La Villa
Pelizari
05 agosto 1525
Cicadas raising riot the previous day had gone quiet.
Dry winds, rising from hills in the valley below, carried amber dust in their folds.
The currents moaned like death rattles. Piero’s skin soaked the stillness.
He had been more than a
week at the Pelizari villa as he stood in dry clay, worn to powder by hooves
and carriage wheels. The dust covered his boots, seeping into seams and leather
cracks to his feet. Dirt blew low to the ground across the villa courtyard, blanketing
manure deposits and dried carcasses of small creatures.
He had seen no one at the
villa for days. He was sick of the oppressive heat, and the silence. And as
sick as he was of them, it was the insolence of the missing servants that angered
him most.
A splinter break at a
beam-post cracked the quiet. He watched a rat slouch toward the open well in
the courtyard center.
He thought of the red-haired
man in Rome, clutching his chest. He remembered the filthy air along the Tiber,
the dust of onionskins rising from barge decks choking the fellow as he fell
forward. How surprised he appeared—terrified—as he saw that his life was ending.
He was all movement one moment, and then still, eyes wide, hushed, and dead.
The baths on the terrazzo
will soothe, he thought. I’ll rest and decide what’s next. Perhaps Marino will
return. Maybe he’s taken the
servants for provisions.
He climbed a flight of
narrow steps at the outer wall, near the kitchen. Clearing chalk dust from his
throat, he stopped at the entrance to his room, removed his breeches, tossed
his blouse onto a chest, and moved onto the terrazzo.
A mountain spring gurgled
from a cluster of overhanging bryony. The water tumbled into a sculpted culvert
and collected in a terra cotta bowl, then spilled into a stone vessel that fed
larger baths.
Easing under water, onto a
wooden bench, he pressed his back against the marble and settled his buttocks
on wood slats. An ache began at the base of his spine; it moved to his
shoulders. As it increased, something deep stirred in him. Stretching his short
legs to take in the heat, he tried willing it away.
He thought, where has
Marino gone? I’m not to be left. He will hear from me. I’m owed. I kept the
merchants in line. None of them dared hold back. The old man needs me; it’s
time I collected. When he hears of Fregosi’s severed head father will realize.
He will want the proceeds from the ships and payments from his other business
fools in Lombardy. He will rely on me now—he has to—and if not . . . but I
can’t kill him too. Not yet.
The ache softened. He
lowered his face to the water and breathed a perfumed smell like heated amyris,
or the fragrance of a brothel. He thought of the aromas of nights in Alexandria
and Iskenderun.
Who was that odd little
man on the morning near the monastery? Stench of piss about him. So eager to
serve. Where does father find such dolts? No idea he was done. Had the Virgin
interceded we would have killed hime.
Why wasn’t I rewarded? It was my work and father kept it all. I’m done
with them; settled with Fregosi for sure.
He cupped his testicles,
allowing the heat and his need to draw him into a trance. The steam rose to his
beard, soaking the oily ends of its thick black hairs. His head dropped to his
chest.
A single cry, the
anguished howl of a far away dog, rose from the valley. The wail shook him. It broke
the gentle murmur of the pool’s undulations on his skin. His neck muscles
tightened.
He heard the noises of the
carriage first—loud rattling—like chains aboard ship. He thought to hide, but
realized that the sound was harness under strain and the slap of reins on a trotting
team. Voices of men, carriage drivers, shouted at the horses to slow.
He raced to his room,
picking up clothing, urging a foot inside a legging, leaning to fetch a blouse.
He stumbled and fell, and sat to catch his breath. Tugging his breeches over
his thighs, he placed his head into the shirt, letting the tails fall below his
waist. As sweat and water beads stained his clothing, he flattened his soaked
hair and thought, Marino must be back.
On the villa mezzanine, he
gazed from the edge of a stucco wall, as Marino left the coach. The drivers
were at work unhitching the team. The drays were kept in harness. He watched as
the horses were led to a trough near the stable doors. They lowered their faces
to a trough filled with mud brown liquid, and lapped.
“Piero, are you
hiding?” Marino called, his hands
on his hips, glints of sun shining at the flat of his nose, his olive-skin
appeared as though he had just woken from sleep. Piero stepped from the middle roof overhang into the sun.
“I’m making due without
your help. Where are my servants?”
“I brought them back to
Pelizari. Left two days ago while you slept, brother.”
“Why did you take them?”
