Ilario, the Stone Golem

by Mary Gentle

  the day out of my company in screaming, I had no option but to bring

  her with me, and sit as much out of the way as possible.

  ‘Here.’ Ty-ameny put her finger on a point on the larger map,

  glancing at Rekhmire’, and then to me.

  She beckoned me forward. ‘Let me hold the child.’

  Reluctantly I got up and moved forward. ‘If she wakes, she’ll scream,

  Great Name . . . ’

  ‘She won’t.’

  The Pharaoh-Queen held out her hands, confident enough, I thought.

  Of course, I am a fool: she has had three daughters.

  I passed Onorata into the wiry, muscular arms, and watched Ty-

  ameny smile down at her. The venal thought of a monarch as god-parent

  to my child came into my mind. But courts are cut-throat: Onorata will

  be better out of them . . .

  ‘There.’ Ty-ameny pointed with her chin. Rekhmire’ spread out the

  largest map.

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  The Middle Sea, I saw. Or a version of it. The headland on the

  African coast could only be Carthage, given how close it was to Malta –

  the furthest edge of the Penitence – and Sardinia and the Italies.

  Rekhmire’ lifted his head where he sat. After a moment, I realised I

  was hearing, with him, the creak of slave-wielded fans, loud in the

  silence. He looked questioningly at the Pharaoh-Queen. Ty-ameny

  gestured them away.

  There have been kings who would merely kill their slaves after, in case

  they had overheard what they should not.

  The last slave left. Heat grew in the palace room, despite the open

  windows. I could still taste, in the back of my throat, the smell of dead meat. Ty-ameny clucked at my child, and I seated myself beside

  Rekhmire’.

  I thought, not for the first time, If I had been bought by any other man . . .

  As King Rodrigo’s Freak, I was always spared the worst excesses of

  being owned. My time as Rekhmire’’s slave has been far more like

  Constantinople’s bureaucratic model than how life is outside of the

  courts of power. Compared to Ty-ameny’s palace slaves, I have barely

  been in slavery; compared to the world outside Alexandria – labour,

  prostitution, either way worked to death – I have been closest to free. I

  watched the Queen stroke Onorata’s bare ankle.

  My daughter will never be a slave, no matter what.

  ‘There,’ Ty-ameny said, her voice low and even.

  Rekhmire’, as if his hands were hers, indicated cities on the North

  African coast, and ports at Sicily, Crete, and Rhodes.

  ‘We’ll issue a warning,’ she said. ‘The golem- machina is their opening

  shot. House Barbas has put this weapon into the King-Caliph’s hand . . .

  I am told.’

  She gave a sudden smile, looking from under her kohl-blackened

  lashes at Rekhmire’. He returned his ‘only a book-buyer’ expression of

  innocence. I bit the inside of my lip so as not to laugh aloud. With an inexplicable lift of the heart, I thought, They are closer to brother and sister than cousins.

  ‘That being so,’ she continued, rocking Onorata gently, ‘King-Caliph

  Ammianus will continue to test us. Rekhmire’, how many golem have

  they?’

  ‘As much as I can now tell, no more than a dozen, we think.

  Ammianus keeps most, but his chief allies among the Lords-Amir have

  been given them as gifts.’

  Hanno Anagastes, I thought.

  I saw tears in his eyes when I gave him the funeral portrait of Hanno

  Tesha, although I’d had to put the lustrous brown eyes and sleek dark

  hair of cliche´, since that was the only description of the child he could 195

  give me. Would he be capable of ordering a golem like the one in his

  house to kill men as Masaccio was killed?

  Given what men do in war, yes. No question.

  Rekhmire’ leaned back, his fingers absently kneading at the muscles

  above his knee though the linen kilt. ‘It’s possible the King-Caliph will

  gift one to the Turkish Sultan. And to at least one of the Frankish Kings.

  As far as we know, we’re first outside the Bursa-hill itself.’

