The Wolves of St. Peter's (10 page)

“Don't think you can get a rise out of me, old man. I know what you're up to. And having Benvenuto home is not without its benefits. I was going to share my roast pheasant with her, but now I have it all to myself.” He pulled the bundle out from under his doublet and showed it to Michelangelo. “I'd offer you some, but I wouldn't want you to get invisible worms.”

Michelangelo bent lower over his paper. “I only hope I get the chance to say I told you so before you die. And pick that cloak up. I'd call the houseboy, but if I recall correctly, that would be you.”

“Consider it done,” Francesco said, scooping the cloak off the floor and hanging it on a hook beside the fire. He tossed his dagger onto the mantel. “Though I should remind you that my father is paying you quite handsomely. I wouldn't be surprised if, in the end, you'll be paid more for putting up with me than you will for frescoing that whole damned ceiling. So I don't see why I shouldn't be just as much trouble, if not more.”

“At least that bloody ceiling doesn't talk back at me.”

Francesco pulled his boots off and, draping his hose over them, placed them as close to the flames as he dared.
Really,
he thought,
this isn't turning out to be the worst evening of my life.
A fire, enough roast pheasant to actually fill his belly, and Michelangelo was even in a passable mood, thanks no doubt to his victory over the wood seller and whatever windfall had resulted in candles and paper.

As Michelangelo was occupying the only chair, Francesco sat on the edge of the bed and unwrapped the pheasant. He peeled off a strip of fatty skin encrusted with salt and rosemary and sighed as he took a bite. He was going to have to tell Imperia her cook was no longer the best in Rome.

He dropped the leg back on its wrapping and went to pour himself a cup of wine from the pitcher. Not the usual cheap swill Michelangelo invariably bought. It truly must have been a good day. Maybe that brother of Michelangelo's had finally repaid some of the money he owed. Francesco took another draught before topping his cup up again and sitting back on the bed. The chicken gave another little hop out of the way as Michelangelo turned his paper yet again.

“Where'd you steal the meat?” Michelangelo asked.

“I didn't steal it.” He hadn't intended on telling Michelangelo he'd been to The Turk's, but it could be interesting to learn what Michelangelo knew of him; he'd be sure to have an opinion. Francesco took another bite. “The Turk's cook gave it to me,” he said as nonchalantly as possible.

Michelangelo looked up sharply. “What were you doing at The Turk's?”

“Just an errand for someone. Nothing important. I saw your friends Paride di Grassi and Cardinal Asino there. What business do they have with The Turk?”

“Don't call them my friends! Not even in jest. And any business they have with The Turk is bound to be trouble. If there's any providence, they'll wind up on the wrong end of his famous sword.”

Topping off his cup again, Francesco finished the wine. He was decided on one thing: he would get drunk. Drunk and full of lovely, greasy pheasant. “You don't believe that story about the three hundred men he killed with his sword? He seems like too much of a buffoon for such slaughter.”

“He may seem like a buffoon, but if he has business with Asino and di Grassi, that makes him dangerous. With or without a sword, as long as you're under my roof, you're forbidden from seeing any more of him.” This warning was delivered with all the stern counsel of a parent, and Francesco couldn't help but laugh.

“I didn't know you cared so much for my skin. In honor of your concern, I'll obey your wishes … Papa.”

Michelangelo picked up his paper and held it close to his face, as if suddenly nearsighted. “Don't test me, boy. Or I'll feed you to The Turk's crocodile myself.” It was a threat, but Francesco was sure that behind the paper, Michelangelo was hiding the slightest smile.

Francesco couldn't help smiling himself and, resuming his seat on the bed, ate slowly and meticulously, picking off every piece of meat and skin and sucking the bones for every last drop of fat before tossing them on the fire. It wasn't until the final bone had hit the flames with a sizzle that he realized what Michelangelo had said.

“How did you know The Turk had a crocodile?”

