The Wolves of St. Peter's Page 3

  Francesco was at the point of admitting defeat, concluding that Michelangelo had either dreamed up this letter or taken it with him to the chapel that morning, when the chicken started its little dance again on the shelf over the window. It was the only place Francesco hadn’t searched, since Michelangelo would have needed the chair to reach it. And why he would have hidden the second letter there if he wanted Francesco to send it was even harder to fathom. But there it was, and he pulled it out from under the chicken just as it gave one of its little hops. “You might have some use after all,” he said. “That is, if Michelangelo doesn’t lop your head off before I return. The bastard probably hid it up here just so he’d have something to complain about.”

  Francesco tucked the letter beneath his cloak, fastened his dagger at his waist, and, wishing the chicken good luck, went back out into the rain.

  Thankfully, there was no sign of Susanna.

  CHAPTER TWO

  WITH HIS FEET SQUELCHING IN HIS SODDEN BOOTS AND HOSE, Francesco followed the streets that were by now familiar to him. First came the squalid Piazza Rusticucci with its little church of Santa Caterina. The soap-maker had covered his cauldron of fat with old boards to keep out the rain, but underneath the pot a fire still smoldered. From the Piazza Rusticucci he entered the maze of streets, if they could even be called streets, choked as they were with stalls, lean-tos, and overhead bridges that connected the upper stories of facing houses. Outside the butcher’s, three sheep huddled together, waiting their turn for the axe, while a dozen crows fought over the entrails of their brothers. Pope Julius, in an attempt to minimize the foul smells, had decreed that all offal was to be thrown in the Tiber, but the law was largely ignored. Francesco dodged the beggars, the whores, the fishmongers, the rag sellers, the children, and the livestock, all while attempting not to step in the worst of the filth or the ever-deepening puddles.

  Just a few minutes away, the Piazza Scossacavalli was significantly more elegant. Here the slaves and servants of the rich who lived in the square’s imposing palazzi chased out unwanted business and traffic. But the city couldn’t be kept out completely, and a beggar wrapped in rags grabbed Francesco’s sleeve, imploring him for a few coins. Francesco shook his head.

  “Not even a crust of bread?”

  “No,” Francesco said as he kept on walking. “I could use some bread myself.” And it was true. If it hadn’t been for Calendula, he could be with Susanna now. She would not only have bread, but cabbage soup too. She always saved him the marrow from the soup bone, and he thought of it now, longing for its greasy smoothness on his tongue.

  In the middle of the square, one of the city’s self-proclaimed prophets, a man looking not much wilder and dirtier in appearance than Michelangelo, kept up a tirade against Pope Julius that would no doubt have him dragged away and burned at the stake in no time. “And he may call himself a man of God, but he is the Antichrist, a man of sin, the last leader of fornicating popes and pederastic cardinals, the eighth head of the beast. But God, the true God, will cast him into a bottomless pit, where he shall be consumed by a seven-headed snake, and his cries of agony will be ignored …” Yes, Francesco would have liked to wager how long the man would last and even entertained a quick fantasy of Michelangelo being hauled off in a case of mistaken identity.

  He rapped on Raphael’s door, realizing as he followed the houseboy upstairs that he’d been so preoccupied with the prospect of telling Raphael about Calendula and dreaming of bread and marrow that he’d forgotten to send Michelangelo’s letter.

  Raphael’s studio was a complete contrast to the hovel Francesco shared with Michelangelo. Michelangelo knew this, and it was one of the grudges he bore against his rival. For one thing, the door fit into its frame, and inside, a fire chased off the damp of the day. Even the stink of the city couldn’t permeate its walls, and it was here that Francesco was most reminded of the luxuries and comforts of his childhood home outside Florence.

