Forgiving Rome

by Clay Ferrill

  I had finished my declaration by flipping the hair away from my face as if swatting at a pesky fly. Brattish. That is what my father had called me. Impetuous and brattish. I am glad he died before I got home to find our affairs in such a poor state. No. I am not. His debts alone had wiped us out, but I have already forgiven him. Luckily, all debts were at least paid which eliminated the worry of my being incarcerated for non-payment of his just debts. It had taken everything and then some to settle those debts and keep our fine name clear of such shame. And me free from shackles.

  The remainder of the meal was spent speaking about Giuseppe, how “Archy”, as his mother called him as well, recently returned from the small war of the League of Cambria. I sat staring at her as she spoke. She is stunningly beautiful. Louis XII of France, her personal friend of some note, had overthrown the evil Sforza family from the Duchy of Milan and appropriated the lands held by their titles and claimed them as the property of France. She spoke of his bravery in battle in such a way that he shied of it, I watched only him then as she spoke, almost shamed he was, turning his head away as she spoke to look over at the large open barn door and then up to the room where he had found me sleeping just an hour ago. He looked as if he would sprint from the table at any moment to avoid hearing this all again. The position of his body leaned forward in the chair with his hands splayed on his knees. The fleeting expressions of torture on his face in his mother’s retelling.

  He loosed his red cape and let it fall behind his back in the chair. His white under-blouse was soaked with sweat under his arms, the ties untied and open at sleeve and collar, showing his hairy blonde chest and darkened olive skin. The familiar stirring again, warm. It unsettled me to have studied him in that way. I must paint him.

  My mother waived a hand over her face and suggested we make the short trek to the lake and take a swim before it gets too cold for bathing out of doors. I rose from the table to excuse myself and do just that, finally, then stopped while walking away back to my studio in the barn. I looked over my shoulder at Archy. Poised right on the edge of his chair he was, as if ready to spring and sprint, waiting for the invitation to join me. His smile broad and expectant, as soon as I started uttering the words “Archy, would you like to take a chilling swim in the lake?” he was out of his chair and with one large stride was at my side. Then unable to contain himself, he ran to the barn and lunged up the stairs again 3 at a time, standing at the top looking down at me when I rounded the corner. His blonde hair wild, his open shirt showing his hairy chest, the posture of his strong stance revealing for the first time, very powerful thighs stressing the leather taught against his muscles. Unsettled again by my thoughts. I must paint him. He is a grand example of man indeed.

  I bounded up the stairs quickly as he stepped into the room. I lingered for a moment in his sweaty scent and walked into the room. His blouse was already off and he was unfastening his leather britches while kicking and stepping out of his boots. I looked at his gigantic feet and laughed out loud at the spectacle, pointing. I too have very large feet, but not that large! As he stepped out of his pants he crossed in front of me naked. That passing changed something in me. Just the movement past me like that. His body so youthful and powerful, looked like an older man’s body, the form of it aesthetically pleasing to the artistic eye, his muscles so clearly defined and shadowed.

  “I would paint you too Archy if you would allow it. If you can sit still long enough.” I just let the suggestion hang in the air. He stood straight and faced me smiling. The offer clearly pleased him. His chest broad, skin darkened by the sun. The waistline above his hips showing frequent exposure to sunshine and below, his skin was still dark olive and dusted with light, almost white blonde hair in his dense pubic bush, buttocks and legs. Untanned by the strong rays of the sun. His feet too had a dusting of light blonde hair.

  He looked at me studying his body and flexed his ample hang. I had noticed this, but had not let my eyes rest there to study his private area closely. I have not painted people in the nude. I am not even comfortable with the thought of it. The familiar stirring warmth deep inside now becoming too familiar. I recognize it for what it is. I am feeling a physical lust in his presence that I cannot control.

  I lifted the thick blanket from the bed and handed it to him to cover himself, averting my eyes from his naked body. Opening a small meager cabinet, I withdrew a large chunk of the rendered pig fat soap of Ilsa’s making, scented with crushed clove, and the only two bathing sheets I myself own. Keeping my britches on, partially to hide my full stiffness once again. In the presence of this beautiful naked man, clearly a powerful soldier. I peeled off my white blouse and kicked off my stinky boots and headed for the stair. We walked down and between the stalls and out the pasture door into the pasture. I pause here daily as I trek down to the lake for the first time of probably many water trips. The valley rolls so deeply and greenly here. I have numerous attempts at painting this specific viewpoint.

