The Wolves of St. Peter's (3 page)

His story had made Susanna incredulous.
You fell in love with your employer's wife? And you're still alive? You're a very lucky man.

As miserable as he was to be separated from the woman he loved, he knew he was indeed lucky to have escaped with his life. If Guido had taken one moment to think that afternoon in Florence, he wouldn't have gone after Francesco himself. He would have sent his bodyguard—a brute of a man named Giovanni, although everyone had long forgotten that and called him Pollo Grosso, “Big Chicken,” for the bright red hair that stuck up like a comb from his big square head. If Guido had sicced Pollo Grosso on him, Francesco would have been dead for sure. Because despite his cowardly sounding name, Pollo Grosso was a vicious dog who did his master's bidding without thought or remorse. He was as devoid of feeling as he was of articulate speech, and his only pleasure was to kill.

When Francesco looked out again from his hiding place, Susanna was still peering over the gate.
What's so interesting,
he wondered,
that she'd stand outside in the rain?
Deciding that he wasn't going to wait her out, he walked up behind her.

“What is it?”

“There you are,” she said accusingly. “I've been waiting for you. There's a chicken in the yard. I don't know what to do.”

“A chicken?” he echoed, looking around for the bird. How odd. He'd just been thinking of Pollo Grosso and now a real chicken appeared. “I would think it obvious. Kill it for my dinner. Where is it?”

Most of the yard was filled with the giant blocks of marble Michelangelo had chosen for the Pope's tomb, blocks he refused to sell just in case His Holiness changed his mind. Now stacked with firewood and covered with vines, they had taken on the quality of a ruined monument, and it was from out of this that a mottled brown-and-white chicken emerged.

“Is a chicken with three legs a good or bad omen?” she asked as the bird blinked up at them.

It was on the tip of Francesco's tongue to tell her she was mad, but she was right. The chicken had three legs: one dead-center and one on either side. It stood on two of these legs, listing to the left while the third leg stuck out from the opposite side, looking like a useless appendage until suddenly it gave a funny little hop before coming to rest on the third and center legs, listing now to the right. Francesco laughed for the first time that day.

He told her omens were superstitious nonsense, but Susanna was insistent, and as the bird did its little dance for them, tilting from one side to the other, she rhymed off a litany of strange sightings. “But what about the two-headed calf born in Tivoli only three days before an earthquake? There can be no other explanation. And last year, just before the Tiber flooded its banks, a dwarf was stillborn not far from here. And the day before that terrible storm swept through Ostia and knocked down my father's house, a bat with red eyes flew down the chimney.” She grabbed his sleeve. “They say too the day before the Castel Sant'Angelo bridge collapsed and all those people died, a donkey—”

“Enough,” he interrupted, wondering if gypsy blood actually did run in her veins. “Look at it. It's too ridiculous to be anything bad.” Indeed, if there were any bad omen that day, it was the discovery of Calendula's body.

“Well, a good omen then,” she rebutted. “The day before you came, there was a giant blue moth on the window ledge. That's how I knew when I met you that you were a good man.”

“Is that why you slapped my face?”

“That was just to get you to kiss me.”

He kissed her now—even considered more, as it would be hours before Michelangelo returned—but all he could think of was Calendula's bludgeoned face and missing finger, and he changed his mind again.

He needed to find Raphael.

“Well, don't kill it then,” he said, backing away while trying to maintain the glib tone. “Maybe this will bring you another man. A rich one this time. But you better put the chicken in your yard, because Michelangelo will see it only as an omen he is about to have dinner.”

He tried to make his escape, but Susanna insisted on his help in catching it. In any other case, she would have swept the chicken up by the legs and carried it upside down. The third leg made this awkward, however, and Susanna was afraid of hurting it, for fear it could turn against her, changing it from the good omen she was now convinced it was into a bad one. In the end, Francesco opened the gate and propped it open with a rock while Susanna attempted to herd it out with her shawl. Only the bird refused to leave. Instead, it stopped short at the gate and, evading the shawl, flew to the top of the stone wall, where it recommenced its dance, its head bobbing from side to side in time.

