'I've not a shred of interest in either of them' declared Giovanni in regard to Illawara and Bianca. Vincenza sat in front of her table mirror and inspected a new pomade she had bought near the Rialto. With slanted eyes, she looked at her lover via the mirror as he tried on various capes and masks. He had no desire to present himself as a potential suitor to Illawara, and no wish to show interest in his former love Bianca.
Giovanni dared not offend the mistress of his heart.
'You were meant for the stage my love' said Vincenza as she saw Giovanni prance about the room. She shook her head. She then combed her hair before she practised a new style that was sweeping all of France.
Vincenza: too learned in the ways of men, went along with her lover's idea with cool consent. As a court courtesan, she had learned it was better that a man satisfies his curiosity and return than be obstructed and stray.
She shook her head again and smiled at Giovanni's antics: playing at characters. When it came to admirers, she had too much choice, but when it came to wit, she had not enough. Giovanni respected and understood her, and he made her laugh, and for that, she was prepared to give a lot.
Chapter 14
Games of Chance
Venice, evening, Wednesday 29th of November 1611
Professor Sloane emerged from his lodgings like a silver fox that evening. He carried a mask and his shallow box wrapped with dark velvet and slipped into the cold blue night. He sleuthed among the busy streets keen to avoid detection. His movements among the ambling public were smooth, swift, and discreet to the extent that few noticed the tall, elegant man that moved between them. He chose to slip down the more narrow and discreet passageways than the average person would care to in making his way about the city.
The Professor did leave a trace, of sorts, as he moved about the city, the heady scent of his spiced perfume that lingered after him at some distance and titillated the senses of anyone lucky enough to cross its trail: a recent gift to him from his friend Prince Fano. The Persian perfume mingled so well with his natural smell that the combination of scents produced a distinctive map in the minds of those that caught it, and traced the Professor’s likeness in such a way, that strangers could imagine his deportment like a beautiful portrait. Prince Fano had proved himself to be a man of excellent taste, and the Professor moved with elegant speed as he advanced upon the Rialto Bridge: the landmark of his destination.
The lofty street lamps burned like orbs of gold upon their pediments and cast all people visible in a flattering light that few, apart from the Professor, deserved. The crowds grew denser around the Rialto Bridge upon his approach, and so did the regularity of fashionable lead-white painted necks and faces, with cheeks, lips, and nipples for the daring, rouged with the intense vermilion of mercuric sulphide.
The Professor shuddered within himself when he saw the doll-like women, and some men, whose appearance transported him, in that instance, to his boarding school chemistry class. Winston heard the toe-curling voice of his tutor, Cecil Gripes:
'Pb on the Periodic table, otherwise known as Lead, is a metal and a poison' he said with lascivious delight. 'but when made into a paste it is creamy, and white - perfect for paints and make-up, for in the olden days that's what people used when they didn't know any better.' The boarding school boys exchanged looks with one another. 'However,' he continued, 'when the lead was applied to the skin it would slowly poison the body.' Cecil Gripes saw the boys grimace at the tone of his voice. 'Hydroxides, boys, remember those?' Winston saw himself nod except the other boys as Mr Gripes flexed his cane in his hands. 'No? Then I'll remind all of you. When Hydroxides mix with carbons, they produce what?' The boys remained still until Winston put up his hand, 'yes, Winston...'
'Acid, Sir. When hydroxides mix with carbons, they produce acids.'
'CORRECT' said Mr Gripes, 'you shall go far, Sloane.' Mr Gripes then struck his cane across the table, and the class flinched. 'The Lead would create acids that ate away at the skin - creating rotting faces behind beautiful eggshell facades, like so much in life, so let that be a warning to you.' The boys sat thunderstruck. 'That concludes today's lesson. Class dismissed.' Cecil Gripes then laughed with creepy delight as Winston and the other boys hurried away and left the room. The Professor shook his head to rid himself of the memory that ambushed his mind. But Cecil Gripes was right.
‘These people are ghosts’ he whispered to himself as he slipped past the Geisha-like faces of the men and women, ‘half of them will be dead in a few years’ he reminded himself, as he moved on.
