The Wolves of St. Peter's (22 page)

Only Susanna seemed disappointed by this unexpected deviation from the ceremony. Plunking herself back down beside him on the rock, she looked at Francesco with bewilderment. “He isn't a real necromancer! It's just a joke. Why didn't you tell me?”

Francesco laughed. “I did!”

“I should slap you,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest as a dozen or so “corpses” limped by, hands out, eyes rolled heavenward.
Men, women, children—all giggling as they made whatever sounds they imagined the walking dead to make.

“Woooo,” Francesco said, joining in after attempting to tickle Susanna in the ribs. She snatched his hands and, to his great surprise, pulled him to his feet and into the line of shuffling corpses. A bearded young man who was inexplicably hopping on one foot passed him a wine jug, and Francesco took a deep draught before passing it on. “One, two, three, four,” Francesco chanted, imitating the necromancer and letting out his best wolflike howl. He grabbed Susanna around the waist and twirled her around until, both dizzy, they collided with another pair of dancing corpses. It wasn't long before every man, woman, and child was parading around the walls of the Colosseum while from the sidelines the old, sick, and crippled watched and clapped.

The necromancer and his demons slipped out without anyone noticing, and it was past midnight when the celebrations came to a close. Women and children disappeared into the primitive shelters around the walls, and around the dying fires the men drank the last of their wine. Tomorrow there'd be no wine left for their breakfasts, no dry wood for their fires, but no one here would care, as this reprieve from the desperation would sustain them. Francesco had never felt warmer toward his city of exile.

“I never gave the cardamom to the necromancer,” Susanna said as they carried their torches back over the Palatine Hill.

“Perhaps that's why everything went wrong for him tonight,” Francesco said with a laugh. “But now you can take it all to the market and trade it for honey cakes.”

“All of it?”

“All of it. Then we'll eat until our bellies hurt and we never want to eat again. And make sure you pick the cakes with the most almonds and raisins.”

A wolf howled from the too-near distance.

“You hear that?” Susanna asked. “They're close.”

Francesco wondered if he should tell Susanna about the white wolf he'd seen in St. Peter's Square but decided against it. She would believe him, but he wasn't sure he believed it himself.

“Not that close,” Francesco said, doing his best to sound reassuring. “The wolves are afraid of fire,” he elaborated. “They won't come near our torches.”
Unlike bandits,
he didn't add. He'd been glad for the diversion of the evening, but he wasn't anxious to pay for it with a dagger in his ribs from some desperate man in search of a few coins.

At the Theater of Marcellus, Francesco began to relax. The guards at the entrance reported no mischief that night, and once they reached the other side of the river, they'd be in familiar territory.

He shuddered when a rat crossed their path at the foot of the bridge, and Susanna chided him for being cowardly.

“And who said at the docks that she'd scream if she saw one?” he asked.

“You know I was only teasing you, silly boy.” She took his hand with a promise to protect him, but soon she gave his hand a tug and forced him to a halt.

“What is it?” he asked. He could see very little beyond the circle of torchlight. A few fires still burned on the hillsides, while over the river hung a thin fog. They'd stopped at the highest point on the bridge. He could hear the water as it ran beneath their feet. Something was bumping against one of the arches.
Not another body
, he hoped, but with the flooding, so many things had washed into the river it was quite possible. Susanna let go of his hand and gripped his arm. He felt for his dagger, only to realize it was on his other side. He switched the torch to his other hand and, shaking Susanna
off his arm, reached for his weapon. “What is it?” he murmured, more urgently now. She took hold of him again, and he thought how stupidly useless he was with Susanna clutching his sleeve while he gripped a dagger he didn't know how to use well.

“There. At the end of the bridge. Just to the side,” she whispered. “A man. He was standing still, and then he moved. I swear he did. What's he doing there?”

Francesco didn't know, but peering into the blackness, he could just make something out. Standing among the equally dark shapes at the foot of the bridge, it looked like nothing more than a line drawn in charcoal on an equally black canvas.
Or,
Francesco thought with relief, lowering the dagger to his side,
like any one of the hundreds of poles for mooring boats that lined the riverbanks.

“It's just a pole,” he said.

“But it moved.”

“Your eyes must be playing tricks on you …” And on him, it would seem. He was sure he saw it wobble. Yet even if it was a man, Francesco reasoned quickly, it didn't necessarily mean he was out to harm them. The pole man could be someone like himself: scared of his own shadow and hoping whoever they might be wouldn't pull a dagger on him. “Who goes there?” Francesco asked in what he hoped was a commanding yet friendly voice.

