A few of Ser Giovanni’s attendants disappeared for some time, and returned bearing gifts for the boys: a gold belt buckle in the shape of a fleur-de-lis for Ottaviano (“as I hear your mother has arranged your first military commission for you in Florence”), and one in the shape of the stylized Riario oak for Cesare. Giovanni Livio received a handsome inlaid wood recorder, which he proceeded to play badly for the rest of the afternoon.
Fortunately, Ser Giovanni had also hired musicians. When we all quickly tired of listening to the shrill blast of the recorder, Ser Giovanni signaled for them to begin playing, and the recorder was soon muffled by the sound of the lute, tambourine, and drum. This, of course, made Caterina take Giovanni’s arm and pull him into a dance. Their joy was so evident that the rest of us were caught up in it, and the nurse, Lucia, and I danced with each of the attendants while Ottaviano and Cesare performed a mocking little dance, cooing at each other in falsetto tones.
We did not return to the fortress until the sun slipped low in the sky, and a cold breeze replaced its warmth. I was assisting Lucia in herding the boys back over the drawbridge when little Giovanni Livio, shivering a bit in his still-damp clothes, leaned forward to say, much too loudly: “Mama and Ser Giovanni are in love, aren’t they?”
Behind us, the two principals in question giggled faintly, though the rest of us dared not.
I patted Livio’s head and nodded, smiling.
“Well, that’s good,” Livio said. “He seems like a very nice man.”
Caterina let go a faint strangled sound as she tried to hold back her laughter.
Supper was a more poignant, hushed affair, as Ser Giovanni was to start his journey homeward the next morning. This time, the boys were invited to dine with their mother and her guest; to my surprise—and that of the boys—Giovanni and Caterina once again held hands openly across the table. The conversation focused on the changes in Florence, and Ottaviano’s first commission there. There were times when my lady’s happy smile faded, and I saw the melancholy in her eyes. Ser Giovanni saw it, too, and each time pressed her hand to his lips and reminded her that he would return as soon as possible.
I sat between Cesare and his younger brother. By the time the meat course arrived, I noticed that little Giovanni Livio had eaten almost nothing and was slumped and shivering in his chair; I put a hand to his forehead, which was alarmingly warm.
“Madonna,” I whispered down the table to Caterina, “he is unwell. I’d best take him to his bed and call Lucia.”
Frowning, Caterina pushed herself from the dining table and, still sitting, opened her arms to her youngest son. “Come, darling, let me see you.”
Livio was so ill that he swayed on his feet, squinting at the light. I bent down and put an arm beneath his shoulders, and helped him stagger to his mother’s arms.
Caterina put a hand upon his forehead and blanched. “He’s very sick,” she said. “Take him to Lucia, and have one of the couriers fetch the doctor. I’ll join you in an hour.”
“Please,” Ser Giovanni told her, as I took hold of Livio again. “I’ll return soon enough, and all of us have been shown enough hospitality to last a lifetime. Take care of your child, Caterina. I’ve brought my own physician and I vouch for his competency. I’ll send him to Livio immediately.”
She gazed at him, her face taut with worry, and nodded. “I will help him to bed, then,” she promised, “and return once your physician has come. I hope not to be gone long. I had hoped to speak with you privately once more before you leave.”
Livio could not make it to the boys’ apartments; after attempting a single assisted step down a half flight of stairs, he clutched his skull and retched weakly, though nothing came up. “I can’t walk,” he moaned. “My head hurts too badly.”
He was almost his mother’s height, but she scooped him easily up in her arms and carried him to his bed. Lucia, who slept in adjacent quarters, lit the lamp and brought out a bag of medicines, though Caterina asked her to wait for the doctor before dosing Livio with anything.
“I’m thirsty,” little Giovanni whispered. His eyes were closed in response to the nearby lamplight, his face pale and slack with pain; he could not stop shivering. When Lucia held a cup to his lips, he began to cry in frustration, as he could not bear the pain of bending his head forward to drink. Near tears herself, Caterina sent the nurse off to the kitchen to find a ladle.
