Bitter Greens

by Kate Forsyth

  Smiling, I made the sign of the horns with my left hand, pointing my extended forefinger and little finger straight at him. Horrified, he grabbed his left testicle with his right hand. I laughed and went out to where Sergio was waiting for me. He frowned at the sight of me, and I wondered if my face showed the sting of the young man’s beard. I glanced down at my dress and saw that my bodice was disordered. Surreptitiously, I straightened it.

  A few days later, Carnevale began with an explosion of fireworks and continued in a wild hurly-burly of feasts and masquerades and parties. With a hood over my distinctive hair and a mask hiding my face, I accompanied Sibillia as she wandered the crowded noisy streets or glided in her gondola down the crowded canals, the surface fizzing with the reflection of flaming torches and shooting stars of pink and orange and purple and silver, the air thick with acrid smoke, which stung my nostrils. Everyone was filled with frenetic gaiety, as if Venice sought to forget the humiliation of the last few years, when we had lost our Dry Land Dominion in the west and our trade routes in the east. Our diplomats had been forced to kneel before the Pope and confess their sins and accept the ritual scourging rods. At least the Pope had not forced them to wear halters about their necks as he had threatened.

  Sibillia had told me that the Venetian coffers were rattling like a beggar’s after the disastrous war, but there was no sign of poverty on the canals and campi of La Serenissima. Everywhere I looked were billowing gowns of satin trimmed with fur, embroidered chopines as thick as a Bible, velvet cloaks and flashing jewels. Music and the deep thrum of conversation floated from every window, lit by the light of a thousand tall white candles, and from dark alleyways I heard soft laughter and the occasional grunt and moan of pleasure.

  I had stopped to watch a troupe of acrobats in the square as they walked on their hands and turned neat backflips and cartwheels. One was spinning wheels of fire in his bare hands, throwing flaming torches up in the air then catching them again. As I tilted back my head to watch the whirl of bright flame, my hood fell back. A man behind me exclaimed, ‘How beautiful.’

  I half-turned and saw a young man reaching out his hand to me. He was dark and swarthy, in his early twenties, with a shabby cloak and broad peasant hands speckled with paint. He picked up a tendril of my hair and twined it about his fingers. ‘Look, Francesco, is this not the most gorgeous colour? How could I capture this on canvas?’

  Another young man, a little taller and a little older, stared dispassionately at me and said, ‘Vermilion?’

  ‘It darkens too much. She’d be a brunette by the end of the year. I’d want her to flame from my canvas for centuries.’

  Francesco snorted. ‘You always were an ambitious brute, Tiziano.’

  ‘Is it ambitious to know you have talent and want to use it? Surely you don’t want your little brother to waste his God-given gift instead of making our fortune with it?’

  The young painter still had a firm grip on a lock of my hair. I said coldly, ‘Excuse me,’ and tried to jerk my head free. He grinned at me and used the long tendril of hair as a leash to draw me closer. He smelt of earth and crushed herbs, as if he had been rolling in a garden. ‘Red and yellow ochre for your hair and the yolk of a town hen for your pearly skin,’ he said. ‘And I’d pay a fortune for some cochineal to capture the red of your mouth.’ As he spoke, he suddenly bent his head and kissed me. His mouth was soft and gentle. I could not move, as if he had cast a binding spell upon me. I gave no thought at all to my dagger, but only to the feel of his mouth on mine, his hands in my hair, drawing me ever closer so I felt as if I could swoon in his arms and he would catch me.

  He drew his mouth away and smiled at me. ‘Come to my studio and I’ll paint you,’ he whispered in my ear. ‘My name is Tiziano Vecellio. What’s yours?’

  At the same moment, we became aware of the hulking presence of Sibillia’s bodyguard, Sergio, looming over us. Tiziano said ‘Uh-oh’ under his breath, gave my hair one last affectionate tug and melted away into the crowd, followed quickly by his frowning brother. I followed him with my gaze, then realised Sibillia was watching me from the shadows, her dark stare inscrutable as ever. I shrugged and gave a quick smile and hurried to join her, saying, ‘Carnevale time, it goes to everyone’s heads. It must be the masks.’

