3 - Cruel Music (7 page)

I saw. She was examining fabrics halfway down the aisle, pointing out a bolt of silk the color of the lagoon on a summer day. As the merchant unfurled the blue green cloth, the sun that filtered through holes in his canvas awning turned the silk to rippling water. She laughed in delight. Despite the raucous cries swirling around me, every note of that silvery laugh hit my ears like a blow from a sledgehammer.

“Liya Del’Vecchio,” I whispered. “How on earth?”

Benito’s anxious gaze searched my face. “Are you going to speak to her?”

I took a deep breath. Liya gathered the silk to her chest and trailed a length over one arm. The olive skin of her smooth cheeks and forehead seemed to glow in the dappled sunlight. I remembered her heavy dark hair done in coiled plaits secured with gold pins. Her tresses still shone like a raven’s wing, but now they were shorter, loose on her shoulders, confined only by a cap tied under her chin. A white cap, not the yellow kerchief I’d seen other Jews wearing as we’d come through the city. She laughed again, but shook her head. The tradesman spread his arms, entreating. She smiled sadly, as if the price of the cloth was much too dear, then handed it back in a bright bundle. She turned to go up the aisle, away from where we stood. Still I hesitated.

“Master?” Benito’s voice was tight. He bounced from foot to foot. “Shall I follow her?”

“No. It has to be me. Only…” I glanced back over my shoulder. The three ladies had turned back to their shopping and were bending to cram their prizes in deep baskets already laden with meat and produce. Other women pushed and shoved to get by. I could just see the round brim of our follower’s hat, dipping up and down several stalls back.

I sighed in frustration. Liya Del’Vecchio was part of my past. She was my business and mine alone. I didn’t know whether my shadow took orders from Rossobelli, Montorio, or someone else, but he was clearly up to no good. I had no intention of putting Liya under his notice.

A barrel at my right hand held a display of mops and brooms. Moving quickly, I tossed its owner a coin and grabbed a long-handled mop. Benito gazed open-mouthed, wondering if I’d lost my wits. He soon understood. That morning, for our sightseeing tour, he’d brought out a tricorne edged with gold
point d’Espagne
and a fringe of ostrich feathers. As it wasn’t my favorite hat, I’d demurred and we’d had a good-natured skirmish. Now I was glad I’d deferred to my manservant’s fashion dictum. Shielded by the mob, I transferred my tricorne to the mop’s wooly head and secured my cloak beneath it.

While Benito went snaking down the crowded aisle with my eye-catching headgear bobbing beside him, I made sure that my shadow was still well behind. Then I ducked between two stalls and out into the square.

I trotted back toward the Pantheon and mounted its steps. Streets exited the square alongside the huge building, branching to the east and west. A solid wall of buildings bounded the square beyond the temporary market. If I kept an eagle eye from my position, it would be impossible for Liya to leave without my notice. I didn’t have long to wait. I spotted her straight back and determined gait just as a new disturbance was moving down a side street.

I shot down the stairs to collide with a group in rough clothing just bounding onto the square. Beggars in rags, porters, bargemen, rope makers, and other laborers were followed by women of the same class. Their eyes gleamed with anticipation and every tongue uttered the identical cry: “Di Noce…our papa cardinal…he comes…he comes.”

Liya whirled, shaded her eyes with her hand, and gazed in my direction. I waved frantically, jumping up and down as the noise and energy of the throng intensified. Her expression did not change.

I shouted, but the chaos swallowed my words. The crowd around me contracted, flowing toward the source of the excitement. It was like swimming a river against a powerful current. The traffic of bodies from the side street met the mass of people hastening from the market, and they all swirled together in one great cataract. The crush trapped my arms at my sides and buffeted me farther and farther away from the woman I sought, until suddenly, as if by magic, I was thrown straight into her arms.

“Liya!” I cried, struggling to hold my footing.

She responded with wide-eyed wonder. “Tito Amato!” She grabbed my arm fiercely. “Can it be? What are you doing here?”

