by Mary Gentle
‘Sire…’
Rodrigo Sanguerra waved his free hand dismissively. ‘Aldra Honorius can stay in my dungeons until I’m satisfied every man has realised he’s there. And that he submits to his King. And then, on payment of a sufficiently large fine, he can find himself at liberty.’
He frowned, his pause unstudied.
‘What, did you suppose I was going to execute the Lion of Castile?’
Dizziness made me unable to answer properly.
‘You may see him,’ King Rodrigo remarked, ‘when we’re done here. The more visitors, the more mouths to carry the story, after all.’
He smiled at me.
‘Are you still free, hermaphrodite?’
What a question. Curtailing a long story, I said, ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
He would be in his late fifties or early sixties, this King of Taraconensis. If I tried to look at him as a stranger would–as Rekhmire’ might be doing now–I saw the unforgiving and unwelcoming face of a country mostly composed of mountain, infertile plain, and rocky coast.
Growing up with the land, I know there are valleys that flower at the foothills of the mountains, and rich seas and forests, if a man can find the way to them. Rodrigo had been rumoured a less grave man before his Queen, Cixila, died in giving birth to their dead fourth child.
‘Come here.’ Rodrigo beckoned, and held out his hand. I moved to kneel on the dais steps, and kissed the cabochon-cut emerald he wore in his massive ouroboros-ring.
For a moment, he rested his hand on my head.
‘You come back bringing trouble, Ilario.’
A flood of emotion would have had me in tears like a girl. I waited until it passed. And saw King Rodrigo had, as ever, read everything visible in a man’s face.
‘We’ll break our fast and talk,’ he said, glancing around absently for servants–and, on a sudden, looked back at me.
He gestured with his lined hand. ‘Rise, Ilario.’
Stiffly, slowly, I stood up.
It is still instinctive in me–not to rise until he gives me direct permission.
‘The envoy of Alexandria is best qualified to speak with you, Your Majesty.’ I prayed he did not read how rigid I stood, and how much it was out of determination. ‘No man knows I’m here, yet; no man will recognise me, dressed like this. May I be excused to visit Lord Honorius in prison?’
I did not suppose Honorius would be in a prison elsewhere than in Taraco. And not in the civil jail down in the city, reserved for men who are not noble. Somewhere in this palace’s oubliettes and rat-infested dungeons, thick with the stench of ancient shit and despair…Because if King Rodrigo desires to make an object lesson out of Honorius, he will keep him under his hand.
Rekhmire’’s fingers closed around my biceps. Without seeming to care that he broke protocol in speaking before the King did, he snapped, ‘We need you here!’
The flash of Rekhmire’’s gaze prompted Videric! very plainly.
‘You were previously of the opinion I could stay on the ship, Master Rekhmire’. You can bring the introductory matters to my Lord King’s attention. I’ll continue after I’ve seen Lord Honorius—’
I bit back the words my father.
‘—with His Majesty’s permission.’
Rekhmire’ glared at me, clearly divided between exasperation and a fear that I might throw something.
Observing us, King Rodrigo shifted his chin to his other hand, all the time watching me as closely as a painter does. He allowed silence to return.
Rekhmire’ murmured, ‘I apologise, Exalted One.’
I echoed him. ‘I apologise, sire.’
Underlining that with silence, King Rodrigo did nothing more than observe me from under lowered lids.
‘Very well!’ He sat up, briskly. ‘Master Egyptian, we will have a private audience. Ilario–one hour. And you will not afterwards whine to me that this is too brief!’
Without waiting for an answer, the King beckoned one of his men forward; a lugubrious-faced knight in a forest-green surcoat over Milanese armour.
‘The prison, first; then bring Ilario to me in the east tower, when the hour of Terce has struck.’
5
The knight’s lugubriosity appeared to be a function merely of his long features. He introduced himself as Safrac de Aguilar, and smiled amiably enough as I halted midway up a flight of sandstone spiral steps.
