Forgiving Rome

By Clay Ferrill

Two matched souls born on the same date, one in France one in Italy. Distant cousins meet when they are both 26 years old. Giuseppe, from France, is a soldier and also a Marquis with extensive wealth and privilege. Raphaello, the poorer relation, is a quiet and reserved painters apprentice recently returned from a five-year servitude under a mean master painter in Venice, believing himself finally free of such obligation. Both young men were called home when their fathers died, Giuseppe from a war with the Sforza dynasty in Milan, and Raphaello from Venice. Their mothers, second cousins, are of Medici heritage having grown up together in Italy, watch as their two sons form a strong and passionate bond. A bond that spans centuries.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clay Ferrill
• Release date: Jul 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463341230

Clay Ferrill

The novels and short stories I have published on this platform are gay male erotica. My novels provide a more in depth view of the characters I construct and I only hope you, the reader, feel I do those characters justice by defining them as more than simply sexual objects. I've strived to add deeper and broader character dimension as I weave them into the storyline.My short stories are commonly called "bang-boy" books because they get right down to the nitty gritty and often spontaneity of consensual sex between men in various scenarios. Other readers have described them as just short enough to get them excited and worked up and in that way, very much like the former fiction stories published in the gay men's magazines of yesteryear.WARNING: If you live in or visit any countries where homosexuality is illegal, download my work at your own risk. Please take extra care and may peace always be with you.

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Forgiving Rome

by Clay Ferrill

Copywrite 2015. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. All characters are 18 or older. Neither this novel or any portion thereof may be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author.

Smashwords Edition, License notes:

Thank you for purchasing this book. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoy this book, please encourage desiring readers to secure their own copy from their favorite retailer. Thank you so much for your support.

Disclaimers

This is a work of fiction. Names of characters are fictitious or actual historical figures from centuries past. Any resemblance to persons living, or to any actual real-world events is purely coincidental.

All copyrighted and trademarked names, businesses, and products mentioned in this book remain the property of their perspective owners. The author is in no way attempting to claim any such ownership by their use. No infringement is intended.

This story contains adult language and material, including homosexual discussions and overtones, including innuendo of homosexual activities. It has not been written as erotica. This book is not recommended for minors, those who do not wish to read such material, or if it is illegal for you to own a copy.

Peace be with you, fellow human.

Table of Contents

Title Page, copyright, and license notes

Disclaimer

Prologue

Chapter 1 – 1508, Raphaello Sanzio da Urbino

Chapter 2 – 2020, Father Coleman Livingston

Chapter 3 – 1508, The Young Apprentice Learns

Chapter 4 – 2020, Fast Friends

Chapter 5 – 1508, Countess of Bad News

Chapter 6 – 2020, Doing His Duty

Chapter 7 – 1510, The Stallion of God

Chapter 8 – 2020, Desert Palaces

Chapter 9 – 1513, Springtime Rome

Chapter 10 – 2020, The Study of Art

Chapter 11 – 1519, An Unwitnessed Trial

Chapter 12 – 1520, The Four Seasons

Chapter 13 – 2020, The Pope Speaks Only Truths

Chapter 14 – 2020, Two Souls from The Guf

Chapter 15 - Forgiveness

Prologue

His eyes open slowly, fluttering to clear the lids of their sticky heaviness in rapid and then slowing blinks, the world outside of the curved glass and stainless-steel pod clearing as both lensed membranes detach from his eyeballs and float weightlessly there in the thick, viscus fluid. Like jellyfish floating weightlessly, the pulses through the dark fluid increasing in intensity now, vibrating and moving them as they float further from his face. Gradually, slowly, his vision comes into sharper and sharper focus even through the slur in which he is still fully immersed. With eyes open and moving about, scanning, it means he is awake. Alert. I’ll watch this series of sequences very carefully to ensure the changes we made to pre-breach are in fact improvements. Though honestly, you cannot get this particular subject wrong. They’ve all been perfect male specimens. Perhaps this one will be perfect in the eyes of Him, too.

