Chapter 14: The palace of perversions

Giuseppe arrived at my hotel in his carriage promptly at the time he had stipulated. Neapolitans have a reputation of being tardy at keeping appointments, but both Francesco Caracciolo and Giuseppe di Campania showed this to be a canard.

I joined Giuseppe in the carriage, and we sped off to Cleopatra’s Palace, situated a little way south of Naples, towards the base of Mount Vesuvius.
As we rumbled along a well maintained road Giuseppe regaled me with stories of the great and the good of Naples, past and present.
In spite of myself I was drawn to the fellow. He was a criminal who traded in slaves, drugs, and weapons, and had been my sister’s lover, yet I enjoyed his company, and given different circumstances would have welcomed him as a friend.

Until now I had maintained the pretence of me merely being a rich man on the Grand Tour, not asking any questions of him relating to Becky, or Becca, as he would know her. Francesco Caracciolo knew of my interest in Becca, but neither he nor Giuseppe knew my true identity, or the real reason for me being in Naples. I intended keeping it so.
However, I could not resist asking about my sister, but in a way not to show any personal interest.

“I was surprised at the fluency of the English spoken by Messalina and the other girls.” I said. “Was it you who taught them? You speak English so well yourself.”

He preened under my false flattery – he was not particularly adept, although his English was more fluent than my Italian.

He shook his head. “Alas, no. My former companion, an Englishwoman, must take the credit.”

“And does she still teach them, or the new recruits to your Grand Tour guides?”

I saw the anguish in his eyes. “Unfortunately Becca left my employ some six months ago, to take up a better position in Cleopatra’s Palace.”

“Perhaps you would be kind enough to introduce me when we arrive, so I may congratulate her on her educational skills.”

Dark despair appeared on his face.
“She has since moved on, no one knows where.”

“Not even her former employer, Cleopatra?”

His monosyllabic ‘No’ curtailed further investigation.
I expressed my disappointment at not being able to meet ‘Becca’ and asked no more questions, although I had a suspicion Giuseppe knew more than he had divulged.

Cleopatra’s Palace was a large Palazzo, three storeys high, sat in the middle of cultivated parkland. As the coach moved along a serpentine drive Giuseppe regained his good humour, and indicated the bosky setting of the estate.

“During the summer months the area is turned into a hunting forest, similar to the one the French King had designed in Versailles.”

I feigned ignorance. “Oh, and what quarry is hunted?”

“Females!” he bellowed in laughter. “Have you not heard of King Louis the Fifteenth’s Parc aux Cerfs?”

Indeed, I did know all about that lewd and degenerate place, Eloise-Annette Macready, the mother of Annette Blanchard and Eloise de La Zouche, had been one of the young girls regularly ‘hunted’ in the park.
I shook my head, but before Giuseppe could give me details, our carriage drew up to the portico of the palazzo.
We dismounted from the carriage and walked up a flight of marble steps towards a pair of massive oak doors.

“The first hall we enter is where those not having special status enjoy themselves,” Giuseppe explained.

The hall resembled the meeting room of any London brothel, with girls in revealing costume sitting on chaise longues, and prospective customers bargained with them.
At the far end of the long room were several gaming tables, with all seats occupied, and in an annex off the main room I saw tables set for dinner.
Giuseppe strode through the hall to another set of large double doors, where two uniformed flunkies straightened up at our approach.
Giuseppe pulled a clay tablet from his pocket and showed the attendants, who bowed, and then opened the doors.

“As you are with a special status customer you are allowed entry into this hall, but will not be able to partake of the bounty on offer until you too are special status.” He said.
I was unconcerned. I had eschewed all females, other than Mimi Renoir, and was quite content merely to look but not touch.

The hall we now entered was of similar size as the preceding hall but more opulently furnished, in both the upholstery and the females.

“Once you are a special status member all the girls displayed here are free of charge.” Giuseppe said. “There are also orgies and multi partners available, if you are so inclined,” he laughed and elbowed me in the ribs, “and you have certainly demonstrated that you are.”

“How does the Palace make money if all the women are free to special status members?”

