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SiStine HereSy

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Acclaim for Sistine Heresy

“Justine Saracen’s Sistine Heresy is a well-written and

surprisingly poignant romp through Renaissance Rome in the age

of Michelangelo. Saracen blends fact with fantasy in writing

a homoerotic history of corrupt clerics, lascivious artists, and

heretical humanists. Saracen’s Michelangelo is a theological rebel

whose art must eventually trump his service to the Church while his

homosexual longings climax in a complementary conquest. Sistine

Heresy’s cast includes a beautiful castrato who sings and loves

purely and a Borgia donna who meets her match in a female artist

who cross-dresses to assist in painting the Chapel.

The Heresy title is appropriate as the book poses serious

theological questions. The struggle between flesh and soul (in

both aesthetic and sexual realms) recalls Browning’s artists and

makes explicit the erotic tension of Pater’s Renaissance. A corrupt

Church of philandering, power-hungry prelates is a usual suspect.

Yet Saracen’s characters are vivid and moving in their devotion: to

iconoclastic love of God and forbidden love of man (and woman).

The novel entertains and titillates while it challenges, warning of

the mortal dangers of trespass in any theocracy (past or present) that

polices same-sex desire.”

— Professor Frederick Roden, University of Connecticut

Author, Same-Sex Desire in Victorian Religious Culture

Editor, Catholic Figures, Queer Narratives

Praise for The 100th Generation

“…the lesbian equivalent of Indiana Jones…Saracen has sprinkled

cliffhangers throughout this tale…If you enjoy the History Channel

presentations about ancient Egypt, you will love this book. If you

haven’t ever indulged, it will be a wonderful introduction to the land

of the Pharaohs. If you’re a Raiders of the Lost Ark–type adventure

fan, you’ll love reading a woman in the hero’s role.”

— Just About Write

By the Author

The 100th Generation

Vulture’s Kiss

SiStine HereSy

by

Justine Saracen

2009

sistine heresy

© 2009 By Justine saracen. all rights reserved.

isBn 10: 1-60282-051-1e

isBn 13: 978-1-60282-051-7e

This ElEcTronic Book is PuBlishEd By

Bold sTrokEs Books, inc.,

P.o. Box 249

VallEy Falls, ny 12185

FirsT EdiTion: FEBruary 2009

This is a Work oF FicTion. naMEs, characTErs, PlacEs, and

incidEnTs arE ThE ProducT oF ThE auThor’s iMaGinaTion or

arE usEd FicTiTiously. any rEsEMBlancE To acTual PErsons,

liVinG or dEad, BusinEss EsTaBlishMEnTs, EVEnTs, or localEs

is EnTirEly coincidEnTal.

This Book, or ParTs ThErEoF, May noT BE rEProducEd in any

ForM WiThouT PErMission.

credits

EdiTors: JEnniFEr kniGhT and shEllEy ThrashEr

ProducTion dEsiGn: sTacia sEaMan

coVEr dEsiGn By shEri (GraPhicarTisT2020@hoTMail.coM)

Acknowledgments

Thanks, above all, to Angelique Corthals, who made me actually

visit the Sistine Chapel, gave me a dozen gorgeous books on the

Italian Renaissance, and offered ingenious plot suggestions. Heartfelt

thanks also to Derek Ragin, whose seraphic singing (though he is in

full possession of his manhood) inspired the character of the castrato

Domenico.

For being there during the long gestation of this work, thanks first and

foremost to Thomas Keith, who not only commented, but foisted me

on his acquaintances. Thanks also to other early draft readers: Inge

Horwood, Doris Kaufman, and Elizabeth Mandel, whose reactions

guided me.

On the publication end, I want to applaud Jennifer Knight, consummate

plot surgeon, who put the pieces in all the right places. A glass of wine

also for my religious “experts” Ruth Sternglantz for Judaism and

“Storm” for Catholicism.

Finally, I want to thank Shelley Thrasher and Stacia Seaman for heroic

intervention and long night hours when we had a last-minute time

crunch.

As for research, though I focused on no one source for Michelangelo,

I do wish to acknowledge Michael Mallett’s scholarly study The

Borgias.

Last of all, I would like to thank Sheri for her “collaboration” with

Michelangelo for a fantastic cover, and Radclyffe and Jennifer, for

taking the plunge into LGBT with this novel, letting me reclaim the

splendid period called the Italian Renaissance on behalf of queers and

dissenters of all kinds.

Dedication

To Giordano Bruno (1548–1600), who,

for declaring that the earth orbited the sun,

and rejecting Church mysteries for mysteries of his own,

was burned alive at the stake.

Dramatis Personae (in order of appearance)

Adriana Borgia (fictional)

Wife of Juan Borgia, Mistress of

Cesare Borgia

Rodrigo Borgia (1431–1503)

Last Borgia Pope, considered

Pope Alexander VI (1492–1503)

the epitome of corruption in the

papacy

Lucrezia Borgia (1480–1514)

Daughter of Pope Alexander

VI. After being widowed twice,

married Alfonso d’Este and became

Duchess of Ferrara

Domenico Raggi (fictional)

Castrato in the Sistine Choir

Cesare Borgia (1476–1507)

Son of Pope Alexander VI, head of

Papal army during his reign

Donato Bramante (1444–1514)

Architect and painter. Designed

the original plan for St. Peter’s

Basilica

Raphaela Bramante (fictional)

Daughter of Donato, modeled

after historical painter Artemesia

Gentileschi

Gian Pietro Carafa (1476–1559)

Clerical reformer and extreme

Pope Paul IV (1555)

ascetic who established the Roman

Inquisition

Michelangelo Buonarroti

Sculptor, painter, architect

(1475–1564)

King Ferdinand of Aragon,

Initiators of the Spanish Inquisition

Queen Isabella of Castille

and expulsion of the Jews and

(1451–1504)

Moors

Silvio Piccolomini (fictional)

The Piccolomini were a prominent

humanist Roman family

Giuliano della Rovere (1443–1513) Began reconstruction of St.

Pope Julius II (1503)

Peter’s Basilica, financed by sale

of indulgences (“time off” from

purgatory)

Marsilio Ficino (1433–1499)

Florentine scholar and major architect

of humanist ideas

Giovanni de’ Medici (1475–1521) Son of Lorenzo the Magnificent of

Pope Leo X

Florence

Baldassare Salomano (fictional)

Jews expelled from Spain in 1492

were accepted in Rome by Alexander

VI

Paris de Grassis (1450–1528)

Papal Master of Ceremonies during

reign of Julius II

Giuliano da Sangallo (1445–1516) Florentine architect and sculptor

Martin Luther (1483–1546)

Triggered the Reformation with his

95 theses condemning the sale of

indulgences

Leonardo da Vinci (1452–1519)

Florentine

engineer,

architect,

inventor, painter

SiStine HereSy

Prologue

auguSt 1503

The Vicar of God was dead. Rodrigo Borgia, Pope Alexander

VI had succumbed, whether to plague or poison, no one knew,

but his already decomposing body lay in the Sistine Chapel. A coach

rumbled toward the Vatican carrying Adriana Borgia, widow to one of

his sons and mistress to another, unsure of what awaited her.

It was the sede vacante, the precarious time of the empty throne.

The power plays were underway and soon the vendettas would begin.

Adriana was already planning escape.

Ruin could come from anywhere now, though she was not sure

who was the greater menace, rivals or reformers. Political rivals, like

the della Roveres or the Farnese, would cheerfully cut her throat to

advance themselves, but they changed with every new alliance. They

could be threatened, seduced, bought off. But the reformers, Dominicans

mostly, by their very zeal for piety, could not be corrupted, and therein

lay their danger.

She had thrown in her lot with corruption and, for all her regrets,

she could not meet the terms of the purists. She was, in every aspect

of her murderous, adulterous life, what they detested. All she could do

was flee them. Even now, with the Borgia forces suddenly defeated, the

wolves circled. She had only enough time to find Lucrezia and perhaps

to say good-bye to sweet Domenico.

At the Piazza San Pietro a crowd was gathered and her fear grew.

But the mass of onlookers was focused on something at its center.

Perplexed, Adriana threaded her way forward and the crowd

opened up for her. One or two recognized her and she heard her name

whispered.

• 13 •

JuStine Saracen

Then she saw the penitent. He half knelt, half hung from a chain

fastened to the top of a wooden stake. His back was crisscrossed with

gashes, and blood oozed in thin sheets down to his waist and into his

breeches.

At her shoulder she heard a grunt of approval. From a pilgrim,

to judge from his broad-brimmed hat and pouch. His emaciated frame

suggested he was a devout one.

“Why do they do this today?” she asked him. “Of all days, during

His Holiness’s funeral?”

The pilgrim slouched on his staff. “You’ll have to ask the

Dominicans about that.” He looked toward the two monks who stood

at the front of the crowd. “They’re the ones in charge of the sodomite.

And God reward them for it.” His eyes shone as another lash fell on

the mangled back and the penitent twitched soundlessly. The crowd

murmured approval.

“Sodomy? Is that the charge?”

“That’s what they said. And when they’re done flogging him,

they’ll do his friend.” The pilgrim tilted his head toward a second

prisoner shackled at the foot of a guard. “Serves ’em right.” He sucked

air through brown teeth.

The two Dominicans had caught sight of Adriana and approached.

White-robed and tonsured, they seemed colorless against the motley of

the onlookers. The taller one spoke.

“Lady Borgia, it is best you leave. You have no place here now

and we cannot vouch for your safety.” The sound of another whiplash

underscored his remark.

“It was my intention to attend His Holiness’s funeral, not an

execution.”

“Then please see to it that you do so, Lady, lest you draw attention

to yourself.” He tilted his head almost imperceptibly in the mockery of

a bow.She held her ground. “Who ordered this?” She gestured toward

the sweating soldier who let fall another lash. “On the day of the Pope’s

mass.”The Dominican looked down at her with half-closed eyes.

“Cardinal Carafa, meting God’s punishment on this day as any other.”

“But these are boys of Alexander’s court. I recognize them.”

“Pope Alexander is dead. The sodomites no longer enjoy his

protection. Now, if you please.” He extended his arm toward an alley

• 14 •

SiStine HereSy

between the onlookers, indicating the direction she should go. The

sleeve of his white robe, she noted, was flecked with blood.

She returned the mocking head-tilt. Ignoring the direction in

which he pointed, she walked along the front of the crowd, toward the

second prisoner.

The other penitent, more boy than man, crouched in terror. She

had seen him in the halls of the Vatican, one of the dozens of pages

and servants she was apt to pass on any day. He whispered, “Madama,

please.” An urge to take him by the arm, to rescue one of the first victims

of the new political order, almost overcame her misgivings. But she

knew it was impossible; she herself was in jeopardy. Seizing handfuls

of her skirt, she fled through the crowd up the steps to the Vatican.

v

Kyrie, Kyrie Eleison.

Adriana hurried into the Sistine Chapel only half hearing the

choir begin the Greek prayer for mercy. Fourteen voices wove in silken

polyphony until a single bright sound, plangent and compelling, rose

above the others.

Christe Eleison, Allelujah.

The chapel was full for the requiem mass. A marble screen divided

the chapel in two, separating the Cardinals who sat along the walls on

the far side from the nobility of Rome standing in rows behind it. The

doors at the center of the screen were ajar and Adriana looked through

the opening. There it was, at the forefront. Mercifully shrouded and

with its head toward the altar, the corpse of Pope Alexander VI lay on

its catafalque.

Still breathless, she looked around in the somber crowd for

Lucrezia and wondered if she dared to walk farther in. No. Unwise to

draw attention to herself.

In that instant the odor of rotten meat assailed her and she held her

handkerchief to her mouth. They had told her that the Pope’s body had

corrupted quickly, had blackened even before he could be washed, but

no one mentioned the smell. Trying not to breathe deeply, she leaned

forward, peering through the crowd.

“Lucrezia, finally!” Adriana whispered, and made her way along

the rows to her sister-in-law. Slender and blond, Lucrezia stood rigid,

holding a missal to her chest. Adriana touched her arm. “We’ve got

• 15 •

JuStine Saracen

to go, dear. The Dominicans are in the square flogging Alexander’s

servants, and Cesare is waiting for us at Sant’ Angelo.”

Lucrezia was sullen. “Why doesn’t he come? Alexander was his

father too.”

“Shhh. You know why. There are too many here with a score to

settle.”

“I’ll miss him, you know,” Pope Alexander’s daughter murmured.

She regarded Adriana through red-rimmed eyes, as though trying to

discern whether her sister-in-law also mourned. Adriana knew she was

beyond reproach, at least in dress. There had been no time to make

mourning clothes, but in the short period as everything seemed to come

apart at the papal court, her maid had simply taken her darkest blue

gown and sewn a strip of black ribbon on it, from bodice to hem. With

her black hair drawn back into a knot, Adriana looked bereaved, even

if she was not.

“Do you suppose they murdered him?” Lucrezia’s glance took in

the lords of Rome on the near side of the screen before shifting to the

somber clerics on the far side. “I think they did. Half the people in this

chapel are murderers.”

Adriana’s face warmed at the word “murdered,” and the putrid

air of the chapel stirred an awful memory. She closed her eyes for a

moment, forcing it away.

“Yes, there are murderers everywhere.”

Lucrezia held her missal to her chin, like a child in prayer. “Is

there one pure soul left in this awful city?”

“Agnus Dei qui tollit peccatum mundi,” a single high voice sang,

crystalline, over their heads.

“Yes, of course there is. Up there.” Adriana looked toward the

choir loft at the castrato who gave forth a thrilling sound in a voice that

was neither male nor female.

“Domenico? Is that it, then?” Lucrezia chuckled bitterly. “Is

castration the way to make men pious?”

“Shhh,” Adriana cautioned, touching Lucrezia’s arm.

Across the aisle, two people turned around and stared at them.

The man, wide-shouldered and magisterial, looked away again; the tall

young woman at his side did not.

Adriana held the stranger’s glance, defiant and then curious. “Who

are they?” she asked under her voice.

• 16 •

SiStine HereSy

“Those two?” Lucrezia’s tone was indifferent. “The architect

Donato Bramante. And that’s his daughter Raphaela. A painter.”

The young woman still stared. The full lips were slightly open as

if she were about to speak. Then, unexpectedly, her mouth curled up

faintly on one side as if in greeting.

Adriana stared back, puzzled, irritated at having to pry Lucrezia

away from her mourning when they should have already been out of the

city, when every minute they stayed endangered them.

Movement drew her eyes away from the woman. A more ominous

figure—by his white robe, another Dominican—came through the

doorway of the screen. A jolt of fear shook her. Gian Pietro Carafa.

The Cardinal’s bony asceticism seemed a reproach to the entire

Vatican, but his cold inquisitor’s glare, Adriana knew, was directed at

the two of them.

“It’s time to go, Lucrezia. Now.” She took hold of her sister-in-

law’s arm and drew her along the row to the aisle and toward the wide

double doors that led out of the chapel.

Two Swiss Guardsmen stepped in front of them with crossed

pikes. Adriana glanced back at Carafa. He came toward them with the

leisurely pace of a man certain of his captives. The choir continued

to sing the mass while the rest of the congregation looked elsewhere,

indifferent now to the fallen Borgia women. Only Raphaela Bramante

still watched. As Adriana met her gaze again, the young woman’s eyes

darted toward the eastern wall to a space beneath the choir loft.

The small door under the loft was nearly invisible, covered with

the same painted drapery as the wall. “The service entrance,” Adriana

whispered, urging Lucrezia toward the narrow door.

They passed unhindered into a corridor and hurried toward a

second door at the far end of the passageway. A voice called out behind

them.“Signora Borgia! Stop!”

Adriana threw herself against the heavy wood, and as the door

opened onto freedom, they broke into a run.

• 17 •

JuStine Saracen

i

1506—god’S Warrior

Pope Julius II felt the hint of sexual excitement as the dust

settled and he could look down onto the field of slaughter at

Perugia. He shifted in the saddle as a gust of wind ruffled his papal

robe and cooled his armor beneath it. He lifted off his battle helmet and

handed it down to his squire, letting the troops around him see the face

of God’s general, the victorious Vicar of Christ.

Someone handed up a chalice of watered wine, and he took a

long drink, savoring both the liquid and the moment. He had defeated

the upstart despots of Perugia and Bologna and reunited the Romagna

under papal authority.

As battles went, it had been brief and not very costly. All things

considered, the triumph had been easier than achieving the papal

throne. That had cost him a fortune, not to mention ten long years of

bitter exile while the Borgias controlled Rome. When Alexander, the

pig, had finally died, Julius had called on every ally and resource. To

his fury, one of the other Cardinals was chosen. Yet, within the month,

the hand of God conveniently intervened, ending that reign too, and

Julius finally ascended.

He took the throne with the forcefulness of a man whose hour

was overdue. He did not even bother to choose a saint’s name, merely

changing his own “Giuliano” to its Latin form. If the pious among the

Curia did not care for that, they dared not show it.

Now, the three rivals to his authority, Venice, France, and Cesare

Borgia, were all neutralized. Cesare Borgia, under order of arrest, was

on the run with his whore, Adriana. Venice had been made to surrender

Cesena and Forli. The French—well, they were a constant thorn, but

• 18 •

SiStine HereSy

at that very moment, Julius had legates in the German court discussing

an alliance against them. It was a chess game, but Julius was far across

the chessboard.

Yet he hated political maneuvering, having to form alliances with

men he detested. It was so much more satisfying to ride before an army

and achieve visible victory on the battlefield. Men could betray him,

alliances could be broken, but a sword rendered an enemy permanently

dead, and a vanquished town stayed vanquished.

His victory deserved commemorating. He ran several scenes

through his mind’s eye. A fresco of the battle, perhaps, with himself

in full papal armor overseeing the field? No, there would be many

battles, and such a specific event would lack timelessness and the aura

of sanctity. He wanted to be remembered for centuries.

What subject then? How could he insinuate himself into a sacred

thematic and still be recognized? Perhaps a portrayal of himself as Peter

with the apostles around him. Possibly. But where was there space in

the Papal Palace where men would see it?

It came to him like a revelation. The Sistine Chapel. It needed

repair anyhow, and the current star-studded blue ceiling had never

pleased him. Why not a fresco? Why not several frescoes, that would

forever be associated with his papacy?

Yes. The chapel ceiling. The twelve apostles. Himself as Saint

Peter in the center panel. Being touched by God. Julius liked this idea.

Who could he trust to paint it? Botticelli and Roselli were too

old and feeble for something of that scope, and on a ceiling no less.

Perugino might do it. Well, Bramante, his personal architect, would

have some suggestions.

Julius was exceedingly cheerful now. Colors ran through his head.

Colors for the ceiling. Colors for the painted papal vestments.

He gazed out over a line of Swiss infantrymen with their pikes.

Handsome lads, tall and light-haired. Their drab field dress did not do

them justice. A victorious papal army deserved display. He imagined

them more flamboyant, in multicolored stripes perhaps, with artfully

slashed sleeves and leggings. The pikes, of course, would stay.

• 19 •

JuStine Saracen

ii

auguSt 1508—return of tHe Penitent

Five years after fleeing the funeral of Alexander VI, Adriana

crept again into the Sistine Chapel during the mass.

She felt the passage of time like a weight on her chest, those five

tumultuous years, four of them with Cesare in Spain, celebrating with

him in victory, comforting him in defeat, feigning indifference to his

infidelities. Then, abruptly, he was gone, killed in a meaningless battle.

She returned to her father’s house in Seville, to a man she scarcely

knew. Though the conniving Don Pedro Falcon had married her off to

the Borgias for his own advantage in the first place, he allowed her back

and she had enjoyed the privileges and protections of being Adriana

Falcon-Serra for scarcely half a year when the Inquisition struck.

Some quarrel her father had involved himself in at court had ended in

denunciation, and within months, everything—lands, businesses, titles,

and finally his life—were forfeited.

The Inquisition sent a reign of terror through the country. Not only

were the converts at risk; even her father, a landed hildago of good

reputation, could fall victim. It could only have been royal greed that

caused the Holy Office to arrest a feeble old widower and seize the

lucrative farms of the Falcon family. Whatever the reason, before he

could stand trial, Don Falcon died in prison.

Though Adriana was for the moment free of suspicion herself,

Spain had become a purgatory. The auto-da-fé in Seville brought that

home to her. If the spectacle of men being burned alive was Spain’s

testament to the True Faith, Adriana preferred the profane dangers of

Rome.She fled Spain for the Roman countryside, cowering in the one

• 20 •

SiStine HereSy

parcel of Cesare’s land the new Pope had not seized, and she tried to

lead a quiet life. She had been married at fifteen, widowed and the

mistress of the second-most powerful man in Rome at eighteen, and

at twenty-three she committed murder. She had burned through life so

furiously that, for a while at least, she felt she had reached its logical

end. But after the fear ebbed and she learned calm in the Roman

countryside, she felt the stirrings of nature again and remembered she

was only twenty-nine.

Driven by loneliness and nostalgia she ventured timidly into Rome

again. She needed to find old friends, and Domenico Raggi was surely

one of them.

She peered out from behind the wooden pillar toward the choir

loft and found him instantly. Taller than all the others, the castrato

stood at the far end, caught in the harsh white beam that shone through

the clerestory windows. In the milky, dust-filled light, his eyes were

shadowed as he sang, until he turned his face upward and was bathed in

incandescence. Gentle Domenico. His pure voice was as unchanged as

the Greek and Latin words he sang.

No, the mass had not changed, but everything else had. The chapel

itself was a jumble of wooden platforms and ladders. Even the ceiling

was different. The star-scattered heaven she remembered was scraped

bare. As I am now, she thought. Bare…raw…waiting.

She saw the rough hand before it touched her, and she flinched.

Too late. Forcefully it seized her and yanked her backward toward the

door. Alarmed, she struggled to wrench her arm away, but the grip

only tightened and she staggered after her captor. For a brief panicking

moment, she saw him in profile. His hair was cut short like that of a

menial, and an obviously broken nose flattened his face to a sort of

pugnaciousness. Finally, as he pulled her through the doorway into the

great hall, he let her go.

“Michelangelo!”

“Shhh.” He pressed a finger to his lips and pointed toward a marble

bench on the far side of the great hall. They sat down together, dwarfed

by the vast fresco that rose behind them.

“You scared me half to death. I thought I was being arrested.”

“Forgive me. I had just gone to fetch this.” He held up a mallet. “I

couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you. If you had gone farther into

• 21 •

JuStine Saracen

the chapel I might have lost you in the crowd.” He took her long fingers

in his muscled hands. “I’m sorry I was so rough.”

“I wouldn’t have gone in. I don’t want to be seen in this city

yet.” “Why not? You’re as beautiful as ever, and that little gray spot

right there gives you just the right maturity.” He raised a finger toward

the side of her head where a narrow swath of black hair had lightened.

“You still make every man who looks at you commit a sin.”

She laughed softly and pushed his hand away. “And you still don’t

know how to talk to a woman.”

She studied him in return, noting how haggard he looked. The

five years had not aged him so much as washed him out, like his

clothing. He wore a simple belted smock that had once been blue and,

below it, colorless leggings tucked into sooty well-worn boots. He was

indistinguishable from any other workman.

“You know I only meant to say you hadn’t changed,” he said.

“When did you return from Spain?”

“A few months ago. But this is the first time I’ve ventured into

Rome.”

“And you never contacted me?” His voice held both feigned and

genuine injury. She had forgotten how quick he was to take offense.

“I haven’t contacted anyone, actually. I fled with Cesare and

Lucrezia in the first place because Rome was no longer safe for us. The

Dominican reformers had descended on the Vatican, and if they didn’t

bring some charge or other against us, there were plenty of others who

would have cheerfully cut our throats.”

“Everyone knows there’s no love lost between this Pope and the

Borgias. You were courageous to come back.”

“Courageous? It was just the opposite. After Cesare was killed,

I went back to my father in Seville. But a few months later, he was

arrested by the Inquisition. He was ailing anyhow, and he died in prison.

Of course the Crown seized his lands, which may have been the whole

reason for the arrest. It seemed safer to return here after all. I thought

that if Julius arrested me, he would remember he owes me a favor.”

Michelangelo seemed amused. “A favor? When did the mighty

Pope Julius ever need you?”

“Not me. He needed Cesare, for his papal election. The two

were old enemies and had no real channels to talk. But when it looked

• 22 •

SiStine HereSy

like Pius II would die, the Cardinals started politicking again. Julius

desperately needed Cesare to influence the Spanish Cardinals to throw

the vote toward him. It must have galled him to actually need Borgia

assistance, and to need it so badly that he had to send messengers all the

way to Spain to get it. In any case, I was the one he needed to whisper

in Cesare’s ear.”

“What was Julius’s offer?”

“Just that he would leave Borgia lands untouched in exchange for

Cesare’s convincing the Spanish Cardinals to support him. I did my

part but it was hardly necessary. Cesare was too weak to have openly

opposed him anyhow, and he agreed.”

“So, what did you get out of it?”

“As it turns out, nothing. After Julius was chosen, the old

animosities began again. Within months Cesare was on the run and

most of his lands were seized after all. All but the little villa near Tivoli

where I live now. As for me, I might be able to call that favor in one

day, but after five years and Cesare’s death, I don’t think it has much

currency.”

Michelangelo stared into middle distance. He had set the mallet

down and folded his sinewy arms across his chest. His hands were

scarred, she noted, marked by myriad abrasions, chisel nicks, and sores

from the acid wash that polished his statues.

“And what of you, Michelo? What have you been up to?”

“I finally finished a statue, in Florence. More difficult than I

expected, on a used block of marble, already deeply cut. But it turned

out all right. The Hebrew David. You should take a look at it.”

“I will, when I’m next in Florence. How long have you been back

in Rome?”

“Three years. I was supposed to begin designs for Julius’s tomb.

But there were endless problems.” He scratched something dark and

gritty on his shirtsleeve. His forearms were knotty with musculature.

“We couldn’t agree on anything. And now the whole thing has been set

aside for the chapel ceiling. Infuriating.”

The chapel doors suddenly opened and people poured into the

Sala Regia. Adriana pulled the hood of her cloak over her head to avoid

being recognized. Courtiers, noblemen, and Cardinals passed by in

velvet and satin. Some were familiar: Paris de Grassis, Cardinal Riario,

Annio Piccolomini looking frail, the Orsini. None of them were her

• 23 •

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friends. Most went down the great staircase out into the August heat.

Others, who currently held favor and influence, went into the papal

rooms. Rooms to which she once had free access.

Finally, only the Swiss Guardsman stood at the door of the chapel.

In the vast high-ceilinged stateroom of the palace, she and Michelangelo

were alone again, and their voices echoed slightly.

She resumed their conversation. “What will you paint?”

“Paint?” He snorted. “Julius wants apostles with himself in their

midst. But I am so bitter these days, only one scene comes to mind.”

He made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “The Deluge. To wash it all

away.”

“Why so choleric, Michelo? I don’t remember you this way.”

“Choleric? I have good reason. I was summoned to Rome to work

on the Pope’s tomb. I spent months preparing sketches. Then he lost

interest. Like that.” He snapped his fingers. Specks of sawdust flew off

the fingertips.

“Suddenly the new basilica was all he cared about. I was at his

side, having just been unemployed by him. I ought to have been given

the basilica project. But Bramante got it.” There was bitterness in his

voice.Adriana was suddenly attentive. “Bramante? The architect? The

one with the daughter who is an artist?”

He scratched at the flecks of plaster that had caught in his beard.

“The great Donato Bramante would not care to be known merely as

someone’s father. But, yes. The daughter’s an artist too.”

Adriana remembered eyes like lanterns guiding her toward escape.

“Is she any good?”

“You can see for yourself. In the Palazzo Piccolomini. Bramante

did some work on the courtyard, and part of the arrangement was for

her to paint some panels in the library. We can visit them if you like.”

“Piccolomini. I know that family. The son Silvio flirted wildly

with me when I arrived as a new bride from Spain.”

“He may again. He is still unmarried, you know. You should visit

him and find out.” He toyed with a piece of marble, which he had pulled

from his pocket, twirling it between thumb and index finger.

“I don’t know, Michelo.” She touched his forearm, causing him to

drop the object he was holding. It rolled toward her foot and fell flat.

• 24 •

SiStine HereSy

She picked it up and peered at a marble disk, its diameter only slightly

smaller than her palm, carved with the haloed face of a woman.

“Very nice. I wouldn’t have thought miniature work to be your

style.” She turned the disk over as he had and saw the identical face on

the back. A snake curled around the head in place of the halo. “What

does it mean?”

“Woman, seductress and saint. Something I never finished, on a

chip left from the ‘David.’ You’re right, miniature work doesn’t suit

me. You can have it if you like.”

“Seduction and redemption? Oh, dear. You do lay a lot at the door

of women, Michelo. Could you fix it so I can wear it?” She looked up

at him playfully, but her eyes lit on something behind him and she felt

the blood leave her face.

With a puzzled frown, Michelangelo looked over his shoulder.

A cleric stood in the chapel doorway. His black cloak hung loosely

over a gaunt frame, and when he turned his head toward them he showed

the harshly sculpted face of an ascetic.

“Who’s that?” Michelangelo asked. “I recall that face.”

“Gian Pietro Carafa, the Dominican who hounded us from Rome

five years ago. We thought we were free of him, but then he showed

up in Spain with Torquemada. And now, like a specter, he haunts me

again here.”

“Torquemada? I’ve heard of him. A Dominican doing the gruesome

work of their Most Catholic Majesties.”

Adriana’s mouth went dry. “Yes, gruesome is right. The Domini

canes, people call them, the hounds of God. Where they go, there is the

Inquisition. If you have secrets, guard them well or they’ll tear them

from you. We should get out of here.”

Gian Pietro Carafa appeared again in the chapel doorway,

another priest at his side. The muscles around Michelangelo’s mouth

tightened.

“All men have secrets. But there are still places in Rome where

one can speak freely.” He stood up. “Give me the medallion. I’ll drill a

hole in it for you.”

She passed the piece of marble back to him and he dropped it into

his pocket.

“Come with me to the Piccolomini. They’re people like us.”

• 25 •

JuStine Saracen

“Perhaps. But today I want to visit Domenico Raggi. You know,

the singer at the mass. The choir will be at lunch now.”

“The castrato?” His face lit up perceptibly. He rubbed powder off

his mallet, avoiding her eyes. “Ah, that’s right. Your protégé.”

“Come downstairs with me. I’ll introduce you.” Adriana pulled

her shawl around her shoulders and looked back once behind her as

they walked. The gaunt cleric watched but made no move toward her.

“I’m supposed to be working, but you’ve tempted me away from

my duty, Adriana.”

“Don’t blame me for your sins, Michelo,” she said lightly as she

walked ahead of him.

“Sin? Is that what you are leading me to?” he murmured, and

tapped the mallet softly against his leg.

• 26 •

SiStine HereSy

iii

Domenico Raggi sat apart from the other choristers in their

ruffled collars and black soutanes. Not that the boys and

men shunned him. But there seemed to always be a separation between

whole men and himself, a nervousness in the conversation when he was

there. He sensed both their admiration and their disgust, even when

they welcomed him.

He let his gaze wander idly over the chapel staff hurrying through

their meals. It stopped at two figures, a bearded man and a dark,

attractive woman, lingering just inside the doorway. He stared for a

moment, perplexed, then recognition dawned. Without taking his eyes

from the woman, he stumbled over benches to the doorway and seized

her hand.

“Lady Adriana.” His voice was tight with emotion, his Italian still

colored by a Spanish accent. “Is it really you?”

Adriana embraced him unreservedly. “Domenico. Agnellino,” she

said into his shoulder. “You’ve grown so tall.”

He had the long frame typical of the castrato but, unlike others

of his ilk, he was not plump. Indeed, in the five years since he had

seen her, he had grown lean. Adriana touched the wavy brown hair that

stopped just at the base of his neck, as if grateful for his affection.

“And you’re so beautiful,” she continued.

There were those who had already remarked on his large velvet

eyes, his nose that sloped gracefully, and the fine muscles that swelled

around his mouth and suggested the curving mustache he could never

have. He was always aware that he lacked the common protrusion over

• 27 •

JuStine Saracen

the ruffled collar of the soutane, that he had no “Adam’s apple” as

other men, but the smooth throat of prepubescence. Yet, in spite of his

speaking voice, his breadth of chest and shoulders gave him a certain

masculinity. Innocence and sensuality warred in him, as if the boy

struggled to become the man.

Adriana laid her hand on the side of his beardless cheek. He

smiled, first at her then, more shyly, at the man by her side.

“Oh, forgive me, Domenico. This is Michelangelo Buonarroti,

who is painting the chapel ceiling. Maybe you’ve seen him working.”

The artist stroked his own beard, as if to reassure himself he had

it. He was slightly shorter than Domenico, and when he extended his

veined and sinewy arm to shake his hand, the contrast with his own

smooth unblemished skin was extreme. Michelangelo seemed made of

knotted rope, Domenico of tan silk.

“Maestro,” he said. “I am honored.”

Michelangelo withdrew his hand and stood awkwardly. “I’ve

heard you singing in the mass. Extraordinary. Sublime.”

Domenico let his gaze linger on the artist’s face. “Thank you,

Signore.”

The older man seemed to search for words. “How did you come

to the Papal Choir?”

Domenico clasped his hands behind his back, revealing the wide

expanse of chest that came, mysteriously, with the surgery that had

made him a castrato. “That is the signora’s doing. She and Signor

Borgia brought me here from Spain.”

Adriana grasped his upper arm, claiming him. “He means my

husband, Juan. We heard him singing in a little church in Jativa and

convinced Alexander to admit him to the Chapel Choir.”

Michelangelo had not taken his eyes from his face. “Then Signora

Borgia has done us all a great service. Did she also give you the fine

cross you wear?”

“No, that is a gift from His Holiness.” Domenico fingered the

jeweled gold at his throat. “But Signora Borgia gave me Rome.”

Domenico took Adriana’s hand again. “Madonna, it’s so lovely

to see you. And now that you’re back, you must not leave. The

choirmaster’s waiting for me and I dare not offend him by being late.

Will you come again tomorrow, after the mass?”

“Yes, of course. Let’s meet at the fountain in the atrium.” Adriana

• 28 •

SiStine HereSy

embraced him once more and the two visitors stepped through the

doorway, leaving him in the midst of the dull roar of the dining room.

v

Domenico Raggi watched the painter and the lady disappear

along the dim corridor. The first person he had ever loved was the Lady

Adriana Borgia. The shock of seeing her again sent his mind racing

to his first overwhelming days in Rome where he had followed her,

back to the last days in Jativa, where she obtained his release from the

conservatory, and farther back still, to the life he led before singing

took him from it.

It was childhood alternately blissful and wretched, for he had been

born illegitimate to a village girl and an Arab sailor. By the time he was

five his mother had found someone who would marry her, although

new children soon came and the stepfather openly abused her “Bedouin

bastard.”

But nature had cursed him in one way and blessed him in another,

for half-caste though he was, he sang like an angel. In the choir school to

which his parents gave him, or sold him, as he later realized, he finally

had enough to eat and soft clean clothes to wear. In his innocence, he

thought he would be safe forever.

His knees weakened at the memory of his “rescue,” and he sat

down on the nearest bench recalling the sound of soothing voices, the

taste of opium-laced wine, the wicked pleasure between his legs from

the warm milk in which they bathed him. Then, nothing. He had no

memory of the actual violation, for while they soothed him, an unseen

hand pressed on the pulsing artery at his throat and rendered him

senseless.

But he remembered the headache afterward, and the horror when

he looked down under the blanket. The grotesque stories the boys had

told were true. The blood that seeped along the edge of the bandages

and the throbbing pain in his groin confirmed it. They had castrated

him. In shock and terror he wet himself, the urine scorching the wound

until he cried out in agony. The surgeon returned with his assistant to

attend him. And after he was cleaned, the choirmaster came in and

comforted him.

• 29 •

JuStine Saracen

“It is for God,” he said. “You belong to His Church now and this

is your sacrifice.”

Domenico chuckled bitterly to himself. He had only now learned

what it meant to “belong to the Church.” It was not the way someone

like Michelangelo belonged to it. He could tell by his firm handshake.

A robust, self-sufficient man like that wouldn’t submit to being owned.

Definitely not.

A hand on his elbow caused him to turn to see a bearded face,

ruddy and affable.

“Oh, Bernardo.”

The chorister tugged on his arm. “Come on. We have the new mass

to learn, and you know how the choirmaster hates it if you’re late.”

“You’re right. That’s all I need—another dressing-down.”

He left the dining hall and hurried to the rehearsal, cheered by the

coming reunion. Was the artist her lover? Perhaps she would tell him.

She used to talk to him, in the last year before she left. He wondered

how it would feel to be loved by her. Or by him.

• 30 •

SiStine HereSy

iv

Lifting her skirt to avoid tripping, Adriana climbed the broad

stone steps to the atrium of St. Peter’s Church. She had been

stunned, as all of Rome had been, to learn that the new Pope had

ordered the church razed and another one built in its place. But now

she understood why. The ancient basilica was crumbling in vault and

foundation.

Inside the atrium she strolled around the arcade, noting the

foundation that had been poured outside the current structure. The

great court held planks and stacks of bricks in one corner and blocks

of marble in the other. Between them the peddlers had set up their

stalls, and the noises of commerce and construction competed with

each other, filling the entire atrium. She wondered what inspiration the

pilgrims could possibly have from praying to the saint’s bones in the

midst of it.

A crucifix was suddenly thrust in her face. The tiny figure of the

savior sparkled in the sunlight. “Buy a fine rosary, Madama? Blessed

by His Holiness himself on Good Friday.” The peddler tried to lay the

circle of beads in her hand.

“No. No thank you.” She brushed past him toward a row of

booksellers.

The first book merchant stepped in front of her, a smiling, red-

faced man in a Jew’s hat. “A Bible, Madonna? Or perhaps a prayer

book?” He pointed toward his table. “We have lovely volumes from

France. Illustrated. Not expensive. Come, have a look.”

“No. Please.” She raised a hand to block him.

• 31 •

JuStine Saracen

The crush of people only seemed to get worse. A few steps away

men were hawking copies of the Veronica cloth, a dozen identical

squares of cloth with the ghostly brownish imprint of an eyeless face.

Behind the cloth hawkers, cabinets held carved wooden crucifixes of all

sizes and flagellant whips in knotted leather. She shuddered, recalling

the flogging she had witnessed the last time she visited St. Peter’s.

“Make way,” someone shouted. Adriana glanced up to see two

papal guardsmen emerge from the basilica. With their ceremonial pikes

held out at a diagonal in front of them, they marched down into the

square, opening an avenue for the funeral procession that followed.

Not a grandiose one, but one for a lesser noble perhaps, a church

functionary, possibly even a merchant. There were only two acolytes

at the forefront, followed by half a dozen choristers in red soutanes and

white surplices. All carried long poles with votive candles, their flames

protected by cones of glass.

They shuffled by murmuring, “Requiem aeternam dona eis,

Domine,” between sections of the prayer being spoken by the priest

who followed them. Directly behind the priest, four pallbearers in

white bore the bier on their shoulders, and Adriana suddenly sickened.

The bier was nearly identical to the one that haunted her dreams. It was

a sort of narrow bed, with a low wooden headboard, elaborately carved

and surmounted by a cross. The cadaver was covered by a red shroud

up to the chest. Where the shroud was folded back, withered gray-blue

hands were tied together in the prayer position. The head, white-haired

and beardless, rested on a tasseled white pillow, its jaw hanging slack,

just like the cadaver of Piero Battista had done. Battista, a man whom

she had scarcely known, but who would haunt her now forever. The

man she had murdered.

Behind the bier the widow walked, this one with sons, though

Battista had only daughters, one a babe in arms, and the whole hideous

scene rose up again in her memory. Seeing the children, she had

grasped what a terrible thing she had done. Not even the death of her

own husband had touched her as much as this act, which she herself

had committed.

It was supposed to be a small murder, of a small man, and by the

laws of the Church, not even a sin. For the Pope had ordered it and she

was merely his instrument, the poisoner. Obediently she invited the

unsuspecting man to supper and did the deed. She watched him slowly

• 32 •

SiStine HereSy

expire. Her stomach tightened at the recollection. She did not expect

the convulsions, the deep rasping sobs, the foam that oozed from his

mouth, or his final defecation. She did not expect that death would be

so filthy.

The Pope’s reaction the next morning had sickened her as well.

She knelt before him and said “Holiness.” Only that, “Holiness.” And

she waited for absolution. But so little was his interest in the matter that

he simply waved her off, as if she had smacked a fly for him and the

insect still stained her hand.

Even now her mind was a jumble of questions. Could an act ordered

by a Pope be a sin? She had taken a simple man’s life, impoverished his

wife and children. She felt the need to confess to someone, to answer

for a murder, yet the Church where she would have to confess her sin

had commanded her to commit it. Opposing forces struggled in her:

the need to ease the choking guilt and the soothing voice of a higher

authority, which told her she was not guilty. Was evil something in

itself, or only that which the Church condemned?

“Lady Adriana, over here!”

Domenico waved at her from the back of the crowd and she

hurried toward him. She embraced him again with affection, noting

that without the somber clerical garb of the choir he looked even more

striking. He wore black hose and a black velvet doublet in the Spanish

style. Tiny gold buttons ran all the way from the waist up to his throat

between the ends of an upright collar. A small Greek cross hung at his

throat, gold with tiny rubies at the four ends, jeweled droplets of blood.

The severity of the dress only drew attention to his astonishing beauty.

“The mass you sang, was it this man’s requiem?”

“Yes, I thought I mentioned that. A merchant. His guild paid for

the service.”

“Ah,” she said neutrally, and drew Domenico quietly to her side.

Dust had settled on his dark doublet, and she stopped to brush it from

his shoulder as if he were still an adolescent. “Look at you. You’re

covered with soot, and you smell of smoke.”

“I’m sorry. It’s incense and candle smoke. It catches in the ceiling

of the choir loft and stays for hours. The whole choir smells of it, but

I’m the tallest, so I get the worst of it.” He laughed softly. “And now

that you’ve hugged me, you’ll smell of it too.”

“It’s good to see you again,” she said as they walked into the cool

• 33 •

JuStine Saracen

darkness of the ancient church. “Can you forgive me for leaving Rome

so suddenly and for so long?”

“There’s nothing to forgive.” He curled his fingers over her hand.

“As long as you promise to stay this time.”

