Guardia: A Novel of Renaissance Italy

by Crews, Michael

  My thoughts swam in a tarry murk of ancient heresy and cult rituals as the carriage bounced in the darkness. I imagined the ancients in their frenzy, drinking and gorging and fornicating with no concept of sin or care, their spasmodic jubilation serving as tribute to a host of voyeuristic gods. What must it have been like to live in that way, like savage animals before Christ came to redeem mankind of its sinful ways? And yet, some of the most important geniuses came from that time. Somehow the notion of the republic, and law, and order were born from that civilization. Surely, then, it wasn’t such a hedonistic time as the moralists and poets always claimed that it was.

  With my vision deprived my other senses became sharper. I felt every jostle and bump. I listened to the breaths of the others in the carriage, smelled the musky odors of sweat and cologne. There was a tingle of energy, and I realized that it was anticipation. Whether it was coming from the others or myself, I was not sure.

  Before I knew it we had arrived. The sound of hooves had slowed and the whoosh of the ground passing us grew faint and then disappeared. Gravelly footsteps crunched outside, then a bolt slid sharply. The door opened and we were greeted with Mummio’s angular face, torchlight giving him a seemingly incandescent gaze.

  “Gentlemen, we have arrived. Please, follow me to the antechamber.”

  We each stood and debarked, then gathered at the entrance in bunches. The place was dim and orange light flickered off of ancient arches. In the distance the outline of trees hovered over the entrance, as though the earth had retaken the ruin and covered all but the entry portal. I wondered how far back it would extend.

  The way was lit with mounted candelabra at regular intervals. Mummio led us through the stone arches and down a series of lofty steps. A wooden door, ornately carved and well preserved, hung open like a maw into the underworld. We proceeded with little heed, like Dante into the depths of the inferno.

  Mummio stopped, and his attendants joined him before us.

  “Signori, my men will now search you for weapons and other contraband. Please be respectful and understanding.” Mummio was cold and professional, even as some of the men audibly protested. We were all patted down, then the door to the interior was unlocked.

  “This way, please.”

  “Look at that,” Liam whispered. The corridor before us was decorated with rugs of such decadence as I had ever seen, from the far off kingdoms of Asia and elsewhere. On the floor were dazzling mosaics which were, for the most part, still intact and vivid in both color and content. The mosaics were separated into distinct panels, each depicting one scene.

  As I examined them more closely, it was soon clear that each scene was a part of an erotic tale. In the first, a young girl was stooped down and picking grapes while nymphs and various mythological figures looked on. In the next, a young man could be seen helping the girl fill her bucket. In the next the two were engaged in oral copulation while the nymphs and other figures played and danced. As we approached the end of the corridor the images grew ever more lewd.

  A velvet curtain separated the hallway from the main chamber. We passed through its soft folds and were met with a vast chamber that was supported by several thick columns. These split the room into segments, each of which had a vaulted stone ceiling above that burned and glittered from the lit braziers that hung from the center. On the floor, tall wooden and silk partitions had been erected in order to split the room according to the various activities that took place within each section.

  The sweet smell of incense wafted into my nostrils. I could also smell spices and food cooking from somewhere. We were among the first group to enter, and as we did a retinue of young, nubile serving girls appeared. Judging from their faces they ranged from around fifteen years of age to their early twenties, tall, pert, and inviting. Their clothing was profoundly sensual, as each wore a nearly transparent sheet around their bodies and was decorated with flower garlands in their hair and around their wrists and ankles.

  Pietro, Liam and I turned to one another. We could barely make out each other’s expressions beneath the disguises but we could still tell what the others were thinking.

  “Please,” Mummio’s gentle voice said behind us. “Make yourselves comfortable.”

  The girls approached each of us, and then led us to a smaller vestibule with sofas and hammocks. Pillows were strewn all about, and other soft things such as fronds and ostrich feathers were arranged neatly. Jars of sweet smelling oils sitting in rows on small wooden tables, burning and giving off an eerie light.

