Michelangelo forced calm on himself. “He was personally invited by Lady Borgia, whose protégé he once was.” He glanced, puzzled, toward Giovanni de’ Medici.
Julius glowered. “Lady Borgia has become a thorn in my side, and one day she will go too far. Cardinal Carafa pleads with me daily to allow him to arrest her.”
“But, Holiness, she’s done nothing.”
“Everyone has done something. She should take care.”
Giovanni de’ Medici cleared his throat. “Holiness surely has more grave concerns than this woman who has no relevance to any of the projects that are underway. She is not worth a moment’s thought. What’s more, I am sure that Signor Buonarroti understands his responsibilities in the chapel and in the other new works we have discussed.”
Michelangelo started to speak, then grasped that the subject had changed. “May I ask what these ‘other new works’ might be, Holiness?”
The Pontiff allowed himself to be re-directed as well. “My tomb. I desire, as before, that it be prominent in the new basilica, but I have an idea for the sculpture.”
“An idea, Holiness?” Michelangelo was guarded.
“Yes. I wish to be portrayed as King David.”
Michelangelo shifted his weight nervously while he formed a reply. “I had thought a more suitable forebear was Moses.”
“Moses? The stammerer?” The Pontiff scowled, threading his fingers into his beard.
De’ Medici looked reproachfully at Michelangelo. Julius did not like to be contradicted. “Moses, who brought God’s Commandments to the world,” the Cardinal mediated. “A powerful image.”
Julius reflected for a moment, then grumbled, “Perhaps.”
“Very wise, Holiness,” Michelangelo said softly.
Piqued at having his argument evaporate, he changed subject again. “Now, tell me about my chapel.”
“The chapel. Yes. The pendentives of Goliath and Holofernes are completed, as are the Noah panels. The sibyls that run along both walls are finished, and the prophets are sketched out in cartoon. I have several new ideas.”
“So have I.” The Pope stared ceilingward, as though seeing the final work. “In the center panel, you must paint ‘Christ in Majesty,’ with the new basilica rising up behind Him.”
“But Holiness, we agreed the whole ceiling would address the Old Testament. After the Great Flood, the panels will move backward in time toward Creation.”
Julius threaded his fingers again into his beard and narrowed his eyes. “You contradict me too much, Michelangelo. Do not forget that you are my instrument, the hand that holds the paintbrush. That’s all.”
Michelangelo dropped his glance. When he replied, it was through nearly clenched teeth. “Yes, Holiness.”
“See to it then,” the Pope growled, dismissing him.
XXVIII
Giovanni de’ Medici nuzzled the neck of his favorite courtesan, inhaling her perfume. “What a day I’ve had, Giselda. You have no idea how exhausting it is trying to keep peace between His Holiness and a temperamental artist.”
“Do not let such cares weigh you down of an evening, Eminence. Who is it now?”
“Michelangelo. You know him, the red beard who carved the ‘Pieta’ in Saint Peter’s. He was summoned before Julius again, to grovel, of course, but groveling is not in his character. One of these days he will find himself having to flee for his life.”
She reached sideways toward a goblet of fruit wine that had obviously been waiting and handed it to him. “Not all men are as prudent as you.”
He took a long drink and licked his lips. “No, they are not. But I profit from being the son of the great Lorenzo.”
“Il Magnifico,” she confirmed, taking the empty goblet from him and drawing him toward her bed. “Even I’ve heard of him, and I’ve never been to Florence. Tell me about it. Those must have been happy days.” She sat down and patted the bed next to her.
He eased his ample bulk down beside her, caught up for a moment in memory. “Yes, they were. Though I was with my family only until I was fourteen and went away to study canon law. I remember some of the men my father kept around him—Pico della Mirandola, Marsilio Ficino. Michelangelo was there too, though much less well-behaved. He got into a fight once with one of the other boys and came out of it with a broken nose. He’s changed very little.”
