3 - Cruel Music (2 page)

“What’s the meaning of this?” I cried to the assembled sbirri. “You have no right to barge in and terrorize decent citizens.”

“They have every right,” someone snapped from the front door.

Gussie and I turned to see Messer Grande, the chief of Venice’s constabulary. His red robe of office lent his weasel face an eminence it otherwise lacked. I had sparred with the man over the investigation of Luca Cavalieri’s murder. I would always remember his haughty incompetence, and I was certain that he had not forgotten what he had described as my amateurish meddling and lack of respect for my betters.

An unpleasant smile danced across Messer Grande’s lips as he entered and began to unfold an official-looking document. “My men are doing what they’re paid to do,” he said. “Securing the household of a wanted man. I have a warrant here—for the arrest of one Tito Amato, virtuoso.”

“What?” I cried.

Lupo weakly pressed my shoulder, urging me to stand. I propped the old servant’s back against the wall and went to face Messer Grande.

“I advise you to come quietly, Signor Amato.” His gaze was stony. “There is no reason why anyone else should be hurt.”

I was dumbfounded. I had committed no crime. When I’d set out for Dresden, I’d just finished a successful run in an opera by Maestro Vivaldi. I’d been the toast of Venice, everyone’s darling. Who could I have crossed in the few short hours since my return?

Gussie approached and extended his hand. “Let me see this warrant. Who authorized it?”

Messer Grande ignored Gussie and handed the paper to me, holding it by his fingertips as if he couldn’t bear to brush hands with a eunuch. As Gussie hung over my shoulder, I skimmed through the flowery legal language to the signature at the bottom of the page.

My heart sank.

“Montorio,” I whispered.

Gussie was suitably impressed. “Senator Montorio? The State Inquisitor?”

I nodded. Doge Alvise Pisani and the senate elected by the heads of noble families were the titular rulers of the Venetian Republic. But everybody knew that the real power was concentrated in a secretive body of powerful senators called the Council of Ten. No unacceptable act or opinion escaped the notice of the inexorable Ten. With their well-paid network of spies and informers, they kept an ear to every café, church pew, and, it was rumored, bedroom. The Ten were a law unto themselves, and the instrument of their absolute authority was the Tribunal of State Inquisitors. In chamber, two inquisitors dressed in black robes and one in red. Senator Montorio wore the red.

Gussie stared in wordless bewilderment. Messer Grande waited by the door, smacking a limp pair of leather gloves against his palm.

“What am I accused of?” I asked. “Why was the warrant issued?”

“I’m not here to answer questions.” Messer Grande shrugged disdainfully, but his voice softened a trace. “I will, however, conduct you to someone who can.”

Despite the hackles rising on the back of my neck, I forced myself to lower the pitch of my natural speaking voice and calmly announce, “Don’t worry, Gussie. Someone has simply made an unfortunate mistake. I expect to sort things out and be home by tomorrow morning.”

Messer Grande didn’t even try to conceal his smirk.

Chapter Two

A pair of sbirri seized me under the arms and dragged me, half-walking, half-stumbling, into the night. Messer Grande murmured orders to their sergeant, who relayed his commands in a parade ground bellow. Dense clouds had swept in from the sea, obscuring the stars and turning the sky into an endless mantle of black velvet. The shadowy mass of houses that crowded around the Campo dei Polli provided the only light. Even their friendly dots of yellow lamplight winked out as my neighbors heard the commotion and came to their windows to watch my ignoble progress across the square and down the
calle
toward the canal.

Three gondolas bobbed at the landing. Their lanterns threw streaks of silver lightning across the black water. My captors dumped me into the middle boat, and Messer Grande ordered two more men to join us. The other boats, manned by archers, escorted us fore and aft.

I shivered from more than the sharp breeze whistling down the canal. Why send so many men to secure the person of one less than robust singer? It was not as if I were a prizefighter or some nobleman’s bravo. My strength lay in my throat, not my limbs. The authorities had spared no resources in staging this grand show, but its purpose had me completely baffled.

