The Ruby Ring (10 page)

A north wind had blown away the clouds, and the stars in the evening sky were already bright, glimmering beside an iridescent half moon. He drank the heady red wine and poured another. Raphael thought for a moment of actually sending for, and bringing here, one of the women—more out of habit than desire. But he was too taken up with finding a way to get this Trastevere girl to model for him.

Absently, he glanced at a table beside his desk, littered with old chalk and charcoal sketches, studies of anonymous arms, hands, and torsos he had used for some of his earlier Madonnas. Fanned out atop the rich oak table, he caught sight of one of his favorite studies—the Madonna holding her child in one hand and an open book in the other. But it was her face, the expression there, which he believed he had captured exactly—the pain of knowing, mixed with resolution, and its ultimate sadness. If only Margherita could see these—see
thi
s
—to understand the sort of pure work he was after.

And then the idea came to him.

His face lit, along with his mood. Of course. Why had he not thought of it before?

E
ARLY THE NEXT MORNING,
Raphael returned to his workshop on the Piazza Sant’Apollonia. Absently, he cast his cloak of rich aubergine velvet and gold fringe onto the workbench near the door. Moving across the wood plank flooring into the huge, high-ceilinged workshop, Raphael was immediately pulled into the feverish pitch—the rhythm of work already going on around him. Across the room, with its creaking floor, and painted open ceiling beams, were two separate models sitting motionless as two of his assistants sketched them for figures in the next phase of the Vatican fresco. The old man from yesterday, sitting for Giuseppe’s red chalk sketch, then a young boy whose nearly perfect face Giulio Romano was carefully highlighting with white chalk for the character of Perseus in a new fresco Raphael was proposing to Chigi.

A younger apprentice was mixing a precise shade of umber to add to the skin tone on a portrait on Gianfrancesco Penni’s grand oak easel. Around them were large paint-splattered cloths, wooden buckets full of murky water and paintbrushes, jugs of wine, and trowels for spreading the colored fresco plaster. There were piles of used, and reused, sketching paper spread throughout the workshop amid tubs of various colored drawing chalk.

The assistants to the
mastro
wore loose white muslin shirts, belted in worn leather, the sleeves pushed up over their elbows. Giovanni da Udine wore a dark leather apron over his muslin shirt, as did Giulio Romano. Everything around them was coated in daubs and splatters of paint, or great, dark smudges of chalk.

Amid the constant movement and low hum of activity, Raphael moved to his own worktable beside the window with a sweeping view of the rooftops of Rome, and its many cupolas. He also had a small private room near the door where he dealt with his accounts and correspondence, but when he worked, he preferred to be among his men. He opened his folio and riffled through to the chalk drawing he had begun to make of Margherita while her image was still fresh in his mind. The eyes met him first—piercing, determined, yet achingly fragile in what lay beneath. He ran his fingertips over the eyes he had drawn. Perfect, he thought. But the mouth was wrong. It was too full, the lower lip out of proportion enough to change the essence of her. He rubbed a slightly moist cloth over the lower area of the face and began the mouth again, his mind swirling with images of their tense, fruitless second meeting. She
was
the Madonna. She had to be. It was as fated, he knew, as his destiny as an artist.

He raked his hands back through his hair and gazed down at the image. He had offered her all that he could. But something was holding her back. Something over which even the great Raphael of Urbino had no control. It was, lately, a theme of his life, he chuckled ruefully to himself. The more things he tried to harness, the more they slipped from his reach. The work was like that, a blinding and varied host of commissions with which even he, and a collection of vibrant, powerful assistants and apprentices, could barely keep pace because, at the heart of it, he would always compare himself with his great mentor, Leonardo da Vinci.

And even with his great rival, Michelangelo—for whom work
was
life.

He glanced down again at the red chalk drawing and felt an unexpected shiver. It was beyond him, and for now, so was she.

Raphael closed the folio, stepped back, and glanced around his workshop until his eyes rested upon Giulio, who, at eighteen, was his youngest senior assistant. So full of raw, natural talent, he thought, yet plagued by a hesitation he had not yet been allowed to understand. Raphael went to his table and stood over Giulio’s shoulder as he sketched the flawlessly featured boy whose light curls were like soft locks of gold curled softly near his face. Raphael wondered where Giulio had found so perfect a youth, one whose bare chest was hairless, sculptured and smooth as alabaster. The master watched his assistant work, filling in the contours of the cheek with a perfectly blended bowl of flesh-toned paint one of the young students had mixed for him.

