3 - Cruel Music Read online

  “What are you talking about?” I sputtered. “What have you done to Alessandro?”

  “We’ve been watching your brother. Such a clever, industrious fellow. Alessandro Amato has laid the foundations of a tidy little fortune, sailing every few months with a load of Venetian merchandise and returning with a good grade of Turkish tobacco.”

  “There’s nothing illegal in that.”

  “There is when his ship carries salt.”

  I looked at Alessandro, curled in a ball on the stone floor, chest weakly rising and falling. Blood pounded against my eardrums, and my breath came in ragged pants. My brother had never transported salt. It was strictly contraband. The cultivation of the salt marshes and their prized product was a monopoly of the Venetian government. Any citizen cutting into that profitable trade was considered a traitor to the Republic. Alessandro would never have taken such a grave risk. He didn’t need to.

  “You know my brother is no smuggler.” I flung the words at Montorio with all the force of my well-developed lungs. “You had him arrested because you suspected I wouldn’t play your game.”

  Montorio shrugged and moved to loom over Alessandro. He applied an elegant shoe to my brother’s midsection and rolled him onto his back. A weak groan was Alessandro’s only response.

  “Nevertheless, the harbor inspector found a trunk of salt in the hold of your brother’s ship,” Montorio said, cocking an eyebrow at me.

  “Planted,” I replied fiercely.

  He gave another shrug, another wolfish smile. “I admire you boys. I truly do. Your brother on the seas and you on the stage. Each in your way hearkens back to that enterprising spirit that made our Republic great. I’d like to reach out to you as a friend, to help your family out of this terrible predicament.” He spread his hands. “But I need a sign that my favor would be appreciated and awarded the gratitude it deserves. Do you understand?”

  I unclenched my strained neck muscles long enough to nod my assent.

  “Excellent! I knew we’d talk you around eventually.” The disheveled nobleman nodded at Messer Grande, then continued. “Smuggling is a serious offense, of course, but I have the resources to see that Alessandro’s trial is delayed. Once you’ve set out for Rome, I’ll see that a doctor is called and Alessandro is moved to a cell with a modicum of comfort. Who knows, if your reports advance my brother’s cause, perhaps the evidence against your brother may even disappear. What’s one more trunkful of salt in the lagoon?”

  Montorio stepped over Alessandro and moved to straighten the fabric of my jacket that the sbirri had rumpled. I could barely stop myself from spitting in his face as he tidied my neckcloth and gave me his last command. “Better have your man pack some warm clothing, my friend. Rome can be quite windy in January. We wouldn’t want a cold settling into this golden throat of yours.”

  Chapter Three

  The morning of Epiphany found me aboard a sleek, single-masted tartan bound for Ancona, the eastern port of the Papal States. Before sailing, I’d been allowed a quick visit home, under guard. I thanked heaven that Montorio had not dispatched uniformed constables; a return of the sbirri would have scared the children out of a year’s growth. Instead, the man who hovered at my shoulder while I delivered my bad news to Gussie and Annetta was a clerical gentleman of Montorio’s own retinue, a young abate who would escort me all the way to Rome.

  Abate Lenci was a youth of twenty or so years who looked more like an overgrown choir boy than a career ecclesiastic. His brown curls framed flushed cheeks, and his freckled nose stuck up at a jaunty angle. Only his blue-eyed gaze, wary and shrewd beyond his years, revealed his Montorio character. High-strung as a whippet, the abate guided me through my goodbyes and down to the docks with an insistent hand at the small of my back. I quickly saw that his primary task was to prevent me from dawdling, not escaping. How could I possibly flee, after seeing Alessandro in such a state?

  As dawn’s weak light challenged the night sky with the faintest tinge of mother-of-pearl, we left our cramped quarters and ascended to the wind-swept deck. My manservant, Benito, followed me to the rail, while Lenci pestered a busy sailor with questions about the ship’s capacity. Watching Venice’s familiar domes and towers fade into the mist, numb from anger and exhaustion, I was barely aware of Benito arranging an extra scarf around my throat.

  “Don’t bother,” I whispered. “I don’t care whether I ever sing a note again.”

