Courtesan's Lover

by Gabrielle Kimm

  Filippo’s wife is truly a lucky woman. She is loved for who she is, and not for what she does or how she looks.

  Five

  Some eight or nine small tables had been crammed into the front room of the dockside tavern; the place was crowded and airless and smelled strongly of salt and sweat and cheap tallow, of wet cloth drying against unwashed skin. A clotted rumble of conversation hung over the tables, while a man, seated to one side of an open fireplace, picked out a plaintive tune on a wooden pipe. Several women—painted faces, bleached and braided hair—had clustered together nearby to listen. Candles burned at each table, and the faces of the many drinkers were indistinct and deeply shadowed.

  Carlo della Rovere was sitting at the far end of the room. He was being watched. A thin, pigtailed young man in dirty, crumpled shirt and breeches was chewing on a fingernail and staring toward where Carlo was rubbing at the filthy glass of one of the windows with his thumb. He watched as Carlo peered out moodily for several seconds and then scowled back down at his now blackened thumb. Carlo rubbed the dirty thumb on his breeches and drained the small glass of clear spirit that had been standing on the table in front of him, grimacing open-mouthed and blinking as his eyes watered. Turning toward where the young man stood in the shadows, he raised a hand and called, “Marco!”

  The young man’s face burned. He licked his lips, flicked the cloth he was carrying so it fell across one shoulder, and set off across the crowded tavern. After yesterday, he said to himself as he stood up on his toes to edge sideways through a narrow gap between tables, he thought he might allow himself to hope for a few moments alone with this Signor della Rovere tonight, after the tavern closed. Marco had a good idea what he might do with those moments if he was offered them—Signor della Rovere’s preferences had been quite obvious, from the fragment of conversation that had passed between them last night. He was good looking, Marco thought—fairer than most men in Napoli—slight, no taller than he himself. And not that many years older. By the look of the Signore’s clearly recently purchased doublet—a decent bit of doeskin by the look of it—and that pretty little silver dagger in his belt, he was not short of money. And Marco rather liked the expression on the Signore’s face—he looked bored and arrogant and sulky. A wealthy young man in need of entertainment, Marco thought. The sort of entertainment he was more than happy to provide.

  Reaching Carlo’s table and leaning in toward him, Marco laid a hand on Carlo’s sleeve. “Would you care for another grappa, Signore?” he said.

  Carlo looked at Marco’s fingers for a moment. Then, raising his gaze to the pigtailed boy’s face, he lifted an eyebrow and said, “Yes. Thank you. Bring the bottle, would you? And another couple of glasses. I’m expecting company.”

  “I won’t be a moment, Signore,” Marco said, his eyes on Carlo’s mouth.

  Carlo turned back to peer through the little cleaned patch of glass.

  Marco wormed through the jostle of drinkers to where several shelves stood ranked with bottles of grappa, brandy, rum, wine, and ale. He sidled past the elderly tavern owner, bent down, and reached for a full bottle of grappa from the lowest shelf. Looking back over to Carlo’s table, he paused. Two men had entered the tavern and were pushing through the other drinkers, toward where Carlo sat. With the bottle and the two requested glasses in his hands, Marco followed them, watching critically. One was richly dressed: tall, lean, long-legged, his hair close-cropped and curly, and his nose noticeably once-broken. The other was older: slight, more than a head shorter, dressed in salt-spattered seaman’s breeches and boots. He was dark and wiry, with tangled hair and a beard teased into several long, twine-thin plaits.

  The taller of the two newcomers called out, “Carlo!” and Signor della Rovere turned around.

  “Cicciano,” he said, nodding at the newcomer. “Glad you could make it. Do you want a drink?”

  “God, yes—and I’m sure here would too. He’s just brought me ashore from his ship in some accursed pisspot of a rowing boat. Not an experience I relished. Yes, I would certainly welcome a grappa.”