Raphael looked back and forth from the model to the sketch, and noticed it then—the bright red slash across Giulio’s smooth, beardless cheek. The area was raised and gone purple, and the small place where the flesh had been broken was at its center.

“
Caro?
What happened?” Raphael said softly as he worked on.

Giulio did not answer at first but continued to work intensely, daubing at the image with the tip of his charcoal pencil stub. “It is only a scratch,” he finally acknowledged, still not turning away from the sketch. “Do not be concerned. It is nowhere near the eyes I need to work.”

The comment, and the sentiment behind it, were jarring to Raphael. These were men with whom he worked and worried—with whom he broke bread and drank wine. They became a family. Giulio Romano was no exception.

“Leave this,” he instructed, taking the chalk from Giulio’s hand and laying it gently on the cluttered table between them. “You may rest,” Raphael called to the model, who very swiftly rose from the hard stool, covered his own tautly muscular body with a muslin drape, and walked barefoot to the fire across the room to warm himself.

“What has happened? Who has done this to you?” he asked gently. “Was it your father again?”

“It is truly nothing,
mastro mio.
Only a scratch. You must not concern yourself with such trifles.”

“You are my friend, Giulio, my good friend.
You
concern me. And your mind and hand are every bit as gifted as mine. I have only had more practice and time.”

As Raphael spoke gently, Giulio seemed to soften. “It was a street fight only. Truly it was. After I had drunk far too much good trebbiano last night, I was unwise with my words, and this ugly plum on my face will remind me of that for a good while to come.”

Raphael wanted to believe him. The panel and its oil paints, the communion of the hand and brush, created a unique kind of brotherhood into which few were admitted. But there was something else that had bound them like family. A conversation, a confidence shared on a different occasion, months ago, when Giulio had seemed more trusting.
My father, he sometimes takes out the strains of his day, the disappointments of his life, on me. He hates that I wish to be an artist. He believes I should desire a future more certain for myself. He wishes a life for me . . . things, I have never wished for myself.”

Words spoken between them months ago surfaced now and swam circles in his mind like the fish in the pools at Santa Croce. This had been more than a street fight, he knew without doubt. It was more than something minor to be passed off.

When the golden-haired boy returned to model once again for Giulio, Raphael left them, but he did so with a heart that was suddenly heavy, because of the things Giulio would not say. And as much a friend as Giulio Romano had in Raphael Sanzio, there was a door between them. One that remained, at least for now, unopened.

5

“M
ARGHERITA!” LETITIA WAILED FROM INSIDE THE BAKERY
, her high, grating voice rolling out into the small back garden. “Something has arrived for you!”

In the late afternoon, Margherita stood outside drawing in dried clothing from a rope. The pieces gently fluttered, like colored waves in the breeze, rippling against a stone wall that was draped in vines heavy with fat purple grapes. The sky was bright and cloudless, and on the wall dividing their garden from the next, a ring of doves perched, fat and white, cooing as Margherita pulled the last bit of clothing from the line. She wiped her hands on the apron at her waist and came inside.

“What is it?”

Letitia and Francesco Luti sat together at the kitchen table, just beyond the weathered green garden door. Each of them had a full cup of dark wine before them, and the baby once again lay at Letitia’s uncovered breast. On the table they used for mixing the bread dough, covered still with a thin layer of flour, was a sheaf of paper, wound and then tied with a thick scarlet ribbon. Margherita studied it warily as it lay beside the rust-red clay jug of wine.

“It came from
Mastro
Raphael’s studio. His young apprentice, the one from the other day, just delivered it himself,” Francesco explained. He sat slumped in the scarred wood chair, legs spread, a large hand surrounding the old wooden wine cup. His voice was rasping and heavy.

“Well? Are you not going to open it?”

She backed away from it. “You do it,
Padre mio.
”

“
A Dio,
Margherita! I doubt it is anything dangerous! He is, after all, trying to win you over.” Letitia took a long swallow of the wine as a cool evening breeze blew in through the door and surrounded them.

“That is just what I am afraid of.”

