The Scarlet Contessa (40 page)

I tensed, suspicious.

“Is there anything the contessa has need of? I should like to buy her a gift she can truly appreciate.”

Relieved, I held up the chalices in my hands. “Sir, you can hardly do better than these.”

“Yes, but while such things are beautiful, they are used rarely, and will be hidden away when I am gone. I want to get her something more.”

I could have pointed out that Caterina would see the portrait of herself as the Madonna every day, but Giovanni was determined. I hesitated, and suddenly remembered Caterina bitterly complaining about the need to pawn almost all of her jewels and silverware. They were still in Milan, at the pawnbrokers, and the interest alone was more than she could afford to pay.

“Jewels,” I said, and told him the sad story.

He nodded happily. “And what do you have need of, Madonna Dea?”

“Oh, sir, you are too generous. I have need of nothing.” But he continued asking general questions, which somehow led to our speaking of Florence. I told him how I had met Lorenzo, and Giuliano before his death, and Lucrezia, and Marsilio Ficino. “I even possess a short manuscript by him, and a letter to my late husband from him.” And then I broke off, wondering whether I had said too much.

That night, Caterina and Giovanni feasted and danced late into the night; my lady was a fine dancer, but Giovanni’s grace exceeded even hers. During a break in the music, Caterina took me aside.

“Go to bed now,” she whispered into my ear. “To your own room, and be sure to shut the door to the staircase. Don’t come out until morning.”

When morning came—and I had waited for hours, dressed and fully awake—I finally ventured going up the stairs and opening the door to my lady’s chamber, to see if she had need of anything.

Caterina was still sound asleep, fully naked, with the covers and linens kicked carelessly to the floor. She lay curled on her side, nestled in the crook of Giovanni’s arm, her head upon his shoulder, her arm flung across his bare chest. The tightly coiled braid at the nape of her neck had mysteriously come undone, and golden waves of hair covered her own shoulder; the pins lay scattered on the night table beside her brush.

Giovanni lay naked on his back, his arm enfolding Caterina, his face inclined tenderly toward hers, and hers toward his, a breath away, as black and golden locks intertwined.

On either night table stood one of the jewel-encrusted chalices.

I smiled faintly at the sight of their bliss, though the sight stirred my pain. I stole out the main door to the rest of Caterina’s apartments, thinking of my Luca, wondering where he found himself at this particular instant, and whether his thoughts were of me.

Caterina did not call for me until an hour past midday, at which point Ser Giovanni had retired to his own chamber to be dressed and groomed. The lovers met alone in Caterina’s private dining hall, without Giovanni’s attendants, while I hovered over the two and made sure plates and cups were refilled. Out of the public eye, Giovanni reached across the table for Caterina’s hand, and she offered it to him shyly; they began their discussion by clasping hands above the table.

But they did not cling to each other for long. They were both stubborn businessfolk, and when it came to the amount and price of the grain to be purchased, Caterina balked and argued strenuously for her point of view. Ser Giovanni remained perfectly calm and reasonable, but held just as doggedly to his own numbers. In the end, the deal was reached after some swift, fierce haggling, with both sides making concessions, and when it was done, Ser Giovanni and Caterina both were satisfied.

As a good host, Caterina had readied horses and hounds for a hunt, but at her invitation, Giovanni smiled wistfully.

“I have so little time here,” he said, “and I would rather spend it coming to know you and your family instead of bounding across the Romagna in pursuit of a hare. Where are the brave children who survived imprisonment after the death of their father? I should like to meet them.”

I had the distinct pleasure of watching Caterina melt before my eyes.

“Of course you can, Giovanni,” she said softly, “but they are with their tutors right now.”

Giovanni favored her with a coy grin. “Does today not seem like a holiday, Caterina?”

“It does, doesn’t it?” she answered, smiling back at him, and reaching for his hand.

With that, the hunt was canceled and turned instead into an outdoor picnic in the grassy meadow across the moat. Giovanni’s men produced the most succulent food I had dined on since leaving Rome. Caterina’s eldest, Bianca, had since been wisely married off to Astorre Manfredi, Lord of Faenza, but fifteen-year-old Ottaviano and fourteen-year-old Cesare brought blunted swords to show off their blade-wielding skills, and twelve-year-old Giovanni Livio challenged Ser Giovanni and his attendants to a number of footraces. Ser Giovanni wisely let his little namesake win most of the races; Giovanni Livio, the brightest and most exuberant of his brothers, celebrated by jumping into the murky waters of the moat and swimming its entire length. After a severe chastening by his annoyed mother, the soaked boy was pulled out and offered a cloak.