Four sets of steps serve the floors of the prison tower of the Sanguerra castle. One at each corner of the building. Any one of them enough to leave men breathless.
It was not the constriction of my ribs that made me stop, but a sudden thought.
‘Aldra Aguilar, I have no money for a bribe!’
That we were going up, not down, the stairs, told me I was being taken to the governor or overseer–whatever knight King Rodrigo had placed in charge of prisoners, and who therefore kept his chambers at the top of this high square tower. And whose income depends on what prisoners’ relatives will pay him for good treatment of a prisoner.
Appalled, I thought, Nor do I have money to pay a jailer for food, or candles, or clean water, or anything my father will need!
Safrac de Aguilar gave me a wry smile. ‘Your money isn’t needed.’
And that means?
He gave me no chance to question him, turning his back. I followed the muffled clack of plate armour up the ever-turning stairs. His was not a face I recalled from court life, but the King must think him honest and not prone to gossip.
Or else he wouldn’t let the man see Honorius and I together, with kinship written on our faces.
Unless Honorius is not recognisable—
The steps ceased, and I all but fell over de Aguilar’s heels. He opened the door set counter-wise into the tower’s wall, and gestured for me to pass through.
‘Could you lend me money, Aldra?’ I persisted.
Safrac de Aguilar sighed, his face giving it the force of extreme misery. ‘Just go inside!’
An arrow-slit window opened into the antechamber, spilling bright sunlight onto terracotta tiles. De Aguilar nodded to the guards in royal livery, beckoning them aside and speaking in an undertone. I caught a glimpse of the sea through the narrow slit, far out on the horizon, and wondered, If I had my babe in my arms, would I be more likely to move a prison governor to sympathy?
Sharp knocking brought me back to myself. De Aguilar was just lowering his hand from the nail-sprinkled oak door of the inner rooms.
The door opened. A young and curly-haired man put his head out.
I stared. ‘Saverico?’
Safrac de Aguilar said something that did not penetrate the shock of seeing Ensign Saverico in clean green doublet and red hose, with a pewter lion badge sewn to his sleeve.
‘Donna Ilario!’ He grinned. ‘I have your dress, still!’
The door was pushed further open from the inside: a shorter and skinnier man demanded, ‘What is it this time?’, and I recognised his voice before I saw his face–Honorius’s Armenian sergeant, Orazi.
The door opened into a wide, well-furnished chamber. On the far side of the room, opposite the door, a window showed the sky to the north. Beneath the window stood a table. The chair on its left had been pushed back–by either Saverico or Orazi, when they came to open the door.
A chess-board stood on the table itself, and in the right-hand chair, Licinus Honorius, il leone di Castiglia, lifted his chin from his hand and contemplation of the board, and called without looking towards the door:
‘By my calculation, Sergeant, you now owe me Carthage, Alexandria, and a year’s dye-trade in Bruges…Would you rather play me at dice?’
Orazi carries a sword at his side.
The sergeant stepped quickly back across the room, fast enough that I saw why Honorius might keep him as a bodyguard, and moved a bishop. ‘Check!’ He finished with a jerk of his chin towards us at the door.
Honorius looked. His eyes met mine.
I felt it in a blow to my stomach.
It was as if it took an age for him to rise from the chair.
Safrac de Aguilar murmured something behind me, stepping back with the royal guards; I was dimly aware that the solid oak door closed with them outside.
Honorius opened his mouth, and said nothing.
His cheeks were not sunken in or unshaven, his tunic looked clean; he carried a dagger scabbarded at his right hip.
‘I thought you were in some rat-infested piss-hole!’
Words ripped out of my throat with the force of a winter storm.
‘The King told me you were in prison! You’re all right! Why didn’t you tell me?’
Honorius stepped forward, his expression shifting from shock to wonder and solemnity.
I could do nothing but stare.
‘Ilario…’
Honorius broke into a great wide grin, covered the remaining distance in a moment, and threw his arms about me hard enough that I felt my ribs crunch.
‘Ilario!’
‘Oof!’ It would have been more than a whisper, if I could have got the breath. And had I not been embracing him equally hard.
