Sistine Heresy

by Justine Saracen

  Would he? Lucrezia was right; he was a suitable match. He would satisfy her yearnings and keep them from wandering where they should not go.

  A woman must belong to someone.

  XXIV

  By summer, the Villa Borgia welcomed its first festive guests. Michelangelo and Domenico arrived in the late afternoon, and Adriana met them as they handed over their horses to the stable men. She offered a light embrace to Michelangelo, a more familial one to Domenico, then guided them both toward the slope overlooking the villa.

  “Was it awful, being confined in the chapel complex?”

  “No, not at all. I spent all of my time watching Maestro Buonarroti paint the ceiling. We talked about music, painting, everything. They were my happiest days.”

  “We all seem to have been spared a hard penance,” she said cheerfully. “But come along, you two. I want to show you my villa from above. I’ve improved it a bit since you were here last year.”

  She walked ahead of her guests along the rising footpath, lifting her skirts from the grass, and sat down finally on a stone bench at the top. Michelangelo sat on the ground next to her. “Splendid vista. If I were a landscape painter, this is where I’d work.”

  Slightly below them and to their left, Domenico Raggi stretched out his long limbs on the grassy slope and rested on his elbow. In the heat of the afternoon, he opened his doublet and shirt and gazed down at the Villa Borgia below. “It’s perfect, Lady Adriana. You’ve created a small paradise.”

  “That’s what Lucrezia said when she was here,” Adriana replied. “She flew in like a Ferraran sparrow, perched here for one day, then flew out again. Her husband the Duke found it wiser to be back with his army. Another war is brewing, I’m sure.”

  She fell silent, letting the others hear the sounds that had become familiar to her. Birds twittered in the bushes higher up the hill, and closer by insects buzzed. Michelangelo pulled up a blade of grass with a soft snap and drew it slowly through his lips.

  She tried to see the entire estate with a stranger’s eyes. The house itself at the southern end was modest: a two-story quadrangle with a central courtyard open to the sky and an attached wing on the west for kitchen and house-servants’ quarters. Behind the house was her small private garden, cut off from the far larger formal garden laid out in symmetrical segments and divided by gravel paths.

  On the western side the stables, carriage house, and field-servants’ quarters formed a row, and behind these, woodland spread westward up another slope. To the east, gardeners were working in the vineyard and orchard. At the northern border of the estate was the new fountain and the cloth-covered statue that awaited its unveiling.

  “A divine place,” Michelangelo remarked, gazing up at the cumulus clouds that formed a ragged cylinder. Sunlight poured through it in distinct rays, like radii from a vast wheel of light. Adriana saw what caught his eye. “Now there is something you should paint.”

  Already half lying down, Domenico tilted his head sideways to see what held their glances. “Oh, yes.” He raised his left arm and pointed languidly, his index finger curving softly, at the spectacle overhead. “It’s like God’s light is pouring down on the world.” He sighed. “Don’t you wish sometimes you could be up there, closer to the light? It must be glorious!”

  Michelangelo murmured agreement. “No painter can produce colors like that, not even with gold leaf.”

  Adriana watched Michelangelo study both the splendid sky and the boy. There was a curious expression on his face, a sort of serenity, as if he looked outward and inward at the same time. Then his glance dropped to the road that curved below them into the lane of cypress trees. “Here come more of your guests.”

  Adriana stood up nervously. “It must be Silvio.”

  “Oh, pox!” Michelangelo suddenly slapped his chest. “I’m so sorry, Adriana. I forgot to give you this.” He pulled a letter out from the inside of his leather jerkin. “Silvio said to tell you he regrets that he cannot attend your supper. He was called upon to go to Sienna to see to the terms of his betrothal.” Then he added, “His father ought to have been the one to do it, but as you know, the old fellow hasn’t been well.”

  “Betrothal?” Adriana was dumbfounded.

  “Yes. To the Lady Gabriella Chigi. I thought you knew about the Chigis. They’ve been after him for ages and it looks like they’ve landed him.”

