A King`s Commander

CHAPTER
8

A best-silk-stockings evening, Lewrie elated, all tricked out in low-cut shoes and breeches, and his best full dress. Feeling the winds though after getting used to slop trousers or his London-made Hessian boots with the gold braid and tassels. His shoes, it must be admitted, as well as his conscience, were pinching him sore.

Letters come from Caroline, and from Phoebe, in the same post, and held aboard Agamemnon for Jester's return to Vado Bay. Fond, and loving devotion from Caroline, now quite recovered, as gay as larks at being able to ride their acres, again, of how glorious was an English country summer, how desperately she missed him, and would never withhold vital information from him again! A note from Sewallis, replete with paw prints from his dogs, a scrawl from Hugh, and…

And from Phoebe, such desperate longing, tearful phrases, words of love and… devotion, too, dammit! Chatty, newsy, delightful, as if a light touch might cajole him into believing their relationship had never suffered a grounding. Time and distance from her had caused him to forget just how delightfully cheery she really was. Her use of English had grown so skillful that he might have imagined (minus news of children, of course!) that the signatures of wife and mistress were interchangeable, that either missive could have come from the other!

"A welcome and diverting amusement," Nelson had promised them, so he had scrubbed up, shaved, and donned his best for a night ashore in Genoa, as welcome guests of a very influential and powerful member of their Senate, one extremely close to the Doge, himself.

Genoa was indeed more distracting, and impressive, than Naples. And Lewrie had been most impressed by Naples. Every other house was a magnificent palace, he could have sworn, each one richer and grander than the last, in a merchant city that had been rich as far back as Julius Caesar's times, and had hoarded and multiplied its vast seaborne wealth ever since. Surely, he thought-a sailor would find warm welcome in Genoa!

Their host's palace was truly magnificent, if a bit overdone. Gilt, coin-silver, solid gold gewgaws, silk wallpaper, silk hangings, crystal chandeliers ablaze with two hundred or more beeswax candles at a time. Precious… everything in sight was precious, rare, priceless, including the clothes of the guests, their jewels and fripperies. Bare-shouldered ladies, bodices half exposed, the heat of candles and too many bodies gusted the confined night air, fanned overly sweet or musky scents of Hungary Water, gentlemen's cologne, or ladies' perfume over him like a Levanter, along with the dry talc aroma of face powder or hair powder, the tang of rouges and pastes. And admittedly a sour reek of past and present perspiration from those expensive suitings or gowns, and the poor toilette or bathing habits of the rich and noble.

A bit off-putting, certainly; but a flower bed compared to the odors of a warship full of men.

Nelson and his Lt. George Andrews, Cockburn and his Thomas Hardy, Lewrie, and Knolles, along with a gaggle of midshipmen from their respective ships, were led down the receiving line by Mister Francis Drake, their Sovereign's representative to Genoa, a grossly untidy man who appeared most unlike what a king's agent should be. Nelson had wondered if he was even an English gentleman!

"Lovely place," Cockburn commented.

"His town palace," Drake muttered, swiveling about like an ill-tempered bear, as if looking for a place to spit. It was rumored that he chewed. "You should see his real one, up in the hills. Tremendous estates, owns half of the Republic, damn' near. Quite handy place for him to leave the wife and kiddies."

"Really, " Cockburn drawled with a dubious note in his voice.

"Quite small in comparison, this pile," Drake tittered, with a rogueish nudge in Cockburn's ribs. " 'Tis said he's a mistress cached in either wing. Rough life, hey, Captain? Ah, here we go, then."

"Ahum!" Cockburn sniffed in displeasure as he was left astern; as they queued up to be introduced. Drake did the honors in passable Italian with their host, the Genoese Senator, Marcello di Silvano.

"… further allow me to name to your excellency Commander Alan Lewrie, captain of HMS Jester.. . Commander Lewrie, our distinguished host…" Drake simpered like a mastiff after a bone.

"Your servant, sir," Alan offered in his best social purr.

