by G. A. Hauser
And such a thick, long mane of hair. Without an effort Francesco knew the fragrance, the feel of its silkiness through his fingers. The taste of those lips. The color of those small nipples on that hairless chest. The shape of that penis, its length and scent. The weight of the testicles underneath. And those long, shapely legs. Francesco was in agony over him. He loved him so dearly if a hair was harmed on that beautiful man's head he would be in torment.
* * * *
Mark finally changed the direction of his gaze to the interior of the room. It was almost in blackness now. They needed to light a candle. One wall had a fresco on it. Some scene of a saint being martyred. His eyes gouged out.
There on the bed sat a deity. The powerfully built Zeus. And at that moment, it seemed Mark would be struck down by one of his lightning bolts.
“I am sorry,” Mark whispered, “I have dragged you along and into my mess. Please forgive me.”
Francesco gave the subtlest hint of a smile.
With an effort, Mark got to his feet and moved to the single candlestick. After lighting it, he turned very slowly again to that bed. With his own hands feeling foreign and slow, Mark released his sword to the stone floor.
Francesco's eyes never left Mark's as his skin was slowly revealed. When he was totally nude, Mark shook out his hair, making it fuller, more savage. With both hands, Mark gathered underneath his testicles and held that handful, raising it up, offering.
In a low, seductive purr, that wasn't anything more than a rumbling in his chest, Francesco beckoned him to come to him. That vision glided nearer. Francesco reached out with hungry fingers to it. “Come closer, Catamito...”
Mark crawled across the covers to him on his hands and knees.
Tenderly, Francesco took Mark's face in both his palms and pressed his lips over Mark's. Rolling over, he pinned Mark under him.
On contact, Mark's skin was set on fire. Francesco cradled Mark against his clothed body. The hilt of a sword pressed into Mark, the secreted stiletto, a hardness against his stomach. How he loved Francesco's mouth, the way it kissed him and appeared to spin him in circles as his tongue displayed its dexterity and seemed to be teasingly showing him what it could do elsewhere.
Like this was the last time he would feel these sensations, Mark cherished them, loving the roughness, the coarseness of that clothing pressed against him. How this man, armed and powerful had him helpless.
Sending forth an animalistic growl Francesco flipped Mark over to his stomach and knelt up to release himself from his breeches.
All Francesco's pent up emotions emerged in brutality. He was furious with Mark and the recklessness in which he played games. So he took Mark as if he was Francesco's to claim, beyond all else, Mark was his to devour.
With a gasp, Mark clenched his eyes and arched his back as the assault began. Yes! Give me this! Give me this pain and pleasure, and show me right now I am alive! Mark lay beneath him. Trapped and unsatisfied. He cared not. He cared not.
When Francesco came it burst out of him and into Mark like molten bronze. Finally Francesco seemed to find the strength to lift up off of Mark. He collapsed to the side of him and stared at the back of his head.
Once again those heaving sobs wracked that fragile soul.
“Oh, Catamito ... shh ... no...” Francesco struggled to bring Mark near so he could embrace him. When Mark leaned up and reached out his arms for him, Francesco wrapped him up and rocked him. “You do not have to do this.... please ... you do not have to do this...”
Through his tears, Mark cried, “But I do!”
* * * *
At first light the next morning, with Francesco in the shadows, Mark raised his hand and knocked on that imposing door. A very long time passed. He knocked again, louder.
It opened and a servant peered out into the sunlight.
“Do you understand English?” Mark asked.
The man only tilted his head in confusion.
“Please. I must see His Excellency.”
Almost magically, Francesco appeared just when Mark could tell he was getting nowhere.
Mark listened but could not grasp any of the conversation.
The servant's face expressed his surprise. He bowed and closed the door.
Mark twisted to Francesco. “What did you tell him?”
“That you were from London and looked to meet His Excellency because he is known as a legend in your land.”
