The Wolves of St. Peter's Page 6

  The man raised his arm, and the sword hung over them all. Francesco watched it come down, the blade glinting in the sun. Guido would kill the wolf and save Bibi, because Francesco was a cowardly little boy and because he was starting to sneeze and Susanna was shaking him awake …

  “What were you dreaming, Francesco? One minute you’re screaming like you’ve seen the Devil, and the next moment you’re sneezing. You’re sick. You’re burning up with fever, and you’re staying in bed. I’ll take Michelangelo his bread this morning.”

  Francesco sat up. His head felt as if it were made of stone. It was true he had a fever. His throat burned, and even his eyes were hot. His dream was still there, his heart still pounding from the sword swooping through the air.

  “I have to get up,” he insisted. “I have too much to do.”

  “You have nothing to do,” she scoffed. “Send a letter. Deliver some bread. Drink with Raphael. That’s about it.”

  “No.” He sneezed again, the force of it making his head pound in earnest. “I have to go home. To Florence. I have a score to settle. If not, I’m as good as a dead man.”

  Susanna glared at him. “A dead man? Nonsense. It’s just the fever talking. You got all worked up after what happened yesterday and made yourself ill. You can’t go home anyway. You’re in exile, remember, from trying to settle that foolish score. Honestly, the way you fly off the handle sometimes reminds me of Michelangelo. Maybe you two deserve each other.” She put on her brown wool cloak and pulled the hood over her hair. “When I get back, I’ll make a plaster for your chest to draw the fluid from your lungs.”

  She opened the door, and Francesco could see it was still raining. Was it ever going to stop? No wonder he felt so awful. He remembered how cold his feet had been in his wet boots as he stood in the rain and listened to the wolves. No wonder he had dreamed of them. He had to get out of here. Forget Guido del Mare—the rotten weather in this city was going to kill him. Many a man didn’t wake from a fever, and he had the sense he might still be close to finding out what the afterlife had in store for him.

  “I almost forgot,” Susanna said, turning around in the doorway. “There’s a rumor going around the city that Michelangelo stabbed someone so he would know how to draw the muscles of a dying man. Is it true, do you think?”

  Francesco struggled to sit up, and everything in the room swam around him. “I doubt it, though I don’t see any reason not to repeat it. Serve the miserable bastard right. And I’ll thank you not to compare me to him again.” He was sitting on the edge of the bed now. “Give me my boots,” he demanded, reaching out a hand to where they rested, mud-caked but dry, on the hearth.

  Susanna shook her head. He stood up and made a dizzy step toward his boots, but she was too fast for him. She swooped down and, tucking his boots under her arm, disappeared into the rain. He called her name, and then he called her a few other names, and when she didn’t answer, he fell back onto the bed. He stared up at the soot-encrusted ceiling beams, images from the previous day now struggling for precedence over the strange dream, questions fighting to form in his boiling brain. “To Hell with it all,” he started to say, but he was asleep before the first word escaped his lips, and this time his dreams were even crazier.

  WHEN he opened his eyes, it was dark. He thought for a moment he had slept the entire day away, but what he believed to be night was only a cloth over his eyes. He pushed it away and found himself looking up into Susanna’s face. In the dim light, her black tooth made it look like she had a big gap between her teeth. He could hear the steady dripping of rain into the pail beside the chimney.

  “I’m still alive then?” he asked her, surprised that, while his throat was dry, it no longer hurt.

  He tried to sit up, but she pushed him down again. “No, you’re in Heaven among the angels.” She gave him a fierce smile. “If you were going to die, it would have been last night. I was worried you were going to burst into flames and burn the house down, you were so hot. Now lie still while I take the plaster from your chest. Then I’ll get you some water.”

  He did as he was told, waiting until she’d brought him a cup full of water before sitting up. He still felt weak, and his skin was hot and red where the plaster had been, but his fever had abated. “How long have I been asleep?” he asked after draining the second dipper of water.

  “It’s only afternoon.”

  He groaned. “I didn’t take the bread and wine to Michelangelo. He’ll have me hanged.”

