A Game of Rebellion

So I just spent about an hour reading a book on Renaissance Italy. Great, now I am duly informed. Don’t correct me on anything other than grammar or my shoddy Italian.

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The ship was a rather large affair, with huge masts that towered over Vasilios’ head. His eyes hurt as he stared up at them, feeling the sway of the ship as it creaked back and forth gently in the deep green waters. A man below deck was shouting to the taskmen above, something fast and angry. Boxes were being loaded, and men in varying earthy colored clothes were bustling around him, shoving the injured man slightly as they passed carrying heavy items. At some point, a leather bag of water was passed to him and he began to sip lightly at it, still staring at the huge masts in wonder with a blank face. His lips were drawn tight and thin into a grimace when his arm was hit every few minutes, but otherwise was completely apathetic. It was this scene that the ruggedly handsome merchant Lorenzo came upon.
“AH, amico!” Screamed the frantic merchant. “I’ve been looking for you! We are shoving off now, if you will like I will show you to my room.”
Now this caught Vasilios’ attention. The austere-looking man turned a frown to Lorenzo, confused.
“Your room?”
“Yes, si, si,” Lorenzo began, waving a hand in the air as if to dismiss Vasilios’ comment. “Most of the men sleep in haysacks below, but this is my ship, loaned to me by a dear friend for this trip, so I take the captain’s quarters.” Lorenzo scrutinized Vasilios with narrowed blue eyes as sharp as ice. “Would you rather sleep below deck with them, il mio piccolo ladro? It can be arranged, I assure you.”
Needless to say, Vasilios turned and followed the merchant towards the captain’s quarters. After sleeping in a cart with a broken arm, the man felt like something better than hay to lay his head on.

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All of the men were asleep, and the gentle rocking of the ship against the frothy waves soothed the assassin. The moon was glittering down on the vast ocean he stared at intently. His fingers gripped the edge of the bow harshly, causing the wood to groan in brief protest to his manhandling.
The sling had come off a few days ago when they were in a North African port, where Lorenzo had stopped to trade linen for spices and strange bulky packages. Now they were headed towards Italy, where they would dock in Venice.
The salty air stung his eyes and he shut them briefly, cursing silently under his breath. The annoying, loud merchant had insisted he keep a wrap and splint on his arm under his leather brace, even though it was nearly healed. There was a large wound on his forearm, however, where the bone had broken slightly through the skin. The merchant had cleaned this daily, without fail, regardless of Vasilios’ capability to do it on his own. The man simply would not let him be- he hovered constantly, always making rude and loud remarks on the most blatantly obvious things. Here, at night on deck was the only time Vasilios could garner any bit of peace.
The subtle sounds of snoring could barely be heard over the smashing of water against the sides of the large craft, and the creaking of wood echoed in the otherwise quiet night. He knew that Lorenzo’s first mate Angelo had watch duties tonight, but he was alone on deck otherwise.
He used this time to slip into a reverie, thinking back on the first time he had undressed on the ship. He had done so with much humiliating assistance from Lorenzo, due to his broken arm. The strange event was made even more horrible since Lorenzo had begun making loud comments on Vasilios’ body as he slowly revealed it.
‘My, such skinny legs! They’re like twigs- how do they hold the little ladro up?!’
‘You have no chest hair? Aren’t you around twenty? You’d think a man of your age would have chest hair, but your chest is like a bird’s egg. And so pale! Didn’t you spend the last year in the desert?’
The man’s own tanned hands had stood out harshly against his own milky tone, he recalled.
‘You have a very cute natiche, piccolo ladro.’
Vasilios blushed, and perched his chin on his hand, leaning against the bow. He had damn near smacked the man for the last one. The comment had been accompanied with a brief slap to his buttocks, which had caused him to blush mightily.
Come to think of it, the other man took every chance he could to touch Vasilios. Whether it was simply a brief glance of his shoulder, or a swift pass of the back of his hand over a thigh, there was always touching. Olive green eyes narrowed as Vasilios continued pondering this. It was possible that Lorenzo was attracted to men and wished to bed him, after all frolicking in the sheets with younger males was fashionable in Italy from what Vasilios had heard. He had only been in the area once, and that was to complete an assignment in less than a week. Italy seemed to be the pinnacle of religious fervor with sinful and decadent undertones, from what he had seen of it. However, though Lorenzo embodied his beloved Italia to perfection, Vasilios doubted the man wanted the use of his body. And even if he did, Vasilios had never sent any sign that he enjoyed Lorenzo’s advances, and could only hope the other would not seek his affections any more actively than he already was.
The thin man sighed into his hand, his nose scrunched up at the thought. His thick brown hair tickled his ears as the sudden strong wind whipped it around, and the mast creaked loudly behind him.
With one last lingering flick of his eyes across the water, Vasilios resigned himself to trudging back to Lorenzo’s room for some much needed rest. Unlike most men the assassin knew, Lorenzo did not snore, which he was very grateful for.
The thin linen tunic he had been given to sleep in brushed well past his knees, and it ruffled softly against his legs as he slowly crept down the stairs, being careful to not let them groan under his softly padding feet. The large door to the captain’s quarters were in the immediate right after descending the stairs, and Vasilios pushed it open with his good arm. The hinges squeaked only slightly, but he stopped for a moment anyways, waiting to see if the captain would wake.
When he sensed no movement in the room, he slipped inside and moved towards his pile of large pillows and blankets. An afghan was slung hastily over the makeshift bed, and a small painted gold cassone that Lorenzo had given him glinted slightly, open to reveal his assassin’s robes inside. His bare feet tapped lightly against the wood until he reached it, and he took the leather brace off of his healing arm and shoved it into the box, shutting it with a snap and click. The polished and painted wood and gold was very beautiful, and just the right size to hold all of his belongings. He had protested being given such nice things at first, but very quickly learned that to argue against Lorenzo when the man was adamant about something was folly.
With a shudder and a sigh, Vasilios creeped into the pallet he slept in. The thick afghan and bountiful pillows were thick and soft under his protesting back, and he settled in with a groan of pleasure, stretching his toes out. With his arm curled up to his chest and his head turned to where Lorenzo lay breathing deeply in sleep, he let his consciousness slip away, wondering if they would perhaps finally touch shore tomorrow.

