Golden light and ringing bells.

Gontran groaned, turned over, and tried to cover his eyes and ears. The sound was blinding, the light was deafening, his head pounded, and each ring of the bells seemed like it would shatter his skull. The hammers hammered the bells, and they also hammered his cranial bone, cracking and crushing it like an apothecary grinding it into medicinal powder and selling it in little sacks of cure-all for one soldo an ounce. Just mix with water, and—

Bang! Clang! Dong!

“Oh!” Gontran yelled, turning over again, but his voice was too weak to challenge the bells. Why were they so loud?

He needed to get to work, but he couldn’t even stand. Where the hell am I? No memory. He couldn’t open his eyes. He couldn’t do anything. Even squinting one pair of eyelids open sent searing light and stabbing pain into his mind. The light rays were like long needles injecting his eyes with acid. Bee stings. Bee abdomens flexing and throbbing as they pumped his eyes full of pollen-laced venom, corroding them, making them disintegrate. His mouth also tasted like acid. His throat burned. He must have been vomiting earlier. Disgusting!

Trapped in a labyrinth of my own making.

Gontran needed to figure out where he was. As the bells slammed him back and forth, he realized that he could only use a few of his senses, touch being the most important. Alright, so what could he feel? He was lying on the ground. It was cold, hard, and wet—with what? He didn’t want to know. But was he outside?

Must be.

There had been a tavern. Warm light, thick hazy atmosphere, cheeks red and smiling, everyone drinking and singing like in La Traviata. Libiamo, bello, bello! He had drunk so much wine, and it had tasted so good—it had been such a release.

Laughter, alcohol, and good company, it’s better than sex.

Now he was here. The wine had teleported him through time and space. Magic in one’s cups. No matter what he did, he just fell deeper into one hole after another, like a dreamer lunging back inside an endless sea of nightmares.

Why do people repeat? Why do they keep hurting themselves when it seems so unnecessary? Like a panther pacing back and forth inside a cage, except there is no cage.

Finally the bells were quieting down. They were still ringing, but the sacristans had evidently tired of bursting their own eardrums. Even with wax stuffed inside their ears, the noise would have permanently deafened them, replacing the glories of music, birdsong, and conversation with an endless piercing ringing. But now Gontran heard something else. People were singing. And their songs were different from the bawdy ballads he had bellowed at the top of his lungs the night before. This singing was more gentle, angelic, holy, uplifting.

It’s Sunday.

Gontran fell back and gasped with relief.

No work. Thank God for the Lord’s Day. Thank THE LORD!

His mission now was to stand, open his eyes, and figure out where he was. The difficulty here was roughly equivalent to sending people to the moon. Mission control, in his mind, struggled to make the systems across his body operational.

“Brain?”

“Go.”

“Heart?”

“Go.”

“Eyes?”

“It’s a go.”

“Muscles?”

“Go.”

“Motivation?”

“We’re still waiting on Motivation. Looks like Thanatos is overpowering Eros in Gontran’s soul. We’re going to need to increase Eros and decrease Thanatos to get him moving.”

“Copy.”

Somehow, at some point, Gontran climbed to his feet. He needed to bend over and hold his arms out as he did this, worrying in his dizziness that he would plunge into a canal and drown. Then, as he stood and swayed and squinted like a centenarian, he slowly opened his eyelids, letting the light into the dark Platonic cave of his soul like fingers pressing apart Venetian blinds. Such was the sunlight’s intensity at first that the blinding white shafts cooked the cave walls, turning cold rock into red molten glop.

Then images condensed in his consciousness. Mission control announced that the data was coming through. Gontran saw medieval buildings of wood and stone. Straight lines were difficult to produce in the pre-industrial world, so architecture tended to be softer and curvier, especially in a place like Venice, which was half-sea.

There was a fetid street. An even more fetid canal. Morning sun fell over green vines which were constricting and cracking the ancient masonry with their muscles of chlorophyll. It was spring. Soon flowers would burst from the vines, their thick soft folds of blossom flesh pressed together and soaked in gleaming dew, reeking of sweet intoxicating nectar as they shed their snowy petals.

Gontran was alone, standing like a fool, staring at a random alley in Venice.

He needed to get his bearings.

Clutching his aching head and muttering swears in several languages, he walked the empty streets, passing churches packed with people, the naves echoing with choral music. He had never thought Venetians particularly religious—especially by medieval standards—but on Sundays at least it seemed like church was the place to be. There were few if any sermons, just singing, just the most beautiful music. Except when he was drunk, Gontran had little interest in music—this was another bone of contention with Diaresso, who was miserable if he lacked a few minutes each day to pluck out some tunes from his lute. But Gontran found himself stopping, listening, and even thinking that he might like to sit down inside one of these churches to enjoy the melodies. Doing this would annoy the parishioners; they would consider him just another tourist, even if he had been terrified the day before at work that he was transforming into a Venetian.

