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“Then,” said Fiore, “we may dispense with the tourist’s route. Where else do your interests lie? Drinks? Dancing? Not opera and not bathhouses,” he added with a sly glance up at Enzo. “That much I remember.”
Enzo found himself returning the smile even though Fiore couldn’t see it. “You did promise to show me which sights you thought most beautiful.”
Fiore blinked as if surprised Enzo had remembered. Still, he smiled on. “So I did. Very well. Art it is. Come along.”
Enzo trailed happily in Fiore’s shadow.
The artisan districts lay in the south-west quarter of the city. Each guild had its own island; that much Enzo recalled from his childhood lessons in governance. He’d never yet had occasion to visit them himself. His solitary wanderings had not taken him so far.
Fiore, however, took him direct through the bustling Merceria—still far more hushed than the market square of the university town, though a hundredfold more active—and over the sole bridge crossing the Grand Canal, then down side-streets and back-ways and cutting through many a corti to reach another bridge, its destination made apparent by its decoration.
For one, the bridge was made of stone rather than mere wood. For another, every inch of it was slathered in bas-relief. The carved pod of frolicking dolphins along the underside of the arch bore a green tint in their deepest furrows from the algae rising with the tide. Their stone spouts supported Neptune himself on either side of the arch’s peak, flanked by nereides.
And if the bridge itself had somehow left the traveler in any doubt of whence they’d arrived, the aedicula that met them upon alighting from said bridge removed all trace of ambiguity. Within its four pillars arose a marble sculpture of Bellenos posed with hammer and chisel in hand, carving himself out of the stone. Everything below the waist remained rough and unhewn. In this aspect, at least, it rendered the god’s peculiarity a sacred mystery. The votive oil lamp before him burned bright even by day, bespeaking the district’s wealth.
“Admirable, isn’t he?”
Enzo turned to find Fiore gazing on the god with undisguised appreciation. He supposed this boded well for when, or if, he chose to trust Fiore with his peculiarity. Aloud, he merely murmured his agreement.
This sufficed to send Fiore along to their next landmark. He chose one particular studio—at random, as far as Enzo could tell—and steered them both inside. The tall windows provided ample light; if they’d proved insufficient, the multitude of deck prisms set into the roof would’ve seen to the lack. It left the workshop aglow with soft golden sunshine that gave the cold white marble a rosy hue. Several erect slabs drew Enzo’s initial notice. They stood in various states of completion; from a complex multitude of geometric charcoal measurements on untouched stone showing where the first chisel-blows ought to fall, to a feminine figure whose smooth limbs were on the brink of emerging from her angular marble chrysalis.
Fiore, however, passed these by in favor of drawing Enzo deeper into the studio. He halted in the center.
Where another Fiore lay before him.
Enzo recognized him at once. The sculptor’s skill made the resemblance so lifelike as to be unmistakable. Doubtless Fiore had modelled for it.
Even without his own deep partiality for the model, however, Enzo thought the sculpture would have enraptured him.
The marble Fiore lay supine against a rocky beach. The uneven ground beneath him forced his back to arch, stretching the belly concave between stark ribs and jutting hip-bones, the dip of the navel the only mark on the smooth flesh. A fishing net slung low beneath the hips and across the tops of his thighs belied the imaginary Fiore’s profession and provided what little modesty covered the otherwise nude form. His supple slender legs tangled across each other. The arms, tossed over the head with apparent carelessness, formed an organic frame for the lolling head. The curls tumbled across the brow and through the slender fingers, unmistakable in their resemblance despite their pale ivory hue contrasted against the living Fiore’s ebony locks. The face held the same high cheekbones, sharp jaw, aquiline nose, and noble brow as the original flesh, though the dark and compelling eyes remained forever shut. The perfect lips appeared just as soft in marble as in flesh. The desire to kiss flesh and marble both ached in Enzo’s heart.
When at last he could tear his gaze away from the masterpiece, he found the real Fiore gracing him with an impish smile.
“Look here,” Fiore said, his voice low as he pointed to where the fishing net dangled off the hip.
Folds upon folds of netting draped over each other between the statue’s thighs and over the outside of the left hip, as perfectly weighted as if it were truly braided hempen cord and not mere marble. As it folded over, the threads crossed beneath each other between real holes so intricate and delicate that a chisel no broader than a needle must have carved them out.
More astonishing than the net—which was already astonishment itself—was what it held. Trapped within the marble marvel were two fish so lifelike in both form and detail, the sculptor having carved out each individual scale on their twisting bodies, that it seemed as if they truly writhed for their release.
And Enzo, enthralled by the human figure, had almost missed them altogether.
As he glanced up to meet Fiore’s eyes again, he found him smirking, as if he knew just what Enzo had almost missed and why.
“Remarkable,” Enzo declared. “I’m astonished it hasn’t sold.”
“I’m not,” said Fiore. “It’s the best example of her skills on public display. I doubt she’d ever let it out of her workshop.”
There went Enzo’s plans for a return visit to the studio. Though perhaps he could persuade the sculptor to make a copy.
“Come to play at Narcissus again?”
Enzo turned to face the unknown speaker. A woman had wandered up behind them, garbed in shirt and breeches not unlike Fiore’s own, though without the scarlet sash that marked his trade. Her round cap and smock marked hers—particularly the chisels and hammers tucked into the latter’s pockets. She cropped her hair short, just above her jutting chin, and gazed down at Fiore with an arch indulgence that put Enzo in mind of something between Lucrezia and Giovanna.
Fiore seemed not in the least surprised to find himself thus addressed. “It’s your own fault for rendering the copy more beautiful than the original.”
The sculptor accepted this compliment with a thoughtful hum. Her sly gaze slid to meet Enzo’s. She struck out her hand for a clasp. “Artemisia.”
Enzo gave her his hand and his nickname in turn. Her grasp was swift and strong.
