3 - Cruel Music (4 page)

“Then how…?”

Lenci interrupted with a schoolboy giggle. “The time-honored way…they say the marchesa was quite a beauty in her youth.”

“Fabiani is the pope’s bastard son?”

“So some say.”

“Do you believe them?”

He gave a short nod. “It seems the most reasonable explanation for Fabiani’s rapid rise. Connection is everything in Rome.”

“Pope Clement has reigned only nine years. Cardinal Fabiani would have been born many years before he became pope.”

“True. Makes you wonder if the old lady simply made a lucky bedding or if she had a soothsayer tucked away on the Fabiani estate. Whatever the source of her good fortune, when the pope’s poor health and lack of Corsini nephews created a crack in the wall of papal power, the marchesa hurried to Rome and plastered her son right in.”

“And her husband?”

“Dead. Fell off a horse, I think. Broke his neck.”

“I see. Is Cardinal Fabiani an able man?”

“Oh, quite. In every sphere. He seems to handle cardinals and bishops as easily as foreign heads of state and is immensely proud of his exalted position.”

“Um, that doesn’t bode well,” I muttered more to myself than to Lenci.

“What doesn’t?” the abate asked.

“You know what the Bible says—pride goeth before a fall.”

“A fall rather goes with the territory, doesn’t it? If your power rests on one man—and that man is hovering at death’s door…” He shrugged his shoulders.

“That is one thing I don’t understand. Why doesn’t Fabiani use his power with the Sacred College to ensure his own election?”

Lenci scratched his chin. “It’s a delicate balancing act. My uncles haven’t favored me with all the details, but I gather that the Spanish cardinals are adding their weight to our side. An equal number of the Italians, especially the Romans who are loyal to Prince Pompetti, are throwing their lot in with Di Noce.”

“What about the French?”

“You can’t trust the Frogs.” He laughed. “They’ll do exactly as they please, as usual. Probably vote for one of their own, even though they have no chance. It’s the block of votes that Fabiani controls that will tip the scale, but he doesn’t have enough cardinals in his pocket to be elected himself.”

I nodded. Unfortunately, my companion could shed no light on the cardinal’s current favorite to succeed his benefactor.

“I believe that’s your lookout,” he told me when pressed.

Repeated questions only drew descriptions of Fabiani’s fashionable carriages and lavish banquets and receptions. In short, nothing I deemed useful. I soon fell into a moody silence, and Lenci closed his eyes. In a few moments, he began to snore with shallow, wincing breaths—the sound of a fox hibernating in its den.

Benito sat across from me. Though he had been gazing out the window in cool repose, I knew he had been following the conversation closely. He gestured toward Lenci. “Is the abate to take reports on your progress?” Benito asked in a murmur.

“Lenci will serve as my day-to-day contact, but if I manage to discover anything of substance, I’m to give my information directly to Cardinal Montorio. The senator instructed me to ask leave to hear Mass at San Marco every Sunday. It’s the church attached to the
palazzo
that serves as the Venetian Embassy. All the Venetians in Rome attend services there, so I won’t be likely to attract any attention. After Mass, the Cardinal Ambassador will meet with me in private.”

“Zio Stefano,” Benito whispered with a saucy smile.

I nodded grimly. “Zio Stefano…who takes a lot of looking after and seems in imminent danger of blowing himself to bits. I wonder what he makes of his brother’s scheme to worm me into Fabiani’s household?”

“You’ll soon find out. Today is Thursday. Cardinal Montorio will expect some information in three days time.”

I groaned softly, gave the ham a vicious shove, and bent to furious thought while chewing on a knuckle. Benito went back to looking out the window. “What a benighted country this is,” he observed after a few minutes.

I had to agree. The lands of the Papal States were wrapped in a ragged cloak of wintering flax, but even in the fullness of summer, these rocky fields wouldn’t compare to Venice’s fertile mainland holdings. In an effort to wrest what they could from the poor soil, the peasants cultivated the hills nearly to the top. Here and there, I spotted a wretched hut unfurling a wisp of smoke into a colorless sky. Nearer to the road, an occasional goat nibbled at a tussock of withered grass. As we jolted along, we passed one of the pope’s subjects bent under a massive load of dry sticks. The toothless visage he raised to our streaking coach was the face of poverty itself.

