3 - Cruel Music (19 page)

A few more moments and I might have backed out, but Liya gave my hand a quick squeeze and knocked on the door—three quick raps, then two slow. We were admitted by a man in a full mask whose identity was further shrouded by a hooded, wine red cloak. We traded our outdoor cloaks for similar garb and were directed toward the great hall.

The scene was not as alien as I had supposed. In fact, it felt very like the celebration of the blood miracle of San Gennaro that I had witnessed during my conservatorio days in Naples. In that centuries-old ritual, a silver bust of the saint that contained an ampoule of his blood was conveyed to the cathedral in a grand procession. In growing waves of ecstasy, the faithful prayed for the blood to liquefy so that Naples would be blessed with a year of good fortune. If the blood should remain solid, the pest, an earthquake, or some other catastrophe was sure to befall the city. The wild rejoicing that followed the miracle of liquefaction and the fervor of the believers pushing forward to kiss the holy ampoule had been a sight to see. Now that I thought of it, I seemed to recall that the miracle-working San Gennaro had been a bishop of Benevento before his martyrdom. A curious coincidence.

Prince Pompetti’s hall was swathed in drapes of dark velvet and dominated by a bronze tripod that supported a brazier as big around as a coach wheel. A steady flame glowed at its center. At least thirty figures in masks and robes identical to ours surrounded it, swaying and chanting in a pleasant blend of soprano and deeper voices. Following Liya’s lead, I tucked myself in at the back of the group.

The red robes covered Pompetti’s guests from head to toe, but they couldn’t disguise the forms beneath. The women stood out by virtue of the fashion of the times which emphasized breasts and hips. Observing closely, I soon noticed something else: shoes. The toes peeking from beneath the robes could tell me as much about their wearers’ status as the gold, or lack of it, in their purses. I saw dainty pointed toes of silk brocade, bulging rounds of scuffed leather on thick soles, and many examples of footwear in between. The prince and his lady had gathered quite a collection of followers from all walks of life. A maid like Gemma would have fit in just fine.

The chanting continued for some time; praise of Lupercus was intermingled with specific requests. A woman would beg, “Lord Lupercus quicken my womb,” and all would take up the plea, voices rising and falling around the ring until a new request was made. As near as I could tell, this Lupercus was a god of all living, flowering things: the special protector of farmers and shepherds as well as a potent fertility symbol.

After a number of worshipers had approached the brazier and passed their cimarute, other amulets, and small animal statues through its flames, someone produced a violin, one of the pocket variety that dance masters employed. The lilting rhythm of a roundelay sounded, and I stumbled as a hairy, ham-fisted paw tugged at my left hand. Another masculine hand with soft, uncalloused palms grasped my right, and the entire circle spun into a whirling, skipping dance that moved clockwise around the fire.

For a moment of panic, I thought I had lost track of Liya but soon spotted her smiling mouth between two taller, gamboling figures. Feeling rather silly and tripping on the hem of my unaccustomed skirts, I tried to skip like a child at play. Once I had the hang of it, the dance was actually rather fun. We spun faster and faster, following the escalating tempo, and at last, the dance became a wild rout. My companions whooped and shrieked over the now discordant fiddle, and the circle broke apart. Red robes spun alone or in pairs to the four corners of the hall. I saw Liya backing into the shadows and moved toward her with a stitch in my side.

“What now?” I whispered once I’d reached her.

“The priest who represents Lupercus should appear at any moment. Be prepared to—” The portentous clang of a gong interrupted, and all eyes turned to the astounding figure who was entering the smoky hall.

The pagan priest was garbed in a flowing orange robe embroidered with gold thread that reflected the flames of the brazier. A wolf mask of terrifying realism covered his entire face and rose to meet a conical headdress painted with squiggles and shapes of foreign symbols. I was surprised to see that he snapped a flagellant’s cord every few paces.

Placing my mouth next to Liya’s hood, I whispered, “Why does he have a whip? Is someone going to be punished?”

She shook her head. “To invoke Diana’s power, the women who want a child will remove their garments and dance again. He’ll whip them along to heighten their ecstasy.”

At this, my curiosity knew no bounds. I observed the priest closely as he proceeded toward the brazier and measured his height with my eyes. I had not been able to identify any of the red-robed figures as Prince Pompetti and had been on the watch for his arrival. Taking the lead role would match Pompetti’s character, but the man in the flame-colored robe was a good three inches shorter than the prince, and though his flock clearly regarded him with awe, his bearing was far from regal.

