The Tournament (11 page)

‘That no-one else was able to see.’

‘All crimes are committed for a reason,’ my teacher said firmly. ‘I just uncovered the reason behind that particular crime—’

‘Oh, admit it, Roger, you simply couldn’t abide an unresolved event,’ Michelangelo said gently and with a grin. ‘You
enjoyed
unravelling it and you investigated it as an intellectual exercise, as a tribute to Averroes himself.’

‘I think Averroes would have been proud of me. Aristotle, too.’

Michelangelo laughed. ‘Roger Ascham! You have not changed one bit! Although I do fear that one day your curiosity will be the death of you. It is wonderful to see you again.’ The great artist then glanced at me. ‘And who is this beautiful young lady?’

‘This is Elizabeth. My finest student.’

‘Roger’s finest student?’ Michelangelo’s old eyes shone. ‘This is no small compliment coming from Roger Ascham. A “fine” student in his estimation is likely to change the course of history. I shall have to keep an eye on you.’

I bowed my head, blushing.

Michelangelo glanced sideways at my teacher. ‘A royal student, Roger?’

My teacher nodded with his eyes.

‘Oh, Roger! You truly are a unique educator! Only you would bring a royal heir halfway across the world in the name of her education! How wonderful!’

My teacher then introduced Mr Giles, before asking Michelangelo, ‘Where are you staying while you are here?’

Michelangelo said, ‘I have been granted special permission to stay in the Sultan’s private area, the Harem. It gives me some blessed peace. Since I arrived at the palace a week ago—I made the journey with the delegation from the Papal States—I have been
constantly
pestered by Rome’s ambassador here, a man who must be Italy’s most self-aggrandising and insufferable—oh no, here he comes.’

‘
Il Magnifico!
There you are!’

Both my teacher and Michelangelo turned.

A cardinal of Rome stood before us in all his glory: red robes, staff, gold chains, decorated mitre. He had a flowing mane of silver hair, perfectly coiffed, and I recognised him as the cardinal who had been in the Sultan’s audience chamber, one of the privileged local ambassadors. Behind him, like a shadow, loomed a tall blank-faced manservant, a personal guard of some sort.

The cardinal extended his ring toward Michelangelo’s face. I distinctly saw the great artist pause momentarily before he dutifully leaned forward and kissed it.

‘Cardinal Cardoza,’ Michelangelo said evenly. ‘So . . . nice . . . to see you again.’ He gestured at us. ‘Cardinal, this is Mr Roger Ascham from England, and his party: Mr Gilbert Giles, their player in the tournament, and his student, Elizabeth. Cardinal Cardoza is the Holy See’s ambassador-in-residence here at the Sultan’s court.’

The cardinal was an older man of about sixty years, with pale blue eyes and silver brows that matched his flowing hair. He was also a large fellow, big but not fat, broad in the chest, a man who had perhaps been a capable athlete in his younger days.

He gripped his shepherd’s crook in one hand and in the other he held an unusual device: it looked like a horse’s tail, a small whip-like thing with multi-coloured lengths of hair that the cardinal used to flick away any insect that dared approach his face.

Despite Michelangelo’s courteous introduction, Cardinal Cardoza completely ignored us. He struck me as the kind of fellow who always gravitates to the most important person in a room and clings to that person like a leech. I had seen many such people in my father’s presence back home.

The cardinal said to Michelangelo, ‘I was just speaking to Cardinal Farnese. Farnese tells me that His Holiness is
delighted
that you have accepted his invitation to take over as the architect of his grand basilica.’

‘Your Grace is most kind,’ Michelangelo said. ‘I am an old man. I had actually thought my time for building grand edifices had passed.’

Cardoza said, ‘Not at all! The Pope grew weary of Sangallo’s moods and you have
infinitely
more experience and skill anyway. You know, I became close with His Holiness during our days together in Ostia. I know him very well. In fact, in a more private environment, I could inform you of some of his personal preferences so that your designs might please him.’

‘You are too kind.’

‘It is nothing.’

