3 - Cruel Music Read online

  Benito nodded, jumped up, and pointed eastward. “Then across the bridge we go. Mind your boots. This road is filthy.”

  As we picked our way through the muck, Benito rose on tiptoes to whisper near my ear. “Do you think we should invite our friend to join us?”

  I immediately knew who he meant. Back in the Trastevere, I’d spotted a tallish man in a gray cloak and the sort of circular, wide-brimmed hat that many Romans prefer to the more fashionable tricorne. His height was the only remarkable thing about him. That is, of what I could see. He was careful to keep his chin lowered so that his hat brim shadowed his face. Until I’d rested by the bridge, I thought he was simply someone going our way. He raised my suspicion when he followed Benito back to get the map. Now he was trailing at a distance, abruptly halting to gaze over the bridge railing every time I glanced back.

  Of course, my presence at the Villa Fabiani had raised suspicions. When I declined Rossobelli’s offer of a carriage, the abate could have made speedy rearrangements to dispatch someone to follow me. Or was I being trailed by one of my own countrymen? Perhaps a Montorio bravo to ensure that I didn’t grow too independent. I let Benito take the map and lead the way. I had much to ponder, and in my current frame of mind, I could have waded straight through one of Rome’s numerous fountains without realizing that my feet were wet.

  ***

  The Pantheon was just as magnificent as my brother-in-law had promised. Later in my stay, I would search for the old Roman Forum and find it teeming with cattle waiting for the market, its skeletal fragments and broken arches half-buried in rubbish and weeds. Most of the other classical ruins had suffered similar treatment. Over the years, the great baths and amphitheaters and triumphal arches had been pillaged of their marble facings and smoothly cut building stones. Everything that could be torn out had been incorporated into new buildings or sent to the lime kilns. Latter-day Romans were only just beginning to appreciate the wantonness of the destruction.

  The Pantheon had been spared by grace of its diversion to a Christian purpose, but to me, it still felt more like a pagan temple, somehow sacred and unnerving at the same time. I sucked in a breath as we mounted its steps, moving from the filthy, bustling square to the cool shadows of its covered portico.

  Benito shivered. “It’s like a forest,” he whispered. “A forest of stone.”

  I raised my eyes. Massive columns of red and gray granite soared above us, expanding to meet the roof in capitals of sculpted leaves and foliage. The noise of the city receded as latticed grills directed us through the open doors and into an immense, domed rotunda. Somewhere along the curved expanse of the encircling walls was the tomb of the artist Raphael. The guidebook said it was not to be missed, but I had eyes for only one thing: the oculus.

  At the zenith of the coffered dome, the builder had created a circular window to the sky. A shaft of sunlight streamed through the opening like a beam of divine substance. It burnished the floating dust motes into tiny diamonds and made everyone who stepped into its brilliance shimmer like beings fashioned of light. If any deity was worshiped in this space, Apollo seemed the obvious choice.

  Coming back out into the square was like leaving an enchanted land for the most prosaic scene imaginable. It was Friday—market day—and an array of stalls and barrows fanned out from the central fountain. The residents of this quarter must have been working since cockcrow. The results of their labors assaulted our senses: bread fresh from wood-fired ovens, papery garlic bulbs woven into braids, fish with scales of shimmering green and blue, and bright red blood dripping from severed joints piled on butchers’ carts. The splendor of the Pantheon had made me forget about our mysterious friend in the wide-brimmed hat, but I caught sight of him again as Benito and I wandered among the merchandise.

  Jostling shoulders with housewives intent on filling baskets with ingredients for the family dinner, I resisted the temptation of the roast chestnut seller and started down an aisle displaying household goods. A trio of wide-hipped women haggling with the proprietor of a junk stall soon blocked my path. Over their heads, I saw customers inspecting pots hanging from a tinker’s cart, and farther on, towering stacks of folded fabrics in every hue and texture. I twisted around to tell Benito to go back, but my nimble manservant was already ducking under my elbow. Without missing a step, he pinched the nearest padded bottom and darted through the resulting cleft. I sucked in my stomach and wriggled after him.