“Forget it,” Francesco said after two more failed attempts. “I don't have time for this right now. It'll just have to take its chances with Michelangelo. I must find Raphael.”

“Now?” Susanna asked, her disappointment palpable. “Come inside with me instead. It's raining, and I have a fire.”

He still didn't want to tell her about Calendula. And he wasn't sure why. Maybe because he liked the simple companionship he had with her, the distraction from the dark regrets that found him even in his dreams. But he couldn't avoid the subject forever. She was going to find out, if not from him then from someone else. News traveled fast in Rome. “It's one of the girls from Imperia's, Calendula,” he said a little more matter-of-factly than he felt. “She's dead, I'm afraid. I just saw her body pulled from the Tiber.”

Susanna looked unfazed, and
just another whore
echoed in his brain. “Was she murdered?” she asked.

“It appears she was.”

“I thought so,” she said with a certain amount of satisfaction as she attempted to steer him toward the silversmith's yard. “The way she went around flaunting herself and that new ring. It was bound to happen.”

He was annoyed with her. He didn't expect grief—he wasn't even sure he felt that himself—but this bordered on glee, the kind reserved for watching your enemies humbled. He had to wonder why. Because she was jealous? “Aren't we the lady then,” he said mockingly as he pried her hand from his sleeve.

“More than her,” she responded haughtily.

“And I suppose all you do for the wages Benvenuto pays you is mend his clothes and cook his breakfast?”

She aimed a blow at his head, but he was ready for it and dodged it easily, telling her to piss off, which made her even angrier. “Well, at least I
know
now the chicken is a good omen,” she yelled as he kicked open his back door.

“Of what?”

“Of one less whore in this city!”

He tried to slam the door, but, because everything in the house
leaned, it jammed against the floor instead, leaving a gap just wide enough for a three-legged chicken to slip through. Francesco swore and attempted to shoo it back out again, but it flew onto the shelf over the room's one window and gazed down at him, unperturbed.

Francesco gave up and hunted for Michelangelo's letter. Impatiently, he sifted through sheets of paper filled with sinewy, muscular males he hoped Michelangelo wasn't thinking of painting on the Pope's ceiling. But the letter wasn't there, nor was it on their only chair. The room was dark, which made the hunt even more difficult, but there really weren't too many places to leave a letter other than the table and chair. He looked in the fireplace, wondering if Michelangelo, in a bad moment, had thrown it in there and forgotten about it. Not that it would have burned. The grate hadn't seen a fire for several days, because Michelangelo was engaged in a feud over prices with the man who delivered the wood.

Feeling more irritable with every passing minute, he searched the bed, tearing off the coarse woolen blanket and the tanned hides that covered the straw mattress. He opened the small trunk that held Michelangelo's extra clothes: a pair of breeches, two stained shirts, and a jacket of unusually fine brocade Francesco had never seen him wear. There was nothing among the bottles of tonics and cures for Michelangelo's many ailments, ailments Francesco was sure were all either imagined or feigned, no doubt to add to his image as a long-suffering martyr.

Francesco was at the point of admitting defeat, concluding that Michelangelo had either dreamed up this letter or taken it with him to the chapel that morning, when the chicken started its little dance again on the shelf over the window. It was the only place Francesco hadn't searched, since Michelangelo would have needed the chair to reach it. And why he would have hidden the second letter there if
he wanted Francesco to send it was even harder to fathom. But there it was, and he pulled it out from under the chicken just as it gave one of its little hops. “You might have some use after all,” he said. “That is, if Michelangelo doesn't lop your head off before I return. The bastard probably hid it up here just so he'd have something to complain about.”

Francesco tucked the letter beneath his cloak, fastened his dagger at his waist, and, wishing the chicken good luck, went back out into the rain.

Thankfully, there was no sign of Susanna.

