Duchess of Milan (36 page)

“I have never slept beside you, so you could not know what I dream. I dream of blood. Not the sweet, wine-red blood of Christ that washes the world clean. I dream of the blood that congeals black and foul and crawls with flies. The blood I have seen.” His hands clenched at the railing, the knuckles rising and cording. “I have with my own hand signed the death of a man whose only crime was his loyal service to our state, and stood and watched the blood pump from his neck. I have ... I have witnessed things my brother did that I will not tell you because you would not forgive me if I did, things . . .”Il Moro gripped the railing so fiercely that his arms trembled. “I can still hear the screams. The screams of innocents who could not comprehend the evil . . . I smell it too. I smell a village after the mercenaries have visited it and ripped out the bowels of the plowboys. Blood and shit. They smell the same.

“The day I became my nephew’s regent, I vowed that I would never bind the mortar of our state with blood, and I have suffered the wrath of many of the princes of Italy, including your grandfather and your father, for seeking a peace that no one else wanted. I do not need to prove my passion for peace to a girl who imagines that war is three days of jousting.” He turned to her. “I can only tell you this. If my nephew continues to preside as Duke of Milan, we will certainly have war, because your uncle Alfonso will use your cousin Isabella’s hatred of me to justify his aggression. And then everything I have built will be plundered and ruined.”

But Eesh wouldn’t do that, Beatrice told herself. Eesh hadn’t really lied to
her,
even if Eesh had wounded her with doubts, even if Eesh had perhaps lied about something that had nothing to do with whether Gian should or shouldn’t be Duke of Milan. Beatrice knew that her husband was the real liar; so were her father and mother. She had proof that
they
lied, scars on her heart. They would betray her, but Eesh never would. Love was the only truth that really mattered. And in spite of the months of doubts and separation, she realized that she still loved Eesh.

“If I were to assist you in becoming Duke of Milan, I would betray my cousin,” she said with righteous fervor. “And I can never do that.”

He took a step toward her, and she thought for a moment that he might erupt with rage and throw her off the balcony, a glorious martyrdom. But he simply looked down at her and said, “You are faithful. I respect that.” He studied her carefully. “When I wedded you two years ago, you were a child. Now you are becoming a woman. An attractive and very clever woman. I do not know if you also wish to become wise. I know that at your age I did not. I have never fallen in love with a woman who was wise when I met her. It seems they acquired wisdom as a result of suffering me.”

Beatrice did not understand his use of the word “love.” He did not love her, did not intend to love her. . . .

He lifted a hand and brushed her cheek with his fingers. Without knowing why, she reached up and pressed his hand to her lips. He came closer and kissed her fingers. She looked into his eyes, then looked down. A moment later his lips whispered silently against hers. Something stirred in her, the tentative note of a lyre strung so tightly that she knew that if its extravagant melodies were ever played, she would never again be able to detect the subtle discord of his lies.

He pulled away. “You must be on the river early tomorrow. And I know you want to spend this time with our son. I will only ask that you deliver Belgioioso’s dispatch to the Signory and petition them for a public declaration on mutual defense. That and nothing more.” He touched her cheek again and turned away.

Beatrice watched him walk off, everything spinning in her mind, Fortune’s machinery cranking out strange new permutations. She momentarily panicked at the thought of leaving her son for ten days, afraid that somehow she was doing to Ercole what Mama had done to her. Then she saw her husband pause in the doorway beneath the tower, taking a last look at the lights in the distance, and for the first time since her wedding day she felt the nervous, fluttering thrill of wondering what it would be like to make love to him.

Perhaps he was asleep, perhaps not, but he could hear the ghosts murmuring in the thick, sultry air. Only when they began to scream could he be certain he was awake.

Il Moro leapt from his bed and scrambled to the window as if seeking an escape. With quaking hands he drew aside the already partially open shutters. A few torches still burned out in Terra Nova, specks of light in the void.

The screams had stopped, but the horror of what he had heard was a continuous drone. The girl had screamed first, while Galeazzo Maria raped her, savaging her with unspeakable perversity. And then her father had screamed, the muffled, hysterical protest of a man already sealed in his coffin. These were sounds he had actually heard years ago, and would never forget. But the last scream he had never heard before. It was not a shrill register of fear and pain, but the terrifying, metaphysical keening of a soul flayed of all dignity, all hope. The scream of a woman who had looked up at the face of Satan and seen the grinning, insane visage of the first child she had carried in her womb.

