The Daughter of Siena (7 page)
Violante also remembered one of those doctors telling her that she could wait a twelvemonth and try again for another child. She laughed in his face. It had been trouble
enough to bring Ferdinando to bed with her once – that dreadful violent assault against love and nature – she knew he would not do it again. Cruellest of all, her breasts were engorged with milk, full and hard to the touch, mapped with blue veins, and leaking day and night. Months later, when she at last ventured out in the street in a litter, any babe crying in the square was enough to cause the vicious pinching in her nipples. Her treacherous breasts began to leak the milk that would never again nourish those tiny searching mouths that she had fed but once. Her heart ached for the lips that had mouthed at her flesh, for the twin pairs of eyes that had looked at her so calmly. The littlest eyes but filled with such
love
, love only for her, a love she had never been offered before or since.
enough to bring Ferdinando to bed with her once – that dreadful violent assault against love and nature – she knew he would not do it again. Cruellest of all, her breasts were engorged with milk, full and hard to the touch, mapped with blue veins, and leaking day and night. Months later, when she at last ventured out in the street in a litter, any babe crying in the square was enough to cause the vicious pinching in her nipples. Her treacherous breasts began to leak the milk that would never again nourish those tiny searching mouths that she had fed but once. Her heart ached for the lips that had mouthed at her flesh, for the twin pairs of eyes that had looked at her so calmly. The littlest eyes but filled with such
love
, love only for her, a love she had never been offered before or since.
Ferdinando never came near her again, and in time Violante knew that his confession on the birthing bed had come to naught; she was not infected with his malady. As the days and weeks crawled by in their relentless agony of loss, she realized, appalled, that she had no symptoms of syphilis, no blood in her waters, no imagined scars upon her face. The only scars that criss-crossed her flesh were the marks that had silvered her skin where her belly had distended with child. In her confinement she had refused to anoint them with oil of olives as her ladies had urged her, for she had been as proud of them as a veteran of his battle scars. Now they were as painful to her as the forty scourgings of Christ.
Her broken heart was caged in a healthy body. She was to be given no early release from this prison. She remained healthy and knew her sons would have been too. She
never visited their graves in that huge marble mausoleum. Such a place had nothing to do with her twins, so warm and small and living; it had nothing to do with the moment they had shared, that one short moment of communion, of pure love given and received, with no thought or agenda. She marked every birthday, without fail, as the years went by, relived that first and last look they had shared, felt the sweet kiss of those tiny mouths at her breast.
never visited their graves in that huge marble mausoleum. Such a place had nothing to do with her twins, so warm and small and living; it had nothing to do with the moment they had shared, that one short moment of communion, of pure love given and received, with no thought or agenda. She marked every birthday, without fail, as the years went by, relived that first and last look they had shared, felt the sweet kiss of those tiny mouths at her breast.
When Violante saw Ferdinando die, slowly and terribly, she was glad. She knew that, in the moment she came face to face with his sons, she had ceased to love him, and in the moment he had confessed to her, their bond was inexorably broken. Three years later, when her father-in-law Grand Duke Cosimo offered her the governorship of Siena, she took it. She knew she was running away from Florence, but it was no use. The dream followed her here and would not let her go. When she entered the city gates as a new widow, the first thing she had seen was a statue of the city’s emblem, a she-wolf suckling boy twins. In a dreadful irony the image was everywhere, ever present, even on the frescoed walls of her new home, the Palazza Pubblico. There was no escape.
Her rule had been a disaster. Her fragile hold on the city was slipping, and yesterday another son was lost, another heir doomed never to come to his inheritance. Vicenzo Caprimulgo had been taken. The age-old rivalries that had bubbled and seethed in this city for hundreds of years had surfaced. That foolish Panther had
taken a life and she knew that Faustino would not let that rest.
taken a life and she knew that Faustino would not let that rest.
