His voice lowered. “I’ve lived long and suffered much. I foresaw at your birth that you would live even longer. Thus, you too shall suffer. But you’ll never endure what I have. You’ll not feel the pain of searching your entire life for something that eludes you. You will fulfill your destiny. It may not be the destiny you want, Caterina de’ Medici, but fulfill it you will.”
He reached out to caress my face. I wrapped my arms about his bony frame. For a moment, he seemed as small as me. Then he pulled away. “You honor me with your love, Duchessina. In return, I want to give you this.”
He reached into his pocket, opened my hand, and set in it a vial with a fine silver chain dangling from its cap—a deceptive sliver, filled with amber, which fit across my palm.
“Therein is a potent liquid. You must never use it unless you have no other recourse. If employed the wrong way, at the wrong time, it can be deadly to you—and to others.”
“What is it?” I thought it impossible that anything so small could be so powerful.
“Some would call it deliverance; others would say it is poison.”
I was startled. “Why would I need poison?”
“Let us hope never. Nevertheless, it is my gift to you.” He went silent, his head cocked. “Now, hide the vial and keep it safe. Your aunt grows impatient. You must go.”
I had been taught it was rude to refuse a gift and so I slipped the vial about my neck, tucking it under my chemise. “I hope we can visit again soon, Maestro,” I said. Then I remembered the pouch and removed it from my cloak pocket. “This is for you.”
He took it from me as though it were of no account. “Go with God, Duchessina.”
I was moving to the door when he said suddenly, “One more thing.” I paused, looked over my shoulder to where he stood in the shadows. “Tell Madama Strozzi that she must be ready to see you safe,” he intoned. “Tell her Rome will fall.”
I nodded uneasily and stepped outside, where Carlo waited. Glancing back one last time, I saw the light had shifted. The Maestro now sat in darkness yet somehow I knew he was smiling.
Carlo took me back out, where I thanked him and started to say goodbye. Cosimo burst into tears. “Don’t leave us!” Carlo had to hold him back as he tried to throw himself at me.
I smiled at Cosimo. “But I must go. I have to get back home. I promise to return soon.”
“You can’t,” he said, and tears slipped down his grimy cheeks. “Everyone will be dead.”
“Dead?” I looked at Carlo. “What does he mean?”
Carlo rolled his eyes. “He always says strange things. Cosimo, stop it. You’re scaring her.”
Cosimo gazed at me with a desolate expression. I felt a sudden emptiness as I leaned to kiss his cheek. “I’ll see you soon,” I said, and I forced out a smile. “Be good and mind your brother.”
My aunt was waiting for me in the exact place where I’d left her. As the manservant came forth from his vigil by the house, she said: “Did he answer your questions?”
“I suppose so,” I said, and I remembered the Maestro’s warning: Few would accept what you’ve just told me. I added, “He says I’m studying too much and had a fainting spell.”
I don’t know where the words came from, but they were obviously the right ones because my aunt’s entire face brightened with unmistakable relief from within her hood. “Bene,” she said. She took my hand in hers and paused. “Did he tell you anything else?”
I repeated the Maestro’s last puzzling words. “Do you know what he means?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Half the time, I wonder if he himself knows what he means.” Without another word, she took me by the hand and we returned to the palazzo.
As we walked, my other hand strayed to my bodice, where I felt the vial close to my heart.
THREE
CATERINA, MY CHILD, WAKE UP!”
I opened my eyes to find my maidservant bent over me, a candle in her hand, its wavering flame throwing enormous shadows against the walls. “Madama Strozzi wants you in the hall,” she said. “You must dress quickly.”
I nodded, slipping out of bed and letting my maid take off my nightdress and lace me into a gown. As she hastily plaited my hair, I wondered what my aunt wanted. There had been a palpable tension in the palazzo lately, especially after I told my aunt what the Maestro had said about Rome falling. I’d also begun to change. Since the discovery of my mysterious gift, I secretly questioned everything. Though I didn’t realize it at the time, I can see now that I had ceased to be a credulous child. I tried to invoke my gift, in hope of seeing my future, but I had no visions, no presentiments. I had no idea of how much my life was about to change.