  “I…didn’t know that.” Adriana managed a smile, put the half-read letter into her skirt pocket, and looked out toward the road again. “Well, then, it must be Cardinal de’ Medici,” she said with forced lightness. “We should go down to meet him.”

  *

  Adriana approached the Cardinal’s coach as the footman opened the polished wooden door. The priest emerged, a shock of bright red against the pastoral landscape. “Eminence.” She genuflected briefly and made a brief gesture of kissing his Cardinal’s ring. Michelangelo kissed the ring kneeling on one knee, Domenico kneeling on both.

  The Cardinal accepted the obeisance with minimal interest and looked over their heads. “A lovely refuge, Signora Borgia. Handsomely appointed. I trust we will be given a tour.”

  “Most certainly, Eminence. Tomorrow, by morning light.”

  “I look forward to it. By the way, Lady Borgia, I’ve taken the liberty of inviting Donato Bramante to your little gathering. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Adriana swallowed the second surprise within ten minutes. “No, of course not. If it please Your Eminence.” Regaining her composure, she led her guests into the reception hall of the villa.

  The four walls of the hall were covered with a decorative pattern with the Borgia coat of arms, while a pastoral tapestry covered the wall opposite the entry. A low fire crackled unnecessarily—given the heat of the day—in the marble fireplace flanking the entryway. Before the fireplace a table was spread with fruit and ewers of wine.

  De’ Medici sat down with a sigh on one of the wooden chairs and exchanged his wide-brimmed Cardinal’s hat for the smaller biretta. His bulldog face was already pink from exertion, and his whole form, from the hem of his cassock to his hat, was of a similar hue.

  He continued on his theme. “My thought was that it could be of some benefit to my old friend Michelangelo…” He nodded toward the artist who had taken a seat across from him. “…to sit down at table with Maestro Bramante, face-to-face, rather than for both men to hear rumors about each other.”

  A serving boy poured goblets of wine for the guests. The Cardinal emptied his in two drafts and handed it back. “What do you think, Michelangelo?”

  Michelangelo feigned indifference badly. “Well, if Bramante is coming, I’ll be polite, but I don’t know what can come of it.” Clearly agitated, he drummed his fingers on his thigh for a moment, then seemed to think of something that needed doing. “Adriana, will you excuse me? If you don’t mind, I’d like to use your garden table for a moment.” He stood up with his saddlebag on his arm.

  “Of course. I don’t mind at all. Maria will show you the way.”

  Jacopo was suddenly in the doorway. “Signora, forgive me. It’s getting dark. If all your guests have arrived, I’ll have the boys move the torches to the courtyard.”

  Adriana addressed Giovanni de’ Medici. “You are certain that Signor Bramante is coming, Eminence?”

  The Cardinal shrugged slightly. “He said as much. He seemed quite pleased at the thought of attending. I can’t imagine what has delayed him.”

  “Jacopo, send two of the boys along the road to the Via Tiburtina.” Adriana turned back to her guests. “The turn onto the villa road is easy to overlook in the dark.”

  The Cardinal was reassuring. “I would not be alarmed just yet. Signor Bramante travels often and is a cautious man.”

  “Signora.” Jacopo stood again in the doorway, holding a lantern. “Two more guests are arriving. Andrea is leading them along the road.”

  “Two guests?” Adriana excused herself and followed her servant to the portal of the house. Sh
e peered out toward the lane of cypress trees, trying to see the new arrivals. The trees and vegetation before her were greenish black against the cobalt sky. Stars were already visible. Cold colors everywhere underscored the breeze that rustled through the trees. But straight ahead of her on the road, a sphere of warm orange light drew nearer as the groom brought the unexpected guests ever closer.

  In a few moments the riders passed through the garden gateway. The stablemen came out to them with lanterns and took the reins. Donato Bramante dismounted and pulled his long red cape around him. The second rider sat for a moment, face concealed under a rust-colored hood. The cape was thrown open on the left side, exposing one leg in tan leather hose and the skirt of a green wool doublet. A gloved hand drew back the hood, and Raphaela’s ochre hair sprang out into the light of the flickering torches. The boy-woman of the Sistine Chapel was suddenly there.

