The Scarlet Contessa

by Jeanne Kalogridis

  The day after her meeting with Borgia, Caterina invited his nemesis, Cardinal Giuliano della Rovere, to a private meal while Giuliano was still traveling. Della Rovere was in his thirties, with a tall body of muscular build, a square, handsomely sculpted jaw, and wavy chestnut hair. His speech marked him as an extremely well-educated, ambitious man; his eyes held the same wily intelligence I had seen in Pope Sixtus’s. Although he seemed strong and hale, he carried a gold-handled oak walking stick with him.

  Della Rovere had spent his youth in Rome as his uncle’s altar boy, and had been accorded no fewer than eight bishoprics and the archbishopric of Avignon, so that he might one day ascend the papal throne. As a result, his cousin Girolamo was extremely jealous of him; della Rovere did not attempt to hide his dislike and disdain for his crude relative.

  Yet the cardinal accepted Caterina’s dinner invitation graciously, on short notice. He arrived at the Palazzo Riario wearing a tailored robe of scarlet silk, trimmed with matching velvet, and a red skullcap that covered his shaved crown. Caterina dressed more sedately than usual for the occasion, in a plain gray silk gown with a white veil over her coiled braids; apparently, she had decided not to use her physical charms against della Rovere. I understood why when the cardinal arrived and proceeded to ignore every female attendant while carefully scrutinizing the males.

  In the dining chamber, I took my place a step behind Caterina’s seat at the table, so that I faced the cardinal, who carefully propped the unused walking stick beside the adjacent chair. After an exchange of pleasantries and a cursory prayer by His Holiness, the meal commenced. Caterina had made sure that della Rovere was presented with some of his favorite dishes, including plates heaped high with glistening, dark lamprey eels in savory sauce and a roast suckling pig.

  Caterina drank copious amounts of watered wine, but ate only sparingly and avoided the eels altogether; at the smell of them, she turned her face discreetly away.

  “Are you unwell?” della Rovere asked. “You seem pale, Madonna.”

  Caterina managed a faint smile. “The heat disagrees with me these days.”

  Della Rovere shrugged, and managed, without pausing for conversation, to devour the entire platter of eels and top it off by downing a full glass of wine. He held his empty cup up and waited—and when, four seconds later, it had not been filled, he reached with his free hand for the walking stick. When the servant attending him realized that His Holiness needed more wine and reached for the cup, della Rovere turned in his chair and landed a sharp blow on the lad’s shins with the heavy stick.

  As the lad cried out in pain, della Rovere snapped, “Laggard! Maybe this will help you to remember to watch!”

  In the next instant, as his cup was being filled by the trembling servant, della Rovere turned smoothly to Caterina and said, “Really, it takes some time to train them properly. If he makes another mistake, I’d recommend a thrashing for him.”

  Caterina responded with a small smile and a question about the cardinal’s education in France. By this time, della Rovere was tucking into the roast pig.

  “I was trained in science,” he answered, “but what I loved most was the military training. I would have preferred a soldier’s life, but my uncle had already decided on a different destiny for me.”

  “A warrior!” This time, Caterina’s grin was genuine; she leaned a bit closer over the table. “Had I not been born a woman— Well, I must admit, I am never happier than when I am practicing with my sword.”

  Della Rovere frowned. “A woman with a sword? That is unnatural, surely!”

  The contessa glanced down. “It’s just that I admire warriors so. It is a noble aspiration . . . for men, of course.”

  At this, the cardinal bloomed; a faint smile played on his lips. “Yes. At times, I dream that I am a general, fighting against the Turk. We must never forget that the Crusade failed. It is high time we began another.”

  “Absolutely,” Caterina said, with starry-eyed eagerness she did not feel. “You are a man of true mettle; if anyone could succeed against the sultan, you could.”

  Della Rovere took her worshipful attitude at face value and grinned, then picked up his cup with greasy fingers and took a long drink. This time, the servant attending him refilled it the instant he set it down.

