“I—it’s not that.”
“It came all the way from Burgundy,” Jerome told him. “It’s really rare.”
Bezio glugged something underwater that was thankfully indecipherable.
“It’s . . . certainly . . . bright,” Mircea said.
“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Jerome looked pleased. But then he frowned. “But after yesterday, I don’t think orange is a smart choice, do you?”
“Probably not,” Mircea said gratefully. “Perhaps it would be best to set it aside for now.”
Jerome sighed, and relegated the terrible thing to the empty side of the table. Of course, that still left the other side piled high with a mound of the small brimless caps popular in Venice, several chaperons, with their surfeit of cloth copied from eastern turbans, and more than one six-sided Spanish cap cut out of velvet. There had to be a dozen in all.
“Why do you have so many hats?” Bezio demanded, emerging from the water like a bearded Aphrodite.
“Well, I’ll tell you,” Jerome said, picking up the orange thing again and patting the felt. “There was a cappellaio—a hat maker,” he added, for Mircea’s benefit, “who set up shop just across from the apothecary where I worked. Every day, I had to sit on a damned stool with a wonky leg, grinding ingredients for hours, until the fumes made my head swim and my arm felt like it was going to come off and I was practically hunchbacked. And the whole time, in and out they went, right across the street—rich young men in velvets and furs, spending more on some small accessory than I’d make in a month.”
He smiled at the hat, and put it back in the pile with the others. Making a grand total of zero in the discard pile. Not that it mattered, since Mircea couldn’t see how he’d afford a replacement.
Of course, he didn’t see how he’d afforded these, either.
“Where did you get the money for all these?” Mircea asked, somewhat in awe. They’d only been here two weeks.
“My clients. Where else?”
“But . . . I thought Martina keeps that money.”
“She keeps the fee, yes,” Jerome said. “I’m talking about the tip.”
“The—”
“Gratuity? Emolument? Thanks for a good time?” He paused, a bright crimson hat in hand, to narrow his eyes at Mircea. “Don’t tell me you didn’t get one?”
“I—”
“You were with a senator!”
“Well, yes, but—”
“What did you do?” Jerome demanded accusingly, as Sanuito came in, carrying a tray of oils, pomades, and lotions.
“I . . . nothing.”
“Well, that would explain it!”
“No, I—” Mircea stopped, wondering why he was defending himself. Or even discussing this. “Everything was fine,” he said stiffly.
“Fine,” Jerome rolled his eyes. “That’s a ringing endorsement.”
“Maybe she just forgot,” Bezio offered.
“Then he should have reminded her! Admired some jewel she was wearing—she might have given it to him. Or mentioned how much he liked one of the outfits the men had on. Something.”
“Did you see what happened?” Bezio asked. “He was almost killed!”
“Better to be almost killed and rich, than almost killed and poor,” Jerome sniffed. “Auria says never let them get away without giving you something.”
“Auria.” Bezio shook his head.
“What? She’s rich—and she’s right. You want to be poor all your life?”
“So the senator should have stopped after all that to find some trinket for Mircea?”
“No, but she could have sent something over, couldn’t she? She’s had a whole day.”
“She did give me something,” Mircea said, finally managing to get a word in edgewise.
“What?” Jerome perked up. “Show us.”
“You already saw it.” The blond looked puzzled. “The sunlight. We . . . met in sunlight,” Mircea said, finding it hard to put into words what that had meant to him.
Particularly with Jerome rolling his eyes again. “Sunlight. Yes, that will buy a lot of hats.”
“I don’t want hats!”
“Well, whatever you do want.”
“I don’t want anything!”
Jerome sighed. “You,” he said seriously, “are a terrible whore.”
“Thank you?” Mircea said, just before the hall was flooded by a bevy of non-bearded Venuses, who weren’t wearing much of anything else, either. And what little they were, they doffed and started scrubbing down, their intentions to join the men made clear.
And there was no way that many were going to fit in Jerome’s abandoned tub.
Mircea hastily grabbed a sheet.
“Cook said you boys slipped off for a soak,” Marte said, testing the water temperature with a look of appreciation.
“What’s the matter?” Zaneta asked, watching Mircea get out of his tub. “There’s plenty of room.”
“I’ll say,” Bezio said, smiling appreciatively.
“Don’t—no. No, no, no, not the hats!” Jerome said, as a couple of giggling girls splashed about, climbing into his tub. “Don’t get the hats wet!”
“I’ve finished,” Mircea answered Zaneta, managing to grab one side of the hat table, to help Jerome move it back, while still holding up his sheet.
“You just started,” Bezio complained, accepting an armful of attractive redhead. “Why did I drag all that hot water from the kitchen?”
“I’m sure it will be appreciated,” Mircea told him.
“You’re a strange man,” Bezio sighed, as a pair of soft arms grabbed Mircea from behind. And pulled him back into a softer embrace.
“There’s plenty of room in my tub,” Besina whispered in his ear.
“Another time,” Mircea said, trying to pull away.
And failing.
“I’ll even scrub your back,” she promised.
“It’s scrubbed!”
“Aww, he’s shy,” one of the other girls said, as he extricated himself with difficulty.
“Or infatuated,” Marte teased. “Never fall for your clients, pretty boy.”
“I’m not a boy,” Mircea snapped, before realizing that that was exactly what a boy would say.
She laughed, and leaned back against the side of Mircea’s abandoned tub. “Prove it!”
The chant was taken up by the other girls, one of whom tried to tug off his towel. Mircea somehow managed to extricate himself from that, too. And then grabbed a jug of water and made a hurried exit, to rinse off in privacy.
“Come back,” they laughed, calling after him. “We were only joking!”
“I’ll prove it, girls,” he heard Bezio offer.
“Oooh, manly man,” someone said, followed by more laughter and several whistles.
Mircea found a corner of the courtyard and rinsed off, still annoyed. Not at the laughter as much as the accusation. It was infuriating for a number of reasons, not least of which that it wasn’t true.
The senator was . . . intriguing. Dangerous. Erotic. It was hard to completely define her, since he’d never met anyone remotely like her. But it wasn’t infatuation he felt when they were together. Under other circumstances, he’d have almost called it . . .
Respect.
He paused a little at the revelation, surprised. But it felt right. It had taken him a moment to realize it, simply because that wasn’t an emotion he’d ever thought to feel for a woman.
Not that he’d hadn’t respected women in the past, but it had been of a different kind. Admiration for their beauty, their compassion, their way of lighting up a room when they walked into it. For their ability to add grace and gentleness to a world that desperately needed more of both.
But for all that, it wasn’t the same kind of respect as he’d give to a man—a fellow warrior or a canny ruler. For women did not fight and they certainly did not rule. Not in Wallachia, and not in most places in his old world.