3 - Cruel Music

by Beverle Graves Myers

  “Perhaps that wouldn’t be a bad idea.” I had disengaged my lips, but kept my hold on her slender waist.

  “What?”

  “Telling Sertori what I know, I mean—about the night Rossobelli called me to the pavilion to move Gemma’s body.”

  “How would that help?”

  “Sertori has found Benelli. He must know that I was the one who summoned the old man and his boat. I could explain that both Rossobelli and Cardinal Fabiani had reasons to kill Gemma, where I barely knew the girl.”

  She shook her head. “Tito, you’re exhausted from serenading that infernal cardinal and sick with worry over Alessandro and Benito. You’re not thinking straight.”

  I was exhausted, but from pondering possibilities, not singing. Rossobelli was never far from my thoughts, but since I’d lifted the pope’s eyelids, the knowledge that Cardinal Fabiani was not the man Rome believed him to be towered above all. Fabiani’s position rested squarely on the widely held belief that he was Pope Clement’s bastard son. Instead, he’d been fathered by the unknown man under the marchesa’s ring. Perhaps I’d got it wrong in springing to the conclusion that Gemma died because of what she’d witnessed at the Palazzo Pompetti. Perhaps Gemma had teased the secret of Fabiani’s true parentage out of the marchesa’s ramblings. What would he have done if she had confronted him, demanding money perhaps? Would the proud cardinal have allowed a serving maid to possess his secret?

  I babbled as much to Liya.

  She stroked my cheeks. “But Tito, you said his hands weren’t scratched. Of the two men you found in the pavilion with poor Gemma, Rossobelli was the one who had claw marks.”

  “It doesn’t signify. Rossobelli could have hurt himself when he fell in the tunnel, and the cardinal must have scores of gloves. I’ve watched him. Besides his cold weather gloves, he wears a fresh pair of white ones to celebrate every Mass.”

  She shook her head adamantly. “You mustn’t even think of going to Sertori. These petty officials like quick arrests and quicker hangings. Sertori would probably have a secret laugh, taking a member of the Cardinal Padrone’s household into custody, but he knows better than to spar with the cardinal himself. Besides, the body is safely on the bottom of the river, and Gemma’s spirit has returned to the Great Mother. All these troubles will sort themselves out, you’ll see. We’ll soon be safe and happy, every one of us. Alessandro, too.”

  “Liya…” I breathed the scent of her hair, felt the warmth of her body against mine. “How can you possibly believe that?”

  “I’ve seen it.”

  “In your pot of glowing coals?” I was too tired to muzzle my skepticism.

  She wriggled free. A sudden chill came between us.

  “Oh, Liya. I didn’t come to argue about your convictions or who killed Gemma or what I should do about it or…anything.” I cupped her chin in my hand, meeting her irritated gaze with the eyes of longing. “Please, let’s just go upstairs.”

  Her face softened in the moonlight. She leaned close, to kiss me, I hoped, but a scraping sound followed by a soft thump stopped her.

  “A cat, after the rats,” she whispered. “Let’s go inside.”

  Biting her lip, Liya pulled me through the door and up the stairs to her attic. Little Tito was fast asleep on his cot. She brushed the tumbled curls from his forehead, tucked his favorite rag animal in his arms, and wrapped the covers tight around him. I held the door as she carried the boy to Maddelena’s room.

  I stood very still, watching Liya’s straight back move down the stairs. I hadn’t stirred when she returned, sleeves rolled back from bare forearms, white apron covering the front of her blue gown, delicately molded scallops of pink flesh rising from the bodice. This was the moment I’d anticipated for so long. Unfortunately, the memory of little Tito’s father came crashing in.

  Luca Cavalieri had been a charming, handsome, abundantly virile man. No matter how Liya disparaged him now, I knew that he had once fascinated her. Of course, I had not lacked for amorous adventures. As many of my fellow castrati were well aware, a certain type of woman was drawn by our celebrity and passionate stage performances. I had learned to please these moths to the flame, but the spark of lust they engendered was nothing compared to the burning desire that flooded my loins whenever I embraced Liya. Still, after Luca, could the love of a eunuch possibly be enough for her?

