The Botticelli Secret

46
Signor Cristoforo led us swiftly, unerringly, to the great piebald Palazzo Ducale, seat of the Doge of Genoa. As we approached the gate house the daughter of the Mocenigos and the son of the della Torres shrank into the twilight shadows, together with their mount. I stroked the velvet nose of the Duke of Milan’s horse, willing him to be quiet while the lowborn son of Genoa went forth as our ambassador. From where we hid we could easily hear the exchange.
“You again,” said the first of two guards. As the doge’s personal retinue, they looked a much tougher breed than the hapless pair we had seen at the gates. “I thought il Doge told you to sling your hook.” His fisherman’s slang seemed oddly fitting.
“Hang on, Cristoforo,” said the second guard, mock serious. “I think I’ve got a couple of soldi. Look”—coins clanked—“how far will this get you in your expedition?”
The first guard laughed. “Well, it would be churlish for me not to help too. Let me see.” He dug in his leather purse. “How’s this? If I give you this grosso, maybe you could sail as far as the edge of the world and f*ck off over the side.” They fell about laughing.
We heard Signor Cristoforo’s voice, low, persuasive, dignified. “Today I do not come to ask, but to give. I’m here to warn the doge against a coming attack. An attack that will see you and your families dead if you do not heed me.”
“Who’s attacking?”
“How do you know of this?” They spoke as one.
Signor Cristoforo answered the second question first. “A merchant contact in Venice. Does a bit of spying on the side. You know how hard it is to raise funds for expeditions.” There was an ironic weight to his voice. He had their attention and now addressed the former question. “He says there’s an alliance. Venice, Pisa, and more too. Coming by sea and land.” I noted that he named Genoa’s traditional enemies first and admired his cunning.
The first guard spoke to the second, less sure now. “He looks serious, Salva.”
“He always looks serious. Beggars always do.”
“Still, I’d hate to be the fellow that knew of this and didn’t tell the doge,” put in Signor Cristoforo breezily. “He’d be hanging upside down within a sennight. If he survived the attack, that is.”
That did it. The second guard pushed himself off the wall with a sigh, opened a small, man-sized door in the bottom of the great double doors, and called within.
“Giuseppe! Cover me. I’m going upstairs.”
A young and pimply guard took Salva’s place—they were clearly not as well manned here as they appeared. The three stood in silence for some moments. I don’t think I breathed once in all that time. Presently the second guard was back.
“You’re out of luck, Cristoforo. D’you know what he said to me?” The fellow leaned in and gave our friend the benefit of a rotten grin full of teeth as brown as medlars. “Il Doge said, ‘I’d rather give audience to the first whore you find on the street than Signor Cristoforo, for at least she will render me some service for my money. So being as how il Doge is not a one for jokes, you’ll forgive me if I take him at his word.” He pushed past Signor Cristoforo so roughly that the sailor fell to the ground. I started forward, but Brother Guido pulled me back. He knew where I was going, of course.
“No,” he said.
“But . . .”
“No.”
“I’m not going to f*ck him. I just want to talk to him. He said he wanted a whore, and he’s going to get one.”
He held my arm hard enough to hurt. The guard was almost past us, and I didn’t have time for this. “If you’re worrying about my maidenhead, I said good-bye to it long ago. Or is it my soul that concerns you? I thought you were done with piety?”
He recoiled, and I recognized with shock real pain in his eyes. “I’d rather die than let you bed another man.” He caught himself, too late.
I looked into his face, heart thumping, and saw all I’d ever wanted writ there, just as it was too late to do anything about it. I pulled my sleeve free. “Die then,” I said, but softly. “For if I don’t go, we all will.”
I ran after the guard, biting my lips and pinching my cheeks as I went, and pulling my bodice right down to the raspberries. Plucked his sleeve just before the dark streets of the stews swallowed him. “Please, sir, I couldn’t help overhearing. Let me go to the doge and I’ll save a little sugar for you.” I leaned in and gave him the full benefit of my tits, pushed up like two glorious plump partridges on a plate. Chi-Chi was back. There was little light, but it was enough. I must have been like a cup of wine in a desert for this fellow, clearly too ill-favored to get many women.
He put a filthy hand under my chin. “Very nice,” he said, licking his lips. “All right. But remember, when he’s pissed his noble seed, it’s milking time in the guard house. Just ask for Salvatore.”
“Salvatore,” I cooed, willing myself not to flinch at his breath. “That was my father’s name.”
He held my arm all the way to the doors and smacked my arse to propel me through.
I was in.