Bramante cleared his throat. “The Holy Father pays me to work, not to chatter. Signora. Signore.” He nodded in both their directions and offered his hand again while his daughter rolled up the page of calculations. She smiled briefly and fell in step with her father as they retreated down the nave of the church.
Watching the pair walk away, Adriana said, “Twice in five years this woman has stared at me that way, and I’ve never heard her speak.”
*
They stood at the eastern end of the basilica over on the wide stone steps, the afternoon sun warm on their backs. Below them the Piazza San Pietro was alive with activity, and beyond the square the panorama of Rome itself spread itself out in the afternoon haze. The gray Tiber formed a wide V-shape in the distance, curving abruptly northward on the one side past the Castel Sant’ Angelo and stretching out more gently toward the southeast around the Trastevere. A slight breeze wafted up from the river.
“Is Rome any better now than it was under Alexander? I hope so,” Adriana said, touching Domenico’s arm. “It cannot be any more corrupt.”
He shrugged lightly. “I’ve only known the life of the chapel, nothing of politics.”
“It wasn’t just the politics.” She pressed her lips together. “Do you remember Cesare’s supper party in the Apostolic Palace, when he invited all those prostitutes? You sang during the supper.”
Domenico nodded, frowning.
“Late in the evening when all were drunk they danced naked and then coupled with the guests. An orgy, in the Sala Reale in front of God’s highest priest.”
Domenico stared into the distance, conceding. “We’re all sinners, Adriana.” He squeezed her hand. “One longs for purity, reform. But some of the holiest relics in the world, St. Peter’s bones, are beneath our very feet, and pilgrims come here in the thousands to revere them.”
She shrugged without replying.
“I myself sometimes have doubts and temptations. But always, when I’m singing in the mass, my heart rises and I feel His presence.”
She studied him for a moment. “How pious you are, Domenico, to still see the good. I can’t. The last Pope I served was corrupt and he corrupted me, that’s certain. You may repent of your doubts, but I cannot repent of my certainties.”
“Who can know of God’s greater plan for us?” he persisted. “There are things we don’t understand, but must accept as an act of faith.”
“Act of faith? You mean like the auto-da-fé? I saw one of those in Spain.”
“That is not what I meant,” he said, but Adriana was not listening.
Three clerics in long black capes were climbing the steps to the church, their shadows jutting out like blades behind them. Against the pale marble steps, they seemed specters, black things that walked upright, but she recognized the face of the gaunt Dominican in the center. He looked pointedly in her direction, then nodded before ascending the last steps to the church portal.
“I’m sorry, I have to go now.” She gave Domenico a brief kiss on his cheek and stepped around him.
“Why so suddenly?”
“It’s nothing. I just can’t stay any longer.” She started down the staircase.
“When will I see you again?” he called after her. “Will you come back to Rome?”
“I live in Tivoli now. You should come to visit me. There are too many dogs in Rome,” she called back over her shoulder and hurried toward her coach in the Piazza San Pietro.
*
Domenico remained standing before the portal of St. Peter’s, staring after the coach that rolled toward the Ponte Sant’ Angelo. Pious, she had said. How little she knew of him.
Oh, yes, he definitely remembered Cesare’s supper party. He came perilously close to joining in the lasciviousness. For that night, Gaetano Alberti let him know he wanted to share his bed and passed a note suggesting where they might meet.
Domenico had slipped away discreetly, just as the coupling with the prostitutes began, intent upon finding Gaetano. But, stupidly, he blundered into the wrong dark room. How could he have misread the note? He found himself in a nursery where, by the light of a small candle, an infant slept. The child awakened at his entry and began to cry. And, stupidity upon stupidity, he did not flee, but picked it up.
