by Mary Gentle
‘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 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.
‘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.’
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.
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 d
ismissal. 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 scream.
At these moments, I look around for someone to hand her back to.
Honorius only smiled at me.
I freed one hand to take the tiny shuttered portrait, slipped it inside my robe, and mouthed emphatically to Marcomir over Onorata’s open-mouthed yelling. ‘Remember, she’s your daughter! You can always see her, when it’s possible—’
‘I’m sorry we sold you!’ he blurted out. ‘Can you forgive me, like you have the assassin?’
Onorata chose that moment to hiccup and draw breath, producing as absolute a silence as could be wished.
Marcomir’s face turned as hot as mine felt.
‘Things could have turned out worse,’ I muttered–caught Honorius’s eye, and grinned. ‘Much worse!’
Marcomir smiled openly.
His black pupils dilated in the lamp-light. I felt myself shiver, skin prickling. Not difficult at all to remember, now, how arousal sparked between us.
Donata, muttering, stopped in front of Honorius, and threw her hands up with a sharp exclamation.
‘We’ll send you something!’ she announced.
Honorius bemusedly looked down at the poorly-dressed elderly woman. ‘“Send”…’
‘Every month or so. We can scrape a few ducats together. I know—’ She cut him off. ‘That you don’t need it. I know that.’
Orazi and Ramiro Carrasco exchanged an inaudible word. Honorius nodded.
I ignored the yammering in my mind that said, They’re too poor, she’s too old, it’s hardly fair–and it certainly won’t be honest—
There are times to keep silent.
Donata sniffed, looking pointedly at Honorius. ‘The brat doesn’t have just one grandparent.’
Marcomir’s daughter began to scream in the way that I knew from experience she would be happy to keep up for hours.
Donata reached down, picked her off my lap with astonishing dexterity, and put Onorata face-down over her skinny hip.
The crying cut off. Onorata hiccuped in surprise.
Donata shifted her weight, just enough to keep a rhythm.
My child began to giggle.
After a few moments, the old woman brought Onorata upright again, her strong skinny hand at the back of the baby’s head. Donata sat Onorata straddling the same hip. She pursed her lips.
‘You need a nurse!’
I was too busy staring at my Judas of a child, along with the others in the room. ‘What?’
Donata seemed entirely unconcerned to be asking awkward questions. ‘How in Tanit’s name will you raise her?’
The room fell silent.
I had not planned to open this subject with Honorius yet.
The Captain-General’s gaze pinned me.
‘My problem…’ I reached out for Onorata’s hand. ‘…Is that I’m in exile from Taraco. I don’t want to bring her up like a gypsy.’
The hawk-faced woman nodded. ‘Oh, you can take ’em anywhere when they’re this size, if they’re not weaklings. But when they walk and talk, that’s different!’
Rekhmire’ leaned forward, his tenor voice cutting through the noise.
‘There is Alexandria. Constantinople. I know Queen Ty-ameny would stand as godmother to the child.’
Marcomir’s eyes widened.
‘And she might also,’ Rekhmire’ concluded, ‘be able to offer you employment as a scribe.’
Donata interrupted before I could say a word, her hands clasping protectively around Onorata. ‘If the child’s in Constantinople, we’ll never see it!’
Honorius growled, ‘Neither will I!’
Marcomir’s head turned as if he watched a tourney.
Nothing showed him concerned about the outcome. He has no fatherly feeling for her, I realised.
Donata thrust Onorata at me, her hands cutting sharp chopping gestures in the air as she harangued Honorius.
Donata has turned into a grandmother…
‘I will be away for short times on diplomatic missions!’ Honorius’s battle-loud voice drowned her out. ‘But otherwise on my estate, where Ilario has a home always–and I can raise Onorata!’
Marcomir shook beside me. He was laughing, I realised.
‘The old guy’s men-at-arms can have bets about whether she’ll grow up girl or boy!’ he snickered.
Donata made a long arm and thwacked her son’s ear; Berenguer (it surprised me to note) ambled across the room and loomed threateningly over Marcomir.
I met Honorius’s gaze.
‘I would have suggested this later,’ I said, ‘but it might be better for Onorata if you formally adopted her.’
The room went quiet. Honorius seemed to be waiting.
