Sistine Heresy

by Justine Saracen

  For the briefest moment, Adriana wondered what it would be like to kiss the intimate parts of another woman. She splashed water over her face and stood up. “No, go and rest. I don’t mind at all.”

  XXIII

  “Holiness.” Gian Pietro Carafa knelt in front of the Pontiff to kiss the papal ring.

  Julius withdrew his hand. Something about this gaunt, intense man put him off. It might have been his rigid asceticism, or the way he stared so penetratingly, as if detecting hidden guilt.

  “Thank you for notifying me of the errant behavior of our chapel singer,” he said. “He understands the error of his ways now.”

  “It is a tribute to your forbearance, Holiness, that he was saved, but he was only one of many arrested that night. Clearly, Rome teems with fornicators and sodomites.”

  Julius tapped his palm on the armrest of his chair. Where was this going? “To what do we owe this visit, Eminence? I have an important guest shortly and we must be brief.”

  Cardinal Carafa ran his hand along the chain of his crucifix to the body of Christ. He held it against his chest as he bowed toward the Pontiff. “As you know, Holiness, several of my men have been successful in seizing certain felons during the past weeks. However, our effort has been wholly insufficient, for the city is overwhelmed with iniquity. It is not just the brothels and the violence in the streets. Depravity and heresy happen in the drinking places, the markets, the stables, and even in private homes.”

  “Yes?” Julius said slowly. “What would you have us do?”

  “With your indulgence, if Holiness would permit me to form a force with powers of surveillance to uncover these offenses.” Veins stood out on the hand that clutched the crucifix. “I have under my authority a dozen good men who could undertake this vigilance. In brief, I humbly beseech you to allow me to create a force of ‘guardians of morality.’ With official papal authority.”

  “Surveillance? Of depravity and heresy?” Julius frowned. “Do you mean the Jews and false converts?”

  “The converts must be examined, of course, but the Jews are a separate problem, through their very presence. How can we preach that God rewards the Christian when the Jew so obviously succeeds, putting Christians in his shadow?”

  Julius was surprised at the tangent. “What would you do with the Jews? They are our best doctors, printers, and merchants. Rome cannot do without them.”

  “Let them stay, but isolate them. On the Tiber islands, for example. They prefer to live among themselves anyhow.”

  “We will have to think about that.”

  The Cardinal tried another tack. “But heresy also comes from without, from new books and pamphlets. Orthodoxy is attacked from all directions.”

  “Rome is a city of foreigners. They bring their iniquities with them,” Julius replied.

  “Yes, their foreign ideas, their naked statues that have become fashionable, their licentiousness. But they do not need to be physically present to be a threat. They send their ideas before them like a disease, the anti-papal rumblings from the north, the misinterpretations of scripture, their godless science.”

  “Godless science? What do you mean, Eminence?” Julius sensed another tangent.

  “I refer specifically to a young physician, one who was nurtured—to our shame—at two Italian universities. A doctor of theology from Padua who has returned to his home city in Prussia. Though I have not seen his ‘Little Commentary,’ as he calls it, I understand it proposes that God’s earth is not the center of the universe, but that it merely revolves about the sun.”

  “Who is this heretic?”

  “The son of a copper maker, he calls himself Copernicus. No matter his name. You can imagine the ramifications of such a notion. It challenges scripture in the profoundest way, and we cannot let such ideas infect Rome. The Church must remain the absolute authority on scientific thought and doctrine.”

  “The Church is the absolute authority.”

  “Only insofar as the layman is kept from corrupted knowledge. We can do that only if the Church prohibits the reading of false science and even of the Vulgate. It is also urgent that we create an index of forbidden books.” He clutched the crucifix again, absentmindedly stroking the crucified man with his thumb. “For those who violate these prohibitions, there must be trials by a body of experts. There is even a model for this, called Conduct of Inquiry of Heretical Depravity. Brother Torquemada used it in Spain.”

