3 - Cruel Music

by Beverle Graves Myers

  “Why do I have to be an old woman?” I asked, thinking I might have made a rather attractive young woman if only Liya had provided the proper clothing.

  “People will take less notice of you. Nobody pays much attention to women past their prime. Also, it will give you a reason to stoop. You’re very tall for a woman, you know.”

  The next step was employing greasepaint to give my face the semblance of age. Liya directed Gussie to hold a lamp over my head as I sat at her dressing table. After studying the intense highlights and shadows created by its descending rays, she reached into a tin make-up box, also from the Argentina.

  “Close your eyes,” she murmured.

  I complied and felt the drag of the grease sticks against my skin, followed by the caress of her thumb as she blended the colors over my cheekbones, along my jaw line, and down each side of my nose.

  Out of the corner of my mouth, I asked, “Were you able to speak to Tucci today?”

  “Yes,” Liya answered. “He was hanging around as usual, complaining because you hadn’t sent the letter you promised. I set him straight.”

  It was as I’d feared. My letters were in the hands of the mysterious man who had jumped off the back of the drayman’s cart to rifle Benito’s pockets. When Liya instructed me to frown for all I was worth, the expression came naturally.

  Wielding a pointed brush loaded with blue gray, Liya enhanced my natural wrinkles with a delicate hand. Finally, she handed me a mirror.

  “You’ll do,” she said. “Especially if you pretend to be shy and keep in the background.” With a sigh, she added, “Benito could have done a better job. He would have added bushy eyebrows and a nice wart sprouting from your nose.”

  I nodded, pleased with her efforts but weighed down by the memory of Benito so small and still under his bandages. The one drawback of my plan to escape the villa for the night was that I’d not been able to get to the hospital. What if Sister Regina decided I had reneged on our bargain?

  “Gussie?” I asked.

  My friend had set his lamp down and was gazing at me open-mouthed. He shook his head like a wet dog, then replied, “Sorry, Tito. I’ve seen you as a soldier, a slave, an Egyptian pharaoh, the king of Crete, even Apollo, but I’ve never seen you like this.”

  “If we are to find Gemma’s killer, we all have our parts to play.” With a rueful grimace, I shook out my skirts and crossed the floor, attempting a bent, limping gait. “I have a job for you, if you will.”

  “Whatever you wish.”

  “Go to the Consolazione and see how Benito is faring. The hour is late for a visit, but some silver should gain your admittance. If the nuns are doing as they promised, give this gold piece to Father Giancarlo.” I reached for my waistcoat which held my purse. “And if there’s anything you can do to make him more comfortable…” The helpless tone of my voice seemed to waver in the close air of Liya’s attic chamber.

  Gussie’s big fist closed around the coin as his other hand squeezed my shoulder. “Don’t worry, Tito. You are no longer alone—your friends are here and everything that can be done will be done.”

  Nodding, Liya looked up from extinguishing the scaldino. Its dying embers lit the planes of her face with a reddish glow and lent her beauty a wild, demonic edge, as if the coals in the pot had been borrowed from the Devil’s own bonfires.

  ***

  The midwinter night, blue black and clear, displayed an array of stars scoured to peak brilliance by the biting wind. Liya supplied me with a heavy cloak and a muff folded around a flat stone that had been warmed in the oven. Neither prevented my feet from turning to blocks of ice by the time we reached the Palazzo Pompetti.

  For most gatherings, the forecourt of such a handsome palazzo would have been lit by torches and bustling with carriages and footmen, but Pompetti’s pagan celebrations clearly took a different tack. Not a soul was stirring, and the arched windows that punctuated the marble façade were dark. A casual passer-by might think that Pompetti and his household were visiting the country.

  Liya went straight to a side gate bearing a shield ornamented with a frog wearing a royal crown. The gate’s hinges had been well-oiled; nary a squeak sounded as we passed through. I followed her billowing cloak across the gravel-strewn drive. She stopped at a secluded doorway and donned a stiff satin mask that covered the upper part of her face. She handed a similar mask to me. I hesitated, fumbling with its ties to cover my indecision. What was I doing? Just weeks ago, I had been secure in the world of the opera house that I knew so well, and now I was disguised as a peasant woman, about to throw myself into…what had Liya called it, a fertility rite?

