3 - Cruel Music

by Beverle Graves Myers

  “I could hardly forget—my ears are stuffed with the conclave every minute of the day. Is that why Gemma was killed? Because she allowed Fabiani to draw her into his schemes? Could it have been one of Pompetti’s bravos?”

  “I don’t believe so. Despite knowing that Gemma was spying at Fabiani’s behest, Lady Mary had taken a liking to her. She saw promise in the girl and wanted to further her education. She was tutoring her in…ahm…historical matters and such.” I gulped at that innocuous version of events, but it would be folly to reveal every card in my hand.

  “So what do you believe?”

  I looked around. The garden paths were deserted, and the bare bushes provided no cover for spies. Still, the back of my neck crawled as if we were being observed. The windows of the hulking palace were shut tight against the February chill. No human figures were evident, but that didn’t mean there weren’t eyes peering through a slit in the drapery. I turned down a path that directed us away from the building, then told Lenci about the theft of my letters and my conviction that Gemma’s murderer was someone from the Villa Fabiani.

  Lenci’s brain worked quickly. “That someone wants Sertori to think you killed Gemma.”

  I nodded gravely. “It would be most instructive to know who sent the note pointing him toward old Benelli.”

  “I saw it. It was signed ‘a concerned citizen.’”

  “The paper, the writing itself—do you recall anything about those?”

  The gravel crunched beneath our feet. Lenci appeared deep in thought, with chin lowered and hands clasped behind his back. The gears of my own brain were grinding as well. Who had sent that damned note? Fabiani? Rossobelli? The men who attacked Benito? Or some faceless villain that I’d not even considered?

  “Well,” Lenci finally responded, “the paper didn’t carry a letterhead, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Just describe it as best you can.”

  “It was common notepaper. The words were written in a running hand, no blotches.”

  “Composed by a person of higher learning?”

  “Santa Maria, the questions you ask—I don’t know.” He rubbed his forehead. “The language wasn’t particularly fancy. Actually, it reminded me of those letters written by clerks who set up at markets to read or write for folks who’ve had no schooling.”

  As I bit my lip in thought, a footman trotted up to summon us inside. I steeled myself. It was time to face the man who had set me on this fatal path to Rome.

  Once through the door, Lenci headed for the main staircase that rose to bifurcate like a T. A delegation headed by a dark man of military bearing descended toward us. The wide skirt of his coat and the crimson sash that girdled his chest told me he was Spanish. Several other soldiers were sprinkled among the cardinals and bishops who made up the bulk of his retinue. They all appeared slyly gratified, like the cat who has wangled an extra saucer of cream from a stingy master.

  Lenci turned right at the top of the stairs, but the footman stopped him. “Scusi, Signori. You are wanted in Cardinal Montorio’s suite.”

  Leaning close, Lenci covered his mouth and whispered, “Zio Antonio had planned to dazzle you by holding court in the main salon. I wonder what happened?” We mounted the opposite staircase and started down the long corridor to the family wing.

  We heard the uproar before we had gone twenty paces. “No, no. Put that down this minute. You vandals—stop—” An agonized wail followed.

  “That’s Zio Stefano.” Lenci broke into a run. I was right on his heels.

  At the doorway, we plowed into a footman packing a glass case that hit the floor with a shattering crash. Its contents, a preserved species of fox, broke into several pieces. I kicked the head from under my feet, and it went bouncing along the corridor like a bocce ball.

  The man ran for a broom; we entered the suite and pressed ourselves against a folding screen painted with Venetian landmarks. Servants were streaming through the open door of Stefano Montorio’s workroom, carrying a variety of brass instruments, sealed cases, bellows, and oddly shaped glass vessels. The cardinal himself, stumbling on the hem of his scarlet cassock, ran back and forth, emitting squeaks of despair and filling his arms with the treasures that still remained. With expressionless faces, the footmen pried them from his grasp and continued the despoliation of his workroom.

