Feast Of The Gods

"Oh Hanne, do not blame yourself. Willhelm has always been without direction, he's fickle and spoiled. Besides, he cannot last longer with a woman than one can say an Ave Maria."

Hannelore stopped and smiled at her husband and he could swear he never saw anything more beautiful than she was at that moment. Alaric's early life was filled with chores, crying babies and sickness, but never beauty.

As a boy, the only beauty in his world was that which came to him in daydreams or in his imagination. Then, as a young man, he went into the world to seek it out, but he never found anything that moved him quite as much as Hannelore.

Always a quiet observer of life, Alaric had been content to sit back, watching and documenting, but Hanne made him want to participate. Experiencing life with her made everything somehow new to him.

Alaric was filled with dread when the news came of an arranged marriage awaiting him back in Nurnberg. Feeling very much like he was going to his death, Alaric left his lover, Castiel, behind in Florence and returned home to marry a virtual stranger chosen by his father.

Alaric imagined a life of sneaking around with his male lover behind the back of an ignorant and prudish wife. Castiel even planned to open his workshop in nearby Cologne so that they might spend time together, away from the watchful eye of this wife.

Alaric never expected to fall so madly in love with any woman, let alone his own wife. Never had he met anyone like Hanne, she was more intelligent than most men. He had been sure of his love for her almost upon their first meeting.

More than her beauty or brains, he loved the way she responded to him, when women were encouraged to just nod and bow to their husbands in silence, Hanne could always interest him in meaningful discussions or witty banter. He had learned a great deal from her, as her education was far better than his own.

Hannelore was not the sort of wife to nag or bother him about money. When funds were short due to his taking on a time-consuming commission for little pay, Hannelore would sell her soaps, salves, and perfumes at the fair in Frankfurt and return with a purse full of florins. She also knew his boundaries, leaving him alone when he was working or brooding. She knew what pleased him and that, more often than not, was her very company.

"Master Dusek, I think you make me say about five hundred Ave Marias every time you make love to me,"

**** **** ****

Guests were to begin arriving in an hour and Alaric was still in a huff over the costume. Castiel ignored Alaric's rant and began to dress Hannelore.

Alaric watched from the bed while Castiel draped the white silk stola over Hanne's nude body. The full-length tunic fastened at the shoulders with decorative, gold clasps. High-waisted, the garment clung to her curvy body, accentuating her full breasts and womanly hips. Alaric clearly was finding it difficult to remain angry as Castiel teased and rubbed Hanne's nipples through the thin silk.

Castiel was naked and it occured to Alaric just how much the young master's mind and body had ripened since the two men first became intimate six years before. Castiel was eighteen when they were introduced by Botticelli and was already very sexually experienced with both men and women, much more so than Alaric who was twenty-two at the time.

Though sexually advanced, Castiel had been emotionally underdeveloped, wearing his feelings on his sleeve, something of which Alaric was quite the opposite. Raised and coddled by nurses and tutors, Castiel knew only a demanding kind of love until he met Alaric, who taught him how selfless real love could be. Sometimes love meant sacrifice, which was something Castiel had to learn the hard way.

Now, he looked upon Castiel as a man; confident and kind, generous and mature. His youthful prettiness blossomed into handsome masculinity. He was still golden and boyish in looks, but he held a sophistication which was rough and unpolished all those years ago in Florence.

Their love had changed with Castiel's maturity and Alaric's marriage. They were no longer ruled by feelings of desperation and doom. The friendship was strong as ever, but the romance was casual and open, not tense and volatile as it once was. Each knew the other had his own life to lead and accepted the distance which was often between them. Both men had been infuenced by Hannelore's unconditional serenity.

Before Castiel, there were only awkward experiences with other males, for Alaric, it always seemed very one-side. Alaric let adoring apprentices and masters alike go down on their knees to please him, but never felt desire enough to reciprocate. Alaric could never be sure it was he they found so alluring or his work. He had never been convinced that his personality was all that superior to his skill with a burin or brush.

Castiel made it very clear, from the beginning of their affair, he wanted to be more than a passing fancy. He was in love with Alaric; claimed he had been since the first time they saw each other across the room at a banquet. For Alaric, who never made a hasty decision in his life, it took some time.

