Adriana laughed out loud, remembering the conversation that had taken place at her bedside. It was a sketch of God’s backside.
She was startled when she heard someone outside the door. Abashed, she hurriedly closed the notebook and glanced up. A woman spoke, and she knew the voice. Adriana caught her breath as the door swung open.
Raphaela Bramante stopped on the threshold, her expression registering alarm.
*
Adriana raised her hand. “It’s all right, Signorina Bramante. I know of your disguise.”
The young painter paused for a moment, absorbing the revelation, then came into the workshop. She set a bundle of rolled-up cartoons on the worktable.
“Lady Borgia, good afternoon.”
“You remember me from the chapel?” Adriana realized the question was foolish. The Borgia reputation was not yet eradicated, and few people forgot encountering her.
Raphaela pulled off the bulky cap that had contained her hair, and honey-colored curls suddenly ringed her face like a wreath. “Oh, I recall you from long before that.”
Her voice was only slightly less husky than that of a real male and held a surprising authority. Although she had the appearance of a boy, her manner was adult, assured.
Adriana was uncertain how to speak to her. The late-afternoon sun that lit and warmed the studio seemed to offer a place for intimate conversation, but they were, on the face of things, strangers. Distant sounds from the street drifted through the window.
Raphaela took off the loose jerkin she wore over her work clothes and dropped it over the back of a chair. “I understand you were infirmed recently. You are recovered, I trust?” Her hand lingered on the jerkin, the fingers tapping on the soft leather. “You look recovered. I mean, you look as I remember you. That afternoon on the high scaffold…in skirts. Impressive.” The fingers drummed again.
“Was I? I astonished myself climbing up there. And nearly killed myself climbing down.”
“I remember. You wouldn’t let me help you.”
“I would have just pulled us both down to disaster.” Adriana laughed lightly, nervously. Her fingers also took on a life of their own, brushing dust off the work table.
“Do you still have the medallion?”
“Yes, at home.” She fingered the place on her bodice where it would have hung.
Raphaela glanced toward the door, as if awakening. “I’m sorry, but my father will be here shortly, and he must not know about the clothing. You understand.” She opened a narrow wardrobe behind the studio door, took out a simple overdress, discarded the canvas apron, and pulled the long painter’s smock over her head.
“Shall I leave?” Adriana asked.
“No. We can talk while I change.” Standing in her undergown, she poured water from a pitcher into a wide bowl and splashed her face and neck. Her honey-colored hair was still pinned up tightly at the back of her head, the baggy trousers still concealed her hips, but her breasts, visible through the damp shift, revealed the woman. Adriana averted her eyes, but they were drawn back again, irresistibly.
Raphaela undid the cord holding up her trousers and let them drop to the floor. The light underdress that had been drawn up inside the trousers now fell to her feet. Smoothing the underskirt, she stepped into the sleeveless blue overdress and pulled it up to her shoulders. She reached back with one arm, struggling to fasten the buttons at the rear.
“I’m sorry. My arms are so very tired, I can hardly lift them. We have to paint over our heads for so many hours. Could you…?”
Adriana hesitated. The last time she rendered such a service was with Lucrezia, and that had ended in girlish intimacy.
“Of course.” Nervously, she threaded the buttons into their eyelets, then retreated, clasping her hands as though to bring them back in line.
Raphaela undid the mass of hair at the back of her head, brushed out the plaster dust, and straightened the center part before twisting the long amber strands into a knot. She fastened it in place with a jeweled hairpin that briefly caught the light and sparkled, like a brilliant thought.
The upraised arms showed a subtle musculature, hinting at virility. Then with the efficiency of someone who did it frequently, she applied rouge and tint to her lips, and put on tiny pearl earrings. Raphaela Bramante was complete, but Adriana had seen the boy Carlo and could see him still.
“Why did you want to do it?” Adriana asked, taking up the sleeves that hung over the back of a chair.
