Chapter 5 : Conflicting Interests

"I'm tired," said Lovino out loud to nobody in particular.

He was utterly alone in the small stuffy cabin, hemmed in on all sides by wooden walls and a single porthole opening to the light and sea air. But the dim afternoon and the occasional breaths of salty wind weren't enough to support the imprisoned Italian, and had never been. He was amazingly exhausted. Somehow day after day of continuous work wasn't helping his physique or his temper.

That had probably been the pirates' intention from the beginning. What luck.

But the floor was still streaked with the muck every single pirate seemed to bring along with him. Lovino tiredly hefted the mop and resumed his attack on the filth, although he knew it was useless. Sooner or later some other man would come along and ruin his hours of careful cleaning and scrubbing. It was bound to happen, and Lovino was bound to stay there anyway.

Work, sleep, and maybe eat a little—that was what Lovino had learned would sustain (or more accurately, kill) him on this ship.

He fervently wished pirates had mealtimes all day, just so he could stay in the galley doing what he did best: cook and eat. But of course nothing ever went his way. When not cooking, he was expected to be cleaning. When not cleaning, he was expected to be cooking. Rest was unheard-of, until those wee hours of the morn when Lovino was free to stumble about and find an abandoned corner to collapse in.

And that damned pirate captain never said a word about it. Some kind of friend he was turning out to be—but 'friend' was also another concept that pirates found foreign. Lovino was very much aware of his own lowly status here. And it seemed that the more valuable a prisoner was, the harder he would have to work to ensure his compliance. At least that was how Lovino saw it. He saw many things now.

He could also see a framed portrait hanging in the corner by the window. The glass enclosing the picture was dusty, and the entire affair looked as though it hadn't been touched in years—that would have to be amended, thought the Italian as he clambered up on a chair and painstakingly wiped the murkiness away.

She was elegantly painted—so much so as to be almost real. The possibility of life and movement shone from the folds of her dress to her glowing cheeks and bright, knowing emerald eyes.

Those eyes reminded him, almost, of Carriedo.

He sighed and let his cleaning rags fall limp in his hand as he gazed up at the portrait. Why did everything here remind him of some sort of faded glory that could never be regained? It was a melancholy feeling that hit Lovino as he stood there in solemn silence before the picture of the fair lady. The lady who looked too brilliant here, too out of place, surrounded by dank wooden walls and stale sea air and strained sunlight.

She was imprisoned just like him.

The thought gave Lovino a bit of comfort, in that he wasn't alone.

"Signora," he began suddenly, "You've been here a long time, haven't you?"

Sì, he could imagine her saying, of course I have. I've seen a lot of things, you know. It's not peaceful here at all. Just one fight after another.

It was, of course, that voice inside his head, echoing his thoughts. He laughed bitterly with it.

"You're very right about that, mia signora. I don't like it here either. Fuck that—I hate it here. If we hadn't set sail, maybe I'd have jumped out the window and swum back or died trying—would've been better than staying here working my life away." Lovino sighed tiredly. "I don't know what the hell was going on when I let myself get captured like this. Must've been drunk. Actually, I kind of wish I was drunk. Then maybe this would all just be a dream."

A dream, you say...?

He had had a dream. Earlier in the morning, during one of those toss-and-turn sleeps from which some pirate always kicked him awake. But it had been a strange dream, one of those haunting childhood memories he hated so much and tried his best to forget. They always came back though, in some eerie shape or other—and even now they were threatening to flood in again, fighting the battered mental barriers he had set up against them.

A flash of green eyes, green like a forest in the quiet night.

Green like the woman's.

Green like Carriedo's.

And yet, not like Carriedo's. Not like anyone else's. None of it.

Not those eyes, not that smile.

Because he was dead. He wasn't here anymore. There was no way.

Absolutely no way.

He didn't want to remember.

He didn't want to remember.

Quickly Lovino continued on.

"...Y-yeah, I-I mean, maybe the pirate captain is a bit friendlier and better-looking than the rest, but—did I really fucking say he was good-looking. I don't give a damn anymore. Nothing about this place is right, you know? It's just a bunch of lawbreakers, and violent ones at that. They're—they're fucking messed up. Two people died in the last day, two! And—and they still treat it like it's nothing... except him..."

That thought made him pause for just a moment. But Lovino's overwhelming desire soon returned to him.

"I just... want to leave. Don't you?"

He swore that as the ship swayed, he saw the woman's head nod in agreement.

At least someone understood...

The Italian leaned wearily against the wall and looked out at the window. Freedom shone outside in the clear blue waves and the distant land that he knew lay beyond, but it was still out of reach, all of it.

"I just want to go home..." he muttered to himself.

But no one was there to hear or help, except the silent image of the woman hanging on the wall beside him.

