Chapter 4: Confession

Antonio is huddled up on the floor, wrapped in the blanket Ignazio brought. I planned not how I should inform him of my intentions, and I find myself merely staring, incredulous at the turns life can take—that he should be forced to accept my help by the man he had loved, and I should be forced to provide that help by nothing but a conscience I had been sure was dead.

"He told me."

My nemesis jerks his head up. "What?"

"The doctor told me what happened to you."

Antonio looks away. "I know not what you speak of."

"Yes, you do. Who forced you?"

A spasm goes through his body. "I said—"

"I was not born yesterday. You can stop lying."

"It never happened!"

My blood curdles at his denial, at the idea that he is, deliberately or not, protecting his rapist. "Will you swear, then, that you speak the truth?"

"What right have you to demand truth from me? You are not my judge!"

"Then swear on one who is."

"The doctor's a liar!"

Oh, gratitude is miraculous. "And you are another. Will you swear it?"

"There's nothing to swear! Nothing happened!"

His voice cracks on the last word and he yanks the blanket over his head. I know that urge and it tugs at something in me. The urge to crawl under the covers in the dark and never come out. To play that if you shut your eyes and imagine you are safe, nothing can hurt you.

I hate this man for making me feel again.

When Jessica was young, and I still had time to play with her, she loved to hide around the house and have me seek her out. I learned soon enough that she was far too good at concealing herself for me to find her more than one time out of ten. The trick was simply to sit and wait, pretending to be preoccupied with something else. Eventually, she would get curious as to what I was doing, and emerge. I suppose the same might be true for Antonio. I pull up a stool and sit on it. Let us see if this Christian has more or less patience than a four year old.

Less, by far. Barely five minutes pass before he peers out from under the blanket. He frowns at me. I raise an eyebrow at him and he ducks back under.

Two minutes later, he emerges again. This time he raises his eyebrows. I make a rude hand gesture at him and he glares at me. I feel a ridiculous urge to laugh. If only Ignazio could see us now.

Now he's ignoring me. Even if he did not prefer men, 'tis patently obvious Antonio has no children. No parent of anyone over three is fooled by the I-care-not trick. Then again, I should not be surprised. He never truly passed the two-year old 'tis-mine-if-I-want-it stage.

Well, if we are going to be children…two can play at this game. I catch his eye and make a face at him. He looks away.

"You are no whore, by the way," I say conversationally. "Only an idiot. Though I suppose no more of an idiot than I used to be."

Antonio blinks. "What?"

I shrug. "You seem to believe, as I once did, that if the whole world pretends the horror never happened, eventually, it will truly be gone. 'Tis ludicrous. You forget not, and start believing you are mad because everyone else goes on as they did before."

"Nothing happened." But he does not sound as convinced now.

"If thou wants to ruin thy life, thou art welcome to." I get to my feet. "But there's no point in ruining it on a stone floor. Dr. Levitis said he left some things for thee with Ignazio."

"What are you trying to say?"

"This is my house," I inform him, in case he has forgotten. "I have few guests, but as of now, no one who stays here is allowed to be a blithering fool. And in order to not be a blithering fool, thou art to get off that floor, get the doctor's supplies, put on some clothes that are not covered in blood, and rest while I think about what in heaven or hell I am going to do with thee. Oh, and if there is argument, I shall throw thee into the street. Understand?"

"Ah. Not really."

"Well, neither do I. Congratulations. Canst thou walk?"

"I think so."

"Then get off that floor and come with me."

I intend to take Antonio to a higher level of the house, but I realize when we reach the staircase that he probably cannot get up there by himself. Sighing in annoyance, I wrap an arm around his shoulders and help him up the shallow steps. It feels ridiculously like leading Jessica to her room after she fell and scraped her knees, as children do. Why is my daughter in my thoughts so oft today? I know the answer, though I am loathe to acknowledge it. For the first time since Jessica abandoned me, I have someone to protect.

We reach the top of the stairs without mishap, and I lead Antonio to one of the rooms for guests I thought I would never use. "Rest here."

I thought he'd be relieved to see the chairs and bed, but he looks—afraid. That irritates me. Here I am, trying to treat him with some decency, and he stands there looking frightened? "I told you to rest."

Antonio looks at me with a half-desperate look in his eye. "You won't get me so easily!"

Of all the replies I expected, that was not one of them. "Excuse me?"

"Please—you cannot!" That's genuine panic in his voice. "Not now!"

"Well, ah—I suppose you do not have to sit down." Mayhap I should fetch Ignazio to translate for me. He surely knows the language of the mad.

Antonio cowers against the wall. "You cannot want this, can you? You hate me!"

"Yes, we have established that…want what?"

"I will mess up your sheets, I am covered in blood!"