  After a pause, the contessa changed the subject. “I have heard tell that Rodrigo Borgia is not a man to be trusted. Yet he seeks my friendship, and I am eager for advice that might help my husband to secure his position in the world.”

  “Borgia!” Della Rovere sneered as he picked up his meat and began to chew on it again. His voice was partially muffled by food as he continued, “You’d be wise to have nothing to do with him. He is a dangerous man, not to be trusted.”

  Caterina’s dark blue eyes widened in feigned innocence. “But why, Holiness? I’ve heard he’s the wealthiest, most powerful man after Sixtus. He has been vice-chancellor of the Curia for so long that he has amassed a fortune, as well as a great deal of influence over the other cardinals.”

  Della Rovere’s lip curled. “He has no influence over me. You must understand, Caterina, that as a lovely young woman, you are a target for his flattery; he would tell you anything in order to seduce you.”

  The contessa pretended to be shocked. “But surely he’s not lying about his wealth.”

  The cardinal shook his head at the very thought of Borgia. “He is wealthy, true, and his position as vice-chancellor has put him in the perfect position to accept bribes. But . . .” He paused to take a long drink of wine, and looked at Caterina with a smug, arrogant smile.

  “I do not boast,” he said, “but merely state the truth. I receive more income from my benefices in one year than Borgia could ever hope to make in five. And as for power . . . Because Borgia is an able administrator and politician, those of us in the Curia support his remaining in that position. But would we support his election as pope? Never!” He lowered his voice and leaned across the table. “You must know, Caterina, that while he can get along well with his colleagues, all of us know that he is given to schemes and criminal behavior. He is too corruptible and dangerous to be entrusted with the papacy.”

  “Dangerous?” Caterina was listening earnestly now. “How exactly so?”

  By this time, della Rovere had set down his food and stopped chewing. “He has murdered men who stood in his way.”

  “Who?”

  The cardinal lifted his eyebrows. “I know, but I will not say.”

  Caterina persisted. “How did he kill them?”

  “This is hardly an appropriate topic for the dinner table,” della Rovere answered disapprovingly, “nor for a sheltered young lady such as yourself.”

  Caterina again dropped her gaze so that the cardinal could not see her irritation. “Cardinal Borgia has been a frequent guest at our dinner table. I thought it would be wise for my husband to learn what he could from him. But if His Illustriousness is in any danger . . . or if I am . . .”

  “You are in no danger,” della Rovere replied flatly. “Borgia would never harm a woman or child. But had he a reason, he would not hesitate to kill your husband.”

  Caterina looked so stricken that della Rovere reached across the table and patted her hand.

  “Forgive me. I did not come here to upset you,” he said with faint affection. “We will change the subject to happier things.”

  Caterina nodded. “Of course, we all pray for the Holy Father’s health and wish that he could live forever. But I have heard that, should the throne of Peter become vacant, you are well positioned. And with good reason. You bring wisdom, experience, superlative judgment, and a steady temper . . .”

  At this last, I had to restrain myself from rolling my eyes, given the cardinal’s quick use of his walking stick.

  Caterina continued, “Clearly, you have learned much from your uncle over the years. In any case, I would encourage my husband to support you fully in a bid for the papacy.”

  Della Rovere eyed her care
fully; in the end, his boastfulness overcame his desire to be cautious. He smiled smugly. “I would be a liar to say I was not ambitious. And I would appreciate the support very much. But unless my dear uncle lives at least another ten years—and we all pray he will, of course—I have little chance of being elected.”

  “Why?” Tired of pretending to eat, Caterina folded her arms and looked across the table with an expression of convincing guilelessness.

  The cardinal gave an annoyed shrug and reached for a pigeon pie. “The older cardinals feel they have more right than I, as they have served longer in the Curia. They are jealous of those who are younger yet also wealthier and more powerful than they have managed to become.”

  “You are such a brilliant man,” Caterina responded, “that I am not surprised that they’re jealous.”

