“And if she didn’t bear a son for a new husband?”
“She was willing to take that chance.” Imperia briefly put her hands over her eyes. “If only I knew who took her body. I wanted so much to bury her in our family vault. I had my father’s consent, although he took some convincing. When I reminded him I was no better than she, he relented. But now I would be content just to know she was buried properly and not left for the wolves to tear apart.”
“So if The Turk took her body, you would be content with that?”
She nodded, and more of her rouge transferred itself to her handkerchief.
“Then I will go and see The Turk.”
“Thank you, Francesco. Tell him you have come on my behalf. He will be sure to see you then.” He got up from the bed, but she didn’t let him go quite yet. She had, as he’d feared, misinterpreted what she’d seen. “If you want to stay for a while with me, Francesco, I would be pleased.”
He didn’t know whether she was thinking of her own pleasure or his, or whether this was merely a bartering of services, but he couldn’t, not after thinking how much she was like his mother. So instead, he thanked her and, kissing her cheek, stepped past her into the hallway.
He stopped at the salon on the way out, in hopes of finding Raphael. Raphael wasn’t there, but the room wasn’t empty, either. Huddled on a chair in the corner was a dark, wobbling shape. Too big for a cat or dog or rat, it made Francesco pause. It was, of course, Dante, waiting for the cover of night to begin his prowls about the city. It was quite surprising that no violence had as yet befallen Dante, given his strange ways.
Francesco was about to move on when out of the black cape appeared a pale face. “Francesco?”
“Yes, it is I.”
“Did you find Calendula? Imperia can’t find her. She said a fat man took her away.”
It suddenly occurred to Francesco that Dante must see a lot of strange things in his nightly prowling. “Do you know who the fat man was?” Francesco asked. “Was it The Turk?”
“He’s not The Turk,” Dante said. “His name is El Greco. The Greek. They only call him The Turk because he killed real Turks. He took his sword with the rubies in the hilt and killed three hundred Turks with it. And he’s not a Greek, either. He’s from Naples. And Calendula is not Calendula. She told me. But only I know, and I can’t tell. Not the Madonna of the Marigold, either. Only the same beautiful hair as The Marigold Madonna. Are you truly Francesco? Or are you someone else too?”
Clearly, Imperia wasn’t the only one who knew Calendula had changed her name. No doubt Calendula felt it was harmless to tell Dante, as everything Dante heard became confused in his mind and no one took much stock in anything he said anyway. Dante asked him again if he was really Francesco, and Francesco confirmed he was, though he could have told him he didn’t always feel like the same Francesco from Florence. Dante was content, however, with his answer and bade Francesco good night before sinking back into the folds of his black cloak.
The glass-fronted bookcase looked none the worse for The Turk’s rage. Not even on close inspection could he tell which pane had been replaced. It held a new volume too, the latest work from Erasmus, a philosopher Francesco greatly admired. He wrote in the purest of Latin, and in Francesco’s opinion had well earned his title as the Prince of the Humanists. Had the glass doors not been locked, he would have been tempted to pull the volume out and settle in the corner with it until he had finished.
The giant at the door let him out into the square. He’d taken only a few steps when he heard Imperia calling his name. He turned to see her standing in the doorway, so tiny in her azure gown against the bulk of the giant. She held out something wrapped in cloth, and he went back and took it from her. It was bread.
“Take it. You need to eat, and this is good bread from the Frenchman.” He thanked her and handed the cloth back. It was the second time that day he had eaten the Frenchman’s bread, and while this time it hadn’t cost him money, he felt he might be paying for it all the same.
THE rain was holding off, though the skies were heavier and blacker than in Michelangelo’s depiction of the Flood. Francesco wondered if the butcher and his wife had made it to the Capitoline Hill or if, as he’d predicted, she’d stopped to give birth along the way. Taking a bite from the loaf, he looked longingly across the square to Raphael’s. Although The Turk may not have killed three hundred men with his ruby-encrusted sword, his reputation was not a gentle one, and Raphael might be willing to accompany him. Or even better, he could forget the mission entirely and, with a cup of Raphael’s excellent wine, stretch his feet before the fire and discuss other matters. He sighed, telling himself he was a coward, and turned out of the square in the direction of The Turk’s. The faster he completed this mission, the faster he could return to Susanna’s, where there was sure to be a pot of cabbage soup bubbling on the hearth.
