barbarian, my heart.’
‘Then why did you not respond to me before?’ he asked, sliding a hand down my belly, feeling for and getting an instant, glad response.
Considerable time was then spent kissing. I would never get enough of kissing Essa. It could be the occupation of a lifetime. I forgot the question.
‘Well?’ he asked, tugging at my beard.
‘I couldn’t,’ I said, breathing out a sigh which was at least half of relief. ‘You were my patient. I took an oath by Apollo and Hippocrates. I must not lie with my patients.’
‘What oath besides?’ he asked. ‘There must be more to it than that.’
‘To heal,’ I told him. ‘To ease the pains of the world.’
‘You fulfilled it,’ Essa told me, and kissed me again. His touch was so delightful that I heard myself whimper. Essa cried aloud in his passion. We rolled ourselves in his plaid and drowsed, tangled together. I was dissolved in joy. I felt Essa laugh soundlessly against my neck.
Fierce huffed himself into sleep. He snored.
CARNEVALE DI VENEZIA
Giovanni ‘baci baci’ di Ca’ Nuova knew that he shouldn’t have taken the bet. He was well known amongst the Honourable Company of Gondalieri as able to seduce anyone, absolutely anyone - though he drew the line at confessed religious - with his flashing smile, his curly hair, his beautiful brown eyes and his strong, flawless body. He could sing like a very licentious thrush and charm aged dowagers and stern members of the Consiglio di Deci as well as pretty girls. Or boys. Gio wasn’t fussy.
But the Alchemist, now, that was a steep proposition and he had fifty escudos riding on the result. And he didn’t actually have fifty escudos. So he had to succeed or be dishonoured.
The Alchemist was Lorenzo di Bianchi, the son of a very distinguished household. They all lived in the Ca’ D’Oro. Gio went past there every day, on his lawful journeys. He saw the pale, strange face of the young man staring out of the window, high up in the great house. Gio found after a few days that he couldn’t take his eyes off Lorenzo di Bianchi. Fortunately Giovanni was a very skilled gondolier, and had avoided collisions, however narrowly. He smiled at the pale face as he passed, but Lorenzo never even seemed to see him.
And how to meet him was the first difficulty. Such elevated persons never came down to the level of a gondolieri, not to speak, unless it was to order their servants to tell him the address to which they wished to be conveyed. Those who proposed the wager had agreed to allow it to stay on the table until carnevale, when all ranks mixed and all people were masked. Gio had previously made a beast of himself during carnevale, wallowing in all that freely-offered flesh. This time, he was focused on one object. Lorenzo di Bianchi was going to be his.
If he joined the carnival. If he actually came out of the Ca’ D’Oro. Giovanni had scraped acquaintance with the people who know all: the servants at the great house. Never difficult for a young man with a beautiful grin, a gondola, and a willingness to do small errands for overworked kitchen staff for no fee. They gossiped about Lorenzo. The rest of the family was ordinary. The Signore’s wife was expecting, again, the elder son of the house was in disgrace for gambling, a ship had been lost in the Atlantic. Il Signore had invited Veronica, the great courtesan, to attend the first party of carnevale. The cook, who had grabbed the bunch of oregano she needed out of Gio’s hands and pressed it to her bosom as though it was a bouquet, sighed.
‘Poor Lorenzo! It’s for him that Il Signore should be calling a courtesan.’
‘Oh, why?’ asked Gio idly, picking up pastry crumbs from the table with one finger.
‘It’s well known that he’s a virgin! And not interested, either, or so they say. Just does experiments all night and sleeps all day, when he sleeps. Hardly eats a crumb of my good food.’
‘A man of no taste,’ commented Gio, biting the fritelle which the cook had handed him, taking the hint without intervention of thought. Giovanni’s seduction methods somewhat relied on automatic reactions. The cook shook her head.
‘No, no, poor boy, though he’s so fussy when he does eat. Can’t abide garlic. I have to cook special dishes for him. Though he’s got a sweet tooth. He always eats my rosamela pannacotta. But a man can’t live on cream, can he? And he’s engrossed in his studies. Trying to find the philosopher’s stone, they say. His mother has made him promise he’ll at least come out for carnevale.’
‘Oh? What mask will he wear?’ asked Gio.
‘Probably Medico della Pesta. La Signora sent up a selection and he seemed to like that one. But he says he’s going alone. He won’t travel with his family. Poor boy, he’s mad. The Bianchis go to all the best parties.’
‘Then he will need a gondola,’ said Giovanni, suppressing an internal squeal of joy. ‘And who better to trust the son of the house to but your most reliable and humble servant?’
The cook beamed.
‘Oh, Gio, would you look after him? I worry about him, he’s very clever but hasn’t the sense of a newly born mouse.’
Giovanni ‘Baci baci’ di Ca’ Nuova felt like a hypocrite when he accepted the cook’s hug and agreed to look after Lorenzo.
Then again, he intended to look after him.
From his family home in the Calle di Turchetta, a spruce and combed Giovanni set forth at the appointed time. Eight of the clock on a cold, damp winter’s night. Giovanni was not cold. He had chosen a Zanni, with jester’s hat, as his mask. It made him ugly, but it left his mouth free to eat and drink - and to kiss, should it come to that, St Lucy willing, though as a virgin martyr Gio wasn’t so sure that he ought to be praying to her for this favour. He switched his prayers to Peter. Peter was a fisherman. He’d understand.
The cloaked figure was waiting at the watergate. It stepped into the gondola easily, which made Giovanni frown. He leaned forward to adjust the leather covering, and pressed a delicate kiss to the mouth just visible under the grotesque mask. Then he said softly ‘Who are you, and where is your master?’
‘I’m Lorenzo di Bianchi,’ protested the man.
‘No, you’re not,’ said Gio. ‘Tell me, I might be able to help.’
‘Luisa della Cucina likes you,’ sighed the man. ‘All right. I’m Cosimo, his valet. His mother made him promise to go out. He doesn’t want to, so I said I’d go in his place.’
‘And what will you give me if I don’t tell La Signora about this?’ bargained Giovanni.
‘Anything, please,’ begged Cosimo. ‘He’s scared to go outside. He sweats and shakes. Just take me around a bit, let me be seen at various places, and then bring me home.’
‘If I do that,’ said Gio, ‘I want an interview with Lorenzo Di Bianchi, alone. Tonight.’
‘All right,' gasped Cosimo, and kissed him back. Well, that answered that question. Cosimo was not Lorenzo’s lover. He tasted far too strongly of garlic.
‘St Mark’s,’ agreed, Gio, and stepped back to his rowing platform. He had to pay attention. The wide waterway was jammed with gondolas.