Night had fallen over Italy, reminding its inhabitants that they had yet to return home and rest in preparation for a new day. People were obliging, merchants packing up their wares for safety purposes, and other passersby simply making the long trek home.

Two boys raced between the crowds, one highly nervous, the other on the brink of tears.

"You meanie," Romano shouted as they ran along. "You lied! You lied about the time and now they're going to KILL me!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I really am! But I didn't know it was late, really I didn't! I'm sorry—"

"Apology not accepted!"

"Aw, but Roma—"

"No!"

"I swear I'll—"

"No, shut up!"

The Italian boy's voice cracked slightly and Toni stared at him in shock.

"Roma—are you okay?"

Romano sniffled and rubbed his nose and turned away, refusing to answer. But the tears on his face gave him away. And Toni's guilty look only made him feel even worse.

"Roma..."

"Go away."

Toni observed him very solemnly and sadly, then suddenly lifted the small boy in his arms. Romano squawked and flailed and protested, but to no avail.

"Let go of me!"

"No!"

"Are you going to kidnap me—?"

"Of course not!" Toni exclaimed, his eyes becoming huge and aghast. "I'm taking you home, all right? And you can blame me all you want when we talk to your Nonno."

Romano huffed and stayed silent, his own form of affirmation.

They continued on.

"... Uh, so where's your house, Roma?"

The Italian whimpered a little.

"I-I don't remember."

"What?"

"I don't remember!" wailed Romano. "I-I know I climbed over the wall, and I saw the candy man in the corner, and the people selling jewels, and that's it!"

"Not the street?" Toni attempted futilely.

"N-no."

"Darn... do you know what it looks like? Your house?"

"It—it has two stone lions in front of the gate. And the gate is painted gold... there's a wall around it too."

Toni nodded.

"And... and the house is big. It has three floors. It shines like ivory when the sun comes out..."

"...All right." The older boy seemed deep in thought. "I think I know where that is... where the rich people live, huh?"

"I don't know."

"Okay, let's go see..."

Several turns in the road later they came to the wealthy quarter of Venice and Romano cried out in joy. Sure enough there was his home—the Palladian-style villa—at the end of the street. He jumped out of Toni's arms and ran to the wall, completely disregarding the other boy.

"Oh, there you are, Romano. Where did you romp off to today?"

The Italian nearly fell off the wall in shock. There stood Nonno at the top, voice dangerously cheerful and face dangerously placid. Romano knew full well he was in trouble of the deepest kind.

He felt a hand grab onto his shirt, steadying him from behind as he clambered back down, frightened and nervous.

"Well?" Nonno said sternly from above.

Romano didn't know what to say.

"Toni," he whispered, turning, "can't you—"

He wasn't there.

No one was there. The night was silent; the road behind Romano was deserted, as though it had always been that way.

"Aren't you coming in, Roma?" Nonno was saying. "The gates are open. Who are you waiting for?"

"I—There was a—another boy—"

"Come in and tell me about it."

Gulping, the little Italian entered the courtyard and followed his Nonno shakily into the house. The gate slammed shut behind them with finality.

Romano was questioned thoroughly, received his due scolding and was sent up to bed without dinner. He had no further punishment for the night except to sit and rethink his rash actions in private. Alone in his room, he stared out the window at nothing in particular.

The boy called Toni had vanished just like that, without a trace. Without even revealing much about himself besides his name. But he knew quite enough about Romano already—that he was wealthy, lived in this house, which everyone knew belonged to the Vargas family. Sure, he'd taken Romano home this time, but Nonno had expressed his concern. What if he decided to—

A crackle sounded somewhere inside his clothes as he shifted. It was a crumpled scrap of paper that fell out of his shirt. Tentatively Romano unfolded it.

Just three words, in messy scratchy handwriting.

I'll be back.

"Hey, wake up," a voice whispered, followed by someone shaking him lightly. He heard himself make a noise and try to go back to sleep.

"C'mon, get up."

"...Don' wanna," mumbled Lovino.

"I have tomatoes, mi amigo!" the voice crooned. Oh God, that voice sounded awfully fucking familiar—

Lovino cracked one eye open.

"Wh-what the fuck do you wa—" He stopped as that face came into full focus and froze mid-thought. "Oh shit."

"Why, aren't you happy to see me, Lovi?"

Carriedo somehow had the presence (or non-presence) of mind to look chastened.

"Don't call me Lovi," the Italian in question groaned automatically as he sat up. His limbs were blocks of lead and his head felt as though someone had slammed a sandbag into it. "Where the fuck am I?"

"I don't know!" the captain said airily. "I came into my cabin just now and found you lying on the floor!"

My cabin.

His cabin.

Carriedo's cabin.

