Sistine Heresy

by Justine Saracen

  She rose at once to great heights until she was a tiny fluttering thing against the clear blue sky. Not hunting yet, she circled once in a leisurely spiral, savoring the rush of open air itself.

  “Is anything freer than that?” the elder Piccolomini remarked.

  “She’s happy, you can see it. With nothing but the short jesses on her claws.” Silvio shaded his eyes and watched her fluid movements. “And yet, she comes back to me. Like penitents to the Church. A few bribes and this splendid creature gave up her will to me. The pious are no different.”

  “I wish you would not utter such blasphemies. There are those who listen for it and would burn you for your sentiments. Think of our family. You are the grand-nephew of Pius II, a man whom many consider the greatest of Popes. If his successors had been as wise as he, the Church would not need its Savonarola or its Inquisition, and there would not be the rumblings of heresy in the north of Europe.”

  His head thrown back, Silvio followed the spiraling course of the falcon. “Popes are princes like any other, like the Duke of Milan or the King of Naples. They fight one another for power and win or lose. If the Pope were truly the instrument of God, how could he ever lose a battle? Why would he need an army of paid soldiers to fight on God’s behalf?”

  “You frighten me, my son. Sometimes it seems that you believe in nothing at all.”

  “I believe in books. A profusion of books. Books for every man who reads.”

  “What would that accomplish? If every man could read the Bible, there would be a thousand misunderstandings of it.”

  “Who’s to say there aren’t already? But more than Bibles, I would see books of every sort in circulation. Why shouldn’t every merchant and mendicant read Plato, for example? Assuming they could all read. Imagine—”

  Excited barking seized his attention, for the dogs had just been released. Within moments they flushed out a rabbit. Freccia shot downward nearly perpendicular, pulling up to the horizontal at the last moment. The rabbit pivoted toward another direction but it was too late. On her first swoop, the falcon seized her prey and held it down.

  Silvio dismounted and dashed down the slope to where predator and prey still thrashed. He dropped to his knees and seized the rabbit by one leg, slicing its throat in a single clean stroke. Freccia still held its hindquarters in her beak. She would not let loose until he rewarded her.

  “Good work,” he said, soothingly, and cut out a section of meat on the rabbit’s thigh. He tossed it to the side and the falcon pounced on it, releasing the carcass.

  The footman arrived with the game bag and Silvio dropped the rabbit into it. Freccia leapt onto Silvio’s glove again, ready for the next hunt.

  “Signore!” A shout came from the promontory. One of the houseboys was running down the slope toward him.

  He dropped to the ground some distance away so as not to startle the falcon and called out, “Signore, the excavators have found something. In the villa of Hadrian. Something wonderful.”

  *

  Livio Farnese slouched in the doorway on the Via dei Coronari until he saw her. It had taken him three days, but finally he had determined that she left her house around seven every morning. He stepped out in front of her.

  “Good morning, Raphaela. You’re looking lovely today.”

  She started at seeing him, but recovered herself. “Livio. What are you doing here?”

  He ignored her question. “Where are you headed in such a hurry?”

  She continued walking, clutching a large soft bundle to her chest. “I’m working. Why else would I be out here?”

  He walked alongside her. “Working? A woman as beautiful as you shouldn’t have to work. You should stay at home and let yourself be pampered.”

  “That doesn’t interest me.”

  “The more’s the pity. I would love to be the one to pamper you.” He leered, tilting his head slightly.

  “Livio, please. I don’t have time for this.”

  “I bet you’d have more time for me if I were rich.”

  “No, I wouldn’t. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” She hurried on ahead of him. He followed a step behind for a few moments and then, seeing that she would not engage him, he halted and called after her, “We’ll see about that.”

  She did not turn around, and Livio struggled with the conflicting urges of anger and lust at the same time. He dreamt constantly about intimacy with her, although he alternated between fantasies of her crawling toward him, begging him to take her, and of his ravishing her in spite of her resistance until she melted with desire for him.

