Duchessina - A Novel of Catherine de' Medici (4 page)

The strange man examined me more closely, and I in turned examined
him
—his bushy, untrimmed beard; eyes that burned with intensity; a misshapen nose; a high forehead furrowed with lines like a plowed field; an unsmiling mouth. “Tell me, little mouse, do you have a name?”

“I am Duchessina. And do
you
have a name,
signore?
”

“Michelangelo Buonarroti, at your service,” he said with a formal bow. “I am a great artist—the greatest in the world,” he added. “I have painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel in Rome. I have sculpted the
Pietà
in St. Peter's Basilica. And perhaps
la duchessina
has seen the sculpture of David that stands in the Piazza dei Signoria?”

I shook my head.

“No, I suppose not. A statue of a nude male is not suitable viewing for a little mouse.” He smiled mirthlessly, exposing darkened teeth. I wondered if he was half mad, but he no longer scared me—I sensed that he meant me no harm. After a while the strange artist began muttering to himself, seeming to have forgotten that I was there. Eventually he turned and left, still muttering, “Must find that devil Passerini,” and I was alone again with my beloved pictures of the magi.

D
AY AFTER DAY
I watched glumly as my two older cousins made their presence felt—one loudly and boorishly the other gaily and pleasantly—around the palazzo. They were often in the company of Cardinal Passerini or one of their other tutors. Sometimes I saw them dressed to go out in their bright-colored clothes, stockings trimmed with silver lace, Alessandro in a pink cape, Ippolito in his blue satin tunic. They wore jaunty feathers in their velvet caps and golden chains around their necks and carried scented gloves, and they were off to roam the streets of Florence, out of sight of the cardinal. Sometimes I heard them returning toward dawn, singing loudly, laughing at nothing.

Being a girl and so much younger, I was naturally excluded from their activities. When the two were together, they shunned me. This was better than having Alessandro notice me. Michelangelo was right, I thought: better to be a little mouse, quiet in my corner, seeing everything without being seen.

But sometimes I was unlucky. Surly Alessandro pounced, delighted when he managed to make me shriek. I trained myself not to give him the pleasure of reacting. I
will not jump when he startles me,
I vowed.
I will not weep when he says something cruel.
And I promised myself that I would never run to Cardinal Passerini or my aunt or Betta, carrying tales about what dreadful thing Alessandro had said or done to me. It took immense self-will not to cry, but I gradually gained mastery over my feelings.

Then one day he sneaked up behind me and shouted, “Frog!”

I spun around and glared at him. “Why do you call me ‘frog'?” I asked, more calmly than I felt.

“Because you look just like one. Those popping eyes of yours—they're like a frog's,” he said with intolerable smugness. “Have you seen yourself in a mirror? If you have, then you know what an ugly little thing you are.” Alessandro smirked and strolled off, leaving me standing there, too stunned and hurt to reply, tears pricking my eyes in spite of my vow.

Is it true? Am I ugly?

I was about six years old then, and until that time I had never considered whether I was or was not beautiful. No one had spoken of it. There were no little girls in the palazzo with whom to compare myself. But there were a great many serving girls and kitchen helpers and chambermaids, and I had noticed that those with small waists, generous bosoms, delicate skin, abundant hair, and winsome smiles were the ones who seemed to have the easiest time of it, to beguile the men in order to get their way.

Michelangelo, the artist—the genius—had called me “little mouse,” and I hadn't minded. But on that day, with that one cruel remark, Alessandro planted a seed in my heart. I understood that I was not beautiful, as a woman should be, and that I would have to find clever ways to get what I wanted.

O
N A SPRING DAY
just before my seventh birthday Cardinal Passerini left Palazzo Medici with Alessandro to spend time at one of his hunting lodges. Ippolito, who was suffering from a catarrh and didn't feel well enough to accompany them, stayed behind. After he had mostly recovered and his cough was improved, Ippolito surprised me in the palace garden. I was sitting in a pergola and practicing on the lute. I had a good ear for music and had learned to play well enough to accompany myself while I sang.

“I thought I heard an angel,” he said. “And indeed I did!”

I smiled. Much nicer to be called “angel” than “frog”! Or even “mouse.”

He begged me to continue playing while he sat quietly nearby, nodding his approval. Lilac and lavender bloomed all around us, perfuming the air. Sometimes Ippolito sang with the tunes he knew, despite a hoarse voice. This scene was repeated over several days, to my great pleasure.

Then Alessandro and the cardinal returned from their hunting trip, both of them bragging about the number of deer they had managed to kill, and the idyll ended.

