“Another drink!” he cried, flopping on the floor. “The dwarf will need far more wine if he is going to endure all this!” And they were lifting him up, Cesare and the stag and even handsome Alfonso of Aragon joining in the fun, hoisting Leonello sky-high and carrying him over to the fountain, where they held him under one of the streams of wine and let it run over his face until he spluttered. “That’s better!” Leonello shouted, not even struggling, and why was that? Why, when he had never allowed anyone to laugh at him in his life? They were laughing now, Lucrezia’s eyes streaming as she doubled over, her ladies pink-faced and tittering like peahens.

They set Leonello on his feet and he reeled, trying to straighten his huge ridiculous ruff that made him look more like a mushroom than a lion, and only making it more crooked. “Make the lion dance!” someone called, and Cesare poked at my bodyguard with the sheath of his sword, and Leonello went into a crazy little caper, his eyes mocking himself as they laughed, and one of the ladies leaned down and smeared a kiss on his mouth. I saw him kiss her back, teeth catching at her lip, and she giggled. “The lion bites!”

“Such a funny little man,” one of my new suitors snickered in my ear, and I smacked his hand as it tried to make its way under my bottom. The Tart of Aragon’s dress had fallen off both shoulders now, and Caterina Gonzaga was sitting in the Pope’s lap with her skirts bunched to her knees to show off her little ankles. Alfonso of Aragon had returned to his wife’s side and they were lolling half reclined on the velvet cushions, Lucrezia’s mouth loose and red as she nibbled at his ear. Blank-eyed Michelotto had grabbed one of the gauze-draped nymphs and yanked her behind the fountain of snakes. I could see the girl’s head bobbing over his groin.

“Eden,” Leonello said clearly, and slapped another of Lucrezia’s giggling ladies across her rump. “This is Eden, fair people, but not for men. For beasts. Kiss me.”

“Strip him!” Sancha called slurrily. “Show off your cock, little man—” And there was still no protest from Leonello as guffawing men held him spread-eagled, and laughing ladies fumbled at the ties of his hose. Caterina Gonzaga came wriggling down from the dais, her Pope choking with laughter as she tugged at the dwarf’s doublet. Leonello just gave a howl of laughter at the ceiling like a baying dog, a howl of bitter self-loathing that ended in splutters when one of Alfonso of Aragon’s laughing noblemen upended a cup of wine over his head, and I didn’t realize I was moving until my fingers locked around Leonello’s wrist. “Get away from him,” I hissed at the crowd, and yanked my bodyguard to his feet.