The Devil’s Queen. Jeanne Kalogridis

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      “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,” СКАЧАТЬ