  Julius tapped his hand again. “I see that Eminence has given thought to this issue. Perhaps too much thought.” He stood up. “Let me show you something.” He led the Cardinal across the room to a table where a large map was laid out. “Do you know the Universalis Cosmographia?”

  “No, Holiness. Cartography has never held much interest for me.”

  “A pity. It should. This is the new map from the Germans, drawn up by someone named Waldseemüller. As you can see, it reveals not only the land mass that Signor Columbus discovered, but it indicates a western coast there and proposes that the new land is not a part of Asia.”

  “Yes, Holiness. I believe some have come to hold that view. It does not challenge orthodoxy, though.”

  “If you can stop harping on orthodoxy for a moment, you might consider the effect this new land has on the authority of the Church of Rome.” Julius tapped vigorously with a forefinger. “There are two continents here. Look, the cartographer has even named them after our own Vespucci. America, north and south. Now, consider the size, consider what Spain and Portugal are achieving with their explorations and their conquests. Do you see how urgent it is that we secure the Romagna from the threat of the Venetians, or the French, and take our place among these world powers before it is too late? It is this issue that concerns me, not the Jews.”

  “I see your point, Holiness. But surely, expansion cannot be bought at the cost of the souls of our own people.”

  Julius waved his hand dismissively. “Yes, yes, your zeal for the purification of the Roman faithful is commendable, and I will grant you your guardians,” he conceded. “Organize your men, if you wish. Dominicans, I presume. They have an appetite for enforcement. In the meantime I must concern myself with statecraft. Will that be all then, Eminence?”

  Cardinal Carafa took a step back, still clutching his crucifix. “One more thing, Holiness. The Borgias. They’ve always been your enemies. Indeed, the enemies of all good Christians. Adriana Borgia meddled in the case of your singer’s arrest, and she is implicated in crimes committed by Cesare Borgia. It is not a coincidence that her father was declared a heretic in Spain. With your permission, I would like to arrest her.”

  Julius recalled a very old favor. It was years before, to be sure, but he was not without a sense of honor. “No, you may not. Monitor her, if you wish, but you may not arrest her for past deeds or for her family. Only for a new offense. If she is as corrupt as you suggest, she will soon provide you with one.”

  “As you wish, Holiness.” Carafa’s voice was silken. “But what about the painters’ guild? There are said to be many sodomites.”

  He cleared his throat loudly. “Eminence dwells overmuch on men’s private urges and too little on their political ambitions. I have armies to fight, Cardinal Carafa. When I have subdued them, I will address venial sin.”

  Julius sat down again on his throne-like chair, brushing off invisible dust from the lap of his alb. In case the gesture was not enough to signal that he had no more to say, he added, “My Master of Ceremonies tells me that I have an audience with the Duke of Ferrara now. God be with you.” He presented the papal ring again, terminating the interview.

  The Cardinal made the obeisance and backed toward the door silently, clutching his crucifix and holding on to his small victory. “Thank you, Holiness.”

  *

  Julius still sat, tapping his armrest as Alfonso D’Este, Duke of Ferrara, strode into the Sala dei Santi. It was a stride no one could mistake for subservience. Clanking in his fluted and elaborately etched cuirass that fit
him like a silver doublet, with fluid pieces of steel covering him from shoulder to wrist, he looked for all the world like a conqueror. The cuirass itself was a piece of priceless art, and Julius suspected the Duke had donned it just for the meeting.

  Alfonso observed all the formalities, kneeling and kissing the papal ring, but when he rose again, perhaps a fraction of a second before he was signaled to do so, his expression was proud. Julius, already piqued at the earlier audience, felt his temper rising. But the Duke was not a supplicant, and there was an alliance to maintain.

  “Welcome to Rome, my lord of Ferrara. I trust your journey was not too arduous.”

  “Thank you, Holiness. I am pleased to be here. Let me also thank you, again, for the Golden Rose you sent to me after the battle of Bologna. A very great honor.”

