on together.
But now I know
the only fighters
in my regiment
are made of pigment, oil, sweat.
78.
From first fire
to finished masterpiece
takes many months,
even years.
The steps are endless,
fill every waking moment,
now and then intruding
into sleep as well.
Even with the steps
complete, the paint
will not be fully dry
for years, remaining
vulnerable to whatever
may press up against it,
force its will.
And so too, it seems,
a defloration trial.
I was a fool to think
they would hear my story,
make a ruling,
bring the ordeal
to an end.
No, there are months
of interviews,
lists of witnesses,
lines drawn
in the sand,
the whole of Roman art
divided by their loyalties.
On one side:
a nearly penniless,
untrained artist
of the fairer sex,
with the reputation
that comes of being
female in a world
consumed by men.
And on the other:
a savvy, charming con man
formed of lies and sordid history.
But history is nothing
when overshadowed
by a razor tongue
and wealthy benefactors who decide
to profit off a scandal.
79.
Each day
I think
we might
have word
of progress
toward a ruling.
Each day I am mistaken.
My father rages through the house,
ignores our few commissions.
I do not breathe a word of discontent.
Inertia and uncertainty
ignite that piece of me
lain dormant for so long.
I paint again.
Not anything that matters.
The work my father’s been ignoring.
Studies to improve my skills.
I must accomplish something.
80.
A pinpoint of light
on a pitch-black canvas:
Giovanni Stiattesi
comes to call.
He’s Tino’s friend,
but also Father’s.
He has a daughter,
a lens through which to see
our situation
as something more
than scandal.
(Why, though, does it take
a mother, daughter, sister
for men to take
a woman at her word?)
There are some things
he thought we ought to know
before it all spills out at trial.
Before he came to Rome,
Agostino Tassi was abandoned
by his wife.
(This is news to Father.
Not to me.)
Upon investigation it seems
Tino’s wife fled
when he raped her sister—
a girl of just thirteen.
And then
(it’s not been proven
but Giovan’s heard Tino brag)
he sent a man to find and kill
his wife.
81.
Father’s voice is muffled
as I shut myself inside the pantry
once again.
He thanks Signor Stiattesi,
sees this as a seed of hope.
If incest,
rape,
and murder
make up Agostino’s legacy,
my honor could be heralded,
and his destroyed forever.
But also:
I was always just a thing.
Any lingering hope I had,
any gasping dream
that somehow
I was special,
somehow so alluring
he could not control his need,
somehow the golden moments
that we shared were genuine
and not just rusted tin
disguised with cheapest paint,
all remnants of this version
of my story
are scraped off the canvas
with Signor Stiattesi’s knife.
82.
In the foreground,
the party wronged,
his property damaged,
its provenance questioned,
before the judge,
bestowed by the Church
with the power to rule
on what stays in shadow
and what becomes light.
The middle ground,
composed of witnesses
to a crime committed
behind closed doors,
each with an opinion
on where the eye should fall.
The background:
the property in question.
83.
I am
a whore,
insatiable,
per Agostino’s testimony.
It matters not
that I’ve repeated
time and again,
my father’s said as well,
if you do not count
the act of violence
against me,
I am a virgin still.
No.
Per the court,
I am a slut.
My studio is less for painting
than for vulgar rendezvous
with any who should wander in
and fall upon my open legs.
They even display letters
evidently sent by me
to countless gentlemen,
declaring love
peddling wares.
Never mind I cannot write a word.
An abridged list
of men who’ve had me
on my back:
Giovanni Battista Stiattesi
Geronimo Modenese
Francesco Scarpellino
Arigenio, the cleric
Pasquino Fiorentino
(Quite convenient
Signor Fiorentino is now dead
and therefore cannot
deny our supposed fling.)
Oh yes, there is one more,
aside from Signor Tassi,
who at first insisted
we’d never lain together,
then changed his tune
to say I’d lain with all the world.
Most damning
(most ridiculous):
my father.
He caps the list of names,
a final polish on Tino’s
sculpture carved from lies.
I cannot be satisfied
with all the men of Rome,
and so they say I’ve had my father, too.
84.
Weeks drag
into months drag
into a numbing sense of time.
Signor Tassi and his thugs perform
as though each day is Carnival
and show no signs of wearing out.
Distract with showy costumes,
shed one mask for another.
Their stories change
like Tiber waters
in a gusty storm.
Still the judge
cannot discern the truth.
Because my word
is not enough
the judge declares
he must have proof—
of what I am not sure.
Two midwives
come before the court.
They bow their heads, submissive,
but they are experts in a field
where women hold the reins.
My mind distracted
by the shiny notion
of a world where only women rule,
I do not hear
the judge’s words,
instructions to the midwives.
But then our counsel
prods my elbow,
pushes me to stand,
stumble after the women
to a room
(accompanied by the notary,
a look of glee upon his face
that makes my stomach turn—
I’ve seen this look before
on men who watch a woman
in a garden, bathing,
just before they demand
she lower her robe).
