The Wolves of St. Peter's

by Gina Buonaguro

  “How did you know The Turk had a crocodile?”

  But Michelangelo didn’t answer, as he’d already fallen asleep, the stick of charcoal still in his hand. Francesco was about to blow out the candle when he saw what Michelangelo had been working on. The paper was packed with sketches Francesco recognized as studies for the ancestors of Christ, to be painted on the vertical sections below the vaulted ceilings. He was about to lift the top sheet when he spotted what looked like a medallion of the size put out by the Vatican’s mint. Inside a border of leaves and berries was a chicken—a three-legged chicken. Francesco laughed quietly. “Look at that,” he said, addressing the bird, who was now perched on the headboard of the bed. “You just might get your portrait on the Pope’s ceiling.” The bird blinked back.

  His benevolent feelings for the bird soon vanished with the discovery of a fresh, slimy spot on his pillow. “Not again,” he said, turning the pillow over. “You shit on my pillow again, you stupid bird, and I’ll have you for dinner tomorrow, and Michelangelo can find himself another three-legged chicken to model for him.”

  He’d get Susanna to wash his bedding. That is, if the silversmith had left. What if Benvenuto decided to stay on for a while? He listened carefully, but there wasn’t so much as a squeak from the other side of the wall, though he could hear a fight brewing between the soap-maker and his wife. Christ, he thought. He sat up and, after putting on his still-damp boots without his hose, went out through the back door, closing it quietly behind him, which was now possible to do.

  The rain had subsided to a steady drizzle. A wolf howled and another answered, but it wasn’t the incessant yipping of the night before. He shook his head and went to Susanna’s gate. The scarf was still tied around it. He gave the gate an angry tug. No light seeped from the house. He was tempted to sneak over the gate and look inside, but of course he wouldn’t be able to see anything in the dark. It was a stupid idea anyway. What was he going to do? Give the silversmith a thrashing? Honestly, he was acting like a jealous lover. What did he care? He should be thinking about Juliet. She was the woman he loved, and for all he knew, Guido was having his way with her right now. He closed his eyes and tried to picture this, but instead saw Calendula watching him from the portrait with her mocking eyes.

  FRANCESCO was awakened twice the next morning, once when Michelangelo threw his boots at him, and again when Susanna pinched his nose. Michelangelo he told to fuck off, but Susanna he caught by the hair and pulled onto the bed.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, barely containing his relief at seeing her again. “Where’s Benvenuto?”

  “Gone,” she said, struggling to sit upright.

  Francesco kept his grip on her. “Then there’s no reason for you not to linger here with me for a while.”

  “God in Heaven, is that all men think about? That and food. Let me go,” she said, laughing all the same. “I’m just about worn right out.”

  “But I doubt your wheezy old silversmith did this for you,” he said, pulling at the strings of her bodice.

  The silversmith clearly hadn’t, and she responded generously, leaving Francesco in a much better mood than when he’d started the day.

  She’d brought bread and two eggs, and they ate in bed while he told her about his meetings with Imperia and The Turk.

  “So now what?” Susanna asked.

  “Nothing. I’ll tell Imperia what The Turk said, and that’ll be the end of it. Even if I don’t know why, I’m sure The Turk killed Calendula. But Imperia won’t confront The Turk and risk being the next whore pulled from the Tiber.” He shook his finger at her. “And no gossiping about this.”

  “I’m not stupid,” she said haughtily. “Besides, I bet Marcus has already gone back to Imperia’s and told her everything.”

  He nodded. “You’re probably right. I’m surprised I didn’t think of that myself. You’re very smart indeed. But I gave Imperia my word I’d be back. Once I do that, I’ve fulfilled my duty.”

  “Still, you’re a lawyer. Aren’t you supposed to want justice?”

  “You can’t take down The Turk and live to tell of it. Especially if he’s protected by the likes of di Grassi and Asino. Justice might be the ideal, but it’s not attained easily or safely. And right now, I just want to get out of this city with my skull intact.”

  “And leave me here all alone.”

