Ilario, the Stone Golem

by Mary Gentle

  Egyptian homeland.

  It looked nothing like the harbours of Frankish ports, or Iberia, or even

  Carthage. I stared out at the squares of the city, lined with great inscribed

  obelisks; temples with masses of clustered pillars under great roofs; and

  the bas-reliefs that ornamented buildings – painted bas-reliefs, bright as

  enamel—

  I could do nothing but stare as we docked and were greeted. A bevy of

  bureaucrats stood by, awaiting the galley’s small boats. It occurred to me

  that if Menmet-Ra had sent messages indicating his success in finding

  the printer and the hermaphrodite, his messengers might have had better

  sailing than ours, and arrived here before us.

  ‘Come.’ Rekhmire’ touched my shoulder. ‘We’ll go up to the palace.’

  The Pharaoh-Queen Ty-ameny, otherwise Ty-Amenhotep, Lord of the

  Two Lost Rivers and Ruler of the Five Great Names, stood around four

  foot six in her bare feet, and wore a beard.

  She was barefoot, I saw; a pair of gilded sandals having been kicked off

  across the rush matting on the faıënce-tiled floor, and she reached up

  and unhooked the false beard from her ears as the mute slaves showed us

  into her bedchamber. Sunlight streaming in through the linen-draped

  windows spot-lit the small, black-haired figure as she turned and

  beamed.

  ‘Rekhmire’! You’re back.’

  ‘Great Queen.’ Rekhmire’ lurched only slightly as he stepped forward,

  aided by his crutch. He bowed almost double, and put his free arm very

  gently around Ty-ameny, embracing her as one does a relative or close

  friend. ‘I’ve brought you Ilario, son-daughter of Licinus Honorius, who

  is lately Captain-General of the Frankish thrones of Leon and Castile.’

  Ty-ameny nodded briefly, with a quick and bird-like movement. Her

  arms were thin but muscled, and showed ruddy under the half-sleeved

  white linen tunic she wore. A heap of brocade and cloth-of-gold on the

  bed, spilling down the sides of the dais, had the look of formal clothing –

  and the braided beard hit the top of the heap with some force.

  ‘I can do without one more formal audience!’ Ty-ameny dusted her

  hands, and put small fists on her hips. In a tunic that came down to her

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  knees, and with matt-black hair cut in a curtain that fell below her waist,

  she looked something between the beggar children and fisher-girls down

  on the dock, and – because of the quality of the cloth – a great lady. She

  strode across the mats to where a sunken area of the floor was lined with

  marble benches, padded with silk cushions. She waved one arm at her

  slaves.

  ‘Good day to you, Freeborn Ilario.’ This in halting Iberian. ‘Please, sit.

  You should drink.’ She met my gaze with eyes that were black as sloes,

  and smiled. ‘Foreigners don’t drink enough in New Alexandria, and then

  we have to treat them for heat-stroke.’ Back in the Alexandrine Latin

  lingua franca of the eastern Mediterranean Sea, she added, ‘Cousin

  Rekhmire’, Pamiu tells me you’ve had my witness with you for months.’

  She used the familiar for ‘cousin’, rather than the formal. I raised an

  eyebrow at the Egyptian book-buyer, taking a seat on the low couch as I

  did so.

  Rekhmire’ looked back at me, as innocently as any man might.

  I wonder if Ty-ameny of the Five Great Names would mind if I kicked him on the ankle?

  But I felt oddly cheered that he would tease me again, after the tension

  between us on the Sekhmet.

  Slaves poured watered wine into golden cups, that were circled with

  cabochon-cut sapphires in the pattern called Horus-Eye. Rekhmire’

  offered his hand to the Pharaoh-Queen, and with surprising grace led her

  to an individual small couch. She curled her bare feet up under her as

  she sat down.

  He shot me a glance as he thumped down onto the padded bench

  beside me, and smiled. ‘Fourth cousin; nine hundred and seventh in line

  to the throne of the Ptolemies. Were you wondering?’