“To bring more efficient
ones. I got rid of the others for your sake.”
The wet ends of his hair,
pasted to the nape of Piero’s neck, irritated him. What trickery is he about? He thought.
Marino smiled.
“Before we left, I told
the idiots to be sure you had enough food and linen. You found these, didn’t
you?”
Piero stared at the coach.
Arched wooden spines, visible beneath the cover, hung loose, bulged outward,
heaved in the warm wind. The wheels were rimmed in iron casings with gold
painted spokes. The hubs were decorated with a coat of arms he did not
recognize.
“This carriage isn’t meant
for provisions,” Piero said.
“No, but there was space
aboard for goods, and there is an additional servants’ cart arriving soon with
the rest of what we decided you would need. We have not abandoned you, good
friend.”
As he passed Marino, the
Paduan reached to embrace him, but Piero pushed by. He heard murmurings, and a
rustle of movement, within the coach.
“I’m sorry we left you, but I received a message from Grigia
late at night, from Pelizari. The package you insisted on was ready to be
delivered and I saw a chance to freshen your provisions,” Marino protested.
“Why didn’t you tell me
beforehand?”
“You were asleep. I
thought it best not to disturb you and I knew that I would be back soon enough.
I left a message near the hearth. You clearly did not find it. If you go there now
you’ll see.”
He is lying. What is he up to?
“And I brought you a
guest,” Marino added.
The nose appeared, sharp
as a dagger. Piero saw the beak, before the man. Fingers like gryphon talons
drew aside the carriage curtain. Head bowed, the Abbot’s cap perched precisely
at the crown of his balding pate; his aspect was like an Apennine wolf among
guileless lambs. Piero stepped back, fear roiling in him.
The liveryman laid a
stepstool at the carriage footplate. The Abbot descended. He cast his eyes
about the courtyard. Barely audible, he complimented a lush growth of azure
gentian on the villa wall, above the portico. He looked everywhere but at his
son. Piero’s back straightened.
“Does this place suit you,
young man?” He asked. His gaze kept wandering.
Speechless, Piero felt his
legs weaken.
“Are you comfortable?” The
Abbot asked again.
“He wasn’t expecting your
visit, Excellency,” Marino said. “He only now understands why he’s been alone.
Perhaps we might . . .”
“I’m interested in Piero’s
thoughts,” The Abbot said, staring into his son’s eyes.
“I’m comfortable enough,” Piero
muttered.
His chest felt hollow. He
had forgotten how menacing his father’s mien could be: cadaverous cheeks, hair
thin lips and ferret-like ears, bristling with thick bush black hairs.
“Would your Excellency
care to freshen?” Marino asked.
Piero stepped back.
“Why have you come here?”
he braved.
“You’re too shrewd a young
man. You’re not going to believe that I longed to see you.”
“What is your purpose?” Piero
said again.
“In time, but for now we
are ready to rest. Marino, have the servants follow with my things.”
His gaze tilted toward the
plantings over the portico. The Abbot followed his aide to the villa. Piero stood,
shoulders drooped, his arms slack by his sides. He wanted to scream. He wanted
to throttle his father, and slit Marino’s throat, but both would have to wait.
A bell chimed in the great
hall. The night had a cool feel, and for the first time since arriving Piero
thought that the air might not suffocate him. Having discovered a new shirt and
trousers, a pair of leather shoes, and a brocade cotton sash, among Pelizari’s
clothes, he dressed for dinner. He draped a gold silk wrap about his neck,
fastening it with a red-jeweled pin. He examined himself—his coat, leggings, and
shoes.
The dining hall table was
set for two. Hurrying to and from the kitchen, heads bowed, Servants carried
plates and utensils from station nooks along the gray walls, their faces all
but hidden.
As Piero entered, the
Abbot nodded. Its juices oozing, a large roasted pig, dominated the center of a
golden-oak table. Wine decanters rested at each setting. Piero sat, his hands
placed palms down.
The subject of Fregosi is
sure to come up, he thought. Father surely knows by now. His thigh muscles
twitched like insects flitting about beneath his skin.
“Son, why haven’t you
contacted me?”
“I think the question is
better asked of you.”
The stillness expanded.
The Abbot stared at a cup of wine. He breathed deeply and lifted his face.
“What could have enraged
you?”
“Loss of freedom on that
piss bucket for one, and the demands, worthy of swine, that were made of me. I
knew that there was to be no end to any of it. Reason enough, I thought.”
