The Wolves of St. Peter's (12 page)

Conturbatio super conturbationem veniet, et auditus super auditum … Calamity will come upon calamity, and rumor shall follow upon rumor.
A promise of destruction by God so great no man would fail to know who is The Lord God. The words from the book of
Ezekiel came to Francesco as he listened to the men. Washed-out bridges, flooded roads, boats stranded on sandbars that hadn't been there before, drowned horses, cattle, sheep. And omens, omens everywhere. A dead cat on a windowsill, a gathering of crows over St. Peter's Square, a three-eyed fish, and, of course, the wolves, the starving wolves. Dozens of them, hundreds of them, a wolf to pick off every Roman fleeing for the hills. And at their head a white wolf, bigger than any other, that was said to walk on its hind legs and talk in a strange language no one had heard for thousands of years.

“It's like the market,” Susanna said close to his ear, as a water snake slipped off the dock into the river. “You just have to listen.” But no one mentioned Marcus, The Turk's ship, or the important shipment The Turk had alluded to.

Francesco swore as a clawlike hand encrusted with sores and dirt emerged from what appeared to be nothing but a mound of filthy sacking and grabbed at his leg. Sickened, he shook it off and yanked Susanna away. “Oh, how horrible!” she exclaimed, recoiling further as the moaning mound began to crawl slowly toward them on all fours. Like some sort of monster, its face was wrapped in rags, and only two lidless, staring eyes were visible.

Of course, it wasn't a monster. Francesco knew it was a woman, or had been before disease had eaten away even her eyelids.
Et qui in civitate, pestilentia et fame devorabuntur … And here in the city, pestilence and hunger shall devour them.
Francesco had heard tell of this, a new and disfiguring disease spreading through the port's prostitutes. It had made its way here from Naples, spread, some said, by French sailors. Covered with oozing sores that in the final stages of death ate the very flesh from their faces, its victims had been shunned by even the most undiscriminating sailors. Now, like this woman, they were reduced to begging along the docks, their
faces bound in rags to hide the rotting flesh. Hardly recognizable as human, they evoked so much revulsion they were likelier to be clubbed and pushed into the river than helped. As he and Susanna retreated along the docks, Francesco couldn't help but think this was the merciful thing to do, though he wouldn't be the one to do it.

Susanna begged him to leave, but Francesco reminded her they were here to find Marcus and did his best to distract her with a story about the time he and his sisters filled his maestro's desk with dozens of lizards from the garden. It worked, and by the time they stopped to watch the unloading of a ship, she was laughing.

“You think that's the one?” Susanna asked. It was by far the largest ship in the port, a seagoing vessel, and Francesco was amazed it had managed to navigate the Tiber, so notorious for trapping much smaller boats than this in its shifting sands. A sole dockworker kept watch over bolts of cloth and bales of spices that did their best to compete with the smell of the river. If not a large cargo, it certainly seemed to be the most valuable they'd seen. They did their best to seem casually curious, sniffing at the sacks of spices, fingering the cloth, until the man asked what they wanted.

“I want to buy some cardamom,” Francesco said. “Who's the owner of the ship?” The man shrugged, saying he was damned if he knew, but if they gave him the money, he'd make sure it got to him. Tall, thin, unshaven, already hunched from carrying too many heavy loads, he was one of those weedy-looking dockworkers who unloaded ships for enough to buy their next meal.

Had Francesco actually wanted cardamom and not the ship owner's name, he would have given the dockworker the money and not cared if he pocketed it for himself, but the cardamom on its own was useless to him, so he told the man he'd changed his mind. He would
have liked to buy the bolt of blue cloth Susanna was eyeing longingly, but he had only enough money for the day's wine and bread.

The next ship was a heavily guarded barge loaded with wooden poles. “Speculators,” Susanna said. “They know the poles will be worth even more after the floods.”

Francesco was ready to give up, buy some food, and call it a day. Marcus clearly wasn't here. But suddenly there was a commotion on the wharf, much bowing and removing of hats. All eyes were on the stone arch that marked the entrance to the port. Catching Susanna's sleeve, Francesco quickly looked around for a hiding place and pulled her inside the open door of a shed. Satisfied that they were alone, Francesco shut the door, leaving a gap just wide enough to give them a clear view.