  Carlo smiled. “Signore,” he said to the little man with the Medusa plaits. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for some weeks. Michele here has told me much about you and your beautiful little ship—a sciabecco, is it not?—and the plans you both have for the next few months.”

  “And I have heard much about you, Sinjur,” said . His Maltese accent was lilting and lazy.

  “I understand from Michele,” Carlo said, “that he has had your ship refitted.”

  “Indeed, Sinjur. My little is looking as beautiful as she has ever done, I think.”

  “And in return he’s expecting a tenth of your pickings?”

  pecked a nod.

  Michele di Cicciano ran the fingers of both hands up and into his hair; he sat with elbows winged on each side of his head for a second, then laced his fingers together and cracked the knuckles. Smirking, he said, “The ‘pickings’ look set to be particularly fruitful since received his Letter of Marque.”

  Carlo turned to . “A Letter of Marque? From De Valette?”

  Both and Cicciano nodded. began curling the stringy braids beneath his chin around his index finger. Marco, standing in the shadows a few feet away, saw, with a shudder of revulsion, that the little man had only the first two fingers on that hand—the fourth and fifth were merely stumps.

  “It’s not just any Letter of Marque, either, Rovere,” Cicciano said, grinning. “As Governor of Malta, De Valette has assured that as well as all the privileges of becoming a ‘privateer,’ he and his men can keep anything they…er…‘acquire’ on a voyage. All of it. Every last scudo.”

  “All of it? But…that’s extraordinary.”

  “Mmm. Never heard of it before. Usually at least a quarter has to be handed over. But this—it’s all the delights of piracy, with a reprieve from hanging if you’re caught. Now, thanks to capture of a particularly troublesome…how shall I put it?…‘regular visitor’ from the Barbary Coast, De Valette has declared that our friend here has the right to keep everything he finds—so long as he ensures that he only sets his sights upon the enemies of Malta.”

  Carlo puffed out his surprise.

  “Which makes my tenth of whatever they find considerably more attractive,” Michele said cheerfully.

  Marco stepped out of the shadows. He thumped the bottle and glasses down on the table in front of the three men and turned away, torn between fascination with the discussion upon which he was eavesdropping, and irritation that his expectations for the end of the evening now seemed likely to be disappointed. He snatched up the coins that Carlo had thrown down onto the table and turned his back, moving away toward another table.

  “What’s the matter with the boy?” he heard Michele ask.

  Carlo spoke softly, but, little more than feet away, Marco could just hear his words. “I think he had…hopes for an interesting conclusion to the evening. I might just have to go and find him when we have finished. I shouldn’t wish to disappoint him. He has been so very attentive ever since I arrived.”

  Marco’s insides lurched. He took the grimy cloth from his shoulder and began to mop up some spilled ale. Then, bunching up his now sodden cloth and keeping his back to Carlo’s table, he edged into the shadows.

  Michele di Cicciano said, “Tell Rovere about the encounter with the Sforza, Salvatore.”

  curled his fingers up and through his plaits again. “It was as simple as picking a bunch of flowers, Sinjur,” he said.

  Carlo grinned.

  “The Sforza’s a carrack, as you’ll probably know, Sinjur,” went on. “Lovely ship—but none too easy to board. She carries awnings over her decks as a deterrent to uninvited guests—dirty great spars, close-laid like a roof.” He paused, amused. “Well, she usually carries awnings.”

  His two listeners waited.
>
  “Happened to hear she was traveling without them on this voyage. Seemed a good opportunity.” Another long pause while drained his glass, reached for the bottle, and refilled it. “Now, a heavy vessel like a carrack—such as the Sforza—draws deep, Sinjur. Needs nigh-on four fathoms.”

  Michele and Carlo both nodded.

  “And being square-rigged, she’s at something of a disadvantage sailing into the wind when compared to a lightweight little lateen-rigger like the . She can’t turn quickly, see, like we can. Can’t sail so close to the wind.”

  “Where did you find her?” Carlo asked.

