The scene at Imperia’s was much as he expected, in some ways a repeat of the night he’d told them of Calendula’s death. Imperia even wore the same regal purple dress, and although this time she didn’t faint, she went very pale upon hearing the news. She summoned the guards to bring the body inside, and they laid it, still wrapped in the dirty sail, along a bench brought from the kitchen.
It might have been too soon for the body to putrefy, but it stank all the same of rotting fish and filthy water. With Imperia’s giant bodyguards towering over them, her girls huddled in the doorway, lace handkerchiefs pressed over their noses. Since it was still early, Imperia and her girls had very few guests, most of them familiar faces. Sodoma, Raphael, a couple of his apprentices, and Colombo were already settled in front of the fire with a pitcher of wine. Having taken his midday meal with Imperia, Chigi had been on his way to meet with the Vatican chamberlain, but instead had met Marcus’s corpse at the door. He now looked torn between comforting Imperia and making his evening appointment. Two strangers, tall, thin men who looked enough alike to be twins, had glanced briefly through the door to see what the excitement was about, but they were quickly herded back to the music room by a couple of the girls. Imperia told Francesco the men were in the city on business with the Vatican and had arrived in Rome only that morning from Bologna.
And, of course, there was Dante. He was crouched on a chair in one of the corners, his cloak pulled over his head, sobbing quietly. Dante, Francesco thought, may have been the last person—barring the killer—to see Marcus alive. He tried to recall everything Dante had said that morning. A lot of nonsense about The Turk being a Greek, and Calendula not being the Madonna, or was it the Madonna not being Calendula? And something about making a fool of Marcus with her golden hair. Stop! Stop! Or I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you! he’d said. Francesco had thought Marcus was threatening Dante, but now he wasn’t so certain. Had Dante overheard or even seen Marcus’s killer?
According to Dante, Marcus had been convinced Calendula’s body was on The Turk’s ship. Why? Who or what led him to believe this? Surely not The Turk? Or had The Turk mentioned his “important shipment” and Marcus jumped to conclusions? Had Marcus attempted to board The Turk’s ship and been killed for his efforts?
Francesco lifted a corner of Dante’s cloak, revealing one frightened eye. Darting around in its socket, it seemed to be looking everywhere at once while not seeing anything at all.
“Dante,” he said gently. “Who else did you see at the docks with Marcus?”
“No! No!” Dante shouted, his eye darting ever faster until the iris disappeared into his skull, leaving only the white showing. “I didn’t see him! I didn’t see him!”
“I know, I know,” Francesco cooed. “Marcus told you not to tell anyone you saw him, but was anyone else there? Bastiano?” Francesco still didn’t know what Bastiano was doing there, but he sure was in a hurry to leave when the dockworker’s cry went up.
“No! No! Nobody!”
“Not even The Turk?”
“No, not The Turk! Not The Turk!” he screamed, and then Imperia was screaming too.
“Please, Francesco, I beg you! Make him stop!”
Francesco sighed and dropped the corner of the cloak back over Dante’s eye, patting him on the head as he would a child until the screaming abated and Dante resumed his quiet sobbing. Across the room, Imperia held her head in her hands, quietly rocking back and forth. Chigi made soothing sounds to her not unlike the ones Francesco had been making for Dante. She took down her hands and asked for someone to fetch one of the houseboys, which was unnecessary since the houseboys had heard every word, and they emerged instantly from behind the skirts of the girls still gathered in the doorway. Like Raphael’s houseboy, Alfeo, they were probably not older than eight or nine, though of sturdier stock. It suddenly occurred to Francesco that they’d probably been born here, the sons of whores with no claim to a father. “I want you to find Marcus’s father,” Imperia said. “Tell him to come for the body. It cannot stay here, and I don’t know what else to do. We certainly can’t let it go to the mortuary. God knows who might take it. Break the news kindly. He lives in the Arenula and has a workshop there. You’ve delivered messages for Marcus there before.”
“Yes, ma’am, but the Arenula is flooded. Higher than my head,” the taller of the two answered. He stood on his toes and held up one hand as high as he could. “Like that,” he said, wiggling his fingers toward the ceiling.