Without letting go, Honorius briefly turned his head. ‘Saverico, get another goblet out! And the good wine. Tell Berenguer to put the kettle on the fire!’
He stepped back, hands gripping my shoulders, looking me up and down.
‘Berenguer won’t let me eat prison food,’ he added absently, with a nod towards a door I had not noted; this was not one room, but a set of chambers, evidently. ‘You’re looking well. Have you eaten?’
‘Have I eaten?’
‘There’s some beef left from last night, and chicken. And maybe a bit of mutton—’
‘Honorius!’
I swore in Italian, Alexandrine Latin, and a little of the vocabulary of Chin.
Honorius beamed at me.
‘Mutton? But you’re in prison!’ I protested.
My father put his fists on his hips and grinned. ‘Yes, I am, aren’t I?’
There was a long oak settle beside this room’s hearth, a length of red velvet thrown over the back to prevent draughts. I collapsed down onto the wooden seat. ‘I don’t understand!’
Honorius signalled, without looking, and sat down on the settle beside me. A moment or two later another man-at-arms–I recognised Berenguer’s angular features–entered wearing an apron over his doublet, and carrying a tray with wine and bread and cold mutton. He gave me a nod of greeting.
I looked around at the soldiers, as well as my father. ‘You could walk right out of here! Why are you here?’
Honorius leaned his elbow on the back of the low settle. His hand, holding his wine goblet, just visibly shook. His face glowed, looking at me.
I tried again. ‘Why are you in prison?’
‘Because I want to be.’
One should not regard one’s own father as if he were stark mad. Except under this kind of provocation. ‘Father—’
‘Because it’s necessary.’ Honorius smiled. ‘I may be a soldier, but I do understand some things about politics. I’m on display.’
Saverico and Orazi both nodded at that. Honorius waved a hand to dismiss them from their attentive stances–which meant they retired to the chess table five feet away, to watch us from there.
‘On display,’ Honorius repeated, ‘and contrite. An object lesson. Soon to be impoverished. Well–comparatively, and for a while. Then all will be well between me and the King—’
‘But you’re in prison!’ I couldn’t conquer the enormity of it, even if the rats and dung were absent. ‘You’ve vanished; Rodrigo could have you quietly killed! Why—’
‘To keep the stupid from rebelling against their King.’ Honorius rubbed his chin. ‘Who, come to think of it, is my King. I don’t like serving under a weak king.’
I saw the truth of it as if someone had flung shutters open to sunlight. I tried not to sound accusatory–and failed. ‘Honorius, you agreed to this!’
‘It’s necessary,’ he said simply.
Orazi, at the window table, prodded his bishop and grinned.
Words choked themselves in my throat. I put my goblet down before I should spill it.
‘And you didn’t let me know!’
Honorius cocked a brow.
He said nothing of the distance of Constantinople, or the likelihood that I would have been somewhere else by the time letters or messengers arrived. Which saved my pride, if nothing else.
‘I wasn’t certain this would happen until I got here.’ He shrugged. ‘One of the possibilities was execution, but you tell me your Rodrigo Sanguerra’s a reasonable king, so that didn’t seem likely. This didn’t surprise me when he ordered it.’
He paused, putting his hand on my shoulder again as if reassuring himself of my solidity.
‘Letters can be intercepted. What could I safely say to you?’
‘I had the same difficulty in Alexandria…’ I watched Orazi passing the castle-piece back and forth between his fingers.
Honorius’s grip tightened. ‘Why are you here and not in Alexandria? What happened? And how did you get here?’
‘Ah.’ I craned my chin up to see what was beyond the window, but I had been correct before: it was the mountains and the north. No visible sea. ‘Have you heard any gossip about a “devil-ship”?’
Honorius’s lips pursed surprisingly delicately; he might have been a disapproving duenna in the Court of Ladies. ‘I think you’d better explain.’
I explained.
He sat for a minute or more, after I had done.
Quietly, he asked, ‘Is Onorata still with us?’