  Squaring his shoulders with pride, della Rovere confessed, “I do have the backing of the King of France. And many of the French nobles.”

  I stood at an angle so that I could see Caterina’s expression; it remained slavishly admiring, but her eyes narrowed at this important fact.

  “How wonderful!” she breathed. “I am honored to be sitting in the presence of a man who will one day ascend the throne of Peter.” Her tone became confidential. “I know that my husband is sometimes a difficult man, and I appreciate your tolerant attitude toward him. I shall do everything in my power to influence his attitude, so that he comes to realize how fortunate he is to have you as a cousin.”

  Della Rovere beamed at her. “You are sweet, Caterina, and very observant for a woman. Girolamo is lucky to have you on his side.”

  A messenger came from Girolamo’s traveling party to say that he would be gone longer than originally intended. Caterina took advantage of her husband’s absence by inviting Borgia and della Rovere on different days to the Palazzo Riario. I was allowed to be present for her discussions with Cardinal della Rovere, which were all directed toward learning about the political machinations of the Holy College. But I was barred from the after-dinner discussions with Borgia.

  Other respected cardinals were invited, one at a time, to dine with Caterina. Two Spanish cardinals paid their respects, as well as a Greek named Cibo, and a distinguished Frenchman by the name of Charles de Bourbon. I was able to overhear some of the conversation, which generally centered around Borgia’s and della Rovere’s rivalry and chances for the papacy. While Borgia was well respected for his administrative skills and intelligence, he was not trusted; della Rovere was also regarded as highly intelligent and capable, and more likely, thanks to his political connections and his wealth, to become pope. But all agreed that his arrogance grated.

  In addition to these guests, over the course of three weeks, della Rovere dined at the Palazzo Riario thrice; Borgia, no fewer than six times. With each successive visit, Borgia and Caterina grew more familiar with each other, until, upon the sixth visit, Caterina inadvertently called the cardinal “Rodrigo” in my presence.

  Borgia’s seventh visit took place in the midafternoon, when Caterina invited him to a late luncheon, despite the fact that the cardinal had already dined with Sixtus at the Vatican. The table was set in the private dining quarters in the contessa’s apartments, and Caterina asked that the sword Borgia had given her be placed in the room.

  Borgia arrived in fine spirits, freshly shaved and exuding aromas of lavender and orange blossom. Caterina awaited him in the dining chamber, and when he was ushered in, she rose and hurried to him as if he had been a long-lost friend. He took her hands and bent low to kiss them.

  I turned my face away, sickened.

  “Come, my friend, and sit with me,” the contessa said, holding on to the cardinal’s hand and leading him to the chair across from hers. I followed my mistress and moved to take my place behind her, but Caterina gestured to me.

  “Send all the servants away,” she ordered in a low voice, her gaze still on the smiling Borgia. “But first, see that we are left carafes of water and wine, and the first three courses.”

  “But who will serve you?” I asked, puzzled.

  The contessa favored Borgia with a cryptic smile. “We will serve ourselves,” she said, lifting her arm to give a sharp flick of her hand, the signal that I was dismissed and disagreement would not be tolerated.

  I directed the servants so that all was done in accordance with Her Illustriousness’s wishes; the serving maids were all sent back into the kitchen, with instructions that they were not to return until Madonna rang for them. I exited through the main doorway, out into the corridor.

  “Close the doors, please, and make sure that we are not disturbed,” she called after me.

  I did so, and began to pace nervously in the corridor. After twenty minutes of unhappy deliberation, I stopped in front of the door and pressed my ear to the wood to hear what sounded like normal, muted conversation. Vaguely relieved, I continued my pacing, more slowly this time, nodding at a chambermaid as she passed by, soiled linen in her arms. Another ten minutes, and I heard a soft clatter beyond the door as the platters were being rearranged on the table.

  A few minutes later, there came a loud crash and the sharp ring of metal against marble.

  I threw open the door and ran inside.

