by Tanith Lee
During the last months of Spring, there had been some skirmishes on our border with Milano, by the Franchians. None of it had seemed unduly significant. The Franks were wary of Venus, which had not only kept an army of repute since the days of the Knights of God, but which bestrode the trading world to east, west, and south. Though there was no treaty, there had been agreements here and there, and sometimes there were small parties of Franchians in the City, very polite and moderate, miserly in their dress, halting in their Italian, and causing no trouble.
Borja, though, the Guild Master said, had advised the Ducem that the hour was coming when the Franks would stake a claim to Venus.
“As Borja means to, instead,” remarked Simone.
“Chesare Borja, it appears, generously offers Venus his protection.”
“What—he’ll put his troops into the City?”
“A handful are recommended. More to the point, he requests a firm alliance—one that will be noted far and wide. This is for our protection, we are to understand and, he has the grace to say, for his own pleasure.”
The gathering murmured. Micaeli, Master stone-lifter, said, “So he does want to marry into the ducal house—but who? Besides, he’s wed.”
“His daddy the pope would annul that in a wink,” said Simone.
“For this wedding,” said the Master, “no annulment is needed. He can keep his Frankish wife and have the new one as well.”
Borja wished altruistically to save us from the Franks. But also he did not mean to antagonize the Franks unduly. His plan then was nearly frivolous.
Once a year, since the terrible days of the Lamb Council ended, an ancient custom is revived in Venus. It is the throwing of a costly ring into the Laguna Fulvia by the Ducem, standing on his golden boat, while the priests of the Primo sing a blessing. They call it the Marriage of Venus to the Sea—symbol of the City’s maritime power.
Borja suggested something only rather different.
He would be married to Venus.
A few of the meeting broke into laughter. It was a funny, a quaint idea—a knot of ribbon tied to a lance of steel.
The laughter withered.
We became pensive, and still.
“What’s to be done?”
“Has the Ducem agreed to it?”
“In God’s name—what has that fool Nicolo sold us into?”
The Master said, dry and firm as ever, “Remember, Messers, the Italian Spaniard has an army estimated at over twenty thousand men. He has cannon capable of using stone shot and blasting open fortress walls from an extreme distance. He has the friendship, so far, of the Franchians, and the Spanish. It is really only whether he would set us against the Franks, or the Franks against us.”
Simone spoke out again. “And never forget either, his father is the bloody pope in Rome.”
Who better than we knew what that meant. The holy might of Rome over men’s souls—Pope Alessandro would only have to warn us that he could remove our dispensation for burning the dead, to cause tumult and despair in any of Venus’s citizens who were believers. Which, to some extent, almost all were. It was no use saying only the credulous would be afraid. And even if only the credulous were, there were enough of them; it would make for havoc.
The Ducem, for all his failings and flamingoes, must have thought so too.
He was that very moment agreeing to welcome Chesare Borja and his wedding-party into the City.
One of the reasons Pia scorned me was, I believe, that I gave her no children. Occasionally, I noticed her playing with some neighbor’s baby or infant, and then it was another Pia I saw. I am certain, too, the fault was not in her body, but in my own since, in all my several earlier hot affairs, no woman had ever claimed to have borne me a child. Nor in any later connection, either.
But when she learned we were to be at the “wedding” of Borja, and herself in a new gown, for a time she liked me very much. She did not mind that we had had little choice but to attend.
Every guild was to be represented by its Guild Master, and the seven Settera Masters, plus one full Master from every internal section of which, in our case, there were seven, and all their families as well. The head of every merchant family of the City was also summoned to attend, and all the high families in particular were expected—whatever their disputes with each other, which were to be put aside as for the marriage of a great prince. (Already the poets had likened Chesare to the war god Mars—in myth, the lover of the goddess Venus.)
One did not know whether to laugh or shudder at it all.
But it was to be a great pageant, and what City of Italy does not like those? (I have heard the Franchians think us vulgar, but then the Italians think the Franks mean.)