  Two tall windows with clear beveled-glass panes opened to the south, and two more to the north. On a sunny day, the room was flooded with light, and even on this very dark one, it was still bright enough to work. Canvasses waiting to be completed leaned against the walls. Francesco caught his reflection in a gilt-framed mirror and almost didn’t recognize himself in the rough clothes, his black hair longer than he ever remembered, his face thinner, making his brown eyes seem disproportionately large. An inviting settee covered with velvet cushions faced the fire. A big oak table dominated the center of the room, loaded down at one end with pots of paints, brushes, and boxes of candles, at the other with sheets of paper covered in sketches, their corners held down by heavy books. In contrast to the anguished bodies featured in Michelangelo’s drawings, these figures were as graceful and peacefully composed as their creator. In the middle of the table was a jug of wine, and beside it a heel of bread and an end of cheese. Francesco eyed the remains of the midday meal jealously.

  “Take it,” Raphael said, turning from his easel and wiping his brush with a rag. Francesco thanked him and poured wine into one of the pewter cups on the table, dipping in the heel of bread to soften it. He was grateful for the food and also the diversion. Now that he was here, he didn’t know where to start. He took a bite of bread. It was good, as was the cheese. “Alfeo’s sister,” Raphael said, indicating the houseboy who was stoking the already roaring fire, “brings in cheese from their farm. It is the best in all of Rome, do you not think?”

  His mouth full, Francesco could only nod. Alfeo beamed at the praise. Like everything around Raphael, Alfeo, a slim boy of about ten years, could only be described as beautiful, and Francesco knew that by the time Raphael finished the Vatican apartments, Alfeo’s cherubic features and dark curls would be reproduced in the face of at least one angel. Francesco handed him his damp cloak, and the boy almost disappeared beneath it as he took it to hang by the fire. It was humbling to think that in Rome he, Francesco, was this boy’s equal—a houseboy to an artist. In Florence, as Guido’s lawyer, he’d been very much Raphael’s equal, if not his superior.

  Raphael had lived intermittently in Florence and had once dined with Francesco and his father. Francesco had attempted to introduce Raphael to Guido, but Guido had refused. Infatuated with the work of Leonardo da Vinci, he had failed to recognize the much younger Raphael’s genius, an oversight Francesco knew he later regretted. Francesco had sought out Raphael upon his arrival in Rome, catching up with him at Imperia’s. It was the same night he’d first met Calendula and been stunned by her resemblance to Juliet. Although Raphael had noticed his shock and confusion, he hadn’t pressed him to elaborate, nor did it appear to color his opinion of him. Francesco couldn’t help but think his exile here would have been much more pleasant in Raphael’s employ, no doubt something his father had taken into consideration when determining his son’s punishment.

  “You have caught us on a quiet day,” Raphael said as Francesco chewed his bread. “My assistants are preparing the walls of the Pope’s apartments, a job I am pleased I can leave to others. And how is Michelangelo coming in his work? I can see he is still starving his help.”

  “Not well,” Francesco said. Had his master been anyone else, he would have felt like an informant, but as Michelangelo made no attempts to hide his animosity toward Raphael, he felt no guilt. “He’s torn away everything he started and is beginning anew. He is still begging to be allowed to work on the tomb. In the meantime, he writes letter after letter to his father and brothers and sends me to find their way to Florence.” He was babbling now. “He never gives me enough money, and I am left to pay the rest out of my own pocket.” He pulled the letter out. “See? And I’ve already sent one today.” As he looked at it, he felt even more ridiculous. Just a few months ago, his days were taken up with overseeing the sales of great tracts of land. He’d been paid for his services in pouches of gold, and now he was whining over a few small coins.

  Still, Raphael laughed sympathetically and offered him more bread. “
It is as if he is determined to make everything so difficult for himself. His Holiness is punishing him not only for his disobedience, but also for his lack of courtly manners. I fear if one behaves like a mannerless peasant, one is treated as such, and only in Heaven is there a disregard for outward appearances. Should he display a little charm and humility along with his genius, not only would he find His Holiness to be more generous, he might even have some friends.”

