The Wolves of St. Peter's (20 page)

È la vita,
she'd said. It shouldn't be like this, with her afraid of predatory priests, of Hell, of demons, scrounging for a dowry to avoid a life of drudgery, and it shouldn't be about little boys caught between toiling in the mines and being slaves of lecherous old men.

He searched for the scar, and in the dim light he found it, high inside her thigh, a long, pink, smooth mark. How it must have hurt, bubbling up into a terrible blister she had to hide from her mother. Even if Susanna had confessed it all, her mother would likely have called her a witch for blaming the priest. Francesco knew that the bastard had burned her as close to that place as he'd dared, the place the priest wanted and feared and hated.
He'd threatened her with Hell, and she had failed to see how, in that room, she already was in Hell. How long had it gone on? Weeks, months, years?
I'll find the priest and kill him,
he thought as he kissed the rise of her belly.

He would find Guido too and appease him if it took everything he had. It was over between him and Juliet, he realized now, and maybe there had never been much to it at all. And while only days ago that knowledge would have torn out his heart, the memory of their affair was already becoming as illusory as the white wolf on the steps of St. Peter's. He drifted off to sleep, his cheek against Susanna's breast, and dreamed they were already home. He would finally read the new book by Erasmus, and she would make them sweet cakes with honey and almonds, and Raphael would come to visit, and they would talk into the night while breezes of a Florentine evening perfumed with flowers from his mother's garden wafted through the open windows.

F
RANCESCO WOKE TO BELLS STRIKING THE HOUR. HIS SLEEP HAD
been sound, and so he was surprised to see light still struggling through the room's only window. Susanna lay beside him on her back, lips parted, snoring softly.

He had plenty of time before he had to take Susanna to see the necromancer, so he rolled over in an attempt to go back to sleep. But he found himself instead staring up into the smoke-blackened beams, going over the day's events. There must be some link between Calendula and the Pope's boy that only Imperia could shed light on. And the sooner he went to see her, the sooner he would know that connection. If he learned something that could free the boy, all the better.

He gave Susanna a gentle shake, and she mumbled to leave her be. “I'm going to Imperia's,” he said, flicking a flea from her cheek, “but I promise to be back by the time the bells ring for vespers, to take you to the Colosseum. Don't leave without me.” Retrieving his hose from the foot of the bed, he slid out from under the covers.

IT
wasn't one of the bear-wrestling giants who opened the door for Francesco but instead a houseboy.

“Imperia's in her room, resting.”

“Tell her it is Francesco. She'll see me.”

The boy nodded and was about to go when, on a whim, Francesco called him back. “Who's your mother, boy?”

The boy looked at him as if he'd been asked if he were the queen of France. “Don't have one,” was his answer in the end.

“So your mother doesn't live here with you?”

“Don't know. Just don't have one.”

Not knowing how to respond, Francesco waved him on his way and went into the salon, where he found Sodoma sleeping in a chair by the fire, a cup of wine held loosely in one hand, threatening at any moment to spill onto the carpet. Francesco took the cup gently from him, though not quite gently enough. Sodoma woke with a start and leaped to his feet, his hand flying to the dagger sheathed in the folds of his turquoise dress. “State your business, man!”

Francesco jumped back, careening into the bookcase. “Calm yourself,” he said with a laugh, not quite able to call Sodoma “man” in return. “It's only me. I was just trying to save Imperia's carpet from your wine.”

Sodoma, now properly awake, laughed and dropped back into his chair, tossing his dagger onto the table. He plunged his hand back into the folds of his dress, this time pulling out a delicate fan. “Sorry, Francesco,” he said, flipping it open and fanning himself daintily. “But you should be careful waking a dreaming man. I might have taken you for a murderous heathen.”

“I think you did,” Francesco said, handing him back his wine. “Speaking of murderous heathens, have you seen The Turk today?”

Sodoma shook his head. “I've only been here a couple of hours. Just me and the old man there.” He nodded his head in the direction of the window, where the old man in question sat very still, his hands resting on the arms of the chair. He had long white hair and a wisp of white beard. His eyes were white too, the milky color of someone long blind. “No point asking him anything,” Sodoma asked. “He just arrived this morning. He's Venetian and blind as my boots.”

“Ah, but my boots see very well,” said the old man in a strong, steady voice. “They saw me all the way from Venice to Rome.”

“Nothing wrong with your ears, either,” said Sodoma. “What are you doing here in Rome?”