No answer. Francesco's torch spat and fizzled, sending out a shower of sulfurous sparks. At first there was no movement at the foot of the bridge, but then the pole swayed again.

“Oh, Mother of Mary,” Susanna said, and Francesco watched as the pole began to change shape, folding over and straightening again, while what appeared to be large wings unfurled at its sides.

“A demon …,” Susanna stuttered, letting go of Francesco's sleeve long enough to cross herself. “Hail Mary, full of grace …,”
she said in a voice somewhere between a choke and a scream.

Francesco's grip tightened on his weapon as the figure started toward them with a strange loping gait, its footfalls echoing unevenly on the stone bridge, wings flapping at its side as if it were trying to fly.

Demon, my ass,
Francesco thought. Still, as he put his dagger away, his hand was shaky. “Damn you, Dante! Are you trying to scare the shit out of us? Why didn't you answer me?”

“I am the bat man,” Dante moaned, punctuating his words with a sad sigh. “And I must wait here in the dark like a bat.”

“Here? Why here?”

“I followed you to the Colosseum and knew you'd return this way.”

“Why didn't you …?” He stopped. There was no point asking Dante why he hadn't talked to them then and had instead waited here all this time in the cold and darkness. He'd already answered. He was a bat, and bats wait in the dark. “What do you want then?” he said, a little more impatiently than usual. “It's late, and we're not bats, and we want to go home.”

“The Pope's boy. You saw the Pope's boy. Imperia told me. But not the Pope's boy. The Madonna's boy. In the painting Marcus made. He painted the Madonna and the baby Jesus. Calendula the Madonna but not the Madonna. And the Pope's boy not the Pope's boy but the Madonna's. But not the Madonna's. A whore's.”

Francesco took Susanna's hand and gave it a squeeze. She still hadn't recovered from the fright and was a bit shaky. He would have to remember not to tease her about this.

“His name is Agnello,” Dante continued, his words no longer sad and slow but falling over each other as he tried to straighten out his thoughts. “Agnello. A lamb. Like the Lamb of God, only he is
not the Lamb of God, he is the Pope's boy. Not the Pope's boy but the Madonna's. Calendula was the Madonna but not the Madonna. A whore. A whore. Making a fool of everyone with her golden hair.” He stopped and stepped closer to Francesco. He was a full head shorter than Francesco, so he stood on his toes in an attempt to look straight into Francesco's eyes. “Are you Francesco or not Francesco?”

“Yes, Dante. I'm still Francesco. And the Pope's boy is not the Madonna's boy but the son of one of Imperia's whores. Don't you worry your head about it. Now, why don't you go home and get some sleep?”

“Bats don't sleep at night. Get the boy for the Madonna. Get him from the Pope. Get the boy for the Madonna.”

“Dante, you go near that boy, you won't be a bat anymore. You'll be dead. You understand?” He said this as clearly and forcefully as he could.

“The Madonna wants the boy. You saw the boy.”

“Dante, go home. We'll talk tomorrow.”

They watched Dante slouch away. “He's always been like this, ever since I met him,” he said to Susanna. “I'm told he's a wood-carver, but I've never seen him carve anything.”

“Maybe he works alone in his workshop,” Susanna said. “I bet he was in love with Calendula.”

“You think so? I thought she just told him things because no one would listen if he repeated them. I'm sure she told him Calendula wasn't her real name. And it confused him. But you could be right about him being in love with her. I wonder if she told him about Agnello too. Do you think she told him to get her the boy, but she was killed before he could do it? Maybe in some way he feels responsible for her death.”

“And now as punishment he must stay a bat forever,” Susanna said sadly.

They had reached the alley now, but Susanna reminded him he could use his front door, “if you want to go to Michelangelo's?”

He didn't, and soon he was under Susanna's covers with the bolt of blue silk cloth as his pillow. He was still thinking about Dante and wondering whether the man was jealous of Calendula's other lovers. “Do you think Dante just pretends to be a bat and he's really quite sane?”

“If he was in love with Calendula, why would he pretend to be a bat?” She paused for a moment, then laughed.

“What are you laughing about? Dante?”

“No, not at Dante. At you. For a little bit, you thought Dante was a demon too, didn't you?” Not getting a response, she started to tickle him. “You did, didn't you?”

“Stop,” he laughed, trying to push her away, but he was helpless against her tickling.