‘I’m sure I shall see you later,’ Michelangelo said.

Cardinal Cardoza smiled. ‘Enjoy the dinner. I have partaken in far too many banquets like this, so I am going to enjoy a private meal in my rooms.
Magnifico
.’ He swept away, trailed by his silent manservant.

Michelangelo watched him go, then turned to my teacher. ‘Be wary of that man, Roger. He is a cunning one. Slippery. It is said that Queen Roxelana cannot abide him and simply leaves the chamber when he arrives for an audience with the Sultan. And I have it on good authority that the citizens of Ostia were happy to see the back of him; there were allegations of . . . impropriety . . . with some boys of the district.’

My teacher watched Cardinal Cardoza cross the courtyard and arrive at his table, where he collected the visiting cardinal, Cardinal Farnese, and the two of them headed off together.

Mr Ascham said, ‘What about the other cardinal, the Pope’s brother, Cardinal Farnese? I was most surprised to see him here, given his statements about the Moslem faith.’

The artist sighed. ‘God, give me patience. I had to ride in a carriage with him all the way from Rome. Cardinal Farnese is a pig, with his snout buried deep in many troughs. He is also a fool who offends more out of ignorance than intent. Archduke Ferdinand of Austria has despised Farnese ever since he discovered that Farnese sold him indulgences at ten times the price paid by the Polish king, Sigismund. The Jesuits find him embarrassing. The Imam has told his Moslem followers to ignore him, yet four times on our way through the city, crowds of young Moslem men held up the soles of their sandals as Farnese rode by.’

‘Excuse me, sir, but I don’t understand,’ I interrupted politely. ‘What is the significance of that act?’

My teacher answered: ‘To Arabs and Moslems, it is a most insulting gesture to point the sole of one’s shoe at someone. Those young Moslem men were protesting against Cardinal Farnese’s views.’ Mr Ascham turned to Michelangelo: ‘Which begs the question: why would Pope Paul send Farnese here?’

Michelangelo said, ‘My view is that the pontiff wanted to be provocative, to stick a thorn in the Sultan’s side during his great international event. The Sultan would not dare allow a visiting cardinal of Rome, even one as offensive as Farnese, to be harmed at his tournament. It would be an embarrassment in front of the very world the Sultan is seeking to impress.’

‘I did not know the Pope engaged in such petty schemes.’

Michelangelo shook his head. ‘It has been my life’s joy to create works for the greater glory of our Lord and His Church. Only sometimes I wish our Lord employed better people.’

As he made to depart from our table, Michelangelo told us that we should accompany him to the palace’s kitchen, where he wanted to call on the assistant chef, one Brunello of Borgia.

‘Brunello was the finest chef in Florence,’ Michelangelo told us as we headed toward the kitchen area in the corner of the courtyard. Ten enormous chimneys rose above it, each one venting a gigantic oven. ‘The Sultan brought him to Constantinople specifically for this occasion. He has been here for three months, teaching the local cooks how to prepare dishes that the Sultan’s European guests will enjoy. I am keen to see the kitchens here. I have heard they are larger than any in Italy.’

The great artist marched ahead of us at a spritely pace.

‘How did you come to be so intimately acquainted with Michelangelo?’ I whispered to my teacher as we hurried along behind him.

Mr Ascham gave me a sideways look. ‘This surprises you?’

‘A little, yes.’

‘I must confess I quite enjoy surprising you. Some years ago, Michelangelo read a treatise I wrote as a student about education and he invited me to Rome to meet with him. Of course, I leapt at the invitation. I ended up instructing his beloved grandnephew for six months and in so doing we became friends. I watched him paint some of
The Last Judgment
, one of the greatest privileges of my life.’

I had never actually contemplated my teacher having a life before he began teaching me, let alone one of exotic travel and of meeting great artists.

And there was another thing. ‘And what happened with the Earl of Cumberland’s son at Cambridge? My father also mentioned this in his note to you.’