Violante jumped from the bed and padded to the window, throwing open the casement as she had done the night before. The patch of blood at the San Martino corner was still there, despite the efforts of the
comune
’s servants. She could no longer take her eyes away from it. It looked as if the city had been bruised. Siena was bleeding internally, just below the skin.
comune
’s servants. She could no longer take her eyes away from it. It looked as if the city had been bruised. Siena was bleeding internally, just below the skin.
She must take action.
She looked carefully at the nine divisions of the campo. The Nine. An idea began to bubble to the surface of her consciousness. She heard the bells of the mourning Eagle
palazzo
– the Caprimulgo house – telling the
contrada
it was six. Daybreak. It was time to act.
palazzo
– the Caprimulgo house – telling the
contrada
it was six. Daybreak. It was time to act.
She cast about for a robe to throw around her shoulders. Without her corsets she was depressingly rotund: too many comfits and sweetmeats nibbled out of unhappiness. But this morning she had no time to think of her vanity. She ran her hands through her cropped greying hair. She was suddenly in too much of a hurry to call her waiting women and begin her lengthy dressing process, too impatient to wait for the placing and powdering of her heavy wig. Instead she grabbed the great black-and-white banner of the Palio, which had been brought to her room from the piazza where she had dropped it. She suspected her household did not really know what to do with it. Technically the Eagle
contrada
had won; even though their horse Berio had crossed the finish line with no rider, the victory still held. But she could understand
why the Eagles had neglected to collect their banner – there was no triumph to be had in such a win. Violante wrapped the heavy silk around herself like a robe. She put on a simple lace cap and tied it under her chin, took her oil lamp and crept barefoot down the stairs to the centre of Siena – the very heart of the palace and the city itself. She opened the heavy doors and reached her destination.
contrada
had won; even though their horse Berio had crossed the finish line with no rider, the victory still held. But she could understand
why the Eagles had neglected to collect their banner – there was no triumph to be had in such a win. Violante wrapped the heavy silk around herself like a robe. She put on a simple lace cap and tied it under her chin, took her oil lamp and crept barefoot down the stairs to the centre of Siena – the very heart of the palace and the city itself. She opened the heavy doors and reached her destination.
The Hall of the Nine was built to celebrate the long-dead republican government, the nine Sienese men from the greatest families. It was the government that she had supposedly replaced, but it was also the government that still existed here in reality. She needed to look back to look forward, and in this place the very walls themselves would tell her what she must do. For here, adorning the walls, were the three wondrous frescoes by Ambrogio Lorenzetti – the
Allegory
and
Effects of Good and Bad Government
, each depicting a view of Siena and its countryside.
Allegory
and
Effects of Good and Bad Government
, each depicting a view of Siena and its countryside.
She had lived with these paintings for ten years, had held receptions, councils and colloquies here; she had looked at them ten thousand times but never truly
seen
. Now, in the faint dim of the dawn, she tracked her lamp around the walls, the flame throwing a warm disc of light upon the details. She examined every brushstroke at close quarters. She wanted to learn what she must do.
seen
. Now, in the faint dim of the dawn, she tracked her lamp around the walls, the flame throwing a warm disc of light upon the details. She examined every brushstroke at close quarters. She wanted to learn what she must do.
Violante looked to her left. In the representation of good government, the prosperous townspeople were trading and dancing in the streets. Beyond the city walls a lush countryside could be seen in which abundant golden crops were harvested. In the allegory of bad government, crime was rampant and diseased citizens roamed a
crumbling city. The countryside without the walls was parched and bleak, suffering from the killing thirst of drought. Over all, a white-faced Devil with ivory horns presided, black-robed, with a dish of blood in his hands and a goat at his feet. His aquiline features reminded her of Faustino Caprimulgo. She shivered and could not meet the Devil’s yellow eyes.
crumbling city. The countryside without the walls was parched and bleak, suffering from the killing thirst of drought. Over all, a white-faced Devil with ivory horns presided, black-robed, with a dish of blood in his hands and a goat at his feet. His aquiline features reminded her of Faustino Caprimulgo. She shivered and could not meet the Devil’s yellow eyes.
