“Did you know, under the right conditions in the grave, the human body can turn to soap?” It was a macabre fact to bring up at the best of times, let alone right after he’d buried the woman he loved.
Still, Raphael chuckled. “How do you know such things?”
“I don’t know. And worse, I don’t forget them.”
“I know it seems impossible, my friend, but there will come a time when you can laugh again.”
“I can tell you one thing for certain. I no longer feel like a boy. I feel like a tired old man.”
THE baths were housed in a cavernous stone building with a vaulted ceiling, massive stone pillars, and high arched windows that filtered the light through milky glass. In the center of the room was a round pool lined with stone. These were thermal baths, heated from the earth. The hot water filled the room with clouds of white steam.
A bored-looking group of prostitutes gathered languidly by the side of the pool. As the men approached, they dropped their robes to the floor. As always, Francesco felt a little embarrassed by their brazenness, but Raphael greeted them, a few even by name, and gave them a couple of coins to watch his and Francesco’s clothes and provide them with towels.
“Only towels, every time. You break our hearts,” one said to Raphael. Her smile revealed a chipped front tooth that made Francesco think of Susanna. She caught Francesco looking at her and smiled invitingly, but he quickly turned away.
“You will confuse your biographers, Raphael,” Francesco said after they had settled into the steaming pool. The heat soothed his aching muscles.
“My biographers? Why should I have biographers?”
“Don’t play modest with me, Raphael. I saw your painting of Julius. You have become the favorite painter of a pope who will be remembered for restoring the glory of Rome. For all his faults—and they are myriad—he didn’t take Julius Caesar’s name in vain. And you’ll be remembered along with him as one of Rome’s greatest artists.”
Raphael laughed. “And if you are right, how will I confuse my biographers?”
“They’ll tell of the beautiful women you painted. They’ll tell of your charm, your manners, your beauty, and conclude that you were one of history’s great lovers. But they’ll be wrong. Instead, you pine for some mythical woman, one you cannot begin to describe, though with every painting you make the attempt. I truly hope you’ll meet her one day, and together you’ll be very happy. Just be sure you don’t let her slip through your fingers.”
Raphael laughed again, a little sadly this time. “And how will Michelangelo be remembered?”
“Michelangelo won’t be remembered for his charm and beauty, that’s for certain. People will look at his paintings of men with the bodies of Roman gods and wonder if he preferred their company over that of women. He will be remembered as your antithesis, and people will fight over who was the greater of the two.”
“And his houseboy?” Raphael asked. “How will he be remembered?”
“He’ll be forgotten. As will the silversmith’s housekeeper.”
THEY said their good-byes a short time later at Raphael’s door. Francesco embraced Raphael, promising to write once it was safe and expressing fervent hopes they would meet again.
With Michelangelo’s ill-fitting clothes in a bundle under his arm, he walked through the square, past Imperia’s, and toward the Sistine Chapel. The guard refused to let him pass, and it wasn’t until Michelangelo’s voice boomed out “Is that you, Francesco?” that the man stepped aside.
“I’m sorry,” the guard apologized. “But I’m under the strictest of orders from the master of ceremonies not to let anyone in.” He seemed afraid to even utter aloud Paride di Grassi’s name.
“I understand,” Francesco said, giving the nervous guard a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Keep up the good work.”
Francesco made the forty-foot climb up the ladder to the scaffold for what he knew to be the last time. Without a word, he passed Bastiano, who in turn pretended not to see Francesco. The other two assistants nodded at him but said nothing, and he couldn’t help but think Bastiano had told them a biased version of their altercation at Susanna’s. Francesco thought of the coins waiting for him in the silversmith’s chimney. Had Bastiano found them, he’d be a very rich man now, freed from Michelangelo’s temper and surely very far away. Francesco could only hope Bastiano would be working as a lowly assistant until the day he died.
