Mark Antonius deMontford

by G. A. Hauser

  “Wait.” Mark held Francesco's arm. He reached into his suede pouch and took out two gold ducats. “Give them this. Tell them it is a gift for their hospitality.” By the look of the house, Mark could tell they were poor and any money would be appreciated.

  Wrapping his large hand around it, Francesco took the coins and marched up to the front door defiantly. He banged on it and then tried the handle, vanishing into the interior.

  His hands idle, touching his sword, then in his pockets, Mark waited outside. After the reception Francesco's brother had given him, Mark thought Francesco might need time to explain. Mark tried not to catch the many staring eyes of the neighbors. He figured everyone there knew an Englishman had drawn Francesco away from home in the first place. Perhaps this was why he was a disgrace to his family.

  * * * *

  It seemed too dark in the interior to Francesco until his eyes used themselves to it. His mother was cooking over the stove. “Mama...” he whispered.

  She spun around at the sound and her eyes widened. Instinctively, she opened her arms for an embrace and Francesco lifted her off her feet.

  “Oh, my child, I thought we would never set eyes on you again. You grew tired of this English-crook and you came home. Yes? I am so pleased to see you. Where is Papa? Go see Papa...” She gestured to the back of the house.

  “Mama ... I have a friend with me,” he whispered softly.

  Warily, she gave him her attention again.

  “He too is an Englishman ... but not the same as the first. A very sweet young man.”

  Her expression changed drastically. “Why you do this again? Why are Italians not good enough, eh? Why do you go to a foreigner? It is bad enough you don't like the women! You could at least pick one of the lovely males from home! Our own boys are so marvelous. But no! You don't even look at them! They are not good enough for you. You pick a nice Italian boy, maybe then we can forgive you. No! You again pick a vile foreigner!”

  “Mama ... please ... you don't know him. He is not vile. He is lovely,” Francesco pleaded, speaking softly to her furious shouts.

  In rage, she smacked him with her wooden spoon, one she was still gripping, hitting him over and over again.

  He put up his hands to fend off the attack. “At least give him a chance. Please. He is half Italian. Please, Mama, don't send us away. Just look at him. At least look at him. He is the son of Marc Antinous Caeserni,” he blurted it out before he could stop himself.

  That jolted her, she squinted her eyes suspiciously at him. “Why do you lie? You always lie to protect your English-crooks!”

  “I do not lie, Mama. Here, he gives you a gift.” He placed the two golden ducats on the table. “He is a fine man, Mama, covered in Venetian lace. He carries a portrait of his father in his pocket. Given to him by His Excellency himself.”

  First she peered down at the gold, then back at her son. “You speak abomination. His Excellency has no bastard son from England.”

  “Meet him. See him for yourself. He is as graceful as a king. He does not speak Italian, forgive him, Mama.” Francesco had his hands together as he begged her.

  She took a peek out of the window. “He looks like a eunuch,” she sneered in disgust.

  “No, he is just young. Only nineteen. A bambino. Yet, look how sweet his face is. Look at him. He is the son of His Excellency. Look and you shall see it.”

  * * * *

  Even through the thick wooden door, Mark could hear their voices. More shouting. He glanced around the neighborhood. It was jammed with tiny homesteads, laundry hung in the breezy air, the smell of various cooking surrounded him. Eyes spied out of shuttered windows. Goats and chickens wandered in muddy fenced enclosures.

  After what seemed like hours, Mark heard Francesco calling his name. Taking a deep breath, Mark entered the small home, ducking his head under the doorframe, standing to his full height inside. A short, round woman was there, her hair peppered with gray, tied back from her face. The evil eye he endured from her intimidated him completely. She had an apron wrapped around her plump waist and wielded a wooden spoon in her hand like a weapon. Mark bowed to her and tried to smile kindly, wondering when she would smack him with that thing.

  As Francesco continued to speak in Italian to her, Mark knew she was getting the hard sell. He kept his mouth shut, knowing his language may anger her even further.

  Reluctantly she met Mark's eyes. When she did he smiled at her as affectionately as he could. She was the mother of his lover, after all.

