by Mary Gentle
That he could put names and legionary insignia to these fears didn’t surprise me, but added to the knot in my stomach.
‘Under guise of protecting us against the Franks, you understand.’ Honorius looked quickly away from Onorata, as if some other memory had filled his mind. He walked to the window. ‘You don’t want to see what happens in Aragon and Leon and Castile happening here.’
The window-ledge might be several feet wide, but I was relieved he did not sit Onorata down on it, there being no bars. I leaned my elbows on cool stone and stared down.
‘You think I ought to do this.’
‘Because I can think of nothing else!’
The diminishing perspective looking directly down the castle’s wall made me dizzy. I resolved to draw it some day, and lifted my head. Just visible over the castle’s outer walls, grassy slopes lay speckled yellow like lizards under the heat. All Taraco’s white houses and colonnades were busy with men and traffic, before they would become deserted under the noon sun. Ochre earth and lapis-blue haze in the distance…
‘You think I should lie and beg Videric’s pardon in public!’
‘If you or the Egyptian have a better idea, I’ll hear it!’
Onorata began to grizzle.
I shushed her, gently, and Honorius jiggled her a very little, giving her one of the gloves from his belt to chew on. She gummed enthusiastically and wetly at the fingers of it.
‘Revolting child,’ my father observed besottedly.
I caught Carrasco’s voice in the kitchens, evidently in conversation with Berenguer.
‘Ask Videric’s assassin,’ I said. ‘He’s under threat, and his family too. He’d drown men like kittens in a bucket if it kept his mother and father and brothers safe and I know how he feels!’
With considerable asperity, Honorius snapped, ‘I am fifty years old: I have fought in all the major fields of the last thirty years of the Crusades; I can take care of myself!’
‘And Onorata? Can she?’
I let Onorata grip my thumb. She smiled at me, or I thought she did.
Honorius made a sound I couldn’t identify, and when I looked at him, he merely hitched her in his arms again, and carried her back to the rug, and set her down on it.
He sounded exasperated, even in a whisper.
‘We need Videric back as the King’s minister! This is what we came here for! We came here to have that bastard Videric owe us his job.’
He didn’t take his eyes from the baby, even as he growled at me.
‘I won’t tell you to risk Onorata, you know that! But this is a dangerous world, there are thieves and pirates out there who aren’t Videric’s hired killers. We need to be prepared to protect her in any case. As for me…Ilario, I won’t allow you to make an excuse out of me.’
The prison appartments rang with the sudden silence.
I felt heat rising in my face.
Because my father, it seems, is undergoing a formal imprisonment by King Rodrigo Sanguerra that–despite its purely political nature–is at some level a profound humiliation for Licinus Honorius. And Honorius suffers it because he wants the country secure.
‘Perhaps I need no excuse,’ I said. ‘You’ll be able to live in Taraco. If I do this, I doubt Onorata and I will–because Videric will insist that I leave.’
‘Would you not seek an apprenticeship with a master painter somewhere, in any case?’ Honorius shrugged, with every appearance of being casual. ‘A lot may change in seven years.’
Yes, and my father is a fifty-year-old man: at the end of seven years, he may not be alive.
The day passed: twenty-four hours going by in not much more than a century or two. True to his word, Rodrigo Sanguerra came to my rooms privately, hooded in a linen cloak against discovery; and true to his word, he got down on his knees on the floor.
If anything it was the more excruciatingly embarrassing this second time, when we both knew what would happen.
When I failed to persuade him to stand up–and only just managed to reject the idea of hauling him up bodily–I sat down on my arse beside my King, on the bare floorboards, and put my head in my hands.
‘I’ve been round this trail over and over, sire. Yes: I’ll look a fool. I’ll be branded a coward and a weakling. And…I’ll be putting my family at the mercy of a man who wants me dead. I no longer know which is the most essential matter; which might be an excuse for any other. I can’t think it through! I just know there are too many reasons why I shouldn’t do this.’
King Rodrigo rested his hands on his thighs, sitting back on his heels, and then reached out to take hold of my jaw and turn me to face him.
‘King’s Freak,’ he said softly, and then: ‘The King begs you. I beg you.’