  A tall, raven-haired girl with almond-shaped eyes made her way to me and pressed her body into mine. Her warmth and smell were intoxicating enough, but when I felt her lips press against my neck I fell prey to a sudden and overwhelming arousal. She stepped back and slipped the stem of a chrysanthemum into a fold in my costume.

  “Keep that and you shall never lose me,” she said, and I realized she had the same flower tucked into her hair.

  I swallowed hard, forcing myself to remember the reason that we had come to this place. In Pietro's lap there was a thin African girl, teasing him. His arm hung tightly around her waist, her hips pressing into his body.

  “Dirty boy,” cooed my girl. “Do you like to watch?”

  I gazed into her violet eyes and pulled her against me. “Sweetheart, you’ll find out what I like when I show you.” She squealed as I reached under her gown and grazed her warm, soft belly with my fingertips. “Would you be kind and bring me a drink? The ride here has left me parched.”

  “Very well, maestro,” she whispered in my ear. Then she nipped my earlobe, not softly but not nearly enough to break skin. “I’m going to make you scream.”

  She sauntered away, leaving me to catch my breath. Pietro's ebony nymph followed close behind her, until they disappeared from view behind some reed partitions.

  “These folks are very hospitable,” he said, his voice giddy.

  Liam was sitting on one of the sofas, accompanied by a girl of creamy complexion and light brown hair. She lay curled up against him, her hands cupping his chin.

  “Gentlemen, you’re welcome. Now I’ll leave you to your own pursuits and amusements and I will, I am sure, be seeing you again later in the evening.” It was clear that he was in no mood to move about. The girl’s fingers were already exploring beneath the fabric of his doublet.

  I decided to do a little exploring. I got up and left our cozy nook, meandering aimlessly through the dim alleys of the chamber. By then there were many more bodies, and the energy and noise was beginning to pick up. I observed animated conversations, and noted that for every man there was a beautiful companion in tow.

  “Very convenient,” I muttered.

  “How so?” Pietro said.

  “Spying. These girls hear every word these men say.”

  “But it’s anonymous. Nobody knows who anybody is.”

  “That doesn’t matter. What matters is what is said, and about whom."

  A circle of several gentlemen, all bedecked in extravagant costumes of silk and velvet, was discussing politics in one of the far off rooms. They were loud and some of them, by the sound of their voices, were quite old. I wondered how many of the city’s patricians frequented this place. I was sure that the answer would be unsettling.

  “War, you say? I say that it’s about time!” one of the men said gruffly. I listened closely, concentrating on filtering out the din of the surrounding rooms.

  “The people have spoken. They’re tired of living under the threat of a belligerent pup,” said an older man with a slight lisp.

  Another man laughed harshly. “Oh come now, you know the people had very little to say about this.”

  “Of course, I understand that the people don’t always know what they want and need a little encouragement.”

  My heart was racing as I considered the implications of what I had just overheard. The decision to go to war, the riots in the streets. Were these brought about by the people, or by the machinations of the
few? Who stood to gain from it all?

  It made sense that the people should be opposed to war. After all, the expense would invariably fall on the backs of the ordinary citizens. Aside from the cost of hiring mercenaries to defend the commune, the added expense of taxes, rationing, trade shortages and underemployment were consequences of war. Unless directly threatened, the people would almost certainly choose peace over conflict.

  What we’d seen in the streets, the rioting and burning, suddenly seemed like an overreaction. The threat of Milan was real, but Visconti had not declared any ambition to attack Florence. The people were stressed, but not explosively so. Not unless they were, as the man said, encouraged. All it would take to rile up the crowd would be a few well-placed provocateurs.

  “Well no wonder the people are confused, when we have men like Giovanni di Bicci pooh-poohing all that we’re trying to accomplish.” This voice was gravelly and boomed with authority. “If the whole commune was like him and his ilk we’d be owned by Pisa and not the other way around!”

  The circle of men all laughed at the thought.

  “Please, you exaggerate so. But your point is valid nonetheless.”

