Forgiving Rome Read online

  Just as forcefully, he releases this important first new breath completely, coughing deeply, expelling chunks of the mouth umbilicus and thick brown blister-like nutrient clots that were not swallowed completely to stomach, out into the receding slur. The last few ounces of brownish fluid flows from his nose now unimpeded. He smiles. It runs over his perfect white teeth. He has drawn breath. He is breathing. This makes us both very happy. I smile back. I am very pleased he was not killed. Excitedly so. This now too shows as expression on his face, briefly mirroring my own. It will only be a few more minutes now before he can step out and be formally welcomed into this world. I am deeply honored to be his shepherd in this, his new life as Father Coleman Livingston. At long last.

  They are to be viewing this as well, the Divine Reparations Council members all. His Eminence had demanded it. With full choir. Our act intended to right the wrongs of the centuries past. We will see. We will see. I smile mischievously myself now, hoping the breach viewing, as I have witnessed, makes them vomit in disgust and revulsion.

  We will not refer to this as his “birth” in Council. A human gives birth from a human female body as God had willed for mankind. We have all seen this imagery most of our lives to have become immune to the true miracle that is human childbirth. We must not refer to this as his birth. A human clone breaches not a womb, but a gestation tank. Born of science, not human passion. He has pierced the veil of life and stepped through it. This is God’s will. He must be very pleased indeed. He lives and breathes.

  This hiss and pop of the tank expected any second now, I will help him then step onto the planet Earth as a man. This truly Divine creature of God. The expression on my face clear, the wondrousness of this, on him. He studies me with curiosity and seems to struggle with it a bit … and there it is. Awe paints his face now too. My eyes lift as if to God above to thank him for allowing this, the tears stream freely down my face and soak into the collar of my cassock. His stream down his neck and trickle down his slickened torso, his eyes lift as if to God above. He too is grateful. Thank God.

  Chapter One

  Raphaello Sanzio da Urbino

  9 August 1508: Sanzio Family Farms and Estate, Urbino, Italy

  My eyes looked around the room, stirring above the thick blanket of the sagging, lumpy straw-stuffed cot in my studio. The cold morning air feels good on my naked skin. The thumping on the stairs a heavy footfall, waking me up, means my mother is already stomping-angry with me for oversleeping again. I love to paint in the moonlight, though it causes her to be unhappy with me.

  I object to starting days like this, so contentiously. Laying there naked, I released my gas into the air loudly and my muscles tensed in an uncontrollable chuckle, quickly willing the muscles of my face go slack as if in deep sleep. Pretending to sleep. But she always knows. I will the mischievous smile to leave my expression and turn my head into the softness of feathered pillow to hide it when I fail. The sound of the door opening, my room and studio in the top of the largest of our barns, is well lit with windows along the east and west walls. It keeps me out of the rain and wind, but is not suitable shelter for a human. Then the firm cough of … a man?

  Not my mother?

  My eyes shot open as I turned my head to the door behind me, raising myself up on my elbows. My long, sleep-tangled hair tossed over my eyes. I blew a breath to move the locks from my view. A tall figure in a too-big red cape stands there as if at attention. Impossibly large fellow. His fresh-scrubbed scent reaches my nostrils. I study him quickly. The young soldier my mother told me all about, reading and then re-reading her personal letters from the Marquise over and over for days now. Archy Archy Archy. He was born on the same date as I. I guess six feet half, maybe 14 stones. Shoulders overly broad and thick under the heavy red wool cloak. Imposing, he is. He has an air of privilege about him, this young man. This Marquis. Rolling over to sit up, I exposed myself, not having realized I was fully naked, but then realizing I was and was also ... I spread my legs and pulled the blanket to my center. Planting my dirty and paint-smeared bare feet on the floor, rubbing sleep from my eyes and pushing my hair back away from my face.