A few of Ser Giovanni’s attendants disappeared for some time, and returned bearing gifts for the boys: a gold belt buckle in the shape of a fleur-de-lis for Ottaviano (“as I hear your mother has arranged your first military commission for you in Florence”), and one in the shape of the stylized Riario oak for Cesare. Giovanni Livio received a handsome inlaid wood recorder, which he proceeded to play badly for the rest of the afternoon.

Fortunately, Ser Giovanni had also hired musicians. When we all quickly tired of listening to the shrill blast of the recorder, Ser Giovanni signaled for them to begin playing, and the recorder was soon muffled by the sound of the lute, tambourine, and drum. This, of course, made Caterina take Giovanni’s arm and pull him into a dance. Their joy was so evident that the rest of us were caught up in it, and the nurse, Lucia, and I danced with each of the attendants while Ottaviano and Cesare performed a mocking little dance, cooing at each other in falsetto tones.

We did not return to the fortress until the sun slipped low in the sky, and a cold breeze replaced its warmth. I was assisting Lucia in herding the boys back over the drawbridge when little Giovanni Livio, shivering a bit in his still-damp clothes, leaned forward to say, much too loudly: “Mama and Ser Giovanni are in love, aren’t they?”

Behind us, the two principals in question giggled faintly, though the rest of us dared not.

I patted Livio’s head and nodded, smiling.

“Well, that’s good,” Livio said. “He seems like a very nice man.”

Caterina let go a faint strangled sound as she tried to hold back her laughter.

Supper was a more poignant, hushed affair, as Ser Giovanni was to start his journey homeward the next morning. This time, the boys were invited to dine with their mother and her guest; to my surprise—and that of the boys—Giovanni and Caterina once again held hands openly across the table. The conversation focused on the changes in Florence, and Ottaviano’s first commission there. There were times when my lady’s happy smile faded, and I saw the melancholy in her eyes. Ser Giovanni saw it, too, and each time pressed her hand to his lips and reminded her that he would return as soon as possible.

I sat between Cesare and his younger brother. By the time the meat course arrived, I noticed that little Giovanni Livio had eaten almost nothing and was slumped and shivering in his chair; I put a hand to his forehead, which was alarmingly warm.

“Madonna,” I whispered down the table to Caterina, “he is unwell. I’d best take him to his bed and call Lucia.”

Frowning, Caterina pushed herself from the dining table and, still sitting, opened her arms to her youngest son. “Come, darling, let me see you.”

Livio was so ill that he swayed on his feet, squinting at the light. I bent down and put an arm beneath his shoulders, and helped him stagger to his mother’s arms.

Caterina put a hand upon his forehead and blanched. “He’s very sick,” she said. “Take him to Lucia, and have one of the couriers fetch the doctor. I’ll join you in an hour.”

“Please,” Ser Giovanni told her, as I took hold of Livio again. “I’ll return soon enough, and all of us have been shown enough hospitality to last a lifetime. Take care of your child, Caterina. I’ve brought my own physician and I vouch for his competency. I’ll send him to Livio immediately.”

She gazed at him, her face taut with worry, and nodded. “I will help him to bed, then,” she promised, “and return once your physician has come. I hope not to be gone long. I had hoped to speak with you privately once more before you leave.”

Livio could not make it to the boys’ apartments; after attempting a single assisted step down a half flight of stairs, he clutched his skull and retched weakly, though nothing came up. “I can’t walk,” he moaned. “My head hurts too badly.”

He was almost his mother’s height, but she scooped him easily up in her arms and carried him to his bed. Lucia, who slept in adjacent quarters, lit the lamp and brought out a bag of medicines, though Caterina asked her to wait for the doctor before dosing Livio with anything.

“I’m thirsty,” little Giovanni whispered. His eyes were closed in response to the nearby lamplight, his face pale and slack with pain; he could not stop shivering. When Lucia held a cup to his lips, he began to cry in frustration, as he could not bear the pain of bending his head forward to drink. Near tears herself, Caterina sent the nurse off to the kitchen to find a ladle.