W
ITH HIS FEET SQUELCHING IN HIS SODDEN BOOTS AND HOSE
, Francesco followed the streets that were by now familiar to him. First came the squalid Piazza Rusticucci with its little church of Santa Caterina. The soap-maker had covered his cauldron of fat with old boards to keep out the rain, but underneath the pot a fire still smoldered. From the Piazza Rusticucci he entered the maze of streets, if they could even be called streets, choked as they were with stalls, lean-tos, and overhead bridges that connected the upper stories of facing houses. Outside the butcher's, three sheep huddled together, waiting their turn for the axe, while a dozen crows fought over the entrails of their brothers. Pope Julius, in an attempt to minimize the foul smells, had decreed that all offal was to be thrown in the Tiber, but the law was largely ignored. Francesco dodged the beggars, the whores, the fishmongers, the rag sellers, the children, and the livestock, all while attempting not to step in the worst of the filth or the ever-deepening puddles.

Just a few minutes away, the Piazza Scossacavalli was significantly more elegant. Here the slaves and servants of the rich who lived in the square's imposing palazzi chased out unwanted business and traffic. But the city couldn't be kept out completely, and a beggar wrapped in rags grabbed Francesco's sleeve, imploring him for a few coins. Francesco shook his head.

“Not even a crust of bread?”

“No,” Francesco said as he kept on walking. “I could use some bread myself.” And it was true. If it hadn't been for Calendula, he could be with Susanna now. She would not only have bread, but cabbage soup too. She always saved him the marrow from the soup bone, and he thought of it now, longing for its greasy smoothness on his tongue.

In the middle of the square, one of the city's self-proclaimed prophets, a man looking not much wilder and dirtier in appearance than Michelangelo, kept up a tirade against Pope Julius that would no doubt have him dragged away and burned at the stake in no time. “And he may call himself a man of God, but he is the Antichrist, a man of sin, the last leader of fornicating popes and pederastic cardinals, the eighth head of the beast. But God, the true God, will cast him into a bottomless pit, where he shall be consumed by a seven-headed snake, and his cries of agony will be ignored …” Yes, Francesco would have liked to wager how long the man would last and even entertained a quick fantasy of Michelangelo being hauled off in a case of mistaken identity.

He rapped on Raphael's door, realizing as he followed the houseboy upstairs that he'd been so preoccupied with the prospect of telling Raphael about Calendula and dreaming of bread and marrow that he'd forgotten to send Michelangelo's letter.

Raphael's studio was a complete contrast to the hovel Francesco
shared with Michelangelo. Michelangelo knew this, and it was one of the grudges he bore against his rival. For one thing, the door fit into its frame, and inside, a fire chased off the damp of the day. Even the stink of the city couldn't permeate its walls, and it was here that Francesco was most reminded of the luxuries and comforts of his childhood home outside Florence.

Two tall windows with clear beveled-glass panes opened to the south, and two more to the north. On a sunny day, the room was flooded with light, and even on this very dark one, it was still bright enough to work. Canvasses waiting to be completed leaned against the walls. Francesco caught his reflection in a gilt-framed mirror and almost didn't recognize himself in the rough clothes, his black hair longer than he ever remembered, his face thinner, making his brown eyes seem disproportionately large. An inviting settee covered with velvet cushions faced the fire. A big oak table dominated the center of the room, loaded down at one end with pots of paints, brushes, and boxes of candles, at the other with sheets of paper covered in sketches, their corners held down by heavy books. In contrast to the anguished bodies featured in Michelangelo's drawings, these figures were as graceful and peacefully composed as their creator. In the middle of the table was a jug of wine, and beside it a heel of bread and an end of cheese. Francesco eyed the remains of the midday meal jealously.

“Take it,” Raphael said, turning from his easel and wiping his brush with a rag. Francesco thanked him and poured wine into one of the pewter cups on the table, dipping in the heel of bread to soften it. He was grateful for the food and also the diversion. Now that he was here, he didn't know where to start. He took a bite of bread. It was good, as was the cheese. “Alfeo's sister,” Raphael said, indicating the houseboy who was stoking the already roaring fire,
“brings in cheese from their farm. It is the best in all of Rome, do you not think?”