  ‘A warning.’ The Pharaoh-Queen repeated it stubbornly. She darted a

  glance at me, keen and black, jolting me with the intensity of her

  attention. ‘And here, I think, is where our business intersects.’

  ‘Aldro.’ I waited as respectfully as I might, for impatience.

  Ty-ameny spoke while she watched my sleeping child. ‘Rekhmire’ has

  brought me knowledge of how Taraconensis appears to be unstable, and

  how your stepfather may be a solution to that.’

  There is nothing she has not been told.

  But I expected that.

  ‘You have your own reasons for wishing to see Lord Videric in his

  place at court again.’ The gleam in Ty-ameny’s black eyes was in part

  serious, in part amused, and wholly elated. ‘Chief among which, I

  imagine, is not continually anticipating murder.’

  I answered the question she had carefully not asked.

  ‘When I trusted Aldro Videric – when I thought he was my father, and

  a good man – I also thought he was King Rodrigo Sanguerra’s necessary

  right hand. He’s still that. Without being a good man.’

  I caught a scowl on Rekhmire’’s face, briefly wondered if I had spoken

  amiss, and found the Pharaoh-Queen nodding with approval.

  ‘I had counted on forty years,’ she observed, ‘and, if I must, will settle

  for twenty.’

  Before Alexandrine Constantinople falls.

  It hit me like a falling boulder: in twenty years, my daughter could be

  twenty. A woman. Those identical baby-features, that have only a

  suggestion of her grandfather and I in the bones behind the skin, and the

  colour of her hair, will give way to a face uniquely hers, a mind uniquely

  hers.

  Cold down my spine under the linen tunic, despite the heat of the

  room, I said, ‘I grew up during peace – it guarantees nothing. But I know

  what war guarantees.’

  Ty-ameny pressed her lips together, nodding. She looked like a girl

  cuddling a small sister.

  She sat up, both her arms cradling Onorata, and the change was as

  sudden and different as the crack of lightning falling from heaven to

  earth.

  ‘The King-Caliph Ammianus sees fit to send me a warning.’ Ty-

  ameny’s eyes glinted. ‘It is my intention now to send a warning back!’

  She lifted her arms, and I automatically stood and came to take

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  Onorata from her. The Queen of Constantinople knelt down by the

  map-table, like a beggar-child playing at marbles in the street. I moved to

  watch over her shoulder.

  A little frown making a fold of skin between her brows, Ty-ameny

  said, ‘The Admiral Zheng He and I are debating an agreement. I will

  loan him a pilot, and charts, to help him regain the ocean sea, and find

  his fleet, if they’re not sunk. My captains suggest it will have been a

  storm around the West African islands; those are dangerous waters.’

  The thought of more war-junks, no matter how few more there might

  be, made me shudder. Jian thought nothing of his crew numbering five

  thousand Chin men, as I knew from speaking to him. There are armies

  in t
he Frankish lands made up of fewer men than that. If they should

  decide to conquer a kingdom and stay here . . .

  A little too intuitively for my liking, Ty-ameny remarked, ‘I think the

  Admiral truly anxious to get back to his Emperor – this is not the first

  voyage they’ve made to foreign waters, and they’ve found only

  “barbarians” wherever they sail. Zheng He’s words.’

  The little smile curved her lip.

  ‘We rank as civilised, having a proper eunuch bureaucracy. Although

  he cares very little for having a woman and a heathen on the throne.

  However,’ she added briskly, ‘he will agree to visit the port of Carthage,

  on his voyage back to the ocean sea.’

  ‘Carthage?’

  She gestured irritably for me to sit down, a moment before I realised

  that she had no desire to crick her neck looking up. I set Onorata

  cautiously into her sling around my neck (for which she was almost too

  large, now) and sat beside Rekhmire’.

  ‘Zheng He will replenish his ship at Carthage,’ Ty-ameny said. ‘And

  while there, he will let it be thought that Alexandria has himself and his

  ship as an ally.’