“Brilliant! You are brilliant! Appeal to his vanity. Yes. Don't worry.” Mark patted him. “Just leave it to me, please.”
The door opened and the servant bowed. Mark was stunned they were allowed entry. They made their way into the cavernous palazzo. It was so filled with extravagant riches Mark could hardly absorb the details. The interior was lit with hundreds of tapers, making it almost as bright as the outdoor sun.
Another door was opened to an enormous salon. In this room the morning light shone brightly through a massive cut glass window with an arch at the top. A fireplace took over one wall and was lit to warm the huge space. An elongated table stood in the center with many chairs to accompany it. The walls were hung with portraits. One that had a place of honor was of the man himself, dressed in his scarlet robes.
Mark was drawn to it and could see a vague likeness to himself. He'd obviously inherited his light eyes and skin texture from his mother, but his facial features were identical to his father, along with his height and body shape.
Two large men came into the room first. His Excellency's bodyguards. They questioned Mark, and then, when Mark could not understand them, they conversed with Francesco. They approached Mark first and removed his sword, then made no attempt to be polite about searching him. While he was violated in a hundred ways, his stiletto was discovered and removed.
Francesco gave them his weapons and then raised his hands so they could see he was now unarmed. After he was searched they were told to wait.
Mark wished he had a glass of wine. This was all unnerving him horribly.
When the salon doors reopened, a man entered. He exuded so much power, Mark felt as if a ripple of heat touched his face. He was very tall and slender. The white wig fit perfectly on his head and sloped back from his forehead. He was clean-shaven, but still showed that sign of a very heavy shadow. Mark estimated his age to be about forty-five.
Those dark eyes inspected him with so much suspicion and resentment, Mark wanted to back away. Bowing to the ground instinctively, Mark whispered, “Excellency.”
Marc Antinous studied Mark's actions, then they met with Francesco for an explanation.
Now it seemed the event was on Francesco's shoulders. When Francesco began to talk, Mark raised his head and moved to stand near him to try and be the one who explained. “Wait ... you just translate for me, please. Promise me you will tell him what I say, verbatim.”
In anticipation, Francesco moved his stare from the very impatient Marc Antinous to his lover. “Yes, all right. Tell me then.”
“First tell him my name.” Mark nodded in his father's direction.
Francesco waved his hand as if he was introducing him. Mark wanted to see if that alone did anything. It did nothing.
“Now, please, repeat what I tell you.”
Obediently, Francesco nodded. Mark wanted him to appear simply as an interpreter and not an accomplice. Gathering his strength, Mark faced his father and began to talk, as he did, Francesco kept up with it and it sounded like an echo.
“Please, forgive me for intruding on your life like this,” Mark said, “I come to you completely awed and humble. By allowing me to meet with you, shows me you are a man of great moral character and kindness.” He waited for Francesco to catch up, returning his gaze to the expressionless Marc Antinous.
“I come here not to ask you for a thing. You can see I am a very young man. Only nineteen.” Mark opened his arms as if to reveal himself for the first time. “But I came on this long journey from my home in England to give you something.”
Instantly, Mark could tell the suspicion had turned to curiosity, though not in an enthusiastic way.
As Mark approached this man, his father, he gazed directly into his face. “Your Excellency, look at me. I am nothing. I am a servant to your power. But this one gift I would like you to have.”
Marc Antinous glanced at Francesco briefly, then back at Mark. The man had not said a word, politely waiting his turn.
Lowering to his knees slowly, Mark reached for his father's hand. The touch sent a charge through him as he squeezed it and kissed it. Mark raised his eyes to him. “I give you love. So much love I cannot contain it.”
This confused the man. He asked Francesco something in Italian.
Patiently, Mark waited for Francesco's translation, which included an English warning of his own. “He asks why you feel this love. Please be careful in your reply.”
Mark disregarded it, he had come this far already.
Still kneeling, Mark would not release his hand. “My mother sang for the Italian opera in London.” He inhaled a deep breath. “You may know her as ... ‘Maria'.”
