Chapter Eight

Rome, 1501

The stone felt heavy and rough in his hand, but looking at it, Michelangelo could see its potential. Gazing intently at the piece of agate, Michelangelo was dazzled by the array of colors, but the red was outstanding - almost papal - in its brilliance.

As he turned the stone over, examining it from every angle, he began to envision the work ahead. He had turned an enormous piece of Carrera marble into the Pieta - the envy of every sculptor in Italy. Surely, seven small sculptures, admittedly much more delicately detailed, were not something that he would permit to get the better of him.

Michelangelo began by cutting across the stone so that the layers were now parallel with his workbench. Taking a small pointed chisel, he began gently to remove layer after layer until he had reached the white above the red. Referring to the preliminary sketch that he had made the night before, he started at the top. It was painstaking work but after some time, he began to see the outline of a head - white on that brilliant red background.

He was debating whether to eat or keep working when he heard a knock at his door. “Paolo, see who is at the door,” he yelled.

He could hear the muffled conversation from below, and then Paolo ascended to the landing and said, “Master, I think you had better speak with this gentleman. He insists upon seeing you.

Descending the stairs, Michelangelo saw a soldier standing in the doorway. “How may I help you, signore?”

“I am Captain Antonio Bari, the head of Cardinal della Rovere’s personal guard. His Eminence has instructed me to tell you that he would like you to join him for dinner tonight.”

Michelangelo was stunned. He was well aware that there was no love lost between della Rovere and Pope Alexander. In fact, with the backing of the French king, della Rovere had tried to have the pope deposed. He had accused Alexander of simony and striking a deal with Cardinal Sforza, who now served as the pope’s vice chancellor, to secure the papacy. Alexander, however, had turned the tables on della Rovere and survived to rule Rome, despite the cardinal’s best efforts.

Although there had been no overt signs of the rancor that characterized their relationship, Michelangelo knew that while the rivalry had been reduced to a low simmer for the present, it was never far from boiling over.

With an armed soldier at his door and four others on horse outside, Michelangelo decided that to refuse might not be in his best interest - or that of the pope. “Allow me to clean up and get my coat, and I will happily accompany you.”

No one spoke during the ride to Cardinal della Rovere’s residence. When they arrived, they were greeted in the courtyard by the cardinal himself. After kneeling to kiss the ring, Michelangelo looked at the cardinal - the proverbial thorn in the side of Pope Alexander.

“This is indeed a pleasure, Michelangelo. I have long dreamed of meeting the man who captured the agony of Our Lord and his mother with such poignancy,” the cardinal said, blessing himself. “In your sculpture, it is easy to see both the human suffering and the divine promise of that moment.”

“You flatter me, your eminence,” said the artist.

“No, Michelangelo, you honor me by gracing my humble home with your presence.”

Looking around, Michelangelo thought that there were many words one might use to describe Cardinal della Rovere’s residence, but “humble” certainly was not one of them.

“How may I be of service to Your Eminence?” Michelangelo asked.

“Ah, directness. I like that in a man,” replied the cardinal. “Come, let us enjoy a small repast while we discuss our business together.”

“I didn’t know we had any business together,” thought Michelangelo.

He followed the cardinal up a flight of steps to a balcony overlooking the courtyard and beyond the wall, the city of Rome.

“I never tire of sitting here and taking in the city,” said the cardinal. “And I never tire of hearing what aspiring young artists are up to.”

“Now who’s being direct?” thought Michelangelo.

As they ate, they talked of various subjects and then suddenly, the cardinal said, “As you know Michelangelo, like our present Holy Father, I too am a patron of the arts. I know that you have received a papal commission.”

Michelangelo was taken aback by the cardinal’s unexpected revelation.

“Don’t look so startled, my son. I wouldn’t be much of a diplomat, if I didn’t know what was taking place right under my nose, in my own city, now would I?”

“May I ask the nature of your assignment?” the cardinal said.

“The Holy Father and I are still working out the details,” said Michelangelo. “However,” he added, “it will be a sculpture rather than a painting. Beyond that, I can offer nothing more at this time.”

