3 - Cruel Music (22 page)

As Fabiani spoke with a trio of nuns clustered around the brightly b
urning fireplace, I approached the leader of all Christendom. Pope Clement was clearly on his deathbed. His face was haggard, and his mouth pulled to one side. The sharp bones of his aristocratic nose threatened to break through brittle, translucent skin. With each gurgling breath, his coverlet rose and fell even more shallowly than Benito’s. His eyes were closed.

“Not long now,” whispered the oldest nun, who had come up behind me with so noiseless a tread that the hem of her habit seemed to hover above the thick rug. She gave me a small push, and I realized that I’d been hanging back, repulsed by the smell of sickness that flowery unguents and incense could not overcome.

“You must sing right over him—right in his ear. We’re not sure how much he can hear,” she explained. Still I hesitated. “Don’t be afraid.” She nudged the small of my back. “His Holiness has one foot in heaven. Even now, Our Lord may be tugging on his hand.”

I sank to my knees on the prayer stool provided for visitors and did as she commanded. In the clearest tone I could produce, I sang a Monteverdi Adoremus. Fabiani and the other sisters crowded at the foot of the bed. He sighed and whispered, “I told you, the voice of an angel.”

They nodded. One of the nuns had tears streaming down her cheeks.

The oldest nun stayed beside me. She took one of Pope Clement’s mottled hands in hers, pressing it between her palms as if she could rouse him with her warmth. I willed him to rouse, as well. It was torture hovering right over the man and not being able to uncover the information I needed. Was Pope Clement the brown-eyed model for the lover’s eye in the marchesa’s ring? The answer lay beneath his shaggy white brows, behind his tissue-thin lids.

As I followed the Adoremus with a Gloria Patri, I became convinced that the man before me was highly unlikely ever to open those lids again. I was already wondering how many people I could quiz about the color of Pope Clement’s eyes without provoking suspicion when the door of the bed chamber opened. A maid entered, wheeling a cart packed with steaming pitchers and fluffy towels.

I prolonged one last sweet cadenza. My serenade must soon give way to the papal bath.

The cart clattered over the terrazzo flooring, then quieted as the maid pressed the handles to raise the front wheels onto the carpet.

“
Dio mio
,” she cried with a yelp. A metal pitcher clanged and bounced, splashing hot water in a crystal arc.

The nun beside me pivoted and raised her skirts to skitter across the room. The group at the foot of the bed turned to assess the damage.

Fortune would never hand me a better opportunity. Using my thumb in the maneuver I’d seen the doctor perform on Benito, I flicked Pope Clement’s eyelids back.

Blue. His eyes swam in a miniature lake of milky rheum, but they were blue. Most definitely blue.

I straightened quickly, hiding a triumphant grin. This was Cardinal Fabiani’s secret: the Villa Fabiani was built on sand.

Chapter Twenty-two

Once back in the carriage with the team of glossy Arabians clip-clopping down the Quirinal Hill, I sought to introduce the subject of fathers.

“How much longer, do you think?” I began.

Cardinal Fabiani pursed his lips, then shrugged. “Who can say? He’s entirely in God’s hands, and we can only wait.”

“It must be very trying—losing someone who has been a great influence in your life.” I maintained a careful, but sympathetic tone. “Especially a father.”

“You would know.” The cardinal raised an eyebrow. “Your father met a particularly violent end. Just about the time your younger sister disappeared in rather mysterious circumstances, wasn’t it?”

“Now where did you hear about that?”

“The retinue of the Papal Nuncio in Venice includes several men whose job consists solely of collecting useful information. I like to know as much about the people who live in my house as possible. Can you blame me?”

“I suppose not.” I shrank inside my cloak and turned up the collar. I doubted that the papal spies had more than scratched the surface of my life, but I didn’t intend to discuss even a jot of my painful personal history with the cardinal. I turned the conversation back to Pope Clement. “At least it appears that the pope will sink into his last sleep without undue pain.”

