Ilario, the Stone Golem

by Mary Gentle

  He gave a shrug, with bulky shoulders; and winced at kneeling on the

  hard wood. ‘Of course. I want you to think about anything that speaks to

  my side of the argument!’

  I might prove my own case, of what truly happened – but that wouldn’t help bring Aldra Videric back as your adviser . . .

  I sat with my elbows on my knees, and thrust my fingers through my

  hair

  It would begin to prove the true story if I used Ramiro Carrasco de

  Luis as a witness. The confused emotions of guilt, gratitude, hatred, and

  attraction that he felt towards his hermaphrodite rescuer would make

  him speak.

  I might make King Rodrigo believe in the extent of Videric’s guilt.

  But I should not seek to do that. Since he needs to retain that shred of

  trust to work with the man.

  ‘Do I have to swallow the “forgiveness” of a man who sent people

  after me to kill me?’

  The King of Taraconensis gave me the quirk-lipped look that I have

  known as long as I have known him. ‘Ilario, I assure you, abasement

  becomes quite natural after a while . . . ’

  ‘It does?’

  ‘No.’

  I couldn’t have painted Rodrigo’s expression; the gleam in his dark

  eyes that was amusement, grief, anger, and self-mockery; all together.

  ‘No,’ Rodrigo Sanguerra repeated. ‘And you’re not my enemy. In fact,

  you bear a surprisingly small grudge against your King. I don’t envy you

  on your knees before a man who hates you. But . . . ’

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  He put one hand down, to begin to rise; I leapt up and offered hand

  and arm.

  ‘You’re wrong about the grudge, sire.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘All that’s in the past. I can’t carry it now.’

  ‘Ah.’ He made fists of his hands as he stood there, stretched his arms

  out, and I heard tendons and ligaments crack. ‘I think I’m wearing you

  down. If I come tomorrow, who knows what you’ll say?’

  If there was an hour during the night when I slept, I didn’t know about it.

  The water clock marked what would have been watches on Frankish

  and Iberian ships, and were hours of prayer here. After a while I got up

  and dressed, and, when the time came, fed Onorata with the warm goat’s

  milk that Ramiro Carrasco deftly obtained.

  If we had both been slaves, I would have teased him with how a lawyer

  felt about being skilled in milking goats. As it was, I left him to resume his sleep.

  Onorata rarely woke more than once in the night, now. I almost

  regretted that, leaning at the window and watching moonlight mimic the

  earlier sun on distant crawling waves. I could have done with somewhat

  to keep me occupied.

  In all honesty, had it been a night in Carthage or Rome or Venice, I

  would have contrived some accident to wake up Rekhmire’, just so that I

  could talk to the Egyptian.

  I squinted out at the black featureless immensity that was the land-

  mass of Taraco. Wondering how long the mules would take to Aldra

  Videric’s estates, and how riding was treating his knee.

  It’s possible to become surprisingly accustomed to someone’s company, I concluded, and went back to wrestle with Iberian wolf-skin bed-covers,

  and lay awake until dawn.

  Honorius liking Onorata’s company, and I not knowing how long I

  would be here for him to have it, I spent more time in the prison than in

  my own quarters.

  I sat on the wide ledge, one leg hanging down inside the room. From

  this acute angle, I might just see the sea in the north-east. Sun flashed like hammered gold. From this high citadel I could watch Zheng He’s

  ship tacking slowly up and down the coast – showing its sheer

  dimensions off to Taraconensis’ smaller towns, and bringing their

  knights and mayors hot-foot to Taraco and the King’s presence.

  Rodrigo Sanguerra had abandoned kneeling, and that morning had sat

  with me in my rooms with an air of relaxation. As if, despite what he

  must attempt to persuade me into, this time was a pleasant relief from

  court politics.

  Now I recall why he kept his hermaphrodite slave . . .

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  Where the sun fell on the sea, it was bright enough to make eyes sting

  and water.

  King Rodrigo had said, Panic is spreading very well. Up here, it’s too high to see what men and women do when the dragon-painted ship

  threatens them; too far off to hear screams, or shouts of anger, or see

  whether any man is hurt.

  I pushed myself back into the room, off the sill, and leaned on the back

  of the settle, watching with Honorius as Onorata tugged at the wolf’s

  pelt. She might have been wriggling forward on her belly, or only

  wriggling by accident.

  ‘This plan of the King’s,’ I began.

  The door of the prison opened; royal guards strode in, Rodrigo

  Sanguerra behind them. Honorius sprang to his feet. I crouched to pick

  up Onorata, and put her into Saverico’s arms, the young ensign being

  nearest me.

  Honorius nodded and Carrasco and the three men-at-arms retired to

  the kitchens. He bowed his head to his King. ‘Majesty?’

  Rodrigo Sanguerra waved a hand to dismiss his escort. They filed out.

  Absently, he seated himself on the oak settle, gesturing that we might sit

  too if we so chose.

  ‘You have knowledge of the Alexandrine envoy,’ he observed. ‘I

  thought I might therefore ask you questions, confidentially.’

  ‘What?’ I managed intelligently.

  The King ignored me, passing a sheet of parchment to Honorius.

