I realized how right Gianni prediction might be only when their raft was a dot in the distance. The joyful possibility of saving Roderigo's life had given way to the reality of how cold the water was and how heavy I felt in it. I kicked until my boots came loose, and for a moment I considered shedding my purse of coins, but instead clung to it the same way Lorenzo clutched his book of prayers.
When I finally reached what looked to be a piece of the hull, sides curved up like a large hand holding its passenger out of the waves, I tried to see inside. I tilted the driftwood, pushed myself out of the water, but nothing worked. Whoever this man was, pulling him into the chilly water would do no good, so I took hold of the small vessel and started towards shore.
More than the cold, more than the weight, not knowing who was held in that wooden hand made me itch near to distraction; and the thought of solving the mystery pushed me forward more than any impulse for Christian charity. The wind howled around us and the water rose and fell, but I knew that I would reach the shore, because dying without knowing whom I died to save seemed too cruel a fate for any man, even in this world. But when I reached the shallows safe and sound, fell to my knees, and gasped for breath, I reconsidered. No thought of the great deed I had done would lessen my disappointment if I'd saved the ill-mannered cook or the fat crewmember who'd shoved me to the ground our first day out, just to prove he was the bigger man. No thought of killing with kindness would comfort me. But disappointment would serve my foolishness well if –
An awful choking came from the raft. I lifted the man within and carried him to dry land. Two heavy claps to the back had Roderigo spitting into the sand. His arms shook with the effort of holding himself up, then he went limp.
"Roderigo? Sir?" I slapped his face gently at first, then harder. He didn't stir. His white skin was dusted with salt and felt far too cold, but his pulse still leapt beneath my fingertips. I lifted him in my arms and followed a column of smoke over a hill that led to a nearby tavern. After pushing his raft for hours, his limp body didn't feel heavy at all. I kicked open the door.
The place was full, but the warm, burly men parted to let me through. The tavern-keeper, another warm, burly man with a cold, cold face, was the only one who seemed unimpressed. So I explained the obvious. "This man needs help."
"This ain't a hospital, sailor."
"I'm not asking for you to make it one. I'm asking for a room." I let Roderigo's feet touch the ground and laid my purse on the bar. The tavern-keeper squeezed it slowly, an obscene gesture directed towards a young woman sitting with her lover across the room, next to the fire.
"How much is a bed - two beds - for a week?"
"How much you got?" He was still talking at the poor woman, who looked away in shame.
My voice dropped to a low growl. "How. Much. Is. It?" He blanched and dropped my purse, sputtering the price. "I'll pay you once we're settled."
I picked up the purse and, swooping Roderigo across my arms again, walked down the hall and kicked open the door to which the tavern-keeper had pointed. I lay the boy on the bed nearest the fire and started peeling off his clothes. His rich suit had been soaked and dried cold as ice to his skin. The bedclothes here seemed thick and warm. If I dragged his bed in front of the fire and removed his icy clothing, the young man's body would have no excuse but to grow warm again. I talked to Roderigo the entire time, cursing the tiny frozen ties holding his clothes closed and my numb, useless fingers.
Heavy footfalls and the jangling of keys stopped by our door. Someone knocked. "Heard a commotion here and... excuse ye, but this floor ain't yers ta soak wet. These wood floors cost money, good money," a heavyset woman said, standing in our doorway with hands on her hips. Water pooled at her feet where I'd thrown off my shirt. "I tell ye, sailor, we don't take no men what can't pay nor none what wreck my fine rooms soon's they set foot indoors."
Roderigo coughed then, a deep, painful hacking.
"We don't need no sick man here neither!"
"This man isn't sick, he's half-drowned. I will taking care of him; you don't need to do a thing."
"We ain't no bawdy-house neither, so if ye give me any reason to suspect that ye are up to no Christian practice with this young man, ye'll be out on the street."
I pressed coins into her accusing hand fit for a week's stay. "Good mistress, this man is half dead. We were shipwrecked here, and you must know how cold the water is." One more coin, "That's for something to warm his bed, please."
Perhaps my tone convinced her that I was in earnest, or coins bought her sense of honor. Either way she accepted my money and returned with a leather flask full of hot water.
Wrapped in warm sheets, and wreathed in as much heat and fire as I could gather, Roderigo thawed. His fingers uncurled and pulled the sheets closer. His chest rose and fell in a comforting rhythm. He slept the rest of that day and into the night. I found I could not sleep and instead fetched water to bathe. With Roderigo's bed still in front of the fire, I made do with cold and shivered as I scrubbed salt from my skin.
Something fragile broke in the noisy inn. Perhaps one of the burly men grew too drunk to hold his glass. The sound stirred Roderigo from sleep. In a moment, I was kneeling at the side of his bed, for modesty's sake, if nothing else.
His eyelids fluttered open. "Who are you?" he said, his words little more than a whisper. I had reached out an open hand to the side of his bed, and his fingers slipped into mine.
"My name is Antonio."