The Scarlet Contessa

by Jeanne Kalogridis

  Despite my care and pace, my foot came down on something fleshy and yielding; the creature yelped. I heard the sounds of scrambling, and my other foot went out from under me as it met something cushion-soft and slippery. I fell hard onto my rump, and let go a cry as a creature the size of a hound flung itself onto my lap.

  “Mama?” it asked timidly, and fell silent. I could hear it breathing rapidly as it nestled against me; I reached out and set my hand upon its head, and felt silky hair.

  “Who is it?” I asked.

  “Cesare.” His voice was very small and very sad. “Madonna Dea, have you seen my mama? Aunt Adriana said to go to sleep, but it’s dark here and I’m scared. . . .”

  I felt a distant sorrow for him and anger at his parents, who were so lost in their own pleasure that they had no time for a lonely, frightened boy—one so alert and precocious that he remembered my name and recognized my voice in the dark.

  “Oh, Cesare,” I said. “I’m here. You don’t need to be afraid.” On impulse, I kissed the top of his head.

  Immediately, the face of a man flashed before me: olive-complected, with the same dominant black brows and magnetic gaze as his father, and a dark mustache and goatee that made his features appear more handsome than they actually were. In his black eyes I saw ambition verging on madness, grief giving way to rage, and a predatory thirst that nothing could slake.

  The earth beneath me shuddered. I glanced up and found myself again in the Tower—one of timber and stone, one whose very walls were rattling as if in the grip of an earthquake. Cannon boomed, punctuated by the rat-a-tat of heavy artillery; overhead, the trembling ceiling loosed a stream of grit.

  Somewhere nearby, Caterina was calling for the men to fire on the enemy.

  It was not just the Tower meant for Caterina; it was the Tower meant for us both.

  “Cesare,” I gasped, and pushed him from my lap onto the cool, dank stone.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Little Cesare began to cry again at my apparent rejection of him; the instant I came to myself, I scooped him up in my arms, ignoring my dizziness and the vision of the Tower, which lurked on the periphery of my dulled awareness. I found my way out of the corridor and back across the courtyard, where I peered into windows in an effort to find my way back into the palace proper. Once there, I flagged down a serving woman and handed the boy off to her, explaining that he should be taken to his bed and watched after.

  Struggling to emerge from my disoriented sloth, I wandered far too long down a maze of corridors and became lost in the massive palace. Finally I came upon a closed door; the light limning its edges and the raucous laughter emanating from inside drew me. I opened the door a crack and peered inside.

  In addition to many daybeds, where partially unclad men were being tended to by Turkish courtesans, there was a great long table in the room’s center covered with red felt. Upon it lay a naked woman, her eyes lined with kohl, her long hair loose and streaming past her exposed breasts. At the table’s edge, looking down at her and grinning, were Girolamo Riario and the French ambassador. Girolamo had a pair of dice in his hand, which he rattled vigorously in his fist, blew on for luck, and cast onto the woman’s body.

  The half dozen men watching held their collective breath as the dice came to rest. One landed on the woman’s belly, in the slight recess at her navel, while the other struck the crook of her elbow, then tumbled down onto that part of the table covered by her hair.

  Girolamo squinted down at the dice, then struck his forehead with the heel of his palm and let go an oath; the French ambassador, however, smiled and clapped his hands.

  “She is mine!” he crowed, and as he took her hand and helped her from the table, to much cheering, another woman finished undressing and took her place.

  I closed the door silently. After half an hour of wandering, I finally found my way back to the courtyard. I was beginning to recover by then, and more determined than ever to demand that my mistress be released, though I feared that I would be too late to protect her honor.

  As I made my way across the courtyard, Caterina came walking toward me from the direction of the garden of paradise. She was frowning slightly, with her eyelids half lowered, as if she were dazed. I ran and caught her arms just as we reached the lamp beside the fountain; like the Turkish girl’s, her pupils had shrunk, and her gaze was glassy.

  “Madonna Caterina!” I exclaimed. “Did Borgia touch you?”

