Mark Antonius deMontford
Page 11
“Then I will buy new clothes,” Mark said dryly, lifting his tankard of wine
“Mark Antonious in a tabarro. Yes, it suits you.” Francesco covered his laugh.
Rising up, Mark could stand no more abuse. Francesco stood quickly to apologize. It was as if Francesco had no idea these little jests of his would be quite so upsetting. “Wait ... Mark ... fermo! Stop!” That large hair-covered hand gripped Mark's elbow. Men turned to watch them.
The agony in Mark sought to overwhelm him. Eyes lowered, lip bitten and tight across his mouth, Mark's face felt rosy as the heat inside him made him an explosion of anger. A roar threatened to escape. One he would not be able to contain in another moment.
It seemed Francesco realized this in an instant. He tossed coins on the table and ushered Mark outside like the place was on fire. Pushing him out onto the wet streets, Francesco escorted him away from the prying eyes.
Mark felt the coolness of the air with some relief, but it wasn't nearly enough to calm him. And his frustration burst through him. Like thunder Mark shouted and growled, “What am I to do? What choice do I have? You act as if I chose this lot for myself! Should I have made the choice myself I would be at his side now. Speaking his language, wearing his clothing. I had no choice. I was cast as an outsider against my will. As an infant these things were decided for me. I want my father. I want us to love one another like fathers and sons do. You have no idea the hollow shell I am inside wondering who he is.” Mark breathed deeply. “Why was I rejected before anyone had a chance to know me? And you tease me. Like this is a game to me and not my whole life. You think I cannot guess how I will be received? Like a beggar? Like an enemy?” Mark held back his cry. “I must still try. And my hope that our common blood will unite us when all our other differences separate us is all I cling to. Can you understand now?”
Francesco knew all this. That was why he took Mark on this journey of foolishness. To find the answer. But the answer will be no. In no uncertain terms, Mark would be rejected. No matter how Francesco tried to warn him, Mark would have to experience this firsthand, no advice would he heed, no truth would he fathom.
Mark's chest was heaving, his ruffles moving with it under his jaw. Mark clenched both hands into his hair looking like a tragedian in a Greek play who had just stabbed his mother.
Men came and went past them, a glance was all Mark received for all the drama, and Francesco was glad, for he had not the will to fight at the moment. His heart was breaking.
“Catamito, please. I beg your forgiveness. Come inside. Let us go to our little room. Please.” He held out his hand. “Amor mio ... my lover...” Francesco purred when nothing else seemed to work.
* * * *
That night, in the privacy of their small chamber, they practiced the art of the stiletto. Handling the stunted blade as if he would use it to kill someone, in defense of course, frightened Mark a little. It was an assassin's tool. Cleverly concealed and only brought out for a quick mean thrust. “Why do I need to learn this? Why is this necessary? What are the people like in Italy that men need to kill one another this way?”
Francesco splashed his heated skin in a basin and let the questions roll off his broad back unanswered. He was obviously tired and yearned sleep.
Seeing his queries fall flat, ignored, Mark closed his mouth. When Francesco faced him Mark could see the exhaustion in him. “Why do you put up with me?” Mark whispered.
Francesco paused as if once again he had to shake Mark and stop him from those self-destructive comments. “Get some rest, Mark Antonious,” was all he said in the end.
With only his breeches to remove, Mark was naked and under the quilt quickly. He peeled it back for Francesco and waited as Francesco stripped off the rest of his attire. The bed creaked when he joined Mark in it. Both yearning for a long, restful sleep, Francesco lay on his back and closed his eyes. Mark doused the single candle and curled up against him in the darkness. A strong arm wrapped around Mark and drew him closer. Mark's eyes were wide though he could not see yet as his irises adjusted. “Do you love me?” Mark whispered.
Francesco hissed, “Yes.”
This settled him down. Mark was able to close his lids and rest.
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* * *
Chapter Ten
From Fontainebleau they rode again southeast to Burgundy. There they only stopped quickly for a meal and to find another coach to hire. The base of the Alps loomed and Mark could not get enough of staring at them and their snowcapped peaks. Grenoble passed them by and Italy was a breath away.