Winston knew he could not interfere with the ignorance and norms of the times, and was drawn instead to women he thought of as natural and unpainted.
The Professor took another side street, that lay just before the Rialto, to go around the back and side of a vast water fronted palazzo. He saw that he was alone when he put on his mask and checked his box before he made his way to a side door flanked by two burning torches. A line of grand people had already begun to form, and the names they offered got checked against lists. No one used their real names although almost none were strangers. Two enormous Dalmatian twin brothers buttressed the doorway and towered above the guests, to intimidate all with their heft except the dainty woman who checked the pseudonyms against her list. She moved with the confidence and lightness of someone far from danger in the dim alleyway. Her two brutes were formidable, and a mere waft of her hand would be enough for any uncouth guest to be tossed aside, like waste from a chamber pot, by her infatuated and obedient guards.
‘Your name, Signore?’ came the benign question from the mistress of the door,
‘Signore Sloane’ said the Professor, somewhat stiff in his delivery, and the woman gave a delicate cough, ‘Signora… grazie’ he said, and the woman added a smile to her correction.
‘I have no "Sloane" on my list, Signore’, came her response, the Professor’s eyes flashed.
‘I’m sure I’m on there’ he said with a glance behind him at the lengthening queue, ‘my companions said I’d be added to the list.' The dainty creature checked again, and scanned her sharp eyes upon her immaculate lists, but shook her head.
‘I’m sorry, Signore, but there is no Sloane written here.’
‘There must be some mistake?’ added the Professor in some haste, as he glanced behind him again, and looked upon a glamorous masked couple that began to eye him with suspicion.
The mistress checked her lists yet again, glided her hands among her papers, studied, paused, and then glanced to the twins that responded in an instant to her gaze, and primed themselves for combat with mirrored perfection. The Professor swallowed and resorted to other tactics that had proved useful when dealing with difficulty. He removed his mask to smile, broad and white, at the woman. She stood unmoved, too versed in the ways of interlopers, and immune to their bribes or charms, but she liked his boldness in unveiling himself, as others would never dare. She read in his bearing that his claim could be genuine. She decided to give him one more chance. The mistress of the door knew almost every guest, pseudonym or none, which had ever attended the Palazzo over the years, and one name she had seen written struck her as odd.
‘Did your companions list you under another name?’ came her sage suggestion. The Professor paused,
‘Signore Winston’ he said in a moment of insight, and the woman smiled.
‘You’re on my list: player or voyeur?’ He glowed with triumph and tilted his head in the direction of the extending line for all to hear.
‘Player’ declared the Professor much relieved. Relief too for some of the queued regulars for it would have been a shame not to have seen more of the silver stranger. ‘Thank you’ he added. The Professor halted in front of the two man-mountains who did not separate. Winston flicked his eyes to the list keeper. She wafted her hand, and the brothers parted. The Professor stooped before he passed between the twin giants of the door, that seemed to him like the clashing rocks of the Bosphorus - that so menaced Jason and his Argona
uts. Two more guards then gave him a respectful nod after they checked his box before Winston put on his mask again and passed into the illuminated palazzo with its streaked marble floors. ‘They said I’d be listed as “Signore Sloane” on the door’ grumbled the Professor to himself. He then paid an usher, sat behind a polished table, for his coloured gaming tokens. The Professor rolled his tokens in his hand as he walked forward, ruminating. ‘I bet it was John who did that: the little shit-bag’ he cursed under his breath before he looked for his companions.
The Palazzo was huge. High frescoed ceilings rippled with colour and gilding depicting Pagan Gods up to all sorts of licentious behaviour in sumptuous detail. The Professor passed the main door which faced the Grand Canal and saw masked guests arriving by gondola. The Professor was ushered into a vaulted gallery, and walked among the various green velveted gambling tables that were set up for card games of Ruff, chequered boards for Draughts, and Bassetta - he and the Venetian’s gambling favourite - with various other gaming entertainments: even The Game of the Goose.