  Ty-ameny made a sound that, had she not been in her thirties and the

  ruler of a great city, I should have described as a snicker. ‘Has he been playing the humble scroll-purchaser again?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ I mentally rummaged through the rapid briefing he had

  dumped on me on the way up the Thousand Steps to the palace, while I

  was still more concerned with leaving my daughter yelling at Tottola.

  ‘Yes, Divine Daughter of Ra.’

  She had all of her teeth still, and they showed white in the pale-vaulted

  room as she smiled. ‘What would it be in Iberia? “Aldra” – lord?

  “Altezza” – “Highness”? And every man in this room is higher than I

  am!’

  Ty-ameny leaned forward, both her hands cupping one of the golden

  bowls, looking keenly interested.

  ‘A man-woman – what do you call yourself? Hermaphrodite? If you’d

  consent to it, there are natural philosophers here who would dearly like

  to speak to you, after this matter of Carthage’s gift is dealt with.’

  Rekhmire’ spoke before I could get a word out.

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  ‘No prodding!’

  The Pharaoh-Queen’s kohl-lined brows shot up into her straight-cut

  fringe.

  With an effort of will I kept I told you so out of my glare.

  Ty-ameny loosed her cup with one hand, and slapped her knee.

  ‘Rekhmire’, what have you been telling her! Him. I’m sorry—’ She

  swivelled back to me. ‘Which do you prefer?’

  ‘Usually I go with what I’m dressed as, Altezza.’

  She nodded thoughtfully. ‘I suppose “he”; you’re most like our

  eunuchs, after all.’

  Rekhmire’ said firmly, ‘No.’

  ‘No?’ Her brows went up again, and came down. There were a few

  minuscule golden spots on the reddish skin of her cheeks, I saw; like

  freckles. She bit at a thumbnail, and looked at me with a curiosity that was so frank I found it difficult to be offended. ‘I suppose not. You have

  both? And—’

  ‘And you,’ Rekhmire’ put in smoothly, ‘were far too curious back

  when I was made eunuch, never mind now, Ty-ameny of the Five Great

  Names.’

  His face was monumentally solemn.

  The Pharaoh-Queen gazed up at him where he sat, pursed her lips in a

  silent whistle, and gave him a surprisingly gamin grin. ‘I’m in trouble if

  I’m “of the Five Great Names” . . . ’

  ‘Ilario didn’t come here to be put in a specimen cabinet in your secret

  museum!’ Rekhmire’ spoke mildly, but anyone who knew him could see

  he was amused now. ‘Kek and Keket!, but I wonder what Pamiu wrote in

  his report from Rome. Great Queen of the Five Names, this is a painter,

  Ilario, whose account of the gift of King-Caliph Ammianus of Carthage

  you should hear. What any of us have under our robes is nothing to do

  with the matter.’

  The black gaze of the small woman switched back to me.

  ‘No prodding,’ she said meekly.

  I thought Rekhmire’, if he hadn’t the control of a lifetime, would have

  been quaking; I could feel his arm quiver where it rested against mine.

  I managed to say, ‘Thank yo
u, Queen Ty-ameny.’

  She grinned, and signalled for slaves to pour more wine. Two men

  and two women came in. I noted that they took a reasonable pride in

  serving deftly, and didn’t seem to be always on the watch against being

  hit.

  ‘You’re already in possession of delicate information.’ Ty-ameny

  smoothed her tunic over her knees, and directed a keen black stare at me.

  ‘I suppose the Carthaginians ordered their gift painted at Rome so that

  rumours would spread out among the Franks. I understand that

  Menmet-Ra allowed the Italian’s apprentice – you – to come in and work

  since things were progressing so slowly?’

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  ‘I wasn’t told why.’ The memory of hours spent carefully laying on

  coat after coat of colour and tint brought me back Masaccio’s face,

  laughing as he told me stories while he painted with intent genius.

