Sistine Heresy

by Justine Saracen

  “Those Farnese boys, rowdies who could be gotten for any little excitement, are the ones who killed him, but someone paid them to do it and then murdered them. One of them was Livio Farnese, who was pursuing me. He must have been afraid something would go wrong because he left this with me.” She drew from her bodice a tightly folded piece of paper with two different wax seals on it. “When I learned of Domenico’s murder, I was suspicious, but when I heard about the Farnese boys, I knew the note would be important. Read it. It orders the boys to wait for Domenico outside the chapel to ‘punish him who is an abomination and a sinner against God.’”

  Adriana held the wax-soaked paper under the candle light. “It’s not signed.”

  “No, of course not. Who would be so foolish as to sign an order for murder? But it’s on the kind of linen paper that only the Vatican uses. My father gets these all the time with his commissions. It’s obvious, someone high in the Curia wanted to punish him, whether for sin or jealousy, I don’t know.”

  Adriana struggled with the irony. “He was always so keen on obedience, yet still he broke out that night. Other nights too, evidently.”

  “Looking for the kind of love that hides in darkness. I know this love, this smoldering that harms no one and nothing except the poor heart that burns.” Raphaela fell silent and simply studied Adriana’s face, weary from sorrow and the strain of travel. “You know it too, don’t you?”

  Adriana turned the silver ring on her finger. “Yes, I do. But I’m afraid of it, Raphaela. Not because it’s a sin. I’m long past that. But because of the fury of the Church. Alexander might have looked the other way, but this Pope has Carafa and his Dominicans watching from every corner.”

  “I know. We’re outcasts, the same as heretics. But I don’t care. I renounce the Church from my side.”

  Adriana studied the intense young face. “You can say it just like that? It took abduction and a lightning bolt to push me that far. When did you arrive at this stunning decision?”

  “When I began to love you.” Raphaela came over and sat down on the bed. “When you spoke my name at Alexander’s requiem mass in the Sistine Chapel. I had been watching you for months, but from that moment, I was obsessed by you. I made a myth of you in my mind.”

  “Yes, Europa carried off by the Borgia bull. You made me a pagan.”

  “That was no accident. The pagan world seemed so welcoming, so lacking in accusation. It’s where I began to ‘live’ in my mind. I did other paintings too, of Amazons and satyrs and women like us. In a place where there’s no Pope, no priests, no hateful God.”

  “You deny God, then?”

  “It’s God who denies me. And you. And people like us. Because, of course, there are lots of others like us. And for simply loving, the Church burns us alive and then withholds salvation.” She shook her head. “I won’t have it. What holiness there is, what mysteries in heaven and earth, I will look for myself.”

  Adriana leaned back against the headboard, breathless, as if she had been running. The two temptations at once—Raphaela declaring a forbidden love and the logic of her heresy—overwhelmed her.

  “It has a daring clarity. It’s what Silvio kept trying to explain, and Michelangelo kept contradicting.”

  “It’s not so simple with Michelangelo. He has a vision all his own.” Raphaela’s eyes glistened. “You should have seen him after Carnevale last year. He was filled with that vision. The figures he painted—each one seemed about to explode. I was sure that he burned with the same fire as I did. Sometimes it seemed like the purest inspiration and sometimes it seemed like blasphemy.” Her fingers crept forward and took hold of Adriana’s hand. “And then I finally understood that they were the same thing, inspiration and blasphemy.”

  Adriana brought Raphaela’s hand to her lips. “Oh, my soul,” she whispered. “Where does that put us now?”

  Raphaela curved toward her, kissing her lightly on the side of the mouth, while she still spoke. “In a wonderful new place. Don’t you see? We are saved not by obedience, but by knowledge.” She kissed her again, leaving moisture on both their lips.

  “I want to know you, you amazing woman. I want to know all things.” Then Adriana was done with talking. She drew Raphael to her and kissed her in return, ardent and unashamed.

  They explored each other’s mouths, little by little, each letting the other farther in until Raphaela pressed Adriana back onto the bed. Adriana recalled the delicious profanation of the confessional and the temptation in her own garden, but this time there was no wine to dull her senses. This time desire swept through her with full force.

