The Tigress of Forli (18 page)

But that cold Romagnol winter was only briefly warmed by the new addition to the Riario family. Bordering on bankruptcy, without hope of paying public officials or other duties of seigniorial upkeep, Girolamo desperately needed to raise money to keep his town afloat. During December, he had been deep in counsel with his most trusted advisers, the notary Niccolò Pansechi, Andrea Chelini, and Ludovico Orsi, Girolamo's closest friend. The most acrimonious debates always revolved around the problem of taxation. After five years without sales taxes or gate duties, the count was considering bringing back the
dazi,
as these taxes were called. Pansechi, realistically surveying the terrible financial situation of Forlì, adamantly argued that without sales and customs taxes the city was finished. The Forlivesi had long been the envy of Italy and had for a time enjoyed the opportunity to prosper with few taxes and enormous subsidies from the papal coffers. Now that the generous pope was dead, the city had to bid farewell to privilege and join the ranks of the taxpayers.

Girolamo objected, with the support of Chelini and Orsi. Pansechi scoffed at their objections, exclaiming that "in all of Romagna there is no people more stupid than the Forlivesi!"
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Two days after Christmas 1485, the Council of Forty, the representative body of Forlì, met with Pansechi and a sullen Count Riario. The notary began his announcement with a dramatic flourish. "The traitor ... Pino Ordelaffi ate our hearts and sucked our blood with his heavy gate and sales duties, but Count Girolamo is benign and clement like a gentle lamb. Would the city demand that the Riarios impoverish themselves in order to sustain expenses that rightfully belong to all who live in a city?"
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Pressing his advantage, Pansechi called on each member by name to vote for or against the dreaded tax. They voted with beans, dropping a white one into the basket for an affirmative vote or a black one to signify a nay. One by one the dazed men walked to the desk and dropped a white bean into the basket. By unanimous vote, on December 27, 1485, the sales tax and gate duties were reinstated in Forlì.

The council dispersed, some sighing, some weeping, but all permanently alienated from their ruler. Pansechi's efforts were well rewarded. Appointed chief collector of the new taxes, he was ensured great wealth as well as the implacable hatred of the city. His sons in turn profited from comfortable city jobs, now that the means had been found to fund them.

Niccolò Machiavelli, commenting on different errors of government concerning taxation, seemed to have had Forlì in mind when he wrote in
The Prince
that while it "would be well always to be considered generous," by dropping taxes too radically the ruler "will consume all his property in such gestures." The result would be that "he will be forced to levy heavy taxes on his subjects ... Thus he will begin to be regarded with hatred."
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Machiavelli's observation was borne out immediately in 1486 when the assassination attempts increased. In March, Girolamo's soldiers apprehended a certain Antonio Butrighelli under the window of the Hall of the Nymphs; he was carrying letters to co-conspirators from Antonio Maria Ordelaffi, one of the ousted heirs to the city. Butrighelli was a known enemy of the Riarios. He had been twice implicated in plots to kill the count and had been twice pardoned. This time the letters were damning: that very afternoon, a group of Ordelaffi supporters were poised to take control of the Porta San Pietro, the northern gate that led to Ravenna. Others were to raid the church, where Girolamo and Caterina would be attending Good Friday services, and murder them both. The spine-chilling similarity of this plan to Girolamo's Florentine conspiracy eight years earlier was not lost on the count. Butrighelli was hanged outside the Riarios' window, but the hydra of hatred that now infested Forlì would spring more heads.

Then a wave of bubonic plague hit hard in April, giving Girolamo and Caterina a chance to prove themselves benevolent rulers. Caterina made forays into the poorest quarters where the death toll was highest and the suffering greatest. There she tended to the ill and brought food and medicines of her own preparation. Many were shocked that the young and beautiful countess would be so heedless of her own health and life, but she dismissed the danger, claiming that she had seen the plague many times in Rome and had noticed that "those who die are weak and downtrodden." The people were grateful to the countess for her personal warmth, bravery, and practical advice. Girolamo, on the other hand, never left his rooms, but he did send for doctors, priests, and friars, all trained in dealing with the pestilence, to care for his subjects.