All of his variations and iterations are stunning feats of science. I call him him now, because I can see that he is, in fact, awake and alert. Conscious. While suspended in final gestation, it must remain an it to me, for the sake of my heart. As randomly happens, a few of his versions have never woken up and went straight to organ harvesting.

He should react to my presence here within his line of sight any moment now. I step out of the shadow of the steel beam, one of many that support this level four stories under The Academy of Sciences building. His eyes fix on me. Good. Keep looking at me. I need him to mimic the emotions I show in my expressions to him. But his eyes must be cleared of fluid first. I will study the video recording later to confirm my initial observations here, before I publish my findings to the formal Council in just a few hours now. They will be further perfected and in just a few days, become a permanent part of the Vatican official record. But I believe we have done it, finally. I have wanted to see this specific thing happen as long as I can remember. Right is being done in this miraculous act of God and science, beautifully, harmoniously so.

Squinting hard to press all residual fluid and matter from his eyeballs, their slow rise above the receding liquid bath anticipated with frequent upward looks and rapid blinking and squinting to clear the fluid and matter from the eyeballs. I could see that in the expression of his eyes alone. He longs desperately to see clearly. To see life. As his full eyes appear above the fluid level now, exposed to pure oxygen, he immediately tears. Good sign. It works faster this time. His eye lids aren’t stuck shut this time either. There is a mirror positioned exactly opposite him and it’s a reddish-amber tint. Very important. He must recognize himself as a fully-grown man in life, but not be shocked by his true image. This self-recognition secures the spirit he will need from the vaults of our God. The Guf. The Hall of Souls. How I wish I could only just see that beautiful moment as an expression upon his face. The moment human spirit enters him here.

A large breath motion in, he is now anticipating the air he will soon breathe, his eyes darting around anxiously, riveting back to my onward stare changing from an expression of alarm to a calm, questioning expression. Miraculous to see the emotions manifest there so precisely. His chest expands and contracts, the urgent inhale and exhale moving the throat umbilicus closer to detaching from the interior surfaces of his lips and mouth. I know to just wait patiently as the fluid descends down his body now, slowly, revealing the finished physical design of this exquisite human man. I can already see an almost mischievous expression, fleeting but there if I watch for it closely. I’ve seen it twice now. His spirit will be a mischievous and playful spirit. This brings me great joy. It is at it was in his original life so very long ago.

His jaw moves as if gently sawing, working to loosen the adhesion of the umbilicus. It requires detachment using its weight in gravity to help pull it free from his inner lips next to the gum line. It’s very important that the pressurized mixture of oxygen and vaporized nitrogen be the first gases mixture to permeate his skin. It drains very slowly for that reason and the pressure created by the fluid and gas exchange is intense. It pulses in pressure to awaken capillary under his flawless epidermis. Oxygen to allow his skin to begin to breathe for the first time in his new life. The gases being forced into the pressurized tank maintain a 41.2 pounds-per-square-inch during the entire breaching process.

The pressure pulses to 69.0 PSI and instantly returns to 41.2 PSI. This in fact mimics exactly, the intensity of natural childbirth pressure, the way the mother pushes to create pressure to expel her baby from her womb, then born into an oxygen-rich environment. 41.2 PSI is optimum, tested exhaustively and confirmed. The fluid level approaches the bridge of his nose, his stares at the surface cross-eyed watching it move closer to the end of his proud and broad nose. I smile at this genuinely and sensing a change in my expression, his eyes lock again on me. He smiles and turns to his mirror. Such beautiful, expressive eyes. More blue showing, but the pupils are fully dilated in this dim light. They sparkle clearly through the slur thickly coating his eyelashes.

