him up in the middle of Piazza della Signoria and disemboweled him. Creating an image of Christ on the crucifix, completely naked, who would dare! Christ with a cock! It was unheard of! It was a sin punishable by death. They condemned Videlle to eternity in hell for what he did."
"They, being the Church?"
Marco paused a moment and grinned. "The Church has many factions. It wears more than one mask. Faith has many faces." The artist raised his glass, and the two emptied their drinks.
Luca sat back and undid another button.
Marco noticed the small silver crucifix at the end of a chain that hung around Luca's neck. It rested comfortably in the cleft between the young man's pectoral muscles. "You still wear that?"
"I'll always wear that. As you were saying, faith has many faces."
Marco tilted his head and gestured to the remaining buttons on Luca's shirt. "My handsome muse, if you want more information, it's worth more than a glimpse of chest."
The young Italian opened the remaining buttons of his shirt and peeled it away, fully revealing the tan mounds of his chest and a sparse forest of hair trailing from his pectorals down the ridges of his belly, disappearing into his jeans.
Another drink was poured and emptied.
"There is a secret arm of the Church that calls itself the Crimson Crown. Its members believe themselves to be soldiers of Christ. God's very own vigilante group. For centuries, they have killed and crippled in the name of God."
"And nobody stops them?"
"Nobody knows they exist. Except the Vatican, who turns a blind eye. Men of God do not judge men of God. They're far too busy judging everyone else."
Luca poured them both another drink. "What about Zefferino?"
Marco took a short breath. He smiled, realizing what the mention of that name meant. "You found one of the halves of the stone tablet?"
Luca nodded. "We think so."
Marco laughed, astonished and excited. He downed his vodka, poured another glass and downed that one, too. "Where?"
"This is a game, remember?"
Marco was happy to pull off his own paint-splattered shirt in exchange for an answer. He was strong and toned from decades of building frames and stretching canvases.
"Somewhere in Turkey. At an archeological dig. Yesterday, a man named Doctor Hadley stumbled across it at his excavation south of Ankara. He didn't recognize the markings on it, so he called Professor Fathom. He thinks it might be—"
"The code?" Marco whispered.
"We don't know what it says, yet. We won't know for certain until—"
"—Until you find the book," Marco finished for him. Another vodka vanished. "Well?" the artist said, setting down his glass, sitting back in his chair and clasping his hands behind his head in a show of complete self-assurance. "Are you going to get those jeans off or do I have to come over there and do it myself?"
"So you know where the book is? You know who has it?"
"Maybe." Marco grinned teasingly.
Without hesitation, Luca pushed away his chair, kicked off his boots, unbuttoned his jeans and pulled them down. Below a dark brown thatch of pubic hair, he boasted a large uncut penis, one that Marco knew all too well. He'd missed it very much. The artist watched now, his eyes roving over Luca's muscled young form as he pushed his jeans down past his ankles and kicked them across the dusty floor.
Luca smiled, "So?" The thick head of his cock began to slide out from under its hood.
Marco poured the last of the vodka into a glass and launched himself drunkenly out of his chair. The bulge in his own torn and tattered painter's pants was more than evident. "So now," he said, "Inspiration takes hold."
With a passion he hadn't felt in a long time, Marco scurried about his loft, pulling a large blank canvas clear from the clutter. He pushed a bland unfinished landscape off his easel, let it bang to the floor, and then spun the easel away from the window to face Luca.
He dragged the table across the room.
He took Luca by the shoulders. "What about
"They, being the Church?"
Marco paused a moment and grinned. "The Church has many factions. It wears more than one mask. Faith has many faces." The artist raised his glass, and the two emptied their drinks.
Luca sat back and undid another button.
Marco noticed the small silver crucifix at the end of a chain that hung around Luca's neck. It rested comfortably in the cleft between the young man's pectoral muscles. "You still wear that?"
"I'll always wear that. As you were saying, faith has many faces."
Marco tilted his head and gestured to the remaining buttons on Luca's shirt. "My handsome muse, if you want more information, it's worth more than a glimpse of chest."
The young Italian opened the remaining buttons of his shirt and peeled it away, fully revealing the tan mounds of his chest and a sparse forest of hair trailing from his pectorals down the ridges of his belly, disappearing into his jeans.
Another drink was poured and emptied.
"There is a secret arm of the Church that calls itself the Crimson Crown. Its members believe themselves to be soldiers of Christ. God's very own vigilante group. For centuries, they have killed and crippled in the name of God."
"And nobody stops them?"
"Nobody knows they exist. Except the Vatican, who turns a blind eye. Men of God do not judge men of God. They're far too busy judging everyone else."
Luca poured them both another drink. "What about Zefferino?"
Marco took a short breath. He smiled, realizing what the mention of that name meant. "You found one of the halves of the stone tablet?"
Luca nodded. "We think so."
Marco laughed, astonished and excited. He downed his vodka, poured another glass and downed that one, too. "Where?"
"This is a game, remember?"
Marco was happy to pull off his own paint-splattered shirt in exchange for an answer. He was strong and toned from decades of building frames and stretching canvases.
"Somewhere in Turkey. At an archeological dig. Yesterday, a man named Doctor Hadley stumbled across it at his excavation south of Ankara. He didn't recognize the markings on it, so he called Professor Fathom. He thinks it might be—"
"The code?" Marco whispered.
"We don't know what it says, yet. We won't know for certain until—"
"—Until you find the book," Marco finished for him. Another vodka vanished. "Well?" the artist said, setting down his glass, sitting back in his chair and clasping his hands behind his head in a show of complete self-assurance. "Are you going to get those jeans off or do I have to come over there and do it myself?"
"So you know where the book is? You know who has it?"
"Maybe." Marco grinned teasingly.
Without hesitation, Luca pushed away his chair, kicked off his boots, unbuttoned his jeans and pulled them down. Below a dark brown thatch of pubic hair, he boasted a large uncut penis, one that Marco knew all too well. He'd missed it very much. The artist watched now, his eyes roving over Luca's muscled young form as he pushed his jeans down past his ankles and kicked them across the dusty floor.
Luca smiled, "So?" The thick head of his cock began to slide out from under its hood.
Marco poured the last of the vodka into a glass and launched himself drunkenly out of his chair. The bulge in his own torn and tattered painter's pants was more than evident. "So now," he said, "Inspiration takes hold."
With a passion he hadn't felt in a long time, Marco scurried about his loft, pulling a large blank canvas clear from the clutter. He pushed a bland unfinished landscape off his easel, let it bang to the floor, and then spun the easel away from the window to face Luca.
He dragged the table across the room.
He took Luca by the shoulders. "What about
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