The only grace:
the judge remains in chambers
to pal around with Tino and his cronies.
Two women
push me on my back,
hoist skirts up to my waist,
and shove their hands inside.
Panic rises.
I am within a court of law.
and yet
it’s happening again.
Perhaps
it never stopped.
85.
We’re here.
Susanna.
Judith’s hand
smooths my hair
while coarse women
use coarser language
to pry me open,
debate the state of my sex.
Those men.
Judith whispers,
breath hot in my ear.
These women who dare
to judge
your heart
by your body
will never have
an ounce of your worth.
I summon everything I’ve got
to keep the tears from flowing.
If I thought women
would show compassion
simply because
we share a place
in this world,
I was a fool.
I am a fool.
Darling girl.
Susanna knows.
Susanna was surrounded
by women who did not help.
We’re here.
They stay.
I mirror Judith’s stoic face,
match Susanna breath for breath.
And when the midwives
snap at me to make myself
presentable,
I do not tell them
where I wish they’d stick
their pointy tools.
86.
When we emerge,
the men share filthy jokes
behind their hands
as though they care
if I should hear.
The first midwife
before the judge
presents her case:
she’s been a midwife
for eleven years,
lest anyone should
question her authority.
After thorough examination
of my pudenda,
(when I ask, Father tells me it
comes from the Latin word for “shame”)
She declares I am no virgin.
My hymen,
ruined, like
my reputation.
Was there a question
that my hymen’s ruined?
That’s what I’ve told the court
repeatedly.
The next midwife
will not be overshadowed.
She has known pudendas now
for fifteen years.
She confirms the broken hymen,
points out it wasn’t
broken recently.
All this is said
as though it proves
that I’m a whore.
But can’t it prove
the act of violence
against me?
87.
The judge peers down a nose
so conspicuous it would require
an artist unusually skilled
at perspective to do him justice.
I’ve told the truth.
I’ve offered up my body.
There’s nothing else to do.
He sighs.
The petulant child
forever whines
(as though I’ve lost
a ball
a doll
a game of dice
and not
my honor).
Signorina Gentileschi,
are you aware
of what will happen
should you continue to insist
on these accusations?
I’d hoped
the court would
take the time
to study every nuance,
every brushstroke.
I will have no choice
but to subject you to . . .
tests.
Tests of your integrity.
My integrity must be tested
while Agostino smirks,
a man who raped
his wife,
her sister,
possibly even
had them killed.
I will my voice not to tremble.
My integrity can
withstand your tests.
Now the judge
is the one who smirks.
if I were you.
We tend to use the manner
most effective for
drawing out
the witness.
I cannot fathom
what that means.
Though Agostino paints
over my words they still
remain, indelible.
I’ve spoken truth
for many months.
My statement will remain the same.
This is not for the pleasure
of the court, of course,
but to clear your name.
To remove any
trace of doubt about
your virtue.
This time I say nothing.
He has not asked a question.
I do not know what he expects—
for me to change my story
now that he makes threats
I cannot even comprehend?
Obstinacy, my child,
could cost you your hands.
For the first time
in seven months
the courtroom is silent.
Each person watching
knows I’m nothing
without my hands.
What about my hands?
You shall undergo the sibyl.
88.
Look at the sibyls.
Inside the Sistine Chapel,
I could not focus.
T
iptoes only disappointed—
I’d never be close enough.
But Mother crouched down
to match my height,
took my hand, outstretched our arms,
and we gazed along the same sight line
at women on the ceiling.
Look at the sibyls, love.
Five women sit in judgment,
spread across the heavens.
Women who speak truth.
And listen to me, love.
When a woman risks
her place, her very life to speak
a truth the world despises?
Believe her. Always.
The Delphic sibyl
watches Judith
on the ceiling next to her.
The prophetess bears witness
as the warrior slays Holofernes.
If Judith withstood
the sibyl’s truth
then I can too.
89.
The ancient sibyls spoke the truth.
And so,
in my courtroom,
will you.
Your arms shall cross
before your breast, my dear,
cords slipped
between each finger
and around your hands,
tightened with a running string.
Your joints will be crushed
with each turn of the garrotte.
It won’t take long
to render
your hands
useless.
The judge’s final word
reverberates,
almost loud enough
to drown out
Father’s gasp.
I cannot bear
to turn and see his face.
I’ve no idea
what my own
must show.
Horror, shock,
perhaps.
More likely
pure confusion.
I’ve followed
Susanna’s strokes—
she sent her monsters
to their slaughter.
But I am not to be Susanna.
You don’t have to be Susanna.
And so I must be Judith.
My voice will shake
if I should speak
but still I paint the blood.
And what torture
will Signor Tassi undergo?
He snickers—
not the judge,
but the man who tore
my world apart
upon a whim,
an urge,
a bit of wounded pride.
The judge clears his throat,
exchanges glances
with Signor Tassi’s counsel.
This trial is torture enough.
90.
Here are my hands.
Do what you will.
PART V
91.
The bandages wrap once and twice,