The Wolves of St. Peter's (4 page)

“So you think then it was theft?” Francesco asked. “Just greed?”

“It is as good a place as any to start.”

Alfeo returned then, declaring that the letter would be on its way to Florence by morning. Francesco eyed the sausage the boy prepared to roast on the fire and decided to buy one for himself that night with the money he no longer needed to spend sending the letter.

Church bells began tolling for vespers, and Raphael asked Francesco over the din if he would like to come with him to Imperia's.

Francesco nodded and put on his cloak, comparing its woolen simplicity with Raphael's cloak of velvet trimmed with ermine. He'd once had such a cloak, but his father had forbidden him to take it to Rome, insisting that the one he now wore was better suited to his humbled position.

Alfeo held the lamp and led the way down the stairs to the door. Outside, darkness was falling, and the drizzle gave no sign of letting up. They stood for a moment in the open doorway, watching the light rain fall on the square, as Alfeo waited to bolt the door behind them. The damp was insidious, creeping through Francesco's cloak and hose, and despite the warmth of Raphael's fire, his feet were still wet. A nun clearly late for evening prayers ran by, slipping and nearly falling on the greasy stones. There was no sign of the prophet who'd been ranting earlier, and Francesco envisioned him
suspended by his elbows between two soldiers, earnestly proclaiming His Holiness's righteousness as he was led away. Or maybe he was merely at home having dinner with a long-suffering wife who secretly wished he'd be led off to the stake so she could have one evening of quiet.

Imperia's house faced Raphael's across the square, and in moments, they were standing before her door. “Tell me,” Raphael said as he raised his hand to the knocker. “The woman you were reminded of when you looked at Calendula—is she the reason you are in Rome?”

“Yes,” said Francesco without elaborating.

“Do you want me to tell Marcus?” Raphael asked next, and Francesco nodded, as thankful to be relieved of the task as he was not to be pressed further on his past.

The door opened, and they found themselves staring into the chest of one of the near-giants Imperia employed for this duty, their size a warning to anyone who might have come with violence on his mind. Francesco recognized him as the man who supplemented his income by wrestling brown bears at street fairs. He protected Imperia and her girls with the same ferocity. Wherever Calendula had been when she'd met her fate, it hadn't been with this man beside her. The giant recognized them and, uttering a low grunt, stepped aside to let them pass. Francesco followed Raphael along the hallway, laughter and the sound of a lute spilling from the candlelit rooms.

The salon was warm and bright. A fire roared on the hearth, and candlelight made the gold-threaded tapestries and Persian carpets glow. He looked around the room, waiting for Calendula's laughter and a glimpse of her golden hair, but he realized almost in the same instant that he would never hear or see her again, and the
memory of her battered face momentarily overwhelmed him with unexpected sadness.

Seated in richly upholstered armchairs in their preferred corner were half a dozen of Raphael's group. They may only have been apprentices and assistants, but Raphael paid them well, and they emulated their master with their fine dress and courtly manners. Legs encased in finely knitted hose stretched languidly in front of them, while their arms, clad in velvet sleeves trimmed with lace cuffs, were draped over the bared shoulders of their favorite girls.

The painter Sodoma had the men laughing with one of his stories. He was as well-known for these as he was for the lascivious drawings he sold on the side, making no secret of the fact that the Roman clergy were among his most enthusiastic buyers. Tonight he was wearing one of his favorite gowns, of vivid aquamarine, and as he talked, he punctuated his story with flutters of a painted fan.

The apprentices and assistants rose when they saw Raphael, and one of them gave up his chair and took another. They greeted Francesco too, though no one was willing to give up his chair for him, so he brought a straight-backed one from beside the fireplace and included himself in the circle. Normally he went straight to the tall glass-fronted bookcase that held Imperia's valuable collection of more than twenty-five books: Greek and Latin classics bound in leather and edged with gold. He caught the enticing aroma of roast chicken, and his thoughts briefly turned to the three-legged chicken and its uncertain fate in Michelangelo's hands, concluding that it was probably safe so long as his master found the bread and pot of cabbage soup on the hearth.

