A sharp knock at the door made us all jump.
The door handle rattled. “Aurelio? Mary?” A light, pleasant voice called from the corridor.
“Just a moment,” the prince responded, stepping toward the vase that held the key.
Before he could reach it, the lock made a series of clicks, as if the wards were turning at the command of an invisible key. The paneled oak swung back to reveal the priest of Lupercus still sporting the face of a wolf, complete with fur, yellow eyes, and horrific fangs. My heart galloped in my chest, and I sensed Liya’s performing the same maneuver.
“Oh, forgive me.” The priest removed his conical hat and unfastened the straps that held the heavy mask in place. “I forget what a sight this must be for those who don’t understand its meaning.” He revealed his face, wreathed in a smile and covered with a sheen of sweat. He continued while mopping it with a darned handkerchief, “I believe you must be one of the initiates, my dear.”
Liya nodded, shoulders relaxing at the priest’s surprisingly friendly demeanor.
“And you, Tito.” His black eyes crinkled at the corners as they looked my female attire up and down. “You’re obviously no stranger to disguise.”
“That is so,” I replied, struggling to reconcile the evidence of my eyes with what I knew of the man before me. I’d seen that smiling face before, felt its radiating goodwill, and noted the profound effect it had on others. The priest of Lupercus was Cardinal Di Noce.
***
“I was born in a tiny hamlet outside Benevento.” Cardinal Di Noce spoke with an air of serene detachment after he’d bade us all be seated and take our ease. “A lacy membrane covered my head as I was delivered into this world. This caul, and other signs divined by the wise woman who attended my mother, convinced the elders that I was destined for great things. A gift for healing birds with bent wings and other ailing creatures confirmed their early prediction.”
He paused to drink from the crystal goblet in his hand. “Please, join me,” he invited, gesturing to the tray that Pompetti had fetched from a nearby cabinet.
I reached for a glass and took a sip of the bright yellow liquid. Anise, mint, dandelion, and other unidentifiable flavors exploded on my tongue in rapid succession. Soft yet stimulating, it tasted like the first day of spring had been captured in a bottle.
“Liquore Strega.” Di Noce nodded toward the decanter. “Distilled in Benevento and infused with over seventy herbs sown and harvested at the proper seasons of the moon. Wonderful, isn’t it?
“Now, where was I? Ah, yes—my boyhood. Carefully sheltered and schooled in the teachings of the Holy Strega, I knew much of the forest but little of the outside world until I reached my twelfth year. Then life took a dramatic turn—Marzetta, the village wise woman, told me the time had come to fulfill my destiny. I took tearful leave of my family, but was secretly anxious to leave the bounds of what I then thought was a very boring, ordinary village. Marzetta and I traveled many miles north to a Christian monastery where I was consigned with the story that I was an orphan in need of a vocation.”
He paused, regarding the four of us with raised eyebrows, as if inviting query. Prince Pompetti and Lady Mary displayed the polite but distant expressions of those who had heard this tale many times before.
Never one to miss my cue, I asked, “For what possible purpose?”
Di Noce answered by holding his glass aloft and turning it to catch the firelight. The golden liqueur swirled with reflected flames; amplified with the orange hue of the cardinal’s robe, it shone like a goblet of liquid sunlight. “I was to be like one of the herbs in this delightful concoction. Unbeknownst to the good monks, I would infuse the Church with the flavor of the Old Religion.”
“The Church wouldn’t exist without a dash of the old beliefs mixed in here and there,” Liya said with a judicious nod.
“Of course, my dear, you know your history. From the beginning of their ascendancy, the Christian masters accommodated the traditional beliefs to make the new religion seem more palatable. What is the birthday of Jesus the Savior, after all?” He quickly answered his own question. “December twenty-fifth, an arbitrary date chosen to coincide with Saturnalia, the celebration of the winter solstice—the return of the sun and lengthening of days, a sign that winter won’t hold the earth in its cold grip forever. You see?”