  “You have your silversmith,” he said teasingly.

  “Stop it,” she said, hitting him with a pillow. “You know I have a dowry to raise. I save every coin I can and have it all safely hidden away.”

  “And do you have someone to marry once you’ve saved enough coins?”

  “Why, should I make you an offer? I’ll wash your pillow for you.”

  “I might be open to an offer,” he said with mock seriousness. “Just how much money can you steal from the silversmith? And why don’t you have a dowry already? Your father’s a farmer. Why doesn’t he provide one?”

  She sighed impatiently. “He did. I was supposed to marry the miller. He died a week before the wedding, but my father had already given him the dowry.”

  “Then according to the law, your father can get the money back.”

  She shook her head. “The son has the money. He said if we went to the law, he would tell them I’d killed his father and he had two witnesses who would testify that I said I would do so.”

  “But they’d be lying.”

  “They’re friends of the miller’s son. But since my father heard me say the same thing, he felt it best not to pursue it further.”

  “So did you kill him?” he joked.

  She laughed. “You silly goose. You think I’d tell you if I did? I’m sorry my father lost his money, but I’m not sorry about the miller. Mean old bastard.”

  “How did he die?”

  “He was kicked in the head by a horse.”

  “Well, then, you didn’t kill him. A horse did.”

  “His son said I spooked the horse.”

  “And did you?”

  “He was easily spooked and hardly needed my help.”

  The little witch, he thought. Her eyes as she told him were as sweet and guileless as Juliet’s had ever been, but he was certain she’d done it. He’d bet his next meal on it. Though strangely, it didn’t worry him. He found himself almost proud of her for not letting herself be pushed around by a brute. A little excited too, but that might be explained by the kisses she was now bestowing beneath the covers.

  IT was midmorning before they left the house for Imperia’s. Despite the insistent grayness of the day and the dreary nature of their mission, he was in a fine mood. Although it was out of their way, Susanna insisted they first go to the bridge at Castel Sant’Angelo to see how high the Tiber had risen overnight.

  At the bridge, they stopped and watched the water swirl through the arches. “How is it on the other side?” Francesco asked a man carrying a pack. His clothes were crusted with mud, and his face was not much cleaner.

  “Arenula and the Campo dei Fiori are underwater,” he said, sticking his finger in his ear as if to remove the water lodged there. “High as your waist in some spots. Mules sunk up to their tails. Still, not as bad as I’ve seen it, but when it recedes, there’ll be nothing but mud everywhere. And then you know what happens.”

  “What?”

  “Plague. Seen it before. That’s why I’m leaving. Not the water, the sickness. You just wait and see. I’m going to my brother’s beyond the Aventine Hill. Had to cross here, since I couldn’t get any farther. Just hoping I can cross back over at the Cestio Bridge. His Holiness can kiss his new road good-bye, if you ask me. The whole thing’s been washed away.”

  “Where has everyone else gone to?”

  “A lot of people moved up to the Capitoline and Palatine hills in the night, before the water got too high, but some wouldn’t on account of the wolves. Said they were safer on their roofs.” He laughed disdainfully. “That is, until the water washes the houses right out
from under them. There’ll be bodies in that mud, and lots of them.”

  Susanna pointed out a dead cow in the river. Bloated up like a ball, it floated on its back, legs sticking straight up as it approached the bridge. The legs snagged momentarily on the arch before the pressure of the water forced the cow down, its hooves scraping against the underside of the bridge. Screaming gulls circled overhead, and Francesco remembered yet again Calendula’s body being pulled from that same river, the policemen turning it over to reveal her mutilated face, a seagull grabbing at her hand. Was that only two mornings ago?

  The man laughed, revealing a mouth full of black stumps for teeth. “That one looks like it’s been dead for a while. When I was a boy, my brother and I found one all puffed up like that in a field. He stuck a knife into its belly, and the stink came rushing out of the hole so fast it whistled louder than the Devil playing the pipes. Made my brother fall to the ground, the smell was so bad. He got a good whipping for that one. Must remember to tell that one to his wife when I see her.” He left them then, still laughing.

