I

August 1508

Kyrie Eleison. Kyrie, Kyrie, Eleison.

The chapel of Sixtus IV rang with the music of the morning mass. On the cantoria, high on the north wall, the Papal Choir began the ritual supplication. Fourteen voices wove the Greek prayer for mercy in silken polyphony until a single bright sound rose up above the others, plangent and compelling:

Christe Eleison. Christe, Christe, Allelujah.

Adrianna Borgia looked over the top of the chapel screen at the choir loft and found him instantly. Taller than all the others, the castrato stood at the far end, caught in the harsh white light that shone through the celestory windows. Gentle Domenico. In the milky, dust filled light, his eyes were shadowed as he sang, until he turned his face upward and was bathed in incandescence.

Adrianna marveled at how the voice was unchanged. It was still the crystal-clear sound of the boy she had brought from Spain, years before when the Borgias were masters of Rome. 'Borgia Rome' she thought. She counted back and realized that it was five years to the month since she had last been in the Pope's chapel. Five years earlier, on a sweltering afternoon in August 1503, she had stood there among the powerful families of 'Borgia Rome' and attended the Requiem Mass of the most powerful Borgia of all, Pope Alexander VI.

As daughter-in-law to the Pope, a thing which by church law ought not to have existed, she had stood with the other Borgia women who also ought not to have existed, Lucrezia, the Pope's twice-widowed daughter, and Giulia Farnese, his mistress.

She recalled the brutal heat of the day, the hot light seeming to pursue them through the high windows, the blue ceiling of the chapel with its concentric circles of gold stars and most clearly, the voice of Domenico Raggi five years earlier singing "Kyrie Eleison" with the same sweetness he did now.

But then, the pious tones had risen over the corpse of Pope Alexander VI, as he lay putrid and pungent on his catafalque. She had been glad to be standing behind the dividing screen; the monks and cardinals who had the privilege of standing within the sancta sanctorum, had to endure the odor of his corruption throughout the mass.

"Sanctus Sanctus Dominus," the choir sang, the high bright voices seeming to accompany her thoughts.

She had not mourned him in the least, neither on that day nor a moment since for the Borgia Pope had ruthlessly played them all like chess pieces, moving them again and again into ever new positions, or discarding them, by poison or the dagger, to maintain the Borgia domination. She had belonged to Cesare Borgia, and before him to his brother, and as a Borgia she had returned to Rome.

"Agnus Dei qui tollit peccatum mundi," the castrato sang and the velvet timbre of his voice that was neither male nor female, called up another androgyn.

"Dona eis requiem sempiternam..."

A tall woman had stood on the other side of the chapel aisle. Even in profile, there had been something familiar in the way she stood and held her head, in the way the curls of hair fell. Adrianna realized with amusement that it was the face of a statue of the effeminate young Bacchus she had seen a dozen times. How curious to see the image of an antique god in the face of a young woman, but so it was. She had turned to Lucrezia.

"Who is that woman?"

"Raphaela Bramante," Lucrezia had whispered back. A painter. And the man who stood next to her was her father, the architect Donato Bramante.

Raphaela Bramante.

Adrianna had repeated the name. She was certain she had only whispered it. But something happened. Had the woman heard her own name, or had she only grown bored with the mass? Whatever the reason, she turned around and stared. Adrianna had held her glance, waiting to understand it, but could not. Nothing in the woman's face revealed her thoughts. Adrianna's eyes locked on those of the apparition and she was seized by a sort of drunkenness. Her head swam, until she took hold of the arm of her companion.

It had surely been the heat.

When the woman turned away again, Adrianna had simply stood there, stunned and confused. What else could it have been but accusation? Power passed quickly and violently in Rome, and who was not in power was in contempt. Then she had turned her eyes back to the high altar, to the catafalque, which held the bloated cadaver, and had thought to herself, "It is time to leave Rome."

Five years had passed since then, five troubled years, but with the death of Cesare, all the Borgia princes were gone, all the vendettas over. An age had passed, and she had survived its passing. What was left, she wondered.