  Rekhmire’ smiled: I supposed at my expression.

  ‘For this, the Queen is prepared to lend her best pilot,’ he observed

  cheerfully. ‘And Carthage is not to know a pilot is guiding the Admiral

  out of the Middle Sea. For all the King-Caliph knows, the war-junk will

  be roaming the sea on our behalf indefinitely.’

  He exchanged a smile with Ty-ameny.

  ‘A theoretical Zheng He may be a great deal more useful as an ally

  than a material one, given that he can never change his mind and seek

  other alliances!’

  The Pharaoh-Queen lifted her bare shoulders in a shrug, tracing

  routes on the blue- and gold-inked map. ‘I understand from Admiral

  Zheng He that his country has contact along the Silk Road with the Rus,

  the Turk, and the Persians; Carthage is not an important ally for them.

  He’s willing to show himself under our banner.’

  She sat back on her heels, glossy hair sliding away to show her face.

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  ‘And then there is your home, Ilario.’

  Head tight with effort, I strained to keep up with her thought. ‘Aldro,

  you think Zheng He should sail to Taraconensis?’

  Her thin finger traced a course. ‘Taraconensis, before Carthage. I see

  it thus: it is imperative Carthage has no excuse to send legions into

  Taraconensis this year. War will begin if that happens, and it will draw

  all of us in. As the Franks cannot be allowed to think they can invade

  your northern frontier, so Carthage cannot be allowed to provoke them

  into an invasion, by putting a Carthaginian Governor into Taraco.’

  Her words were only my thoughts spoken aloud, and no more than a

  natural consequence of the discussion with Rekhmire’ – but I felt it all

  suddenly made more real.

  Onorata stirred in her sling; I tried by force of will to quiet my

  pounding heartbeat.

  ‘Will the Admiral agree to this, Aldro?’

  ‘He sees the desirability of having an Alexandrine pilot.’ Her grin was

  almost brutal. ‘And he understands the necessity for trade. There must

  be some degree of trust – there’s little to prevent him from kidnapping

  my pilot and attempting to leave the Middle Sea on his own. But I think

  he desires to leave a good name with us, as a civilised man in a world of

  barbarians.’

  Worlds have turned on stranger things. I felt myself dizzy, not only

  from the humid heat.

  Ty-ameny made fists of her hands, like bunches of knucklebones, and

  stretched; breaking the position to reach out and touch Rekhmire’’s arm.

  ‘Admiral Zheng He will also be carrying a humble book-buyer, along

  with my pilot – which, naturally, will have nothing to do with what

  impression the Carthaginians gain of relations between Alexandria and

  Chin.’

  Naturally not. I would have answered in the same manner, but I couldn’t speak.

  ‘If you agree,’ Ty-ameny concluded, looking at me, ‘you will go to

  Taraco with them.’

  The unexpected constriction in my throat kept me silent for an

  embarrassing minute.

  I managed, finally, to croak, ‘My family owes you a debt.’

  Ty-ameny rose in one graceful movement, not putting her hand to the

  floor. ‘Pay me by doing what you would in any case do – have your King

  Rodrigo Sanguerra summon Pirro Videric back as his first minister.’

  The small woman looked at me, and at Rekhmire’, in turn.

  ‘This must happen. By any means possible.’

  198

  Part Three

  Herm and Jethou

  1

  ‘“Caò nıˆ zuˆxian shı´ baˆ dai.”’ I pronounced the sounds as closely to Jian’s as I could manage, ignoring the plainly undisguised amusement on his

  face. Tracing ink deftly onto my paper, I continued in the haphazard

  mixture of bad North African Latin which Zheng He’s crew appeared to

  have picked up on the West African coast, and scattered words from

  Alexandrine Egyptian. ‘And this means . . . ’

  ‘“I am honoured beyond measure to meet you.”’

