‘Yes. Yes, I do.’ Cassandra sat up straight, suddenly full of enthusiasm. ‘I want some new clothes, some nice clothes.’
‘Men’s attire or women’s?’ Antonio enquired calmly.
‘Men’s, I suppose,’ she said gloomily. ‘But some fine fabrics, please, Antonio. Silk and linen.’
‘It will be as you wish, by noon tomorrow. Does ma donna require wine and biscuits now?’
‘No, thank you. I don’t want anything to eat, I want to go out.’
‘But, of course, I will bring you a cloak, and perhaps a mask would be wise.’
So, it seemed that guarding her formed no part of Antonio’s duties. Cassandra threw open both shutters and windows and walked out onto the balcony. Below her the previously quiet canal was now busy with gondolas, each bearing a cargo of richly attired men and women out for the night’s entertainment.
Antonio reappeared with a cloak of dull black silk, a half-mask dangling by its strings from his fingers. ‘Shall I order you a gondola?’
‘No, I will walk. There is a map in this guidebook.’
As she swung the cloak around her shoulders, Antonio pointed from the window. ‘Follow this calle here and eventually it will take you to St Mark’s Square.’ He looked at the map she had opened out. ‘You will be quite safe if you avoid these sestieri – in those areas, the low types inhabit. Stay with the crowds and carry only a few coins secreted in your clothing.’
Cassandra put on the domino and the mask, which covered the upper part of her face. Behind it she felt anonymous and irresponsible, no longer Miss Cassandra Weston of Ware, but a citizen of Venice going out to enjoy the evening like any other.
The narrow calle flanking the canal twisted and turned, sometimes widening into the forecourts of palazzi, sometimes into little squares where several paths met. Several times she had to flatten herself against the brickwork or stand in a doorway to let a group pass noisily on their way to the Opera or to one of the many public balls whose music floated across the water.
Finally, more by good luck than by careful attention to her map, Cassandra reached St Mark’s. The entire square was a confusion of people and a babble of languages. Cassandra spied an elderly gentleman rising from a table outside a coffee house and darted quickly to seize the seat.
‘Uno caffe,’ she ordered, pleased with her few words of Italian gleaned from her father’s books.
Languages she could only guess at filled her ears but, as she sipped her coffee, she began to differentiate one from the other.
A group of naval officers, swarthy and dark-haired, must be Greek and she recognised a few words close to the classical form. Two tall men, deep in a business discussion must be Jews judging their long ringlets and fur-trimmed hats, and to her delight a group of turbanned and be-robed Turks strolled across looking arrogantly about them.
There was a multitude of fortune-tellers, minstrels and conjurors, even a man with a dancing bear, all soliciting for money in loud voices and with extravagant gestures. Cassandra pushed the purse containing her money more securely into her inner garments. Pickpockets were the same the world over from Ware market to Venice, and, as she watched, she saw an embroidered handkerchief vanish into a voluminous sleeve without the owner being any the wiser.
As the night became darker the flares and lamps lighting the piazza shone more brilliantly. Cassandra ordered more coffee, then nearly dropped the cup in shock as a courtesan swept into sight, a small black page at her heels. There was no mistaking her trade, for her hair fell loose, dyed an improbable array of colours, plumes topping a silk turban. Heavy earrings brushed her shoulders, but the most shocking thing was her gown, cut so low in the bodice that her breasts were totally exposed, the nipples painted gold.
Respectable people passed her with scarcely a glance, then Cassandra saw others like her, drawn like moths from the darkness into the illumination of the piazza.
With a start, she found someone bending over her, whispering in her ear. Her Italian could not cope with the rapid words, but the tone of invitation was unmistakable in any language. The man’s garlic-laden breath was hot on her face and lacking the words she pushed him roughly away. He fell against another table and wandered off laughing, quite unperturbed by her rejection. In alarm, Cassandra doubted her disguise: even behind the concealing mask had he realised she was a woman?
At that moment a youth strolled past with an older man, the latter openly fondling his shoulder, and she realised that being a boy was no protection here. The next rake who wandered in her direction was met with a scowl so ferocious that he veered away at once, and Cassandra relaxed slightly.
The crowd fell back and a group of men wearing strange silken togas strolled across the square. Her reading of the guidebook told her that these were some of the senators who governed La Serenissima under the Doge.
The clock in the tower struck twelve and Cassandra knew she should retrace her steps and be safely home before Nicholas returned. But her feet were aching now and the darkened lanes beyond the Square were subtly threatening. She would hire a gondola
and glide home in style.
She was hesitating on the water-steps, unsure of how to hail one of the many gondoliers when a man and a woman passed her so close that the silk of the woman’s gown swished against her cloak. Cassandra stepped back, a word of apology on her lips, then froze as she realised the man was Nicholas.
He handed his companion down into the narrow craft and waited until she was settled on the heaped cushions before joining her. Cassandra had ample time to take in the woman’s appearance. She was undoubtedly a courtesan but young and beautiful, her fresh skin subtly tinted, her hair loose on her shoulders, confined only by a twist of silk scarf. Her gown was as outrageous as the others and Cassandra realised she must be wearing tight stays to thrust forward her small, naked breasts. Her nipples had been rouged a deep ruby and a single red stone quivered on a gold chain between them.
As soon as Nicholas joined her she insinuated herself into his arms, long ruby-red fingernails scoring lightly down his thigh. Cassandra watched, mesmerised, until he bent to nuzzle the courtesan’s white throat, then she turned with a small, choking sob and stumbled away into the shadows.
Chapter Fourteen
Cassandra was hardly conscious of the journey back, but some instinct must have guided her footsteps for, at last, she found herself standing under the awning of the wine seller’s booth at the head of the calle leading to their palazzo.
‘Signore?’ The man was proffering a horn beaker brimming with red wine. Unheeding, Cassie took it and drained it in three gulps then made no protest as he filled it again. This time she sipped the wine slowly, her mind full of dark thoughts of how she would like to deposit that courtesan in the deepest, dirtiest canal in Venice – then pitch Nicholas in after her.