‘Don’t!’
‘Don’t make me, then.’ His crooked smile was the same one that had always signalled a paternal warmth between us, in those rare moments that we had left position and power out of the equation.
I said, ‘You’ve seen my baby.’
His smile flashed in his beard. ‘The miraculous child! Yes. Although I suppose they all are. Any miracle that common will tend to be discounted.’
If I gave him a jaundiced look, he took it well.
I said, ‘You want me to think about the children in Taraconensis if war comes.’
He gave a shrug, with bulky shoulders; and winced at kneeling on the hard wood. ‘Of course. I want you to think about anything that speaks to my side of the argument!’
I might prove my own case, of what truly happened–but that wouldn’t help bring Aldra Videric back as your adviser…
I sat with my elbows on my knees, and thrust my fingers through my hair
It would begin to prove the true story if I used Ramiro Carrasco de Luis as a witness. The confused emotions of guilt, gratitude, hatred, and attraction that he felt towards his hermaphrodite rescuer would make him speak.
I might make King Rodrigo believe in the extent of Videric’s guilt.
But I should not seek to do that. Since he needs to retain that shred of trust to work with the man.
‘Do I have to swallow the “forgiveness” of a man who sent people after me to kill me?’
The King of Taraconensis gave me the quirk-lipped look that I have known as long as I have known him. ‘Ilario, I assure you, abasement becomes quite natural after a while…’
‘It does?’
‘No.’
I couldn’t have painted Rodrigo’s expression; the gleam in his dark eyes that was amusement, grief, anger, and self-mockery; all together.
‘No,’ Rodrigo Sanguerra repeated. ‘And you’re not my enemy. In fact, you bear a surprisingly small grudge against your King. I don’t envy you on your knees before a man who hates you. But…’
He put one hand down, to begin to rise; I leapt up and offered hand and arm.
‘You’re wrong about the grudge, sire.’
‘Am I?’
‘All that’s in the past. I can’t carry it now.’
‘Ah.’ He made fists of his hands as he stood there, stretched his arms out, and I heard tendons and ligaments crack. ‘I think I’m wearing you down. If I come tomorrow, who knows what you’ll say?’
If there was an hour during the night when I slept, I didn’t know about it.
The water clock marked what would have been watches on Frankish and Iberian ships, and were hours of prayer here. After a while I got up and dressed, and, when the time came, fed Onorata with the warm goat’s milk that Ramiro Carrasco deftly obtained.
If we had both been slaves, I would have teased him with how a lawyer felt about being skilled in milking goats. As it was, I left him to resume his sleep.
Onorata rarely woke more than once in the night, now. I almost regretted that, leaning at the window and watching moonlight mimic the earlier sun on distant crawling waves. I could have done with somewhat to keep me occupied.
In all honesty, had it been a night in Carthage or Rome or Venice, I would have contriv
ed some accident to wake up Rekhmire’, just so that I could talk to the Egyptian.
I squinted out at the black featureless immensity that was the land-mass of Taraco. Wondering how long the mules would take to Aldra Videric’s estates, and how riding was treating his knee.
It’s possible to become surprisingly accustomed to someone’s company, I concluded, and went back to wrestle with Iberian wolf-skin bed-covers, and lay awake until dawn.
Honorius liking Onorata’s company, and I not knowing how long I would be here for him to have it, I spent more time in the prison than in my own quarters.
I sat on the wide ledge, one leg hanging down inside the room. From this acute angle, I might just see the sea in the north-east. Sun flashed like hammered gold. From this high citadel I could watch Zheng He’s ship tacking slowly up and down the coast–showing its sheer dimensions off to Taraconensis’ smaller towns, and bringing their knights and mayors hot-foot to Taraco and the King’s presence.
Rodrigo Sanguerra had abandoned kneeling, and that morning had sat with me in my rooms with an air of relaxation. As if, despite what he must attempt to persuade me into, this time was a pleasant relief from court politics.
Now I recall why he kept his hermaphrodite slave…
Where the sun fell on the sea, it was bright enough to make eyes sting and water.
