The strain told—on both of us. Each night, the bell above my bed jangled as I awaited the hour when I thought the kitchen staff must place the last clean dish in the cupboard, cover the fires, and go off duty. Plodding down the corridor as if my ankles were shackled by a ball and chain, I found the cardinal squirming on his huge bed, scowling from headache and unable to toss off the cares of the day. The first night had required two hours of singing to soothe him to sleep. Last night, closer to three. My frustratingly brief forays to the night kitchens had left me empty-handed.
Now that Antonio Montorio had delivered his brutal ultimatum, I saw that I must redouble my efforts. My search for the painting had started as a way to save myself from arrest, but with a bit of daring, it could turn out to be the miracle that would save Alessandro from the gallows. I pushed my empty cup away and raised my face to the ceiling of the noisy café. From somewhere in God’s heaven, I imagined Mama smiling down on me.
***
Gussie was expecting me to call, and I sorely needed his frank observations. But Benito needed me more. Despite all the gold I’d deposited with Father Giancarlo, I was worried about my manservant’s care. The congestion in the streets had invariably led to many accidents, and the victims had stretched the hospital’s capacity to the limit. Yesterday, the beds on the men’s ward had been squeezed so close that the nuns were forced to turn sideways to move down the aisles. Sister Regina had appeared harried and harassed and barely raised her hand in greeting before being called away.
Today, I found yet more beds spilling into the corridor. Within the crowded ward, my manservant was restless and feverish, as mute as ever. I wrinkled my nose at the smell of human waste hovering around him. Where was Sister Regina? I saw no nuns tending the patients, though many of the poor unfortunates moaned or called out as I passed.
I went out to the corridor. “What’s going on?” I asked a fellow in an invalid chair with a bandaged foot propped up on a thick pillow.
He nodded his chin southward. “My fool pack horse stepped on it.”
“I mean, where are the nuns?”
“Oh. They’re upstairs. Dropped everything when they heard Cardinal Di Noce was in the building. You know, the one they say will be our next pope?” He compressed his lips. “I just hope they don’t forget my dinner—it’s over an hour late. I don’t suppose you…” I was already heading toward the stairs.
In the corridor above, Cardinal Di Noce was just coming out of the children’s ward, flanked by two priests who were shielding him from a mob of women. There were women in silk gowns with cameo-chiseled features; crudely rouged women in bodices of tattered satin; pious matrons wrapped in black shawls; and women barely out of girlhood with long plaits hanging to their waists. They were all striving to gain the attention of the cardinal, who looked so fatigued that he could barely take a step.
Sister Regina appeared at my elbow, a little out of breath. As far I was concerned, the desperate women might as well have been a cloud of gnats. It was Benito that mattered. I grasped the nun’s shoulders. If she had been a man I would have shaken her. “What are you doing up here? Why have you left Benito in such a state?”
The young nun barely registered a grimace at my brusque behavior. “I was needed. Whenever Cardinal Di Noce comes, it’s always the same. Wonderful, but difficult.”
I shook my head, puzzled.
“His Eminence has been gifted with the healing touch of Our Lord. He tours the ward placing his hand on first one child and then another. He can ease pain and strengthen breath and bring roses back to pale cheeks.”
I understood then. The women clamoring after Di Noce were mothers. Dozens of mothers from every social class, all sharing a single plea: Help my child!
Releasing my grip, I asked, “He doesn’t go to all the children?”
“Even such a holy man as Cardinal Di Noce has limits.” She nodded gravely. “Somehow he senses which ones will respond. I’ve seen him try with others until sweat pours from his head and he is near collapse, but…nothing.”
Di Noce appeared near collapse now. As Father Giancarlo and several nuns herded the mothers back into the ward, the pale cardinal leaned on the nearest priest. They moved slowly, as if mud sucked at their feet.
I stepped aside to let them pass. I did not intend to speak, but Di Noce paused. His sagging face revived as he noticed me standing with Sister Regina.
