The Scarlet Contessa (16 page)

Sixtus opened the box and held up the necklace to the dim light, so that those near the front of the congregation could see it: four heavy chains of gold, each thick as two plump papal fingers, hung from a single clasp; a large emerald was set in the center of the first, with six smaller emeralds on either side. The second chain was similarly adorned with rubies, the third with diamonds, and the fourth with sapphires. Such a piece could easily have purchased a cardinal’s large palazzo in the city. A collective sigh of appreciation echoed through the sanctuary.

“This,” the pope announced, with hissed and slurred sibilants and explosive
p
’s, “befits you better than plain pearls. Girolamo could not be a luckier man. I had heard you were a beauty, my darling, but such a simple word cannot properly describe you. You are more dazzling than any of these jewels.”

“I lack the proper words to thank you, Your Holiness,” Caterina said in her still-girlish voice. “Your generosity is beyond measure, and more than I deserve.” With that, she knelt.

As she did, Sixtus drew her toward him, pulling her head and shoulders toward his lap and obliging her to stretch out her lovely neck. The position was awkward and vaguely unsavory, yet she held perfectly still as His Holiness managed, with thick, clumsy fingers, to fasten the necklace. Then he bade Caterina rise, and along with Girolamo, she turned and faced the sighing congregation to show off the jewels.

Sixtus lifted an upraised palm at the cardinals seated nearby on the dais; they immediately rose, and Cardinal della Rovere introduced Caterina to each one. Besides the pope’s relatives, there were an Orsini, a Colonna, three Frenchmen, a pair of Spaniards, and a Greek.

But the one I remembered best was the first, who held the envied seat closest to the pope: a tall Catalan, with a faint accent and the deep black hair and olive complexion of his people. After studying law, he had served many years as vice-chancellor of the Curia. Though he had passed his fortieth year, he was still tall and straight, with a powerful chest and square shoulders and an aura of virile masculinity. From the moment Caterina ascended the platform, he rarely took his gaze from her. His oval face was marked by a broad, prominent nose, full lips, and a high forehead; his brown eyes, set beneath striking black brows and high, angular cheekbones, revealed a sensitive, lively spirit and shrewd intelligence. When the young Countess of Imola looked up at him, he met her gaze with a brazenly flirtatious smile before he murmured a blessing. Even after Cardinal Giuliano delle Rovere had led her on to the next introduction, the Spaniard continued watching her with intense desire, coupled with growing determination. I remember thinking, with faint outrage,
He means to have her.

Borgia was his name. Cardinal Rodrigo Borgia.

Chapter Twelve

The postnuptial festivities continued at the Orsini Palazzo across the Tiber from Saint Peter’s. Though exhausted and flushed from the heat—even the grand halls, liberally sprinkled with costly perfumes and garlanded with roses, could not hide the smell of sweat—Caterina kept her diplomatic smile firmly in place as she suffered through a twenty-two-course banquet that continued late into the evening.

After the last toast was made to the health and fertility of the happy couple, Girolamo Riario collected the bridal entourage and drove us a short distance north to the Palazzo Riario. Near the front entry stood a large fountain featuring the god Neptune, encircled by lit torches so that the flowing water sparkled golden as our carriages passed. We passed several windows, all of them glowing yellow in honor of the bride, and rolled to a stop in front of an intimidatingly huge brass door.

Caterina’s suite of rooms was grander and more lavishly furnished than any she had ever enjoyed in her father’s court. I oversaw the undressing of my lady, and the brushing out of her pale gold hair all the way to her narrow waist. I myself drew the white satin sheets up over her exposed breasts before leaving her to her fate. Caterina’s eyes were wide, her tone clipped, yet she made a brave effort to joke; I regretted knowing little about the marriage act, as I wanted to comfort her, but found myself without words. A Ligurian house servant led me to adjacent quarters—larger, more luxurious than those I was accustomed to, with a curtained bed all my own, and two generous cots for the chambermaids Caterina had brought from Milan. I opened all the windows to catch the humid breeze, then fell naked onto the soft feather mattress.

I was wakened little more than an hour later by the bell suspended from my ceiling; my mistress was summoning aid. The memory that this was her wedding night brought me to my feet, where I pulled on a nightgown.

In the contessa’s new quarters, the table lamp was still burning. The bed drapes were open; Caterina sat propped against the pillows, one arm across her breasts to hold the sheet against them. The pooling white satin bore the imprint of more than one body, the extra pillow an imprint of a large head; all the coverlets had been kicked aside onto the floor. Caterina’s long hair was tangled, disheveled, and her eyes narrowed in an effort to hide the misery in them.

“Wine,” she said brusquely.

A carafe and upturned goblets sat on a low table several steps away, near the long arching window, unshuttered to admit the stink of the nearby Tiber; beyond lay the Holy City, dark and brooding save for a few faintly flickering palace windows. I filled a cup halfway from the carafe and looked about for the pitcher. Married or not, Caterina was only fourteen, and still took her wine mixed with water.

She caught my eye and shook her head. “Just wine,” she said.