“Liya,” I whispered, drawing her still farther away from the group, “who do you suppose…” I stopped when I backed into something sharp.

Turning, I found the very man I sought. Prince Pompetti had withdrawn his red hood and pushed his mask onto his forehead. His handsome face had turned ugly in the flickering light. His dagger hovered directly over my liver.

Chapter Nineteen

Pompetti jerked Liya’s arm. Directing us out of the great hall with wordless jabs of his blade, he herded us both down the corridor to a smaller chamber lined with bookshelves and display cases full of ancient bric-a-brac. Before the fireplace, Lady Mary sprawled in a deep leather armchair, idly flipping through the pages of a ponderous-looking volume. As Pompetti closed and locked the door, she shot me a look that wavered between derision and anger.

“Remove that mask and ridiculous wig,” she ordered, laying the book aside.

I slowly complied. She heaved herself up, leaving the chair emblazoned with the red slash of her discarded robe. Coming to stand directly before Liya, she said, “You, too, Signora Pellegrina…if that is your true name. I want to see your face.”

Recovering more quickly than I, Liya whipped off her concealing garments. “We can explain, My Lady.”

Prince Pompetti crossed the room and deposited the iron key that had locked the door in one of the clay pots arrayed along the mantel. Liya dropped a hurried curtsy in his direction. “We deeply regret distressing Your Highness with this intrusion, but gaining access to the palazzo was…necessary. Much depends on it.”

“Yes,” I added. “Absolutely necessary or we would never have—”

The prince cut me off with an irritated slice of his hand. “I don’t understand why Fabiani sent you. I thought the cardinal and I were in perfect agreement.”

Lady Mary shushed him with a whisper. “Let Tito explain, my dear.”

I bowed, painfully conscious that the manly gesture and my padded bodice created a laughable contradiction. “Cardinal Fabiani didn’t send us. This was all my idea. My friend Liya merely agreed to help. We’re…looking for someone. A maid I believe you know well, Lady Mary. Gemma Farussi.”

“Now, what possible interest could an emasculated singer have in a lady’s maid?” Lady Mary crossed her arms over her damask gown and glanced toward Liya. “I don’t suppose for a moment that Gemma is actually a friend of yours.”

“No, My Lady,” Liya replied softly. “Gemma wasn’t my friend. We never even met.”

“Wasn’t? What do you mean—wasn’t?” The clever Englishwoman seized on Liya’s use of the past tense. “Has something happened to Gemma?” Lady Mary whirled to face Pompetti. “I told you—I warned you. That sly friend of yours has done something with her.” She turned back to me. “What do you know?”

Liya and I traded uneasy glances. Our assault on the Palazzo Pompetti was not going at all as expected. I gulped hard. How much to reveal?

“Out with it.” Lady Mary’s voice rang out imperiously. Pompett
i stepped to her side. Thoughtfully, he tapped his dagger against his cheek. The steel blade gleamed in the firelight.

“I have reason to believe that Gemma is dead—murdered.” My words hit the air like leaden weights.

“Are you certain?” Lady Mary asked with a strangled groan.

I nodded.

She began to pace, heels clicking on the parquet floor. Pompetti watched her with a pained expression. “Fabiani did away with her,” she muttered, talking more to herself than to us. “He could have sent her back to me—or stowed her somewhere away from Rome—but no, that conniving servant of the Christian god decided his interests must be protected at all costs.”

She clenched her fists and put her face inches from mine. “Now I understand why you’re here. Somehow you discovered our bargain, and you saw any chance of a Venetian pope going straight down the drain. You’re nosing around for scandal, heresy, some proof that you can use to disgrace Di Noce and put your precious Stefano Montorio on the throne.”

“No,” I protested. “I know nothing of any bargain. I’m probably the last person that Cardinal Fabiani would confide his plans to.”

“Then why are you here?” Pompetti inquired in a biting tone.

Frustration made me rash. Without thought, I flung back, “To find out if you murdered Gemma.”

The back of Lady Mary’s hand met my ear with a resounding smack. As I staggered, left ear ringing, she loosed a torrent of English oaths. Thanks to my long association with Gussie, I understood roughly half.

Liya blocked my stumble and pressed her body close to mine. My arm encircled her waist as Lady Mary slowed and switched her rant to Italian.

