3 - Cruel Music (6 page)

Montorio turned to his nephew. “You always have your nose into everything. What did you see?”

“As you may recall, we were in a bit of a hurry to put Ancona behind us,” Lenci replied dryly. “But I did notice a pair of dredgers at work on the mouth of the harbor, and the walls of the dike were being widened and reinforced.”

“Have they started on the lighthouse, yet?”

“Barely.”

“How long will it take to complete the project?”

The abate shrugged. “There’s a lot of work remaining, at least a quarter mile of dike that hasn’t been touched. The better part of a year, I should think.”

His uncle nodded sagely. Finally lowering his tone to a conspiratorial whisper, he replied, “Well and good. Antonio can bide his time, then.”

***

Leaning back against the cold masonry, I forced my thoughts back to the present. I wished I could say that my labors over the long evening had borne fruit, but I would only be lying to myself. When Cardinal Fabiani’s departure from the dining hall had signaled the assembly to disperse, my head was bursting with new faces and new information, little of which seemed likely to advance my progress.

The door to the balcony rattled and Benito came out, looking for all the world like Matteo’s nurse when the boy had overstayed his bedtime.

“It’s late, Master.”

“I know.”

“The breeze is picking up.”

“So it is.”

“I’ve warmed your bed.”

“Thank you. I won’t need anything else. Retire if you like.”

Instead of retreating, Benito closed the door and moved to lean over the balcony railing. He craned his neck up and down, right and left.

“Checking for eavesdroppers? I think even Rossobelli must be in his bed by now.”

“It never hurts to be sure.”

I smiled in the darkness. In his varied adventures, my manservant had learned to be wary. I should take a leaf from his book.

The lowering moon shone on Benito’s smooth forehead. “Come to bed, Master. You’ve done everything you can do for tonight.”

“I’ve accomplished nothing.”

“Cardinal Fabiani enjoyed your singing. That gives you a start.”

“How do you know that Fabiani was pleased?”

“I spent most of the evening in the servants’ hall.”

I cocked my head in a silent question.

“They just knew,” he answered. “It’s hard to hide anything from people who dress you, drive you, feed you, and clean up all your messes.”

I nodded. I’d experienced the relationship of master and servant from both sides. Though my calling provided me with an income sufficient to hire Benito’s services and contribute to the running of our house on the Campo dei Polli, many of the wealthy who engaged me to sing treated me more like a servant paid to amuse than the artist I was.

Benito raised a gracefully plucked eyebrow. “If I tell you I’ve already found out an interesting thing or two, will you go to bed?”

“It depends. How interesting are these things?”

“You be the judge. The first is that Cardinal Fabiani had a favorite singer who occupied these very rooms. A castrato named Gaetano Tucci, by all accounts a pleasant fellow. Even the cook had a good word for him, and she’s a harridan who spouts nothing but complaints. Fabiani dismissed Tucci when he learned that you were coming.”

“I see.” That explained the coolness of the other concert musicians. To them, I was an unwanted interloper. “And the other interesting thing?”

“Prince Pompetti is a frequent visitor at the villa.”

“Senator Montorio is already aware of that.”

“Is he also aware that the prince changes coachmen and footmen as often as a woman changes her hat?”

“Why?”

“That I don’t know.”

“How did you hear of this?”

Benito sent me a pert smile. “I didn’t waste my time downstairs. I’ve been making friends.”

“Would your friend be the broad-backed footman who brought up my trunks and lingered to help you unpack?”

He nodded. “That’s Guido.”

“Ah, Guido is it?” I rubbed my eyes and stretched my neck. Fatigue was finally taking hold. “Be careful, Benito. Rome isn’t Venice. People don’t come here for pleasure—they come on pilgrimages to display their Christian virtues. The power rests in the hands of the churchmen.”

Benito snorted. “Guido’s already told me all about how it works.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” Benito smoothed his hair, preening like a proud canary. “Guido says that in Rome everybody gives orders, but nobody obeys them, so it all works out well enough.”

At least some things never changed. I would sooner expect the stars to fall from the sky as Benito to start behaving against his nature. We had never landed in a new place without my manservant entering into some fleeting liaison. I rubbed my eyes again, then lurched forward, my attention caught by a sudden trick of moonlight.

A gauzy phantom seemed to float through the garden, a pale luminescence against dark shadows. It circled a reflecting pool, danced on the breeze, and finally paused to hover at the top of an evergreen cypress. Benito and I peered wonderingly, and we both jumped when a spectral arm shot out. It pointed straight to the pavilion by the garden wall and was answered by a quavering glow that winked out almost immediately. The light could have been a candle from the main villa reflecting off a window in the pavilion, but that phantom was more substantial than mere moonshine. Did a ghost haunt the Villa Fabiani?

