The Scarlet Contessa (31 page)

As everyone’s gaze turned to her, she performed an impressive curtsy; as she rose, she asked, in a high, sweet voice, “Holy Father, may I have permission to enter? They say you are sick, so I have brought you some flowers.”

Sixtus clapped his hands in delight. “Enter, my child! What a lovely little sight you are.”

The girl entered with faint timidity, and paused in front of Sixtus’s swollen feet. Laughing, he proffered his ring for her to kiss, which she could manage only standing up, but once she had kissed the ring, she stepped backward and knelt.

“Stand up, my darling! Stand up! I know you, of course, but I have forgotten your name.”

“Lucrezia,” a deep male voice said from the doorway, as Rodrigo Borgia stepped into my line of sight. He met first della Rovere’s, then Caterina’s gaze with one that was faintly menacing. “Forgive me if she has offended you in any way, Holiness, but she was very troubled to hear you were not feeling well, and wanted to do something to cheer you.”

Borgia’s hands rested on the shoulders of two boys, a few years apart in age, who stood in front of him. The elder was markedly taller, and would clearly grow into a very handsome man; he stood straight and eyed the adults directly but courteously. The second was less impressive, and could not bring himself to look at anyone, but hid his face in his father’s scarlet robe. Both boys sported their father’s dark hair and eyes.

“She is delightful,” Sixtus said, motioning for little Lucrezia to rise. I stepped forward to take the basket from her, and set it on a table near the pontiff, where it could be properly displayed. “And these are the boys?”

“Juan,” Borgia said, patting the shoulder of the shy boy, “and of course, my eldest, Cesare, who is almost nine now. They, too, are concerned for you.”

Juan continued to hide his face, while Cesare executed a perfect courtier’s bow. “May I address you, Your Holiness?” Cesare asked. He was extremely precocious for his age; his diction and intonation were those of an adult.

Sixtus nodded, smiling.

“We pray for your health every morning and every night, Your Holiness. I am sorry to see you unwell and hope you are restored quickly to robust good health. As for my brother . . . please forgive his behavior. He was born bashful, but he has expressed to all of us his good wishes for you.”

At that, Juan reached out and punched his brother in the ribs; Cesare let go a gasp, but regained his composure immediately, and did not retaliate.

“Juan!” Borgia hissed sharply. “Have you no manners at all?” Aware that he was losing control, the Spanish cardinal tightened his grip on his younger son, and with a bow, addressed Pope Sixtus.

“Forgive me, Your Holiness, but I think it is best the children and I leave now. One in particular is growing rather restless.” He shot Juan a dark look just as Lucrezia let go a whine of disappointment.

“Come, Lucrezia,” Borgia commanded; after another curtsy to Sixtus, the little girl ran toward her father, her long golden ringlets bouncing.

Just before she could take Borgia’s outstretched hand, Juan stuck out his foot diagonally, tripping Lucrezia so that she fell hard against her father. Borgia staggered backward; Lucrezia would have struck the floor, had Cesare not caught her.

In a thrice, he set Lucrezia out of harm’s way and slapped his younger brother. “Don’t hurt her!” he shouted, with true anguish. “Don’t you ever dare lay a hand on her!”

Borgia had to hold him back. “With your permission, Holiness,” he said grimly, his black brows knit together with barely repressed paternal rage.

“Children are so unpredictable.” Sixtus sighed, and dismissed the four of them with a careless, backhanded wave; they disappeared noisily down the corridor.

“Dea,” Caterina asked softly, casually, “could you find a vase and some water for the flowers before they fade?”

I nodded, although Sixtus could easily have rung for an attendant. As I stepped from the chamber, I heard someone arguing in the alcove at the end of the corridor, perhaps a dozen paces directly in front of me. Out of courtesy I paused and stood, silent and unobtrusive, against the wall, praying the parties involved would soon leave so that I could continue in their direction.

Rodrigo Borgia faced his children, who were lined up opposite him. Surprisingly, he was not chastising Juan, but Cesare. The cardinal had seized his elder son’s wrist with such force that the boy winced at the pain.

“Why must you always fight your brother?” Borgia demanded, in a tone that threatened violence; the fury in his eyes terrified even me, an observer.

