The Masquers

by Natasha Peters

  She shuddered involuntarily and gasped, “Stop it! I hate you!”

  With a single swift movement he plunged his hand down the front of her bodice and wrenched it away from the white mounds of her breasts, then he covered the brown aureole of her nipple with his mouth.

  She strained against him, her eyes wide open and terrified. But even as she struggled, she felt a strange heaviness creeping into her limbs. Her brain clouded. She felt as though he were taking possession of her, that he would consume her, flesh and spirit, if she didn’t stop him.

  She managed to free one of her arms, and she raked her fingernails down one side of his face.

  Even as she saw little red droplets appear on his dark cheek, he grabbed her wrist and twisted her arm behind her back.

  “So that’s the way you want it?” he said angrily. “This lady likes rough play.”

  The pain in her shoulder nearly made her faint. She was dimly aware of a hot, searing sensation on her throat where he sank his teeth into her flesh. He lifted her high and carried her to his bed.

  She did not make a sound. Sweeping her skirts and petticoats aside and tearing away her underthings, he hurled himself down on top of her and parted her thighs roughly. He plundered her mouth with a hungry kiss, even as his hands plundered her body.

  She did not respond. She lay stiffly under him with her eyes closed tight. He drew back a little and looked down at her. Her teeth cut into her lower lip. The tracks of silent tears glinted on her cheeks. She was genuinely terrified. This was no sport for her, as it was for him.

  His desire faded and he lifted himself off her. She turned on her side and hid her face in the curve of her arm.

  “You knew this would happen,” he said. “Or you wouldn’t have come.”

  She didn’t move.

  “Why? Why did you bother if you weren’t willing.”

  “I’m so ashamed!” she said in a tearful whisper. He put his hand on her shoulder. She flinched at his touch. “When was the last time you lay with a man, Fosca?” he asked. “Tell me. A week? A month?”

  “Four years!” She gave a shuddering sigh. “Not for—four years!”

  He was thunderstruck. “But what about your husband?” he asked in a bewildered voice. “Doesn’t he—”

  “I won’t let him near me. I can’t bear it! I hate him!”

  Raf shook his head. “But the stories—your lovers!”

  “No lovers. Friends. Gentlemen who would not dream of asking—for what a lady is not prepared to give.” Her voice was muffled. She didn’t want to meet his gaze. “I knew this would happen. You were right. But I was curious. I don’t know what’s the matter with me! Like a—a harlot! But I knew we would not meet again. And no one would gossip—. Oh, God, I’m so ashamed! It’s so awful!”

  “It’s all right, Fosca,” he said soothingly. “Some women are like that.”

  “But I wasn’t!” she protested, raising her head a little. “I loved once—but he spoiled me for love. I hate him!” She began to cry, in great choking sobs.

  Raf pulled her around gently so that she could weep on his chest. He smoothed her hair and murmured softly. She found herself telling him everything, in incoherent bursts. Her destitute father. The seduction and offer of marriage. Her husband’s betrayal, his coldness. She never mentioned Alessandro by name.

  “Honor is just another mask they wear,” Raf said bitterly when she was finished. “Love is just a word. Marriage is a game. Men choose husbands for their daughters the same way they would choose a stud for a mare: to keep the lines pure and the breeding true. They make me sick, the lot of them.”

  Fosca sat up and turned away from him. “Forgive me for boring you,” she said stiffly, brushing her tears away. “I must go now.” She switched her legs over the side of the bed and pulled her dress up over her shoulders.

  “Don’t go,” Raf said. “There’s nothing waiting for you at home.”

  She shook her head. “I have embarrassed and shamed myself enough for one night, Signor. I don’t want to be a nuisance.” She started to get up but he held her back.

  “Wait, Fosca. Don’t run away. Don’t be ashamed of telling the truth. You’re not used to it, I know. But you opened your heart to me and four years of pent-up truth came pouring out. I’m honored. I know you better. I even like you. You’re a beautiful, warm-hearted woman who was cruelly used by people you loved and trusted. I don’t blame you for retreating behind a mask, for hiding from the world. Look at me.”

