Sistine Heresy

by Justine Saracen

  Silvio nodded enthusiastically. “Which is why you might have spent a bit less time cutting up cadavers and a bit more reading Plato. And now you can, without learning Greek. Look here, the Euthyphro talks about exactly that question.”

  Across the table Adriana set down the piece of sweetmeat she was about to taste. She was out of her depth here. “The nature of the divine? Isn’t that why we’ve got a clergy, to tell us all that?”

  Silvio looked disdainful. “Oh, please. When we’re children, they chant phrases at us that they learned as children, and none of us examine the meanings. Plato asks us to consider whether moral behavior is moral because it’s God’s command, or whether God commands moral behavior because it’s moral.”

  “What difference does it make?” She bit into the sweetmeat.

  “Every difference in the world.” Silvio became animated. “If moral behavior is moral only because God commands it, then morality is nothing but obedience. But if God commands moral behavior because it is already moral, then morality is independent of God, and men do not need God to make them moral, only understanding.”

  Michelangelo set down his wineglass. “Why do you dwell on these questions, Silvio?”

  He continued to turn the vellum leaves tenderly, his brow furrowed. “Why not? Shouldn’t we want to know those things? Why else do we have thought and language?”

  Michelangelo shook his head. “A man feels contentment when he obeys God.” He dropped his glance. “And suffers guilt when he doesn’t. No words are necessary.”

  Silvio closed his heavy manuscript, inserting his last two fingers between the pages he had been reading, and tucked the entire volume under his left arm, as if protecting it. Pointing, he twisted back around to the artist on his right and recited, “‘And do you mean to say, Euthyphro, that you understand piety and impiety so accurately?’”

  The elder Piccolomini chuckled amiably. “Do not be offended, Signor Buonarroti. My son loves to quote Plato.”

  “But your ramblings border on heresy,” Michelangelo chided his friend. “I should remind you that Ficino’s academy fell silent under the rule of Florence’s other great spirit, Savonarola. I heard him preach once, about the wrath of God, and there was a lot to take to heart.”

  “Savonarola? You consider for even a moment that he was anything more than a fanatic?” Silvio snorted. “You’re beginning to sound like a Spaniard.”

  Adriana studied the twisted pose still held by the young Piccolomini, the curled finger, the look of slight disdain at his opponent’s apparent ignorance. She could imagine that these two friends had fought in like manner for years. Yet while the nobleman played lightheartedly with words, Michelangelo was deeply earnest, as though he grappled inwardly with something.

  She took another sip of the light luncheon wine and thought of Gian Pietro Carafa. Would he bring the Spanish fires to Rome after all? And if he did, could she herself withstand torture for even a moment before confessing? The thought was deeply troubling, but so too was the image of a blue-eyed woman with her own face and in her own dress, and borne on the haunches of a bull.

  *

  “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” The voice of the priest intoned through the grillwork of the confessional.

  “Bless me father, for I have sinned,” Domenico murmured into his clasped hands, pressing the glass beads of his rosary onto his chin.

  “All men are sinners, but those who freely confess will be forgiven. How have you sinned, my son?”

  “I have let myself be caressed. I have given myself in lust and do repent of it.”

  The voice of the priest was without inflection, as if he had heard the same admission a thousand times. “The flesh is the prison of the soul and you must mortify it when it rises up against you. Separate yourself from those who tempt you.”

  Domenico felt a quick pang of dread. He could mortify the flesh, but never separate himself from the tempter. The dilemma tortured him.

  “Father, can the same act be a sin for one person and not for another?”

  “Of course. Consider the commandment not to kill. It is a mortal sin in most instances. But for the holy crusaders, it was a blessing to kill the infidel and the heretic. It is God who determines what sin is, for only God is all-knowing.”

  Domenico worked the rosary beads between his fingers. “But if I am enjoined to do something that seems wrong, how shall I know if it is a sin?”

  “God has given us the Holy Mother Church, my son, to reveal His laws. That is why the gravest sin is doubt, and the greatest blessing obedience.”

