17. Much Abused With Tears
At first, autumn brought a welcome relief from the heat that had baked Verona all summer and had inspired young men to near-fatal violence. Benvolio basked in the cooler breezes, letting them run through his hair and dry the sweat on his brow. All too soon, just as the last harvests came in, the rain began. Ordinarily, Benvolio enjoyed rain. He liked to sit and read, and listen to the splatter of drops against the window, or play chess with Romeo. Now Romeo was gone, and when Benvolio grew tired of his book, there was no one nearby to suggest a game.
Briefly, Benvolio considered going to visit Romeo, but then thought better of it. Romeo and Juliet were still in the first flush of their marriage, and Benvolio had a good idea of what they would think to do on a rainy day, and he knew that he would be less than welcome. But there was one in Verona who was always happy to see his face. Benvolio wrapped himself in a heavy cloak and splashed through the streets to the palace. By now, he had become a frequent enough visitor that the guards recognized him by sight, and he greeted them by name as he entered.
A page pointed him down the proper corridor, and he found Mercutio in a study, staring at an open book. He looked up when the door opened, and smiled to see Benvolio.
"Welcome," he said. "I should throw myself at thy feet, for surely thou hast come to rescue me."
Benvolio chuckled. "Had I known thou didst need rescuing, I would have come sooner. What villain threatens Mercutio today?"
"A sage of the ancient world, who rises out of the mists of time to stab me with the barbs of his reason and hoist me upon the petard of his logic," Mercutio moaned dramatically. "His thoughts pull me under, drowning me in a sea of words. He taunts me with theory, and flings my own faults back in my face. I am laid low by a dead man."
"Ah." Benvolio glanced at the book on the desk. "And who is this sage that has slain my friend?"
Mercutio laid a ribbon across his page and closed the book. Benvolio picked it up. On the spine, gold letters picked out the words Plato and Symposium. Benvolio let out a low whistle.
"This is not easy material. My tutor set me to read it several years ago, and I wrestled with it for a long time."
Mercutio's smile faded, and an uncertain expression replaced it. "Dost thou recall aught of what the good philosopher meant?" he asked.
Benvolio sat down beside Mercutio. "It has been a long time since we studied the same books. I would be happy to help thee."
"My uncle has engaged a tutor," Mercutio said. "Valentine has lessons more often than I do. He is clever, and reads his books quickly, and he understands what he reads. It is difficult for me to finish a book, and I do not always remember the arguments contained therein."
"Plato is difficult," Benvolio assured him. "There are scholars who devote their lives to his philosophy. But thou art clever as well, and I know that thou wilt understand this in time."
Mercutio glanced briefly at Benvolio, then turned his head aside and pushed the book away. "Thou dost not need to flatter me, Benvolio. I was clever once as a child, I remember that. But those days are gone, and now my head is duller and more witless than that of an ape, hooting and mocking what he cannot understand."
Benvolio pressed his lips together for a moment. "There art thou mistaken, caro," he said. "Thy wit sparkles brighter than that of anyone I know. Thou art clever enough that thou canst think circles around all of thy friends and all of thy enemies. I know this to be true, for I have seen thee do it many a time." He took a deep breath. "It was an act of wanton cruelty when thy father took thee from school."
Mercutio's head jerked up at the mention of his father. "I had already lost my capacity to learn," he said, in a voice tinged with deep bitterness. "That is what my father told me on that day. He said that the spark of my mind had died a-borning, and it was not worth the gold he paid to the friars for my education."
"Mercutio, thy father was a gold-plated fool!"
The words flew from Benvolio's mouth before he could stop to think about them, and their effect on Mercutio was immediate. For a moment, he stared at Benvolio, a shocked expression on his face. Benvolio was horrified at himself, and opened his mouth to apologize for the insult, but no words came.
"Dost thou speak truly?" Mercutio asked, and Benvolio was amazed to hear hope in that question.
He nodded. "I could not have said it at the time. But thy father was wrong to take thee from school, and he was a fool to think thee witless."
Mercutio bowed his head and began to choke. After a moment, he raised his hands and brushed awkwardly at his face. Benvolio reached out slowly and tilted Mercutio's chin up. Mercutio's eyes had grown liquid, and the tracks of two tears shone in the lamplight. To his utter shock, Benvolio realized that, for the first time that he could remember, Mercutio was weeping.
