Jeanne Kalogridis: The Medici Queen aka The Devil’s Queen

“For me,” Clarice said swiftly, “and for my sons, not just for her.”

The astrologer’s son cast a sharp glance at her. “Certainly. For everyone who has need.” A threat crept into his tone. “But such things bring no benefit unless they are used exactly as prescribed-and exactly for whom they are created.”

Clarice dropped her gaze, intimidated-and furious at herself for being so. “Of course, Ser Cosimo.”

“Good,” he said and bowed his farewell.

“God be with you, Donna Clarice,” he said graciously. “And with you, Donna Caterina.”

I murmured a good-bye as he walked out the door. It was odd watching a youth move like an elderly man. Many years later, he would confess to having been fifteen years old at the time. He had used the aid of a glamour, he claimed, to make himself appear older, knowing Clarice would never have listened to him otherwise.

As soon as the astrologer was out of earshot, Aunt Clarice said, “I’ve heard rumors of this one, the eldest boy. Smart, true-smart at conjuring devils and making poisons. I’ve heard that his father despairs.”

“He isn’t a good man?” I asked timidly.

“He is evil. A necessary evil, now.” She lowered her face into her hand and began to massage her temple. “It’s all falling apart. Rome, the papacy, Florence herself. It’s only a matter of time before the news spreads all over the city. And then… everything will go to Hell. I need to figure out what to do before…” I thought I heard tears, but she gathered herself and snapped open her eyes. “Go to your chambers and study your texts. There will be no lessons today, but you’d best comport yourself quietly. I won’t tolerate any distractions.”

I left the great hall. Rather than follow my aunt’s instructions to go upstairs, I dashed out to the courtyard. The astrologer’s son was there, moving swiftly for the gardens.

I cried out, “Ser Cosimo! Wait!”

He stopped and faced me. His expression was knowing and amused, as if he had completely expected to find a breathless eight-year-old girl tearing after him.

“Caterina,” he said, with odd familiarity.

“You can’t leave,” I said. “There are men outside calling for our deaths. Even if you got out safely, you would never be able to come back again.”

He bent forward and faced me at my level. “But I will get out safely,” he said. “And I will come back again tomorrow. When I do, you must find me alone in the courtyard or the garden. There are things we must discuss, unhappy secrets. But not today. The hour is not propitious.”

As he spoke, his eyes hardened, as if he was watching a distant but approaching evil. He straightened and said, “But nothing bad will happen. I will see to it. We will speak again tomorrow. God keep you, Caterina.”

He turned and strode off.

I hurried after him, but he walked faster than I could run. In seconds he was at the entrance to the stables, in view of the large gate leading to the Via Larga. I hung back, afraid.

The palazzo was a fortress of thick stone; its main entry was an impenetrable brass door positioned in the building’s center. To the west lay the gardens and the stables, viewable from the street behind a north-facing iron gate that began where the citadel proper ended.

Just inside that gate were seven armed guards, warily eyeing the crowd on the other side of the thick iron bars. When I had last peered through the upstairs window, only six men had lingered by the western gate. Now more than two dozen peasants and merchants stood staring back at the guards.

A groom handed Ser Cosimo the reins to a glossy black mare. At the sight of the astrologer, a few in the mob hissed. One hurled a stone, which banked off an iron bar and struck the earth several paces from its target.

Ser Cosimo calmly led his mount to the gate. The mare stamped her feet and turned her face from the waiting men as one of them cried out: “ Abaso le palle! Down with the balls!”

“What,” called another, “did they bring you here to suck the cardinal’s cock?”

“And his Medici-loving balls! Abaso le palle! ”

The commotion alerted others who had been standing watch across the street, who hurried to join those at the gate. The chant grew louder.

“Abaso le palle.

Abaso le palle.”

Men shook their fists in the air and pushed their hands between the bars to claw at those on the other side. The mare whinnied and showed them the whites of her eyes.

Ser Cosimo’s composure never wavered. Serene and unflinching, he walked toward the metal bars amid a hail of pebbles. He was not struck, but our guards were not as fortunate; they yelped curses as they tried to shield their faces. One hurried to the bolt and slid the heavy iron bar back while the others drew their swords and formed a shoulder-to-shoulder barricade in front of Ser Cosimo.

The guard at the bolt glanced over his shoulder at the departing guest. “You’re mad, sir,” he said. “They’ll tear you to pieces.”

I broke out from my hiding place and ran to Ser Cosimo.

“Don’t hurt him!” I shouted at the crowd. “He’s not one of us!”

Ser Cosimo dropped the reins of his nervous mount and knelt down to catch my shoulders.

“Go inside, Catherine,” he said. Catherine, my name in a foreign tongue. “I know what I am doing. I will be safe.”

As he finished speaking, a pebble grazed my shoulder. I flinched; Ser Cosimo saw it strike. And his eyes-

The look of the Devil, I was going to say, but perhaps it is better called the look of God. For the Devil can trick and test, but God alone metes out death, and only He can will a man to suffer for eternity.

That was that look I saw in Cosimo’s eye. He was capable, I decided, of undying spite, of murder without the slightest regret. Yet it was not that look that unsettled me. It was the fact that I recognized it and was still drawn to him; it was the fact that I knew it and did not want to look away.

He whirled on the crowd with that infinitely evil look. At once, the rain of stones ceased. When every man had grown silent, he called out, strong and clear:

“I am Cosimo Ruggieri, the astrologer’s son. Strike her again, if you dare.”

Nothing more was said. Darkly radiant, Ser Cosimo mounted his horse, and the guard pushed open the singing gate. The magician rode out, and the crowd parted for him.

The gate swung shut with a clang, and the guard slid the bolt into place. It was as though a signal had been given: The crowd came alive and again hurled pebbles and curses at the guards.

But the astrologer’s son passed unharmed, his head high, his shoulders square and sure. While the rest of the world fixed its unruly attention on the palazzo gates, he rode away, and soon disappeared from my sight.

My memories of Florence are blurred by terror, affection, distance, and time, but some impressions from that long-ago past remain sharp. The peals of church bells, for one: I woke and ate and prayed to the songs of the cathedral of San Lorenzo, which holds my ancestors’ bones; of Santa Maria del Fiore, with its vast impossible dome; of San Marco, where the mad monk Savonarola once dwelled. I can still hear the low “mooing” of the bell called the Cow, which hung in the great Palazzo della Signoria, seat of Florence’s government.

I remember, too, the rooms of my childhood, especially the family chapel. On the walls above the wooden choir stalls, my ancestors rode on grandly caparisoned horses in Gozzoli’s masterpiece, The Procession of the Magi. The mural spanned three walls. The eastern one captured my imagination, for it was the wall of the Magus Gaspar, he who led the way after Bethlehem’s star. My forefathers rode just behind him, in dazzling shades of crimson, blue, and gold.