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  “Quite unusual,” Fabiani said. “Are they Roman?”

  “Etruscan,” Pompetti countered. “The metal was mined and the earrings crafted while the Romans were still living in huts on the banks of the Tiber.”

  “Don’t tell me those baubles have been buried in the dirt since then.”

  Pompetti smiled. “Not at all. They’ve been cherished and handed down through the centuries. The Etruscan elite didn’t disappear when the Romans traded their plows for swords and overran Italy. The more intelligent among them welcomed their conquerors, accepted the new government, then simply continued with their old ways.”

  Lady Mary cleared her throat. “The Roman Senate was full of representatives from Etruscan families. Faliscan and Umbrian, too. Many of them settled in the capital and took Roman brides.” She beamed at the prince. “Aurelio’s own lineage dates back to the ancient rulers of Arretium.”

  “As did the previous owners of the earrings,” Pompetti said. “It wasn’t an antiquarian’s spade that acquired them. Merely newly minted gold, a large purse of it.” He shrugged, gazing at Lady Mary’s ears. “But it was worth it, well worth it.”

  The prince needed no prodding to elaborate on the exploits of his ancestors. A Pompetti officer, it seemed, had commanded a legion that fought Hannibal and his elephants during the Carthaginian war, and a later Pompetti soldier had helped Caesar scour Gaul. After the fall of Rome, the family turned from military to diplomatic endeavors. According to the prince, it was a Pompetti who filled Charlemagne’s head with visions of a Christian empire as great as that of the Caesars and watched as Pope Leo crowned the Frankish king as Emperor of the Romans. Oblivious to Fabiani’s growing restlessness, Pompetti lectured us with rising vehemence and a fervent gleam in his eyes. He might have gone on forever if the cardinal hadn’t interrupted by calling for the servants to clear the table.

  Roberto winced as a fellow footman piled his tray with soiled china and silver. My eyes were on his bent, retreating back as I did some sums in my head. “How can you trace your lineage back so many centuries?” I asked the prince.

  Pompetti shrugged. “It is each generation’s duty to preserve our unique history. My family has been telling the same stories for well over a thousand years.”

  Cardinal Fabiani raised his wineglass. “Before we have the pleasure of hearing Albertini again, let us toast the illustrious house of Pompetti that has brought so much to our venerable city.” His words were pretty, but the expression on his face had turned peevish, I thought.

  The prince must have agreed with me. Like the skilled diplomat he was, Pompetti matched Fabiani’s toast with a compliment of his own. “Though my family history may stretch back to the misty reaches of time, it will never be as exalted as Your Eminence’s.”

  Fabiani smiled broadly. I supposed the bastard son of a pope trumped an Etruscan descendant every time.

  Chapter Twelve

  The next morning being Sunday, I presented myself as instructed for Mass at San Marco, a medieval church attached to the sprawling complex that housed the Venetian delegation to the Papal court. The palazzo itself was a massive building of three stories topped by a crenellated roof and square tower that made it look more like a fortress than a residence. The church was much less forbidding and immediately reminded me of home. As I took my place, it did my heart good to see our patron saint’s winged lion depicted in stone and stained glass, and to hear the soft Venetian dialect whispered among my countrymen. Once settled in a pew towards the back of the church, I slid to my knees and offered a heartfelt prayer for Alessandro and all those I’d left behind. An organ soon wheezed to life, and a column of clerics marched down the aisle, swaying in time to the stately processional, wafting incense from brass censers.

  It surprised me when an elderly bishop took the celebrant’s place at the high altar where I had expected to see Cardinal Stefano Montorio. Puzzled, I let my gaze drift around the church’s dim interior. On the left side of the nave, an abate peered around the third column from the entrance. His suit of dour black was enlivened by generous ruffles of lace at the neck and wrist. Lenci, of course. He pointed toward the door and crooked a finger in an unmistakable gesture for me to follow. Excellent. I was anxious to put several questions to the young man.