  “Don’t worry. I took it over. He asked me if you had any boils. He’s terrified you have the plague. Not that he’s worried about you. He’s just afraid of getting it himself. I assured him you had no boils, only a fever.”

  “You should have told him I was covered with them.”

  “He’s scared enough. He’s drinking some horrible-smelling stuff out of a bottle.” She held out a cup of wine and a chunk of bread. “Think you can eat this?”

  “Yes. I’m as starved as those wolves last night.” He had the faintest memory of something about wolves in his dreams too. His sisters were there, and his mother was still alive, and it was very hot, but that was probably the fever. The bread was almost as soft and white as the bread he’d eaten at Raphael’s the day before, much better than the loaf Susanna usually bought. “Did you buy this especially for me?”

  She laughed. “You can thank Imperia’s cook for that. I don’t buy from the Frenchman—his prices are too high. But it’s only the best for Imperia and her whores,” she said loftily, as if she had completely forgotten a similar statement had started their quarrel of the day before. But Francesco didn’t bite this time. He didn’t have another fight in him today, and he wasn’t going to risk his bed for the night. Besides, she was looking so pleased with herself he would have laughed if he’d had the strength.

  “Imperia’s cook bought me the bread? Why would she do that?”

  “No, silly boy. Imperia’s cook was talking to the Frenchman. She bought ten loaves twice the size of this one. Do you want more?” she asked, waving a couple of flies off the small loaf on the table.

  He nodded, and she broke off another piece, brought it to him, and sat down on the chest beside the bed. While he doubted she had much to tell him, she was clearly enjoying making him wait. “And you thought she might be talking about Calendula?”

  “Of course. Today the market is very busy, though mostly the talk is of the wolves and the rain and whether the Tiber will flood. I didn’t hear anything about Calendula, probably because it isn’t so strange here to find a prostitute in the river. But then I spotted Imperia’s cook chatting with the Frenchman, and I knew if anyone was talking about Calendula it would be her, so I went and stood beside her. When the Frenchman asked me what I wanted, I couldn’t say nothing and make it look like I was just eavesdropping. So I bought the bread and took so long to find my money in my basket they went back to talking. And a good thing or I would have missed the most important part.”

  “And what was that?” he asked when it became apparent she was going to make him beg.

  “She said Imperia went with her father to get the body, but when she got there, the body was gone. Someone else had already taken it.”

  “Did she say who?” He was genuinely interested now.

  “No. Only that Imperia was crying. The cook says Imperia was very fond of Calendula.”

  I thought of her as a sweet younger cousin, Imperia had said. He himself had seen little of that sweetness.

  He took down his clothes from where they hung by the fire and pulled on his warm shirt. His hose were no longer caked with muddy water, and he assumed Susanna had washed them. He would have thanked her, except he found his purse to be emptied of coins and assumed that was thanks enough. He knew now who had paid for the French baker’s expensive bread.

  ANY other day, Francesco would have been tempted to go by the Tiber and see just how high it had risen, but by the time he’d reached the square by way of the alley, he was already tir
ed, and the stench was making him nauseated. He pulled his cloak up over his nose, but the wool reeked of dirty sheep, so he pulled it down again and concentrated on sidestepping the most vile-looking of the puddles. At least the soap-maker had given up trying to keep a fire going in the rain, and his cauldron remained covered.

  At the first turn, he found his path blocked by the butcher and his very pregnant wife, attempting to lead a donkey loaded down with greasy sacks that no doubt held the remains of one of the sheep he’d seen tied up here the day before. “Tiber’s going to flood,” the butcher said. “Maybe even tonight. We’re going to my cousin’s shop on the Capitoline Hill. That is, if I can get this lazy beast to move.” He put his shoulder to the donkey’s behind and pushed with all his weight while his wife at the head pulled the rope. The animal fell to its knees before staggering up again, and in that way, the couple proceeded down the street. Push. Pull. Fall down. Get up. Push. Pull … Lucky for the Christ Child, Mary and Joseph’s donkey had been a little more understanding or they would never have made it to the stable. This lowly child would be lucky not to be born in a puddle by the next corner. Only knowing he didn’t want to be there if it happened, Francesco wished them best of luck and edged past.