The cries of “Di Noce, Di Noce” became a swelling chorus. As the object of their frenzy neared, a new surge rippled through the crowd. A bulky man in a tattered jacket, intent on witnessing the procession, pushed between us and broke our hold.

I grabbed for Liya’s sleeve, but the press of the crowd threatened to carry her away. With a bursting leap, she threw an arm around my neck and pulled me close. Her breath was warm on my cheek. I heard “Teatro Argentina, tomorrow afternoon,” and then she was gone.

I stood unheeding and unmoving as the tumult quietened and the crowd suddenly parted. With my heart drumming in my ears, I dimly realized I was about to see the cardinal who was expected to challenge Stefano Montorio for the papal crown. I looked around for a formal procession, Swiss Guards on the march, a stately gentleman in crimson waving from the window of a gleaming carriage. But there was none of that.

Cardinal Di Noce didn’t ride. Escorted by only three priests, Di Noce walked among the people. His simple black cassock was faded and dusty, and his broad-brimmed hat had slipped back to expose a skullcap surrounded by a few tufts of gray hair. A short, chunky man, Di Noce shuffled along with the humble steps of a poor parish priest returning from an all-night vigil. Nevertheless, my neighbors gazed in rapt attention. Some fell to their knees and made the sign of the cross; others scurried forward to touch medals and rosaries to the hem of his garment.

As Di Noce progressed across the square, I tried to see what it was about this unkempt, balding, middle-aged cleric that inspired such devotion. Yes, the blessings he pronounced brimmed with humility and concern. And his slanted, wide-set eyes seemed to radiate good cheer. But, after all, he was just a man.

I tapped the shoulder of the fellow next to me, a baker in a flour-caked apron pushing his young son forward. “Who is this Di Noce?” I asked. “Why is everyone so excited?”

My neighbor dropped his beard-shadowed jaw. “Is there a man alive who hasn’t heard of Di Noce?”

“I’m new to Rome. Just arrived from Venice.”

He shot me a contemptuous glance that lingered on the ruffles of fine lawn falling over my shirt front. “Perhaps Venice hasn’t heard. Cardinal Di Noce will be our next pope.”

“Is it true?” I made my eyebrows arc in surprise. “I thought our ambassador, Cardinal Montorio, was the man to replace Pope Clement.”

“Montorio? Not likely. Rome will riot if that ball of lard wins out over our…” He clamped his mouth shut abruptly, narrowing his gaze as if to say: I’ll shut up because I don’t know who you are, but your ambassador might as well be a piece of shit floating on the Tiber.

I smiled broadly, trying to win his confidence. “It’s all right. I’ll grant that Cardinal Di Noce may gain the papal throne. But tell me, what is so special about him?”

My simple question seemed to tax the man’s power of speech. He opened his mouth, closed it just as fast, and stood thumbing his stubbled chin. His son pulled at my sleeve. I looked down.

With the pitiful innocence of youth beaming from his face, the boy answered eagerly, “Di Noce is special because he loves us, Signore. Loves us like a papa. And wants to make us happy.”

Chapter Seven

Later that evening, Cardinal Fabiani returned from the Quirinal to host his weekly
conversazioni
. In the music salon, the harpsichordist and I provided entertainment as the guests gathered to sit in circles of upright chairs and nibble on wafers and ices.

In contrast to his coolness of the previous evening, my fellow musician unbent sufficiently to enlighten me as to the identity of a number of the guests. A young fop reading aloud from a slim volume of poetry was the eldest son of Prince Orsini. Another who propped his elbow on the overmantel and gazed over the room with a bored expression represented the house of Barberini-Colonna, his linked names signifying ancestry from both papal and aristocratic lines. Every guest, my informant whispered in reverential tones, was a Person of the Highest Quality. Reigning over them all, Cardinal Fabiani seemed to enjoy himself mightily as he swanned from group to group.

