A Matter Of Taste by Fred Saberhagen (ebook pc reader TXT) 📕

Italian had regained some fluency, and I had achieved, as I thought, a fair amount of skill in asking questions. Alas, the answers were no better than before. The clue I had picked up at Careggi seemed worthless. No one with whom I spoke had heard of Bogdan, at least for the past several years; and at first no one had heard of Basarab, either.

      And then, someone had. The first clue came by chance, in a conversation I overheard in a tavern frequented by soldiers. What they were saying confirmed what I had heard at the villa of Lorenzo, and put me definitely on what I thought was the right track.

      My search led me first near the Vatican, and then directly into it. Understand that I am not speaking of the great church-and-single-palace complex that we see today, in 1492 Michelangelo and others had not yet begun the great rebuilding of St. Peter’s and its hundred corollary projects of renewal. Nor—let me emphasize again—were the Pope’s temporal domains limited to the miniature quaint city-state, a few scant acres in extent, familiar to the twentieth century. Rather all of Rome, and a large part of central Italy besides, more or less acknowledged His Holiness as temporal as well as spiritual ruler. More presently about that “more or less.”

      The area of Rome closely surrounding the Vatican complex was thick with private palaces, elaborate houses and gardens, many of them belonging to Cardinals. The clues that I had hoped would set me properly on Basarab’s trail soon led me in among these mansions.

      But the trail was cold, and I began to realize the fact; and on one summer night I allowed myself to be temporarily distracted from my fruitless search by the voice of a young woman, singing with beautiful sadness beyond a garden wall.

      Silently crossing over the high stone wall and prowling through the gardens that it enclosed, I soon encountered a pretty maid standing utterly alone, leaning with her back against a tree and singing softly to herself. Judging from the girl’s clothing she was a servant of some kind, perhaps a slave—oh, yes, Rome tolerated chattel slavery at the time. And there was something odd in the girl’s behavior, as if she might be under the influence of drink.

      Whatever the cause of her being here, at this hour, alone, I considered the situation my good fortune. Appearing at a little distance before her in the moonlight, I greeted her in my kindliest and most reassuring manner—ah, I can do such things more smoothly now, but I did not do them too clumsily, even then. Of course I was lusting for the girl’s blood, and the fact that she seemed somewhat the worse for wine meant little to me one way or the other.

      I spare you the details of the conquest; but it will come as no surprise to you to hear that I was soon able to taste what I desired, there in that fragrant midnight garden. This maid’s blood had a certain tang, a surprising flavor, that was then completely new to me. Perhaps I should add here, parenthetically, that drug-laden gore is ordinarily a matter of indifference to even the most discriminating vampire. On imbibing it for the first time, he or she will very likely realize that a new and special flavor has been encountered. But to the trained palate there is already an almost infinite variety of human tastes. These depend of course upon the variations in individual body chemistry, as well as upon what the breathing partner has recently had to eat or drink.

      Certain substances in particular convey their own strong flavors to the blood, and to the one who tastes it. Yes, as you might imagine, garlic is one of them. Of course if some more subtle substance is ingested by the breather along with one of these, then the taste of the more subtle substance, be it drug or whatever, is almost certain to be well disguised.

      Almost none of these various flavors, or substances, make much difference one way or another to most vampires. They will not, as a rule, affect the blood’s palatability. The spirochetes of syphilis, brought back from the New World by the intrepid explorers on the ships of Columbus, are of no more concern to the blood-drinker than the molecules of alcohol or the harsh dissonance of cocaine. We are immune to all these substances. They are not going to do us any substantial harm, or, for that matter, bestow upon us any particular pleasure, any more than merely leaden bullets are going to rend our flesh. For us, usually, the flavors in the blood alone are there, often interesting, sometimes mildly attractive.

      However, we are not entirely beyond the reach of chemistry. And much in my story depends upon that fact.

      But to return to that first of my nights in the gardens of Rome. To my chagrin, the somewhat tipsy maid and I were interrupted in our dalliance before we were quite finished. The light of distant torches played upon my face, and youthful voices, secure in the certainty of power and position, were raised in merriment. The voices approached, beginning to call a woman’s name; and she who still lay in my arms stirred half-consciously at the sound.

      Presently, through the darkened garden, which had seemed such a secure setting for romance at this time of night, there approached a sturdy, stalwart youth of seventeen or so. Dressed in black velvet, he was handsome and strong as a young Greek god, already with a good start on his beard. Accompanying him was a girl no older than twelve, also wearing the garments and speaking in the accents of the upper classes. From the familiar and demanding way in which she addressed the young man I was certain that she could only be his sister.

      They called each other Cesare and Lucrezia, names that meant nothing to me then; but the name they called out loudly and most often was that