  A few more moments and I might have backed out, but Liya gave my hand a quick squeeze and knocked on the door—three quick raps, then two slow. We were admitted by a man in a full mask whose identity was further shrouded by a hooded, wine red cloak. We traded our outdoor cloaks for similar garb and were directed toward the great hall.

  The scene was not as alien as I had supposed. In fact, it felt very like the celebration of the blood miracle of San Gennaro that I had witnessed during my conservatorio days in Naples. In that centuries-old ritual, a silver bust of the saint that contained an ampoule of his blood was conveyed to the cathedral in a grand procession. In growing waves of ecstasy, the faithful prayed for the blood to liquefy so that Naples would be blessed with a year of good fortune. If the blood should remain solid, the pest, an earthquake, or some other catastrophe was sure to befall the city. The wild rejoicing that followed the miracle of liquefaction and the fervor of the believers pushing forward to kiss the holy ampoule had been a sight to see. Now that I thought of it, I seemed to recall that the miracle-working San Gennaro had been a bishop of Benevento before his martyrdom. A curious coincidence.

  Prince Pompetti’s hall was swathed in drapes of dark velvet and dominated by a bronze tripod that supported a brazier as big around as a coach wheel. A steady flame glowed at its center. At least thirty figures in masks and robes identical to ours surrounded it, swaying and chanting in a pleasant blend of soprano and deeper voices. Following Liya’s lead, I tucked myself in at the back of the group.

  The red robes covered Pompetti’s guests from head to toe, but they couldn’t disguise the forms beneath. The women stood out by virtue of the fashion of the times which emphasized breasts and hips. Observing closely, I soon noticed something else: shoes. The toes peeking from beneath the robes could tell me as much about their wearers’ status as the gold, or lack of it, in their purses. I saw dainty pointed toes of silk brocade, bulging rounds of scuffed leather on thick soles, and many examples of footwear in between. The prince and his lady had gathered quite a collection of followers from all walks of life. A maid like Gemma would have fit in just fine.

  The chanting continued for some time; praise of Lupercus was intermingled with specific requests. A woman would beg, “Lord Lupercus quicken my womb,” and all would take up the plea, voices rising and falling around the ring until a new request was made. As near as I could tell, this Lupercus was a god of all living, flowering things: the special protector of farmers and shepherds as well as a potent fertility symbol.

  After a number of worshipers had approached the brazier and passed their cimarute, other amulets, and small animal statues through its flames, someone produced a violin, one of the pocket variety that dance masters employed. The lilting rhythm of a roundelay sounded, and I stumbled as a hairy, ham-fisted paw tugged at my left hand. Another masculine hand with soft, uncalloused palms grasped my right, and the entire circle spun into a whirling, skipping dance that moved clockwise around the fire.

  For a moment of panic, I thought I had lost track of Liya but soon spotted her smiling mouth between two taller, gamboling figures. Feeling rather silly and tripping on the hem of my unaccustomed skirts, I tried to skip like a child at play. Once I had the hang of it, the dance was actually ra
ther fun. We spun faster and faster, following the escalating tempo, and at last, the dance became a wild rout. My companions whooped and shrieked over the now discordant fiddle, and the circle broke apart. Red robes spun alone or in pairs to the four corners of the hall. I saw Liya backing into the shadows and moved toward her with a stitch in my side.

  “What now?” I whispered once I’d reached her.

  “The priest who represents Lupercus should appear at any moment. Be prepared to—” The portentous clang of a gong interrupted, and all eyes turned to the astounding figure who was entering the smoky hall.

  The pagan priest was garbed in a flowing orange robe embroidered with gold thread that reflected the flames of the brazier. A wolf mask of terrifying realism covered his entire face and rose to meet a conical headdress painted with squiggles and shapes of foreign symbols. I was surprised to see that he snapped a flagellant’s cord every few paces.

