by John Boyne
The Pope looked at me and his face contorted in pain, as if even the sound of such lies were too much for his tender ears.
“Who is this fool?” he asked, turning to the priest again.
“An assistant to the artist,” said the priest. “He told you a moment ago.”
“I don’t remember,” said the Pope, waving him away. “All I know is that our tomb is nowhere near completion. We asked for forty statues to be built around it and by our count there are only half that number.”
“As the Holy Father will be aware,” said Michelangelo, “I have been distracted from the work by other commissions that you have since honored me with. The Sistine Chapel, for example, was no easy task and—”
Again, he dismissed this, now shaking both hands in the air as if he were drying them. “A simple job,” he grunted. “Any halfwit could have done it. Which brings me to my second concern. The nine panels at the center of your fresco.”
“Yes, Holy Father?”
“You begin on the right-hand side, with God creating the water, the sun, the planets. He divides light from darkness on the right and you finish the sequence on the left with the story of Noah.”
“Your Holiness is most observant,” said Michelangelo with a polite bow.
“But in the center there are three panels, are there not?”
“Yes, Holy Father. First, we witness the creation of Adam, then the introduction of Eve, and in the third piece, their temptation by the serpent, followed by their disgrace and banishment from the Garden of Eden.”
“But you chose to place the creation of Eve as the centerpiece, not the creation of Adam?”
“Yes, Holy Father.”
“A woman!” he roared, slamming his fists down on the armrests and making me jump in surprise. He leaned forward dramatically in his throne now and the priest blessed himself, as if evil spirits needed to be exorcized from the room.
“Yes, Holy Father,” repeated Michelangelo.
“It seems most strange to us that you should consider a woman worthy of such an honor.”
“But Adam was created first,” I pointed out. “Eve was taken from one of his ribs. It says so in the Old Testament.”
The Pope turned and glared at me. He seemed to know who I was now and was not even slightly interested in my opinions. “We are talking to the master!” he shouted at me. “Not the servant!”
“My apologies, Holy Father,” I replied. I tried to distract myself from his anger by directing my attention toward the frescoes that adorned the walls; an island of palm trees, an image of the Madonna, a three-masted ship sailing through the sea.
“My assistant forgets himself in addressing His Holiness in such a disrespectful fashion,” said Michelangelo after a careful pause. “But, despite his insolence, he is correct in what he says. I could not paint Eve before painting Adam. It would make no sense.”
The Pope seemed unimpressed by this answer and stared down at his hands for such a long time that I wondered whether he had fallen asleep or died.
“We want our tomb completed as soon as possible,” he said finally, returning to life.
“Of course, Holy Father.”
“We may have need of it before many more days have passed.”
“May God prevent such a catastrophe.”
The Pope looked at him and rolled his eyes before dismissing us. Back outside, I realized that my clothes were sticking to my back with perspiration. Michelangelo looked at me with a mixture of amusement and annoyance on his face.
“I warned you not to say anything,” he said.
* * *
• • •
My first encounter with Michelangelo had come some months earlier, in Florence, when our paths crossed on the banks of the Arno. I had just delivered a set of figureheads of the gods Neptune, Poseidon and Apollo to the captains of three boats that were making their maiden voyages into the Ligurian Sea and he stopped to inspect them. So impressed was he by my work that he asked one of the sailors for the name of the artist responsible and was directed toward my small workshop. When he stepped inside, I was examining a piece of marble that had been delivered from Rome a few days earlier for a new commission and, looking up, felt a little overwhelmed to be in the presence of such a great man.
“You designed the prows of the boats that set sail today?” he asked, looking around at my other sculptures, and I struggled to find words at first, for I had seen the Divine One, as he was known, in the city many times but had never, as yet, had the courage to approach him. The crucifix that he’d designed for the Santo Spirito church had thrilled me in its execution.
“I did, Maestro,” I replied, introducing myself, and he wandered around, inspecting the work that was scattered across my shelves. Deangelo, my ward, was sweeping dust from the corner of the workshop, wearing his usual miserable expression, but when he saw our visitor, he cheered up considerably, strolling over with a small ball of marble in one hand and three cups in the other.
“Witness,” he said, placing the cups upon a table and the marble beneath one of them, before stepping back for a moment. “The ball is hidden from view. Now watch.” He reached down and swapped the center cup for the one on the left. Then the one on the left for the one on the right. This went on for a half-dozen more moves, at which point he invited Michelangelo to select the cup under which the marble sat.
“That one,” said the artist, pointing to the center, and Deangelo’s face fell as he lifted the cup to reveal the ball. “So, I assume that you will give me a coin now?” asked Michelangelo, and reluctantly, the boy reached into his pocket to remove one, but the older man shook his head and waved him away. “Keep your money,” he said. “I am not easily fooled.”