"Sheets can be washed." I roll my eyes. "Water and soap, you may have heard of them. Why do you care?"

"Because 'tis too soon!"

I blink. "Too soon? I am speaking of sheets." Then it hits me. "You think I am going to…force you. Again."

Antonio's mute misery replies in the affirmative.

I actually take a step back in revulsion. So this is how he sees Jews. Rapacious monsters practicing their lust on injured men. I want to throw something, break a window, punch the wall, and let Antonio feel the full force of my anger and, yes, hurt. What stops me is the realization that I may have had some part in contributing to this idea. I hated him, had not cared to act with humanity towards him, and nor had he felt the need to treat me well. But I never wanted this.

One act. Just one act in one night brought a proud merchant from insisting he deserved favors from all to believing he deserved charity from none. Was this the revenge I had so often wished for? God have mercy on me if it were so.

I take a breath. "Antonio, listen to me. If you are to stay here, there are a few things you must understand. Do you attend?"

"I cannot—I—"

"Close thy mouth and listen! I despise you, and you me. We both know that. But no matter how much we despise each other, no matter how many times you insult me, or no matter how helpless you are, I will never, ever touch you against your will. While you are my guest in my house, you are safe. I will not let you die on the floor, I will not hit you, and I will not rape you. So kindly get that through your thick skull and stop assuming I will hurt you at every turn, because I am weary of being so insulted!"

Antonio is staring at me. "Are you serious?"

"Completely."

"But—how am I to believe you? You tried to kill me once!"

"You cannot be sure. You will just have to trust me."

Antonio gives a strangled laugh. "Trust? You want me to trust someone now? Anyone?"

"You may be afraid," I concur, "but what choice do you have?" It was true. What could he do but trust in my mercy—which was no mercy at all?

Antonio is still crouched warily on the other side of the room, and I am fairly sure he will not lie down until I am gone. "I am going to fetch the doctor's supplies for you. Try to sit down or thou wilt fall and hit thy head, though I suppose that as far as intelligence goes that would hardly make a difference." There, an insult. I feel better now.

Ignazio is in the kitchen, searching for something to eat. Usually I would cook a larger meal around now, but as much as I would love to lose myself in the simple process of creating food, I doubt that Antonio wants any more folk to know how badly he's injured. Which leaves me to look after him, curse it all. "Ignazio, cook something for all of us. And I want that basket Dr. Levitis said he left with thee."

My servant salutes me. "I shall, Master Shylock. The basket is over there."

"Did he say what was contained therein?"

Ignazio nods. "I already took the poppy out. The doctor said to infuse it and it would be good for the pain. There are jars of marigold and yarrow salve in there. Those are for wounds, he told me. None of them needed stitches, but the larger ones should be bandaged. All Signor Antonio can do is rest, verily. Do you think he will be well?"

I rub a hand over my eyes, knowing Ignazio is not asking about the physical pain. "To be completely honest, I know not. But we will do what we can."

"Yes, Master Shylock." Ignazio bobs his head up and down. "I will find something to eat."

I grab the jars from the basket and find some cloth for bandaging in one of my chests. On second thought, I find a shirt and breeches in another before I climb the stairs. Were I Antonio, I would feel better even partially clothed, and what he wears now is merely spreading the blood all around my house.

I enter the room to see Antonio staring blankly at the wall, in exactly the position I left him. Growling with frustration, I take him by the shoulder and push him down onto a stool. "Wilt thou not even do what's good for thee?"

Antonio looks at me dully. "Would not that show an unprecedented amount of sense on my part?"

He's trying to keep up with me, I can tell, but he just has not the strength. I doubt he wants me here, but he cannot do all the bandaging himself. "Take off your shirt."

He nearly flies off the stool. "You said you would not—"

I could really have been more tactful. "I am not going to. But you cannot bandage your own back."

"I need it not."

"And you are an unbiased party to say so. Come, what harm could I do you having seen your back that I could not do you now?"

"I hate you!"

I understand pretty well why a person insults another, as I do it enough myself. 'Tis to regain a sense of his own power. "Yes, I know. But as long as that is plain, would not you rather hate me for putting salve on your back than because I let you alone to get a horrible, dripping, fly-infested infection?" Maybe fly-infested is a bit much, but if it gets the job done, I am not one to complain.

"Fly-infested…" He shudders. "You are such a bastard. Very well, put it on." He jerks his shirt off defiantly and throws it into the corner of the room. If he wants it, he can go pick it up. I am certainly not going to.

Antonio only really has one large cut on his back, and it does not look deep, but 'tis long, and the skin around it is encrusted with blood. I dip a piece of cloth in the water and carefully begin to clean the wound.

