Full Summary: If the main series is an album, let's call these the B-Sides... In early medieval Venice, a human Domenico gets caught up in more than he can handle, only to suffer the consequences later on. In the 11th century, the de Clermonts attempt to fund their crusade and institute a covenant that will bring the creature world to heel. In the twentieth century, Benjamin Fox plays cat and mouse with Gallowglass across South America. And Jacqueline and Guillaume pose as missionaries in San Juan. In the twenty-first century, before Matthew meets Diana, Marcus visits his father and learns something new.
Note: This story takes place within my series Peregrinus Animus, Peregrinus Anima, Peregrinus Cor. It is meant to be read around the same time as Ragnall and Astraea, but I am still trying to figure out the best order of how these chapters should fall in the grand scheme of things. Some of it may be able to stand alone without reading the rest of the series, but other parts may not make much sense without context. This will follow Domenico, Matthew and Benjamin, mostly. There are mentions of sex, stalking and Argentina's Dirty War.
Chapter One: A Man of Humble Means
"Whenever the jetty fountains splash into the marble basins, they seem to me to be telling the story of the floating city. Yes, the spouting water may tell of her, the waves of the sea may sing of her fame! On the surface of the ocean a mist often rests, and that is her widow's veil. The bridegroom of the sea is dead, his palace and his city are his mausoleum! Dost thou know this city? She has never heard the rolling of wheels or the hoof-tread of horses in her streets, through which the fish swim, while the black gondola glides spectrally over the green water. I will show you the place," continued the Moon, "the largest square in it, and you will fancy yourself transported into the city of a fairy tale."
- Hans Christian Anderson; What the Moon Saw
Perhaps every story begins and ends with a love affair.
That's certainly how it began in Venice. That's how it ended too.
I suppose that's how it will continue.
Domenico Michele had not always gone by this name.
This name would come later.
The name he had when he was someone else – someone human – is of little import. That man is forgotten to history.
The man he became – the nonpareil manjasang – prefers to begin with the time he was a doge. Of course, he would. If you had come from his beginnings, and feared his endings, then perhaps you too would prefer to start somewhere in the glorious middle with no thought of the past, and a sharp aversion to the future.
But you have to understand. For the sake of clarity, we must begin with the forgotten things.
Domenico Michele, once, was a man in love.
He worked on the docks for a fishmonger named Petruccio who was frugal and cruel and cared little for those he employed.
This was not long after the fall of Rome. He'd been born after the fall. This, perhaps, tells you all you need to know. Domenico Michele was born to become a man post-greatness. Times were dark on venetian waters. Some days, Domenico would look up at the sky – he would stare at the sun – and wonder at his own inability to feel the light.
Carlotta was a maiden in the more affluent part of town.
She had long copper hair that shone brighter than the sun or starlight. She had green eyes and freckles on her nose which her mother thought obscene. But Domenico loved to count them when her family wasn't looking.
Carlotta loved him too, but he was a fishmonger's dock boy, and she was the daughter of a well-known tailor – a man who dressed princes, and clothed kings. They would never marry, not if her father had anything to say about it.
And Domenico couldn't provide her with the life she was accustomed to.
He'd wake in the mornings and board an old, salt-ridden boat, and push off the dock with his master. He and the other men in the fishmonger's employ worked hard. They began long before the sun rose.
With waves lapping up on the sides of their boats, they would haul in their nets and reel in their lines. Fish – rank, earthy, salinized, and cold – would flop out onto the deck at their feet.
Hot, though it was only morning, and sweating, though they were surrounded by cool water, Domenico and the rest of the men would eventually sail home.
The bells would ring out from the church, and echo on the tides, as gondolas slowly crept their way along venetian waters. Men and women would walk along the passages of the town. Long gowns of fine fabric brushed against battered sea stones and the roughshod mortar that held them in place. Boots of fine leather would clack through archways and into corridors without a care in the world. Maids would wander with their ladies, scarves covering their mousy hair. Their aprons would be tightly secured to their bodies – pockets overflowing with earthly wares.
