“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.”
“Today is a bad day?”
“One of her worst.”
“She does seem harmless, though.”
Gemma snorted. “Tell that to Guido, the footman she chased through the garden this very afternoon. When I caught up with them, she had him cornered by the pavilion. She was brandishing a pistol in one hand and a hatchet in the other. The Blessed Virgin knows where she got those weapons…had them hidden in one of her hidey holes, I suppose. At any rate, I got there before harm was done.”
“Perhaps the marchesa was defending herself as best she knew how. This man could have been rough with her.”
“Rough with the marchesa?” Gemma rolled her eyes. “Guido wouldn’t dare. The cardinal dotes on his mother and allows only so much restraint as needed to ensure her safety. He would have any footman who manhandled the marchesa whipped and thrown into prison. No, I’ll tell you what Guido’s crime was. The marchesa had ordered a strawberry ice. The kitchen was out of strawberries, so he brought her lemon instead.”
As I hung my head, feeling foolish, Gemma softened her tone. “Would you like some advice, Signore?”
I nodded.
“You have no idea of the things that go on at the Villa Fabiani. If you want to stay out of trouble, you’d best to stick to your business and let others stick to theirs.”
I sighed. If only that were possible.
***
Ten minutes before the concert, like players in a well-rehearsed show, more footmen appeared to dust the rows of chairs and replace guttering tapers with fresh. The musicians who made up the small orchestra entered with similarly practiced moves.
The harpsichordist shuffled the musical scores, placing a light, lilting piece by Scarlatti on top. “By the cardinal’s standing order, we always start with this one.” He was a round-faced man wearing a starched linen stock that cut into the abundant flesh of his neck. His tone could have frozen a mountain stream in midflow. “Do you know it?”
“Yes.”
“And the others?”
I nodded. I’d studied most of these songs at the Conservatorio San Remo where I’d spent my boyhood. Each of the seemingly straightforward arias carried a subtle challenge that could easily expose a mediocre singer’s limitations. The cardinal’s favorites revealed a high degree of musical sophistication. I understood why he’d chosen them, but the collectively cool demeanor of my fellow musicians presented a puzzle.
A gong sounded, signaling the entrance of a splendid procession. The villa’s rules of concert etiquette were more involved than any I had encountered in my previous travels. A pair of Swiss guards in striped uniforms and ceremonial helmets led the way. A double train of brightly dressed ladies and gentlemen interspersed with black-cassocked priests followed, separating to fill the rows of chairs in orderly fashion. Lastly, a quartet of pages bearing heraldic standards marched down the aisle and stationed themselves at the corners of the dais.
Without being told, I stiffened my spine like a soldier on review. At another gong, two cardinals clad in robes of scarlet silk topped by frothy capes of white lace started down the aisle.
I took a hard gulp. One of these men held the papal election, and my brother’s freedom, in his bejeweled hands. I searched their faces as they neared the dais. With many bows, gracious smiles, and conspicuous protestations of humility, they invited each other to take the seat of honor.
One cardinal was tall and broad shouldered, with dark good looks that were ruined by bags under his eyes and a pointed nose that continually sniffed the air like an alley cat on the prowl. The other cardinal was short and stooped, with a vacant, bemused expression, and well-padded torso. Which was Lorenzo Fabiani, the man I must captivate with my song?
Abate Lenci provided the telling clue when the shorter cardinal finally succumbed to the other’s urgings. He applied his scarlet backside to the gilded chair, rocked from side to side to settle his bulk, then patted his robe for something that was clearly missing. The abate who’d guided me to Rome hustled forward and produced a snuff box and lace-edged handkerchief for the man who must surely be Stefano Montorio, the uncle who took a good bit of looking after. Bowing back out of the way with a tactful mixture of apology and concern, Lenci seemed determined to ignore me—until he sent me a surreptitious wink that brought an unguarded grin to my lips.
The grin dissolved when I realized that the other cardinal was staring at me. So this was my host, Lorenzo Fabiani. Light from hundreds of candles glinted off the jeweled cross on his breast, but it was the gleam from his deep-set brown eyes that captured my attention. The noise of an audience preparing to be entertained—the rustling of robes and gowns, the discreet coughs, the scraping of chairs—all faded to nothing. The only sound in my ears was a roar like the waves of the Adriatic breaking over the sandbars of my island home. The only sight before my eyes was the cardinal’s face with his restless nose, and those shadowed, searching eyes. For a moment I was breathless, drowning in his gaze.
Fabiani broke the spell by inclining his head in a gracious gesture. Behind me, the harpsichordist sounded a flourish. My song broke like a hound loosed for the hunt, and Scarlatti’s brilliant notes streaked across the salon.
Chapter Five
Long after the line of elegant carriages had collected the cardinal’s guests and rattled away into the chill Roman night, I remained awake. The fire in my bedroom crackled cheerily, but I found its warmth more oppressive than cozy. Seeking air, I donned my cloak and stepped onto the balcony off my sitting room. The garden torches had been extinguished; the only light came from the almost full moon. Its beams turned the paths below to silver ribbons strewn among the blue black rectangles of terraced herb beds and feathery silhouettes of cypress trees. Here and there, a pond shimmered. I leaned into the railing, straining my eyes to make out the lines of the pavilion set into the thick garden wall.
