The Wolves of St. Peter's (27 page)

Just like Michelangelo was doing now.

F
RANCESCO WOKE WITH A START, CONVINCED HE'D BEEN ASLEEP
for hours, but the bells in the square told him otherwise. It had only been an hour since Michelangelo had built him a fire, given him a soothing balm for his blistered hands, and left him to sleep.

He shifted in the bed, and every muscle, sinew, and bone in his body screamed out for him to lie still. Yet while this pain would pass, he wasn't so sure about the ache in his heart.

He turned his head. The fire wasn't dead, but it was far from roaring. He couldn't expect Michelangelo to break completely from his stingy ways. He knew, too, that when he saw Michelangelo next, the man would treat him more disdainfully than ever out of embarrassment for having shown a more generous side.

Francesco raised his hands and studied them in the room's dim light. Greasy with Michelangelo's balm, they looked as if the skin
had been flayed from them. But as much as they hurt, he knew he'd still be digging that grave had Dante not taken away his shovel.

He forced himself into a sitting position, and the room swam in front of his eyes before going momentarily black. His head rolled forward onto his chest, then he recovered with a jerk, finding, to his surprise, that he was dressed only in his chemise. Gradually it came back to him that Michelangelo had insisted he remove his clothes before getting into bed, and he had meekly complied, handing over one blood- and mud-encrusted garment after another.

Even his chemise had not stayed clean, and he touched a dark, coin-sized stain he knew to be Susanna's blood. At the foot of the bed, Michelangelo had left out some of his own clothes: a shirt of dubious cleanliness, his extra hose and breeches, and the jacket of fine brocade Francesco had seen in Michelangelo's trunk the day he had searched for the missing letter.

Francesco's dirty clothes were soaking in one of the cauldrons they used to collect the rain that dripped through the ceiling. He threw in his chemise, knowing he wouldn't come back to wash or retrieve any of them. He imagined them sitting in there until Michelangelo needed the cauldron again, when they'd be thrown out into the yard and trampled into the mud.

He bade the chicken a final farewell. As he closed the door behind him, he couldn't help but think it looked sorry to see him go. He paused for a moment under the eaves, remembering how he'd stood here with Susanna and pointed out the autumn constellations, all the while wishing it was Juliet at his side. The memory gave him pause. How was it he'd given Juliet's death so little thought?

He left the shelter of the eaves, recalling as he unlocked the gate his disappointment at seeing Susanna's scarf wrapped around
it. As he walked through the muddy yard to the door, Francesco wondered what the silversmith would think when he returned and found her gone. Would he miss her too?

Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door, which creaked inward on its leather hinges. His mind was on her final words to him:
My money is behind the first stone from the wall, over the mantle.
Try as he might, he couldn't remember his last words to her. But he knew they'd been angry and impatient. And why had she told him about the money? She must have known she might not return.

Leaving the door open to let in more light, he heard the scrambling of little feet as a scruffy rat scooted across the floor and under the bed. The pewter box was still on the table, a rock weighing down the lid. He opened it. The honey cakes were still there. He put the lid back on. He knew he'd take them in the end. He would need them, but if he were to eat one now, he'd choke on it.

First stone from the wall, over the mantle.
The hearth was still cold. He looked at the stones, seemingly secure in their mortar. He ran his finger around the one just above the mantle, but there was no indication it could be freed without a chisel. Surely she hadn't mortared it in? He imagined her pulling it out and adding a tiny coin, the kind of tiny coins that, in the days of working for Guido, he wouldn't have picked up in the street and, had they been in his purse, would have tossed to beggars.

He looked at the stone adjacent to it and the one above it before dragging the chair over to the wall. No wonder Bastiano hadn't found anything. It was, as she'd said, the first stone from the wall, but it was high enough it could be reached only with a chair. A small space on either side of the stone was the only indication it was loose. Francesco inserted a finger on either side and slid it toward him. It was a good eight inches square and felt quite heavy, especially
given the state of his arms. Francesco set it down on the mantle before reaching into the dark hole.

