by Lisa Hilton
It was as we descended the spine of Italy into the softer lands of Lazio that I saw the troupe. We had seen very few travellers thus far, but as we came upon the route to the Holy City we began to meet pilgrims, some on foot, with stout walking staves, worn and weary with walking and fasting, others fine people with litters or even carriages, all bound for the jubilee celebrations in the Borgia city. Caterina barely glanced at them, though even the sight of a new face made for a little diversion in the grim tramp of our journey, and they often stopped to exchange news or share their provisions with the men, who were kept in good order, bound by Valentino’s discipline and the promise of reward when we arrived. Their wagons came out of the mist as we broke camp one morning, plodding slowly along the crowded track. I felt a little flutter of happiness as I recognised their colours, fresh-painted since they had taken leave of my master and me at Careggi, in another life, and Addio’s bright cap, blue this time, perched above the straining rump of the horse. I clambered down from the cart and trotted along the line to where Caterina’s guards surrounded her litter. I would speak with these people, I explained in Castilian, they might have news from Florence.
Without waiting for permission I ran back to the wagons, letting down my hood, and as they recognised me a flurry of hands reached down to haul me in. I rode with them all that day, reliving our escape from the palazzo, eager for news of their travels. They had been south to Naples, the most beautiful city you had ever seen, set in a horseshoe of blue water with islands like jewels, and then further, to Palermo, where there had been storms and a shipwreck, and where they had spent a sweltering season eating oranges and fish that swam into your hands if you dipped them from a rock. I could see the colours, feel the brightness of that southern sun, and I wished a little that I had gone with them when they had offered, to a life with its own ever changing rhythms, secure in nothing but the pace of the horses and the uncertainty of tomorrow.
Chellus told me that my old friend was still with them, grizzled and fat, but good enough to frighten the children, and I wondered at that; perhaps he could sense me, and bring them to me when I had need. It was fanciful and I did not share my thoughts. Of Caterina I spoke little, though of course they had heard of the siege of the Rocca and the defeat of the Countess of Forli. All Italy, they said, was talking of it. I told them only that I was following the path that had been set for me – Ser Giovanni was gone and I had seen his son go safe to Florence; I followed my lady as a good maid should. In truth, I was a little ashamed to expose them to what had become of me since they left me in Tuscany. As dusk fell I left them, with promises that I should seek them out in Rome and a cloth of provisions that I had begged from the guards. They could not move so quickly, they explained. They would move back down the line and perhaps make a few coins from a show for the men, who would pay well for a little entertainment.
I was warmed by their acceptance of me, their lack of curiosity as to how they came upon me always in such odd ways. This must be the lesson of the life they led on the road, I thought – that everything comes around, in a while, and that it is best to accept what joy there is in it, and not ask too many questions.
I thought of him, though, my old wolf, as I lay tight in my cloak that night at Caterina’s side. It meant something, I was sure, that he had come to me again, and I could not sleep for waiting for it. A day passed, then another, and on the third a gentleman came for me, one of the captains of whom the men whispered at night, and said that I should get up on his horse before him, and come with him to Valentino. The column was settling for the evening, we passed between little glow-worm fires in the twilight, the men easing off their stinking boots, passing skins of wine, arranging their packs as pillows. I kept my head down, avoiding curious eyes. My heart was fluttering at the thought that I should see him again, trepidatious, thrilled. We came to a clump of tents, I was set down and the gentleman led me inside, withdrawing behind me so that we were alone.
‘Well, Mora.’
I started. I had never grown accustomed to it, how his voice could come from the shadows where moments before the space seemed empty. The tent was canopied in cloth of silver, burnished in the light of several glass lamps. I smelled beeswax and lavender and good wine. There was a bed, a real bed with a crimson silk tester. I wondered about the silver privy, and for a tiny second I was sad. It was the last time we had truly laughed together, Caterina and I. I took a step forward.
‘No. Here. Bring the light.’
His black cloak was still smudged with the dust of the day, his head tipped back to reveal his beautiful, savage profile. He wore a mask, the black velvet mask I had seen so often in my dreams.
‘Lift it. Look.’
I stood over him and he closed his eyes. The skin was the rich creamy colour of parchment, a few lines around the eyes just beginning to betray the wear of years of summer campaigning, but lovely still. A bubbling porridge of sores marred the smooth plane of his cheek.
‘The French disease. Or so they called it, in Naples. It has returned.’
‘Since when, sir?’
‘It came as we left Forli. I cannot, that is, my father.’
For the first time since I had known him, there was a softness in his face. He was pleading with me, to make him whole, that he should not be shamed with poxed blisters when he made his entry into Rome.
‘Can you heal it?’
You are mine, I thought. All this time, and you were waiting for me. I knew now why my wolf had come to me, he knew that I would have need of him once more.
‘I can try, Your Grace. I need to send a message. And I need space, and a light, I will show you. It will take a little time.’
He replaced the mask and spoke some words to the attendant outside. A quill was brought, ink, parchment. I did not think that any of the troupe could read, and nor, of course, could I, so I drew what they needed.