"Signore Comandante, benvenuto," Marcello di Silvano replied in a deep, cultured basso. He was, for a senator of a Republic that gave at least lip service to electing its leaders (though only from the rich or noble) dressed more like a prince. Di Silvano wore a glaring white suit of figured satin with silk cuffs, pocket flaps, and lapel turn-backs of a very regal reddish-purple. Cloth-of-gold satin waistcoat, white silk hose, and solid gold knee buckles on his breeches, solid gold shoe buckles, set with rubies and diamonds! A sash of office crossed from one shoulder to a rosette on his hip in Genoese colors. A gold chain and medallion of office rested on the snowy white breast of his heavily laced shirt. There were some civil or military decorations on coat and sash, as well. Signore di Silvano was a devilishly handsome man in his mid-to-late forties, with a lean, hard, firm-chinned patrician face as genteelly weathered as Lewrie might expect to see on old Roman coins in celebration of a successful general, or a new emperor; as if di Silvano spent time at sea or out hunting, and didn't care a fig for a courtier's more-fashionable, powder-aided pallor. The signore offered his hand, a rough-textured hand, taut and muscular, and as strong as a sailor's. Alan imagined a gilt-wreath corona would suit the man better than the high white periwig he wore. The hand was withdrawn, and sensing that his time was done, Lewrie began to turn to his right…

Merciful God in heaven, he gasped to himself, quite nonplussed; nobody has poonts that big! The ethereal, bewitching beauty next to…!

"Cara mia… Comandante Lewrie, capitano di 'Asch-Emma-Essa'… Jester… simile il motteggiare, hmm?" Senator di Silvano informed her, inclining slightly to her and leering with amusement. "Comandante Lewrie… Signorina Claudia Mastandrea."

"Your servant, signorina.. ." Lewrie said with a deeper incline of his head and bow than his usual wont. So he could peer at those impressive tits directly, instead of ogling her under his lashes.

I've died and gone to heaven, he exulted as she dropped him her curtsy, leaning forward a bit to incline her own head, and…! And to rise from that curtsy to look him directly in the eyes and smile, curl the corner of her mouth up with a veiled, mischievous amusement, as if she knew exactly where his eyes had been. She kept her head inclined to the side, in wry acknowledgment, her entrancing amber-brown eyes twinkling as she looked him over as if taking his measure.

"Uhm, aye…" he stammered, turning to lumber down the line.

"A pleasure to meet you, Commander Lewrie," she murmured in a more than passable English, in a surprisingly husky, seductive voice.

"Pleasure was all mine, ma'am," Alan assured her, fighting for an air of gracious, gentlemanly gravity. And to keep his hands to himself! He broke off, at last, wondering if he'd been slobbering on his shoes, feeling the urge to wipe his chin free of drool, to be introduced to the lesser lights. But could not help glancing back, furtively now and again, just to see… idly curious, no more'n that…

Damme, he gasped again, feeling his innards lurch! She leaned forward a bit, past some shoulders and wigs, looking back at him. A miss-ish sort of minx might have ducked her head, hidden behind lashes or a fan. Nothing brazen about her, but…! He met a hooded smile, a long, approving blink, which was as good as the nod, anytime!

"Dear Lord," he muttered, free of the line at last, desperately in need of drink, and male company, to buck up those tattering vows of his. "Mister Knolles!" he cried in relief, snagging a passing waiter with a tray of fine cut-crystal stems of spumante. "For you, sir?"

"Thankee, Captain, I'm fair parched a'ready." Knolles beamed, as he handed his first officer a glass. "Can't they open some doors, some windows? So bloody hot in here…"

"Must be his mistress, that, uhm…?" Lewrie speculated. "D'ye think? That Claudia Mastandrea? Wonder if she's his East wine or his

o

West wing ride?"

"Rich as he is, the Friday'un, I'd say, sir," Knolles said with an appreciative leer of his own. "Were I that 'John Company' nabob-wealthy, I'd have one for every day of the week, save Sundays. Wonder what his wife's like, if…?"

"I'll lay you odds, Mister Knolles, we'll not discover that!" he snickered back. "Doubt there's even a miniature of her, hereabouts."

Gorgeous bloody creature, though, Lewrie thought; brown-eyed blonde, I'll wager. Those eyebrows were… pale down on her arms… those catheads! He was forced to gulp again, and slosh back most of his champagne. And took another surreptitious look across the room.

