The Wolves of St. Peter's

by Gina Buonaguro

  Nothing added up, that is, until from around the side of the house came a man. Not a big man, or a fat man, or a short man. A man whose name almost sounded like di Grassi. Not Grasso as in “fat,” but Grosso as in “big.” A man with red hair sticking straight up like the comb of a chicken. A big chicken. Pollo Grosso. Francesco’s mind started racing. If Pollo Grosso were here, it meant someone else was here too.

  Francesco watched motionless as Pollo Grosso untied the horse and led it back around the corner. If he’d looked up the hill toward the grave, he would surely have recognized Francesco as easily as Francesco had recognized him. Heart pounding, Francesco ran along the wall in the direction of the river, where the guard waited for him. Francesco knew he wasn’t mistaken, but he needed to hear it from The Turk himself. More than once, he looked back over his shoulder, surprised he wasn’t being pursued.

  When he arrived back at The Turk’s house, it was his turn to burst inside, and to the guards he must have seemed every bit as crazed as Dante had earlier. “The Turk!” he shouted. “Where is he?” A guard seized him by the arm, but Francesco shook him off and, running through the atrium with the guard in pursuit, almost collided with The Turk himself.

  “What is it?” The Turk asked as he wiped his mouth with a cloth.

  “Your villa!” Francesco cried breathlessly. “Who is renting your villa?”

  “That is all?” The Turk asked. “My wife’s cousin—”

  “A name! A name!” Francesco demanded. “Tell me his name!”

  “Why, Guido del Mare.”

  Francesco stumbled back, not sure he wasn’t going to fall to the floor. Thoughts were flooding his mind so quickly he was almost incapable of making a single one take shape. Could Guido have something to do with Calendula’s death? But why?

  “He isn’t there now,” The Turk continued helpfully, tossing his cloth to the floor, where it was scooped up immediately by Mosa. “I received a message from his wife that he has gone on to Naples. What has you so excited?”

  “His wife is here too—in Rome?” Francesco asked weakly. To think that all this past week Juliet had been in Rome. Why would Guido bring her here?

  “Yes. I’ve never met her, but I hear she’s quite a beauty. Guido always had an eye for beautiful women. He took quite a liking to Calendula’s portrait.”

  “I’m sure he did,” Francesco said, recovering his voice. After all, Calendula looked so much like his wife. Would he kill her for that? His heart was still pounding, but he willed some calmness into his words. “Why didn’t you tell me he was here?”

  “Why would it interest you? Ah, but you are from Florence too. You know, I could put in a good word for you. You could do well in his service.”

  I was in his service, Francesco wanted to scream. “When did he get here?”

  “Last week. He said he was here on business. I offered him the villa. That was it.”

  “And you showed him Calendula’s portrait?”

  “I showed him around. I didn’t want him to go away thinking I was the poor relation. I’ve met him on only a few occasions. Never really did like him. But he is family.”

  “He only came here once?”

  The Turk paused. Think! Francesco silently urged him, sure now who had given Calendula the ring, if not why. “Yes. No! I saw him just once, but he came again. I wasn’t here. I believe he waited a while and left.”

  Waited long enough to put the ring back where he’d found it, Francesco concluded triumphantly. “Now think carefully,” he said. “What day was that?”

  “I can’t remember. No, I do. I didn’t know about it until the next day, because he came while I was at Imperia’s. It was the night she told me about Calendula’s death. I was in shock. It wasn’t until the next day I learned Guido had been here. He didn’t leave a message for me, and when I sent word to him regretting that I wasn’t here to receive him, his wife replied that he’d gone on to Naples. Wait! You suspect my wife’s cousin? Why?”

  Francesco questioned the wisdom of telling The Turk more. He is family, The Turk had said.

  “Perhaps it’s nothing,” Francesco said finally. “But the grave was dug very close to the villa. Perhaps your cousin saw something. But I suppose there’s no asking him now, if he’s in Naples.” That seemed to appease The Turk, and Francesco, pleased he’d found such an easy escape from scrutiny, now asked where Dante was. Dante hadn’t believed Calendula was dead. Well, maybe at first he had. But then he must have seen Juliet and thought it was Calendula. No wonder he’d taken the discovery of Calendula’s grave so hard. He’d thought she was still alive, all his garbled nonsense an attempt to reconcile the death of Calendula with the very much alive Juliet.

