Master of the Revels

by Nicole Galland

  Then we realized that we were being watched.

  Standing in the doorway that led to the domestic wing was Hanno Gisgon. He was gazing at all of us while slowly eating a cluster of grapes. He grinned and gave us a here I am wave. His teeth were straight and white and gleamed against his dark lips.

  “You are very handsome ladies,” he said. There was not a trace of lechery in his voice. He sounded delighted, as if he were complimenting a beautiful landscape.

  All four of them were simultaneously thrilled and scandalized.

  “You,” said Livia, forcing herself to sound strict. “You should not be here when we are here!”

  “I apologize, mistress,” he said not at all apologetically. “I am not familiar with the rules of your beautiful home. Please excuse me. But I must tell you, my eyes have not felt so blessed in many months. I thank you.”

  They all cackled. Livia managed to disguise her cackle as a distinguished bubble of gracious laughter. “If my father were here he would be very angry,” she said. “Not only with you for watching us cavort, but also with us for cavorting.”

  “Then—as much as I hold him in reverence, as my father did before me—let us be grateful he is not here,” said Hanno. “And if his continued absence means you will continue to cavort, it makes my heart glad for you, whether or not I have the privilege of viewing your cavorting.”

  Livia was too charmed to speak.

  “But, mistress, honestly, I came here not to ogle you, but because I have a proposition,” he continued. “It has to do with the mosaic. I have been speaking with Quintus. He has suggested an alternative design.”

  Her smile faded. “But I am very pleased with your Nine Muses. You were going to use my face on each of them, don’t you remember? And it is so wonderfully different from everything else in this place, which has a surfeit of Hercules and hunters. Why would we change it?”

  “Mistress, I will show you. Please find me in the southern courtyard at your convenience.” He winked at her as he turned to go.

  So later that morning, Hanno and Quintus demonstrated the brilliant golden glass tiles. And yes, it’s true, they are glorious, like liquid gold, brighter even than the golden tesserae on the walls of Hagia Sophia. Livia was understandably dazzled by them. She said she might (emphasizing might) allow changing the design of her bedroom-floor mosaic from the Nine Muses to the astronomical theme that Quince was gunning for. Shit.

  I said nothing that day. I wasn’t yet secure in my role as her new pet, and I could not risk commenting on the very thing I’d been accused of marring.

  The teacher was ill on this Strand, and so there was no formal schooling. Since my job was to entertain Livia, I attempted to chat her up about Cicero’s “In Defense of Gaius Rabirius Postumus,” but all she wanted was more Frodo.

  The Lord of the Rings is hard to render as a linear narrative after the Fellowship splits up, so I stuck with Frodo and Sam on their journey to Mordor. Livia was so drawn in that when we were called to dinner, hours later, she almost didn’t go.

  The next morning, we worked out again in the palaestra. Vilicus had refused to be in the same room with a bunch of half-naked, breathless virgins; this made it easy for Hanno to do so. He could not take his eyes off Livia, and hers lingered likewise on his as we drifted away into the baths. The bath complex rang with teenage hilarity as the girls parsed every moment of Hanno’s attentions. I squealed along with them and spoke glowingly of what was so clearly a taboo flirtation. I could feel the wheel turning: I was giving Livia reasons not merely to enjoy me but to trust me. That would only further cement her intention to keep me here (clearly that is not going to change), but now I could work on the mosaic situation.

  That afternoon, shortly before Sam and Frodo capture Gollum, Hanno again requested Livia’s presence in the southern courtyard, to show her the final design for the proposed astronomical mosaic, in hopes she would give assent to it. All of us went with her.

  The design was sketched out to scale on large sheets of papyrus that curled up at either end. It depicted the repeated comet Quince had described to Hanno over dinner, embellished with the constellations of a winter night. Even on an aesthetic level, I found it inferior to the sketches Livia had shown me of the Nine Muses, but I’m not known for my artistic judgment.

  “What do you think?” asked Hanno.

  “Very unusual. And pretty,” said Livia, in a voice more studious than delighted. “Melia, tell me. What do you make of it?”

