La Villa Pelizari

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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