3 - Cruel Music by Beverle Graves Myers Page B

papal throne. But tell me, what is so special about him?”
    My simple question seemed to tax the man’s power of speech. He opened his mouth, closed it just as fast, and stood thumbing his stubbled chin. His son pulled at my sleeve. I looked down.
    With the pitiful innocence of youth beaming from his face, the boy answered eagerly, “Di Noce is special because he loves us, Signore. Loves us like a papa. And wants to make us happy.”

Chapter Seven
    Later that evening, Cardinal Fabiani returned from the Quirinal to host his weekly conversazioni . In the music salon, the harpsichordist and I provided entertainment as the guests gathered to sit in circles of upright chairs and nibble on wafers and ices.
    In contrast to his coolness of the previous evening, my fellow musician unbent sufficiently to enlighten me as to the identity of a number of the guests. A young fop reading aloud from a slim volume of poetry was the eldest son of Prince Orsini. Another who propped his elbow on the overmantel and gazed over the room with a bored expression represented the house of Barberini-Colonna, his linked names signifying ancestry from both papal and aristocratic lines. Every guest, my informant whispered in reverential tones, was a Person of the Highest Quality. Reigning over them all, Cardinal Fabiani seemed to enjoy himself mightily as he swanned from group to group.
    As before, the cardinal’s musical selections had been waiting by the keyboard. Rubbish this time, not a standout among them, and designed so that I would sing only every other set of pieces. My talents had been relegated to the musical equivalent of the tapestries and mirrors that decorated the villa’s walls, a pleasing background and nothing more. At least I could focus on the guests’ conversation while the harpsichordist was having his solo.
    I sang my bit, then took a seat at the edge of the dais. Pretending to peruse the score of my next selection, I opened my ears to the nearest group. Gossip concerning people unknown to me ran to coarse lengths until Cardinal Fabiani joined the circle. Then the talk turned to the state of Pope Clement’s health.
    “How is the old man doing?” asked a custard-faced woman in a gown of French blue much too bright for her complexion.
    “A bit better, today,” Fabiani answered smoothly. “He took some ox-tail soup for dinner.”
    “Of course,” responded the Orsini stripling, his volume of poetry splayed over his knee. “That’s what you always say. He’s better and better, but still on his deathbed. At this rate our esteemed pontiff will be the healthiest corpse ever.”
    An older man winked at the woman in blue and said, “If you want to know how the pope really is, you had best go to Mass at the Lateran.”
    “Whatever for?” she asked, snapping her fan open.
    “Have you not heard the old story? When the Holy Father is about to die, the bones of Pope Sylvester the Second rattle in his tomb under the floor.”
    “Stuff and nonsense,” she whispered over the fluttering fan, but her eyes were shining with curiosity.
    “It is true. Long ago, when the Moors still held sway in Spain, the future Pope Sylvester studied the art of divination with one of their learned wizards. He made a pact with a demon that ensured his elevation to the papacy, but his wicked sorcery prevents his bones from achieving eternal rest. When Pope Clement’s predecessor went, Sylvester’s bones jumped and bumped so hard that the choir could not be heard over the clatter.”
    “Were you there?” she asked in a tone of amazement.
    “Unfortunately not. But a friend of my cousin swears that he witnessed the strange event.”
    “But how could moldy old bones know when the pope is going to die?”
    “Only the Lord knows. And perhaps the demon that Sylvester bargained with.”
    Behind her fan, the woman in blue buzzed in conversation with a friend. They both appeared ready to jump up and call for their carriages to race across the city to