by David Blixt
There was only one fellow in the place who appeared at all promising. But he looked familiar, too, with his mane of curling chestnut hair, big green eyes and wiry frame. Did I already touch him for money? Or his father, or uncles? More than a boy but less than a man, he sat alone on a barrel in the far corner of the hayloft, a small meal set on another barrel before him, singing softly to himself as he drank. He seemed an inexpert drinker, stopping often to allow his head to catch up to his tongue.
He does look familiar. Damn. The Paduan had to be careful. He owed so much to so many. But there was nothing for it. Better to walk over now with a full flagon than an empty one. Leaving his bench, he ducked under beams to cross to the young man's side.
The teenager looked up, and the Paduan raised his cup. “To the Pax Verona, young master.”
The teen pulled a face. “Figs.”
“Not a fan of peace?”
“Peace is boring. Just the hush between wars.”
Veronese, from his accent. Little chance, then, of an old debt. Good. Dragging another barrel close, the Paduan sat himself upon it. “You've been to war, then?” he asked in an encouraging voice. Always good to get them talking.
“I'm always at war.” The teen's blurred eyes narrowed at his new companion. The Paduan knew the figure he cut. Handsome enough, with thick locks of wavy red hair and a beard in need of trimming. He wasn't rich, which would be clear from the condition of his clothes. If he were noble he would be closer to the center of the city. But his sword was polished and his boots well-soled. Well-born, but of no consequence.
“I know what you mean. I saw my first war eleven years ago. Been fighting ever since. On the losing side.” Oblique flattery.
The teen showed his teeth. “At war with your purse, from the looks of you. Is it alms you seek? Or do you think I'm one of your bardassi? Sorry, I'm a married man.”
The Paduan flushed. This insult had grown up around Padua these last thirty years, that each young Paduan male had to spend time being buggered by a student at the University. Damn students, tarring us all with their filth.
Struggling, he found a smile. “Married? My condolences.”
“Not a proponent of matrimony?”
“I deplore it! Better a death sentence, and that's the truth.”
“One and the same. Either way, you don't get out of it alive.”
The Paduan's laugh was not at all forced. “I knew I liked you! Though I'd have said you were too young for vows.”
“Not as young as some brides.”
“Indeed,” said the Paduan, seizing the topic. “Have you heard about the Greyhound's heir and his bride? Of course you have, you live here. Poor lad. Must be hard, these political matches.”
Drinking deeply, the young fellow looked up from his cup. “They say he chose her.”
“Truly? Why would he want a wife too young to use for his pleasure?”
“Maybe he's a bardasso,” offered the fellow lightly. “Buggered by everyone, he's looking for a girl with a boy's backside. Or maybe he's chosen perfectly. He's now free to take his pleasures from the world, without reproach.”
“I didn't think of it that way,” answered the Paduan amiably. “Viewed in that light, it's genius. All the benefits of marriage with the liberty of bachelorhood. But what happens when she grows older? They all do, you know.”
The teenager shrugged. “I expect he'll be dead by then, so it doesn't fret him.”
“That's rather grim.”
“I'm in a grim mood.” The teen set his cup down and held out a hand. “Franz.”
The red-headed Paduan grasped the arm. “I'm—”
“Ahenobarbus, of course. He of the red hair and red mood. So you fought in the wars, Ahenobarbus?”
Quaffing the rest of his drink, the Paduan nodded. “I did. Joined when I was about your age, and ran with my tail between my legs at the second battle of Vicenza.” He laughed at the memory. “I saw your Capitano then, in a floppy hat disguised as a Spaniard. Even saw the Count of San Bonifacio cut down by his own men.”
“That must have been frightening.”
“O, it was, it was! But I got myself a fine horse out of it, so I won't complain. Had that beast for seven years. Bastard,” he added with feeling.
“The horse?” asked Franz, amused.
“Lord Carrara. I lost the horse defending him during the Denti uprising. He never replaced it. I daresay your capitano would have been more generous.”
“I daresay you're right. He's generous to a fault. Everyone else's fault. Here,” said Franz, flipping a gold florin into the air. “Buy us a pitcher and some meat.”
