preparing to be entertained—the rustling of robes and gowns, the discreet coughs, the scraping of chairs—all faded to nothing. The only sound in my ears was a roar like the waves of the Adriatic breaking over the sandbars of my island home. The only sight before my eyes was the cardinal’s face with his restless nose, and those shadowed, searching eyes. For a moment I was breathless, drowning in his gaze.
Fabiani broke the spell by inclining his head in a gracious gesture. Behind me, the harpsichordist sounded a flourish. My song broke like a hound loosed for the hunt, and Scarlatti’s brilliant notes streaked across the salon.
Chapter Five
Long after the line of elegant carriages had collected the cardinal’s guests and rattled away into the chill Roman night, I remained awake. The fire in my bedroom crackled cheerily, but I found its warmth more oppressive than cozy. Seeking air, I donned my cloak and stepped onto the balcony off my sitting room. The garden torches had been extinguished; the only light came from the almost full moon. Its beams turned the paths below to silver ribbons strewn among the blue black rectangles of terraced herb beds and feathery silhouettes of cypress trees. Here and there, a pond shimmered. I leaned into the railing, straining my eyes to make out the lines of the pavilion set into the thick garden wall.
The Villa Fabiani, as I’d learned from Rossobelli, sat on the Janiculum Hill at the edge of Rome. Settled much later than the ancient city’s famed seven hills on the east side of the Tiber, the Janiculum rose steeply from the river’s western bank. Its healthy air and scenic views had attracted Renaissance builders who sought to avoid the unsavory alleyways of the central city. Wealthy bankers, well-endowed monastic orders, and leading prelates cleared patches of the forested pinnacle, created magnificent dwellings, and left the rest in parkland. The villa I’d been forced to call my new home shared the crest of the hill with several other estates that stretched north to the Vatican and south to the old Aurelian wall. To the east, beyond the fuzzy strip of mist I fancied must be rising from the Tiber, somewhere in the blackness relieved by only a few wavering dots of orange flame, lay the heart of Rome.
A tingle of expectation leapt to my throat, but I forced it down, reminding myself that I was hardly a tourist. I turned my thoughts back to that evening’s concert. From the beginning, Cardinal Fabiani had fixed his expression in a coolly attentive smile and dispensed his applause in carefully measured doses. His guests followed his lead to perfection.
I wasn’t immediately concerned. It often takes an audience some minutes to put the cares of the day aside and open their ears and hearts. But after receiving the same response for the next three arias, each more lovely than its predecessor, I started to worry. An evil genie popped onto my shoulder with the suggestion that Fabiani was guarding his response because he enjoyed keeping me in suspense.
The concert rapidly became a duel of wills. The cardinal might be a master at hiding his emotions, but I’d been performing since I was a boy of twelve. If I didn’t know how to read an audience after sixteen years on the stage, I never would. The next song opened as a trivial piece that flew along at a hurdy-gurdy clip until it slowed to reveal surprising depths of musical poignancy that couldn’t fail to move a true music lover.
I trained my gaze on my host. During the first section, Cardinal Fabiani closed his eyes and took a deep breath like a man steeling himself to have an abscessed tooth pulled. At the same time, I couldn’t help noticing that my fellow Venetian, Cardinal Montorio, began tapping the toe of his satin slipper to the lively beat.
I sang the solemn bit with every ounce of conviction I possessed. Montorio’s eyes glazed over like a fish on a market slab, but Fabiani’s gaze locked onto mine as it had at the
Fabiani broke the spell by inclining his head in a gracious gesture. Behind me, the harpsichordist sounded a flourish. My song broke like a hound loosed for the hunt, and Scarlatti’s brilliant notes streaked across the salon.
Chapter Five
Long after the line of elegant carriages had collected the cardinal’s guests and rattled away into the chill Roman night, I remained awake. The fire in my bedroom crackled cheerily, but I found its warmth more oppressive than cozy. Seeking air, I donned my cloak and stepped onto the balcony off my sitting room. The garden torches had been extinguished; the only light came from the almost full moon. Its beams turned the paths below to silver ribbons strewn among the blue black rectangles of terraced herb beds and feathery silhouettes of cypress trees. Here and there, a pond shimmered. I leaned into the railing, straining my eyes to make out the lines of the pavilion set into the thick garden wall.
The Villa Fabiani, as I’d learned from Rossobelli, sat on the Janiculum Hill at the edge of Rome. Settled much later than the ancient city’s famed seven hills on the east side of the Tiber, the Janiculum rose steeply from the river’s western bank. Its healthy air and scenic views had attracted Renaissance builders who sought to avoid the unsavory alleyways of the central city. Wealthy bankers, well-endowed monastic orders, and leading prelates cleared patches of the forested pinnacle, created magnificent dwellings, and left the rest in parkland. The villa I’d been forced to call my new home shared the crest of the hill with several other estates that stretched north to the Vatican and south to the old Aurelian wall. To the east, beyond the fuzzy strip of mist I fancied must be rising from the Tiber, somewhere in the blackness relieved by only a few wavering dots of orange flame, lay the heart of Rome.
A tingle of expectation leapt to my throat, but I forced it down, reminding myself that I was hardly a tourist. I turned my thoughts back to that evening’s concert. From the beginning, Cardinal Fabiani had fixed his expression in a coolly attentive smile and dispensed his applause in carefully measured doses. His guests followed his lead to perfection.
I wasn’t immediately concerned. It often takes an audience some minutes to put the cares of the day aside and open their ears and hearts. But after receiving the same response for the next three arias, each more lovely than its predecessor, I started to worry. An evil genie popped onto my shoulder with the suggestion that Fabiani was guarding his response because he enjoyed keeping me in suspense.
The concert rapidly became a duel of wills. The cardinal might be a master at hiding his emotions, but I’d been performing since I was a boy of twelve. If I didn’t know how to read an audience after sixteen years on the stage, I never would. The next song opened as a trivial piece that flew along at a hurdy-gurdy clip until it slowed to reveal surprising depths of musical poignancy that couldn’t fail to move a true music lover.
I trained my gaze on my host. During the first section, Cardinal Fabiani closed his eyes and took a deep breath like a man steeling himself to have an abscessed tooth pulled. At the same time, I couldn’t help noticing that my fellow Venetian, Cardinal Montorio, began tapping the toe of his satin slipper to the lively beat.
I sang the solemn bit with every ounce of conviction I possessed. Montorio’s eyes glazed over like a fish on a market slab, but Fabiani’s gaze locked onto mine as it had at the
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