“I've come to see His Holiness in the interest of peace between Venice and Rome.”

“Peace between Venice and Rome? You waste your time. His Holiness will not be deprived of a chance to ride into battle on his favorite horse and have your whole city excommunicated. Just how old are you, old man?”

“I was born the same day Constantinople fell to the Venetians.”

Francesco laughed. “That would make you about three hundred years old.”

“Whatever you say, boy. Never did learn to count.”

“If you live in Venice, how do you keep from falling into the canals, Old Venetian Blind Man?” Sodoma asked.

Old Venetian Blind Man took a draught of wine that Francesco offered him. “I didn't tell you the whole story. My boots don't just see well. With them, I can walk on water.”

“I must get myself some boots like yours,” Sodoma said. “I'll
put wings on them, and then I'll be able to fly too.” He looked to Francesco and mouthed the word “crazy” over his fan.

Francesco thought it more likely the old man was simply having a bit of fun. He would have liked to hear more, but the houseboy returned and told him Imperia would see him, so he followed the boy up the stairs and through the halls, remembering as he did to not look in any rooms, lest he receive a tempting invitation. This, of course, made him think of Susanna, probably still asleep, the memory of their lovemaking coming back to him in a flash vivid enough to make his breath catch in his chest.

The boy knocked at Imperia's door. When she called Francesco in, she was sitting on her settee, wearing a new dress of pale blue silk. Her dark hair, still crimped from having been recently released from a braid, fell loose around her shoulders. Her composure suddenly angered him and, skipping all greetings and inquiries about her health, he commenced immediately with the reason for his visit.

“Imperia, what do you know about the Pope's boy, Agnello?”

He could see he had taken her by surprise, and it was a moment before she could answer. “What do you mean?” she asked, as if already knowing she could not plead ignorance.

“The boy, Agnello. You gave him to the Pope, did you not?”

“Why you are asking me this?”

“Because you've been keeping some things to yourself. Is the boy Calendula's?”

Imperia shook her head slowly.

“Then who
is
his mother?”

Without answering, Imperia rose from the settee and went over to stand before the window, the pale blue dress replacing the darkening November sky with a cloudless June one. When she moved, the dress shimmered and the folds became waves on a tranquil sea,
making him forget for a moment his anger and the reason for being there. His mind momentarily drifted to the shores of the Adriatic, where he'd once watched silver dolphins play.

Church bells tolling the hour returned him to the present. The next time they rang, it would be vespers, the promised time of his return to Susanna. How often had he heard his father recite vespers?
Oh God, come to my assistance. Oh Lord, make haste to help me. Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto …

“Agnello's mother,” Imperia said finally as the bells died away, “was a young woman who lived here only briefly. She brought him with her but died soon after from fever. His Holiness took a fancy to him, and so Agnello went to live at the Vatican.”

“And in exchange, Julius sanctioned your brothel,” Francesco said bluntly.

Imperia nodded slowly. She didn't sit down but rested her hands on the back of the settee, fussing with a loose thread in the silk upholstery. Behind her, the pewter sky had deepened to slate.

“You know what he does to that boy?” Francesco could barely contain his anger.

She didn't look at him. “His Holiness desired the boy, and what His Holiness desires, he takes. My choice was to give Agnello to him willingly in exchange for His Holiness's protection, or resist and earn his wrath.” She met his eyes now. “You cannot imagine what he is capable of. So what was I to do? Either way, His Holiness would still have the boy. We all do what it takes to survive, you know that as well as anyone. Besides, Francesco, it was a better fate than befalls most orphans of prostitutes.”

Francesco didn't answer. As much as he despised the fact of her complicity, she was right. What the Pope wanted, he indeed took.
When in Rome …
It was a reference to following local church
customs, but Francesco didn't think St. Ambrose had the customs of Rome under Pope Julius II in mind when he wrote it.

Francesco went to the table and poured two cups of wine. He handed one to Imperia, and they both drank deeply. “I apologize,” he said, sitting on the ottoman next to her. “Last night, a torch was thrown into the lean-to that adjoined our house and very nearly burned it to the ground. I am told the torch was thrown by a well-dressed man on a horse, and I've come to believe he was after me. And so I wonder if there could be any link between Agnello, Julius, and Calendula's murderer. This could be a matter of life and death, not just for me but for anyone who knows me.”

“I don't follow you, Francesco.”

