The Scarlet Contessa

by Jeanne Kalogridis

  I assumed at first that this was due to the fact that Girolamo, as captain of the papal army and recent recipient of death threats, was being overly cautious. Such was not so, for as Caterina responded to social invitations, we saw that every palace was similarly guarded. Rome then was a far more dangerous place even than it is now. Wolves, wild dogs, and bands of armed thieves roamed the dark streets, and the Orsini and Colonna families, while maintaining polite relations during the day, carried on a continuing bloody vendetta each night. Each morning brought with it fresh corpses huddled on doorsteps or alleyways, or sprawled in public streets, or bloated and floating in the Tiber.

  The world inside the walls of the Palazzo Riario could not have been more different. Caterina and I were accustomed to life with Bona, who, for a duke’s wife, eschewed finery and overt luxury. Although the hundred-year-old castle at Pavia was marvelously appointed, it seemed aged, spare, and cramped when compared to the glory of the Palazzo Riario, with its vast rooms filled with ornate furniture, statues, paintings, and frescos, and its walls, floors, ceilings, spiral staircases, and columns made of glittering marble. The size of its courtyard and gardens was that of Milan’s and Pavia’s combined.

  Such luxury came with a price, however. Just as the court at Pavia had trembled in fear of Duke Galeazzo’s wrath, so did those at the Palazzo Riario tremble when Girolamo was in an ill mood. Unfortunately, it was a rare day that found Girolamo in good cheer; the entire household rejoiced when its lord traveled, often to oversee troops fighting to extend Riario control of the Romagna.

  Luckily, Girolamo wanted little to do with his wife. They spent no time together privately, and did not dine together. Girolamo never invited Caterina to his chambers, nor came to Caterina’s wing of the palace except to demand his conjugal privilege, usually late at night, when he was incoherently drunk.

  On those nights, I felt sorry for my lady, thinking that she would never find happiness in love. Until, that is, we attended a party hosted by Cardinal Rodrigo Borgia.

  One evening in early June, Caterina and I rode with Girolamo in a carriage flanked by eight mounted guards, though the Palazzo Borgia was less than a twenty-minute walk away. At first, I didn’t understand why Girolamo rode with us—a carriage with his male attendants followed ours, indicating that Girolamo intended to return later than we ladies—until he began to speak.

  That night, Caterina was a vision in a gown of shimmering silver silk, with pale blue velvet sleeves, and a rolled silver headdress from which hung a diaphanous veil; Teodora had spent an hour with a hot poker creating the long, loose curls artfully framing the contessa’s face. At fourteen, Caterina was growing quickly into a stunningly beautiful young woman, and only the crudest, most self-absorbed of men could have looked on her that evening and not drawn in his breath, then released it with a torrent of compliments.

  Girolamo climbed into the carriage, gave her a glance, and launched into a lecture.

  “Look out for Cardinal Borgia,” he told his wife, though his obvious cheer at the prospect of revelry undercut the direness of his warning. “Don’t let him get you alone; he can’t keep his paws off women. If he touches you, push him away and come tell me. I’ll give him an earful.”

  His peasant’s accent was thicker than usual; his breath reeked of wine and for once he was inclined to talk. Borgia, he said, was the worst sort of scoundrel, who openly kept a mistress and had a young son, whom he had convinced Sixtus to legitimize (a fact that obviously infuriated Girolamo). Borgia was also a political opportunist who, when his uncle became Pope Calixtus III, was made cardinal while only in his twenties. Extraordinarily ambitious, he sought the most lucrative position in Rome: that of vice-chancellor of the Curia, which oversaw the administration of the entire papal government . . . and thus had the most opportunity to collect bribes.

  However, the position called for a doctorate in canon law, which Borgia lacked. Years of study were required, but Borgia attained his degree after less than a year. This attracted a good deal of enmity from the other cardinals. Yet Borgia proved himself to be not only competent, but also so talented at his role that all complaints ceased and were replaced by admiration. With the full approval of his colleagues and later popes, he had continued at the job for twenty years, growing wealthier than them all.

