The Stone Golem

by Mary Gentle

  Orazi shook his head. ‘Nah, not him. Nor his lady wife nor family, neither. I reckon they’ve gone north like they said.’

  Honorius said, ‘I confess I think better of him for that.’

  ‘I…think I may do, too.’

  ‘As for Videric and Rosamunda—’ Honorius gave the men-at-arms a questioning look, and spoke again when none of them did. ‘There are no credible rumours. They’re still on his estates.’

  Now I am close enough to be in the same kingdom with Videric, I wonder if the idea is as splendid as it seemed in Venice.

  A sideways look at Honorius confirmed the man a mind-reader, at least of his son-daughter.

  ‘No rumours about Carthage, either.’ Honorius signalled for more wine. ‘But I had reason to be concerned about you, son-daughter, I thought. We heard stories of some “demon” attack on Queen Ty-amenhotep. Was that while you were in her city?’

  I steadied my goblet with my other hand as Saverico poured.

  ‘It was the golem.’

  Honorius snapped his fingers in irritation. ‘I should have guessed that. “Demon”, indeed. What happened?’

  ‘An envoy from Carthage tried to use the golem to kill the Pharaoh-Queen.’ I found it comforting to lean my shoulder against Honorius’s. ‘But we stopped it.’

  Honorius ran his free hand through his cropped hair, looking queasy. ‘Damned if I would have gone near it! Wait–you stopped it? Not the Queen’s soldiers? You—’

  I couldn’t help but look innocent in the face of his bluster. ‘I had the book-buyer’s help…’

  Honorius narrowed his eyes at me. ‘How could you fight a monstrous thing like that?’

  I took another swallow, feeling a relaxation that was partly drinking wine on top of too little food, and mostly the relief of Honorius’s company.

  ‘Who’d fight the thing? We disabled it beforehand. So when the envoy tried, nothing happened.’

  ‘Disabled—’

  Four pairs of eyes watched me. Saverico and Berenguer in wonder, Orazi both sceptical and bemused, and my father looking as if he suspected some trick was being played on the Lion of Castile.

  ‘We used…A secret weapon.’ I bit down on my lower lip and managed not to smile.

  ‘Secret weapon,’ Honorius echoed.

  ‘You blew it up!’ Saverico yelped excitedly.

  Gravely, I said, ‘No, I think they would have noticed that.’

  Orazi snickered.

  ‘And where did this “secret weapon” come from?’ Honorius inquired.

  ‘Out of Masaccio’s workshop. Or–the recipe did.’

  ‘“Recipe.”’ My father’s eyes began to narrow. His lip twitched. ‘They’d notice Greek Fire, too!’

  Berenguer interrupted scornfully. ‘What kind of weapon comes out of a painter’s workshop?’

  Over Saverico’s and Orazi’s raucous comments, I managed to make myself heard. ‘It had lime in it…’

  Honorius grinned and pounced. ‘You burned the damn stone man!’

  ‘No, no burning; not even with quicklime.’

  A considerable hubbub arose from the men-at-arms, speculating what weapon might destroy a stone man without leaving signs of this. I paid no attention, watching the creasing of lines about Honorius’s eyes.

  ‘A secret weapon,’ he speculated aloud, holding back a smile. ‘Made out of what you may find in a painter’s workshop. Which you had knowledge of. Beginning with lime—’

  The room’s outer door opened. Safrac de Aguilar stood with the royal guard, a regretful expression making his long face even longer.

  ‘My apologies, but it’s near on the hour of Terce. We must go.’

  I rose from the settle, conscious that Honorius stood up beside me.

  ‘It’s not a time to annoy Rodrigo Sanguerra.’ I looked up at my father. ‘I’ll be back later. As soon as I can.’

  Honorius nodded soberly, and wrung my hands in a parting grip.

  Halfway to the door, he called, ‘Quicklime and what else? Give me a clue! What other secret ingredient is there?’

  Safrac de Aguilar stepped aside to let me pass. I glanced back over my shoulder, and left the Lion of Castile with a single word.

  ‘Cheese!’

  6

  By the time we reached the royal appartments, Terce had rung out from the chapel bells. De Aguilar looked apprehensive as he led me into King Rodrigo’s council chamber.

