by G. A. Hauser
* * * *
The contessa grabbed Francesco and they dove deep into another silent salon. Quickly in Italian, she communicated to him her thoughts. “You must stop him! This is madness!”
“Yes, I agree, but there is nothing I can do but protect Mark.”
“Do you want some bravos, in case things go terribly bad?”
Francesco considered the request and nodded. “But please, do not let him know, keep them in the shadows.”
“Of course. Get him out of Venezia as quickly as you can.”
Francesco could feel the frustration in her words as well as him own. “He will not budge until he has this meeting.”
“Then do it will all possible discretion. Do not allow anyone to overhear what you discuss with that Venetian noble if you even get close enough to speak with him. If he thinks someone has learned of the truth, he will kill Mark. As God is my witness, he will kill him.”
The contessa was trembling from the mere act of telling him this. Francesco knew the risks already.
The servant tried to alert them that Mark was looking for them. They ended the conversation quickly and hurried to meet with him.
* * * *
When Mark returned, he found them both the contessa and Francesco together, leaving another large room, he knew they had been discussing him. Instead of rage, Mark just felt exhausted.
The contessa approached Mark and reached for his hand. “Please, if you ever need assistance, come to me. I know many who can help you safely out of the country.”
With everything he had Mark tried not to glare at her. “I need no one's help, but I thank you for the offer.” He kissed her hand. “Your generosity has been unmatched. I hope my simple gratitude has been enough to thank you.”
“It has, Mark Antonious, it has. Go now, and please, be wise.”
Both men exited the villa quietly. Francesco walked a few paces behind Mark as Mark crossed the wide piazza to the front of San Marco. Dozens of Byzantine spires plunged into the cloudy sky. In the very center of the building stood a domed structure and everything seemed to revolve around it. Mark plodded up toward its double arched entranceway, which was surrounded by a colonnade of single arches, mirroring one another in procession.
With heaviness in him like he had never imagined before on that farm in Newbury, that lifetime ago, Mark climbed those gray steps. And if he thought the outside appearance of the holy place would obliterate him, the inside overloaded his senses.
The mosaics, the colored glass, the altar reaching high beyond the painted domed roof, and the candles. Hundreds of thousands of flickering mesmerizing lights. In a dream he wandered up the center aisle and moved to the platform where voices echoed like they were in hallowed halls.
It made St. Paul's seem like a vicarage.
Though he wasn't religious, Mark fell to his knees.
Francesco crossed himself and then brought his attention back to that kneeling figure with his head bowed, his hair so long it ran down his back to almost his elbows. The cloak surrounded him like a king's robe. And if he didn't know better, he would have thought this young man was one of the few. The lofty few men that were blessed and written into that Libro d'Oro, that Golden Book. He was Caeserni's son, have no doubt. And the many who were worshipping in that place must have thought the same. Mark's clothing was now Venetian and most certainly costly. But it was his looks, his grace, and bearing that made him regal. Francesco knew if Mark spoke with a perfect Venetian dialect, he would be mistaken constantly for someone of import. An ironic smile came across Francesco's face. Mark was one of import, after all. The son of one of the most powerful men in Venice. If Francesco had a year to prepare, he would have taught Mark the language. But even if he had, perhaps that Englishman's tongue would have eventually given him away. Wasn't this all useless?
* * * *
Mark finally woke out of his dream. A very old woman was next to him, asking him something. Mark's eyes widened in curiosity and he shook his head. He didn't understand. Reaching for his hand, the old woman kissed his knuckles.
With his lips parted in his surprise, Mark watched her move away from him. Standing beside him, Francesco petted Mark's hair softly, like he was savoring the silkiness, running it through his fingers. In Italian he said, “Come, Excellency.”
Aghast at the reference, Mark spun around when those words echoed through him. In an instant all eyes were upon him. Was Francesco testing it? Did he want to see the reaction? When Mark rose up, Francesco brushed his cape off like he was his servant.