  This latter fact soon became apparent. As we approached the street leading to Borgia’s home, we were stopped by a line of armed soldiers, who, upon recognizing Girolamo, saluted and waved us through. The large public square in front of the Palazzo Borgia had been cleared of all but partygoers and was encircled by a hundred massive, flickering tapers on brass candlesticks as tall as my shoulder and garlanded with red roses and wreaths of blooming jasmine. The cobblestones had been swept and sprinkled with perfume and dried rose petals to mask the river’s smell, and as guests milled about the square, musicians with flutes and tambourines played a distinctly Spanish tune while a tenor wailed a passionate love song in Catalan.

  Our carriage rolled to a stop near a statue of a larger-than-life bronze bull, its horned head rearing upward in a display of ferocity, its hooves lifted in mid-trot. Beside it stood a large fountain, surrounded by lanterns on poles, the better to display the bull and the splashing water. I tilted my head back to get a good view of the palazzo itself. Clearly it belonged to the richest man in Rome, for it was five stories tall and boasted thirty massive windows across its breadth. From the top floor, a huge banner of the Borgia bull—purplish red, the color of ripening mulberries, set against a field of pure gold—had been unfurled across the width of twelve windows, and fell to the second floor, grazing the triangular marble pediment above the main entrance. Lanterns hung from the windows to illuminate the banner and to distract viewers from the castellated roof, where the mouths of cannon and artillery guns peeked out from between the battlements.

  As Girolamo stepped from the carriage, and the coachman helped Caterina out, a pair of trumpeters blared notice of our arrival. Borgia, who had been talking nearby with a group of fellow cardinals, hurried over to greet us.

  He wore a gown of white silk, neatly tailored to show off a narrow waist and broad shoulders, with a short scarlet cape lined with cloth of gold. The hair beneath his red skullcap was thick and black, without a hint of silver, and the eyes beneath his severe brows were filled with such celebratory giddiness that I thought at first he was drunk. But his tone was brisk, his words unslurred. Borgia was moderate in his approach to wine and food; he preferred other forms of excess.

  He greeted Girolamo so perfunctorily as to be rude, but the captain of the papal army seemed relieved that all attention was immediately diverted to his young wife. When Caterina took a step toward Borgia and extended her hand, the cardinal gasped as if he had just seen a vision of the Virgin.

  “Your Illustrious Highness,” he said loudly, in order to be heard over the music and the crowd, “you are assuredly the most beautiful creature here! How the silver suits you; it makes your blue eyes gleam like the stars!” He bent low and kissed her hand, lingering over it a long moment to breathe in her perfume—attar of roses—until Girolamo fidgeted.

  At that point, Borgia gave Caterina’s hand a squeeze before letting it go, then turned grinning to her husband. “Again you prove yourself the better man, my lord Girolamo, to have succeeded in winning the loveliest woman in Italy as your wife! You honor us all by bringing her here. And,” he added as an afterthought, “by your presence, of course.” He winked at Caterina. “All this is in your honor, my dear”—he gestured sweepingly at the celebration around us—“to celebrate your marriage to our beloved captain.”

  He then turned to me, and took my hand. His own was hot and slightly damp, and it held mine with an unsettling strength. He bent down and pressed his lips tenderly against my skin, then raised his head and looked on me as if I were the only woman in all the world, and he the only man.

  “Madonna Dea,” he said. “A suitable name for a goddess. What a perfect companion you make for o
ur beloved countess here: the two most beautiful women in Rome, one golden, one dark and mysterious like our Spanish women!” He chuckled. “And they, of course, have the hottest blood. . . .”

  I began to pull my hand away, but he gripped it fast, trapping it for an instant before finally releasing it with a wolfish grin.

  By this time, a maid dressed in a mulberry red gown with a gold apron appeared with a tray of wine-filled goblets. Borgia urged us all to take a goblet, then murmured into the maid’s ear. She departed with a careful curtsy and disappeared into the milling crowd, where tens of servants in mulberry and gold livery delivered wine and samplings of food to cardinals and nobles.

  In the interim, we were led to the group Borgia had recently abandoned, and presented to each person there: to Cardinal Giuliano della Rovere, of the handsome face and delicate hands; his sixteen-year-old cousin, Raffaele Riario, a girlish lad; and Bishop Girolamo Basso della Rovere, a heavyset man who much resembled a younger Sixtus. Girolamo greeted them all with casual familiarity, if not affection, and after briefly praising Caterina’s loveliness, they returned to their previous topic of conversation: the hopes of Girolamo Basso and of Raffaele that Sixtus would give them cardinals’ hats before the year’s end. Borgia proclaimed his enthusiasm and support for both candidates, while the handsome, effeminate Giuliano della Rovere, already a cardinal, looked on Borgia with thinly veiled disgust.

