Votive

by Karen Brooks

  Constantina’s horse reared and, as it did, the whirling snow parted and three grey shapes appeared.

  Hovering to the side and above the horses, tall vaporous creatures swayed. Their pointed teeth and hungry leers turned towards Constantina and Katina.

  ‘Morte Whisperers!’ cried Dante, reaching for the sword that was still in his room. He cursed. ‘Run, Constantina!’ He slapped the horse and leapt backwards out of the way, slipping in the snow, sprawling on his back. One of the creatures floated over him, curious at his helplessness, but it did not attack.

  There was a swirl of movement and the Morte Whisperer disappeared and was replaced by another shape. Atop her horse, Constantina towered over him. The horse’s hooves were inches from his face. ‘I told you, foolish ragazzo, trust your heart, not your head. Not everything is as it seems.’

  She wheeled her mount and broke into a trot, Birrichino following.

  ‘Wait!’ Dante cried, clambering to his feet.

  ‘Remember,’ called Constantina, kicking her heels. ‘If she is under threat, bring her to the pledge stone.’

  One moment the horses were there; in the next they were gone, swallowed by the snow and the creatures that followed, their grey forms surging until they too became one with the air.

  Dante stared at where they’d been, oblivious to the bitter cold and the snow that was fast turning into sleet. Needles of ice drove into his skin. He dashed the stinging wetness from his eyes. Constantina was working with the Morte Whisperers, the very creatures that had tried to kill Katina. ‘What have I done?’ he cried, but his words were snatched away. Sorrow and a terrible despondency rose within him. ‘Katina, Tallow? What have I done?’

  He stood for what seemed like hours, his head heavy with confusion before he stumbled and fought his way back into the taverna, unaware that in the dark shadows under the eaves, another shape watched.

  THE DAY AFTER MY OFFICIAL PUBLIC appearance, my introduction to the Doge and the cream of Serenissian society, the casa was besieged with flowers, poems and, most importantly, the highly anticipated offers.

  The first few had been very gratifying. Awoken by a timid knock on my bedroom door after only what seemed like minutes of sleep, I saw Hafeza enter, carrying the most enormous spray of flowers I had ever seen. Blue-white lilies stood erect beside blood-red roses while a profusion of star-shaped buds encircled them like gossamer. They were beautiful. I climbed out of bed as Hafeza placed them in a vase. I found a card tucked among them. I didn’t even recognise the name. Filled with superlatives and hyperbole, it made me laugh. But it also delighted me. When Hafeza left, I began to dance around the room, only to be brought to a standstill when she reappeared seconds later with yet another bunch.

  ‘More?’ I’d asked incredulously.

  Hafeza nodded and left, returning again and again.

  I gave up trying to sleep and, after a hasty wash, went to the portego for my morning cafe. Every few minutes, a strange gondola would arrive at the door over the water-stairs and Salzi would rush to open it and take receipt of whatever was being delivered. Even our land door was beseiged as couriers and servants under instructions to deliver their masters’ gifts and pledges ran along the calles.

  After a week, my room and the entire casa were brimming with sweet-scented bouquets and bottles of perfume and oils. My dresser was laden with poems, paste brooches, jewelled pins, silken shawls, wildly decorated masks, embroidered handkerchiefs and a host of other tributes – most of which were golden or made from the precious metal itself – along with outrageous declarations of love and devotion. I didn’t know what to make of any of it. I giggled, blushed, pretended indifference. But after I’d retire to my room each night, I would pace the floor and read the accompanying cards and savour the poems – some of which were original – all over again. The one thing they had in common was how they referred to me.

  Signorina Dorata had captured not only hearts, but the public imagination as well.

  Giaconda wasted no time in placing orders for more clothes with Signor Tedeschi. I am not sure how the small man accomplished it, but within days, additional dresses arrived – more than I would need in a lifetime, all cut from golden fabrics, all stitched with beads dipped in molten gold or painted to match. Masks, hats, gloves, even my zoccoli were now made from golden materials. I would pull out each new garment with the same excitement as if it were my first, clutching them to my body, twirling before the mirror, parading around.