  At the brothel, Francesco was met by one of the giants and soon was led up to Imperia’s private apartments on the first floor. Dressed this afternoon in soft azure silk, Imperia lounged on a settee placed before the wide windows. “Francesco, I’m glad you came. It has been a most disturbing morning. I sent my maid in search of Raphael, but he’s not to be found.” He kissed her outstretched hand and could see that her eyes were red with crying. She dabbed at them, staining her Venetian lace handkerchief with rouge. He took the chair next to hers. In the perfumed air, he could smell the filth rising from his boots, the combination threatening to bring bile to his throat. She poured some wine from the decanter at her elbow and handed him the cup. He sipped it gratefully, and the queasiness subsided.

  “I fear I already know the cause of your distress. A friend overheard your cook this morning telling the French baker Calendula’s body was not at the mortuary when you arrived.”

  Imperia’s faint laugh was tainted with sarcasm. “A servant’s discretion is something that cannot be bought at any price. But yes, it’s true. My father and I arrived this morning only to be told the body had already been claimed. They were very happy to tell me she had fetched them a good price—far more than the whore was worth alive.” She let out a long breath. “We live in a sad world, Francesco.”

  “It is that,” he said resignedly. “Did they say who paid so much?”

  “No. They didn’t give a name, just that he was fat. I can think of only one person.”

  “The Turk,” Francesco said without hesitation, though he had never met the man. Surprising, really, as The Turk was a frequent visitor to Imperia’s and an admirer of Calendula.

  She nodded. “Yes. Though I’m still surprised. He came last night after you left. Marcus was not the only one searching for her. The Turk was most distressed. When I broke the news to him, it took both my guards to keep him from destroying my house. As it is, the carpenter has been at work all morning on half the chairs in the salon, and there was a crack in one of the panes of the bookcase. But when he finally calmed down, I told him of my plan to collect the body with my father, and he agreed. Maybe he forgot. Or perhaps he changed his mind.”

  Francesco was silent for a moment. “Did you tell him about her finger and the missing ring?”

  Imperia shook her head. “And it wasn’t because you said to keep quiet about it. I was worried it would make his rage even more fearful. I suppose if he took the body, he knows now.” She sighed. “At least about the finger. I don’t know if he even knew of the ring.”

  “Marcus thinks The Turk gave her the ring.”

  “It’s not rare to receive gifts from an admirer. The girls usually sell them to the Jews in hopes of raising a dowry or to help their families. And it’s no secret The Turk admired her. But had it been from him, I don’t think she would have kept it a secret.”

  “Not even for the pleasure of torturing Marcus?”

  “Yes, she did seem to enjoy that. But only with the ring. She didn’t behave that way before with him. She always flattered him, as was expected. And I do think she was genuinely fond of Marcus, though perhaps not as fond as he was of her. I think Marcus assumed she would sell the ring and use the money to marry him. He was very hurt when she didn’t give it a second of consideration. Even his father might have been persuaded by a little money, for no one else had made an offer, or so he said. But Calendula wanted more than to be the wife of a craftsman toiling like a servant. She wants … or wanted … to be a lady. She used to be a noblewoman, you see, albeit a poor one.

  “When I questioned her on the night of the incident with Marcus, she told me she wouldn’t be here long. She seemed to think there was far more on offer than just the ring. That’s why I don’t think it was from The Turk. The Turk has a wife. A very rich one, and I don’t believe The Turk, as fond as he might have been of Calendula, would want to return his wife’s dowry to her, even if he could procure an annulment.”

  “So someone else?”

  “She had many admirers, but I can’t think of anyone who has shown her particular attention beyond a few of the clergy, and she wouldn’t be leaving here to go with any of them. They cannot take their pleasure in the marriage bed, nor make her a lady.”

  “And so you’re sure none of them gave her the ring?”