  Benito thrust his hands back into the woolly muff that hung from a cord around his neck. He cocked his head in bird-like fashion. “Why do you say that, Master?”

  “If it weren’t for my voice, Alessandro would be on his way to Constantinople, not bleeding onto the cold stones of the doge’s prison.”

  “Senator Montorio said that Signor Alessandro would be taken care of as long as you sang for Cardinal Fabiani.”

  I nodded, pretending that the railing I grasped so tightly was Montorio’s sagging, rope-veined neck.

  “And if your throat becomes inflamed,” Benito continued in his calm, motherly fashion, “Fabiani will think you sound like a bullfrog and send you packing. Then Signor Alessandro will be in even worse trouble.” He emphasized his advice by pushing the scarf up closer under my chin.

  Benito was right, of course. He usually was. In his youth, Benito had submitted to the knife and trained as a singer, but his voice had lacked the power needed for a stage career and he’d drifted into personal service. His new career was an excellent fit; Benito had always had an uncanny knack for divining people’s needs and finding ways to fulfill them. This clever, delicate castrato, whose full name was Benedetto Benaducci, had been with me for seven years. He dressed my hair to perfection, had saved my life twice, and never told me less than the truth, even when I fished mightily for compliments.

  I released the railing with a reluctant sigh, and Benito leaned close to whisper, “Is that busybody over there one of Senator Montorio’s sons?”

  I glanced toward Abate Lenci, who was knocking on a stack of casks as if he were a customs inspector. “No, I think the senator’s sons all have government posts. Lenci must be connected through a Montorio sister. I seem to recall that one of the younger ones fell in love with a vineyard owner from the mainland. The alliance caused quite a stir at the time because he was merely nobilita da terra firma…not a founding family and not particularly wealthy. She was allowed to marry for love only because her other sisters had already made such advantageous alliances. Lenci must be her son. And by the by, watch what you say when he’s in earshot. I think he’s cleverer than that boyish face would suggest.”

  As Benito winked to let me know that he had reached the same conclusion, a sail unfurled with the sudden crack of a pistol shot and Lenci’s heavy traveling boots stumbled into a coil of rope that was rapidly unwinding. The hemp slithered around his ankle like a malevolent yellow snake. A pair of sailors elbowed each other in anticipation of an abate swinging from the rigging, but Lenci was quick on his feet. He freed himself with an acrobatic leap and inserted himself on the railing between Benito and me.

  “Why so gloomy, Signor Amato?” Lenci had a honeyed baritone. “We are bound for the most exciting city in the world.”

  “Before your uncle’s men invaded my home last night, excitement was the last thing on my mind.”

  Lenci’s mouth pulled to one side in a knowing grimace. “You’d best find out early, the senator seldom fails to get what he wants. I wanted to travel and see the world…perhaps inspect the wine fields of France and bring some new ideas back to our farm. But my uncle the senator hatched a different plan. When I turned sixteen, Zio Antonio pressed my mother to have me inducted into the church so I could serve my uncle the cardinal. I was less than keen, and Papa protested, but…” He wiped a hand over his mouth.

  Did I detect a rebellious sneer?

  “Before the year was out,”
he continued, “I received minor orders and was made an abate. I’ve been at the end of the senator’s leash ever since.”

  “The senator must have a long leash, to stretch all the way from Venice to Rome.”

  “So he does, Signore. Zio Antonio is the head of our family. He may be harsh, but he knows what’s best and keeps us on course…one way or another.” He fixed me with a pointed look. “As you have seen.”

  An oath rose to my lips, but I cleared my throat instead. “Do you live at the Embassy?”

  “Yes, unless I’m away from Rome on some errand, I stay at the ambassador’s palace on the Piazza Venezia. They keep me close the better to run me off my feet. Zio Stefano…I mean, my uncle the cardinal takes a lot of looking after. But really, the palace isn’t so bad. It’s absolutely at the center of all the action in Rome—especially at carnival time. When they run a horse race on the Corso, the beasts finish right under our windows. We’re so close we can see their hooves striking sparks from the pavement.”

