3 - Cruel Music Read online

“No, I’ve not encountered the man before.” I draped her arm over mine again and gave her an account of my business in Rome. The abbreviated version, I fear: the one that cast me in the role of goodwill ambassador rather than spy. Seeing Liya, and finding her so obviously pleased to see me, had set my good sense teetering on a precipice. I longed to carry her away to some private place, bury my face in her lap, and pour out all the terrible events of the past few days. But what did I really know of her present situation and frame of mind? I reluctantly determined that my smartest course of action would be to conceal the dire details of my trip to Rome and see what turn our renewed acquaintance would take.

  She thought a moment as we strolled in the direction of the Tiber. “I’m sure Signor Tucci means you no harm. His dismissal may have left him unsettled in his humors, but the man doesn’t have a wicked bone in his body. I think he’s only curious to view the singer who supplanted him at the villa.”

  “I’d be pleased to give him a closer look. His advice on how to satisfy Fabiani would be most welcome. So far, the cardinal has been less than overwhelmed by my songs. Do you know where this Tucci keeps his lodging?”

  “He has rooms at Number 38, Piazza di Spagna. When he’s not pestering Maestro Ucellini to regain his old position, he entertains the children of his neighborhood with puppet operas. They’re quite charming. He’s fixed a miniature stage that he carries to a certain park on sunny afternoons. While he manipulates the strings from behind, he announces the characters and sings all their parts.”

  “You’ve seen them?”

  “Several times.” She hesitated, suddenly shy, then added, “I thought they would amuse…my son.”

  “Ah, Luca’s child.” I hesitated as well, but not from shyness. “He must be nearing five by now. Is that what you call him? Luca?”

  She gave a peculiar laugh. “I broke tradition in that way, too. He isn’t named for his father.”

  She fell silent, so I prodded her. “He does have a name?”

  “Oh, yes.” She fixed me with a penetrating look. “I call him Tito.”

  I digested that surprising bit of information as we turned several corners and entered a noisy café. After we ordered grappa and sweet biscuits, I asked her why.

  “When I went to Monteborgo, I had plenty of time to ponder a number of things. The village was amazingly quiet compared to the ghetto, and I didn’t have my mother’s constant nagging and nitpicking ringing in my ears. Monteborgo was the sanctuary I needed. By the time Tito was born, I had gradually come to see that my love for Luca was really a blindfold that kept me from seeing him as he really was.”

  “Luca reeked of charm,” I said, “but his pleasing ways hid a selfish heart.”

  She smiled wryly. “There was a time when I would have smacked your cheeks for saying such a thing. But you’re right, Tito, quite right.” She took a sip of grappa that left a smudge of syrupy purple over her finely chiseled lip. “That’s why I refused to name my son after a rogue. I asked myself, ‘Who is the most admirable man I know? Who possesses the sensibility and fine feelings that I would seek to bestow on my child?’”

  “And you settled on me?” I asked in wonderment.

  She nodded. “You were at the top of my list.”

  My hand sought hers across the white tablecloth. “Liya, why did you not return to Venice? The last time we met, I made my feelings abundantly clear.”

  “I did come back. Several years ago…”

  “But your family never said.”

  “You see them?”

  “Often—when I’m home.” I shrugged. My voice became husky. “They are my only link to you.”

  She clenched my hand and pulled herself up very straight. “Did they sit shiva for me?”

  I shook my head. “In this, your father has been adamant. He refuses to go into mourning because he believes you will return someday.”

  “How are they?” Her black eyes shone, but if they held tears, they did not wet her cheeks.

  “Your mother and father are well. Your grandmother still sits by the stove, pretending to do needlework but really keeping an eye on everyone’s activities.”

  Liya smiled a little, so I went on, “Mara and Sara married men of the ghetto, and Fortunata has become quite the little lady. She helps your father in the shop.”

  “Then Papa must be happy.” Liya sighed. “Fortunata was always his favorite.”

  I thought Pincas would be happier if his eldest daughter would pay him a visit with the grandson he had never seen, but I didn’t say so. Instead, I asked, “You didn’t see them at all?”