Here, a stall would open, the shouts of a man come from across the sea. Fine colored garments of unparalleled quality. On his lips were tales of Carthage and beyond. He, with his otherworldly bearing, would spread rumors of a paradise in Ethiopia. He'd tell of a vast empire in the land of Mali. He'd whisper to others of the overwhelming force of the Songhai people, and he'd pass crucifixes off to fascinated young boys and girls.
There, another stall would be. Just across the way, selling jewelry. The finest gold and bronze and silver you would ever see – as long as the customers didn't test the metal with their teeth.
Domenico would watch as the conman passed rare bits of jewelry to maiden after unassuming maiden, or her companion who carried her purse.
He'd smirk at the falsehood and gut another fish. He'd pass the fileted body off to the fishmonger. He'd reach for another and drive his knife again into its belly. On and on until the day was through.
Carlotta would pass by at high noon, long after Domenico had swept the fish waste off the dock, and back into the water.
She'd wear her hair up in intricate curls, with long chains of ornate gold draped through her tresses and decorating her forehead. It paid to be a tailor's daughter.
She'd wave her fan before her face, and peer at him coyly with bright, wily eyes and Domenico's heart would stutter in his chest.
Carlotta would giggle and shake her head before she was ushered along by her mother or her father, a sister or a maid.
And on they would go. She would toy with the merchant from Africa, lifting this item and that, so she could linger longer near Domenico, the fishmonger's dock boy. Or she would wander over to the spice stall and lift a jar of turmeric to her nose, asking questions about the quality even as her eyes roamed back to his.
She never seemed to mind the smell of the fish. Or the cuts on his hands from stray hooks or shark teeth. He knew, by now, the stench lingered, no matter how often he tried to drive it away. And the cuts healed with time, though they scarred often, and told all the world he would never have a better fate.
A fist to his gut or a smack to his arm would often do the trick when he lost himself in thoughts of Carlotta. The heavy fist of the fishmonger would draw him out of his reverie and the fishmonger with his rotting teeth and shrewd, ratty eyes, would curse at him.
"She's not for you, boy," Petruccio would say and gesture to a cart or a basket that needed hauling away. "Back to work—"
And he'd smack Domenico again for good measure.
There was a place near the docks when the sea was high and the moon was full, where men would go when they were lonely.
It had no name. But the women came and went freely. With skirts hiked high on their hips, they'd lean against the sea wall, as waves broke near to them and made their skin sticky with salt.
Most nights, he did not see Carlotta.
She was often too far out of reach for him to go to.
But on the nights that he did, he would wander into her garden, and sneak through the underbrush past the one guard her father kept on employ.
He'd scale the wall that led to her balcony. He'd wait until her maid left her for the evening to tap on the window or the door, and Carlotta would cast her coverlet aside to go to him.
He'd press kisses to her lips and press her into her bed, and he would love her, but never in the way he wanted.
The daughter of a tailor could never bear a child for one such as him. And they were not foolish enough to risk her being sent off to a nunnery, to live out the rest of her days in shame, too far away for a simple dock boy to reach her.
He'd leave her when the moon was full, sated though she was, he'd be aching for more as he climbed his way from her balcony, and scaled again her garden wall.
And he would wander, taut and wanting, to the place with no name, with its women who waited along the walls.
Bellina was his favorite. She had copper hair like Carlotta's in coloring, but it wasn't the same. Where his love had smooth, groomed tresses, Bellina's were coarse to the touch and frizzy from the salt-ridden air.
She wore a scarf loosely over her hair, virgin blue, and tantalizing to the touch. It brought out her eyes and made her feel saintly, though when Domenico was around, the things she did would make all the saints blush.
He'd close his eyes, lost in the sensation of her around him, and imagine Carlotta in her chambers – the curve of her breasts, the divots in her hips, her ringlets as they bounced while she loved him.
And it would fill him with a deep-seated anger, resentment, a desire for more than his station would allow.
He'd take Bellina and flip her around. He'd press her into the mattress. He'd bite her neck, and growl.