The trio of gondolas slowly navigated the narrow channels of my domestic quarter, then picked up speed once we reached the wider waters of the Grand Canal. The nine o’clock bells had only just rung, so there was still plenty of blaze and bustle on Venice’s main throughway. With our boatmen straining at the oars, we flitted around hulking barges bound for the Rialto markets as if they were standing still. Their shadowy crewmen pointed and whispered among themselves. I could imagine the curious questions: Who is this criminal under such stalwart guard? A traitor to the Republic? A murderer?

I wasn’t surprised when our little fleet turned left at the mouth of the Grand Canal and passed alongside the gothic arcades of the doge’s palace. The Quay of Prisons was close at hand, and it was at those dismal stones that I was forced to disembark. At this bastion of government power, Messer Grande retained only four men to persuade me against struggle or flight. He conducted me to a small room. Not a cell, but a bleak chamber furnished with a wooden table and one straight chair. When I saw he intended to shut me in without a word, I confess I abandoned my last shred of dignity and begged to be told why I was being held.

“You have a reputation for cleverness,” he answered, digging under his red robe for a tinderbox to light the squat tallow candle on the table. “Let’s see if you can come up with a guess. I’ll give you a few minutes to think about it.”

The door thudded shut, and the rasp of the key in the lock sounded a note of cold finality. Surrounded by silence, I had ample time to review the last few months: every house I’d visited, every acquaintance I’d dined with, every triumph, every tiff. Then, one leg gone numb from perching on the hard chair, I paced the flagstone floor until I could simply think no longer.

I must have fallen asleep eventually. When the squeak of door hinges jerked my head from my folded arms, the candle wax had snaked onto the table and the flame was burning low. Two sbirri entered, truncheons bared. Messer Grande followed. He made a short circuit of the room, peering into the bare, dark corners as if he expected assassins to materialize out of the grimy plaster at any moment. When he was satisfied that my little prison was secure, he opened the door and bowed low.

Senator Antonio Montorio—it could be no other—sauntered toward me on elegant court shoes with high red heels and diamond-studded buckles. Above his coat of silver brocade, his beautifully dressed wig covered his head at a clumsy angle. Heavy bags pulled his bloodshot eyes low, and his neckcloth was in disarray. While I had been agonizing, the senator had been indulging himself at some casino or pleasure hall.

He stopped just a few inches from my chair and towered over me with hands on hips. He spoke without introduction or preamble. “What do you know about the situation in Rome?”

“Rome? I know nothing of the opera houses of Rome. I’ve never had occasion to sing there.”

“Santa Maria! It’s not music that concerns me, man. It’s the pope. Surely you’ve heard he is ill.”

I nodded. Everyone knew that Pope Clement had gone blind early in his reign and suffered from a host of ills. At every Mass, the priests offered endless prayers for his recovery. “Yes, of course,” I answered. “But what does that have to do with me? Why have I been arrested?”

Senator Montorio placed his balled fists on the table and leaned on his knuckles. “The pope is dying. The old man’s been going by inches for months. In Rome, they say the cardinals will be electing a new pope by Easter.”

I nodded, still mystified.

“It’s high time for another Venetian pope,” he continued. “Pietro Ottoboni was the last we sent to Rome. That was over fifty years ago, and the man took pneumonia and died before he could send any significant subsidies our way. We’re not going to miss our next chance with the Sacred Conclave, and this time, it won’t be an old man with one foot in the grave.”

I cocked my head. “It sounds like you already have a candidate in mind.”

He took a deep breath. “My brother Stefano desires the papal tiara and I will see that he gets it.”

