By the dim light of a single candelabra, Pope Julius held the lock of smoky hair to his face and wept.
XXXIV
Two days’ journey, Adriana calculated, if she did not stop except to rest the horses. Could she make it to Rome in time, while he still lived? She reread the scribbled note, but it told her no more than at the first reading.
It was late afternoon. Fortunately her trunk was already packed for an early morning departure so she could leave without delay. She had perhaps four more hours of daylight left. With luck they could make it as far as the way station at Ponte Nueva before darkness. If the moon was bright, as it had been, they could continue more slowly through the night.
The messenger prepared to leave immediately on his own, and she gave him a silver coin for his trouble. Half an hour later she was on the road behind him.
She sat, biting her lip, willing the horses to go faster, willing the landscape to move by more quickly. The coach wheels jerked in and out of the ruts, throwing her from side to side.
As the hours passed and the sun dropped slowly westward, all her memories of him came back. The angelic Spanish boy who came into her life like a blessing, like the child she would never have. He sat quietly behind Juan on the horse riding from Jativa to Valencia, but brightened during the passage on the caravel Penitentia sailing from Valencia to Rome.
It was his first time at sea, his first time even seeing the sea, so it was understandable that he should be overwhelmed at first. But when he lost his fear, everything fascinated him. Everything, from the enclosed privy that hung out over the sea, to the cannons and the cargo hold and the way the sails could be raised and lowered as needed.
It had not surprised her that on the three-week journey the sailors, rough-hewn though they were, had also become smitten with him. How could they not? He was as beautiful as a girl, and they assumed he was their son, a Borgia princeling. But he also won over the sailors because he clearly was in awe of everything they did. Men who had been driven like beasts all their lives had never known admiration and, suddenly given it, they began to show off for him. They called him over while they stood their watch and told him all they knew. They explained that the square sail was for speed and the lateen for sailing into the wind, that they did not need to hug the shore, but could sail from distant landmark to landmark and by soundings from the bottom. Before a week passed, he was eating hardtack with them and learning about the main mast and the mizzen, the yardarm and the halyards. By the second week, they took him aloft with them, let him climb the rigging, and took him finally to the crow’s nest.
Midway through the voyage Adriana began to wonder why their private food supply was dwindling so quickly, before she realized he had been sharing it with the seamen. It was true, the crew’s single hot meal cooked on deck did seem pretty dreadful and their beer was sour, but Juan had made it clear that it was in the nature of things. Noblemen ate well and seamen did not.
They had been lucky for most of the journey; there were no serious storms. The three of them stood at the railing each morning, waiting for the navigator to consult the rudder book and the compass bearings. Domenico watched with the men for the “kennings,” the mountains or capes or other landmarks, which could be seen far from shore and tell them what port they were approaching or sweeping past. First Barcelona, then Marseille, Genoa, Sienna, and finally Ostia.
When the sea became rough, just after Marseille, she found him with the men praying out loud, the sailors to Saint Elmo and Domenico to Saint Anne. She had no idea why he chose Anne. Maybe for the same reason Brother Martin did, appealing to the kindly grandmother of the divine family.
The coach halted and Adriana was roused suddenly from her reverie. Night had fallen and they’d arrived at the village way station where they would rest and water the horses. She climbed out to stretch her legs and instruct the coachman that she wanted to continue. She would pay extra for the night travel, for the hazards. Unfortunately, only one of the armed guards was willing to travel through the night. No amount of haggling could convince the other one.
She glanced overhead. The moon had risen a quarter of the way up and was nearly full. Though ragged clouds raced across it ominously, they passed quickly and the moonlight soon lit the road again. It was not very cold. Maybe she would be able to sleep a little on the way.
After an hour of rest, the team was hitched up again and Adriana climbed into the coach. She was tired now, drained of emotion, and did not want to think any longer. She wanted to be in Rome. Nothing more. Before long, swaying with the coach, she slipped into a sort of waking stupor.