“You thought Dante was a real demon from Hell, didn't you? Confess, Francesco! You aren't always so smart.”

“Alright, I'll confess! Just stop! Bless me, Susanna, for I have sinned,” he gasped. “And this is my first confession in over a year!”

It worked, but not in the way he expected, as she slapped him instead.

“What are you doing?” he asked, catching her wrist.

“Don't talk blasphemy!”

“What do you mean?”

“You can't confess to me. And what do
I
mean? What do
you
mean you haven't confessed in over a year? What if you die? You won't go to Heaven!”

“Don't worry,” he said, doing his best to sound serious. “If I die, you can get the necromancer to bring me back with his spells.”

She was about to smack him again with her free hand, but he
managed to catch this one too and give it a playful bite. She squealed, and he remembered what Michelangelo had said the night the silversmith came home.
Can hear them right through the wall. Makes it hard for a man to sleep.
Francesco gave her another bite, just in case the first squeal hadn't fully shaken Michelangelo awake.

F
RANCESCO HAD WOKEN BEFORE SUSANNA AND DECIDED HIS BEST
hope of seeing The Turk was to go to his villa as early as possible, before business at the port called the man away. There was also the chance breakfast would still be on the table. But when he reached St. Peter's Square, he changed his mind. Francesco watched as the multitude of workers parted like a human Red Sea for Raphael, the architect Bramante, and Pope Julius himself. Francesco knew Pope Julius frequently toured the work site, but today something struck him as odd. And then he realized Agnello wasn't with the Pope. Francesco looked up to the windows of the Vatican apartments and wondered if Agnello was there, perhaps alone with the parrot. It might be his only chance to talk to the boy.

Watching from behind a stack of marble blocks, Francesco waited until the three men were swallowed by the old St. Peter's and everyone in the square returned to their labors. How long did he have? Francesco knew from Raphael that Bramante could keep the
Pope for hours, expounding on his latest ideas for the basilica. But he also knew the Pope could become impatient.

Dodging workers and nearly colliding with an ox cart, Francesco ran back through the square, breathlessly explaining to the Swiss Guards at the palace door that he was there on Raphael's orders. The guards eyed him without interest and let him pass.

He had never set foot inside the palace before, but he knew Pope Julius's apartments were on the third floor, overlooking the courtyard Bramante was designing to link the Papal Palace with the Belvedere Palace. He didn't know how to reach them, though, and so for a few moments he stared into the vastness of the crowded entrance hall. On one side, stinking beggars waited for alms, while on the other side, clerks, bishops, priests, secretaries, and cardinals waited for favors—alms of a different sort. This latter group was a well-fed lot, and scanning their ranks Francesco thought how any one of them could easily be described as a “fat man.” He was tempted to yell out Calendula's name just to see if any guilty faces turned his way.

Of course, he wasn't going to do this and was still wondering how to proceed when, by complete luck, he saw Sodoma, who was leaning against a pillar, watching two dwarfs wrestling on the hard marble floor for the amusement of the men waiting in the hall. Although he wasn't wearing a dress today (even Sodoma didn't have enough bravado to wear a dress in the Vatican), he was still in his finest velvet and lace. Francesco wondered what he was doing here in such finery—surely he didn't paint in those expensive clothes.

“What brings you here?” Sodoma asked, tossing a couple of coins to the dwarfs.

“I've come to see Raphael,” Francesco said, without inquiring about Sodoma's business.

“Then you've missed him. He is out with Bramante and His Holiness, contemplating the dimensions of the columns in the new St. Peter's, or, as I call it, ‘The Pope's Folly.'”

“Perhaps I can wait then,” Francesco said. “Can you direct me to the rooms where he's at work?”

“I'd take you there myself, but I'm here awaiting a handsome new patron and do not dare leave my post. So if you follow this corridor here to the very end, take it to the right, then the second, or is it the third—” Sodoma broke off and grabbed a passing boy by the collar, nearly knocking him off his feet. “Give this one a coin and he'll take you.”

Francesco snickered. “A coin? Have you forgotten who my master is?”

“Ah yes, the ever-amusing Michelangelo. He certainly has earned my admiration. I was in the chapel earlier this morning, and he was ordering that twit di Grassi around as if he were his houseboy—but that would be you, wouldn't it? I must sympathize with you. But it was still entertaining. Michelangelo insisted di Grassi jump up and down on each board of the scaffold to make sure it was secure. I just had to climb the ladder and take a peek. Di Grassi's robes were flapping around his hairy legs, and his face was as red as his hat. I was waiting for him to go straight through the scaffold and splatter all over the chapel floor like an overripe pomegranate.”