  “What is it, Benito?” I cried as I crashed into his back. “Move along.” The ladies were squealing, and one lifted her basket as if she might use it as a weapon. Yet my manservant stood stock still. He clutched my cloak. “Master, do you see?”

  I saw. She was examining fabrics halfway down the aisle, pointing out a bolt of silk the color of the lagoon on a summer day. As the merchant unfurled the blue green cloth, the sun that filtered through holes in his canvas awning turned the silk to rippling water. She laughed in delight. Despite the raucous cries swirling around me, every note of that silvery laugh hit my ears like a blow from a sledgehammer.

  “Liya Del’Vecchio,” I whispered. “How on earth?”

  Benito’s anxious gaze searched my face. “Are you going to speak to her?”

  I took a deep breath. Liya gathered the silk to her chest and trailed a length over one arm. The olive skin of her smooth cheeks and forehead seemed to glow in the dappled sunlight. I remembered her heavy dark hair done in coiled plaits secured with gold pins. Her tresses still shone like a raven’s wing, but now they were shorter, loose on her shoulders, confined only by a cap tied under her chin. A white cap, not the yellow kerchief I’d seen other Jews wearing as we’d come through the city. She laughed again, but shook her head. The tradesman spread his arms, entreating. She smiled sadly, as if the price of the cloth was much too dear, then handed it back in a bright bundle. She turned to go up the aisle, away from where we stood. Still I hesitated.

  “Master?” Benito’s voice was tight. He bounced from foot to foot. “Shall I follow her?”

  “No. It has to be me. Only…” I glanced back over my shoulder. The three ladies had turned back to their shopping and were bending to cram their prizes in deep baskets already laden with meat and produce. Other women pushed and shoved to get by. I could just see the round brim of our follower’s hat, dipping up and down several stalls back.

  I sighed in frustration. Liya Del’Vecchio was part of my past. She was my business and mine alone. I didn’t know whether my shadow took orders from Rossobelli, Montorio, or someone else, but he was clearly up to no good. I had no intention of putting Liya under his notice.

  A barrel at my right hand held a display of mops and brooms. Moving quickly, I tossed its owner a coin and grabbed a long-handled mop. Benito gazed open-mouthed, wondering if I’d lost my wits. He soon understood. That morning, for our sightseeing tour, he’d brought out a tricorne edged with gold point d’Espagne and a fringe of ostrich feathers. As it wasn’t my favorite hat, I’d demurred and we’d had a good-natured skirmish. Now I was glad I’d deferred to my manservant’s fashion dictum. Shielded by the mob, I transferred my tricorne to the mop’s wooly head and secured my cloak beneath it.

  While Benito went snaking down the crowded aisle with my eye-catching headgear bobbing beside him, I made sure that my shadow was still well behind. Then I ducked between two stalls and out into the square.

  I trotted back toward the Pantheon and mounted its steps. Streets exited the square alongside the huge building, branching to the east and west. A solid wall of buildings bounded the square beyond the temporary market. If I kept an eagle eye from my position, it would be impossible for Liya to leave without my notice. I didn’t have long to wait. I spotted her straight back and determined gait just as a new disturbance was moving down a side street.

  I shot down the stairs to collide with a group in rough clothing just bounding onto the square. Beggars in rags, por
ters, bargemen, rope makers, and other laborers were followed by women of the same class. Their eyes gleamed with anticipation and every tongue uttered the identical cry: “Di Noce…our papa cardinal…he comes…he comes.”

  Liya whirled, shaded her eyes with her hand, and gazed in my direction. I waved frantically, jumping up and down as the noise and energy of the throng intensified. Her expression did not change.

  I shouted, but the chaos swallowed my words. The crowd around me contracted, flowing toward the source of the excitement. It was like swimming a river against a powerful current. The traffic of bodies from the side street met the mass of people hastening from the market, and they all swirled together in one great cataract. The crush trapped my arms at my sides and buffeted me farther and farther away from the woman I sought, until suddenly, as if by magic, I was thrown straight into her arms.

  “Liya!” I cried, struggling to hold my footing.

  She responded with wide-eyed wonder. “Tito Amato!” She grabbed my arm fiercely. “Can it be? What are you doing here?”