“But, Fregosi?”
“IT was he who imprisoned
me and made it his business to see I stayed jailed. So long as he lived I was
destined for that ship. I did nothing to deserve such treatment. I decided to be free of him and wanted
it done quickly. I wanted my freedom.”
“Your behavior in Genoa
placed fortunes at risk. Fregosi rescued you from execution after the incident
with that drab and her client in the streets. He could have seen that you were
dealt with more harshly. He might have let you rot in a Genoese dungeon, or
winked as they cut you into small pieces and tossed your remains to dogs. Why
did you not you reach out to me?”
Piero glared at the Abbot.
Reach out to him? Can he possibly believe me such a fool? He thought.
“I was told you were busy. I was shown letters that made it
clear you had no wish to hear anything about me.”
“Were these in my hand?”
“Yes!”
“You were certain they hadn’t
been forged? You did nothing to disabuse yourself of this notion?”
A doubt cut. Piero’s throat dried, and his stomach
churned. He thought of the day, as a young boy, when his father took him to St.
Peter’s Basilica, allowing him to assist Mass at a side altar. He thought of
the time in young manhood, when his father invited him to dinner with Bishops
and Cardinals, at the Castel Sant’Angelo, before the Papal Coronation of Pius
III. He remembered how the Abbott doted on him then and longed for the feel of
that favor. He reached for a goblet, as the havoc he had wreaked since he left
the Lamellina lost its surety. Lives wasted came alive. Images of the
candle-lit face of his terrorized prey returned.
The Abbot pushed back from
the table, clasping his hands as if in prayer, closing his eyes. He shook his
head.
“And what will you do
now?” He asked.
“I mean to take what money
you allow me and go north.”
“North to what—where?”
“Cologne, the Hapsburgs. I
don’t care where. Just away!”
The Abbot brushed at his cassock,
flecking specks of bread from its immaculate finish. His face formed a broad
half-grin, as he set his wine aside.
“You must have papers,” he
said. “Traveling with money and gems, you’re sure to be a target. Fregosi has
friends and they’re furious. Word has spread to every ship leaving Genoa. You
will be watched for everywhere in the Mediterranean and Adriatic.”
“I plan to keep clear of
ports,” Piero said.
“Will you also keep clear
of people who pass through ports? No, this is not acceptable. You will need
protection. We have contacts in the north. We will see to it that you are safe.
It is time you rested from your work.”
A door closed softly at
the rear of the dining hall. The Abbot’s eyes shifted at the sound.
“We have brought you
Pelizari’s jewels, and enough florins to keep you well. Whatever else you
require you can send word. There is an estate near Vienna. An associate there
has agreed to issue conducts—these will ensure your safe passage and protect
you on his estates. You may take several of my guards with you. I am told that
Austria will suit your tastes.”
The Abbot motioned, as if
to stand; Piero rose before him.
“I am grateful. I will . .
.”
“Say nothing more. What I
began is my responsibility to complete. I will not rest until you are conducted
to places God wishes for you, my son. I’ve ignored you far too long.”
Piero stared at his father’s
eyes, struck by their rheumy fullness and the dull white sclera surrounding his
pupils.
The old man might have
considered these measures years ago and lessened my burdens, he thought. Yet,
this is better than nothing, and more generous than I expected.
A black shadow passed
before him, flitting noiselessly as a granule of dust in the fluid of his eye.
He felt a blunt force at
the small of his back that he knew as a knee. His body driven forward, a thin
slice creased his neck. He choked for air, but none came. The blood pulsing at
his temples slackened. His eyes pressed outward as though they might launch
from his head. He flailed, his body shaking madly. He crooked an arm and
reached behind, trying to strike at whoever had him in their grip.
Before him he saw the
Abbot, unsmiling, staring at a place somewhere above. Piero’s body lifted from
the floor; his back, braced flat against the feel of a man’s chest. Shrieks,
like buzzards in a feeding frenzy at a fresh carcass, pierced his ears. Blood
trickled and then flowed from his nose. It poured over his lips and into his
mouth.
His father’s image wilted,
absorbed in the shadowy surroundings. Semblances that had been clear thoughts
only seconds earlier returned, massed in confusion.
He remembered the dead man
on the barge: flared nostrils, thick red beard, eyes wide and vacant, stunned
in disbelief, as his life ebbed.
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