“That's Michelangelo's goal, I'm sure.” Francesco didn't know how long he had before the Pope returned, but Sodoma, who wasn't to be rushed when telling a story, was still gripping the boy's collar.

“A goal I wish him much success at. Every time I see di Grassi, he shakes his dirty little finger at me …” And here Sodoma waggled a finger from his free hand in Francesco's face. “And he tells me he will see me excommunicated or burned at the stake if he has to
implore the Pope to his dying day. I don't doubt him, either. As a matter of fact, I am holding him to it. And I shall stick my tongue out at him every time I see him, just in case he forgets. He was complaining about one of the new choirboys too. Sings sweeter than the angels, His Holiness said, and the twit started grumbling that, if that were the case, the child must be possessed by the Devil. He actually suggested His Holiness bring in an exorcist!”

Alfeo,
Francesco thought with alarm. “What did His Holiness say to that?”

“He called him a fucking idiot and told him to shut up.” Sodoma made a rude sound with his lips, opened the pouch at his waist, and took out a couple of coins. “Here,” he said to the boy, finally releasing his collar. “Take him to His Holiness's library, the room where Raphael's working.” The other coin he pressed into Francesco's hand. “And you buy yourself a sausage. I swear you look hungrier than those wolves that wake me up every night. If I had more with me, I'd send you to buy a new cloak too. What a stink,” he said, producing a lace handkerchief and waving it in front of his nose.

Francesco thanked him and followed the boy. He lifted a corner of his cloak to his nose, catching the smell of wet, dirty sheep. Still, the Vatican palace was no sweetly perfumed meadow, and his nose was assailed at every turn in the long corridors by varying combinations of urine, sweat, incense, rancid tallow candles, and wood fires.

“Will you show me the room where they keep the parrot?” he asked, and the boy tossed him a look. Francesco knew it was going to cost him his sausage.

But the loss was worth it. Agnello was indeed there, having a conversation with a parrot tethered to its perch by a fine gold chain.
That is,
Francesco thought,
if talking to a bird that regularly interjects
the words “Go fuck a monkey” can be called a conversation.
While the walls of the richly frescoed room were lined with chairs, the boy and parrot were alone, reenacting, to Francesco's amazement, the defense of Rome from the exiled king Lucius Tarquinius Superbus. Francesco quietly closed the doors behind him and watched for a moment. If Julius returned before he was gone, he'd just tell him he'd come to see Raphael and stopped to talk to the boy.

“You be Horatius Cocles. He had only one eye, so you have to pretend,” Agnello said.

“
Go fuck a monkey,
” the parrot squawked.

“That's right,” the boy returned as if he'd heard something completely different. “But you must pray to the Father Tiber River, because you must kill the Etruscans with your sword and swim to safety.” He recounted much of this in Latin, and Francesco wondered at this strange boy's fate. Agnello looked up then and, seeing Francesco, picked up a doll made of sheepskin and cloth from a chair. Holding it to his chest as if for protection, he took a step closer. “You're the one with the chicken,” he said. “Did you come to see the parrot?”

“I came here for one of the painters,” Francesco lied. “But I see he's not here. So it's a good time to meet your parrot.” He would have to enlighten Raphael later, so he could cover for him if necessary. “If that's all right with you?”

The boy nodded, and Francesco approached the parrot's stand. He put out a hand and the parrot grabbed his finger with his beak. “Ouch!” Francesco pulled his finger away.

“He bites,” Agnello said matter-of-factly.

“
Go fuck a monkey,
” the parrot added.

“Does he ever say anything else?” Francesco asked, inspecting his finger.

“Sometimes,” the boy said without elaborating.

“You like to play games with the parrot?” Francesco asked him in Latin, thinking it was a damn good thing Ovid had written a poem to a dead parrot or he'd never have known the word.
Psittacus.

The boy shrugged. “Sometimes.”

“Do you play with any of the boys here?”

Agnello shook his golden curls. Francesco now wondered why he'd come here. Could he really ask Agnello about Calendula? Wouldn't the boy tell Julius a man was here asking him questions about her? He decided to risk it. He needed to know whether Julius had told Agnello his mother had gone to Hell before or after Calendula died. Then he'd know which mother Julius was referring to. Francesco was still struggling with how to phrase his questions when Agnello raised the subject himself. “Did you know my mother?”

