by Mary Gentle
‘Because?’ I prompted.
Some man in the house had cut his hair back to the scalp, presumably to rid it of prison mites. Under his leather coif, he was quite bald. The same long-lashed black eyes looked back at me that I had spent weeks drawing.
I doubt he really needed to have his head shaved rather than washed–but someone will have found it amusing.
Ramiro Carrasco looked down at the table top, and blushed painfully red over his neck and ears, that I could see where the coif was cut high. He muttered, ‘You’re right, you can’t say anything honest between master and slave. I just wanted…You…I do know I’d be dead of sickness by now!’
I picked up the crust of dark bread and bit a corner off. It was yesterday’s. Dry enough that anything would soak into it.
What? some part of my mind scoffed. You think he has a chest full of poisons in his bedroll, all ready to play the assassin again?
Although he only has to have had access to my painting gear. The poisonous paints will kill any artist, if a painter is foolish enough to lick their brush.
‘If I were in your position,’ I said, ‘I wouldn’t poison the first plate of food. Or the second. I’d wait until I was trusted, until people were used to me, until I wasn’t noticed. Then I could be certain the food would be consumed…What? You think I was never sold to any man I didn’t dream of killing?’
Carrasco flushed. ‘I forgot you’ve been a slave.’
It would have taken counting on my fingers to get the right of it. ‘I think I’ve spent more of my life formally as a slave than formally free. I know all the tricks. And it’s not like I’ve forgotten how many times you tried to have me killed. Even if I do understand why.’
The look Ramiro Carrasco de Luis gave me was something to treasure, if one is not immune to normal human vindictiveness.
He stood with his balance on the balls of his feet, shoulders hunched a little. I thought he would have liked to brawl with me. He glanced at my hand, where I bit at the dark bread again, and looked remarkably uncomfortable.
‘You will not allow me even to thank you, for keeping me alive—’
‘You don’t want to thank me. You just feel you ought to. I have saved your life.’ I couldn’t help grinning, momentarily.
‘Ilaria—’
‘You’re another one who’s going to have to be beaten into remembering “master”.’ I put the bread down, drank from the jug–watching him and seeing no reaction other than a flushed anger. ‘Listen. You call everybody master or mistress. They call you…whatever they like. It’s like a dog or a horse. If I don’t like the name “Ramiro” I can change it.’
That brought his head up. His dark eyes glared at me. Names are important.
‘As for thanking me,’ I said. ‘You’re glad to be alive, but you don’t desire to thank me for keeping you that way. You hate the fact that I rescued you. I’d guess you spend half your time wishing I was dead, and half the time wishing you were. And you don’t wish to thank me for making you a slave–you find it humiliating, because you have more pride than any man ought to have. Certainly more than you have sense. Travelling with Federico and his wife and daughters, being Videric’s man covertly, knowing what was really going on…that suited you. Being property, being a shield between Videric and the man-woman…No, that sticks in your throat.’
I watched Carrasco go as white as he had been red.
‘She-male!’ he spat out finally, intending it for insult, not description.
‘Ramiro, I spent enough time drawing you to know you.’
He knocked the wooden plate off the table, stalked out of the room, and his footsteps died away while the plate still spun and clattered on the floorboards.
How many times is he going to be whipped or starved before he realises what he is, now?
One word could have started that process. I felt more sympathy than I wanted to admit with his position. Am I to be the first to cause weals on his back?
A shield.
Yes, I thought. And I must finally admit it: Rekhmire’ and my father are right. It merely puts Ramiro Carrasco where he has to be killed before I can be.
There must be a solution.
I can’t see it!
The night came; I slept deeply, aware of no dreams; and opened my eyes with a snap in the morning, mind suddenly awake and aware, everything instantaneously laid out before me as the light and shadow of a drawing sometimes is.
I hauled a man’s doublet on over my night-gown and clattered down the stairs.
The smell of cooking permeated the house from the kitchens to the main room downstairs, overlooking the still-bald garden of the embassy. Evidently I had slept through men breaking their fast. Walking in, I found that the long oak table was cleared–of knives and plates, at least.