  Caterina lay lengthwise on a cleared section of the dining table, her bare buttocks upon the table’s edge, her bare legs dangling down, her slippered feet a hand’s breadth above the floor. Her blue brocade skirt and petticoat were bunched up around her waist, pooling out over the table’s surface. Her arms stretched out over her head as if she were clawing for purchase; at the instant I entered the room, her face was slack with ecstasy. She had accidentally knocked one of the platters from the table in her excitement; a stuffed, roasted capon lay upon its side atop a scattering of broken shards and braised mushrooms.

  Her large white breasts, newly swollen by pregnancy, the nipples darker and larger than before, had been pulled up out of her flattening bodice, which now pushed them up so that they looked even fuller.

  Borgia’s large hands cupped them reverently. He had unclasped the front of his scarlet gown and pulled down his matching leggings to expose pale, muscular thighs; now he stood at the edge of the table, his hips pressed fast against Caterina’s as he thrust between her dangling legs. So powerfully did he strain against her that, with each thrust, he pushed her farther up the table and was obliged to slip his hands beneath her shoulders and pull her back down to him.

  I stood in the doorway just long enough to take in the scene, and for Caterina to turn her head languidly in my direction.

  I shut the door and retreated into the corridor again. This time, I sat down upon the cool marble, folded my arms atop my bent knees, and lowered my face into the void.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I kept my head buried in my lap until the muffled groans of pleasure on the other side of the door eventually gave way to silence. Some thirty minutes after the plate was shattered, the door to the dining chamber finally opened. Caterina emerged first, looking far less disheveled than I expected; Borgia followed, his skullcap neatly in place, his scarlet robe scarcely wrinkled. Both were flushed and smiling.

  I got to my feet immediately, but my disgust would not permit me to meet the eyes of either lover. I followed dutifully as Caterina led her guest downstairs to the front entrance; he kissed her hand in parting.

  As soon as we were back in Caterina’s chamber and I had shut the door behind us, I whispered, “I cannot believe what you have done, Madonna! What are you thinking, engaging in such vile, insane behavior?”

  Her lips pursed into an angry bud, but she composed herself. “Vile, perhaps. But far from insane.”

  No longer hiding my agitation, I countered, “I did not approve of your affair with Gerard de Montagne, but I at least understood it. But Borgia, of all men . . . The thought of him makes my skin crawl! I will never be able to protect you from your husband if any man in Rome can seduce you!”

  “He is a talented lover,” Caterina sa
id slyly. “And very discreet. You never would have caught us if I hadn’t lost my mind today.”

  Aghast, I stared at her. “Today is not the first time?”

  She smirked. “Only the sixth.”

  I shuddered. “I am not angry, Madonna . . . I am afraid. How can you not be? Your husband poisoned Gerard; was that not enough of a warning for you? Why put yourself in such a dangerous situation?”

  “Far more dangerous than you realize,” she said, studying me. “Girolamo did not kill Gerard.”

  “Then who—” I gaped at her a long moment before finally whispering, “Borgia?”

  Caterina nodded. “I don’t love him, but I admire his cunning. And I will learn what I can from him. He thinks he is smarter than I. I intend to prove otherwise.”

  “My God,” I said softly. “You know him to be the killer for a fact, Madonna? Why, then, do you invite him here, and lie with him? Why do you look for danger?”

  “I am looking out for myself,” Caterina answered defiantly, “and for my son.” She rested a hand upon her still-flat stomach. “Because if I do not, my husband will soon fall from power. I will not return in disgrace to that boring little pasture called Imola, to rule over a score of peasants.”

  “You’re barely more than a child,” I protested, “and you think to outsmart Borgia? He has far more experience at treachery! How does sleeping with him protect you? And what sort of—”

  Caterina put up her hand. “Stop,” she said fiercely. “I can tell you no more.”

  “Why not? I’ve seen the worst.”

  She put a gentle hand upon my forearm. “Because,” she admitted shyly, without meeting my gaze, “of all the souls on earth, you’re the one I want most to protect. You’re the only person I trust.”