My maid moved about my chamber, shoving my silver-handled brushes, my shawls and shoes into a cloth bag. “Are we going somewhere?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Madama instructed me to pack your things. That’s all I know. Her manservant is waiting for you outside.”
“See that you get my casket, then,” I said, pointing to my coffer. The small silver and ivory box was the only thing I had from my mother. She had brought it with her from France as part of her dowry and the red velvet lining still smelled faintly of her lavender perfume. I had hidden the vial Ruggieri gave me inside its secret compartment.
The palazzo was dark, quiet. I could hear the rustle of my soft-soled shoes on the marble floor followed by the thud of the manservant’s boots as he led me to the hall. I found my aunt waiting, surrounded by a haphazard collection of valises and chests. The high walls were stripped of tapestries and paintings, the gilded furniture half-piled in the corners.
I could feel my heart beating fast in my chest. My aunt grabbed hold of me, held me so tight that my bodice dug into my ribs. “You must be brave,” she whispered. “Braver than you’ve ever been. The time has come to show the world that you are a true Medici, born and bred.”
I stood petrified. What had happened? Why was she saying this to me?
“You cannot understand,” she went on, her voice wavering, choked by rare tears. “But I have no other choice. They’ve ordered it. The Signoria of Florence has banished us.”
I knew the Signoria were the ruling body of Florence, elected by its citizens. Unlike other city states in Italy, Florence was a republic and extremely proud of it. The Signoria had always been kind to us. They often dined at the palazzo with my aunt and her husband, a large group of older gentlemen who drank too much wine and ate too much, and told me how pretty I was.
My aunt went on in a fervent voice, as if she’d forgotten I was there. “The shame of it! Forced out of our own city like thieves in the night. I always said Clement would be our undoing. He brought this upon himself. I don’t care what happens to him—but you, my child, my Caterina; you mustn’t be made to pay for his crimes.”
“Crimes?” I echoed. “But what has Papa Clement done?”
“No! Never call him that! Everyone hates him because he’ll do anything to save his own skin. Don’t you see? He fled his own See even as Rome was sacked by Charles V. You mustn’t let anyone think you care for that coward who dares call himself pope.”
I stared at her. Was she mad? Charles V was of the Hapsburg family, the emperor of Germany, Austria, Spain, and Low Countries. He was an avowed defender of the faith, though I remembered my uncle saying once that he was also parsimonious and ruthless, eager for conquest and always quarreling with either the canny French or heretic English. Still, he wore the crown of holy emperor, blessed by papal favor, and I didn’t believe he’d dare invade Rome.
My aunt went on, her voice cracking: “Clement should have heeded the emperor’s demands and offered up the money to pay the Imperial troops. Instead, he insisted on standing on his idiot pride and supporting the French, though the soldiers were knocking on his door.” She brandished her fists. “Now the Holy City is in flames and Florence rebels against us. He has doomed us all!”
She turned back to me. The sudden stillness that overcame her was worse tha
n anything I’d heard so far. “You warned me,” she whispered. “You told me the Maestro had foretold this. He said, ‘Rome will fall.’ But, like Clement, I was too headstrong to listen.”
I wanted to flee back up the stairs and shut myself in my rooms, but my aunt’s stare froze me where I stood. “The Signoria has promised you’ll not be harmed. But you must obey them, Caterina. You must do everything they say.”
A wave of cold black fear overcame me. I did not hear him move toward me until her manservant set his huge hand on my shoulder. All of a sudden, I knew. It couldn’t be happening. My aunt had witnessed my birth and the death of both my parents. She’d relinquished me to Rome because she had no other choice, but she came back for me, to bring me to Florence and raise me herself. As much as I’d resented her iron rule, I never doubted her love. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t forsake me.
My voice erupted in a high-pitched scream. The manservant clamped his hand over my mouth; I smelled his rough skin as he swept me off my feet. I tried to bite him, fueled by sudden rage. I kicked and flailed even as his arms girdled me with iron strength. My aunt wept. “Please, my child, it’s for your own good. We must keep you safe!”
