Signora Da Vinci (36 page)

I hoped my smile, as the Holy Father gazed at us all, was passably sincere, as my sentiment was wickedly cynical. But what he wished for us most to see were his precious relics. He was like a child with a new toy, gathering us to follow him down some stone stairs to a belowground hallway.

“Behold,” Innocent intoned and swept his arm around the small, low-ceilinged chamber illuminated by flickering wall torches. There were three crypts—two of them long and thin, one square and small—all tilted at an angle so that their contents might be easily viewed. “The Sacred Regalia of St. Maurice,” he said.

The pope moved to the first long box of polished cedar lined with rich purple velvet. Inside lay what looked like a common lance, though very old, its metal blade as pitted as the wooden handle was shrunken and splintery.

The sight of the weapon that so enthralled the Holy Father left me cold, and though I dared not say as much, I had no knowledge whatsoever of St. Maurice or his importance in the Christian pantheon.

Lorenzo stood with Maximilian and the Duke of Savoy staring down at the other long box. I came to their side.

“What is in here, Lorenzo?” I asked.

“It is the ‘Spear of Destiny.’”

Pope Innocent glided up behind us and in the most reverential tone said to me, “It is, my son, the very spear that pierced Christ’s side as he hung upon the cross. It makes me weep to look upon it.” He sniffed loudly and wiped at his cheek, though it looked very dry to me. “Can you not feel the pain of our Lord? That point of steel,
that very blade
touched the flesh of Jesus Christ. Hastened his death and resurrection, and thus our salvation. But come, there is more to see.”

As we repaired to a second chamber in the basement hallway, we were joined by Cardinal Borgia. The Holy Father seemed relieved at having “his brain” attending him.

Inside the second chamber was a single case within which was a smallish piece of yellowed cloth, its reddish-brown markings crudely arranged in the shape of a face.

Before this relic Pope Innocent knelt momentarily before flinging out his arms and extending his legs, then flopping his great belly on the stone floor in complete prostration.

“The Veronica,” Roderigo Borgia said in such a cynical tone that we who were standing eyed each other incredulously. “This is the cloth that the good woman of that name used,” he continued, “to wipe our Lord’s face as he staggered under the weight of the cross on his way to Calvary. Can you not see the imprint of his features?” The cardinal gestured with two fingers for the rest of us to join the pope in his full prostration.

There was nothing to be done but obey. I knew that Lorenzo felt as ridiculous as I did, but we managed to keep straight faces as the pope droned a benediction into the floor.

The showing over, we were all invited by the pontiff to stroll through his private garden. Lorenzo and I were only too happy to oblige, sincerely awed by the rare and exotic flowers and trees that had been collected from the four corners of the known world for Innocent’s personal enjoyment.

We had bent down to sniff the fragrance of an African striped fuchsia when the Duke of Savoy sidled up behind us. He spoke quietly.

“Did the Veronica impress you?” he said.

Lorenzo and I stood facing the man and closed our ranks for privacy. “The truth?” Lorenzo asked.

“What else, my lord?”

“Not only a fake, but a pathetic one at that. Perhaps I’m spoiled by the artisans of Florence, but I know a dozen who could have executed a much better one.”

Roderigo Borgia had made his way toward the three of us.

The Duke of Savoy stepped aside and allowed him into our discreet circle. “The Shroud of Lirey has been in our family for one hundred years,” he said.

“A shroud?” I asked. “What is the nature of this shroud?”

Savoy lowered his voice to a whisper. “The full-length winding cloth of Jesus with his image divinely imprinted on it.”

The rest of us were silent, quietly urging the duke to continue.

“Its authenticity cannot be disputed. Thousands of pilgrims and clergy in hundreds of showings have seen it and accepted its veracity.”

“Hundreds of showings?” Cardinal Borgia said. “Imagine the small fortune the Savoys have enjoyed from a single holy relic in their possession.”

The duke seemed offended by such a suggestion. “The Lirey Shroud has not been seen in public for twenty-five years.” The timbre of his voice became even more shrill.

“Why is that?” Lorenzo wanted to know.

