Ilario, the Stone Golem

by Mary Gentle

  of our vast quarters with the jug and bowl he had evidently used to bathe

  her. She had been fed again, I realised, and felt a twinge at having missed

  it.

  Onorata kicked her bare feet. Tottola sang under his breath, and

  continued with verses that she was thankfully too young to understand.

  Half her lullabies were marching songs. Lengths of linen padded the

  metal of his sallet, and protected Tottola’s helmet-lining against anything

  unfortunate.

  It was a habit he had picked up from my father, who delighted to find

  his grandchild small enough to cradle in his sallet. Every man, from

  Sergeant Orazi down to Ensign Saverico, seemed to think it was

  permissible to joke with their lord about the likelihood of baby-shit next

  time he put the visored helmet on . . . And soon, now, she’ll be too big.

  I took the opportunity to unstopper my ink bottle and quickly sketch

  tones on the rough paper to show her with Tottola’s curving protective

  arm. ‘I’ll never understand soldiers . . . ’

  Rekhmire’ offered Onorata his finger, which she batted away. He

  turned back to me. ‘The child will be safe enough with them while we go

  aboard.’

  It was not until I started drawing her that Onorata looked to me like an

  individual child. I had worried, in Venice and on the voyage: if you put

  her down among a dozen other babies, would I know mine? A mother is

  supposed to know her child. There is instinct – which I clearly did not

  have.

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  But I know the slope of her upper lip, and her grave, extraordinary

  stare.

  There were sufficient drawings of Onorata in my sketchbooks that

  Queen Ty-ameny was convinced using me as her eye was sound. One

  could see how Onorata had grown since we left the Most Serene city of

  Venice.

  ‘She’d be safer with Honorius,’ I grumbled. ‘Back home.’

  Hot countries, plagues, the bowel-flux, flies, itches, irritations, rashes –

  if I sat down, I dare say I could come up with a list of similar discomforts

  in cold countries, too. Nowhere is as safe for her as I could wish. But here . . .

  ‘Ty-ameny hasn’t let any of them come ashore.’ I nodded towards the

  window, nominally in the direction of the harbour.

  ‘Her advisers were very keen on quarantine.’

  ‘So no man’s seen these strangers.’

  ‘Except to say they’re not Franks, or North Africans; they perhaps

  look like Turks or Persians, but then again, not like them . . . ’ Rekhmire’

  repeated rumours frustratedly. ‘They arrived three days ago: if it was a

  plague ship, the doctors who went aboard the first day would probably

  have sickened by now.’

  The way I heard the rumour from Attila, who had been gossiping in

  the palace kitchen and barracks, Queen Ty-ameny had only got doctors

  aboard the foreign ship by threatening to raise the vast iron chain and

  keep the monstrous vessel out of the shelter of Alexandria’s harbour.

  If that ship had to arrive here, it might have waited until we’d come and gone!

  I put a finishing smudge of shadow onto the drawing of Onorata,

  abandoned it, and walked out onto the balcony beside Rekhmire’.

  He leaned heavily on the yellow stone balustrade, gazing down – very

  far down – at the glimmering blue of the harbour.

  ‘Even if it weren’t so large,’ I said, ‘that’s a style of ship I’ve never seen.’

  The Egyptian inclined his head.

  ‘And she just . . . expects you to go and talk to these people?’

  ‘It would be some other man, if I hadn’t returned at the right moment.’

  Rekhmire’’s eyes might have been narrowed against the sunlight. ‘Ty-

  ameny feels she can trust me. If I fail, I shall only fail. I won’t be a part of

  one or other of the court conspiracies, with my own ideas of who should

  be sitting on the Lion-throne.’

  ‘And there was me thinking all this monumental grandeur meant a

  different kind of court to Taraco . . . ’ Sometimes directness is the only

  way to knowledge. ‘Why does she trust you? Because you’re her cousin?

  Which, by the way, you never told me!’

  ‘A fourth cousin is one of the very many.’ Rekhmire’ blinked mild

  eyes, apparently amused to be withholding information. He sharpened

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  his gaze, and smiled outright. ‘No, you have it right; she feels she has good reason. I had a hand in preventing one of the early assassination

  attempts, back when she was coming of age and taking power from the

  Regency Council. She knows I won’t lie to her.’

  ‘Given most courts I’ve visited, that would be invaluable.’ I suspected

  there was more to it, that he’d done more than ‘had a hand in preventing’

  whatever had happened – probably discovered the whole thing, I

  reflected. But if the Queen had so much confidence in her wandering

  book-buyer . . .

  I was still holding a half-inch stub of red chalk. I held it up

  demonstrably. ‘Will she regard this as constituting a debt?’

  ‘For you to ask for help with the situation in Taraconensis?’

  Frustrated, I shrugged. ‘I’m thinking of asking somebody – anybody! –

  just how I get Videric accepted as the King Rodrigo’s chief counsellor

  again. Because, worry at it as I may, I have no idea!’

  The hour passed noon; the hot sun was too much for me. I turned and

  walked back inside, taking refuge in the stone room’s coolness and shade.

