He reached the Cestio Bridge. A shepherd was crossing with his flock, and Francesco yelled at them to “Move, move, move” as he shoved the docile animals out of his way. She had taken the bolt of blue cloth with her, the same one she wrapped her arms around at night. The one he’d teased her would make a good dowry. Hell, even I would take it, he’d told her, and she’d believed him and gone to trade him for a bolt of blue silk. No, Susanna was not the girl he was supposed to fall in love with, but she was better than he deserved.
He left the road, the frozen grass of the fields crunching under his feet like slivers of glass, the sleet in his face like needles. Running, running. He scared up a flock of grouse, their wings whirring around his head. A pain stabbed his side, and every breath felt like it could be his last. He was gaining on The Turk’s old villa, the Pyramid of Cestius rising behind. Running, running …
Until he knew there was no point in running at all. He was too late.
Susanna lay on the grass, facedown, her brown cloak and dark hair fanned out around her. Beside her on the ground was Pollo Grosso, a heavy club lying between them. And Dante, standing frozen over them, a big rock raised above his head.
Francesco stumbled toward Susanna, willing himself to reach her. Oh God, what had she done? What had he done? He put his hand to his side, forgetting that his dagger wasn’t there, that she’d taken it. Already he knew he would be haunted forever by what-ifs. No! No! he wanted to scream.
“I tried to stop him,” Dante said, lowering the rock and dropping it at his feet.
“I know, I know,” Francesco murmured.
Pollo Grosso pressed his hand to his head. Blood was streaming through his fingers, but like a bull in an arena, unable to admit defeat, he struggled to get up again. Francesco kicked him in the head as hard as he could, knocking him back down to the ground.
Ignoring Pollo Grosso’s bellow of pain and anger, Francesco knelt down beside Susanna. He lifted her head onto his lap, knowing as he did that her skull had been broken. Blood ran from her nose and the corner of her mouth. It flowed thick and warm over his hand and spilled onto his cloak.
He knew he didn’t have much time. His heart was pounding in his chest, and fragments of words escaped his lips. Things he wanted to say yet had no words for. And so he just held her, cradling her broken head and stroking her hair, sticky with blood, while she lay still in his arms, looking past him to the sky with a calm intensity. He followed her gaze for a moment and saw nothing but the same gray clouds that had been hanging over Rome for weeks. He found a few words—Remember the night I met you and you slapped me?—but he wasn’t sure he said them aloud. Was that only two months ago? He stroked her hair, shielding her face from the sleet. She did not breathe. A fox ran through the field, and somewhere a dog barked. And then she was gone. Quietly, quietly the light went from her eyes, and the words he’d wanted to say no longer mattered.
He heard Dante crying and was aware of Pollo Grosso struggling to his feet, but he couldn’t take his eyes from Susanna’s. Her soul has gone to Heaven, son—she is happy now, his father had said as they’d sat at his mother’s deathbed, but all Francesco knew was that one moment there is life and then there isn’t. Thought, happiness, love, pain, and then nothing, and he would never feel the finality of it more than he did at this moment. He placed his hand over Susanna’s eyes, those dark gypsy eyes he’d teased her about, and closed them gently.
When he looked up, he saw her coming across the field from the direction of the villa. She wore a veil, and the hood of her cloak covered her golden hair, but he knew it was her. How could I have been so stupid? He’d spoken the words aloud with only the chicken to hear, and then he’d run from the house—at that moment, he’d realized what had really happened and that Susanna was in danger. He gathered Susanna tighter in his arms, as if to keep her safe, and his hand struck something hard in the folds of her dress. His dagger. He pulled it from her pocket and set it on the icy grass beside him before looking up again at the woman walking toward him.
She skirted Pollo Grosso and came to a stop a couple of feet away from Francesco. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice steady and betraying no emotion. “I only wanted to speak with her, but as soon as she saw it was me, she ran away. I didn’t mean for him to kill her. I wanted him to bring her back, but then I suppose he saw you coming and panicked. He was protecting me.” She turned to him now, where he lay writhing on the grass. “Get up!” she commanded as if he were a dog. “Go to the house.”