They had been moving for scarcely half an hour when the moonlight faded and thick clouds rolled in. The coachman had a lantern, but if the weather became any worse, he would have to walk in front of the horses. The canopy would block direct rainfall from her, but the slightest breeze would blow it sideways through the curtains and drench her. The numb sorrow she had felt now became resentment. This on top of everything else.
The carriage stopped unexpectedly. Exasperated, she called up to the coachman.
With a strangled cry, something heavy and limp crashed through the side curtain into the coach. The escort, with a crossbow bolt through his neck, sprawled grotesquely across the seat in front of her. A moment later, an unseen hand ripped open the curtain and pulled her by the hair out of the coach.
Highwaymen.
One of them was on horseback, alongside the coach. Ragged, heavily bearded, in a leather jerkin, he held the reins of a second horse, and a shout revealed that the other one was in the coachman’s seat.
In the increasing mist she could still make them out, the coachman, crouching terrified, and the other man who held a knife to his throat.
“You see, Nico?” the one on horseback said. “I told you it was worth coming out tonight. We’ve got ourselves booty and a lovely lady.” He nudged his horse in front of Adriana, blocking escape.
Nico laughed in reply and sliced his knife through the coachman’s throat. The dying man thrashed a little, and the robber clambered over him to get to the ground. He snatched up the lantern from its pole and leapt into the coach. Seeing Adriana’s trunk, he held the light with one hand over his head while he rummaged through it. In a moment he held up the leather purse containing most of Adriana’s travel money. She carried the rest, a few silver coins, in a fist-sized leather bag inside her dress. A useless precaution, since they would certainly attack her personally and find that too.
Two men dead and she was alone. She knew she would be raped and brutalized and wondered only if she would live the night.
“When you’re done there, help me tie her hands,” the one on horseback ordered, grabbing Adriana again by her hair.
“Why bother tying her up?” Nico said from inside the coach. “Just bring her in here and fuck her. I’ll hold her down for you. Then you can do it for me.”
“Don’t be a donkey’s ass,” bearded one snarled, and dismounted. “This one’s a looker. We gonna take her with us, have us a real plaything for a couple of days.”
“Oh, yeah.” Nico breathed with enthusiasm as he clambered out and fumbled with the rope. “Plaything. Didn’t think of that.”
“Hurry up, the rain’s getting heavy,” bearded one said. The two of them hustled her to one of the horses and forcibly swung her up in front of the saddle. Her captor mounted behind her. “Be nice, and maybe I won’t cut your throat,” he said, his breath foul. Then he kicked the horse away from the road into the woods. Among the trees the rain filtered down as mist, and they had to slow the horses to a walk. “Shit. It’s no good. We’ll be here all night,” Nico said. “We’re gonna have to ride along the field north of the village.” He yanked his horse to the side, and in a few minutes they emerged from the woods. It was raining heavily now, and all Adriana could see was a wide gray expanse where the trees had been cleared away for pasturage.
Just as they ventured out onto the meadow, lightning crackled, a long jagged lin
e that sparkled horizontally across the sky. A moment later, thunder crashed. Nico’s horse bolted and the robber struggled to hold on as it galloped into the meadow. Adriana’s horse galloped after it, slowed only by its double burden. Another bolt of lightning cut the sky in front of them. Then another thunderclap hit and the terrified beast reared up, its front legs stroking the air. The robber fell to one side and Adriana to the other, landing on her shoulder. Stunned, she lurched to her feet. She couldn’t run very well with her hands still bound in front of her and knew she had to get out of sight in the brush.
She ran full-out, swinging her clasped hands from side to side, until something caught her foot. She went down, her skirts ripping, her face scraping against the underbrush. This was her only chance, to lie flat on the ground trusting her dark dress and hair to obscure her. Only her pale face could reveal her and, holding her breath, she pressed it to the soaking ground.
She heard him cursing and knew how close he was, but he was as blind as she was. After a few moments the other man’s voice called him toward the clearing, and her pursuer left. She waited, shivering in the underbrush, scarcely daring to turn her head to breathe. Finally she could stand it no longer, and she sat up. She was alone. She tugged against the ropes, but the mud had made the knots inseparable. They’d have to be cut.
