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Chapter XXX

The She-Wolf

Christopher Marlowe and his Florentine accomplice arrived in Rome two weeks and two days after Alessandro de' Medici was crowned Pope Leo XI. The date was April 26, 1605, and although Alessandro's papacy was in its infancy, neither the poet nor the senator could have guessed how literally. Not in their wildest dreams or their darkest nightmares.

Marlowe had to discover it for himself.

*   *   *

As a visiting senator and head of one of Italy's most prestigious banks, Roberto di Ridolfi proved a valuable companion the moment he and Marlowe bribed their way into the Eternal City. The spies passed through Nanni di Baccio Bigio's triumphal Porta del Popolo at the Aurelian Walls towing an entire wagon of weapons that was neither stopped nor searched. Their arrival had been completely unhindered and their grand designs were untraceable. They took up lodgings at separate locations from Campus Martius to Trajan's Column, and after a day's rest and planning, the two descended upon Rome like eagles. Roberto worked the political scene, coaxing friends and contacts for information while Marlowe went back to doing what he did best. Once more, the English poet took the cloth and disappeared among the city's clergy.

Marlowe walked out of the Collegio Romano wearing a Jesuit robe Roberto procured for the occasion. It was a beautiful Wednesday afternoon, and the wide piazza outside the school was filled with students and brimmed with light. Marlowe took a moment to enjoy the setting, reflecting on how he used to be one of these undergraduates. Sort of.

After scanning the square for a familiar face, the Jesuit raised an eyebrow, finding none.

“
Padre
,” a familiar voice called out behind him. Marlowe turned around to find Roberto covertly waiting beside the ivory school's wooden doors.

“
Senatore
.” The Jesuit walked over and blessed the man.

Roberto bowed his head while using his hand to hide the smile on his face. “Follow me,” he whispered in English. The men left the Jesuit college behind them and walked toward the ruined tower atop the Quirinal Hill. “So, what did you find?” the senator asked the Jesuit once they crossed Via del Corso.

“You first,” replied the priest.

“No, I insist,” Roberto begged with dignity. He wanted to save what he had learned for later.

The Jesuit shrugged. “Very well. That name you provided caused quite a stir. Henry Garnet requested the transfer of three Jesuits to England sometime last year. According to Padre Clavius at the Collegio, the three priests were his students.”

Roberto's brow wrinkled. He was familiar with the name. “Mathematicians?”

“Astrologers,” Marlowe corrected. “Clavius said they were brilliant, too. Gifted students. He was sorry to see them go.”

“Did Garnet provide a reason for needing them?”

“Nope! In fact, Clavius became mad as a bull when I asked for one. The fat man huffed and puffed about how dangerous England is and how he hadn't heard from the boys in months. He thinks their lives are in danger, and I don't blame him! England is a popular place for priests to die.”

The senator thought on this. “A few students were sent to England. That's all you found?”

“From how it sounds,” Marlowe snickered, “I don't think
anybody
is going to find them!”

Roberto grimaced. On the whole, he was disappointed. “Nobody in Tuscany is going to care about a few dead priests in England.”

“Don't worry. Aside from fat Clavius, I don't think anybody cares around here either. Martyrdom is a fate with its own reward.” The incognito Englishman fell silent as their busy street slowed to a near stop. “So, what did you learn from
your
friends?”

“Che bella giornata di primavera,”
the senator replied to throw any listeners off course.
“Camminiamo.”
Marlowe understood Roberto's concerns, and the conversation shifted with the scenery to Rome's Trevi district. However, this locale proved even more crowded due to construction projects in the area. After inspecting the noisy square, the senator led the poet to Jacopo della Porta's
fontana
so that their words would be drowned out by the Acqua Vergine's rustling waters. “I spoke with several people today, and they all told me the same thing: the pope is gravely ill.”

“Oh?” Marlowe snickered. “Does this one have gout as well?” Leo XI's predecessor, Clement VIII, spent the last years of his life bedridden with the rich man's disease.

Roberto shook his head. “It is more serious than that. He's been getting weaker every day since his coronation. They fear he may be dying.”