  King Rodrigo Sanguerra and the envoy of Alexandria both stood, chairs shoved rudely back from the inlaid wood table, shouting at each other in contesting bass and tenor.

  I crossed my arms over my chest, and glanced at Aldra Safrac. ‘No need to be concerned. If I got up on the table and took all my clothes off, I doubt either one of them would notice.’

  Safrac de Aguilar proved to have a thoroughly pleasant laugh.

  Neither of the quarrelling men reacted to it.

  King Rodrigo Sanguerra sat decisively down in his chair.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘No.’

  It was Aldra Safrac’s suggestion that the King might wish to break his fast which moved us all into one of the lesser chambers. Smaller, more comfortable, I felt it take the edge off Rodrigo’s temper.

  If I recall correctly, he was never even-tempered if ill-fed.

  It would have been impolite to refuse food myself, so I ate in the King’s company again. Rekhmire’ copied me for the manners of Taraco. When we were done, King Rodrigo took off his overrobe and stretched out his arms, gazing down from the high window at the inland mountains. The late morning sun cut lined crevasses into his features.

  ‘Your pardon, Majesty,’ Rekhmire’ said, with an inoffensiveness I envied. ‘But will you tell me what does not please you about this?’

  Rodrigo turned his back to the sculpted window. To my surprise, he gazed at me.

  ‘I’m glad to see you not murdered,’ he observed, ‘despite all the trouble you’ve caused me. So much I can say. For the rest, and this “war-junk”…My high council is due to meet at Sext. If I tell them I intend to recall Aldra Videric–on what they will see as a pretext–we shall still be talking this time next month, and still nothing will get done!’

  Rekhmire’’s brandy-coloured eyes met mine, for the briefest of moments. I read Not enough perfectly clearly.

  The Egyptian spoke deferentially; only someone who knew him well would have detected the acid quality to his speech.

  ‘Would it speed matters if the foreign ship were to fire on that headland?’ He indicated the chamber’s other window, which faced south east. ‘Just by way of a demonstration?’

  Through the stone frame carved with oak leaves and acorns, I saw a coastal view long familiar to me. Roman ruins on a headland, a mile or so away from the city itself; broken-off stout pillars rounded by centuries of rain and frost. I remember taking stolen bottles of wine up there with other slaves, resting on the sun-heated rock, watching lizards dart into crevices.

  ‘Even if it would, I do not permit the suggestion.’ King Rodrigo seated himself in the oak chair at the table’s head, taking his weight on his wrists like an old man. Even with the little time I had been gone, he seemed older to me.

  Or perhaps, until now, I have never entirely stopped seeing the man I saw at fifteen. When he bought and paid for me.

  Rodrigo Sanguerra studied me with an intent gaze.

  Cao!

  It sounded better in Chin.

  I realised a little late that the light from the windows clearly illuminated my face. The King nodded as if his suspicions were confirmed.

  ‘I think…yes. Ilario, if there is anything to be done here, the representative of New Alexandria and I will do it. You should return to the monstrous ship as soon as you can. If anything’s to be made out of this, we need not confuse people over who truly sired you!’

  I spoke before Rekhmire’ could interject.

  ‘Does it matter, sire? My father’s in prison, so no man will see us together. And no one will hear it from me
if you desire me to say nothing.’

  The King shot a look at me, clearly assessing.

  ‘Rosamunda was your dam, I don’t doubt it. But the Lion of Castile has left his imprint all over your face. If that story got out, every man would be calling Lord Videric a cuckold!’

  Rodrigo shook his head.

  ‘Bad enough that my boy-girl Court Fool should turn out to be First Minister Videric’s child! That was scandal enough! If word gets out that all Pirro Videric is to you is your mother’s husband…’

  He eased back in his chair, chin on fist again, watching me. I know this of old, I thought, relaxing a little. He doesn’t trust an Alexandrine, but me–me he desires to convince him.

  Rodrigo scowled. ‘After the accusations made by Carthage, Videric’s enemies here in my court can despise him for fathering a freak. With your true parentage known–they would laugh at my lord Videric because his wife had another man’s child. Nothing is harder to recover from than laughter.’

  Captain-General Honorius might resent being accused of fathering a freak, I thought. But the King would have spoken to my father, and would know that by now.

