‘I want to fuck you always,’ Ludovico says, biting Giovanni’s chest, then kissing him long and hard. All of a sudden he pulls out and flips Giovanni over. ‘Pray, get onto your knees, and put your head down, tesoro.’
Ludovico is an expert: he angles his prick and pushes it back into Giovanni’s culo. After a few practice thrusts, he circles his arms around Giovanni’s chest and pounds into him. Reaching down, he wraps a hand around Giovanni’s shaft and milks him, his thrusts increasing in speed and intensity. Ludovico appears lost to himself, thrusting so hard that I wince as I match his power and twist my own fist. Low grunts of pleasure escape Ludovico’s throat. I have to bite my tongue in order not to echo him.
I can’t hold on anymore. My figa contracts around my fist, and my pearl pulses against my fingers. Wetness gushes out of me. My whole body shakes and shudders. Joy rocks through me, on and on and on. At the same time, Ludovico yells, ‘Giovanni!’ and his pumping buttocks buck and shudder his climax.
For a few moments, he rests his forehead against the back of Giovanni’s neck. Then he pulls out and gently pushes Giovanni flat down on his back. He lifts Giovanni’s thighs. Pushing his fingers inside Giovanni’s culo, he brings his mouth down once more onto Giovanni’s erection, sucking him so hard his cheeks practically disappear. A groan escapes Giovanni as he judders his release. The two men collapse in each other’s arms, kissing and whispering their love. I feel privileged to have witnessed their passion.
Quietly, I turn and trace my steps back to the villa. How long will I have to stay here? Sadness washes over me. It could be months, or, God forbid, years if the epidemic is a bad one. My boys won’t know their city when we return. My lovers might have forgotten me. I miss Marco, Andrew and Lena so much, not to mention my dear friend Domenico. And I miss Venice, even if ’tis liberating not to have to wear a mask when out and about. I allow myself one long drawn-out sigh, before I square my shoulders and quicken my step. I shall ready my poems for publication and send them to be printed. Even though the city is besieged by pestilence, the printing presses will not have shut down, I hope.
11
Finally, we’re going home. Nearly two years have gone by since we left, two years during which the plague raged on. The first winter did nothing to appease the contagion, in spite of the severe cold. By the following Christmas, nearly fifty thousand Venetians lay dead, almost a third of our population, amongst whom my beloved Lena. When the news came, at first I refused to believe it. How could my dearest friend have been taken from me? She lies buried in a mass grave on the island of Lazzaretto, together with Anna, my cook, and Giulia, my maid. I sobbed myself to sleep at night for months, worry for Marco, Andrew and Domenico intensifying my pain. But they have survived, grazie a Dio, and now ’tis safe to return I can’t wait to see them again.
Maurizio, Domisilla and their daughters (they had another one some years ago) have survived as well, and I have sent them funds via Ludovico, who has gone ahead. We left Padova this afternoon in his boat, and Rodolfo Vannitelli travels with us. In spite of my dislike of him (he still looks at me with a lascivious gleam in his eyes), he’s a good tutor and the boys are making excellent progress with their studies.
Night has already fallen and the sea is dark and choppy. Thick cloud scuds across the full moon, and the only sound is the lapping of the waves against the wooden prow. Lights glow ahead, glimmering like angel-hair captured by moonlight on the water’s surface. The lights flicker and grow stronger; now there are buildings to be seen. A passageway of coloured wooden markers guides us into the wide canal, with shacks and warehouses on each side, their jetties crammed with stone and mounds of timber, and barges lined up along the moorings.
We pass some dwellings and a church, its stern brick frontage stretching up into the sky, its forecourt flat and empty. Then, the familiar frescoed and gilded façades of the grand houses lift up out of the water. My heart sings in the waxy, pale light, as the buildings on each side become even grander – two or three storeys tall, their entrances low, a few stone steps all that separates them from the sea. Great doors open onto cavernous halls with rows of slim-hipped gondolas tied up outside, their silvery prows glinting. Pointed-arched windows, fretted stone like lacework in the moonlight, reveal sparkling chandeliers, the numbers of candles bearing witness to the extraordinary wealth of this, my city. Surely all is well and I can pick up my life where I left it, in spite of the dreadful sadness that stalks my soul.