Most fashionable ladies he knew used tight corset laces to push themselves anywhere near such bounty, attain such a deep cleavage. Or crammed cotton stockings up underneath. He'd been rooked before, hey? Those few who had been so… blessed] he groaned… fought it, laced or banded themselves flat under a higher bodice so they'd not be taken for strumpets. Or fondled by the bully-bucks in the streets! This'un, though…

He watched Signorina Mastandrea gaily swirl beside her keeper on the way to а wine table. Four or five inches shorter than his five-and-three-quarter feet, he recalled, almost petite, which was why her husky voice had surprised him, coming from such a slip of a girl. Woman, he corrected himself as he snagged another glass of wine. Styles changed, though, and he didn't think a corset could explain her slim back, her narrow waist. Acres of underpinnings and petticoats were passй, as were hip pads and concealing whalebone frames. The way her matching white satin gown clung to her, swished against her limbs… why, she'd be slim as an eel, he speculated! Very slim legs, narrow hips, almost childish bottom…! He'd seen a few like that, those who seemed overblessed by nature in one area, but deprived in the rest of their person. And that was a damned intriguing…

Stop it, damn you, he told himself; take a deep breath, a round turn and two half hitches! Can't keep a vow, with a pistol to my own head! Tup a senator's doxy? Mine host's doxy? Jesus!

"Excuse me, sir, but… do you think there will be dancing later?" Midshipman Hyde asked at his elbow. He turned to give the wiry, ginger-haired lad a peek, but Hyde was casting a shy but ardent look off toward the walls; where stood a slim, light-haired beauty, perhaps no more than fifteen or so, in the tow of a female chaperone, who was gazing back at Hyde with wide-eyed admiration, the coy, covert art of a fan quite forgotten.

"Close your mouth, Mister Hyde…" Lewrie chuckled. "Before a fly pops in. Aye, let's hope there is dancing… for your sake. Just be careful. She more'n like don't speak the King's English. And they take the ravishin' o' their daughters more serious. Or promises, hmm? As in betrothals?"

"God yes, sir!" Hyde replied, blushing furiously. Yes to what, Lewrie hadn't a clue, and expected he'd prefer not to know.

"Well, hold the British end up, Mister Hyde," Lewrie warned. Lewrie expected there would be dancing, later. Large as Signore di Silvano's town palazzo was, he could see no sign of a hall set for dining tables. Almost like a basilica, it was-a round central hall or rotunda, beneath a soaring dome with marble stairs and balconies up at least three stories, with three projecting wings. The longer two, to east and west, lay open to the rotunda, salons each as big as two 1st Rates lying hull to hull. One was lined with chairs around its entire girth, the handsome and intricate inlaid tile floor bare, with all the carpets removed. A chamber orchestra played from the balcony above its entrance. All they had do was turn their chairs to face the salon, to supply music for dancing.

"Sparse damn' place," Lewrie muttered. In spite of all those rich silk hangings, the drapes, the wallpapers and such, it sported more dressed stone than people would be comfortable with back home… niches filled with rare old vases, amphorae and statuary that ran to the Classic, Heroic vein. Like a Roman basilica when they were homes or palaces, or imposing public buildings-before they'd been turned to churches. The matching salon on the other wing did seem to be the public offices, the parlors and libraries, the music room… lined up one after the other with all the massive, impressively tall doorways opened to flaunt and overawe. Marble columns, painted wood columns, arches, and insets… Some few civilians dared tread the carpets down that wing, oohing and ahhing-and careful with their drinks.

The rotunda, though, held the food and drink. Table after table groaning under their host's largesse; there a long table for twenty-four minus chairs, topped by a tapering pile of pastries, surmounted by a statuary group of winged cherubs and doves. Another bore taxidermied wild fowl, suspended on the wing or roosting in the branches of tree boles and short limbs-that was where the goose, duck, partridge, or pheasant meat could be found.

Wine tables, too, each with a fountain plashing colored water-or real wine?-down a series of miniature waterfalls; each in the color of the wine offered. The white wines and spumante tables bore statuary carved from ice, resting against what looked to be snowfields in which spare unopened bottles chilled!

"A bit… gaudy, d'ye think?" Cockburn commented to Nelson as they wandered by, nodding pleasantly to one and all. They'd sampled the victuals already, having visited the pork table, with its gigantic papier-mвchй porker and nursing piglets, the fruit table with its titanic cornucopia, the fish table, the pasta, and made-dish table. Alan goggled in wonder, noticing that Cockburn and Nelson were eating from real gold plates, held gold-and-silver damascened utensils!

"Knows how to impress, I must admit," Nelson whispered back to Cockburn, using his free hand to pull at his nose, and play up a nasal Norfolk twang in ironic commentary.

"Makes King Midas look like a publican at a two-penny ordinary," Lewrie japed. "What fine greasy wooden trenchers you gentlemen hold. Anything particularly good, sir? Or merely showy."

