The Wolves of St. Peter's

by Gina Buonaguro

  I’m so sorry, he’d replied. It would be impossible to obtain an annulment. Until that moment, he’d almost forgotten his Petrarchan infatuation, so thoroughly had he enjoyed the pleasure of the court’s many willing young maidens—although he had often imagined Juliet’s face in those darkened bed chambers.

  I’ll say the marriage was never consummated. They’ll believe me—he is so old and ugly! Oh, I wish I were home in Milan! How could my family have been so unkind to me!

  My lady, you cannot do that. None of your children may have lived past infancy, but they still prove you consummated the marriage. What would you say—they were someone else’s? Then he would just kill you. I’m sorry. Guido will never let you win.

  But I cannot live any longer with his cruelty. Oh, I wish I were dead! I’ll kill myself if I have to!

  He’d bidden her not to think of such a solution and promised he would find a way to help her.

  What if Guido died? she’d then asked.

  Then, yes, you would have not only your dowry but his property as well. And in time that will happen, for Guido is not young.

  He will never die—he is so strong and hale! I’m trapped. I’ll kill myself, I swear to you! She looked up at him, her eyes filled with tears.

  He made her promise she would not kill herself, and she agreed on the condition that he continue to think of ways to help her. His better judgment was no match for her blue eyes, and so he met her again. And again. And again. Soon Francesco had all but stopped visiting the bedrooms of his favorite maidens, only going when the stretches between his meetings with Juliet became intolerable. Why Guido sought out other girls baffled him. If Juliet had been his, he would have been content to forsake all others. But she wasn’t then, and she wasn’t now, and here he was in Rome, spending his nights with a gypsy girl with a blackened tooth.

  Francesco put his head on the table, remembering the day that stood out in his memory as the beginning of the end. Guido had formed a hunting party, and Francesco had gone out to wish him good luck. The sun was rising, but already the dew was being burned off the grass. Guido sat high on his favorite stallion. Pollo Grosso came closer as Francesco approached on foot, glaring down at him from his horse as if he already knew what Francesco was thinking. He brought his horse dangerously close, and Francesco, feeling the horse’s breath on his face, jumped away from the stamping hooves. Francesco had already learned that Pollo Grosso guarded Guido zealously, instinctively distrusting everyone Guido knew. Furthermore, he watched Juliet like a dog in heat. When Francesco pointed out the latter, Guido had laughed. I’m not worried. I throw him one of the local girls every once in a while to keep him happy. And I know he’d kill any man who dared think of touching my wife. Francesco remembered that as Pollo Grosso continued to glare down at him, looking ready to tear him apart with his teeth.

  Guido never hunted alone. Ten nobles accompanied him, and for every one of them ten servants. Everywhere carts were loaded with tents and food, and baying among them were greyhounds and mastiffs, tails quivering in anticipation of fresh blood. It was a party large enough to scare off every stag in the country, but Francesco knew Guido’s huntsmen already had the prey cornered between the hills and the river.

  I wish you would come, Francesco, Guido had said. His falcon sat steadily on his arm, and Francesco thought how, in profile, Guido and his bird looked much the same. I was hoping to continue our discussion from last night about Castiglione. You maintain he thinks knowledge of the humanities is the most important quality for a courtier, while I believe the warrior spirit is the most important. Who is right—me or Castiglione?

  Yes, but the rents … Francesco said feebly, as though this wasn’t a duty he could pawn off on one of the lesser secretaries.

  You are a good man, Francesco. I am fortunate to have you watching out for me. You my purse and matters of the mind, and Pollo Grosso my back. He smiled, giving Francesco an affectionate flick on the arm with his whip. Francesco avoided Pollo Grosso’s hateful eye.

  Guido nodded toward three pretty girls giggling as they piled into a cart, their arms laden with flowers. They looked to be sisters, the youngest maybe twelve, the eldest sixteen. I shall miss your conversation, but I will have them to console me tonight. I am sure you can understand why I married so late, with so many beautiful girls. Unfortunately, though, I may have waited too long, as I cannot seem to produce an heir.

