Don't you love Roman numerals? I love them XXVI much!
Author: Aiisling
Title: The Inherent Dangers of Pity and Love: A Plaude fic of 15th century Italy (Entry 4)
Pairing: Peter/Claude
Rating: R (for implied)
Warnings/Spoilers: Hints of sexual abuse.
Summary: By the time the 1400's rolled about, Italy existed primarily as five major city states, one of them being Florence. This is a story about a Prince of that esteemed and powerful city, Pietro Petrelli, Claude Raines, a beggar on the run from powerful enemies, and the ever-impressive Catholic Inquisition.
Installment IV: A new, conniving character steps into play, Peter returns home to a few surprises, and Claude finds one or two of his own.
Notes: I'm still not super happy with the last scene of this installment. It just...bothers me. But after two days of writing and re-writing the damned thing, I think it's as good as it's gonna get. Poozles.
LINKS: Installment I, Installment II, Installment III
~~~~~
The Inherent Dangers of Pity and Love:
A Plaude fic of 15th century Italy
Installment IV
The outer wall of his home had never seemed so inviting to Pietro, or so threatening. All the way back he’d struggled to keep his on his feet. Those noises of everyday life, which had once given him so much joy, had faded to a deep thud that took up most of his attention, leaving little room for understandable thoughts. Now, however, with life looming large and foreboding before him, the pain didn’t seem so bad.
“Guardare! There he is!” Pietro looked up, thankful that night had fallen in the course of his long walk and the excruciating light of the sun no longer filled the streets. A guardsman-Paolo, he thought- was pointing at him excitedly and calling to others from behind the high, sand-colored wall. Pietro leaned his aching body against the stone, his mind frozen, too tired for conscious thought. To him it seemed like hours passed before strong, familiar hands gripped him by the shoulders. Two of the family’s guardsmen lifted him between them, brought him through the gated arch into his starlit courtyard. In moments running footsteps started at the edge of his hearing, and then his niece was beside him, helping him to stand.
“Pietro, what happened?” she asked, her beautiful young face twisted with worry as she gazed up at him. Pietro pushed himself away, muttering something about hitting his head. He was not yet ready to tell what had truly happened to him, what he could do.
“It’s not that bad, Clara. Sinceramente.” She raised one soft eyebrow in disbelief. Pietro held up his hands, surprised to realize that he was telling the truth. Suddenly he felt much better, the pain in his head receding until it was no longer noticeable. Even the aches and pains from the poor treatment at the end of a stick were fading. He stood straighter and laid a reassuring hand upon her shoulder. “I, ah, must have felt the heat a little too much.” The lie was bitter upon his tongue, but he managed to force it out. There was no way he would let his little niece, his sweet Clara, worry over him. Seeing her reluctant nod he turned and dismissed the guards who had hovered near him since his return. One servant, however, didn’t go away but instead approached the pair.
“Pietro, are you sure that everything is bene? You are not injured?” The old man’s devotion brought a slight smile to Pietro despite his inner turmoil. Agostino had served the Petrelli’s since Pietro could remember, and it showed both in his familiarity with the Prince and the slightly finer clothing he wore. His long pleated robe was finely woven and dyed the Petrelli family’s signature dark maroon, and his thin belt and matching hose, while plain, were both made equally well.
Agostino nodded his head slightly as Pietro nodded ‘yes,’ his graying hair hidden beneath a round red cap. “We worried for you today, when your bed was found empty and no one could say where you had gone.” The old man’s voice bore a slight scolding, which Pietro accepted with grace.
“Yes, Agostino, I apologize for the trouble I’ve been. Perdonami, per favore.” The young Italian was sincere in his apology, his eyes troubled and beaming honesty like starlight. It satisfied his old family retainer, who bowed in return and turned to enter the house through one of their many columned archways. Clara, however, was another matter.
“Mio Dio, Pietro!” She frowned, her voice petulant with mixed worry and relief. “What were you thinking? Why did you not tell me you were going to work beneficenza today?” Her soft brown eyes were hurt as she stared at him. Pietro could not answer her.
In truth, his actions had been foolhardy, he recognized that. But the need to go had been so overwhelming...Guilt warred with confusion and fear in his mind, bringing back the headache that had been banished so suddenly just moments before. Clara saw his face grow gray and sighed.