For the last three gestation days, his brain, a fully-formed adult brain, has been fed a constant stream of information and data repetitively and continuously looping, both consciously and subconsciously, in both visual and audio. 71.9 hours straight without interruption to be precise, and right into the final gestation tank from which he is about to breach. Along with that streaming alternation of video/audio, his body has been dosed with testosterone mixes to heighten and then maximize his comprehension capacity. Serotonin, or more specifically 5-hydroxytryptamine, is a monoamine neurotransmitter. It acts as a contributor to feelings of well-being and happiness, though its actual biological function is complex and multifaceted, modulating cognition, reward, learning, memory, and numerous physiological processes. Also, exhaustively tested and confirmed.

He will be wise, this one. I can see that too in his eyes and in his very countenance. The strength of his limbs. He tenses more now and increases the deep breaths of fluid into his lungs and then out, his force increasing as the fluid mats the sideburns of his growing beard, exposed, it is slicked to his skin. Only a minute or so longer and he will breathe. It is at this time he will be considered officially as a human man.

Exposing more of his head above the fluid line now, slowly descending, the sonics are loud standing just outside the tank watching, the intermittent vibrations jarring as they undulate and churn the surface of the fluid as it moves down his face lower and lower. His eyes mimic my own as I move through a range of facial expressions. There is no proof that this helps them in their short seven-day lives, but it is such a beautiful human exchange between us two. I enjoy this very much as a scientist, but also as a psychologist. He mirrors me. The strong sonic pulses and vibrations jar his physical body on the surface of his skin to help loosen the excess epidermal matter and slough the dead cells from what will be perfect and flawless skin.

His head is still fixed in the clamp at the base of his neck, as I watch, he attempts to move his head. Unable, I watch as he wills his eyes to look downward at the receding fluid level now just at the tip of his nose, cross-eyed. The expression in his eyes seeing that, now mostly clear of fluid thanks to his generous tearing, is an expression of excited anticipation. It is almost time for him to take his first breath. I watch as his eyes browse the room, wandering. They fix on something and I turn my head to see what he is looking at. I see them there and know what has drawn his attention. The tiny, shiny reflective lenses of multiple cameras as many senior council members watch live worldwide. Eyes watching him breach into life. Let them watch as his skin comes into sharper focus. This is when his skin begins to breathe and look more alive. When his pores open to the oxygen they need for this body to survive. Captivating to the viewers, I’m sure, when he is freed from the slurry of overly-salty, visually-muting fluid that is his artificial placenta. When the men watching will see his full physical body for the first time.

At first, I can very clearly see the dark, almost royal blue of the major vessels and arteries in his neck through the translucence of his skin, just as a newborn baby would be at the moment of its birth. Royal, indeed. He will see the same, but in the reddened-amber reflection, bulging and pumping blood now more rapidly and with increased pressure that consciousness brings inexplicably. This can be seen by the naked eye. The transformation of it. This is a most natural human state at birth. Not having been exposed to any skin-darkening elements of this world yet, he is about to step into it as a fully-grown human man. The tint begins to form as if molten in his center as the heat sensation explodes inside him, sending a warm rush through his circulatory system.

His eyes first look up and then roll back into his head at the physical sensation he’s feeling. I see it there now blossoming as it moves through his veins rapidly and begins to surface to the outer layers. Magical, that. An almost muted shield erupts, rises to the surface of his skin and spreads quickly, darkening the hue of his naked form. The fluid has now lowered to below his pectoral muscles, his somewhat cleared skin slick in appearance and highly shiny for the first few seconds until the nitrogen and oxygen mix mats and mutes the finish. Perfectly even tone and pallor. Excellent capillary response. Perfection. We got it right again.

The visual image of this breaching is startling and even frightening if you’re not prepared to see an adult body in that state. I myself am always apprehensive, bordering fright, because breaching a human clone into life can go horribly and torturously wrong. I’ll remember to request a change to the pre-breach sequence to force-tint the epidermis before his body comes into view. Otherwise, it can be visually jarring and quite unpleasant. In a few minutes now, he will breach into life.

