Cardinal Passerini, who, by orders of the Pope, ruled the city under his master and at the same time supervised her learning, and her Aunt Clarissa, who supervised her manners, together with the Holy Father himself, who she saw less frequently, all impressed this upon her. She was important, because on her their hopes were fixed.

‘Do not forget, Caterina Maria Romola de’ Medici,’ Clarissa Strozzi would say― for Aunt Clarissa always used her full names to stress the need of preserving dignity― ‘do not forget that you are a daughter of the house of Medici. It is for you to show dignity, courage, and learning always― passion and folly never.’

When these lessons were done, there would be more lessons to follow― deportment, dancing, riding, and conversation with the Cardinal, Aunt Clarissa, and perhaps Filippo Strozzi, Aunt Clarissa’s banker husband. Besides the study of languages, she must learn the history of her own family and that of the ruling houses of other countries. Aunt Clarissa insisted that she know each glorious incident in the life of her great-grandfather, Lorenzo the Magnificent; he was Aunt Clarissa’s hero and she often compared him with Guilio de’ Medici, who now, as Pope Clement VII, was head of the family. Caterina had been shocked to hear the Holy Father spoken of with disrespect, but the greatest lesson she had had to learn was that of hiding her feelings; so Caterina listened and showed no sign of her surprise.

Now she pushed her long fair hair back from her thin little face, and as she was about to return to her books she heard a scratching at the door, and, forgetting her dignity for a moment, she leaped up and let in Guido, a spaniel with adoring brown eyes. She had two of them― Fedo and Guido― and only these two living beings knew her as a little girl who sometimes liked to romp and laugh more loudly than would have been seemly if any but they had heard it.

Guido was frightened. He cowered against her and licked her hand. He had the air of a dog who has escaped some terrible fate, but who knows his escape to be temporary. She guessed at once that the pursuer was Alessandro― the boy who called himself her brother and whom she called The Moor. He loved nothing better than to maltreat dogs and young serving boys and girls, any of whom he could torture without bringing trouble on himself. One day he would, she guessed, try to have similar fun with grown-up people.

She put a hand down to the dog and fondled his silky coat. She would have liked to have knelt on the floor and flung her arms about him. But the idea of Caterina of the house of Medici stooping to caress a dog in a room where she might be discovered must be immediately dismissed.

She had been right. It was Alessandro who had been chasing the dog, for he now pushed open the door and came into the room. He shut the door and leaned against it, looking at Caterina while the dog tried to hide behind his mistress’

feet; and Caterina, giving no sign of the violent beating of her heart, lifted her eyes to look at Alessandro.

They called him a Medici! Why, why, Caterina asked herself passionately, had her noble father gone about the world, planting his seed in such ignoble ground! How could he have loved the low Barbary slave who must have been Alessandro’s mother? But evidently he had, if only for a short while, since Alessandro was here in the palace with her― her half-brother. The Pope insisted that he should live here, although Aunt Clarissa would have gladly turned him into the streets. A bastard, by good fortune; for what if he had been her legitimate brother? But no! Noble blood could never produce that low brow with the dark hair growing down almost to the eyebrows, that short, broad nose, that vicious mouth, those lecherous protruding eyes. Caterina would have been terrified Alessandro if she had not known herself safe from his vicious ways. He dared not hurt her; but he hated her all the same.

She was the legitimate daughter; he was the illegitimate son; but the Holy Father, loving the boy though he did, would not allow harm to come, through Alessandro, to the little girl who was hope of his house. Alessandro came slowly into the room. He was fourteen at this time― eight years older than Caterina, and already showing many signs of the man he would become.

The dog whimpered.

‘Be silent, Guido,’ said Caterina, and kept her eyes fixed on her half- brother’s face.

‘The brute escaped me!’ said Alessandro.

‘I rejoice to hear it,’ retorted Caterina.

‘He knows not what is good for him, that dog. I was going to feed him.’

Alessandro laughed and showed teeth like those of a rat. ‘I had prepared a delicacy for him― all for him.’

‘You shall not harm my dog,’ said Caterina.

‘Harm him? I tell you I would have fed the brute.’

‘You would only give him food that would harm him!’ Her eyes flashed, for alone with Alessandro she would not consider her dignity; she would not smile when she was being hurt; she would answer his taunts with taunts of her own.

‘You call killing things sport,’ she said. ‘And the more cruel the killing, the greater is the sport to you.’

He did not answer her. Instead, he bared his teeth at the dog and murmured:

‘Come, little Guido, dear little Guido. I would feed you, little Guido.’

Caterina dropped to her knees; her usually sallow cheeks were flushed; she was frightened that she was going to lose her spaniel, one of the best friends she had. ‘Guido,’ she whispered frantically, ‘you must not go near him. If he catches you, you must bite.’

‘If he were to bite me,’ said Alessandro, ‘I would cut him into little pieces.

Or perhaps I should put him into a cauldron and bring him slowly to the boil. I do not allow dogs to bite Alessandro de’ Medici, Duchessina.’

‘You shall leave my dogs alone,’ she said with dignity, rising and looking at him. ‘Go and have your sport with others if you must, but leave my dogs alone.’

‘When I see the Holy Father,’ said Alessandro, ‘I shall tell him that the Duchessina has become a hoyden who wastes her time frolicking with dogs.

Then they will be taken from you. Perhaps I shall ask that they may become mine.’

She was trembling. The Holy Father would believe Alessandro! How strange it was that the great man, who cared so much for power and hardly anything for his six-year-old cousin whom he courteously called his niece, should be affectionately disposed towards her ugly bastard half-brother.

