“A lover’s eye!” I exclaimed, after she’d handed it to me.
She nodded appreciatively.
I bent over the tiny painting and studied it by the candle’s wavering glow. It was a fine example of an ingenious token, usually worn as a memento of a distant lover, and popular because it preserved the lover’s identity. Instead of picturing the full face, the miniature represented only one eye with its brow and part of a nose. The marchesa’s token showed a glittering dark brown eye topped by a shaggy brow.
“I take it you are searching for the full portrait of this man.”
She nodded, stretching her hand toward the ring. “The artist painted that while he was doing the portrait.”
I snapped the cover shut, stroked her blue-veined finger, and gently replaced the ring. She raised it to her lips and squeezed her eyes shut.
“Who is he, My Lady?” I asked softly.
“Lorenzo’s father.” She opened her eyes. Unshed tears made them sparkle like a young woman’s. “I wrote a note on the back of the portrait, then I put it somewhere for safekeeping…” Her voice cracked and the tears spilled down her cheeks.
“A note, My Lady?”
She pounded her forehead with the heel of her hand. “I forget, you see, and I mustn’t ever forget him. He was the love of my life. I wrote both our names and Lorenzo’s right on the canvas—as a sort of secret family history—then I signed it. I’ll always be able to recognize my own signature, won’t I?”
I sighed as she gripped my arm and gave it a little shake. A screech made us both turn our heads toward the arched entryway.
“Thank the Holy Virgin.” Matilda ran into our illuminated circle, closely followed by Guido. “My Lady, we’ve been looking everywhere.”
The marchesa dipped her chin and shrank in on herself like a leaf withered and curled at summer’s end. As Matilda tried to rouse her, I backed into the shadows and quietly replaced the elephant on its base. Scooping the earrings from the floor, I stepped back into the light and said, “I heard Marchesa Fabiani running through the hallway and followed her. I’ve been trying to persuade her to go back to bed.” I rattled the earrings in my fist. “She was clutching these.”
The strain on Matilda’s face eased a bit. “Oh, thank you, Signore. His Eminence has been bothering her to death about losing these earrings.”
“Perhaps they should be locked up.”
“Yes, Signore, it’s just that my lady does so like to play with her jewels. It keeps her amused when nothing else will. The cardinal would hate to take them from her.” The maid had raised her charge to her feet. “Can you help me get her upstairs, Guido? She’s as limp as a dead trout.”
The footman hastened forward. “Of course. That is…will you be requiring anything, Signore?”
“No,” I replied, stretching my arms and opening my mouth in a great yawn. “I’m practically falling asleep on my feet. You go with Matilda and I’ll see myself to bed.”
And so I did, pausing only a moment to take careful note of the tapestries in the entry hall and muse a bit about the color of Pope Clement’s eyes.
***
My dreams should have been filled with speeding carts driven by draymen in blue caps or perhaps hospital wards filled with mangled bodies. Instead, my restless sleep ferried me back to a childhood terror.
Alessandro and I were swimming off the Lido. The undulating blue of the Adriatic stretched to the horizon before us as the light surf lapped a sloshing cadence on the seashore behind. I followed my brother’s naked white back, both of us diving and splashing in the sun-glistened water, reveling in our temporary escape from schoolroom lessons.
On that warm carefree day, I had yet to face the knife that would seal my life’s fate. Mama and Papa were still alive. They had spread a cloth on the soft sand and were enjoying a meal from a covered basket. Every few minutes Mama would rise, shake the sand from her skirts, and shade her eyes to locate Annetta. As befitting a girl, our sister had to content herself with skipping along the shore instead of stripping to her drawers and taking the delicious plunge into the sea.
Mama spared only a quick wave for her sons in the water. After all, Alessandro and I had been raised on a canal-laced island floating in the middle of a broad lagoon. If we had learned nothing else, we boys of Venice should be able to take care of ourselves in the water. We were bathing in lazy delight, floating on our backs, filling our mouths with salty water and competing to see who could spew the tallest spray. Then the sea monster slithered its tentacles around my leg.