It was fitting, he supposed, some time later, that this was his preferred way of making love.
For, night after night, a man had watched through the wrought iron gate as Domenico and Bellina succumbed to an angrier, more brutal fuck.
The girl would mewl beneath him and dig her nails into his skin. And Domenico would bite harder, waiting for the thin layer on her neck to break beneath him, waiting for iron to coat his tongue.
He did not think of Carlotta then. All he could think of was hunger, and thirst, and anger, and a desire for more than he was owed. And then Bellina would shudder beneath him. And he would fall over the edge a moment later.
He never saw the man behind them. The voyeur who looked on from the gate. He didn't see the sheer red curtain fall back into place.
He dozed there beside Bellina and dreamed of Carlotta's face.
Carlotta liked to hear tales of Bellina. Domenico would whisper them in her ear as she writhed in his hands. He would tell her of the place with no name, the women with their skirts hiked high, the salt of the sea on his tongue and their skin, and Carlotta would cling to him in envy and desire as she took from him what she needed.
She'd make a sound loud enough to rouse her maid, and Domenico swiftly would pull away.
He'd caress her face, and kiss her, and Carlotta would giggle, her legs still splayed.
"Run," she'd whisper.
"Minx," Domenico would growl.
He'd bolt onto the balcony, and Carlotta would drag her blankets back up her body, still playing with herself.
Her maid would enter, gasp, and apologize, before making a hasty retreat.
And Carlotta would appear on her balcony.
"She's gone, my love," she'd whisper, finding Domenico crouched low among the ivy.
He'd let out a panicked sigh and let his head fall back against the balcony wall, and Carlotta would pick her way over to him. She'd straddle his lap, caressing his jaw.
"I would not let them harm you," she whispered, and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
Domenico blew out a doubtful breath.
"They would not care what you wanted," he reminded her.
Carlotta scoffed. "I have more influence among them than you might believe."
"No one, but the pope, would have sufficient influence to save me if your father ever found out."
Carlotta tsked and captured him again in a searing kiss, pressing into him, and giving a shiver.
"It's cold out here, my love," Carlotta said softly. "Come back inside. The bed is warm, and there is plenty of room."
Domenico broke away and shook his head, eyeing the railing wearily, knowing he'd need to head back before he had to rise again in the morning and head out to sea.
"It is late," he said.
"It is still early," she tempted him, rocking her hips. She reached between them and freed him from his trousers. Domenico hissed, but he did not stop her.
"Stay," she whispered. "Just a while longer."
And so, he did.
What often is misconstrued in history is how subtly circumstances can change.
Creatures would remember this time as a time of strife, and eternal conflict. These were the Vampire Wars.
They were not the first in the world's long history, and most certainly they wouldn't be the last.
But, what matters, is that something can be happening right under your nose— right in plain view, where all can see – and you might not even know about it. You might not be able to see the changes until it is far too late to do anything about it.
The night Domenico hid on Carlotta's balcony – the night she asked him to stay and took him in her hands as she had done so many nights before – was commonplace for the pair.
But that was also the night that a man disappeared.
He was of no significance to Domenico, nor to Carlotta.
He, perhaps, had visited Bellina once or twice but that was neither here nor there.
The man disappeared one night. And he would not be seen again for one hundred days.
The next night, a woman was found dead beneath her balcony, having suffered a terrible fall.
The priest who'd come to bless her body, fled just as quickly. The girl was beyond salvation. He had muttered a prayer and crossed himself as he left her.
Suicide, he'd told the family. But he did not speak of the marks on her neck from someone's sharp, life-ending teeth.
Three days later, the priest was gone.
A woman in a habit who called herself a nun, informed the masses that he'd been called away, but that he would return. When pressed, she'd assured the noble families of Venice that he would be back in just one hundred days, barring setbacks or complications.
And on the nights when Carlotta left him frustrated, Domenico would return to the little place by the docks with the women on the walls, and he would find Bellina and take his frustrations out on her. And she would rake him for every coin he made on those wretched, blood-stained docks.
