Raphael, Painter in Rome: a Novel by Stephanie Storey

Author:Stephanie Storey
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781950691319
Publisher: Skyhorse Publishing
Published: 2020-03-25T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter XXXI

Lent 1510

Cardinal Alidosi accepted my offer to paint his portrait and never asked the patron’s identity. I have no explicit reason to say this, but I believe he thought it was a request from the pope himself. The cardinal said he was flattered to sit for a painter “in such high demand,” and apologized for speaking against me. “I’ve admired Michelangelo for a long time, and, unlike you, he always seems to need support.”

He sat for me probably—I don’t know—a dozen times in his private salon at his villa in town. (If Michelangelo thinks I live like a prince, then he never visited Alidosi’s palace. Talk about ostentation: a gold-leafed clavichord that I never saw him play, colorful maiolica pottery decorated with lavish mythological scenes, and even glass in all of his windows—can you imagine such an extravagance?) As I sketched his thin face, beaked nose, and intense gaze, Cardinal Alidosi told me stories of when he was young, traveling to France alongside Cardinal della Rovere (before he was elected Pope Julius), and how Alidosi helped foil one of Pope Alexander’s attempts to poison his dear friend: “It’s because of me that he’s still alive to be pope.” Alidosi tried to play it off as though he were embarrassed to share the story—too humble, sì certo— but it was a not-so-subtle boast. He was pleasant enough, though. And polite. I didn’t dislike him. I didn’t.

A few times, His Holiness stopped by. You heard me right. The pope let himself into Cardinal Alidosi’s private home and made his way up, without escort, to find us in the cardinal’s private rooms. They would tilt their heads together and share a moment of hushed conversation—I couldn’t hear any of it—and the cardinal’s fingers would linger on the pope’s arm. Then, the pope would disappear in the direction of the cardinal’s bedchamber, and the cardinal would become agitated and encourage me to make an excuse to leave.

I know, I know, none of this should’ve surprised me. I should’ve already guessed the depth of their friendship. Even retelling this story, I’ve noticed a half dozen places where I should’ve picked up the hint, but I swear to you, before those sessions, I’d never considered what was passing between them. Wherever you were at the time, I’m sure people were happy to exchange whispers on the topic, but down in Rome—inside the Vatican, right under the pope’s chin—no one dared breathe the rumor; no one even exchanged looks about it. I had no idea, until I did, and then I could only regret not ingratiating myself to the influential cardinal earlier.

On the day of his last sitting, I showed the cardinal my drawings. Sadness shaded his smile when he asked, “Do you always see the best in people?”

“I try, Your Eminence.”

“Then, I shall try to live up to the goodness of the man in this picture.”

The next day, the pope sent the cardinal away to try to convince the Bolognese not to join with the French against the papacy.

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