The Wolves of St. Peter's

by Gina Buonaguro

  “He bites,” Agnello said matter-of-factly.

  “Go fuck a monkey,” the parrot added.

  “Does he ever say anything else?” Francesco asked, inspecting his finger.

  “Sometimes,” the boy said without elaborating.

  “You like to play games with the parrot?” Francesco asked him in Latin, thinking it was a damn good thing Ovid had written a poem to a dead parrot or he’d never have known the word. Psittacus.

  The boy shrugged. “Sometimes.”

  “Do you play with any of the boys here?”

  Agnello shook his golden curls. Francesco now wondered why he’d come here. Could he really ask Agnello about Calendula? Wouldn’t the boy tell Julius a man was here asking him questions about her? He decided to risk it. He needed to know whether Julius had told Agnello his mother had gone to Hell before or after Calendula died. Then he’d know which mother Julius was referring to. Francesco was still struggling with how to phrase his questions when Agnello raised the subject himself. “Did you know my mother?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Francesco said as truthfully and gently as he could while at the same time revising his defense: I was here to see Raphael, and Agnello asked me if I knew his mother … no idea … funny parrot. “Do you miss her?”

  Agnello nodded. “I saw her in the painting. She was pretty. Did she go from the painting to Hell or is she still in the painting?”

  “I don’t think she’s in Hell, Agnello. But I don’t know where she is. And that’s just her likeness in the painting, just like it’s your likeness.” There was no point in giving the boy false hope, but he didn’t want to tell him the brutal truth, either. “I’m sure she misses you too.”

  “Go fuck a monkey.”

  Francesco couldn’t help but think the parrot was calling him out as a liar. Or at least a coward.

  Agnello turned to the parrot. “We’ll play soon,” he said patiently.

  Francesco glanced toward the doors nervously. “When did His Holiness tell you your mother had gone to Hell?” he asked carefully.

  The boy shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Was it a long time ago or just a few days ago?”

  Agnello looked at Francesco blankly. “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t worry,” Francesco said, his heart breaking for the boy. “It doesn’t matter. But I have to go now. You can come again and see the chicken.”

  With “Go fuck a monkey” ringing in his ears, sure that every servant eyed him with suspicion, Francesco wound his way out of the palace, an endless dark labyrinth of marble halls full of dead ends and doors that led to more doors until he finally emerged near the entrance to the Sistine Chapel. He wouldn’t go in. If Michelangelo saw him, he would send him on some silly errand.

  But as he passed by, he heard the choir. Above all the other voices soared one clear line of melody sung in a voice beautiful enough to make the Devil himself weep. It had to be Alfeo. Possessed by the Devil? Honestly, someone should give that ass di Grassi a punch in the nose. He was glad Michelangelo was putting his new authority over him to good use. Francesco stopped and listened for a moment before peeking inside and confirming the source of the sound.

  Standing next to Alfeo was an older man he assumed was Imperia’s father, a man Raphael clearly trusted. But what protection could even the most upstanding man provide if Julius ever decided he wanted Alfeo as his new companion? What the Pope desires, he takes, Imperia had said. And would they castrate Alfeo to preserve that sweetness? Francesco had heard rumors of such practices. But surely they would need to seek permission from Alfeo’s family. Or would they? Since Francesco had been in Rome, his legal training had failed him at every turn.

  He slipped out of the chapel, unseen by Michelangelo, and into the square just as Bramante, Julius, and Raphael reappeared from inside the old basilica. He would tell Raphael that, for Alfeo’s safety, he should be sent as far away from the Vatican as possible. Alfeo was lucky to have Raphael as a savior, but who would be Agnello’s?

  LUCK was still with Francesco when he arrived at The Turk’s. The Turk was, as he’d hoped, still at breakfast and more than willing to share. Francesco hadn’t seen this much food in one place since the Christmas festivities at Guido del Mare’s. And while that feast had served a hundred people or more, this spread seemed to be put on for the benefit of The Turk alone. Beside a brace of pheasants, so freshly killed their blood still drained onto the table, were platters of eel, fish, and mutton, loaves of bread, and bowls of olives and dates. Reigning over it all, on a massive carved throne, upholstered in scarlet velvet and dripping with gilt, was The Turk, with a monkey on his shoulder, while in the corner a white lion paced around a cage not much bigger than itself. The Turk handed the monkey a fig, and it took a bite before hurling it at the cage. The lion let out a low growl.

