by Mary Gentle
I know the man: certainly he’s thinking of some thing!
‘Captain-General Honorius, you may return via Gades, or otherwise,
depending on how long your business takes in Carthage.’ King Rodrigo
saluted him lightly with the wine glass. ‘But I’m ahead of myself. Licinus
Honorius. Will you accept this position at my court?’
My father caught my eye, and I glimpsed a grin. Almost demurely, for
such a battle-hardened man, he murmured, ‘Yes, sire. Of course.’
‘Very well.’ Rodrigo thrust a map across the table at him. ‘When the
celebrations attendant on Ilario’s penitence and Videric’s return are over,
you may leave.’
Admiral Zheng He appeared to have no objection to my presence
continuing on board his ship.
‘We leave here in a . . . week?’ He glanced at Sebekhotep, who
nodded. ‘A week. You may come.’
The Admiral cut off my thanks with a sharp gesture. A glance passed
between him and Commander Jian.
‘The sailors say you’re good luck,’ Jian ventured. With another look at
Zheng He, he added, ‘They find a eunuch clerk comforting, and familiar.
It’s what they take you to be. But that is not quite correct, is it?’
The Admiral signalled for wine. At Zheng He’s gesture, I sat down
again. One of the Admiral’s clerks dodged in, with paper, brush, and ink-
block on his wooden case. Commander Jian looked at me questioningly.
I suppose an explanation is a reasonable price for a voyage.
I regarded the Chin Admiral, and managed not to smile. ‘Not a
eunuch, my lord, no . . . ’
Silverpoint is delicate, but I needed to give what I drew more body. If I
had little enough left in the way of pigments now, I could still use tinted
paper as a mid tone, and the earths for dark values, and white lead for highlights.
I ground burnt sienna as fine as Masaccio had ever taught me, and
prepared with charcoal studies done by observation at Rodrigo’s court.
Although the majority of my images came from that hour in the
cathedral, when I would have sworn I noticed nothing around me.
I used egg tempera, on a lime board to which I had applied gesso, and
painted more quickly and with more skill than I had since Rome.
No, I thought, looking at the monochrome shapes taking on mass and
depth. Better than I ever have before.
Father Felix came to my quarters, far too casually and often, until he was
happy that I had no inclination to throw myself in the harbour, or off the
castle’s highest tower.
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‘Lies are poison,’ he remarked at one point. And followed that up,
later the same day, with, ‘You’re not welcome at the King’s court.’
I had taken a walk along the battlements with him, the air being cooler
on the castle walls. I took my gaze from the mountains of the north, just
visible in this morning’s impossibly clear aerial perspective.
There was no spite in Father Felix’s tone.
‘No,’ I agreed. ‘Not welcome.’
‘A year or two, perhaps. But not yet.’
‘I’ll miss you, Father.’
His smile was white in his dark face, and startlingly beautiful. ‘And I
you. Where are you going?’
‘Firstly,’ I said, ‘if I can, to the King’s banquet at the week’s end. And
after that, on board a ship.’
‘The second is wise. The first . . . ’ Father Felix shook his head.
‘I’ve been absolved,’ I said. ‘I can go anywhere I please.’
It took a week longer than Zheng He’s estimate for the war-junk to be
fully provisioned and the holds loaded up. That didn’t displease me. It
took that long for the paint to properly dry
The last of the celebratory banquets was lit by pages in Classical
costumes holding torches, in the great gardens of the Sanguerra palace.
The last of the sun’s red faded swiftly over the western mountains. I
walked down between the fountains and into the garden, a painted board
wrapped in a cloth and carried under my arm.
Rekhmire’ drifted out of the crowd, Orazi and Saverico behind him.
Honorius, stuck now on board Zheng He’s ship, appeared to have
determined to send men who would pick up gossip.
I looked up to meet the Egyptian’s black gaze. He turned to limp with
me through the throng of courtiers. Someone played a mandolin, under
the vines. With every man speaking, it was loud enough that we might
have discussed any matter without danger of eavesdroppers.
The book-buyer appeared to have nothing he wanted to say.
Similarly at a loss, I asked, ‘How many days will it take us to
Carthage?’ and cursed myself for trivial chatter.
‘A handful.’ Rekhmire’ narrowed his eyes at the Taracon courtiers.
His expression suddenly turned sour. ‘Would your journey to Carthage
have somewhat to do with needing to keep your “wet-nurse” out of
Taraco at the moment?’
I shook my head. ‘You really don’t like Ramiro, do you?’
‘I like your nursemaid well enough. I’d like him better if he were
somewhere else.’
‘I won’t tempt Videric to tidy up what he might see as loose ends. So,
yes, I’m taking the “nursemaid” with us. Honorius says Onorata would
miss him.’
‘She’s not old enough to know faces!’
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‘She grizzled enough when you were gone.’
The shock on his face was enough to make me smile.
