Now, the three rivals to his authority, Venice, France, and Cesare Borgia, were all neutralized. Cesare Borgia, under order of arrest, was on the run with his whore, Adriana. Venice had been made to surrender Cesena and Forli. The French—well, they were a constant thorn, but at that very moment, Julius had legates in the German court discussing an alliance against them. It was a chess game, but Julius was far across the chessboard.
Yet he hated political maneuvering, having to form alliances with men he detested. It was so much more satisfying to ride before an army and achieve visible victory on the battlefield. Men could betray him, alliances could be broken, but a sword rendered an enemy permanently dead, and a vanquished town stayed vanquished.
His victory deserved commemorating. He ran several scenes through his mind’s eye. A fresco of the battle, perhaps, with himself in full papal armor overseeing the field? No, there would be many battles, and such a specific event would lack timelessness and the aura of sanctity. He wanted to be remembered for centuries.
What subject then? How could he insinuate himself into a sacred thematic and still be recognized? Perhaps a portrayal of himself as Peter with the apostles around him. Possibly. But where was there space in the Papal Palace where men would see it?
It came to him like a revelation. The Sistine Chapel. It needed repair anyhow, and the current star-studded blue ceiling had never pleased him. Why not a fresco? Why not several frescoes, that would forever be associated with his papacy?
Yes. The chapel ceiling. The twelve apostles. Himself as Saint Peter in the center panel. Being touched by God. Julius liked this idea.
Who could he trust to paint it? Botticelli and Roselli were too old and feeble for something of that scope, and on a ceiling no less. Perugino might do it. Well, Bramante, his personal architect, would have some suggestions.
Julius was exceedingly cheerful now. Colors ran through his head. Colors for the ceiling. Colors for the painted papal vestments.
He gazed out over a line of Swiss infantrymen with their pikes. Handsome lads, tall and light-haired. Their drab field dress did not do them justice. A victorious papal army deserved display. He imagined them more flamboyant, in multicolored stripes perhaps, with artfully slashed sleeves and leggings. The pikes, of course, would stay.
II
August 1508—Return of the Penitent
Five years after fleeing the funeral of Alexander VI, Adriana crept again into the Sistine Chapel during the mass.
She felt the passage of time like a weight on her chest, those five tumultuous years, four of them with Cesare in Spain, celebrating with him in victory, comforting him in defeat, feigning indifference to his infidelities. Then, abruptly, he was gone, killed in a meaningless battle. She returned to her father’s house in Seville, to a man she scarcely knew. Though the conniving Don Pedro Falcon had married her off to the Borgias for his own advantage in the first place, he allowed her back and she had enjoyed the privileges and protections of being Adriana Falcon-Serra for scarcely half a year when the Inquisition struck. Some quarrel her father had involved himself in at court had ended in denunciation, and within months, everything—lands, businesses, titles, and finally his life—were forfeited.
The Inquisition sent a reign of terror through the country. Not only were the converts at risk; even her father, a landed hildago of good reputation, could fall victim. It could only have been royal greed that caused the Holy Office to arrest a feeble old widower and seize the lucrative farms of the Falcon family. Whatever the reason, before he could stand trial, Don Falcon died in prison.
Though Adriana was for the moment free of suspicion herself, Spain had become a purgatory. The auto-da-fé in Seville brought that home to her. If the spectacle of men being burned alive was Spain’s testament to the True Faith, Adriana preferred the profane dangers of Rome.
She fled Spain for the Roman countryside, cowering in the one parcel of Cesare’s land the new Pope had not seized, and she tried to lead a quiet life. She had been married at fifteen, widowed and the mistress of the second-most powerful man in Rome at eighteen, and at twenty-three she committed murder. She had burned through life so furiously that, for a while at least, she felt she had reached its logical end.
But after the fear ebbed and she learned calm in the Roman countryside, she felt the stirrings of nature again and remembered she was only twenty-nine.