  It was only when my wardrobe was organised that Giaconda allowed me to reappear in public. From now on, I would dress only in gold. So it was, that a few days after the function, I rode in the gondola once more. The snow, which had fallen steadily since that night, abated, and a thin, sickly sunlight pierced the clouds. Dressed in all my golden finery, I sat in the prow, a new mask firmly in place, my cape thrown back so the sheen of my dress could be seen. Giaconda sat in the doorway of the felze, content to let me be the focus.

  As Salzi pushed us along the canal, the talk began. What started as whispers, with the occasional shout of recognition, soon became a roar. People crowded bridges, ran along the fondamenta, all to catch a look at me. It was such a far cry from the last time I was chased, and I found it hard to reconcile at first. But all too soon, as the days went by and I took to the waters every afternoon, I became used to the attention. I even relished it. We rowed the Circolo whenever the weather would allow, rousing excitement. I became part of the attractions of Carnivale.

  When Giaconda and I promenaded through the piazza on Nobiles’ Rise over a week after the ball, Signor Maleovelli between us, our arms resting lightly upon his, our heavy heels cracking the snow that coated the flagstones, people paused in their step, parting to allow us to pass. Daring children ran up to me, running their fingers along my gown, my cape, keen to touch me. ‘Signorina Dorata,’ they whispered, awe in their little voices.

  I longed to stroke their sweet faces, to thank them, but Giaconda said I must not. ‘They’re insignificant. Ignore them. You are above them. Be proud. Touch only where it will count. Where and when we tell you.’

  How could I explain to her that these bambini were not insignificant to me? None of this was. For the first time in my life, I was being noticed. Not in a way that made me run in fear or shame, but one that made me blaze with happiness. I was bringing the people of Serenissima pleasure. Just seeing me made them smile, gave them cause to talk. And what I heard was generous and loving. Serenissians liked nothing better than what brought glory to their city. I was now among those honoured objects. Signorina Dorata.

  Like the golden halo that radiated from my elaborate costumes, I too lived in a haze of wonder.

  It was only two weeks after my first introduction that I was brought back to reality. Having attended a few private dinner parties with Giaconda since the function, which only served to fire the ardour of some of my suitors, prompting them to more outrageous bids, all of which Signor Maleovelli and Giaconda took very seriously, bartering to raise the stakes, the time had finally come for me to accept my first client.

  Giaconda came to my room early that day.

  I was already awake and sipping cafe in my bed, reading both a pamphlet of poetry published by a courtesan I was yet to meet, Veronica Franco, and some more invitations I’d received. I closed the pamphlet when Giaconda entered and put it on my bedside table.

  ‘Where did you get that from?’ she asked, looking down her nose at it.

  ‘It was a gift.’ I reached over and opened the first page. ‘From Signor Castellini.’

  Giaconda laughed. ‘Ah yes, he was quite taken with you the other night.’

  ‘I mentioned I liked poetry. He sent me this. It’s very good.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Giaconda, her tone suggesting the opposite. ‘And what are these? More declarations?’ She arched a brow at the scattering of cards across my coverlet. I nodded.

  She pushed them away and sat on the end of my bed and stared at me. ‘
Forget them. After much toing and froing, Papa has accepted an offer.’

  I put down my cup. My hand began to shake, I swear my heart forgot to beat. ‘Who?’

  Giaconda took a deep breath and, as she released it, so too she spoke his name. ‘Signor Giacomo Moronisini.’

  ‘Signor Moronisini? I know him.’ I’d spied on him the night Hafeza caught me. The night she betrayed me. I frowned and pushed thoughts of Hafeza aside. ‘He’s very handsome,’ I said, picking up my cup and burying my smile in the porcelain.

  Giaconda nodded. ‘He is also very generous. He wants you – badly. Many do. But Papa has decided that his suit works best for us. We want to shore up our relations with his family. The news Jacopo sends us is very good indeed, Tarlo. The Contested Territories are ripe pickings. We’re going to do very well from this enterprise.’

  ‘Then it is good that we can share with the Moronisinis, sì?’