  “Show her the portrait you have,” Francesco told him, reaching out greedily for it.

  “What?” Mark was stunned. That was supposed to be a secret!

  “Show her!” he demanded.

  With trembling fingers, Mark dug through his pocket. He produced the portrait and handed it to her.

  She didn't reach for it, only leaned over to look at it. When she realized it was indeed a portrait of Marc Antinous her anger calmed.

  She mumbled something incoherent to Mark's ears. His lover quickly countered back, pointing to the portrait.

  Mark didn't know what was going on, but it frightened him. This was even more dangerous of a game than the one he played in Venice. No one was to know who he was. And even though Francesco was trying to use it to gain acceptance for him, it may backfire. If so, they would be hunted down.

  “Mama,” Francesco stood behind her now and held her by the upper arms, leaning down to whisper into her tiny seashell ear while staring at Mark with wild eyes.

  When she reached out her hand to Mark he took it, bowing low, and kissed it.

  Francesco sighed with relief then yelled at her, pointing to the back of the house. The only thing Mark could catch was the word “Papa".

  Flustered by the order, she nodded to Francesco and hurried out.

  When she was gone Mark asked in a muted tone, “What are you doing? This can't get out! You know what my father will do if he finds out we told someone?”

  “It will not get out. It was the only way I could get her to calm down and not behave like an animal and throw us both out. I am sick of their judgment of me. Sick of being the target of their scorn.”

  “But at what expense?” Mark panicked.

  They stopped talking when a man entered the room.

  “Papa...” Francesco reached for an embrace. When he only received a stiff hug, Francesco released him.

  With a face cut from granite, Franco Cavella took a long, punishing look at Mark. He approached him from across the room and grabbed his wrist, turning it to see the portrait he still grasped. He and Francesco exchanged heated words.

  Stepping back to study Mark's clothing, Franco seemed to investigate the fine fabrics and lace reserved for the wealthy, then the jewel encrusted swords. Next he raised his eyes to Mark's.

  Nervous as a cow sent to slaughter, Mark tried to be tough under the inspection. This was a mistake. No one was to know any of this. This would not end well.

  Finally, Franco reached out his hand. “Benvenuto a casa mia,” he said to Mark.

  Mark bowed to him and shook his hand. “Grazie,” he answered.

  * * * *

  They were served a meal and Francesco caught up on what he had missed whilst he was away. Mark stayed silent. He didn't ask Francesco to repeat a thing. A dread was growing in him. He felt a need to get away.

  For all Mark knew, Francesco was building him up to the status of a prince. Francesco was so determined to get approval he couldn't help himself. Mark knew he was tired of being ostracized, being the victim of racism by his own parents simply because they hated anything foreign.

  In acute paranoia, Mark peered behind his back at every sound. He imagined the authorities coming for him. He could hardly eat, though the food was divine.

  When Mark could he grabbed Francesco and dragged him close to whisper, “We are not safe here. I think we need to leave.”

  “Why? This is the house of my family.”

  Mark took a peek over
his head to the other rooms. “No. It is not safe now. Listen to me. You have revealed something you should never have revealed.”

  “They will tell no one.”

  Mark couldn't be sure.

  After sitting by the fire and catching up, Francesco kissed his mother on the cheek, and he and Mark retired to a bedchamber. Mark wondered if sleeping together was yet another impropriety, but he could not get Francesco to budge.

  With a sickening dread that filled his stomach like acid, Mark lay in that tiny bed, awake, as Francesco slept deeply next to him.

  * * * *

  When morning light came and shined into the windows of their room it woke Mark up. Forgetting where he was for the moment, he stretched and felt the presence of Francesco in the bed with him.

  Somewhere in the house Mark heard the rumble of male voices. It sent an alarm rushing through him. Tossing off the covers, he stood and leaned out of the front window, pushing back the shutters. An ominous black carriage was parked out front. Inhaling in a gasp, Mark panicked, and grabbed at his clothing, trying to dress as he shouted to Francesco, “Wake up!” Shaking like a leaf, Mark strapped on his sword as his lover began to stir in his bed.