“It’s true,” Francesco said. “I met a man in the street this morning who told me as much. He said many had left for the surrounding hills. It may be impossible to locate Marcus’s father.”
Imperia sagged even further in her seat. “Oh, God in Heaven, what is to be done?”
Her plea went unanswered by God and the entire room. Everyone stared at the canvas-covered body as if perhaps it could tell them.
Finally Raphael put forth a plan. “I believe Francesco did the right thing in not telling the police, given what happened to Calendula’s body. Have Marcus moved to the empty storeroom on the ground floor of my palazzo. It is cold there, and the body will be safe until morning, when we will either seek out Marcus’s father or have the body interred. We must send for a priest too.”
Everyone nodded, and Imperia, looking visibly relieved, sent one of the houseboys to summon the bodyguards. They came promptly, their bulk seeming to fill the entire salon. Effortlessly they picked up the morbid bundle and, with Marcus’s gray hands trailing from under the sail like the frayed ends of a mooring line, carried the body away. Raphael, donning his black beret, followed them out, then led the way across the square to his apartments.
Though her voice was shaky, Imperia called for wine, bread, and cheese. Chigi kissed both her cheeks and said he would return after his dinner with the chamberlain. Raphael would be back soon, and Francesco would keep her company in the meanwhile.
A maid brought in the wine and food, and Sodoma and Colombo pulled their chairs closer to the fire. Francesco caught enough of their exchange to know that, while they weren’t surprised the hot-headed Marcus had found himself in more trouble than he could handle, they weren’t particularly saddened by his death, either.
Francesco poured both himself and Imperia some wine and took the banker’s place next to her on the settee.
“Do you really believe Marcus was murdered because he found Calendula’s body?” Imperia asked.
“It certainly seems possible.”
“And it was The Turk’s ship?”
He nodded again.
“So The Turk must have taken her body after all. Why?”
“That I don’t know,” Francesco said softly. He certainly wasn’t going to share his absurd theory about The Turk wanting to preserve Calendula as he’d preserved his crocodile.
“Well, at least I know where she is now,” Imperia said sadly.
He held her hand, gladly relinquishing his seat when Raphael reappeared. He wondered if he should confront Imperia about what the cook had told Susanna, but it didn’t seem like the right time. Instead, he helped himself to more of the refreshments before going to the bookcase. He looked at the volume by Erasmus and wondered if he would ever have the opportunity to sit and read it. He’d been here reading a volume of Petrarch’s letters the day before Calendula was pulled from the river and still had several volumes to go, though it was true he’d read them before and had committed many passages to memory. It is in the very nature of ignorance to mock what it cannot comprehend, and to yearn to keep others from reaching what it cannot attain. Hence the false judgments upon matters of which we know nothing, by which we manifest our envy quite as clearly as our stupidity was all he recalled before Imperia let out a small scream. Francesco wheeled around to see none other than The Turk standing in the doorway, wet from the rain, the eagle-topped walking stick in his hand. He was breathing heavily, as if he’d run all the way from his villa.
“Oh, my dear, my dear, it is only I, your friend Silvio, and I
came as soon as I heard the terrible news about Marcus! That poor, stupid man! I must apologize!”
His exclamations were met with blank stares. Not everyone knew he was a suspect in both Marcus’s and Calendula’s deaths, but even to the uninformed in the room, it was obvious The Turk knew something about the day’s events.
“What is it, Imperia?” he said, dropping heavily to one knee in front of her and taking her hand to kiss it. “You’re looking at me as if I’m a monster. Will you at least hear me out?”
Imperia tried to speak but managed only to nod rather numbly at him before signaling one of the houseboys to take The Turk’s fur-trimmed cloak. Rising with the help of his cane, The Turk surrendered the cloak with a flourish, dropping it over the boy, who, after struggling out from under its weight, lugged it away.
If at all possible, The Turk was dressed even more regally than the day before. His doublet was of purple silk embroidered with gold thread, while, as before, deep layers of Venetian lace encircled his wrists. He raised his hand to his forehead to wipe his brow, revealing the amethyst ring. Why? Francesco wondered. How could he defend himself with that ring on his finger? He and Raphael exchanged a quick glance—there was no doubt Raphael had seen it too.