  Now out of view of anyone as far as the eye can see. We were well away from the house and out of earshot of mothers before he ran down the hill past me to our lake in the distance. Me carrying the soap and towels and Archy with the ends of the blanket in his fists raised over his head, his graceful sprint and the spring of his naked footsteps like the grace of antelope I see here in the early morning hours sometimes. He too sprints like that. I must paint this man. This stallion of God.

  Dropping the soap and towels into the grass before hitting the muddy bank, splashing into the water, I dove under and relished in the coolness of the water on my excited skin. Archy stood at the muddy bank, having dropped my blanket, squishing his feet into the mud and bent to pick up a handful and threw it at me. It splashed into the water next to my head. “As a soldier one would hope for better aim” and as the words came out of my mouth a mud ball smacked the center of my forehead. Archy bellowed laughter out loudly over the water. Fixing me in the eyes he walked into the water and over to where I was submerged to my neck and with his large hand, wiped the mud from my face gently, rinsing his hand and wiping at it again tenderly. His touch on my skin making me uncomfortable.

  I submerged my head below the water and frantically rubbed my hands over my face to wash off the mud. When I rose from the water he embraced me awkwardly. Not yet wet, the position of his meaty strong arms put his stinking arm pit in my face. His body moved in chuckle as I struggled free of him. I pushed a large wave of water over him and he shivered momentarily, his mouth forming a perfect oh. The water is very cold at first. Then he dove for me and embraced my body again, this time around my waist underwater. His face was pressed to my center. I pushed him away again. This is unsettling to me, this feeling he gives me. I find it intrusive and forward. Juvenile.

  Wading back to shore I stepped over the mud into the grass and picked up the chunk of soap. I walked back into the water to my knees. I scrubbed the soap over my head and shoulders, dropping it in the water. It floated right up to the surface as Archy grabbed it and started lathering himself. He tossed it back to me and I washed my body as he watched, his fingernails lathering the soap into his hair and beard. I tossed it back to him and he washed his body thoroughly, lifting his feet out of the water and falling over twice in laughter when he failed to find steady purchase in the slippery muddy bottom.

  I walked to him and reached into the water and pulled his foot to the surface and rubbed soap into his blackened soles. The stained black leather of his boots’ stain has transferred to his feet. Finished with one I grabbed the other. The black was not coming off. I backed away as he lowered his foot into the water to rinse it and then finding his feet, stood up. He was enormous. He moved his hand over himself playfully, his eyes averted down to the water, a mischievous expression painting his face. Not letting go of it, he walked back to the shore and laid down on his back in the sun-warmed mud. I stood where I had been in the water watching this. His masculinity so confident and strong. He cared not to be looked upon in his personal inti
macy. Crooking an arm behind his head he lifted his eyes from his erection to my gaze, my mouth hanging open. I walked slowly toward him. I was not willing my legs to move.

  When it seemed I would lay down and place my head there at his center, I turned and sat my butt into the mud next to him. I spoke first. “I do not enjoy the company of men for sex, Archy. I have tried this a few times and do not find it satisfying. I prefer sex with a woman.” I spoke definitively so there would be no misunderstanding, anxious to put this behind us and move on. He chewed on the root of grass he had plucked from the mud. “Who said I wanted to make sex with you? I am stirred to erection, so now I simply massage myself until I spill my seed. Then I am done and it goes away. It is just that simple.” He dismissed it like it was common to massage himself in this way in front of another man. Is this what soldiers do when they lay down for the night? He read my expression.

  “I am not ashamed of the gifts God has graced me with as a man, Raffy. Nor should you shame of your beautiful naked body and ample manhood. These are gifts for us to enjoy while in youth.” I said nothing in response, only thinking of how his voice, the very sound of it speaking to me so intimately, was like a slowly flowing river. That languid and comfortable, that smooth, it was. “Most say that to me at first, Raffy. Until they are taken by me, they do not know how intense their pleasure of having a man such as me. Would you like to touch it?”

