3 - Cruel Music (24 page)

The senator ushered me to a study a few yards away. The room contained a large globe in a bronze stand, a square table, and several comfortable chairs. The senator didn’t sit, so neither did I. He paused and traced his finger over the globe’s brown continents and blue seas. Was he following one of his company’s spice routes? Or contemplating how many of the world’s Catholics would come under Stefano’s domain if he managed to get the reluctant cardinal elected?

After a long moment, the senator raised his gaze to glower at me. His fingers dove into his embroidered waistcoat and produced a small object which he displayed at arm’s length. “Do you see what this is?”

I stepped closer. He held a steel key with a heavy shank and simple looped head. “It seems to be a key, Excellency.”

“Not just any key—it opens the lock of your brother’s cell. What information do you have to trade for it?”

I sighed. “I have information, but I’m afraid you won’t find it pleasing.”

“Proceed.”

“I’ve observed Cardinal Fabiani closely, hovering near as he talked with influential guests and sifting every scrap of conversation or unguarded musing for—”

“Yes, yes. I know how you gain your information. What have you found out?”

I attempted to keep my voice steady, but a note of wild desperation crept into my answer. “I’m sorry, but…Cardinal Fabiani intends to throw his votes to Di Noce. I find it highly unlikely that he will change his mind in the next few days.”

Montorio studied me, calmly nodding. “That tallies with what others have reported. For some reason, our old friend Lorenzo Fabiani doesn’t trust us to keep our bargain.”

“At least your spies agree,” I said, wondering if I had unknowingly stumbled over any of them and if they had managed to penetrate Pompetti’s Academy of Italia.

Continuing to nod absently, the senator turned his attention back to the globe. He gave it a spin and let it whirl beneath his brushing forefinger. His thumb and other fingers enclosed the key to Alessandro’s cell in a tight grasp.

I searched the senator’s downcast profile. What else could the man want from me? I’d done as he commanded, and every cardinal that was able to make the journey to Rome would soon go into conclave. Yet I sensed that Antonio Montorio wasn’t finished with me.

I decided to test that notion. “When will Alessandro be released?” I asked.

He looked up with a sardonic smile. “When Stefano Montorio sits on St. Peter’s throne.”

I felt as if a mule had just kicked me in the stomach. “What do you mean? I’ve fulfilled my part of this forced bargain. It’s not my fault that Fabiani has decided to back Di Noce. Just having that information should be of value to you.”

“We’re striking a new bargain.” He sent me an exaggerated wink and pocketed the key. “Your brother’s cell will open only when my brother gains the papacy. If the Sacred College elects anyone else, Alessandro’s case will go to trial. I don’t need to remind you of the penalty meted out to salt smugglers.”

I looked away, barely able to keep myself from flying at his throat. “That’s ridiculous. You expect a musician to bend a cardinal to his will?”

“You have Fabiani’s ear. He squires you around the city. You are admitted to his bed chamber at all hours. You share his intimate moments.”

I gazed back at him in furious amazement. “If you’re suggesting what I think you are, your informants have made a big mistake about Lorenzo Fabiani. And about me.”

“I’m not suggesting that you are Fabiani’s bedmate, merely that you have more access to him than anyone else in my pay. As you said yourself, there is little time left. The battle is nearing its climax, and I must use every weapon at my disposal.”

I remembered the Spaniards I’d seen on the stairs. “Surely I’m a dull blade compared to the others in your arsenal.”

“Your brother’s peril will serve as a whetstone. With the proper motivation, you may yet find a way…” He shrugged. “And if you don’t, Alessandro will die as a martyr to the cause of rebuilding the Republic of Venice.”

My jaw clenched. My arms began to tremble. My bowels had turned to water, and I fleetingly wondered if I would lose control of them entirely. “This is unjust.” My words came out in a hoarse growl.

Montorio’s features arranged themselves into a mask of hypocritical concern. His voice was as sweet and smooth as honey. “My poor Tito. Surely you, of all men, have learned that we cannot expect justice until our souls reach Paradise.”

