Burdens of the Dead: Chapter Eighteen

Venice

    It was wonderful having Benito back, Marco found. He hadn’t realized quite how easily he bonded with his half-brother. He knew how much he’d missed him, of course; almost every hour he’d found himself wondering how Benito would react to something, or what Benito would have said. But Benito and Maria stepped back into their lives as if, somehow, they’d never left, or had only stepped out for a pole around the canals.

    And as for the little girl…

    Marco shook his head. Maria had thought that the reality of little ones might put them off wanting one of their own. There were aspects of parenthood that were going to be a challenge, yes, and having a child right there, demonstrating those aspects was sometimes daunting. The occasional tantrum, for instance — or the absolute refusal, one night, to go to sleep. But Alessia had wormed her way right into their hearts. It was harder, now, than ever before that they had not yet managed to start one of their own.

    The last time Benito had been in Venice he had been driven by a need to get back. Marco had not been fooled, nor had anyone else. Benito had been driven to get back to Maria, not Corfu. The time before that, he had been miserable because of Maria…because he had lost her, and had no prospect of getting her back. Now, back home in Venice again, with her, underneath it all he was dreading the inevitable winter of his bargain perhaps, but now at last he was with Maria. And he had changed, he’d grown. He was more of a man now, and less of the wild boy that he’d been. That was partly Maria, but also, seeing him with his daughter, Marco knew it was because of Alessia as well. And who could doubt now that she was Benito’s child, especially when she smiled or looked up at you with curiosity, to see what this exciting adult would do next, head slightly tilted, eyes bright? Benito might never realize it, but being a father had been good for him. It had given him stability that nothing else could. And the need to think, because he was no longer Benito alone, who could risk any mad thing. There was a small one depending on him. Who would be left helpless if something happened to him.

    Marco saw that stability, that — call it what it was, maturity, and he was even more determined to get there himself. Finally it had driven him to the point where he had steeled himself to ask Francisco about it during their next language session. The fiction that Francisco was not a chirurgeon, or at least as skilled in medicine as most of the learned Dottores at the Accademia, had not lasted very long. His skill was undoubtedly in field medicine and plainly learned, by the examples he gave, in the tail of an army, if not in its van. But that was hardly a bad thing. Marco would take practical medicine over bookish speculation without a second thought.

    Besides, the books all too often contradicted each other.

    For a while now Francisco had been coming to the Casa Montescue, rather than Marco going to his shabby rooms. It was less restrictive for both of them, and Marco was less likely to get irritated by the Council of Ten’s watchers. It was bad enough having the Lion as part of himself, knowing far too much of what he was thinking, without having to bear the constant observation of others, who were all to mortal and would not know what he was thinking and would speculate and speculate without actually asking him.

    “Francisco,” he said, a bit hesitantly.

    The soldier-doctor-teacher stopped drinking beer and looked enquiringly at Marco, who had been attempting to read a simple Arabic passage aloud. Marco blushed. “The fertility of men…and women…How does it work? How can you…aid it?”

    Francisco took his time in answering. And when he did it was with a wry smile. “My experience has tended to be with people who wanted the pleasure, not the results, M’lord. There has been some writing on the subject, but I think most of it is worth less than the paper it is written on.” He put his beer down, and gave Marco a direct gaze. “Look…it’s typical for a man who wants an heir to blame his wife. But, well, you can’t grow crops if the seed isn’t good.” He looked Marco up and down. “But most of the lords I’ve heard of having this sort of trouble tended to be elderly and on the corpulent side, and fall into bed blind drunk, and then wonder why nothing happens or why the baby looks like their groom. You’re not a heavy drinker. What sort of exercise do you do, M’lord? I mean something that makes your heart race, and your chest heave, and your breathing rapid, not a stroll to the plaza.”

    The idea was rather odd to Marco. Military men trained at the arts of war. Other working people did what they had to do, be it pole a barge or carry bales. But that was really not something the masters or the mistresses of the Casa Vecchi did. One walked sometimes. Those that had estates outside the lagoon would go riding or hunting there. Some would go and fence in a salle. But none of these had really appealed to Marco. “I can’t really think of anything. I walk a little.” The only other exercise he could think of doing wasn’t having the desired result.

    Francisco nodded, as if he had expected something of the sort. Venice was not the sort of city that leant itself to vigorous exercise. “Well, maybe you should consider doing something. You’re starting a little pot-belly, M’lord. A really brisk walk or something at least a few times a week. I like to ride or run, myself. I go across to Chioggia twice a week. More often would be better, but that is all that is practical right now.”

    The agents of the Council of Ten had actually told Marco about Francisco’s “excursions,” finding them worrying and strange. It was nice to have that mystery cleared up, although Marco doubted the Council of Ten would grasp the idea very easily. Now that he thought about it, he remembered Kat had telling him that Francesca used to walk briskly for exercise every day. He’d thought it odd then. Maybe it wasn’t so odd, after all.

    “The body is all part of one machine, M’lord. Making one aspect stronger may stir the juices in another.”

    “Running?” Marco asked. “Really?”

    “It’s useful. If I’d been faster at it once…well, that was long ago. As a boy I was entered into foot races by my father. He bet on me, so he made me practice, and I discovered that I liked the exercise.” He shrugged. “Otherwise beer makes me fat. So that’s one idea. Perhaps both of you should get exercise, and sun, and air that does not stink of canal-water. It cannot hurt, and it might help. And the reality is, there are those women who do not have children. No matter how often they try, or with how many men. You might have to accept that, M’lord.”

    Well, that was disappointing. He’d hoped for a potion, or…well, something. Still. It was practical and easy, and as the man said, it would do no harm, this exercise.

