I felt a weight of foreboding resting on my chest where the bejewelled cross rested on his. What were we enacting here?
I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the strange, ill-dressed Spaniard knight.
‘I must go.’ He held out his only hand, and I shook it, taken aback. He had spent the whole day arranging our battle formation, directing every sword stroke, and now all his actors were dressed he would leave before the first act? ‘But we are about to begin!’ I protested. ‘You will not stay to see the spectacle?’
He shook his head and his eyes travelled past me to King Claudio.
I sensed he could tell me something I wanted to know. ‘I suppose,’ I hedged, ‘that after what you have seen, it must seem trivial to you to see such a thing enacted for sport.’
He shrugged and his armour clanged together at the neck-guard. ‘I like a play as much as any man, and I will laugh and clap in the gallery, munch my nuts and throw my cushions. But I will not stay tonight because this is not a show.’ His eyes came back from the boy king to me. ‘It is real.’ And he turned and limped away before I could ask him what he meant.
As the sun lowered and set fire to the sea, I saw the old man in the helmet stumble away down the hill with a swift and rolling gait. As I watched he passed Don Pedro, come to watch our final rehearsal, and despite their rank the two embraced like brothers. I remembered how I had let Don Pedro dub me and dress me up for the night of the masque. I was more of a puppet then than now. My lamb’s heart shrivelled within me. No wonder Lady Beatrice had laughed. I wondered then, when the two men met upon that road, whether the old man in the strange garb or the strapping prince in his scarlet and gold would be more of a tiger in the breach.
Don Pedro greeted me first of the company, as the greatest friend of his heart, even before Claudio. My chattering teeth stilled as my heart was warmed by his friendship, my qualms vanishing. ‘How did you shift with Don Miguel?’ he asked. ‘He is a singular character, is he not?’
I thought for a moment, my eyes on the receding figure. ‘A singular character indeed.’ But what I really meant to say I did not want to speak out loud, so as not to offend my friend, which was that Miguel, if that was his name, had taught me more about knighthood in one afternoon than all Don Pedro’s painted caballeros had taught me on the long road from Venice.
Act II scene vii
A Naumachia in the Greek theatre
Beatrice: As I climbed the steps of the Greek theatre, I marvelled at the place.
For a teller of stories this was a place that held my heart – for not only were the stones themselves a very reminder of the legends that I had heard in the schoolroom – and even struggled to read in the original Greek – I was pent up and excited by the notion of all the dramas that must have been played out upon this stage over the ages. I took my place among the toga-clad ghosts, and looked forward to the evening’s entertainment; principally for the reason that, since this pageant was a brainchild of Don Pedro’s, Benedick would surely be in the device somewhere, as he seemed to hang about the prince like a disease. I was anxious to see him, for something had gone badly awry when last we’d met. I needed to know whether he’d meant the bitter words he’d spoken at the wedding at Syracuse, or whether his sentiments had proceeded from misplaced jealousy. I wanted to return to our merry war, not this more serious conflict we’d embarked upon.
I followed my aunt and Hero up the stone steps to the very top tier, and was confronted with the glory of the vista. It was sunset, so the volcano was nothing more than a blue silhouette hunched over the town, the puff of smoke at the summit turned to coral and rose. The sky was saffron, and the sea was afire. Only my eagerness to lay my eyes on Signor Benedick could pull my eyes from the beauty, but I could not see him anywhere. I knew from Hero that her friend Claudio was appearing in the pageant in some capacity, but as I had had neither sight nor speech of Signor Benedick for above a week I did not know where he was likely to be.
I did note as I climbed that all the nobility of Messina seemed to be gathered here – I recognised many faces from the masque at my uncle’s and the wedding at Syracuse too.