“Forgive him,” I said, walking over to join the artist. “The boy plays these tricks to keep himself entertained.”
“He is your son?”
“My ward,” I said. “Although he is married now, so my duties should have long come to an end.”
“And how is married life?” asked the artist, turning back to Deangelo. “You look young to have taken a wife.”
“Each day feels as if I am slowly descending into the eighth circle of hell,” he replied. “Each morning I wake to look at the face of a hideous troll whose bed I am condemned to share. I tell her how much I loathe her and she spits in my face. And each night, when I return to that cursed bed, I am reminded of how much her body repulses me. How any man can stand to live in bondage to a woman is beyond my understanding.”
Michelangelo stared at him a few moments in surprise, before turning to me and then looking back at the boy. Clearly, this had not been the answer he had anticipated.
“Can she cook, at least?” he asked eventually.
“She can,” replied Deangelo with a shrug of his shoulders. “I’ll admit that much.”
Michelangelo shook his head in wonder, before asking whether he could see some more of my work.
“You have great skill,” he said at last. “I have need of a man of such talent.”
“You cannot want to commission a piece from me?” I asked in astonishment. “It would be my honor to—”
“No, not that. But you are aware that I employ a number of assistants who help me with my work?”
“I am.”
“I need another man. Would you be interested?”
It took me no time to reply in the affirmative, knowing that I could learn from him and improve my own proficiency. And so I went with him that very day, traveling to Rome with my ward and my son, and living within the walls of the Vatican, where I mixed the plaster that the Master used and created rough sketches for his panels. I had also fashioned the busts of slaves that could be placed upon the tomb of Pope Julius. Naturally, I felt fortunate to have found such a position but there were moments when I longed to be recognized for my own work. To
that end, I had begun to design a bust that I tentatively called The Plague of Rome.
For many years I had been intrigued by the history of my country and particularly by the first three centuries under the Caesars, the Antonines, the Severans and the Gordians, creating several marble sculptures based on these events. And while most of my time was spent working under Michelangelo’s direction, I found a few hours every night to complete my own projects, and this one was a particular favorite.
I worked from an idea that, thirteen hundred years earlier, a plague had descended upon Rome, carried back to the streets of the capital by soldiers returning from the ongoing wars in the Far East. Thousands were dying every day and there was talk of the city being abandoned entirely. My piece depicted the Emperor Commodus when he was just a child, lying in the arms of a young friend who was tending to him after he had been laid low by the plague and was in danger of death. It was, I believed, one of my better works.
When it was finally ready, I decided that I would show it to Michelangelo, in the hope of earning his approval. If he liked it, after all, there was always the chance that he might incorporate it into one of the areas of the Vatican still awaiting statues. This push for immortality might not have shown great humility on my part, but I was, after all, only human.
ENGLAND
A.D. 1599
CARRYING THIS NEW WORK in my hands, it was with a sense of trepidation that I stepped through the doors of the theatre and looked around in search of my patron. The playhouse was busy, as I guessed it would be, for tonight marked the first presentation of his new drama, Julius Caesar, a tragedy that William had been working on for several months, and there was much excitement in the air. Most of his plays so far had concerned themselves with English kings or been lighthearted, trivial fantasies that would quickly be forgotten and I thought it a brave choice to step back in time to the Roman age, although I felt reasonably sure that he would prove himself worthy of the endeavor and the audience would be entertained. He was not untalented, after all, and I for one considered him among the twenty best playwrights in England.
The Globe, finally completed after much hard work, was an impressive structure, with three levels of seating for the mob and a pit at the front where the groundlings could sit. In total, three thousand stinking Londoners, a pretty number, could enjoy the evening’s entertainment as a relief from the drudgery of their miserable lives. Most of the materials for its construction had been salvaged from Burbage’s playhouse in Shoreditch and moved here, to Bankside, after an almighty row had seen the place close down. Burbage had in fact produced three of my own plays over the years, but we had fallen out over money, for he was a thieving swine, and it was my hope that William would be interested in producing my most recent one in this wonderful new space.
I spotted David, my young ward, standing on the stage. He had found employment helping with the pyrotechnics that would allow Caesar’s ghost to appear to Brutus in the fourth act, on the eve of the Battle of Philippi, warning the assassin that they would see each other again e’er long. David had rigged a series of wires in the eaves that meant the ghost could glide on and off effortlessly while his dear friend, Timothy, was not far away, for he had been cast in the role of Calpurnia, Caesar’s wife. I worried that David’s wife, Olivia, would feel even further estranged from him, as the two young men were utterly inseparable and their work in the playhouse only increased their proximity, but, as she preferred to pass her days in the company of her bosom friend, Queenie, the arrangement seemed to work rather well.
“My friend!” cried William, approaching me through a huddle of costume-makers. “You’ve arrived!”
