The Ruby Ring (11 page)

“Money is not an evil, Signorina Luti.”

She flicked her hand at the coins still looking squarely at him. “Nor is it always the objective.”

She was right, of course. He knew it instantly, and he felt small for having been so quick with the offer. There was a goodness about her that surprised him again and again. It certainly set him off his game—the one he had played with women for as long as he could remember. With her, like it or not, he was in control of nothing. “I only meant that with this, you could have someone else assist your father so that we might continue our work together.”

“It is my family’s business, and
my
work, Signor Sanzio. The task to which I shall return once you have completed your Madonna. It is my duty to help in the preparation of the
schiacciata,
a portion of which we deliver to the poor at church. I cannot leave my father to someone who knows nothing of our business for a handful of coins.”

He took a measured breath, feeling Giovanni da Udine’s judgmental, disbelieving stare from across the room. “Very well then. When
can
you return?”

She thought for a moment, and was silent. “It would be possible on Saturday.”

On Saturdays, it had long been his custom to dine midday with Chigi. It was a gathering the pope himself often attended. In Raphael’s circle, things were all intricately woven together. It would be unwise to decline the standing occasion. There would naturally be inquiries if he did not attend, especially considering his past penchant for the ladies.

Margherita must not be seen as any part of that.

“Can you arrive on the hour of three?” It would give him enough time to break bread with Chigi and the Holy Father, then dash back to his workshop without compromising either commitment.

“If you desire it.”

“Indeed. I desire it greatly.”

Something moved him to take her hand and draw it to his lips at their parting, but he resisted the urge with all of his strength. She would misunderstand the sentiment. After she had nodded to him and left, Giovanni da Udine looked at Raphael, arms crossed over his barrel chest. The burly assistant, with his wavy shock of prematurely silver hair, shook his head, biting back a smile. “If I had not seen for myself, I would never have believed it!”

“I fear you are too easily struck,
caro,
” Raphael replied with believable nonchalance. He moved back to his easel and the preliminary sketch of Margherita that remained there.

But Giovanni da Udine followed him, looking at the exquisite face gazing back at them in chalk lines and shadows. “And everyone here knows
you
are too easily seduced by a pretty girl.”

“I have told you before, Giovanni
mio,
it is not like that with her.”

“You do not find her attractive?” da Udine bruskly goaded.

“She is exquisite.”

“Not good enough for you?”

“Probably
too
good for me, Giovanni.”

“Her grace is dissuasive then?”

“As is her caution.” Raphael removed the image from the easel and laid it on the worktable next to him, not wanting those eyes to unnerve him any more when he was working so hard at denial.

Giovanni laughed. “Really,
mastro.
I have known you for a long time, and I have never known such a small thing as perception to stand in your way.”

He tipped his head and cast a glance back at the door through which Margherita had only just passed, the cleanly scrubbed fragrance of her hair still heightening the air around them all. “Ah, but then neither of us has known this particular
signorina
before. Have we?” asked Raphael.

J
UST AFTER DARK
that evening, when everything was alive with the rich golden glow of candles and oil lamps, Raphael walked into the magnificent Chigi stable building, and up the flight of stone stairs. Not exclusively stables, it was a grand building that housed a collection of fine horses on the ground level and elegant rooms above it. The walls were lined with tapestries and pastel-shaded frescoes. The floors were ornamented by Persian carpets. He had been summoned here to present what drawings and concepts he had formulated thus far for a new fresco with the given theme of the marriage of Cupid and Psyche. Raphael moved up the twisted stone staircase, past the ever-present scaffolding that his own workmen had left.

In a grand salon at the end of the corridor, he found Agostino, his friend and mentor. As velvet-clad servants swirled around him, Chigi himself lay on a velvet-covered lounge. His second mistress, Imperia, her breasts exposed, seductively massaged scented oil into his bare feet. This flaxen-haired beauty, Raphael knew, was living here. Across the street, in the villa itself, was Francesca Andreozza, the mistress who had just borne his third child, and the woman most actively vying, by her fertility, for the vaunted title of Signora Chigi.

