Ilario, the Stone Golem

by Mary Gentle

  did. But . . . You could, perhaps, have been told of this last night, and . . .

  forgotten during the celebrations?’

  Drunk as a fiddler’s bitch, they call it. My head did feel as if I’d been drinking the beer they put down in pans for his mastiff, all the night the

  fiddler plays. Truthfully, it was no large amount unless to an unseasoned

  drinker. And my head was clear enough last night.

  I forget nothing concerning my mother.

  I bit at my lip. The small pain helped me focus. ‘There’s no

  “meeting”. If Rosamunda thinks there is . . . But she’s not a fool, she

  knows there may be agents of Carthage here! Why would she go –

  Safrac, did either of them say where I was to meet her?’

  My thoughts were a tumble of fears: Videric sending Ramiro Carrasco

  on a murderer’s errand to Venice; the Carthaginian agent whose name I

  never knew dying on Torcello Island; Hanno Anagastes’ armed guards

  surrounding Aldro Rosamunda, putting her under arrest.

  Frustrated, I protested, ‘There are too many rooms in this palace to

  search!’

  ‘There’s a hall with a fountain,’ Safrac de Aguilar emerged from his

  reverie and interrupted. ‘ That was where Aldra Videric said you were waiting for the lady Rosamunda, now.’

  The breath went out of my chest, leaving ice and heat. A solid knot of

  cramped muscle and lung.

  The fall of silver water; the ringing fall of steel.

  Clear in my mind as that day twelve months ago.

  If she expected to meet me – yes, she would go to such a place.

  ‘You know the Egyptian, Rekhmire’?’ I barely waited for de Aguilar’s

  assent. ‘Go and tell him what you heard. If not him, then Lord Honorius.

  Tell them – to be cautious.’

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  Safrac de Aguilar looked alarmed. ‘Where will you be, Ilario?’

  ‘Finding this hall with a fountain!’

  For all his choked protests, he gave me brisk directions; and strode

  away from me towards the palace’s guest-chambers.

  I walked, because running attracts attention. If I ran out of the hall,

  there are those who would follow. Noblemen’s sons, out of curiosity.

  Guardsmen, wondering what the fuss is about. The women servants who

  clean, who see everything and everybody.

  But a preoccupied fast walk attracts little attention.

  I should be thinking – planning—

  I don’t even know what I expect him to do!

  Videric has lied to her.

  I don’t know why.

  Breath hissed hot in my lungs. The gangways and stairs of Zheng He’s

  ship had kept me fit. But I’d guessed wrong about the time: it was well

  past noon. Gades’ heat as the sun burns around to the second half of the

  day is nothing to be sprinting in.

  Fifteen minutes at a pounding run, once out of the public eye up

  corridors and down stairs, wondering if I had mistaken Aguilar’s

  directions – and a stone colonnade opened up in welcome cool.

  I slowed to a painful half-trot.

  Think. Think what you can do—

  Twelve months ago I walked another marble-floored corridor, with

  Aldra Videric; his blue and white linen robe swirling at his heels as he strode.

  The sound of a fountain reached me from an open hall ahead.

  The sound of a slap, and the flat clatter of a second-rate dagger skittering across the marble floor—

  What will he do? Sell her to Carthage’s highest bidder, because they

  think they can make use of her? Then have one of Carrasco’s brothers

  assassinate her on board the ship?

  Ridiculous speculations made me feel as if my head would burst.

  I could understand if he attacked me. What does he want with her?

  And why is it I still think I should protect her?

  Pain more agonising than the cramp in my ribs came from the

  immediate realisation.

  She wants me to forgive her.

  But not for my sake. For hers.

  Now that the cathedral penitence means no gossip will ever forget I

  came out of her womb, she wants to appear magnanimously accepting of

  her monstrous child.

  But she would meet me secretly because, no matter what she pretends

  in public, she is ashamed of me.

  I slowed.

  Heat bounced down the white walls from the clerestory windows, high

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  above; a breeze barely penetrated. That was not the only reason I was

  sweating.

  How rash will Rekhmire’ say I’m being?

  I thought it so clever to show Videric in pigment: ‘You love her but she

  never loved you; never will.’ So clever—!

  A coldness went through my body and made my hands heavy. My

  fingers prickled. I thought desperately: No, Videric isn’t a stupid man, he

  will have realised the truth before now. Years ago!

  And you were the one who thought it so clever to push his face into it.

  What might that provoke a man to do?

  Sound caught my attention.

  Movement?

  This doorway was a round Roman arch, the keystones white, outlined

  with gold paint. A beaded curtain hung down across the opening.

  Kicking off my scandals, I padded over the cool tiles, silencing my

  breathing.

  The beads made an impenetrable barrier until I stood with my nose all

  but touching them. Vision altered: I saw clearly through their blur into

  the hall.

  The fountains arced silver into the afternoon light, water spilling out of

  a jug held by a marble nude.

  Terracotta pots held plants. The scent of the place was subtle: moist

  soil, green leaves . . . choked pipes.