“I promise.” She nudged him playfully with her shoulder. “So, tell

me what’s new in the Sistine Choir.”

He became animated. “Oh, a great deal. We have a new music

master, and he’s teaching us the masses from Flanders in a new style

of singing. Not pure polyphony. We sing all together. The high and low

voices blend in layers.”

She frowned. “Everyone sings at the same time? Isn’t that

confusing?”

He laughed again, a soft sibilant chuckle. “No. Not at all.”

They strolled wordlessly under the long row of silver chandeliers

where the air smelled pleasantly of the hot wax.

“Have you had word from the other Lady Borgia?” he asked.

“No, but I understand Lucrezia thrives now as Duchess of Ferrara,

and has two sons. I must visit her one day.”

“I always thought it would be lovely to have children,” he mused.

“To be the head of a large family. I know that must sound ridiculous.”

“No. Not at all. One wants family—of some sort. Mine are all

gone now, but I understand the longing.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I was so self-absorbed I forgot you lost your father.

Signor Buonarroti told me this morning before the mass.”

“We were so estranged, I hardly knew him. Of course that doesn’t

lessen the outrage of his death. Let’s not talk of that.” Adriana took

his arm again as they reached the shrine over the sepulcher that held

the bones of Saint Peter. Four columns of precious metals hammered

together rose up, studded with gems, to a marble baldachin.

“This is the center, the heart of the whole Church,” Domenico

said. “A sacred place.”

Adriana was less awed. “My father thought so when he arranged

for me to marry here. At the age of fifteen, surrounded by a host of

courtiers, I knelt there with Juan Borgia. But in fact, there was nothing

sacred about the marriage at all. It was a financial transaction that

involved the transfer of a significant amount of the Falcon fortunes into

the Borgia coffers.”

“I had not realized it was so…business-like.”

• 34 •

SiStine HereSy

“It was only business, on both sides. Juan’s father, Rodrigo Borgia,

was still only a Cardinal at that time, but my own father was sure he’d

be Pope one day and was willing to pay a lot to be connected to a papal

family.”

She drew him behind the shrine to the apse. “This is also where

I became a widow, six years later. At least this is where they found

Juan’s bloody gloves.” She pointed toward the steps that led down to

the catacomb below. “His body was found the next day in the Tiber.”

“Yes, I remember that. It must have been terrible for you.”

She shrugged. “I was bereaved and frightened, but even then I

knew that Juan’s death was business too. The business of power.”

The high altar at the center of the apse had drawn his attention. Its

silver surface, encrusted with countless precious stones, glowed with

the reflected light of the surrounding candles.

“Don’t you feel it, Lady Adriana? That God is close? Look, I’m so

happy today that I want to make a sacrifice here on His altar.” He lifted

his hand, revealing a thin silver ring on his last finger. He twisted it off

with difficulty and held it up between them.

“Ah, the child’s ring I gave you in Spain, just after we got you

from the school. For your saint’s day.”

“It was my first gift ever from a lady, and I treasure it. When my

hands grew large, I wore it on the last finger all the years you were

gone. But now you’re given back to me, and for joy and thanksgiving,

I’ll return it to God.”

He slid the ring toward the back of the altar, where the opulence of

the altar surface rendered it nearly invisible.

“What a strange man you are, Domenico. All right, if it pleases

you, go ahead. We will see how long it takes before some altar boy

finds it and you see him walking around with it on his finger.”

They walked into the south transept. In the French chapel they

halted before the white marble sculpture at its center. A young woman

in voluminous robes held the angular form of a dead man draped

awkwardly across her lap. His head cradled in her arm fell back, limp.

A sash ran diagonally across the woman’s heavily draped chest and held

the deeply engraved inscription “Michelangelo Buonarroti Florentine

made this.”

Domenico stared dreamily at the incandescent marble. “It takes

your breath away, doesn’t it?”

• 35 •

JuStine Saracen

“Beautiful, yes, but it also seems cold. The face of the virgin looks

empty.”

“Empty?” His voice registered surprise. “Oh, no. It’s serenity, I’m

sure. The Madonna has accepted God’s will. Don’t you see? If God’s

will is perfect, then there’s no sorrow, only the peace of obedience.”

She hated the word “obedience” but did not reply as they turned

from the tableau and made their way around a wide column. Domenico

looked back over his shoulder. “Does Michelangelo come often to the

Sistine…oh—”

He halted suddenly to keep from colliding with a man who knelt

at the balustrade of a chapel. “Pardon me, Signore.”

Domenico stepped back and bowed gracefully. Adriana caught

herself in mid-stride and stopped behind him. A portly well-dressed

man drew himself up with difficulty to a standing position and bowed

in return. Adriana searched her memory. She knew him.

“I am sorry, Signore, if I disturbed your prayers,” Domenico

said. “Oh, no. We were not praying.” The familiar stranger picked

up the sheet of paper covered with lines and numbers that had lain in

front of him. “We’re only taking measurements.” He held out his hand.

“Donato Bramante. A pleasure, Signore.”

As the men exchanged courtesies a young woman stepped out of

a side chapel into view. Bramante summoned her with a brisk wave of

the hand.

“And this is my daughter Raphaela.”

v

Adriana concealed her surprise. How lovely Raphaela Bramante

had become, with a slender frame that was somehow robust. The years

had taken away the girlishness and added a certain solemnity to her

face. She wore her hair differently too, or perhaps working alongside

her father had caused it to fall loose. But the warm honey color was the

same.Raphaela tilted her head back and her lips fell slightly open as if

she were about to speak. But she did not. Her eyes merely swept over

Adriana with focused interest as they had in the Sistine Chapel five

years before.

• 36 •

SiStine HereSy

Domenico finished the introductions. “And this is Lady Adriana

Borgia.”

Bramante inclined slightly from the waist, a faint raising of his

brow the only evidence of surprise at her name. He had changed too,

Adriana noted. The top of his head was bald now, while gray hair curled

upward over his ears, like Mercury wings. Yet something magisterial

about him kept him from looking comical. His height, demeanor, and

intelligent gray eyes could not be mocked. She reminded herself that

this was Michelangelo’s rival, the man charged with rebuilding the

basilica in which they stood.

“Ah, Signora Borgia,” he said amiably. “I worked on several

projects for His Holiness Pope Alexander before he died.”

“Yes, he spoke of you once, and I recall seeing you at his requiem

mass.”“Requiem mass? Ah, yes, a…disagreeable experience, if one may

dare to speak so of a mass. Fortunately the new Pope is also in need of

architects and so I am once again employed.”

Adriana found the man charming, but wondered if even talking to

him was a sort of betrayal of Michelangelo. She smiled back but did not

continue the conversation.

Bramante cleared his throat. “The Holy Father pays me to work,

not to chatter. Signora. Signore.” He nodded in both their directions

and offered his hand again while his daughter rolled up the page of

calculations. She smiled briefly and fell in step with her father as they

retreated down the nave of the church.

Watching the pair walk away, Adriana said, “Twice in five years this

woman has stared at me that way, and I’ve never heard her speak.”

v

They stood at the eastern end of the basilica over on the wide stone

steps, the afternoon sun warm on their backs. Below them the Piazza

San Pietro was alive with activity, and beyond the square the panorama

of Rome itself spread itself out in the afternoon haze. The gray Tiber

formed a wide V-shape in the distance, curving abruptly northward on

the one side past the Castel Sant’ Angelo and stretching out more gently

toward the southeast around the Trastevere. A slight breeze wafted up

from the river.

• 37 •

JuStine Saracen

“Is Rome any better now than it was under Alexander? I hope

so,” Adriana said, touching Domenico’s arm. “It cannot be any more

corrupt.”

He shrugged lightly. “I’ve only known the life of the chapel,

nothing of politics.”

“It wasn’t just the politics.” She pressed her lips together. “Do

you remember Cesare’s supper party in the Apostolic Palace, when he

invited all those prostitutes? You sang during the supper.”

Domenico nodded, frowning.

“Late in the evening when all were drunk they danced naked and

then coupled with the guests. An orgy, in the Sala Reale in front of

God’s highest priest.”

Domenico stared into the distance, conceding. “We’re all sinners,

Adriana.” He squeezed her hand. “One longs for purity, reform. But

some of the holiest relics in the world, St. Peter’s bones, are beneath our

very feet, and pilgrims come here in the thousands to revere them.”

She shrugged without replying.

“I myself sometimes have doubts and temptations. But always,

when I’m singing in the mass, my heart rises and I feel His presence.”

She studied him for a moment. “How pious you are, Domenico,

to still see the good. I can’t. The last Pope I served was corrupt and

he corrupted me, that’s certain. You may repent of your doubts, but I

cannot repent of my certainties.”

“Who can know of God’s greater plan for us?” he persisted. “There

are things we don’t understand, but must accept as an act of faith.”

“Act of faith? You mean like the auto-da-fé? I saw one of those

in Spain.”

“That is not what I meant,” he said, but Adriana was not

listening.

Three clerics in long black capes were climbing the steps to the

church, their shadows jutting out like blades behind them. Against

the pale marble steps, they seemed specters, black things that walked

upright, but she recognized the face of the gaunt Dominican in the center.

He looked pointedly in her direction, then nodded before ascending the

last steps to the church portal.

“I’m sorry, I have to go now.” She gave Domenico a brief kiss on

his cheek and stepped around him.

“Why so suddenly?”

• 38 •

SiStine HereSy

“It’s nothing. I just can’t stay any longer.” She started down the

staircase.

“When will I see you again?” he called after her. “Will you come

back to Rome?”

“I live in Tivoli now. You should come to visit me. There are too

many dogs in Rome,” she called back over her shoulder and hurried

toward her coach in the Piazza San Pietro.

v

Domenico remained standing before the portal of St. Peter’s,

staring after the coach that rolled toward the Ponte Sant’ Angelo. Pious,

she had said. How little she knew of him.

Oh, yes, he definitely remembered Cesare’s supper party. He came

perilously close to joining in the lasciviousness. For that night, Gaetano

Alberti let him know he wanted to share his bed and passed a note

suggesting where they might meet.

Domenico had slipped away discreetly, just as the coupling with

the prostitutes began, intent upon finding Gaetano. But, stupidly, he

blundered into the wrong dark room. How could he have misread the

note? He found himself in a nursery where, by the light of a small

candle, an infant slept. The child awakened at his entry and began to

cry. And, stupidity upon stupidity, he did not flee, but picked it up.

Miraculously, the baby stopped crying. Content to be held, it

sighed and began to suck its fist, its tiny head nestled in his neck. As he

smelled the pleasant odor of its damp curls, first wonderment and then

sorrow rose in him. This child was some man’s heir. Some man could

look into its tiny face and see himself reflected. He held the warm bundle

closer, his hand covering the entire span of the infant shoulders, with a

tightness in his throat. Never had he felt so incomplete, so cheated, as at

that moment. He would have wept if the sound of the opening door had

not interrupted him and he spun around to an old woman’s angry face.

“Signora. Forgive me. I heard the child crying,” he lied, and handed

over the bundle before she could raise alarm. He had fled, not only the

nursery, but the palace and the whole evening’s misadventure.

He wondered how long Gaetano waited, or if he waited at

all. Perhaps the whole thing had been a cruel hoax, and the Roman

princelings had amused themselves at his expense. He knew what they

• 39 •

JuStine Saracen

thought of him. Away from the safety of the chapel, he was always

merely a sport among whole men, a source of amusement.

And then there were other hands that caressed him. They troubled

him far more, but he could never speak a word about them.

Lust or laughter, that’s all he had ever gotten from the world.

Who would ever really love him, except God?

• 40 •

SiStine HereSy

v

Michelangelo stumbled as something scrabbled over his boot

in the darkness. He wished for a moment he had a lantern,

but at midnight in the Trastevere that invited robbery, or worse. No, he

would make do with the faint light that came from overhead windows,

or from the lanterns marking the prostitutes.

He passed the women in their doorways, one by one, avoiding

their glances. Some were haggard and worn. A few, the more expensive

ones, were younger and more shapely, but all their expressions, when

he could see them, were hard.

There it was, the upturned cart that signaled the crossing into the

darkest part of the netherworld. He turned a corner and made his way

carefully down a narrow, crooked alley that stank of urine. The first

stirrings of lust, tiny coals ignited in his groin and sent out heat to the

rest of his body. Then came the niggling shame. He told himself it was

not his real person who waded into the swamp of sin.

This is only my skin, my outer form, my willful burning flesh, which

pulls me. My soul sleeps under it, and one day will be free.

One day, but not tonight.

Halfway down the street a young man slouched in a doorway

under a lantern. His shirt was open to the waist, and his threadbare

breeches were stretched tight over the visible bulge of his manhood. He

was beardless, though a patch of hair showed in the opening of his shirt.

But what drew attention more than anything was the short red cloak he

wore in spite of the warm night. Hooked on his left shoulder and tucked

into his belt on his right side, it caught the night breeze and billowed for

a moment, giving him a brief theatricality.

• 41 •

JuStine Saracen

Agreement was quick. Michelangelo laid a hand on the narrow

purse at his belt. “You have time for someone like me?”

“It will cost twenty grossi.”

“That’s a lot.”

“You don’t come here often, do you? That’s what it always

costs.”“All right.”

The young man took down the lantern and strode along an inside

corridor to a rough outbuilding. The place reeked of animal ordure and

rotten hay, and the lantern light revealed it was a stable. A small one,

with two stalls. A donkey in one of them shuffled a little as they entered

but made no other sound.

Michelangelo held the leather purse under the lantern, ready to

pour out its coins where they could be counted. Then he saw the open

hand. Half the index finger was missing and only a stub up to the first

knuckle remained. “What happened there?”

“An accident, sir. With a meat axe. I’m a butcher, you see. With

my brothers.”

“I don’t want to know more.” Michelangelo shook the coins into

the man’s palm, and they disappeared into a vessel hidden under loose

straw.The young man unhooked his cloak and draped it over the plank

between the stalls. With a graceful motion, he drew his shirt over his

head, revealing tight musculature. The patch of black hair at the center

of his chest narrowed to a line that went down his midsection to his

navel and continued into his breeches.

He took Michelangelo’s hand and drew it across his own naked

chest. “What would you like, sir? I’ll do whatever pleases you.”

Michelangelo’s hand trembled as it rested over the warm curve of

the chest, and he took a step closer. He rubbed the rough surface of his

thumb over the small nipple and with the other hand began to unfasten

the other man’s trousers. They were held together by a single cord and

so opened completely and slipped to the ground. The stranger’s dark

sex was half swollen and curved outward from a thick bed of black

hair. Still without speaking, Michelangelo pressed himself against it

and lightly bit the stranger’s neck, tasting the salty sweat.

The butcher’s hand, adept in spite of its stubby finger, stroked

• 42 •

SiStine HereSy

Michelangelo through the coarse fabric of his own breeches, then

unfastened the buckle that held them, freeing the hard hot flesh to the

night air.

Their mouths met in something more like bites than kisses, as if

each resented the desire for the other. Lust welled up in Michelangelo,

then anger at the flesh that now dominated him. It was as if the devil had

incarnated himself in that single part of him that stood erect against the

handsome prostitute. Enflamed, he could not stop himself. The furnace

of the young man’s body called to him; it needed only to be opened.

Michelangelo slid his hands around the muscular hips down the

curve of buttocks to the legs. The swarthy skin was pungent with new

sweat, like his own that trickled down the small of his back. His dry

breathing became louder as he felt the stranger’s turgid member press on

his own, man to man. Michelangelo pulled the young body tight against

himself, squeezing the hard young buttocks and spreading them.

He whispered hoarsely, “Turn around.”

• 43 •

JuStine Saracen

vi

Silvio Piccolomini stepped back, satisfied, from his mirror.

His rose-colored satin doublet, gathered at the waist, had soft

yellow sleeves slashed along the length and buttoned at intervals. The

doublet skirt ended high, revealing a hose of the same pale yellow,

which molded his well-muscled thighs and the provocative swell of his

masculinity. He wore no codpiece, finding them vulgar, but the careful

tailoring of his hose amply flattered his natural endowment. With his

head of thick blond curls he was, he had to admit, as handsome as any

man in Rome.

When his manservant opened the heavy door, Silvio met his two

guests directly in the entryway.

“Michelangelo, you old stone smasher. It’s been far too long.”

He offered his right hand, resting the other fraternally on the artist’s

shoulder. After several vigorous pats, he stepped up to Adriana and

took both her hands.

“Adriana, you are even more beautiful than I remember. When

Father said he thought he saw you at the Vatican mass the other day, I

could scarcely believe my ears.”

“You’re looking very fine yourself, Silvio. The years have served

you well.”

He laid his hand over his heart and lowered his head, purposely

displaying his crop of curls from another angle. “You shame me with

praise. However, I understand this is not a visit to me, but to my art

collection.”

Michelangelo pressed Silvio’s shoulder. “Take it as a compliment,

old man. Everyone knows you have one of the best collections in Rome.

• 44 •

SiStine HereSy

Besides, you’re all got up in your best clothes for us. Yellow and rose

together, who’d have thought?”

Silvio put his hand to his chest again. “I’m so pleased you noticed.

Why don’t you come into the library now, while the light is still good.

Father will join us in the garden afterward for lunch.”

He led them down a long gallery into a room where the inlaid

wood paneling and the quantity of books subtly displayed wealth and

taste. The midday light shone through two windows and lightened the

wood to a rich honey. On the far wall the paneling on both sides of the

door ended at shoulder level, and on the plaster above were two large

frescos. In one of them, the god Apollo, with Silvio’s long straight nose,

well-formed lips, and pale curls, posed beside his chariot.

Silvio regarded the image for a moment, then explained. “I had in

fact contracted for a simple portrait, but Signorina Bramante suggested

Apollo. I think her likeness of me is quite good.”

Michelangelo chuckled. “Yes, she’s captured your superciliousness

rather well.”

“Bitter words from a man with a crooked nose, Michelangelo.”

Silvio clapped his friend on the back and looked toward Adriana for

approval.

But she stood riveted before the second fresco.

A half-nude woman sat on the back of a garlanded bull, which

leapt toward an ocean wave. Her dark blue gown was open to below

the navel, exposing her shoulders, upper arms, and youthful breasts.

Her pale flesh darkened provocatively below her belly, suggesting the

eroticism that had drawn bull and woman together. She held on to the

bull’s horn, and the ocean wind seemed to blow through her long black

hair as they plunged together into the sea.

“An odd painting, from a woman. So very sensual,” Adriana

remarked.

“Do you recognize it?” Silvio asked, at her side. “Zeus as a bull,

abducting Europa. Signorina Bramante insisted on painting that story.

She started just after Pope Alexander died, so I asked her if it was

supposed to be the Borgia bull. The image had been all over the papal

banners, you know, and it got to be a joke.”

“And was that her intention?” Adriana asked. “I mean, to paint the

Borgia bull?”

“I’m not sure. She just smiled and said I was too clever.” He

chuckled. “I don’t see any resemblance to the Pope, though.”

• 45 •

JuStine Saracen

Michelangelo joined them. “Take a closer look at Europa. You’ll

see a Borgia face there.”

Silvio scrutinized the fresco. “You’re right. How very strange. It

could almost be your portrait, Adriana. I never noticed, but the eyes are

painted pale blue. Just like yours.”

Adriana stared at the painting, speechless. It was not only the

face that disturbed her. The dress that hung open around Europa’s

hips, somber blue with a single black stripe running from the crumpled

bodice down to the hem, was identical to the dress she had worn at

Alexander’s requiem mass.

Michelangelo traced a line with his finger around the head of the

princess. “The work is excellent in places, but inconsistent. Look, on

the figure of the woman, every tiny element is painted with precision.

But in the setting, the details fall away. It’s the individual that interests

her, not the scene. She remains the portraitist.”

“A good portraitist, though, you must admit,” Silvio countered.

“I recommended her to a Venetian acquaintance who engaged her as

well.”“Yes, she’s clearly gifted. You did well to patronize her, Silvio.”

Silvio nudged Michelangelo’s shoulder. “You should take her on

as an assistant.”

Michelangelo shrugged, dismissing the subject as the two of them

meandered from the library. Behind them, Adriana remained standing,

bemused, before the fresco.

“Adriana, will you come?” The sound of her name roused her and

she hurried to join her host.

Silvio led them to a shady portico on the west side of the palazzo

where a table was set for lunch. The air smelled pleasantly of the

honeysuckle that grew at the side of the house, and sparrows chirped

from a nest on the roof. As Adriana approached the table, Annio

Piccolomini made to rise, but age and infirmity made it a gesture only.

From his seat at the head of the table the patriarch offered his hand to

his guests, his eyes bright with interest.

“Good afternoon, Signora Borgia. Signor Buonarroti. I trust my

son has not bored you too greatly.” His voice was soft, as if he used it

sparingly, his manner dignified and gallant.

“Not at all, Signor Piccolomini,” Adriana replied. “It is a pleasure

to be in your house and in such company.”

• 46 •

SiStine HereSy

“You are very kind.” The old man took her hand in both of his.

They were dry and trembled slightly, but they had a pleasant warmth.

“I am very pleased that Signor Buonarroti could convince you to come,

Lady Borgia.” He swept a hand toward the lunch table. “You see, we

wish to detain you as long as possible.”

The guests were seated and a servant poured wine into silver

goblets. They ate leisurely, remarking on the weather and the profusion

of flowers in the garden. Then Silvio beckoned his housemaster, who

came carrying a large volume bound in dark leather.

“Now, my dear friends, the trap is sprung. You cannot leave

until you have admired our most recent prize. By Marsilio Ficino, a

Florentine. I assume you know him, Michelo.”

“I knew the man himself. In my time he was head of Lorenzo de’

Medici’s academy at the Villa Careggi. We even attended a dissection

together. He had some rather radical ideas about the importance of the

body in understanding divine principles.”

“Ficino had radical ideas about a number of things.” Moving aside

his plate, Silvio slid the volume in front of him and opened its heavy

cover to the first page. “This is his bilingual edition of the Platonic

Dialogues. Euthyphro, Crito, Apologia.”

Silvio leafed reverently through the first several pages. On each

recto was the Greek original in clear black letters, and on each verso its

Latin translation. The first page of Greek was topped by a decorative

frieze, and garlanded columns ran down the vertical margins. Though

it was printed, the volume looked for all the world like a manuscript,

lacking only the bright colors.

Michelangelo was not impressed. “I remember. Ficino said Plato

taught that the divine exists within man himself. Though I never quite

understood what he meant by ‘the divine.’”

Silvio nodded enthusiastically. “Which is why you might have

spent a bit less time cutting up cadavers and a bit more reading Plato.

And now you can, without learning Greek. Look here, the Euthyphro

talks about exactly that question.”

Across the table Adriana set down the piece of sweetmeat she was

about to taste. She was out of her depth here. “The nature of the divine?

Isn’t that why we’ve got a clergy, to tell us all that?”

Silvio looked disdainful. “Oh, please. When we’re children, they

chant phrases at us that they learned as children, and none of us examine

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JuStine Saracen

the meanings. Plato asks us to consider whether moral behavior is

moral because it’s God’s command, or whether God commands moral

behavior because it’s moral.”

“What difference does it make?” She bit into the sweetmeat.

“Every difference in the world.” Silvio became animated. “If

moral behavior is moral only because God commands it, then morality

is nothing but obedience. But if God commands moral behavior because

it is already moral, then morality is independent of God, and men do

not need God to make them moral, only understanding.”

Michelangelo set down his wineglass. “Why do you dwell on

these questions, Silvio?”

He continued to turn the vellum leaves tenderly, his brow furrowed.

“Why not? Shouldn’t we want to know those things? Why else do we

have thought and language?”

Michelangelo shook his head. “A man feels contentment when

he obeys God.” He dropped his glance. “And suffers guilt when he

doesn’t. No words are necessary.”

Silvio closed his heavy manuscript, inserting his last two fingers

between the pages he had been reading, and tucked the entire volume

under his left arm, as if protecting it. Pointing, he twisted back around to

the artist on his right and recited, “‘And do you mean to say, Euthyphro,

that you understand piety and impiety so accurately?’”

The elder Piccolomini chuckled amiably. “Do not be offended,

Signor Buonarroti. My son loves to quote Plato.”

“But your ramblings border on heresy,” Michelangelo chided his

friend. “I should remind you that Ficino’s academy fell silent under the

rule of Florence’s other great spirit, Savonarola. I heard him preach

once, about the wrath of God, and there was a lot to take to heart.”

“Savonarola? You consider for even a moment that he was anything

more than a fanatic?” Silvio snorted. “You’re beginning to sound like

a Spaniard.”

Adriana studied the twisted pose still held by the young

Piccolomini, the curled finger, the look of slight disdain at his

opponent’s apparent ignorance. She could imagine that these two

friends had fought in like manner for years. Yet while the nobleman

played lightheartedly with words, Michelangelo was deeply earnest,

as though he grappled inwardly with something.

• 48 •

SiStine HereSy

She took another sip of the light luncheon wine and thought of

Gian Pietro Carafa. Would he bring the Spanish fires to Rome after all?

And if he did, could she herself withstand torture for even a moment

before confessing? The thought was deeply troubling, but so too was

the image of a blue-eyed woman with her own face and in her own

dress, and borne on the haunches of a bull.

v

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy

Spirit.” The voice of the priest intoned through the grillwork of the

confessional.

“Bless me father, for I have sinned,” Domenico murmured into his

clasped hands, pressing the glass beads of his rosary onto his chin.

“All men are sinners, but those who freely confess will be forgiven.

How have you sinned, my son?”

“I have let myself be caressed. I have given myself in lust and do

repent of it.”

The voice of the priest was without inflection, as if he had heard

the same admission a thousand times. “The flesh is the prison of the

soul and you must mortify it when it rises up against you. Separate

yourself from those who tempt you.”

Domenico felt a quick pang of dread. He could mortify the flesh,

but never separate himself from the tempter. The dilemma tortured

him. “Father, can the same act be a sin for one person and not for

another?”

“Of course. Consider the commandment not to kill. It is a mortal

sin in most instances. But for the holy crusaders, it was a blessing to

kill the infidel and the heretic. It is God who determines what sin is, for

only God is all-knowing.”

Domenico worked the rosary beads between his fingers. “But if I

am enjoined to do something that seems wrong, how shall I know if it

is a sin?”

“God has given us the Holy Mother Church, my son, to reveal

His laws. That is why the gravest sin is doubt, and the greatest blessing

obedience.”

• 49 •

JuStine Saracen

Dismayed by the answer, Domenico finished the ritual

mechanically. “Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me, a sinner. I will

pray this night for understanding and hold myself from sin.”

“What the priest speaks on earth is confirmed on high. I absolve

you. Now go in peace and sin no more.”

v

The Via Giulia clattered with carts and men on mules going about

their business. Taking Adriana by the arm as they crossed, Michelangelo

asked, “Did you like what you saw?”

“The book? Quite impressive, and Silvio’s argument was too.

Although it leads to dangerous questions.”

Michelangelo shook his head. “I meant the frescos, Adriana. Did

you like them?”

“Oh, those.” She laughed nervously. “The Apollo is pure flattery,

which I suppose is the point. As for the other one, I don’t know.

The similarity may be just a coincidence, but you’re right. Raphaela

Bramante is very gifted. Why did you laugh when Silvio said you

should employ her?”

“Because she said the same thing a few weeks ago. She came to

me just as we were setting up the first scaffolding and asked if she could

work with me.”

“Really? You didn’t say that earlier. Why don’t you want her?”

“I do want her. But how can I have a woman working in the chapel

with all those men? It would cause a scandal.”

They had crossed the Via Giulia and wandered past a worksite

where men on a scaffold painted the façade of a palazzo. One of the

painters, in baggy trousers, glanced down at her.

“Dress her in boy’s clothes,” Adriana said abruptly. “She’d need

them anyhow, climbing all over your platform. With a big hat to protect

her head from paint. She’s tall. She’ll look just like all the others.”

“You can’t be serious. This is the Pope’s own chapel. What if he

found out? What if she were hurt? Besides, there’s no money left to

pay her.”

She touched his arm. “I’ll cover her salary. It won’t even show up

in the accounting.”

He shook his head. “Look, I’d love to employ her. But Bramante

• 50 •

SiStine HereSy

would never consent to having his daughter work on high scaffolding

with a dozen men and boys.” The whine in his voice showed he was

running out of arguments and waited to be convinced.

“He doesn’t have to be told every detail. You know he would be

glad for her to be instructed by you, the great Michelangelo. It would

oblige him to you.”

He scratched his beard, obviously considering the idea. “It’s

asking for trouble, you know. But if you do something for me, I’ll take

her on.”

“What’s that?”

He studied the ground for a moment, clearly preparing his case.

“Convince the Pope that I should work on the basilica.”

“What? You can’t do both the chapel and the basilica at the same

time.”“Yes I can. I can make designs. I already have ideas. Adriana, I

want the dome of St. Peter’s. It’s the greatest project Rome has had

since the coliseum.” His hand closed in front of him, clutching air.

“Michelo, I’m all but an outcast here. What possible influence do

you think I could have on this Pope?”

“You said yourself that Julius owed you a favor for getting Cesare

to sway the Spanish Cardinals. That got him elected Pope. He can’t

have forgotten.” He took a breath. “Look, just tell him the new basilica

is a glorious project, worthy of him, but that it’s too big for one man.

And that I should be involved too.”

“And if he refuses to see me?”

“I’m sure he won’t. He can’t. And the argument is so simple, he’s

got to agree. If he does, I’ll take the girl on as an assistant.”

Sighing, Adriana grasped his arm so that they walked together,

like siblings or a couple, toward the Albergo dell’ Orso.

“Fair enough, Michelo. I agree. One madness for the other.”

• 51 •

JuStine Saracen

vii

Strange to be in Sala Misteri again, Adriana thought as she

paced. On the last occasion she was one of those in power, not

the supplicant. In a different time, with a different pope, she sat here

with Cesare while he gave the appearance of waiting on His Holiness’s

pleasure, but got what he himself desired.

She tried not to be impatient. Even with the small obligation

Julius might have had toward her, he delayed for ten days before even

replying to her request for an audience. Obviously, the hated name

Borgia preceded her like a banner. And the favor she had to call in was

as threadbare as the hem of her court gown.

She studied the Swiss Guardsman standing in bright yellow and

orange stripes before the door to the Sala dei Santi. Alexander had

kept a palace guard as well, but his well-armed veterans were far less

visible. She wondered whether the pretty costumes made them better

soldiers or worse.

“Signora Borgia.”

She spun around as she heard her name. A priest stood at the

door to the audience chamber and motioned to her. Adriana gathered

her skirts and followed him into the Sala dei Santi. Pope Julius II sat

without cushions, somber with ecclesiastical authority under the blues

and golds of Pinturicchio’s fresco. He wore no ceremonial vestments,

only the pleated white alb tied at the waist by a cord, which covered

him down to his silken slippers. The satin mozzetta rested on his

shoulders, and the red camauro, bordered in ermine, covered his head.

His only ornaments were the jeweled pectoral cross and, on his right

index finger, a cameo ring.

• 52 •

SiStine HereSy

Beside him a massive oaken table was covered with maps, books,

and documents. She wondered, briefly, what he read. And yet he seemed

breathless, as if he had just come into the room a moment before she

did and the regal pose was quickly staged.

“Holiness.” Adriana knelt before him and kissed first the papal

slipper, then the ring of the Pontiff, noting the gnarled strength in his

hands.She recalled the soft hands of Alexander VI and marveled at the

difference between the two popes, the voluptuary and the warrior. There

was a curious odor about him, though, not unpleasant, that she could

not place. Julius glowered down at her from his throne, a wooden chair

with a tall narrow back. Its supporting posts were carved at the top with

the acorns of his family crest. As if anyone needed to be reminded.

“Lady Borgia,” a voice said behind her, and she glanced over her

shoulder at the familiar red face of Cardinal Giovanni de’ Medici, as

massive in his crimson cassock as Julius was in his white alb. Together

they seemed to fill the room, like giant chessmen. But the Cardinal was

welcome, as far as she was concerned. In spite of his bullish appearance,

the Cardinal was of a calm nature and, more importantly, a friend of

Michelangelo.

“Eminence.” She genuflected quickly and kissed the Cardinal’s

ring. “Lady Borgia. A pleasure to see you at the Vatican after these

several years.”

She listened for sarcasm, but did not hear it. The man was a master

of neutrality.

“Signora Borgia has a request?” the Pope said, moving to the

substance of the audience.

“Holy Father, I speak on behalf of the artist Michelangelo

Buonarroti.”

“Ah, yes, our Maestro della Sistina.”

“Yes, Holiness, but Signor Buonarroti has asked me to speak about

the new basilica.”

“Has he?” Julius’s voice was cold.

Adriana took a breath. “He has asked me to convey that he is

aware of the apparent delays in the execution of your wishes, and that

he proposes a collaboration with Maestro Bramante, in order to carry

them out with greater speed.”

• 53 •

JuStine Saracen

“Maestro Buonarroti has our commission for the Sistine Chapel.

For an enormous sum, I might add. He knows full well that Signor

Bramante is in charge of the reconstruction.”

Adriana glanced briefly over his head at the fresco of Saint

Catherine converting the scholars of Alexandria. The saint seemed to

look down at her, laughing.

“If I may be so bold, Holiness. The reconstruction of St. Peter’s is

a task beyond the capabilities of a single man, however gifted. Maestro

Bramante’s genius is beyond question. So is Michelangelo’s. He wishes

only to put the full force of it at your service in such a noble task.”

“He does not find the painting of our chapel to be sufficiently

noble. Is that it?”

His ring tapped as he beat softly on the wooden arm of his chair.

She searched for something to say that he could not twist into accusation.

“That is not what I meant, Holiness. Maestro Buonarroti merely offers

his talents to the basilica as well. He holds Signor Bramante in the

highest regard.”

Was there any subtle way to remind him of the service she

had rendered him? The scowl he already had suggested it would be

useless.

“Signor Buonarroti is a man of great talent, but God has seen fit

to enrich Rome with a plenitude of such men. I shall use each one

according to my will, which is God’s will.”

His face began to redden, and he stood up exhaling exasperation.

He was vastly more imposing standing than he had been sitting. It was

easy to imagine him at the forefront of an army. He did not raise his

voice, rather he lowered it ominously, but the intimidation was the

same.“Signor Buonarroti has been chosen to serve us by painting.” He

paused dramatically. “And paint is what he shall do.”

The audience, which had lasted less than five minutes, was over.

He raised his hand and she expected a benediction. But it was only a

gesture for the other prelate to escort her to the door. Deeply chagrined,

Adriana genuflected once again and kissed the papal ring. In the brief

moment his hand was before her face, she recognized the scent. It was

a mix of incense and candle smoke.

She backed toward the door and heard Cardinal de’ Medici beg his

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leave as well. The gaudy new guardsman snapped to attention. Reeling

from the abrupt dismissal, Adriana lowered her eyes as she moved past

him into the anteroom. When she looked up once more, she halted. At

the opposite end of the room, waiting for her to leave so he could enter,

was Gian Pietro Carafa.

He seemed ageless, but his gaunt face held no vitality, only a

forceful trimness. His tonsure was extreme, exposing most of the top of

his skull and leaving only a thin ring of closely cropped hair around his

head. He had draped his black cloak over a chair as if expecting to stay

awhile in the Papal Palace, and he stood slightly hunched in his white

Dominican robe. His expression of courteous respect directed toward

the other Cardinal shifted to disdain as it fell on her.

At a faint cough from Cardinal de’ Medici, she turned away from

the doorway and fell into step beside him. “Eminence. If I may ask,

what is Gian Pietro Carafa doing in Rome?”

“Carafa? Ah, the reformer. The conscience of the Church, perhaps,

or its watchdog. He has come to urge His Holiness to a more rigorous

defense of orthodoxy. I believe he also hears confessions at St. Maria

del Popolo.”

“More rigorous? Does this Pope plan to bring the Inquisition to

Rome?” Adriana felt a rising dread.

“Why do you ask? Do you have something to confess?”

“No, not at all.” She caught herself. “I ask only because I was

recently in Spain, in Seville, while he served with Torquemada. My

own family was tragically affected.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Signora Borgia. But I cannot speak to the

way the Pope may choose to enforce the Inquisition. Regarding Signor

Buonarroti, however, I think you need not be so discouraged. I have

great respect for him. He was apprenticed in his youth with my family

in Florence, and I know him well. But genius alone counts for little with

this Pope. He sees himself as the Caesar of God, and he expects the

same obedience that a general expects in battle.” De’ Medici clasped his

hands behind his back. “You must explain this to Signor Buonarroti.”

“And so, the matter is settled then? I can give Michelangelo no

hope with regard to the basilica?”

The Cardinal shook his head. “You miss my point, Lady Borgia.

Great temples are built over generations. Michelangelo should finish

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painting his chapel and bide his time. His day will come. Perhaps with

the next Pope.”

“But Eminence, who is expected to be the next Pope?”

Cardinal de’ Medici smiled.

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viii

Silvio urged his horse closer to the coach where a boy waited

holding a cushioned armchair. A footman helped the elderly

Annio Piccolomini climb down from the interior of the coach.

Silvio bent down in the saddle, causing the peregrine falcon on his

arm to flutter. “Are you certain you want to do this, Father? It’s surely

a strain on you.”

The old man supported himself on the footman’s shoulder. “Of

course I’m certain. I don’t know what awaits me in heaven, but I do

know what’s here on my own land. Do you think I want to lie on a

stinking sickbed when I can spend a day with you and your falcon?”

The coachman got down and carried the armchair to a slight

promontory overlooking a wide expanse of meadow. With assistance,

Annio settled into his seat.

“Go ahead,” he commanded Silvio. “Set her loose. I’ll have a

perfect view of her.”

“I’m glad we can spend the morning together, you, me, and

Freccia. She’s been whistling all morning, longing to be in the air.”

Silvio gazed lovingly at the hooded raptor perched on his gauntlet,

a handsome female haggard caught in the wild. Up close, he could see

the subtleties of her plumage, the slate blue back, white feather beard,

and high, striated chest. Her long trousered legs were concealed against

the white belly crossed by undulations of gray. He lifted the hood and

the falcon blinked enormous dark brown eyes, then tilted her narrow

head as if deciding which part of the sky to patrol first. “Hoh!” Silvio

called, thrusting her upward for her first flight of the day.

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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

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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.”

v

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

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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.

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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

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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 showing 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

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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.

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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

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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

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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.”

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v

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.”

“A sign?” She laughed. “You reject the Catechism but believe in

signs?”

“The falseness of the Catechism does not mean there are no divine

forces that deserve our scrutiny. Of course I believe in signs, wherever

they come from. The trick is to distinguish them from our longings.”

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“So you think my medallion—he’s promised it to me, by the

way—was directing you to Hadrian’s villa?”

“Your medallion? Now I’m sure it’s a sign. In fact, your return to

Rome without Cesare could also be taken as one. Don’t press me to say

what it is a sign of, but I think it’s a good thing. In any case, I’m happy

to see you again. We must get you out more.”

They descended sharply in single file into a semicircular area. It

appeared to be a theater or a stadium from which most of the marble

had been stripped. Adriana’s mare was careful as she picked her way

over the uneven ground.

“Remember, I’m still a Borgia. I’d rather keep to my friends,

people I can be sure will not poison my wine or hand me over to the

Inquisition.”

“Well, I can promise that I won’t poison you,” Silvio said amiably.

“But if you’re nervous about the Inquisition, I’m not the best company

for you. The Dominicans have their collective eye on me, and even

having two popes in the family is no defense. Michelangelo can protect

you better than I can. It’s true he’s always arguing with the Pope, but

he’s valuable to Julius and both men know it.”

“He’s a difficult man.”

“Which one? The painter or the Pope?”

“Both, actually. But I meant Michelangelo. We made a deal a few

months ago, for him to engage Raphaela Bramante, but since I couldn’t

uphold my part, nothing came of it, I suppose.”

“It’s too bad, then. She’s a woman with an exceptional gift. One of

these days she’ll marry some fat merchant and start popping out babies,

instead of paintings. But until then, Michelangelo should try to make

something of her.”

Adriana winced at the image of Raphaela holding one babe in her

arms and pregnant with another, a faceless man standing smugly beside

her. “I should think Bramante himself would have something to say

about his daughter’s future,” she remarked.

“You’d think so, but he’s had to raise her alone and doesn’t seem to

know how to control her. Not that she behaves immodestly or anything

of the sort. When she was painting me, her father escorted her in the

evenings, but during the day she was alone when she came and went,

just like a man. She’s a bit wild that way.”

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Adriana tried to imagine someone like Silvio attending the young

artist as she rode through the Roman streets. The faceless “gentleman”

was scarcely more appealing than the merchant.

“It’s too bad Michelangelo didn’t take her in hand. Would’ve done

them both good. Have you seen the work he’s done in the chapel?”

“No. My last visit to the Vatican was pretty disagreeable. I won’t

go into Rome now unless I have a reason.”

“Or a sign?” Silvio teased.

She could think of no retort and so murmured limply, “Maybe

so.” They rode awhile over hard-packed ground interspersed with

patches of patterned mosaic tile. The quiet of the somber winter

afternoon was punctuated by the cawing of crows and the clopping of

their horses’ hooves on the ancient Roman stone.

A man seemed to step up out of the ground suddenly before them.

“Good day, Signor Piccolomini. The men are just below. We’re almost

finished.”

“Ah, here we are.” Silvio dismounted and assisted Adriana. His

hands were comfortingly warm where they touched the chilled skin on

her forearms.

The workman led them down a narrow staircase into a subterranean

chamber where two others worked by lantern light. Between them

lay the discovery, mottled with dirt and algae, but unmistakable. The

huntress Diana with her stag leaping at her side. Unbroken.

“Well done!” Silvio took the lantern. “Come here, Adriana. Come

and meet my lovely new lady.”

One of the workmen made room for her while the other wiped

away the dirt that still adhered to the pits and grooves of the face. He

trickled water from a gourd over the surface as he wiped, each swipe

gently removing another layer of clay. Finally only the nostrils and eye

sockets remained caked.

“There are still flecks of paint, Signore, here and there. It looks

like her dress was gold.”

“Magnificent.” Silvio knelt down. “And nothing broken but the

bow. Isn’t she magnificent, Adriana?” he repeated. “You see, my signs

were correct after all. Maybe this is your sign, to visit Rome again.”

Adriana leaned over his shoulder just as the plugs of soil were

washed from the two eyes. One eye was plain marble, its pigment lost,

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but the other still had its light green color. The goddess looked up at her,

one-eyed and conspiratorial.