  I was quiet and preoccupied for the rest of the evening, though, very aware of the heaviness of my breasts and the tingling of my blood. Tiziano, I said to myself, and wished I dared ask Sibillia what she knew of him.

  The next morning, Sibillia called me to her sitting room. I came in smoothly, sank into a graceful curtsey and offered her my arm, wrist upwards, even though I knew the moon was not full and she would not take blood from me in the full glare of the day. It was a gesture of submission and placation, false as my smile.

  She shook her head, her gaze calculating. ‘Not today, Selena. Come, sit down. I want to talk to you.’

  Thoughts of my hoard of secretly copied manuscripts flashed into my head. I pushed them away at once, afraid Sibillia would read my mind. I bowed my head and sat down on a stool before her, smoothing my skirt over my knees. Truth be told, I was afraid of Sibillia. I wanted her power, her wealth, her strength, but I dared not let her know it. She was ruthless, and I was not yet fifteen. Despite all my watching and listening and stealthy copying, I was just beginning to dimly grasp the knowledge she had spent centuries acquiring.

  ‘Selena, you are a woman now. Your blood has begun to flow.’

  I bit my lip. I had washed my rags in secret, revolted and disturbed by my own traitorous body. I did not want to be a woman, at the mercy of men and time – I wanted to stay immaculate and inviolate forever.

  Sibillia’s eyes were gentle with understanding. ‘You cannot stop the passing of time, Selena. Believe me, I have tried with all my strength. The world turns, seasons pass, everything changes. You were a child, and now you are a woman and so no use to me any more.’

  I had not been expecting this. I stared at her, eyes wide with shock. ‘But … I …’

  ‘I need the blood of a virgin,’ she said.

  ‘I’m still a virgin.’

  ‘But for how much longer?’ Her left eyebrow rose in that characteristic quizzical expression of hers.

  ‘Forever,’ I cried.

  She smiled wryly. ‘You plan to take the veil and be a nun?’

  I was taken aback. ‘No …’

  ‘Then you shall soon lose your maidenhood, whether willingly or not.’

  ‘I’d rather die.’

  ‘You’d rather die than surrender to the pleasures of the flesh? I did not think you were a fool, Selena. Or so devout you believe all the blather of bishops and popes, who mouth sanctimonious words from the pulpit while their mistresses and bastards jostle in the pews below. Do you not realise that sex is a sacred force of nature, filled with power and passion and life and laughter? You cannot be a witch unless you master that force.’

  I was silent, my stomach cramping. All I could think of was my mother’s soft animalistic grunts of pain.

  ‘You are very beautiful, Selena, as I’m sure you know. You must understand that your beauty is as much a curse as a blessing. It will give you power, if you use it wisely. But it does mean that you must choose your sphere of influence. There are only three choices for women in this world that we live in. You can be a nun, or a wife, or a whore. Which will you choose?’

  ‘I want to be a witch like you.’

  ‘Then you must be a whore.’

  For a moment, I could not speak, my ears and eyes filled with memories like maggots.

  Then I realised Sibillia was right. A nun was locked away behind high walls, never to step foot outside again. Even if the tales of nuns tunnelling through the walls to let in their lovers were true, the fact remained that they were bound in service to their god and had little freedom or power in their lives. And, in Venice, wives were kept almost as close as nuns. At Carnevale time, men took their mistresses out to see the festivities while their wive
s stayed at home with their children. They went out only to church, or to visit family in their private homes, their hair tucked under demure caps, their bodies encased in armour of farthingales and petticoats. I could not bear such a life.

  ‘I must warn you, without a dowry, you’ll have little chance of a good marriage,’ Sibillia said. ‘You’ll maybe win a shopkeeper willing to take you on as a pretty face to lure customers in. You’ll be expected to work hard, and heaven help you when your beauty fades.’

  ‘Is that not true of a whore as well?’

  ‘Indeed, though there are ways to help preserve your beauty longer if the only work you have to do is lie on your back and let men spill their seed into you. At least your hands stay white and your back unbowed. And a good courtesan can earn as much as a ship’s captain and twice as much as a master tradesman.’