  When the apparatus that had shown me the louse was borne away, the cardinal threw himself on a gilded stool with a pitiful moan. He hugged his belly and rocked from one rounded hip to the other. “Antonio, for pity’s sake. Leave me my microscope.” His fleshy jowls ran with combined tears and sweat. “Just the one instrument, I beg you. Where is the harm?”

  Antonio Montorio had been gazing silently out the window. He turned and strode over to his brother. The senator’s face was more lined than I remembered, but he was as elegantly attired as before. His traveling clothes had been replaced with a suit of bottle green silk over a flowered waistcoat worked in gold thread. His lace was exquisite.

  I realized that I had never seen the two brothers together. Though their features were similar, the contrast was striking. Where the senator displayed an implacable bearing, with flashing eyes and a hard mouth, the cardinal was a blubbering lump of craven flesh who couldn’t raise the resources to save his own possessions. I’d been a fool to think that he might have been able to arrange Alessandro’s escape.

  The senator addressed his brother with the verve of a dramatic orator. “I now see that I should have come to Rome much sooner. People have been talking. There are rumors of impious activities at the Palazzo Venezia—experiments in natural philosophy that dishonor God’s work.”

  The cardinal straightened. “There is nothing impious in studying the laws of the knowable universe.”

  “Theologians teach otherwise,” his brother shot back.

  “The church fathers cling to hopelessly outdated theories. When they preach that demons of the air create thunder and lightning, they ignore the evidence of electrical sparks jumping from cloud to cloud. When they speak of miracles effecting—”

  “All that isn’t worth a soldo.” The senator was adamant. “I’m bleeding our family coffers dry to see you elected head of the Church, not president of some chin-wagging scientific society.” He stabbed his finger through the air. “You know as well as I do, Venice is on her last legs. Trade has nearly perished for lack of custom, and our neighbors are peddling their treasures from palaces that are crumbling at the foundation. The majority of common citizens exist only by grace of the public dole. A Venetian papacy could turn all that around, send wealth flowing back to our city.” He spread his arms wide. “Now, who do you suppose would be first in line to receive that silver and gold?”

  The cardinal maintained a sullen silence.

  The senator swiveled his head toward Abate Lenci. “Tell me who.”

  “The house of Montorio, Zio.”

  “Exactly.” The senator turned back to his brother. “And you would risk this so you can muddle about with your toys? It’s outright rebellion against your family and your government. I won’t allow it. In fact, I absolutely forbid you to read, discuss, or perform any more natural philosophy under this roof.”

  “You’re taking the journals, too? What about my notes?” The cardinal half rose from his seat, stretching a hand toward a footman with a bundle of stained, tattered notebooks under each arm. “Please Antonio, those are written in my own hand, with great labor.”

  In reply, the senator grabbed one of the books, crossed the room, and threw it in the fire. The thin papers caught flame and curled into ash almost immediately.

  Cardinal Montorio sank down and pressed his hands to his mouth. His eyes had widened to tea saucers. A whispery whine escaped his lattice of fingers: “I could be more careful—set up a workroom outside of the palazzo, in a warehouse somewhere—do my experi
mentations in absolute secrecy.”

  His brother braced his hands on the firemantel and stared down at the creeping ashes. He shook his head. “Your experimentations are over, Stefano.”

  “But Antonio—I deserve a tiny place of my own—I do—and no one would be the wiser.”

  The senator moved to tower over the cardinal. “You are spouting nonsense and you know it. Secrecy doesn’t exist in Rome.”

  I had to raise my eyebrows at that and saw Lenci do the same.

  Cardinal Montorio dropped his hands, gripped the edges of his stool, and raised his chin. His eyes narrowed to slits. “You’ll be sorry, brother.” His voice was husky with rage. “You may have won today, but there are other battles to come.”

  Senator Montorio snorted. He consulted a watch on a short, heavy chain and seemed to notice me for the first time. Waving a hand, he moved toward the corridor. “Come with me, Tito. I’ll take your report elsewhere.”

  I drew a deep breath and started after him. Lenci followed, but halted when Senator Montorio commanded, “See that your uncle pulls himself together. I’ll need him later—in good form and wearing a fresh cassock.”

