Votive (27 page)

‘Y– yes, Your Majesty.’

‘Leave me,’ ordered Zaralina and turned to face the table.

The door shut and Zaralina felt the comfortable frostiness of Shazet’s touch brush her shoulder.

‘Will I ever be able to feel a kiss like that, Your Majesty?’ The words tickled her ear.

She reached up and cupped his face, feeling his shudder right through her own body. ‘Get me what I want, Shazet, and I’ll make sure you feel that … and so much more.’

T
HE WEATHER GREW SO BITTER,
not even the crackling fires burning in every grate could dissipate the icy draughts that whistled up and down the corridors and through the cracks of Casa Maleovelli nor keep away the damp that began to seep into the walls as the constant rains lashed the casa. We all seemed to race from room to room, shutting doors, clutching shawls and coats about us, and loitering before the fireplaces in an effort to dispel the chill that, once it entered your body, was almost impossible to expel. With mid-winter came shortened days bookended by darkness – the black sky and the illumination of candles now accompanied most of our daily rituals.

It wasn’t only the change of season that brought an adjustment to the rhythms of the casa. I could feel something in the air – a growing excitement – not only delivered every time a fresh missive arrived from Jacopo, who had now reached the Contested Territories and successfully negotiated trading rights, but from beyond. Something was happening outside; as if the city were holding its breath. I longed to find out what it was but at first I was too caught up by the transformations within.

The quiet canal that ran along the back of the casa had become a busy thoroughfare. Craft laden with merchandise appeared daily, unloading onto the ground floors. There
were now frequent visitors and the house began to ring with accents, pungent smells and the noise of workers scraping barrels, boxes and bales across the floors below.

The changes beneath soon made their way to the first floor. Variety crept onto the platters of food that were painstakingly prepared by a new cook the Maleovellis employed and who took up residence on the floor above, along with a growing band of servants. Where once there were spaces on the walls and floors, fresh pictures and tapestries were displayed, dusted by the additional helpers who had also been found to restore the casa to its former glory. Giaconda’s wardrobe also altered. Gone were the unfashionable dresses I’d first seen her in, and which so impressed me, to be replaced with the latest trends sewn from lush, ornate fabrics.

When Giaconda brought to my room a gown designed especially for me, I first sank into a low curtsy. ‘Grazie mille, Signorina,’ I said, and tried not to show how great my pleasure was at receiving such a gift. The dress was a deep violet, much like the belladonna I would crush and drop into my eyes, so often these days I’d become accustomed to the sting. It would not do for the new servants to discover what I was.

I’d hastened my wash and, with Hafeza’s help, stepped gracefully into my new dress. Snug over my breasts, it clung to my waist, its full sleeves slashed to expose silver and pearl inlays. I’d never possessed anything so beautiful in my life. I’d never possessed anything, apart from my spectacles, that was for me alone. I could not stop admiring myself. Wherever there was a reflection – the glass of the windows, the sheen of a knife, the gilt mirrors that decorated the dark hallways, I would take the opportunity to look.

I knew it was my candles and the power they contained that had helped to turn the Maleovellis’ fortunes. They
were well pleased with me. Over time, new clothes, shoes, masks and even some jewellery became more frequent and, I confess, expected. I, who had once appreciated hand-me-down britches and thought a scrap of paper from the canal and a piece of myrtle wax precious, began to covet these expensive things.

Dinner in my room became a more frequent occurrence, and I would both hear and sense laughter and movement in other parts of the casa long into the night. I stifled my natural curiousity. Ever since I was caught eavesdropping, I’d done nothing to make the Maleovellis doubt me again. I felt confident that my good behaviour would soon be rewarded in other ways.

I was right. Only it wasn’t in the manner I anticipated.