In my dream, the shallow blue water turned into a churning, black abyss. I sucked in a burning lungful of brine as the creature pulled me under. Desperate for air, I twisted and thrashed. A horrible roar emerged from a gaping mouth filled with teeth as sharp as sabers. I struggled mightily, but the more energy I expended, the more tightly I was caught.
Alessandro was my savior. In the capricious realm of the dream, where earthly clocks hold no sway, my brother was suddenly a full-grown man, the bearded seaman that had run afoul of the customs officer only a few weeks ago. Using the stiletto that never left his person, he sliced through the monster’s suckered tentacles and delivered me to light and air.
I woke covered in sweat with my heart pumping. Lighting my candle with shaky hands, I reminded myself of the reality of the event. I had become tangled in a dense clump of seagrass, and my ten-year-old brother had used his hands to free me and drag me back to the beach. Mama had nearly hugged the breath out of both of us before extracting a solemn promise: Alessandro and I would always watch out for each other, never hesitating to render aid if one of us found the other in danger.
Throwing the covers back, I moved to sit on the edge of the bed. A slit of gray between the window drapes heralded the start of a new day. Play for time, Alessandro had ordered. That was all very well. But should his advice hold true if someone I loved was brutally attacked? If a magistrate was breathing down my neck? And what would Mama say if she could look down from heaven and see me diddling precious time away while Alessandro waited in a jail cell for we knew not what?
My dream burdened my waking thoughts, creating a malaise that made it easier to put my plan for the day into action. At the end of his midnight shift as porter, Guido came to tend my fire. Forcing my voice into a gravelly whisper, I told the footman that my tonsils were inflamed and that I required only some hot soup, a pot of tea from Benito’s private stock, and complete rest until tomorrow at the earliest.
Unfortunately, it was Sunday and Cardinal Montorio would expect me to attend him at the Palazzo Venezia. I wrote a hurried note that I prayed would suffice. Explaining my condition, I stressed that any exposure to the cold outside air could be ruinous to my throat. Guido promised to see to the delivery of my note and inform Rossobelli of my indisposition before he went off duty.
I dreaded the long day in my room, but with all I had to think about, it passed more quickly than I had foreseen. First, I checked the lockbox in my trunk to make sure I had enough funds to keep my promise to Sister Regina. I was relieved to see that my gold would last for several weeks. In the event of Benito’s ordeal continuing beyond that, I also opened one of my small satchels that contained a quantity of snuffboxes and other valuable gifts I’d collected in Dresden. It was not as full as I expected. I scratched my head, trying to recall if I had directed Benito to sell any of the baubles before we left Germany. No matter, there was still plenty to keep me going in Rome for quite a while.
Early in the afternoon, I fended off a visit from Rossobelli by pointing to my throat, which I’d wrapped in eucalyptus-soaked flannel, and pretending that I was unable to utter a word. Alone again, I spent several hours playing mournful sonatas on the harpsichord that had been delivered several days earlier. When a solicitous Guido returned with a supper of beef broth and biscuits, I took only a few sips. I whispered tha
t what I really needed was a good night’s sleep and instructed him to bank the fire and not disturb me again.
The door had barely clicked shut on Guido’s exit before I tore the flannel off my neck and ran to my bed chamber. Vocal flourishes weren’t the only tricks I’d learned at the Conservatorio San Remo. A wig stand wearing a nightcap could double for a weary head on a pillow, especially with the cover pulled tight in front. Clothing rolled into a bolster made a convincing body when arranged just so.
Clutching one small candle, I tiptoed down the corridor. Luck was with me. I met no one on my way to the banqueting tapestry in the northwest wing and was soon down the hidden staircase, through the deserted dining room, and out into the night.
Chapter Eighteen
Liya’s attic was a cozy haven from the death-cold north wind that still scoured the city. Gussie had arrived before me and hovered over the scaldino with a mischievous smile threatening to break over his studiously solemn countenance.
“This blow may work to our advantage,” Liya said. “The more layers of clothing we can wrap you in the better. Stand still—” With a snap, she shook the wrinkles from a flannel petticoat and held it up to my waist. “Perfect. I thought these things of Maddelena’s would work.”