  Quince looked unhappy about her friendly tone.

  “I congratulate Quintus on replacing the mosaic I was trying to protect with a very different design of his own devising,” I said. “How strange he does not wish to re-create the design he claims he was Sent here to preserve.”

  Hanno and Livia exchanged glances. “That’s an interesting point,” said Livia. “I am somewhat abashed not to have thought of it myself, but I have had other things on my mind.”

  “Meanwhile,” I continued, “I am still waiting for that other witch to whisk me away, as she supposedly did before. If she exists, and has chosen to abandon me in this dark hour, why do I not rat her out to save my own skin? As for the mosaic, mistress, Cassiopeia is at the wrong angle to Orion.”

  It was suddenly so quiet in the courtyard that above the tart splashing of the fountain, I could hear the thrushes singing in the fruit trees of the far courtyard.

  After what felt like a long time, Livia said in a quiet, firm voice, “Arria, go to the smith and tell him we need another bracelet large enough for a man’s ankle.”

  “Mistress!” said Quince, rising.

  “A precaution only,” said Livia. “The charm on it will be merely to keep you within the walls until my father returns. My slave Melia has made me aware of my own blind spots in meting out justice. I will entrust both of your fates to my father’s wisdom.”

  “Mistress—” he began again.

  “Say as little as possible. At present you are still a welcomed and honored guest. Make sure you remain that way. Meanwhile”—and here she turned her attention to Hanno—“let us pause the work on the mosaic. Hanno, you shall have to tarry awhile longer here.” She was unabashedly pleased about this detail.

  Hanno cleared his throat softly. “Mistress, I am expected in Marsala next month, so I must begin work at once on whatever this mosaic is to be.”

  “All the more reason to stick with the original design,” I pointed out, as Livia spoke over me, stricken: “You are leaving so soon? Can your work in Marsala not wait? Can it possibly be more remunerative than this contract?”

  “It is at the request of Emperor Constantine.”

  She pursed her lips together. Nobody spoke. Livia blinked rapidly, and her jaw muscles twitched. After a moment she said, with forced calm, “Surely we may pause for a day at least?”

  “I can spare a day, mistress,” Hanno said. And in a softer voice, he added, “I wish it could be more.”

  “Mistress—” began Quince, but she held up a hand that was almost quivering with tension.

  “It will benefit you nothing to argue,” she said quietly. “The more agreeable you are toward my decision, the more you predispose me to trusting you. You are not a prisoner. You remain a guest.”

  For now, I wanted to sneer, but obviously didn’t.

  The next morning, after praying at the shrine (at which time I stashed the first several of these wax tablets under the altar), we again donned our “workout clothes” (they loved this neologism) and headed to the palaestra. As before, we worked up a sweat running and batting the ball around—and as before, with no surprise or shock on anyone’s part now, Hanno Gisgon appeared at the door from the servants’ rooms and watched with unapologetic enthusiasm.

  “You must be seeking inspiration for your future designs in our graceful figures,” said Livia.

  “Perhaps,” he said softly. “Also, I am thinking that if I remake the Muses, I will ask you all to model for me.”

  “You have
already modeled them all from my face,” scolded Livia.

  Hanno grinned at her. “Now I have more than just faces to model.”

  That had them in giggles again, of course.

  “Which Muse shall I be?” asked Livia.

  “I would name you Terpsichore, the muse of dancing, for you move with such grace,” said Hanno.

  “I’m named for the muse of comedy,” offered Thalia.

  “That’s why so much of what you do is laughable,” said Arria.

  “And how would you depict me as Terpsichore?” Livia was purring at Hanno Gisgon.

  He smiled. “Those beautiful golden tiles?” he said. “I would clothe you in a robe of them, and no garment else upon your own lovely shape.”

  Livia sank to the floor with an expression as if she were having an orgasm but hoped nobody else would notice. “Oh,” she said in a faint voice. “Well, that’s nice.”

  His smile was tinged with sadness. “But, mistress, Vilicus says your father is due back ahead of the anticipated schedule. Once he returns, I must not be seen in this room. Nor should he know that I was ever here.”