She unbuttoned his cassock and slid her hand inside over his plump chest. “But that all ended, didn’t it?” She knew, more or less, what happened. Everyone in Rome did. But she also was wise enough to know he loved to talk about himself and the Medici.
He sighed. “Savonarola happened, of course, and the French.”
“Savonarola?” She knelt in front of him, undoing the rest of the buttons on his long red cassock.
He let it fall open, sending up waves of heat from his thighs. “Yes, an ascetic, Savonarola, arrived in Florence with the Medici blessings, but then he began to make prophecies. He announced that he had spoken directly to God and the saints about Judgment Day.”
“And people believed him?”
“Yes, you see, the Medici were losing power in the city. The new century was approaching, and then the syphilis epidemic came. People were sure there was a connection. Savonarola convinced the rabble that the Last Days were coming and that he was sent by God to prepare us. He stirred up enough support to overthrow the Medici and for awhile got to be the new leader of the city. He liked that.”
Sitting on the bed again, Giselda helped him slip off the red satin outer garment, then stroked his plump back. “A ‘Christian Republic.’” He sneered. “As if all of Italy were not Christian. The first thing he did was to make sodomy a capital offense. A despicable act, to be sure, but hardly worth execution. And then it just got worse.”
“Even in Rome we heard about his great bonfire.” She pressed playfully against his shoulder. “Did you see it?”
“No, it was too dangerous for anyone of the family to be present. But my serving man went to the Piazza della Signoria and watched the whole thing. They burned everything of value in the city. Mirrors, cosmetics, books, sculptures, chess pieces, musical instruments, ancient poetry. The fools even destroyed paintings by Botticelli and Michelangelo.”
“But he was finally overthrown, wasn’t he?” Giselda sounded deeply concerned while he opened her dressing gown and exposed her splendid young breasts. He nibbled one of the soft nipples, until it became hard. “Yes. God did not seem to come to the city’s aid so Florence became tired of His prophet.”
“What happened?” She raised her eyebrows dramatically.
Leaning back, he allowed her to untie the cords that held his undergarments so that they fell open. Noting with satisfaction the beginning of his tumescence, he continued. “Pope Alexander excommunicated him, then arrested him for sedition. Half a year later they burned him in the Piazza.”
He laid back the sides of the courtesan’s gown and exposed the full length of her fair eighteen-year-old body. “So you see,” he said playfully, roaming her body with hands that had become increasingly pudgy as he ascended in rank, “that’s what happens when you spark the ire of a Pope.”
“Do you mean that could happen to what’s-his-name? The painter?” Now she was teasing him, he knew. She liked him to talk politics while they had sex, and it did not dampen his lust in the least. Quite the opposite. Talking about his achievements in the Vatican had a direct physical effect on him. He took her hand and placed it on his member, which was rising nicely to its task.
“No. Julius tolerates arguments from artists of that caliber, and his successor will too.”
Giselda’s practiced hand did its work slowly and delicately, and she spoke with a velvet voice. “His successor? That will be you, won’t it? Surely you are favored to be the next Pope.”
He hardened suddenly both at her touch and her remark. “Ah, Giselda, naughty girl, to say that.” His voice too silkened. “We must not speak of such things before their time.”
“Then I will speak only of Michelangelo. Will you warn him?”
“Michelangelo will survive any Pope’s anger. It is Lady Borgia who is in danger, at least until this tantrum passes. I suppose I should warn her.”
He spread the courtesan’s white thighs and eased his great bulk onto her, guiding himself into her welcoming wetness. “Right after this.”
*
The innkeeper in the Via Agostino fawned greatly over the Cardinal, kissing his holy ring with fervor before leading him to the room of Adriana Borgia.
She greeted him at the door, made the same perfunctory obeisance as always, then offered him wine.
De’ Medici declined to sit down. “Most kind, Lady Borgia. But I will not stay long. I only want to advise you that I was party to Michelangelo’s conversation yesterday evening with His Holiness.”
“Ah, yes, Julius summoned him. Did it go well?”
