Ilario, the Stone Golem (62 page)

steering her to sit down. He began to speak quietly to her.

Orazi stationed Berenguer at the door, he himself leaning on the

windowsill. A jerk of his head summoned Carrasco.

There is a choice between security and privacy. The Armenian

sergeant will give as much of the latter as he safely can.

Marcomir put his finger next to Onorata’s hand, and examined the

nails. Hers were identical to his, but so very small.

‘Got into trouble about selling you, Ilario,’ he murmured, quietly

enough that Onorata rummaged herself back into a light doze, leaning

against me.

‘You did?’ I stroked her cheek. Fed and changed and allowed to sleep

– but for not too long – would usually mean she woke now in a good

temper.

‘Spoke to One-Eye, like she said.’

He jerked his head, indicating Donata, who stood to pour more wine

for Honorius.

‘Few weeks later, my boss down at the Hall, he calls me in. He says it

doesn’t look good if merchants and visitors to Carthage vanish. Not a

hard slap on the wrist, but . . . the customs job keeps us. So I said no, of

course not, wouldn’t happen again. Even if it meant things would be a bit

tight.’

He
does
think
I
intend
to
ask
him
for
money.

Onorata screwed up nose and eyes and yawned.

Marcomir shook his head in wonder. He grinned up at me suddenly,

and sat back.

‘I
said
we were doing people favours! Look at you. One-Eye said your

owner was a hard son of a bitch when it came to a bargain, even if he was

good-looking. But I guess you got away from him?’

I deliberately refused to look in Rekhmire’’s direction. ‘My master

freed me.’

Marcomir thrust a hand through his hair again. ‘What do you want

from me?’

I registered Donata’s quick frown.

Donata stayed alert to her son’s reactions, even though she was deep

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in conversation with my father. I wondered briefly how much Onorata

might take after her, in the future; this . . . grandmother.

As much as Rosamunda is, Donata is Onorata’s grandmother.

I pictured the queen of the Court of Ladies and Donata in the same

room – or rather, failed to picture it.

‘I can’t keep a child on my wages.’ Marcomir opened a long-fingered

hand in my direction. ‘But you’re dressed well enough, and so’s the babe,

and you’re free, so I suppose that’s not what you want anyway. Is she

truly mine?’

‘You don’t remember?’

The light from the clay lamp gave everything a golden cast,

transmuting his flush from something pink by sunlight into something

bruise-coloured.

‘I follow in the Roman tradition,’ he said, standing on his dignity. ‘A

boy or an older man, for true companionship. And a woman for

marriage one day, I suppose we must have . . . with what you are . . . ’ He

shrugged again. ‘It’s not like I intended to – to—’

‘That’s my father over there: spare me the detailed explanations!’

The Carthaginian customs officer looked over at the retired Captain-

General of the House of Trastamara.

Marcomir turned quickly back to me, being unfamiliar with that

particular poker-face that in Honorius indicates the holding back of a

belly-laugh.

‘If it’s not money,’ Marcomir persisted, ‘then what is it you want?
Oh
.

I understand. You want Carthaginian citizenship for her! Through her

father.’

We
have
had
this
conversation
before!

Perceiving Honorius about to fume and swear, I said, ‘No citizenship.

That’s not the issue.’

Marcomir’s black eyes glinted in the light from the lamps. Bent over,

Onorata evidently had him fascinated. He shook his head.

‘I’d never thought of being a father!’ He suddenly sat up. ‘You’re a

hermaphrodite: are you sure you didn’t do it yourself?’

Berenguer’s jaw dropped. Orazi muttered at him, under his breath:

‘That one was worthy of you!’

It startled me that I liked Marcomir’s appalling honesty.

At least he acknowledges openly what I am.

I snorted. ‘I’m a hermaphrodite, not a contortionist!’

I was suddenly faced by the backs of three brigandines: Orazi’s

shoulders shaking, and Berenguer evidently not daring to look at his

Captain-General.

Marcomir only looked bewildered. ‘Why did you bring her, then? Can

I – can I hold her?’

‘Sit closer to me.’

His thigh was warm against mine; I could feel the tension of his

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muscles. I eased Onorata from my lap to his, keeping my hands curved

around her hip and the back of her head until she was safely settled.

Catching his glance, I explained, ‘Not all men know how to handle

babies.’

I did not add what would have been true:
I
learned
most
of
what
I
know
from
a
failed
assassin
and
a
squad
of
soldiers
.
.
.

Marcomir held the sleeping form of my child.

I remember his long fingers, and his cool hands.

I remember the conception of this child.

Outside this room, I had seen narrow steps. They would lead to an

upstairs room: Marcomir’s clothes tossed absently on the floor. Blankets

of striped wool spread over a truckle bed too small for two, but possible

when one sleeps intertwined, knee socketing home behind knee; buttocks

tucked into crotch . . .

I
miss
the
warmth
of
sleeping
with
someone
else.

In Taraco, I had a bed to myself in the hermit’s cell; that was different

to sleeping in a bundle with Rodrigo Sanguerra’s other slaves. Sleeping

communally has its disadvantages – not least any other slaves attempting

what Marcomir and I had engaged in while not properly awake. But it

has its comforts too.

I flushed and looked away, seeking the window for light, but finding

only the brown darkness of the Penitence.

Because when I imagine the warmth of a body next to my skin, I don’t

think of Marcomir now. Or Sulva. Or Leon Battista; or even Ty-ameny,

beautiful as the small woman is.