  “No,” she answered calmly.

  I took stock of her: Her bodice was only partially unlaced, and her hair still neatly arranged; I let go a sigh, and busied myself with refastening her bodice. “Thank God!” I said. “Did he try to force himself on you?”

  Her lips curved upward in a dreamy smile. “Oh,” she said, “he tried . . .” She held up her right hand with a swift motion, and I flinched: her coiled fingers gripped a stiletto Girolamo had given her.

  I gasped. “Did you cut him?”

  She shook her head. “But he will think twice about inviting me to his garden again.” And she let go an explosive laugh that sounded very much like herself.

  Though still mildly affected by Borgia’s potion, Caterina insisted on returning to the reception hall, where only two-thirds of the revelers remained. In particular, she wished to dance with the dashing young Gerard de Montagne, the curly-haired aide to the French ambassador. I sat watching as Caterina and de Montagne enjoyed themselves. At one point, I dozed off, and a maid woke me and helped me to a couch in the adjoining room.

  I was taken aback to find the French duchess lying nearby, upon a daybed. I thought she was asleep, but after the maid left, the duchess lifted her head and let go a languid, throaty laugh.

  “Foolish woman,” she said, “to make an enemy of Rodrigo Borgia . . . and so soon after your arrival in Rome.”

  “What can he do?” I countered, indignant. “Tell Count Riario that I rebuffed his advances?”

  Her head fell back against the pillow; she stared up at the ceiling and laughed again. “Oh, far worse than that.”

  “What will he do?” I demanded, but by then, she had already closed her eyes, a small but ecstatic smile upon her lips, and fallen into a reverie.

  I, too, fell into a dream.

  I woke, startled, when someone roughly shook my shoulder. Count Girolamo towered over me, scowling. His eyes were bloodshot and he smelled of wine and the fragrant oil the Turkish girls had used to anoint my hands and feet.

  “Where is Caterina?” he demanded. “Shame on you, sleeping, when you’re supposed to be keeping an eye on her! Go, find her at once!”

  I rose in haste, and hurried for the door as Girolamo called out to me.

  “Have the carriage brought round; you two are going home! I can’t bother watching after a mere girl, especially if her chaperone can’t stay awake!”

  In the reception hall, few were left dancing. Many guests had gone home, or retired to the gambling room or pleasure garden. Although there were several groups engaged in earnest, drunken conversation, only two pairs of dancers were still on their feet. Caterina was not among them.

  I made a swift tour of neighboring rooms, which housed daybeds and sofas, some occupied, though not by Caterina. I panicked and headed out the door for the courtyard, worried that Borgia had somehow managed to get her back into the garden.

  Once in the courtyard, hemmed by its graceful Moorish colonnades, I did not need to look far. I crossed the lawn as far as the gurgling fountain and the hanging lamp when I detected movement in the periphery of my vision, and turned.

  In the long shadow cast by one of the orange trees, a pair of lovers engaged in a passionate embrace. I would have given them their privacy had I not recognized the female half from her height and shape. I moved toward them, stamping my feet as noisily as possible.

  “Madonna!” I whispered harshly.

  The man started and impulsively pushed the woman away from him, stepping as he did so into the light cast by the lamp. Gerard de Mont
agne’s blond curls were no longer so tight; his lover had run her fingers through them with such passion that a wild halo of frizz surrounded his pretty face. He was drunk, but murmured the politest of apologies and bowed, hoping that excessive courtesy might somehow deflect my wrath.

  Caterina, however, lifted her chin regally. “Do not use so harsh a tone with us, Dea,” she warned.

  We locked gazes. Hers was implacable and utterly unapologetic. I let go a silent sigh, suspecting that my duties now included deceiving Girolamo.

  “Forgive me, Your Illustrious Highness,” I said, my tone barely civil. “But your husband asked me to find you. He is concerned by your disappearance, and wants us to return home at once.”

  Caterina and Gerard turned to each other, crushed, and engaged in a farewell kiss while I turned my disapproving visage away and waited.

