Veronica COURTESAN (12 page)

‘Of course. Here we are far away from prying eyes, but I’ll be careful all the same.’

‘What news from Venice?’

‘None yet. I expect we shall hear soon enough how the epidemic is progressing.’

‘You think ’tis bad?’

‘I fear so.’

Fear squeezes my gut. Fear for Lena. Fear for Marco. Fear for my servants. I’m torn between relief that my boys and I are safe in this haven of health and tranquillity, and a terrible, terrible regret that I’ve left behind those I love to face such danger without me.

At last, a month later, a letter comes from Marco:
Lady, your absence has been to me, your faithful and devoted lover, a death as cruel as it was unexpected. The number of mortalities from the plague has been increasing with every day that passes. We hope the approaching winter will decrease the contagion. I have been to check on your children’s nanny and the rest of you household. All is well. ’Tis my greatest wish that I could come and visit you in Verona, sweet lady, but I expect the situation will stabilise in the New Year and soon you will be returned to me in Venice.

I kiss his signature and put the letter away with my own papers. The morning stretches before me, with nothing to do but my writing. A thunderstorm last night has cleared the air, and outdoors beckons. I shall go for a walk before I start work. My boys are with their tutor, so I’ll go alone. Perhaps I’ll bump into Ludovico and Giovanni and we can enjoy a stroll the three of us. I’m not jealous of Giovanni, for Ludovico never makes me feel excluded, insisting I sit with them in the evenings to play the card game,
Trappola
, with one or other of them usually managing to take most of the tricks and winning, much to my pretended vexation. We play for small stakes, though. The government prohibits this game, for they frown on gambling, but, as long as we keep the activity behind closed doors, how will they find out?

I enjoy the company of Ludovico and Giovanni, and the experience of friendship with two men without any sexual tension between us. How I long for a world where men and women can live together on an equal footing, the way I am living here, and for men who love each other to do so freely.

A path leads to the woods at the summit of the hill. The scent of damp vegetation permeates the air; all around me birdsong echoes, crickets chirrup and sheep baa in the fields beyond. Truly the countryside is noisy, but my feet make no sound on the carpet of dead leaves below them. There’s a coppice up ahead, where I came to pick mushrooms with Achiletto and Enea when their tutor had his day off yesterday. I walk with determined steps towards it. The sound of voices stops me in my tracks. Who can be here? My heart thuds. Perhaps ’tis bandits? No, Veronica! Don’t be silly! Even so, I hide behind a thicket of bushy trees.

Maria santissima
! There are Ludovico and Giovanni. Naked as the day they were born. Stretched out next to each other on the small patch of grass in the middle of the clearing. I peer through the dark green foliage in front of me. Ludovico has the body of a Greek god: broad shoulders, well-muscled torso and sturdy thighs. Giovanni is taller than Ludovico, but only slightly, and my breath catches at the sight of his lean figure: strong-looking arms, sculpted legs, and muscular hips.

Ludovico has Giovanni’s long thick prick in his hand, and he’s stroking it slowly with a full-handed grip while Giovanni, risen up on his elbows, watches himself being touched. My
figa
twitches and fills with moisture. The men kiss hard and deep. I unlace my cod (I dress in masculine attire all the time here), slip my hand between my labia, and cover it with wetness. I feel empty inside, empty and hungry and intensely aroused. With the other hand I reach under my doublet and roll a nipple between my fingers and thumb, biting down hard on my lips.

Ludovico kisses his way along Giovanni’s chest and stomach, then takes the entire length of his shaft into his mouth. Moaning softly, Giovanni lays his hand on the back of Ludovico’s neck, then entangles it in his hair. Their mouths and hands on each other seem gentle, almost tender. I massage my pearl with slow strokes, feeling it swell between my fingers, my juices flowing.

‘Please,’ Giovanni pants.

Ludovico takes hold of Giovanni’s legs and pushes them up to his chest. He spits on his hand. My
figa
spasms. I know I shouldn’t be here, watching them, but the sight of these two beautiful men about to fuck is captivating.

