Wsim24b

I'm submitting a map of Renaissance Italy in the 'Illustrations' section. If you want, you can find a better map for yourself. It may help you to find places being mentioned in subsequent chapters.

***

Gina stayed with me the next night, too. The sex was wonderful, but so was the sense of closeness we shared when we fell asleep in each other's arms. It was also very pleasant to wake up and find my hand on her breast, and her ass pressed against my morning erection (there wasn't a lot of space in my little bed).

I'd never been one for cuddling much, but I couldn't deny that I wanted to with Gina. Part of it, I suppose, was that I was alone in a very strange world. The Pope - or the Admiral - talked to me, and I shared a bond with some of the Spanish swordsmen, but I was essentially on my own. Gina understood loneliness, too. In that sense, we were two of a kind, and found solace in each other.

She stayed with me on six of the next nine nights. I would go down to the gardens, where she waited for me, without fail, and then we would go up to my room.

- "Gina - would you like to stay with me

every

night?"

- "Is that what

you

want?"

- "It would save you having to wait for me - especially if it's a cold night, or raining. And you wouldn't have to wait for nothing, on those occasions when I can't come. But, yes... it would make me happy to know that you were in my room - or

our

room. I wouldn't even have to wake you, if I was especially late."

She smiled. "It would make me happy, too. But... aren't you worried that... everyone will know?"

- "I think they already know, the way gossip travels in these halls. I'm sorry I didn't think about it, though: are you worried about your reputation?"

- "I don't have a reputation. I'm not important enough to have one."

- "You are to me."

She liked that answer. She also enjoyed her introduction to bathing with me. I pulled some strings to get a large bath and plenty of hot water. Gina loved being lathered up with soap, with my hands all over her. She enjoyed the aftermath even more.

Gina had never imagined that a man could perform oral sex on a woman. It was so far beyond her experience that she actually tried to stop me. But I persisted, and she trusted me enough to finally give in. She was probably too unsettled and nervous to enjoy it - the first time.

It was my turn to be surprised when it turned out that Gina wasn't unfamiliar with fellatio. I would discover later that it was something performed primarily by prostitutes, by courtesans, or by slaves - and

not

by good wives (which partially explained the number of prostitutes).

Gina was happy to do it for me, especially so soon after our bath. I was able to convince her that I was happy to do it for her, for the same reasons. Her second experience was just about all that I could have wanted for her.

That was how I acquired a roommate - a very loving, very sexy roommate who brightened my life. Just the sight of her at the end of the day, sleeping or awake, was enough to lift my spirits.

She also opened my eyes. I considered Miguel and the Ramires brothers friends. But it was Gina who made me realize that it didn't matter if this world was a Sim - an artificial creation. Who actually knows for sure how the 'real' world was created? Gina was real. A real, flesh and blood human being that I never wanted to see suffer, either physically or emotionally.

***

By the New Year, I had been in this world - or this simulation - for almost five months. In some ways, I might never overcome the culture shock. There were still a host of unfamiliar sights and sounds, not to mention the powerful smells. But I was coming to terms with some aspects of my surroundings.

The food, for one, was diverse enough to satisfy me. In Renaissance Rome, man did not live by bread alone. Dinner was often a roast with pie - a pie that had virtually everything stuffed into it: pork, ham, eggs, dates, almonds. The cooks used garlic liberally, especially in their pastas. There was ravioli in broth, liver sausage, black pudding, goat cheese, and fruit. Meat was more prevalent on Sundays.

If special guests were being entertained, there would be melon, tortellini or lasagna, boiled capon, roast chicken or guinea fowl, and spiced veal, or even pike and trout. There were some dishes I'd never experienced (and still wish that I hadn't): pork jelly, thrushes, eels, boiled kid, pigeons, partridges, turtledoves, and peacock. I was happier with broad beans, onions, carrots and spinach, leeks, peas and beetroot, rice cooked in almond milk, and a veritable array of puddings and little jellies.

Everything was strongly flavoured. They had ginger, cinnamon, cloves, sugar, olive oil, oranges and lemons, pepper, nutmeg, saffron, bay leaves, and marjoram.

