Commedia della Morte

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Gian-Franco Montador, who handles all dispatches from this office, has vowed to devote himself to your endeavor; he has had an aunt in Holy Orders executed in Nice, and he has become adamantly opposed to the Revolution in France. You may repose complete confidence in his commitment to your enterprise.

  On more ordinary concerns: the Curlew has completed refitting and will be ready to take on cargo in five days. Marcantonio Giustin will be her capitan; he has signed his shares-agreement already and is putting together a crew. The Stella Marina is overdue, but being on so long a voyage as she is, the tardy arrival may mean nothing; other capitans have mentioned more severe storms than usual off the southeast coast of Africa; returning from China, Batavia, and India, as the Stella Marina is doing, could mean a month in port to avoid battling those storms. Capitan Ferran is a prudent man, not given to taking chances, so I do not feel any anxiety about his current absence. The Boreas has returned from South American ports; she will need some repairs, but nothing significant. I will plan to have her away again in three weeks, God willing and Capitan Demetrio d’Inccina recovered from his fever.

  It is an honor to serve you, Conte,

  Your most obedient

  Oddysio Lisson

  Factor and manager

  Eclipse Trading Company in Venezia

  3

  “Would you really allow us to perform Phaedre? Racine’s Phaedre?” Photine d’Auville stared at da San-Germain, her lovely pansy-brown eyes theatrically wide, the beginning of a smile quivering on her rose-bud lips; she shivered with expectancy. “Truly?” She had just emerged from her mid-day meal in the dining room of the guest-house, the first of her troupe to leave the table and return to their platform in the garden; statuesque and luxuriously proportioned, she was stunning. Even now, when in preparation for a brief afternoon rehearsal, she had pulled her hair into a tawny knot on her head, leaving her neck bare, she was enchanting, and she knew it. The corsage of her violet Mosul-cotton dress sported a modified standing ruff instead of a fichu, which showed her neck and shoulders to advantage, and offered a glimpse of the swell of her breasts. The modified drape of her skirt was in the currently fashionable Piedmontese silhouette, and moved with the occasional soft breath of the warm summer wind that carried the scent of the fields and vineyards beyond the walls of Padova. “Properly? In French? Not commedia style?”

  “Well, you are a tragedienne, aren’t you? You know the courtly style—you were trained in it.”

  She beamed at him, her smile like a fanfare. “I’ve missed the classics. To get to do proper acting again … I can’t begin to tell you.”

  His dark eyes brightened, relishing her delight. “The Universita would welcome the chance to see the play, and you have actors enough to do it.” He came to the edge of the rehearsal-platform, leaning against it, his black swallow-tail coat showing no signs of padding, nor a trace of binding beneath the white linen of his shirt. His stocky, trim figure was at once handsomely turned out, yet without any signs of vanity in his bearing. “Could you do it in a week, or perhaps a little more, if you had the assurance of a proper theater and an audience? The Universita would like to have it done—”

  “That would be difficult,” Photine said, as quickly downcast as she had been elated.

  “Why?” His question was not a challenge.

  “We need sets and costumes as well as rehearsal, and all these things take time.”

  He nodded. “If you had seamstresses and carpenters and painters working for you, do you think you could do it? Could your troupe be ready?”

  “If we have the opportunity to rehearse in the theater where we are to perform, yes,” she said, then cocked her head. “Are you serious?”

  A desultory breeze played with the cotton curtains framing the platform, heralding the arrival of afternoon. Da San-Germain offered her a suggestion of a bow. “I am. So are the Doni of the Universita.”

  There was a silence between them. “I’ll have to ask my actors,” Photine said, revealing her determination in the way she held herself. “May we have ten days to rehearse? A little more time would be helpful.”

  “If that is what you require.” He was unperturbed at these requests; he gave her an appreciative smile. “Is there anything else?”

  “I won’t know until I speak with the troupe. Perhaps.”

  “Tell me what you decide, and I’ll do my poor best to accommodate you,” da San-Germain said urbanely, taking a step back from the platform. “I will inform the Doni when you have determined what you want to do.”