“Fine. You will have to explain some other time. Right now we must get you into bed.” Pietro, grateful for the pardon, did not argue with her. Instead he focused on not thinking about what had happened that day, afraid his thoughts, as always, would show upon his face. The night grew darker as the pair wandered into their home, Pietro leaning slightly upon Clara’s shoulder and forcing himself to focus on his renewed pain.
~
It was all Claude could do to keep from cursing out loud when he followed the young fool home. The last thing he’d wanted was to follow the boy -Pietro, he reminded himself- after their useless meeting. Too many emotions spilled out of those eyes to make Claude comfortable. Still, he wanted to know where Pietro lived. Information could keep a man alive, had kept Claude alive when he’d run from his home in miserable England (but it had been his misery, damn it) and the octopus arms of those who hunted him. Information had brought him here, to Florence, had put him on the trail of the one he hunted in return. The lesson, and the pain, had been well remembered, and now Claude never passed up an opportunity to learn more.
So Claude followed Pietro through the winding streets, ignoring the pang of conscious that twitched deep inside him when he saw just how badly the lad was hurt. It had been necessary, and the brat would recover.
He shoved such thoughts aside, focusing instead on his increasingly opulent surroundings. The young Italian had led him out of the slums and they were now in the richer areas of Florence, where power hid its secrets. Massive Greco-roman columns glowed blue in the coming night. Cyprus trees lined clean avenues and brightly colored vines curled around high walls and columns alike. Yet still Pietro did not stop, or at least not for long.
He continued deeper and deeper, finally coming to rest on the outside of the innermost circle of families. It was not the largest estate, but it was close. Walls ten feet tall hid the inner courtyard from the filthy site of outsiders, though Claude could see from the beautifully tiled rooftops and well dressed guards, their strength obvious even in the fresh dark, that Pietro’s family was powerful indeed. He swore under his breath, finally letting loose the whispered curses that had been building up inside him. A Prince of Florence! What a fool he had been not to have seen it!
Claude fell silent again, leaning against the wall as guards rushed out and helped the young man in. He needed to think. Obviously he couldn’t go back to the slums. It was too easy to find him , with his blue eyes and blatant trouble with the Italian language. Even without these shortcomings he was noticeable there, for foreigners were rare in the slums. In Florence a stranger was either a powerful merchant or dead. No, he’d have to go somewhere else, remain invisible for a while. But he couldn’t leave, not yet. Not until...
Pietro had been gone for a handsbreadth of time when a stone bounced across the road just within Claude’s range of hearing, interrupting his train of thought. He straightened, straining his eyes to identify the source of the stone’s movement. Tense muscles relaxed when he saw that it was just a couple of men, one dressed in a loosely belted robe, the others in more common garb. Probably servants on their way to one of the tavernas that dotted the lower areas of the city. Claude squinted in the dark, trying to take a closer look. The guardsmen who had helped Pietro into his home flashed across his mind suddenly, and Claude realized that the servant was wearing the dark red colors of the Petrelli family. Certainly it was something that he ought to investigate further, and so, secure in his invisibility, Claude approached the trio.
“-the fool didn’t even tell us! Signore Petrelli will be very upset,” the servant was saying to the other two. They nodded gravely, their expressions almost tense. It occurred to Claude that Pietro’s brother must be formidable indeed to make such surly men balk so. He paused by a wall, waiting for them to draw closer and pass him by. Their talk turned to more mundane things, and Claude’s interest wavered as he privately scoffed at their conversation. He had no interest in the contents of linen closets or the latest local gossip. As they drew even with him he settled more comfortably against the stone that, despite the dark of freshly fallen night, was still warm from the day. Suddenly the bulkiest of the three dropped to the ground, muttering and probing fat fingers into his sensible shoes.
“Dannato stone,” he muttered to his companions as they paused right in front of Claude. The invisible man found his annoyance growing, for they had stopped in such a way that he couldn’t slip past them. Now he was stuck until the fool fixed his accursed shoe. He had to resist the growl of impatience that was growing in his throat, made worse by the other two simpletons who had focused all their attention on the idiot at their feet. If glares could spur on action, then the three nitwits before Claude would already be far away from him.
