Courtesan's Lover (44 page)

Vasquez looks as though he has just been hit in the face. He looks almost grey. A heavy silence stretches out, draping itself over the three of us like a wet sheet. And then Vasquez speaks, and I can hear an edge of fear in his voice. “I will help you. I promise. But I am not sure what I can do. My hands are tied,” he says. “I am not sufficiently influential, being only an army officer; I don't have the power to effect a complete acquittal. That power lies only with Don Pedro Alfàn. It may be that this Rovere is not guilty of murder—I have only your word on that—but our witness will swear to the other charges, so I can do little about them.”

“Little? What
could
you do?”

He pauses. “I think I could plead for banishment. I could go to Don Pedro and cite the virtue of the boy's father and plead for banishment. Would that be enough to persuade you to…destroy this evidence you have against me?”

Banishment? How would Luca feel if Carlo were to be exiled—sent away from Napoli? Perhaps, though, it could be the answer to everything—I am not sure I could ever stand comfortably in the same room as the man who stole my children, however much Luca loves him. A few seconds pass as I allow myself to picture Luca's reactions—firstly to his son's exile and then to the unthinkable alternative. And then I say, “Yes. It would be enough.”

Vasquez puffs out a soft sigh of evident relief.

Cristo says, “You say you'll plead on our behalf. But you might fail,
Maestre
. If you do, how will we know you tried? We won't be there to hear what you say. What proof will we have that you've kept your side of this bargain?”

Vasquez looks blank. He says nothing. Then an idea strikes me. Filippo. “Take Signor di Laviano in with you when you plead, Miguel,” I say. “I know him. I would trust him to tell me what you say.”

“Di Laviano?” Bewilderment, confusion, realization, and another twitch of jealousy cross Vasquez's face as visibly as the shadow of a cloud racing over a field. He mutters, “Have he…and you…?”

I shrug. “From time to time.”

He stares at me for several seconds, then nods curtly. “Very well. I will arrange to see Don Pedro this afternoon, and as you request, I will take di Laviano into the room with me when I go. I will do what I can. I promise you.”

“And I promise you that I will show this book to no one else while I wait to hear the outcome of your efforts.”

I don't think there is any more to be said or done.

Another awkward silence descends. I take the bag from Cristo and put the book back into it. Vasquez crosses to the door, and Cristo and I follow him. We walk together back toward the front entrance of the building, saying nothing, striding fast, our footsteps ringing out in marching-time with each other. As we reach the top of a broad flight of stairs, I see the parchment-faced old man again; but this time he is accompanied by an anxious-looking boy—skinny, unwashed, his hair scraped back into a ratty pigtail.

The wind had picked up and the sky was now a hard, cloud-laden silver. The Neapolitan coastline had dwindled to no more than a thin smudge along a small section of the horizon, appearing and disappearing between swells and, even as Carlo della Rovere watched from the sterncastle of the
sciabecco
, gripping the rail with white-knuckled fingers, it vanished altogether. He could see nothing but sea.

Behind him, the great rust-colored sails bellied out, creaking with the weight of the wind and the ship listed as the
heeled around to starboard. Dragging his gaze from the horizon back to the ship, and clutching at a rope to steady himself, Carlo turned and began to pick his way somewhat gingerly toward the few steps that led down onto the main deck. Several of the dozens of crewmen paused momentarily in their activities to stare at him; stumbling over the projecting wheel of a cannon, Carlo groped for the door to the companionway. He could see contempt in the men's expressions, and felt acutely conscious of the softness of his physical inadequacy, faced with these sinewy, wind-browned men with their gleaming skin and carved-mahogany muscles. He closed the door to the companionway behind him, and stood for a moment leaning against it with his eyes shut, his stomach swooping as the ship dropped away beneath his feet.

A dozen steps descended into the depths of the ship: down these Carlo went hesitantly, his insides heaving. The deck above lowered over him—a heavy, close-sparred ceiling running the length of the ship, strung with hooks and ropes, buckets, marlin-spikes, and the sagging cylinders of tight-rolled hammocks, all indistinct in the almost darkness. The smells of tarred hemp and salt caught in his nostrils as he turned to a small door behind him and knocked.

“It's open.”

Carlo turned the handle and went in. Salvatore
was standing behind his table, leaning on his arms, his face underlit with stuttering lanternlight; he was studying a large chart. He looked up as Carlo came in, raised and drained a small glass, and nodded. “Now that the wind's stronger, we'll be in Tunis before too long,” he said. “You can disembark there,
Sinjur,
if you wish to—there's a fine living to be made in a place like Tunis, for a man like yourself, if you've a mind.”

Carlo said nothing.

“Or,”
went on, “if you would prefer, you can stay with us on the
,
Sinjur
, and try your hand at becoming a seaman.” Carlo did not like the smile
gave him. He thought back to the previous day.

***

After nearly a week of waiting, three men had slammed open the door to his cell. They had blocked the doorway, silhouetted against torchlight from the corridor beyond. Carlo's limbs liquefied at the sight of them, and his empty stomach began churning again.

“Get up!”

He could not do it.

One of the men strode into the cell, kicking through the filthy straw. He grabbed Carlo's upper arm and dragged him upright. Carlo's legs would not hold him and the man ended up supporting him under both arms. “Come on,” he had said. “We have to go.”

Carlo could not walk, so they dragged him between them, slipping and stumbling, along corridors and up staircases until they reached a doorway to the outside world. He kept his eyes tightly closed, his head turned as much to one side as he could, whimpering and cringing at the thought of the mountain of wood and the howling crowd that were surely awaiting him.

But there was nothing but silence in the street and when he finally opened his eyes, no pyre could be seen. The place was deserted. Then one of the men pushed a musty woollen coat into his hands, saying, “Go on,
vaffanculo
! You're an undeserving little bastard but, for God knows what reason, they've commuted it. Alfàn says you can go. You have two hours to get out of Napoli. Don't linger—you can be sure they'll be after you if you are here a minute beyond nightfall.”

Carlo had just stood there, staring at them, unable to move.

“Go on! Get out! Fuck off out of here, you little shit! You're someone else's problem now.”

And, retching and crying, Carlo had broken into a stumbling run.

***

“It won't be long until you are used to the
way of going,
Sinjur
,”
said, and looking up with a start, Carlo realized his nausea must have been visible. “Many of my crew are sick for several days each voyage.”

Carlo tried to smile.

“Not being much of a seaman yet, though, I thought you might appreciate your privacy,”
continued. “So I have emptied a little corner for you,
Sinjur
, up at the bow end of the ship, and I've had a hammock strung for your use. It's as private a space as you will find on a ship such as this…we live snug onboard, as a rule.”

Carlo nodded his thanks.

“But I will warn you,
Sinjur
,”
said, “that the men know why you are aboard. They know your history. And your preferences.” He paused and licked his lips. Fingering the stringy plaits beneath his chin, he said, “You might be the object of…how shall I say…some curiosity amongst some of the crew. I overheard Ballucci muttering about you just now. I don't think they are out to cause mischief, but I would just say…that it might be wise to watch your back. That's all.”