  ‘Is this in his own hand?’

  ‘His scribe would know better.’ Honorius held it out to me.

  It was signed Rekhmire’ and a Pharaonic pictogram, as he had signed

  letters he had had me write.

  I read it out. ‘“I find it compelling to stay with the Aldra Videric at his

  estate for some time longer. Perhaps a week or a month. His hospitality is

  overwhelming, and he desires me to stay for the hunting.”’

  ‘Is it genuine?’ Rodrigo demanded impatiently.

  Compelling. Overwhelming.

  ‘Yes. He wrote it, Majesty. But . . . ’ I tried to catch Honorius’s eye.

  Noblemen die of hunting accidents, horses and beasts are dangerous

  pastimes. But they die also of conspiracy or ambush and are reported as

  ‘hunting accidents’. I saw Honorius recognised my thought.

  He frowned. ‘It could be true. The damned book-buyer – sorry,

  Majesty; I mean Master Rekhmire’. He might have decided he needs

  time enough there to persuade Lord Videric into seeing things his

  way . . . ’

  The words trailed off into the heated air of the chamber.

  The King raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘Ilario?’

  My hands clenched into fists. ‘Yes, it’s possible – but also possible it’s a

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  flat lie! I think – Videric has decided to hold the Alexandrine envoy as a

  hostage.’

  The King looked very close to startled. ‘No. No, I think not. The

  Videric that I know is not a fool! If Master Rekhmire’ has conveyed what

  we do here, Pirro must think he has only to wait for me to recall him. He

  would also know that Taraconensis can’t a
fford to harm the representa-

  tive of Queen Ty-ameny.’

  I took several steps, pacing about the room, arms wrapped around my

  body. For all the heat, I was cold.

  ‘Alexandria would only hear it was a hunting accident. Impossible to

  prove it wasn’t.’

  ‘Ilario, really—’ King Rodrigo sighed, as I have known him sigh

  before. ‘You allow your fear and hatred to distort your judgement. My

  lord Videric is not fool enough to allow harm to come to the Egyptian.’

  Insight hit me as if it were a bolt from a crossbow.

  I all but bit my tongue as the realisation struck.

  ‘No.’ I stepped forward, putting my hand on Honorius’s shoulder,

  willing him to understand. ‘No, that’s right. I am misjudging him.

  Videric’s not that stupid.’

  ‘Then—’

  ‘ Rosamunda is. ’

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  The King scowled, but I ignored him; aware I was gripping Honorius’s

  shoulder hard enough that my fingers must hurt. He would have bruises.

  I felt as if I needed to urge the clarity of this truth into his body and blood.

  My father frowned.

  Thinking of . . . his Rosamunda? The woman who would have run

  away from her husband, until she was offered a choice between material

  comfort and my father’s love?

  The woman who twice, in Taraco and in Carthage, came close to

  killing her son-daughter?

  Honorius’s frown deepened. ‘It’s not in Aldro Rosamunda’s interests

  to harm the book-buyer. She’ll want her husband made First Minister

  again.’

  ‘She won’t think that far!’

  The house of Hanno Anagastes came back to me: Rosamunda’s

  expression behind her frozen eyes.

  ‘Rekhmire’ ruined her. You didn’t see her face in Carthage!’

  The frown became a scowl. Honorius absently reached up and peeled

  my fingers from the ball of his shoulder, and gripped my hand in his.

  ‘She’d end up the wife of an exile if she did this. Or Videric would

  divorce her!’

  ‘Rosamunda has a queue of rich and powerful men who’d marry her

  on the spot if she were divorced by Videric—’

  Abruptly, I was silenced by the look that flashed across his face.

  No way to apologise in front of King Rodrigo without enabling him to guess why Honorius would need an apology.

  King Rodrigo slowly nodded. ‘The Queen of the Court of Ladies? Yes

  . . . There are always men willing to take beauty and ignore the

  reputation that comes with it. Can you think Aldro Rosamunda honestly

  possessed of such a hatred against the Alexandrine—’

  I interrupted a king. ‘Can you ask me to bet Rekhmire’’s life on the

  chance that she’s more greedy than she is vindictive?’

  I let go of Honorius’s hands and glared at Rodrigo Sanguerra.

  ‘Majesty, how soon can you talk to the bishops?’

  King Rodrigo blinked, caught for once wrong-footed. ‘The bishops?’

  ‘This ceremony – reconciliation – apology – “ceremony of peace” –

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  penitence. Whatever you call it! How soon can it be arranged? How long

  will it take to summon Aldra Videric and get the bishops into the

  cathedral? Let’s get this started before that lunatic woman does

  something to harm Rekhmire’!’

  The King of Taraco looked at blankly at the Captain-General of

  Leon and Castile. My father smiled.

  I found my face heating. I rubbed my hands across my cheeks.

  More cautiously, Honorius inquired, ‘Ilario . . . You do know what this

  involves?’

  ‘Yes. I’m happy to eat dirt as publicly as required! Satisfied?’

  A broad grin spread over Honorius’s face, despite his evident best

  efforts to suppress it.