Il Moro pressed his fingers to his shrieking temples and willed silence. He greeted the profound emptiness that followed with a convulsive, bitter sob.

“Forgive me, Mother,” he whispered.

CHAPTER 31

Extract of a letter of Beatrice d’Este da Sforza, Duchess of Bari, to Lodovico Sforza, “Il Moro,” Duke of Bari and regent for the Duke of Milan. Chioggia, 26 May 1493

. . . and as I have promised to send Your Highness a full and exacting report of my mission to Venice, I begin with particulars of my success at
scartino,
achieved during our voyage today . . . by the time we arrived here this afternoon I had won five hundred ducats from my ladies, who threw down their cards in disgust and proceeded to argue furiously among themselves as to whether my victories were due to my skill or the favor of Fortune. Truthfully, I won so many hands that I must ascribe my success to both, and I took this to portend well for the rest of my journey. . . .

Extract of a letter of Beatrice d’Este da Sforza to Lodovico Sforza. Venice, 27 May 1493

... At the isle of S. Clemente, His Serenity Doge Agostino Barbarigio conducted us on board his
bucintoro,
which is a galley of enormous size with rows of oars like great wings and many gilt ornaments and crimson awnings. A hundred and thirty Venetian ladies were seated in rows behind the Doge in the forepart of the
bucintoro,
and the Doge bid myself, Madame my mother, Count Tuttavilla and the other ambassadors, and as many of our retinue as could be accommodated to be seated in front of them. We set out again, and after passing between the isles of La Giudecca and S. Giorgio we encountered galleys, barges, gondolas, and carracks in numbers so great that the city of Venice itself seemed merely an extension of this floating isle of ships of every type, some of them armed with rows of cannons, which boomed out salutes (at each of these Count Tuttavilla could be seen to cringe), and others decked out like gardens. Even the gondolas were most elaborately decorated with flowers and canopies of colored silk. . . . Among these vessels we encountered a large raft with figures of Neptune and Minerva seated beside an enormous mountain fashioned of painted wood and canvas, said mountain crowned with the Sforza viper and Venice’s lion of Saint Mark. First Neptune began to dance and juggle balls to the music of drums and tambourines. . . . Next Minerva struck the mountain with her spear, and an olive tree shot up from within the mountain as if by magic, apparently through the agency of some mechanical device similar to those Maestro Leonardo has devised. Neptune then struck the mountain with his trident, and up came a live horse. Then personages of all sorts appeared from within the mountain, with open books in their hands, signifying that they were considering how to name the city to be founded on the mountain, the honor of which they finally adjudicated in favor of Minerva over Neptune. Minerva chose the name Athens, the birthplace of all learning. This, we were told, was to signify that great states are founded by means of peaceful arbitration. . . .

In addition to this brief theatrical presentation there were many floats carrying actors and figures representing the various guilds of Venice, all very ingenious and lovely to see. And so we entered the Grand Canal, where the Doge, who spoke to us in the most familiar and animated fashion despite his venerable age, took immense pleasure in pointing out to us all of the principal palaces, these having rows of window frames which resemble white lace in their exquisite patterns. Persian carpets hung from every balcony, and garlands adorned the columns of all the loggias. Everyone had come to the waterside to observe our procession, even the
negre
slaves, who perched on pilings outside the kitchen doors. The Doge indicated to us the many fine ladies who appeared at the windows and balconies in all their jewels, attended by poodles, monkeys, and peacocks. He also discreetly indicated to us the many courtesans, equally as finely attired as the ladies of the noble families. His Serenity was not ashamed to recognize these women, he said, because they contribute very many good works to the Republic as a result of the heavy taxes to which they submit--the tax on prostitution alone is sufficient to fit out the entire Venetian navy! After seeing all these sights, we arrived at my father’s palace, where the Doge insisted on escorting us to our rooms, although Madame my mother and I begged him to spare his health. We found the palace all hung with tapestries and draperies in Sforza colors, and the beds covered in satins embroidered with the Sforza emblem. . . . This evening three gentlemen of the Signory came to call, at which time I requested an audience with that body. . . . I shall write again tomorrow if the audience has taken place. I commend myself to Your Highness. . . .

