The Boy Who Wept Blood

by Den Patrick

  ‘Apologies, Lord Erudito,’ said Nardo, stiff and formal. A small scroll appeared from a leather case.

  ‘It’s fine. I’m more on edge than I thought.’ Dino took a breath. A message at this time of night would not contain much cheer. He read the scroll by the light of a guttering candle and gave a sigh. ‘Do you know what this is?’

  ‘The Domina told me it was for your eyes alone.’

  Dino thrust the parchment before the messenger, a reluctant moment passed and Nardo read the contents. ‘Back to being a bodyguard.’

  ‘Is there really no one else who can do this?’

  Nardo shrugged. ‘Seems the Domina has decided for you.’

  ‘Tell her to go f—’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s wise.’ Nardo looked around to check they were not overheard. ‘And if you won’t be persuaded you can tell her yourself.’

  ‘This is horse shit.’

  ‘It is strange, I grant you. You should do it.’

  ‘Why?’ Dino sounded like a spoilt teen and loathed himself for it.

  ‘People will put more pressure on if they realise you’re at odds with the Domina.’

  ‘You mean I have to make a show of unity.’

  ‘Yes.’ The messenger’s frown was one of concern.

  ‘Tell her I’ll do it.’

  ‘Take care of yourself, Dino.’

  The messenger departed into the gloaming of Demesne.

  The assignment was neither difficult nor dangerous, yet Dino couldn’t help feeling it was punitive. The Domina’s neat flowing handwriting instructed him to keep watch over one of their own ‘in case of assassination’. He had no wish to skulk along Demesne’s corridors another night, and bodyguard duty suited him better. Or it would have without the added stipulation: ‘Maestro Cherubini must not know he is being guarded. Remain unseen unless attacked.’

  Dino headed to his rooms, changed into darker clothes and splashed water on his face in the faint hope it might sober him.

  ‘It’s going to be a long night,’ he whispered to his reflection.

  15

  Behind Locked Doors

  – 17 Luglio 325

  Gaining entrance to the maestro’s chambers was a simple matter, although Dino knew first hand that the door would be locked at all times. Only Cherubini possessed a key, even denying his maid the same privilege. Famously private, others sneered he was overly suspicious. Dino thought him prudent given his increased political importance. Less well known was that the maestro struggled with his breathing. He’d claimed to be allergic to dust for as long Dino could remember and always left a window open, even in the cruellest depths of winter.

  Dino looked out of his window on the sixth floor, casting an eye over his chosen route. Achilles scuttled to the sill and tested the air with a dark tongue.

  ‘One day I’ll spend some time in the town, rather than just looking down on it.’ Achilles turned away and plodded back to the bed. ‘Well, thanks for wishing me good fortune, you ingrate.’

  The Orfano began the climb down, the alcohol and the height conspiring to set his head spinning. The rooftops of Santa Maria awaited him should he fall. Or perhaps he’d land in the street on his face, cobbles mashing his brains to soup.

  The windows of House Erudito showed dim lights, but Dino kept his eyes fixed on the wall. He had no wish to see more than he was required to. These were the rooms of people with lives, private lives. Not every aspect of a person’s affairs affected the running of Landfall or the birth of a republic.

  Dino pulled himself through the maestro’s window, sucking down lungfuls of air, then lost his balance, almost knocking over a low table in the dark. He cursed himself and looked around. He’d had no cause to call here for some time, yet it was much as he remembered. Cherubini had invited him for dinner often as a child, offering private tutoring when Dino had been at odds with his classmates. There was a feeling of luxury here. The couches were deep and soft, the pillows numerous, the curtains and drapes of rich fabric. The walls were crowded with oil paintings and framed sketches. Such furnishings might have been expected in House Prospero; to find them in Erudito was surprising. A smell of old red wine and fresh flowers hung on the air, adding to the feast of the senses.

  Dino didn’t have to wait long.

  No sooner had he regained his composure than a key scraped in the lock, announcing the maestro’s return from the great hall. With no other obvious solution at hand Dino sought concealment behind the purple drapes at the window. Mercifully they were floor length.

  Oh, good work, Dino, he chided himself. Even a five-year-old knows to look behind the drapes.