As this is somewhat of a ceremony, over the sound of the sonics I hear the music being pumped into this room increasing in volume. Catholics and choirs go hand-in-hand. Alone, choirs are beautiful sounds to be admired and loved. Cherished in their everyday rarity. But when they’re used to a grand scale, as now, they are intended to move the listener emotionally. They capture more of the spirit of an event. This event. His dark blue eyes are sharp as the pupils gradually shrink, the lights now slowly rising. The dark, heavy lashes, still coated and wet with the slur, his eyeballs appear to be perfectly clear of matter.

He is staring straight at me now, studying me, the umbilicus connected to his mouth showing tear-stress from its increasing weight in the oxygen atmosphere. He blinks again rapidly, several times, his eyes highly expressive, dancing almost, and at first he showed me his alarmed face. His disconnection from mirroring my expressions with expressions of his own. Brilliant. I smiled at him staring at me. His eyes slowly rose at their corners, eyes smiling back at me. I will myself to stay calm. Twice previously His Eminence has seen fit to terminate life pre-breach for reasons that will forever remain unknown to me. I must trust that he knows what is right in this regard. But this time he really is perfect.

He blinks more slowly now, fixing his eyes again on the umbilicus attached to the inside of his mouth. Hands begin to grip and clench in fists. His lower jaw is beginning to move against the umbilicus, loosening it from its attachment points. The warm dark swirling fluid recedes to expose more and more of his body. Not yet has his holiness seen fit to allow his naked body to be exposed completely, so the moment is approaching once again where He will decide if this being lives, or must die. If the latter, one small automatic injection will still his heart, killing him painlessly and instantly. His lips are now moving more aggressively against the umbilicus, still unable to turn his head. He appears to be smiling. I love this part. He’s really only trying to stretch his sticky lips apart to free them from the umbilicus. They have been sealed around it now for years in his previous blank state. I don’t care. He’s here now, finally. His mouth turned up at one corner, showing his dimple clearly. We were right to make him, again, a beautifully captivating specimen of man.

His body, now preparing to draw his first breath, pulls free as the clamp holding his head releases. Leaning instinctively forward to press hard outward by tensing all of his torso’s muscles. He needs to push the thick, heavy fluid up from his lungs and out through his nasal passages. Just like a newborn infant would. The color is disgusting and cannot be changed or hidden. But I do understand his expression. It really does look like used-up brownish oily sludge when it comes out through his nose from deep inside his nasal passages. Repeating, he pressed outwardly from within again, with considerable muscular force, contracting all possible muscles to purge the gelatinous, sticky fluid from his body.

Leaning over he bites through the umbilicus cleanly, letting it slip under the surface of the fluid now just edging below his stomach umbilical cord. Chewing a few times, his thick Adam’s apple moves up and down as the tissues detach and are swallowed to be digested and passed. After several vomiting convulsions, he is emptied. This is the turning point. If he is going to be terminated before breaching, he will elect to do so now. I hold my breath in anticipation just as he is inside the tank is holding his breath. I close my eyes and bow my head. I take a deep breath and as I release it I open my eyes to face it.

He lives.

The very picture of calm confidence now fixes his expression as I watch him carefully, almost as if he too knew he had passed the unknown test and would be allowed into the world. He mirrors my expression. To see the light and life of his eyes go blank and vacant would have crushed my heart.

We have carefully engineered this specific sequence of the full span of basic human emotions earlier now, hoping that His Eminence will see him as he is. I have shamelessly manipulated and influenced him in this. He must be seen for what he is. As a fully conscious human man with a human soul. Already aware, he visibly warms in expressions to his moist surroundings and begins moving his now freed limbs. His fingers grasp in fist and release and float there unmoving and then again, a grip and wrist turn. The emotions crossing his expressions appear a mixture, passing rapidly, he senses the safety and comfort leaving him, so overwhelmingly profound, that. He opens his jaw more widely to finish pulling his lips apart, softly fixed together with his womb’s natural adhesives.

He breathes.