  Murmuring apologies as I trod on feet and disarranged the hats of the ladies crowding the pew before me, I made my way to the side aisle and followed Lenci outside to a colonnade that spanned the church and palazzo. He halted in the exact center of the columned walk. Through the archways, I saw a garden courtyard planted with rose trees stripped bare by winter. Gray clouds filled the patch of visible sky, and a damp chill made me shiver in my cloak. No one else was about. The only sounds were the muffled clatter of carriages from the Corso on the other side of the palazzo and the droning of the choir from the church behind us.

  Lenci’s freckled face appeared paler than usual, but he gave me a lopsided grin and said, “Zio Stefano is a bit…indisposed. He’s still in his rooms and sent me to fetch you. I hope you don’t mind missing Mass.”

  “Not at all. I’m anxious to get this interview with Cardinal Montorio over as soon as possible.”

  Lenci nodded, sucking at his lower lip. “You have news for my uncle?”

  “It’s been difficult. Cardinal Fabiani is as self-contained as an oyster. But, yes, there are a few things I’ve noticed.”

  Lenci started toward the entrance to the palazzo but stopped when I sank down on a bench in the archway.

  “I thought you were in a hurry,” he said.

  “I am. It’s just…I thought you might be able to help me. Something has happened at the villa…something puzzling.”

  “What?”

  Watching his face closely, I chose my words with care. “A girl disappeared rather suddenly, a servant who takes care of the old marchesa. Gemma is her name. Do you know her?”

  Lenci furrowed his smooth brow and scratched his head with theatrical aplomb. Finally he replied, “I think I know who you mean.”

  “I noticed that you greeted her quite warmly on the evening I arrived at the villa.”

  The abate cleared his throat. “You have a sharp eye, Signor Amato. I might as well admit it—I know Gemma.”

  “How well?”

  “Well enough. I see her whenever we can both get away.” He shrugged and smiled. “A man needs an outlet, and it’s no secret that I was pushed into holy orders. Still, I’d rather that Zio Stefano not know about Gemma.”

  “He wouldn’t approve?”

  “Definitely not, but only because he takes his pleasure with professionals and advises that those around him do the same. Zio Stefano says that only a fool risks having a serving wench with a big belly follow him around demanding money to raise an unborn child.”

  I nodded. That sounded like typical Montorio logic. “Are you in love with Gemma?”

  “How romantic you are. Let’s just say I’m fond of her. If she’d been born to a higher station, perhaps things would be different. But Gemma is a servant, she serves a purpose…” He looked me quickly up and down, as if he’d just been reminded that I was a castrato “…perhaps one you can’t appreciate.”

  How little the boy knew. I smothered a sharp reply and instead inquired, “Is that what she would say of you, Lenci? You serve a purpose?”

  He chuckled mirthlessly. “I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her?”

  “I can’t. She’s gone.”

  He gave a faint shrug.

  “Rossobelli told the other servants that Gemma left without warning, but not one of them saw her go.”

  Another shrug.

  “You’re not worried?”

  “Not really. Gemma will be back.”

  I thought of the watery grave, the ripples of moonlight on the Tiber as Benelli and I rolled Gemma’s body
out of the boat. Still I asked, “Perhaps you know where she is?”

  “I can only guess. I can’t meet Gemma as often as I’d like. As you know, my time is hardly my own. Looking after the old lady doesn’t give Gemma many excuses to slip away, either. Last time we met, she was excited about a new task that Fabiani had set her to.”

  “What new task?”

  Lenci didn’t answer right away. He gazed out at the barren garden, then put one foot on the bench and pulled a snuffbox from his waistcoat. He offered it to me. A cube of tortoiseshell with silver mounts nestled in the extravagant lace cuffs that brushed his fingertips. I shook my head.

  Busying himself with his tobacco, he replied, “Let me see. She was babbling from the moment we met, but I confess that I was more interested in unlacing her bodice and getting her out of her shift than attending to her words. Surely you’ve noticed her incomparable…oh, never mind. Of course, you’re only interested in Fabiani’s intrigues.” He bent his nose to his hand, covered one nostril, and inhaled the weed with the other. On a sneeze, he continued, “After, when we were both in a half-doze, she said that Fabiani was loaning her out to the Palazzo Pompetti. An English lady staying there as a guest had need of a hairdresser for special occasions.”