Michelangelo was at work on one of the lunettes beneath his new version of The Flood. That first fresco had taken so long for him to complete, but he seemed to have learned everything he needed to now proceed at a remarkable pace. Standing in front of the lunette’s newly plastered surface, he shifted impatiently from foot to foot as if willing it to dry. In his left hand he held one of his drawings and in the other his brush. At his feet was a pot of black pigment for sketching in the figures. He had become so confident that, instead of tracing the figures’ outlines with the use of full-sized cartoons, he was painting them freehand.
Michelangelo ignored Francesco’s greeting. “I’ve been told Raphael bribed the guard the other night in order to get in here,” Michelangelo said instead. “What do you know of that?”
“Sounds like the excuse of a guard who fell asleep at his post,” Francesco half-lied.
Michelangelo looked at him suspiciously, his gnarled features obliterating all traces of his earlier fatherly tenderness, as Francesco had predicted. “Well, if Raphael wants to sneak around and steal more of my ideas, you tell him he’ll have to wait until spring,” Michelangelo said, turning his attention back to the wall. “I can’t work much longer in this weather.”
“And in the meantime, what will you do?”
“I shall finish the drawings and work on my plans for Julius’s tomb. This ceiling is but a small matter. The tomb is my destiny.”
“As it is to be the destiny of us all.” Francesco glanced down the platform to where Bastiano and the others were working and lowered his voice. “I’m leaving Rome and have come to say good-bye.”
Michelangelo set the tip of his brush to the plaster. “It has to be just dry enough to form a skin that will take the brush without tearing.”
Francesco took this apparent lack of attention to his words as Michelangelo’s consent. His father and Michelangelo had an agreement, and it wasn’t really up to Francesco to violate the terms. “Thank you for the loan of clothes,” he said, setting down the bundle. “You’re to have no kind words for me, you understand. I’ve run off and left you without a houseboy. You’d believe anything of me.”
“That shouldn’t be difficult. You’ve been a useless houseboy.”
“Exactly,” Francesco said, though he was unsure whether Michelangelo was jesting. “I’m only thinking of your safety. Will you write my father?”
“And say what?”
“That I’m sorry.”
“And can he expect your return?”
“Should I live. And if he’ll have me.”
Michelangelo touched the surface of the plaster again, then, dropping the sketch, he picked up the pot of black paint and dipped in his brush. “I shall advise him to do so,” he said as he inscribed a long, graceful arc. “And I suggest you stay alive long enough so as not to disappoint him.”
“Thank you. As for you, you’re right to watch out for di Grassi and Asino. Watch out for Bastiano too. He’s a thief.”
This short farewell had transpired without Michelangelo so much as glancing at him, but as Francesco started backing down the ladder to the floor, he saw Michelangelo turn toward him. Francesco raised a hand, and to his surprise Michelangelo, holding his brush aloft, raised his too. Francesco smiled the rest of the way to the chapel floor.
FRANCESCO was beyond the port when he saw a thick cloud of black smoke curling up from the hills. Worried it was coming from The Turk’s home, he picked up his pace. When he reached the great gates marking the beginning of the cypress-flanked drive, there was no longer any doubt. The marble
facade was blackened, the roof had caved in, and black smoke billowed from the interior.
Halfway up the drive, Francesco found The Turk leaning on his cane, calmly watching his home burn. “What happened?” Francesco asked just as a loud explosion blew out an entire side of the house, sending up a plume of sparks and debris. Francesco instinctively ducked, but The Turk appeared unfazed.
“There goes my collection of weaponry,” The Turk said with a sigh as the boom echoed around the hills. “Surprised it didn’t blow before now. All that saltpeter.” His great bald head swiveled toward Francesco.
“What happened?” Francesco repeated.
“Blasted monkey was teasing the lion. He’d wait until the lion was asleep and then jump up and down on the cage and pelt him with fruit. Drove the poor beast to distraction. Finally he’d had enough and broke out of the cage, chased the monkey all over the house, smashing and breaking everything in sight. And what a sight it was—over the tables, under the beds, in and out the doors … At the height of the madness, he knocked over a stove and set the kitchen on fire.”
“Where’s your staff?” Francesco remembered Mosa, the little girl who’d waited on him the day before, the one who’d been so afraid of the lion.