  ‘Share?’ Giaconda gave a short laugh. ‘Good? I am not sure that’s how Papa would view it. For now, it is … adequate. But once you wrap young Moronisini around your finger, then we can consider just how the spoils of this very successful trip should be divided. It seems to Papa that the original terms need to be changed to favour us.’ Giaconda regarded me. ‘What? Why that face? You don’t like this?’

  I considered my words carefully. ‘I don’t know. It doesn’t seem fair. You said yourself that the Moronisinis were very generous to let you enter a colleganza with them. It doesn’t seem right to alter the terms at this stage, does it?’

  ‘Ah, Tarlo!’ exclaimed Giaconda. ‘How little you understand. Nothing about what we’re doing is fair! Life is not fair. You of all people should know that.’ She shook her head at me. ‘The Moronisinis never let us enter a colleganza. They invited us, no, they begged us to join them. Admittedly, they were persuaded – and by your candles. But this doesn’t change the facts, the reality. Don’t you think that if the tables were turned, the Moronisinis would do the same to us?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘Of course they would. They are Serenissians! And don’t forget, it’s your – let’s call them powers of influence – that continue to alter longstanding arrangements.’ She referred to other candles that had been burned at special meetings and dinners, at strategic moments, the other colleganzas that the Maleovellis now held. ‘They are only the beginning. Once you enter these nobiles’ lives and their beds, things will change again. Then, they will be entering agreements on our terms. Terms that will see us restored to power.’

  ‘And the Estrattore brought back.’

  Giaconda rose off the bed. ‘Sì, sì, of course,’ she said, smoothing the creases out of her dress.

  ‘Now, I want you to make a special candle that you will light tonight, cara. It is for you and Giacomo to enjoy alone. It’s to be infused with passion. I want Giacomo to be completely besotted with you. I want him to burn like a candle. I want his wick to remain steady and strong.’ She tilted her head. ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘Sì,’ I said, and blushed before laughing. I wanted to bury my face in my pillow.

  ‘After siesta, I want you to bathe. Hafeza will wash your hair. I have a special dress for you tonight and a lovely camicia and pair of stockings. You will not be wearing pantaloons.’

  The colour on my cheeks deepened. This was really happening. My final step in becoming a fully fledged courtesan was about to be taken.

  ‘I will leave you now. I have more offers to sort through. You are going to be a very busy lady, Signorina Dorata.’

  Giaconda left the room and I lay back on the bed, stretching my arms above my head. I stared at the ceiling. All our plans had come to this. It felt as if little birds flapped in my stomach, and I put my hand there to still them. Behind their activity, I could sense something else. I searched inside. It was sorrow. I didn’t need to look at my harlequin to know where that came from.

  Dante would understand, I knew. He would tell me to be resilient. To do whatever it takes to bring my people back – even bedding strangers. Even helping the Maleovellis.

  Before I could change my mind, I leapt from the bed, scooped the harlequin off the dresser and buried it in a drawer. Now its rainbow interior and exultant pose could not torment me anymore.

  I hurried to dress myself and leave the room before the nonsensical paths my mind was insisting on travelling depressed me further.

  THE MOON WAS HIDDEN BEHIND a thick bank of clouds and the snow was heavy and silent as Salzi escorted me to the Moronisinis’ casa. It was situated on the tip of Nobiles’ Rise, towards where the Circolo flowed into the Grande, and was a longer journey than I expected. Huddled within the felze and wrapped in fur-lined blankets, a gift from the foreign ambassador, I watched the city slide past. There was a magical quality about the evening, enhanced by the confidence I felt at my first solo trip, never mind my assignation.

  We glided to the Moronisinis’ water-stairs, where Salzi handed me to a servant. From there, I was taken to a beautifully adorned room on the piano nobile. Already present were Giacomo and four other men – all sons or nephews of nobiles from the eight great casas. There was Venerio Nicolotti, Rizzo Manin, Bezio Castellini and Rambaldo Errizo. I had been warned of their presence and knew that if I impressed them with my manners and looks, then they too might become clientele. It was also a chance for Moronisini to display his latest conquest to his closest friends and, I knew, rivals as well. As far as he and the nobiles of Serenissima were concerned, he’d won the lottery. I was under no illusions about that.

