The Wolves of St. Peter's by Gina Buonaguro Page A

the tone of her voice as she spoke lovingly of Calendula. Or perhaps it was the fleeting scent of jasmine. He wondered if, like his mother, she kept between her breasts a little sachet, one that released its calming scent with every beat of her heart. His mother would have been about the same age as Imperia when she died, and Francesco had a sudden compulsion to lay his head against Imperia’s breast and rest it there for a while to see if he could recapture the feeling of his mother’s touch. Imperia caught his eye, and he quickly averted his gaze, fearing she would misread what she saw.
    â€œI was much surprised the day I found her sobbing on my doorstep,” Imperia continued. “Her husband, who was a cruel man, had thrown her out when she could not bear him a live child, let alone amale one. This is one place where that’s an asset for a woman. She had no family to return to. And so she came here, to her next closest kin. I could offer her means to live. She gave herself a new name and insisted I keep her history a secret. If she could have raised a dowry and found someone to take her, I saw no reason anyone should ever know her past. But it no longer matters.”
    â€œAnd if she didn’t bear a son for a new husband?”
    â€œShe was willing to take that chance.” Imperia briefly put her hands over her eyes. “If only I knew who took her body. I wanted so much to bury her in our family vault. I had my father’s consent, although he took some convincing. When I reminded him I was no better than she, he relented. But now I would be content just to know she was buried properly and not left for the wolves to tear apart.”
    â€œSo if The Turk took her body, you would be content with that?”
    She nodded, and more of her rouge transferred itself to her handkerchief.
    â€œThen I will go and see The Turk.”
    â€œThank you, Francesco. Tell him you have come on my behalf. He will be sure to see you then.” He got up from the bed, but she didn’t let him go quite yet. She had, as he’d feared, misinterpreted what she’d seen. “If you want to stay for a while with me, Francesco, I would be pleased.”
    He didn’t know whether she was thinking of her own pleasure or his, or whether this was merely a bartering of services, but he couldn’t, not after thinking how much she was like his mother. So instead, he thanked her and, kissing her cheek, stepped past her into the hallway.
    He stopped at the salon on the way out, in hopes of finding Raphael. Raphael wasn’t there, but the room wasn’t empty, either.Huddled on a chair in the corner was a dark, wobbling shape. Too big for a cat or dog or rat, it made Francesco pause. It was, of course, Dante, waiting for the cover of night to begin his prowls about the city. It was quite surprising that no violence had as yet befallen Dante, given his strange ways.
    Francesco was about to move on when out of the black cape appeared a pale face. “Francesco?”
    â€œYes, it is I.”
    â€œDid you find Calendula? Imperia can’t find her. She said a fat man took her away.”
    It suddenly occurred to Francesco that Dante must see a lot of strange things in his nightly prowling. “Do you know who the fat man was?” Francesco asked. “Was it The Turk?”
    â€œHe’s not The Turk,” Dante said. “His name is El Greco. The Greek. They only call him The Turk because he killed real Turks. He took his sword with the rubies in the hilt and killed three hundred Turks with it. And he’s not a Greek, either. He’s from Naples. And Calendula is not Calendula. She told me. But only I know, and I can’t tell. Not the Madonna of the Marigold, either. Only the same beautiful hair as
The Marigold Madonna.
Are you truly Francesco? Or are you someone else too?”
    Clearly, Imperia wasn’t the only one who knew Calendula had changed her name. No doubt