A cloud of warm air, heaving with the scent of wine, billows towards me. Things have evidently moved on in my absence. The men no longer politely take a couch each; now they encourage girls to sit beside them or they talk in groups, laughing raucously. I wonder how the Doge and his Council can have such scant regard for their daughters—they must truly want to impress their guests. But then, I suppose this is all part of the game of diplomacy. Cheeks are flushed red and eyes are alight with pleasure. One of the men standing near me has dark circles of sweat beneath the arms of his toga. It’s Massimo, Admiral of the Fleet. Over the course of his lifetime he has risen through the ranks.I step into the room, still smiling. I can’t stop thinking of Roberto. I pass from group to group as fingers pick at the still-warm biscuits I carry. I hide a smile when one of the Venetian delegation rolls his eyes in disgust; the Turkish man he’s talking to ignores the fork with its crystal handle, instead reaching for the platters of cold meats and eating with his right hand.
