Ilario, the Stone Golem

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by Mary Gentle


  He gave the impression of choosing his words very carefully.

  ‘Tell me, Ilario, what I should have done with Licinus Honorius?’

  He did not say ‘your father’. I had not the slightest doubt he knew.

  Before I could stop choking and get out an answer, King Rodrigo

  lifted the full force of his gaze to me.

  ‘Here is a lord of my kingdom,’ he said, measuredly, ‘Aldra Licinus

  Honorius, whose presence I require at court. I send to inform him. He

  does not come. I send to order him. He delays, says he will come . . . but

  does not. Meantime, all my other lords – less rich than Licinus Honorius,

  perhaps, and not “the Lion of Castile”, but still noble lords – watch this

  behaviour . . . and judge how weak I’ve grown.’

  No proper words of objection would form in my dry mouth.

  ‘Therefore,’ Rodrigo concluded, leaning back, ‘when Aldra Honorius

  finally does deign to obey his King’s summons, what do I do? Thank him

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  kindly for his arrival? Ask him how I should have worded my summons,

  to be better obeyed?’

  ‘Your Majesty—’

  ‘ Yes! ’ His hand slapped loudly down on the carved chair’s arm.

  ‘“Majesty.” “King.” But only so long as men call me so! Licinus

  Honorius is a subject of mine. He defied me. He is therefore now serving

  me – by being an object lesson to any man who might think of doing

  likewise!’

  Rekhmire’ stirred, beside me.

  It was the pain of his leg, I saw. Nothing in the Egyptian’s expression

  signified dissent.

  ‘It’s not justice to put him in prison, Majesty!’ I spoke fiercely. ‘It’s my

  fault he didn’t come. He was helping me. If you put anybody in the

  dungeon, it should be me.’

  Rodrigo Sanguerra briefly smiled.

  ‘I know.’ He rested his chin on his fist. The hooded lids of his eyes

  dipped down – in a way that had always, in the past, signalled covert

  amusement. ‘But my hermaphrodite Fool in prison is hardly an object

  lesson to the men who covet my throne. Of which there are always

  some.’

  ‘Sire . . . ’

  Rodrigo Sanguerra waved his free hand dismissively. ‘Aldra Honorius

  can stay in my dungeons until I’m satisfied every man has realised he’s

  there. And that he submits to his King. And then, on payment of a sufficiently large fine, he can find himself at liberty.’

  He frowned, his pause unstudied.

  ‘What, did you suppose I was going to execute the Lion of Castile?’

  Dizziness made me unable to answer properly.

  ‘You may see him,’ King Rodrigo remarked, ‘when we’re done here.

  The more visitors, the more mouths to carry the story, after all.’

  He smiled at me.

  ‘Are you still free, hermaphrodite?’

  What a question. Curtailing a long story, I said, ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

  He would be in his late fifties or early sixties, this King of

  Taraconensis. If I tried to look at him as a stranger would – as Rekhmire’

  might be doing now – I saw the unforgiving and unwelcoming face of a

  country mostly composed of mountain, infertile plain, and rocky coast.

  Growing up with the land, I know there are valleys that flower at the

  foothills of the mountains, and rich seas and forests, if a man can find the

  way to them. Rodrigo had been rumoured a less grave man before his

  Queen, Cixila, died in giving birth to their dead fourth child.

  ‘Come here.’ Rodrigo beckoned, and held out his hand. I moved to

  kneel on the dais steps, and kissed the cabochon-cut emerald he wore in

  his massive ouroboros-ring.

  For a moment, he rested his hand on my head.

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  ‘You come back bringing trouble, Ilario.’

  A flood of emotion would have had me in tears like a girl. I waited

  until it passed. And saw King Rodrigo had, as ever, read everything

  visible in a man’s face.

  ‘We’ll break our fast and talk,’ he said, glancing around absently for

  servants – and, on a sudden, looked back at me.