Contrary to the usual procedure, the generous bridegroom was to pay for most of the show.
The day dawned fine.
All week there had been arrivals in the City. Small packs of Borja’s troops, standing in boats as they were rowed to their stations, looked disturbed without their horses—or the ground—under them. But they were all in holiday mood and many in holiday clothes. They minded their manners, as they said Borja always did. There was no argument anywhere, and the wine-shops and brothels did a hearty trade.
When we left the house early, not an hour after daybreak, the crowds were already fomenting everywhere, jamming the alleys and the narrower waterways, whole families squeezed into wanderers and other craft. Every window space, every balcony, and also any possible roof, was freighted with people. The quays were thick with the crowds. From the galleries and windows of Venus, by Ducal decree, drooped cloths in both the lion colors of the City, white and gold, and the colors of Chesare Borja, gold and scarlet, and ropes of spring flowers also poured over the sills.
Everywhere, one saw also the motto of the City, Peace to you Venus (never more apt than now). But also there was Borja’s insignium, Either be Caesar, or nothing.
We, being favored, were to be among those to watch the entry of the bridal procession from a balcony of the Palazzo Bene, one of Nicolo’s other houses, which overlooked the last mile of Chesare’s journey.
The canals here are very wide. But all the route had been devised to employ the larger channels, and both of the greater lagoons.
It was noon before they reached us.
I had considered how he might manage it. He, too, was used to streets, not water, but Borja was a showman as well as all else. A Caesar might have envied him.
Great stages had been assembled and these, besides having oarsmen, were dragged through the water by nothing less than brawny gangs of swimmers. They were attired as the mermen of Neptune, and some as merhorses, fish-headed beasts, and other fabulous monsters. How they handled both their work and their costumes in the chilly spring canals was a wonder.
First on the stages came some troops, splendid in their armor, with tasseled banners, so the people cheered—yes, cheered. And they were a brave sight, picked for their swagger and looks. Then came musicians on a barge that was like a ship from a dream, with gossamer sails and gilt chains that hung in the water. These men played loudly and well, the chitternas wreathed with sparkling silver, and the rebeccas from the East twined with blossom.
After the musicians passed, four remarkable things, which set the crowds cheering again. They were meant as a compliment to Venus, no doubt, for they demonstrated the City’s mystic Zodians, Cancro the Crab, Scorpio the water-Scorpion, and Pesci the Fish, here shown as Venus has them, one in the other’s belly. They were huge floating models that seemed alive—the Crab waving its blue pincers and the silver Scorpion its tail and foreclaws, while the little fish swam about the larger one’s openwork inside. All three burned with gilding and glass gems; and their supporting understructures, or the men inside who worked them, were scarcely ever visible. Fourth of these prodigies came the legendary serpent-dragon of the lagoons. This really was an astonishing creation. Nothing could be seen of any workings or supports within its awful warted head and body, at least t
he length of ten men lying prone. As it writhed along through the water, there were even some screams from the banks.
When these apparitions were past, there came some lords under a gold sail, the wedding guests. Dressed fantastically and gorgeously, their jewels scorching one’s eyes, they were a marvel in themselves. More musicians followed, giving off a popular song of the City. The crowd put words to it—and at the end began to cry “Borja! Borja!” As anyone might have known they would.
Then there was a stage with girls who seemed in a floating garden, their setting equipped even with trees (in pots) and arbors of roses, while doves constantly flew up and then fluttered down. In the middle of all this, or so the exclamations next informed me, was Borja’s sister, the Donna Lucretza d’Estro, who had been brought with him as an attendant for his “bride.” (So complacent was he, he had thought it no risk to include her.) From the balcony I saw only a slim slip of a young woman seated side-saddle on a blanched palfry trapped in red, two guards standing by to keep it steady. She, too, wore scarlet, and her long, crimped hair was a curious peach color in the sun. Later, I was able to see her more closely. And then I pondered. Lucretza Borja had been married herself already three times (d’Estro of Ferrchita was the latest—the other two were dead). According to some she was also the leman of her brother, and father. But she looked like a virgin, pure and delicate, like unmarked snow.
