Beyond the Raging Flames Page 15

  ‘How do these Northerners cope?’ Orsini mumbled to himself as he shook his head in the wind, and squinted as the chill breeze made his eyes water.

  ‘MASTER’ said the scrawny man, behind Orsini’s back, and Orsini almost fell over the railings with shock. He clapped gold-ringed fingers to his chest before he spun to face his henchman.

  ‘HOW many times have I told you not to do that?' Panted Orsini, 'I could have leapt to my death’ he added with a knotted brow before clutching his blanket tighter about his body. The Henchman stood unmoved, except for a flicker of mirth on his face.

  ‘I have news for you, your Eminence, about the girl.' Orsini seemed placated and gestured for the man to sit down upon one of the blanket covered seats, but he refused and chose to stand as he usually did. Orsini rolled his eyes and sat down at a small table to sip again at a warm flagon of spiced wine that Cook had insisted on preparing for him.

  ‘So?’ said Orsini while he sat, looked, and sipped.

  ‘It seems her star shines ever brighter, your Eminence, and many favours and increasing fame are bestowed upon her.' Orsini took an extended sip from his flagon, ‘and her suitors and admirers at the church grow by the day’ the Henchman continued.

  He put his flagon down with a thump.

  ‘Is that all that you have to tell me? That which I already know and doesn’t surprise me. I can’t blame them. What man could think of anything else after seeing her?’ The Henchman gave a crooked smile.

  ‘There are some, your Eminence, that are not stirred: even by her great beauty.’

  ‘I’m not talking about those sorts: you know what I mean’ he said sipping from his flagon again, before wiping his mouth. ‘Have you seen anyone from the Inquisition? That’s more important.’

  ‘I’ve seen some of those here in Padua, your Eminence.’

  ‘I’m not talking about those gossiping farts’ scoffed Orsini, ‘have you seen anyone of rank from ROME?’ The Henchman shook his head.

  ‘No one you would consider of rank, your Eminence, but there is word, from some that I know in Florence, that an Inquisitor had asked of the girl’s whereabouts, and seemed keen to follow inquiry - it is also said that he carries a Papal letter.' Orsini sat upright in his chair,

  ‘You didn’t mention this before.’

  ‘You were gambling in Venice at the time; your Eminence’ said the deadpan Henchman. Orsini gave out a hiss and waved his hand.

  ‘The best way to control a vice is to indulge it - from time to time...’ said the Cardinal. But his Henchman stood watching him with a steady gaze. ‘I'm incognito, a layman of the people for the duration of my stay' he said, gesturing with his hands, 'I’m allowed to enjoy common pursuits, besides, I didn’t lose any money’ he shrugged.

  ‘No, you won a great deal’ said his Henchman. Orsini looked the scrawny man up and down.

  ‘I don’t pay you to comment. You're not my confessor' he then adjusted his blanket to frustrate the cold, 'trust me, there are worse vices a Cardinal can have... I sin the least.’ The Henchman turned away for a moment to hide his face. Orsini warmed his hands on his flagon before he spoke again: ‘this Inquisitor, you mention, do you think he’s dangerous?’

  ‘It’s difficult to say, your Eminence, as he’s not known to me, but from what I overhear from those that share his lodgings, they don’t seem to think much of him.' Orsini coughed as a chill gust blew across his neck.

  ‘So, he's incognito too, no official residence. I’m not surprised: he’s probably just like those Paduan pig’s bladders down the road who are too wet and slow-witted to think much of anything. “Page-turners” we call them in Rome.' Orsini picked his nose before checking his fingers and flicking away some dry skin. 'All they’re good for is gasping and gossip. They never ban what they like, and don’t understand half of what they should, and to make matters worse, they ADD to the gutter pamphlets, as if we didn’t know, with their feeble efforts.' Orsini took a deep gulp of his spiced wine, which made him feel cosy inside. 'Have you ever read some of what they put out?’ The Henchman shook his head, ‘Horse shit: the lot of it, and their love poetry is bloodless and insipid’ he scowled.