  “He insisted he had to leave,” The Turk said. “Something crazy about bats not being out in the day.”

  With so many unanswered questions swirling around his head, Francesco felt as if he were going crazy too. He hurriedly made his excuses, promising to come again another day to see the armor. Once outside, he walked down the drive between the rows of potted cypresses and antique statues, piecing together the events that might have led to Calendula’s death at Guido’s hands. Because that must have been what happened. And in a strange way, had he not fingered the killer the moment her body was pulled from the river? When he told the policeman his name was Guido del Mare, had he not thought, Find him if you have any further questions?

  What was Guido doing in Rome with Juliet? Had his father failed to soothe Guido’s anger, and had Guido, on his way to Naples, decided to stop in Rome long enough to cut Francesco’s throat? Maybe Guido had gone to ask his cousin The Turk if he knew where he could find Francesco, but before Guido could start asking questions, The Turk had showed him the portrait of Calendula, unaware that, in doing so, he was sealing Calendula’s fate.

  Francesco had little trouble imagining Guido’s reaction to the painting. The Turk was right: Guido always did have an eye for beautiful women. And Calendula, with her rare golden hair, was so like his own wife but not his own wife. He imagined The Turk offering his villa for the length of his stay, and Guido, his eyes locked on Calendula’s, agreeing, his desire for revenge subsumed at least temporarily by a more carnal desire.

  Did he then, seeing The Turk’s amethyst ring lying on a tray, pick it up with the idea of giving it to her? Did The Turk tell Guido where and how she lived? The Turk certainly did like to talk. Did he even tell him she was once noble and still longed for her old life? It would make sense. According to Calendula, the man who gave her the ring had promised to make her a lady. But if Guido had known she was a whore, would he have bothered with the pretense of the ring and the promises? Would he not have just paid for her services like other men? So perhaps The Turk had not told him this detail, and Guido had taken the ring and lured her into his bed with promises to make her his lady. It had been what Calendula had been waiting for.

  But Guido tired of women quickly. Woo them with a trinket and a promise or two, sate his desire, and leave them in tears. But Calendula was not the twelve-year-old daughter of a tenant farmer. Not only had she seen him as the answer to her prayers, she had bragged to Imperia and probably the other girls at the brothel, that she would soon be married to a rich man. A lady again. Everything solved, until Guido had asked for the ring back.

  Francesco could well imagine both her disappointment and her rage. How dare you humiliate me! How could she, after all the bragging and gloating, go back to Imperia’s and be scorned by the other women? He imagined her flying at Guido, willing to scratch out his eyes if that would save her. But of course it wouldn’t, and Guido, with a rage to match her own and the strength of a man, would not have hesitated to kill her for her insolence. Had he smashed her face in first? Had she still been alive when he took out his dagger and cut the finger with the ring from her hand? Had he thrown her body into the swollen river and watched it float downstream before going home to his wife, who looked so much like the woman he had just murdered?

 
Juliet. What did he, Francesco, feel now when he said that name? Pity, certainly. But love? “Juliet, my love,” he said, testing the words aloud. She was so close. He could go to her right now. But Guido had left Pollo Grosso with his wife. How was Francesco going to see Juliet with Pollo Grosso guarding her? He did have to see her, didn’t he?

  Only the night before, he’d considered marrying Susanna—forsaking the dowry and taking her home to his father’s. But didn’t some honor bind him to Juliet, even if he was no longer sure he loved her? He had, after all, vowed to rescue her from Guido. Was it possible that, on seeing her again, his feelings of love would return?

  He wondered if Juliet knew of Calendula’s death. Did she watch Pollo Grosso and Guido—for surely Guido had been the man on the horse at the mortuary—dig a grave at the foot of the pyramid and bury a woman in a golden dress? Not to worry, my love. Just a little trouble Pollo Grosso ran into with one of the local whores.