  In the middle of a flowery explanation as to why Raffaele’s exceptional piety and brilliance had earned him the red hat despite his youth, Borgia stopped suddenly and pointed directly overhead.

  “Look!” he crowed.

  His exclamation was punctuated by a series of muted booms. We tilted our heads back and looked up at the cascade of fireworks lighting the night sky. A starburst of white gave birth to a bloom of spiraling crimson stars, which spun across the sky, then faded, only to be replaced by more bursts of white.

  Borgia was standing beside Caterina, and nudged her gently. “In honor of the Sforza,” he said, smiling slyly.

  Another series of fireworks were born in the sky, expanding ever outward. These were of brilliant blue, followed by gold: the della Rovere/Riario colors, and all the men around us clapped, save Girolamo, who nodded in acknowledgment. Caterina kept her gaze fastened on the sky, her expression rapt, her lips parted as the light played upon her golden hair and silver dress. Borgia watched her from beneath lowered lids, pleased by her reaction.

  When it was done, Borgia signaled the trumpeters, who played a short refrain. This was the cue for the servants in the street to usher the guests inside, beneath the great banner of the red bull. As we moved slowly toward the entrance, accompanied by the della Rovere clan and our host, a little boy—no more than three years old, with black hair and great dark eyes—pushed his way through the crowd and ran, on sturdy little legs, into Borgia’s arms.

  “Papa! Papa!” he cried, stretching out his arms, and set himself on a collision course with Borgia’s knees.

  Count Girolamo and Cardinal Giuliano della Rovere glanced down at the boy with irritation; a child was clearly out of place at such an event. But Borgia laughed, and in the instant before the boy crashed into his knees, reached down and swooped him up into his arms, with a playful bounce that made the child giggle.

  “Cesare!” he exclaimed, with pure delight. “How did you find me, my boy? Where is your mother?”

  “Over there.” Cesare gestured carelessly behind him, without looking. “She says if I am good, I can stay a little while.”

  Borgia jiggled the boy in his arms and smiled dotingly at him. “And so you shall—if you are good.” He looked up at the rest of us. The men were clearly familiar with the boy; Giuliano della Rovere smiled at him and pinched his cheek. “Your Illustrious Highness,” Borgia said to Caterina, “this is my son and legitimate heir, Cesare Borgia. Cesare, this is Her Illustrious Highness, the Countess Caterina Sforza, consort of Captain Girolamo Riario.”

  He gently set Cesare down upon his feet. Scarcely past his toddling years, the boy executed a low bow with such a serious expression that Borgia, Cardinal Giuliano, and I could not suppress our chuckles.

  Caterina directed her most charming smile at the boy and made an exaggerated curtsy. “Cesare Borgia,” she said liltingly. “You are very wise for your age. And you have the name of a king.”

  “And I shall be a king!” he announced, wielding an imaginary sword and pretending to run Girolamo through. To my surprise, Girolamo let out a yelp and, clutching his gut, staggered as though wounded, which delighted the boy no end.

  We adults laughed again. “But there are no kings in Italy,” I ventured good-naturedly—though, in fact, I was shocked by the fact that Borgia, long a cardinal, had a young son, “save for the King of Naples.”

  Borgia lifted him off his feet again. “You shall be a cardinal, like your father,” he reproved him fondly, tapping the tip of the boy’s nose playfully with a finger. “And perhaps one day, by the grace of God, a pope.”

  “Papa, wouldn’t you rather be the father of a king? Or an emperor?” Cesare persisted stubbornly, which prompted more laughter. Something he saw made him fall suddenly silent, and cling more tightly to his father; we all turned, following his gaze, as two women approached.