Unwilling to move a vocal cord and reveal he was not Italian, Mark swallowed nervously at this charade. It seemed dangerous to play this game. The parishioners were all staring at him as he made his way back down that long aisle and out into the sunlight. When Mark could he twisted to Francesco and breathed, “Why did you call me that! Are you mad?”
“To see the effect.” Francesco dragged him across the piazza.
“Effect? What effect? To effectively get us killed?”
Shivering in anxiety, Mark swallowed back his fear to see a massive Gothic structure that was so packed with narrow columns he couldn't count the number. The stones were each carved with a textured surface, squares inside squares, until it was a dizzying spectacle, too much to understand in one viewing.
Holding his numb body by his elbow, Francesco led Mark to the side of a building so they could observe the comings and goings of the red robed councilors, the senate members in purple, and a host of others, all in white wigs and pinching snuff from jeweled boxes.
“Bloody hell...” Mark whispered under his breath. “Look at the bastards.”
Francesco covered his laugh at Mark's reaction. It was a spectacle unlike anything Mark had ever witnessed. Even more of a mass of color and pomp than the Queen's entourage.
“Would you know my father if he passed?” At the possibility, Mark's heart beat faster.
“Yesss...” Francesco hissed. “Even though I have seen him only once. I have seen him standing with the doge in San Marcos as mass was sung in the choir.”
“Tell me if he passes. I promise I will not approach him.”
Like a vise, Mark felt Francesco fingers clutch his arm. “If you approach him this way, he will perceive you as a threat and his bravos will cut your throat before you can even explain yourself.”
Unconsciously, Mark touched his own neck. “No. I will not make a step to him.”
Glancing around quickly, Francesco brought them to a café where they could view the steady promenading of robed patricians without looking conspicuous.
Seated with a glass of wine in his hand, Mark felt as if he were in a theatre. He sipped the deep purple burgundy and tried to study each face as it passed, scanning them to see if he would just know. Could you recognize your own parent without help? Was it something inborn, like a tiny chick to its hen? Hadn't he accomplished that with his mother's painted image?
“Are you all right?” Francesco asked. It was as if a danger signal had gone off in his head. “Did someone threaten you? Are you harmed?”
Francesco caught Mark's eyes as they darted quickly to something behind his shoulder. When Francesco turned to look Mark knew he had found the adoring gaze he was receiving. With a smile appearing on his lips, Francesco leaned to Mark and whispered, “You have an admirer.”
Mark cleared his throat and tipped the last drop of wine onto his tongue. “I know, she keeps staring at me.”
“She?” Francesco's smile broadened. “That is no woman, my beauty.”
“What ... what is it then?” Almost afraid to hear the explanation, Mark shivered, his eyes wide in his panic, waiting for the worst.
“That is one of our castrato.”
“What the devil is that?” Mark gulped in terror. He wanted more wine desperately, but every time he looked for the serving girl this person caught his eye.
Roughly, Francesco grabbed the material at Mark's shoulder to pull him closer to whisper. “A man who has
been gelded for his voice.”
Mark heard it, but it did not sink in. As the idea took hold, he paled.
Francesco leaned back to see Mark's expression. “Mark!” He mumbled something to himself in Italian and waved frantically for the serving girl. “More wine, quickly!” She nodded and raced off. Francesco kept shaking him. “What? It is nothing you need to be concerned about.” Francesco burst out laughing.
“Stop laughing at my expense. Francesco!”
The bottle was set out and the serving girl poured two full glasses. Francesco reached into Mark's pocket for some coins, handing it to her. He then resumed his laughing fit.
Mark crossed his arms over his chest, his bottom lip pouting.
With some effort, Francesco contained himself and raised his glass in a toast. “Welcome to Venezia!”
At the idea of his balls being cut off, Mark shivered in anxiety, lifting his glass to suck down the contents.
