My second son, Enea, Andrew’s boy, arrived three years after Achiletto. Barely a week later, Andrew married the Venetian noblewoman Beatrice da Lezze; it was a marriage of convenience, arranged by his parents, and, happily for me, Andrew is still my lover. He does not say whether his wife is unhappy with the arrangement, and I do not ask.
Tragedy struck two summers ago: Mamma died suddenly in her sleep. Maddalena said it was her heart. Her own mother then passed away during the terrible typhus epidemic that killed thousands, including my husband Paolo Panizza, (I have retrieved my dowry), and my own father. I asked Lena, as I now call her, to move in with me. She’s become my dearest friend and confidante, my go-between with new clients, my children’s nanny, and my housekeeper. Life should be perfect. Yet there’s an ache in my soul, and a longing for…
Laughter echoes from the piano nobile, and the door bursts open. ’Tis my boys, my wonderful boys. They’ve been out for a walk with Lena and Ludovico. (Ludovico continues to be one of my regulars, and I love him dearly.)
Achiletto is blond with green eyes (they say he takes after me), and Enea has the dark hair of his father. I open my arms and they rush into them, smothering me with kisses. ‘Mamma, Mamma! We saw the Doge in his state barge,’ my eldest jiggles from one foot to the other. ‘Will he take it to Cyprus to fight the Turks?’
‘No, tesoro. The barge is too slow, and I’m afraid the Republic has lost Cyprus.’ Achiletto is bright and nothing seems to escape him…
I catch Lena’s eye, noting her solemn expression. Cyprus was a Venetian possession for more than eighty years. After receiving news of the fall of Famagusta, and the torture to death of Commander Marc’Antonio Bragadin, our brave men have gone with the Holy League to fight the Ottoman forces. Our marines have to stop them or they will sail into our lagoon and occupy us too. I shudder at the prospect of being carted off to the Sultan’s harem, my children and household taken from me.
I glance at Lena. ‘Where’s Ludovico?’
‘We left him at Rialto. He has business to which he must attend.’
Enea tugs at my sleeve. ‘Will my Papa come back soon?’
I pull my youngest close. ‘I hope so.’ Andrew is in command of a galley and has sailed with the Venetian fleet.
Enea nods. ‘I’m hungry. What’s for supper?’
I laugh in spite of my worry for his father. Enea’s priorities have always been with his stomach. He’s a chubby little fellow, all dimples and puppy fat. I tickle his tummy. ‘You’re on the menu, my sweet. I could eat you up you’re so tasty.’ I burrow my head into his chubbiness, opening my mouth and pretending to bite him. Enea unleashes a peal of giggles.
I carry him, for he’s only three years-old and I can just about manage his weight. Lena takes Achiletto by the hand and we troop down to the kitchen. Anna, as ever my faithful cook, puts plates of ravioli stuffed with minced rabbit in front of the boys. I thank her. ‘All set for tonight?’
‘Yes, signora. Everything is ready.’
‘Grazie.’ This evening I’m hosting a dinner party, and I want everything to be perfect.
After we’ve put the boys to bed, Lena helps me to dress. She pulls the laces on my bodice tight, and my breasts rise so high the pink of my nipples is showing.
‘Delicious,’ she says, her fingers lingering.
I give her hand a playful slap. ‘Not now, cara. There isn’t time.’
‘We can make up for it later. There’s no one booked in.’
Whenever I have a free night, Lena and I sleep together. ’Tis the least I can do for her; she’s given up her life’s work for me, and I know she’s in love with me. I love her too, of course I do, except I’m not in love with her. I wish I could be: it might make me happy. Instead, I’m aching for the one man who persists in ignoring me. Marco Venier. I’ve invited him to attend the dinner with his uncle this evening, but have yet to receive a response. Marco Venier only recently returned to Venice from a period overseeing our military affairs on the mainland. Will he condescend to cross the threshold of a courtesan’s house?
Lena runs a comb through my hair, twisting plaits and threading ribbons studded with pearls. I do not let her twist it into the devil’s horns that are the current fashion, for I’m superstitious about such things. Pearls are forbidden to courtesans by the sumptuary laws, but I wear them anyway. I glance at myself in the full-length glass mirror I purchased from Murano last year. I’m wearing a heavily brocaded burgundy-red dress with a starched white ruff at the back of the neck.