“Julius told Agnello his mother was a whore who lived in Hell. Julius could have been referring to his real mother, who was a dead whore, but he also could have been referring to Calendula, who was, of course, the Virgin Mary in the painting. The boy's exact words were,
My mother was the Virgin Mary, sir. She was in the painting with me. Before she went to Hell.
So could Julius be involved in all this somehow?”

Imperia sighed. “What a cruel thing to say,” she said, crossing herself. “Imagine telling a young boy his mother's in Hell. Please believe me that I want to know the answers too, that I meant everything I said about my love for Calendula.” Leaning over, she took his hands in hers. “Tell me you believe me.”

“I do,” he said with a little more sincerity than he felt, but he'd been wrong to let his emotions get the better of him.

“I did not lie to you the other day, Francesco. Time after time, Calendula was with child, and time after time, she lost them. About five years ago, I stayed with her all one spring when she was with child. This particular time, she had carried the child for almost six months and was hopeful it would live, that she would finally give
her husband the heir he wanted so desperately. But it was not to be, and she lost this child too. It was the night of the summer solstice. The smallest little boy. He came so quickly, there was no time to summon the midwife. He was no bigger than a newborn kitten and lived but a few hours, but I'll never forget his cry. So faint and unhappy, his tiny hands reaching out … And Calendula …” Imperia met Francesco's eyes briefly. “How she wept!”

Imperia was quiet for a moment, and when she continued, her voice was composed. “A few weeks later, my mother died and I returned to Rome. This very house had been my mother's, though everything else had been lost long before. My father was a chorister with a meager salary, and the house had fallen into disrepair. I won't tell you how it all came about, but I had my beauty and I found a way to keep us. One by one, they came to me, unwanted daughters and disgraced wives of poor nobles, and soon this house became what it is.”

“And Calendula was one of them.”

“Two years ago, she was abandoned by her husband after yet another stillbirth, and so she came to me. While she knew of Agnello, she'd never laid eyes on him. His Holiness doesn't come here, and she'd never been to the Vatican. It wasn't until Marcus completed
The Marigold Madonna
that she saw him, or at least his likeness. I curse the day Marcus decided to paint it.”

“The Turk said from the moment she saw the portrait, she was never the same. He's of the belief she became aware of her own beauty, and it spoiled her.”

“Calendula was always aware of her beauty,” Imperia said wryly, “and used it to her advantage. All women must. Except beauty can only go so far. A nobleman can have his choice of mistresses, but to be his wife demands a dowry, and he will hold out for the highest bidder. You will do the same yourself.”

Francesco didn't respond. Hadn't he just hours ago dreamed of taking Susanna as his wife, dowry be damned? Or was he more like Calendula? Resigned to this idea until a better offer was made? If he learned Juliet was free, what would he do then?

“How is it that Calendula and Agnello were in the painting together but never met?” he finally asked.

“They sat for him separately. She sat first. Marcus added Agnello later. Neither of them saw the painting until it was completed. It was the likeness of Agnello that affected her so strongly, not her own image. Marcus may have exaggerated their similarities, but they do indeed look very much like mother and son.”

She released his hands and was quiet for a moment. What a strange tragedy, Francesco thought: Agnello looking for a mother and Calendula looking for a son, and both thought they had found each other in this painting.

Imperia again took up her cup before continuing. “Calendula became convinced he was hers, in fact the very child she had given birth to when I had been a guest in her home. He was about the right age and had the same hair and eyes. She screamed at me, ‘How can he not be mine?' She was convinced the baby hadn't died after all but that I had stolen him, brought him back with me to Rome, and given him to His Holiness. I don't know whose tiny body she thought we buried, but she was beyond reason. She told me she hated me. She called me a liar and demanded I get Agnello back for her. Her life had been destroyed because she couldn't bear her husband a son, and here I had him all along.”

This must be the fight the cook had told Susanna about. But there had to be more. “Did you throw her out the night she was murdered? And why didn't you tell me?”

Imperia sighed. “How could I tell you I'd done something so
terrible? Did she die because I threatened to throw her out? Because I didn't throw her out, I swear. I only threatened to, and then I left the room in exasperation. In the morning, she was gone. When I learned of her death, of course I blamed myself. But now I'm certain she already meant to leave. She'd decided to meet the man who gave her the ring. He's the man we must look for.”

“So was Julius aware of Calendula's obsession with Agnello? Could he have seen her as making trouble?” Francesco had another thought. “Could the man who took her from the mortuary have taken his orders from the Pope himself?”