‘A coin, sir. Gold.’ I smiled to myself as I closed the paper over it. I could do that for them, at least.
‘I need sandalwood. There is a small chest, where the Countess is. Have it brought. Then we will wait a little.’
The pointed almonds of his eyes caught at me.
‘Indeed? Then come here, Mora.’
‘Your Grace?’
With his knuckle, he traced the length of my jaw. His hands.
‘A pity that you’re not a boy, Mora. You would make such a pretty boy. My brother Juan would have admired you.’
I sighed, a little in sadness, a little in the anticipation of that once familiar pain. The moment would come when he soothed it. Beyond the pain, what hurt me more was how I craved the balm of him.
‘No, sir, not a boy. But I will do very well.’
I turned and dropped my cloak to the floor, bracing my hands against the bedpost.
‘Yes. You will do very well.’
I told him to keep from sight when Gherardus brought the wolf to me. Close, though: I wanted to be sure he could watch me. We went a little way from the camp into the trees, where it smelled clean, away from the fug of leather and horse dung and men. There was a space where an oak had fallen, a few slight saplings straining to fill its place. I looked around for a stick and scrabbled a little hollow near the roots of the upended tree, where the earth was softer. Wiping my hands on my cloak, I unpinned my hair and used the pin to scratch a few signs on the sliver of bark I held before me. With the lamp, I set it alight. In the flame of the lamp, the sweet, powerful smoke drew a plum-coloured path into the canopy of trees. I had drawn the smoke as the sign for them to come. I knew they were there, I could smell him.
Gherardus would slip his chain so that he would come to me like a wild creature, at least to one who was fearful and had his eyes obscured with velvet and could not look too closely. It was full night. I heard him first, the slight flattening of the web between his forepaws on the desiccated leaf-mould, the quickness of his curious heart, drawn by the scent. He paused on the edge of the clearing and I turned my head slowly, mindful
of those eyes upon me. He trotted towards me, his black pelt silver tipped, thick with winter fat. He brought his muzzle into my palm and I knew that he smelt no fear. For a moment I almost swooned with it, the touch of his wet nose, carrying me back through my dreams, back beyond Forli and Florence to my bed in Toledo and my father’s voice and the magic of the seid. For a moment, I believed it once again, for all that this was a masque got up to bind Valentino to me. I believed it as I had done at the Rocca, that I could conjure wolves, that they were my creatures, and I of them, that we could run together between the winds and that I was not a cursed thing. I gulped at it like strong wine, and almost turned from my purpose; I wanted to put my arms about his neck and have him carry me away, far away from everything, where the old sound would be the rush of the forest around us and the fierce joy of the hunt. I breathed deep and opened my eyes. I had a task to do.
I had brought a chunk of sausage, I pushed it gently between his teeth. I felt them grind down, his eyes holding mine. I took a clean muslin from my pocket and soaked it in his eager drool. He licked my palm. I patted his hindquarters to send him back, listened for the clink of the chain and the man’s tread, then walked backwards, to where Valentino was waiting. I cleaned the sores with wine, then I unfolded the wetted cloth, squeezing it against the pustules so the rot ran out yellow-white, working the wolf’s saliva into the pits.
‘There will be no need for the mask, sir, when we come to Rome. In a few days the marks will fade, I promise.’
‘I shall not forget. You may go.’
The gentleman was waiting to carry me back in the darkness along the sleeping column of men. I hoped Gherardus was back safe with the troupe. I was trembling a little, less from the hurt of him than from the audacity of what I had done. Could it really be so easy? That one as great as Valentino, with all the power of men and gold that he held in the palm of his hand, could be so bedazzled by a fairground stunt, something to make children whimper and their grateful parents fling coins? The infection in the wounds would clear, his skin would heal and knit together again, but had I merely brought him a cure he would have valued it less, though the result was the same. It was conjuring he wanted from me, seid-magic, summoning. It was this, then, that I was meant for, but I wished, as I clambered into the litter and curled my body around Caterina’s back, that I could have been for love, instead. For all that it was chilled and poisoned, I had loved her, and I wished I could love her still.
CHAPTER TWENTY
IN A JOLTING TRAIN OF BROKEN CARTWHEELS AND oaths, of mud and filth and raw frost, we came to Rome on the twenty-sixth day of the month. The men were in great spirits, talking of the pleasures that awaited them once Valentino had made his triumphal procession through the city. The Duke’s steward rode along the lines to oversee the unpacking of trunks and the hanging of liveries, the distribution of black batons and hangings for the mules in the crimson and gold Borgia colours. For Caterina, a black velvet gown was provided, her chafed wrists were unbound, and she was set upon one of Valentino’s own wonderful Mantua horses. I could not help but admire how erect and haughty she sat, her eyes far on the horizon, for all that Valentino was displaying her in his train of booty like a conquered pagan queen. Valentino had also sent a chain, a pretty delicate thing of gilt links, which passed from the bridle of Caterina’s mount to that of one of his captains. And then it was looped around mine, for I too was to be mounted, as the Countess of Forli’s only attendant, with a set of breeches and a hood and doublet of crimson, with ‘Cesar’ chased in silver across the breast. I braided up my hair tightly and slipped on the clothes.
