The Agony and the Ecstasy Page #3

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I will provide for you.

Michelangelo, please,

come and join our party.

I'm not dressed for such

a gathering, Your Eminence.

Here, read that.

But this is madness!

You, an architect for

the Sultan of Turkey?

The Sultan's ducats are

as good as the Pope's.

Better. He's ready

to pay in advance.

Besides, to throw a bridge

across the Golden Horn...

...there's a challenge.

- To an engineer, to Bramante...

...even to Leonardo, not Michelangelo.

- Why not Michelangelo?

Better a good bridge

than a bad fresco.

- Tessina, he's going to Turkey.

- When do you leave?

Now. Tonight.

I take ship at Naples

for Constantinople.

I couldn't leave without paying

my respects to you and your brother.

And to your husband, of course.

Piero's in Spain on an

embassy for the Pope.

So... this is farewell.

- Farewell?

- She's right.

You can't return to Italy.

Not while Julius lives.

It will make difficulties for me,

for the family.

Because an artist refuses

a commission?

Why not? In Florence, where

my father recognized your work...

you became a Medici artist.

Therefore I am, to some extent,

your sponsor here.

Julius is at war,

suspicious of everyone...

especially the Florentines.

These days, we all walk on

the sharp edge of a sword.

I could stop you.

Inform him of your intentions.

As a cardinal,

perhaps it's my duty.

Will you?

And let him stretch that stiff

neck of yours at the end of a rope?

No.

I can't forget that my father

looked on you as another son.

Tessina, tell him he's mad.

Maybe he'll listen to you.

Why waste words if

he's made up his mind?

Well, I am sorry to cause

trouble for your family.

Oh, my brother makes much

too much of the whole affair.

- It's unimportant.

- It's important to me!

I mean, the family will survive.

Artists come and go. So do popes.

The Medici remain.

You understand,

my hand was forced.

Julius wants to destroy me

with this commission.

Destroy me and cast me into hell.

From what I've heard,

perhaps only Purgatory.

Purgatory is for sinners

against God.

And you have sinned against the Pope,

which is a much more important matter.

You shouldn't have written

that sonnet, Michelangelo.

- It was indiscreet, to say the least!

- I know it was indiscreet! But...

why he should have the right to do this

to me? To drown me in paint for it?

That's what really troubles you,

isn't it?

- That Julius should have his way?

- Princes and tyrants...

...shouldn't order the lives of artists.

- You didn't object when my father...

...ordered your life!

- That was different.

He was Lorenzo, the Magnificent!

He was an artist himself!

Besides, he didn't order my life.

He inspired it.

Besides, when he brought

me to live in your house...

You remember, Tessina,

how the world looked then?

All virgin marble ready to take

any shape we wanted.

Not like it is now, when a sculptor

is set painting ceilings...

and a freebooter leads

the Church of God.

I'm sure you'll find Turkey

much more satisfying.

More satisfying than

twelve draped apostles...

and appropriate designs.

On a curved surface,

seventy feet in the air!

I can see how you would be

afraid of such a commission.

I am not afraid of it!

Why do you always twist my words?

It's just that art is not a matter

of appropriate design.

It's not mathematics,

or politics, or even beauty.

It's an idea, an inspiration...

in paint, or bronze, or...

truly most,

most truly in marble!

There's no inspiration

in this ceiling!

So you will throw an inspired

bridge across a Turkish backwater?

Yes! Are you trying

to change my mind?

Well, it had occurred to me that

you were trying to change it.

Why else would you argue

with yourself?

I am not arguing with myself.

I'm asking for your opinion.

- Should you go?

- Yes.

If you feel you must.

The few months it would take you

to paint the ceiling...

would obviously ruin your life.

Exile among the infidels

is much to be preferred.

And I'm sure you'll be very

happy in Constantinople...

as long as you refrain from

writing sonnets to the Sultan.

For then you will drown not in paint,

but in the Bosphorus.

You're laughing at me!

But then you always did.

Not always, Michelangelo.

There was a time when...

there was nothing more important

to me than your laughter.

And you always told me the truth.

Tell me now.

Am I a fool?

You are...

yourself.

I wouldn't change

that even if I could.

Nor your mind.

Not even my father

had that power.

Do as you please, Michelangelo.

You always have.

I must go.

A pleasant voyage to you.

Oh, and as you know...

the best fresco assistants

are to be found in Florence.

What are you trying to do,

ruin my work?

What is the meaning

of this blasphemy?

- I have come back from Florence...

- Michelangelo is complaining...

One at a time!

I come back from Florence

with my assistants...

to find Bramante has

put up this scaffolding!

- By my orders.

- But what does he intend to do...

with those holes in the ceiling

after the timbers come down?

Leave them, Holy Father. It's the

usual custom. It can't be helped.

And leave my painting

full of holes?

- Well, if can't be helped.

- But it can be helped!

I can design a scaffolding myself

which will never touch the ceiling.

Do you claim to be

an architect, too?

Do you claim to be one,

if that's the best you can do?

Bramante is my architect.

I pay him for it. I pay you to paint.

Have you been trained

as an architect?

- No, Your Holiness.

- You have my permission...

to tear down Bramante's scaffolding

and build your own.

But it must not touch the ceiling

and the painting must be perfect.

Who are these men?

These are my new assistants

from Florence, Holiness.

That is Francisco Granacci. We were

students together under Ghirlandaio.

He is a master of fresco.

Then Master Granacci

is doubly welcome...

since painting is not

Michelangelo's trade.

And herewith, if you want to brawl,

do it in the streets.

Try this.

No, it's still got too

much red in it. Try again.

Enough for today.

Magnificent.

Wine.

Tell me now!

Is it a devil?

No! It's a saint!

See? A saint.

An apostle.

You're wicked.

You shouldn't mock the apostles.

I don't mock them.

They mock me. All twelve of them.

Hey, Nino!

This wine's sour.

My wine sour?

That's a new cask.

- I opened it only ten minutes ago.

- It's too sour.

Do you want your

nose broken again?

I can't drink this swill.

If the wine is sour, throw it out!

If the wine is sour, throw it out!

That is why it is necessary to

support our armies in Bologna...

and show ourselves to the people...

demonstrating we will

not tolerate the enemy...

who wishes to separate the

Papal States of the church...

and destroy us.

- Where is he?

- He has disappeared, Holiness.

I've just come from his house.

His servant knows nothing.

You questioned his assistants,

those Florentines?

Yes, Holiness.

He woke them late last night,

paid them a month's wages.

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