And the man with no name would watch them from the iron gate while they were none the wiser.
Venice had become crowded.
Domenico couldn't place where or when this had occurred, but there was a congestion here he had not seen before.
The floating city had always had its share of people. Wanderers, travelers, merchants, and the like, but never before had it been so uncomfortably full.
And of the strangest creatures, too.
Domenico hopped from the boat to the dock, and turned back so the fishmonger could toss him a mooring line.
The sun was high in the sky and hot on his skin. The salt was thick in the air and it made everything around them pulse with discomfort and thirst.
The fishmonger tossed him the line, and Domenico's hand slipped on the rough braided rope. He stumbled and reached for it, catching himself on the ground before he toppled into the water.
A hand shot out from nowhere.
Domenico looked up, squinting in the sunlight to see the man who'd saved his line from falling.
All he could see were sharp teeth and the glint of a metal ring on the hand that held the rope.
Domenico grunted and hauled himself up, scuffing at the moss on the dock with his boot to break it up.
"Thank you," he said to the man and held out his hand for the rope, while the fishmonger cursed at him from the water.
The newcomer stepped forward as though sensing Domenico's plight.
He blocked out the sun and met Domenico's searching eyes.
"A pleasure," the man purred.
Domenico was startled by the sound. His voice was smooth and unlike any other he had ever heard. He sounded as though he came from a land far away. But Domenico met men from foreign lands every day, and none were as enrapturing as this one.
He knelt down and looped the line around a sturdy post on the dock, and hauled the boat further in. The fishmonger hopped off the rig and immediately began wailing on Domenico.
"Stupid—Imbecile boy!" he shouted and lashed Domenico hard with his fist.
Domenico flinched and took the beating for what it was, feeling every point of contact, not giving any thought to how it would bruise, but aching already from the abuse.
"You seem to have a sturdy dock boy, fishmonger," the newcomer observed, tilting his head to the side as he watched Domenico's beating.
The fishmonger huffed and lost his steam, shooting Domenico a glare before regarding the newcomer.
"Petruccio," he said. "That's what you can call me." And then to Domenico. "Well, boy?! That fish isn't going to unload itself!"
Domenico straightened, rolling his shoulders back. He cracked his neck and looked curiously over at the newcomer before hopping back onto the deck and reaching for one of the barrels to unload.
"They call me Maso," the man said, his voice was rich and light and full of good humor. "Maso Michele, at your service."
The fishmonger made a noise, half annoyed at the gregarious man's presence.
"If you'd like free fish for your aid, I'm afraid we didn't need you. You're wasting your time."
Maso laughed loudly. It drew the attention of passersby. He turned to eye Domenico as he hauled yet another barrel from the boat. The fishmonger went about his shouting, calling out to those who wandered, that he had fresh pilchard, anchovy, and eel.
"Not the fish, good man," Maso chuckled though the fishmonger ignored him. The newcomer shot Domenico a wink and eyed his barrel thoughtfully. "No, I'm not interested in fish."
Domenico felt a wrongness over come him that he could not quite explain. He eyed Maso with trepidation, grateful for his help, but eager for him to be on his way.
A young girl skipped up to them, she couldn't have been older than eleven or twelve. She had long brown hair that hung perfectly over her shoulders, a button nose, and eyes that seemed to consume everything. She buzzed with energy, and she eagerly took Maso's hand.
"I'm hungry, father," she said in a warm, honey voice that did not reflect her young age.
Maso tore his eyes away from Domenico to regard the girl. He settled a hand on her shoulder and turned them away.
"Then we shall find you something to eat, my dear," Maso said.
The girl made a noise of satisfaction and glanced over her shoulder toward Domenico. Her eyes were bright and full of hunger, and she nudged her father, gesturing his way.
Maso looked back once more, an unreadable expression on his face. He shook his head. His hand clamped harder on his daughter's shoulder.
"No, child," he said. "No fish today."
The girls by the docks disappeared as though they had all gone overnight. But being of their particular station, they disappeared without question from those who once made a profit off of their affairs. By then, many of the men who had frequented their establishment had already died or disappeared as well.
