by Mary Gentle
much Venetian glass left!’
‘You’re glad for her.’
‘Am I?’ He busied himself with being seated, tucking his crutch beside
him, and easing that leg into a stretch towards the fire. The heat of the
fire, perhaps, cast a flush onto his cheek.
‘She’s your friend. You’re happy that she’s happy.’ I winced at a
dimly heard crash from the depths of the house. ‘Or at least, if not
happy, that she can be with Leon.’
‘The Florentines will find her a trifle feminine, I think.’ He gave me a
sudden grin. ‘But then, all we Alexandrine eunuchs are feminine males,
according to common talk!’
I grinned back. ‘I don’t think you’d suit a Frankish skirt and
bodice . . . ’
In the hours following, Neferet’s quarrel broke out from time to time,
like an unquenched brush-fire – but it had little enough true heat, given
that she would break off from her ranting to look in wonder at Leon, and
her demeanour invariably softened after that. Since the Alberti were due
to depart in two days, she had perforce to make a decision and pack.
41
I woke early on that morning, to feed Onorata, and to bid Neferet
farewell. I found her in the atrium of the house – and for a moment truly
did not recognise Neferet in this slim and straight-shouldered man,
dressed in the short linen jacket and white kilt of an Alexandrine scribe.
‘Ilaria.’ She spoke with the pitch of her voice lower, a little husky.
Her skin showed smooth, under the linen. Her face looked curiously
bare with only a line of kohl above each row of eyelashes. She had her
hair cut short, falling to touch her shoulders, as one of the Alexandrine
customs is, and a narrow braided reed-band holding it back from her
eyes.
Honorius’s men-at-arms, at the house door, could be heard greeting
Leon Battista.
‘Good fortune,’ I said, a little hurriedly, not able to put all I thought into words.
‘You too.’ She – he – smiled.
It was a morning cool and damp enough for fog, rolling in with the
smell of the sea about it, clinging to Venice’s brick walls and Roman-tiles
roofs, and filtering the sunlight to diffuse glory. At the gate of the
Alexandrine house, Leon Battista awaited us. He greeted Neferet with no
more than a companionable nod – something neither his servants nor the
oarsmen of his boat would be surprised to see, in a man collecting a new
officer for his household.
Their eyes linked. It was a different enough story that I thought I hope
they can be discreet.
‘This is a custom among my people.’ Neferet opened a small folded
cloth that she carried. I saw a glint of reddish black. She held up a
braided loop, handing one to Leon Battista, and one to Rekhmire’, and –
after a fractional hesitation – one to me.
A bracelet, I found, clasped with gold, and made with braided shining
hair. Neferet’s hair, now that she had dropped her hair to man’s length.
‘Thank you.’ Bereft of words, I could say nothing else.
Neferet, or Jahar, gave me a look with humour in the depths of it, and
murmured, ‘Think of it as a wedding gift . . . ’
I stumbled though Leon’s formal farewells, and watched as Rekhmire’
limped forward on his crutch to give last departing words to both
apparent men, all the while my thumb caressing the braided bracelet,
and the damp fog pearling on my velvet over-gown.
I turned and went back into the embassy.
A few moments later, Rekhmire’ stamped back inside – as well as a
man walking with a crutch may stamp – blowing on his fingers against
the damp cold, and swearing.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘—Holy dung that hatched the cosmos-egg!’ he concluded. ‘Damn
that woman!’
42
Having seen the boat depart, and Rekhmire’’s salute to it, I’d thought
all well.
‘She still won’t tell me where Herr Mainz is!’ He made a fist, his face
scarlet. ‘Nor will Master Alberti. And they wait until now to tell me this!’
‘Why won’t they?’
‘Some nonsense that the Florentine Duke will demand Herr Mainz, if
he appears openly in Venice, and that at the moment, La Serenissima
would probably keep Florence quiet by handing the man over. If they
don’t imprison him on their own behalf, and try to beat the secret of this
printing- machina out of him!’
I shrugged, following the Egyptian towards the kitchens. ‘If I were
Herr Mainz, I’d certainly want to stay out of sight.’
‘Sacred Eight, I want to help the man!’ The padded end of the crutch
thwacked the short, wide floorboards. ‘Ty-ameny needs him; I want to
invite him to Alexandria—’
‘—Which, until the weather’s better, is inaccessible by road, and no
ship will risk these seas. So he can’t leave Venice.’
‘Sun god’s egg!’
‘You would have said precisely the same thing, if you were in Neferet’s
place.’
While true, it was not tactful; I was not in the least surprised when he
stomped away towards the stairs, muttering under his breath. ‘I could
have hidden him here! Sent him to Edirne with the Turk! Something! ’
I heard him calling for fresh ink as he vanished into his room, and
guessed he intended a ciphered message to follow Neferet, and say this
and more.
I reflected: If I were her, I’d make sure to drop the paper in a canal –
or in the Arno, if it reaches her in Florence.
