“I would see what my lilies have bought,” Giovanni said quietly, and he watched as two white hands emerged from the long sleeves to push back the hood. A surprisingly young and delicate face for a whore—perhaps she was new to her business. So much the better; fresh maidens were not yet hardened to the shock of their patrons’ desires. Immacolata had long since ceased to arouse him, but Giovanni found ample opportunity for gratification elsewhere.
“I have never had the opportunity to plough Siena’s fields,” Giovanni said, and he was pleased to see the girl’s hands tremble at her sides.
“My Lord, at your service.” Her voice trembled too, appealingly young and frightened. Giovanni leaned against the wall, enjoying the tension in his visitor’s face as he paused.
“Are you new to this . . . employment?”
The girl nodded. “Shall I lie down?”
“This is not a meeting of newlyweds. Turn your back to me.”
“Ser?”
“I said, turn your back. I have paid for your body, not your conversation.” She complied, and he saw with satisfaction the anxious hunch of her shoulders under the homespun gown. “Now listen closely—I do not like to waste my breath on repetition. Kneel on the floor and raise your dress over your head—but do not remove it.” Giovanni felt himself grow aroused as the girl complied, and he saw her pale buttocks before him, invitingly parted by her position.
“Do I have the good fortune of having bought a virgin?”
“My Lord, I have been with a man only once.”
“Well, then I shall use you where you haven’t yet been. I like to be the first to break new ground.”
“Ser?”
“And of course, I would prefer to avoid the chance that I might leave you with child.”
“I cannot hear you, My Lord.” Her voice was muffled under the fabric.
“I suppose you are a virgin to sodomy?”
“I am a woman, My Lord.”
“That will not protect you. The anatomy you share with a man allows the same invasion.” Giovanni’s voice fell almost to a whisper. He heard her gasp and the fear in it brought him such delight he could not restrain himself a moment longer. His hands were soft, the girl thought—like a nobleman’s—as they gripped her hips, but his intent clearly was not.
*
“Iacopo, are you in your chamber? The table is laid for supper.”
Iacopo emerged into the light of the dining room, his habitual scowl deeper than usual. Immacolata smoothed her son’s hair with one hand.
“Mother, I am no longer your little boy,” Iacopo said, but he leaned into the caress. It seemed such a short time ago that his head had been at her waist, Immacolata thought, lowering her hand reluctantly.
“Can you not rest another night before you return to Siena?”
“My father has bid me return with haste, as you well know.” Iacopo covered his eyes to block the last of the evening light filtering through the leaded glass windows of the sala.
“I have prepared a packet of dried fruits and almonds, those your father prefers, as well as all you might need for your journey. Your father’s words to me were brief—did he explain why they have detained him?” Iacopo remained silent. In the darkness behind his lids Iacopo saw strange geometric patterns of light and shadow pulsating. When he opened his eyes the flickering lines remained, obliterating half of his mother’s face. He squinted to bring the image into focus.
“My son, you are so thin, and since you first left for Siena you have grown even thinner. Please have a few bites of trout with me tonight.”
“I cannot eat.” Iacopo picked up a pitcher of spiced wine, then put it down again.“Father has killed a man of Siena’s night watch. The guard deserved to meet his end, but that has not prevented the agents of the Podestà from detaining him.” Iacopo de’ Medici had not slept more than a few ragged hours each night since his father’s imprisonment, and his head buzzed with unspoken words. It is my fault that they have him now, my fault that my father is locked in a Sienese jail cell, awaiting trial. He gave me a chance to prove myself, and I failed him. I spoke my father’s name, when I should have remained silent. I hid behind a curtain when I might have helped. I left Siena when I might have remained at my father’s side. Is this how I should repay his trust?
“They will try him for murder?” Immacolata put her hand flat on the trestle table for support. “God help us.” She watched her only son open the door. She could still imagine his small boy self, plump feet peeking out beneath the hem of a child’s red gown.
“We will need God’s help,” he answered, then disappeared into the courtyard as she wiped the wetness from her cheeks.
Outside the light was fading as Iacopo ducked into the stable adjoining the Palazzo Medici. The incessant company in the house tired him and he preferred the relief of the stables, the sounds of the horses’ hooves shifting in the straw at their feet, the soft blowing of the mares against their foals’ necks. He headed toward the stallions’ pens to choose his mount for tomorrow’s journey. In the dark the jagged lines of light had grown to fill most of his field of view, and he had to squint to see where he walked. A thread of headache began, the left side of his scalp burned as if he had slept too near the hearth, and a wave of nausea nearly made his knees fold. He steadied himself, swallowing bile, and waited for the spasm to fade. In a few more moments the lights had passed, leaving him with a dull throb beneath his skull.
As Iacopo approached, Pellegrino moved restlessly in his stall. The stallion was aptly named Pilgrim, loving always to be in motion. Iacopo spoke before moving; Pellegrino had a tendency to startle if approached too quickly.
“Buona sera, Pellegrino. Will you ride with me tomorrow?” Iacopo touched the white blaze on the horse’s long nose. The animal’s hair was smooth under his hand. The horse asked nothing of him but food, water, and the opportunity to run. Iacopo felt at home in the saddle; he could not have said that of the other tasks placed before him. Iacopo moved in closer to Pellegrino until he could rest his cheek on the long muscled neck, and closed his eyes for a moment. He could feel the twitch of Pellegrino’s skin, flicking off a wayward fly.
Iacopo wished he might stay here forever in the stable, rather than return to the palazzo, his tapestried room with its imposing carved dark wood bed, the anxious words of his mother, and tomorrow’s journey. He would have preferred to sleep here, surrounded by the smooth warm flanks of the horses and the sweet and musky smells of hay and manure.
When Iacopo left the stable, a sharp wind was blowing off the Arno. A bad portent for tomorrow’s journey; rain could quickly turn the road between Florence and Siena to churning mud, difficult if not dangerous. Iacopo could feel the parchment of his father’s letter folded against his skin beneath the fabric of his shirt, close to his own heart. The words appeared before his eyes as if he were reading them—
I bid you to return to me with the greatest haste . . . to stand at my side so that I may have some reminder of a life outside these walls.