  Raphaela raised herself up on her elbow and loosened the fastening at the front of her own dress. She brought Adriana’s hand to her midriff and watched as the awkward fingers finished the untying.

  Adriana whispered, “Show me what to do, tell me what you want.”

  “This.” Raphaela guided the trembling hand inside her chemise onto the swelling of her breast.

  “Oh,” Adriana breathed, brushing her thumb over the nipple that hardened at her touch and raising her head to press her lips where her fingers had just been. How sweet the skin of the young breast smelled and tasted. Was every woman this way, or only Raphaela?

  Then her own dress was undone and Raphaela’s lips were on her, hot and moist. On her breasts, her throat, finally on her mouth.

  Again and again they kissed and broke away, and each time they were more insistent. Adriana opened her eyes to know every moment that it was Raphaela she was with.

  How different it was from all the times with Cesare, who had fanned her lust like burning straw, and whose climax, like his invasion of her, was abrupt and violent. Now it seemed she waded slowly with another being into molten light.

  “Touch me, cara. Do everything,” she breathed, and Raphaela’s hand slid under the wide folds of her skirt up between her legs. Heat spread outward from Raphaela’s fingers as they slid into her, and she gasped at the delicious outrage of invasion. Brighter, ever brighter, excitement crept up along her hips and belly. She writhed, burning with it like a heretic, and the rustling of their satin skirts was like the crackling of flames.

  Behind feverish eyelids she saw her own garden watercourse and the stream of glistening water flowing down the hill. At its center, Bacchus poured out dazzling droplets. Each thrust and stroke of Raphaela’s relentless fingers brought another wave that bore her upward on its froth. She rose with each one, breathless, over Raphaela’s hand. Incandescence spread outward through her legs as she strained toward airless heights. She climbed…and…climbed. And reached the pinnacle. Then toppled weightless into honeyed air.

  She swam drowsily in the sweet euphoria.

  “Raphaela, you are my temptress,” Adriana whispered into the damp golden hair.

  Raphaela nuzzled her back. “No, I am your deliverance.”

  XXXVIII

  August 1510

  “All the world struggles for power, after all.” The brutal words seemed at odds with the baby face and effeminate manner of the young Florentine. He dipped his stylus again into the inkwell and held it in the air, poised to write. “But I never saw anyone succeed with such elegance and guile as Cesare Borgia did at Senigallia.”

  “You mean when he put down the rebellious condottieri of the Romagna?” Adriana delved into memory. “I believe Petrucci was the instigator of the conspiracy.”

  “Petrucci, yes.” The young man wrote as he spoke. “I recall also Montefeltro, Vitelli, Bentivolio, Orsini, Baglione. It was a masterstroke to separate them from their armies, lure them into the fortress on the promise of reconciliation, and then spring the trap.”

  “I suppose so. But the so-called ‘slaughter’ of the condottieri was greatly exaggerated. I believe only Vitelli and Oliverotto were executed. The rest were brought into line through negotiation.”

  “Whatever the facts, that single sweep of vengeance, or the appearance of it, helped him finally reduce the whole of the Romagna to a single
state. A magnificent accomplishment.” Obviously pleased with his own formulations, he scribbled a few more lines.

  Adriana could not sustain much interest in the subject. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you any more. It seems a very long time ago, and my life has changed a great deal since then.”

  He took the hint and stood up, closed his notebook, and returned the stopper to his inkwell. “You have given me quite enough, dear Lady, and I will trouble you no longer.”

  Chatting about inconsequential things—the weather, the landscape, and the local wine—they walked together to the door and she saw him off. While she still stood in the doorway she felt a warm hand on her back and did not even need to turn around. “Good morning, you lazy wench. You missed breakfast. Will you ever learn to keep country hours?”

  Raphaela embraced her, still warm from the bed. “And when will you learn there are sweeter things to do in the morning than entertain strange men. Who was he, anyhow?”

  “What man?”

