Federico’s heart stopped. “It was a gift to myself—” he blurted.
“You took the peacock’s sketches?”
Oh—Michelangelo did not know about Federico and the sketch of the bearded old man. Hastily he backtracked. “Which is to say I was hoping they would be a gift—before they were stolen. Perhaps there’s another explanation—”
“Hmph.” Michelangelo hurled down scraps. Far below, Juno swiped them across the floor. The assistants piled the shreds into baskets. “He stole from me in Florence and he’ll steal from me here. He wants naught more than to mimic me.” Michelangelo snatched up another handful.
“You are destroying your own work to keep Raphael from seeing it?” Federico asked helplessly.
“Yes!” Michelangelo spoke as though this truth were obvious.
Federico resisted grabbing his arm. “Master, I could take them.”
“Why?” Michelangelo glared, his head cocked like a chicken. “To sell for silver coins?”
“Certainly not!” Federico dealt in chocolate, not grubby cash. “Your drawings are precious.” Herbert would love every one.
“They are not precious. They are drafts.” Michelangelo reached for another sheet. “An artist does not share doodles. An artist displays only genius.” He gestured to the ceiling. “Behold.”
Above Federico’s head, two cherubs watched an old woman reading a book. Federico had seen the artist paint the folds of her robe, the cloth glowing like sunset. Even her grumpy old face came alive under Michelangelo’s touch. “It’s genius,” Federico agreed. How to phrase the next bit? “I’d love to show it to someone.”
“Who? An ‘artist’? I am the only artist I know.”
“He’s a friend.” How fine it felt, saying friend. “I’d show him when you’re not here—with your key—”
“Never.” Michelangelo tore up another handful. “Three thousand ducats, His Holiness pays me to paint this ceiling!”
“As you’ve said many times,” Federico sighed. “That is far more than any other artist earns—”
“’Tis nothing,” he snarled. “Everyone takes, and no one gives. Why are you here?”
“Yes—but—” It didn’t matter. Michelangelo would never help him. “Good day, Master.”
“Hmph.” Michelangelo threw the handful of scraps off the scaffolding. Even Juno had grown weary of the blizzard and sat washing her ears.
Federico edged his way down the ladder and trudged past the assistants still gathering shreds. He’d have to walk all the way back to the villa with nothing to show for his efforts.
Juno trotted over, her tail high. He scooped her up sadly.
“Mrow,” she purred. It’s no matter. You have me.
“You’re right.” Federico smiled. “I do.” Together they passed through the magnificent palace to the corridor, his footsteps echoing in that long and empty space. The trees in the garden stood silent beneath the hot sun; even the statues looked lonely. But with Juno, he would never be alone again.
Chapter 7
A Difficult Journey
Federico awoke to darkness, the villa quiet. He’d slept through both horsemanship and dinner. Judging by the moon, it must be close to midnight. “I’ve nothing to bring ’Erbert,” he told Juno sadly, keeping his voice low because of Celeste. The day’s disappointments came flooding back, and the horrible memory of Michelangelo shredding his work. Federico had not rescued even a scrap.
“Mrow.” Juno trotted after him to the door.
He deposited her back on the bed, stroking her golden fur. “It’s not safe for you out there. What if you go through the closet?”
“Mrow,” she agreed, draping herself across the bedspread. Idly she watched him depart with his lantern in hand, as the first bells of Santo Spirito marked midnight.
Federico reached the closet just as Herbert emerged grinning like a drunkard. “Behold, I am handsome!” he cried, for he had followed Federico’s instructions to the letter. His hose were a fine snug brown, his boots neither too pointed nor too round. A black silk cloak hung from one shoulder, and his slashed doublet revealed its red lining. Even his bag met the latest style.
“You are indeed,” Federico agreed, plucking the feather from Herbert’s cap.
“What are you doing? That cost me a dollar.”
“It’s too Sicilian. Heavens, ’Erbert, you have a beard!” He had gray hair, too, and wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. “How long have you been gone?”
“Twelve years I have been living in New Jersey.”
“Twelve years?” Federico shot a panicked glance at the closet. What sort of wickedness did that machine produce?