‘It seems that Monsieur le Duc has thought of everything, Mora,’ said Caterina dryly. ‘How attentive he is.’
‘I suppose we cannot help it, Madonna.’
‘And such a charming toilette.’
For a moment I felt a thin quiver of fear that she had guessed what I had done, but there was nothing she could hurt me with now. And besides, the gift showed me that I was not forgotten.
I saw him once more as we walked our horses up the line to take up a position near its head. The mules and the baggage wagons came first. I imagined that Caterina must be wondering if any of her remaining possessions from the Paradiso were contained inside. Behind the wagons were two heralds, one in Valentino’s colours, the other in those of France. Then came the infantry, a thousand strong, their sallets polished up with sand, then two columns of grooms, dressed as I was, the word ‘Cesar’ gleaming over the bright cloth. Valentino’s gentlemen came next, peacocking in court finery, and then Valentino himself, flanked by a cardinal in scarlet on either side. The mask was gone, his skin was bright and fresh. He wore a knee length robe of his customary black velvet, its deep shadows drawing the eyes amongst the rainbow of his attendants like a cavern’s mouth in a meadow of flowers. The only brightness about him was the rich dull gold of the Order of St Michael at his collar and the Riario ruby, which gleamed on his hand. He brought his horse up to Caterina, the lights in his hair shining as he politely removed his black plumed cap.
‘Come, madam. You will be glad to see your old home.’
‘Indeed, sir. Even with the Pope’s bastard as my escort.’
I thought for a moment he might strike her. No one dared to smile. But he kept his face easy and pleasant, even a little pitying.
‘You wound me, Countess. Still, with God’s grace we may both live to strike another lance together, some day.’ So he had heard the gossip, too, and relished it.
The men around us erupted eagerly into coarse guffaws. Caterina went white, her jaw trembling with rage, but she set her gaze in front as he tapped his spurs to his mount, and we passed into the city.
It seemed that the whole of Rome had turned out to gaze at Valentino. We rode first between the columns of a massive gate, into a broad street lined with palaces whose windows and loggias were crowded with women, craning precariously to catch a glimpse of him. In the street, the press of gentlemen and priests, pilgrims, soldiers, beggars, grooms, working folk in their aprons and capering dwarves in fine livery was so great that the horses could barely walk on. Here I saw a fantastically dressed group of Turks, there a gaggle of sober ambassadors, ragged children and insolent strolling whores, all of them crying his name until I was dizzy with it. We were swept along past a huge fortress by the river, banners bearing his name tumbling from the round tower, cannon shattered our ears in a salute as violent as the last assault on the Rocca. As we arrived at the Vatican, we came upon eleven chariots decorated with conqueror’s laurels, in the last of them a tableau of Caesar victorious, crowned as an emperor, draped in a cloth of gold tapestry on which was figured the motto Aut Caesar aut nihil. ‘Either Caesar or nothing.’ He was come as a hero, as a prince, with the ravaged wealth of the Romagna behind him, trailing across Italy in a long scar of gold.
We came into an inner courtyard, the crowds still surging behind us, and Valentino dismounted, accompanied by his gentleman, to pass inside for the blessing of his father the Pope. The guard made a knot around Caterina, who, if she recalled that this place had once been her home, that here she had reigned as the favourite of the Holy Father, did nothing to reveal it. I could hear the mutterings of the people, scrambling to get a glimpse of the famed Countess of Forli. I kept my eyes low beneath my hood, but as I glanced across the crowd I caught a face I recognised, a little figure brave in a brass buttoned coat. Addio. So they were here, they had made it. I dared not signal to him, but I watched his face, praying that perhaps he would glance at me, forgetting that in my livery I was just another anonymous lackey. In a moment he was lost in the swell of the mob, but my heart was singing inside me. My friends were come and surely I could find them out.
Twenty guards were assigned to escort the Countess of Forli to her new lodging. It appeared that His Holiness planned to treat her with courtesy, for we were led uphill behind the Vatican to a small palazzo which gave views over the basilica of St Peter and the meadows behind the Castello, thro
nged today with stalls and cooking fires, a camp to serve the viewers of Valentino’s triumph. Here, I thought, I would find my friends. I was eager to seek them out, to see something of this wondrous city, but Caterina’s grim face showed me better than to ask her leave. It was a delightful place, the Belvedere, I could imagine how pleasant it would be here on the heights in the fierce Roman summer, though the gardens through which we rode were stripped and lifeless in the dull February light. We found the house well prepared, and Caterina bade me at once draw her a bath and look about for fresh linens. I poured the water for her, the splash in the copper tub echoing against the joyous cries of the crowds below us. I kept my eyes low, could not help seeing her wasted body nor catching the stench of it after our weeks of travelling. Bathed, she was restored and called for food to be served.