  The first was older, her loveliness long faded, her hair a dark ash blond streaked with silver. She was thin and short, with a sharp chin and large, faintly bulging eyes; her dress was of heavy black velvet and gold damask, despite the heat, yet she seemed unwilted. Her stern, humorless gaze was fixed on Cesare, but at the sight of Girolamo and Caterina, she paused and curtsied low, her face downcast. She remained in that position until Borgia said to them:

  “My cousin, Adriana Mila, from Valencia. She is the widow of Ludovico Orsini, and helps to care for the children.” He nodded at the second woman and said, “And this is their mother, Vannozza Catanei.”

  Caterina and I smiled and murmured greetings when Borgia introduced us in turn, though my lady’s eyes widened a bit and remained so throughout the encounter. I could only hope I did not seem so dazed.

  Vannozza—a solid woman, half a head shorter than Borgia, with a waist twice as thick—was dressed as grandly as any other woman in attendance, in a gown of gray-blue silk and a necklace heavy with sapphires and diamonds. Yet the effect was undercut by her décolletage—her bodice had been tightly laced, pushing her huge breasts up so comically high that she could rest her chin upon them. Her hair, which I suspected naturally matched her black eyebrows, was the flagrant orange of a dried apricot. She had recently put on weight; her flesh bulged out through the slashes in her sleeves along with her gossamer chemise, and the seams of the bodice just above her waist were straining. Her face was pleasingly oval, and her features were regular enough to be deemed handsome, if not beautiful. She could not have been more than twenty, and her flawless skin was as pale as the glittering marble on Borgia’s walls, her eyes dark and lined with kohl. There was a vacancy in them, and a cold insolence.

  She did not curtsy; the naked six-month-old infant on her hip precluded anything more than a polite nod. She studied us women carefully, solemnly, and when she shifted the plump babe to her other hip to keep it from pulling on her jeweled necklace, I saw the gold wedding band upon her finger. It had been put there not by Borgia, but by another man.

  Borgia told her our names. I thought again of Bona, and what she would say if she knew I had just been introduced to a cardinal’s courtesan and his son.

  “Your Illustrious Highness,” she said to Caterina, in a soft, low voice meant to please the male ear, but that was difficult to hear over the noise of the crowd. She nodded at me. “Madonna Dea.”

  “And this,” Borgia said, brimming with paternal pride, as he took the infant from Vannozza’s arms, “is our darling little Juan, the future captain of the papal army!” At Girolamo’s sudden scowl, he added: “May he learn much from your magnificent example, Your Illustriousness!” He ignored the towel Vannozza had tuc
ked under Juan’s bare bottom, and held the giggling infant up to his lips to pepper him with loud, exaggerated kisses.

  Vannozza watched without a breath of maternal emotion; instead, she glanced down at her elder son, who was jealously watching the exchange. A crease appeared between her black brows. “Cesare, are you disturbing your father?”

  Cesare began to whine, but Borgia shook his head to silence him and placate Vannozza, and answered easily, “He has been behaving himself quite nicely.” Nonetheless, he handed both children off to Madonna Adriana and Vannozza, who disappeared.

  I was no stranger to luxury, having lived in the Castle Pavia and the Palazzo Riario, but I had never before seen such large rooms, so much fine marble and brightly colored Spanish tile, or so much gold (in the form of vases, spoons, pitchers, statuettes, inkpots, lamps, plates, plaques, and candelabra) so prominently displayed. Nor had I ever seen so many tapestries, most of them glittering with thread of gold, nor so many daybeds with covered canopies, all of them wide enough for two souls, in velvets and tasseled satins and one of vivid red silk. We were led past portraits of Borgia’s illustrious ancestors in heavy gold frames—born in Spain, he was related to Alfonso the Great of Aragon, the first king of Naples—and into a banquet hall, where we were plied with Spanish wines and sherries, and treated to a number of exotic dishes, including a roast peacock with its plucked tail feathers artfully replaced in a dramatic display.

  Borgia took care to sit next to Caterina during the feast; I was separated from my mistress by the French ambassador—a charming, sophisticated man—and his aide—a striking, athletic youth with tight blond curls—and could not hear everything Borgia said to her. But the gist was clearly flirtatious; Caterina laughed and tossed her head, enjoying the attention, while the Spanish cardinal leered shamelessly and made a point of constantly refilling her goblet himself. At one point he said something so outrageous that she let go a loud laugh that was also a startled gasp, and stifled it by clamping her hand over her mouth, too late.