3 - Cruel Music (14 page)

I moved my damp feet closer to the
scaldino
that occupied the space between our two stools. We had settled in Liya’s attic quarters after filling our stomachs with bread smothered in spicy meat sauce and consigning little Tito to the care of Nonna Maddelena, a pleasant, gray-haired woman of wide hips and meaty forearms. No stove or fire graced this room, so we warmed ourselves at the ceramic pot filled with smoldering charcoal that kept the chill away from many a poor household.

“I don’t know, Liya. I find it difficult to imagine Lenci driven to such violence. He talked about the girl in a callous vein, but I put that down to immature boasting. I’ve seen the way he looked at her. Underneath the arrogant posturing, I think Lenci truly cared for Gemma.
Cares
, I should say. If he didn’t murder her, the boy doesn’t even know she’s dead. He thinks she’s serving Lady Mary at the Palazzo Pompetti.”

“Perhaps Gemma was pushing for more than Lenci wanted to give.”

“Money? Lenci said that Fabiani was giving her a handsome bonus for gleaning information about Pompetti.”

“I was thinking of marriage.”

“How could she expect that? Lenci is a cleric.”

“These young men in Rome seem to jump in and out of holy orders as easily as a bird hops from branch to branch. The Quirinal and the Vatican abound with opportunities for place and preferment, but the Church is not the only game going. Perhaps Gemma was trying to convince her lover to shed his cassock.”

I shook my head. “Marrying a girl from the servant’s hall would hardly advance Lenci’s prospects. At present, he has little money of his own, but if he remains loyal to his uncles, he will surely come into his share of the Montorio wealth.”

“Ah.” Liya sent me a tight grin. “Which uncle? The one intent on snaring a Montorio papacy? Or the one running from that prospect with all his might?”

I shrugged, unsure. I was still reeling from Stefano Montorio’s startling declaration, and Lenci’s loyalty was yet to be determined. “At any rate,” I responded. “If Gemma’s demands grew too strident, Lenci could have just walked away. It happens every day—a servant romanced, fed on dreams of class-blind love, then left with a broken heart—and not just the women. Why would Lenci stoop to murder?”

Liya returned my shrug. “If there is an explanation, the Tito I used to know wouldn’t rest until he discovered what it is.”

“If I were smart, I’d forget the entire sorry affair. Gemma’s murder really has nothing to do with me.”

“Except that Cardinal Fabiani set you squarely in the middle.” Liya sat forward, hands on her knees. The glow from the pot lit her chin and gently rounded cheeks, casting her eyes into shadow. “Why do you think he had Rossobelli summon you of all people? A loyal footman or stableman would have provided more muscle to carry the body to the river.”

“Fabiani knew I was a Montorio man from the beginning. He must have been seething, being forced to welcome someone who wasn’t under his absolute authority into his household. He maneuvered me into disposing of Gemma’s corpse to counterbalance Antonio Montorio’s influence. I’ve done Fabiani’s dirty work—now he has a hold on me, too.”

“Poor Tito, being pulled in two directions. No,” she quickly corrected herself. “Three directions.”

I glanced uneasily around the angled ceilings and shadowed nooks of Liya’s attic, then at the woman before me. For so many years I’d longed for this easy intimacy with Liya. I’d wanted to share my life with her: the life I’d led before Messer Grande had dragged me from my home, not the life of desperate papal politics. But how was that to be, with so many obstacles blocking our way? I pushed up from my stool and began to pace the open space between Liya’s bed and the low couch that served her son.

“It’s poor Alessandro, really,” I said. “If I can’t resolve this mess, he will be the one to suffer. Except for Cardinal Di Noce, all the churchmen I’ve encountered seem more anxious for pleasure or promotion in this world than salvation in the next. And they aren’t worried about who might get hurt in their drive to realize their ambitions.”

“What you need is information—something that will tip the scales back in your favor.” Liya stirred the coals in the scaldino with a short iron poker.

I nodded. We’d been talking a long time. The candles were burning low and the room was beginning to get smoky, making my eyes sting and tear. I pushed the casement window over her bed open a crack. The rain had stopped, giving way to a foggy, early dusk. In a window across the way, someone lit a lamp, a beacon of ocher light shining through the gray mist. I took in a deep breath of fresh air and rested my forehead on the corner of the cool windowsill.