Something registered in that stern face and it was not joy. It hardened.
As a sickening feeling grew in Mark, he noticed Francesco flinch when he translated it. Knowing he had nothing to lose now, Mark went for broke. “I ... I am her son, though I have never known her. I was given away to my uncle and aunt as an infant. It is only now that I have learned who my real parents are.”
Mark waited as he watched his translated words working into fury on Marc Antinous’ face.
“I ... I have learned, to the pleasure of my heart, that you are ... my father.”
It was as if the great man had been told of a death.
Though it jerked back to get free of his touch, Mark would not release that hand. “I want nothing from you!” Mark shouted, “It is just that I needed you to know who I am. To tell you I love you.”
Becoming more frantic, Francesco tried to keep up with him, his voice straining as Mark's did, with emotion.
“Please! Look at me! Look down upon your son and at least give me the same kindness you would a stranger. I will leave and you will never set eyes on me again. But for the love of God, look at me.”
Francesco's voice broke with his tears. He covered his mouth to stop those words that were not his.
Devastated by his father's expression, Mark thought it was through. He was about to get slapped, struck down. Those men, those bravos, they would be called to drag him out to the Ponte di Sospiri with the other prisoners.
Clamped on for dear life, Mark would not release his father's hand. Boldly, he brought it to his own face and caressed it to his cheek. “Father ... Father...” he whispered softly to himself.
In the same sad whisper, they were repeated in Italian for His Excellency to understand, though Francesco was crying.
So much rage rose up in his father Mark knew it was finished. The hand was withdrawn and the voice was like a whip.
Francesco tried to translate for Mark through his tears. He said, “You dare to come to me like this, like a beggar! You dare to make these accusations that I have committed some adulterous act with some foreign singer? Who do you think you are to come into my home and accuse me of this?”
Instinctively, Mark's first reaction was to cover his face. He fought that urge and stood up, nose to nose with the great Marc Antinous Caeserni. With the rivers of tears running down his cheeks, Mark listened as his lover translated the most excruciating words he thought he could ever hear. Unloved? Despised?
“Forgive me, Excellency.” Mark bowed, meeting his father's eyes once more. “It must have been my mistake. Maybe I had just hoped it were true because I am named after you. It is just my foolish pride.”
With the backs of his hands, Francesco wiped at his face as he spoke Mark's words. It was obvious he was trying very hard to control himself.
Suddenly, without warning, Marc Antinous moved across the dusty stone floor to confront Francesco.
Mark panicked. He had no idea what was said, but it was most certainly accusatory. He could well imagine the questions, Why had a Venetian brought this foreigner to his very door? Why was he moved by these lies? Where were his loyalties?
Placing himself between his father and his lover, Mark tried to shield him. “Tell him you are merely an interpreter! Tell him I am paying you!”
* * * *
But Francesco did not tell him this. Instead, in a soft voice he said, “Your Excellency, if you could only know the depth of love in this boy. He would travel to the ends of the earth for the love of a father. A heart such as this I have never encountered. You mean the sun and moon to him. He knew he risked death by seeking you out. He was willing to die today for the chance that you would show him some kindness. I tell you with all respect and honor, this boy will die willingly. Everyone warned him of your wrath, and still against all odds he came to your door. He will leave you and never return, Your Excellency. I beg of you, please, punish him no further. This rejection will already be the death of his heart.”
* * * *
Mark was frantic. “No! Kill me! Let him go!”
Marc Antinous grew quiet after Francesco repeated Mark's words.
Mark swallowed audibly. “What is he doing, Francesco?”
“He ponders things, my love.”
“Ask him when he will kill me.” Mark never took his eyes off his father.
Francesco repeated it.
This question seemed to wake the man out of his dream. He approached Mark and cupped his jaw. “Though I will never acknowledge you as a son, for this is forbidden and criminal, you will not be killed, Mark Antonious deMontford as long as you do not repeat your impulsive thoughts to a soul.”