Adrianna gazed up at the scaffolding that covered the rear half of the chapel space, and at the ceiling visible between the high platforms. It had been blue and star scattered at Alexander's funeral mass. Now it was scraped bare. As I am, she thought. Bare... raw... waiting.

Something crashed beside her and she jumped. She turned to where the object had fallen and in the same instant a dark figure leapt down from out of nowhere to snatch it up again. All around her heads turned, perturbed. Seeing the cause, all turned back again.

Only she stood staring in disbelief at the small and wiry man who crouched in the aisle beside her. In contrast to the lords and princes around him, he looked menial. His hair was cut workman short, and an obviously broken nose flattened his face to a sort of pugnaciousness. He wore a simple belted smock that had once been blue and below it colorless leggings were tucked into sooty well-worn boots. It was the boots which caused her to smile finally, for the long side flap was unmistakable and familiar, and he had worn them every day she had known him.

"Michelangelo," she whispered.

He pressed his fingers to his lips and with the mallet in his other hand he pointed toward the door. She nodded understanding and followed him out.

Outside the chapel he touched her elbow, and guided her to an ornate bench on the far side of the great hall. They sat down together, dwarfed by the vast fresco that rose up behind them.

"Adrianna!" he said softly taking her long fingers in his muscled hands. "You haven't changed a bit in all these years. With those blue eyes of yours, you still make every man who looks at you commit a sin. Where have you been keeping? When did you return from Spain?"

She smoothed her skirt, wondering how much he would ask, how much she was prepared to tell him. "About a year ago. After Cesare was killed."

"An entire year and you never contacted me?" His voice held both feigned and genuine injury. She had forgotten how quick he was to insult.

"I have not contacted anyone...except the banker Galli, for funds. I preferred solitude. There was no reason to think I would be welcomed by this pope anyhow."

He nodded understanding. "Rome had word of Cesare's death, many months ago, but I never learned the manner."

"He was killed in a minor skirmish," she said without emotion. "In the service of the King of Navarre."

"His brother-in-law, was he not? Ah, I am sorry." He 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 with which he polished his statues.

"A minor skirmish. And in service to another. A sad fate for one who had led the armies of the Church."

"All power passes. And men must die.... the great and the small," she replied without conviction. "But when he knew he would never return to Rome, he made arrangements to give his villa near Tivoli to me. The peasants call it the Villa Borgia now."

He leaned forward again, setting his elbows on his knees. There was a restless in him, of unfocused and dissipated energy. "Is that where you've been hiding?"

"Not hiding. Working. All this last year. The house and grounds needed much repair. But it is doing rather well now, my little villa. You must come to visit."

"Yes, certainly. One of these days. Well, and what of Cesare's sister? Is she still killing her husbands?"

"Oh Michaelo, don't repeat those slanders. Lucrezia never harmed anyone. Conspiracy is quite beyond her. And to answer your question, she thrives now as the Duchess of Ferrara. But what about you?

"I am poor as ever, but coming along. I finally finished a statue, in Florence. More difficult than I expected, since they gave me a used block of marble, already deeply cut. But it turned out alright."

"Another Bacchus? I always liked that one you made for Galli.

"No, this one is much better. Larger too. The biblical David. You should take a look at it."

"Certainly. I will, when I am next in Florence. When did you come back to Rome?

"Three years ago. To begin designs for Julius' tomb. But there were endless problems." He scratched something dark and gritty on his shirtsleeve. His forearms were knotty with musculature. "We could not agree on anything. And now the whole thing has been set aside for the work on the chapel. Infuriating."

"But what a splendid canvas he has given you. An entire ceiling! What will you paint?"

"I don't know," he said, turning his head to look up at the high window." I am devoid of vision." His face was haggard. The five years had not aged him so much as worn him down.

The chapel doors opened suddenly and people began to pour out into the Sala Regia. She nodded at familiar faces as they passed, registering polite surprise at seeing her, Paris de Grassis, the papal Master of Ceremonies, Cardinal Riario, the frail Annio Piccolomini, the Orsini. Most went down the Scala Regia out into the August heat. Others, the men of the hour who currently held favor and influence, went into the papal rooms. Rooms to which she once had free access. A stream of courtiers and cardinals passed by in velvet and satin, and if any were greatly dismayed at seeing a Borgia again, they made no sign of it.