Domenico wandered the streets at night, among the crowds of mourners, as procession after procession journeyed through the city. Nocturnal Venice had never been so alive with grief in all of Domenico's memory.
Canopies littered churchyards, decorated to the brim with greenery and flowers, mounting high their allotted dead.
Foreign faces had appeared over night and come to stay.
More and more newcomers with odd looks and peculiar demeanors. And everywhere, all the time, wherever Domenico went was the man who called himself Maso Michele.
"Leave with me," Domenico said one night to Carlotta.
He crouched before her where she sat on her bed and held both of her hands in his.
Carlotta's mouth popped open as she stared down at him. Wide eyes and a button nose. She lifted her eyebrows high into her copper hair.
"My love?" she asked, shaking her head.
Domenico squeezed her hands and drew her down to him. "Leave with me," he said again. "I can find us a boat. We can go away from here. Verona, Padua—"
Carlotta made a noise and shook her head, scrunching up her face. She stared at Domenico as though he were no longer someone she recognized, but Domenico didn't let up.
"Florence, even," he insisted, reaching for her hands again. "We can go as far as Rome."
"Rome?" Carlotta hissed and stood up. "What would we do in Rome?"
"Live together," Domenico said. "Have a home, away from all of this—"
"All of what?" Carlotta asked, turning from him, and striding over to her balcony.
Domenico faltered, staring at her retreating form. She didn't understand.
She lived here, high above the rest of the island. She did not see the mourners in the streets. She did not see how the brothel had emptied. How the men had disappeared. How the whole of Venice was grieving, and no one said a word.
"My love—" he said.
Carlotta turned back to him, a sharp look in her eye. "You're unwell, Domenico," she said abruptly.
Domenico furrowed his brow. "I am well," he said. "Something is wrong here. Venice... it's..."
He trailed off and shook his head. "It's wrong."
"It's our home," Carlotta said, crossing her arms over her chest.
Domenico held out his arms for her but she refused to come.
"We can make another," he whispered.
Carlotta's eyes misted over. She averted her gaze. "We cannot."
"My love—"
"You are a dock worker," she said harshly and her nostrils flared.
Domenico reared back and stared at her as though she had struck him.
"You are a dock worker, and I will never be your wife."
Domenico was silent. He stared at Carlotta, and she stared back, though he had been struck dumb, and she was struck with some other, more passionate defense.
"Leave me," she hissed.
"Carlotta—"
"Leave—" she said harshly. "Or I will call the guard."
She brushed past him into her chambers and closed the doors, leaving Domenico trembling on the balcony, a pain in his chest he could not put words to.
It was not five days later that Domenico looked up from the fish he was gutting to see Carlotta, strolling through the market, on the arm of the man who was everywhere – Maso Michele.
The man had caught his eye and flashed him a grin. Carlotta refused to look at him. She raised her chin and gestured to the jeweler and his less than favorable wares. She leaned over to Maso, who had to duck down from his considerable height, to lend her his ear.
He came to a halt before the vendor, who hurried forward to offer them the best of his collection, but Maso held up a hand and stopped him short.
He looked down at Carlotta. "You are sure, my dear?" he asked, voice laced with an overabundance of concern.
"I am," she sniffed.
And Domenico's heart gave a pull of longing. This was the first he'd heard her voice since the night she'd sent him away.
Maso nodded grimly and eyed the vendor with disdain. He gestured to a solid gold chain and the man – suddenly uncertain – offered it to him with shaking hands.
Maso took the metal to his teeth and bit down. The small item bent easily under the force of his jaw.
The vendor sputtered and became red with indignance. He held up a trembling hand and demanded payment for the damages, but Maso cast the ring aside and brushed him off.
He peered over the heads of the masses – so tall the newcomer was in this city – and waved over a conveniently placed guard.
"Hello, fish," a lilting voice called.
Domenico jumped and whirled around.
