“I don't want a new patron, either, Ugo. And I don't want to anger Il Moro. They say he will come back with an army, but who knows? We may have no choice. We sell weapons, and the best buyers are always the winners.”
Caterina plucked their oldest cloaks from hooks beside the door, donned her own, draped Ugo's over his shoulders, and kissed the top of his head. “Please, Ugo. On top of everything else, we are running out of food. Aren't you tired of ham?”
Ugo looked up at her hopefully. “Do you think the markets are open again?”
“All we can do is check. Please, put the sword down. I have my dagger, see?” She pulled aside her cloak, to show it strapped at her waist. “And you have yours. We will be fine.”
Ugo stirred. “I am ashamed to be seen, Caterina.”
My poor Ugo, Caterina thought. “Cara. You were one of the last of the soldiers to run. And everyone ran. And they were right to run—if we hadn't surrendered, the French would have raped and killed all of us—women, children, babies—like they did last time they invaded. The weapons you made were perfectly good weapons—it isn't your fault that no one used them. At least they were paid for!”
“And I am ashamed for Carlo.” His son had been one of the first to run.
“Everyone ran, Ugo. Everyone. And it was a blessing for all—our homes and city have survived. Carlo is barely out of boyhood—no one will think ill of him. Please—you can't stay in here forever. Do you want me to go alone?”
“You wouldn't do that.”
“Eventually, I will have to! We have to eat, Ugo. Come with me, please. Please?”
He sighed, stood. “Very well.” He stowed the sword above the door and removed the iron and oak bars across it, which he had strengthened to protect them from the French. As they stepped out into the street he locked the door again, with the iron key he had forged, which was as long as his hand.
They joined the stream of people heading for the city's castello, now draped in French flags, looming at the end of the Via Armorari. Caterina looked around in astonishment: everything was the same as always. The brown brick storefronts and cobbled streets were the same—the bright sunhine was the same—even the people were the same, though they looked weary and frightened. There were more horse droppings and a stronger horse urine smell than usual, from the French cavalry. But that was the only difference. It seemed wrong, somehow. They had been dreading this invasion for years, thinking it would change everything. But it hadn't.
Caterina stopped to read one of the decrees posted along the street. “It says that Cesare Borgia is now to be called 'Lord Valentino.'”
“I can think of some other things I'd like to call him.”
“Hush, Ugo. Please.”
“He betrayed Italy to France, Caterina. And they say he . . .mistreats the women he captures.”
“I doubt he is any worse than Il Moro in that way.”
“Hush, Caterina. Please.”
Caterina laughed. “Let's both be careful what we say, shall we?” She wished she could tell Ugo that Il Moro had tried to cuckold him, but she dared not. He would only be angry at her, for hiding the Duke's messages. She had responded that she was vomiting from pregnancy and fearful of miscarriage, hoping to buy enough time that another woman or the impending invasion would distract Il Moro. It had worked. Secretly, she hoped the Duke would never be back—at least, if she could persuade Ugo to sell to his usurpers.
They reached the castello in time to see the French king and the pope's son approach the portico on elaborately-caparisoned war horses, followed by the bulk of the French army. A golden canopy sheltered Louis XII, whose yellow tunic was embroidered with gold bees and beehives. Cesare Borgia, bearded and broad-shouldered, wore a maroon tunic sparkling with jewels, and pearl-encrusted boots with edgings of gold. The rubies glittering atop his berretta were bigger than the jewels in the king's crown. The entire entourage—even the horses—smelled of exotic perfumes.
“Lord Valentino is handsome enough,” Caterina pronounced.
Ugo wrinkled his nose in disgust. “I don't know that I can ever work for them, Caterina.”
“I hope you will not have to, Ugo.”
“Have you no loyalty?”
“I am loyal to my family.” As usual, she spoke the truth—but not the whole truth. Her home was in Milan but her heart was in Rome, with the daughter she had not seen in over ten years. Lord Valentino was Roman, and the French king was surely headed there. She was determined to get there herself, somehow.