  Placing my mouth next to Liya’s hood, I whispered, “Why does he have a whip? Is someone going to be punished?”

  She shook her head. “To invoke Diana’s power, the women who want a child will remove their garments and dance again. He’ll whip them along to heighten their ecstasy.”

  At this, my curiosity knew no bounds. I observed the priest closely as he proceeded toward the brazier and measured his height with my eyes. I had not been able to identify any of the red-robed figures as Prince Pompetti and had been on the watch for his arrival. Taking the lead role would match Pompetti’s character, but the man in the flame-colored robe was a good three inches shorter than the prince, and though his flock clearly regarded him with awe, his bearing was far from regal.

  “Liya,” I whispered, drawing her still farther away from the group, “who do you suppose…” I stopped when I backed into something sharp.

  Turning, I found the very man I sought. Prince Pompetti had withdrawn his red hood and pushed his mask onto his forehead. His handsome face had turned ugly in the flickering light. His dagger hovered directly over my liver.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Pompetti jerked Liya’s arm. Directing us out of the great hall with wordless jabs of his blade, he herded us both down the corridor to a smaller chamber lined with bookshelves and display cases full of ancient bric-a-brac. Before the fireplace, Lady Mary sprawled in a deep leather armchair, idly flipping through the pages of a ponderous-looking volume. As Pompetti closed and locked the door, she shot me a look that wavered between derision and anger.

  “Remove that mask and ridiculous wig,” she ordered, laying the book aside.

  I slowly complied. She heaved herself up, leaving the chair emblazoned with the red slash of her discarded robe. Coming to stand directly before Liya, she said, “You, too, Signora Pellegrina…if that is your true name. I want to see your face.”

  Recovering more quickly than I, Liya whipped off her concealing garments. “We can explain, My Lady.”

  Prince Pompetti crossed the room and deposited the iron key that had locked the door in one of the clay pots arrayed along the mantel. Liya dropped a hurried curtsy in his direction. “We deeply regret distressing Your Highness with this intrusion, but gaining access to the palazzo was…necessary. Much depends on it.”

  “Yes,” I added. “Absolutely necessary or we would never have—”

  The prince cut me off with an irritated slice of his hand. “I don’t understand why Fabiani sent you. I thought the cardinal and I were in perfect agreement.”

  Lady Mary shushed him with a whisper. “Let Tito explain, my dear.”

  I bowed, painfully conscious that the manly gesture and my padded bodice created a laughable contradiction. “Cardinal Fabiani didn’t send us. This was all my idea. My friend Liya merely agreed to help. We’re…looking for someone. A maid I believe you know well, Lady Mary. Gemma Farussi.”

  “Now, what possible interest could an emasculated singer have in a lady’s maid?” Lady Mary crossed her arms over her damask gown and glanced toward Liya. “I don’t suppose for a moment that Gemma is actually a friend of yours.”

  “No, My Lady,” Liya replied softly. “Gemma wasn’t my friend. We never even met.”

  “Wasn’t? What do you mean—wasn’t?” The clever Englishwoman seized on Liya’s use of the past tense. “Has something happened to Gemma?” Lady Mary whirled to face Pompetti. “I told you—I warned you. That sly friend of yours has done something with her.” She turned back to me. “What do you know?”

  Liya and I traded uneasy glances. Our assault on the Palazzo Pompetti was not going at all as expected. I gulped hard. How much to reveal?

  “Out with it.” Lady Mary’s voice rang out imperiously. Pompetti stepped to her side. Thoughtfully, he tapped his dagger against his cheek. The steel blade gleamed in the firelight.

  “I have reason to believe that Gemma is dead—murdered.” My words hit the air like leaden weights.

  “Are you certain?” Lady Mary asked with a strangled groan.

  I nodded.

  She began to pace, heels clicking on the parquet floor. Pompetti watched her with a pained expression. “Fabiani did away with her,” she muttered, talking more to herself than to us. “He could have sent her back to me—or stowed her somewhere away from Rome—but no, that conniving servant of the Christian god decided his interests must be protected at all costs.”

