by Mary Gentle
Talk dragged on for another quarter-hour by the King’s water clock. I
switched to drawing Rodrigo’s hands.
The King’s voice broke in on my thoughts. ‘Well, it is a curious
idea . . . ’
Glancing up, I found myself the focus of looks from King Rodrigo and
the Egyptian.
My hands were out of sight under the table. Or I hoped so. No matter
how well-drawn, a study of a man’s hands is unlikely to be well received
as the reason why I have no idea what has been suggested.
King Rodrigo lifted his chin from his fist and eased back in the oak
chair. He looked at me speculatively. ‘Would you consider it?’
I shot a glance which the book-buyer seemed accurately to read as
Help! The envoy of the Pharaoh-Queen stretched his leg out under the oak table, flinching barely perceptibly. ‘Perhaps I could explain to you in
more detail, Ilario?’
There was an odd glint in his dark eyes. Yes: I know: I should have drawn less, and paid more attention! But between the crucial decisions here, which may affect all my life, and Honorius in prison in another part
of the palace, is it any wonder I desire only to lose myself in contour and
value?
Rekhmire’s large hand gestured towards the window. ‘Let us agree
that Admiral Zheng He’s appearance at Taraco begins to be a cause for
the recall of Lord Videric, but is not sufficient cause.’
The Egyptian switched his gaze to me.
‘Last year’s scandal that deposed Videric from his position of first
minister was an accusation of attempted murder. That he sent his wife,
in fact, to murder you – you until then not known to be Videric and
Rosamunda’s child. And Carthage took this attempted killing badly.’
Rekhmire’ kept a perfectly even expression during his last words.
Had I been closer, I would have kicked his ankle under the table,
injured knee or not.
‘ And? ’ I prompted, robbed of anxiety by minor irritation. Which, I realised, is likely his design.
‘And . . . ’ Rekhmire’ glanced at Rodrigo. ‘His Majesty agrees that if
the scandal was between Videric and you – then any cure for that scandal
must also be between Videric and you.’
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Did this arise out of your discussion? I wondered. Some moment I was
lost in drawing? Or is this something you concocted aboard ship, and
failed to tell me?
I found myself chilled, despite the sun in the room.
‘It must be assumed that you and Aldra Videric are father and child.’
Rekhmire’ directed his dark gaze at me, like a shock of cold water.
‘Obviously this would involve some degree of untruth.’
‘You mean I have to lie.’
I had not expected to hear myself sound so bitter. This can’t be
unexpected, after all.
Rekhmire’ spoke with the greatest apparent innocence. ‘Call it
diplomacy.’
The humour – which I doubted any man might read there except for
me – faded from the Egyptian’s eyes as I failed to respond.
‘Continue,’ King Rodrigo murmured.
‘If it were publicly supposed that there had been a mistake.’
Rekhmire’ emphasised the final word softly.
‘If it were discovered that Carthage had been in error, and Lord
Videric is not responsible for attempted murder. Then that discovery – in
addition to negotiating friendly relations with Zheng He – might suffice
as a pretext for reappointing him as Taraco’s First Minister.’
King Rodrigo grunted. I know that rumble of old. ‘Don’t try my
patience.’ I slid the paper in my lap well out of sight.
I asked, ‘How would this happen?’
Rekhmire’’s eyes sought the King’s, with a brief look at me that might
have been apology. ‘I had thought – some kind of public ceremony of
reconciliation?’
I tasted the word in my mind. Reconciliation.
Reconciliation between me and Aldra Videric.
Pah!
The book-buyer continued. ‘If Lord Videric and Aldro Rosamunda
are greeted, on their return to Taraco, with every mark of friendship
from their son-daughter Ilario . . . Majesty, might not your court assume
the King-Caliph and Carthage’s Lord-Amirs must be in error?’
Rodrigo Sanguerra blinked like one of the lizards that haunt ancient
stone ruins. ‘It would need to appear more than friendship.’
Rekhmire’ rested his hands on the table before him, fingertips pressed
together. I recognised his stance when closing a deal with some scroll-
owner. Yes, he thought this through on Zheng He’s ship—
Delicately, the Alexandrine spy suggested, ‘Some formal ceremony,
perhaps?’
The King nodded, thoughtfully. ‘Some ceremony. Some formal
reconciliation . . . In the cathedral, perhaps? Archbishop Cunigast could
oversee it. Enough pageantry, enough piety, and a show of pardon . . .
Yes!’ Energised, Rodrigo Sanguerra sat upright in his chair. ‘Yes: if only
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because my people greatly desire a reason to think that the King-Caliph was mistaken, and should therefore have kept his nose out of our
business!’
I saw the shape of it in my mind. Lie and pretend. I braced myself and
spoke. ‘Your Majesty, yes. Provisionally, I would agree to that.’
Rodrigo snapped his fingers.
Servants entered the room, pouring wine and water again for the three
of us. The glasses they brought were delicate blue, with double helixes of
red and yellow glass in the stem.