The gamblers looked chic and sophisticated, masked, wearing a third of their fortunes in clothes. Winston breathed in the scent of wine and perfumes as ushers brought drinks to the gambling patron's tables. He sauntered through the syrupy air as if he owned the place before he admired the candlelight that shimmered from a spectacular chandelier.
◆◆◆
‘My, my’ said Lucia in her room as she spied upon the Professor with her crystal ball. ‘I shall have to dress well to follow you there: how high you’ve flown in such a short time’, she mewed as she covered her ball and placed it down with care upon its new black cushion. Lucia had watched the Professor go about his business as usual within his room and saw the Soul-lanterns that he examined in the light. She could not help but approve in the execution of Hekate’s design. Lucia burned with curiosity upon seeing them and was keener than ever to converse with the Professor since their terrifying flight from her bedevilled nunnery.
Lucia had sat still watching the Professor already prepared by her toilette, but half dressed as she waited to see where the Professor would go next to spend his evening. Now she could dress according to the etiquette of his environment, but his attendance at the grand palazzo was a surprise for her. She chewed her fingernail before she scratched her head. Ordinary clothes would not cut it where the Professor was, and it was too late to rent a dress. She paced up and down, her brow furrowed, and plucked at her teeth. She looked off into the distance for some time. 'AHA!' she exclaimed. Lucia then stripped off her shift, reached for her unguent and massaged the buttery mixture into her naked flesh until she glowed like a pearl. She then tousled her fingers through her golden hair to lighten its colour and pulled on the rest of her clothes as quick as she could. Lucia checked her modest dress in the mirror and watched with pleasure as her hair braided itself into a nice look. 'That's pretty' she said with approval, patting at the style. Lucia gathered her essentials before she left her room, locking the door, and bolted out into the street below.
Lucia had a client who had moved into lodgings nearby to enjoy the cheaper rents. The two women had grown into friends over the years, as the successful courtesan had become a regular buyer of Lucia's effective beauty remedies. Lucia walked at a brisk pace through the dark and narrow streets, on the way to her friend, without a stitch of fear. She ignored the men that shrank away from her, as she strutted, illuminating her path, as her skin glowed in the gloom. Her friend had come to suspect why her products were so good, but held her tongue and just enjoyed the results. The forty-five-year-old could still command the prices of a woman half her age: and had loyal clients that would still pay for a mere look at her, a fond squeeze and her dazzling conversation.
Lucia arrived in the street she needed and called up to a lit window in decent apartments for that part of town.
‘Seraphina’ she called up to the window in a stage whisper. She paused, ‘SERAPHINA’ she called again, and she saw a shadow move behind the glass. Lucia looked around her and found a small stone on the ground which she snatched up to toss at the window. She made such a clink on the glass that she worried she cracked it. The window flew open, and a glamorous damsel stuck her head out to assess the cause of the noise. She looked down at the waving Lucia.
‘Oh, it’s you!’ she said with great surprise,
‘I’ve come to ask a favour’ came Lucia’s response, but the courtesan had already rushed from her window and was halfway down the stairs before Lucia could finish. The door onto the street yanked open to reveal a woman with her arms flung wide.
‘Lucy!’ the woman declared, and her friend scurried into her embrace. The two hugged for some time. ‘Mmmh, you smell good. What brings you here?’
‘Dear friend, I need to ask you a favour.’
‘Yes, anything my dear. How can I be of help?’
‘I need to borrow a dress.’
‘Not a problem’
‘A REALLY good dress.’ Seraphina glanced around.
‘Let's move out of the street.' The courtesan took her companion's arm before she led her inside. 'So, it’s that kind of night is it?’ she said with a dirty laugh. Lucia made a coquettish expression.