  “He’ll still be laughing when he arrives at his brother’s,” Francesco said.

  “I didn’t know the Devil played the pipes,” Susanna said.

  “Neither did I, but I think men give the Devil whatever attributes they want.”

  “You’re talking foolishness again,” Susanna said, giving him a quick swat. “I’m sure the Devil does whatever he likes.”

  Francesco held his arm and howled in mock pain, earning another swat for his teasing. He really didn’t know why being with this silly girl had put him in such a fine mood. After all, nothing about his situation had changed. Instead of pleasant evenings sitting by Imperia’s fire, talking with Raphael and his circle, he now seemed to be on an impossible mission to make sense of a prostitute’s death.

  There was no question of Susanna entering Imperia’s by the front door with him, but she could go through the servants’ door and mingle with the kitchen staff with no harm to her reputation. “The kitchen is almost as good as the market for gossip,” she told him. “You watch. I’ll be wiser than you when we leave here.”

  Francesco found Imperia as he had yesterday, stretched out on the settee in her azure silk, her feet in matching embroidered slippers resting on an ottoman. But today she wasn’t alone, and he greeted Raphael, surprised to find him here at such an early hour. “Come in, Francesco,” Imperia said. “I was just about to send someone for you.” She removed her feet from the ottoman and gestured for him to sit before pouring a cup of wine from the decanter. A greenish yellow songbird warbled cheerfully in a small cage. It hadn’t been there yesterday. A gift from a client, perhaps?

  Francesco could see Imperia had been crying, and he felt guilty for not having come the night before as promised. “I’m sorry I didn’t come earlier. It was late when I left The Turk’s yesterday, and the rain—” The excuse sounded feeble even to his own ears, and he was grateful to Imperia for raising a hand to stop him.

  “There’s no need for apologies,” she said. “What did you learn from The Turk? Please tell me he has Calendula’s body.”

  Francesco looked to Raphael, feeling guiltier still, but there was no condemnation in Raphael’s face. “I am sorry this fell to you, Francesco. I was kept occupied at the Vatican yesterday.”

  “I wished to be of help. I would have come earlier, but I was sure Marcus would have already told you. He had left The Turk’s not long before I arrived … or rather, The Turk had thrown him out.”

  “Thrown him out?” Imperia looked alarmed.

  “Marcus had gone to buy back his painting. The Turk said Marcus took his refusal to sell it quite calmly at first but then became agitated and attacked The Turk. He had his men remove Marcus from the house. He said they didn’t hurt Marcus, though.”

  “And you thought he would come here?”

  Francesco nodded, knowing that until Susanna had suggested this, it hadn’t occurred to him at all. But it did make sense for Marcus to seek out the people who knew Calendula and tell them what he’d learned. Indeed, now convinced of this, he started to worry about the man.

  “Is there something you are reluctant to tell us?” Raphael asked. “It does not surprise me that Marcus would be very upset he could not have the painting back. He came to me about it, and I advised against him going. I worried such a thing would happen.”

  Francesco took a draught of wine. “It’s not that. He seems to have initially taken The Turk’s refusal to sell in good stride. Though I can only give you The Turk’s version of events.”

  “And you have reason to doubt them?” Raphael asked.

  “I’m afraid so, and it is why I delayed coming here.” He looked at Imperia, his guilt resurfacing. “Please believe it was your feelings and safety I was worried about.”

  “I want only the truth, Francesco. Please tell me what happened and put me out of my misery. Did The Turk claim Calendula’s body?”

  “He says no. And he seemed very surprised to be asked. He said he was happy to leave it to you and your father, as he was very busy.”

  “Then who took it?”

  “He said he didn’t know. That was when he mentioned Marcus’s visit. He discounted Marcus as the man who took her body, as he didn’t fit the description you were given, but offered no other suggestion as to who might have. I was ready to believe it was perhaps another of her lovers. The one who gave her the ring, maybe. Perhaps this mysterious lover is the fat man.” Pausing here, he took another drink of wine. Imperia looked as though she was about to cry again, and the whole time the bird in the cage trilled its merry song. Singing, singing like the village idiot while his home burned, Francesco thought. Or was it more like Nero singing while Rome burned?