“Ah, Tito,” he murmured. “Sister tells me that we have you to thank for the new blankets and fresh dressings. You are a selfless man indeed—to think of the children when your own position is fraught with so many demands.”
I raised my eyebrows. That was one way of putting it.
“You must feel the distress of the little ones as keenly as I do,” he continued.
“I am fond of children, Your Eminence, but don’t give me too much credit. If someone I know wasn’t a patient here, I probably wouldn’t have thought of making donations.”
Di Noce gazed at me intently. He wore his humble black cassock, but I couldn’t forget his appearance in the fire-kissed robes of the priest of Lupercus. What a strange confluence of events! The entire hospital acknowledged this astonishing man as a sacred hero, as close to sainthood as he was to St. Peter’s throne. I was the only one in attendance who knew him for the pagan he was. I bowed stiffly, expecting Di Noce’s party to continue down the corridor, but the cardinal stepped away from his companions.
“It is not just someone you know, but someone very dear to you who has been hurt.” Though he stopped inches from me, Di Noce’s voice was distant and he focused his gaze over my left shoulder. He was still pale, but a peculiar radiance had taken possession of his features.
“That’s right,” I answered, unable to look away from his shining countenance. My scalp prickled in sudden anticipation. The rustle of Sister Regina’s habit told me she was attending closely.
Di Noce placed the tips of his stubby fingers on my chest and closed his eyes. His whisper was a warm breath passing over my face. “Yes, Benito’s spirit hovers near. He has been with you every minute since the cart struck his head.”
“With me? I don’t understand.”
“What is not to understand? His body rests while his spirit guides and protects you.”
“He’s here now?”
Di Noce nodded emphatically, eyes still closed. “He is here, though he will soon be ready to return to his earthly vessel.”
Sister Regina inhaled sharply and made the sign of the cross over her apron.
“Then for heaven’s sake, ask him who ran him down.”
Di Noce cocked his head like a dog who hears a whistle in the distance. Then he whispered, “The name alone is of no use.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
Silence.
I batted the cardinal’s fingertips away. “You don’t know. This is a sham—total foolishness.”
His eyes flew open and his face went slack. Once again, Cardinal Di Noce looked like nothing more than a kind, but very tired, man of middle years. Shooting annoyed glances at me, the priests stepped to his side and encircled him in supporting arms.
Before they led him away, Di Noce smiled and said, “Go to Benito, my son. Then talk to me of foolishness.”
Simmering with anger, I followed Sister Regina downstairs. The nun immediately clucked her tongue at the filth in Benito’s bed and sent me off so she could make him clean.
I spent a quarter hour wandering the hospital corridors and a similar measure of time trying to distract myself with a discarded news-sheet from several days earlier. When I returned, Sister Regina met me with an encouraging smile. “He does seem a bit better,” she said.
I pressed my palm to Benito’s forehead. His skin was cool and dry. No fever. Behind closed lids, his eyes seemed to roll and twitch. I couldn’t explain what I was s
eeing, but somehow, Benito just seemed to be more there. Suddenly, he gave a jerk and a whimper.
“Sister?” I called. “Is he all right?”
She heaved her basket of dirty linen onto one hip and placed her fingers on his wrist. Nodding judiciously, she said, “Benito seems to be coming awake.” She admonished me with a glance. “As usual, Cardinal Di Noce knew what he was talking about.”
I ignored her look. “Should we get the doctor?” I asked.
“No need. This is a good sign. Besides, all the doctors are in the operating suite.” As she slipped through the screens, she added, “Just don’t expect too much. After such a serious bump on the head, returning to normal takes time.”
Benito whimpered again and fluttered his eyelids. A shudder ran over his small frame.
I sank down on the edge of the bed. Bending at the waist, I pressed my chest and cheek to his. The fragrance of Sister Regina’s soap filled my nostrils. If she were stillthere, she would have chided me, but I couldn’t help myself. I squeezed Benito tightly and begged him to speak.
