The Scarlet Contessa (32 page)

She gave the curtest of nods, and said, with perfect composure, “Sixtus is dead. The fate of the Riario now rests in my hands.”

Chapter Twenty-four

We would not learn the full story until much later: Caterina’s uncle Ludovico became fearful when he learned that Venice was urging the powerful duke of Orleans to bring an army down from France to invade Milan. Ludovico had immediately contacted Florence and Venice and negotiated a truce with them, finally ending the Venetian war that Sixtus had launched so long ago. Venice received a small but succulent plum, the fertile northern region of the Polesine; Florence was given nothing, but a blind eye would be turned to its efforts to capture the fortress at Sarzana and the city of Lucca.

Ludovico revealed his true feelings for Caterina, or rather, the lack thereof, by not negotiating with Sixtus; the papacy and the Riario received nothing. Once His Holiness died, there would be nothing for Girolamo save two towns in the bucolic Romagna.

Sixtus received news of the truce on the eleventh of August. He responded by furiously shaking his fist in the air and shouting at length about the peace he called “shameful and ignominious.” He was inconsolable, much to the despair of his attendants and physicians, who feared for his health.

Their concerns were justified. By that afternoon, Sixtus was ill with one of Rome’s deadly summer “fevers,” and before dawn the next day, on the twelfth of August, the pope was dead.

Rome lay a long, hard day’s gallop from Paliano. Caterina did not believe I was capable of defending myself, and insisted that I be her passenger on her horse. She was ready for battle: a heavy breastplate was strapped over her swollen midsection, and her shield tied to her steed. She wore a broad-brimmed French hat with huge white plumes, tied beneath her chin, into which she tucked her golden hair; around her waist was buckled a velvet moneybag, heavy with gold, and a thick leather belt that held her current favorite weapon, a huge curved scimitar.

Paolo Orsini, good soldier that he was, posed no questions, but as I fastened a canteen to my belt, I asked, “Where are we going precisely, Madonna?”

She swung up easily onto her horse and looked down at me as if I were a simpleton.

“To the Castel Sant’Angelo,” she said brusquely, as if it should be obvious, and gestured impatiently at me.

I climbed up behind her to sit on the mare’s blanketed back, and wrapped my arms around Caterina. My grip was at first ginger; later, as we reached breakneck speed while tearing through the countryside, it grew desperate.

When night fell some four hours later, our wild ride stopped; I expected to encamp and continue at dawn. But Caterina had a different plan. I returned from relieving myself in the woods to discover that she and Paolo Orsini had lashed lanterns to the shoulders of their horses, and intended to continue riding until we reached Rome.

“Too much time has already passed,” she said, ignoring my complaints about my aching backside.

Again we rode, this time at a slightly reduced speed. I tried to make sense of the tiny strip of terrain rushing toward us, illuminated by the lanterns’ wavering arcs of yellow light, but it left me dizzy; I closed my eyes and clung fast to Caterina. After a time, the land flattened out, and our way grew easier as we took the more-traveled paths to Rome. I remember passing through the countryside and hearing distant church bells announcing the hour of Compline, when good Christians said their late-night prayers before retiring.

By my calculation, we arrived at the walls of the city near midnight. Orsini and Caterina both agreed that we should enter via the southwest, as a small contingent of Girolamo’s soldiers had encamped near the gate, at the Church of Saint John of the Lateran. They could provide us with enough protection to cross to the other side of the city and the Castel Sant’Angelo.

We approached the main gate known as the Porta Maggiore to perceive, just inside, the flare of torches and shouts of men, as a few members of the papal army tried to disburse some two dozen ruffians. The crowd’s chant rose on the air:

Colonna! Colonna! Death to the Riario!

I could not see Caterina’s face, but at the sound, she wheeled her horse about. Paolo Orsini did the same, and followed as Caterina’s mount thundered southward along the city wall. Soon we came upon a second, smaller gate—the Porta Asinaria—which was not only deserted, but also located very close to the Church of the Lateran and the papal barracks.