  She studied him, measuring his candor through narrowed eyes. “What would you like me to do?”

  “Whatever serves you best,” he said before he started through the garden toward the mansion. “Just bear in mind that the Universita would like it sooner rather than later.”

  “Da San-Germain!” Photine projected her voice, stopping him. “We’ll do it! In ten days!”

  Da San-Germain concealed a smile as he turned around to face her. “Thank you. I’ll send word to the Universita.” Then he resumed his stroll back to the terrace, knowing that by dusk, Photine would come to his withdrawing room for a private hour with him. Once on the terrace, he lingered, selecting a chair in the shade where he sat down to pass the afternoon riposino watching the sky as it slowly faded toward the hush just before sunset. It was a luxury, he thought, to have time to set his thoughts running back over all the centuries he had lived: there were thirty-nine of them, or very nearly. The first five of those centuries still had the capacity to make him wince at how he had lived then. Nineveh and Babylon were horrors—as had been many other periods in his extended life—but what happened after his centuries at the Temple of Imhotep at least had been the work of the living, and not of his doing. In the back of his mind was the image of Madelaine and the plea in her letter; his concern for her had become an undercurrent in his thoughts since Theron had brought the missive to him. He reviewed everything he had learned about the increasing violence in France, and knew he would soon have to have some viable plan in order to bring her safely out. As he considered the coming performance of Phaedre, the first framework of a plan began to take shape; he gave his thoughts free rein as the afternoon settled in over Padova. The stillness that marked the time of day was soothing, and da San-Germain felt a gentle pang that he was not able to enjoy the afternoon riposino as most of the residents of Padova did: napping was one of the many pleasures lost to him when his breathing life ended.

  Finally, when the city had been bustling again for more than an hour, he rose and went into the ballroom, moving quickly through the mansion to his study, where he sat and wrote a note to Professore Don Gustavo Moroponte, informing him that Photine d’Auville and her company of players would need to rehearse in the theater where they were to perform. As he signed his current name, he briefly recalled all the others he had had. For almost a minute he was very still; then he folded the letter, sealed it with wax, and rang for one of his servants.

  “This is to go to Professore Moroponte. His rooms are—”

  “I know where they are,” said Stagio, who had lived in Padova all his seventeen years, and whose father ran a tavern catering to students. “Do I wait for an answer or return at once?”

  “If you would wait, it would be most useful, and would spare him having to send one of his students here later.” Da San-Germain smiled briefly, holding out the letter to Stagio, along with a small silver coin.

  “Certainly,” said Stagio, taking the letter and the coin in hand and bowing slightly to da San-Germain before he strode purposefully from the room.

  Da San-Germain got up from his writing table; there was a clamor of bells summoning the faithful to Vespers. Markets that had been opened since the end of the afternoon repose were now being closed for the night; the sounds from the streets and piazze changed, and the rhythm shifted to a more celebratory tempo, heralding a festive night. Standing by the window, da San-Germain listened to the din that was too chaotic for music,
but too cadenced to be noise. When the sounds lessened, he closed the shutters on the windows and left the room, going to his withdrawing room, anticipating Photine’s arrival.

  His withdrawing room was elegant and comfortable at once, with a low table of inlaid woods flanked by two sofas upholstered in heavy Chinese silk the color of pomegranates. Tall chandeliers holding over a dozen candles each stood on tables that flanked the fireplace—screened and empty at this time of year—and four sconces held more candles next to Venezian deeply beveled mirrors that enhanced the glow of the flames da San-Germain had ignited with a lucifer, its sulfurous odor dissipating rapidly; he took care not to look into the mirrors, which would not reveal his reflection, no matter how brightly the candles shone; even after more than three millennia, like crossing running water, the absence of his image in the glass left him with a sense of vertigo. When the sconce-candles were ablaze, he returned to the center of the room, trying to decide if the chandeliers ought also to be set alight as well, or if half-darkness would be more welcome. Finally, reminding himself that Photine was an actress, and used to the glare of footlights, he ignited the candles on the chandeliers, deciding that their brightness would be appreciated on this warm evening.