Giovanni wraps his arms under his knees while Ludovico works two fingers into his
culo.
Oh, I remember how good that feels. Giovanni’s moans are of pure pleasure. I know how Ludovico works my arse and ’tis so, so enticing to see him do it to someone else. His hand goes in and up, then he makes small tight circles with his fingers.

Now Ludovico is positioning himself between Giovanni’s thighs. He pushes his prick into his lover’s
culo
, bit by bit, their two naked chests touching. Never before has he taken me like this, for my breasts don’t interest him. Their mouths meet in a desperate kiss and Ludovico’s hips pump against Giovanni again and again and again.
Such beauty! Such perfection!
His shoulder blades move with each thrust, his back arching and bowing as he pushes deeper and deeper into Giovanni. My own thighs are trembling.

Ludovico’s thrusts are slow and hard and Giovanni takes a quick breath each time Ludovico pulls out then into him again. I’m rubbing my nub harder and faster, desperate to reach my joy, envying Giovanni for Ludovico’s prick inside him. I raise my right foot to the large rock on the ground beside me. With my left hand, I push three fingers deep, pressing the knuckles into my figa, while my right hand teases my pearl. It feels so wonderful.

‘I want to fuck you always,’ Ludovico says, biting Giovanni’s chest, then kissing him long and hard. All of a sudden he pulls out and flips Giovanni over. ‘Pray, get onto your knees, and put your head down,
tesoro
.’

Ludovico is an expert: he angles his prick and pushes it back into Giovanni’s
culo
. After a few practice thrusts, he circles his arms around Giovanni’s chest and pounds into him. Reaching down, he wraps a hand around Giovanni’s shaft and milks him, his thrusts increasing in speed and intensity. Ludovico appears lost to himself, thrusting so hard that I wince as I match his power and twist my own fist. Low grunts of pleasure escape Ludovico’s throat. I have to bite my tongue in order not to echo him.

I can’t hold on anymore. My
figa
contracts around my fist, and my pearl pulses against my fingers. Wetness gushes out of me. My whole body shakes and shudders. Joy rocks through me, on and on and on. At the same time, Ludovico yells, ‘Giovanni!’ and his pumping buttocks buck and shudder his climax.

For a few moments, he rests his forehead against the back of Giovanni’s neck. Then he pulls out and gently pushes Giovanni flat down on his back. He lifts Giovanni’s thighs. Pushing his fingers inside Giovanni’s
culo
, he brings his mouth down once more onto Giovanni’s erection, sucking him so hard his cheeks practically disappear. A groan escapes Giovanni as he judders his release. The two men collapse in each other’s arms, kissing and whispering their love. I feel privileged to have witnessed their passion.

Quietly, I turn and trace my steps back to the villa. How long will I have to stay here? Sadness washes over me. It could be months, or, God forbid, years if the epidemic is a bad one. My boys won’t know their city when we return. My lovers might have forgotten me. I miss Marco, Andrew and Lena so much, not to mention my dear friend Domenico. And I miss Venice, even if ’tis liberating not to have to wear a mask when out and about. I allow myself one long drawn-out sigh, before I square my shoulders and quicken my step. I shall ready my poems for publication and send them to be printed. Even though the city is besieged by pestilence, the printing presses will not have shut down, I hope.

Finally, we’re going home. Nearly two years have gone by since we left, two years during which the plague raged on. The first winter did nothing to appease the contagion, in spite of the severe cold. By the following Christmas, nearly fifty thousand Venetians lay dead, almost a third of our population, amongst whom my beloved Lena. When the news came, at first I refused to believe it. How could my dearest friend have been taken from me? She lies buried in a mass grave on the island of Lazzaretto, together with Anna, my cook, and Giulia, my maid. I sobbed myself to sleep at night for months, worry for Marco, Andrew and Domenico intensifying my pain. But they have survived,
grazie a Dio
, and now ’tis safe to return I can’t wait to see them again.