The problem of global Venicification.

But Ra’isa must have been worried about him. There would be time for music later—right? He forced himself to walk around until he figured out where he was, thinking at first that he couldn’t be far from the inn where Ra’isa awaited him like Calypso in her isle of curving marble. But he soon found that he was all the way in San Marco—he even passed the square and the doge’s palace where he had fallen—and it took him some time to find his way back to the inn. His drunken Mr. Hyde self must have explored a fair amount of the city the previous evening. Gontran shuddered to think about what else he had done.

No one was in their room when he returned, but Ra’isa’s basket was lying near the bedside table, upon which was placed the basin and the water pitcher. His sword was gone for some reason. The bed was also made. Had Ra’isa even slept there? Gontran leaned over the bed and sniffed, but he couldn’t smell her. The most beautiful smell he had ever known had vanished.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

She must have gone out looking for him. He turned to leave, thinking that he would find her, but then he told himself—as he glanced at the bed—that she would return soon, and that it would be better to wait for her. She was strong, she could take care of herself.

Stripping off his clothes, he washed his disgusting body as best he could without soaking the floor too much, dried himself with a towel from Ra’isa’s basket—she had thought of everything—and threw himself into bed. Soon he fled the world’s problems and returned to sleep.

He woke sometime later, sensing that something was wrong. Conversation, birdsong, rowing oars, and a light warm humid breeze flitted in through the window. This was his life. A window looking out on Venice. A weary body and mind that refused to do what needed to be done.

Looking around, Gontran saw a woman in dark clothing standing near the bed, watching him with her arms crossed, the hollows around her eyes shadowed with exhaustion.

“I do not know if I should kill you or kiss you,” she said.

He widened his arms. “I know which one I’d pick.”

She looked away.

“Ra’isa, I’m sorry—”

“Where were you? All night I was searching for you!”

Since she wasn’t coming to bed, Gontran struggled to his feet, wincing from the lingering effects of his hangover, trying to hug her even as she stepped away from his nudity. But she had noticed his wincing.

“You were drunk. You partook of al-khamr. It is haram!”

“I’m sorry, Ra’isa, I’m so sorry—”

“I do not want to hear that you are sorry! I want to see you improve! But every day you only get worse!”

“It’s this place, it’s so hard, I had such a hard time at work—”

“As hard as me? I was a sex slave! Do you see me getting drunk?”

“You’re right, I’m so sorry, it’ll never happen again—”

“You have no control! How can I live with a man who cannot control himself? I should leave you forever!”

“Forgive me.” Gontran fell to his knees and stretched out his hands. “I’m so sorry, Ra’isa. You are my goddess. I’ll worship you forever!”

She watched him in silence, yet almost seemed amused by his bowing.

I find that romantic relationships between men and women only work if they look like this, Gontran thought, as he stretched out his arms and legs and pressed his face to the floor. Partly he wanted to kiss her feet, but he was worried she would kick his face.

“You are so beautiful!” he cried. “You are so beautiful!”

“You would say that to any woman.”

“Never!”

“You are just like that other man, the Procuratore. You want me only for sex.”

He dared to look at her, then remembered himself and looked down. “No, Ra’isa! I would do anything for you!”

“Then never drink another drop of alcohol. And do your job. Stop making trouble for me.”

“I swear,” Gontran said. He almost added that she was the one who had given him that wine flask for lunch in the first place, but he kept his mouth shut.

“You are not acting like yourself,” Ra’isa said. “Before, you were such a tough guy. A bad boy. But now…”

“I can change.”

“You must. Or I will get rid of you. I can find nicer men than you—handsomer men, men with more money and power, men who will treat me better, who will always do what I say. It will take me only a few hours. I know how they feel. They look at me everywhere I go. I can have any one of them.”

Hesitantly he stood. Then he reached out to hug her, but she pushed him away. He tried again, and this time she allowed him to touch her. Her smooth electric skin was more intoxicating than an ocean of wine. Gontran reached inside her clothes so he could feel the small of her back with one hand while touching her breast with the other, her nipple hardening beneath his palm, and he pulled her close, clutched her rear, and kissed her soft beautiful lips. Groaning, she pushed him away.

“Every day you smell bad!” she said. “You must wash!”