“Signs,” Adriana murmured. “Yes, maybe so.”

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Xi

decemBer 1508

Adriana entered the Sistine Chapel from the great hall and

stopped under the first platform, letting her eyes adapt. The

overcast sky sent little light through the high windows. Only a few

candles burned on the tall candelabras before the chapel screen , and the

artists’ lanterns that hung at the top of the scaffolding shed scant light

below.Hearing voices overhead, she stepped out from under the platform

and craned to peer upward, searching along the row of lanterns on the

balustrade for Michelangelo. The shadows cast by the workers danced

eerily on the curve of the vault. She turned slowly in a circle, studying

what he had accomplished in the months since their last meeting and

her disastrous audience with the Pope.

He had sketched in a fictive architecture supporting the vault, an

intersection of illusionary columns with illusionary ribs, outlines of

swags and medallions between them, and a few brooding figures in the

lunettes. Hanging cloths, which presumably obscured the work during

the services, were pulled aside at the moment, revealing the maze of

chalk lines, strings, and sketches.

“Adriana! Is that you?”

She finally spotted him, or at least the toes of his boots jutting

from the platform he stood on directly over her head. Between the feet,

foreshortened, she saw the underside of his face, lit from below by

lantern light.

“What brings you into Rome again?” Michelangelo called down.

“You do, of course. I came to see what you’ve been doing.”

He made a wide arc with his arm. “Well, what do you think?”

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“I don’t know,” she called back. “From down here it’s all just lines

and strings.”

“I can’t leave off working right now. Do you want to come up?”

She was startled by the invitation. Climb up? Ascend the scaffold

to the vault of the holy chapel? She considered her dress, one of her

more practical ones, for the days she rode horseback. She felt the devil

grinning inside of her, urging her to dare it.

Michelangelo pointed a dripping brush toward a ladder leaning

against the base of the platform. “You can get up over there, in the

corner.” One of his boys was just climbing down it with a bucket.

Adriana gripped the hem of her skirt, wound it once around her

legs, and tucked it into her belt. The boy held the ladder while she

climbed. Committed to the ascent, she ignored the panic that rose with

each step. At the top of the ladder Michelangelo grasped her hand and

pulled her firmly up onto the platform. It creaked and swayed slightly

as it caught her weight.

Breathless with nerves and exhilaration, she glanced down at the

floor far below, at the tile circles of the Papal Walk ending at the marble

screen that divided the chapel in half. On the right wall was the choir

loft where Domenico sang. Beyond the screen was the quadratura,

in which only the Pope and the College of Cardinals were permitted.

Stone benches were arranged around the square on three sides, where

the Cardinals sat during mass. On the left was the papal throne, and at

the far end, against the west wall, the altar. Sacred ground, and yet, in

its murkiness, it seemed irrelevant to the work taking place where she

stood, in the light-filled arc of the ceiling.

She stood on the outermost of several footbridges that arched

across the chapel in parallel to the ceiling and were just wide enough

to hold two men side by side. On the two first platforms boys were

spreading plaster on the exposed masonry of the ceiling. They applied

it with trowels, smoothing it in wide rhythmic sweeps, occasionally

glancing over their shoulders at her. In the heat and dusty air high under

the vault, the sour mixture of wet plaster and the workers’ rancid sweat

was oppressive. Holding her skirts close to her legs, she made her way

gingerly to the innermost platform, where Michelangelo stood painting

over his head. “It looks like you’ve found inspiration after all.”

“Enough to start, at least.” He spoke to her without taking his eyes

from his work. “Over there, the boys are applying the base plaster that

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will support the whole thing. It will take a day to dry and then I’ll move.

I’m applying the intonaco now, the final layer.”

He dipped a brush into a bucket of thin, creamy plaster and laid

a smooth coating over the base plaster in a wide strip. When he was

finished, he set down the bucket and stepped back to the previous

band, which had begun to dry. He tested it with his thumb and found it

satisfactory.

“Now the transfer.”

He unrolled a parchment the width of the painted strip. It held

a cartoon of two figures and a tree stump, sketched in charcoal. The

lamplight behind it revealed that the lines were perforated. He pressed

the parchment against the intonaco, tacking it at intervals. When it was

well anchored he took a cloth-covered ball of charcoal from his apron

and pounced it lightly over the surface until every portion was covered

with powdered carbon. Then he slowly peeled the sooty paper away,

uncovering the entire drawing behind it, as if it had been sketched

there.“I must work quickly now, while the intonaco is still damp,”

he said, rolling up the parchment and handing it to one of the boys.

“Otherwise the pigment won’t be fixed.”

He picked up a palette made up of a ring of shallow bowls, each

containing a different pigment, and with several brushes he began to

paint in the scene he had just outlined. She was amazed at the speed and

confidence with which he painted and then remembered that he was a

sculptor. Compared to the blows of the chisel on unforgiving marble,

paint, which allowed room for correction, must have seemed a relief.

No wonder he was fearless.

The scene showed people in flight from rising waters. On the

right side, on a strip painted earlier, a cluster of the doomed huddled

together under a blanket. In the center, a shallow boat capsized, while

in the background, a closed vessel floated. The first fresco on his ceiling

was the punishing Flood, the ark sealed and inaccessible, repelling all

who tried to enter. There was no hint of rescue, only of damnation.

Michelangelo had made good his threat to “wash it all away.”

He painted directly over his head, moving from the lightest shades

to the darkest with finality, never going back to the light shades again.

With three brushes dipped into paint pots of brown, red, and white, he

created endless variations in tint and shading, rounding off every muscle,

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giving substance and vitality to the painted flesh. Before her eyes, he

cast upon the emptiness figures of clay and breathed life into them. It

was as close to a miracle as the human hand could accomplish.

She stepped back to study the gathering of refugees he had

painted the day before. Among them, two men embraced, one hovering

protectively over the other, whose head was loosely bandaged. The

injured man reached up and held the other around the buttocks.

Michelangelo saw where her eyes went and said, “Two of the

doomed.”

“Shall I continue painting the water, Maestro?” Behind her, an alto

voice spoke, too soft for a man, too resonant for a boy.

Adriana felt a shiver of pleasure even before she turned around.

In trousers, smock, and plaster-spattered apron, the androgynous

form of Raphaela Bramante stood solemnly in front of her.

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Xii

Michelangelo spoke without looking away from his work,

obviously for the benefit of the other workers. “Adriana,

my background painter, Carlo. Carlo…the Lady Adriana Borgia.”

The two women stared at each other while Adriana recovered

from her surprise. Michelangelo had obviously upheld his end of the

bargain in spite of her failure with the Pope.

“Honored, My Lady.” “Carlo” lowered her eyes.

Adriana smiled at the lovely low register of the voice she’d

wondered about for so long.

Michelangelo set down his palette. “I am sorry, Adriana. Carlo

must paint while the plaster is still damp, and the platform was not built

for three. I am afraid you must leave now before we all go crashing

down.”

“Oh.” She looked down at her feet. “Yes, of course.” Suddenly

obedient, she attempted to step past the young assistant but stumbled

to one knee and was caught in Raphaela’s slender arms. The other

woman’s breath was warm on her ear.

“Madonna, I’ll help you to the ladder.”

“I can manage, thank you.”

Chagrined, Adriana regained her footing and stepped as quickly

as she could toward the ladder where she descended, embarrassment

giving way to a sort of intoxication. She had been under the vault of the

chapel and seen the beginning of what the world would soon wonder at,

Michelangelo’s vision of the Deluge.

She was drowning in it.

Dazed, she untucked the hem of her dress from her belt and moved

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to the door of the chapel. For several seconds, she stared out into the

Sala Regia, then became aware of someone behind her. “Carlo” had

followed her down the ladder.

“Madonna…” That lovely voice again. “Maestro said to give you

this.”The creature held out one arm, the paint-flecked hand closed in a

fist around something small. Adriana accepted the object, studying the

face of the “apprentice.” Amazing, she thought. The charade was of her

own invention, yet her eyes could not decide whether she looked at boy

or woman. Silence stretched between them again. Adriana wanted to

talk, but the other workers were within earshot. She lowered her gaze to

the marble medallion in her hand. The carved face of a woman looked

up at her, haloed by a snake.

“Thank you…Carlo.”

With a silent nod, the lovely boy-woman returned to the chapel

interior to paint the waters of God’s great punishment. Adriana watched

her walk away, wondering what Michelangelo had told her. She was

tempted to rush after her, to ask, but instead swept through the Sala

Regia to the great stairs leading down and out of the palace.

As she emerged from the doorway the first clap of thunder warned

of a coming storm. Jacopo sat scowling on his horse, holding the reins

of her mare. He pointed toward heavy clouds on the horizon.

“We’d best leave right away, My Lady.”

She mounted quickly and rode toward the Ponte Sant’ Angelo. The

wind over the Tiber was already strong as they turned eastward along

the Via Giulia. The horses were fresh, and they covered the distance at

a comfortable canter. The sky darkened with evening and the coming

storm, but the route was familiar and she was not worried. Her thoughts

crowded in on one another. Michelangelo’s flood waters, a boy that was

a woman, the strange medallion in her pocket. She felt no chill.

Then, as they reached the Via Tiburtina the sky began to rumble

and flare with sheet lightning. With each flash, the high cumulous-cloud

masses lit up orange-red on one side and stayed black on the other.

Jacopo slowed his horse and peered upward, holding his cap against

the wind.

“You might almost think the heavens were angry. Look, My Lady.

When the sky lights, you can see the saints.”

“What are you talking about?” Adriana reluctantly drew up next

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to him. The evening sky again flickered orange, causing her mare to

dance nervously.

“Over there.” He pointed toward the west. “Wait until the next

flash. It looks like they’re standing at the foot of God’s throne.”

She looked toward where he pointed in the darkness, waiting for

the sky to ignite. In a moment it flashed again a jolt of yellow light and

she saw it. The tall thunderheads did indeed look like colossal beings,

gathered around a central light, and the crack of thunder seemed to give

them voice.

“I see tall clouds. No saints,” she shouted between thunderclaps.

The wind had increased in strength and whipped at her cloak, causing it

to flutter wildly behind her. She clutched it closed with one hand.

“ Best to hurry now, My Lady,” Jacopo said, kicking his horse into

a run. They galloped wildly, she and the warm creature between her

legs fleeing the storm. Once more the ear-splitting thunder exploded

and the whole sky lit at once, as though signaling an end to the world.

Then silence fell and for a few moments she heard only the rushing in

the trees, the panting of the straining horses, and the thudding of the

hooves on the still-hard ground.

An hour away from the cypress trees of the Villa Borgia they met

the deluge. As if the vessel holding it had broken, the rain fell like a

wall of water, drenching them.

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Xiii

She stood on the shore of the Tiber looking toward St. Peter’s.

Inside the basilica, she knew, a requiem mass was being sung.

They were in there, her father and all the Borgias, Alexander and his

sons, and the doors were sealed. A storm began, the wind billowed

her shawl and water pooled at her feet. Across the water the edifice

that had been St. Peter’s melted into the shape of the ark. No port was

visible and no ladder for the sinners thrashing in the water. At its prow,

silhouetted against the sky at each lightning flash, was the form of Gian

Pietro Carafa.

The Tiber suddenly swelled and overflowed its banks, and the

surging water swept something large against her leg. She looked down

to see the corpse of Piero Battista, his dead eyes staring up at her.

Shivering, she turned and fled the rising flood, joining a line of

refugees that struggled up a steep hill. She clambered past them to the

crest where two men embraced amorously at the foot of a dead tree.

Michelangelo stood over them, the wind whipping his hair. He pointed

to the refugees by the tree.

“This is my secret which I offer to God. Now you must offer

yours.”

Adriana looked back at the floodwaters where now a multitude

of bodies floated, and at that moment a wave rose from the side and

washed ice-cold water over her.

Heavy rain still clattered against the wooden shutter when she

woke. The sound of the servants working downstairs told her it was

morning, but she could not get out of bed.

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Christiano Ferri, the house physician, stood over her, removing

the leeches from her forearm. “A serious catarrh, no doubt of that,” he

observed.

It was the second time she’d been bled, and she noticed little

difference in the heat that poured from her body. The honeyed rice and

wine with a drop of opium made her sleep, but when she woke, she

was wracked with a painful cough that only grew worse. Her fever, she

could tell, was mounting, and each day she felt weaker.

Maria dutifully tended her, and Jacopo the housemaster, who

berated himself for failing to protect her from herself.

As Ferri placed the seal over the leech jar, Adriana asked, “What’s

next, if I am not recovered?”

“There are other interventions, but first let us wait and let the

leeches do their work. We can, if necessary, double the amount of

opium. Rest is the best thing, Lady. That and all our prayers.” He pulled

the sheet up to cover her already over-heated body and took his leave.

v

A week passed and she was no longer lucid, but babbled hoarsely

during the day and had fever dreams at night. Domenico came, when

he got word, and then Michelangelo, but in her delirium she did not

know them. On the twelfth night Domenico took the watch and sat

praying at her bedside. Finally, in the early morning hours, a priest was

summoned from Tivoli to give the last sacrament. When the priest left,

the entire household stopped working and waited numb with dread, for

the fate of every servant and field worker was tied to hers.

The servants sat in the kitchen, talking quietly among themselves,

letting disorder accumulate. Then in the early afternoon three men

arrived, two in a cart and one on horseback. Jacopo opened the door

and recognized Silvio Piccolomini. He did not know the visitor’s two

companions, but one of them, he noted with misgivings, was a Jew.

The man’s head was covered by a fringed blue cloth, which was

twisted once across his chest and thrown over his shoulder. Older and

taller than the other two, he had a trim white beard, massive shoulders,

and the bulk of an ox. Although he held his gaze down and kept a

certain distance from the others, his very mass dominated the group.

The third man was nondescript, but stood adjusting his clothing and

affected an air of authority, which did not quite convince.

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Jacopo, as housemaster, blocked the doorway, reluctant to admit

them. “My Lady is mortally ill, Signori, and the priest has already given

the rites. Master Raggi keeps the vigil now.”

Silvio nodded. “Yes, I know, Jacopo. Michelangelo has informed

me. These two men are physicians. Dr. Ligori has assisted my father

through dire illness, and Dr. Salomano brings Moorish knowledge from

Spain. I believe they offer hope.”

At the word “hope” Jacopo relented. Without remark, he led them

up the stairs to the bedchamber where Domenico and the maid Maria

kept watch over the unconscious woman. The room was rancid with the

smell of soiled bedclothes, and the fire burning in the fireplace together

with the candles gave off a stifling heat. As the four men entered, the

singer stood up, his face ashen and his eyes red-rimmed. Next to him

the maid Maria wept quietly.

“Signor Piccolomini has brought two physicians,” Jacopo said.

Domenico hesitated for a moment, then stepped aside.

Dr. Ligori placed his hand first on her forehead and then at the

center of her chest, which rose and fell slowly. “Morbid fever. How

long has she been thus?”

“Two days, my lord,” Maria replied. Jacopo nodded. “And since

yesterday we have not been able to give her any water.”

Ligori stood up and the two physicians conferred in whispers,

although it seemed the Jew spoke more and the other man listened.

Finally Ligori addressed Jacopo.

“Have a wash tub brought up. Large enough for the lady to be set

in. And fill it with cold water.”

Maria looked astonished. “But Signor Dottore. Surely a bath…at

this time—”

“To lower her fever. Don’t waste time. Do as I say.” The Jew

whispered in his ear again, and Ligori added, “Have the kitchen make

her a strong tea of red pepper and lemon peel. Do you have these

things?”

“Yes, my Lord,” she replied, wiping her hands on her apron, as if

she were about to cook.

“Bring it up as soon as possible. Please,” Salomano added

quietly.

Domenico spoke from the foot of the bed where he had stood. His

black doublet was wrinkled and unbuttoned halfway down his chest,

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for he had watched through the night. “Do you have hope, Signore?”

His voice was hoarse.

Ligori, bending over the patient again, did not respond. Standing

behind him, Salomano said, “While the heart still beats there is hope,

my son.” Then he extinguished the fire in the fireplace and all the

candles save those by the bed. The dimming light seemed an ominous

sign, and Domenico pressed his fingers against his lips. Tears flowed

again from his swollen eyes.

Jacopo located the wooden laundry tub and with the gardener

dragged it up the stairs into the bedchamber. Servants followed

with buckets and pitchers, and in relays they filled the tub with the

frigid water. At Ligori’s instructions, the Jewish doctor wrapped the

unconscious woman in the sheet she was lying on and with massive

forearms lifted her from the bed.

Jolted by the plunge into the freezing cold the mistress resisted

feebly and her eyes fluttered open. As she was lifted out again, she

seemed to respond to their voices and their touch when they dried her.

Maria placed a cup of some sour fluid at her mouth, and she swallowed

a mouthful obediently, then tried weakly to push the cup away. Then

she lost consciousness once more.

“You must immerse her again in two hours,” Dr. Ligori instructed

Jacopo. He seemed well pleased, having determined that the patient

was capable of response and thus not moribund. The dramatic gesture

of her awakening had impressed her servants, who now gazed at the

unconscious woman with hope. Wiping his hands dry on a towel, the

doctor accompanied his colleague Baldassare Salomano down the stairs

to the reception hall to accept lunch.

In the sickroom, Domenico and Maria resumed their vigil.

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Xiv

As his cart came down the slope toward the Villa Borgia the

next morning, Baldassare Salomano looked out through the

mist at the line of cypress trees and the land they bordered. He hadn’t

noticed the serene beauty of the villa the day before, the well-kept

garden near the house and the lush vineyards and olive groves farther

out. For the thousandth time, he gave thanks for his good fortune in

being expelled from Spain and forced to begin a new life in Italy.

Memories of his final months in Seville still haunted him, though

sixteen years had passed since he fled the land of his birth.

Their Most Catholic Majesties had aligned themselves with

the extreme ascetic faction in the Spanish church, and together they

undertook to purge all of Spain of doctrines that were not identical in

word and letter to their own.

His family was not immediately affected, but other lax Jews, who

felt no particular piety or allegiance to any dogma, had converted.

Ironically, these were condemned, though it seemed illogical for the

Church to persecute those who were lukewarm rather than, in its eyes,

heathen. Or maybe not. Maybe the doubters were the most dangerous

of all.In any case, it was the c onversos who were accused of fraudulent

oaths or hidden practices of the old religion. It might have been true;

he did not know the personal stories of all those condemned. Those he

knew who had converted had done so as a matter of convenience. If

they were bad Catholics, it was not because they were secretly good

Jews.

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He had no idea what the Inquisition sought and had wondered

even in those days how the church could see into the soul of a man and

know which image of God he feared, the one of the Trinity or the one of

Moses. Didn’t Christians also revere the Old Testament? And certainly

they were ignorant of the quarrels about God in the Jewish community

itself.Whatever criterion they used, the agents of the Inquisition rounded

up people from all over the city and surrounding towns. A few weeks

passed and he heard nothing. He assumed they were in prison, a horror

in itself. But then the terrified whispers began; there was to be an auto-

da-fé.Morbid fascination drew him to the square and to the platforms

that had been erected. Twenty of them, with central posts, and to each

one four penitents were chained. Eighty men and women in long white

gowns. While he watched, priests went to each group of four and read

their sins to them. Those who repented and begged for mercy were

garroted on the spot. Only a few, scarcely a dozen, refused. Ironically

it was the truly pious who were prepared to suffer for their beliefs,

whatever they were. And suffer they would, burned alive.

He should have left the square then; he would have kept his peace

of mind. But the urge to bear witness to the depths of depravity to

which the Church would sink obsessed him, and so he watched while

they lit the fires, one by one, and the overawed crowd fell silent.

For a long while all he could hear was the crackling of the flames

on the straw and kindling. Soon it became difficult to see through

the thick greasy smoke that carried the smell of roasting flesh. Then,

though he could not see, he knew the flames had reached the living, for

the screams began.

Normal screams at first, such as he would expect, but then they

became more frenzied, animal-like. He heard sounds he did not know

the human throat could make, that made him retch with revulsion and

fear. Then the smoke seemed to choke them too as the shrieks became

ragged and then weakened. By then the crowd was excited too, and

their screaming combined with that of the burning victims.

He would never forget drawing the airborne residual of the dead

into his lungs and tasting the horror in his mouth. That day marked him

for the rest of his life.

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JuStine Saracen

No man had ever seen God. No man knew whether the Creator of

the universe was one or three, and yet one set of believers tortured and

burned alive another over such trivialities. The thought made him more

than a religious skeptic. He did not have a word for what it made him.

The auto-da-fé, the “act of faith” was, ironically, the final ruination

of his own. All the way home, smelling human smoke on his clothes,

he asked himself how the absolute law of the Jews—with its vast list

of regulations in Leviticus—was any better than the absolute law of the

Church. How was God supposed to “favor” a people by making them

suffer? He tried to imagine a world without God and realized that it

would look just like the world in which he lived.

Then in 1492 came the great migration, when their Most Catholic

Majesties drove the unconverted Muslims and Jews out of Spain. The

Christians called it the Expulsion, but for him it had been deliverance.

Jewish travelers coming from the East had raved about the

prosperity that Jews enjoyed in Constantinople. The Ottoman emperor

was trying to rebuild his capital. He needed money, skill, talent, and

Jews were invited along with Muslims and Christians, if they had these

qualifications. The young doctor was tempted to seek refuge there, but

he had children and a wife fearful of long travel. Fortunately, Rome

offered similar rescue and was closer.

Pope Alexander, though whispered to be personally corrupt, had

nonetheless wisely decided that Rome, filled with foreign pilgrims and

their diseases, needed physicians more than converts. And so Baldassar

Saloman romanized his name and moved with his family to the Holy

City. In a short while, at the age of forty-five, he began a discreetly

prosperous life as the Jewish “assistant” of a Christian doctor fifteen

years his junior.

To be sure, he was scarcely a Jew any longer. Although he still

covered his head, identifying himself as a Jew rather than a converso,

he no longer believed in anything. And that was the problem.

For while Rome had a certain tolerance for Jews, it had none

whatsoever for nonbelievers. He learned to be silent about his lack of

faith in a way he never had to be about his Judaism. He still thought

of Constantinople and wondered if the Turks scrutinized their Jews the

way the Spanish and Italians did.

Salomano was startled back to the present as his carriage pulled up

before the entrance of the Villa Borgia.

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Although the morning rain had stopped, a cold dampness filled

the air and the sky remained dreary. He had come alone, while Ligori

tended other patients, and he was unsure of his reception. If the patient

had died during the night, he, the foreign Jew, would surely be blamed.

He had no idea whether the ice bath and the red-tea cure would help.

The treatment could bring down a fever, but little else. In this, as in

all other sicknesses, the patient’s inner resources would make all the

difference.

As he stepped down from the cart, someone came out of the house

and a groom was just bringing a horse from the stable. Salomano tasted

the bile of rising dread. The lady must have died; Signor Raggi was pale

and bent with exhaustion. Briefly they stood face-to-face in silence and

each took the measure of the other. With old eyes he looked anxiously

into tired young ones, waiting for accusation.

“You have saved her, Dottore.” The young man held out his hand

to be swallowed up in Salomano’s muscular grasp. “Whatever you gave

her, it was miraculous. The fever has broken and God’s mercy has sent

her back to us.”

Salomano released the breath he held. “That and her own strength.

A physician cannot call upon the divine, sir. Only upon experience.”

Puzzlement flickered for an instant across the exhausted face. “In

any case, we are most grateful for your skill and kindness.”

It was only at that moment that Salomano realized he was speaking

with a castrated man. The high soft voice. The wide chest and slender,

elongated physique. Of course, the singer from the Vatican. He had

heard of him. What monstrous things the Christians did, even to their

own.“You are most welcome. But experience also teaches that recovery

is not instant, and I must attend the patient still.”

“Certainly, and I will keep you no longer. I have overstayed my

leave and must return to my duties, but Signor Buonarroti sits with

her.” Domenico clasped his old hand again in departure. A stable boy

held the singer’s horse while he mounted with difficulty. Slouching in

the saddle, he pulled his cloak around him and rode down the avenue

of cypresses.

v

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In contrast to the day before, this time the maidservant admitted

Salomano with deference and warmth. The housemaster came hurriedly,

called him “Signor Dottore” and led him upstairs to the bedchamber.

The lady still lay feebly against two pillows, but she was lucid and

could hold the cup of medicinal tea without assistance. A wiry, bearded

man stood up from his stool at her bedside. The housemaster addressed

him. “Maestro Buonarroti, this is Doctor Salomano. He is one of the

physicians who saved Lady Borgia’s life yesterday.” They shook

hands.The housemaster slid a chair behind Salomano and he lowered

his great bulk onto the seat. He found himself directly across from the

painter, who watched him as he attended the patient. He laid a hand on

her forehead and noted that the fever had indeed fallen and some color

had returned to her face.

“Have you eaten anything yet, Lady Borgia?”

She turned her head weakly toward him. Her long dark hair was

damp and clung to her face in limp strands. “No. I’ve only drunk this

vile tea.”

He laid his ear on her chest and listened to her cough. “Mucus.

That’s very good. But Madama is obviously still very weak.” He took

the empty cup from her hand. “Vile or no, you must keep drinking

the tea for two more days at least. And you must also have your cook

prepare you a special broth. I have a list of ingredients.” He drew a

roll of paper from the pouch and held it while he spoke. “Have your

servants wake you every two hours for the tea and for the soup. It is

time to return to life, Madama.”

“It looks as if God has given her a second chance. Though I wonder

if it was your God or hers.” Michelangelo glanced meaningfully at the

blue cloth that covered Salomano’s head, but the tone of his voice was

light, as if he attempted banter.

Salomano was not used to banter. “The God of the Jews is not

much inclined to heal the sick,” he replied cautiously. “Jews try more

to understand God than to call on his medical skills.”

The artist folded his arms across his chest and asked very softly,

in the same tone as before, “How can you know God’s will, having no

priest or sacraments?”

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Salomano frowned. “It seems impolite to argue theology at the

bedside of a sick woman.”

“Not at all.” Adriana glanced over at them through half-closed

eyes. She still couldn’t raise herself from her pillows, but her mind

seemed to have cleared and her spirits much improved. “I don’t mind.

Salvation seems to be Michelangelo’s current obsession. Next year it

may be love poetry.”

Salomano thought for a while, stroking his white beard. He would

not be drawn into an argument, but this Christian artist seemed more

interested than hostile. “Rabbis and scholars have debated God’s will for

centuries, but they do not so much mediate between man and God as do

your priests. They simply interpret scripture and advise. Maimonides,

one of our greatest, did set out basic principles, but many Jews disagree

with him.”

“You mean you don’t all believe the same?”

“The basic ideas, yes. But there’s always a dispute—in your

religion too—of how literally to take scripture. Maimonides said

that God and the afterlife are intellectual events and the Bible is only

symbolic.”

“But you’ve got all those laws.”

“Yes, more than six hundred. But Maimonides argues that most

are just meant to fulfill the first two, belief in God and rejection of

idolatry. Otherwise, God is unknowable.”

Michelangelo’s gaze became more intent. “An unknowable God.

A dangerous idea.”

Salomano rolled up the paper he had been holding and weighed

his words. “It shouldn’t be dangerous. Not being able to define God

opens the way to focus on the world and discover His reverberations

here. It’s the ‘God’s backside’ idea.”

Adriana watched them, seeming interested though drowsy.

Salomano leaned toward Michelangelo with an open hand. “In

Exodus 33, God tells Moses that He can’t show His face. It would be too

much to bear. But He will let Moses see his backside as he passes.”

“God’s backside.” Adriana chuckled weakly. Sleep was overtaking

her again, and the nearly empty tea glass tilted precariously in her hand.

Salomano took it from her.

“Maimonides says it means we can see God’s earthly effects, but

not His essence. Myself, I like to think of God more like Ficino does,

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as the incomprehensible perfection behind beauty, behind the things

we love.”

Michelangelo sat up, with unconcealed surprise. “You read

Marsilio Ficino?”

“Do you think only Christians can read Latin?”

“No, of course not. But Ficino was a priest.”

“Well, there are priests and priests, aren’t there? He was also

an interpreter of Plato, who belongs to neither Christian nor Jew.”

He glanced over at the patient. “But I think we have exhausted Lady

Borgia.”

Taking her hand, he said, “You seem out of danger, dear Lady, so

I’ll leave you now and look in again tomorrow. Remember about the tea

and soup.” He laid the rolled-up list on the bedside table.

Once the doctor had left, Adriana’s energies were depleted. When

Michelangelo turned back to her, she was dozing off again, and sentence

fragments in his voice drifted into her sleep-addled mind.

“Going to Florence,” she thought she heard him say. A gift

someone had for him. Back in a few days. Visit him in Rome when she

was well. Ideas to share, memories, secrets.

Maria closed the door behind him and Adrianna drifted off. With

her last glimmer of consciousness she thought, “God’s backside. So

that’s what it’s all about.”

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Xv

Secret tHingS

Michelangelo had timed it well, arriving at Santo Spirito just

at sundown. Good old Niccolò Bichiellini, prior and friend,

was waiting at the monastery gate. He could be relied on to be discreet.

If he was disgusted, good manners kept him from ever revealing it.

“Fra Bichiellini, good evening. I take it everything is ready. He

didn’t cause you too much trouble, did he?” Michelangelo dismounted

and one of the lay brothers took his horse silently.

“No, Signore. Nothing the usual bribes couldn’t take care of. He’s

waiting for you now, as before. But I urge you to hurry. It will not

escape notice that you are here, and people will ask questions.”

“Yes, of course.” He took up his satchel and followed the prior

into the main building. The reception area was lit by only a few candles,

and the prior took up one of them in passing.

“He’s in the basement, where you’ll have privacy. I’ve instructed

the sacristan to admit no one.” He led Michelangelo down a flight of

creaking wooden stairs to a completely dark space. The light from the

single candle held aloft was not sufficient to light the other end of the

room where the coveted one waited.

Bichiellini strode forward, taking with him the sphere of light.

When he reached the figure in the far corner, he held the lantern high

and pulled off the linen cover with a single dramatic gesture.

“Here he is, Maestro,” he said. “Freshly dead.”

As the prior set about lighting additional candles around the table,

Michelangelo bent over the hooded cadaver. “He’s magnificent. I

couldn’t have asked for better. Look at that chest.” He ran his fingertips

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along the musculature that was bulky and well defined in spite of the

relaxation of death.

“They hanged him at dawn yesterday,” Bichiellini added.

“Unfortunately, the birds got to him and picked off most of his face,

so I asked the bailiff to cover his head. Not a nice thing to look at all

night long.” The prior lit a final candle inside a lantern that hung over

the table. “Will you be doing a full dissection?”

“Like the old days?” Michelangelo shook his head. “No. All I’m

interested in this time is the musculature. I’ll be out of here in a day

and a half.”

He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and drew a leather apron from

his satchel. Opening a small pouch of scalpels, he said, “I would be

most grateful, Fra Bichiellini, if you could provide me with a pitcher

of water for washing. And perhaps a flask of watered wine to see me

through the night?”

After a nod of thanks, Michelangelo adjusted the candles for a

maximum of light and set to work. Someone, either the bailiff or more

likely Bichiellini himself, had done him the favor of washing off the

urine and defecation of the dead man, for which he was grateful. But he

noted the early signs of decomposition, the greenish-yellow coloration

of the abdomen and the swelling from pooled blood in the lower

extremities, an artifact of the hanging position. Only the feet showed

evidence of advanced decay, with blistering around the ankles and a

covering of foul-smelling brown paste that had leaked through the skin.

The odor of the corpse was still tolerable, but by the second night, he

would have to work with a mask over his nose and mouth.

Michelangelo made the first incisions, a horizontal along the

surface of both clavicles and a long vertical down the sternum. Then,

with the efficiency of a man long familiar with the knife, he cut two

more verticals along the sides of the corpse and two diagonals along the

lower edges of the rib cage. With the flesh marked out like the panels

of a short jacket, he proceeded to flay the upper chest, starting at the

throat.The leanness of the cadaver allowed him to slice in a series of

rapid, small motions under the fatty layer of the skin and gradually

roll it back. He was careful not to penetrate the underlying layer of

membrane that held the muscles in their living shapes, for that was

what he needed.

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The fatty tissue was slimy with a slightly reddish mucus that oozed

out with each slice of the blade, but there was otherwise no blood to

obscure his view. The unembalmed corpse might still have blood in the

deep arteries, but it, too, had decomposed, and as long as the dissection

was only cutaneous, the cadaver would seep but not bleed.

By the time the prior returned, the entire pectoral area was exposed,

and the panels of skin lay folded neatly in a wooden pail on the floor.

Michelangelo wiped his hands on his apron. “A pity he never modeled

for me when he was alive,” he said, and allowed himself a long drink of

the sweet wine. “Now we’ll give him a second chance.”

v

Michelangelo gently folded the last panel of skin and set it into the

bucket at his feet. He let out a long exhalation and felt as if he had been

holding his breath for the two hours he had been cutting. He had flayed

the entire front of the cadaver, including the male member, which he

regarded as skin. But he could cut no more now without the assistance

of Bichiellini to turn the cadaver over. That would be tomorrow. Now

he came to the reason for the entire procedure.

He laid out the flayed arms and legs in a pose to his satisfaction

before rinsing his hands of mucus in the pitcher of water. He adjusted

the candles, redistributing the light over the subject, then took up his

sepia pencil and sketchbook.

After a few moments, though his hand moved rapidly in the

sketching, the familiar tranquility settled over him. It was a pleasing

trance that came to him at no other time. He had thought at first it was

the endless tap-tap of the chisel when he sculpted that transported him.

But he had felt it too when he fell into the rhythm of painting a fresco.

Then he realized that the same euphoria, the same sensation

of rising up over the mundane world came over him even when he

sketched. It was not the monotony of movement or the sound of the

instrument; it was the very act of bringing forth an image, pulling

something out of nothing. Creating a form lifted him to a place from

which he could contemplate higher things. Not hunger or discomfort or

the whims of his patrons, but the color, line, and light of his creation,

and the perfect beauty within.

His transport was so real that he fell into the habit of talking to

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his subject as it came into being, even before it came into being. For

the creature was already in the material, and Michelangelo talked to it

as he urged it from the darkness into the light. Or in this case, from the

dissecting table into a sketchbook and finally to a fresco.

“Sorry to burden you with my troubles, brother. Obviously your

last few days have been worse than mine. But it hasn’t been easy for me

either. I work for a tyrant, send all my money to a thankless family, live

in poverty, and endure constant pain from painting over my head.” He

held the drawing at arm’s length. Yes, the pose was good. “And no one

listens to me when I complain.”

He adjusted the cadaver’s limbs a second time and turned to a

blank page in the sketchbook.

“The birds took away your face, my friend, but you know, that’s

not such a bad thing in the end. I finished their job by taking off the rest

of your skin and the flesh of temptation between your legs. Whatever

your sins were, you’re innocent muscle now, and I’m going to make

you into something new. What would you like to be: a soldier, hero,

pagan god?” He glanced up at the corpse, as though awaiting a reply.

“How about an angel? That should compensate you. A man could not

ask for more.”

Almost cheerful, Michelangelo finished the second sketch and

posed the limp cadaver yet again. He lifted one of the meaty legs and

one of the arms into a sort of twisted pose, the best he could do given the

slippery flesh. “Whatever you were before, my friend, you’re beautiful

now.”He took a long drink of the wine and stepped back for a third

sketch, though increasing fatigue made him dreamy and philosophical.

“Beauty is divine, my friend. Like sunlight searches for a tree or

a meadow or a face to shine on, beauty searches for something to shine

from. It’s my gift, to sense beauty where it hides and to draw it out for

the world to see.”

He paused over the sketch. “Also a curse.” He sighed. “I cannot

find God in prayer or in the mass. Only in the material. This weakness

plagues me, as much as my flesh, that I find the divine in cellars like

this one talking to the likes of you.”

He turned the page for a fourth drawing, though his eyes had begun

to burn. Talking about his curse had cast a pall over his mood. He fell

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silent, but his mind still rambled. Is this all I’ll ever have to share my

secrets with? A cadaver or the phantoms in the stone?

He was suddenly terribly lonely.

v

The crowing of the cock in the monastery hen yard woke Fra

Bichiellini in his chamber. Rubbing consciousness back into his face,

he dressed and descended the cellar stairs once again.

Michelangelo was just setting aside his sketchbook. “Dawn

already? I lost track of time.”

Bichiellini stepped toward the dissecting table. The corpse, now in

its shiny gray-red flesh, lay in a new position. The two arms were folded

back with both hands under the neck of the still-hooded head. The body

was tilted slightly sideways, and one flayed leg was raised. Though the

entire front of the cadaver was skinned down to the ankles, it looked

for all the world like a sort of macabre vanity, a monster displaying

himself, nude and provocative, for a lover.

Bichiellini mused that if anything could be more naked than nude,

he now beheld it.

“I’ve got what I need tonight. If you would be so kind and help me

turn him over, I’ll dissect him from the back tomorrow.” The two men

grappled with the limp corpse. As they finally maneuvered it into place,

facedown on the table, someone called from the top of the stairs.

“Fra Bichiellini, the bailiff is here. Just stopping by, he said.”

“Morbid curiosity, I’m sure,” the prior muttered. “He’s already

got his bribe.” Then, louder, “Send him down, if you please.”

In a moment the bailiff was at the door, holding a rag over his nose

and mouth. “Everything all right, here?”

“Yes. The dissection is half finished,” the prior said. “We’ll be

done tomorrow and we’ll see to it that he has a Christian burial.”

Michelangelo arranged the half-flayed limbs alongside the

prostrate body but stopped abruptly and raised a candle over the man’s

back. The entire surface, from the edge of the cloth hood to the buttocks,

was crisscrossed with countless scars.

“This man was flogged,” Michelangelo said.

“Yes, and little good it did him.” The bailiff snorted, approaching

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the table. “You’d think he’d have given up the habit after that. But he

just couldn’t stop himself, I guess. The last time they caught him, it was

the noose.”

“What was his crime?” Michelangelo asked cautiously.

The bailiff hooked his thumbs in his belt. “This one’s a sodomite.

Hanging’s what they do to them here if they don’t change their ways.

He didn’t.”

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Xvi

Gian Pietro Carafa stood on a balcony on the Piazza Venezia

and swept his solemn gaze over the streets being cleared

of animal ordure for the parade. He pictured the coming frivolities of

Carnevale, and his resolve was unwavering. It would have to be, for the

task he had set himself was no less than the rescue of the Holy Mother

Church.

If anyone should know of Rome’s depravity, it was he, for he

had seen the effects while Alexander VI still reigned. That despicable

libertine had defiled the Throne of Peter, not only fathering children

on his various whores, but parading them in the court. Worse were

his unashamed display of pagan symbols and Egyptian idols in court

frescoes, and the opening of Rome’s door to heathens expelled from

Spain. But Alexander’s unforgivable crime was the excommunication

and execution of that saint among men, Girolamo Savonarola.

A brother of his own order, blessed be his memory, the Dominican

friar had ten years before taken up the flaming sword against the

paganism and the vice, the foreign thoughts and licentiousness of the

Florentines.

Eyes half-closed, Carafa recalled the great bonfire he had seen

on the Piazza della Signoria. A fire dedicated to God, consuming the

Carnevale masks and wigs, the volumes of filthy Latin and Italian

poetry, the vain ornaments and scents and mirrors, the chessboards,

lutes, and harps that lured men to frivolity. And, on the highest tier of

the scaffold, the obscene paintings of women. The whole collection of

worldly temptations rose in a spiral of glowing flakes and ashes, and as

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the bells of the campanile pealed in celebration, his young soul swelled

with a sense of the presence of God.

But Savonarola’s most courageous act was the one that doomed

him, the vilification of the Borgia Pope. Alexander had excommunicated

him, accusing him of heresy when, in fact, he spoke the purest truth.

The saintly man was hanged in the very spot where his great bonfire

had raged, and his still-twitching body was burned in turn.

Carafa’s heart quickened in outrage at such injustice. He himself

had resolved to reclaim the fire, and this time it would be on behalf of

God as the Church of Spain used it, to purify the faith and the believer.

Pain was good for the soul. He had known pain himself, the suffering of

long fasting and mortification of the rebellious flesh, and he welcomed

it as the sharing of the agony of Christ. So he rejoiced to witness the

sufferings of the tortured penitents. Every scream was an affirmation of

their growing piety, the parting shriek of demons.

He glanced down again, envisioning the revelers similarly

consumed. Yes, with fire and the rack he would bring God back to

Rome, he swore it on his soul.

v

Adriana arrived in the Piazza Rusticucci in the late afternoon,

unsure of her reception. She had after all sent no notice and hoped

Michelangelo would remember he had invited her. She knocked and

within moments the door was opened. The housemaster’s face registered

surprise.

“I’m sorry, Madonna. The Maestro is not due for another hour.

Would My Lady wish to visit him at the Vatican chapel?”

“No, no. I don’t want to disturb his work. I’ll wait for him here.”

The servant led her into an anteroom where two high-backed

chairs were pushed against a long table. He pulled one of them out to

offer her a seat and returned a moment later with a glass and a bronze

ewer of wine. When he was gone, she poured herself a tall glass and

surveyed the room where courtesy required she wait. It had a sterile

and depressing air. She did not relish the thought of spending the next

hour there.

Taking both glass and ewer, she crossed the corridor to

Michelangelo’s workshop. Here was life—the agreeable clutter of

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used objects, the smell of paint, the inviting sight of chairs with worn

cushions. One table held drills and mallets and next to them a box of

chisels. On another were rolls of vellum, notebooks, an earthen pot with

a bouquet of paintbrushes. Beside an inkwell and a pair of spectacles, a

smaller vessel contained half a dozen quills.

The walls held shelves bearing jars of colored minerals. In among

them were mortars and pestles and a slab of porphyry for grinding.

Everything had a covering of gritty marble powder and ordinary dust.

She draped her cape over the end of a long table, taking pains not

to disturb anything, and poured herself another glass of the soothing

wine. She felt at home in this room, or perhaps it was simply the wine

that was causing her to relax. She wished now that Michelangelo had

invited her sooner, for she could imagine herself in warm conversation

with him here. About his work, his thoughts on his papal employer, his

“secrets,” whatever they were.

A sketchbook caught her attention. She sensed she was in some

way trespassing, but the wine made her venturesome. Michelangelo

surely would not mind if she admired his drawings. With the tips of

her fingers she opened the volume and turned the pages delicately. She

was horrified.