Fabiani nodded. “It will be a blessing. My father of record, the Marchese Fabiani, was not so fortunate. He was thrown from a horse and lay in the woods in pain for many hours before succumbing.”

“I’m sorry to hear it, Your Eminence. When did this tragic event occur?”

“It must be over ten years now…shortly before I moved to Rome.”

“With the marchesa?”

He smiled thinly. “Some would have had my mother shut herself away in perpetual mourning, but Olimpia Fabiani wasn’t made for disappearing quietly into widow’s weeds. I wish you could have known her in her prime, Tito. This terrible rotting of the brain…”

He pressed himself stiffly upright against the leather cushion, eyes on the changing street scene. His tone was distant. “I look at her and see the familiar face, but in her gaze, the woman whose unwavering hand guided me for so many years is simply not there. Mama used to have such courage, such ambition. When we made the move to Rome, Pope Clement had just risen to the throne. She didn’t waste a moment setting herself up as a fashionable hostess, meeting the right people, reestablishing relations with the pope. Before I knew it, she had burrowed a path into his inner circle for both of us. Mama is responsible for everything I have today, but because of her despicable condition, she’s barely aware of—”

Fabiani quieted abruptly. He stuck his head out the window and called up to the driver, “Stop here.”

My attention had been consumed by the cardinal’s expression, as unguarded in its emotion as I’d ever seen, so it took me a moment to get my bearings. I was facing the front of the carriage. Looking back, I saw that we had just come through the Porta Settimiana on the way back to the villa. Old Benelli’s hut stood on our right. A plain, black carriage waited at its door.

The grooms had jumped down as soon as we rolled to a stop. They bent to unfold the steps, but Fabiani instead ordered them to inquire whose carriage we were looking at.

I strained my ears as the senior groom conferred with the other driver but heard nothing until the man returned to say, “Your Eminence, it is the carriage of Magistrate Sertori.”

I felt the hackles rise on the back of my neck. Fabiani appeared no less affected. His eyebrows registered surprise, then shock.

Before the cardinal recovered sufficiently to speak, Sertori himself ducked through the doorway of the mean hut. He took one look at Fabiani’s startled face framed by the carriage window and bowed his solid, phlegmatic frame. The curtains of iron gray hair fell forward to cover his face, but I would have wagered my remaining gold pieces that he was smirking.

For half a moment, I thought the cardinal meant to call the magistrate over. Instead he commanded the driver to move on. We jolted up the Via della Lungara in silence. My thoughts tumbled furiously. The cardinal was clenching his jaw like a man with a bad toothache.

Once we’d turned down the lane to the villa, Fabiani said, “Someone has been talking out of turn, Tito.”

“Not me, Your Eminence,” I replied quickly.

“Of course not.” He eyed me with a thoughtful gleam. “Calling Benelli to Sertori’s attention would hardly be to your advantage.”

“What should we do?” My tongue was so dry, I could barely form the words. I could almost feel the bite of the constables’ irons on my wrists.

As the carriage halted at the villa’s portico, he replied, “You should do nothing. I’ll take care of this.”

“But—”

He lifted three fingers, but not in blessing. It was a warning gesture.

“Anything you might do would only make things more difficult, Tito. I can squash Sertori like a maggot at any time I choose. Trust me, my friend.”

At that moment, I was hard pressed to think of anyone I trusted less.

***

“You shouldn’t have come. Sertori’s constables could pick you up on the street—he could have you beaten until you tell everything you know about Gemma’s death.” Liya was still shaking over my latest news. She slid her arms under my cloak and hugged me close. My mouth sought hers. The rats making their midnight forage in the passage behind Maddelena’s cookshop were treated to the sight of a long, ardent kiss.

“Perhaps that wouldn’t be a bad idea.” I had disengaged my lips, but kept my hold on her slender waist.

“What?”