“We're standing in horseshit,” Susanna complained, hiking her already filthy hems over her ankles. “I'll scream if I see a rat.”

“No, you won't. Your house is full of rats. They reenact the storming of Northern Italy by Hannibal every night under your bed. And over it too, believing it to be the Alps. We're only lucky they're not riding elephants.”

“Then I'll scream if I see another woman like that one out there.”

“I will too if that happens,” he said, taking her hand as much to comfort himself as her.

She squeezed his hand and kissed his cheek. “Silly boy. I was only teasing. But don't worry. I'll protect you.”

“Be quiet,” he said, holding on to her hand. “I don't want The Turk to think I'm spying on him.”

“Well, you are,” Susanna said. “Except I don't think that's The Turk. They're acting like it's His Holiness himself.”

She was right. It wasn't The Turk, but it wasn't Pope Julius, either. It was Cardinal Asino and Paride di Grassi in their scarlet
robes, just as they'd looked when he'd met them at The Turk's the day before. They must have arrived by carriage, since the hems of their robes were unsullied.

They stopped at the ship where Francesco and Susanna had inquired about the cardamom, but they didn't seem interested in the cloth and spices on the wharf. Instead, the boat's captain came out on deck, and after Asino and di Grassi cast glances around, they went up the plank to meet him.

“I bet they wish they weren't so conspicuous,” Francesco whispered, though there was no chance of them being overheard.

“No point in becoming a cardinal if no one knows it,” Susanna said with more of her peasant wisdom.

Still, di Grassi and Asino didn't stay long on the ship's deck. They exchanged a few words with the captain before disappearing below. The dockworker they'd spoken to earlier stood guard on the deck, while on the wharf the cloth and spices sat unattended. An urchin dragging his club foot behind him attempted to carry one of the sacks away, but the dockworker saw him before he got far and aimed a wine jug at him. It shattered on the wharf next to the boy, shards of pottery flying in all directions. The boy dropped the sack and limped off, looking more startled than hurt, though surely he'd been struck.

Di Grassi and Asino didn't linger below deck any longer than they'd lingered above, and they were soon back on the wharf, walking away without so much as a backward glance.

“Well, that's a relief. I was worried we'd be here all day,” said Susanna. They waited until di Grassi and Asino were out of sight before returning to the ship.

“I think I'll take some of that cardamom after all,” Francesco said to the dockworker, pulling a coin from his pouch. He held it up,
already grieving the wine he would no longer be able to afford, and nodded in the direction of the port entrance. “What did they want?” he asked, thinking such a question could hardly sound suspicious. Surely everyone was curious.

The man looked up, scanning the ship's decks. “Damned if I know,” he said. “Got slaves, mostly. You're not the first person poking around here.”

“Who else?” Francesco held up another coin. There went his bread.

The dockworker shrugged. “Haven't a clue. Wasn't here. They said he was prowling around last night, yelling bloody murder.” He looked around him before handing Francesco a sack the size of a loaf of bread. “Take some fucking cardamom,” he said in a voice edged with contempt, though for what or whom wasn't clear. “And that bolt of blue cloth your lady's been eyeing. If you still want to know, the ship belongs to The Turk. But you didn't hear it from me. Now hurry along and keep your money.”

“He called me ‘your lady,'“ Susanna said, pressing one cheek against the precious cloth as they walked back in the direction of the port gates.

“That's a very valuable gift you just got. It would make a good dowry. Hell, even I would take it.”

“Truly?”

At that moment, Francesco saw Michelangelo's assistant Bastiano just ahead of them in the crowd. He was sure Bastiano had seen him, but when he called to him, the apprentice turned tail and pushed his way toward the gate. How was it that Bastiano seemed to be everywhere Francesco was these days but was able to avoid him with such diligence? Annoyed, Francesco was about to run after him when a call went up.

“Got a floater here!”

“A floater … a floater …” rippled through the crowd. Bastiano forgotten, Francesco wheeled around and saw the same dockworker who had just given them the cloth and cardamom.

“Let's go see,” Francesco said to Susanna. “But first, let me hide that cloth under my cloak before a cry of thief goes up too.”

Reluctantly, she handed over the bolt, and he put it under his cloak before taking her by the hand and running back along the dock, where already a crowd was gathering. Seagulls circled overhead, adding their screams to the mayhem.

