The Scarlet Contessa (30 page)

I delivered both to her immediately and knelt beside her as Caterina dozed, slumped over, in the birthing chair.

I was used to the sight of newborns, and therefore was not surprised that its face was covered with pale yellow birth cheese and streaks of dark blood; nor was I disappointed when Flora swiftly and expertly cleaned the mess away to reveal a crimson, irregularly shaped face with slits for eyes, a bruised forehead, and a completely flattened nose. What unnerved me was the deep bluish tinge of the infant’s chin, mouth, and fingertips.

Flora was concerned as well; instead of continuing to remove the birth cheese so that the baby could be presented to its mother, she immediately turned it over and firmly thumped it on its back to encourage it to draw its first breath. The child’s tiny limbs flailed weakly, but it did not attempt to breathe on its own.

“Give her to me!” Caterina demanded, suddenly alert; she reached for the baby in Flora’s arms.

Flora ignored her, instead thumping the child again; this time, the child coughed up a plug of birth cheese and dried blood, and sucked in an audible breath.

Caterina and I immediately smiled at the sound. Flora, all business, demanded a damp towel and the swaddling blanket, which I fetched at once. Soon the child was clean and tightly wrapped in its blanket before being presented to the worn but jubilant mother.

Caterina looked down at the tiny girl in her arms with something very like affection. “I shall name you Galeazza Maria, after my father,” she whispered to the baby, “and will train you to be a prince and a soldier, just as he was.”

She kissed the child’s face and rocked her while Flora, smiling proudly with accomplishment, gently examined and cleaned Caterina and the mess beneath the birthing chair. I, too, was grinning as I removed the soiled blankets from the bed.

When the bed was ready for mother and child, Flora and I moved alongside Caterina. Before we could lift her, Caterina looked up at us, her eyes wide.

“Her muscles are jerking very hard, despite the swaddling,” she said, her tone rising with alarm. “I think she is having a fit.”

I looked down. The baby’s face was contorted; a desperate gurgling sound emerged from its lips, now a deeper shade of blue.

“She needs air,” Flora said, snatching the child. After clearing its mouth and nose with her finger, Flora moved toward the fireplace and turned the baby on its stomach again, her one hand gently supporting its midsection while the other thumped its back.

When the child still failed to draw in a breath, Flora stepped up to the hearth and unswaddled the child so that it was naked. Grasping both of its little ankles, she dangled it upside down in front of the warm fire, and struck its back again. The impact caused one of its feet to kick free of Flora’s grasp; the freed little leg bent at the knee, and the ankle fleetingly crossed over the opposite leg, forming a near-perfect 4.

It was the image of the Hanged Man.

Flora caught the baby’s errant ankle, and again swatted the child on the back. It let go a mortal strangling sound that brought Caterina to her feet.

“Don’t die!” she shrieked. “Don’t you dare die!”

Flora gave the child one last blow. In the profound silence that followed, her shoulders dropped suddenly, and her head inclined toward the fire.

“No!” Caterina screamed. “Give me my baby!” Clawing the air, she fought to rise from the chair.

I quickly took the infant from the unresisting Flora, and wrapped it in its blanket again before presenting it to Caterina. She sank back down in the birthing chair, cradling it in her arms. Its features looked peaceful, although its little blue lips gaped open; when Caterina closed its mouth, it looked as though it were sleeping.

“Get her out of here,” Caterina demanded, her voice raw with emotion. “Get her out of here, and let me never set eyes on her again! She killed my baby! She killed my Galeazza!”

Chapter Twenty-three

Caterina refused to eat or drink anything that day, saying bitterly, “This is too cruel. What kind of God steals babies from their mothers’ arms?”

“The same God that causes them to be born,” I answered gently. I could not fault her for the question; I had asked a similar one myself, when I lost Matteo.

“
Damn
God!” she cursed. “Why let them be born in the first place?”

I pulled a chair to her bedside and sat down. “Before you left for Venice,” I began softly, “do you remember the triumph card you chose?”

She would not look at me.