  I looked him in the eyes. Smoldering. Something about his look made me think that if I do not give into him, he will just take what he needs from me with force anyway. My hand, completely unwilled by my mind, reached over and gripped him there. I closed my eyes. It feels heavy and full in my hand, hard. I grazed my thumb over the end and pulled the skin back, repeating the motion, the feel of his slick stickiness. I opened my eyes to look at my hand moving on him. His eyes rolled back in his head, it dropped back on his shoulders. I know the sensation he feels. I tease myself in this same way when I am aroused and anxious. Rubbing my thumb across the exposed head of myself there, slicked with my juice. His moan of pleasure could be felt in vibrations on his skin, low and grumbling. I lowered my hand to his large sack and rolled them around in my hand slowly. My fingertips then reaching farther back. He lifted and spread his legs and pulled my hand to his wet and muddy center forcefully.

  I rubbed him there as his body shuddered. I lowered my head to let my tongue taste his saltiness as I usually taste my own. I continued to rub him there. One lick of my tongue and he again shuddered and shot his hot liquid onto my cheek and neck in a jerked gasp of breath. Before his next spasm, his large hand covered the crown of my head and he pushed my mouth down on him hard, pressing himself against my closed lips. I opened my mouth and took him into me in time for the second, third, and fourth jerks of his spasms. I was feverishly massaging my own body as this happened, the twin sensations of him in my mouth, so foreign to me. Highly arousing. The slick, still soapy glide of my hand had me shooting all over my stomach and leg in huffs and pants of breath.

  His hand reached for my liquid and smearing some onto his fingertips, he raised them to his open mouth and closed his eyes. I sat up and looked out over the water at the stillness. Conflicted. Why do the heavens not open and smite us? Why is this smoothness present in this world now? It should be rumbling with the brimstone of hell. I looked down at his body and then out again across the still lake. What just happened is nothing surprising to me. I have had interest from other men before. I just have not given in to their desires for me in that way. Until now. Why now? Archy sat up and lowered his head to kiss me, that stirring again, the heat and urgency, fixed inside of me, in my very core then.

  Standing up and diving in one very powerful jump, he broke the surface into the lake with a large splash and ripples. I watched as they reached far across the water toward the other side. He must have kicked really hard underwater because when he eventually surfaced about a minute later, he was almost to the center of our large lake. His hair slicked to his head he smiled at me from there. I rose and walked into the water, loving the feel of its coolness on my naked skin and dove in. I swam hard, kicking harder than I ever have, until I had no breath remaining and shot to the surface. I was still a good distance from him and the water kicking around my legs underwater was much, much colder than it had been near shore. The lake is deepest just here.

  He treaded there waiting for me, so I swam the length and grasped his shoulder, out of breath. His arm slipped around my waist and he pulled me into his body and began kicking back toward shore. I allowed this. Unsure as to why, he seemed to want to swim me back to shore. I found my feet and stood on my own, his hand coming to rest on my backside. He gripped my mass there hard in his hand in such a familiar way, too intimately. The flat of his large hand rested, so warm to my bare skin there. I walked back up into the mud and retrieved my wet britches and wiping my feet in the grass, stepped into them carefully and pulled them up my wet legs with audible squeaks of wet leather against wet skin. He sat in the water watching me.

  Lifting a bathing sheet, I dried my hair and neck and stomach, his eyes and stare watching every move. “You are a very beautiful man Raphaello. Very beautiful indeed.” I said nothing in return and walked through the grass and before stepping in the mud again, I held out his bathing sheet for him. He rose from the water and walked to me to take it from me. Leaving the blanket where he had dropped it, he began walking back toward the barn up the long hill naked as he dried his body. I gathered the blanket, my only blanket, and folded it over my arm and followed him, watching the hairy mounds of his strong muscular buttocks flex on top of his strong thighs as he walked up the hill ten yards in front of me. I will paint him like this. A powerful soldier. A warrior bathed clean.