The Villa Fabiani, as I’d learned from Rossobelli, sat on the Janiculum Hill at the edge of Rome. Settled much later than the ancient city’s famed seven hills on the east side of the Tiber, the Janiculum rose steeply from the river’s western bank. Its healthy air and scenic views had attracted Renaissance builders who sought to avoid the unsavory alleyways of the central city. Wealthy bankers, well-endowed monastic orders, and leading prelates cleared patches of the forested pinnacle, created magnificent dwellings, and left the rest in parkland. The villa I’d been forced to call my new home shared the crest of the hill with several other estates that stretched north to the Vatican and south to the old Aurelian wall. To the east, beyond the fuzzy strip of mist I fancied must be rising from the Tiber, somewhere in the blackness relieved by only a few wavering dots of orange flame, lay the heart of Rome.
A tingle of expectation leapt to my throat, but I forced it down, reminding myself that I was hardly a tourist. I turned my thoughts back to that evening’s concert. From the beginning, Cardinal Fabiani had fixed his expression in a coolly attentive smile and dispensed his applause in carefully measured doses. His guests followed his lead to perfection.
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br /> I wasn’t immediately concerned. It often takes an audience some minutes to put the cares of the day aside and open their ears and hearts. But after receiving the same response for the next three arias, each more lovely than its predecessor, I started to worry. An evil genie popped onto my shoulder with the suggestion that Fabiani was guarding his response because he enjoyed keeping me in suspense.
The concert rapidly became a duel of wills. The cardinal might be a master at hiding his emotions, but I’d been performing since I was a boy of twelve. If I didn’t know how to read an audience after sixteen years on the stage, I never would. The next song opened as a trivial piece that flew along at a hurdy-gurdy clip until it slowed to reveal surprising depths of musical poignancy that couldn’t fail to move a true music lover.
I trained my gaze on my host. During the first section, Cardinal Fabiani closed his eyes and took a deep breath like a man steeling himself to have an abscessed tooth pulled. At the same time, I couldn’t help noticing that my fellow Venetian, Cardinal Montorio, began tapping the toe of his satin slipper to the lively beat.
I sang the solemn bit with every ounce of conviction I possessed. Montorio’s eyes glazed over like a fish on a market slab, but Fabiani’s gaze locked onto mine as it had at the start of the concert. Only this time I was in charge. Now Fabiani was the one who was drowning, swept along by my heartbreaking lament, sucked beneath waves of sublime song until I chose to release him with one golden note that shimmered in the air long after the harpsichord had fallen silent.
The tension that had girded my chest ever since I’d left Venice suddenly relaxed. My host was nodding, applauding vigorously. If the occasion had been less formal, I would have expected him to jump to his feet and yell “Bravissimo.”
A gust of wind raked the midnight garden, agitating the moon’s reflection in the silver pools and making me clutch the woolen cloak to my throat. I knew I should seek the warmth of my bed, but this was the first time in many days that I had been completely alone, and I had much to consider. Pressing my back against the smooth stones of the villa, I drew in a breath of moist night air and tried to make sense of Fabiani’s perplexing behavior at the supper that had followed the concert.
It was a simple buffet with dishes set out for the guests to partake of as they liked, but even so, I’d been surprised when Abate Rossobelli delivered the message that the cardinal desired my presence. I followed the abate through the unfamiliar corridors to a crowded dining room. He slipped away as soon as we entered, but it wasn’t hard to locate Cardinal Fabiani holding court near the fire. The cardinal occupied a raised chair and wasn’t eating or drinking. He was deep in conversation with two purple-clad bishops. As I approached, he waved them away and regarded me with an impenetrable stare. I sank to one knee, took his right hand, and kissed his ring of office.
I’m not sure what I expected. A word of welcome? A compliment on my performance? What I got was a slight pressure on my hand signaling me to rise, then a definite nod of dismissal. As I shuffled backward, as red-faced as if I’d made a stage entrance on the wrong cue, a nobleman in a lavender coat and black velvet breeches took my place.
“Here he is, my lost lamb. Better late than never,” the cardinal announced, his pointed face breaking into a smile. He proffered his ring for the kiss in a casual gesture, then kept the man’s hand in his while he waved an admonishing finger. “I know, I know. You have an excuse at the tip of your tongue. What was it this time? Some gypsy with an old pot he swears is an Etruscan antiquity?”
“Not this time, Your Eminence—” He would have continued, but Fabiani pressed his hand more tightly.
“Let me take another guess,” the cardinal said. “Some old woman from the hills with a song to trade for her supper? Some ditty her people have been singing since the Caesars ruled?”
“Not that either. Though I assure Your Eminence that an old ballad can teach as much about a vanished race as an inscription carved in stone.”
“Whatever the excuse, my friend, I wish you’d pull your head out of the dusty past. The delights of the present are so much more…” The cardinal released the nobleman’s hand and shrugged his shoulders. “…immediate. For instance, you just missed an amazing concert. The Venetian castrato is enchanting.”