His mouth full, Francesco could only nod. Alfeo beamed at the praise. Like everything around Raphael, Alfeo, a slim boy of about ten years, could only be described as beautiful, and Francesco knew that by the time Raphael finished the Vatican apartments, Alfeo's cherubic features and dark curls would be reproduced in the face of at least one angel. Francesco handed him his damp cloak, and the boy almost disappeared beneath it as he took it to hang by the fire. It was humbling to think that in Rome he, Francesco, was this boy's equal—a houseboy to an artist. In Florence, as Guido's lawyer, he'd been very much Raphael's equal, if not his superior.

Raphael had lived intermittently in Florence and had once dined with Francesco and his father. Francesco had attempted to introduce Raphael to Guido, but Guido had refused. Infatuated with the work of Leonardo da Vinci, he had failed to recognize the much younger Raphael's genius, an oversight Francesco knew he later regretted. Francesco had sought out Raphael upon his arrival in Rome, catching up with him at Imperia's. It was the same night he'd first met Calendula and been stunned by her resemblance to Juliet. Although Raphael had noticed his shock and confusion, he hadn't pressed him to elaborate, nor did it appear to color his opinion of him. Francesco couldn't help but think his exile here would have been much more pleasant in Raphael's employ, no doubt something his father had taken into consideration when determining his son's punishment.

“You have caught us on a quiet day,” Raphael said as Francesco chewed his bread. “My assistants are preparing the walls of the Pope's apartments, a job I am pleased I can leave to others. And how is Michelangelo coming in his work? I can see he is still starving his help.”

“Not well,” Francesco said. Had his master been anyone else, he would have felt like an informant, but as Michelangelo made no attempts to hide his animosity toward Raphael, he felt no guilt. “He's torn away everything he started and is beginning anew. He is still begging to be allowed to work on the tomb. In the meantime, he writes letter after letter to his father and brothers and sends me to find their way to Florence.” He was babbling now. “He never gives me enough money, and I am left to pay the rest out of my own pocket.” He pulled the letter out. “See? And I've already sent one today.” As he looked at it, he felt even more ridiculous. Just a few months ago, his days were taken up with overseeing the sales of great tracts of land. He'd been paid for his services in pouches of gold, and now he was whining over a few small coins.

Still, Raphael laughed sympathetically and offered him more bread. “It is as if he is determined to make everything so difficult for himself. His Holiness is punishing him not only for his disobedience, but also for his lack of courtly manners. I fear if one behaves like a mannerless peasant, one is treated as such, and only in Heaven is there a disregard for outward appearances. Should he display a little charm and humility along with his genius, not only would he find His Holiness to be more generous, he might even have some friends.”

Francesco could only agree. Raphael was a painter, an artist, a position no higher than Michelangelo's, and yet since Raphael's arrival from Florence a few months ago, he had found an exalted place for himself in the papal court while Michelangelo, in his workman's clothes and with his slovenly habits, was still so much the outsider. And while Michelangelo had to beg for every papal ducat, Raphael was a rich man. He lived and worked in these elegant rooms, ate fresh food from the countryside, dressed as well as any of his patrons, and
was generous with all his many friends. He was generous too with young artists, and they sought him out, becoming part of his growing circle of admirers. He was in every sense a true courtier.

But these weren't the only reasons Michelangelo despised Raphael. As Raphael picked up a piece of glass and held it up to the feeble light to appreciate its muted colors, Francesco thought no two men could ever look more unalike. While his master was squat, with a face like that of a bulldog kicked too many times, Raphael was tall, with fine handsome features that turned the heads of the most beautiful women in Rome. He had a reputation as a great lover, though Francesco had yet to see evidence of this. Although charming and gracious to everyone he met, and surrounded by people who adored him, Raphael seemed to carry an air of loneliness about him. Perhaps Raphael and Michelangelo had that much in common, though one ranted to Heaven while the other prayed quietly.

Francesco finished the bread and wine and set the cup back on the table. “Now that I have saved you from starvation for another night,” Raphael said with a smile, “is there anything else I can help you with? Something must have brought you out on such a day.”