  “It wouldn’t be kept a secret. She seemed to think whoever had given her the ring would marry her. Whoever it was, I’m sure she didn’t meet him between these walls. I would know.”

  Francesco helped himself to more wine. “Have you looked in her room?”

  “For what?”

  “More gifts. Letters, perhaps. Anything that might indicate this man’s identity.”

  “We can go and look. She didn’t read or write, so I wouldn’t expect to find letters.”

  Imperia led him down the hall past two young houseboys carrying steaming pails of water destined for baths. It was siesta time, and the girls were resting and preparing for the evening’s entertainments. Through an open door, Francesco glimpsed two naked girls entwined together on the bed. Another, dressed only in a chemise, sat at a dressing table, combing her hair. Smiling invitingly at Francesco, she beckoned him to join the girls on the bed. He smiled back, shaking his head and blushing slightly at their boldness and his own unexpected excitement. He didn’t look into any more rooms after that, and the sounds that reached him as he walked by were ordinary enough to subdue him: a request for hot water, a few lines of song, furniture scraping over the floor, the tolling of bells in the square.

  Calendula’s room was only a few square yards. This was not the room in which she entertained, only the one in which she lived, and if it held any secrets, they weren’t forthcoming. A tiny window revealed a warren of tiled roofs, and the room’s only furnishings were a narrow bed with plain linen sheets and a dressing table, its stained surface scattered with cheap combs, pins, and pots of face paint. He opened the drawers of the table and found much the same, along with a few handkerchiefs in various states of cleanliness and some ribbons and lengths of lace. He searched for a hidden drawer, but Imperia told him there were none, since all the girls’ dressing tables were the same. Francesco wasn’t surprised to see a yellow dress quite similar to the one Calendula was discovered in, the spare pair of sleeves hanging on either side, making the garment appear as if it were intended for a woman with four arms. The only other object in the room was a Madonna, poorly executed on wood that had long ago cracked. He touched her faded face, and the paint came off on his finger as readily as the rouge had come off Imperia’s cheek. As Imperia suspected, there were no letters, but tucked into the frame of the Madonna was a small piece of paper that was inscribed with one word: “Calendula.”

  They sat on the edge of the hard bed. Imp
eria took the paper from his hand and, placing it on her lap, smoothed it as gently as if she were stroking a child’s hair. “I wrote this out for her so she would know how her new name looked. She had others, her given names and her married name, but she wanted to forget all that, to start anew. She insisted I call her Calendula, and that’s how I came to think of her. You see, Francesco, I didn’t just think of her as a younger cousin. She was my younger cousin. You’re the only one besides my father who knows this.”

  “Why?”

  “It seemed best to keep it that way.” Imperia sighed, glancing down at the paper again. “I know you didn’t see it, but she could be a sweet girl. At least, that’s how I remember her, when we were both young, before she married, before she tried to bear children. That—and this place—hardened her.” Imperia faltered, and Francesco was struck at that moment by how much she reminded him of his mother. It was in the tilt of the head, perhaps, or the fine skin, or maybe it was the tone of her voice as she spoke lovingly of Calendula. Or perhaps it was the fleeting scent of jasmine. He wondered if, like his mother, she kept between her breasts a little sachet, one that released its calming scent with every beat of her heart. His mother would have been about the same age as Imperia when she died, and Francesco had a sudden compulsion to lay his head against Imperia’s breast and rest it there for a while to see if he could recapture the feeling of his mother’s touch. Imperia caught his eye, and he quickly averted his gaze, fearing she would misread what she saw.

  “I was much surprised the day I found her sobbing on my doorstep,” Imperia continued. “Her husband, who was a cruel man, had thrown her out when she could not bear him a live child, let alone a male one. This is one place where that’s an asset for a woman. She had no family to return to. And so she came here, to her next closest kin. I could offer her means to live. She gave herself a new name and insisted I keep her history a secret. If she could have raised a dowry and found someone to take her, I saw no reason anyone should ever know her past. But it no longer matters.”