A man, or rather what had once been a man, lay on his back, his

head covered by a sack. The striations across his muscles, the protrusion

of the clavicles, the strip of white cartilage down the center of the chest

made it clear he had been skinned. The red chalk used for the drawings

emphasized all the more the exposed red meat of the body.

Page after page held the same figure in varying macabre poses,

lying with legs drawn up, slouching, twisting.

But on the last page, there was something less sinister, even

amusing. A male figure, heavily bearded and copiously robed, in two

twisted poses. On the right, he curved in midair, as if blown along by

some great wind, with arms outstretched, his long robes flowing behind

him. In the left sketch, the same figure was in reverse and seemed to fly

away, his elbow, back, and foot soles sketched in detail. In the center

of the figure, his garment blew against him, outlining well-muscled

buttocks.

Adriana laughed out loud, remembering the conversation that had

taken place at her bedside. It was a sketch of God’s backside.

She was startled when she heard someone outside the door.

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Abashed, she hurriedly closed the notebook and glanced up. A woman

spoke, and she knew the voice. Adriana caught her breath as the door

swung open.

Raphaela Bramante stopped on the threshold, her expression

registering alarm.

v

Adriana raised her hand. “It’s all right, Signorina Bramante. I

know of your disguise.”

The young painter paused for a moment, absorbing the revelation,

then came into the workshop. She set a bundle of rolled-up cartoons on

the worktable.

“Lady Borgia, good afternoon.”

“You remember me from the chapel?” Adriana realized the

question was foolish. The Borgia reputation was not yet eradicated, and

few people forgot encountering her.

Raphaela pulled off the bulky cap that had contained her hair,

and honey-colored curls suddenly ringed her face like a wreath. “Oh, I

recall you from long before that.”

Her voice was only slightly less husky than that of a real male and

held a surprising authority. Although she had the appearance of a boy,

her manner was adult, assured.

Adriana was uncertain how to speak to her. The late-afternoon

sun that lit and warmed the studio seemed to offer a place for intimate

conversation, but they were, on the face of things, strangers. Distant

sounds from the street drifted through the window.

Raphaela took off the loose jerkin she wore over her work clothes

and dropped it over the back of a chair. “I understand you were infirmed

recently. You are recovered, I trust?” Her hand lingered on the jerkin,

the fingers tapping on the soft leather. “You look recovered. I mean,

you look as I remember you. That afternoon on the high scaffold…in

skirts. Impressive.” The fingers drummed again.

“Was I? I astonished myself climbing up there. And nearly killed

myself climbing down.”

“I remember. You wouldn’t let me help you.”

“I would have just pulled us both down to disaster.” Adriana

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laughed lightly, nervously. Her fingers also took on a life of their own,

brushing dust off the work table.

“Do you still have the medallion?”

“Yes, at home.” She fingered the place on her bodice where it

would have hung.

Raphaela glanced toward the door, as if awakening. “I’m sorry,

but my father will be here shortly, and he must not know about the

clothing. You understand.” She opened a narrow wardrobe behind the

studio door, took out a simple overdress, discarded the canvas apron,

and pulled the long painter’s smock over her head.

“Shall I leave?” Adriana asked.

“No. We can talk while I change.” Standing in her undergown, she

poured water from a pitcher into a wide bowl and splashed her face and

neck. Her honey-colored hair was still pinned up tightly at the back of

her head, the baggy trousers still concealed her hips, but her breasts,

visible through the damp shift, revealed the woman. Adriana averted

her eyes, but they were drawn back again, irresistibly.

Raphaela undid the cord holding up her trousers and let them drop

to the floor. The light underdress that had been drawn up inside the

trousers now fell to her feet. Smoothing the underskirt, she stepped

into the sleeveless blue overdress and pulled it up to her shoulders. She

reached back with one arm, struggling to fasten the buttons at the rear.

“I’m sorry. My arms are so very tired, I can hardly lift them. We

have to paint over our heads for so many hours. Could you…?”

Adriana hesitated. The last time she rendered such a service was

with Lucrezia, and that had ended in girlish intimacy.

“Of course.” Nervously, she threaded the buttons into their

eyelets, then retreated, clasping her hands as though to bring them back

in line.

Raphaela undid the mass of hair at the back of her head, brushed

out the plaster dust, and straightened the center part before twisting

the long amber strands into a knot. She fastened it in place with a

jeweled hairpin that briefly caught the light and sparkled, like a brilliant

thought.

The upraised arms showed a subtle musculature, hinting at virility.

Then with the efficiency of someone who did it frequently, she applied

rouge and tint to her lips, and put on tiny pearl earrings. Raphaela

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Bramante was complete, but Adriana had seen the boy Carlo and could

see him still.

“Why did you want to do it?” Adriana asked, taking up the sleeves

that hung over the back of a chair.

Raphaela’s eyebrows went up slightly as she pulled on the sleeves

and tied them at the shoulder. “Do what?”

“Paint for him. With all those men around.”

“You must take risks. When some extraordinary thing comes

along, you must seize it and not be afraid.”

“Some would call that wild talk from a woman.” Adriana

suppressed a smile.

“Wild?” Raphaela seemed to consider the word. “Michelangelo is

the one who’s wild, not me, though he mostly paints it into his figures.”

She leaned back against the windowsill and her lips fell open slightly

as she studied Adriana. “You convinced him to take me, didn’t you?

Why?”

Adriana hesitated. “I saw your work and thought it was good.”

“My work?”

“Yes, the frescos you did in the Palazzo Piccolomini. Hippolyta

and Europa. Perhaps it was my vanity, but I thought I saw something

of myself in them.”

“You think it was you I painted? Ravished by a bull?”

Adriana searched Raphaela’s expression for playfulness that

would have admitted to the game, that she had toyed with Adriana’s

image and had, in her painter’s mind, shamelessly undressed her.

Raphaela’s glance was penetrating, intensely interested, but

opaque. Adriana would have to be the one to suggest that something

intimate had gone on, and she lacked the courage.

“I don’t know. Perhaps I imagined I saw—”

The clatter of horses’ hooves interrupted them. Raphaela snatched

up the bag of brushes and rags and hurried toward the door.

“It’s best if he does not come in.”

Adriana followed her out to the street. The sky was a blazing

furnace of red, with horizontal streaks of scarlet and purple shot

through it. In the foreground Trajan’s Column jutted black and stark

against the rare brilliance. The setting sun cast a deep orange glow

across Raphaela’s face, as if she smoldered. She mounted and looked

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down with a certain expectancy in her expression as though waiting for

Adriana to finish her remark.

But the moment passed, and Donato Bramante nodded a polite

but short greeting that suggested they were in a hurry. “I wish you both

good evening” was all Adriana could think of saying. The Bramantes

were halfway down the street as Michelangelo arrived.

v

“I’m sorry if I stink of plaster.” Michelangelo dropped a bulky

sack onto the floor as they entered his studio. The dull wooden clatter

suggested it was paintbrushes. He stared at the pigment on his fingers,

distracted. “Have you come all the way into Rome just to see me?”

“You said I should visit you. That we had things to talk about.”

“Did I? I don’t remember.”

He fished several brushes from the cloth bag and placed them in a

ceramic basin. Clearly exhausted and muscle-sore, he fetched a pitcher

of water and poured it over the brushes. Tendrils of red, green, and

ochre curled out from them and blended into clouds of grayish brown.

Adriana had a sinking feeling of having misjudged his invitation

and tried to laugh. “You said we both had our secrets. There must have

been something on your mind for you to say that.”

“No, nothing that I recall. Well…” His tone became matter-of-

fact. “I did want to ask you about Domenico. Do you see him often,

I mean outside the chapel?” Not meeting her glance, he arranged the

brushes on a clean rag, wiping the shafts and pressing out the last of the

color from the bristles with another.

“Not since he was in my sickroom, the same time you were

there.”“Of course. But we both were so concerned about you that we

hardly exchanged any words. I thought it would be nice if…” He

hesitated.

“Nice if what?”

He continued to wipe his brushes, though they seemed to be dry.

“The Carnevale parade is in two days, and the Piccolomini will sponsor

a carro allegorico. Silvio finds you interesting, and Domenico seems

like a close friend. I thought I’d propose that the four of us go to see the

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parade. You know, you, me, and Domenico. None of us get out much. It

would do us all good to be a little wild for an evening.”

Adriana shook her head. “Unless things have changed, Domenico

will not be allowed out of the chapel school without permission from

the Master of Ceremonies, and Paris de Grassis will certainly refuse it.

He’s not going to let his most important soprano run through the streets

at Carnevale.”

Michelangelo seemed disappointed. “All right. But what about

you?”“You mean stand in the street with all the drunks? I don’t think

so.” “Silvio and I will protect you. Besides, knowing Silvio, I’m

sure his float will be something classical and arcane that no one will

understand except us. We’ll be the only ones applauding. Please say

you’ll come.”

“I don’t know, Michelo. It could be dangerous.”

“Silvio did save your life, after all, by bringing those doctors,” he

cajoled. “You owe him this.”

“Blackmailer.” She folded her arms. “You know, a lot of things

happen at Carnevale. It’s not safe for a lady to be in the streets then.”

Michelangelo pressed his right hand, which still held a paintbrush,

to his heart. “On my honor, Adriana. No man shall lay a hand on you

at Carnevale.”

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Xvii

feBruary 1509

Adriana stood with Michelangelo and Silvio Piccolomini in the

jostling crowd of revelers in the Piazza Venezia. Distrustful

of the hordes of anonymous and disguised people, she tucked her

marble medallion inside her dress. “I’ve never been in the streets at

Carnevale before,” she shouted over the noise. “And now I remember

why. It’s madness.”

“A little bit of madness will do us all good.” Michelangelo set a

Jupiter mask over his face and adjusted it on his imperfect nose. “As for

me, I can use the inspiration.”

“And you think staring at drunken men and women in costumes

will stir your artistic visions?” Silvio’s laugh was muffled by the silver

mask that covered his face. When he turned his head the myriad tiny

bells surrounding the mask tinkled softly.

Before Michelangelo could reply, the bells in the Campidoglio

Tower chimed and the long-awaited salvo of artillery thundered,

signaling the start of the Trionfo parade. The crowd surged toward the

street in the roiling colors of their costumes and banners.

The parade itself began with the continuous rattatat-rattatat of

marching drummers. At the front, ranks of gonfalonieri carried the

heraldic standards of each guild and confraternity. Mummers followed

with pennants, scattering confetti as they marched. Then the carri

commenced, the great parade of chariots and horse-drawn floats.

Religious scenes led the procession. Archangel Michael,

resplendent in golden breastplate and greaves, stood with buskined

foot on the devil’s chest. The crowd cheered. “The militant angel. Of

course,” Silvio muttered. “To remind us of the Church’s triumph over

Darkness.” He sounded amused.

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Other pious floats came after: the Annunciation with a kneeling

Angel Gabriel in multicolored wooden wings, and Noah’s ark, complete

with tethered animals.

The Virgin followed, extravagantly haloed in a sparkling headdress

and holding a real and slightly bewildered child to her breast. Four

cherubs knelt before them singing “Laudate Virginum,” though it could

scarcely be heard above the street noise. Silvio chuckled again.

“Enough of Rome’s Christian conscience. Now we’ll see what

Carnevale is really about!”

In fact, the noise of the crowd rose a degree in volume as an

enormous golden she-wolf, the ancient animal symbol of Rome, drew

past with her Romulus and Remus beneath her. Two dwarfs wrapped

ludicrously in golden swaddling pretended to suckle, to lewd shouting

from the crowd.

The next float bore Mt. Parnassus and the god Apollo, his curls

bubbling up from his head, his clamys draped over his arm, and his nine

muses in a circle at his feet.

Silvio grasped Michelangelo by the shoulder. “Look, there’s

the Piccolomini float.” A new tableau edged toward them. Five burly

women sat in a circle. Each one wore bright exotic dress, and each one

struck a pose with a great manuscript made of wood. The pages, more

than a meter square, were woven straw painted to look like vellum.

“How do you like it?”

Adriana leaned between them and watched as the float rolled past.

“What is it?”

“Don’t you recognize them? Those are the sibyls. From Virgil’s

Eclogue. It’s my best joke. The Church says the sibyls prophesied the

coming of Christ, but they did no such thing. They merely repeated

the same old stuff the ancients were always prophesying. No mention

of Christ. None. The Church simply laid claim to the sibyls, spreading

Christianity backward, as it were.”

“What’s the joke, then?” Adriana asked. “Your sibyls are not even

women. They’re men in dresses. Ugly, too. What’s the point?”

The tiny bells of Silvio’s mask tinkled as he shook his head. He

spoke slowly, against the background noise of the crowd. “The joke is

that the Church took pagans and dressed them as Christians. I’ve hired

men and dressed them as women. Don’t you take my jest?”

Laughter came from under the white Jupiter mask. “Silvio, there

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are not twenty people in all of Rome who read Virgil and will recognize

who these women are. And only three of us who ‘take your jest.’ It is

just as well, too, for if anyone heard you talking like that, you’d be

hauled off as a heretic.”

His words were drowned as a great roar broke out from all around

them and Michelangelo pointed with his thumb.

“Now there is someone that everyone recognizes!”

In gold armor, his shining helmet topped by an opulent mass of

red plumes, a Roman general swung his sword over his head. A phalanx

of centurions clanked behind him, dragging a string of captives.

“Caesar, of course. The Romans do love their emperor,” Silvio

commented dryly.

“Yes, but they love him even more.” Michelangelo looked toward

the final float, the feathered chariot of Bacchus, drawn by six men in

panther skins. A wreath of grape vine sat tilted on the god’s head, and

he held a goblet of wine. He took a long pull from the goblet, then

tossed the dregs in a wide arc into the air.

The crowd screamed approval, massing together behind the chariot

and closing up the avenue.

“Ah, that reminds me.” Michelangelo uncorked the wineskin he

had been carrying on his shoulder. He held it up high and tipped it,

letting a long stream pour into his mouth. Then he wiped the back of his

hand along his lips and offered the skin to Adriana.

“Here, this will wash the parade dust from your mouth.”

“Don’t be shy, Adriana,” Silvio said reassuringly. “Everyone’s

drinking, and it will be a long, dry wait until the banquet.” He took the

wineskin from Michelangelo and pressed it into her hand.

“All right. Just a little. To wash out the dust.” She swallowed the

strong Corsican wine and immediately felt warmth and a lightness of

head. She ought to have eaten beforehand. But no matter, there would

be a feast later, at the Palazzo Venezia. She handed the wineskin back

to Silvio, who held it up in salute.

“To Adriana, then.” He undid his mask, which tinkled in protest,

and hooked it onto his belt. After sweeping his fingers quickly through

his thick hair, he struck a pose and raised the skin to take a long drink.

“I see that the crowd cheered the old gods more than the saints.”

Silvio dabbed at his lips with a silk handkerchief and set his mask back

on.

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“The crowd cheers everything.” Adriana scoffed. “If the devil

himself had appeared on horseback they would have applauded him.”

Silvio laughed. “Now that you mention it, I’m sure I saw the devil

in the crowd, with his hand in a woman’s dress.”

Adriana laughed with him. “There will be thousands of that kind

of devils on the streets tonight.”

“No doubt.” Silvio took hold of her hand and pulled her along

toward the Piazza del Popolo. “All the demons are loose now. Who

knows what the night will bring?”

v

Donato Bramante coughed into his handkerchief and fell back

against a pile of pillows.

“This is the third time since summer that you’ve taken sick, Father.”

Raphaela turned away from the window and came to his bedside. “It’s

the dust you breathe knocking around all the city’s ruins. You’ve got to

stop doing that.” She handed him the cup of lemon and wine that stood

on his bed table, and he took a long drink. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You’re right, I know.” He sighed. “But there’s so much to do.”

“Well, you can’t work during Carnevale anyhow. They have the

ruins on the Palantine roped off. They wouldn’t let you cross the line.”

“They’re just the petty rules drawn by men for their own

convenience. I’d find a way to cross them.”

Raphaela smiled, thinking about her daily ruse working with

Michelangelo. “I’ll remember that you said that.”

He settled back on his pillows again. “A man must take a few

risks, or he will spend his whole life in shallow waters.”

“A woman too,” Raphaela added.

Her father glanced sideways at her and frowned. “I did not mean

that to be paternal advice, my dear. Risk does not suit a woman. You

already take too much risk living as a painter. I would much rather see

you married to one.”

“Oh, Father. We’ve had this discussion a hundred times. Stop

worrying. The only man I need to look after me is you. And besides, my

commissions have contributed to this household.”

“Yes, they have. You have clearly made a name for yourself.

But you would have been better going back to Padua when you were

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supposed to five years ago. You’d have children by now.” He thought

for a moment. “Wasn’t that Farnese boy hanging about? It wouldn’t

hurt for you to be married to a Farnese.”

“Livio? Oh, no. It would be awful to be shackled to a simpleton

like him. I can take care of myself just fine. I have plenty of

commissions.”

“That reminds me, how goes your work in Michelangelo’s studio?

Does he treat you well?”

“Well enough. He’s gruff sometimes, but he has a great vision for

the chapel and I want to share it.”

“Ah, yes. It must be fascinating for you to watch a painter like

that. He doesn’t like being called a painter, but it suits him better than

architecture. That’s why I recommended him to His Holiness.” He took

another sip of the honey drink and settled back again, drowsy.

Raphaela pulled his blanket higher over his chest and kissed him

on his cheek. “Yes, Father. I’m sure you’re right.”

When he began to doze, she crept from his chamber to her own.

Her window looked out onto the Via dei Coronaria, and as the

evening came on, she could hear the muffled sounds of the Carnevale

celebrants in the streets below.

Raphaela stared out at the gathering crowd, thoughts turning in

her head. Her father was frequently ill. She dreaded the thought of

losing him, but she had refused all opportunities to marry and start a

household of her own.

She knew her refusal set her apart from every other woman in

Rome and was grateful that her father did not try to force her, as so

many other fathers did, to choose between two prisons: the convent or

the marriage bed.

Raphaela loved portraiture. She was happiest playing with colors

and light to render a dull face beautiful and create a little fantasy around

it. When she painted a heroic setting, she did not so much tell a lie as

reveal a tiny bit of truth inside the sitter’s soul, a picture of their highest

aspiration.

How dreary it would be to produce a horde of children rather than

paintings. She detested the idea of being at the beck and call of a man,

and sexually at his disposal.

But the convent, she knew, was an even worse form of servitude.

Mumbling prayers into the air all day long between waiting on the

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tyranny of some mother superior who herself had been imprisoned a

generation before.

Strange, the way the Church managed to perpetuate the servile state

of women even as it pretended to elevate it. The flash of realization had

recently come to her like a bolt of lightning: the Church’s veneration

of the Virgin was not a glorification of women at all, but rather a gloss

over its disdain for them. That the holiest woman in heaven had kept

her virginity while producing a child was an insult to every female,

chaste or unchaste.

She could not understand why an untouched woman was so

revered. If virginity was deemed so precious, why were so many women

forcibly handed over to men to be deflowered as soon as they reached

puberty? The contradiction infuriated her. Women were thwarted from

all sides.

Of course a few lucky women turned the tables of power. Women

like Arabella Raimondi and Adriana Borgia, who used their sexuality

rather than let themselves fall victim to it. Like Europa, Adriana rode

the Borgia bull, and when Cesare was killed, she somehow got herself

back to Rome unscathed.

Raphaela was not sure if that sort of risk made Adriana a model

to women or a traitor. She only knew that the thought of her was

exciting.

A man must take a few risks, or he will spend his whole life in

shallow waters. A woman too. She turned the words over in her mind

and made a decision.

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Xviii

Rough hands seized the sleeping Domenico Raggi by the

hair and pressed the point of a knife between his shoulder

blades. In a jumble of arms and legs, he was jerked sideways from the

prostitute’s bed and thrown to the floor.

Now he could see them, four of the night watch. One held a lantern

and the others wielded knives.

“Filthy bung-boy,” one of them snarled over the cowering

prostitute, then slashed through his exposed throat. The helpless man

thrashed for a moment, his blood spurting through his fingers over the

bed linen and the wall, then gurgled helplessly and fell limp.

“Luca!” Domenico tried to rise from his crouch but was seized on

both sides by the guard. The lantern man said, “They didn’t tell us he’d

be bare-assed. Are we supposed to take him back like that? It’d teach

him a lesson, though, wouldn’t it?”

A mustached man, who seemed to be in charge, replied, “He’ll

get plenty of ‘lesson’ in jail. And we don’t want to draw attention.” He

snatched up the bundle of clothing that had been dropped over the only

chair in the simple room and flung it at Domenico. “Put this on, and

hurry up or we’ll drag your skinny naked ass through the streets.”

Trembling at the sight of the dying man, Domenico forced his legs

into the loose trousers that had been handed him. They were not even

his own. He barely had time to throw the shirt over himself when the

men shoved him through the doorway.

At the other end of the street, a few men lurched drunkenly toward

them, obviously celebrating Carnevale. They showed no interest in the

guard detachment loading its prisoner into a covered horse-drawn cart.

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Nor did the celebrants swarming along the Ponte Sant’ Angelo

with their candles seem to care about the cart that rumbled past them

into the Castel yard.

A guard opened the main portal to the prison at the Castel Sant’

Angelo and stepped aside to admit the night watch. “Carnevale night

and that’s all you got?”

The arriving officer ignored the remark. “Who’s in charge

tonight?”

“That’ll be me. Sergeant Bueti.” A burly red-haired man a head

taller than the porter emerged from the guard room. “What’s going on

here?”“Order of Cardinal Carafa,” the night officer said. Mustache man

pushed his prisoner forward. Domenico stumbled, then caught himself

with tied hands, on the stone wall. “Sodomy, we caught him in the act.

I guess the Cardinal will stop by sooner or later to make it formal. We

just checked the bawd houses and this is what we got.”

“They killed him,” Domenico said. “The man I was with. That’s

a crime, isn’t it?”

The night officer sucked air through his teeth. “Yeah, there was

another one but he, uh, resisted arrest.”

Sergeant Bueti held his lantern close to Domenico’s face. “He’s a

pretty one.”

“Yep, and now he’s yours. My job’s done, and me and my men are

going off duty. In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s Carnevale.” He set his

lantern on the floor and stepped back toward the portal.

Bueti blocked the door leading to the courtyard. “Far as I’m

concerned, tonight’s no different from any other night. Carnevale or no,

you got to enter him and the charge in the book. Else your Cardinal’s

going to arrive looking for him and he won’t find him, will he? My

son will take care of the prisoner.” He signaled a young man standing

farther down the stone corridor. “Claudio, take this man to a cell and

give him some water.”

Claudio lifted a large ring of keys from its hook on the wall. Tall

and wide-shouldered like his father, the boy was perhaps eighteen, still

young enough, or sheltered enough, to be unscarred. He wore his long

light brown hair tied back with a cord that hung down his back. When

he got close to Domenico he stopped and looked directly at him before

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SiStine HereSy

taking hold of the chain that hung from his wrist shackles. Awkwardly,

as if he had seldom had this responsibility, he picked up a lantern and

led Domenico down a wooden staircase, glancing back at him every

few minutes.

They descended to a second level, and then a third. Each time they

passed one of the doors, with its crosshatched bars, the odor of dank

straw, rotten and infected flesh, and human waste assaulted them.

Finally they stopped before an empty cell and Claudio entered

first, pulling Domenico in behind him. “I have to lock you to the wall,”

he mumbled, as though the task embarrassed him.

Domenico glanced around, dread rising in him. The stone walls

were streaked with black mold, and the straw on the floor was rancid.

He noted that the width of the cell allowed him to lie down and recalled

rumors that the lowest cells were too narrow even to allow that. Would

he want to lie down anyhow, with the rats? In the corner, a wooden

bucket stood empty, though the stench that came from it revealed its

purpose.

The young guard finally managed to turn his key in the rusted

padlock, fastening the chain to a ring near the floor. Domenico was

now anchored. At that moment he realized with a sudden nausea that he

would be there, sitting or lying, in pitch blackness. His heart pounded

with terror. “Please. Can you leave a candle? I have friends who will

pay you.”

“I don’t know if I can. But I’ll leave the lantern here on the floor

while I get you water. You’re allowed to have that.”

“Yes, thank you.” Domenico still stood, fearing to lower himself

onto the stone floor, as if that would signal an acceptance of the

terrible confinement. When the boy returned with a clay bowl of water,

Domenico begged, “Please, stay a little longer.”

Claudio hesitated and held the lantern up before his prisoner’s

face. “Your voice. I know you. I heard you sing once. At Whitsuntide,

in St. Peter’s. My God. How did this happen to you?”

“A sin, a foolishness. Please don’t make me recount it. A man has

already paid for it with his life.”

“Do your friends know you are here? Can anyone help you? The

choirmaster?”

Domenico shook his head. “Definitely not him. He follows orders

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of the Master of Ceremonies, the one who locks us up at night. Some of

us find ways to get out, but it’s dangerous—obviously.” Domenico stared

at the lantern for a moment. “But maybe…Michelangelo Buonarroti.”

“The sculptor? You know him?”

“Yes. He’s painting in the Sistine Chapel for the Pope. He’s not

really a friend. But he might have pity. I don’t know.”

“Do you want me to carry a message to him? I get off duty at ten.

If you know where he lives.”

“His workshop is in the Piazza Rusticucci, near Santa Caterina.

Here.” Domenico lifted his shackled hands to the cross at his throat.

“Take this to him. He should remember it. Tell him where I am and that

I beg him to help.”

“And if he’s not home?” The boy tugged at the short column of

hair behind his neck, as if trying to pull an answer from it.

Domenico closed his eyes for a moment, then asked weakly,

“What is the punishment for sodomy?”

“Ah, that differs according to the mercy of the judge. I’ve heard of

men executed for it, and others flogged. But a flogging in a place like

this…” He stopped. “Look, I have to lock the cell, but I’ll leave the

lantern here. It should last the night.”

He unclasped the cross from Domenico’s neck and slid it inside his

leather jerkin. When he withdrew his hand, he offered something. “Keep

this in exchange for the cross. At least for tonight, for comfort.”

It was a small rosary, with simple wooden beads. Domenico took

it silently.

“My name is Claudio,” the young guard said.

“Yes. I’m Domenico.” The guard’s kindness, the exchange of

names, it was a straw of hope. “God bless you for this,” he said with

quiet fervor.

“May God bless us both,” Claudio said, stooping through the

doorway.

Then Domenico was alone and the lock fell into place with a

heavy, heartbreaking clank. He stared into the unwavering flame of the

lantern and began the rosary, his own thoughts intruding. “Pater noster,

qui es in caelis… Teach me obedience. Sanctificetur nomen tuum.

Adveniat regnum tuum. Why do you wait so long to come? Panem

nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie. Not just bread . Teach me also

what sin is, Lord. Is it the act or the thought or the pleasure from it? Do

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SiStine HereSy

I offend Thee in the surrender of my flesh, which is in Thine image, or

already in the desires of my heart, which I cannot hide from Thee? And

if I obey Thee and Thy servants, will that free me from sin? But what if

the obedience is the sin?”

No answers came, no understanding, and so he drew the next bead

forward and began the Ave Maria, mumbling the words he had said so

many times he could pray while his mind wandered elsewhere. Where

was the soul of Luca now? Had a prostitute any hope of salvation?

And what about the thousands of Romans celebrating Carnevale in the

same way? Was every act of the flesh a sin, if it was not under God’s

sacrament? Was there no form of love or need, however intense, that

was exempt from the rule? Did not Christ also surround himself with

men who adored him, who left their wives for him?

Domenico sobbed into his clenched fists. Surely there was a place

for him in God’s kingdom. If he came out of this purgatory alive he

would ask the one man who seemed to wrestle with the same hard

questions: Michelangelo.

If.

• 113 •

JuStine Saracen

XiX

BaccHanalia

The horse race had just finished and Michelangelo’s wineskin

made its way around the group once again. Darkness had

fallen and Silvio fumbled for a moment in the leather purse at his belt,

then withdrew candles with little collars and handed them around. The

three stood together, waiting. Finally someone in the street shouted

“Moccoletti! Moccoletti!” and it came, spreading up the street from

the Piazza Venezia like a grass fire . One by one the candles were ignited

until each person held a flickering light. Moccoli flickered in windows,

atop walls and on balconies, until the entire Via del Corso seemed a

lava flow of flames.

The melee began. Strangers threw themselves at each other, each

trying to extinguish the other’s moccolo while keeping his own alight.

Masked figures in fantastical costumes chased each other and fell into

an embrace. Rome scintillated and gave itself over to licentiousness.

In the wild back-and-forth a bearded man staggered against Adriana.

He was gold-clad, crowned and bejeweled like a Babylonian king, and

exceedingly drunk.

“Scusi,” he mumbled with foul breath and lurched sideways

into an alley. He slouched against a wall for a moment and then slid

gracefully down to lie in drunken stupor. His polished metal crown tilted

precariously over his brow, reflecting the light of passing candles.

“I think someone wants our attention.” Silvio nodded toward a

pair of boys coming toward them. As the two neared, they opened their

doublets, exposing the swell of breasts. Women, Adriana realized with

a shock. Prostitutes dressed for the lawless appetites of Carnevale. One

of them pressed herself against Michelangelo, who flinched in apparent

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SiStine HereSy

distaste. Silvio, however, allowed the fraudulent boy to caress him from

chest to groin.

Adriana suddenly felt the other prostitute’s hand slide across her

and squeeze her breast. A woman’s voice whispered in her ear, “For

you, I cost nothing, Lady.” Shocked, she twisted away from the prurient

hand and staggered against Silvio, who caught her.

“By the saints, Adriana. You’ve had too much wine. We’ve

got to take you back to the Piazza Venezia to get some food in your

stomach.”

“Yes. Food would be good,” she breathed, and they retraced their

steps, passing the alley where the kingly reveler had fallen unconscious.

The old man half lay, half slouched against the wall, but his finery had

been stripped from him. He snored loudly, oblivious to everything.

Three young men stood over him; two of them argued over his cloak

and crown.

“Son of a whore!” the taller one shouted. “I saw him first.”

“Take your hands off it, you pig’s ass, or I’ll send you to hell,”

the other one snarled. The first man began to pummel the other, who

shielded his face with his forearms. The third man stood swaying

on uncertain legs and pointed at the unconscious victim, mumbling

something incoherent.

Silvio held his candle out in front of him, illuminating the scene.

“I know those boys. From the Farnese.”

At the word “Farnese,” the attacker paused and glanced over

toward the light. At that instant his victim sprang forward and pounded

his fist onto the distracted opponent’s chest. When he raised it again,

he held a bloody knife. The wounded man staggered back while his

attacker lurched into the crowded street. The third man careened after

him. Michelangelo caught the wounded man from behind as he

collapsed, and both went to their knees. Blood poured over the man’s

bulky chest and trickled over his knuckles as he covered the wound

with his own hand. He looked down at himself in astonishment and

then lost consciousness. Silvio knelt in front of the two and pressed a

wad of the crumpled shirt against the wound. The naked king, on whose

account the whole quarrel had arisen, still slept.

Onlookers gathered, forming a ring of candlelight, while someone

ran for guards in the Piazza del Popolo. At the periphery of the crowd,

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Adriana stood dumbfounded. Everyone she could see—the belligerents,

the spectators, and herself—wore masks, as if in a Carnevale tableau.

She seemed suspended in a world of myth where Cardinals and satyrs,

pagan gods and serpents celebrated bloody pandemonium.

At that moment a gloved hand encircled her wrist and yanked her

into the crowd.

His sheer momentum pulled her with him, in among the revelers.

She thought at first the assailant had returned, but then she recognized

the doublet of a masked boy she had seen at the end of the parade.

Excited, she let herself be dragged through the river of candle flames,

wondering how far he would take her.

Half a street away, he abruptly swung her into a church. Without

stopping, he pulled her along the outside aisle of the sanctuary into an

open confessional. He seized her hands and, pinning them against the

wall on both sides of her head, he covered her mouth with his. For a

brief moment she tasted wine on his lips, and then she wrenched her

head to the side. She tried to push him away but could not, for the angle

at which he held her gave him an advantage. And yet, he did not molest

her further. Instead he rested his head almost sorrowfully against her

neck, both of their chests heaving from the sprint. His breath warmed

her throat.

Curiously, he did not smell from the exertion, as had every other

man she passed close to on the street. He was beardless, and even the

way he leaned against her was gentle. The only discomfort she felt was

the hardness of her own medallion pressed between her breasts.

Something was strange about him, about his too-soft skin. Did

she know him? A new sort of dread assaulted her. Under the layers

of clothing between them, the thick doublet and the folds of her own

dress, she felt a slender body press against her. The hands that gripped

her by the wrists loosened and slid down until he held her gently by the

forearms still pressed against the wall, and his fingertips pulsed where

they touched her inner arm. In the quiet of the confessional she could

hear his breathing and her own.

Then the warm mouth covered hers again, not forcefully but with

ardor. With all fear gone and with wine in her blood she kissed him

back. She felt the slight touch of his teeth and inhaled his breath, tasted

wine on his tongue. Heat spread upward through her and ignited a

delicious awareness of her sex that she had not felt since Spain.

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At a loud crash behind them, her captor sprang away from her,

lurching from the confessional and running toward the altar. Three men

had burst through the doors of the sanctuary.

Adriana stepped in front of her friends. “Let him go. I’m unharmed.”

She took hold of Silvio’s arm. “It was only a Carnevale prank. Really,

it’s nothing. He’ll simply have a brave story to tell his friends.”

In a moment, the abductor was gone.

They stood in a little group in the nave between two lanterns, and

she pulled off the narrow silk mask she had worn the entire evening.

The others were already unmasked, sobered by the stabbing. Still

breathless, she focused finally on the third man who had come in.

Urbino, Michelangelo’s manservant. All three were somber.

“What’s going on?”

Urbino spoke. “There is something you must see, Madama.”

He held out a callused hand. At the center of his palm lay a small

Greek cross, with tiny rubies, like drops of jeweled blood at the four

ends.“Domenico’s cross?” Confused, Adriana looked in the direction

where her abductor had just fled, then back at Urbino. “Where did you

get this?”

“A young man from the Castel Sant’ Angelo brought it to the house

on behalf of Signor Raggi. It was good that Signor Buonarroti told me

he would eat at the Piazza Venezia. I was able to find him.”

“What does that mean? Is Domenico all right?”

Michelangelo laid his hand gently on her arm. “Adriana, Domenico

has been arrested.”

“Arrested? When?” Adriana stammered. “For what crime?”

“It was Carafa. God’s hound. He sent out men to patrol the streets

for prostitutes. Domenico was found with one in the Trastevere.”

“That’s impossible. He could not…could he?”

“I assure you, many can,” Silvio interjected. “If the surgeon cuts

skillfully. Women who know from experience have told me this.”

“Where is he?” she asked weakly, dropping down on a bench.

“In the prison at Castel Sant’ Angelo, Signora. They brought him

just a few hours ago, Urbino said.”

Michelangelo sat down next to her. “Do you have money? If we

can get to him before Carafa does, he has a chance.”

“Money?” She patted the silk purse that hung at her waist. “Do

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you think that will help? Here, take it all.” Fumbling, she untied the

coin purse and pressed it into his hand.

“Consorting with prostitutes is not a crime, especially not at

Carnevale.” Silvio tried to sound reassuring. “It is only an offense

because he belongs to the Church and has taken vows. I’ll talk to my

father. He still has friends at the Vatican who can help. But you must go

to Sant’ Angelo immediately, before he’s formally charged.”

Michelangelo hefted the coin purse, measuring its weight. “If

justice can’t save him, let’s see what avarice will do.”

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XX

Adriana was well acquainted with the Castel Sant’ Angelo, a vast

stone silo surrounded by an exterior wall and four bastions.

It had been a mausoleum, a fortress, and a wartime papal residence.

The elegant apartments the Borgia Pope had made in the middle of it

all surmounted a dungeon, the stuff of nightmares. Tonight, against the

star-filled sky, the Castel was black and terrifying, the crenellations on

its battlements like a row of teeth. She was nauseous with fear.

“Will they even open the door to us?”

“I know a sergeant with the prison guard. He was a stonecutter

once in the quarries at Carrara until the blasting powder took away half

of his foot. He should remember me.”

Michelangelo hammered on the heavy oaken door. A porter opened

it, pale under a layer of grime. He peered at them through bloodshot

eyes, uncertain of their rank.

“I look for Sergeant Bueti. Bruno Bueti. Tell him Michelangelo,

who owes him money, is here to pay him.”

Muttering, the porter closed the door again and they waited in

silence. Bats fluttered overhead and something small scurried along the

bottom of the wall.

Finally the oak slab swung open. A giant of a man stood in

the doorway and squinted out at them, his mottled face frowning in

consternation. “Who claims to be…oh! Signore. It is you. What are

you doing here?”

Michelangelo interrupted him. “Signor Bueti. I’ve looked for you

everywhere. Here, I am a man of honor and I owe you this for the

special block of marble that you cut for me.” He pressed several coins

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into the man’s right hand. The other guard, still behind him, tried to

peer past his shoulder at the transaction.

“Uhh…all right.” The sergeant’s hand closed around the coins. “Is

that it, then?”

“No, my friend. I have another offer to make. Can we talk

inside?”

“Offer? Yes…all right.” The two of them stepped into the prison

corridor. The other soldier disappeared into a side room. Rough male

laughter wafted through the briefly open doorway.

Michelangelo came quickly to the point. “You have a prisoner,

Domenico Raggi, arrested just hours ago. We’d like to see him and will

pay for the privilege.”

“No need for that, Signore. You’ve already paid.” Bueti took up

a lantern, glancing sideways at Michelangelo. “Because I never cut a

special block of marble for you. Come on. I’ll take you down to the

cells myself.”

The giant led them down a wooden staircase into a narrow corridor,

rocking noticeably each time his weight shifted onto the mutilated

foot. His lantern brought a train of light into the dismal passageway.

Gargoyle shadows danced diagonally alongside them as they walked.

Adriana was assaulted by the stench and held her handkerchief to her

mouth. She could not see into the tiny cells, which she knew were too

low for a man to stand up and too narrow for him to lie down, but the

moans that came from some of them were worse than the sight of the

prisoner himself.

With her other hand she held her skirts away from the stone walls,

grimy with soot from the smoke of the lanterns at both ends of the

corridors.

The taciturn sergeant led them ever deeper through the labyrinth,

each level more suffocating. “You can’t stay long. Five minutes, or

you’ll get me in trouble.” He unhooked an iron key from his belt and

opened a narrow wooden door.

The cell, mercifully, was larger than most, with room for them to

enter. A lantern already there shone on a man huddled on the straw of

the stone floor, one hand clutching a rosary. Adriana knelt down next

to him and touched his shoulder. “Domenico, dear. Are you all right?

Have they hurt you?”

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Domenico blinked for a moment, then took hold of her arm. “Lady

Adriana. Oh, my prayers have been answered. No, I’m not hurt.”

Michelangelo sat down across from him on the straw and placed

the lantern between them. “We must find out if you’ve been charged by

the magistrate. If not, we’ll try to get you out.”

He took hold of Michelangelo’s hand. “But I’m guilty, Signore.

They know it.”

“That’s between you and God, Domenico. If you—” Michelangelo

stopped, sudden dread apparent in Domenico’s face, and looked behind

him. The gaunt form of Gian Pietro Carafa stood in the doorway. Lit from

the lantern on the floor, his bony face was a death’s head. Wordlessly,

he slid his glance from side to side across all three of them.

Domenico pressed his hands together. The rosary still dangled

from the right hand. “Father, these are my friends who counsel me to

repent before God.”

The Dominican ran his hand down his white robe to his crucifix.

“I know who they are. You, Madama, are one of the Borgia fornicators.

And you, Signore, are His Holiness’s painter who has overstepped his

authority here.”

Michelangelo struggled to stand up in the crowded cell. “Eminence

is correct. But this boy is also the Pope’s servant. If I can bring him

back chastened, surely His Holiness will be pleased. Besides, to lie

with a woman at Carnevale is not a mortal sin.”

Carafa exhaled slowly and tilted his gaunt head. “He polluted

himself with a man.”

Michelangelo dropped his eyes for perhaps too long a moment. “It

does not matter, as long as he is contrite, Eminence. God has mercy on

those who struggle with themselves.”

“Your knowledge of Scripture is faulty.” The Dominican raised a

bony index finger. “‘Whosoever shall commit this abomination shall be

cut off from among the people and cast into the fire.’” He let the word

“fire” hang in the air for a long moment. Then he added, “However,”

and paused again to make sure he had everyone’s full attention. “His

Holiness takes a personal interest in his chapel singer, and of course

we reported the arrest to him immediately.” Carafa spoke directly to

the prisoner. “Out of his inexhaustible mercy, he has decided to pardon

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you. Therefore, the Holy Office will look with clemency on the sinner

this one time. But you are confined to the chapel for a month. Any

hint of a violation will result in the direst consequences.” The Cardinal

paused again, to let his words have their effect before he unlocked the

shackles around Domenico’s hands.

“As for you, Signora,” he turned his tight face toward Adriana.

“The Borgia have been purged from the Vatican, and Providence has

punished the crimes of Alexander’s children. But be warned. The

Church turns its righteous eyes upon the sinner and the sodomite, and

the fire shall consume them.” He pulled his black cloak around him

with a gesture of finality and marched back along the hellish corridor.

The cell door behind him remained open.

“I think you are free now.” Michelangelo pulled Domenico up to

his feet. “Let’s get out of here before there is any doubt about that.”

Domenico rubbed his chafed wrists. “Signore, there was a guard,

Claudio, who showed me a great kindness. It was he who brought the

message to your house. Please, can you grant him some reward? I’ll

find a way to repay you.”

As they came out of the cell, the sergeant stood in the corridor.

Michelangelo addressed him. “Signor Bueti, you have a soldier named

Claudio who sent the message to me, and we would like to thank him.

Is he on duty?”

The big man looked puzzled. “Claudio is my son. He’s been off

duty since ten, but he usually returns to accompany me home. It’s

possible he’s in the common room with the others. They’ll be washing

off the smell of the prison.”

The sergeant led them up the several wooden staircases to

the guardroom next to the portal. Without comment, he ushered

Michelangelo inside, leaving the door behind him slightly ajar. Through

the opening Adriana could see some half-dozen men sitting on benches

in various states of undress. They washed from basins of water on the

floor and laughed raucously at some remark. Close to the door, a young

man bent his right arm awkwardly backward to scrub his lower back.