  “No. I was in Venice only a short time. I went to the theater to look for you, only to find you’d gone to England for an extended engagement at the opera house in Covent Garden.” She dropped her gaze. “And that you were traveling in the company of a certain lady.”

  I groaned. “What wretched luck. I returned from London almost immediately. The vile taste of that gloomy town has turned against Italian singers, and there’s no point in staying where you’re not wanted.” I leaned across the tablecloth. “More importantly, the lady you heard about was a miserable mistake. She lasted no longer than my London engagement.”

  Liya sent me an enigmatic smile. “Our luck appears to have changed for the good. We have found each other once again. In Rome, of all places.”

  I returned her smile. “Have you left Monteborgo behind for good, then?”

  “I’ve left the village, but not its ways.”

  “You’re still a devotee of the old religion?” I asked, lowering my voice to a whisper. Even the mention of the streghe made me itch to look over my shoulder to see who might be listening.

  It was her turn to nod. She took another sip of grappa before answering, “There are more of us than you might think. Not all in remote villages.”

  “Wise women?”

  “Not just women. Many men follow the old path along with us.”

  I opened my mouth to ask another question, but she silenced me with a shake of her head. “If you care to listen, I have marvelous things to tell you. But here is not the place.”

  She was right. The placement of the café tables allowed only enough space for the waiters to squeeze through with their trays balanced high on one hand. We were closely surrounded by black-clad abati, all sipping coffee and offering conflicting rumors about the state of Pope Clement’s health: he had rallied and appeared on a balcony of the Quirinal—no, he was sinking and had lost the power of speech—no, he was raving night and day like a madman.

  Summoning a waiter, I said to Liya, “I do have something I’d like to show you. It’s a strange relic—you may be able to enlighten me about its meaning. Shall we walk?”

  “Yes, of course.” Liya pulled her shawl over her shoulders. “But back toward the theater. A new opera opens tonight—the first performance since before Christmas. I’ve been gone too long already.”

  I nodded, suddenly aware that my headache seemed to have entirely disappeared, then answered, “I saw the playbill—Ricimero by Jommelli. I’d like to see what that Neapolitan butterball has come up with. When I left Naples, Jommelli was full of boasts but had yet to make his mark.”

  “You must come. Maestro Ucellini expects a twenty day run.”

  “Whether or not I see Ricimero depends on Cardinal Fabiani.”

  “He will see it several times, I’m sure. The cardinal keeps a fine box, overlooking the stage from the third tier.”

  “But will he bring his caged nightingale along?” I was unable to keep the bitterness from my tone.

  She tossed her black curls. “Tito, why have you shackled yourself to Fabiani? As I recall, you always valued your liberty to make your own arrangements. Does having a Venetian as pope really matter so much?”

  I took a deep sigh. “That’s another thi
ng we must save for later discussion.” Digging into my waistcoat pocket, I clasped the pendant I had found at the entrance to the garden pavilion. I paused on the pavement to transfer it to Liya’s palm. “Here, tell me what you can about this.”

  While I pretended to admire the feathery creations in a milliner’s window, Liya studied the intricately worked silver. “It’s called a cimaruta. Many followers of the old religion keep one as an amulet, either sewn into a hidden pocket or on a chain under a shirt. Where did you get it, Tito?”

  I’d given my story some thought. Not wanting to involve Liya in any unpleasantness, I lied like a trooper reporting for duty after an all-night drunk. “The necklace came from a trinket stall at the market. I thought it might make a nice souvenir of Rome for Annetta, but when I gave it a good look, I wondered if it might not have some pagan significance.”

  I wasn’t sure if Liya gave any credence to my tale, but she did explain the symbolism. “It’s a sprig of rue fashioned of silver. Both the plant and the metal are sacred to the goddess Diana.”

  “What are these charms dangling from the branches?”