He bent down and thrust his face into his son’s, tightening his grip on Cesare’s wrist. The boy paled and pressed his lips more tightly together, though he would not cry out. Beside him, little Lucrezia wept softly while on his other side, Juan smirked.

“Because he hurts her!” Cesare shouted angrily; he did not shrink from his father’s fury, but instead glared back at him with pure hatred. “She’s only a baby, and my sister, and I will not tolerate her being hurt any longer by
anyone
! Do you understand me, Father?”

Murderous rage flared in Borgia’s eyes. He crushed Cesare’s wrist until the boy cried out; with a swift, violent movement, Borgia used his powerful grip to push the boy onto his back against the hard marble floor. Lucrezia let go a shrill cry and threw herself upon her brother.

“Don’t hurt him,” she sobbed. “Please, Papa . . . Cesare, are you all right?”

“I have put all my hope in you,” Borgia hissed at his fallen son. “I will give you the world—only do not disappoint me. You must never behave so in front of any person of import, much less the pope!”

In reply, Cesare struggled to his feet, and took his sister’s hand; Lucrezia peered up at him with slavish adoration. In a voice just as deadly as his father’s, he vowed softly, “I will kill whoever harms her again, I swear.”

Clutching Lucrezia’s hand, the boy turned his back to Borgia and stalked off rapidly. Juan sniggered, and Borgia raised his hand as if to strike him, which immediately turned Juan’s expression to one of respectful somberness.

The cardinal grabbed Juan by his elbow and hurried off after the other children. I did not move until they were all out of sight.

I confess, I felt a certain kinship with Cesare that day; I knew what it was to love a sibling desperately, and to want to kill those who would hurt him. I hoped that, unlike me, Cesare would find a way to protect the sister he so adored.

Unlike his wife, Girolamo was so undone by the possibility of his father’s death that he rarely appeared at the Vatican. The papal captain’s discomfort had little to do with sorrow over losing his father and mentor, but rather with ambition: Girolamo could not bear the thought of losing all his power and returning to his embarrassingly small fiefdom of Imola and Forlì.

Over Sixtus’s weak objections, Girolamo goaded the Orsini into fighting with the papal army against the Colonna, in hopes that he might obtain many of the Colonna’s grand palaces and fortresses outside the city, in the Roman countryside, before the inevitable occurred.

I secretly pitied the Colonna, who did not deserve to be destroyed simply because they had disagreed with Sixtus. Caterina—aware, like Girolamo, that the time had come for the Riario to grab as much power and land as possible—supported her husband thoroughly in the war. Even though she was by this time obviously pregnant, she expressed hope that she could join him at the battlefront.

Count Girolamo, however, instructed her to remain home with the children. And when the rains ceased and the weather turned pleasant, he led the papal army, along with the fighting force of the Orsini, eastward, into the rolling countryside. By midsummer, he had captured the town of Cave from the Colonna and claimed it for the Riario.

The Colonna, who had not been able to muster an army strong enough to withstand the combined forces of the papacy and the Riario, surrendered and offered to make whatever apologies or reparations were sufficient to win the Holy Father’s blessing again. Girolamo wanted neither, but craved land and wealth. And so he continued his war, and in July, seized the town of Capranica from its Colonna lords.

Giddy with success and the realization that he would be met with nothing but victory, Girolamo invited the patriarch Virginio Orsini, Caterina, and even the children to camp with him and his army outside of his next target, Paliano.

Caterina was determined to go, despite being seven months pregnant by this time. I scolded her, but she pointed out that she felt robustly healthy and had no cause for concern; I accompanied her reluctantly, making sure that our company included a midwife.

I had no taste for war or camping with soldiers in the mud, but Girolamo surprised us all. In the lush countryside outside of Paliano, he had set up huge silk tents adorned with banners and filled with all manner of comforts, including real chairs and beds, a freshwater well, and four private wooden privies. These were situated atop a hill, above the soldiers’ encampment and the oxen and horses, so that we were not exposed to unpleasant sights or foul smells. At first sight, it seemed more like a joust than war.