“Claudio,” the sergeant said. The man near the door twisted

around awkwardly, threw his drying cloth over his shoulder, and leaned

back on his arm. Extraordinarily, the face atop the muscular body was

almost feminine and completely at odds with the brutal surroundings.

The sergeant stopped in front of him.

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“That’s him,” Domenico said from the corridor. “The man who

helped me.”

Michelangelo touched the naked shoulder lightly. “For your

kindness,” he said simply, and handed the man a silver coin.

The young soldier looked at the coin in his hand and then up at

his benefactor. “You’re Michelangelo, who is painting in the Pope’s

chapel?”

Michelangelo nodded and the guardsman continued. “We’re not

all beasts and torturers down here, sir. Some of us dream of being in the

palace guard in a pretty uniform.”

The gruff sergeant’s voice interrupted his son. “Signor Buonarroti

is not interested in our dreams, Claudio.” He drew Michelangelo toward

the doorway, terminating the meeting. “Signore, it’s better you should

take your friend away before the morning guard arrives. You’ll just

have to explain everything to them.”

“I’m grateful to you both, Signor Bueti. If there is ever something

I can do…” Michelangelo pulled the door behind him, but a hand drew

it back again and a voice said behind him, “Signore, if you please, I’m

a good Christian. Paint me in heaven.” A second, rougher voice added,

“Paint us all in heaven!” The laughter came again.

Michelangelo said nothing as he threw his weight against the

prison portal and guided the shaken Domenico to freedom.

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XXi

They walked awhile in the pre-dawn light without speaking,

for the air held a dozen questions and all of them were

dangerous.

Finally Adriana broke the silence. “I just don’t understand. Why

did you do it?”

Domenico was slow to reply. Then he said with obvious frustration,

“The night watch—they butchered the man I was with, like a dog.”

“That does not answer the lady’s question,” Michelangelo said.

“I’m sorry, Lady Adriana.” Domenico took a breath. “I suppose it

was just loneliness.”

Michelangelo became conciliatory. “We’re all lonely. God has

given you this fate as He has given a fate to me and to Lady Adriana.

You have His precious gift in your throat, but it comes with a price.”

“A price? Forgive me, Signore, but you have little appreciation

of the price I’ve paid. I am a servant of the Church, not by choice but

because of a brutal transaction that was forced on me as a child. They

say I owe them my life in return, but it’s a debt I never did contract and

cannot answer.”

“These are not the words of a man who is contrite,” Michelangelo

said coolly.

“I don’t know what I am. My head is full of locusts.” Domenico

rubbed his forehead.

Adriana put her arm around him. “You’ll have time to sort things

out during your confinement, and it can’t be so terrible being in the

chapel.”

“Do you think locking me in the Vatican will change anything?”

His voice was suddenly plaintive. “You don’t know.”

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They came to the alley that led to the basement of the Sistine

Chapel. Outside the open doorway, Paris de Grassis stood with his

hands on his hips. The Master of Ceremonies was obviously furious,

and Adriana did not envy Domenico the berating he would have to

endure. She kissed him again and the softness of his face reminded

her suddenly of another soft cheek that night. Was it the same night,

only a few hours before? She felt a small guilt-ridden pleasure at the

memory.

Domenico shook hands with Michelangelo. “Pray that the Virgin

keeps us all safe. Good-bye,” he said, and walked like a condemned

man toward the Master of Ceremonies.

As they made their way back to Adriana’s lodging, Michelangelo

was hunched over with weariness. “Sin is always close by, isn’t it,

always breathing in your ear. A man was murdered tonight in front of

us for a little bit of greed, and another was killed for…” He seemed to

search for the right word. “For unpermitted pleasure.”

“Why is that particular pleasure unpermitted, I wonder?” she

remarked.

“A strange question, but speaking of that, just what did you do

with that masked boy last night, anyhow?”

“Nothing. A simple embrace. I don’t want to talk about it.

Carnevale is over and we’ve seen how temptations lead to disaster. I

wish to live within the law.”

“I do too,” Michelangelo grumbled. “And I can tell you that if

you want to keep temptation away, you must exhaust yourself with

occupation. Build something or tear something down. Myself, I cut

stones and spread plaster. After a day of that, there’s no time for anything

but sleep. And if you should fall nonetheless, seek forgiveness.”

“In the confessional?” She thought again of a mouth that tasted of

wine. “No, I don’t think so.”

v

Later in the morning Adriana’s coach pulled up to the Villa Borgia.

Ever alert, Jacopo stood waiting even before the horses had stopped. “Is

My Lady well?” He offered his hand.

“I’m fine. How goes the household?” She gathered the folds of her

skirt and let herself be helped to the ground.

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Jacopo did not reply at once, but as they walked along the path to

the entrance he said gently, “I don’t wish to alarm you, My Lady, but

the lower aqueduct collapsed yesterday afternoon. We brought water by

bucket for the house and the garden this morning.”

“That too,” she said softly. She walked with the housemaster

through the garden and noticed at once how quiet it was. With the

fountain stilled, she could hear only the buzzing of bees and the

crunching of gravel under their feet. They followed the course of the

clay pipeline to the beginning of the stone aqueduct. Holding the bottom

of her skirt over her arm, she bent over the sodden ground. The damage

was grave. Not only had the concrete juncture with the villa pipeline

disintegrated, but the remaining masonry had also crumbled. A large

stone was rolled up against the cavity and straw packed around it, but

water still trickled through.

“‘Exhaust yourself,’” she muttered. “‘Build something, or tear it

down.’ All right, Michelo, we’ll try it your way,” she said to no one in

particular and clambered down the hill.

v

The sun was set by the time she had fully inspected the problem,

unpacked, and eaten her supper. She stared out the window onto the

villa grounds and could hear the gardeners talking as they stopped work

for the day. The sky was cobalt, and against the murky backdrop of

the garden, Carnevale images still haunted her. A raucous parade and

a river of flames, forbidden fondling, the dungeons of the Church, and

the memory—which seemed never to fade—of the blood on her own

hands. Now she had found the perfect penance.

She lit another taper and set out pen and paper. She listed the

craftsmen she would hire—masons, hydraulic engineer, garden

sculptor—then sketched out the whole fountain complex together with

its water source. At the foot of the garden, she drew a curving colonnade

and before it a rectangular pool. In the center of the pool, there would

be a statue of the Madonna.

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XXii

January 1510

Much had been accomplished in the many months since

Carnevale, and Adriana was satisfied. Tilting her straw hat

to shade her face, she walked along the ditch that held the new pipeline.

Clever, she thought, the way the ceramic pipes were designed. Each

pipe length was identical to the others, yet by their sameness they could

be coupled. Was there some mathematical “principle of sameness”?

She smiled inwardly. Silvio would know. He probably had an entire

Greek manuscript about it.

She rubbed sore muscles in her neck. It was a good kind of

soreness, the kind that could be assuaged by a bath and a good sleep.

Michelangelo was almost right. Hard physical labor did take her mind

from forbidden reveries. And though the nightmares persisted, of

Battista and of her father, they were fewer.

“Madonna!” Jacopo hurried toward her. “A letter, Signora.” He

drew a fold of cream-colored paper from inside the bib of his apron.

“From Ferrara,” he added breathlessly.

Anxious, Adriana noted the Este coat of arms on the wax seal.

She unfolded the large single page and recognized at once the florid

and highly slanted script of her sister-in-law. Spoiled, sweet-fingered

Lucrezia. As she perused the letter, dread gave way to relief. “The Duke

and Duchess of Ferrara will visit us, Jacopo, but unfortunately they’ve

given us little notice. They arrive in three days. Can we prepare for

them in time, do you think?”

The alarm in his face showed his rapid assessment of the burdens

of hosting nobility. “Do they travel with any of their court?”

“It’s not so bad as that. It appears the Duke has business with His

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Holiness. He will deposit his wife here for a few nights while he attends

the Pope in Rome. I haven’t seen my sister-in-law in years. Do you

suppose we can have the pipeline to the house and the bath working

by then?”

“Only a bath and not a banquet, Madama?” He broke into a rare

smile. “It will be done tomorrow.”

v

Lucrezia Borgia, Duchess of Ferrara, shifted her position for the

hundredth time, trying to bring some sensation back to her buttocks.

Two days in a rumbling coach, even in a princely one, could benumb

anyone’s derriere. The trip had been organized so precipitously that she

had not even been allowed to bring a lady-in-waiting. She sighed in

resignation and began to play with her hair, curling it around her finger.

There was no point in complaining to her husband, who rode ahead

of the coach, since he had covered the same distance sitting rigid on a

horse’s saddle.

They were nearing the Via Tiburtina, though, and she recognized

the countryside. Only a couple more hours and they could rest. It

would be lovely to see Adriana again. They’d always had so much fun

together, the two of them, in their Vatican days. She would not have

called it an age of innocence. Not with all the killings and betrayals.

She had not even always felt safe, though as daughter to the Pope and

sister to Cesare Borgia, she should have.

But Alexander had been an attentive and responsive father, had

groomed and pampered her, if only to increase her value in marriage.

That was the way of things. Even given her fear of Cesare’s wrath, and

the sorrow of being assigned to husbands and then forced to divorce

them or see them murdered, she’d had the unmistakable pleasure of

being at the top of things.

Adriana had understood the game too. Her own father, Don Pedro

Falcon, had certainly calculated the value of her marriage to Juan

Borgia. The only thing that shocked Lucrezia was the ruthlessness with

which any miscalculations were “corrected.” In Adriana’s case, her

husband Juan was murdered, and both she and Lucrezia knew, though

they never spoke of it, that Cesare was probably the cause.

Lucrezia had also seen her husband, the Duke of Bisceglie,

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murdered in his bed. Again, the assailants were unknown but suspected

to be acting for Cesare. That too was the way of things, and for the

Borgias, such acts were not even a crime. She had learned from earliest

childhood that the laws of God and state applied only to common men.

The papal family enjoyed a mantle of divine protection, a state of grace

that exempted them from sin.

Lucrezia felt she had held up well as the Borgia fortunes declined.

She wondered if Adriana had over the last six years. Was she still as

beautiful and exotic as at the Vatican? Lucrezia had sometimes been a

bit jealous, but only a little. Adriana was always affectionate to her and

obedient to Alexander, and there was never a hint of competition from

her. In fact, she often helped Lucrezia with her “secret,” the regular

soaking of her hair in a special lemon wash to keep it blond. She stroked

it again, grasping a thick swath and drawing her hand luxuriously along

the length of it.

It was a happy day when Lucrezia realized that Cesare had chosen

Adriana as his mistress, for that meant that even after the death of

Juan, she would stay in the family. But she could not help but wonder

what went on between the two lovers. It titillated her to imagine her

brother conquering Adriana, riding her to the height of ecstasy. Did she

moan and cry out? She would surely look appetizing, lying with her

legs spread, inviting him in. Lucrezia felt a slight tingle, recalling their

girlish wrestling in her chamber that once or twice ended in sudden

sexual play.

Lucrezia shrugged inwardly. Well, she herself was a Duchess

now, and well loved in Ferrara. She could have any man she wanted, as

long as she concealed her infidelity from the Duke. She drew back the

curtain and smiled up at the captain of the guard who rode alongside the

coach. He was new and more amusing than the last.

She looked forward to exchanging news with her sister-in-law.

There were new things in the air, aside from the tedious battles between

France and Venice and Rome, a shift in the political and artistic winds.

She welcomed the new poetry and art in her court, but she had complete

contempt for the Church “reform.” It was all political machination, and

the “reformers” just invented a new set of rules to favor themselves.

The sky had been overcast for most of the morning, but as they

turned onto the Via Tiburtina, the clouds opened up and sunlight poured

down over the winter landscape, welcoming her.

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v

Fresh from his victory in the Battle of Polesella and preceded by

six advanced guards, Alfonso d’Este, Duke of Ferrara, rode on a black

warhorse in front of the coach bearing his wife. Behind the coach a

detachment of ten more liveried guards and a standard bearer followed

in formation.

Adriana hurried to meet her guests. At the front of the villa, the

Duke dismounted and stood beside the coach. He was a coarse-looking

man, with a mane of black hair that curved around his face and joined

with his beard. His doublet of fluted green brocade was gathered in a

wide belt embossed at intervals with gold eagles. Ah, yes, she thought,

the Este eagles. The bulky sack tied to the back of his saddle suggested

armor, and if it was, he had obviously chosen comfort over safety during

the two-day journey on horseback.

“Your Grace.” Adriana hinted at a curtsey. “It is an honor and a

pleasure to welcome you. Lunch is prepared. Will you rest awhile and

take a meal before continuing to Rome?”

The Duke’s intelligent brown eyes swept over her with only a hint

of disapproval. “I thank you for your kindness, Lady Borgia. But I have

urgent business in Rome and cannot delay. My wife, however, is most

anxious to accept your hospitality.”

Lucrezia emerged, her full satin skirts bursting out like pale blue

viscera from the coach interior. The guard captain assisted her down.

Narrow-hipped and with a well-trimmed beard, he had the courtier’s

shallow virility. Lucrezia let go of his hand, but her lingering glance

toward him told all.

“Sister!” Lucrezia ran past her husband into Adriana’s arms. “How

beautiful you are, after all these years.”

“I see that my wife is content and in good hands,” the Duke said.

“With your permission, Lady Borgia.” He gave a barely perceptible

bow and remounted his horse.

At his signal, the driver turned the Duchess’s ornate coach around

to the villa stables, while Alfonso d’Este and his sixteen guards rode

off toward Rome.

Nonplussed, Adriana said, “Not very chatty, is he?”

Lucrezia linked arms with her. “You have to get used to him.”

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Adriana led her to a table in the garden where a meal was laid

out. “Look, I have all the things you like. Venison, goose, olives, even

almond cakes.” She poured wine into tall silver cups.

Lucrezia took a long gulp, then wiped her lips with a delicate

fingertip. “How wonderful to finally be on the ground, after days in

that bone-rattling box. But I won’t complain. It took all my charm to

convince him to bring me along at all.”

Adriana filled her goblet again. “What business does the Duke

have with His Holiness? What’s so urgent?”

“It’s the Venetians again. His Holiness was extremely impressed

with Alfonso’s command of the papal forces against them last year, but

now they are in disagreement about something. Salt, I think. I am not

privy to all Alfonso’s plans, but I suspect he is looking for concessions

from Julius in exchange for continued support.”

“Alfonso dares to negotiate that now, with the Vatican so

powerful?”

“Power comes and goes,” Lucrezia mused, stroking her hair.

“The Borgias were once the most powerful family in Italy, but when

Alexander died, that disappeared. Poof.” She popped an olive into her

mouth as a sort of consolation and continued.

“Julius appears strong now. He has his Swiss army and his

Spaniards. But Alfonso also has an army, and the best cannons in

Christendom. He’s a hard man to refuse these days, even for a Pope.”

She spat out the olive seed.

“Rather like Cesare?” Adriana offered more olives, amused.

“Yes, Alfonso does remind me of my brother, sometimes. But he’s

less reckless, so I expect he’ll live longer.”

“Do you love him?”

“Love? Oh, no. Love is the cruelest error. But I’m satisfied. A

woman must belong to someone, and besides,” the Duchess curled a

strand of blond hair around her finger, “I have my diversions.”

“Yes, I noticed.” Adriana refilled her guest’s wineglass from the

ewer.“How is your little choir boy? Domenico, wasn’t it?”

“Domenico is not so little. But he’s well. He attended me when I

was sick last winter. For now he keeps to his duties.”

“And your ill-tempered Florentine?”

“Michelangelo? You do him an injustice. He’s undertaken to paint

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the Pope’s chapel, though Julius, as I understand it, abuses him greatly.

He has an amiable side too, in spite of his reputation. He invited me to

watch the Carnevale parade with him and Silvio Piccolomini.”

“Carnevale?” Lucrezia looked astonished. “You were in the

streets, with the mob?”

“Yes. It started cheerfully enough but then things got out of hand.

A man was stabbed to death right in front of us. And then I was…

accosted.”

“Accosted?” Lucrezia’s eyes twinkled. “That sounds intriguing.”

“It was nothing, really. Just a stolen kiss.”

Lucrezia cupped her cheek with her hand. “If a stolen kiss makes

your face all red like that, I think you haven’t been getting ‘accosted’

nearly enough since Cesare died.”

Adriana shook her head. “It is not that simple. These days I have

no opportunities.” She paused, puzzled by her own disinclination. “Or

even desire.”

Lucrezia wobbled her glass in reproach. “You’re still young,

Adriana. You need another man in your life, to keep you satisfied. Why

don’t you marry that Piccolomini fellow?”

“Silvio? Curious that you should mention him. I had considered

it. Vaguely.”

“Consider it precisely. He’s handsome, has a well-formed leg, and

other parts too, if I recall correctly. Besides, you shouldn’t be alone. A

woman must marry.”

“I’m not sure if I want another husband.”

Lucrezia set her empty goblet on the table with an unsteady hand.

“Well, I know what I want right now, and that’s a bath.”

“You’re lucky you arrived today and not a few months ago,”

Adriana said, rising to take her arm and guide her. At least one of them

could walk in a straight line. “I still have no fountain, but my men

worked day and night to finish the bath for you. I’ll tell Jacopo to light

the fire.”

v

Finally the heat from the caldera had spread under the stone floor

and up through the vents behind the walls, so that both the water in

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the marble pool and the air in the room itself were pleasantly warm.

Adriana dropped two large bath cloths on a bench near the pool. Behind

her, Lucrezia began to disrobe with the same aplomb she’d had in

childhood. She undid the laces of her bodice, dropped her wide skirts,

and tugged off her underdress and shift. Turning slightly away, Adriana

undressed as well.

Without comment, they both stepped nude into the bath and sat

down so that the water rose chest high. Adriana opened the bronze tap

behind her and steaming water flowed into the pool.

“Ah.” Lucrezia laid her head back and squeezed water through

handfuls of dark blond hair. The luxuriant backward curve brought her

breasts up and outward, breasts that were no longer firm and maidenly,

but still provocative. Catching sight of Adriana’s glance she sat up and

pushed a playful wave toward her. “I know what you’re thinking, that

I’ve lost my figure, while you’re still trim as a girl.” She affected a

slight pout.

“Not at all,” Adriana lied. “You are as beautiful as when you ran

through the Papal Palace and every man in Rome was in love with you.

Only now you have your own court. Motherhood becomes you, and so

does a duchy,” she added, veering off the subject of the body.

Lucrezia’s fears were well founded. She was not yet thirty, but she

looked older. Her soft face hinted at weariness and, without the corset

of her dress, she had a paunch from the several children she had borne.

“You mean it?” she asked girlishly. “It’s so difficult, you know, after

motherhood and a certain age. But a woman must remain attractive. It’s

our form of power, after all.”

Adriana settled back against the pool wall, sinking as deeply

as possible into the delicious warmth. “All things turn on power,

don’t they? And that’s what women must do when they want it. Be

seductive.”

“Seductiveness has served us both well. You have the Villa Borgia

and I have my duchy.” Lucrezia ran her fingers through her wet hair.

“We have nothing to apologize for either, because when we have power

over men, we improve them.”

Adriana was skeptical. “Seductress and saint. That’s what

Michelangelo said about women. They all want us to be like the

Madonna, but we always turn out to be like Eve. But you know? I have

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a lot of sympathy with Eve.” She smiled. “Can’t you just imagine her

scolding him? ‘Adam, get some sense. This is the tree of knowledge.

Eat, for God’s sake.’”

Lucrezia giggled, then pressed her fingertips on her lips. “Be

careful, Sister. There are priests who don’t care for talk like that.”

“Yes, I suppose there are. But I can tell you I’m fed up with priests.

I’m fed up with it all.”

Lucrezia flicked droplets of water at her. “Listen to you! Have

you fallen under the spell of the new sciences? Very dangerous, you

know.”

“New sciences? What are you talking about?”

“I mean artists, scholars, talking of earthly beauty as a sign of God.

If such ideas have spread to Ferrara, they’re surely in Rome. People are

studying the Greeks and reading Saracen scholars instead of scripture.

Those who glorify the body and nature and paganism are charming

entertainment at court, but they lead the weak to wildness of the mind

and in the end to heresy.”

Adriana splashed water at her. “Wildness of the mind? You’ve

drunk too much of my wine.” She thought for a moment. “Do you

remember Raphaela Bramante? The woman who helped us get out of

the Pope’s chapel after Alexander’s funeral?”

Lucrezia shrugged. “The painter.”

“Yes, the portraitist. In fact she also spoke once of ‘wildness’ of

the mind. Do you know she painted me from memory, after you and I

fled Rome? I saw the painting in the Piccolomini library.”

“How do you know it was you?”

“Aside from the resemblance, which even Silvio remarked on, she

painted the dress I wore at the funeral. It was blue with a black ribbon

down the front, remember? She copied it exactly, but painted it torn

open, showing me half-naked underneath. I was supposed to be Europa,

abducted by Zeus as a bull. I think that might qualify her as part of that

worldliness in the air that the priests don’t like. Imagine, a woman who

paints lewd pagan scenes. If that isn’t wild, I don’t know what is.”

“She had better be careful. The Holy Office will only stand for

so much.” Lucrezia’s words slurred. Abruptly she lost interest in the

intellectual subject and slid closer to Adriana. “We used to have so

much fun together. Remember being young in the Papal Palace?”

Adriana felt the cool damp hair, the heavy head resting on her

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shoulder. Warm breath, smelling of wine, wafted against her throat.

The soft flesh that pressed against her arm, she realized, was Lucrezia’s

breast. She recalled girlish fondling and Carnevale prostitutes, and a

sweet tightness formed between her legs.

She pushed the other woman gently from her. “Lucrezia, dear.

You better get out of this bath before you become a prune. Why don’t

you rest a little in your room? I’ll send Maria up later to fetch you for

dinner.”

“You’re right. Shouldn’t have drunk so much. Sleep. I need a little

sleep. Do you mind terribly?” Lucrezia stood up, water streaming down

her pale body. Dreamily indifferent, as though in her own chamber, she

climbed slowly out of the bath and stood unashamed by the pool. She

dried herself and then wrapped her long hair in the bath cloth. Below

her slightly swollen belly, the triangle of curly light brown hair still

held beads of water.

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.”

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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

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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.”

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“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.

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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.”

v

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

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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

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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.

v

“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

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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.”

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“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.”

v

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 last 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.

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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.

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.

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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.”

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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

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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.”

v

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

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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. She 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.

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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

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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.”

v

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

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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

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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

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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?”

Michelangelo veered away from the disagreement. “If His

Holiness paid his toiling servant, he would find me more obedient. But

I have not been remunerated in months for the wages of my assistants,

or even for my materials. These days I’m safe from robbers because I

haven’t got a penny.”

Donato Bramante offered unexpected support. “I too am pressed

for funds, yet the Holy Father always cites financial deficits of his

own.”“The Holy See is aware of the problem,” Giovanni de’ Medici

replied. “I have suggested to His Holiness that he expand the Church’s

income through utilizing the very commodity to which he has sole

access. God’s Grace.”

“You refer to indulgences, Eminence?” Raphaela studied the

grape she had just bitten into, as if the fruit were more important than

her remark.

“Yes, of course, Signorina. That is exactly what I mean. The

plenitude of grace granted by God through the throne of Peter.”

Raphaela persisted, her head tilted back and her lips parted slightly,

as they did when she asked difficult, challenging questions. “The

forgiveness of God and the guarantee of heaven. These are normally

granted for Christian sacrifice or suffering and for charitable acts—not

as a source of revenue. Isn’t that so, Eminence?” She pressed the other

half of the grape in her mouth.

Donato Bramante cleared his throat.

Cardinal de’ Medici was unfazed. “Yes, of course, Signora. As well

as for any other act the Holy Father deems pleasing to God. Financial

support for the good works of the Church is by its very nature pleasing

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to God.” He discovered he had room for yet another portion of boar and

filled his mouth, preventing a more detailed answer.

“But Eminence, doesn’t God see into the hearts of men and know if

an indulgence has been bought without contrition? Surely true remorse

would have the same effect as the indulgence.”

After a long moment of chewing, Cardinal de’ Medici picked his

teeth with the fork, apparently forcing patience on himself. Then he

raised an authoritative hand, the one that displayed the Cardinal’s ring,

in front of Raphaela’s face. Raphaela held her ground and did not cede

him space, though the ecclesiastical finger was close enough to touch

her nose.

“Signorina. Indulgences are not handed out in the marketplace.

The Holy Church bestows them only upon confession and evidence

of contrition. Though you may not understand them, these issues have

been thought out for centuries by wise and divinely inspired men.”

Raphaela inhaled and appeared about to reply, but Bramante

cleared his throat again and she closed her lips. In the tense silence,

Michelangelo raised his glass. “Well, then, I propose we celebrate

something that’s pleasing to both God and man, the divine voice of

Signor Raggi. You’ll sing for us this evening, won’t you?”

Domenico brushed back a swath of dark hair and glanced around

at the table. “If you wish.”

“We very much wish,” Bramante replied, with obvious relief.

Domenico stood up from the table, brushed invisible crumbs from

his lap, and took a position between two columns of the loggia. The

torches burning on both sides of him illuminated him with pleasing

symmetry. His voice began as pure velvet, on a sustained note, then

changed timbre, weaving a complex melody, each phrase a variation

on the one before, all in the voice of a powerful contralto. Then, as

from a fountain, the stream of sound rose and dropped and rose again,

ever higher, into the soprano range, achieving sounds of such delicate

sweetness it did not seem possible they came from the throat of a man.

Adriana studied his audience. The Cardinal had the look of a man

being soothed, and Bramante also seemed to be transported.

Adriana allowed herself to glance over at his daughter and Raphaela

stared back. The gray-green eyes took hold of her for a moment. She

saw interest, disarming in its directness, as if Raphaela were awaiting

something.

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She shifted her gaze to Michelangelo, who never took his eyes

from the singer. Only the slight motion of his beard revealed that he

bit his lower lip. Domenico finished on a gradual decrescendo, the

sound fading slowly, like gold stretched ever more thinly and finally

disappearing. After a momentary pause he bowed, his dark brown hair

falling loosely over his face.

“Bravo, bravo!” Giovanni de’ Medici said warmly. “Come here

and sit by me, young man. Tell me how they treat you in the Sistine

Choir.” He poured them both more wine.

With graceful steps, Domenico went to the Cardinal’s side,

brushing against Michelangelo as he passed.

v

Bramante was the first to stand up from the table, pulling his red

cloak around his shoulders. “Lady Borgia. Your banquet was sumptuous,

and your villa is as gracious as its mistress. But I must to bed after so

long a day.”

“Of course, Signor Bramante. I’ll escort you to your rooms.”

Taking a lantern, she led father and daughter along the southern loggia.

The servants had already lit the candles and carried in basins of water

for washing. Adriana bade him good rest.

Raphaela stood in the doorway of the adjoining room. “May I see

you alone, Lady Borgia?” she asked quietly. “We haven’t really spoken

this evening.”

Adriana detected the pleasant fragrance of crushed grapes. “You’re

right, of course. You arrived so late, and…” She trailed off nervously.

“I must see to my other guests first, until they retire. But perhaps in the

garden, later.”

She gathered her crimson skirts and hurried down the stairs to the

courtyard. Giovanni de’ Medici had risen unsteadily from the table.

Jacopo supported him on one side, Gianino on the other, and together

they assisted the Cardinal up the stairs to his bedchamber.

Michelangelo and Domenico were shoulder to shoulder in quiet

conversation.

“What are my Sistine genii conspiring in now?” she teased, sitting

down with them. “A concert perhaps, for the unveiling of the chapel

ceiling?”

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Michelangelo brightened. “I hadn’t thought of that, but it’s a good

idea. I’ll speak to Paris de Grassis about it. It is something the Master

of Ceremonies would have to arrange.”

“Oh, I’d love to be part of the unveiling,” Domenico said. “You

must promise it.”

Michelangelo stood up from the table. “I give you my word that

you’ll be there. But now I will say good night. Don’t worry about me,

Adriana. I’ll see myself to my room.” He bent and kissed her quickly

on the cheek and turned away.

Domenico watched Michelangelo climb the stairs. “I suppose I

should retire too,” he said transparently.

Adriana considered reminding him of the punishment he had

recently endured, but on a tender impulse, she caressed his cheek

instead. Its smoothness brought a stirring recollection.

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XXv

Adriana paced before the tree at the center of her private garden.

Though it was nearly midnight, and she had drunk a great

deal of wine, she couldn’t sleep. She faced the old Roman fountain,

watching the water trickle over the edge of the upper dish into the basin

below. The cicadas chirped all around her, and a breeze rustled high in

the trees of the nearby woods.

She heard nothing of it and listened only for footfall on the gravel

of the garden path. When she heard it, her heart leapt. “Raphaela?” she

whispered.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” a man’s voice said, and the wiry

form of Michelangelo emerged from the darkness. He sat down on the

bench beneath the tree and took her hand, drawing her down to him as

he had done on her first day back in Rome. He was slightly drunk, she

could tell, but then, so was she. She sat comfortably with him, as with

an eccentric cousin, feeling the knots and calluses on his hand.

“What brings you to my garden in the middle of the night,

Michelo? The privy is over there, you know, on the other side of the

house.”

He did not laugh, but instead took a deep breath. “Adriana, you’ve

known me for years. Since you first arrived from Spain.” He looked up

to the stars, as if hoping for assistance. “You know I don’t think about

women. I’m at a loss with them. But I want to try to settle down. I have

been thinking about this since you came back to Rome.”

He was silent again for a moment, then took another tack. “Life

can’t be easy for you either. You’re a widow.”

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“Twice widowed, in effect, if not in law.” Her mouth formed an

ironic smile, which in the darkness he would not see.

“Precisely. Aren’t you tired of being alone?”

“Where is this going, Michelo?”

“There is something about you that has always attracted me,

something forceful and audacious. And then tonight, you looked so

lovely. If there could be any woman for me, it would be you.”

“Are you proposing marriage, Michelangelo, or something less

respectable?”

“Oh, no. My intentions are honorable. I only want respectability…

for both of us. And though I have no money now, I will when the ceiling

is done. And there will be other works, of course. I would offer you a

man’s protection.” He began to ramble nervously. “A woman needs

protection. We can help each other that way. Domenico is right, you

know, there is peace in obedience.”

He stood up in front of her and held her by the shoulders. It was

an awkward position. Perhaps he expected her to stand up so he could

kiss her, but she did not want to kiss him. She turned slightly so that she

could lay one of her hands on his, and the heavy paper of Silvio’s letter

crinkled in her pocket. Silvio’s letter, mocking her.

She sighed. “An honorable proposal, old friend. Yes, it would quiet

both our lives and keep us from sin, wouldn’t it?” She paused, choosing

her words. “I care for you as much as I care for any man. But all things

have their season. What is alive one moment is dust the next.”

“Now it’s you who are being mysterious. I don’t understand what

you’re saying.”

It annoyed her that she had to explain to him what she could

scarcely explain to herself. She was full of uncertainty, and she had not

even finished reading Silvio’s letter yet. It annoyed her even more that

Michelangelo would not sit down again, for while he stood so close

before her, she spoke to his groin rather than to his face.

“You see, something has happened. A hope that was already frail

has died in me. I’m no longer fit for domesticity. We can’t help each

other that way.”

He still did not move.

“But…there’s another one who needs your protection more than

I do, and who waits for you now.” She dropped her voice until it was

barely audible. “I think you should go to him.”

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He stood motionless, his silence revealing his confusion.

A voice whispered from behind her. “Lady Borgia?” Adriana

turned toward the sound.

The figure stepped from the darkness into the moonlight.

Raphaela.

Michelangelo abruptly grasped a limb of the tree over her head,

the suddenness of the gesture startling her. Exasperation, she assumed,

at being interrupted in so sensitive a conversation.

Raphaela stopped. “Oh, I’m sorry.” Adriana rose to her feet,

acknowledging her. Michelangelo glanced back and forth at the two

women, and the moment was unbearable. Finally, he bowed and

marched with heavy footfall back toward the house.

“Forgive me. I’ve disturbed your conversation, haven’t I?”

Raphaela looked toward the departing man.

“It’s good that you did. It was becoming very awkward.” Adriana

emerged from under the bough of the tree and motioned toward the

wide stone rim of the fountain. They sat down, keeping a measured

distance between them. Yet the long folds of their two skirts, the scarlet

and the green, overlapped slightly on the mossy stone.

Raphaela trailed her fingers in the fountain pool, breaking up

patterns in the shimmering silver water. The moon lit one side of her

face in blues and whites and cast her gown in pale gray. They sat for a

long moment, the gurgling of the fountain and the persistent chirping of

the cicadas filling the night air.

Raphaela inhaled deeply and Adriana heard the soft sound of her

long exhalation—an intimate sound, as if she shared her breathing. She

toyed with a pebble on the fountain rim between them. “Your friend

Domenico is amazing, isn’t he? So beautiful in face and voice. And so

pious.”

“Pious? Yes. His devotion is absolutely genuine. He thinks of God

as an actual Father who looks after him, weighing everything he does.

He makes gifts to Him on his altar.”

“Is that so?” Raphaela tilted her head slightly. Adriana could not

be sure she was really interested or merely polite.

“Yes. On our first afternoon together after I came back from Spain,

he was so happy that he sacrificed a ring on the high altar of St. Peter’s.

It was a tiny silver thing I’d given him when he was a child. For all I

know, it’s still there.”

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Adriana fell silent, uncertain of what to add. A minute passed, and

the cicadas chirped again. She looked over at the confident hands of

the young artist, then at her own, pale helpless creatures folded on her

velvet lap.

“What is it that you want, Raphaela?”

“That is the first time I’ve heard you speak my name.”

“No, I spoke it at Michelangelo’s house. While you changed from

boy to woman.”

“Ah, yes, I had forgotten. You helped me dress.” The pebble

dropped into the fountain with a faint plop.

“That evening, you never answered my question about the painting.

And you haven’t answered what I just asked either.”

“Of what I want?” Raphaela tilted her head back. Her lips fell

open slightly. She brushed grit from the fountain wall between them.

“Do you remember Pope Alexander’s requiem mass, that afternoon, in

the chapel?”

“Yes, of course I do.”

“Then you will remember the air, the smell of corruption. It

seemed the perfect symbol for Alexander’s court. But the Vatican gave

my father work, wonderful projects, so we stayed. Father could shut his

eyes to the excesses, but I couldn’t.

“You see, my father wanted me to go back to Padua. There was a

young man there he hoped to marry me to. I was wavering, on the brink

of agreeing to leave Rome. And then I heard you say my name.”

“Yes, you looked at me for a long time.” Adriana warmed,

recalling the moment. “Did you know who I was?” She brushed at the

space on the fountain rim between them, repeating the other woman’s

gesture.

“Yes, certainly. With Alexander dead, I wondered what you would

do. And then, of course, you fled.”

“Yes, the chapel and Rome as well, that same day. And for five

more years I stayed with him.”

“I knew you were with him, but it seemed you had called me for

a reason, so I stayed in Rome and painted. Portraits mostly, but I also

painted you. As I remembered you and as I wanted you to be. When

I saw you again at St. Peter’s it was a shock because, in a way, I had

already recreated you.”

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“I know. As Europa, with Cesare as a bull. Very clever, using the

Borgia symbol. But what you painted was your fantasy. It wasn’t me.”

“It was a part of you.” Raphaela rubbed her fingers on the stone, as

if polishing it. “There is a kind of truth to art that transcends our lives.

Well, outlasts them at least.”

“Why do you need me, then? Why do you…pursue me?” Her

voice remained neutral, betraying no emotion but caution.

Raphaela considered for a moment. “Because I’m flesh and blood

and feel desire. Because you do as well.”

“Do not speak of my desires. It is presumptuous. You don’t know

me.” Adriana drew her fingers through the pool of water, cooling

them.Raphael’s reply was like a touch. “I knew you once, for a

moment.”

Adriana glanced up, perplexed, but the harsh chiaroscuro obscured

the expression on the other woman’s face. “I don’t know what you

mean.”

“I think you do. At Carnevale.”

Adriana felt a pounding in her chest. “Carnevale? I don’t

remember Carnevale. I drank too much. A boy accosted me. That was

all. A masked…boy.” She pulled her skirts closer to her.

“You knew it was a woman. You pressed against me.”

“No. I had no idea. It was a night of excess. Of violence and lust.

The kind you want to forget about the next day.”

“It was a night when people revealed themselves. And what moved

me that night was not lust, but devotion, the same devotion that guides

me when I paint.”

“You have portrayed too many pagans, Raphaela. I speak of excess

and evil, and you reply with painting. You’re twisting things.”

“Don’t disparage pagans. They knew something that we’ve

forgotten, that desire is not evil.”

“It can be. You yourself saw the debauchery of Alexander’s court,

where lust could end in death. There are lines, I think, too dangerous

to cross.”

Raphaela shook her head. “I crossed them long ago. And something

wonderful happened. A candle seemed to light inside me.” She touched

the marble medallion over Adriana’s heart, holding it for a moment on

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the tips of her fingers. “And I saw you, Adriana. In the midst of a vile

funeral for a corrupt man, I saw you and wanted to tell you.” She let

go of the medallion and pressed her fingertips on the crimson dress

beneath it.

“Tell me what?”

“That what we are taught, of good and evil, is false, that the God

they threaten us with is cruel. And that the forbidden thing is the most

precious thing of all, knowledge.”

Adriana touched the encroaching hand, though whether to hold it

back or caress it she was not sure, and so she held it lightly.

Raphaela’s fingers crept on, over the white silk to the naked skin

above. “What we were that night was neither good nor evil. For just a

few heartbeats we didn’t need God. We were like gods ourselves.”

Adriana shook her head weakly but did not move away.

“You do remember, don’t you,” Raphaela murmured. “You let me

do it. You knew, and you kissed me back.” The insistent hand slid up to

Adriana’s throat, curled gently around it, palm resting softly against the

pulse. Raphaela leaned close; her lips brushed the warm cheek.

Like gods, knowing good and evil. The biblical temptation flashed

through Adriana’s mind as Raphaela’s mouth covered her own. Then

she surrendered to the embrace. Nothing else mattered any longer.

Nothing existed but Raphaela’s mouth and the delicate light entry of

the stranger into herself. She tasted wine again, as in the confessional,

but now it was sweetened by fresh grapes.

A window shutter suddenly slammed and they broke apart.

Overhead the window to Michelangelo’s room had shut, as if in

revulsion. Adriana sprang up. “You must go. Please.”

“As you wish.” The young woman stood up reluctantly, reaching

out to touch the crimson velvet one last time. “But I’ll wait. I swear to

you. I will wait.”

Adriana watched Raphaela Bramante walk back along the dark

path to the house, her pale hair seeming to give off a light of its own,

and she whispered after her.

“Do not.”

v

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Domenico stood before the small shrine in his room and lit a

second candle. He was used to praying to the Madonna when he longed

for something but now, of course, it was out of the question. He couldn’t

pray for a sin, and the long silence since dinner made it clear that there

would be no temptation.

He slid off the calfskin boots that came above his knees and

set them aside. Brooding, he undid the ties that held his soft leather

leggings to his doublet and drew them off, draping them over a chair. It

was just as well. He would surely have had to pay for such an infidelity.

He would inevitably have been found out, and every such transgression

was more severely punished. It had already cost one poor man his life.

The urge for love was sometimes ferocious, but in seeking it, he walked

a knife’s edge that jeopardized his life and soul. Perhaps this night, he

would simply pray.

Lethargically, he unbuttoned the long row of tiny gold buttons

that ran down the center of his doublet and shrugged it off. It was

pleasantly cool to stand bare-legged and in the wide linen shirt that was

his undergarment.

Then the knock came. He caught his breath. “Come in.”

Michelangelo stood in the doorway, backlit by the upstairs torch.

“Do I disturb you?” he asked, and then came in, closing the door behind

him. “No, of course not.” Domenico’s voice was almost a whisper.

Michelangelo carefully latched the door and leaned against it,

stroking his beard.

“I am puzzled.”

“Puzzled, Signore?”

Michelangelo closed the distance between them cautiously.

“Seeing you from afar, in the chapel service, makes me feel the presence

of God. But closeness to you does just the opposite. It pushes God away

and tempts to impure thoughts.”

“I cannot help other men’s thoughts, Signore. I struggle enough

with my own.”

“Struggle. Yes, that’s the right word. And when the temptation is

so beautiful, one is bound to fall.” Michelangelo touched the front of

Domenico’s shirt. “Are you as attractive in form as you are in face?”

His hands trembling, he undid the ties that held the shirt closed.

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“Some men see me that way, but others find me strange.” Domenico

took Michelangelo’s hand and slid it inside the shirt. “How do you find

me?”His chest was wider than that of a normal man, the musculature

undefined, yet Michelangelo seemed to like the adolescent smoothness.

His coarse hand moved all over the soft skin under the cloth, claiming

him, pinching his nipples, hurting him just a little, just enough to arouse

him. Then it withdrew.

“I can’t say, until I see you.”

Wordlessly, Domenico pulled the long shirt over his head and

stood, almost defiantly, naked but for a hand’s width of white linen tied

with a cord just below his navel. Michelangelo’s eyes went immediately

to the bulge beneath and his eyes half closed.

Domenico liked being looked at that way. “You’re curious, aren’t

you? To find out what’s still there. I can tell you, there’s everything

necessary to please you.”

“You already please me.” Michelangelo kissed one of the dark

nipples. His lips were kinder than his fingers were, but the flick of his

tongue caused Domenico to shudder.

“I want to know what gives you pleasure,” he breathed, sliding

his hand down to gently squeeze the warm flesh that swelled under the

linen.“That gives me pleasure,” Domenico murmured, opening to

Michelangelo’s long, invasive kiss. Their tongues curled around each

other, Michelangelo’s mouth just on the edge of rough, until Domenico

broke away and sat down on the bed. “The door. No one must see.”

“It’s locked. But wait.” Michelangelo went around the foot of the

bed to the window. Without looking out, he seized the brass handle and

yanked the shutter closed. “No one must hear, either.” He came around

to stand before Domenico’s knees, rocking slightly. Then he pulled off

his own shirt and trousers, undid his linen breeches, and let them fall.

His excitement was obvious.

Domenico leaned back, supporting himself on his elbows, and

stared at the flesh about to invade him. He shivered with anticipation.