“We were helping the girl,” she said. “Like so many of her countrymen, Gemma knew nothing of her natural heritage. Marvelous relics abound, but she didn’t know how to see them. A present-day Roman goes to Santa Maria in Aracoeli and sees a Christian church, but it was once a temple to Juno, and before that a grove sacred to the goddess of the earliest times. Half the churches in Rome have a similar history writ in their very construction—Pan of the Woods carved on pew ends and under the eaves—”

“The Madonna statues by the north door,” Liya interrupted, nodding forcefully, but keeping within the small circle of protection that my arm bestowed. “Not all of us are ignorant, you see.” For my benefit she added, “To us, the north is a place of power, the source of deep magic. The Christians call the north doors of their churches the Devil’s doors. They brick them up, and allow only unbaptized children and suicides to be buried at their thresholds.”

Lady Mary reclaimed her lesson. “In areas where the old traditions are strong, a Madonna by the north door represents the goddess. On many a statue, her secret worshippers have literally kissed the paint off her feet.”

“Was introducing Gemma to the Old Religion the only way you were helping her?” I asked.

Lady Mary shook her head with a sorrowful smile. “Unfortunately, Gemma was more interested in charms than the deities that give them power.”

“What sort of charms?”

“The sort that all young girls long for. Gemma had a lover who wasn’t as attentive as she wished.” Lady Mary sighed. “I had almost finished collecting the supplies I needed to make a salve that would make her irresistible to him.”

I thought Abate Lenci had been more entranced by Gemma’s own person than she realized and that a balm of exotic ingredients would do nothing more than make her skin smell sweet, but Liya was clearly a believer.

“Were you waiting for the new moon to gather orris root?”

“No, I prefer yarrow. Simmered with a bit of her—”

Prince Pompetti broke in with a nod of annoyance toward Liya. “All right, enough—you’ve convinced me. You are a
strega
, then. Not everything you told Mary was a lie.”

“I sacrificed my home and turned my back on my family to follow the old path,” Liya replied, proudly raising her chin. “I christened myself with a new name to honor Aradia, the Beautiful Pilgrim.”

“What is the name you discarded?” Pompetti asked.

“Del’Vecchio.”

He drew near, studying Liya’s profile. “Yes, I thought I detected a whiff of Abraham.”

Liya stiffened in my embrace. “Do the circumstances of my birth make me unwelcome at the Lupercan rites?”

The prince thought for a moment, then shook his head. “We are all equal in the eyes of the goddess, but that is not the issue. You entered my home under false pretenses. When surrounded by enemies, it is folly to trust outsiders, especially those who might hinder our plans.”

He glanced at Lady Mary; a frown formed between his heavy brows. She returned his gaze with a tight, straight-lipped expression. I pulled Liya even closer as the fire crackled in a malevolent dance and the air in the overly warm room seemed to vibrate with tension. Despite Lady Mary’s obvious fondness for Gemma, I still wondered if Pompetti didn’t have a hand in the girl’s death. He had struck a bargain with Cardinal Fabiani—was Gemma’s murder part of the transaction? One point stood out clearly: Pompetti was quite capable of ensuring that Liya and I never saw the light of day.

A sharp knock at the door made us all jump.

The door handle rattled. “Aurelio? Mary?” A light, pleasant voice called from the corridor.

“Just a moment,” the prince responded, stepping toward the vase that held the key.

Before he could reach it, the lock made a series of clicks, as if the wards were turning at the command of an invisible key. The paneled oak swung back to reveal the priest of Lupercus still sporting the face of a wolf, complete with fur, yellow eyes, and horrific fangs. My heart galloped in my chest, and I sensed Liya’s performing the same maneuver.

“Oh, forgive me.” The priest removed his conical hat and unfastened the straps that held the heavy mask in place. “I forget what a sight this must be for those who don’t understand its meaning.” He revealed his face, wreathed in a smile and covered with a sheen of sweat. He continued while mopping it with a darned handkerchief, “I believe you must be one of the initiates, my dear.”

Liya nodded, shoulders relaxing at the priest’s surprisingly friendly demeanor.

“And you, Tito.” His black eyes crinkled at the corners as they looked my female attire up and down. “You’re obviously no stranger to disguise.”

“That is so,” I replied, struggling to reconcile the evidence of my eyes with what I knew of the man before me. I’d seen that smiling face before, felt its radiating goodwill, and noted the profound effect it had on others. The priest of Lupercus was Cardinal Di Noce.

***

“I was born in a tiny hamlet outside Benevento.” Cardinal Di Noce spoke with an air of serene detachment after he’d bade us all be seated and take our ease. “A lacy membrane covered my head as I was delivered into this world. This caul, and other signs divined by the wise woman who attended my mother, convinced the elders that I was destined for great things. A gift for healing birds with bent wings and other ailing creatures confirmed their early prediction.”

