The Wolves of St. Peter's (11 page)

There was no question of Susanna entering Imperia's by the front door with him, but she could go through the servants' door and mingle with the kitchen staff with no harm to her reputation. “The kitchen is almost as good as the market for gossip,” she told him. “You watch. I'll be wiser than you when we leave here.”

Francesco found Imperia as he had yesterday, stretched out on the settee in her azure silk, her feet in matching embroidered slippers resting on an ottoman. But today she wasn't alone, and he greeted Raphael, surprised to find him here at such an early hour. “Come in, Francesco,” Imperia said. “I was just about to send
someone for you.” She removed her feet from the ottoman and gestured for him to sit before pouring a cup of wine from the decanter. A greenish yellow songbird warbled cheerfully in a small cage. It hadn't been there yesterday. A gift from a client, perhaps?

Francesco could see Imperia had been crying, and he felt guilty for not having come the night before as promised. “I'm sorry I didn't come earlier. It was late when I left The Turk's yesterday, and the rain—” The excuse sounded feeble even to his own ears, and he was grateful to Imperia for raising a hand to stop him.

“There's no need for apologies,” she said. “What did you learn from The Turk? Please tell me he has Calendula's body.”

Francesco looked to Raphael, feeling guiltier still, but there was no condemnation in Raphael's face. “I am sorry this fell to you, Francesco. I was kept occupied at the Vatican yesterday.”

“I wished to be of help. I would have come earlier, but I was sure Marcus would have already told you. He had left The Turk's not long before I arrived … or rather, The Turk had thrown him out.”

“Thrown him out?” Imperia looked alarmed.

“Marcus had gone to buy back his painting. The Turk said Marcus took his refusal to sell it quite calmly at first but then became agitated and attacked The Turk. He had his men remove Marcus from the house. He said they didn't hurt Marcus, though.”

“And you thought he would come here?”

Francesco nodded, knowing that until Susanna had suggested this, it hadn't occurred to him at all. But it did make sense for Marcus to seek out the people who knew Calendula and tell them what he'd learned. Indeed, now convinced of this, he started to worry about the man.

“Is there something you are reluctant to tell us?” Raphael asked. “It does not surprise me that Marcus would be very upset he could
not have the painting back. He came to me about it, and I advised against him going. I worried such a thing would happen.”

Francesco took a draught of wine. “It's not that. He seems to have initially taken The Turk's refusal to sell in good stride. Though I can only give you The Turk's version of events.”

“And you have reason to doubt them?” Raphael asked.

“I'm afraid so, and it is why I delayed coming here.” He looked at Imperia, his guilt resurfacing. “Please believe it was your feelings and safety I was worried about.”

“I want only the truth, Francesco. Please tell me what happened and put me out of my misery. Did The Turk claim Calendula's body?”

“He says no. And he seemed very surprised to be asked. He said he was happy to leave it to you and your father, as he was very busy.”

“Then who took it?”

“He said he didn't know. That was when he mentioned Marcus's visit. He discounted Marcus as the man who took her body, as he didn't fit the description you were given, but offered no other suggestion as to who might have. I was ready to believe it was perhaps another of her lovers. The one who gave her the ring, maybe. Perhaps this mysterious lover is the fat man.” Pausing here, he took another drink of wine. Imperia looked as though she was about to cry again, and the whole time the bird in the cage trilled its merry song.
Singing, singing like the village idiot while his home burned,
Francesco thought. Or was it more like Nero singing while Rome burned?

“I would have gone away believing this,” he continued, “until I saw what I'm sure so angered Marcus.” He feared putting in a dramatic pause, like an actor in a Greek melodrama, but it was happening anyway. “I'm afraid The Turk was wearing the amethyst ring. Calendula's ring.”

Imperia let out a cry, and Raphael rushed to her side. “Are you sure, man? The very same ring?”

Francesco nodded.

“But what does it mean?” Imperia implored. “Surely, The Turk didn't …”

“I've been over many possibilities in my mind, but in the end all I know is this: The Turk was wearing Calendula's ring. The rest is speculation. Perhaps she flaunted the ring to The Turk, as she had with Marcus, and The Turk killed her in a fury, taking the ring as some kind of spoils before throwing her body in the river.”