‘Not quite, my dear, but close.' Seraphina made eyes at her friend in a way that only a worldly woman could, 'I shall explain’ added Lucia, as her friend closed the door behind her. While avoiding the truth, Lucia described to her attentive companion the purpose of the request. The courtesan, in turn, explained that she was waiting for a client who had not turned up. The two women swapped niceties with the relaxed ease of faithful companionship and respect. Lucia covered up the events of the last few weeks: sure, in her thoughts that Seraphina still did not know she was an Abbess, let alone the highest rank of witch. The courtesan observed her friend, literally glowing, and smiled as Lucia crafted her convincing fabrications of what brought her to her door. She listened to the pork stuffing her friend inserted into the cavities of her story and did not mind a jot. Her friend was unique, mysterious, powerful and in her home to ask a favour of her which was praise enough. She knew, in her gut, that the truths of Lucia lay far beyond her comprehension: and it did not matter - they were the truest of friends.
Lucia whistled when Seraphina showed her the new dresses she had purchased. 'You've done well for herself' she remarked, and together the women picked out a glorious garment, that dazzled her, although Lucia was no stranger to the best that a tailor could offer. ‘This is GORGEOUS’ she said with surprise as she looked at the cream coloured dress embellished with gold encrusted jewels and patterned silver thread, ‘it must have cost a fortune?’ The courtesan could not contain her pride.
‘Borrow these too’ added Seraphina who then reached down to pick up a pair of silken silver tasselled, and pearl embellished chopines with high platform heels. Lucia giggled and clapped her hands.
‘They’re stunning’ she said. Seraphina shrugged at her success.
‘Business is good, much in part thanks to you: your creams are miracles in a jar’ the courtesan said before she caressed her face with a dramatic sweep of her hands and looked at her mirror. ‘What chance do these youngsters have’ she proclaimed, ‘when the men clap their eyes upon beauty and experience?’ Lucia giggled and shook her head as she looked at her friend. ‘The little chickens struggle to compete’ she continued, adding a quick imitation of the farm birds with a flap of her elbows, ‘and now even the high-born women seek me out, to pay for my advice and beg for my secrets: for I’ve become even grander than THEM.'
She winked, and the pair chuckled, Seraphina offered wine and Lucia accepted. After they each had drunk a glass, Lucia got into the dress and shoes. Seraphina suggested, with wisdom and respect, that they do something with Lucia's hair: which then seemed too simple in comparison with her grand clothing.
On reflection, Lucia agreed.
The courtesan gasped when she saw the bald patch on Lucia's scalp. Lucia waved off her friend's concern and manu
factured an excuse for the oddity. Seraphina then combed, braided and coiled Lucia’s long blond locks into a new French style that she had seen worn among the wealthy elites. She then stood back to eye up her friend. The courtesan thought Lucia not yet grand enough, and added a gold cintura belt, to enhance her slender waist, a crystal studded scuffia hairnet, and pinned her shining braids in place with an opal adorned ivory comb.
Seraphina then put some cochineal upon Lucia’s cheeks, the only make up her friend would allow upon her face, to add rosiness to her flawless skin.
The courtesan then handed Lucia a feather fan and her grandest plumed mask. She then stood back somewhat astonished by her creation, ‘you look utterly magnificent’ she said, shaking her head.
‘Thank you’ Lucia beamed after she gazed upon herself in Seraphina’s mirror, ‘I look almost as grand as Isabella d’Este in this’ she said, as she turned about the room.
‘Ha! Far better’ Seraphina corrected, wagging her finger, ‘do not do yourself down: for to say such things is to praise a cow above a unicorn.’
Lucia roared with laughter, blushed, and turned her face away, but Seraphina had not finished. ‘Tonight, my dear' she declared with vigour, 'do not doubt that you make the grand and proud noblewomen of Venice look like boot-faced old nags.' Lucia snatched in a breath, with her hand to her mouth, and then cackled with girlish abandon. The sorceress, in another guise, would not have needed the compliment, but in front of Seraphina’s quips, she lost all guard.
The courtesan loved to watch her friend, rendered defenceless, clutch at her ribs with her giggling. Lucia was her favourite person she liked to entertain, and seeing the stoic woman lose herself in laughter filled her with pride, and made her quip all the more.
But the joy then fell from Lucia’s shining face, interrupted and quick, as if gripped by a sombre thought.
Beyond the Raging Flames (The Hermeporta Book 2) Page 17
