day, Ippolito noticed with disgust; eventually his eyes would look like two tiny black olives surrounded by pink flesh, just like a suckling pig. Hmmm. Roast pork might be tasty, too.
“Take care this time,” Domenico said as Ippolito pushed past him. “If I find that chalice on the floor again, you won’t be sacristan any longer.”
A pox on you, Ippolito thought as he watched the priest’s retreating figure. He wasn’t worried by Domenico’s threats. He’d been at Sant’ Alvise for more than twenty years, long enough to see many priests come and go, long enough to lose the esteem he’d once felt for them. Parasites all, sucking up the bounty of the convent. The sisters routinely used up their rations of flour and eggs to bake bisquits and cakes for the rapacious priests, while he, Ippolito their faithful servant, got nothing but scraps. But whose fault was that? The uppity nuns were hardly generous themselves. Only Sister Brodata—homely Sister Brodata, of the ample bottom and the unfortunate mustache—was friendly; but now, he reflected sorrowfully, even she was shunning him. But it was the priests’ fault, not his! Brodata herself had complained that they ate all the food, and Ippolito had sniggered, “Be careful or they’ll take your virginity, too…unless, of course, you’ve already given it away.”
Brodata knew at once he’d been talking about Priest Fabrizio, whom he’d seen fawning over her, even though the old goat already had a mistress over at San Sepolcro. Brodata refused to speak to him now, but Ippolito knew she was only pretending to be angry; in truth she was flattered and secretly pleased. She wanted people to believe that the priest was sweet on her, no matter what cost to her honor. But what did these nuns care about honor?
He shook his head vigorously, as if to clear it. If Brodata didn’t want to be friends anymore, he would simply stop thinking of her! He had more important things to attend to, certainly. He would be a rich man tonight, if all went well; rich enough, at least, to buy himself a decent meal; even, perhaps, Ippolito thought as he returned to the nave, rich enough to take a stroll over to the Bridge of Tits, where the gentle meretrici would consider his money as good as any man’s, regardless of his shrunken form and bandy legs.
He wondered what old Brodata would say about that. No doubt she’d deliver a sermon on the sins of the flesh, he thought darkly, along with dire threats of the morbo gallico, the French disease. He remembered a priest from long ago who’d tried to convince Ippolito to give up lusting after whores; why gamble on those pox-ridden prostitutes, he’d said, when love between men is as good or better? I’d rather take my chances with the gallico than with the gallows! Ippolito had cackled, pleased with his own wit. Everyone knew that sodomy was a hanging offense, and a sin against God, and that was why the wise men of the Republic encouraged the meretrici to expose their breasts in public: to remind men of the proper expression of their desires.
Ippolito waited near the altar once again. In the church’s echoing quiet he heard the sound of water slowly dripping, then a sudden trill of conversation from the courtyard. It occurred to him that if things did not happen as he’d said they would, that blue-eyed devil, Batù Vrats, would make his life a living hell. He’d heard that Batù was not forgiving of mistakes. Ippolito wondered if he were nearby, watching and waiting. The thought made him shiver.
Just as Ippolito was beginning to lose hope, the first man arrived. This was the one he thought of as the traitor, for the man was Venetian, Ippolito was sure of it. “Not noble, no, nothing like that,” Ippolito had said when he’d described him for Batù, “someone from the lower orders, a guildsman perhaps, a weaver or a glassblower.” Yes, that had intrigued Batù; more so than most, Batù knew that the secrets of Venetian glass were
“Take care this time,” Domenico said as Ippolito pushed past him. “If I find that chalice on the floor again, you won’t be sacristan any longer.”
A pox on you, Ippolito thought as he watched the priest’s retreating figure. He wasn’t worried by Domenico’s threats. He’d been at Sant’ Alvise for more than twenty years, long enough to see many priests come and go, long enough to lose the esteem he’d once felt for them. Parasites all, sucking up the bounty of the convent. The sisters routinely used up their rations of flour and eggs to bake bisquits and cakes for the rapacious priests, while he, Ippolito their faithful servant, got nothing but scraps. But whose fault was that? The uppity nuns were hardly generous themselves. Only Sister Brodata—homely Sister Brodata, of the ample bottom and the unfortunate mustache—was friendly; but now, he reflected sorrowfully, even she was shunning him. But it was the priests’ fault, not his! Brodata herself had complained that they ate all the food, and Ippolito had sniggered, “Be careful or they’ll take your virginity, too…unless, of course, you’ve already given it away.”
Brodata knew at once he’d been talking about Priest Fabrizio, whom he’d seen fawning over her, even though the old goat already had a mistress over at San Sepolcro. Brodata refused to speak to him now, but Ippolito knew she was only pretending to be angry; in truth she was flattered and secretly pleased. She wanted people to believe that the priest was sweet on her, no matter what cost to her honor. But what did these nuns care about honor?
He shook his head vigorously, as if to clear it. If Brodata didn’t want to be friends anymore, he would simply stop thinking of her! He had more important things to attend to, certainly. He would be a rich man tonight, if all went well; rich enough, at least, to buy himself a decent meal; even, perhaps, Ippolito thought as he returned to the nave, rich enough to take a stroll over to the Bridge of Tits, where the gentle meretrici would consider his money as good as any man’s, regardless of his shrunken form and bandy legs.
He wondered what old Brodata would say about that. No doubt she’d deliver a sermon on the sins of the flesh, he thought darkly, along with dire threats of the morbo gallico, the French disease. He remembered a priest from long ago who’d tried to convince Ippolito to give up lusting after whores; why gamble on those pox-ridden prostitutes, he’d said, when love between men is as good or better? I’d rather take my chances with the gallico than with the gallows! Ippolito had cackled, pleased with his own wit. Everyone knew that sodomy was a hanging offense, and a sin against God, and that was why the wise men of the Republic encouraged the meretrici to expose their breasts in public: to remind men of the proper expression of their desires.
Ippolito waited near the altar once again. In the church’s echoing quiet he heard the sound of water slowly dripping, then a sudden trill of conversation from the courtyard. It occurred to him that if things did not happen as he’d said they would, that blue-eyed devil, Batù Vrats, would make his life a living hell. He’d heard that Batù was not forgiving of mistakes. Ippolito wondered if he were nearby, watching and waiting. The thought made him shiver.
Just as Ippolito was beginning to lose hope, the first man arrived. This was the one he thought of as the traitor, for the man was Venetian, Ippolito was sure of it. “Not noble, no, nothing like that,” Ippolito had said when he’d described him for Batù, “someone from the lower orders, a guildsman perhaps, a weaver or a glassblower.” Yes, that had intrigued Batù; more so than most, Batù knew that the secrets of Venetian glass were
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