The Scarlet Contessa

by Jeanne Kalogridis

  I worried whether I should intervene. But a single dark look from Girolamo, several seats away from his bride, made her lower her hand and affect an air of dignity; Borgia noted it, too, and their conversation immediately grew more sedate.

  After the feast, we were led to another hall, this one cleared of furniture. Musicians with flutes and tambourines reappeared, and Borgia led his cousin Adriana in a stately pavane, followed by Caterina and Girolamo, who were being honored that night. For Matteo’s sake, I refused all invitations to dance.

  Afterward the players struck up rousing galliards and hopping saltarellos. Girolamo was clumsy on his feet, and disappeared back into the crowd after the first dance; Caterina, an excellent dancer, found her match in Rodrigo Borgia. She partnered several times with him, and also with Monsieur Gerard, as he called himself, the young Frenchman with the tight milky blond curls.

  While I chatted with the French ambassador’s wife—a haughty young duchess with striking green eyes that perfectly matched her emerald satin gown—I spied a young woman entering the hall. She did her best not to draw attention to herself, sidling along the edges of the chamber, amid the mulberry-and-yellow-clad servants, but her appearance was striking: she was dressed like the Turkish women, swaddled from head to toe in a purple cloak, with a purple veil held in place by a silver band just above her eyebrows. A matching veil covered her nose and mouth, leaving only her kohl-lined eyes visible.

  The duchess smiled slyly at her, and nodded as she passed by some distance away; the girl gave a quick nod, but did not slow, lest too many others notice her. She moved directly to Caterina’s husband, Girolamo, who was off in a private corner having a very tense conversation with his young cousin, the would-be cardinal Raffaele.

  The mysterious woman walked up to Girolamo, bowed deeply to him, and took his hand. She stood facing the corner so that, when she opened her cloak, others could not see what lay beneath save for Girolamo and Raffaele, who gaped like the naïve boy he was.

  The woman closed her cloak and led the now-smiling Girolamo from the hall. The prurience in the duchess’s tight-lipped little smile kept me from asking her what had just happened; I could well imagine what plans the Turkish woman, obviously hired by Borgia, had for the captain of the pope’s army. But before I could broach a new subject of conversation, a second woman in a saffron-colored robe and veil appeared and led the Spanish ambassador away. When a third one appeared in bright blue-green and led the French ambassador away, only steps from his duchess-wife’s nose, the duchess clicked her tongue in feigned disapproval, but her cheer never faded.

  I watched a dozen men leave the hall in the company of veiled women. By this time, Borgia, red-faced and sweating, had retreated from the dance floor. He was just lifting a goblet to his lips when Vannozza appeared; she caught his elbow and whispered into his ear. Whatever she said pleased him, and he kissed her full on the mouth before she quickly left the room.

  My expression must have darkened when he did so—I could not help thinking of those of deep, sincere faith, like Bona, who would have been scandalized by such behavior—because my French companion said easily, “You must forgive Rodrigo. He is not one of those men who can easily hide his passion for life, for women, for love. He would far have preferred the life of a soldier to that of a cardinal, but the decision was made for him when he was born.” She eyed me carefully. “Perhaps God made a mistake in designing him so. Or perhaps the fault lies in the Church, for making such demands upon its clergy.”

  I blushed and changed the subject.

  Some time after, Cardinal Borgia made his way toward the exit, pausing, as he passed by us, to wink at the duchess, who tossed her head and laughed aloud.

  I did my best to put the Spanish cardinal’s behavior out of my mind, until a veiled girl in yellow appeared and led the French duchess away. I was curious, and followed them at a discreet distance; as I stepped over the threshold into the hall to see them disappear down the corridor, a hand touched my forearm.

  I started, and turned to see a veiled woman with smiling eyes standing before me.

  “Madonna Dea,” she said distinctly, in an accent more Roman than Turkish, “will you come with me?”

  Taken aback, I demanded: “Where to?”

  The crinkles in the corners of her eyes deepened. “To the garden of delights,” she replied. “My master wishes to honor his special guests.”