Quickly he did so, using soap on his body and drinking some water and rinsing out his mouth. She gave him mint from her basket, and he rubbed it over his teeth. Once he was clean, she allowed him to touch her. They climbed into bed. At first she seemed hesitant, but her anger turned to joy, and soon she got loud, clutching him close with her powerful legs as she screamed and made noises so absurd he needed to fight to stop himself from laughing, fearful of upsetting her. There was no way the people outside couldn’t hear. They must have even stopped to listen, looking at each other, pointing and making obscene gestures, but the goddess was too busy soaring above the clouds to notice. She even spoke to Gontran, and said the most ridiculous things.

“You…are getting…handsomer!” she cried.

Then her body went limp. He finished, and she was so sated and exhausted that she asked him to move her arms away, adding that she couldn’t lift her head. He lay beside her, also feeling tired and relieved, and kept his hand near her side so he could keep touching her. Ra’isa was like a phoenix that would incinerate you if you got too close, but if you propitiated her in just the right way—and if you were lucky—she would let you worship her.

This then was the pattern of Gontran’s life. Work. Get into trouble. Get yelled at by Ra’isa. Make up. Sleep with her. Go back to work. Repeat.

Eventually they climbed out of bed, cleaned up, got dressed, and for dinner ate the food she had picked up at one of the markets. As they ate, Ra’isa told Gontran—angrily—that she had been out looking for him the entire night and most of the day. Nobody had seen him, nobody knew anything about him, especially because he had spoken with no one at the Arsenale and tried to keep a low profile. How to even describe a man like Gontran? Thin but strong, a self-hating Frank of average height, handsome, charming when he wanted to be, sometimes scatterbrained, of questionable ethics, not the best fighter, not the best merchant either (although he considered himself one first and foremost), always searching for the golden goose and then fleeing when his latest scheme inevitably fell apart. He also acted like a bad boy all the time, but this was only a protective exterior, one he had developed as a result of living a rough life. Like an insect’s hard armor carapace, it barely concealed his soft, caring, vulnerable, and—could she even say it?—sweet soul. On the inside, his heart was made of gold.

“But it is time to get serious,” Ra’isa said.

“Serious?” Gontran said. “What are you talking about? I work all day at the Arsenale, I’m so tired I can barely—”

“But we are no closer to our goal than when we first arrived. You are getting lazy, accepting your fate in this place as though it is carved upon your forehead. But our destiny is not to remain here. We are not Venetians. You have already forgotten. What is that phrase they always repeat here? ‘Ships are safe in the harbor, yes, but they are not meant for the harbor. They are meant for sailing the open sea, dangerous though it may be.’ We must find the Paralos and our crew and escape.”

“Well, I don’t see you getting us any closer to that goal—”

“Do you forget yourself? I am your katapan. Do not speak to me in this way.”

Gontran bowed his head. “Sorry, sir.”

“You don’t even know what I’ve been doing these past few days. You know nothing of my work. We were beginning to run low on money, so I got a job. Did you even realize?”

He looked at her. “Really?”

“I am a seamstress now.” She held up her hands so he could see how her fingertips were covered with callouses and scratches. “Though it barely pays anything, just six denari a day, I am almost working for free—I lose money by going to work. Still, job prospects for women here are limited. It is either seamstress or courtesan.”

“You might make more money as a courtesan.”

“If a man ever offers me money for sex again, I will cut off the hand that holds the coins.”

“Note to self: don’t offer Ra’isa money for sex.”

“I have also been looking for better lodgings, in case we need to stay in this city a long time, though the truth is that I cannot stand this place and I would leave now and never return if I could. There has been no news from Trebizond. Our mission here is a failure. We must salvage what we can of our ship and crew and return home.”

Gontran’s body went rigid, and he bowed once more. “Yes, katapan.”

“I took over command of the ship because you lost your way. You forgot what you were doing. You are not suited to this kind of work. You like to have adventures alone with your friend Diaresso. If you ever succeeded in getting rich, it would only make you miserable. All your newfound wealth you would dissipate, poisoning yourself with al-khamr, sating your desire with so many women they would become meaningless and even invisible to you, each fling in bed indistinguishable from the others. This in-between state of always searching for wealth but never finding it—this is difficult and at times miserable, yes, but it is also your only happiness.”

Gontran looked back and forth. “Are we on the clock? Should I be paying you for this therapy session?” As soon as he had spoken these words, he regretted them, and worried that she would yell at him. But thankfully she seemed to be barely listening.

She turned to him. “Tomorrow morning you’re going back to work. This time there will be no excuses. You will focus on the mission at hand, even if it means taking risks. Gontran, you will find the Paralos.”