‘Then,’ she retorted, ‘ I shall tell that I heard one of serving girls screaming in your apartments, and I shall see she holds nothing back when she is questioned.’

‘You forget I have a way of enforcing silence. That girl will not relish losing her tongue.’

‘I hate you!’ said Caterina vehemently. ‘I shall tell Aunt Clarissa.’

‘Even if she believed you, she would not consider me worthy of punishment.’

‘Then I shall tell the Cardinal.’

‘He will not believe ill of one whom his master loves as the Holy Father loves me.’

In spite of her training, an impulse to run to him, to kick him, scratch him and bite him came to Caterina. She might have done so, for her mounting fears for her dog were fast destroying her control, had not the door opened that moment and Ippolito entered the room.

What a contrast he made to evil-looking Alessandro! Ippolito was the handsomest young man in Florence; he had inherited all that was best in the Medici family, and none of its shifty weakness and cruelty. He was only sixteen, but he was loved by the Florentines, who looked upon him, in spite of illegitimacy, as their future ruler. They saw in him his illustrious ancestor, Lorenzo the Magnificent, as well as his noble father, the Duke of Nemours; already the boy had shown himself to be by nature bold and courageous, yet kindly, a lover of the arts. He possessed those qualities for which the Florentines looked in a leader, and it was hoped that the time would soon come when this young man would take the reins from the hands of Passerini, who ruled the city under Clement, that Pope whose vacillating European policy had brought unrest to Italy.

Caterina rejoiced to see Ippolito. She admired him; he had never been unkind to her, although it was true he had not time to bestow upon such a very little girl. She knew Alessandro was afraid of Ippolito and that Ippolito had nothing but contempt for The Moor.

Caterina said quickly: ‘Ippolito, Alessandro threatens to hurt my dog.’

‘Surely not!’ said Ippolito, advancing and glancing contemptuously at Alessandro. ‘Has he not dogs of his own on whom to play his vile tricks?’

‘I will thank you to remember to whom you speak!’ cried Alessandro.

‘I do not forget it,’ answered Ippolito.

Now that Caterina’s control had broken down, she could not restrain herself, and, emboldened by the presence of Ippolito who would always take the side of the weak against the strong, she cried out: ‘No, Alessandro. Ippolito does not forget that he speaks to the son of a Barbary slave!’

Alessandro’s face darkened and he stepped towards the little girl. He would have struck her if Ippolito had not quickly stood between them.

‘Stand aside!’ growled Alessandro, his dark brows coming down over his flashing eyes. His voice rose to a scream: ‘Stand aside, or I’ll kill you. I’ll put out your eyes. I’ll tear your tongue from your mouth. I’ll―’

‘You forget,’ said Ippolito, ‘that you are not speaking to those unfortunate slaves of yours.’

‘I shall tell His Holiness of this when I am next summoned to his presence.’

‘Yes, tell him you tried to strike a little girl. Tell him you teased her and frightened her about her dog.’

‘I will kill you!’ yelled Alessandro.

He turned away suddenly, because he was afraid of his rage and what he might be tempted to do either to Ippolito or Caterina; and there would be serious trouble if he harmed one of his family. He would do the wise thing. He would see blood flow for this; but it must not be Medici blood. He would have some of his servants whipped. He would think up new tortures for them to endure. He ran from the room.

Ippolito laughed aloud; Caterina laughed with him; then she lifted her eyes shyly to the boy’s face. Never had he seemed so attractive as he did now when he had, with his clever words, driven Alessandro from the room. He was very handsome in that rich mulberry velvet that suited his olive skin, his blue-black hair and those flashing dark Medici eyes which were not unlike her own. She felt that she could have worshipped Ippolito as though he were one of the saints.

He smiled at her very gently. ‘You must not let him frighten you, Caterina.’

‘I hate him!’ she cried. ‘The Moorish bastard! I wish he need not be here. I do not believe he is my half-brother.’ She touched the velvet of his sleeve.

‘Ippolito, do not go yet. Stay and talk a little while. I am afraid Alessandro will come back.’

‘Not he! He is watching one of his slaves being whipped by now. He can never leave a spectacle of bloodshed.’

‘Do you hate him, Ippolito?’

‘I despise him.’

She felt warmed by their common feeling for Alessandro. ‘I would give much,’ she said, ‘to hear that he were not my half-brother. Alas! I have many brothers and sisters in Florence, in Rome, in every town in Italy where my father sojourned. In France also, I have heard.’

Ippolito looked at her and smiled mischievously. She was quite a charming little girl when she was not prim and silent; he had not thought, until he had seen her exasperated by the Moor that she could be so angry and so delightfully friendly. He wanted to please her, to make those lovely eyes shine with joy.

‘There are some, Caterina,’ he said quietly and confidentially, ‘who say Alessandro is not your half-brother.’

‘But if he were not, why should he be living here?’

‘Caterina, can you keep a secret?’

Why, yes.’ She was overjoyed at the prospect of sharing something with this handsome young man.

‘The Pope cares more for Alessandro than for you or for me. It is for that reason that people say he is not your brother, Caterina,’

Her eyes were big with excitement. ‘But― why, Ippolito?’

‘The Pope calls you niece, but the relationship is not as close as that. People say that the relationship of the Pope and Alessandro is very close indeed.’

‘You cannot mean―?’

Ippolito laughed and placed his hands on her shoulders; their faces were close and he whispered: ‘The blackamoor is the son of the Holy Father!’