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

Calendula felt it was harmless to tell Dante, as everything Dante heard became confused in his mind and no one took much stock in anything he said anyway. Dante asked him again if he was really Francesco, and Francesco confirmed he was, though he could have told him he didn’t always feel like the same Francesco from Florence. Dante was content, however, with his answer and bade Francesco good night before sinking back into the folds of his black cloak.
    The glass-fronted bookcase looked none the worse for The Turk’s rage. Not even on close inspection could he tell which pane had been replaced. It held a new volume too, the latest work from Erasmus, a philosopher Francesco greatly admired. He wrote in the purest of Latin, and in Francesco’s opinion had well earned his title as the Prince of the Humanists. Had the glass doors not been locked, he would have been tempted to pull the volume out and settle in the corner with it until he had finished.
    The giant at the door let him out into the square. He’d taken only a few steps when he heard Imperia calling his name. He turned to see her standing in the doorway, so tiny in her azure gown against the bulk of the giant. She held out something wrapped in cloth, and he went back and took it from her. It was bread.
    â€œTake it. You need to eat, and this is good bread from the Frenchman.” He thanked her and handed the cloth back. It was the second time that day he had eaten the Frenchman’s bread, and while this time it hadn’t cost him money, he felt he might be paying for it all the same.
    THE rain was holding off, though the skies were heavier and blacker than in Michelangelo’s depiction of the Flood. Francesco wondered if the butcher and his wife had made it to the Capitoline Hill or if, as he’d predicted, she’d stopped to give birth along the way. Taking a bite from the loaf, he looked longingly across the square to Raphael’s. Although The Turk may not have killed three hundred men with his ruby-encrusted sword, his reputation was not a gentleone, and Raphael might be willing to accompany him. Or even better, he could forget the mission entirely and, with a cup of Raphael’s excellent wine, stretch his feet before the fire and discuss other matters. He sighed, telling himself he was a coward, and turned out of the square in the direction of The Turk’s. The faster he completed this mission, the faster he could return to Susanna’s, where there was sure to be a pot of cabbage soup bubbling on the hearth.
    Although he had never been there, he knew The Turk lived above the New Port in the hills close to where Chigi was at work on his villa. Indeed, it was one of Chigi’s goals to outdo The Turk in every aspect of the villa’s design: its size, its frescoes, its gardens. And when Francesco saw The Turk’s palace, he hoped his taste too. He walked up the wide path of crushed gravel between the rows of potted cypresses to doors so large two Trojan horses could have slipped through abreast without difficulty. Francesco pulled a chain that hung to one side, and the door was soon answered by a Moor darker than any Francesco had seen before. He stated his desire to speak to The Turk and stressed he was here on business for Imperia.
    The Moor told him to wait and left him standing in the immense atrium. All around him the walls were frescoed with lush scenes of gardens and classical ruins. At the center of the far wall, in between the doors that led to the inner courtyard garden, itself decorated with ancient Roman statuary, was a gigantic depiction of what could only have been The Turk himself. Resplendent as any sultan in rich, jeweled garb, he was surrounded by both male and female slaves of exotic origins presenting him with great platters of fruit and meat, a boar’s head with staring black eyes on one, an enormous silvery swordfish on another. As Francesco looked around, real servants came and went