Relief and chagrin hit me in equal measures. I should have told him that at once!
‘Oh, she is–in loud health.’
Awkward although it might be on the hard wooden seat, I leaned over and embraced my father again.
The lines around his eyes tightened as if he looked into sunlight. ‘I didn’t realise you’d miss my company, Ilario.’
Since it seemed appropriate to a soldier, and since I might otherwise weep, I said, ‘Fucking idiot!’
He wrapped his arm about my shoulder and shook me, as if I were a much younger boy.
It left me sitting forward on the settle; I ran my fingers through my hair, and lifted my head to look into his face. ‘If you agreed to prison…How long do you stay here?’
‘Long enough, I suppose. I dare say I’ll hear from the King.’
A frown dented his brows.
‘Ilario–I sent no word for you to come home! Whether on a “devil ship” or not! What are you doing here? It can’t be safe—’
I summarised it as briskly as I might.
‘King Rodrigo will call Aldra Videric back as First Minister,’ I concluded, ‘now that Admiral Zheng He’s ship is here causing panic. Then Videric’s back in power, and we need not—’
‘Wait, wait.’ Honorius sliced the edge of his hand through the air. ‘How is this one single ship to cause enough danger to Taraco that the King can justify that? If it had been a fleet, now…What use are a few hundred men?’
It was a reasonable supposition, given the crews of galleys. A man can hear ‘giant ship’ without any real conception at the reality of the matter.
‘Five thousand men,’ I corrected.
‘Five–thousand.’
I had brought no sketchbook, there being no way of doing that. I called to Berenguer to rescue me a charred stick from the edge of the hearth-fire and, under all their eyes, sketched on the wooden table the lines of a Venetian galley, and the size, beside it, of Zheng He’s war-junk.
‘Bugger me!’ Honorius said.
I left him staring at it and ate the remainder of the mutton, suddenly very hungry; and chewed on fresh bread while Honorius and Orazi had a long and technical argument about the probable effectiveness of a ship with a crew of five thousand men.
After that, Honorius picked scraps off my plate, and kept breaking off from his own words to look at me. I did not know w
hether to feel embarrassed, or valued, or both.
‘…sent the rest of my men on with orders to my steward, at the estates,’ he finished, licking grease and crumbs off his fingers. ‘Get the damn place back in order now the King’s promised to withdraw his garrison. I kept young Saverico because he’s supposedly intelligent.’
The Ensign grinned.
‘And at any rate, young and quick enough to get up and down these stairs when he’s ordered. And Berenguer because he cooks. And Sergeant Orazi stayed because I needed a man who could hold a conversation and play chess, or I knew I was like to run mad in the first week. Doing nothing doesn’t come easily to me.’
‘I can believe that…’
Judging by Venice, I thought Orazi’s idea of intelligent conversation was likely to be, Do you remember when we got all of the foot-reserve into the battle-line that time in Navarra?, but my father is a military man.
‘And the Egyptian’s here?’ Honorius added. ‘All’s well with you and Rekhmire’?’
‘Certainly.’
He looked a little blank at that, but I couldn’t identify his reasons.
‘And that weasel-assassin you had on a chain: what happened to Carrasco?’
‘Actually–he’s on the ship, looking after your granddaughter.’
It caught Honorius sufficiently off-balance that he inhaled wine, dropped his wooden goblet, and sprang up to dash the wine-lees off his hose, all the while spluttering in outrage and panic. Orazi gave me a reproachful look.
‘Carrasco makes an excellent nurse.’ It was more than I could do to restrain a grin, but I stifled it at the realisation that Honorius’s panic was genuine. ‘It’s safe. I wouldn’t put Onorata in danger.’
Grumbling, Honorius resumed his seat on the settle.
I looked around at the other three, as well as my father.
‘I only landed at dawn today. Has there been gossip or news of Videric or Rosamunda? Oh—’ The Rialto came vividly back to me. ‘—and Federico? Did he chicken out? Has he turned up back here in Taraco?’
