The Masquers

by Natasha Peters

  She fell back on her bed, overcome by heat and despair. Hatred for Alessandro Loredan petrified her heart and turned her core to stone. Hatred hardened her will and strengthened her resolve. She lay motionless for hours while her mind flew over the events of her life. Childhood. School. Her father. Her marriage. The night she refused Loredan his rights as a husband. The cold anger in his face.

  “As you wish, Madame. I trust that we can keep up appearances?”

  As you wish! As you wish! She had lived in limbo until Raf came along. Love had awakened her again to life, and hope. She would not let that love die, ever.

  She rested her hand on her belly. It was still flat. But the child was there. Their son. Daniel.

  Darkness fell over the hushed house and the deserted city. Thunder murmured beyond the horizon and a cooler breeze fanned her sweating body. She breathed the sea air gratefully. A gentle rain began to fall. The scent of flowers and wet dust and old memories rose up from the courtyards and alleys and canals of Venice.

  She wanted to think about Raf, to remember him, but the pain was too great. He was dead. Remembering him would only open the gates to despair, and she wanted to leave those gates firmly closed for as long as she possibly could.

  The door opened. She didn’t even look up, sure that it was only the maid with her supper.

  “Good evening, Fosca.”

  She stopped breathing. So he had come at last. She sat up slowly and looked at him. He stood about ten feet from the end of the bed. She squinted at the glare of the lantern he carried.

  “Ah, you have come to visit the imprisoned,” she said in a voice that was softly scathing. “How very charitable of you.”

  “The woman says you’ve been ill. I’m sorry.”

  “It must have been the drugs they gave me. Your agents were very efficient, Signor.”

  “Then the effects will soon wear off and you’ll feel better.”

  “Yes, you want me to look hale and fit for my execution. You think that if I’m healthy, I’ll scream all the louder. You will be disappointed, Signor. I have no intention of begging for mercy in a loud voice. I do not intend to beg for mercy at all—not that you have any intention of being merciful.”

  “I see your mind hasn’t suffered from the effects of the drugs,” he said, setting the lantern on the mantel. “Your tongue is still as sharp as ever.”

  “Oh, yes. But you’ve given me three days to think up all sorts of insults. I have a whole barrage to hurl at you while they’re dragging me off to the gallows.”

  He frowned. “So much talk of killing, Fosca.”

  “Isn’t that what you have planned for me? You killed Rafaello, and you’ll kill me. The deaf woman won’t tell anyone. Go ahead, impale me on your knife. Tie lead weights to my ankles and toss me into the lagoon. It’s perfectly safe. No one will see your crime.”

  “I am not a murderer, Fosca,” he said quietly.

  “You murdered Rafaello!” she said hoarsely. “You murdered my heart, again and again. Oh, why couldn’t you leave us alone? We weren’t harming you. The scandal will only be worse now.”

  “The men who brought you back here were Inquisitors’ men,” Alessandro informed her. “Not mine. They handled the whole affair, and very kindly refrained from imprisoning you. They left your fate to me.

  “How very generous,” Fosca sneered. “Well, what are you going to do with me, now that you have me in your grasp?”

  “Please don’t be melodramatic, Fosca,” he sighed. He sat on a chair near the bed and folded his hands over his waist. He stretched his long legs out in front of him. Fosca watched him carefully. She was rather surprised to see that he hadn’t sprouted horns in her absence. In her mind, she had endowed him with so many Satanic characteristics that she found the actual Alessandro Loredan disappointingly human. He said, “You always did have a tendency in that direction, rather like bad English romantic fiction. You got it from your father, I suppose. And I suspect that a situation like this only serves to fan the flame of exaggeration.”

  “I did not exaggerate my love for Rafaello Leopardi,” she said evenly. “And I don’t exaggerate my promise: I will not repent. I will never be your wife again. I do not care what you do to me. I am not sorry. I would run away with him tomorrow, if I could. But you have killed him. I’ll never forgive you for that. Never.”

