Chapter Text
The day returns, but nevermore
Returns the traveller to the shore,
And the tide rises, the tide falls.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Naples
May 19th, 1707 -
My dearest Hazel,
I recieved yours of the 4th May. I'm glad to hear about your engagment, and wish you all the best. I have left University. I sail for Languedoc next month. Father has been in Florence since the end of April. There is no other news.
Nico di Angelo
The Palazzo Reale di Napoli was a hundred-windowed red box lording over the sparkling Gulf of Naples. Nico could see every boat in the harbour from his private study within - trim feluccas gliding over the summer waves, rowboats full of sun-wrinkled merchants in white and red cotton shirts, and, most importantly, the anchored barque that would take him to France when it left Italy in June.
He sealed the letters he was writing to his sister and her new fiance, Frank Zhang, in Toulouse - three exact copies, to be put in the care of three separate captains in case one or more of the France-bound shipping barges waiting in the bay was set off course, and put them aside for one of his servants to take to the docks.
He spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon sitting in a plump red chair near the window. Italy was vibrant with music beneath him - church bells, singing, and the strumming of lutes sounded from every direction. It was for this richness of culture and busy artistry that foreigners and Italians alike lauded Naples as one of the world's most spectacular cities, but Nico preferred the quiet stars at night, when the cicadas' calling was uninterrupted by the shouting and conversation in the streets, and the moon glinted off the water in rows like molten silver. Guitar songs and laughing Lords were not his Naples - since Bianca's death, the joy of the city only accentuated the barren feeling inside of him, made it feel darker by comparison.
At half past two, a pair of servants brought him a bright yellow solaio laden with chestnuts in mustard, bread that smelt lightly of rosewater, veal in agresto, and a good cinnamon custard, taking the letters with them when they left.
Even during the occasional weeks when his father left his usual home in Venice to stay in the Palazzo, Nico always chose to eat alone.
When the sun had gone down, leaving absolute darkness and a sky heavy with constellations, Nico lit a single white candle and took out his cards. He'd discovered them with Bianca years ago - dusky prints of a man riding a white horse, a farmer pouring water on a patch of flowers, a scene overlooking red roofed buildings in the white sun. When he was younger, he'd spread them out on the spiralling marble stairs near the front door, shuffling them with deft fingers; learning all 97, from the zodiacs to The Hanged Man.
'The Page of Swords.' He had told Bianca, the day before he would start Grammar School, turning over one of the cards he'd lain at his feet to reveal a stockinged young man with a bright, windswept face. 'Change. Challenge.'
Bianca had leant down to press a kiss into his wild black hair. 'Nothing you can't handle, Nico.' she had reassured him. 'The future can be however you want it to be.'
They had done a spread of their own design before every major change, sitting opposite each other, touching the cards and asking questions aloud. But by the time Nico left the Grammar School for University, Bianca had been dead two years, caught by a small wave of the same Plague that had coursed across Italy and swallowed nearly half the city before they'd even been born, and he'd done the spread alone. The cards felt familiar. He could almost imagine his sister's hands flipping them, brushing her thumb over their smooth faces, putting a positive spin on all his predictions until he was smiling, looking eagerly ahead into the future, excited about the possibilities.
Arranging the cards now, in anticipation of his journey West through Europe, he felt her absence like a living presence. He set eleven cards in a circle, one in the middle, two branching out to the sides, and pushed the rest of the deck away. Bianca had always said it was an imitation of the sun - the shape of a bright future.
First - the present, at the top. Nico flipped the card to reveal the Eight of Cups. A journey of self-exploration. Fitting, since he was due to leave on his Grand Tour in only a short month's time.
To the right came Death, riding a pale horse. Nico had never done a spread without Death appearing somewhere. Bianca used to say it meant he was always a step away from new opportunity and discovery, but as he stared at Death's yellow skull in the flickering candlelight, he felt a twist of uncertainty. Death would be his challenge. He decided to think about what that might mean later, and flipped the next card - The Hanged Man. He pinched his lips. He should be doing something differently... he should start doing things differently. But what?
In the past was the Four of Cups. He had chosen to close himself off from developing relationships, succumbing to boredom and loneliness. As if he needed the Tarot to tell himself that. Next came his weaknesses and strengths: the Nine of Swords and the Ace of Swords, respectively. He was depressed, sleepless and mournful, but would overcome through determination.
Sometimes he felt as if the cards were trying to insult him.