  As he neared view of the house he wrapped the bathing sheet around his waist and held it in his fist at his hip while he walked. His shoulders so broad as his muscles glistened in the sunshine. I slowed to study his gate and pace, certain that I could capture his beautiful image on canvas and do him justice. Perhaps even nude from behind like this. When I came up the stairs into my studio he was already dressed again, tying the loose-looped bow of his blouse at the base of his throat. The blouse was beautifully detailed, hand-stitched. Very white as if newly made. The sweat stains now dried. I dropped the tattered and old bathing sheet on the floor on top of his discarded bathing sheet and walked to sit down on the bed to clean my feet before putting on my boots again. Without saying a word, he left the room and walked down the stairs and across the courtyard to the main house where our mothers were no doubt playing cards.

  When I walked into the parlor, the large blank canvas waited for me. He busied himself there sitting near to them, his mother shooting him curious glances, his hair still dripping some water from the swim. She looked at my mother and winked. She had been very concerned for her son. He came back from the battle conflict damaged in some way he had not formed into words as yet to explain to her. She of course, imagined the worst as a loving mother would of any soldier son. He had seemed less enthusiastic about his future and the responsibilities of his inherited title.

  Two more deaths in his family ahead of him will rise him to Grand Duke de Orleans. All waiting for him when he returned just one day after his father’s funeral. They could have waited no longer for him and had not had word back that he had even received the messenger sent to tell him his father was dead. She worried so about him. The creases of worry shadow over her eyes when she looks at him. Her eyes are still, so intensely beautiful. His eyes.

  I approached to go into the kitchen for some cold water with lemon from our large citrus groves and walked past him, resting my hand on my mother’s shoulder momentarily as I passed. I was standing at the cupboard when he walked in behind me. I finished my cup of lemon water and chewed the lemon, which we have in bushel abundance. He grabbed the pitcher and poured it full again and guiding my hand still holding the cup, tipped it to his lips and drank it dry. I poured him another and watched him drink it d
own as well, the large Adam’s apple of his muscular throat bouncing deeply with each swallow. Such exquisite beauty in this man. His muscles so lean and taught. He is so beautiful. I simply must paint him.

  “Will you perhaps sit for me this afternoon so I may sketch an outline for my painting of you? In my studio? The blank canvas is for Marquise’s portrait. I will find a way to secure enough fabric and fresh wood for yours, of equal size.” He smiled a half smile and nodded yes and then walked back to the salon and the card-playing mothers. He busied himself with books he must have brought with him, because we have no French-language titles in our meager library. Italian only and most of those tomes missing pages and decades old. Well-read, their leather covers now dog-ear and curl. His book’s pages are edged with the powder of real gold and the leather of the cover is dark blue. His crest affixed to the cover. He reviews his estates and his title’s holdings.

  I occasionally felt his stares on me as the afternoon drifted past. The sounds of the mothers playing cards as I studied her movements and exquisite expressions undetected by anyone but Archy. He studied me studying her. Knowing on his face as he realized what I was doing. The songs of the small birds just outside the door on the vine pergola, the occasional bey or neck bell from the small herd of goats we keep for milk and cheese. I studied the Marquise as I watched the light drift over her. The afternoon sun that played on the bared skin of her shoulders, so warm in here today. Breaking off another charcoal from the burnt log I made specifically for this purpose, I positioned the chunk flat across the surface of the parchment as I pushed at the bottom of the sketch to force the light higher and higher … just there, then. That smile as she looked at her son the Marquis, his large leg draped over the stuffed arm of the chair, laying back watching us all closely. Rolling his hair in his fingers as he looked on.

  My gaze shifted between the two and then to my mother who could see what was happening to me as if seeing into my very soul. She has studied me like this before. She tells me that she can see through my eyes by the expressions that cross my face as I sketch before painting, endless versions at times, until the composition is perfect. Only then will it be locked in oil forever. The tears gathered in her eyes as she rose to come and stand behind me to watch it again, as she has many times throughout my life. I was done with the sketch. She patted my shoulder and bent to whisper in my ear “one moment my darling, do not show them yet. Oh Raffy. So beautiful, as always.”