Maurizio, Domisilla and their daughters (they had another one some years ago) have survived as well, and I have sent them funds via Ludovico, who has gone ahead. We left Padova this afternoon in his boat, and Rodolfo Vannitelli travels with us. In spite of my dislike of him (he still looks at me with a lascivious gleam in his eyes), he’s a good tutor and the boys are making excellent progress with their studies.

Night has already fallen and the sea is dark and choppy. Thick cloud scuds across the full moon, and the only sound is the lapping of the waves against the wooden prow. Lights glow ahead, glimmering like angel-hair captured by moonlight on the water’s surface. The lights flicker and grow stronger; now there are buildings to be seen. A passageway of coloured wooden markers guides us into the wide canal, with shacks and warehouses on each side, their jetties crammed with stone and mounds of timber, and barges lined up along the moorings.

We pass some dwellings and a church, its stern brick frontage stretching up into the sky, its forecourt flat and empty. Then, the familiar frescoed and gilded façades of the grand houses lift up out of the water. My heart sings in the waxy, pale light, as the buildings on each side become even grander – two or three storeys tall, their entrances low, a few stone steps all that separates them from the sea. Great doors open onto cavernous halls with rows of slim-hipped gondolas tied up outside, their silvery prows glinting. Pointed-arched windows, fretted stone like lacework in the moonlight, reveal sparkling chandeliers, the numbers of candles bearing witness to the extraordinary wealth of this, my city. Surely all is well and I can pick up my life where I left it, in spite of the dreadful sadness that stalks my soul.

I break into a smile: there are Ludovico and Maurizio, waiting at the Rialto jetty. We disembark and I greet them with warm embraces. Porters take our luggage, and we walk the rest of the way to Campo Santa Maria Formosa, carrying the sleeping boys through the narrow, dark
calli.
Maurizio leaves us to go to his wife and daughters in their rooms at the back of the house. After a quick supper of bread and cheese, we put Achiletto and Enea to bed and show Rodolfo to his quarters, which used to be Lena’s. I choke back a sob and sit with Ludovico in the
portego.
Everything seems so small and simple after the grandness of Giovanni’s villa. ‘Do you miss him?’ I ask.

Ludovico knows who I mean, immediately. ‘Like I would miss my right arm, were it to be cut off.’

‘Have you seen Andrew and Marco?’ I wonder they are not here to greet me, then chide myself for unrealistic expectations. They have their own lives, as I have mine. They’ll be here soon enough…

Ludovico takes my hand. ‘Veronica, there’s something you should know.’
Oh, Dio!
From his tone, I realise what he’s about to say will not be to my liking. ‘The Venice we knew no longer exists. There’s severe poverty amongst many families who’ve lost their breadwinners. People are searching for someone to blame. And their fingers are pointing to the moral dissolution of courtesans and prostitutes. You need to keep your head down, my dear, and take care how you appear in public.’

‘Then I shall, of course.’ I’d feared as much these long months in exile, but had never voiced my fear. I squeeze Ludovico’s fingers. ‘There’s something I’ve been thinking of doing ever since my poor Lena passed away. So many young women have had to resort to prostitution. Even their own mothers merchandise their daughters’ flesh to receive economic support. It happened to me and to countless others. I know there are homes set up for destitute unmarried women, funded by the state. But I would like to found a home for
married
women with children, precisely those women to whom you refer who’ve lost their husbands and only source of income. What say you?’

‘I say ’tis a wonderful idea. And a very good ploy on your part.’

‘I did not mean it like that.’ I stroke his hand. ‘I would like to do this in Lena’s memory and to help women in general.’

‘Then you have my full support.’

‘
Grazie, caro
.’

The next morning, I discover just how terrible the situation has been. I go to the chest in my chamber, where I’d packed my silverware, only to find it empty. Domisilla bursts into floods of tears when I confront her. ‘My lady, it happened one Sunday while we were at mass. Someone broke in and stole it all. There’s so much thievery these days. We’ve learnt to be more vigilant.’

‘’Tis a shame. I was hoping to sell some of it to give to a worthy cause.’