  “Still got that hungry look in your eye, boy. Eat! Eat! Eat!” The Turk waved his amethyst-ringed hand at a small dark girl, commanding her to pour them wine. She did as she was told, sloshing some over the table when the lion let out a ferocious roar. The Turk laughed indulgently. “Not to worry, my dear, you’re hardly worth his consideration.” He picked up one of the bloody pheasants and threw it toward the cage. It landed a foot short, and the lion lunged against the bars, rocking the whole cage. Now it was Francesco’s turn to jump. The Turk laughed even louder. “You’re as skittish as that little girl,” he bellowed. “A beauty, isn’t he? Just arrived yesterday, all the way from the south of Africa. Extremely rare, these white beasts. When I heard one had been captured, I had to have it.” He rose with the help of the eagle-topped cane that had aroused Francesco’s suspicion on his last visit. With the monkey clinging to his collar, The Turk snagged the pheasant with the cane and pushed it through the bars.

  Francesco watched the lion tear into the bird before turning to the girl, who still held the jug of wine, her whole body tensed as though ready to flee. “What’s your name?” he asked. With her dark eyes and skin, she probably came from a place where lions roamed wild.

  “Mosa,” she said without taking her eyes from the cage. The lion had the pheasant between its paws and was rending it with an appetite The Turk clearly admired. Francesco watched the cage quake and wondered how long it would be before it was shaken apart.

  The Turk resumed his throne, and it groaned beneath him. “Don’t be shy, boy. Eat what you will,” he boomed, dotting his bald scalp with a delicate lace handkerchief not unlike the ones Imperia and Sodoma favored. “But what brings you here today? Did you come to see Mark Antony’s armor, or am I under suspicion again?” He waved his hand at the girl, whose full attention was still on the cage. “Come on, girl, get the boy some mutton. Make sure it has lots of fat. That lion isn’t the only one here who’s hungry.”

  She did as she was told in quick, nervous gestures, and Francesco decided if this were to be his last meal, he should make sure it was a good one, and so he bit off a large hunk, chewing as he talked. “No, though I’d like to see your armor some other day. I’ve come to hear what you learned from the mortuary.”

  “Oh yes, of course,” he said with that galling nonchalance. “I think you’ll find this most interesting and not interesting at all, which is why it must have slipped my mind. I have learned less than nothing.”

  “What do you mean?” Francesco asked, quaffing his wine. The monkey ran across the table and snatched a piece of meat from Francesco’s plate, then ran back and resumed his perch on The Turk’s shoulder.

  “Well, it would seem our fat man may not have been fat at all,” he laughed, the throne trembling beneath him. “So, you see, the only thing we thought we knew about our mysterious kidnapper of bodies may not be true.”

  “So he wasn’t fat?”

  “Let us say my offer of a ducat to find out about our fat man drew very little more than an argument between the two clerks as to what ‘fat’ meant. They concluded he was not nearly as fat as myself, but larger than either of the two of them—whic
h isn’t saying much. He may have had a square head or he may have had a big round head. It was agreed that he wore a hat and had a very nice cape, although not as nice as my own. They said his friend called him fat, and so they called him fat.”

  “What friend?” Francesco asked, wiping the grease from his plate with a chunk of white bread.

  “He was with another man, who waited outside on his horse.”

  “Not another man on a horse!” Francesco exclaimed.

  “Yes,” The Turk said. “The one clerk said he was a thin man, so maybe that’s why he called his friend fat, but the other clerk said he thought it was the man’s name, something Grasso, which means ‘fat.’ I asked him if the man’s name might have been Basso, which means ‘short,’ and the clerk thought that must be it, and they soon agreed that the man was indeed short. So you see why it was a waste of a ducat.”

  “And all this time we’ve been squandering our time looking for a fat man,” Francesco said. “Did they say how much the man paid for the body?” He didn’t want to say that Grasso was very close to di Grassi. Paride di Grassi would certainly have the money to pay for the body. Would he have gone in disguise? Surely the men would have identified him had he been wearing his red robes.