Raphaela’s eyebrows went up slightly as she pulled on the sleeves and tied them at the shoulder. “Do what?”
“Paint for him. With all those men around.”
“You must take risks. When some extraordinary thing comes along, you must seize it and not be afraid.”
“Some would call that wild talk from a woman.” Adriana suppressed a smile.
“Wild?” Raphaela seemed to consider the word. “Michelangelo is the one who’s wild, not me, though he mostly paints it into his figures.” She leaned back against the windowsill and her lips fell open slightly as she studied Adriana. “You convinced him to take me, didn’t you? Why?”
Adriana hesitated. “I saw your work and thought it was good.”
“My work?”
“Yes, the frescos you did in the Palazzo Piccolomini. Hippolyta and Europa. Perhaps it was my vanity, but I thought I saw something of myself in them.”
“You think it was you I painted? Ravished by a bull?”
Adriana searched Raphaela’s expression for playfulness that would have admitted to the game, that she had toyed with Adriana’s image and had, in her painter’s mind, shamelessly undressed her.
Raphaela’s glance was penetrating, intensely interested, but opaque. Adriana would have to be the one to suggest that something intimate had gone on, and she lacked the courage.
“I don’t know. Perhaps I imagined I saw—”
The clatter of horses’ hooves interrupted them. Raphaela snatched up the bag of brushes and rags and hurried toward the door.
“It’s best if he does not come in.”
Adriana followed her out to the street. The sky was a blazing furnace of red, with horizontal streaks of scarlet and purple shot through it. In the foreground Trajan’s Column jutted black and stark against the rare brilliance. The setting sun cast a deep orange glow across Raphaela’s face, as if she smoldered. She mounted and looked down with a certain expectancy in her expression as though waiting for Adriana to finish her remark.
But the moment passed, and Donato Bramante nodded a polite but short greeting that suggested they were in a hurry. “I wish you both good evening” was all Adriana could think of saying. The Bramantes were halfway down the street as Michelangelo arrived.
*
“I’m sorry if I stink of plaster.” Michelangelo dropped a bulky sack onto the floor as they entered his studio. The dull wooden clatter suggested it was paintbrushes. He stared at the pigment on his fingers, distracted. “Have you come all the way into Rome just to see me?”
“You said I should visit you. That we had things to talk about.”
“Did I? I don’t remember.”
He fished several brushes from the cloth bag and placed them in a ceramic basin. Clearly exhausted and muscle-sore, he fetched a pitcher of water and poured it over the brushes. Tendrils of red, green, and ochre curled out from them and blended into clouds of grayish brown.
Adriana had a sinking feeling of having misjudged his invitation and tried to laugh. “You said we both had our secrets. There must have been something on your mind for you to say that.”
“No, nothing that I recall. Well…” His tone became matter-of-fact. “I did want to ask you about Domenico. Do you see him often, I mean outside the chapel?” Not meeting her glance, he arranged the brushes on a clean rag, wiping the shafts and pressing out the last of the color from the bristles with another.
“Not since he was in my sickroom, the same time you were there.”
“Of course. But we
both were so concerned about you that we hardly exchanged any words. I thought it would be nice if…” He hesitated.
“Nice if what?”
He continued to wipe his brushes, though they seemed to be dry. “The Carnevale parade is in two days, and the Piccolomini will sponsor a carro allegorico. Silvio finds you interesting, and Domenico seems like a close friend. I thought I’d propose that the four of us go to see the parade. You know, you, me, and Domenico. None of us get out much. It would do us all good to be a little wild for an evening.”
Adriana shook her head. “Unless things have changed, Domenico will not be allowed out of the chapel school without permission from the Master of Ceremonies, and Paris de Grassis will certainly refuse it. He’s not going to let his most important soprano run through the streets at Carnevale.”
Michelangelo seemed disappointed. “All right. But what about you?”
“You mean stand in the street with all the drunks? I don’t think so.”