“Special status members pay an annual fee of fifty Napoli piasters, which is equivalent to five English sovereigns. The girls are free, but in order to take full advantage of what is on offer most men need a boost to their prowess. The Palace provides that boost in the form of White Paradise, which costs ten piasters for a wrap, which is usually enough to satisfy the most voracious of appetites.”
Again his elbow dug me in the ribs. “Of course, you do not need any artificial bolstering of your libido, as my five exhausted girls will bear witness. So once you have been registered and paid the fee all your fornicating will be cost free.”

It was a cunning ploy; having the brothel’s females available for every licentious activity imaginable without requiring payment.
Any man, every man, would gallop until exhausted, and then, by taking a sniff of White Lady/Paradise, would be able to continue plundering the depths of the willing, wanton, women, until once more requiring a boost.
I could well imagine the overextended and exhausted male would continue sniffing and galloping until either his heart or his wallet gave out – with elderly gentlemen being more susceptible to the former rather than to the latter.

We moved through the room and came to the foot of a flight of wide marble stairway leading to the second floor.
Standing at the foot of the steps was a large, bare chested black man holding a scimitar.

“One of Cleopatra’s bodyguard,” Giuseppe said quietly.
He walked over to the Nubian and presented the clay tablet of membership.
“We are here to meet Cleopatra,” he said loudly and clearly. “Let us pass.”
The Nubian replied in his own language, but did not move from his position. Giuseppe gave an exasperated sigh.
“He understands well enough what I said but pretends not to.”
He leaned in closer to the Nubian, who griped his scimitar threateningly.
“If you do not let us pass Cleopatra will be angry at our delay, and I shall make sure her anger is directed at you.”
The Nubian gave a dismissal wave of his hand, thankfully not the one clasping the scimitar, and Giuseppe and I started up the stairs to the second floor.

At the top of the stairs was a corridor, lined with doors, stretching away in front of us. As we progressed along the corridor various sounds came from the rooms behind the doors, laughter, crying, squeals of delight, and howls of anguish. I heard the unmistakable sound of a lash being applied to naked flesh, followed by agonising screams. I raised an eyebrow, and Giuseppe explained.

“Sadism, masochism, and all the most perverted and depraved acts imaginable are carried on behind those doors.”
He indicated the spy hole in each door.” Voyeurs are also catered for.”

The corridor made a right-angled turn, and in the angle where two corridors met was a door guarded by a Nubian.
Giuseppe approached him, holding out the clay tablet that proclaimed his status. The Nubian gave a quick glance at the tablet, and then turned and knocked on the door, which opened immediately. Giuseppe and I entered.
A tall, thin, beetle-browed man, was seated behind a large desk in an ornate chair. He resembled the stick insect I kept as a pet when a boy in Grantham, other than being dressed all in black.

He stood as we entered. “Good afternoon, Gentlemen. Madam Cleopatra will be with you directly. She is currently dealing with a domestic matter.”
He held out his hand for me to shake. “I am Alvarez Domingo, Madam’s secretary, and you, I know, are Lord Clonygowan.”
His hand was bony, but he had a strong grip.
He glanced at Giuseppe. “Always a pleasure to see you, Don Giuseppe,” he said, but I caught the sarcastic tone in his voice.

“My exact sentiments towards you, Don Alvarez,” muttered Giuseppe.
I gathered these two were not the best of friends.

Domingo rang the bell on his desk. “ I have ordered some refreshments while we await Madam.”
A concealed door, in what I took to be a shelf of books, opened and a young girl scuttled in bearing a tray.
To my amazement I spied a foaming tankard of porter on the tray, along with a bottle of red and a bottle of white wine.
“I know Irishmen are very partial to Guinness, which I believe is known as the Black Stuff in the Emerald Isle.” Domingo said. “I trust the beverage retains the flavour after being shipped all the way from Dublin.”
He handed me the tankard, which I accepted gratefully, and took a mighty swallow.
The nutty, bitter, malted brew was elixir after the wine I had consumed, and the tankard was soon empty. Domingo motioned for the girl to fetch another, but I held up my hand.

“That was delicious, Don Alvarez, but another would be over egging the pudding.”
I did not explain, but left him to figure out the old saw himself.