“Hurry, Giovanni,” the well dressed servant muttered, his agitated voice perfectly matching tense body language and a tapping foot. “It is growing harder to see the road before our noses.” The man on the ground paused. “Are you ready?” Claude sighed a silent breath of relief as the man nodded curtly. His relief was, unfortunately, short lived.
Abruptly the servant whipped his head about and locked eyes with him. Claude had time to mutter a surprised oath at the man’s impossible act -he sees, he sees me!- before the two strongmen were upon him. He fought back, throwing elbows, fists, and knees into the fray in a practiced method. A few good hits landed on their exposed throats and faces, too, despite the pounding of meaty knuckles and the trunk-like arm that had somehow slipped itself around his throat, cutting off his air supply. In that moment he was thankful for every bar fight he’d ever gotten himself into, for they gave him a repertoire of both clean and dirty tricks to throw against his attackers. Unfortunately for him it was no use. The other two had the advantage of surprise, strength, and general bulk. Within a few frantic minutes they had his arms pinned to his sides and his body shoved between theirs.
Claude continued to struggle, to no avail. He was caught, despite the fact that he was still invisible. Somehow they forced his head back, finding his bearded chin by touch, not sight, manhandling him until they had a firm grip. In such a position he was compelled to look at the red robed man who stood inspecting him. A long thin neck supported a grizzled head with a nose like a bird’s beak. The look in the man’s sharp gray eyes was perfectly predatory, matching the slight curl of his thin lip. Gnarled fingers grabbed Claude’s chin -his invisible chin- from his companions, tilting it back and forth with surprising strength.
Claude snarled, the improbability of the entire situation combining with fear and panic. “How... you...see?” he choked out in wretched Italian through the stranglehold he’d been locked in.
The servant ignored his question, instead nodding to the men. The pressure increased upon Claude’s throat, causing the world to tilt and then disappear as black devoured it from the edges. “You shouldn’t have come here, ratto,” the grizzled man hissed through yellowing teeth. As he fell down into the black, he thought he felt a sharp finger stroking his cheek, whispering something he couldn’t quite understand. Claude’s last thoughts revolved around the terrible role irony played in his life.
~
Soft sunlight spilled across gentle pillows, streaming into Pietro’s heavy eyes. The young Prince yawned as he stretched in his bed, all thoughts and fears momentarily banished by the last vestiges of sleep and the golden rays which bathed his face. He let leaden lids fall down once more as he drifted in the remaining peace from the dream from which he’d awoken. There had been a woman who glowed with a shining, holy light. She’d taken him in her arms, comforting him, giving him strength. Whispered words of faith and courage flowed through his still sleeping mind as he remembered.
When he finally let his eyes open once more, the Virgin’s name was upon his lips and a profound sense of peace infused him. Somehow he knew that he’d been told a very special, very important secret. While he could not remember it at that moment, he knew that when the time came it would come back to him. There was a certainty in his sleeping body that he’d never felt before, and a great sense of love. All in all, not a terrible way to wake after days filled with worry and kidnappings. Pietro turned over to settle more comfortably on his other side.
“Natanaele!” he exclaimed nervously, for his brother was sitting on the side of his bed, watching him sleep. Questions raced through Pietro’s mind as he unconciously pulled up his quilted coverings. Then he realized that his brother’s face was cold, angry, a look that both frightened and relieved him.
“You went out yesterday, Pietro,” Natanaele said, his voice grave. The shadow of a beard grazed his cheeks, staining his square jaw harshly. Pietro took in his brother’s rumpled red cioppa, his bare head, the way he clenched his hands in his lap, and decided that Natanaele must not have seen a bed that night. Guilt warmed it’s wriggling way up from the center of Pietro’s chest to join fear and relief, banishing the last traces of peace in the young Italian’s body.
“I’m sorry, Natanaele,” Pietro said, the words tumbling out of his mouth, “but I...I had to. I went in disguise, no one could know it was me, and I said nothing of our family, not even when...when...” he trailed off, sitting up and playing with the long, pale ends of his linen night shirt.
“When what, Pietro?” Natanaele’s voice was quiet, but Pietro felt the unspoken command. It was unnecesary, for he had never been able to hide anything from his older brother. The story fell from his lips like an avalanche. First a few details, some muttered apologies, but gradually gaining steam until Natanaele heard everything: his visiting the now-forbidden slums, the attack, the subsequent interrogation. Here, however, Pietro slowed, unable to look at his brother. Fear was naked on his face as he somehow found the courage to speak once more.
