Ilario, the Stone Golem

by Mary Gentle

  they’re out now—’

  I caught the faint grate of metal against stone.

  The door swung in, opening into darkness. The street’s naphtha-light

  was not bright enough to show me who stood there. Between that and

  the sunless day-sky of the Penitence above, I could barely make out that

  it was a man who stood there.

  ‘Forget your key?’ His voice cut off.

  The dim figure turned into a black silhouette, as a lamp shone behind

  him.

  Yellow light swelled and swung on the clay walls, and a silver-haired

  woman walked up behind the man in the doorway. She held up the lamp,

  her eyes squeezed into slits. I recognised the hawk-nose.

  ‘Donata!’

  Now I could see the man. Lean, muscled, dark-haired, middle height.

  He has left nothing of his face in Onorata.

  Marcomir frowned. He might not remember me well, either, I realised.

  It was once, and a year ago.

  And these Alexandrine robes might make him think me male or

  female, according to his assumptions.

  ‘Marcomir?’

  He stared at me, finally grunting an assent.

  I took a firmer grip on Onorata, cradled in the crook of my right arm.

  ‘Marcomir. This is your daughter. Her name is Onorata.’

  Ramiro must have mentioned armed men to him. Marcomir showed no

  overt reaction to Honorius and his soldiers.

  He has not changed so much, in a year. Dark hair curling only a little

  lower on his neck, and his off-duty tunic cut in a different fashion.

  Marcomir met my eyes, and looked away. It was normal human

  embarrassment I saw on his face.

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  I said, ‘May we come in?’

  He thrust his hand through his hair, looked around at each of us, and

  finally back at the baby in her miniature linen shift and coif.

  ‘Yes . . . ’

  Donata echoed him. ‘Yes, come in.’

  He led us through into the inner part of the house.

  Donata’s face seemed to have strain scored more deeply into her lined

  skin. But that might just be this present situation.

  Above us, feet thundered up and down the narrow stairs. Other

  occupants, I speculated, listening to the echoing noise.

  It’s still a rooming-house.

  Lamp-light guided us through to the back, into the kitchen that

  overlooked a central courtyard. Donata caught my gaze as she set the

  lamp down on the low basalt table. It was no more than a shaped stone

  block. I recognised the stove, the table crowded with Roman-style pots,

  hanging onions; even the silver water ladle . . .

  In the hoarse dialect that I thought was from Leptis Magna, or one of

  the other Carthaginian settlements, Donata broke the silence.

  ‘One-Eye said you got a good master out of it.’ She nodded at Ramiro

  Carrasco. ‘If you’ve got slaves of your own, I guess he was right.’

  There are no good masters!

  A window stood open, into the communal courtyard. The shutters

  were ajar. Scents of fish and junipers and sewage came in on the early

  afternoon wind. It vividly brought back to me One-Eye’s cells,

  Rekhmire’’s hired house, the tophet.

  I sat down on one of the long benches built into the kitchen wall.

  Onorata woke and began squirming gently in my lap. ‘How did you

  know One-Eye sold me?’

  ‘Oh, my son spoke to him, in the tavern? Afterwards? We always

  wanted to know people went somewhere comfortable.’

  Comfortable.

  The choice was between screaming or saying nothing. I doubted I

  might truly explain to this mother and son what happened to their

  guests. I still wake in dreams, cold sweat down my spine, as Rekhmire’

  turns away and does not throw his purse to One-Eye.

  ‘My lord! Sit down, sit down!’ Donata flurried around Honorius,

  ignoring his soldiers in much the same way that she ignored my slave.

  She put a Samian jug full of wine on the kitchen table, along with pottery

  cups that seemed remarkably crude after Jian’s porcelain.

  I caught her eye.

  She flushed, defiantly poured out wine, and drunk her cup down in

  one.

  Marcomir ignored her, sitting down on the ledge beside me. He stared

  at Onorata. ‘Is this the . . . How did you – how did we— She’s tiny.’

  Donata glanced over, hawk-swift and analytic.

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  ‘Premature.’ She registered my surprise. ‘Seven-month baby?’

  ‘Yes. How do you . . . ?’

  ‘I saw enough of them dead at that age.’ She shrugged. ‘Never could

  keep a babe in my womb long enough until Marcomir, here. And look

  how that turned out!’

  Her humour was rough teasing, but in any case Marcomir was

  oblivious. He gently smoothed the curls of black hair that poked up from

  under Onorata’s linen coif. She turned her head and appeared to stare at

  him.

  Rekhmire’ thumped down onto the bench, rubbing his knee. I was

  vaguely aware that Honorius put his hand under Donata’s elbow,

  steering her to sit down. He began to speak quietly to her.

  Orazi stationed Berenguer at the door, he himself leaning on the

  windowsill. A jerk of his head summoned Carrasco.

  There is a choice between security and privacy. The Armenian

  sergeant will give as much of the latter as he safely can.

  Marcomir put his finger next to Onorata’s hand, and examined the

  nails. Hers were identical to his, but so very small.

  ‘Got into trouble about selling you, Ilario,’ he murmured, quietly

  enough that Onorata rummaged herself back into a light doze, leaning

  against me.