He pointed to several sturdy chairs facing the wall, which must have a window set in it as I noticed a shielding curtain.

“Please make yourself comfortable – and observe.”
He pulled the curtain to reveal the interior of a large room. A naked young woman was tied to a post, and two well built, muscled, Nubians were taking turns to whip her.
Even through the wall we could hear her screams.

“Is this entertainment?” I said, face red and fists clenching.

“It is for those watching. “ Domingo indicated a gaggle of men sat in a line of chairs in front of the whipping post.
“And to those who will take over the whipping duties when Hassan and Abdul have tired.” He pointed to three men, stripped to the waist, standing behind the whipped girl.

“The punishment being administered is for theft. The girl is not a palace whore but one of the kitchen staff, who has been filching packets of White Paradise and passing them to her lover, one of the door flunkies, to sell.”
He pointed to a figure completely covered from head to toe in a light blue garment.
“Madam Cleopatra does not countenance betrayal of her trust, and the girl will be dismissed after her punishment.”

I stared intently at the clothed figure, and, as if sensing my intrusive scrutiny, she looked up at the window. I could not see her eyes but felt their searing gaze.
My eyes then began to mist over, and my head felt as heavy as lead.

“Your exertions of the previous few days, and nights, appear to be taking toll of you, Compo.” Domingo remarked, as I tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle a yawn.

“How the devil do you...”
Try as I might I could not keep my eyes open, and I slid headlong into the arms of Morpheus.

When I awoke I was sitting in a chair facing the large desk.
However, my wrists were firmly bound to the arms of the chair, and my ankles bound to the front legs.
Seated behind the desk was the blue-garmented figure last seen in the whipping room. I could still not see her eyes, as there was a mesh of net covering them.
Madam Cleopatra noticed my awakening, and raised both her hands to remove the face covering and hood from her head.
Now I could see her glittering, brilliant blue, eyes, her full red lips, and her luxuriant, long dark hair.

“Hello Elijah. Welcome to Napoli.”
Eloise de La Zouche said, smiling like the cat that caught the wren.

The last time I had seen Eloise de La Zouche was in cell in Cape Town prison, where she offered herself to me. I had so nearly succumbed.
Now, seven years later, her eyes were more of a brilliant hue, her lips a glossier red, and even more lusciously inviting than when last I gazed on them. The all-enveloping robe she wore could not disguise her prominent breasts thrusting against the material.
Lust uncoiled within me. A hunger to possess her enveloped me, as it had in Cape Town.
She still spoke with the same accent, and phrasing, of her sister Annette -- damn it!
Eloise looked at me with a mocking smile on her face.

“I knew you would come looking for me, Elijah. You cannot resist me. The reason your hands are tied are to keep them from roaming over my body. and under my skirts.”

I struggled against my bonds. “Where is my sister?”

She raised the back of her hand to her forehead, as if acting in a melodrama on the stage.

“I am desolated to learn you only came to Napoli to see your sister, not me. Your sweet, innocent sister Rebekah. Well, maybe not so innocent, although she certainly is sweet. I know that for a fact, for I have often tasted her, and she me.”
The tip of her tongue slithered along her top lip, and I felt a surge in my groin.
Eloise continued. “It took some time for me to realise Becca di Acuto was the sister of the man who killed my husband. You and she share several mannerisms, and both have demons within. Yours shows itself in violence, hers in depravity.”

“Rebekah has done you no harm, Eloise. If you have her please let her go.”

Her eyes narrowed in anger. “Your sister betrayed me. I allowed her to explore the depths of her depravity. I published her pornographic literature. I even allowed her access to my body.”

What I heard chilled me to my marrow. Depravity, pornographic literature, and Becky and Eloise entwined together in carnality.
I banished the thought from my mind, but could not banish the sights.

Eloise pointed to the rows of books on the bookshelf.

“Most of these were written by your sister. She has become the famous author she craved to be. Of course the nom de plume she used was not Becca di Acuto, Becky Sharpe, or Rebekah Greenaway, but Becca via Verde, which even with your poor Italian you should be able to translate.”

“Becca Green Way! Becky is BVV? I do not believe you. Byron wrote the books – BVV, Byron vidi vici – Byron saw and conquered.”