A sudden, guttural laugh, sharp as a whetted blade, cleaved through the hushed reverence of the *Collegio di San Marco*'s scriptorium. Marco Bellini had his fist clenched, poised to strike, a familiar challenge simmering in his eyes. Before the young hothead could unleash his clumsy bravado, Lodovico Rossi’s hand shot out, a swift, almost contemptuous slap across Marco’s thigh. The movement was barely perceptible, yet it shattered the looming conflict, leaving Marco deflated.
His bluster collapsed into a strangled yelp, an absurd sound like a duck caught mid-squawk. Giulio Conti and Cosimo Ricci, who had been poised to either intervene or mock, erupted in guffaws. Marco, his face mottled red, spun on them, his own frustration seeking a new target. “Oh, this amuses you, does it? Truly so amusing?” He cuffed Cosimo’s arm, a petulant, harmless blow.
With that final, juvenile display, the trio stomped from the room, their departing laughter echoing in the high-ceilinged space. Before vanishing through the heavy oak door, Cosimo glanced back, offering Niccolò a jaunty wave. Niccolò, not wishing to seem entirely aloof, returned a brief, almost imperceptible nod. He settled back into his carrel, the scent of aged parchment and beeswax a familiar comfort, reaching for his charcoal stick.
He had just traced the first delicate curve of a new river on his vellum when he paused. Lifting his gaze, Niccolò let his eyes wander over the vaulted stone ceilings, the intricate frescoes depicting forgotten battles and celestial maps, the tall, leaded windows filtering the morning light into dusty shafts. All around him, the hushed industry of learning, yet beneath it, a palpable tension.
He lowered his head, the point of his charcoal scratching softly against the prepared surface. Three problems later, his fingers idly tapping the stick against the vellum, Niccolò looked up again.
Beyond the arched window, the *Collegio*'s inner courtyard lay awash in the muted golds and russets of late autumn. A pungent, earthy aroma drifted in, a mix of decaying leaves and the distant woodsmoke from the city's hearths. Above, the sky stretched a flawless, brilliant azure.
“A convent school would suffer far less grief,” Niccolò could almost hear Maestro Bartolomeo grumbling, his voice hoarse from years of lecturing history. “This place is a wilderness. A savage, untamed wilderness. Young gentlemen, by their very nature, must establish dominance. By May, perhaps, a fragile peace descends. But until then? Constant skirmishes, displays of foolish pride, testing the very limits of decorum. *Dio*, my head aches. And I must endure it all again when the next year’s novices arrive. Let me see… which saint’s day do they arrive under again?”
Bartolomeo would then spread his gnarled palm, counting the knuckles, muttering the names of saints, trying to predict the temperament of the incoming class. Niccolò, with a strange impulse, mirrored the motion, extending his own hand, attempting to decipher the hidden pattern in the joints of his fingers.
He found no logic, no cartographic sense in the arrangement. He flipped his hand over, counting the raised bones on the back, a useless exercise. It was late autumn now, the very air crisp, yet in his mind, the volatile energy felt no different from the raw, early spring.
“Young men are nothing but brutes. Irrational, hot-blooded, impulsive animals.”
Niccolò stared at the prominent knuckle of his middle finger, absently tapping his charcoal against the oak of his carrel, a rhythm like a hesitant drum.
Bartolomeo’s raspy voice, likely thick with a seasonal cough, droned from the distant lecture hall, punctuated by the occasional scrape of chalk against slate.
Niccolò’s gaze drifted to a vacant seat near the front of the scriptorium. For a moment, he imagined a faint impression on the polished wood – the ghost of a head, pressed down on one side, floating just above on the other.
His tapping ceased.
He turned his head slowly.
Lodovico Rossi sat hunched over a heavy tome, his face half-buried in its yellowing pages. His eyes were half-lidded, glazed with fatigue. He would fix his stare upon a particularly vexing passage, as if to devour its meaning whole, only to surrender abruptly, slumping forward until his forehead met the page.
Niccolò watched as Lodovico’s nose flattened slightly between the heavy leaves and his skull.
Then, he turned away.
“Did I… doze for a moment?” Niccolò murmured, a thread of disorientation unsettling him. His mind felt not entirely his own. He placed a small, neat star beside the third problem on his vellum and moved on.
---
The midday meal was simple: crusty bread, pungent olives, and a diluted, ruby-red wine. Lodovico, having emptied his cup first, suddenly spoke.