“I know, it is too much time. I missed you very much. But I had so much work! I make art, I sell art, I buy a house—I buy a house, Sir Federico, with the money from the Raphaels!”
“Those scraps of paper were worth an entire house?” Federico was stunned.
“A big house, with a room just for the closet.” Herbert frowned. “Too big for only one person . . .” He shook himself and smiled. “But look—I have a job for us to do. I show you.” He took a drawing from his bag—a small, perfect sketch of a boy with shoulder-length dark curls and a face full of sadness.
Federico gasped. “That’s by Raphael. I’m sure of it.”
“I am sure also. But he did not sign it, so no one believes me.”
“Where did you get this?” Federico could not take his eyes off the drawing. The boy looked so alive yet so unhappy that he himself wanted to weep. One corner had the words Age eleven. Federico’s age. How curious.
“In that.” Herbert nodded at the closet. “In the trunk I buy in Mantua. It was hidden inside. I need Raphael to sign it.” Carefully he returned the drawing to his bag. “So let us go to Raphael’s house.”
“Now?” Federico shook his head. “I can’t leave the palace grounds in daytime, not without guards. At midnight? Never.”
Herbert set off up the corridor. “Then I go alone. I know where his house is. I studied it.”
Federico grabbed the lantern to hurry after him. “You’re going into the city? You’ll die.”
Herbert opened the heavy door to the palace. “I take the stairs and turn left to a gate—”
“The city is too dangerous! You don’t understand.” He trailed Herbert, trying to convince him. “’Erbert, stop, please—” Hastily he backed up, pressing Herbert into the shadows, as footsteps tromped toward them. As quick as he could, he shuttered the lantern.
A guard approached—a Swiss Guard as big as an alp. He wore a sword, and the standard steel helmet, and the rich velvet cloth of a guardsman. Beneath the helmet’s brim, his blue eyes glinted like ice. Onward he marched, glancing left and right—but he did not seem to notice Federico and Herbert in the depths of the stairs.
Silently Federico exhaled.
“There.” Herbert pointed in the direction from which the guard had come. “It is a gate to the city.”
“Please do not do this, ’Erbert. I’m sure the gate is locked.”
But it was only latched, and Herbert opened it easily. A small gate for tradesmen, abandoned at this hour. “I must do this, Sir Federico. It is my fortune.” Squinting through the darkness, he stepped out into the street.
Federico danced with indecision. As a guest of His Holiness—a hostage, a prisoner—Federico must not leave the palace! The midnight city swarmed with murderers and thieves. If evil men found him, he’d be held for ransom, or worse. Besides, departing the palace would look like fleeing.
But Herbert did not have a weapon. Not even a lantern. And Herbert was his friend. Alone, he might die. But Federico had knowledge and a light and a knife. And courage, yes? It took courage to walk through Rome. Raphael’s house was not far. If they walked very fast . . .
With a soft muttered prayer, he stepped through the gate, following Herbert.
Immediately blackness pressed round. Noises seeped through the night: bellows, snarls, slams. A beggar cried f
or food. Federico kept close to Herbert, holding his knife loosely as Señor Pedro had taught him. One gripped at the last minute, for the thrust. He very much hoped he would not have to thrust.
Herbert hurried, clutching his bag. “What in tarnation?” he gasped, clamping his nose.
Federico sniffed. Rotting food. The waste of horses and cattle and people. The stink of the river and of the hospital. An animal carcass. Bad wine. “It’s Rome.”
Herbert paused, his head cocked. Mosquitos whined, a child wheezed . . . footsteps.
“Don’t stop!” Federico whispered as the footsteps drew closer.
Herbert remained motionless, listening.
Now Federico could hear the snick of a sword being drawn. Frantically he tugged Herbert’s cloak. “’Erbert!”
Herbert knelt in the muck of the street. A child lay in the gutter—a child Federico’s age, perhaps, but so thin. “Water . . .” she gasped, reaching for them.
“’Erbert, we must move—”
Herbert stroked back the girl’s hair. “Where is your mama?” He glared at Federico. “Where’s her mama?”