I continued calmly. “It was the Hanged Man. Sacrifice. Do you remember what I told you, that something terrible would occur—”

She interrupted. “You didn’t say then that it would be so horrible.”

“I didn’t know what exactly would happen, Madonna. But remember, I also said that marvelous good would come of it.”

“My baby’s death?” She turned toward me at last, filled with exhausted rage. “What good can come of such a pitiful tragedy?”

I drew a breath to reply, but she began speaking swiftly again.

“I tried to be brave like you said, Dea; I tried to begin to care about people. This child . . . my little Galeazza,” she said, swallowing a sob, “she kicked harder than any of my others. She was so strong I thought she was a boy, and I knew she would become a great soldier. I began to whisper to her, to tell her of her heritage—of her grandfather, the duke of Milan, and her Riario ancestors, and how I would train her myself in the martial arts. How she would never need to fear anything, how she would become the greatest of all the Sforza and Riario.”

Tears streamed silently down her cheeks. “It made me happy . . . and I began to love her. But what is the point of it? She took her first breath and died. She fought so bravely just to enter the world . . . and she was defeated.”

Her face contorted as she held back another outpouring of grief; ultimately, her stubborn pride triumphed, and her features hardened into a bitter mask.

As I watched that terrible transformation, realizing that little Galeazza’s death could well cause her mother’s heart to grow even colder, my foggy thoughts took on a sudden clarity. I heard no inner voice, felt no unnatural sensation, but I knew without doubt why fate had placed me with Caterina at that dreadful moment, and what I had to do.

I rose from the chair. “With your permission, Madonna. I should like to fetch the triumph cards.”

She shrugged. “Why? To tell me of further sorrows to come? I already know my end . . . the Tower, just as my father. Whatever kingdom I have on earth will shatter around me.”

But she did not stop me from going into the closet and retrieving the black silk bundle from my trunk. I sat down in the chair beside her, unwrapped the bundle, and spread the black silk atop the mattress, just next to where she lay.

I shuffled the gilded cards atop the silk and pushed them toward her hand. “Take these, Madonna,” I said, “and shuffle or cut them as you wish.”

She pushed herself to a half-sitting position and with great reluctance, cut the cards into four stacks.

I told Caterina to turn the top cards of each pile over, one at a time. The first she turned over was the Knight of Chalices, and I gestured for her to wait before revealing the others.

“This is the future that results from the Hanged Man,” I said, listening to the words issuing from my mouth as if they were being said by another.

“See here the Knight of Chalices.” I pointed at the card, which showed a handsome man astride a golden horse; in his hands, he carried an engraved golden chalice.

Caterina looked down at the card with dull resentment; had she possessed any energy, she might have hurled the cards to the floor.

I spoke swiftly, soothingly. “This is a real man, Madonna, one who will come to you bearing gifts, and much more. A chalice holds feeling: sorrow or happiness, love or hatred. I am not yet sure what he brings, but I know that he will be an ally.”

Caterina shrugged, though I saw a glimmer of faint interest in her eyes. “When will he come?”

I stared down at the card; years would pass before this man appeared in the flesh. “In time,” I said finally. “I will know more when the other cards appear.”

Caterina turned over the second card.

Against the card’s white background, surrounded by scrolling green vines and flowers, were two great goblets, representations of the gift that the Knight of Chalices would bring. Filled to the brim with emerald liquid, one cup stood above the other, and between them was a white banner that read
amor mio. My love.

Despite the horror of the preceding day, I managed a wan grin. “I believe you can read the banner, Madonna. See the green liquid? It represents love and fertility—most specifically, love between a man and a woman.” I paused and said with honest cheer, “I do not exaggerate, Madonna. The cards are clear: your true love, the Knight of Chalices, will come to you.”

I glanced up at Caterina, whose eyes were wide and focused on the Two of Chalices. Her brow was furrowed and she was breathing heavily, as if trying to hold back tears; at the same time, her gaze was wistful. Her fingers were unsteady as they flipped over the third card.

