The Wolves of St. Peter's (19 page)

She laughed. “Are you jealous?” she asked, putting down the scrub brush and wiping her hands on her apron. “I like it when you're jealous. You pay attention to me then, instead of pretending I'm that other woman.”

He held up his hand for her to stop, realizing as he did so that there was truth in her words. He
was
jealous. Still, he wasn't quite ready to forgive her. “Is it true? Did you go with a tall man on a horse?”

Susanna gave a snort of exasperation. “Yes, I went with a tall man on a horse. A messenger. He delivered a letter to your house
and was heading on to Ostia. I went with him to see my father. I wasn't going to see Benvenuto, if that's what you're thinking.”

He wasn't. He was trying to reconcile the tall man on the horse who'd delivered his letter and taken Susanna with his tall man, big man, fat man theory. Had he been wrong about everything? “Your father?” he asked, wondering now if he should tell her his ideas. “In the country?”

“Can't a girl visit her father? I've told you before he lives just outside of Ostia.”

“And did you return with the same man just now?”

“Is that why you're angry? Because someone saw me with the messenger? I didn't share his bed, if that's what you're implying. He stayed at the inn in Ostia. I came back with him today only because he was returning to Rome too. I can't believe you're jealous. You're such a little boy.”

“I am not jealous,” he lied. “And so the same man brought you home today?”

“Yes. I just said that.”

Francesco stared at her and decided she was probably telling the truth. It seemed very unlikely the man would have taken Susanna all the way to her father's, ridden back, thrown a lit torch into the soap-maker's shop, then returned to Ostia, picked up Susanna, and brought her back to Rome. But then he was no further ahead in learning the identity of either the man who lit the shop on fire or the man who'd taken Calendula's body. Unless the fire really was the doing of Asino and di Grassi, but he didn't believe that. “Did you come in by way of the square today?”

She shook her head. “I came by the alley. He left me by the port. Why are you asking me all these questions? At first I thought you were jealous, but now you're just being … strange.”

Francesco went to the front door and signaled her to follow. They stepped out into the square, and Susanna gasped as Francesco pulled her back into the doorway and out of the way of a pig being chased by its owner, a scraggly man with an equally scraggly beard, bearing a heavy cudgel. The pig careened and skidded through the square, squealing like a demon, splattering mud, and sending chickens scurrying. A big black dog joined in pursuit and was rewarded with a blow to the head. The dog dropped to the ground with hardly a whimper, and Francesco was sure it must be dead, but moments later, it struggled to its feet and staggered off between two houses. But Susanna hardly noticed. She was staring aghast at the empty space where only yesterday the soap-maker's shop had leaned.

“There's been a fire! What happened?”

“The soap-maker told me a fancy man on a horse threw a torch into the shop, and someone else”—he omitted telling her it was Bastiano—“said you left with a tall man on a horse.” Daylight revealed the full extent of the damage. The walls of Michelangelo's house were blackened, and it was clear that parts had indeed caught fire. Had it not been for the rain and the soap-maker's wife's calloused hands, the house would certainly have burned to the ground.

“I see,” she said. She looked at him, arms crossed over her chest, her face scrunched into a comical picture of concentration. “You thought I left with a tall, fancy man on a horse and then he came back and burned down the soap-maker's shop?”

He nodded. “But obviously it wasn't the same man.” He suddenly noticed that her hair was clean, shining despite the dullness of the day. She must have had a bath at her father's. Her brown dress seemed cleaner too, and she had a new white apron.

“Where are Rocco and Rocca?”

“Who?”

“The soap-maker and his wife, of course. I hope they weren't killed in the fire.”

This was the first time Francesco had heard the pair's names. They'd always just been the soap-maker and his wife to him. It seemed fitting they shared the masculine and feminine versions of the same name. “No, they're fine. They're going to stay with her sister and set up shop there. It looks like they've already been back for the cauldron. I can't say I'll miss the stink.”

“Why would anyone want to burn down their shop? It's such a mean thing to do.”

