The Devil's Queen: A Novel of Catherine De Medici Read Free Page B

my ignorance.
    “The Ruggieri family has always served as the Medicis’ astrologers,” Piero explained. “Ser Benozzo advised Lorenzo
il Magnifico
. They say his son Cosimo is a prodigy of sorts, and a very powerful magician. Others say such talk is nothing more than a rumor circulated by Ser Benozzo to help the family business.”
    I interrupted. “But Aunt Clarice doesn’t put a lot of faith in such things.”
    “No,” he said thoughtfully. “Cosimo wrote Mother a letter well over a week ago. He offered his services; he said that serious trouble was coming, and that she would need his help.”
    I was intrigued. “What did she do?”
    “You know Mother. She refused to reply, because she felt insulted that such a young man—a boy, she called him—should presume that she would need help from the likes of him.”
    “Father Domenico says it’s the work of the Devil.”
    Piero clicked his tongue scornfully. “Magic isn’t evil—unless you mean for it to hurt someone—and it’s not superstition, it’s science. It can be used to make medicines, not poisons. Here.” He proudly lifted the large volume in his lap so that I could see its cover. “I’m reading Ficino.”
    “Who?”
    “Marsilio Ficino. He was Lorenzo
il Magnifico
’s tutor. Old Cosimo hired him to translate the
Corpus Hermeticum,
an ancient text on magic. Ficino was brilliant, and this is one of his finest works.” He pointed at the title:
De Vita Coelitus Comparanda.
    “Gaining Life from the Heavens,”
he translated. “Ficino was an excellent astrologer, and he understood that magic is a natural power.” He grew animated. “Listen to this. . . .” He translated haltingly from the Latin. “ ‘Using this power of the stars, the Magi were first to worship the infant Christ. Therefore, why fear the name Magus, a name which is pleasing to the Gospel?’ ”
    “So this astrologer’s son is coming to bring us help,” I said. “Help from God’s stars.”
    “Yes.” Piero gave a reassuring nod. “Even if he weren’t, we would still be all right. Mother might complain, but we’ll just go to the country until it’s safe again.”
    I let myself be convinced—temporarily. On the library floor, I nestled against my cousin and listened to him read in Latin. This continued until Aunt Clarice’s slave Leda—pale, frowning, and heavily pregnant—appeared in the doorway.
    “There you are.” She motioned impatiently. “Come at once, Caterina. Madonna Clarice is waiting.”
     
    The horoscopist was a tall, skinny youth of eighteen, if one estimated generously, yet he wore the grey tunic and somber attitude of a city elder. His pitted skin was sickly white, his hair so black it gleamed blue; he brushed it straight back to reveal a sharp widow’s peak. His eyes seemed even blacker and held something old and shrewd, something that fascinated and frightened me. He was ugly: His long nose was crooked, his lips uneven, his ears too large. Yet I did not want to look away. I stared, a rude, stupid child.
    Aunt Clarice said, “Stand there, Caterina, in the light. No, save your little curtsy and just hold still. Leda, close the door behind you and wait in the hall until I call you. I’ll have no interruptions.” Her tone was distracted and oddly soft.
    After a worried glance at her mistress, Leda stole out and quietly shut the door. I stepped into a pane of sunlight and stood dutifully a few paces from Clarice, who sat beside the cold fireplace. My aunt was arguably the most influential woman in Italy and old enough to be this young man’s mother, but his presence—calm and focused as a viper’s before the strike—was themore powerful, and even Clarice, long inured to the company of pontiffs and kings, was afraid of him.
    “This is the girl,” she said. “She is plain, but generally obedient.”
    “Donna Caterina, it is an honor to meet you,” the visitor said. “I am Cosimo Ruggieri, son of Ser Benozzo the astrologer.”
    His