“It doesn’t matter!” Federico knew too well the signs of death. He’d watched his sister Livia perish, taken by God with only six years. “We must move—”
A voice rumbled through the darkness: “My lord.”
Panicked, Federico jabbed wildly with his knife—
The Swiss Guard emerged from the shadows. “You left the palace?” He snatched up Federico by his jerkin. “Are you mad?”
“Water, please,” the girl coughed.
“I’m not fleeing, I am only—” Federico babbled. “We were just—Raphael—”
Herbert lifted the girl, her rags smearing his cloak. “We must help.”
A scream ripped through the darkness. Someone somewhere, shrieking.
“Leave her,” the guard snapped at Herbert, holding his sword against the shadows.
“My neighbor is doctor. He can help.” Herbert hurried toward the palace.
Another scream, closer.
“Stop!” the guard ordered, hauling Federico along. “He cannot do that.”
“I know!” One did not bring a beggar into the pope’s palace. “’Erbert—” Federico called.
Herbert sprinted, the beggar-girl in his arms. Bag flapping, he elbowed his way through the gate.
The Swiss Guard shoved Federico into the palace, his eyes darting everywhere. “What is he doing? He’ll bring sickness and death upon us!”
“Don’t worry.” Federico tried to catch his breath. “He’s going somewhere safe.”
“Safe? ’Tis my head!” The guard struggled to lock the gate. “Go!” he barked. “Find them!”
Federico darted through the hallways, catching up to Herbert only in the corridor. Herbert struggled to open the closet door as the girl drooped, eyes closed.
“You must live, child!” Herbert shook her. “Federico, she must live!”
Federico reached around Herbert to open the door. He looked down at the girl, so pale in the moonlight. Wisps of hair clung to her forehead. A memory came to him of Livia tossing with fever. . . . Without warning, a sob caught in his chest. “Take care of her, ’Erbert.”
“I will try. Goodbye, my friend.” Herbert stepped into the closet. He was gone.
Chapter 8
A Guest of His Holiness
That night Federico dreamed of Livia sprawled in her sickbed. He awoke with a gasp, and at once prayed that God keep her preserved in heaven. She must be very happy there, he comforted himself, with lovely scents and no sickness to harm her. He said a prayer, too, for the beggar child, who had doubtless passed through heaven’s gates. He was glad Herbert had money to bury her properly. His mother sometimes paid for beggars’ funerals; now Herbert was doing the same.
Federico passed the entire day in the villa—he had no wish to encounter that angry Swiss Guard—and perked up only at sunset as he and Celeste picked out his clothes. He was to spend the evening playing backgammon with His Holiness, and so must dress with special care. Naturally he wore his black cloak with violet lining—a gift from the pope—matched with black breeches and hose. Celeste strapped on Federico’s gold-trimmed belt as his Latin tutor hovered uselessly, blathering. Master Sniffly, Federico called him, though only when no one could hear.
“Has he read my new poem?” Master Sniffly asked, dabbing at his nose. “Please beg him to.”
Juno yawned as she lounged on the bed. To Federico, she seemed to be snorting.
Celeste tugged a brush through Federico’s curls. “And observe whether His Holiness’s cuffs are double pleated. The tailor wants to know.”
“The poem has fifty-two stanzas,” Master Sniffly continued, “for each week of the year. The week of his birthday I emphasized especially.”
Juno yawned again.
At last these two gnats finished their buzzing. With a kiss to Juno, Federico trotted up the corridor to the palace, though he turned away as he passed the closet. He’d visit that strange contraption soon enough. He decided that he must win every backgammon game so that His Holiness sent him away in frustration. Then he’d have more time with Herbert.
With a deep bow, he entered the pope’s parlor. “Your Holiness, I so look forward—”
“Sir Federico.” His Holiness slouched at the backgammon table; he did not even look up. “Look who I’ve invited to join us.” Across from him sat a man equally white-haired and stout: Donato Bramante, the architect of the palace. He gave Federico a token bow.
Federico nodded coolly back. “Good evening, Master.” He should have expected that Bramante would be here. The architect found every opportunity to curry favor with His Holiness.
