Veronica COURTESAN (13 page)

Maffio is back in Venice. I’ve read the mournful canzone he wrote last year, in which he prayed for the city’s deliverance, but another of his vile sonnets is circulating, and this one cuts me to the core.

’Tis a satire against me, again. He denounces what he calls my self-elevating motives for the engraved portrait of myself at the front of my
Terze Rime,
by parodying the sonnet accompanying my frontispiece medallion. ‘The picture unquestioningly represents Franco because of its extreme ugliness’, he writes. The Latin motto inscribed below the hand clasping a lighted torch signals not only what he calls my ‘pretentions to intellectual virtue’, but also the flames of love, or rather, lovemaking that moves me to earn the financial reward I so covet. Contradicting himself, he goes on to accuse me of having falsified my age by hoping the portrait will persuade the reader of my beauty, youth, and intelligence.

How dare he accuse me of deception and vanity? I wish I could tear out his deceiving tongue by its root, and after biting it against my palate, I’d then rejoice at having turned to bloodshed for my revenge.

Anger fizzing in my chest, I get up from my desk to go to the kitchen and give Bortola, my new cook, her instructions for our weekly menus. As I head down the stairs, I come upon Rodolfo, approaching from the opposite direction.

Dio mio!
He grabs my shoulders and pulls me towards him, crushing me against his chest, his slimy tongue pushing between my lips.

‘Unhand me! You presume too much.’ I push him, hard, and he topples backwards, hitting his head on the step as he lands.

He manages to get to his feet, and mumbles, ‘I’m sorry, signora. Your beauty has bewitched me.’

‘If you ever try anything like that again, you will have to pack your bags and leave.’

The vile cur scuttles off, tail between his legs.
Madre di Dio
, I shall have to find another tutor for my boys. Rodolfo turns my stomach.

Domisilla is in the kitchen with her daughters. ‘We’re ready for the incantation,’ she says.

‘Oh, all right.’ My heart isn’t in it, but anything to keep the peace.

My maid fetches a basin and pours holy water into it from a flask she has filled from our parish church. Under the basin, she places her wedding ring, and, above it, two leaves from an olive branch, saved from Palm Sunday, braided in the shape of a cross.

Lucia and Federica, her two little girls, blond, blue-eyed, aged seven and eleven, kneel down in front of the basin, each with a candle that has been blessed by a priest. Domisilla takes a taper and lights them. ‘Repeat after me,’ she instructs her daughters, ‘Holy Angel, White Angel, by your sanctity and my virginity, show me the true one and the truth. Who took the silver?’

Solemnly, in quiet voices, the girls intone the incantation. But when they look into the basin afterwards, they’re unable to say who they can see revealed. I laugh to myself, unsurprised, and give them each a coin and some bread spread with honey. Feeling the heat of a gaze prickle the back of my neck, I glance upward to catch Rodolfo skulking in the corner, a look of pure hatred on his face. Now I shall definitely need to send him packing…

Finally, a message comes from Marco. I’m preparing myself, and ’tis difficult without Lena to help me. Warm tears well up whenever I think about her; I miss her so much. Domisilla tries her best, but she hasn’t got Lena’s knack of dressing my hair. I have to pluck my
figa
myself, which makes my eyes sting, and dressing is a chore without my dearest friend to help me.

This afternoon I washed my hair and streaked it with lemon juice before drying it in the sun. I’ve bathed with sheep’s milk soap to soften my skin, and I’ve covered myself in my rose and frankincense fragrance. I’ve decided to ignore the sumptuary laws, for no one will know in the privacy of my own home. I’ve slipped on the dress that caught the attention of the French King, and pulled my bodice tight under my upthrusting breasts, my nipples rouged and exposed. Cheeks pinched, lips reddened, my nub and
figa
sweet with honey, I feel ready to see the Magnifico again.

There’s just one task I need to perform: an unpleasant one. I send for Rodolfo. When he appears in my room, his eyes widen at the sight of me ready for “work”. ‘I’m afraid I have no choice but to dismiss you,’ I tell him. ‘Here are two months’ wages to tide you over until you find another position.’

His mouth opens and closes, but all he can do is gulp. He takes the money, bows, and leaves me to wait for Marco. The clock at the top of the tower in St Mark’s square strikes eight times, the sound ringing across the city and coming through my open windows. Butterflies flutter in my tummy: Will he still love me?

Domisilla ushers him into my chamber.

We make our reverences: I drop into a deep curtsey; he bows, takes my hand, and kisses it. ‘Lady, your beauty is such that it would draw gods as your lovers from heaven.’

