Free 3 - Cruel Music by Beverle Graves Myers

untroubled by the insomnia that Rossobelli had warned me of. Mass unfolded in businesslike fashion. The Latin phrases flew off the cardinal’s tongue, and fewer clerics than I expected approached the rail for communion.
    After Cardinal Fabiani had wiped the golden chalice, polished it to high shine, and folded each piece of linen so that no drop of the Blood or crumb of the Host would fall unnoticed, he raised his right hand. He bestowed the final blessing with three fingers springing from a glove so white that it fairly shone and then marched straight from the chapel to the audience chamber across the hall.
    For two hours every morning, I learned, the cardinal’s door was open to all petitioners. I paused to observe the mismatched group waiting in the anteroom. Churchmen in black or purple silk tried to avoid rubbing shoulders with barefoot monks. Rough peasants who looked as if they had just arrived from the country gazed open-mouthed at the clouds and cherubs on the frescoed ceiling. A lady of quality, accompanied by her maid, took care not to notice a very pregnant girl quailing under her father’s stern gaze. If the cardinal was going to sort out this lot, he must possess the wisdom and diplomacy of a Solomon.
    Just as my rumbling stomach propelled me in search of my morning chocolate and rolls, Rossobelli appeared from some obscure corner, all hand-wringing and humility. “Are we making you welcome, then? In our small way?” Without waiting for a response, he continued, “If you require anything you must let me know at once. Perhaps you would like an instrument for practice…I could arrange for a harpsichord to be moved into your suite.”
    I agreed readily, then added, “I’m surprised one hasn’t been installed already. Since I’m not the first singer to occupy the rooms.”
    “Ah, someone told you about Signor Tucci.”
    “Yes, someone,” I replied, refusing to gratify his very evident curiosity. “I hate to think that I was the cause of a fellow musician’s dismissal.”
    “You mustn’t worry on Tucci’s account.”
    “Why? Has he found other employment so soon?”
    Rossobelli put two fingers to his temple and shook his head with a tolerant smile. “Signor Tucci didn’t confide his plans to me. For a performer, he is a most retiring man, gentlemanly, almost meek. Nobody’s enemy but his own, you might say.”
    I questioned the abate with a look, but he dispensed with the topic of my predecessor by assuring me that Tucci had been given a suitable pension. Rossobelli then urged me to explore Rome. He lavished praise on ruins, churches, fountains, and gardens, and even offered to put a carriage at my disposal.
    “You’re free for the day,” he said. “After his daily visit with His Holiness, Cardinal Fabiani will dine at the Quirinal and conduct business from his office there. He won’t want you until this evening.”
    That clinched it. Not the recital of Rome’s treasures, but the promise of freedom. I’d passed only one night under Cardinal Fabiani’s roof, but already the prospect of a day on my own was too tempting to refuse.
    ***
    A short hour later, I found myself strolling the paths of the Janiculum under a brilliant blue sky partitioned by thin, streaky clouds. The chill morning air provided a few shivers, but the milky sun hinted at a warmer day to come. Benito was my only companion. I’d refused Rossobelli’s offer of a carriage and footman to act as guide. Besides wanting to forget about the Villa Fabiani for the next few hours, I needed to walk. Men of my kind had an unfortunate tendency to acquire extra flesh. Sometimes it seemed that simply looking at a plate of rich food made my waistline expand. This could work to the advantage of some castrati, particularly those who portrayed women on the stage, as here in Rome, where women were barred from theatrical performance by papal decree. A plump chest and generous hips went a long way in creating the proper illusion. But I’d