The Wolves of St. Peter's

by Gina Buonaguro

  “The Turk said from the moment she saw the portrait, she was never the same. He’s of the belief she became aware of her own beauty, and it spoiled her.”

  “Calendula was always aware of her beauty,” Imperia said wryly, “and used it to her advantage. All women must. Except beauty can only go so far. A nobleman can have his choice of mistresses, but to be his wife demands a dowry, and he will hold out for the highest bidder. You will do the same yourself.”

  Francesco didn’t respond. Hadn’t he just hours ago dreamed of taking Susanna as his wife, dowry be damned? Or was he more like Calendula? Resigned to this idea until a better offer was made? If he learned Juliet was free, what would he do then?

  “How is it that Calendula and Agnello were in the painting together but never met?” he finally asked.

  “They sat for him separately. She sat first. Marcus added Agnello later. Neither of them saw the painting until it was completed. It was the likeness of Agnello that affected her so strongly, not her own image. Marcus may have exaggerated their similarities, but they do indeed look very much like mother and son.”

  She released his hands and was quiet for a moment. What a strange tragedy, Francesco thought: Agnello looking for a mother and Calendula looking for a son, and both thought they had found each other in this painting.

  Imperia again took up her cup before continuing. “Calendula became convinced he was hers, in fact the very child she had given birth to when I had been a guest in her home. He was about the right age and had the same hair and eyes. She screamed at me, ‘How can he not be mine?’ She was convinced the baby hadn’t died after all but that I had stolen him, brought him back with me to Rome, and given him to His Holiness. I don’t know whose tiny body she thought we buried, but she was beyond reason. She told me she hated me. She called me a liar and demanded I get Agnello back for her. Her life had been destroyed because she couldn’t bear her husband a son, and here I had him all along.”

  This must be the fight the cook had told Susanna about. But there had to be more. “Did you throw her out the night she was murdered? And why didn’t you tell me?”

  Imperia sighed. “How could I tell you I’d done something so terrible? Did she die because I threatened to throw her out? Because I didn’t throw her out, I swear. I only threatened to, and then I left the room in exasperation. In the morning, she was gone. When I learned of her death, of course I blamed myself. But now I’m certain she already meant to leave. She’d decided to meet the man who gave her the ring. He’s the man we must look for.”

  “So was Julius aware of Calendula’s obsession with Agnello? Could he have seen her as making trouble?” Francesco had another thought. “Could the man who took her from the mortuary have taken his orders from the Pope himself?”

  Imperia put her cup back down. “If His Holiness killed Calendula, why the ruse of the ring? And why is it in The Turk’s possession?”

  “True. But I still think it’s possible Julius could be involved if he suspected Calendula was trying to get to the boy. And I still want to know when it was that Julius told Agnello his mother was in Hell.”

  Imperia looked thoughtful. “Do you think if you talked again with Agnello …?”

  “Maybe. And I also need to talk to The Turk. He was supposed to go to the mortuary to see if he could learn anything new. Have you seen him?”

  Imperia shook her head.

  “Perhaps he hasn’t honored his word?” Francesco suggested.

  “No. That’s not like The Turk. He takes his word very seriously.”

  “Then I will speak with him in the morning. Tonight I’ve offered to help a friend.”

  “You’re a good man, Francesco.” She smiled. “When you leave, will you send me one of the girls? It’s time for me to prepare for the evening.”

  He was about to leave when he noticed her rings scattered on a silver tray in the middle of her dressing table, six in total. It would be easy for somebody to slip away with one. He picked up a large ruby not unlike the ones the Pope wore and turned it over in his hand a few times before replacing it.

  “What is it?” Imperia asked.

  “I was thinking how easy it would be for someone to take these. Would you notice one missing? I’m thinking of The Turk’s ring, of course.”

  “Perhaps not. I normally take them off at night and put them on again in the morning. But lately my fingers have been swollen. A sign I’m with child, I’m told, and so they sit here. You’re right—they would be easy to steal. Do you think someone took The Turk’s ring and returned it later?”

