Courtesan's Lover (34 page)

Gianni stopped.

Carlo's voice said, “I can see your light. Is that you, Cicciano?”

Gianni held his breath. He heard footsteps, and then Carlo's face appeared, underlit by a small, flickering lantern. Seeing Gianni, he gasped and swore.

Holding his torch high again, Gianni said, “What the hell are you doing down here, Carlo, and where are those children? What have you done with them?”

“None of your business.”

“I mean it, Carlo. Where are they? Come to that—
who
are they?”

Carlo looked mulish. “Like I said—it's none of your fucking business.”

Gianni's right hand balled into a fist and he moved in toward his brother. “You tell me. Who are they?”

“You really want to know who they are?” Eyeing Gianni's fist, Carlo sounded suddenly defensive. “They belong to that overpriced bitch of Michele's.”

“I don't—
What?
” A wild jumble of images of Francesca flashed into Gianni's mind.
His
fingers
on
her
breasts. The taste of honey. The puckered skin of the little scar on her back.
And then the picture that had been haunting him for days
: his father on his knees on the floor of the
sala,
with
his
hands
in
Francesca's hair and his mouth on her throat.

Gianni shook his head. “I don't understand. Why? Why have you brought them down here?” he said.

“Fuck off, Gian! It's nothing to do with you!”

Dropping the torch, which rolled away across the rock floor, its flame licking out horizontally across the stone, Gianni grabbed Carlo by the neck of his shirt. “
Why?
” he asked again, both fists pressed up under Carlo's chin. Carlo's voice was distorted by the pressure of Gianni's hands, but Gianni heard his scowling mutter, “Justified retribution.”

Gianni pulled the neck of his brother's shirt upward, dragging him up onto his toes, and Carlo dropped his little lantern. It landed on the rock floor with a clatter and the flame went out. Gianni pushed Carlo back against the tunnel wall, shoving his brother hard up against the wet tufa. “What do you mean? Where are they? You foul, despicable, disgusting little
shit!”
He banged Carlo's head back against the wall on the last word. “I'm ashamed to think you're my
brother
.” Another bang. “Where
are
they?” Bang.

“Fuck off!” Carlo shoved at Gianni's chest, trying ineffectually to push him away. “Fuck off and leave me alone!”

“Tell me!” Gianni shouted, with another, harder bang. “What have you
done
with them?”

Carlo kicked out at Gianni, aiming for his groin but catching him on one thigh. Momentarily unbalanced, Gianni let go. As he righted himself, Carlo scrambled away but, grunting with the effort, Gianni threw himself at his brother. He caught him around the waist and together they fell to the ground, where, in scuffling confusion, they rolled across the uneven rock. Taller and stronger than his brother, it took little more than seconds for Gianni to pin Carlo down. With one knee on his brother's chest, he clutched the neck of Carlo's shirt in both fists. “Where are those girls, Carlo?” he said through his teeth.

There was a pause, and then Carlo muttered, “They're in the next tunnel. She cost me all that money, didn't she? Their bitch of a mother. And Cicciano's friend
said he could…could…get a…good price for—”

Gianni felt a nauseous leap in his guts. He scrambled to his feet, backing away from Carlo as though he had been burned, and then stood staring down at where Carlo lay sprawled on the rock. “Where are they? What have you done? Am I too late?”

Carlo didn't move. Gianni kicked him. “Where
are
they?
”

Carlo grunted. Scrambled onto all fours. Stood up slowly.

Gianni's fists were up; he flexed his fingers, re-fisted them. “Go on—where are they?” he said, picking up the still flaming torch and holding it high. Carlo reached for his extinguished lantern and then began to walk back down the tunnel toward the cavern. Gianni followed.

They reentered the cavern. Carlo crossed to the next tunnel entrance. He nodded toward it. “They're down there.”

“Go on then—show me.” Putting his free hand in the small of his brother's back, Gianni pushed Carlo, who stumbled over a loose rock and fell onto hands and knees. “Get up!” Gianni said. Carlo pushed himself back up onto his feet. This new tunnel was narrower than the first, and the low roof was a smooth arch. Bending slightly, to avoid hitting his head, Gianni followed Carlo and together they walked along the tunnel as it curved around and down.