My aunt and I were directed to our seats by a local moppet dressed in a white toga with vine leaves in his curls. I noted that we were to be seated apart from my uncle; that he and Egeon were gathered about a golden throne set in a little balcony apart, which overlooked the finest views of the stage, where the antique emperors may have once sat. I thought the gilded chair was meant for the viceroy, but I saw that petty king sitting in between my uncle and the omnipresent Archbishop of Monreale. I smiled a little at the throne; I had suspected Don Pedro to be vainglorious, but thought that even he might not think it politic to sit in such a chair when the viceroy was present; but when the prince joined the grandees, he did not sit in the throne either. The golden chair sat empty, even when the torches in the auditorium were extinguished by the children in their wreaths and togas, and the pipers struck up, indicating that the performance was to begin.
Once the torches were lit about the cavea a marvel was revealed to us all. The stage was not stone, nor even wooden boards such as you may see at the commedia. It was water, a vast shallow tank filled to the brim, with curling white and blue waves painted on the front. The wood of the tank itself was painted blue so the water, lit by candles backed by shell-shaped mirrors, shimmered an azure hue. A narrator, dressed in a toga like my imagined ghosts, stepped into the waves, a hidden platform artfully making him appear as if he walked on water like the Christ.
The actor, a man of middle years with a scanty beard, unfurled a scroll in his hands, and began to declaim in a loud voice that rolled around the tiers and echoed through the theatre. ‘I am your chorus for the while; and pray your patience for my prologue, your attention for our play, and your kindly judgement for our epilogue. For although we will hear of great kings and venerable saints, and deeds long past, there is a chance for all of us to be a part of history in the days to come.’
After these portentous hints the chorus stepped forth from the water, and the play began. The azure pool sank into darkness as the cavea before it was lit with the mirrored lamps. A crowd of soldiers collected before the stage, chanting and singing in a strange tongue. As the lights warmed their faces I could see that their skin was stained as if with the juice of the walnut, and they had multicoloured turbans twisted about their heads. My skin chilled with foreboding despite the warm of the evening. They were Moors.
The narrator, back in his floating position on the pool, stood over the scene. ‘In ancient Hispania, the good people of the region of Asturias were much troubled by the vile Moor. Then the brave king Ramiro gave battle but was surrounded.’
A figure in scarlet walked forth; it was Claudio. Dressed in blood red, with a jewel-encrusted cross on his breast and a crown on his head. Hero nudged me with her bony elbow fit to bruise my ribs. I squeezed her hand, as the Moors encircled him, their strange chants heavy with threat.
Claudio, now bathed in light, knelt and prayed for a miracle, his strong young voice reaching us even high in the arena where we sat. ‘Blessed Saint James, descend to us now in our hour of need, and rid us of this pestilential horde, this viper in the bosom of Spain.’
I looked sideways at Hero, but she did not seem to understand the meaning of the words, just looked with warm admiration at her friend in his kingly garb. Claudio, his eyes tight shut and his mouth moving, really seemed to be praying. And it worked – the miracle appeared. A path of light shone across the water while the Moors cowered and ceased their song. My skin prickled as I watched, for a white destrier appeared at the back of the stage and seemed to walk across the water. I knew that I was watching a trick; that there must be a concealed walkway just below the water’s surface, but the effect was magical. The horse was carrying a rider dressed in the white robes of sanctity, his face covered by a white hood with only holes for eyes, giving an eerie impression. The rider wore a gold halo at the back of his head and wore a wh
ite tabard, with a device I had seen before. A red cross which resembled a dagger at its base; and a cockleshell floating above, the symbol of St James. In his hand the saint held an eerie wonder; a burning cross, artfully coated with flames that burned perpetually without damaging his gauntleted hand. The horse, despite the fire behind his head, walked carefully forth and stepped down from the tank to the delighted gasps of the audience. Then the creature stood obligingly still while the saint drew his sword and smote every Moor who stood before him. Each of the dusky actors must have concealed bladders of blood, for the gore flew around the pit and carmined both the horse’s flanks and the snowy habit of the saint. Then, worse still, women and children wearing Moorish beads and bangles ran on to mourn their menfolk, and they were similarly cut down. By the time St James had finished, his white tabard had turned to red. The saint then handed his cross of fire to the thankful king, who received it upon his knees.