  A soldier. I have never met a soldier, that I know of, but certainly never a French soldier of rank and title. His spread-legged stance so masculine and strong, arms crossed over his chest like that. He oozes it. Giuseppe steps into the room waiving his arm over his face, scrunching it up from the smell of my gas. “I am sorry. I thought you my mother stomping up the stairs like that.” I pulled the blanket more over my lap and continued clearing my eyes, deeply yawning in the crisp air. “And you … the young Marquis Giuseppe, I presume?” Giuseppe nodded yes, smiling, still unspeaking. He sniffs at the air like an animal.

  I lift my hand and point to the wooden bench where my britches and under-blouse lay neatly folded, as is my habit when I undress for sleep. “Will you please hand me those … I just woke up and I have …” I waved my hand over my middle, indicating my morning condition without using a word to describe it. Giuseppe smiled at this, his shoulders moved in silent chuckle, shaking his head no, still unspeaking. “Fine. Is it all right now then? Meet your mother, my mother’s second cousin, get the introductions out of the way? I stink! I needed a bath before I meet you.”

  I stood, the thickly woven wool blanket dropping away revealing my full naked body and hardness to the young man. My quick strides to the clothes showing my strong legs and buttocks, sore and aching still from running up and down the hill to the lake for our water. Dusted with fine black hair and smudges of colorful paint. My body highly fragrant and heady from not having bathed in four days. I pulled on my leather britches, mottled with paint splatters and smudges I have not yet massaged off the leather with the oils. Fastening both sides of the flap, I push down my center, trying to tamp it or will it limp or both as I am turned away from his gaze. Intrusive.

  I pull the thin cotton under-blouse over my hair, the dense hair of my underarms already visibly moist and quite ripely pungent, I step to the small basin and lower a cloth into the cold water. Selecting a small glass vial from the rude shelf above, I drip the oil generously into the water. Even in cold water the aroma of the peppermint permeates the air. I moved the cloth through the water and wrung it out. I rubbed it over my face and neck and chest and then dipped it back into the water. He stands, stares. Offputting.

  I wring the cloth and generously towel the hair of my underarm, the feel of the peppermint biting at my tender sensitive skin there. I realize I can see my breath in the air and feared then that the first frost had come and gone and I had not been awake to have seen it. I so want to paint it just before dawn but I always fall asleep and it is so fleeting. I move the towel to the other underarm, the smell of me already significantly improved by half. Mother may be pleased enough to just let it go, as long as I take care to not offend her cousin the Marquise’s delicate senses. I dab a small amount of oil onto my temples and rub it in. It tingles so deliciously.

  Giuseppe studies me carefully as I pull the blouse down over my shoulders and slip my sore arms into the sleeves. He stepped forward and placed his hands at my shoulders and pressed his thumbs into the muscles there. Hard. The muscles and cords of my neck tense and then relax as I feel the knots in my muscles there release and relax. I breathe in the peppermint smell and sigh loudly in deep relief. I turn my head back, his eyes find mine and I smile my gratitude as he works the muscles to the tips of my sore shoulders.

  I step into my large boots barefoot, feet absolutely disgustingly filthy, now hidden by the boots thankfully, splattered with various bright colors of paint and oil. As I tuck the shirt into my britches, he steps toward me and gathers the two ends of cord at my neck and evenly tightened and then tied them in a long loose bow. His hands so large for such a delicate task one would think. His dexterity and the fluidity of his movements so graceful yet so powerful, his hands calloused from riding here on horseback rather than inside the comfort of the two carriages of their party. I suspect. The
n stepping back to stand again as if at attention. So very formal he is.

  “What should I call you then, mute lumbering giant with magical pain easing hands. And thank you for tying that bow. Shall I simply call you Giuseppe, or shall I call you by your official title of Marquis de Orleans? Which do you prefer?” I smiled at him and froze there waiting for his answer, just wanting the man to speak already. Utter actual words. Giuseppe returned the smile and spoke, his voice deep and commanding, his teeth remarkably white and straight. His face that of an angel of God. No scars or blemishes on his beautiful smooth skin. His voice is softly forceful. “I am Giuseppe Allard Archambault, Marquis de Orleans. Your mother calls you Raffy, but you are Raphaello Sanzio of Urbino, the master of this fine estate. My very distant cousin. May I also call you Raffy? I do so like this name for you. You smell to highest heaven, worse than a barnyard animal. The peppermint is at least helping.”

