I shook my head.
“No? Then something to honor our republic’s patron saint. Marco…Marciano. I have it…Marcolini. The perfect name for a castrato from Venice. What say you?” Cardinal Montorio smiled expansively.
I took a sip from my glass, then raised my chin. “With Your Eminence’s indulgence, the Amato family settled in Venice even before the bones of our revered saint were enshrined in the basilica that bears his name. Since I won’t be leaving any sons to carry on the family name, I can at least honor my ancestors by singing as an Amato.”
“I see.” The cardinal’s lumpy face lost its vapid expression. He wrinkled his forehead in a questioning frown, and for the first time, I caught a glimpse of the intelligent curiosity that led him to probe nature’s mysteries. Cardinal Montorio glanced at Abate Lenci, who had been hovering anxiously. “My nephew warned me that you’re a bit of a free-thinker. An independent mind is an admirable trait. But for someone in your position, Signore, it could be more liability than virtue.”
Before I could form a reply, the cardinal abandoned his thoughtful mien and inquired about my journey to Rome. I quickly launched into a description of our travels, relieved to have hit on a safer topic of conversation. Lenci chimed in with a few amusing observations about the sea voyage and had his uncle smiling and chuckling in no time. It was my mention of the Ancona project that turned the smiles to frowns again.
“Ancona,” growled Cardinal Montorio. He slapped his plate down on the spotless tablecloth, sending melon balls on a careening course among the silver serving platters.
As a white-gloved footman swooped in to herd the melon into a napkin, Lenci caught my eye and shook his head in a warning gesture. He was not the only one to react. Abate Rossobelli had reappeared, still in his black day jacket. At the mention of Ancona, his lanky form jerked like a fish on a hook.
“How far has the work progressed at that teacup they call a harbor?” Cardinal Montorio grumbled.
I thought back to the spit of land that hooked around the silted-up bay. “That would be hard to say,” I answered, very aware of Rossobelli standing across the table, staring at an epergne piled with frosted grapes as if they were rubies and emeralds coated with diamond dust. “Engineering isn’t in my line at all. I remember seeing several large machines, but I have no idea what they were doing.”
Montorio turned to his nephew. “You always have your nose into everything. What did you see?”
“As you may recall, we were in a bit of a hurry to put Ancona behind us,” Lenci replied dryly. “But I did notice a pair of dredgers at work on the mouth of the harbor, and the walls of the dike were being widened and reinforced.”
“Have they started on the lighthouse, yet?”
“Barely.”
“How long will it take to complete the project?”
The abate shrugged. “There’s a lot of work remaining, at least a quarter mile of dike that hasn’t been touched. The better part of a year, I should think.”
His uncle nodded sagely. Finally lowering his tone to a conspiratorial whisper, he replied, “Well and good. Antonio can bide his time, then.”
***
Leaning back against the cold masonry, I forced my thoughts back to the present. I wished I could say that my labors over the long evening had borne fruit, but I would only be lying to myself. When Cardinal Fabiani’s departure from the dining hall had signaled the assembly to disperse, my head was bursting with new faces and new information, little of which seemed likely to advance my progress.
The door to the balcony rattled and Benito came out, looking for all the world like Matteo’s nurse when the boy had overstayed his bedtime.
“It’s late, Master.”
“I know.”
“The breeze is picking up.”
“So it is.”
“I’ve warmed your bed.”
“Thank you. I won’t need anything else. Retire if you like.”
Instead of retreating, Benito closed the door and moved to lean over the balcony railing. He craned his neck up and down, right and left.
“Checking for eavesdroppers? I think even Rossobelli must be in his bed by now.”
“It never hurts to be sure.”
I smiled in the darkness. In his varied adventures, my manservant had learned to be wary. I should take a leaf from his book.
The lowering moon shone on Benito’s smooth forehead. “Come to bed, Master. You’ve done everything you can do for tonight.”
“I’ve accomplished nothing.”
“Cardinal Fabiani enjoyed your singing. That gives you a start.”