  I hesitated, then decided to take her offer at face value. Borgia was certainly a grand entertainer, and he had planned the event to honor Caterina and Girolamo’s marriage. It would be reasonable to have designed special entertainment for the more notable guests, instead of the entire three hundred now packed into the ballroom.

  My guide navigated the corridor surely; we passed through another empty reception hall, then under graceful Moorish archways supported by slender, delicate columns. These led outside to a square courtyard of formal design, with a pair of carefully clipped orange trees flanking a fountain; a single lamp suspended from a pole beside the fountain provided the only illumination. We crossed to the far end, where a narrow corridor lay hidden between the outer and garden walls. My guide led me down the dark, moldy-smelling corridor, which, after some two dozen or so paces, terminated in a tall wooden gate.

  My guide lifted the brass ring and struck it four times, slowly and deliberately. The gate swung open to reveal Adriana Mila waiting on the other side, her thin, sallow face looking slightly ghoulish in the yellow glow of a lantern by the door.

  In its light, I could see the vague outlines of a large square garden, enclosed by tall walls topped with delicate stone lattices in an arabesque design. In the garden’s center was a long, narrow reflecting pool, around whose perimeter were set small candle lamps covered with bags of paper cut out in Moorish designs. At the far end of the pool sat a stone fountain, its base supported by ten small stone lions; the gurgling water splashed with such intensity that it created a cool mist. Slabs of marble flanked the longer sides of the pool to create a small patio, and surrounding these were low boxwood hedges, then a carpet of grass.

  Ten paces or so from the reflecting pool were canopied daybeds—three on one side of the pool, three on the other, separated from each other by several paces and a pair of broad potted palms that gave each a measure of privacy.

  The single wall lamp and the few votives that flickered on tables beside the beds were insufficient to dispel the darkness and slight haze, which added to the sense of seclusion. I could make out the shapes of bodies standing beside some of the daybeds, and hear the murmur of feminine voices, accompanied by the burbling of the fountains. From somewhere in the blackness came the low reedy warble of an exotic instrument playing a sensuous, plaintive Arabian tune.

  As we entered, my guide shed her cloak to reveal her costume: a tight, sleeveless bodice of tinkling coins that covered only her breasts, leaving her arms and waist bare, and pantaloons that were sheer from the top of her thigh to her ankle, completely revealing her legs. She pulled off her veil and shook her hair free; it fell unfettered to her waist, and she caught my hand again and led me deeper into the garden.

  As we passed the first of the daybeds, the flickering votives on the adjacent table revealed a gowned woman reclining upon the bed, but my guide would not permit me to linger. She took me to the next daybed; it was covered in cool satin and stuffed with the softest down. It took some urging before I relented and settled back against the fat pillows. When I realized something was moving behind me in the darkness, I started, but it was only another girl in Turkish guise, waving a large fan to keep me cool.

  When I nervously sat back again, my smiling guide went to the little table beside my bed, poured from a large golden pitcher into a silver goblet, and handed the latter to me.

  “Drink, Madonna,” she said sweetly.

  I drank. Surprisingly, the wine was chilled, a welcome condition given the heat. It was also delicious, being mixed with a sweet cordial that tasted of blackberries and s
ome mysterious herb that gave a bitter finish. I took a second sip and set it down, but my Turkish girl said, “Drink, Madonna, you must be very thirsty from dancing.”

  My guide pressed sweetmeats on me before I could protest, handing me a golden plate that held fried pastries dipped in honey and salted almonds.

  Three small votive candles burned on my bedside table; above them hung a brazier, from whose sizzling coals wafted sweet, spicy-smelling coils of smoke. There was also a golden bowl filled with liquid, atop which floated rose petals and white jasmine blossoms. The girl picked up a folded cloth, dipped it in the water, and ran it over my forehead. Like my wine, this had also been chilled, and I shuddered at its delicious touch; even though I had done nothing more strenuous than converse, the reception hall had been filled with overheated bodies, and it was a great relief to enjoy the cool drink, cloth, and the breeze from the fan. I submitted as the girl tenderly wiped my brow, cheeks, and neck, then urged me to dip my hands in the golden bowl; she took them in her own and washed them with great care, then dried them in a fresh towel.