Mercutio seemed as surprised by his own tears as Benvolio was. He coughed, and tried to swallow his sobs, and brushed savagely at the tears as soon as they fell. Benvolio clasped his fluttering hands. "Do not deny thy tears, caro. Too long hast thou held them back. Let them come."
A shudder ran through Mercutio's body, and he slumped onto the desk, weeping in earnest now. The sight tore at Benvolio's heart, and without thinking, he pulled Mercutio into his arms. Mercutio struggled for a moment, but then laid his head on Benvolio's shoulder. Benvolio caressed his hair and felt hot tears against his neck. "I have thee," he murmured. "Thou art safe in my arms, and none shall harm thee. Weep until thou hast spent all thy tears."
Mercutio's coughs soon turned to deep groans, and he clung to Benvolio blindly as his body shook. Benvolio held him and kissed his hair until Mercutio had choked out his last cry, and his tremors had ceased. Exhausted, Mercutio rested quietly in Benvolio's arms, and tried to mop his face with his hands.
"Dost thou not have thy handkerchief?" Benvolio asked. Mercutio reached into his sleeve and extracted the square of white linen, the favored toy of his childhood, soft with wear, still faintly stained with blood. As gently as he knew how, Benvolio used it to dry Mercutio's tears. "This is how it was meant to be used," he said, earning himself a weak smile.
They sat together in silence for a while, until Mercutio grew restless. Benvolio released him with a kiss.
"The rain has not stopped," Mercutio said, his voice still trembling. "We cannot go out in the courtyard today. Wilt thou stay here? I would ask thy aid in my studies."
Benvolio nodded. "We will read the Symposium together," he said. "In truth, I have forgotten much of what is contained therein, and would gladly read it a second time with thee."
Mercutio set the book on the desk between them, just as it had been when they had studied from the same primer in the Latin school. After a moment's hesitation, Benvolio put his arm around Mercutio, and Mercutio did not flinch or duck away. Encouraged, Benvolio opened the book and skimmed the first few pages.
"I remember now," he said with a smile. "This treats with the nature of love. It is definitely proper that we read it together, for I trust that it will give us much matter for conversation."
So they spent the rest of the afternoon together, pressed close against each other, laughing and talking about Plato's tale of the origins of the sexes. Benvolio had forgotten about that particular passage, but the moment he read it, it struck him with the force of a hammer blow. He had found his other half, and he counted himself blessed for it.
Benvolio had thought that, once Mercutio had accepted a close embrace, it would be easy for him to accept another. But this proved to be a false assumption. For many days following their shared reading of Plato, Mercutio refused to be touched at anything less than arm's length. "Surely thou know'st I will not harm thee," Benvolio said. "I love thee. I love the weight of thee in my arms, to feel thy breath so close to mine." But Mercutio remained wary, and Benvolio had to content himself with holding hands.
He wished that he could ask someone for advice in this matter. But as far as he knew, the only person who was aware that his feelings for Mercutio extended beyond simple friendship was Valentine, and Benvolio doubted that Valentine could offer much useful advice. Benvolio would have to find his own pathway into Mercutio's heart.
His opportunity came with the beginning of winter. Mercutio had engaged him in a friendly bout of swordplay. It had been fine sport, but they lingered for too long in the chilled salon after they had finished. Mercutio grunted as he tried to stretch out the muscles in his shoulder.
"Afore God, I am frozen as stiff as a block of wood," he said.
"That will pay thee back for the blow thou didst strike at the end," Benvolio replied amiably. Mercutio was, and always had been, a better swordsman than Benvolio. "I have had the same problem fencing with Romeo. His hands were most excellently skilled at soothing the pain."
"Oh?" Mercutio glanced at him, intrigued. "How did he manage that?"
"Dost thou mean to say that no one has seen fit to lay hands upon thy back to soothe thee?" Benvolio asked. "Come, we must remedy this situation immediately." He steered Mercutio into a private antechamber.
"Doff thy shirt, and lie on this bench on thy belly," he directed. Mercutio complied, twisting his head around to watch Benvolio's every move. "I will not harm thee," Benvolio assured him. "I will place my hands upon thy back. If I press too hard, tell me, and I will stop."
After a moment, Mercutio nodded, and laid his head on a pillow that Benvolio found for him. Benvolio blew on his hands to warm them, then gently touched Mercutio's back. He and Romeo had often kneaded each other's shoulders, pressing down with all their weight to relieve sore muscles. But he suspected that Mercutio, painfully sensitive to even the slightest touch, would not appreciate that. So he made sure to keep his strokes light, caressing as much as massaging.