A moment later, Mark fell into a deep fantasy about being with a eunuch. How exotic that would be to touch something that was so feline and smooth, and yet had an organ to play with as well. It sent an erotic shiver over him. If he could, he would find one to strip naked and explore.
He was shaken out of his daze by Francesco, pointing a discreet finger.
Inhaling a sharp breath, Mark sat up quickly and tried to find the person Francesco had seen.
“There, you see that man? He is quite tall and wears a modest wig. He is surrounded by bravos. You see two with him, two behind him.”
“The man in the scarlet robes?”
“Si.”
Mark had a tremendous urge to stand up, to get a better look, but a wise hand held him back. His father seemed so distant, so unapproachable. This was impossible. How would he gain audience with a man so high of importance without telling him who he was?
“Father...” Mark breathed so only Francesco could hear.
“Yes, that is His Excellency, Marc Antinous Caeserni.”
Though the man was moving at a leisurely pace, unhurried, preoccupied, Mark thought it was too fast. The desire in him to leap to his feet and kneel before him, arms outstretched, shouting, “I am Mark Antonious! Your son!” was almost too much to bear. That was when his throat would be slashed.
“Francesco, help me. Think of something. A letter, perhaps. A note slipped to him secretly asking him to meet me somewhere alone. Would that work?”
Musing wistfully, Francesco drank his wine and sighed. “No, if you forewarn him, he will only send assassins to meet with you.”
“What if I didn't tell him who I was? What if I was some diplomat from England requesting audience with him?”
With his finger running along the lip of the glass, Francesco asked, “Why would an English diplomat be seeking audience with His Excellency?”
“I don't know ... for some trade, perhaps ... or ... as a good will gesture between countries.”
“Others would be assigned to that detail. I hate to keep repeating to you, it is of no use. You have seen him now, yes?”
Unwilling to give up, Mark lowered his face into his hands and tried to think. His head ached and he wanted to cry again. Why is it so complicated when in reality it is quite simple? I am a son who wants to speak to his father.
When Mark raised his head up, Francesco said, “You have the look of someone resolved for some brutal task. No. Whatever you are thinking, no.”
“I have nothing to lose. I must.” Mark muttered in a daze, “I threw myself on a carriage that held Queen Anne and lived to tell. I will throw myself at my father's feet and take my chances. If I am cut down, then that is the way it will be. Though the blades of the Royal Guard were at my skin, I lived. They stayed their weapons, Francesco.”
When Mark stood, Francesco gripped him as tightly as he could. “I beg it of you. Mark Antonious, I am madly in love with you and cannot allow you to march to your death.”
“Let me go.” Mark's gaze was beyond the piazza in the direction his father had gone.
“No!” Francesco rose up and gripped him in his iron fists. “NO!”
At first Mark just tried to tilt back from him. Even this he could not do. “Please!” Mark cried, “For the love of the Queen, please!”
Francesco's large arms wrapped around Mark and squeezed him so tightly he could not breathe. Mark witnessed some passersby give them a curious glance. The café occupants may have thought it mildly strange, though Mark knew two men embracing in Italy was not unusual for he had seen it again and again.
But the anguish was welling in him, that great, heaving wail. Why could he not go to his father?
Francesco practically lifted Mark off his feet to get him somewhere hidden to allow Mark the release without the spectators.
They stood between two buildings in a narrow alley that ended at the canal. It was so tight they almost had to stand sideways to not brush shoulders with the stones.
Francesco embraced him and rocked him as Mark's eyes filled as they stared into the green water. In a soft rhythmic verse, Mark repeated, “Why can't I see him ... Why can't I see him...” then it came out like a moan, low and filled with pain.
“Shh, my Catamito ... shh...” Francesco kissed his hair and tried to squeeze him so tightly they'd meld into one.
It quieted Mark's sobs. Mark rested against Francesco's chest, spent, his eyes closed and his body releasing the pain.
He was startled as Francesco set him back and rushed out of the alley.