I said, ‘All the while my name is attached to her, people will be waiting for her to grow up a monster.’
Honorius looked thoughtful.
‘If I do,’ he said after a moment, ‘no one in our family will ever lie to her about her mother-father. She’s my grandchild: she’ll need in any case to know what political secrets are. But within the boundaries of my estate, she would be your child, and my grandchild.’
I could not speak.
‘In any case,’ Honorius’s face took on an intent look, ‘this all depends on what you intend to do when you leave Carthage, Ilario.’
Rekhmire’ glanced at me; so did the Carthaginian mother and son; Carrasco and Berenguer and Orazi stared with varying degrees of curiosity and concern.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And–I don’t know.’
14
In the end there is no choice, I thought.
Even if she believes I abandon her.
Sunlight slid across the cabin floor as the war-junk tacked across the Gulf of Gades. I sat with neither charcoal nor paper, imprinting Onorata’s face onto my memory.
Honorius will travel up the Via Augusta to Taraco, after he has completed the King’s business in Gades, and take Onorata with him. She’ll be as safe as life allows on his estates. And I will visit, secretly, even before King Rodrigo lifts what is, to all intents, my exile.
But Honorius will see her take her first step. And she will call for ’Miro before she calls for me.
The salt wind and bright sun made my reddened eyes sore.
Rekhmire’ glanced up from where he was seated on one of the great hatch-covers. The shadows of sails and masts fell across his face. ‘Are you well?’
The polished wood felt hot under my bare legs as I sat down beside the Egyptian.
‘If it was the wrong decision, I wouldn’t be able to weep for an hour and get it out of my system.’
He gave me a dubious look.
‘Taking a baby on roads and ships and who-knows-where.’ I shrugged, squinting up at the web of ropes against the sky. ‘She’s been so lucky. Not to die.’
In peripheral vision, I saw him nod.
I followed the lines of taut rope up to a clear sky, seeing blue shadows in the hollow of white sails, and the tapering lines of masts.
Bare feet pounded past, Zheng He’s crew leaping for the rigging and swarming up. I tilted my head back, watching them jump, climb; agile and sure; taking in sails and letting others spring free…
The hatch-cover hit me squarely between the shoulder-blades.
I looked up at Rekhmire’.
‘Perspective. Sometimes it’s no m
an’s friend.’
Rekhmire’ wordlessly held out a hand, I interlocked fingers, and the world swooped around me as I came swiftly upright.
The Egyptian went back to massaging at his knee, where he had it in the sun.
The sun glittered a trail of fire and sparks off the long rolling waves. Zheng He’s ship cut aloof through a swell that would have sunk a smaller ship. We will make Gades itself before Sext.
I took Marcomir’s fragment of painted wood out of my belt-purse. ‘Look at this.’
The Egyptian sat back, taking it carefully into his hands. ‘That is not done by the encaustic wax technique?’
‘No, but it must be close to it. It’s not egg tempera.’
Chin’s ink-drawing fascinated me, in the way that Alexandria’s architecture did. But they are both a dead end, in the face of this. I pointed. Where the scrap of canvas had been glued onto the wooden background, much of the paintwork was spoiled. What was left was still enough to take my breath away, as unbelievable as the first time I saw it in Marcomir’s hands.
‘I think it’s done by pigment and oil…’
The white face of a girl, or perhaps a male saint, the eyelids modelled subtly to make the downward gaze natural. Most of the hair and neck were gone. There was still a fraction of green cloth at the shoulder, the depths of the folds apple-coloured.
The highlights were the colour of new spring leaves.
And the graduation of colour between them…
I didn’t dare touch a finger to it, ruined as it was. ‘It’s blended. See how seamlessly that’s done? Those shadows aren’t muddy; they’re not coloured pigments mixed with black! It’s…transparent colour. Done on a prepared white canvas, and with so many glazes…I’ve seen linseed oils used with pigments before, but not to give effects like this!’
Rekhmire’ tilted the wooden shutters. ‘It resembles gold more than gold leaf does!’
‘One of the things Leon wrote–gold leaf will shine back dark and flat. A skilled paint should be able to mimic all the effects of light. Better painted gold than gold leaf painted on.’
The Egyptian slowly nodded. ‘Where did Master Marcomir acquire it?’