“Niccolò, you stand second in our class, do you not?”
Niccolò looked up from meticulously buttering his bread. “That is correct.”
“And for the entire *Collegio*?”
“Also second.”
“By the Saints!”
“What?”
“So the foremost student of our class is also the foremost of the whole institution?”
“You were unaware? I have never claimed the first rank because of Isabella Ferrara.”
“Ah, Isabella. She is even more devoted than you, I hear?”
“Indeed. Her studies at the Academia extend until the first hour past midnight.”
“By the Pit. That is… relentless.”
“She applies herself with great diligence,” Niccolò stated, his tone flat. He scooped a handful of olives into his mouth, signaling the end of the conversation. Thankfully, Lodovico did not press.
“Aah—” Lodovico sighed, a sound of vague discontent. The silence stretched, an uncomfortable chasm between them. Niccolò, disliking such voids, blurted out, “And you, Lodovico? What is your standing?”
His hand, mid-reach for a fig, froze. Niccolò found his gaze drawn to Lodovico’s fingers. They held the fig with surprising elegance, a delicate grip. If there was one thing Lodovico Rossi did with precision, it was the handling of his repast.
“In our class…”
“Yes?”
“Ninth.”
“What?” Niccolò’s voice was a mere whisper.
“Why do you look at me so?”
Niccolò quickly averted his eyes from Lodovico’s hands. Was he jesting? Could it be true? He almost asked aloud, but bit back the words. *Maledizione*. That was too close. To offend Lodovico meant to endure his sharp temper.
Niccolò hesitated. Would praise be preferable? Or feigned indifference, as if it were entirely expected? His mind, ever calculating for advantage, weighed the social response. Lodovico seemed to hold little true affection for his boisterous companions. Indifference, then, felt the safer course.
“Hm. You fare better than I would have surmised.”
“What? Surmised? How dim-witted did you take me for?” Lodovico demanded, bristling.
“I did not think you dim, simply… I believed you struggled with Volterran grammar?”
“Grammar is my only weakness! Only grammar.”
“You do not even attend the Academia.”
“Not attending the Academia does not signify an inability to study! *Cazzo*, did you truly believe me an imbecile?”
“No, no, not at all!” Niccolò waved his hand dismissively. “It is impressive, truly, to achieve such a standing without the Academia’s instruction.”
“…Truly?” Lodovico’s voice softened, a note of unexpected pride in it.
“Indeed. It is quite impressive.”
For some reason, Lodovico began to mash his bread into his plate with his spoon. Niccolò caught a glimpse of the tips of his ears, turning a faint red. Lodovico, he realized, was blushing.
Now that he considered it, Lorenzo Donati had ranked thirty-second. And that was only because a handful of others had performed even worse. Thirty-second out of thirty-six.
He had paid little attention to Lorenzo Donati, outside of his direct dealings. A cold clarity washed over Niccolò. He had been drowning in exactly the kind of pathetic, obsessive infatuation he once despised.
Lodovico, completely oblivious to Niccolò’s internal crisis, had clearly taken a boost to his confidence. His tone, when he spoke again, was brimming with self-satisfaction.
“Oh, you likely do not know—I am quite adept in Ancient Greek.”
“Oh? How adept?”
“Perfect scores. I have never lost a single mark in Greek.”
“*Khhkk!*” Niccolò choked, spitting a mouthful of wine. Lodovico scowled, yanking his tray further away.
“What the fiend was that reaction?”
“I merely… did not anticipate such a boast.”
“Is it truly so shocking?” He frowned, a slight pout on his lips. “My Volterran grammar is a beast, but what of it?” An odd hint of self-deprecation underscored his words. Niccolò, recovering, offered a jest.
“Perhaps more time in the scriptorium, less in the taverns?”
“What nonsense do you speak? I am a man of letters!”
“A man of letters? I have never seen you with a book.”
“That is because I read in secret, in my chambers.”
“Why in the name of the Saints would you need to hide it?”
Lodovico’s eyes, which had been curved in amusement, drooped slightly as he scooped a spoonful of bread and wine into his mouth. Then, casually, deliberately, he pressed his lips over the spoon’s edge. Something in that image unsettled Niccolò. He bit the inside of his cheek. Lodovico met Niccolò’s eyes as he pulled the spoon away, then lowered his gaze and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the tip of it.
“Niccolò, even a sonnet to a courtesan is literature.”