Agostino lounged on his side, propped on his elbow, all beard and dark chest hair, gazing up at two of Raphael’s apprentices as they applied bright orange painted plaster to the drapery portion of Perseus Beheading Medusa. The room was grand beyond measure for the second floor of a stable. There were art treasures all around. Raphael always wondered if his benefactor fully appreciated the rich Bible stories and elegant mythological frescoes coming to life before him, or the irony of placing them here, where he housed a courtesan.

“Ah, Raffaello
mio! Come va?
So have you come with drawings for me?”

“I hope they are as you wished,” he said, forcing a humble tone. While he respected and admired Chigi, there had always been something he could not quite put his finger on, something that made him wary. Perhaps it was the reality that were it not for Raphael’s singular talent, which he desired to harness, there would have been nothing at all to align their two very different worlds. Certainly he was indebted for the great banker’s patronage; Raphael was simply mindful of the greater things that separated them.

Chigi took a sugarcoated grape from Imperia, then groaned out loud as he swallowed it. With a Cheshire smile beneath his smoke-gray eyes, he said, “I often ask myself if there is anything finer in all the world than feasting with all of the senses at once?”

Raphael imagined that Chigi did not so much require a response as a smile of complicity while he drew the girl down to him. He kissed her sensually, fondling her bare breasts, not caring that there was an audience around him, or perhaps heightened by it. A moment later, he motioned the girl away with a broad, nonchalant sweep of his hand. Raphael averted his eyes as Chigi sat up, his nude torso exposed, then wrapped himself in the long silk sheet, looking not unlike an ancient Roman in a finely spun toga.

“I was thinking of adding more cherubs,” Raphael said, ignoring Imperia, as Chigi unrolled the drawings and began to study them. “Brilliant,” the banker smiled. “The drawings are perfect,” he said, as he draped a fraternal arm across Raphael’s shoulder. “But will this, exactly as it is, actually ever grace my loggia?”

What he meant was, will it be finished?

“I hope I have not disappointed you so far.”

“You have not,” Chigi smiled. It was a vain yet winning smile from a man who was tall to the point of majestic, with a wavy shock of crow-black hair and prominent Roman nose. “But can you make this project your first priority?”

“Unfortunately, His Holiness requires the same distinction.”

“Ah,
bene.
” Chigi shrugged. “Then there are two things you must remember. First, that no one comes before the Holy Father. Second, that I introduced you to him in the first place.”

He grinned so slyly that it forced Raphael to chuckle. His first benefactor in Rome had been Cardinal Bibbiena. But there was something vastly endearing about Agostino Chigi’s arrogance. He certainly had not gotten to where he was without those qualities, thought Raphael admiringly.

“But seriously,
caro.
Is there anything you need just now? More assistants to speed things along?” He was so charming when he was feigning magnanimity, Raphael thought with a little half smile.

“An experienced assistant would be nice,” Raphael agreed. “But one who needs to be trained, no matter how talented, would be like adding a larger rock for Sisyphus to push up his hill.”

The two men moved together toward an open gallery. Below them lay the formal gardens, and before them a vast table was set with white linen, sweet wine, and every sort of cake and exotic fruit.

“Then tell me, what
do
you need, Raffaello?”

“Time I do not have to finish the Madonna for His Holiness.”

Agostino chuckled, and Raphael was instantly sorry for the admission. “Another Madonna, is it, when so many other projects beckon? Have you not, to your credit, painted dozens of Madonnas already?”

“It was commissioned, promised, and begun.”

“And with so much more important work to complete, you feel compelled to do
this
now?”

“I believe I have finally found the model to help me see it to completion.”

“Do let me guess. You met her last night drinking mulled wine down in the Campo de’ Fiori with that insatiable apprentice of yours . . . what is his name? Da Udine?”

“In truth, I met her in the broad light of day on Il Gianicolo. Certainly light enough to assess that her eyes are extraordinary and—”

“And how kissable were her lips beneath?”

Raphael shook his head and smiled ruefully. In the middle of Sodom and Gomorrah, he was trying to describe Madonnas. “Her mouth interests me only in how it is to be painted.”

Chigi chuckled and braced a hand on Raphael’s shoulder. “You like my Imperia, do you not? Now,
her
lips are desirable!”

“Indeed, she is lovely.”

“Then take her to your bed this evening as a little gift from me. Or, if you like, take her here, in her own bed. Evidence of how pleased I am with your work,
and
your friendship.”