  Did Guido go to Naples and leave Pollo Grosso to kill off Francesco? Did Pollo Grosso throw the torch into the soap-maker’s shop? But that seemed like such a halfhearted attempt. Why not just follow him one night and slit his throat? Was it still a question of Guido’s honor? Was Guido going to come back from Naples and kill him? And why would Guido go to Naples anyway, leaving Juliet in the same city with Francesco? Francesco paused at the end of the rows of cypresses, his eyes locked on those of the stone lions that guarded the gate. What if Guido had come to Rome with no intention of harming Francesco until Francesco had decided to pursue Calendula’s murderer?

  That was an irony too great to grasp, and so his thoughts turned to what he now considered the most urgent problem: seeing Juliet.

  “THEN you will go to her,” Susanna said.

  Francesco was annoyed that she seemed to have heard nothing else he’d said. “Yes, but I don’t know how to see her with Pollo Grosso guarding her. He’s not exactly going to let me in, is he?”

  “You should have known it was him.” Her voice was accusatory. She took the baker’s dozen of honey cakes from her basket and placed them in a pewter box on the table without offering him one.

  “Why?” he asked, ignoring the slight. He was still digesting The Turk’s mutton and for once wasn’t at all hungry. He took off his cloak and threw it on the bed; his dagger he tossed on the table, where it rattled off the pewter box.

  “The three-legged chicken. I told you he was an omen. But you didn’t believe me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He appeared on the day Calendula was killed. He was trying to tell you about Pollo Grosso. You aren’t very smart for someone who reads books.”

  “Well, if you’re so smart, why didn’t you tell me then? It would have saved me some trouble, not to mention the soap-maker’s shop.”

  “Well, you didn’t tell me there was someone called Pollo Grosso,” she said indignantly. “You only told me about that woman. Are you going to kill Guido?”

  “I don’t know,” he said angrily. He didn’t like the way she was looking at him, both accusing and sad. What did she expect him to do? He picked up a piece of wood and threw it into the cold fireplace. “When did you let the fire go out? I’ll go over to Michelangelo’s and get some live coals. I’m hoping he had the sense not to let his fire go out.”

  “I’ll go,” she said.

  “Never mind. Pollo Grosso is sure to try to replicate the great fire of Ancient Rome any moment now, and we’ll be warmer than we’ve ever been.”

  “Stop!” Susanna shouted. “Not Michelangelo’s. I’m not talking about the fire. I meant I’d go to The Turk’s villa and tell Juliet you want to meet with her.”

  “What?” Surely he hadn’t heard her correctly.

  “I said I’ll go and tell her you want to meet with her. If that’s what you want me to do.”

  There were a thousand reasons why this was a bad idea. But at that moment, he couldn’t think of a single one. Instead, he decided it might even be a good idea. She would meet Juliet and know why it made sense that he couldn’t be with a silversmith’s housekeeper.

  But they shouldn’t rush into this. “Wait. I’m going to Michelangelo’s to get embers to start the fire. I have to think about this. You can’t just announce that you’re there to arrange a meeting between the lady of the house and her lover.” He didn’t look at Susanna on his way out the door. The back door. The way he’d come so many times in the night to see her. This silly, superstitious girl, with her blackened tooth and dark gypsy eyes.

  He hadn’t even reached the gate when she called for him to stop. He turned and saw her standing in the doorway, wearing her cloak. “My money …,” she said, looking around as if someone might hear.

  “What money?” he asked impatiently.

  “My money is behind the first stone from the wall, over the mantle. For my dowry.”

  “Sure,” he said, wondering why she was telling him this now. “Take off your cloak. I said I’d get us some embers.” He slammed Michelangelo’s door behind him. It closed with a satisfying bang that rattled the windows and sent the shelf crashing to the floor. He leaned back against the door. In front of him the fireplace was cold and dark. Of course it would be out, with no houseboy to take care of it. There were no live coals here to restart Susanna’s fire.