At that point, Ser Giovanni’s physician arrived, dressed in rich brocades and a dark blue velvet cap atop his long gray hair. With an air of confidence born of many decades’ experience, he examined the boy. To all his questions, Livio, his eyes squeezed shut, his head turned from the lamp, could only moan one reply: “My . . . head . . . hurts. . . .”
As a final test, the doctor put his hand beneath the back of Livio’s head, and urged him to bow his head, touching his chin to his chest. The attempt to even begin to do so brought weak screams, and the doctor immediately told the child to stop trying.
As Livio fell back, huddled and trembling, the doctor rose from his bedside and beckoned for Caterina to join him in the doorway. I followed. The doctor was not unkind; his gaze was sad, with a distant weariness found in those who have witnessed too much suffering.
“I am so sorry, Your Illustriousness,” he told Caterina in a soft, paternal tone. “The outlook is grave.”
Caterina seemed not to understand him, as if he had just uttered something absurd. “Grave?”
The doctor drew in an unhappy breath. “I have seen this before, mostly in children—and of those, children who have recently swum in muddy or stagnant waters. The odds of your son recovering are very slight.”
Caterina put a hand to her mouth and spoke through her fingers. “That can’t be. . . . He was perfectly healthy this afternoon.” She glanced back at the supine Livio in horror. “What will happen to him?”
“The fever will spike even higher. He might have a fit, but most certainly he will lose his sight and hearing, and fall into a stupor. Death will follow in a matter of a few hours.”
Caterina emitted a short, gutteral sound, as if the air had just been knocked from her lungs. “What can be done?”
“I can bleed him with leeches, but that is not curative; it would only prolong his misery.”
“What will ease it?” she demanded impatiently.
“Tea from the bark of white willow for the fever,” the doctor said, his tone sympathetic. “Though it will be very difficult for him to drink. I have some powdered poppy that can be added to it, to make him comfortable.”
By then, Lucia arrived with a small ladle and a kettle of hot water. The doctor dug in his satchel and produced the medicines, which Lucia promptly brewed into a tea. Livio screamed as his mother held him up, supporting his head while I stuffed another pillow beneath him, so that he half sat in the bed. Afterward Lucia got some of the tea into him by ladling it, sip by sip, into his mouth. After each swallow, he shuddered and grimaced.
At that point, Caterina dismissed the doctor and crawled into bed with her son. Very gently, she took him into her arms and held him, whispering sweetly into his ear. His lids fluttered open only once, to show eyes dulled by fever and pain.
Not long afterward Ser Giovanni silently entered the sickroom; his somber expression implied that he had spoken to the physician.
Caterina looked up at her lover and opened her mouth to explain the grim situation, but only tears, not words, would come. Ser Giovanni climbed silently into the bed with her and wrapped an arm around her shoulder as she held her son. By then, Livio was in the predicted stupor, and responded not at all to sight or sound or touch.
They remained so until the dark of night lightened to gray in the hour before dawn, when young Livio’s breath grew labored and harsh. Ser Giovanni had the presence of mind to call for a priest; I hurried to rouse Caterina’s chaplain and led him back as fast as I could. By then, the boy was scarcely breathing, and by the time the priest finished praying over him, he was gone.
/> Caterina was not ready to leave, but continued to hold Livio while Ser Giovanni carefully detached himself. Lucia and I were both sobbing when he came up to us.
“I will not leave her now,” he said, “but will remain for as long as she desires. I shall go speak to Livio’s brothers now, unless you think Caterina would prefer to do so herself.”
I looked to my mistress, who was humming softly and rocking Livio in her arms; I directed Lucia to remain with her, and led Ser Giovanni to Ottaviano’s room. At Giovanni’s solemn knock, Ottaviano’s valet opened the door. Ottaviano and Cesare were both dressed, and had been anxiously speculating about their younger brother’s condition.
“I am so sorry,” Giovanni told them, with heartfelt sadness. “Young Giovanni Livio has died of a fever. It came from swimming in unclean water.”