Although he had never been there, he knew The Turk lived above the New Port in the hills close to where Chigi was at work on his villa. Indeed, it was one of Chigi’s goals to outdo The Turk in every aspect of the villa’s design: its size, its frescoes, its gardens. And when Francesco saw The Turk’s palace, he hoped his taste too. He walked up the wide path of crushed gravel between the rows of potted cypresses to doors so large two Trojan horses could have slipped through abreast without difficulty. Francesco pulled a chain that hung to one side, and the door was soon answered by a Moor darker than any Francesco had seen before. He stated his desire to speak to The Turk and stressed he was here on business for Imperia.
The Moor told him to wait and left him standing in the immense atrium. All around him the walls were frescoed with lush scenes of gardens and classical ruins. At the center of the far wall, in between the doors that led to the inner courtyard garden, itself decorated with ancient Roman statuary, was a gigantic depiction of what could only have been The Turk himself. Resplendent as any sultan in rich, jeweled garb, he was surrounded by both male and female slaves of exotic origins presenting him with great platters of fruit and meat, a boar’s head with staring black eyes on one, an enormous silvery swordfish on another. As Francesco looked around, real servants came and went through the doors of the atrium, bearing food and linens or baskets and barrels. They were as varied and exotic-looking as the figures that peopled the portrait, and he realized they were slaves too. Francesco knew The Turk controlled not only the boat traffic on the Tiber but also much of the slave trade in Rome. Slaves who started out working on The Turk’s ships often ended up as domestic servants for Rome’s patrician classes.
It might have been the aftereffects of his illness, but Francesco found himself feeling a little dizzy, as though the painting had taken on life and the people he saw coming and going through the doors were emerging from and reentering the painting itself. He cringed as, out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a lion ready to pounce, and was truly confused when two very much alive peacocks of the purest white wandered in from the garden, milled around for a moment, then wandered out again. Still the servants came and went, taking no notice of him until Francesco wondered if they thought him just another addition to the painting.
Nearly a half-hour passed this way, and just when he thought he could bear it no longer, the Moor reappeared. He wasn’t alone, but he wasn’t with The Turk, either. Cardinal Asino and di Grassi, in their crimson robes, walked ahead of him, their heads tilted toward each other in whispered conversation. Francesco bowed as they passed through the enormous doors, but his presence went unnoticed by either man. What business could they have with The Turk? Perhaps they were only here on a mission for Pope Julius in much the same way he was here on a mission for Imperia. Perhaps this had something to do with the shipping of materials for the new St. Peter’s. But as obsessed as the Pope was with his project, sending a cardinal and the master of ceremonies for the Sistine Chapel to order bricks seemed excessive.
Francesco soon forgot them as the Moor led him through the atrium to what he supposed were th
e offices of The Turk. His wait was not as long this time, and he wondered if he’d been given just long enough to be duly impressed by the wealth of The Turk’s eclectic collection. Vases, water pipes, sarcophagi, lamps, all dripping with gilt, jewels, tassels, and beads, filled the room as though it were a warehouse belonging to an eccentric genie. There were so many tapestries and carpets, Francesco had to wonder if there wasn’t now a shortage in the Orient. He pictured sultans explaining to their sand-encrusted harems that it could not be helped, as The Turk had taken the last rugs right out from under them and there wasn’t another one to be had in the whole Muslim world.
The Turk also had a penchant for strange beasts. Stretched out on a table of some twenty feet and supported by the preserved legs of at least two unfortunate elephants was a stuffed crocodile. Its mouth was propped open with a wooden stake, and Francesco was examining its rows of deadly teeth when what had to be The Turk’s voice boomed out from the doorway. “You like my crocodile, I see.”
