“Why is there a bull on the ceiling? And what are those smells?” she asked.
“The bull is the symbol of the Borgia family. And the smells are perfumes,” the priora responded. “Lower your voice, please.”
Servants ushered them to a table in the corner, far away from the glittering figures on the dais. Once seated, Nicola watched avidly as the cardinales, dressed in bright red, knelt before a figure in gold robes and jeweled miter. This surely was Lucrezia's father, Pope Alexander VI.
Beside the pope, finally, appeared the bride and groom. Nicola recognized Lucrezia’s golden hair, which cascaded from a jeweled tiara in corkscrew curls. Were those pearls around her head? Her camorra was gold, trimmed with red, and sparkled like the night sky. More jewels, Nicola decided. The tall, slender groom wore a black tunic touched with red, an enormous gold medallion in his chest, and a black velvet berretta on his head. After a brief interchange, the pope raised his hand to bless them. Then, at the pope’s motion, lutes and drums struck a lively tune. The couple danced with each other, and then with the other lords and ladies.
Not knowing that the banquet would go on for hours, Nicola quickly ate her fill from the antipasti of olives, figs and cheese. Much of what followed she didn’t recognize, but it smelled wonderful. There were little birds, cooked with plums, entire roasted pigs, each carried by two men, and even roasted peacocks, decorated with their feathers. Meat pies, fruit pies, fresh and cooked fruit, puddings, breads, pastries, cakes. And of course, huge quantities of wine. She ate until she feared she would burst.
Once sated, she was bored and sleepy. She was too young to dance, and she didn’t know how to dance, anyway. She could not question Sister Gerolama, because the priora sat between them, and the music made it too noisy to talk.
She had been careful to water her wine and drink sparingly, but she had to pee anyway. After whispering her destination to the priora, she followed guests and then smells to stand in line so she could empty her bladder behind one of the screens set up in a distant corridor. Though servants scurried quickly to empty and return the chamber pots, it was a long wait.
Returning through crowds of drunken courtiers, she was suddenly grabbed by a running, laughing lady, who said, “Come on! They are going to bed the bride and groom!” She pulled Nicola along a series of hallways, crowded with laughing guests who stumbled and smelled of wine.
Nicola found herself in a richly-decorated room with a large bed. Threading her way between chattering guests, she watched the musicians playing in a back corner. Near them, a door opened. Lucrezia Borgia entered, followed by several ladies holding a sheet around her nakedness as if it were a bridal train. They moved the bedclothes for her. Lucrezia settled herself gracefully, then allowed her attendants to cover her.
Duke Alfonso then emerged, similarly naked, from a door on the other side of the room. From the neck up, he was the handsomest man Nicola had ever seen. From the neck down, however, he was monstrous: hairy in places like an animal, especially around the large, dark thing that stuck out between his legs. It preceded him towards the bed, waving back and forth like a dog’s tail.
There were shouts of laughter as Lucrezia and Alfonso smiled at each other unashamedly. Alfonso joined her in the bed, the thing protruding under the sheet.
“The miraculous virgin will get hers now,” someone shouted.
“Pump her good, Alfonso,” another called out. Several men made suggestive motions with their hips.
Suddenly, Nicola understood. “He is going to stick that big thing inside her, like a ram on a sheep?” she gasped.
“Of course!” said the red-faced lady next to her, who laughed loudly and pounded Nicola’s back as though she had said something hilarious. “Silly girl, his pene is not nearly as big as a baby! For a baby to come out, the man must first go in!”
Nicola found herself wanting to see Alfonso “going in.” However, the show was evidently over. After the crowd emptied the bedroom, Nicola slowly followed it back towards the banquet hall, wishing she understood this out-and-in process.
Her confusion, however, was short-lived. As she returned to the banquet hall, her remaining questions about baby-making--together with some she didn’t know she had--were answered, by the pairs of moaning, panting guests in varied positions and states of undress, coupling unabashedly in the hallways.