I break into a smile: there are Ludovico and Maurizio, waiting at the Rialto jetty. We disembark and I greet them with warm embraces. Porters take our luggage, and we walk the rest of the way to Campo Santa Maria Formosa, carrying the sleeping boys through the narrow, dark calli. Maurizio leaves us to go to his wife and daughters in their rooms at the back of the house. After a quick supper of bread and cheese, we put Achiletto and Enea to bed and show Rodolfo to his quarters, which used to be Lena’s. I choke back a sob and sit with Ludovico in the portego. Everything seems so small and simple after the grandness of Giovanni’s villa. ‘Do you miss him?’ I ask.
Ludovico knows who I mean, immediately. ‘Like I would miss my right arm, were it to be cut off.’
‘Have you seen Andrew and Marco?’ I wonder they are not here to greet me, then chide myself for unrealistic expectations. They have their own lives, as I have mine. They’ll be here soon enough…
Ludovico takes my hand. ‘Veronica, there’s something you should know.’ Oh, Dio! From his tone, I realise what he’s about to say will not be to my liking. ‘The Venice we knew no longer exists. There’s severe poverty amongst many families who’ve lost their breadwinners. People are searching for someone to blame. And their fingers are pointing to the moral dissolution of courtesans and prostitutes. You need to keep your head down, my dear, and take care how you appear in public.’
‘Then I shall, of course.’ I’d feared as much these long months in exile, but had never voiced my fear. I squeeze Ludovico’s fingers. ‘There’s something I’ve been thinking of doing ever since my poor Lena passed away. So many young women have had to resort to prostitution. Even their own mothers merchandise their daughters’ flesh to receive economic support. It happened to me and to countless others. I know there are homes set up for destitute unmarried women, funded by the state. But I would like to found a home for married women with children, precisely those women to whom you refer who’ve lost their husbands and only source of income. What say you?’
‘I say ’tis a wonderful idea. And a very good ploy on your part.’
‘I did not mean it like that.’ I stroke his hand. ‘I would like to do this in Lena’s memory and to help women in general.’
‘Then you have my full support.’
‘Grazie, caro.’
The next morning, I discover just how terrible the situation has been. I go to the chest in my chamber, where I’d packed my silverware, only to find it empty. Domisilla bursts into floods of tears when I confront her. ‘My lady, it happened one Sunday while we were at mass. Someone broke in and stole it all. There’s so much thievery these days. We’ve learnt to be more vigilant.’
‘’Tis a shame. I was hoping to sell some of it to give to a worthy cause.’
Domisilla wipes her nose. ‘I’m sorry, signora. Truly I am. I wanted to ask if you would let me and my daughters perform an incantation.’
‘An incantation?’
‘Yes. To reveal the thief.’
‘If you wish, by all means. You have my permission. I remember, when I was a child, my mother instructed me to look into a bowl of water, recite a prayer, three paternosters and three Ave Marias. The incantation worked and we discovered it was my father who had stolen a coat from my mother. And later, he even confessed to the crime.’
I’m sure it was a coincidence, but anything to make Domisilla happy. I no longer believe in such nonsense.
‘Thank you, signora. Perhaps we can try the spell tomorrow?’
‘Yes, by all means.’ I am distract
ed. Unused to dealing with petty matters. It was Lena who would handle everything for me, and my mother before her. I feel lost, out on a limb without her. Pull yourself together, Veronica. You’re no longer a child, or even that young anymore. Thirty last summer, one could call me middle-aged. When I look in the mirror, there are fine lines around my eyes. At least my body is still firm, and my breasts pert. How I long for my lovers. Will Marco and Andrew visit soon?
‘Pray, Domisilla. I wish to curtail expenses. The government frowns on excesses. I think we can manage well enough with just you and Maurizio. I’ll employ a cook, of course. Do you know of anyone?’
‘Si, signora. There’s a woman, Bortola, who’s looking for work since her patron died in the plague. I believe she is quite capable.’
‘I would like you to send word to her. I’ll interview her on the morrow.’ I delve into my purse and give Domisilla some coins. ‘Please, go to the market and purchase food. Simple fare that you can cook for us. Obviously, when our new cook starts work she can take over that responsibility.’