  “Maybe. The Turk doesn’t think so, but I’ll ask him again tomorrow when I see him.” It suddenly occurred to him there was something different about the room. “What happened to your little bird?”

  “I decided to release it. Its song was sweet but unrelenting, I’m afraid. It’s probably happier now.”

  Francesco didn’t have the heart to tell her the bird had most likely perished in Rome’s cold November rains. This made him think again of the boys on The Turk’s ship, also released to the harsh elements. He wondered if any of them were still alive.

  Neither of the giants was at the door when he left, and he helped himself to two freshly prepared torches by the door. He’d need them tonight for their journey to and from the Colosseum. He didn’t relish this outing, but there would be no dissuading Susanna. And as much as he wanted to know what The Turk had learned, he didn’t want Susanna going to the Colosseum by herself.

  AS Francesco entered the Piazza Rusticucci, the bells were signaling vespers. He found Susanna already wrapped in her cloak, impatiently awaiting his return. “I was beginning to think I’d be going on my own after all,” she said crossly.

  “I told you I’d be back. Why are you taking all the cardamom?”

  “I have to take some sort of payment for the necromancer.”

  Francesco told her he’d hoped she’d trade it for honey cakes instead, and in the end she agreed that even half was still a generous offering. Francesco placed the lightened sack in the otherwise empty money bag on his belt, tucked the torches under his arm, and made sure his dagger was in easy reach.

  To avoid the worst of the flooding, they took the route toward the port, crossing the river at the Cestio Bridge. Francesco had hoped the evening light would linger until they reached the Colosseum, but it scarcely lasted to the bridge. They stopped in the middle of the second span and looked up to where fires dotted the Palatine and Aventine hills to deter the wolves, who were already yapping.

  At the other end of the bridge loomed the ruins of the Theater of Marcellus. Planned by Julius Caesar, who was murdered before the first stone was laid, it was a smaller version of the Colosseum, its remaining walls forming a semicircle, the other half having been pillaged to build the bridge they’d just crossed. Through the stone arches, they glimpsed fires, and Francesco assumed the theater had become a temporary shelter for those who’d lost their homes to the flooding. Two men stood guard at one of these arches, and Francesco asked them if he could light his torch. The men shrugged and nodded toward the nearest fire, where a group of filthy children sat huddled under an equally filthy blanket. By their sides were scattered their last few possessions: a couple of earthenware pots, a few pewter plates and spoons, and what appeared to be a small wooden casket. Behind them a wooden door was laid over two waist-high stones, creating a cave-like shelter. Inside, a woman sat on the ground, suckling a child. This scene was repeated with few discernible differences around the dark amphitheater.

  Francesco expected to encounter the same desperation at the Colosseum and was relieved when they finally arrived to find the atmosphere almost festive. Here, too, the refugees had gathered, setting up their camps inside the nooks and crannies of the ruin, but tonight, no doubt in anticipation of the necromancer’s visit, their fires burned brightly.

  They found the necromancer at the southern end of the vast ruin, preparing for the rituals. He was a spindly man with a gaunt face, su
nken eyes, and the scraggly beard of a goat—or, Francesco supposed, the Devil. He wore a long black robe with wide sleeves and carried under his arm a large black book. “Good evening, my pretty one.” He leered at Susanna, his smile revealing yellow teeth filed to sharp points. His two assistants, an ugly pair who Francesco suspected would play more than one role that night, had already built a good-sized fire and were now scratching a pentagram into the packed earth with a stick. Francesco knew that, while these were forbidden rites, the Church was willing to look the other way so long as enough Biblical names were cited as part of the spectacle. It was conveniently agreed that these were not spells to encourage demons but prayers to vanquish them.

  That said, the Church’s position didn’t satisfy everyone, and to one side of the display a robed monk, his cowl covering most of his face, was decrying the scene as blasphemy. He was ignored by the adults, but the children made a game of pelting him with stones, loudly cheering every hit, forcing the monk to shield his face further with his arm. Thirty or so men and women gathered around the necromancer, already speculating about his abilities to raise the dead. Francesco would normally have enjoyed dispelling their illusions, but tonight it seemed mean-spirited when their only alternative was to huddle in their makeshift shelters.