We rode through the gate, staying close to the city wall, under the cover of the trees that lined it. The air was hazy with dark smoke that made my eyes stream; Rome was burning, or at least parts of it. To the north, the sky glowed an unnatural pink-red. Closer by, through the branches, the monastery and basilica of Saint John could easily be seen; the huge windows of the church were brightly lit, as were half the windows in the monastery. The tents that once housed members of Sixtus’s army were gone, replaced by a dozen infantrymen and half as many mounted guards, all of whom patrolled the perimeters.

We were fortunate to have entered a zone protected by the army, but the city’s hills before us flickered with torchlight, and the streets beyond echoed with the shouts of rioters, eager to take advantage of the political chaos following the death of a pope.

One of the infantrymen spotted our torches at once, and cried, “Halt! Who goes there?”

Followed by Orsini, Caterina emerged from the shelter of the trees; two mounted soldiers approached her at once.

One of them, a commoner as large as the count but twice as fat, gawked at her in surprise. “A woman!” he called to his companion, with a hint of lasciviousness in his tone. “
Two
women.”

Orsini rode up alongside Caterina, which caused the riders to reach for the hilts of their swords. “I am Paolo Orsini,” he said sternly. “And these are not women, but
ladies.
”

Before he could say another word, Caterina pulled off her hat to display her golden hair. “I come from my lord and husband, Count Girolamo.”

“Your Illustriousness!” The other soldier, a younger man whose speech marked him as higher born, bowed immediately on his horse; the heavy man followed suit.

“And your name is?” Caterina demanded of the younger.

“Antonio da Fiorentino, Your Illustriousness.”

“Antonio,” she said, “I charge you and your compatriot to escort us safely to the Castel Sant’Angelo. Count Girolamo has ordered me to secure the fortress in his stead until he can arrive.”

Caught in the light from the torches lining the exterior of the basilica, Antonio’s sharp features revealed temerity.

The heavier soldier said, “We cannot, Madonna. It’s far too dangerous! The streets are filled with enemies of the Riario, especially near the Vatican!”

Antonio waved his companion silent. “Of course we shall obey, Your Illustriousness. But you shall need more than Sandro and I to escort you. Let me bring more men at once.”

We rode alongside Paolo Orsini, with Antonio and Sandro flanking us on either side; an extra swordsman rode alongside Antonio, to afford us women more protection. Two soldiers armed with pikes rode ahead of us, and two behind. Caterina wisely chose to avoid the populous areas of the city, instead taking narrow side streets to the birthplace of Romulus and Remus: the Palatine Hill, inhabited by pines, overgrown Roman ruins, and flocks of sheeps and goats who grazed the area during the day. I stared at the crumbling, roofless skeletons of two-thousand-year-old palaces, rendered ghostly by wisps of smoke and the ever-increasing reddish glow from the fires in the wealthier districts.

From there we passed down into a quiet, sparsely peopled area, where we kept to wooded areas before entering the Trastevere, where the working commoners dwelled. There we were forced onto narrow streets, past homes guarded by their owners; more than once, menfolk noted the papal uniforms and stuck their heads out of the windows to cry out,
Death to the Riario!

At last, we made it to uninhabited marshes, and as the horses picked their way through the vile-smelling muck, Caterina questioned Antonio, who rode beside us. Most of the news was not good: our home of several years, the Palazzo Riario, had been destroyed, and all the belongings stolen or burned. I let go a cry of loss and indignation at the revelation; Caterina listened silently.

“We are sorry, Your Illustriousness,” Antonio said. “With so many of our forces gone with Count Girolamo, and the rest protecting the Vatican, we did not have enough men to protect his palazzo. The crowd moved so quickly . . . the servants barely escaped with their lives. What the servants did not take, the crowd did, and what they did not want, they set afire. I’m afraid that many of the fine palazzi have been completely destroyed.”

Caterina’s tone was grim. “What has become of the cardinals? Are they in conclave to elect a new pope? I am concerned for my husband’s cousin, Giuliano della Rovere, of course. And I hear that Rodrigo Borgia has made many enemies.”

Antonio shook his head. “They are all well, so far as I know. Most are in conclave at the Vatican, under heavy guard. But I have heard that Borgia and della Rovere are communicating with the conclave via messenger; neither one dares leave his palace. Borgia has several cannon trained on the street, and della Rovere’s palazzo is similarly well guarded.” He paused. “Unfortunately for the Riario, Cardinal Colonna has been freed from prison and has joined the conclave. He is surely doing everything in his power to ensure that Cardinal della Rovere is not elected.”