‘Si, signora. I’ve already given Achiletto, Enea and their tutor their breakfast. The boys have grown so much I hardly recognised them.’
‘’Tis true. I had to purchase new clothes for them both in Verona.’
I wave Domisilla off. The boys were sad to leave the freedom of the villa and its gardens. I hope they’ll get used to life in a floating city again. And I hope that I, too, will adjust quickly to my changed circumstances. I’ve been spoilt and pampered far too long.
‘Cara,’ Domenico says when I’m ushered into his portego an hour later. I’m wearing a plain black skirt, and my nipples are hidden under a white chemise topped by a dark brown bodice to comply with the new laws. ‘You look quite different.’
I have to take a deep breath to stop myself from commenting on his changed appearance as well, for my old friend looks ill and tired. ‘Fare you well?’ I ask.
‘Well enough. Come, sit by me and tell me all about Verona.’
I give him a brief account of my time away then reach into my pocket to extract a copy of my Terze Rime. Finally published last year, I know ’tis my greatest achievement. Bound in leather with an engraved portrait of myself at the front, the volume contains eleven capituli by me and seven by others in the form of a dialogue. I can’t help loving them.
Domenico holds the book to his heart. ‘Brava! Brava! I shall certainly treasure this.’
I clear my throat and tell him about my idea to set up a home for destitute women. ‘Do you know of anyone who can help me?’
‘I expect Marco would be more than happy to lend a hand getting you the right permissions and funding. Have you seen him yet?’
‘No. I expect he’s rather busy.’
‘He’s had to cope with much these past couple of years. I’m sure he’ll call on you soon.’
‘I hope so.’ Oh, how I long for him!
Footsteps sound on the stairs and a voice calls, ‘Veronica!’ A voice I know well. My heartrate quickens.
‘I went to your house, and your maid told me you were here,’ Andrew says, coming up, bowing, and then kissing my hand.
‘Dearest Andrew, how wonderful,’ I say.
‘Come, Veronica, I’m sure Domenico will excuse us, but we have to make up for nearly two years of missed lovemaking. Then I want to see my son.’
Domenico’s brow creases. ‘Take care, carissimi. The authorities have spies everywhere.’
‘We will.’ I kiss my benefactor on both cheeks. ‘I’ll visit in a day or two.’
Maffio is back in Venice. I’ve read the mournful canzone he wrote last year, in which he prayed for the city’s deliverance, but another of his vile sonnets is circulating, and this one cuts me to the core.
’Tis a satire against me, again. He denounces what he calls my self-elevating motives for the engraved portrait of myself at the front of my Terze Rime, by parodying the sonnet accompanying my frontispiece medallion. ‘The picture unquestioningly represents Franco because of its extreme ugliness’, he writes. The Latin motto inscribed below the hand clasping a lighted torch signals not only what he calls my ‘pretentions to intellectual virtue’, but also the flames of love, or rather, lovemaking that moves me to earn the financial reward I so covet. Contradicting himself, he goes on to accuse me of having falsified my age by hoping the portrait will persuade the reader of my beauty, youth, and intelligence.
How dare he accuse me of deception and vanity? I wish I could tear out his deceiving tongue by its root, and after biting it against my palate, I’d then rejoice at having turned to bloodshed for my revenge.
Anger fizzing in my chest, I get up from my desk to go to the kitchen and give Bortola, my new cook, her instructions for our weekly menus. As I head down the stairs, I come upon Rodolfo, approaching from the opposite direction.
Dio mio! He grabs my shoulders and pulls me towards him, crushing me against his chest, his slimy tongue pushing between my lips.
‘Unhand me! You presume too much.’ I push him, hard, and he topples backwards, hitting his head on the step as he lands.
He manages to get to his feet, and mumbles, ‘I’m sorry, signora. Your beauty has bewitched me.’
‘If you ever try anything like that again, you will have to pack your bags and leave.’
The vile cur scuttles off, tail between his legs. Madre di Dio, I shall have to find another tutor for my boys. Rodolfo turns my stomach.