“But why would he wear the ring,” Imperia asked, “when it so clearly marks him as the murderer?”

“Arrogance,” Raphael said bluntly. “What can we do? He is wealthy and has friends in very high places. He makes a point of seeking out the most rich and powerful in the Church and among the Roman establishment. I know not what favors he performs for them, but I am sure he can rely on them being returned.”

“Oh, I can't believe The Turk would kill her,” Imperia said. “He seemed generous in his love of Calendula and so genuinely upset when he learned of her death. But he must have claimed the body, although I don't know why he would lie about it. If only I knew she was buried like a Christian.”

Francesco nodded. “It's a strange thing to lie about, since claiming the body doesn't point to guilt, whereas wearing the ring does.” He said nothing about his strange theory. If she was now part of The Turk's collection, there would be no Christian burial.

“We may never know,” Raphael said. “And what troubles me most right now is Marcus. You know how rashly he can behave. While you have wisely weighed out the possibilities and dangers, you can be sure Marcus has not.”

“You're right, Raphael,” Imperia said, dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief so dainty it seemed designed for ladies who wept but a single tear. “And you, Francesco, were right to think he would probably have come here. He consults me—” She broke off, her face suddenly lighting up. “Dante! Dante has seen him. How could I have forgotten? It's just, with Dante, one's never sure what's real. The poor man. He seems convinced he'll stay a bat forever.”

“Did he say where he saw Marcus?” Francesco asked.

“He said so many things. But he is here. In the salon. He won't go out during the day, and he won't go home, either. He says it is too light. I don't know how long I can let this go on, but today it's perhaps fortunate.”

They went down to the salon by the great staircase, avoiding, to Francesco's relief, the rooms the girls shared. That, of course, made him think of Susanna, and he imagined her growing impatient. In the feeble light from the windows, the salon seemed empty, but Dante was still there, huddled on his chair, his black cloak pulled over his head.

“Dante,” Imperia said gently, “could you speak with us, please?”

Slowly, Dante poked his head out of his cloak. Francesco thought he couldn't have looked more despondent if he'd been Prometheus, just informed that every morning for eternity his liver was to be pecked out by an eagle.

“Just call me the bat man,” he said sorrowfully. “I'll never be Dante again. Don't make me go away, Imperia.”

“I'm not going to make you go away,” she said with a sigh. “Do you remember this morning? You said you saw Marcus. Where did you see him?”

If possible, Dante looked even more distressed. “No. I was to say I didn't see Marcus. That is what he told me to say. You didn't
see me. But I said, I do see you. I'm a bat, and bats see in the dark. They must, because they always fly in the night, and they don't fly into things. I didn't fly into Marcus.”

“Where were you when this happened?” Raphael asked gently.

“Oh no, this is a trick. It's another trick to make me tell you. I cannot fly in the rain, and it rained and rained and rained, and my wings were too heavy to fly. He said Calendula was there on the ship. He tried to go on it. I'll kill you! I'll kill you! He took her there.”

“Who took her there?” Francesco asked. “The Turk?”

“He is not The Turk.” Dante was talking at a furious pace now. “He is The Greek. The Turk is The Greek, and Calendula is not Calendula. The Madonna is not Calendula. But Marcus paints Calendula, and it is not Calendula anymore, it is the Madonna. She was making a fool of him with her yellow hair. Stop! Stop! Or I'll kill you! I'll kill you!”

“We will not let Marcus kill you,” Raphael said kindly. “He says things he does not mean. Did you go on the ship? Was it in the port?”

Dante shook his head and started to cry. The eagle was circling ever nearer, his eye firmly fixed on his morning feast of liver.

“THERE
you are,” Susanna said. “I was about to get one of those giants to drag you out.”

“It was more complicated than I thought,” Francesco said. “Marcus hasn't been here. But Dante says he saw him at the port. If any of what Dante says can be believed, Marcus seemed to think
The Turk had Calendula's body on his ship. He might have gone aboard to look.”

“So we're going to the port now, are we?”