  “What happens in the palaestra stays in the palaestra,” I deadpanned. (Tough crowd; nobody responded.)

  “Hanno,” said Livia. She rose to her feet and walked across the image of the chariot race to him. He remained at the threshold of the door. A span of about six feet, created by nothing but air and longing, separated them.

  “Mistress,” he said.

  “Which mosaic would you prefer to make?”

  “I do as I am told—”

  “But what do you desire to do, Hanno?”

  He looked at her for a long beat. “I desire to memorialize you, mistress.”

  She flushed. She drew some breaths. The effect was uncorseted Jane Austen. They stared googly-eyed at each other for a few heartbeats, and then she took a stately breath to signal the fun and games were over and it was time to return to the serious business of volleyball. “I share your desires,” she said over her shoulder to him, and gestured to Thalia for the ball.

  So now, at least, I am hopeful of having succeeded in my DEDE. It’s hardly urgent, though, because even if I haven’t succeeded yet, I’ve got the rest of my fucking life to work on it.

  My chief beef about this: I’ll never have the pleasure of enduring Tristan’s outrage about placing his sister in danger.

  ROBIN’S AFTER ACTION REPORT, STRAND 2, NEW PLAN (CONT.)

  The day came. The 28th of April. A bright, brisk morning, with a slapping northwesterly breeze that tapered off in the early afternoon.

  Try living southeast of a meat market and you will understand why that detail is important.

  I had managed to evade any further shenanigans of Gráinne’s. Ned’s helicoptering gets most of the credit for that. On the downside, he’d also prevented me from seeking her out so that I could put her out of commission before Tristan appeared.

  The King’s Men had performed at the Globe as usual that afternoon—Comedy of Errors, I think. Then they hustled upriver to Whitehall, where Tilney had been since sunup. I was also at Whitehall for the day, officially bent to my minion duties, but in fact mostly studying and measuring the space. I’d spent half an hour setting candles into the lighting trees; next on my to-do list was to join the crew setting up a scaffold of planks, on which the invited audience would sit. They would be grouped to either side of and slightly behind Their Majesties’ raised dais. This chore allowed me to scope the hall for a scaled-down approximation of what I’d been doing at the Globe in the prior Strand: anticipating where Tristan was most likely to watch and where Gráinne was most likely to lie in wait.

  Tilney was evaluating the symmetry of the scaffolding as if it would make or break the event. He was hell-bent on making a huge splash; he seemed more invested in this than in The Masque of Lightness. That made no sense to me. It was as if he were trying to enthrall Their Majesties to prove himself worthy of some bigger gig. But in his line of work, there is no bigger gig. He’s the Master of the Revels! He’s the Man.

  A velvet-clad young courier brushed past me with the petulant air of somebody accustomed to cutting the queue. Tilney recognized him, or at least the office implied by the bobbing ostrich feather in his hat, and took him aside to receive his whispered words.

  Whatever the youth said displeased the Master. Tilney straightened abruptly and gave the fellow an accusing stare. “Two hundred?” I heard Tilney say. “Two hundred? On whose orders?”

  “The King commands it,” said the young man, with an air of complacent arrogance. “’Tis for the pleasure of the Earl of Pembroke and his brother, Philip Herbert, newly made Earl of Montgomery.”

  A twisted look seemed to move Tilney’s features clockwise around his face. “Why do the earls make such a request?” he demanded.

  The messenger shrugged. “I hear ’tis on behalf of Mr. Shakespeare.”

  I was pleased but not surprised to hear this—it’s what Will had said he’d do a few days earlier. Tilney took the news like an elbow to the gut. “You are saying we must add two hundred seats to please His Majesty, who would please Philip Herbert, who would please Mr. Shakespeare.”

  “Just so,” said the messenger. “But you must say the Earl of Montgomery. May I return your acquiescence?”

  “Have I a choice?” asked Tilney, sounding irritated.

  “I would say not,” said the boy.

  “Tell His Majesty I obey him in all things,” said Tilney stiffly, “but he must furnish us seating for at least twelve score.”

