by David Blixt
A knock on the door, followed by a timid girl’s voice. “Signore?”
Drawing a satisfied breath, he settled his face in an unpleasant smile. “Si.”
“I am here for – for your bath, signore,” came the shamed whisper.
He crossed back to the bed. “Then come in and get on with it.”
The door swung wide and the girl looked about the room like a hare entering a fox’s den.
Seeing her empty hands he said, “Where’s the water?”
“I – I thought – I mean...”
He took a step closer. “You thought what?”
“I thought you wanted – that I was supposed to – that is –”
Her discomfort was delicious. “That I wanted what?”
Pushing the door shut, the girl flushed an even darker shade of crimson. “That you wanted me to – to – p-pleasure you,” she finished, humiliated and frightened.
“Whatever gave you that idea?”
Now she was confused. “My mistress said —”
Drawing near, he circled her, making a show of studying her. “Your mistress is obviously dense. If I expected to be pleasured, I would have asked for a handsomer girl. You’re not much to look at, really. What’s your name?”
“Emilia,” she answered in a whisper.
“A plain name for a plain thing. Hard to imagine any man bedding a girl so bony and hang-dog. Can you smile? Let me see your teeth. No, haven’t even got good teeth. Probably won’t be a tooth in your head this time next year – if you’re still alive at all, that is.”
She was ready to cry now, hardly able to stand, she was shaking so hard. “I should go—”
“Yes you should.” He watched until her fingers were on the handle of the door. “Of course, I don’t know what you’re going to tell your employer. I gather she thought I wanted you to – ah, pleasure me. What a phrase. She very well may ask me in the morning. Now, as I am nothing if not an honest man, what shall I say but that you left without even trying? Oh, I’ll tell her all about how you came, and cried, and squeaked like a mouse, then scurried away. I don’t think she’ll appreciate that poor effort – do you?”
Her hand hovered by the door handle. “I thought you didn’t want me.”
“I don’t. Not at all. You are perhaps the most worthless piece of woman-flesh it has ever been my misfortune to behold. I don’t suppose you have a suitor? You do? His name? Ah, well, reticence is your strong suit, isn’t it? Not a quick-witted man, I should think. And what would he think if he were to discover that you had come into a guest’s room late at night to bathe him, but hadn’t brought the water? Are you so dim-witted that – what was his name?”
“Dom,” she said, a look of utter horror spilling over her features.
“Would Dom accept such forgetfulness at face value? Or might he think that you wished to be here? I would never tell him, no, but it is a rather amusing story, don’t you think? I might regale the other guests over breakfast, and he might hear, and then what would he think? What could he think?”
“Please, no,” she said, advancing on him with her hands out.
“That would be devastating, would it? Though, now that I think of it, it would be entirely another matter if we were to actually have some sort of congress. Then the tale loses all its humour. I mean, look at you – I could hardly brag about my conquest, could I? No, it would only show me up for a degenerate man with poor taste and no morals. Ports and storms indeed.”
“Please,” she said again, though at this point she was so bewildered she wasn’t even certain what she was pleading for.
“And it would also stand you in good stead with your employer.” He sighed wearily. “Very well. If I must.” He began unlacing his doublet. “But don’t expect payment as well. You are asking quite a lot from me as it is.”
“Please,” she said again. “No lights.”
Folding the doublet, he set it neatly aside. “I quite agree. Bad enough that I have to feel the bag of bones, I shouldn’t have to look at it.” He removed his shirt so that she could gaze at his splendour. Folding it as well, he then leaned over to blow out the candle. The window stood open, but without moon or stars the night was black as pitch, both without and within. “Let’s get this over with.”
He heard a rustle as he doffed his boots, letting them fall loudly to the floor. He laid his hose neatly on the edge of the bed before sitting on the lumpy mattress. The linens were all his own – he did not intend to bring lice home with him. They even bore his initials, the heavy embroidery clear against his naked skin as he slid himself to a comfortable position and waited for the girl to join him.