  The Henchman cracked a half smile at Orsini’s words, the most pleasure the Henchman ever showed, for it was one of the reasons he did not harm the Cardinal. He forgave Orsini’s vanity, though he could have punished him if he wished, and had, over the years, grown to like his master. More so for his own entertainment, and the man's high office he did not slit his throat and rob the Cardinal: as he had done with some others that either bored or abused him. Orsini was oblivious, for none of the Henchman's former patrons had survived him to give warnings.

  ‘Do you not worry, your Eminence’ said the Henchman with a slow turn, as the wind lifted his dark cloak aloft, ‘that the girl may marry if she finds a suitor?’ Orsini shuddered again, but not from the chill air.

  He looks like death the Cardinal thought. Orsini rubbed at his chin, for in truth, after their dance, he had imagined Illawara as his, and the thought that such an unusual woman, of such rare qualities, could make a match better than himself had not entered his head. ‘How many suitors come to visit her?’ he said, as his face clouded with thought.

  ‘MANY, your Eminence.’

  ‘Are they eligible?’

  ‘Most are fools, but they bring gifts, that seem to have enriched the household.' Orsini furrowed his brow but left off sipping his flagon that had cooled somewhat in the chill air.

  ‘How do you know that wealth comes into their lodgings?’

  ‘Your Eminence: tradesmen, artisans, and fine foods to and fro with the suitors. Not a day passes now when someone does not come and go. And dresses, your grace, fit for Duchesses are delivered and fitted and worn to church.' Orsini turned his body to face his Henchman.

  ‘How do you know all of this?’ said Orsini rubbing the back of his neck. Surprise sprang for a moment across the Henchman’s face that his client seemed to be ignorant of his methods. He glanced at the large flagon of spiced wine and spoke in a deliberate voice as if to refresh the Cardinal’s memory.

  ‘One need only to stand once outside of Saint Anthony’s to witness the stir she causes.' The Henchman raised his bony finger in the air, 'one need only stand once in the shadows of their street to learn that the tailors crow every day at their new trade.' The Henchman swept his knobbed wrists towards the city centre. 'Every good woman of means in Padua is trying to compete with her and her chaperone, and the tailors can barely keep up-stitch with demand.’ Orsini stood up to walk about the terrace and ruffled his blanket to rub himself warm. He looked far off into the centre of town as the dark gathered:

  ‘The richer she gets, the more out of reach she is to a common man’ Orsini announced, ‘she’ll use the fools if she has any sense, and wait for a suitor much finer, and richer, than she to make her match.' The Henchman watched his patron pace about the terrace as he mused. 'But there's not a noble family in all the land that would touch a woman, no matter how beautiful, that does not belong to an illustrious family.' Orsini turned to his employee, ‘she’s unreachable’ he declared with confidence, as if proclaiming a fact to God and the Fates. But his Henchman give an imperceptible shake of his head as he observed his client look out again across the city.

  ‘Do you forget the times, your Eminence? Things are not as they were, and many titles can be bought, or invented, for the right price. ANY woman of fortune, born high or low, can make a good marriage with a handsome dowry, your Eminence, be she of good family or not.' Orsini slowed his movements as his Henchman spoke, ‘life is expensive, and no one today can meet their expenses with prestige alone.' The Cardinal stopped his pacing to look at his henchman who had not once uttered such wisdom to him and would have called the wretch uncouth if he had not been so accurate.

  Orsini did not protest at the correction and listened as his Henchman spoke on. ‘After I gave a coin, your Eminence, I was told this evening by a tailor’s apprentice, that a nervo
us Roman came into his master’s shop today, and asked for fine clothes to be made for him of the most elaborate kind.’

  ‘WHAT?’ said Orsini, spinning round to face his Henchman.

  ‘I think, your Eminence, an Inquisitor also follows your saying?’ Orsini puckered his mouth, and blew out air.

  ‘The best way to control a vice is to indulge it’ repeated Orsini. The Cardinal rubbed his face with his cold hands and nibbled at his fingernails. ‘Do you think he means to present himself so that he may denounce her?’ The Henchman shrugged, his duty served. ‘What is his name?’

  ‘The boy said Pedro, but he also said the man seemed unsure.’