  “No, please, I don’t want—”

  “Don’t be afraid. Look.” He turned her face gently with his forefinger. His eyes were friendly, warm. “I’m not laughing at you. Trust me. I won’t hurt you, I'm not like your husband. I’m not like anyone you know. You don’t have to pretend. You don’t have to hide.”

  She closed her eyes and leaned back against him with ; sigh. “This is very strange,” she murmured. “A few minutes ago you were raping me.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll try to make amends.” He touched his lips lightly to the back of her neck. She gave a shiver of delight. “I’m not really a brute. I only pretend once in a while.”

  “I thought you were so upstanding and honest.”

  “So I am, when it suits me. Oh, Fosca, you’re so beautiful. I want you.”

  The simple words sent a surge of pleasure through her, as the elaborate metaphors of her friends never did.

  “I want you, too,” she whispered. “But I don’t know—”

  “Don’t worry about it. Trust me.”

  He helped her to undress, and then he undressed himself. The sight of his muscular torso, brawny thighs, and swollen member brought a blush to her cheeks. He saw it and grinned.

  “What’s the matter, haven’t you ever seen a naked man before?”

  “No,” she said, holding the bedsheet over her naked breasts. “Aless—my husband always wore a nightshirt. And blew out the candles.”

  “Then we’ll let them burn.” He lay beside her and pulled her close. As he kissed her he could feel her terror melting away. “You’re not such a hard case,” he said. “I think you can be saved from a life of chastity.”

  “But I don’t know anything about loving,” she said apologetically.

  He laughed softly. Holding her hips firmly, he slid between her legs and loved her with his mouth and tongue. She was stiff with embarrassment at first. This was something Alessandro had never done. But Raf was not deterred by her murmurs of protest or her feeble attempts to push him away. He persisted, and she abandoned herself to the torrent of feelings that washed over her.

  He could feel her excitement rising. He covered her with his whole body, filled her panting mouth with his tongue and gave her his manhood. She moaned softly and clung to him. He rode her until she was gasping, begging him to stop. When he felt her tremble deep inside, he thrust deeply, with all his great strength. She cried out and sank her fingernails into his back. They rocked together, shuddering. With a single sigh they collapsed and lay breathing heavily as their racing hearts slowed.

  Fosca turned her head and looked wonderingly at the dark face lying beside hers on the pillow. She stroked his cheek with a trembling fingertip and silently shaped her lips around his name: “Rafaello.” She closed her eyes. She felt calm, at peace. Her gnawing restlessness was gone, her aching loneliness banished.

  She nestled close to him and pressed her cheek against his chest. His arms folded around her protectively. Soon the soft throbbing against her thigh betrayed his wakefulness and desire. They loved again, in long and leisured fashion, without urgency. Still later they slept, bodies entwined. But before she gave herself up to sweet sleep, Fosca thought fleetingly about how strange the night had been and how Fate had worked in their lives. From the first moment she saw him, in the Senate Hall, she knew that she would belong to him.

  On the other side of the door, Lia huddled on the floor of the cramped passageway. She was quivering from cold and sorrow, and her cheeks were stiff with
the salt of dried tears.

  As soon as the gates of the ghetto were opened in the morning, Fosca, anonymous behind mask and cloak, darted past the startled guard.

  Out of the corner of her eye she noticed that he was not alone. The other man was masked, and small, slightly hump-backed, with rather large hands and feet. His crooked stance was familiar, and so was the twist of one leg.

  She raced past them and hailed a gondola under the bridge over the Canal Regio. As she sank back against the cushions, under the protective canopy of thefelze, a coldness enveloped her heart and drove out the lovely warmth that the night had brought her.

  She recognized the hunchback as Pietro Salvino, Alessandro Loredan’s secretary.

  VI

  TOMASSO

  “You’re Leopardi, the Jew, aren’t you?”

