“Lorenzo?” Senator Montorio questioned his guest with a raised eyebrow.
Cardinal Fabiani nodded. After the senator had roused his brother with a tap on his shoulder, the two Venetians left the room.
“Come near the fire, Tito.” Fabiani sat forward and bumped his chair so close that the tips of his satin slippers were nearly in the ashes.
I followed suit.
“Just a precaution,” he elaborated. “Even Montorio’s practiced spies cannot stand in a flame without getting burned. Now, what do you want?”
“Magistrate Sertori came to the villa with a warrant for my arrest.”
He grimaced, casting an eye toward my muddy boots. “It appears that you put the old aqueduct to good use.”
I saw no point in reciting the facts of my flight from the villa. Time was of the essence. “Desio Caporale,” I said flatly.
“Who?” he inquired smoothly, politician to the hilt.
“Desio Caporale, groom on the Fabiani estate in Tuscany. You know—your father?”
The cardinal opened his mouth, then shut it and pressed himself back into the chair. “Tito, Mama doesn’t know what she is saying anymore. Her mind is completely addled. Whatever she told you, you can’t believe—”
“She didn’t tell me anything,” I put in. “And I know that she didn’t kill Gemma.”
Fabiani’s face was covered by a sheen of sweat that glowed in the firelight. “You had better tell me what is on your mind, Tito, and be quick about it.”
I let him stew a moment, then commenced. “There exists a certain painting of a bay stallion held by the groom, Desio Caporale. When her mind was clearer, your mother recorded your birth history on the back of the canvas. It was witnessed by her maid Gemma. But then, I’m not telling you anything you don’t know.”
The cardinal would neither admit nor deny. He regarded me with his lips pressed in a tight line.
“Gemma had ambitions far beyond her station. You paid her to be your spy in the Pompetti household, but she wanted more. In her time with the marchesa, she had managed to discover that Pope Clement was not your father, and she knew where the proof could be found. Gemma asked you for money.” My throat faltered. It was getting very hot.
Fabiani wiped his brow with a snow-white handkerchief. He sighed. “Is that what you want? Money?”
“I don’t need money. What I need is my brother out of prison, safe and sound. That will only happen when Stefano Montorio is elected to the papacy. I will trade you the painting of Desio Caporale for your unqualified support of the Venetian cause.”
Fabiani made a weary gesture. “As you see, Senator Montorio is quite pleased with my promises.”
“But you have made the same promises to Prince Pompetti,” I replied in a bitter tone.
Fabiani rose and poured Cognac into his heavy-bottomed goblet. He raised the decanter in question, but I shook my head. He returned to lean over the back of his chair with glass in hand.
“That’s the way the game is played, Tito. Once we go into conclave, there will be many rounds of balloting, with cardinals switching loyalties right and left. I won’t know who I’ll deliver my votes for until the last minute.”
“I need your solemn word that you will support Stefano Montorio.”
He stared at me with something close to admiration. “You’re as determined as that sly vixen Gemma.”
“So you admit that she tried to extort money from you?”
He nodded. “I met Gemma in the garden pavilion to hear her report on Prince Pompetti’s ridiculous revels. Aurelio was once my best friend in Rome, but since that misdirected Englishwoman put him under her spell, his harmless fascination with his ancestors has turned into something that could lead to a great deal of trouble.” He glanced down, swirling the Cognac in his glass. “I was digesting Gemma’s latest information when the maid started making demands. She was so sure of herself, so resolute. You would have thought that she was a queen and I her servant.”
“Of course you couldn’t allow that. Did you use the scarf to throw blame on your mother? Or was it just the nearest thing to hand?”
The goblet slipped from his grasp and bounced to the hearth with an explosive crash. We watched in horror as a tongue of fire shot from the smoldering logs to the Cognac. Jerking his scarlet robes around his knees, the cardinal jumped aside. I stomped on the blue flames until my boots had driven them down. By common consent, Cardinal Fabiani and I backed away from the fire until we had reached the globe in the corner.