  I’m sure Juliet will give you a son soon, Francesco said, thinking he very well could be on his way to fathering Guido’s heir for him.

  One of the girls glanced at Francesco before covering her face coquettishly with her flowers. You want that one? Guido asked. Since you are missing the hunt, I should not be so greedy. Although I know many young maids are vying for your affections.

  Francesco agreed weakly, suddenly justifying to himself the meeting he was about to have with his patron’s wife. Why should Juliet have to live without pleasure when Guido had so much? Still, he couldn’t help but feel disloyal. He knew too how angry this would make his father if he ever found out. And Pollo Grosso scared him to death. But he could not stop himself.

  To Francesco’s relief, the hunting horn sounded. Enjoy the hunt, he said. We’ll see you a few days hence.

  Yes, we will continue our conversation then, Guido replied, although I must warn you, I shall win our next chess match or I will set Pollo Grosso on you.

  Laughing companionably, Guido bade him farewell, and Francesco waited until the last of the hunting party had crested the hill. Then, instead of returning to his offices in Guido’s castle, he turned and ran beyond the gardens to the grove of monkey puzzle trees, where she waited for him. Juliet.

  She ran to him, and he remembered the sun on her golden hair, her eyes so blue, her rose perfume. And when he picked her up, her yellow dress had swirled around her … No! Not yellow. Blue! It had been blue, like her eyes.

  It was no good. He just couldn’t recapture the excitement and passion for which he’d risked death and disgrace. Now that he had the yellow dress in his head, it wasn’t even Juliet he was remembering. It was Calendula.

  But what did it matter anyway? Here he was learning from his sister that he wasn’t Juliet’s first lover. And since his failure to free her from Guido, perhaps she had found someone else. Maybe he was just one in a long list, maybe the only one to have escaped Guido’s sword—at least so far.

  Susanna was right—he was a child. As if to prove it, he picked up the wine jug and threw it at the wall, where it bounced off and clattered to the floor unharmed.

  Michelangelo had left some wine-soaked bread crumbs in a saucer for the chicken’s breakfast, but there was no other food to be found. Francesco cursed himself for not filling his pockets with bread and cheese before leaving Imperia’s. He still had the bag of cardamom he’d been given by the dockworker, but he couldn’t eat that on its own. He’d give it to Susanna later. Maybe she could barter it in the market for some bread or, better still, one of those cakes soaked in honey and studded with almonds and currants.

  How was he supposed to figure anything out when all he could think about was food? He hoped it wasn’t too soon to go to Raphael’s. Perhaps there’d even be more cheese from Alfeo’s family. He didn’t have to worry about taking food to Michelangelo at the chapel, as Susanna had completely taken over this task for him. He smiled at the thought of her pocketing a few of Michelangelo’s coins for her troubles.

  He began to wonder where she was. Had she looked in on him that morning and left after finding him still asleep? Every other such time, she’d woken him. She was probably at the market.

  He got up from the table and went to the back door. Another gray day, soon to be dark, but it wasn’t raining, and with any luck the waters had started to recede on the other side of the river so the area’s inhabitants could return. Those who were still lucky enough to have a home would be shoveling the mud out for days. The rest would be digging soggy timber out of the sludge and struggling to rebuild.r />
  He heard a small thump through the wall. Assuming Susanna was back, he decided to take over the cardamom. She’d probably have both bread and gossip from the market, and he could tell her what had transpired at Imperia’s.

  He entered the silversmith’s without knocking and was about to call out hello when the greeting froze on his lips. Someone’s behind was poking out from under the bed, one that did not belong to Susanna. It was a man’s rear end, clothed in green hose, but it wasn’t the silversmith’s, unless the man had added a considerable amount of weight. The silversmith was every bit as thin as The Turk was fat, and this behind was somewhere in between. And what was it doing under the bed? He thought of Susanna’s nest egg of small pilferings and wondered if this man was in search of it.

  Grabbing the broom from beside the door and deciding that an element of surprise would be in his favor, he rushed over, the handle raised over his head.

  “Who are you? And what is your business here?” he said in what he hoped was a threatening tone.