Driven by loneliness and nostalgia she ventured timidly into Rome again. She needed to find old friends, and Domenico Raggi was surely one of them.
She peered out from behind the wooden pillar toward the choir loft and found him instantly. Taller than all the others, the castrato stood at the far end, caught in the harsh white beam that shone through the clerestory windows. In the milky, dust-filled light, his eyes were shadowed as he sang, until he turned his face upward and was bathed in incandescence. Gentle Domenico. His pure voice was as unchanged as the Greek and Latin words he sang.
No, the mass had not changed, but everything else had. The chapel itself was a jumble of wooden platforms and ladders. Even the ceiling was different. The star-scattered heaven she remembered was scraped bare. As I am now, she thought. Bare…raw…waiting.
She saw the rough hand before it touched her, and she flinched. Too late. Forcefully it seized her and yanked her backward toward the door. Alarmed, she struggled to wrench her arm away, but the grip only tightened and she staggered after her captor. For a brief panicking moment, she saw him in profile. His hair was cut short like that of a menial, and an obviously broken nose flattened his face to a sort of pugnaciousness. Finally, as he pulled her through the doorway into the great hall, he let her go.
“Michelangelo!”
“Shhh.” He pressed a finger to his lips and pointed toward a marble bench on the far side of the great hall. They sat down together, dwarfed by the vast fresco that rose behind them.
“You scared me half to death. I thought I was being arrested.”
“Forgive me. I had just gone to fetch this.” He held up a mallet. “I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you. If you had gone farther into the chapel I might have lost you in the crowd.” He took her long fingers in his muscled hands. “I’m sorry I was so rough.”
“I wouldn’t have gone in. I don’t want to be seen in this city yet.”
“Why not? You’re as beautiful as ever, and that little gray spot right there gives you just the right maturity.” He raised a finger toward the side of her head where a narrow swath of black hair had lightened. “You still make every man who looks at you commit a sin.”
She laughed softly and pushed his hand away. “And you still don’t know how to talk to a woman.”
She studied him in return, noting how haggard he looked. The five years had not aged him so much as washed him out, like his clothing. He wore a simple belted smock that had once been blue and, below it, colorless leggings tucked into sooty well-worn boots. He was indistinguishable from any other workman.
“You know I only meant to say you hadn’t changed,” he said. “When did you return from Spain?”
“A few months ago. But this is the first time I’ve ventured into Rome.”
“And you never contacted me?” His voice held both feigned and genuine injury. She had forgotten how quick he was to take offense.
“I haven’t contacted anyone, actually. I fled with Cesare and Lucrezia in the first place because Rome was no longer safe for us. The Dominican reformers had descended on the Vatican, and if they didn’t bring some charge or other against us, there were plenty of others who would have cheerfully cut our throats.”
“Everyone knows there’s no love lost between this Pope and the Borgias. You were courageous to come back.”
“Courageous? It was just the opposite. After Cesare was killed, I went back to my father in Seville. But a few months later, he was arrested by the Inquisition. He was ailing anyhow, and he died in prison. Of course the Crown seized his lands, which may have been the whole reason for the arrest
. It seemed safer to return here after all. I thought that if Julius arrested me, he would remember he owes me a favor.”
Michelangelo seemed amused. “A favor? When did the mighty Pope Julius ever need you?”
“Not me. He needed Cesare, for his papal election. The two were old enemies and had no real channels to talk. But when it looked like Pius II would die, the Cardinals started politicking again. Julius desperately needed Cesare to influence the Spanish Cardinals to throw the vote toward him. It must have galled him to actually need Borgia assistance, and to need it so badly that he had to send messengers all the way to Spain to get it. In any case, I was the one he needed to whisper in Cesare’s ear.”
“What was Julius’s offer?”
“Just that he would leave Borgia lands untouched in exchange for Cesare’s convincing the Spanish Cardinals to support him. I did my part but it was hardly necessary. Cesare was too weak to have openly opposed him anyhow, and he agreed.”
“So, what did you get out of it?”
