by Clay Ferrill
Come!” and as she lifted strands of pearls and fine diamond bracelets and necklaces from their cases, she exclaimed excitedly a few times having found something she had forgotten she even owned it had been vaulted so long. My mother pinched her small cross around her neck and rubbed her thumb and forefinger over it a few times.
“The diamonds are right there mother. The diamonds in your eyes. You need no other jewels.” I had spoken so flatly, with no emotion to support the beautiful words intended to comfort her. She smiled and patted my arm. We descended the stairs and walked amongst the casks, perhaps hundreds of thousands of gold coins filled most of them. I left them there, silently whispering as the Marquise tried several pieces against my mother’s breast, begging her to keep the jewels that pleased her and flattered her.
The statement then loudly for all to hear. “Ladies. We must sew these into our garments or they will surely be taken from us!” My mother rose to gather her sewing kit, which she always travels with and Marguerite surfaced with a much larger basket of her own. Archy was always ripping his britches. Dividing up the supplies, the ladies separated to their rooms and gathered mounds of jewels into scarfs to carry the booty to their rooms to sew them into the linings and hems of their clothes. Clever schemers, mothers. The night was quiet and we had supped later than planned, the women all busy with their sewing tasks.
Most of the jewels were hidden now and it was decided that when they exited and fled the country, they would do so wearing most of the jewelry left, bedecking themselves in carat weights and sparkles. I smiled. Scheming mothers, indeed. My face went back to stone as I reveled in the small pleasure of their distracting task. Grief already lifting away from us. As he would have wanted it. Soon, my love. Soon. I promise.
As I was going upstairs to rinse my face and clean my body in the basin, there was a firm rap on the front door. I was, in fact, dressed in my finest when I opened the door. Two Cardinals stood waiting as the doors opened. I backed away and allowed them to enter. The della Rovere that was not elected Pope by the College handed me a large rolled scroll with the papal seal. They each stood there silently as I broke the seal and unrolled it. Scanning it quickly, it extended the “olive branch” of the return of my painting. As soon as I read the words on the page one of their hands, no matter which, held up the rolled painting and handed it to my mother who was just walking up. “This belongs to you, kind lady” he said.
She unrolled its length exposing the cracks in the layers and layers of paints I had so delicately applied by moonlight because I didn’t want my mother to suspect what I was working on. I had painted it entirely at night using only the moonlight to see by. The roses were just outside the wall that divides the lawns between the main house and the small cottage. They still grow there today, as beautiful as ever.
I continued reading and flashed ahead quickly to “The Stallion of God” and quickly re-read the entire statement about it. I spoke aloud to confirm “Your Holiness has commanded me to finish the stanze in the Grand Corridor before I am released. I understand this. When is this servitude to commence your grace’s?” Della Rovere spoke, his voice kind and caring. His eyes told me that he understood my grief. It angered me for him to presume it. “You are to accompany us back to the Vatican in our carriage Raphael. A new apartment has been made ready for you.”
My mother came quickly to me and pulled at me fiercely to step away from them. She stepped in front of me and spread her arms backing us up and shook her head no, pulling her beautiful hair loose. She screamed “you will NOT take my son from me!! I will NOT allow this!” She turned then and hugged my middle sobbing, tightening her grip around me. I patted her head and shushed her, kissing her hair. Marquesa appeared then at the bannister upstairs. “Mothers do not like losing their sons your grace’s, no matter how brief the separation.” I took a step back and grabbed her arms and held them down to her sides while I walked her back to the base of the stairs as the Marquise rushed down, bedecked in fine jewelry, her visage heavy with it. I smiled, breaking my stone face.
“If they meant me harm sweet mothers, these would not be the princes of the church in the form or Cardinals. They would be the Swiss Guard with swords and spears. Am I correct in this your eminence’s? Please, help me calm my worried mothers, both of them. I am all they have left, you see. Our Giuseppe was only just taken from us. Please, I beg of you, show them the mercy of explaining how you do not intend to do me harm. Please.” They both broke their stances and rushed to the women to console them. Now those are men of God. The bastard fat Medici pope is not, clearly. Not my mess to clean up.
“I will pack a few things first if you would like to wait in the salon just there, there is fresh lemon water, Archy’s favorite, and some pastries that Marguerite baked just this afternoon. Please, I insist, help yourselves.” I ushered them into the salon and closed the doors. The mothers were now hugging and crying, frightened. Spanning the room quickly, I busied myself affixing the lids to the tops of the casks. Luckily the only lidless ones were at the back of the stack and out of plain sight. I may believe them to be men of God, but I would not bet my mothers’ lives they would stay true to their religious calling if they see this much gold.
“I must go back to the Vatican to finish the stanze, dear mothers. I am a slave to it, you see. I do not wish this but I trust you can see there is no other way for me but to comply and obey lest I too be killed and taken from you. It is nearly finished though, I assure you both. Perhaps 60 days of work at most, but likely less. I must finish it. He has commanded it. I will be free of the church forever when it is finished.” I walked up the stairs stone-faced and went into our room and closed the door. I make promises in my head then to firm my resolve to cooperate, I will do my best to see them safely to France with guards, my love. Lots of guards. An army of them to keep them safe if necessary. I promise my love. Soon. I took then the first of the drops in a water tincture. Tasteless.