I laugh. ‘Pray, do not spin out tales, my lord. I care not to be fooled by compliments.’

‘Ah, Veronica, your tongue is ever sharp. How I’ve missed it!’

‘Is that all you have missed?’ My smile curves. ‘I would feel love’s burning fire. Pray, show me the fruits of your love for me.’

Marco needs no further encouragement. He pulls me to him, his breath hot against my cheek. His mouth moves to the swell of my lower lip and he nips it, his teeth catching my tongue. He tastes of heady, sweet wine, and I want to drink every last drop of him. I run my hand up his silky beard, along the back of his neck and into his hair, giving him hot, hungry kisses down the side of his dear face. He looks into my eyes, his own burning with the heat of desire. Slowly, he undresses me, his fingers tracing the hollow at the base of my throat, his knuckles brushing the underside of my breasts. The heel of his palm slides over my belly and I give a soft moan.

My hands flatten against the solid wall of his chest. I untie his doublet and kiss my way down to his codpiece. Unlacing it with one hand, I squeeze his sac with the other. Then, keeping my eyes locked on his, I go down on my knees and stroke the entire length of his prick before taking it in my mouth. He threads his fingers into my hair, gripping and tugging. I suck hard. His balls tense and tighten, his prick throbs. Without warning, he pulls out with a pop and yanks me to my feet.

‘Like this, Veronica.’ He carries me to the bed, catches both my wrists in one hand, holds them over my head, and crushes me with his weight. He bites the skin at the base of my neck, grinds his hips up and then pushes the thick soft tip of his prick against my pearl. Letting my hands go, he slides a finger between my labia, pinching and flicking my nub while the other hand grazes my breast, cups it, then squeezes my nipple, tweaking and twisting. I writhe with the sweet, sharp pain of pleasure.

Marco moves his mouth down to my
figa
. His tongue makes slow circles between my folds. Two fingers stroke inside, curling up and in. I whimper and grind against him, my joy quick and hard. He scrapes a finger along the crack of my arse, then flips me over and pulls me to my knees.

Down comes his hand in a swift, sharp slap. One arse cheek followed by the other in a front-hand back-hand motion, alternating between slaps and soothing caresses. I tense for the next smack, but his fingers slide between my swollen labia and circle my nub. He pushes them into me while the other hand spanks my buttocks again. ‘Oh! Oh! Oh!’ I can feel my climax approaching.

‘Wait,
tesoro
, not yet,’ Marco says. ‘I want you to wait for me.’

Now his prick is in my
figa
, impaling me from behind, driving deep into me, and it feels so, so good, and my arse is pushing back at him, slapping against his grinding hips.
Dio mio!
He’s inserted one finger all the way into my
culo
, his prick is ramming me to the core, and his other hand has reached around to the front and is rubbing my pearl. His hot seed spurts into me, my
figa
clamped tight around his shaft, milking him, milking him, and milking him until I shrill, ‘Marco!’ and my joy is complete.

We collapse onto the sheets, our bodies entangled, giving each other deep kisses, running our hands over each other.

Marco brings his mouth to my ear and whispers, ‘You are my spirit, and my soul, and all my vital strength conjoined in one.’

I want to say he has my heart, but I cannot. I’ve never said that to anyone. Is it too late to give my heart to just one man? I wrap myself around him. ‘In my heart stays forever the desire to please and to serve you.’

‘I wish I could stay with you tonight,’ he says. ‘I want to wake in your arms.’

‘Perhaps, one day, we can go away together. Just the two of us.’ ’Tis a vain hope. I tell Marco about my plan for a home for destitute women.

‘I shall help you. As a matter of fact, I know of a house that is available for rental. Well, I suppose I’d better be off.’ He rolls out of bed and starts to dress. ‘Sleep well, sweet lady. I shall return on the morrow.’

‘Good night, Marco. Till the morrow.’ I watch him until he lets himself out of the door, then drift off to sleep.

I wake at dawn to use the chamber pot. My tummy rumbles and I remember that I didn’t have any supper last night I was so excited at seeing Marco again. I quickly dress and go down to the kitchen. The household is quiet. There’s a sudden rap at the door, and I go to answer it. Who would call at this hour of the day?

A stranger in a dark cloak. ‘Madonna Franco?’

I nod.

‘I have orders from the State Inquisitors. They’ve summonsed you for practising witchcraft.’

My heart leaps to my throat.
Gesu Cristo!
My knees buckle, my head spins, and I slip to the floor.