The Cardinal chuckled. “As well as can be expected, given both their natures. But your name came up. His Holiness is somewhat put out that you invited both his painter and his best soprano to…well, to what he sees as an evening of truancy.”
Adriana frowned. “I hope I haven’t jeopardized them.”
“That is unlikely, given their value to him. It is you, however, who are the object of his irritation.”
Perturbation turned to alarm. “How great an irritation? The kind that results in imprisonment?”
“I rather doubt he had imprisonment in mind. It’s simply that he views his chosen artists as, well, his, and does not like anyone luring them away. However, his fits of pique are short-lived, as long as you avoid offending him again. Perhaps it would be wise to leave the city for a week or ten days.”
“Leave Rome? To go where?”
He shrugged amiably. “Why not a trip to Florence? Didn’t you say you wanted to talk with Maestro Sangallo about your garden? The Medici still hold several houses there, not the least of which is the Villa Careggi. My cousins will be happy to accommodate you.”
“I don’t know. You’ve caught me off guard.” Adriana paced the room and did not know what to do with her hands.
“I am sorry, dear Lady. It’s possible I have read too much in His Holiness’s remarks. He’s unlikely to be looking for blood, but there are always little ways that he can punish you. Keep in mind that the Vatican has confiscated all the Borgia lands but yours, and that only because it was of no great value. If he sees the Villa Borgia as a haven for recalcitrant artists, he might seize it, and what defense would you have against a papal decree?”
“I see. Well, I suppose I could visit Maestro Sangallo as Michelangelo suggested. Only for a week or ten days, you think?”
“That should be all that’s necessary. Just allow everyone to go back to work as normal for awhile, and let His Holiness lose his temper at someone else for a change. I am confident that nothing important will happen while you are away.”
When he was gone, Adriana packed gloomily, her anxiety in no way assuaged by the Cardinal’s assurances. Confident, he had said. She didn’t like that word. She had spent far too much time at the Vatican, and then hiding from it, to be confident of anything.
XXIX
Raphaela Bramante hiked up the too-loose trousers of her disguise and climbed onto the high platform as she had nearly every day for months. She set down her paint jar and mixed water with powdered quicklime and the precious powdered cobalt glass of Florence. Soon it had the uniform consistency of cream and the color of a summer sky. She dipped a wide-bristle brush into the mix and laid it in long strokes onto the still-moist plaster overhead. When it dried, the pulverized glass would reflect light downward in such a way that it would seem to shine.
But the wonder of it was past her now. Too much had happened. She painted mechanically between the figures already there and let her attention drift inward to Adriana Borgia, the woman who had driven her mad.
First with the madness of working in the chapel in boy’s clothing. Then the madness of serious disguise at Carnevale, a ruse that was, in principle, only slightly madder than the first one. If she could be a painter’s boy then, anonymous in the streets, she could also be a gentleman.
At first she thought to only wander through the crowd, enjoying the wicked pleasure of a rakish new identity. She saw the women with different eyes, allowed herself to brush against them in the press of people, bowing in cavalier apology and savoring the flirtation in their responses. No drink had ever intoxicated her more. When some cheerful fellow handed her a flask of real wine, her recklessness increased tenfold. Then, in the Piazza del Popolo, among the race horses, she saw them, the Maestro, another gentleman she did not know, and Adriana Borgia.
Raphaela stayed far back at first, fearing discovery. But she was drawn irresistibly to follow the trio, and she managed to keep sight of them along the Via del Corso and even through the river of the moccoletti flames. Only when the object of her obsession turned around and seemed to recognize her had a final madness overtaken her.
It was insane, she knew, but the hours of pursuit, the river of flames, and the wine had altogether robbed her of her reason. And so she surrendered to the drunken illicit urges that had been alive in her during the months she worked in the chapel and throughout the years she painted the mysterious face.
