The Birth of Venus by Sarah Dunant Read Free Book Online Page A

ships from the Indies. My father took her in lieu of a debt. I was still a baby when she came, and she was given charge of Plautilla and me at times, which was easier than the manual work that otherwise would have crushed her. She has a keen intelligence mixed with common sense and from my earliest years could both rule and amuse me. I think my mother saw in her an answer to her prayers when it came to the molding of her singular daughter, so from early on she had become mine. But no one could really own Erila. Though in law she was my father’s property to do with as he wished, she has always had the independence and stealth of a cat, wandering the city and bringing back gossip like fresh fruit and making money on its resale. She has been my best friend in the house for as long as I can remember, my eyes and ears for all the places I cannot go.
    “So. Did you get it?”
    “Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t.”
    “Oh, Erila!” But I knew better than to rush her.
    She grinned. “Now here’s a good one. Today they hanged a man at Porta di Giustizia. A murderer. Chopped his wife’s lover into bits. After he’d swung for half an hour, they cut him down and put him on the death cart, whereupon he sat right back up again, complaining of a great ache in his throat and demanding a drink of water.”
    “He did not! What did they do?”
    “Took him to hospital, where they’re feeding him bread soaked in milk till he can swallow and they can hang him again.”
    “No! And what did the crowd do?”
    She shrugged. “Oh, they yelled and cheered him on. But then this fat Dominican with a face like a pumice stone barged in with a sermon about how Florence was a cesspit so overflowing with evil that the wicked flourished while the good suffered.”
    “But what if it wasn’t evil? I mean, what if it was an example of God’s boundless mercy, even for the grossest sinners? Oh, I wish I had been there to see it! What do you think?”
    “Me?” She laughed. “I think the hangman got the knot wrong. There, you’re done.” She held my hands, surveying her handiwork. They were clean for the first time in days, the nails shining and pink, but how much whiter my skin was was hard to tell.
    “Here.” From her pocket she fished out a small bottle of ink (what my brothers use on their studies in a month went on my drawings in a week) and a thin brush of miniver tails, delicate enough to add the highlights to Our Lady’s face and costume. I flung my arms around her neck.
    “Hmm. You’re lucky. I got them cheap. But don’t use the ink till after Sunday, or I’ll be the one in trouble.”
    AFTER SHE HAD GONE I LAY THINKING OF THE MAN AND THE NOOSE and how one could tell the Lord’s mercy from a mistake in knotting, or if perhaps they might be the same thing. I asked God forgiveness, in case such thoughts are impure, and then appealed to the Virgin to intercede on my behalf to make my hand steadier as I capture her goodness for the page. I was still awake when Plautilla opened the canopy and crawled in, reeking of hair oil, liberally applied to counteract the drying power of the sun. She said her prayers under her breath, a rapid litany that seemed more about words than feelings but perfect nevertheless, and settled down, pushing me to the side so she could get the larger share of the bed. I waited until her breathing was even before pushing her back again.
    After a while I heard the massing of mosquitoes. The smell of her oil was everywhere, like honey to the bee. The burning herb pomade hanging from the ceiling would be overwhelmed by it. I reached for the vial of citronella I kept under my pillow and smeared it over my hands and face.
    Zzan

.

.

.

zzan

.

.

.

zap!
A mosquito landed on my sister’s plump white wrist. I watched it making itself comfortable before pricking her skin. I imagined it drawing up her blood like a long draft of water, then unsucking itself from her body, zooming out of the window, and flying across town