He took the cup of wine Raphael handed him as Sodoma repeated his story for Raphael's benefit. “You told me to seek him out for the burnt sienna I needed. You said he had the best, but you
didn't say he also had the largest wife in all of Rome. You must warn me of these things! You know it's difficult for me to maintain my composure and keep from laughing in these situations. But I did my best, though I had to feign a fit of coughing. Then she took me to see her husband, who she said was working on a commission for a very important ambassador. It was a Madonna and Child, and he had taken a chicken, all plucked and ready for the pot, and sat it up on the table. He was using it as a model for the Christ Child!

“I only bought half the pigment I needed because I must go back so I can see the finished painting. For right now, the Madonna—who I tell you is no beauty herself—has a headless chicken in her lap! Drumsticks instead of legs, with the most deformed feet! I was trying to picture Our Savior walking among the masses with legs like a chicken, curing the sick and infirm …” Sodoma was laughing too hard now to continue, while Francesco, wondering at the appearance of so many strange chickens in one day, laughed too, as did Raphael, though with the terrible knowledge of Calendula on their minds, their laughter was more subdued than the rest.

Also present was Colombo, a goldsmith whose work was favored by the Pope. He played the lute and, over the preceding six months, had written songs celebrating Calendula's beauty. Francesco had heard many of these, sung to her on evenings not unlike this one, though he was hard-pressed to tell the latest from any of the others. Colombo praised her eyes, which were as blue as the sky or the sea, her hair, golden like wheat or the sun or gold itself, her voice, as melodious as an angel's song, a babbling brook, a meadow lark.
Marcus,
Francesco thought,
won't be the only one to take Calendula's death hard.

Then there was Dante. He was one of the finest wood-carvers in
all of Rome, but with every full moon, he would undergo a transformation and believe himself to have changed form. Ever since Francesco had been in Rome, Dante thought himself to be a bat, coming out only at night, wearing a black-hooded cape. He would still join them, though, crouching on a chair and clutching his cloak around him. He voiced his fears that he would never be human again and was forever doomed to fly by night around the city walls. He hadn't always thought himself a bat. Sodoma had informed Francesco that, for one stretch of the full moon, Dante had imagined himself to be a jar of olive oil. Francesco asked how he'd behaved as a jar of olive oil, and Sodoma laughingly told him it was much the same way as a bat, only instead of crouching on a chair, he kept trying to get on the table. He had also been on other occasions a dog, a chariot, and a coat rack, which Sodoma declared to be his favorite because Dante had stood still for an entire night with Sodoma's cloak hanging over one outstretched arm.

The architect Bramante was missing from Imperia's that night. Like Raphael, he was from Urbino and had been instrumental in convincing Pope Julius to hire his still relatively unknown compatriot to paint the Vatican apartments. Present, though, was Imperia's Sienese lover, Agostino Chigi, whose considerable wealth was in part due to his position as Pope Julius's treasurer. Chigi was building a villa along the Tiber between the Vatican and the district of Trastevere and knew that the best artists to decorate his estate were those gathered around Raphael. In the short time Raphael had been in Rome, he and Chigi had become good friends. It occurred to Francesco that Raphael's connection to the Pope's treasurer had probably helped him secure his generous income, and he marveled not for the first time at how Raphael had such powerful friends and yet the humblest of demeanors.

As was her custom, Imperia came in to greet Raphael. It was clear to everyone that her interest in Raphael was more than professional. Still, Chigi bore him no ill will, for what woman would not be charmed by Raphael? And although Raphael's frequent visits to the brothel had added to the rumors of his virility, Francesco was sure he did not share Imperia's bed, or anyone else's, for that matter. Raphael's pleasure at Imperia's was an aesthetic appreciation of beauty, of which there was no shortage. He sought out models from among her girls, transforming each one of them on the canvas from a prostitute to the Holy Virgin herself, an irony not lost on anyone. Besides, as the smell of roasting chicken reminded Francesco, no one in Rome had a better cook.