  But the maestro had more pressing matters on his mind than his sitting-room curtains. His were not the only footsteps that reached Dino’s ears. A soft murmuring of voices. A stifled laugh. An overloud ‘Shhhh’ followed by another laugh. The voices passed through the sitting room without pause, to Dino’s relief. He took a furtive glance around the edge of the rich brocade. The sitting room was empty, the door to the bedroom ajar. Only the steady glow of a candle broke the gloom, a rectangle of tawny light. Dino approached on hesitant feet, hoping the floorboards would not betray his passing. A sigh reached his ears, followed by a low moan.

  Dino’s mind raced.

  The maestro was famously single, a bachelor in every sense. Perhaps he’d lured a young maid back to satisfy himself? He’d been noticeably maudlin on the subject of marriage, after all. Dino froze just a foot away from the door. Sounds of gentle rhythmic movement increased in volume. Another moan, unmistakably male.

  Then a hushed voice keen and urgent: ‘Yes, yes.’ Also male.

  Suspicion unfolded in Dino’s mind. He willed himself forward, one half-step at a time, drawing closer to the door. He was trembling, daring himself to look past the door’s edge. A terrible reluctance seized him. He’d no wish to see such an intimate act, and yet a terrible curiosity burned within him. He stepped forward.

  Dino swallowed, almost flinching back to the safety of the sitting room. They were naked. Young men about his age, bodies hardened by training or labour, olive-skinned with a hint of dirt. He thought he recognised one of them, a low-ranking guard from House Fontein; difficult to tell in the candlelight. The other was kneeling on the floor, his head bobbing in the lap of his companion. The guard on the divan was thrusting his hips to meet the eager mouth. He grasped the man by the hair and became more insistent, forceful. Dino stared at the hair entwined about the strong fingers, watched the man’s thighs tense and strain like ropes pulled taut.

  A grunt and a shuddering sigh.

  Dino realised he’d been holding his breath. And also that he was painfully aroused, his groin aflame with a deep ache he’d not thought possible. Entranced, he kept watching, unable to take his eyes from the hard bodies bathed in candlelight. The men stood, kissing hungrily for a moment. They laughed together before the guard turned, kneeling on the divan.

  Dino turned from the doorway, keen that he remain unseen, the urge to leave a fierce one. He told himself he remained out of duty, but the lie was all too sour even as he persuaded himself. He’d never seen such a thing before, not with man and women nor this unusual pairing. He turned to leave but remembered the Domina’s order. He was to remain in case assassins attempted entry.

  It’s not as if he’s unguarded, Dino thought bitterly, eyes drawn back to the men in the bedroom. The men on the divan were now joined. The guard bent over, his firm buttocks shuddering with each impact from the man who stood behind.

  Surely I am mistaken, thought Dino. The maestro has merely lent his room to these two lovers so they can …

  A soft moan issued from elsewhere in the bedroom. Dino pressed himself up against the wall, his eye seeking the narrow gap between door and frame where the hinges joined both. Maestro Cherubini sat in the opposite corner from the two men. Always overweight, he was grotesque in his nakedness, the deep shadows doing little to hide his bulk. One hand fumbled weakly in his lap, stroking h
imself beneath the expanse of his stomach. His eyes glittered drunkenly in the dim light, a look of pained desperation frozen on his features.

  Dino drew back from the gap in the door, shock settling into his bones like a chill. His eyes were drawn back to the two men. Powerful hips beat a constant rhythm, narrow waist stretching up to broad shoulders, strong arms reaching down to hold the hips of the man in front. Dino could only stare in mute fascination, stomach knotting, cheeks flaming scarlet. His length strained and ached beneath his small clothes. The maestro called out encouragement from the corner in a husky rasp. Dino pressed his eye to the sliver of space between door and frame once more. The maestro lay back, thighs glistening with his spend.

  Dino could bear no more of it, moving through the sitting room in a daze, past the litter of academia and objets d’art. He turned the key in the lock, desperate that it not click. The sounds in the bedroom became more intense. Dino opened the door and passed through, closing it behind him in silence. For a few seconds he stood in the corridor, shocked and breathless, then fled for the stairwell, losing himself in the ever-present darkness of Demesne.