  Liya met me with a smile, the flat planes of her cheeks plumped with delight. She took my hand and we entered her room. While I stood nearly paralyzed with doubt, Liya latched the door and moved to a bureau in a shadowy nook. I heard the clink of glass on glass, then a drawer sliding open and shut. She returned bearing two goblets.

  Almost in a daze, I sat on the shabby sofa and accepted a glass. “I know what this is.” I swirled the golden liquid. “Liquore Strega—the same that Prince Pompetti served.”

  “Not exactly the same. I’m adding a special ingredient.” She placed her clenched fist over my goblet and released a stream of tiny crystals that dissolved on the yellow surface.

  “None for you?” I asked, as she wiped her palm on her apron.

  She shook her head. “It wouldn’t have any effect on me.”

  “What is it?” I took an experimental sip.

  “Don’t worry about what it is. Just enjoy. You may find it…energizing.”

  I rolled the liqueur over my tongue. Competing flavors melted into one warm, sweet swallow.

  “Is this more of your magic?” I found myself relaxing back against the cushions.

  “Not magic. It’s the dried juice of a plant, actually a common plant that can be found in most any hedgerow. It’s there for anyone to use, but of course, you must know what you’re looking for and how to extract its essence.”

  “You learned many things in Monteborgo.”

  She nodded. “One of the elders was an expert herbalist. She taught me what leaves and roots to gather to make everything from fragrant hair wash to medicinal brews.”

  I stroked the loose curls that fell from a center part to cover Liya’s shoulders. “Is that why your hair always smells so lovely?”

  She nodded, moving closer. “Black malva to make it shine. Bergamot and lavender for the scent.”

  As she twisted and curved her back against me, I buried my nose in her raven locks and asked, “Is there no magic, then? Only knowledge that has been forgotten except by a very few?”

  She remained silent a moment. We sipped at our glasses until she finally replied, “True magic is rare, but it exists. That’s why I’m here…Have you never wondered why I came to Rome? Doesn’t it seem like a miraculous coincidence that we met in a city where we have no family or other ties?”

  The thought had occurred to me. I just hadn’t had the leisure to contemplate it. “Go on,” I replied.

  “When I traveled to Venice several years ago and found you gone, I took it as a sign that we were not meant to be together. I returned to Monteborgo and tried to forget all about you. But I couldn’t. No matter how busy I kept, you were always there. In my waking thoughts and even in my dreams. I decided I must find you, but I didn’t know how to go about it. I needed advice. So at the Festa Dell’Ombra, when the veil between the living and the spirit world grows thin, I climbed to a sacred chestnut grove farther up the mountains. There a priestess of Diana lives in solitude and serves as an oracle of the goddess.”

  “She told you to come to Rome?”

  “It’s hardly that simple. The ritual of petition is long and arduous, but finally, the priestess agreed to guide my steps.”

  Liya snuggled against my chest, tilted her head, and whispered her words directly into my ear. “She told me that my future happiness depended on meeting my true love in Rome when the next Holy Strega would seek to turn the new religion inside out. I had no idea what that meant, but now I begin to see.”
r />   “Cardinal Di Noce.”

  She nodded.

  “Is that all your sibyl told you?”

  “She encouraged me to leave for Rome immediately, but to be patient, as the coming events were of great pith and significance. They would play themselves out according to their own fashion, she said, and were difficult to foresee with respect to time. I followed her advice and have been waiting over a year.”

  “Did she mention me by name?”

  “No.”

  “What if I’m not the true love she predicted?” I asked the question with a chuckle. Nevertheless, I held my breath in anticipation of her answer.

  “Don’t tease, Tito. It’s always been you—even back in Venice. I was just in too much turmoil to see it.”

  I kissed her shoulder, then thought of all the wickedness an unescorted woman with a child would find along the road: greedy officials, churlish innkeepers, bands of robbers, and worse. City life would hardly be easier. “How have you managed alone all this time?”