“I didn’t kill Gemma,” he said in a fierce whisper. “It was Mama. You know that.”
“I know nothing of the sort. I’ve spent many hours with the marchesa. I don’t believe she possesses the strength to strangle Gemma, even in anger. It was you. You are ashamed of your real father and terrified that all Rome would know of your deception.”
“Ashamed? Ah, Tito, you are very much mistaken.”
“Am I?”
He narrowed his eyes and leaned over the globe. “Do you really have time for this? Shouldn’t you be taking a fast coach out of Rome?”
“The painting is safely hidden for now, but if I leave the city tonight, it will eventually be found by…” I shrugged. “Who knows?”
He spun the globe in thought for a moment, then spoke softly. “I could hardly be ashamed of Desio. He first set me on a horse when I was four years old. Over the years, he introduced me to every stream and badger hole on the estate. Those rides with him represent the happiest memories of my life.”
“Did you know that he was your father?”
“Not then. Like everyone else, I believed my father to be the Marchese Fabiani, a mean-tempered bully who’d as soon cuff me as look at me. I didn’t know the truth until after…”
“After what?”
He stopped the spin of the globe with a smack from his palm. “The history of my family isn’t pretty, Tito. Our lands are too low for grapes or timber, the soil too poor to support a rice crop. Over the years, we survived by currying favor at the Medici court. My mother wielded her influence in the bed chamber, and her husband was a favorite drinking companion of Grand Prince Ferdinando. I was left behind on the estate. As a small child I would be in the way, and as I grew, I could only make my mother appear older than she wished. I didn’t mind. I grew to manhood with Desio as my mentor and friend. If only those golden days could have lasted,” he reflected with a yearning smile that changed the whole nature of his face.
“What happened?”
The cardinal’s smile disappeared. “Ferdinando liked his women highborn and lewd. He dallied with my mother for a time, and when he got bored, the Marchese Fabiani found him an accommodating noblewoman from your country. Unfortunately, this Venetian presented the grand prince with the French disease, and the Marchese Fabiani was never forgiven. My mother and her husband were banished to the country, where he sank into indolence and drink. When my mother wasn’t consoling herself with Desio, she nearly fretted herself to death about my future. Lacking prospects to link me to a wealthier family by marriage, Mama finally sold off the last of our decent land to buy a small bishopric for me.”
“In Rome?”
“No, Milan. It was quite nice. They have a wonderful opera there, and I would have been happy to stay forever. But it wasn’t good enough for Mama. She was determined that I rise to the top. She saw our chance when it appeared that another of her old lovers would be elevated to the papacy.”
“Pope Clement,” I observed.
He nodded. “He was Archbishop Lorenzo Corsini when Mama first knew him. I think she always had a feeling that he would go far—much farther than her husband. That’s why she insisted that my name also be Lorenzo.”
“And when Corsini became pope?”
“Mama was intent on coming to Rome, but not with an over
fed, slovenly embarrassment of a husband. She went to her faithful Desio with a request. Being the kindest of men, he refused many times. But when Mama wants something…” He shook his head, shrugging. “She finally wore him down. One day he accompanied her husband on a ride—the Marchese Fabiani never came back—I don’t know exactly what Desio did and don’t want to.”
“Perhaps it was simply an accident.”
“No. Desio was eaten up with guilt and grief.” The cardinal took a deep breath. “He hanged himself from a rafter in the stables a month later. I was desolated when I heard.”
“Yet you left Milan and came to Rome to secure your fortune.”
“I took no satisfaction in the way things turned out.”
“You could have refused.”
“Refuse Mama? You can’t imagine how she was—it would have been easier to stem a flood tide. And then, it may sound strange, but I couldn’t stand the thought that my true father, my beloved Desio, had sacrificed himself for nothing. I fell in line with Mama’s plan, but everything I’ve done since has been dedicated to Desio’s memory.”