Francesco turned and was a little surprised to see that The Turk wasn’t dressed like a sultan, complete with turban, but as a well-dressed nobleman should be, with a brocade doublet in reds and blues. His white muslin sleeves were finished with double layers of fine lace so deep it covered the ends of his fingers. His right hand rested on a cane of black ebony tipped in ivory, its handle of gold an eagle with spread wings. He was also considerably larger than his portrait, the doublet stretching out over an enormous belly, and his legs, housed in gray hose, were like the legs of the elephants that held up the table. “I brought him from Egypt. I killed him myself.” He mimed bringing a sword up under his abundant chins. “He came lunging out of the Nile. If I hadn’t been fast, I’d have ended up as Turkish delight.” He chuckled here, the dark little eyes in his big, bald head expressing genuine mirth, and Francesco knew it wasn’t the first time he’d told this joke. Francesco laughed obligingly. He wouldn’t have thought The Turk could move with speed, however great the danger. Perhaps his expertise with his sword predated his size. “Have you ever seen a crocodile of such rare dimensions and beauty?” The Turk asked with almost paternal pride. Francesco answered that he had never seen a crocodile until today, other than in drawings.
“Then this is a lucky day for you. I have a man from Egypt who developed his own unique method of preservation. He guts them and stuffs them with special herbs. My hope is to acquire some of the species from the New World. And not just to preserve, like this crocodile, but a live collection to keep in my gardens. I have heard accounts of snakes so large they can swallow a man whole. Imagine that, boy. So big they can swallow a man whole. I should like to see that. But enough of my interests. I understand you are here representing Imperia. Indeed, one of my favorites among God’s lovelier creatures. Is there any way I can be of assistance to her?”
“Imperia would like to know if you claimed the body of Calendula this morning.”
The Turk looked genuinely puzzled. “I’m confused. It was my understanding that Imperia and her father were to collect the body. Has she changed her mind?”
Francesco didn’t realize until now just how fervently he’d hoped this would be simple. But it seemed nothing ever was. “When she went this morning, she was told the body had already been claimed,” he explained. “She thought perhaps you had changed your mind.”
“No. I was quite happy to leave it to her. A very valuable shipment arrived this morning from the East, and with the Tiber rising so fast, I had to ensure my boats in the port were secure. But surely the police told her who claimed the body?”
“Only that he was a …,” Francesco said, thinking quickly, “a well-built man who paid handsomely.”
“Then it is understandable she should think it was me. There was a painter here earlier this morning from whom I’d commissioned a portrait of Calendula. He came wanting to buy the painting back but said nothing of this. It was most peculiar. He stoically accepted my refusal to sell it at first, only to go quite mad, shouting that she was to marry him. I had to have my Moor throw him out. Poor besotted soul. I felt sorry for him—until he attacked me. I would suggest that he claimed the body, though I don’t think he could be described as ‘well-built,’ as you so prudently phrased it.”
“No, I think not.” He hoped the Moor hadn’t done Marcus too much harm. “Besotted soul” described him perfectly, but then, wasn’t The Turk supposed to be another besotted soul? He seemed to be far less distressed than Imperia had made him out to be. He found it hard to believe this was the same man who, in his grief, had thrown furniture around Imperia’s brothel.
“Would you like to see the portrait, boy? It’s a remarkable likeness.” Of course Francesco would like to see it; in fact, he felt an urgent need to do so. And so he followed The Turk through several more rooms, oblivious now to their riches. The Marigold Madonna hung in The Turk’s dressing room. He’d draped it in black as if it were the Virgin herself who had just died. “Didn’t I tell you it was a remarkable likeness?” The Turk said as he drew back the black curtain, and it was like opening the shutters on a glorious summer’s day.
“It is,” Francesco whispered, stunned all over again. And not just of Calendula. He used to stare at the painting to summon the memory of Juliet, but now it wasn’t Juliet he was trying to summon but Calendula herself, to erase from his mind the image of her being pulled from the Tiber, to remember her face as it had been, in all its beauty.
“Have you ever seen hair of such a rare color?”
“No, never,” Francesco lied, Calendula’s eyes mocking him. There was no reason to tell The Turk about Juliet.