  “Maestro Bramante, Signorina, welcome to Villa Borgia,” Adriana said graciously, wondering if the expression on her face betrayed how she felt. Then she realized she had no idea how she felt. A door to something dangerous that she had closed had just opened up again.

  Donato Bramante bowed with great formality. “Apologies, Lady Borgia. My daughter’s horse lamed right after departure, and we had to return for another. We are sorry for any inconvenience.”

  “It is no inconvenience at all.” Adriana glanced back at the father. “My servants will carry your things upstairs.”

  “I travel very lightly myself, Lady Borgia, but my daughter carries a change of clothing.”

  “I brought a gown. Of course.” Raphaela hooked her thumb in the belt of her hunter’s green doublet, which in fact became her superbly.

  Adriana clasped her hands together awkwardly. “Yes, of course. Well, now, since all are here, I will show you to your rooms.” She went ahead of her guests and beckoned them to the stairway, which led to a row of bedchambers along the second-story galleries on two sides of the quadrangle. Each chamber was simply furnished with a large bed, a trestle table with a basin of water, and a supply of candles. “We are honored to offer you the first chamber, Eminence.”

  “Thank you,” Giovanni de’ Medici said. “I shall be most comfortable. I see it has a shrine carved in the Spanish style. Very fine.”

  “The second chamber is yours, Maestro Bramante, and the one beyond it is for the signorina. Please make yourselves at home and call upon my servants if you need anything.”

  As Adriana was leading Domenico to the north gallery, Michelangelo appeared. He slipped a roll of paper into his jerkin, the same place he had carried the delinquent message from Silvio. Adriana recalled that she had not yet read the entire letter and patted her pocket to assure herself she still had it. Well, it was scarcely of interest any longer. Whatever foolish plans she had had for Silvio Piccolomini, they were useless now.

  “Your rooms are there. The first one is yours, Michelo, and the one beyond is for Domenico. You can see the garden from your window.” She stepped back toward the stairs. “If you are content, I’ll leave you to your preparations. Supper is in one hour.”

  Michelangelo glanced meaningfully toward the opposite gallery where Donato Bramante stood watching the preparations in the courtyard below. “This evening should be interesting.”

  Adriana looked in the same direction. “Yes, it might just.”

  *

  The inner courtyard was lit cheerfully by flickering torches on every pillar of the arcade. In the center a long table had been set up as in a refectory. Each place had its plate, goblet, and cloth, and a mysterious pointed instrument. The guests came down from their rooms and seated themselves along the cushioned benches. Michelangelo held up the tool that lay across his napkin and studied its bifurcation into sharp prongs. He gingerly touched its points and turned to Jacopo, who was setting down a pitcher of fruit wine.

  “And this instrument of torture would be…?”

  “A fork, Signore,” Jacopo replied instructively. “To keep your hands off your supper and your supper off your hands.” He bowed respectfully as he stepped away from the table.

  “Clever device,” he said, stabbing an olive and transporting it to his mouth. “Less risk of cutting your tongue off.”

  Cardinal de’ Medici laid his down again. “I have heard of them. A charming fashion that will have its day and then disappear. I believe I trust my fingers better than this tiny harpoon.”

  All heads turned as Adriana stepped into the courtyard and came to the head of the table. Bramante stood up from his seat and Michelangelo, who had lifted his cup to his mouth, set it down again.

  “Oh, Lady Adriana. You look magnificent,” Domenico said.

  She knew she did and it pleased her, after so long an isolation, to be gazed at again with admiration. It was in fact a dress that Cesare had bought for her in Spain, saying that the crimson velvet called attention to her “midnight” hair. Wide gold embroidery in a pattern of birds outlined the deep square décolleté, descending from both shoulders and stretching across the middle of her chest. Her breasts swelled behind it, covered slightly by gathered white silk. The crimson sleeves, tied at the shoulders, were deeply slashed and buttoned, revealing the silky white undergarment when she bent her arm. Her long hair was plaited with strands of pearls and turned in a large knot at her neck. For jewelry she wore only Michelangelo’s marble medallion. He murmured as she sat down, “You are a vision, Adriana. I see now why Cesare Borgia was besotted with you.”

