The Wolves of St. Peter's (8 page)

“Why?”

“It seemed best to keep it that way.” Imperia sighed, glancing down at the paper again. “I know you didn't see it, but she could be a sweet girl. At least, that's how I remember her, when we were both young, before she married, before she tried to bear children. That—and this place—hardened her.” Imperia faltered, and Francesco was struck at that moment by how much she reminded him of his mother. It was in the tilt of the head, perhaps, or the fine skin, or maybe it was the tone of her voice as she spoke lovingly of Calendula. Or perhaps it was the fleeting scent of jasmine. He wondered if, like his mother, she kept between her breasts a little sachet, one that released its calming scent with every beat of her heart. His mother would have been about the same age as Imperia when she died, and Francesco had a sudden compulsion to lay his head against Imperia's breast and rest it there for a while to see if he could recapture the feeling of his mother's touch. Imperia caught his eye, and he quickly averted his gaze, fearing she would misread what she saw.

“I was much surprised the day I found her sobbing on my doorstep,” Imperia continued. “Her husband, who was a cruel man, had thrown her out when she could not bear him a live child, let alone a
male one. This is one place where that's an asset for a woman. She had no family to return to. And so she came here, to her next closest kin. I could offer her means to live. She gave herself a new name and insisted I keep her history a secret. If she could have raised a dowry and found someone to take her, I saw no reason anyone should ever know her past. But it no longer matters.”

“And if she didn't bear a son for a new husband?”

“She was willing to take that chance.” Imperia briefly put her hands over her eyes. “If only I knew who took her body. I wanted so much to bury her in our family vault. I had my father's consent, although he took some convincing. When I reminded him I was no better than she, he relented. But now I would be content just to know she was buried properly and not left for the wolves to tear apart.”

“So if The Turk took her body, you would be content with that?”

She nodded, and more of her rouge transferred itself to her handkerchief.

“Then I will go and see The Turk.”

“Thank you, Francesco. Tell him you have come on my behalf. He will be sure to see you then.” He got up from the bed, but she didn't let him go quite yet. She had, as he'd feared, misinterpreted what she'd seen. “If you want to stay for a while with me, Francesco, I would be pleased.”

He didn't know whether she was thinking of her own pleasure or his, or whether this was merely a bartering of services, but he couldn't, not after thinking how much she was like his mother. So instead, he thanked her and, kissing her cheek, stepped past her into the hallway.

He stopped at the salon on the way out, in hopes of finding Raphael. Raphael wasn't there, but the room wasn't empty, either.
Huddled on a chair in the corner was a dark, wobbling shape. Too big for a cat or dog or rat, it made Francesco pause. It was, of course, Dante, waiting for the cover of night to begin his prowls about the city. It was quite surprising that no violence had as yet befallen Dante, given his strange ways.

Francesco was about to move on when out of the black cape appeared a pale face. “Francesco?”

“Yes, it is I.”

“Did you find Calendula? Imperia can't find her. She said a fat man took her away.”

It suddenly occurred to Francesco that Dante must see a lot of strange things in his nightly prowling. “Do you know who the fat man was?” Francesco asked. “Was it The Turk?”

“He's not The Turk,” Dante said. “His name is El Greco. The Greek. They only call him The Turk because he killed real Turks. He took his sword with the rubies in the hilt and killed three hundred Turks with it. And he's not a Greek, either. He's from Naples. And Calendula is not Calendula. She told me. But only I know, and I can't tell. Not the Madonna of the Marigold, either. Only the same beautiful hair as
The Marigold Madonna.
Are you truly Francesco? Or are you someone else too?”

Clearly, Imperia wasn't the only one who knew Calendula had changed her name. No doubt Calendula felt it was harmless to tell Dante, as everything Dante heard became confused in his mind and no one took much stock in anything he said anyway. Dante asked him again if he was really Francesco, and Francesco confirmed he was, though he could have told him he didn't always feel like the same Francesco from Florence. Dante was content, however, with his answer and bade Francesco good night before sinking back into the folds of his black cloak.