  ‘He wouldn’t use his real name if he’s Inquisition’ said Orsini who then returned to his pacing. ‘I must find a tailor at once: I’ve underestimated this man.' Orsini then paid and thanked his Henchman who then took his leave and swept away from the terrace, and out of the palazzo, much to Cook’s relief.

  After some time thinking, Orsini dropped off his blanket in his well-upholstered room before he followed his nose downstairs for dinner. The stuffed guinea fowl Cook had roasted with root vegetables was the best meal she had cooked him thus far, and he complimented her efforts as they sat in the kitchen to eat together. Orsini nodded, absent-minded as he licked his fingers, while Cook let fly her repressed opinions of his Henchman. He smirked at her complaints, but Cook noticed as she talked that her refined guest seemed far away.

  Chapter 12

  The Niellos

  Venice, morning, Tuesday, 28th of November 1611

  Professor Sloane had spent the last few weeks going backwards and forwards from his lodgings in the Castello area, between the Rialto and the Arsenale, visiting Levin Glanz’s workshop to see how his commission progressed. Despite Levin's best efforts, the project had suffered some delays. Professor Sloane chose to spend his free time carousing with the former pirates turned merchants, who, between them, knew every drink and gambling den in Venice.

  The Professor had mixed luck, his funds were running low, and the commission had increased in expense. If he could not win at cards, or at the wheel, more often he would have to create more money soon, and for that, he would need his suitcase.

  The Professor awoke in the bed of his modest lodgings, fully clothed, bathed in light as the day drew on, and cursed his height as his legs dangled over the short bedframe.

  He clutched his head and yawned, a head still fuzzy after a night of drinking with Gerben, John and Prince Fano, and he reflected on what he had thought of as his wild university days. Marijuana could not touch this. Oxford paled in comparison to the elicit delights that Venice offered. He pondered what future generations would go on to say of the 60’s, and 70’s in the West: their drugs, wildness, experimentation and excesses - but he found all that in Venice in oversupply.

  The Professor stretched and yawned again, before swinging his feet down to the floor. Winston did not remember taking off his shoes. He saw Lucia, in his mind's eye, and relived his captivity with her for a moment as well as the powerful knowledge and experiences he had gained through her. 'I wonder where she is now?' The Professor whispered to himself. The freedom and excitement of Venice intoxicated Winston, where he enjoyed every delight from the known world offered to him with gleeful abandon.

  He then mused on Ruskin and Byron, who would follow him, and all the other famous literary heroes that would venture to the lagoon after his present time, and revive Venice after her Napoleonic ruin.

  The Professor threw himself back on the bed and sprawled with indulgent self-satisfaction knowing that he tasted and experienced Venice, somewhere near her best. A Venice before the party had ended, going towards the heights of her beauty, before her profound malaise, and before her greatest fall. The Professor relished in his exquisite knowledge, the sheer uniqueness of his position, like an aged lover remembering a great passion from their youth that springs, undimmed, from a forgotten memory, and quickens wise flesh that dares to feel young again.

  ‘This is living’ declared the Professor, after standing up, as he glanced at his ruddy reflection topped with a muddled mop of his platinum hair, and laughed out loud at his youthful complexion. The Professor stroked his face and smirked seeing in himself again the young man before the responsibilities of research, and leading a physics department - burdens that had begun to weigh upon him, and his looks, many years into the future.

  In a flash of mind, the Professor then scurried about his room to snatch up a piece of paper, and dipped his quill into the ink-well upon his small ledger. He spread his legs wide to fit them under the table, and attempted to scrawl the full date: November 1611… But, unsure of the days, he hurried instead to the rest of the blank paper and scratched his words across the page as if trying to capture a fleeting moment.

  He felt, within the grasp of impishness, like writing a letter about himself and his experiences upon the paper, and wedging it somewhere within some grand valuable item for some restorer to puzzle over at an auction house in the future.