The little manservant’s chest heaved in a ragged breath. A rattle came from his throat. I turned my head to put my ear to his mouth.
The name sounded softly, brokenly, repeated several times: “Guido.”
I straightened. Sighing, I tucked an errant strand of hair back under his bandage. Di Noce might possess mystifying abilities, but his claim that Benito’s spirit had been following me around like a transient guardian angel struck me as ridiculous. True or not, it meant little for the future. It was clear where my manservant’s heart lay.
***
Outside the hospital, thick clouds obscured the late afternoon sun, and a gusty wind sent scraps of straw and paper dancing along the pavement. The scent of rain permeated the air. Despite the looming storm, many people remained out of doors.
A footman approached as I descended the front stairs of the Consolazione. His rust red livery and gray cloak both bore an unusual coat of arms: a pair of frogs, canted, on a shield topped by a spiked crown.
“Signor Amato?” he asked with a brief but respectful bow.
“Yes.”
He handed me a note sealed with a scarlet blob of wax. “Prince Pompetti sends his compliments.”
I waited until the man was well away before breaking the seal. The thin paper rattled in the breeze as I unfolded it. The message was short and to the point: Don’t forget. I’ll be watching you.
Laughing without mirth, I held the note aloft and let a gust of wind sweep it away. If he wanted to take me on, Prince Pompetti would have to stand in line, right behind Magistrate Sertori and Antonio Montorio.
Chapter Twenty-five
I slouched into my room at the villa a half hour later. The lamps were lit, and a freshly ironed shirt and my best brocade jacket lay across the bed. Sounds of rummaging came from the dressing room. Guido.
“What are you looking for in there?” I called wearily, craning my neck around the doorway.
“Oh, Signore, there you are!” Guido slammed one side of the wardrobe shut. His eyes bulged in surprise. “I was searching for a fresh neckcloth. All the ones in the bureau drawer are stained.”
“Just make do. This evening, I don’t have to be perfectly turned out. It’s only a small gathering, and I’m sure they’ll be more interested in discussing politics than attending to my music.”
“But, Signore, I can’t send you down looking tatty and shopworn. There are those who say I’ll never make a valet, but I mean to prove them wrong.”
Despite all the worries crowding my mind, I raised a chuckle. “So I’m to be your chef-d’oeuvre?”
Guido cocked his head suspiciously. “My what?”
“Your masterpiece.”
A smile cracked his heavy face. “That’s right, Signore.”
“Do what you must, then.”
I left Guido to his labors, shed my day garments, and poured warm water into a china washbasin, all the while plotting my next move. Cardinal Fabiani would be leaving the villa after the reception. I didn’t know his destination, but it couldn’t be the opera. As a demonstration of Rome’s grief, the theaters had been shut down and would remain so until after the pope’s funeral. All that mattered was that the cardinal would be supping elsewhere. After the household staff had been fed, the villa’s kitchens would close down for an early night.
I washed and toweled dry, recalling all the places I had searched for the marchesa’s portrait and considering the possible hiding places that remained. The list of the latter grew longer and longer. Beneath the towel, my shoulders tensed and my stomach fluttered like it used to before my student performances.
“Here, Signore.” Guido took my towel and floated a shirt past my ears.
I stretched my arms through the sleeves, then sought to calm myself by giving him some good news. “Have you seen Benito lately?” I asked. “He’s doing much better today. He asked for you.”
Guido’s fingers trembled as he tied the snow-white neckcloth he had unearthed from the wardrobe. “Really? I haven’t been able to get away for several days. With all the visitors, Rossobelli has put the whole staff on double-duty.” Guido gave the lace a final tweak and stepped back to gauge the effect. His eyes sought mine as he went on haltingly, “I had almost…given up hope…Benito actually said my name?”