Spring rains washed away the disease and brought a good harvest, and it seemed that secret plots, taxes, famine, and epidemics had been forgotten. But more setbacks awaited the couple in August when the trusty Il Tolentino left their service. Skilled, brave, and tactically brilliant, he couldn't last long in a petty court, watching the back of a washed-up noble. He was paid only sporadically and no opportunities for glory would ever arise in this position. Financial tensions weighed heavily on Caterina and Girolamo and they frequently fought over expenses. Two Milanese observers in the Riario court witnessed the conjugal disputes over finances and kept their duke informed.
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Each of Il Tolentino's demands for payment ignited another battle between husband and wife, and these confrontations became increasingly bitter until Il Tolentino left to join the Venetian army in 1486. The soldier of fortune was killed a year later, torn to pieces by angry peasants.

A flurry of correspondence between the Milanese ambassador and the duke of Milan lifts the veil on one very intimate moment in this floundering marriage. In November, on behalf of the duke, Francesco Visconti extended an invitation to Caterina to come to Milan for the wedding of her sister Bianca Maria to Maximilian I, the son of the Holy Roman Emperor. The sealing of this exalted match was the most exciting social event of the year and nobles from all over Europe would be attending or sending representatives. Girolamo made Caterina's response for her, by explaining to Visconti that although he would be delighted for her to attend, she herself had refused to go. The count divulged that her gems had all been pawned in Bologna and Ravenna and she was ashamed to appear before her family bereft of the jewels and pearl-speckled robes she had worn when she had last seen them. Girolamo then launched into a long lament about the family finances; they were slowly sinking in a sea of debt. "Clothed or unclothed, bejeweled or not, I would be happy to let her go just to please her," Girolamo told the ambassador, with tears glistening in his eyes, "but she says that she will not go without her jewels!"
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Though it would be perfectly normal for a young woman to avoid a major social event if she lacked the proper attire, Girolamo's response nonetheless does not ring true. Borrowing jewels was the norm among noble families, especially for weddings. Silver and gold plate, pearls and gem-encrusted gowns crisscrossed the regions. Certainly Caterina had enough appropriate clothes to make an impressive arrival in Milan, and once there, her brothers and sisters would have supplemented them, if only to maintain the family honor. Appearances concerned Caterina only up to a point. It stretches belief that the woman who had arrived in Rome nine months pregnant and carried in a vehicle made of two baskets, then walked away from the Castel Sant'Angelo wearing a sword and a money belt, would worry about how many strands of pearls she would be wearing. After years of trying to get to Milan to see her mother and her sisters on Sforza soil, Caterina would not likely have been deterred by considerations of dress and adornment.

It seems that the duke of Milan had a similar impression and wanted to change Caterina's mind, because the next letter startles for its sudden vehemence. Visconti affirms that Caterina burst into his rooms in a state of great anxiety and revealed the tragic situation of her marriage in an uncharacteristic torrent of words. "You don't know how awful things are between my husband and me," she confided. "The way he treats me is so bad that I envy those who have died by him."
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The discretion and reserve that distinguished Caterina ever since her first journey to Rome crumbled, and she revealed her miserable state as a "derelict, neglected, and abandoned" wife. Visconti was not a close friend or confidant; he was the eyes and ears of the duke, yet Caterina revealed to him her situation. As Visconti's role was simply to record what happened, Caterina knew that her tearful outburst would be on the duke's desk in a few days. Then she quickly regained her composure and reported that the duke's regard for her over the past few days had slightly improved her husband's behavior. More inclined to solve problems than bemoan them, she enlisted her family's help to sell a few of her properties in Milan in the hopes of solving their economic problems at least temporarily.

Marital discord was not the only threat to Girolamo and Caterina. For the first year after the announced change in fiscal policy in Forlì, taxes were not collected until the final month, so for twelve months most people continued to favor the count, perhaps thinking that he might change his mind before it was time to make any payments. When the taxes actually came due, many townspeople flatly refused to pay, and Pansechi received constant death threats. During January 1487 a steady drone of grumbling filled the streets of Forlì. After losing Il Tolentino, Girolamo knew he was vulnerable to violent attack.