  “It was only fitting, since you were instrumental in helping us expel the Bentivoglio. And of course, more recently, we could not have subdued the Venetian galleys without your cannons. It was only last week that the Venetian ambassador was here, kneeling in the Piazza San Pietro, to offer his surrender.”

  The Duke removed his metal gauntlets and hooked them to the side of his cuirass, where they rattled whenever he moved. “Yes. My cannons. It is that subject that I wish to address with your Holiness.”

  “Indeed.” Julius waited for the Duke’s proposal to be more clear.

  “The threats to the Holy See are never-ending, I know. Today you have Bologna and Venice in hand, tomorrow may find the French armies or even the German emperor at your gates. Clearly, it would be prudent for the Vatican to maintain cannonry for its defense, and the Ferraran foundries would be pleased to provide them. However…”

  “However?” The negotiation was about to begin. But Julius was in no mood.

  “Alas.” Alfonso hinted at a shrug. “They are much in demand, and in order to continue their production at Ferrara, we must be able to draw on the income from certain industries.”

  “To what industries, specifically, do you refer?”

  “The salt marshes at Comacchio, of course, which the Ferrarans had been working until your troops interfered.”

  “Surely the Duke is aware that the Vatican holds the rights to the mining of salt in the Romagna. The proximity of the marshes to Ferrara gives you an unfortunate advantage in exploiting them, and thereby you undercut the price of pontifical salt in the marketplace. The Curial banker, Signor Chigi, informs me that this has affected our revenues significantly. It cannot continue.”

  Alfonso D’Este bowed slightly, causing his gauntlets to clank again. “Holy Father, I deeply regret this unexpected market effect, but as I indicated a moment ago, Ferrara needs its salt income, particularly if it is to continue production of the very cannon which your Holiness is so keen to possess.”

  Julius sensed he had hit a wall, or was about to, and he was enraged.

  “Am I to assume Ferraran mining of salt from the marshes is the primary condition of the continuation our alliance?”

  “‘Primary condition’ is perhaps overstated, Holiness. Let us say that the resumption of mining operations would simply underscore our fraternity, while the continued blockade would sow disappointment. Particularly in light of the renewed pressure from King Louis XII.”

  “My Lord Duke.” Julius gripped his armrest. “If you think to threaten me with the French, you miscalculate. I do not need you. While I would love to have a row of your cannon again, I can do just as well with the six thousand pikemen the Swiss Federation has granted me.”

  “Swiss pikemen?” Alfonso’s voice went soft, hinting at derision. “I hear they are very tall and handsomely uniformed. You must be careful not to let them soil their pretty outfits, Holiness.”

  Alfonso D’Este turned on his heel and clanked out of the Sala dei Santi without waiting for dismissal.

  *

  “Lucrezia.” Adriana sat on the edge of the bed and gently shook the other woman’s shoulder. “Wake up, dear. Alfonso has sent one of his guard to announce that he is leaving Rome. Apparently the Pope did not give him the answer he was looking for and now he’s furious.”

  Lucrezia rolled over onto her back and stretched. “I’ll bet he’s furious.” She pulled herself up, fully awake. “That means he’ll go over to the French.”

  “Julius will soon realize that and send men to stop him. That’s probably why Alfonso is in such a hurry. He wants to get back to his castle and his cannons.”

  Lucrezia rose and pulled a brush through her long hair. “A plague on both of them, Pope and Duke alike. It seems I am always running away from Rome. Just like the last time you and I were together there, when Alexander died. I couldn’t even mourn him, my own father, before they chased us out.”

  “Yes, I remember. It was so rancid in the chapel that day. It seemed a comment on what we all had done while Alexander lived.”

  Lucrezia began gathering brushes, undergarments, creams, and dropping them into a trunk. “You are being overly dramatic. Those were difficult times and the Borgias had a lot of enemies.”

  “Everyone has enemies. We were simply better at removing them swiftly. I’m not laying blame. I take the guilt on myself, and I am doing penance for it. My fountain and statue—”

  “Penance? You? Whatever for?” Lucrezia laughed lightly. “What could you have possibly done that would require penance now, after so many years?” She closed the lid of the trunk and did up the buckles on both sides.