“You are the kind of man I want to belong to.”

Michelangelo clambered onto the bed to kneel astride Domenico’s

knees. “Let me see the kind of man you are,” he said, untying and then

pulling away the remaining piece of linen.

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Over shrunken testicles Domenico’s dark phallus swelled to its

full length. “Ah,” Michelangelo whispered. “As much a man as I am.”

Domenico pulled Michelangelo’s face to his own so that they

curved toward each other, one over and one under. “Tell me what you

like,” he whispered. “I am accustomed to obeying.”

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XXvi

June 1510—uPon tHiS rock

That swine! A plague on him and his Borgia slut of a wife! I

knew Alfonso would defy me, but not this far!” Pope Julius

crumpled the parchment and slammed it onto his table. “To go over to

the French completely, this is too much.”

“Calm yourself, Holiness.” Paris de Grassis set his daybook

aside and poured the Pontiff a cup of wine. “What’s done can be

undone. Alliances are fragile things. I should think a suggestion of

excommunication would sway the Duke.”

“Excommunication is the least of it. This requires a hammer

blow, and he will learn that I can deliver one. He thinks I need him, but

he’s mistaken. His cannon made a good show shooting across a river

at floating Venetian galleys, but they will not stand up so well to six

thousand Swiss professional soldiers streaming down a hillside.”

“You are prepared to declare war, Holiness?”

“I am, Master de Grassis. On Ferrara and the French.” He snapped

his fingers. “Take notes.”

The Master of Ceremonies uncorked his ink bottle and opened his

daybook. Julius tapped on the still-blank page. “First, we will conscript

the Cardinals. It will do them some good to exchange their white mules

for war horses and to defend the Church with force instead of prayer.”

De Grassis wrote as dictated. “Prayer, of course too, Holiness. We

must call a special mass.”

“Yes, yes. A mass. Of course. See to it. All in God’s name. We

will also carry the blessed host before us into battle. Always inspires

the troops.”

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De Grassis scribbled again. “What about the French Cardinals? I

rather think they are not reliable in this case.”

“Arrest them if they refuse.” He stared into empty air, calculating.

“The best strategy would be to rally in Viterbo. I’ll address the armies

and then go on to Ostia, to sail north while the troops march overland.

Bologna will fall like a rotten fig, as it did before, and then it’s only a

short march to Ferrara and Alfonso.”

“You will lead them, Holiness? De Grassis stopped writing.

“Wouldn’t it be better left to a younger man? Your nephew, the Duke of

Urbino, for example?”

“Absolutely not. I am not one of your limp prelates who twirls his

rosary while his troops are in the field. What is a Pope if not a general

of God’s Christian soldiers?”

De Grassis resumed writing. “Yes, Holiness, although I believe the

image is usually ‘shepherd’ rather than general. But be that as it may,

there is the issue of finance. After the basilica and Belvedere projects,

and the clearing of the Via Papalis, not to mention the outfitting of the

Swiss troops, the treasury is in a lamentable state. I believe a large

payment is also due to Signor Buonarroti.”

Julius scowled. He hated it when the subject turned to money;

the news was always bad. “We will have to issue another Bull of

Indulgences. Surely we have Dominicans who can carry letters to the

northern cities.”

“Alas, Holiness. Letters of Indulgence are already circulating in

Germany and as far south as Milan. Questares are collecting closer to

Rome as well, but I am not sure who they are. In any case, we must

be careful not to oversell indulgences, lest they be cheapened by

familiarity.”

Julius pressed a knuckle to his lower lip. “Infuriating, to have a war

and no funds for it. We can at least postpone payment to Michelangelo. I

will explain the reason to him. Would you see to it that he is summoned

to me this afternoon?”

“Unfortunately, he has gone to Tivoli, Holiness. Along with

Cardinal de’ Medici, as guests of Lady Borgia, I believe. I will leave

word for him to attend you upon his return.”

“Thwarted everywhere,” Julius muttered. He took a long drink of

the wine that de Grassis had poured, then spoke with forced calm. “The

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war will go forward. We cannot allow Ferrara to ally with the French.

You have your instructions, Master de Grassis.”

“Yes, Holiness.” The Master of Ceremonies made the obeisance,

but while he stood in the open doorway, Julius had an afterthought.

“All events seem to conspire against me, Master de Grassis, and

my head is about to explode. Please have my chapel singer sent to me.

That will calm me.”

De Grassis glanced away. “I’m afraid I cannot, Holiness. Domenico

Raggi has requested leave to join Michelangelo and Cardinal de’

Medici. Given the presence of the Cardinal, we granted, it of course,”

he said, as he backed out.

With sudden fury, Julius threw his goblet against the closed door.

It landed with a crash, and wine dribbled in streaks down the polished

wood onto the marble floor.

v

At the foot of the path the new colonnade marked the border of

the estate. Its eight fluted Corinthian columns were joined at the top

by a simple curved architrave. Before them, a rectangular pool lay

perpendicular to the garden path. At each corner of the pool, nymphs

crouched in chitons tipping their urns, and at the center of the pool the

new statue stood still concealed by a loose cloth.

Adriana walked ahead of the others and gave the signal to the

gardener to draw off the cloth and open the tap. Invisible pipes rasped

hollowly for a moment from several locations, as if clearing their

throats. Slowly water began to trickle and then pour forth from all the

stone openings and spouts.

Adriana looked back at Michelangelo, who meandered distractedly

toward the fountain, and she watched with amusement as he suddenly

halted. The scowl that he had held throughout breakfast opened to a

grin. “I knew you’d like it,” Adriana said, walking back to him and

linking her arm in his. “It’s my gift to you. I hope I’ve got all the details

right.”The five of them stood in a line before the pool. The morning

light reflected off the surface of the water and shone up into their faces,

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dazzling them. In the center of the radiance the young Bacchus stood.

The god looked over their heads toward the house, and water fell

gurgling from his goblet in a twisting column into the pool. At the four

corners, water also poured gently from nymph-held urns.

“I guess you have!” He patted her hand. “What a coup. You’ve

taken a rather silly statue of mine and put him to work.”

“Yes, in fact, he nourishes my entire garden. The water falls from

his goblet into the pond, then passes through pipes and rivulets all the

way to the house.”

Kneeling, she closed her eyes against the glistening surface of the

pool and let the water from the nymph’s urn trickle over her fingers.

“Well done, Signora Borgia,” Donato Bramante said after a

moment. “A pity my daughter is not here to appreciate your stroke of

genius.”

“Yes, a pity.” Adriana was surprised at the force of her

disappointment over so small an offense. She wondered if it was a sort

of revenge for the night before.

“Lady Adriana!” A young woman’s voice called out, and heads

turned toward the orchard. There at the center, where she had apparently

watched the unveiling, Raphaela stood waving.

The company wandered toward the tree where she stood, holding

a roll of sketching paper in her hand. The tree was forked and bare

and with foliage only at the top. When the group arrived, she reached

through the fork of the tree and handed Adriana the rolled drawing.

“Your garden has been an inspiration. I took the liberty of strolling

all around it this morning. It gave me a sort of vision and, well, I drew

it for you.”

It was a scene sketched in charcoal. Every tree and hedge of

the garden was there, and around each one wood sprites, satyrs, and

pagan gods frolicked. In the foreground, Pan piped music, while in

the distance, one could make out the new statue and its pool, sketched

apparently in the few minutes since the unveiling. And yet it seemed

the source of all the rest, as if the arrival of the “Bacchus” had caused

a small pagan invasion.

Michelangelo peered over their shoulders at the drawing. “The

signorina is right, Adriana. Your garden cries out for more statuary.

In fact, I know an artist who could assist you. Giuliano Sangallo, a

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Florentine architect who has an excellent sense of how to mix art and

landscape.”

Adriana stared at the drawing, speechless.

“It should be a wild place,” Raphaela said. “Teeming with gods

that are neither good nor evil.”

v

Donato Bramante mounted his horse with the help of a servant. “I

thank you, Lady Borgia, for your hospitality, and compliment you on

your new fountain.” Next to him and once again in doublet and tights,

Raphaela mounted and straddled her horse like a man. Like Carlo,

under the chapel vault. Without further comment, father and daughter

turned away and rode at a leisurely trot along the alley of cypress trees.

Halfway to the juncture with the Via Tiburtina, the young woman turned

in the saddle and waved.

The Cardinal’s coach was brought up before the house “A final

word, Signor Buonarroti,” the prelate said in passing. “I foresee a time

when you will assist in the work on the basilica. But not now. You must

be content with that.”

“I am content, Eminence.”

Michelangelo made the cursory obeisance. Next to him, Domenico

knelt down fully on both knees before the holy ring. The corpulent

churchman made the sign of the cross over both men and swept into

his coach.

As the Cardinal departed along the avenue of cypress, the grooms

brought out the horses of the last two guests. Michelangelo stood for

moment by his horse.

“Why don’t you come back with us to Rome, Adriana? Domenico

has got to report back to the choir, but I’d like to show you what we’ve

done so far on the chapel ceiling. You can stay overnight at the Albergo

dell’ Orso as you used to do.”

She hesitated, looking back at the house that was now quiet. The

reflecting pool and statue were finished, it was too soon to plan the

grape harvest, and there were only so many hours she could sit alone

in her garden. There was, in fact, a sort of vacuum she did not want to

face. “I sent my housemaster early this morning to the Roman market to

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provision the household again. I suppose I could find him in the Piazza

Navona and return with him tomorrow.”

“Ah, very good.” Michelangelo glanced up at the sky. “But if

you’re coming, you’d better hurry. The morning is far along.”

Adriana turned to the groom standing by.

“Saddle the mare for me, please, with the light saddle.” To

Michelangelo, “Just let me change into a riding dress and inform my

housekeeper.”

Curiously elated, she hurried back into the house, thinking

suddenly of Lucrezia. A worldliness in the air, Lucrezia had said. That

glorifies nature and paganism. Something that had to do with unmarried

women and disobedience.

v

They rode without comment on the night before. Adriana knew

that something had happened, but what was not named was not quite

real and could be forgotten. To name the thing was to bring it to life and

to stake it like a lamb before wolves.

“I have considered planting roses in the garden,” she announced

abruptly. “What do you think?”

“Plant white roses,” Domenico responded immediately. “I

remember white roses from my mother’s garden. They grew up the

side of the house and in summer covered it like a shawl.”

“You remember flowers from your childhood?” Michelangelo

sounded amazed. “I remember only fighting.” He rubbed the side of

his broken nose.

“The garden stays in my mind because that’s where I took care of

my half brothers and sisters. At least until I was sent away.”

“You, caring for children? I would never have imagined it.”

Adriana studied him. “Forgive me. We took you from your school when

you were so young. I never thought much about the family you had

before that.”

“Caring for those children is my best memory. I was still a child

myself, but they called me ‘Papito.’ What a joke, huh?”

No one laughed.

They rounded a curve where the road descended sharply to the old

Roman town of Tivoli. Built along the side of a hill, its streets dropped

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precipitously, and where the slope was steepest they became wide steps.

Its alleys turned and curved back on themselves with no plan or order. A

stranger would have lost his way, but during her isolation, Adriana had

come to know the old town well.

“Listen. The church bells are ringing, and it’s not a feast day.

Something’s going on. Shall we have a look?”

They entered the town, making their way in single file past a

bakery and a fletchery, the clopping of the horses’ hooves loud on the

cobblestones. A crowd streamed alongside them on foot. Finally, at the

St. Silvestro Chapel, with its crumbling Roman fountain, they came to

an enormous wooden cross draped with the papal banner.

They drew up before the moss-covered basin of the Roman wall

and let their horses drink. Michelangelo called to a passerby, “What

celebration is this?”

The man looked up at them and snatched off his hat. “No

celebration, Signore. It is the questares, with the Pope’s letter. If you

have sins on your head, sir.”

Michelangelo glanced back at Adriana. “Indulgences. I’d like to

see this.”

The church was full and the smell of the tightly packed crowd was

disagreeable. Adriana soon lost sight of Michelangelo, and Domenico,

though tall, had moved toward the other side of the church and was

also no longer visible. Left with her own curiosity, she edged forward

until she had a view of the altar on one side of her and the aisle on the

other.A murmur spread like a wave through the mass as a procession

came through the main entrance into the nave. At its front, altar

boys carried candles and a flag with the insignia of the Church. Two

Dominicans followed bearing a monstrance and a wooden chest fitted

with brass. A third carried a red-velvet cushion bearing a scroll, sealed

and beribboned in purple. The assembly murmured more loudly as it

passed.

The monks proceeded to the narrow painted apse of the church and

stood in a semicircle under the image of the Christ and two disciples.

Two of the monks laid the sacred objects on the high altar, and the

leader of the group, a Dominican with a ring of reddish hair around his

tonsure, stepped to the center.

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“Christians!” he called in a high sharp voice, and silence fell over

the church. The murmuring of those outside in the square emphasized

the quiet within. The Dominican raised his right hand, which held

several rolls of paper. The sleeve of his robe fell back revealing a pelt

of red hair on his forearm.

“Christians!” he repeated, “I have passports to lead the human

soul to the joys of paradise.” He pointed with his free hand toward

the altar where the Papal Bull was propped up on a cushion. “This is

your salvation, the remission of all your sins. This is His Holiness’s

tap, drawing on the vast spring of mercy granted by God to the Church

of Peter. Through this spring any sin can be washed away. Anything!

Sins you have committed and sins you will commit. Even sins of your

departed loved ones. Some of them are writhing in purgatory right

now.”He seemed to savor the word “writhing.” He took a breath.

“But you can shorten their suffering, or end it, today! As soon as

the coin rings in the chest, the soul for whom it is paid will fly out of

purgatory and straight to heaven.” He raised his hands dramatically to

indicate the direction of heaven. “Have you lain with your neighbor’s

wife? Are you stained with adultery? Wash it away! Have you lied or

violated the Sabbath or stolen? Wash it away! Even if you have stolen

from a church, you can be forgiven. Even for murder. And even for

buggery.”

At the word “buggery,” someone giggled.

“Schändung. Gotteslästerung,” a man next to Adriana muttered.

She glanced sideways to see a monk in the black woolen habit of an

Augustinian. Though he was young, he seemed haggard, his habit soiled

and torn. Most likely a pilgrim, she thought. She had seen thousands of

his sort in Rome.

“Christians!” the Dominican called out again, drawing her attention

back to the altar. In ringing tones he continued his enumeration of every

sin Adriana could imagine and several she had not considered. When

the monk finished his appeal, he called upon the faithful to sing a hymn

of praise while deacons set up a table next to the altar. The wooden

chest full of letters was set on it and next to it the brass-bound chest

for coins.

Like thread spinning out from a ball of wool, a line formed out of

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the mass of worshippers and moved toward the table where the monk

sat with his pile of letters. One by one the penitents crept with a lit

candle up to the altar and confessed while the crowd listened in prurient

fascination.

Each sin had a price: adultery and fornication cost four ducats,

perjury or robbing a church nine ducats. An accountant sat at table,

keeping a tally of the letters sold and at which amount. The brass-bound

casket was opened, and as the letters were sold, Adriana could hear the

clink of coins ringing in the chest.

“Geldwechsler im Tempel!” The monk next to her muttered again,

and though she could not understand German, she shared his apparent

disgust.

He glanced at her and shook his head sorrowfully, as if grasping

that she sympathized, then made an about-face and elbowed his way

back through the crowd. Bored with peasant confessions, Adriana

followed him.

Outside the church there was still no sign of Michelangelo or

Domenico, but the Augustinian stood at the fountain splashing water

onto his face. “Do you speak Italian?” she asked him.

He looked up, surprised, then seemed to recognize her from the

crowd. “Half Latin, half Italian, if you don’t mind.”

“You don’t approve of that, do you?” She indicated the church

with her head.

“Of granting indulgences for coin? Nowhere does Scripture tell

of God’s mercy being available for purchase. Buying an indulgence

instead of repenting inwardly imperils the sinner’s soul.” He rubbed his

back and pointed toward the stone steps below the fountain. “Please,

let’s sit down. I climbed the steps of the Lateran Church yesterday on

my hands and knees, praying a Pater noster at each one. I’m weary

from it.”

She gathered her skirts and sat next to him. “It’s a way for them to

raise money, of course. His Holiness wants to finance a new basilica to

house the saints’ bones.”

The monk rubbed his knees again, and she could see now that the

front of his habit was worn through and spotted with blood and dirt. He

winced. “I care not how he glorifies the edifice that houses the saints’

relics. If holiness adheres to them, as it must, they could be revealed in

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a barn and still be holy. A contrite man should be able to come to them

with a full heart and beg God’s mercy for his guilt.”

“You came to Rome looking to be free of guilt?” She added softly,

“I suppose I did too, a long while ago. But I found out I wasn’t guilty

after all.”

“We are none of us free of guilt. All of us lead lives full of

sin. We are vermin-ridden with it, so many sins we don’t even

notice or remember them. But if we don’t remember them, we can’t

ask forgiveness for them and they can send us to hell.” There was

desperation in his slightly bulging eyes.

Adriana shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know if it’s that—”

“Let me tell you a story,” he interrupted. “In my youth, I was

caught once in a terrible storm, and I know now it was the Hand of

God, testing me.”

“A storm? Yes, storms can change people’s lives,” she ventured,

but he continued without listening.

“Lightning hit a tree right in front of me and then leapt to me,

knocking me unconscious. When I awoke, I felt death in the air and I

called out ‘Saint Anne, help me! I will become a monk!’”

“Why Saint Anne?”

“She is the mother of Mary, pure, and the kindest of women

to those who are fallen and desperate. But you interrupt me, Lady. I

wanted to say that God led me to the cowl, but not to tranquility. No,

not at all. The contemplative life only revealed the mortal danger I was

in. I fasted and kept vigils, sometimes for days on end, but it was never

enough. The devil still came to me daily, nightly, in the smallest of

things. Evil thoughts about the brothers, clumsy handling of the Host

at mass, misspoken words in the prayers.” He stopped, strain showing

on his face.

“Forgive me, but I am not certain if I understand your point.”

“My point is that salvation is not easily won, and certainly not

bought with coin. The threat of purgatory and God’s wrath hangs over

us, and His devil is ever with us. Indulgences are pernicious because

they cause men to avoid true contrition, true destruction of our will

before His will. In short, these are empty promises and it is not God’s

vicar, but His devil, who tempts men with them.”

“God’s devil? Do you mean—”

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“Ah, there you are, Adriana.” Michelangelo squinted at the sky.

“We probably should be going. The day is well along.” Domenico was

just coming behind him with their horses in hand.

Adriana stood up. “You’re right, of course. I was just talking to…”

She turned back to the monk. “You never said your name”

The monk stood up beside her and nodded respectfully to the two

men. “Brother Martin, from Wittenberg. My family name is Luther.”

v

“It seems absurd,” Adriana said, once the town was behind them.

“The indulgence peddlers come from one direction, Carafa’s guardians

from another, and in a third place men like Brother Martin live in private

terror of God. I don’t know what to think.”

Domenico shook his head. “God will not let us be confounded.

Not on a day like today.” He swept his hand in a wide arc over his head.

“Look at what He gives us.”

Adriana had to agree. The day was full of life. Jackdaws and

thrushes swooped by overhead in pairs. In a copse of trees, a doe and

her fawn browsed and leapt away lightly as they neared. Ahead of them

a kestrel plummeted like a gray bolt and snatched something small

from the ground. The predator rose again on powerful wings, its prey

twitching helplessly in the last moments of life. All of nature seemed to

play itself out before them in microcosm. But she could find no place in

the stark dramas of the land for guilt and redemption.

“It’s gotten hot,” she said suddenly.

“My flask is empty too, but you see? God is looking after his

children.” Domenico pointed toward a stream that ran alongside

the road. In places where the brush was sparse, sunlight caused it to

sparkle. He halted and dismounted. An anomaly of black amidst the

color he clambered down the bank, sending up a swarm of butterflies

and insects. He knelt by the stream where it flowed over some rocks

and filled his flask. Then, in returning, he snatched out flowers from the

roadside, leaving their long stems.

“Our own Saint Francis of Assisi,” Adriana remarked gently.

Domenico reached up his flask to Adriana and remounted his

horse, one hand full of flowers. While Adriana slowly sipped the cool

water, he wove a garland. When it was done, he rode alongside her

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and placed it on her head. “Isn’t she lovely, Michelangelo? You should

paint her as a saint or sibyl. Yes, that’s it! The Borgia sibyl!”

Adriana laughed. “And I think you should paint Domenico as a

saint.”Michelangelo looked back over his shoulder. “I had not planned

on saints.”

“Oh, I’d really like to be a saint, Michelo,” Domenico persisted

playfully. “Can’t you put in just one little one?”

Michelangelo shook his head. “A saint must create a miracle. Do

you think you can come up with one?”

“Why not? Adriana said. “Healing the sick with song? That would

suit you.”

“Well, let’s see.” Domenico stroked his beardless chin, miming

deep thought. “If I could really choose, if an angel asked me what

miraculous thing I would want to do on earth, I would say, ‘Let me be

a father.’ That’s how I’d like to please God, by founding a great lineage

of people to glorify him.”

“Fatherhood?” Adriana repeated, astonished. She had never

discussed his castration and did not want to now, preferring to let the

subject pass. “Well, if there have been miracles before on earth, there

can be this one too. We’ll leave it at that.”

Michelangelo seemed to have no patience for their banter. “Please

inform me when God has made you a father and I’ll make you a

saint.”

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XXvii

Paris de Grassis sat on his horse at the foot of the Ponte Sant’

Angelo, furious that he had to wait like a knave for his chorister.

He searched for a bird with which to compare the castrato and could

find none. “Peacock” implied he was vain, which he was not, no more

than any other young bravo. And “capon” described his condition, but

said nothing of his beauty. De Grassis sighed.

Yes, he was well and truly beautiful. Everyone found him so, even

those who bitterly envied him his voice. And here he was again defying

the rules of the Sistine Choir. He had been granted leave to miss a day

in the chapel on the understanding that he was in pious company and

would return at night. He did not return, and de Grassis had the very

unpleasant sense of being tricked.

He longed for the time when the only sopranos in the choir

were boys, youngsters who could be controlled, even thrashed if it

was necessary, though it rarely was. But this Spanish castrato was a

puzzle. He seemed genuinely submissive to papal authority, but he kept

stepping over the line, slipping away for… Well, it did not bear thinking

for what. De Grassis’s forbearance was wearing thin.

Ah, finally. There he was, approaching the bridge over the Tiber

with two other people, Michelangelo and…? De Grassis felt his face

warm with disgust when he recognized that the other one was Adriana

Borgia.

He signaled the guard waiting with him and spurred his horse to

meet the three of them at the center of the bridge. “Domenico Raggi,

you have ignored the restrictions placed on you by the Curia. I am to

escort you to your proper quarters to answer for it.”

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Adriana urged her horse forward. “Maestro de Grassis, Signor

Raggi was my guest at a supper party and he performed as a musician.

He has done nothing wrong.”

“That will be for me to judge, Signora Borgia,” he said coolly. As

for you, Signor Buonarroti, His Holiness has instructed me to advise

you to attend him. I suggest you take that request as urgent.”

“Thank you, Maestro de Grassis,” Michelangelo replied,

unmoved.

Domenico looked toward his companions. “I’m sorry, Adriana,

Michelo. I’ll send word later.” He nodded toward the Master of

Ceremonies and turned his horse away from the group toward the

Sistine Chapel basement.

v

Minutes later, Michelangelo confronted the guard who barred his

way to the Sistine Chapel. “What’s going on here?”

The halberdier was tall, as were all the men in the new Swiss

Guard, and rendered the more imposing by his Spanish helmet, topped

with a high curved blade and a cockscomb of red feathers. He stood

with his feet apart in a stance between attention and ease, an elaborate

halberd held diagonally across his chest, the haft resting on the

protruding vertical crease of his cuirass. His pose was formal and his

uniform gaudy, with broad ribbons of orange and red hanging from his

waist to his knee. He stared past them into the distance.

“Why is the chapel blocked?” Adriana asked.

Michelangelo poked the soldier’s shiny cuirass with two fingers.

“You know who I am. Get out of my way.”

The guard replied emotionlessly, his Swiss accent hardening the

Italian consonants. “I am sorry, Signore. The Holy Father has ordered

the chapel closed to all but himself.”

“His Papal Majesty seems to be put out about something,”

Michelangelo said to Adriana. “This is exactly the sort of crap I’ve

been subject to for half a year. It’s maddening.” He rubbed the space

between his eyebrows. “I’m sorry, Adriana. You’ve come all this way

for nothing.”

“Don’t worry, Michelo. I have to look after my housemaster’s

marketing in any case. We can do this another time.”

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“All right. The least I can do then is accompany you to the Navona

market. It’s not a place for you to go wandering around alone.”

“Shouldn’t you obey His Holiness first?”

He took her by the arm and urged her toward the staircase again.

“It can wait. I’ve had enough of obedience lately.”

v

Adriana had not been to the market at the Piazza Navona in years.

But the confusion of sounds, of goats bleating, hawkers crying their

wares, farmers loading and unloading wagons, was exactly as she

remembered it. They tied their horses up at the periphery and wandered

along the narrow pathways between the stalls.

There was no sign of Jacopo near the grain merchants, and Adriana

resigned herself to the fact that she would have to look for him at the

butchers’ corner, the most disagreeable part of the market.

They made their way to the far end of the oval market, where the

odors were strongest from the freshly slaughtered animals, the horse

dung swept perfunctorily aside, and the ever-present urine.

There were several butcher’s stalls, but clearly one family was

favored, with multiple customers all trying to buy meat at the same

time. An elderly couple stood at the rear tending a small stove while

four young men struggled with livestock in a corral in front. Jacopo

was just directing one of them who straddled a newly slaughtered ram

and was handing up portions of viscera to another man to wrap. Blood

still trickled from the open throat of the ram and ran in a narrow channel

to the side of the piazza. The young man glanced up at Adriana and

Michelangelo as he wiped a bloodstained hand on his own bare chest.

At her side, she felt Michelangelo suddenly react. He took hold of

her arm and said quietly, “I’ve got to go. Your housemaster is here and

you’re safe. Good-bye, then.” Without waiting for a reply, he hurried

away.“Michelo, where are you going?” she called after him, but he

disappeared into the crowd without looking back.

“Ah, Madonna, it’s you.” Jacopo, the housemaster, turned at the

sound of her voice. “Lady, you should not trouble yourself to come

here. You’ll only dirty your shoes. The wagon is tied up in the Corsia

Agonale. Let me finish this purchase and I’ll meet you there.”

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Adriana peered out over the market where Michelangelo had

disappeared, then back at the young butcher. He scratched the side of

his beardless face and Adriana saw that that half his index finger was

missing. Only a stub up to the first knuckle remained.

v

“Holiness, why am I barred from my workplace?” Michelangelo

kissed the Pontiff’s ring with cursory deference and rose immediately.

Julius’s face darkened. “Do not pretend innocence. You left your

assistants idle for two days,” he growled, putting emphasis on the word

“two.”“What? That’s what provoked Your Holiness’s wrath?”

Michelangelo could not keep his voice from rising in pitch. “We’ve

been working without stop for months and we’re all exhausted. I simply

granted us all two days’ respite.”

“Maestro de Grassis tells me you also took my chapel singer.”

Michelangelo forced calm on himself. “He was personally invited

by Lady Borgia, whose protégé he once was.” He glanced, puzzled,

toward Giovanni de’ Medici.

Julius glowered. “Lady Borgia has become a thorn in my side,

and one day she will go too far. Cardinal Carafa pleads with me daily

to allow him to arrest her.”

“But, Holiness, she’s done nothing.”

“Everyone has done something. She should take care.”

Giovanni de’ Medici cleared his throat. “Holiness surely has more

grave concerns than this woman who has no relevance to any of the

projects that are underway. She is not worth a moment’s thought. What’s

more, I am sure that Signor Buonarroti understands his responsibilities

in the chapel and in the other new works we have discussed.”

Michelangelo started to speak, then grasped that the subject

had changed. “May I ask what these ‘other new works’ might be,

Holiness?”

The Pontiff allowed himself to be re-directed as well. “My tomb. I

desire, as before, that it be prominent in the new basilica, but I have an

idea for the sculpture.”

“An idea, Holiness?” Michelangelo was guarded.

“Yes. I wish to be portrayed as King David.”

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Michelangelo shifted his weight nervously while he formed a

reply. “I had thought a more suitable forebear was Moses.”

“Moses? The stammerer?” The Pontiff scowled, threading his

fingers into his beard.

De’ Medici looked reproachfully at Michelangelo. Julius did not

like to be contradicted. “Moses, who brought God’s Commandments to

the world,” the Cardinal mediated. “A powerful image.”

Julius reflected for a moment, then grumbled, “Perhaps.”

“Very wise, Holiness,” Michelangelo said softly.

Piqued at having his argument evaporate, he changed subject

again. “Now, tell me about my chapel.”

“The chapel. Yes. The pendentives of Goliath and Holofernes are

completed, as are the Noah panels. The sibyls that run along both walls

are finished, and the prophets are sketched out in cartoon. I have several

new ideas.”

“So have I.” The Pope stared ceilingward, as though seeing the

final work. “In the center panel, you must paint ‘Christ in Majesty,’

with the new basilica rising up behind Him.”

“But Holiness, we agreed the whole ceiling would address the Old

Testament. After the Great Flood, the panels will move backward in

time toward Creation.”

Julius threaded his fingers again into his beard and narrowed his

eyes. “You contradict me too much, Michelangelo. Do not forget that

you are my instrument, the hand that holds the paintbrush. That’s all.”

Michelangelo dropped his glance. When he replied, it was through

nearly clenched teeth. “Yes, Holiness.”

“See to it then,” the Pope growled, dismissing him.

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XXviii

Giovanni de’ Medici nuzzled the neck of his favorite courtesan,

inhaling her perfume. “What a day I’ve had, Giselda. You

have no idea how exhausting it is trying to keep peace between His

Holiness and a temperamental artist.”

“Do not let such cares weigh you down of an evening, Eminence.

Who is it now?”

“Michelangelo. You know him, the red beard who carved the

‘Pieta’ in Saint Peter’s. He was summoned before Julius again, to

grovel, of course, but groveling is not in his character. One of these

days he will find himself having to flee for his life.”

She reached sideways toward a goblet of fruit wine that had

obviously been waiting and handed it to him. “Not all men are as

prudent as you.”

He took a long drink and licked his lips. “No, they are not. But I

profit from being the son of the great Lorenzo.”

“Il Magnifico,” she confirmed, taking the empty goblet from him

and drawing him toward her bed. “Even I’ve heard of him, and I’ve

never been to Florence. Tell me about it. Those must have been happy

days.” She sat down and patted the bed next to her.

He eased his ample bulk down beside her, caught up for a moment

in memory. “Yes, they were. Though I was with my family only until I

was fourteen and went away to study canon law. I remember some of

the men my father kept around him—Pico della Mirandola, Marsilio

Ficino. Michelangelo was there too, though much less well-behaved.

He got into a fight once with one of the other boys and came out of it

with a broken nose. He’s changed very little.”

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She unbuttoned his cassock and slid her hand inside over his

plump chest. “But that all ended, didn’t it?” She knew, more or less,

what happened. Everyone in Rome did. But she also was wise enough

to know he loved to talk about himself and the Medici.

He sighed. “Savonarola happened, of course, and the French.”

“Savonarola?” She knelt in front of him, undoing the rest of the

buttons on his long red cassock.

He let it fall open, sending up waves of heat from his thighs. “Yes,

an ascetic, Savonarola, arrived in Florence with the Medici blessings,

but then he began to make prophecies. He announced that he had spoken

directly to God and the saints about Judgment Day.”

“And people believed him?”

“Yes, you see, the Medici were losing power in the city. The new

century was approaching, and then the syphilis epidemic came. People

were sure there was a connection. Savonarola convinced the rabble that

the Last Days were coming and that he was sent by God to prepare us.

He stirred up enough support to overthrow the Medici and for awhile

got to be the new leader of the city. He liked that.”

Sitting on the bed again, Giselda helped him slip off the red satin

outer garment, then stroked his plump back. “A ‘Christian Republic.’”

He sneered. “As if all of Italy were not Christian. The first thing he did

was to make sodomy a capital offense. A despicable act, to be sure, but

hardly worth execution. And then it just got worse.”

“Even in Rome we heard about his great bonfire.” She pressed

playfully against his shoulder. “Did you see it?”

“No, it was too dangerous for anyone of the family to be present.

But my serving man went to the Piazza della Signoria and watched

the whole thing. They burned everything of value in the city. Mirrors,

cosmetics, books, sculptures, chess pieces, musical instruments,

ancient poetry. The fools even destroyed paintings by Botticelli and

Michelangelo.”

“But he was finally overthrown, wasn’t he?” Giselda sounded

deeply concerned while he opened her dressing gown and exposed

her splendid young breasts. He nibbled one of the soft nipples, until

it became hard. “Yes. God did not seem to come to the city’s aid so

Florence became tired of His prophet.”

“What happened?” She raised her eyebrows dramatically.

Leaning back, he allowed her to untie the cords that held

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his undergarments so that they fell open. Noting with satisfaction

the beginning of his tumescence, he continued. “Pope Alexander

excommunicated him, then arrested him for sedition. Half a year later

they burned him in the Piazza.”

He laid back the sides of the courtesan’s gown and exposed the

full length of her fair eighteen-year-old body. “So you see,” he said

playfully, roaming her body with hands that had become increasingly

pudgy as he ascended in rank, “that’s what happens when you spark the

ire of a Pope.”

“Do you mean that could happen to what’s-his-name? The

painter?” Now she was teasing him, he knew. She liked him to talk

politics while they had sex, and it did not dampen his lust in the least.

Quite the opposite. Talking about his achievements in the Vatican had

a direct physical effect on him. He took her hand and placed it on his

member, which was rising nicely to its task.

“No. Julius tolerates arguments from artists of that caliber, and his

successor will too.”

Giselda’s practiced hand did its work slowly and delicately, and

she spoke with a velvet voice. “His successor? That will be you, won’t

it? Surely you are favored to be the next Pope.”

He hardened suddenly both at her touch and her remark. “Ah,

Giselda, naughty girl, to say that.” His voice too silkened. “We must

not speak of such things before their time.”

“Then I will speak only of Michelangelo. Will you warn him?”

“Michelangelo will survive any Pope’s anger. It is Lady Borgia

who is in danger, at least until this tantrum passes. I suppose I should

warn her.”

He spread the courtesan’s white thighs and eased his great bulk

onto her, guiding himself into her welcoming wetness. “Right after

this.”

v

The innkeeper in the Via Agostino fawned greatly over the

Cardinal, kissing his holy ring with fervor before leading him to the

room of Adriana Borgia.

She greeted him at the door, made the same perfunctory obeisance

as always, then offered him wine.

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De’ Medici declined to sit down. “Most kind, Lady Borgia. But

I will not stay long. I only want to advise you that I was party to

Michelangelo’s conversation yesterday evening with His Holiness.”

“Ah, yes, Julius summoned him. Did it go well?”

The Cardinal chuckled. “As well as can be expected, given both

their natures. But your name came up. His Holiness is somewhat put

out that you invited both his painter and his best soprano to…well, to

what he sees as an evening of truancy.”

Adriana frowned. “I hope I haven’t jeopardized them.”

“That is unlikely, given their value to him. It is you, however, who

are the object of his irritation.”

Perturbation turned to alarm. “How great an irritation? The kind

that results in imprisonment?”

“I rather doubt he had imprisonment in mind. It’s simply that he

views his chosen artists as, well, his, and does not like anyone luring

them away. However, his fits of pique are short-lived, as long as you

avoid offending him again. Perhaps it would be wise to leave the city

for a week or ten days.”

“Leave Rome? To go where?”

He shrugged amiably. “Why not a trip to Florence? Didn’t you

say you wanted to talk with Maestro Sangallo about your garden? The

Medici still hold several houses there, not the least of which is the Villa

Careggi. My cousins will be happy to accommodate you.”

“I don’t know. You’ve caught me off guard.” Adriana paced the

room and did not know what to do with her hands.

“I am sorry, dear Lady. It’s possible I have read too much in His

Holiness’s remarks. He’s unlikely to be looking for blood, but there

are always little ways that he can punish you. Keep in mind that the

Vatican has confiscated all the Borgia lands but yours, and that only

because it was of no great value. If he sees the Villa Borgia as a haven

for recalcitrant artists, he might seize it, and what defense would you

have against a papal decree?”

“I see. Well, I suppose I could visit Maestro Sangallo as

Michelangelo suggested. Only for a week or ten days, you think?”

“That should be all that’s necessary. Just allow everyone to go

back to work as normal for awhile, and let His Holiness lose his temper

at someone else for a change. I am confident that nothing important will

happen while you are away.”

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When he was gone, Adriana packed gloomily, her anxiety in no

way assuaged by the Cardinal’s assurances. Confident, he had said. She

didn’t like that word. She had spent far too much time at the Vatican,

and then hiding from it, to be confident of anything.

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XXiX

Raphaela Bramante hiked up the too-loose trousers of her

disguise and climbed onto the high platform as she had nearly

every day for months. She set down her paint jar and mixed water

with powdered quicklime and the precious powdered cobalt glass of

Florence. Soon it had the uniform consistency of cream and the color

of a summer sky. She dipped a wide-bristle brush into the mix and laid

it in long strokes onto the still-moist plaster overhead. When it dried,

the pulverized glass would reflect light downward in such a way that it

would seem to shine.

But the wonder of it was past her now. Too much had happened.

She painted mechanically between the figures already there and let her

attention drift inward to Adriana Borgia, the woman who had driven

her mad.

First with the madness of working in the chapel in boy’s clothing.

Then the madness of serious disguise at Carnevale, a ruse that was,

in principle, only slightly madder than the first one. If she could be

a painter’s boy then, anonymous in the streets, she could also be a

gentleman.

At first she thought to only wander through the crowd, enjoying

the wicked pleasure of a rakish new identity. She saw the women with

different eyes, allowed herself to brush against them in the press of

people, bowing in cavalier apology and savoring the flirtation in their

responses. No drink had ever intoxicated her more. When some cheerful

fellow handed her a flask of real wine, her recklessness increased

tenfold. Then, in the Piazza del Popolo, among the race horses, she saw

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them, the Maestro, another gentleman she did not know, and Adriana

Borgia.

Raphaela stayed far back at first, fearing discovery. But she was

drawn irresistibly to follow the trio, and she managed to keep sight

of them along the Via del Corso and even through the river of the

moccoletti flames. Only when the object of her obsession turned around

and seemed to recognize her had a final madness overtaken her.

It was insane, she knew, but the hours of pursuit, the river of

flames, and the wine had altogether robbed her of her reason. And so

she surrendered to the drunken illicit urges that had been alive in her

during the months she worked in the chapel and throughout the years

she painted the mysterious face.

When Adriana became separated from the men for a moment,

Raphaela bolted forward, seized her, and took her to the only isolated

place she could think of, a dark confessional. Of all places. In that

closet of contrition, a fire swept through her as she touched the other

woman’s lips. Had it been a chamber rather than a confessional, she

would have torn the clothing from both of them and—somehow—

ravished her captive. The actual kiss, though she was gentle, was like a

bolt of lightning to her soul. When she fled the church, something was

destroyed in her and something else set free. Whatever line she crossed

that night, she never could step back again.

Yet in the months that followed, the moment began to seem unreal.

The ecstasy was so fleeting and the desire unacknowledged. Until the

kiss last night in the Borgia garden, with Adriana’s brief consent. Yes, it

was brief. But, oh—her heart pounded at the thought—it was consent.

The creaking of the platform brought her back to the present,

and she resumed painting the monotonous strokes of blue. The task

demanded little attention and so, in sidelong glances, she watched

Michelangelo work a scant two meters away. Reaching overhead he

shaped the twisted, bulging musculature of a nude male, laying the

tint on the intonaco in smooth, deliberate strokes. In the sweltering

closeness she could hear him breathing heavily from the strain of

painting so many hours with his head thrown back. He applied the color

in a rhythm, never stopping, adding warmth and depth. He called them

angels, though figures with such tight buttocks and bulging genitals

could hardly be angelic.

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She looked at the brush in her own hand, dripping the blue-white

color she had painted all day, and she was sick of it. She knelt down

to wash it clean. Her abrupt movement drew Michelangelo’s attention,

and when she stood up again clumsily, one leg still bent behind her, he

stood before her without his paintbrush. Resting his elbow on one hand

he rubbed his always-sore neck with the other.

“Maestro, I’m tired of background. I want to paint something

living,” she said, surprising herself with her impertinence. He did not

reply, but still rubbed his neck and seemed to wait for her to be more

specific. Fearing she had had offended him, but still determined, she

clasped her hands together as if in prayer.

“Any of them. Anything with shape. Please.”

“Paint the cherubs, then. Over there.” He pointed to the cartoon he

had transferred that morning, at the base of a painted column. A pair of

naked children standing back to back. “If you do it well, I’ll give you

more of them.”

She understood the challenge he was offering, to duplicate in

miniature the sheer physicality of his figures. She would prove herself

to him. The cherubs were to be paintings of statues, twice removed

from flesh. But she could enliven them, as he did, with shading and

expression. If he drew them plump, she would paint them voluptuous;

if he gave them to her innocent, she would reveal their sensuality.

Everything around her suddenly seemed charged. The light in the

clerestory windows, the shriek of the kestrels circling over the chapel,

the fragrant pines in the Vatican park—every object swelled with

revelation. This is what she’d waited for. As she swept her brush in little

curves over rounded angel limbs and torsos, she felt as if she joined

him in his creation, so that together, stroke by stroke, they covered the

Sistine ceiling with new life.

• 190 •

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XXX

Domenico knelt again on the hard floor of the confessional in

Santa Maria Maggiore. “Bless me father, for I have sinned. It

has been many months since my last confession and I have succumbed

again to the temptation of the flesh.” The ritual opening phrase of the

sacrament comforted him and terrified him at the same time, for it was

the first step in a change of life.

“In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit,”

the priest intoned, and Domenico recoiled. It was Cardinal Carafa.

His hands began to tremble. Why did a priest of such high station

hear ordinary confessions? A man who had already caught him in his

shame and threatened him with death. How would a confession before

the priest differ from an admission in a prison cell? Domenico froze.