“Pour for us, my boy,” Bramante ordered, jangling his key ring as he studied the board. He was forever flaunting his keys to display his access to the palace.
Federico stiffened. How dare Bramante, the son of a farmer, order around a Gonzaga! But Federico caught himself just in time. Bramante carried a key to the Sistine Chapel. If Federico could somehow get to the architect’s key ring, he could unlock the chapel for Herbert. He could at last share Michelangelo’s masterpiece with his friend. “Certainly, Master. In fact, allow me to serve the whole meal.”
And so all that night Federico waited on the two men, carving the goose as he had been taught, carrying in the roast lamb on its heavy silver tray, ladling the nutmeg sauce and the saffron sauce and the parsley sauce that was now so popular.
“Your—Holiness,” Bramante burped, “what—you think of yer—garden?”
Federico stood over the architect, refilling his plate. “I should very much like to see your key collection,” he said boldly. Perhaps he could extract the Sistine Chapel key somehow.
“Is not—for little boys.” Bramante patted the key ring as he speared an onion tart. “Zounds—we eat—a lot.”
“Enough twaddle about keys,” His Holiness muttered, mopping at the sauce.
Federico scowled as he carried out an empty tray.
“Are they quite right in there?” puffed the wine steward, unloading another armful of bottles. “We don’t want His Holiness falling asleep.”
Aha! That was an idea. “He is fine,” Federico assured him, taking a bottle and a platter of marzipan. He returned to the parlor. “Your Holiness? Master Architect? Allow me to entertain you with a recitation of Virgil.”
How disappointed Master Sniffly would have been in his performance. As great as the writings of Virgil might be, and however dramatic the battle between Aeneas and his enemies, Federico spoke with the dull singsong of a mother rocking her babies. “Sed cadet,” he droned, topping their glasses. “Ante diem mediaque. . . .”
His Holiness’s head sagged on his chest.
Bramante took a fistful of marzipan. “Is that—Latin? I don’t speak—Latin.”
“Ante diem mediaque,” Federico repeated, even more slowly.
His Holiness began to snore.
Bramante’s hea
d dropped to the table. He lay facedown in the parsley sauce, still clutching a sweet.
As silent as a breeze, Federico approached. Only a few minutes till midnight! “These are my final words,” he murmured in Latin. “I spill them with my blood.” He reached under Bramante’s cloak, unclasping the key ring. “Rise from my ashes, children, and wreak vengeance.” Slipping off a heavy iron key, he returned the ring. “No peace on sea, nor on land.”
Bramante lifted his head. “Wha?” he snorted.
Federico froze, key in hand. “Battle forever, my sons. . . .”
“No—Latin—” Bramante fell back onto the table.
Grabbing a lantern, Federico tiptoed out of the parlor. Wait till he told Herbert! Already Saint Mary Major rang midnight. He had no time at all.
He ran through empty hallways of the palace, dodging boxes and ladders and tubs. Heaving open the heavy door, he dashed down the long corridor to the closet. Oh, was he thrilled! Setting down the lantern, he performed a victory dance—rather like the soldiers in Virgil!—jabbing the key at mock foes. How clever he’d been. Poor Bramante with his face full of sauce and his mouth full of sweets. He’d have quite a head in the morning.
Even the closet did not scare Federico tonight. He swaggered over and threw open the door. The eight small mirrors glinted but the closet otherwise stood empty.
With a toss of his head, he swung the door shut. “These are my final words; I spill them with my blood!” he declared as the bells of Saint Mary Major faded away. Oh, did the Latin sound glorious when it was properly spoken. “Rise from my ashes, children, and wreak vengeance!” He slipped off his cap to polish the glass balls, and jauntily set it back on his curls. Leaping onto a stack of planks, he threw his arms wide. “No peace on sea, nor on land; battle forever, my sons—”
“Mrow.”
Federico spun, peering down the corridor. Juno trotted toward him, her tail as tall as a banner. “Juno! How’d you get out?”
She leaped onto the stack to join him. “Mrow.” All the explanation he’d get, apparently.
“Well, keep me company till Herbert arrives.”
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