* * *
Across town, Leonardo da Vinci was preparing to flee. He had not been this frightened since an anonymous accusation of homosexuality landed him behind bars as a young man in Florence. It brought back ugly memories. He had learned then to maintain dignity and calm regardless of provocation, and he did so now, by packing slowly and methodically, willing himself to look at every possession and make a decision about it. Most were trifles. Even his art—which he valued most of all—was only that. What did it matter?
The large, sunny room where he had happily sketched, painted and performed his experiments was nearly empty now; a soulless, bleak place without the splashes of color from paintings in progress, and the noise of his apprentices. He had discharged them all, save for two, and sold all his furnishings. Not a stick was left. It was necessary.
There were rumors that Il Moro would be back, and Leonardo could not afford to be in Milan if it happened. He had shamelessly courted the French, even though their soldiers had destroyed five years of his work by using the mold for his great equestrian statue for target practice. His strategy had protected his property and won him an invitation to the court of France, where he meant to go, someday. But Il Moro would never forgive him for consorting with the enemy.
“We are almost ready,” his apprentice Salai shouted from outside. Salai’s family had rented Leonardo’s lands. A convenient arrangement.
“I need another few minutes,” he called back.
His bright courtier’s clothing was already packed away. Now, he was sorting his library and notebooks into small book crates he had designed and built to protect them.
“The detritus of eighteen years in Milano,” he said sadly to himself as he leafed through his notebooks before packing them. Interspersed with artistic drawings were sketches of submarines, flying machines, weaving machines, spring-driven cars, mechanical diggers, robots and other fantastical inventions. Also plans for fortifications, weapons, anatomical drawings--everything he had thought about or done since leaving Florence as a young man.
He walked to the window. “The crates are ready to be loaded,” he shouted to his apprentices.
All that remained was to pack the possessions he had set aside to carry with him, rather than store. In one saddle bag, Leonardo packed essential clothing, a few books, blank sketchbooks and his lute. In a specially-made box, he would carry one painting: that of a woman he had loved.
This painting already had a nickname: Monna Issa, for Madonna Isabella. While Leonardo had encoded her identity in the painting, he would never reveal it openly. His relationship with the widowed duchess had been discreet, and would remain so. Leonardo smiled as he remembered it. Issa was in Naples now, having fled to her family after the French took her young son hostage. There was nothing left now for da Vinci, here in Milan.
“We are almost ready, Maestro,” said Salai, when Leonardo reached the wagon.
“Take the reins, then. I will load the rest.”
It saddened da Vinci to see his possessions reduced to so little. In his drab clothes and ancient brown traveling cloak, he looked like a bearded monk-- not the great Leonardo. He was skulking out of town like a thief—and sensibly so, since the roads were full of them.
He had hoped for eternal fame based on his art, but that hope was fading. The massive equestrian statue was to be his greatest work, a masterpiece of engineering as well as art. Now that the French had destroyed the mold, it would never be built. And the experimental paints he�
�d used for his fresco of the Last Supper were already showing signs of deterioration, though the painting was barely a year old. So much for fame. He would soon be supplanted by others. Making a living would have to do.
It was hard to start over. He was almost fifty years old. How many years did he have left?
“Ready for an adventure?” he asked, hoping to sound cheerful. “Fortuna has cast us down, but she keeps turning her wheel. When we find a new patron, we will be back at the top.”
With these words, Leonardo mounted his horse. Followed by his apprentices in the wagon, he left his home of seventeen years, moving into an unknown future.
Chapter 10—Death in St. Peter’s Square
St. Peter's Square
Rome, Easter Sunday, 1500
“Can you see him?”
“I see a gold spot on a balcony.”
“Is he saying anything?”
“Hush, girls,” said Sister Beatrice. “He is giving his Easter blessing. Be quiet.”
The nun closed her eyes and tried to hear the pope’s homily. It was impossible. St. Peter’s Square was packed with tens of thousands of pilgrims, who had traveled from all parts of Christendom for the Jubilee celebrating the new century. The crowd was laughing, talking and feasting. Few even tried to hear the pope.
