The Scarlet Contessa (33 page)

The group that had proclaimed itself loyal to Girolamo and the Orsini surrounded us, fighting off our attackers and allowing us to make our way quickly up to the cylindrical fortress. We rode up a walled-in spiral ramp that led to an impenetrably thick metal gate, and as our protectors worked the brass knocker, Caterina cupped her hands about her mouth and bellowed, “Girolamo! Girolamo! I come with orders from Count Girolamo!”

A man’s face appeared at one of small, barred windows two floors above us. “I am the castellan, Vittorio de’ Lampugnani. Who calls?”

Lampugnani had been the surname of Duke Galeazzo’s assassin, but Caterina did not flinch. This man was no relation.

“I, Caterina Sforza. I bring orders from Captain Girolamo!”

The face disappeared at once. As we waited, one of the pro-Orsini street fighters ran up the ramp behind us. His sword was sheathed and he held out his empty hands to show he meant no harm.

“Your Illustriousness,” he called to Caterina. “Is it truly you?”

“It is,” Caterina said, impatiently glancing up at the fortress window.

“May I have a word with you, on behalf of my master? My name is Luigi da Volterra.”

The soldier Antonio put a hand on his hilt. “And who, pray tell, is your master?”

Luigi, a broad-chested young man, looked to Caterina. “I would prefer to share that with Her Illustriousness. Perhaps she might understand why—”

“Let him come to me,” Caterina told Antonio and the others as she dismounted and tossed her reins to the nearest soldier. Our men moved their horses only a few steps away in order to let Luigi pass. As they did, I dismounted from Antonio’s horse and went to stand beside Caterina. Antonio did not trust Luigi, either; he kept the point of his sword aimed directly at Luigi’s back.

Caterina waited until Luigi was close enough to hear her whisper, “Who is your master?”

“Your cousin, Cardinal Giuliano della Rovere. On the day the Holy Father died, our forces arrived here at the same time as Borgia’s; thus far, we are at a stalemate because my master did not anticipate that so many men would be needed to guard the palazzo. But while your husband’s forces have kept Borgia’s men at bay, they will not let us enter to claim the fortress.” He blinked at the contessa’s swollen belly. “May God protect you; you are with child, yet you ride on such dangerous streets?”

Caterina’s expression was opaque. “Tell your master I thank him for the protection he provided me tonight. Reassure him that I will keep the Castel secure until a new pope has been elected. But tell Cardinal della Rovere that he should use his troops for his own protection. Let him tend to his business, and I will tend to mine.

“In fact, you must tell his men to retreat and leave the square at once, for I intend to disperse Borgia’s men most forcefully.”

Luigi blinked rapidly; his lips parted in surprise. “But Your Illustriousness, it would be an enormous advantage to my master if we gain the fortress. . . .”

“I will cede it to him after he is elected,” Caterina hissed. “Otherwise, he will draw the ire of everyone in the streets who now hate the Riario, and his election will not seem legitimate. In the meantime, I will hold the Castel safely for him. Now tell your men to retreat. I have given you fair warning.”

Luigi had no chance to reply; as the contessa finished speaking, the great gate rumbled open before us, revealing the castellan, Ser Vittorio, surrounded by a score of armed soldiers. Behind them was a poorly lit, dank-smelling dungeon.

As Luigi ran back to the fighting, the rest of us hurried inside the fortress and the gate behind us rumbled shut. Our protectors rode on, their steeds’ hooves ringing against the stone until they found their way outside to the stables.

Caterina stepped up to the grizzled Vittorio, who eyed his new commander: a twenty-one-year-old woman wearing a French hat with plumes bedraggled by the hard ride, a fine beige silk gown, and an ill-fitting breastplate, from beneath which the lower half of her heavily pregnant belly protruded. Another man might have laughed, but Vittorio and his men had been drilled by the contessa many times, and knew that she would not tolerate disobedience.

“Your Illustriousness,” Ser Vittorio said, as he and his troops bowed to her.

“For now,” Caterina told them, her voice loud and echoing off the ancient stone walls, “I am your captain, by order of my lord Girolamo. You are to obey me as you would him.”

There followed a palpable pause; some of the men shifted their feet and looked uncertainly to Ser Vittorio, who was already locking the bolts. “We are obliged to carry out our lord’s orders until a new papal captain has been appointed,” he said firmly.