Chapter 8—A Dangerous Contessa
Forli, Italy
July, 1499
“Florence has little to offer you, Contessa. Particularly since you offer nothing in return,” said Niccolò Machiavelli quietly to Caterina Sforza, Contessa of Forli.
They were sharing a late dinner in her private apartments, alone except for her infant son, who slept in a cradle in the corner. The stone-walled living quarters were a fortress within a fortress, torch-lit and virtually windowless; smelling faintly of mold. A suit of armor, shaped for a big-busted woman, was draped over a stand next to the wall. All was gray, brown or black--except for the bed, curtained with gaudy red brocade, and visible by candlelight through the door to the adjacent room.
“Call me ‘Caterina,’” she murmured, fluttering her fan. A winsome, long-necked blonde, she wore a green camorra with a bodice so tight and low that her milk-swollen breasts looked likely to pop free at any moment. “’Contessa’ sounds so formal.”
Machiavelli looked at his plate and nervously twisted his wedding ring, to make sure she noticed it. After two days of fruitless formal negotiations, she had invited him to share a private dinner so they could speak frankly—but he hadn’t anticipated this. In ordinary circumstances, he would happily bed a beautiful widow. However, he was on duty, as she well knew. Besides, she was far too dangerous to treat as a plaything.
Maladetta donna! Did she think he would undertake his first solo diplomatic mission without doing his homework? He knew all about her: as a young bride, she had donned armor and held the Castel Sant’Angelo for months after the death of Pope Sixtus, her first husband’s “uncle” (or more likely, his father). She surrendered to the College of Cardinals only because her husband ordered it. When he was assassinated, she and her soldiers had pursued his killers and slaughtered their entire families. When her second husband, too, was murdered, she did the same. Yet here she sat, pretending she was a helpless female and doting mother.
“I call you ‘Contessa’ to pay you proper respect,” Machiavelli responded, though this was not the only reason. Truth was, ‘Caterina’ was a name that caused him pain every time he said it, because it belonged to his first, lost love. Caterina Sforza was an elongated and tawdry imitation of his own Caterina, to be sure. Her hair was obviously bleached, and her brows were plucked too thin. However, something about her reminded him of his first love. To keep his emotions out of play, it was best to avoid that name.
“Call me what you wish,” she said with a strained smile, “but if you truly respect me, you will do as I ask! Surely Florence can spare fifty soldiers. With two hundred men, I could hold this fortress forever.”
Machiavelli did not doubt it. “Florence does not have a standing army, Contessa—and we are as worried as you are about Cesare Borgia.”
“But Florence is not one of the old Papal States. Surely you are safe.”
“The papacy believes that Constantine the Great gave all of Italy to the Church, Contessa. You know the story. Now that the popes are back from France—and there is only one of them, instead of two or three—they are trying to reclaim what was lost. The old borders will not stop this pope.”
“Still, the pope has made no threat against Florence. But he has threatened me! He intends to give all my lands to his bastard son,” she sighed as she fanned herself.
“There is precedent for it,” he noted, smiling politely. Caterina shot him an angry look. Pope Sixtus had gifted these same lands to her first husband, his “nephew,” leaving Caterina the task of eliminating the former ruling families. Which she had done.
“Florence might consider some sort of fair
exchange,” he continued. “But you are offering nothing.”
“I have nothing to offer, Niccolò, except my gratitude. . . .and that of my son, who is a son of Florence—a Medici.”
“The Medici are no longer in power, Contessa,” Machiavelli reminded her gently.
“But they will be back, and my son will be powerful.” She glanced at the cradle, as if expecting a full grown man to rise out of it.
“The Medici can only return to power if there is a Florence left for them to rule,” Machiavelli smiled. “I am sorry, Contessa, but right now Florence must protect itself. The Medici understand. Have you applied to them for help?”
“Of course. But they don’t like me. They seem to think that my first husband had something to do with that. . . little rebellion in Florence, a few years back,” she fanned herself impatiently, frowning.