In the near future, he found the Page of Wands. New relationships, indecision. And what should he do about it?... The Lovers. Nico frowned. Love and a moral crossroad. He hadn't a clue what to make of that. The next card was meant to tell him something he would need to know going forward. When he flipped it, the Five of Pentacles, with its ailing beggars, stared up at him. Hardship. Bianca would tell him that family braved hard times together, supported each other, and found strength and the ability to overcome when they relied on and trusted one another. But Bianca wasn't here. He had no one to lean on.
The card to the far left represented his hopes and fears - the Six of Cups. Family gatherings. Home. Nico hadn't felt like he was at home for a long time. He hoped his half-sister Hazel and her new fiance would be able to find happiness in France, but to be included in that was too much to hope for. He doubted he'd ever feel the way he had when Bianca was alive - like he belonged, like he was loved, and loved someone in return. Never having a family... that wasn't his fear so much as his reality.
Finally, in the centre, rested his potential future. Nico was surprised to find The Sun. Obstacles overcome; joy; a new relationship or renewed health.
He sighed and put his cards back in their black silk bag before blowing out the candle and settling into darkness, feeling just as unsure as he'd felt before the reading, if not moreso.
Naples
June 6th, 1707 -
I have left University. A hired ship will take me to the South of France, and from there I will make my way through Europe. If you are still in Brighton, perhaps you could join me for coffee. The years have passed slowly and humourlessly since you left.
Nico di Angelo
The longer he stared at the note, the more tempting it became to give up and burn it.
He had put more thought into the reading he'd done, and pulled out The Lovers from the deck several times to glare at it. It had never appeared to him before. The thought of what it could mean left him feeling torn. There was only one potential love he could imagine in his life, and he'd (quite sensibly, in his own opinion) given up on pursuing it.
They'd met when Percy Jackson had been traveling through Europe with an entourage of his ruckus friends nearly two years past. One of them had greedily eaten three tourtes and two bowls of zabaglione while they took chocolate in Nico's rooms, and Percy had spoken some of the worst French Nico had ever had the misfortune of hearing, and even worse Latin - but he'd enjoyed having them in the Palazzo, filling its halls with their ridiculous philosophising, vociferously quoting satires from British newspapers. Percy told him awesome tales of galloping to the rescue of a woman who'd fallen off her horse and broken an arm in Paris, struggling bravely through the treacherous Alps, and drinking heartily in Milan.
Nico had tried to teach Percy enough Italian to experience the city, but all Percy could ever say was 'vino bono dolce' with so much feeling and passion it made Nico laugh. They'd often stood talking together, watching the boats on the horizon, dusky sails glowing white in the sunset. Percy always smelt like the coastline - not of fish and tar, but like sea salt and white beach, fresh and sharp. The wild waves crashing on Naples' rocky cliffs were reflected so intensely in Percy's eyes, it was like he had been bourne from the water itself.
Nico had never felt so impressed by another human being in his entire life.
One night, after Nico had spent an entire exhausting day walking just behind Percy's small army of boisterous friends as they toured Naples' streets in search of art to write home about and casinos full of gossiping ladies, their trite English conversations drowned out by the echoing shouts of locals playing games of Trieze, Percy announced that it was far too hot in Naples, and so they should all pop into the harbour for a swim.
Grover, who had seemed so determined to eat all of Nico's cheese during dinner, put a hand to his stomach and shook his head. 'I think I'd sink if I tried.'
Percy laughed and took Nico by the arm, calling parting words to his friends and leading Nico alone towards the water. They'd ended up walking together along the beach, illuminated by a low hanging moon. The sea was dark and gentle beside them. When Percy threw his coat to the sand and lifted his shirt over his head, Nico felt like he was drowning, even though he stayed rooted to the dry Earth.
He'd watched Percy shake the sea from his hair - letting waves crash into his calves, ducking into the white foam - from a safe distance away, knees pulled up to his chest and fingers buried in the cool sand. Percy was organic. He looked like he belonged not only in the world, but to it, each crest a homecoming, every trough drawing him close to embrace his nakedness, the warm breeze a caress on his cheeks. He was so unlike Nico, who never fit anywhere. And Nico realised then that he loved him.
After the British men left for Venice, Percy calling 'dol-say! dol-say!' and waving, his smile whiter than the clouds in the afternoon sky, Nico had gone back to the Palazzo with lead in his legs.
He'd written Percy several letters and never sent them. He'd never received any, either. He told himself every day not to hope that Percy would write him, or think of him, or wish to see him again.
But now he was going to England. The flicker of hope he felt when he looked out his window at the barque bobbing on the ocean frightened and disturbed him, but he asked own of his servants to see that the note be delivered to Brighton, anyway.
Bianca would have been proud of that little show of optimism.