As if washing over him, his eyes roll back as he slowly and deeply inhales the 101-degree oxygen. Just as expected, his instinct to breathe air; he slowly and forcefully draws it into his lungs and holds it as it displaces fluid. His eyes turned back into his head, the muscles of his chest and torso contract and release, again, again. It feeds out through his body now, unseen, giving renewed life to his blood and tissues. His muscled chest expands greatly, the dense hair there, darkened blonde and slicked flat to his skin. Back arching and his ribs exposed under his taught, moist, flawless epidermis as the fluid line descends below his pubic bone. He looks down toward his stomach and moves his hand in a familiar way, pinching the cord and pulling it until the tender umbilical cord is ripped away. Trickles of blood flow down his pelvis and into the viscous, mottled surface of the receding fluid.

Reaching again, he grasps his ample genitals, tugging there. His first self-touching sensations, his hand slowly drifting away in the fluid, then quickly darting back to again caress his large masculinity in a motion that creates the first sensations of the touching of his own skin, his length and girth growing under his fingers. He plays with himself without an expression of guilt, which is so common. Good. He will be a sensual being as a man. As it should be.

Just as forcefully, he releases this important first new breath completely, coughing deeply, expelling chunks of the mouth umbilicus and thick brown blister-like nutrient clots that were not swallowed completely to stomach, out into the receding slur. The last few ounces of brownish fluid flows from his nose now unimpeded. He smiles. It runs over his perfect white teeth. He has drawn breath. He is breathing. This makes us both very happy. I smile back. I am very pleased he was not killed. Excitedly so. This now too shows as expression on his face, briefly mirroring my own. It will only be a few more minutes now before he can step out and be formally welcomed into this world. I am deeply honored to be his shepherd in this, his new life as Father Coleman Livingston. At long last.

They are to be viewing this as well, the Divine Reparations Council members all. His Eminence had demanded it. With full choir. Our act intended to right the wrongs of the centuries past. We will see. We will see. I smile mischievously myself now, hoping the breach viewing, as I have witnessed, makes them vomit in disgust and revulsion.

We will not refer to this as his birth in Council. A human gives birth from a human female body as God had willed for mankind. We have all seen this imagery most of our lives to have become immune to the true miracle that is human childbirth. We must not refer to this as his birth. A human clone breaches not a womb, but a gestation tank. Born of science, not human passion. He has pierced the veil of life and stepped through it. This is God’s will. He must be very pleased indeed. He lives and breathes.

This hiss and pop of the tank expected any second now, I will help him then step onto the planet Earth as a man. This truly Divine creature of God. The expression on my face clear, the wondrousness of this, on him. He studies me with curiosity and seems to struggle with it a bit … and there it is. Awe paints his face now too. My eyes lift as if to God above to thank him for allowing this, the tears stream freely down my face and soak into the collar of my cassock. His stream down his neck and trickle down his slickened torso, his eyes lift as if to God above. He too is grateful. Thank God.

Chapter One

Raphaello Sanzio da Urbino

9 August 1508: Sanzio Family Farms and Estate, Urbino, Italy

My eyes looked around the room, stirring above the thick blanket of the sagging, lumpy straw-stuffed cot in my studio. The cold morning air feels good on my naked skin. The thumping on the stairs a heavy footfall, waking me up, means my mother is already stomping-angry with me for oversleeping again. I love to paint in the moonlight, though it causes her to be unhappy with me.

I object to starting days like this, so contentiously. Laying there naked, I released my gas into the air loudly and my muscles tensed in an uncontrollable chuckle, quickly willing the muscles of my face go slack as if in deep sleep. Pretending to sleep. But she always knows. I will the mischievous smile to leave my expression and turn my head into the softness of feathered pillow to hide it when I fail. The sound of the door opening, my room and studio in the top of the largest of our barns, is well lit with windows along the east and west walls. It keeps me out of the rain and wind, but is not suitable shelter for a human. Then the firm cough of … a man?

Not my mother?