* * * *
With little effort, Francesco caught up to the man in a black tabarro and grabbed him roughly. In his Venetian dialect he demanded to know who he was. He was greatly relieved to hear the man worked for the Contessa Masson and she had hired him and another to watch over Mark.
Suddenly Francesco remembered the conversation and brushed the man's cloak off, nodding his head. “Where is the other so I may know his face?”
The large man pointed across the alley. Yet another dark sinister male was there. They met eyes.
“Good. It is well.” Francesco bowed and hurried back to find Mark. When he turned into the alley, it was vacant. A cool panic fell on him. “No! No!!” Francesco's shoes slipped on the cobbles as he took off in the direction of the path Caeserni had taken. Up and down every narrow street he craned his neck, his heart rate had soared to pain.
* * * *
Mark was left standing there in confusion. When he made it to the edge of the structure and looked both ways, Francesco was gone. He struggled to think for a moment. Maybe he should just stand and wait.
In paranoia, Mark kept looking back over his shoulder. He just wanted one moment where he could find the house his father lived in. There were so many streets that ended in water it seemed impossible. Standing on a bridge that crossed one of the many canals, Mark craned his neck both ways, looking into gondolas. A glimmer of scarlet met his eye. He rushed down to the edge and waved for a gondolier to notice him. When one came to pick him up Mark stuffed a ducat into his hand and pointed to the boat holding that scarlet clad male.
The man nodded he understood and pushed off the ledge to catch up.
They were still a fair distance from the other boat. Mark had no idea if it was his father because so many robed males with white wigs wandered that place.
The scarlet robed man's boat stopped and two of the four very large, black-clad men stepped out to steady it. A hand reached for the tall, handsome, scarlet-covered noble and assisted him to climb out.
A moment later Mark made it to that same spot. He almost fell into the water he was so anxious to see if the man was his father. Scrambling as fast as his high heels would let him, Mark crouched behind the corner to peek around it.
Marc Antinous Caeserni entered his enormous palazzo and closed the massive doors behind him.
His son panted to catch his wind and stood straight. Walking to the front of it to get a good look at it, Mark nodded to himself. “I have found you now.”
Like the poundi
ng of a horse, he heard Francesco's heavy trod. When he was standing near Mark, Francesco gripped his shoulder and warned, “Do not run away like this again!”
“Why? Would you have allowed me to do this? I know where he lives now,” Mark accused angrily.
“And? So? You think you shall pay him a visit and sip some English tea?” Francesco could not hide his anger.
“Let me be!” Mark shrugged off his hands. “You torment me! Leave me!”
In complete frustration, Francesco replied, “Fine, Catamito, fine. You decide your own fate and the date of your death. Fine.”
“Yes! Precisely! Now you finally understand!” Mark shouted at him.
Francesco made like he would walk away in disgust. With his broad back expanding with a deep breath, Francesco closed his eyes in defeat.
Craning his neck, Mark stared at that enormous home. The windows were all arched and covered with leaded glass. It looked dark and mysterious, like the man himself. “Tomorrow I seek audience with you,” he whispered to himself. “Tomorrow I choose to die.”
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* * *
Chapter Thirteen
Their room faced the dome of San Marco. Mark would have preferred staring out to sea, or a canal, but this was the best they could do. He sat at the window for hours, his wine long consumed, his fingers toying with the empty glass. The sun had set and yet below people still rushed back and forth in the square.
* * * *
Trying to stay detached from this madness, Francesco was on the bed, leaning up on the headboard, staring at Mark. He was trying to deal with the coming loss. Go back to Padua, go see your family. What do you need this crazy Englishman for? He is a madman. You will be well rid of him.
Yet he stared at Mark's profile, trying to somehow imprint it on his mind so he could remember it when Mark was torn away from him. Mark had a face like so many statues left by the Romans. He was the likeness of the emperor Hadrian's Antinous; a young erotic boy who the smitten Roman had made into a god; one whose image had been carved in marble and adored.