  ‘You did?’ I stroked her cheek. Fed and changed and allowed to sleep

  – but for not too long – would usually mean she woke now in a good

  temper.

  ‘Spoke to One-Eye, like she said.’

  He jerked his head, indicating Donata, who stood to pour more wine

  for Honorius.

  ‘Few weeks later, my boss down at the Hall, he calls me in. He says it

  doesn’t look good if merchants and visitors to Carthage vanish. Not a

  hard slap on the wrist, but . . . the customs job keeps us. So I said no, of

  course not, wouldn’t happen again. Even if it meant things would be a bit

  tight.’

  He does think I intend to ask him for money.

  Onorata screwed up nose and eyes and yawned.

  Marcomir shook his head in wonder. He grinned up at me suddenly,

  and sat back.

  ‘I said we were doing people favours! Look at you. One-Eye said your

  owner was a hard son of a bitch when it came to a bargain, even if he was

  good-looking. But I guess you got away from him?’

  I deliberately refused to look in Rekhmire’’s direction. ‘My master

  freed me.’

  Marcomir thrust a hand through his hair again. ‘What do you want

  from me?’

  I registered Donata’s quick frown.

  Donata stayed alert to her son’s reactions, even though she was deep

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  in conversation with my father. I wondered briefly how much Onorata

  might take after her, in the future; this . . . grandmother.

  As much as Rosamunda is, Donata is Onorata’s grandmother.

  I picture
d the queen of the Court of Ladies and Donata in the same

  room – or rather, failed to picture it.

  ‘I can’t keep a child on my wages.’ Marcomir opened a long-fingered

  hand in my direction. ‘But you’re dressed well enough, and so’s the babe,

  and you’re free, so I suppose that’s not what you want anyway. Is she

  truly mine?’

  ‘You don’t remember?’

  The light from the clay lamp gave everything a golden cast,

  transmuting his flush from something pink by sunlight into something

  bruise-coloured.

  ‘I follow in the Roman tradition,’ he said, standing on his dignity. ‘A

  boy or an older man, for true companionship. And a woman for

  marriage one day, I suppose we must have . . . with what you are . . . ’ He

  shrugged again. ‘It’s not like I intended to – to—’

  ‘That’s my father over there: spare me the detailed explanations!’

  The Carthaginian customs officer looked over at the retired Captain-

  General of the House of Trastamara.

  Marcomir turned quickly back to me, being unfamiliar with that

  particular poker-face that in Honorius indicates the holding back of a

  belly-laugh.

  ‘If it’s not money,’ Marcomir persisted, ‘then what is it you want? Oh.

  I understand. You want Carthaginian citizenship for her! Through her

  father.’

  We have had this conversation before!

  Perceiving Honorius about to fume and swear, I said, ‘No citizenship.

  That’s not the issue.’

  Marcomir’s black eyes glinted in the light from the lamps. Bent over,

  Onorata evidently had him fascinated. He shook his head.

  ‘I’d never thought of being a father!’ He suddenly sat up. ‘You’re a

  hermaphrodite: are you sure you didn’t do it yourself?’

  Berenguer’s jaw dropped. Orazi muttered at him, under his breath:

  ‘That one was worthy of you!’

  It startled me that I liked Marcomir’s appalling honesty.

  At least he acknowledges openly what I am.

  I snorted. ‘I’m a hermaphrodite, not a contortionist!’

  I was suddenly faced by the backs of three brigandines: Orazi’s

  shoulders shaking, and Berenguer evidently not daring to look at his

  Captain-General.

  Marcomir only looked bewildered. ‘Why did you bring her, then? Can

  I – can I hold her?’

  ‘Sit closer to me.’

  His thigh was warm against mine; I could feel the tension of his

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  muscles. I eased Onorata from my lap to his, keeping my hands curved

  around her hip and the back of her head until she was safely settled.

  Catching his glance, I explained, ‘Not all men know how to handle

  babies.’

  I did not add what would have been true: I learned most of what I know from a failed assassin and a squad of soldiers . . .

  Marcomir held the sleeping form of my child.

  I remember his long fingers, and his cool hands.

  I remember the conception of this child.

  Outside this room, I had seen narrow steps. They would lead to an

  upstairs room: Marcomir’s clothes tossed absently on the floor. Blankets

  of striped wool spread over a truckle bed too small for two, but possible

  when one sleeps intertwined, knee socketing home behind knee; buttocks

  tucked into crotch . . .

  I miss the warmth of sleeping with someone else.

  In Taraco, I had a bed to myself in the hermit’s cell; that was different

  to sleeping in a bundle with Rodrigo Sanguerra’s other slaves. Sleeping

  communally has its disadvantages – not least any other slaves attempting

  what Marcomir and I had engaged in while not properly awake. But it

  has its comforts too.

  I flushed and looked away, seeking the window for light, but finding

  only the brown darkness of the Penitence.

  Because when I imagine the warmth of a body next to my skin, I don’t

  think of Marcomir now. Or Sulva. Or Leon Battista; or even Ty-ameny,

  beautiful as the small woman is.