There was curious sound, a soft thump as if she had jumped. Then the weight in the bed shifted as a light form joined him. “You’d best be moist. If you make me do any work, you’ll regret it.” He reached out a hand and was surprised to feel cloth under his fingers. “You should have taken it off. Now I’ll have to rip it from you.”
“Don’t be so eager,” was the cool reply. “You may want some energy later.”
Though high, the voice was unmistakably masculine. The dandy started to sit up, only to feel a knife at his throat. “Cianfa, Cianfa, you’ve already incurred a beating. Why try for two?”
A series of thoughts flashed like lightning through his mind. He didn’t know the voice. It was young – how young? – and cultured, carrying the same edge of scorn that Cianfa himself had spent years cultivating. And the speaker knew his name! How? He was in Ravenna under a false one.
Even the cadence of the words themselves were familiar. It took a moment to recall saying something like it this afternoon to his hired felon. Managing to keep his surprise hidden, he said, “You’re not Corrado.”
“The importunate grave-robber will not be returning to you – this night or ever, I fear.” The knife-holder addressed the girl, still hidden in the darkness. “You may depart, my reluctant Iphigenia. This won’t take long.”
A shuffle of feet, then the door opened, its momentary wedge of light revealing his assailant’s form, if not his face. A mere child!
As Cianfa tensed his muscles to toss the imp across the room, the knife flicked up. The dandy took a sharp breath as blood trickled down his cheek.
“Predictable, wouldn’t you say? You could possibly – possibly – outmuscle me in a fair match. But what in this sinful world is fair? Surely not our mortal coil, a fact you are more than capable of conveying, if not understanding.”
“You’re remarkably well-spoken for a murderous infant,” observed Cianfa, feeling the knife again at his throat.
“Grazie. You’re not ineloquent yourself, for a foppish despoiler of graves and hymens.”
In spite of his predicament, Cianfa couldn’t help a laugh. “If you were old enough to shave you’d know I have to kill you for that.”
“Just for that? O, let me give you better cause!” The boy laughed, yet the knife’s point did not waver, informing Cianfa that the laugh was as calculated as the words. “Regarding my tender years, well, the immortal gods alone have neither age nor death. All other things almighty Time disquiets. Perhaps I can practice my razor on your neck and shave a few years off a rather miserable life.”
Cianfa took his time framing a reply. “Boy, if you don’t intend to murder me here in my bed, I can’t really see how you’re going to escape.”
“No?”
“The moment you move, I’ll be at your heels.”
“Baying like the ravenous three-headed hound, I’m sure. Are you advising me to murder you, sirrah? It seems rather against your interests.”
“I doubt you could stomach it – killing a man.”
“It’s true that I’ve never yet taken a life. But the only way your death would sour my belly was if I were forced to eat my kill. Still, I’m really only here to convey a message. What happens after is of no consequence.” Cianfa snorted. “Does that amuse you?”
“I must confess, yes.” Cianfa’s right hand was moving imp
erceptibly towards his pillow and the small paring knife under it. “To throw away a life with so many years ahead of it in order to pass on a message seems – rash.”
Without moving the dagger’s point, the boy somehow conveyed the hint of a shrug. “My own affair.”
“Just harbour no illusions. Youth or no, I’ll have your guts out and made into lute strings.”
The boy laughed. “A fitting end for my poor guts! But I have no illusions regarding your morality. After hearing such a wooing scene as that, I marvel I haven’t felt your tail whipping about the bed.”
“I only bring it out for formal occasions.” His fingers had found the knife. Time to teach this imp the lesson of his short life. Using his free hand to bat away the threatening blade while slashing with the other.
He thought he made contact with the little bastard’s flesh but couldn’t be sure, the imp acted so fast, rolling backwards off the bed and away into the darkness. Now he was somewhere in the room, the rug muffling his steps.
The naked dandy crept slowly from the bed’s straw, hideously aware of every noise he made. He held the tiny dagger before him, questing. No one on his side of the room. The blood dripping down his cheek reached his chin, and he felt a drop on his naked chest. He wished for clothes, for his sword, for a torch to burn this wretched inn to the ground.