My father and Rekhmire’ sat with opened boxes and crates about their feet. Some of the smaller crates occupied the table top, surrounded by heaps of straw. The window’s light caught shining curves.
I recognised glass goblets, lantern-shields, beads, jugs; all such as I had seen on the lagoon-islands of Murano and Burano.
‘Old mercenary habit,’ Honorius murmured, as he had in Rome; studying the pattern of a blue glass goblet he held up. ‘Venetian glass will make excellent export goods…’
The room’s far door closed behind Ramiro Carrasco.
Rekhmire’ and my father, at the bench at the long table, smiled their individual smiles.
‘I know another slave who was impossible to train,’ the Egyptian remarked, blithely provoking.
I met his gaze.
Rekhmire’ stopped and looked closely up at me. ‘What is it?’
Honorius hooked a joint-stool up to the table, in invitation to sit, his gaze narrowed expectantly.
‘I have the answer.’ I slide a crate towards me, picking one of the glass goblets out of the straw. ‘I doubt you’ll like or approve of it.’
Rekhmire’’s dark eyes fixed on me, intent and intense. Characteristically, he said nothing, only waiting for me to speak.
I tilted the goblet, watching the spiral of coloured glass in the stem catch the light. ‘I don’t like it either…But I can see no other way.’
Honorius reached and took the glass out of my hand, and set it firmly on the table. ‘Well?’
‘Videric isn’t going to stop—’
Old habits coming back to me, I sprang up, striding to open the room’s far door. No man was listening. I checked the door I had come in by, and left both open–since it’s harder to eavesdrop at an open door.
‘Bear with me, and listen.’ I paced back, resting my palms on the table as I leaned and looked at them, across the crates and packing.
Honorius nodded. Rekhmire’ remained motionless.
‘And tell me where I may be wrong,’ I added. ‘Ramiro Carrasco is some protection to us, because he will implicate Videric thoroughly, should he come to be tortured. And I suspect, if Videric harms his family out of pique, Carrasco would turn into a willing witness for us. But–if Videric can send a man who kills Ramiro Carrasco before he kills me, that doesn’t matter.’
‘Masterly,’ Rekhmire’ murmured under his breath, and held his large hands up defensively as I glared at him. ‘No, Ilario, please. Continue. I’m sure this has a point…’
The waspishness reassured me. Rekhmire’’s temper only verges on inadvertent rudeness when he is under great stress.
And that means the situation is as dangerous as I say it is.
Leaning with my hip against the edge of the table, I picked fragments of the straw packing out of one of the boxes, and looked across at Honorius.
‘Tell me why you first went to Castile and Leon.’
Honorius looked as if he flushed, under the sun-browned skin. ‘Your mother—’
‘No.’ I stood up straight. ‘No, I understand that. Rosamunda didn’t want to leave a rich man for a poor man.’
The bluntness must have hurt him, but he only nodded.
&nbs
p; ‘You were a soldier. Why did you go north?’
Honorius’s brows came down. ‘Because that’s where the war was! Still is, for that matter.’
I reprised the history of it, even though I could see a light of knowledge come into his eye. ‘You couldn’t have succeeded as well as you have in Taraco?’
Honorius shrugged. ‘There wasn’t going to be war in Taraconensis, I thought. I was right: there hasn’t been a war on the Frankish border with Taraconensis for twenty-five years, to my certain knowledge. I knew if I went north to the crusades—’
I nodded, interrupting him, and set off pacing around the long table again, too restless to stay still. Rekhmire’ leaned his head back as I passed him, intent dark gaze on me.
I said, ‘We’ve both listened to the gossip in the salons. Every man seems to think Taraconensis so weak now, that Carthage might send legions in. So that the Franks can’t press down from the north, take Taraco, and threaten North Africa.’
Honorius merely nodded. His frown was thoughtful. He had spent more than a little time talking over this with Carmagnola, I knew from my own observation.