Violante took a few paces back to look at the two frescoes together and tried to think straight. The paintings showed the two faces of the city, the black and the white. Siena’s very flag, the Balzana, was a slab of white atop a slab of black, each half equal to the other. But now under her rule it was as if the flag seemed inverted, that the black was riding in triumph. How could she transform it, how could she make the white half win, how could she emulate the stable republican government of the Nine that she saw depicted here? Who could defeat the Devil in his own dance hall? She shuddered and drew the silk of the Palio closer round her shoulders.
Violante shifted her lamp to the third painting. Here, flanked by the depictions of the black-and-white city, was a central panel. And here she found hope. Here, in the centre, where a grim-faced judge, like Christ, separated the saved from the damned, was inspiration. For here, Justice was depicted as a woman. She gestured to the scales of balance, held by the personification of Wisdom floating over her throne. It was the figure of Justice who decided whether to condemn or be merciful for, on her right, a convicted criminal was beheaded; on the left, gladdened figures received the rewards of reprieve.
Violante felt inspired. Could she be the figure of Justice, could she take the reins at last and unite this divided place? Justice was not alone in her endeavours. At her feet, the personification of Virtue was also portrayed as a female figure, modelled on the Queen of Heaven. Mary, the patron saint of the city. Mary, the mother who had seen her son live and die too; Mary, to whom Violante had prayed throughout her pregnancy and her bereavement, that mortal woman who knew what it was to lose a son. Violante felt a kinship or a sisterhood, as if she, too, was not alone.
Violante felt inspired. Could she be the figure of Justice, could she take the reins at last and unite this divided place? Justice was not alone in her endeavours. At her feet, the personification of Virtue was also portrayed as a female figure, modelled on the Queen of Heaven. Mary, the patron saint of the city. Mary, the mother who had seen her son live and die too; Mary, to whom Violante had prayed throughout her pregnancy and her bereavement, that mortal woman who knew what it was to lose a son. Violante felt a kinship or a sisterhood, as if she, too, was not alone.
But then, as she let her eyes wander over the fresco again, she spotted something she had never seen before. Another female figure held what was clearly an hourglass, two delicate curves of glass with the sand of time running between them. Violante knew she did not have much time. If she did not heal this city before the dukedom ended with her, Siena would be ruined for ever.
The obstacles were great. In the fresco Mary passed out virtue among twenty-four faithfully rendered and recognizable images of prominent male citizens of Siena. The very men whose descendants now ridiculed her and made nonsense of her rule. She saw the faces that she knew: shuttered, circumspect, minding their own lucrative business. Families that had ruled this place from time out of mind: the Chigi, the Albani, the Piccolomini and, of course, the Caprimulgi.
Violante knew Faustino Caprimulgo had corrupted the city for over half a century; that he had crossed her time
and time again over sumptuary rights and trading monopolies; that he flouted tithes and taxes, and disregarded the laws that were implemented to keep the citizens safe. He murdered, he trafficked, he stole. But he could not do it alone; there had to be complicity. He had allies, not only in his own loyal
contrada
but, of necessity, in others too. He had treaties and alliances. In each of the thirds or
terzi
of the city, the
contrade
, each of the seventeen wards, were operating in a complex web. In this intricate machinery, the separate wheels of commerce and corruption, from the tiny to the vast, functioned independently but were all inextricably linked, like the cogs in the belly of a watch. But however much she might know about the surface of the city, she could not hope to know about its fine workings.
and time again over sumptuary rights and trading monopolies; that he flouted tithes and taxes, and disregarded the laws that were implemented to keep the citizens safe. He murdered, he trafficked, he stole. But he could not do it alone; there had to be complicity. He had allies, not only in his own loyal
contrada
but, of necessity, in others too. He had treaties and alliances. In each of the thirds or
terzi
of the city, the
contrade
, each of the seventeen wards, were operating in a complex web. In this intricate machinery, the separate wheels of commerce and corruption, from the tiny to the vast, functioned independently but were all inextricably linked, like the cogs in the belly of a watch. But however much she might know about the surface of the city, she could not hope to know about its fine workings.