Against a gilded background, a young warrior, clad in full body armor and bearing shield and halberd, rode astride a caparisoned white stallion. The warrior’s shield was lowered; he was not at war, but placid and content to recall his past successes in battle.

He was the Knight of Swords, and he was oriented so that he and the Knight of Chalices stared at each other, with the Two of Chalices between them.

“The father,” I said, gesturing at the Knight of Swords, “and the son.” I pointed at the knight in armor, and my voice dropped in amazement. “
Your
son, Madonna. A great warrior, courageous and skilled in battle. If you are willing to open your heart.”

“You would not lie to me,” Caterina said tremulously.

I took her clammy hand and stared into her eyes. “I would not. And I have never. You cut the cards, not I.”

“It’s hard now to believe fate could ever be kind. My father and my baby, gone . . . and Bona banished; I have lost Milan now, too.” She looked down at the last card mistrustfully. “What if it is the Tower, or the Hanged Man, or something worse?”

She let her long fingers hover above the card for a moment before finally turning it over. It was the Six of Batons, three golden scepters crossed diagonally over three identical ones. Caterina looked anxiously to me for an explanation.

“Victory,” I said, smiling with relief. “Victory, Madonna! See, these are scepters. This child will be very powerful, and his acts will lead to great success. He will be known throughout the world.”

She scrutinized me for several seconds, and apparently grew convinced of my sincerity, as the furrows in her brow melted away. The sorrow in her eyes eased slightly.

“I am very thirsty,” she said, “and still in pain. But I should like to bathe before I make use of the midwife’s powder.”

By spring of 1482, the papal army and Venice had begun their war against Naples and Ferrara. Pope Sixtus demanded that those who had earlier fought with Naples’s king against Lorenzo return at once to Rome to pledge their loyalty to the papacy. The Orsini clan obeyed, but most of the powerful Colonna family sided with Naples, as did Florence, Urbino, Mantua, Bologna, Faenza, and, to Caterina’s dismay, Milan, under her uncle Ludovico. Caterina’s ties to Milan were frayed almost to the breaking point, as was her usefulness to the Riario clan. She had grown up without coming to know Ludovico, so the two were near strangers, without a bond of affection to guarantee familial loyalty.

Naples responded by sending a massive army northward to Rome, so quickly that Girolamo could not lead his troops to Florence, but was obliged to fight to hold papal territories perilously close to Rome’s ancient walls.

At first, Girolamo was victorious against the Neapolitans, until Lorenzo de’ Medici shrewdly sent an army directly to Forlì, overwhelming the town’s defenses. He read his enemy well: Girolamo immediately sent a large contingent of soldiers—one he could not spare—to Forlì, as he could not bear the thought of losing his tiny domain.

Although Girolamo managed to hold on to Forlì, the army that remained with him in the Roman countryside could not withstand the mighty Neapolitans, who soon captured fortress after fortress outside of Rome.

By December 1482, winter had called a temporary halt to hostilities, and a restless, sullen Girolamo returned home to his wife. Pressing their strong advantage, Naples, Florence, and Milan announced that they intended to prosecute Sixtus for various crimes, including the murder of Lorenzo’s brother.

Sixtus had no defense for several of the charges, and there were far too many witnesses to his conspiracy against the Medici. Disgusted, His Holiness agreed to a truce, although it destroyed his hopes of gaining power and stability for his son Girolamo.

During all this time, Caterina refrained from any affairs, instead spending her free time with her children. She was awkward around them at first, and they around her, for they did not know each other well. But Caterina persisted, and soon became the children’s favorite, for she had a gleeful imagination and created games to occupy them. She often visited Sixtus as well, as he was in ill health, and met Cardinal della Rovere—Sixtus’s choice for his successor—whenever possible.

The year 1484 began with dire warnings from horoscopists: the stars and planets were moving into positions that augured major disasters, war, and the deaths of prominent persons. Not soon after, Sixtus suffered an attack that left the right side of his face immobile. His speech became increasingly slurred, and he could no longer swallow solid food without choking; in addition, his gout had become so painful that he could not take a single step unaided. Most times, he relied on a litter and was carried about the Vatican.

