Something was strange about him, about his too-soft skin. Did she know him? A new sort of dread assaulted her. Under the layers of clothing between them, the thick doublet and the folds of her own dress, she felt a slender body press against her. The hands that gripped her by the wrists loosened and slid down until he held her gently by the forearms still pressed against the wall, and his fingertips pulsed where they touched her inner arm. In the quiet of the confessional she could hear his breathing and her own.
Then the warm mouth covered hers again, not forcefully but with ardor. With all fear gone and with wine in her blood she kissed him back. She felt the slight touch of his teeth and inhaled his breath, tasted wine on his tongue. Heat spread upward through her and ignited a delicious awareness of her sex that she had not felt since Spain.
At a loud crash behind them, her captor sprang away from her, lurching from the confessional and running toward the altar. Three men had burst through the doors of the sanctuary.
Adriana stepped in front of her friends. “Let him go. I’m unharmed.” She took hold of Silvio’s arm. “It was only a Carnevale prank. Really, it’s nothing. He’ll simply have a brave story to tell his friends.”
In a moment, the abductor was gone.
They stood in a little group in the nave between two lanterns, and she pulled off the narrow silk mask she had worn the entire evening. The others were already unmasked, sobered by the stabbing. Still breathless, she focused finally on the third man who had come in. Urbino, Michelangelo’s manservant. All three were somber.
“What’s going on?”
Urbino spoke. “There is something you must see, Madama.”
He held out a callused hand. At the center of his palm lay a small Greek cross, with tiny rubies, like drops of jeweled blood at the four ends.
“Domenico’s cross?” Confused, Adriana looked in the direction where her abductor had just fled, then back at Urbino. “Where did you get this?”
“A young man from the Castel Sant’ Angelo brought it to the house on behalf of Signor Raggi. It was good that Signor Buonarroti told me he would eat at the Piazza Venezia. I was able to find him.”
“What does that mean? Is Domenico all right?”
Michelangelo laid his hand gently on her arm. “Adriana, Domenico has been arrested.”
“Arrested? When?” Adriana stammered. “For what crime?”
“It was Carafa. God’s hound. He sent out men to patrol the streets for prostitutes. Domenico was found with one in the Trastevere.”
“That’s impossible. He could not…could he?”
“I assure you, many can,” Silvio interjected. “If the surgeon cuts skillfully. Women who know from experience have told me this.”
“Where is he?” she asked weakly, dropping down on a bench.
“In the prison at Castel Sant’ Angelo, Signora. They brought him just a few hours ago, Urbino said.”
Michelangelo sat down next to her. “Do you have money? If we can get to him before Carafa does, he has a chance.”
“Money?” She patted the silk purse that hung at her waist. “Do you think that will help? Here, take it all.” Fumbling, she untied the coin purse and pressed it into his hand.
“Consorting with prostitutes is not a crime, especially not at Carnevale.” Silvio tried to sound reassuring. “It is only an offense because he belongs to the Church and has taken vows. I’ll talk to my father. He still has friends at the Vatican who can help. But you must go to Sant’ Angelo immediately, before he’s formally charged.”
Michelangelo hefted the coin purse, measuring its weight. “If justice can’t save him, let’s see what avarice will do.”
XX
Adriana was well acquainted with the Castel Sant’ Angelo, a vast stone silo surrounded by an exterior wall and four bastions. It had been a mausoleum, a fortress, and a wartime papal residence. The elegant apartments the Borgia Pope had made in the middle of it all surmounted a dungeon, the stuff of nightmares. Tonight, against the star-filled sky, the Castel was black and terrifying, the crenellations on its battlements like a row of teeth. She was nauseous with fear.
“Will they even open the door to us?”
“I know a sergeant with the prison guard. He was a stonecutter once in the quarries at Carrara until the blasting powder took away half of his foot. He should remember me.”
Michelangelo hammered on the heavy oaken door. A porter opened it, pale under a layer of grime. He peered at them through bloodshot eyes, uncertain of their rank.