The breeze suddenly calmed, and a laugh burbled from my manservant’s lips. “It’s nothing. How silly. We’re shivering over a scarf blowing in the wind. Look, it’s caught in the top of the tree.
”

“And here comes its owner,” I replied. The old marchesa flitted around a shoulder-high hedge with Gemma panting in hot pursuit.

“The crazy lady. Guido told me about her, too.”

I nodded slowly, giving vent to a mammoth yawn.

Deciding that the hour was fit only for lunatics, Benito and I sought the comfort of our respective beds. As my head sank into the goose-feather pillow, I contemplated the bell mounted above. Would the cardinal have trouble sleeping tonight? Would I have to face his cool stare at close quarters? My body was too tired to let my mind worry over it. The bell remained silent and I slept the sleep of the dead.

Chapter Six

The new day began with an ancient gargoyle of a footman named Roberto banging on my door. He had come to summon me for Mass. In my travels, I’d become quite negligent in my devotions, much preferring a cup of chocolate in bed to a tiresome session on my knees. I’d also convinced myself that God heard my prayers no matter where I said them. But when Roberto insisted with an air as proud as his master’s, I reluctantly pushed my warm covers aside and applied my feet to the cold floor.

The villa’s chapel lay at right angles to the tapestried entry hall. I hovered at the entrance while the servants arranged themselves according to some preordained pecking order. The housekeeper led the above-stairs servants into the middle range of pews: valets first, then maids and footmen. The kitchen crew followed, led by the cook in her towering white kerchief. Next came the coachmen and grooms, these last attended by more than a hint of stable odor. Most of the staff took little notice of me, but my appearance seemed to amuse a pair of young scullery maids. They took one look at my smooth throat and beardless cheeks and giggled behind their prayer books until the cook rapped her knuckles on their heads.

Wondering where I fit in, feeling uncomfortably neither fish nor fowl, I looked around for the musicians who had accompanied me the night before. Down front, among the priests, the old marchesa was dozing next to the altar rail, attended by a middle-aged woman with graying hair scraped back under a white cap. Did the cardinal allow Gemma a day off now and again? If the marchesa’s late night wanderings were anything to judge by, the girl certainly deserved one. Unable to locate my fellow musicians, I decided they must live out, in their own homes. When a courier in leather breeches and riding boots pushed me aside, I trotted past the servants and squeezed into a pew filled with clerks, much relieved that no one admonished me for taking a place above my station.

At the altar, Cardinal Fabiani commenced his rituals under an image of the Christ writhing in anguish on a huge crucifix. By contrast, the cardinal appeared well-rested and untroubled by the insomnia that Rossobelli had warned me of. Mass unfolded in businesslike fashion. The Latin phrases flew off the cardinal’s tongue, and fewer clerics than I expected approached the rail for communion.

After Cardinal Fabiani had wiped the golden chalice, polished it to high shine, and folded each piece of linen so that no drop of the Blood or crumb of the Host would fall unnoticed, he raised his right hand. He bestowed the final blessing with three fingers springing from a glove so white that it fairly shone and then marched straight from the chapel to the audience chamber across the hall.

For two hours every morning, I learned, the cardinal’s door was open to all petitioners. I paused to observe the mismatched group waiting in the anteroom. Churchmen in black or purple silk tried to avoid rubbing shoulders with barefoot monks. Rough peasants who looked as if they had just arrived from the country gazed open-mouthed at the clouds and cherubs on the frescoed ceiling. A lady of quality, accompanied by her maid, took care not to notice a very pregnant girl quailing under her father’s stern gaze. If the cardinal was going to sort out this lot, he must possess the wisdom and diplomacy of a Solomon.

Just as my rumbling stomach propelled me in search of my morning chocolate and rolls, Rossobelli appeared from some obscure corner, all hand-wringing and humility. “Are we making
you welcome, then? In our small way?” Without waiting for a response, he continued, “If you require anything you must let me know at once. Perhaps you would like an instrument for practice…I could arrange for a harpsichord to be moved into your suite.”

I agreed readily, then added, “I’m surprised one hasn’t been installed already. Since I’m not the first singer to occupy the rooms.”

“Ah, someone told you about Signor Tucci.”