“The offer is a generous one, Agostino, and I bid you thanks.”

“You know that she is fond of you.”

“And I am fond of her. But a backlog of work will keep me occupied all the rest of this night, I am afraid,” he wisely replied, and unrolled another of the drawings before Agostino could repeat the offer.

“Well,” he shrugged. “This
is
a new turn for you. I do not believe you have ever refused a woman. Especially one of mine!”

“His Holiness has asked me to avoid those sorts of diversions, and I am doing my best to honor his wish.”

“That is commendable, if not entirely practical for a lusty man like you,
caro!
”

Raphael glanced down at his own drawings, refusing to take the bait. “Well, the practical side of me would very much appreciate knowing what you think of this one.”

Agostino tipped his head, seeing that the debate was over. Finally, he, too, looked down at the drawings for his newest fresco.

It seemed to Raphael that since Chigi had chosen a marriage theme for the new design, perhaps he did mean to marry the mother of his children, after all. At least he had gambled on it by portraying the bride and groom as Francesca and Agostino, surrounded by a throng of family and friends. Gianfrancesco Penni would do the detail work of flowers and tiny cherubs, and Giulio Romano, of course, would help him with the lion’s share of the actual characters.

“Does my vision of the story please you then?” he asked as Chigi silently studied each area of the long, narrow drawings that would grace the wall of the loggia where it met the ceiling. “Or are there changes you would desire?”

After a long silence, Agostino looked back at Raphael. His gray eyes were very wide. “Can you actually achieve this, with all of the detail, in a year’s time?”

“Realistically, it will take a bit more than that with all of the work you have already ordered at your family chapel.”

“Very well. One must not hurry perfection, after all.” He was smiling. “Nor must a man deny basic needs, Raphael, lest he be drawn in a dangerous direction. Consider, will you, my offer of Imperia? She shall give you what you need, as any proper courtesan should, yet distract you not from the important work.” He anchored his hands on his hips, leveling his gaze. “And for the rare breed of men like you Raffaello
mio,
the work is the only thing of true consequence. It is life, is it not?”

Smiling, yet without reply, Raphael turned his attention back to the fresco and scaffolding, where several of his own assistants labored. “Before I leave you for the evening, tell me, Agostino, is the palette of colors they are currently applying to your liking?”

“If they are colors conceived by you, Raffaello
mio,
they are gifts from God I shall not refuse,” he replied, meaning every syllable—at least of that. But the warning, and the sleight, so cryptically delivered, still hung heavily between them. Raphael was not to become distracted by a woman. At least not one particular woman who might ever become an obsession. Raphael belonged to the powerful of Rome. And they, by any means, would keep him that way.

“We shall see you on Saturday, as always?”

Raphael moved toward the door. Margherita Luti, he still suspected, would be dismayed by the hypocrisy of the world in which he thrived. But this was the world he had created for himself, and which had made him a very rich man. It was the life he had thought he desired.

“As always, Signor Chigi,” he replied. Raphael’s private thoughts, for the moment at least, remained his own. He had too much at stake to do otherwise.

6

A
S RAPHAEL SAT HUNCHED ON A WOODEN STOOL AT HIS
worktable, finishing an ink-over-stylus drawing, his fingertips blackened by ink, he could not keep his mind from what had happened earlier in the week. Perspiration beaded on his brow as he gazed down at the Conversion of Saint Paul, another work commissioned by the pope. But it was Giulio Romano, and the nasty gash on his face, that troubled him most profoundly.

Around Raphael the workshop vibrated with the hum of activity. Male models of different sizes and ages sat in varying stages of undress, their bodies twisted, bent, and shaped into forms that would fit subjects in the ever-increasing list of commissions. It took Raphael, his three principal assistants, several junior assistants, and a host of apprentices just to keep their heads above water—and to keep Il Sodoma, Sebastiano, and Michelangelo from nipping at his heels.

Raphael ran a hand through his smooth, brown hair and slumped back, letting a sigh of frustration. He felt protective of Giulio. In spite of his enormous talent at sketching, as well as paint and fresco work, he was yet a boy of eighteen. Vulnerable, tentative about his place in the world. Raphael knew that Giulio Romano, careful as any other serious artist of his hands—the critical tools of his trade—would never have been foolish enough to have engaged in a common brawl.