“All gone,” The Turk said. “Scattered into the hills like scared rabbits.”
“And the lion and monkey?”
“Not far behind them,” The Turk said with a chuckle, as though the sight had been amusing enough to be worth the destruction of his home. “Now tell me what had you running out of here yesterday like there was a lion on your tail and a monkey on your back? Why all the interest in who was staying at my other villa?”
Francesco shrugged. He thought of Calendula’s portrait burning inside, the genesis of all this trouble. Had it not been painted, Calendula would never have come to believe that Agnello was her son, a delusion that surely would have ended with her death at the hands of the Pope’s men, had Francesco not led Guido to her. Inadvertently, in leaving Florence, Francesco had altered the course of events in Rome. He had perhaps even saved Calendula, although in her stead, Juliet, Marcus, Guido, and Susanna had all died. Maybe that was why he would get Agnello. To atone. It wouldn’t make things right, but this was Rome, and it was the best he could hope to do.
“Will you move to that old villa then, the one you rented to Guido?” Francesco asked, evading The Turk’s question. He tried to imagine the meeting between The Turk and Calendula. How would The Turk feel about being duped by her? Then again, he might not get that far before he was wearing Pollo Grosso’s dagger in his back.
“No,” The Turk was saying, “not there. That would be going back, and my motto is Never retreat. Always forward. Take no prisoners. No regrets. To go back is to give up. I have a ship leaving tomorrow for Venice and then on to the east.” His eyes were bright with excitement at the prospect of this new adventure, even as his house and all his treasures burned before his eyes. “Turkey, Cyprus, Lebanon, Egypt, who knows where, but I’ll be on it. Onward, always onward.”
“Any room for me on that ship?” Francesco asked impulsively. He would go to Venice. Unlike The Turk, he would take a few steps back, back to the city he’d visited in his student years, and start again, but this time with a little more wisdom and humility.
The Turk’s head pivoted again on its cushions of fat, his beady black eyes sizing up Francesco. “I know not to ask a man why he does the things he does,” he said. “But you haven’t answered me. You went up to the pyramid to see where Calendula’s body was buried, and then you came back, asking questions about my wife’s cousin. What did Guido have to say?”
Francesco shrugged. “Nothing. Guido has gone to Naples. Perhaps he’s visiting your wife. I’m told Guido’s wife is returning to Florence, accompanied by Guido’s bodyguard. There was nothing else to be learned. The body was dug up by wolves, as Dante said. There was nothing to be found, and no one saw anything.” He stopped, realizing he was rambling. What was the point in telling The Turk anything? He couldn’t avenge Calendula’s death, as she wasn’t dead. In time The Turk would learn that Guido had perished on the way to or from Naples—whatever story Calendula invented. He would learn, too, that Guido’s widow wore a veil and resided quietly, shunning visitors. Except for a boy. A boy she had adopted in Rome.
The Turk looked back to his villa as another wall crumpled under the heat of the fire. “And I don’t even have her portrait … such a lovely girl. But è la vita, eh, boy?” he said cheerfully, slapping Francesco robustly on the shoulder. “The ship sails at dawn. I advise you to be there tonight. I wait for no man.”
Reeling under The Turk’s blow, Francesco thanked him. He’d be there—if he was still alive.
He’d gone several yards when The Turk called after him. “Francesco! That ring Calendula was wearing. Do you think Guido could have taken it from me and given it to her?”
Francesco shook his head hard, a little too hard. Shooting stars blurred his vision. For one moment, he was sure he saw The Turk’s stuffed crocodile rise from the smoke and fly away like the mythical phoenix. “Why would he do that?” he shouted back.
“I don’t know. Just never really liked the man,” The Turk called out, echoing his sentiments of the previous day.
“Neither did I,” Francesco muttered as he continued along the drive.
FRANCESCO waited in the deepening shadows of St. Peter’s for the bells to toll vespers. There were few workmen left in the square. While the foremen often kept the workers late, in the past few weeks, even they’d lost their taste for labor, only too happy to return home early to a warm fire and dry clothes.