  Dismayed by the answer, Domenico finished the ritual mechanically. “Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me, a sinner. I will pray this night for understanding and hold myself from sin.”

  “What the priest speaks on earth is confirmed on high. I absolve you. Now go in peace and sin no more.”

  *

  The Via Giulia clattered with carts and men on mules going about their business. Taking Adriana by the arm as they crossed, Michelangelo asked, “Did you like what you saw?”

  “The book? Quite impressive, and Silvio’s argument was too. Although it leads to dangerous questions.”

  Michelangelo shook his head. “I meant the frescos, Adriana. Did you like them?”

  “Oh, those.” She laughed nervously. “The Apollo is pure flattery, which I suppose is the point. As for the other one, I don’t know. The similarity may be just a coincidence, but you’re right. Raphaela Bramante is very gifted. Why did you laugh when Silvio said you should employ her?”

  “Because she said the same thing a few weeks ago. She came to me just as we were setting up the first scaffolding and asked if she could work with me.”

  “Really? You didn’t say that earlier. Why don’t you want her?”

  “I do want her. But how can I have a woman working in the chapel with all those men? It would cause a scandal.”

  They had crossed the Via Giulia and wandered past a worksite where men on a scaffold painted the façade of a palazzo. One of the painters, in baggy trousers, glanced down at her.

  “Dress her in boy’s clothes,” Adriana said abruptly. “She’d need them anyhow, climbing all over your platform. With a big hat to protect her head from paint. She’s tall. She’ll look just like all the others.”

  “You can’t be serious. This is the Pope’s own chapel. What if he found out? What if she were hurt? Besides, there’s no money left to pay her.”

  She touched his arm. “I’ll cover her salary. It won’t even show up in the accounting.”

  He shook his head. “Look, I’d love to employ her. But Bramante would never consent to having his daughter work on high scaffolding with a dozen men and boys.” The whine in his voice showed he was running out of arguments and waited to be convinced.

  “He doesn’t have to be told every detail. You know he would be glad for her to be instructed by you, the great Michelangelo. It would oblige him to you.”

  He scratched his beard, obviously considering the idea. “It’s asking for trouble, you know. But if you do something for me, I’ll take her on.”

  “What’s that?”

  He studied the ground for a moment, clearly preparing his case. “Convince the Pope that I should work on the basilica.”

  “What? You can’t do both the chapel and the basilica at the same time.”

  “Yes I can. I can make designs. I already have ideas. Adriana, I want the dome of St. Peter’s. It’s the greatest project Rome has had since the coliseum.” His hand closed in front of him, clutching air.

  “Michelo, I’m all but an outcast here. What possible influence do you think I could have on this Pope?”

  “You said yourself that Julius owed you a favor for getting Cesare to sway the Spanish Cardinals. That got him elected Pope. He can’t have forgotten.” He took a breath. “Look, just tell him the new basilica is a glorious project, worthy of him, but that it’s too big for one man. And that I should be inv
olved too.”

  “And if he refuses to see me?”

  “I’m sure he won’t. He can’t. And the argument is so simple, he’s got to agree. If he does, I’ll take the girl on as an assistant.”

  Sighing, Adriana grasped his arm so that they walked together, like siblings or a couple, toward the Albergo dell’ Orso.

  “Fair enough, Michelo. I agree. One madness for the other.”

  VII

  Strange to be in Sala Misteri again, Adriana thought as she paced. On the last occasion she was one of those in power, not the supplicant. In a different time, with a different pope, she sat here with Cesare while he gave the appearance of waiting on His Holiness’s pleasure, but got what he himself desired.

  She tried not to be impatient. Even with the small obligation Julius might have had toward her, he delayed for ten days before even replying to her request for an audience. Obviously, the hated name Borgia preceded her like a banner. And the favor she had to call in was as threadbare as the hem of her court gown.

  She studied the Swiss Guardsman standing in bright yellow and orange stripes before the door to the Sala dei Santi. Alexander had kept a palace guard as well, but his well-armed veterans were far less visible. She wondered whether the pretty costumes made them better soldiers or worse.