  Stagio found him there a short while later and handed over Professore Moroponte’s reply.

  “He will show your players where they are to rehearse tomorrow morning,” he informed da San-Germain.

  “I will see they are there,” da San-Germain said, and motioned the young man away, then glanced at the clock on the mantel: ten minutes past eight.

  “He will meet them in the courtyard of the Universita, at nine of the clock,” said Stagio from the doorway.

  “Grazie,” said da San-Germain, going to the clavichord in the corner and touching the keys abstractedly, his thoughts wandering.

  Some fifteen minutes later Photine arrived, dressed more elegantly than she had been earlier that day. Her blue-and-white-striped taffeta skirts rustled as she burst into the room. “I apologize for being late, but it couldn’t be helped.” She sighed in exasperation. “I was handing out parts for Phaedre to my troupe, and there was some … some minor difficulty with the role assignments.”

  “Has it been settled?” da San-Germain asked, no trouble in his voice.

  “At least for now, it has,” she said, shaking her head. “Constance still wants a more important part, but … she isn’t young enough for Aricia—Sibelle will play that part—but Constance doesn’t like the role of Oenone; she says it isn’t challenging enough for her, that it limits her, though she knows she’s the only one of us suited to the role…” She let the words drift away, showing it was out of her hands for now.

  “Constance is the one who takes care of your costumes, isn’t she? A woman around forty?” He pictured the middle-aged woman with the long face and rangy body.

  “The same. She usually takes the Mother, the Innkeeper’s Wife, and Wise Woman roles. I’ve told her that Oenone is just such a role, but she doesn’t agree. At least she’s willing to let her daughter play Ismene, which makes matters a bit easier; she has great ambitions for Olympe, and Ismene is a good role for her, though at nineteen, she may find the subtlety of the role beyond her. I was able to convince Tereson to agree to play Panope, though she prefers to dance and mime than speak. She has stagefright, and often stammers.” She came to his side, standing behind him while he continued to play, this time with more attention to his music than his musing. “What tune is that?”

  “It’s by Handel.” He continued with the little minuet.

  “I like it. It’s a bit old-fashioned, but I like it.” She leaned against his back, her breasts pressed to his head.

  “So do I,” he admitted, and said nothing more until the end of the piece.

  She waited a moment after he had finished the air, then said, “You do play very well.”

  “Thank you. Music has been my solace for most of my life.” He cast his mind back to the days in Egypt when he had first begun to learn to play. Then he had been taught by priests on the Egyptian harp, a skill he had maintained for more than eight centuries. Over the millennia he had mastered other instruments, and had taken to collecting them during the last several centuries of his life.

  “It can be that,” Photine agreed. “But it can stir other emotions as well.”

  “Of course,” said da San-Germain, swinging around on the bench and wrapping his arms around her waist. “Of which were you thinking?”

  She bent artfully and kissed his forehead, lingering just long enough to ensure his excitement. “You will have to discover that for yourself.”

  He eased her down onto his knee, holding her effortlessly. “Don’t you think you might help me?”

  “Certainly,” she said to him, and kissed his mouth with determination and skill that gradually warmed to awakening passion. When she pulled back from him, she was breathing a little faster.

  Da San-Germain traced the line of her cheek with one gentle finger. “What would you like me to explore first?”

  She laughed softly but with eager anticipation. “Perhaps it might be best to get me out of my stays first? I don’t want your fingers getting pinched.” Reaching over her shoulders to the laces tied at the top of her bodice, she tugged the bow-knot undone and tugged at the laces to loosen them. “The corset—”

  “I can deal with it,” he assured her, pulling the lacing loose and then lifting the bodice over her head and tossing it onto the chair beside the clavichord. Deftly he worked at the heavier laces of her corset, using that activity to stroke her shoulders and back while he worked at separating the ends of the undergarment from neck to waist.

