by Sam Barone
In the morning, after a hurried breakfast of bread and surprisingly fine cheese, they shouldered their sacks and found the livery where Nicolo had made arrangements for them to purchase horses. Martin frowned at all three animals, but a quick glance revealed nothing better in the stable, so he handed over the English coins favored by the local merchants. English gold, it seemed, was more desirable than French coin of the realm, the old livre tournais, or even the more modern franc.
The stabler spoke English, and he provided a boy to guide them to the rendezvous point at the edge of the city. There they joined a group of almost 30 pilgrims, travelers, and tourists, all heading toward Paris. Only a dozen or so had horses. The rest would walk. Wasted hours went by while everyone made their final arrangements, and midmorning passed before they departed.
“Women,” Will said with disgust. “They’ll slow us down.”
Four travelers had brought their wives with them. At least the men introduced the ladies as wives. The women, all on foot, seemed to be more interested in talking among themselves than walking to Paris. They strolled along as if on their way to the local market. “We could ride on ahead,” Antonio suggested, after the first few hours.
Martin shook his head. “No, it’s safer to stay with the party, at least until we reach Paris. Englishmen aren’t particularly welcome in the north of France.”
Antonio understood. The English had invaded France many times, and the two countries had fought each other for over 200 years. While at present the countries were at peace, old resentments lingered.
The size of the group provided safety of a sort from the bands of robbers and brigands that haunted the French highways, though the procession moved slowly, stopping at every attraction and halting early each night, so as to provide time for a leisurely supper and a long evening of drinking.
Such festivities didn’t apply to Antonio. Martin insisted on a few hours of sword work each day. Sometimes they practiced during the rest stops, but often they had to wait until the group halted for the evening. The training provided a spectacle for their fellow travelers. Sometimes, if there were no decent inns or wine or local entertainment to be had, Antonio had quite a gallery. There were a few other guards in the group, and he often worked out against them, just to get the feel of a different opponent.
At every opportunity, Antonio practiced his French with his fellow travelers and the innkeepers and farmers he encountered. More than once his mispronounced words brought laughter from the locals, but he ignored that. When there were no Frenchmen to converse with, he spoke Italian to his companions. In Nicolo’s house, they spoke Italian more than English, so Antonio felt comfortable in that language. Martin had a few words of Italian he claimed he picked up as a child, but Will had never spoken anything but English. Fortunately the crossbowman, by dint of constant repetition, soon picked up the basics.
Though Paris was only about a 150 miles from Calais, it took the travelers 15 days to complete the first part of their journey. That included a day’s visit in Amiens to visit the cathedral. Antonio didn’t begrudge the pause. The cathedral claimed to be the tallest in Christendom, and the three Englishmen marveled at its beauty. Its vaulted ceiling, supported by a forest of columns, drew every eye.
Antonio had never seen such a magnificent display of stained glass as that illuminating the central altar. But its most famous attraction remained the head of John the Baptist, displayed in the place of honor in the central nave.
Antonio stared open-mouthed at the famous but grisly relic, which consisted of a half-ball of transparent crystal, resting on a silver plate, that contained the martyr’s skull. The lower jaw was missing, giving the head a somewhat satanic aspect. The priest attending the exhibit explained that a returning crusader, Wallon de Sarton, had found the relic in the ruins of a palace in Constantinople during the Fourth Crusade. He carried the head back to Amiens and donated the sacred reliquary to the Bishop of Amiens in 1206, who ordered the cathedral built to honor the martyred saint.
“Don’t be so quick to believe,” Martin whispered. “It seems like quite a miracle for a dead man’s head to survive for 1500 years.”
“But the priests . . . everyone believes . . .they say miracles have happened.” Antonio had never considered that the holy relic might be a fake.
“Everyone believes what they’re told, and I’m sure every visitor drops a coin or two into the basket. Ever wonder how much these fat papists collect each day from gullible travelers? Or how they know the head is really John the Baptist’s?”