  I had to smile at his burst of enthusiasm. “If your uncles have their way, you will be moving to an even grander palace.”

  Lenci wrinkled his brow. “Leave the Embassy?” he asked slowly.

  “For the Quirinal,” I answered, naming the palace favored by recent occupants of the papal throne. “If the Cardinal Ambassador is elected pope, won’t you be serving him at the Quirinal instead of the Embassy?”

  Abate Lenci removed his oversize tricorne and ran his hand over the curls that trailed down into a plait buried beneath the collars of his greatcoat. He studied the watery patterns created by the ship’s wake. “Of course,” he finally whispered. “Zio Stefano as pope…I suppose it really could happen…if he doesn’t blow himself up first.”

  He sent me a sidelong glance, grinning at the confusion he saw in my expression. “My uncle the cardinal fancies himself a natural philosopher, you see. If he’s not on the roof peering at the stars through his telescope, he’s in his workroom making a big stink and noise. He calls it ‘experimentation.’”

  “That seems an odd pastime for a churchman. The priests in Venice never stop fuming over this new fad for exploring nature’s mysteries.”

  He shrugged. “I doubt that my uncle the cardinal will be unraveling much of God’s handiwork. He subscribes to journals from the Royal Society in London and its counterpart in Paris. He gets very excited about duplicating the experiments they record. But being Zio Stefano, he thinks he’s ever so much more intelligent than those foreign fellows. To improve on their theories, he adds a bit here or changes something there, so his efforts generally come to naught. A quiet, calm naught if we’re lucky.”

  “What does Senator Montorio think of these experimentations?”

  “When Zio Antonio is around, Zio Stefano keeps his scientific enthusiasms to himself. He knows where his bread is buttered. My uncle the senator would be furious if he knew how much time Zio Stefano spends in his workroom. After all, what could possibly be gained by blowing up glass vials or making sparks dance on a wire?”

  I nodded slowly, and Benito raised a knowing eyebrow. I fancy we shared the same thought: Tito Amato, virtuoso soprano, was not the only unwilling creature at the end of Antonio Montorio’s leash.

  ***

  The next two days brought calm seas and favorable winds that delivered us to Ancona in good speed. The port dated back to the Roman emperor Trajan’s time and had been built on a thumb of land that jutted into the Adriatic Sea well south of Venice. Though Ancona’s harbor was a marvel of ancient engineering, the silt and refuse of the intervening centuries had accumulated to the point that ships of greater tonnage than our small tartan could no longer cross the harbor bar.

  Several years ago Pope Clement had instituted the Herculean project of dredging out the channel and reconstructing the breakwaters. The news had caused an uproar on the Rialto. Venice was already losing valuable trade to cities better situated to take advantage of the expanding Atlantic commerce. Like the Montorios who sailed to the Levant to meet spice caravans that had crossed the desert from India, most of the great trading houses had fallen back on their traditional eastward trade routes. The restoration of a rival port that would cut precious days off a run to the eastern Mediterranean threatened the livelihood of nearly every Venetian. Never a city known to bend a willing knee to Rome, Venice’s senators had reviled Pope Clement in the Great Council, and her common citizens had staged a bloody riot before the residence of the Papal Nuncio.

  When our little party disembarked at the pier, Abate Lenci first produced papers for the customs inspector, then roused some porters drowsing beneath a canvas awning. Leaving the abate to negotiate fees, I strolled along the water. The town enjoyed a fine aspect. Green and brown hills snaked down from the rocky uplands to curl around a cuplike harbor of sparkling blue water. The day was pleasantly warm, so I decided to take a closer look at the scaffolds and cranes on the rubble-strewn dike that had caused such a stir. Before I’d covered three more strides, Lenci grabbed the back of my cloak and jerked me to a standstill.

  “No time for sightseeing,” he said. “A coach will be waiting for us at the Mercantile Exchange. It’s been arranged.”

  “Surely another hour won’t make any difference. I’d like to see how the breakwaters are progressing and have a look at the ruins of the Roman arch on the hill over the town.”