  “Let’s see. Each cimaruta is different, made according to the wearer’s inclinations.” She turned the bright amulet to catch the sunlight. “Here’s a half moon, in its waning phase, to banish evil. And this little five-petaled flower is vervain, for purification. The fish is for health and strength. And…what’s this one?” She wrinkled her brow.

  I bent my gaze to her palm and poked at the tiny charm with my forefinger. Telling her what I’d already observed, I said, “It seems to be a cross.”

  “So it is,” she whispered under her breath, “a Christian cross.”

  She raised her chin to look me in the eye. “Tito,” she said with grim foreboding. “What have you gotten yourself into?”

  ***

  After delivering Liya to the theater and making plans to meet again, I spent the rest of the afternoon snooping. My first stop was No. 38, Piazza di Spagna, but Tucci had not returned home. It must have given the singer quite a turn to see the rival he had been following in the company of someone he counted as a friend. Nearby, I spotted several boys playing tag on the magnificent flight of steps that swoops up to a twin-towered church overlooking the square. The boys knew Tucci as “the scarecrow man with the puppets” and showed me the little park where he often staged a show on Sunday afternoons.

  With nothing more to be done in that quarter, I hired a carriage to return to the villa. On my order, the driver set me down when we reached the edge of the estate. I wanted to take another look at the pavilion without Rossobelli hanging over my shoulder. I raced up the path until I reached the half open gate, then slowed to slink from tree to tree. This part of the garden seemed deserted, but voices from the hothouse that served the villa’s kitchen floated over the hedges and cypress trees. Realizing that I was behaving in a ridiculously suspicious manner, I forced myself to stand tall and stroll toward the pavilion as if I had every right to be enjoying the cardinal’s garden.

  Once inside the rustic little building, I hesitated a moment to let my eyes adjust to the dim light admitted by the thick ivy lacing the window lattices. Gradually I saw that little had changed in the few hours since I’d first viewed Gemma’s corpse. The three benches made a circle in the center of the pebbled floor, and the pyramid of terra cotta pots sat to one side. No more gauzy scarves or pagan amulets were in evidence, either inside or out.

  The hidden doorway was shut, its stucco front tight against carved pilasters of dark wood on each side. It failed to yield to my prodding and poking, so I stood back to study the swags of flowers and festoons of fruit chiseled into the oak. About knee level, a cornucopia of oranges contained one piece of fruit that looked slightly different from the rest. I bent to look closely: not an orange depicted there, but a coin bearing the crest of some long-ago ruler. Of course, a coin made perfect sense. Rossobelli had told me that the original owner of the palazzo was a banker. Using two fingers, I pressed the circle into the wood and was rewarded with a grating creak and a sliver of damp darkness.

  My skin prickled at the thought of traversing the old aqueduct again, but I forced my feet onto the stone stairway nevertheless. Rossobelli had seemed quite at home in the tunnel; I doubted that he was the only resident of the villa who knew of its existence. I ran my hands around the inside of the jamb and soon discovered a used, but serviceable candle in a holder complete with flint box. I struck a spark and got a feeble light going. Not yet cognizant of the door’s mechanism from the inside, I folded my handkerchief into a tight square and wedged it in the catch before descending the steps.

  I took a deep breath as I lowered my head to enter the aqueduct itself. The air was different here: thin, cold, with a metallic tang that coated the back of my throat. The stillness was profound, so deep that my breathing sounded as loud as the wheeze of a blacksmith’s bellows. I moved haltingly forward on a downward slope, keeping my eyes alert for I knew not what. If the damp walls held any secrets, they did not reveal them to me. At my feet, the seam that I had stumbled over the night before was the only irregular feature in the blocks polished smooth by slow-dragging centuries of flowing water.

  After what seemed like an eternity of groping through the chill gloom, daylight from the distal end of the tunnel shone as a dim pinprick and quickly expanded to a welcome thumbprint of blue. In the growing light, my attention was drawn by some curious shading on the ceiling between me and the mouth of the tunnel.

  I raised my candle and my stomach contracted into a tight ball. Bats—hundreds of them—clustered in furry knots not a foot from my head.