  “There is a carriage!” Mark pointed. “We are in trouble!”

  Hearing that sentence, Francesco jumped up and pulled on his breeches. “You wait!” He gestured, raising his index finger, leaving the room.

  Hands cold and clammy, Mark placed his stiletto in his shirt and the two swords were now on his waist. Sliding on his cloak, he listened. Shouting had begun. He recognized Guido's voice. Now he was sure there was a problem. Mark leaned out of the window to peer at the carriage

  * * * *

  Coming down the steps, Francesco stopped short when he came face to face with Guido conversing with two heavy-set bravos. One more was at the entrance of the home. When he met his brother's eye Francesco shouted, “What are you doing?”

  Very full of himself, Guido smirked and nodded to the men. “Where is your Venetian half breed? These men want to meet him.”

  “Get out of my mother's house!” Francesco warned the men.

  The two came forward quickly to him and pressed him against a wall. “Where is the Englishman?”

  “He is not here. Why have you come? What lies has my brother told you?” Francesco tried to get out of their grip.

  Enjoying the power, Guido laughed behind them. “I did not tell the lies, big brother. But we see clearly who has. Go and get the son of Marc Antinous Caeserni! Surely his power will save you.”

  “NO!” Francesco started to struggle with them. “Get out of my house!”

  Guido shouted over the noise, “He is upstairs! No doubt in my brother's bed.”

  * * * *

  As Mark thought about climbing out of the window, two large men in black tabarros came into the room.

  “Oh, bloody hell!” Mark ducked out of the window opening, jumping down to the courtyard. As he got to his feet, he turned to look into the house. Francesco was shouting at him to run as he struggled to get through the open front door to Mark.

  Reluctant to leave him, Mark hesitated. When the sight of Francesco fighting one of the caped men reached his eyes, Mark took a step closer. When that man attempted to cut Francesco's throat Mark gasped and froze, screaming, “No!”

  Francesco shouted, “Run, amor mio!”

  His insides in turmoil, Mark spun around in confusion. How could he leave Francesco to fight alone? One of the dark cape-covered men stalked him. Drawing his long sword, Mark stood his ground. He kept trying to see inside the house. How could he leave without Francesco? What he had seen, the knife trying to cut Francesco's throat, it had to be an illusion!

  Mark and the black caped man squared off in the courtyard. As Mark stepped carefully around him, Mark did indeed get a better look inside. His lover had vanished from his sight and Francesco's mother was crying. Suddenly three men were approaching Mark menacingly.

  “No! Francesco!” Mark shouted trying to see if he was hurt. In rage, Mark dove for one of the men, confronting him, trying to impale him with his sword.

  With tears stinging his eyes, Mark fought that approaching long blade, trying to remember everything Francesco had taught him. He ground his teeth and lunged forward recklessly, stabbing the man in the chest.

  As Mark drew out his blade, he watched in astonishment as the man collapsed. Another first. The first time he had killed a man. The two others approached quickly. As if frozen, Mark was still mesmerized by the sight of blood on the long sword. Finally finding his wits, he fought for his life. Tears blurred his eyes as he tried to hold onto hope that his lover was still alive. Mark lunged at another dark figure, stabbing him in the ribs with his long reach. Withdrawing his blade quickly, he faced the last one, determined to die trying to get back to Francesco.

  Two large, dark shadows emerged from behind him. When they approached Mark, they drew their weapons.

  Terrified at being overwhelmed, Mark's head was spinning. The two men he had stabbed were down on the ground bleeding.

  Mark had no idea who these other men were who came to his aid. But they did. As one fended off the last attacker, the other grabbed Mark, shouting at him.

  Mark felt the man trying to drag him away from the danger, but Mark couldn't leave not without knowing if his lover lived or died.

  When there was a slight lull to the battle, the second bravo grabbed Mark into his arms, running away with him over Mark's protest. “No! Let me go! Francesco! Francesco!”

  As the trail grew silent behind them, they had appeared to outrun the murderous men. The two big bravos kept moving, holding Mark tight until they were far away from Francesco's home.