“And the Castel Sant’Angelo? Who holds it?”

“Our troops. Though I must say, Your Illustriousness”—Antonio lowered his voice confidentially—“that the fortress has been attacked several times during the day by an organized, trained militia. My fellows have fought them, and say that some have been seen wearing Borgia’s colors.”

“I am not surprised,” Caterina said drily, turning her attention back to the swampish ground ahead of her.

We followed the snaking Tiber until the ground grew more solid, and we came upon the carefully maintained Vatican gardens. From there, we rode eastward alongside the massive southern façade of Saint Peter’s, its high, narrow windows aglow. Our soldiers reassured us that we would be safe crossing through the square; indeed, we passed through one of the archways into the plaza to find it surrounded on three sides by armed papal guards. On the steps leading to the atrium in front of the basilica, and at the northern archway leading to the Vatican, were several cannon, their muzzles trained on the passage leading out to the street.

Guards lifted their swords at the sound of our approach; Antonio called to them, and quickly explained our need to reach the nearby Castel Sant’Angelo.

“Take care,” called one of the artillerymen. “We can protect you here in the square, but not beyond. You will have to pass through a dangerous area.”

“Then give me more men,” Caterina demanded indignantly, “for I must obey my husband’s command!”

“Forgive me, Madonna,” the weary artilleryman replied with a bow. “With all my heart, I would follow Captain Girolamo’s order. But we are too few; if any of us desert our posts . . . Well, His Holiness’s fleeing servants stripped his apartments of many valuables already, which is bad enough. But if the crowd gets into the basilica or the Vatican, they will steal everything and desecrate what is left.”

Caterina could not argue with the man’s logic. We made our way across the square, and paused at the archway leading out into the street. The Castel Sant’Angelo was only a five-minute ride straight ahead, down through the narrow street that cut through the heart of the neighborhood known as the Borgo.

I peered over Caterina’s shoulder through the archway at what lay before us. The night was black and the way unlit, save for the sweep of torchlight from those fighting in the street. Darkness alternated with shards of yellow light that revealed a glimpse of a contorted face, the fleeting gleam of steel. Amid the groans and screams came battle cries:

Colonna! Death to the Riario!

Orsini! Orsini! Girolamo!

Our protectors closed ranks around Caterina, who drew her scimitar and ordered, “Onward!”

I held tightly to Caterina as we cantered into the chaos. Our lanterns revealed a swarm of men fighting on foot in the near distance in front of the fortress, its exterior lit by sconces encircling the second floor. The muzzle of a cannon peeked out from each upper battlement.

Unfortunately, our lanterns also revealed our presence. As our horses’ canters became full gallops, some of the fighters turned from battle toward us. Our soldiers’ uniforms revealed our loyalties, which caused fresh chanting:
Colonna! Death to the Riario!

A few of those who took up the cry ran directly at us with long swords. In the tumult, the two pike-bearing soldiers guarding our front were forced to veer off to one side in order to fight off the attackers. In the next instant, the two at our side were forced to engage in swordplay.

A great brute bearing a monstrous longsword rushed toward Caterina, crying with delight, “It’s her! The contessa—Girolamo’s wife! Get her!”

He reached with an impossibly long arm and grabbed her right stirrup; the horse reared, and I slipped from its backside directly onto the brick paving. It knocked the breath from me, and I lay stunned, watching as the brute tried to seize the horse’s reins. He nearly succeeded, but Caterina caught them first, and when the horse brought its front legs down, she leaned forward over the horse’s neck, balancing her heavily pregnant body with grace, and brought the scimitar down on the brute’s bald head.

A faint red mist sprayed upward from his crown as the blade sank into his scalp; there came a muffled crack as the steel bit into his skull. As Caterina pulled the scimitar up, ready to strike again, blood gushed from the wound with such force that the brute’s face was immediately covered with blood. He dropped to his knees.

Only then did Caterina turn. “Dea!” she shouted, scanning the dark ground for me.

I found myself able to breathe again, and exhaled a scream as I struggled to my feet. Antonio was beside me, and reached down to pull me up into his saddle. As he did, one of our troops retook his place in front of us, and used his boot heel to push the impaled body of one of our enemies from his pike.