The despair in her voice made me resist with all of my strength, landing a kick to the manservant’s side as he hoisted me over his shoulder. He began walking purposefully toward the courtyard. My stomach heaved. I beat my fists against his granite back as we entered the dark courtyard with its lovely fountain in the middle, adorned by the preening bronze David with his silly hat. He kept walking, to the palazzo’s main gates.
Outside in the street I heard howling, as if demons leapt from the cobblestones. A man in a hooded cloak stepped from the shadows by the gates and said, “Give her to me.” I writhed and yelled as I was handed over. The stranger smelled of soot and musk; as he hoisted me up onto a chestnut horse, I looked into his dark eyes. He was young, handsome. He whispered: “I am Aldobrindi, secretary of the Signoria. Be still, Duchessina, for both our sakes.”
I heard the gates open and pictured the demons waiting, pitchforks in hand. He mounted in back of me, draped something dark and heavy over my head: a cloak to hide my presence.
He led us out into the street. Though I couldn’t see the crowd filling the Via Larga, I heard their deafening chant: “Death to the Medici! Death to the tyrants!”
A whip cracked; the horse pranced in agitation. Aldobrindi growled, “Out of my way, rabble. I am a member of the Signoria!” There was a moment of terrifying quiet. I crouched further against him, trying to make myself as small as possible, fearing I’d be discovered, yanked from the saddle and torn apart.
Then we started to move again, the horse seeming to tiptoe through the city, where screams and smoke smothered the air. Peering through a hole in the cloak, I espied the oily flicker of torches smearing past my vision, held high by running figures; there were cries, shouting. I tried to stay calm. But the farther we rode, the more frightened I became. I had no idea of where he was taking me or what would happen to me when we got there.
By the time we came to a halt before a high gate set in an imposing brick wall, I swayed with exhaustion. The stranger took me off the horse. I couldn’t feel my own legs as Aldobrindi led me through the gate into a stark cloister. A single torch burned, casting an eerie light over the rough stone pilasters and a dilapidated well in the cloister’s center.
A black-robed figure came forth. “Welcome to the Convent of Santa Lucia.”
I gasped, looking up in horror at Aldobrindi. This was the house of the sisters of Savonarola, devotees of that mad prophet who’d preached against the Medici and was burned at the stake by my great-grandfather. The Convent of Santa Lucia was the most impoverished in Florence; that it still stood bore testament to the nuns’ persistent hatred of my family, as they would never profit from our largesse. My aunt could not have known I was being brought to this place; she would have fought against it till her last breath.
“You cannot leave me here,” I said, and my voice seemed to split apart. But he bowed to me and retreated, leaving the nun to seize me by the arm.
“The end has come,” she hissed. “Your uncle, the pope, cowers in his citadel in Orvieto while the emperor lets loose his wolves in Rome. This is what your family’s pride has brought us: the wrath of God. But this time, there will be no escape. Here, you will atone for the Medicis’ sins.”
I gazed at her anonymous face, seamed by loathing, her colorless stare starved of pity, and I knew she didn’t see me at all. Tears burned in my eyes as she dragged me past the spectral row of nuns watching motionless from the portico, and down a musty corridor into a windowless cell, where another nun waited.
The door banged shut behind me. With cold efficiency, the nun stripped me of my clothing and left me naked, shivering. She removed something from her robe pocket; I cringed at the glint of scissors in her hand. “If you resist, it’ll go worse for you,” she said.
My tears broke free as she grasped my braid and cut. With the pink ribbon still twined around it, my auburn hair dropped at my feet. A wail clawed my throat. I bit down on it, shuddering as though I stood in snow, refusing to show my humiliation as the nun cropped my hair to its roots.
When she was done, she threw a coarse wool robe over my goose-pimpled skin and thrust a ragged broom at me. “Clean it up,” she ordered, and she watched as I swept the lustrous coils into a pile. When I was done, she met my eyes. Her look was like a field in winter, barren of life.