Caterina returned to face those remaining, and pointed the tip of her scimitar’s blade to the sky.

“Let there be no question of motive,” she told the troops. “We will hold the Castel Sant’Angelo safely for my lord and husband until order can be restored! Let us allow no invader to seize the fortress and impose his will upon the papal election!” She drew a deep breath, and shouted with irresistible ferocity: “Girolamo, Girolamo! Success to the Riario!”

“Girolamo, Girolamo!” Ser Vittorio roared in reply, lifting his own weapon; his men took up the cry, their reluctance transformed into enthusiasm.

I cannot forget Caterina’s expression at that instant: triumphant, transcendent, fully alive. Until that moment, I had not fully believed her claim that she was born to lead in battle, but the proof was there, in the soldiers’ cheers, in the utter joy illuminating my lady’s face.

I smiled, but did not join in the chanting; the contessa’s happiness would be at best fleeting. Like the Palazzo Riario, the life that we had known in Rome was lost forever. We had entered, for the first time, the world of the Tower.

Chapter Twenty-five

That night, I followed dutifully as Ser Vittorio escorted Caterina around the Castel, explaining the military situation: only three hundred troops currently inhabited the fortress, which held adequate food, weapons, and ammunition to last a month, by which time a new pope would surely have been chosen; all of the men were trained in artillery and swordsmanship, save for some twenty experienced archers.

The fortress itself had three distinct sections: a vast dungeon below ground level, the soldiers’ quarters on the first three floors, and the grandly furnished papal apartments on the upper floors. The ground level led to a large open courtyard where the troops drilled. The soldiers’ area consisted of endless low-ceilinged, poorly lit rooms whose walls were stained by rust and mildew. The rooftop was equipped with a cannon at every battlement; beside each cannon were pyramids of stone cannonballs, heaped as high as Vittorio’s head.

Caterina peered down from the battlements at the shadowy figures down in the street below. Apparently, Cardinal della Rovere’s men had taken her advice and fled, for the fighting had stopped, and those remaining had gathered in a circle to listen to instructions.

“Rouse the longbowmen,” she told Vittorio. “And have them kill as many of those men as possible. These are Borgia’s troops, and at the first opportunity they will seize this fortress. Tell me the outcome, no matter the hour.”

Vittorio readily agreed, then led us to our temporary quarters: the lavish papal apartments. He apologized for the fact that there were no servants to attend us, or hot water, or food beyond tasteless military fare, which he brought us himself on a scarred wooden tray, along with mead, which Caterina drank greedily while proclaiming it tasted like piss. He also brought us a bucket of water, and after I removed Caterina’s armor, dress, and chemise to air them out, I poured some into a silver basin, so that my lady and I could wash away the accumulated dust and sweat of the harrowing day’s efforts.

Caterina refused to retire naked, given the need for readiness; I solved the problem by finding two lawn nightshirts that had obviously belonged to someone far more ample than either of us. Once Caterina slipped one on, she crawled onto the huge bed, its gold brocade cover embroidered with Sixtus’s emblem of the golden oak above the papal keys. She did not bother to climb beneath the sheets, but laid her head upon the pillow and let go a poignantly weary sigh. I lay down beside her and blew out the lamp.

“So now you understand the affair with Borgia,” she said.

“What?”

“Borgia,” she answered drowsily. “He told me that if I killed della Rovere and held the Castel Sant’Angelo for him when Sixtus died, he would become pope and give me all the land in the Romagna that I wanted. And a grand estate in Rome. And a secret position as his military adviser.” She giggled faintly. “I am so tired . . . I should not be telling you these things.”

Her words brought me back from the edge of sleep at once. “He said these things to you . . . and you agreed to them?” I asked, appalled. “You knew he was capable of murder, yet you slept with him?”

“I did,” she said. “I agreed with his plan at first because I was naïve enough to hope that he would bring me such power. Once I came to know him, I realized that he would never let me have such things. He is too clever, and I knew that, should I ever displease him, I would be destroyed.”

“Do you think he might still try to kill you?”

Her tone grew grim. “He would find a way to do something worse. Disgrace me publicly, strip me of my title, perhaps, but not kill me.”