“Eminence…” I shuffled uneasily. “Your mother would make Lucrezia Borgia blush.”
He widened his eyes. “Do you see why I have no problem believing that Mama strangled Gemma? I left the maid in the pavilion while I went to get her purse of money. The sum she asked for showed a shocking lack of imagination. It would have been worth ten times that amount to send her packing. When I returned, Gemma had been strangled with Mama’s scarf and Rossobelli stood over her, about to lose his head and wake the villa.”
I thought for a moment. I still wasn’t sure that he hadn’t killed Gemma, but Fabiani’s tale had led me to see him in a new light. In some ways, the seemingly all-powerful cardinal was trapped as surely as I was. “What do we do now?” I asked.
“Do?”
“We’ve come to something of an impasse. The painting of Desio Caporale is not on my person, and circumstances make it too dangerous for me to retrieve it. I can only hope you will believe me when I tell you where it can be found.”
“And when it comes to getting Cardinal Montorio elected, I can only give you my word that I will deliver my votes for Venice.” He sent me a sweet smile. “It looks like we’ll have to trust each other.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
The rain had come, showers of it, driven slantwise by the tireless north wind. I was trying to reach Liya’s to pass the rest of the night, but Gussie’s rooms were closer. When I staggered up to his lodging house, I was so cold, wet, and weary I could barely take another step.
I hardly wanted to call attention to myself by waking Gussie’s landlady, so I searched the slick flagstones for some small pebbles to throw on his windowpanes. My stratagem worked, and Gussie soon came down to unlatch the door.
“By Jove, Tito, where have you been? I thought I’d see you yesterday or the day before. And what a state you’ve got yourself into. Your cloak is sodden clear through.”
I let Gussie bundle me upstairs and fuss over me like a mother cat with a wayward kitten. I fended off his questions until I was warm and dry in a dressing gown that was several inches wider than I was. Then I inquired about food.
“I’ve only this bread. If I’d known you were going to show up…” He handed me the end of a day-old loaf.
I stuffed a hunk in my mouth without ceremony and looked around the room as I chewed. On his desk, Gussie had several candles burning over a half-finished letter. Dirty clothing, sketches, and used crockery were spread throughout the shadows.
I pointed toward the desk. “Are you writing Annetta?” I mumbled between chunks of bread.
He nodded, not looking at me.
“Any news from home?”
“You would know if you had called for me as you promised.” Now that he thought I was safe, Gussie had turned sulky.
“You have my heartfelt apology. If I could have spared a moment, I would have been here.”
“You don’t fool me. If you had only a moment, it would belong to a certain Jewess.” Gussie smiled ruefully, but at least he smiled. He threw himself into the chair behind the desk. “I had my last letter from Annetta several days ago, but it was old news. All the pilgrims on the roads between here and Venice must have slowed the post. She wrote that Alessandro was well—still keeping mum about the Turkish business.”
I nodded, swallowing the last of the bread.
“I’ve been waiting to send an answer until I could learn what is going on with you. What shall I tell her?” Gussie dipped his quill in the inkwell and let it hover above the paper. “Did you manage to discover the color of Pope Clement’s eyes before he died?”
I clapped my hands to my cheeks. Fabiani had taken me to the Quirinal only four days ago, but it seemed like a lifetime had passed. Sliding my fingers down to my chin, I said, “I haven’t seen you since then?”
He shook his head.
“What have you been doing?” I asked.
“Going about the city, doing a watercolor whenever I spot something interesting.” He gestured toward sketches that covered the chest and sat on the windowsill. “More importantly, what have you been doing?”
I sighed. “I doubt that your ink will hold out.”
He raised an eyebrow and dipped his quill again. “Let’s see, shall we?”
I began with my adventure in the pope’s bed chamber, which Gussie dutifully transcribed for Annetta. When I reached the part about Magistrate Sertori questioning Benelli, Gussie put his quill down. And when I told him that Antonio Montorio thought Alessandro would make an inspiring martyr, my brother-in-law sprang from his chair.
