Ilario, the Stone Golem

by Mary Gentle

  Onorata’s tiny fingers. She shoved his thumb against her lips, making

  gnawing motions, the crying forgotten.

  ‘I do wish,’ I observed, ‘that you might come as far as Alexandria and

  keep doing that!’

  ‘She’s biddable enough with her grandfather.’ He smirked, sounding

  very smug, and ended with a sigh. ‘If I trusted her in the borders of the

  same kingdom as Pirro Videric, I’d ask to take her home with me. I’ve

  raised no children from this age . . . Constantinople will be safer.’

  Files of Alexandrine sailors and slaves moved past us, down to the

  other boats, whose oarsmen began to spider them out into the canal. I

  had a panicked urge to step back and leave the breathing, living child in

  Honorius’s arms.

  If I felt no rush of affection when I looked at her, I could still be taken

  by surprise by the intensity of my desire to protect her.

  The same fear that drove me to think of rockfalls, floods, butchering

  free-company bandits, and thunderstorms, on the road to Taraco, and

  made me fear that this was the last time I would see Honorius,

  paradoxically argued that my daughter would be far safer with him than

  with me.

  ‘I know nothing of children!’ I muttered, staring at her darkening blue

  eyes. ‘I’m not even a proper mother.’

  Honorius’s fingertip traced the amazing clarity of her skin, where he

  must feel the faintest fuzz, and moved to the whorl of her ear. I had

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  drawn that shell often enough (before permanent exhaustion overtook

  me) to know every curve and kink of it. Sometimes I had drawn it by

  candle-light, when I sat awake, filled with fear, watching her breathe and

  praying I would not see her stop.

  ‘If I hadn’t seen before how soldiers are sentimental over children,’

  Honorius observed sourly, ‘I’d wonder why I scarcely had a chance to

  hold my own grandchild!’

  That was so much hyperbole that I couldn’t help smiling.

  Honorius continued, ‘As for Attila and Tottola, the further advantage

  of those two is that they both have families at home. Young brothers,

  cousins; maybe a bastard or two. Between them they can likely change

  the babe’s shit-rag if you fall for sea-sickness on the voyage . . . ’

  ‘That’s good to hear. Although I was thinking of leaving the task for

  Master Rekhmire’.’

  My father looked across the bare earth to the Egyptian, where he stood

  in close and rapid conversation with one of Menmet-Ra’s slaves. All

  Rekhmire’’s weight leaned onto his stick, although unobtrusively enough

  that only drawing it had let me know, through my fingers, how much he

  relied on that support.

  ‘Can’t think of a man better suited,’ Honorius said urbanely. ‘I owe the

  man too great a debt not to want to see him disconcerted from time to

  time . . . ’

  I grinned. Then, ‘Debt?’

  ‘He wrote to me to come to Carthage. He gave me you.’ Honorius

  looked openly moved. ‘And he’s sworn that if, Christ the Emperor forbid

  it, you should die while in the East, he’ll bring Onorata to me.’

  That thought sobered me.

  Most things that could be responsible for killing me would kill her too.

  I did not say it. Honorius will know this.

  My father scowled reflexively in the book-buyer’s direction. ‘If he fails

  to look after you both in Constantinople, I’ll show him the colour of his

  own spleen!’

  I wondered briefly what colour a spleen was, and whether Galen had

  written anything on the subject. And realised that Honorius, if asked,

  might give me an answer based on far more empirical observation.

  I didn’t ask.

  ‘It’s time,’ I said.

  Honorius put Onorata into my arms, and held us both in an embrace.

  ‘As soon as it’s safe to come to Taraco, I’ll send word.’ He reluctantly

  released me. ‘Trust no one who doesn’t come with my authority. Any

  messenger of mine will inquire of the progress of an altar panel to St

  Stephen, and then correct to St Gaius if you query that.’

  Wordless myself because of the constriction in my throat, I could only

  nod.

  ‘And I want to see some drawings of your Gaius Judas,’ Honorius

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  observed, as cheerfully as he could pretend to. ‘Give you something to

  do when you’re lazing about in Constantinople.’

  ‘Lazing.’

  ‘Of course.’ He unbuttoned the purse at his belt, and took out a bag of

  softer leather. ‘You should be able to trust my banker, but just in case.

  These are all my rings. If you need money, sell them; it’s why I give them

  to you. If you’re afraid of robbery, don’t hide them in the child’s cradle,

  or your hair, or your cunny. It’s the first place any pirate or bandit will look.’

  I felt my cheeks hot. ‘For a respectable military man, you know far too

  much about how to steal!’

  ‘Used to taking precautions . . . ’ His amused tone dared me to doubt

  it. ‘Most often from being robbed by the men I was commanding!’

  The men in his livery grumbled mock-outrage.

  ‘There are three bracelets in here that look like cheap brass,’ Honorius

  added. ‘Which they are, on the surface, but scratch below and you’ll find

  solid gold. Wear those at all times. And as I said, you may use my name

  for credit, whatever you need; you have letters to every banker I’ve had

  dealings with over the years. I’m good for sufficient funds to keep you

  safe and get you home. Understand?’