‘I didn’t think the Little Wise One liked me,’ he muttered.
‘She’s a sad judge of character.’ I grinned at him. ‘And now, I regret to
say, I must go and be polite to the rest of my family . . . ’
Neither Pirro Videric nor Rosamunda appeared to be present.
That, or I could not find them in the crowds.
My place at the banqueting table was well below Rekhmire’’s, but
above the court musicians, at least. There were enough men I knew
casually at the table that I passed a reasonably entertaining evening,
although the fireflies and other mites and pismires gave me no better an
opinion than I have ever had of dining out of doors.
The formal toasts finished. King Rodrigo Sanguerra caught my eye,
and beckoned me. I left my seat and walked up to the high table.
Since I was in male clothing, I bowed. ‘Sire. Lady Rosamunda. Aldra
Videric.’
The torchlight glinted on Videric’s fair hair, and on a face
superficially friendly. He smiled up at me from where he sat at the King’s
right hand.
He will be good for Taraconensis.
That doesn’t mean I have to like him.
No man will ever bring him to judgement for sending Ramiro
Carrasco de Luis to kill me. And there’ll never be justice for the Carrasco
and de Luis families; for the threat that has hung over them all this time,
and to some degree always will.
More honestly – no man will ever hurt him for hurting me.
‘I have a gift, Aldra Videric,’ I said, bringing out the cloth-covered
board. ‘It’s not valuable, and I have little enough talent, but I grew to know some of the New Art in the Italies, and I’ve made you this.’
King Rodrigo Sanguerra watched me, eyes da
rk in the candle-light,
sipping from his gold goblet. Not far down the high table, Rekhmire’
gazed at me with the imbecilic amiability that diplomatic envoys are
supposed to assume at social events. Knowing both men as I did, I could
feel how keenly I was watched.
Rosamunda, on the King’s left, sipped from a silver goblet studded
with sapphires, that she had evidently chosen to go with her white
sarcenet and sapphire velvet gown. Her hair had no grey, her face no
wrinkles; she had the kind of beauty that is unnatural because so perfect.
I found myself rubbing one hand across my doublet over my belly,
thinking, She must have the lines of childbirth there at least!
But even so it will not be this disfiguring scar.
Videric’s wide, capable-looking hands took the package from me and
unwrapped the cloth with deft care.
He stared.
Rosamunda leaned a little back in her chair to see.
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She flashed a smile at me.
‘Why, that’s very well painted, Ilario! And thank you for the
compliment.’
I bowed as men do. ‘It was the least I could do, Aldro.’
Videric gazed down at the board, tilting it to catch the light of the
torches.
I made drawings, the night after I paid for my absolution at the
cathedral. Searched my memory, sketched studies, and then reached for
pigments to put things down as accurately and as truthfully as I could.
Looking now, I saw things I would change if I had it to do again.
Technical imperfections abound.
But I have managed to paint irrevocably one aspect of the truth.
The monochrome images of Videric and Rosamunda, my once-father
and my mother, gleamed in the soft torchlight. Painted as lord and lady,
they were seated side by side in high-backed wooden chairs. Both wore
the court clothing of this year of Our Lord 1429; and through the arched
window behind them, the forts and rivers and mountains of Taraconen-
sis shone in miniature.
The image of Rosamunda gazed out at the world, every aspect of her
beauty on show, her hands clasped modestly in her lap. Videric’s painted
hands clasped the carved ends of the chair-arms. He looks, not at us, but
at her. She, beauty; and he, power.
‘This is wonderful.’ Videric tilted the board further. ‘Sire, will you
excuse me if I take it closer to the light? Ilario, will you explain your technique to me here?’
It was done smoothly enough that Rosamunda noticed nothing.
Rodrigo must know that Videric could simply summon a torch-bearer
closer to us!
The King waved dispassionate permission. He deliberately turned
back to converse with Rekhmire’.
The Egyptian’s gaze followed me as I walked over to Videric, where he
held the portraits up to the torch’s gilding illumination.
I stood beside Pirro Videric in silence.
Videric’s tone was almost absent-minded. ‘I’ve studied the New Art.
It’s an interesting concept: to draw what is. Heresy, perhaps. Only God
can judge what truly is. But this is a . . . different kind of representation to those I’ve seen before.’
I’d wondered what Videric found to keep him interested in his exile.
Did you think you could find me by studying this art?
In all likelihood, yes.
His gaze was riveted on the images.
I thought the distortions of perspective might confuse him. Or the
individuality of the faces and lack of symbols remove all the meaning.
Evidently not.
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Videric lifted his chin, looking me challengingly in the eye. ‘You know
I will hang this privately? Where no other man can see it?’
‘Not all men will see the same thing in it, Aldra Videric.’
‘Oh, I think they will.’ He tilted the painted board the other way.
It had already lasted longer than I thought; I had imagined he might
throw it in one of the bonfires.