  “Signora Borgia.”

  She spun around as she heard her name. A priest stood at the door to the audience chamber and motioned to her. Adriana gathered her skirts and followed him into the Sala dei Santi. Pope Julius II sat without cushions, somber with ecclesiastical authority under the blues and golds of Pinturicchio’s fresco. He wore no ceremonial vestments, only the pleated white alb tied at the waist by a cord, which covered him down to his silken slippers. The satin mozzetta rested on his shoulders, and the red camauro, bordered in ermine, covered his head. His only ornaments were the jeweled pectoral cross and, on his right index finger, a cameo ring.

  Beside him a massive oaken table was covered with maps, books, and documents. She wondered, briefly, what he read. And yet he seemed breathless, as if he had just come into the room a moment before she did and the regal pose was quickly staged.

  “Holiness.” Adriana knelt before him and kissed first the papal slipper, then the ring of the Pontiff, noting the gnarled strength in his hands.

  She recalled the soft hands of Alexander VI and marveled at the difference between the two popes, the voluptuary and the warrior. There was a curious odor about him, though, not unpleasant, that she could not place. Julius glowered down at her from his throne, a wooden chair with a tall narrow back. Its supporting posts were carved at the top with the acorns of his family crest. As if anyone needed to be reminded.

  “Lady Borgia,” a voice said behind her, and she glanced over her shoulder at the familiar red face of Cardinal Giovanni de’ Medici, as massive in his crimson cassock as Julius was in his white alb. Together they seemed to fill the room, like giant chessmen. But the Cardinal was welcome, as far as she was concerned. In spite of his bullish appearance, the Cardinal was of a calm nature and, more importantly, a friend of Michelangelo.

  “Eminence.” She genuflected quickly and kissed the Cardinal’s ring.

  “Lady Borgia. A pleasure to see you at the Vatican after these several years.”

  She listened for sarcasm, but did not hear it. The man was a master of neutrality.

  “Signora Borgia has a request?” the Pope said, moving to the substance of the audience.

  “Holy Father, I speak on behalf of the artist Michelangelo Buonarroti.”

  “Ah, yes, our Maestro della Sistina.”

  “Yes, Holiness, but Signor Buonarroti has asked me to speak about the new basilica.”

  “Has he?” Julius’s voice was cold.

  Adriana took a breath. “He has asked me to convey that he is aware of the apparent delays in the execution of your wishes, and that he proposes a collaboration with Maestro Bramante, in order to carry them out with greater speed.”

  “Maestro Buonarroti has our commission for the Sistine Chapel. For an enormous sum, I might add. He knows full well that Signor Bramante is in charge of the reconstruction.”

  Adriana glanced briefly over his head at the fresco of Saint Catherine converting the scholars of Alexandria. The saint seemed to look down at her, laughing.

  “If I may be so bold, Holiness. The reconstruction of St. Peter’s is a task beyond the capabilities of a single man, however gifted. Maestro Bramante’s genius is beyond question. So is Michelangelo’s. He wishes only to put the full force of it at your service in such a noble task.”

  “He does not find the painting of our chapel to be sufficiently noble. Is that it?”

  His ring tapped as he beat softly on the wooden arm of his chair. She searched for something to say that he could not twist into accusation. “That is not what I meant, Holiness. Maestro Buonarroti merely offers his talents to the basilica as well. He holds Signor Bramante in the highest regard.”

  Was there any subtle way to remind him of the service she had rendered him? The scowl he already had suggested it would be useless.

  “Signor Buonarroti is a man of great talent, but God has seen fit to enrich Rome with a plenitude of such men. I shall use each one according to my will, which is God’s will.”

  His face began to redden, and he stood up exhaling exasperation. He was vastly more imposing standing than he had been sitting. It was easy to imagine him at the forefront of an army. He did not raise his voice, rather he lowered it ominously, but the intimidation was the same.

  “Signor Buonarroti has been chosen to serve us by painting.” He paused dramatically. “And paint is what he shall do.”