Caterina responded by visiting Sixtus more frequently; the old man adored her company, not just because of her beauty, but because she regaled him with stories that made him laugh and was so vehemently cheerful that the mere sight of her made him smile, despite his physical misery. Cardinal Giuliano della Rovere, Sixtus’s favorite, often joined the two. Her insistent friendship with the cardinal suddenly made sense to me, especially now that she could not count on political support from Milan.

On one such informal occasion, Caterina met with His Holiness in early spring, on an unusually cold afternoon. The contessa was pale that day; she had been unable to keep her breakfast down, and refused lunch. Both she and I suspected pregnancy, though it was far too early to be certain. Yet by the time she entered the sitting room in the papal apartments, her gaiety and energy seemed genuine.

The former Francesco della Rovere sat in a high-backed, thronelike chair with extra padding for his aching bones. His huge bare feet—an alarming shade of violet, and so grotesquely swollen that his ankles had disappeared—rested on an ottoman topped by two feather pillows. The ottoman was placed next to a blazing hearth that made the room oppressively warm, but His Holiness still shivered, despite being wrapped in a heavy fur throw. His girth was now so great that his throne had no arms, lest his massive bulk should become stuck in the chair; instead, it hung over the edges of the seat. The keen, jaded look in his eyes was gone, replaced by one of vague, anxious impotence. Cardinal Giuliano della Rovere sat opposite him, and got to his feet when we entered.

“Caterina, my darling,” the pope said weakly. Though I always accompanied the contessa on her visits to the Vatican, Sixtus viewed me as a servant, not a family member, and ignored my existence.

Caterina knelt beside him, where the arm of the chair would have been. “I will not ask to kiss your slipper, Holy Father,” she said.

One of Sixtus’s talonlike hands obligingly appeared from somewhere inside his fur covering; he held out the gold Ring of the Fisherman for Caterina to kiss. “Such formality,” he sighed. “Will you never call me Uncle Francesco?”

Caterina rose gracefully and kissed his ponderous cheeks. “I call you Father,” she said, “because that is how I love you, as I would my own father; and I say Holy in order to show the respect I have for you and the office you bear.”

Sixtus grinned, pleased, as did the handsome Cardinal della Rovere, who embraced Caterina as a relative, with a solemn kiss on each cheek.

“Shall I remain?” he asked Sixtus politely. Obviously, his had been a friendly, not political, visit.

“Of course, of course,” Sixtus replied. “I am always happy to see family. I have nothing better to do these days, thanks to this accursed gout.” He frowned down at his glaringly red feet. “I would as soon cut them off; they pain me so that I cannot bear the weight of the sheerest linen upon them.” He looked up at Caterina and the cardinal, and waved an impatient hand at them. “Sit, sit! Formality is pointless; look at me, with my bare feet! Sit and talk with me, Caterina.”

Della Rovere pulled another chair close to the pontiff, so that Caterina could sit next to Sixtus while the cardinal returned to his own chair in front of the hearth. I unobtrusively edged my way back toward the door, knowing that the offer did not extend to me, and watched the group from a short distance.

Caterina proceeded to deliver a lively monologue about her children—Sixtus’s grandchildren: Bianca was six now, very studious and good at her letters; the best that could be said of Ottaviano was that he was five and looked almost exactly like his father. Four-year-old Cesare had a great fondness for his mother’s hunting dogs and loved to play with them.

His Holiness drank it all in greedily, but when Caterina began to speak of the war against the Colonna, and her hopes for Girolamo’s success and safety, Sixtus’s expression darkened.

“Damn the Colonna!” he interrupted, his yellowed eyes narrowing. “They are nothing but traitors deserving of excommunication!”

Just as the pontiff let go his exclamation, I became aware of a charming little girl standing in the doorway. She could not have been more than five years old, at most, and was as dainty as a doll. Long, perfectly crimped golden curls spilled over her shoulders, covered by a miniature brocade gown of light blue. Both of her little hands gripped a woven basket so large she could scarcely manage it; inside the basket was a spray of delicate purple irises.