This revelation came while the two young men were sequestered atop a scaffolding in a Dominican convent, a few weeks after their first meeting, painting a large ceiling mural. The only distraction they had from the hours of intricate labor was endless conversation.

Castiel was everything Alaric thought he himself was not; confident, charming, well-educated and daring. Alaric was surprised to find that Castiel, though he had been brought up much the same as a prince, was pleased most by simple, rustic things. Noble maidens clamored to have their portraits sketched by Lord Valten, but often he drew peasant or gypsy girls. Castiel, raised in the eden of his father's country estate, sought out beauty in the very places Alaric wished to leave behind.

Alaric let himself love Castiel, in spite of the multitude of reasons they should not have been together. Alaric's perspective on life, art, and religion changed. He found he didn't want to live like a hypocrite any longer, painting demure and sexless, religious icons, while priests worshipped him with their mouths in private, as if he was Christ. He wanted to convey passion and he had, in every facet of his life.

"There, you're a goddess, not that I ever doubted it," Castiel announced, taking Hannelore's hand and spinning her around like a dancer.

"Breathtaking, you must have spent a fortune, Castiel," commented Alaric. Castiel only shrugged.

"After the bonfires last year, I let some merchants store their more luxurious wares here and in payment I received my pick of some very fine things."

A chill ran through Alaric just hearing about the bonfires again. Alaric's most acclaimed painting of Madonna and Child was ripped from a church and thrown onto the fifteen story inferno by the zealot monk Savonarola himself. The monk claimed Master Dusek was a known homosexual who painted the Madonna to look like a common whore.

Thankfully, Alaric had not been in Florence at the time or he might have been arrested for sodomy like so many others. It sickened him to think that the same people who had danced around the burning "act of faith" and informed on so many good men, were probably the same people who cheered when Savonarola was hanged and burned for heresy a year later in the very same spot.

"It's only been a month since the lunatic's execution and already people have gone back to their nefarious ways," Castiel remarked with glee. Hannelore shook her head disapprovingly and tied a beaded, gold sash around her waist.

"Had you even curbed your lecherous ways in the slightest?" Alaric laughed, he knew very well Castiel had not. The monk's raids were the whole reason he retreated to the country to live.

With no neighbors to spy on him and help which had been paid abundantly for their discretion, Castiel was free to lead whatever lifestyle he pleased. Often this lifestyle involved a house full of sassy, young male apprentices whose only occupations seemed to be flirting with and fawning over their master the whole day long. That is, until Hannelore put them to work pressing and selling Alaric's woodcuts in town.

"I have become a virtuous man, following the commandments and such," Castiel explained. Alaric nodded in mock seriousness and Hannelore fell over laughing beside him on the bed. The only time either of them heard Lord Valten speak of God was during the heat of his moment.

Recently one of Castiel's paintings of Christ was removed from a chapel because the women who came to confession admitted the painting gave them impure thoughts. He had intentionally made this very erotic depiction of Jesus, flanked by naked cherubs, to cause such a stir. To Castiel's amusement, no one seemed to notice his model for Christ was Alaric Dusek.

"You have been coveting another man's wife, have you not?" said Alaric.

"You, kind sir, are not my neighbor and live nowhere near me, therefore it's no sin," Castiel defended, he was still nude and moved onto the bed between Hanne and Alaric.

"He hasn't murdered anyone, yet," Hannelore added. Castiel pushed Alaric gently down on the bed and on his hands and knees hovered over him. Their faces were only inches away from one another. Castiel's swelling cock grazed Alaric's bare stomach, sending a shiver through them both. Hannelore rolled onto her side to watch them. Alaric kissed Lord Valten, their tongues playing together in open mouths, while Alaric grasped Castiel's cock and stroked it. Moisture oozed from Castiel's pretty glans as Alaric let the tip of it glide against his abdomen, bumping the head of his own hard penis which peeked out of the unlaced breeches.

Castiel, frantic with need, fell upon Alaric. The two kissed and touched each other with such reckless force, they would certainly have bruises the next day. Alaric grabbed a handful of Castiel's glossy blonde hair and forced him over on his back.