Now that Jacopo had left, my lessons in reading and writing also ceased. Not that I needed them anymore. I was able to shape my letters well and reading was no longer difficult as I simply absorbed the author’s intentions as I touched the parchment. I would look at the words, and the ideas and purpose behind them would form a context in my mind. It was not reading in the true sense, I guess, but it more than sufficed. Not only that, but it opened a world to me that my confinement within the casa denied. I devoured the various pamphlets and books that Giaconda allowed. I quickly graduated from shopping lists and household invoices to religious texts, philosophical treatises, ancient history translated from Hellenic into Serenissian, and what I loved best: poetry. There was something about the arrangement of the words, the pictures that filled my head and darted in and out of my heart that set my imagination afire.

Giaconda would draw me into discussions about what I was learning. I was astonished at how much she knew and, I admit, impressed. Able to recite poetry, remember import
ant dates and events, even in other countries, converse about the merits of a particular artist or singer or quote lines from a popular play, she would challenge me to do the same. She also told me about the triumphs and misdemeanours of other nobiles, of courtesans and traders. It may have been gossip, but it was different from that I used to hear poisoning Quinn and Francesca’s tongues or even the bits Baroque would periodically divulge. She would quiz me about everything afterwards – test my memory. It became a game between us and, as the days went by, I became a worthy contestant.

She did maintain my lessons in deportment, dancing and dress and continued to work on softening my accent and developing my singing voice which, it turned out, was reasonably melodic. As I had sworn to myself after Renzo’s death, I remained compliant, and with that my confidence grew. Any doubts I had, any misgivings or uncomfortable memories, I simply extracted and distilled into the harlequin. My past faded into a piece of glass as, day by day, I grew into someone else.

In order to become her completely, one last lesson remained.

T
HE DAY BEGAN IN SILENCE AS SNOW
fell softly, secretly, blanketing the casa and cocooning us from the outside world. I attended to my ablutions, dressed and joined Giaconda in Jacopo’s study for cafe. We sat facing each other in the old armchairs, the candles flickering, the little window admitting only a dull light, the books and scrolls with which I was becoming so familiar neatly stacked on shelves. The fire blazed, but the room refused to warm. I sipped my cafe, concentrated on not shivering too much, and waited for Giaconda to begin.

Putting down her cup on the little side table, she regarded me for a moment.

‘You look well, Tarlo.’

‘Grazie. I feel well, Signorina.’ I nursed my cup in the palm of one hand as I had been taught.

‘Bene.’ Over the next five minutes, she questioned me about our conversation the day before – the descendants of the Doge. I answered her without making a mistake.

‘Ah.’ She smiled and picked up her cafe, taking a drink. ‘Your mind will gratify the most difficult and demanding of men, Tarlo. It is sharp and quick. Your memory is faultless. But the mind of a courtesan is only useful if she also knows how to use her body.’

My heart began to beat very quickly. Colour infused my cheeks.

‘Combined, the mind and body of a courtesan can afford a man untold pleasures. You are learning to master one; it’s now time to begin studying the other.’ She gave me a knowing smile over the rim of her cup. She finished the contents, placed it back on the table and smoothed her skirt.

‘Words are one talent courtesans have – but there are many more arts we use. There’s also our lips, tongues, fingers and even our toes.’ As she spoke, she touched the relevant body part before closing the gap between us and stroking mine as well. The sateen of her gloves sent shivers along my spine. ‘There’s also our legs.’ She lifted her dress slowly, like a curtain. My eyes widened when I saw she wasn’t wearing any pantaloons. Her creamy legs looked smooth and inviting. She lowered the skirt. ‘And arms,’ she continued, reaching over and running a finger along mine, pushing the fabric into my skin as she did. I remained completely still less she stop. The pleasure of her touch sent waves of longing through me. ‘And let’s not
forget the beauty of our breasts –’ Her fingers danced over my décolletage, goose bumps marking their passage ‘– and naturalmente, the rest of our form.’ Her hand rested lightly over the place where my dress dipped into my lap. I was holding my breath.

‘With that in mind,’ she said, slowly removing her hand and drawing away from me, ‘I want to give you this to read.’ She reached over the desk and picked up a tattered pamphlet. ‘This is an infamous piece by a rather clever man whom I hope you will meet one day. His name is Pietro Aretino – he calls himself a poet. Others call him a peddler of
pornografia
.’ She shrugged. ‘No matter what he’s called, he’s very popular and his work is … enlightening. Certo, it’s appropriate for our needs.’