Chapter Twenty-four

I charged out of the Palazzo Venezia like a madman, legs pumping and heart pounding. Once I’d left the protection of the compound, a number of street processions slowed me to a more dignified pace. As part of the nine days’ mourning for Pope Clement, priests were conducting bands of pilgrims robed as
penitenti
from church to church.

I fell in behind one such band that was waving the banners of Liguria and singing hymns with a painful want of harmony. We had progressed only a few blocks when we halted at a cross street. Edging forward impatiently, I saw the leader arguing with a priest at the head of a Piedmontese procession that bore an effigy of Pope Clement wreathed in flowers and streaming with tinsel and ribbon. Muttered oaths rippled through the crowd. Black-robed pilgrims pressed forward from both sides.

The man next to me said to no one in particular, “By the blood of San Giorgio, we can’t let a gang from the Piedmont back us down.” His fellows nodded vehemently.

Recognizing the overture to a brawl, I darted back the way we’d come, only to find the next through street blocked by a delegation of Austrian cardinals. As if their endless cortege of carriages and brightly uniformed cavalrymen did not provide sufficient display for us peasants of the pavement, a mounted official with a money sack girt across his chest flung a handful of
quattrini
every few paces. I pressed myself into a doorway as a multitude of hands grabbed for the coins. In that moment of forced inactivity, I realized that I didn’t even know where I was rushing to. Antonio Montorio’s threat had riled my blood and spurred me to flight, but pounding my heels wouldn’t help Alessandro. I must keep my head.

There was a small café across the side street. Slipping through the fringe of the crowd, I went inside, ordered chocolate, and attempted to shut out the hubbub.

The senator had complicated my situation considerably. Several days ago, after Liya and I had wakened to the clamor of the bells, I had hurried back to the Villa Fabiani to search for the portrait of the marchesa’s brown-eyed lover. Seeing Magistrate Sertori coming out of old Benelli’s hut had shaken me deeply; even without Lenci’s information, I knew that the magistrate must suspect me. The painting inscribed with Fabiani’s true genealogy could deflect that suspicion from me to Cardinal Fabiani. But first I had to find it.

The news of the pope’s death had turned the villa’s routine topsy-turvy. No one missed me at Mass because there was none. Cardinal Fabiani had sped to the Quirinal the minute the tolling penetrated the villa’s walls. Rossobelli must have gone with him. Clerks with bulging portfolios trotted through the corridors and in and out of the cardinal’s study, but the self-effacing secretary was not among them. The old marchesa was the only inhabitant of the villa who sought my company. Unfortunately, her mind had retreated to her childhood and all she could talk about were her playmates and her pets and her dolls.

The villa’s confusion, combined with Benito’s unfortunate absence, gave me an excuse to visit the kitchens in search of a meal. Signor Tucci had suggested the larder as one of the marchesa’s favorite hiding places, but when I entered the low-ceiled warren of rooms where the villa’s meals were prepared, I saw the futility of a daytime search.

In three separate kitchens, great fires blazed to bake the day’s bread or roast the day’s meat. A bit of ferreting around told me each of these areas stored supplies in its own larder. The head cook gave me leave to take a freshly baked leek and mushroom tart from one. I lingered in the fragrant storeroom as long as I dared, lifting bin lids and snaking my arm into onion and potato baskets, but the frequent appearance of maids and kitchen boys made a thorough search impossible.

The café waiter plunked a heavy china mug and plate of rolls onto my table. Startled back to the present, I glanced out the window. The Piedmontese pilgrims seemed to be winning the day. Using their outsized bust of Pope Clement as a shield, they pressed the Ligurians back in an untidy rout. I took a sip of chocolate. It was perfect: thick, bittersweet, and almost hot enough to burn the back of my throat but not quite. I drifted deep into thought.

I had planned to search the kitchens during the deserted night hours, but my efforts were hampered by a series of summons from Cardinal Fabiani. A host of details claimed his every waking minute. He was supervising the construction of Clement’s magnificent catafalque, organizing the funeral procession, and deciding how the cardinals would be bedded and fed during their sacred retreat. All this as he was besieged by people seeking favors while he was still in a position to grant them.