Savoy bristled, appearing besieged by the questioning. “I cannot say why. But I believe our family’s fortune is sufficient enough so that profiting from a holy relic is not our concern.” He glared at Cardinal Borgia. “And I think, Roderigo, that you should perhaps examine your own Christian faith. Cynicism seems to be your guiding principle these days.” With that he nodded politely to us all and moved away to view a butterfly-covered shrub.

“A full-length shroud. Curious,” Lorenzo observed.

“Unseen for twenty-five years. More curious still,” said Roderigo. “I happen to know the Savoys are, in fact, in dire need of money.”

I regarded Cardinal Borgia with interest. His support of Lorenzo was intriguing.
But,
I wondered,
was it sincere?

 

The answer came that evening at the dinner table, where all of us had again gathered. From the time we had been seated I had had the eerie sensation that one does in the still moment before a lightning strike.

The Emperor Maximilian rose and lifted his goblet. His tone was gracious and proud. “I am delighted to announce a betrothal—my own—to Bianca Sforza of Savoy.” Certainly expecting this, the Duke of Savoy stood and lifted his glass as well.

“To my niece,” Ludovico
Il Moro
proclaimed with a smile, and stood to join the others.

Now Lorenzo and I followed, as did Cardinals Sforza and Borgia.

The pope, with a show of self-important pomposity, remained seated but nodded his approval, then raised a pontifical hand in the direction of Maximilian and Savoy, and bestowed a long Latin prayer. The man was clearly enamored of his own benedictory repertoire.

Once everyone was seated again Savoy clapped his hands and a servant brought forward a small framed portrait. “Bianca is still a girl. Not yet ready to marry,” he said, passing the painting around, “but once she is, it will cement an alliance between the great houses of Savoy and Hapsburg.”

I chanced a peek at Maximilian, who tried unsuccessfully to stifle a sour look at the allusion of equal footing between the two families. The Hapsburg dynasty was a vast empire by anyone’s standards, the Savoys a respected but limited regional duchy.

At that moment the portrait of Bianca reached us. I held it and Lorenzo and I gazed down at the youthful face, pretty enough, with graceful hands. I was startled by what I was seeing and knew that Lorenzo had seen what had caught my eye. Though in her fingers the Sforza girl held a flower—as was typical in portraits—there, just above her wrist, was a symbol embroidered into her sleeve.
A symbol that was as out of place on a Christian duchess’s gown as a wing would be on a cat
.

Then Lorenzo took it from me and, passing it to Ascanio Sforza, stood.

He was always so tactful, so diplomatic, and I wondered at the timing of his announcement. It would certainly eclipse Maximilian’s betrothal to Bianca of Savoy. It must be his express purpose, I thought. Another show of Florentine strength.

“I wish to propose another marriage,” Lorenzo said, sweeping his eyes around the table, allowing the anticipation to build. When his gaze stopped and fixed on Innocent, the Holy Father sat back in his chair with curious anticipation.

“I wish to propose to you, Your Grace, the hand of my eldest daughter, Maddalena, to your son, Cibo.”

The man looked stunned, I thought
. The pope’s bastard son marrying into so illustrious a family as the Medici.

With both hands Innocent beckoned his cardinals to his ears. The whispering went on for what seemed an eternity. Finally he waved them away. He sat silently, for as long a moment as he could manage before blurting, “I accept!” Then he graced us with his great rotten-toothed smile, and everyone raised their glasses with loud
“Salutes!”
Some of these exclamations, I noticed, seemed more sincere than others.

Roderigo Borgia stood. He was imposing with his steely gaze and thin-lipped smile. “We of the church are deeply grateful for the long and faithful friendship of the Medici family. And now it is time to reward them for their service.”

There was nervous shifting in the chairs around me. I did not dare meet anyone’s gaze.

“I hereby nominate Giovanni de Lorenzo de’ Medici to the cardinalate!”

There was, for a brief moment, dead silence in the room. Then a commotion of voices.

“He is only thirteen!” Maximilian cried.

“Far too young,” the Duke of Savoy added, barely controlling his anger.

“I second the nomination.”

All eyes fell on Cardinal Ascanio Sforza, whose face was stern and impassive.

Pope Innocent was looking from one to the other of his cardinals. Their nomination was preposterous. And yet . . .