I scratched my head. “Yes, I understand that. It only makes sense that the new religion would incorporate bits of the old. But centuries later, what influence can one lone pagan have on the vast machinery of the Church?”
Prince Pompetti snorted, then sat forward with a hand on his knee. He gestured with his empty goblet. “You think our friend Di Noce is the only one?”
I shrugged, amazed at the thought of even one pagan infiltrating a Christian institution.
Di Noce favored me with one of his infectious smiles, again raising his glass. “There are many more than the herbs in this cordial. Hundreds more. And have been for centuries.”
“How is this possible?” I asked, sure they were toying with me. “Such things could not go on without being discovered.”
“Sometimes they are.” Di Noce’s face fell into a solemn frown. “Have you not heard of the massacre of the Cathars?”
Observing my furrowed brow, he continued, “In the south of France? A Christian sect whose priests favored mountain groves over cathedrals and preached tolerance, peace, and the equality of women?” His voice took on a bitter tone. “Naturally, they had to be stopped. They were burned by the thousands and their lands laid waste by the dread Inquisitor, Simon de Montfort.”
I shook my head. Not for the first time, my lack of education shamed me.
“Or the Bogomils of Carpathia?” Pompetti chimed in. “Or King Phillip’s suppression of the Knights Templar?”
“No, I’ll have to take your word that such things occurred,” I responded. “Still, how has a devotee of the Old Religion managed to rise so high in the ranks of a church he despises?”
My question propelled Di Noce out of his chair to hover over mine. Bracing his hands on the arms, he spoke with such vehemence that my cheeks were sprayed with fine drops of spittle. “The people I love—it’s the vanity and greed of their masters that I hate.”
Lady Mary spoke for the first time since Di Noce had entered the room. “I know what you’re asking, Tito, and the answer is simple. The time has come and the chosen one stands before you. The winds of change are blowing and will soon scour the earth. The Freemasons know it and so do we.” A flush rose to her cheeks. She produced a fan from a capacious pocket, fluttered it into action, and continued excitedly, “France is a powder keg of discontent. Many expect it will explode within a few years. The people will rise and pull the bloated aristocrats from their palaces and the grasping bishops from their churches.”
Pompetti broke in, eyes glittering. “Italy will follow. Our petty dukedoms and principalities will fall like a house of cards. With a pope ready to lead us back to the Golden Age, Italia will reunite and rise again.”
I sat thunderstruck—what nonsense they were gabbling— heresy, revolution, the very destruction of society. I might have been listening to lunatics raving from behind the bars of a madhouse. I remembered what Gussie had said about Lady Mary’s father gleaning his wealth from plantations in the West Indies. How did she reconcile living off the sweat of African slaves with the ideals she spouted? And Prince Pompetti—if he desired equality, why didn’t he sell his treasures and his fine palazzo and live as a common man?
These questions and more crowded my mouth, but I bit my tongue and instead asked, “You spoke of a bargain with Cardinal Fabiani. Had Gemma alerted him to your…activities?”
A rueful expression crossed Lady Mary’s face. “Gemma may have been sent here as a spy, but she quickly became one of us. We’re not the only ones with secrets, you see.
Fabiani has a few of his own that Gemma was only too pleased to reveal.”
“She became your go-between?” I asked.
Pompetti nodded. “We were weaving a pattern of strange alliances, and Gemma acted as the shuttle. It’s odd, really. I hate the behemoth of a church that Lorenzo Fabiani serves, yet I find the man generous and charming. I don’t mind playing his game for the nonce—if it guarantees that our goals will be attained.”
“The papal throne for Cardinal Di Noce,” I observed, glancing up at the orange-robed figure who still hovered above me. Stepping back, he folded his hands under his robe and arranged his lips into the serene smile of an oriental deity.
Pompetti agreed with a short nod. “It’s within our grasp—if the old man in the Quirinal would just see fit to die.”