“Yes, someone,” I replied, refusing to gratify his very evident curiosity. “I hate to think that I was the cause of a fellow musician’s dismissal.”

“You mustn’t worry on Tucci’s account.”

“Why? Has he found other employment so soon?”

Rossobelli put two fingers to his temple and shook his head with a tolerant smile. “Signor Tucci didn’t confide his plans to me. For a performer, he is a most retiring man, gentlemanly, almost meek. Nobody’s enemy but his own, you might say.”

I questioned the abate with a look, but he dispensed with the topic of my predecessor by assuring me that Tucci had been given a suitable pension. Rossobelli then urged me to explore Rome. He lavished praise on ruins, churches, fountains, and gardens, and even offered to put a carriage at my disposal.

“You’re free for the day,” he said. “After his daily visit with His Holiness, Cardinal Fabiani will dine at the Quirinal and conduct business from his office there. He won’t want you until this evening.”

That clinched it. Not the recital of Rome’s treasures, but the promise of freedom. I’d passed only one night under Cardinal Fabiani’s roof, but already the prospect of a day on my own was too tempting to refuse.

***

A short hour later, I found myself strolling the paths of the Janiculum under a brilliant blue sky partitioned by thin, streaky clouds. The chill morning air provided a few shivers, but the milky sun hinted at a warmer day to come. Benito was my only companion. I’d refused Rossobelli’s offer of a carriage and footman to act as guide. Besides wanting to forget about the Villa Fabiani for the next few hours, I needed to walk. Men of my kind had an unfortunate tendency to acquire extra flesh. Sometimes it seemed that simply looking at a plate of rich food made my waistline expand. This could work to the advantage of some castrati, particularly those who portrayed women on the stage, as here in Rome, where women were barred from theatrical performance by papal decree. A plump chest and generous hips went a long way in creating the proper illusion. But I’d never been drawn to female roles, and I had no intention of spending my old age as one of those fat eunuchs who lumber about looking like a cow swollen with calf.

A brisk, ten-minute walk took Benito and me through a massive gateway in the ancient wall that had once defended Rome against northern barbarians and into the twisting streets of a working class district populated from all points of the compass. In the space of a few blocks, I saw Syrians, Turks, even several black-skinned Ethiopians—all mixing easily with the short, sturdy Romans. The houses grew farther apart as the road broadened and dipped toward the foot of the hill. Before us, a bridge supported by four arched vaults crossed the muddy waters of the Tiber.

I paused for a moment to study the starburst of roads that sprang from the opposite end of the bridge. The main road continued straight on toward the east. The others angled off and disappeared amidst buildings that dwarfed the ones we’d just passed. With a sinking feeling, I realized I had no idea where we were going.

A stone bench at the base of a drooping evergreen offered a convenient resting place. I sent Benito back to the shops in search of a guidebook, then propped my chin on my walking stick to watch the steady stream of traffic cross the bridge. It quickly struck me that Rome was a city of horses. In Venice, men were carried by sleek boats and goods by hand carts or barges. Here, the horses did the work. Low-slung ponies, draft horses with wide backs and muscular hindquarters, and spirited teams of matched Arabians that carried themselves as proudly as the men riding in the carriages they pulled: horses were everywhere. So were their droppings. The unpaved street was thick with dust topped by a repellent layer of flattened dung. My Venice was no model of hygiene, but at least her watery roadways were cleansed by daily tides. It looked as if the Romans depended on the rain to be their broom. By the time Benito returned, I had worked up a sorrowful case of longing for my city of water and stone.

“The Trastevere,” Benito said, stabbing a finger at the crude map in a book meant for pilgrims to the Holy City. “That’s the quarter we just came through. And that bridge is the Ponte Sisto.”

I roused myself to nod.

“Where do you want to go?” my manservant asked. “If you want to visit St. Peter’s, we’ve come the wrong direction. The Vatican sits on a hill to the north.”

“We’ll save St. Peter’s for another time. I’ve already done enough praying for today. Gussie told me to be sure to take in the Pantheon. Here, let me see if I can find it.”

As I flipped between the map and listings of popular attractions, Benito asked, “What’s the Pantheon? Some kind of monument?”

“A temple, it says here. Dedicated to the entire array of ancient gods and goddesses. It was saved from destruction when Pope Boniface consecrated it as a church of Santa Maria.”

“What? Christians worshiping in a pagan temple?”