“And...and....oh, Natanaele, something strange is happening to me.” Pietro gripped his brother’s arm, staring him in the face with eyes that begged for help, comfort, anything. Natanaele simply waited. “I...when I was with him...he...I...oh, Madre. Natanaele, I think I can turn invisible!” The last words were whispered, secrets voiced only for Natanaele’s ears. Pietro frantically searched his brother’s face for a reaction. Natanaele, however, did not seem surprised. If anything it was resignation that wrote itself upon the older man’s visage. Pietro, confused, tightened his grip on his brother’s arm.
“Say something!” he demanded with desperation. “Please, Natanaele, I’m not crazy, I’m not, I just-”
“Shhhh, Pietro,” murmured Natanaele, pulling his brother close in a tight hug. There was no resistance as the Pietro gave in, clinging to the older man’s shirt like a child. “Tutto è bene. I will take care of it.” Pietro let himself be comforted for a moment more, his dark hair tangled about his face. Then he pulled away, confusion still covering him like a shroud.
“But, fratello, are you not surprised? This is no normal thing. How can-” Natanaele’s firm hand upon his shoulder quieted the young Italian. Natanaele just shook his head.
“You must trust me, Pietro.” Pietro nodded. His brother had sheltered him, kept him safe, his entire life. If he asked for trust then Pietro would give it to him. The young Prince smiled. His brother was here now. Everything would be okay.
A slight frown suddenly grew on the boy’s face as he looked at Natanaele. Unfortunately, while Pietro’s trust was easily won his curiosity was not quite so satiable. “Why are you home so early? Was there a problem at the guild?”
Natanaele simply shook his head. “No, nothing was wrong. Wool is still very profitable, and our holdings are secure. I came home because I received some unhappy news.” Pietro stared, waiting for more. Natanaele sighed. “There may be some troubles in Florence soon. It is perfectly safe, of course, but I would feel more comfortable if we were not in the city itself when they arrive.”
“Is it the Inquisition? They have no power over us,” the naive Prince said, confusion lining his brow. “They are terrible, true, but they never bother the Princes. Why-”
“Pietro,” Natanaele cut in, his voice firm as steel, “do not question me.” Pietro grew silent, the hurt written large on his face. He recognized the tone his brother used, however, and it allowed for no arguments. In lieu of words he settled with a nod. “Good. I am sending Clara away to a convent in Pisa. The nuns there will take good care of her.” Pietro, thinking of his niece’s somewhat independent spirit and willing young mind, was mildly apprehensive. She would not take well to being thrust into a secluded convent for the summer. “We will go with the rest of the household to our villa in the hills.”
Pietro nodded once more, showing his understanding. The sudden move would appear only slightly strange to outsiders, for the household always moved to the countryside for the long, disease bearing summer months. It was weeks too early, however, and Pietro wondered privately what trouble was coming that would force his brother into such a potentially weakened position.
“I will see you after you have dressed and eaten, Pietro,” his brother finished. “You are not to tell anyone what you have discovered, what happened to you. Not even Clara.” This was hardly a surprise, though it would pain him to keep such a secret from his niece. He saw the logic, though, and did not protest as his brother leaned forward to say his goodbyes.
Natanaele came in close, one hand going to Pietro’s neck as he placed a gentle kiss on each cheek. He lingered slightly on the second one, just long enough that Pietro noticed it as out of the ordinary but too short to truly mean anything. After all, his brother had made a very long journey twice in one day. He must be tired. The older man righted himself and made his way to the door, pausing to turn back to the figure on the bed. Pietro’s nerves suddenly returned at the cold and proprietary glance in which he was frozen, reminding him that he wore only a nightshirt beneath his fine linens. Then Natanaele blinked and the moment of unease passed.
“Do not disobey me again, Pietro.” With those threatening words he left, the lingering hints of his presence warding off the sunshine that had only minutes ago filled Pietro’s room with serenity.
TRIVIA: Pajamas as we know them today (a shirt and pants combination) were not introduced to the Western world until the 1800's. They came about as a result of British colonization in Southeast Asia. Before that people basically wore sleeping shirts or slept nekkid (unless you lived in Asia, where you slept in loose fitting pants!).