“And Fabiani plays your game,” I mused, “because he values his luxurious way of life above all else. He believes Cardinal Di Noce will allow him to retain his position.” A position also endangered by some secret that Gemma had revealed, I reminded myself.
Lady Mary was fanning herself in irritated jerks, darting angry looks at Pompetti. I addressed her.
“I fancy you don’t share His Highness’ assessment of Cardinal Fabiani.”
“I don’t doubt that Fabiani will keep his part of the bargain,” she replied, fanning furiously, “but I’d hardly call it charming to murder a defenseless girl.”
Pompetti went red in the face and mumbled, “Cara mia, we mustn’t leap to conclusions.”
Lady Mary snapped her fan shut. “My deduction is based on sound logic. Gemma’s description of our full moon gathering was valuable to your friend Fabiani in one respect—in someone else’s hands, it could be employed to ensure a very different result.” Shooting me a look, she flipped the fan open again. “Some would use it to see Di Noce disgraced and excommunicated. We know that no one from our circle would have dared harm a girl under our protection. So who is left to benefit from her death?”
Pompetti rose, mouth hardening. “And now two more are privy to our secret.”
The air of camaraderie that Di Noce’s benevolent disposition had created vanished in an instant. The atmosphere in the room once again grew close and tense. Without thinking, I let my hand stray to the place where I usually kept my dagger only to find the belt that supported the curve-making panniers. I threw Liya a glance that held as much longing as apology.
“I’ll not condone violence, Aurelio.” Di Noce’s black eyes flashed and his voice sliced the air like a saber. In a heartbeat, the mild-mannered priest had changed to a leader capable of commanding an army, or at least one proud Roman aristocrat.
In the end they let us leave, Liya clinging to my arm with trembling fingers. Di Noce and Lady Mary stayed behind, but Pompetti saw us down the long corridor. Just before we reached the door that led to the forecourt and freedom, he ordered me to a halt.
I felt his hot breath as he whispered at my shoulder, “If my plans go awry, I’ll know who to blame—and no one, not even the goddess herself, will stop me from killing you in the most painful way I can devise.”
Chapter Twenty
The next morning, I crept into Mass like a man still unsteady from his sickbed. As I expected, Rossobelli pulled me aside the minute that Cardinal Fabiani had recited the Dismissal.
“I hope your voice is returning,” the abate said. “His Eminence tossed and turned all night, pining for your sweet songs.”
“I’m doing much better,” I replied in a carefully modulated croak. “But to speed my full recovery, I intend to consult a physician.”
“Oh, my feeble brain. You should have said something. The shame—” Rossobelli pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. “—that I did not give a thought to calling for a doctor the moment I heard you were ill. I’ll send at once—for His Eminence’s personal physician.”
“No,” I answered quickly. “I require a doctor well-versed in vocal ailments. I’m going to the Argentina to inquire who treats the leading singers there. That will be the man to put my throat in order.”
Rossobelli offered me the use of a carriage. This time I accepted. I had much to accomplish, yet my excuse of finding a doctor would only stretch so far. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have minded walking. The Romans advise that if you don’t like the weather you need only wait a few hours. How true. As I climbed into Fabiani’s third-best carriage, the sun warmed my back like a day in May, and it was hard to believe that the banks of the Tiber had glistened with ice only the night before.
The doorman at the theater passed me in with a nod of recognition, and I soon found Liya sewing ruffles on a flouncey gown worn by a headless dressmaker’s dummy. She greeted me with a kiss, and I held her for a too-brief moment of dizzying delight. There was no time for more. She took me to the empty auditorium where Gaetano Tucci sat with his chin on his walking stick. He looked as mournful as a criminal hearing himself sentenced to the galleys.
“You must have thought I neglected my promise,” I began by way of greeting.
He gazed at me through half-closed eyes. “I can’t say I was surprised…considering that Cardinal Fabiani warned me of your treachery.”