  “Don’t be coy, you heartless woman. You were talking to a man just now. I heard you as I was getting dressed.”

  “Oh, that man. Niccolò Machiavelli, a historian. He wants to write about Cesare.” Adriana tilted her head back for a light morning kiss. “Come walk a bit in the garden, darling. It will wake you up.”

  “A biography?” Raphaela linked arms with her and they wandered along a row of hyacinth bushes.

  “No, something more like a pamphlet on statecraft, I believe. In fact, that’s the title he wanted to use, ‘How to Successfully Rule a State.’ I thought it was dreadful and suggested another.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Something with more effect, more on the line of ‘The Statesman’ or ‘The Prince.’ You know, a title that sticks in your mind.”

  “Was he a prince? Cesare, I mean.”

  Adriana broke off a blossom and tucked it into the front of Raphaela’s gown. “For brief moments, but very unstable. Following him was like riding along a cliff on a racehorse, always in danger of toppling over the edge. But it was nothing like what I feel here, with you. I can’t remember ever being this happy. So much so that I feel guilty.”

  “Guilty? You mean because of what we do?” The gardener was close by, so Raphaela kissed the flower in place of Adriana’s lips.

  “Oh, no. I love what we do. I thought that was obvious. No, it’s just that we’re the lucky ones. Domenico was killed, Silvio forced into exile, Salomano too. But somehow you and I remained unscathed. Every time a messenger arrives, I have a sudden fear that my time has come and the idyll is over.”

  Raphaela did not reply, but stared into the distance. “I know what you mean,” she murmured.

  Adriana saw where she looked. And when she could finally make out the figure that rode toward them, she knew it did not bode well.

  Donato Bramante was clearly distraught and dismounted with such haste that he staggered away from his horse. He greeted his daughter perfunctorily and turned his attention to Adriana, averting his eyes as he spoke. In a man of his direct character, the gesture was ominous.

  “Forgive me, Signora Borgia,” he began, and Adriana felt dread erupt in the pit of her stomach. Forgive? Had he come to take Raphaela away? Her mouth dry, she said, “Please, Signore. What troubles you?”

  “I was at the Vatican yesterday and speaking with Paris de Grassis. Not a warm individual, but upright. A man I trust. He was lamenting the loss of his beautiful castrato, and we fell into a conversation about the terrible death.”

  “Yes?” Adriana felt her heart pounding.

  “He seemed so despondent that I wanted to share with him that you had mourned greatly too and that the wound was so deep that it made you momentarily curse God. I hastened to add that such anguished folly is common, and when the sorrow heals, faith is renewed. I was certain he would find the incident touching, as I did. But, alas, he did not.”

  “Father, please get to the point,” Raphaela urged.

  “The point is that Paris de Grassis said that such a remark, even in the midst of bereavement, was still a blasphemy and had to be confessed.”

  “Is that all? Paris de Grassis said I should go to confession?” Adrianna was less alarmed than annoyed.

  Bramante looked away again. “Mastro de Grassis is not the problem. Later in the day Cardinal Carafa approached me for confirmation of the story. I did confirm it. I could not lie. But I again made the point about the effect of anguish. But he had such an expression on his face—of satisfaction, almost of victory. It looked like he had seized on something that he had been searching for and now plans to use.”

  Adriana’s felt as if she had been struck. “Of course he will use it. He has been trying since Spain to catch me at something, and now he has evidence of blasphemy.”

  “I feared as much. But from what I understand, his Eminence has to check with the Holy Father before arresting certain people for crimes against the faith.”

  “How does that make anything better?” Raphaela fretted.

  “It makes for a gain in time. His Holiness is in Ostia and not due back until tomorrow. I made inquiries and found out that Cardinal Carafa has an audience with the Pope tomorrow evening, so obviously he is in a hurry.”

  Bramante looked mournful. “I fear I may have endangered you, Lady Borgia. I am deeply sorry.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve endangered us both, Father. But come inside and let’s try to decide what to do.”

  *

  Raphaela opened the window shutters wide, letting the fragrant night air of the garden waft into the bedchamber. “Did you send someone to hire the guard for you?”