‘Will I do?’
‘You’ll more than do.’
I laugh. ‘I wish you would join us.’
‘I’m not clever like you. I can’t sing or play the lute. And I don’t write poetry. No. I prefer to help Giulia, Anna and Domisilla in the kitchen. When the dishes have been done, I’ll go to bed and wait for you. Maurizio has the night off tonight, but his services won’t be needed, will they?’
Maurizio has become a manservant as well as my boatman. A man is needed to discourage violence among my clients. There have been some, over the years, who would take me too roughly for my tastes. I always keep a bell handy, and if I ring it, Maurizio arrives almost immediately. I kiss Lena’s cheek. ‘You know I couldn’t manage without you, don’t you?’
‘Even if I continue to resist Count Tron’s pleas to join in with your trysts?’
‘He teases you,’ I laugh. ‘For him ’tis but a game.’ And it is, of course. A dalliance, a distraction, a way of defusing the tensions of his duties. I’m under no illusions that he could be in love with me.
My guests and I dine on roast goose and chestnuts, after an antipasto of sliced cold meats and a primo of pumpkin gnocchi. Domisilla and Anna wait on us and serve a fresh green salad mixed with chopped goose liver. Red wine from the mainland flows freely throughout the meal, and we finish with grapes, apples, and cheese from the Dolomite mountains. I nibble my food; I don’t wish to grow fat like many of the noblewomen I see in church. They must have little with which to occupy themselves other than eating…
Domenico, Marco (praise God), and the artist, Tintoretto, grace my company this evening. Talk soon turns to the war against the Turks.
‘There’s been a battle off the south-west of Greece at Lepanto,’ Domenico says. ‘Our 44 gun galleasses have routed the sultan’s forces.’
I tremble. ‘What news of casualties?’
‘About 8,000 dead on each side, but our victory was complete. The Holy League captured over a hundred Ottoman galleys and many thousands of men, liberated about 15,000 enslaved Christians, and sank or burned about 50 galleys.’
‘How many galleys did we lose?’
‘Only twelve.’
I clasp my shaking hands. ‘What news of Andrew Tron?’
‘He’s safe.’
Relief washes through me. ‘Grazie a Dio!’
‘I propose to paint a masterpiece depicting the battle,’ Tintoretto announces. The artist takes a sip of wine before wiping his bushy grey beard and moustache. ‘’Tis our first great defeat of a Turkish fleet.’
Marco Vernier picks up a grape from his plate, pops it into his mouth, and then spits out the seeds into his hand. ‘They say it will be the last and greatest engagement with oar-propelled vessels. We are moving away from galleys to galleons in our Navy.’
‘And not before time,’ says Domenico. He smiles at the artist. ‘You should paint Veronica too.’
‘That would be my pleasure.’
I catch Marco looking at me, his eyes burning, and my heartrate quickens.
We retire to the portego, where I entertain them by playing the lute, a Fantasia by Francesco Canova da Milano which I’ve been practising for days.
Domenico applauds as I strum the last notes, ‘Brava! Brava! Tell me, Veronica! What are you writing now?’
‘I’m thinking of following Tullia d’Aragona’s example and setting my poems in Capituli’
Marco shuffles forwards in his chair. ‘Capituli?’
‘Sounds like a challenge.’
‘Do you accept the challenge, my lord?’
‘Absolutely.’
Clasping my hands together, I give him my widest smile.
I spend the next two months waiting for Marco’s challenge. Nothing. He doesn’t even attend his uncle’s literary salon. When I find out that he has returned to the mainland, I resolve to try and forget him. My beloved crow, Andrew, is back in Venice; I shall give him a hero’s welcome. Nothing will be too much trouble for my brave defender of the Serenissima. He’s my best lover, too, the one who sparks my desire the most. Truly, I’ve missed him. My other patrons take their pleasure too quickly, and leave me unsatisfied. Lena’s soft loving is generous, but I long for Andrew’s hard prick inside my figa.