  Rodrigo looked self-possessed; I couldn’t read what else might be

  hiding under that efficient expression. ‘Very well. The King’s household

  guard may accompany the return message to Aldra Videric – in what

  strength would you suggest, Ilario?’

  ‘I want him protected. Well protected.’

  ‘Wise.’ King Rodrigo stood, dropped a curt nod at Honorius and

  strode towards the door, barely waiting for us to rise. ‘I’ll send a full company. The more of the King’s Guard, the more honour, after all.’

  He broke out into a smile just before the door shut on his heels.

  Honorius looked at me.

  He said nothing.

  ‘What!’ I protested.

  The retired Captain-General of Castile and Leon glanced over his

  shoulder at Saverico, as the men-at-arms came back into the room, and

  gestured for the young ensign to bring him Onorata.

  Hefting the child into his arms, Honorius murmured, ‘Taken you long

  enough to realise . . . ’

  Orazi smirked.

  I swore. ‘I’m not – I don’t – there isn’t – cao!’

  Honorius pulled me into an embrace gentle only because of the child

  he also held.

  ‘Rosamunda won’t cause his death – because the damn book-buyer

  isn’t stupid. Don’t worry for him. Do what you have to do, Ilario. And

  I’ll stand with you, if I have to disguise myself with a sack over my head!’

  I spluttered out an uncertain laugh.

  ‘That’s better.’ Honorius put one hand on the nape of my neck and

  shook me gently. ‘I swear, in all my years as a soldier, I’ve learned how to

  tell rash men and fools from the rest – and Rekhmire’ is neither.’

  He paused. Smiled.

  ‘Your judgement isn’t so bad, son-daughter.’

  There was no sensible reply to make, I thought.

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  And Honorius’s grip felt surprisingly reassuring, even if his conclu-

  sions were self-evidently mistaken.

  ‘Let’s get this over with,’ I said.

  The initial part of the ceremony took three days.

  If something excruciatingly humiliating can be boring, I thought, this

  is.

  On the first day I knelt outside the church door as one of the flentes, those who weep; dressed only in a shirt, and formally asking the men and

  woman who went in to Mass to pray for me, and to intercede with God

  on my behalf. On the second day I was allowed into the narthex of the

  cathedral as one of the audientes, the hearers, and knelt on the cold mosaic floor behind the catechumens until the end of the sermon – not

  listening very much to what Bishop Ermanaric said, in fact, but lost in

  the sensation of chill stone under my shins, and trying to work out (in the

  slanting light from the ogee windows) what were the differences between

  these pale stones and the glass mosaics of Venice and Constantinople.

  On the third day a different bishop, Heldefredus, preached about

  pardoning those who had sinned, and I took my place as one of the

  genuflectentes, kneeling between the cathedral door and the ambo, dizzy because of a whole day’s fast, and speaking only to implore the

  procession of priests as they walked past me:

  ‘Pray for me, a sinner!’

  Again, I was taken out before the Mass was celebrated.

  Videric was not present. Nor Rekhmire’.

  Honorius let me know himself forbidden to come, and offered his

  presence all the same. I sent Orazi back with strict instructions to keep the Lion of
Castile caged.

  Let this not cause any more trouble than it has to!

  King Rodrigo sent his household guard to assist in bringing me the

  plain meats that the bishops had allowed in my penitential cell on the

  first and second days.

  Sergeant Orazi, scowling, told me each day in bad Alexandrine –

  incomprehensible to the junior priests who oversaw us – that none of our

  expected visitors had ridden into Taraco yet. And in the language of

  Taraconensis added that Onorata was well, and possibly missing me.

  Not knowing young babies, the sergeant said, he found it difficult to tell.

  On the night of the first fast I didn’t see any of the guard, since no man

  was to bring me food, and the bishops’ priests evidently thought

  themselves capable of providing fresh water.

  There was no candle or lantern in the hermit’s cell built outside, up

  against the cathedral walls. I took advantage of what daylight there was

  left coming through the door-grate to take the smuggled paper and chalk

  out from under the thin straw palliasse.

  I drew faces. Odoin, who’d been a lieutenant in Rodrigo’s royal guard

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  when I left, and now had his promotion to captain. Hunulf, and

  Winguric; who had worked with me in the scriptorium, and Galindus, of

  course.

  I appreciated that they didn’t visit, since every other man or woman I

  might know from nine years in Rodrigo’s palace crowded close to satisfy

  their urge to stare at me.

  The sheet of paper was not large. I drew faces in miniature. Egica,

  who taught me Latin and letters at sixteen, when it became apparent that

  Federico’s hired tutor had been cheap for a reason. Egica’s face was

  more lined, his nose more covered in red broken veins, in this last year; I

  could smell spirits on him when he stumbled past me, one hand

  outstretched as if he would have ruffled my hair in passing.

  More men greeted me with shuttered faces. Less than a year, and I am

  ignored by those I have diced with and trained with in arms, and women-

  gossips with whom I debated what colours one might put together in

  embroidered tapestries . . . even young children whose parents had been

  passing friendly to the King’s Freak –

  The light was definitely gone.

  I crumpled the paper up into a compressed ball in my hand, and