  Adriana threw back the bedcovers and waited for Raphaela to join her. “Jacopo has taken care of it. They’ll come from Tivoli tomorrow morning.”

  Raphaela opened her nightgown and let it fall to the floor, then slipped into the bed. “Poor Father. I hated to let him go back to Rome knowing he was the cause of this disaster.”

  “Poor Father? What about poor me?” Adriana pulled herself up to a sitting position against her pillow. “Obviously I have to leave for at least a few weeks, maybe months, until His Holiness can be persuaded that I’m not a heretic—although of course I am. Staying in Ferrara with Lucrezia is a good temporary solution, especially now that her husband has his cannons pointed at the papal army. But I don’t want to leave you. That’s the disaster.”

  Raphaela placed a soft kiss on Adriana’s exposed breast. “No. Not Ferrara. I’ve been thinking and I’ve got a much better idea. We can go to Venice. Together.”

  “Venice? Who do we know in Venice? Besides Silvio, I mean, who is probably hiding with a gang of heretic printers, reading their books as they come off the press. He can’t help me.”

  “No, but I can. Just before I started working in the chapel, I painted a portrait of Arabella Raimondi, a courtesan of Venice. She’s retired from the trade now and living rather comfortably. She gave me an open invitation, a sincere one, I’m sure, to come and stay any length of time I wanted. She even offered to connect me with people who wanted portraits. She’s a little bit like you, and I know you would like each other.”

  “I never thought of Venice. It does have the advantage of being hostile to the Vatican. A little farther away than Ferrara from the Inquisition. But how do you know she’ll welcome your arriving with no advance notice?”

  “I know she will. You have to trust my taste in people.” Raphaela nuzzled the warm neck next to her. “I picked you, didn’t I?”

  Adriana brushed her lips against the amber hair absentmindedly. “We could look for Silvio.”

  “I’ll bet Arabella knows precisely where he is, too. She’s the kind of woman who attracts artists, poets, thinkers, men like Silvio.” Raphaela slid farther down on the bed so that she could comfortably press a circle of kisses around Adriana’s breast. Her hand wandered, caressing first the other breast, then the smooth belly below.

  Adriana let her legs fall open and threaded her fingers thro
ugh Raphaela’s hair. “I could be happy in Venice, with you.”

  “Then it’s settled. We’ll go tomorrow by horseback, when the escort arrives.” Raphaela slid farther down on the bed so that she could rest her cheek on Adriana’s belly while her fingers traced light circles over the warm mound below. “I’ll tell my father that I have an engagement and that we’re going for a few weeks. Jacopo can bring your trunks later with the coach.” She resumed her caresses, pressing her lips where her fingers had been.

  Adriana breathed a soft moan. “I’ll only go if we can stay together and keep doing this.”

  “Of course we’ll do this. And this,” Raphaela said, as she slid her fingers down the moist groove that waited for her. “Do you think I want to let a single day pass without being inside you and having you inside me,” she said, and entered the hot center.

  “Not a single day,” Adriana murmured. With tight heat rising up from between her thighs, she surrendered to the delicious torment of Raphaela’s tongue.

  *

  Adriana appraised the two hired escorts who had arrived shortly after dawn. In helmets and cuirasses and armed with crossbows as well as swords, they looked stalwart enough. The groom brought Adriana’s two horses from the stable already saddled and with bulky saddlebags over their haunches. Jacopo was just going over a list of instructions on how to obtain funds for the maintenance of the villa during her absence. Though perplexed by her sudden departure, he could at least ensure that it was carried out with efficiency.

  “Maria will see to packing your trunks. There should be nothing requiring repair in the next weeks. Since the stables are empty but for the mules, I’ll put the grooms to work in the vineyard. Just send instructions when you are ready, and I’ll bring everything you might need with the coach and mules.”

  “Yes, thank you, Jacopo,” Adriana said distractedly, her attention drawn to the line of cypress trees where the dust of another rider suddenly was visible. Her heart sank. What new disaster was coming down upon them?