3 - Cruel Music

by Beverle Graves Myers

  He shook his head. “It’s not the same. You and Liya have problems on both sides.”

  “Why do you say that? Because I’m a castrato? I thought you’d known me long enough to realize that doesn’t mean I’m completely dead below the waist.” In the silence that followed I became aware that housewives and loiterers were observing us with interest. Gussie had finished packing his satchel, so I towed him out of earshot and kept walking.

  He answered in a low, intense tone. “I have no doubt that you and Liya could arrange that side of things to your mutual satisfaction, but how can you live with any degree of comfort in society? The Church will not allow you to wed. The most Liya can ever be is your acknowledged mistress, gossiped about by every matron from the Piazza San Marco to the Campo dei Polli and not welcome in any decent household.”

  “There’s one possible solution.”

  “What’s that?”

  “In the past, several castrati have petitioned the pope for special dispensation to marry.”

  “Has it been granted?”

  “No. In the last case I heard of, the pope sent a courier back advising the poor fellow to have the surgeon finish the job he’d obviously botched.”

  Gussie’s thick eyebrows drew together. After we had walked in silence for a moment, he asked, “So, where’s the solution in that?”

  “As we’re painfully aware, we’ll soon have a new pope, one who might take a more sympathetic view.”

  “I’ll accept that possibility, but there’s something else that worries me. Liya sent you away before, and I watched you nurse a broken heart for years. How can you be sure she won’t do so again?”

  “It’s different this time—for both of us. I’ve been convinced of that ever since I laid eyes on her in the market near the Pantheon.”

  “Are you positive that you’re not simply wishing it were so? You overcalculated the depth of her affection before. And have you considered the possibility that you’re using romance as a balm to counter the difficult circumstances you face here in Rome?”

  “I’m not the callow youth I was when I knew Liya in Venice. I’ve learned a bit more about women, and I know my own feelings, Gussie.”

  “Are you willing to put that to the test?”

  I nodded, puzzled. What was he talking about?

  “We’ve come to the right place, then.”

  We had wandered into a busy, asymmetrical square with a hayloft and watering trough, not far from the ruins of the old Forum where market-bound cattle were pastured. Gussie approached an austere medieval church dominated by a square bell tower. A priest sat on a three-legged stool before the portico; which was gated with iron bars. Gussie handed him a few coins.

  The priest opened the middle gate with a sly smile. “Watch yourselves, Signori—not many visitors today—he may be getting hungry.”

  We passed into a deep portico that was paved in stones the color of aged salami. As I waited for my eyes to adjust to the shadowed interior, I asked, “Who’s getting hungry?”

  My question sounded hollow in the eerie quiet. The lowing of the cattle and the whistles of the drovers on the square had faded. The portico had a dank chill about it, like a rocky overhang rarely touched by sunlight.

  Gussie touched my shoulder and jerked his chin toward a low plinth that held an odd sculpture. It was a worn and weathered face of a man chiseled onto a large stone disk. A tangled mane of hair and beard surrounded a countenance frozen at the beginning of a scream. The eyes, widened by fright or astonishment, sported hollowed-out pupils that I could have poked a finger through. The mouth was another dark hole, just the width of a man’s palm.

  “La Bocca della Verita—the Mouth of Truth,” Gussie said. “If you tell a lie while your hand is in his mouth, he’ll bite it off.”

  “What a preposterous notion!”

  “Is it? Suspicious wives have been bringing their husbands here for hundreds of years.” He nodded to the gaping mouth. “Will you humor me?”

  “Gussie, you amaze me. I thought you considered yourself the levelheaded one.”

  He gave a broad-shouldered shrug and again gestured toward the black slit.

  More tentatively than I liked to admit, I flattened my hand and inched it over the polished stone until the unyielding lips enveloped my wrist. My fingers disappeared into a cool void, and I shivered, suddenly gripped by irrational doubt and dread.

  “Do you love Liya, forever and always?” Gussie’s solemn baritone bounced off the walls and ceiling.