Mark thought when they finally crossed the border into Italy he would know. It wasn't until Turin that he realized they had arrived. It mattered to him. He wanted to feel the difference. They came down into a valley of fertile green pastures and a little village all with tiled red roofs appeared. It was then Mark knew he was no longer home. This looked nothing like England. Nothing. The buildings seemed carved out of the side of a mountain and lay in tiers, all crammed to one another with narrow lanes and in pastel tones of peach and lilac. The coach halted and Mark prepared to pay the driver whilst Francesco haggled over the price.
As the debate wore on, Mark searched the flat façades for a shingle or sign hanging outside the inn. The building they had stopped in front of appeared to be someone's home. After the fee for the ride was settled, Mark paused to allow Francesco to enter before him. What use was he without a tongue? Francesco took control here as he did everywhere. Though his dialect was different from those around them, Francesco was treated like he was a long lost son. They were given the best room and a meal that satisfied the deepest hunger. Their appetites sated, Francesco brought two bottles of wine up to the room and they sat with the shutters thrown wide to gaze at the expansive of view. The air was cooling, but Mark wanted to keep the shutters open longer. Though it was there before him, Mark could not believe the colors he witnessed with his own eyes. The brilliant green of the land topped by rust colored roof tiles and sandy beige buildings. Groves of olive trees made geometric lines up the hillsides like marching Roman soldiers. The air smelled of fall and some fragrance he could not identify, but reminded him of gardenia or rose. Up and down the hilly landscape, farmers herded their sheep and goats, white cottony clouds with legs rushing to and fro like swarms of bees.
The sun wore its way to the hilltops and as it dipped the air cooled further. Once the twilight chilled his skin, Mark thought about where he could purchase a cape. His light coat was not enough to keep him warm in the evenings any longer.
Without a thought, Mark tugged on the leather strap around his neck and revealed the pouch. Emptying it on the small table between them, he counted his reserve.
Francesco watched him, sipping the wine and topping Mark's glass with the rest. “You still are doing well, Catamito.” They counted at least twenty golden sovereigns among the shillings and francs now a part of his cache.
“Yes, it should get us there.”
Francesco smiled. “And back.” He finished his glass and opened the second bottle. “May I ask a question of you?”
Giving him his full attention, Mark replied, “You may ask. I won't guarantee I will answer.”
“Ah! So much mystery.” Francesco smiled sweetly.
“I already know. You want to understand why I have so much money and fine clothing, if—”
“Not if this upsets you.” Francesco held up his hand in a gesture to stop Mark.
“But I don't mind telling you. It is because I am a whore, like you.”
Francesco raised his eyebrows expressively. “A whore makes this kind of money?”
“If you bed the rich, you get rich.”
Without answering or acknowledging him, Francesco stared back out at the vanishing rays of the sun.
“Is it my turn to get an answer from you?” Mark began placing the coins back into the purse.
“A wise man once said, ‘You may ask. I won't guarantee I will answer'.”
Without hesitation Francesco said, “I was born in Padua.”
Mark shrugged. “I don't know anything about the geography of Italy.”
“It is near Venezia. Venice.”
“Oh!” Mark sat up. “Then you will want to visit your family.”
Studying the remainder of wine in his glass, Francesco appeared deep in thought. Mark assumed his musing was about his parents. Did he leave on bad terms? Did he want to try and see them?
“Never mind.” Mark lifted his wine and drank it almost to the bottom.
“We shall see, Catamito.”
“You can't be seen with an Englishman, I know.”
“It was an English lover who first lured me from my home.” Francesco tried to smile and failed miserably.
Sensing the pain this brought him, Mark felt awful. “Do they know?”
Again, without answering, Francesco stared at the blackening sky. Small glimmering lights began to sparkle in the village as fires were lit.
“I'll keep quiet now.” Mark raised the bottle and topped off both their glasses. “No, I have one more thing.”
