Chapter Text
He stands before me, formidable and strong. His visage is pale, his hair glistening gold. A cloak is draped about his well-chiselled shoulders, vermilion like the blood that oozes down my thighs. His eyes, serene and cerulean like a bottomless ocean, pierce through my wretched, battered form with poise, compassion and benevolence previously unknown to me.
I think of Christ salvaging Mary Magdalene. How pitiably fitting. She was a whore just like I am. She was spat on, belittled and debased. She deemed herself undeserving of his extended hand, urging her to rise from the withered soil.
Just as I perceive myself undeserving of his grace. I do not belong to the light. That is what I utter to myself. Why is he bestowing upon me his solicitude? I am filthy. I am bruised and soiled. I am an abomination that carries marks of other men imprinted on my flesh. My lips are swollen from use. My nether parts ache, over-exhausted. My throat burns where they forced me to drink their pleasure. My gaze is teary, liquid, unfocused. My lithe legs quiver in spasms. My cleft, the very shameful, dishonourable part of me that ought to remain inviolate and never be touched, burns like hot iron cauterising my skin.
I am a picture of sin. It is abhorrent. And yet his gaze on me is forgiving. When I do not take his hand, he comes to kneel beside me. The simplicity of it astounds me. I cast a wary glance at his beautiful, sleek cloak. There is no need for such exquisite material to be ruined just because of me. I almost want to say something. I want to implore him to get up and leave me. But words fail me and I only give a sob.
He reaches to grace my soiled cheek with his benign touch. I tremble at the sensation. ‘My child,’ he whispers to me, and his genteel, warm voice traipses through me like a benediction. ‘What had they done to you?’
The kindness confuses me. I gaze about myself. My garments are torn and ravaged. The cloth denudes my torso. My sin is laid bare. Shame settles over me, sour and bitter. I must be tempting him. I am exposed, like putrid fruit to be plucked. The man’s golden curls blind me like the morning sun. Why has he not ravished me yet? Is that not the desire of all men? A lamb like myself lies bare and helpless. Yet the man does not study the dishonoured regions of my flesh. His tranquil gaze remains fixed on my wounds.
The brothel owner says something to him. I am too dazed to register the words. Only parts assail my head. He is of no use. Savage. Witless. Plenty more agreeable boys in the house. Come, dear sir, let me show you.
But the blond-haired man does not listen. His thumb circles over my cheek. He watches my wounds, the blood bright-red flowing from my chastisement. Anguish overshadows his face. I cannot make sense of it. He appears to pity me, to sense the pain I endure. Since when does anyone pity me? The sympathy that sets light to his composed eyes is so unfamiliar to me that it feels like danger. I only ask myself when his good graces will come to cease. I wonder when I will earn a slap.
That is when he gathers me close. He presses my head to his breast. His hands linger in my hair. I am turned to ice, unable to stir. I do not remember ever being held like this. As though I am of some consequence. As though I am more than a fleeting, worthless crevice.
A distinctive sound reaches me. Coins thrown on the ground. He is purchasing me. I only hide my face in his chest. I hear the brothel owner laugh beside me as he collects the coins. He murmurs that my purchaser is a madman. He warns him that he will regret this folly.
I am terrified. I do not understand. Why procure me? Men who frequent lodgings of pleasure come to satisfy themselves and leave. This house is brimming with soiled angels such as I. My weary eyes look at his splendid clothing. He could partake in every boy under this roof and still drown in gold. Why make a purchase of me?
I am being lifted. The beautiful man with a visage of Christ, my purchaser and saviour, carries me in his arms.
I give a ragged, pained whimper. My cleft pulses with raw, blazing agony. I think of the men who had me before. I think of how they violently sundered me. I think of the blood that seeped down my legs, right with their pearly release. It burned my skin.
I tense with sudden alarm. This man will act likewise. Why obtain me otherwise? I quiver with a stifled sob. I cannot today. They have pushed me to the brink of my endurance. Tears blur my vision. I will not survive it. The sour taste of semen still befouls my tongue. All I can think of is them forcing their manhoods past my lips. The way I gagged and retched. I cannot bear this torture no more. God, please deliver me. God, do not let it befall me. Let me perish and come to you in Heaven.
My head spins. I lapse into sleep. I am overcome by drowsy quiet.