Marlowe raised his eyebrows. “Are you serious? After less than a month in the hat? He only barely edged Pope Urban!” Pope Urban VII died in 1590 a lucky thirteen days into his papacy. “I don't believe it. Three different popes in less than half a year—again!”

“That's what they told me,” Roberto continued with frustration. “A lot of people who campaigned for Alessandro's candidacy are angry. He is the first Medici pope in half a century, and it cost a fortune to make that happen. Cardinal Aldobrandini told me that Henry IV of France spent three hundred thousand
écus
on Alessandro's behalf during the conclave. The House of Medici hinges on Alessandro's survival.”

“Do you think he will?”

The senator shook his head. “I am not sure. I was hoping
you
would find out for me.”

Marlowe's eyes widened. “Me? How?”

Roberto smiled and then guided his companion two blocks eastward. The senator and the Jesuit left the Trevi district as they ascended Rome's highest hill.

The men turned right at Via della Panetteria and walked toward one of the newer additions to the city: the creamy white Palazzo del Quirinale, the pope's recently constructed Roman residency. Marlowe put his hands on his hips and smirked at the impressively ironic building. For such an important stronghold, its outer wall was just a perimeter of simple houses. Its modest facade more closely resembled a papal prison than a palace. Its “Courtyard of Honor” was somewhat dishonorably closed to the public. Its papal gardens came off as simple shrubbery compared to the Vatican's. And, of course, Marlowe took some satisfaction in the knowledge that its current occupant, Alessandro de' Medici, apparently bribed his way into the building just so he could die in there.

It had been nearly twenty years since Marlowe saw the palace, and he found it more amusing now than ever. “Do you want me to take a look inside?” he asked the senator.

“Not in the manner which you are thinking. My sources tell me that His Holiness was moved from his bedchambers to the Torrino for his health.” Roberto pointed to the small, box-like Torre dei Venti, or “Tower of the Winds” atop the palace.

Out of all the rooms in the palazzo, the Torrino appeared to be the easiest for a man of Marlowe's skills to access. “How convenient,” he appraised. “How are the airs treating him up there?”

“Not well,” replied the senator, “which is unfortunate, since I've been told that he is now too weak to be moved out of it. Also…” Roberto moved in closer. “There are whispers that the pope requested this so that he could be alone with a certain priest.”

The poet glanced at the senator. “A priest?”

Roberto nodded.

The Jesuit smirked. “Is it a young priest?” he surmised. “Beautiful? Pure? Innocent?”

Again, confirmed.

Marlowe grinned with delight as he looked back to the tower. “Well, at least he's dying happy!”

“My friend, this is serious. The pope is the Vicar of Christ. If this one is destroying himself through decadence, then it is the best news we could have hoped for. The Medici will
never
return to the papacy! They will become as vilified as the Borgia.”

“And that's good for you?” Marlowe asked with a raised eyebrow.

“It will be good for the people of Toscana. All I need is for you to confirm these rumors before the Medici weave their own mythologies when the pope dies.”

The poet bit his lip in thought as he looked up and down the palazzo.

“Will you need anything to accomplish this?” asked Roberto.

“Yes, I will.” Marlowe turned his head and squared his shoulders with the senator. “My friend, the dragoman. Why is he not here yet?”

“I don't know,” replied the politician. “He is traveling a great distance. Perhaps he encountered some bad weather. Perhaps—”

“Perhaps that pigeon you sent never made it to Messina.” Marlowe grabbed the Florentine by his arm and forced him into a secluded alley. “Perhaps it arrived here, alerting the Medici to my presence. Perhaps my friend is dead, and you always knew it. Perhaps you led me here to die as well.”

“My friend…” Roberto smiled, raising a hand. “I thought we already established trust with each other.”

“I am not your friend,
Senatore
, so don't pretend I am just because I spared your life. We are accessories to each other. You are using me, and I am using you.”

The senator smirked. “I thought you were used to this type of barter. With your friend.”