But Michelangelo didn't answer, as he'd already fallen asleep, the stick of charcoal still in his hand. Francesco was about to blow out the candle when he saw what Michelangelo had been working on. The paper was packed with sketches Francesco recognized as studies for the ancestors of Christ, to be painted on the vertical sections below the vaulted ceilings. He was about to lift the top sheet when he spotted what looked like a medallion of the size put out by the Vatican's mint. Inside a border of leaves and berries was a
chicken—a three-legged chicken. Francesco laughed quietly. “Look at that,” he said, addressing the bird, who was now perched on the headboard of the bed. “You just might get your portrait on the Pope's ceiling.” The bird blinked back.

His benevolent feelings for the bird soon vanished with the discovery of a fresh, slimy spot on his pillow. “Not again,” he said, turning the pillow over. “You shit on my pillow again, you stupid bird, and I'll have you for dinner tomorrow, and Michelangelo can find himself another three-legged chicken to model for him.”

He'd get Susanna to wash his bedding. That is, if the silversmith had left. What if Benvenuto decided to stay on for a while? He listened carefully, but there wasn't so much as a squeak from the other side of the wall, though he could hear a fight brewing between the soap-maker and his wife.
Christ,
he thought. He sat up and, after putting on his still-damp boots without his hose, went out through the back door, closing it quietly behind him, which was now possible to do.

The rain had subsided to a steady drizzle. A wolf howled and another answered, but it wasn't the incessant yipping of the night before. He shook his head and went to Susanna's gate. The scarf was still tied around it. He gave the gate an angry tug. No light seeped from the house. He was tempted to sneak over the gate and look inside, but of course he wouldn't be able to see anything in the dark. It was a stupid idea anyway. What was he going to do? Give the silversmith a thrashing? Honestly, he was acting like a jealous lover. What did he care? He should be thinking about Juliet. She was the woman he loved, and for all he knew, Guido was having his way with her right now. He closed his eyes and tried to picture this, but instead saw Calendula watching him from the portrait with her mocking eyes.

FRANCESCO
was awakened twice the next morning, once when Michelangelo threw his boots at him, and again when Susanna pinched his nose. Michelangelo he told to fuck off, but Susanna he caught by the hair and pulled onto the bed.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, barely containing his relief at seeing her again. “Where's Benvenuto?”

“Gone,” she said, struggling to sit upright.

Francesco kept his grip on her. “Then there's no reason for you not to linger here with me for a while.”

“God in Heaven, is that all men think about? That and food. Let me go,” she said, laughing all the same. “I'm just about worn right out.”

“But I doubt your wheezy old silversmith did this for you,” he said, pulling at the strings of her bodice.

The silversmith clearly hadn't, and she responded generously, leaving Francesco in a much better mood than when he'd started the day.

She'd brought bread and two eggs, and they ate in bed while he told her about his meetings with Imperia and The Turk.

“So now what?” Susanna asked.

“Nothing. I'll tell Imperia what The Turk said, and that'll be the end of it. Even if I don't know why, I'm sure The Turk killed Calendula. But Imperia won't confront The Turk and risk being the next whore pulled from the Tiber.” He shook his finger at her. “And no gossiping about this.”

“I'm not stupid,” she said haughtily. “Besides, I bet Marcus has already gone back to Imperia's and told her everything.”

He nodded. “You're probably right. I'm surprised I didn't think of that myself. You're very smart indeed. But I gave Imperia my word I'd be back. Once I do that, I've fulfilled my duty.”

“Still, you're a lawyer. Aren't you supposed to want justice?”

“You can't take down The Turk and live to tell of it. Especially if he's protected by the likes of di Grassi and Asino. Justice might be the ideal, but it's not attained easily or safely. And right now, I just want to get out of this city with my skull intact.”

“And leave me here all alone.”

“You have your silversmith,” he said teasingly.

“Stop it,” she said, hitting him with a pillow. “You know I have a dowry to raise. I save every coin I can and have it all safely hidden away.”

“And do you have someone to marry once you've saved enough coins?”

“Why, should I make you an offer? I'll wash your pillow for you.”

“I might be open to an offer,” he said with mock seriousness. “Just how much money can you steal from the silversmith? And why don't you have a dowry already? Your father's a farmer. Why doesn't he provide one?”