It was a floater, all right. It couldn't have been anything but a dead body, shrouded in seaweed and tangled in the mooring lines of The Turk's ship. Francesco and Susanna watched silently as a group of men pulled the body onto the dock. One eye open and staring, the other swollen shut.
Quoniam terra plena est iudicio sanguinum, et civitas plena iniquitate … The land is full of bloody crimes, and the city is full of violence.
And for the second time in three days, Francesco knew the victim's name. Marcus.

T
HEY LAID MARCUS'S BODY OUT ON THE WHARF, AND THIS TIME
Francesco had the courage to step forward and close the corpse's remaining open eye. He closed it as he'd seen the priest close his mother's, placing his palm over the eyelid. But he didn't know what to do about the poor man's mouth, still open as if in a scream, dirty water dribbling from one corner.

“You know him?” asked one of the dockworkers, and Francesco thought how he'd been asked the same thing about Calendula.

He had denied it then, but saw no reason to now. There were no police around, only curious dockworkers, children, and prostitutes. “Yes,” he said, without elaborating. This time, however, he wasn't going to let the body out of his sight and risk it being claimed at the mortuary by another mysterious fat man. He looked around the growing crowd of curiosity seekers and called over a rag-and-bone man leading his donkey and cart.

Thinking how he was simply not destined to buy food that day, Francesco offered to pay the rag-and-bone man if he'd cart the body to Imperia's. The man agreed, enlisting the help of a couple of boys who, tired now of poking at the bloated cow, were eager for new fun. They grabbed Marcus by the feet and hauled his body over the rags and bones that lined the cart. An old woman stepped forward with a piece of torn sail and covered the body, jumping clear as the cart started with a jolt. Francesco decided it would be better not to involve the police, and no one on the docks seemed inclined to fetch them anyway.

Like mourners in a funeral procession, Francesco and Susanna followed behind, occasionally giving the cart a push when it became bogged in a muddy rut. By the time they reached the silversmith's, dusk was falling, and while it wasn't raining, the sky was still heavy with clouds. Francesco handed Susanna the bolt of cloth and promised to see her later. For once speechless, she held it tightly and nodded wearily at him. Francesco, thinking this was perhaps the most vulnerable he'd ever seen her, kissed her on the cheek.

The scene at Imperia's was much as he expected, in some ways a repeat of the night he'd told them of Calendula's death. Imperia even wore the same regal purple dress, and although this time she didn't faint, she went very pale upon hearing the news. She summoned the guards to bring the body inside, and they laid it, still wrapped in the dirty sail, along a bench brought from the kitchen.

It might have been too soon for the body to putrefy, but it stank all the same of rotting fish and filthy water. With Imperia's giant bodyguards towering over them, her girls huddled in the doorway, lace handkerchiefs pressed over their noses. Since it was still early, Imperia and her girls had very few guests, most of them familiar faces. Sodoma, Raphael, a couple of his apprentices, and Colombo
were already settled in front of the fire with a pitcher of wine. Having taken his midday meal with Imperia, Chigi had been on his way to meet with the Vatican chamberlain, but instead had met Marcus's corpse at the door. He now looked torn between comforting Imperia and making his evening appointment. Two strangers, tall, thin men who looked enough alike to be twins, had glanced briefly through the door to see what the excitement was about, but they were quickly herded back to the music room by a couple of the girls. Imperia told Francesco the men were in the city on business with the Vatican and had arrived in Rome only that morning from Bologna.

And, of course, there was Dante. He was crouched on a chair in one of the corners, his cloak pulled over his head, sobbing quietly.
Dante,
Francesco thought,
may have been the last person—barring the killer—to see Marcus alive.
He tried to recall everything Dante had said that morning. A lot of nonsense about The Turk being a Greek, and Calendula not being the Madonna, or was it the Madonna not being Calendula? And something about making a fool of Marcus with her golden hair.
Stop! Stop! Or I'll kill you! I'll kill you!
he'd said. Francesco had thought Marcus was threatening Dante, but now he wasn't so certain. Had Dante overheard or even seen Marcus's killer?

According to Dante, Marcus had been convinced Calendula's body was on The Turk's ship. Why? Who or what led him to believe this? Surely not The Turk? Or had The Turk mentioned his “important shipment” and Marcus jumped to conclusions? Had Marcus attempted to board The Turk's ship and been killed for his efforts?

