The Scarlet Contessa. Jeanne Kalogridis

my shoulders, and push the curtain to the closet aside. Politely, I avert my gaze as the lovers hastily uncouple, pull on their clothing, and move quickly to the door.

      “Who calls?” I shout.

      “Ridolfo Naldi, come from the fortress of Imola this night. I bear a message from my brother, Dionigi.”

      A thrill—hope and fear combined—passes through me. I peer through the peephole to confirm the identity of the messenger, and to ensure that he is alone. Satisfied, I nod over my shoulder at Caterina, who then curtly tells her lover with the brisk authority of a military commander: “Ser Giovanni. Fetch my son at once.”

      She nods at me to open the door.

      I do. It swings outward; Giovanni exits and Ridolfo enters. The two men pass each other closely, emphasizing the difference in height and build. Giovanni is short and rather slender, though soft and unmuscled; Ridolfo is a full head taller and almost thrice as wide. His head is entirely bald, with folds of skin at the base of his burly skull; his neck is as broad as Caterina’s thigh. Yet the huge hands that clutch his cap are trembling, and his round, thick features are slack with shock and fright. As Caterina gestures, rather impatiently, at him, he steps heavily inside; a pungent waft of aged sweat emanates from him as he passes. His blue uniform, clearly worn for days on end, is stained from the oil used to lubricate the cannons. As I close the door behind him, he does not merely genuflect, but sinks to his knees in front of the contessa.

      I have met Ridolfo many times. Like his brother, Dionigi—castellan of the fortress at Imola—he is no coward, yet there is such panic in his eyes I expect him to start weeping at any instant. My lady and I know, of course, what he is about to say, but I will not allow myself to believe it until I hear the words.

      “Your Illustrious Excellency,” he says to Caterina. His voice, too high pitched for so great a body, wavers. “I bring news from my brother.”

      “So you’ve said,” Caterina replies softly, and waits.

      Ridolfo draws a shuddering breath and releases said news in a torrent. “The citizens, perhaps you know, all surrendered to the Duke of Valentino’s army without a struggle. My brother, Dionigi, was able to hold the fortress for you . . . but Valentino’s artillery breached the wall at last. Dionigi fought courageously and well, but without the support of the city, he could not hold them off forever.” He bows his head and releases a small sob. “Dionigi showed such bravery. He is wounded, Your Illustriousness, in the head. Even after it was clear he would be defeated, and despite his pain, Dionigi would not surrender, would not leave his post, would not listen to the duke’s threats and promises. He was so persistent in his loyalty to you, in his willingness to die for you, that Valentino was moved. He granted my brother a three-day truce, so that Dionigi might send me to you, to ask whether you wish to send reinforcements to try to hold the fortress.”

      As he speaks, a burning chill has forced its way upward from the base of my spine and spread outward, leaving me sickened.

      The Lady of Forlì turns her face away from the kneeling giant; her lips twist with fury. “Bastards,” she mutters. “Dionigi would have prevailed if they hadn’t spread their legs like whores for Valentino!”

      She is speaking of her subjects in Imola, who so feared the duke’s army that they surrendered to him before he ever entered the city.

      “They have paid for it, Your Illustriousness,” Ridolfo says. “Valentino’s army has pillaged the city and raped every woman, even those in the convent. The duke himself took the prettiest women; it’s said he sleeps with a new one every night.”

      At this, Caterina’s anger hardens. She composes herself, squares her shoulders, smoothes her brow, and assumes an air of dignity and confidence. Were it not for her disheveled hair and rumpled chemise, one might think she was holding court. But a long moment passes before she can gather herself to speak.

      “Valentino knows that I can spare no troops,” she says at last. “The fortress is lost, through no fault of Ser Dionigi’s. He has behaved admirably. I must know, however, what the duke plans for him.”

      “He will allow Dionigi and his men to leave the fortress with a safe escort to Forlì,” Ridolfo answers swiftly. “The duke is sincere, Your Illustriousness, else he would not have let me come. He says . . .” His voice begins to tremble again. “He says to tell you that he is coming next for you.”

      Caterina lifts a golden brow at the duke’s threat, but otherwise refuses to respond to it. “Go back to Imola,” she tells Ridolfo, “and relay our deep gratitude to Ser Dionigi. Tell him he has discharged his duty with honor, and that I am releasing him and his men from my service.”

      “Thank you, Your Illustriousness!” Ridolfo’s broad face crumples with relief; he puts his massive hands to his eyes and weeps briefly, then looks up, cheeks and eyes shining. “May I . . . that is, my brother wished to know, with all respect . . . Does this mean you will now release his wife and children, that they might join him?”

      Caterina lets go a short laugh; apparently she forgot that she had secured Dionigi’s excessive loyalty by imprisoning his family. “Of course, of course!”

      Just as Ridolfo thanks her profusely, the Lady of Forlì’s lover and secretary, Giovanni, reappears with her eldest son, twenty-year-old Ottaviano. Caterina takes her secretary aside, all business, and whispers detailed instructions to him. When she is finished, Giovanni nods and helps the overwhelmed Ridolfo to his feet. The two disappear out the door, and Caterina turns her attention to her son while I try not to be noticed. Caterina is not shy about sending me away when she desires privacy; the fact that she has not dismissed me means that she wishes me to remain. And so I watch, at a respectful distance, the poignant exchange between mother and son.

      Ottaviano is not an easy youth to love. He is as slothful and unmotivated as his mother is tireless and ambitious, as full of complaints as she is courage. Nor did he inherit Caterina’s good looks, wit, or athletic talent. Though she has drilled him in the martial arts daily for months, his cheeks and body have not lost their childish plumpness; the swell of his belly is easily visible beneath his long wool nightshirt. His nose and lips are broad and thick, his face round, his general demeanor one of listlessness. He wears his dull brown hair in the manner of a page, chopped short so that it falls three fingers below his chin, with straight bangs ending just above his eyebrows. Even now, after the urgent summons to his mother’s quarters in the middle of the night, he is still rubbing his eyes and scowling fretfully at being awakened. Though he is already twenty years old and will soon be the ruler of Imola and Forlì, he has little interest in the details of government and prefers to leave such matters in his mother’s hands.

      Caterina steps up to him and puts her arms upon his shoulders. He is less than half a head taller than she is, but much, much broader.

      “My son,” she says briskly, without drama. “The fortress at Imola has fallen. Ser Giovanni is fetching a scout; he will guide you to Florence. We cannot wait another minute. Your trunk and horse will be waiting at the western gate. Get ready at once and go to them.”

      “Imola has fallen?” Ottaviano’s eyes widen; he seems honestly surprised, as if he had expected some other news to have caused Caterina to drag him from his bed at such an hour. “Mother, are you sure?” He glances to me as if seeking another opinion; I drop my gaze.

      “Yes,” my lady says firmly. “We’ve discussed this several times. Now we must act.” She leans forward on tiptoe and kisses the center of his forehead. “Go. I will see you again soon—here, in this very fortress, when Valentino has been routed.”

      He hesitates. “But . . . are you sure you will be safe?”

      Caterina laughs at the question and gives him a little shove. “Foolish boy! Hurry! Others will be waiting for you.”

      Ottaviano gives her a last woeful look; apparently this is the first time he has considered that he ought not leave his mother to fight the French and papal armies alone. But Caterina pushes him again, this time with a hint of irritation. He gives her a slow, solemn kiss on the lips, then turns