The Vampire Armand - Anne Rice [52]
“Yes, speak up on that. Would you have gone into that harbor?” demanded the red-haired Florentine. “You know what they did to the Venetian ships they caught six months before? They beheaded every man on board.”
“Except the man in charge!” cried out a dancer who had turned to join the conversation, but went on so as not to lose his step. “They impaled him on a stake. This was Antonio Rizzo, one of the finest men there ever was.” He went on dancing with an offhand contemptuous gesture over his shoulder. Then he slipped as he pivoted and almost fell. His dancing companions caught him.
The black-haired man at the table shook his head.
“If it had been a full Venetian fleet—,” cried the black-haired man. “But you Florentines and you Venetians are all the same, treacherous, hedging your bets.”
My Master laughed as he watched the man.
“Don’t you laugh at me,” declared the black-haired man. “You’re a Venetian; I’ve seen you a thousand times, you and that boy!”
He gestured to me. I looked at my Master. My Master only smiled. Then I heard him whisper distinctly to me, so that it struck my ear as if he were next to me rather than so many feet away. “Testimony of the dead, Amadeo.”
The black-haired man picked up his goblet, slopped some wine down his throat and spilt as much down his pointed beard. “A whole city of conniving bastards!” he declared. “Good for one thing, and that’s borrowing money at high interest when they spend everything they’ve got on fancy clothes.”
“You should talk,” said the red-haired one. “You look like a goddamned peacock. I ought to cut off your tail. Let’s get back to Constantinople since you’re so damned sure it could have been saved!”
“You are a damned Venetian yourself now.”
“I’m a banker; I’m a man of responsibility,” said the redhead. “I admire those who do well by me.” He picked up his own goblet, but instead of drinking the wine, he threw it in the face of the black-haired man.
My Master did not bother to lean back, so undoubtedly some of the wine spilled on him. He looked from one to the other of the ruddy sweating faces on either side of him.
“Giovanni Longo, one of the bravest Genoese ever to captain a ship, stayed in that city during the entire siege,” cried the red-haired man. “That’s courage. I’ll put money on a man like that.”
“I don’t know why,” cried the dancer again, the same one as before. He broke from the circle long enough to declare, “He lost the battle, and besides, your Father had plenty enough sense not to bank on any of them.”
“Don’t you dare!” said the red-haired man. “Here’s to Giovanni Longo and the Genoese who fought with him.” He grabbed the pitcher, all but knocking it over, showered wine on his goblet and the table, then took a deep gulp. “And here’s to my Father. May God have mercy on his immortal soul. Father, I have slain your enemies, and I’ll slay those who make of ignorance a pastime.”
He turned, jammed his elbow into my Master’s clothes and said, “That boy of yours is a beauty. Don’t be hasty. Think this over. How much?”
My Master burst out laughing more sweetly and naturally than I’d ever heard him laugh.
“Offer me something, something I might want,” said my Master as he looked at me, with a secretive, glittering shift of his eyes.
It seemed every man in the room was taking my measure, and understand, these were not lovers of boys; these were merely Italians of their rime, who, fathering children as was required of them and debauching women any chance they got, nevertheless appreciated a plump and juicy young man, the way that men now might appreciate a slice of golden toast heaped with sour cream and the finest blackest caviar.
I couldn’t help but smile. Kill them, I thought, slaughter them. I felt fetching and even beautiful. Come on, somebody, tell me I make you think of Mercury chasing away the clouds in Botticelli’s Primavera, but the red-haired man, fixing me with an impish playful glance, said:
“Ah, he is Verrocchio’s David, the very model for the bronze statue. Don’t try to tell me he is not. And immortal,