“Of course,” I said. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“What do you think?” he asked, looking around. “A fine theatre, is it not?”
“Very fine. It will inspire all of us to create great plays.”
“And you’ve brought another copy of the script,” he added, noticing the pages in my hand. “Good. It will do us well to have a spare copy backstage. I believe we might have need of a prompter tonight, for there are one or two of my cast who have not fully committed to their lines, the worthless dogs. It grieves me and I would as soon dismiss them from the company than mark their presence, but who, at this late stage, could fill their roles? No, a prompter it must be.” He thought about this for a moment. “You!” he said, grinning from ear to ear. “You have no commitments this evening, I hope?”
I shook my head. “Only to be here,” I told him. “And to watch the play.”
“Then watch it from the wings, my friend, would you do that? And be prepared to whisper any words that these asses forget.”
I nodded. I was happy to do so, for this was a role I had fulfilled many times in the past and I quite enjoyed watching the action from the side of the stage rather than from the seats, for the good people of London had a stench to them that would make one fear the pox. And as for sitting among the groundlings? Why, one could barely hear a word of the performance for their tittering and boorish behavior. It was said that at least one child a night was conceived in the pit of the average London theatre, and I did not doubt it, for these were saucy types and strangers to modesty.
“However,” I said, “I will need to find another copy, for the manuscript in my hands is not, in fact, a transcription of Julius Caesar.”
“It’s not?” he asked, frowning. “What is it, then?”
“A copy of my play. My new play, that is. I wondered whether you might take a look at it for me when you have a chance? Perhaps it’s something that could be staged when yours has run its course?”
He took it from me and glanced at the title page. “ ‘The Most Terrible Calamity of Spearthrower Owl, of his descendants and kin, as related by the playwright in this, the forty-first year of the reign of her most gracious majesty, Elizabeth, Queen of England, France and Ireland, Defender of the Faith, etc.’ Catchy title, my friend!”
“Spearthrower Owl for short,” I said.
“A spirited name! And what is it, a comedy? A tragedy? A farce?”
“It is a play,” I replied. “No more, no less than that. But it has, I hope, a deal of excitement and adventure within its scenery.”
“Does anyone die?”
“Several people of both a goodly and indifferent nature.”
“Does the main character suffer a cruel betrayal of punishing depth?”
“He does.”
“Is there a dog?”
“One or two.”
“A Jew?”
“A few.”
“A lady of scandalous morals?”
“Several.”
“A lady of goodly chastity?”
“Here and there.”
“And are there jokes?”
“Unfortunately, I have not found room for humor. My hero endures suffering more than laughter throughout his life.”
William shook his head in disappointment. “Your last two plays were filled with jokes. That’s why people enjoyed them so much. They proved a nice change from your earlier work, which, if I recall, was always so sad.”
I nodded, for his assessment was true. I had been writing plays since childhood and longed to devote more time to the craft but had become distracted time and again by unexpected events. Only now, when my grief at the disappearance of my wife and her daughter had finally started to diminish, did I feel that I could return to my writing and, with this new play, I hoped I might at last reach the wider audience that a performance at the Globe could guarantee.
“I look forward to reading it, my friend,” he said, slapping me about the arm and putting the pages under his. “But I must press on. There is still much to be done before tonight’s performance gets under way. Fly to the wings before the games begin and I shall reacquaint myself with you there anon.”
“Which part are you play
ing?” I asked as he walked away, and when he turned back, he offered a surprised smile, as if he could not believe that I was so naïve.
“Why, the title role, of course,” he said. “What else would be worthy of my talents?”
* * *
• • •
Later that afternoon, as we dined in our modest dwelling, Richard asked whether he might accompany me to the Globe that night. The boy was nine years old by now and had never shown any particular interest in my work before, so I was rather glad when he said that he would like to visit the playhouse.
“Of course,” I said. “I shall ask William to secure you a seat in the middle level. The best views are from there.”
“Is that where you’ll be sitting?” he asked, and I shook my head, explaining to him the role that I had been offered earlier in the day. “Can’t I watch with you, then?” he asked. “I won’t be any trouble and I’ll remain silent.”
I thought about it and could see no reason why not. Richard was a well-behaved boy and would surely remain silent as the actors performed their parts. While we ate a light supper of swan stuffed with pigeon stuffed with vole, I found myself glancing in his direction from time to time, noticing how much he was beginning to resemble his mother, Sarah. They shared the same shy smile and deep blue eyes and, as it had been with my wife, to be in his company was to feel completely at one’s ease. I allowed my mind to wallow in memory for a few moments. Like all who had known her, I had come to accept that Sarah and her daughter were dead, assuming that when they had left London to travel toward Land’s End, they had encountered thieves, murderers or Welshmen along the way.
