The Wolves of St. Peter's

by Gina Buonaguro

  “Hidden in your cloak?” The man stepped out of the shadows, and Francesco recognized him as the guard who’d opened the Sistine Chapel the night he and Raphael had gone there on a drunken whim. The guard had been drunk too, and Francesco, detecting a slur in his voice now, assumed he was in a similar state tonight.

  “Yes,” Francesco said, deciding against reminding him of their acquaintance. The man didn’t have his spear this time, but his dagger was at the ready, his hand a little unsteady. Francesco’s own dagger was sheathed at his waist. With the boy in his arms, he was clearly at the disadvantage. “I thought it best to put him under my cloak to spare us confrontations such as this one.”

  “The boy doesn’t go to evening prayers.”

  “I know, but there are some fine new singers—” Francesco ventured.

  “I’m no fool,” the guard said. “You aren’t the first man to covet the boy. The last one who tried was hung by his own intestines. The Pope likes to watch his enemies suffer. And the guard who turned him in alive was rewarded handsomely.”

  “And if the man had offered an acceptable sum to keep his intestines where they belonged,” Francesco asked, “would it have ended differently?”

  The guard tensed, raising his dagger as Francesco reached under his cloak, but Francesco only wanted to show his purse. He invited the guard to test its weight.

  “A ruse to stick your dagger in my eye.”

  Francesco loosened the string and worked out a couple of ducats, as much as the guard earned in a month. “Perhaps if you could kindly see us to the chapel doors, we could find you several more.”

  “How many more?”

  “As many as you have fingers.”

  “To the chapel door then, and no farther.” He took out a flask and drank from it before replacing it. “And I’ll take as many ducats as I have toes too. Let me see them. But throw down your dagger. I know you have one.”

  Francesco shifted Agnello to one side and, pulling out his dagger, let it clatter to the floor before holding up his purse. “They’re all here. But I can’t show you and hold the boy at the same time.”

  The guard staggered forward, grabbing first at the dagger and then at the bag, feeling the shape of the coins beneath the fabric, then nodded toward the hall.

  The boy hadn’t so much as stirred beneath Francesco’s cloak, and Francesco shifted his weight to the other arm. They walked through the now deserted halls with the guard weaving behind them, so close Francesco could smell his stinking breath.

  When they emerged into the darkening square, vespers were already under way, and music filtered through the chapel doors.

  Francesco looked around, his eyes seizing upon a nearby skid of bricks. “I need to piss,” he said, abruptly changing direction and striding toward the skid.

  “Not without me, you aren’t,” the guard retorted. “I’m not stupid. You’re going to make a run for it and cheat me out of the money you promised.” The guard had guessed right, of course, since Francesco had no intention of giving this fool any of Susanna’s money. Besides, he didn’t trust the guard not to put up the alarm anyway and double his profits.

  “Come then,” Francesco said, putting a few precious strides between himself and the guard as he rounded the skid and found himself surrounded on all sides by stacks of bricks and boards. It was better than he could have hoped. Whatever happened here wouldn’t be discovered until the workers returned the next morning.

  “Quickly,” he whispered to Agnello, whipping him out from under his cloak and pushing him behind a couple of boards. Wordlessly the boy ducked down, arm around the doll, his wooden sword held in front of him.

  Francesco wheeled to face a wall and pretended to urinate as he curled his fingers around a brick and worked it out to the edge. Pollo Grosso bringing the club down on Susanna, Dante bringing the rock down on Pollo Grosso … and now a brick …

  “Aha!” The guard stumbled around the corner, swaying slightly as he blocked the entrance. “I knew you’d make a break for it. But there’s no way out here. Hey! Where’s the boy?”

  Francesco didn’t hesitate. He yanked out the brick and swung as hard as he could, feeling a horrible sick lurch in his stomach as the brick met the guard’s head. Blood pouring from the gash on his scalp, the man fell with a grunt, his dagger clattering across the stones. Francesco grabbed it and, flipping the man over, found his own as well.

  “Is he dead?” Agnello asked, emerging from his hiding place. He held his wooden sword out, its tip pointing down at the guard.

  “No,” Francesco said, though he didn’t know whether the guard would be dead by the time he was found. For good measure, Francesco cut one of the ropes securing the skid of bricks and bound the guard’s hands and feet. He then ripped off one of the man’s sleeves and gagged him.

  “He was the one who gave the wine to my parrot,” Agnello said, poking the unconscious guard with his sword.

  “He was a stupid shit,” Francesco muttered.

  Sheathing his dagger, he picked up the boy again and returned to the square. With darkness almost upon them, he traded a man some coins for a torch and, holding it aloft, retraced his steps from early that morning, over the Tiber, and through the fields toward The Turk’s garish old villa.