I was sickened. So this saint, this paragon and patron of the Spanish, was a Moor-slayer. This order of which Don Pedro was a member, this sacred brotherhood into which he had dubbed Signor Benedick, was the scourge of that fine man from the beach, that beautiful Moor. St James would have looked at Guglielma Crollalanza in the same way that the archbishop of Monreale had regarded her – looked at her broad nose and her amazing crinkled hair and her full mulberry lips and seen an animal, not a woman.
I had never questioned before when Hero had told me matter-of-factly of the expulsion of the Moors from Sicily. I assumed it had been necessary, military. But the play made me think differently. They had been expelled because they were different. I knew a woman who was half Moor, with a white husband and son. Could they be so different from us? And their expulsion had been blessed by St James. I felt sick. I had his fingerbone in the cabinet in my chamber.
The carnage over, the area in front of the tank was cast into darkness, and the blue sea was illuminated once more. The chorus appeared to stand upon the waves and declaimed again. I listened tensely, wondering what was coming, wondering whether anything could be worse. ‘Given such a blessing by Saint James,’ sing-songed the chorus, ‘Ramiro vowed to continue his work to scourge the empire of the godless, and he set sail for Albion, to crush the red-haired witch Boudicca for her pagan beliefs.’
Now, I had studied Roman history and knew something was not right. ‘This is singular,’ I hissed to Hero, ‘for Boudicca was born before Christ, and Ramiro after.’ Hero flapped her hand at me, shushing my objections, and I held my peace. For fiction, as I well knew, is mutable, and many august writers have written of figures from history meeting in their imaginariums. I waited to see the drama unfold.
Before our eyes, a true spectacle appeared. Little ships, dozens of them – perhaps one-tenth of the size of a galleass but correct in every particular but scale – sailed upon the blue lake to gasps from the crowd. And the ships each had their seamen – an army crowded into each, bristling with weaponry and bent upon war. Chief of the forces of Albion was Boudicca; a man dressed as a lady, who had a breastplate crowned with two conical breasts, a leaden white face painted like a whore’s, and a horned helmet atop a rippling mass of red hair. The hair – curled into tight ringlets – reminded me again, sharply, of Guglielma Crollalanza. I looked around the gathered grandees seated on the tiers, but it seemed that neither the lady nor her poet son were here tonight, and I was not surprised; the enmity that I had seen between her and the Archbishop of Monreale spoke of a formidable feud.
Claudio was to the fore again, as King Ramiro, at the helm of the Hispanic ships, now holding the cross of fire before his face. He was being blessed by a priest in a jewelled surplice who looked suspiciously like the Archbishop of Monreale. In the ships of Albion, pagans wearing fustian and sackcloth shook their bristling weapons and a Druid blessed Boudicca with a hazel switch, as a green man looked on. The red-headed queen seemed to writhe in ecstasy at her infidel blessing, waggling her tongue and rubbing her conical breasts most lasciviously. Despite the message the spectacle was wondrously well wrought, for the flotilla of Iberian ships and the pagan longboats looked to be sailing convincingly towards each other on the sapphire lake. The timpani of the unseen musicians whipped up imaginary tempests and they described, with a clash of cymbals, the two fleets meeting together.
Then a heroic figure appeared in the prow – a tall figure; broad of shoulder and long of limb. He wore a centurion’s helmet over his armour and there was a dark beard on his cheek, but his eyes were light beneath the face paint.
It was Benedick.
I was surprised to see him, for the story of the Moors had almost put him out of my mind for the first time since we’d met. Despite our argument I had to admit he cut an impressive figure in his scarlet and gold Roman garb. As he stood in the prow like a figurehead the audience held its breath and I tingled with anticipation. Then he leapt heroically an impossible distance across the water from one fleet to the other, and set about the pagans. I heard a yelp from Hero as I realised I’d been crushing her hand in mine, and that I was sitting so far forward in my seat I was nearly in the row before.