‘Ask yourself: what changed?’ I held up my hand, stopping him speaking. ‘And we know, of course. It started half a year ago, when Carthage sent their ambassador over and caused a scandal—’
Honorius scowled. ‘You’re saying Videric is the reason why—’
‘Rodrigo had Videric as his adviser, his First Minister, all the time I was growing up at the court.’ I ended at the head of the dark oak table, resting my weight on my hands. ‘I know Rodrigo Sanguerra. Yes, he’s a good king. But if you force me to admit it, I have to say–he would have been less good without Videric.’
I went on swiftly, before either staring man could interrupt me:
‘Others think the same thing. How true it is–hardly matters. Politics is a matter of belief. And men believe that Taraconensis is weak because the First Minister has been banished from court.’
In the silence, I heard servants’ voices distant in the kitchens, and Saverico out in the embassy courtyard, laughing like a much younger boy at some remark Berenguer made.
Honorius’s scowl did not lighten. ‘Ilario–what is this?’
‘It’s inescapable.’
I straightened up, facing both of them: the Iberian soldier and the Egyptian book-buyer.
‘Aldra Videric needs me dead. If I’m dead, the scandal starts to die, and eventually Rodrigo can recall him to court. Videric’s a rich man, a powerful man. He can afford to pay to send any number of thugs and murderers after me. And to arrange for any witnesses to be killed, after.’
I saw Honorius and Rekhmire’ swap glances. Clearly, this is not a new thought to them.
I pulled one of the smaller crates towards me, running my finger across the grain of the beech wood. That soothed me enough to get words out:
‘I know that Aldra Videric will not run out of money. And he’s well enough guarded at his estates that it would not be possible to attack or ambush him. Nor will he forget this matter–the only thing Videric has ever had is his place at the King’s side. He won’t forgive losing it. He won’t cease wanting it back.’
I took a breath, feeling an odd combination of confidence and swimming dizziness,
‘I remain the obstacle. What Ramiro Carrasco can say might give Videric a moment’s pause. But as far as that goes–as you say–he can probably arrange an attack by bandits that wipes out an entire party of travellers, just as soon as we leave Venice. He’s rich enough to crew a ship and send men after me that way. I’ve thought of this backwards, forwards, and sideways. The answer remains: Videric’s not going to stop coming after me.’
Honorius put war-worn hands down on the table. ‘Ilario…naturally this must worry you. I can defend you—’
‘Not indefinitely. And it puts you in danger.’
I circumvented Honorius’s further words by pointing at the Egyptian.
‘You too, Rekhmire’. You’re a witness.’
With an unexpectedly hard note in his voice, Rekhmire’ stated, ‘I am a representative of Alexandria-in-Exile and the Pharaoh-Queen.’
‘Then go back there and be safe,’ Honorius rapped out. ‘This isn’t your fight—’
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. Expression rigid, Rekhmire’ said, ‘Is it not?’
‘Damn it, man, you know what I mean! You can leave, and so you should—’
‘If I had not interfered at Carthage,’ the Egyptian’s voice bit down, cutting Honorius short. ‘If I had not thought it so wise to go spilling Aldra Videric’s secrets–your son-daughter might not be in such complete danger of being killed! Yes, you have every right to blame me for that—’
‘I don’t blame you!’ Honorius jumped to his feet, waving his hands wildly. ‘Ilario doesn’t blame you!’
‘It never occurred to me to—Will you two be quiet!’ I yelled. ‘And just for once listen!’
The silent room echoed to a tiny sharp snap.
I looked down. The serpentine stem of the goblet I had picked up had snapped neatly into two.
Gently, I put the parts of the glass down in the straw-lined crate.
‘I have the answer,’ I said, ‘if you will listen.’
Honorius seated himself again on the bench, one hand resting on the table. As I watched, it curled into a white-knuckled fist. Rekhmire’ steepled his fingers and gazed at me over his clean spade-cut nails.
‘Videric will not stop,’ I repeated. ‘And I can see only one way to stop him eventually killing me. Killing us, I should say–he won’t leave witnesses. And that one way is…We have to see that Videric gets what he wants.’
Honorius blinked in total bewilderment. ‘But he wants you dead!’