“I look for Sergeant Bueti. Bruno Bueti. Tell him Michelangelo, who owes him money, is here to pay him.”
Muttering, the porter closed the door again and they waited in silence. Bats fluttered overhead and something small scurried along the bottom of the wall.
Finally the oak slab swung open. A giant of a man stood in the doorway and squinted out at them, his mottled face frowning in consternation. “Who claims to be…oh! Signore. It is you. What are you doing here?”
Michelangelo interrupted him. “Signor Bueti. I’ve looked for you everywhere. Here, I am a man of honor and I owe you this for the special block of marble that you cut for me.” He pressed several coins into the man’s right hand. The other guard, still behind him, tried to peer past his shoulder at the transaction.
“Uhh…all right.” The sergeant’s hand closed around the coins. “Is that it, then?”
“No, my friend. I have another offer to make. Can we talk inside?”
“Offer? Yes…all right.” The two of them stepped into the prison corridor. The other soldier disappeared into a side room. Rough male laughter wafted through the briefly open doorway.
Michelangelo came quickly to the point. “You have a prisoner, Domenico Raggi, arrested just hours ago. We’d like to see him and will pay for the privilege.”
“No need for that, Signore. You’ve already paid.” Bueti took up a lantern, glancing sideways at Michelangelo. “Because I never cut a special block of marble for you. Come on. I’ll take you down to the cells myself.”
The giant led them down a wooden staircase into a narrow corridor, rocking noticeably each time his weight shifted onto the mutilated foot. His lantern brought a train of light into the dismal passageway. Gargoyle shadows danced diagonally alongside them as they walked. Adriana was assaulted by the stench and held her handkerchief to her mouth. She could not see into the tiny cells, which she knew were too low for a man to stand up and too narrow for him to lie down, but the moans that came from some of them were worse than the sight of the prisoner himself.
With her other hand she held her skirts away from the stone walls, grimy with soot from the smoke of the lanterns at both ends of the corridors.
The taciturn sergeant led them ever deeper through the labyrinth, each level more suffocating. “You can’t stay long. Five minutes, or you’ll get me in trouble.” He unhooked an iron key from his belt and opened a narrow wooden door.
The cell, mercifully, was larger than most, with room for them to enter. A lantern already there shone on a man huddled on the straw of the stone floor, one hand clutching a rosary. Adriana knelt down next to him and touched his shoulder. “Domenico, dear. Are you all right? Have they hurt you?”
Domenico blinked for a moment, then took hold of her arm. “Lady Adriana. Oh, my prayers have been answered. No, I’m not hurt.”
Michelangelo sat down across from him on the straw and placed the lantern between them. “We must find out if you’ve been charged by the magistrate. If not, we’ll try to get you out.”
He took hold of Michelangelo’s hand. “But I’m guilty, Signore. They know it.”
“That’s between you and God, Domenico. If you—” Michelangelo stopped, sudden dread apparent in Domenico’s face, and looked behind him.
The gaunt form of Gian Pietro Carafa stood in the doorway. Lit from the lantern on the floor, his bony face was a death’s head. Wordlessly, he slid his glance from side to side across all three of them.
D
omenico pressed his hands together. The rosary still dangled from the right hand. “Father, these are my friends who counsel me to repent before God.”
The Dominican ran his hand down his white robe to his crucifix. “I know who they are. You, Madama, are one of the Borgia fornicators. And you, Signore, are His Holiness’s painter who has overstepped his authority here.”
Michelangelo struggled to stand up in the crowded cell. “Eminence is correct. But this boy is also the Pope’s servant. If I can bring him back chastened, surely His Holiness will be pleased. Besides, to lie with a woman at Carnevale is not a mortal sin.”
Carafa exhaled slowly and tilted his gaunt head. “He polluted himself with a man.”
Michelangelo dropped his eyes for perhaps too long a moment. “It does not matter, as long as he is contrite, Eminence. God has mercy on those who struggle with themselves.”