This evening, Imperia wore a gown of lavender, cut low over her bosom, with an overcoat and matching sleeves of purple velvet. It was the costume of a noblewoman, not unlike something Francesco had seen Isabella d'Este wear. But an accident of birth had made one a patroness of the arts and the other a whore. Raphael told Imperia affectionately that she grew more beautiful every day. She smiled with pleasure, standing close to his chair while resting one of her fine-boned hands on his shoulder. As she leaned over to kiss his cheek, a wave of her dark hair escaped from its jeweled comb.

Francesco knew they could not delay the news any longer. Imperia had to be told; it was cruel to engage her in witty conversation while in possession of such a horrible truth. Indeed, Raphael stood and was offering his chair to her when Marcus burst into the room.

Marcus was clearly in an anxious state. “Have you seen Calendula?” he demanded breathlessly. “She was to meet me hours ago at my studio. Is she here?” His eyes darted around the room as if she might be hiding in the corners.

“I haven't seen her all day,” Imperia said. “I thought she left with you last night.”

“It wasn't me. I left by myself.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “How about you?” he asked, addressing Raphael. “You were still here when I left. Who did she go with? Did you see him?”

Raphael shook his head. “No, but I do have something to tell you all. I am afraid it is bad news.”

Francesco watched Marcus's face carefully as Raphael explained that Calendula's body had been found in the river. He didn't reveal that Francesco had seen her, or the terrible mutilation, saying only that he was very sorry she was dead.

It wasn't Marcus who reacted first but Imperia, who let out a low moan and fainted into Chigi's arms. Dante whimpered and, tucking his head down on his chest, pulled the black cape that served as bat wings over his head, becoming utterly silent and immobile. Colombo, so little color left in his face, let out a gasp and looked as if he might follow Imperia into a faint. He clutched his lute tightly, and Francesco wondered if Calendula's death would staunch the flow of Colombo's songs or unleash a new torrent of them.

Marcus seemed genuinely stunned.
Not the reaction of a guilty man,
Francesco thought. Francesco knew the world was full of good actors—those who could pull off the most convincing of deceptions to cover up the most heinous of crimes—but he didn't think Marcus was one of them. He was a skilled painter but not an imaginative one, and Francesco was sure
The Marigold Madonna
would remain his only masterpiece.

Sodoma had helped Chigi lift Imperia onto the settee and, with his sleeves fluttering wildly, frantically attempted to cool her with his fan.

“How did she die?” Chigi asked quietly.

Raphael's reluctance to answer seemed to draw Marcus out of his stupor. “Answer him, man!” he demanded. “What happened to her?”

Francesco felt it was time to reveal his role. Sooner or later, it would come up. “I saw her,” he said carefully, “when the police pulled her from the water.”

“You?” Marcus's tone was quiet but accusing. “
You
saw her?”

“She'd been hit over the head—”

“She was murdered? And you think
I
had something to do with it!” Marcus glared at him, his voice shaking, and Francesco wondered if there was going to be a replay of the other night's violence, only this time with Marcus attacking him. There was an uncomfortable shuffling in the room, and Francesco could see a few other curious guests now standing in the doorway, including Cardinal Asino and Paride di Grassi, who had given Michelangelo so much trouble that morning, as well as Michelangelo's assistant Bastiano. Francesco wasn't surprised to see Asino and di Grassi here—Imperia's brothel was as popular with the clergy as it was with artists—but he was surprised to see Bastiano. If Michelangelo knew Bastiano was here, where Raphael and his group gathered—let alone with di Grassi, the bane of his very existence—he would fire him immediately, no matter how much he needed him. The same went for Francesco himself, of course, and Francesco tried to catch Bastiano's eye in a show of solidarity, but the assistant turned away quickly.

Raphael stepped in at this point. “Not at all, Marcus,” he said, not quite truthfully. “Francesco came to me to ask what should be done. And the first thing to be done was to tell you as gently as possible.”

Marcus's anger dissipated as quickly as it had erupted. He
trusted Raphael, as they all did. “Where is she now?” he asked, sinking onto one of the chairs beside the fireplace, looking as if he were about to cry.

“At the mortuary,” Raphael said. “And someone must collect the body without raising any suspicions from the police. I do not think it wise for you to go, Marcus.”