"All quite good," Nelson allowed, still too much in awe. "But do allow me to recommend the vinegared pressed beef. Levant-style, I was told. Particularly spicy and tangy." Cockburn agreed, though he and Nelson both bore a dubious look, as if to say that an Englishman'd never act the fool so, as to lay on such a raree-show. It was heathen… Hindu Grand Moghul… and not quite the hearty country thing.

The aromas, stronger and more alluring than those of the guests around him, drew Lewrie to the tables, where he began to graze, taking a small taste of everything before finding something exceptional that pleased him most. Nod, smile… shrug and chew. Nod, smile, shrug in perplexity… and take a sip of wine. Knowing Latin didn't do him the slightest bit of good when it came to conversing in Italian; one word in twenty, perhaps… just enough to get him in trouble. All he could be was mutely agreeable.

Making the rounds, he crossed Drake's hawse, winced to watch him load his plate to overflowing, then tuck it in quickly, all the while gabbling and gesticulating with both hands in hearty conversation with the Genoese. Lewrie encountered Cockburn and Nelson again, hands free of plates, at last.

"God, what a scruffy fellow," Cockburn muttered. "I find it hard to believe that he isn't some excellent imposter. A bosun's mate who's run, and gulled the Genoese, like Doctor Gulliver in Lilliput."

"Much my opinion, too, at first, sir," Nelson confided to them. "Last year, his repute with these people was odious. Hasn't a shred of respect from even the lowliest Genoese. Yet, sirs… one comes to discover he's a man of more parts than a first impression might allow. I find him… like Sir William Hamilton at Naples… to be a fellow with whom I may do direct business. Some, less direct, do you follow?" he added with a cryptic smirk.

"Oh, God!" Lewrie cried suddenly. "Shrimp, sirs. A whole fresh bowl of 'em. My soul is lost. You will excuse me, sirs?" A cauldron would have been more like it, which took two strong servitors to carry, abrim with peeled and boiled shrimp as big as his thumbs! He made his way to the fish table quickly, trying not to trample civilians to beat them to them.

"Bloody marvelous!" He sighed, once he had a gold plate laden, with a fiery hot sauce in which to dip them. "What is it? How did…"

"A sauce from the Far East, Comandante Lewrie," his host said from across the wide table. Lewrie had been oblivious of everything, and everyone, his whole attention greedily focused on the shrimp. "The Far East, really, sir?"

"They name it kai-t'sap, Comandante," Senator di Silvano told him with another smug expression, as if once more secretly amused with Englishmen in general, and Lewrie's ignorance in particular. "Spices, peppers, vinegar. To which, Italia contributes its humble marinating tomato sauce. I see that you relish it, hmm?"

Damme, the wretch speaks some English, Lewrie thought; huzzah! And his wench is with him, too. Huzzah, again!

"Allow me to compliment you, signore, on the… kai-t'sap, and Italia's improvements on it… and your remarkably skilled fluency." He toadied. "And aye, I do relish it, most wondrously well. Almost as much as good old hot English mustard or Worcester sauce."

"But the Worcester sauce of which you speak, Signore Comandante, is not English," Signore di Silvano chided him. "Scusa, but when Roman legions conquered your island, they brought with them their garum, the salty fish spice. You English sweetened it by adding fruit, but it is still made the Roman way, first, Comandante. You still begin with the boiling and fermenting of the sardines."

We do? Lewrie wondered to himself. Feeling a touch of acid of a sudden. Well, wasn't it said, one didn't ever wish to see sausage, or legislation, made? It didn't signify. He liked Worcester sauce.

"My compliments, as well as my thanks, signore," Lewrie went on, fighting the urge to dart a glance at di Silvano's bewitching mistress, "for your kind invitation, and the bounty… the excellence of the bounty, you put before us."

"Ah, bounty." Senator di Silvano sighed, turning sad. "Thank you for your compliment, Signore Comandante. But I wonder… much as we enjoy ourselves tonight, as well as we fare… what do you call it… the short commons? Si, short commons? Grazie. The poor people of the Riviera. Do you believe they enjoy short commons tonight, signore? What hope do they have of ever eating half as well as they did before, as when you began your embargo?"

Uh oh, Lewrie thought, casting his eyes about for Drake, Nelson, or a senior officer. But they were too far away from where he had been waylaid to aid him, sandwiched in between lash-fluttering ladies three tables or more off. Damn this bastard, Lewrie snarled to himself; he did this o' purpose! Raised his voice, by design, to gather a crowd.