Florence, I belated realised.
My wife and my husband will end up living within the walls of the
same city.
The man-at-arms Berenguer grinned at me, the following morning.
‘Get your cloak, Mistress Ilario. You’re being abducted.’
43
7
It said something for the state of mind to which constant threat had
reduced me that I wore a dagger on my belt about the house – though the
dress’s hanging sleeves might have made drawing it quickly impractical.
One look at Berenguer convinced me I had no need.
‘Abducted?’
‘Sold,’ he corrected himself, picking my winter cloak up from where it
lay across the back of the wooden settle. He held it up, as a gentleman does for a lady. ‘Betrayed by the faithless mercenaries employed by the
foreign captain Lord Honorius . . . ’
Berenguer might not have liked a hermaphrodite when he met me in
Rome. He might from time to time still give me wary looks when the two
of us chanced to be in a room alone together, as if I might leap on him,
and seduce and rape him simultaneously. But as for not trusting him to be faithful to my father . . .
I walked across the room to stand with my back to the black-haired
man-at-arms, letting him settle the woollen cloak around my shoulders.
‘Who’s buying me?’ I inquired.
Berenguer somewhat automatically tied my cloak-ties for me and then
stood back a little awkwardly and permitted me to raise the silk-lined and
fur-trimmed hood myself. His sharp glance assessed me.
‘The weasel-lord,’ he announced. �
�What’s-name? The one with the
horse-faced wife.’
‘Federico. That’s my foster father you’re insulting,’ I added, settling
the folds of the green cloak about me. ‘Accurately, I may say. Although
Valdamerca has her charitable moments.’
Berenguer chuckled, at least partly with relief that his lord’s son-
daughter hadn’t chosen to take offence when treated like a woman and
spoken to like a man.
‘Her husband’s about to be very charitable!’ He held the room door open for me, hand on the hilt of his bastard sword. ‘Do you think you
could look frightened for us?’
‘Us’, it transpired, were fifteen of my father’s soldiers – Attila and
Tottola without smiles, and therefore at their most intimidating; every
man else in brigandine or breastplate, with swords or maces; even
Saverico with his polished sallet under his arm, a red and gold silk sash
tied from shoulder to waist.
44
A tall, thin soldier with his cloak hood raised proved, on lifting the
edge of it, to be Honorius.
‘Help,’ I observed gravely. ‘Oh, oh, I am being stolen away! Will
nobody help a poor defenceless—’
‘“Defenceless”’, my backside!’ Honorius brushed his knuckles against
my cheek with open affection. ‘I told Berenguer when he brought me this
story – if we just take the money and hand you over, not only will we be
rich, I’ll have some peace and quiet!’
Under the cover of general amusement, and donning of cloaks over
armour, intended to disguise the immediate passage of armed mercen-
aries through Venice’s alleys, I asked Honorius, ‘What in Christ-the-
Emperor’s name does he think he’s doing!’
‘Lord Videric? Sending your foster father to buy off my soldiers. After
all, they’re only common mercenaries.’
Over the less-than-sincere thanks offered by his men at that point, I
managed to amend my question. ‘Truly, I meant Federico.’
‘Being desperate! That’s what he’s doing.’ My father produced a short
length of rope, wrapped it about my wrists in a false knot, and gave me
the two ends to grip in my hands so that I looked sufficiently bound. ‘I
spoke to the Egyptian about this. He suggests that, if messages and
travellers are getting through from the Peninsula, Federico will have
heard directly from Videric. I think he’s right. Whether or not Videric
knows we disposed of Carrasco, he’s clearly told Federico to move his
arse.’
I nodded. ‘Something was going to happen, now. It’s inevitable.’
The sky above me was the colour of lapis lazuli ashes. The warm air
shifted, bringing me the scents of cooking, canal water, and the lagoon.
However cold it may still be, and how wet, the world is beginning to
move again. If long sea voyages are still unsafe, there are the coastal
routes. And some of the better-maintained roads, the Via Augusta
included, will be open.
‘Is Rekhmire’ coming to make sure I’m properly sold?’
Honorius shook his head. ‘He’d be recognised. I’ve requested him to
stay here with the rest of the guard, and protect my granddaughter.’
I ignored a stab of disappointment. Because, injured leg or no, I will
trust Rekhmire’’s determination to protect Onorata above most men’s.
‘Videric will send more men to kill me,’ I observed as we walked across
the Campo S. Barnaba. ‘True, the more men he hires, the more gossip,
the more danger people will hear what he’s doing – but I think he’ll be willing to risk that, now.’
‘Bandits. Pirates. Thugs.’ Honorius grunted. He pulled the front of his
hood forward. Dressed as a plain soldier, there was nothing to mark him
out from the other cloaked mercenaries. ‘Knew I should have brought
more than three lances . . . ’
45
‘We’re worth six!’ Saverico grinned. Tottola slapped him on the
shoulder, which all but sent the slight ensign staggering.
