I found that Essa and Fierce had killed a huge boar. I swear, it was almost as hefty as a Brigante pony. They were a formidable pair. I spent a messy hour completing the butchery. The cook, a Thracian as black as night, grinned as he distributed the joints amongst his brine tubs, and the dogs ate the scraps. And I washed in hot water from the kitchen then took myself to the baths to clear myself of the stench of blood.
I returned and took some wine, apples, bread and cheese to my room. Essa was the first tribesman who had ever come to my surgery, even though the commander had told them I was there to treat them. I prayed to Asclepius that he would be healed, because if he died, then we might easily have a war, and the commander was tired enough as it was.
I prayed and poured him a proper oblation, then slept as though I had worked very hard all day.
The morrow brought Essa and Fierce, and each day thereafter. He would always arrive after the last patient. Quite a lot of tribesmen were attending these days; mostly with wounds. I was getting very skilled at treating wounds. When Essa and Fierce came I would inspect, wash and re-bandage both wounds, and then Essa would share a quiet cup with me, kiss me sweetly, then take his hound and fade back into the background, a thing which the Brigante are spectacularly good at. I suspect their mothers weave spells of invisibility into the plaid.
The day came when the scar on Essa’s admirable thigh and the gash on Fierce’s haunch had all healed, and the fur had grown again on the one who had fur. Fierce did not halt at all, and Essa strode like a deer. And I would have to formally say goodbye to them.
‘You are healed,’ I pronounced ritually, one hand on Fierce’s head and the other on Essa’s shoulder. ‘May no hurt or ailment seize on you again!’
‘Are you sending us away?’ asked Essa. He held onto my arm with one large, strong hand. His blue eyes showed hurt.
‘No, of course not,’ I pulled him into an embrace. ‘I am declaring you healed. You are no longer my patient. I would not lose your friendship, my Essa.’
‘And you shall not,’ he told me. ‘You have begun to learn my language and I yours. I would not be a faithless teacher. Therefore I will come back every second day to speak with you again.’
‘Oh, my dear,’ I said, and he kissed me not once but a hundred times. We lay down on the surgery floor, his plaid under me, and made love with such kindness, such sweetness, that I felt my eyes swim. He kissed away my tears. Fierce lay with his head on his paws, ignoring us. Occasionally he would snort and make us laugh. I hadn’t had a lover since I left Greece, and here I was with a lawless barbarian, with a mouth as red as pomegranate, and a taste of honey.
‘You have wanted me all this time?’ wondered my Essa, his head on my chest.
‘I have,’ I agreed. ‘From the first moment I saw you. You were so beautiful, even injured and distressed about Fierce. I nearly fell into your first kiss. I never had such a kiss before, my barbarian, my heart.’
‘Then why did you not respond to me before?’ he asked, sliding a hand down my belly, feeling for and getting an instant, glad response.
Considerable time was then spent kissing. I would never get enough of kissing Essa. It could be the occupation of a lifetime. I forgot the question.
‘Well?’ he asked, tugging at my beard.
‘I couldn’t,’ I said, breathing out a sigh which was at least half of relief. ‘You were my patient. I took an oath by Apollo and Hippocrates. I must not lie with my patients.’
‘What oath besides?’ he asked. ‘There must be more to it than that.’
‘To heal,’ I told him. ‘To ease the pains of the world.’
‘You fulfilled it,’ Essa told me, and kissed me again. His touch was so delightful that I heard myself whimper. Essa cried aloud in his passion. We rolled ourselves in his plaid and drowsed, tangled together. I was dissolved in joy. I felt Essa laugh soundlessly against my neck.
Fierce huffed himself into sleep. He snored.
CARNEVALE DI VENEZIA
Giovanni ‘baci baci’ di Ca’ Nuova knew that he shouldn’t have taken the bet. He was well known amongst the Honourable Company of Gondalieri as able to seduce anyone, absolutely anyone - though he drew the line at confessed religious - with his flashing smile, his curly hair, his beautiful brown eyes and his strong, flawless body. He could sing like a very licentious thrush and charm aged dowagers and stern members of the Consiglio di Deci as well as pretty girls. Or boys. Gio wasn’t fussy.
But the Alchemist, now, that was a steep proposition and he had fifty escudos riding on the result. And he didn’t actually have fifty escudos. So he had to succeed or be dishonoured.
The Alchemist was Lorenzo di Bianchi, the son of a very distinguished household. They all lived in the Ca’ D’Oro. Gio went past there every day, on his lawful journeys. He saw the pale, strange face of the young man staring out of the window, high up in the great house. Gio found after a few days that he couldn’t take his eyes off Lorenzo di Bianchi. Fortunately Giovanni was a very skilled gondolier, and had avoided collisions, however narrowly. He smiled at the pale face as he passed, but Lorenzo never even seemed to see him.
And how to meet him was the first difficulty. Such elevated persons never came down to the level of a gondolieri, not to speak, unless it was to order their servants to tell him the address to which they wished to be conveyed. Those who proposed the wager had agreed to allow it to stay on the table until carnevale, when all ranks mixed and all people were masked. Gio had previously made a beast of himself during carnevale, wallowing in all that freely-offered flesh. This time, he was focused on one object. Lorenzo di Bianchi was going to be his.
If he joined the carnival. If he actually came out of the Ca’ D’Oro. Giovanni had scraped acquaintance with the people who know all: the servants at the great house. Never difficult for a young man with a beautiful grin, a gondola, and a willingness to do small errands for overworked kitchen staff for no fee. They gossiped about Lorenzo. The rest of the family was ordinary. The Signore’s wife was expecting, again, the elder son of the house was in disgrace for gambling, a ship had been lost in the Atlantic. Il Signore had invited Veronica, the great courtesan, to attend the first party of carnevale. The cook, who had grabbed the bunch of oregano she needed out of Gio’s hands and pressed it to her bosom as though it was a bouquet, sighed.
‘Poor Lorenzo! It’s for him that Il Signore should be calling a courtesan.’
‘Oh, why?’ asked Gio idly, picking up pastry crumbs from the table with one finger.
‘It’s well known that he’s a virgin! And not interested, either, or so they say. Just does experiments all night and sleeps all day, when he sleeps. Hardly eats a crumb of my good food.’
‘A man of no taste,’ commented Gio, biting the fritelle which the cook had handed him, taking the hint without intervention of thought. Giovanni’s seduction methods somewhat relied on automatic reactions. The cook shook her head.
‘No, no, poor boy, though he’s so fussy when he does eat. Can’t abide garlic. I have to cook special dishes for him. Though he’s got a sweet tooth. He always eats my rosamela pannacotta. But a man can’t live on cream, can he? And he’s engrossed in his studies. Trying to find the philosopher’s stone, they say. His mother has made him promise he’ll at least come out for carnevale.’
‘Oh? What mask will he wear?’ asked Gio.
‘Probably Medico della Pesta. La Signora sent up a selection and he seemed to like that one. But he says he’s going alone. He won’t travel with his family. Poor boy,