Kek and Keket and Rekhmire’’s Holy Eight! Put my father in prison, and then confiscate his export glass!
Light glimmered from my Venetian glass to the tabletop, casting
twisted ellipses of light. I lifted it, tilting it in an ironic toast to King Rodrigo. He returned the gesture, his expression closed.
The empty spaces of the cathedral in Taraco have always impressed
me. Any noise louder than a whisper echoes from the inside of the vast
dome, ivory in colour, featureless as an egg; stark in contrast to the gold,
ruby, emerald, and sapphire work encrusting the altars and chapels
below. Full of the court and citizens of Taraco, a stunning spectacle; the
midday sun falling clear down onto the main altar below.
I thought of standing there. Of Videric’s face. Of Rosamunda.
‘Wait—’
Rekhmire’ and the King were talking: I broke into their relaxed speech
more harshly than I meant.
‘Your Majesty, I’m sorry. I apologise, but I’ve just thought – “a show
of pardon”, you said? Would you formally forgive Aldra Videric? How can you, if it’s Carthage that’s supposed to have made the error? What
would you be forgiving him for—’
I broke off. King Rodrigo’s stolid dark gaze transfixed me.
The shaking of my hand sent reflections of light across the inlaid
geometric wood patterns.
Further down the table, Rekhmire’ spoke in a smooth apologetic tenor.
‘Ilario, you haven’t thought through the implications.’
It was difficult to get words out. ‘I haven’t?’
‘His Majesty is suggesting a family reconciliation, to lead to a political
reconciliation. But, yes, you’re right: Lord Videric can’t be pardoned if
The glass was hard as stone under my fingertips.
Rekhmire’’s voice came again. ‘Ilario, it won’t be Lord Videric who
must publicly apologise.’
Bright concentric circles rippled on the surface of my wine.
‘Apologise?’
Rodrigo Sanguerra waved a hand at Rekhmire’, his velvet sleeve
pulling back to show white linen, and curling black hairs at his wrist.
‘Listen to the Alexandrine envoy, Ilario.’
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You freed me!
Both of you.
I shifted my gaze from the King to Rekhmire’.
The Egyptian interlaced his fingers, where his hands rested on the
table. ‘His Majesty needs to make the reputation of Lord Videric
spotless. Lord Videric can’t appear to have anything to do with a
murder. Not if he’s to return as First Minister.’
Rodrigo’s gaze weighed me. ‘Therefore, Ilario, it was not an attempted
murder.’
I remember, less than a year ago, taking my first manumission papers
from that creased hand. He unlocked the collar from my neck with his
own fingers.
And this is the man who has worked twenty-five years in harness, if
not in collar, with Videric. And whose own reputation, at the moment, is
therefore suspect.
Rekhmire’ spoke again. ‘Ilario, it would be you. If the attempted
murder is redefined as a mistake, then you would have to speak publicly.
You would need to apologise to Lord Videric, because you allowed the
Lord-Amir in Carthage to reach a wrong conclusion. And it won’t be
difficult to have it credited – men are usefully prone to believing slaves
are foolish.’
I will not disgrace myself by throwing this wine in the Egyptian’s face.
Rekhmire’’s wide shoulders lifted in a minute shrug. ‘You might say,
for example, that you were attacked by criminals in Carthage. You were
rescued by the Lady Rosamunda. Judge Hanno Agastes wrongly mistook
her rescue for an attack. And you . . . were too afraid of punishment,
when Carthage mistook her actions, to speak up and tell the truth. But
now—’
Sharp pain shot through my hand.
Fine curved splinters of glass stood out of my skin.
I opened my palm, not yet wincing at the hot fire of the cuts. Only the
stem of the glass was whole. Wine puddled on the table, spattered
surprisingly far.
The King silently signalled for his servants to clear the mess.
I felt as if my neck creaked stiffly as I looked up at Rekhmire’. ‘You’ve
thought this through.’
And said no word to me.
Rekhmire’’s fingers slid apart from each other: his large hands made
fists. He met my gaze fearlessly. ‘Yes, I’ve thought! You need to
apologise, Ilario—’
‘ I did nothing wrong!’
‘Apologise for not speaking up when Carthage drew an erroneous
conclusion, thus causing the downfall of your father Lord Videric.’
The Egyptian’s gaze was implacable, and Rodrigo Sanguerra sat back,
letting him speak.
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‘You would beg Lord Videric’s pardon for being coward enough not
to speak at the time. And for being timid enough to run from Carthage
afterwards, and not come back to Taraco to set matters right until now.’
Rekhmire’’s round chin came up: he stared at me challengingly.
I picked the larger of the glass splinters from my palm. None had gone
deep enough to scar, but there was a surprising quantity of blood.
If Honorius hears of this, no possible concern about politics will stop him from protesting!
‘Apologise.’ I could barely get the word out without stuttering. ‘Lie
and beg pardon. From Videric.’
King Rodrigo Sanguerra nodded, speaking for the first time in long
minutes. ‘Yes.’