  The chicken perched on the table next to Michelangelo’s drawings, the pile a little higher than before, as was the mound of candle stubs. It blinked at Francesco and shifted legs. “What the hell are you looking at?” Francesco asked, but still the bird didn’t move. Francesco stuck his face close to the chicken’s. “Get out of my sight, you stupid bird. There’s been nothing but trouble since you arrived.” My God, he thought, I sound like Susanna.

  The chicken blinked again, and Francesco pushed it roughly off the table. The bird landed on its feet—all three of them—and flew up onto the headboard of the bed, where it continued to watch Francesco impassively. Francesco knew he’d acted cruelly, but he was too angry to care. “I am not apologizing to a chicken,” he said. God, his head felt like it was about to split in two. He picked up the wine jug, and finding it empty, slammed it down and started flipping through the sheets of paper on the table. Juliet was here in Rome. Why wasn’t he happy?

  Second from the top was a drawing of two hands reaching out to each other. Francesco barely saw it, as something came back to him. I am not sure how to broach this, Raphael had said as they’d looked up at Michelangelo’s depiction of the Flood, but when you told me your story, I could not help but wonder if it were Juliet herself who told Guido of your indiscretions … She had to know that if she told Guido, he would try to kill you. She had to know, too, that you would defend yourself … Had you been successful in killing Guido, she would have been free to do as she pleased.

  Francesco sat down at the table and rested his head on his arms. His sister Angelina’s letter had arrived that same morning. I fear that, for all her outward sweetness, Juliet is capable of treachery … Je suis desolée, mon frère … The story of the young musician Juliet had visited in his mother’s cottage while Angelina had waited outside. But this same young musician had fallen in love with Guido’s sister, and Juliet had told Guido, and Guido had killed the musician, and his sister had thrown herself from the tower.

  I loved you, he thought. I know I did. I won’t believe these lies.

  His head still resting on his arms, he closed his eyes and tried to conjure up Juliet’s face. He stayed that way for a long time but only succeeded in bringing up Calendula’s, lying on the bank of the river, bashed and bloody. And then, this afternoon, the chunk of hair, hanging from the stick as he held it over her shallow grave.

  “Oh my God!” he said aloud, his eyes wide open now. “How could I have been so stupid?”

  The chicken blinked back at him.

  The door slammed behind him, as did the gate in the silversmith’s yard. He pushed open the door and called Susanna’s name, but she wasn’t there. Nor was his dagger, which he’d left o
n the table. And something else was missing. The bolt of blue silk. She’d taken that too. And the money? He looked at the mantle. The first stone … No, she hadn’t taken the money. She’d left it for him. He grabbed his cloak from the bed.

  What the hell had he done?

  CHAPTER TEN

  HOW MUCH OF A HEAD START DID SUSANNA HAVE? A HALF-HOUR AT most? But even if he ran, could he really hope to catch her before she reached The Turk’s old villa? Because that was where she’d gone. He was sure of it.

  It had grown colder, his breath in the fading light of late afternoon coming out in white puffs. The drizzle of the morning had turned to sleet, coating everything with a malevolent layer of ice. He slipped on a patch of cobblestone, breaking his fall with a painful wrench to his wrist. Cursing, he picked himself up and ran out of the alley toward the bridge.

  Of course Susanna wouldn’t wait for his permission. She thought she was losing him, thought there’d be no more talk of his father’s home in Florence or the hot springs. Not that he’d made any promises, but he knew he’d led her to believe it would happen. And while he might not have been sure of his feelings before, he was now. Susanna was not the kind of girl a man of his position fell in love with, but he had nonetheless. And he wanted nothing more than to be with her now, curled up in front of the great fireplace in his father’s library, waiting for the Christmas snow.

  It was only his confusion and anger that had made him impatient with her. But she couldn’t have known that. And he’d been tempted by her offer to set up a meeting with Juliet. Instead, he should have told her in no uncertain terms she was not to go. Was Guido even in Naples? Or was he here in Rome, the Naples story only meant to mislead? What an evil, conniving pair they were. More so than all the wolves of Rome. And he had fed them Susanna. Now he knew there was no going back. Not now. Not ever.