Sister Beatrice gave up trying herself. She decided to meditate on the happy cacophony around her--the joyful noise of sinners-- instead of being annoyed by it. The pope had promised “plenary indulgences” for the sins of those who confessed to Roman priests and made generous offerings to the Vatican during the Jubilee. Guaranteed forgiveness for all sins evidently guaranteed bad behavior. Still, it was an uplifting day, smelling of perfumes, fruity wine and Easter sweets. The pilgrims wore bright colors and happy faces. Several offered her sweetmeats and many more asked her blessing, which she cheerfully gave. Maybe God heard the unruly din as thanks for the resurrection of His son, she reflected.
But not all the noises were happy. Decades of nursing alerted Sister Beatrice to a different sound, soft but alarming. Somewhere close by, someone was choking; unable to breathe. She began pushing towards the victim, whose distress was now drowned out by shrieks. As she moved forward, the crowd was edging away.
“The plague!” someone shouted. People screamed, and some shoved their way through the crowd to escape.
“It is not the plague,” Sister Beatrice shouted, alarmed at what panic could do in a crowd of this size. “I am a nurse; let me through!”
People parted, like the Red Sea in front of Moses. In front of her, flopping on the cobblestones in agony, was a white-habited nun.
“It is the falling sickness. Give her air,” she shouted. Kneeling, she put one hand under the nun’s head and another on her chest, feeling the racing heartbeat.
For a moment, it was hard to recognize the distorted, bluish face. She had to imagine the gasping mouth and the bulging eyes at rest, to see that it was Sister Gerolama. Even with Beatrice holding her, her flailing was so frantic that she might injure herself. Beatrice looked for the other nuns, hoping for help. None was there.
“Help me hold her still!” she begged. The crowd edged further back in horror, but an older woman came forward to help, seizing Sister Gerolama’s ankles.
Behind the woman was Pia, owl-eyed with terror. “Go find a priest,” Beatrice yelled. “Pronto.”
Now she bent close. “Did you choke on food, Gerolama?”
The nun shook her head “no,” pointing frantically away from herself.
“Did something happen? Do you understand what happened?”
Her head nodded “yes”--but she was looking beyond Sister Beatrice, now. Her hands reached for the priest who knelt beside her and made the sign of the cross on her forehead, kneeling close to hear her final confession and give her absolution.
Sister Beatrice backed away, to give them privacy. Nuns and students were arriving, and kneeling to pray for their sister. She knelt with them.
A prolonged cheer announced the end of the pope’s benediction. As the crowds began to move, Sister Gerolama became still. The priest stood, and beckoned to Sister Beatrice.
“She is gone.”
“So she is. Was this God’s will, father?”
The priest looked at her oddly. “Of course, my daughter.”
Sister Beatrice was used to death--even sudden, painful death. But her instincts told her there was something wrong here. She covered Gerolama’s face with her handkerchief, said a brief prayer for her soul, and prayed for guidance, wondering how they were going to transport the body.
Leonora Sforza, a guest of the convent, relieved her of this worry. She ordered two of her retainers to wrap the diminutive nun in their cloaks, which they did. Distastefully, each picked up an end of the bundle. The nuns, students and guests of San Sisto then began their sad journey back to the convent.
* * *
Nicola awaited their return at the front gate. More than anything, she had wanted to go to St. Peter’s Square for Easter Sunday. She had faithfully kept the hour of daily silence the priora imposed after discovering her disobedience in asking questions about Sister Gerolama. In fact, she had been desperately, miraculously obedient to the nuns, no matter how arbitrary the request. But it had done her no good. Though she begged until she wept, she had not been allowed to go to St. Peter's Square for the pope's Easter blessing.
“Out of the question,” the priora said. “And don’t argue,” she added. Nicola had clapped her hands over her mouth and burst into tears.
Looking uncomfortable, the priora had handed Nicola a handkerchief and a letter. “I don’t mean to be cruel, Nicola. I cannot let you leave the convent without permission. I wrote to your zia—this was her decision. Read her letter, and calm yourself.”