And Claudia Mastandrea was gazing at him, quite coolly, waiting his reply, and how he'd handle himself. Bitch, he accused; in with the smarmy shit, aren't you? Enjoying yerself, hmm?

"Signore di Silvano," he began carefully, "civilians are always the sufferers, in wars. Especially those occupied and enslaved by the plague of locusts we call the French. Do they ever hope to enjoy the fruits of their own harvests… they'd best do something to help beat the bastards. And pray God General de Vins and his Austrians crushes the French soon. So they're no longer saddled by a pack of robbers."

"Yet, what may they do, Signore Lewrie," di Silvano posited in a hand-wringing gesture of seeming concern. "The little people, those paisans.. ." Aye, he'd gathered a crowd of sycophants, Lewrie noted; there certainly by design. "Is their suffering, their starvation the only thing you wish of them? To be supine, and waste away?"

"Perhaps arise, like Cincinnatus called from his plough, sir," Lewrie suggested. "Resist, like… like Robin Hood did against Prince John, in Sherwood Forest."

"I cannot pretend to know English folklore, signore," his host said with a dismissive air, as if it was an Irish tale of fairy circles. "But I do know the fate of the Huguenots of La Rochelle… the fate of the Royalists of Toulon… the armed resistance offered by the Vendee, against French Revolutionary forces. Slaughter. Extermination!" he declared, switching to Italian to share the pith of his argument among the onlookers, who were properly outraged, and horrified.

"Then pray for an Austrian victory to liberate them from 'neath the tyrants' heels, signore," Lewrie rejoined. "Though, 'tis said… God helps those who help themselves. Were Genoa…"

He bit the rest of that off; Genoa would never take up arms, too terrified of failing.

"Ah, the Austrians." Di Silvano sneered. "You are a student of history, Comandante, to reach back to your own past?"

"Somewhat, sir," Lewrie answered. Though his school days had been a trifle spotty.

"Are you versed in Italia's past?" di Silvano queried. "With us, it has always been the Germans. Teutons against Marius… Goths, then Huns, Lombards and Vandals who conquered the Old Empire, made us broken pottery, so many little feuding kingdoms, unable to resist…"

"Oh, much like the Holy Roman Empire in the Germanies, sir?" Lewrie pointed out quickly. "So fragmented and weak?"

Score one for me, he thought happily, seeing di Silvano almost wince and grit his teeth in a too-wide smile.

"Si," the senator allowed grudgingly. "And like our Empire's last decadent days, we must call once more upon our Goths to rescue us. Summon the barely civilized barbarian legions, accede to whatever they demand of us, to save us. But, signore, do not even you deem what it is they do so far a very slow sort of rescue? How long, I ask you…"

"First of all, Your Excellency," Lewrie interrupted, quite full of himself by then, feeling able to hold the British end up. "Our Mister Gibbon writes that Rome was Christian, hardly decadent, when she fell. Your Gothic legions and generals prevailed because no one Roman cared to soil his hands with combat any longer. The Austrians, I am certain, are quite civilized enough these days. Does their campaign against the French go slowly, it is only because a successful campaign takes time to marshal and amass, Signore di Silvano."

There, that was safe enough, without implying criticism of an ally. General de Vins barely made half-a-mile a day, and that, mostly shuffling without actually advancing. Mostly sitting on his hands and decrying how badly he was outnumbered by the Frogs, he'd heard. Alan was quite grateful, though, to espy Mister Drake conferring with Nelson, pointing in the direction of the senator's diatribe and loud questions. Aid was in the offing, he sighed!

"Besides, Your Excellency," Lewrie went on, basking in the intense regard of Signorina Claudia Mastandrea, who was following their wordplay closely. "One must recall that, do you fear a barbarian invasion into Italy again, the most-recent invaders who are sworn to conquer you and annex you to their new Empire of the Common Man, if I may so style it… were originally Franks. A Germanic tribe who came late to the party. And, like scavengers, took what they could. The leavings of those who preceded them. Franks, and Gauls. Julius Caesar's bane, sir.. • Gauls. I should think any Italian, be he Genoese, Savoian, or Tuscan, Piedmontese, or Neapolitan, would prefer the whole of Italy be left alone, free of tyrannical Franks… and Gauls, signore."