  “I would have gone away believing this,” he continued, “until I saw what I’m sure so angered Marcus.” He feared putting in a dramatic pause, like an actor in a Greek melodrama, but it was happening anyway. “I’m afraid The Turk was wearing the amethyst ring. Calendula’s ring.”

  Imperia let out a cry, and Raphael rushed to her side. “Are you sure, man? The very same ring?”

  Francesco nodded.

  “But what does it mean?” Imperia implored. “Surely, The Turk didn’t …”

  “I’ve been over many possibilities in my mind, but in the end all I know is this: The Turk was wearing Calendula’s ring. The rest is speculation. Perhaps she flaunted the ring to The Turk, as she had with Marcus, and The Turk killed her in a fury, taking the ring as some kind of spoils before throwing her body in the river.”

  “But why would he wear the ring,” Imperia asked, “when it so clearly marks him as the murderer?”

  “Arrogance,” Raphael said bluntly. “What can we do? He is wealthy and has friends in very high places. He makes a point of seeking out the most rich and powerful in the Church and among the Roman establishment. I know not what favors he performs for them, but I am sure he can rely on them being returned.”

  “Oh, I can’t believe The Turk would kill her,” Imperia said. “He seemed generous in his love of Calendula and so genuinely upset when he learned of her death. But he must have claimed the body, although I don’t know why he would lie about it. If only I knew she was buried like a Christian.”

  Francesco nodded. “It’s a strange thing to lie about, since claiming the body doesn’t point to guilt, whereas wearing the ring does.” He said nothing about his strange theory. If she was now part of The Turk’s collection, there would be no Christian burial.

  “We may never know,” Raphael said. “And what troubles me most right now is Marcus. You know how rashly he can behave. While you have wisely weighed out the possibilities and dangers, you can be sure Marcus has not.”

  “You’re right, Raphael,” Imperia said, dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief so dainty it seemed designed for ladies who wept but a single tear. “And you, Francesco, were right to think he would probably have come here. He consults me—” She broke off, her face sud
denly lighting up. “Dante! Dante has seen him. How could I have forgotten? It’s just, with Dante, one’s never sure what’s real. The poor man. He seems convinced he’ll stay a bat forever.”

  “Did he say where he saw Marcus?” Francesco asked.

  “He said so many things. But he is here. In the salon. He won’t go out during the day, and he won’t go home, either. He says it is too light. I don’t know how long I can let this go on, but today it’s perhaps fortunate.”

  They went down to the salon by the great staircase, avoiding, to Francesco’s relief, the rooms the girls shared. That, of course, made him think of Susanna, and he imagined her growing impatient. In the feeble light from the windows, the salon seemed empty, but Dante was still there, huddled on his chair, his black cloak pulled over his head.

  “Dante,” Imperia said gently, “could you speak with us, please?”

  Slowly, Dante poked his head out of his cloak. Francesco thought he couldn’t have looked more despondent if he’d been Prometheus, just informed that every morning for eternity his liver was to be pecked out by an eagle.

  “Just call me the bat man,” he said sorrowfully. “I’ll never be Dante again. Don’t make me go away, Imperia.”

  “I’m not going to make you go away,” she said with a sigh. “Do you remember this morning? You said you saw Marcus. Where did you see him?”

  If possible, Dante looked even more distressed. “No. I was to say I didn’t see Marcus. That is what he told me to say. You didn’t see me. But I said, I do see you. I’m a bat, and bats see in the dark. They must, because they always fly in the night, and they don’t fly into things. I didn’t fly into Marcus.”

  “Where were you when this happened?” Raphael asked gently.

  “Oh no, this is a trick. It’s another trick to make me tell you. I cannot fly in the rain, and it rained and rained and rained, and my wings were too heavy to fly. He said Calendula was there on the ship. He tried to go on it. I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you! He took her there.”