“Did you really consider killing della Rovere?”

The mattress shifted as she shrugged in the darkness. “For an instant, perhaps. Until I learned that della Rovere has more money and influence than Borgia. If we are lucky”—she paused to let go a yawn—“della Rovere will become pope. He promised that he would keep Girolamo as his army captain when I swore that I would keep the Castel Sant’Angelo out of Borgia’s hands. But then, della Rovere also claimed that he had enough troops at his disposal to take the fortress.

“So perhaps he is wrong about being able to buy the papacy easily. And if that is the case, then it’s wisest for me simply to hold the fortress until I can negotiate for more land. Otherwise, Girolamo and I are left with nothing . . . except Forlì and Imola.”

Caterina hesitated such a long moment that I thought she had fallen asleep. Abruptly, she asked, “Dea . . . is this what the Tower card predicted? Am I going to fail?”

I, too, paused as I considered my answer.

“Do you remember what I told you years ago? The card spoke of an upheaval, of the destruction of a way of life. Like the Palazzo Riario being burned. Whatever happens, your life will never be the same.”

I waited for a reply, and was answered seconds later by light snoring.

The next morning I woke to the teeth-chattering boom of the cannon on the roof above me. Caterina had dressed and gone. I pulled on my own clothing; as I dressed, the cannon sounded again.

I found the staircase leading up to the roof of the fortress, where the sun was already shining. By then the cannon fire had ended, although the tang of gunpowder was still in the air. As she stood near one of the battlements with the artillerymen, Caterina spotted me and walked across the roof to greet me. Her manner was brisk, but not cheerful.

“We have routed Borgia’s men,” she reported, “at least, those who survived the longbows last night. They won’t return for some time.” She paused, and her expression briefly darkened. “As for Girolamo . . .”

Her lips twisted in an effort to contain a swift-welling rage. “My lord received the news of the pope’s death shortly after we did. He chose . . .” Her voice began to shake with anger, and she paused until she could control its trembling. “He retreated,” she said, clipping the words, “and ran back toward Rome. So Paliano is safely back in the hands of the Colonna, as are Cave and Capranica, the towns we conquered. All of our effort was for nothing.”

She directed her furious gaze downward, lest the troops see her emotion. “Girolamo led his army to the outskirts of the city. He could easily have made it back to the Castel Sant’Angelo, but the conclave of cardinals ordered him to stay outside the city gates until the new pope was elected.” She glared up at me. “And Girolamo, the idiot, is
obeying
them! He will ruin us!”

“I am sorry, Madonna,” I whispered.

“My only hope is that della Rovere manages to bribe his fellows into choosing him,” she replied bitterly. She paused, and her tone grew calmer. “Go down to the second floor,” she said, “and eat at the officers’ mess. Then go back to the papal chambers; it’s safest there, and you’ll be out of our way.”

Before we parted, a trumpet blared in the street below.

Ser Vittorio, the castellan, peered over the battlement and cried out, “Who goes there?”

I hurried to the battlement to look down with the others.

Six men on horseback waited in the street; four of them brandished halberds, one waved a white flag, and one wore a priest’s cassock. The priest shouted while all of us strained to listen.

“I bring an urgent message to deliver directly to Her Illustrious Highness, Caterina Sforza.”

Caterina stepped out onto the edge of the battlement. “I am here,” she shouted. “Who sends you?”

The priest executed a courtly bow in his saddle. “Your nephew, His Holiness Raffaele Riario.”

I frowned. Though he had been an infrequent visitor to the Palazzo Riario, I remembered Raffaele well. He had received his cardinal’s cap from his great-uncle Sixtus at a scandalously tender age, and had unwittingly accompanied the late Archbishop Salviati to Florence on the failed mission to assassinate Lorenzo de’ Medici. After his brother Giuliano’s murder, Lorenzo had taken pity on the terrified young Raffaele, and sent him safely back to Rome with an armed guard.

“What news?” Caterina demanded curtly. She had never been fond of Raffaele, whom she considered cowardly.

“He fears for his aunt Caterina’s safety, and that of her unborn child,” the priest called back. “And he urges you to come discuss the holding of the fortress with him. We are here to escort you to a protected place where you can meet him.”