“Cannot? Or will not?” asked the cardinal. “I value a man who can keep a secret, Michelangelo. So I am going to tell you one. And you must guard it as closely as you do the details of Pope Alexander’s commission. Do we have an understanding?”

Michelangelo could only nod.

“Good. I do not know how what I am about to tell you will affect your relationship with our Holy Father,” Michelangelo could hear the bitterness that had crept into the cardinal’s voice as he uttered the last three words, “but you may rest assured, my son, that I am going to be pope someday. And you may be equally certain that once I have been installed on the throne of St. Peter, I shall remember both my friends and my enemies, and I will see that each is rewarded in kind.”

The cardinal paused, fixed his gaze on Michelangelo, and then asked in a voice that was almost a whisper, “Are you my friend, Michelangelo?”

“I am, Your Eminence,” replied the artist.

“Splendid!” exclaimed the cardinal. “And do we have an understanding, my friend?”

“Indeed, Your Eminence,” said Michelangelo.

“Excellent. I look forward to hearing from you on a regular basis. You will keep me informed of your progress.” “You have my word, Your Eminence.”

“Now if you will excuse me, it is almost time for vespers. Unless, of course, you would like to join me?”

“I should very much, Your Eminence, but I have a great many tasks to complete. If you would be so kind, please remember me in your prayers.”

“Of course,” said the cardinal. “Now, I know you must be about the Holy Father’s business, but I do look forward to hearing from you, my friend.”

“And, indeed you shall,” said the artist.

“Captain, please escort Signore Buonarotti home.”

“Oh, one more thing, Michelangelo.” The cardinal came to him and pressed a small purse into his hand.”

Before he could object, the cardinal whispered, “May not an artist have more than one patron?”

“Goodbye, Michelangelo, until we meet again.” The cardinal said then he turned and walked away,

The ride to his home was marked by the same silence that had characterized the journey to Cardinal della Rovere’s palace. There was a significant difference though, anticipation and ignorance had been replaced by dread.

Later, sitting in his loft, staring at the cameo that he had begun, Michelangelo had a sudden desire to smash the thing to tiny pieces with his mallet.

“If I leave now and head for Florence, perhaps the Medici will take me in,” he thought. Then weighing the obvious, he thought, “Still, the influence - and the reach - of the pope cannot be underestimated.”

The stone caught his eye again, and he wanted nothing more than to obliterate it, to reduce it to dust.

Struck once again by the brilliant hues, he thought, “I am an artist. I cannot play these games as well as they, and yet it appears that I must learn.”

Taking stock of his situation, Michelangelo began to consider his immediate future. “I am 26 years old,” he thought, “but if I make a wrong move, I may not live to be 27.”

At that moment, he heard the voice of Paolo from below.

“Master, I have finished all my chores. May I leave now?”

“Of course, my child,” said Michelangelo.

After the boy had departed, Michelangelo lapsed back into his ruminations. And then it hit him. He was being used as pawn in a game between two bitter rivals.

Although he had learned to play chess at the home of the Medici, he knew that the game itself was currently in a period of transition. He had heard that Isabella, the monarch of Spain, had recently changed the rules so that the queen had become a much more powerful piece. He wondered what other changes might be in the wind.

Michelangelo sat there trying to envision the war that would take place and in which he might be called upon to play an instrumental role. But then he thought, “I am no ordinary pawn. I have talent, and if the Spanish ruler can change the role of the queen, perhaps, I can alter the rules that govern the movement of pawns.”

The more he thought about it, the more the idea appealed to him. “If luck is on my side, perhaps I can sneak through the enemy lines and launch an unexpected counterattack from the rear before anyone is the wiser.”

With his mind racing, he suddenly found his thoughts turning to the Virgin Mary. He began to pray, “Holy Mother, I am your humble servant. I have tried all my life to bring glory to you and your child. The child you loved...”

And there it was, the answer to at least one part of his problem.

Picking up the piece of agate where he had planned to carve a likeness of Pope Alexander, Michelangelo decided instead to create an entirely different image.

“Thank you, Our Lady,” he said. “I knew you would not desert your servant in his hour of need.”