Francesco nodded. There was no way out now. “Yes, and it is not good news.” He glanced toward Alfeo. “May we speak privately?”

“Of course.” Taking the letter and reading the address above the seal, Raphael turned to the boy. “Alfeo, take this to Marcello's. It is for Florence, and he leaves for there in the morning.”

Alfeo accepted the letter with a nod as Francesco emptied the purse at his waist. “I hope this will be adequate.”

Raphael waved away the money, opening a wooden box on the table and extracting several coins. “Keep them for yourself,” he said. He handed the money to Alfeo and told him to use the remainder to buy himself a sausage for his dinner.

Francesco thanked them both and watched Alfeo put on his cloak and make for the door. Sighing, he turned his attention back to Raphael, who was now watching him with a look of concern, lines marring his smooth forehead. “It's Calendula,” Francesco began, his voice faltering slightly over her name as he again pictured her mutilated face. “I saw them pull her body from the Tiber this morning. I believe she was murdered. Not that I told the police that. Her finger was missing … and so was the amethyst ring. They have taken her body to the mortuary.”

“Murdered?” Raphael exclaimed. “Calendula? Marcus's Marigold Madonna? Are you certain?”

“I know what I saw.”

Raphael walked to the window overlooking the Piazza Scossacavalli. “This city is a cursed place. Violence finds people here so easily and for so little reason.” He was silent for a moment before facing Francesco again. “Does Marcus know?”

Francesco shook his head. “I came to you first. I thought you'd know what to do. And after the other night …” He let the words trail away.

“You suspect Marcus did this?”

Francesco shrugged. “I don't know.”

Raphael walked back to the table and poured them both cups of wine. He indicated the settee to Francesco, who stretched his legs out in front of him in hopes of drying his wet feet. Raphael took the poker and pushed a log further into the flames. “First of all, you were wise not to tell the police anything. I fear they are more interested in extracting fines and confessions than uncovering the truth.” He laid the poker on the hearth and sat in the chair. “But Marcus? It is true he struck her the other night. However, I think he has lived in misery ever since, and so I believe it was an act uncharacteristic for him.”

He looked at Francesco, who knew what was coming next: his own uncharacteristic act of that evening, for he was not known as a man of violence. “Do you want to tell me what happened? We were all shocked by Marcus's actions, and I have wondered what might have happened if we had not been there to stop you. A man's skull is no match for a marble fireplace. And to defend Calendula? It is no secret you bore her a great deal of animosity. I have never heard you direct a kind word to her, and yet you do not treat the other women there, who are members of the same profession, with similar disdain. What was it about her that elicited such,” he paused, searching for the word, “contempt?”

Francesco stared into the fire, feeling chastised and ashamed. Though when he thought about it, he'd been ashamed all along. He felt foolish too, telling Raphael the truth, but knew he had no choice. “She reminded me of someone else, while at the same time being a complete mockery of her. It made me angry.”

“And yet, when Marcus struck her, you came to her defense.”

“I don't know what came over me. I was confused. The wine, the heat from the fire … For a moment she was …” Juliet's name almost escaped his lips. “I'm sorry now for my cruelty to her. I certainly didn't want this to happen.”

“And I am sure Marcus even less. We will tell him ourselves. Poor man. He was in love with her but could never take her for a wife. A man like him needs a dowry. And I cannot see him defying his father and marrying so beneath himself. Still, even knowing that, he was very jealous.”

“Do you know who gave her that ring?”

Raphael shook his head. “No, but it seems she might have been murdered for it. While I am neither old nor wise, I have learned that in many ways people are simple and do things for uncomplicated
reasons. Love, hate, guilt, greed. Calendula was bold, and no doubt flaunted the ring unwisely.”

Susanna's words echoed in Francesco's head.
The way she went around flaunting herself and that new ring. It was bound to happen.
Words almost identical to Raphael's, if not as graciously put. But then how did Susanna even know about the ring or that Calendula was flaunting it? He was sure he hadn't told her.