Sistine Heresy
Page 17
A window shutter suddenly slammed and they broke apart. Overhead the window to Michelangelo’s room had shut, as if in revulsion. Adriana sprang up. “You must go. Please.”
“As you wish.” The young woman stood up reluctantly, reaching out to touch the crimson velvet one last time. “But I’ll wait. I swear to you. I will wait.”
Adriana watched Raphaela Bramante walk back along the dark path to the house, her pale hair seeming to give off a light of its own, and she whispered after her.
“Do not.”
*
Domenico stood before the small shrine in his room and lit a second candle. He was used to praying to the Madonna when he longed for something but now, of course, it was out of the question. He couldn’t pray for a sin, and the long silence since dinner made it clear that there would be no temptation.
He slid off the calfskin boots that came above his knees and set them aside. Brooding, he undid the ties that held his soft leather leggings to his doublet and drew them off, draping them over a chair. It was just as well. He would surely have had to pay for such an infidelity. He would inevitably have been found out, and every such transgression was more severely punished. It had already cost one poor man his life. The urge for love was sometimes ferocious, but in seeking it, he walked a knife’s edge that jeopardized his life and soul. Perhaps this night, he would simply pray.
Lethargically, he unbuttoned the long row of tiny gold buttons that ran down the center of his doublet and shrugged it off. It was pleasantly cool to stand bare-legged and in the wide linen shirt that was his undergarment.
Then the knock came. He caught his breath. “Come in.”
Michelangelo stood in the doorway, backlit by the upstairs torch. “Do I disturb you?” he asked, and then came in, closing the door behind him.
“No, of course not.” Domenico’s voice was almost a whisper.
Michelangelo carefully latched the door and leaned against it, stroking his beard.
“I am puzzled.”
“Puzzled, Signore?”
Michelangelo closed the distance between them cautiously. “Seeing you from afar, in the chapel service, makes me feel the presence of God. But closeness to you does just the opposite. It pushes God away and tempts to impure thoughts.”
“I cannot help other men’s thoughts, Signore. I struggle enough with my own.”
“Struggle. Yes, that’s the right word. And when the temptation is so beautiful, one is bound to fall.” Michelangelo touched the front of Domenico’s shirt. “Are you as attractive in form as you are in face?” His hands trembling, he undid the ties that held the shirt closed.
“Some men see me that way, but others find me strange.” Domenico took Michelangelo’s hand and slid it inside the shirt. “How do you find me?”
His chest was wider than that of a normal man, the musculature undefined, yet Michelangelo seemed to like the adolescent smoothness. His coarse hand moved all over the soft skin under the cloth, claiming him, pinching his nipples, hurting him just a little, just enough to arouse him. Then it withdrew.
“I can’t say, until I see you.”
Wordlessly, Domenico pulled the long shirt over his head and stood, almost defiantly, naked but for a hand’s width of white linen tied with a cord just below his navel. Michelangelo’s eyes went immediately to the bulge beneath and his eyes half closed.
Domenico liked being looked at that way. “You’re curious, aren’t you? To find out what’s still there. I can tell you, there’s everything necessary to please you.”
“You already please me.” Michelangelo kissed one of the dark nipples. His lips were kinder than his fingers were, but the flick of his tongue caused Domenico to shudder.
“I want to know what gives you pleasure,” he breathed, sliding his hand down to gently squeeze the warm flesh that swelled under the linen.
“That gives me pleasure,” Domenico murmured, opening to Michelangelo’s long, invasive kiss. Their tongues curled around each other, Michelangelo’s mouth just on the edge of rough, until Domenico broke away and sat down on the bed. “The door. No one must see.”
“It’s locked. But wait.” Michelangelo went around the foot of the bed to the window. Without looking out, he seized the brass handle and yanked the shutter closed. “No one must hear, either.” He came around to stand before Domenico’s knees, rocking slightly. Then he pulled off his own shirt and trousers, undid his linen breeches, and let them fall. His excitement was obvious.
Domenico leaned back, supporting himself on his elbows, and stared at the flesh about to invade him. He shivered with anticipation. “You are the kind of man I want to belong to.”
Michelangelo clambered onto the bed to kneel astride Domenico’s knees. “Let me see the kind of man you are,” he said, untying and then pulling away the remaining piece of linen.
Over shrunken testicles Domenico’s dark phallus swelled to its full length. “Ah,” Michelangelo whispered. “As much a man as I am.”
Domenico pulled Michelangelo’s face to his own so that they curved toward each other, one over and one under. “Tell me what you like,” he whispered. “I am accustomed to obeying.”
XXVI
June 1510—Upon this Rock
“That swine! A plague on him and his Borgia slut of a wife! I knew Alfonso would defy me, but not this far!” Pope Julius crumpled the parchment and slammed it onto his table. “To go over to the French completely, this is too much.”
“Calm yourself, Holiness.” Paris de Grassis set his daybook aside and poured the Pontiff a cup of wine. “What’s done can be undone. Alliances are fragile things. I should think a suggestion of excommunication would sway the Duke.”