Montorio’s resolution didn’t surprise me. Like all the nobility of my mercantile city, the Montorio fortune was built on trade. In their case, spices. Europe’s taste for Malabar pepper and other Indian seasonings had made the Montorio family a power to reckon with. At one time or another, members of their numerous clan had filled every post in the Venetian Republic from the doge on down. Senator Montorio’s younger brother Stefano was already a cardinal who served as Venice’s ambassador to the Papal States. Again and again, the industrious Montorios had distinguished themselves from the usual run of charming wastrels who made up the current bulk of Venetian nobility. A Montorio on St. Peter’s throne? Why not? Lesser men had certainly been elevated to the role.

But why had the senator ordered my arrest? I swallowed hard and asked that very question.

Montorio straightened and eyed me narrowly. Then he ordered Messer Grande to find two glasses of wine as if the chief of police were his personal footman. If only the circumstances had been different, how I would have relished that moment.

The wine was fetched, as well as several lanterns with brightly burning wicks to hang from wall hooks. Smiling amiably, Montorio sat one hip on the edge of the table and set his free leg swinging back and forth. I recognized the parts we were to play. Just two men having a friendly chat over our glasses. I touched my lips to mine but found I couldn’t drink. I waited for his next words with gritted teeth.

“Allow me to elaborate,” he began. “The next papal election is by no means a foregone conclusion. When the pope’s infirmities confined him to bed, he appointed Lorenzo Fabiani as the Cardinal Padrone to act in his stead. That makes Fabiani one of the most powerful men in Rome, if not all of Italy. Though he’s collected a few enemies along the way, Fabiani has enough cardinals in his pocket to control who will be the next pontiff.”

“Will he back Cardinal Montorio?”

“We thought so. Certain promises were made, certain favors given.” Montorio regarded me thoughtfully, rolling the stem of his glass between his fingers. “Don’t be shocked. That is the way papal elections have been decided for centuries.”

I wasn’t shocked. Only an infant could fail to understand that the Church was as much about politics as salvation. No, what Montorio saw in my expression was the dawning realization that my long rest in Venice was threatened by forces far beyond my control.

He went on. “The election was looking good for Stefano. We’d secured the loyalty of the Spanish cardinals and were prepared to reward Fabiani most handsomely for all the other votes he could swing our way. We were assured of the Cardinal Padrone’s loyalty. But…” Montorio dropped his companionable manner and stared into space with a clenched jaw.

“But?” I prompted.

“Besides Stefano, there is another that is often mentioned as a contender for St. Peter’s throne. A Cardinal Di Noce.” Montorio seasoned the name with a liberal helping of venom. “He’s an upstart from some insignificant village in the Alban hills, with no family connections to speak of. Lucky coincidence seems to have advanced his career more than anything else. Yet, Di Noce has his supporters. He administers the poorhouses and charity hospitals of Rome. Quite liberal he is with the beggars. So, of course, the populace loves him.”

“Has Cardinal Fabiani switched his allegiance to Di Noce?”

“Ah, Signor Amato, you’ve hit upon the question of the hour. It shouldn’t be so damned difficult to answer, but the situation has become…murky. In public, Fabiani is scrupulously careful to favor both candidates in equal measure. We still have his private assurance that all is well, but his promises have become rather feeble. Combine that with information that Prince Pompetti, Di Noce’s most influential supporter, has been visiting Fabiani’s villa at all hours, and you see why we are beginning to question the strength of the alliance.”

He paused to stare intently into the dwindling candle flame, then flicked his slack, red-rimmed eyes back to me. “That is where you are going to help us. Cardinal Lorenzo Fabiani is a great music lover. He keeps a box at every opera house in Rome and rarely misses a performance. As a goodwill gesture, the Republic is going to make Fabiani a present of Venice’s finest singer.” He dipped his chin toward me. “You will travel to Rome, be installed at the Villa Fabiani, and become the cardinal’s pet nightingale.”

“What?” I jumped up, knocking my wineglass to the floor. The sbirri who had been leaning against the wall with bored expressions sprang to attention, but Montorio only smiled and waved them back.