Miraculously, the baby stopped crying. Content to be held, it sighed and began to suck its fist, its tiny head nestled in his neck. As he smelled the pleasant odor of its damp curls, first wonderment and then sorrow rose in him. This child was some man’s heir. Some man could look into its tiny face and see himself reflected. He held the warm bundle closer, his hand covering the entire span of the infant shoulders, with a tightness in his throat. Never had he felt so incomplete, so cheated, as at that moment. He would have wept if the sound of the opening door had not interrupted him and he spun around to an old woman’s angry face.
“Signora. Forgive me. I heard the child crying,” he lied, and handed over the bundle before she could raise alarm. He had fled, not only the nursery, but the palace and the whole evening’s misadventure.
He wondered how long Gaetano waited, or if he waited at all. Perhaps the whole thing had been a cruel hoax, and the Roman princelings had amused themselves at his expense. He knew what they thought of him. Away from the safety of the chapel, he was always merely a sport among whole men, a source of amusement.
And then there were other hands that caressed him. They troubled him far more, but he could never speak a word about them.
Lust or laughter, that’s all he had ever gotten from the world.
Who would ever really love him, except God?
V
Michelangelo stumbled as something scrabbled over his boot in the darkness. He wished for a moment he had a lantern, but at midnight in the Trastevere that invited robbery, or worse. No, he would make do with the faint light that came from overhead windows, or from the lanterns marking the prostitutes.
He passed the women in their doorways, one by one, avoiding their glances. Some were haggard and worn. A few, the more expensive ones, were younger and more shapely, but all their expressions, when he could see them, were hard.
There it was, the upturned cart that signaled the crossing into the darkest part of the netherworld. He turned a corner and made his way carefully down a narrow, crooked alley that stank of urine. The first stirrings of lust, tiny coals ignited in his groin and sent out heat to the rest of his body. Then came the niggling shame. He told himself it was not his real person who waded into the swamp of sin.
This is only my skin, my outer form, my willful burning flesh, which pulls me. My soul sleeps under it, and one day will be free.
One day, but not tonight.
Halfway down the street a young man slouched in a doorway under a lantern. His shirt was open to the waist, and his threadbare breeches were stretched tight over the visible bulge of his manhood. He was beardless, though a patch of hair showed in the opening of his shirt. But what drew attention more than anything was the short red cloak he wore in spite of the warm night. Hooked on his left shoulder and tucked into his belt on his right side, it caught the night breeze and billowed for a moment, giving him a brief theatricality.
Agreement was quick. Michelangelo laid a hand on the narrow purse at his belt. “You have time for someone like me?”
“It will cost twenty grossi.”
“That’s a lot.”
“You don’t come here often, do you? That’s what it always costs.”
“All right.”
The young man took down the lantern and strode along an inside corridor to a rough outbuilding. The place reeked of animal ordure and rotten hay, and the lantern light revealed it was a stable. A small one, with two stalls. A donkey in one of them shuffled a little as they entered but made no other sound.
Michelangelo held the leather purse under the lantern, ready to pour out its coins where they could be counted. Then he saw the open hand. Half the index finger was missing and only a stub up to the first knuckle remained. “
What happened there?”
“An accident, sir. With a meat axe. I’m a butcher, you see. With my brothers.”
“I don’t want to know more.” Michelangelo shook the coins into the man’s palm, and they disappeared into a vessel hidden under loose straw.
The young man unhooked his cloak and draped it over the plank between the stalls. With a graceful motion, he drew his shirt over his head, revealing tight musculature. The patch of black hair at the center of his chest narrowed to a line that went down his midsection to his navel and continued into his breeches.
He took Michelangelo’s hand and drew it across his own naked chest. “What would you like, sir? I’ll do whatever pleases you.”
Michelangelo’s hand trembled as it rested over the warm curve of the chest, and he took a step closer. He rubbed the rough surface of his thumb over the small nipple and with the other hand began to unfasten the other man’s trousers. They were held together by a single cord and so opened completely and slipped to the ground. The stranger’s dark sex was half swollen and curved outward from a thick bed of black hair.