After the ladies, some more impressive soldiery went by, and then a floating barge with crumhorns sounding. And then, Borja.
He was the only one not to be wearing his own or the papal colors. He wore the most costly black velvet, Venus velvet—I could tell even from the palazzo balcony. It was quite plain but for a pair of golden brooches shaped as the Keys, to hold his sleeves. His linen was the whitest I have ever seen. Other than this, his hair was an unusual dark copper shade, that flamed out in sunlight (giving him, after all, his colors) and deepened out of the sun, so one could, in shadow, take him for a dark-haired man. He was clean-shaven then, though in later years he would affect a narrow beard, as certain painters have depicted him.
The stories were not lies. I have to say he was the best-looking man, bar one, that I have ever clapped eyes on. And the other, anyway, was yet a child.
Behind Borja stood two cardinals sent from Rome, in crimson, to help wed him.
And these three alone were on the barge, with six oarsmen, but it had been made like a chariot, not of a Neptune, but a Caesar. And I thought at once of the mural I had glimpsed before even I saw it, in the della Scorpia palace, Caesar being offered the wreathe of an emperor.
At the back of Borja’s chariot came a train of boats with wedding gifts for the City: golden boxes and silver trays and artistically arranged heaps of all kinds of things—books, swords, astrological instruments, casks of wine. Also, there were three or four more gossamer ships with girls and music; and a confetti of sweets in tinted paper, and even gold coins, were thrown in a shower at the banks. Some of these naturally fell in the water. Then men jumped in from all sides to retrieve them, and soon the canal was a whirlpool that nearly upset one of the lighter vessels, but not quite.
There was a continual yelling now of Borja’s name. I judged the women were mostly sighing, too. I did not glance at Pia, but from the edge of vision, I had seen her lean forward and heard her catch her breath. Well, small wonder. I confess that I later thought, when I had looked at him across less space (he lost nothing when seen close) and at Madonna Lucretza too, that maybe only their looks were the reason for the talk of incest. Some would always reckon that two persons of such glamour, brought up in proximity and living under one roof, would not be able to keep their hands off each other.
Just past the Palazzo Bene, was a slope of open garden with a topiaria of trees, and the landing-place. Here it was the bridal procession had to come to land.
The neptunes and their creatures disbanded and swam ashore, leaving the boats to be rowed in and moored by the oarsmen. The crowd fell away from this costumed horde at first, then began to touch and pat them, amused, while the swimmer-actors frolicked and shook water off themselves. The smiling crack troops of Borja then began to take a hand in holding the people back, as the Ducem’s guards had not entirely managed.
Borja’s party landed neatly. The musicians formed up, playing and, between them and the soldiers, the crowd at a correct distance, the lords went up through the garden. Next followed, in a cloud of her ladies, Donna Lucretza, riding her pale palfry and minus her husband, and then Borja, looking neither left nor right, but smiling a little, just as his trained men did. One did not know what that smile meant, though it seemed affable. Last came all the marriage goods borne in display, with another tidal-wave of sweetmeats and money flung to all sides.
The Scorpion, Crab, Fish, and the serpent-dragon they left to disport themselves in the canal, which kept the crowd tickled a long while.
The pageant had meanwhile swept on into the Ducem’s palazzo. And we were called from the balcony to go down.
Nicolo’s great sala had been thrown open, a chamber as big as most guildsmen’s houses.
The columns were of decorative marble and the ceiling painted with scenes, and everywhere were the banners of Venus, the Ducem, Borja, and the Papacy. Flowers, some of paper and brightly dyed, erupted from urns. All of this, with the costumes of everyone assembled in their finest, and the conflicting house colors of every high family in Venus was not, it seemed, enough.