Domisilla is in the kitchen with her daughters. ‘We’re ready for the incantation,’ she says.
‘Oh, all right.’ My heart isn’t in it, but anything to keep the peace.
My maid fetches a basin and pours holy water into it from a flask she has filled from our parish church. Under the basin, she places her wedding ring, and, above it, two leaves from an olive branch, saved from Palm Sunday, braided in the shape of a cross.
Lucia and Federica, her two little girls, blond, blue-eyed, aged seven and eleven, kneel down in front of the basin, each with a candle that has been blessed by a priest. Domisilla takes a taper and lights them. ‘Repeat after me,’ she instructs her daughters, ‘Holy Angel, White Angel, by your sanctity and my virginity, show me the true one and the truth. Who took the silver?’
Solemnly, in quiet voices, the girls intone the incantation. But when they look into the basin afterwards, they’re unable to say who they can see revealed. I laugh to myself, unsurprised, and give them each a coin and some bread spread with honey. Feeling the heat of a gaze prickle the back of my neck, I glance upward to catch Rodolfo skulking in the corner, a look of pure hatred on his face. Now I shall definitely need to send him packing…
Finally, a message comes from Marco. I’m preparing myself, and ’tis difficult without Lena to help me. Warm tears well up whenever I think about her; I miss her so much. Domisilla tries her best, but she hasn’t got Lena’s knack of dressing my hair. I have to pluck my figa myself, which makes my eyes sting, and dressing is a chore without my dearest friend to help me.
This afternoon I washed my hair and streaked it with lemon juice before drying it in the sun. I’ve bathed with sheep’s milk soap to soften my skin, and I’ve covered myself in my rose and frankincense fragrance. I’ve decided to ignore the sumptuary laws, for no one will know in the privacy of my own home. I’ve slipped on the dress that caught the attention of the French King, and pulled my bodice tight under my upthrusting breasts, my nipples rouged and exposed. Cheeks pinched, lips reddened, my nub and figa sweet with honey, I feel ready to see the Magnifico again.
There’s just one task I need to perform: an unpleasant one. I send for Rodolfo. When he appears in my room, his eyes widen at the sight of me ready for “work”. ‘I’m afraid I have no choice but to dismiss you,’ I tell him. ‘Here are two months’ wages to tide you over until you find another position.’
His mouth opens and closes, but all he can do is gulp. He takes the money, bows, and leaves me to wait for Marco. The clock at the top of the tower in St
Mark’s square strikes eight times, the sound ringing across the city and coming through my open windows. Butterflies flutter in my tummy: Will he still love me?
Domisilla ushers him into my chamber.
We make our reverences: I drop into a deep curtsey; he bows, takes my hand, and kisses it. ‘Lady, your beauty is such that it would draw gods as your lovers from heaven.’
I laugh. ‘Pray, do not spin out tales, my lord. I care not to be fooled by compliments.’
‘Ah, Veronica, your tongue is ever sharp. How I’ve missed it!’
‘Is that all you have missed?’ My smile curves. ‘I would feel love’s burning fire. Pray, show me the fruits of your love for me.’
Marco needs no further encouragement. He pulls me to him, his breath hot against my cheek. His mouth moves to the swell of my lower lip and he nips it, his teeth catching my tongue. He tastes of heady, sweet wine, and I want to drink every last drop of him. I run my hand up his silky beard, along the back of his neck and into his hair, giving him hot, hungry kisses down the side of his dear face. He looks into my eyes, his own burning with the heat of desire. Slowly, he undresses me, his fingers tracing the hollow at the base of my throat, his knuckles brushing the underside of my breasts. The heel of his palm slides over my belly and I give a soft moan.
My hands flatten against the solid wall of his chest. I untie his doublet and kiss my way down to his codpiece. Unlacing it with one hand, I squeeze his sac with the other. Then, keeping my eyes locked on his, I go down on my knees and stroke the entire length of his prick before taking it in my mouth. He threads his fingers into my hair, gripping and tugging. I suck hard. His balls tense and tighten, his prick throbs. Without warning, he pulls out with a pop and yanks me to my feet.
Veronica COURTESAN (Fragrant Courtesans Book 1) Page 11