  My fingers tingled as if I gripped a handful of Alpine snow: forever was a long time. I squeezed my eyelids shut and pictured Liya’s exotic beauty, her graceful demeanor, her lively intelligence leavened by tenderness and love. I steeled myself against the judgment of La Bocca. But I knew the truth; I should be able to speak fearlessly.

  “Yes,” I proclaimed, “no matter what hurdles we may face, a future without Liya would be unlivable.” Warmth flooded back into my hand, and no sharp teeth pierced my skin. I jerked away from the stone disk, feeling like an ancient gladiator who had survived the Coliseum.

  Gussie shook his head as though despite himself, but he threw his arm around my shoulder and agreed to speak no more against my love. It was as much as I could hope for. My brother-in-law and I left the strange church in an uneasy truce.

  ***

  The Vatican Hill was the traditional site of the Holy See, but by the sixteenth century, a nearby swamp had given it a reputation for malaria during the warm months. The air of the taller Quirinal Hill in central Rome was deemed more salubrious, and a splendid palace was built there as the pope’s summer residence. Given that its spacious corridors and gilded apartments contrasted so favorably with the dark labyrinth of the Vatican, it took little time for the papal court to take up permanent residence. Cardinal Fabiani conducted me there on a chilly afternoon in early February.

  My guide traversed the Quirinal Palace as if it were his personal preserve. In the grand reception hall, a mass of prelates and courtiers had gathered to wait for news of the pope’s condition. The mirrored walls amplified their number from hundreds to thousands. To a man, they all suspended their conversations and bowed to Fabiani as we passed. Scanning their faces, I saw craft and guile peeking through masks of respect and concern. Were they calculating how rapidly Fabiani would fall from power once his patron had succumbed to his physical ailments?

  At the far end of the hall, a canopied throne exuded a lonely air of disuse. Fabiani paused. “Our pontiff started his reign right here, Tito. On a tide of goodwill. He was expected to govern with caution and good sense, and to restore the pomp and magnificence of the court that his austere Dominican predecessor had all but abolished.”

  “Did he?” I asked. “Before he became ill?”

  “Very much so. Pope Clement’s taste has always been of the highest order. He hired the most talented craftsmen to effect repairs both here and at the Vatican. But he didn’t stop at artistic beauty. His personal library is one of the finest in Europe—he donated many volumes to the papal library and encouraged the study of literature in the academies and universities.”

  “Did he also receive top marks for governing?”

  Fabiani seemed to squirm beneath his scarlet cassock. “He instituted some very good works.”

  “Like the Ancona project?”

  “That, and others. He widened the Corso and commissioned the construction of the Trevi Fountain that is sure to become one of our city’s noted ornaments. He also showed remarkable proficiency at stamping out banditry in the wilder areas of the realm.”

  Summoning an innocent smile to my mouth and eyes, I asked a question whose answer was known to all of Italy. “Wasn’t there some difficulty with the Spanish, though?”

  “Pope Clement weathered that little contretemps.”

  �
��By making one of the young Spanish princes a cardinal at age seven?” I continued, watching Fabiani’s pointed nose sniff the air as if we stood over the royal sewer. “I wonder if his mama will allow the little cardinal to leave his nursery and attend the conclave?”

  Fabiani fingered the cross on his chest. His deep-set eyes were not amused. “I thought you came with me to honor His Holiness in song.”

  I inclined my head. “Your servant, Eminence.”

  Fabiani escorted me around the back of the throne and down a short hallway. We stopped at a door flanked by Swiss Guards bearing crossed halberds tipped with steel spikes. At a sign from Fabiani, the soldiers rapped their halberds on the floor in perfect unison, then stepped aside with a double-quick march.