  The sound of the voice profoundly influenced me. Stirring something in me. Something very warm and urgent … familiar almost but I have never before been so moved by simple speaking. I nodded yes for him to continue speaking and ran my tongue over my dry lips to wet them as I studied him. I applied a dab of peppermint oil and rubbed it into my lips and touched it to my tongue to scent my morning breath. He would be a stunning central subject of a large-scale painting … “I would prefer that you simply call me Archy. My friends call me Archy. I feel we are to be close friends, me and thee. Come now Raffy, our mothers hold morning meal for us on the patio. And yes, you have again over slept and have upset your dear mother. We have been waiting for almost an hour, to be fair.”

  He turned back to the door dramatically and bounded down the long flight of wooden stairs three steps in a stride, his thick red cloak billowing behind his rapid descent. His movements so graceful, as if flying, betrayed by the loud thuds of his large knee-high riding boots making footfall on the old wood, creaking loudly under his considerable weight. I must paint him, this young Marquis.

  He reached the bottom and turned to look up at me. The sunlight caught the back of his blonde hair and framed his head as if in halo. His frame so tall and masculine. He smiled up at me as I descended one stair at a time, adjusting myself to better hide it from the duo of mothers I must now face without first bathing as I had promised my mother twice I would have done, guests expected at any time.

  I promised her no fewer than five times yesterday alone, voluntarily, anticipating their arrival by carriages in early afternoon. They arrived only late last night when I had already succumbed to the exhaustion of the day. All of the many fresh water vessels now refilled. Many, many trips down to the lake and back hauling water. I had not even stirred in slightest, their party included horses I could now smell in the barn below my studio. My eyes scanned the stalls and all twelve had a horse. There hasn’t been a horse in this barn since my father died along with our only horse. I had not missed these fresh smells at all. His eyes watched my hand adjust, curious that his smile widened mischievously. He sniffed the air then turned to leave the barn, walking straight into the strong sunshine of the early fall morning. Judging by the position of the sun, it was after the 9 hour already, so yes, I am late. I will be scolded, but hopefully, not in front of our guests.

  By the time I walked out from the barn, he was already seating himself at the large table my mother had moved out of doors two day hence. Our mothers waited patiently before beginning the meal and seeing the lavender of my mother’s finest dress, my absolute favorite dress of hers, painted a huge smile on my face. I feel badly for having made her wait. It is too thin a fabric for the briskness of the morning. Both sons must be seated and be formally introduced. The obscure undying custom prevents us from beginning a meal until I have been seated at the table.

  My house. My estate. Such nonsense, these stupid rituals. Once the master of the house, me, has seated and begun or made motion to begin, they could all finally eat the delicious food as well. Archy turned his face to watch my approach as if anticipating a guest of highest honor. So formal he is. A pride shown in his face as I study it. My mother noticed this as well and her eyes assessed me carefully. I had not tied my hair back, though I had raked oil through it with the peppermint water to calm and smooth it. I have only worn this under-blouse one time, the cleanest I have, but it smells. They had likely smelled me coming. I have again disappointed my mother. I had promised.

  I stood by the chair of the Marquesa and bent down formally to accept her hand and kiss it. “Welcome to our humble home, signora Marquesa. I do hope your visit here brings you as much joy at your reunion with my mother, as she was when she received your letter alerting her to your impending visit. She has been beside herself with happiness and joy. I thank you kind lady and will welcome you always for inspiring this sweetness in her. She can, as you likely know, be quite mean-spirited. I winked at her as mother barked “Raffy!”, eliciting a wicked half smile across my lips.