And as obediently as any dog, he did just that. Blood running from his scalp, he stumbled toward the villa, but Francesco had no doubt the man would live. He had taken far worse blows in Guido’s service.
Dante followed behind Pollo Grosso, but after a dozen or so yards stopped and dropped down onto a rock under a bare thorn tree, burying his face in his hands.
She turned back toward Francesco, raising her veil, a thick lock of golden hair falling over her forehead. That golden hair. She lifted a ringless hand and unhurriedly brushed it away, a gesture he’d seen so many times, as if she were drawing attention to its wondrous color.
He had stood at the edge of the Tiber and watched her body pulled from the river. It had been a day like this. Like every day since he’d been in Rome. Gray and cold and hopeless. He had stood with the mud sucking at his boots and watched as the yellow dress, torn and muddied, pulled her under the water. Her skin the sickly green hue of a dead carp, her face smashed and broken, her golden hair entwined with weeds, her finger hacked from her hand. Most likely just another whore, he had said to the policeman before crossing over to the middle of the bridge. He had stopped there and, while overhead the gulls had circled, screeching for dead flesh, he’d watched as another policeman closed her eyes.
But they weren’t Calendula’s eyes. They were Juliet’s eyes. Juliet dressed in Calendula’s yellow dress. Juliet’s finger removed as if it had worn an amethyst ring. Juliet’s golden hair entangled with seaweed. Juliet’s face disfigured beyond recognition. Juliet. Juliet. Juliet.
He had been so close, yet had failed to see the truth. And because of his failure, not only was Juliet dead but Susanna too.
Calendula looked at him, and he saw her face framed in a field of sun-kissed marigolds. Hail Mary, full of grace. Blessed art thou among women …
I could kill her, he thought. I could pick up the dagger and kill her.
But instead, he asked, “Why am I still alive?”
“You were both fooled,” she said without answering his question. “You and Guido both. He didn’t come to kill you. He wanted your legal advice. He wanted to know how to get out of his marriage without having to pay back her dowry. Don’t feel sorry for Juliet. She was the one who told him you’d made advances on her. You were supposed to kill him. Then she’d be free, and everything would be hers.”
Francesco remembered how Raphael had come to this conclusion the night they’d visited the Sistine Chapel. He wondered how Guido had become wise to this plan. Had she tried it again with another poor bastard, until even Guido had seen the pattern to her deceit? He didn’t know if he cared. Not now, with Susanna growing cold in his arms. But Francesco was sure he knew how the rest of this story unfolded.
“Tell me if I’m right then,” he said. “Guido went to The Turk and asked him where he could find me. But when The Turk showed him The Marigold Madonna, Guido saw a much simpler solution to his problem.”
Calendula made no objection, so Francesco continued. “Guido took The Turk’s ring, a little gift with which to woo you. Tell me if I’m right, Calendula. He offered you your own little palace. Maybe not too close, but a place where you could live and where he could occasionally parade you around in your veil to keep anyone from asking questions. A place where you could be a lady again. Or pretend to. Is that how it went?”
She nodded, adjusting the hood of her cloak, bringing it closer around her face. “He said he’d set me up in a house with a staff far from the castle, but if anyone sa
w me, they’d believe I was Juliet, exiling myself from society to pay for my sins against my husband. No one would object.”
“And so you wore the amethyst ring,” Francesco said. “You flaunted it in front of everyone. It would be easy enough to believe you’d been killed for it. And if The Turk was blamed—it was his ring after all—Guido wouldn’t lose any sleep over it.”
But Guido tried to be too clever, Francesco added to himself. Had Guido just buried Juliet in the first place, instead of trying to pass off her body as Calendula’s, he might have succeeded. He’d be back in Florence now, and Calendula would be locked up with a couple of trustworthy servants while he enjoyed all of Juliet’s money. And since her family lived in Milan, there was little chance they’d visit unexpectedly.