  “I swear, sometimes I think that we’d be so much better off if we had just exiled the Medici the same time we’d gotten rid of the Alberti. What a much finer situation we’d be in then.”

  “Stop lamenting the past,” said the lisped gentleman. “Embrace the future. When we crush the duke we will be the new owners of Lombardy and Romagna. Our authority will reach all the way to the Veneto.”

  “That’s a bold thought, but if anybody can manage it it’s Rinaldo. He and Palla can move mountains through the mere force of their wills, to be sure.”

  “But not the mountains of gold that the Medici control, it would seem.”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  Pietro leaned in. “Ser, what are they conspiring?”

  One of Florence’s oldest families, the Medici had been a powerful family since before the Ciompi rebellion. Until only a couple years ago, they had been politically dormant after having been connected to a political conspiracy and banned from holding office. In the interim they had, under the direction of Giovanni di Bicci de’ Medici, built up their financial empire and founded the Medici Bank.

  Their connections abroad had made them fabulously wealthy. Their wealth and influence were still growing, and at a rate that alarmed the other families. Now that the Medici were attempting to regain political power, the struggle between these factions was becoming intense. Having the most to lose, the current rulers from the Albizzi and the Strozzi were the most vociferously opposed to the rise of the Medici.

  “We’ll discuss this later,” I said. Our companions were now in sight, and they carried large cups of wine.

  “There you are!” said my silken-haired beauty. “We were looking all over for you two.”

  “Well you’ve found us, my love. And not a moment too soon. Why, we were just talking about what fun it would be to play some cards.”

  The girl smiled. “Is this true?”

  “Indeed. But we wouldn’t dream of it without the luck of a beautiful woman to guide us. And now that you’re here, shall we?”

  We made our way to the rooms dedicated to gambling. The noise from the chamber was near deafening now, loud drunken voices booming over the sound of drums and flutes and lutes. The energy was intoxicating, and I felt for a moment like a member of this elite bunch that lived lives of drunken frivolity while the rest of society slept and worked and struggled. I could see why Ugo loved this lifestyle, and what drew the other laborers to it.

  The tables before us were surrounded by shouting men, closely packed and bursting with energy. This was the most vocal area in the hall, and it was not hard to understand why. The stakes were high, and drama was painted into the very air itself.

  There were tables for many games, many of which were outlawed in the city. In one corner men played naibi, a fast-paced card game where fortunes were made and lost in the blink of an eye. At the other end of the room, groups of men played bassetta, a game noted for its difficulty to master. Elsewhere, the clack of dice striking one another and the tinkle of coins resounded.

  I approached one of the frusso tables. My lady friend approved of my choice.

  “Have you ever played?” I asked Pietro.

  “Si,” he said, to my surprise. “I’m quite good, in fact.” His absurd mask belied a cunning look in his eyes.

  I laughed. “Well then, frusso it is.” My protégé was proving to be quite the gifted pupil.

  The pouch at my waist held a little more than two hundred silver scudi. Not a vast fortune, but it would be enough to draw attention, especially if I bet foolishly and lost. There were no bankers in sight, but I knew that in that event they would come looking for me.

  A gathering of players and onlookers surrounded the table. We nudged our way to the front, and the dealer greeted us cordially.

  “How do you do, gentlemen? The ante is five scudi.”

  Aside from Pietro and I, there remained one other player left from the previous round plus the dealer. We each dropped the coins into the pool and were dealt two cards. I peeked at my hand: a two of cups and a five of batons. Twenty-seven points. I was off to a good start. The wager was raised two scudi and I staked, matching the bet. Two more cards were dealt.

  In frusso, the deck is made up of thirty-six cards, ten from each suit from a conventional deck. The suits were made up of symbols derived from the social classes; these included cups for the clergy, swords for the nobility, coins for the merchants, and batons for the peasants. In Florence, the ranks ranged from twos to sixes, aces, and royal cards.