The Turk sat in a chair, the delicate piece of furniture looking as if it were about to collapse under his weight. He took Imperia’s hands in his own. “They told me his body was brought here, and I knew you would be upset, so I came to explain.”
With his bald head and numerous chins, The Turk suddenly looked to Francesco like a bullfrog with a lace collar. When he and his sisters were still in the nursery, his mother had told them the story of a princess who kissed a frog. It was out of pity for him, but her kiss freed him from a witch’s spell and changed him into a handsome prince. If this had been the case with The Turk, Francesco thought absurdly, the transformation had been only partially successful.
“I’m afraid it’s all a tragic mistake,” The Turk continued. “Marcus came to me yesterday, wanting to buy back the painting of Calendula. But perhaps you know this already? I see the boy you sent is here,” he said, and for a moment Francesco felt every eye in the room upon him.
“Yes, I know some things.” Imperia’s voice was barely a whisper.
“Then you may know Marcus flew into a rage all of a sudden, and I had my men throw him out.”
Imperia nodded, and everyone leaned forward in their chairs, as if afraid to miss a single syllable.
“He didn’t receive a beating, if that’s what you think happened.”
“I … I don’t know what happened,” Imperia stammered.
“Well, it seems the foolish boy had it in his head that Calendula’s body was on my boat … I cannot think why. Oh, my dear, your hands do tremble terribly! It’s not true, I swear! I don’t know what happened to the lovely Calendula, nor did I discuss the whereabouts of her body with Marcus. I didn’t even know it was unaccounted for until this boy here came to my house,” he said, bobbing his head in Francesco’s direction. “I only said I had very important cargo on board, but I didn’t for one moment think he’d conclude I’d hidden her on the boat.” He shifted in his chair, and it let out a groan of protest.
“But last night, he went there. He must have thought he could sneak on board and find her, but he was caught by my guards. They swear they intended no violence, they only meant for him to leave, but when they denied there were any dead bodies on board, he drew his dagger.”
“I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!” Dante screamed as he jumped to his feet, his chair wobbling beneath him. Spreading his cape like giant wings, he swooped down on The Turk, for a moment truly becoming the bat he believed himself to be. Raphael was the first to react, catching Dante around the waist and pulling him back, sending them both crashing into Sodoma’s lap.
Seeing the strange man flying through the air toward him, The Turk lurched in his seat. This proved too much for the chair. The legs snapped, and The Turk plummeted to the floor.
Imperia leaped up and, with both hands pressed to her cheeks, stood over The Turk, unsure what to do. It was Francesco who held out a hand, flinching as the amethyst ring bit into his palm. “What in hell?” The Turk sputtered as he struggled heavily to his feet.
“I’m sorry,” Francesco began. “He is not … well. And I think he saw Marcus at the docks. I think he saw what happened.”
While the splinters of The Turk’s chair were swept away and a sturdier chair was brought to replace it, Raphael pressed a cup of wine into Dante’s hand. “We will take care of it now,” he told Dante. “Be a man for us tonight and keep your peace.” Raphael looked to the others. “Could you please take Dante to the music room and keep him amused? I am sure you understand.” The other men did as they were told, but their reluctance was evident. They didn’t want to miss out on the evening’s entertainment. Taking Dante by the hand, Sodoma defiantly scooped up one of the wine pitchers. When the door closed behind them, only Francesco, Raphael, Imperia, and The Turk remained.
“Shall I continue?” The Turk asked, settling cautiously into the new chair.
“Please do,” Raphael said, pouring wine for The Turk. The Turk took the cup, displaying the ring yet again without the slightest sign of embarrassment.
Drinking his wine in a single gulp, he held the cup out to be refilled, and Raphael obliged. “As I was saying,” The Turk went on, “he became agitated and there was no option. It was not a very Christian burial, very expedient on my men’s part. Had I but known his intentions, I could have prevented this tragedy. Can you forgive me, my dear Imperia?” He took her hands again in his.
A bell tolled the hour, and from the music room emanated the sound of laughter and the sweet murmurings of Colombo’s lute, but the salon was quiet as they waited for her reply.