The Ducem had thought fit to bring with him some of his menagerie. There was an ivory-hued horse with charcoal spots and a grey mane and tail; and there a lion, snarling, just held on a chain by the muscular arms of two jailors. Five or six peacocks paraded up and down, spreading their fans of eyes at the women, and now and then shrieking in their unnerving way. A rosy flame-bird had been brought, too, and stood on a marble tank at the room’s center, stone-still, perhaps frightened, or only indifferent.
Borja had arrived. Courtly presents were exchanged. I was not surprised to see the spotted horse brought forward, in its silver bells and saddle of Spanish-work, and presented to him. Would he get the lion, too? It seemed not. His sister stood by all this while, with that immaculate completeness you find sometimes in women of lofty rank. She was limpidly calm, and mildly agreeable to everyone of the nobles they brought before her. She had a pretty voice, too. I heard it. (His was also excellent. I had been told he sang well.) But what either of them thought, God knew.
The heads of houses were presented, with certain of their kin. There were so many of these that each greeting was a swift process. I, from my corner, saw Como della Scorpia—an aging man mismatched to a sagging young man’s face—and his cousin, the coal-haired Lady Caterina, whom I had seen all those years before, at my first grave-funeral on the Isle. She was now turned sixty, but looked not so very different, not even her hair, since it was a wig. A young woman, too, was brought forward. She wore a somber gown, but her sleeves were in the della Scorpia colors, yellow, gold, and brown. She had that pale yellow hair. It seemed her husband had been a Franchian with the Frankish king’s armies, and later served with Borja—but the man had been killed at Fensa.
I saw the Barbarons, too, generally separated from the della Scorpias by the length of the long room. Where they needed to cross each other’s paths, they did not speak to each other, and indeed would not. There were other families who behaved in this way to one another, and in Rome, doubtless, it was the same.
Beatrixa Barbaron did catch my eye. I was very taken with her, perhaps more so than with the exquisite Lucretza. Beatrixa was about sixteen, and not beautiful. Her face had a half-severe, classical quality. She reminded me of one of the more youthful Roman goddesses, Hestia, perhaps, or a young Juno. But her dark eyes were very splendid, and her hair like no hair I had ever seen that was real. It was such a mass, so black, glossy, and densely shaped, falling far below her waist, it reminded me strangely of the foliage of some tree: a cypress, the most. It was ornamented only with a lit
tle cap of silver spangles, each the size of a grape. She wore the Barbaron blue, and had a small white dog on a lead, which was virtuously behaved despite the flamingo and peacocks, and the lion. She stayed to one side and was not presented.
We, needless to say, Pia and I, were also not presented. But the Guild Masters, Borja chose himself to walk among. Our own Master later said that he was a perfect gentleman. He spoke to everyone courteously, and to the point, but not overlong, and with charm rather than condescension. The Master added, to me, “But I would trust him no farther than a spade’s length.” This is a jest of the guild. It means nothing middling—it means the subject of it, to be trusted, would have to be dead, and lying down.
That day was a long one of standing about, admiring our betters. First it was in the Ducem’s sala, then at a Mass in the chapel. There, some of the guild-members’ wives and daughters fainted, as some always do at the stateliness and incense. Not Pia. She was never the fainting sort.
The marriage was in the afternoon, and before that we sat to a dinner for all the guests of the Ducem and Signore-donno Chesare.
It was laid out on vast tables. Although this was a lesser feast (the more lavish was to be that evening, when such as the guilds and merchant families were gone), it was impressive enough.
There were all types of foods, several of which I had never seen before, such as the preserved eggs of a certain kind of mouse found in the East—if it was to be believed. And also oysters that had been bred in tanks. Besides these were presented pheasant sausages stuffed into baked fowls, tarts of chestnuts boiled in sweet wine and sugar, whole spring lambs, and enormous mescalaras of various fish. The centerpiece was a blue-black shining fountain of squid, cuttlefish, and octopus, lying on beds of herbs and sliced fruits scattered with ice, and glazed by a honey and white vinegar sauce, the gleaming dripping tentacles cascading from one tier onto another. The dish was easily nine feet high, but not for long. The guests had grown hungry.