“As it turns out, nothing. After Julius was chosen, the old animosities began again. Within months Cesare was on the run and most of his lands were seized after all. All but the little villa near Tivoli where I live now. As for me, I might be able to call that favor in one day, but after five years and Cesare’s death, I don’t think it has much currency.”
Michelangelo stared into middle distance. He had set the mallet down and folded his sinewy arms across his chest. His hands were scarred, she noted, marked by myriad abrasions, chisel nicks, and sores from the acid wash that polished his statues.
“And what of you, Michelo? What have you been up to?”
“I finally finished a statue, in Florence. More difficult than I expected, on a used block of marble, already deeply cut. But it turned out all right. The Hebrew David. You should take a look at it.”
“I will, when I’m next in Florence. How long have you been back in Rome?”
“Three years. I was supposed to begin designs for Julius’s tomb. But there were endless problems.” He scratched something dark and gritty on his shirtsleeve. His forearms were knotty with musculature. “We couldn’t agree on anything. And now the whole thing has been set aside for the chapel ceiling. Infuriating.”
The chapel doors suddenly opened and people poured into the Sala Regia. Adriana pulled the hood of her cloak over her head to avoid being recognized. Courtiers, noblemen, and Cardinals passed by in velvet and satin. Some were familiar: Paris de Grassis, Cardinal Riario, Annio Piccolomini looking frail, the Orsini. None of them were her friends. Most went down the great staircase out into the August heat. Others, who currently held favor and influence, went into the papal rooms. Rooms to which she once had free access.
Finally, only the Swiss Guardsman stood at the door of the chapel. In the vast high-ceilinged stateroom of the palace, she and Michelangelo were alone again, and their voices echoed slightly.
She resumed their conversation. “What will you paint?”
“Paint?” He snorted. “Julius wants apostles with himself in their midst. But I am so bitter these days, only one scene comes to mind.” He made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “The Deluge. To wash it all away.”
“Why so choleric, Michelo? I don’t remember you this way.”
“Choleric? I have good reason. I was summoned to Rome to work on the Pope’s tomb. I spent months preparing sketches. Then he lost interest. Like that.” He snapped his fingers. Specks of sawdust flew off the fingertips.
“Suddenly the new basilica was all he cared about. I was at his side, having just been unemployed by him. I ought to have been given the basilica project. But Bramante got it.” There was bitterness in his voice.
Adriana was suddenly attentive. “Bramante? The architect? The one with the daughter who is an artist?”
He scratched at the flecks of plaster that had caught in his beard. “The great Donato Bramante would not care to be known merely as someone’s father. But, yes. The daughter’s an artist too.”
Adriana remembered eyes like lanterns guiding her toward escape. “Is she any good?”
“You can see for yourself. In the Palazzo Piccolomini. Bramante did some work on the courtyard, and part of the arrangement was for her to paint some panels in the library. We can visit them if you like.”
“Piccolomini. I know that family. The son Silvio flirted wildly with me when I arrived as a new bride from Spain.”
“He may again. He is still unmarried, you know. You should visit him and find out.” He toyed with a piece of marble, which he had pulled from his pocket, twirling it between thumb and index finger.
“I don’t know, Michelo.” She touched his forearm, causing him to drop the object he was holding. It rolled toward her foot and fell flat. She picked it up and peered at a marble disk, its diameter only slightly smaller than her palm, carved with the haloed face of a woman.
“Very nice. I wouldn’t have thought miniature work to be your style.” She turned the disk over as he had and saw the identical face on the back. A snake curled around the head in place of the halo. “What does it mean?”
“Woman, seductress and saint. Something I never finished, on a chip left from the ‘David.’ You’re right, miniature work doesn’t suit me. You can have it if you like.”
“Seduction and redemption? Oh, dear. You do lay a lot at the door of women, Michelo. Could you fix it so I can wear it?” She looked up at him playfully, but her eyes lit on something behind him and she felt the blood leave her face.
With a puzzled frown, Michelangelo looked over his shoulder.