  Calendula had been watching them approach from an upstairs window. She came running toward them, Pollo Grosso not far behind. “I knew you’d come,” she cried. Tears ran down her cheeks as she took Agnello into her arms, and for a moment Francesco was convinced the boy was hers after all. Who but the child’s real mother would display such ecstasy at having her son returned to her? And what child could look happier than Agnello, radiant through his tears of joy? But it didn’t take long for Francesco to remember it was all a delusion. Calendula was not Agnello’s real mother, but she had killed for him, and while Francesco hardly thought this proved her a good guardian, he couldn’t leave the boy with Julius.

  His thoughts turned to the sore on the boy’s neck. What was it? Did he share the Pope’s affliction? If so, how long did he have to live? Francesco looked up through the darkness toward Susanna’s grave. If he were a man of faith, he’d conclude God was oblivious to the happiness of men and mocked it whenever He could. But Francesco wasn’t, so he had no answers at all. È la vita, he thought. È la vita. Once for The Turk. Once for Susanna.

  The wind was cold, and beyond the walls the wolves howled. Francesco was anxious to be away from here and heading for the docks. He should warn Calendula to watch out for the Pope’s men, but with Pollo Grosso beside her it was probably the Pope’s men who needed to worry. Somehow he knew she’d make it safely to Florence and Guido’s house, and his own father would be there to meet her.

  “My father works in Guido’s court,” Francesco said. “If any harm should come to him, I really will kill you.”

  Calendula nodded, and he turned and walked away. He’d done all he could, and probably more than he should have. He hoped he never learned how it all played out, because, happy as the scene was now, it could not stay this way.

  HE returned to Susanna’s house by way of the alley. Leaning the torch against the fireplace, he climbed onto the chair, pried out the stone, and reached inside. For one panicked moment he thought the boxes were gone, but then his fingers brushed against metal. Relieved, he pulled them toward him as quietly as possible. He could hear Michelangelo snoring through the common wall.

  Francesco placed the boxes in the bottom of a pack, covering them with a blanket from the bed and topping it with the box of honey cakes from the table. He tied the pack over his shoulder and pulled his cloak around it, thinking what a prize he was for robbers tonight. He checked for his dagger, picked up the torch, took one last look around the room, and closed the door behind him.

  He walked to the port without incident. The wind had grown colder, and the air was laden with dampness. It was quiet along the docks. A few torches burned on the ships’ decks, but other than sullen guards hunched under their cloaks, th
ere was no one around.

  The man who let him onto The Turk’s boat was the same man who’d given Susanna the bolt of silk, but while Francesco recognized him, he didn’t recognize Francesco. Francesco might have left it that way, but he had a question for him. Assuring him first that he had no intention of telling The Turk about the “gift” of cloth, he asked about the boys di Grassi and Asino had come to buy but found too old. “I heard they escaped that same night,” Francesco said.

  The man looked over Francesco’s shoulder out into the night. “Sometimes a hatch doesn’t get closed properly,” he said slowly. “Don’t know how it happened.”

  After the man had shared a cup of wine with Francesco, he offered him a bunk below, but Francesco found the stench of unwashed bodies so overwhelming he was soon back on deck. He looked around until he found a sheltered spot under some sails that, having come untied from the boom, formed a tent of sorts. The man offered him a few dry sacks, and Francesco spread them over the damp planks.

  Francesco sat in his tent, pulled the blanket out of his pack, and wrapped it around himself before leaning back against a barrel. The pack he kept tied over his shoulder, admonishing himself to sleep lightly. However she’d earned it, he would not lose Susanna’s hard-won fortune over a good night’s sleep.

  Shielded from the wind, he was close to being warm and comfortable in his little tent. The rain started again, but it splattered harmlessly against the canvas. He even felt a bit hungry and ate one of the honey cakes, thinking how Susanna would have first licked the honey from the top. He listened to the river lapping against the sides of the ship, the creaking of timbers, the wolves calling to each other in the hills, the rain on the tent, and, unable to stop himself, fell asleep.

  HE was awakened by shouts and by light creeping in around the edges of his tent. He felt a quick stab of panic when he realized he’d fallen asleep, but his pack was still safe at his side. It suddenly occurred to him that maybe the money Susanna had so generously bequeathed him was not actually hers but the silversmith’s. But he had no time for guilt or anything else because the boom over his head was shifting, and his tent quickly resumed its purpose as a sail. He rubbed his eyes, and when he opened them, he was looking at The Turk’s massive boots.

  “I see we’ve got a stowaway,” roared The Turk. “Welcome aboard, boy.”

  Francesco bade him a good morning as he staggered stiffly to his feet.