“Thank you, Your Graces, for your vote of confidence for my studious and deeply pious son,” Lorenzo said. “A boy who has, since his youngest days, desired nothing more than a life of religious devotion.”

My Lorenzo, my perfect lover,
I suddenly realized,
is a blatant power broker, a political creature—one agreeable to familial sacrifices, even deception to further his broader objectives.

The pope squirmed in his chair. “Giovanni is too young in years to wear the cardinal’s hat,” he objected, lacking all conviction.

There were murmurs of agreement from Maximilian and Savoy, though Ludovico Sforza remained still, his gaze impenetrable.

Though his eyes stared straight ahead, I could see the pope absorbing the approbation of his cardinals on either side of him. “But if he will go and study Canon Law at the University of Pisa,” Innocent continued, “three years hence he will be welcomed to Rome and be seated amongst his brothers in Christ.” The pope put his hands together and lowered his head.

Each and every man, whatever his opinion, now bowed to the will and word of the Holy Father. It was done. Giovanni de’ Medici in three years’ time would become the youngest cardinal in the history of the Catholic church.

 

“Lorenzo,” I began as we undressed together in his sleeping chamber.

“Yes, my love.”

“Before he started for home, my father sent me another chest of treasures.” I was quiet as I unlaced the back of his doublet.

“I assume you’re going to tell me what was in it.”

“Aside from the usual, there was a small wooden box, and inside were sticky black balls the size of a fingertip.”

“Poppy?”

“In his letter he told me this resin was from the
cannabis
plant. Hemp. In the East, rope is made from its fibers. But in this form it is called
hashish
.”

“What does one do with
hashish
?” Lorenzo asked. Down to his shirt and stockings, he lay back on the canopied bed, nestled amidst silk coverlets and feather-stuffed cushions.

“Well, prepared in myrrh and wine, it is used as an anesthetic.”

“Do you think it would help my gout?”

“It might,” I said. “But it is also a . . . euphoriant.”

“A euphoriant?” Intrigued, he propped himself up against the gilded headboard.

“Itinerant monks in India use it quite habitually. They claim it causes visions, wild dreamings. It gives them limitless powers of divination. Scythians used to gather in a tent around a pile of red-hot stones and throw the hemp seeds on it. Herodotus said the vapors transported them into paroxysms of joy.”

Lorenzo smiled. “I hope you brought some of these sticky balls with you.”

“No,” I said, and watched his features deflate. Then I turned away. “My father said I should bake the resin into some confections, with honey, for the stuff tastes very bitter.” When I turned back to him I wore a mischievous grin and held a small dark cake in one hand.

“Caterina, you devil!” He grabbed me and pulled me down on the bed.

I broke the thing in two and handed him a piece.

“We eat this as a sacrament,” I said, becoming serious.

“Should we pray?”

“Perhaps so.”

“But to whom?” Lorenzo asked with the innocence of a child.

I thought a moment. “To all the gods of Nature,” I said.

He laughed. “Very pagan for the holiest house in Christendom.”

“My father said that in India, many believe Jesus lived there for a time,” I whispered, even knowing no one could hear me. “They say he is buried there. In a tomb. My father saw it.”

Lorenzo, free of mind as he was, appeared shocked at such a notion. He took a deep breath. “To all the gods of Nature, and Philosophy and everything that is divine in man”—he smiled warmly at me—“and woman.”

He placed the cake in his mouth and I did the same.

“It is slow-acting when eaten,” I said.

“Have we time to make love before the visions come?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” I bent over and whispered in his ear, “Perhaps the visions will come
while
we’re making love.”

“What would your father say to this?” Lorenzo said as he laid his hand over my breast.

“That he wished he had had a
hashish
cake to share with my mother.”

He kissed me and we began the sweetest, most unrushed of all the joinings we had ever known. Every movement was soft, tender. The touch of our hands and fingertips light and glancing. Limbs glided over limbs as if oiled. Strange, how desire rose so slowly in us both. No urgency pressed us forward. Kisses were long and lazy, peppered with swift darts of the tongue and tiny bites. Our mouths pressed lightly together, the only movement the breath from our nostrils a warm even flow across our lips.