Francesco rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Si, tesoro mio?” he said, almost as if it were in sarcasm.
Mark leaned over to whisper into his ear, “Will you make love to me tonight?”
A broad smile appeared. Pure white teeth and dark eyes. “Oh, si, yes, my beauty.” Francesco stood and reached out to him.
Like he had been asked to dance, Mark took his hand and rose to his feet. Before they commenced their horizontal ballet, they closed the shutters and undressed for bed. Mark was falling hard for his beautiful man. And he didn't mind a bit.
* * * *
Though they thought about pushing on farther, Verona was all they could reach for the time being. One more coach trip would end their journey.
When Mark exited the carriage at the Torre del Gardello, he raised up to his full height to take in the surroundings. It was dusk and once again growing cool. What he could see was a massive city complete with a forum and a huge marketplace. Ancient Rome's influence was everywhere.
When Mark spun around quickly for Francesco, he slammed into him accidentally. “I want to explore here.”
Unaffected by the bumping, Francesco stepped back as the carriage left them. He gave Mark a loving smile. “Anything you wish, Catamito.”
“Yes, please. One day. We can afford one day to walk the streets here.”
“Are you falling in love?”
Turning his face aside to hide his blush in the torchlight, Mark gave himself a private smile at his own thoughts.
Francesco followed him, patting his bottom discreetly.
As if his taste buds had finally awakened, Mark could not believe the flavor of the food. It was pungent and filled with the essence of garlic and olive oil. Tastes alien to his tongue, but like a blessing he was introduced to them and now knew what he had been missing. The eel and potato pies of his Aunt Katie seemed somehow brutish and uncouth in comparison. Mark sopped up the juices with some peasant bread that had made his mouth water on sight. It was hard and crusty yet with the inside of a cloud. Who needed a fork and knife? This was living!
Francesco seemed to be enjoying the expressions on Mark's face as Mark devoured his meal like he had been starving in a prison. At one point Francesco reached across the scarred wooden table and brushed a crumb from Mark's cheek. High on the strong red wine and feeling aroused from the sensual meal, Mark leaned over the sagging candle trying to reach Francesco's mouth with his own.
He heard that low, rumbling laughter and felt Francesco's admonishing gaze as Francesco threw him a kiss instead.
“What is in this food? I am so excited I cannot sit still.” Mark squirmed and rubbed his hand over himself under the table.
Francesco peered around into the dimness of the room slyly. He stood and gestured for Mark to follow.
Distracted to the point of madness, Mark asked him anxiously, “How much do I leave for the food?” Pausing to assist, Francesco seductively entered Mark's deep front pockets and brought out some coins. Slapping the handful on the table, Francesco winked as he walked away.
Mark's mouth watered at the sight of that bold, confident strut. He caught up to Francesco quickly as he ascended a narrow set of stairs to the second floor. The noise level dropped and small candles hanging on the walls lit their way. Mark could not resist touching Francesco's back as he moved, next his ass and legs. Allowing Mark to play without responding until they were alone, Francesco pushed open the door to their room and waited for Mark to enter. Immediately Mark began undressing until his eyes caught sight of the view outside the window. Drawn to it like a moth to fire, Mark leaned against the frame and sighed. The warmth of Francesco mixed with his own from behind. A kiss caressed Mark's neck under his long hair.
At a sense of contentment he had never felt before, Mark moaned softly and nuzzled back into Francesco. “You are so very lucky.”
Francesco's fingers continued to remove Mark's clothing. “Why is that, my treasure?”
“Look at this place. I am in awe.”
That deep laugh rumbled again. “But you have not yet seen Venezia ... or Rome.”
“I could explore this country for a lifetime, couldn't I?” Mark opened his arms as his coat rolled down his shoulders.
A deep purring sound came from Francesco as he turned Mark around gently. With deft fingers Francesco unraveled those ruffles, lace collar, and cuffs, to spread the blouse back and admire Mark's skin. First he inhaled him, next Francesco ran his tongue from his neck to his left nipple.