The glass-fronted bookcase looked none the worse for The Turk's rage. Not even on close inspection could he tell which pane had been replaced. It held a new volume too, the latest work from Erasmus, a philosopher Francesco greatly admired. He wrote in the purest of Latin, and in Francesco's opinion had well earned his title as the Prince of the Humanists. Had the glass doors not been locked, he would have been tempted to pull the volume out and settle in the corner with it until he had finished.

The giant at the door let him out into the square. He'd taken only a few steps when he heard Imperia calling his name. He turned to see her standing in the doorway, so tiny in her azure gown against the bulk of the giant. She held out something wrapped in cloth, and he went back and took it from her. It was bread.

“Take it. You need to eat, and this is good bread from the Frenchman.” He thanked her and handed the cloth back. It was the second time that day he had eaten the Frenchman's bread, and while this time it hadn't cost him money, he felt he might be paying for it all the same.

THE
rain was holding off, though the skies were heavier and blacker than in Michelangelo's depiction of the Flood. Francesco wondered if the butcher and his wife had made it to the Capitoline Hill or if, as he'd predicted, she'd stopped to give birth along the way. Taking a bite from the loaf, he looked longingly across the square to Raphael's. Although The Turk may not have killed three hundred men with his ruby-encrusted sword, his reputation was not a gentle
one, and Raphael might be willing to accompany him. Or even better, he could forget the mission entirely and, with a cup of Raphael's excellent wine, stretch his feet before the fire and discuss other matters. He sighed, telling himself he was a coward, and turned out of the square in the direction of The Turk's. The faster he completed this mission, the faster he could return to Susanna's, where there was sure to be a pot of cabbage soup bubbling on the hearth.

Although he had never been there, he knew The Turk lived above the New Port in the hills close to where Chigi was at work on his villa. Indeed, it was one of Chigi's goals to outdo The Turk in every aspect of the villa's design: its size, its frescoes, its gardens. And when Francesco saw The Turk's palace, he hoped his taste too. He walked up the wide path of crushed gravel between the rows of potted cypresses to doors so large two Trojan horses could have slipped through abreast without difficulty. Francesco pulled a chain that hung to one side, and the door was soon answered by a Moor darker than any Francesco had seen before. He stated his desire to speak to The Turk and stressed he was here on business for Imperia.

The Moor told him to wait and left him standing in the immense atrium. All around him the walls were frescoed with lush scenes of gardens and classical ruins. At the center of the far wall, in between the doors that led to the inner courtyard garden, itself decorated with ancient Roman statuary, was a gigantic depiction of what could only have been The Turk himself. Resplendent as any sultan in rich, jeweled garb, he was surrounded by both male and female slaves of exotic origins presenting him with great platters of fruit and meat, a boar's head with staring black eyes on one, an enormous silvery swordfish on another. As Francesco looked around, real servants came and went through the doors of the atrium, bearing food and linens or baskets and barrels. They were as varied and
exotic-looking as the figures that peopled the portrait, and he realized they were slaves too. Francesco knew The Turk controlled not only the boat traffic on the Tiber but also much of the slave trade in Rome. Slaves who started out working on The Turk's ships often ended up as domestic servants for Rome's patrician classes.

It might have been the aftereffects of his illness, but Francesco found himself feeling a little dizzy, as though the painting had taken on life and the people he saw coming and going through the doors were emerging from and reentering the painting itself. He cringed as, out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a lion ready to pounce, and was truly confused when two very much alive peacocks of the purest white wandered in from the garden, milled around for a moment, then wandered out again. Still the servants came and went, taking no notice of him until Francesco wondered if they thought him just another addition to the painting.

Nearly a half-hour passed this way, and just when he thought he could bear it no longer, the Moor reappeared. He wasn't alone, but he wasn't with The Turk, either. Cardinal Asino and di Grassi, in their crimson robes, walked ahead of him, their heads tilted toward each other in whispered conversation. Francesco bowed as they passed through the enormous doors, but his presence went unnoticed by either man. What business could they have with The Turk? Perhaps they were only here on a mission for Pope Julius in much the same way he was here on a mission for Imperia. Perhaps this had something to do with the shipping of materials for the new St. Peter's. But as obsessed as the Pope was with his project, sending a cardinal and the master of ceremonies for the Sistine Chapel to order bricks seemed excessive.