“He thought he was very clever,” Calendula said, echoing his thoughts. “Until he learned that you’d seen the body pulled from the river and had told everyone at Imperia’s. He started to panic. He worried that Pollo Grosso hadn’t disfigured her well enough. And you were too smart, he said. You wouldn’t let it go. You’d go to the mortuary and, once up close, you would see that it was Juliet. And then you’d come looking for him, with the aid of The Turk’s men. The Turk wouldn’t be happy to know Guido had stolen the ring to implicate him. That was why Guido and Pollo Grosso went to claim the body. Pollo Grosso buried her by the wall. I know the wolves dug her up, but there was no hope of her being recognized after that.” Calendula’s voice held no remorse. No pity for the woman whose life she’d helped take, just as there was no pity for the woman growing cold in his arms. Did she believe Juliet deserved to die for her treachery, or was Juliet’s death simply a means to an end?
“Why didn’t he kill me before I went to the mortuary?” Francesco asked.
“The damage was already done. You’d already told everyone. Besides, he liked you. He talked about getting you back into his service. He thought once you learned about Juliet’s deceit …”
“He liked me?” He knew Guido had liked him before discovering his liaison with Juliet, but he was surprised to learn the man still did. Hadn’t Guido tried to kill him? Then he suddenly realized that Calendula was speaking of Guido in the past tense: He liked. He talked. He thought.
“Where’s Guido now?” he said, although he already knew the answer. “And don’t tell me Naples.”
“Dead,” she said bluntly. “Pollo Grosso killed him. I wanted Agnello. I told Guido I’d go along with his plan if he let me take my son. He agreed. None of Juliet’s babies had lived, so why wouldn’t she take to a beautiful orphan boy and adopt him as her own? That was to be my story. I didn’t care, so long as I could have Agnello back. Imperia took him from me and gave him to the Pope.” Her eyes now filled with passion, and her cheeks flushed with indignation. “I must have him back!”
“When did you tell Guido that Agnello belongs to the Pope?”
“After he returned the ring to The Turk’s. Guido wanted to leave for Florence, but I said we still had to rescue Agnello from the Pope. He flew into a rage and called me a madwoman, saying the Pope would have us murdered. We fought, but Pollo Grosso came to my defense and killed Guido. I tried to stop him, but it was too late. He left Guido’s body for the wolves.”
Big Stupid Chicken probably thought Calendula was Juliet. Juliet, whom he’d always watched like a dog in heat. Clearly, in the end, his loyalty to her was greater than to his master.
“Why did Pollo Grosso throw the torch into the soap-maker’s shop?”
She looked at him, startled. “What are you talking about? He’s been here with me the whole time.”
Francesco knew she was telling the truth. Beyond the passion with which she’d spoken of Agnello, her surprise at his question was the first emotion she’d shown. But if she weren’t lying, it could only mean one thing: Michelangelo was right. The attack had been intended for him. For all the reasons he thought. A desperate attempt by Asino and di Grassi to keep him from finishing the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
Francesco wiped the blood from the corner of Susanna’s mouth with his cloak. Beads of sleet clung to her dark lashes like tears. He had to do something. He’d heard enough.
He started to rise, but Calendula put a hand on his shoulder to stop him. She dropped to her knees, her cloak a tent around the dead girl between them. Grasping his arms tightly, she looked into his eyes. “Come with me, Francesco,” she whispered urgently. Francesco could smell her perfume. “We’ll tell them Pollo Grosso killed Guido when he tried to harm me. Or something else … You’re smart, you’ll think of something. We can live in Florence. You, me, Agnello … You can help me. I’ll live as Guido’s grieving widow, and you can be a very rich man. Far richer than Guido would ever have made you.”
She was animated now, inventing a fairy-tale ending to this gruesome story. It was as if she’d forgotten she was responsible for the death of the woman in his arms, forgotten she was Calendula, so ready was she to step into the role of Juliet, so deluded she thought he would do this for her.
She was still pleading with him, but now her voice had become seductive. “And you won’t only be rich. I’ll give you whatever you want. Anything at all. I know I remind you of her. I can be her for you. I just want Agnello. Please, Francesco.” She started to cry. “You can get him for me. You know where he is.” And now she was leaning in to him, seeking out his mouth with hers.