Antonio had been about to reach for his purse. Now he glanced around. The two priests smiling and blessing the congregants suddenly appeared greedy and grasping. Their eyes fixed on each visitor, as if estimating the size of his purse. The local clerics were Catholics after all, slaves of Rome, not good Protestants. The longer Antonio thought about the relic, the less likely it seemed.
“I’ve seen enough,” Antonio said. “Let’s be on our way.”
***
They bid goodbye to their traveling companions when the group finally arrived in Paris. They rested for two days, and Antonio got to see the great cathedrals of Notre Dame, Sainte Chappelle, and Sainte-Denis. There were many gardens, most reserved for the wealthier inhabitants. He found the city dirtier than London, with people crowded even closer together. Most looked gaunt and dispirited. In contrast, the nobles and prosperous bourgeoisie flouted their wealth and fine clothes, turning up their noses at the three nondescript travelers passing through their city.
Meanwhile, every shopkeeper and street vendor made an effort to part them from their funds, and pickpockets and thieves abounded. More than once Martin or Will caught men and women reaching for their valuables, and thrust them aside.
Antonio was fascinated by the prostitutes who seemed to lean from every other window and doorway, many jiggling bare breasts at everyone that passed by. England might still be struggling with its religious faith, pitting Catholic against Protestant, but the Church of England insisted that everyone practice their morals, attend services on Sunday, and behave in public. The English church courts fined anyone who failed to attend Sunday service, and those of low character and no funds often spent a day in the stocks.
Not that London didn’t have its own women of the streets, but they plied their trade more discreetly, and their customers did likewise.
“You seem interested in the whores, Antonio,” Martin remarked after Antonio had stopped yet again to stare at a smiling girl with long blond hair, who leaned forward and let her bosom fall out of her bodice. “Do you want one?”
Antonio flushed, an annoying habit he remained unable to break. “Why, no, of course not.” He knew the words sounded hollow, and his eyes still lingered. The girl saw his red face. With a pretty smile, she called out to him, offering a fuck for a franc.
“It’s time to find you a girl,” Martin said, “but not here in Paris. Not unless you’re eager to get the morbus gallicus. When we’re back in the countryside, out of this filth, we’ll find some decent women.”
“Good idea,” Will said, staring at the same girl who had attracted Antonio. “I could use one myself.”
Morbus gallicus. The French Disease. Syphilis. Three of the many names for the same affliction. “Why do they call it the French Disease?” Antonio had seen enough of its wretched victims in London’s streets to take pause.
“One of your fellow Italians, Antonio, a physician named Girolamo Fracastoro, gave it that name. He lived in Venice, too. Wrote a paper about 20 years ago saying you catch syphilis from fucking those that already have it.”
“And you read this paper?” The more time he spent with Martin, the more the man’s knowledge impressed him.
“No, not the original. But it’s been translated into English. However, most of the physicians in England think Fracastoro’s a fool.”
“The clerics say syphilis is sent by God as punishment for our sins.”
“You’re a good Protestant, Antonio.
But if God wanted to punish every man who sinned, we’d all be burning in hell.”
“So you believe this Fracastoro?”
Martin shrugged. “Perhaps. But I’ve grown cautious about where I dip my wick these last few years. Better safe than sorry.”
“I’m ready to take a chance,” Will said. “It’s been a long time.”
“Enough of Paris, then,” Martin said. “Let’s get back on the road.”
They left Paris at dawn, riding south. Without the traveling group to slow them down, they made good time, covering the miles at a steady pace. They established a routine of eating breakfast, then riding most of the day, before stopping at another inn for supper and sleep. Martin made sure that they found an inn well before dark. Despite the fact that the three travelers all carried weapons, he knew that danger could lurk anywhere along the road south.
Not that everyone slept through the night. Martin didn’t trust the innkeepers to guard the horses, and he and Will alternated sleeping in the stable each night.
“All these French innkeepers are thieves, Antonio,” Martin explained. “They’ll take your money and steal your horses. Or they’ll send us off shouting blessings on our journey, while they pass the word to their friends to rob us a mile down the road.”