  “Lady Mary Sysonby.”

  “Yes, that was the name. Gemma said that Lady Mary’s petticoats were ragged at the hem and her head was stuffed with unfashionable interests—intellectual pursuits that you’d expect from a literary gentleman, or even a schoolmaster. Despite her worn linen and tiresome discourse, the lady possessed enough vanity to demand coiffures that could compete with the acknowledged beauties of Roman society.”

  “Surely Lady Mary has her own maid.”

  “Alas, not one skilled in creating the edifices currently fashionable in Rome. Have you seen the things ladies are putting on their heads these days? Not just flowers, but whole bouquets, and they’ve gone from using one plume to the whole bird. What’s next? Live canaries in cages?”

  “Why did Fabiani send Gemma?”

  “She’s a skilled coiffeur. When the marchesa still went out in society, Gemma dressed her hair to perfection.”

  “I mean…”

  “I know what you mean,” he put in as he bent to treat his other nostril. “Why would Fabiani want to give up his mother’s experienced keeper?”

  “Yes.”

  After a resounding sneeze, Lenci answered, “Gemma was absolutely preening her feathers about that. Bragged about gaining the cardinal’s trust and being sent on an important mission. She was already drooling over the gold crowns that Fabiani promised as a reward.”

  “For arranging hair?”

  Lenci raised an eyebrow. “Gemma was to be as much a hair dresser as you are a singer.”

  I nodded. “Fabiani sent her to spy in the Pompetti household.”

  “Of course. Have you not wondered why a prince of Rome’s highest nobility is championing a dusty little cardinal with no connections and no lineage?”

  “I have.”

  “Apparently so has Fabiani. Di Noce’s piety and generosity impress the rabble, but it takes more than virtue to gain the patronage of a prince. Gemma was to do some digging at the Palazzo Pompetti and report back. That’s probably where she is now. Knowing my clever girl, I’d guess that she’s made herself indispensable to Lady Mary and been hired on full-time.”

  “When did she tell you about this new commission?”

  “New Year’s Day. Right before I left for Venice to collect you.”

  My fingernails scraped the stone of the bench as my hands balled into fists. At the dawn of the new year, I’d been on the other side of the Alps, happily speeding towards the refuge of home and family. What a fool I’d been! As I’d enjoyed the mountain scenery unfolding through the coach window, I might as well have been a witless beast being carted to the slaughter pen. My nails dug into my palms. Suddenly, I wanted to lash out and hit something, or someone, very hard.

  Lenci regarded me with his head cocked to one side, blue eyes questioning. Throughout our conversation, I’d seen no deceit or guile in those eyes. Where Gemma was concerned, the abate displayed the manners of a budding cad, but that made him no different than most aristocratic tyros. If he were guilty of her murder, I very much doubted that he’d have been able to answer my questions without some sign of distress. And Lenci was not the cause of my family’s disaster. He was merely another hapless creature herded along by his uncles’ lust for power. I exhaled deeply, relaxed my hands, and stood.

  “We should be going,” I said.

  “Absolutely. God forbid that Zio Stefano be kept waiting.” The abate produced a cambric handkerchief and flipped his cuffs back to wipe his hands clean of tobacco. My fists clenched again. Perhaps I was an even bigger fool than I thought. Both of Lenci’s hands displayed a ladder of scabbed scratches.

  “Where did you go night before last, after Cardinal Fabiani’s conversazioni?” I forced my tongue to form the words casually, but Lenci leapt to his guard.

  He drew his chin back. “Is that any of your business?”

  “Maybe not, but would it hurt to tell me?”

  He answered with a roll of his eyes. “Zio Stefano required my help in his workroom. We supped in haste as soon as we arrived back at the palazzo. Then he had me set up one of his infernal electrical experiments. We were making sparks until well past midnight.”

  “Is that where you injured your hands?”

  He glanced down. “Yes, this electricity seems to have a mind of its own. There was a lot of broken glass—another one of Zio Stefano’s projects gone awry.”