“Not win you
that
way, heaven portend!” Their father scoffed. “He wishes to win your cooperation as a model! A girl like you would not likely interest so grand a man in a personal sense!”

“Well, if you do not open it, I shall have to!” Letitia demanded, reaching across and slipping the ribbon off the end of the parchment.

The paper unfolded before the three of them, revealing a sketch of a Madonna and child, done in black chalk with silverpoint and traces of white heightening in the eyes. The Madonna’s gaze was cast away from the viewer contemplatively as the Christ child played with a small ball she held for him, and her other hand rested gently upon a small open book. Letitia’s small gasp was the only sound as they looked at the crosshatch lines of her gown, the gently tapered fingers, and the expression on her slim, lovely face, whoever she was.

“It is breathtaking,” Letitia finally murmured, fingers splayed across her lips.

“If he is trying to impress you, it should have worked,” Francesco declared.

“I think it is more that he is trying to show me I need not fear him.”

“I suspect there is little to fear in being represented as the greatest of all virgins,” Letitia quipped, running her fingertips gently over the image of the baby as she held her own in her arms. “Especially since she always has her clothes on!”

“Perhaps I have misjudged Signor Sanzio,” Margherita admitted.

“Perhaps?” her father rasped with incredulity. “He is
declaring
to you in this that you need not fear him!”

“His work
is
startling,” Letitia murmured. “It looks as if this girl might actually come right off the page!”

“More than that, she makes me want to weep,” Margherita said with uncharacteristic emotion quaking in her voice. “She knows what the future holds for her child. You can see it in her gaze, the sadness . . . She wishes to keep him for as long as she possibly can.” Margherita looked up. There were tears in her sister’s eyes. Their father, too, was stunned.

“If what Donato showed you this morning did not sway you, this certainly must,” Francesco determined. “It is a chance at immortality through
Mastro
Raffaello’s paintbrush. God Almighty put you in his path, and you must not turn from that. You must go to him, you must tell him, Margherita, that you have changed your mind!”

“
S.
Of course you are right.”

“Take Donato if you like,” Letitia offered as she laid the now dozing toddler into the wooden cradle beside the table. “It would be wise to have a chaperone in any case. A girl alone going to an artist’s studio, no matter what the reason, will not help your reputation. Everyone there must see you as a serious portrait model, not one of those girls who models for artists without their clothing.”

“Then we are in agreement,” Francesco announced after another long swallow of the wine, which dribbled down onto his stubbled chin. An ambitious glitter lit his tired eyes. “As soon as Donato returns from his work at the stables he will accompany you to see
Mastro
Raphael. You will thank him for showing you the sketch, return it, and then you will tell him that you have changed your mind.”

S
HE STOOD
before him at the opened, heavy workshop door, holding out the rolled sketch, her arms draped in the sleeves of an unadorned pale-blue dress, once her mother’s best dress, with its slight touch of faded elegance—her feet beneath covered in scuffed strap shoes. Her hair was parted in the center, and the smooth length of it was held by a small blue cap, her mother’s also, ornamented with just a few simple beads. Donato stood beside her in modest attire—burgundy hose, tunic, painted leather belt, and white shirt beneath. This was his finest attire as well.

“Signor Sanzio,” Donato bowed deeply. “It is indeed the greatest of honors. I am Donato Perazzi, husband of Margherita’s sister.”

“A pleasure,” said Raphael with a nod, but his eyes were instantly upon Margherita as the artists behind him fell into a sudden hush.

“I have come to return this,” she said evenly, her deep brown eyes flecked with gold, wide and honest. She was dressed plainly, he saw, but Raphael, who had been called over by one of the apprentices as she stood at the workshop door, saw the dignity in the utter simplicity of what she wore.

“The drawing was for you.”

“But your work, the perfection of it, is something you must not—”

“It was only a study for an earlier Madonna. It was my hope to show you what caliber of painting I hoped you would sit for.”

“That was my thought upon seeing it. The caliber of your work.” The smallest tinge of a smile edged up the corners of her mouth.

“Signorina, I have waited nearly two years to fulfill this commission. I have painted many Madonnas before, so many for churches and chapels that now I can scarcely remember them all. But with this one, something has stopped me. I could not commit to an image, a face for her—that is, until the day I met you.” He lowered his gaze. “Signorina Luti, honestly, I would have done anything to convince you.”