The two artists were always gentle and loving with Hannelore, but with each other, it often turned to playful roughness. It amused Hannelore that the men cleaved to no particular role. Sometimes Castiel could lay in submission one moment and then completely dominate Alaric the next. They had all grown bolder, in the course of their acquaintance. Such rough play made Hannelore wet with lust.

Alaric's pants had slipped down and Hannelore admired his exposed buttocks. She slid her hand under the skirt to rub herself, knowing her husband was watching her. Alaric pressed his body against Castiel's smaller frame, pinning his arms down with strong but elegant hands and biting along his collarbone.

Alaric continued down Castiel's well-defined body, kissing and biting his nipples and then digging his tongue into his navel. Castiel groaned his pleasure, as Alaric took his rigid penis into his mouth while still stroking it. Lord Valten whimpered when Alaric went lower, sucking his balls and swirling his tongue around each of them. He tasted of Hannelore's sweet cunt, it was no mystery to Alaric just what they were up to right before he arrived. Hannelore moved even closer when Castiel reached for her, yielding to his hungry kisses.

Alaric relished the feel of Castiel's slightly curved cock slipping through his lips, the silky smoothness of the foreskin on his tongue, so familiar.

Castiel was edging closer to orgasm, Alaric could feel the twitching begin at the base of the other man's cock. He sucked harder, burying Castiel's cock in his throat until his lips brushed fine blonde pubic hair. With a grunt, Castiel released a flood of hot semen and the master swallowed it expertly.

Alaric gracefully wiped the corners of his mouth with the back of his hand and moved to lay beside his lovers. Hannelore was resting her chin on Castiel's chest while he ran his fingers through the red-gold waves of her hair. Castiel encircled Alaric with his free arm and kissed him on the forehead.

"I shall never get any work done here, I'm afraid," Alaric mused.

"Loving this much is hard work, my friend," Castiel replied, turning to kiss Alaric's lips.

*** *** ***

The hour had come round and guests would arrive any moment. Castiel and his only female servant, Maria, finished dressing Alaric. Hannelore had gone downstairs to supervise the final preparations. Maria, a middle aged and stout woman, helped tie Alaric's gold sash and place a crown of thin gold laurel on his head. Castiel was already dressed in a rich purple tunic, it fell just to his knees. Alaric's off-white toga was ankle-length and trimmed in gold.

"Stunning," Castiel announced. Maria smiled in agreement. She poured another cup of wine for Alaric, who still seemed worried.

"You make a great emperor," Alaric told him, sizing up the regal purple outfit, complete with decorated sandals.

"Here are your bracelets, m'lord," Maria reminded, handing Castiel a wooden box that contained two thick gold cuffs. He took one and handed the other one to Alaric.

"Thank you, my lovely Maria, you may go now," Castiel sent the older woman away with a playful slap on her ample bottom. Blushing, she crossed herself and made a hasty exit. Alaric was still shaking his head when the maid closed the door behind her.

"Why must you flirt with everything that breathes?" Alaric asked, irritated. Castiel gave a graceful shrug.

"My mother hired only male servants, thinking I would not bed them, except for Maria, who she thought would be too homely for me to make love to. She had grown tired of a house of broken-hearted servant girls. So, I flirted with Maria to annoy my mother, now it has become something of a habit," Castiel chuckled. "Besides, she makes the best chicken stew I have ever eaten, for that alone, I would give her a good "washing"."

"Though the blood that courses through your veins is German, you are unmistakably Italian," Alaric said, rolling his eyes.

*** *** ***

Hannelore was in the dining hall with Lord Valten's herd of young male houseboys when the first guest arrived. Experience taught her that men knew nothing of arranging flowers. Even Alaric,who could paint a rose so realistic, one might be compelled to smell it, often relied on her to arrange flowers in a vase for him. Pink roses and lillies placed in glass jars made up centerpieces for the long dinner table, on which, Castiel's mother's best plates were displayed. Pewter goblets boasting the three pears of the Valten coat of arms sat above each plate.

"Mistress, a man has arrived out front in a peculiar looking wagon with a band of musicians. He's wearing a helmet and a skirt," Milo, the youngest footman, informed her, his brown eyes were wide with excitement.

A smile played at Hanne's full lips. It had to be Master Van Broyen. Willhelm always did make a flamboyant entrance.