When I turned back, Liya was opening a battered trunk set in one of the nooks formed by the sloping eaves. She removed a small calfskin pouch. I watched with interest as she moved to stand over the scaldino, took a generous pinch of some powdery substance from the pouch, then let a glittering stream fall from her fingers onto the coals. Flames of blue and silver sprang to meet her hand. No sooner had they been swallowed back into the pot than a pungent, exotic odor invaded my nose and a shudder ran over me.

“What are you doing?” I whispered, suddenly recalling my visions of winged imps.

She swept her arm in a beckoning gesture. “Tito, come sit. I think I may have an idea, but I must ponder it in my own way.”

I slowly returned to my stool, eyes wide and nerves tingling.

“Do you still have the cimaruta you found outside the pavilion?” Liya asked, settling across from me with her gaze trained on the coals that now glowed in bright shifting hues.

“Yes,” I answered, digging in my waistcoat. “I thought it would be safer in my pocket than back at the Villa Fabiani.” I gave the amulet and its dangling charms another close look before handing it to Liya. “You said that these branches worked in silver represent a plant sacred to Diana.”

“Rue, the herb of grace. Besides conferring good fortune and protection, a cimaruta shows the wearer to be a disciple of the good goddess.”

“The same Diana that the ancient Romans worshipped as the goddess of the moon and the hunt?”

She nodded, never shifting her gaze from the pot. “Diana is only one of her names. The people of Florence call her Tana. In Naples, she’s known as Jana. By all her names, she’s far older than Rome, as old as Mother Earth herself. The priests of the new religion drove her from her temples and put up new statues of virgins and martyrs, but Diana never forgets her people. Centuries ago, she sent her daughter Aradia to teach us and free us.”

Realizing I’d been holding my breath, I snatched some air to ask a question, but Liya shook her head and pressed a finger to her lips. “Quiet, I must have quiet.” Cupping the cimaruta in her left palm, she pressed it to her heart and began to rock gently back and forth. I had seen fortune tellers at carnival booths strike a similar pose, but this was different. Liya was not play-acting; she was allowing me a peek at her cherished beliefs.

When she spoke again, her voice was harsh, panting, as if she had just run a great distance. “I see a woman, tall, blond, with a long chin…she wears classical robes…heavy golden rings hang from her ears.”

My mouth was dry. “Lady Mary,” I croaked.

“A man stands behind her with his hand on her shoulder…he’s dressed the same way…” Liya fell silent. Beads of sweat broke out on her forehead.

“What does he look like?”

“An older man…very upright and proud…black hair threaded
with gray. I’ve seen him before, at the theater.”

“Prince Pompetti!” I peered down into the scaldino. The humble chafing pot held no visions for me, but it was telling Liya quite a tale.

“They stand before a golden door embossed with crossed keys,” she cried. “The woman smiles and spreads her arms, but the man shakes his head. He’s saying something.”

“What?”

Liya swayed on the stool. “Don’t know…it fades.” Her lips went slack, her eyes closed. She slumped with a groan, and I sprang to catch her before she fell to the floor. Her faint was fleeting. As I held her, she burrowed into my chest and reached up to stroke my cheek with her hand. Tightening my arms, I kissed the top of her head.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

She raised her chin and smiled. “Perfectly all right. And now I know what you must do.”

I wondered if the scene Liya had described had come more from her own head than from the pot, but either way, I was interested to hear her advice.

“Pompetti and his lady are hiding a secret. The keys of St. Peter tell us that it concerns the papal throne. While she was waiting on Lady Mary at the palazzo, Gemma must have uncovered something of great import…”

“Something worth killing for,” I said, finishing her thought.

Liya sat up and crossed her legs under her skirt. Her black eyes glittered in the candlelight. “Tito, tell me again exactly when Gemma was killed.”

“It was late on January eleventh, or perhaps the first minutes of the twelfth.”

“Around midnight, then?”

“Yes.”

“The night of the full moon,” she said thoughtfully.

“So it was,” I replied, shifting uneasily at the recollection of the silvery light that had bathed the waters of Gemma’s final resting place.

She bobbed a decisive nod. “You have to follow in Gemma’s footsteps, Tito.”