The strain told—on both of us. Each night, the bell above my bed jangled as I awaited the hour when I thought the kitchen staff must place the last clean dish in the cupboard, cover the fires, and go off duty. Plodding down the corridor as if my ankles were shackled by a ball and chain, I found the cardinal squirming on his huge bed, scowling from headache and unable to toss off the cares of the day. The first night had required two hours of singing to soothe him to sleep. Last night, closer to three. My frustratingly brief forays to the night kitchens had left me empty-handed.

Now that Antonio Montorio had delivered his brutal ultimatum, I saw that I must redouble my efforts. My search for the painting had started as a way to save myself from arrest, but with a bit of daring, it could turn out to be the miracle that would save Alessandro from the gallows. I pushed my empty cup away and raised my face to the ceiling of the noisy café. From somewhere in God’s heaven, I imagined Mama smiling down on me.

***

Gussie was expecting me to call, and I sorely needed his frank observations. But Benito needed me more. Despite all the gold I’d deposited with Father Giancarlo, I was worried about my manservant’s care. The congestion in the streets had invariably led to many accidents, and the victims had stretched the hospital’s capacity to the limit. Yesterday, the beds on the men’s ward had been squeezed so close that the nuns were forced to turn sideways to move down the aisles. Sister Regina had appeared harried and harassed and barely raised her hand in greeting before being called away.

Today, I found yet more beds spilling into the corridor. Within the crowded ward, my manservant was restless and feverish, as mute as ever. I wrinkled my nose at the smell of human waste hovering around him. Where was Sister Regina? I saw no nuns tending the patients, though many of the poor unfortunates moaned or called out as I passed.

I went out to the corridor. “What’s going on?” I asked a fellow in an invalid chair with a bandaged foot propped up on a thick pillow.

He nodded his chin southward. “My fool pack horse stepped on it.”

“I mean, where are the nuns?”

“Oh. They’re upstairs. Dropped everything when they heard Cardinal Di Noce was in the building. You know, the one they say will be our next pope?” He compressed his lips. “I just hope they don’t forget my dinner—it’s over an hour late. I don’t suppose you…” I was already heading toward the stairs.

In the corridor above, Cardinal Di Noce was just coming out of the children’s ward, flanked by two priests who were shielding him from a mob of women. There were women in silk gowns with cameo-chiseled features; crudely rouged women in bodices of tattered satin; pious matrons wrapped in black shawls; and women barely out of girlhood with long plaits hanging to their waists. They were all striving to gain the attention of the cardinal, who looked so fatigued that he could barely take a step.

Sister Regina appeared at my elbow, a little out of breath. As far I was concerned, the desperate women might as well have been a cloud of gnats. It was Benito that mattered. I grasped the nun’s shoulders. If she had been a man I would have shaken her. “What are you doing up here? Why have you left Benito in such a state?”

The young nun barely registered a grimace at my brusque behavior. “I was needed. Whenever Cardinal Di Noce comes, it’s always the same. Wonderful, but difficult.”

I shook my head, puzzled.

“His Eminence has been gifted with the healing touch of Our Lord. He tours the ward placing his hand on first one child and then another. He can ease pain and strengthen breath and bring roses back to pale cheeks.”

I understood then. The women clamoring after Di Noce were mothers. Dozens of mothers from every social class, all sharing a single plea: Help my child!

Releasing my grip, I asked, “He doesn’t go to all the children?”

“Even such a holy man as Cardinal Di Noce has limits.” She nodded gravely. “Somehow he senses which ones will respond. I’ve seen him try with others until sweat pours from his head and he is near collapse, but…nothing.”

Di Noce appeared near collapse now. As Father Giancarlo and several nuns herded the mothers back into the ward, the pale cardinal leaned on the nearest priest. They moved slowly, as if mud sucked at their feet.

I stepped aside to let them pass. I did not intend to speak, but Di Noce paused. His sagging face revived as he noticed me standing with Sister Regina.

“Ah, Tito,” he murmured. “Sister tells me that we have you to thank for the new blankets and fresh dressings. You are a selfless man indeed—to think of the children when your own position is fraught with so many demands.”

I raised my eyebrows. That was one way of putting it.

“You must feel the distress of the little ones as keenly as I do,” he continued.