The hours rolled on in weary monotony, and by the time we had reached Italy’s ancient capital, I was snoring along with Lenci. I woke with Benito shaking my shoulder. Dusk had fallen, and our coach had come to a halt in the forecourt of a large villa. Still muddled from sleep, I slid the glass in the door open and leaned out to see an arched colonnade lit by a hanging lamp. Its flames threw wavering reflections across tall bronze doors. At each end of the colonnade, a wing of polished stone projected into the fuzzy twilight. Somewhere close by, a fountain gurgled in noisy hiccups. As I rubbed my eyes, the towering doors parted noiselessly and a pair of footmen in sky blue livery shot down a short flight of marble stairs and bent to unfold the coach steps. With a sinking feeling, I realized that I had reached my destination.

Chapter Four

Benito and the prize ham were conveyed around to the back of the villa. Lenci and I were escorted through the bronze doors into an immense hall. Marble columns rose to the vaulted ceiling and beautifully stitched tapestries decorated the walls. Instead of the religious themes I might have expected, the needlework drew its subjects from ancient myth. On the largest, a lifelike Diana gazed across the hall with raised chin and parted lips, as if she expected worshipers to file in and lay tribute at her feet at any moment. I was admiring the workmanship of the tiny stitches when a fleeting movement caught my eye.

It could have been a denizen of the tapestries come to life, a nymph flitting from column to column, white robe and scarves trailing behind her, silver hair unpinned, streaming wildly. Then I saw the truth: not a nymph, merely a weak-minded old woman wandering in her nightdress. A pretty, apple-cheeked girl in the drab gown and linen cap of a servant pursued her.

Lenci ignored the elderly nymph, but brightened as the dark-haired girl drew near. He extended his hand to greet her, calling “Gemma” as she barreled past. But Gemma was too intent on her prey to spare a word for the young abate. In an uncharacteristically unguarded moment, his cherub face made his disappointment obvious.

My curiosity was forestalled by the arrival of a lean man in a jacket and waistcoat of unrelieved black. He advanced in mincing steps, putting one foot precisely in front of the other as if he walked a springy tightrope instead of a solid, mosaicked floor. Abate Lenci presented me to Cardinal Fabiani’s private secretary and general factotum, Abate Pio Rossobelli.

“Ah, Signor Amato, how delightful. Our much-awaited songbird has arrived just in time.” Rossobelli spoke in oily tones, surprising me with a courtly bow that was a few rungs above the station of a hired musician, even a relatively famous one. “The cardinal wished to welcome you himself, but alas, he has been called to the Quirinal on pressing business. I’m afraid that you will have to content yourself with my humble services.”

Returning his bow, I voiced the usual pleasantries.

Dismissing the abate who had guided me to Rome, Rossobelli hooked his long fingers under my elbow and ushered me toward the grand staircase. I was almost sorry to see Lenci go. A Montorio he might be, but I reckoned him a more pleasant companion than the one who imprisoned my arm in a strangle hold.

As we mounted the cascade of marble steps, I took the opportunity to observe this Abate Rossobelli at close quarters. The first part of his name fit him well. The stray hairs escaping from under his short clerical wig were a dull brick red and the blood flowing under his pale skin seemed to pool in ruddy blotches at the crest of his sharp cheekbones. As to
belli
…I thought not. A less handsome man would be hard to find.

Fabiani’s secretary observed me with the same level of scrutiny. His lank jaws maintained a perfectly proper smile, but his bulging, pink-rimmed eyes glowed with curiosity. Not, I thought, with the curiosity of a whole man observing a castrato at close range—I am well used to that look—but with a much more cunning appraisal.

Once on the second level, Rossobelli covered the maze of corridors hung with portraits and tapestries in long strides, chattering about the history of the villa and the wealthy Genoese banker who had built it. At the rear of the house, he opened the door to a luxurious suite. The first chamber was furnished with comfortable sofas and had its own balcony that overlooked an orchard garden lit with torches set on iron p
ikes. The bedroom contained a
canopied bed hung in turquoise damask, a marquetry dressing table, and an open secretary furnished with a liberal supply of quills, ink, and paper. There was even a dressing room with a cozy nook for Benito. The reason behind this extraordinary favor became clear when the abate pointed to a bell over the bed’s carved headboard.

“This will be your clarion call, Signore. The bell connects to a cord in the cardinal’s suite, right along the corridor at the corner of the southwest wing. His Eminence will ring when he wants you. Warn your man to be ready. The cardinal doesn’t appreciate being serenaded by a man in a dressing gown and nightcap. No matter what hour, you’ll have to be presentable.”

My jaw dropped. “I’m expected to sing at all hours?”

Rossobelli lifted his eyes heavenward, as if praying for patience. “You’ve been told nothing of this?”