Lightning flashed again, and she feared for a moment she would be seen by her attackers. But they seemed to have given up. She could just make them out in the distance, moving black spots against the gray of the field, pursuing the runaway horse.
Thunder crashed again an instant after the lightning flash, and she knew the storm was directly overhead. She would rest for a moment, just for a moment, then try to make her way back through the dark forest to the road. If the lantern light still burned in the coach, it could be her guide.
A soundless white flash blinded her. Then the crack of a tree splitting in half deafened her. In the instant she understood that lightning had hit a tree, something struck her, knocking her to the ground. She awoke only a moment later, shaken, her head ringing from where the scorched branch had struck her. The storm still raged, and something unfathomably powerful had almost killed her. She stood up again next to the smoldering tree, her hands still tied in front of her. She thought of Brother Martin crying out to St. Anne. Had she, like him, also been divinely saved?
Or cursed?
Spared death by lightning but battered by a branch. Saved by being thrown from the murderer’s horse, but cursed by being abducted in the first place. It was almost as if, hands tied and helpless, she was God’s plaything. Sudden rage filled her. For her abduction and the lightning bolt, for the murder of two innocent men before her eyes, and for the rainstorm—while Domenico lay dying.
She raised her rope-burned hands and shouted into the storm. “Are we all your playthings, then? All jerked around for your pleasure? What good are You?” she shrieked. Then, more quietly, her voice breaking, “A world with You or without You looks the same.” She collapsed onto the ground sobbing with helpless fury. The sky answered with another clap of thunder.
Finally she gathered her strength and wandered in the direction she thought they had come. While she stumbled in the darkness, bound hands out in front of her, the storm gradually subsided. The ambient light increased and she could see the spaces between the trees now. Most importantly, she could see in the far distance the tiny speck of yellow that was the coach lantern. Numb and embittered she staggered toward the light.
XXXV
A crowd had gathered in the Piazza San Pietro at the foot of the steps leading to Saint Peter’s Basilica. Among the onlookers Michelangelo stood, sunken into himself, his face concealed by a hood. He swayed slightly, not from inebriation, for he had drunk very little, but from exhaustion and lack of food. The rain had stopped but it was overcast and gray, and his cape was wet. He scarcely noticed, except to shiver occasionally.
As the cortege came down the steps, merchants in the piazza stopped their cries and the crowd parted, opening up an avenue for the procession.
The Master of Ceremonies, Paris de Grassis, was at the forefront in full ecclesiastical regalia and flanked by two acolytes. As he came close, Michelangelo pulled the hood of his cape farther over his face and stepped back behind the first line of onlookers.
Directly behind the Master of Ceremonies, the full Sistine Choir came in two lines. In contrast to their usual dress, they wore black satin cassocks and their white surplices were trimmed in lace, a dress reserved for the highest ceremonial occasions. They sang “Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine; In memoria æterna erit Justus” while a line of acolytes marched with them carrying votive candles on silver poles. Glass cones protected the flames from the cold, mist-filled wind that wafted over the square.
Giovanni de’ Medici followed, accompanied by several of the Italian Cardinals. Behind him, Cardinal Carafa marched alone but for two assisting priests. There was little to be read in his face, but Michelangelo thought he detected a certain satisfaction. A few of the Spanish Cardinals came along in a cluster, presumably out of solidarity with one of their own. Michelangelo did not know them.
Then, the bier, held aloft by four pallbearers in white, was suddenly in front of him. In the silence that fell over the people next to him, he stared at the remains of the man who had been in his arms only days before.
Domenico was clothed in the same cassock and surplice worn by his choir brothers and draped to mid-chest with an embroidered shroud. Little had been done to repair his mutilated face. His broken nose lay flat, and the open wounds at the scalp were bluish black. Though the swelling was gone, the slack mouth was distorted over broken teeth and the lips split open. Lips that had sung and prayed and kissed. Ruined. Only the eyes, somehow, had fallen slightly open, so that he seemed to look heavenward.