A message has come; he’s due to visit tonight, after he’s dined at home with his wife. Lena has helped me prepare. ’Tis thanks to her that I have acquired the habit of bathing, and I love it. The feeling of cleanliness is like no other and my patrons often remark on the sweet fragrance of my figa. I wish my clients’ pricks smelt as sweet to me, for most people believe that bathing weakens the body so much they will catch diseases. The opposite, thanks to Lena, I now know to be true. I’ve taken to wiping my patrons’ underarms with scented cloths, and washing their pricks with soap and water before I suck them. They tell me I’m mad, but put up with it anyway for my sucking is second to none.
I’m lying on my fragranced sheets, a woollen blanket over me, and firelight plays across the marble floor of my chamber. I no longer have to worry about getting pregnant. Lena has taught me a way of preventing more babies from seeding themselves. Half a lemon, flesh and pips scooped out, tucked up inside my figa, right at the top, so that it sits over and blocks the entrance to my womb.
Oh, I can’t wait to see Andrew. I’m craving his touch… No need for entertainment tonight. He strides through the door at last, peeling off his doublet and hose as he approaches my bed. ‘I’ve just been so see our son,’ he says.
‘I hope you didn’t wake him.’
‘Of course not. He was fast asleep and didn’t even stir when I kissed his cheek. A fine boy, and he’s grown if I’m not mistaken.’
‘He certainly has.’
Andrew stands naked in front of me. ‘Before you ask, I’ve bathed this evening,’ he laughs. ‘My wife is convinced I shall expire on the morrow.’
I open my arms and he comes into them, his bristly beard against my cheek. ‘My darling Andrew, how wonderful that you are here.’ We kiss, an achingly tender kiss, slow and gentle. There is great affection between us. His calloused palms catch the undersides of my breasts and cup them. His murmur of pleasure rumbles against my chest. I put my hands on his shoulders and run them down his back to curl around his buttocks. He presses into me, crushing his erect shaft between us.
I wrap the fingers of one hand around his prick, the other hand cupping his sack. Then I caress his length until I reach his tip, smiling as the first beads of moisture leak from him. Kneeling in front of him, I take him in both hands, pushing my hands down on him in a hand-over-hand cycle. When his breath starts to come in gasps, I lean forward and suck him into my mouth.
I have to stretch my jaw wide. He smells and tastes clean: musky, slick and smooth. Careful not to graze him with my teeth, I bob my head up and down, wrapping my lips around him. He tangles his fingers in my hair. One hand pumping him at the base, I slip the other one underneath to stroke the stretch of skin behind his balls. He pushes up with his hips and I lower my head to take him deeper. His body tenses as I work him with my hand and suck so hard my cheeks hollow. He gasps a shuddering breath, arches his back, and tightens his grip on my hair as he shoots a spurt of viscous saltiness against the back of my throat.
‘Ah, Veronica, tesoro. How I’ve dreamt of this for many a night while I’ve pumped myself and thought of you.’
‘And I of you.’
‘Except you weren’t without love, were you?’
‘There’s no love like yours, my dearest Andrew.’ And ’tis true. Andrew is a hero, a god, and I really do adore him.
‘Lie back, Veronica. Let me enjoy you and give you pleasure.’
He moves with agonizing slowness over my body, kissing me from the tips of my toes, up the length of my calves, across my hips, to arrive at my breasts. My nipples tingle and stiffen as he caresses one and sucks the other. Wetness soaks my figa, and I want to feel his mouth there.
I spread my legs, willing him to put his tongue inside me, but he runs it up my inner thigh instead, just outside my labia, then across my belly and down the other thigh. Oh, please, put it in! No such delight. He kisses behind my knees instead, then the soles of my feet. He runs his hands up my legs ahead of his kisses, touching his lips to my hipbones again, and finally, at last, to my core. Just a kiss, though, his lips stroking my entrance, then a single shallow lap of his tongue. I’m moaning and writhing in desperation. Ah, finally. His tongue flicks against my nub.
I groan and pull his head against me. He sucks on my pearl as he pushes his thumb into me, curling it to stroke my figa walls. His pace is still slow and he pauses once to spit into his other hand, smearing the saliva against my culo. His finger works its way in until I feel his knuckles against me. My breathing is a long-drawn, high-pitched moan, rising into a panting whimper as my joy approaches. I claw the bed and don’t even try to quieten my squeals. My figa muscles clench around his thumb and my arsehole clamps his finger as he moves both hands together. I twist in paroxysms of pleasure. Finally he takes his hands from me, and I’m as limp as a ragdoll.