Still without speaking, Michelangelo pressed himself against it and lightly bit the stranger’s neck, tasting the salty sweat.
The butcher’s hand, adept in spite of its stubby finger, stroked Michelangelo through the coarse fabric of his own breeches, then unfastened the buckle that held them, freeing the hard hot flesh to the night air.
Their mouths met in something more like bites than kisses, as if each resented the desire for the other. Lust welled up in Michelangelo, then anger at the flesh that now dominated him. It was as if the devil had incarnated himself in that single part of him that stood erect against the handsome prostitute. Enflamed, he could not stop himself. The furnace of the young man’s body called to him; it needed only to be opened.
Michelangelo slid his hands around the muscular hips down the curve of buttocks to the legs. The swarthy skin was pungent with new sweat, like his own that trickled down the small of his back. His dry breathing became louder as he felt the stranger’s turgid member press on his own, man to man. Michelangelo pulled the young body tight against himself, squeezing the hard young buttocks and spreading them.
He whispered hoarsely, “Turn around.”
VI
Silvio Piccolomini stepped back, satisfied, from his mirror. His rose-colored satin doublet, gathered at the waist, had soft yellow sleeves slashed along the length and buttoned at intervals. The doublet skirt ended high, revealing a hose of the same pale yellow, which molded his well-muscled thighs and the provocative swell of his masculinity. He wore no codpiece, finding them vulgar, but the careful tailoring of his hose amply flattered his natural endowment. With his head of thick blond curls he was, he had to admit, as handsome as any man in Rome.
When his manservant opened the heavy door, Silvio met his two guests directly in the entryway.
“Michelangelo, you old stone smasher. It’s been far too long.” He offered his right hand, resting the other fraternally on the artist’s shoulder. After several vigorous pats, he stepped up to Adriana and took both her hands.
“Adriana, you are even more beautiful than I remember. When Father said he thought he saw you at the Vatican mass the other day, I could scarcely believe my ears.”
“You’re looking very fine yourself, Silvio. The years have served you well.”
He laid his hand over his heart and lowered his head, purposely displaying his crop of curls from another angle. “You shame me with praise. However, I understand this is not a visit to me, but to my art collection.”
Michelangelo pressed Silvio’s shoulder. “Take it as a compliment, old man. Everyone knows you have one of the best collections in Rome. Besides, you’re all got up in your best clothes for us. Yellow and rose together, who’d have thought?”
Silvio put his hand to his chest again. “I’m so pleased you noticed. Why don’t you come into the library now, while the light is still good. Father will join us in the garden afterward for lunch.”
He led them down a long gallery into a room where the inlaid wood paneling and the quantity of books subtly displayed wealth and taste. The midday light shone through two windows and lightened the wood to a rich honey. On the far wall the paneling on both sides of the door ended at shoulder level, and on the plaster above were two large frescos. In one of them, the god Apollo, with Silvio’s long straight nose, well-formed lips, and pale curls, posed beside his chariot.
Silvio regarded the image for a moment, then explained. “I had in fact contracted for a simple portrait, but Signorina Bramante suggested Apollo. I think her likeness of me is quite good.”
Michelangelo chuckled. “Yes, she’s captured your superciliousness rather well.”
“Bitter words from a man with a crooked nose, Michelangelo.” Silvio clapped his friend on the back and looked toward Adriana for approval.
But she stood riveted before the second fresco.
A half-nude woman sat on the back of a garlanded bull, which leapt toward an ocean wave. Her dark blue gown was open to below the navel, exposing her shoulders, upper arms, and youthful breasts. Her pale flesh darkened provocatively below her belly, suggesting the eroticism that had drawn bull and woman together. She held on to the bull’s horn, and the ocean wind seemed to blow through her long black hair as they plunged together into the sea.
“An odd painting, from a woman. So very sensual,” Adriana remarked.