“Telling Sertori what I know, I mean—about the night Rossobelli called me to the pavilion to move Gemma’s body.”

“How would that help?”

“Sertori has found Benelli. He must know that I was the one who summoned the old man and his boat. I could explain that both Rossobelli and Cardinal Fabiani had reasons to kill Gemma, where I barely knew the girl.”

She shook her head. “Tito, you’re exhausted from serenading that infernal cardinal and sick with worry over Alessandro and Benito. You’re not thinking straight.”

I was exhausted, but from pondering possibilities, not singing. Rossobelli was never far from my thoughts, but since I’d lifted the pope’s eyelids, the knowledge that Cardinal Fabiani was not the man Rome believed him to be towered above all. Fabiani’s position rested squarely on the widely held belief that he was Pope Clement’s bastard son. Instead, he’d been fathered by the unknown man under the marchesa’s ring. Perhaps I’d got it wrong in springing to the conclusion that Gemma died because of what she’d witnessed at the Palazzo Pompetti. Perhaps Gemma had teased the secret of Fabiani’s true parentage out of the marchesa’s ramblings. What would he have done if she had confronted him, demanding money perhaps? Would the proud cardinal have allowed a serving maid to possess his secret?

I babbled as much to Liya.

She stroked my cheeks. “But Tito, you said his hands weren’t scratched. Of the two men you found in the pavilion with poor Gemma, Rossobelli was the one who had claw marks.”

“It doesn’t signify. Rossobelli could have hurt himself when he fell in the tunnel, and the cardinal must have scores of gloves. I’ve watched him. Besides his cold weather gloves, he wears a fresh pair of white ones to celebrate every Mass.”

She shook her head adamantly. “You mustn’t even think of going to Sertori. These petty officials like quick arrests and quicker hangings. Sertori would probably have a secret laugh, taking a member of the Cardinal Padrone’s household into custody, but he knows better than to spar with the cardinal himself. Besides, the body is safely on the bottom of the river, and Gemma’s spirit has returned to the Great Mother. All these troubles will sort themselves out, you’ll see. We’ll soon be safe and happy, every one of us. Alessandro, too.”

“Liya…” I breathed the scent of her hair, felt the warmth of her body against mine. “How can you possibly believe that?”

“I’ve seen it.”

“In your pot of glowing coals?” I was too tired to muzzle my skepticism.

She wriggled free. A sudden chill came between us.

“Oh, Liya. I didn’t come to argue about your convictions or who killed Gemma or what I should do about it or…anything.” I cupped her chin in my hand, meeting her irritated gaze with the eyes of longing. “Please, let’s just go upstairs.”

Her face softened in the moonlight. She leaned close, to kiss me, I hoped, but a scraping sound followed by a soft thump stopped her.

“A cat, after the rats,” she whispered. “Let’s go inside.”

Biting her lip, Liya pulled me through the door and up the stairs to her attic. Little Tito was fast asleep on his cot. She brushed the tumbled curls from his forehead, tucked his favorite rag animal in his arms, and wrapped the covers tight around him. I held the door as she carried the boy to Maddelena’s room.

I stood very still, watching Liya’s straight back move down the stairs. I hadn’t stirred when she returned, sleeves rolled back from bare forearms, white apron covering the front of her blue gown, delicately molded scallops of pink flesh rising from the bodice. This was the moment I’d anticipated for so long. Unfortunately, the memory of little Tito’s father came crashing in.

Luca Cavalieri had been a charming, handsome, abundantly virile man. No matter how Liya disparaged him now, I knew that he had once fascinated her. Of course, I had not lacked for amorous adventures. As many of my fellow castrati were well aware, a certain type of woman was drawn by our celebrity and passionate stage performances. I had learned to please these moths to the flame, but the spark of lust they engendered was nothing compared to the burning desire that flooded my loins whenever I embraced Liya. Still, after Luca, could the love of a eunuch possibly be enough for her?

