Time Travelers Never Die - Jack McDevitt [124]
Dave by now was a master at tracking down people he wanted to find, even in cultures that didn’t have a phone book. In his clerical garb, he went directly to Pietro Cardinal Riario, portraying himself as acting for a man who hoped to buy salvation by making a substantial donation to whatever church project the Cardinal would recommend. Riario is, of course, known to history for his early support of Michelangelo, and for his occasional homicidal tendencies.
The future artist, the Cardinal said, was living in modest quarters not far from the Tiber. When Dave arrived, an hour later, he was not at home, but his landlord directed him to a dump site. There he found a young man seated atop a low hill at the edge of the facility, contemplating heaps of trash and rubble.
He was ordinary-looking, with clear, congenial features and handsome dark eyes. He was so absorbed in the scene around him that he didn’t see Dave coming. “Hello,” Dave said casually, following his gaze across the piles of debris. “It’s a dismal prospect, isn’t it?”
He looked up, surprised. “Hello, Father.” He sounded preoccupied and probably hoped the priest would move on. “Yes,” he added, “it is.”
Gray smoke drifted out of the mounds. Carrion eaters wheeled overhead.
Dave sat down beside him.
“See that?” The young man pointed at a broken column. “That’s what’s left of the Forum.”
Two men approached, wheeling a cart loaded with trash. They said hello as they passed, and proceeded along the crest of the hill. “Tell me,” Dave said, “are you Michelangelo Buonarroti? The sculptor?”
He brightened. “Indeed I am, Father. Why do you smile?”
The men with the cart stopped and tilted the vehicle’s contents into the dump.
“I’ve heard you are talented. But you must already know that. I’m looking for a friend. He said he was coming here to give you a commission.”
Michelangelo got to his feet. “I have not yet established myself. But I’m happy to hear my reputation is growing. Your friend, is he a priest also?”
Dave was not sure how Shel might have presented himself. “He is, but he works among the poor and often dresses accordingly.”
The young man’s brow wrinkled, and he looked as if he had just made a connection. “Is your name David?”
That startled him. “Why do you ask?”
“I was given a message for David. Are you he?”
“Yes.”
“That is odd.”
“What is?”
“He did not say you were a priest. Just to be sure there is no mistake, what is your friend’s name?”
“Adrian,” David said.
“Father Adrian.”
“Yes. That is correct. Father Adrian. And the message?”
“It’s back at the house, Father. It came by courier two days ago. Would you care to walk with me?”
It was a warm, still afternoon. The sun was high and bright, and the sky filled with clumps of white cloud. “How long have you been in Rome?” Dave asked.
It was Michelangelo’s turn to be surprised. “Only a few weeks,” he said. “How did you know I had just come?”
“You’re better-known than you realize, young man. What are you working on now?”
“Not very much, I’m afraid. Only Cardinal Riario sends me assignments. I am very much indebted to him.”
“But you do have a commission from Father Adrian?”
“Oh, yes. But I have not yet begun on it. He wants two sculptures.”
“What are they?”
“He asked me to do an Athena for him. In her role as protector of the city. And Hermes. As healer. But I haven’t been able to decide yet what form either should take.”
Dave took a couple of pictures, doing it as unobtrusively as he could. But Michelangelo saw the gooseberry and asked what it was. “A relic,” Dave replied.
His house was one of a group of nondescript structures crowded around a muddy courtyard. It was halfway up a low hill, just high enough to glimpse the Tiber, which also looked muddy.
A workshop was visible at the rear of the house. While Michelangelo retrieved the message, Dave stuck his head inside.