Andrew gets to his feet, washes his hands in the basin (like I have taught him), and goes to the wine and biscotti he knows are on the table. He returns to the bed with them, then dunks a biscuit in the sweet vino and feeds it to me. I lie on my side, every bone in my body relaxed. Some wine has dribbled between my breasts. He licks it up and progresses to swirl his tongue around my nipples. They harden and a thrill of desire travels down to my figa. We kiss, our tongues laced together, our lips pulsing.
He rolls me over and his weight descends on me. I feel a new pressure probing my entrance, but he doesn’t enter me. Oh, how I want to beg him! Except, I won’t. His pleasure before mine, always. He pushes the tip in, grips himself in his hand and moves in circles inside me, brushing my pearl. I suck in a ragged breath. And then he pulls away. Oh, Dio! His lips find one breast, and his fingers the other. Oh, santo cielo!
Without warning, he thrusts into me with one push, driving to the hilt, hard. My eyes fly open and I breathe out a gasp. His mouth remains on my nipple, and he doesn’t thrust again, just stays there, buried to the root, our hips grinding together. I try to move against him, but he holds my hips down with one hand. I can feel my joy building; I want him to move, need him to thrust.
‘Please...’ I can’t help myself.
He grazes his teeth on my stiffened nipple, then moves to the other. His hand holds me down, keeping me from rolling my hips.
‘Andrew, please!’ I want him deep, want to feel his length sliding inside me.
He chuckles. ‘Please what?’
‘Please fuck me.’
‘Hard, or soft?’ He pulls out slowly then thrusts in hard.
‘Dio, yes! Like that.’
He withdraws bit by bit, until only the very tip of his prick is left inside me, and he hesitates there, stopping the flutter of my hips with his hand before crashing back into me. Again, and again, slow out, fast in. Deep thrusts. Hard into me.
‘Don’t stop!’
He settles his weight on me, forearms planted underneath my neck, his lips crushing mine in hungry kisses. I wrap myself around him, holding him as he drives into me, faster now. He moans his joy, and the hot liquid of his seed fills me and tips me over the edge. Stars burst behind my eyes so intense is my climax. I let out a
shriek. And still he thrusts into me, pushing me beyond joy into an intensity of pleasure so powerful it hurts. Finally he slows and strokes my face with trembling fingers. ‘That was unbelievable, Veronica. You have bewitched me.’
‘And you me.’
We kiss leisurely, lingering kisses. Finally, Andrew pulls away. ‘I’m sorry to leave you, tesoro, but I have to be up early for a meeting with the Doge.’
He crosses the room to wash, and then he retrieves his clothes. A piece of rolled parchment falls onto the floor. Andrew claps a hand to his forehead. ‘I’m sorry. I found this by your front door. I should have given it to you sooner.’
I take the missive from him. ‘I’ll look at it in a minute.’
Andrew kisses me on the forehead and takes his leave.
Now I’m alone, I start to read. My eyes widen and my heart sinks with every word.
The writer has addressed me as a whore, playing with the letters of my name. “Ver”, becomes “verily”. Then “onica”, “unique”. And what he has written, for ’tis a man who has penned this I am sure, is truly horrible.
To Veronica, verily unique whore,
I refuse to commit myself to a woman who insists on earning a profit at my expense. Because screwing is neither pleasant nor tasty, kisses are not kisses, and thrusts no longer thrusts without that certain thing that one calls Love. I mean, asking for five or six coins for a kiss, and fifty for barely a fuck! ’Tis truly is a shame that families do not tie up those who pay such prices, as though you had balsam or manna on your cunt.
No text or gloss will ever state that a lover must give his woman anything besides his heart. Whoever invented gunpowder, whoever betrayed Christ, keeps company with the one who first screwed for money. Wouldn’t you like us to wait on you day and night and give you dozens and hundreds of coins? Sure, go look for some damned cuckold of a cur.
Veronica COURTESAN (Fragrant Courtesans Book 1) Page 6