He paused as Ottaviano burst into tears and Cesare tried to console him. After the youths had voiced their sorrow, Giovanni said gently, “I shall stay with your mother and do my best to help her in whatever way I can. She is alone now without your father, and needs a man who can help with the painful details that must now be arranged. Ottaviano, Cesare, I know you two bear your own grief, but can you be strong for your mother as she has always been for you? There are funeral arrangements to be made. I can help you with them, but you know best what would please your mother and departed brother, not I.”
In the end, Ottaviano agreed to make the funeral arrangements, although Giovanni wound up doing all that was necessary, and paid for the priest and burial.
Ser Giovanni kept his promise and did not leave immediately for Florence; he postponed a good deal of business and remained with us a fortnight.
On the night before he finally left, he presented Caterina with another present: all the jewels and silverware she had sent, years before, to the pawnbroker in Milan.
Nor had he forgotten his conversations with me. On the morning of his departure, while his men were loading up their horses, he handed me a leather-bound tome. I opened it to find a collection of Marsilio Ficino’s writings on the soul of man.
Chapter Thirty-one
Ser Giovanni was true to his word, and returned within six months for a much longer visit—a good thing, since Caterina was bereft and moody without him; whenever a letter arrived from Florence, she would snatch it from the messenger and run to her bedchamber to savor it. While I never approved of her affairs outside marriage—were Caterina to become pregnant again, the scandal could cost her her lands—I was glad that this time she had chosen the kindest of men.
When Ser Giovanni returned again after New Year’s, all his belongings were taken to the lavish apartment directly next to Caterina’s, and this time, neither he nor Caterina bothered to hide their relationship from anyone at Ravaldino, although the servants were all sworn to secrecy. The Forlivese would be scandalized, and there was always the chance a cleric might write a letter of complaint to Rome.
Pope Alexander would never allow a Medici to take control of any property outside of Florence, and if Caterina married outside the Riario–della Rovere lineage, it would cost her her regency.
Despite this, Giovanni and Caterina lived as man and wife, and there was no happier time in Paradise. Giovanni was naturally cheerful and slow to take offense, and his sweet temperament influenced Caterina greatly. She learned from him that it appeared magnanimous to make requests of an underling rather than to demand, and that a kind tone brought better results than a harsh one. He also taught her how to consider the opinions and feelings of others before reacting, and that it was no shame to show genuine affection, in private or in public.
He was good with her sons as well. Rather than scold Ottaviano for his gluttony and laziness, he praised the lad when he drilled harder, rode longer, and hiked more “as it is excellent preparation for military service.” Cesare, who, like his mother, was lean and agile, received incentives to read more and study harder, and was generously rewarded for the slightest improvement. Both boys adored Ser Giovanni—as, frankly, did I, for he dealt with me as an equal. Never was a master more beloved in a household, and never the mistress and children and servants happier.
Months passed, however, and the inevitable happened. Early one morning, just as I had finished dressing, Giovanni opened the door at the top of the staircase leading up to Caterina’s bedchamber. He was in his nightshirt, a look of panic on his face.
“Dea,” he called down softly. “I am worried; Caterina is ill.”
I shoved my feet into my slippers and hurried up the steps. Frightfully pale, Caterina was sitting on the floor beside the bed, the front of her lawn chemise streaked with yellow bile. She had pulled the chamber pot from beneath the mattress, and was doubled over it. Just as I stepped up beside her, she obligingly vomited up a bit of foam.
As she wiped the stringy remnants from her lips, she met my knowing gaze, and I met hers. We did not speak; we had been in this situation far too many times to need words. I brought a clean chemise and a towel from the closet, dipped the latter in the basin and wiped her face as she leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes. Only then did I speak to Ser Giovanni, who hovered anxiously over us.
“I am going downstairs to the kitchen,” I said briskly, “to fetch salt and bread, and will be back soon.” I rose, and handed the clean chemise to Giovanni. “If she feels better before I return, she might need some help changing into this. But no sudden movements. And . . .” I frowned at the chamber pot, which, though unused, smelled vaguely unsavory. “Perhaps she would be better off using towels than this.” I replaced the porcelain lid, and pushed it back beneath the bed.