Domisilla wipes her nose. ‘I’m sorry, signora. Truly I am. I wanted to ask if you would let me and my daughters perform an incantation.’

‘An incantation?’

‘Yes. To reveal the thief.’

‘If you wish, by all means. You have my permission. I remember, when I was a child, my mother instructed me to look into a bowl of water, recite a prayer, three paternosters and three Ave Marias. The incantation worked and we discovered it was my father who had stolen a coat from my mother. And later, he even confessed to the crime.’

I’m sure it was a coincidence, but anything to make Domisilla happy. I no longer believe in such nonsense.

‘Thank you, signora. Perhaps we can try the spell tomorrow?’

‘Yes, by all means.’ I am distracted. Unused to dealing with petty matters. It was Lena who would handle everything for me, and my mother before her. I feel lost, out on a limb without her.
Pull yourself together, Veronica. You’re no longer a child, or even that young anymore.
Thirty last summer, one could call me middle-aged. When I look in the mirror, there are fine lines around my eyes. At least my body is still firm, and my breasts pert. How I long for my lovers. Will Marco and Andrew visit soon?

‘Pray, Domisilla. I wish to curtail expenses. The government frowns on excesses. I think we can manage well enough with just you and Maurizio. I’ll employ a cook, of course. Do you know of anyone?’

‘Si, signora. There’s a woman, Bortola, who’s looking for work since her patron died in the plague. I believe she is quite capable.’

‘I would like you to send word to her. I’ll interview her on the morrow.’ I delve into my purse and give Domisilla some coins. ‘Please, go to the market and purchase food. Simple fare that you can cook for us. Obviously, when our new cook starts work she can take over that responsibility.’

‘Si, signora. I’ve already given Achiletto, Enea and their tutor their breakfast. The boys have grown so much I hardly recognised them.’

‘’Tis true. I had to purchase new clothes for them both in Verona.’

I wave Domisilla off. The boys were sad to leave the freedom of the villa and its gardens. I hope they’ll get used to life in a floating city again. And I hope that I, too, will adjust quickly to my changed circumstances. I’ve been spoilt and pampered far too long.

‘Cara,’ Domenico says when I’m ushered into his
portego
an hour later. I’m wearing a plain black skirt, and my nipples are hidden under a white chemise topped by a dark brown bodice to comply with the new laws. ‘You look quite different.’

I have to take a deep breath to stop myself from commenting on his changed appearance as well, for my old friend looks ill and tired. ‘Fare you well?’ I ask.

‘Well enough. Come, sit by me and tell me all about Verona.’

I give him a brief account of my time away then reach into my pocket to extract a copy of my
Terze Rime.
Finally published last year, I know ’tis my greatest achievement. Bound in leather with an engraved portrait of myself at the front, the volume contains eleven
capituli
by me and seven by others in the form of a dialogue. I can’t help loving them.

Domenico holds the book to his heart. ‘Brava! Brava! I shall certainly treasure this.’

I clear my throat and tell him about my idea to set up a home for destitute women. ‘Do you know of anyone who can help me?’

‘I expect Marco would be more than happy to lend a hand getting you the right permissions and funding. Have you seen him yet?’

‘No. I expect he’s rather busy.’

‘He’s had to cope with much these past couple of years. I’m sure he’ll call on you soon.’

‘I hope so.’
Oh, how I long for him!

Footsteps sound on the stairs and a voice calls, ‘Veronica!’ A voice I know well. My heartrate quickens.

‘I went to your house, and your maid told me you were here,’ Andrew says, coming up, bowing, and then kissing my hand.

‘Dearest Andrew, how wonderful,’ I say.

‘Come, Veronica, I’m sure Domenico will excuse us, but we have to make up for nearly two years of missed lovemaking. Then I want to see my son.’

Domenico’s brow creases. ‘Take care,
carissimi.
The authorities have spies everywhere.’

‘We will.’ I kiss my benefactor on both cheeks. ‘I’ll visit in a day or two.’