King Rodrigo had said, Panic is spreading very well. Up here, it’s too high to see what men and women do when the dragon-painted ship threatens them; too far off to hear screams, or shouts of anger, or see whether any man is hurt.
I pushed myself back into the room, off the sill, and leaned on the back of the settle, watching with Honorius as Onorata tugged at the wolf’s pelt. She might have been wriggling forward on her belly, or only wriggling by accident.
‘This plan of the King’s,’ I began.
The door of the prison opened; royal guards strode in, Rodrigo Sanguerra behind them. Honorius sprang to his feet. I crouched to pick up Onorata, and put her into Saverico’s arms, the young ensign being nearest me.
Honorius nodded and Carrasco and the three men-at-arms retired to the kitchens. He bowed his head to his King. ‘Majesty?’
Rodrigo Sanguerra waved a hand to dismiss his escort. They filed out. Absently, he seated himself on the oak settle, gesturing that we might sit too if we so chose.
‘You have knowledge of the Alexandrine envoy,’ he observed. ‘I thought I might therefore ask you questions, confidentially.’
‘What?’ I managed intelligently.
The King ignored me, passing a sheet of parchment to Honorius.
‘Is this in his own hand?’
‘His scribe would know better.’ Honorius held it out to me.
It was signed Rekhmire’ and a Pharaonic pictogram, as he had signed letters he had had me write.
I read it out. ‘“I find it compelling to stay with the Aldra Videric at his estate for some time longer. Perhaps a week or a month. His hospitality is overwhelming, and he desires me to stay for the hunting.”’
‘Is it genuine?’ Rodrigo demanded impatiently.
Compelling. Overwhelming.
‘Yes. He wrote it, Majesty. But…’ I tried to catch Honorius’s eye.
Noblemen die of hunting accidents, horses and beasts are dangerous pastimes. But they die also of conspiracy or ambush and are reported as ‘hunting accidents’. I saw Honorius recognised my thought.
He frowned. ‘It could be true. The damned book-buyer–sorry, Majesty; I mean Master Rekhmire’. He might have decided he needs time enough there to persuade Lord Videric into seeing things his way…’
The words trailed off into the heated air of the chamber.
The King raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘Ilario?’
My hands clenched into fists. ‘Yes, it’s possible–but also possible it’s a flat lie! I think–Videric has decided to hold the Alexandrine envoy as a hostage.’
The King looked very close to startled. ‘No. No, I think not. The Videric that I know is not a fool! If Master Rekhmire’ has conveyed what we do here, Pirro must think he has only to wait for me to recall him. He would also know that Taraconensis can’t afford to harm the representative of Queen Ty-ameny.’
I took several steps, pacing about the room, arms wrapped around my body. For all the heat, I was cold.
‘Alexandria would only hear it was a hunting accident. Impossible to prove it wasn’t.’
‘Ilario, really—’ King Rodrigo sighed, as I have known him sigh before. ‘You allow your fear and hatred to distort your judgement. My lord Videric is not fool enough to allow harm to come to the Egyptian.’
Insight hit me as if it were a bolt from a crossbow.
I all but bit my tongue as the realisation struck.
‘No.’ I stepped forward, putting my hand on Honorius’s shoulder, willing him to understand. ‘No, that’s right. I am misjudging him. Videric’s not that stupid.’
‘Then—’
‘Rosamunda is.’
9
The King scowled, but I ignored him; aware I was gripping Honorius’s shoulder hard enough that my fingers must hurt. He would have bruises. I felt as if I needed to urge the clarity of this truth into his body and blood.
My father frowned.
Thinking of…his Rosamunda? The woman who would have run away from her husband, until she was offered a choice between material comfort and my father’s love?
The woman who twice, in Taraco and in Carthage, came close to killing her son-daughter?
Honorius’s frown deepened. ‘It’s not in Aldro Rosamunda’s interests to harm the book-buyer. She’ll want her husband made First Minister again.’
‘She won’t think that far!’
The house of Hanno Anagastes came back to me: Rosamunda’s expression behind her frozen eyes.
‘Rekhmire’ ruined her. You didn’t see her face in Carthage!’