  “It is sweet of you to do this,” said Photine, playing with his silk neck-cloth; she hesitated to undo its knot. “Bayard thought it beneath him to—” As soon as she mentioned her former patron’s last name, she went silent, hoping she had not made a dreadful gaffe; few men, she knew, liked to be reminded of their predecessors.

  “If Bayard took no pleasure in removing your clothes, then he is a fool,” said da San-Germain, feeling the laces release another notch lower; he continued to pull on them, making steady progress. “If you’ll hold still, I’ll have it off in a minute or two.”

  “You may do as you like, Conte.” Feeling relief surge through her, to be replaced by a frisson of anticipation; pleasure-prickles rose along her arms and shoulders. Photine leaned down to kiss him again, holding his lips with her own until her breasts swung free of her corset’s stays, revealing nipples and areolas slightly brightened with rouge. “There,” she said, dragging the corset over her head, claiming the undergarment for herself so as to keep his attention on her body, not the clothing that covered it. “I can manage the skirt. At least I have no panniers to wrestle with.” She deftly unhooked the skirt’s waist-cords, and loosened the petticoats beneath, letting them drop, then stepping over them, now wearing gartered silk stockings and walking slippers of soft Florentine kid dyed dark-rose, with two leather flowers framing each tongue.

  “The couch?” she suggested, bending to gather up her skirts, and moving around him to put them on the chair with her bodice.

  “If that would please you,” he said, getting to his feet and going to the couches. “Which would you prefer?”

  She kicked off her slippers and came over to him, taking advantage of the light to make the most of her nudity; her breasts were opulent and high, her body showing her thirty-four years but trim enough to allow her to play ingenues some of the time. There was no self-consciousness about her, for she was used to being looked at, and she delighted in the effect her body had on men, especially men of quality who had not become corrupted by the lures of perversity. She glanced quickly at da San-Germain, trying to read his preference in his manner, but could discern nothing from him. After regarding the two couches, she shrugged. “They are the same.”

  He nodded to the one nearer the door. “The back of this one can be lowered. You might find it more comfor�
�”

  Her eyes brightened. “What a good idea. You must have thought of it yourself.” She reclined on the couch, making sure she displayed her body seductively while he operated a hidden lever that dropped the back, making the couch open on two sides. With a tantalizing smile she reached up to him, every subtlety of her gesture voluptuous and tantalizingly languid. “I don’t suppose you’re going to disrobe?”

  “I’ll remove my coat, if you like,” he offered, and unfastened the buttons, then shrugged out of it, revealing that he wore no waistcoat.

  Photine rolled slightly to make herself more comfortable and to display the curve of her waist to advantage. “I know you prefer to keep your clothes on, but I still don’t see how you can satisfy yourself so … encumbered.” There was a hint of inquiry in her observation, and she watched him with sharpened interest.

  “You know how I do that: I find my satisfaction—all my satisfaction—in yours.” He flicked the corner of her mouth with a gentle finger. “What gratification you achieve, I too, experience, no more and no less.” He hung his coat over the arm of the other couch, then came around the table to sit beside her.

  “I know that’s what you told me,” she said archly, holding out her arms to him. “But I have never known a man who made such a claim and then did not assert the right of penetration as his due.”

  “So you don’t entirely believe me.” He drew her up close to him, and again felt her ardor flare. “You think that I may yet demand—”

  “Possession?” she ventured.

  “I have no desire to master you, Photine: I want you to be free of all restraints and completely gratified when we’re done. Don’t you grasp that yet?”

  “No; not entirely, though the two times we have met this way before, you have done nothing more than what you said you would do, and that is most remarkable. It is an unexpected benefit of your affections. And since you have been veracious with me, I will do what I have promised to do.” She pressed her open mouth to his while she seized one of his hands and ran it over her flank and then between them so he could cup her breast. As she broke their embrace, she added, “I’m content as long as you are.” There was a note of dubiety in her words that she could not entirely conceal.