Oh, well shot, look at him squirm, Lewrie exulted!

Senator di Silvano had gone as stern and choleric as a hanged spaniel, his tanned complexion suffused. Yet, of a sudden, he got a sly look. Hurry up, damn you, Lewrie urged Drake and Nelson.

"We do, signore Comandante," di Silvano assured him, turning suave once more. "Almost as much as we wish the north of Italia free of Austrians, hmm? Yet, how may we do this? How may the many states in Italy resist? Or cooperate? As you said, so fragmented and weak."

"Well, perhaps what you need do, signore, is to find yourselves another Marius, another Julius Caesar, to beat back your invaders," he breezed off. "Better to stand up and fight, like Horatio at the Bridge… than cringe and wring your hands. Throw your lot in… temporarily?… with the Coalition."

"They were despots. Dictators, signore Comandante," his host reminded him. "Once in power, they became oppressive tyrants."

"Better the temporary dictator, signore, from the old neighborhood," Lewrie said with a grin, "than the eternal conqueror from France."

"Ah ha!" di Silvano barked of a sudden, hands on his hips, and seeming terribly pleased with himself.

Have I stepped in the horse turds, Lewrie thought; again? He's too damn' pleased for my liking. I must have fallen into a trap he's laid, some subtle debater's ruse, or… When he'd sailed to Naples, he'd been presented to King Ferdinand in his fried-fish shop, told him a tale of British derring-do that had bucked him up, gotten Naples and the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies into the Coalition. Well, that'd been arranged sub rosa long before, but he had added the last straw to the camel's load, hadn't he? Perhaps tonight, he could cajole Genoa…?

"I mean… what could a united Italian army not do, were their kings and princes of the same mind, sir?" Lewrie added quickly, with a view to backing off.

"Perhaps, Signore Lewrie… rid ourselves of Germans, at last?" the senator hinted.

"Rid yourselves of a plague of Frogs, first, sir," Lewrie said. "Then, were you of a mind…"

"Even though our days of glory are long gone, signore? You say Cincin-natus at his plough. Yet, our modern-day Cincinnatuses will not leave their fields to defend the soil. They wish to rest." His host almost sneered. "A man of his hands, and of his head. Si, a modern Marius or Caesar is what we need. But where are we to find him?"

"Well, that's pretty much up to you, sir," Lewrie allowed.

"Up to me?" di Silvano replied, turning almost teasing. "Up to me personally, signore?"

"Well, you and your fellow senators, Signore di Silvano." Alan shrugged, reaching for another shrimp on his plate, at long last. With a generous dredge through the kai-t'sap. "I'd expect you'd know your fellow Italians best."

"You surprise me, Signore Lewrie." The senator beamed elatedly. "You really do. I would not think an Englishman…"

"Ah, Your Excellency!" Drake bellowed, finally coming to Alan's rescue through a purposely maddening maze of strollers and wine-bibbers. "Have you and the commander been having a good chat?"

"A most excellent one, Signore Drake," di Silvano assured him with a pleased purr. "Though he gives me no reassurances for the poor people of the Riviera, my fellow Genoese. But that…"

"But that, Marcello," Claudia Mastandrea interjected with a moue of boredom, and a sulky tone, "is best taken up with the good Signore Drake, or his ammiraglio piccolo. Politics, Marcello!" She pouted. "They bore me. And you must argue with Comandante Lewrie… a guest!"

"Our squadron commander, you mean, signorina?" Drake amended.

"Signore Nelson," she said, turning to him with a sly expression. "Si, he is piccolo. A very little ammiraglio."

Lewrie coughed some kai-fsap up his nose as he snorted in appreciation of her wordplay. Piccolo, he thought; have to remember it! Horatio Piccolo, haw haw!

"Scusa, Signore Lewrie," di Silvano offered, reaching across to shake his hand right manly and gentlemanly. "My enthusiasm, my concern… we must speak again. Of Rome and its past glories. Of a new Rome, and its possibilities. Most intriguing."

"I should be delighted, Your Excellency." Lewrie beamed, glad to be free.

"You will allow the Comandante Lewrie to escort me, Marcello?" Signorina Mastandrea cajoled. "He is in need of more wine. As am I."

"But of course, cara mнa, of course," di Silvano said magnanimously. "You will be in the care of a fine English gentleman."

Thankee, Jesus, Alan exulted! No, wait\ Maybe not, there's… well… oh, to hell with it!