  “Picked up the trail just outside Marsala, and then tracked her from there right down past the island of Pantelleria. She slowed when the wind turned to the east, about thirty miles off the island, but our rig suits windward sailing—so we kept the close in and caught up with the Sforza heading toward Tunisia. Drew up by her stern and boarded aft over the ’castle.”

  paused and refilled his glass again. He said softly, “It was quick. Not pretty perhaps, but quick, Sinjur. The benefits of the unexpected attack. With a sciabecco, we sail almost silent.”

  “The pickings?”

  smile broadened again. “Worth it. Well worth it.” He nodded toward Michele. “Your tenth would have pleased you well, I reckon, Sinjur.”

  “What was she carrying?” Carlo asked.

  “Gold, luckily, and a fair quantity of alum. One or two of the wealthier passengers had a number of…items…too, that we were pleased to dispose of for them.”

  “I’m sure you found good homes for it all.”

  “Of course, Sinjur—in the end. And De Valette none the wiser, as it happens on this occasion.”

  “Even better,” Michele said.

  “Just how often are the ‘pickings’ in the form of coin?” Carlo asked.

  “Sometimes. Not always. It’s as often stones, silks—other goods…”

  Carlo glanced around the room to ensure no one was listening to him. Picking at his fingernails, he said, “Might a ricettatore be of any help to you, Signore? Someone to get the…goods…translated into coinage for you? I understand from Michele that you might be in need…”

  “And might that ricettatore be yourself, Sinjur?”

  A flick of the eyebrows by way of assent.

  frowned down at the scarred stumps of his two missing fingers and ran his thumb slowly over the puckered flesh. Carlo gazed steadily at , and Michele tilted his chair back onto two legs, crooked one leg up, and rested the sole of his boot on the edge of the table.

  “He’s good, Salvatore,” Michele muttered. He let his chair fall back onto four legs with a bang. “As I told you. He will get good prices for whatever you throw at him. For anything.”

  watched Carlo without speaking for several long seconds, his gaze moving from one of Carlo’s eyes to the other, back and forth. One hand fingered the tiny plaits beneath his chin.

  “And what exactly would you be wanting to gain from this, Sinjur?” he said after a pause.

  “Another tenth.”

  “No.” shook his head. “Too much.”

  “A twelfth, then.”

  considered. “A twelfth of what is left after Cicciano takes his cut,” he said at last.

  Carlo frowned, but, after a pause, nodded once. “Very well.”

  Marco reappeared from his shadowed corner. “Would you care for more grappa, signori?” he said.

  Carlo smiled up at him. “Thank you—no.” Marco held his gaze for a moment, then turned to go, but Carlo caught his arm before he could leave. He felt Carlo’s thumb stroking his protruding wrist-bone for a second, then Carlo smiled and said, “I might perhaps see you before I leave.” Marco nodded, ran his tongue across his lip, and left, hoping that Carlo was watching his back.

  From a vantage point behind a protruding brick buttress, he saw Michele di Cicciano pick up one of the glasses and raise it to eye level. “Well, Salvatore…does the have a new crew member?”

  curled one of his plaits around his forefinger again, jutting his chin forward so that his crooked lower teeth overlapped the upper. He stared silently from Michele to Carlo and back for several seconds, and then his eyes crinkled into a smile, and he raised his glass to clink it against Michele’s. “Aye, Sinjur, I think that we do.”

  Carlo’s eyes glittered, and he joined in the toast.

  Behind his buttress, Marco fingered the bone of his wrist and watched the three men drain their glasses.

  Six

  As well as being “particular,” as Cristo said he would be, my little Spanish soldier has turned out to be a very secretive person. It’s strange, but he has consistently refused to come to my house in the Via San Tommaso, preferring, he says, to site our tumbles on that great gold-hung lettiera in his apartments in the Via dei Tribunali. Personally, I would have thought that if secrecy was such an overriding preoccupation, then sneaking out to my house would be much easier and safer for him than allowing me to visit him in his apartment. But he doesn’t seem to share my opinion.