It was raining again, a fine drizzle that beaded on his velvet cloak. He’d almost stopped noticing this rain, it had become so omnipresent. Like the wolves. How long had they been howling this evening? He hadn’t noticed them until just now.
He would do this one last thing. Then he’d retrieve the money from the silversmith’s chimney and board The Turk’s ship. In the morning they’d set sail for Venice.
Finally the bells tolled vespers, and he watched as a half-dozen cardinals in their scarlet robes led the way to the Sistine Chapel. An errant choirboy pushed his way through them, no doubt anticipating a beating for being late. A handful of cowled monks and Paride di Grassi came next. Then the Pope himself. Alone.
Francesco didn’t hesitate. This was the only chance he’d have. He crossed the square, passing the chapel door, and boldly entered the Vatican palace. The men milling in the great entrance hall were preparing to leave, books tucked under their arms. No hope of an audience with His Holiness tonight, he imagined them thinking. The Pope is at vespers. He will come back and eat his dinner and enjoy the flesh of young boys.
No, Francesco thought, they do not think that. Or maybe they do.
Beyond the great hall, it was relatively quiet. The servants he met avoided his gaze and he theirs, and so he reached the room of the parrot without incident. A servant was in the process of lighting the tall candelabras. He left, head lowered, when Francesco entered. He’ll be questioned, Francesco thought, but he doubted whether the servant would be able to give much of a description.
“It is you,” Agnello said. He held his doll in one hand, a wooden sword in the other. He looked very small, occupying just a tiny square of marble in the vast room. His cloak was crumpled in a heap beside him, while behind him the parrot’s roost was empty. The frescoes had been stripped from the walls, revealing bare stone. Clearly Julius had plans for this room too.
“Where’s the parrot?”
“He drank too much wine and fell from the perch.”
Francesco could tell Agnello was trying hard not to cry. “I’m very sorry,” Francesco said, wondering what ass would give wine to a parrot. “I have a question for you, and you must answer it very carefully. Will you do that?”
The boy nodded. He got to his feet without relinquishing sword or doll. “Can I have your chicken?”
Francesco smiled at h
im. “I’m asking the question, remember?”
Agnello nodded, the light from the candles dancing in his golden hair.
“I can take you to see the lady in the painting. But if I do, you can never, ever come back here. Is that what you want?”
Agnello nodded again, his expression unchanged. “But she is in Hell …”
Francesco bent down and, taking Agnello by the shoulders, looked into his cornflower blue eyes. “I need you to listen to me very carefully,” he said. “She is not in Hell, and she is not your mother. She thinks she is your mother, and she wants to be your mother—”
“She is my mother,” Agnello said, his eyes now taking on an icy blue resolve.
Francesco picked up the boy’s cloak and was fastening it around his shoulders when his fingers brushed against something spongy on the boy’s neck. Without saying a word, Francesco lifted one of the boy’s long curls and found an oozing red sore the size of a small coin. Quickly Francesco let go of the curl, took the boy’s hand, and asked him in a slightly shaky voice if he was ready to go. Agnello nodded. He was a slight child, but Francesco, his arms aching from digging, grimaced as he lifted him. He imagined the questions. Have you seen the boy? And they could only reply, We saw a man in a black cloak. Maybe he hid the boy under it.
“Hang on tightly and be as quiet as your doll,” he entreated the boy. Still grasping his toys, Agnello obediently wrapped his free arm around Francesco’s neck and silently laid his head against his chest. “Good,” Francesco said as he pulled his cloak around them both.
“Where are you going with him?”
Francesco wheeled around and saw a figure standing in the shadows of the doorway. He’d thought this the insane mission of a man who didn’t care whether he lived or died, but his heart now pounded fearfully in his chest. He held Agnello tightly. The voice was faintly familiar, if not friendly, and Francesco struggled to place it as he produced the answer he’d prepared. “I’m taking him to the chapel for vespers.”
The Wolves of St. Peter's Page 24