    They went back to Marco’s attempts at reading, and, when that was done, Marco asked about something else that had been troubling him. He knew, by now, that Francisco had been a slave of the Barbary pirates for a time, and that was where he had acquired his linguistic skills and some of his medical knowledge. It was an area from which black Lotos was still smuggled into the lands to the north. And not two days ago he’d been called to help with a woman deep in the hallucinations the drug could cause.

    “Black lotos…did you ever have to treat anyone with addiction to it?”

    “No. I have seen a few, over in Icosium,” said Francisco. “Until I started teaching I spent my time with mercenary companies, M’lord. There are drunks, in mercenary companies, but not many with such expensive tastes. That’s for the nobility. And a mercenary company doesn’t keep such men, anyway. Drink is one thing, but black lotos? Makes a man useless for fighting. I know of no drug that would stop men craving drink, and I doubt if there is one that’ll stop them craving lotos. Only desiring to do so more than desiring the drug can do that. And that, m’lord, is a truly powerful desire.” He rubbed his nose. “Mind you, we did have a bombardier once. The drink was the death of him in the end…but the condottiere needed him in the siege. He was a genius with cannon and a fool with burned-wine. We kept him going by giving him just enough. While he was in that state you’d hardly know he was enslaved to the stuff…except he’d do anything to get more.”

    Marco sighed. “I was hoping there’d be something in the Arabic medicine books.”

    “There is no easy way out of it, M’lord,” said Francisco sympathetically. Clearly he wondered why Marco was asking — and clearly, he was not going to ask.

    “I’ve heard the ink cap — you know, the mushroom, can make a man dislike alcohol, or rather alcohol dislike the man.” Marco offered that in hopes that it might trigger a similar memory.

    Francisco chuckled a little. “Ah. Tippler’s bane. Makes them feel as if they had the hangover to end all hangovers. But I’ve no knowledge of it working on anything else.” He shook his head. “And it doesn’t stop a man wanting to drink, just stops him from keeping it down. When it comes to a man’s addictions, m’lord, whether it be drink or gold, there is never an easy answer.”

    Maria watched how tenderly Kat held Alessia. The tentativeness had gone now, and there was…almost a hunger in the way she looked at the child. She didn’t want to ask — but really, she didn’t need to. She’d seen the same hunger in other would-be mothers coming to worship at the shrine of the mother. The difficult part would be talking about it. Not that Kat wouldn’t want to talk; Maria knew that, she could feel it — perhaps yet another gift of the Mother, that she could tell these things now. Just…the problem was, how to start.

    At least she could be sure Katerina would give Alessia real love, not in the Casa Vecchi style of handing the child over to a nurse to care for. So when she went to the Underworld, as she must, her baby would not just be in good hands, but in the best. A little of her ever-present anxiety eased. Kat would be as much a mother to Alessia as if Maria herself was there. Kat would keep her safe.

    Besides, no one could ever imagine Marco Valdosta mistreating a child; the very opposite, in fact. To judge by their first few days in Venice, Alessia was going to be a thoroughly spoiled little girl, pampered by everyone from Milord Lodovico to the lowest chambermaid. Marco was already talking about hiring some extra servants. Some people of real quality, he’d said. Well, she’d have to meet them first. If there was time…She knew Aidoneus would find her anywhere. There was no point in running away. Anyway, that was her bargain, and she’d stand by it.

    Marco came in, fresh from his language lesson with what Maria guessed to be an ex-soldier, who was apparently teaching him to read Arabic script. The idea of learning to read not only another language, but other letters made Maria’s head hurt. Her grasp of the ordinary alphabet, which started late, had been hard enough, although it had grown easier with practice, to the point where it was no longer an effort to read Kat’s letters, even it was still a labor replying to them. His arrival did put the damper on speaking to Kat about fertility…and the mother-goddess. Men were entirely too sensitive about these things. Or squeamish. Besides, he might take it all too personally. Most men would be inclined to blame their wives; Marco would be inclined to blame himself.

    “Francisco has persuaded me I have to do more exercise,” said Marco cheerfully, picking up Alessia. “I am getting fat.”

    “You are not!” said Kat, flying to his defense. “You were too thin before.”

    Privately, Maria agreed with both of them. Marco had been too thin, back in the old bad days, but now…the good life was perhaps a bit too good. He was getting soft.

    Not like Benito. Benito was and would always be a restless soul, who found it difficult to sit still and who enjoyed fencing with his arms-master, or chasing game on foot in the rugged folds around Pantocrator when he could get away from his desk. And he’d throw himself into doing anything physical. Marco wasn’t like that, which probably made him more peaceful to sleep next to, but also was likely to turn him into one of those round little scholars with white hands like a woman.

    Marco wagged his head at his wife. “No, I think he is right. And I’ve made up my mind I have to do something. For…reasons. Anyway, my problem is just what to do. Even taking a walk is impossible. People want to talk to me. The agents of the Council of Ten surround me. We both know I am a disaster at poling a boat. Dancing…no. And I really do not enjoy fencing. What do you suggest?”

    “We could go over to the old villa on the mainland and you could ride. We could both ride, together.” Kat actually sounded as if, now that idea had been broached, she thought she might enjoy that.

    “Isn’t that the horse getting the exercise?” asked Marco with a smile.

    “No,” said Benito from the doorway. “Trust me on this one, brother. I would rather spend all day climbing ratlines, than spend an hour in the saddle. Or in my case, on and off the saddle. Perdition! A horse is a thing created by the devil, I swear.”

    “Benito! Have you finished with the admiral?” said Maria, running to him.

    Benito grinned evilly, hugging her. “I think I have nearly finished him off, yes. So I decided to spend some time with my wife and baby, while I still could. If I can ever get either of them away from my brother and his wife.”