“Your knowledge of Scripture is faulty.” The Dominican raised a bony index finger. “‘Whosoever shall commit this abomination shall be cut off from among the people and cast into the fire.’” He let the word “fire” hang in the air for a long moment. Then he added, “However,” and paused again to make sure he had everyone’s full attention. “His Holiness takes a personal interest in his chapel singer, and of course we reported the arrest to him immediately.” Carafa spoke directly to the prisoner. “Out of his inexhaustible mercy, he has decided to pardon you. Therefore, the Holy Office will look with clemency on the sinner this one time. But you are confined to the chapel for a month. Any hint of a violation will result in the direst consequences.” The Cardinal paused again, to let his words have their effect before he unlocked the shackles around Domenico’s hands.
“As for you, Signora,” he turned his tight face toward Adriana. “The Borgia have been purged from the Vatican, and Providence has punished the crimes of Alexander’s children. But be warned. The Church turns its righteous eyes upon the sinner and the sodomite, and the fire shall consume them.” He pulled his black cloak around him with a gesture of finality and marched back along the hellish corridor. The cell door behind him remained open.
“I think you are free now.” Michelangelo pulled Domenico up to his feet. “Let’s get out of here before there is any doubt about that.”
Domenico rubbed his chafed wrists. “Signore, there was a guard, Claudio, who showed me a great kindness. It was he who brought the message to your house. Please, can you grant him some reward? I’ll find a way to repay you.”
As they came out of the cell, the sergeant stood in the corridor. Michelangelo addressed him. “Signor Bueti, you have a soldier named Claudio who sent the message to me, and we would like to thank him. Is he on duty?”
The big man looked puzzled. “Claudio is my son. He’s been off duty since ten, but he usually returns to accompany me home. It’s possible he’s in the common room with the others. They’ll be washing off the smell of the prison.”
The sergeant led them up the several wooden staircases to the guardroom next to the portal. Without comment, he ushered Michelangelo inside, leaving the door behind him slightly ajar. Through the opening Adriana could see some half-dozen men sitting on benches in various states of undress. They washed from basins of water on the floor and laughed raucously at some remark. Close to the door, a young man bent his right arm awkwardly backward to scrub his lower back.
“Claudio,” the sergeant said. The man near the door twisted around awkwardly, threw his drying cloth over his shoulder, and leaned back on his arm. Extraordinarily, the face atop the muscular body was almost feminine and completely at odds with the brutal surroundings. The sergeant stopped in front of him.
“That’s him,” Domenico said from the corridor. “The man who helped me.”
Michelangelo touched the naked shoulder lightly. “For your kindness,” he said simply, and handed the man a silver coin.
The young soldier looked at the coin in his hand and then up at his benefactor. “You’re Michelangelo, who is painting in the Pope’s chapel?”
Michelangelo nodded and the guardsman continued. “We’re not all beasts and torturers down here, sir. Some of us dream of being in the palace guard in a pretty uniform.”
The gruff sergeant’s voice interrupted his son. “Signor Buonarroti is not interested in our dreams, Claudio.” He drew Michelangelo toward the doorway, terminating the meeting. “Signore, it’s better you should take your friend away before the morning guard arrives. You’ll just have to explain everything to them.”
“I’m grateful to you both, Signor Bueti. If there is ever something I can do…” Michelangelo pulled the door behind him, but a hand drew it back again and a voice said behind him, “Signore, if you please, I’m a good Christian. Paint me in heaven.” A second, rougher voice added, “Paint us all in heaven!” The laughter came again.
Michelangelo said nothing as he threw his weight against the prison portal and guided the shaken Domenico to freedom.
XXI
They walked awhile in the pre-dawn light without speaking, for the air held a dozen questions and all of them were dangerous.
Finally Adriana broke the silence. “I just don’t understand. Why did you do it?”
Domenico was slow to reply. Then he said with obvious frustration, “The night watch—they butchered the man I was with, like a dog.”
“That does not answer the lady’s question,” Michelangelo said.
“I’m sorry, Lady Adriana.” Domenico took a breath. “I suppose it was just loneliness.”