  I inclined my head with a smile that I hoped he would interpret as sympathetic.

  ***

  Moving at a dogtrot, Lenci led me through a network of resplendent hallways and staircases. Footmen in liveries of bright ultramarine sprang to open doors, and maids balancing loads of linen or lugging buckets of coal scurried out of our path. By the time we reached Stefano Montorio’s suite, I was panting for breath.

  “What took you so long?” the cardinal snapped. He paced in his dressing gown and glanced from Lenci to the fourpost bed where a young blond of ample proportions made no effort to cover her naked bosom or thighs. She beamed us a smile, then pink flesh jiggled and quivered as she rose to her knees to ransack the tangled counterpane for her underclothes and stockings. Lenci ogled unabashedly, while I attempted to cover my embarrassment by moving to one of the long windows and gazing down on the Corso as intently as if Pope Clement himself were turning handsprings down that famous avenue.

  “The girl needs paying,” Montorio continued, “and I need my breakfast. I sent for it nearly an hour ago.”

  Lenci extracted some coins from his calfskin purse. Rattling the silver in his fist to speed the lady’s desultory efforts to dress herself, he pulled the nearest bellcord. I heard Lenci upbraid the footman who had the bad luck to answer his ring, and mercifully soon, the arrival of the cardinal’s breakfast cart coincided with the departure of his nighttime companion.

  “Tito, what are you doing over in that corner?” Montorio asked. “Come talk to me while I see what the cook has decided to poison me with this morning.”

  I moved to the center of the handsome apartment of old-fashioned oak paneling. A Persian carpet the size of a small campo covered the floor; parchment maps of Venice and her imperial territories decorated the dark walls.

  The cardinal dug his fingers into the flesh under his ribs. “I swear, everything I eat turns to wind these days.” Then, snapping his fingers at Lenci, he said, “Massimo, chairs if you please.”

  I sat in the chair that Lenci shoved my way but remained silent as Montorio gulped his chocolate and gobbled fried pastries. He had a habit of filling one cheek, munching slowly, then sliding the mass into the other cheek to savor every last morsel.
As the wind began to rattle the window panes, I tried mightily to rid my mind of the image of a piglet being fattened for the Easter table. Montorio demolished a plate of eggs and several other dishes before he sat back to clean his teeth with an ivory pick. Finally, he got down to business.

  “So, Tito. How are you faring at the Villa Fabiani?”

  Intent on making my scraps of information seem as significant as possible, I had rehearsed my piece a hundred times. But after watching Montorio stuff his belly amid the luxuries of his bed chamber, and comparing that with what my brother must be existing on while confined in a damp cell of the doge’s prison, my carefully crafted words dissolved on my tongue. To my astonishment, I heard myself snarl, “Better than Alessandro, surely. At least I’m warm and dry.”

  Montorio lowered his pick and swung his gaze to his nephew. “What’s he talking about?”

  “Alessandro, the sailor brother. You remember. Zio Antonio felt Tito would need additional inducement to support your cause.”

  “Yes, quite.” The cardinal gave a small burp, then fixed me with a calculating look. “You’re on a mission of sorts, eh Tito? Your goal is not so much to see me elected pope as to gain your brother’s freedom.”

  “I admit it. Who is elevated to St. Peter’s throne means little to me, but Alessandro means a great deal.”

  The corpulent cardinal took another sip of chocolate, then waved his hand toward Lenci. “Go set up my microscope in the workroom, boy. I have something to show Tito after we’ve finished our conversation.”

  “But, Zio…”

  “Now, Massimo. Don’t make me ask again.”

  Lenci grimaced and trudged off with the mutinous pout of a youth ordered to his bed chamber for punishment. After he’d slammed a door at the back of the room just a little too loudly, Cardinal Montorio shook his head and smiled. “Massimo is my sister Julia’s youngest. A good boy, really. But Julia spoiled him immeasurably—let him run wild all over the estate instead of schooling him with a tutor. Now, my nephew is paying the price. He finds the conduct of official life much duller than tending his father’s grapes. But he’ll learn…as we all do.”