The impoverished Paduan considered putting on a show of protest, but it didn't feel needed. Snatching the coin from the air, he navigated the ladder from the loft and threaded the crowd to the innkeeper's side. He ordered wine, meat, and mustard – typical tavern fare.
Not wanting to return empty-handed, the Paduan waited for the food. If the teenager was trying to be rid of him, now was his chance to slip away. The Paduan would not resent it, not with a pitcher and a plate of meat.
The innkeeper himself was a German with an Alpine accent, so his mustard was thicker than the kind Italians favoured, doubtless filled with honey and pepper. But the meat was blackened on the outside and raw within, and looked delicious. Because he didn't have the proper silver to change a gold coin (or so he said), the innkeeper added a bowl of nuts to the tray.
The Paduan took the platter to a pulley, which others hoisted while he climbed the ladder, pitcher in hand. Franz was not only still there, but had been joined by a second teen, larger but with a younger-looking face. The newcomer stopped talking as the red-headed stranger arrived with the flagon of wine.
“Ahenobarbus,” said Franz, “this is Tänzer.”
“Tänzer?” asked the second teen.
“There's no easy translation for Detto. Must be such a burden, having 'Nickname' for a nickname. Or perhaps it's freeing! You can choose any name you like. You can be Leonhard, Lion Brave! Or would you prefer a Roman name like Ahenobarbus here? We can call you Secundus. Secundus Manlius Cunctator. Cunc-tay-tor. How that word excels. 'The One Who Holds Back'. Apt. Or, better, Nasica. Signor Nosy. Are you sharing that wine?”
The Paduan was still standing, the jug held stupidly in his hand. He passed it over and resumed his seat on the barrel. To the newcomer he said, “Well met, whatever he names you.”
Under the cloak, the second teen wore the purple and gold of a new knight. Franz clearly swam with important fish.
The newcomer was studying the Paduan with a jaundiced eye. Again he was being sized up as a possible pederast. Best to take care of that at once. “After we sup, shall we find some feminine company? Oh wait, Franz said he was married.”
“Not as married as that,” replied Franz with a grin. “And it seems we need look no further.”
Below, there was a sudden invasion of feminine flesh passing through the taverna door. These were salad days for the whores of Verona, now as bold as the sororities of Florence, bells jangling on their wrists and ankles.
Grinning, the red-headed Paduan recited the old chestnut about church bells and brothel bells. “The bells call a man to repent what the bells call him to do.”
While Franz laughed loudly, his friend winced. The Paduan hoped distaste would drive this fellow off, so that he might worm his way into Franz's good graces. He was already liking the teen enormously. He spoke with an edge, and was free with his purse.
“Bells, bellas, bellicosity. You'll have to forgive Signor Nosy's prudery,” said Franz. “He was knighted today, and he's feeling the weight of his oath. Does being ennobled make you feel any different?”
“No,” said Signor Nosy.
“Me either.” Franz raised his cup. “Truth is truth.”
The Paduan bit into his meat to cover his surprise. So Franz had also been one of the many new knights created today? Why had he shed his knightly raiments? With them on, he wouldn't pay
for a single drink tonight.
Franz continued to needle his friend. “You'll have to watch out for Tänzer around those women. They come from a cat-house, and he's Vicentine – he eats cats.”
Signor Nosy rolled his eyes as the red-head frowned. “Eats cats?”
“You don't know the old saying? Venessiani gran signori, Padovani gran dottori, Visentini magna gatti…”
“That's stupid,” interjected Signor Nosy.
“I don't know,” said the Paduan, chuckling. “I don't mind being called a great doctor.”
“You're not a doctor, are you?” asked Franz at once.
“No, but I can cure a toothache.”
“Good.” Franz jerked a thumb at his friend. “He gives me one. Tell me, Signor Nosy, how did you find me?”
Signor Nosy shrugged. “I looked for someplace loud, crowded, and anonymous. Alone, but not alone. Anywhere closer to the palaces and you'd be recognized.”
“Whereas here anonymity is almost guaranteed. Innkeeper, another cup for my friend! In fact, more wine for all my elevated friends!” Franz waved at everyone on the hayloft and was answered by cheers from the reveling Paduans.