Title: The Inherent Dangers of Pity and Love: A Plaude fic of 15th century Italy (Entry 4)
Pairing: Peter/Claude
Rating: R (for implied)
Warnings/Spoilers: Hints of sexual abuse.
Summary: By the time the 1400's rolled about, Italy existed primarily as five major city states, one of them being Florence. This is a story about a Prince of that esteemed and powerful city, Pietro Petrelli, Claude Raines, a beggar on the run from powerful enemies, and the ever-impressive Catholic Inquisition.
Installment IV: A new, conniving character steps into play, Peter returns home to a few surprises, and Claude finds one or two of his own.
Notes: I'm still not super happy with the last scene of this installment. It just...bothers me. But after two days of writing and re-writing the damned thing, I think it's as good as it's gonna get. Poozles.
LINKS: Installment I, Installment II, Installment III
~~~~~
The Inherent Dangers of Pity and Love:
A Plaude fic of 15th century Italy
Installment IV
The outer wall of his home had never seemed so inviting to Pietro, or so threatening. All the way back he’d struggled to keep his on his feet. Those noises of everyday life, which had once given him so much joy, had faded to a deep thud that took up most of his attention, leaving little room for understandable thoughts. Now, however, with life looming large and foreboding before him, the pain didn’t seem so bad.
“Guardare! There he is!” Pietro looked up, thankful that night had fallen in the course of his long walk and the excruciating light of the sun no longer filled the streets. A guardsman-Paolo, he thought- was pointing at him excitedly and calling to others from behind the high, sand-colored wall. Pietro leaned his aching body against the stone, his mind frozen, too tired for conscious thought. To him it seemed like hours passed before strong, familiar hands gripped him by the shoulders. Two of the family’s guardsmen lifted him between them, brought him through the gated arch into his starlit courtyard. In moments running footsteps started at the edge of his hearing, and then his niece was beside him, helping him to stand.
“Pietro, what happened?” she asked, her beautiful young face twisted with worry as she gazed up at him. Pietro pushed himself away, muttering something about hitting his head. He was not yet ready to tell what had truly happened to him, what he could do.
“It’s not that bad, Clara. Sinceramente.” She raised one soft eyebrow in disbelief. Pietro held up his hands, surprised to realize that he was telling the truth. Suddenly he felt much better, the pain in his head receding until it was no longer noticeable. Even the aches and pains from the poor treatment at the end of a stick were fading. He stood straighter and laid a reassuring hand upon her shoulder. “I, ah, must have felt the heat a little too much.” The lie was bitter upon his tongue, but he managed to force it out. There was no way he would let his little niece, his sweet Clara, worry over him. Seeing her reluctant nod he turned and dismissed the guards who had hovered near him since his return. One servant, however, didn’t go away but instead approached the pair.
“Pietro, are you sure that everything is bene? You are not injured?” The old man’s devotion brought a slight smile to Pietro despite his inner turmoil. Agostino had served the Petrelli’s since Pietro could remember, and it showed both in his familiarity with the Prince and the slightly finer clothing he wore. His long pleated robe was finely woven and dyed the Petrelli family’s signature dark maroon, and his thin belt and matching hose, while plain, were both made equally well.
Agostino nodded his head slightly as Pietro nodded ‘yes,’ his graying hair hidden beneath a round red cap. “We worried for you today, when your bed was found empty and no one could say where you had gone.” The old man’s voice bore a slight scolding, which Pietro accepted with grace.
“Yes, Agostino, I apologize for the trouble I’ve been. Perdonami, per favore.” The young Italian was sincere in his apology, his eyes troubled and beaming honesty like starlight. It satisfied his old family retainer, who bowed in return and turned to enter the house through one of their many columned archways. Clara, however, was another matter.
“Mio Dio, Pietro!” She frowned, her voice petulant with mixed worry and relief. “What were you thinking? Why did you not tell me you were going to work beneficenza today?” Her soft brown eyes were hurt as she stared at him. Pietro could not answer her.
In truth, his actions had been foolhardy, he recognized that. But the need to go had been so overwhelming...Guilt warred with confusion and fear in his mind, bringing back the headache that had been banished so suddenly just moments before. Clara saw his face grow gray and sighed.