  Massimo was waiting outside Dino’s apartment, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. His look of boredom shifted to one of concern.

  ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘If only that were true.’ The Orfano unlocked the door and pushed his way inside, Achilles scuttled across the floor to him. He reached down to gather the reptile in his arms. ‘Miss me, did you?’

  Achilles yawned and coiled about his master.

  ‘I just called by to see if your spirits had improved since this morning.’ Massimo closed the door behind him and turned the key in the lock. ‘Marchesa Contadino is concerned about you.’

  Dino nodded, forcing a smile. He’d known Cherubini his whole life; now he felt as if the man were no more than a stranger. His stomach lurched, eyes prickling with the onset of bloody tears he’d refuse to shed. A terrible weight occupied his chest, making each breath a labour. Achilles looked up, tail curled about Dino’s arm, black liquid eyes reflecting the light. Dino lit more candles, buying time to compose himself. It didn’t help.

  ‘What’s wrong, Dino?’

  ‘Only you could call at a time when I’d rather be alone,’ whispered Dino.

  ‘Alone? Why do you wish to be alone?’

  ‘I … I saw …’ His throat was swollen with words that he couldn’t bear to speak.

  ‘Has Russo had you out spying again?’

  The Orfano nodded, eyes fixed on Achilles – anything to avoid meeting the swordsman’s eyes.

  ‘Cherubini,’ was all Dino managed before he choked up.

  ‘What about Cherubini? Not dead?’ said Massimo, suddenly grave.

  Dino shook his head, the image of the naked maestro surfacing in his mind, painfully unwelcome. He looked away from his friend, squeezing his eyes shut, willing the memory away.

  ‘I was supposed to be guarding him. He came back with two men.’

  Massimo raised an eyebrow.

  ‘They … He was watching them, in his room. They were …’

  Dino pushed a hand to his mouth to stop the words leaking out. Massimo crossed the room, laying one hand tenderly on his shoulder.

  ‘Dino, what the maestro gets up to behind his own door is his own affair. He’s not hurting anyone.’

  ‘But it’s not right,’ whispered Dino.

  ‘What consenting men and women do after dark isn’t your concern.’

  ‘But it’s not men and women, it’s men and men.’

  ‘Consenting men?’

  ‘Well, yes. Two men. Together.’

  ‘Mention this to no one,’ said Massimo. ‘No good will come of it. He’ll be ruined if word gets out. He’s one of Anea’s most vocal supporters.’

  Dino nodded and looked away, plucking at his lip.

  ‘Dino, you’ve killed men, you’ve trained alongside them.’ Massimo narrowed his eyes, strangely intent. ‘You’re aware of what they’re capable of. It matters not who they lie with or what they do behind locked doors.’

  Dino stepped back. He wasn’t used to being lectured like this – by the Domina perhaps, but not by Massimo.

  ‘Why does this upset you so?’ asked the swordsman, tone suddenly soft.

  ‘Landfall isn’t the garden of tolerance and forgiveness we think it is. Even here, in Demesne, people sneer and curse invertiti. Men are beaten and sometimes killed out on the estates. It’s taboo.’

  ‘Well maybe it shouldn’t be. It’s long past time Landfall started accepting difference. Take you, for example.’

  Dino felt a moment of horror. He clutched Achilles and the reptile hissed, favouring the Contadino swordsman with a pugnacious stare. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, you’re Orfano. That’s different, and yet the cittadini can never decide whether to fete you for being a defender of the people or despise you for being a creation of the king.’

  ‘They despise us for bearing deformities,’ intoned Dino.

  ‘Orfano, invertito – is it really such a problem?’

  Dino shook his head, unable to answer, remembering the lingering ache of his own powerful arousal. ‘I wish it were otherwise too,’ he admitted, ‘if only for Cherubini’s sake.’

  ‘You can’t report this to the Domina. If word reaches House Fontein or Prospero—’

  ‘I know. Cherubini will be ruined and Anea will lose her most articulate ally in the Ravenscourt.’

  The heat of the discussion dwindled, and neither Orfano nor swordsman knew the words to fill the aftermath. Massimo soon left, Dino sighing with relief as the door closed.