“I don’t mind the horses, Antonio,” Will said, after Antonio offered to take a watch and let the soldier get some sleep in the bed. “They don’t snore as much as Martin, and the hay’s cleaner than most beds. Besides, who’d look after you if anything happened?”
Will spoke the truth about Martin’s snoring, Antonio thought. He’d had his own room at home for years, and sharing a bed with others took some getting used to. Nicolo had given Antonio enough gold, but that might be needed in Venice, and Antonio didn’t want to waste any merely for a larger bed at some fancy inn. If truth be told, he felt safer sleeping between his companions.
Besides, as Martin said, they didn’t want to appear like rich merchants, just travelers bearing letters to Venice.
Three days out of Paris, they ended their day’s journey at a respectable-looking inn near the town of Saint Frageau just as rain began to fall. The establishment was empty of guests, and the innkeeper’s wife hurried to start a small fire against the evening chill. Antonio took a seat close by and stretched his legs while Martin made the arrangements for the night and Will looked to the horses. Martin spent more time with the arrangements than usual, and Antonio wondered if there was a problem when Martin finished up.
“It’s raining harder.” Martin scraped a chair close up to Antonio’s. “It’ll likely rain all night, and the roads will be mud by morning. So we may be stuck here for a day or so. When the owner asked if we wanted any women, I told him we might be interested, if he could find something fit for your taste. He swore that he could, and I’d told him we’d have a look. He’ll go out after dinner.”
Antonio flushed at the thought of taking a woman. Even so, images of the Paris prostitutes filled his thoughts every night, and each morning he awakened with a raging erection. “Martin, I’m not sure . . . I’ve never been . . .”
“Don’t be embarrassed, lad. We’ve all got to start somewhere. Let’s see if this innkeeper can find what we’re looking for before any of us gets too excited. If he does, it’s going to cost a few francs.”
He didn’t know exactly what Martin wanted, but his companion seemed sure of himself, so Antonio just nodded. “Why will it be so expensive?”
“Old whores are cheap. Fresh girls cost more. The innkeeper will take his share, then the girl’s parents or brothers, and the girl might even get to keep something for herself, if she’s lucky.”
Thoughts of women occupied Antonio’s mind after that and he could scarcely taste the food. The grinning innkeeper departed as soon as his wife started serving dinner, bundling himself up in a cloak against the rain and walking down the road.
“My husband knows just what you need, young master,” his wife said, filling their wine cups. “He’ll be back soon.”
A second glass of wine after dinner combined with the warmth from the fire, and Antonio soon dozed off slouched in the chair, his boots toward the fireplace. When he awoke to the sounds of voices, more than an hour had passed. The innkeeper stood besides his wife, and Antonio saw that a young girl accompanied him.
She wore a too-long dark cloak against the rain, its bottom streaked with mud. Her brown hair was soaked despite her white linen peasant cap, and raindrops sprinkled her face. Martin joined them and they exchanged words. The Frenchman gripped the girl by the arm while he spoke, as if afraid she might run away.
Curious, Antonio stood and stared at the girl. She looked frightened and kept her eyes on the floor. She had a fresh bruise on her cheek, and he wondered who had slapped her.
“You’re sure she’s a virgin?” Martin’s voice sounded hard. “If not, you can take her back right now.”
“As pure as the Blessed Virgin, I assure you,” the innkeeper declared. “Her mother swears it. And she’s been bathed and dressed in clean clothing as you instructed. Your young English gentleman will be pleased. Her name is Sylvianne.”
Martin opened the girl’s cloak. “She looks clean enough. We’ll see.”
He took the girl from the man’s grasp, but gently, leading her away from the grinning innkeeper and his smirking wife, and brought her over to where Antonio waited by the fire. “Take her upstairs to our room, Antonio.” He turned to the girl. “You’ll do as he asks, you understand?” He spoke in French, but had to repeat the question before she nodded her head.