  A major-domo wearing a white ruff and red uniform conducted us to the bed chamber, announced our names, and immediately withdrew. It was clearly the nuns who ruled here, and by my guess, there wasn’t one a year under seventy. Their severe gray habits provided a stark contrast to the magnificence of the surroundings. Precious materials, the heritage of centuries of pious tithes and devotions, shone from every surface and corner. The bed hangings were spun of gold and silver threads. Golden caskets and book covers blinked with a rainbow of rubies, sapphires, and emeralds. Huge, age-darkened paintings of the Crucifixion and the Ascension were framed in gilt inlaid with jet and ivory. But all this I noticed from the corner of my eye. My chief concern was the old man half hidden behind the partially drawn bed curtains.

  As Fabiani spoke with a trio of nuns clustered around the brightly burning fireplace, I approached the leader of all Christendom. Pope Clement was clearly on his deathbed. His face was haggard, and his mouth pulled to one side. The sharp bones of his aristocratic nose threatened to break through brittle, translucent skin. With each gurgling breath, his coverlet rose and fell even more shallowly than Benito’s. His eyes were closed.

  “Not long now,” whispered the oldest nun, who had come up behind me with so noiseless a tread that the hem of her habit seemed to hover above the thick rug. She gave me a small push, and I realized that I’d been hanging back, repulsed by the smell of sickness that flowery unguents and incense could not overcome.

  “You must sing right over him—right in his ear. We’re not sure how much he can hear,” she explained. Still I hesitated. “Don’t be afraid.” She nudged the small of my back. “His Holiness has one foot in heaven. Even now, Our Lord may be tugging on his hand.”

  I sank to my knees on the prayer stool provided for visitors and did as she commanded. In the clearest tone I could produce, I sang a Monteverdi Adoremus. Fabiani and the other sisters crowded at the foot of the bed. He sighed and whispered, “I told you, the voice of an angel.”

  They nodded. One of the nuns had tears streaming down her cheeks.

  The oldest nun stayed beside me. She took one of Pope Clement’s mottled hands in hers, pressing it between her palms as if she could rouse him with her warmth. I willed him to rouse, as well. It was torture hovering right over the man and not being able to uncover the information I needed. Was Pope Clement the brown-eyed model for the lover’s eye in the marchesa’s ring? The answer lay beneath his shaggy white brows, behind his tissue-thin lids.

  As I followed the Adoremus with a Gloria Patri, I became convinced that the man before me was highly unlikely ever to open those lids again. I was already wondering how many people I could quiz about the color of Pope Clement’s eyes without provoking suspicion when the door of the bed chamber opened. A maid entered, wheeling a cart packed with steaming pitchers and fluffy towels.

  I prolonged one last sweet cadenza. My serenade must soon give way to the papal bath.

  The cart clattered over the terrazzo flooring, then quieted as the maid pressed the handles to raise the front wheels onto the carpet.

  “Dio mio,” she cried with a yelp. A metal pitcher clanged and bounced, splashing hot water in a crystal arc.

  The nun beside me pivoted and raised her skirts to skitter across the room. The group at the foot of the bed turned to assess the damage.

  Fortune would never hand me a better opportunity. Using my thumb in the maneuver I’d seen the doctor perform on Benito, I flicked Pope Clement’s eyelids back.

  Blue. His eyes swam in a miniature lake of milky rheum, but they were blue. Most definitely blue.

  I straightened quickly, hiding a triumphant grin. This was Cardinal Fabiani’s secret: the Villa Fabiani was built on sand.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Once back in the carriage with the team of glossy Arabians clip-clopping down the Quirinal Hill, I sought to introduce the subject of fathers.

  “How much longer, do you think?” I began.

  Cardinal Fabiani pursed his lips, then shrugged. “Who can say? He’s entirely in God’s hands, and we can only wait.”

  “It must be very trying—losing someone who has been a great influence in your life.” I maintained a careful, but sympathetic tone. “Especially a father.”

  “You would know.” The cardinal raised an eyebrow. “Your father met a particularly violent end. Just about the time your younger sister disappeared in rather mysterious circumstances, wasn’t it?”

  “Now where did you hear about that?”

  “The retinue of the Papal Nuncio in Venice includes several men whose job consists solely of collecting useful information. I like to know as much about the people who live in my house as possible. Can you blame me?”