The frown became a scowl. Honorius absently reached up and peeled my fingers from the ball of his shoulder, and gripped my hand in his. ‘She’d end up the wife of an exile if she did this. Or Videric would divorce her!’
‘Rosamunda has a queue of rich and powerful men who’d marry her on the spot if she were divorced by Videric—’
Abruptly, I was silenced by the look that flashed across his face.
No way to apologise in front of King Rodrigo without enabling him to guess why Honorius would need an apology.
King Rodrigo slowly nodded. ‘The Queen of the Court of Ladies? Yes…There are always men willing to take beauty and ignore the reputation that comes with it. Can you think Aldro Rosamunda honestly possessed of such a hatred against the Alexandrine—’
I interrupted a king. ‘Can you ask me to bet Rekhmire’’s life on the chance that she’s more greedy than she is vindictive?’
I let go of Honorius’s hands and glared at Rodrigo Sanguerra.
‘Majesty, how soon can you talk to the bishops?’
King Rodrigo blinked, caught for once wrong-footed. ‘The bishops?’
‘This ceremony–reconciliation–apology–“ceremony of peace”–penitence. Whatever you call it! How soon can it be arranged? How long will it take to summon Aldra Videric and get the bishops into the cathedral? Let’s get this started before that lunatic woman does something to harm Rekhmire’!’
The King of Taraco looked at blankly at the Captain-General of Leon and Castile. My father smiled.
I found my face heating. I rubbed my hands across my cheeks.
More cautiously, Honorius inquired, ‘Ilario…You do know what this involves?’
‘Yes. I’m happy to eat dirt as publicly as required! Satisfied?’
A broad grin spread over Honorius’s face, despite his evident best efforts to suppress it.
Rodrigo looked self-possessed; I couldn’t read what else might be hiding under that efficient expression. ‘Very well. The King’s household guard may accompany the return message to Aldra Videric–in what strength would you suggest, Ilario?’
‘I want him protected. Well protected.’
‘Wise.’ King Rodrigo stood, dropped a curt nod at Honorius and strode towards the door, barely waiting for us to rise. ‘I’ll send a full company. The more of the King’s Guard, the more honour, after all.’
He broke out into a smile just before the door shut on his heels.
Honorius looked at me.
He said nothing.
‘What!’ I protested.
The retired Captain-General of Castile and Leon glanced over his shoulder at Saverico, as the men-at-arms came back into the room, and gestured for the young ensign to bring him Onorata.
Hefting the child into his arms, Honorius murmured, ‘Taken you long enough to realise…’
Orazi smirked.
I swore. ‘I’m not–I don’t–there isn’t–cao!’
Honorius pulled me into an embrace gentle only because of the child he also held.
‘Rosamunda won’t cause his death–because the damn book-buyer isn’t stupid. Don’t worry for him. Do what you have to do, Ilario. And I’ll stand with you, if I have to disguise myself with a sack over my head!’
I spluttered out an uncertain laugh.
‘That’s better.’ Honorius put one hand on the nape of my neck and shook me gently. ‘I swear, in all my years as a soldier, I’ve learned how to tell rash men and fools from the rest–and Rekhmire’ is neither.’
He paused. Smiled.
‘Your judgement isn’t so bad, son-daughter.’
There was no sensible reply to make, I thought.
And Honorius’s grip felt surprisingly reassuring, even if his conclusions were self-evidently mistaken.
‘Let’s get this over with,’ I said.
The initial part of the ceremony took three days.
If something excruciatingly humiliating can be boring, I thought, this is.
On the first day I knelt outside the church door as one of the flentes, those who weep; dressed only in a shirt, and formally asking the men and woman who went in to Mass to pray for me, and to intercede with God on my behalf. On the second day I was allowed into the narthex of the cathedral as one of the audientes, the hearers, and knelt on the cold mosaic floor behind the catechumens until the end of the sermon–not listening very much to what Bishop Ermanaric said, in fact, but lost in the sensation of chill stone under my shins, and trying to work out (in the slanting light from the ogee windows) what were the differences between these pale stones and the glass mosaics of Venice and Constantinople.
