Authors: Beverle Graves Myers
Tags: #rt, #gvpl, #Mystery & Detective, #Historical, #Fiction, #Opera/ Italy/ 18th century/ Fiction
The cardinals, many among them elderly and stricken with gout, suffered in the oppressive heat. Fever-filled air crept up the slopes of the Vatican and entered the palace, sending cardinal after cardinal to their sick beds. Cardinal Di Noce distinguished himself by ministering to their needs as diligently as any nursing sister—until the malarial fever extinguished his genial spirit forever.
With the saintly Di Noce out of the running and the Roman cabal in disarray, Fabiani should have attained an easy victory.
It was Stefano Montorio who orchestrated his own defeat. He took his revenge on his brother Antonio by giving the speech of his life—in support of Prospero Lambertini, a pious nonentity who had never been considered papal material. Zio Stefano had judged his moment well. The cardinals were eager to divine the Will of God and go home. In the next round of voting, Lambertini easily carried the necessary two-thirds majority.
As for my brother, he had been hiding a secret. Yusuf Ali Muhammad was Alessandro’s business partner in Constantinople, a highborn merchant with ties to the Ottoman court. He was a man of sixty who embodied the wisdom of thought and purity of philosophy that our father had never aspired to. This worthy Turk had taken Alessandro under his wing and tutored him in the essence of Islam along with good, hard business principles. Yusuf Ali also had a perfect beauty of a daughter named Zuhal. Alessandro had changed his religion and married her two years ago.
On receipt of Alessandro’s letter, Yusuf Ali had raced to Venice. Packing letters and promises from the Grand Turk himself, he arranged a meeting with the doge and several influential senators who were not in thrall to the Montorios. A generous inducement of cash, along with a favorable contract for the purchase of Venetian salt, secured Alessandro’s release and complete vindication. To my brother’s mixed relief and disgust, the doge sent one of his most courteous noblemen to unlock the door of Alessandro’s cell and fill the noxious prison air with cloying regrets and apologies.
The release had taken place right before Antonio Montorio set out on his swift journey to Rome. When the senator had waved his key in my face, he was merely playing the odds. He knew that Alessandro could show up in Rome any day, but was hoping I would snare Cardinal Fabiani for Venice before I learned that my brother was at liberty to go where he pleased.
I was in Alessandro’s debt for much more than helping Gussie break open the crate and expose Guido as a thief and a murderer. My brother had done me a tremendous favor by embracing Turkish ways and customs. Annetta was so aghast at those developments that she barely blinked an eyelid at my unconventional marriage to an apostate Jewess.
“There’s just one thing,” Liya said, as Gussie and Alessandro lit torches around the perimeter of the fragrant garden.
“What is that, my love?” I raised her hand and bestowed a kiss on her delicate fingers.
“Not everyone we love is here to share in our wedding feast.”
I tore my satisfied gaze away from my bride. Little Tito was tumbling on the soft grass with my niece and nephew. An obviously pregnant Annetta was in earnest conversation with Maddelena and the wise woman who had performed our handfasting. And Benito was hobbling around on a cane supervising supper preparations.
“I know. Pincas and the rest of your family are missing.”
She nodded wistfully. “At least I’ll be living back in Venice. I don’t think they’ll be able to ignore me forever. Mama maybe, but not Papa.” She squeezed my hand. “But there is someone else.”
“Who?”
“Your other sister—Grisella. Don’t you ever wonder what has become of her? She must be over twenty, quite old enough to have a husband and family of her own. Now that Alessandro has so many contacts in Constantinople, I think you two should track her down.”
I raised a bemused eyebrow. Another adventure, for another time.
Readers of the first two Baroque Mysteries will notice that
Cruel Music
takes more liberties with recorded history than Tito’s previous adventures. Clement XII was indeed Lorenzo Corsini of Florence, a blind, chronically ill pope who sat on St. Peter’s throne from July 12, 1730, to February 6, 1740. And his successor was Prospero Lambertini, a bookish cardinal who was amazed to be elected. However, Cardinal Fabiani, his scheming mother, and the political tangle that Tito faced are pure fiction.
The notion of a pagan infiltrating the ranks of the Catholic Church is not as strange as it might appear on first glance. There are many indications that the Old Religion survived in Italy into the eighteenth century and beyond. Those interested may consult
The Rebirth of Witchcraft
by Doreen Valiente (1989);
Aradia, The Gospel of the Witches
by Charles Godfrey Leland (1899); and
Etruscan Roman Remains in Popular Tradition
, also by Leland (1892). One inspiration for Prince Pompetti’s Academy of Italia was the Academy of Rome, an earlier confraternity that espoused a return to the ideals of the pagan world and earned its followers a nasty reprisal from the Church.
Tito’s enforced stint as a baroque music therapist also has its roots in historical fact. Farinelli, the most acclaimed castrato of the eighteenth century, gave up his stage career to serenade King Philip V of Spain. The king often suffered from bouts of depression and madness that prevented him from leaving his bed chamber. His queen, Elizabeth Farnese, employed Farinelli to soothe her husband with song. Thanks to the singer’s nightly visits, King Philip recovered his taste for life and was able to reign more or less appropriately until his death in 1746.
A few other matters that may be of interest: Pope Clement’s port project was completed, and Ancona remains a busy seaport today. Liquore Strega is still produced in Benevento and is known as one of Italy’s most distinctive liqueurs. It can be found in well-stocked stores in the United States. It was not until 1870, during the foundation of the modern Italian state, that the temporal dominion of the pope was restricted to the Vatican. The Quirinal Palace eventually became the residence of Italy’s president.
I wish to express my gratitude to everyone who provided assistance in bringing this novel to completion, particularly my family, the late Father Lee Trimbur, the staff at the Louisville Free Public Library, the staff at the University of Louisville Ekstrom Library, Kit Ehrman, Joanne Dobson, and my editor at Poisoned Pen Press, Barbara Peters. Thanks also to Jeanne M. Jacobson for calling my attention to the Benjamin Britten quote that lends this novel its title.
Special words regarding the late Dan Hooker are in order. Dan was a creative, caring, eminently dependable agent who gave me consistently good advice. He will be sorely missed.
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