Masque

After Dante left him, Massimo sipped his wine, staring at the crowd of people dancing a canarie. Such bright plumed birds they were, with their sparkling gold and silver fabrics, their glowing jewels and their elaborate masks of leather and feathers. It was not one of them he sought, however.

It was the one over in the corner, dressed in black as glossy as a raven's wing.

Normally Massimo would dally with a woman at such affairs. It was much more acceptable to his lady wife, after all, but his attentions focused too strongly on his prey, a member of the elite guards newly employed by the public to keep the peace.

Strong legs encased in indecently tight hose, along with a snowy white camicia under a still brocaded black doublet that showed off broad shoulders, proved that this was a man, not a boy, someone mature enough to be interesting.

His wife would heartily disapprove.

Perhaps that was why Massimo moved, slipping his mask back into place and making his way lazily through the crowd. Here a woman in red velvet with rolled sleeves and a prodigious bosom stopped him to compliment him on his cook, waving a trailing piece of tripe under his nose. There a Medici cousin stopped him to talk treason, and Massimo handed him off to another young firebrand, who might entertain him with ideas of poison and passion.

Finally though, he made his way to the side of his soldier, bowing rather formally to begin his assault.

"Buona sera."

"Buona sera, signore." The guard bent formally as well, one muscled leg presented in a most pleasing manner.

"I could not help but notice your somber attire. Truly, it stands out against the crowd."

"It befits my office, signore Rossi."

Ah. So he was already at a disadvantage, despite the mask.

"And what is that?" he asked, though he knew very well the black was an affectation of the Otto di guardia e balia, as the guards were called. "And what is your name?"

A faint smile curved the mouth under the mask, and it occurred to Massimo to hope that the man was not pox scarred or ugly. "Piero, signore. Piero di Miggliozzi."

"And where do you come from, Piero?"

Like Massimo, the man was clearly not born and bred Florentine. The patterns of his speech said as much.

"My family comes from Ravenna, signore. But I left there when I was a child."

Oh, the fellow became more intriguing with each citrus scented breath. Massimo turned to a nearby table and broke off a piece of a spun sugar representation of David and Goliath. It was unusual to meet a man like himself, who had seen other places, who had not been in Firenze his whole life. Interesting, as well, for if a man was desperate enough to leave the safety of friends and family in these treacherous times, he was usually fleeing something.

"Your father. He was in trouble?"

Piero laughed, drawing rather shocked looks at the heartiness of the sound. "No, signore. He was an artist. He went where the patrons commissioned him to go."

"Was he any good?"

That earned him another laugh, and people began to mill about them, always drawn to something they might be missing. A single wave of his hand sent them scattering like pigeons, though.

"He did well enough. We did not want. And you, signore, your family is from Rome?"

Now came his own turn to laugh aloud, albeit wryly. "My family are everywhere."

He sighed, looking about them as two ladies of the Pitti family sidled up. "Walk with me?"

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