At that point, Ser Giovanni’s physician arrived, dressed in rich brocades and a dark blue velvet cap atop his long gray hair. With an air of confidence born of many decades’ experience, he examined the boy. To all his questions, Livio, his eyes squeezed shut, his head turned from the lamp, could only moan one reply: “My . . . head . . . hurts. . . .”

As a final test, the doctor put his hand beneath the back of Livio’s head, and urged him to bow his head, touching his chin to his chest. The attempt to even begin to do so brought weak screams, and the doctor immediately told the child to stop trying.

As Livio fell back, huddled and trembling, the doctor rose from his bedside and beckoned for Caterina to join him in the doorway. I followed. The doctor was not unkind; his gaze was sad, with a distant weariness found in those who have witnessed too much suffering.

“I am so sorry, Your Illustriousness,” he told Caterina in a soft, paternal tone. “The outlook is grave.”

Caterina seemed not to understand him, as if he had just uttered something absurd. “Grave?”

The doctor drew in an unhappy breath. “I have seen this before, mostly in children—and of those, children who have recently swum in muddy or stagnant waters. The odds of your son recovering are very slight.”

Caterina put a hand to her mouth and spoke through her fingers. “That can’t be. . . . He was perfectly healthy this afternoon.” She glanced back at the supine Livio in horror. “What will happen to him?”

“The fever will spike even higher. He might have a fit, but most certainly he will lose his sight and hearing, and fall into a stupor. Death will follow in a matter of a few hours.”

Caterina emitted a short, gutteral sound, as if the air had just been knocked from her lungs. “What can be done?”

“I can bleed him with leeches, but that is not curative; it would only prolong his misery.”

“What will ease it?” she demanded impatiently.

“Tea from the bark of white willow for the fever,” the doctor said, his tone sympathetic. “Though it will be very difficult for him to drink. I have some powdered poppy that can be added to it, to make him comfortable.”

By then, Lucia arrived with a small ladle and a kettle of hot water. The doctor dug in his satchel and produced the medicines, which Lucia promptly brewed into a tea. Livio screamed as his mother held him up, supporting his head while I stuffed another pillow beneath him, so that he half sat in the bed. Afterward Lucia got some of the tea into him by ladling it, sip by sip, into his mouth. After each swallow, he shuddered and grimaced.

At that point, Caterina dismissed the doctor and crawled into bed with her son. Very gently, she took him into her arms and held him, whispering sweetly into his ear. His lids fluttered open only once, to show eyes dulled by fever and pain.

Not long afterward Ser Giovanni silently entered the sickroom; his somber expression implied that he had spoken to the physician.

Caterina looked up at her lover and opened her mouth to explain the grim situation, but only tears, not words, would come. Ser Giovanni climbed silently into the bed with her and wrapped an arm around her shoulder as she held her son. By then, Livio was in the predicted stupor, and responded not at all to sight or sound or touch.

They remained so until the dark of night lightened to gray in the hour before dawn, when young Livio’s breath grew labored and harsh. Ser Giovanni had the presence of mind to call for a priest; I hurried to rouse Caterina’s chaplain and led him back as fast as I could. By then, the boy was scarcely breathing, and by the time the priest finished praying over him, he was gone.

Caterina was not ready to leave, but continued to hold Livio while Ser Giovanni carefully detached himself. Lucia and I were both sobbing when he came up to us.

“I will not leave her now,” he said, “but will remain for as long as she desires. I shall go speak to Livio’s brothers now, unless you think Caterina would prefer to do so herself.”

I looked to my mistress, who was humming softly and rocking Livio in her arms; I directed Lucia to remain with her, and led Ser Giovanni to Ottaviano’s room. At Giovanni’s solemn knock, Ottaviano’s valet opened the door. Ottaviano and Cesare were both dressed, and had been anxiously speculating about their younger brother’s condition.

“I am so sorry,” Giovanni told them, with heartfelt sadness. “Young Giovanni Livio has died of a fever. It came from swimming in unclean water.”

He paused as Ottaviano burst into tears and Cesare tried to console him. After the youths had voiced their sorrow, Giovanni said gently, “I shall stay with your mother and do my best to help her in whatever way I can. She is alone now without your father, and needs a man who can help with the painful details that must now be arranged. Ottaviano, Cesare, I know you two bear your own grief, but can you be strong for your mother as she has always been for you? There are funeral arrangements to be made. I can help you with them, but you know best what would please your mother and departed brother, not I.”