Maddalena set sail just after dawn on the 16th of June. Nico watched from the deck as the Palazzo shrunk away, seeing for the first time how it looked from afar - dull red under an empty sky, squat and hulking. The wind was fresh so early in the morning. It whipped Nico's long dark hair away from his eyes and stung his cheeks pink. He felt, as he scanned the Italian coastline for familiar buildings, like he had reached some sort of beginning.
The ocean beneath him was whipped into a white froth behind the barque. The sun felt like it was branding his neck, claiming it. With every minute that passed on open water, Nico felt more like he belonged to himself. Was this simplicity - this serene in-between place, away from the shores of busy, loud Europe, the reason Percy always looked so perfectly golden when he turned his face to the sun and the sparkling sea? Why the tide took him like a mother takes a child's hand when he waded into the surf?
Nico stayed all day on deck. The other men aboard talked to him sometimes, mostly in Italian or English. Since Percy's visit he'd been practising the latter more, and he was pulled into the occasional conversation with the crew - bronze-skinned Londoners, small boys from Salerno and Avola, and an Irishman called Old Job who was missing his front teeth.
'You're in a hurry to burn.' one of the Englishmen laughed when Nico joined them for a simple supper of bread, cheese, and beef in verjus in the early afternoon.
'What do you mean?' He asked over his wine. 'I haven't been in a hurry all day.'
'That's true!' Called Old Job from his table. 'F'only we were all of us so relaxed, if you catch my meaning.'
Nico did, but he said nothing, sipping at his wine instead.
'Sun-burn.' Explained another sailor, making a circle in the air around his own face. 'You get an immunity after a while.'
That night, Nico longed desperately for that immunity. His cheeks were hot and red, as though he'd brought leftover sun with him to his cot on the barque’s chilly deck. The night air was cooler on open water. He pulled his blanket up to his chin and listened to the waves swell and bump against the ship's hull, as the sailors sang and played games of chance on crates next to the masts. He'd been warned he'd have to leave his bed if the wind changed, unless he wanted to be trampled by one of the men changing the sails.
All in all, it was nothing like the Palazzo. And even though the ship was salty, unstable, and loud with working sounds, bottles clinking, and creaking wood, he didn't miss his private rooms in Italy. When he sat alone at the low table in his parlour, emptiness surrounded and stifled him - endless halls branching out the door, white walls long and blank save a handful of dim paintings in twisted golden frames, all tightly sealed under the dark rafters. Nico couldn't understand how such an oversized place had felt so cramped, while laying surrounded by other men on the deck of Maddalena, so close he could hear them grunt in their sleep, didn't make him feel crowded.
The air under the stars tasted cleaner.
He didn't miss Italy.
On the second day, they were passed by an Italian caravel, evidently returning home, and one of the Englishmen saw whales off starboard - two long, grey creatures with white bellies and small curved fins on their tails. They rolled in the waves like dogs wanting to be scratched, splashing in the morning sun. The Englishmen called them 'minke', the Italians 'minore', and Old Job called them 'grey buggerers'. Nico had never been an animal person, but he couldn't deny that the whales were majestic in their own right.
Mere hours later, a scout shouted 'dolphins!' from the back of the boat, and Nico was heralded by two of the crew to watch a pod leap in and out of the stream following the ship. They soared, bent-backed against the red sunset, flashing stripes of white and grey.
'That's good luck.' A boy of about 13 told Nico. 'Red sky at night, and dolphins following after us, too.'
The sailors were a superstitious bunch. Nico had heard about a hundred different rhymes and rules to tell the weather, a dozen signs of good wind or guaranteed good health. Old Job had a rooster and a pig tattooed on his feet, to prevent his own drowning, and some of the crew had told Nico he was not allowed to shave, lest he bring them bad luck. Personally, he thought they were trying to make him look as disheveled and ungroomed as they were out of spite, but he'd left a small bit of stubble on his cheeks since the deckhands started glaring at him after he'd cleaned up for dinner the first night onboard, just to take the attention off his face.
When darkness fell, Nico settled on the deck with Sawyer, a Brit with golden hair and pockmarked cheeks, and his friends Jacob Devol, Johannes, and a Frenchman called Ignace, writing letters while they drank rum and rolled dice. A cool wind blew over them, so that each man was made to wear a coat or jacket against it, and the waves agitated the ship from many directions, making it seem to rock without making any progress West. From the mast, a member of the crew called down 'Caravelo Italiano!' followed by a rough shout of 'Again?', and a group of sailors burst into raucous laughter over their tankards when an Englishman fell down a hatch to the lower deck with a bang and a flurry of rough curses.