  Money. He needed money to impress her. It was a cruel irony that he carried the name of one of the most powerful families in Rome and yet was poor. Being a bastard son of one of many Farneses meant little, except that his name allowed him stay in the palazzo. If he wanted to advance in the world and receive the respect he deserved, he had to get his hands on some money. Well, there were always men who would pay for discreet assistance, of one sort or another. It was just a matter of finding such a man and offering his services.

  Yes, he’d come back soon, in fine new clothes, on a horse, and she’d change her tune. He was sure of it.

  IX

  “Penthesilea, Queen of the Amazons, with my face. I love it!” Arabella Raimondi gleamed, studying her portrait. A woman with bow and arrow sat astride a white warhorse, wind fluttering her hair and leather skirt. “Who would have thought that a lady of my…profession, would look so at home leading an army of women?”

  Raphaela lifted the portrait from its easel. “Leadership suits you completely, just as well as the leather and feathers. You have a natural imperial bearing, you know. I just gave you a setting.”

  “Imperial? You really think so? It’s true I do like being in charge in the bedroom,” Arabella said sotto voce. “I was known for being one of the best, shall we say, ‘disciplinarians’ in Venice, and you’d be surprised how many men, including a few senators, like that sort of thing.” She sighed. “But one wants to stop doing that at the age of forty.”

  “Age has not harmed you in the least, Arabella.” Raphaela held the portrait next to her model’s head, comparing the two. “I’ve studied your face for weeks, and I can assure you that you’re gorgeous. You can still attract any man you want, I’m sure.”

  “But my dear, I don’t want to attract a man. Whether they want me over or under them, domineering or docile, I’ve had quite enough of them. Fortunately a few dozen of them, mostly the very old and very rancid, paid handsomely for their ‘imaginative’ sex. And even better, they taught me a thing or two about investment. I’m financially independent now and can retire while I still have my teeth and my tits.”

  Raphaela laughed out loud. “Yes, you do have all those things. I believe I’ve done at least your bosoms justice in the portrait.” She set down the painting on a table and laid out a length of cloth next to it. “So what will you do now, with no gentlemen in your life? Have you given up love?”

  “Heavens no. But it’s much nicer with women. Have I shocked you? Well, it’s time you found out anyhow. Women do with their fingers and tongues what men do with their clumsy cocks, and they do it lots better. They take their time and know how to torture you deliciously with delay. A skill few men master.”

  Raphaela was not sure how to reply. Her own experiences, with both boys and girls, had been furtive, leading to nothing but the conclusion that boys were awkward and self-centered. She already knew to whom she was attracted; only the physical aspect of coupling was still vague. It was pleasing to learn that, at least in Venice, there were women who pleased women. “Uh. Well, I’ll have to remember that information. But surely that’s not all you’ll do. There are a lot of hours in the day.”

  “Well, when I’m not on my back, I will entertain artists, poets, philosophers. Venice is crawling with them. I have a small but handsome palazzo on a tiny canal that’s impossible to find unless you are invited. I wouldn’t want any old clients showin
g up at the door. But I would love for you to show up one day, my dear. I’m serious. For a short visit or a long stay.”

  She stroked Raphaela’s shoulder in a manner midway between flirtatious and maternal. “You know, with your talent, you would have no end of work in Venice. I know a dozen vain people who would pay in gold to be painted as a hero or a god.”

  Raphaela patted Arabella’s hand. “Thank you, dear Arabella. The day may come when I will take you at your offer. But for now, I’ve just been invited to apprentice here in Rome. With Michelangelo,” she added quietly.

  “Michelangelo! You’re going to study sculpture?”

  Raphaela laid the portrait in the cloth and wrapped it carefully for transport. “No. Painting, of course. The Pope has engaged him to paint the ceiling of his chapel, and for that Michelangelo needs assistants. He’s even agreed to let me work with him on the platform, but I’ll have to be disguised as a boy.”