  Francesco could only agree. Raphael was a painter, an artist, a position no higher than Michelangelo’s, and yet since Raphael’s arrival from Florence a few months ago, he had found an exalted place for himself in the papal court while Michelangelo, in his workman’s clothes and with his slovenly habits, was still so much the outsider. And while Michelangelo had to beg for every papal ducat, Raphael was a rich man. He lived and worked in these elegant rooms, ate fresh food from the countryside, dressed as well as any of his patrons, and was generous with all his many friends. He was generous too with young artists, and they sought him out, becoming part of his growing circle of admirers. He was in every sense a true courtier.

  But these weren’t the only reasons Michelangelo despised Raphael. As Raphael picked up a piece of glass and held it up to the feeble light to appreciate its muted colors, Francesco thought no two men could ever look more unalike. While his master was squat, with a face like that of a bulldog kicked too many times, Raphael was tall, with fine handsome features that turned the heads of the most beautiful women in Rome. He had a reputation as a great lover, though Francesco had yet to see evidence of this. Although charming and gracious to everyone he met, and surrounded by people who adored him, Raphael seemed to carry an air of loneliness about him. Perhaps Raphael and Michelangelo had that much in common, though one ranted to Heaven while the other prayed quietly.

  Francesco finished the bread and wine and set the cup back on the table. “Now that I have saved you from starvation for another night,” Raphael said with a smile, “is there anything else I can help you with? Something must have brought you out on such a day.”

  Francesco nodded. There was no way out now. “Yes, and it is not good news.” He glanced toward Alfeo. “May we speak privately?”

  “Of course.” Taking the letter and reading the address above the seal, Raphael turned to the boy. “Alfeo, take this to Marcello’s. It is for Florence, and he leaves for there in the morning.”

  Alfeo accepted the letter with a nod as Francesco emptied the purse at his waist. “I hope this will be adequate.”

  Raphael waved away the money, opening a wooden box on the table and extracting several coins. “Keep them for yourself,” he said. He handed the money to Alfeo and told him to use the remainder to buy himself a sausage for his dinner.

  Francesco thanked them both and watched Alfeo put on his cloak and make for the door. Sighing, he turned his attention back to Raphael, who was now watching him with a look of concern, lines marring his smooth forehead. “It’s Calendula,” Francesco began, his voice faltering slightly over her name as he again pictured her mutilated face. “I saw them pull her body from the Tiber this morning. I believe she was murdered. Not that I told the police that. Her finger was missing … and so was the amethyst ring. They have taken her body to the mortuary.”

  “Murdered?” Raphael exclaimed. “Calendula? Marcus’s Marigold Madonna? Are you certain?”

  “I know what I saw.”

  Raphael walked to the window overlooking the Piazza Scossacavalli. “This city is a cursed place. Violence finds people here so easily and for so little reason.” He was silent for a moment before facing Francesco again. “Does Marcus know?”

  Francesco shook his head. “I came to you first. I thought you’d know what to do. And after the other night …” He let the words trail away.

  “You suspect Marcus did this?”

  Francesco shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Raphael walked back to the table and poured them both cups of wine. He indicated the settee to Francesco, who stretched his legs out in front of him in hopes of drying his wet feet. Raphael took the poker and pushed a log further into the flames. “First of all, you were wise not to tell the police anything. I fear they are more interested in extracting fines and confessions than uncovering the truth.” He laid the poker on the hearth and sat in the chair. “But Marcus? It is true he struck her the other night. However, I think he has lived in misery ever since, and so I believe it was an act uncharacteristic for him.”

  He looked at Francesco, who knew what was coming next: his own uncharacteristic act of that evening, for he was not known as a man of violence. “Do you want to tell me what happened? We were all shocked by Marcus’s actions, and I have wondered what might have happened if we had not been there to stop you. A man’s skull is no match for a marble fireplace. And to defend Calendula? It is no secret you bore her a great deal of animosity. I have never heard you direct a kind word to her, and yet you do not treat the other women there, who are members of the same profession, with similar disdain. What was it about her that elicited such,” he paused, searching for the word, “contempt?”