“How do you know that Fabiani was pleased?”
“I spent most of the evening in the servants’ hall.”
I cocked my head in a silent question.
“They just knew,” he answered. “It’s hard to hide anything from people who dress you, drive you, feed you, and clean up all your messes.”
I nodded. I’d experienced the relationship of master and servant from both sides. Though my calling provided me with an income sufficient to hire Benito’s services and contribute to the running of our house on the Campo dei Polli, many of the wealthy who engaged me to sing treated me more like a servant paid to amuse than the artist I was.
Benito raised a gracefully plucked eyebrow. “If I tell you I’ve already found out an interesting thing or two, will you go to bed?”
“It depends. How interesting are these things?”
“You be the judge. The first is that Cardinal Fabiani had a favorite singer who occupied these very rooms. A castrato named Gaetano Tucci, by all accounts a pleasant fellow. Even the cook had a good word for him, and she’s a harridan who spouts nothing but complaints. Fabiani dismissed Tucci when he learned that you were coming.”
“I see.” That explained the coolness of the other concert musicians. To them, I was an unwanted interloper. “And the other interesting thing?”
“Prince Pompetti is a frequent visitor at the villa.”
“Senator Montorio is already aware of that.”
“Is he also aware that the prince changes coachmen and footmen as often as a woman changes her hat?”
“Why?”
“That I don’t know.”
“How did you hear of this?”
Benito sent me a pert smile. “I didn’t waste my time downstairs. I’ve been making friends.”
“Would your friend be the broad-backed footman who brought up my trunks and lingered to help you unpack?”
He nodded. “That’s Guido.”
“Ah, Guido is it?” I rubbed my eyes and stretched my neck. Fatigue was finally taking hold. “Be careful, Benito. Rome isn’t Venice. People don’t come here for pleasure—they come on pilgrimages to display their Christian virtues. The power rests in the hands of the churchmen.”
Benito snorted. “Guido’s already told me all about how it works.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.” Benito smoothed his hair, preening like a proud canary. “Guido says that in Rome everybody gives orders, but nobody obeys them, so it all works out well enough.”
At least some things never changed. I would sooner expect the stars to fall from the sky as Benito to start behaving against his nature. We had never landed in a new place without my manservant entering into some fleeting liaison. I rubbed my eyes again, then lurched forward, my attention caught by a sudden trick of moonlight.
A gauzy phantom seemed to float through the garden, a pale luminescence against dark shadows. It circled a reflecting pool, danced on the breeze, and finally paused to hover at the top of an evergreen cypress. Benito and I peered wonderingly, and we both jumped when a spectral arm shot out. It pointed straight to the pavilion by the garden wall and was answered by a quavering glow that winked out almost immedia
tely. The light could have been a candle from the main villa reflecting off a window in the pavilion, but that phantom was more substantial than mere moonshine. Did a ghost haunt the Villa Fabiani?
The breeze suddenly calmed, and a laugh burbled from my manservant’s lips. “It’s nothing. How silly. We’re shivering over a scarf blowing in the wind. Look, it’s caught in the top of the tree.”
“And here comes its owner,” I replied. The old marchesa flitted around a shoulder-high hedge with Gemma panting in hot pursuit.
“The crazy lady. Guido told me about her, too.”
I nodded slowly, giving vent to a mammoth yawn.
Deciding that the hour was fit only for lunatics, Benito and I sought the comfort of our respective beds. As my head sank into the goose-feather pillow, I contemplated the bell mounted above. Would the cardinal have trouble sleeping tonight? Would I have to face his cool stare at close quarters? My body was too tired to let my mind worry over it. The bell remained silent and I slept the sleep of the dead.
Chapter Six
The new day began with an ancient gargoyle of a footman named Roberto banging on my door. He had come to summon me for Mass. In my travels, I’d become quite negligent in my devotions, much preferring a cup of chocolate in bed to a tiresome session on my knees. I’d also convinced myself that God heard my prayers no matter where I said them. But when Roberto insisted with an air as proud as his master’s, I reluctantly pushed my warm covers aside and applied my feet to the cold floor.