I filled the goblet to the brim and handed it to her. She was full awake and could easily have fetched her own drink; I lingered, waiting for her to initiate a conversation.

She took a large gulp; her eyes watered and she coughed a bit, but she immediately forced down another swallow, then another.

“The poets are all liars.” She spoke offhandedly, with a forced dark humor, but her lip trembled faintly.

I suppressed a yawn as I asked, “How so, Madonna?”

“He is oafish,” she said sourly, “and his breath stinks. He has hair all over his back and chest and stomach, like an ape.” She stared at me. “Are all men so hairy?”

She moved her legs aside; I noted the subtle request, and sat down upon the cool sheets. My experience in the subject was limited to the fact that I had twice seen Matteo without his shirt. “I cannot speak for all men,” I said. “But I know one who did not have so much, just a small bit at his chest. I believe it varies.”

“It’s disgusting,” she said. She took more wine, then fell silent a long moment. When she summoned her courage, she added, “Is it supposed to hurt?”

The question took me aback; Caterina had no clue that Matteo and I had not lived as man and wife, and I meant to keep her ignorant of the fact.

“Only the first time,” I said; of that, I was fairly certain, and the rest was embellishment for my lady’s sake. “After that, it grows . . . pleasurable. With practice.”

“I hope so,” she said, “but the brute spent little time at it. He was here and gone in five minutes.” She let go a single wracking sob and reached for me.

I performed the duty for which I had been summoned: I wrapped my arms about her, lifted her heavy hair off her damp neck and stroked it, murmuring words of comfort.

When she finally composed herself, she said darkly, “I will do what I must. But he has nothing but contempt for me, and I only hatred for him. I will bear him children—for my purposes, not his.”

The following day Caterina’s moodiness was replaced by incandescent joy as she presided over a tournament in her honor. Like her father, she adored the pomp and ceremony that went with noble status. So long as she was not forced to endure Girolamo’s company by herself, she was infectiously cheerful, and with good reason. While her husband might have been stingy with his affections, he was generous when it came to matters of money. Caterina’s every request was indulged. Even though she had received a new trousseau of the most fashionable clothing, Girolamo allowed her to have several new gowns of her own design made, and new jewelry. He also left the running of the house entirely to her, so that she might make whatever changes she wished to the staff or the furnishings. Her first decision was that I should sleep in her bed when her husband was not present.

Over the next weeks, she had ample opportunity to enjoy herself, as she and her husband had been invited to the palaces of every noble family and several cardinals. On most occasions, I accompanied her, introduced as her “cousin,” and came to see that there was little difference between the face Girolamo presented to the world and the one his wife and her entourage saw. He took advantage of his position by being surly and remarkably crude to all, telling the most raucous jokes in mixed company. He smiled and laughed in earnest only when he was being led off to a game of dice or cards. At such times, he would disappear for hours, and Caterina and I would return home without him. To her relief, he came only rarely to her bedroom.

Only once during those days did I glimpse Girolamo’s human face, when the young couple’s connubial bliss was interrupted for a visit to the eight-hundred-year-old basilica of Santi Apostoli, a short walk from our palazzo. We were joined there by His Holiness and several of his cardinals, including Rodrigo Borgia, the Catalan with the sensuous, leering gaze.

His manner markedly somber, Sixtus wore a simple red skullcap and red silk chasuble over his white linen robes. We waited patiently as he made his way up the steps to the basilica’s entrance; it took two cardinals, each gripping the old man’s arm, to hoist his corpulent form up the stairs and into the church. By the time Sixtus tottered up to the sanctuary’s threshold, sweat streamed from the edges of his skullcap down his brow and ashen cheeks. Girolamo went at once to his father’s side and, in an uncharacteristic display, embraced him with grim, urgent affection.

The two walked arm in arm—Sixtus huffing and teetering as his son did his best to shoulder the bulk of his father’s weight—to a side chapel, where a temporary throne had been placed for His Holiness. This rested directly in front of a shining marble funerary monument, the floor beneath it still bearing dust from the artist’s chisel.

Four times my height, and half as wide, the monument had a massive rectangular base as high as my shoulder, upon which was inscribed the name of the deceased: the noble young cardinal Pietro Riario, Archbishop of Florence and “nephew” to Sixtus, had perished at the age of twenty-nine. Above this was carved a bier, its base supported by the busts of three winged seraphs. Upon the bier lay the three-dimensional, life-sized figure of a young man with even, rounded features, more attractive than Girolamo’s, though I saw the similarity in the nose and eyes. His form was draped in priestly robes and his head bore a plain mitre; his face wore an expression of placid repose. Behind him was a marble wall featuring a bas relief of a seated Virgin with the Christ child on her lap; on her left was an adoring, kneeling Girolamo, and on her right, a kneeling and notably thinner and younger Sixtus, the former accompanied by Saint Paul and the latter, Peter.