  I could see the textures of leaves, the patterns of edges; all things for

  which – before now – I would have reached for my drawing-book. ‘Learn

  to see,’ Masaccio said to me, one night in the taverna, his hand sketching

  flawlessly by candle-light. ‘You see too much detail, Ilario. You draw it

  all. And you give it all the same importance. Look to see what parts of a

  thing are necessary: show only that.’

  Now all I could do was stare through the blurry green and shimmering

  silver at Videric.

  He knelt beside Rosamunda, where she lay supine on the floor.

  His hands moved, busy at her mouth. Tying something.

  A gag.

  Light through the fretwork stone ceiling shone down on pillars and

  fountain-basins. And glistened off her eyes as she blinked.

  Christus Imperator, she’s still alive!

  Three or four other men stood behind Videric where he knelt. They

  wore the livery of guards. There were no household badges on arm or

  cap. Evidently they waited for orders.

  Rekhmire’ will be behind me, sooner or later.

  I swept the bead curtain clattering aside, and strode into the hall.

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  There’s no blood.

  It was the first thing I noted. No blood; no broken bones protruding

  through stretched-white skin. A slave learns how to see the crucial things

  in the first instant.

  An absent part of my mind wondered, Is that what Masaccio meant about an artist’s vision?

  Her wrists and ankles were already bound; she squirmed and

  whimpered in an attempt to get free of Videric’s hands. Two red bruises
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br />   marked the sides of her jaw, where a thumb and forefinger might have

  gripped her. Nothing more. Her silk robes were rucked up about her

  knees, but clearly from struggling against being subdued, rather than

  rape. Sweat beaded across her unlined forehead. She strained against her

  arms, tied before her; Videric looked up from binding her kerchief into

  her mouth with silk rope.

  Looked directly at me.

  One of the other men started forward.

  ‘Wait.’ Videric spoke with a quiet intensity that froze the man where

  he stood.

  I stared squarely down at Videric. ‘I didn’t know how vindictive you

  could be. But you can let her go now, since you’ve got me here.’

  His face altered. If his control had not been perfect, it would have been

  a smile. He murmured, ‘Nor did I know that you thought the world

  centred upon you.’

  ‘Don’t be naive.’ I thought it the surest way to shake him. ‘ Everybody

  thinks that.’

  Videric turned his head as if I didn’t exist. His attention focused on

  Rosamunda, on the floor. The small choked sound he made would not

  have carried as far as the guards wearing his livery.

  The men were all much similar: Iberian, rather than Visigoth

  Carthaginian; middle-aged soldiers in doublet and hose, with riding-

  boots fastened up to their belts, and no surcoat over their mail hauberks.

  No crest, no coat of arms, no insignia. Nothing to link them to Videric’s

  estates.

  The glances between them told me they were his. I have seen similar

  looks between Honorius and Orazi.

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  ‘What’s the matter? Do you need four men here to kill me? Can’t you

  do your own murders?’

  Videric’s expression didn’t change. I didn’t expect it; he’s too good a

  politician to allow that. But I caught the glance one of the men-at-arms

  shot at his captain. It wasn’t, ‘Damn, Ilario knows!’ It was, ‘You didn’t say you were asking that of us.’

  If he really doesn’t want revenge on me, when it’s freely offered—

  I must have made him desire her death.

  If he’s off-balance, I may find out more. I nodded at the soldiers,

  speaking with a hope of keeping Videric unsettled. ‘Men in a jealous rage

  don’t usually bring four witnesses. If you’re not killing my mother, what

  are you doing to her?’

  The Aldra Videric smiled appreciatively. He glanced up and back, at

  his captain. ‘A shame there’s not room for two . . . ’

  The man-at-arms smiled as one does at a lord’s joke.

  ‘Whatever you’re doing to her—’ I kept moving, coming closer to him,

  and Rosamunda, every moment. ‘—why aren’t you doing it to me? I

  don’t believe the – the man who told me about this “meeting” I’m

  supposedly having with my mother is one of your pawns. But since I’m

  here . . . why not kill me instead?’

  The sun falling through the lattice-patterned ceiling made Videric’s

  fair hair and beard glint. He came lightly up onto his feet, as if he were

  my age, and shrugged. ‘Why not you? Honorius. And Alexandria, to a degree. You have powerful friends that make killing you unwise. Even an

  accident would be suspect.’

  ‘But not for her?’ I didn’t look down as I reached Rosamunda. The

  toes of my studded sandals touched the shoulder of her robe. I looked at

  him across my mother’s body. ‘She has no powerful friends herself that

  aren’t also your friends. So there’s nothing to stop you.’

  Videric laughed.

  It caught halfway through, as if it snagged on something in his throat.

  ‘I’m not killing her.’ The Aldra Videric rubbed the cuff of his robe

  across his red lips. For the first time in years, he seemed to see me – to

  see Ilario, rather than the King’s slave, or his wife’s secret bastard. ‘And

  now you’re here, I suppose not you either . . . Not everything is about

  murder, Ilario.’