The action feels strange. My hands are not used to being gentle. I tend to deal in coin or knives, hard metal that I cannot hurt. This careful, light touch I am using now is new for this man who calls himself Shylock, whom I seem not to know anymore.

"Why should I bother?" Antonio's voice is flat.

"What do you mean?"

"I am broken. No matter how many wounds I bandage, how much I sleep, how long I wait, the pain will not stop. Why should I even try to fix myself?"

"How should I know? I have tried to answer the same question for nearly fifteen years."

OoOoO

My weekly trial is upon me, and it is in a terror of a mood the next morning that I dress myself for church. I shove half the breakfast dishes off the table and order Ignazio to clean them up, kick over some bundles of cloth I sorted, snarl at the sunlight for glowing cheerfully through the windows, and pick out the rustiest, oldest coins I can find for my part in the weekly tithe.

My servant flees for church the moment he decently can, no doubt afraid I would dump a bucket of canal water over his head in my state of general wrath. Antonio is spared the worst of it, being still asleep. I managed the afternoon before to bandage his back without insulting him more than twice, and, with Ignazio's help, got him to eat some food and put on the clean clothes I brought. He still refused the bed, and when I checked in on him later (purely to see if he was vengefully wrecking the room, not because I was concerned) he was sleeping on the floor with a blanket and pillow. He has been there since and may well still be when I return.

Being fairly sure, as I am, that no amount of attention in church will save me from damnation, I spend the service constructing an elaborate story for confession as to how I found a bag of coin in the street, and kept it for myself instead of inquiring as to whose it might be, and how I was not entirely sure if that were stealing or not and I desperately needed the priest's advice, etc, etc. I expect this melodramatic soliloquy is the only pleasure I will get out of my attendance today, but the chance to deliver it is somewhat delayed, as it seems many people have sinned this week and wish to confess.

"Signor Shylock, well met indeed!"

Oh, no. Please not him. Not again.

"I hope you have no plans for this afternoon. As you know, the Duke has given orders that I am to instruct you in the faith."

Why could the Duke not have given orders that I be stretched upon the rack once a month, or some such thing? But no, instead he set Brother Rafaele the utterly hopeless task of instilling in me the tenets of the Christian faith every four weeks. And of all the priests he could choose, he picks the one who simply refuses to hate me, no matter how much I subtly insult both him and his religion. I had forgotten that today was the day I was to go to him.

I am ready to tell the man my head hurts dreadfully and there's no way I can concentrate when I remember the true headache I have at home. Dealing with Brother Rafaele is marginally easier than dealing with Antonio. "I am prepared."

"I am glad to hear you so ready." That's a fine jest. But I follow Brother Rafaele back to his room, and, as usual, wince when I see his crucifix.

Brother Rafaele smiles. "Why do you shrink from the image of Our Lord?"

"Why do you think? He has nails in his hands and feet. It bothers me."

"'Tis good to feel sympathy, but never forget that if mankind had not been led into sin, Christ would never have had to suffer so."

"Not exactly my fault. I cannot be responsible for the ideals of a culture that treats people as hammering targets."

Brother Rafaele sighs. "Why do you always feel the need to prove me wrong?"

"I do not." I do, of course. The only reason I have learned anything about Christianity is so I can correct him every once in a while. "I was merely confirming my knowledge of the faith."

"Signor Shylock, I know your conversion was forced, but is there nothing in the fact of Our Lord being willing to suffer for humanity that moves you?"

"If I were Our Lord, as you say, I would hardly waste my suffering on humans. They seem rather beyond redemption."

"I do not deny there have been those who have behaved in a less than Christian manner towards you." Brother Rafaele flips the pages of his Bible back and forth. 'Tis an odd habit of his I have noted during our visits. "And there are days, indeed, when I despair of any of those under my charge reaching heaven, for in my studies I have come to believe that much more is required than confession, church attendance, and tithes to save one's soul."

Curious despite myself, I lean forward. "What do you believe is required to reach heaven?"

Brother Rafaele shakes himself slightly. "'Tis but a fancy of my own, I defer to my fathers in such matters. Now, if you would please open your Bible to—"

I wave this away. "Forget your fathers, and leave the Bible for now. I am more interested in what you think than in what some moonstruck men living millennia ago wrote in a language I do not understand, in a country I will never see."

"I believe this is the first time I have heard you acknowledge any worth to what I say."

"Perhaps we should call Father Benito. Have him record this as a miracle. You can be a saint. Come, what is it you believe is required to reach heaven?"

"Well, it is said in the Holy Writ that what you do to the least of us all, so also do you do to the Christ. I suppose that what I verily believe is that you must give everyone you meet the same kindness you would give your Lord. 'Tis simple, I grant you, but, as I have found, rarely easy."

That would explain why he tries so hard with me, despite all the rudeness he has endured at my hands. "At least you make the attempt."