  When at last the two lovers parted, and Caterina walked back with me inside the palazzo, I lectured her about her lord’s anger and the dangers to which she was exposing herself.

  In mid-lecture, she silenced me with a withering look. “I am not some silly girl that you or Girolamo or anyone else can order about. I am a Sforza, and had I been born a man, I would have been the best of all my father’s sons. I am more fit to rule than any of them. And like my father, I will not be told whom I can love, or when, or where. If you disagree, I can send you back to Bona tomorrow.”

  Perhaps I should have insisted on returning home to Milan; at least then Bona might have given me leave to go to Florence. But even so early in our Roman adventure, I already knew that fate had irrevocably bound me to Caterina.

  Caterina rose late the next morning, though earlier than her husband arrived home. She took her breakfast out on the balcony because the sun was mild and the breeze pleasant; when she finished, she summoned me. The dancing and the wine had tired her; she sat back in a cushioned chair with her legs propped upon an ottoman. Though she was inclined to be surly in such situations, she forced a wan smile as I appeared. No doubt she wanted a favor from me, one that I would be reluctant to grant.

  I delayed her request by speaking first. “Madonna,” I said, my tone polite but concerned, “I should warn you that you must take a great deal of care around Rodrigo Borgia. I learned last night that he is a very dangerous man, and does not forget insults easily. I am concerned that he—”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that,” she interrupted. “I spoke with Vannozza about it. I told her that I reacted too harshly by drawing the stiletto. I told her that the wine had gone to my head, and that I was worried I had insulted my host. And she told me that, had I been a man, I might well be dead by now. But that Rodrigo is too chivalrous to harm a woman. At least, not physically.”

  “I hope she’s right,” I countered darkly.

  She changed the subject swiftly. “Your Matteo was a scribe. A very talented one, according to Cicco. Did he ever speak to you about ciphers?”

  Despite her casual tone, I was unnerved. Had she learned of Matteo’s magical papers, of his spying for Lorenzo? Had I been careless?

  “No,” I said, and averted my gaze.

  “You know nothing of ciphers, then?”

  I shook my head.

  “Then you shall just have to learn about them,” she said. “You’re quick enough. I want to send a letter to Gerard—”

  I delved into my memory, and realized that she was talking about the French aide, Monsieur de la Montagne.

  “—and I want you to put it into cipher for me. Then ensure that Gerard receives it. Don’t use any of Girolamo’s messengers. I trust no one but you to do this for me. Quickly, find a quill and some paper.”

  I hesitated. “Madonna, I do not even know—” Where to find a quill in this house, I would have finished, but Caterina silenced me with a curt gesture.

  “I don’t care how you do it. Just find them, and come back to me. But get them yourself, so no one else knows.”

  I used common sense and went to Caterina’s office, only two rooms away. Inexplicably, there was no quill in the inkwell, or ink, or paper of any sort. I made my way downstairs, to the middle floor, the whole of which was taken up by Count Girolamo’s clerks and advisers. Most of the chambers were empty; perhaps the count’s men were all still sleeping after the late night at the Palazzo Borgia. I found a door that opened onto what appeared to be shelves of clerical supplies; relieved, I entered and silently closed the door behind me.

  The shelves held parchment and stoppered vials of ink; I helped myself to some and looked about for a quill and penknife. When I turned to look at a different shelf behind me, I saw light emanating from the far corner, where a narrow door had been flung open. I wandered back and found a tiny room equipped with a writing desk and a three-legged stool. Beside the slanted writing surface, a quill rested in an inkpot; as I debated whether to steal it from its owner, my gaze fell upon the half-written letter resting there. Or rather, two letters: one in Roman, in abbreviated note form, and one half-written, in an incomprehensible, artful mix of letters, numbers, and symbols.

  Cipher.

  I got only the briefest impression of either letter, for I had just glanced down when a male voice interrupted me.

  “What are you doing? Get away from there!”