“Damn that devil. We can’t let this go on. I’ll get back to Venice. I’ll demand to see the doge…I’ll speak to the British Envoy…” Gussie dropped to his knees, retrieved his case from under the bed, and transferred it to the top.
“No, I’m the one who’ll be going, Gussie.” I grabbed his shoulders and spun him round to face me. “Listen.”
By the time I finished explaining the latest developments, Gussie had steadied himself. “We must leave at dawn,” he said, as he began to pack slowly and deliberately.
I stayed his hands. “I can’t let you come with me. If I am caught, they’ll arrest you, too—for aiding a fugitive. You must follow at a safe distance. And not alone, I hope.”
His worried blue eyes opened a little wider. “You want me to bring Liya and her son.”
“Will you do that for me? And make arrangements for Benito? If I know that he is safe and you three are on the road behind me, it will give me the strength to face whatever I must.”
He peered at me for a long moment. “Of course,” he answered staunchly. “But…” A doubting tone crept into his voice. “…what if Liya won’t come with me?”
“She will.”
Gussie’s expression remained dubious.
“On my way out of the city, I’ll stop by the cookshop and tell her what is going on. I couldn’t bear to set off without seeing her again, anyway.”
“No.” Gussie chewed at a knuckle. “We want you on the streets as little as possible. At first light, I’ll go get Liya and bring her here. We’ll perfect our plans together.”
I would have sworn that sleep was impossible. I intended merely to close my eyes and give some thought to the uncertain journey ahead, but the moment Gussie covered me with a blanket, I was dead to the world. I awoke to find my brother-in-law gone and his room barely visible in the fuzzy, gray light.
I swung my feet to the floor. Gussie had brushed the mud from my boots and hung my breeches and jacket before the smoldering stove. They were still slightly damp, but they would serve. I lit a candle and dressed quickly, picturing Liya’s look of surprise when Gussie appeared at the cookshop.
The minutes passed. My sto
mach rumbled. I rummaged among shelves and cabinets and found a forgotten, withered apple. It tasted as good as Eve’s must have. What time was it? I consulted my watch, only to find that I had neglected to wind it. I threw the window drape back, scattering some of Gussie’s sketches. A light mist had taken the place of the rain. The windows across the way were still dark and the street was quiet. It must be very early.
As I retrieved the watercolors from the floor, I saw that Gussie had been sketching all over the city. In turn, I admired a saucy angel that graced the Ponte Sant’Angelo, a tidy courtyard with a clipped box hedge, a swarthy woman plaiting garlic bulbs into a wreath, and some porters with bulging muscles rolling casks down a ramp and heaving them onto a cart.
I started to lay the papers aside, but something prodded me to take a closer look at the last sketch.
I pressed my shoulder into the corner of the window to make the most of the weak light. The sketch clearly showed men loading olive oil casks. Gussie had taken care with the image on the sign over the loading ramp: an olive branch heavy with fat golden olives. But that wasn’t what sent my heart racing. Gussie’s practiced brush had also sketched the cart’s driver with precision, right down to his floppy blue cap, studded gloves, and turned-up jaw. Blood pounded in my ears. This was the cart and driver that the beggar had described—the cart that had crushed Benito like he was no more than a gutter rat.
As was his habit, Gussie had noted the sketch’s date and location in the upper left-hand corner. In a lather of rage, with no thought in my mind but revenge, I ripped the sketch in half, shot out of Gussie’s lodgings, and launched myself into the fog.
***
Via Verdi near the Porto Ripetta. I didn’t know the street, but the port that supplied Rome with goods from the countryside should be easy to find. It lay north; all I had to do was cross the Tiber and keep the river on my left shoulder. In my haste, I had neglected to don cloak or hat, so I slunk through the mist with my hair clumping about my cheeks and my chin on my chest. I threw in a subtle stagger now and then. If any constables noticed me, I wanted them to see a man heading home after a night’s debauch, not a castrato singer avoiding the law.
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