Jeanne Kalogridis - The Devil’s Queen

“God has taken pity on us at last,” he sighed. “I cannot tell you how many nights’ sleep was stolen from us by the knowledge you were in rebel hands. We never forgot you, not for even one day, nor ever ceased praying on your behalf. Now you must call us Uncle, and always think of us as such. We will see you rule in Florence.”

He looked to me, expectant, and I, overwhelmed, could say only “Thank you, Uncle.”

He smiled and gave my hand a squeeze before letting it go. “Look at you,” he said. “You are wearing our gifts. The color suits you, and the jewels.” He did not tell me I was beautiful; that would have been a lie. I was old enough to look into a mirror and see that I was plain.

“Donna Lucrezia,” he asked, “have you arranged for her tutors, as I requested?”

“We have, Your Holiness.”

“Good.” He winked at me. “My niece must become proficient in Latin and Greek, so as not to scandalize the cardinals.”

“I know Latin very well, Your Holiness,” I said, “having studied it for many years. And I have a smattering of Greek.”

“Indeed?” He lifted a skeptical brow. “Then translate this: Assiduus usus uni rei deditus et—”

I finished for him. “Et ingenium et artem saepe vincit. It is Cicero.” Patient study of a single subject trumps brains and talent.

He let go a short laugh. “Well done!”

“If it please Your Holiness,” I began timidly. “I should like to continue my studies of Greek. And of mathematics.”

“Mathematics?” He lifted his brows in surprise. “Do you not yet know your numbers, girl?”

“I do,” I answered. “And geometry, and trigonometry, and algebra. It would please me to study under a tutor with advanced knowledge of these subjects.”

“On her account, I ask forgiveness,” Donna Lucrezia interjected swiftly. “The nuns said she liked to do calculations to plot the courses of the planets. But it is not a fit preoccupation for a young lady.”

Clement did not glance in her direction; he was too busy appraising me with faintly narrowed eyes. “So,” he said finally. “You have the Medici head for numbers. What a fine banker you would make.”

My great-aunt and great-uncle laughed politely; Clement kept his gaze fixed on me.

“Donna Lucrezia,” he said, “give her whatever she asks in terms of her studies. She is very bright, but malleable enough, I think. And Ser Iacopo, do not limit your conversation with her. There is much she could learn from you about the art of diplomacy. She will need such skills to rule.”

He rose and, against the protests of his aides about the pressing nature of business, took my hand and led me through the Raphael Rooms. He paused to explain each work of art that provoked my curiosity, and in the Room of the Fire in the Borgo, pointed out the many images of my great-uncle Leo X on the walls there.

Clement spoke wistfully of the loneliness of his position, of his yearning for a wife and family. He would never bestow upon the world a child, he confided sadly, and wished that I might be as a daughter to him, and that he might be to me the father I had never known. His voice caught as he said our time together would be short. Too soon, my native city would be ready to receive my husband and me as its rightful rulers. He, Clement, could only hope that I would remember him fondly, and permit him to gaze on my children one day with grandfatherly pride.

His speech was so eloquent, so poignant, that I was moved and stood on tiptoe to kiss his bearded cheek. I, malleable girl, believed it all.

A small crowd had been invited to the palazzo that evening to more properly celebrate my arrival. Donna Lucrezia had taken care to ensure that at least one representative was present from each of the city’s most influential families—the Orsini, Farnese, delle Rovere, and Riario.

I smiled a great deal that night as I was introduced to dozens of Rome’s luminaries. Uncle Filippo, bound to leave the following morning, knew everyone well and was clearly at ease in Roman society. Sandro’s manner with the guests was far less stuffy than it had been the previous evening; he actually grinned and displayed some wit.

As we were seated at the table and wine was poured, Ippolito remained noticeably absent. I was disappointed; I wanted to tell him that I had decided to forgive him. And I suspected my blue dress was quite fetching.

Supper was served. His Holiness had sent over a dozen suckling pigs and a barrel of his best wine. I was rather nervous at first but soon became lost in conversation with the French ambassador, who complimented my feeble efforts at his native tongue, and with Lucrezia’s grown daughter Maria, a gracious woman. I was enjoying the people, the food, and the wine, and had forgotten about Ippolito until I caught sight of him in the doorway.

His doublet was bright blue velvet, the same shade as my gown, with the pearl button at the neck undone; his short black hair was tousled. The conversation ebbed as others noticed him.

“My apologies to the assembled company,” he said, with a sweeping bow. “And to our dear hostess, Donna Lucrezia. I was forgetful of the hour.”

He quickly took his place at table, directly across from Sandro and at some remove from me. Chatter resumed, and I returned my attention to my plate and the French ambassador.

Five minutes later, I heard a shout. Ippolito had jumped to his feet so quickly that he had knocked over his goblet; a garnet stain was spreading across the table, but he cared not at all.

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