Beatrice and Benedick

by Marina Fiorato

  But despite my fears, the Moor’s health gradually improved, and as he gained strength I learned more of his history. His story would draw tears from a stone. He had been a boy slave from the northern Africas, given to the king’s father Carlos as a gift. ‘I had a talent of finding water’ – at this my ears pricked like a cur’s – ‘and worked for the king at the Pardo, and later at El Escorial. But with the birth of my son the gift left me,’ he said, dry mouthed, ‘as if I had passed it to him.’ Having failed to complete the water gardens for the king, he had been transferred to the galleys, and rowed to Lepanto and back. And now, in this age of ships with no oars, he had been taken for the short boats and pledged his allegiance to the king once more. And still he served; he had stayed with the treasure, had not abandoned the enterprise. By my calculation, and by my recall of the watchwords, he had been in the bay, on that ship of the dead, for a week before we’d arrived. I could not imagine the horror of what he’d encountered. ‘And no one came for the treasure?’ I asked, sitting on the end of his cot. ‘Did not the Scots attempt to board the boat?’

  ‘Only once,’ he said. ‘I saw them come. I put on a sea cloak, and lit a hurricane lamp. I went to the deck and stood on a barrel to make me tall. When they came close I threw back the hood and stretched out my arms like this, so they could see the writing.’ He put out his arms in a cruciform, so I could see the inscription, but he was too weak to keep them there. ‘It was dusk,’ he said. ‘I was lit from below. When they saw me thus they turned tail and never came back.’

  I was not surprised. I had seen many Moors in my life, for there were many at the university in my home town of Padua. But this one had frighted me to the quick when he had risen from the dark in the hold of the San Juan; I could only imagine the impact his appearance had had on those simple Scottish peasants. I looked at his arms. ‘What is writ there?’

  ‘A prayer,’ he said. ‘A prayer in flesh. If it is written on you, it is written in you.’ I thought of the devotion that he had shown to his king, and the devotion he had shown to his God, to have His word written in his flesh. This man, so lowly, had been the most faithful of servants, and had shown loyalty and courage that would well become a prince.

  ‘Did you never wish to escape? To take one of the pinnaces and row to the bay?’ He looked surprised, as if such a notion had never occurred. ‘But I owe my king my allegiance till my last breath. For while I was in the galleys he took in my son as his ward.’

  It was time to tell him what I knew. ‘If his name is Faruq Sikkander, I have seen him; he is still there, at El Escorial.’

  He sat up for the first time, eyes shining. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes. He is my son, he bears my name; I am Faruq Sikkander too.’

  I told him of my meeting with the water-diviner. ‘He is well, and a fine young man.’

  He made me tell the tale over and again, and as I strained to recall every detail, and invented what I could not remember, he slept for the first time since he’d left the San Juan.

  After a few days on normal rations Faruq was able to work about the ship, and within a week became the strongest and most able seaman on the Florencia. I noticed that the crew accepted him readily, and even deferred to his experience; they were well used to sailors of all colours and nations, and they did not fear him. Faruq was fastidious, and brought up a bucket of seawater daily to wash himself, and would kneel in prayer a handful of times, with his head touching the deck. No one made comment.

  The only person on board who treated Faruq with suspicion was Claudio. Now, when he said mass, he would choose the texts of St James, and speak of heretics and savages with his eyes on the Moor. I was surprised, for he was from Florence, a crucible of all nations and races, and had never, in Sicily, joined in the general censure of the Moors. Now, when I saw him looking at Faruq, I recalled the day when he had played the boy king Ramon of Asturias in the Naumachia and had called down St James upon the Moors. Yet only once in my hearing did Claudio make reference to his feelings. ‘We should have left him on the San Juan,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  Claudio’s eyes followed Faruq as he pulled competently on the ratlines.

  ‘Ask him,’ he said. ‘Ask him why he was the only one to survive.’

  I did not fully understand Claudio’s hostility. But nor did I ask the question, and after that exchange I left the Moor to his business and I kept to mine. And I kept my dagger close.

