hold your
stores, or shall I sell off a few sacks? Your affairs stand in excellent order
and there is more than enough money to run your household and see to your
instructions, but there is a great deal of profit to be made just now. The
English merchants, particularly, are willing to give top prices for pepper. Let
me know by messenger if you want me to sell, and how much. As it stands now,
prices will be high until Lent.
This to you by my own hand and through the good offices of Magister Joacim
Branco, with sincerest regards I commend to you myself and my work.
Gian-Carlo Casimir di Alerico Circando
In Venezia, on the 19th day of August, 1491
4
Only a few candles were burning at the house of Sandro Filipepi in la Via
Nuova. The artist himself had retired two hours before and even his austerely
fanatical brother Simone had at last finished his prayers and was vainly
attempting to sleep on his hard bed.
Donna Estasia sat brushing her luxurious chestnut hair. She sang softly to
herself as she plied the brush. The tune was a languid one, sensuous, like the
expression in her eyes. " 'O veramente felice e beata/ notte, che a tanto ben
fusti presente; o passi ciechi, scorti dolcemente/ da quella man sauve e
delicata.'" Laurenzo's poetry made her smile. She, too, anticipated a happy and
well-blessed night. "'Voi, Amor e 'l mio core e la mia amata/ donna…'" She would
have liked to be able to change the words so that the lover was a man, not a
woman, but it would not fit the rhyme. She hummed the phrase over and went on. "
'Sapete sol, non altra gente,/ quella dolezza che ogni umana mente/ vince, da
uom giamai non più provata.'" Yes, it was true for her, too. Only her heart and
her love knew the overwhelming source of her joy.
The night was warm and the air fragrant with summer. Estasia sighed and put
her brush aside, looking for her jar of malmsey-am-bergris-and-musk paste so
that she could massage it into her hands and face to make them soft and
sweet-smelling. At last she found it by the mirror Sandro had given her and
which Simone despised so much. She pulled off the ivory stopper and began to
anoint her skin. When that was done, she opened her nightshift impulsively and
spread the salve over her breasts. Slowly, her eyes half-closed, she worked the
fragrant paste into her flesh.
She was about to rise and seek her bed when she felt two small hands brush
her shoulders and pluck her nightshift away. The startled cry that rose in her
throat changed to a sigh of anticipation as she turned in the circle of
Ragoczy's arms.
"Francesco," she murmured, pressing her gorgeous body against him. "You
frightened me." The purr in her voice belied her.
"Did I." He cupped her pointed vixen's face in his hands and drew her nearer.
"And are you frightened now?" he asked when he had kissed her.
She laughed almost nervously. "No. Never that." She kicked her discarded
nightshift away. "But I am anxious, Francesco. I have not been pleasured for
eleven days." She touched his loose gown of Persian taffeta. "I have been too
much with myself. Take me out of myself. Take me." She moved sensuously in his
embrace, then stepped back and raised her breasts in her hands. "See? I have
perfumed them for you. They are soft-feeling." She rose on tiptoe and stretched
provocatively. "Tell me you like me. Tell me of your desire to possess me."
He laughed low in his throat. "What do you want me to say? Do you want me to
tell you that your skin is softer and more fragrant than the finest spices of
the East? Do you want me to tell you that I will roam over your body like a
thirsty traveler searching for drink?"
Estasia's face was flushed and her opulent flesh was gilded in the
candlelight. Her breath had quickened as he spoke to her and at last she reached
out for him. "Francesco."
Clasping her outstretched hands, he gathered her close to him and lifted her
easily into his arms, where she made a delicious,
stores, or shall I sell off a few sacks? Your affairs stand in excellent order
and there is more than enough money to run your household and see to your
instructions, but there is a great deal of profit to be made just now. The
English merchants, particularly, are willing to give top prices for pepper. Let
me know by messenger if you want me to sell, and how much. As it stands now,
prices will be high until Lent.
This to you by my own hand and through the good offices of Magister Joacim
Branco, with sincerest regards I commend to you myself and my work.
Gian-Carlo Casimir di Alerico Circando
In Venezia, on the 19th day of August, 1491
4
Only a few candles were burning at the house of Sandro Filipepi in la Via
Nuova. The artist himself had retired two hours before and even his austerely
fanatical brother Simone had at last finished his prayers and was vainly
attempting to sleep on his hard bed.
Donna Estasia sat brushing her luxurious chestnut hair. She sang softly to
herself as she plied the brush. The tune was a languid one, sensuous, like the
expression in her eyes. " 'O veramente felice e beata/ notte, che a tanto ben
fusti presente; o passi ciechi, scorti dolcemente/ da quella man sauve e
delicata.'" Laurenzo's poetry made her smile. She, too, anticipated a happy and
well-blessed night. "'Voi, Amor e 'l mio core e la mia amata/ donna…'" She would
have liked to be able to change the words so that the lover was a man, not a
woman, but it would not fit the rhyme. She hummed the phrase over and went on. "
'Sapete sol, non altra gente,/ quella dolezza che ogni umana mente/ vince, da
uom giamai non più provata.'" Yes, it was true for her, too. Only her heart and
her love knew the overwhelming source of her joy.
The night was warm and the air fragrant with summer. Estasia sighed and put
her brush aside, looking for her jar of malmsey-am-bergris-and-musk paste so
that she could massage it into her hands and face to make them soft and
sweet-smelling. At last she found it by the mirror Sandro had given her and
which Simone despised so much. She pulled off the ivory stopper and began to
anoint her skin. When that was done, she opened her nightshift impulsively and
spread the salve over her breasts. Slowly, her eyes half-closed, she worked the
fragrant paste into her flesh.
She was about to rise and seek her bed when she felt two small hands brush
her shoulders and pluck her nightshift away. The startled cry that rose in her
throat changed to a sigh of anticipation as she turned in the circle of
Ragoczy's arms.
"Francesco," she murmured, pressing her gorgeous body against him. "You
frightened me." The purr in her voice belied her.
"Did I." He cupped her pointed vixen's face in his hands and drew her nearer.
"And are you frightened now?" he asked when he had kissed her.
She laughed almost nervously. "No. Never that." She kicked her discarded
nightshift away. "But I am anxious, Francesco. I have not been pleasured for
eleven days." She touched his loose gown of Persian taffeta. "I have been too
much with myself. Take me out of myself. Take me." She moved sensuously in his
embrace, then stepped back and raised her breasts in her hands. "See? I have
perfumed them for you. They are soft-feeling." She rose on tiptoe and stretched
provocatively. "Tell me you like me. Tell me of your desire to possess me."
He laughed low in his throat. "What do you want me to say? Do you want me to
tell you that your skin is softer and more fragrant than the finest spices of
the East? Do you want me to tell you that I will roam over your body like a
thirsty traveler searching for drink?"
Estasia's face was flushed and her opulent flesh was gilded in the
candlelight. Her breath had quickened as he spoke to her and at last she reached
out for him. "Francesco."
Clasping her outstretched hands, he gathered her close to him and lifted her
easily into his arms, where she made a delicious,
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