The Wolves of St. Peter's (25 page)

I loved you,
he thought.
I know I did. I won't believe these lies.

His head still resting on his arms, he closed his eyes and tried to conjure up Juliet's face. He stayed that way for a long time but only succeeded in bringing up Calendula's, lying on the bank of the river, bashed and bloody. And then, this afternoon, the chunk of hair, hanging from the stick as he held it over her shallow grave.

“Oh my God!” he said aloud, his eyes wide open now. “How could I have been so stupid?”

The chicken blinked back at him.

The door slammed behind him, as did the gate in the silversmith's yard. He pushed open the door and called Susanna's name, but she wasn't there. Nor was his dagger, which he'd left on the table. And something else was missing. The bolt of blue silk. She'd taken that too. And the money? He looked at the mantle. The first stone … No, she hadn't taken the money. She'd left it for him. He grabbed his cloak from the bed.

What the hell had he done?

H
OW MUCH OF A HEAD START DID SUSANNA HAVE? A HALF-HOUR AT
most? But even if he ran, could he really hope to catch her before she reached The Turk's old villa? Because that was where she'd gone. He was sure of it.

It had grown colder, his breath in the fading light of late afternoon coming out in white puffs. The drizzle of the morning had turned to sleet, coating everything with a malevolent layer of ice. He slipped on a patch of cobblestone, breaking his fall with a painful wrench to his wrist. Cursing, he picked himself up and ran out of the alley toward the bridge.

Of course Susanna wouldn't wait for his permission. She thought she was losing him, thought there'd be no more talk of his father's home in Florence or the hot springs. Not that he'd made any promises, but he knew he'd led her to believe it would happen. And while he might not have been sure of his feelings before, he was now. Susanna was not the kind of girl a man of his position fell
in love with, but he had nonetheless. And he wanted nothing more than to be with her now, curled up in front of the great fireplace in his father's library, waiting for the Christmas snow.

It was only his confusion and anger that had made him impatient with her. But she couldn't have known that. And he'd been tempted by her offer to set up a meeting with Juliet. Instead, he should have told her in no uncertain terms she was not to go. Was Guido even in Naples? Or was he here in Rome, the Naples story only meant to mislead? What an evil, conniving pair they were. More so than all the wolves of Rome. And he had fed them Susanna. Now he knew there was no going back. Not now. Not ever.

He reached the Cestio Bridge. A shepherd was crossing with his flock, and Francesco yelled at them to “Move, move, move” as he shoved the docile animals out of his way. She had taken the bolt of blue cloth with her, the same one she wrapped her arms around at night. The one he'd teased her would make a good dowry.
Hell, even I would take it,
he'd told her, and she'd believed him and gone to trade him for a bolt of blue silk. No, Susanna was not the girl he was supposed to fall in love with, but she was better than he deserved.

He left the road, the frozen grass of the fields crunching under his feet like slivers of glass, the sleet in his face like needles. Running, running. He scared up a flock of grouse, their wings whirring around his head. A pain stabbed his side, and every breath felt like it could be his last. He was gaining on The Turk's old villa, the Pyramid of Cestius rising behind. Running, running …

Until he knew there was no point in running at all. He was too late.

Susanna lay on the grass, facedown, her brown cloak and dark hair fanned out around her. Beside her on the ground was Pollo
Grosso, a heavy club lying between them. And Dante, standing frozen over them, a big rock raised above his head.

Francesco stumbled toward Susanna, willing himself to reach her. Oh God, what had she done? What had
he
done? He put his hand to his side, forgetting that his dagger wasn't there, that she'd taken it. Already he knew he would be haunted forever by what-ifs.
No! No!
he wanted to scream.

“I tried to stop him,” Dante said, lowering the rock and dropping it at his feet.

“I know, I know,” Francesco murmured.

Pollo Grosso pressed his hand to his head. Blood was streaming through his fingers, but like a bull in an arena, unable to admit defeat, he struggled to get up again. Francesco kicked him in the head as hard as he could, knocking him back down to the ground.

Ignoring Pollo Grosso's bellow of pain and anger, Francesco knelt down beside Susanna. He lifted her head onto his lap, knowing as he did that her skull had been broken. Blood ran from her nose and the corner of her mouth. It flowed thick and warm over his hand and spilled onto his cloak.