Without a word she locked the door and left me alone in the dark, with the smell of mildew and rustle of rats in the walls, stray remnants of hair on my feet.
That night, I cried myself to sleep.
Every day for weeks, I was marched to their frigid chapel and forced to kneel for hours on stone until my knees bled. I had to observe every nuance of their rigid order; I was not allowed to talk and I had one watery meal a day, followed by interminable prayer dictated by the clang of a hollow bell. I was never alone except at night, when I sat in my cell and heard the distant blast of cannons. I didn’t know what was happening beyond these walls, but lamentations echoed from the streets and ash fell from the smoke-filled sky to bury the convent’s meager vegetable patch.
One night a sister pressed her lips to my door and said in malignant glee: “The plague has come, along with the French. Your uncle hired diseased foreigners to bring Florence to its knees but he’ll not prevail. We will die before we let the Medici rule our city again.”
The nuns doubled their quota of prayers, in vain. Four of the older sisters fell ill and perished, choking on their vomit and riddled with buboes. I lost all semblance of dignity, imploring them to let me go, into the streets if necessary, like a stray dog. But they only regarded me as if I were an animal they prepared for slaughter.
I envisioned my death. For what seemed an eternity, I prepared for it. No matter how it came, I told myself I must be brave. I must never show my fear, for I was a Medici.
Then, after nine long months of assault, with the city’s magnificent fortifications reduced to rubble and the people dying of starvation, the Signoria had no other choice but surrender.
The army financed by my uncle marched in.
The nuns panicked. They moved me into a large room, brought me cheese and dried meats from the cellar, where they’d hidden their best supplies. They told me they only followed the Signoria’s orders, that they never meant to hurt me. I regarded them dully, my scalp crawling with lice, my gums bleeding, and my body thin as a twig. I was so tired of waiting for death that I didn’t even have the strength to hate them anymore.
Within days, Aldobrindi arrived. I’d eaten enough to receive him without fainting, clad in the same gown I was wearing when he took me from my palazzo. His shocked expression betrayed him. I must have looked like a skeleton in a child’s damask and he fell to his knees to beg my forgiveness. His plaintive excuses drifted past me; when he was done assuring me that I would be released and sent to Rome, I a
sked quietly, “Where is my aunt?”
There was a laden pause before he replied. “Madama Strozzi had to leave the city but even from exile she never stopped fighting for you. She caught a fever and”—he reached into his doublet, set a sealed envelope in my hands—“she left you this.”
I did not look at her letter. I closed my fingers over it and felt through the paper the invisible presence of the woman who’d been such an enormous part of my world it was impossible to imagine her gone. I did not cry. I could not. My grief ran too deep.
That same day I left Santa Lucia for Rome. I did not know what lay ahead for me.
All I knew was that I was eleven years old, my aunt was dead, and my life was not my own.
FOUR
THE CITY I LEFT WAS IN SHAMBLES; THE CITY I RETURNED TO was unrecognizable. I had been warned by my escort that Rome had suffered great calamity during the Imperial siege but as we rode over the hills into the Tiber Valley, I could not believe my eyes. I had fleeting memories of the brief time I’d spent among the damp marsh airs and magnificent palazzos of the Eternal City; it was enough to make me wish I didn’t remember anything at all.
A smoking pile rose against the desolate landscape; as we entered the city, I saw empty-eyed men and a few ravaged women sitting with their heads bowed amid burned-out husks that were once homes, surrounded by a wreckage of looted heirlooms and trampled relics. I caught sight of a group of children, their clothing in tatters; they stood silent, still, as if uncertain of where they belonged. My stomach sank as I realized they were now orphans, like me, only they had no place to go. Save for the mules used to haul away debris I saw no animal, not even the usually ubiquitous cats. I looked away from the bloated corpses piled like kindling in the streets, from pools of congealed blood swallowing the reflection of the bruised sky, and stared straight ahead as I was led to the Lateran Palace, where, I was told, I would be lodged.
The Confessions of Catherine de Medici Page 2