No, this involved Aldo Romano again, Raphael felt certain of it. He had met Giulio’s father four years ago, when he had agreed to take on the son. Aldo Romano was a coarse and greedy man, small and bald. Giulio was tall, young, and smooth-skinned, his manner refined, steeped in youthful energy and innocence—the striking physical antithesis of his father. There had always been something different about Giulio. It was a gentleness that went beyond the fact of his youth.

Raphael thought of the countless nights he had spent in the brothels of the Quartiere dell’ Ortaccio, accompanied happily by his senior assistants, Gianfrancesco Penni and Giovanni da Udine. But never Giulio. Even now, here among men upon whom the pressures were as great as the need for diversion, a father’s influence reined supreme. That had to be it. Why else did Giulio always refuse their company, and their masculine pursuits?

He cast down his pen and washed a hand across his face. He was too tired to deal with more problems, but Giulio was his responsibility, and his friend, and Raphael felt the weight of that. He went to the easel where Giulio was working, applying a rich shade of umber to cover Raphael’s underlying guideline sketch of the prophet Isaiah.

“Let us take a walk,” Raphael casually declared.

Giulio glanced up in surprise. It was not like the
mastro
to be diverted during the tumultuously busy workday, especially lately. Giulio’s inquisitive fox-brown eyes were quickly wide with concern. Losing a position as important as his would be devastating to the young boy from the dark Bocca della Verit quarter of Rome.

“Have I done something to displease you,
mastro?
”

Raphael smiled. “I just require a bit of fresh air, and I would welcome the company.”

Giulio put his paintbrush into a tall cup with a collection of other brushes, then wiped his hands on a cloth. Reluctantly, he turned preparing to do as he was bid. Outside the workshop on the Piazza Sant’Apollonia, facing the small walled convent that took in wayward girls, the autumn air bristled with a crisp northerly breeze as they strolled past it. Both of them were warmed by rich cloaks, Raphael’s of black velvet with silver thread, Giulio’s much simpler, of burgundy velvet with a black silk tie at his neck.

They walked past windows adorned brightly with boxes of clematis, honeysuckle, and weedy geraniums, and then past a grand house with an open loggia. They turned onto a narrow alleyway, past a swarm of dirty-faced children in threadbare clothing who were playing kickball. From a pocket in his cape, Raphael drew forth a handful of coins and tossed them out to them. He always gave whatever he carried to urchin children when he encountered them, but moved on quickly after that, as if moving away from his own motherless youth before it could confront him.

“I would like you to consider staying with me for a while, at my home,” he said without ceremony as they passed through a small square with its ancient central well and darkened arcades.

Giulio looked up in surprise. “
Live
with you?”

Ahead now, the next quaint little alley was stuffed with an endless web of houses and
bottegas,
one selling brightly colored majolica; beside it was the shop of a glove maker. Raphael stopped, pretending to consider the gloves on display.

“I have that huge house, designed to impress, and yet all I ever do in the little time I have within it is ramble around listening to the echo of my own footsteps.”

“What of your groomsman and the house girl? Are they not companionable enough?”

“My man, Ludovico, lives in my upper rooms and makes himself scarce unless I need to dress or undress. And Signorina di Francesco Guazzi does not remain at my house at all. She cooks and manages the place for me, then returns to her family in the Borgo Pio.”

“It is just that I have seen so many sketches of the girl in your folio, I assumed—”

“You assumed she was my mistress.”

“
S.
She certainly is lovely enough.”

“That is true. And for a few scudi additional now and then she has been amenable to modeling for me. But I have not taken Elena to my bed,” he lied smoothly.

And it was not entirely a lie, as his grand indiscretion had not occurred anywhere near a bed. But he lied now to protect Elena’s honor.

Elena di Francesco Guazzi’s family once had sound wealth, prominence in Rome, and a strong friendship with the family of Cardinal Bibbiena. But lavish spending by Elena’s father had reduced their circumstances, created scandal, and brought about his suicide.

Unable, for propriety’s sake, to employ a young unmarried woman in his own home, the cardinal prevailed upon Raphael, by then betrothed to his niece. Raphael would understand the need for absolute discretion, the cardinal was certain. The task given to Elena would be unimportant. Saving the family from complete ruin by means of a respectable wage was the only goal.

