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“The spiral staircase in the northwest tower,” Enzo replied as though it were a natural feature in any household. “I used to run up and down it every morning to warm up for my fencing lesson.”
Fiore stared at him. He knew Enzo was an early riser, far earlier than himself, but he’d never yet considered what Enzo had done with his time whilst Fiore slept. He supposed this explained Enzo’s stamina at the very least. Nevertheless his reply remained the same. “I’m certain you’ll impress me regardless.”
A skeptical twist marred Enzo’s perfect mouth.
Fiore kissed it back into shape.
“There’s nothing I find so inspiring as the sight of a gentleman gleaming with honest sweat,” Fiore proclaimed in a whisper against Enzo’s lips as they parted.
The shy smile Fiore loved so well graced Enzo’s handsome features. Then he leapt up from the table and strode from the room to deliver his answer to Carlotta.
~
The lessons resumed the following day.
Not at dawn, as they had before, because Fiore didn’t arise until halfway through the morning. He had some regret for delaying them, but Enzo waved off any attempt at apology. Only after Fiore had broken his fast, drunk his coffee, washed, dressed, and announced himself ready did Enzo—who’d done all this well before Fiore had awoken—consent to go downstairs and prepare for his lesson.
“I told Maestra Rovigatti we couldn’t meet her before midday,” Enzo confessed as he led Fiore arm-in-arm to the courtyard.
Fiore felt torn between guilt at altering Enzo and Maestra Rovigatti’s established routine and relief at not needing to arise a minute sooner than he had.
Enzo settled Fiore onto the marble bench, cushioned by furs. Vittorio, who’d followed them down in loyal silence, lay down at his feet.
Then, under Fiore’s watchful eye, Enzo took up his rapier and began.
Fiore had come prepared to enjoy a show. Any excuse would’ve satisfied for the opportunity to see Enzo stripped to the waist and gleaming with sweat.
Even so, Enzo’s display surpassed his expectations.
From the moment he raised his blade, Enzo became a conduit of grace. The precision and rapidity of the changes in his posture as the sword slashed through the air reminded Fiore of the ballerini rehearsing for the stage. (Fiore had oft admired the ballerini—at least, before events that didn’t bear remembering.) Enzo’s long, lean frame had oft belied his poise. Now Fiore saw where he’d learnt to carry his immense height in elegance. There was a pattern to Enzo’s movements now, obvious enough to Fiore’s eye, but too rapid for him to discern any specific gestures within or even begin to reckon their purpose. It was a dance, as so many storytellers had asserted in the fairy tales of Fiore’s magazines, but only now did he realize the truth in what they’d written.
Then, in the midst of a particular gesture, something caught Enzo’s eye. He shot up straight, flung out his sword in a slash to his side, then raised its hilt to his face in salute.
Fiore turned to follow his sight-line and found a woman entering the courtyard from one of its many archways. Middling-height and middling aged, with her whip-cord frame garbed in waistcoat and breeches and carrying a sword at her hip. She wore her hair cropped even shorter than Artemisia’s. Indeed, her casual confidence reminded Fiore of his sculptor friend. But while no one would describe Artemisia as clumsy, the sword-bearing woman moved with more perceptible finesse than her or indeed most people.
“Good morning, your grace,” she said as she approached.
“Maestra Rovigatti,” said Enzo, bowing. “This is Fiore. Fiore, Maestra Rovigatti.”
Fiore stood just long enough to bow—despite the ache in his gut and Enzo’s alarmed glance. Maestra Rovigatti seemed to appreciate the gesture and returned it. She removed her coat, waistcoat, and sword, laying all aside on the bench beside Fiore and taking up the remaining blunted practice blade in its stead. Then she rejoined Enzo.
Enzo raised his sword. Maestra Rovigatti held out her blade. Enzo tapped it with his own. Both withdrew with their swords before their face and their points skyward. Then a slash to the side, as if to shake blood from the blade. With that, they dropt into the same stance Fiore had seen Enzo assume in his practice.
On some signal unseen to Fiore’s eye, they began.
The first bout was over almost too quick for Fiore to realize they’d started. To his understanding, they both burst into motion in the same instant—the ring of steel-on-steel resounded thrice, though Fiore saw only a blur—then, all ceased, with blades crossed and the blunted point of Maestra Rovigatti’s sword frozen in the air, poised to pierce Enzo’s heart.
Both withdrew. The same salute. The same burst. The same blades whirling too fast for Fiore to parse. The same sudden halt, this time with the maestra’s sword ready to skewer his stomach. Another ensued, ending with the blade at Enzo’s throat. Then—a longer bout. Back and forth. Ground lost and gained on either side, until Maestra Rovigatti caught Enzo’s sword in a clinch that, somehow, allowed her to throw him to the ground.
But no sooner had he fallen than she struck out a hand to draw him up, and he wasted not a single breath in arising to meet her next challenge.
The bouts grew longer. They circled. Dashed forward. Scrambled back. A glancing blow—a true strike—ending, for once, with Enzo’s blade in the hollow of the maestra’s throat and the faintest hint of a smile flickering across her lips. Then they returned to their marks and began again.
And, though Enzo lost almost every time, each attempt made him appear all the more dashing to Fiore’s eyes.
The fluidity of movement from fingertip to hand to wrist to arm to shoulder to waist to leg—the way strands of hair came free from his queue and fell across his face in tandem and defiance alike of the scars already there—the angles of his rear leg outstretched as he lunged forward—each one a divine glimpse of elegant majesty.
Fiore had his zibaldone to hand but dared not glance down long enough to even attempt to capture these fleeting moments, however beautiful. He wondered if he could convince Enzo to pose later and for how long he could hold such handsome postures. Artemisia’s talent alone could snatch gesture sketches out of a duel such as this.