"I merely thank the Lord that some of the sheep I am shepherd to only feel the need to confess drunken meanderings."

I dig my fingernails into the palm of my hand. "Some of those drunken meanderings ruined a man's life on Friday last."

Brother Rafaele raises an eyebrow. "Are you subject to torments for your former faith still?"

"'Tis not myself I mean." Why did I say anything? Now I shall have to explain.

"'Tis strong to say a man's life was ruined. Did you see aught that disturbed you?"

"I saw none, but I trust the word of a physician who says he's injured perhaps past cure." I see no reason to go into the true nature of those injuries, nor to mention that 'tis Antonio's sanity I fear for, more than his body. Or that I would fear for, if I cared.

"Is this a friend of yours?"

That's Christian charity for you, or rather Christian stupidity. "I have no friends. I found him in the street."

"Then how was he seen by a physician?"

"I took him into my house. He had nowhere else to go."

"And you called a physician?"

"Yes, I just said that. I offered him a bed too, but the ridiculous wretch insisted on sleeping on the floor."

"And he's no friend of yours?"

"In truth, I dislike him. He has not treated me well."

Brother Rafaele blinks. "And you took him in anyway?"

"I told you, he had nowhere else to go."

"Are you sure you have not been reading your Gospel lately?"

"I always read my—"

"No, Signor Shylock, I know you usually do not. But I wondered if perhaps you had happened to read the story of the Good Samaritan."

"What? No. Is it about a stubborn infidel who refused to convert and was struck down by lightning?"

Brother Rafaele rolls his eyes. "No. But we can read one of those, if you would like."

"I shall decline, thank you. What's the story of the Good...?"

"Samaritan. 'Tis a parable of our Christ, in the Book of St. Luke. The story goes that a lawyer came to Christ, asking what he must do to gain eternal life."

"So you are saying that I am a lawyer and you are Christ?"

"No. In heaven's name, every time I talk—"

"I was just asking."

"—you interrupt me. May I please continue?"

"If you must."

"Or we could read about the infidel struck by lightning."

"No, go on as you were."

"The lawyer comes to Christ, asking what he must do to gain eternal life. But Christ knows the lawyer is aware of what he must do, so he asks him right back: 'What is written in the scriptures?' And the lawyer, being a well-read man, replies as the scriptures say: 'You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and all your soul and all your mind, and love your neighbor as yourself,' and Christ says, 'That is what you must do.' But the lawyer is looking for a loophole, so he says, 'Who is my neighbor?' and Christ tells him this story…"

"What? You mean this is a story about Christ telling someone a story? Is that not a bit roundabout?"

"Infidels. Lightning."

"I apologize. Go on."

"In the parable Christ tells, a man is walking along a road and is set upon by robbers, who beat him and take his money."

I wonder what else they did to him that's not written in the Gospel.

"Two great and holy men of the synagogue passed him in the road, and neither stopped to help him. In fact, they crossed to the other side of the road and refused to even look at him. But then a Samaritan passed by."

"A man from Samaria?"

"Yes. They were considered unclean by the Jews of that time. But in spite of that, it was the Samaritan who cleaned the man's wounds and helped him to a safe place. And after telling the lawyer this story, Christ asked him which he thought was the man's neighbor, and the lawyer—"

I jump up. I am so tired of being insulted that I am almost prepared to take the Duke's penalty for marching out of this church and never returning. "What have I done to deserve this of you?"

"What? Deserve what?"

"I'd rather have heard about the infidel getting struck by lightning than a story that just showed Christ believed Jews were lower than Samaritans—"

"He—how do you—"

"—by showing that even the people they believe unclean are better than Jews, more merciful—what do you Christians know of mercy, anyway?"

Brother Rafaele stares at me, and, to my shock, begins to laugh. "Oh, Signor Shylock, you have missed the whole point."

"I have?"

He nods. "The people Christ was talking to were Jews. The men of the synagogue Christ was speaking of were the ones they respected…"

"And he was showing them they were wrong to respect—"

"Stop interrupting me! What Christ was trying to say was that it did not matter how holy someone was, what mattered was whether they showed the man mercy. You also showed mercy, you did not think of yourself."

I snort. "I think I thought of nothing but myself. At first I just wanted the chance to torment my enemy some more, and then every time I looked at him it was as if I were seeing myself when I was still a Jew."

Brother Rafaele tilts his head from side to side. "That's a curious statement. I always assumed that the Samaritan helped the beaten man in spite of the fact that the Jews had beaten his people down. Perhaps instead he helped because of that."

"What? You mean you do not know everything? I cannot believe it! How shocking!"

Brother Rafaele groans. "Signor Shylock, I do believe you are the most aggravating individual I have the pleasure of knowing."

"Thank you."