Francesco soon forgot them as the Moor led him through the atrium to what he supposed were the offices of The Turk. His wait
was not as long this time, and he wondered if he'd been given just long enough to be duly impressed by the wealth of The Turk's eclectic collection. Vases, water pipes, sarcophagi, lamps, all dripping with gilt, jewels, tassels, and beads, filled the room as though it were a warehouse belonging to an eccentric genie. There were so many tapestries and carpets, Francesco had to wonder if there wasn't now a shortage in the Orient. He pictured sultans explaining to their sand-encrusted harems that it could not be helped, as The Turk had taken the last rugs right out from under them and there wasn't another one to be had in the whole Muslim world.

The Turk also had a penchant for strange beasts. Stretched out on a table of some twenty feet and supported by the preserved legs of at least two unfortunate elephants was a stuffed crocodile. Its mouth was propped open with a wooden stake, and Francesco was examining its rows of deadly teeth when what had to be The Turk's voice boomed out from the doorway. “You like my crocodile, I see.”

Francesco turned and was a little surprised to see that The Turk wasn't dressed like a sultan, complete with turban, but as a well-dressed nobleman should be, with a brocade doublet in reds and blues. His white muslin sleeves were finished with double layers of fine lace so deep it covered the ends of his fingers. His right hand rested on a cane of black ebony tipped in ivory, its handle of gold an eagle with spread wings. He was also considerably larger than his portrait, the doublet stretching out over an enormous belly, and his legs, housed in gray hose, were like the legs of the elephants that held up the table. “I brought him from Egypt. I killed him myself.” He mimed bringing a sword up under his abundant chins. “He came lunging out of the Nile. If I hadn't been fast, I'd have ended up as Turkish delight.” He chuckled here, the dark little eyes in his big, bald head expressing genuine mirth, and Francesco
knew it wasn't the first time he'd told this joke. Francesco laughed obligingly. He wouldn't have thought The Turk could move with speed, however great the danger. Perhaps his expertise with his sword predated his size. “Have you ever seen a crocodile of such rare dimensions and beauty?” The Turk asked with almost paternal pride. Francesco answered that he had never seen a crocodile until today, other than in drawings.

“Then this is a lucky day for you. I have a man from Egypt who developed his own unique method of preservation. He guts them and stuffs them with special herbs. My hope is to acquire some of the species from the New World. And not just to preserve, like this crocodile, but a live collection to keep in my gardens. I have heard accounts of snakes so large they can swallow a man whole. Imagine that, boy. So big they can swallow a man whole. I should like to see that. But enough of my interests. I understand you are here representing Imperia. Indeed, one of my favorites among God's lovelier creatures. Is there any way I can be of assistance to her?”

“Imperia would like to know if you claimed the body of Calendula this morning.”

The Turk looked genuinely puzzled. “I'm confused. It was my understanding that Imperia and her father were to collect the body. Has she changed her mind?”

Francesco didn't realize until now just how fervently he'd hoped this would be simple. But it seemed nothing ever was. “When she went this morning, she was told the body had already been claimed,” he explained. “She thought perhaps you had changed your mind.”

“No. I was quite happy to leave it to her. A very valuable shipment arrived this morning from the East, and with the Tiber rising so fast, I had to ensure my boats in the port were secure. But surely the police told her who claimed the body?”

“Only that he was a …,” Francesco said, thinking quickly, “a well-built man who paid handsomely.”

“Then it is understandable she should think it was me. There was a painter here earlier this morning from whom I'd commissioned a portrait of Calendula. He came wanting to buy the painting back but said nothing of this. It was most peculiar. He stoically accepted my refusal to sell it at first, only to go quite mad, shouting that she was to marry him. I had to have my Moor throw him out. Poor besotted soul. I felt sorry for him—until he attacked me. I would suggest that he claimed the body, though I don't think he could be described as ‘well-built,' as you so prudently phrased it.”