with any harm, she sensed that he was dangerous.
Even though La Celestia had often told her that men were generally simple creatures, Alessandra suspected the ambassador was not. He could be charming or taciturn by turns, and at times she witnessed a brooding anger that made her uneasy. But then he was Spanish, not Venetian, and perhaps his foreignness made him more difficult for her to fathom. She felt an easier intimacy with her Venetian lovers than she felt with the marquis. They regaled her with their long-ago exploits in war and their more recent successes in business and politics. Bedmar deflected any personal inquiries with polite firmness.
But when Alessandra had expressed her concerns to La Celestia, the courtesan had breezily dismissed them.
“I know he does not flatter and give trinkets as much as other men,” La Celestia said, “but he has been more than generous with his purse. And does he not express his delight with you in other ways?”
She’d told La Celestia about that, too. Bedmar’s desire for her was fierce, and he was a skilled lover, with a sure touch that never failed to arouse her.
The marquis turned to his gondolier. “Take the Rio della Fava,” he said, and the gondolier responded with a flourish of his hand. He was a young man a year or two older than herself, thin but apparently strong, with deep-set eyes circled by shadows.
“Your new gondolier—is he mute?” she asked.
“Yes, thankfully. Paolo’s the one man in Venice who cannot reveal my secrets.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the name of the lovely courtesan in my gondola tonight.”
“Did you know that gondoliers take an oath never to reveal anything they witness in a gondola? The penalty for breaking the oath is death.”
“I have heard that. I’ve also heard that gondoliers have webbed feet, and that to a man they are born on a mysterious island during a full moon.”
They were getting closer to the Grand Canal and the Rialto. “There’s still time before we reach Palazzo Erizzo,” he said, drawing her closer. One hand cupped her breast as he brought his mouth to hers; the other slipped down under her skirts and slowly moved higher. He ran his fingers along the inside of her thighs, then pulled her underneath him. She felt herself acquiescing, her body rising to meet his. The marquis reached up and drew the curtains, enclosing them inside the felze.
“I see you don’t believe in your gondolier’s discretion,” Alessandra said.
“I don’t believe in fairy tales. Gondoliers are men like any other. After all, this is Venice. There are spies everywhere.”
The Hermit
9 October 1617
I N THE DUSKY, intimate hush of Sant’ Alvise, a gnomelike figure, clad in a tattered wool robe and worn leather sandals, loitered near the altar and looked out at the empty church. Roast pheasant, perhaps, or duck stuffed with cherries and apples, Ippolito Moro thought wistfully. Apulian wine, crayfish, and quail, followed by sugared almonds and marchpane with cinnamon…oh, the feast he would enjoy tonight, just for being Batù’s eyes and ears.
Any moment now, the secret assignation would begin, as it had once a week for the past three weeks. The last Mass of the day was done, the priests had gone, and the nuns had disappeared from the choir balcony, the sequestered site of their devotions. All that remained were the lingering odors of smoky incense, sour unwashed bodies, sweet beeswax candles that flickered and hissed. And Ippolito, waiting, anticipating, his robe still dotted with bits of straw from his afternoon nap.
“Ippolito!” Priest Domenico, impatient and entirely lacking in the spirit of tolerance on which he had just pontificated, called from the vestry. “Ippolito! Hurry up, now!”
The dwarf snatched the Bible and the chalice from the pulpit, cradling the hallowed items in his arms as he hobbled over to the vestry door where Priest Domenico stood, looking disgruntled. The priest’s face grew fatter every
Even though La Celestia had often told her that men were generally simple creatures, Alessandra suspected the ambassador was not. He could be charming or taciturn by turns, and at times she witnessed a brooding anger that made her uneasy. But then he was Spanish, not Venetian, and perhaps his foreignness made him more difficult for her to fathom. She felt an easier intimacy with her Venetian lovers than she felt with the marquis. They regaled her with their long-ago exploits in war and their more recent successes in business and politics. Bedmar deflected any personal inquiries with polite firmness.
But when Alessandra had expressed her concerns to La Celestia, the courtesan had breezily dismissed them.
“I know he does not flatter and give trinkets as much as other men,” La Celestia said, “but he has been more than generous with his purse. And does he not express his delight with you in other ways?”
She’d told La Celestia about that, too. Bedmar’s desire for her was fierce, and he was a skilled lover, with a sure touch that never failed to arouse her.
The marquis turned to his gondolier. “Take the Rio della Fava,” he said, and the gondolier responded with a flourish of his hand. He was a young man a year or two older than herself, thin but apparently strong, with deep-set eyes circled by shadows.
“Your new gondolier—is he mute?” she asked.
“Yes, thankfully. Paolo’s the one man in Venice who cannot reveal my secrets.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the name of the lovely courtesan in my gondola tonight.”
“Did you know that gondoliers take an oath never to reveal anything they witness in a gondola? The penalty for breaking the oath is death.”
“I have heard that. I’ve also heard that gondoliers have webbed feet, and that to a man they are born on a mysterious island during a full moon.”
They were getting closer to the Grand Canal and the Rialto. “There’s still time before we reach Palazzo Erizzo,” he said, drawing her closer. One hand cupped her breast as he brought his mouth to hers; the other slipped down under her skirts and slowly moved higher. He ran his fingers along the inside of her thighs, then pulled her underneath him. She felt herself acquiescing, her body rising to meet his. The marquis reached up and drew the curtains, enclosing them inside the felze.
“I see you don’t believe in your gondolier’s discretion,” Alessandra said.
“I don’t believe in fairy tales. Gondoliers are men like any other. After all, this is Venice. There are spies everywhere.”
The Hermit
9 October 1617
I N THE DUSKY, intimate hush of Sant’ Alvise, a gnomelike figure, clad in a tattered wool robe and worn leather sandals, loitered near the altar and looked out at the empty church. Roast pheasant, perhaps, or duck stuffed with cherries and apples, Ippolito Moro thought wistfully. Apulian wine, crayfish, and quail, followed by sugared almonds and marchpane with cinnamon…oh, the feast he would enjoy tonight, just for being Batù’s eyes and ears.
Any moment now, the secret assignation would begin, as it had once a week for the past three weeks. The last Mass of the day was done, the priests had gone, and the nuns had disappeared from the choir balcony, the sequestered site of their devotions. All that remained were the lingering odors of smoky incense, sour unwashed bodies, sweet beeswax candles that flickered and hissed. And Ippolito, waiting, anticipating, his robe still dotted with bits of straw from his afternoon nap.
“Ippolito!” Priest Domenico, impatient and entirely lacking in the spirit of tolerance on which he had just pontificated, called from the vestry. “Ippolito! Hurry up, now!”
The dwarf snatched the Bible and the chalice from the pulpit, cradling the hallowed items in his arms as he hobbled over to the vestry door where Priest Domenico stood, looking disgruntled. The priest’s face grew fatter every
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