  He gestured with his lined hand. ‘Rise, Ilario.’

  Stiffly, slowly, I stood up.

  It is still instinctive in me – not to rise until he gives me direct

  permission.

  ‘The envoy of Alexandria is best qualified to speak with you, Your

  Majesty.’ I prayed he did not read how rigid I stood, and how much it

  was out of determination. ‘No man knows I’m here, yet; no man will

  recognise me, dressed like this. May I be excused to visit Lord Honorius

  in prison?’

  I did not suppose Honorius would be in a prison elsewhere than in

  Taraco. And not in the civil jail down in the city, reserved for men who

  are not noble. Somewhere in this palace’s oubliettes and rat-infested

  dungeons, thick with the stench of ancient shit and despair . . . Because if King Rodrigo desires to make an object lesson out of Honorius, he will keep him under his hand.

  Rekhmire’’s fingers closed around my biceps. Without seeming to care

  that he broke protocol in speaking before the King did, he snapped, ‘We

  need you here!’

  The flash of Rekhmire’’s gaze prompted Videric! very plainly.

  ‘You were previously of the opinion I could stay on the ship, Master

  Rekhmire’. You can bring the introductory matters to my Lord King’s

  attention. I’ll continue after I’ve seen Lord Honorius—’

  I bit back the words my father.

  ‘—with His Majesty’s permission.’

  Rekhmire’ glared at me, clearly divided between exasperation and a

  fear that I might throw something.

  Observing us, King Rodrigo shifted his chin to his other hand, all the

  time watching me as closely as a painter does. He allowed silence to

  return.

  Rekhmire’ murmured, ‘I apologise, Exalted One.’

  I echoed him. ‘I apologise, sire.’

  Underlining that with silence, King Rodrigo did nothing more than

  observe me from under lowered lids.

  ‘Very well!’ He sat up, briskly. ‘Master Egyptian, we will have a private

  audience. Ilario – one hour. And you will not afterwards whine to me

  that this is too brief!’

  Without waiting for an answer, the King beckoned one of his men

  forward; a lugubrious-faced knight in a forest-green surcoat over

  Milanese armour.

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  ‘The prison, first; then bring Ilario to me in the east tower, when the

  hour of Terce has struck.’

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  5

  The knight’s lugubriosity appeared to be a function merely of his long

  features. He introduced himself as Safrac de Aguilar, and smiled amiably

  enough as I halted midway up a flight of sandstone spiral steps.

  Four sets of steps serve the floors of the prison tower of the Sanguerra

  castle. One at each corner of the building. Any one of them enough to

  leave men breathless.

  It was not the constriction of my ribs that made me stop, but a sudden

  thought.

  ‘Aldra Aguilar, I have no money for a bribe!’

  That we were going up, not down, the stairs, told me I was being taken

  to the governor or overseer – whatever knight King Rodrigo had placed

 
in charge of prisoners, and who therefore kept his chambers at the top of

  this high square tower. And whose income depends on what prisoners’

  relatives will pay him for good treatment of a prisoner.

  Appalled, I thought, Nor do I have money to pay a jailer for food, or candles, or clean water, or anything my father will need!

  Safrac de Aguilar gave me a wry smile. ‘Your money isn’t needed.’

  And that means?

  He gave me no chance to question him, turning his back. I followed

  the muffled clack of plate armour up the ever-turning stairs. His was not

  a face I recalled from court life, but the King must think him honest and

  not prone to gossip.

  Or else he wouldn’t let the man see Honorius and I together, with

  kinship written on our faces.

  Unless Honorius is not recognisable—

  The steps ceased, and I all but fell over de Aguilar’s heels. He opened

  the door set counter-wise into the tower’s wall, and gestured for me to

  pass through.

  ‘Could you lend me money, Aldra?’ I persisted.

  Safrac de Aguilar sighed, his face giving it the force of extreme misery.

  ‘Just go inside!’