Liya met me with a smile, the flat planes of her cheeks plumped
with delight. She took my hand and we entered her room. While I stood nearly paralyzed with doubt, Liya latched the door and moved to a bureau in a shadowy nook. I heard the clink of glass on glass, then a drawer sliding open and shut. She returned bearing two goblets.

Almost in a daze, I sat on the shabby sofa and accepted a glass. “I know what this is.” I swirled the golden liquid. “Liquore Strega—the same that Prince Pompetti served.”

“Not exactly the same. I’m adding a special ingredient.” She placed her clenched fist over my goblet and released a stream of tiny crystals that dissolved on the yellow surface.

“None for you?” I asked, as she wiped her palm on her apron.

She shook her head. “It wouldn’t have any effect on me.”

“What is it?” I took an experimental sip.

“Don’t worry about what it is. Just enjoy. You may find it…energizing.”

I rolled the liqueur over my tongue. Competing flavors melted into one warm, sweet swallow.

“Is this more of your magic?” I found myself relaxing back against the cushions.

“Not magic. It’s the dried juice of a plant, actually a common plant that can be found in most any hedgerow. It’s there for anyone to use, but of course, you must know what you’re looking for and how to extract its essence.”

“You learned many things in Monteborgo.”

She nodded. “One of the elders was an expert herbalist. She taught me what leaves and roots to gather to make everything from fragrant hair wash to medicinal brews.”

I stroked the loose curls that fell from a center part to cover Liya’s shoulders. “Is that why your hair always smells so lovely?
”

She nodded, moving closer. “Black malva to make it shine. Bergamot and lavender for the scent.”

As she twisted and curved her back against me, I buried my nose in her raven locks and asked, “Is there no magic, then? Only knowledge that has been forgotten except by a very few?”

She remained silent a moment. We sipped at our glasses until she finally replied, “True magic is rare, but it exists. That’s why I’m here…Have you never wondered why I came to Rome? Doesn’t it seem like a miraculous coincidence that we met in a city where we have no family or other ties?”

The thought had occurred to me. I just hadn’t had the leisure to contemplate it. “Go on,” I replied.

“When I traveled to Venice several years ago and found you gone, I took it as a sign that we were not meant to be together. I returned to Monteborgo and tried to forget all about you. But I couldn’t. No matter how busy I kept, you were always there. In my waking thoughts and even in my dreams. I decided I must find you, but I didn’t know how to go about it. I needed advice. So at the Festa Dell’Ombra, when the veil between the living and the spirit world grows thin, I climbed to a sacred chestnut grove farther up the mountains. There a priestess of Diana lives in solitude and serves as an oracle of the goddess.”

“She told you to come to Rome?”

“It’s hardly that simple. The ritual of petition is long and arduous, but finally, the priestess agreed to guide my steps.”

Liya snuggled against my chest, tilted her head, and whispered her words directly into my ear. “She told me that my future happiness depended on meeting my true love in Rome when the next Holy Strega would seek to turn the new religion inside out. I had no idea what that meant, but now I begin to see.”

“Cardinal Di Noce.”

She nodded.

“Is that all your sibyl told you?”

“She encouraged me to leave for Rome immediately, but to be patient, as the coming events were of great pith and significance. They would play themselves out according to their own fashion, she said, and were difficult to foresee with respect to time. I followed her advice and have been waiting over a year.”

“Did she mention me by name?”

“No.”

“What if I’m not the true love she predicted?” I asked the question with a chuckle. Nevertheless, I held my breath in anticipation of her answer.

“Don’t tease, Tito. It’s always been you—even back in Venice. I was just in too much turmoil to see it.”

I kissed her shoulder, then thought of all the wickedness an unescorted woman with a child would find along the road: greedy officials, churlish innkeepers, bands of robbers, and worse. City life would hardly be easier. “How have you managed alone all this time?”