I had to stop my mouth from dropping open. Enchanting was I? Would it have killed him to tell me so?
“Your Eminence,” the man replied. “I offer no excuses, because there can be no excuse for missing a moment of your generous hospitality.”
The cardinal chuckled. “Ah, Pompetti, where will you be if that silver tongue of yours ever goes mute?”
My breath caught in my throat. Back in Venice—it seemed a hundred years ago—Senator Montorio had warned me to be on the lookout for this man. Prince Pompetti led the cabal that supported Cardinal Di Noce.
I observed the prince even more closely. His carriage was exquisite: upright and commanding, yet graceful as a dancer’s. But he had not acquired that weather-beaten skin practicing minuets and galliards in a ballroom. The lines at his eyes and mouth, plus the abundant gray threads in his natural black hair, led me to put his age at about fifty. A decidedly healthy and energetic fifty.
I suddenly realized I was staring more than good taste allowed. If I didn’t want to be chucked out of the villa posthaste, I would have to be more prudent. A footman glided past with a two-handled tray. I plucked a wineglass off its silver expanse and moved closer to the immense fireplace. Because the space directly before the blaze became uncomfortably hot after just a few minutes, there was a constant flow of ladies in wide, panniered gowns edging forward to warm their bare shoulders, then retreating with fluttering fans. I tucked myself among them. With my eyes lowered to my glass, I tuned my ears toward Cardinal Fabiani and Prince Pompetti.
“…on your own, tonight?” the cardinal was asking.
“For the moment.” Pompetti’s response held the promise of infinite possibility.
“I had hoped to meet the lady who is so often at your side these days. They tell me her beauty is most remarkable, for an Englishwoman.”
“Lady Mary is blessed with both beauty and brains. Her father subscribes to radical notions about the education of females. Mary Sysonby reads Latin as easily as English or Italian and is as well versed in history as any male scholar of my acquaintance. She is assisting me in compiling a catalogue of my collection.”
“I see,” the cardinal said regretfully. “She must be one of those tiresome women who are constantly at war with their irrational natures. Are you certain her society does you credit?”
“I find Lady Mary’s company quite charming,” Pompetti answered smoothly. “As I’m sure you will, once you’ve met her. Unfortunately, the lady had other business to attend to tonight.”
“Ah-ha, I knew it.” The cardinal thumbed the cleft in his well-formed chin. “It’s all part of a plan. You sent your petticoat antiquarian on the trail of the Etruscan pot, so you could politick without distraction.”
The prince laughed. A little too loudly, I thought. Then he bent his head to the cardinal’s shoulder and continued to converse in low tones.
Santa Maria! How was I supposed to learn anything if people insisted on whispering?
I had to get closer. Letting the crush of satin and damask skirts sweep me farther from the fire, I circled around to a perfect listening post at the back of Fabiani’s throne-like chair. The phrases “a great devotion to the Blessed Mother” and “willing to bow to wiser heads” had barely met my ear when I felt a pecking tap on my shoulder.
“Signor Amato, found you at last.” Abate Lenci was grinning like a sailor released from his ship after a four-month voyage. “I’ve been looking everywhere. Zio Stefano wants me to present you.”
Lenci swept his arm toward the buffet table, where Cardinal Stefano Montorio was digging into a plate piled high with oran
ge and scarlet balls of melon. I cast a glance toward the golden chair. Pompetti was still whispering and Fabiani was nodding seriously. But there was nothing for it. I allowed myself to be led away.
In a moment I was kneeling to kiss Montorio’s ring, grimacing from the sticky juice that covered his flabby hand. The cardinal barely attended to Lenci’s introduction. He waved his fork as words of praise competed for limited mouth space with morsels of half-chewed melon.
“You did us proud, Signore,” he finished in a loud monotone intended to be heard by as many as possible. “Naples may boast of her Caffarelli and Siena of her Senesino, but you reminded everyone that the very best singers come from Venice.”
“You are too kind, Eminence.”
“No, no. I’ll admit to a tin ear where music is concerned, but Fabiani was impressed and he’s a connoisseur. He likes to be mysterious, but I could see that you fascinated him, and that’s all that matters. Eh?”
Montorio didn’t bother to lower his voice, and I caught a definite flick of his eyelid as he speared another chunk of melon. My God, was the man actually winking at me? Didn’t he understand the need for discretion? I made a quick survey of the group clustered around the table and was relieved to note that all the guests appeared deep in conversation with their neighbors.
“Tell me,” Cardinal Montorio continued in a forced, hearty tone, “why have you not adopted a name for the stage? Your fellow singers usually take a name to honor their patron or their birthplace.”
“I had no patron. In the beginning, my father made arrangements for my…ahm…career and for my initial training at the conservatorio. After he died and I found work, I paid the maestros the balance owed in small installments.”
“Then you need a name that reflects the glory of Venice.”
“I prefer using my own.”
“Let’s see,” he said, ignoring my statement and twirling his fork with a thoughtful gleam in his eye. “How about Veneziello?”
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