The villa’s chapel lay at right angles to the tapestried entry hall. I hovered at the entrance while the servants arranged themselves according to some preordained pecking order. The housekeeper led the above-stairs servants into the middle range of pews: valets first, then maids and footmen. The kitchen crew followed, led by the cook in her towering white kerchief. Next came the coachmen and grooms, these last attended by more than a hint of stable odor. Most of the staff took little notice of me, but my appearance seemed to amuse a pair of young scullery maids. They took one look at my smooth throat and beardless cheeks and giggled behind their prayer books until the cook rapped her knuckles on their heads.
Wondering where I fit in, feeling uncomfortably neither fish nor fowl, I looked around for the musicians who had accompanied me the night before. Down front, among the priests, the old marchesa was dozing next to the altar rail, attended by a middle-aged woman with graying hair scraped back under a white cap. Did the cardinal allow Gemma a day off now and again? If the marchesa’s late night wanderings were anything to judge by, the girl certainly deserved one. Unable to locate my fellow musicians, I decided they must live out, in their own homes. When a courier in leather breeches and riding boots pushed me aside, I trotted past the servants and squeezed into a pew filled with clerks, much relieved that no one admonished me for taking a place above my station.
At the altar, Cardinal Fabiani commenced his rituals under an image of the Christ writhing in anguish on a huge crucifix. By contrast, the cardinal appeared well-rested and untroubled by the insomnia that Rossobelli had warned me of. Mass unfolded in businesslike fashion. The Latin phrases flew off the cardinal’s tongue, and fewer clerics than I expected approached the rail for communion.
After Cardinal Fabiani had wiped the golden chalice, polished it to high shine, and folded each piece of linen so that no drop of the Blood or crumb of the Host would fall unnoticed, he raised his right hand. He bestowed the final blessing with three fingers springing from a glove so white that it fairly shone and then marched straight from the chapel to the audience chamber across the hall.
For two hours every morning, I learned, the cardinal’s door was open to all petitioners. I paused to observe the mismatched group waiting in the anteroom. Churchmen in black or purple silk tried to avoid rubbing shoulders with barefoot monks. Rough peasants who looked as if they had just arrived from the country gazed open-mouthed at the clouds and cherubs on the frescoed ceiling. A lady of quality, accompanied by her maid, took care not to notice a very pregnant girl quailing under her father’s stern gaze. If the cardinal was going to sort out this lot, he must possess the wisdom and diplomacy of a Solomon.
Just as my rumbling stomach propelled me in search of my morning chocolate and rolls, Rossobelli appeared from some obscure corner, all hand-wringing and humility. “Are we making you welcome, then? In our small way?” Without waiting for a response, he continued, “If you require anything you must let me know at once. Perhaps you would like an instrument for practice…I could arrange for a harpsichord to be moved into your suite.”
I agreed readily, then added, “I’m surprised one hasn’t been installed already. Since I’m not the first singer to occupy the rooms.”
“Ah, someone told you about Signor Tucci.”
“Yes, someone,” I replied, refusing to gratify his very evident curiosity. “I hate to think that I was the cause of a fellow musician’s dismissal.”
“You mustn’t worry on Tucci’s account.”
“Why? Has he found other employment so soon?”
Rossobelli put two fingers to his temple and shook his head with a tolerant smile. “Signor Tucci didn’t confide his plans to me. For a performer, he is a most retiring man, gentlemanly, almost meek. Nobody’s enemy but his own, you might say.”
I questioned the abate with a look, but he dispensed with the topic of my predecessor by assuring me that Tucci had been given a suitable pension. Rossobelli then urged me to explore Rome. He lavished praise on ruins, churches, fountains, and gardens, and even offered to put a carriage at my disposal.
“You’re free for the day,” he said. “After his daily visit with His Holiness, Cardinal Fabiani will dine at the Quirinal and conduct business from his office there. He won’t want you until this evening.”
