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  Montorio set his cup down, propped an elbow on the arm of his chair, and drummed his fingers against his cheek. “Now, have you managed to uncover Fabiani’s intentions regarding the election?”

  “The cardinal is a man of great taste and diplomacy. He seldom brings politics into social conversation.”

  “Half the city observed you at the opera last night.” He grinned at my surprise. “Surely you realize that Romans find the drama in the boxes even more interesting than the action on the stage. Did you learn nothing in the hours you spent in close confines with Fabiani and Pompetti?”

  “Several things struck me, but as an outsider, I can’t vouch for their certainty.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that. Proceed.”

  “Though his parentage comes from the left side of the blanket, the Cardinal Padrone is exceedingly proud of his connection to Pope Clement and most anxious to hold onto the privilege that comes with it. When a new pope takes the throne, Fabiani won’t be content to be swept out the doors with the rest of the current crop of officials. He desires an important role in the next administration.”

  Montorio nodded. “That’s well understood and promises have been exchanged. Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “Prince Pompetti is sowing seeds of doubt. At every opportunity, he reminds Fabiani that you have numerous relatives and associates who would expect an advantageous redistribution of appointments, benefices, and offices. Relatives who would resent rewards going to a non-Venetian.”

  A hollow laugh escaped the cardinal’s mouth. “Fabiani knows the game. A papal election is like a fresh hand of cards. Every new deal brings on a different set of punters to replace those whose luck has run out.”

  “But Prince Pompetti is quick to point out that Cardinal Di Noce has no family or hangers-on and that he may well be open to the guiding hand of one well-versed in statecraft.”

  Montorio reached for a fork and drew trails through a yellow splash of congealed egg yolk on the plate before him. “Is Fabiani swayed by Pompetti’s arguments?”

  “He’s listening. I know that.”

  The cardinal rose, showering the floor with crumbs. He crossed to the hallway door and cracked it open. Satisfying himself that no one was hovering on the other side, he returned to his chair and pushed his breakfast cart away. Leaning forward with elbows on knees, he said, “Antonio will be livid if Fabiani reneges on our agreement.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “But for me, it would be a gift from heaven.”

  Surprise welded my tongue to the roof of my mouth.

  “I have other interests, you see. I’m quite comfortable here, studying the marvels of the natural world and devising new experimentations. My ambassador’s duties are few. I attend the necessary events, say a few Masses, and my staff of clerks handles the paperwork. But the Quirinal…it’s a different world! Has Fabiani taken you there?”

  I shook my head.

  “The formality is excruciating. Every act of daily life has its own ceremonial practice. The pope can’t even evacuate his bowels without a squad of monsignori and macebearers in attendance.”

  “Surely it’s not as bad as all that?”

  “Perhaps I exaggerate. But the rules of behavior are rigorous and enforced by court officials whose highest ambition is to bolster the status of their pontiff and thus improve their own lots. They would give me no latitude for natural philosophy. Or…” He jerked his head toward the bed “…some of my baser pleasures. No, I want to go on as I am. Being elected pope is my nightmare.”

  Cardinal Montorio gazed at me in stony silence. I realized that I’d been holding my breath. I let it out with a sigh that was met by a draft of air from some unseen place. The drapes on the bed frame gently rose and fell. When I spoke, my voice held a tremor. “Senator Antonio Montorio believes otherwise.”

  “My brother is accustomed to having his way. I’ve heard of special ships that explorers use in northern waters. Icecutters they call them. With prows of iron for breaking through icebound seas. That is how I think of Antonio. Because it is easier to break than resist, most everyone in the family lets him plow right through. But not me, not this time.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m already doing it. Clement isn’t dead yet, and a few Italian cardinals who believe in a godly Church remain undecided on his successor. I’m working on them.”

  “On Di Noce’s behalf?”

  He nodded.

  “But…I’m supposed to be pushing your cause with Fabiani. Alessandro’s freedom, perhaps his very life, depends on it.”