Below, one set of eyes was fixed on them. The red-headed Paduan thought it might be someone to whom he owed money. But no, he'd remember those eyes. They were grey as slate, odd in such a cheerful face, like two dollops of ice on a lazy summer's day. The red-head nodded, and the fellow saluted with his cup.
Signor Nosy said, “Everyone's looking for you.”
Franz snorted. “Doubtless imagining me sulking on some rooftop, howling at the moon, when I should be at home curled up with my bride. But I'm no Capulletto. I like my women older.” As he spoke, Franz's gaze drifted to the hilarity surrounding one woman's ascent up the loft's ladder, with drunken Paduans angling to see if she wore small clothes under her skirts. Her arrival coincided with the wine Franz had ordered, so the noise on the hayloft only grew.
Suddenly Franz yelled, “Vopiscus!”
“What?” asked the Paduan, trying to catch the woman's eye.
“Secundus Manlius Vopiscus! That's your name, Detto. Second born, manly, and the survivor of twins.”
Signor Nosy, whose real name seemed to be Detto, frowned. “I'm not a twin.”
“Egg friend, then,” said Franz, eyes rolling back in his head as he drank deeply. “Castor and Pollux, the heavenly twins. Gemini. I was born under their sign – our sign. But Castor died.” Franz reached out to affectionately scruff at Detto's hair. “Poor Pollux, what will you do with no Jupiter to appeal to? He shan't make us stars, I fear. Of if he does, I'll revolt. I'm too revolting to be a star.”
“You're talking nonsense,” said Detto.
“I don't talk nonsense. I talk French, and Latin, and German, and Heathen, and Babble, and Dirty, but never nonsense. I see no sense in it.” Franz giggled at himself.
“We should depart,” said Detto.
“I'm not sure he can stand,” observed the Paduan.
“I cannot,” said Franz. “I cannot stand it.”
“You can,” said Detto. “Just give me your arm.”
“'Sing, O clear-voiced Muse,'” declaimed Franz loudly, “'of Castor and Polydeuces, the Tyndaridae, who sprang from Olympian Zeus. Beneath the heights of Taygetus stately Leda bare them' – well, she bared all for the touch of feathers, didn't she? Come, let's crush another cup.”
The red-headed Paduan reached for the pitcher, but Detto intercepted him. “I think you've had enough.”
Franz snarled, then grinned at the woman softly jingling at the next table, sitting in a lap and stroking the ego of an inebriated Paduan. Reaching out, Franz pulled her over. She toppled into him, managing to place her bosoms full in his face. He laughed. “Hello, Leda. Shall we make a feather bed?”
As she tittered, probably at the size of Franz's purse, her former paramour began to protest, but the red-head distracted him with the half-full pitcher and the bowl of nuts the innkeeper had given him. The drunkard subsided, but Franz was oblivious, his gaze lingering on the woman's cleavage, ample and perfectly rounded, pressed together and threatening to overflow the strictures of her garments.
The wench had already sized up the teenager, noting the expensive white clothes beneath the cloak, the quality of his haircut and his healthy skin. Smiling, she cooed in his ear. “Want me to make you a man, little boy?”
“I was made one by a maid sweeter than you,” said Franz. “But I lack instruction. She taught me very little. Indeed, she was like a sister to me. What's your name, my sweet?”
Almost by rote she responded, “What do you want it to be?”
“Dear dear,” said Franz, “a weighty choice. Not Leda, for then both Vopiscus and I would want you to hatch us. No – don't look at him, he might eat you! He's from a race of notorious pussy-eaters. A flower, I think. A lily? But no, forgive me! You smell so sweet, you must be a Rose. What do you say, Tänzer? Is her name Rose?” Detto turned away, and Franz laughed. “He's probably right. Better no names at all. Anonymous. Alone, but not alone. Don't you agree, sweetheart?” His hand moved inside her packed bodice.
“Whatever you say, love,” she murmured, nuzzling his neck.
“Then I say let's revel it as bravely as the best. Ahenobarbus, find a wench and prove yourself worthy of your name. Pollux Vopiscus can sing and dance the while. Balla balla.”