  That was something to think about. I never wanted to be poor again. But I remembered my mother and father in bed, panting, moaning. I screwed up my mouth in distaste. ‘I don’t want men slobbering all over me.’

  Sibillia was amused. ‘It’s not so bad. You may even come to enjoy it.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Then you had best become a nun, because it’s the only way to escape it. A wife sells her body just as surely as any whore, though the coin is different.’

  ‘Can I not just stay here with you?’ I asked in my most childish voice.

  ‘Not unless you are of some use to me. Even if you were to retain your maidenhead for some while yet, your blood loses some of its potency once you begin to menstruate. I need to find some other girl on the cusp of womanhood. Sergio is out searching the streets right now, though it seems to be harder and harder to find a virgin in Venice these days. We might need to entice one out of a convent.’

  ‘And how would I be of use to you if I turn whore?’

  ‘You would be bringing in some money,’ Sibillia pointed out. ‘Times are hard, and I am getting old. No man would pay to taste my flesh any more. You, however, are as sweet and ripe as a peach. Any man would pay dearly for the chance to pluck you.’

  ‘You’d turn procuress?’

  Sibillia smiled. ‘Not I. There are enough of those in Venice already without adding to them. No, I’d simply allow you to pay for the privilege of copying all my secrets.’

  Heat rushed into my cheeks. I dropped my eyes, pretending not to understand what she meant, while I considered what she had said. Nun, or wife, or whore. It seemed I really had no choice at all.

  So it was done. My maidenhead was sold to an elderly man whose sagging folds of hairy skin and sour smell made me feel sick to my stomach. It was all over quickly, though, and I was able to give Sibillia a fat purse, and still buy myself velvet gowns and ropes of pearls and fine perfumes from Arabia. Sergio found Sibillia a skinny little virgin from the docks, glad enough to offer up her wrist to the witch to suck in return for a warm bed and a meal every day. I became Sibillia’s apprentice by day and a courtesan by night.

  One I loved and the other I hated. A good training ground for a witch.

  THE LAZZARETTO

  Venice, Italy – July 1510

  Plague came to Venice in the summer of 1510, like a hail of poisoned arrows.

  Our little virgin was the first in our household to fall ill. At first, she felt just a little unwell and refused her bowl of spezzatino di manzo for the first time ever. Then her fever began to climb, and our cook – a chubby man named Bassi – called for Sibillia. She gathered together an infusion of ground willow bark, feverfew and lavender water, and shook together dried linden and elderflowers to make a fever-cooling tea.

  ‘Come with me and I’ll show you what needs to be done,’ she told me. ‘You must be careful not to give her too much of the willow-bark infusion. It could make her sick in the stomach.’

  I followed, though I had no real interest in the girl, being jealous that she had replaced me as the source of blood for Sibillia’s spell against ageing, and having always been more interested in knowing what plants could kill than what plants could heal (strangely, they were often the same plant in different strengths). I knew, however, that as much of a witch’s income came from healing as from curses and cantrips, and I should learn what I could.

  The girl, Fabricia, lay on her pallet, her head moving restlessly, her face sweaty and red. Sibillia gave her some willow-bark infusion to drink, instructing me to make up the linden tea. I swung the kettle back over the fire and was getting a cup down from the dresser when Sibillia said, in a high strained voice, ‘Selena, you had best get out of here. Bassi, you too.’

  I swung around. Sibillia had pulled down the girl’s blanket and lifted her nightgown to examine her. I saw large, red, inflamed swellings in her groin, just inside the hairless juncture of her legs.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s the plague. Selena, I want you to go to my room and gather up everything that the Inquisition would find of interest and lock it in my stone chest. If you are wise, you’ll hide your own secret hoard in there too. Bassi, you and Sergio must bury my chest under the compost heap. Go. Hurry, all of you.’

  We did as she said. I put everything into the stone chest, all the books of magical lore, all my secret copies, the different-coloured candles, the seashells and stones, the wand and dagger and cauldron, the broom of elder twigs, the silver cimaruta amulet with its symbols of fish and key and hand and moon and blossom. I closed and locked the chest, and the two big men dragged it out into the garden and buried it deep.