  “I’m giving you a different charge. I want you to feed Fabiani information that will send him running straight to Di Noce’s camp. Tell him that Antonio means to cut him out entirely.” Montorio jumped up and started to pace. As he warmed to his plan, his words spilled out faster and faster and his eyes held a feverish gleam. “Once Clement is dead, there will be no need for a Cardinal Padrone. I’m a man in my prime, not a blind invalid dependant on his bastard son. Tell Fabiani that I’ll make Antonio a cardinal—there’s nothing to stand in my way—my brother’s wife died last year. Then I’ll appoint him as my Secretary of State, and together we’ll plunder the papal treasury for Venice.”

  He came to rest behind my chair. I turned my head, and he placed his lumpy face only inches from mine. “Are you agreed?”

  “I can’t tell Fabiani that,” I cried. “Don’t you understand what will happen to Alessandro if I oppose the senator?”

  Montorio straightened and pushed back the sleeves of his dressing gown. “Antonio is powerful, but he doesn’t control every last cousin and nephew. Besides Massimo, there are others loyal to me. One works in the doge’s prison. Help me, and I’ll have him arrange Alessandro’s escape.”

  “Escape?” I sprang from my chair. “But then Alessandro could never return to Venice. His ship is there, his livelihood. Venice is our home, for God’s sake.” I gave my head a violent shake. “An escape is no good. Alessandro needs to be released with his name cleared. Anything else would be a travesty of justice.”

  “At least Alessandro would be alive.” Montorio crossed his arms over his round belly. He eyed me with a sorrowful gaze. “In your case, Tito, a brother without a home is much preferable to one swinging from a gibbet.”

  I thought desperately. How could I be sure that the cardinal was telling the truth? Even if he did have a confederate in the prison, switching loyalty from Antonio to Stefano could be a dangerous strategy. Besides, the thought of a Montorio turning down a position of almost infinite power was hard to believe.

  “What about Ancona?” I asked finally. “Venice is counting on you to stop the port project. If Ancona is revived, Venice will see her trade move south. Your own family’s business would suffer.”

  Montorio crossed the floor to a map of the Venetian Empire. Toying with a ring on his forefinger, he stared at the puzzle of interlacing territories for a few long moments. Turning his attention back to me, he said, “Our city has always found a way to enrich herself. Whether ferrying crusaders to the Holy Land or penetrating the remotest regions of Asia for silks and oriental luxuries, Venice has managed to survive in glory.”

  “It’s not so easy these days. Even Doge Pisani is cash strapped, they say.”

  “Don’t worry.” He shrugged. “Venice is making a new name for herself as the whoremistress of Europe. The rise of Ancona can’t stop that any more than a mosquito could drop an African elephant. Venice will survive as the city of endless Carnival and so will the house of Montorio.”

  “Then what about…God?” I hesitated, struggling to come to grips with notions I usually left to the priests. “Perhaps God means for you to do great things as pope. Maybe that’s what all this is about.”

  He frowned. “Come with me,” he ordered, pivoting on his heel.

 
Chapter Thirteen

  Whether they rise from shining canals or paved avenues, the palazzi of Venice and Rome share a similar design. The gardens and ground floor rooms are spacious and formal, dedicated to public life. The next level, the piano nobile with its salons and dining rooms, is used to entertain extended family and friends. The owners of these grand bastions of privilege, and the servants who wait on them, occupy the upper floors. A personal suite consists of several rooms connected in linear fashion that move from the most public to the most private. A visitor is first received into an antechamber attended by under footmen. The more important the visitor, the more quickly senior servants conduct him to the sitting room. In most cases, the bed chamber lies at the end of the line, but at the Venetian ambassador’s residence, Cardinal Montorio had reserved the most secluded retreat for his scientific workroom.