However engrossed he pretended to be in the woman's flesh, Franz was deliberately goading his friend – the word balla meant both dance and lie. Tänzer's jaw was clenched so tight his teeth might shatter. “I thought she meant something to you.”
Franz shrugged. “I am disappointment personified.”
“I hope not,” murmured the wench. In answer, Franz shifted her weight in his lap. She looked surprised, then pleased. Franz nuzzled her breasts, one of which was now bare. “Qui finem quaeris amoris cedit amor rebus; res age, tutus eris.”
Hearing the word amor, the girl giggled, thinking herself complimented. Behind them, at the near table, there was a cracking sound as the drunk Paduan split a nut with the flat of his blade.
Over the girl's shoulder Franz said, “By the way, Detto, I struck your mother.”
Detto blinked. “What?”
Crack! went another nut. Franz pulled some of the wench's hair from between his lips. “'Beneath the heights of Taygetus stately Leda bare them, when the dark-clouded Son of Kronos had privily bent her to his will.' You heard me. If you want to fight for her honour, do it quick. I won't be able to stand much longer.”
“Seems you're standing just fine, love,” said the wench in a husky voice.
Cesco's tone was a little husky too. “Truth is truth.”
Detto's brow was taut. “Cesco, what are you saying?”
The Paduan noted the name. Cesco? Why does that name sound familiar? Amid the laughter and shouts, another nut opened with a crack!
Through her hair and behind his groping hands, Franz was talking again. “I'm saying, and rather clearly in the face of all this, that I struck your mother. Your dignity and status as a knight demands you challenge me and earn your name, Vopiscus. But if you're going to do it, please do it now. I'm about to be very occupied.”
Cesco. Short for Francesco.
The blood drained from Detto's face. “Is she dead?”
“Not unless she died of shock. I'm sure I wounded her vast and bottomless pride. Nonetheless, she was struck a blow by my hand. You should try at least to take the hand.”
Crack!
Detto gritted his teeth. “I know what you're doing. The answer is no.”
Franz's hands were cupping the wench's buttocks as she straddled him, and her fingers were between their bodies. “That's not her answer. What about you, Ahenobarbus? Is your temper as fiery as your hair?”
Francesco. A new knight named Francesco, whose friend was called Detto. Tänzer – that was German for dancer. In Italian, 'ballare' was to dance. Ballare Detto…
Lost in these thoughts,
the Paduan was brought up short. “What?”
Another nut went crack! as Franz disengaged his face from the wench's bosom to glance his way. “Are you only here to fleece a golden lamb of his unwon coin, or do you have designs on the poor lamb's flesh as well? Is that the kind of man you are? A despoiler of boys, a denuder of purses, and a denier of all that's true and good?”
“What?” Halfway through connecting the tiles of a mental mosaic, the Paduan was staggered by this flurry of insults.
Disappointed that the red-head wasn't reaching for his sword, Franz sighed. “Fine. Someone else, then.”
Crack!
Roughly dumping the half-dressed wench from his lap, Franz stood on his barrel, his points in great disorder. Wheeling about, his forefinger extended accusingly. “You!”
Masticating the opened nuts, the nearest drunk was working to crack another against the tabletop. His difficulty came from the stupidity of his fingers – the nuts kept slipping away.
“Oi!” cried the wench, rising without bothering to cover herself.
Franz continued to point at the drunk with the nuts and knife. “You! Yes, you! You sodding, sopping lackwit! I'm talking to you!”
Realizing he was the object of the teen's ire, the drunk reddened. “What?”
“I want you to answer a question. Be warned, though! This is a question that would puzzle a giant of intellect, a genius of Abelardian wit, the divinely-inspired Odysseus himself, and may well be past a drooling deviant drudge like you. So think careful, if think you can, and answer me one thing.”
The drunk wasn't sure if he should strangle the teen or laugh. “Yes?”
Franz pointed to the bowl. “Are those hazel-nuts?”
Utterly befuddled, the man looked stupidly down at the scattered husks littering the table. “What?”
“A brilliant reply. It purchases time without the golden sin of silence. Nothing is more sinful than silence, save stupidity. Are. Those. Hazel. Nuts?”
“Aye,” answered the drunk. His companions laughed, but the drunk was growing wrathful.