  The goal of frusso was to maximize point totals while getting a specific type of hand that matched a determined criteria. The most powerful hand was the frusso, or flush, where all cards were of the same suit, followed by the maximus, the six, ace and cavalier of a single suit. The remaining two hands were the primo, where all cards were different suits, and the numerus, which included two or three cards of one suit.

  I peeked at my cards again. I now had a queen of cups and an ace of swords. Aces were sixteen, so my hand was worth fifty-three. However, my hand only made up a weak numerus.

  The other players sat stolidly, their expressions closely guarded. I watched each player, hoping to see a subtle twitch or sway that might give him away. We watched one another as bets were placed. The man who sat across from me discarded two cards and withdrew two more. Pietro matched the wager and tapped on the table. “Vada!” he said, indicating that he was satisfied with his hand. “Sixty, frusso.”

  The other players grunted. It was a powerful hand. If he wasn’t bluffing, that is. I discarded the queen of cups and drew a new card. Six of cups. Damn my luck, I thought. A part of me did want to win. The wager went around once more, until one of the other men cried “Vada!” and then it was time to reveal our hands.

  The dealer held a numerus, but it included a six and a three. The man facing me revealed a maximus of coins. Pietro slowly placed his cards. Sixty-three. Frusso.

  Lucky bastard. Another few hands and I was even further down on my luck. At last I casually tossed my cards down at the end of another match, my hand utterly worthless.

  “Tough luck,” said the man across from me. I cleared my throat and kept my eyes on the table, feigning frustration. I held my coin purse in my hand, weighing it. In my mind I imagined failure, a sunken barge or a caravan that had been picked clean by robbers. I was soon to be poor, and my family life was becoming affected. Wife, children, their lives hung in the balance, and the only thing between them and poverty were these thirty or so scudi left.

  Pietro collected the pool and began arranging the coins. He was well ahead by now.

  “Again?” said the dealer.

  “Si,” I said.

  Several hands later and my luck was in tatters. What coins I had left made up a pitiful pile on the table before me. I glanced a
bout nervously. The cards were dealt with cold indifference. Another round ensued. The outcome was quick and certain. I remained stoic as the coins were removed.

  When I stood the old man gave me a wink. “Better luck next time, ragazzo.”

  “Grazie.” I exchanged glances with Pietro, who sat still.

  My companion had disappeared. As I stepped away from the table I saw her weave through the crowd towards me. “Ser, you seemed to have had some rather unfortunate luck at the tavolo.”

  I nodded, resigned. “Lady Fortuna has been unkind lately.”

  Her face lit up and she rushed to envelop me. “Now don’t talk like that. She’s just fickle! You just need to give her another chance.”

  “With what? That was my salary for the month.”

  She shook her head. “No, no messere! I just spoke to a very good friend. He wants to meet you.”

  My eyes met hers. “What kind of friend?”

  “My friend Tino. He’s a good man. He will make everything fine.” She placed her warm hand on my forearm. “Don’t worry.”

  Tino. I wasn’t expecting to be led straight to Carlo’s right hand man. But why Tino and not Carlo himself? I couldn’t just ask the lady, so I pushed the thought to the back of my mind and let her lead me through the alleyways made up of partitions and bodies. The music echoed loudly the further we receded. The crowd was now beginning to pile into the chamber and I was nearly knocked aloft several times while I followed my young guide.

  A rough and heavy looking man stood in the corner, propped against the far wall. He spoke to no one, instead observing. I could tell at first look that he was coldblooded, an animal lurking in a man’s body. It was a rare moment of candor, because the next instant he became animated and full of grace. When his eyes crossed the figure of the lady beside me his composition changed, and a warm smile crossed his face.

  He was about to speak when his voice was cut off by a loud noise behind me. I turned for a moment to see the commotion and couldn’t believe my ill luck.

  From a distance of about ten braccia stood Liam, looking dumbly at another large figure with a bandera obscuring the upper portion of his face, a thin black mustache resting atop a lip that was curled in anger. He was powerfully built, like a professional soldier.