“I agree, but how? Fabiani would never give me leave to go snooping at the Palazzo Pompetti.”

Her fingers tightened around the cimaruta. “Leave it to me, caro. I’ll find a way.”

Nodding slowly, I pulled her close again. This time it was her mouth that I kissed.

Chapter Fourteen

The days that followed dragged by at a snail’s pace, each seeming longer than the one before. Never had I felt so much a prisoner of another man’s routine. Singing at supper parties and conversazioni filled my evenings, and I was often summoned to serenade Fabiani throughout the small hours of the night.

During those intimate concerts, I tarried as long as I dared between songs, speaking of this and that, hoping that Fabiani would start musing about the coming conclave as he had with Tucci. Not surprisingly, the cardinal saw through my stratagem right away. “Let music reign here,” he commanded, deep-set eyes staring from under his scarlet nightcap. “I won’t allow the cares of the day to follow me into my bed chamber. Sing as I bid you, otherwise be silent.”

The gossip mongers announced that Pope Clement had fallen into a prolonged sleep and was taking no nourishment. Spurred by the approach of the inevitable, Cardinal Montorio pressed me harder than ever. Abate Lenci confirmed that a Montorio cousin was the vice-superintendent of prisons, but whether this man was Zio Stefano’s pawn, I dared not ask. And so I temporized as best I could, following the news from the Quirinal as avidly as the Roman oddsmakers. Day by day we all waited, but the old man must have been made of stern stuff. Unable to discuss my worries with anyone in the villa besides Benito, I plastered a smile on my face and went about my duties.

During the day, Fabiani spent much of his time at the Quirinal. Still, my time was not my own. Before he left, I was always presented with a list: transpose and copy a bundle of scores, learn the arias from
Ricimero
and other recent operas which had captured his fancy, entertain the marchesa.

That last occupied a good bit of my time. Matilda was not as skilled at keeping the old lady out of trouble as Gemma had been. When she was awake, Marchesa Fabiani displayed only two states of being. She either sat in a silent trance with her mouth hanging open or rambled about the villa with a furious energy fueled by impulses known only to her. The kitchen had lately become one of her favorite haunts. Several times a day, a scullery maid reeking of smoke and grease ran through the villa’s pristine upper hallways, calling for Matilda to come and collect her charge before the cook started throwing pots and pans. When it was discovered that a lively dance tune could keep the marchesa amused, my fate was sealed.

“Another
volta
,” she begged one morning after toeing and dipping her way around the music room to a sedate minuet. She had already breakfasted with her son and was feeling especially playful. When the cardinal had gone off to receive his morning callers, the marchesa had demanded music and I was summoned.

I attacked the harpsichord keys with more vigor, accelerating the tempo. The marchesa whirled and kicked. Her silver hair came loose from its pins, spreading out like a ragged curtain blown by the wind. The sight of her multiple reflections in the wall mirrors delighted her as much as it would a five-year-old. But in a short time, her breathing became harsh and her whirling slowed.

I patted the space beside me on the bench. “Take a rest, My Lady. I’ll play one of my favorites for you.”

Hoisting the skirts of her day dress above her knees, Marchesa Fabiani ascended the dais and plopped down on the bench. Her new maid had withdrawn to a distant corner of the salon. Matilda had her head bent to a piece of mending, showing only the crown of her white cap. For the moment I had the cardinal’s mother all to myself.

“And how are you doing today, My Lady?” My fingers ranged over the keys as I favored Marchesa Fabiani with a smile that had disarmed many a princess and prima donna. She responded with a flirtatious look that took ten years off her age. In her prime, I thought, the old lady must have been quite something.

“I’m in fine spirits, Signor Amato, thanks to your lovely music.”

So she remembered who I was. It must be one of her better days. I was eager to discover what else she might remember.

“I was sorry to hear that Gemma is no longer with us,” I ventured. “I hope you’re not missing your maid too much.”

She made a face. “That slyboots. She left without a word to me, you know. On our Tuscany estate, the servants understood that loyalty to the family came first. They did everything they could to oblige and protect us. These Romans follow their whims and do exactly as they please.”

“Did Gemma have whims?”

“More than whims. A lover! She thought I didn’t know, but the stupid girl was transparent as glass.” The marchesa cackled with glee. “I caught him once, coming away from the back stairway setting his breeches to rights. Gemma came up a moment later. You must know him—the young man who serves the Venetian ambassador—the one who looks like an angel in a Botticelli painting.”