  That night a storm blew up from nowhere, ragging the cordage and sending the ship from side to side with a stomach-wrenching lurch. I took to my bed instead of my usual stargazing, for I would have been swept off deck. In my cot I had much ado to coax sleep, for it seemed that just as we were within reach of home, a storm might take us where starvation had failed.

  I must have slept eventually, for I woke suddenly, to the unmistakable creak of metal against metal. In the moonlight I saw the brass handle of my door begin to turn, and took my dagger from beneath my pillow. It had lived below the feathers ever since we had divided the rations. A figure crept into the room, hugging the panelling against the pitch and roll of the ship; bearded, emaciated, it could have been any of the crew. But the intruder had no blade – he sat unsteadily on my bed. ‘Is it you, Faruq Sikkander?’ I whispered to the weight.

  ‘Greetings, Benedick.’

  It was Don Pedro.

  I had forgotten that he was even with us. Through all our tribulations he had kept his cabin; isolated in his rank, forgotten. When the mutiny had broken we could have called upon him to suppress it. When the mizzen had been cut, it must have crashed down upon his very cabin. When we’d been tied to the mast he could have freed us. But in our misery and preoccupation we had forgotten the most important personage on the ship; and the least.

  I sat, unsure how to address him. Was he still my lord?

  ‘I had a vision,’ he said. ‘A Moor was at my window in the middle of the storm; a terrible, sunken face with burning eyes. He spoke words over me, strange words, but in my dreams I understood them. He told me to right my wrongs.’

  I did not know what to say. I knew it had only been Faruq who had looked in upon him; no vision, but a man of flesh and blood. But if the prince was having some sort of Damascene remorse, I did not want to discourage his atonement.

  ‘Benedick,’ he said again. ‘Will we reach Spain?’

  ‘I cannot tell,’ I said, for it did not seem like the moment to lie. ‘But I think – yes.’

  He looked from the bottled windows out to sea, and the lightning found the hollows in his cheeks. I thought then of how much he must have suffered in his own way – he had been alone in his state, starving as we starved, but without the balm of company. Each body that was thrown into the sea would have fallen past his window, each toll of the ship’s passing bell helping him to keep score of the deaths he had caused.

  And there was another ending for him to endure; the demise of his own honour. Each day he had to live with the knowledge that he had placed us in this pass, and that, following the catastrophic loss of the anchor, he had not taken the lead of his men. That role had fallen to others – a sea captain, a banker, a gentleman. And a Moor. The prince’s nobility had dwindled with his flesh.

  ‘No one must know,’ he said. ‘No one must know what has passed upon this ship. Swear to me, upon your allegiance.’

  I thought upon the word. Allegiance. I had put on the livery of St James, worn his medal, followed his flag. And this useless prince of Aragon was still my liege lord. I had been wrong about him. He had not been repenting, there in his lonely prison. Whatever natural shock the appearance of the Moor at his window had given him, his remorse had quickly given way to self-preservation. Now it seemed likely that we would get back to Spain alive, he had to reconcile how this new Don Pedro could live in the world. He had been debating how to keep his transgressions from general knowledge, to cover up what a paper prince he was. And he had found his answer in that one word: allegiance. I was his bondsman, and if he wante
d my silence, he could command it.

  ‘On my allegiance,’ I agreed, having no other choice. My oath was like a sigh.

  He pressed his hands together as if he prayed. Relief, I thought, not contrition. He bowed his head. ‘In return, I must make a confession.’

  I clasped my knees. Nothing he could say could interest me now; my stomach twisted with unease and something akin to shame. He had my oath; I wanted him to go.

  ‘It concerns the Lady Beatrice.’

  I sat up abruptly. ‘Beatrice Della Scala?’ It was the first time her name had been upon my lips since I had discussed her with Claudio.

  ‘Yes.’ He was silent for so long I thought he had changed his mind. Then he took a breath, as if he was about to plunge into the sea. ‘The lady was not false. I parted you.’

  ‘But … but … I saw her. With the poet.’