  ‘We must try and hide Fabricia’s body,’ Sibillia said when I returned to the kitchen, standing just outside the door.

  ‘Is she dead?’ I asked fearfully.

  ‘Not yet. It won’t be long, though. If the Health Officers discover we have plague in the house, we’ll be put in quarantine and they’ll be burning all I own in the square. If we can keep it quiet, there’s a fortune to be made here.’

  ‘Magic cures?’ I guessed.

  Sibillia nodded. ‘Last time we had the plague here in Venice, the Council of Ten had to pass an ordinance limiting pharmacies and apothecaries to one every hundred paces. The city was seething with them like maggots on a dead dog. I’ll need to collect some frogs, as many as we can get hold of. And I’ll make a batch of my special Venice honey …’ She stopped suddenly, lifting one hand to her head.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m fine. It’s hot in here.’ There was a long fraught silence, then suddenly Sibillia sat down. ‘I drank her blood three nights ago, when the moon was full. Do you think …?’

  I could not speak. I feared Wise Sibillia, but I also revered her.

  ‘Bring me parchment and a quill.’ For the first time, hunched over in fear, the lines around her mouth driven deep, she looked like an old woman. Silently, I obeyed. Sibillia wrote out a will leaving the house and the garden and all her worldly goods to me. ‘Witch lore is passed from mother to daughter. You have no mother and I have no daughter. It is fitting that we should have found each other in time.’

  Fabricia died before dawn. Sibillia wrapped her body in a sheet and the two men carried her out to the gondola. ‘Drop her in a canal or in the lagoon, somewhere away from here,’ Sibillia instructed. ‘Be careful.’

  The hours passed, and the men did not return. Bells pealed out all over the city, and several times we heard wailing and sobbing from somewhere nearby and, once, the anguished yowling of a cat. Sibillia and I busied ourselves hiding our jewels and most precious belongings. Soon, however, the witch was too weak to stand and she lay down, shivering with fever. I did not want to tend her, but neither did I want to go out into the streets, filled now with shouting and screaming. It all seemed to have happened so quickly. Bassi had come back from the market only the day before to say there were rumours the plague had come again. Sibillia had told me not to make my deliveries that morning and to stay home from the brothel. I had been glad to obey her, for the heat had been stifling and I was
happy to spend an evening in my bedroom, studying my books. Now, the skinny virgin was dead and Sibillia herself was sick. How was it possible? Did she not have spells to cast the plague away?

  ‘Water … please …’ Sibillia croaked. I brought her a cup but kept a fold of my sleeve across my mouth. ‘Help me …’ She struggled to sit up. I did not want to touch her. Strange black spots were disfiguring her face and I could see purple swellings on her neck, under her ear. I held the cup to her lips and she managed to drink a sip, before beginning to cough violently. I stumbled back, averting my face.

  ‘Angelica in wine … and chew some garlic,’ she said when the coughing stopped. ‘Are they not back yet?’

  I shook my head and backed away. She sighed and lay down again. I went into the garden and sat in the hot sunshine, crushing herbs in my hands and smelling them, listening to the bells clamouring. I was weeping with fear. I did not want to die.

  The sun was directly overhead when someone began to bang at our front door. The maids had all fled during the night, and there was no one left in the house but me and the dying witch. Reluctantly, I went to open the door.

  Outside, a plague doctor loomed, knocking on the door with the end of a long hooked stick. He wore a black waxed coat falling over high leather boots, a wide-brimmed hat, and a white mask with a long hooked beak and glass eyepieces that flashed in the sun. Behind him were two filthy men, rags tied about their mouths, pulling a cart filled with dead bodies, buzzing with flies. The bodies were naked, a jumble of protruding arms and legs and backs and buttocks. A man with an enormous hairy belly lay on the very top. As I watched, he groaned and tried to lift his head, and one of the corpse-bearers knocked him back with a cudgel.

  The fat man was Bassi, our cook. I stared in horror, seeing the swelling of buboes at his neck and groin and armpits, the dark marks like bruises on his swollen belly.

  ‘You’ve plague in the house,’ the doctor said, his voice muffled by the mask. ‘Bring out your dead.’