When I rouse, my eyes register an unfamiliar chamber. I discover that I lie on the bed. I marvel at the unexpected comfort it affords. My palms clutch curiously at the blankets that cover my form. Thick and sleek, velvety beneath my fingers, opulent. My eyes widen as I look around the room. I am resting on a baldachin bed, so immense in size that I appear a mere feather. I behold a wooden desk in the corner. Paintings adorning the walls, rich in colours. I feel ill at ease. I do not deserve such comforts. I am a spent and worn thing, like a coin long in circulation, its lustre faded. My skin is dark, the way no one’s in this land is. I am a worthless whore thrown into a chamber of a prince.
‘You are awake,’ I hear then, and tense.
I expect my limbs to ache. Did he take me as I slept? I stir, trying to assess how I feel. I gaze about myself. He clothed me in new garments. White robe veiling my shame. I am certain that the fabrics that cling to my flesh had cost more than what I had been purchased for. Yet I feel no pain. If anything, there are alleviating balms applied to my wounds. My cleft does not burn. It seems he did not violate me.
I see him approach me. He regards me with a smile. ‘Do not think me like other men,’ he says.
My lips are parched from thirst. I groan quietly. Before I manage to utter my need, he is already beside me, granting me a chalice of water.
I drink with excruciating relief. When I gaze back at him, he appears sad. ‘I would not venture on you without your mind present.’
I get lost in his blue eyes. I study the lines around them. Silent marks of age.
‘I am Marius,’ he continues calmly.
I utter the name to myself with reverence. His humility perplexes me. I glance about the chamber again, taking in its suffocating splendour. He is no ordinary man. Whosoever he may be, his riches speak plainly: he is a lord. I peer at the frescoes adorning the alabaster ceiling. I see curvaceous women and nubile boys. I feel as though I stand within the consecrated walls of a church.
‘I know it is much to take in,’ Marius addresses me, ever poised and tranquil. ‘But you must understand. I heard your affliction. You were broken by hunger, fearsome and without hope. You were sorely wounded. You begged for death. I heard you.’
It confounds me. Was I so delirious from hunger and anguish that I did not realise I wailed out loud? Or did he hear the secrecy of my thoughts?
‘My dear wife died in childbirth,’ Marius tells me quietly, as grief permeates his gentle voice. ‘Pandora. She took our child to heaven with her, and something in me died with them. My heart, I shut away.’
I ache for him instantly. His sorrow is etched into his countenance. I venture, shyly, to touch his hand.
‘I was a hollow shell for years,’ he says solemnly, gazing at me with sudden seriousness. ‘And then I heard you. I saw your despairing face and felt my life return from its wretched grave. You have no idea what fire you have kindled within me.’
I do not understand. I am a godforsaken, filthy whore. His skin is alabaster white, while mine is infernal dark. I deserve to be stoned to death.
He draws near, and I shrink, fearful. Dread courses through me. What is it that he wants to do? I am in a bed. Does he intend to ravage me? I expect pain. I expect him to grasp me by my throat and force my head down. I shiver most profoundly. I await a strike on the cheek. I anxiously foresee my white cloth to be torn to shreds.
But that does not come. His visage only curves in sadness. His hands come to dwell on my face. Fingers draw circles around my teary cheeks. ‘I loved you the moment I saw you,’ he murmurs as he cradles my face. ‘I want to give you everything that I have. Of all my worldly goods, I make no use. I have begotten no heir. I grow old, weary of life. Be my child, little one. Be my son, Amadeo.’
The name he uses is an unfamiliar shiver. I frown, growing in confusion. I realise I do not remember my birth name.
This must be a dream, and I shall wake soon, bereft of hope. Before I realise, I am already sobbing. I exhale a shaky sigh, overwhelmed. He comes to rescue me, encircling my trembling body in a restorative embrace. His right hand caresses my hair in a manner that fools me into believing I am something precious.
‘Let me love you in a way that is you due,’ Marius proclaims. ‘You were destined for me.’
I nod as I whimper, tightening my hands over his back. I understand not what this all portends. I do not know yet that he is the sole lord of Venice, and he has just rendered me his sovereign, rightful heir.
I only know that I love him. I love him with my whole, fractured, soiled heart.