One large tent housed Virginio Orsini and his sons, another Caterina and the children, and a third Girolamo and his closest aides—who, to my utter joy, included Luca, whom I had not seen since his master went to war. Later, after night fell, both Luca and I wandered out of our tents in search of each other, and went into the forest for a few hours of talk and pleasure.

Girolamo remained certain of an immediate victory; Caterina and Virginio Orsini, along with two of Girolamo’s captains, were not so sure. Paliano was larger and more fortified than either Cave or Capranica, and scouts had reported that it had recruited more fighting men, too.

But Girolamo was stubborn. On the third of August, he began the attack on the city. To his surprise, the Colonna were ready for him, and by the end of the very first day, had fought their way to into the papal camp in the valley below us. On the crest of the hill, Caterina stood with her protective arms around her sons Ottaviano, then only five, and four-year-old Cesare, as she pointed out to them the invaders below and explained their battle technique and how Girolamo’s soldiers responded.

On the second day, the Colonna’s army managed to push our encampment back, obliging our men to move our tents back one ridge, under cover of night. By then, Girolamo was glum, and Caterina and the canny old warrior, Virginio Orsini, convinced him of the need for more supplies; I stood beside Caterina and watched as Luca, writing at impossible speed, penned a letter to His Holiness detailing what was required. Caterina remained confident and cheerful—for the sake of the children, perhaps, or because, like Girolamo, she could not countenance defeat. I found it more difficult to summon optimism; for each time I heard cannon fire, or the shrieks of the wounded and dying, the earth shook, and I felt myself spiraling headfirst, down among the shattered fragments of the Tower.

After eight days of fighting, Girolamo had still not received the requested supplies, and his army had been pushed farther back into the countryside by the Colonna’s superior forces.

“If things do not turn in our favor by tomorrow,” my lady sighed, “I will join the fighting myself.”

She said this in the late afternoon, before our soldiers had returned. We sat in our tent looking at the hill before us, which blocked any sight of the war being waged just beyond it. One of the children’s nurses had taken them back to the bedroom, separated from us by a white silk flap.

Nearby, one of Orsini’s sons, twenty-year-old Paolo, was reclining on a sofa beside a pile of armor. At midday, he had fainted in battle because the weather had turned miserably sultry, and a friend had rescued him and brought him here to safety. After Caterina’s ministrations of water and cool compresses, Paolo had recovered enough to consider rejoining the fighting, but she dissuaded him, with good cause: it was late afternoon, and the temperature had soared even higher. A short jaunt to fetch water beneath the unrelenting sun had convinced me to seek shade as soon as possible.

“Rest here,” Caterina cajoled him, “in the comfort of our tent. By the time you put on your armor, it will be dusk anyway, and the fighting will be over.”

As we sat, indolent from the heat, hoofbeats thundered up the hill toward our tent. Paolo took up his sword and went outside to investigate. He returned with a young rider, rumpled and forlorn, who looked as though he had not slept in days. He was covered in dust, and had ridden so fast he had lost his cap.

He bowed to both of us ladies, and said, “I bear a message from Rome for Her Illustriousness, Caterina Sforza.” His hand went to the leather pouch slung over his shoulder, and brought forth a sealed letter.

Caterina rose, frowning. “I am she.”

The lad genuflected as he handed over the letter.

Caterina broke the seal as the three of us watched. Her glistening face was brown from the sun, and her eyebrows bleached almost white; I watched the latter rush together above the bridge of her nose, but she remained calm and otherwise expressionless. I remember thinking that Sixtus must have denied us the desperately needed supplies, and that she was taking the news remarkably well, when she glanced up from the parchment and nodded at the messenger.

“You have done well,” she said briskly to him. “Go to our kitchen—two tents away”—she pointed—“and get yourself and your horse food and water. When you see my lord Girolamo, relay this to him.”

She returned the letter to the courier, and disappeared behind the flap to go in the bedroom and speak softly to the nurse. In the next instant, she was back.

“I must leave immediately for Rome,” she told Paolo. “But it will be very dangerous, and I am in need of your protection. Will you come?”

Paolo nodded; he could hardly refuse his captain’s wife.

Caterina then turned to me. “I will not order you to attend me—though of course, you know why I want you to. The choice is yours.”

“To go to Rome?” I imagined that she was going to confront His Holiness to demand the supplies.