“Excommunication is the least of it. This requires a hammer blow, and he will learn that I can deliver one. He thinks I need him, but he’s mistaken. His cannon made a good show shooting across a river at floating Venetian galleys, but they will not stand up so well to six thousand Swiss professional soldiers streaming down a hillside.”
“You are prepared to declare war, Holiness?”
“I am, Master de Grassis. On Ferrara and the French.” He snapped his fingers. “Take notes.”
The Master of Ceremonies uncorked his ink bottle and opened his daybook. Julius tapped on the still-blank page. “First, we will conscript the Cardinals. It will do them some good to exchange their white mules for war horses and to defend the Church with force instead of prayer.”
De Grassis wrote as dictated. “Prayer, of course too, Holiness. We must call a special mass.”
“Yes, yes. A mass. Of course. See to it. All in God’s name. We will also carry the blessed host before us into battle. Always inspires the troops.”
De Grassis scribbled again. “What about the French Cardinals? I rather think they are not reliable in this case.”
“Arrest them if they refuse.” He stared into empty air, calculating. “The best strategy would be to rally in Viterbo. I’ll address the armies and then go on to Ostia, to sail north while the troops march overland. Bologna will fall like a rotten fig, as it did before, and then it’s only a short march to Ferrara and Alfonso.”
“You will lead them, Holiness? De Grassis stopped writing. “Wouldn’t it be better left to a younger man? Your nephew, the Duke of Urbino, for example?”
“Absolutely not. I am not one of your limp prelates who twirls his rosary while his troops are in the field. What is a Pope if not a general of God’s Christian soldiers?”
De Grassis resumed writing. “Yes, Holiness, although I believe the image is usually ‘shepherd’ rather than general. But be that as it may, there is the issue of finance. After the basilica and Belvedere projects, and the clearing of the Via Papalis, not to mention the outfitting of the Swiss troops, the treasury is in a lamentable state. I believe a large payment is also due to Signor Buonarroti.”
Julius scowled. He hated it when the subject turned to money; the news was always bad. “We will have to issue another Bull of Indulgenc
es. Surely we have Dominicans who can carry letters to the northern cities.”
“Alas, Holiness. Letters of Indulgence are already circulating in Germany and as far south as Milan. Questares are collecting closer to Rome as well, but I am not sure who they are. In any case, we must be careful not to oversell indulgences, lest they be cheapened by familiarity.”
Julius pressed a knuckle to his lower lip. “Infuriating, to have a war and no funds for it. We can at least postpone payment to Michelangelo. I will explain the reason to him. Would you see to it that he is summoned to me this afternoon?”
“Unfortunately, he has gone to Tivoli, Holiness. Along with Cardinal de’ Medici, as guests of Lady Borgia, I believe. I will leave word for him to attend you upon his return.”
“Thwarted everywhere,” Julius muttered. He took a long drink of the wine that de Grassis had poured, then spoke with forced calm. “The war will go forward. We cannot allow Ferrara to ally with the French. You have your instructions, Master de Grassis.”
“Yes, Holiness.” The Master of Ceremonies made the obeisance, but while he stood in the open doorway, Julius had an afterthought.
“All events seem to conspire against me, Master de Grassis, and my head is about to explode. Please have my chapel singer sent to me. That will calm me.”
De Grassis glanced away. “I’m afraid I cannot, Holiness. Domenico Raggi has requested leave to join Michelangelo and Cardinal de’ Medici. Given the presence of the Cardinal, we granted, it of course,” he said, as he backed out.
With sudden fury, Julius threw his goblet against the closed door. It landed with a crash, and wine dribbled in streaks down the polished wood onto the marble floor.
*
At the foot of the path the new colonnade marked the border of the estate. Its eight fluted Corinthian columns were joined at the top by a simple curved architrave. Before them, a rectangular pool lay perpendicular to the garden path. At each corner of the pool, nymphs crouched in chitons tipping their urns, and at the center of the pool the new statue stood still concealed by a loose cloth.
Adriana walked ahead of the others and gave the signal to the gardener to draw off the cloth and open the tap. Invisible pipes rasped hollowly for a moment from several locations, as if clearing their throats. Slowly water began to trickle and then pour forth from all the stone openings and spouts.
Adriana looked back at Michelangelo, who meandered distractedly toward the fountain, and she watched with amusement as he suddenly halted. The scowl that he had held throughout breakfast opened to a grin.
“I knew you’d like it,” Adriana said, walking back to him and linking her arm in his. “It’s my gift to you. I hope I’ve got all the details right.”
The five of them stood in a line before the pool. The morning light reflected off the surface of the water and shone up into their faces, dazzling them. In the center of the radiance the young Bacchus stood. The god looked over their heads toward the house, and water fell gurgling from his goblet in a twisting column into the pool. At the four corners, water also poured gently from nymph-held urns.
“I guess you have!” He patted her hand. “What a coup. You’ve taken a rather silly statue of mine and put him to work.”
“Yes, in fact, he nourishes my entire garden. The water falls from his goblet into the pond, then passes through pipes and rivulets all the way to the house.”
Kneeling, she closed her eyes against the glistening surface of the pool and let the water from the nymph’s urn trickle over her fingers.