That variety and inventiveness made up for a few deficiencies: there was no coffee, no chocolate (or vanilla, for that matter), no potatoes, and no tomatoes. Yes, Italy - no tomatoes.

At least they had forks (an innovation that wouldn't reach the rest of Europe for many years). That vital utensil helped keep your neighbour's filthy fingers out of the common platters, especially after he'd just scratched his head, his nose, or even his crotch.

Everybody scratched. They had fleas, and lice; it was so common that no one ever remarked on it. Breaking wind at the table was considered rude, though; people left the room to let loose thunderous farts. I was probably the only one there who found that funny.

Meanwhile, I made significant progress in fencing, due to diligent practice. By the New Year, Miguel was the only man who was still a match for me. I had achieved a sort of ascendancy among the Spaniards; they knew that I had the Pope's ear, and that I was one of the foremost sword fighters they were likely to encounter.

I also spent significant time in the Papal library, reading old texts and poring over maps. Miguel was a great help when it came to tutoring me in Italian geography. When people spoke of Siena, or Ferrara, or Genoa, I had a much better idea of where those places were.

But I had several weak points: one of the most obvious was that I had absolutely no experience riding horses. Imagine not being able to drive a groundcar in the 21st century, or pilot a shuttle in the 23rd. I would be a laughing stock if I was found out. One day soon, I was going to be exposed.

The solution, of course, was to take a horse from the stables, and go riding.

My first concern, though, was the danger of being caught by Captain Teck and his crew. But we hadn't had a sighting since the death of Anna at my hands. The likelihood that her confederates had stayed in Rome for five months, waiting for me to pop my head up, were very slim.

Then there were the Orsini, and the other noble families who enjoyed tormenting the Pope. I didn't want to run into a squad of them. So I went to the stables in the early hours of the morning, where some of the grooms I had met at church were willing to provide me with a docile mare. I walked my horse through the quiet streets, just before dawn, a time when the thieves and murderers had usually given up for the night. Once clear of the city, I rode southeast.

Walk, trot, canter, gallop. The first two weren't particularly difficult. Yet I simply wasn't a good rider. There was nothing wrong with my balance, or my reflexes, but I had three handicaps. First, I was just a bit too big for a jennet, the strong, compact breed of Spanish horses that had been adopted for riding (as opposed to ploughhorses or warhorses).

Second, I had virtually no experience on horseback. That led directly to my third problem: I lacked confidence in the saddle. The only way I could think of to eliminate these difficulties was to acquire some experience before I embarrassed myself in front of a crowd.

My first attempt at a gallop was very nearly a complete disaster; I saved myself from a nasty fall only by clinging to the saddle for dear life.

I kept my first few forays short. An hour of walking, with an hour of riding in between. After the first horror-show, I invested in a suit of riding clothes of a different colour. I didn't want to be recognized as the Pope's bodyguard.

With half a dozen outings under my belt, I didn't feel quite so uncomfortable on horseback. I was still leery of galloping, though.

***

On February 12, 1493, little Lucrezia was betrothed to Giovanni Sforza, the Lord of Pesaro. He was a nephew of Cardinal Ascanio Sforza, and of Ludovico 'Il Moro', the real ruler of Milan. It was a political alliance of course - he was a twenty-six year old widower, while Lucrezia was two months shy of her thirteenth birthday.

It came as a surprise, because the Pope had kept it a closely guarded secret. He certainly hadn't breathed a word of it to me.

There was some additional drama - or comedy - attached to the announcement. Apparently His Holiness had been shopping for other bridegrooms before settling on Sforza. There had been negotiations with a Spanish noblemen, and then with a second, the Count of Aversa.

The Count turned up in Rome to claim his bride. When he found out that he'd been replaced, he made a big stink about it - until he was paid off with 3,000 ducats.

***

I continued to ride, usually three times a week. Most of the time, I managed to get out of bed without disturbing Gina. If I did wake her, she was reluctant to let me go without a kiss, which often led to more kisses and some cuddling, which often led to more than that.

Even after months of being with her, I was still entranced by Gina's face, and of course by her body. It was all very new to me: since my days in secondary school, I'd never been with one woman for more than a few weeks. My temporary hook-ups with female partners during our ISEC training were among the longest relationships I'd ever experienced.