“Fine. You will have to explain some other time. Right now we must get you into bed.” Pietro, grateful for the pardon, did not argue with her. Instead he focused on not thinking about what had happened that day, afraid his thoughts, as always, would show upon his face. The night grew darker as the pair wandered into their home, Pietro leaning slightly upon Clara’s shoulder and forcing himself to focus on his renewed pain.
~
It was all Claude could do to keep from cursing out loud when he followed the young fool home. The last thing he’d wanted was to follow the boy -Pietro, he reminded himself- after their useless meeting. Too many emotions spilled out of those eyes to make Claude comfortable. Still, he wanted to know where Pietro lived. Information could keep a man alive, had kept Claude alive when he’d run from his home in miserable England (but it had been his misery, damn it) and the octopus arms of those who hunted him. Information had brought him here, to Florence, had put him on the trail of the one he hunted in return. The lesson, and the pain, had been well remembered, and now Claude never passed up an opportunity to learn more.
So Claude followed Pietro through the winding streets, ignoring the pang of conscious that twitched deep inside him when he saw just how badly the lad was hurt. It had been necessary, and the brat would recover.
He shoved such thoughts aside, focusing instead on his increasingly opulent surroundings. The young Italian had led him out of the slums and they were now in the richer areas of Florence, where power hid its secrets. Massive Greco-roman columns glowed blue in the coming night. Cyprus trees lined clean avenues and brightly colored vines curled around high walls and columns alike. Yet still Pietro did not stop, or at least not for long.
He continued deeper and deeper, finally coming to rest on the outside of the innermost circle of families. It was not the largest estate, but it was close. Walls ten feet tall hid the inner courtyard from the filthy site of outsiders, though Claude could see from the beautifully tiled rooftops and well dressed guards, their strength obvious even in the fresh dark, that Pietro’s family was powerful indeed. He swore under his breath, finally letting loose the whispered curses that had been building up inside him. A Prince of Florence! What a fool he had been not to have seen it!
Claude fell silent again, leaning against the wall as guards rushed out and helped the young man in. He needed to think. Obviously he couldn’t go back to the slums. It was too easy to find him , with his blue eyes and blatant trouble with the Italian language. Even without these shortcomings he was noticeable there, for foreigners were rare in the slums. In Florence a stranger was either a powerful merchant or dead. No, he’d have to go somewhere else, remain invisible for a while. But he couldn’t leave, not yet. Not until...
Pietro had been gone for a handsbreadth of time when a stone bounced across the road just within Claude’s range of hearing, interrupting his train of thought. He straightened, straining his eyes to identify the source of the stone’s movement. Tense muscles relaxed when he saw that it was just a couple of men, one dressed in a loosely belted robe, the others in more common garb. Probably servants on their way to one of the tavernas that dotted the lower areas of the city. Claude squinted in the dark, trying to take a closer look. The guardsmen who had helped Pietro into his home flashed across his mind suddenly, and Claude realized that the servant was wearing the dark red colors of the Petrelli family. Certainly it was something that he ought to investigate further, and so, secure in his invisibility, Claude approached the trio.
“-the fool didn’t even tell us! Signore Petrelli will be very upset,” the servant was saying to the other two. They nodded gravely, their expressions almost tense. It occurred to Claude that Pietro’s brother must be formidable indeed to make such surly men balk so. He paused by a wall, waiting for them to draw closer and pass him by. Their talk turned to more mundane things, and Claude’s interest wavered as he privately scoffed at their conversation. He had no interest in the contents of linen closets or the latest local gossip. As they drew even with him he settled more comfortably against the stone that, despite the dark of freshly fallen night, was still warm from the day. Suddenly the bulkiest of the three dropped to the ground, muttering and probing fat fingers into his sensible shoes.
“Dannato stone,” he muttered to his companions as they paused right in front of Claude. The invisible man found his annoyance growing, for they had stopped in such a way that he couldn’t slip past them. Now he was stuck until the fool fixed his accursed shoe. He had to resist the growl of impatience that was growing in his throat, made worse by the other two simpletons who had focused all their attention on the idiot at their feet. If glares could spur on action, then the three nitwits before Claude would already be far away from him.