“No, nothing.”

“What else could I expect from Lenci? Too busy chasing skirts to have a care for anyone else’s troubles. Ah well, it’s all in a day’s work…unpleasant details fall through the cracks and Rossobelli comes along with the dustpan.” He gave a tight smile, then lowered his voice as the door opened on Benito and a sturdy footman lugging my trunk and bags. “It’s like this, Signore. His Eminence often finds difficulty falling asleep. By trial and error, he has devised a helpful bedtime ritual. Cardinal Fabiani reads or studies his papers until his eyelids are heavy, then he requires a dim room, a cool cloth across his forehead, and most important of all, a soothing song. You understand?”

I nodded. A bit bewildered, I’ll admit.

“Cardinal Fabiani will be so happy that you have arrived. When Cardinal Montorio told us of your coming visit, His Eminence was absolutely astounded…quite overcome…I mean with joy, of course.”

I tried to hide my dismay, but Rossobelli’s eyes were sharp. “Come, come. You’re displeased. Will it be so difficult? Singing for the man who has had all the responsibilities of Christendom piled upon his shoulders? Lightening his sleepless misery with a little midnight serenade?”

“No, of course not. It’s just that I’m not accustomed to giving concerts in the middle of the night. And not for an audience of one. My voice is trained to reach the top tiers of a theater.”

“Oh, you will have plenty of opportunity to show off your voice before a crowd. This evening, in fact.”

“Sing tonight?” I croaked in distress.

He plucked a watch from his fob pocket. “Yes, it’s just gone seven. His Eminence is hosting a little reception at nine. You will need to report to the music room at thirty minutes ’til. I’ve left some scores of the cardinal’s favorite arias on the harpsichord.”

Behind Rossobelli’s back, the footman was unpacking my trunk and handing clothing to Benito to brush and put away. It looked as if my manservant had already formed a bond with the footman whose muscular thighs seemed in danger of splitting the cheap fabric of his breeches. As Rossobelli elaborated on my marching orders, the two servants shared some rueful headshaking and eyerolling, ending with Benito aiming a rude gesture at the oblivious secretary.

Wishing I could do the same, I said, “But I’ve been traveling for days. My throat is coated with the dust of the road.”

“How unfortunate,” Rossobelli answered, flicking his hand as if to disperse any dust particles that might still be circling. “It does pain me to ask, but His Eminence would be so happy…so grateful if you would but try. Cardinal Montorio will be among the guests. I’m sure the Cardinal Ambassador is eager to enjoy the voice that his good Venetian
zecchini
have purchased.” The abate widened his eyes dramatically. “The Montorio brothers are providing suitable compensation, are they not? Woe upon my foolish head if I’ve misjudged your circumstances…I just assumed…since they are making a gift of your services…”

I stared at the floor as he trailed off into silence. Suitable compensation? Alessandro’s safety in exchange for a bit of wear and tear on my throat? There was no arguing against that bargain. I raised my chin and answered, “I will, of course, be delighted to comply with Cardinal Fabiani’s wishes.”

***

The music room that Rossobelli had so casually mentioned was a crimson and gold salon the size of a small amphitheater. The same stocky footman had fetched me after Benito had brewed a pot of his throat-reviving tea and worked his decorative magic on my person and attire. When I caught sight of my reflection in the long mirrors of the music room, I was almost shocked.

I saw a long-limbed eunuch of remote mien and noble bearing clad in his finest court dress, looking as if he had nothing in his head but the melodies he would soon sing. No one would guess that I was prey to emotions that had my stomach in knots and my heart in despair. Without even being aware of the transformation, I had slipped into my stage demeanor along with my brocade jacket and powdered wig.

The cardinal’s harpsichord was in excellent tune. I assumed that a keyboard musician would arrive to accompany me, and a few string players as well, if the music stands on the dais were any clue. But just then I was alone. Determined to make the most of my time, I set to work on some simple scales. Despite Benito’s herb-laced tea, my chest felt tight and the tones that bounced off the mirrored walls sounded strident and harsh. My natural voice was an unforced, agile soprano that could master any ornamentation a composer could invent. It wouldn’t be at its best tonight, but if I could just complete a proper warm-up, it would do.

I’d finished my vocalises and was playing through one of the well-worn sheets of music when the back of my neck began to crawl. Someone was observing me. I was sure of it. People stared at me every night on the stage, but this was a different sensation—oppressive, vaguely malevolent. My hands sank away from the keyboard, and I slowly pivoted from the waist. Candlelight from chandeliers and wall brackets played over a completely empty room.