  When they finally set Mark down on his feet, they panted to catch their breath. They must have been attempting to tell him to go back to England, to go home, because Mark kept hearing Inghilterra over and over again.

  Shaking his head, pointing back in the direction they had come, Mark cried, “No! No! Francesco!” He didn't know how else to explain he could not leave without him.

  The men exchanged sad looks. Wiping his tears, Mark listened to the soft conversation between them. Then as if they were trying to tell him something very important, one of the men said slowly, “Francesco, no. No wait.”

  “Why?” Mark dreaded they had seen his lover dead. “I can't leave him.”

  One of the bravos flagged down a carriage. As he explained to the driver where to go, Mark dug in his heels. “Please, I have to go back for him. Help me. Help me save him. I love him. I cannot live without him. You don't understand!”

  Forcefully Mark was lifted and literally stuffed into the carriage against his will. With the bloody sword still in his grasp, the carriage lurched forward. Leaning out of the window, Mark watched the two men shake their heads sadly. What did that mean? What did they mean Francesco no? It couldn't mean what he thought it did. It couldn't.

  * * * *

  By nightfall he was on the border of Venice once more. Mark recognized a landmark as he passed in the carriage. A sculpture with enormous horses spouting water.

  He wanted to find the Villa Masson, but could not remember where it was and dreaded asking. In his heightened state of paranoia, he feared opening his mouth. What if the whole country had been alerted to search for the Englishman? The driver stopped. Mark peered out nervously. What was this man told? Stepping out, blood still caked on his hand and sword, Mark looked up at the man, receiving no eye contact whatsoever, and was quickly deserted.

  Trying to get his bearings, a familiar café came into view, the one were all the singers met. Mark looked behind him. No one was in sight. After dabbing a piece of his sleeve in the running water near a fountain, Mark leaned against a wall and wiped his bloody hands clean. The damp smell of the canal repulsed him. The sweat from his nerves and the muggy air ran down his temples. The blood dried to a caking brown color on his sword. After several tries he finally was able to get it back into its scabbard
. His hands were trembling so severely he could not control them.

  Francesco. What he had seen, could that really have happened? Did he get his throat cut? Are these people so ruthless that they would kill an innocent man in cold blood? For what? For saying the wonderful Marc Antinous had a son? What kind of place is this? A place where one's own family members can turn you in? Such treachery! Such hatred!

  Still it had not hit him. He wasn't allowing that reality in. No, not yet. Now he was lost. Lost in a land where he could not communicate. And instead of wanting to explore, he just wanted to get home. Now.

  “Mark Antonious?”

  He grabbed his stiletto and aimed it, glaring in hatred.

  Alessandro stepped back in alarm.

  It took a moment for Mark to be able to really see him. When Mark did the relief he felt was enormous as he struggled once again to put the blade back in its place. With both hands outstretched, Mark reached for him and fell against him in an embrace.

  Alessandro petted his soft hair and rocked him. He posed several questions to him in Italian. But Mark could not answer them.

  When Mark finally raised his head he spoke very slowly. “England.”

  Alessandro nodded. “Inghilterra, si.”

  “Yes! Get me to Inghilterra!” Mark didn't know if he was really understood, or whether his words were merely being acknowledged for the sound.

  "Si, capisco. Inghilterra.” Alessandro appeared he did understand.

  Finding him a seat in the café, Alessandro poured him a glass of wine. With trembling fingers, Mark guzzled it thirstily and tried not to meet anyone's eye. He leaned over to Alessandro to whisper, “A carriage. A carriage!”

  Shaking his head, Alessandro shrugged. Mark grew frustrated. Grabbing Alessandro's shoulder he made him lean to the ground. With his finger, Mark drew a horse and carriage in the dusty dirt under them.

  Immediately Alessandro understood. In Italian, Alessandro tried to tell him something to no avail. It was miserable trying to communicate. Drawing Mark down to see the dirt, as he had done, Alessandro drew a sun in the dust and pointed to the purple starlit sky.