  As he pushed open the door at the back of his bed chamber, we stood on the threshold of a world unknown to me. The door was padded with thick batting and the windows draped with heavy fabric. An acrid, musty odor met my nose, and light from several lamps glinted off brass instruments whose purpose had me completely mystified. Animals in glass cases, frozen in time by the taxidermist’s art, hung from the ceiling and sat on shelves. I searched the shadows for Lenci, but couldn’t locate him. He must have hared off once he had carried out his uncle’s command. The abate hadn’t passed through the bed chamber, so I assumed the thick drapery must conceal another entrance.

  The cardinal strode straight to a table which held a tubular cylinder fashioned of mahogany and green leather rising from a brass tripod. “Here, Tito. You spoke of God. Have you ever seen him?”

  I shook my head, wondering what game Montorio was playing at.

  “Come, take a look. Observe the face of our creator.”

  I approached gingerly. Lenci had illuminated a lamp that shone onto a tilted mirror positioned at the base of the tripod. I now saw that the upright cylinder overhung a saucer, and on that saucer was a flat strip of wood punctuated by transparent circles the size of a coin. At Montorio’s urging, I closed one eye and screwed the other to the eyepiece. A fuzzy blob swam in a circle of light.

  “I can’t make anything out,” I said.

  “Adjust the tilt of the mirror. The light must strike the specimen directly.”

  My fumblings only made the circle of light disappear entirely. Montorio took charge of the instrument, and after twisting this and tweaking that, bade me try again.

  I bent to the eyepiece. My stomach lurched. A monstrous beast lay at the other end of the tube. Its huge eyes bulged, two sharp horns stabbed the air, and six furry legs ended in claws that clutched a tree branch.

  “What is that?” I asked, springing back.

  Montorio chuckled. “A louse. On a human hair.”

  “Impossible.”

  “It’s more than possible, it’s true. This is an enlarging instrument. Some call it a microscope. There are lenses in that tube that can magnify a flea to the size of a camel.”

  I met his words with a dubious expression.

  “You’re familiar with spectacles, aren’t you?”

  “My father couldn’t read without them.”

  “This is the same idea, only these lenses possess a stronger magnifying capability. My telescope on the roof is even more powerful. With it, I can examine the moon as if it were a wheel of cheese suspended right in front of my face.”

  I had never been a much of a student. The priest at our little parish school taught me letters and simple sums, but once I’d been exiled to the conservatorio in Naples, lessons in vocalizing occupied most of my waking hours. The maestros fed us only scraps of humanities, rhetoric, and philosophy. Why waste time on academics when our golden throats were all that really mattered? Cardinal Montorio was delving into realms of knowledge that I’d barely heard of.

  “A louse, you say?” I stepped back toward the instrument. “I had no idea. This little fellow is so intricate, so detailed. I can see the joints on his legs, like double pairs of knees. And he has whiskers on his chin.” Intrigued, I studied the specimen for some minutes in silence. Then I remembered Montorio’s earlier claim. “But what does this insect have to do with God?”

  “Everything. The microscope proves that we’re part and parcel of an awesome creation—a universe of marvels that we can only see the tiniest part of. Even the smallest creatures among us display the most elaborate symmetry and rationality of intent.” He clapped a hand on my shoulder. “I want you to observe the louse’s whiskers again. See them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now imagine that he is infested with his own lice clinging to those whiskers. And that those animalcules have more hairs and even smaller lice. And so on and so on.”

  I straightened and shook my head, dizzied by the thought.

  “That’s where God is,” Montorio stated emphatically. “Not in the ancient superstitions of the Church, not in the dusty words I repeat at every Mass, but in the elegance and beauty of an ordinary louse. We live in wondrous times, Tito, that such instruments as this can act as a signpost on the path toward truth.”

  “And what is the truth, Your Eminence?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? The revelation for the coming age is that the Almighty has a plan far beyond our ken, much more important than the salvation of our meager souls.”

  I cleared my throat, suddenly uncomfortable. An icy shiver ran up my spine. Though he was a servant of the church, Cardinal Montorio embraced a philosophy as blasphemous as Liya’s pagan beliefs.

  “I must go,” I said, turning toward the padded door.