‘
Who has accused me?’ I ask the man who lifts me to my feet. ’Twas hunger that made me faint, I’m sure of it. Fainting is not something I would do out of fear. But this man really does terrify me. Everything about him is dark: from his cloak to his swarthy skin, to his black fingernails. A henchman for the Council of Ten, no doubt. My flesh has turned cold and clammy.

‘I cannot say, signora. But you must report tomorrow morning at 9 o’clock or you will be arrested and held in the dungeons below the Doge’s Palace.’

Maria santissima!
Only one day to prepare my defence. I can guess who denounced me, of course I can. The hearing will be held behind closed doors, where I’ll need to defend myself against my accuser. I shall make haste immediately to seek Domenico’s advice.
Dio mio!

‘No one accused of witchcraft in Venice has been condemned to death yet, or even severely tortured.’ Domenico takes my hand. ‘Until now,’ he sighs. ‘I don’t wish to worry you unduly, but there’s always a first time for everything. You must prepare yourself well, my dear. The Inquisition are placing women, especially courtesans, on trial more and more often.’

‘Why?’

‘The theory is that the tragedy of the plague is a result of the city’s licentious lifestyle. They’re looking for scapegoats.’

‘And in a society dominated by men, women make an easy target.’

‘
Si,
and as the most beautiful and sought-after courtesan in the Republic, you’d be perfect for their ill-conceived cause. You’ll need all your skills for verbal duelling, my dear. Mark my words!’

A shudder passes through me. ‘What do you advise?’

‘You say your sons’ tutor witnessed the performance of a heretical incantation in your kitchen?’

‘He did. But I didn’t believe in it. ’Twas only to put my maid’s mind at rest, for she blamed herself for not being vigilant enough when I was in Verona – hence, my silverware was stolen.’

‘Then you must tell the inquisitors that you allowed the rituals to be performed “in effect” but not “with affect”. As you had no evil intent yourself, you need to persuade them that you did not seek to spread potentially dangerous heretical beliefs.’

‘I see.’ I chew my thumbnail. ‘You
are
clever, my friend.’

‘And you,
cara.
Your wit will crush the accusations, I’m sure.’

‘I hope you are right.’

’Tis the morning and, after a sleepless night, I dress in sombre fashion: plain black skirt, white chemise and dark brown bodice. I sent word to Marco not to visit, pretending a sudden stomach ache. Having toyed with the idea of informing my lovers of what has occurred, I’ve decided against it. If I’m incarcerated, they’ll find out soon enough, and there’s absolutely nothing they can do to help me. The court will not allow anyone but the accuser and the accused to be present at the hearing. This is a battle I’ll need to fight on my own.

I tell my staff, of course. Domisilla is beside herself with regret. ‘Signora, I’m so sorry,’ she sobs, wringing her apron. Why didn’t they send for me? I was the one who tried the spell…’

‘They didn’t summons you because you haven’t been accused. The Inquisition will only send for someone if they’ve been denounced. Don’t fret, my dear. This is just a terrible mistake.’ I pat her on the arm, feigning an assurance I do not feel. My belly twists into knots. What will happen to my sons if I’m imprisoned? And my household? How will they cope without me? I remember the burning of sodomites between the twin pillars of justice and my whole body quakes.

As I suspected, Rodolfo is my accuser. In a room at the side of the Doge’s Palace undamaged by the fire, the two Commissioners for Heresy, the Papal Legate to Venice and the Venetian Patriarch, Monsignor Giovanni Trevisan, introduce themselves. The four men are older than I am by at least twenty years, their beards and hair are grey, and they’re dressed in black like the crows that they are. They sit at three tables placed in a U-shape with an empty chair in the middle. Rodolfo stands to the side, his eyes shooting poisonous daggers at me.

‘Pray take a seat, Signora Franco,’ the Papal Legate says. ‘You will listen to the accusation and be given the chance to respond.’

Monsignor Trevisan picks up a parchment and reads, ‘You have been indicted for invoking the devil and allowing heretical incantations to be performed at your house.’

Rodolfo shakes a finger at me. ‘This woman is a witch. A public, masked and cheating prostitute. If she isn’t punished, many others will do the same things against the Holy Catholic faith.’

I take in a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘Sirs, no, and may God and the Madonna protect me.’
I’m an actress playing the greatest role of my life.
‘I’m the most timid woman in the world when it comes to demons and the dead. If I have sinned, it was only with “effect” and not “affect”, because, ultimately, I did not, do not, and never will believe in such nonsense.’

‘Then why did you allow the practice?’

‘To help my guilt-ridden maid overcome her remorse when my silverware was stolen. The poor woman was distraught, and the children could only see their own reflection in the water, of course. ’Tis impossible for anyone with an educated mind to believe in this ridiculous ritual.’