When Adriana became separated from the men for a moment, Raphaela bolted forward, seized her, and took her to the only isolated place she could think of, a dark confessional. Of all places. In that closet of contrition, a fire swept through her as she touched the other woman’s lips. Had it been a chamber rather than a confessional, she would have torn the clothing from both of them and—somehow—ravished her captive. The actual kiss, though she was gentle, was like a bolt of lightning to her soul. When she fled the church, something was destroyed in her and something else set free. Whatever line she crossed that night, she never could step back again.
Yet in the months that followed, the moment began to seem unreal. The ecstasy was so fleeting and the desire unacknowledged. Until the kiss last night in the Borgia garden, with Adriana’s brief consent. Yes, it was brief. But, oh—her heart pounded at the thought—it was consent.
The creaking of the platform brought her back to the present, and she resumed painting the monotonous strokes of blue. The task demanded little attention and so, in sidelong glances, she watched Michelangelo work a scant two meters away. Reaching overhead he shaped the twisted, bulging musculature of a nude male, laying the tint on the intonaco in smooth, deliberate strokes. In the sweltering closeness she could hear him breathing heavily from the strain of painting so many hours with his head thrown back. He applied the color in a rhythm, never stopping, adding warmth and depth. He called them angels, though figures with such tight buttocks and bulging genitals could hardly be angelic.
She looked at the brush in her own hand, dripping the blue-white color she had painted all day, and she was sick of it. She knelt down to wash it clean. Her abrupt movement drew Michelangelo’s attention, and when she stood up again clumsily, one leg still bent behind her, he stood before her without his paintbrush. Resting his elbow on one hand he rubbed his always-sore neck with the other.
“Maestro, I’m tired of background. I want to paint something living,” she said, surprising herself with her impertinence. He did not reply, but still rubbed his neck and seemed to wait for her to be more specific. Fearing she had had offended him, but still determined, she clasped her hands together as if in prayer.
“Any of them. Anything with shape. Please.”
“Paint the cherubs, then. Over there.” He pointed to the cartoon he had transferred that morning, at the base of a painted column. A pair of naked children standing back to back. “If you do it well, I’ll give you more of them.”
She understood the challenge he was offering, to duplicate in miniature the sheer physicality of his figures. She would prove herself to him. The cherubs were to be paintings of statues, twice removed from flesh. But she could enliven them, as
he did, with shading and expression. If he drew them plump, she would paint them voluptuous; if he gave them to her innocent, she would reveal their sensuality.
Everything around her suddenly seemed charged. The light in the clerestory windows, the shriek of the kestrels circling over the chapel, the fragrant pines in the Vatican park—every object swelled with revelation. This is what she’d waited for. As she swept her brush in little curves over rounded angel limbs and torsos, she felt as if she joined him in his creation, so that together, stroke by stroke, they covered the Sistine ceiling with new life.
XXX
Domenico knelt again on the hard floor of the confessional in Santa Maria Maggiore. “Bless me father, for I have sinned. It has been many months since my last confession and I have succumbed again to the temptation of the flesh.” The ritual opening phrase of the sacrament comforted him and terrified him at the same time, for it was the first step in a change of life.
“In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit,” the priest intoned, and Domenico recoiled. It was Cardinal Carafa.
His hands began to tremble. Why did a priest of such high station hear ordinary confessions? A man who had already caught him in his shame and threatened him with death. How would a confession before the priest differ from an admission in a prison cell? Domenico froze.
Then, as if God knew his fear and sent an angel to speak through the Cardinal’s voice, the confessor said with utmost gentleness, “Have no fear, my son. There is no sin save blasphemy, which is beyond forgiveness. Surrender your guilt to the body of Christ, which is the Church, and be at peace.”
At the soothing reassurance of the priest, Domenico relaxed, and it seemed a great weight was taken from him. No, there was nothing to be afraid of. He was in the holy confessional, carrying out a sacrament, utterly protected by God. He did not kneel before a magistrate, but before an instrument of the Holy Mother Church, and here his repentance cleansed his soul. He would be sanctified and joined again with Christ. There was peace in obedience and in purity of heart, and he desperately needed peace.
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