“Do you recognize it?” Silvio asked, at her side. “Zeus as a bull, abducting Europa. Signorina Bramante insisted on painting that story. She started just after Pope Alexander died, so I asked her if it was supposed to be the Borgia bull. The image had been all over the papal banners, you know, and it got to be a joke.”
“And was that her intention?” Adriana asked. “I mean, to paint the Borgia bull?”
“I’m not sure. She just smiled and said I was too clever.” He chuckled. “I don’t see any resemblance to the Pope, though.”
Michelangelo joined them. “Take a closer look at Europa. You’ll see a Borgia face there.”
Silvio scrutinized the fresco. “You’re right. How very strange. It could almost be your portrait, Adriana. I never noticed, but the eyes are painted pale blue. Just like yours.”
Adriana stared at the painting, speechless. It was not only the face that disturbed her. The dress that hung open around Europa’s hips, somber blue with a single black stripe running from the crumpled bodice down to the hem, was identical to the dress she had worn at Alexander’s requiem mass.
Michelangelo traced a line with his finger around the head of the princess. “The work is excellent in places, but inconsistent. Look, on the figure of the woman, every tiny element is painted with precision. But in the setting, the details fall away. It’s the individual that interests her, not the scene. She remains the portraitist.”
“A good portraitist, though, you must admit,” Silvio countered. “I recommended her to a Venetian acquaintance who engaged her as well.”
“Yes, she’s clearly gifted. You did well to patronize her, Silvio.”
Silvio nudged Michelangelo’s shoulder. “You should take her on as an assistant.”
Michelangelo shrugged, dismissing the subject as the two of them meandered from the library. Behind them, Adriana remained standing, bemused, before the fresco.
“Adriana, will you come?” The sound of her name roused her and she hurried to join her host.
Silvio led them to a shady portico on the west side of the palazzo where a table was set for lunch. The air smelled pleasantly of the honeysuckle that grew at the side of the house, and sparrows chirped from a nest on the roof. As Adriana approached the table, Annio Piccolomini made to rise, but age and infirmity made it a gesture only. From his seat at the head of the table the patriarch offered his hand to his guests, his eyes bright with interest.
“Good afternoon, Signora Borgia. Signor Buonarroti. I trust my son has not bored you too greatly.” His voice was
soft, as if he used it sparingly, his manner dignified and gallant.
“Not at all, Signor Piccolomini,” Adriana replied. “It is a pleasure to be in your house and in such company.”
“You are very kind.” The old man took her hand in both of his. They were dry and trembled slightly, but they had a pleasant warmth. “I am very pleased that Signor Buonarroti could convince you to come, Lady Borgia.” He swept a hand toward the lunch table. “You see, we wish to detain you as long as possible.”
The guests were seated and a servant poured wine into silver goblets. They ate leisurely, remarking on the weather and the profusion of flowers in the garden. Then Silvio beckoned his housemaster, who came carrying a large volume bound in dark leather.
“Now, my dear friends, the trap is sprung. You cannot leave until you have admired our most recent prize. By Marsilio Ficino, a Florentine. I assume you know him, Michelo.”
“I knew the man himself. In my time he was head of Lorenzo de’ Medici’s academy at the Villa Careggi. We even attended a dissection together. He had some rather radical ideas about the importance of the body in understanding divine principles.”
“Ficino had radical ideas about a number of things.” Moving aside his plate, Silvio slid the volume in front of him and opened its heavy cover to the first page. “This is his bilingual edition of the Platonic Dialogues. Euthyphro, Crito, Apologia.”
Silvio leafed reverently through the first several pages. On each recto was the Greek original in clear black letters, and on each verso its Latin translation. The first page of Greek was topped by a decorative frieze, and garlanded columns ran down the vertical margins. Though it was printed, the volume looked for all the world like a manuscript, lacking only the bright colors.
Michelangelo was not impressed. “I remember. Ficino said Plato taught that the divine exists within man himself. Though I never quite understood what he meant by ‘the divine.’”
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