  The man jumped, his head striking the wooden frame of the bed with a loud smack as he attempted to wiggle his way back out. Francesco ordered him not to move. “Stay down where you are and identify yourself!”

  “I am unarmed!” came a man’s muffled voice. Francesco couldn’t quite place it, but it sounded familiar.

  “Well, I am armed!” Francesco shot back, hoping the tone of his voice made his broom sound more lethal, silently cursing himself for leaving his dagger next door. “Now tell me who you are and what you’re doing here!”

  “Is that you, Francesco?”

  Francesco recognized him now, and he resisted an urge to give the green-clad rear a good kick with his boot. “What the hell are you doing, Bastiano?”

  “I’ll tell you. Just let me come out.”

  “No. Not until you tell me why you have your head under that bed.”

  “I was looking for something.”

  “What? Rat shit?”

  “No …”

  “Spit it out, man, if you ever want to sit on your ass again.”

  “I was looking for money.”

  “What makes you think there’d be money here?”

  There was a long pause. “Because I overheard you and Susanna talking, and she said she had money hidden away.”

  “And so you came to steal money from a poor girl saving for her dowry? What a despicable worm you are.” Suddenly Francesco remembered when she’d told him about the hidden money. They’d been in bed, and she’d just told him about the miller being kicked by a horse. “You little shit! You were watching us in bed!”

  “No!” Bastiano exclaimed, his head striking the underside of the bed again. “No. I mean, I was waiting outside, and I could hear you talking …”

  “Yes, with your face pressed to the window, you pervert.”

  More silence, and then a weak, “Yes … I need money to buy bread … You know how Michelangelo is …”

  “I know very well what a cheap bastard Michelangelo is, but that doesn’t justify stealing from a poor girl!”

  “Sounded to me as if she’d stolen it herself.” Bastiano was indignant now. “And surely you don’t believe that story about the miller being killed by a horse.”

  Francesco kicked him. “If you repeat that to anyone, so help me God, I will kill you,” he said, meaning every word of it. “Have you been spying on me? Because it seems whenever I turn around, you’re there.”

  “No. Not spying. Just … following you a little.”

  “Just following me a little? How about when I saw you at the docks? Were you just following me a little then?”

  “It wasn’t my idea, I swear.”

  “And the night I saw you at Imperia’s? When Calendula died?” The night he’d heard footsteps behind him. “You followed me home then too, didn’t you?”

  “If you let me out, I’ll tell you.”

  “You can tell me just as well from there. Who hired you?”

  “Michelangelo. He told me to keep an eye on you and report back.”

  Francesco couldn’t believe it. “That bastard!” he exclaimed, punctuating his verdict with another swift kick to Bastiano’s ass. He’d kick Michelangelo’s too, the first chance he got.

  “Stop!” Bastiano cried. “That hurts! I don’t want to do it, I swear. But I don’t have a choice. He’ll send me back to Florence, and my father will beat me blue.”

  “When I’m finished with you, you’ll be wishing you were with your father. But first tell me why Michelangelo is having me followed.”

  “I don’t know. He just told me to report where you go and who you see.”

  “So he knows I go to Imperia’s? Is that why you were there the other night?”

  There was silence, and Francesco imagined Bastiano nodding his head against the floorboards. What a shit that Michelangelo was. And just when he was starting to like him—or at least to find him a source of amusement. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that his distrust of all humans extended to his houseboy.

  Francesco kicked Bastiano again. “Well, speak up, man! What have you told him?”

  “Only that you go to Imperia’s to see Raphael. And that you went to The Turk’s and the port, although he already knew about The Turk’s. He said you told him yourself the other night.”

  “Get out from under that bed! I’m tired of looking at your ass.”

  “You won’t hurt me?”

  “No more than if you stay.”

  Slowly Bastiano backed out and stood up, the front of his clothing coated in a mix of cobwebs, dust, and rat turds. Francesco lifted his broom, and Bastiano flinched, looking relieved if somewhat mortified when Francesco used it to sweep his clothes. Still, he gave Bastiano’s beard a rough going over with it, finishing the job with a swat to the head hard enough to send the man stumbling against the table. “Stop it!”