If I open the door, I’ll have light enough to find this little shit. To do that, he had to cross the path of the open window. But there was no moon, hardly any light at all. He wouldn’t be exposed for more than the length of a breath.
As he passed the window, Cianfa felt a sudden pain in his shoulder. His legs collapsed as he was knocked away from the window, his knife clattering across the floor. The crash his body made was nothing to the oaths that passed his lips as his left hand found the shaft of an arrow protruding from his shoulder.
In an instant the boy was kneeling over him, dagger at the ready. “My, my. I withdraw my earlier compliments. You have the tongue of a sailor, if not morals so lofty. I think my guardians would find your tutelage repellent, so I shall deliver my message and be gone.” This time the jaunty words didn’t entirely conceal the anger in the young voice.
Blinking, the naked dandy bit his lips. “Cowardly little catamite!”
“Little, I confess. But cowardly? I am not the one threatening the life of a bare-faced babe. As for the last, if you’re making an offer –” Cianfa squirmed as his genitals were gripped. “– no, your dimensions are not something that would arouse my least interest. Perhaps if I were younger...”
Cianfa thrashed and felt the sick sensation of a knee to his testicles. At the same moment the knife’s tip found the soft skin beneath his eye. Cianfa held very still. “You can’t do this to me,” he breathed.
“Oh, you can dish it but not drink it?” The boy’s anger was gone as swift as it had come. All that remained was the mockery. “Sad, sad Cianfa. What would the Guild think if they saw you now? Would your family come to bail you out again? Or does failure mean exile this time?”
Through the pain, Cianfa felt a real fear. How does he know who I am?
“You have a long night ahead of you, so I will be brief. My message is in two parts. The first is this – do not trifle with the poet’s remains, or you will find yourself living a Hell worse than the one he gave your namesake. If he is moved, the name Donati will be so ruined that Heliostratus’ fate will seem kind. Please inform all your Florentine friends of the same. Firenze disowned him. Firenze may not have him back.”
The child drew suddenly back, releasing Cianfa Donati’s eye from the tip of the blade and his groin from the diminutive knee. Cianfa curled into a ball on the rug and tried not to whimper.
“The second part of my message is even simpler. When you’ve had enough, say ‘I am a sore and sorry ass,’ and it will end.”
Sick to his stomach and rubbing the bloody flesh beneath his eye, Cianfa gasped. “Enough of what?”
In answer, the boy whistled. At once the door was flung open, the hallway light framing a massive man with hands that could bend horseshoes.
“Cianfa Donati, meet Dom. Dom, Signor Donati. No doubt Dom has been having a word with his sweet Emilia and would like some pointers in dealing with the fairer sex. By prior agreement, the discussion will involve no arms, but rather the lofty discourse of knuckles, elbows, fingers, knees, and toes. I told him you were nothing if not chivalric, and he has agreed to end the debate when you have spoken those seven magical words.” Tucking the dagger into his belt, the child lifted himself onto the windowsill, preparing to depart the way he had come. “Oh, Dom – don’t touch his shoulder. It wouldn’t be sporting.”
“It’s not his shoulder I’ll be touching.” The man entered, followed by the girl Emilia bearing a candle. The better for Dom the blacksmith to work by. She closed the door behind her as Dom cracked his knuckles and flexed his hands.
Recoiling, Cianfa Donati dragged his eyes to the child poised languidly on the window-ledge. Curly locks veiled eyes so bright they were almost feverish. The candlelight caught a coin hanging from a thong around the boy’s neck. Above it Cianfa saw a trickle of blood and felt a fleeting moment of satisfaction.