Giovanni’s concern increased as I began to stride off. With an air of helplessness, he called after me, “Is it serious? Will you fetch the doctor?”
I had crossed the threshold, and did not turn, but I heard Caterina’s low, muttered reply behind me: “I’m pregnant, fool.”
Caterina Sforza and Giovanni de’ Medici were wed in late September, in Ravaldino’s chapel. The bride wore a wreath of white silk flowers and diamonds upon her hair; her dress was made from one of Giovanni’s first gifts, an elegant gold damask trimmed with indigo satin. Giovanni wore black and silver and a look of profound panic. His older brother, Lorenzo—a thick-limbed, pudgy man with long golden curls, a round, handsome face, and startling green eyes—came from Florence bearing gifts. Such was the love between the two brothers that Lorenzo did not care that the marriage was politically dangerous and needed to remain a secret; he was happy simply because Giovanni was happy, and saw no reason not to celebrate.
To explain Lorenzo’s visit, and the score of gift-laden carts that rolled into Forlì—not to mention Ravaldino’s sudden, urgent demand upon the locals for flowers, decorations, and high-quality food and drink—the bride-to-be intentionally started a rumor that Lorenzo had come to speak to Ottaviano about a possible marriage to the former’s daughter.
In fact, Ottaviano was not considering marriage at all, but his first condotta—a paying military post—in Florence, thanks to his new relatives.
The ceremony was short, to accommodate Caterina’s passing spells of queasiness, but it was far from solemn. After the priest had declared the deed done and the new couple turned to face the group gathered in the pews, Ottaviano, who had been drinking the entire day, belched loudly. An air of uncertainty hovered over the assembly—should we acknowledge such rudeness?—until Ser Lorenzo let go an explosive, high-pitched giggle, which proved dangerously contagious. Even the priest left the chapel laughing.
On the fifth of April 1498, baby Giovanni was born after a short, easy labor. Like his father, he was dark-haired; time would slowly color his eyes a matching brown-black. Secret documents were signed, stating the name of the child’s sire, so that the boy would be recognized as a Medici and heir to his father’s fortune. A more public document, which Caterina would file with Forlì’s Hall of Justice sometime later, listed no father, and gave the infant’s name as “Ludovico Riario,” supposedl
y after Caterina’s uncle in Milan, who would be livid when he finally learned the truth.
Caterina and Ser Giovanni doted on the baby. Whereas all of Caterina’s older children had remained confined to the company of their nurses or tutors unless on display, little Giovanni and his nurse always accompanied Caterina during the day, when she was in her apartments and not off drilling Ravaldino’s small contingent of soldiers or hunting in the countryside. Ser Giovanni often joined her, and sometimes worked on his business correspondence while his son played at his feet.
Late that month, Caterina received a letter from the Bishop of Volterra announcing that he was already on his way from Tuscany to visit her at the request of Pope Alexander, “concerning a personal matter which shall certainly please Your Illustriousness.”
The cheery tone of the bishop’s letter left her unconvinced. Panicked, she sent Ser Giovanni back to Florence for a month, and everyone else in the household, including the soldiers, was instructed to say that the infant was Lucia’s. The servants and I worked feverishly to move Ser Giovanni’s belongings from Caterina’s bedchamber and the adjacent apartment downstairs to storage. All this preparation did nothing to ease our anxiety. When the bishop’s carriage finally pulled up alongside the moat, my knees were unsteady.
Waiting just inside Ravaldino’s main entrance, Caterina hid her terror behind a smile as the bishop walked across the drawbridge to greet her. I knew that his name was Francesco Soderini, that he had been born a Florentine but detested the Medici, and that Rodrigo Borgia—Pope Alexander—was so impressed by his acumen that a cardinal’s hat was in his future. But I had not expected him to be only twenty-five, or freckled, or so terribly thin. His black priest’s frock hung limply on his bony frame.