  Raf looked up from the cargo manifests he had been studying. He sat at a corner table in his favorite tavern near the docks. The man who spoke to him was unmasked and hatless. His face was pleasant, if somewhat dissipated. Even though his hair was unpowdered and his clothes shabby, he had the unmistakeable air of nobility fallen on hard times: haughty and defensive. Uninvited, he pulled out a chair and sat down next to Raf.

  “We’ve met before, but you won’t remember my face. We were both masked at the time. My name is Tomasso Dolfin. Fosca is my sister.”

  “I don’t know any lady by that name,” Raf said curtly. What was the man trying to do, blackmail him? Could he possibly have gotten wind of what happened that night?

  “Oh, you know her,” Tomasso said cheerfully. “You asked about her and then chased after her. I presume you caught up with her. You’re young and strong and probably swift.”

  Raf glowered at him. “I suppose you’ll inform the lady’s husband of my interest in her if I don’t pay you a little something for your silence,” he said. “You’re wasting your time, Signor. Get out of here.”

  “Dear me, you Jews are touchy,” clucked Tomasso. I am always in need, I confess, but I would never resort to blackmail. Too much like work. I’m very sorry if I gave you a false impression. I only wanted to further my acquaintance with you, and I thought that using Fosca’s name would help overcome your suspicions. Unhappily, it seems to have had the opposite effect. Please forgive me.” he smiled brightly. “I heard you in the Senate that day, you know. I was very impressed by your fire and your sincerity. That’s something those old walls haven’t heard in many years, a man speaking the truth. I think we might be of service to each other, Signor Leopardi.”

  “Oh?” Raf was wary. The man was too smooth.

  “You still don’t trust me,” Tomasso sighed regretfully. “I don’t blame you. Not these days, when there are spies lurking on every corner and informants hiding under every table. Did you know that even as you followed my sister out of the Ridotto, you yourself were followed? It was like a scene in a comedy.”

  “What?” Raf's eyes darkened. “You’re lying.”

  “My dear fellow, why would I do that?” Tomasso asked cheerfully. “You don’t think they would let you speak your mind like that and then go merrily on your way, do you? See for yourself. There’s an agent of the Inquisitors lurking outside this café right this very moment. I recognize him as one of those cretins they employ occasionally. That’s why I’m here. I don’t want to see you ruin your chances before you’ve even begun. You could go far, with the right advice and support. You’re sincere enough, but you’re still rather naive about the way our esteemed—”

  Raf left his chair abruptly and went to the doorway of the tavern. Nearby a man lounged against a packing case. He was masked, but when he saw Raf in the doorway he turned away slightly. Raf balled his hands into fists and cursed himself. What a fool he’d been, what an idiot! Of course they would have him followed But he never realized—it never occurred to him. That meant that they knew about him and Fosca. His stomach knotted. He went back inside and rejoined Tomasso.

  “Aren’t you afraid he’ll report on you, too?” Raf demanded.

  “Oh, he doesn’t even know I’m here. I saw him first and came in the back way. And what if we are seen talking together? They know my feelings about this government, but there’s not much they can do to stop a man from thinking and talking.”

  Raf nodded. He felt the same way.

  “Besides, I’m Loredan’s brother-in-law, remember? A bit of an embarrassment to him, as is Fosca.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve heard the stories. She’s wild. He can’t control her. He’d be one of the Ten by now if it weren’t for Fosca. Perhaps we should thank her! She’s a little too free, a little too unpredictable. She hasn’t done anything really scandalous so far, but there’s always that possibility.

  “I don’t have to tell you about Fosca, though. You’ve met her.”

  Raf breathed deeply. He didn’t trust himself to speak. If the Inquisitors knew about them, then Loredan knew, too.

  “If you’re worried about the spy who tried to follow you out of the Ridotto the other night, don’t be,” Tomasso said reassuringly. “He accidentally tripped over my walking stick and sustained a rather painful bruise on the knee. He was delayed for several minutes. By that time, you and the lady were long gone.”

  So it was all right. No one knew. No one must ever know. He had been a fool to bring her to the ghetto. He had endangered not only himself, but Aunt Rebecca and Lia and every other Jew there. She was no ordinary woman, but Loredan’s wife.