  The senator ushered me to a study a few yards away. The room contained a large globe in a bronze stand, a square table, and several comfortable chairs. The senator didn’t sit, so neither did I. He paused and traced his finger over the globe’s brown continents and blue seas. Was he following one of his company’s spice routes? Or contemplating how many of the world’s Catholics would come under Stefano’s domain if he managed to get the reluctant cardinal elected?

  After a long moment, the senator raised his gaze to glower at me. His fingers dove into his embroidered waistcoat and produced a small object which he displayed at arm’s length. “Do you see what this is?”

  I stepped closer. He held a steel key with a heavy shank and simple looped head. “It seems to be a key, Excellency.”

  “Not just any key—it opens the lock of your brother’s cell. What information do you have to trade for it?”

  I sighed. “I have information, but I’m afraid you won’t find it pleasing.”

  “Proceed.”

  “I’ve observed Cardinal Fabiani closely, hovering near as he talked with influential guests and sifting every scrap of conversation or unguarded musing for—”

  “Yes, yes. I know how you gain your information. What have you found out?”

  I attempted to keep my voice steady, but a note of wild desperation crept into my answer. “I’m sorry, but…Cardinal Fabiani intends to throw his votes to Di Noce. I find it highly unlikely that he will change his mind in the next few days.”

  Montorio studied me, calmly nodding. “That tallies with what others have reported. For some reason, our old friend Lorenzo Fabiani doesn’t trust us to keep our bargain.”

  “At least your spies agree,” I said, wondering if I had unknowingly stumbled over any of them and if they had managed to penetrate Pompetti’s Academy of Italia.

  Continuing to nod absently, the senator turned his attention back to the globe. He gave it a spin and let it whirl beneath his brushing forefinger. His thumb and other fingers enclosed the key to Alessandro’s cell in a tight grasp.

  I searched the senator’s downcast profile. What else could the man want from me? I’d done as he commanded, and every cardinal that was able to make the journey to Rome would soon go into conclave. Yet I sensed that Antonio Montorio wasn’t finished with me.

  I decided to test that notion. “When will Alessandro be released?” I asked.

  He looked up with a sardonic smile. “When Stefano Montorio sits on St. Peter’s throne.”

  I felt as if a mule had just kicked me in the stomach. “What do you mean? I’ve fulfilled my part of this forced bargain. It’s not my fault that Fabiani has decided to back Di Noce. Just having that information should be of value to you.”

  “We’re striking a new bargain.” He sent me an exaggerated wink and pocketed the key. “Your brother’s cell will open only when my brother gains the papacy. If the Sacred College elects anyone else, Alessandro’s case will go to trial. I don’t need to remind you of the penalty meted out to salt smugglers.”

  I looked away, barely able to keep myself from flying at his throat. “That’s ridiculous. You expect a musician to bend a cardinal to his will?”

  “You have Fabiani’s ear. He squires you around the city. You are admitted to his bed chamber at all hours. You share his intimate moments.”

  I gazed back at him in furious amazement. “If you’re suggesting what I think you are, your informants have made a big mistake about Lorenzo Fabiani. And about me.”

  “I’m not suggesting that you are Fabiani’s bedmate, merely that you have more access to him than anyone else in my pay. As you said yourself, there is little time left. The battle is nearing its climax, and I must use every weapon at my disposal.”

  I remembered the Spaniards I’d seen on the stairs. “Surely I’m a dull blade compared to the others in your arsenal.”

  “Your brother’s peril will serve as a whetstone. With the proper motivation, you may yet find a way…” He shrugged. “And if you don’t, Alessandro will die as a martyr to the cause of rebuilding the Republic of Venice.”

  My jaw clenched. My arms began to tremble. My bowels had turned to water, and I fleetingly wondered if I would lose control of them entirely. “This is unjust.” My words came out in a hoarse growl.

  Montorio’s features arranged themselves into a mask of hypocritical concern. His voice was as sweet and smooth as honey. “My poor Tito. Surely you, of all men, have learned that we cannot expect justice until our souls reach Paradise.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  I charged out of the Palazzo Venezia like a madman, legs pumping and heart pounding. Once I’d left the protection of the compound, a number of street processions slowed me to a more dignified pace. As part of the nine days’ mourning for Pope Clement, priests were conducting bands of pilgrims robed as penitenti from church to church.