  He’s seeing if I can be goaded into unwise speech.

  ‘I need Aldra Pirro Videric back.’ Rodrigo’s voice was a bass growl. He switched his glare to Rekhmire’. ‘I don’t believe I need Queen Ty-ameny to tell me this!’

  Rekhmire’ bowed his head, where he sat on a less-decorated chair; much in the manner that I’d seen him do when being book-buyer to a difficult client. ‘It’s in the interests of New Alexandria to offer what assistance we can, Majesty. No one wants a war.’

  The King’s gaze shifted to that window which allowed a view south. ‘Carthage wants war. And I dare say Constantinople and Carthage will at some date contest the future of the Middle Sea–although I take it, from what you say, that this is not yet?’

  ‘The Great Queen fights to ensure it is not.’

  The late morning haze had burned off the sea. At the window’s edge, it was just possible to see Zheng He’s impossibly large ship.

  The King looked back towards me.

  ‘You bring me a cause. Not a sufficient one to carry it through.’

  My stomach plummeted.

  Rodrigo Sanguerra shifted his gaze rapidly to Rekhmire’. ‘So. What else have you to suggest?’

  Refreshments were brought in from time to time, and I noted how certain faces appeared again and again among the servants. Like Safrac de Aguilar, who kept the door, men that King Rodrigo could trust not to spread rumours. When I excused myself to the necessary-room, I investigated long enough to find Attila and Tottola in an antechamber, boasting to the King’s household guards.

  I stopped long enough to arrange food and drink for them, and to comprehend that–however outrageous their stories–they were not touching on the truth.

  ‘I hope you’re getting somewhere in there,’ Tottola grumbled. ‘St Gaius himself would be bored with this!’

  Somewhat out of temper myself, I shook my head. ‘They might just as well have sent us back to the ship. If things don’t change, I’ll put a dress on and have a fit of female hysterics!’

  That left the German brothers chuckling.

  When Rekhmire’ and the King began to circle the discussion of royal and clerical legalities for the third time, I gave in to temptation and pulled a folded sheet of paper out of my leather purse. Smoothing it out on my thigh, I began partial studies with a nub of chalk. The woollen hose were warm for summer, and the mail–where the links sucked on to my torso–breath-snatchingly hot. My knight’s training is long enough ago that I had forgotten the breathlessness of wearing any armour in hot weather.

  The interwoven strands of linen and reed that made up Rekhmire’’s headband provided an interesting challenge to draw. I added the curve of his brow-ridge under it, the kohl-marked line of upper and lower eyelid; sketched the shape of his mouth…

  Is Rekhmire’ waiting until the King has talked himself dry before he introduces some idea of his own? Or have they already talked that through, and is he at a loss?

  Talk dragged on for another quarter-hour by the King’s water clock. I switched to drawing Rodrigo’s hands.

  The King’s voice broke in on my thoughts. ‘Well, it is a curious idea…’

  Glancing up, I found myself the focus of looks from King Rodrigo and the Egyptian.

  My hands were out of sight under the table. Or I hoped so. No matter how well-drawn, a study of a man’s hands is unlikely to be well received as the reason why I have no idea what has been suggested.

  King Rodrigo lifted his chin from his fist and eased back in the oak chair. He looked at me speculatively. ‘Would you consider it?’

  I shot a glance which the book-buyer seemed accurately to read as Help! The envoy of the Pharaoh-Queen stretched his leg out under the oak table, flinching barely perceptibly. ‘Perhaps I could explain to you in more detail, Ilario?’

  There was an odd glint in his dark eyes. Yes: I know: I should have drawn less, and paid more attention! But between the crucial decisions here, which may affect all my life, and Honorius in prison in another part of the palace, is it any wonder I desire only to lose myself in contour and value?

  Rekhmire’s large hand gestured towards the window. ‘Let us agree that Admiral Zheng He’s appearance at Taraco begins to be a cause for the recall of Lord Videric, but is not sufficient cause.’

  The Egyptian switched his gaze to me.

  ‘Last year’s scandal that deposed Videric from his position of first minister was an accusation of attempted murder. That he sent his wife, in fact, to murder you–you until then not known to be Videric and Rosamunda’s child. And Carthage took this attempted killing badly.’