I snorted a laugh, and wiped at my face.
‘Apologies! No. Think. He wants me dead, but only as the means to something else. He desires to be summoned back from exile. He wants to be Rodrigo’s adviser again. Videric wants to be the King’s First Minister of Taraconensis.’
Rekhmire’ stared at me with as blank an expression as I had ever seen on his face. ‘And…’
‘And–that’s what we have to do.’
I looked from the Egyptian to my father, and from Honorius back to Rekhmire’.
‘That’s what will stop these attempts at murder. That’s what will make us safe. I have to help my greatest enemy.’
Rage boiled up through me with the suddenness of thunder in summer. I seized up the wooden crate of export glass, and hurled it two-handed and bodily towards the room’s further wall.
It struck home with a vibrant, world-shattering crash.
‘I have to help the man who’s trying to kill me. And the only way to help Videric…I have to help him get what he wants. I have to put him back in power.’
Part Two
Alexandria-in-Exile
1
‘That means…’ I broke the silence with some deliberation. ‘…that I go back to Taraconensis, now, and negotiate this with Videric. Face to face.’
Rekhmire’, bent awkwardly over on his crutches, and surveying the remains of the crate of export glass, shot a startled look at me. ‘You do not!’
‘Is it necessary to point out that you freed me in Rome?’
The Egyptian straightened up, monumentally prepared to rebuke me.
Honorius rose to his feet, knocking his own glass over. Spilled wine spread in a pool of reflection that I wished I might paint.
The Lion of Castile snapped, ‘You may be of age, but as your father—’
I stopped pacing and completed his words: ‘—You’ve learned to recognise a losing battle when you see one?’
‘Don’t you be cheeky with me, young Ilario!’
I swung around, striding back up the room, ignoring the pull of healing stitches. Low as the beams were, and cramped as these small quarters might be, movement was the only thing that eased my mind. Wearing one of Neferet’s Alexandrine housecoats and a doublet
is not like wearing Frankish petticoats. I begin to feel more myself than I have since I came to Venice.
I pushed open the panelled shutters, letting in cold spring air, and gazed down at the canal at the rear of the embassy. Brickwork reflected in the water. The sun stood high enough overhead to strike down between the tall buildings. Symmetrical ripples spidered off the water, too bright to look at directly.
‘Tell me that there’s any other way to do this!’ Dazzled, I turned about; resting my back against the windowsill. I stared into a room now completely black to my eyes. ‘Videric lost his place at the King’s side because people won’t allow Rodrigo to have a would-be murderer there. You know Carthage will have said Videric tried to kill me, no matter how much of it was Rosamunda!’
In the brilliance of the water outside, I see the Court of Fountains in Taraco, regardless of the heat there and the chill here.
‘Videric will be devising plans to get back into favour. Which all depend on having me dead and forgotten. He’ll send more men like Carrasco. If we’re in Frankish territory, he’s long used to dealing with the banking firms and all the major merchants for King Rodrigo–he can pick up gossip about hermaphrodites, about painters…With Federico’s reports, he knows as much about what I’m doing as you do.’
Honorius frankly scowled, I saw, as my eyes adapted back to light and shadow. He desired to contradict me. Clearly, he couldn’t.
Rekhmire’ seated himself on the bench with a grunt, and a clatter of crutches. ‘It’s true: Aldra Videric would be better returned to court as your King’s minister. Carthage is under the Penitence, and Iberia is the grain-basket of the empire. Any excuse to take over more of its kingdoms…It seems there are too many people with confidence in First Minister Videric as a politician, and King Rodrigo’s right hand.’
Which made me desire to spit out something bitter. Why hearing confirmation of my thoughts should create such revulsion, when I had been brought to admit the truth of the argument through long hours spent feeding Onorata and brooding, I did not know.
I stared both of them down: the sitting spy, and the standing General, whom I cannot afford at this moment to think of as friend and father. ‘Who else can sort this out but me? If I go back to Taraco, persuade Videric that I’m not interested in having Rosamunda arrested for my attempted murder—’