Mr Ascham’s face darkened. ‘It was a most unpleasant affair involving the son of a powerful man and his . . . distasteful . . . proclivities. It is not a story for young ears.’

‘Was it to do with passion?’ I said in a voice that I hoped sounded mature and experienced. ‘Fornication even?’

My teacher gave me a long look before he answered. ‘It did indeed have something to do with the young man’s urges. He would hire prostitutes from other towns and . . . do things . . . to them before killing the poor women. But you do not need to know the whole sordid tale. I was brought in to act as an impartial judge on the matter but due to my, well, overzealous curiosity, I discovered more than anyone wanted to know. Now, please, let us engage in more pleasant topics and enjoy this marvellous evening.’

As he said this, we passed through a large doorway in the very corner of the courtyard and entered the kitchens.

I beheld a bustling madhouse of activity: hurrying slave girls, shouting cooks, blazing fires, smoking ovens, turning roasts, squawking chickens, quacking ducks, thudding cleavers and the most delightful mix of aromas I had ever smelled in my short life.

Shouting above the din was the head chef, a fat Moslem wearing a blood-smeared apron and an enormous turban.

Standing near him at a long block-like table, commanding his own small army of Turkish cooks, was a squat bearded man of Italian appearance wearing a small crucifix around his neck: Brunello of Borgia.

‘Why did the Sultan feel the need to bring a European chef to Constantinople?’ I had quite enjoyed the local fare. ‘When one travels, shouldn’t one taste the unfamiliar local dishes on offer?’

‘Yes, I agree, one should, but the bellies of old men are not as accommodating of new foods as are the stomachs of the young,’ Mr Ascham said with a gentle smile. ‘It is not uncommon for visitors to these lands to fall terribly ill after eating the local spices and meats. The Sultan is most wise to provide an alternative for his esteemed guests.’

Amid all the mayhem, Brunello saw Michelangelo and he quickly wiped his hands on his apron and hurried over to us.

He was joined by a woman as wide as she was tall, and a gangly boy of about fifteen.

‘Signor Buonarroti,’ Brunello bowed, ‘welcome to my kitchen. It is an honour.’

‘Brunello,’ Michelangelo said, ‘the honour is mine. You are an artist yourself. The only difference between us is that your art is literally consumed by its audience and so sadly does not remain afterward for later edification. Its joy is in the moment.’

‘You are too kind,’ Brunello said. ‘Signor, my wife, Marianna, and my son, Pietro.’ Michelangelo bowed to Brunello’s family.

I have to say the way the great artist interacted with his social inferiors had a great effect on me. He would have been well within his station to treat everyone from the cook to the cardinal with disdain and even outright condescension. But he did not. Quite the contrary: he treated the chef’s skinny son with the same gentle courtesy with which I had seen him treat everyone else.

My father, on the contrary, treated every inferior—from his wife to the noble whose wife he took to his bedchamber—with open contempt. I assumed my father thought this kind of behaviour reinforced his status but upon seeing Michelangelo’s courteous decency to all, I realised that the truly powerful do not need to put their power on display at all times.

Michelangelo shook the boy’s hand. The boy lowered his head meekly and I wondered if he was shy or just overawed by the great man. I couldn’t tell.

Michelangelo then introduced my teacher to Brunello and a pleasant but brief conversation was had.

As they spoke, I noticed that Brunello’s wife wore a rosary around her own neck. Attached to the rosary’s crucifix was a small black ribbon tied in a bow.

‘Are there many Christians in Constantinople?’ I asked her politely in Italian.

When she spoke, her voice was flat, uninterested. ‘Owing to its long history, there are many Jews and Christians in the city as well as Moslems.’

‘What does the Moslem Sultan have to say about these rival faiths worshipping in his capital?’ I thought this was a most astute and adult question, but her response was still completely devoid of interest.

‘He does not seem to care,’ she answered blandly.

I was saved from further efforts to engage her when Brunello excused himself, saying that the main course was about to be served. This was also the time at which the players in the tournament would be introduced, so we took our leave from the kitchens and returned to our table out in the courtyard.