  The small boat rocked, despite a calm that had been absolute enough

  to becalm the war-junk. I slitted my eyes against morning sunlight and

  the ship laying a hundred paces off. Easier to trace the marks Jian had

  made for me to copy.

  A dozen or more ink studies lay discarded on the thwarts of the

  dinghy, careless of sea-water; each a less successful attempt to capture

  the war-junk with her immensely tall thin sails spread to catch every

  fraction of breeze.

  So far, she did not travel so fast that Commander Jian’s men couldn’t

  row us back to her. In fact I thought she might not be moving at all.

  ‘ Caò nıˆ zuˆxian shı´ baˆ dai . . . ’ I thought I heard a noise from one or other of the Chin men on the rowers’ benches, but my suspicions were

  centred on Jian’s far too innocent expression.

  Twenty days have given me insight enough into him to read at least

  the broader emotions. And this game is called ‘get the foreign devil into

  amusing trouble’.

  ‘“Honoured to meet you,”’ I mused, and looked at him brightly. ‘So

  this is what I should say to the Admiral when we get back on board?

  Then I can ask him to reward you for teaching me so well.’

  Jian’s square frame went utterly still for a heartbeat.

  He lifted his hand, slapped it down on his thigh, and burst into high-

  pitched laughter.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the rowers slapping each other

  on the back and wiping their eyes, which I thought was just as well; they

  showed every sign of rupturing themselves if they’d had to keep quiet

  much longer.

  I smiled at Jian with deliberate innocence, and traced the lines that

  made up the drawn picture-words of Chin. ‘So what does this mean?’

  The Chin officer spluttered, waving his hand in plain refusal.

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  I brandished the paper. ‘If I show this around the ship, someone will

  tell me . . . ’

  Jian was in the habit of treatin
g me as a court eunuch, but I knew the

  man smart enough to know it not entirely true. Yin yang ren! got whispered sometimes when I passed: an impolite version of ‘hermaphrodite’.

  I watched Jian tripping himself up on what might be expected

  behaviour towards a man, or towards a woman, and let him squirm for a

  minute or two before copying him with a thigh-slap and a laugh.

  The noise from our boat would frighten sea-birds away for miles, I

  thought. When every man aboard found himself permitted to laugh –

  and for once to laugh at his commanding officer – it was loud.

  Jian solved his disciplinary problem by pointing to the youngest of the

  rowers, and firing off a rapid rattle of words that I knew must translate as

  ‘ You tell her!’

  If he’d been Iberian, the boy would have been blushing; he ducked his

  head and rattled off apologies non-stop.

  ‘Is it rude?’ I asked helpfully.

  ‘Yes, Lord Barbarian!’

  Ruder than ‘barbarian’? I wondered. But none of them seem to think

  that word is anything more than purely descriptive.

  ‘Is it very rude?’

  The rest of the crew assured me, over the boy’s squirming, that it was

  extremely rude, not meant for any man except the vilest of enemies, and

  that the great Lord Admiral would flay my skin off and tan it for a rug if I

  used it towards him, barbarian ignorance notwithstanding. I’d seen

  enough casual brutality aboard to not be completely convinced he was

  joking.

  Jian seized my paper, and – with the tip of his tongue sticking out of

  the corner of his mouth – drew three or four lines that, as I stared hard,

  resolved themselves into an image. This—

  I turned the page a quarter round, attempting to make out what I was

  seeing. ‘Are they doing what I think they’re doing?’

  ‘Is rude. It means—’ Jian’s hand gesture was fairly universal.

  ‘“Fuck”?’ I prompted, in several of the languages they might have

  heard in Constantinople’s harbour, and there was an outbreak of

  nodding and applause.

  ‘Means, “fuck eighteen generations of your ancestors”,’ Jian

  exclaimed, and gave me a smile that made a square and ugly face

  beautiful. ‘Not to say to the Admiral, no!’

  I smiled and agreed that no, that probably wasn’t wise, and the joke