Sistine Heresy Read online

  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.

  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 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.”

  *

  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, 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.

  *

  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 permis
sion, 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.”

  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 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.”

  *

  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 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 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 shru
gged. “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 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.