  When she was done, she took the bowl and moved to my feet as a third girl appeared out of the darkness and began to remove my slippers. This caused me to sit up and launch a fresh protest.

  “Hush, Madonna,” she said with a supremely knowing smile. “The night is long; there is time to refresh yourself. His Holiness does not wish for his guests to become overtired too quickly. This is all for your delight.”

  As uncomfortable as I was with such familiar behavior from strangers, I was impressed by Borgia’s hospitality. The girls knelt down, took my slippers, and began to wash my feet in the cool water. Despite myself, I surrendered with a sigh and settled against the comfortable pillows to sip my wine. Once my feet were washed and patted dry, the girls began to massage them with fragrant oil.

  After several minutes of this, the girls drew nearer and began to massage my hands. The girl who had led me to the bed smiled down at me, her face captured in the flickering light of the votives; I smiled back and noted that her eyes were pale and her black pupils as tiny as mustard seeds, her lids half lowered in a dreamy expression.

  I felt a sudden giddiness and a surge of relaxation and weariness and pleasure so great that I let go a soft moan without realizing it; my guide’s smile widened to show small white teeth. This was truly a garden of delight, I decided, with its sensual music, the sweet wine, the breeze from the fan, the mist from the fountain, and the light of the little lamps shining upon the dappled waters.

  I heard the French duchess’s throaty laughter from the daybed next to mine, hidden at the moment by the thick, low palms between us. I sat up and leaned forward to peer past the fronds, and saw a pair of Turkish girls moving away from the bed where the dark form of the duchess lay giggling softly.

  My third girl set a courteous, tentative hand upon my shoulder. “May I loosen your bodice, Madonna, so that you might breathe more easily? It must be so very tight.”

  Perhaps it was not a proper suggestion, but the girl’s attitude was so consummately respectful and polite that I nodded drowsily. As the girls efficiently loosened the laces, I let go a great sigh, and watched the snaking film of the sweet incense rise and dance on the fan’s breeze.

  As I did so, I saw a blur pass by, and glanced up to catch the light glinting off the bright silver of Caterina’s gown. I pressed my palms against the soft bed, thinking to push myself up, to dismiss the girls and sit with her in order to make sure nothing improper took place. Married or no, she was still only fourteen, and my charge; Bona would never forgive me if I allowed Caterina to indulge in scandalous behavior.

  Yet I was more strongly disposed to remain motionless and silent, lest I break the spell of pleasurable languor that had overtaken me. Surely, I reasoned, Caterina would be treated to the same delightful hospitality I had been shown—and, after all, there was not a single man present. I remained settled against the pillows and sipped my wine.

  After a time, my breathing slowed and my body sagged heavily against the satin-covered down. I closed my eyes and felt the strange, keening music pulse throughout my body. For a time, I forgot myself entirely, and fell into a light doze where there was nothing but the music, the perfumes, the breeze, and waves of pleasure each time I drew or released a breath.

  When at last I opened my eyes, my attendants had all disappeared, leaving me to gaze out at the pool and the gurgling fountain, the drops of water now glittering diamonds. The thought that I should rise and look for Caterina occurred to me again, but my repose seemed too precious to disturb.

  Sudden loud laughter broke through the soothing warble of the exotic reed; it was so clearly ribald in nature that I sat up, and was surprised that the act left me nauseated and dizzy. Disoriented, I half crawled to the foot of my bed, set my pillow there, and rested my head upon it; thus situated, and looking to the right, past the palm fronds, I could see where the French duchess lay.

  The faint light from the votives on her table left her face hidden in shadow, but revealed her exposed white breasts. A dark form sat on the edge of her bed, facing her; it leaned forward and down into the light, and I recognized Vannozza Cattanei just before she kissed the duchess’s mouth. As she did, her hands caught the duchess’s breasts.

  Any shock I felt was muted, distant. I watched as Vannozza, her lips still locked with the duchess’s, reached down and skillfully gathered up the woman’s skirts, then plunged a firm hand between her legs. The Frenchwoman pulled free of the kiss to let go a gasp; encouraged, Vannozza slid her face downward, over the woman’s neck and collarbone, down to her breast, and took the nipple. There she suckled while the woman shuddered and buried her fingers in Vannozza’s orange hair.