‘Signora Franco, have you ever used incantations to make men fall in love with you?’

‘I do not need spells for that, good sir.’

Rodolfo laughs, ‘She wears pearls, a practice forbidden by the sumptuary laws. And she changes her costume and guise to suit her purpose.’

‘I only do so in the privacy of my own home, my lords. If I have erred, I humbly ask to be pardoned for it.’

‘Are you willing to make your confession?’ the Papal Legate asks.

If I have anything to confess, then this is my confession: I confess that I became a courtesan because there was no other choice for me. I confess that I welcomed many rather than being owned by one. I confess that I embraced a whore’s freedom over a wife’s obedience.
The words echo in my head, but I do not say them. I must be the actress I set out to be. I bow my head. ‘Pray pardon me for my sins.’

The four inquisitors confer in whispers. I stare at the floor, my hands tight in my lap, my tummy fluttering. The sound of church bells comes through the open windows, competing with the pounding of my heart.

Finally, Monsignor Trevisan gets to his feet. ‘You are pardoned, Signora Franco. But let this be a warning to you. If you are accused of breaking the law at any time again, we shall take a different view. Go in peace, and sin no more.’

Rodolfo’s face reddens. ‘I implore you to have her punished so that she can no longer contaminate this city. She is nothing but a dirty whore.’

The Papal Legate rounds on him. ‘And I implore
you
to stop wasting this court’s time. The case is dismissed.’

I arrive home shaken and without memory of my journey. With great haste I send word to my three lovers, inviting them for dinner. I need to tell them what has happened, and also let them know my thoughts about the future. For I cannot continue living as I have done. I realise that now.

Bortola isn’t such a refined cook as Anna was, but she produces a fine enough meal for my changed circumstances. Fish risotto to start, baked sea bass with fennel for the main course, and fresh berries with
zabaglione
for dessert.

‘I wish you’d sought our help,’ Andrew says after I’ve recounted my morning’s experience. He wipes his mouth with a napkin and leans back in his chair.

‘Yes, indeed,’ Ludovico adds. ‘What would we do without you,
cara
?’

‘I think Veronica was the match of the Inquisitors.’ Marco’s dark eyes bore into mine. ‘Am I right, fair lady?’

‘Your uncle gave me excellent advice.’ I reach across the table and squeeze his hand. ‘I didn’t want to worry you.’ I pause. ‘I’ve gathered the three of you here tonight to tell you my decision. From now onwards I’ll no longer be seeking other patrons. When you tire of me, I’ll not replace you.’

They gabble that
I’m
irreplaceable, but I know differently. The time will come when my beauty will fade, my body will lose its firmness, and my wit will no longer be as sharp. By then, I hope my sons will be old enough to look after me. Either that, or I’ll enter the home I plan to establish for destitute women.

I get up from the table. ‘Come, let us go to the
portego
. I shall play music for you. Bring your wine goblets and the flagon. The night is warm and you’ll need to slake your thirst.’ An idea is forming in my mind. A daring thought. The scent of my three beautiful men – their manly sweat, their citrus cologne, the spice of their leather scabbards (as gentlemen do, they leave their swords by the door) – all of this is titillating my senses, making my apple juices flow.

Ludovico and Andrew have shared me before and would almost certainly love to do so again. Marco will not join in, I’m sure of it. But there is another way.

La Traditora
is a short piece, and soon I’ve finished playing it. ‘Some grapes, my lords?’ I fetch the bowl from the sideboard. Then I go to sit on Ludovico’s lap; his prick responds to the wriggles of my buttocks, and he loosens my bodice as I feed him the grapes, one by one.

Marco leaps to his feet. ‘What are you doing?’

‘’Tis just a game,’ I tell him. ‘You can join in, you can observe, or, much as I should hate it, you can leave.’

We troop into my chamber. Ludovico’s strong arms lift me and carry me to the bed. I lie limp as a doll while he finishes undressing me then disrobes himself. I’m on my side, high up on the mattress, and he stretches out behind me, lower down. He runs his tongue along the crack in my arse, then pushes it into my
culo
, in and out, preparing me for his prick. I whimper, softly.

A low chuckle escapes from Andrew as he strips off his doublet and hose. He clambers onto the bed and lies face-down on his side, his shaft at the level of my lips, and his mouth at my
figa
. His tongue swirls around my pearl and licks through my folds in long strokes.

Meanwhile, Ludovico dips his hand into the tub of goose fat and lubricates my arse. His prick nudges at my
culo
, bit by bit, until his entire length is inside my tight arsehole. He pushes gently in and out of me.