In March, the Riarios tried for a change of scenery. Leaving Forlì, they moved to Imola, which they had always considered the safer of the two towns. Domenico Ricci, Girolamo's brother-in-law, was transferred from his post as governor of Imola to act as surrogate ruler of Forlì. Girolamo, relaxing at last, finally conceded and allowed Caterina to take a long-awaited sojourn in Milan, and on April 9, the countess embarked on the Via Emilia toward her childhood home. No extant documents reveal whether the gesture signified a truce between the two, or whether Caterina decided to leave on her own. But she set out, pregnant once again, to at last see her family, almost ten years to the day since she had left in the wake of her father's murder.

When Caterina arrived at the sumptuous court of Milan, it bore little resemblance to the one she had left. Her father had been surrounded by an earthy, fun-loving gang of friends given to unchecked luxury. The Milan of 1487, while as opulent as ever, was more focused on industry and achievement—engineers, architects, doctors, and scientists were all presenting plans and projects for approval and funding. It was a busy, exciting, flourishing environment presided over by Ludovico the Moor, the de facto ruler behind the throne of Gian Galeazzo. While Caterina's father had made a dozen false starts to rebuild his city, Ludovico was accomplishing great things. Milan was now one of the liveliest and most sophisticated cities in Europe.

By far the most fascinating member of Ludovico the Moor's court was a Florentine artist named Leonardo da Vinci. He had come to Milan five years earlier, bearing a gift from Lorenzo the Magnificent: a silver lyre of Leonardo's own construction, in the shape of a horse's head. His talent at playing the instrument and composing songs delighted the music-loving court, and his remarkable abilities as a military engineer, architect, and artist had obtained him a job.

The thirty-five-year-old polymath turned heads with his physical beauty. Boasting long, flowing hair, he was lithe and strong and his every move had the graceful ease of an athlete. After the plump prelates of Rome, Caterina must have delighted in the charm of the artist, who also loved horses as much as she did. Leonardo frequented the duke's innermost circle and Caterina would have heard him entertaining the court with word games or outlining plans for his latest project.

Leonardo had recently finished his first altarpiece in Milan,
The Virgin of the Rocks,
today housed in the Louvre. Caterina viewed this enigmatic painting in its original setting, the Chapel of the Confraternity of the Immaculate Conception. Although she had seen Botticelli at work—he had studied with Leonardo in Verrocchio's Florentine studio—the golden figures emerging from dark, mysterious landscapes were completely new to her.

Leonardo filled the role of court portraitist for Ludovico the Moor, painting images of his succession of mistresses. In 1487, Leonardo had just completed his portrait of Cecilia Gallerani, the duke's seventeen-year-old paramour. Stiff portraits in profile had been the norm in Rome, and the likeness of Cecilia was astoundingly different. She was captured in a three-quarter view, with almost her entire face turned toward the viewer. Although she modestly avoided a direct meeting of eyes, her body filled the space of the canvas. Leonardo had posed his model in a dynamic twist that breathed verve and energy, qualities studiously shunned in earlier female portraits, which were placid in character. The long, thin fingers of the beautiful courtesan stroked an ermine cradled in her arm. The nimble creature seemed to stop momentarily, calmed by Cecilia's soft touch. Leonardo's work introduced an element of sensuality into Italian art. Years later, Caterina would hire Lorenzo di Credi, a follower of Leonardo, to paint her own portrait, remembering the power of Leonardo's images. In 2002, the German art historian Magdalena Soest went so far as to propose that Leonardo's famous portrait of the
Mona Lisa
was indeed an image of Caterina Sforza.
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Although most likely untrue (at the time
Mona Lisa
was painted, Caterina was not in a position to commission such an expensive work), the comparisons show how Leonardo's style permeates the painting by di Credi.

Fortune favored Caterina: she arrived in Milan during the first stages of Leonardo's most exhilarating project, an equestrian monument to Francesco Sforza. Originally conceived by her father as an homage to the first Sforza duke of Milan, the idea had been revived by Ludovico the Moor and placed in the hands of the brilliant Leonardo. Meant to embody pride in the Sforza name, it would never reach completion.