  The audience, which had lasted less than five minutes, was over. He raised his hand and she expected a benediction. But it was only a gesture for the other prelate to escort her to the door. Deeply chagrined, Adriana genuflected once again and kissed the papal ring. In the brief moment his hand was before her face, she recognized the scent. It was a mix of incense and candle smoke.

  She backed toward the door and heard Cardinal de’ Medici beg his leave as well. The gaudy new guardsman snapped to attention. Reeling from the abrupt dismissal, Adriana lowered her eyes as she moved past him into the anteroom. When she looked up once more, she halted. At the opposite end of the room, waiting for her to leave so he could enter, was Gian Pietro Carafa.

  He seemed ageless, but his gaunt face held no vitality, only a forceful trimness. His tonsure was extreme, exposing most of the top of his skull and leaving only a thin ring of closely cropped hair around his head. He had draped his black cloak over a chair as if expecting to stay awhile in the Papal Palace, and he stood slightly hunched in his white Dominican robe. His expression of courteous respect directed toward the other Cardinal shifted to disdain as it fell on her.

  At a faint cough from Cardinal de’ Medici, she turned away from the doorway and fell into step beside him. “Eminence. If I may ask, what is Gian Pietro Carafa doing in Rome?”

  “Carafa? Ah, the reformer. The conscience of the Church, perhaps, or its watchdog. He has come to urge His Holiness to a more rigorous defense of orthodoxy. I believe he also hears confessions at St. Maria del Popolo.”

  “More rigorous? Does this Pope plan to bring the Inquisition to Rome?” Adriana felt a rising dread.

  “Why do you ask? Do you have something to confess?”

  “No, not at all.” She caught herself. “I ask only because I was recently in Spain, in Seville, while he served with Torquemada. My own family was tragically affected.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Signora Borgia. But I cannot speak to the way the Pope may choose to enforce the Inquisition. Regarding Signor Buonarroti, however, I think you need not be so discouraged. I have great respect for him. He was apprenticed in his youth with my family in Florence, and I know him well. But genius alone counts for little with this Pope. He sees himself as the Caesar of God, and he expects the same obedience that a general expects in battle.” De
’ Medici clasped his hands behind his back. “You must explain this to Signor Buonarroti.”

  “And so, the matter is settled then? I can give Michelangelo no hope with regard to the basilica?”

  The Cardinal shook his head. “You miss my point, Lady Borgia. Great temples are built over generations. Michelangelo should finish painting his chapel and bide his time. His day will come. Perhaps with the next Pope.”

  “But Eminence, who is expected to be the next Pope?”

  Cardinal de’ Medici smiled.

  VIII

  Silvio urged his horse closer to the coach where a boy waited holding a cushioned armchair. A footman helped the elderly Annio Piccolomini climb down from the interior of the coach.

  Silvio bent down in the saddle, causing the peregrine falcon on his arm to flutter. “Are you certain you want to do this, Father? It’s surely a strain on you.”

  The old man supported himself on the footman’s shoulder. “Of course I’m certain. I don’t know what awaits me in heaven, but I do know what’s here on my own land. Do you think I want to lie on a stinking sickbed when I can spend a day with you and your falcon?”

  The coachman got down and carried the armchair to a slight promontory overlooking a wide expanse of meadow. With assistance, Annio settled into his seat.

  “Go ahead,” he commanded Silvio. “Set her loose. I’ll have a perfect view of her.”

  “I’m glad we can spend the morning together, you, me, and Freccia. She’s been whistling all morning, longing to be in the air.”

  Silvio gazed lovingly at the hooded raptor perched on his gauntlet, a handsome female haggard caught in the wild. Up close, he could see the subtleties of her plumage, the slate blue back, white feather beard, and high, striated chest. Her long trousered legs were concealed against the white belly crossed by undulations of gray. He lifted the hood and the falcon blinked enormous dark brown eyes, then tilted her narrow head as if deciding which part of the sky to patrol first. “Hoh!” Silvio called, thrusting her upward for her first flight of the day.