  A gentleman Matteo’s age stood in the little doorway. He was only slightly taller than I, of wiry build. He was also clearly the wielder of the quill; his fingers were stained with dark iron-gall ink, as was the lap of his pale blue tunic, still damp from a recent, unsuccessful attempt to remove a spill.

  Though he spoke in a hushed tone, he startled me badly. It was not simply the fact that I had been caught looking where I should not have been; his features were familiar in a dark, unsettling way. He had a trimmed blue-black beard and hair, dark gray eyes, and a face that might have been handsome had it not been for his sharp, prominent nose. He stared at me with an expression of indignant outrage.

  “Sir, forgive me,” I said, lowering my gaze. “I simply seek a quill. I confess, I was eyeing yours, but I see you have need of it.”

  He studied me closely, as if he, too, found me familiar. Finally he demanded, his tone still barely above a whisper, “How long have you been here?”

  “Less than an instant,” I said cheerfully.

  He stepped past me to open his desk drawer, and handed me a fresh quill.

  “Here, then,” he said. “Now go, and don’t come back.”

  I did so, and he closed the door behind me; the bolt slid shut on the other side.

  I returned to Caterina and sat beside her on the balcony, writing while she dictated the contents of the letter. It revealed her desire to meet “privately” with Monsieur de Montagne “as I want to see you again, to continue the discussion that began yesterday evening.” She faltered a good deal before finally waving her hand in disgust at her inability to summon a flowery turn of phrase.

  “Do you wish to speak of your feelings for him?” I asked, wondering what Bona would think of me for assisting Caterina in this illicit endeavor.

  Honestly perplexed, she lifted a golden brow; the fine white skin above it furrowed. “Feelings?”

  I lowered my voice. “Do you love him, Madonna? Does he have your heart? Do you think of nothing else but him?”

  “Love,” she said sourly and gave a short, sharp laugh. “Don’t tell me you believe in the nonsense peddled by troubadours, Dea!”

  I flushed. “Many do. He will want to know your feelings, Madonna.”

  She sighed and leaned back in her chair, setting her palm against her forehead and closing her eyes, as if the very idea wearied her. “He is very handsome,” she said. “I desire him.”

  “And . . . you have some affection for him, surely?”

  She opened her eyes halfway, annoyed by the very suggestion, and began to massage the point between her eyebrows. “I hardly know him,” she muttered. “But I will not live my life without learning the joys of the flesh, and Girolamo cannot be bothered to teach me. I have heard t
hat the French are very talented lovers.”

  My eyes must have widened at her cold, calculating heart; she let go a little grunt and waved her hand in frustration.

  “I don’t care about such things! Just tell him whatever sounds best, whatever will make him want me,” she said irritably. “Pretend for once that you are not shy, and are writing a love letter to your husband. And don’t forget to put it in cipher. I have enough of a headache now without Girolamo or anyone else finding out about this.”

  And with that, sitting in the sunlight listening to the songs of birds and drone of bees in the garden, I remembered where I had first seen Girolamo’s secret scribe: riding across the Lombard Plain, with Matteo’s limp body slung over his saddle.

  Chapter Fourteen

  That day, while Caterina lingered on the balcony nursing her headache, I went to the walk-in closet where Caterina’s vast assortment of gowns, headdresses, and trunks of jewelry were kept. The closet also held the single trunk I had brought from Pavia. I dug beneath the carefully folded sleeves, bodices, and overskirts, drew out the papers Matteo had left behind, and riffled through them for the encryption key. The rest I returned to their hiding place beneath my clothes.

  I took the document, paper, and quill with me to Caterina’s office and locked the door. It took me far longer to write a convincing love letter than to encrypt it; using Matteo’s cipher as a guide, I created my own by making a few changes.

  It was an easy business, really—or perhaps, like my brother, I was talented at espionage. Once I created my new key, I translated my original love letter to Monsieur de Montagne into cipher, and wrote out a second copy of the key. I folded both the second key and the encrypted love letter into thirds and sealed them with wax. I fed the original love letter to the candle flame, letting the curling, blackening remnants drop into the empty hearth.