“Hurry, Giovanni,” the well dressed servant muttered, his agitated voice perfectly matching tense body language and a tapping foot. “It is growing harder to see the road before our noses.” The man on the ground paused. “Are you ready?” Claude sighed a silent breath of relief as the man nodded curtly. His relief was, unfortunately, short lived.
Abruptly the servant whipped his head about and locked eyes with him. Claude had time to mutter a surprised oath at the man’s impossible act -he sees, he sees me!- before the two strongmen were upon him. He fought back, throwing elbows, fists, and knees into the fray in a practiced method. A few good hits landed on their exposed throats and faces, too, despite the pounding of meaty knuckles and the trunk-like arm that had somehow slipped itself around his throat, cutting off his air supply. In that moment he was thankful for every bar fight he’d ever gotten himself into, for they gave him a repertoire of both clean and dirty tricks to throw against his attackers. Unfortunately for him it was no use. The other two had the advantage of surprise, strength, and general bulk. Within a few frantic minutes they had his arms pinned to his sides and his body shoved between theirs.
Claude continued to struggle, to no avail. He was caught, despite the fact that he was still invisible. Somehow they forced his head back, finding his bearded chin by touch, not sight, manhandling him until they had a firm grip. In such a position he was compelled to look at the red robed man who stood inspecting him. A long thin neck supported a grizzled head with a nose like a bird’s beak. The look in the man’s sharp gray eyes was perfectly predatory, matching the slight curl of his thin lip. Gnarled fingers grabbed Claude’s chin -his invisible chin- from his companions, tilting it back and forth with surprising strength.
Claude snarled, the improbability of the entire situation combining with fear and panic. “How... you...see?” he choked out in wretched Italian through the stranglehold he’d been locked in.
The servant ignored his question, instead nodding to the men. The pressure increased upon Claude’s throat, causing the world to tilt and then disappear as black devoured it from the edges. “You shouldn’t have come here, ratto,” the grizzled man hissed through yellowing teeth. As he fell down into the black, he thought he felt a sharp finger stroking his cheek, whispering something he couldn’t quite understand. Claude’s last thoughts revolved around the terrible role irony played in his life.
~
Soft sunlight spilled across gentle pillows, streaming into Pietro’s heavy eyes. The young Prince yawned as he stretched in his bed, all thoughts and fears momentarily banished by the last vestiges of sleep and the golden rays which bathed his face. He let leaden lids fall down once more as he drifted in the remaining peace from the dream from which he’d awoken. There had been a woman who glowed with a shining, holy light. She’d taken him in her arms, comforting him, giving him strength. Whispered words of faith and courage flowed through his still sleeping mind as he remembered.
When he finally let his eyes open once more, the Virgin’s name was upon his lips and a profound sense of peace infused him. Somehow he knew that he’d been told a very special, very important secret. While he could not remember it at that moment, he knew that when the time came it would come back to him. There was a certainty in his sleeping body that he’d never felt before, and a great sense of love. All in all, not a terrible way to wake after days filled with worry and kidnappings. Pietro turned over to settle more comfortably on his other side.
“Natanaele!” he exclaimed nervously, for his brother was sitting on the side of his bed, watching him sleep. Questions raced through Pietro’s mind as he unconciously pulled up his quilted coverings. Then he realized that his brother’s face was cold, angry, a look that both frightened and relieved him.
“You went out yesterday, Pietro,” Natanaele said, his voice grave. The shadow of a beard grazed his cheeks, staining his square jaw harshly. Pietro took in his brother’s rumpled red cioppa, his bare head, the way he clenched his hands in his lap, and decided that Natanaele must not have seen a bed that night. Guilt warmed it’s wriggling way up from the center of Pietro’s chest to join fear and relief, banishing the last traces of peace in the young Italian’s body.
“I’m sorry, Natanaele,” Pietro said, the words tumbling out of his mouth, “but I...I had to. I went in disguise, no one could know it was me, and I said nothing of our family, not even when...when...” he trailed off, sitting up and playing with the long, pale ends of his linen night shirt.
“When what, Pietro?” Natanaele’s voice was quiet, but Pietro felt the unspoken command. It was unnecesary, for he had never been able to hide anything from his older brother. The story fell from his lips like an avalanche. First a few details, some muttered apologies, but gradually gaining steam until Natanaele heard everything: his visiting the now-forbidden slums, the attack, the subsequent interrogation. Here, however, Pietro slowed, unable to look at his brother. Fear was naked on his face as he somehow found the courage to speak once more.
