Jeanne Kalogridis - The Devil’s Queen

I heard footsteps and looked up at Ippolito’s silhouette, backlit by the glow from the dining room.

“Caterina …” He knelt beside me. “You hate me, don’t you?”

“Go away.” My tone was ugly, raw. “Go away and don’t ever speak to me again.”

He let go the saddest of sighs. “Poor cousin. It must have been dreadful for you.”

“They might have killed us,” I said bitterly.

“Do you think I feel no guilt?” he countered, with a trace of vehemence. “Consider my point of view: I was about to make a very dangerous escape, one I might well not have survived. I didn’t tell you for fear you would be endangered. We dressed like common thugs; our accomplices were thieves and murderers. We didn’t feel safe with them ourselves. What would they have done to a young girl?”

“They tore her gown when we were climbing the wall to escape,” I hissed. “It broke her heart to lose Florence. It broke her heart, and she died.”

His features, faded by darkness, twisted with anguish. “It broke my heart to leave you both. I thought the rebels would rightfully blame us, pursue us, and let the both of you go free. I thought that, by confiding nothing, I had protected you. Then I heard you were imprisoned. And when Clarice died, I …” He turned his face away, overcome.

I startled myself by reaching toward him—but when he faced me again, I withdrew my hand, uncertainly.

“Sweet little cousin,” he said. “Perhaps in time you will be able to forgive me.”

In the end, Ippolito led me back into the dining room. Supper continued in subdued fashion. Afterward, I went up to my room, unnerved yet relieved by the ease with which Ippolito had coaxed me back. That night, as I struggled to fall asleep in my fine new bed, with Ginevra snoring enthusiastically out in the antechamber, I recalled the regret and sorrow in Ippolito’s voice when he spoke of Clarice and wondered what might have happened had I not drawn my hand away.

The next morning, wearing Clement’s gifts—the blue gown and diamond pendant—I climbed into a gilded carriage with Filippo, Lucrezia, and Iacopo. We rolled over the Ponte Sant’Angelo, the bridge named for the giant statue of the Archangel Michael atop the nearby fortress of the Castel Sant’Angelo, his huge wings sheltering the wounded city.

The bridge spanned the river Tiber, which separated the Holy See from the rest of the city. The Tiber was so crowded with merchant ships—a thousand sails, so close together they might have all been one monstrous vessel—I could scarcely see the muddy water, which stank of garbage.

The Ponte Sant’Angelo took us into Saint Peter’s Square—in fact a circle, its circumference ringed by massive stone colonnades; at the far end stood the new Basilica of Saint Peter. Built in the shape of a Roman cross, it rose above the colonnades embracing it. The beggars and pilgrims, monks and cardinals upon its sprawling marble steps were gnats in comparison. Like the rest of Rome, Saint Peter’s was undergoing repairs—it had served as the stables for Lutheran invaders during the Sack—and its flanks were covered with the ubiquitous wooden scaffolding.

Our carriage stopped on the Basilica’s northern side. Ser Iacopo led the way as Filippo, Lucrezia, and I passed porticoes, courtyards, and fountains en route to the Papal Palace, surrounded by the famed Swiss Guard, clad in broad stripes of yellow and blue, with plumes of Medici red on their helmets. When the Emperor’s troops swarmed Saint Peter’s Square, forcing Clement to run for his life, the Swiss soldiers had died almost to a man defending him.

The guards knew Ser Iacopo well and parted smartly to permit us entry. We ascended a great marble staircase, Donna Lucrezia whispering in my ear, pointing out landmarks as we made our way past priests, bishops, and red-robed cardinals. On the second landing, a pair of closed doors were bound with a chain: the infamous Borgia Apartments, sealed off entirely since the death of the criminally inclined patriarch Rodrigo, better known to the world as Pope Alexander VI.

Soon we arrived at the suite directly above the Borgia Apartments: the Raphael Rooms, named for the artist who had adorned their walls. In the alcove just inside, a frail, white-haired cardinal frowned as he listened intently to an urgently whispering widow. Ser Iacopo gently cleared his throat; the ancient cardinal smiled up at Ser Iacopo and asked eagerly, “Ah, Cousin…Is this she?”

“It is,” Ser Iacopo replied.

“Duchessina.” The old man bowed stiffly. “I am Giovanni Rodolfo Salviati, at your service. Welcome to our city.”

I thanked him, and he staggered away bearing news of our arrival. A moment later, Cardinal Salviati returned and beckoned to us with a gnarled finger. We passed through an outer chamber so thoroughly covered with murals I could not absorb them all.

The door to the adjacent chamber lay ajar; the Cardinal paused on the threshold. “Your Holiness? The Duchess of Urbino, Caterina de’ Medici.”

I walked into a work of art. The floor was shining inlaid marble arranged in varying geometric designs, and the walls …

The walls. Three were covered in painted masterpieces limned by gilt and encased in marble lunettes; the fourth was lined from floor to ceiling with ornately carved shelves that held hundreds of books and countless stacks of scrolls yellowed by the centuries. The ceiling was a riot of marble molding and painted allegorical figures, gods, and haloed saints; in its center was a small cupola, where four plump cherubs supported the gold and crimson shield bearing the papal tiara and keys.

I had grown up in the Palazzo Medici, surrounded by the art of the masters—Masaccio, Gozzoli, Botticelli—but the mural on the chapel walls in Florence had been its one real glory, set above wainscoting of dark wood, the better to show it off. In Rome, there was no wainscoting, no thumbnail of space that was not astoundingly glorious. Over every door, every window, in every corner was a glorious masterwork.

I leaned my head back, giddy, until Lucrezia plucked my sleeve. At a magnificent mahogany desk sat my kinsman Pope Clement, the erstwhile Giulio de’ Medici, whose family name had purchased him a cardinalship and then the papacy, even though he had never been ordained a priest. A quill was in his right hand, and in his left a document, which he held at arm’s length, squinting with the effort to read it.

Since the Sack of Rome, Clement had, like mourning prophets of old, refused to cut his beard or hair. His wiry beard now touched his heart, and his wavy, silvering hair fell past his shoulders. His red silk robe was no finer than those worn by the cardinals; only his white satin skullcap hinted at his status. His eyes held an unspeakable weariness, the exhaustion caused by much grief.

Uncle Filippo cleared his throat, and Clement glanced up and caught my gaze; the mournful eyes brightened at once.

“My little Duchessina, is it you at last?” He dropped the quill and paper, and spread his arms. “Come kiss your old uncle! We have waited years for this moment!”

Having been carefully coached by Donna Lucrezia, I stepped forward and fumbled for his hand; when he realized my intent, he held it still so I might kiss the ruby ring of Peter. But when I knelt to kiss his feet, he reached down and pulled me firmly to mine.

“We chose to see you here rather than in public audience so that we could dispense with such formalities,” he said. “We have been through too many horrors, you and I. For now, I am not Pope, and you are not a duchess; I am your uncle and you my niece, reunited after a long sorrow. Kiss me on the cheek, dear girl.”

I kissed him and he took my hand. When I drew away, tears filmed his eyes.