  I fell in behind one such band that was waving the banners of Liguria and singing hymns with a painful want of harmony. We had progressed only a few blocks when we halted at a cross street. Edging forward impatiently, I saw the leader arguing with a priest at the head of a Piedmontese procession that bore an effigy of Pope Clement wreathed in flowers and streaming with tinsel and ribbon. Muttered oaths rippled through the crowd. Black-robed pilgrims pressed forward from both sides.

  The man next to me said to no one in particular, “By the blood of San Giorgio, we can’t let a gang from the Piedmont back us down.” His fellows nodded vehemently.

  Recognizing the overture to a brawl, I darted back the way we’d come, only to find the next through street blocked by a delegation of Austrian cardinals. As if their endless cortege of carriages and brightly uniformed cavalrymen did not provide sufficient display for us peasants of the pavement, a mounted official with a money sack girt across his chest flung a handful of quattrini every few paces. I pressed myself into a doorway as a multitude of hands grabbed for the coins. In that moment of forced inactivity, I realized that I didn’t even know where I was rushing to. Antonio Montorio’s threat had riled my blood and spurred me to flight, but pounding my heels wouldn’t help Alessandro. I must keep my head.

  There was a small café across the side street. Slipping through the fringe of the crowd, I went inside, ordered chocolate, and attempted to shut out the hubbub.

  The senator had complicated my situation considerably. Several days ago, after Liya and I had wakened to the clamor of the bells, I had hurried back to the Villa Fabiani to search for the portrait of the marchesa’s brown-eyed lover. Seeing Magistrate Sertori coming out of old Benelli’s hut had shaken me deeply; even without Lenci’s information, I knew that the magistrate must suspect me. The painting inscrib
ed with Fabiani’s true genealogy could deflect that suspicion from me to Cardinal Fabiani. But first I had to find it.

  The news of the pope’s death had turned the villa’s routine topsy-turvy. No one missed me at Mass because there was none. Cardinal Fabiani had sped to the Quirinal the minute the tolling penetrated the villa’s walls. Rossobelli must have gone with him. Clerks with bulging portfolios trotted through the corridors and in and out of the cardinal’s study, but the self-effacing secretary was not among them. The old marchesa was the only inhabitant of the villa who sought my company. Unfortunately, her mind had retreated to her childhood and all she could talk about were her playmates and her pets and her dolls.

  The villa’s confusion, combined with Benito’s unfortunate absence, gave me an excuse to visit the kitchens in search of a meal. Signor Tucci had suggested the larder as one of the marchesa’s favorite hiding places, but when I entered the low-ceiled warren of rooms where the villa’s meals were prepared, I saw the futility of a daytime search.

  In three separate kitchens, great fires blazed to bake the day’s bread or roast the day’s meat. A bit of ferreting around told me each of these areas stored supplies in its own larder. The head cook gave me leave to take a freshly baked leek and mushroom tart from one. I lingered in the fragrant storeroom as long as I dared, lifting bin lids and snaking my arm into onion and potato baskets, but the frequent appearance of maids and kitchen boys made a thorough search impossible.

  The café waiter plunked a heavy china mug and plate of rolls onto my table. Startled back to the present, I glanced out the window. The Piedmontese pilgrims seemed to be winning the day. Using their outsized bust of Pope Clement as a shield, they pressed the Ligurians back in an untidy rout. I took a sip of chocolate. It was perfect: thick, bittersweet, and almost hot enough to burn the back of my throat but not quite. I drifted deep into thought.

  I had planned to search the kitchens during the deserted night hours, but my efforts were hampered by a series of summons from Cardinal Fabiani. A host of details claimed his every waking minute. He was supervising the construction of Clement’s magnificent catafalque, organizing the funeral procession, and deciding how the cardinals would be bedded and fed during their sacred retreat. All this as he was besieged by people seeking favors while he was still in a position to grant them.