Your Holiness,” Chigi replied in a well-schooled voice, dripping sincerity like honey wine. “I had no idea our dear Raphael was so behind schedule on his commissions for everyone else as well.”
Pope Leo stood, stepped down from the dais, and took Chigi’s arm. They moved slowly together then out of the richly decorated room and into the corridor in time with the pope’s sluggish, shuffling step.
“And it will certainly continue unchanged if he goes forward with more of his Madonnas. I had expected him to be finished with the frescoes for my family chapel at least by All Saints’ Day, since we missed the summer. And of course, Your Holiness awaits the completion of your audience chamber there, which craves the utmost of his personal attention before all else,” Chigi recovered with a deeply deferential nod. “Not to mention your formal portrait, which he has yet even to begin.”
One of the papal secretaries, a balding, slightly stoop-shouldered man named Bembo, dabbed the pontiff’s glistening forehead with a white silk kerchief, edged in Venetian lace, as they walked. “He trusts you, does he not?”
“I believe it is so, Your Holiness, for it was I who brought him to Rome in the first place.”
Pope Leo imperiously stroked his chin with two of the fat fingertips.
“Molto bene.
Then we shall direct him to proceed with the works for you before all others.”
“It must not be! Your Holiness is first in all things!”
He held up a firm hand. “Patience, Agostino
mio.
It is the greatest of the virtues. Having Raffaello tied closely to you shall serve greatly to enhance your hold over him. And a trusting friend is one who speaks freely. A more approachable friend to him shall suit me. Only someone who has the benefit of his intimacy will know when it is his appetites, and his women, who stand alarmingly in the way of his production. We needs be apprised continually of where the center of his heart truly lies. For without Raffaello’s full attention, he shall never be able to give us the volume of work we desire.”
“So we silently guide him to our own purposes then, just as a monkey on a leash. Is that not so, Holy Father?”
“Precisely so,” agreed the pope.
3
“W ELL? HAVE YOU FOUND HER?”
Later that afternoon, Raphael met Giulio Romano at the rounded door of his busy workshop, the huge space he maintained on the Piazza Sant’Apollonia. He held on to the sturdy brass door pull, his eyes wide with anticipation, as though he were the boy he had been once, long ago, in Urbino.
Giulio removed his cloak and walked with Raphael back to the paint-spattered worktable where he had been putting the setting resin onto a new portrait. Strewn across the table’s work surface were dozens of pen studies, layered with wash and traces of black chalk. Others on small bits of paper had been done in different mediums: black chalk over stylus or silverpoint done on gray, prepared paper. Pens, stubs of blue, black and red chalk and paintbrushes, their handles stained with a melange of colors, lay around them.
“I found her.”
“Has she agreed to come? Will she allow me to sketch her for the Madonna?”
“I am afraid the girl would not see me.”
“Porca miseria!”
“She sent her father out to tell me that she was uninterested in being propositioned by any artisan.”
Raphael flung down his wet brush, thick blue resin splattering the worktable and his own shoes.
“Proposition?
She speaks like a Campo de’ Fiori tart! I did no such thing, Giulio!” He raked the straight hair back from his forehead, feeling strangely undone. “Did you not make clear who I am? Or all that I wish from her?”
“Forgive me, but she was most firmly set against any involvement. For what it is worth, you have taught me well,
mastro.
I saw her peeking out from behind a curtain as we spoke, and I do understand what you see in her.” He spread a consoling arm across Raphael’s shoulder. Giulio
Pope Leo stood, stepped down from the dais, and took Chigi’s arm. They moved slowly together then out of the richly decorated room and into the corridor in time with the pope’s sluggish, shuffling step.
“And it will certainly continue unchanged if he goes forward with more of his Madonnas. I had expected him to be finished with the frescoes for my family chapel at least by All Saints’ Day, since we missed the summer. And of course, Your Holiness awaits the completion of your audience chamber there, which craves the utmost of his personal attention before all else,” Chigi recovered with a deeply deferential nod. “Not to mention your formal portrait, which he has yet even to begin.”
One of the papal secretaries, a balding, slightly stoop-shouldered man named Bembo, dabbed the pontiff’s glistening forehead with a white silk kerchief, edged in Venetian lace, as they walked. “He trusts you, does he not?”
“I believe it is so, Your Holiness, for it was I who brought him to Rome in the first place.”
Pope Leo imperiously stroked his chin with two of the fat fingertips.
“Molto bene.
Then we shall direct him to proceed with the works for you before all others.”
“It must not be! Your Holiness is first in all things!”
He held up a firm hand. “Patience, Agostino
mio.
It is the greatest of the virtues. Having Raffaello tied closely to you shall serve greatly to enhance your hold over him. And a trusting friend is one who speaks freely. A more approachable friend to him shall suit me. Only someone who has the benefit of his intimacy will know when it is his appetites, and his women, who stand alarmingly in the way of his production. We needs be apprised continually of where the center of his heart truly lies. For without Raffaello’s full attention, he shall never be able to give us the volume of work we desire.”
“So we silently guide him to our own purposes then, just as a monkey on a leash. Is that not so, Holy Father?”
“Precisely so,” agreed the pope.
3
“W ELL? HAVE YOU FOUND HER?”
Later that afternoon, Raphael met Giulio Romano at the rounded door of his busy workshop, the huge space he maintained on the Piazza Sant’Apollonia. He held on to the sturdy brass door pull, his eyes wide with anticipation, as though he were the boy he had been once, long ago, in Urbino.
Giulio removed his cloak and walked with Raphael back to the paint-spattered worktable where he had been putting the setting resin onto a new portrait. Strewn across the table’s work surface were dozens of pen studies, layered with wash and traces of black chalk. Others on small bits of paper had been done in different mediums: black chalk over stylus or silverpoint done on gray, prepared paper. Pens, stubs of blue, black and red chalk and paintbrushes, their handles stained with a melange of colors, lay around them.
“I found her.”
“Has she agreed to come? Will she allow me to sketch her for the Madonna?”
“I am afraid the girl would not see me.”
“Porca miseria!”
“She sent her father out to tell me that she was uninterested in being propositioned by any artisan.”
Raphael flung down his wet brush, thick blue resin splattering the worktable and his own shoes.
“Proposition?
She speaks like a Campo de’ Fiori tart! I did no such thing, Giulio!” He raked the straight hair back from his forehead, feeling strangely undone. “Did you not make clear who I am? Or all that I wish from her?”
“Forgive me, but she was most firmly set against any involvement. For what it is worth, you have taught me well,
mastro.
I saw her peeking out from behind a curtain as we spoke, and I do understand what you see in her.” He spread a consoling arm across Raphael’s shoulder. Giulio
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