  After some considerable reflection, I don’t think of Ramiro Carrasco,

  either.

  Marcomir stroked Onorata’s temple very lightly. I wondered how long

  before she would wake up, cry for the brightly-dyed wooden blocks that

  Tottola had carved as toys for her, demand feeding, and in general cease

  to look like a sculpted angel in a chapel.

  I felt a little shy. ‘I thought you would want to know about her.’

  ‘I’m glad I know.’

  More clumsily, but with a willingness to be gentle, Marcomir guided

  her sleep-limp body back into my lap.

  ‘I can’t take her. Even if she was a son, I couldn’t.’

  I winced.

  Harsher than I otherwise would have been, I snapped, ‘I don’t want

  you to!’

  Donata sprang up. She bustled over to where we sat, and peered down

  into Onorata’s pink, creased face. ‘Just as well you got free of that

  Egyptian who bought you – he would have drowned her for you like a

  kitten!’

  Caught between wanting to cry with laughter, and merely wanting to

  cry, I only shook my head.

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  ‘Oh, he would. And men are always happy if a girl or a cripple goes to

  the tophet.’ The shadow of some old bitterness crossed her face. She

  seated herself on the other side of her son, leaning in to look at Onorata.

  ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘As much as we can know.’

  As much as the Alexandrine physicians can swear to.

  Donata reached out to touch Onorata’s cheek. ‘I know we didn’t treat

  you too well when you were here last. If there’s anything we can do . . . ’

  Without looking at Honorius, I said, ‘I think a father, a good father, is

  one of the best things a child can have. If she had his friendship, that would be all I would ask.’

  I found myself looking at the top of Marcomir’s head as he gazed

  down at Onorata’s black lashes, and the fingers of her clenched fist.

  Hesitantly, he put his hand over her hand, hiding half her arm in the

  shadow of his fingers.

  It came to me that a man who works for the city’s customs is probably

  used to looking keenly at things. Marcomir’s examination of her might

  show him resemblances that I couldn’t see.

  Honorius’s deep voice said, ‘There’ll be a place you can send word to.

  You can see her if you want to.’

  It was Donata who said, ‘Thank you,’ in a creakingly graceless voice

  that was moving in its honesty.

  Marcomir’s finger absently brushed Onorata’s forehead, and she

  opened blue eyes.

  He stopped.

  I saw they were looking at each other.

  He moved his finger, watched her gaze follow it, and smiled at her.

  ‘If the worst happens,’ I said abruptly. ‘If I and all my family die and

  she’s left alone, I want her to have a father.’

  Marcomir’s head came up. I saw in his eyes that expectation of

  poverty, disease, accident, and war that slaves and poor men have.

  Wealth protects. But even then, not wholly.

  His smile slipped slowly away. ‘I couldn’t pay for her keep.’

  ‘Could you let her die of hunger?’

  ‘I – no; I could not.’

&nbs
p; A knock sounded on the room door. Donata glared, and went to the

  door, opening it a crack, and beginning a long and rambling quarrel with

  a man clearly a tenant.

  Marcomir spoke under their rapid argument. ‘It wouldn’t be any use

  sending her to me. Mother’s old. In a few years I’ll be keeping both of us.

  There isn’t money or room for a child as well.’

  ‘I don’t doubt you.’

  ‘Wait . . . ’ The Carthaginian glanced around, momentarily frowning.

  He got up and went to a small tin chest, pushed back on the highest

  niche by the shelves.

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  He lifted something out of it and came back to me.

  I thought for a moment it was a pair of wax tablets, the two wooden

  shutters clapped together. But it was small, no larger than the palm of my

  hand, and the wooden shutters opened out from the centre. I had both

  hands busy with Onorata. Marcomir folded the shutters back.

  ‘Look.’ He cupped it in his hands. ‘This isn’t much, but, I don’t know,

  maybe you could sell it, buy her something nice with the money?’

  The tiny portrait of a girl’s head had been cut from a much larger

  work, clearly, and glued onto the wooden backing. Or it might have been

  an androgynous young man: the halo backing the head and the rich

  trappings on the clothes could indicate a saint or angel.

  ‘Thought it was real gold, when I saw it – gold leaf?’ Marcomir’s

  forefinger traced the line of the halo, and the gold embroidery on the

  front of the robe. ‘But someone’s just painted it to look like gold.’

  He sounded more than a little disgusted.

  Donata slammed the door on the argument from outside, with a curt

  dismissal. She stomped back across the room, shot a glance at what was

  in Marcomir’s hands, and folded her lips together severely.

  ‘I’ll take it!’ I said hastily. ‘I’ll tell her it was her father’s gift.’

  Marcomir nodded, with a smile.

  Onorata made a small querulous sound, swiping her open hand at

  him. I had no time to point out that she missed holding onto his finger.

  The signs of storm began to show: she screwed up her eyes, and began to

  square her mouth and grizzle.

  ‘I should take her back to the ship.’ I jiggled her on my knee, easier to

  do now that she could hold her head up, but she wasn’t mollified. The

  grizzle turned into a full-throated bawl, and began to work up to a