He knew he didn't have much time. His heart was pounding in his chest, and fragments of words escaped his lips. Things he wanted to say yet had no words for. And so he just held her, cradling her broken head and stroking her hair, sticky with blood, while she lay still in his arms, looking past him to the sky with a calm intensity. He followed her gaze for a moment and saw nothing but the same gray clouds that had been hanging over Rome for weeks. He found a few words—
Remember the night I met you and you slapped me?
—but he wasn't sure he said them aloud. Was that only two months ago? He stroked her hair, shielding her face from the sleet. She did not breathe. A fox ran through the field, and somewhere a dog barked.
And then she was gone. Quietly, quietly the light went from her eyes, and the words he'd wanted to say no longer mattered.

He heard Dante crying and was aware of Pollo Grosso struggling to his feet, but he couldn't take his eyes from Susanna's.
Her soul has gone to Heaven, son—she is happy now,
his father had said as they'd sat at his mother's deathbed, but all Francesco knew was that one moment there is life and then there isn't. Thought, happiness, love, pain, and then nothing, and he would never feel the finality of it more than he did at this moment. He placed his hand over Susanna's eyes, those dark gypsy eyes he'd teased her about, and closed them gently.

When he looked up, he saw her coming across the field from the direction of the villa. She wore a veil, and the hood of her cloak covered her golden hair, but he knew it was her.
How could I have been so stupid?
He'd spoken the words aloud with only the chicken to hear, and then he'd run from the house—at that moment, he'd realized what had really happened and that Susanna was in danger. He gathered Susanna tighter in his arms, as if to keep her safe, and his hand struck something hard in the folds of her dress. His dagger. He pulled it from her pocket and set it on the icy grass beside him before looking up again at the woman walking toward him.

She skirted Pollo Grosso and came to a stop a couple of feet away from Francesco. “I'm sorry,” she said, her voice steady and betraying no emotion. “I only wanted to speak with her, but as soon as she saw it was me, she ran away. I didn't mean for him to kill her. I wanted him to bring her back, but then I suppose he saw you coming and panicked. He was protecting me.” She turned to him now, where he lay writhing on the grass. “Get up!” she commanded as if he were a dog. “Go to the house.”

And as obediently as any dog, he did just that. Blood running
from his scalp, he stumbled toward the villa, but Francesco had no doubt the man would live. He had taken far worse blows in Guido's service.

Dante followed behind Pollo Grosso, but after a dozen or so yards stopped and dropped down onto a rock under a bare thorn tree, burying his face in his hands.

She turned back toward Francesco, raising her veil, a thick lock of golden hair falling over her forehead. That golden hair. She lifted a ringless hand and unhurriedly brushed it away, a gesture he'd seen so many times, as if she were drawing attention to its wondrous color.

He had stood at the edge of the Tiber and watched her body pulled from the river. It had been a day like this. Like every day since he'd been in Rome. Gray and cold and hopeless. He had stood with the mud sucking at his boots and watched as the yellow dress, torn and muddied, pulled her under the water. Her skin the sickly green hue of a dead carp, her face smashed and broken, her golden hair entwined with weeds, her finger hacked from her hand.
Most likely just another whore,
he had said to the policeman before crossing over to the middle of the bridge. He had stopped there and, while overhead the gulls had circled, screeching for dead flesh, he'd watched as another policeman closed her eyes.

But they weren't Calendula's eyes. They were Juliet's eyes. Juliet dressed in Calendula's yellow dress. Juliet's finger removed as if it had worn an amethyst ring. Juliet's golden hair entangled with seaweed. Juliet's face disfigured beyond recognition. Juliet. Juliet. Juliet.

He had been so close, yet had failed to see the truth. And because of his failure, not only was Juliet dead but Susanna too.

Calendula looked at him, and he saw her face framed in a field
of sun-kissed marigolds.
Hail Mary, full of grace. Blessed art thou among women …

I could kill her,
he thought.
I could pick up the dagger and kill her.

But instead, he asked, “Why am I still alive?”

“You were both fooled,” she said without answering his question. “You and Guido both. He didn't come to kill you. He wanted your legal advice. He wanted to know how to get out of his marriage without having to pay back her dowry. Don't feel sorry for Juliet. She was the one who told him you'd made advances on her. You were supposed to kill him. Then she'd be free, and everything would be hers.”

Francesco remembered how Raphael had come to this conclusion the night they'd visited the Sistine Chapel. He wondered how Guido had become wise to this plan. Had she tried it again with another poor bastard, until even Guido had seen the pattern to her deceit? He didn't know if he cared. Not now, with Susanna growing cold in his arms. But Francesco was sure he knew how the rest of this story unfolded.