  An arrow-slit window opened into the antechamber, spilling bright

  sunlight onto terracotta tiles. De Aguilar nodded to the guards in royal

  livery, beckoning them aside and speaking in an undertone. I caught a

  glimpse of the sea through the narrow slit, far out on the horizon, and

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  wondered, If I had my babe in my arms, would I be more likely to move a prison governor to sympathy?

  Sharp knocking brought me back to myself. De Aguilar was just

  lowering his hand from the nail-sprinkled oak door of the inner rooms.

  The door opened. A young and curly-haired man put his head out.

  I stared. ‘ Saverico? ’

  Safrac de Aguilar said something that did not penetrate the shock of

  seeing Ensign Saverico in clean green doublet and red hose, with a

  pewter lion badge sewn to his sleeve.

  ‘Donna Ilario!’ He grinned. ‘I have your dress, still!’

  The door was pushed further open from the inside: a shorter and

  skinnier man demanded, ‘What is it this time?’, and I recognised his voice before I saw his face – Honorius’s Armenian sergeant, Orazi.

  The door opened into a wide, well-furnished chamber. On the far side

  of the room, opposite the door, a window showed the sky to the north.

  Beneath the window stood a table. The chair on its left had been pushed

  back – by either Saverico or Orazi, when they came to open the door.

  A chess-board stood on the table itself, and in the right-hand chair,

  Licinus Honorius, il leone di Castiglia, lifted his chin from his hand and contemplation of the board, and called without looking towards the door:

  ‘By my calculation, Sergeant, you now owe me Carthage, Alexandria,

  and a year’s dye-trade in Bruges . . . Would you rather play me at

  dice?’

  Orazi carries a sword at his side.

  The sergeant stepped quickly back across the room, fast enough that I

  saw why Honorius might keep him as a bodyguard, and moved a bishop.

  ‘Check!’ He finished with a jerk of his chin towards us at the door.

  Honorius looked. His eyes met mine.

  I felt it in a blow to my stomach.

  It was as if it took an age for him to rise from the chair.

  Safrac de Aguilar murmured something behind me, stepping back

  with the royal guards; I was dimly aware that the solid oak door closed

  with them outside.

  Honorius opened his mouth, and said nothing.

  His cheeks were not sunken in or unshaven, his tunic looked clean; he

  carried a dagger scabbarded at his right hip.

  ‘ I thought you were in some rat-infested piss-hole! ’

  Words ripped out of my throat with the force of a winter storm.

  ‘The King told me you were in prison! You’re all right! Why didn’t you tell me? ’

  Honorius stepped forward, his expression shifting from shock to

  wonder and solemnity.

  I could do nothing but stare.

  ‘Ilario . . . ’

  Honorius broke into a great wide grin, covered the remaining distance

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  in a moment, and threw his arms about me hard enough that I felt my

  ribs crunch.

  ‘Ilario!’

  ‘ Oof! ’ It would have been more than a whisper, if I could have got the

  breath. And had I not been embracing him equally hard.

  Without letting go, Honorius briefly turned his head. ‘Saverico, get

  another goblet out! And the good wine. Tell Berenguer to put the kettle

  on the fire!’

  He stepped back, hands gripping my shoulders, looking me up and

  down.

  ‘Berenguer won’t let me eat prison food,’ he added absently, with a

  nod towards a door I had not noted; this was not one room, but a set of

  chambers, evidently. ‘You’re looking well. Have you eaten?’

  ‘Have I eaten?’

  ‘There’s some beef left from last night, and chicken. And maybe a bit

  of mutton—’

  ‘ Honorius! ’

  I swore in Italian, Alexandrine Latin, and a little of the vocabulary of

  Chin.

  Honorius beamed at me.

  ‘ Mutton? But you’re in prison!’ I protested.

  My father put his fists on his hips and grinned. ‘Yes, I am, aren’t I?’