“Ah,” I murmured. “You are speaking of Abate Massimo Lenci.”

“Is that his name?” She plucked at her straggling silver locks. “A beautiful boy, but a bit womanish and pale. He dresses far too well for an abate and looks like he runs from the sunshine. Not the rugged sort at all…” She trailed off with a dreamy smile.

“I’m told that Abate Lenci enjoyed tending the grapevines on his father’s farm—before he was brought to Rome by his uncles, that is.”

“Hm…” The marchesa was still lost in her thoughts but suddenly roused and shook her head. “With that pretty face, he could have any woman he wants, I should think. I wonder why he wastes his time on a dirty little thief.”

My hands faltered on the keys. “A thief? Gemma?”

“Stole my things she did. Took my chocolate pot and the cups that go with it. Took my silver brush and put a cheap one in its place.” The marchesa’s voice rose. “Thought I wouldn’t notice. Crazy—that’s what they call me, don’t they?” Her gaze suddenly darted to the corners of the salon and her fists clenched. “Don’t they? Don’t they?”

“Who, My Lady? Who would say such a thing?” I patted her arm in a vain effort to calm her.

“Everyone. Even the footman at the door taunts me.” She jumped up, poised for flight. “Even you. You think I’m crazy, too. I can see it in your face.”

“No, no, My Lady. Not at all. I’m concerned for you. If things are missing, you must tell the cardinal. Your son will sort it all out.”

“I have told him,” she wailed. “Lorenzo doesn’t believe me. He says I just forget where I put things. But Lorenzo doesn’t know. He doesn’t understand. Gemma steals my things and hides them, then I have to steal them back and hide them from her.”

“My Lady…” I started helplessly. But the marchesa had taken off. She ran headlong across the shiny floor, stumbling and weeping. Matilda threw her mending aside. With a surprising burst of speed, she intercepted the marchesa before the old woman covered half the distance to the door. I trotted toward the struggling pair, but before I could reach them, the marchesa surrendered with barely a whimper. Matilda warned me away with a shake of her head and a finger to her lips. Then she guided the marchesa toward the upper floors, promising a trayful of sweets and ices.

I made quick use of my newfound freedom. It had been several days since my visit to the opera house, but I had been too disturbed to write Tucci’s letter of introduction or to finish my oft-interrupted missive to Gussie. I returned to my room and opened the secretary to sharpen a quill. Benito must have been attending to duties elsewhere in the great house, so I was blessed with peace and quiet for the first time in days.

Tucci’s letter flowed easily from my pen, but Gussie’s presented a problem. I was accustomed to pouring out all my thoughts to my friend and brother-in-law, and I knew that he and Annetta must be hungering for news, but I didn’t fancy consigning a candid letter to the pouch on the mail coach bound for Venice. A letter brandishing my home address could easily fall into the hands of a Montorio minion. I shook my head, wondering if I was merely being cautious or if the marchesa’s unwarranted suspicions were rubbing off on me
.

While I was warming the wax to seal Tucci’s letter, a happy thought struck me. The singer planned to set out for Venice as soon as I furnished him with the introduction to my old musical director. He surely wouldn’t mind carrying an extra letter. After all, I was doing the man a generous favor. I took Gussie’s letter out of my writing case and launched into a detailed account of the misfortunes that had befallen me since my arrival in Rome. I indulged my errant speculations about all and sundry, then closed with a bracing note meant for Alessandro. I thought it unlikely that my brother would be allowed any messages, but if anyone could convince a guard to show some compassion and pass the note to Alessandro, it would be my sweet sister Annetta.

I was sealing the second letter when Benito arrived with a basket full of freshly laundered shirts and underclothes.

“Ah, just in time. Do you know the Piazza d’Espagna?” I asked my manservant. If I could evade Rossobelli’s sharp eyes, I might be able to get away long enough to visit Liya.

Benito shook his head.

I sighed, drumming the letters against my palm. “I want to stop by the theater, but there won’t be time to deliver these as well. The Piazza d’Espagna lies on the opposite side of the city from the Teatro Argentina.”