As before, the cardinal’s musical selections had been waiting by the keyboard. Rubbish this time, not a standout among them, and designed so that I would sing only every other set of pieces. My talents had been relegated to the musical equivalent of the tapestries and mirrors that decorated the villa’s walls, a pleasing background and nothing more. At least I could focus on the guests’ conversation while the harpsichordist was having his solo.

I sang my bit, then took a seat at the edge of the dais. Pretending to peruse the score of my next selection, I opened my ears to the nearest group. Gossip concerning people unknown to me ran to coarse lengths until Cardinal Fabiani joined the circle. Then the talk turned to the state of Pope Clement’s health.

“How is the old man doing?” asked a custard-faced woman in a gown of French blue much too bright for her complexion.

“A bit better, today,” Fabiani answered smoothly. “He took some ox-tail soup for dinner.”

“Of course,” responded the Orsini stripling, his volume of poetry splayed over his knee. “That’s what you always say. He’s better and better, but still on his deathbed. At this rate our esteemed pontiff will be the healthiest corpse ever.”

An older man winked at the woman in blue and said, “If you want to know how the pope really is, you had best go to Mass at the Lateran.”

“Whatever for?” she asked, snapping her fan open.

“Have you not heard the old story? When the Holy Father is about to die, the bones of Pope Sylvester the Second rattle in his tomb under the floor.”

“Stuff and nonsense,” she whispered over the fluttering fan, but her eyes were shining with curiosity.

“It is true. Long ago, when the Moors still held sway in Spain, the future Pope Sylvester studied the art of divination with one of their learned wizards. He made a pact with a demon that ensured his elevation to the papacy, but his wicked sorcery prevents his bones from achieving eternal rest. When Pope Clement’s predecessor went, Sylvester’s bones jumped and bumped so hard that the choir could not be heard over the clatter.”

“Were you there?” she asked in a tone of amazement.

“Unfortunately not. But a friend of my cousin swears that he witnessed the strange event.”

“But how could moldy old bones know when the pope is going to die?”

“Only the Lord knows. And perhaps the demon that Sylvester bargained with.”

Behind her fan, the woman in blue buzzed in conversation with a friend. They both appeared ready to jump up and call for their carriages to race across the city to press their ears to Sylvester’s tomb.

Fabiani sent the speaker a jaundiced look, then addressed the credulous woman. “He’s teasing, my dear. The legend of Sylvester’s bones is just a story crafted to entertain pilgrims. Every famous church has some such tale to its credit. The more fantastic the tale, the more coins the sacristan can collect in the telling.”

“But his cousin’s friend…” she started doubtfully.

“Superstition makes fools of the gullible and unwary,” Fabiani intoned sharply. “If anyone heard anything, we must blame superstition.”

“It goes beyond superstition,” a new voice chimed in. I hadn’t noticed Cardinal Montorio enter the salon, but there he was, squeezing his bulk between the gilt chairs. Abate Lenci hovered nearby as usual.

“It’s pure ignorance,” the cardinal said. “When I first came to Rome, I heard of this so-called legend and set about to gather the true facts. Consider this—back in 1694, the priests of the Lateran opened Sylvester’s tomb to lay the rumors to rest for good. The body was intact, but disintegrated the moment it came in contact with the air. Obviously, the tomb now holds nothing but the dust of Sylvester’s earthly remains. We all know that dust doesn’t rattle. The story is pure poppycock.”

Cardinal Fabiani inclined his head with a smile, but the rest of the company were clearly vexed at Montorio’s pronouncement. An intriguing mystery with a whiff of brimstone is always more interesting than bare fact. As their disappointed clucks quickly turned back to gossip, I focused my attention on the other nests of gold chairs and the ladies and gentlemen milling among them. I was looking for Prince Pompetti’s handsome head and graceful bearing, but Di Noce’s champion was not in attendance. An elbow poked my ribs: my turn again. After I’d sung my way through a few more innocuous melodies, the footmen stopped serving ices, giving the guests their cue to depart.