  “I’m not alone. Maddelena is from Monteborgo. Her aunt and uncle who still live there accompanied me to Rome and helped me with Tito. Maddelena was glad to give us shelter. But even without them, I would have been all right. Followers of the Old Religion never turn our backs on a fellow devotee, either friend or stranger.”

  “How do you find each other?”

  “We have ways.”

  “Like the cimaruta?”

  “That’s one way. There are also certain signs on gates and buildings.”

  I remembered the crude drawing by Maddelena’s door and the figure on Pompetti’s gate. With my head lolling on the cushions, I asked, “Would frogs have anything to do with that?” My voice sounded odd, booming and fragile at the same time.

  Chuckling, Liya took my empty glass and set it aside. Her face seemed to glow with a radiant light. “How do you feel?” she asked.

  I stretched my arms high, surprised at how light yet powerful they felt. I closed my eyes and tried to remember what had happened earlier that day, but the Quirinal Palace and old Benelli’s hut seemed as distant and unimportant as a Chinaman tending his field on the other side of the world.

  Liya was all that filled my consciousness: the smooth flesh of her shoulders, the curve of her hips, her tiny ankles. Her mouth closed on mine, and a moment later, I was untying her apron and pulling at the laces of her bodice. A musky scent filled my nose. Her soft breasts seemed to spill into my hands. She stopped me then, but only long enough to blow out the candle and pull me toward the bed.

  Whether it was the mysterious herb or the magic of two bodies that sought to become one, my love flowed sure and strong. Liya’s ardor matched my own, and we surrendered to forces that had been building since we’d met in Venice so long ago.

  ***

  Hours later, I awoke to a rhythmic shudder that seemed to emanate from the surrounding walls. For the duration of one lurching heartbeat, I forgot where I was. A warm, soft weight lay across my chest, and something was tickling my nose. I inhaled cautiously—bergamot and lavender—and smiled as the memories came flooding back.

  Moving gingerly, I eased Liya off my chest and looked up at the window. The barest trace of dawn shone there. The pulsing shudder continued.

  “What is it, Tito?” Liya shook her hair back and propped herself up on one elbow.

  “I don’t know. Listen.”

  Very near, a series of mournful bongs sounded in basso profundo.

  “That’s the bell from the church on the square,” Liya said.

  It was answered by a peal of higher pitch.

  She drew her knees up under the cover. “That’s Santa Cecilia down by the river.”

  The bells continued to peal, joined by others near and far. It seemed that every minute a hundred more entered the clanging, jangling fray. The din flew through the air above the city, coursed through stone and timber, and shook the very bowels of the earth. I had never heard anything like it.

  “Every bell in Rome must be tolling,” I said wonderingly.

  Liya nodded, then winced as the looking glass above her dressing table trembled and fell with a tinkling crash. Pressing closer, she enfolded me in a ferocious embrace. We clung together, rocking softly back and forth. We both understood. The monstrous clanging was a wordless message, more profound than words could ever be.

  Pope Clement was dead.

  Part Four

  “Seek thee out some other chase, for I myself must hunt this deer to death.”

  —William Shakespeare

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “Zio Antonio is here. His coach arrived just before dawn.” Abate Lenci gave me a sidelong glance as he plucked a dead leaf from a vine in the walled garden of the Palazzo Venezia. We were quite alone; a gardener raking the gravel path had shuffled off at our approach.

  “Your uncle traveled at night? Over those mountain roads?”

  Lenci raised his boyish face to the tenuous warmth of the midday sun. “He left Venice the instant the news of the pope’s death reached San Marco’s—in a coach and six that changed horses at short intervals, decked out with extra lamps so the darkness couldn’t stop its progress.”

  I shouldn’t have been surprised. Mourners had been pouring into Rome for several days. The natives spent half their time hawking food and souvenirs and the other half cursing the clogged streets. Senator Antonio Montorio had more reason than most to make the journey. Tradition set the opening of the conclave for nine days after a pope’s death; six days remained. During that time, the senator would be up to his neck in negotiation with Fabiani and the other cardinals, who would soon be under lock and key in the Vatican.