  She clenched her fists and put her face inches from mine. “Now I understand why you’re here. Somehow you discovered our bargain, and you saw any chance of a Venetian pope going straight down the drain. You’re nosing around for scandal, heresy, some proof that you can use to disgrace Di Noce and put your precious Stefano Montorio on the throne.”

  “No,” I protested. “I know nothing of any bargain. I’m probably the last person that Cardinal Fabiani would confide his plans to.”

  “Then why are you here?” Pompetti inquired in a biting tone.

  Frustration made me rash. Without thought, I flung back, “To find out if you murdered Gemma.”

  The back of Lady Mary’s hand met my ear with a resounding smack. As I staggered, left ear ringing, she loosed a torrent of English oaths. Thanks to my long association with Gussie, I understood roughly half.

  Liya blocked my stumble and pressed her body close to mine. My arm encircled her waist as Lady Mary slowed and switched her rant to Italian.

  “We were helping the girl,” she said. “Like so many of her countrymen, Gemma knew nothing of her natural heritage. Marvelous relics abound, but she didn’t know how to see them. A present-day Roman goes to Santa Maria in Aracoeli and sees a Christian church, but it was once a temple to Juno, and before that a grove sacred to the goddess of the earliest times. Half the churches in Rome have a similar history writ in their very construction—Pan of the Woods carved on pew ends and under the eaves—”

  “The Madonna statues by the north door,” Liya interrupted, nodding forcefully, but keeping within the small circle of protection that my arm bestowed. “Not all of us are ignorant, you see.” For my benefit she added, “To us, the north is a place of power, the source of deep magic. The Christians call the north doors of their churches the Devil’s doors. They brick them up, and allow only unbaptized children and suicides to be buried at their thresholds.”

  Lady Mary reclaimed her lesson. “In areas where the old traditions are strong, a Madonna by the north door represents the goddess. On many a statue, her secret worshippers have literally kissed the paint off her feet.”

  “Was introducing Gemma to the Old Religion the only way you were helping her?” I asked.

  Lady Mary shook her head with a sorrowful smile. “Unfortunately, Gemma was more interested in charms than the deities that give them power.”

  “What sort of charms?”

  “The sort that all young girls long for. Gemma had a lover who wasn’t as attentive as she wished.�
�� Lady Mary sighed. “I had almost finished collecting the supplies I needed to make a salve that would make her irresistible to him.”

  I thought Abate Lenci had been more entranced by Gemma’s own person than she realized and that a balm of exotic ingredients would do nothing more than make her skin smell sweet, but Liya was clearly a believer.

  “Were you waiting for the new moon to gather orris root?”

  “No, I prefer yarrow. Simmered with a bit of her—”

  Prince Pompetti broke in with a nod of annoyance toward Liya. “All right, enough—you’ve convinced me. You are a strega, then. Not everything you told Mary was a lie.”

  “I sacrificed my home and turned my back on my family to follow the old path,” Liya replied, proudly raising her chin. “I christened myself with a new name to honor Aradia, the Beautiful Pilgrim.”

  “What is the name you discarded?” Pompetti asked.

  “Del’Vecchio.”

  He drew near, studying Liya’s profile. “Yes, I thought I detected a whiff of Abraham.”

  Liya stiffened in my embrace. “Do the circumstances of my birth make me unwelcome at the Lupercan rites?”

  The prince thought for a moment, then shook his head. “We are all equal in the eyes of the goddess, but that is not the issue. You entered my home under false pretenses. When surrounded by enemies, it is folly to trust outsiders, especially those who might hinder our plans.”

  He glanced at Lady Mary; a frown formed between his heavy brows. She returned his gaze with a tight, straight-lipped expression. I pulled Liya even closer as the fire crackled in a malevolent dance and the air in the overly warm room seemed to vibrate with tension. Despite Lady Mary’s obvious fondness for Gemma, I still wondered if Pompetti didn’t have a hand in the girl’s death. He had struck a bargain with Cardinal Fabiani—was Gemma’s murder part of the transaction? One point stood out clearly: Pompetti was quite capable of ensuring that Liya and I never saw the light of day.