  I should have risen; I should have run and found Caterina. Yet it was easier at that moment to watch, breathless, as Vannozza suckled the Frenchwoman, and moved her hand between her legs rapidly back and forth.

  This continued until Vannozza spread the duchess’s bared legs into a wide vee, so that her feet hung over the edges of the daybed. A shadow fell over her, and Rodrigo Borgia’s face caught the light as he lowered himself onto the bed. His cloak was gone, and his skullcap, revealing a fringe of black hair around his shaved crown, pale as bone. Vannozza retreated as Borgia buried his face in the dark hair between the Frenchwoman’s legs.

  I closed my eyes so I would see no more. “Caterina,” I said softly; I had meant to cry out. For several minutes, I struggled against the crushing inertia, finally managing to push myself to sitting; the effort brought nausea, and I was obliged to hold very still until it eased. Meanwhile, the moans from the daybed near mine turned to gasps and finally, a single drawn-out, strangled roar of pleasure.

  When I looked up, Vannozza Cattanei stood smiling over me.

  “Madonna,” she said sweetly, “are you feeling unwell? Here . . .” She dipped a cloth into the golden bowl on the table, wrung it out, and pressed it to my brow. The coolness brought some relief, but I pulled away from her.

  “I must leave,” I murmured. “Where is Caterina?”

  She laughed slowly, languidly. “You must relax, Madonna, and rest. Sleep. I will help you . . .” She put her plump hands upon my shoulders, intending to push me back against the pillows, but I resisted.

  “No,” I said.

  She disappeared. I gathered my strength to rise, but before I could do so, a shadow fell across my bed. Rodrigo Borgia, his rumpled collar pulled open and down, sat on one hip beside me. He wore a sensual smile; his lips and chin glistened with saliva. He was altogether sober, unaffected by wine or the mysterious potion.

  “Madonna,” he said, “were you dreaming? Hush, now. If Vannozza cannot help you, perhaps I can. . . .”

  He reached for me.

  I pushed myself to my feet. I was unsteady and lost my balance, falling against him. Instantly, he wrapped a strong arm about my waist, pressed his hand like a starfish to my left breast, and covered my mouth with his. He stank of the Frenchwoman.


  I shook off my stupor and kicked upward with my knee. The blow failed to connect with his most vulnerable spot, but when he recoiled to protect himself, I pulled away and struck him across the face with all my strength.

  My feeble effort hurt him little; he laughed as he rubbed his jaw, but he also set me free at once. I took a tottering step away from him.

  “Poor Dea,” he said coyly, still grinning. “Am I so very terrifying?”

  “You are a monster,” I gasped, “and Vannozza a whore.” Even as I reacted with revulsion, it seemed far away, as if I were watching something that had happened to someone else a long time ago.

  He laughed. “And you, my darling, have lived a very sheltered life. All this has been done with no thought other than to make you happy. If it does not, if you are frightened, you are free to go. Only remember that if your outlook should change, we are always here for you.”

  “If you touch my mistress, I will kill you,” I said.

  He lifted his chin; a sudden dangerous intensity shone in his eyes. “Is that not for Her Illustrious Highness to decide?” he asked softly.

  I began to walk past him. He caught my wrist with painful force, and, while I struggled to free myself, he very deliberately turned my hand palm downward and kissed it. Then, as he had before, he held it fast for an instant—just to show that he could—before letting it go with a scornful laugh.

  I staggered about, calling Caterina’s name and trying to find the daybed on which she lay. Dizzied, disoriented, I found the wooden gate only because Adriana Mila led me to it, opened it, and pushed me out to the other side.

  The gate slammed fast shut. I started to hammer frantically on the wood—I dared not abandon my mistress—but was soon distracted by the sound of mewling nearby. It grew so insistent that I forgot Caterina and moved slowly toward the sound. Though my eyes were accustomed to dim light, the corridor was completely dark.