  The Marquise smiled up into my eyes as if mesmerized, the fresh bread roll smacked the side of my face and fell in her lap. Mother was throwing things already. The scent of the peppermint oil on my breath made it pleasing and not offensive I hope. I took her hand and gently kissed it, her eyes following my mouth as my lips met her hand. Out of the corner of my eye, my mother smiled widely and brightly at my gentlemanly display. I walked to her then and kissed her forehead twice “morning mother. You look well today, ravishing actually. Your aim has much improved. May just eat you for morning meal!” as I bent down to kiss and nibble at her neck from behind, inciting ticklish girlish giggles. He took his seat. Archy had risen as I approached? I hadn’t noticed. But I had noticed. “I do apologize for having overslept. Please everyone, begin eating. It smells delicious. Ilsa, please do join us if you would like.”

  The lavish fare prepared here we could hardly afford, but she had worked to prepare it and deserved to enjoy her bounty. When visiting cousins that just happen to be of foreign aristocracy plan to stay perhaps months, we must reach into our saved coffers to procure the meats and cheeses of this bountiful part of Italy. We are though, in fact, eating the last of our last pig. He had been very mean and biting, so I do not partake of his flesh for fear the meanness of him will enter my spirit and change me. I do not miss his smells either.

  The sunshine is brightly shining as my water glass is poured full first. I snatch Ilsa’s hand to my mouth and kiss it in thanks. Archy has already finished loading his plates both, one with a variety of cut fruits, figs, raisins, nuts and cheese. The other with whipped eggs and thick slices of my mother’s prized tomatoes and more cheese. The French and their cheese, it is said. Adding two large strips of the mean pig thinly sliced and smoked, he bit into the dry meat and tore at it with his straight white teeth. Chewing with his mouth open as the mean pig had always done. Vile mean creature he had been. He picked up a round lemon cake and bit into it hungrily, taking three more bites before he took a large swallow of water to wash it down.

  These, you see, are my favorite cakes. Made with burnt honey from our hives, lemon from our groves and crushed vanilla bean from the patch outside my bedroom in the house. Crispy-baked edges. Circle cakes of heaven is truly what they are. Angels must eat these only. Locking me in the eyes, he helped himself to another from the still-warm plentiful stack of them. She made those for me, young Marquis.

  The mothers ate lightly, very daintily, engaged in what appeared to be an urgent discussion of exchanged whispering. They already plot and scheme, the mothers. Meanwhile, I had silently challenged young Archy to an eating contest and as he was shoveling the fluffy egg into his face, yet unnoticed by his mother, I was busy rapidly eating two cakes just as he had done, catching up to him and matching him bite-for-bite. Our shoulders danced in silent chuckles as we gorged ourselves, making a spectacle that displeased my mother when she looked up at us. We were in fact becoming fast friends even without speaking. I find his presence at my table very pleasing.

  Taking a brief respite from the compet
ition, I turned in my chair to face the Marquise and asked her politely “may I have the pleasure of painting your portrait while you are here with us, Marquesa?” Flattered, she waived a hand in front of her face, putting the napkin over her mouth to hide her chewing until she could speak. She cleared her throat and took a sip of cold lemon water from behind the cloth before speaking. “It would be my honor to sit for a portrait young Raphaello, my cousin has told me of your recent return from apprenticeship in Venice. Whom did you study under there?”

  Having hated the sheer slavery I had endured during that time in my young life, five entire years of it, the tight quarters and stinky people sometimes too overwhelming for words to describe as we toiled away toward nothing accomplished far too often. I can never think of anything pleasant to say about it and am always forced to honesty.

  I took a big bite of the cake and a swallow of water to wash it down. Smiling, I said “short, fat, round, smelly, abusive, abrupt, a truly unkind torture, truly ... shall I continue?” she looked on with a smile on her face, her shoulders dancing in chuckle, while Archy was finding it hard not to burst into laughter at my humorous abruptness. My mother gave me a scolding look, her eyes fierce with disapproval. I turned in my seat to face back to her “Mother? Should I have lied to the Marquise and not spoken of his cruelty, perhaps speaking instead of fragrant flowers and the warmth of the sunshine in Venice and la-la-la? I think not. I speak the truth. She too has likely been there. It smells of the offal. As for Master, he is and always will be a horrible and talentless tyrant, living in a stinking city.”