A cleric stood in the chapel doorway. His black cloak hung loosely over a gaunt frame, and when he turned his head toward them he showed the harshly sculpted face of an ascetic.
“Who’s that?” Michelangelo asked. “I recall that face.”
“Gian Pietro Carafa, the Dominican who hounded us from Rome five years ago. We thought we were free of him, but then he showed up in Spain with Torquemada. And now, like a specter, he haunts me again here.”
“Torquemada? I’ve heard of him. A Dominican doing the gruesome work of their Most Catholic Majesties.”
Adriana’s mouth went dry. “Yes, gruesome is right. The Domini canes, people call them, the hounds of God. Where they go, there is the Inquisition. If you have secrets, guard them well or they’ll tear them from you. We should get out of here.”
Gian Pietro Carafa appeared again in the chapel doorway, another priest at his side. The muscles around Michelangelo’s mouth tightened.
“All men have secrets. But there are still places in Rome where one can speak freely.” He stood up. “Give me the medallion. I’ll drill a hole in it for you.”
She passed the piece of marble back to him and he dropped it into his pocket.
“Come with me to the Piccolomini. They’re people like us.”
“Perhaps. But today I want to visit Domenico Raggi. You know, the singer at the mass. The choir will be at lunch now.”
“The castrato?” His face lit up perceptibly. He rubbed powder off his mallet, avoiding her eyes. “Ah, that’s right. Your protégé.”
“Come downstairs with me. I’ll introduce you.” Adriana pulled her shawl around her shoulders and looked back once behind her as they walked. The gaunt cleric watched but made no move toward her.
“I’m supposed to be working, but you’ve tempted me away from my duty, Adriana.”
“Don’t blame me for your sins, Michelo,” she said lightly as she walked ahead of him.
“Sin? Is that what you are leading me to?” he murmured, and tapped the mallet softly against his leg.
III
Domenico Raggi sat apart from the other choristers in their ruffled collars and black soutanes. Not that the boys and men shunned him. But there seemed to always be a separation between whole men and himself, a nervousness in the conversation when he was there. He sensed both their admiration and their disgust, even when they welcomed him.
He let his g
aze wander idly over the chapel staff hurrying through their meals. It stopped at two figures, a bearded man and a dark, attractive woman, lingering just inside the doorway. He stared for a moment, perplexed, then recognition dawned. Without taking his eyes from the woman, he stumbled over benches to the doorway and seized her hand.
“Lady Adriana.” His voice was tight with emotion, his Italian still colored by a Spanish accent. “Is it really you?”
Adriana embraced him unreservedly. “Domenico. Agnellino,” she said into his shoulder. “You’ve grown so tall.”
He had the long frame typical of the castrato but, unlike others of his ilk, he was not plump. Indeed, in the five years since he had seen her, he had grown lean. Adriana touched the wavy brown hair that stopped just at the base of his neck, as if grateful for his affection.
“And you’re so beautiful,” she continued.
There were those who had already remarked on his large velvet eyes, his nose that sloped gracefully, and the fine muscles that swelled around his mouth and suggested the curving mustache he could never have. He was always aware that he lacked the common protrusion over the ruffled collar of the soutane, that he had no “Adam’s apple” as other men, but the smooth throat of prepubescence. Yet, in spite of his speaking voice, his breadth of chest and shoulders gave him a certain masculinity. Innocence and sensuality warred in him, as if the boy struggled to become the man.
Adriana laid her hand on the side of his beardless cheek. He smiled, first at her then, more shyly, at the man by her side.
“Oh, forgive me, Domenico. This is Michelangelo Buonarroti, who is painting the chapel ceiling. Maybe you’ve seen him working.”
The artist stroked his own beard, as if to reassure himself he had it. He was slightly shorter than Domenico, and when he extended his veined and sinewy arm to shake his hand, the contrast with his own smooth unblemished skin was extreme. Michelangelo seemed made of knotted rope, Domenico of tan silk.
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