“Tell me if I'm right then,” he said. “Guido went to The Turk and asked him where he could find me. But when The Turk showed him
The Marigold Madonna,
Guido saw a much simpler solution to his problem.”

Calendula made no objection, so Francesco continued. “Guido took The Turk's ring, a little gift with which to woo you. Tell me if I'm right, Calendula. He offered you your own little palace. Maybe not too close, but a place where you could live and where he could occasionally parade you around in your veil to keep anyone from asking questions. A place where you could be a lady again. Or pretend to. Is that how it went?”

She nodded, adjusting the hood of her cloak, bringing it closer around her face. “He said he'd set me up in a house with a staff far
from the castle, but if anyone saw me, they'd believe I was Juliet, exiling myself from society to pay for my sins against my husband. No one would object.”

“And so you wore the amethyst ring,” Francesco said. “You flaunted it in front of everyone. It would be easy enough to believe you'd been killed for it. And if The Turk was blamed—it was his ring after all—Guido wouldn't lose any sleep over it.”

But Guido tried to be too clever,
Francesco added to himself. Had Guido just buried Juliet in the first place, instead of trying to pass off her body as Calendula's, he might have succeeded. He'd be back in Florence now, and Calendula would be locked up with a couple of trustworthy servants while he enjoyed all of Juliet's money. And since her family lived in Milan, there was little chance they'd visit unexpectedly.

“He thought he was very clever,” Calendula said, echoing his thoughts. “Until he learned that you'd seen the body pulled from the river and had told everyone at Imperia's. He started to panic. He worried that Pollo Grosso hadn't disfigured her well enough. And you were too smart, he said. You wouldn't let it go. You'd go to the mortuary and, once up close, you would see that it was Juliet. And then you'd come looking for him, with the aid of The Turk's men. The Turk wouldn't be happy to know Guido had stolen the ring to implicate him. That was why Guido and Pollo Grosso went to claim the body. Pollo Grosso buried her by the wall. I know the wolves dug her up, but there was no hope of her being recognized after that.” Calendula's voice held no remorse. No pity for the woman whose life she'd helped take, just as there was no pity for the woman growing cold in his arms. Did she believe Juliet deserved to die for her treachery, or was Juliet's death simply a means to an end?

“Why didn't he kill me before I went to the mortuary?” Francesco asked.

“The damage was already done. You'd already told everyone. Besides, he liked you. He talked about getting you back into his service. He thought once you learned about Juliet's deceit …”

“He liked me?” He knew Guido had liked him before discovering his liaison with Juliet, but he was surprised to learn the man still did. Hadn't Guido tried to kill him? Then he suddenly realized that Calendula was speaking of Guido in the past tense: He
liked.
He
talked.
He
thought.

“Where's Guido now?” he said, although he already knew the answer. “And don't tell me Naples.”

“Dead,” she said bluntly. “Pollo Grosso killed him. I wanted Agnello. I told Guido I'd go along with his plan if he let me take my son. He agreed. None of Juliet's babies had lived, so why wouldn't she take to a beautiful orphan boy and adopt him as her own? That was to be my story. I didn't care, so long as I could have Agnello back. Imperia took him from me and gave him to the Pope.” Her eyes now filled with passion, and her cheeks flushed with indignation. “I must have him back!”

“When did you tell Guido that Agnello belongs to the Pope?”

“After he returned the ring to The Turk's. Guido wanted to leave for Florence, but I said we still had to rescue Agnello from the Pope. He flew into a rage and called me a madwoman, saying the Pope would have us murdered. We fought, but Pollo Grosso came to my defense and killed Guido. I tried to stop him, but it was too late. He left Guido's body for the wolves.”

Big Stupid Chicken probably thought Calendula was Juliet. Juliet, whom he'd always watched like a dog in heat. Clearly, in the end, his loyalty to her was greater than to his master.

“Why did Pollo Grosso throw the torch into the soap-maker's shop?”

She looked at him, startled. “What are you talking about? He's been here with me the whole time.”

Francesco knew she was telling the truth. Beyond the passion with which she'd spoken of Agnello, her surprise at his question was the first emotion she'd shown. But if she weren't lying, it could only mean one thing: Michelangelo was right. The attack had been intended for him. For all the reasons he thought. A desperate attempt by Asino and di Grassi to keep him from finishing the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.