I turned back to the harpsichord. To regain my concentration and clear my head cavities, I opened my jaws in a huge yawn and sounded a series of ascending high notes. When a length of white silk drifted over my shoulder, I almost swallowed my tongue.

“What a mouth you have,” came a whisper by my ear.

In one motion, I shot off the bench, turned, and pressed my rump against the keyboard. The old woman from the entry hall giggled and raised a mottled hand to stroke my jaw. Her cheeks were wrinkled and sunken, but she fluttered her sparse eyelashes like a girl of sixteen.

“Can you crack a nut with those jaws?” she asked. “I had a groom once…a tall fellow…with a wide mouth like yours. He could crack a walnut between his teeth. He showed me every time he saddled my big bay. How he could make me laugh.”

I relaxed. The wandering lady had escaped her keeper. I had only to find the girl with the plump cheeks and I could get on with my warm-up.

“Allow me to assist you, Signora,” I began, taking her outstretched hand in both of mine. “Where is your maid?”

Her vacant eyes held my gaze for a moment, then questioned the air with sharp, darting looks.

“Come, Signora. I’ll help you find her.” I stepped off the low dais and gave her hand a gentle tug. She descended, but twisted out of my grasp. Her pipestem arms swooped in rhythmic circles, setting her sheer draperies and the loose skin beneath them into quivering motion.

“Sing,” she whispered. “Pretend nothing’s amiss. Or
she
will come. She’ll bring her rope and tie my ankle to the bedpost. She makes it tight, tight. Like this.” The increasingly distraught woman clamped her fingers around my wrist, her heavy ring pressing my flesh to the bone.

When I winced, she threw my hand aside to raise the hem of her gown. I looked down. Blue veins snaked over her bare, withered foot. Sobbing now, she pointed to an ankle encircled by a ring of bruised, chafed skin.

A door slammed. Two footmen followed the girl that Abate Lenci had called Gemma across the shiny parquet floor. This time I noticed more than her coloring. Gemma’s skirts swelled over shapely hips before nipping to a slender waist, and a generous bosom peeked over her tightly laced bodice. She would have been a welcome sight for any man if she hadn’t been scowling and pushing up her sleeves like a pint-sized Sicilian ready for a brawl.

“Marchesa, you’ve been a very naughty girl.” Gemma could have been chastising a five-year-old.

My companion whimpered and tried to hide behind me.

“You have chocolate and biscuits waiting in your room, My Lady. And Guido has made up a nice fire,” Gemma continued. “Look, you’re shivering. Your feet are turning blue from these cold floors. Come along now. Do be a good girl for once.”

Gemma reached around me to grab her charge’s wrist. The unhappy lady balled a handful of my jacket in her other fist and gave me a pitiful look. While Gemma tugged at her arm, she tugged equally hard at my brocade.

“Marchesa…” Gemma’s tone sharpened to a warning.

The determined marchesa stretched her mouth in a croaking cry until her old face matched the classical mask of tragedy that decorated so many theaters. “Signore, help me, please,” she wailed.

Gemma jerked her chin at the footmen.

“Wait,” I stammered, acutely aware that my lack of status in the household gave me no right to comment, let alone intervene. “This lady has committed no wrong. She just came in to hear me sing. Let her stay and listen a moment.”

I might as well have addressed empty air. Without so much as a nod, the footmen circled the marchesa with their arms and herded her away, sobbing softly and mumbling incoherently.

Gemma bent to the floor to retrieve one of the marchesa’s errant scarves. Tucking the silk into her sleeve, she drew herself up to full height. Even then, the girl barely came up to the middle of my chest. “You are new here, Signore,” she observed coldly.

I admitted as much, then added, “But I don’t want to see the poor old lady mistreated.”

“Do you even know who you are rushing to defend?”

I shook my head.

“Your
poor old lady
is Marchesa Olimpia Fabiani, the cardinal’s mother. She occupies the warmest suite of rooms in the villa, receives every comfort she so much as mentions, and dines off dishes of gold.” Gemma tossed her dark head. “Solid gold, mind you, not plate. The pope himself is not better taken care of.”

“She showed me her ankle. It was bruised.”

Gemma sighed. “You must understand. The marchesa is slowly losing her mind, and it’s my job to see that she comes to no harm. Sometimes she has a good day. Then she allows me to dress her, and the cardinal takes her for a walk in the garden. Except that her conversation is confined to long-ago events, you would never guess how addled she truly is. But on a bad day…oh, Signore, you have no idea.”