  Arabella tossed her head back with an excess of glee. “I love it,” she repeated. “Especially the dress-up part. You’ll look adorable. I had a client who liked me to do that. I won’t tell you what else he liked me to do, but let’s just say it involved certain devices and…never mind. So when do you start?”

  “Immediately. But I’m trusting you with a dangerous secret, Arabella. The other painters can’t know, and my father especially mustn’t. He gives me a lot of freedom, but if he found out I was in disguise and working alongside a dozen men, he would bring it all to a halt.”

  “I understand, my dear.” The courtesan took her package under her arm and started toward the door. “Of course you can trust me. I’ve a thousand secrets much more interesting than that one, believe me. But listen, when you’re done, please come and do a few portraits in Venice. You’ll never locate my house without help, but you can reach me through the priest of Santa Maria dei Miracoli. He was a client and is now a good friend and will always know how to find me.”

  “Venice sounds just as immoral as Rome, only prettier.” Raphaela offered her cheek for the departure kisses. “I’ll be sure to remember your invitation.” Softly she closed the door, it seemed to her, behind one of the freest women in Italy.

  X

  Lethargic and brooding, Adriana let herself into her stable to see to her horses. The creamy mare nickered recognition as she stroked its neck, before passing to the next stall to pat the sable horse that her lover Cesare had given her. The mature gelding still served her well pulling the ducal coach that Cesare had also left behind. She could not fathom how such valuable objects had not been seized. Presumably, during the weeks of confusion, the servants had simply hidden them. For her taste, the painted coach was more ostentatious than comfortable, however. For all its six carved posts, its fine woolen curtains, and its canopy, it was in the end just a wagon, and certainly rode like one, even with iron-rimmed wheels. But ostentation was Cesare’s style.

  From the very beginning, his imperiousness was breathtaking. She had been among the crowd at the Porta del Popolo when he returned like a conqueror from the Forli campaign. On his warhorse, in a coat of black velvet reaching to his knees, the son of Pope Alexander VI looked like the Prince of Darkness. His heralds blew a fanfare as he passed through the gate. Bishops and ambassadors followed with a thousand infantrymen, Swiss and Gascons, marching in ranks carrying halberds and standards blazoned with the Borgia arms.

  The Castel Sant’ Angelo flew his banners on its ramparts, and between each merlon a trumpeter stood in ornamental armor. The castle cannons sounded repeatedly, their concussions shattering windows along the entire length of the battlements. Rome was besotted with him, and so was she.

  As the widow of his brother Juan, she was privileged to be present in the Vatican Palace when the Pope received him and bestowed the new titles. When Cesare strode from the room after the ceremony, as Captain General and Gonfaloniere of the Holy Church, he caught her eye and his expression was unmistakable.

  Two nights later he came to her at her house in the Via dei Leuteri.

  He entered her room without preliminaries and had only enough patience to undress them both before he took possession of her. She gave herself willingly, though. It made no difference that rumors said he had killed her husband, his own brother. The confusion around Juan’s assassination made for uncertainty, and Cesare had too much power to be questioned openly. Their coupling under the windows of the Vatican was not so much passion as wild abandon. She could not say she ever loved him, but he burned between her legs like a torch and could do anything with her he wished.

  She recalled the night that was the nadir of her sexual servitude to him, the night of the banquet in the papal apartments. The courtesans invited to the party had debased themselves ever more as the evening wore on, finally crawling naked on the floor in sordid games, where some of the guests mounted them from behind. His Holiness had merely laughed at the spectacle, but Cesare was clearly aroused.

  Yet even he knew there was a limit to the lasciviousness to which she would stoop for him, and public sex was beyond it. So, while the party went on in the papal stateroom, she found herself in one of the service rooms of the palace, disrobed and entangled with Cesare and a courtesan.

  She was used to granting Cesare his every sexual wish. But their sordid copulation that night with the courtesan strangely troubled her.