  He stopped writing, shook his head, and put down his quill. 'No one would believe it' he muttered to himself, 'too outlandish' he said before tutting at his hubris. The Professor clapped his hand on his forehead and tittered. ‘Silly boy’ he chortled, before tearing up his scrawled letter into tiny pieces and tossing the remains aside like confetti. The Professor undressed. He caught sight of his toned physique in the mirror and turned to inspect himself before he did twenty push-ups: clapping his hands on each up-thrust. He then grinned from ear to ear looking at his reflection, as he pumped his biceps and took note of the shadows that formed under his muscles. 'I could fuck the world!' he said before he nodded with approval and watched himself as he washed his physique with a sponge from the scented water bowl in his room. Winston dressed before he combed his abundant hair.

  The Professor added the finishing touches to his look, like a proud teenager would, with a skilful swipe of his comb, and the straightening of his freshly pressed clothes. He smiled in the mirror to check his teeth, before smoothing his fingers over his eyebrows and running them through his hair. He spoke to himself again: ‘you’ve come to know many things, Winston, but you’ll never know baldness.’ And with that, the fifty-two-year-old laughed at his own quip, flicked his head, and smoothed his jerkin over his taut torso, tugged at his stockings that hugged his muscular legs, and left his lodgings that late morning to search for food and flirt with Giaconda.

  ◆◆◆

  Lucia laughed too after she covered her crystal ball that allowed her to spy upon the Professor. 'Ha!' she crowed, 'he's as vain as a peacock.' But she liked his attitude. Out of some strange modesty, and peculiar envy that seemed alien to her, she had covered her ball when the Professor had entertained and delighted female company in his room but was not above seeing the vigorous man undress for his bathing in the mornings. Lucia admired a clean man, and more than remembered how much she had enjoyed her captive when he had been hers, and hers alone.

  ‘He’s as bold as a robin and natural as springtime’ she said out loud with a girlish shrug. ‘And who am I to steal what isn’t mine?’ She sighed, without convincing herself. For if Lucia could, she would have held him captive again if Hekate had not stood against it and blessed the man with her silvery mark.

  Winston lay beyond Lucia's powers. She had a better chance of taming a wild lion than controlling the Professor, and she knew it: which served to make her desire him more.

  Lucia made ready to leave her lodgings in the impoverished district of San Samuele, in which she had spent the last few weeks. A place where the dim claustrophobic passageways choked the air from the Grand Canal and overran with all the down and outs of Venice.

  Thieves, vagabonds, fallen courtesans, and feeble prostitutes with their meagre offspring from unknown fathers, would traverse the narrow alleys on their way to steal or beg upon the wealthier streets nearby, in a phlegmatic procession of listless meandering.

  Most of the women a
nd a good deal of the men sold themselves. They haunted the famous theatres, hungry for trade and even hungrier for food. Pleasure was cheap in this part of town. Many workers could have earned three times as much for their services were it not for their forlorn states: with once attractive looks ravished by starvation, violence, smallpox or syphilis.

  Over the years Lucia had come to know some of the local women well. She ignored the men. Lucia had often visited the district, when away from Arcetri and if she did business with the Venice East India Company. She did not fear the poverty and danger of her surroundings, within sight of the of San Samuele’s bell tower, for she, being a woman that could defend herself, had shocked many a man with her might who thought he could enjoy an attractive woman without her consent.

  Lucia had lost count of the men she had tossed aside mangled, and groaning, to the floor. She left them where they fell. The lucky ones: collected by friends that retraced their steps in search of their missing companions, whispered their experiences only to the closest of confidants. Some of Lucia's attackers got robbed where they lay in agony, with broken ribs, legs, or arms, unable to escape scoundrels even lower than themselves.

  Those that survived an encounter never forgot their experience, and word spread amongst the men of the lowest sort, that should they spy a glowing blond unchaperoned that they were to give that woman a wide berth, or face the terrible consequences.

  Lucia paid homage to an elderly nun she liked in San Samuele and paused to admire the eight frescoed Sybil's of the church before leaving. She walked with confidence down the narrow, dingy alleys, and did not care a jot when she spied survivors of her self-defence. The men scuttled or hobbled, out of her way when they recognised her. 'Still trying your luck?' Lucia hissed out of the corner of her mouth at one former attacker - the man could not look her in the eye and turned white when he recognised her. The man froze where he stood, unable to move. Lucia threw her head back laughing as she sauntered past him.