  “Imperia said they bragged that the man had paid well, but it would seem it was, in the end, less than I paid for nothing,” The Turk said. “And don’t look so glum,” he ordered, waving a bone at him. “This is Rome, boy. Dead bodies come cheap here, and the truth is greasier than that mutton. Eat up, and I’ll show you my armor.”

  Francesco nodded. He’d fit in another piece of meat and see The Turk’s armor, and by the time he returned home, Susanna would be back from the market with their honey cakes. Later, he’d go see Imperia and tell her what The Turk had learned, but there seemed little urgency. How do you find a fat man who’s not fat? he thought. Unless it was di Grassi. But what could he do if it was? It was pointless to keep pursuing this. And in case anyone else thought they’d burn down his house to keep him from learning the truth … well, they could save themselves the trouble. He was giving up.

  Francesco was about to take another bite when, from out in the hall, a great deal of shouting erupted. Dante? It sounded like him, and whoever it was called Francesco’s name. Moments later, Dante was escorted inside by one of The Turk’s guards. “I beg your forgiveness,” the servant said, keeping a firm hold on Dante’s arm.

  Dante was clearly distraught. His eyes rolled around like he was having a fit. His face was streaked with mud, his clothes were filthy, and he smelled of garbage and sweat. “Francesco! Francesco! Oh, it’s true! She’s dead!”

  “Calm yourself, man,” Francesco demanded, rising from his chair. Mosa took this as her chance to escape and fled the room. The lion roared, and Dante screamed even louder.

  “Oh, what is that?” Dante cried. “All around us murdering beasts!”

  “Not to worry, Dante. It’s a lion, but it’s in a strong cage,” Francesco said, sounding more confident than he felt. “Now calm yourself, and tell me who’s dead!”

  “Susanna, Susanna …”

  Francesco looked at him, stunned. “Susanna?” he repeated weakly. “Oh my God, not Susanna!”

  “No! No! Not Susanna! Susanna told me you’d be here. Oh, Francesco, she really is dead!”

  “Who, Dante?” Francesco shouted.

  Behind him the lion roared again, and again Dante screamed, throwing himself into Francesco’s arms. The man was ice-cold and shaking violently. “Here!” He shoved something into Francesco’s hand.

  “What …?” he started to ask as he stared down at a dirty piece of cloth, but he stopped there. He didn’t need to ask. Wet and mildewed, crusted with mud and quite possibly blood, it was barely recognizable, but that particular yellow hue could only have belonged to one person.

  “What is it?” The Turk asked, lumbering over to them.

  “A piece of Calendula’s dress,” Francesco said.

  The Turk held out his hand—the one bearing the amethyst ring—and took the cloth. “Where did you find this?” he asked Dante, not unkindly.

  “Up, up, up … over there … across the river … by the tomb of Remus,” Dante stuttered, still shaking uncontrollably.

  “You mean the Pyramid of Cestius,” The Turk said before turning to one of the guards. “Where did that girl go? Get this man some wine before he dies on my carpet.”

  The guard did as he was told, and Francesco held out the chair he’d just vacated and pressed the goblet into Dante’s hand, but Dante’s hand shook so hard Francesco had to raise it to his lips for him. “Come on, drink. It’ll do you good.”

  Dante obeyed and swallowed the contents of the goblet.

  “You found this by the Pyramid of Cestius, near the Porta San Paolo?” Francesco asked, already forgetting his pledge to let the matter rest. “Was her body there too?”

  “No,” Dante said. “The wolves. The wolves took her away in the night. From her grave.”

  “I’ll go and look,” Francesco said, handing Dante a piece of bread. “Can you tell me exactly where it was? Was it right beside the pyramid? Inside the gate?” He didn’t want to take Dante with him. If the man hadn’t been completely mad before, he was now.

  “In front of the tomb … inside the gate,” Dante stammered. “By the house where she lived.”

  Francesco turned to The Turk. “She lived there?”

