise you a life much finer than your mistress has ever given you.”

  Fury welled up in me. I crawled to Ser Luffo’s chair and pulled myself up to stand over him while he waited, delightedly, for what he presumed would be an embrace. Instead, I seized him by his velvet collar and pulled it so tightly that he coughed and began to struggle for air.

  Angry lies poured out of me. “There are troops on their way to Forlì even now,” I snarled. “An army so mighty that Borgia’s will flee before it. You will be quartered and hung, indeed, if you do not cooperate with the Lady of Forlì. Do you remember the night when Lord Girolamo was assassinated? When Her Illustriousness was trapped in her own bedchamber, awaiting slaughter? No doubt, the assassins swayed you to their side—enough for you to wait and see whether she could battle her way out of impossible circumstances.

  “She did. And she graciously forgave your hesitancy. But I swear to you now, Ser Luffo, that she will recapture Forlì—and should you not aid her now, she will make a public spectacle of your execution.”

  I pushed Numai backward as I let go of his collar. Red-faced, gasping, he coughed hoarsely and put a hand to his throat as he stared—frightened and entranced—at me.

  “Is it true?” he rasped. He was trembling badly, not so much from my attack as from physical arousal. “Troops are coming? Where from? Ludovico Sforza has not retaken Milan. . . .”

  “Not as of this evening,” I hissed, still leaning over him threateningly. The lethargy had passed, and I felt suddenly energized and invincible. “But by tomorrow morning all in this house will know. By tomorrow morning it will be too late for you . . . unless you help me.”

  Numai shrank in his chair and looked up at me with timid hope. “I cannot! I cannot help, Madonna Dea . . . unless you slap me.”

  I slapped his cheek with such stinging force that it hurt my hand.

  He put a hand to his face and closed his eyes in a moment of sheer ecstasy. Panting, he looked at me again and gathered himself. “If I help you get into Borgia’s room, and you kill him, how will I be protected if you fail? Or even if you succeed?”

  “If I fail,” I countered, “you can tell them that I overcame you and escaped.”

  He frowned at that. “Overcame me?”

  “You have weapons in this room, don’t you, Ser Luffo? Perhaps I could do something as simple as strike you on the head with the fireplace poker . . .”

  He looked at the poker and lifted a thoughtful brow as he weighed the consequences of shifting loyalties once again.

  I saw my advantage and pressed. “But Borgia will not die quickly. If I can get into his room, where he sleeps . . . It will take me a moment, no more. He will not become sick until morning, and then it will seem that he has a fever. If I return without detection to spend the rest of the night with you, who will be the wiser?”

  I did not mean the invitation sincerely; l had never stopped to consider what would become of me should I actually succeed. I took a step back from Numai’s chair. His face was half in darkness, half gilded, as if a painter had captured firelight upon his brush. In the gold, I began to see tiny, intricate patterns, as beautiful and possibly as meaningful as Matteo’s handsome ciphers.

  Something moved in the gloom behind him; I glanced up to see the more profound shadows gather and coalesce into human form, glittering darkly. The angel was fully with me now.

  Forgetting myself, forgetting Numai, I spoke to it aloud.

  “Only let me get to Cesare Borgia,” I whispered, “and I vow to obey you forever.”

  Once convinced that he would not be held responsible for my failure or success, Numai offered up a plan. Borgia was sleeping in his apartment, the door to which stood roughly in the center of the third-floor corridor. This corridor could be accessed from the servants’ back staircase, which approached from the west, or the main staircase, which approached from the east.

  “I will take you to the servants’ staircase,” Ser Luffo offered, “so that when I call for the guards, they will run down to me as you run up the other way. Don’t worry; I’ll think of a distraction to give you enough time. Oh, my darling, I shall make you so happy.”

  Before he would let me leave, however, he went into the small closet and brought out one of his wife’s gowns. It was a ridiculous confection of lace and pearls and golden beads, but it would prompt less suspicion than my dirty men’s clothing.

  “There are always ladies coming and going in this house,” Numai said wryly. “Cesare prefers to have a new conquest every night; the soldiers will notice you less this way, and certainly won’t look on you as a threat.”

  I threw Ser Luffo in the closet—a game he seemed to enjoy—and quickly changed into the gown and threw one of his wife’s scarves over my ravaged hair. Fortunately, the neckline was high and covered my heart-shaped pendant. I emptied the pockets of my cloak, making sure to move my talisman, the Nine of Swords, to the side pocket sewn into the gown.