“And...and....oh, Natanaele, something strange is happening to me.” Pietro gripped his brother’s arm, staring him in the face with eyes that begged for help, comfort, anything. Natanaele simply waited. “I...when I was with him...he...I...oh, Madre. Natanaele, I think I can turn invisible!” The last words were whispered, secrets voiced only for Natanaele’s ears. Pietro frantically searched his brother’s face for a reaction. Natanaele, however, did not seem surprised. If anything it was resignation that wrote itself upon the older man’s visage. Pietro, confused, tightened his grip on his brother’s arm.
“Say something!” he demanded with desperation. “Please, Natanaele, I’m not crazy, I’m not, I just-”
“Shhhh, Pietro,” murmured Natanaele, pulling his brother close in a tight hug. There was no resistance as the Pietro gave in, clinging to the older man’s shirt like a child. “Tutto è bene. I will take care of it.” Pietro let himself be comforted for a moment more, his dark hair tangled about his face. Then he pulled away, confusion still covering him like a shroud.
“But, fratello, are you not surprised? This is no normal thing. How can-” Natanaele’s firm hand upon his shoulder quieted the young Italian. Natanaele just shook his head.
“You must trust me, Pietro.” Pietro nodded. His brother had sheltered him, kept him safe, his entire life. If he asked for trust then Pietro would give it to him. The young Prince smiled. His brother was here now. Everything would be okay.
A slight frown suddenly grew on the boy’s face as he looked at Natanaele. Unfortunately, while Pietro’s trust was easily won his curiosity was not quite so satiable. “Why are you home so early? Was there a problem at the guild?”
Natanaele simply shook his head. “No, nothing was wrong. Wool is still very profitable, and our holdings are secure. I came home because I received some unhappy news.” Pietro stared, waiting for more. Natanaele sighed. “There may be some troubles in Florence soon. It is perfectly safe, of course, but I would feel more comfortable if we were not in the city itself when they arrive.”
“Is it the Inquisition? They have no power over us,” the naive Prince said, confusion lining his brow. “They are terrible, true, but they never bother the Princes. Why-”
“Pietro,” Natanaele cut in, his voice firm as steel, “do not question me.” Pietro grew silent, the hurt written large on his face. He recognized the tone his brother used, however, and it allowed for no arguments. In lieu of words he settled with a nod. “Good. I am sending Clara away to a convent in Pisa. The nuns there will take good care of her.” Pietro, thinking of his niece’s somewhat independent spirit and willing young mind, was mildly apprehensive. She would not take well to being thrust into a secluded convent for the summer. “We will go with the rest of the household to our villa in the hills.”
Pietro nodded once more, showing his understanding. The sudden move would appear only slightly strange to outsiders, for the household always moved to the countryside for the long, disease bearing summer months. It was weeks too early, however, and Pietro wondered privately what trouble was coming that would force his brother into such a potentially weakened position.
“I will see you after you have dressed and eaten, Pietro,” his brother finished. “You are not to tell anyone what you have discovered, what happened to you. Not even Clara.” This was hardly a surprise, though it would pain him to keep such a secret from his niece. He saw the logic, though, and did not protest as his brother leaned forward to say his goodbyes.
Natanaele came in close, one hand going to Pietro’s neck as he placed a gentle kiss on each cheek. He lingered slightly on the second one, just long enough that Pietro noticed it as out of the ordinary but too short to truly mean anything. After all, his brother had made a very long journey twice in one day. He must be tired. The older man righted himself and made his way to the door, pausing to turn back to the figure on the bed. Pietro’s nerves suddenly returned at the cold and proprietary glance in which he was frozen, reminding him that he wore only a nightshirt beneath his fine linens. Then Natanaele blinked and the moment of unease passed.
“Do not disobey me again, Pietro.” With those threatening words he left, the lingering hints of his presence warding off the sunshine that had only minutes ago filled Pietro’s room with serenity.
TRIVIA: Pajamas as we know them today (a shirt and pants combination) were not introduced to the Western world until the 1800's. They came about as a result of British colonization in Southeast Asia. Before that people basically wore sleeping shirts or slept nekkid (unless you lived in Asia, where you slept in loose fitting pants!).