  As I was announced, Giacomo stopped mid-conversation and turned, a glass held aloft. I stood in the doorway and counted to ten. The men froze. Eyes swept me, judged me. I smiled, my nerves hidden behind my fixed stare, grateful for my mask. ‘Signori,’ I said softly and sank into a deep curtsy.

  Giacomo put down his glass and came forward, taking my hand, lifting me to my feet. He wrapped his long fingers around mine, turning them so my wrist was exposed. Pushing my glove back, he rested his lips against the tender white flesh there. They were firm, dry. I shivered. He raised his eyes, his mouth upturned in a smile. ‘If it is possible, Signorina Dorata, you are even more beautiful than I remember.’

  After that, the evening progressed smoothly and much as Giaconda predicted. Many courses were served and vino flowed freely. I ate and drank sparingly, making sure to listen with rapt attention to Giacomo, to offer opinion only when asked and be prepared to recite poetry or sing if requested. Both were asked of me and I stood to do so. I who had once known no music in my life had a repertoire to draw from, thanks to Giaconda. After I finished, the men applauded enthusiastically. Hours passed, and an artiste from the Theatre Quartiere played the mandolin for us, singing a plaintive madrigal about love and loss. I sighed when it finished and had to work hard to shed myself of the melancholy his lyrics aroused. Nothing was to interfere with my performance. I watched the candles on the sideboard burn to stumps, conscious of the one I had hidden in the folds of my dress.

  Finally, the men were left to smoke and chat over their drinks – their digestivi, and I went to prepare myself. They offered their farewells with knowing, envious looks. I couldn’t help but smile, particularly at the smug look on Giacomo’s handsome face.

  Taken to his private apartments by a sombre servant, I first replaced one of the candles by the bed with my own, throwing the original out the window and into the canal, hoping no-one saw me. I removed my zoccoli and stockings and sat in a plush chair by the fire and waited. I didn’t have to linger long.

  Giacomo arrived moments later. He shut the door slowly, putting his back against it, and smiled as it clicked. His teeth were white against his bronze skin. ‘Since I first set eyes on you at the Doge’s palazzo, I have thought of nothing but this moment.’

  I had to repress the urge to laugh. Whether it was nerves or the hackneyed nature of Giacomo’s words, I wasn’t sure. But there was nothing clichéd about his next action. He came towards me and, holding out his
hand, indicated that I should place mine in it. I did. He gently pulled me to my feet. Without my zoccoli, I came only to his chest.

  ‘Ah, I like you better diminished,’ he said and tipped my chin upwards. He lowered his lips. They were sweet from the digestivo and as they captured mine, sent waves of heat through my body. His kiss deepened and I pressed my body into his. I felt his hardness against me as I wrapped my arms around him and pushed against him. I could smell my candle burning; feel its effects. As I touched him, I knew Giacomo did as well.

  He moaned and held me tighter.

  My gown shimmied to the floor and I stepped out of it. My delicate camicia was nothing more than a golden veil that he reached for and in one swift motion, tore from my body. I cried out, not in fear but – God help me – longing. He lunged, picking me up in his arms, and carried me to the bed.

  I helped him remove his doublet, his shirt and, finally his hose. I lay beneath him, naked, quivering with eagerness. I’d never felt like this before. I was on the edge of a precipice and wanted to jump. He straddled me, his chest heaving. Staring at his beauty, the form of his chest, the veins in his arms, I was unable to resist the fine hairs that trailed down his stomach. He threw back his head and shut his eyes.

  Much later, when the candle was smouldering, a mound of melted wax, we lay beside each other, covered in a fine sheen of sweat. He rolled over and raised himself on his elbow. With his free hand, he traced patterns over my breasts and along my chin, across my bruised lips. I kissed his finger as it ran over them.

  Giaconda had fulfilled her promise to me. My first had been gentle. He’d been kind. He’d given me as much pleasure as I knew I had given him.

  ‘You are a marvel, my little Dorata.’

  I was glad the mask hid my wince. That name. Why did he say that? It almost broke the mood, moved me out of the present and back into my past.

  ‘Worth every soldi,’ he continued, ‘and more.’