“If Your Highness will excuse me, I will post this letter to His Highness your husband and begin sorting through the messages you have received here. I’m certain that Your Highness must require some rest.” Vincenzo Calmeta, Beatrice’s new secretary, a handsome young poet with a polished yet sincere manner, held a sheaf of sealed notes and invitations in one hand and the letter Beatrice had just dictated in the other. He looked expectantly to her.

Beatrice gave Calmeta his leave, although she enjoyed his witty company and obvious devotion to her. And she was not ready for sleep despite the long, wearying day. She still had the sense of riding a pitching deck, but rather than making her queasy, the light, floating sensation heightened her buzzing exhilaration. She could close her eyes and relive it all: the riotously colored sea of ships, the ancient, almost Oriental city silhouetted against the dazzling blue sky, the thunder of cannons, the blare of trumpets, and the surprising choruses of “Moro!” Next to the day she first held Ercole, this had been the greatest day of her life. Venice, the most powerful city in the world. The center of the world. And today, she told herself, I was the center of the center of the world.

She reluctantly surrendered the triumphant images and picked up the packet of documents she had placed on the small table beside her bed. She hurried through them again, merely satisfying herself that she had already put to memory the points her husband had instructed her to emphasize when she presented Belgioioso’s dispatch to the Signory. She had no ambivalence concerning her mission; everything her husband proposed was calculated to ensure the defense of Italy. Even the most skeptical eye could not find among his words an argument for his own ambitions.

She put the papers down at the knock on her door. Eleonora came in without being announced, hurriedly inspected the room, and retied one of the gold cords that gathered up the curtains of the bed canopy. Beatrice was soaring too high to be annoyed by her mother’s fussing around like a chambermaid. Mama couldn’t help it if she was so irrevocably earthbound.

“You must be very, very careful when you address the Signory tomorrow,” Eleonora said when she finally directed her attention to Beatrice. “We are in a very delicate situation, so deliver your address exactly as your husband has instructed you. Would to God that your husband had not burdened you with this responsibility and instead allowed you to enjoy your first visit to Venice.”

“Mama, Count Tuttavilla says that our reception this afternoon was the most extravagant seen in Venice for many years. I hardly think that the Venetians are in the habit of providing such a welcome for their enemies.” And Beatrice already considered herself virtually an intimate of the Doge.

“Remember that the symbol of Venice is the Lion of Saint Mark,” Eleonora said. “And the time to worry about the Lion of Saint Mark is not when it roars but when it invites you to place your head in its mouth.”

“Mama--” Beatrice was grateful to be interrupted by another knock on her door. “Mama, I have to see who has come.” She opened the door and readmitted Calmeta, who began to bow and make excuses when he saw Eleonora. Beatrice grabbed his sleeve. “No, no, Maestro Vincenzo,” she said for her mother’s benefit, “you know we have to finish the letter to my husband.”

Calmeta was sensitive enough to have already discerned the nature of Beatrice’s relationship with her mother, so he understood why she needed to finish a letter he had already posted. He took up his writing tablet and made a pretense of preparing to receive dictation. Beatrice kissed her mother good night and closed the door behind her.

“Your Highness, I’m not certain what to make of this.” Cal-meta produced an unsealed note from beneath his writing tablet. “The author, who has not signed his name, says that he has a letter for your husband, and he suggests Your Highness as the agent to deliver it.” Calmeta frowned quizzically. “Your Highness, he says that this letter he wishes you to pass on to your husband is from the Duchess of Milan.” Beatrice’s eyebrows shot up. “Our correspondent
incognito
says you must send someone you can trust to San Marco tomorrow morning, wearing this pin fastened to a red mantle, and have him wait near the icon of the Madonna in the west wing.” Calmeta opened his right hand to reveal a cheap metal brooch enameled with, of all things, a French fleur-de-lis. “Does Your Highness think that this is some sort of French machination to disrupt our mission?”