My eyes shot open as I turned my head to the door behind me, raising myself up on my elbows. My long, sleep-tangled hair tossed over my eyes. I blew a breath to move the locks from my view. A tall figure in a too-big red cape stands there as if at attention. Impossibly large fellow. His fresh-scrubbed scent reaches my nostrils. I study him quickly. The young soldier my mother told me all about, reading and then re-reading her personal letters from the Marquise over and over for days now. Archy Archy Archy. He was born on the same date as I. I guess six feet half, maybe 14 stones. Shoulders overly broad and thick under the heavy red wool cloak. Imposing, he is. He has an air of privilege about him, this young man. This Marquis. Rolling over to sit up, I exposed myself, not having remembered I am fully naked, but then realizing I was and was also ... I spread my legs and pulled the blanket to my center. Planting my dirty and paint-smeared bare feet on the floor, rubbing sleep from my eyes and pushing my hair back away from my face.

A soldier. I have never met a soldier, that I know of, but certainly never a French soldier of rank and title. His spread-legged stance so masculine and strong, arms crossed over his chest like that. He oozes it. Giuseppe steps into the room waiving his arm over his face, scrunching it up from the smell of my gas. I am sorry. I thought you my mother stomping up the stairs like that. I pulled the blanket more over my lap and continued clearing my eyes, deeply yawning in the crisp air. And you … the young Marquis Giuseppe, I presume? Giuseppe nodded yes, smiling, still unspeaking. He sniffs at the air like an animal.

I lift my hand and point to the wooden bench where my britches and under-blouse lay neatly folded, as is my habit when I undress for sleep. Will you please hand me those … I just woke up and I have … I waved my hand over my middle, indicating my morning condition without using a word to describe it. Giuseppe smiled at this, his shoulders moved in silent chuckle, shaking his head no, still unspeaking. Fine. Is it all right now then? Meet your mother, my mother’s second cousin, get the introductions out of the way? I stink! I needed a bath before I meet you.

I stood, the thickly woven wool blanket dropping away revealing my full naked body and hardness to the young man. My quick strides to the clothes showing my strong legs and buttocks, sore and aching still from running up and down the hill to the lake for our water. Dusted with fine black hair and smudges of colorful paint. My body highly fragrant and heady from not having bathed in four days. I pulled on my leather britches, mottled with paint splatters and smudges I have not yet massaged off the leather with the oils. Fastening both sides of the flap, I push down my center, trying to tamp it or will it limp or both as I am turned away from his gaze. Intrusive.

I pull the thin cotton under-blouse over my hair, the dense hair of my underarms already visibly moist and quite ripely pungent, I step to the small basin and lower a cloth into the cold water. Selecting a small glass vial from the rude shelf above, I drip the oil generously into the water. Even in cold water the aroma of the peppermint permeates the air. I moved the cloth through the water and wrung it out. I rubbed it over my face and neck and chest and then dipped it back into the water. He stands, stares. Off-putting.

I wring the cloth and generously towel the hair of my underarm, the feel of the peppermint biting at my tender sensitive skin there. I realize I can see my breath in the air and feared then that the first frost had come and gone and I had not been awake to have seen it. I so want to paint it just before dawn but I always fall asleep and it is so fleeting. I move the towel to the other underarm, the smell of me already significantly improved by half. Mother may be pleased enough to just let it go, as long as I take care to not offend her cousin the Marquise’s delicate senses. I dab a small amount of oil onto my temples and rub it in. It tingles so deliciously.

Giuseppe studies me carefully as I pull the blouse down over my shoulders and slip my sore arms into the sleeves. He stepped forward and placed his hands at my shoulders and pressed his thumbs into the muscles there. Hard. The muscles and cords of my neck tense and then relax as I feel the knots in my muscles release and relax. I breathe in the peppermint fragrance and sigh loudly in deep relief. I turn my head, his eyes find mine and I smile my gratitude as he works the muscles to the tips of my sore shoulders.

I step into my large boots barefoot, feet absolutely disgustingly filthy, now hidden by the boots thankfully, splattered with various bright colors of paint and oil. As I tuck the shirt into my britches, he steps toward me and gathers the two ends of cord at my neck and evenly tightened and then tied them in a