He put down his plate, offered the crook of his arm to her once around the table, upon which she could rest her forearm and hand.

"I apologize for Marcello, Signore Comandante," she said, with a delicious tilt of her head in his direction, an intimate, conspiratorial tilt, revealing strands of strawberry-gold blond hair peeking from beneath her high-piled white wig. Huzzah, she is a blonde, he smirked! "He must be seen concerned, you know. He has many estates, now taken by the French, many paisans depending on him as their protector he cannot help, until the French are driven away. But he must show concern for the welfare of all of the people of the Riviera, since none of this was Genoa 's doing. Your embargo, or the French occupation."

"I quite understand, signorina. Though it was a bit touch-and-go there, for a bit." Lewrie decided to shrug off. "I still don't understand why, though, your senator, and his fellows, won't take steps."

"To complain against you is all they can do, Signore Lewrie." She shrugged. "All Marcello can do, for the moment. He is of a mind to resist, he alone of them, but… what may one out of many do?"

"You are from the Riviera yourself, signorina?" Lewrie asked as they got to a spumante fountain.

"Oh pooh, signorel" She pouted again. "Claudia. I allow you."

"Signorina Claudia, thankee," he said with a short bow.

"No, I am not from the Riviera. I am from the north. Bergamo."

"Pardon me, but…" Lewrie snickered. "Wouldn't that make you one of his detestable Germans?"'

"Marcello has forgiven me my blood, long ago, Signore Lewrie," Claudia whispered close to him, leaning toward him as a waiter handed them their glasses of sparkling wine. Husky, breathy… A rare, and costly aroma exuded from her shoulders and bountifully filled bodice, a seductive citron and sandalwood. "He assures me that many clans of the Republic and early Empire were rufios… mixed with the original Celts. Alexander the Great of Macedonia was of the celtoi. So you see, he is so forgiving. Of almost anything I do," she promised him with another husky chuckle, her eyes hooded.

"Er…" Alan croaked, wishing he could bite a knuckle to fight his urges; bite something. "Even when you tell him he's boresome?" he japed, striving for flippancy.

She tossed back her head and laughed a deep-toned guffaw, not a simpering twit's titter or giggle. "You struck a chord, signore. Alan Lewrie? I call you Alan, as you call me Claudia, si? Grazie. A very Roman chord. Come. Walk with me, while we sip our wine."

He offered his arm again and they began a languid stroll toward the far salon wing, against the tide of guests drifting into the salon readied for dancing, circling the rotunda counterclockwise.

"Marcello is of very ancient family, you see?" Claudia imparted, walking so close their hips brushed, sending a shock through him. "Of a patrician, senatorial family since the days of Rome 's first wall. So what is more apt, that he is a senator now? The di Silvanos come from the Silvanii, a prominent Roman clan. Many senators, tribunes, and generals.

Pagans, even after the reign of Constantine. Or so he tells me. You will see how fond Marcello is of Rome 's ancient glories. Statuary, the picture gallery, the armory that holds so many things he has had unearthed, or purchased from others. Perhaps the library, at the far end…?" she cooed, as promisingly as a new bride after the last of the wedding guests had been shooed away.

Dear Christ, I'm trying, he groaned! Some credit in that, hey?

"So he surely must be upset that Italy is fragmented, controlled by Austrians, not what it once was. Or could be," Lewrie temporized. "And he wishes there would come a new Caesar? Himself, perhaps?"

"Ah no, he is not a professional soldier," Claudia pouted quite prettily as they neared the first massy double doors leading from the rotunda to that dimly lit far wing. "But he believes he might be the new Cato. The one who might arouse the passion for a unified Italy… a New Republic… in people's hearts. A liberated Italy, a power to be reckoned with. There is a map, in the library… you must see it. Do you wish to see it, Alan? A map of what might be. Should be."

She had come around a little before him, looking up in his eyes, no longer veiled in her meaning or her carriage.

"Uhm… the dance, signorina," Alan flummoxed. "Isn't it just about to…?"

"Oh, pooh." She breathed in a sultry, silken mutter. "You are more interested in a silly dance or two, than in allowing me to display Mar-cello's most-prized treasures to you?"

He looked down at two of 'em, in a hellish quandary. Firm, and big as bloody pineapples, or coconuts, shifting up and down along with her every deep breath, larboard or starboard as she swayed sideways as if keeping time with her own dance.