  ‘According to Menmet-Ra, your late master took so long, and kept

  breaking off to do so much other work, that Menmet-Ra feared he would

  run over the deadline Carthage had ordered. It would never do to insult

  the King-Caliph unintentionally . . . ’ The Pharaoh-Queen’s eyes

  narrowed.

  I couldn’t think of Carthage.

  The warm wind blew in scents of the Alexandrine harbour and the

  palace gardens, and linen curtains streamed in the breeze.

  He didn’t break off to do other work, I thought. Even if they assumed so.

  He drew the job out so he could study the golem. He died simply

  because he wanted an amazing thing for himself. He didn’t want it to

  come here . . .

  The chamber was silent, I realised. I looked up from my wine cup.

  ‘I understand that you were fond of your master.’ Ty-ameny smiled

  sadly.

  ‘He was painting things in a way no other man could. Maybe never

  will.’ I felt the muscles tight between my shoulder-blades. ‘Is the golem

  here?’

  ‘The golem is in my throne room,’ Ty-ameny said, suddenly tight-

  lipped. ‘So that Carthage isn’t offended at a rejection of their gift. That

  thing stands there – by my throne – already has blood on its hands – and

  I have no idea if it waits for some signal to run riot, kill everyone around

  it!’

  ‘Couldn’t you drop it in the harbour?’

  She raised a brow at me, in a way that very much reminded me of

  Rekhmire’ himself. ‘You put much work into it, I understand.’

  ‘Some of the best statue work I’ve ever done.’ I steadily regarded Ty-

  ameny. ‘If you can’t push it into your harbour, I can lift a sledge-

  hammer.’

  Her mouth quirked up at one corner, in a very distinctively sardonic

  smile. ‘I understand why you might feel that way. It isn’t possible,

  because of the situation between nations, to destroy it. We study it. And,

  as Carthage designed, we have not the slightest idea how it works!

  Months it’s been here, and none of my philosophers can tell me how it

  moves, even. Not with all the resources of the Library. Someone in

  Carthage has made a breakthrough – House Barbas, my counsellors

  suspect. And Carthage won’t share the secret . . . ’

  Because of Rodrigo’s purchase, I am both used to courts and great

  nobles, and used to being present at the discussion of policy. If Ty-

  ameny was treating me in the same way, it might be because she knew

  how long I had been a slave. Or else Menmet-Ra’s report had been

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  specific about my silence as regards what happened in the Roman

  embassy.

  ‘I’ll tell you everything I know.’ I shrugged. ‘It won’t help you.’

  ‘I shall still be grateful.’ She inclined her head with a movement so

  suddenly graceful that I had no doubt that this woman had been on the

  throne of Alexandria since the age of four.

  She shot a glance across to Rekhmire’. ‘But you will have seen our

  problem? In the harbour? I thank the Gods you’re home today! Now I

  have a man I can trust to deal with this. No—’

  As he rose, she gestured to him to sit. Rekhmire’ only steadied his

  balance on his crutch, shot her a silent intense look, and made an

  apologetic indication of both the crutch and – now he was in the formal

  Egyptian linen kilt – his visibly scarred knee.

  ‘Oh, pah!’ Ty-ameny said lightly.

  I did not desire to be jealous of how bright his face grew at her words.

  Or resent that he never reacted so to any encouragement of mine.

  But then, I am neither his employer nor his sovereign.

  Ty-ameny bent almost double with her hands on her own knees for

  support. The scars were still inflamed, I saw; ridges of pink and purple

  flesh that stood up twistedly about the cap and side of his knee. Some

  patches of flesh seemed to have healed white and hairless.

  ‘I’ll have my physicians look at it.’ She straightened, seeming almost

  apologetic. ‘May I send you on work, first? You can see it’s urgent.’

  My stomach turned suddenly unaccountably cold.

  Of course, he is her agent, she can send him where she pleases—

  Suppose she sends him away, out of Alexandria?