I shrugged at his surprise. “I think that happens quite often, especially in a place like Rome, a city that’s been inhabited for thousands of years. Old buildings put to new uses—ah, here it is. Across the Tiber, but not too far.” My finger traced the route on the map. “Gussie raves about the Pantheon. He did a lot of sketching there when he was making his Grand Tour. He calls it an architectural miracle—a dome with a coffered ceiling that’s almost as big as St. Peter’s, but predates it by centuries.”

Benito nodded, jumped up, and pointed eastward. “Then across the bridge we go. Mind your boots. This road is filthy.”

As we picked our way through the muck, Benito rose on tiptoes to whisper near my ear. “Do you think we should invite our friend to join us?”

I immediately knew who he meant. Back in the Trastevere, I’d spotted a tallish man in a gray cloak and the sort of circular, wide-brimmed hat that many Romans prefer to the more fashionable tricorne. His height was the only remarkable thing about him. That is, of what I could see. He was careful to keep his chin lowered so that his hat brim shadowed his face. Until I’d rested by the bridge, I thought he was simply someone going our way. He raised my suspicion when he followed Benito back to get the map. Now he was trailing at a distance, abruptly halting to gaze over the bridge railing every time I glanced back.

Of course, my presence at the Villa Fabiani had raised suspicions. When I declined Rossobelli’s offer of a carriage, the abate could have made speedy rearrangements to dispatch someone to follow me. Or was I being trailed by one of my own countrymen? Perhaps a Montorio bravo to ensure that I didn’t grow too independent. I let Benito take the map and lead the way. I had much to ponder, and in my current frame of mind, I could have waded straight through one of Rome’s numerous fountains without realizing that my feet were wet.

***

The Pantheon was just as magnificent as my brother-in-law had promised. Later in my stay, I would search for the old Roman Forum and find it teeming with cattle waiting for the market, its skeletal fragments and broken arches half-buried in rubbish and weeds. Most of the other classical ruins had suffered similar treatment. Over the years, the great baths and amphitheaters and triumphal arches had been pillaged of their marble facings and smoothly cut building stones. Everything that could be torn out had been incorporated into new buildings or sent to the lime kilns. Latter-day Romans were only just beginning to appreciate the wantonness of the destruction.

The Pantheon had been spared by grace of its diversion to a Christian purpose, but to me, it still felt more like a pagan temple, somehow sacred and unnerving at the same time. I sucked in a breath as we mounted its steps, moving from the filthy, bustling square to the cool shadows of its covered portico.

Benito shivered. “It’s like a forest,” he whispered. “A forest of stone.”

I raised my eyes. Massive columns of red and gray granite soared above us, expanding to meet the roof in capitals of sculpted leaves and foliage. The noise of the city receded as latticed grills directed us through the open doors and into an immense, domed rotunda. Somewhere along the curved expanse of the encircling walls was the tomb of the artist Raphael. The guidebook said it was not to be missed, but I had eyes for only one thing: the oculus.

At the zenith of the coffered dome, the builder had created a circular window to the sky. A shaft of sunlight streamed through the opening like a beam of divine substance. It burnished the floating dust motes into tiny diamonds and made everyone who stepped into its brilliance shimmer like beings fashioned of light. If any deity was worshiped in this space, Apollo seemed the obvious choice.

Coming back out into the square was like leaving an enchanted land for the most prosaic scene imaginable. It was Friday—market day—and an array of stalls and barrows fanned out from the central fountain. The residents of this quarter must have been working since cockcrow. The results of their labors assaulted our senses: bread fresh from wood-fired ovens, papery garlic bulbs woven into braids, fish with scales of shimmering green and blue, and bright red blood dripping from severed joints piled on butchers’ carts. The splendor of the Pantheon had made me forget about our mysterious friend in the wide-brimmed hat, but I caught sight of him again as Benito and I wandered among the merchandise.

Jostling shoulders with housewives intent on filling baskets with ingredients for the family dinner, I resisted the temptation of the roast chestnut seller and started down an aisle displaying household goods. A trio of wide-hipped women haggling with the proprietor of a junk stall soon blocked my path. Over their heads, I saw customers inspecting pots hanging from a tinker’s cart, and farther on, towering stacks of folded fabrics in every hue and texture. I twisted around to tell Benito to go back, but my nimble manservant was already ducking under my elbow. Without missing a step, he pinched the nearest padded bottom and darted through the resulting cleft. I sucked in my stomach and wriggled after him.

“What is it, Benito?” I cried as I crashed into his back. “Move along.” The ladies were squealing, and one lifted her basket as if she might use it as a weapon. Yet my manservant stood stock still. He clutched my cloak. “Master, do you see?”