Raphael was still uncertain about why he had allowed the indiscretion, which had occurred almost a year ago. They had never spoken about it afterward. Elena had modeled for him several times and there had never been so much as a spark between them. But that one evening he had crossed the line, partly out of boredom, and partly, he knew, from the biting loneliness he felt in his grand house, with only his thoughts and his self-doubts to keep him company into the night.

Yet whatever excuse he made, he hated himself for that vile sort of weakness. He was a scoundrel—a lonely one, but a scoundrel nonetheless.

He would have given her more in compensation if she would have accepted it. Having to face her every day in light of that was not only penance, Raphael repeatedly told himself, but a reminder of the price to be paid for indiscretion. He might always get what he desired. But there were consequences to everything . . .

Even for the great Raffaello.

“Come stay with me and keep me company,
caro.
”

Giulio smiled. The bruise above his eye had turned a gruesome bluish yellow. “But my family,
mastr
o
—”

“Someone told me long ago that family and love do not serve as an advantage, Giulio
mio,
particularly in an artist’s life,” Raphael said philosophically, remembering his father’s words. “And sadly, it is true. It can be difficult for some to understand the existence we lead—what we paint, or why.”

“Some like my father.”

“I had considered him. I believe it would be better for you to be away from his influence.”

There was a silence then between them as they continued to walk, Raphael’s hands clasped behind his back, as he nodded good-naturedly to the awestruck people of the neighborhood who saw the great artist in their midst. Men tipped their soft cloth hats reverently to him and women smiled and giggled in shock behind raised hands.

“I appreciate your offer,
mastro.
It is generosity beyond compare.”

“Indeed it is.” Raphael rolled his eyes humorously, hoping to diffuse Giulio’s discomfort.

A stoop-shouldered old woman in gray cloth came before them then and held out a slightly wilted wild daisy to Raphael. He smiled, then bowing to her as though she were a duchess at the court of Urbino. He took the flower and watched her withered face light, before they continued on.

“It is not to do with painting,” Giulio said at last. “but with my father.”

“S.”

“He says I am confused. That I am drawn to wayward things, and he must relieve me of that evil by his own hand. That it is the only way, he says, to ensure that I will become a real man.”

“And what do
you
believe?”

Giulio sighed and shook his head. “I wish I knew,
mastro.
”

“It is difficult in the studio,
non?
The male form is indeed magnificent, faced as we are so continually with unclothed flesh, being forced to consider, day after day, every nuance, every muscle of the male body, and you a young virile man yourself.”

Giulio looked at Raphael, his full, youthful lips parted. “It is not like that. I do not desire what I paint or draw,
mastro,
” he declared, color rising into his full cheeks. “Certainly not in the sinful way your friend Il Sodoma does!”

Giovanni Bazzi, the brilliant artist of the fresco in Agostino’s upstairs bedroom at the villa, had been a good friend to Raphael. He was a clever dinner companion and a talented artist. He was also, as Giulio’s father would have said, a sodomite. He had blithely accepted the sobriquet Il Sodoma, content that his talent, a winning smile, and highly placed friends would protect him from any real sort of danger or scorn concerning his proclivities.

“But your father does not believe that,” said Raphael.

“My father believes what he wishes, and only that. Men, he says, are not to see other men unclothed. My father accuses me of being like Bazzi because of what I draw and paint. For his interest in boys, my father says, his official name throughout Rome now is Il Sodoma, and you will be next!”

“And Bazzi wears it like a badge of honor.” Raphael laughed and put his arm across Giulio’s back as they walked. “It defines him, he says. But that is not me, and it certainly does not define
you.
”

“No.”

“You are old enough to live a man’s life, Giulio. Stay with me awhile. Take some time to consider your future—what it is that
will
come to define you. And learn from the rest of us, the desires and the outlets . . . in short, the lives of artists.”

“What of my father? Will he not reproach you, considering what he already believes of me?”

“You leave your father to me.” Raphael smiled engagingly.

“I shall not forget this,
mastro mio.
Ever. How will I ever repay your confidence in me?”

“Only continue on painting in the manner in which you have begun. Keep learning along with the rest of us, and that shall be more than payment enough for me.”