“Don't provoke me, old man. You're asking me to crawl into the wolf's mouth right now. How do I know you're not just another fang waiting to come chomping down on me?”

Roberto narrowed his eyes and scoffed. “You truly are rarity, Marlowe. You are boorish and hedonistic by default, but also resolute when you need to be. It is so clear to me why your friend holds you so highly. You are a greater survivor than he ever was.” The senator deliberately chose these words to disarm the poet. He wanted to raise Marlowe's hopes only to cast them back into a sea of doubt.

The poet glared at his companion, but then blinked. His eyes fell forlornly.

The man who bested Walsingham stood tall, brimming with victory. “I will be at the Pantheon while you work, same as last night. If you encounter any trouble, meet me there and I will take care of you.” The senator put his hand on Marlowe's shoulder. “May God be with you.”

The Jesuit's eyes glowed angrily in the darkened alley. “I don't need God right now. What I need is proof that you're not my enemy.”

The senator smiled. Seeing no other course of action, he grabbed Marlowe's face and kissed him.
“In bocca al lupo,”
Roberto pledged. “Into the wolf's mouth.”

Not convinced, the poet left his ally in the alleyway.
“Crepi il lupo,”
he threw over his shoulder. “May the wolf die.”

*   *   *

That night.

Since Marlowe had done reconnaissance work at the Quirinale during his younger years, he knew his way on and off its ground without being spotted by the Holy See. Thanks to his watchful eyes and careful planning, the only sentry he came across was one of the city's countless cats. Marlowe watched and waited until the half-moon was eclipsed behind the Vatican cupola, allowing the Eternal City to darken even more. Still dressed in his black Jesuit cassock and
ferraiolo
cape, the stealthy poet took a breath and went to work on the papal palace, operating almost entirely by memory.

The Quirinale's outer wall was easy enough for Marlowe to climb. Since it was comprised primarily of tenement buildings, the poet scaled its weakest point in less than half a minute. The palazzo itself, however, did not have any easy points of entry, and Marlowe knew this. After zigzagging his way across the palace grounds, he ascended the palazzo's mammoth base with a grappling hook and rope launched via crossbow. It was one of several such devices from Roberto's armory that the men agreed might prove useful. Once Marlowe was on the palazzo's marble balcony, he collected his rope and shot it again, this time over the narrow wedge jutting out of the palace's northernmost point. The grappling hook cleared the shortened roof and secured itself, allowing Marlowe to climb the remaining distance to the top. The poet pulled himself over the palazzo's tiles and onto his feet, and then raced across the building's spine to the Tower of the Winds. All eleven of the Torrino's windows appeared to be dark, but as Marlowe circled the ivory tower, he glimpsed some firelight emanating from its southern corner. The poet paused, deeming it too risky to use his hook to scale the structure. Instead, he climbed its ledge at its lowest point, allowing him to peer inside one of the tower's windows.

At first, things appeared precisely as Marlowe expected within the tower. A bed had been arranged against its southeastern wall, the only wall with just two windows instead of three. The pope was barely visible to Marlowe; nothing but a darkened lump against a white pillow. But as the poet's eyes adjusted to the room, he began to see Alessandro de' Medici more clearly. The man did not look well at all. His skin was ghostly pale, even against the room's amber light. His white beard was a disheveled cobweb. His face appeared twisted in fear. The pope groaned softly in his sleep as if in pain. His covers lifted and fell with shallow breathing. If this man was the last hope of the House of Medici, then all their fortunes appeared as dim as the candle by the man's deathbed.

And then, beside the pope, there was the other person.

Marlowe quickly pulled his head back once he saw movement. It was nothing in particular; just a shadow cast by someone with a candle. After seeing the shadow settle, Marlowe leaned once more against the window. Just as Roberto reported, a lone figure in a priest's habit was present with the pope. The figure was seated and watched Alessandro as he slept. The priest's posture was straight and strong, statuesque, and his demeanor almost territorial. The poet could only see a hint of the figure's face. Once more, all appeared precisely as Roberto had heard. The attending priest looked to be young, and quite attractive.