  “Been asked to watch out for stowaways,” The Turk continued. “The Pope’s boy was kidnapped last night.” He studied Francesco with his little black eyes.

  Francesco stuffed his blanket into his pack. “What did the man look like?” he asked as carelessly as he could.

  “He was wearing a black cloak,” The Turk said. “It would appear the boy was smuggled out under it, and that this man had a little help from one of the Vatican guards. The poor bastard was found this morning, bound and gagged in the square.”

  “Alive?” Francesco asked, still doing his best to sound disinterested.

  “For now. The Pope is furious, and I don’t think he’ll let the guard off with a few harsh words. It might have been better for him if the man in the cloak had put a swift end to him. And I’d imagine, too, that the man in the cloak would want to get away as fast as possible. Good thing he decided not to take a boat.”

  He knows, Francesco thought, but he also knew that, for whatever reason, The Turk was unperturbed.

  “Doesn’t matter,” The Turk went on. “The Pope will just find another boy. Anyway, it’ll be a miserable start on this river. One spends more time being hauled over sandbars by oxen than sailing. But once we make it to sea, it’s different.” The Turk inhaled deeply, as if already breathing in the healthy sea air. “I love the smell of salt air in the morning, boy,” he said. “I’ve taken a liking to you, and I’ll make a sailor of you yet. And to be a sailor is to be a man.” He leaned over the side, his bulk seeming to threaten the boat’s stability. “Untie those ropes,” he called down to the dockworkers before walking with the help of his eagle-topped cane to the helm, where he took the ship’s wheel.

  Francesco watched him go, then found himself a spot in the stern, away from flying ropes, swinging booms, and cursing sailors. From here he looked back on the city, shrouded in gray fog. They passed the Emporium, and he looked over the fields toward the Pyramid of Cestius, where he had buried Susanna among the apple trees.

  Before he could dwell much longer on this, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned and stared in disbelief, then laughed. “Can it really be you?” he asked. “You know you’re breaking Michelangelo’s heart.”

  He was glad no one could hear him, for they would have thought him foolish for talking to a chicken. Of course, the chicken said nothing, just gave a funny hop from one side to the other before cocking its head and giving Francesco that slightly admonishing look he’d always found so unsettling. Francesco scooped up the chicken and held it tightly.

  “I can’t believe you knew where to find me. You must have the nose of a hunting dog. Stick with me if you don’t want to end up in the cook’s pot.”

  Is a chicken with three legs a good or bad omen? Susanna had asked him. Her smile flashed before his eyes as vividly as if she were standing there. Francesco felt a lump in his throat, and as the ship slipped past the walls of the ancient city, he held the chicken close and cried into its feathers.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  THANKS TO OUR FAMILIES AND FRIENDS FOR THEIR ONGOING support and encouragement; Ivan “Bud” Caswell, Ian Coutts, Catharine Lyons-King, Susan Neal, June Richards, Andy Ruston, Alexander and Gail Scala, Walter Schuster, and Hannah Silverman for reading drafts and/or giving us valuable input; Christian Catalini for being our Italian language consultant; Cheryl Estrella as well as Krishna and Christine Agrawal for child-care support; and Jessica Tremblay and her “wolves” (Sharayah and Taima) for the author photos.

  We are grateful to the staff at Westwood Creative Artists, in particular our agent, John Pearce, as well as to the staff at HarperCollins Canada, especially Lorissa Sengara, Noelle Zitzer, and Nicola Reddy, and to copy editors Sue Sumeraj, Stephanie Fysh, and Kelly Jones.

  Special thanks to Westley Côté for the title and being our all-around Renaissance guy, and to Benvenuto Cellini for inspiring Dante, as well as the necromancer and the “zombies.”

  We found the following books to be invaluable and hope the authors will accept our apologies for the liberties taken with their brilliant research: Michelangelo and the Pope’s Ceiling by Ross King, Renaissance Rome 1500–1559: A Portrait of a Society by Peter Partner, Basilica: The Splendor and the Scandal: Building St. Peter’s by R.A. Scotti, and The Better Angels of Our Nature: Why Violence Has Declined by Steven Pinker.

  For its generous financial support, we are once again grateful to the Ontario Arts Council.

  About the Authors

  GINA BUONAGURO and JANICE KIRK live in Toronto and Kingston, respectively. After meeting in a French class in Kingston, they became writing partners and co-authors. They are the authors of two previous novels, The Sidewalk Artist and Ciao Bella. Visit them online at http://sidewalkartist.blogspot.ca or on Facebook.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

  Copyright

  The Wolves of St. Peter’s

  Copyright © 2013 by Gina Buonaguro and Janice Kirk.

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  EPub Edition © MARCH 2013 ISBN: 978-1-
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