I took in the skirts tumbling across the bed, the corset of linen and whalebone with its white laces snaking through the dark fabrics. “Oh no. You didn’t say anything about this. I’m not setting foot in the Palazzo Pompetti dressed as a woman.”
“You must, Tito.” She gave me a bemused, impatient look. “The invitation is for myself and another woman. You will be posing as my country friend who’s visiting from Monteborgo.”
“Why not your male friend from the country? And skirts or breeches aside, how is it that they won’t recognize me? Prince Pompetti and Lady Mary certainly know my face well enough.”
“It’s very simple.” She folded the petticoat over her arm. “They won’t recognize you because everyone wears a mask, and they invited us because the prince’s circle is short of women. The rite demands an equal balance of the sexes.”
“The rite?”
Gussie’s twitching smile erupted into full-blown laughter. “Liya means to take you to a witch’s ball, Tito. You’re going to howl and cackle and fly up the chimney on your broomsticks.”
Throwing the garment aside, Liya rounded on Gussie. “You big oaf, you have no idea what you’re talking about. Tonight we celebrate the festival of Lupercus, a holy day for all Diana’s followers. This group follows a different tradition than my own, but they’re still mystery keepers, and I’ll not have you making fun of them.”
“Liya, my love.” I took her hand and pulled her toward the scaldino. “I want you to sit down and begin at the beginning. How did you wangle an invitation to this…Lupercus celebration?”
She resisted for a moment, then capitulated with a sulky smile. “All right. I suppose you need to know what we’re getting into if you’re going to play your part without being discovered.”
Sinking down on a stool and stirring up the coals in the scaldino, Liya began her tale. “I presented myself to Lady Mary as a seamstress in need of extra work—no untruth in that. My deception began in saying that my friend Gemma had suggested I offer my skills at the Palazzo Pompetti. Lady Mary was kind, but disinclined to take me on—until I dropped the cimaruta that you found outside the pavilion. That made her sit up and take notice.”
I shook my head. “That was foolhardy, Liya. For all we know, someone from Pompetti’s household may have murdered Gemma.”
“Perhaps, Tito, but at any rate, it seemed unlikely that Lady Mary would grab a scarf and strangle me right there in her boudoir. The cimaruta actually produced the opposite effect. She clasped me to her bosom and asked for news of Gemma. She seemed genuinely worried about the girl.”
Gussie and I shared a look of concern. “What did you tell her?” I asked.
“Only that no one has seen Gemma since the night of the last full moon—the Wolf Moon.” Liya flashed a smile, brief as a falling star. “In the naming of moon cycles, Lady Mary’s tradition and mine agree.”
Gussie wrinkled his forehead in dismay. “Lady Mary Sysonby embracing witchcraft—it seems impossible.”
“Lady Mary is a wonder.” Liya tossed her head. “We’ve met several times, and I find her braver than any woman I’ve ever known. She has studied the folklore of her homeland and traveled to Germany and Italy learning the languages and ways of ancient peoples.” Liya crossed her arms with a sigh. “Somehow, she manages to do exactly as she pleases and yet retain her rank and standing.”
Gussie responded to the bitterness that had crept into Liya’s tone. “Not somehow, but with money. Lady Mary is the only child of the Earl of Linford, a peer who owns several plantations in the West Indies. Her doting father indulges her vagaries and enthusiasms with a fondness bordering on mania. If she were plain Mary Smith from the hamlet of Linford, her story would be vastly different.”
“Do you know her?” I asked.
“Only to look at. When I was at Cambridge, Lady Mary Sysonby was considered quite a catch, though she did have an unfortunate habit of telling fellows exactly what she thought of them. But when she was barely into her twenties, she took it into her head to go to Ireland to explore those heaped-up stones they say are actually Druid temples.” He raised his chin, suddenly looking like the very proper English gentleman. “No one wants a wife who finds the past more fascinating than her husband, no matter how many pounds a year she’s worth.”
“Prince Pompetti may be the exception,” I mused. “He seems uncommonly stuck on the past. I wonder how they met?”