  He spent the night awake, willing the sun to appear on the horizon. He’d constructed arguments against his preference many times: it wasn’t seemly, it wasn’t what real men did, it didn’t become a soldier, what would Lucien say? His desire was a pain he was used to, like the ache of an old wound on a damp winter day. Finally he lurched from his bed and lit a candle, then another. Anything to escape the darkness of the night and the images of hard bodies etched onto his memory. Anything to escape the suffocating shame of his denial.

  16

  A Letter from Erebus

  – 18 Luglio 325

  Dino walked the corridors of Demesne, dazed and restless. People passed him on their way to their morning chores. Their faces were indistinct to him, like fleeting phantoms or figments from dreams. Some few greeted him, but his responses were muted. Something had broken within him – a lantern of fractured glass, the flame extinguished. The walk from House Erudito to House Contadino was a long one, made longer by a detour to House Fontein. The maestri di spada regarded him with wariness, then resumed their lessons, taking care to stick to the syllabus. The capo was also teaching and didn’t deign to acknowledge Dino’s presence, who didn’t mind the impertinence, content to be spared another hostile interaction. The pupils struggled to concentrate, self-conscious under Dino’s unwavering but vacant gaze. The superiore sat on a wooden bench with his fingers laced in his lap, felt the itch of stubble under his jaw.

  ‘Is something amiss, my lord?’ grunted Ruggeri over the din of sparring students. Wooden blade clashed with wooden blade.

  ‘Just checking on the next crop of trained killers.’ Dino regarded the students, not meeting Ruggeri’s eyes. ‘Imagine if all of these children were training to be dottori instead.’

  Ruggeri looked at the students, then back to Dino, a puzzled look on his lined face.

  ‘Pardon me for saying so, but you look unwell, my lord.’

  ‘There’s much that’s unwell in Demesne today.’ The Orfano pushed himself to his feet and drifted on. Back through the Central Keep toward House Contadino.

  The kitchens beckoned but his stomach was an acid ache, appetite a faded memory. Camelia would know something was wrong and demand to know the truth of it. Better to avoid her until he’d slept. He dragged himself up spiral staircases, distracted by the echo of footfal
ls. Sounds of life from the castle were muted under the weight of the ancient stones. Dino rapped on the stout oak of the Domina’s door with chalk-white knuckles. Fiorenza answered, a slow smile passing over her features.

  ‘My lord.’ She bobbed a curtsy. ‘Please come in.’ Fiorenza wore a grey skirt that reached her ankles, a clean crisp white blouse and a fraying black bodice, undoubtedly a hand-me-down. ‘Some wine, my lord? We have fresh water also.’ Fiorenza was the Domina’s maid of five years. A scholarship to House Erudito had escaped her by a tiny margin. Dino suspected her exclusion had more to do with gender than exam scores.

  ‘No wine.’ The words came out a hollow croak. He shook his head, dropping his gaze.

  ‘Are you unwell, my lord?’

  ‘Very tired.’ He tried for a smile.

  The Domina’s apartment was a shambles. There was no couch, only an armchair overrun with books from the library. Books sorely missed by Simonetti the archivist, no doubt. A long table was obscured by scrolls and missives, ledgers of accounts, wax and seals. Five chairs had been pushed to the margins of the room, also stacked with papers and books, the last of these standing near the table. The Domina’s circular biretta rested on it like a cushion. Clumps of candles sprouted on saucers like fungus placed on high shelves to grow. Deep brown brocade drapes bore a look of disease, afflicted by moths, weighted with dust.

  ‘And I thought my rooms were in poor repair.’

  Fiorenza stifled a smile behind her hand.

  ‘There you are.’ The Domina entered from the bedroom, still wearing her nightgown. Black silk from ankles to neck, bare arms pale in contrast. Her auburn hair fell to her shoulders in tousled disarray. Yesterday’s make-up stained her lips bruise purple. Her eyes were deeply lined and red-rimmed.

  ‘Well? Did anyone attack Maestro Cherubini?’

  ‘Don’t you think you’d have heard if they had?’

  ‘And you stayed there all night, keeping watch?’

  ‘I’ve not been to bed yet.’ This much at least was truth.

  ‘And nothing untoward occurred the whole night?’