  Rekhmire’ kept a perfectly even expression during his last words.

  Had I been closer, I would have kicked his ankle under the table, injured knee or not.

  ‘And?’ I prompted, robbed of anxiety by minor irritation. Which, I realised, is likely his design.

  ‘And…’ Rekhmire’ glanced at Rodrigo. ‘His Majesty agrees that if the scandal was between Videric and you–then any cure for that scandal must also be between Videric and you.’

  Did this arise out of your discussion? I wondered. Some moment I was lost in drawing? Or is this something you concocted aboard ship, and failed to tell me?

  I found myself chilled, despite the sun in the room.

  ‘It must be assumed that you and Aldra Videric are father and child.’ Rekhmire’ directed his dark gaze at me, like a shock of cold water. ‘Obviously this would involve some degree of untruth.’

  ‘You mean I have to lie.’

  I had not expected to hear myself sound so bitter. This can’t be unexpected, after all.

  Rekhmire’ spoke with the greatest apparent innocence. ‘Call it diplomacy.’

  The humour–which I doubted any man might read there except for me–faded from the Egyptian’s eyes as I failed to respond.

  ‘Continue,’ King Rodrigo murmured.

  ‘If it were publicly supposed that there had been a mistake.’

  Rekhmire’ emphasised the final word softly.

  ‘If it were discovered that Carthage had been in error, and Lord Videric is not responsible for attempted murder. Then that discovery–in addition to negotiating friendly relations with Zheng He–might suffice as a pretext for reappointing him as Taraco’s First Minister.’

  King Rodrigo grunted. I know that rumble of old. ‘Don’t try my patience.’ I slid the paper in my lap well out of sight.

  I asked, ‘How would this happen?’

  Rekhmire’’s eyes sought the King’s, with a brief look at me that might have been apology. ‘I had thought–some kind of public ceremony of reconciliation?’

  I tasted the word in my mind. Reconciliation.

  Reconciliation between me and Aldra Videric.

  Pah!

  The book-buyer continued. ‘If Lord Videric and Aldro Rosamunda are greeted
, on their return to Taraco, with every mark of friendship from their son-daughter Ilario…Majesty, might not your court assume the King-Caliph and Carthage’s Lord-Amirs must be in error?’

  Rodrigo Sanguerra blinked like one of the lizards that haunt ancient stone ruins. ‘It would need to appear more than friendship.’

  Rekhmire’ rested his hands on the table before him, fingertips pressed together. I recognised his stance when closing a deal with some scroll-owner. Yes, he thought this through on Zheng He’s ship—

  Delicately, the Alexandrine spy suggested, ‘Some formal ceremony, perhaps?’

  The King nodded, thoughtfully. ‘Some ceremony. Some formal reconciliation…In the cathedral, perhaps? Archbishop Cunigast could oversee it. Enough pageantry, enough piety, and a show of pardon…Yes!’ Energised, Rodrigo Sanguerra sat upright in his chair. ‘Yes: if only because my people greatly desire a reason to think that the King-Caliph was mistaken, and should therefore have kept his nose out of our business!’

  I saw the shape of it in my mind. Lie and pretend. I braced myself and spoke. ‘Your Majesty, yes. Provisionally, I would agree to that.’

  Rodrigo snapped his fingers.

  Servants entered the room, pouring wine and water again for the three of us. The glasses they brought were delicate blue, with double helixes of red and yellow glass in the stem.

  Kek and Keket and Rekhmire’’s Holy Eight! Put my father in prison, and then confiscate his export glass!

  Light glimmered from my Venetian glass to the tabletop, casting twisted ellipses of light. I lifted it, tilting it in an ironic toast to King Rodrigo. He returned the gesture, his expression closed.

  The empty spaces of the cathedral in Taraco have always impressed me. Any noise louder than a whisper echoes from the inside of the vast dome, ivory in colour, featureless as an egg; stark in contrast to the gold, ruby, emerald, and sapphire work encrusting the altars and chapels below. Full of the court and citizens of Taraco, a stunning spectacle; the midday sun falling clear down onto the main altar below.

  I thought of standing there. Of Videric’s face. Of Rosamunda.

  ‘Wait—’

  Rekhmire’ and the King were talking: I broke into their relaxed speech more harshly than I meant.