“I begged my husband to go to Rome for the Jubilee, thinking to see Nicola,” the letter read, “but he refuses. He says that besides the local villains--which is half of Rome--every thief and murderer in Christendom will be there, seeking an indulgence for their sins from the pope. People who dare not confess to their local priest are taking their sins to Rome instead. Ugo says the farther they have traveled, the greater the sins they are leaving behind. I hate to admit it, but he is right. Please see that Nicola stays inside the convent, where she will be safe.”
“It is true,”said Father Testa, when Nicola confessed to the sin of envy because she was unable to attend the Jubilee. “What your zia said is correct. I have been helping to confess and absolve pilgrims at St. Peter’s and I cannot believe what I am hearing. Priests confessing to murder. Fathers confessing to carnal relations with their children. Men who have committed multiple rapes. Doctors poisoning and stealing from patients--some of whom are pilgrims here for the Jubilee! Pilgrims are robbed in broad daylight, every day. Your zia is right to restrict you to the convent.”
Gazing at Sister Gerolama’s corpse, Nicola accepted her restrictions for the first time. The old nun would surely have been safe if she had stayed behind. Wrapped in a cloak, what was left of her looked like a large black cocoon, draped across the wheelbarrow the nuns had commandeered to transport her.
“We will take her to the Death House, at the back of the graveyard,” Sister Beatrice directed. “Follow me. Nicola! Bring water so I can wash the body.”
Startled but resigned, Nicola trotted to the well. Then, buckets in hand, she approached the convent gate to the graveyard, with increasing dread. She had never been inside the graveyard before. She hoped the gate would be locked, as always—but this time, it was not. Swallowing hard, she entered.
Nicola walked past the quiet gravestones, towards the Death House. Remembering Pia’s fear of spirits, she was increasingly spooked. But you have never been scared of the dead before, she told herself. Don’t be afraid of bodies that have long been buried. Or of old bones.
She knew what theDeath House was: an ossuary for bones dug up when graves were re-used, and a place for storing bodies that could not immediately be buried
. She peeked inside. A wall of skulls peered back at her, upright between neatly stacked leg and arm bones. She yelped.
“Bring the water, Nicola.” Sister Beatrice was bent over Sister Gerolama’s waxen body, now laid out on a table and partially covered with a shroud. On the floor beside it was a coffin, obviously used before and not yet clean. “Don’t be afraid of holy remains, of souls at rest. Come.”
Holding her breath, Nicola crept toward Sister Gerolama’s body. Then she saw the sputum-soiled, grimacing face, its mouth a rictus of horror. Startled, she dropped her buckets.
Sister Beatrice sighed. “I should have warned you. But you only spilled a little,” she added, picking up the buckets and moving them next to the corpse. “Speak, child. What is it?”
“Why does she look like she saw the devil?”
“She looks the way she does because she suffered greatly. I could have closed her eyes and mouth, but I wanted to be able to be able to examine her after the stiffness set in.”
Sister Beatrice wetted a rag and cleaned the corpse’s face. Then she peered down Sister Gerolama’s throat; sniffed.
“It is as I feared. Pay attention now: you will need to know these things when I am old, and you take my place. Do you see how wide her pupils are? Belladonna does that. Also, see the bluish skin around her mouth? And the swelling tongue and throat? That could be arsenico. I believe she was poisoned.”
“Poison! Do we keep such things in the convent?”
“Certainly not! She must have been poisoned in St. Peter’s Square. Come. We must tell the priora.
Chapter 11—Vendetta
Nicola and Sister Beatrice left the graveyard through the back gate, circled behind the church, and entered the cloister through the infermeria, using Sister’s key. In the courtyard, brightly-colored spring flowers nodded in the breeze, jarringly cheerful. But it was Easter, Nicola remembered. A perfect day for Sister Gerolama to end her suffering and join Jesus in Heaven. Cheered by this thought, Nicola vowed to picture the beautiful flowers in the courtyard, whenever her mind's eye wanted to remember Sister Gerolama's tortured face.
A Borgia Daughter Dies Page 6