Tracing Donati’s eyes, the youth daubed at the blood and licked his finger. “Ah! The weakness of little children’s limbs is innocent, not their souls. And Cianfa – no thoughts of reprisals, please! Not even to the girl. Else I’ll have to reveal to the city elders of both Ravenna and Florence that you have conspired to free convicted felons in order to desecrate holy ground and remove a noble man from his final rest. Death, and immortal damnation to boot. Now, I bid you good-night. And remember, ‘I am a sore and sorry ass!’” A leap, a gentle roll onto the roof, and the boy was gone, leaving the retreating Cianfa to the open arms of Dom.
Three
Out across the roof a shadow was waiting, crouched low. Dancing over the clay rooftop tiles, Cesco said in fluent Arabic, “Ah, mine own keeper. Whither I goest, thou goest. How annoying,” he added in Italian.
“Who is he?” The shadow’s voice rasped painfully.
Ignoring the question, the boy indicated a small bird-bow, barely visible in the dark. “‘Twas quite a shot, from stable-top. How didst thou know thy bolt would pass me by?”
“Thou art too small to be concerned about, little dancer. Who is he?”
Cesco’s answer was tart. “A man of limited skill with whom I could have dealt myself.”
“A quick temper is a quick grave.”
This last rumble was in Greek. The boy chose to remain in Arabic. “As I am small yet always seen, so thou art large and nigh invisible. Yet thou truly canst not guide whom thou lovest.”
The archer rose from his crouch, expanding and unfurling like a dark banner up and up to his full height. He wore European clothes, but battered and careworn, as if he were a servant. Doubtless he had finer clothes than these, but Cesco had never seen them. The servant guise was an important one, for if he wore his native dress or clothes too fine, he could quite possibly end up needing no clothes at all. Damned or saved, the dead need no garments, for there was no shame in death. Shame was for those living, especially those who could not see beyond the skin to the man within. For the archer’s skin was dark – darker than most of his race, though not quite African dark. He was a Moor.
Following the boy to the edge of the roof, the archer dutifully recited the end of the boy’s quotation. “But God guideth whom he will; and He best knoweth those who yield to guidance.” His voice sounded like a rusty sword scraping the bottom of a well, painful and hollow, but deep. The unexplained bubbled scars around his throat spoke to the cause.
Cesco laughed. “Cave ab homine unius libri!” With that he shimmied over the edge and dropped to the ground.
“Et mors ultima ratio,” answered the Moor, turning to find a more discreet way down.
As Cesco rejoined the earthbound, Detto popped up from behind a water barrel. “Did it work?”
Cesco clapp
ed his friend on the shoulder. “You played your part brilliantly! If he’d kept that window closed, I’d’ve been sunk, and that poor girl would have had a rough time.”
Preening at the praise, Detto was still a little resentful. “I wish I could have gone in.”
“No, you don’t.”
The broken voice of the Moor made Detto jump and point an accusing finger. “What’s he doing here?”
Cesco pulled a face. “He’s been following us since we slipped out of the house. He was even in the back of the church, watching.”
Detto looked up at the shadowy figure with a resentful mixture of awe and fear. “How does he do that?”
“Well, in the dark you can only see his eyes. And his teeth, if he’s smiling. He’s like a cat.”
The Moor bowed from the waist. “Knowing your love of cats, I take that as a compliment.”
There was a cry of pain from the inn’s best room, and Cesco pointed. “Like our friend up there, it’s cat and mouse that I enjoy. Not that he’s enjoying it now. Come, shall we go?” He set out back towards the city proper, via a disused postern gate the boys had discovered.
Passing through a beam of light from an open casement, Detto spied the blood trickling down Cesco’s neck. “You’re hurt!”
Cesco touched two fingers against his chin and drew them away. “A scratch!” He lapped the blood off his fingers and glanced at the Moor, who merely tossed the boy a pocket-cloth as he said in Arabic, “Marry, ‘tis enough.”
“It surely is,” replied Cesco.
Detto whined. “Speak a language I know!”
“So learn !”
Ambling along, Detto clearly felt grieved. “Will you at least tell me what this was all about?”
“Some men were trying to steal Papa Dante’s bones.”
Detto blew a raspberry. “I figured that much. Who were they?”