“Well done, Signora Borgia,” Donato Bramante said after a moment. “A pity my daughter is not here to appreciate your stroke of genius.”
“Yes, a pity.” Adriana was surprised at the force of her disappointment over so small an offense. She wondered if it was a sort of revenge for the night before.
“Lady Adriana!” A young woman’s voice called out, and heads turned toward the orchard. There at the center, where she had apparently watched the unveiling, Raphaela stood waving.
The company wandered toward the tree where she stood, holding a roll of sketching paper in her hand. The tree was forked and bare and with foliage only at the top. When the group arrived, she reached through the fork of the tree and handed Adriana the rolled drawing.
“Your garden has been an inspiration. I took the liberty of strolling all around it this morning. It gave me a sort of vision and, well, I drew it for you.”
It was a scene sketched in charcoal. Every tree and hedge of the garden was there, and around each one wood sprites, satyrs, and pagan gods frolicked. In the foreground, Pan piped music, while in the distance, one could make out the new statue and its pool, sketched apparently in the few minutes since the unveiling. And yet it seemed the source of all the rest, as if the arrival of the “Bacchus” had caused a small pagan invasion.
Michelangelo peered over their shoulders at the drawing. “The signorina is right, Adriana. Your garden cries out for more statuary. In fact, I know an artist who could assist you. Giuliano Sangallo, a Florentine architect who has an excellent sense of how to mix art and landscape.”
Adriana stared at the drawing, speechless.
“It should be a wild place,” Raphaela said. “Teeming with gods that are neither good nor evil.”
*
Donato Bramante mounted his horse with the help of a servant. “I thank you, Lady Borgia, for your hospitality, and compliment you on your new fountain.” Next to him and once again in doublet and tights, Raphaela mounted and straddled her horse like a man. Like Carlo, under the chapel vault. Without further comment, father and daughter turned away and rode at a leisurely trot along the alley of cypress trees. Halfway to the juncture with the Via Tiburtina, the young woman turned in the saddle and waved.
The Cardinal’s coach was brought up before the house “A final word, Signor Buonarroti,” the prelate said in passing. “I foresee a time when you will assist in the work on the basilica. But not now. You must be content with that.”
“I am content, Eminence.”
Michelangelo made the cursory obeisance. Next to him, Domenico knelt down fully on both knees before the holy ring. The corpulent churchman made the sign of the cross over both men and swept into his coach.
As the Cardinal departed along the avenue of cypress, the grooms brought out the horses of the last two guests. Michelangelo stood for moment by his horse.
“Why don’t you come back with us to Rome, Adriana? Domenico has got to report back to the choir, but I’d like to show you what we’ve done so far on the chapel ceiling. You can stay overnight at the Albergo dell’ Orso as you used to do.”
She hesitated, looking back at the house that was now quiet. The reflecting pool and statue were finished, it was too soon to plan the grape harvest, and there were only so many hours she could sit alone in her garden. There was, in fact, a sort of vacuum she did not want to face.
“I sent my housemaster early this morning to the Roman market to provision the household again. I suppose I could find him in the Piazza Navona and return with him tomorrow.”
“Ah, very good.” Michelangelo glanced up at the sky. “But if you’re coming, you’d better hurry. The morning is far along.”
Adriana turned to the groom standing by.
“Saddle the mare for me, please, with the light saddle.” To Michelangelo, “Just let me change into a riding dress and inform my housekeeper.”
Curiously elated, she hurried back into the house, thinking suddenly of Lucrezia. A worldliness in the air, Lucrezia had said. That glorifies nature and paganism. Something that had to do with unmarried women and disobedience.
*
They rode without comment on the night before. Adriana knew that something had happened, but what was not named was not quite real and could be forgotten. To name the thing was to bring it to life and to stake it like a lamb before wolves.
“I have considered planting roses in the garden,” she announced abruptly. “What do you think?”
“You remember flowers from your childhood?” Michelangelo sounded amazed. “I remember only fighting.” He rubbed the side of his broken nose.
“The garden stays in my mind because that’s where I took care of my half brothers and sisters. At least until I was sent away.”
“You, caring for children? I would never have imagined it.” Adriana studied him. “Forgive me. We took you from your school when you were so young. I never thought much about the family you had before that.”
“Caring for those children is my best memory. I was still a child myself, but they called me ‘Papito.’ What a joke, huh?”
No one laughed.
They rounded a curve where the road descended sharply to the old Roman town of Tivoli. Built along the side of a hill, its streets dropped precipitously, and where the slope was steepest they became wide steps. Its alleys turned and curved back on themselves with no plan or order. A stranger would have lost his way, but during her isolation, Adriana had come to know the old town well.
“Listen. The church bells are ringing, and it’s not a feast day. Something’s going on. Shall we have a look?”
They entered the town, making their way in single file past a bakery and a fletchery, the clopping of the horses’ hooves loud on the cobblestones. A crowd streamed alongside them on foot. Finally, at the St. Silvestro Chapel, with its crumbling Roman fountain, they came to an enormous wooden cross draped with the papal banner.
They drew up before the moss-covered basin of the Roman wall and let their horses drink. Michelangelo called to a passerby, “What celebration is this?”