  “I have a villa there. Built it where I could see the pyramid. She was there once or twice, maybe. I rent it now. This house is much more to my taste. I’ll get a guard. He can take you across the river. It will save some time.”

  The Turk was still holding the soiled piece of cloth, and Francesco was surprised to see him raise it to his elephantine cheek for a moment, the first indication he’d given that this discovery had affected him. Was it grief or guilt he felt?

  Is that what Dante had been doing these past nights? Had he gone in search of her, still thinking he would find her miraculously alive? After all, it was only Francesco who’d witnessed her pulled from the river. Her body had disappeared from the mortuary before anyone else had seen her. Had Dante not believed Francesco? Or had he thought him mistaken? And why had he said she’d lived at The Turk’s villa?

  Francesco continued to ponder these questions for the better part of the journey. He and the guard crossed the river by the Emporium, where the guard agreed to wait. With the Aventine Hill and the ruins of the old Servian walls on his left, he followed the ancient road to the Porta San Paolo, one of the gates in the later Roman walls.

  Even though he was still inside the city, it was countryside here. In summer, sheep and cattle would be grazing, and the grapes would be lush and green. Francesco saw no one along the route. The hovels of the farmers and shepherds were shut up tight against the damp and wolves, and no one worked in the soaked, freezing fields. Grapevines hung gray and dead-looking from their trellises, and the ground under the olive trees was slimy with olives that, rather than ripening, had rotted. Here and there, blackened circles in the earth marked recent fires built to deter the wolves.

  He saw the pyramid long before he reached it, jutting out and over the red brick walls that had incorporated its bulk. Petrarch wrote that it held the body of Remus; according to legend, he and his brother Romulus were raised by wolves before founding Rome. Francesco left the road and started walking along the wall. He passed through a small grove of fruit trees. Apples, he thought. The branches were bare now, but in spring they would be covered in white blossoms and later in sweet red fruit.

  He had a good view from the wall, and looking out over the gray fields, it wasn’t difficult to ascertain which dwelling was The Turk’s old villa. While there were a few grander houses here, summer homes for some of Rome’s wealthy clergy, The Turk’s stood out as the most ostentatious. With its sloped pinkish stone walls, its front door guarded by sphinxes, he supposed it was meant to be Egyptian like the pyramid, but it was as if the architect hadn
’t known where to stop, and so the house bristled with minarets, domes, columns, obelisks, statues, and towers, appearing to Francesco every bit as ridiculous as a horse with an elephant’s nose and the tail of a peacock.

  He found Calendula’s grave, just as Dante said he would, at the base of the pyramid, in a thicket of low, thorny shrubs. Whoever had buried her here had done so in a hurry, digging a trench that was little more than a hollow in the ground. Francesco imagined a faceless figure laying her stiffened corpse in the trench before taking up his shovel and covering her with dirt. The figure would have stamped on the dirt, packing it down with his boots but leaving a small mound all the same. Gone for good, he might have said as he walked away, while in the hills the wolves, catching the scent, had slunk down in the night and scratched back the soil, their yelps echoing off the walls as they fought over the rotting flesh.

  The hollow was filled with water now, no doubt having collected the rain sliding off the sides of the pyramid. Around its edges, among the paw prints left by wolves, were a couple of boot prints. Dante’s, Francesco thought.

  Francesco broke off a branch from an olive tree and dragged it through the muddy water, pulling out a strip of yellow cloth. He held it over the grave, watching the water drip from the end of the stick. He shook it off and stirred the surface of the water once more, this time pulling out a clump of matted yellow hair still anchored to a piece of flesh. He dropped the stick with its clinging gore and backed away, nearly slipping in the mud in his haste. With one hand resting on the pyramid for support, he vomited into the thorny bushes at its base.

  He was trembling, shivering with the cold that until now he hadn’t felt. He leaned with his back against the damp stone and looked down the slope to The Turk’s ugly villa. It had appeared empty before, but now he could see a horse tethered to one of the sphinxes. The door opened and closed, though no one went in or out.

  Why was the body buried so close to The Turk’s villa? Coincidence? The Turk’s lover, The Turk’s ring, and now the grave near The Turk’s old villa? Everything pointed to The Turk, yet nothing added up.