“I believe you have done that.”

“Thanks be to God,” Donato quietly murmured, glancing heavenward.

But Raphael was silent, seeing only her—her direct manner and her simplicity.

“As long as you have come all this way,” he said suddenly, conscious of his manners.“Would you and Signor Perazzi like to have a look around?”

He knew it would be obvious that he was trying to impress her with a tour of his grand workshop, with its draperies, male models, easels, and drying portraits painted on large wooden panels. But if it helped to keep her here with him awhile longer, he was pleased to do it. All of the hand flourishes, the clever quips, and the show of wit that so amused the wealthy and powerful of Rome would not work with Margherita Luti.

Silently, Margherita followed him around to the various artist tables, shadowed by her sister’s silent, awestruck husband. She saw all of the various works in progress, and dozens of studies for earlier Madonnas.

“And where do
you
work?”

“That is my table,” he replied, pointing to a paint-stained table, cluttered with brushes and two palettes, amid all of his assistants. A large empty easel was set beside it.

“You did not expect that?” he asked, with a hint of pleasure that for a change it was he who had surprised her.

“I suppose I expected something more . . . more—”

“Something more
grand?
”

Her face flushed crimson. She took a moment to respond. “I might have expected a
mastro,
so critical to the very fabric of Rome as yourself, to require more private space in which to . . .
concentrate.
”

“Camaraderie, not privacy, is the heart of this studio. Here, my assistants learn from me. And, just as importantly, I learn from
them.
These are my companions in life, as well as in art.”

“And will they gain your reputation along with your talent?” she unkindly asked.

For a moment he did not smile, nor say anything. Then, very suddenly, he tipped back his head and let a huge, happy laugh. “Signorina, you certainly are a challenge to understand,” he said through his laughter.

“I was just going to say the same of you—Signor Sanzio.”

“Please come,” he bid her, placing a hand gently at the small of her back, and leading her toward his own workspace.

As they walked, Raphael was aware of the furtive glances of the other artists and apprentices upon her, and even a low, muffled snicker from the shirtless old man with a long white beard who was posing, seated on a Roman column. Margherita was being told she was not the first girl to be shown around the great artist’s studio, nor was she likely to be the last.

“Do these men know the reason I am here?” she asked with discomfort.

It took a moment, as he seated her on his model’s stool beside the easel. He glanced around like an afterthought when her question settled in upon him. “My men know me well, Signorina Luti.”

“And should I not fear precisely that?”

“They know you are the new Madonna model, and what value I placed on finding you. Your coming here today, after your previous refusal, holds divinity in itself. They know how exceedingly pleased I am that you have changed your mind.”

“Only for the Madonna, Signor Raphael.”

“S,”
he said without smiling. “Only just that.”

M
ARGHERITA REMAINED
at the workshop for over an hour, with Donato protectively seated nearby, allowing Raphael to make several rapid red chalk sketches of her face and neck. In each he altered something just slightly—the tilt of her head, the focus of her eyes, the set of her mouth. For one of the sketches, it was only a shift in the direction of her gaze he sought. But what he felt was her watching him with rapt fascination, his powerful hand, the bit of hair there below the knuckles, and the long, tapered fingers that commanded the chalk, alternately caressing and gripping it to force an image up from a blank slip of paper. It was an odd kind of intimacy, her gazing at him like this, and Raphael felt the power in it.

Finally, when he had finished, and the sun had paled from a rusty crimson to shadowy gray through the tall, half-open window shutters, Raphael led her to the door and summoned Donato, who had been waiting beside the fireplace, watching the unique encounter. Raphael chose his next words cautiously. It had amazed him that she had come here at all, and he must tread softly with that now.

“Will you return tomorrow at this time to let me make a few further sketches for the painting?”

“It cannot be tomorrow, Signor Sanzio. That is the day we make the
schiacciata.
It is our most important day. We always sell twice as many loaves of our fruit bread.”

Raphael drew a palm full of gold coins from a pocket in his doublet and held them out to her. They glistened like jewels in the shaft of light through the window behind them. “Will this be enough to find someone else to assist in the baking?”

She did not reach out to take them; rather, she tipped her head and silently studied him for a moment. The inbred grace there, and just a hint of her enormous pride, set him once again handily off balance. “Is it always about buying what—and who—you wish, signore?”