Then, as if God knew his fear and sent an angel to speak through

the Cardinal’s voice, the confessor said with utmost gentleness, “Have

no fear, my son. There is no sin save blasphemy, which is beyond

forgiveness. Surrender your guilt to the body of Christ, which is the

Church, and be at peace.”

At the soothing reassurance of the priest, Domenico relaxed, and

it seemed a great weight was taken from him. No, there was nothing to

be afraid of. He was in the holy confessional, carrying out a sacrament,

utterly protected by God. He did not kneel before a magistrate, but

before an instrument of the Holy Mother Church, and here his repentance

cleansed his soul. He would be sanctified and joined again with Christ.

There was peace in obedience and in purity of heart, and he desperately

needed peace.

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“I have committed lewdness and fornication.”

There was a moment of silence. Then, “Do you truly repent of this

sin before God?”

“I do, Father. Now and forever, with God’s help.”

“If you are repentant, God forgives this sin too. If you open up

your soul to receive the healing Grace, I will bear witness to your

repentance, for I am the instrument of God’s mercy.”

“I repent. In body and soul. I prostrate myself. Only tell me my

penance, Father.”

“You must renounce your partner in sin, the one who tempted

you.”“Renounce…yes, I do renounce them. Yet the sin is mine and I

take it upon myself alone. No other souls should be tainted by it.”

“Souls? Have you sinned with several partners? Have you also

betrayed one for another? This too is a sin in the sight of God.”

Domenico hesitated again. “Yes. I have betrayed one for another. I

let another person touch me because I felt a great affection. But I repent

of the act, Father. I renounce it and seek forgiveness.”

“With whom have you committed this sin? This person’s soul is

also in mortal danger.”

“I cannot tell you, Father. Each sinner must confess himself and

not through another. As for me, I am weary of the iniquities of night

and of secrecy.”

Through the grillwork between them, Domenico could see the

vague outline of the Cardinal’s head nodding. Then the priest raised

his stole toward him. “What the priest determines on earth, God affirms

on high in Heaven. Prostrate yourself before God and mortify the flesh

when it rises against you. If your penitence is sincere, God will know

it. I absolve you. Go in peace.”

Domenico crept out of the confessional emotionally drained, but

at peace. All that remained now was to tell Michelangelo.

v

The prisoner sat hunched in the corner of the coach, his tortured

arms draped limply over his knees. He could move them again, but

only feebly and painfully, for the interrogators had hung him by his

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wrists pulled up behind his back and dislocated his shoulders. Still, he

was the lucky one, the one who had confessed and given information.

The others arrested with him lay on the floor of their cells, flogged to

unconsciousness.

The coach was crowded, with Cardinal, Cardinal assistant, four of

the guardians of morality, and their prisoner. It rumbled without light

along the sordid and pothole-strewn streets of the Trastevere.

“That’s the place,” the prisoner said weakly. “In the alley just

behind the broken cart.”

“By the lantern?” Cardinal Carafa signaled the driver to stop the

coach.“Yes,” the prisoner replied. “It’s the boys in the doorways near

the stable.”

“All right. You know what to do,” the Cardinal said to the senior

guardian.

The four men leapt from the coach and crept past the upturned cart

and into the alley.

“You’ve been spared the flames this time,” the Cardinal spoke to

the prisoner. “Now go and sin no more.”

The tortured man seemed confused by the unexpected reprieve.

“Get out,” the Cardinal assistant added. “Obey God and never

come to this street again.”

“Thank you, your lordships.” The prisoner lurched from

the coach, stumbled, and cried out as he fell on an injured

shoulder. He clambered awkwardly to his feet again and staggered

like a drunken man along the street until he was out of sight.

“It is despicable what the Borgias let flourish in Rome,” Cardinal

Carafa muttered. “No matter how many of them we punish, more keep

appearing, like worms from a carcass. His Holiness arms for military

conquests and stares misty-eyed at foreign maps like some spice trader.

And all the while this abomination dishonors the bones of Saint Peter

and the Holy See.”

“Some say the practice comes from the French,” the Cardinal

assistant replied, lighting a lantern now that the raid was underway.

“Others claim it began after the knights returned from Saracen lands.

Foul influences from outside infecting the Roman spirit.”

“It’s not just Saracens and Jews who threaten decency. Pagan

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voluptuousness is everywhere, painted on Roman walls and standing as

statues in Roman gardens. Families like the Medici and the Piccolomini

betray the old values by cultivating the wanton new fashions.”

The Cardinal assistant raised the flame in the lantern, illuminating

the bony skull of the Cardinal. “You’re right, Eminence. In matters of

virtue it seems sometimes that the barbarians are at the gates.”

“They are within the gates. And it is not only the foreigners who

have physically intruded and now poison us. Even from afar they infect

the Christian soul through that most dangerous of devices, the printing

press.”

“Ah, yes. The heretical writings that circulate. Very dangerous.”

Cardinal Carafa watched the dark street for the return of his hunters.

“Dangerous indeed. Burning John Hus at the stake has not stopped his

words from spreading like vermin. And more recently this Erasmus

fellow plagues us from Venice. Have you seen his latest, In Praise of

Folly? A filthy attack on the traditions of the Holy Church.” He shook

his head. “I tell you, Rome needs a scourge, and if God so wills, it shall

be me. I am not without allies, as this Pope will discover.”

The assistant lifted the curtain and peered again into the street.

“They’re coming back. It looks like they’ve got a few. Eminence has

been successful tonight.”

The guardians dragged three men behind them on a single rope,

all battered and bleeding from various head wounds. The one in charge

attached the rope to the rear of the coach.

The closest one, a well-formed lad in a red cape, lifted his hands

toward the Cardinal. “Please, your lordship. I am a simple butcher,

waiting for my brother to arrive this night. I have done nothing wrong.”

He held his hands in prayer fashion before the face of the prelate and

the Cardinal saw, to his disgust, that the index finger was merely a

stump.“Shut this man up, Captain,” the Cardinal said, and the officer

knocked the criminal with his fist on the side of his head.

The Cardinal’s coach started up again, dragging the three felons

along the pitted streets of the Trastevere. All fell silent as they made

their way to the Castel Sant’ Angelo prison.

Satisfied, as if after a hard physical labor, Cardinal Carafa let his

thoughts wander. Well done, he congratulated himself. Three sodomites

caught tonight. He would catch others in the nights to come until the

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city was rid of them. There was plenty of crime in Rome: theft, rape,

brutality, murder, as in cities elsewhere. It seemed a part of human

nature. But he took it as a personal defiling of the Christ when men—

virtually under the papal windows—visited their lust upon each other.

He could not imagine spending a single day in any pursuit other

than service to Christ, who had suffered such agony for men. The

suffering of sinners as they were made to repent, even on the rack and

in the flame, was trivial before the suffering of the Son of God. As pain

brought one closer to God’s Grace, so voluptuousness drove one away

from it. And he could not fathom a more vile pleasure of the flesh than

two men copulating. He would find them, every one of them, and burn

the sin out of them.

Yet there was one who eluded him, maddeningly, by his own

contrition. The castrato.

A curious dilemma, to have heard the boy’s confession in Church.

He could scarcely arrest him after having given him absolution, and so

he was torn on the question of which was more important, cleansing

God’s holy city or keeping the sacrament of confession. Yet it was

clear, the singer had relapsed at least once and was incorrigible in his

sin. A devil was in him that had to be exorcised.

It would be a sort of chess game, to isolate and catch him in his

sin while he was protected. Not only by his own intermittent piety, but

by the troublesome painter and the Borgia whore. Both of them caused

bile to rise in him, for they were skillful at feigning piety while their

contempt of him was clear.

Like a candle suddenly igniting in the darkness it came to him.

His Holiness should learn of the boy’s confession. Yes, Julius needed

to know that his saintly singer had given himself carnally yet again and,

worse, by his own admission had gone from one man’s bed to another.

That would bring matters to a head.

v

The housekeeper touched the dozing woman lightly on her arm.

Slouched in an armchair in her chamber, Raphaela awoke with a

start, dropping the sketches that had rested on her lap.

“There is a gentleman in the library, Signorina,” Bruna said.

“Did you tell him that Signor Bramante was not home?”

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“He wishes to speak with you, Signorina. He says he has your

father’s permission to visit. Very odd.”

Annoyed and intrigued in equal measure, Raphaela rubbed the

sore muscles in the small of her back and followed the housekeeper

to the formal sitting room. Only one candelabrum was lit, and so the

high-ceilinged room seemed engulfed in darkness but for the spot in the

corner where a young man paced excitedly.

“Livio.” Raphaela recognized her visitor with annoyance. “Well,

you are persistent. I give you that.” To the housekeeper she said, “It’s

all right, Bruna. I know him, and he will not stay long.”

Reluctantly, Bruna went into the next room, though Raphaela

noted that she carefully left the door ajar.

Livio Farnese was cheerful, in a nervous, tentative way. “I had to

tell you the good news,” he said. “I’ve come into money and I’ll have

even more soon. Now I can ask your father for your hand.”

“Livio, you don’t understand—”

“No, let me finish. It is a special position, a secret one, for the

Curia. I already have my first assignment. The work’s a little dangerous,

they said, but that’s why the pay’s so good. In a few months I’ll be able

to afford you.”

“Afford me?” Raphaela laughed softly. “You really don’t have any

idea, do you? Look, Livio. I never gave you reason to hope. It’s not

you, it’s just that I don’t wish to marry anyone.”

“Don’t be silly. All women marry and in the end are happy. You’ll

see. I’ve already talked to your father and he has no objection.”

“Ah, that’s interesting. He neglected to mention it to me.”

Livio began to pace again. “It’s just that, well, my current

employment is secret, you see. I may have to be gone from Rome now

and again, for certain periods of time. Just to let you know what you

are in for.”

“What I am in for?” Raphaela echoed. “I don’t see how I am part

of your intrigues.”

He seemed not to hear her and resumed his announcement. “It’s

so secretive that I don’t know exactly who I am dealing with. There

was just a messenger sent by someone in the Curia with no other

explanation. I am to do a certain job, and when it’s done, I’ll receive

the rest of the payment.”

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“It sounds pretty suspicious to me. Like something you might

regret when you find out what is expected.”

“It can’t be bad if it’s for the Curia. And I told you. It’s a lot of

money. There’s just one thing.” He held out a note that Raphaela could

see had been opened and then resealed with wax of another color. “It’s

my assignment. They told me to burn it, but I want you to keep it for

me. I’ve resealed it because it is a secret and you shouldn’t even know

about it. But if something happens, you’ll have it.” He made the last

remark with such sincerity and warmth that she almost felt sorry for

him. “I’d rather not be involved in this, you know.” She sighed. “All

right. If it makes you feel safer.” She drew out a book from the library

shelf and tucked the letter between two pages.

“I’ll return in a few days, and you can give it back to me. Then we

can talk some more. About the future, and us.”

“Fine. Go ahead and do whatever it is they’ve hired you to do.

Please, just don’t think you’re doing it for me.”

“We’ll see about that,” he said, then leaned over and planted a

quick kiss on her forehead. “Good night, my dear Raphaela. Dream

about me tonight.”

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XXXi

Like the Villa Borgia, the Villa Medici di Careggi was a working

farm. So although the fortified estate had the character of a

small castle, it was not soldiers that Adriana met upon arrival, but a

flock of goats.

The day was well along, but there was sufficient light for her to

admire the garden from the upper-story loggia. As she gazed out over

the flowering bushes, it struck her that she was staying at the villa that

Silvio had talked about, where Ficino had held his Platonic academy.

She found it inspiring to know she was housed where Donatello,

Bruntelleschi, and Michelangelo himself had exchanged ideas under

the Great Lorenzo’s patronage. Did they ever quarrel? She smiled to

herself. If Michelangelo was there, they probably did.

In the first days she sketched out the ground plan of her “pagan”

orchard. Between walks in the garden, she refined the details and

calculated the costs. Now she needed only to know what the great

Sangallo would suggest to add the last refinements.

On the fifth day she rode into Florence, and as her coach rolled

north from the Arno along the Via Roma she ruminated on the city itself.

Having never been an imperial capital, Florence had never deteriorated

from greatness as Rome had done. For all the bloodletting and the shifts

of power, from Lorenzo to Savonarola to the Republic, Florence stayed

the same, a prosperous city of cloth makers and bankers.

The traffic was heavy and she was anxious. It would not do to

insult Giuliano da Sangallo by being late. “Try going up the Via dei

Angeli,” she called up to the coachman.

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She had sudden misgivings about the project. Was she perhaps

treading on artistic territory reserved for men, introducing whimsy

where they had created law? Was Raphaela’s original idea too wild,

like Raphaela herself?

Raphaela, whose hands had touched her and whose mouth tasted

of wine. Adriana brushed the last thought from her mind, like a strand

of hair from her face, but it returned, distracting her. As a sobering

antidote, she thought of Domenico, wading in a stream near Tivoli

and offering her his flask. Domenico and Raphaela. How she felt torn

between them. One was water, cleansing water, and the other one was

wine.Finally the coach arrived before a wooden double door with iron

grillwork in its upper half and a brass plate that showed the name

Sangallo. A servant opened and led her through an inner court and up a

short flight of stairs into the studio. In a spacious, well-lit room were a

single large table and a few chairs. On the wall behind it were shelves

of leather-bound volumes and folders tied in neat bundles. On the far

wall a handsome cabinet fronted with glass contained brass measuring

instruments.

Giuliano Sangallo strode into the room. “Ah, Madama Borgia. A

pleasure.” The servant drew up chairs and the two sat down facing each

other at the table. “If you don’t mind, we should come directly to the

matter,” he began. “I’m expecting an important visitor this afternoon

and am pressed for time.” He held out his hand toward the roll that lay

across her lap. “Let’s see what you have for me.”

“I appreciate how busy you are, Maestro Sangallo, and shall not

take long.” She handed him the scroll and clasped her hands like a

child waiting for approval. Without rising from his chair, he unrolled

the drawing on the table, anchoring it at the corners with the inkpots.

Adriana saw it now over his shoulder with unfamiliar eyes, realizing

suddenly how eccentric it was.

She had sketched out a light pencil grid of some hundred cells.

At its center was the old beech tree, and radiating out from it on four

transecting axes were fruit and olive trees. Four lesser axes were dotted

with flowering shrubs, and between all the radii were classical statues,

male and female. The grid seemed to provide an overlay of order

through which the greenery and the statuary exploded in a star-shaped

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pattern. At the far end of the orchard a curving watercourse descended

the hill and snaked among the trees. Stone nymphs interrupted its flow

at intervals, causing the water to cascade around them.

The architect squinted over the draft and stroked his neck under

his ear with a single fingernail. Finally he cleared his throat. “I confess,

Madama, I don’t know what to think. You seem rather to cross over into

quite another world. May I ask what these are?”

“Nymphs and satyrs, and pagan gods. Wild things amongst the

fruit trees.”

“Hmm.” He scratched again. “You will have peasants harvesting

fruit among statues. That is putting fine art in vulgar nature. Art is not

nature, but its opposite.”

She did not reply.

“Let me show you what I mean, from the plan of a similar estate

which I designed.” Sangallo unrolled his drawing over her own and

anchored it with the same inkpots. “You see? Balance and symmetry,

illumination of the perfect laws of God.”

The Sangallo plan began with a walled quadrant with square

towers at its corners. The quadrant was exactly quartered and at its

center stood a square house. The quartered land within the walls held

gardens, each subdivided into squares of vegetation. She knew without

asking that the number of squares counted in both directions would be

the same and that the sum total would be divisible by four. The entire

plan was a paean to geometric order. By comparison, her work was

random and capricious. She bit her lip.

His final judgment was inevitable. “Signora Borgia, your plan has

a sort of recklessness. I must tell you, on purely aesthetic grounds, I

would suggest significant changes.” Sangallo rolled up his drawing and

retied it with its ribbon. He let a few moments pass for the lesson to take

hold. “Madama—” The servant’s knock interrupted him.

“What is it, Marcello?”

“Maestro Sangallo, your other visitor has arrived. He apologizes

for coming so early, but his first engagement was canceled and… Well,

he waits in the anteroom.”

“Oh, no.” Sangallo flushed with embarrassment. “Madam, I beg

you excuse me. I must admit him. It is unfortunate. Very unfortunate. I

do apologize, but it is necessary that I conclude our discussion.”

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“Of course, Maestro Sangallo.” She stood up from the table where

her own drawing was still unrolled, mocking her with its amateurishness.

Sangallo addressed his servant. “Well, what are you waiting for? Admit

him at once.”

In a moment, a man in his late fifties entered. Wavy gray hair

fell to his shoulders. His face, though well marked with wrinkles, was

pleasing, and Adriana imagined he had been quite handsome in his

youth. He wore a full-sleeved robe of dark green fabric that reached to

his ankles and over it a brick red zimarra of similar length. It was well

cut and of fine material but conservative of style, well suited to a man

of age and dignity.

“Maestro Leonardo da Vinci, may I introduce Lady Adriana

Borgia? We have been looking over her plans for a development of her

orchard.”

The great man turned his full attention to her in a manner both

paternal and aloof. She sensed no special warmth, but a mild courtesy

that sufficed in its place. “Is that so?” His voice was as smooth as the

hand that took hers.

“Yes, the Signora wishes to landscape her villa, and I have shown

her the ground plan for the Villa di Poggio.”

“It’s the fruit orchard. However, Maestro Sangallo finds my design

chaotic.”

“Chaotic is perhaps overstated,” Sangallo cautioned.

“An artistic fruit orchard. Might I have a look at it, Madama?”

Leonardo withdrew a pair of spectacles from his pocket and curled the

wires over his ears. As he studied the drawing Adriana braced herself

for the second humiliation of the day.

“A working orchard with statuary. Of the gods of antiquity.

Intriguing idea. Your design for irrigation from a watercourse with

nymphs is audacious, but it will require considerable water flow. You

might need to add a reservoir here at the top of your slope.”

“You mean you think that the project is artful?” she asked,

confused.

He peered at her over the top of his spectacles. “You are crossing

lines here, of course. When you mix genres, frivolously and without a

purpose, you mark yourself as an amateur. But your plan, Madama, does

not seem frivolous. I see a vision here and a vitality in your disorder.”

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Sangallo had taken hold of the door handle, and Adriana took it as

a signal for her to exit. She rolled up her drawing, then offered her hand

to both men. “I thank you for your time, and yours as well, Maestro

Sangallo. I won’t impose any longer.”

Leonardo took the occasion to walk with her to the door and

into the corridor. “I was acquainted with Cesare, you know. I was an

engineer in his service in 1502, I believe. At Urbino and Pesaro.”

“Yes, I remember you. It was just that one summer, wasn’t it?”

“I had many irons in the fire. And other horses to shoe.” He

chuckled at his metaphor. “And there were more horses who wanted art

than wanted war machines. A pity, though. Some were very good.”

He glanced down at the garden plan that she held rolled in her hand.

“Do not be dissuaded, Lady Borgia. Inviting the classical images into

your industry is very much in keeping with the new ideas. Orthodoxy

has its own beauty, but the time comes when one should step out of

it.” Behind him in the studio, Giuliano Sangallo cleared his throat

again, reminding his distinguished guest that he waited.

Adriana felt a sudden affection for the elderly artist. “A friend of

mine said the same thing recently, about crossing lines.”

Leonardo started toward the studio, but glanced back and smiled.

“I’ve crossed a few in my time, in my wilder days,” he said mysteriously,

and waved playfully with his fingertips while Sangallo closed the studio

door behind him.

v

Adriana pulled aside the curtain as the coach halted in the piazza

before the Palazzo Vecchio. In the midst of the midday noise and

activity he stood there. The magnificent “David.”

It pleased her to think that the beautiful boy had marble “sisters”

in the Madonna and Temptress that hung around her neck.

As Michelanglo had warned, the statue was long and narrow.

Rather like Domenico. Yes, though Domenico was surely less muscular,

they shared the long arms and legs, the beautiful brooding face. But the

sculptor was evident in the statue too. There seemed to be a strain in

his deeply cut frown, like the strain that was always in Michelangelo

himself. She felt a sudden melancholy and a kinship with both men.

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A fine mist of rain had started to fall, and she called up to the

coachman, “Drive on, please. To Careggi.” As the coach rolled again

over the Arno, one of Domenico’s most poignant songs went through

her head. Lacrimosa dies illa, she began to hum to herself.

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XXXii

Where were you? I’ve waited for hours.” Michelangelo pulled

Domenico into the entryway of his workshop and pushed

the door closed.

“I’m sorry. You know it’s always difficult to get out.” Domenico

looked everywhere but into Michelangelo’s eyes.

“No matter. You’re here finally. I’ve been wanting you all night, and

now we’ve only got a few hours before dawn.” Michelangelo embraced

him ardently, rubbing his face against the silken hair, inhaling its scent.

“You’ve made me love the smell of incense and candle smoke,” he said,

pressing his lips against hair, cheek, mouth.

Domenico yielded at first, accepting the urgent kiss. Aroused

by the invasion of his mouth, he stood passive in the tight embrace

and felt one hand slide down his back to his buttock. The other hand

moved around to the inside of his thigh to the softness between his

legs, curving around it and then squeezing gently. Heat spread through

his groin and he spread his legs slightly, feeling blood rush to his sex.

Memory of their last encounter stirred the urge to tear off his clothing

and let himself be entered, filled, possessed.

He wrenched himself free, panting, waiting for the fever to subside.

Wiping away the wetness from his mouth he pushed away the hand that

held his sex. “Mother of God,” he whispered.

“What’s wrong?” Michelangelo asked. “You don’t want me? Is

that why you’re late? There’s someone else?”

Domenico chuckled bitterly. “Don’t always be so jealous, Michelo.

It’s not anything like you think. There has been someone else, but in a

way you would not imagine.”

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“What are you talking about? It’s someone in the Chapel Choir,

isn’t it? De Grassis? Who?” Michelangelo’s rough hand grasped his

upper arm.

“I can’t tell you. I won’t tell you. It’s not important any more.”

Domenico looked away. “I went the other day to Santa Maria del

Popolo. To confess.”

“Confess?” Michelangelo’s hand lifted abruptly. “You’ve exposed

us?” He took a step backward, appalled.

“No. I confessed only for myself and named no partner. Forgive

me. I had to do it.”

“For God’s sake, why? I risked everything for you. I can’t believe

you would treat us so lightly.”

“My risk was as great as yours. You don’t know.”

“Did you think confessing would take away the danger? How do

you know they won’t arrest you again? Or me?”

“I told you, I didn’t name you. As for me, they can do with me

what they want now. I renounce the physical. My place in this world

was taken from me anyhow the hour I was given to the knife. I’ve had

to live half a life, and that in darkness. Only my soul is whole and I give

it to the Sistine Chapel.”

“Your body is whole too, Domenico. What does it matter that you

can’t have children? You’re as much a man as I am.”

Domenico turned his head away. “I want children. You have no

idea how much I long to have a family of my own. I’m not given to the

world, like you, but to God.”

“Is that what they’ve told you? That’s how they justify what they

did to you?”

Domenico’s voice was tight with new conviction. “Caro, I must

believe that what was done to me had a purpose—that it was for God.

Otherwise I could not bear the injustice. And if it was done for God,

then I must serve Him truly, in the role that He has given me.” He

swallowed with difficulty, as if something had lodged within his throat.

“Don’t you see? Either I am God’s solemn servant, or I am a travesty.”

He pressed his lips together, holding back tears. “I’m tired of being a

dirty joke of virile men.”

Michelangelo’s hand slid upward to the smooth, never-shaven

cheek. “You’re none of those things, and I’ll throttle any man that says

them. You’re better than all of them.” He exhaled slowly and his voice

grew plaintive. “Please, don’t go.”

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“God forgive me, Michelo. I love you, but I love salvation more.”

Domenico took the caressing hand from his face. “When you see me

tomorrow in the chapel you’ll understand that I belong there.” As he

stepped through the doorway, he lifted one hand to say farewell and

Michelangelo grasped it, pressing it to his lips.

“Don’t forget, you promised me a saint,” Domenico said. “I shall

look for him.”

Michelangelo reluctantly released his hand, and rough fingers slid

slowly along smooth ones until they separated. “And you promised me

a miracle.”

Domenico ran from the Piazza Rusticucci along the empty streets

back toward the Vatican complex. In less than an hour, still well before

dawn, he reached the Piazza San Pietro. In the mist, the crunch of his

shoes on the gravel seemed louder than usual. He hurried to the side

of the broad steps leading up to the basilica along the wall supporting

them, toward the north portal. His path would take him onto the narrow

street running along the Papal Palace past the Sistine Chapel and to the

rooms where he housed. He hoped the gate he had left open remained

undiscovered.

Just before he reached the portal he heard their voices, and then

he saw them, two ominous shadows atop the wall to his left. He knew

the danger at once. They had been standing under the loggia at the

top of the steps, he guessed. So easy to see and hear him in the empty

plaza.He began to run and they dropped like predators from the wall

directly behind him. In spite of their proximity, his long legs gave him

an advantage as he ran down the narrow street adjoining the Papal

Palace. He widened the distance between them and calculated whether

it would give him enough time to reach gate to the courtyard and to

safety.Then he heard a third man fall in behind him on the gravel. His

panic grew and he turned abruptly toward the left, down the alley to the

door of the Sistine Chapel basement. Surely they would not touch him

in the chapel. He threw himself against the heavy door.

Locked.

Hearing them he turned around again, panting through dry lips.

Three men emerged from the mist, and two of them held cudgels. They

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closed in slowly, like wolves, and one of them called out in a mockery

of sweetness.

“Look, boys, it’s our little cocksucker.” Domenico backed up,

pressing himself against the indifferent wood.

The one who spoke reached him in two paces and pulled him from

the doorway. The circle closed around him, and on some signal they

began to kick and pummel him. He covered his face with his forearms

and felt the sudden explosion of a fist in his stomach. As he dropped

his hands to his pain, the wood struck him on the side of his head. The

concussion made his ears ring and knocked him to his knees. Another

blow to his forehead split the skin at his scalp line. Covering his head

again, he felt the toe of a foot kick upward under his chest, knocking the

breath from his lungs. He gasped for air. Another blow from the wood

caught him at the back of the head, stunning him and erasing his vision.

He mumbled, fearfully, “Salva me, salva me.”

“What’s he saying, Livio?”

“I don’t know. Look, let’s just get this over with, okay?”

“Some Latin shit,” the third man said. “Where d’ya learn that,

pervert? From sucking some priest’s dick?”

The wood connected again with his unprotected face, splitting his

lips and breaking his clenched teeth. Another blow shattered his nose.

Gradually the pain gave way to numbness and nausea until he felt only

fear and the fluid oozing in rivulets down his face. He knew then that

they would kill him.

Sightless and on his hands and knees, he reached out toward

the voice of his attacker. “Agnus Dei qui tollis peccata mundi,” he

murmured .

“Sounds like he’s asking to be fucked. I’ve got something to

fuck you with, pervert.” One of them danced around him holding up

a stiletto.

Domenico whispered through bloody ruined lips. “I forgive

you . ”“Cocksucker!” A final blow to the back of his head fractured his

skull, and he pitched forward onto the ground, unconscious. When the

point of the stiletto was forced into his rectum, tearing clothes and flesh,

he felt no pain.

Withdrawing his weapon, the leader prodded the unconscious man

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with his foot, turning him onto his back. He took hold of a lock of hair

that had fallen over the shattered face and sliced through it with the

bloody blade. “We’re done here,” he said, and stood up.

Bending down quickly on one knee, Livio cut the tangled purse-

strings and snatched the bundle of coins before following the others.

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XXXiii

Oh, dear God!” In the early morning rain, the sacristan hurrying

through the chapel court with his cowl over his face stumbled

over the unconscious man. Panicked, he did an about-face and ran to

summon help.

Within moments he returned with two priests, who bore the

battered form of the singer into the chapel basement. “What monster

would do this?” the sacristan lamented, guiding the priests to a bench

against the wall where they could lay him. While they draped his limp

arms across his chest, the sacristan fetched a lantern.

In the sphere of lantern light, one of the priests knelt down, making

the sign of the cross. He pressed his fingers to the side of the boy’s

throat for a moment. “Send for the Vatican physician. It may be that he

still lives.” Drawing a pyx from the burse, which hung around his neck,

the priest removed a tiny particle of host and touched it to the torn lips

of the singer. “Corpus Domini nostri Jesu Christi custodiat te in vitam

aeternam.” He began the viaticum.

At that moment a wiry figure strode through the door and halted

suddenly. Two assistants, both carrying long rolls of paper, halted with

him. “What’s happened?” the man asked the sacristan.

“The castrato, Maestro Buonarroti. Assaulted.”

The priest droned absolution for all sins and made the sign of the

cross in the air over the body. Then he opened a small vial and anointed

the cold forehead and hand with drops of oil. “Per istam unctionem

liberet te Dominus ab omnibus peccatis tuis in nomine Patris et Filii et

Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”

The painter stood wordlessly for a moment and then stepped into

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the sphere of lantern light. He stared down at the mutilated man. His

face, illuminated from below, was ashen. His young assistants stepped

back into the darkness, waiting for instructions. But there were none.

There was only the crashing of the rain on the pavestones outside

and the murmuring of the priest. When the sacrament was finished,

the sacristan said, “Maestro de Grassis must be informed at once. The

boy’s family too.”

The painter replied impassively, “He has none. Not in Italy. Only

a few friends.”

The priest made the sign of the cross again. “Dominus vobiscum,”

he whispered as another man came through the door.

“The physician is here,” the sacristan announced. The medicus

knelt and pressed his fingers, as the priest had done, to the victim’s

throat, then examined the swollen face and head. Finally he undid the

buttons on the front of the doublet and, pulling it open, he pressed his

ear against the cold chest. “He lives, but barely.”

Michelangelo knelt down next to him. “Have you no potion,

Dottore, to waken him even for a moment? To let him hear my

voice?”

“I fear I do not, Signore.” The physician closed the singer’s shirt

again. “There is blood between his legs, from some internal injury, and

his skull seems to be fractured. He could linger for a few hours or even

for days in this way, but without a miracle he will not recover. If he has

family or loved ones, they should be summoned now.”

“A miracle,” Michelangelo muttered, and got to his feet. He took

the paper roll from the hand of one of his apprentices and tore off a

corner. With a piece of charcoal from his pouch, he scribbled a note.

Then he turned to the older of the two apprentices, who held his wet hat

in his hand. Water still dripped from its feather. “Pierro, can I trust you

to carry a letter for me all the way to Florence?”

“Of course, Maestro. You can trust me with anything.”

“Take a strong horse and leave as soon as you can.” Michelangelo

pressed the paper into the boy’s hand. “The message is for Lady Adriana

Borgia. Ask at the city gate for directions to the Villa Careggi. I will pay

the costs of the journey.”

“Yes, Maestro. I have a good horse and can leave right now.” He

exchanged a few words with the younger boy and then stepped out into

the rain.

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v

Pope Julius dozed fitfully at his desk until his chamberlain knocked

and opened the door. “They are here, Holiness.”

The Pope rose and drew on a cloak over his alb. “What time is it?

Is it morning?”

“No, Holiness. It is still night. The messengers are here. Shall I

let them in?”

The Pope nodded and the chamberlain signaled the door guard.

As the Pontiff sat down on his high-backed chair, Gian Pietro Carafa

entered with three boys. The Cardinal remained at the back of the room

while the three boys came forward and knelt, forming a triangle.

“Is it done?” the Pope asked. His fingers tightened over the chair

arms.“Yes, Holiness, just a little while ago.” The leader got to his feet

and approached with lowered head. Without lifting his eyes from the

papal slippers, he held out the dark bundle in his hand.

The Pope took the clump of hair and waved the boy back. He

lifted it to his nose, held it for awhile, and nodded.

“That’s all. You can go now,” he said to the boys. “The Cardinal

will take care of you. You know what to do, don’t you, Cardinal

Carafa?”

“Yes, Holiness. I know your wishes,” Carafa said neutrally.

The three assailants edged out backward through the open

doorway. The Cardinal followed but at the threshold looked back for a

moment and stared in shock.

By the dim light of a single candelabra, Pope Julius held the lock

of smoky hair to his face and wept.

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XXXiv

Two days’ journey, Adriana calculated, if she did not stop

except to rest the horses. Could she make it to Rome in time,

while he still lived? She reread the scribbled note, but it told her no

more than at the first reading.

It was late afternoon. Fortunately her trunk was already packed for

an early morning departure so she could leave without delay. She had

perhaps four more hours of daylight left. With luck they could make it

as far as the way station at Ponte Nueva before darkness. If the moon

was bright, as it had been, they could continue more slowly through

the night.

The messenger prepared to leave immediately on his own, and she

gave him a silver coin for his trouble. Half an hour later she was on the

road behind him.

She sat, biting her lip, willing the horses to go faster, willing the

landscape to move by more quickly. The coach wheels jerked in and out

of the ruts, throwing her from side to side.

As the hours passed and the sun dropped slowly westward, all

her memories of him came back. The angelic Spanish boy who came

into her life like a blessing, like the child she would never have. He

sat quietly behind Juan on the horse riding from Jativa to Valencia, but

brightened during the passage on the caravel Penitentia sailing from

Valencia to Rome.

It was his first time at sea, his first time even seeing the sea, so it

was understandable that he should be overwhelmed at first. But when he

lost his fear, everything fascinated him. Everything, from the enclosed

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privy that hung out over the sea, to the cannons and the cargo hold and

the way the sails could be raised and lowered as needed.

It had not surprised her that on the three-week journey the sailors,

rough-hewn though they were, had also become smitten with him. How

could they not? He was as beautiful as a girl, and they assumed he was

their son, a Borgia princeling. But he also won over the sailors because

he clearly was in awe of everything they did. Men who had been driven

like beasts all their lives had never known admiration and, suddenly

given it, they began to show off for him. They called him over while

they stood their watch and told him all they knew. They explained that

the square sail was for speed and the lateen for sailing into the wind,

that they did not need to hug the shore, but could sail from distant

landmark to landmark and by soundings from the bottom. Before a

week passed, he was eating hardtack with them and learning about the

main mast and the mizzen, the yardarm and the halyards. By the second

week, they took him aloft with them, let him climb the rigging, and

took him finally to the crow’s nest.

Midway through the voyage Adriana began to wonder why their

private food supply was dwindling so quickly, before she realized he

had been sharing it with the seamen. It was true, the crew’s single hot

meal cooked on deck did seem pretty dreadful and their beer was sour,

but Juan had made it clear that it was in the nature of things. Noblemen

ate well and seamen did not.

They had been lucky for most of the journey; there were no serious

storms. The three of them stood at the railing each morning, waiting

for the navigator to consult the rudder book and the compass bearings.

Domenico watched with the men for the “kennings,” the mountains

or capes or other landmarks, which could be seen far from shore and

tell them what port they were approaching or sweeping past. First

Barcelona, then Marseille, Genoa, Sienna, and finally Ostia.

When the sea became rough, just after Marseille, she found him

with the men praying out loud, the sailors to Saint Elmo and Domenico

to Saint Anne. She had no idea why he chose Anne. Maybe for the same

reason Brother Martin did, appealing to the kindly grandmother of the

divine family.

The coach halted and Adriana was roused suddenly from her

reverie. Night had fallen and they’d arrived at the village way station

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where they would rest and water the horses. She climbed out to stretch

her legs and instruct the coachman that she wanted to continue. She

would pay extra for the night travel, for the hazards. Unfortunately,

only one of the armed guards was willing to travel through the night.

No amount of haggling could convince the other one.

She glanced overhead. The moon had risen a quarter of the way up

and was nearly full. Though ragged clouds raced across it ominously,

they passed quickly and the moonlight soon lit the road again. It was

not very cold. Maybe she would be able to sleep a little on the way.

After an hour of rest, the team was hitched up again and Adriana

climbed into the coach. She was tired now, drained of emotion, and did

not want to think any longer. She wanted to be in Rome. Nothing more.

Before long, swaying with the coach, she slipped into a sort of waking

stupor.They had been moving for scarcely half an hour when the

moonlight faded and thick clouds rolled in. The coachman had a

lantern, but if the weather became any worse, he would have to walk

in front of the horses. The canopy would block direct rainfall from her,

but the slightest breeze would blow it sideways through the curtains

and drench her. The numb sorrow she had felt now became resentment.

This on top of everything else.

The carriage stopped unexpectedly. Exasperated, she called up to

the coachman.

With a strangled cry, something heavy and limp crashed through

the side curtain into the coach. The escort, with a crossbow bolt through

his neck, sprawled grotesquely across the seat in front of her. A moment

later, an unseen hand ripped open the curtain and pulled her by the hair

out of the coach.

Highwaymen.

One of them was on horseback, alongside the coach. Ragged,

heavily bearded, in a leather jerkin, he held the reins of a second horse,

and a shout revealed that the other one was in the coachman’s seat.

In the increasing mist she could still make them out, the coachman,

crouching terrified, and the other man who held a knife to his throat.

“You see, Nico?” the one on horseback said. “I told you it was

worth coming out tonight. We’ve got ourselves booty and a lovely

lady.” He nudged his horse in front of Adriana, blocking escape.

Nico laughed in reply and sliced his knife through the coachman’s

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throat. The dying man thrashed a little, and the robber clambered over

him to get to the ground. He snatched up the lantern from its pole and

leapt into the coach. Seeing Adriana’s trunk, he held the light with one

hand over his head while he rummaged through it. In a moment he

held up the leather purse containing most of Adriana’s travel money.

She carried the rest, a few silver coins, in a fist-sized leather bag inside

her dress. A useless precaution, since they would certainly attack her

personally and find that too.

Two men dead and she was alone. She knew she would be raped

and brutalized and wondered only if she would live the night.

“When you’re done there, help me tie her hands,” the one on

horseback ordered, grabbing Adriana again by her hair.

“Why bother tying her up?” Nico said from inside the coach. “Just

bring her in here and fuck her. I’ll hold her down for you. Then you can

do it for me.”

“Don’t be a donkey’s ass,” bearded one snarled, and dismounted.

“This one’s a looker. We gonna take her with us, have us a real plaything

for a couple of days.”

“Oh, yeah.” Nico breathed with enthusiasm as he clambered out

and fumbled with the rope. “Plaything. Didn’t think of that.”

“Hurry up, the rain’s getting heavy,” bearded one said. The two

of them hustled her to one of the horses and forcibly swung her up

in front of the saddle. Her captor mounted behind her. “Be nice, and

maybe I won’t cut your throat,” he said, his breath foul. Then he kicked

the horse away from the road into the woods. Among the trees the rain

filtered down as mist, and they had to slow the horses to a walk. “Shit.

It’s no good. We’ll be here all night,” Nico said. “We’re gonna have

to ride along the field north of the village.” He yanked his horse to the

side, and in a few minutes they emerged from the woods. It was raining

heavily now, and all Adriana could see was a wide gray expanse where

the trees had been cleared away for pasturage.

Just as they ventured out onto the meadow, lightning crackled, a

long jagged line that sparkled horizontally across the sky. A moment

later, thunder crashed. Nico’s horse bolted and the robber struggled to

hold on as it galloped into the meadow. Adriana’s horse galloped after

it, slowed only by its double burden. Another bolt of lightning cut the

sky in front of them. Then another thunderclap hit and the terrified beast

reared up, its front legs stroking the air. The robber fell to one side and

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Adriana to the other, landing on her shoulder. Stunned, she lurched to

her feet. She couldn’t run very well with her hands still bound in front

of her and knew she had to get out of sight in the brush.

She ran full-out, swinging her clasped hands from side to side,

until something caught her foot. She went down, her skirts ripping, her

face scraping against the underbrush. This was her only chance, to lie

flat on the ground trusting her dark dress and hair to obscure her. Only

her pale face could reveal her and, holding her breath, she pressed it to

the soaking ground.

She heard him cursing and knew how close he was, but he was

as blind as she was. After a few moments the other man’s voice called

him toward the clearing, and her pursuer left. She waited, shivering

in the underbrush, scarcely daring to turn her head to breathe. Finally

she could stand it no longer, and she sat up. She was alone. She tugged

against the ropes, but the mud had made the knots inseparable. They’d

have to be cut.

Lightning flashed again, and she feared for a moment she would

be seen by her attackers. But they seemed to have given up. She could

just make them out in the distance, moving black spots against the gray

of the field, pursuing the runaway horse.

Thunder crashed again an instant after the lightning flash, and she

knew the storm was directly overhead. She would rest for a moment,

just for a moment, then try to make her way back through the dark

forest to the road. If the lantern light still burned in the coach, it could

be her guide.

A soundless white flash blinded her. Then the crack of a tree

splitting in half deafened her. In the instant she understood that lightning

had hit a tree, something struck her, knocking her to the ground. She

awoke only a moment later, shaken, her head ringing from where the

scorched branch had struck her. The storm still raged, and something

unfathomably powerful had almost killed her. She stood up again next

to the smoldering tree, her hands still tied in front of her. She thought

of Brother Martin crying out to St. Anne. Had she, like him, also been

divinely saved?

Or cursed?

Spared death by lightning but battered by a branch. Saved by being

thrown from the murderer’s horse, but cursed by being abducted in the

first place. It was almost as if, hands tied and helpless, she was God’s

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plaything. Sudden rage filled her. For her abduction and the lightning

bolt, for the murder of two innocent men before her eyes, and for the

rainstorm—while Domenico lay dying.

She raised her rope-burned hands and shouted into the storm. “Are

we all your playthings, then? All jerked around for your pleasure? What

good are You?” she shrieked. Then, more quietly, her voice breaking,

“A world with You or without You looks the same.” She collapsed onto

the ground sobbing with helpless fury. The sky answered with another

clap of thunder.

Finally she gathered her strength and wandered in the direction

she thought they had come. While she stumbled in the darkness, bound

hands out in front of her, the storm gradually subsided. The ambient

light increased and she could see the spaces between the trees now.

Most importantly, she could see in the far distance the tiny speck of

yellow that was the coach lantern. Numb and embittered she staggered

toward the light.

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XXXv

A crowd had gathered in the Piazza San Pietro at the foot of the

steps leading to Saint Peter’s Basilica. Among the onlookers

Michelangelo stood, sunken into himself, his face concealed by a hood.

He swayed slightly, not from inebriation, for he had drunk very little,

but from exhaustion and lack of food. The rain had stopped but it was

overcast and gray, and his cape was wet. He scarcely noticed, except to

shiver occasionally.

As the cortege came down the steps, merchants in the piazza

stopped their cries and the crowd parted, opening up an avenue for the

procession.