  Each time I come here, it is always through that same servants’ entrance, though since that first day, it has almost always been Vasquez himself letting me in. If a servant ever opens the door, Vasquez appears within seconds and dismisses the servant instantly. I can only imagine that everyone is given strict instructions to keep away, for I never see anyone about; Vasquez has made sure that no one interrupts our hours together, so far, and he has always insisted that I bring none of my own people with me. In fact, since that day when I was bundled into his room by his servants, and turned by them into a gauze-wrapped gift, the palatial apartments at the Via dei Tribunali have apparently been completely deserted, apart from the two of us. We climb the stairs to his rooms together each time, entirely alone, our footsteps echoing in the emptiness. I always feel as if I should be whispering.

  ***

  This afternoon, some three weeks after our first encounter, I have another invitation to dine with Maestre Miguel Vasquez.

  We eat like royalty at every meeting, Vasquez and I, that’s one thing—so I suppose that, despite appearances, there must be servants somewhere in the building preparing the food. Although he is very slight and slim, Vasquez seems to derive almost as much pleasure from food as from fucking. He positively stuffs himself each time we sit down to a meal, whereas I frequently feel rather sick after consuming less than half the amount he does. It is always delicious, but it’s often far too rich: suckling pig glazed in honey, tiny liver and pork tomacelli, oysters, of course—often oysters—the finest pike and crayfish and numberless beautiful bowls of the most fragrant fruits. It’s always delicious, but I frequently struggle to finish what I’m given. Thinking about this, if our relationship is to continue, I shall have to start watching how much of it all I actually eat, or I’ll end by becoming horribly fat, and then no one will want to bed me at all, and my life as a courtesan will be at an end.

  “I’ll be back later to bring you home,” Modesto says as we arrive at Vasquez’s apartments. He regards me critically, then tucks a stray wisp of hair behind my ear, brushes something from my shoulder and runs a thumb gently along one cheekbone. As he usually does, Modesto has accompanied me from the Via San Tommaso, and he will collect me again later on. Although Vasquez does not care for my manservant to stay on the premises, he hasn’t objected so far to Modesto seeing me safely to and from the door.

  “Thank you, caro. I’ll pass on any interesting tidbits as soon as I see you, of course.”

  “Hmm.” Modesto sounds grumpy.

  “What’s the matter? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Well, it’s all very well, your regaling me with these scandalous nuggets of tittle-tattle that you pick up in all the various beds you inhabit, Signora—”

  I look sideways at him, and raise
an eyebrow.

  “—but you ought to write it down more regularly. You need to keep that book of yours up to date.”

  “I always do.”

  “Always?” Modesto looks skeptical. He glares at me for a second and then says, “Well. You make sure you do. It’s important—you never know when you might need to draw on that store of tasty little snippets.”

  “I promise, caro. Everything I tell you, I’ll write down as well.” I kiss his cheek as the door is opened by the servant who met me that first time. His name, I have discovered since, is Juan.

  To my surprise, rather than wearing his usual smile, Juan looks anxious—almost panicked, in fact. Before I can say a word, he has hustled me inside, nodded farewell to Modesto, and closed the door. “I so sorry, Señora,” he says. “I not know where he is. He not here since hours.”

  “Please don’t worry. I can wait. I’m sure he’ll be here as soon as he can. Shall I just go upstairs and wait for him there?”

  Juan accompanies me up to the big golden room. The evening light outside is as yellow as the damask hangings; it won’t be long till sunset, and the shadows are rapidly lengthening and deepening to a rich violet. I sit myself down in one of the chairs and watch Juan for a moment or two, as he riddles the fire and lights a few more candles, though some two or three dozen are already burning. Then he pours wine into a large glass goblet, holds out a hand toward it by way of inviting me to drink and, assuring me yet again that Vasquez must surely arrive soon, he backs out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  I am alone. As I was that first time. Though this time I have rather more freedom to move about, luckily. I pick up my wine and drink. It is sweet and heavy, and feels warm and thick around my teeth.