She needed someone on the inside. A Sienese.
She toyed with the idea of asking her chief councillor, Francesco Maria Conti, for help. He was entrenched in the ruling party of the Giraffa
contrada
in the east of the city, where he lived in palatial elegance. And it was he who nominally helped her in her day-to-day government of this city, he who presided over his fellows in the council chamber, the Sala del Concistore, next to this very room. He should be the ideal candidate to unite city and duchy, but Conti had never been completely able to hide his contempt for her and Violante had never trusted him. She did not know whether his dislike proceeded from her sex, her Germanic origins as the Elector of Bavaria’s daughter, or her familial connections with the Medici. She only knew that he disagreed with her in chamber at
every turn, that in foreign policy his advice was so biased to the papal position as to be virtually worthless, and that he hampered any lawgiving that she embarked upon. No, he would not do. But she thought she knew who would.
contrada
in the east of the city, where he lived in palatial elegance. And it was he who nominally helped her in her day-to-day government of this city, he who presided over his fellows in the council chamber, the Sala del Concistore, next to this very room. He should be the ideal candidate to unite city and duchy, but Conti had never been completely able to hide his contempt for her and Violante had never trusted him. She did not know whether his dislike proceeded from her sex, her Germanic origins as the Elector of Bavaria’s daughter, or her familial connections with the Medici. She only knew that he disagreed with her in chamber at
every turn, that in foreign policy his advice was so biased to the papal position as to be virtually worthless, and that he hampered any lawgiving that she embarked upon. No, he would not do. But she thought she knew who would.
It was so light now that she did not need her lamp. She blew it out and, as she did so, the great doors opened.
‘Madam?’ An elderly waiting woman, her hair in a fat white plait, entered the hall. ‘I was worried for you.’
Her accents were gentle and guttural, recalling for Violante Bavaria and home. This was the duchess’s wet-nurse and oldest ally.
‘Gretchen.’ Violante’s voice was excited. ‘Find that orphan boy for me – Zebra. And, while he comes, writing materials.’
The old woman, who had opened her mouth to suggest her mistress should dress or take breakfast, registered this new tone in the duchess’s voice, shut it again and disappeared.
Violante did not want to move from the place that had inspired her, so when her butler appeared she asked for a writing desk to be set in the window and took up her quill. Then she sat down and wrote to Gian Gastone de’ Medici, her brother-in-law and the only man in her family whom she felt she could count upon as an ally, the only Medici ever to show her any kindness. To do what she planned she needed the support of the state.
She also needed the support of the city. She could see the city only as a stranger – for she was on the outside, something that had become abundantly clear yesterday
at the Palio. She needed to move from within. But there was one man here who had shown courage without partiality: the unknown horseman, who had run towards danger, unafraid, to help a dying man, a man not of his own
contrada
. She sealed and directed her letter to Gian Gastone just as Gretchen came back into the great chamber with the boy Zebra. The old lady pulled off the lad’s cap and pushed him forward with a little shove, but not without affection.
at the Palio. She needed to move from within. But there was one man here who had shown courage without partiality: the unknown horseman, who had run towards danger, unafraid, to help a dying man, a man not of his own
contrada
. She sealed and directed her letter to Gian Gastone just as Gretchen came back into the great chamber with the boy Zebra. The old lady pulled off the lad’s cap and pushed him forward with a little shove, but not without affection.
Violante thought the orphan looked tired and felt a sudden misgiving that she would add to his load. She had a stool drawn close and some bread and milk brought before she spoke. She watched him as he sopped the bread in the milk, eating hungrily. He could not be more than eight or nine.
‘Zebra.’
She felt foolish, but did not know his given name. He looked at her with a completely open countenance, not noticeably shy or diffident, and he began to smile a lopsided smile. She realized she was still wearing the Palio banner around her shoulders, had a simple cap on her head, and bare feet. She must look quite a sight. But she smiled back, encouraged. Perhaps there was still some innocence in Siena.
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