  Adriana nodded graciously and addressed the entire company. “Forgive me, friends. I’ve kept you waiting for your supper. Jacopo?” She signaled the housemaster, who threw open the kitchen door with a flourish. Four boys paraded in carrying trenchers on their shoulders. In brightly colored doublets and hose, they glided like peacocks past the tables with their culinary set pieces.

  The first one staggered under a roasted boar, still tusked and lying in a bed of rosemary and mushrooms. The second carried three hares in a circle around their sauce, the third venison in wine, and the fourth several pheasants ornamented with their own tail feathers. Behind them, girls carried baskets of bread baked in the shape of animals.

  Out of the corner of her eye Adriana observed Raphaela. The dark green dress was similar in color to the doublet she had arrived in, and it suited her amber hair as perfectly.

  Raphaela seemed focused on the parade of food for a moment, and when her eyes met Adriana’s, her expression remained unreadable. The guests ate, full of compliments, while she made the ritual hostess apologies. The woods, she lamented, had yielded little game that year.

  The Cardinal finally paused between courses for a breath of air and turned to the Vatican architect. “Maestro Bramante. How goes it with the designs for St. Peter’s Church?”

  Donato Bramante laid down his supper knife. “Eminence is most kind to ask. The design I have presented to His Holiness is in the shape of the Greek cross and challenges the traditional basilica structure. However, the Holy Father desires to enclose an unprecedented volume of space, which presents a problem. The weight of the dome would be so great that the pillars needed to support it would scarcely leave room to walk between them.”

  Cardinal de’ Medici glanced sideways toward Michelangelo, as if waiting for him to offer expert comment, but he remained silent.

  The Cardinal continued. “But the ancient Romans built the Pantheon, didn’t they? The principles for such a dome were known.”

  Bramante smiled wearily. “Known and then lost. I am trying to rediscover them by measuring the remains of imperial buildings.”

  Finally Michelangelo intruded. “If you will permit me, Signor Bramante. I share your interest in classical architecture. In an idle moment I made a tiny sketch—based on Euclid.”

  He drew from inside his jerkin a roll of parchment, no larger than his fist, and handed it to the architect. “If you find anything in it of use, please apply it at your discretion. If not, it’s of no consequence.” The last of his words were muffled
as he drank from his wine goblet.

  Bramante accepted the scroll with a slight frown. Inclining toward the right, where the torch was brighter, he unrolled the document, allowed his daughter to adjust his red cloak around his shoulders, and began to read.

  The scroll held several diagrams, shaded in crosshatch and accompanied by measurements and calculations. Clearly they had been drawn especially for the occasion, and their presentation, in public and by a rival, bordered on the insulting. And yet, his intent expression showed that the diagrams did in fact reveal possibilities he hadn’t considered.

  “You may discard it if you wish. No harm will be done,” Michelangelo added with a dismissive gesture. “It’s merely speculation.”

  Relieved of having to comment, Bramante visibly relaxed, rolled the scroll up again, and tucked it into a pocket of his cloak. “Thank you, Signor Buonarroti. I’ll give it my full attention later.”

  “I would be honored, Signor Bramante,” Michelangelo said, avoiding Adriana’s glance.

  The Cardinal changed themes. “Signor Buonarroti, how goes the collaboration between painter and Pope?”

  “Not as I’d like, Eminence. I’m sure it is a secret to no one that we have our differences. His Holiness has made many suggestions, but we have conflicting visions. He wanted apostles but I am pleading for Old Testament scenes.”

  The prelate leaned forward on both elbows. “Surely you are bound to obey the Holy Father’s wishes.”

  “The Hebrews are his wishes, now.” Michelangelo toyed with the fork, turning it between his thumb and fingertips, scrutinizing its carved handle. “A painter is not a carpenter, banging together a cabinet on order, Eminence. There are areas to which obedience does not apply.”

  “But there is such peace in obedience, Maestro Buonarroti,” Domenico said innocently. “Differences in vision seem insignificant before the mystery of God. Don’t you think?”