  “I’ll tell him so,” said the young man. He turned on his heel with no show of respect to Tilney and jogged out of the tent. Tilney, staring after him, noticed me eavesdropping. He scowled and stepped toward me.

  “Why would your cousin ask for two hundred guests to attend tonight’s performance? Who are these hordes, and why would the King allow them?”

  “I know not, sir,” I said.

  He scowled and walked off. I returned to taking mental stock of sight lines and potential hiding places, while pretending to be useful.

  Not a quarter hour later, a burlier messenger—also in an ostrich-plumed cap—entered the tent and made straight for Tilney, who was now approving the new velvet curtains at the back of the stage. The King’s messenger sauntered cheerfully past all of them. “Sir,” he called to Tilney, in a tone more respectful than his predecessor’s. “There be a cart loaded up with chairs and benches just outside the entrance, and His Majesty has given you the loan of five of his stable hands to shift them onto the platforms. Also, to help you in the arrangement of the seating, receive the guest list compiled by the Earls of Pembroke and Montgomery.” He held out a scroll, and Tilney snatched it out of his grasp.

  “Thank you,” he said shortly. “Direct the hands yourself, I’ll send a deputy to assist you in a moment.”

  The messenger whistled sharply, and five large men came barging into the Banqueting House, every man of them with a long wooden bench under each arm, as if he were carrying empty Styrofoam coolers. They were all as upbeat as the messenger. In contrast, Tilney seemed even more harried.

  Because I was next to him, he handed off the scroll to me, and as he went in search of a deputy, he said, “Read that, and tell me if there be anyone of significance we must consider in arranging the seating.” And then he was gone. I unrolled the scroll, wondering why he expected me, a newcomer, to recognize any names.

  The names were aligned in columns, the largest of which bore the heading The Stationers’ Company. That was the guild of publishers and printers.

  I could have knocked my head against a pole for not thinking of this myself: Will had invited every publisher and printer in all of London to witness tonight’s performance. I’d been careful not to tell either brother about the future of Will’s written work. But he knew the publishing industry, so he knew that if Macbeth were ever to be published, it would be published by a member of the Stationers’ Company. Since Heminge and Co
ndell were in the Macbeth cast, that meant every man—every memory—contributing to reconstructing Macbeth in the 1623 Folio would be in this room tonight. They would all hear us say not Gráinne’s words but William Shakespeare’s. They and two hundred of their closest friends.

  “Well done, Will!” I cried on reflex.

  A hand snatched the scroll away. I looked up, startled: Tilney had returned. “Why do you say that?” he demanded, and anxiously perused the list.

  I saw his lips tighten. Glancing over his shoulder, I could have sworn he was glaring right at the publishers’ names. He pulled away as if I smelled bad and demanded again: “Why do you say that? To which guests were you referring?”

  “None in particular, sir,” I said. “I’m just pleased that he is to have such a varied collection of audience to witness this first performance.”

  “You are referring to the stationers, aren’t you?” he hissed.

  I blinked. How could he possibly have known that? He took my surprise as agreement.

  “Your cousin has invited all the publishers in London to be his audience.”

  I opened my mouth stupidly. “Er . . . maybe. It would not be remarkable if he did so.”

  “Not remarkable at the Globe,” said Tilney impatiently. “But here? To court? His Majesty has allowed such low people to sit in the same chamber with himself? Simply because that accursed Philip Herbert has requested it of him?” He looked unreasonably angry. Maybe this had something to do with the book I wasn’t supposed to ask about.

  “I . . . I don’t know . . . I am not familiar enough with court intrigue—”

  “You dissemble,” chided Tilney. “There can be only one reason why you are so pleased to see the publishers listed here.”

  Before I could profess my confusion, something behind me caught his eye. A sycophantic yet nauseated smile crackled across his lips and his tone switched to cold benevolence.

  “You are welcome to Whitehall Palace, Mr. Shakespeare! And all the players too!” And back to me, nearly between his teeth: “Go help to shutter the windows,” before striding off toward the playwright.