In the city’s cathedral, in front of four, five, perhaps six thousand
people.
People that I know.
I desired more than anything to walk out. One shake of my hand, to
scatter loose and bloody fragments across the delicate wood patterns;
then I might push my way past Safrac de Aguilar and out—
But if I run through the passages of this castle, I will only meet more
people that I know.
‘You want me to claim that I lied. That I ran away. That I was too
afraid to come back and tell the truth. You want me to say this in front of
every prominent citizen and nobleman of Taraconensis.’
I found a kerchief in my leather purse. When I wrapped it about my
hand, it turned scarlet through the bleached cloth.
‘You know that if I say this in public, it doesn’t matter what the truth is
– I can’t rewrite it, after. That’s the story that will spread out and be believed.’
‘Yes,’ King Rodrigo Sanguerra said.
I did not look at Rekhmire’. I looked at the king who had owned me.
‘No.’
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7
Since too many eyes were watching every boat on the way out and back
to Zheng He’s great floating wooden island, His Majesty Rodrigo
Sanguerra Coverrubias changed his decree, and said that his guests
should live ashore for the time being, quietly out of the way, in an
obscure part of the palace’s south wing.
Rekhmire’’s hand clamped on my elbow the moment we passed
through the doors and were alone.
‘Ilario, listen to me!’
‘ Now you talk to me? You should have done that before!’
I threw him off with a vicious movement, caught from the corner of
my eye how he stumbled, and swung around fast enough to catch hold of
him, preventing him falling.
Not strong enough to hold up his weight, I found the two of us taking
staggering round steps as if we danced; until the room’s wall caught me
squarely between the shoulder-blades, and both of us leaned up against
the other, gasping and panting.
I felt the taut expansion of his shoulder and arm muscles; had a
moment to think, Walking with crutches has begun to alter the shape of his body, and then his other hand got a grip on his staff, and he pushed himself back from me and the wall.
He swayed but stayed on his feet. ‘ What should I have spoken to you
about?’
These chambers were higher up than Honorius’s prison, I registered,
and less well-appointed. But airy and light: Onorata would be content
here.
I ignored his question. ‘I’m risking this disguise once more. Tottola
and I will bring Onorata and Carrasco ashore this evening at dusk. Is this
my chamber, or yours?’
‘They have given me the choice of rooms opposite,’ Rekhmire’ got
out, sounding as if he choked. ‘ What have I not told you? ’
The exertion had not sapped my explosive temper: I had all I could do
to rein it in. I desired to throw anything that would break. Instead, I
faced the Egyptian, stabbing a finger towards the open windows, where
Taraco drowned in the afternoon’s white heat.
‘This is not Carthage!’ I yanked at the leather laces tying closed the
neck of Attila’s mail-shirt, but it made me no less heated. ‘This isn’t
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Rome! Or Venice! Or Alexandria! What happens to me here happens in
front of people I know!’
There are few ways to be got out of a mail-shirt with dignity. A
thousand riveted metal rings form a net that cling to the body. Pulling
one’s shirt off upwards only results in yanking at chin, ears, and
capturing hanks of hair to pull out.
The Egyptian was tall enough that he might have held the mail-shirt’s
shoulders still while I eased myself down out of it, but I felt absolutely no
inclination to ask his help.
I copied remembered instructions from my master-at-arms, bending
over and putting my hands flat on the floor. I shook myself until the
armour’s own weight inverted it, and brought it sliding smoothly down
over my torso, shoulders, arms and head.
The mail-shirt thudded to the floorboards at my wrists as a small
bundle of metal.
I straightened up, gasping with relief, kicked at it, and all but fell over
with dizziness.
In the voice of a man who has lost his breath again, Rekhmire’
observed, ‘A sight I wouldn’t have missed for the world . . . ’
‘ I will not look like a liar and a coward in front of the court I grew up in! ’
The Egyptian’s amusement vanished. ‘I would not laugh at you—’
There was a joint-stool by the couch: I kicked it the length of the
panelled chamber.
‘I will not look like a liar and a coward in front of Videric!’
Tottola was engaged at the outer door in conversation; I thought it
might be with members of the royal guard. I had no hope of
understanding a word with rage deafening me.
‘Ilario.’ Rekhmire’ put out his hand: I stepped back.
‘Videric made my mother try to kill me. I’ll stand in the same room
with him, but – claim this never happened? That I’ve lied?’
Rekhmire’ grabbed my upper arms, staring down the inch or two
difference in our heights.
‘And you didn’t plan your story well enough,’ I said bitterly. ‘Videric
allowed his child to be abandoned and sold! To live here at court as Rodrigo’s tame freak. How will that reform him in men’s eyes?’
Rekhmire’’s intent gaze made my heart hammer; I felt a pulse beating
in my throat. His mouth quirked, in something like amazement.
‘Oh . . . I can devise an answer for that, too. Say that Videric, as your
father, wanted you to have a good life at court – but he knew you would