“No, I don't think so,” Francesco said as truthfully and gently as he could while at the same time revising his defense:
I was here to see Raphael, and Agnello asked me if I knew his mother … no idea … funny parrot.
“Do you miss her?”

Agnello nodded. “I saw her in the painting. She was pretty. Did she go from the painting to Hell or is she still in the painting?”

“I don't think she's in Hell, Agnello. But I don't know where she is. And that's just her likeness in the painting, just like it's your likeness.” There was no point in giving the boy false hope, but he didn't want to tell him the brutal truth, either. “I'm sure she misses you too.”

“
Go fuck a monkey.
”

Francesco couldn't help but think the parrot was calling him out as a liar. Or at least a coward.

Agnello turned to the parrot. “We'll play soon,” he said patiently.

Francesco glanced toward the doors nervously. “When did His Holiness tell you your mother had gone to Hell?” he asked carefully.

The boy shrugged. “I don't know.”

“Was it a long time ago or just a few days ago?”

Agnello looked at Francesco blankly. “I don't know.”

“Don't worry,” Francesco said, his heart breaking for the boy. “It doesn't matter. But I have to go now. You can come again and see the chicken.”

With “
Go fuck a monkey
” ringing in his ears, sure that every servant eyed him with suspicion, Francesco wound his way out of the palace, an endless dark labyrinth of marble halls full of dead ends and doors that led to more doors until he finally emerged near the entrance to the Sistine Chapel. He wouldn't go in. If Michelangelo saw him, he would send him on some silly errand.

But as he passed by, he heard the choir. Above all the other voices soared one clear line of melody sung in a voice beautiful enough to make the Devil himself weep. It had to be Alfeo.
Possessed by the Devil?
Honestly, someone should give that ass di Grassi a punch in the nose. He was glad Michelangelo was putting his new authority over him to good use. Francesco stopped and listened for a moment before peeking inside and confirming the source of the sound.

Standing next to Alfeo was an older man he assumed was Imperia's father, a man Raphael clearly trusted. But what protection could even the most upstanding man provide if Julius ever decided he wanted Alfeo as his new companion?
What the Pope desires, he takes,
Imperia had said. And would they castrate Alfeo to preserve that sweetness? Francesco had heard rumors of such practices. But surely they would need to seek permission from Alfeo's family. Or would they? Since Francesco had been in Rome, his legal training had failed him at every turn.

He slipped out of the chapel, unseen by Michelangelo, and into the square just as Bramante, Julius, and Raphael reappeared from inside the old basilica. He would tell Raphael that, for Alfeo's safety, he should be sent as far away from the Vatican as possible. Alfeo was lucky to have Raphael as a savior, but who would be Agnello's?

LUCK
was still with Francesco when he arrived at The Turk's. The Turk was, as he'd hoped, still at breakfast and more than willing to share. Francesco hadn't seen this much food in one place since the Christmas festivities at Guido del Mare's. And while that feast had served a hundred people or more, this spread seemed to be put on for the benefit of The Turk alone. Beside a brace of pheasants, so freshly killed their blood still drained onto the table, were platters of eel, fish, and mutton, loaves of bread, and bowls of olives and dates. Reigning over it all, on a massive carved throne, upholstered in scarlet velvet and dripping with gilt, was The Turk, with a monkey on his shoulder, while in the corner a white lion paced around a cage not much bigger than itself. The Turk handed the monkey a fig, and it took a bite before hurling it at the cage. The lion let out a low growl.

“Still got that hungry look in your eye, boy. Eat! Eat! Eat!” The Turk waved his amethyst-ringed hand at a small dark girl, commanding her to pour them wine. She did as she was told, sloshing some over the table when the lion let out a ferocious roar. The Turk laughed indulgently. “Not to worry, my dear, you're hardly worth his consideration.” He picked up one of the bloody pheasants and threw
it toward the cage. It landed a foot short, and the lion lunged against the bars, rocking the whole cage. Now it was Francesco's turn to jump. The Turk laughed even louder. “You're as skittish as that little girl,” he bellowed. “A beauty, isn't he? Just arrived yesterday, all the way from the south of Africa. Extremely rare, these white beasts. When I heard one had been captured, I had to have it.” He rose with the help of the eagle-topped cane that had aroused Francesco's suspicion on his last visit. With the monkey clinging to his collar, The Turk snagged the pheasant with the cane and pushed it through the bars.