Francesco lifted a corner of Dante's cloak, revealing one frightened eye. Darting around in its socket, it seemed to be looking everywhere at once while not seeing anything at all.

“Dante,” he said gently. “Who else did you see at the docks with Marcus?”

“No! No!” Dante shouted, his eye darting ever faster until the iris disappeared into his skull, leaving only the white showing. “I didn't see him! I didn't see him!”

“I know, I know,” Francesco cooed. “Marcus told you not to tell anyone you saw him, but was anyone else there? Bastiano?” Francesco still didn't know what Bastiano was doing there, but he sure was in a hurry to leave when the dockworker's cry went up.

“No! No! Nobody!”

“Not even The Turk?”

“No, not The Turk! Not The Turk!” he screamed, and then Imperia was screaming too.

“Please, Francesco, I beg you! Make him stop!”

Francesco sighed and dropped the corner of the cloak back over Dante's eye, patting him on the head as he would a child until the screaming abated and Dante resumed his quiet sobbing. Across the room, Imperia held her head in her hands, quietly rocking back and forth. Chigi made soothing sounds to her not unlike the ones Francesco had been making for Dante. She took down her hands and asked for someone to fetch one of the houseboys, which was unnecessary since the houseboys had heard every word, and they emerged instantly from behind the skirts of the girls still gathered in the doorway. Like Raphael's houseboy, Alfeo, they were probably not older than eight or nine, though of sturdier stock. It suddenly occurred to Francesco that they'd probably been born here, the sons of whores with no claim to a father. “I want you to find Marcus's father,” Imperia said. “Tell him to come for the body. It cannot stay here, and I don't know what else to do. We certainly can't let it go to the mortuary. God knows who might take it. Break the news kindly. He lives in the Arenula and has a workshop there. You've delivered messages for Marcus there before.”

“Yes, ma'am, but the Arenula is flooded. Higher than my head,” the taller of the two answered. He stood on his toes and held up one hand as high as he could. “Like that,” he said, wiggling his fingers toward the ceiling.

“It's true,” Francesco said. “I met a man in the street this morning who told me as much. He said many had left for the surrounding hills. It may be impossible to locate Marcus's father.”

Imperia sagged even further in her seat. “Oh, God in Heaven, what is to be done?”

Her plea went unanswered by God and the entire room. Everyone stared at the canvas-covered body as if perhaps it could tell them.

Finally Raphael put forth a plan. “I believe Francesco did the right thing in not telling the police, given what happened to Calendula's body. Have Marcus moved to the empty storeroom on the ground floor of my palazzo. It is cold there, and the body will be safe until morning, when we will either seek out Marcus's father or have the body interred. We must send for a priest too.”

Everyone nodded, and Imperia, looking visibly relieved, sent one of the houseboys to summon the bodyguards. They came promptly, their bulk seeming to fill the entire salon. Effortlessly they picked up the morbid bundle and, with Marcus's gray hands trailing from under the sail like the frayed ends of a mooring line, carried the body away. Raphael, donning his black beret, followed them out, then led the way across the square to his apartments.

Though her voice was shaky, Imperia called for wine, bread, and cheese. Chigi kissed both her cheeks and said he would return after his dinner with the chamberlain. Raphael would be back soon, and Francesco would keep her company in the meanwhile.

A maid brought in the wine and food, and Sodoma and Colombo pulled their chairs closer to the fire. Francesco caught
enough of their exchange to know that, while they weren't surprised the hot-headed Marcus had found himself in more trouble than he could handle, they weren't particularly saddened by his death, either.

Francesco poured both himself and Imperia some wine and took the banker's place next to her on the settee.

“Do you really believe Marcus was murdered because he found Calendula's body?” Imperia asked.

“It certainly seems possible.”

“And it was The Turk's ship?”

He nodded again.

“So The Turk must have taken her body after all. Why?”

“That I don't know,” Francesco said softly. He certainly wasn't going to share his absurd theory about The Turk wanting to preserve Calendula as he'd preserved his crocodile.

“Well, at least I know where she is now,” Imperia said sadly.