  “I suppose the senator wants to talk to me,” I said over the lump in my throat, “since he sent a carriage to fetch me.”

  “Oh yes. He was quite distressed when Zio Stefano told him you’d been avoiding us.”

  “What? But I haven’t…it’s so hard to get away…Fabiani summons me on a whim.” I paused, realizing that my voice was rising to a screech. I continued in a more dignified tone, “I’ve been ill, as well.”

  “Yes, unfortunate for you.” He plucked another withered leaf and crumpled it in his fist. “I hope that Magistrate Sertori hasn’t been leaning on you too hard, given your weakened state.” He regarded me with eyes that could have been twin spheres of blue ice.

  “Lenci, I—”

  He grabbed the front of my coat, pulling me off my feet. As I stumbled, he shook me, growling. “You knew. That day on your balcony, before we were interrupted, you were going to tell me that Gemma was dead. Then you thought better of it.” I gripped his wrists. His face was inches from mine. “Didn’t I deserve to know—the one who loved her above all others?”

  I broke his hold. He shoved me hard, his palms flat to my chest. I scrambled for balance, but ended up splayed like a starfish on the gravel path. Wincing, I blinked up at the young man with his arms stiff at his sides. His breath was coming in short gasps. So was mine.

  “You have a right to be angry, but will you just listen a moment?” I bent my knees and pushed up on one elbow, tensing in expectation of another outburst. “Please?”

  Grimly, he extended a hand. I took it, and he pulled me up.

  “My hat,” I said, pointing to my tricorne, which now crowned a bare rose bush.

  Lenci jerked the hat off the thorns and squashed it into my chest. “Enough stalling. Tell me what you know.”

  I would rather have kept my own counsel, but it wouldn’t do to have Lenci feeling that I’d betrayed him. I didn’t need to create an enemy. I had enough of those already. I said, “I don’t know how you found out, but yes, Gemma is dead. Rossobelli found her in the little pavilion by the cardinal’s garden wall.”

  The color drained from his cheeks
. “How?” he asked gruffly.

  “She was strangled with one of the marchesa’s scarves.”

  He inhaled sharply. “The old lady killed her?”

  I shook my head. “Someone else used Marchesa Fabiani’s scarf as a weapon of convenience.”

  “Who?”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to discover. But tell me, how did you learn that Gemma was dead?”

  “Magistrate Sertori received a note advising him to question a woodsman about Gemma’s disappearance, an old retainer of the cardinal who lives on the river.”

  I twisted my hat brim. “Atto Benelli.”

  “Yes, Sertori questioned him a few days ago. Benelli kept mum at first, pretending that he was hard of hearing. But Sertori is relentless. He badgered the old man until he finally admitted that he helped a tall, beardless man from the villa dispose of a mysterious bundle in the Tiber.” Lenci gulped, wiping sudden tears from his eyes. “A bundle that could only have been my Gemma.”

  “You’ve been talking with Sertori, then.”

  The abate nodded in a quick jerk. “Absolutely. He’s the only one trying to get to the bottom of this horrible business. Yesterday, he took Benelli out on a boat to show him where you two dumped Gemma. He intends to drag the river.”

  Lenci finished with such a dreadful look that I took a step back. I put my hand to the dagger in my waistcoat pocket. I could overlook one grief-stricken outburst, but if the abate attacked me again, he’d be facing a blade. “I didn’t hurt Gemma,” I said, regarding Lenci with a steadfast gaze.

  He nodded stiffly. “If I thought you had, you’d be at the bottom of the Tiber with her.”

  “And Fabiani coerced me into helping with her shameful burial.”

  “How? A pistol to your head…or did he threaten to have Rossobelli crush you to death with fawning and flattery?”

  “You forget. My brother is being held hostage to the outcome of an election that Cardinal Fabiani will control.”