  “Yes, you must,” he agreed. “Go convince Fabiani to muster his forces for Cardinal Di Noce. I don’t care how you do it. Pretend you’re angry and paint Antonio and me to be as bad as you wish. Or use your guile and make Fabiani think you’re letting secrets slip. Just do as I ask and your brother will go free.” He winked. “You can count on me.”

  I tarried long enough for one more question. “Your nephew must be a great help in your scientific endeavors. Abate Lenci told me about an experiment you conducted night before last—an electrical experiment that resulted in a lot of broken glass. Did he get it all cleaned up?”

  A frown creased Montorio’s forehead. “You must be speaking of the Leyden jars. In the proper conditions, glass jars can be forced to condense electrical fluid. You see…” He gestured to a wooden case holding a quartet of jars stoppered with ball-tipped metal rods. “All the jars are present and accounted for. Not even cracked. I am a master of electrical experimentations, hardly likely to break anything. I wonder why Massimo saw fit to mention such a thing.”

  Suspecting I might know why, I merely nodded, tucked my hat under my arm, and left Cardinal Montorio to his contemplation of the universe.

  ***

  Outside the Palazzo Venezia, a cold rain fell in intermittent bursts, forcing me to turn up the collar of my cloak and pull my tricorne low on my forehead. Hugging the building to shield myself from the drops and avoid the muck thrown by hooves and carriage wheels, I turned in the direction of the Tiber. If the day had turned out fine, Liya was to meet me at the park where Signor Tucci staged his puppet operas. We’d made no plans to cover the eventuality of bad weather. Nevertheless, I was unable to contemplate setting off for any destination other than the lodging she shared with a woman who ran a cookshop in the Trastevere. Liya had described its location with the exactitude of the fine, neat stitches she’d always used to fashion my headdresses at the Teatro San Marco: two blocks straight up from the Ponte Sisto, a sharp left at the Via Della Scala, left again at the first alley, third doorway on the right.

  I made haste until I reached the bridge, then found my steps flagging. It required no stretch of the imagination to blame the blustery afternoon for my growing ill humor. All around me, eaves dripped, chimneys howled w
ith ghostly wails, and streets ran with rivulets of stinking filth. Everyone with good sense had shuttered themselves into a room with a warm fire. But as I hopped a murky stream descending from the Trastevere, I had to admit that it was more likely the unsettling session with Cardinal Montorio that had raised all my doubts and insecurities to a fever pitch.

  From childhood, I’d attended Mass with my family and schoolmates as a thing of habit. But what did I believe, really? I certainly knew right from wrong and suffered pangs of conscience when I was selfish or less than kind. I suppose I’d always felt that if I made things right in my corner of the world, God and his angels and saints would take care of the rest. Cardinal Montorio had opened my eyes to a much wider view. Lighting a candle at the foot of a plaster saint or confessing my sins of profanity or impure thoughts seemed almost irrelevant when compared to his study of the boundless marvels of the natural world.

  Liya undoubtedly held still different beliefs, a strange creed that I could only guess at. As the overhanging balconies of the alley off the Via Della Scala closed over my head, I wondered why I was so anxious to keep company with a woman who had given herself over to sorcery. My uneasy thoughts fixed on visions of Liya in a circle of black-hooded crones, muttering incantations and summoning evil spirits—eerie, impish things with leather wings and burning eyes. I proceeded even more slowly.

  When I located the cookshop, a deep building only ten to twelve feet in width, I didn’t go in. A handpainted sign nailed between the one window and the solid door read “The Laughing Frog—cooked meat and sauce,” and carried the crudely executed drawing of a frog with a gaping grin. Many of the poor lacked ovens and frequented shops like these to either eat their dinner or carry it home. Indeed, the alley was ripe with the smell of garlic, oregano, and braised beef. A long whiff made my head swim, and my stomach reminded me that I’d had nothing to eat since the night before. No one had yet seen me; the warm interior and chill outside air had turned the panes of the narrow window to clouded squares. Perhaps I should just return to the Villa Fabiani, have my dinner, and consider where an association with a strega might lead.