“Yes. Nothing else, though. Sister Regina says we must be patient. He will take a long time to mend.”
Guido nodded slowly, face pink and blotchy with emotion. He seemed too overcome to question me further. He must be as enamored as Benito, I thought, struggling to feel magnanimous. After all my manservant had been through, I would hate to see Benito’s heart broken.
“Come,” I said. “Complete your masterpiece so I can get to the music room and look over my scores.”
In silence, Guido worked pomade into my hair and brushed it flat. After positioning my wig just so, he reached for the bellows and a box of powder. The open box slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor.
“Santo cazzo!” he exclaimed, glaring at the trail of powder. He quickly stepped toward the door and modulated his tone. “A hundred pardons, Signore. I’ll go for a dust pan.”
“No, Guido.” I motioned him back. “I’d rather you left it for now. You can clean up later.”
For someone who professed to take his valeting so seriously, Guido finished me off in haste. It was of little import; my plans for the night would soon dismantle his work. After a quick check in the mirror, I dismissed the footman to his other duties and went downstairs to fulfill mine.
***
Prince Pompetti was as good as his word. In the music room, after the guests had been seated and wine and biscuits had been dispensed, he clapped his eyes on me and followed my every trill and gesture with unwavering gravity. Lady Mary whispered in his ear, tapped his arm with her closed fan, and at least once, I saw the tip of her satin slipper inch over to kick his ankle. All to naught. His gaze never left my face.
Even the harpsichordist noticed the intense scrutiny. When he handed me my second aria, he whispered, “You’ve made quite an impression on Pompetti. Looks like he either wants to hire you away from the cardinal or have you flogged for some indiscretion. You haven’t been making love to his blond Inglesa, have you?”
I took the score with a withering stare and went on with my serenade. As I had thought, most of the guests were drawn from Rome’s aristocratic clans: the Colonna, Orsini, Savelli, and twenty-some others who had been struggling for dominance throughout the centuries. I wondered how many of them also belonged to the Academy of Italia and whether Fabiani knew about the organization that was backing a secret pagan for the pope’s throne.
The cardinal himself was all smiles, moving gracefully from group to group, generous in calling for more refreshment. Several ti
mes, Rossobelli appeared at the doorway, provoking short silences and uneasy glances from Fabiani. But when the abate gave a subtle shake of his head, the cardinal turned back to his mingling with renewed cheer.
At the conclusion of the reception, I bowed to tepid applause and retired to my room. I anticipated an anxious vigil of several hours, but I did have a few things to attend to. First, I returned my peruke of powdered curls to its stand. After toweling the pomade from my own hair, I gathered the strands into a black ribbon at the nape of my neck. Then I exchanged my formal clothing for a traveling suit of dark blue broadcloth. A flint, my stiletto, and several other useful items found their places in my pockets. I kicked my white stockings and heeled court shoes onto the pile of dirty clothes that lay where I’d left them earlier. Thick socks and dark boots were what I needed. Tonight, I would become a creature of the shadows.
Once I was attired to my satisfaction, my pent-up energy sought release in pacing. On one of the numerous circuits of my bed chamber, I stumbled on the powder box that Guido had dropped. The aspiring valet must have fallen into Rossobelli’s clutches and not been allowed to return and tidy up.
I headed for the dressing room. Somewhere I’d seen a whisk broom and dust pan—there, on a shelf above my stacked trunks. I returned to the bed chamber and knelt on the royal-blue carpet. The powder looked just like a spill of flour on the dark surface. Rubbing a pinch of the white substance between my fingers, I realized that I had never wondered where this product I used so frequently actually came from. Perhaps hair powder was nothing more than flour, milled very fine, then mixed with scent and a whitening agent. An errant memory flitted through my mind. Someone else had mentioned something about flour recently—flour spilled all over a floor. I had stored that bit of information at the back of my mind, hoping it would be of value one day.
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