  “You know,” Tomasso said slowly, watching Raf's face carefully, “I could be very useful to you if you wanted to see her again. Of course, I don’t need to tell you that an affair of this kind is madness, suicide, really.”

  Raf shook his head. He wouldn’t see her again. It just wasn’t worth it, to jeopardize the safety of the people he loved and the cause he believed in so strongly. She was only a woman.

  Then why did his blood quicken when he thought about her? Why did he look at every masked woman expectantly, or whirl around every time he heard a woman laugh? He remembered her eyes, her lips, her lovely breasts, her welcoming smile. The moment when her fear turned to trust, when she bared her soul to him and all pretenses and play-acting were thrown aside. She had shown herself to him then, beautiful and lonely and starved for love. Real love, not the love of poetry and gossip. No, it was impossible. It was dangerous, for both of them. He would leave her alone.

  “You’ve just offered to pander for your sister,” Raf said grimly. “Does she know about this?”

  “Heavens, no!” Tomasso sounded pained. “I have not seen her since the Ridotto. In fact, I was merely guessing at the intensity of your interest in her, and I’ve been proved right, haven’t I? You are interested, undeniably. I have nothing against you, Signor. You’re a Jew, I know. But I’ve developed a certain fondness for Jews. God knows I’ve done business with enough of them over the years. Like my father before me. I feel right at home in the pawnshops of the ghetto; the entire contents of Ca’ Dolfin are housed there. But you don’t want to hear about my family’s woes. Suffice it to say, I can provide a very valuable service, Signor, and—”

  “If you weren’t her brother, I’d throw you out into the street,” Raf said through his teeth. “Get out of here, before I break you over my knee.”

  Tomasso wasn’t perturbed. He said calmly, “You misunderstand me again. It’s my fault for failing to explain myself properly. We have a lot more in common than just a mutual interest in my sister’s happiness. Signor. We want the same things for Venice.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “We both want change. Democracy. A share of the power that up to now has been invested in just a handful of corrupt men like Loredan. Loredan. We both hate him. As I said, you could go far. You’re talented. You’re passionate about your cause, and you know how to talk. And so far, you’ve not been corrupted by ambition. But you are sorely in need of guidance, my friend. I can help you there, too.”

  “I don’t think we have anything to say to
each other,” Raf said, rising.

  Tomasso grabbed his wrist. His hold was surprisingly strong. “I can destroy you, Signor,” he said with a sweet smile. “And I can hurt Fosca, too. I will, if I must. Don’t be in too much of a hurry to run away before I’ve finished saying what I came to say.”

  Raf sat down again. “All right. Go on. And be quick about it.”

  “A poor man is not necessarily without friends,” Tomasso said. “Among a certain class of people, those who live in the vicinity of San Barnaba, I am rather well known.”

  Raf understood. He knew about the Barnabotti, the impoverished nobles who lived in the parish of San Barnaba where rents were cheap. Most were sons of families who had lost their wealth. They lived on stipends from the state and what they could cadge from richer friends. They were all bitterly resentful of their bad fortune, and they were becoming a potent political force. Even though they were poor, they were noble, and each had a vote in the Council. Many of them felt that if they united, they could bring about changes in the current political system which would restore them to positions of influence and wealth. Some, like Tomasso, were as committed to Revolution as the French Jacobins, whose ideas had spread even into Venice. A gleam of fanatical brightness came into Tomasso’s eyes.

  “I want to destroy the Loredans of this Republic. The conservatives. They’re rotten, corrupt, and deeply entrenched. They’ve run the economy into the ground, there are no jobs for those who want to work. Our industries are closing—but you know all this. You, Raf, you have power, more than you know. Yes, you could rally the common people behind you today. You’re a hero! But they’re not ready to fight and they can’t vote. The Barnabotti can. Our numbers are growing but we still don’t have the power we could have. The last man who spoke for us, Pesaro, was imprisoned and then exiled. It was a shock. Things fell apart. They were afraid to put themselves forward again. But they might listen to you. You’re an outsider. You’ve been to America. You’re a different face with a new approach.”