"Holy mother of fuck."

"... Wait, where are you going?"

"Nowhere," growled Lovino, trying to free his arm from the pirate's surprisingly strong grasp. Carriedo smiled sweetly and didn't let go.

Damn him.

How the fuck had Lovino ended up in his fucking cabin, of all places!? And how in hell had the Spaniard managed to show up at the worst possible time? He had just caught Lovino napping on the job. Who knew what misfortunes would befall him and what tortures he might have to undergo at the hands of this smiling bastard.

Oh, the wonders that happened here day after day.

"Are you all right, Lovi?" the captain asked kindly, having noticed Lovino's darkening expression.

A straight answer was necessary, and a straight answer was given.

"No."

Carriedo's face fell. "Ah—well, lo siento about that... but since you're here, I need to ask you something."

His solemn tone of voice caused Lovino to fall silent. He did his best instead to look stupid and obedient, although judging by the half-confused, half-choking-back-laughter look on his target's face, it wasn't working.

"Anyway, I need to tell you... it's about Italy. We need to stop soon for supplies before going on to Venice. The new navigator told me we can do that at Gallipoli—we'll be there in a few hours."

Lovino stopped moving altogether and stared at him.

"Well?" The captain sat back and waited patiently, probably for a positive response. "Do you know anything about Gallipoli, Lovi?"

The Italian tried this time to look stupid and indifferent.

"...No, I don't."

The Spaniard's mouth fell open in obvious surprise.

"You... you don't?"

In any other situation Lovino would have laughed his ass off, except this was serious and his life was, quite literally, hanging on the line.

"No," he said firmly, and waited.

For a moment there was no answer.

"But..." Carriedo stood and paced around the room—nervously, it seemed. That was new. And actually rather unnerving. "You're Italian... don't you know even a little bit about the cities there?"

Lovino did, in fact. But if he could safely withhold his knowledge from the pirates then at least fewer people would be harmed. When these people happened to be fellow Italians then the stakes were high indeed.

"For the last time, I don't. I can tell you all the damn names of the pasta we cook, but I don't know shit about Gallipoli. Mi spiace, Carriedo. I couldn't tell you if I tried."

The man before him sighed.

"But we have to tell them something."

Now it was Lovino's turn to gape at him.

He could have lost his temper, lashed out at Lovino, and killed him even— but this?

"You—you're suggesting we make things up?"

A shrug from the pirate captain. "Why not?"

Lovino wanted to laugh. He couldn't believe this was actually happening.

"So it's the crew who wants to hear it, then?"

"Sí." Carriedo made a noncommittal noise. "It doesn't really matter if we're right or wrong. They won't be able to tell the difference if you don't say anything important. All they want is your confirmation that we'll find something there. You know what I mean, don't you?"

This Lovino knew very well. He knew several things very well—except one.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

Lovino snorted.

"You know what I mean. This. Are you seriously trying to help me? Or save me? Or some shit like that?"

Carriedo's bright eyes fixed on him. They didn't leave Lovino's face for several seconds. After a moment he shrugged again.

"Maybe I am."

"Why?"

"Because I feel like it."

"I'm pretty sure not one pirate captain out there would simply 'feel like' helping a prisoner out."

"Well, there's me."

The Italian scowled.

"You're avoiding the damn question."

"Because I can. I'm the capitán, remember?"

If Carriedo's smile became any snarkier Lovino would, quite possibly, punch his face in.

"Pulling that one on me, are you? Well fine. Nice favor you've done for me. Molto grazie. Tell them what you want. Maybe there's treasure in the sea about three leagues from shore. What the hell. I don't fucking care."

He stood up and made his way to the door.

"Why are you so angry?" Carriedo had the audacity to sound hurt.

Lovino had one hand on the door latch. Very slowly he let go and turned to face the Spaniard.

"Because you're playing around with me. You laugh at me. You think I'm just a little prisoner who can't do anything to you because you're the fucking captain. Well, go right ahead. I don't give a shit anymore. You'll find out soon enough."

Not waiting for a reply, he left.

Nighttime found him concealed under a pile of canvas in the corner of the deck.

All was calm; the moon was bright in the darkness. It shone over the quiet ship and the lone Italian looking out over the sea.

Gallipoli.

Freedom.

So close, and yet so far away.

x X x

Translations

Signora (Italian) – Madam

Mia signora (Italian) – My lady

Mi amigo (Spanish) – My friend

Lo siento (Spanish) – I'm sorry

Mi spiace (Italian) – I'm sorry

Molto grazie (Italian) – Thanks a lot

Gallipoli (Greek, Kallipolis meaning 'Beautiful City') is a town in the province of Lecce in Apulia, Southern Italy. It was controlled by the Spanish Aragonese around the 16th century.