One day in early April turned out to be unseasonably warm. I'd ridden a little farther than usual (I never took the same path twice, just as a precaution). On this occasion, I'd pushed my horse to a canter for a little longer, and had come within sight of a bend in the Tiber river.

I was just turning for home when the breeze carried a pleasant smell to my nostrils: fresh water. The horse, whose sense of smell was many times greater than mine, was already headed in that direction.

There was a small crease between two low hills, and then a copse of trees. I let the horse lead me through - and there it was: a clear pond, perhaps sixty yards long and thirty or forty yards wide. It wasn't a stagnant pool; the water was trickling off one (or both) of the hills, and feeding a tiny stream on the other side. The water looked clean and appetizing, in more ways than one.

I dismounted, and led my horse to the edge of the pool, to let her drink. I dipped a hand in the water; it was cool, but not too cold for what I'd begun thinking about as soon as we saw it. I tied the horse securely, and then peeled off my clothes.

It was a bit of a shock, but it was refreshing. Invigorating, even. I thoroughly enjoyed my first swim in the here and now. I floated on my back, then rolled and ran my fingers through my hair under the water. I slowly swam across the pond. That was when I realized I wasn't alone.

It was a young woman. She was crouching in the water, next to a fallen tree. She hadn't moved a muscle the whole time. Her dark, curly hair was wet, so I hadn't picked her out against the fallen tree behind her. She hadn't created so much as a ripple.

I stopped immediately. In so doing, I barked my knee and my foot on something under the water, which was not quite three feet deep here.

- "I'm sorry." I said. "I mean you no harm." I held my empty hands up out of the water, palms outwards.

She was looking at me, but made no move to flee. She had the most amazing expression on her face: she didn't appear to be frightened, or even nervous. In fact, she looked... amused?

"I'm alone." I said, meaning to reassure her.

Of all the things she might have done, I didn't expect what she actually did. She raised one hand out of the water, and put a finger to her lips, in the universal sign for silence.

So I crouched in the water, and looked at her - as she looked at me. She appeared a little more mature than Gina; I would've put her age at somewhere around her mid-to-late twenties. I noted her blue eyes, and her tanned skin.

She surprised me again when she leaned forward and pushed off with her feet, gliding through the water towards me. She did the same a second time, only a little slower. The water wasn't perfectly transparent, but I caught a flash of her not so tanned backside before she came to a stop only four feet or so away from me.

At close range, she appeared to a little younger - and much more attractive than I'd first assumed. She repeated her first gesture, raising a finger to her lips, looking me in the eyes as she did so.

I nodded. Look, but don't speak? I could do that.

Then she rose from her crouch, to stand straight. She was completely naked, of course. Water dripped from the ends of her long hair.

She was looking me right in the eye, so I did the same. She no longer looked amused. Now her facial expression suggested a mixture of challenge and of curiosity.

I accepted the challenge, and let my eyes take in the body she was displaying. She was tall, and slender, with a narrow waist and only a modest flare at her hips. Her breasts weren't large, but they sagged a bit, and were spaced quite far apart. Her pubic hair was dark, but quite sparse.

When I looked back up, she was still studying my face and my upper body - what she could see of it. She had challenged me to look; it was my turn to satisfy

her

curiosity. Very slowly, I stood up.

I could feel the water streaming off me. She kept her eyes on mine just a little longer before looking down. I'm pretty confident about my body; I didn't think that she would be disappointed.

She took her time about it. I was happy to stand still for her inspection, primarily because I could continue to stare at her, but also because I didn't want to move and risk spooking her, or frightening her away.

She certainly took her time about it. That gave me the opportunity to actually see her growing arousal. Her eyes grew heavy-lidded, her breathing quicker and shallower. But the most obvious sign was her chest. Her nipples were little pink nubs, and they'd grown harder, but her areolae were swelling, too, growing larger and changing the shape of her breasts - they'd gone from somewhat saggy to almost conical, thrusting forward.

Now I could feel my own arousal growing - and she couldn't have missed it, as my cock began to lengthen and thicken, until it was pointing straight at her.