Christ on a Cross, he begged; just a little help here! Didn't bring my cundums ashore o' purpose, just in case some mort was just too temptin'… oh my God, look at her…!

The intricately pleated and ruched folds of her already strained bodice wnpleated, as two proud nipples hardened and puckered behind a single layer of cloth-all that stood between him and bliss. Lewrie tore his gaze upward to her face, to a smile that seemed to promise everything, those amber eyes going so wide…

"Perhaps, uhm…" He coughed, unable to look away, mesmerized. ' 'Tis been so long since I've danced, d'ye see… enjoy it, rather, and… two years or more in active commission, and a short refit back home. The wife and I… ah…" Hmm… didn't hurt so much to say…

By God I do have self-control, he exulted! Lookit! I'm turnin' down the bounciest quim ever I did see! See, God… morals?

"We had no chance to dance at Portsmouth. And, with our kiddies along…" he felt emboldened to add. "I would request you save me at least the one turn around the floor, signorina. For a wondrous memory of Genoa, but… perhaps we should enter the salon. And dance?"

"So honorable," she whispered, so softly he had to lean to her to hear. "So decent an English gentleman," Claudia crooned, eyes wet in wonder. She glided a half step to him, her breasts brushing at his shirtfront and waistcoat buttons, her lips open in a half smile, her eyes going even wider and more besotting. Within inches of a first kiss, her lips opening. And Lewrie knew he was a lying hound, after all.

God, just a dab o' backbone, he pleaded, ready to succumb, in spite of his best efforts; I'm a cunt-struck cully, always was, always will be, I'm tryin' t'help meself, so where's yer…?

"Ahem, Commander Lewrie?" A very welcome voice intruded behind him, a very plumby, cultured English voice!

Thankee Jesus, Alan thought, whirling in alarm, and an immense relief. Which turned to wide-eyed amazement, seasoned with just the slightest dash of terror, when he beheld his rescuer.

How the Devil'd he get here? He gawped. And should I be glad or not.

"Allow me to name myself to you, sir." The impossibly tall and skele-tally lean old beak blathered on quickly, stalking up to offer a hand to be shook. Thin hair brushed back severely, above a weathered face that was all angles and hollows in the cheeks, temples, and eyes. Agate-y buzzard's eyes that glinted hard and merciless as gunflints over a long hawk's nose. "Simon Silberberg, sir. Your servant, sir. From Coutts's Bank, in London?" he purred as he shook Alan's quite-nerveless hand.

"Mister… Silberberg, sir," Lewrie continued to gawp, clapping his astonished mouth shut.

"Agent of the bank, sir," Silberberg rattled on. "In Genoa on business, don't ye know… commercial interests… well, when I heard we were both invited to the same ball, Commander Lewrie, I took it 'pon myself to make my acquaintance of you. Hoping we might meet… your solicitor Mister Matthew Mountjoy mentioned you to me, just before I sailed? Wished me to convey his greetings. Do you have a moment, sir? Just the one triflin' moment. Took it 'pon myself, sir, to list ev'ry bank customer in the Mediterranean, make them familiar with me, impart details of new services for serving officers on foreign stations." The lean old fellow in his "ditto" suit of somber black almost whinnied in shy urgency, playing the perfect overeducated, underemployed fool of a tradesman. "Can't hope to rise in Coutts's, sir, 'less…"

"Of course, Mister… Silberberg," Lewrie allowed. "This won't take much time, though, will it? The dancing, d'ye see."

"Of course not, sir. Won't interrupt yer pleasures," Silberberg promised, casting a sidelong, significant glance at Claudia Mastandrea.

"You will excuse me, signorina," Lewrie said to the mort. "Do save me at least the one dance, I pray you. Until later, hmm?"

"The night is young, Signore Lewrie," Claudia huffed, a bit beyond "cooled" from her ardor; downright snippy, in fact. "Perhaps you will accompany me later. Ciao, signore."

"Should I escort you…?" Lewrie offered, but she swept away.

"Up to your old tricks, are we, Lewrie?" Silberberg sniffed in aspersion, his lips suddenly hairline thin and cramped together. And suddenly not half the hand-wringing senior clerk he'd seemed.

"Up to yours, are we… Twigg?" Lewrie scowled back.

"Yes," the spy from the Foreign Office, the cold-blooded manipulator Lewrie had known in the Far East as Zachariah Twigg drawled in a toplofty sneer. "In point of fact… I am."