I expected a boat to be waiting, but we instead walked on into the mass
of lanes and small squares, until we had left the Dorsodura quarter, and
finally approached the Grand Canal. We emerged on the edge of that
wide thoroughfare at the foot of the Rialto Bridge.
Berenguer glanced at Honorius for permission, and fell in beside me as
we walked in under the wooden roof that capped the bridge.
‘We’ve arranged a public place for the exchange.’ Berenguer’s grin
showed two teeth missing, far back on the left side. ‘Less chance of
anybody cheating . . . ’
The sides of the bridge were also walled with solid planks, but no man
could see that except from the outside. Inside, too many shop-booths
blocked the line of sight; goods piled up clear to the bridge’s roof. We picked a way up the wide stone steps, between merchants and gossiping
servants; groups of men purchasing goods or changing money; woman
accompanied by male relatives or armed servants.
I shook my head, amazed. ‘Federico approached you directly?’
Berenguer gave that kind of shrug that invites discrete admiration.
‘Sent one of his servants. But I’d seen the man at that palazzo, when you
went after the secretary. Told him I wouldn’t talk to anybody but his
master.’
‘And Federico agreed?’
If that’s the case, Honorius will not be so far from the mark if he
describes my foster father as desperate.
‘Yeah. Next time, sure enough, there’s Lord Weasel – beg pardon,
Lord Federico – muffled up to the eyes, and telling me that he knows
we’re mercenaries, we’re for hire, and he can offer us a better contract
than Captain-General Honorius—’ Berenguer put up his hand, as if to
say you’ve heard nothing! , and added, ‘His first offer is, every man who comes in on this can get a place in Lord Carmagnola’s Venetian army,
and have a share of the plunder of Milan, along with Lord Weasel’s hefty
bribe—’
Attila stepped up on Berenguer’s other side, towering a full head
above us. He had braided his beard, but left his mane of hair loose; any
man could believe him an eater of babies and easily hired murderer. He
snorted. ‘The General and Lord Carmagnola fought together, up north,
so he’d have our arses skinned if we even thought about this!’
Berenguer grinned. ‘Lord Weasel thinks we’re too dumb to know that.
So I ask: what will Lord Federico pay in cold cash? And he says: every
man can have a safeguarded voyage to the mainland, a saddlebag of
gold, and a horse to ride away on. All we have to do is bring him the General’s son-daughter, so she can be put away in a convent, safe and
sound!’
Ahead, at the top of the steps, I could see light. The open drawbridge
46
section of the Rialto, that is winched up to let tall-masted boats through
on their way up the Canal Grande.
‘Kidnapped and put in a convent.’ I glanced at Honorius, but he had
already fallen back into the crowd of armed men, indistinguishable as
their captain. Tottola moved in on my flank, a mirror-image of Attila’s
Germanic wildness.
Berenguer gave me an apolo
getic glance and took hold of my elbow.
‘Lord Weasel, he sounded like he believed it. But if he’s your foster dad,
he’d want to, wouldn’t he? This Lord back in Taraco, this Aldra
Videric, he didn’t mind sending men to kill us. I don’t reckon you’d ever
see the inside of any convent.’
‘No.’ My pulse jolted, chest feeling hollow. The muscles and tendons
at the back of my knees pulled, walking up the steps, after so long
recovering from Physician Baris¸’s surgery.
Berenguer scanned the crowds blocking the steps. ‘Anyhow, I told
Lord Weasel as how he’d have to give us gold. And a ship to get off this
island. He bargained a bit, but he agreed. Normally, I’d reckon he’d tell
the Doge we stole his money and have us taken up and hanged for theft,
but he can’t risk us talking. Not that it matters . . . ’
The crowds became no thinner at the high arch of the Rialto Bridge. I
found myself in the midst of cloaked men who might be conspicuous in
their number. But then, Federico will have brought household men-at-arms, too . . .
Looking above the heads of the Venetians, I saw a mast and sails
gliding past.
The creak of the winch and clatter of chains indicated the drawbridge
was being wound down into place again.
‘Deal is, half the gold when we hand you over; half when we reach the
mainland.’ Berenguer surveyed me, head to foot. ‘Could you maybe look
frightened now?’
I have over a dozen armed soldiers around me, and my father.
‘No.’ I shrugged. ‘It would look unconvincing. He’d see that. I can
manage “sullen”.’
Berenguer’s hand went up, tilting his sallet’s visor to shield his eyes
against the spring sun. ‘We don’t want him to run before we get the
money . . . He’s here!’
Gathered in the small open space between the sheltered Rialto and the
drawbridge itself, we were not quite enough to block the general way. I
saw Federico instantly, his white face visible under a brown felt hat as he
approached from the Rialto’s other side.
One man in his livery colours walked behind him, a middling-sized
iron-bound chest clasped in both arms.
I bit my lip, preventing myself with difficulty from pointing this out to
Berenguer or Tottola. They see it too – and they are besides supposed to have betrayed you!