She sighed impatiently. “He did. I was supposed to marry the miller. He died a week before the wedding, but my father had already given him the dowry.”

“Then according to the law, your father can get the money back.”

She shook her head. “The son has the money. He said if we went to the law, he would tell them I'd killed his father and he had two witnesses who would testify that I said I would do so.”

“But they'd be lying.”

“They're friends of the miller's son. But since my father heard me say the same thing, he felt it best not to pursue it further.”

“So did you kill him?” he joked.

She laughed. “You silly goose. You think I'd tell you if I did? I'm sorry my father lost his money, but I'm not sorry about the miller. Mean old bastard.”

“How did he die?”

“He was kicked in the head by a horse.”

“Well, then, you didn't kill him. A horse did.”

“His son said I spooked the horse.”

“And did you?”

“He was easily spooked and hardly needed my help.”

The little witch,
he thought. Her eyes as she told him were as sweet and guileless as Juliet's had ever been, but he was certain she'd done it. He'd bet his next meal on it. Though strangely, it didn't worry him. He found himself almost proud of her for not letting herself be pushed around by a brute. A little excited too, but that might be explained by the kisses she was now bestowing beneath the covers.

IT
was midmorning before they left the house for Imperia's. Despite the insistent grayness of the day and the dreary nature of their mission, he was in a fine mood. Although it was out of their way, Susanna insisted they first go to the bridge at Castel Sant'Angelo to see how high the Tiber had risen overnight.

At the bridge, they stopped and watched the water swirl through the arches. “How is it on the other side?” Francesco asked a man carrying a pack. His clothes were crusted with mud, and his face was not much cleaner.

“Arenula and the Campo dei Fiori are underwater,” he said, sticking his finger in his ear as if to remove the water lodged there. “High as your waist in some spots. Mules sunk up to their tails. Still, not as bad as I've seen it, but when it recedes, there'll be nothing but mud everywhere. And then you know what happens.”

“What?”

“Plague. Seen it before. That's why I'm leaving. Not the water, the sickness. You just wait and see. I'm going to my brother's beyond the Aventine Hill. Had to cross here, since I couldn't get any farther. Just hoping I can cross back over at the Cestio Bridge. His Holiness can kiss his new road good-bye, if you ask me. The whole thing's been washed away.”

“Where has everyone else gone to?”

“A lot of people moved up to the Capitoline and Palatine hills in the night, before the water got too high, but some wouldn't on account of the wolves. Said they were safer on their roofs.” He laughed disdainfully. “That is, until the water washes the houses right out from under them. There'll be bodies in that mud, and lots of them.”

Susanna pointed out a dead cow in the river. Bloated up like a ball, it floated on its back, legs sticking straight up as it approached the bridge. The legs snagged momentarily on the arch before the pressure of the water forced the cow down, its hooves scraping against the underside of the bridge. Screaming gulls circled overhead, and Francesco remembered yet again Calendula's body being pulled from that same river, the policemen turning it over to reveal her mutilated face, a seagull grabbing at her hand. Was that only two mornings ago?

The man laughed, revealing a mouth full of black stumps for teeth. “That one looks like it's been dead for a while. When I was
a boy, my brother and I found one all puffed up like that in a field. He stuck a knife into its belly, and the stink came rushing out of the hole so fast it whistled louder than the Devil playing the pipes. Made my brother fall to the ground, the smell was so bad. He got a good whipping for that one. Must remember to tell that one to his wife when I see her.” He left them then, still laughing.

“He'll still be laughing when he arrives at his brother's,” Francesco said.

“I didn't know the Devil played the pipes,” Susanna said.

“Neither did I, but I think men give the Devil whatever attributes they want.”

“You're talking foolishness again,” Susanna said, giving him a quick swat. “I'm sure the Devil does whatever he likes.”

Francesco held his arm and howled in mock pain, earning another swat for his teasing. He really didn't know why being with this silly girl had put him in such a fine mood. After all, nothing about his situation had changed. Instead of pleasant evenings sitting by Imperia's fire, talking with Raphael and his circle, he now seemed to be on an impossible mission to make sense of a prostitute's death.