  For some reason I had not envisaged being on my own here, in charge

  of a baby and Aldra Videric’s return to power.

  My court manners abruptly returning to me, I stood up and bowed,

  preparing to leave.

  Ty-ameny held out an arresting hand. ‘No, this concerns you – you

  particularly, Messer Ilario, if you would consent.’

  On my feet, it was just possible, from the window of this great fortress

  tower, to see down to the harbour. And to see the top masts of one ship.

  One ship only. No other is tall enough to be visible. I sat down again.

  ‘Cousin.’ Ty-ameny faced Rekhmire’. ‘You will go aboard and talk to

  these foreigners. No delegation has been successful so far, but I have

  every confidence in you.’

  It was not what she said, I realised, but the casual competency with

  which she said it. She really does trust ‘cousin’ Rekhmire’ the humble

  book-buyer . . .

  ‘I take it your injury will not prevent this?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘And if you would agree.’ She turned towards me, speaking with the

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  utmost directness. ‘I would like you to go aboard as one of the

  delegation. Posing as Cousin Rekhmire’’s scribe, perhaps.’

  Rekhmire’ snorted. ‘Ilario will go! Especially if it involves getting closer

  to some new painting or fresco or inlay!’

  He has just informed the Pharaoh-Queen that she may offer me

  whatever terms she likes and still see me fight tooth-and-nail to get near

  the foreign ship.

  I caught Rekhmire’’s eye, and found the amusement I expected.

  Ty-ameny leaned forward, addressing me. ‘But you have a child, with

  you?’

  Between Menmet-Ra and Rekhmire’, no matter how discreet the latter

  might have been, I doubted there would be anything the Pharaoh-Queen

  didn’t know about my private life. Privacy had not been possible for a

  slave in Taraco either.

  That doesn’t mean I have to like it.

  I went on the attack. ‘My
daughter Onorata will be safe and guarded,

  Great Queen. But I have to admit, I don’t understand – I was

  Rekhmire’’s scribe in Carthage, and I did reasonable work. Good work,

  even.’

  I avoided Rekhmire’’s eye, suspecting I might find even more

  amusement there now.

  ‘But I don’t see why you want me to be his scribe aboard this ship.

  Rather than one of your own people.’

  Almost absently, Ty-ameny stood and padded over to the window.

  She had to come much closer to the sill, short as she was, to glimpse the

  high masts down in the harbour. The sunlight glimmered on the straight

  black hair that fell in a cape over her shoulders and back. Her small

  hands clenched into fists at her sides.

  ‘They’ve been here three days now . . . My diplomats and philoso-

  phers have discovered nothing of these foreigners – not their name, not

  what weapons that vessel carries, nor the intention of its captain. I have

  every confidence that Rekhmire’ will open negotiations in a manner that

  I can trust.’

  She turned around, silhouetted against the bright light outside. I

  couldn’t see her expression when she spoke:

  ‘They will allow very few men aboard. I am told I could not risk myself

  in any case. But I desire to see what that ship is like – and have my Royal

  Mathematicians see it, also. Ilario, I understand from Menmet-Ra and

  from Rekhmire’ here that you follow what the Franks call the “New Art”.

  If you’ll agree, I wish you to go aboard the ship with Rekhmire’’s servants

  – and draw for me exactly what it is that you see there.’

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  10

  Attila nodded a greeting, standing guard at the door of our assigned

  palace rooms.

  Inside the chambers, I found his brother. Tottola might not wear his

  breastplate in this climate, but even in the palace he wore mail. He

  carried his gauntlets hooked by their buckled straps over the hilt of his bastard sword, banging at his hip. His polished steel helm – very like

  Honorius’s sallet – sat upturned in his lap, with Onorata laying propped

  up in it as if it were a very odd cradle.

  She followed his moving finger with her dark blue eyes, and cooed in a

  serious and attentive way.

  Tottola had her naked, in the heat, and Ramiro Carrasco scurried out