  The dogged abate pulled me in the opposite direction. “My orders are to convey you to the Villa Fabiani with all possible speed. I must do as I am instructed, Signore. Perhaps that is a lesson you should be learning as well.”

  Lenci located the Exchange, and while my trunks were being secured to the roof of the coach, he sat us down to a sloppy, hurried meal at a nearby inn. To further add to my humiliation, he sent the porters back to the ship to retrieve another gift for Cardinal Fabiani, a basket containing a prize ham that had been cured on a Montorio estate. When the coach set out for the highroad that led across the Italian peninsula to Rome, I was rubbing shoulders with a forty-pound hunk of pork that reeked of garlic and rosemary.

  Though the way was steep, we covered forty miles that day. Abate Lenci inquired about the cities I’d visited on my operatic tours but soon fell silent after receiving only irritated grunts in response. The road flattened the next morning, allowing the coach to fly through the miles. Lenci had procured excellent horses, and we had no difficulties changing teams. At every post station, the young abate produced a document strung with an impressive number of red seals that the stablers honored without question.

  Prudence finally conquered my foul mood and prodded me to fish for information. I knew that Cardinal Fabiani, my future host, was an opera lover, but that could describe almost any inhabitant of Italy. Regions might vary in food and drink, in dialect and ruler, but every Italian from Venice to Palermo loved the opera. It was our home-grown spectacle. I needed to know more about the cardinal’s political dealings. Donning a courtier’s smile, I raised the subject with Abate Lenci.

  “In Rome, Fabiani lives like a prince,” he replied, “a prince of the church surrounded by a priestly retinue. The Cardinal Padrone is only the foremost of his titles. He holds so many offices and benefices it would take several minutes for me to recite them all.

  “But at his ancestral home in Tuscany, his family amounts to very little.” Lenci sniffed as he waved a well-manicured hand. “You must know the sort—minor nobility, barely tolerated at court.”

  I nodded, having encountered many down-at-the-heels aristocrats in my time.

  “For years, the Fabiani nibbled on the Medici largesse like mice on cheese. When the death of the last grand duke made way for the Hapsburg governors, the cardinal’s relatives were tossed out of the Pitti Palace without a crumb. Of course, Lorenzo Fabiani was well established in Rome by that time. I’ll let you guess, Signor Amato. Did the Cardinal Padrone shed any tears over his cousins
’ retreat to their hereditary estate in the marshy middle of nowhere? Loosen his purse strings to ease their disgrace?”

  Not knowing the man, I could only shrug.

  “In a word—no. Where his family is concerned, Cardinal Fabiani observes only one rule—loyalty to his mother. It was the Marchesa Fabiani who pushed him into Pope Clement’s sphere of influence and paved the way for his brilliant career. She reaps her reward by living in luxury with an army of servants at her beck and call.”

  I pushed my lap robe aside and leaned forward. “The pope’s family are also from Tuscany, are they not?”

  “The Corsini.” Lenci nodded, a study in wide-eyed innocence.

  “Quite a few rungs above the Fabiani, I believe.”

  “Nearly at the top of the ladder. With a Corsini on his father’s side and a Strozzi on his mother’s, some of the bluest blood of Tuscany flows through the pope’s veins.”

  “Then how…?”

  Lenci interrupted with a schoolboy giggle. “The time-honored way…they say the marchesa was quite a beauty in her youth.”

  “Fabiani is the pope’s bastard son?”

  “So some say.”

  “Do you believe them?”

  He gave a short nod. “It seems the most reasonable explanation for Fabiani’s rapid rise. Connection is everything in Rome.”

  “Pope Clement has reigned only nine years. Cardinal Fabiani would have been born many years before he became pope.”

  “True. Makes you wonder if the old lady simply made a lucky bedding or if she had a soothsayer tucked away on the Fabiani estate. Whatever the source of her good fortune, when the pope’s poor health and lack of Corsini nephews created a crack in the wall of papal power, the marchesa hurried to Rome and plastered her son right in.”

  “And her husband?”

  “Dead. Fell off a horse, I think. Broke his neck.”

  “I see. Is Cardinal Fabiani an able man?”