  There was a long oak settle beside this room’s hearth, a length of red

  velvet thrown over the back to prevent draughts. I collapsed down onto

  the wooden seat. ‘I don’t understand!’

  Honorius signalled, without looking, and sat down on the settle beside

  me. A moment or two later another man-at-arms – I recognised

  Berenguer’s angular features – entered wearing an apron over his

  doublet, and carrying a tray with wine and bread and cold mutton. He

  gave me a nod of greeting.

  I looked around at the soldiers, as well as my father. ‘You could walk

  right out of here! Why are you here?’

  Honorius leaned his elbow on the back of the low settle. His hand,

  holding his wine goblet, just visibly shook. His face glowed, looking at

  me.

  I tried again. ‘ Why are you in prison? ’

  ‘Because I want to be.’

  One should not regard one’s own father as if he were stark mad.

  Except under this kind of provocation. ‘Father—’

  ‘Because it’s necessary.’ Honorius smiled. ‘I may be a soldier, but I do

  understand some things about politics. I’m on display.’

  Saverico and Orazi both nodded at that. Honorius waved a hand to

  dismiss them from their attentive stances – which meant they retired to

  the chess table five feet away, to watch us from there.

  ‘On display,’ Honorius repeated, ‘and contrite. An object lesson. Soon

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  to be impoverished. Well – comparatively, and for a while. Then all will

  be well between me and the King—’

  ‘But you’re in prison!’ I couldn’t conquer the enormity of it, even if the

  rats and dung were absent. ‘You’ve vanished; Rodrigo could have you

  quietly killed! Why—’

  ‘To keep the stupid from rebelling against their King.’ Honorius

  rubbed his chin. ‘Who, come to think of it, is my King. I don’t like serving under a weak
king.’

  I saw the truth of it as if someone had flung shutters open to sunlight. I

  tried not to sound accusatory – and failed. ‘Honorius, you agreed to this!’

  ‘It’s necessary,’ he said simply.

  Orazi, at the window table, prodded his bishop and grinned.

  Words choked themselves in my throat. I put my goblet down before I

  should spill it.

  ‘And you didn’t let me know!’

  Honorius cocked a brow.

  He said nothing of the distance of Constantinople, or the likelihood

  that I would have been somewhere else by the time letters or messengers

  arrived. Which saved my pride, if nothing else.

  ‘I wasn’t certain this would happen until I got here.’ He shrugged.

  ‘One of the possibilities was execution, but you tell me your Rodrigo

  Sanguerra’s a reasonable king, so that didn’t seem likely. This didn’t

  surprise me when he ordered it.’

  He paused, putting his hand on my shoulder again as if reassuring

  himself of my solidity.

  ‘Letters can be intercepted. What could I safely say to you?’

  ‘I had the same difficulty in Alexandria . . . ’ I watched Orazi passing

  the castle-piece back and forth between his fingers.

  Honorius’s grip tightened. ‘Why are you here and not in Alexandria?

  What happened? And how did you get here?’

  ‘Ah.’ I craned my chin up to see what was beyond the window, but I

  had been correct before: it was the mountains and the north. No visible

  sea. ‘Have you heard any gossip about a “devil-ship”?’

  Honorius’s lips pursed surprisingly delicately; he might have been a

  disapproving duenna in the Court of Ladies. ‘I think you’d better

  explain.’

  I explained.

  He sat for a minute or more, after I had done.

  Quietly, he asked, ‘Is Onorata still with us?’

  Relief and chagrin hit me in equal measures. I should have told him that at once!

  ‘Oh, she is – in loud health.’

  Awkward although it might be on the hard wooden seat, I leaned over

  and embraced my father again.

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  The lines around his eyes tightened as if he looked into sunlight. ‘I

  didn’t realise you’d miss my company, Ilario.’

  Since it seemed appropriate to a soldier, and since I might otherwise

  weep, I said, ‘Fucking idiot!’

 

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