Antonio stood, his lust disappearing under a wave of embarrassment. He wished he could call the whole thing off. The girl trembled, appearing as nervous as he felt. But he couldn’t back down before Martin and Will, not after they’d gone through all this trouble. Even so, Antonio didn’t want to force himself on the girl either, despite the return of the sudden throbbing in his trousers. He moved closer to her. She had a fair face and pleasant features. Not what anyone would call beautiful, but attractive enough. He caught a glimpse of brown eyes.
“Sylvianne, do you … voulez-vous venir avec moi?” Do you want to come with me? He waited a moment, then held out his hand.
She lifted her eyes from the floor, as much surprised by his French as by his English accent. He’d had to struggle to find the words, his knowledge of the language almost deserting him. His voice showed his own nervousness. Antonio realized she was frightened as well.
“Of course she does,” the innkeeper’s voice grated like a rasp on iron. He remained a few steps away, apparently to ensure that his orders were obeyed. “Or she’ll get a beating she won’t forget.”
Whatever Sylvianne wanted, the man’s words reminded her of what awaited her afterwards if she failed to please. She lifted her eyes. “Oui. Je viens avec toi.” She placed her hand in his.
Antonio felt the trembling in her fingers, but the hot blood rushed through his veins, and he knew that he wanted her. One virgin led the other up the stairs, while the innkeeper and his wife laughed coarsely below, until Martin told them to shut up and bring more wine. Two more women would soon be arriving, to service the two Englishmen.
Chapter 11
April 2, 1565
Two weeks later, they crossed into Italy, arriving before dusk at San Remo, a dirty collection of hovels that provided Antonio his first and disappointing glimpse of the Mediterranean. A wretched inn could offer nothing better than a cramped room next to the kitchen. The rest of San Remo possessed little better, only outstretched palms pleading for alms. None of the travelers had any interest in exploring the local attractions, if indeed there were any.
A little after dawn they mounted and rode east, eager to get out of the town’s stink. As they traveled eastward, only a few farmers, merchants, and the occasional pilgrims shared the road with them. Martin picked up the pace, pushing the horses.
“The sooner we get to Venice, the safer we’ll be,” he said. “These hills are full o
f thieves and murderers who’ll kill us just for our horses.”
Will agreed. “My neck is getting sore from all this twisting and turning to see what’s behind us.”
They did encounter several bands of desperate-looking men, but each time Will set a bolt in his crossbow. That and a hard stare from Martin discouraged any action. The three well-armed riders looked like poor mercenaries searching for employment, and promised only hard knocks and slim pickings for any bandits desperate enough to try and rob them. By now, even Martin grudgingly admitted that Antonio could handle a sword well enough to defend himself.
Nonetheless Martin nodded in satisfaction when they rounded the last set of hills and saw the port city of Genoa spread out before them. “A real city at last. Perhaps we can get a good night’s sleep without worrying about getting our throats cut.”
“Look at those walls,” Antonio said, as they drew closer. He gazed upward in awe at the height and expanse of the city’s fortifications. “The Tower of London is scarcely half as tall.”
“Never seen anything like that before,” Martin agreed.
“Genoa used to be more powerful,” Antonio said. “My father said it fought with Rome and Venice for control of the Mediterranean trade routes.”
“That must have been some time ago,” Martin said. “Since then, they’ve been invaded by the French and Swiss often enough. Now they’re under the thumb of Spain.”
Spain’s power throughout Europe grew stronger every day. With looted treasure from the New World flowing like a golden stream into her ports, she could build and equip a mighty army and powerful navy. Nicolo and many others in London believed that Spain, with her increasing wealth and growing empire, would one day be a greater threat to England than France.
“Looks prosperous enough to me, and more beautiful than London or Paris,” Will said, pointing at the steep hills rising up behind the city. Covered with villas and well-tended hillside gardens, the steadily rising heights proved that plenty of Genoa’s citizens had enough wealth to flaunt. The city resembled an arena, with the houses built into the hills and everything facing toward the harbor.