She took a short step towards me, and then a second, until she was close enough to slowly, carefully reach out with one hand until her fingers touched my chest. She moved so slowly, so deliberately, that I understood what she wanted. I didn't speak, and I didn't move.

She placed her palm flat against my chest. Very slowly - and again, very deliberately, she let her hand slide over my body, as if feeling out its contours. She reached my rib cage, and then reversed course, so that her thumb brushed across my nipple. She ran her index finger down my sternum, and then spread her hand out across my stomach.

She looked up, then, into my eyes, and I saw the merest ghost of a smile on her lips. Then she returned her attention to my body, even as her hand dipped lower. I thought that she was going to grab hold of my member, but she only let the backs of her fingers brush against it as reached below, to cup and cradle my scrotum. She was firm, but gentle enough with my tenderest parts.

Then her hand slid up, and she wrapped those fingers around my shaft. Once again, she looked up to meet my eyes. She turned her head, looking towards the edge of the pond, before looking back at me. She brought her left index finger to her lips. With that, she released her hold on my erection and began to wade towards solid ground.

There was a small stretch of long grass between three trees. The morning sun wasn't blocked, so it was reasonably warm. She indicated that she wanted me to sit down there. As I did, she gently pushed on my chest, encouraging me to lie back. For a fourth time, she put a finger to her lips, reminding me to remain silent.

She knelt beside me, and resumed her tactile examination of my chest - this time with both hands. As she ran her palms over my stomach, her elbow contacted my cock. She almost smiled again.

Then she swung one leg over me, and sat down on my lower stomach. I could feel the heat of her pussy. She reached behind her, to take hold of me. Raising up on her knees, she angled my member so that she could rub the head between her labia.

She sat back, trying to take me inside her. She wasn't quite ready for it, though. It took three more attempts and a little bit of maneuvering before she sank down on my shaft.

She didn't make a sound, but she did close her eyes for a moment. Then she put her hands on my chest, leaned forward, and began to grind on me. I reached up to squeeze her breasts, with their swollen areolae.

Unlike me, she was a natural rider. It was magical, and unearthly, to be coupling on the grass, under the trees, by the side of the pond... and in near-complete silence.

She froze, suddenly, going completely stiff atop me - except for her fingernails, which dug into my chest. I grabbed her by the hips, and thrust up into her three or four times, in rapid succession, then came inside her.

She let me finish, and then gently removed my hands. She moved up a bit, trailing some of our mixed juices over my stomach. Then she stood, and turned to go back into the water, where she crouched down, and washed herself.

That looked like a good idea. I followed her example. By the time I was done, she raised her hand, palm outwards. Stay here. I nodded.

She swam away from me, back towards the fallen tree where she had first been hiding. As she climbed out of the pond, she turned back to look at me one more time.

I think that she might have smiled at me.

***

I rode back to that pond three times in May. I swam twice more, but didn't see my lady of the lake again.

Truth be told, I was feeling a combination of frustration and restlessness.

This world was weighing on me. I knew that it was only a simulation, but the people in it felt all too real. I was closer to Miguel and the Ramires brothers, and especially to Gina, than I had been to most people in the real world.

In addition to dealing with my culture shock, I was struggling to find my way - or perhaps it was my role. I needed to stay close to Admiral D'Onofrio - or Rodrigo Borgia. When this simulation ended, he would be headed home. I had to be near him, to make sure that I got out, too.

But he was clearly less attached to me. In fact, the Pope had reduced me to the post of a bodyguard who doubled as something of a curiosity, like an odd piece of furniture kept as a conversation starter. In the month of May, he spoke to me directly only twice - and one of those was to tell me 'Stand over there'.

It was a waste of my talents. If you've read my story thus far, then you know that modesty is not one of my failings (or virtues, depending on your outlook). The Pope had his clerical advisors, and he didn't need any help from me to run the Church. But he was also a head of state, with security, diplomatic and military matters to consider - and the diplomacy

always

revolved around military matters.

But the Pope didn't consult me. Instead, he turned to his newest, closest advisor: his son, Juan.

This was beyond annoying, but I wasn't so angry as to be enraged. The correct word for my reaction to this development was probably 'irked' (okay,

seriously

irked).