  Adriana helped her slide it toward the door. “For Piero Battista. Don’t you remember him? He was at the Vatican when we were both there.”

  “Yes. One of the men Alexander suspected of planning to assassinate him.”

  “Yes, suspected only. But Alexander ordered him killed. By me. I poisoned him.”

  Lucrezia smiled with superior knowledge. “No, dear, you didn’t. Cesare did. On Alexander’s orders.”

  “That’s impossible. Battista came to my house on the Corso at my invitation. He was ailing, but came all the same. That’s how certain he was that he could have me that night. I put belladonna in his wine and watched him die from it. It was terrible.”

  Lucrezia shook her head. “He was a dying man when he came to you. Cesare had already poisoned him. All you gave him was a little sugar in his drink.”

  “What? Then why did Alexander force me to invite the poor man? Why didn’t Cesare kill him directly to be done with it?”

  “I suppose because your house was a distance away from the Papal Palace. Alexander did not want his visitors dying under his feet at the Vatican.”

  “So I haven’t committed murder,” Adriana said, half to herself.

  “Not that night anyhow. Have you poisoned anyone since then?”

  Adriana did not laugh. “No, of course not.”

  “Well, my dear. Your conscience is clear.”

  *

  The Ferraran detachment drew up to the Villa Borgia, their formation less ceremonial than before. The draft horses that had scarcely rested had again been hitched to the ducal coach and brought up to the road moments before the arrival of the Duke.

  Alfonso d’Este did not dismount this time, but remained astride his warhorse. He was in armor and the sack behind his saddle was empty. His guard seemed nervous as well. Of the sixteen, half waited as a rear guard at the junction with the Via Tiburtina.

  Lucrezia gave her husband no reason for impatience. Jacopo had already loaded her trunk onto the coach, and the coachman sat in place. She was dressed, coiffed, and ready to travel, and she took only a moment to say farewell.

  “I wanted us to spend a few days together, no children or husbands or affairs of state. But all I did was drink your wine and give you a headache.”

  “No. You’ve given me a great gift. You’ve lightened my soul better than any priest could in the confessional.” Adriana kissed her on both cheeks. “Rome is in your blood. You’ll come again, I know it. And then we’ll have our long visit.”

  “Good-bye, Sister.” Lucrezia waved one l
ast time as the captain of the guard opened the coach door and her attention turned to him. The officer remounted and, at the Duke’s raised hand, the coach and its company rolled off toward the Via Tiburtina.

  Adriana stood for a moment watching the detachment re-form at the highway and turn northward. She savored the fleeting sorrow of departure for a moment, then returned to her garden to cheer herself. In the far end she could see the piles of dirt from the pit that had been dug for the pool and the neat crates of tile and marble for the structure itself. Only the fountain statue had not yet been ordered.

  The fountain.

  Something formed in her mind, something daring and wonderful. She was exculpated, free from the guilt that had gnawed at the back of her mind for five years. Her fountain no longer was a penance.

  When she returned to her chamber she sat down again at her table by the tapestry. The original design still lay there, marked by annotations and costs. She turned it over and began to sketch. The image was rough, but she could approximate the head ringed by curls, the softly curving body, the tipped goblet from which the water would continuously flow, the second figure nestled against it, supporting it from the rear. A channel would have to be drilled through the wider part for the pipe, but it would work.

  She laid down her pen finally, deeply satisfied. The new fountain deserved celebrating. She would invite her friends on the day the water flowed, when her fountain and her entire garden would be nourished by the languid, androgynous figure of Michelangelo’s “Bacchus.” A charming concrete copy of what he had created in marble.

  With the afternoon sun pouring through her window, she lay down, content, and planned the dinner party in her head. The guest list would be small but worthy. Michelangelo, of course, and Domenico, if his confinement was over. Giovanni de’ Medici perhaps, who seemed an ally. And Silvio Piccolomini, who would certainly get the joke, if he came.