  “I suppose not.” I shrank inside my cloak and turned up the collar. I doubted that the papal spies had more than scratched the surface of my life, but I didn’t intend to discuss even a jot of my painful personal history with the cardinal. I turned the conversation back to Pope Clement. “At least it appears that the pope will sink into his last sleep without undue pain.”

  Fabiani nodded. “It will be a blessing. My father of record, the Marchese Fabiani, was not so fortunate. He was thrown from a horse and lay in the woods in pain for many hours before succumbing.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it, Your Eminence. When did this tragic event occur?”

  “It must be over ten years now…shortly before I moved to Rome.”

  “With the marchesa?”

  He smiled thinly. “Some would have had my mother shut herself away in perpetual mourning, but Olimpia Fabiani wasn’t made for disappearing quietly into widow’s weeds. I wish you could have known her in her prime, Tito. This terrible rotting of the brain…”

  He pressed himself stiffly upright against the leather cushion, eyes on the changing street scene. His tone was distant. “I look at her and see the familiar face, but in her gaze, the woman whose unwavering hand guided me for so many years is simply not there. Mama used to have such courage, such ambition. When we made the move to Rome, Pope Clement had just risen to the throne. She didn’t waste a moment setting herself up as a fashionable hostess, meeting the right people, reestablishing relations with the pope. Before I knew it, she had burrowed a path into his inner circle for both of us. Mama is responsible for everything I have today, but because of her despicable condition, she’s barely aware of—”

  Fabiani quieted abruptly. He stuck his head out the window and called up to the driver, “Stop here.”

  My attention had been consumed by the cardinal’s expression, as unguarded in its emotion as I’d ever seen, so it took me a moment to get my bearings. I was facing the front of the carriage. Looking back, I saw that we had just come through the Porta Settimiana on the way back to the villa. Old Benelli’s hut stood on our right. A plain, black carriage waited at its door.

  The grooms had jumped down as soon as we rolled to a stop. They bent to unfold the steps, but Fabiani instead ordered them to inquire whose carriage we were looking at.

  I strained my ears as the senior groom conferred with the other driver but heard nothing until the
man returned to say, “Your Eminence, it is the carriage of Magistrate Sertori.”

  I felt the hackles rise on the back of my neck. Fabiani appeared no less affected. His eyebrows registered surprise, then shock.

  Before the cardinal recovered sufficiently to speak, Sertori himself ducked through the doorway of the mean hut. He took one look at Fabiani’s startled face framed by the carriage window and bowed his solid, phlegmatic frame. The curtains of iron gray hair fell forward to cover his face, but I would have wagered my remaining gold pieces that he was smirking.

  For half a moment, I thought the cardinal meant to call the magistrate over. Instead he commanded the driver to move on. We jolted up the Via della Lungara in silence. My thoughts tumbled furiously. The cardinal was clenching his jaw like a man with a bad toothache.

  Once we’d turned down the lane to the villa, Fabiani said, “Someone has been talking out of turn, Tito.”

  “Not me, Your Eminence,” I replied quickly.

  “Of course not.” He eyed me with a thoughtful gleam. “Calling Benelli to Sertori’s attention would hardly be to your advantage.”

  “What should we do?” My tongue was so dry, I could barely form the words. I could almost feel the bite of the constables’ irons on my wrists.

  As the carriage halted at the villa’s portico, he replied, “You should do nothing. I’ll take care of this.”

  “But—”

  He lifted three fingers, but not in blessing. It was a warning gesture.

  “Anything you might do would only make things more difficult, Tito. I can squash Sertori like a maggot at any time I choose. Trust me, my friend.”

  At that moment, I was hard pressed to think of anyone I trusted less.

  ***

  “You shouldn’t have come. Sertori’s constables could pick you up on the street—he could have you beaten until you tell everything you know about Gemma’s death.” Liya was still shaking over my latest news. She slid her arms under my cloak and hugged me close. My mouth sought hers. The rats making their midnight forage in the passage behind Maddelena’s cookshop were treated to the sight of a long, ardent kiss.