After some considerable reflection, I don’t think of Ramiro Carrasco,

either.

Marcomir stroked Onorata’s temple very lightly. I wondered how long

before she would wake up, cry for the brightly-dyed wooden blocks that

Tottola had carved as toys for her, demand feeding, and in general cease

to look like a sculpted angel in a chapel.

I felt a little shy. ‘I thought you would want to know about her.’

‘I’m glad I know.’

More clumsily, but with a willingness to be gentle, Marcomir guided

her sleep-limp body back into my lap.

‘I can’t take her. Even if she was a son, I couldn’t.’

I winced.

Harsher than I otherwise would have been, I snapped, ‘I don’t want

you to!’

Donata sprang up. She bustled over to where we sat, and peered down

into Onorata’s pink, creased face. ‘Just as well you got free of that

Egyptian who bought you – he would have drowned her for you like a

kitten!’

Caught between wanting to cry with laughter, and merely wanting to

cry, I only shook my head.

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‘Oh, he would. And men are always happy if a girl or a cripple goes to

the tophet.’ The shadow of some old bitterness crossed her face. She

seated herself on the other side of her son, leaning in to look at Onorata.

‘Is she all right?’

‘As much as we can know.’

As much as the Alexandrine physicians can swear to.

Donata reached out to touch Onorata’s cheek. ‘I know we didn’t treat

you too well when you were here last. If there’s anything we can do . . . ’

Without looking at Honorius, I said, ‘I think a father, a good father, is

one of the best things a child can have. If she had his friendship, that would be all I would ask.’

I found myself looking at the top of Marcomir’s head as he gazed

down at Onorata’s black lashes, and the fingers of her clenched fist.

Hesitantly, he put his hand over her hand, hiding half her arm in the

shadow of his fingers.

It came to me that a man who works for the city’s customs is probably

used to looking keenly at things. Marcomir’s examination of her might

show him resemblances that I couldn’t see.

Honorius’s deep voice said, ‘There’ll be a place you can send word to.

You can see her if you want to.’

It was Donata who said, ‘Thank you,’ in a creakingly graceless voice

that was moving in its honesty.

Marcomir’s finger absently brushed Onorata’s forehead, and she

opened blue eyes.

He stopped.

I saw they were looking at each other.

He moved his finger, watched her gaze follow it, and smiled at her.

‘If the worst happens,’ I said abruptly. ‘If I and all my family die and

she’s left alone, I want her to have a father.’

Marcomir’s head came up. I saw in his eyes that expectation of

poverty, disease, accident, and war that slaves and poor men have.

Wealth protects. But even then, not wholly.

His smile slipped slowly away. ‘I couldn’t pay for her keep.’

‘Could you let her die of hunger?’

‘I – no; I could not.’

A knock sounded on the room door. Donata glared, and went to the

door, opening it a crack, and beginning a long and rambling quarrel with

a man clearly a tenant.

Marcomir spoke under their rapid argument. ‘It wouldn’t be any use

sending her to me. Mother’s old. In a few years I’ll be keeping both of us.

There isn’t money or room for a child as well.’

‘I don’t doubt you.’

‘Wait . . . ’ The Carthaginian glanced around, momentarily frowning.

He got up and went to a small tin chest, pushed back on the highest

niche by the shelves.

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He lifted something out of it and came back to me.

I thought for a moment it was a pair of wax tablets, the two wooden

shutters clapped together. But it was small, no larger than the palm of my

hand, and the wooden shutters opened out from the centre. I had both

hands busy with Onorata. Marcomir folded the shutters back.

‘Look.’ He cupped it in his hands. ‘This isn’t much, but, I don’t know,

maybe you could sell it, buy her something nice with the money?’

The tiny portrait of a girl’s head had been cut from a much larger

work, clearly, and glued onto the wooden backing. Or it might have been

an androgynous young man: the halo backing the head and the rich

trappings on the clothes could indicate a saint or angel.

‘Thought it was real gold, when I saw it – gold leaf?’ Marcomir’s

forefinger traced the line of the halo, and the gold embroidery on the

front of the robe. ‘But someone’s just painted it to look like gold.’

He sounded more than a little disgusted.

Donata slammed the door on the argument from outside, with a curt

dismissal. She stomped back across the room, shot a glance at what was

in Marcomir’s hands, and folded her lips together severely.

‘I’ll take it!’ I said hastily. ‘I’ll tell her it was her father’s gift.’

Marcomir nodded, with a smile.

Onorata made a small querulous sound, swiping her open hand at

him. I had no time to point out that she missed holding onto his finger.

The signs of storm began to show: she screwed up her eyes, and began to

square her mouth and grizzle.

‘I should take her back to the ship.’ I jiggled her on my knee, easier to

do now that she could hold her head up, but she wasn’t mollified. The

grizzle turned into a full-throated bawl, and began to work up to a

scream.

At these moments, I look around for someone to hand her back to.

Honorius only smiled at me.

I freed one hand to take the tiny shuttered portrait, slipped it inside my

robe, and mouthed emphatically to Marcomir over Onorata’s open-

mouthed yelling. ‘Remember, she’s your daughter! You can always see

her, when it’s possible—’

‘I’m sorry we sold you!’ he blurted out. ‘Can you forgive me, like you

have the assassin?’

Onorata chose that moment to hiccup and draw breath, producing as