Michelangelo became conciliatory. “We’re all lonely. God has given you this fate as He has given a fate to me and to Lady Adriana. You have His precious gift in your throat, but it comes with a price.”
“A price? Forgive me, Signore, but you have little appreciation of the price I’ve paid. I am a servant of the Church, not by choice but because of a brutal transaction that was forced on me as a child. They say I owe them my life in return, but it’s a debt I never did contract and cannot answer.”
“These are not the words of a man who is contrite,” Michelangelo said coolly.
“I don’t know what I am. My head is full of locusts.” Domenico rubbed his forehead.
Adriana put her arm around him. “You’ll have time to sort things out during your confinement, and it can’t be so terrible being in the chapel.”
“Do you think locking me in the Vatican will change anything?” His voice was suddenly plaintive. “You don’t know.”
They came to the alley that led to the basement of the Sistine Chapel. Outside the open doorway, Paris de Grassis stood with his hands on his hips. The Master of Ceremonies was obviously furious, and Adriana did not envy Domenico the berating he would have to endure. She kissed him again and the softness of his face reminded her suddenly of another soft cheek that night. Was it the same night, only a few hours before? She felt a small guilt-ridden pleasure at the memory.
Domenico shook hands with Michelangelo. “Pray that the Virgin keeps us all safe. Good-bye,” he said, and walked like a condemned man toward the Master of Ceremonies.
As they made their way back to Adriana’s lodging, Michelangelo was hunched over with weariness. “Sin is always close by, isn’t it, always breathing in your ear. A man was murdered tonight in front of us for a little bit of greed, and another was killed for…” He seemed to search for the right word. “For unpermitted pleasure.”
“Why is that particular pleasure unpermitted, I wonder?” she remarked.
“A strange question, but speaking of that, just what did you do with that masked boy last night, anyhow?”
“Nothing. A simple embrace. I don’t want to talk about it. Carnevale is over and we’ve seen how temptations lead to disaster. I wish to live within the law.”
“I do too,” Michelangelo grumbled. “And I can tell you that if you want to keep temptation away, you must exhaust yourself with occupation. Build something or tear something down. Myself, I cut stones and spread plaster. After a day of that, there�
��s no time for anything but sleep. And if you should fall nonetheless, seek forgiveness.”
“In the confessional?” She thought again of a mouth that tasted of wine. “No, I don’t think so.”
*
Later in the morning Adriana’s coach pulled up to the Villa Borgia. Ever alert, Jacopo stood waiting even before the horses had stopped. “Is My Lady well?” He offered his hand.
“I’m fine. How goes the household?” She gathered the folds of her skirt and let herself be helped to the ground.
Jacopo did not reply at once, but as they walked along the path to the entrance he said gently, “I don’t wish to alarm you, My Lady, but the lower aqueduct collapsed yesterday afternoon. We brought water by bucket for the house and the garden this morning.”
“That too,” she said softly. She walked with the housemaster through the garden and noticed at once how quiet it was. With the fountain stilled, she could hear only the buzzing of bees and the crunching of gravel under their feet. They followed the course of the clay pipeline to the beginning of the stone aqueduct. Holding the bottom of her skirt over her arm, she bent over the sodden ground. The damage was grave. Not only had the concrete juncture with the villa pipeline disintegrated, but the remaining masonry had also crumbled. A large stone was rolled up against the cavity and straw packed around it, but water still trickled through.
“‘Exhaust yourself,’” she muttered. “‘Build something, or tear it down.’ All right, Michelo, we’ll try it your way,” she said to no one in particular and clambered down the hill.
*
The sun was set by the time she had fully inspected the problem, unpacked, and eaten her supper. She stared out the window onto the villa grounds and could hear the gardeners talking as they stopped work for the day. The sky was cobalt, and against the murky backdrop of the garden, Carnevale images still haunted her. A raucous parade and a river of flames, forbidden fondling, the dungeons of the Church, and the memory—which seemed never to fade—of the blood on her own hands. Now she had found the perfect penance.
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