He paused to drink from the crystal goblet in his hand. “Please, join me,” he invited, gesturing to the tray that Pompetti had fetched from a nearby cabinet.

I reached for a glass and took a sip of the bright yellow liquid. Anise, mint, dandelion, and other unidentifiable flavors exploded on my tongue in rapid succession. Soft yet stimulating, it tasted like the first day of spring had been captured in a bottle.

“Liquore Strega.” Di Noce nodded toward the decanter. “Distilled in Benevento and infused with over seventy herbs sown and harvested at the proper seasons of the moon. Wonderful, isn’t it?

“Now, where was I? Ah, yes—my boyhood. Carefully sheltered and schooled in the teachings of the Holy Strega, I knew much of the forest but little of the outside world until I reached my twelfth year. Then life took a dramatic turn—Marzetta, the village wise woman, told me the time had come to fulfill my destiny. I took tearful leave of my family, but was secretly anxious to leave the bounds of what I then thought was a very boring, ordinary village. Marzetta and I traveled many miles north to a Christian monastery where I was consigned with the story that I was an orphan in need of a vocation.”

He paused, regarding the four of us with raised eyebrows, as if inviting query. Prince Pompetti and Lady Mary displayed the polite but distant expressions of those who had heard this tale many times before.

Never one to miss my cue, I asked, “For what possible purpose?”

Di Noce answered by holding his glass aloft and turning it to catch the firelight. The golden liqueur swirled with reflected flames; amplified with the orange hue of the cardinal’s robe, it shone like a goblet of liquid sunlight. “I was to be like one of the herbs in this delightful concoction. Unbeknownst to the good monks, I would infuse the Church with the flavor of the Old Religion.”

“The Church wouldn’t exist without a dash of the old beliefs mixed in here and there,” Liya said with a judicious nod.

“Of course, my dear, you know your history. From the beginning of their ascendancy, the Christian masters accommodated the traditional beliefs to make the new religion seem more palatable. What is the birthday of Jesus the Savior, after all?” He quickly answered his own question. “December twenty-fifth, an arbitrary date chosen to coincide with Saturnalia, the celebration of the winter solstice—the return of the sun and lengthening of days, a sign that winter won’t hold the earth in its cold grip forever. You see?”

I scratched my head. “Yes, I understand that. It only makes sense that the new religion would incorporate bits of the old. But centuries later, what influence can one lone pagan have on the vast machinery of the Church?”

Prince Pompetti snorted, then sat forward with a hand on his knee. He gestured with his empty goblet. “You think our friend Di Noce is the only one?”

I shrugged, amazed at the thought of even one pagan infiltrating a Christian institution.

Di Noce favored me with one of his infectious smiles, again raising his glass. “There are many more than the herbs in this cordial. Hundreds more. And have been for centuries.”

“How is this possible?” I asked, sure they were toying with me. “Such things could not go on without being discovered.”

“Sometimes they are.” Di Noce’s face fell into a solemn frown. “Have you not heard of the massacre of the Cathars?”

Observing my furrowed brow, he continued, “In the south of France? A Christian sect whose priests favored mountain groves over cathedrals and preached tolerance, peace, and the equality of women?” His voice took on a bitter tone. “Naturally, they had to be stopped. They were burned by the thousands and their lands laid waste by the dread Inquisitor, Simon de Montfort.”

I shook my head. Not for the first time, my lack of education shamed me.

“Or the Bogomils of Carpathia?” Pompetti chimed in. “Or King Phillip’s suppression of the Knights Templar?”

“No, I’ll have to take your word that such things occurred,” I responded. “Still, how has a devotee of the Old Religion managed to rise so high in the ranks of a church he despises?”

My question propelled Di Noce out of his chair to hover over mine. Bracing his hands on the arms, he spoke with such vehemence that my cheeks were sprayed with fine drops of spittle. “The people I love—it’s the vanity and greed of their masters that I hate.”

Lady Mary spoke for the first time since Di Noce had entered the room. “I know what you’re asking, Tito, and the answer is simple. The time has come and the chosen one stands before you. The winds of change are blowing and will soon scour the earth. The Freemasons know it and so do we.” A flush rose to her cheeks. She produced a fan from a capacious pocket, fluttered it into action, and continued excitedly, “France is a powder keg of discontent. Many expect it will explode within a few years. The people will rise and pull the bloated aristocrats from their palaces and the grasping bishops from their churches.”