  He looked at me with sardonic humour, as if he couldn’t understand

  why I didn’t smile in return.

  The time will come when I don’t hear the word ‘murder’ and see

  Masaccio’s face in front of me, throat crushed in front of my eyes. But

  not today.

  ‘Is it my fault? Did what I painted make you do this?’

  The hall was silent except for the strained, muffled breathing of

  Rosamunda. And the noises she made in her throat.

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  I did not need to hear words to know she intended ‘ Yes: your fault: free me! ’

  Videric’s captain was a new face since I’d left Taraco; I didn’t

  recognise him, but he had in-country features, and he was a little

  younger than the other soldiers. Recently promoted, I guessed. He would

  be a man loyal to Videric, who had been taught to blame me for his lord’s

  initial forced resignation as First Minister.

  The captain turned his head towards Aldra Videric, plainly requesting

  orders. Kill the intruder? Subdue it?

  For three heartbeats, I was dizzy with the realisation that, had I been a

  slave still, stepping into this room would have been immediate suicide.

  I flinched, momentarily. Two of the men-at-arms exchanged glances,

  cheered by that. The hermaphrodite isn’t the knight it was trained to be was plain in their thoughts.

  Videric made a gesture with his hand.

  The clink and spatter of fountain-water did not drown out boots on

  the tiles. The men-at-arms went to take up stations at the remaining

  archways. I might escape if I spun around and dived back the way I

  came. But I wouldn’t bet money.

  And I’m not leaving.

  Holding Videric’s gaze, I sank down on one knee by Rosamunda.

  Peripheral vision gave me the ability to pull at the knots of her silk gag.

  Videric quite deliberately made no move from where he stood. He

  turned the palms of his hands to me, to emphasise that he held no

  weapons. I wondered if he knew that it seemed to make him appear

  defenceless in other ways.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that,’ he said, ‘Wait.’

  ‘“Wait.”’ I sounded like every speculative, unbelieving courtier I ever

  met in Rodrigo’s court.

  ‘Hear me out, first. Then . . . ’ He sighed and shrugged. Not quite

  ‘your folly be on your own head’, but something with more sorrow and

  resignation in than I was used to hearing from my step-father.

  He’ll tell you what you want to hear.

  This man who lied, a year ago, about Rosamunda desiring to see me.

  When it was his own orders that she wait and kill me.

  He looks different.

  I’d paid attention to him physically, painting him in the new style.

  Masaccio taught me ratios: the placing of the eye according to the

  position of ears, jaw, nose. Given Masaccio’s emphasis that first a painter

  needs to see – and wanting to understand him – I had studied my

  stepfather as lines, planes, shades, edges . . .

  As a man, Videric looks older than when I left Taraco, and tired

  enough that he might not have slept for days.

  I said abruptly, ‘You painted your face for the cathedral!’

  Videric rubbed at his lower lip again. ‘It was necessary to look as a
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  man should. Women are not the only ones to mimic health with cosmetic

  aid.’

  I knelt down on the tiles, lifting Rosamunda’s head and resting it

  against my thighs, so that I could support her shoulders with my knees.

  She stirred, moaning; and looked frantically at me. It felt appalling,

  unbearable, to see the silk biting into the corners of her lips.

  I stroked her soft, braided black hair. The weight of her head was

  heavy in my lap, and I wondered for a dazed moment if the embroidery

  on my Alexandrine tunic would leave its pattern embossed in her fine

  skin.

  ‘Tell me what this is about.’ I couldn’t keep urgency out of my tone. If

  Rekhmire’ is following, I need to have heard this first. ‘And – let me untie her wrists. Please. She’s hurting, and she can’t escape, can she?’

  Videric smoothed down the folds of his striped linen robe, his features

  composed in the look of a thoughtful statesman. I recognised it as a mask

  he often wore in council. Eventually, after my breath congealed and

  burned in my chest, he gave a casual nod.

  Reaching down, I picked at the bindings where I could reach them

  while supporting her. She made a pained noise through the gag.

  Videric seemed in no hurry.

  The Ilario who left Taraco a year ago would have run to this meeting

  without a pause to tell anyone where I’d gone. The same way I left

  Taraco; the same way I sought out Rosamunda in Carthage.

  The silk rope settled into tight, impenetrable knots under my

  fingertips.

  Videric seated himself on the broad marble rim of the fountain beside

  me. His hand dipped in. He flicked sour water over his neck, cooling

  himself.

  I craned my neck, from where I knelt by his feet.

  Videric looked down at me. ‘The problem . . . is Carthage.’

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  17

  I stared. And spoke into a silence broken only by the spatter of water on

  marble:

  ‘Carthage?’

  Videric’s captain stepped forward from the archway. I had not seen

  any order pass between him and Videric. The soldier bent over behind

  me, reaching around to unbuckle the belt from which I hung my dagger.

  Still holding Videric’s gaze, I didn’t move. Leather pulled against the

  fabric of my tunic; I felt the weight of the weapon go missing.