He mused aloud. ‘There she is . . . Discovered. Disclosed, for any man
to see. Who she is. What she is.’
He looked up at me.
‘Shallow. Cruel. Greedy.’
It felt sharp as a punch in the gut.
I had no expectation of him being so honest!
Pirro Videric reached a fingertip towards his own painted face, but did
not touch the surface. ‘You’ve painted me as an unhappy man.’
‘You love her. Rosamunda. My mother.’
He gave me a small smile. ‘Yes. I do.’
If I could paint that smile to keep it with me always, I would count
myself lucky and need no other revenge.
Even the remants of the smile slipped from his face. ‘I will do anything
to keep her. One day, perhaps, you will understand why. It’s curious –
you spent five days with the Church lying yourself black in the face. But
this painting is one of the most truthful things I’ve ever seen.’
Videric’s hands gripped the wood tightly enough that I heard it creak.
I watched him.
He lowered his gaze to the limewood again. This surface where I have
used gesso and pigment, wood and egg-yolk, to paint this man who –
over the course of twenty-five years and against all odds – has fought to
keep this woman with him.
His figure faces her: you can see his passion for her.
And you can see the woman who could abandon the lover who
fathered her child. Abandon her baby in the snow. All to stay with the
man who is rich and powerful – while he is rich and powerful. She looks
out at the world, and does not see him there.
I took up the cloth Videric had dropped, folded it, and handed it to
him.
And took up the remaining weapon left to me.
I said, ‘You know she’ll never love you.’
Videric looked at me. ‘I know.’
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12
Dragon pennants rippled ahead of us, unrolling down the wind.
I couldn’t count how many of them I saw on the seven masts – dozens,
perhaps a hundred. Chin men scrambled up the yards to release the sails.
Wind strengthening behind us bellied out the cloth.
Zheng He’s massive ship tacked around in a final curve that let us see
all the coast of Taraco submerged in morning mist. And all the distant
mountain peaks, west and north.
And the host of tiny cogs and galleys that, at King Rodrigo Sanguerra’s
insistence, escorted the war-junk south down the coast, until the land
borders of Taraconensis were left behind.
Squinting at the land, I could make out dust on the Via Augusta, that
ancient road that runs from the Frankish lands down to the straits that
open the Atlantic. Clouds of dust.
The King and his court riding out, as a compliment to such far-
travelled men as Zheng He and his officers, to bid them farewell.
The rail almost imperceptibly shivered under my hand. Deep waters
darkened under our prow.
Honorius stood beside me, his hands clasped behind his back. On my
other side, Rekhmire’ wore Onorata’s sling, and held her cautiously,
gazing with a puzzled look into her tiny and messy features – possibly
trying to deduce if she indeed recognised him.
I whip
ped out a kerchief to wipe her nose, and spent some time
pointing out to my child the chief landmarks of Taraconensis as we left
them behind, and naming the different parts of the war-junk in Chin.
‘Ilario . . . ’ Rekhmire’ removed his hand from under the sling,
examined it, and put it back. ‘She’s five months old!’
‘It’s never too early to start . . . ’
Honorius choked off a laugh, and stepped aside to confer with Orazi. I
knew more than half of the men-at-arms he had chosen to accompany
the Captain-General of Taraconensis to Carthage: acquainted with them
from Venice and Rome. The others were veterans of having His
Majesty’s royal guard garrisoned on Honorius’s estate; the evenings were
rife with exaggerated tales, each trying to out-do the other.
‘Ilario.’ Rekhmire’’s eyes slitted against the brilliance. He stepped out
of the way of two of Jian’s sailors sprinting past. ‘Do you see something?
There, ahead?’
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I looked into the shining mist of the horizon, and rubbed my dazzled
eyes. ‘Not a damn thing!’
I had not yet got over the relief of seeing Rekhmire’ returned safe from
Videric’s estates. I would have said this to him, if not for the fact that he
hardly ever spoke to me now.
He says more to Onorata . . .
I checked the ties on her tiny hood, and she yawned in my face.
‘Charming child!’
Rekhmire’ gave me a look of the greatest apparent innocence. ‘Should
I risk saying I know how she feels?’
‘Not unless you want your shins kicked! Except that I suppose I can’t
while you have her – is that why you volunteered to carry the baby sling?’
The Egyptian made an unsuccessful attempt at appearing wounded.
‘I should be wary of complaining about boredom,’ he added, seeing
me failing to be moved. ‘That usually serves to call up sea-serpents and
comets and acts of the gods . . . ’
‘I can do without any of those!’
I found I must step back out of another running man’s way—
Jian himself.
‘What . . . ?’ Squinting after the Chin commander, I found myself
looking south, into sun and brilliant mist – and dark protuberances that
could not be the Balearic Islands. Not unless we’ve sailed infinitely faster than I thought we could!
Rekhmire’ closed both his large hands protectively around Onorata.
