It was in my mind that I would probably never see this girl again, and, for the briefest of moments, this saddened me. I was rubbing at my eyes with the back of my hand, when I noticed a growing din coming from an exuberant group of young men. You had to be careful in Rome, even in the daytime. A cardinal and his followers was one thing, the arrival of noisy groups of men charging along the street was something else. It could herald danger for a boy on his own, a boy like me, no matter what Margarita believed.
Margarita. For a moment I hoped she would come back; she seemed more than capable of handling thugs. But as the sounds grew clearer it was evident that the approaching group did not have violence on their minds. Artists and apprentices, wielding nothing more dangerous than paintbrushes, paint, and paper, were heading towards me. Relief and trepidation flooded my senses in equal measure.
I put a hand up to shade my eyes for fear of being recognised and to hide their tell-tale puffiness. I needn’t have worried. Not a head turned my way. Every boy in the group had eyes only for their leader and they jostled with one another to get close to him.
As heads parted I saw him for myself. Even from afar, I understood why these young men were leaping like spring hares. There he was, a handsome young man, surrounded by excited young men dressed in the latest fashions, with him the most fashionable of them all. His brilliant white shirt billowed like a dazzling sail, his black velvet jacket was slung over his shoulder as if that was the way it was meant to be; his perfect hose were well tailored and, as my eyes fought to find a break lower down in the wall of bodies around him, I caught sight of well-sculpted calves. As for his hair, topped by a black velvet cap, he wore it longer than most young men of Rome at the time but it looked all the more attractive for that. Long, dark, and neat, it framed the most luminous of faces out of which shone the most beguiling of smiles. I watched him, transfixed.
And the closer he got the more I felt sure I knew him. Who was this beautiful man? I racked my brains. I’d seen him very recently. But where? At one of the studios? Had I happened across a likeness of him? That was it: the miniature portrait, the one Giulio had passed round only that morning. ‘Likes to pose more than paint! Look at him! Steals the ideas of others. No originality. The man’s a pretty-faced apprentice. Nothing else.’ I recalled the fierce red patches of resentment on Sebastiano’s face as he raged against the likeness of the clear-faced person here before me. Yes, I knew this man: it was the artist Raphael Sanzio.
Awe, warm and comforting, flooded my soul as Sebastiano’s ‘pretty-faced apprentice’ drew near, rapidly followed by an unpleasant chill; I recognised two of the boys vying to get close to him. A sense of shame lapped all around me with its icy waves. Luigi and Federico had been kicked out of Michelangelo’s workshop the same time as me. They’d had nowhere to go. The memory of my having sneered at them stung like a newly opened wound. They would have the last laugh now, if they saw me. I averted my eyes.
‘Pietro? It’s Pietro!’
Too late. Luigi had spotted me.
I looked at him with a weak smile, a nod of the head, and a feeling akin to gratitude that he seemed to have no intention of breaking away from the group to talk to me further. But then …
‘Is this man one of your friends?’ The dazzling figure at the centre of the group stopped dead some distance away from me, his voice cutting across the street. His followers stopped too, squashed in a huddle. I made to get away but my foot had gone to sleep, causing me to trip up. I fell. My nose was in the dirt. When I turned around Raphael was looking down on me.
Then I understood.
I saw for myself why the fools jostled to get close. Yes, to my fourteen-year-old mind it was as if all the virtues radiated from him. He was grace, truth, and beauty. The smile he gave me was unwavering, and so bright that I had to lower my eyes.
‘So this is Pietro, you say? It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Pietro. My name is Raphael. From Urbino.’
I blinked up at him. Luigi, the boy who’d spotted me, nodded enthusiastically and pulled me up to sitting. Urbino. One word can evoke a whole world. Reputed to have the most civilised court in all of Europe, Urbino was where, it was said, manners, appearance, philosophy, and art had all combined to create this most perfect of artists. And here he was standing before me, the idea of perfection in human form. The white of his shirt dazzled me once more. I looked down upon my own apparel and saw the sorry tale it told. I had no need to say what I’d done, where I’d been, my dishevelled appearance said it all. I had tell-tale paint splashes all over, I was outside Sebastiano Luciani’s studio, I was covered in the dust and dirt of the street, and although I’d tried hard to swallow them back, tears had insisted on drawing lines down my face. I winced and wondered how this perfect courtier would manage to withdraw friendly overtures without the whole affair seeming awkward.
Instead he pressed me for my story. His followers listened attentively.
‘Your father is a potter? How interesting.’
‘Yes. And I-I-I …’ I felt the fire of embarrassment burn behind my cheeks. My infernal stammer!
‘He’s been apprentice to Michelangelo and Sebastiano.’ Luigi saved me.
‘Fine artists,’ Raphael said. ‘Two of the finest in all of Rome. The best, in fact,’ he continued, somewhat generously, I thought, as I knew both well enough to be certain that neither one of them would ever have said the same of him.
He placed a hand on my shoulder before retreating to confer with Luigi and Federico. I could not make out the words but their tone was gentle. When Raphael looked back at me, his eyes bore no trace of ridicule.
Their discussion was over.
‘It has been an honour and a privilege to make the acquaintance of such an experienced apprentice, Pietro. I hope—’ he placed a hand on my dust-stained shirt once again ‘—you might consider continuing your apprenticeship with me. With us.’
I smiled my gratitude as I knew words would fail me.
‘Now we’ll be off,’ Raphael said. ‘We will meet again very soon I hope, Pietro.’
I nodded – I could do nothing else – and I watched him as he led his followers away. When the last one of them had disappeared through the arch at the end of the street I noticed that the sky was clouding over. I’d better get home before the weather breaks, I thought to myself, and tell my father the good news.
Most times you will hate me when I tell you my secrets and confess to the lies I have told, but once or twice, when I tell you what I have told no one else, you might find it in your hearts to pity me. What I’m about to tell you is one such time.
I should never have told him the truth, when I returned home, of what had happened to me that day. Or at least I should have told him the good news first. Either way, my story might have been very different, a tale of a potter father laughing, back-slapping and congratulating his talented son on being newly apprenticed to Rome’s most shining star. We would have celebrated carnival together, watched the processions trail past, and I could have pointed Raphael out to my father in the crowd. He would have showered me with paternal pride. I would have reciprocated with filial affection.
Instead, all that rained down on me was this.
‘You’re like her, like she used to be – weak! Useless! You take everything, give nothing.’ That was my father. I told you he’d never forgiven my mother for leaving him with seven sons to bring up. He went on. And on. I covered my ears to keep his brutal words at a muffled distance. But still his face contorted before my eyes. I closed them tight, turned them inwards desperately searching for somewhere to hide. But my father wouldn’t let me.
‘No more! You’re