“Who could imagine such a thing?” Machiavelli soothed, lying effortlessly. It was common knowledge that Pope Sixtus and her first husband had masterminded the plot to overthrow the Medici. But Lorenzo Il Magnifico had fought off the priests who knifed him at the cathedral altar, and rallied the populace in the bloodletting that followed. Caterina Sforza undoubtedly knew of the plot, and may well have dreamed up the whole conspiracy, for all Machiavelli knew. “Little rebellion” indeed.
As for her recent marriage to Giovanni de’ Medici, the last diplomat Florence had sent to her: confronted with “La Sforza”—“the pushy one”—Giovanni had met his match, in every sense of the word. After marrying her, he lived only long enough to father and acknowledge her latest son—though he had been in perfect health when he left Florence.
Caterina Sforza’s lethal effect on her three husbands had been the subject of many jokes. Machiavelli had made some himself. They no longer seemed funny.
“You and your children should simply go to Florence,” he suggested. “The Medici will have no choice but to receive you.”
“Never! I will not give up my lands.” Anger again showed the line between her eyes. She must be close to forty, he realized. Still luscious, though, with those magnificent milk-engorged breasts, now heaving with emotion.
Niccolò tried to focus on her eyes. “Have you asked Giovanni Sforza for help? Isn’t he a cousin of yours?”
“Of course! But the Borgias have wanted the Sforza fortress at Pesaro since the time Lucrezia Borgia was married to Giovanni. And, the Borgias want to kill Giovanni for starting the incest rumors—you have heard the rumors that Lucrezia is having sex with her father and brother? Giovanni started them, the idiot. He is a fool and a coward. He will not help me.”
“What about your uncle, Il Moro? Has he not promised to help you?”
“With the French camped outside Milan, how can he help? He has promised help once he defeats them—but who knows when that will happen?”
“I am sure it will be soon, Contessa. Your salvation is assured,” Machiavelli smiled. “Il Moro is the strongest ruler in Italy. You have no need of help from Florence.”
Il Moro was doomed, in Machiavelli’s view. But maybe she saw it differently.
Caterina put her hand on his thigh. “Please help me, Niccolò,” she pleaded, leaning her breasts into his arm.
Machiavelli felt his manhood responding to her touch, despite himself. È pòi, if his pene insisted on standing, so would he. He grabbed his wine glass and moved to the window, willing his body to behave itself.
“Please do not tempt me, Contessa. I am a married man,” he said quietly.
“And so?”
“And so, I am faithful to my wife. Plus, I can’t afford any more bastards. And you are obviously a good breeder,” he continued, nodding towards the baby, who was beginning to cry. “Have you not said so yourself?”
She looked startled.
Machiavelli smiled. “All Italy knows the story, Contessa.”
Her first husband’s murderers had kidnapped her children, demanding the fortress of Forli—where she and Machiavelli now sat enjoying dinner—as ransom. As they stood outside with their young captives, she had hoisted a leg over the battlements and showed them her genitals, shouting, “You see? I can always make more.” The murderers abandoned her children and fled, with Caterina and her army in hot pursuit. When caught, they begged mercy for their families, since they had shown mercy to hers. She killed them anyway.
Caterina now shouldered the waking baby and patted its back. “Where is your child? The bastard you mentioned?” she asked sympathetically.
“In Rome.”
“At the Convent of San Sisto, no doubt?”
Machiavelli nearly dropped his wine glass, he was so startled. Was she a witch, on top of everything else?
“I did not say it was a girl, Contessa. And I have never heard of this convent. Tell me about it.” His voice was smooth, but he knew his surprise had given him away.
“La Sforza” smiled. “San Sisto is a Dominican convent that educates the bastards of prominent men. A very exclusive place. I have a cousin there,” she responded. “And speaking of children, Niccolò—if I send my own to Florence for their protection, will you watch over them?”
“I can look in on them occasionally,” he responded cautiously. “It will do no harm to let the Medici know that someone in the Signoria is aware of their existence. Yes, I will give you my personal promise, Contessa.”
“I will send you word, then, if I decide to send my little ones to Florence. And I will not forget about your little one, who is at San Sisto, in Rome.” There was honey in her voice—but also, a threat. Machiavelli knew that his daughter would only be safe if La Sforza’s children were, as well.