Girolamo had had an older brother, Pietro, the recipient of Sixtus’s special favor. At a young age, Pietro had been singled out by Sixtus for an education from the Franciscans, followed by time at universities. Sixtus lavished appointments—bishoprics, benefices, and ultimately a cardinalship—upon the lad, who, unlike his dull younger brother, had inherited his father’s shrewdness and wits. Pietro had also inherited a fondness for food and drink and women, which some said led to his early, unexpected demise: he had been discovered dead in his bed by a servant trying to rouse him. Others, including one of Caterina’s chambermaids, Teodora, said that he had been poisoned because his unchecked power had provoked a great deal of jealousy among the other cardinals.

The tragedy had occurred three and a half years earlier; only now had the grand monument to him finally been unveiled. At the sight of it, Sixtus pulled away from his surviving son’s grasp, and staggered up to the towering sculpture. He put his hand upon the marble and let go a low wail before sinking to his knees.

Girolamo hurried to him. Giant though he was, he lacked the strength to pull the massive pontiff to his feet; he signaled for help, and a trio of cardinals and the patriarch Stefano Colonna managed to get him to the papal throne, where he sat, gasping for breath and weeping.

Girolamo remained at the monument only briefly. All eyes save mine were focused on the grief-stricken Sixtus, but I saw something unsettling in Girolamo’s profile, in the way he, too, pressed his palm to the marble. When at last he took his hand away and turned to join his father, his eyes made me think of how my own must have looked in the hours after I learned my Matteo had died of poison: narrowed with love and grief, and the bitterest rage.

The days and nights passed quickly, and the miserable heat, along with the deadly fevers it brought, finally abated somewhat, though it was still much hotter than Milan had ever been.

I despised Rome. Outside of the grander, newer churches and palaces, and the few main thoroughfares recently repaved by Sixtus, the streets were narrow, uneven, and heaped with horse manure and stinking sewage. Sometimes the breeze from the nearby Tiber was so foul that we closed the windows despite the heat. The homes of the wealthy were new and beautiful, but they were few compared to the hovels of the poor, who fed themselves by hunting down the small game that roamed the less trafficked streets, or by trapping the fish that swam in the river’s filthy waters. Some areas were so unsafe, we dared not go there even by carriage, and at night, even the wealthiest areas were so dangerous that few ventured out without an escort of armed guards. We had lived at the Palazzo Riario for nearly a week before I discovered, aghast, that the windows on the uppermost floor and friezes on the flat, square roof hid crossbowmen and artillery, and that by sunset, soldiers patrolled the entire perimeter of the dwelling.

I assumed at first that this was due to the fact that Girolamo, as captain of the papal army and recent recipient of death threats, was being overly cautious. Such was not so, for as Caterina responded to social invitations, we saw that every palace was similarly guarded. Rome then was a far more dangerous place even than it is now. Wolves, wild dogs, and bands of armed thieves roamed the dark streets, and the Orsini and Colonna families, while maintaining polite relations during the day, carried on a continuing bloody vendetta each night. Each morning brought with it fresh corpses huddled on doorsteps or alleyways, or sprawled in public streets, or bloated and floating in the Tiber.

The world inside the walls of the Palazzo Riario could not have been more different. Caterina and I were accustomed to life with Bona, who, for a duke’s wife, eschewed finery and overt luxury. Although the hundred-year-old castle at Pavia was marvelously appointed, it seemed aged, spare, and cramped when compared to the glory of the Palazzo Riario, with its vast rooms filled with ornate furniture, statues, paintings, and frescos, and its walls, floors, ceilings, spiral staircases, and columns made of glittering marble. The size of its courtyard and gardens was that of Milan’s and Pavia’s combined.

Such luxury came with a price, however. Just as the court at Pavia had trembled in fear of Duke Galeazzo’s wrath, so did those at the Palazzo Riario tremble when Girolamo was in an ill mood. Unfortunately, it was a rare day that found Girolamo in good cheer; the entire household rejoiced when its lord traveled, often to oversee troops fighting to extend Riario control of the Romagna.

Luckily, Girolamo wanted little to do with his wife. They spent no time together privately, and did not dine together. Girolamo never invited Caterina to his chambers, nor came to Caterina’s wing of the palace except to demand his conjugal privilege, usually late at night, when he was incoherently drunk.

On those nights, I felt sorry for my lady, thinking that she would never find happiness in love. Until, that is, we attended a party hosted by Cardinal Rodrigo Borgia.

One evening in early June, Caterina and I rode with Girolamo in a carriage flanked by eight mounted guards, though the Palazzo Borgia was less than a twenty-minute walk away. At first, I didn’t understand why Girolamo rode with us—a carriage with his male attendants followed ours, indicating that Girolamo intended to return later than we ladies—until he began to speak.

That night, Caterina was a vision in a gown of shimmering silver silk, with pale blue velvet sleeves, and a rolled silver headdress from which hung a diaphanous veil; Teodora had spent an hour with a hot poker creating the long, loose curls artfully framing the contessa’s face. At fourteen, Caterina was growing quickly into a stunningly beautiful young woman, and only the crudest, most self-absorbed of men could have looked on her that evening and not drawn in his breath, then released it with a torrent of compliments.