  Alessandro was silent. The rain began to fall more heavily, and the wind drove it in gusts through the smashed windows. From her bed, Fosca could feel the fine misting spray on her face. It refreshed and enlivened her.

  “But we have not killed him,” Alessandro said. “He is alive. Very much alive.”

  A spark of hope flickered and then died. “You’re lying.”

  “No. What would be the purpose? The knife wound served only to weaken him. Those agents are experts. They do not kill unless they are ordered to do so.”

  Her mouth felt dry. She moistened her lips with her tongue: “Where is he, then?” she asked. “You have him in one of your infernal prisons, don’t you? Which one? Tell me! Is he all right? Is he badly hurt? Tell me!”

  Alessandro shook his head and kept silent.

  Fosca left her bed and approached him on unsteady legs. “So this is the torture you have planned for me,” she said. “Not knowing. You want me to think of him rotting in the Leads, don’t you? That’s how you will drive me mad. You are lying. He is dead. He is dead!”

  “He is in the Tombs. He has been tried and found guilty of treason.”

  “Treason!” Fosca gasped. “He has done nothing treasonous!”

  “He has been associating with Jacobins, foreign revolutionaries, enemies of this Republic,” Alessandro snapped. “Such contacts are strictly forbidden, you know that. He has been justly condemned to death. The date of his execution has not been set yet.”

  A wave of relief, coupled with a new terror, engulfed her. She covered her eyes and sank to her knees. She almost wished he were dead. Anything was better than the Tombs, the death cells. They joked about them, that first night. He told her then that he could be sent there for consorting with her. She supposed he would be executed publicly, after the nobles returned from villegiatura. She had seen an execution once, accidentally, when Antonio’s vigilance failed one day. A man was hanged between the two pillars at the end of the Piazzetta, near the Molo. Soldiers spitted him with swords and left him to die. His crime had been treason.

  She moaned softly. “No, no, no. It’s cruel, it’s insane, it’s horrible. You can’t let them do it!” She held out her hands to her husband. “Oh, God, Alessandro, I beg you, I beseech you, let him go free. I will do anything you say, anything, I swear it! I will be a good wife to you, a real wife. For the rest of my life!”

  “It’s a little late for such promises, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “No, no, you must listen,” she said, rising and moving closer to him. She held his hands firmly under hers. “I know that they have really condemned him because of me, because I shamed and disgraced you. It wasn’t his fault, Alessandro. I seduced him, I! I was the wanton, the loose one. He had nothing to do with it!”

  He gave a snort of disbelief.

  “Persuade them to release him, Alessandro,” she pleaded, “and I will be your servant, your slave. I will revere you all the days of my life. I swear it! You are angry with me, and rightfully so, and I understand and forgive the hurts you have done, and I humbly ask that you will understand and forgive mine. I loved you once, remember? I will love you again. I’m not wicked, you know that. Only passionate, too passionate, as you always said.”

  He straighted up in his chair and regarded her silently. His face never twitched. She didn’t know what he was thinking. She never knew.

  She sidled still closer and moved her hands up and down his arm, which felt as hard and taut as steel. He could feel her warm breath on his cheek and the heat that radiated from her body. Her nightgown was sheer silk and it clung to her body where her skin was damp with perspiration. He coul
d see her dark nipples and the dark triangle between her legs. His pulse quickened.

  Her eyes grew brighter and she parted her lips and leaned closer to him. “Believe me, Alessandro,” she whispered, “I will forget him. I will love you, only you.” She untied the ribbons that held her gown together at the front. It fell open to the waist and dropped over one shoulder. “Look, look what I can give you,” she breathed. “I’m still beautiful, don’t you think? More beautiful than I was the first time we lay together. Do you remember? I was a child then, who loved you. I am no child now. I can make you so happy. You’ll never want anyone else, ever. It could be so wonderful. Sandro. So very wonderful.”

  Her lips fluttered against the corner of his mouth, as lightly as moth’s wings.

  “You want me, don’t you? We could have such beautiful nights together, you and I.”