“Well, I am. Don't you have to return to your silversmith and cook his dinner?” She looked at him as if he were speaking to her in a foreign tongue, and Francesco felt a twinge of fear for the man he had been ready to thump the night before. “Did he get kicked by a horse?” Perhaps that's why it had been so quiet.

“What? Kicked by a horse? Like the miller? I didn't kill him, if that's what you're asking,” she replied indignantly. “He's gone on to Ostia to his family, to avoid the flooding.”

“Well, then, come to the port if you wish,” he said, not quite sure if he believed her.

“Of course I'm going to the port with you.” She pulled an apple from her pocket and handed it to him, along with a piece of bread and a slab of cheese. “I took these when the cook wasn't looking.”

“You know what Dante—the writer Dante, not the bat man—said Hell had in store for thieves, don't you?”

She snickered. “No. But rich or poor, that's where we're all going. Because everyone's a thief in some way. You tried to steal a man's wife.”

He took a bite of his apple and laughed. She was full of a peasant's wisdom today, though hopefully, for the silversmith's sake, not a peasant's violence. “That's not quite how it happened, but I'm grateful all the same for the food.” The cheese was excellent, a variety made of sheep's milk, he guessed. “But although you found good food, it would seem I'm the wiser for our visit.”

“All you've learned is Marcus never came here and might be missing. Or, according to a man who thinks he's a bat, he might have been to the port because he thought The Turk had Calendula's body on his boat.”

“Then what have you learned, my wise little friend?” he asked, tossing the apple core into the overflowing gutter.

“I've learned something you might not want to believe.” She looked around quickly, as if to make sure there were no eavesdroppers, but no one seemed interested in them. “It is Imperia. The cook said she and Calendula were always fighting and that it started when Calendula first saw the finished painting. The cook said
The Marigold Madonna
was bad luck. It made Calendula go strange, and she screamed at Imperia that she was a liar and she hated her. They had some fearful fights about that ring too.”

“What about the ring?”

“The cook says whenever one of the girls gets a gift, they have to share it with Imperia. Usually Imperia takes the gift to a certain Jew near the Campo dei Fiori. She gives some of the money back to the girl and keeps the rest for herself. Sometimes the girls use the money toward a dowry or to help their families. Only Calendula wouldn't agree to sell that ring. The night she got killed, they had a big fight, and Imperia told her she was too much trouble and ordered her out of the house. Calendula told her she didn't care, since she was going to be a lady again.” Susanna threw her apple core to a pig rooting in the street. “No wonder she was murdered,” she said as they continued on. “Out at night by herself with that ring.”

Francesco was stunned. Why had Imperia not told him she had ordered Calendula from the house? He thought back to the night when Marcus kept asking who Calendula had left with. But she hadn't left with anyone—she had left alone. Was some of the grief Imperia now felt really guilt for having put Calendula in the murderer's path? Or a lament that she'd never received her share of the ring?
No.
She may have wanted her share, but he didn't believe her to be that cold.

“I told you I'd learn more than you,” Susanna concluded triumphantly.

He was about to commend her, but the reappearance of the dead cow at the Cestio Bridge diverted their attention. “Look, it's been waiting for us,” Susanna said with a laugh. Still on its back, with its legs sticking up absurdly, the cow seemed somehow a suitable companion on this mission. A couple of boys aimed stones at it from the bank, cheering every time they hit their target. They all kept pace with the carcass to the port, where it became snagged in the lines of a barge and bobbed there like a giant buoy, immediately attracting the attention of the seagulls that circled overhead.

“If we hang around here, you'll get to know what the Devil playing his pipes sounds like,” Francesco said as the boys scrambled aboard the barge for a closer look.

The flooding had thrown the port into a frantic state. Crews stood by, not knowing whether to load or unload. Some men tied lines, then untied and retied them again, while others pulled small craft from the water and then put them in again. Yet more men rowed boats to one side of the river and back again for no apparent purpose. No one seemed to know whether the worst of the flooding was over and they could get back to normal, or whether the worst was yet to come and, if so, what they should do about it. Men stood in groups, passing around jugs of wine, ignoring the brazen prostitutes who worked the wharf. As the men argued, they pointed upstream, then downstream, then back again to the sky, every bit as gray and heavy as the last time they'd pointed at it.