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They did, in fact, reach Italy’s port, sometime around noon. Lorenzo was shouting directions to the men, and Vasilios was standing in his regular spot against the mast, his arm back in the sling and his face twisted into a frown. He had been woken up by his own shouts, as he had rolled over onto his bad arm and re-cracked the bone.
The merchant, after falling out of bed and yelling a bit, had looked over to see the assassin curled into a ball, holding his arm, and could assume what had happened. When watery eyes had looked up at him, wordlessly conveying a need for help, he had simply set and re-splinted the arm and brought the sling back out after helping Vasilios dress.
Now, the man grumbled under his breath over his display of weakness. Although Lorenzo thought him to be twenty, in truth he was only just recently nineteen. His limbs were lithe, and there was no more than a light stubble on his chin at any time. Still, he prided himself on being very strong of will, never displaying weakness to others. He had not cried over a broken bone in years, since he was a child. Now, he was internally berating himself for such a display, and to a man he barely even knew. Three weeks on a ship with someone was not long enough to claim a bond of any sort, after all.
The port of Genoa was cloudy, with thunder rumbling in the far-off distance. The storm could be felt and smelled in the thick air, and the usually moderately busy port city was eerily quiet as they pulled in.
The large ship was anchored to the dock and to the sea’s bottom, and the walkway from the deck to the dock was stretched out, waiting for the men to lift their heavy burdens over it and into carts that awaited them.
Vasilios was startled by Lorenzo slapping a hand on his good shoulder, and turned to the smiling merchant.
“It’s only a day or two’s ride from here to Florence. You’ll love her, the city of the Medici. She’s very beautiful.”
Vasilios shifted, his mouth turning down at the corners. Cities meant crowds. “And your home is there?”
The merchant looked almost offended, his eyes wide. “Oh, buoni cieli no! I just keep a small apartment there, a casa umile for when I go to do business. My palazzo bello is quite a ways from the city, out in the countryside.” He turned to peer at the assassin, a wide smile on his face. “I promised you olive trees, remember? You’ll see them soon enough, my friend.”
Vasilios rolled his eyes as the man walked away, laughing merrily. The only thing to do was follow the man to the docks, since the ship was nearly empty. Another large boat was being unloaded, and smaller gondolas were swaying harshly in the black water stirred by the oncoming storm. Vasilios stared at the dark, murky water sloshing against the side of the dock, and felt a sudden pang of longing for the deep blue of the Mediterranean, and the white-sand beaches and sprawling white limestone salons open to spring rain.
Lorenzo called out to him, waving an arm covered in a cream doublet. He stood out from the rest of the small crowd, with all of them dressed in darker tones and having lighter skin, the merchant was the precise opposite.
Vasilios slapped a hand to his forehead as he made his way over to the horses and carts grumpily- how the hell was he ever going to blend in and avoid socializing when he was with this moron?

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Review, dear readers, or no sexy chapter for you. And I’ll be super sad. Tell me what you think!
Amico- friend
Ladro- thief
Il mio piccolo ladro- my little thief
Natiche- butt
Cassone- gilded storage chests
Buono cieli- good heavens
Casa umile- humble home
Palazzo bello- lovely palace, mansion