Without warning, Mercutio tensed beneath Benvolio's hands. His breath hitched, and he squirmed away. Benvolio removed his hands immediately.
"What is wrong? Have I hurt thee?" he asked.
Mercutio shook his head. "Nay, the sensation is – pleasant, it is more than pleasant, but, please, do not touch me any more." He sat up, then clutched the pillow and drew his knees up until he was huddled against the arm of the bench. Confused and alarmed, Benvolio searched around for his cloak, then draped it over Mercutio's body. Mercutio pulled it around his shoulders, as if it were armor to shield him from the world. For a moment, he looked as though he might weep.
"I am sorry," Benvolio said. "It was not my intent to cause thee pain or fear."
"It was not thy doing," Mercutio said. He took a few deep breaths, and a shudder ran through him. "It was merely – a memory of my father came upon me, of his hands upon my body."
A sick chill washed through Benvolio. "What dost thou mean?" he asked slowly, fearing the answer to his question. "I know that thy father did beat thee – that was never a great secret . . ."
Mercutio pulled Benvolio's cloak tighter around his body. For a while, he looked at Benvolio, and the sharp gaze of his bright blue eyes pierced Benvolio like an arrow. At last, he found his voice. "My father did beat me, thou dost remember correctly. He beat Valentine as well; I could not prevent that. But he also – Benvolio, sweet friend, there is no kind way to say this. I am ruined, defiled, at his hands. He used me, as he used my mother before, to satisfy his baser, animal desires. He poured out his lust upon my body, and made me a toy for his pleasure. Dost thou understand my words?"
Horrified, Benvolio nodded. "How long?" he choked out. "How many times did he commit these vile crimes upon thee?"
"Five years. He began to touch me when I was a boy of nine, and used me at his will until I was fourteen, when my uncle banished him from the city. I have not seen him since, nor have I any desire to do so."
With that, Mercutio bowed his head, and buried his face in his hands. Benvolio leaned back against the wall and let out a great sigh of sorrow and anger. He grieved for Mercutio, and he raged at Giacomo Rinuccini, at the citizens of Verona who had not interfered in five years, and at himself. He had seen Mercutio almost every day for most of their lives. He had seen the bruises on his friend's body and had known that all was not well, but he had never suspected anything of what Mercutio had just revealed to him. A small shred of reason in his mind argued that he had been a child, lacking any ability to put an end to Rinuccini's actions, even if he had recognized them, but he did not listen.
After a moment, Benvolio became aware that Mercutio was watching him closely. "Now art thou angered," Mercutio said softly. "Thou hast seen me for the dreadful, ruined thing I am, and thou wilt despise me and scorn my company. I have thrown away the dearest friend I had."
Benvolio came back to himself with a start. "Despise thee? May Heaven strike me dead if I even thought of that, caro. I have told thee before that I love thee, and nothing thou hast told me today can change that. I am angered, but my anger is at thy father, for what he did to thee."
Mercutio glanced away, but relaxed a little. Benvolio found his shirt and handed it to him, thinking that he might be more comfortable dressed. Mercutio managed a small smile for thanks as he pulled the shirt over his head.
"Who else in Verona knows of thy father's deeds?" Benvolio asked.
"Valentine, of course," Mercutio answered, at once. "He knew almost from the beginning, though my father never used him as he used me. I saw to that, at least. Paris knows, as does a kind fellow called Bartolomeo who is one of the guards, and my uncle's physician knows as well. They were with me on the night my father was banished. And my uncle knows." Now his smile almost resembled itself. "I told thee once that my uncle banished my father because my father had committed a terrible crime. Now thou dost know the nature of that crime."
Benvolio nodded. It seemed that he had been admitted to a most select fellowship, and he was very much aware of the honor. "I am glad to know that the Prince was swift and stern in his judgment," he said, "though, in his place, I would not have been so merciful."
"My father was banished from Verona on a moment's notice," Mercutio said. "Dost thou name that mercy?"
Benvolio nodded. "I do. Had I been Prince of Verona, I would have killed him where he stood, without a second thought."
"I am impressed," Mercutio said. "Thou dost not usually have such a taste for blood."
That was true, Benvolio thought. But then, he also did not usually have such terrible cause.