“As Liya surely explained, I did write your letter. It was stolen from my manservant, along with another.” I handed him several folded pages. “I’ve rewritten it, even better than the first. Go on, read it. It’s not sealed.”
Holding the letter at arm’s length, Tucci read silently, then sat up tall, much cheered. “Thank you. It’s a generous recommendation. With this, I should have no problem finding a position in Venice.” He surprised me by popping out of the seat as if he meant to start his journey that very moment.
“Will you answer one more question about the Villa Fabiani before you set off?” I gave him no chance to refuse, tacking one question onto the heels of another. “If the marchesa wanted to hide something important, where would she put it?”
“Small or large,” he asked quickly.
“Medium, I think, but flat.”
“Try the kitchen—the larders are her favorite.” He turned to go, then paused. Before I knew it, he was hugging my neck, suddenly overflowing with emotion. “I’m going to sing again. My career isn’t over, after all.”
I patted his back awkwardly. “Venice will love you—your arias will have the gondoliers in tears.”
Tucci cracked a huge grin and nearly ran for the door.
I watched him go with more than a hint of envy. Tucci would have an entire opera house luxuriating in ecstatic bliss, while my talents were restricted to playing operatic nanny to one fussy cardinal.
***
Despite my longing for the stage, helping a fellow singer regain his confidence improved my mood considerably. I returned to the carriage with a jaunty step. “They have recommended an English specialist of great renown,” I rasped to the driver. “On to this address at once.”
The carriage clattered through the sunny streets and back over the Tiber. We soon drew up before the lodgings of the famous Dr. Augustus Rumbolt. I found Gussie in banyan and breeches, ostensibly perusing morning journals and nibbling toast, but actually fretting over my excursion to the palazzo.
“Tito,” he asked immediately, “what happened? Did you discover anything useful?”
“All will be revealed in time, but just now, we have to hurry.” Tugging at his sleeve, I spun him out of the light gown, and pulled a clean shirt over his head. Gussie in turn tucked the tails into his breeches and made quick work of his neckcloth.
“Here,” I cried, spotting a black satchel peeking from beneath his bed. “What’s in that bag?”
“My supplies. I brought a sketch block and some charcoal and paints in case I found time to do some work.”
“Perfect—carry it with you. It looks just like a doctor’s.”
“Whoa, Ti
to. I can’t keep up with you.” Gussie slicked his tousled hair down with water from a basin, leaving off to catch a black ribbon I retrieved from the floor and tossed across the room. “What are we playacting now? Doctors?”
“Only you, for the driver’s benefit—just long enough to get across the city.” I plucked a somber jacket from a peg, and with Gussie appearing suitably learned and wise, we descended to the street and set out for the Consolazione.
The ride gave me more than enough time to recount the events of the Lupercan celebration. Gussie appeared more startled with each revelation, but agreed to postpone further discussion until after we had visited Benito.
On reaching our destination, I sent our conveyance back to the villa. Gussie and I mounted the steps. Thanks to the genial morning sunshine streaming through high windows, Benito’s ward had a more cheerful appearance. Unfortunately, the nauseous smells and painful groans were as unsettling as before.
Benito lay like a wax effigy. His eyelids were sunken and lips cracked, but at least fresh bandages wrapped his head and his arms rested on tightly tucked, clean sheets.
I called his name several times, in increasingly strident tones, but he made no response. I’d barely registered a deep qualm of misgiving when Sister Regina bustled between the screens.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said, moving to gauge my manservant’s temperature with the back of her hand on his brow.
“How his he?”
“Holding his own.” Her hand jumped to his cheek, then to his wrist. “He’s stronger than he looks.”
“Has he spoken?”
The nurse straightened, keeping two fingers on Benito’s pulse. Her face was swollen, as if she’d passed the night without sleep, and the borders of her wimple cut into her rounded cheeks. She shook her head. “He rouses a bit when his other friend comes, flutters his eyes and moans, but we’ve not been able to distinguish any words.”
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