“How that hair fascinated me. How is it that I didn’t think to cut a lock of it for myself? The first time Calendula saw the painting, she nearly fainted away. ‘What is it, girl?’ I asked her. ‘You’ve never looked at yourself in the mirror?’ I have several, boy. The biggest mirrors Venice has ever made. But she told me it wasn’t that. I told her modesty was for ugly girls and that she could come every day and stare at herself. And so she did.”
The Turk continued as Francesco held Calendula’s gaze. “I once brought back from the East a very rare tiger. A vicious beast, to be sure, but of the purest white. It died before I reached port and was too far gone to be preserved by my Egyptian. I had to throw it overboard to the sharks. It broke my heart, but è la vita—that is life.”
Just when Francesco was thinking The Turk’s biggest regret seemed to be not having Calendula’s body to stuff like that of a tiger or crocodile, The Turk leaned his cane against an ornate ebony chair and, raising his hand, stroked the hair of the portrait. “Bella Calendula, such a rare flower.” There was tenderness in his voice, and Francesco recanted some of his cynicism. Maybe The Turk really did feel something for this woman, beyond being just another curio. There had to be another man. A third man. Not The Turk. Not Marcus. Another lover. The mysterious fat man? Was he both Calendula’s lover and her killer?
But before these thoughts could fully take shape in Francesco’s mind, the deep layers of lace fell away from The Turk’s hand, displaying fingers curiously delicate for a man of such size. As The Turk stroked Calendula’s hair, Francesco saw what Marcus must have seen. What must have turned him from stoic acceptance to rage, what had turned everything The Turk said to lies. Francesco swallowed hard, determined not to make the same mistake as Marcus.
He was suddenly aware that The Turk had asked him something and, willing his voice not to waver, he apologized.
“I asked you what you do, boy. Surely you have a master to be getting back to.”
Francesco nodded. In other circumstances, the answer had been that he was a humanist lawyer in the court of Guido del Mare. Schooled in Padua from his thirteenth year. A follower of Erasmus. Literate in Italian, Latin, Greek, French, logic, chemistry, astronomy. But none of that existed. Not here. And especially not now. He forced himself to keep looking at the painting. “I’m a houseboy to an artist, sir.”
The Turk laughed a little
derisively. “A houseboy? At your age? What are you, eighteen?”
“Twenty, sir,” Francesco mumbled.
“Twenty? Twenty, you say? By your age, Julius Caesar was the first emperor of Rome.”
“You mean Augustus, Caesar’s heir,” Francesco mumbled on. “Caesar was dictator, but never emperor. Augustus was the first emperor—”
“Never mind,” The Turk interrupted him. “You must apprentice as something that will give you a future. A houseboy is fine for a boy of eight, maybe ten. Get a trade and catch a girl with a good dowry. Many a man has launched his fortune with a good dowry. Did it myself. But,” he warned, lowering his voice, “watch out for the ones with the golden hair. They’ll break your heart.”
They did, Francesco thought as The Turk reached up and dropped the black curtain over Calendula, and Francesco saw it again. The ring. Calendula’s amethyst ring. And Calendula’s face looking up at Marcus with those blue, blue eyes, and Marcus asking, Who gave you that?
Someone far richer than you’ll ever be, she’d said, and she’d kissed it. And Marcus had struck her, and he, Francesco, had dived across the table, wrestled Marcus to the ground, and smashed his head against the fireplace.
“Yes,” The Turk said, still smoothing the black cloth over the portrait. “Such beautiful hair … But such is life.” He turned to Francesco and was suddenly all bluster again. “You must be tired of listening to the ramblings of a sentimental fool. Come with me. I shall take you to the kitchen and have the cook give you some meat. You have a hungry look about you. Like the wolves up in the hills. You’ve heard them at night?”
Francesco nodded.
“It makes me laugh. The peasants flee the water and run right into the wolves’ jaws. It’s a funny world, no? And remember what I said about finding a trade. You’d do well to listen to me.” He put one arm around Francesco, the hand with the ring now resting on Francesco’s shoulder, and picked up the cane. The cane topped with a gold eagle, its wings spread to form a handle—heavy enough to smash a skull, sharp enough to rip it open.
The Wolves of St. Peter's Page 7