  Francesco left Susanna with the crowd and went to look around. He had been here before, but only during the day. Tonight, lit by smoky fires, with the clouded sky as its roof, the arena felt different. He could see how over the centuries the lower levels of the Colosseum had filled with earth, burying a warren of foundations and stone pens that once held wild animals and human gladiators. An earthquake had brought down the southern stretch of wall, and loose stone had been carted off to build palaces and bridges, with more destined for the new St. Peter’s. Trees had grown up in the interior, and in the northern end a religious order had built a piecemeal abbey out of the existing stone arcades and salvaged wood. Except for the one brave (or foolish) monk who was challenging the necromancer, there was no sign of the abbey’s inhabitants tonight, though Francesco thought he could hear the sound of goat bells coming from inside.

  Finally the necromancer was ready, and Francesco could hear him entreating the crowd to move back. “Farther, farther, my beautiful ladies,” he kept repeating. “I implore you, it’s not safe. The demons are difficult to control, and you don’t want any of them to have their evil way with you.” Nervous giggling could be heard from the “ladies” as they backed away.

  Finding Susanna at the center of the group, Francesco took her by the arm and led her over to a large, flat rock where they would be safe, he assumed, from getting too close a look at the “demons.” Opening his big book, the necromancer stepped inside the pentagram and positioned himself behind the fire, giving the impression of being engulfed by flames. The fire cast an eerie light on his face as he looked up to the sky. His eyes rolled back in his head as he began to chant in a low voice, too low for Francesco to make out, while from the sidelines the monk screamed, “Devil! Devil!” until someone told him to shut up before he cut his tongue out.

  The necromancer appeared to notice none of this, and he droned on in this trancelike state for some time. But just when it seemed the audience might grow restless, his voice gained in intensity, rising in volume and pitch. His shouts were answered by the shrieks and screeches of invisible demons, and the echoes bounced off the ancient stones, swirling around the Colosseum like a scene from Judgment Day.

  “What’s he saying?” Susanna yelled into Francesco’s ear as she gripped his sleeve. Her eyes were wide with excitement, while nearby a child started to cry and a woman screamed.

  “Gibberish,” Francesco answered. And it was. He caught a few words of Latin, some counting in German, a string of Biblical names, including those of the Magi, another scream, none of this seemingly originating from the book in the necromancer’s hands. Indeed, the book seemed to have become too hot for him to hold, and he now dropped it onto the ground. Waving his hands over his head, he implored Beelzebub to appear to him.

  And so Beelzebub did. The necromancer shook his hands over the fire and from the flames emanated a loud explosion, followed by black, belching clouds of smoke. The boom echoed around the walls of the Colosseum, and out of the smoke emerged a grotesque figure with a black face and horns, screaming as if it were being tortured by every pitchfork in Hell. “What is it, Francesco?” Susanna cried.

  “Saltpeter, I suspect, for the explosion,” Francesco said coolly. “Had it up his sleeves. And that demon is nothing but one of the necromancer’s assistants with charcoal on his face.”

  “Oh, no, it can’t be a man. It is too terrible. And look, he’s flying!”

  “He’s standing on the wall. It’s just that the smoke makes it look—”

  The necromancer shook his hands over the fire again, and another boom went up into the night, the demon’s unnatural screams nearly drowned out by those of the onlookers. Now the necromancer was demanding that the demon come down out of the air to talk to him. “Beelzebub, come down! I command you in the name of the baby Jesus!” Beelzebub waved his arms and shrieked some more before diving down out of the air (from Susanna’s perspective) or from his perch on the wall (from Francesco’s) and disappearing into the thick smoke. The necromancer raised a crucifix and commanded the spirit to leave Rome and take his Hellhounds with him, by which Francesco assumed he meant the wolves.