Shivering at the sensation, Mark closed his eyes and tilted his head to the side. Mark caressed Francesco's coarse, thick, black hair, digging his fingers through it. In his mind Mark was reciting, “Love you, love you, love you,” like a song.
With his teeth, Francesco teased that hard small nipple, working it ruthlessly until Mark's breathing deepened to a sprinter's pace.
A lifetime here with you, couldn't I? Stay with you? Forever? Mark groaned as the passion began to consume him. His lips opened as his desperate sounds slipped out beyond his grasp. A hand found its way down Mark's pelvis and into his breeches. Whilst Francesco's mouth sought to lick all of Mark's hairless chest and neck, he made his way to Mark's ear, and then his final destination, Mark's lips.
Delirium. Mark was on the verge of some higher plane. Maybe the wine had fueled this, or some magic potion in the garlic and olive oil. Whatever the cause, it was as if he were floating. He could not get enough of that tongue, the roughness of Francesco's jaw scratching him raw, that hand groping and squeezing him, making him rush with fire.
Spreading his legs and pushing his hips out, begging for more, Mark's mouth parting for a breath, his head falling back with its mane of hair full and wild, and his pulse like a marathon runner in the Alps’ thin air. As if the expression of bliss on Mark's face was more than Francesco could stand, like he was a beast, Francesco moaned, “I want to possess you, my angel.” Growling like a jungle cat, Francesco stripped Mark of everything that covered him and swung him up into his arms. Like Baron Abel had done before, he carried Mark to the bed and sought to smother himself in him, inhaling him, tasting him, all the while tearing at his own clothing to get them skin to skin.
“I need to see your beautiful face,” Francesco purred, taking him face up. Mark felt like a weightless puppet against all that strength and power. Mark released himself like he had not a care in the world. Closing his eyes, Mark softened and yielded to this driving force. Never before had it been so cataclysmic. He arched his back and drove his head into the pillows behind him. That hand, that enormous hand worked him, almost with a brutality Mark could not bear. It brought him to such exquisite heights Mark burst open. His own come hit the underside of his chin with a heat he thought might
burn him. Above him, that rich masculine grunting and throbbing overwhelmed him in its duration and intensity.
Nothing, nothing could describe it out loud. Nothing.
After the rush of fire, Francesco braced himself with both arms straddling Mark's hips. Francesco's head hung low as he gasped for the air to try to calm himself.
Mark couldn't move. Slowly he relaxed his back and neck allowing it settle back down on the mattress, not realizing he had elevated off of it from the mixture of pain and pleasure. With a lazy blink, Mark opened his eyes. In the flickering glow, Mark made out his lover's stillness as it seemed to pray over him and deep inside him.
When Mark tickled Francesco's forearm, Francesco raised his head with an effort. Meeting Mark's adoring smile, he returned it in kind. Slowly, he reached for the glistening drop under Mark's chin and scooped it up with his index finger. “Yes, this is why you have so much gold, my Catamito.” Francesco tasted his finger like it had been in custard cream.
At first Mark just blinked at him in amazement, beginning to laugh. Mark went hysterical with it suddenly, like a wonderful release had sprung forth. Francesco disconnected himself from him and lay over Mark to laugh with him. They tried to control their hilarity and soon were just spent, resting in each other's arms.
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* * *
Chapter Eleven
At first light they washed and dressed, arming themselves with the swords and concealed stilettos. After some wine and fruit, bread and cheese for breakfast, they strolled out into the light to see the sights and buy new, warmer clothing.
In the shops, Francesco had him clothed as a Venetian prince. They lightened those heavy pockets of a few golden sovereigns and splurged. Their shoes had high heels, their breeches buckled at the knee, the lace was the finest Mark had ever fingered, all covered by a fur-lined cloak. Francesco had purchased the loose fitting tabarro, shamefully concealing all the color and wealth underneath it.
With wicked grins on their faces, like they had just committed the perfect crime, they emerged new men. Mark loved the fact that now, at least until he opened his mouth, he could be mistaken for an Italian. Or on careful inspection would his delicate English features be scrutinized? Who knew?