  Rekhmire’ followed me in, sandals soundless on the floor.

  A fan made of fine woven fibres, and hanging from a frame, moved

  two and fro in a leisurely stirring of the air. I opened my mouth to

  castigate the German men-at-arms for letting in a palace slave – and saw,

  in time, that Ramiro Carrasco sat bemusedly pulling on the fan’s cord.

  Rekhmire’ went to the door, exchanging words with a servant there,

  and came back after a short time with a clear drink made of herbs, and

  with hacked-small chunks of ice floating in the jug. I realised myself

  thirsty in the extreme – which argued that we all must be, and I

  requested he find more, especially for the men wearing mail-shirts.

  By the time Rekhmire’ returned, I had experimented with stroking

  Onorata’s palms and the soles of her feet with quick strokes of melting

  lump of ice. Feeling the skin of her belly, she no longer tended to the overheated.

  ‘It couldn’t hurt to have the Pharaoh-Queen in our debt,’ I suggested.

  The Egyptian smiled, levering himself across the floor and into the

  sunken area. He thumped down, took the baby from Tottola’s hands as

  the German soldier proffered her, and put her into the crook of his

  elbow. Tottola made thankfully for the iced drink.

  ‘She sends further word,’ Rekhmire’ added.

  My traitorous child ignored me, even as I sat down next to the

  Egyptian. She waved her hands at him. He broke off to answer her in

  some nonsense-tongue.

  ‘ What did the Queen say?’

  ‘How carefully we need to tread. They apparently don’t desire too

  many men on board at one time.’

  Tottola lowered the jug and wiped his mouth. ‘Damned if I can see


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  why not, sir. That thing’s the size of a city! What can they be frightened

  of?’

  Since they had evidently been allowed to advise Honorius, both the

  German brothers thought they should continue that habit with me – and,

  by extension, the book-buyer.

  ‘The Queen will want to send as few people as possible,’ I put in,

  stroking Onorata’s scurfy curls. ‘In case they take hostages. I’d expect a

  balancing act between men with enough rank to honour the visitors, and

  people who wouldn’t be missed.’

  Rekhmire’ inclined his head. ‘She’s reluctant to risk her witness to the

  golem. But since you’re the only practitioner of the New Art here, that

  leaves her no choice.’

  Tottola made a noise like a horse snorting, and glared at Rekhmire’. ‘I

  know the Lion of Castile – if you let Ilario come to harm on that thing,

  sir, don’t bother coming ashore!’

  At his raised voice, the baby stopped waving her arms, poised for a

  moment between bubbling with amusement and screaming in fear.

  Rekhmire’ slid a large hand under the baby’s arse, supported her head,

  and thrust her instantly towards me. ‘She’s hungry.’

  It was a guess. I took her in my arms, heavy for the small size of her,

  and warm and faintly damp as she was.

  ‘Ramiro.’ I signalled him to leave the fan. ‘Help me feed her. She

  might just sleep through until I come back.’

  Rekhmire’ was in the process of giving Tottola his impermeable

  bureaucrat expression. ‘I refuse to take responsibility for Ilario – since

  Ilario doesn’t just draw trouble like a lode-stone, but goes out specifically

  to invite it home with him – her—’

  I might have protested at that, but my bodyguard was far too busy

  agreeing with the Egyptian.

  ‘When you two have finished bickering like an old married couple,’ I

  remarked, ‘you’ll be disappointed to know I plan to ask if I may draw things on the strangers’ ship. And where I can safely draw. Nothing like

  being taken for a spy to make life interesting. Right, Rekhmire’?’

  Under his ruddy skin, I could swear he went a darker red. ‘I knew I

  should regret telling you that!’

  ‘As if you had to tell me!’

  I broke off, since Tottola was in the process of making a remark

  entirely similar in meaning, but more restrained by military discipline.

  I was still snickering intermittently, and holding Onorata while

  Carrasco fed her, when two or three of the Pharaoh-Queen’s eunuch

  bureaucrats were shown into the room by Attila.

  If I heard anything of the hours of intense briefing, it fell back out of

  my head instantly. I was too busy reckoning up every item I could put in

  a scribe’s leather satchel, that I could carry over my shoulder. All tools for drawing, since I doubted any man would let me heat the bronze

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  pallet-box for encaustic wax painting. The leather snapsack to protect

  paper and papyrus from splashes as we were rowed out into the harbour.

  Silverpoint stylus, reed pen, ink, chalk, charcoal-sticks, and perhaps it

  would be worth taking a wax tablet: stylus-lines can be incised into the

  soft surface as well as the more normal letters and words . . .

  ‘Ready?’ Rekhmire’ inquired. ‘I tell you now: if you choose not to risk

  yourself because of the child, Ty-ameny will understand that.’

  Much as I hate being any man’s to beat or fondle, the life of a slave is at least easier in that one is ordered, not asked to decide.

  I glanced around the great high-ceilinged rooms, beyond whose

  windows the white furnace of afternoon was cooling to early evening.

  ‘I’m ready.’