Sitting on the post that he had tied the fishmonger's boat to, was the girl from before. Maso's child. His daughter. Though Domenico failed to see the resemblance. Maso was tall and dark haired, with a tan complexion and a large, flat nose.
This child was fair and bright to look at, and no matter how much time she spent in the sun, she did not seem to burn.
"Hello, young miss," he said, not bothering to offer his name. She beamed at him and eyed his blood covered hands with a look akin to envy.
"Do you like being a dockworker?" she asked.
Domenico arched an eyebrow; he regarded her with practiced patience. She was a bold little thing.
"I do what I must," he replied, glancing over his shoulder at the fishmonger who was busy counting change.
The girl harumphed and folded her hands in her lap, she craned her neck around Domenico to study the older, wealthier man.
"You don't like him very much, do you?" she asked, gesturing to Petruccio.
Domenico kept wisely silent. He'd not speak ill of his employer to a child. Not even one as precocious as she.
"Can I help you find something, young lady?" he asked after a beat.
The girl laughed, and the sound was pleasant to his ears.
"No, fish," she said and hopped off her post. "I have all that I need."
When Domenico turned around, she was gone. As were the jeweler, Carlotta, and the man who had stolen her away.
The next morning, the fishmonger was late.
Domenico and the other men waited around for hours but he never showed.
Some boarded the boats, others went home.
But not Domenico.
He trekked his way across the city, to the place he knew the fishmonger called home, and climbed the steps into a raised courtyard. He traversed the middle and rapped his knuckles on the fishmonger's door – calling out.
"Petruccio!" He raised his voice to be heard over the shouts of workers, and the call of the gulls.
Waves crashed along the sea walls and flooded the lower areas of the island. And all that noise – the life of Venice – seemed to flow through here and echo in the chambers of the courtyard.
There was no answer.
He knocked again.
"Petruccio!" He called out again.
"Petruccio is dead."
Domenico whirled around to stare wide-eyed at the man who had snuck up on him from behind.
Maso Michele pressed a hand to his chest in a gesture of sympathy. He lowered his eyes and bowed his head.
"I am sorry for your loss," he murmured.
Domenico blinked at him, and tilted his head. "He was alive and well just yesterday—"
"He fell in the night," Maso said in a matter-of-fact manner.
Domenico furrowed his brow. He shook his head. "I hear your words, and know them, but they make little sense."
Maso frowned at him. "It is a terrible thing, old age—"
"He was not so old—"
"He was old enough."
Maso's tone brooked no room for argument and Domenico fell silent. He'd known powerful men all his life, and he knew well enough not to cross Maso Michele.
The taller man's eyes flashed, and his face softened. He offered Domenico an approving nod.
"There may be hope for you yet, son," he said.
Domenico narrowed his eyes. Maso held out a scroll. It was rolled up neatly and sealed with the mark of the Doge. His eyes widened.
"Take it," Maso said. "It is addressed to you."
"To me?" Domenico asked.
"Yes," Maso said. "I have seen to it, personally."
Domenico hesitated before he reached out for the scroll in Maso's hand. He curled his fingers around it. Maso held tightly to the missive for a second before letting go.
He eyed Domenico astutely. "You know how to read, do you not?"
Domenico frowned at the scroll and nodded. "I do well enough," he said.
"Open it," Maso commanded.
Domenico, though unsettled, was unfazed by the stern command. He was accustomed to the erratic moods of men such as these.
He tucked his finger beneath the seal and tugged, watching the wax break. The scroll gave a sigh and loosened but remained curled around itself.
Domenico unfurled it and skimmed the message.
Not every word was entirely clear to him, but he understood the message in summation. His eyes widened and he looked up at Maso.
"It's not possible," he whispered.
Maso grinned. "It is."
"I am but a dock worker—"
"Not anymore," Maso said, and nodded to the house behind him. "The door is unlocked. I've seen to it myself."
He held up a key. "Yours," he said.
Domenico reached out, uncomprehending, and accepted the key from the man.
'Why?" he asked.
Maso smiled. "You're a strapping young man," he said.
It wasn't an answer.
Domenico frowned.