  She rubbed her naked breasts lightly against his arm. Her hands came to rest between his legs, and she freed his swollen member from the satin breeches that restrained it. She smiled warmly and wantonly. He almost believed her. He wanted to believe her. Her fingers played over him. He jerked convulsively and her smile deepened. Her lips were moist, half open. He could smell the heat of her womanhood, like heavily scented blossoms. She lowered her bright head. He closed his eyes and gripped the arms of his chair. A moan escaped his lips.

  He lifted his foot and planted it squarely between her breasts and shoved hard. She sprawled backwards on the floor and glared at him. He stood over her.

  “You damned whore,” he gasped. “Shameless bitch! What you wouldn’t let me have out of duty, you would freely give to save that Jew! You’re disgusting. You have no pride, none!”

  “No, not where he is concerned!” she cried. She struggled to right herself. “I would do anything to save him, even prostitute myself to a man I loathe. And I do loathe you, Alessandro!”

  Blindly he swung his arm and his fist connected with her cheek. She fell back again. Even as blood trickled out of the corner of her mouth, she began to smile. She pulled herself up on her elbow and shook her head dazedly.

  Loredan was shaking. In Venice, nobles were forbidden to exert their power over men who had none. A man could be taken to court for beating his own servant. Men rarely resorted to physical violence, but sought other solutions to their problems. He had never before lifted his hand against anyone in anger. What was happening to him?

  Fosca said thickly, “I am going to have his child, Alessandro. His son. The son I wouldn’t give you, I will give him!” She started to laugh harshly.

  He became very pale. His eyes shone with a cold, dead light. He fixed his gaze on her and she fell silent.

  She was afraid. She drew her knees up protectively.

  Loredan threw himself down on one knee beside her. She cried out in terror and tried to slither away, but he reached out, grabbed a fistful of hair and dragged her back. She thought her neck would snap. He kissed her cruelly, bearing down hard, hurting her, suffocating her.

  She tried to push him away. She used her claws and he hit her again, with his open palm this time. She fell flat out, moaning, covering her bleeding face with her arms. He straddled her and ripped her gown apart with his two hands.

  The storm was overhead now, and a cold blast of wind blew over them. Her white flesh quivered. Her dark nipples stared up at him mockingly, like sightless eyes. He put his hands on her waist and pressed down hard with his thumbs. She gasped, more from fear than from pain.

  She thought, He’s going to rip the child out of me. “Don’t, please—!” She began to scream.

  He struck her again, to silence her. She gave a sobbing moan and lay limply under him. He ran his hands over her body, not sensuously, but thoughtfully, like a man taking the measure of his opponent. His manhood was huge, swollen, angry. He thrust it suddenly between her tensed legs and crashed down on her with his whole weight, grinding viciously. She heard the screams inside her head but her mouth made no sound.

  He covered her breasts with his hands and dug his fingers in, savagely. His face was distorted with fury. He was unrecognizable as the cool statesman who had lounged so coolly in her chair only moments before. She thought: He’s gone mad. He’s going to kill me.

  He pulled back. She wondered if he had finished with her. But he gripped her shoulder and turned her roughly onto her belly, and he spread her buttocks with his hands and thrust violently. Pain consumed her and she sobbed aloud. She felt like she was being cut in two.

  He finished abruptly and left her sobbing face down on the floor. He stumbled towards the door. She heard it open, and close. The lock clicked.

  X

  BRIDGE OF SIGHS

  Raf stood on the Bridge of Sighs, a palace and a prison on either side.

  The infamous covered walkway led from the Inquisitors’ chambers in the Doge’s Palace to the prisons of San Marco, on the other side of a narrow canal. Halfway along, Raf stopped and looked out through the stone grid towards the Molo and the lagoon. There was another bridge a little farther down, the Ponte Paglia. A woman stood there alone, watching the Bridge of Sighs. She was wearing a black shawl over her head and shoulders and Raf couldn’t see her face, but there was something familiar about her.

  Fosca? No, Lia.