Finally only the Swiss guardsman stood at the door of the chapel. In the vast high ceiling'd stateroom of the palace, dwarfed by the enormous frescoes on all sides of them, they seemed insignificant, and their voices carried a slight echo.

"You don't know? But surely His Holiness had something in mind."

"Oh, yes. Apostles, prophets, biblical scenes; Julius is rich in suggestions of ways to glorify God - and himself. But I am of such a mind these days, so ill-disposed toward the world that only one scene comes to mind."

"What is that?"

"The Flood. To wash it all away." He made a sweeping gesture with his hand, as if wiping a cloud of dirt from in front of him.

"Why so choleric, old friend? This is not the man I remember."

"I was summoned by the pope to Rome to work on the tomb, and I spent months preparing sketches for him. Then he lost interest in the project. Like that." He snapped his fingers.

"Suddenly the building of the new basilica was all that interested him. I was virtually at his side -- having just been unemployed by him-- and I ought to have been given the basilica project. But Bramante got it." There was bitterness in his voice.

Adrianna 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. "Donato Bramante would not care for merely being known as someone's father. But, yes. The daughter is an artist too. Or at least aspires to be."

She remembered green eyes, being held in thrall by them. It was a disagreeable memory. "Has she done anything important?"

"You can see it yourself. In the Palazzo Piccolomini. Bramante did some work on the courtyard and part of the arrangement I understand was for her to paint a few panels in the library."

"Piccolomini. I know that family. The son Silvio proposed to me when I was ten."

"Well, you have a chance yet. He is still unmarried. Nice fellow, too. We can visit them if you'd like, next Sunday. I cannot go up on the scaffold in any case during the mass." The artist toyed with a piece of marble, which he had pulled from his pocket, twirling it between thumb and index finger. With his other hand he scratched his beard again, waiting for reply.

She stared at the disk he turned between his fingers and realized that he was offering to take off precious work time in order to entertain her, to introduce her back into the life of the city. It was the offer of a good friend.

"Since you speak well of her, then yes, I would like to go. It will be lovely to see the elder Piccolomini too. Sunday next then. You will arrange it?" She laid her hand gratefully on his forearm. The gesture caused him to drop the object he was holding. It rolled half a meter toward her foot and fell flat.

She picked it up and peered at a marble disk, its diameter only slightly smaller than her palm, carved with the halo'd face of a woman. She turned it over and saw the identical face but in place of the halo a snake curled around the head.

"What is this?"

"Just an experiment which I never finished, on a chip left from the David.

"A beautiful piece. Exquisite. But I would not have thought such miniature work to be your style."

She turned the disk as he had turned it, between thumb and finger, studying the images on both sides.

"This is an angel, obviously, but what is this on the other side?"

"Woman as temptress. The serpent is her sign. It is an idea I had, the two sides of the female, seductress and saint. But nothing ever came of it. You are right, miniature work is not my style. You can have it if you like".

"Seduction and redemption? Oh, dear. You do lay a lot at the door of women, Michaelo. But of course I would love to have something so beautifully carved. Could you fix it so that I can wear it?"

"Certainly. I can drill a hole in it. I have drills in the workshop," he said, and returned the disk to his pocket."

"I did not expect to see you this morning, old friend. You have distracted me, in fact. I was about to send a message back to the choir room asking for permission to visit Domenico Raggi, the singer at the mass."

"The castrato? You know him?" The artist's face lit up perceptibly.

"Oh yes. But I don't know if he will even see me. But why do you ask? Do you want to meet him?"

"Yes. Yes, I would." He picked his mallet up from the floor and turned it in his hands, avoiding her eyes.

"Well come along, then. They'll be in the tinello now, at lunch." She stood up, pulling her shawl around her shoulders. "I've neglected him so long, I am almost afraid to meet him again. I fear what I might see in his face."

The artist fell in step behind her, tapping the mallet softly against the side of his leg. "There are many stories in a face, Adrianna. As many as behold it."