I packed a small satchel with my dirtiest, stinkiest clothes and surveyed the room. I would likely never see this place again. Before walking out I stepped onto the balcony and stared down at where you rest now, my love. No more tears, either, I promise. I thank you for the strength you passed to me my love. My Archy. Soon.
Chapter Twelve
The Four Seasons
5 April 1520 A.D.
The day I arrived back here at the Vatican it was explained that the Pope was not well and would see me in a few days when he was feeling better. His duties had exhausted him. Blah blah blah. I care not to see the fat man. Ever, if only that were in fact possible, which it is not. He will meddle and he will scheme at me. With one foot in front of the other I made my way unnoticed to my new apartment below the stairs up to the main cathedral floor one floor down. A noisy place. I set down my satchel on the small cot and pulled the smock free and shook it once and draped it over my shoulders. Tightening the leather around my hair I walked with an even pace, my footfalls as silent as I could make them, rounding the corner into to the Grand Corridor.
Mapping in my mind the fastest and most effective techniques I could muster thoughts of, I penciled down my notes as I slowly surveyed each piece started in the grand space, assessing it completeness. Standing at each end and examining the archways over the doors, each carefully assessed, I need only touch up here and there and they are complete. The wall opposite the centerpiece of The Stallion of god were the set of paintings that needed the most work. Turning around to face it, I took a sip of water from the bladder and let it drop to my side and dangle from my leather belt. I assessed it most carefully because it was the first to have been finished completely and even touched up a few times after that. It was ready for the final coat of the oiled milks that dry clear to seal the egg tempera away from the elements of the air that would see it soon rot otherwise.
Removing the vial from my pocket, I lifted the cups until the red appeared. I loosened the cork and poured in the content. As I stirred, the rich red of his aristocratic blood
darkened the paint beautifully. Using a clean, small brush, I stirred the paint until it was liquid enough to apply. I loaded my brush. Along the folds of the bottom of his vivid red cape, the darker red blended effortlessly to increase the depth of shadow there in the folds. For the next day and a half, I would return to this painting to add more of his blood to the mixed paint and again painting layer after layer over the folds of his cape. It is now complete.
I lift my gaze to look into the painting’s face and let my eyes wander there at the other figures, lesser than, more obscure and hidden. The prominence of his nose exactly as it had been in life. The hair framing his face and the glowing beams of heaven’s sunshine from the heavenly scene above him in the center reach of ceiling, terminating behind his head. I had taken such great care there to layer the paints thinly as I had with my mother’s painting so long ago in the moonlight. I broke my stone-faced facade and smiled up to him. Soon my love. Soon. I promise.
I demanded assistants in recent days from the recently appointed Vatican Curator, the rapidly growing art collection better managed. He had happily supplied eager minds and nimble hands to assist me in completing the works as quickly as possible. It had been now fourteen months since I arrived back here and we were nearly done. I am almost free of the bonds of my father’s commitment of me nearly a decade ago.
As a matter of final inspection, the Pope himself came to walk through the corridor as we stood awaiting his additional instruction or approval, myself and my assistants, along the wall at the end of the room with our heads bowed. He walked slowly through the space, often fixing his eyes on me, I could feel his stare goading me, his fat and bulbous ugly eyes rotating like a vile toad. But I would not look into his eyes for fear he would see clearly there the pure hate I feel for him. Him and his god. He spoke to the curator only, as if his opinion of the art mattered. As they were walking out I heard the fat toad say something about another stanze planned for another area of the growing complex of the Vatican’s now multiple churches.
As I stepped forward to speak, the young Luigi grasped my hand and tried to pull me back to the wall and just stay quiet. The tension in the room was palpable and I could stand it no longer. It had been a tension created for my benefit. I will address it. I walked forward toward them and fixing the curator in the eyes asked him “what of a new stanze do you speak? Surely nothing this grand in size. This has taken many years to complete. I must get home to my mother. I would be released from my duties here. It has been ten years … my father’s commitment to Pope Julius.” It was the fat toad man that spoke in reply and my eyes shot to the floor at his feet “your mother, Raphael, is in France with her cousin the Marquise de la Orleans and has been since shortly after you arrived back here so many months ago. It appears she chooses to become French. If you think that I will let our resident artist painter leave this country and travel to France likely never to return, then you are regretfully mistaken. You are to remain in residence here as long as that pleases me. It pleases me at this time that you stay and begin the new works without delay.”
I folded my hands in front of me and bowed my head. They turned and left. Young Luigi, who has taken to me fondly and eagerly learns from me, had recently found me sleeping and braced his naked body to me in offering comfort and pleasure. His mouth and hands roamed my body. I accepted the pleasure from him. My eyes roll back in my head at the moment of climax as he suckles me, always and forever fixed there in my mind. I am lying on my cot naked on top of the blanket when he pounds up the stairs loudly and observes me lying there and studies my body. I turn my naked body to him and open my arms to welcome him into me. Soon my love. Soon, I promise.