“I am fond of children, Your Eminence, but don’t give me too much credit. If someone I know wasn’t a patient here, I probably wouldn’t have thought of making donations.”

Di Noce gazed at me intently. He wore his humble black cassock, but I couldn’t forget his appearance in the fire-kissed robes of the priest of Lupercus. What a strange confluence of events! The entire hospital acknowledged this astonishing man as a sacred hero, as close to sainthood as he was to St. Peter’s throne. I was the only one in attendance who knew him for the pagan he was. I bowed stiffly, expecting Di Noce’s party to continue down the corridor, but the cardinal stepped away from his companions.

“It is not just someone you know, but someone very dear to you who has been hurt.” Though he stopped inches from me, Di Noce’s voice was distant and he focused his gaze over my left shoulder. He was still pale, but a peculiar radiance had taken possession of his features.

“That’s right,” I answered, unable to look away from his shining countenance. My scalp prickled in sudden anticipation. The rustle of Sister Regina’s habit told me she was attending closely.

Di Noce placed the tips of his stubby fingers on my chest and closed his eyes. His whisper was a warm breath passing over my face. “Yes, Benito’s spirit hovers near. He has been with you every minute since the cart struck his head.”

“With me? I don’t understand.”

“What is not to understand? His body rests while his spirit guides and protects you.”

“He’s here now?”

Di Noce nodded emphatically, eyes still closed. “He is here, though he will soon be ready to return to his earthly vessel.”

Sister Regina inhaled sharply and made the sign of the cross over her apron.

“Then for heaven’s sake, ask him who ran him down.”

Di Noce cocked his head like a dog who hears a whistle in the distance. Then he whispered, “The name alone is of no use.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

Silence.

I batted the cardinal’s fingertips away. “You don’t know. This is a sham—total foolishness.”

His eyes flew open and his face went slack. Once again, Cardinal Di Noce looked like nothing more than a kind, but very tired, man of middle years. Shooting annoyed glances at me, the priests stepped to his side and encircled him in supporting arms.

Before they led him away, Di Noce smiled and said, “Go to Benito, my son. Then talk to me of foolishness.”

Simmering with anger, I followed Sister Regina downstairs. The nun immediately clucked her tongue at the filth in Benito’s bed and sent me off so she could make him clean.

I spent a quarter hour wandering the hospital corridors and a similar measure of time trying to distract myself with a discarded news-sheet from several days earlier. When I returned, Sister Regina met me with an encouraging smile. “He does seem a bit better,” she said.

I pressed my palm to Benito’s forehead. His skin was cool and dry. No fever. Behind closed lids, his eyes seemed to roll and twitch. I couldn’t explain what I was seeing, but somehow, Benito just seemed to be more
there
. Suddenly, he gave a jerk and a whimper.

“Sister?” I called. “Is he all right?”

She heaved her basket of dirty linen onto one hip and placed her fingers on his wrist. Nodding judiciously, she said, “Benito seems to be coming awake.” She admonished me with a glance. “As usual, Cardinal Di Noce knew what he was talking about.”

I ignored her look. “Should we get the doctor?” I asked.

“No need. This is a good sign. Besides, all the doctors are in the operating suite.” As she slipped through the screens, she added, “Just don’t expect too much. After such a serious bump on the head, returning to normal takes time.”

Benito whimpered again and fluttered his eyelids. A shudder ran over his small frame.

I sank down on the edge of the bed. Bending at the waist, I pressed my chest and cheek to his. The fragrance of Sister Regina’s soap filled my nostrils. If she were stillthere, she would have chided me, but I couldn’t help myself. I squeezed Benito tightly and begged him to speak.

The little manservant’s chest heaved in a ragged breath. A rattle came from his throat. I turned my head to put my ear to his mouth.

The name sounded softly, brokenly, repeated several times: “Guido.”

I straightened. Sighing, I tucked an errant strand of hair back under his bandage. Di Noce might possess mystifying abilities, but his claim that Benito’s spirit had been following me around like a transient guardian angel struck me as ridiculous. True or not, it meant little for the future. It was clear where my manservant’s heart lay.