shifted his bulk. Seated to the right of Cesare, with Michelotto at my other side, still breathing hard from his dash to the Campo di Fiori to start the race, this was the closest I had ever been to Pope Alexander. Leaning forward on the pretext of straightening my skirt, I stole a glance at him.
His face, framed by a close-fitting cap of white velvet and the ermine collar of his cloak, was full of the contradictions that seemed to define his life and exasperate all who had dealings with him. His mouth, settled between opulent, smooth-shaven jowls, was full and sensual, but he had the eyes of a wealthy peasant set deep under fleshy brows and the swarthy complexion of a man of action rather than the pallor of prayer and contemplation.
I had heard tell that in his bedchamber was a painting by his favourite artist, the little painter from Mantua, of himself kneeling in adoration before the Virgin Mary. The model for the virgin had been Giulia Farnese. Thus it was with him, the sacred and the profane jumbled together. Devout in his calling, he believed the temporal power of his office should match its spiritual gravity and, head of this church of celibate priests, saw no objection to using his son’s sword arm and his daughter’s womb to achieve his ambition. I noticed the pope had taken Cesare’s hand and that Cesare’s head was inclined towards his father’s as the pope spoke to him rapidly and emphatically in Catalan, all the time pressing his son’s hand hard against the carved arm of his chair. From across the square, where Donna Lucrezia had now joined the rest of her ladies in the loggia above the front door to Santa Maria, they must have looked a picture of mutual affection.
A distant rumble began to vibrate the air. The crowd fell silent and turned as one towards the southern end of the square from where the boars would race to the finishing post beside Caligula’s obelisk. The watchers in the stand leaned forward, releasing a sweat of excitement into the stale air under the canopy. Suddenly I realised I was the only woman among men, that the other ladies, apart from Donna Lucrezia’s household, were collected on the other side of a gangway bordered by rope handrails. I pressed my hands together in my lap and stared at them, fancying all the men’s eyes on me, although I knew they were watching the point where the race would debouch into the square, betting slips crumpled in clenched fists as the rumbling grew louder, as though a storm were rolling through the narrow streets.
“Up there,” murmured Cesare, close to my ear, or perhaps I would not have heard him, “are Julius Caesar’s ashes. Is his spirit there also, do you think? Does he laugh at our games?”
As I looked up at the golden sphere on top of the obelisk, clouds of brown dust bloomed above the ancient tiled roofs of the Borgo and belched into the piazza, making the crowd at that end start to cough and wipe their eyes. The hinges holding the wooden barriers together began to rattle. Guards vaulted to safety, flinging their halberds over before them. Then the first of the boars charged into the square, squealing and tossing its head as it tried to rid itself of the dwarf on its back, who clung on with the aid of powerful, bandy legs and a rein fastened to a ring in the boar’s nose. The furious beast veered away towards the barrier just below Donna Lucrezia’s vantage point. The crowd fell back with a collective gasp like the sighing of the sea. Plunging its tusks into the planks, the boar catapulted its jockey over the barrier, where he was caught by several spectators and tossed back again.
By now, several more boars had entered the square, some with their dwarf jockeys still clinging on, some bareback. One, with a bloody rag caught on its tusk, foaming with sweat, eyes red with terror, charged the unfortunate jockey whom the crowd had thrown back on to the track and gored him. The man fell beneath the hooves of the rest, and the race
His face, framed by a close-fitting cap of white velvet and the ermine collar of his cloak, was full of the contradictions that seemed to define his life and exasperate all who had dealings with him. His mouth, settled between opulent, smooth-shaven jowls, was full and sensual, but he had the eyes of a wealthy peasant set deep under fleshy brows and the swarthy complexion of a man of action rather than the pallor of prayer and contemplation.
I had heard tell that in his bedchamber was a painting by his favourite artist, the little painter from Mantua, of himself kneeling in adoration before the Virgin Mary. The model for the virgin had been Giulia Farnese. Thus it was with him, the sacred and the profane jumbled together. Devout in his calling, he believed the temporal power of his office should match its spiritual gravity and, head of this church of celibate priests, saw no objection to using his son’s sword arm and his daughter’s womb to achieve his ambition. I noticed the pope had taken Cesare’s hand and that Cesare’s head was inclined towards his father’s as the pope spoke to him rapidly and emphatically in Catalan, all the time pressing his son’s hand hard against the carved arm of his chair. From across the square, where Donna Lucrezia had now joined the rest of her ladies in the loggia above the front door to Santa Maria, they must have looked a picture of mutual affection.
A distant rumble began to vibrate the air. The crowd fell silent and turned as one towards the southern end of the square from where the boars would race to the finishing post beside Caligula’s obelisk. The watchers in the stand leaned forward, releasing a sweat of excitement into the stale air under the canopy. Suddenly I realised I was the only woman among men, that the other ladies, apart from Donna Lucrezia’s household, were collected on the other side of a gangway bordered by rope handrails. I pressed my hands together in my lap and stared at them, fancying all the men’s eyes on me, although I knew they were watching the point where the race would debouch into the square, betting slips crumpled in clenched fists as the rumbling grew louder, as though a storm were rolling through the narrow streets.
“Up there,” murmured Cesare, close to my ear, or perhaps I would not have heard him, “are Julius Caesar’s ashes. Is his spirit there also, do you think? Does he laugh at our games?”
As I looked up at the golden sphere on top of the obelisk, clouds of brown dust bloomed above the ancient tiled roofs of the Borgo and belched into the piazza, making the crowd at that end start to cough and wipe their eyes. The hinges holding the wooden barriers together began to rattle. Guards vaulted to safety, flinging their halberds over before them. Then the first of the boars charged into the square, squealing and tossing its head as it tried to rid itself of the dwarf on its back, who clung on with the aid of powerful, bandy legs and a rein fastened to a ring in the boar’s nose. The furious beast veered away towards the barrier just below Donna Lucrezia’s vantage point. The crowd fell back with a collective gasp like the sighing of the sea. Plunging its tusks into the planks, the boar catapulted its jockey over the barrier, where he was caught by several spectators and tossed back again.
By now, several more boars had entered the square, some with their dwarf jockeys still clinging on, some bareback. One, with a bloody rag caught on its tusk, foaming with sweat, eyes red with terror, charged the unfortunate jockey whom the crowd had thrown back on to the track and gored him. The man fell beneath the hooves of the rest, and the race
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