  Francesco stared into the fire, feeling chastised and ashamed. Though when he thought about it, he’d been ashamed all along. He felt foolish too, telling Raphael the truth, but knew he had no choice. “She reminded me of someone else, while at the same time being a complete mockery of her. It made me angry.”

  “And yet, when Marcus struck her, you came to her defense.”

  “I don’t know what came over me. I was confused. The wine, the heat from the fire … For a moment she was …” Juliet’s name almost escaped his lips. “I’m sorry now for my cruelty to her. I certainly didn’t want this to happen.”

  “And I am sure Marcus even less. We will tell him ourselves. Poor man. He was in love with her but could never take her for a wife. A man like him needs a dowry. And I cannot see him defying his father and marrying so beneath himself. Still, even knowing that, he was very jealous.”

  “Do you know who gave her that ring?”

  Raphael shook his head. “No, but it seems she might have been murdered for it. While I am neither old nor wise, I have learned that in many ways people are simple and do things for uncomplicated reasons. Love, hate, guilt, greed. Calendula was bold, and no doubt flaunted the ring unwisely.”

  Susanna’s words echoed in Francesco’s head. The way she went around flaunting herself and that new ring. It was bound to happen. Words almost identical to Raphael’s, if not as graciously put. But then how did Susanna even know about the ring or that Calendula was flaunting it? He was sure he hadn’t told her.

  “So you think then it was theft?” Francesco asked. “Just greed?”

  “It is as good a place as any to start.”

  Alfeo returned then, declaring that the letter would be on its way to Florence by morning. Francesco eyed the sausage the boy prepared to roast on the fire and decided to buy one for himself that night with the money he no longer needed to spend sending the letter.

  Church bells began tolling for vespers, and Raphael asked Francesco over the din if he would like to come with him to Imperia’s.

  Francesco nodded and put on his cloak, comparing its woolen simplicity with Raphael’s cloak of velvet trimmed with ermine. He’d once had such a cloak, but his father had forbidden him to take it to Rome, insisting that the one he now wore was better suited to his humbled position.

  Alfeo held the lamp and led the way down the stairs to the door. Outside, darkness was falling, and the drizzle gave no sign of letting up. They stood for a moment in the open doorway, watching the light rain fall on the square, as Alfeo waited to bolt the door behind them. The damp was insidious, creeping through Francesco’s cloak and hose, and despite the warmth of Raphael’s fire, his feet were still wet. A nun clearly late for evening prayers ran by, slipping and nearly falling on the greasy stones. There was no sign of the prophet who’d been ranting earlier, and Francesco envisioned him suspended by his elbows between
two soldiers, earnestly proclaiming His Holiness’s righteousness as he was led away. Or maybe he was merely at home having dinner with a long-suffering wife who secretly wished he’d be led off to the stake so she could have one evening of quiet.

  Imperia’s house faced Raphael’s across the square, and in moments, they were standing before her door. “Tell me,” Raphael said as he raised his hand to the knocker. “The woman you were reminded of when you looked at Calendula—is she the reason you are in Rome?”

  “Yes,” said Francesco without elaborating.

  “Do you want me to tell Marcus?” Raphael asked next, and Francesco nodded, as thankful to be relieved of the task as he was not to be pressed further on his past.

  The door opened, and they found themselves staring into the chest of one of the near-giants Imperia employed for this duty, their size a warning to anyone who might have come with violence on his mind. Francesco recognized him as the man who supplemented his income by wrestling brown bears at street fairs. He protected Imperia and her girls with the same ferocity. Wherever Calendula had been when she’d met her fate, it hadn’t been with this man beside her. The giant recognized them and, uttering a low grunt, stepped aside to let them pass. Francesco followed Raphael along the hallway, laughter and the sound of a lute spilling from the candlelit rooms.

  The salon was warm and bright. A fire roared on the hearth, and candlelight made the gold-threaded tapestries and Persian carpets glow. He looked around the room, waiting for Calendula’s laughter and a glimpse of her golden hair, but he realized almost in the same instant that he would never hear or see her again, and the memory of her battered face momentarily overwhelmed him with unexpected sadness.