“Witless dolt,” Caterina muttered under her breath, then raised her voice again. “I cannot leave the Castel Sant’Angelo until we have a new pontiff. I invite my nephew to come inside the fortress, where I will be happy to discuss whatever he wishes. I guarantee his safety.”

After a pause, the priest responded, “Please, Your Illustriousness. You are with child, and this”—he gestured sweepingly at the fortress—“is no place for a woman. My master begs you to go to your husband. He and the other cardinals intend to deal most generously with you and your family.”

Caterina laughed heartily. “Tell me, Father,” she shouted, grinning, “does Raffaele believe me to be completely stupid?”

The priest answered with perplexed silence.

Caterina leaned forward, hands resting upon her thighs; her smile vanished at once, replaced by honest fury. “Answer this, then: Do you know who my father was?”

The priest and his fellows looked at each other in confusion. “Galeazzo Sforza,” the priest called, “Duke of Milan.”

“One of the most intelligent men ever to grace Milan’s throne,” the contessa said. “I may be a woman, but I have my father’s brain! I am not fool enough to leave the fortress. Go tell your master
that
!”

With that, she turned her back to him, and climbed down from the battlement.

The days grew tedious. The heat was sweltering, the food and drink disgusting, and the news less than encouraging. Tired of camping with his men outside the city gates, Girolamo decided to passively await news of his fate in the nearby Orsini stronghold of Isola, where he and his children were luxuriously housed and fed. He sent his wife a letter commanding her to join him; furious, Caterina secretly fed the letter to the lamp’s flame and lied to her troops.

Meanwhile, she and I listened to distant battles in Rome’s streets as cardinals and clans struggled for power. On our eleventh day in the fortress, we watched as a fresh army of five hundred marched through the Porta Maggiore into the city. For a glimmering instant, Caterina hoped that Girolamo had finally found his courage, but as the army neared, its brilliant red and yellow banners came into view. It was the standard of the Colonna, with a golden crown topping a large white Roman column. My lady cursed her husband beneath her breath as the Colonna troops encamped on the other side of the Tiber.

“He could have taken the Castel Sant’Angelo,” she said angrily. “I told him again and again that we had to be ready to take it, in the event of Sixtus’s death, but he would never respond to me. Now . . .” She could not bring herself to continue.

On the following day, the twenty-fourth of August, came the worst news of all. Girolamo had signed a contract with the Sacred College, forfeiting his position as captain of the papal army and surrendering the Castel Sant’Angelo in exchange for four thousand ducats, restitution for his destroyed palazzo, and a guarantee that the future pope would recognize him as the lord of Forlì and Imola.

“At the very least,” Caterina said, “my husband could have supported me, could have sent more troops. And we could have negotiated with the new pope, whoever he might be. Now it’s ruined.”

Cardinal Giuliano della Rovere had been one of the architects of the agreement. His dislike of Girolamo had clearly outweighed any familial loyalty or promises to Caterina.

In bed that night, Caterina told me that Borgia had at least been honest about his aims and truly smitten by her boldness. “I should have thrown in my lot with him,” she moaned, and sat up suddenly to cover her face with her hands. She did not weep, though she had every right to. Late pregnancy left her exhausted and physically miserable, yet she had pushed herself past the limits of endurance, surviving on little sleep and poor food; worse, her amazing efforts had all been for nothing.

When she could speak again, she confessed, “I cannot hold the fortress. Girolamo’s letter warned that Florence and Siena are gathering troops to force me to surrender. And it’s only a matter of time before the Colonna’s army attacks us.”

Caterina did not sleep at all that night. By dawn, she had written two letters, one to Girolamo and one to the Sacred College. By noon, she had received replies from both, which included permission to take one hundred and fifty armed men as her escort through the streets of Rome, back to her children. Her husband was already in the city, settling his monetary accounts.

I rode on horseback beside my mistress, who held herself with regal poise as she rode through the restless streets on a great white palfrey. There was no self-pity in her aspect when she gazed for the final time upon the Castel Sant’Angelo, the Vatican, or Saint Peter’s, nor did she so much as glance in the direction of the rubble that had been the Palazzo Riario. But as she passed through the gate of Porta Maggiore and out of the city at last, her features hardened into an expression of bitterness.