In 1494, just four years before, he had proposed to her. Dressed in the finest clothing, he had ridden up on a pure white horse to her father's home and asked for her hand, only to be denied a week later. Willhelm's father was the wealthiest man in Nurnberg, a friend of her father's, but still the children hadn't been allowed to marry. Unbeknownst to Hanne and Willhelm, her father had planned since she was an little girl for her to be married to Alaric Dusek.

All of Hannelore's sisters had made a point to discourage her from marrying Willhelm because he was quite fat. Hanne was able to see beyond his large waist, endeared by his kindness, humor and sensuality. They had much in common. Thankfully, she had the very same things in common with Alaric and their union had been sucessful match.

Hanne adored Willhelm and it pained her that he made himself so scarce since her marriage to Alaric. The newlyweds invited him to dinner many times, but when he was able to come, he didn't stay long. He never spoke to Hannelore alone. Often, his visits were with Alaric alone either in town or when the two happened to travel together to Cologne for business.

For the last two years Willhelm served in the imperial army, commanding Nurnberg's militia abroad when they went off to secure the emperor's lands. This often involved fighting the French, the Swiss, rogue German barons and most recently, peasants in bloody, brutal revolt. News came to Nurnberg shortly after the revolt ended, Willhelm was wounded by an arrow and recovered, but Hannelore had wept anyway.

Hannelore ran through the dining hall and out into the front courtyard where the "peculiar" chariot Milo spoke of and two other wagons carrying entertainers and servants were being unloaded. Musicians and singers dressed in colorful robes wound their way around the stone columns and fountains, dancing and piping joyfully. Hanne could see the chariot's driver embarking up the drive, he wore a short, white toga, trimmed in crimson. Tall and muscular, was the man, with short, sleek black hair and a sculpted body. He wore a glinting, metal helmet and carried a large sheathed sword on his wide leather belt. Hanne sighed, disappointed, for it couldn't be Willhelm. Looping her wispy, white shawl over the crook of her arm, she trudged on anyway, since Castiel and Alaric were still getting ready and unable to welcome the guests.

Musicians greeted her heartily with sweeping bows and removed their caps. Hanne smiled politely and met each one. She strolled steadily toward the man, nearly close enough to see his face. The tall, strapping man removed his helmet, clearly he could see her, but she could not yet make out his face. He stopped walking.

Hannelore, upon realizing his identity, ran the rest of the way down the cypress-lined drive to him, her shining hair trailing out behind her.

Hanne embraced him, with her arms around his waist so forcefully that he dropped his helmet. Carefully, his strong arms went around her too, gently at first, then he indulged himself and held her tightly. He breathed in the familiar scent of her hair.

"It must be Venus, for I have never beheld another more fair," he murmured.

"Oh Willhelm, are you well?" she gasped, he let his big hands fall to her hips. Her display of affection was most improper and something she would have never done in the streets of her hometown. He nodded, looking down at the ground and not directly at her.

"I'm well, are you?" he asked. Hanne reached up, tilting his dimpled, shaven chin so that he would look at her.

"Where is the rest of you?" she inquired. Willhelm looked into her doe-like brown eyes with his, the color of jade.

"I've left it in Flanders," he said simply. A solitary tear ran down her cheek and he wiped it away with his fingertips.

"You're the only person who does not think I am better for it," he made it seem like a question. His eyes were serious, but unflinching.

"It's not that, you are a picture of good health. My head is filled with imaginings of what hellish starvation or illness hath made you this way," her voice quivered.

"I must admit, on nights of bitter cold and nagging hunger, the only thoughts which kept me warm were those of your... heathen cakes," he replied. Smirking at her, he held out his arm for her and she took it.

"Come with me then, I have many good things to feed you," Hannelore said, knowing very well it probably wasn't her baking he thought about.

*** *** ***

"Tell me, Mistress Dusek, where is your ill-bred, contemptible, lout of a husband?" Willhelm asked, as he and Hannelore entered the house through open terrace doors on the side.

"He will be down shortly, God willing. He is most unhappy over the costume, Master Valten is trying to convince him to come downstairs," she replied, laughing. Willhelm gave a mischievous snicker.