  But the demon didn’t seem to want to leave. The crowd gasped as he grabbed the crucifix and hurled it onto the fire before seizing the necromancer by the beard. The two wrestled furiously, the smoke and flames every bit as blistering as if they were truly in the midst of Hell. They threw each other this way and that. One moment the necromancer was in control, and the next the demon was hurling him about by his beard. The crowd loved it. No longer afraid, they cheered and threw their support behind the necromancer. Susanna, at Francesco’s side, had let go of his sleeve and, with her hands over her face, peered out through her fingers.

  Francesco was sure the crowd would have been happy to have this last all night, but finally the necromancer wrestled the demon to the ground. With one knee planted on the demon’s chest, he dove for his book and opened it, incanting another apparent prayer. Francesco heard again a witch’s brew of languages: “Whore of Babylon, one, two, three, I smash your baby’s head against the rock … four, five, six …” With his knee still holding down the demon, the necromancer shook his hands at the fire. Francesco predicted that, under cover of the explosion and smoke, the demon would disappear and the necromancer would be named the winner in this struggle against evil.

  But the conclusion wasn’t quite as Francesco forecast, nor, presumably, as the necromancer had planned. The man shook his hands over the fire, conjuring the same loud boom and plume of smoke as before, but this time lighting his flowing sleeves on fire. As the smoke cleared, the thought-to-be-defeated demon was now wrestling the screaming necromancer to the ground, swatting at the flaming sleeves with a piece of sacking.

  “What’s happening?” Susanna cried as, along with the rest of the crowd, she jumped to her feet.

  “Not to worry. I think the demon has things under control,” Francesco answered, trying his hardest not to laugh.

  His sleeves extinguished, the necromancer rose to his feet, and with his face contorted in pain, he swayed uncertainly, gazing down at his blistered arms. The demon, looking more confused than a demon probably should, glanced from the necromancer to the crowd and back, as if unsure what to do next. With no suggestions being offered by the necromancer, the demon settled for letting up a terrible wail. In what appeared a desperate attempt to salvage his evil persona, he stomped around the fire once again, shrieking louder and flailing his arms faster than ever.

  He might have succeeded if the show had ended there. But all of a sudden, from out behind a large rock, came what Francesco assumed was the next act, a corpse rising from the dead. He was a gory sight, his face and tattered clothes smeared
with blood, animal entrails hanging around his neck. He walked slowly around the fire, his arms straight out in front of him, hands bent down at the wrist, dragging one leg behind him, all the while making woeful wailing sounds. It was more than Francesco could take, and he started to laugh.

  “What are you doing?” Susanna demanded.

  But it wasn’t just Francesco. One of the men in the crowd jumped up and joined in with the demon and the ghoulish corpse. “Woo, woo, woo,” he wailed, waving his hands around. Now everyone was laughing as they flailed their arms and attempted to fill the Colosseum with the sound of dozens of wailing corpses. The children especially loved it. They ran to the fire and passed their hands over it in vain attempts to make it boom. Francesco was reminded of the children in the square imitating the soap-maker’s whooshing sounds. The monk ran past Francesco and Susanna with his robe held up to keep from tripping and disappeared into the makeshift abbey.

  Only Susanna seemed disappointed by this unexpected deviation from the ceremony. Plunking herself back down beside him on the rock, she looked at Francesco with bewilderment. “He isn’t a real necromancer! It’s just a joke. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Francesco laughed. “I did!”

  “I should slap you,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest as a dozen or so “corpses” limped by, hands out, eyes rolled heavenward. Men, women, children—all giggling as they made whatever sounds they imagined the walking dead to make.

  “Woooo,” Francesco said, joining in after attempting to tickle Susanna in the ribs. She snatched his hands and, to his great surprise, pulled him to his feet and into the line of shuffling corpses. A bearded young man who was inexplicably hopping on one foot passed him a wine jug, and Francesco took a deep draught before passing it on. “One, two, three, four,” Francesco chanted, imitating the necromancer and letting out his best wolflike howl. He grabbed Susanna around the waist and twirled her around until, both dizzy, they collided with another pair of dancing corpses. It wasn’t long before every man, woman, and child was parading around the walls of the Colosseum while from the sidelines the old, sick, and crippled watched and clapped.