A second later, the keening whimper broke out again. It echoed through the tunnel, a sound of terrified despair, raising the hairs on Gianni's neck and arms. “Oh, God. You bloody bastard, Carlo,” he muttered.

They rounded a final corner, and the tunnel came to a dead end. Gianni pushed past Carlo, held the torch up, and saw the little girls sitting pressed together on the rock floor. Their eyes were wide and black in the torchlight and they had their arms around each other. One of them was crying. Seeing Carlo, though, the weeping stopped; they both scrambled to their feet and shrank as far back as the tunnel would allow, uttering incoherent little sounds of terror.

“You wait back there!” Gianni hissed at his brother, and Carlo stepped backward into the shadows and slid down the wall to squat on his heels. Gianni laid the torch down, crossed to the children, and crouched in front of them. He held out a hand toward them, but they cowered away from him, and their whimpering grew louder.

“I promise I won't hurt you,” Gianni said softly. “Do you remember me? I met you at Signora Zigolo's that day. You were playing with beads. I know your mamma—I know where she lives. I'll take you back to her. You're quite safe now.”

The girls stopped crying but did not move.

“Has Carlo hurt you?” Gianni asked. “That man. Has he done anything to hurt you?”

Neither child replied or moved. They just stared at him, huge-eyed and silent. Gianni said, “Listen, I'd like to take you back to your mamma now,” he said. “Will you come with me?”

Two brief nods.

“And
you
.” Gianni turned back to Carlo. “I don't even know what to
think
about you, let alone know what to do. God alone knows what Papa will say…”

Carlo said nothing.

Gianni said, “I'm taking these children home now, and we're taking the torch with us. Come with us, or stay here and make your own way as best you can—to be honest, just now”—Gianni felt his voice quiver in his throat—“I don't give a two-
scudi
shit what you do.”

He stood, staring at Carlo for several long seconds. Carlo stared back, swallowing awkwardly, grimacing as though it hurt to do so. Then, gaze still fixed upon Gianni's face, he got slowly to his feet. Gianni saw the two little girls cower as Carlo stood up.

“Don't worry,” he said. “He can't do anything to you now. You're quite safe.” He took one child by the hand, and she in turn grabbed for her sister. They followed Gianni past Carlo, flattening themselves against the opposite wall of the tunnel as they passed him.

“Wait a moment,” Gianni said. “I'm going to light his lantern for him. Though he doesn't bloody deserve it.” Picking up the still-burning torch, Gianni crouched down and tried to relight Carlo's lantern. Twice it simply sputtered and went out, but on the third attempt, he succeeded, and he placed it down on the floor of the tunnel. It threw a feeble, dirty-yellow light across a few feet of rock.

Gianni looked from the lantern to where Carlo still stood slumped against the wall. One of his eyes was puffed and bruised; his lip was split, and he was holding his head awkwardly over to one side, shoulder hunched. His brother's usual swaggering insolence had quite gone, Gianni realized; Carlo was small and broken, sagging against the tufa like a bag of damp grain. A faint sensation of sympathy rose in Gianni's throat, but the little flutter of compassion was quickly drowned as a wave of sickening anger broke over it.

He opened his mouth to say something to Carlo, but then closed it again.

Glancing back to make sure that the lantern he had left was still alight, Gianni held the torch high and then reached out with his free hand toward one of the two children. She took it, and in turn grabbed hold of her sister. Together the three of them made their way back to the tunnel mouth, where Gianni's linen kerchief was still tucked under its lump of rock. He picked it up, pushed it back into his pocket, and, one behind the other, he and the children walked back up toward the door to the tavern.

Gianni did not allow himself to turn around to see if Carlo was following.

His mind was racing.