  ‘You did not know what you saw.’ Don Pedro shifted slightly. ‘It was his mother who died in the fire. Her name was Guglielma Crollalanza.’

  The woman I’d followed to the Tarantella. ‘The Moorish lady was the poet’s mother?’

  ‘Yes. Beatrice embraced him in sympathy; and chastity.’

  I thought back to that dread day when the prince had had me follow Beatrice to the dunes. I remembered every gesture and touch that passed between Beatrice and the poet, played it over in my head like an act from a play. Now I’d been furnished with the facts I forced myself to acknowledge the truth – he was a grieving son, bereaved in a most terrible way. There was nothing in the embrace, now that I considered the gesture in this new light, which could suggest anything other than a sisterly regard, and chaste comfort. I clenched my fists.

  ‘And there is more. I knew you had given her the settebello; I had a pack of them made, and left them for her to find in your room.’

  I only had one question, one word. ‘Why?’

  ‘I wanted a companion for this adventure. I wanted a brother.’ But neither rang true, and this was the time for truth. I said nothing, said everything.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, in answer to the question unspoken. ‘I did not want you to have her, when I could not.’

  I could not speak, my senses reeling, the universe wheeling about my head.

  He spoke instead. ‘You have sworn your allegiance to me,’ he reminded me.

  I knew then why he’d had me swear first, before he’d spilled his story. I hated him at that moment. ‘Oh, you shall have it,’ I said tightly, with as much scorn as I could pack into five words.

  ‘And in return, you shall have mine.’ He laid his hand on my shoulder. ‘If we reach home, I shall see you rewarded, you and Claudio too. And our first venture shall be to Sicily, to make all things right that went awry. A pair of brides for you and the count, hey?’

  He sounded unnaturally hearty. I could not trust myself to answer him, and after a moment he went away; but I could still feel the place where his hand had rested on my shoulder.

  It burned like a brand.

  Act IV scene xv

  The Castello Scaligero, Villafranca di Verona

  Beatrice: When I returned home to the Castello Scaligero as a single woman, I was not greeted by a warm rapier and the jewels of my brother’s blood. This time I was greeted by a trail of treasure.

  On the drawbridge were two brass lamps from Byzantium, dented where they’d been hurled. Under the gatehouse was a surcoat of damascene silk, rent from top to toe. In the courtyard was a Venetian mirror shattered into a million glittering shards that spat back the sun. The stairs to the red-stone tower were slippery with spilled incense. I climbed the steps; stairs to safety were now stairs to danger.

  My father stood in the middle of the keep, on a pile of the autumn leaves that often blew into the great hall, holding two letters in his hands. His arms were outstretched like scales, as if the two missives balanced him, as if he had reverted to his old mediating role of Justice.

  By way of greeting he brought one of the letters before his face, and read it to me. ‘To Bartolomeo Della Scala, Prince Escalus and Lord of the Freetown of Villafranca di Verona. My Esteemed Prince and Right Noble Kinsman, know by this that I may no longer offer matrimony to the Lady Beatrice, Princess of Villafranca. Please be assured that I mean no offence to your esteemed daughter, or yourself, and envy the man that claims such a prize. I must only plead that, however assiduously fond fathers make their plans, we cannot know where Cupid’s arrows will fall; and love is a master that will not be gainsaid. I console myself that my new union will still bring us to closer kinship. I will marry your niece the lady Giulietta Capuletti at Saint Peter’s church on Thursday next, and cordially invite you to attend the ceremony and afterward the feast. I have the honour to return the Lady Beatrice’s dowry with this letter. Yours et cetera, Count Paris Maffei.’

  I said nothing.

  ‘And I cannot afford to slight him,’ said my father, ‘for I have now shunned the Montecchi; if I lose the Capuletti too, I lose all the Della Scala power. So now I, and you, must attend this wedding and smile and smile while that little Capuletti bitch claims the prize that should have been yours. Fourteen,’ he cried. ‘She is fourteen. Barely old enough to keep a babe in her cradle bones.’ He looked at me in disgust. ‘You have utterly failed me.’