  The cries of “Di Noce, Di Noce” became a swelling chorus. As the object of their frenzy neared, a new surge rippled through the crowd. A bulky man in a tattered jacket, intent on witnessing the procession, pushed between us and broke our hold.

  I grabbed for Liya’s sleeve, but the press of the crowd threatened to carry her away. With a bursting leap, she threw an arm around my neck and pulled me close. Her breath was warm on my cheek. I heard “Teatro Argentina, tomorrow afternoon,” and then she was gone.

  I stood unheeding and unmoving as the tumult quietened and the crowd suddenly parted. With my heart drumming in my ears, I dimly realized I was about to see the cardinal who was expected to challenge Stefano Montorio for the papal crown. I looked around for a formal procession, Swiss Guards on the march, a stately gentleman in crimson waving from the window of a gleaming carriage. But there was none of that.

  Cardinal Di Noce didn’t ride. Escorted by only three priests, Di Noce walked among the people. His simple black cassock was faded and dusty, and his broad-brimmed hat had slipped back to expose a skullcap surrounded by a few tufts of gray hair. A short, chunky man, Di Noce shuffled along with the humble steps of a poor parish priest returning from an all-night vigil. Nevertheless, my neighbors gazed in rapt attention. Some fell to their knees and made the sign of the cross; others scurried forward to touch medals and rosaries to the hem of his garment.

  As Di Noce progressed across the square, I tried to see what it was about this unkempt, balding, middle-aged cleric that inspired such devotion. Yes, the blessings he pronounced brimmed with humility and concern. And his slanted, wide-set eyes seemed to radiate good cheer. But, after all, he was just a man.

  I tapped the shoulder of the fellow next to me, a baker in a flour-caked apron pushing his young son forward. “Who is this Di Noce?” I asked. “Why is everyone so excited?”

  My neighbor dropped his beard-shadowed jaw. “Is there a man alive who hasn’t heard of Di Noce?”

  “I’m new to Rome. Just arrived from Venice.”

  He shot me a contemptuous glance that lingered on the ruffles of fine lawn falling over my shirt front. “Perhaps Venice hasn’t heard. Cardinal Di Noce will be our next pope.”

  “Is it true?” I made my eyebrows arc in surprise. “I thought our ambassador, Cardinal Montorio, was the man to replace Pope Clement.”

  “Montorio? Not likely. Rome will riot if that ball of lard wins out over our…” He clamped his mouth shut abruptly, narrowing his gaze as if to say: I’ll shut up because I don’t know who you are, but your ambassador might as well be a piece of shit floating on the Tiber.

  I smiled broadly, trying to win his confidence. “It’s all right. I’ll grant that Cardinal Di Noce may gain the papal throne. But tell me, what is so special about him?”

  My simple question seemed to tax the man’s power of speech. He opened his mouth, closed it just as fast, and stood thumbing his stubbled chin. His son pulled at my sleeve. I looked down.

  With the pitiful innocence of youth beaming from his face, the boy answered eagerly, “Di Noce is special because he loves us, Signore. Loves us like a papa. And wants to make us happy.”

  Chapter Seven

  Later that evening, Cardinal Fabiani returned from the Quirinal to host his weekly conversazioni. In the music salon, the harpsichordist and I provided entertainment as the guests gathered to sit in circles of upright chairs and nibble on wafers and ices.

  In contrast to his coolness of the previous evening, my fellow musician unbent sufficiently to enlighten me as to the identity of a number of the guests. A young fop reading aloud from a slim volume of poetry was the eldest son of Prince Orsini. Another who propped his elbow on the overmantel and gazed over the room with a bored expression represented the house of Barberini-Colonna, his linked names signifying ancestry from both papal and aristocratic lines. Every guest, my informant whispered in reverential tones, was a Person of the Highest Quality. Reigning over them all, Cardinal Fabiani seemed to enjoy himself mightily as he swanned from group to group.

  As before, the cardinal’s musical selections had been waiting by the keyboard. Rubbish this time, not a standout among them, and designed so that I would sing only every other set of pieces. My talents had been relegated to the musical equivalent of the tapestries and mirrors that decorated the villa’s walls, a pleasing background and nothing more. At least I could focus on the guests’ conversation while the harpsichordist was having his solo.