That clinched it. Not the recital of Rome’s treasures, but the promise of freedom. I’d passed only one night under Cardinal Fabiani’s roof, but already the prospect of a day on my own was too tempting to refuse.
***
A short hour later, I found myself strolling the paths of the Janiculum under a brilliant blue sky partitioned by thin, streaky clouds. The chill morning air provided a few shivers, but the milky sun hinted at a warmer day to come. Benito was my only companion. I’d refused Rossobelli’s offer of a carriage and footman to act as guide. Besides wanting to forget about the Villa Fabiani for the next few hours, I needed to walk. Men of my kind had an unfortunate tendency to acquire extra flesh. Sometimes it seemed that simply looking at a plate of rich food made my waistline expand. This could work to the advantage of some castrati, particularly those who portrayed women on the stage, as here in Rome, where women were barred from theatrical performance by papal decree. A plump chest and generous hips went a long way in creating the proper illusion. But I’d never been drawn to female roles, and I had no intention of spending my old age as one of those fat eunuchs who lumber about looking like a cow swollen with calf.
A brisk, ten-minute walk took Benito and me through a massive gateway in the ancient wall that had once defended Rome against northern barbarians and into the twisting streets of a working class district populated from all points of the compass. In the space of a few blocks, I saw Syrians, Turks, even several black-skinned Ethiopians—all mixing easily with the short, sturdy Romans. The houses grew farther apart as the road broadened and dipped toward the foot of the hill. Before us, a bridge supported by four arched vaults crossed the muddy waters of the Tiber.
I paused for a moment to study the starburst of roads that sprang from the opposite end of the bridge. The main road continued straight on toward the east. The others angled off and disappeared amidst buildings that dwarfed the ones we’d just passed. With a sinking feeling, I realized I had no idea where we were going.
A stone bench at the base of a drooping evergreen offered a convenient resting place. I sent Benito back to the s
hops in search of a guidebook, then propped my chin on my walking stick to watch the steady stream of traffic cross the bridge. It quickly struck me that Rome was a city of horses. In Venice, men were carried by sleek boats and goods by hand carts or barges. Here, the horses did the work. Low-slung ponies, draft horses with wide backs and muscular hindquarters, and spirited teams of matched Arabians that carried themselves as proudly as the men riding in the carriages they pulled: horses were everywhere. So were their droppings. The unpaved street was thick with dust topped by a repellent layer of flattened dung. My Venice was no model of hygiene, but at least her watery roadways were cleansed by daily tides. It looked as if the Romans depended on the rain to be their broom. By the time Benito returned, I had worked up a sorrowful case of longing for my city of water and stone.
“The Trastevere,” Benito said, stabbing a finger at the crude map in a book meant for pilgrims to the Holy City. “That’s the quarter we just came through. And that bridge is the Ponte Sisto.”
I roused myself to nod.
“Where do you want to go?” my manservant asked. “If you want to visit St. Peter’s, we’ve come the wrong direction. The Vatican sits on a hill to the north.”
“We’ll save St. Peter’s for another time. I’ve already done enough praying for today. Gussie told me to be sure to take in the Pantheon. Here, let me see if I can find it.”
As I flipped between the map and listings of popular attractions, Benito asked, “What’s the Pantheon? Some kind of monument?”
“A temple, it says here. Dedicated to the entire array of ancient gods and goddesses. It was saved from destruction when Pope Boniface consecrated it as a church of Santa Maria.”
“What? Christians worshiping in a pagan temple?”
I shrugged at his surprise. “I think that happens quite often, especially in a place like Rome, a city that’s been inhabited for thousands of years. Old buildings put to new uses—ah, here it is. Across the Tiber, but not too far.” My finger traced the route on the map. “Gussie raves about the Pantheon. He did a lot of sketching there when he was making his Grand Tour. He calls it an architectural miracle—a dome with a coffered ceiling that’s almost as big as St. Peter’s, but predates it by centuries.”
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