Liya raised her eyebrows. “If you two can refrain from interrupting, I’ll tell you.”
“Beg pardon, I’m sure,” Gussie mumbled.
“Yes, please go on,” I added.
“In her study of old beliefs, Lady Mary noted that worship of the Great Mother underlies all the later religions that have grown above it. When she heard that clandestine groups of goddess worshipers still existed, she came to Italy to seek them out. Her quest took her to Benevento, a town in the southernmost reaches of the pope’s domain. There, she heard tales of Aradia, the Holy Strega, and knew she had found her spiritual destination.”
Liya looked from me to Gussie. “I suppose you know nothing of Aradia?”
We shook our heads.
“Some people call her the Beautiful Pilgrim. Four centuries ago, she came to teach the people enslaved on the lands owned by the monasteries and the feudal princes. She revived the old tales of their mother Diana, whose worshipers had been driven into hiding by the Christian usurpers. With a small band of followers, Aradia traveled the length and breadth of Italy, taking pity on the poor and instructing them in the magic arts. She taught peasants worked to death in the fields and starved by the tithes demanded by the priests and abbots. She came to my people, the Jews, and to the Gypsies, also. To all who would listen, she gave Diana’s gifts—the power to bless or curse, to converse with spirits, to divine the future, to attract love and bend fortune to your will.”
Liya paused, so I felt safe in asking a question. “Surely the Church had something to say about this?”
“Of course, when have Christians ever tolerated dissenting opinions on matters of faith? With the bishops nipping at her heels, Aradia was forced to leave Italy and travel east, but she left a great legacy. The Old Religion had reclaimed its own and wouldn’t be put down by the burnings and torture to come. Aradia’s teachings spread to all levels of society, where they have remained to this day—you might be surprised to learn exactly where.”
She tilted her head with a satisfied smile. “Naturally, worship of Diana thrives in the forests and isolated valleys and mountain villages, but it also flourishes right under the pope’s nose. That’s where Prince Pompetti comes in.
He leads a cult of Roman nobles who trace their ancestry back to the earliest people—the people who lived as one with the land so long ago that time wasn’t even measured. They call themselves the Academy of Italia and seek to emulate the pure ideals of their ancient ancestors in all things, even religion. When Aurelio Pompetti encountered Mary Sysonby on one of his antiquarian jaunts to Benevento, it was a match made in heaven. They returned to Rome and were soon holding private worship services on full moon nights.”
Gussie was scratching his head. “I don’t understand. If Pompetti and his lady are secret pagans, why has he set himself up as the champion of Cardinal Di Noce? Why does the prince meddle in Christian politics at all?”
“Perhaps it’s all a cover,” I said. “They don’t burn heretics any more, but I’m sure the punishment could be severe, even for someone of the prince’s stature.” I looked to Liya, who had lived in Rome long enough to know.
“His lands and possessions could be confiscated,” she said. “At the very least, he would be thrown into the prison at the Castel Sant’Angelo. It is certainly to Prince Pompetti’s benefit to keep the appearance of being a good Catholic. Still…” Liya paused and stared into the coals of the scaldino as if searching for inspiration. “I sense there’s something more that we don’t know.”
“Gemma was killed on the night of the full moon,” I observed.
Gussie clapped his hands on his knees. “But tonight’s moon isn’t full. It’s past the final quarter, almost new. Why is the prince hosting a celebration now?”
“The festival of Lupercus is a treguenda, a fertility rite that is celebrated around this time every year, no matter what the phase of the moon.” Liya stood and pushed up her sleeves. “It’s time to go to work, Tito. We’ll have to hurry if we’re going to get you ready in time.”
She held out one hand. “Breeches and shirt, please.”
I don’t like to ponder the details: the padding strapped to my naked chest, the shift of fine cambric that went over it. The corset that Gussie laced so tightly I could barely breathe. The panniers that fell from a belt affixed to my waist to give me the hips of a peasant matron who had borne a hovel full of children. The worst was the wig Liya had borrowed from the theater. It was fashioned of frowsy gray hair and topped with a kerchief of rough linen.
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