The harpsichordist, perhaps recalling my displacement of Signor Tucci, once more cooled. Folding the music into a neat stack, he left without a word. In a few moments, the last satin gown rustled through the main door and I was alone with the maids who crept in to erase the traces of guests and restore the room to its immaculate splendor. Crumbs were whisked, candle wax scraped, spills mopped, and bibelots rearranged in perfect order. Not for the first time, I marveled at the sheer number of working hands required to keep one man living in luxury.

A pair of maids sweeping the parquet floor at the other end of the salon paused when Gemma trotted through a side doorway. I was too far away to hear, but the girl’s gestures were unmistakable. She was searching for the marchesa—an urgent matter if Gemma’s flushed face and strained expression were any indication. Trading sneers, the pair bent to their brooms and turned their backs on Gemma without a word. Their gestures were also eloquent: We’ll do your job when you start doing ours.

Gemma looked as if she might argue the point, but then Guido came in and spoke a few words. She cocked her head and regarded him with a doubtful expression.

He nodded impatiently. Gemma shook her head. I fancied she mouthed the words,
not now
.

Guido moved closer, smiling seductively. The footman wanted something—that much was evident. But I doubted it had anything to do with romance. The maid arranged herself so their bodies wouldn’t touch as he whispered in her ear.

Something he said managed to turn the tide. After a brief moment, Gemma pivoted on her heel, and they left together.

Feeling a bit lost, I made my way to the main hall, where I found Abate Lenci trying to look as if he had a reason to be dawdling there. He greeted me with a touch of irritation. “Signor Amato,” he whispered, “Fabiani’s gone to his library to take brandy with Orsini and several others. How can you take the measure of his political designs if you’re not with them?”

I sighed. “I can’t follow Fabiani around like a spaniel. I have to wait until I’m called to his presence. Your uncles don’t realize what a task they’ve handed me.”

The arrival of Rossobelli prevented any response that Lenci might have made. When the secretary pointed out that Cardinal Montorio’s carriage was waiting, Lenci scampered for the door. Rossobelli had a few words for me as well: Cardinal Fabiani appreciated my performance at the conversazioni but would not be needing me again tonight. Not sure whether to be relieved or concerned, I went to my room, changed to a dressing gown, and sent Benito to the kitchens to arrange a supper tray.

***

I was writing a letter to Gussie when Benito and Guido wheeled in a cart of covered dishes wreathed in mouth-watering aromas. Having a manservant who was well liked in the kitchen was proving to be a distinct advantage. I wasted no time in settling myself at a table before the sitting room fire and uncovering the largest platter. A trout grilled to perfection nestled atop a bed of saffron rice; its mottled skin glistened with lemon butter. Just as the first forkful touched my lips, Guido gave Benito a departing caress that he obviously intended to escape my notice. My attendant responded with a coquettish smile and a few whispered words.

Flooded by a sudden rush of sadness, I abandoned my fork and sank back to stare into the flames dancing in the fireplace. How was it that my manservant fell into these easy romances while my love affairs were continually fraught with difficulty? Back in Venice, I’d gradually resigned myself to a future without Liya. I’d put my dreams aside and concentrated on my music, taking occasional solace in the arms of one of the numerous ladies who haunted my dressing room door. Now, after one brief touch, one hurried exchange, my thoughts were again obsessed by the beautiful Jewess—for such I would always think of her, even if she had rejected her heritage. I finished my meal in a somber frame of mind, perhaps allowing Benito to fill my wineglass with rich Montepulciano a few too many times.

After I pushed away from the table and carried my coffee to the sofa, Benito cleared the dishes and wheeled the cart into the hall. Then he flung himself onto a footstool before me. He had read my sadness like a book.

“Master,” he said, leaning forward and placing his hands under his chin in a prayerful position. “Back in Venice, when Signorina Liya ran away, you told me she was seeking a safe haven.”