The Master of Ceremonies, Paris de Grassis, was at the forefront

in full ecclesiastical regalia and flanked by two acolytes. As he came

close, Michelangelo pulled the hood of his cape farther over his face

and stepped back behind the first line of onlookers.

Directly behind the Master of Ceremonies, the full Sistine Choir

came in two lines. In contrast to their usual dress, they wore black

satin cassocks and their white surplices were trimmed in lace, a dress

reserved for the highest ceremonial occasions. They sang “Requiem

æternam dona eis, Domine; In memoria æterna erit Justus” while a line

of acolytes marched with them carrying votive candles on silver poles.

Glass cones protected the flames from the cold, mist-filled wind that

wafted over the square.

Giovanni de’ Medici followed, accompanied by several of the

Italian Cardinals. Behind him, Cardinal Carafa marched alone but

for two assisting priests. There was little to be read in his face, but

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Michelangelo thought he detected a certain satisfaction. A few of the

Spanish Cardinals came along in a cluster, presumably out of solidarity

with one of their own. Michelangelo did not know them.

Then, the bier, held aloft by four pallbearers in white, was suddenly

in front of him. In the silence that fell over the people next to him, he

stared at the remains of the man who had been in his arms only days

before.

Domenico was clothed in the same cassock and surplice worn by

his choir brothers and draped to mid-chest with an embroidered shroud.

Little had been done to repair his mutilated face. His broken nose lay

flat, and the open wounds at the scalp were bluish black. Though the

swelling was gone, the slack mouth was distorted over broken teeth and

the lips split open. Lips that had sung and prayed and kissed. Ruined.

Only the eyes, somehow, had fallen slightly open, so that he seemed to

look heavenward.

“Forgive me, Domenico,” Michelangelo whispered, as his lips,

then his whole body began to tremble. He staggered back into the

crowd and watched the rest of the small cortege that passed: the dean,

clerk, librarian, sacristan, and various priests who worked in the chapel.

Bramante had joined too, along with his daughter. A cluster of men and

women of the laity, who ought not to have even known the dead man,

followed along more timidly. In their midst, striking by his height and

his long hair tied behind his neck, the prison guard Claudio strode, one

hand hooked into his belt.

As the last of the mourners moved out of the square, the crowd

dispersed. Michelangelo remained standing in his dripping wet cape

and hood, his arms hanging limply at his side.

v

Pope Julius stood at a window in the Papal Palace and also watched

the cortege leaving the Piazza St. Pietro, feeling sorry for himself. He,

the Vicar of Christ, had many things on his mind: the expansion of

papal territory, the defense against heresy, the renovation of the city, the

construction of the new basilica, the struggle against the local barons,

the French, the Venetians, the Turks. “Was it too much to ask for the

occasional solace?” he murmured, entwining his fingers in his beard.

But men were not to be trusted, not even the ones who appeared

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the most saintly. All men were duplicitous, and most dangerous of all

was the College of Cardinals. He recalled again the machinations he

had to undertake to finally achieve the tiara, even going so far as to

negotiate with the despised Cesare Borgia, whose soul surely roasted

in hell.

Ascetic piety was for men like Savonarola and his unctuous disciple

Carafa. Even Carafa had his eye on the papal throne, just like all the rest

of them did. They were all hungry for power. Not just the Cardinals; the

King of France, the Duke of Ferrara, the great families, the Turks were

all ravening wolves. Well, they had their match in Julius.

He turned away from the window and the offending sight of the

funeral cortege. Clasping his hands together behind his back, he half

thought, half muttered to himself.

If Carafa thought he could sway him from his military plans he

was greatly mistaken. The son of an impoverished family, Giuliano

della Rovere had clawed himself up by sheer iron will from the streets

of Liguria to the throne of Peter. And the same will drove him to expand

and solidify the power of the Pope among the princes of Europe. Let the

pallid reformers whine and scribble their laments about misbehavior in

the Church or the Roman streets. The Pope was no scholar, but he knew

his New Testament. God did not intend his representative on earth to

be a simpering wet nurse, but a fighter. “Non veni pacem mittere sed

gladium,” Christ had said. “I came not to send peace, but a sword.”

A sword, a crossbow, a cannon, all could serve God’s purpose,

even against other Christians. And yet, there seemed to be no end to it.

No sooner had he secured a city and defeated an enemy, when an ally

betrayed him and he had to march in a new direction. He felt as if he

stood on a hilltop, while armies joined him and withdrew, or fought him

and withdrew, or fought each other. Through it all, he had to hold his

ground to assert the throne of Peter, in the middle of a world that was

turning out to be far more vast than anyone knew.

A world that belonged to God, and thus to his highest priest.

It was the Book of Matthew that always lay open by his bed, for it

was Matthew who told of God’s promise to give Peter “claves regni

caelorum, the keys to the kingdom of heaven.” And Matthew seemed to

justify Julius’s own fits of rage in his parable of the wedding in which

the King or God—or the Pope—cast out the unfaithful. Already as a

young theology student he had memorized the command of Matthew’s

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God, “Ligatis pedibus eius et manibus mittite eum in tenebras exteriores

ibi erit fletus et stridor dentium. Bind him hand and foot, and take him

away, and cast him into outer darkness, where there shall be wailing

and gnashing of teeth.”

Julius gazed out the window again, where the funeral cortege had

passed out of sight, and muttered, “Yes, the unfaithful shall be cast

out.”

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XXXvi

Two days later, having passed through the Villa Borgia merely

for a change of clothes and the escort of her housemaster,

Adriana arrived in Rome. While Jacopo waited in the Piazza San

Pietro, she hurried through the Sala Regia. She reached the chapel only

to be confronted by the same red-headed Swiss guard who had blocked

Michelangelo’s way a week before.

She rubbed the side of her face, as if to waken herself. “Please

inform Maestro Buonarroti that Adriana Borgia wishes to see him.”

With a nod, the guard left her, closing the chapel door behind him.

In a few moments he returned, the same wooden expression on his face.

“Maestro Buonarroti does not wish to see anyone.”

“What? You spoke to him? You told him who it was who waited?”

Her voice was hoarse.

“Yes, Signora. I told him.”

From the exaggerated patience in his manner, she knew he would

not be persuaded to carry another message inside. She took a few

defeated paces backward away from the chapel door. Exhausted and

demoralized, she turned to make her way toward the stairs and nearly

collided with a familiar form.

“Lady Borgia,” Donato Bramante said solemnly. “My deepest

regrets for the death of Signor Raggi. I know he was very close to

you.”“Can you tell me where he lies?” she asked, her voice breaking.

“And why Michelangelo will not see me?”

“He will see no one, Lady Borgia.” Bramante drew her down onto

a bench and sat down next to her, somewhat ill at ease. “He attended

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to all matters pertaining to the funeral, then locked himself away in the

chapel. He dismissed his assistants too, including my daughter.”

“What happened? To Domenico, I mean.” Her throat tightened as

she said his name.

Bramante shook his head. “I know only that he was attacked late

at night, in the courtyard below the Pope’s chapel. The Vatican has

ordered an inquiry, but it’s not likely to be fruitful. Murder is all too

common. In fact, the bodies of three other men were taken from the

Tiber the very next day. From the Farnese family. That is all I know,

Lady Borgia. I’m sorry.”

“Where is he now?”

“Signor Raggi? In the crypt in the city cemetery. Michelangelo

arranged for him to be embalmed before the Chapel Choir held the

requiem mass. And he insisted that the boy not be interred but entombed

in the mausoleum. He paid the cost himself.”

Terrible words: embalmed, interred, mausoleum. Adriana’s eyes

filled with tears and her voice became high and tight. “When I got

word…” She wiped her nose. “I left as soon as I could, within the hour.”

She took a breath. “I didn’t even let the coach stop at night.” Another

breath. “But the storm came.” She wiped her nose again. “Robbers

attacked on the road. They killed the driver and guard and abducted

me.” Then, as if a fragile vessel had carried all her fears and suddenly

broken, she wept freely into her cloak.

Bramante’s hand hovered over her, not touching. “Dear God. But

you escaped.”

Adriana nodded, then regained her voice. “Yes, the horse reared at

a lightning flash and threw us both to the ground. I was able to run.”

“It’s a miracle that you were unharmed.”

“A miracle?” She grimaced, bereavement giving way to anger.

“For me and not for the two good men who were killed?” The more she

recalled the event, the more bitter she became. “No miracle for them,

was there? Why was that, I wonder? When I dragged the coach with

their two corpses back to the village, I tried to hire a new driver and

guards, but no one would leave in the storm. It raged two more days.

And every hour that passed made it more certain that Domenico would

be lost to me. No miracle for him either.”

She wept again remembering the ropes that cut her wrists and the

terrified horses she had to force along the deep mud with two corpses

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in the coach behind her—and it filled her with new rage. With tears

streaming down her face, she looked at Bramante. “I cursed God that

night, and I curse him still. If He’s all-powerful, then He’s a brute. If

He’s not, then He’s useless.”

Bramante clasped his hands helplessly in front of him. “Dear

Lady. You must not let sorrow make you say such things. In time, we

may come to understand His divine purpose.”

She was not listening to his platitudes. Yet, having vented her fury

in the outburst of blasphemy, she was suddenly calm. Letting go of

the need to reconcile the tragedy with divine benevolence gave her an

unmistakable relief. Nature’s indifference, she found, was easier to bear

than divine injustice. She cleared her throat and spoke almost normally

again.“Thank you for your comfort, Signor Bramante.”

They sat in silence again until Bramante took a large breath. “I’m

sorry to tell you that there have been other ominous developments while

you were in Florence.”

“What do you mean?” Adriana searched her memory for anything

left to lose.

“Your friend Silvio Piccolomini was to be arrested. For heresy, I

understand. Somehow word got out to him, though one can only guess

how. A number of persons at the Vatican, including a few Cardinals,

think highly of the Piccolomini family. In any case, being forewarned,

he fled.”

“Silvio, a heretic?” Adriana was speechless, though half a dozen of

his remarks flashed through her mind, and it seemed suddenly obvious

that he had always played with fire.

“So he escaped?”

“I assume so. If he were in the hands of the Church, I should think

we would hear about it. By all accounts he has gone to Venice, which

was a wise choice. The Venetians are resistant to papal interference and

seem to have a high tolerance for heterodoxy in general, though some

call it decadence.”

“Then he lives,” she murmured. It seemed a small comfort.

“For now,” Bramante replied cryptically, then inhaled for another

announcement. “His doctor, or rather his father’s doctor—”

“Salomano?”

“Yes. He is also gone. He was relieved of his position with Dr.

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Ligori at about the same time. Apparently also Cardinal Carafa’s doing.

Part of his program to, as he says, ‘separate Romans from Jews.’ He

was not arrested, though, merely hounded from Rome. He’s fled, of all

places, to Constantinople. Who would have thought?”

Wiping her eyes, Adriana looked at the architect with new respect.

“How do you know all these things?”

“Dear Lady, I have been puttering in and around the Vatican for

over a decade, giving artistic advice to three Popes. I know a great

deal of what happens and who causes it to happen. Right now, after

His Holiness, it is Cardinal Carafa who is able to do that. I suggest you

avoid attracting his attention.”

“Unfortunately, I attracted it a long time ago. Do you think he had

something to do with Domenico’s murder?”

“That I cannot say, Lady Borgia. He was at the funeral and the

entombment, but that says nothing.”

Adriana nodded, in control of herself now. “In the crypt in the city

cemetery, you say?”

“Yes, the large one, on the hill. He lies just beside the stairs on the

lower level.”

“Thank you, Signor Bramante. I know what I must do now. If you

would be so kind to accompany me to my coach.”

v

It was sunset as Adriana’s coach pulled along the gravel road into

the cemetery, and mist rose from the saturated ground. Adriana drew

her cloak closer around her.

A gravel path wound diagonally up a slope to a large mausoleum,

one she knew was for those who could afford to pay for entombment in

such an edifice, but whose families did not have their own. The temple-

like structure loomed black against the last evening light.

“I’ll go with you, Madama,” Jacopo said. Without waiting for

agreement, he unhooked the light from one of the carriage poles and

helped her out of the coach.

At the foot of the hill on both sides of the path the common graves

held the indigent in wicker coffins or in winding sheets alone. The

lowest-lying common graves were under pools of rank water. “How

awful to leave them there,” Adriana said.

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Jacopo shrugged. “They will all decompose, Madama, some

sooner, some later. It is only the living who wish to be spared thinking

about it.”

She thought of her father, whom she had buried in Seville, and

the remark seemed crass. “Have you ever buried anyone you loved,

Jacopo?”

“Yes, Madama. Two years ago. My brother.” He pointed to one of

the flooded graves. “He lies there.”

“I see.”

They hiked up the hill, passing old graves covered with grass and

newer ones still bare. Gravediggers’ tools, a pick and shovel, stood near

a fresh grave. One sensed them all together, the long and the recently

departed, and the men who interred them, the quick and the dead. At the

top of the hill, they halted before the bronze door of the crypt. Jacopo

put his shoulder to it expecting resistance, but the heavy door slid open

with alarming ease, as if inviting entry to the hereafter. He stepped

through the doorway but Adriana held him by the arm. “No, I’m going

by myself. There are things I want to say to him, alone.”

Jacopo relinquished the lantern. “Very well. I’ll wait here. But

please don’t be long. This is a haunted place.”

Adriana stepped carefully on the slippery stone, her footfall hollow

in the cavernous marble-walled space. On the ground level, sarcophagi

lay head to foot on two levels, one on the floor and one on a shelf that

ringed the chamber. A rotten, mushroom-like smell pervaded the whole

place. The cadavers, she knew, were all embalmed and covered with

heavy shrouds, but they decomposed nonetheless.

At the center of the mausoleum a staircase led downward to a

subterranean space that was still contained within the slope and above

the level of the plain. In the semi-darkness of the chamber where she

stood, the pit at her feet seemed even blacker, more otherworldly. But

that was where she had to go. Her fingers curved around the handle of

the lantern smoldered orange red. Slowly she descended, wondering

how far among the dead she would have to venture.

But she found him at the forefront. She held the lantern high over

the bier and the form muted by the heavy embroidered shroud of the

Papal Choir. She thought she was depleted of tears, but the sight of him

struck her like a blow to the chest, and she wept again, whispering his

name and recalling once again the boy she had ransomed from the choir

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school in Jativa and brought to the Vatican. How sweet it had been to

walk with him through St. Peter’s Basilica and hear him defend Rome

against her accusations. Rome, which had murdered him.

Setting the lantern down on the floor she knelt by the body. It

was the moment to say a prayer, but that was the last thing she felt like

doing. Delicately, she lifted the head wrapped in the heavy shroud and

cradled it in the crook of her elbow. Inanimate, it lolled limply away

from her. Nothing of him was left. His spirit, his comforting words, his

ethereal voice: all gone.

She could not bear the silence and so she spoke to him, her voice

hoarse with grief. “Agnellino. I still see you on my hillside, looking

up at the shafts of sunlight. As if God were somewhere in the sky. Do

you stand before Him now?” She looked around at cold marble walls,

streaked with black mold, and she was appalled at the thought that he

might not. What did anyone know of the Hereafter?

Even with the full force of her understanding, she still could not

imagine what awaited him. Or her. All of it, all the vague promises of

the Catechism flew in the face of logic. How could God be merciful if

his Vicar on earth was not? She trembled, recognizing her own mortality

and the paucity of her faith. In all her confusion there congealed a

tiny sphere of certainty, that Domenico was more precious to her than

faith.She desperately wanted something from him. Some tangible object

that would forever be real while memory faded. An article of clothing,

his missal, any object to show that he had been. Then she remembered.

There was something precious that linked them.

v

When she returned to the top of the stairs, it was full night.

Jacopo led the way along the cemetery path, and Adriana stayed close,

appreciating his avuncular strength and his simple human warmth.

“I can’t bear the thought that he died for nothing.”

“We all die for nothing,” Jacopo said. “Early or late, struck down

by sickness, accident, murder. It matters only what we live for. I think

this young man lived well, and for something he loved.” He had never

before spoken to her this way, and she trusted that, once they were back

home, he would not do so again. But she took no offense, for at the

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moment, it was a comfort to be at the side of a strong and thoughtful

man.As they retraced their steps, cicadas had taken up their soothing

night sounds. At the coach, Jacopo said, “I’ll take you to the Albergo

now, where you can rest while I stay with the horses in the stable.”

“No, there is one more place I want to go, Jacopo. Then we both

can rest.”

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XXXvii

Adriana hurried across the Piazza San Pietro, which was

emptying after the evening mass. At the top of the wide stone

steps, the church doors were still open and the last of the worshippers

came out, talking among themselves. She strode through the narthex

and along the center aisle of the basilica, her feet tracing the same steps

she and Domenico had taken together. The smell of candle wax was

just as before, reminding her how he had walked at her side and now

there was nothing. She made her way around the tomb of St. Peter

to the apse where the high altar stood. Meter-high candles burned on

massive silver stands, casting circles of trembling light on the surface

of the altar.

The jewels embedded in the silver gave back the light in myriad

faint glimmers. Among them, she could make out nothing that looked

like a ring and so ran her palms over all four corners and slid her fingers

under the altar cloth on both sides. Nothing. Desperate, she repeated

the search, touching every inch of the altar surface and reaching as far

under the cloth as she dared.

Gone. It was gone.

She dropped to her knees, defeated. It had been foolish to come,

as foolish as the offering had been in the first place. She pressed her

hands to her face.

“It’s not there,” a voice behind her said. Alarmed, she twisted

around, still on her knees.

A figure stood a scant meter away, obscure in dark clothing,

reaching out. The hand opened and in the palm something small and

silver caught the feeble candlelight. “This is what you are looking for,

isn’t it?” Raphaela Bramante said.

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“How…how did you know?”

“You told me. In your garden. Don’t you remember? Then, at the

funeral mass, when the priest spoke of his piety, I remembered. I couldn’t

be sure it was still there, but it was, so I took it for safekeeping.”

Raphaela pulled Adriana to her feet and they stood face-to-face

before the high altar.

“How lovely of you to remember.” Adriana reached for the

precious object, but Raphaela took hold of her hand and slid the ring

onto her third finger.

“I’ve been carrying it around for days. Cardinal de’ Medici said

you had gone to Florence, but I didn’t know when you’d return. Then

this afternoon, Father said he saw you at the Sistine Chapel. So I waited

here most of the evening. I’m very good at waiting.”

“You’ve waited a long time too, haven’t you?” Adriana stepped

into Raphaela’s embrace, an unexpected refuge.

Raphaela brought her lips to Adriana’s ear. “I wish I could carry

some of your grief.” She slid her hands delicately along the satin-clad

back.Adriana touched her face to the warm cheek and let her lips brush

once against Raphaela’s cheekbone. Slowly, scarcely realizing when

gratitude and comfort evolved into the amorous, she began to press

soft kisses. On Raphaela’s hair, her ear, then the corner of her lips.

She halted for a moment, as if before a line that marked a dangerous

place, then crossed it, covering the pliant mouth completely. In the

chill darkness of the church, Raphaela’s mouth seemed hot, at once

forbidden and inviting.

Raphaela wiithdrew from the kiss for a moment, breathlessly.

“This is the second time we profane a church.”

“Yes, I know.” Adriana laughed softly, kissing her again, feeling

her respond. Her hands moved, seemingly of their own volition,

exploring Raphaela’s clothing, throat, hair, learning the landscape of

the new body. Finally she came to her senses. “My God, what are we

doing? Anyone could come in.” She cupped Raphaela’s cheek in the

dim light, trying to see it with her fingertips. “Listen. My housemaster

waits outside to take me to the Albergo dell’Orso. Come with me.”

“No, it’s better if I return home first and make excuses to my father.

Then I can join you later this evening and stay longer. The Albergo dell’

Orso? I’ll come in an hour.”

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“I’ll wait for you.” Adriana caressed the warm lips with her thumb.

“I think I’ve been waiting all along.”

She hurried back through the sanctuary to the piazza, her ringed

finger closed in a fist over her chest. “Forgive me, Domenico,” she

murmured into the air. “Tonight I choose life.”

v

Holding the candle in one hand, Adriana opened the chamber

door. Raphaela swept in gracefully and sat on a wooden chair. Adriana

sat across from her, on the edge of the bed, with hands clasped over her

knees. Her need to rush again into Raphaela’s embrace was softened

by the sense that they had crossed a wide gulf that night. They were

together and safe, at least for the moment. It was a time for exploration,

the slow sweet discovery of each other’s thoughts and ways, all while

desire still grew beneath. Raphaela too seemed to understand that there

was time, that she could begin with simple consolation. “Are you all

right?” she asked.

“Yes. I suppose so. I’ve accepted that Domenico is gone. But what

troubles me most is thinking I caused it to happen. I mean, did I ruin his

life by returning to Rome?”

“Of course not. You had nothing to do with what happened to

him.”“Oh, but I did. He had been in the Church for all those years,

happily, I think. And then I arrived, cynical and embittered. I taught him

doubt. Because of me he learned disobedience and left the protection of

the Vatican to go into the streets.”

Raphaela’s face hardened. “No, it was not that way at all. It was

not the streets that killed him, it was the Church.”

“What do you mean?”

“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

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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,

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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

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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.”

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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.”

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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.”

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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

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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.”

v

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

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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 through

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.

v

• 239 •

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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?

All eyes turned, trying to identify the unexpected visitor.

“It’s Mateo, one of Michelangelo’s apprentices,” Raphaela said

anxiously. In a moment he was in front of them. “Is everything all right

with your master?”

“Yes, Lady. More than all right. He sends me to announce that the

first half of the ceiling is finished and he invites you to see it. Today,

before His Holiness arrives.”

“I’m sorry, Mateo,” Raphaela said. “Please tell him that we have

urgent business that requires us to—”

“We’d be delighted,” Adriana interrupted. “Come in and let Maria

give you some breakfast, and then you can return ahead of us to tell him

we’re coming.”

Raphaela was aghast. “You want ride into the mouth of the wolf?

The Vatican is the very place we’re running away from.”

“I know, but your father said Cardinal Carafa would not have his

audience with Julius until this evening. He won’t be able to marshal

his ‘guardians’ until tomorrow. Surely we can take an hour to see the

frescoes and be far beyond Rome when the order is finally given. You

know how important the chapel ceiling is to Michelangelo, to you too.

Aren’t you curious to see your own work now?”

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SiStine HereSy

Raphaela looked uncertain. “Yes, of course. But what if we’ve

miscalculated and the Pope arrives early? God help us then.”

“We don’t believe in their god, remember?” Adriana whispered.

• 241 •

JuStine Saracen

XXXiX

The two horses drew up before the Papal Palace at midday,

and Adriana and Raphaela descended onto the bright light

of the piazza. They entered the palace at a good pace, seeing no one,

passing only the brightly costumed Swiss guard standing in front of

each chamber.

Torn between the desire to see the half-finished ceiling and the

urgent need to escape Rome, they hurried up the staircase that opened

to the Sala Regia. Mateo met them and led them to the chapel.

Michelangelo appeared before the chapel doorway in clean

clothing, unstained by plaster or pigment. And yet he looked exhausted,

like a man who had not slept for days. The dark circles around his eyes

and the scar on his broken nose stood out against the pale, light-starved

skin of his face.

“You are the first, you know.” The thumb of his right hand rubbed

nervously against his fingertips, as if he constantly rubbed off paint.

“Not even the Holy Father has been here. The official half-mark viewing

is tomorrow.”

“We’re honored, Maestro,” Raphaela said. “I’m only sorry I

couldn’t continue to assist you. We’ve worried about you for months.”

“I’ve been busy,” he mumbled, stating the obvious, and swung the

double doors wide open to the newly painted chapel.

The effect was startling. The scaffolding had been dismantled and

partly reconstructed at the far end of the chapel, reversing the pattern

of the past year. Together with the adjoining walls, the dark wood of

the scaffold provided a sort of framework for the newly finished work.

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SiStine HereSy

Contained within the outline, the explosion of color and activity drew

the eye immediately upward. Brightly painted figures seemed to writhe

and turn in all directions over the observer’s head. It was dazzling.

“It will need some explaining,” Michelangelo began. “That’s the

reason I—”

“Maestro Buonarroti! Signore.” Mateo burst in.

“What is it?” He was obviously annoyed.

“The Holy Father is downstairs. He wants to see the ceiling.”

“Christ’s nails!” Michelangelo pounded his fist on the doorpost.

For a moment they stood paralyzed within the entry, sensing the lupine

footfall on the stairway, the ominous silken steps of the papal slipper.

“You can’t let him see us,” Adriana said, awakening to the danger.

She took hold of his arm. “Look, Cardinal Carafa is about to meet with

him to convince him to have me seized for heresy. It’s a long story,

but we’re on our way to Venice. We thought we’d have time to see

everything. But we don’t. We’ve got to leave now.”

“No, you must see it. I’ll stop him.” His face grew hard. “I’ll tell

him there’s damage. I’ll hold him off a day.” Without waiting for their

agreement, Michelangelo pushed them back into the chapel and pulled

the double doors firmly shut behind him.

They looked at one another for a moment, uncertain. Then Raphaela

shrugged. “We can escape through the service door, if necessary. In the

meantime, let me at least show you quickly what the two of us did

together.”

Adriana glanced nervously toward the chapel portal. “As long as

he can keep Julius away.”

Raphaela stepped forward and opened both arms, encompassing

the entire work. “There is a sort of framework with three layers: the

actual architecture, the painted one, and then the stories. It takes a bit of

staring to figure it out.”

Adriana tried to focus her attention. “It doesn’t take long to figure

those out, though, all those nude men.” She swept her finger in a wide

circle, indicating the dozen or so nude figures in twisted poses.

Raphaela chuckled. “He calls them angels, but they look pretty

earthly to me. Like real people.”

“That one is real. I recognize him.” Adriana pointed at the figure,

which slouched over the northern pendentive. He turned in a graceful

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curve, supporting his upper body on his left arm while his right arm

dangled between his open thighs. The head, haloed by reddish curls,

was turned flirtatiously toward the right, and the twist of his body both

exposed and delineated the fine musculature of his neck and chest.

“You’re right,” Raphaela agreed. “It’s the halberdier who stood

guard at the chapel when we were painting. He certainly looks different

without his pretty pants.”

“I know that one too.” Adriana pointed. “The jailor’s son—from

the prison at Sant’Angelo. And that one on the right is sitting just as

he was in the prison guardroom the night we saved Domenico.” She

glanced around at the others.

“That sly dog. He’s painted a whole troop of naked guards.”

Adriana ventured a few paces along the wall of the chapel and

peered up at the ring of men and women seated on the periphery of the

ceiling. “And these?”

“Prophets and sibyls.”

“The sibyls look like men. Wait. I recognize them. They’re from

the Carnevale parade.”

“He’s even copied their dresses and their books.” Raphaela

chuckled. “I helped him paint them.”

“A nice tribute to Silvio Piccolomini.”

Raphaela stepped toward the southeast corner of the chapel and

stared intently at the figure. Resting on his right elbow, a beardless gray-

haired man peered down at a scroll outstretched between his two hands.

His high forehead, hairless and smooth, gave his face a pedagogical air.

The red cloak draped over his shoulders and lying across his lap was

unmistakable.

“It’s your father,” Adriana murmured. “Incredible. Donato

Bramante as the prophet Joel and sitting the same way as he did at

my supper. And the scroll he’s reading from is Michelangelo’s note to

him.”“I wonder who the others are,” Raphaela said. “It’s like a puzzle,

isn’t it?” They crossed diagonally to the second bay and studied its

prophet.

The twisted posture gave it away finally, the posing of a man

inclined toward drama and display. Holding his place in the great

book he had been reading, he seemed about to reply to some annoying

question, disdain and condescension on his face.

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“It’s Silvio,” Adriana exclaimed. “He’s put Silvio on the ceiling,

clutching his Ficino translation the moment he reproached Michelangelo

for not knowing Plato.” She laughed out loud. “He was even wearing

that exact rose tunic with the yellow sleeves. Colors no one else would

wear. We teased him for it.” She laughed again. “In exile, but still

insulting the Pope. If we see him in Venice we’ll have to tell him.”

Raphaela glanced nervously toward the door. “I wish he’d hurry

back so that we can get to Venice. Let’s try to figure it out without him.

It’ll save time.” They crossed again to the south wall. “The prophet

Ezekiel,” Raphaela read. “Anybody you know?”

A massive male body, his head, small by comparison, was

dignified by a short white beard. A pale blue shawl covered his head

and was thrown across his wide shoulders. He leaned toward the right,

opening his hand as if offering a compelling new argument. The power

contained in the turning of his huge shoulders suggested that the artist

respected him and his argument as well.

“I can’t believe he would dare to do it. It’s Baldassare Salomano,

the Jewish doctor who saved my life. He sat that way exactly, next to

my bed, arguing with Michelangelo about God.”

“Cardinal Carafa won’t like that. He hounded the man from

Rome.”

“I imagine Julius wouldn’t care for it either, if he knew.”

“I’m sure Michelangelo will not tell him that his sibyls and his

Hebrews are laughing at him.”

Adriana shook her head. “In Spain he would burn for this!”

v

“Then he should be thankful that he does not live in Spain,”

Michelangelo said from the doorway.

Adriana was relieved. “Did you get rid of him?”

“Only for an hour. So come along, there’s a lot to see.”

“An hour?” Adriana was all but wringing her hands. “It has to be

quick, then. Listen, we’ve already recognized your angels and sibyls,

and know that your prophets are Bramante and Salomano and Silvio.

Very amusing, but we have to go.”

“Amusement is not what I intended,” he muttered, drawing them

back to the chapel entryway. “Here is where it starts.” He pointed

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directly overhead to the first panel, of an old man lying on the ground,

with three younger ones slouching over him. It was not at all amusing.

“Noah shamed by his sons,” Michelangelo said.

“Very powerful, and I know where you got it, too,” Adriana said.

“It’s the drunken King who collapsed on the Via del Corso at Carnevale.

Those two are Farnese boys. You remembered the whole scene, in spite

of the darkness.”

They were under the next panel and Raphaela tilted her head back.

“I will always think of that as ‘our’ Deluge, Maestro. Some of it’s still

under my nails.”

“How many of your friends or enemies are in the flood?” Adriana

interjected.

He looked up at the chaotic scene. “Too many to tell.”

Adriana was already studying the third panel, of four men preparing

a burnt offering. “Noah’s Sacrifice,” Michelangelo announced. “In case

it’s not evident.”

Four young men were crowded into a small space struggling

with animals. One of them, in a red cape, knelt over a slaughtered ram

and handed some of its flesh up to another man, obviously for a burnt

offering. The index finger of his left hand appeared truncated at the first

joint.“The young one, the pretty one in the cape. That’s the butcher boy

in the Piazza Navona, isn’t it?”

“Yes, he was arrested by Carafa’s guardians and brutally flogged.”

Michelangelo grew solemn. “This was all I could do for him.”

Raphaela had hurried ahead of them, but stopped. “What…is

that?”Adriana joined her and also halted abruptly, incredulous. It was

all too familiar. The rocks, the small forked tree, the leafy branch under

Adam’s hands. She had found the portrait that he promised her, in the

Garden of Eden. “You bastard,” she whispered.

A red-haired Adam, who seemed a younger, more muscular

version of Michelangelo himself, grasped a tree branch, as if in shock.

The disobedient Eve, bulky and nude, knelt before him with her face

mere centimeters from his penis. And Eve, her head turned away, had

the face of Adriana Borgia.

“You bastard,” she repeated out loud. “It’s your revenge, isn’t it,

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for my refusing you that night at the Villa Borgia. You painted the exact

moment when I heard Raphaela call me. Is that what you were thinking

of? Us doing that?” She snorted and stared up at the panel again. “And

why is the snake a woman? Oh, I see.”

It took only a moment to recognize the face and to grasp the

accusation. For it was an accusation, that what had turned her head

from the righteous appeal of the man, tempting her with forbidden

knowledge, was Raphaela. The amber-colored hair, the intelligent face,

the full lips parted were unmistakable. So also was the posture in which

he had painted her. He had combined their nighttime confrontation in

the garden with that of the orchard the next morning, so that while

Adam grasped the branch in shock, the blond temptress reached out her

arm through the forked tree to drop something into the hand of Eve.

It was as if he intuited what was going on among the three of

them long before she understood it herself. Her rejection of him had

obviously shaken him so much that he made it the model for the world’s

first sin.

She stared, speechless, trying to make sense of the wide double

scene, disobedience on the one side and the expulsion on the other. But

God’s expelling angel revolved around the same axis and had the same

sensual face and outstretched arm as the snake. Thus, Adriana’s Eve

turned away from the man’s sex toward the Raphaela-snake and then

was led away from innocence by the Raphaela-angel.

“Why have you done this?” Adriana was losing patience. She was

about to run for her life, and the last thing she needed to do was see

insulting pictures of herself.

Michelangelo shrugged. “You asked for a portrait.”

“Not that kind of portrait. It’s filthy. And why have you made

Raphaela the face of both evil and good?”

“I’m surprised you’re thrown by my little ironies,” he said calmly.

Have you forgotten the amulet I gave you?”

“The seductress-and-saint medallion. No, I haven’t forgotten it.

But why Raphaela?”

“Because she was those things. And I created her. Which takes us

to the center panel.”

The same dreamy-eyed profile, the same full lips of the snake-

woman and the angel, were now on the imploring face of Eve at the

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moment of her creation. Supported on one leg, the other one bent and

caught behind her, Eve looked toward her maker. Raphaela recognized

herself immediately.

“That’s me, on the platform begging to paint real figures,”

Raphaela said. “You ‘created’ me and then I disappointed you? Is that

how you see it? It’s too bad we have no time for me to tell you I don’t

like it.” All nerves, she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, in

a sort of minute pacing, edging toward the exit.

Michelangelo shook his head. “It’s not a reproach, but it’s true.

I brought you into the picture—my life’s picture—and now all three

of us are fallen. In any case, this is how I understand creation, sin,

redempt—”

The chapel doors flew open with a bang and Mateo ran in again.

“His Holiness is on the stairs. With Cardinal Carafa.”

Adriana jumped at the name. “Carafa? They’ve met then.” She

took a step away from Michelangelo. “We have to get out of here. Right

now. ”“No, not yet!” Michelangelo sprinted toward the entrance. He

threw the double doors closed and barred them.

“Maestro, it’s His Holiness,” Mateo cried. Michelangelo rushed

back to where Adriana and Raphaela were halfway to the service door.

He seized Adriana by the arm and pulled her back to the center of the

chapel. “One more panel!” He stood behind her, holding her in place

by her upper arms. “Look. You must see it before he does. Before he

orders it changed.”

With growing panic, Adriana forced herself to look up, and she

staggered. For a moment she forgot her fear. And she forgave him.

Overhead, the virile muscular body of Adam curved languidly

against the green earth. Tilting his head back, he reached out dreamily

with his left hand to touch the finger of his creator. And God’s first

creature in His image, the father of the world, from whose loins all

humankind would spring, had the face of Domenico Raggi. The thick

brown hair hung back, as if he had just run his fingers through it, and the

full muscle around his lips recalled the smooth skin she had caressed.

That Michelangelo, of course, had caressed.

She lowered her gaze, hearing the angry pounding on the chapel

door.

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Michelangelo loosened his grip and stood before her, at once

noble and pathetic, his face haggard, his painter’s hands fallen idle to

his sides. She understood him now. It was his revenge. He had cast into

the images of orthodoxy the drama of his own life and populated the

Pope’s chapel with the faces of humanists, skeptics, and sodomites.

Raphaela was right. His blasphemy was his inspiration.

The pounding was more insistent, and she retreated again. “It’s

God’s backside, isn’t it?” She could not wait for an answer. “It’s

magnificent,” she said with utter sincerity, backing toward the escape

door. “Don’t let him make you change anything. Lie to him, tell him

whatever you have to. Domenico must stay.” Then Raphaela seized her

hand and pulled her into the service corridor.

They lingered a moment behind the almost-closed door and peered

through the crack as Mateo yanked up the bolt and the Pope burst in,

Cardinal Carafa a step behind him. She could not see Michelangelo, but

she knew he genuflected and she heard him speak.

“Holiness.”

They slipped along the narrow corridor quietly and at the end,

Raphaela whispered, “It’s heresy, isn’t it? The whole ceiling.”

“The most splendid heresy in Christendom. I wonder if anyone

will ever know it.”

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PoStScriPt

While the novel clearly stretches historical “facts,” or what pass as

facts, to suit a plot and sensibility that is LGBT, the historical context and

most of the characters are authentic. Michelangelo did indeed follow a

painting schedule that began in May 1508 and halted temporarily after

the Creation of Adam panel, in August 1510. He resumed work some

time in 1511 and completed the ceiling in 1512. Under Pope Paul III

he also painted the grim “Last Judgment” on the altar wall, portraying

himself as an empty skin. He completed a much-reduced version of

Julius’s tomb in 1545, although in San Pietro in Vincoli rather than

in the basilica. As hinted by Giovanni de’ Medici, Michelangelo was

finally put in charge of the design of St. Peter’s Basilica (after both

Julius’s and Bramante’s death) from 1546 until the end of his life.

While there is no clear evidence that Michelangelo engaged in

sex with men, there is even less evidence that he ever did so with a

woman, and he lived to be eighty-eight. In any case, even the weakest

“gaydar” can register signs of homoeroticism all over the Sistine Chapel

ceiling. In addition, in spite of the Church’s ferocious condemnation,

homosexuality appears to have been widespread at the time and is often

referred to in contemporaneous written accounts.

The lovely and pious Domenico is an anachronism. Although there

were castrati in the Sistine Choir during the 1600s, they are recorded

by name only at the end of that century. Castrated men, particularly

those who performed in a secular context, are thought to have engaged

sexually with both men and women, much like modern rock stars. In

1902 Pope Leo XIII signed the order banishing castrati from the choir.

Giovanni de’ Medici, as he kept hinting, did succeed Julius as

pope (Leo X 1513). His papacy was marked by a continuation of the

Sale of Indulgences to finance St. Peter’s Basilica and, later, by his bull

Exsurge Domine (1521), which excommunicated Martin Luther for his

95 Theses.

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Eventually, the grim ascetic Gian Pietro Carafa also became pope

although, during the period of the novel, he was not yet even a cardinal.

As Adriana feared, the Inquisition did indeed come to Rome and Carafa

was its agent. Initially he was appointed by Pope Paul III as Head of

the Holy Office charged with trying heretics. After he himself became

Pope Paul IV (1555) he expanded the office to full Inquisitional force

to counter the threat of Protestantism. He also ordered the segregation

of Roman Jews.

Martin Luther did in fact become a monk as the result of a

lightning strike. According to historical accounts, he went to Rome as

a young monk where he climbed the steps of the Lateran Church on

his knees, but it would be another eight years before he would nail

on the Wittenberg church door his 95 theses criticizing the selling of

indulgences.

God’s backside is an actual biblical image (Exodus 33). And some

time during 1512, Michelangelo in fact painted the Divine Derriere—

provocatively attractive—in the eighth bay of the Sistine Chapel

ceiling,

Silvio and his falcon are fictional, but the Piccolomini family is

not. A prominent family from Sienna, they put two popes on the throne,

the most famous of which was the humanist Eneas Silvio Piccolomini

(Pius II 1458).

Adriana Borgia is fictional, but many Borgia men and women

survived the end of the Borgia papacy, and the family line lasted until

the eighteenth century.

Juan, Cesare, and Lucrezia were the three most famous of the eight

known children of Rodrigo Borgia (Alexander VI). The boys came to a

bad end, but Lucrezia lived and maintained a cultured court until 1519

as the Duchess of Ferrara.

Raphaela Bramante is fictional, but modeled on the extraordinary

Artemesia Gentileschi (1593–1652), who resided with her father in

Rome, Florence, and Genoa. Her most famous painting is Judith Slaying

Holofernes (1614), though her sexual preference is not known.

Baldessare Salomano is fictional, but the immigrant wave that

brought him to Rome in 1492 is historical. Pope Alexander VI, for all

his venial sins, was wise enough to see the value of having Jewish

merchants and professionals added to the Roman population.

Infrastucture, clothing, food, weaponry, politics, and plumbing are

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JuStine Saracen

historically accurate to the degree possible for an amateur historian.

While the author has tried to maintain a certain archaic flavor in the

language, the use of modern American English and the desire to increase

readability has allowed for certain linguistic anachronisms.

• 252 •

About the Author

Having traveled through much of the Arab world, Justine

Saracen lost her heart early on to the desert. Together with her

Egyptologist partner, she became immersed in the colorful theology

of ancient Egypt, a fascination that led to the Ibis Prophecy books.

The playful first novel, The 100th Generation, was nominated for

the Ann Bannon Reader’s Choice award and was a finalist in the

Queerlit Competition. The sequel, Vulture’s Kiss, focuses on the first

crusade and vividly dramatizes the dangers of militant faith.

More recently, the Brussels-based author explores what religion

has historically done to gay men and women. Her most daring work

to date is Sistine Heresy, an imagined “backstory” to Michelangelo’s

Sistine Chapel frescoes, and a blasphemy if ever there was one.

Having had it out with the Church, Justine also faces down the

devil in Mephisto Aria (Bold Strokes Books, forthcoming 2010), her

own queer Faust story. In Berlin, staggering toward recovery after

WWII, a Russian soldier passes on his brilliance, but also his mortal

guilt, to his opera singer daughter.

All part of Justine’s lifelong effort to “plant our flag retroactively

on the literary and historical landscape.” You can visit her at her

Web site at http://justinesaracen.googlepages.com.

Books Available From Bold strokes Books

sistine heresy by Justine Saracen. Adrianna Borgia, survivor of the

Borgia court, presents Michelangelo with the greatest temptations of

his life while struggling with soul-threatening desires for the painter

Raphaela. (978-1-60282-051-7)

radical encounters by Radclyffe. An out-of-bounds, outside-the-

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thief of Always by Kim Baldwin & Xenia Alexiou. Stealing a diamond

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X by JD Glass. When X-hacker Charlie Riven is framed for a crime

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the Middle of somewhere by Clifford Henderson. Eadie T. Pratt sets

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Paybacks by Gabrielle Goldsby. Cameron Howard wants to avoid her

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Uncross My heart by Andrews & Austin. When a radio talk show

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Fireside by Cate Culpepper. Mac, a therapist, and Abby, a nurse, fall in

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Green eyed Monster by Gill McKnight. Mickey Rapowski believes

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Table of Contents

Prologue