  He turned grimly and walked to the door of the prison. He was followed closely by a silent jailor. The condemned cells were in the center of the block on the lowest level of the prison. The Tombs. His own cell was low, hardly high enough for a man to stand upright. A board suspended from the wall by chains served as a bunk. A wooden bucket in the corner was his toilet. There were no other furnishings. He could barely make out, by the light of his jailor’s lantern, some scratches left by previous inmates on the walls. He supposed he would add his name, too, and the date of his imprisonment. Perhaps he would try to keep track of the time he spent here. Why not? A man might as well try and leave some mark on the world, even if it’s only a literal one, on a prison wall.

  The heavy door closed and a bar slid into place. The only light came from a small opening in the door, not much bigger than his arm. The cell reeked of mold and the stink of unwashed bodies and human excrement. Even now, in the hottest month of the year, the cold chill of the thick stone walls started to creep into his bones. He thought he could hear the lap of the waters beneath the floor. Like all buildings in Venice, the prisons were built on pilings, and Raf suspected that when the waters rose in the late fall, the cells on this level would be knee-deep, if not submerged. He thought he could distinguish the water line on the walls. Over the top of his bunk. He decided that he didn’t really need to worry about that phase of his imprisonment. He would be dead by then.

  He sat on the bunk and leaned his head back against the damp wall. He thought about his trial. Having sneered so often at the three Inquisitors, called them senile old men, relics of the dark ages, he had been unprepared for the fear they inspired. It was intentional, of course. Very theatrical: two in red, and their chief in black. They listened solemnly while the State Prosecutor read out the charge: treason. He presented detailed and accurate reports of Raf's political activities in Venice and Paris. Raf was surprised that there had been not a single mention of his affair with Fosca Loredan, wife of the Commissioner of the Seas. There had been more than enough evidence to convict him without alluding to that. Clearly, they wanted to spare Loredan the embarrassment.

  Fosca. He hoped she was safe. He didn’t doubt for a moment that she, too, was in Venice. Their capture in Paris had served not only to bring him back to stand trial, but also to restore Loredan’s wife to him. Raf wondered which reason the Inquisitors had considered more vital. What would Loredan do to her? Divorce her, surely. By now all of Venice must have heard of the scandalous affair.

  Raf tried to picture her face, her haze of red-gold hair, her laughing gray eyes, her pale skin. But her hair insisted on being dark, and her eyes black, and her skin dusky. Lia, Lia, get out of my thoughts, damn you! He rattled his head. Haven’t you d
one enough harm already? Why must you haunt me?

  He tried to remember Fosca’s voice, husky and laughing, always brimming with laughter. “We’ll never be as happy as we are now.” She had been prophetically right. Lia’s voice kept sounding in his ears like a persistent chime: “I love you. I betrayed you. I’ll always love you. I wanted you.”

  He snorted angrily and stood up quickly, forgetting the low ceiling and cracking his head. He cursed aloud and felt a little better.

  The prison was quiet. Raf wondered how many other inmates his block housed. Few, he guessed. There weren’t many criminals in Venice who advertised their seditious intentions as he had.

  Perhaps he should have been more careful, he thought. But hadn’t that been part of his strategy, to draw attention to his cause? He had counted on his popularity with the people to protect him from arrest. But the people could not protect him in Paris, and the Inquisitors had acted swiftly. From the evidence presented in court, it had been clear that he and Fosca had been under continuous observation almost from the moment they left Venice. Their fates had been decided long ago.

  He thought briefly about death. Even here, in the death cells, it seemed remote and impossible. What was it like? He had lived so long with fear and danger that it seemed almost attractive. He wouldn’t suffer for long. A little discomfort, and then—nothing. He didn’t believe in an afterlife. Only in the void, where there was infinite peace.

  “Oh, Fosca,” he sighed, “our love has destroyed us both.”

  Lia waited for hours on the Ponte Paglia to catch a glimpse of him. She had heard that he was to be tried that day, in the morning. Whispers of Raf's capture and return had been floating around for days. Lia hadn’t heard any word of Fosca, and she didn’t care. But Raf, Raf would cross the bridge on his way to the Tombs. She watched and waited.