“I’ll go, Master. I’ll ask someone the way. The Piazza d’Espagna
shouldn’t be hard to find.”

I had not seen Liya since her vision at the scaldino. She had sent two messages by a Trastevere urchin, each a scrap of paper bearing the single word
Patience
. That virtue was wearing thin. I was more anxious than ever to gain admission to the Palazzo Pompetti. I was also dying to hold Liya once again in my arms. The apostate Jewess was the one bright spot in the sorry travesty my life had become.

Benito extended his palm. His eagerness was almost palpable. My manservant must have felt as caged as I did.

“These go to Signor Tucci at Number 38. You must explain that he’s to deliver one to the Campo di Polli.” I handed the letters over. “Be careful,” I cautioned as the little man grabbed his cloak and disappeared through the door.

I’d donned my jacket and was searching for my watch when I heard a soft scraping at my door, almost as if a dog was pawing to be let in. I crossed the room with light steps and halted with my hand on the doorknob. The knob moved slowly under my fingers, but it wasn’t my hand that supplied the power. I ground my teeth, full of anger. The person on the other side of the door must have seen Benito leave. Assuming that I must still be with the marchesa, he thought he could safely search my room. Of course it was a
he
. It was Rossobelli—fearful, earnest Rossobelli, absolutely convinced that I meant to ruin Di Noce’s chance to be the next pope and thus destroy his home city of Ancona for good.

I pulled the knob with all my might. A black-clad abate stumbled over the threshold. He swung around to latch the door, then clapped a hand on my shoulder. I was staring into the wide blue eyes of Massimo Lenci.

“Thank God, you’re still here,” he cried. “I just met Benito on the stairs. He told me you were going out. Zio Stefano is downstairs with Cardinal Fabiani. I have only a few minutes.”

***

“Gemma’s gone. I made inquiries at the Palazzo Pompetti. She hasn’t been there for over a week.” Lenci’s boyish face had turned hard. He paced my small balcony. Three strides forward, turn, and three back. “Why did you bring me out here, anyway?”

I jerked my chin toward my chamber. “In there, the walls have ears. Here, we’re in little danger of being overheard if you keep your voice down.”

Nodding and modulating his tone, he said, “You told me she disappeared, and I thought you didn’t know what you were talking about. Now it seems you know more than I do.”

“How did you get in the palazzo?”

“Walked up to the service door as bold as brass. I bought a box of powder from a wigmaker’s shop—French, the best there is. I announced that Gemma had ordered it and insisted that it be delivered only to her hands.”

“What happened?”

“I got an earful. Gemma hasn’t been to the palazzo since a week ago Friday. She was supposed to dress Lady Mary’s hair for the opera premiere the next evening, but she failed to keep the appointment. Lady Mary had every maid in the house lending a hand, but they say she still went out looking like a mare with a nosegay of flowers stuck in her mane.”

A smile crept to my lips. “An apt description. I was there. Lady Mary and Prince Pompetti joined us in Cardinal Fabiani’s box.”

“The prince was furious because all the attempts to coif his lady made them late.”

I nodded. “Weren’t you afraid you’d be recognized at the palazzo? Surely some of Pompetti’s servants have seen you in the ambassador’s retinue. They would wonder why the nephew of Di Noce’s arch rival would appear at their master’s door with a box of hair powder.”

“Don’t think me a fool, Signore. I played the part of a messenger—quite well, actually. I put on my oldest breeches and a jacket I used to wear to ride out to check the grapes. I even smeared some dirt on my stockings, tied my hair back with a piece of string, and wore a battered hat I’d dug out of the trash.” He shuddered and shrugged at the same time. “Besides, it was worth the risk.”

“Worth the risk to find the whereabouts of a girl who only…what
did you tell me? Serves your needs?”

Lenci’s cheeks flushed brick red. “I wish I’d never said that,” he said miserably.

I stared at the young abate, taking in the tight jaw, the shadows under his eyes, the leanness of his cheeks. Gemma’s disappearance seemed to have played on his deepest emotions. But there were still the scratches on his hands. Almost healed, barely visible now.

“Your hands seem much improved,” I observed.

Lenci glanced down, shaking his head impatiently. “That’s of no consequence.”

“It could be.”

“Why?”

“In determining whether or not I’m going to trust you.”

“I don’t understand.”