  I sang my bit, then took a seat at the edge of the dais. Pretending to peruse the score of my next selection, I opened my ears to the nearest group. Gossip concerning people unknown to me ran to coarse lengths until Cardinal Fabiani joined the circle. Then the talk turned to the state of Pope Clement’s health.

  “How is the old man doing?” asked a custard-faced woman in a gown of French blue much too bright for her complexion.

  “A bit better, today,” Fabiani answered smoothly. “He took some ox-tail soup for dinner.”

  “Of course,” responded the Orsini stripling, his volume of poetry splayed over his knee. “That’s what you always say. He’s better and better, but still on his deathbed. At this rate our esteemed pontiff will be the healthiest corpse ever.”

  An older man winked at the woman in blue and said, “If you want to know how the pope really is, you had best go to Mass at the Lateran.”

  “Whatever for?” she asked, snapping her fan open.

  “Have you not heard the old story? When the Holy Father is about to die, the bones of Pope Sylvester the Second rattle in his tomb under the floor.”

  “Stuff and nonsense,” she whispered over the fluttering fan, but her eyes were shining with curiosity.

  “It is true. Long ago, when the Moors still held sway in Spain, the future Pope Sylvester studied the art of divination with one of their learned wizards. He made a pact with a demon that ensured his elevation to the papacy, but his wicked sorcery prevents his bones from achieving eternal rest. When Pope Clement’s predecessor went, Sylvester’s bones jumped and bumped so hard that the choir could not be heard over the clatter.”

  “Were you there?” she asked in a tone of amazement.

  “Unfortunately not. But a friend of my cousin swears that he witnessed the strange event.”

  “But how could moldy old bones know when the pope is going to die?”

  “Only the Lord knows. And perhaps the demon that Sylvester bargained with.”

  Behind her fan, the woman in blue buzzed in conversation with a friend. They both appeared ready to jump up and call for their carriages to race across the city to press their ears to Sylvester’s tomb.

  Fabiani sent the speaker a jaundiced look, then addressed the credulous woman. “He’s teasing, my dear. The legend of Sylvester’s bones is just a story crafted to ente
rtain pilgrims. Every famous church has some such tale to its credit. The more fantastic the tale, the more coins the sacristan can collect in the telling.”

  “But his cousin’s friend…” she started doubtfully.

  “Superstition makes fools of the gullible and unwary,” Fabiani intoned sharply. “If anyone heard anything, we must blame superstition.”

  “It goes beyond superstition,” a new voice chimed in. I hadn’t noticed Cardinal Montorio enter the salon, but there he was, squeezing his bulk between the gilt chairs. Abate Lenci hovered nearby as usual.

  “It’s pure ignorance,” the cardinal said. “When I first came to Rome, I heard of this so-called legend and set about to gather the true facts. Consider this—back in 1694, the priests of the Lateran opened Sylvester’s tomb to lay the rumors to rest for good. The body was intact, but disintegrated the moment it came in contact with the air. Obviously, the tomb now holds nothing but the dust of Sylvester’s earthly remains. We all know that dust doesn’t rattle. The story is pure poppycock.”

  Cardinal Fabiani inclined his head with a smile, but the rest of the company were clearly vexed at Montorio’s pronouncement. An intriguing mystery with a whiff of brimstone is always more interesting than bare fact. As their disappointed clucks quickly turned back to gossip, I focused my attention on the other nests of gold chairs and the ladies and gentlemen milling among them. I was looking for Prince Pompetti’s handsome head and graceful bearing, but Di Noce’s champion was not in attendance. An elbow poked my ribs: my turn again. After I’d sung my way through a few more innocuous melodies, the footmen stopped serving ices, giving the guests their cue to depart.

  The harpsichordist, perhaps recalling my displacement of Signor Tucci, once more cooled. Folding the music into a neat stack, he left without a word. In a few moments, the last satin gown rustled through the main door and I was alone with the maids who crept in to erase the traces of guests and restore the room to its immaculate splendor. Crumbs were whisked, candle wax scraped, spills mopped, and bibelots rearranged in perfect order. Not for the first time, I marveled at the sheer number of working hands required to keep one man living in luxury.