Free 3 - Cruel Music by Beverle Graves Myers Page A

never been drawn to female roles, and I had no intention of spending my old age as one of those fat eunuchs who lumber about looking like a cow swollen with calf.
    A brisk, ten-minute walk took Benito and me through a massive gateway in the ancient wall that had once defended Rome against northern barbarians and into the twisting streets of a working class district populated from all points of the compass. In the space of a few blocks, I saw Syrians, Turks, even several black-skinned Ethiopians—all mixing easily with the short, sturdy Romans. The houses grew farther apart as the road broadened and dipped toward the foot of the hill. Before us, a bridge supported by four arched vaults crossed the muddy waters of the Tiber.
    I paused for a moment to study the starburst of roads that sprang from the opposite end of the bridge. The main road continued straight on toward the east. The others angled off and disappeared amidst buildings that dwarfed the ones we’d just passed. With a sinking feeling, I realized I had no idea where we were going.
    A stone bench at the base of a drooping evergreen offered a convenient resting place. I sent Benito back to the shops in search of a guidebook, then propped my chin on my walking stick to watch the steady stream of traffic cross the bridge. It quickly struck me that Rome was a city of horses. In Venice, men were carried by sleek boats and goods by hand carts or barges. Here, the horses did the work. Low-slung ponies, draft horses with wide backs and muscular hindquarters, and spirited teams of matched Arabians that carried themselves as proudly as the men riding in the carriages they pulled: horses were everywhere. So were their droppings. The unpaved street was thick with dust topped by a repellent layer of flattened dung. My Venice was no model of hygiene, but at least her watery roadways were cleansed by daily tides. It looked as if the Romans depended on the rain to be their broom. By the time Benito returned, I had worked up a sorrowful case of longing for my city of water and stone.
    “The Trastevere,” Benito said, stabbing a finger at the crude map in a book meant for pilgrims to the Holy City. “That’s the quarter we just came through. And that bridge is the Ponte Sisto.”
    I roused myself to nod.
    “Where do you want to go?” my manservant asked. “If you want to visit St. Peter’s, we’ve come the wrong direction. The Vatican sits on a hill to the north.”
    “We’ll save St. Peter’s for another time. I’ve already done enough praying for today. Gussie told me to be sure to take in the Pantheon. Here, let me see if I can find it.”
    As I flipped between the map and listings of popular attractions, Benito asked, “What’s the Pantheon? Some kind of monument?”
    “A temple, it says here. Dedicated to the entire array of ancient gods and goddesses. It was saved from destruction when Pope Boniface consecrated it as a church of Santa Maria.”
    “What? Christians worshiping in a pagan temple?”
    I shrugged at his surprise. “I think that happens quite often, especially in a place like Rome, a city that’s been inhabited for thousands of years. Old buildings put to new uses—ah, here it is. Across the Tiber, but not too far.” My finger traced the route on the map. “Gussie raves about the Pantheon. He did a lot of sketching there when he was making his Grand Tour. He calls it an architectural miracle—a dome with a coffered ceiling that’s almost as big as St. Peter’s, but predates it by centuries.”
    Benito nodded, jumped up, and pointed eastward. “Then across the bridge we go. Mind your boots. This road is filthy.”
    As we picked our way through the muck, Benito rose on tiptoes to whisper near my ear. “Do you think we should invite our friend to join us?”
    I immediately knew who he meant. Back in the Trastevere, I’d spotted a tallish man in a gray cloak and the sort of circular, wide-brimmed hat that many Romans prefer to the more