  By reflex, I jerked my head into my collar and scrambled my way to the opening as fast as my feet would move. I dropped the candle in my ignominious flight, but it was of no consequence. Nothing could tempt me to enter that aqueduct again.

  Blinking my eyes in the afternoon sun, heartily glad that the bats had slumbered on, I brushed myself off and searched the densely packed bushes for a way to the river bank. Opposite the mouth of the tunnel, broken branches marked the spot where Rossobelli had pushed through last night, but a quick inspection revealed something more promising. A short distance away, a sinuous path snaked its way through the brush. I examined the tips of the branches as I passed. No ragged edges or broken twigs here; they were as smoothly clipped as the hedges in the villa’s garden.

  The Tiber’s yellow waters lapped at the bank where Rossobelli and I had laid Gemma’s body. I paused there for a few moments, hanging my head at the thought of her rowboat cortege and final resting place. A bell from a church across the river tolled the hour. Five o’clock. The cardinal would soon be calling for his nightingale. With a sense of unease, as if I’d left something important undone, I followed the bank until I found a steep path up to the Lungara and flew back to my cage on swift wings.

  Chapter Ten

  A footman whose face I didn’t recognize was manning the main entrance. The bronze doors had barely thudded shut behind me when Rossobelli appeared and fastened himself to my elbow. Before keeping my appointment with Liya, I’d been obliged to ask his permission for an excursion across the Tiber. He’d given me leave with a return of his fawning manner, which was now joined by a nauseating whiff of collusion that he conveyed by resting his pink-rimmed eyes on mine in long, meaningful stares. I attempted to shrink away from him with even more determination than I had that morning.

  “I know I’m later than I said, Rossobelli, but I had…er, some business to attend to…”

  “Indeed, and a fine day it is for…business,” he interrupted, tightening his grip.

  “Has Cardinal Fabiani asked for me?”

  He nodded, writhing in mock deference. “As much as it pains me to hurry you—with so many matters of import that must require your attention—but His Eminence is lying down and would very much enjoy a serenade. I would take i
t as a particular favor if you would go right up.”

  “Of course.” I swallowed a sigh.

  He released me with an encouraging nod.

  I started toward the stairs, but not before I’d taken a good look at the secretary’s spider-fingered hands. Back in the garden, I’d tried to picture the fatal attack. I imagined Gemma wandering the paths in search of the marchesa or perhaps waiting for someone on one of the ironwork benches in the pavilion. The girl must have been taken by surprise, or have known her assailant well enough to let him draw close. Either way, when the scarf tightened around her neck, she would have put up a desperate fight. Anyone with access to the villa and grounds could have wielded one of the marchesa’s discarded scarves, but only Gemma’s killer would have scratches from her clawing fingernails on his hands and wrists.

  Rossobelli was sending me on my way to the cardinal’s suite with one of his obsequious half-bows. Angry-looking red scabs decorated the fleshy mound of his out-stretched palm.

  “Goodness.” I halted in my tracks. “You’ve hurt your hand.”

  “No, not at all.” He immediately straightened, making tight fists right and left. “It’s nothing.”

  “But it is. You must have that seen to.”

  The abate shot his gaze around the hall, making sure that the footman was well away at his post, then whispered in a most unservile growl. “Shut up, you fool. When I fell last night, I caught myself with my hand. The less said about it the better.”

  It was my turn to bow and continue up the stairs.

  The cardinal’s commodious suite was awhirl with sky blue livery, as full of people as I had expected to find it the night before. Amid the stuffy grandeur, several footmen adjusted widow draperies, while another arranged a vase of flowers. From a sweating silver carafe, the cardinal’s valet poured a golden ribbon of wine into a cup on a nightstand already crowded with vials of drops and potions. Fabiani was abed, squirming and thrashing in an effort to find a comfortable resting place. Even for a nap, he capped his head with the cardinalate scarlet, a satin nightcap of Turkish style whose folds gleamed against the snow-white pillow case. When his servants saw me, they paused in mid-activity and seemed to heave a collective sigh of relief.