  He fretted like a horse with a harness that galls.

  ‘I understand,’ I said, ‘that you’d like to lock us both up in a Tower of

  Ladies at the estate, and perhaps let Onorata out when she turns thirty!’

  I understand him to be as afraid as I am of those things in the world

  that threaten what we love.

  Honorius cupped his hands over my shoulders, surprisingly gentle

  even though he must still find them too narrow for a son and too wide for

  a daughter.

  ‘I know I can’t stand between you and every danger. I know you can

  cope with all hazards. I merely . . . wish I might protect you from all ills

  and accidents, no matter how foolish that is.’

  I shrugged, lightly enough to not disturb the baby. ‘I understand: I feel

  the same way about you. And how old are you, Lion of Castile?’

  Honorius laughed out loud.

  ‘We’ll both of us protect the babe, then.’ He held her hand between

  the thumb and forefinger of his own.

  The wind came up from the lagoon, heavy with the scent of silt and

  rot, and at the same time a warm and a chill breeze. Spring, and I am at

  last leaving this city: I feel as if a cell-door opens.

  Honorius embraced us both again, and I turned away to carry out of

  Venice the child that had not existed as a fully-human living soul when I

  entered it.

  The light in the east was the colour of Naples Yellow as we climbed into

  the boat that would take us through the canals of the Dorsodura quarter,

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  and out into the basin where lord Menmet-Ra’s Sekhmet was moored.

  My f
eet left dark marks in the dew on the canal-side flagstones. I had my

  hood up, and pulled well forward, and Onorata tied into a buckram and

  linen sling under my cloak. I doubt any man might recognise us unless he stands next to me.

  The creaking of oars all but lulled me asleep, since I had slept so little

  before. A dim lantern let me see the baggage boat ahead, and from time

  to time a candle-lit window permitted me a view into some Venetian’s

  daily life. I could not help but look back when I witnessed a woman

  pacing with her baby against her shoulder, the raw screaming audible

  through half-closed shutters.

  Clouds bulked up before the sun could rise, keeping the small boat

  inconspicuous. I heard the water lap and drip. The turn of raised oar-

  blades just caught the light, letting me know the other boats still

  accompanied us. Wind in my face brought more than the scent of the

  lagoon – brought the open sea.

  I only realised that we had rowed under the stern of the moored

  Alexandrine galley as it blocked the dawn like a mountain of darkness

  above us.

  There was a pervasive strong odour of tar. And tar adhered to my

  hands when I climbed up the steps on the side of the ship, and onto the

  galley’s stern deck.

  On this high deck, I could not help a glance back towards the Riva

  degli Schiavoni. I saw lights enough that I knew men were working;

  loading cargo, unloading early fishing-boats. I heard no clash of arms.

  Saw no reflections of torches from armour.

  If the Council of Ten has the Venetian soldiery there, certainly I don’t see them.

  Herr Mainz scrambled up the steps to the deck, the German men-at-

  arms behind him assisting Rekhmire’. Attila and Tottola wore identical

  fixed frowns, visible by the galley’s lanterns – which might have been

  taken to indicate intense devotion to their duty, but I thought had more

  to do with the send-off the rest of the company had given them, a scant

  few hours before. Tottola failed to hide a wince when Onorata,

  impossibly hungry again, or else disturbed by the stink of the tar on ropes

  and deck-planks, began to cry.

  The galley’s captain showed every disposition to put me in a low

  cabin, close to the water-line, at the stern of the ship. Despite its

  prestigious and secure nature – it was, after all, where the captain kept treasure and valuable small cargo – I balked, after discovering I would

  have no light except through the hatch from the cabin above.

  By the time I had argued strongly enough to secure the higher cabin, I

  felt an all but imperceptible life in the wood of the ship.

  ‘I’m going up on deck,’ I told Rekhmire’.

  I had missed seeing the Sekhmet as we approached, so that I had no 116

  clear idea how a hundred and twenty feet of galley appears to the naked

  eye; I did not desire to miss our casting-off for Constantinople.

  Rekhmire’ followed me to the deck, jerking the padded crutch and

  shifting his weight with rapid efficiency. I kept Onorata with us in her

  sling, not simply because I thought she would otherwise wake, but

  because I did not feel safe leaving her without the German men-at-arms

  being over their temporary inconvenience.

  Pale cool light flooded the arch of the sky. Venice lay spread out

  behind us.

  ‘Ilario—’

  The ferrule of Rekhmire’’s crutch slipped on the deck.

  His hand came down hard on my shoulder, and his fingers dug into

  the muscle there. I heard him curse under his breath, raggedly and with

  no restraint.

  I stood perfectly still, Onorata clasped to my chest, until he caught his

  balance again.

  ‘You’ll be glad to get rid of that.’ I nodded at the crutch as he

  straightened up.

  Rekhmire’ shut his eyes, as if he did no more than listen to the heave

  and grunt of the oarsmen, and the yells of the deck crew raising the main

  lateen sail above our heads. I saw one of his hands creep down to push at

  the muscle of his thigh. He still wore the Turkish fashion in trousers; I had thought it because of the cold.