“Silvio and I will protect you. Besides, knowing Silvio, I’m sure his float will be something classical and arcane that no one will understand except us. We’ll be the only ones applauding. Please say you’ll come.”
“I don’t know, Michelo. It could be dangerous.”
“Silvio did save your life, after all, by bringing those doctors,” he cajoled. “You owe him this.”
“Blackmailer.” She folded her arms. “You know, a lot of things happen at Carnevale. It’s not safe for a lady to be in the streets then.”
Michelangelo pressed his right hand, which still held a paintbrush, to his heart. “On my honor, Adriana. No man shall lay a hand on you at Carnevale.”
XVII
February 1509
Adriana stood with Michelangelo and Silvio Piccolomini in the jostling crowd of revelers in the Piazza Venezia. Distrustful of the hordes of anonymous and disguised people, she tucked her marble medallion inside her dress. “I’ve never been in the streets at Carnevale before,” she shouted over the noise. “And now I remember why. It’s madness.”
“A little bit of madness will do us all good.” Michelangelo set a Jupiter mask over his face and adjusted it on his imperfect nose. “As for me, I can use the inspiration.”
“And you think staring at drunken men and women in costumes will stir your artistic visions?” Silvio’s laugh was muffled by the silver mask that covered his face. When he turned his head the myriad tiny bells surrounding the mask tinkled softly.
Before Michelangelo could reply, the bells in the Campidoglio Tower chimed and the long-awaited salvo of artillery thundered, signaling the start of the Trionfo parade. The crowd surged toward the street in the roiling colors of their costumes and banners.
The parade itself began with the continuous rattatat-rattatat of marching drummers. At the front, ranks of gonfalonieri carried the heraldic standards of each guild and confraternity. Mummers followed with pennants, scattering confetti as they marched. Then the carri commenced, the great parade of chariots and horse-drawn floats.
Religious scenes led the procession. Archangel Michael, resplendent in golden breastplate and greaves, stood with buskined foot on the devil’s chest. The crowd cheered. “The militant angel. Of course,” Silvio muttered. “To remind us of the Church’s triumph over Darkness.” He sounded amused.
Other pious floats came after: the Annunciation with a kneeling Angel Gabriel in multicolored wooden wings, and Noah’s ark, complete with tethered animals.
The Virgin followed, extravagantly haloed in a sparkling headdress and holding a real and slightly bewildered child to her breast. Four cherubs knelt before them singing “Laudate Virginum,” though it could scarcely be heard above the street noise. Silvio chuckled again.
“Enough of Rome’s Christian conscience. Now we’ll see what Carnevale is really about!”
In fact, the noise of the crowd rose a degree in volume as an enormous golden she-wolf, the ancient animal symbol of Rome, drew past with her Romulus and Remus beneath her. Two dwarfs wrapped ludicrously in golden swaddling pretended to suckle, to lewd shouting from the crowd.
The next float bore Mt. Parnassus and the god Apollo, his curls bubbling up from his head, his clamys draped over his arm, and his nine muses in a circle at his feet.
Silvio grasped Michelangelo by the shoulder. “Look, there’s the Piccolomini float.” A new tableau edged toward them. Five burly women sat in a circle. Each one wore bright exotic dress, and each one struck a pose with a great manuscript made of wood. The pages, more than a meter square, were woven straw painted to look like vellum. “How do you like it?”
Adriana leaned between them and watched as the float rolled past. “What is it?”
“Don’t you recognize them? Those are the sibyls. From Virgil’s Eclogue. It’s my best joke. The Church says the sibyls prophesied the coming of Christ, but they did no such thing. They merely repeated the same old stuff the ancients were always prophesying. No mention of Christ. None. The Church simply laid claim to the sibyls, spreading Christianity backward, as it were.”
“What’s the joke, then?” Adriana asked. “Your sibyls are not even women. They’re men in dresses. Ugly, too. What’s the point?”