'A lad was telling me that the red sun would be good luck.' Nico said, his voice soft and low, when a bump against the hull made his pen skitter across his paper.
Ignace nodded slowly, stroking his chin. 'For the weather - it's true. No storms.' He said. Nico had struggled at first to understand his Southern provincial accent and strong lisp, but he took it in stride. Hazel was living in Southern France, now; he'd be hearing much more of it.
'Are you writing home about me, di Angelo?' Asked Jacob Devol, in English, swinging an arm about Ignace's skinny neck. 'You shoul’ tell more than jus' about the weather, see.'
'I'm writing my sister.' Nico said. 'She's to be married.'
'Aw, now that's sweet.' Said Sawyer. 'What's a viscount's sister called, then, so we can toast her proper, like? Only I’ve never kept track of you lot and your titles.’'
'A bastard.'
'Ahh. To the bastard sister of our broody passenger - a happy marriage.'
Another thing about sailors - they always found reason to drink. Nico thought the constant shifting of the ship under his feet stomach-churning enough without excessive alcohol.
The ship rocked again, so forcefully Nico was pitched sideways onto the deck, as a boom, low and sharp like a thunderclap, rent the air. When he righted himself again, the ship was in a chaos so sudden it seemed impossible.
Johannes had sprinted towards the nearest mast and climbed up halfway to shout 'Panic stations!' in a heavy, commanding voice, and Sawyer had thrown his cards into the air to sprint away to port with several others, holding their hats and flapping coats against the wind.
Nico scrambled to gather his letters in his coat and leapt to his feet. Several shots rang through the air, and when he turned around, he saw that a ship had pulled alongside them - curved like a banana, with three triangular sails and an empty mast that jutted out of the sunken looking bow: the caravel that had passed them that evening - he was sure it was the same one, now flying a flag with a wicked looking fire engulfing a bone white skull on a background as black as the night around them. It had obviously been tailing them.
From above him, Johannes yelled desperately to the scrambling crew: 'pirates!'
The pirates were shouting, too. They waved scabbards and knives, blazing torches, and stamped their boots on the deck of their ship. Nico pressed himself against one of the barque's masts as a cannon banged, blasting over the deck. Sawyer, who had been shouting expletives and waving his arms back at the men on the caravel, was knocked overboard, and the rest of the crew sprawled fearfully across the boards. A stray bottle of rum rolled past Nico's feet and followed his fallen shipmate into the sea.
At the prow, the Captain, Agustin Lombardo, stood red faced and silent. He'd spilt wine down his front, so it looked like his shirt was stained with purplish blood. Nico spotted one of the young Italians sprinting up to him, shouting for his orders, as another cannon dropped into the sea behind the barque and the ship rocked on its shock waves.
'Your orders, sir!' Shouted the boy, throwing himself against a railing as a bullet lodged itself in a mast several feet away. His voice was small over the din of pirates clanking metal and throwing empty bottles towards the Italian trader and into the sea.
Nico looked away from Captain Agustin when a whip cracked at starboard - no, not a whip: a grappling hook. He watched with the sailors as several Spaniards in long coats and filthy white socks poured onto the deck.
Chief among them was a man with a black star tattooed at his collar and gleaming gold earrings poking out of his dark curls who had tucked not only three pistols of very fine quality into his thick leather belt, but also a golden spyglass, two tightly closed bags, a lady's velvet purse, several brightly coloured scarves, and, for whatever reason, a chisel, an augur, a hookpin, and a device with many arms that looked like it might be used for measuring.
Captain Agustin's face had turned redder than the wine on his front as he patted the flat pockets of his jacket, his mouth twisted with indignation. 'Strike the colours!' He called, his heavy eyes shifting from the youthful pirate Captain to the thieving crew behind him - smiling dark skinned men with axes, pikes, and swords in their weathered hands, and, surprisingly, a dagger wielding woman.
The pirates loosened their grips on their pistols. Nico looked up to see the Italian deckhand lowering the barque's sail - the red, white, and green of Italy. As much as he had longed to leave his homeland behind, as desperately as he'd tried to distance himself from Naples and the Palazzo, Nico's breath caught to see the ship without it.
He cast about for a familiar face and spotted Ignace crouching behind a crate with a bottle still in hand. Nico darted from his spot against the mast to kneel next to him.
'What's going on?' He whispered, as the pirates cheered from their ship.
'We have surrendered.' Ignace took a swig from his bottle and offered it to Nico, but Nico refused.
'So what happens next?'
Ignace drew a deep breath, nodding his head as a small, austere smile stretched across his sun-kissed face. 'That depends, my handsome rich friend, on who we have surrendered to.'