  The noise of the city rose up about us as Ty-ameny’s soldiers escorted

  us down towards the quay. The sound was different to Venice, although

  I saw the trade was no less intense. Different and familiar, I felt. More like the Turkish cities along the Old Egyptian coast, and Malta, and Taraco,

  and Carthage.

  One of the war-galleys sent in a boat. I sat upright, cooled by the

  occasional spray. The oarsmen rowed us through the encircling ring of

  triremes. I watched the touch of the sweeps, that kept each oared vessel

  with its Greek Fire siphon pointed at the massive foreign ship.

  Hunched in the rocking stern, I practised a quick charcoal sketch of

  the serpent-decorated ship, to shake the stiffness out of my hand.

  In a few minutes we, also, will be at the centre of that circle of

  potential Greek Fire.

  I have barely been in Constantinople four hours, I thought, as my sandal touched the deck of the vast foreign ship.

  My body was still adjusted to the motion of the sea under my feet.

  Every step up to the palace and down to the harbour again had felt as if I

  were slamming the soles of my feet into granite. The consciousness of

  the shift and dip of a moored ship would feel reassuring to me.

  But there was no sensation of the sea on this colossus. I might have

  been standing on a wooden fortress in the harbour.

  Two other eunuch bureaucrats accompanied Rekhmire’; one in my

  former job as clerk. They stood by his shoulders now as he spoke for a

  long time to the guards who surrounded us. I glanced briefly over the

  monolith’s side at the plank and rope ladder, bobbing down an incredible

  distance to the ferry boat, and gave up that route of escape.

  The ship’s crew crowded close.

  Freaks surrounded me.

  No. Men.

  But flat-faced men; men almost with the faces of village idiots. I have

  been, from time to time in Taraco, put in company with those born

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  witless, or with no voices; only the ability to lumber about, grinning and

  groaning. Some of them can be remarkably gentle, given kind treatment.

  The ones surrounding me now were barefoot, wearing high-collared

  belted robes. They held long thin-bladed spears, and carried short

  swords.

  A ship of the mad, the witless. I recognised those odd, folded eyelids;

  the emotionless features. Shuddering and cold despite the evening’s heat,

  I wanted desperately to tell Rekhmire’ what I saw. But no, it can’t be; madmen couldn’t sail a ship!

  Rekhmire’ stood very upright, his back to me, speaking in a normal

  tone; trying as many languages as he could think of.

  I knew what he must be saying: Hello, may we come aboard, who is

  your captain?

  Did Ty-ameny’s eunuchs get us this permission by the equivalent of point-and-mime!

  Rekhmire’ spoke again, with considerably more confidence.

  I recognised the language, if not the words. Occasionally, I’d heard it

  in Venice, from traders come in not by sea, but over the long land routes

  from the lapis mines in Afghanistan and the east. A dialect something

  like that spoken by the Turks and Persians. I understood one word in

  five, if that.

  The larger of the black-eyed men broke into a broad grin, looked up at

  Rekhmire’ – just looked up: he was almost of a height with the book-

  buyer – and laughed out loud.

  ‘ Gaxıng jıàndaò nıˆ! ’ he exclaimed, in a completely different-sounding language, and began to rattle off the Persian or Turkish dia
lect at an

  amazing rate. He gestured towards the stern of the ship.

  The way to the captain’s quarters? I wondered.

  As respectfully as if he were still my master, I murmured to Rekhmire’,

  ‘Will you ask permission if I can draw as I go? Those spears look sharp.’

  Cautiously, the Egyptian spoke to the broad man in belted robes that,

  now I could look at them closely, were not Persian at all. The fabric

  shimmered. Silk.

  Absorbed in the play of light and shade in the fabric’s folds, and what

  a difference it made to the colours of the blue dye, it was a minute before

  I became aware of Rekhmire’. He waved a broad hand, and gazed

  equably down at me.

  ‘Draw something for this gentleman, if you please.’

  I unfolded my drawing book, showed the stub of red chalk on an

  outstretched hand, and then – as well as I could with fingers that were

  shaking from the climb – managed line and tone that encompassed the

  shape of the ship’s flat prow.

  The foreign man scowled.

  Or I thought he did; I realised I could read none of his thoughts for

  certain from his expression.

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  The man smeared his forefinger across one sheet of paper, smearing

  the chalk, and lifted it to his finger to taste.

  His head snapped around; he rattled off something very quick, very

  emphatic.

  Rekhmire’ bowed, in the Turkish fashion, and replied. As well as that

  unknown language, I recognised some of the versions of Carthaginian

  Latin from the western coast of Africa. Evidently everything was having

  to be said two or three times, three or four different ways.

  ‘He wants you to show his captain, I believe.’ Rekhmire’ shifted a gaze

  that took in all the Golden Horn, and the great fortress city – in which,

  now I thought about it, he must have been born or grown up. And now

  to find this huge, dangerous vessel and its unknown crew here, right here

  in the harbour . . .

  Rekhmire’ inclined his head to the stout man in silk robes, gestured his

  eunuch clerks to precede him, tucked his crutch neatly under his arm,

  and took hold of my sleeve with his other hand.

  I whispered, ‘They look like—’

  ‘Yes, but they speak like men. Like you or I.’