  As Ser Luffo begged softly to be let out and I responded with harsh threats, I ran a hand beneath his pillows quickly and discovered a sheathed stiletto. I hid it in my pocket before finally setting my prisoner free. Numai emerged grinning, with a large brass key in his hand.

  “The key to Lord Cesare’s apartment,” he said smugly. “My apartment, that is. No one knows I kept an extra one.”

  At Numai’s suggestion, he put his arm around me as we went out into the corridor, and I pretended to weep upon his shoulder. He was correct; this brought no notice whatsoever from the guard patrolling the second floor. Numai led me to the other side of the palazzo and an alcove next to the servants’ steep, rickety staircase that originated down in the kitchen. I could see why the soldiers never used it.

  “When you hear me shout, run up one flight and turn right. You’ll know Lord Cesare’s apartment by the chairs in the corridor, where the guards sit.”

  With that, he kissed my ear—timidly, apologetically—and I caught his nose between my thumb and forefinger and twisted it cruelly. He left smiling.

  In the minute that I spent waiting, my surroundings came alive; the walls began to swell and recede like waves in the sea, and the staircase looked as though it were breathing. In the corner of the ceiling, a spider patiently wove its web, and I watched, enthralled by such beauty. At the same time, I giggled silently at the realization that I could see in the dark with such clarity.

  I also knew that the angel was with me. The drug’s effects seemed to be growing stronger, affecting not just my vision, but also my emotions. It was as though I had split into two beings: the lower Dea, who was quaking with terror at the prospect of a violent death, and the higher Dea, who was soaring past all petty mortal fears and ready to ride the currents of fate with exhilaration.

  “Guards! Guards!”

  Ser Luffo’s muffled shout—just loud enough to summon Cesare’s men but not wake their master—emanated from the second-floor landing on the other side of the palazzo. As it did, the rickety staircase tilted forty-five degrees in front of me; startled, I drew a deep breath and ascended them anyway, clutching the railing and finally breaking into a run.

  As I made it to the third-floor landing, gasping, I paused in the alcove to peer around the corner down the hall. As Numai had promised, the guards were gone. Midway down the corridor, two empty chairs were pushed against the wall on either side of a heavy wooden door. I could hear Ser Luffo down below, speaking urgently to someone on the other stairs.

  I hurried silently to the door, unlocked it, stepped inside the antechamber, and closed the door behind me.

  Cesare Borgia’s quarters smelled of sweat, horselather, and gunpowder. Although the room was unlit, I could see everything easily. A large table surrounded by several chairs held a stack of unscroll
ed, annotated maps, the edges furling upward; nearby, a poultry carcass, dirty dishes, and several near-empty goblets sat beside an uncorked flagon of wine. Dusty saddlebags sat heaped upon the fine carpet, accompanied by crumpled pieces of paper, careful diagrams, an overturned chair, and a woman’s dropped shawl. The stucco wall near the table was stained with irregular purple splotches, as though someone had flung a goblet of wine at it.

  The open door to the bedchamber glowed with dancing hearthlight. I had never seen a room so lavishly appointed, save at the Vatican, but my focus remained on only one item: the large, magnificent bed in the center of the room, heaped with velvet pillows and fur throws of sable marten, leopard, and rabbit. The thread-of-gold tapestry bedcurtains had been drawn back to admit the fire’s warmth.

  Huddled near the pillows was a woman—more a girl, really, of perhaps sixteen years. She sat with her back pressed against the mahogany headboard, her arms tightly hugging her bent legs; a fine wool chemise the color of candlelight draped over her spare form, suggesting wide but delicate shoulders and long, slender legs and arms. She was beautiful, with thick brown hair streaming to her waist, and dark eyes that made me think of the mourning Magdalene. One of them was bruised and badly swollen; her creamy throat bore red marks made by fingertips.

  She saw me and did not stir or speak, but watched mutely as I moved toward the man who lay snoring lightly beside her.

  In sleep, Cesare’s face was slack and innocent, free of the ambition and arrogance that propelled him. He lay on his side, his legs stretched out beneath the covers, his left hand beneath his pillow, his right dangling over the mattress’s edge. On the night table beside him was a half full goblet of wine, a stoppered flagon and—prominently, perhaps so that he would see it first upon awakening—a miniature portrait in a solid gold frame.