  I looked down, mock-hangdog. ‘‘Tis not my fault,’ I wheedled. ‘I was utterly rejected. How do you think I feel, to be refused for one who is five summers younger than me? To have one’s greatest hopes ruined by one’s own cousin?’ I wiped a tear that was not there.

  It was too much; I’d gone too far and my father knew it at once. He crossed the rushes in an instant and took my chin in his hand, hard, hurting. He forced my gaze up to meet his.

  ‘How now, my Headstrong!’ he growled. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I protested, bleating like a butchered mutton. ‘He made his judgement, and he chose another.’

  He dropped my chin and the first letter at the same time. The missive fluttered to the leaf-strewn floor, and I saw then that he stood not upon leaves but on papers. I could make out the wording of my marriage contract, in flowing secretary hand, torn into a thousand halfpence. By the table stood a humble crate stuffed with sheep’s flock, and the rest of my dowry peeped out of the wool. So Paris had sent everything back but the cassone – he had kept the precious wedding chest, with its fine painted panel, and sent my treasure back in a cheap olivewood box. I could picture them now, all posing in the great solar of the Palazzo Maffei as the Judgement of Paris, with Giulietta now playing the role of Athena. I could imagine another little Capuletti cousin taking Giulietta’s part, and Signor Cagliari, the artist, at the cassone, painstakingly painting Giulietta’s face over mine.

  I thought I had done my cousin a kindness. I did not question, then, the wisdom of assigning to Giulietta a fate I had rejected myself; I thought that I had bought her a kind and wealthy husband who would keep her safe. I did not ask myself what would happen if Giulietta, as I had, decided to wait for an insubstantial dream, instead of a solid reality. I was more concerned with my own fate, and I watched my father closely.

  He sat heavily in his wooden throne, propped up by the wooden ladders of his name, in a brooding silence. The second letter was crumpled in his hand. I was reminded. ‘And the other letter?’

  He looked up, his eyelids heavy, his gaze hostile. ‘What?’

  ‘The other letter? Not more ill news?’

  ‘What news could be worse?’ he asked, balefully.

  ‘Glad tidings, then?’ My voice brightened unnaturally.

  ‘Something that matters not to me at all,’ he said. ‘Your aunt is dead.’

  I was confused for a moment, for I had many aunts, and most of them had been at the masque the previous night.

  ‘Your mother’s sister, Innogen. In Sicily.’ As if it was nothing, he threw the second letter at me. I caught it and fled.

  The courtyard was hot, but I was cold with shock. I sat on the fountain bowl that I’d once seen
filled with Tebaldo’s blood, and read the letter over and over.

  It was in Leonato’s hand, and told a sorry story; that my aunt had taken a fever and died within a week. Her body was to be laid in the Cimiterio Monumentale, in the family tomb.

  All of a sudden I was back in Sicily, on the mountainside the day of the Moor’s death, burying Guglielma Crollalanza’s ashes in the plot where my aunt would now lie. I thought of Innogen, the only personification of my mother’s line that I had left, and of Hero. How would my cousin shift now without Innogen to teach her that she could be independent, and strong willed? Who would now teach her that she could dance alone?

  I went back into the keep; my father, it seemed, had not moved at all.

  ‘Father, I must speak with you.’

  He regarded me, unblinking, from his pale eyes.

  ‘I wish to return to Sicily to pay my duty to my aunt.’

  He took a long breath in through his nose. ‘She will already be interred. The letter will have taken a week to reach us. Corpses stink in the south.’

  I did not like his saying, but could not reproach him. ‘It is a matter of respect for our family.’ I thought this would persuade him – I was wrong.

  ‘When I let you go before, I had an heir. And you were in your aunt’s care. Now your aunt is gone, and I had to call you home once before because of the dangers that befell your uncle’s house. I cannot lose you.’

  There was no affection in this last, no emotion; just political expediency. I was a bride prize. ‘So I might have died last summer with no inconvenience to you, but not this.’

  ‘Since you express it so; yes.’

  This rejoinder quenched me like a cold douse of water. I was so astonished that I was silenced.