Ilario, the Stone Golem (59 page)

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 dark 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.