  “Why should I?” Francesco asked, although he already regretted hitting him on the head. Beating a man with a broom was hardly the most honorable way to fight.

  “Because maybe I have some information you might want.”

  “I doubt it, but out with it quick. I want you out of here before Susanna gets back from the market.”

  “She’s not at the market. That’s what I was going to tell you.”

  Francesco felt a little knot of fear. This wasn’t the safest city for a girl, even one as clever as Susanna. “Then where is she?”

  Bastiano pulled himself up to his full height. “Went off with a man this morning. She was waiting for him right outside. Tall man.”

  “It was the silversmith, you ignoramus. He lives here.”

  “No, not Benvenuto. I know what he looks like. This man was younger. He had a fine black horse and a nice cape. She went with him the other night. The silversmith wasn’t here then. You believed her story pretty easily for someone who’s said to be so smart.”

  It was true—he had bought the story easily, even though there had never been any evidence beyond the scarf and Susanna’s word. You’d think I’d have heard them at it by now. He usually has a good go at her the minute he comes home, Michelangelo had said. He probably knew all along where she was and who she was with.

  “Get the hell out of here,” Francesco yelled, “before I beat you to death with this broom! And don’t forget—if you ever repeat any of what she said or what you told me now, I’ll find you and kill you!” Bastiano covered his head with his arms and dove past Francesco for the door. Francesco threw the broom like a spear, and it glanced off the back of the door as it swung shut.

  The room seemed suddenly quiet, and Francesco felt its damp gloominess pervade his entire body. The notice he’d seen on the table the night before was still there, and he could just make out the words in the dim light. Repent! The End of the World is at Hand! Devils in the Guise of Wolves Eat our Children! It is Rome’s Priests and the Pope who bring Armageddon upon us, while the Whores and Witches infect Righteous Men with Oozing Sores!

  F
rancesco read no further. He picked it up and, tearing at it angrily, tossed it on the cold grate.

  IT was Raphael, not Alfeo, who opened the door for Francesco. “It has been busy. Marcus’s father came for the body, the poor man, and Alfeo has gone to share his good news with his family. I expected his return this morning, but perhaps he has decided to stay another day to celebrate.”

  “I’m sorry for Marcus’s father. Pray tell, though, what is Alfeo’s good news?” Francesco could use a little, even if it belonged to someone else.

  “It turns out our Alfeo not only has the face of an angel but the voice of one as well. I took him to see Imperia’s father, who arranged for him to sing for the choirmaster. As much as I hate to lose an excellent houseboy, I am pleased for him. He will sing the Christmas Mass. Imperia’s father has taken a liking to the boy, and I have his word he will watch out for him and keep him safe from our more lecherous and immoral clergy.” Raphael held out his hand for Francesco’s cloak. “You may also be pleased to know the boys on The Turk’s ship seem to have escaped, although no one knows how.”

  “I wondered if such a thing were possible, before concluding they were better off taking their chances where they were. Perhaps one or two will be lucky and find some safety. And I am pleased to hear Alfeo has a protector. Though do we have clergy who are not lecherous and immoral? If there are such men, they are rarer than an honest Frenchman and keep themselves as well hidden. Then perhaps I’m letting this wretched city poison my opinions. My own father is a member of the clergy and a man of great integrity.” Francesco wrested off his boots, tossing them onto the hearth to dry before throwing himself facedown on the settee. “I won’t be here to hear him sing, though,” he said, his voice muffled by the tapestry cushions.

  “Truly?” said Raphael, setting a jug of wine and a plate of bread and cheese on a low table. “And where will you be?”

  “Home,” he said, sitting up and nearly lunging for the food. “There’s no reason to stay here. We’ll never learn who killed Calendula, and no one will care even if we do. It could be anyone. I would even suspect you if I didn’t know you so well. Of course, it depends on whether my father will have me. You should come for Christmas with me. That could be a point in my favor. My father is a great admirer of yours.” The bread and cheese and thoughts of home were already restoring some of his humor. “It’s a shame my sisters won’t be there. They are too clever for most men, but I think you would enjoy a match of wits.”