I wrote the long letter to my mothers, all four of them now including Ilsa and Marguerite, unsure whether or not it will ever make it to them in France. Luigi has promised me. The tensions between our countries have never been higher or greater. I have not had a letter from my mother now for nearly a year. I fear the war will soon come, cutting me off from them forever. More anguish I must suffer then. I make record of the futility of my plight there in writing, holding nothing back, and share with them, with my pen, my sincere love for them. For all of them. Of course, my own mother the most and then of course, Archy as well. Unwinding now, the poison works slowly to minimize any painful effects. I tire so easily and must sit to rest often. When I arrived here many many months past, I was only half the artist that had left here before. I have not been outside of the walls since. I am not allowed.
The event that changed my life forever. The senseless killing of my Archy. I told them everything. I am now an empty, defeated human man with no soul. I simply cannot give more here. This is not my house of god any longer. I confessed that I have forsaken god as he has forsaken Archy and me. I bid them all fare well.
I could only hope, not pray, never again to pray, I, that the explanation of my death would find them and possibly bring them some small measure of peace to know that it was not a cruel and violent thing, my death, but painless and necessary. I need to search ahead for my Archy, I close the letter and fold it. I will find him now. He will be a fine man, he will, resplendent in his finest uniform, a true fighting hero for his King. Tipping the vial to my lips I take the last doses all at once to hasten my departure, finally. Young Luigi beside me in bed sleeping has been keeping me warm these many months. He holds me tightly. I then rest my head back on the pillow and think of him again. My sweet Giuseppe Allard Archambault, Marquis de Orleans. Here I am my love, as promised.
Morning, 6 April, 1520 No bells toll
The young assistant raised his head away from the shoulder that had grown cold and stiff under his head. He rose on his elbow to touch the still, beautiful young face of Raphaello Sanzio da Urbino, the principal artist painter of Popes. Luigi rested his head against the stilled chest hoping for sounds and hearing none, bid his friend and lover good-bye. His tears of sorrow sweet and silent, not the loud wailing of the mothers of dead sons. The long, sad stone of his expression now gone, in death if not in life the pallor of his skin was rosed and brilliant. His smile at death had been something of happiness. At peace.
Luigi rose and removed the letter from the desk top in the small apartment with the crooked, damp ceilings. The dank, windowless quarters of a pauper, not the great artist Raphael. He folded the papers rudely and would fulfill his promises made. He tucked them firmly down the back of his leather britches, pulling his belt tightly. He would see the letters safely delivered to his mothers in France. The final gold coin he owned payment for Luigi to start a new life away from the royal courts of men and their overreaching egos. A life could be spent painting and never consume that much money if he were careful and spent it wisely. A sparkling young talent. Raphael had made him promise twice to take the letters there himself, swiftly. The mothers would see to his complete comfort and such love they will descend upon him.
Luigi fetched the curator and they each bent to all fours to crawl in through the small door under the stairs. They stood, the taller curator bending over because the ceiling had not been high enough for him to stand up. Raphael lay dead. Perhaps the greatest painter of their time. Only 37 years old. They each cried silently. Luigi left on horseback shortly after and sprinted home to gather his two sisters. With the newfound wealth, they hired a carriage and driver to see them safely to the bosoms of four mothers in one household. A castle nestled in the French countryside outside of Orleans, 100 miles south of Paris.
Luigi had spent long hours consoling Raffy’s mother. As only an artist could, he explained his efforts to complete the work as the flag of freedom for which he sprinted forward, only wishing to grasp the freedom it represented. He had saddened greatly at having to tell her that her son had been beaten a number of times and at last, hobbled. His last days, not able to walk unassisted. He read and re-read the sentences of her son’s letter to her, imploring her to please see his departure from earth as a joyous release from such a tragic ending of life. He begged her to lift her ey
es up to see over the horizon of grief and just there over the horizon, see her beautiful sons walking, hand-in-hand to their lake in Urbino. That had been his last promise to Raphael. To paint for her a painting depicting that scene.
The painting he finished rests now on her bedside table, though it looks awkward and large there. She crafted a small easel of wood scraps and affixed them with tight twine. It is as wide as his hands reach from his sides and one foot-size tall. On its face, against the garden wall in the moonlight, the yellow roses he had described in such breathtaking ways. Transparently glowing there. He only hopes to have done his master’s retelling justice.
With four mothers and two of those constantly struggling for control of more of the Marquise’s fine castle and estate’s intricate functions, Ilsa and Marguerite have become fast friends, equally sharing the responsibilities of controlling the staff of such a large and fine grand home. They all scheme endlessly to find Luigi’s sisters husbands. Like their little brother Luigi, they are beautiful and precious things, orphans no more. Marquise gifts them often with fine gowns and beautiful jewels from her vast and still growing collection. Most of them, gifts from Kings and Queens.
Raphael’s body would be entombed in that small apartment under the stairs for over a year after his death. All openings bricked over. It was not until after Pope Leo X, the Toad Pope, died, that his remains would be disturbed one final time.