Almost unable to believe what he had just discovered, he felt physically sick at the thought of what might lie ahead. He had no idea what to do. Should he report his brother to the authorities? Was he morally obliged to do so? Carlo had abducted Francesca's children…had intended to hand them over to be
sold
into…into…God knows what fate. He would have to be punished, Gianni thought, but might such a crime be serious enough to merit burning? Might he hang? Could he, Gianni, really do it? Really hand his brother over to the thuggish and unreliable
sbirri?
Or—another thought struck him—would it be the Spanish who would mete out whatever form of justice Carlo's actions deserved? Where would Carlo go now? What would he do? Gianni pictured Carlo, alone with the feeble lantern in the
sottosuolo
, and his head teemed with painful images.

“Are we nearly there yet?”

The little voice from behind him was tremulous and tired; Gianni sensed the child's exhaustion and found a smile for her. “Yes. Nearly back at the tavern, and then we'll go up into the city.” He squeezed her fingers. “We'll find your mamma, shall we?”

“Do you know where her house is?”

“I think I do, but I've only been there once. If we can't find it, though, we'll go to my house and Papa will help us. He knows where your mamma lives. I think you know my papa—his name's Luca. He's—he's a friend of your mamma's.”

They both nodded.

Ahead was the narrow door to the tavern. Gianni let go of the child; transferred his torch from one hand to the other; opened the door. Light from the tavern flooded into the corridor; a hum of unthinking conversation hung thickly in the smoke-filled air above them.

***

Some way down the Via Toledo, Modesto stopped running. Leaning against a wall, one hand fisted against his doublet front, he felt his breath rasp in his throat. Damn his bloody chest! He had run too far today. Losing his singing career had been one thing, but possibly losing the Signora because he could no longer run for more than a few yards without wheezing like a pair of bellows was quite another. He closed his eyes and drew in several long, uneven breaths.

“Modesto!”

Modesto's eyes snapped open and he stood up away from the wall. The Signore was running up from the direction of the waterfront. Alone.

“Have you found them?” the Signore called as he ran.

Still wheezing, Modesto shook his head. “No. But you have to come. Come with me—now.”

The Signore frowned. “Why? What's happened?”

“No time to explain. Just come now.”

Luca dropped to his knees at the side of Francesca's bed. With fingers that shook, he pushed her hair back from her face, picking from the gash on her cheek a few stiffened wisps that had become caught in it and soaked. Her eyes were closed. “Oh,
cara
…” he said, in little more than a whisper. “How did this happen? Who could have done this?”

Francesca made no reply.

Modesto appeared in the doorway with a pottery jug in his hand. “Water, Signore,” he said, putting the jug down on the floor near the bed. “From the house next door.” He pulled a length of linen from his breeches pocket. “And a cloth.”

“Thank you,” Luca said. He dipped the cloth into the water and squeezed it out. Wrapping it around his fingers, he gently dabbed at the dried blood that was already crusting at the edges of the long cut. At his touch, Francesca sucked in a breath and opened her eyes. She reached up and took the hand in which he held the wet linen. “Luca,” she said softly. “Thank God…you're here. Are they with you?”

Luca glanced at Modesto and swallowed. “No,
cara
,” he said. “We…no—no they're not.”

Francesca sat up, eyes wide. Luca held her hands and said, “But I know we'll find them. Let me wash this for you.”

Pushing him away, Francesca let out a wordless, wire-thin wail that stabbed like a blade into Luca's chest. He saw her run her fingers into her hair, but she cried out as she touched the cut on her face, and held her hands up beside her head. Moving her fingers in jerky agitation, she said, “No! We can't stay here—we have to find them! We have to go, now, keep looking! They could be anywhere!”

“I'll go, Signora,” Modesto said. “I'll go now. The Signore should stay here with you: you're not fit to—”

“No! Modesto, no! I have to go too! Help me up—I can't just sit here like this!”

Luca began to remonstrate, but a loud banging on the door interrupted him. Modesto left the room.

Voices in the hallway. Two male voices. And then, from the stairs, a shriek, “Mamma!”

Scrambling footsteps.

Luca stood up. Francesca was off the bed and across the room in a second, but, unsteady on her feet, she stumbled and grabbed for the edge of the door to hold herself up.

“Mamma! Mamma!”