Why now, you bitch? he thought, reaching for his dagger. Supporting Susanna’s body with one arm, he stuck the dagger in Calendula’s face, pressing the point against her cheek, the skin denting beneath it. One sharp push and he could erase her beauty forever. She gasped, her blue eyes flickering with fear, but she held his gaze. No, he thought, not just any whore to me.
And without relinquishing his hold on the dagger, he wrapped his arm around her neck, pulling her toward him, Susanna’s body now pressed between them, the blade still against Calendula’s face now grazing his own. He kissed her with all the strength it had taken not to push his dagger through her cheek. He kissed her for Susanna, for Juliet, for everything he wanted back. His youth, his mother, his certainty. She grabbed his hair and kissed him back with the same violence, her mouth urgent and hard against his. Whatever she kissed him for, he knew it had nothing to do with seducing him. And when he finally broke away, the kiss—if that was what it was—ended as brutally as it had begun.
The only sound was the whisper of sleet and his own breathing. The expression on Calendula’s face was inscrutable.
“Go help Dante find a shovel and meet me by the grove of apple trees near the wall,” he said hoarsely.
Silently dropping the veil back over her face, Calendula obediently turned away and beckoned to Dante, who gave no sign he’d seen or comprehended what had just happened.
Francesco looked down at Susanna, as still in death as she’d been animated in life. It seemed impossible that she would no longer smile for him, her face lit up with childlike joy. He had ridiculed that joy, had seen it as proof of a simple mind, a mind unable to grasp the inevitable stupidity of human existence. But now it was the thing he would miss most about her.
He sheathed his dagger, lifted Susanna, and started up the slope toward the apple trees. Averting his gaze from Juliet’s shallow grave, he walked along the wall until he came to the grove. The tree branches were bare, coated in ice, but in spring they would be lush with fragrant white blossoms, floating down like perfumed snow. It was the only thing he could do for her.
Holding her, he looked down the slope to the garish villa, watching as Dante and Calendula made their way toward him. Dante carried not one but two shovels, an axe, and a rod, while Calendula held Susanna’s treasured bolt of silk. “I don’t know why she brought this,” Calendula said. She set it on the grass and started to unroll it.
“She brought this cloth because she thought you were Juliet and I was still in love with her,” Francesco said. “She thought she could trade it for me. Like a dowry. And I was too blind to understand j
ust how important I was to her.” They spoke calmly to each other, now just two people with a task that needed to be done.
He laid Susanna gently on the blue silk, which was already dotted by sleet. Her dowry, now her shroud.
“There are sure to be rocks and tree roots,” said Dante. “That’s why I brought the axe and rod.”
Francesco stared at him blankly, not sure at first what was wrong with him. But it wasn’t what was wrong with Dante, Francesco suddenly realized, but what was right with him. The shock of what had just transpired must have shaken him out of his delusion. For Dante was no longer a bat man, but a wood-carver who made fine moldings, helping a friend dig a grave.
“Go home, Dante,” Francesco said. “I can do this.”
Ignoring him, Dante put the tip of a shovel to the ground and stepped down on it hard. “It should be deep enough so the wolves can’t find her.”
Knowing Dante had his own ghosts to bury, Francesco murmured his agreement as he, too, set his shovel against the hard ground.
They dug together in silence, down through the layers of Rome, piling the soil to one side while on the other side Susanna’s body rested on the shimmering blue silk. Time and again, they dropped their shovels and picked up the rod to pry up a rock or the axe to chop through a tree root.
Deeper, deeper. He and Dante reached their knees, their waists. They were not deep enough yet when night settled around them. Calendula left and returned with two torches, planting them at either end of the grave.
He had never worked like this. Francesco Angeli did not labor; he carried the purses of important men, watched over their fortunes, their land, and their wives, and woe to him and everyone he loved if he should covet said wives. His arms ached, his back ached, but still he dug and chopped and pried, his tears and sweat mixing with the sleet that ran down his cheeks.
Some children came to investigate the torchlight and ran back down the hill to spread the news from farmhouse to hovel: Susanna—you remember her—the silversmith’s girl from the market.
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