Now we saw proper swordplay as both sides drew and actual sparks flew from their blades. My eyes were always on Benedick as he twirled through the fray like a whirlwind – all his skill was on show as he crushed the enemy in his path. I knew it was theatre, but as I had seen him do likewise at the tournament, his part was given more veracity. Besides the fencing there was strategy too – the Spanish ships sailed around the fleet of Albion on three sides so that the pagan flotilla was forced back against its own paper coastline, where artfully painted paper rocks fell from great white cliffs which protruded from the sea. The victory was so complete that the red queen begged most piteously and knelt before Claudio-Ramiro. Benedick held his sword at her neck; but the king spoke up and said that she would be spared as long as she rendered up her treasure and accepted the One True God. The play ended with the queen accepting the cross of fire from Ramiro’s hand and her cohorts covering their oppressors with pagan gold.
There was a moment of silence, and then, from behind us on the golden balcony, came the sound of one man clapping.
Every head turned towards him, and a hum of amazed murmurings rolled around the arena like broth in a pot.
Spare and elegant, no taller than Don Pedro, he had a neat beard covering a heavy Habsburg jaw and framing a stern mouth with one protruding lip. His curling black hair was combed severely back from his forehead. Even if he did not wear a crown, there could be no doubt among the crowd as to his identity – even to those of them who had not seen his likeness on a pamphlet or coin – for there was no other man in this world to whom the viceroy would cede his throne. This was Philip II of Spain, the Spanish king.
His scarlet doublet was embroidered with a heavy cross of pearls and jewels, his stiff white ruff illumined his face, and, to put his identity beyond doubt, a golden circlet sat upon his noble brow. I thought with a jolt that he looked exactly like Claudio. Or rather, Claudio had been dressed to look exactly like him.
The king waved graciously at the company – unsmiling, as if such a benign expression was beneath him – before resuming his applause. The dukes and grandees too stood to applaud likewise, and the crowd soon followed. The king, once the crowd had begun to applaud and cheer, artfully stopped clapping and began to wave elegantly at the exalted crowd instead, thus appropriating our ovation for himself. I was slow to stand but Hero tugged at my arm till I rose reluctantly too.
But one person in that gathering did not rise – he sat three rows before me under the cover of a hooded cloak, but as the applause continued he got to his feet and climbed the tiers to leave unnoticed by the back way. As he passed me – did he nod or did I imagine it? – the wind lifted his cloak and I saw about his neck a quill and a crystal bottle with a black slick of ink within.
Then the king rose too, to a fanfare of trumpets, and walked down to the cavea to meet the actors. Far below I saw the toady archbishop, at h
is elbow, whisper to the king as he presented Claudio, and with his first sign of humanity the king touched the costume crown. Then he commended Signor Benedick, who stood a little behind Claudio, and as Benedick bowed briefly I tried and failed to read his expression.
Then the king was ushered from the theatre, while the Grecian-garbed stewards kept us in our places until he had gone.
Then a rising hubbub bubbled about me, and Hero chattered about the honour and spectacle of actually setting eyes on the Spanish king. I was as amazed as the rest but a new unease in my stomach added to the ill taste in my mouth left by the play. What was the king doing here? Why would he visit our tiny island, and not only watch this strange hotchpotch of a play, but promote to his underlords the message it contained?
As the actors left the stage too, I rose precipitately. I wanted to see Signor Benedick before he left. The king’s appearance had made me quite forget our quarrel – there seemed to be bigger things at stake. Perhaps he, as one of the players, could shed some light upon the strange evening. As I followed my aunt and Hero as we made our way slowly down the stone steps, held up by the throng, fuming with impatience, I was trying so hard to see him over the bobbing heads of the crowd that I lost my footing on the treacherous crumbling steps. I tumbled down, sprawling on the ancient stones, and Hero gave an unmannerly shriek. But before she or my aunt could assist me a strong hand pulled me up and set me back on my feet.
My eyes, lowered in shame, took in every detail of my rescuer from bottom to top – gilded sabotons, oxblood leather breeches, a golden breastplate. A face bizarrely painted with red-rouged cheeks and eyes that were ringed in black and looked greener than ever even beneath the shade of a centurion’s helmet. It was the centurion of Iberia, Signor Benedick.
Beatrice and Benedick Page 10