“Forgive me, Domenico,” Michelangelo whispered, as his lips, then his whole body began to tremble. He staggered back into the crowd and watched the rest of the small cortege that passed: the dean, clerk, librarian, sacristan, and various priests who worked in the chapel. Bramante had joined too, along with his daughter. A cluster of men and women of the laity, who ought not to have even known the dead man, followed along more timidly. In their midst, striking by his height and his long hair tied behind his neck, the prison guard Claudio strode, one hand hooked into his belt.
As the last of the mourners moved out of the square, the crowd dispersed. Michelangelo remained standing in his dripping wet cape and hood, his arms hanging limply at his side.
*
Pope Julius stood at a window in the Papal Palace and also watched the cortege leaving the Piazza St. Pietro, feeling sorry for himself. He, the Vicar of Christ, had many things on his mind: the expansion of papal territory, the defense against heresy, the renovation of the city, the construction of the new basilica, the struggle against the local barons, the French, the Venetians, the Turks. “Was it too much to ask for the occasional solace?” he murmured, entwining his fingers in his beard.
But men were not to be trusted, not even the ones who appeared the most saintly. All men were duplicitous, and most dangerous of all was the College of Cardinals. He recalled again the machinations he had to undertake to finally achieve the tiara, even going so far as to negotiate with the despised Cesare Borgia, whose soul surely roasted in hell.
Ascetic piety was for men like Savonarola and his unctuous disciple Carafa. Even Carafa had his eye on the papal throne, just like all the rest of them did. They were all hungry for power. Not just the Cardinals; the King of France, the Duke of Ferrara, the great families, the Turks were all ravening wolves. Well, they had their match in Julius.
He turned away from the window and the offending sight of the funeral cortege. Clasping his hands together behind his back, he half thought, half muttered to himself.
If Carafa thought he could sway him from his military plans he was greatly mistaken. The son of an impoverished family, Giuliano della Rovere had clawed himself up by sheer
iron will from the streets of Liguria to the throne of Peter. And the same will drove him to expand and solidify the power of the Pope among the princes of Europe. Let the pallid reformers whine and scribble their laments about misbehavior in the Church or the Roman streets. The Pope was no scholar, but he knew his New Testament. God did not intend his representative on earth to be a simpering wet nurse, but a fighter. “Non veni pacem mittere sed gladium,” Christ had said. “I came not to send peace, but a sword.”
A sword, a crossbow, a cannon, all could serve God’s purpose, even against other Christians. And yet, there seemed to be no end to it. No sooner had he secured a city and defeated an enemy, when an ally betrayed him and he had to march in a new direction. He felt as if he stood on a hilltop, while armies joined him and withdrew, or fought him and withdrew, or fought each other. Through it all, he had to hold his ground to assert the throne of Peter, in the middle of a world that was turning out to be far more vast than anyone knew.
A world that belonged to God, and thus to his highest priest. It was the Book of Matthew that always lay open by his bed, for it was Matthew who told of God’s promise to give Peter “claves regni caelorum, the keys to the kingdom of heaven.” And Matthew seemed to justify Julius’s own fits of rage in his parable of the wedding in which the King or God—or the Pope—cast out the unfaithful. Already as a young theology student he had memorized the command of Matthew’s God, “Ligatis pedibus eius et manibus mittite eum in tenebras exteriores ibi erit fletus et stridor dentium. Bind him hand and foot, and take him away, and cast him into outer darkness, where there shall be wailing and gnashing of teeth.”
Julius gazed out the window again, where the funeral cortege had passed out of sight, and muttered, “Yes, the unfaithful shall be cast out.”
XXXVI
Two days later, having passed through the Villa Borgia merely for a change of clothes and the escort of her housemaster, Adriana arrived in Rome. While Jacopo waited in the Piazza San Pietro, she hurried through the Sala Regia. She reached the chapel only to be confronted by the same red-headed Swiss guard who had blocked Michelangelo’s way a week before.
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