But I did not forget it.

O
NE LONELY DAY
followed on the heels of the next. A year passed with little to disturb my routine. As a young child I didn't understand the political strife that set the rulers of Europe at each other's throats, but I soon grasped that conflicts among kings and emperors and popes could drastically affect my life. Fra Matteo explained it.

In the year that I was born, Charles V, the king of Spain, had been elected Holy Roman Emperor, a title that gave him power over much of Europe. Emperor Charles and King François of France hated each other and waged war against each other until, in one final battle, Charles took François prisoner, finally agreeing to release him in exchange for the French king's two sons. For four years he kept the two little boys as hostages in a Spanish prison. Pope Clement had been an ally of King François. But now, with François soundly defeated, Emperor Charles held the fate of the pope, the city of Florence, and all of the Medici clenched in his powerful fist.

During the spring of 1527, as I was about to turn eight years old, disturbing rumors began to drift into Florence. Fra Matteo told me that Charles had ordered twenty thousand soldiers to march south to Rome. Each time we heard a new rumor, I quietly visited the cardinal's library and studied the maps my tutor had taught me how to read.

“The emperor intends to show Pope Clement who's in charge,” Fra Matteo speculated when these rumors turned out to be true. “He's determined to teach the pope a lesson.”

The rumors became much more frightening. The emperor's soldiers were storming through Rome, murdering, raping, and pillaging as they went. No one wanted to believe the awful stories. There was no word from Pope Clement.

When Aunt Clarissa and Filippo heard the tales brought by traders from as far away as Naples and picked up by the Strozzis' servants in the market, my aunt rushed to our palazzo, accompanied by her Ethiopian slave, Minna. I was supposed to be at my lessons, but even my tutor, whose family was from Rome, found it hard to think of anything but what was happening there and what might happen next in Florence.

“What a catastrophe!” Clarissa cried, slumping onto a bench, her fingers buried in her hair. “I will not try to deceive you, Caterina,” she told me. “I'm very uneasy about the future. Trouble will surely come to this city as well. Filippo's banker friends say that feeling against the Medici is mounting steadily here, as it has in the past. We must prepare ourselves.”

“For what?” I asked tearfully as my dull but safe little world shook and seemed about to crumble. “What can we do?”

“Don't worry,” she said, jumping to her feet. “I'll think of something.”

And since I had no one else, I had to trust that she would.

F
OR SEVERAL DAYS
we had no further news from Rome. Hardly anyone slept. Meals were cooked and served but left mostly untouched. Then one night the uneasy silence was shattered by a furious pounding on the main portal, the clatter of horses' hooves in the courtyard, and persistent shouting.

I flew from my bed, but Betta seized me by both arms. “Stay where you are, Duchessina,” she insisted. “Do you hear me? I'll go down to find out what's happening.”

I pretended to obey, but headstrong as usual, I followed her.

Torches flared in the courtyard. Two weary travelers—a young cleric and an older priest who had agreed to undertake the dangerous journey—were calling for Cardinal Passerini. When the cardinal at last appeared in his scarlet robe and hat, the priests delivered to him a letter from Pope Clement. Members of the household gathered while Passerini read the brief letter, his fat cheeks and small eyes grotesque in the flickering light.

His glance swept over us, all waiting silently—cooks, grooms, gardeners, laundresses, valets, and maidservants, as well as Alessandro and Ippolito and their gentlemen dressed in silks and velvets. I crept close to Betta and hung on to her hand, sticky with sweat.

“The emperor's soldiers are bent on destroying the Eternal City,” the cardinal announced gravely. “But—thanks be to God—our great friend, His Holiness Pope Clement VII, is safe. He sends his assurances that we in Florence have nothing to fear.” Passerini forced a ghastly smile and waved his hands as though he were shooing us away. “Now, I beg all of you, return to your beds for a good and peaceful night's rest, knowing that, with God's grace, all will be well.”

No one moved. “Tell us what it's like there,
padre,
” the cook called out to the young cleric. “You've seen it. Tell us.”

“No questions,” the cardinal interrupted, his voice like the screech of metal on metal.

“On a cloudy night as mist rose from the swamps and shrouded Rome,” the younger man said softly, ignoring the cardinal, “the maddened soldiers broke through the ancient walls of the city. They rampaged through the streets like wolves, looting homes of rich and poor alike, desecrating churches, raping nuns and pious housewives, slaughtering everyone in their path. The waters of the Tiber ran red with the blood of bodies dumped there.”