  The first touch of the other woman reminded her of the sex play she had once engaged in with Lucrezia, the girlish tickling they had begun in a fit of giggles and that had evolved, finally, into a sudden surprising climax.

  But the courtesan was experienced in prolonging excitation. Yet at the same time, it was Cesare they were supposed to entertain and satisfy. Cesare had entered her from behind, using her like a boy, so she tried to focus on him, matching her rhythm with his. But all the while she found herself excited to breathtaking pitch by the skillful mouth of the courtesan.

  The climax, so expertly delayed by the other woman, had been long and powerful, but because Cesare had been involved, Adrianna could never be sure what sensations had caused it. In any case, it was by then almost morning, and the courtesan had departed wordlessly, leaving her feeling depleted and used.

  Still, she followed Cesare, even after Rome, fearful of defying him. For years she was swept along in his violent wake, and now that the momentum of his life was gone, she found she had none of her own and was sinking. Who in Rome could pull her up again?

  “Signora.” Her housemaster appeared at the stable door.

  “A visitor, Signora. He says his name is Piccolomini.”

  “Piccolomini?” The name came like a reprieve. “See to his comfort,” she ordered, and she hurried behind him toward the house.

  Her guest met her halfway, on the path to the stable, and he was grinning.

  “Silvio, what a pleasant surprise.” She flushed with affection as he took her hand. He looked dashing, in an elaborately slashed and stitched jerkin of the same soft green leather as his boots. Was there never a day when he was not elegantly dressed?

  “What brings you to the country? Will you hunt? Where is your falcon?”

  “Freccia is at home. Today I am hunting marble. My antiquarians have been searching in the new excavations at Hadrian’s ruins, and it appears they’ve located something.”

  “One of Hadrian’s statues? Well, I wish you luck. Most of them are broken.”

  He sighed with the resignation of a collector who had been disappointed in the past. But his gray eyes still glowed with hope. “Yes, it could be all in pieces, or missing a head. We shall soon see.”

  “Will you stop for some wine before you go on?” She gestured toward the house.

  “No, there is no time. I thought you might like to ride up with me for the final discovery. Who knows? It might be another Apollo or Laocoön.”

  It took her scarcely a moment to decide, and she called to her housemaster, who stood a respectful distance from their conversation.

  “Jacopo, have the stable men saddle
my mare. Signor Piccolomini and I are going hunting.”

  *

  They rode awhile side by side in silence, and Adriana wondered about the reason behind Silvio’s visit. Was he courting her? The thought was agreeable, though it took her by surprise. His lighthearted, almost effeminate nature was an appealing contrast to the men who used to control her, and she felt at ease with him.

  And yet, whenever she stole a glance at his tousled blond hair, she thought of another blonde, two others, in fact, who attracted her as much. Cesare’s flirtatious sister, Lucrezia, had been her best companion during her Vatican years. Now the face of the mysterious young painter hovered at the back of her consciousness. Raphaela, who painted a half-naked woman wearing Adriana’s clothing. She shook the thought from her mind.

  “This place was really a small city, wasn’t it?” she observed as they came through the entrance archway of the portico into the complex of ruins called Hadrian’s villa.

  “Yes, it had everything an imperial city needed. Residences, temples, theaters, fountains, pools, baths.”

  They rode along a fractured marble pavement bordered by a peristyle of broken columns, and she tried to recreate the city in her mind’s eye. It was scarcely possible, since almost everything that stood upright had been taken as building material into Rome, and what was left was covered by rubble and growth.

  “What made you decide to look for statues here? There can’t be anything left after so many years of pillage.”

  “When Raphaela Bramante was painting my ‘Apollo’ portrait, she mentioned that she and her father had been at Hadrian’s villa and seen men digging out statues. I half forgot about it until Michelangelo showed me a marble medallion he made with images of a woman’s face. The two events happening one after the other—I took it as a sign and sent my antiquarians here to search.”