His fingers touched something smooth, and he pulled it out. It was a pewter box not unlike the one on the table, but smaller. It sat easily in his hand. It didn't weigh much, and he gave it a shake, listening to the coins rattle against its sides.
Poor girl,
he thought. He set it down on the mantle and was about to step down from the chair when something made him reach into the hole again. Another box. As he slid this one out, he was shocked to find it weighed more than the last box—in fact, it was heavier than the stone behind which it was hidden. He felt something strange in the pit of his stomach as he set it down.

He carried both boxes over to the table. He started with the lighter of the two, and it contained, as he expected, a few dozen coins, though a few were gold and of a substantial size. Any one of them represented several months' wages to a housekeeper like Susanna.

He turned a couple of the coins over in his fingers before opening the other, much heavier box. Why did he feel such sadness?

It was completely full of coins. How could Susanna have amassed so much money? He poured the coins onto the table and started to pick through them. Coins in silver and gold from Rome, Florence, Venice, Milan, Naples, Sicily, France. He counted them, separating them into little stacks according to their value. He completed a stack that equaled the wages of a craftsman for a year, and then another that matched the amount Michelangelo had been advanced for the chapel. He kept making stacks. This was what he'd pay for a small villa in Florence, and this for a larger one.

She'd gone to her father's the other day, and he'd wondered if it was to ask him about the state of her dowry. Francesco had considered taking her home with the excuse that his father had done the same—lived with a woman who had brought not so much as a sheep
into the family. Susanna would have been saving for a dowry suited to a farmer or a craftsman, and here she had a dowry The Turk wouldn't have scoffed at. Why, then, did she take the bolt of cloth to trade with Juliet? He remembered watching her count on her fingers and wondering how she didn't get cheated at the market. Yet she had all this. All this wealth that could have saved her a life of drudgery—and possibly saved her life—and she didn't know it. As for where it had come from, that was a mystery she had taken to the grave.

Angrily he scooped up the coins and dropped them, clanging, into the boxes. When they were full, he slammed on the lids and replaced the boxes in the chimney. Then, changing his mind, he removed them again and took out several ducats. He might need these. He would be back for the rest.

FRANCESCO
made his first stop Raphael's. His friend opened the door and expressed horror at his appearance. “What can I do for you first? Give you some breakfast or take you to the baths? You could use some clothes that fit too.”

“I'm not hungry.”

Raphael raised an eyebrow under his beret. “Then it is serious, indeed. And I am not making light of whatever it is that pains you.” He led Francesco up the stairs to his studio, where the morning light filtered through the glass and lit the painting on the easel, a portrait of Julius in his fur-trimmed red robes. Francesco studied it as Raphael went in search of clean clothes.

“Everything I have is at your disposal,” Raphael said emphatically
when he returned with a cloak of black velvet and other garments. “Do you need money?”

Francesco took a deep breath, willing himself not to cry at his friend's kindness. “No. That's the least of my worries. But thank you. You are a good friend. I'm not quite sure where to start, but do you remember the other night when you asked me if it was possible Juliet was using me for her own gain?”

“I am sorry.”

“No, you were right. Although, in the end, it's Calendula who got what Juliet wanted.”

Raphael shook his head in bewilderment. And so Francesco told him everything. Calendula's plot, Susanna's death, everything but what was yet to come.

“There's more,” he said. “I'll be leaving Rome shortly, and I think you'll soon know why. I don't know where I'm going, but even if I did, I wouldn't tell you. I don't want you hauled over a beam by the Pope's men in an attempt to extract my whereabouts.”

“The Pope's men? You know what you are doing?”

“I think so,” Francesco said with more confidence than he felt. In truth he had no plan. Or maybe he did. The kind of insane plan only someone who really didn't care whether he lived or died would concoct. As for leaving Rome, it could very well be facedown on the currents of the Tiber.