“I'm not sure if it was intended to burn down the shop or Michelangelo's house.”

“You think this was meant for Michelangelo?”

“Michelangelo does. And he thinks di Grassi and Asino are behind it. They're angry about the ceiling.” The bells of Santa Caterina began to toll the midday hour.

“They would try to kill a man because they didn't like how he painted a ceiling?” Susanna asked over the clanging bells.

“I know, it sounds foolish. But they think it's blasphemous. All those muscular naked men, I guess. But I'm sure that's just an excuse. Julius has cut their allowances, and they think all their money's going to Michelangelo. Julius was just here, and he seemed to believe Michelangelo, or at least he was willing to humor his suspicions.”

“Did you say Julius—
His Holiness
—was here? In your house?” The bells subsided with one last lopsided peal, and Susanna beckoned him back through the door. She offered him some bread and cheese, and he accepted with something very close to contentment. How good it was to have the jealousy removed and to know Susanna was safe. Maybe afterward they would lie on her bed …

He forced his thoughts back to the conversation at hand. “Julius wanted to know why Michelangelo wasn't at the chapel today.”

“That's an honor for Michelangelo and should put di Grassi and Asino in their place.”

“That's what Michelangelo is hoping. But I'm sure they had nothing to do with the fire.”

“Well then, who did?”

“I don't know. But I wonder whether it could be the same man who stole Calendula's body.”

“Why would he want to burn down the soap-maker's shop?”

“He might have been trying to kill me. Maybe he knows I've been asking The Turk questions. The Turk was supposed to go to the mortuary today to see what he could find out.”

“Then why not burn down The Turk's house?”

“I don't know,” Francesco said. Mention of The Turk reminded him of the boys who'd escaped from The Turk's ship. “You must be silent about this. But when we saw Asino and di Grassi at the port, they were there to buy boys. Very young boys for carnal pleasure.” He had a sudden thought. “I don't want to upset you, but I think that's where Julius got that little boy from.”

“I already know what he does with that boy.”

“You do?” He remembered the night when they'd stood out in the rain talking, the first night they heard the wolves. “But I thought you said the Pope can't sin.”

“He can't,” she said with finality. She threw a couple of sticks on the fire and gave them a poke.

“Then what do you call what he does to that boy?”

She shrugged. “When I was small, the priest took me after Mass to this secret room. It had a fireplace, and there was a table with books and a human skull. He took it out … not the skull … you know …”

Francesco felt ill. “That's not sin?”

“He told me to do what he said and not to tell my father, or demons would take me to Hell and burn me forever with hot pokers. I didn't want to do it, but I didn't want to go to Hell and be burned, either. The priest took the poker from the fire and put it right there,” she said, pushing her finger against her skirts to indicate the inside of her thigh. “He showed me how it would feel. And so I did what he wanted.” She spoke matter-of-factly, busying herself with preparing the food she'd promised Francesco. “He got me pregnant. I couldn't tell my mother, so I went to the midwife to make me bleed. I bled so much I almost died, and then I never bled again …”

She hadn't answered his question,
That's not sin?
But he almost forgot he'd asked it. Sin didn't come close to describing what had transpired in that room. But he also knew her tormentor had made her think she was the sinner, such was his power. “You're not afraid anymore, are you?” he asked quietly.

“Not anymore,” she said, pouring wine for them both, smiling bravely. “
È
la vita, che ci vuoi fare?
That's life, what can you do about it?”

He started to object, but she told him to hush and handed him a plate with a generous chunk of cheese and a fat slice of bread. There were some olives as well, black and shiny with oil. He shouldn't be hearing these things and enjoying food at the same time. It felt wrong.

“And anyway,” Susanna said firmly, “His Holiness's boy didn't come from Asino and di Grassi. He came from Imperia's.”

“From Imperia's?” Francesco was astounded.

“Everybody knows that. That's why His Holiness lets her have her brothel. Because she gave him the boy.”