Mark waited for Francesco to translate it, never moving his eyes from those dark ones attached to his own. Mark nodded, he understood.
With his face held still, Mark received a kiss on each cheek. In his astonishment, Mark wrapped around that robe-covered form and hugged him tight, crying as he did.
At first Marc Antinous raised his arms in an instinct reaction. Slowly he wrapped around Mark and held him.
“I love you, Father,” Mark hiccupped as he wept. “Thank you ... thank you.”
Francesco could not repeat it right away as he wiped at his eyes. Finally he did.
Marc Antinous caressed Mark's hair and actually smiled down at him. “I would ask you to stay, but I'm afraid there are many reasons I cannot.”
Francesco told Mark what he had said.
Mark nodded and set back from him, averting his gaze. “Yes, yes of course.”
Marc Antinous looked over at Francesco and spoke with a slight smile on his lips.
Mark turned from one to the other as they spoke. Both gave him adoring smiles.
In a calm voice, Francesco translated a warning for Mark, that what they said here was not to be repeated.
Mark twisted back to his father. “No. Of course. I understand. No one will know.”
Nodding, Marc Antinous left them for a moment.
Moving across the room Mark stood by Francesco and asked him, “What is happening?”
Francesco just shrugged.
A moment later His Excellency returned. With loving kindness, he handed Mark a small oval portrait. It was painted enamel. It was a picture of his father. The water ran down Mark's cheeks again. He whispered, “Grazie, Papa.”
That brought a smile to his father's mouth. He kissed Mark and handed him yet another gift. A purse of gold coins.
Mark was about to refuse when he found Francesco's admonishing eye. Instead he kissed his father's hand and stared at him with all the love he had in his heart.
“Francesco, how do you say ‘I love you'?”
“Ti amo.”
Mark turned to his father and whispered, “Ti amo, Papa.”
* * * *
Floating on feathered feet, Mark met the sun and the cobblestones outside the palazzo. He would have n
ever guessed it would turn out this way. His heart bursting with delight, he wanted to tell someone, but obviously, he could not. They were both sworn to secrecy.
“Catamito! You see. Your journey ends well.”
Mark spun around, an impish smile on his lips. “Like you predicted?”
“Ah! No. But with you nothing is predictable. Come! We both need some vino."
Jubilantly, they hooked arms and strode the piazza to a café. Mark was glowing in triumph. All right, he could not move in and claim the man as his own, but this wasn't bad! Gently, he removed the little portrait from his pocket and smiled.
“You seem pleased.” Francesco poured them both a glass from the bottle that had been set before them.
“What did you say to soften him up?” As if it were a religious relic, Mark tucked the portrait back into his pocket.
“Me? Oh, it was not me, Catamito. Surely it was that face of an angel.”
Shyly, Mark chuckled and raised his glass. “To you. A toast to my hero.”
Francesco tapped their glasses. “Yes, to my hero, Mark Antonious deMontford.”
They treated themselves to a seven-course meal, and with it four bottles of wine. It was as if they had been sentenced to death, then released unexpectedly.
Mark was completely drunk and very full. “I want to do one last thing whilst I am in this city.”
Francesco picked at his plate with sticky fingers. “And what is that, my lovely treasure?”
Peering around first, leaning over the table, Mark whispered, “I want to go with one of those eunuchs.”
Francesco sprayed out what was in his mouth.
Making sure no one was staring at them, Mark dragged Francesco back over the table by the scruff of his shirt. “I mean it!”
Pushing his hand aside, Francesco grabbed his wine and drank it so fast he started to choke on it.
Impatiently, Mark rolled his eyes and tapped his foot. “I want to find one. Where do they all go?”
With his eyes wide, Francesco wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I cannot believe this is something you wish.”
The blush rose in Mark's cheeks. “But they are so intriguing. It is like nothing I have ever even heard of.”