The tiny bells of Silvio’s mask tinkled as he shook his head. He spoke slowly, against the background noise of the crowd. “The joke is that the Church took pagans and dressed them as Christians. I’ve hired men and dressed them as women. Don’t you take my jest?”
Laughter came from under the white Jupiter mask. “Silvio, there are not twenty people in all of Rome who read Virgil and will recognize who these women are. And only three of us who ‘take your jest.’ It is just as well, too, for if anyone heard you talking like that, you’d be hauled off as a heretic.”
His words were drowned as a great roar broke out from all around them and Michelangelo pointed with his thumb.
“Now there is someone that everyone recognizes!”
In gold armor, his shining helmet topped by an opulent mass of red plumes, a Roman general swung his sword over his head. A phalanx of centurions clanked behind him, dragging a string of captives.
“Caesar, of course. The Romans do love their emperor,” Silvio commented dryly.
“Yes, but they love him even more.” Michelangelo looked toward the final float, the feathered chariot of Bacchus, drawn by six men in panther skins. A wreath of grape vine sat tilted on the god’s head, and he held a goblet of wine. He took a long pull from the goblet, then tossed the dregs in a wide arc into the air.
The crowd screamed approval, massing together behind the chariot and closing up the avenue.
“Ah, that reminds me.” Michelangelo uncorked the wineskin he had been carrying on his shoulder. He held it up high and tipped it, letting a long stream pour into his mouth. Then he wiped the back of his hand along his lips and offered the skin to Adriana.
“Here, this will wash the parade dust from your mouth.”
“Don’t be shy, Adriana,” Silvio said reassuringly. “Everyone’s drinking, and it will be a long, dry wait until the banquet.” He took the wineskin from Michelangelo and pressed it into her hand.
“All right. Just a little. To wash out the dust.” She swallowed the strong Corsican wine and immediately felt warmth and a lightness of head. She ought to have eaten beforehand. But no matter, there would be a feast later, at the Palazzo Venezia. She handed the wineskin back to Silvio, who held it up in salute.
“To Adriana, then.” He undid his mask, which tinkled in protest, and hooked it onto his belt. After sweeping his fingers quickly through his thick hair, he struck a pose and raised the skin to take a long drink.
“I see that the crowd cheered the old gods more than the saints.” Silvio dabbed at his lips with a silk handkerchief and set his mask back on.
“The crowd cheers everything.” Adriana scoffed. “If the devil himself had appeared on horseback they would have applauded him.”
Silvio laughed. “Now that you mention it, I’m sure I saw
the devil in the crowd, with his hand in a woman’s dress.”
Adriana laughed with him. “There will be thousands of that kind of devils on the streets tonight.”
“No doubt.” Silvio took hold of her hand and pulled her along toward the Piazza del Popolo. “All the demons are loose now. Who knows what the night will bring?”
*
Donato Bramante coughed into his handkerchief and fell back against a pile of pillows.
“This is the third time since summer that you’ve taken sick, Father.” Raphaela turned away from the window and came to his bedside. “It’s the dust you breathe knocking around all the city’s ruins. You’ve got to stop doing that.” She handed him the cup of lemon and wine that stood on his bed table, and he took a long drink. “I don’t want to lose you.”
“You’re right, I know.” He sighed. “But there’s so much to do.”
“Well, you can’t work during Carnevale anyhow. They have the ruins on the Palantine roped off. They wouldn’t let you cross the line.”
“They’re just the petty rules drawn by men for their own convenience. I’d find a way to cross them.”
Raphaela smiled, thinking about her daily ruse working with Michelangelo. “I’ll remember that you said that.”
He settled back on his pillows again. “A man must take a few risks, or he will spend his whole life in shallow waters.”
“A woman too,” Raphaela added.
Her father glanced sideways at her and frowned. “I did not mean that to be paternal advice, my dear. Risk does not suit a woman. You already take too much risk living as a painter. I would much rather see you married to one.”
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