  ‘I was not about to say in front of Pamiu or your father.’ Rekhmire’

  opened his eyes, focusing on the distant campanile of S. Marco behind

  us. ‘But – if the Turk’s diagnosis was correct, and if the physicians in Alexandria have no better treatment . . . Then it’s unlikely I will ever

  walk again without this help.’

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  7

  I am lost on this ship! I realised.

  I signalled to one of Menmet-Ra’s linen-kilted servants, requesting

  briskly that he take us to our cabin. Rekhmire’ stomped in my wake. I

  said nothing while any man was within earshot.

  The cabin’s thick wooden door closed. The noise of running feet, men

  casting off ropes, and creaking oars drowned out anything a listener

  might have overheard.

  ‘ Why didn’t you tell me? ’

  Rekhmire’ blinked at me in his most feline manner.

  ‘What should I have said? That I’ll be lame?’ His expression altered

  significantly. ‘Does it concern you that I won’t be able to act in defence

  of you, or Onorata?’

  Frustration and some nameless emotion stifled any reply I might have

  formed.

  A brisk knock sounded on the cabin door. Onorata jolted and began to

  grizzle. Hunger, I thought, although it might have been wind or heat. She

  did not feel wet enough to change.

  ‘Come!’

  At my summons, Attila walked in with a straw palliasse over his

  shoulder. He threw it down inside the door.

  ‘One of us will be awake at all times,’ he said brusquely. ‘The other

  one will sleep across your door. We know you’re the Lion’s son-

  daughter—’ He emphasised the first term. ‘—but we’ve got orders to

  keep you safe.’

  His eyes were a remarkable pale blue, this Germanic mercenary, and

  he could not stand in this galley cabin without bending his head. I

  wondered at the change between Venice and his attitude here on ship. A

  matter of sole responsibility, perhaps, now there is only him and his

  brother?

  ‘I’ll agree to any defence, within reason. Consult with me first.’ I

  waited until the tall German nodded. ‘Do we have Carrasco?’

  ‘In the hold, in chains, until you want him.’

  Conscience might have pricked me. But I think Ramiro Carrasco quite

  capable of jumping into the S. Marco basin, as volatile as he seems

  now.

  This cabin would belong to some junior officer, I guessed. For all my

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  own protests, Rekhmire’’s influence with Menmet-Ra had gained it; and

  you might sleep six men in it, if four of them lay head-to-toe on the floor,

  leaving the wooden box-beds for two others.

  The Egyptian swung himself over to the far bed and sat down,

  wedging the crutch in a niche between bed and deck.

  I do not know what to say to you. Except that, without me, you would not be injured.

  Cherry-flower might be over-ripe and dropping from saplings hardy

  enough to root in the Adriatic ports we visited, and the day warm enough

  to go without a cloak at midday, but spring is stil
l a dangerous season for

  travel.

  I saw little enough of the ports myself, and little enough of the

  Pharaoh-Queen’s trireme. One instance of being shown the higher stern

  cabins above me, where the captain bunked, and the helmsman followed

  the track of the lodestone in its binnacle, was interrupted by a frantic

  summons to feed Onorata, since she had apparently decided to take the

  pottery bottle from no hand but mine.

  I likewise had little enough time to admire the breath-taking regularity

  of the sweeps, the oarsman not standing at their benches as the

  Venetians do, but sitting by threes, and drawing the long oars when the

  lateen sails were not sufficient, or we had spent too many hours tacking.

  There were arbalests set at weapons ports between every bench. And at

  the prow, where a Venetian war-galley would have the iron beak that

  served as a ram, I saw a sparkle of sun on bronze.

  Herr Gutenberg came back with tar marking every item of clothing he

  owned, raving about a siphon and dragon’s-head spout that would shoot

  Greek Fire at any enemy of Alexandria. I fell asleep upright on my bunk

  listening to him.

  ‘Three month colic,’ Attila muttered, when he woke bleary-eyed

  before his shift guarding the cabin door was due, and looked with some

  dislike at my child.

  I sat with her face-down over my lap, rubbing at her back, in the hope

  that her wide-mouthed screaming might stem from a frustrated desire to

  fart.

  I was appalled. ‘It lasts three months?’

  ‘It usually ends when they’re three months old.’ He dug a dirty fist into

  his eye as if he would grind it out of the socket, and yawned. ‘Usually.’

  That there was another part of the ship, I didn’t realise until I

  wondered just where Rekhmire’ had stowed Ramiro Carrasco.

  Brief inquiry gained me the knowledge that, below the rower’s benches

  and the line of cargo between them (on which the officers walked up and

  down to supervise), there was another hold. This took cargo or pilgrims,

  a man from Dalmatia on his way south informed me, and showed me

  down the steps to the galley’s dark interior. They likewise had no light

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  except what came in the hatches – but this hold ran the length of the ship

  from stem to stern, running off into darkness either side of me; pilgrims