That was a jest. A *maledetto* joke. Niccolò’s face burned. To hide it, he grabbed a crumpled parchment next to his tray and threw it at Lodovico’s face. It struck just below Lodovico’s long, narrow eyes and fell harmlessly onto the table. One of his eyes twitched. Niccolò, not caring but pretending he might have, mumbled, “Do not commit such obscenities. Especially within the walls of this *Collegio*. It is… unsavory.”
“Oh? You mean this? You mean Bastiano’s little… affectation?”
“I care not whose affectation it is. Cease it.”
“But is this not… *en vogue* amongst us now?”
Niccolò stared at him, unable to discern jest from seriousness.
---
Niccolò found sleep easier these days, a sure sign that his body, if not his mind, had found a measure of calm. Mornings, once dry and sluggish, now felt strangely crisp, invigorating. It was a welcome change; in his view, the gravest sins at eighteen were complacency and languid indulgence.
“*Ah, cazzo*—” His jaw clicked painfully as he brushed his teeth. Ever since Bastiano Visconti had struck him, his jaw made an odd, grinding noise whenever he opened his mouth too wide. Other than that, today was a good day. But even in this newfound peace, sudden stings of irritation arose, always, inevitably, from Bastiano. Or rather, the incidents that stemmed from him, most of which unfolded within the *Collegio*.
“Oh, by the way. I saw Bastiano Visconti last night,” Lorenzo Donati announced, biting into a heavily spiced sausage roll, a dubious concoction sold by a street vendor that reputedly used whatever scraps the butchers discarded. Marco Bellini, who had been mock-sparring with Lorenzo’s ankle, suddenly perked up.
“Holy Saints—that’s right! You just sparked my memory! I was just about to mention it. I heard something through the whispers—you know Messer Alvise, yes? That dissolute Messer Alvise? I heard Bastiano is lodged at his villa.”
“Messer Alvise? That witless Park Alvise?” Lodovico Rossi, rummaging through a small pouch of sweets, asked casually. He pulled out two sugar plums, plump and glistening. For some inexplicable reason, he handed one to Niccolò.
“……?” Niccolò stared at it, confused. “……What is this?” He looked at Lodovico questioningly, but Lodovico merely gave a slight nod, as if the gesture alone was explanation enough. The one who reacted most vehemently was Marco, whose pouch of sweets had been raided.
“By the Pit! I purchased those! Why in the name of *Dio* are you all devouring my provisions, you swine?”
“Oh, as if you have never pilfered from mine, pig.” Lorenzo made another fake knife-hand strike at Marco’s throat. Marco instantly spun around, grabbed Lorenzo’s collar, and swung a mock punch at his face. Of course, he would not actually hit him. Such was their way.
Niccolò ignored their foolish bickering and looked down at the sugar plum in his hand. Its wrapper was simple, unadorned. He peeled it, popped the sweet into his mouth, and lifted his head.
“What do you think? The taste of first love?” Lodovico grinned.
“Citron is too sharp,” Niccolò replied, the tart sweetness blooming on his tongue. His answer was not just for the plum; it was his assessment of Lodovico’s jest. More than anything, he found little amusement in the notion of first love. That sticky, bitter feeling clung to the back of his throat. It killed his appetite. He could not even finish the sugar plum. He tossed it into a nearby refuse bin.
“Oh no, such a waste,” Lodovico mocked, cupping his cheeks with both hands. Ignoring him, Niccolò reached into Marco’s pouch to find a different sweet. All were tart: candied citron or sour lime. Lime, he decided, was the lesser evil. He unwrapped one and put it in his mouth.
“Anyway, Messer Alvise, you say? Sounds just like Bastiano.”
“What, are they both *libertines*?” Lodovico’s words were sharp. Uncomfortable, Niccolò turned to look at him. Lodovico was sucking on his sugar plum expressionlessly, twirling the white stick between his lips. Niccolò pulled his own plum from his mouth. Something about this felt wrong. Lodovico did not seem to care. He tilted his plum stick in the air like a small sword, making random jabbing motions.
“He trifles with patrons—be they noble or common. And when he finds someone… suitable, he sends them straight to Bastiano. It is a constant exchange. They indulge, then pass each other on.”
“So Messer Alvise is… of that inclination as well?” Marco Bellini suddenly cut in. Whether he had finished his playful scuffle with Lorenzo or had simply halted mid-fight to eavesdrop, Niccolò could not tell. Marco rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if actually processing what he had just heard.