“Why did you never tell me this?”

“You never asked me.”

“But it could be …” He was going to say
important,
only as he didn't know whether it was, how could he expect her to know? He popped an olive in his mouth and chewed off the meat before spitting the pit out onto the plate. To a point, the boy's story did corroborate Susanna's. He did say his mother was a whore. But then he also said she was in Hell and that she was the Virgin Mary. “Well, who is the boy's mother? Imperia?”

“I don't think so. Just some whore's. There are enough of them.” She said this last part with the usual haughtiness she employed when speaking of anyone connected with Imperia.

Francesco took a bite of cheese. Maybe Susanna should visit her father more often. She handed him his wine, and he was about to dip in his bread when he almost dropped it, cup and all. “Of course!” he exclaimed. How could he have missed it? The golden hair, the blue eyes.
His Holiness says she is in Hell because she was a whore.
“Calendula! It has to be Calendula.”

“Why?” asked Susanna, seemingly unimpressed.

“Well, the blond hair and blue eyes, for a start. And Agnello told me:
My mother was the Virgin Mary, sir. She was in the painting with me. Before she went to Hell.
”

“But Calendula didn't have any children.”

Francesco swore. “You're right. Imperia told me her husband had thrown her out because of her barrenness. Or at least I think that's what she said. Do you know how long Calendula was at Imperia's? Could she have had a child after her arrival? There are enough children in the house.”

Susanna shrugged. “I don't know, but Imperia has only been there for two years, so Calendula could only have been there that long. How old is the boy?”

“Six,” he said. “So if the boy was Calendula's, he would have been four when she came to Imperia's.”

Susanna counted the years on her fingers. Or at least made a display of doing so, mouthing random numbers as she pointed at the fingers of one hand with those on the other. Francesco felt embarrassed for her. How did she not get cheated at the market? He was going to have to teach her to count, as well as read. She would never save for a dowry this way. “Yes!” she said quite triumphantly, as if she were Euclid and had just discovered geometry. “He couldn't have been born two years ago, because then he'd be two, not six.” She picked up her cup of wine. “Sometimes I'm smarter than you.”

“Sometimes it's not difficult,” he said. “Still, I think I'll go and talk to Imperia.” Obviously Imperia hadn't told him the whole story. For one, she hadn't told him she'd given the boy to Julius. Neither had she admitted, at first, to ordering Calendula from the house nor fighting with her over the ring. Perhaps there was even more she'd omitted.

“Not tonight, I hope. I want you to come with me later.”

“Why?”

“There's to be a necromancer in the Colosseum. They say he can raise all kinds of spirits. Evil and good. I'll show you. I'm going there tonight. He wears a black hood like the hangman and speaks with the Devil's tongue.”

“Who told you this nonsense?”

“It isn't nonsense, and I'm not lying. The messenger told me.”

Francesco sighed. “I know you're not lying. You're silly enough to believe such things, but the messenger who told you this
is
lying.”

“Well,” she said defiantly, “I'm going even if you don't come.”

“You are not to go. It's not safe for a man to go to that part of the city at night, let alone a woman.” Although, after what she'd just
told him, he supposed there were very few safe places for a woman. He put down the plate and pulled her onto the bed next to him. “Come here, and if you really want to go, I'll take you and you can see for yourself it's all tricks.”

She laid her head on his shoulder. “When Benvenuto was home the other night, I put herbs in his wine so he would sleep and leave me alone.”

“Is that why it was so quiet?”

She nodded.

“You lied. You told me the next morning you were all worn out!”

“That was just to make you jealous so you wouldn't think of that other woman. You're not thinking of her now, are you?”

“No, I'm not.” Her freshly washed hair smelled of rain and rosemary. He kissed it and undressed her with more tenderness than he'd ever felt before, telling her about the hot spring near his house in the hills above Florence, how it had once been a Roman bath, and how it bubbled out of the ground, warmer and softer than any queen's bath, and how if she lived there, she could wash her hair every day.