I knew his name. He’d been mentioned over dinner a number of times, causing Signor Maleovelli no end of delight. Apparently his work had caught the attention of the Cardinale and not in a welcome way. I didn’t always understand the nuances underpinning much of what Signor Maleovelli said – he often spoke in cipher – but I found it interesting and more than a little thrilling that I was being allowed to read the work of someone so … notorious. I took the bundle of yellowing parchment Giaconda offered, my hand shaking slightly, my insides very warm.

‘Of course, the best way to learn how to please a man is to be with one.’ She stood up and leant over, caressing my cheek as she spoke. ‘Your time approaches, Tarlo.’

Clutching the parchment tightly, I did not trust myself to speak,

‘Do not fear,’ she said, leaning closer. ‘I know you disapprove of Signor Moronisini. I will make sure your first is not so … old. I will also ensure he is gentle.’

I opened my mouth to protest then shut it again.

I shivered – from fear, excitement or premonition, I did not know.

Happy to have dinner in my room that night, I lay on the bed and thought about what Giaconda said. I could not change what for me was inevitable. It was clear that, in order to work towards the greater goal of bringing the Estrattore home, I had to be in a position where I could advance the Maleovellis, and the best way for me to do that was as a courtesan. Giaconda had explained that, as a courtesan of a particular calibre, I would have access to the nobiles’ casas, to their bedrooms and to their minds. Once she had enjoyed the same sort of entrée, but time and the reduction of the Maleovelli fortunes had meant that doors previously open had closed, and they’d been forced to rent accommodation in other sestiere to maintain business. For me it would be different. Once inside the casas, I could burn my candles. No-one would suspect a courtesan of that type of manipulation, let alone of being an Estrattore. Not if I was as careful as I intended to be.

I threw aside my concerns and wild imaginings and opened the bound pieces of parchment. The title, ‘School of Whoredom’ should have prepared me for the contents, but I still found myself blushing and giggling and feeling very hot as I read a fictitious dialogue between an older woman and a young courtesan. They were so graphic in their descriptions of what happened between a man and a woman, so open in their conversations. I had to keep putting the pamphlet down as pictures flew into my head, and scenarios that I found quite arousing formed. I rolled from my back onto my stomach and kept reading. When the first candle burned to a tiny stump, I lit another. The fire smouldered, its heat no longer necessary. My fevered imagination kept me very warm.

It wasn’t until I fell into an exhausted sleep in the early hours of the morning, that the images of men and women, flirting, taking pleasure from each other’s bodies, feeling
sated and satisfied by the transaction between courtesan and gentleman, translated into a vivid dream. A dream in which I was a courtesan, and my lover a tall, broad-shouldered man with thick black hair and night-time eyes that regarded me with such intensity it took my breath away. I knew this man. He was as known to me as my own face.

It was Dante.

Every kiss we shared, every caress, made me ache with desire for more. I moaned and half-woke to find myself clutching my pillow. I buried my head and tried to return to that place where Dante was alive and he was mine. It was fruitless.

When I finally roused, I felt tired as well as unfulfilled and restless. I trembled, and not only from the chill in the room. I rose, and after first blowing on the fire to stir the glowing embers into flames, went to the bowl that rested on the cabinet and splashed water on my face. I picked up a drying sheet and rubbed my face vigorously, as if shedding the residue of my night memories. I caught my reflection in the mirror and went and stood in front of it.

Instead of seeing myself, Dante stood before me. The sheet fell from my fingers. His hair was tousled, his face smudged with dirt, his teeth so very white. His eyes sparkled and he wore that knowing look of his – the one that bespoke mischief and something else besides. Then, it all swam and changed. I was looking down on him. He stared back at me and I lost myself in the depths of his gaze, indifferent to the blood pouring out of his mouth and over those firm, full lips.