“You heard me, Signor Amato. You are bound for Rome and the Villa Fabiani. I’m sure they will make you quite comfortable. Since the pope’s infirmities handed the reins of power to Lorenzo Fabiani, his palace has become one of the finest in the city.”

I shook my head. “Opera lover or not, I can’t imagine that Fabiani would trot back to the fold in gratitude for a few arias.”

Montorio answered with a sour chuckle. “I see we’ll have to teach you a thing or two about papal intrigue. The cardinal’s besetting infatuation with music only opens the door to opportunity. Fabiani will have you serenading day and night, at everything from formal receptions to intimate dinners. At those particularly, you will use your eyes and ears as cleverly as your mouth.”

“You want me to act as your spy.”

“Call it what you will.” He shrugged. “We need information and we’re sending you to get it. Use your incomparable voice to best advantage. Ingratiate yourself with Fabiani…impress him with your taste and refinement. Make him ask for you when he is relaxing, amusing himself with family and closest friends. We’re especially interested in visits from Prince Aurelio Pompetti. Listen well. Every innuendo, every hint of which direction the cardinal will throw his support in the conclave is valuable to us.”

I fought the impulse to knock the smug smile from Montorio’s face. “You think Fabiani wouldn’t see through such an obvious ploy?”

“He may have his suspicions, but he won’t refuse your services. He would never turn down one of the most sought after castrati in all of Europe, and once he’s heard
you sing, he cannot fail to be enchanted. Myself, I have no ear for music, but everyone knows what Maestro Vivaldi said after your last opera at the San Marco. While you were taking your bows, the great maestro clutched his heart and whispered, ‘Tonight Tito has wafted our ears to Paradise.’”

I shook my head, fists clenched. “No, I won’t do it. I’ve been touring for months and I’ve made up my mind to spend some time with my family. Even if I weren’t exhausted, I wouldn’t go to Rome. I’m a performer, not a spy.”

Montorio’s nostrils flared with a long inhalation of breath. His glass made an impatient clink as he deposited it on the table. “You don’t seem to understand, Amato. This is not a request, it’s an order.”

“You have no authority to order me to Rome. Use the power of your rank to intimidate me as you may, but I’m a free citizen of Venice with no crime to my credit. You have no right to hold me—I demand to be released immediately.”

“I was afraid you might take that attitude. Your fame has given you an independent streak, but I wager we have something that will change your mind.” He gestured to Messer Grande, who raced from the room with his red robe streaking behind him. The sbirri roused and took up positions at my flanks. One forced me down on the chair with a heavy hand on my shoulder.

Montorio took the opportunity to enjoy a pinch of snuff. He placed the weed on the little platform of skin between his thumb and forefinger, bent his nose to his hand, and snuffed the treat into his lungs. A froth of lace jiggled at his wrist as he sneezed and shook the debris to the floor. He had not changed his seat on the edge of the table, but the charade of tavern comrades was over. He was a senator, the Red Inquisitor, patriarch of the noble Montorio clan, and blood relation to half the government ministers. I was only a common citizen of undistinguished lineage, an entertainer who had been favored by the fortunes of popular taste. I might be king of the stage at the opera house, but cries of bravo and flowers strewn at my feet couldn’t protect me against whatever Montorio was planning.

I heard the sound of heavy boots marching down the corridor, then a soft moan. Sbirri dragged in an unfortunate being who looked and smelled more like a sack of refuse than a man. His shirt was caked with dried blood and his breeches with filth. Matted brown hair covered the face that hung upon his chest. Messer Grande grabbed a hunk of that hair and jerked the man’s bearded chin up.

“Alessandro!” I cried.

My brother’s cheeks were lumpy and swollen. One eye was squeezed shut by glistening purple flesh. The other rolled frantically in its socket. Alessandro gave no sign that he could see or even hear me. The sbirri dumped his battered body a few paces from my chair.