“You are not to worry about me,” Raphael said. “His Holiness is as determined that I finish the rooms in the Vatican as he is that Michelangelo complete the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. I think you need not worry on either of our accounts.”

“I would rather err on the side of caution. And speaking of caution, I think it would be wise to send Alfeo back to his family in the country.”

“Why? He is under the protection of Imperia's father.”

“I don't think he is the most suitable guardian. Should the Pope or any of the wolves in his employ set their sights on him, no one could keep him safe.”

Raphael nodded slowly. “This is connected, I am sure, to what you have not told me. I will take him home immediately. He will be disappointed, as he loves to sing, but perhaps I can be of some assistance in finding him a safer post.”

“And now,” Francesco said, willing some levity into his voice, “let me take you up on the offer of a trip to the baths. I don't know when I'll have the comfort of another.”

Raphael gave him an encouraging smile. “If the revival of Roman culture has accomplished nothing other than making bathing fashionable again, it is enough for me,” he said, putting on his cape. “Soap truly must be one of the greatest wonders of civilization.”

“Did you know, under the right conditions in the grave, the human body can turn to soap?” It was a macabre fact to bring up at the best of times, let alone right after he'd buried the woman he loved.

Still, Raphael chuckled. “How do you know such things?”

“I don't know. And worse, I don't forget them.”

“I know it seems impossible, my friend, but there will come a time when you can laugh again.”

“I can tell you one thing for certain. I no longer feel like a boy. I feel like a tired old man.”

THE
baths were housed in a cavernous stone building with a vaulted ceiling, massive stone pillars, and high arched windows that filtered the light through milky glass. In the center of the room was a round pool lined with stone. These were thermal baths, heated from the earth. The hot water filled the room with clouds of white steam.

A bored-looking group of prostitutes gathered languidly by the side of the pool. As the men approached, they dropped their robes to the floor. As always, Francesco felt a little embarrassed by their brazenness, but Raphael greeted them, a few even by name, and gave them a couple of coins to watch his and Francesco's clothes and provide them with towels.

“Only towels, every time. You break our hearts,” one said to Raphael. Her smile revealed a chipped front tooth that made Francesco think of Susanna. She caught Francesco looking at her and smiled invitingly, but he quickly turned away.

“You will confuse your biographers, Raphael,” Francesco said after they had settled into the steaming pool. The heat soothed his aching muscles.

“My biographers? Why should I have biographers?”

“Don't play modest with me, Raphael. I saw your painting of Julius. You have become the favorite painter of a pope who will be remembered for restoring the glory of Rome. For all his faults—and they are myriad—he didn't take Julius Caesar's name in vain. And you'll be remembered along with him as one of Rome's greatest artists.”

Raphael laughed. “And if you are right, how will I confuse my biographers?”

“They'll tell of the beautiful women you painted. They'll tell of your charm, your manners, your beauty, and conclude that you were one of history's great lovers. But they'll be wrong. Instead, you pine
for some mythical woman, one you cannot begin to describe, though with every painting you make the attempt. I truly hope you'll meet her one day, and together you'll be very happy. Just be sure you don't let her slip through your fingers.”

Raphael laughed again, a little sadly this time. “And how will Michelangelo be remembered?”

“Michelangelo won't be remembered for his charm and beauty, that's for certain. People will look at his paintings of men with the bodies of Roman gods and wonder if he preferred their company over that of women. He will be remembered as your antithesis, and people will fight over who was the greater of the two.”

“And his houseboy?” Raphael asked. “How will he be remembered?”

“He'll be forgotten. As will the silversmith's housekeeper.”

THEY
said their good-byes a short time later at Raphael's door. Francesco embraced Raphael, promising to write once it was safe and expressing fervent hopes they would meet again.

With Michelangelo's ill-fitting clothes in a bundle under his arm, he walked through the square, past Imperia's, and toward the Sistine Chapel. The guard refused to let him pass, and it wasn't until Michelangelo's voice boomed out “Is that you, Francesco?” that the man stepped aside.