He watched Caterina as she fumbled with her bodice. She was about to nurse her son.
“Good night, Contessa,” he called out as he fled.
“Pleasant journey, Niccolò,” she responded sweetly. “A l’inferno!” he heard her add under her breath, as he closed the door behind him.
* * *
A month later.
Priora Picchi hurriedly read the letter spread out on the scarred wood table that served as her desk, knowing that a diplomatic courier stood outside the gates of the convent, awaiting her response. It was, she decided, the strangest letter she had ever received:
1 September 1499
To the Most Esteemed Priora of the Convent of San Sisto,
Greetings from Niccolò Machiavelli, Segretàrio of the Signoria, of Florence:
Be advised that Caterina Sforza, Contessa of Forli, has discovered the existence of my daughter. (I assume Nicola still lives, having heard nothing contrary from you.) Contessa Sforza may have designs on her, as a way to achieve power over me. She is a very dangerous woman, who is to have no contact with my daughter. If she sends letters, or gifts, or messengers, you are to use utmost courtesy in turning them away.
Please let me know if Contessa Sforza attempts any contact with my daughter. Also how my daughter fares. If in fact she has died, you may return the remainder of my endowment to me via my messenger, as per our signed agreement of ten years ago.
A thousand thanks.
NM
No wonder Nicola was such an unusual child, the priora thought to herself as she took up quill and paper to write a response. The child’s father was clearly a bit pazzo, if he thought that a woman—even a Sforza woman-- could somehow harm a young girl in a Roman convent. And wasn't Caterina Sforza trapped in her castello, halfway to Milan, preparing for an attack from the pope's son, Cesare Borgia? Perhaps Nicola's father did not know this. Still, his concern seemed irrational. How to placate such a man?
After a moment’s thought, she took up her quill, and wrote:
4 October 1499
To the Most Esteemed Niccolò Macchiavelli, Segregario of the Signoria of Florence, from Priora Picchi, Convent of San Sisto, Rome, Greetings.
You will be pleased to hear that your daughter Nicola, though a mischievious child, has become a lively and intelligent young woman, whose health is excellent. She is among our best st
udents, conversant in both Latin and Greek. She also shows talent as a nurse and healer. As yet she has declined to take vows as a nun. Until she does, her beauty is such that, with a reasonable dowry, you could make a good marriage for her if she is willing.
You may rest assured I will continue to protect her from all malign influences. Should Contessa Sforza attempt to contact her, I will of course notify you immediately.
May the Lord bless and keep you,
Priora Picchi, Convent of San Sisto
As she dripped wax on her letter to seal it, the priora considered whether she should tell Nicola about her father's letter. She remembered the way Nicola, wide-eyed with terror, had clung to him, screaming, as a toddler. When he left her behind—without looking back—the child had cried for weeks, straining everyone's nerves. Nicola pretended indifference now, but could it be so? Her father certainly seemed indifferent to his daughter, judging by his letter, and reading it charitably. Misericordia, he almost seemed to wish Nicola were dead.
As she hurried to the front gate with her letter, the priora came to a decision: she would say nothing to Nicola, for now. Perhaps this Machiavelli would respond to the letter she now handed to his courier in a way that reflected better on him. Then she could speak well of him to Nicola, if she spoke at all. Wasn't it best not to open old wounds? She would pray on it, she decided, while she waited for a response.
Chapter 9—Disaster in Milan
Milano, Italy
November, 1499
Though the doors to the shop were still tightly barred, Caterina could hear trumpets in the distance. “Ugo, the French king and Cesare Borgia are about to enter the city. Please, let's go see them! I have been cooped up here for weeks—it's making me pazza. It’s safe now, surely. Besides, they might be our new patrons.”
As he had for days, Ugo sat with his back against the unlit forge, a heavy broadsword balanced across his lap. His face was drawn from stress and lack of sleep. “I don't want a new patron, Caterina. You know that. And I have no real desire to see this king. Or the pope's bastard.”
A Borgia Daughter Dies Page 5