He held her hand, gladly relinquishing his seat when Raphael reappeared. He wondered if he should confront Imperia about what the cook had told Susanna, but it didn't seem like the right time. Instead, he helped himself to more of the refreshments before going to the bookcase. He looked at the volume by Erasmus and wondered if he would ever have the opportunity to sit and read it. He'd been here reading a volume of Petrarch's letters the day before Calendula was pulled from the river and still had several volumes to go, though it was true he'd read them before and had committed many passages to memory.
It is in the very nature of ignorance to mock what it cannot comprehend, and to yearn to keep others from reaching what it cannot attain. Hence the false judgments upon matters of which we know nothing, by which we manifest our envy quite as clearly as our stupidity
was all he recalled before Imperia let out a small scream. Francesco wheeled around to see none other than The Turk standing in the doorway, wet
from the rain, the eagle-topped walking stick in his hand. He was breathing heavily, as if he'd run all the way from his villa.

“Oh, my dear, my dear, it is only I, your friend Silvio, and I came as soon as I heard the terrible news about Marcus! That poor, stupid man! I
must
apologize!”

His exclamations were met with blank stares. Not everyone knew he was a suspect in both Marcus's and Calendula's deaths, but even to the uninformed in the room, it was obvious The Turk knew something about the day's events.

“What is it, Imperia?” he said, dropping heavily to one knee in front of her and taking her hand to kiss it. “You're looking at me as if I'm a monster. Will you at least hear me out?”

Imperia tried to speak but managed only to nod rather numbly at him before signaling one of the houseboys to take The Turk's fur-trimmed cloak. Rising with the help of his cane, The Turk surrendered the cloak with a flourish, dropping it over the boy, who, after struggling out from under its weight, lugged it away.

If at all possible, The Turk was dressed even more regally than the day before. His doublet was of purple silk embroidered with gold thread, while, as before, deep layers of Venetian lace encircled his wrists. He raised his hand to his forehead to wipe his brow, revealing the amethyst ring.
Why?
Francesco wondered. How could he defend himself with that ring on his finger? He and Raphael exchanged a quick glance—there was no doubt Raphael had seen it too.

The Turk sat in a chair, the delicate piece of furniture looking as if it were about to collapse under his weight. He took Imperia's hands in his own. “They told me his body was brought here, and I knew you would be upset, so I came to explain.”

With his bald head and numerous chins, The Turk suddenly looked to Francesco like a bullfrog with a lace collar. When he and
his sisters were still in the nursery, his mother had told them the story of a princess who kissed a frog. It was out of pity for him, but her kiss freed him from a witch's spell and changed him into a handsome prince. If this had been the case with The Turk, Francesco thought absurdly, the transformation had been only partially successful.

“I'm afraid it's all a tragic mistake,” The Turk continued. “Marcus came to me yesterday, wanting to buy back the painting of Calendula. But perhaps you know this already? I see the boy you sent is here,” he said, and for a moment Francesco felt every eye in the room upon him.

“Yes, I know some things.” Imperia's voice was barely a whisper.

“Then you may know Marcus flew into a rage all of a sudden, and I had my men throw him out.”

Imperia nodded, and everyone leaned forward in their chairs, as if afraid to miss a single syllable.

“He didn't receive a beating, if that's what you think happened.”

“I … I don't know what happened,” Imperia stammered.

“Well, it seems the foolish boy had it in his head that Calendula's body was on my boat … I cannot think why. Oh, my dear, your hands do tremble terribly! It's not true, I swear! I don't know what happened to the lovely Calendula, nor did I discuss the whereabouts of her body with Marcus. I didn't even know it was unaccounted for until this boy here came to my house,” he said, bobbing his head in Francesco's direction. “I only said I had very important cargo on board, but I didn't for one moment think he'd conclude I'd hidden her on the boat.” He shifted in his chair, and it let out a groan of protest.

“But last night, he went there. He must have thought he could sneak on board and find her, but he was caught by my guards. They swear they intended no violence, they only meant for him to leave,
but when they denied there were any dead bodies on board, he drew his dagger.”

“I'll kill you! I'll kill you!” Dante screamed as he jumped to his feet, his chair wobbling beneath him. Spreading his cape like giant wings, he swooped down on The Turk, for a moment truly becoming the bat he believed himself to be. Raphael was the first to react, catching Dante around the waist and pulling him back, sending them both crashing into Sodoma's lap.