“But … but Silvio,” Imperia finally stuttered. “You are wearing her ring!”
“Ring? Whose ring? Calendula’s?” He stared down at his large hands, which still held Imperia’s small ones. “I don’t understand. Every one of these rings is mine.”
“That one!” She pulled her hands from The Turk’s and touched the amethyst as quickly as if it were burning hot. “That one! It was Calendula’s! She was wearing it the night she was killed. It was cut from her finger. I mean, her finger was cut off, and the ring was taken, and now you are wearing it. Oh, Silvio! What am I to think?”
The Turk looked so taken aback Francesco could not believe for even one second he was acting. “Her finger was cut off?” The Turk asked weakly.
Imperia burst into tears. Raphael tried to intercede, but she waved him away, producing one of her lacy handkerchiefs to blot her cheeks.
“Oh, I cannot imagine my little girl’s finger cut off,” said The Turk. “It’s just too horrible.”
Imperia twisted the handkerchief in her lap. “I was very angry with Calendula about the ring. I asked her to sell it and give me my share. It’s our business arrangement, the arrangement I have with all my girls. If I’d known what was to happen, though, I would never …”
Francesco thought this must be the fight the cook had been referring to. He tried to catch Raphael’s eye, but he was too intent on the scene unfolding before them, his normally serene brow puckered with lines.
Imperia took a breath. “The night before Calendula was killed, she was wearing that ring. She refused to sell it, she was so proud of it.” Imperia looked at Francesco. “I know I didn’t tell you this part. I was embarrassed—it seemed so cold under the circumstances. But I swear I was only thinking of her. With the sale of the ring, even after giving me my portion, she would have had enough money to marry Marcus.” She turned back to The Turk, who was now twisting the ring on his finger. “Still, she refused. She said she didn’t need to sell it, that she was going to be a lady. Marcus was not only jealous but also heartbroken. I’m sure he believed the only thing standing between him and Calendula becoming man and wife was a dowry. And she goaded him too, telling him the ring was from
a man far richer than himself. Marcus was so angry he struck her. And then, when her body was found …” Here Imperia started to cry, the words coming out in sobs, “Someone had cut off her finger and taken the ring … and here you are, Silvio … wearing the ring! And I swear to you on all that is holy and good: it is the same ring!”
The Turk closed his eyes for a moment, as if to let it all sink in. When he spoke, he sounded incredulous. “And so you think, all of you, that after I gave her the ring, I killed her and cut off her finger to get the ring back. I then threw the poor girl in the river …” As he spoke, he became increasingly indignant. “And then, after agreeing with you that you should collect the body from the mortuary, I took it after all and hid it on my boat? Why, why, why? Why do you believe I would do such things?”
Raphael, always the peacemaker, was about to interject, but Imperia interrupted him. “I know, it sounds so terrible. I didn’t want to believe it. But why do you have her ring?”
“This is not her ring, Imperia. It cannot be. It was given to me by the Holy Roman Emperor Maximilian himself. The stone was set by Maximilian’s own goldsmith. There’s no other ring like it. You see the chain of my initials, SG, around the band. Silvio il Greco. That’s my real name,” he said, with a glance at Francesco and Raphael. “I like to say ‘The Greek’ was the name I was born with, and ‘The Turk’ is the name I earned. I’m afraid you are all terribly mistaken. It might have been an amethyst, but it was not this ring. It is impossible! But one thing does make sense now. I know why Marcus went mad yesterday. He saw the ring.” He pointed a finger—this one bedecked in an emerald—at Francesco. “And you. You must have seen it too!”
“Yes, I did.”
“And do you think it’s the same ring?”
Francesco nodded. He hadn’t known that the intricate chain etched in the band was a string of S’s and G’s, but it was most certainly the ring Calendula had held in front of his eyes, long enough for him to memorize every detail, every curlicue in the band’s design, the intensity of the purple stone. Is that what she had wanted? He would have to think about that possibility later, though, as Raphael was now asking The Turk if Calendula could have “borrowed” his ring.
The Wolves of St. Peter's Page 11