As Luca took a step toward Francesca, the twins ran in and threw themselves at her. She sank to her knees; the girls sank with her, and in a moment, they had wrapped themselves around each other. Tears stung behind Luca's eyes as he watched Francesca gather her children into her arms. None of them spoke, or cried, or moved for more than a minute. Then one of the children turned her head, reached upward, and unwittingly caught the cut on her mother's cheek. Francesca gasped, winced, and pulled back, and the child let go of her. “Oh, Mamma—your face!” she said, her voice high-pitched with distress. The second child scrabbled around. Seeing the cut, which had started to bleed again, both children began to cry.

Luca crouched down next to them. They jumped, and stared around at him, whimpering and clinging again to Francesca's skirts. “It's all right,” he said. “Mamma has hurt her face, but she'll be fine. Shall we help her back up, and let her lie down on her bed? And then…then perhaps you can tell us where you've been.”

Both girls nodded. They stood back, fingers over their mouths as Luca gathered Francesca up into his arms and put her back onto her bed. She lay back against the pillow, and closed her eyes.

“Would you like to come and sit by her?”

They scrambled onto the bed and sat curled up, one on either side of their mother. Eyes still shut, she put an arm around each and pulled them in close.

“Mind her face,” Luca said, sitting on a chair near the bed. One of the girls lifted a hand and touched her mother's cheek near the cut, with the tip of her forefinger. Francesca smiled and stroked the child's hair.

Luca wanted to hold her. He ached to wrap his arms around her and comfort her. But now, he told himself, was not the moment. She would marry him—he was sure of it. He had seen it in her eyes just now. There would be time enough ahead for him to hold her—for now, she needed her children and far more importantly, they needed her. He contented himself with reaching out and squeezing her fingers. At his touch, Francesca moved her hand away from Beata's shoulder and gripped his fingers in return, turning her head and smiling at him with a melting tenderness. Then she released his hand, and pulled her daughter in close once more, closing her eyes again.

The two male voices were still rumbling downstairs. With a stab of shock, Luca realized that he had no idea how the children had come to be here. Francesca had said this was her servant's house. Who was that downstairs? Whoever it was must have brought the girls—but where the hell had they been? He stood up, determining to discover who the visitor was, and why they were all here, but before he could take more than a step toward the door, he heard someone running heavily upstairs, and the door to the chamber banged open.

Looking flushed and disheveled, Gianni strode into the room. He stopped dead, staring at Francesca and the twins. “
Porca
Madonna
!” he said, sounding hoarse with shock.

“Gianni—” Luca began.

“What the hell has happened?” Gianni said, staring at the blood on the bed and then up at Francesca's cut face. “Dear God—who did that?” He turned to where Modesto had appeared in the doorway. “Who was it, Signore? Was it one of her—” He stopped abruptly, and what looked like guilt flooded his face.

A cold stab of anxiety caught in Luca's throat. “Gianni?” he said again.

Gianni swallowed awkwardly. “Papa.”

“Why on earth are you here?”

Gianni did not answer.

“What did you mean, ‘
one
of
her
'? Her what? One of Francesca's what?”

Gianni shook his head. He muttered, “Nothing, Papa,” and looked back at Francesca. She was sitting upright now, wide awake, staring at Gianni. She mouthed the word “
please
” at him and shook her head, almost imperceptibly. Luca looked from his son to Francesca and back. “Gianni,” he said, “what did you mean? Francesca,
cara
, do you know what he's talking about?”

Francesca gazed up at him, saying nothing.

Modesto crossed the room. Leaning in toward the bed, he spoke softly to the children. “Beata, Bella, could you come with me for a moment?” he said. “I want you to do something for me. For Mamma. It won't take long.” He smiled and raised his eyebrows, his expression promising a treat, and the children nodded, slid out from under Francesca's arms, and crossed the room to where he stood. He took one small hand in each of his. They walked with him toward the door.

Just before he reached it, however, he stopped. Luca saw him bend down behind the bed and pick something up from the floor. He tucked whatever it was into a bag, which he swung over his shoulder. Taking the girls by the hands again, he left the room and closed the door behind him.