“That’s right. Liya’s mother vowed to reject the child she was carrying. Her lover was a Christian, and a deliberate scoundrel besides.”

“But Luca was no worse than Liya’s own cousin. Those two were up to their elbows in schemes.”

My coffee spoon tinkled against the delicate porcelain as I reflected on the events that had resulted in the disastrous ghetto fire. “I know, but people don’t like to blame their own. Luca was the outsider, so the Jews cast him as the villain. Liya’s mother demanded that she make plans to send Luca’s child to a Christian orphanage—a most unusual stance, I’m told. Liya’s father tried to bridge the gap and make peace between them, but the two strong women snapped him like a dried chicken bone. Soon, the whole family was threatening to disown Liya. She was at her wit’s end.”

“You never told anyone where she was headed.”

I sipped at the smooth brew. At the time, the Jewess’ choice had astonished me. Perhaps it still did. Sharing her secret for the first time, I spoke slowly, reluctantly. “Liya fled to a wise woman who lives on one of the deserted islands out in the lagoon.”

“A woman who doles out potions and philters?”

I nodded. “This woman arranged for Liya to travel to a village high in the mountains of the mainland. A village where they don’t care who is Christian or Jew.”

“Does such a place exist?”

“Apparently, yes. The people of such villages keep to themselves and follow
la vecchia religione
.”

“My grandmother used to tell stories about peasants who keep to the old religion and still worship Diana as the queen of the moon and the forests. She warned us to avoid them like the plague.” Benito glanced around with a shiver. I remembered how superstitious my manservant could be: salt over the shoulder, dire predictions over a broken mirror, firm reminders about tempting fortune if I happened to whistle in the theater. “Diana’s followers have the power of the evil eye,” he said, lowering his voice a notch. “They’re
streghe
. Witches.”

“I suppose,” I answered, staring into my coffee, finding it difficult to imagine the sensible, clever seamstress I’d known dancing around a bubbling cauldron, invoking whatever deities such simple, unlettered people believed in. For the thousandth time, I wondered if Liya had found what she sought and if she ever spared a thought for me.

“Then tell me this.” Benito raised an eyebrow. “If Signorina Liya follows the old religion, what is she doing in Rome, the center of Christian power? Surely Rome deals with heathens even more harshly than Venice.”

Not having the answer to that question, I sent Benito to fetch another bottle of Montepulciano and directed him to fill a glass for both of us. Under the wine’s beneficent influence, we talked of nothing but happier days until the flaming logs collapsed into glowing embers.

Later, as I tottered to bed and pulled the coverlet up to my chin, I realized I’d let Liya’s baffling appearance chase the real reason for my visit to Rome from my mind. I admonished myself with stern resolve: freeing Alessandro was the important thing, not rekindling a romance that had been impossible from the start. My head sank into the pillow and my eyelids eased shut. I couldn’t have slept more than a few minutes until the bell above my bed leapt to life with a clanging vengeance, jerking me upright and hurling my heart against my ribs.

Cardinal Fabiani wanted me.

Still muzzy from consuming an unaccustomed amount of the grape, I fumbled for my underclothes and stockings. By the time I had them on, Benito had arrived with a clean shirt and some soft wool breeches. He reached for my formal wig, but I shook my head. I’d give this midnight concert with my own hair loose on my shoulders.

The broad corridor was deserted except for my own intersecting shadows cast by the flickering wall lamps. Reaching the cardinal’s door, I swayed a bit as I straightened my clumsily assembled attire. The door opened on Rossobelli, pink-rimmed eyes bulging in agitation.

“Quick,” he whispered on a sharp breath. “There’s no time to lose.”

I stepped inside. Metal rasped on metal as Rossobelli shot the bolt home. The sitting room was darker than the hallway. I formed a fleeting impression of heavy tables and overstuffed sofas as the abate hustled me through to the bed chamber. There I approached a canopied bed twice the size of mine and was surprised to find it empty, its pillows and bedclothes in perfect array.