The Pop’s Rhinoceros (73 page)

“You are Don Antonio, are you not?” the man said then.

Seròn acknowledged that he was, feeling faintly aggrieved at the fellow’s imposition.

“You will have received the message, then.”

“Message? From whom?”

“The villain!” the fellow exclaimed then, and he explained the sweeper’s error. “We are dressed somewhat alike, I’ll admit, but I made the rogue swear he’d track you down once I’d convinced him that I was not your good self. Lucky I spotted you, though it seems you’re going there anyway.”

“Where?” asked Seròn, a little confused. The fellow’s manners seemed strangely abrupt, well-dressed though he was.

“The sail-loft. One of your men is waiting for you there. That was the message. Sylvester, or Alessandro, or …”

“Salvestro,” said Seròn.

“That’s the chap!” said the other.

“And how did you know who I was?” Seròn went on, increasingly suspicious of this helpful stranger.

“How many people in Ostia dress as well as we?” he answered amiably. “You and I, we’re two of a kind. We stand out like—”

He broke off in mid-sentence then, for Seròn had halted in his tracks.

“Perhaps you take me for a fool,” Seròn addressed the man boldly. “I will ask again: How do you know me? What is your business here?”

The man hung his head, and for a moment he seemed at a loss. “You have me,” he said, then paused as though gathering his nerve. When he resumed he spoke quickly, as though the secretary’s patience might run out at any moment. “I was sent here by His Holiness to observe … to spy on you, in a manner of speaking, just as you suspect. His Holiness likes surprises, but detests being surprised. … You might have arranged singers, or some other diversion. In such an instance, His Holiness would wish to prepare expressions of delight or amusement as befits the situation. The townspeople here were of a mind to put on a masque, as another instance. I put a stop to that. Do you follow?” Seròn nodded curtly. “Of course you do,” the man went on hurriedly. He seemed flustered, embarrassed at his own frankness. “I am here to learn what is to be learned, a vanguard master of ceremonies, if you like.” He looked up. “An inexcusable deception. I can only offer you my apologies.”

Seròn indicated his acceptance with a nod, and they walked a few more paces in awkward silence. The sail-loft came into view.

“You have business here?” he asked the man.

“Business of my own,” the fellow said amiably. “I had hoped to finish it in Rome, but…” Then he pulled himself up short. “Perhaps my company is burdensome. I would quite understand if—”

“Not at all!” Seròn protested. The man’s contrition and humility buoyed him up. In a rush of goodwill, he decided that they should introduce one another.
“I am Don Antonio Seròn, secretary to the Orator of Fernando the Catholic, King of Aragon and Castile.” He made a little bow. “Now, pray tell me, sir, who are you?”

“Rufo,” said the man. They were standing outside the door. “And now I would like to make amends for my deception. …”

Seròn tried to laugh off the suggestion, but this Rufo was adamant and persuasive, almost insistent, and in the end he complied, removing his squeaking shoes, first the left, taking Rufo’s profferred hand to balance himself, then the right, wobbling a little, an awkward, incredulous stork as the man explained, “Believe it or not, Don Antonio, the instrument for this particular secret of the cobbler’s art is the object here in my hand. If you have ever seen the men being shaved by the barbers of Navona, or a suckling pig dressed for Easter, you will understand my meaning now.” His tone was affable, as before.

Seròn looked up in puzzlement.

“An apple, my friend,” said Rufo, presenting it to the secretary’s mouth. “Take a bite.”

His puzzlement turned to bewilderment, and in instant later he would have cried out; but Rufo’s hand forced the fruit between his jaws and, swiftly following that, the pommel of Rufo’s sword descended and knocked him senseless.

“Oh, he is good,” Don Diego murmured in grim admiration.

Don Antonio’s eyes stared past the two men, his neck twisted strangely and his face distorted. Diego’s sword had pierced his victim’s back a little below the shoulder blade, the steel continuing diagonally and down through the rib cage to emerge again at the waist. Blood flowed freely from both wounds. A wide pool of it spread quickly across the floor. The apple lodged in his mouth held Don Antonio’s jaws apart and pulled the skin tight over his cheekbones. He had been tied hand and foot. Salvestro noticed that he wore no shoes.

His fear became shock then, a strange light-headedness. Diego turned to him, the blood already drying on his sword. The soldier wiped it clean on a strip of canvas. The blade shone dully once again.

“Stand up.”

Salvestro looked about halfheartedly, already knowing there was nowhere else to run. There seemed little point in obeying, so he remained sitting, waiting for what would follow. Diego’s hand gripped him by the collar of his doublet and hauled him upright. His legs felt slack and unsteady. He twisted away, oddly irritable and nauseated, still waiting. Diego addressed him sharply, sheathing his sword, already moving toward the door.

“If I had the intention to kill you, you would already be dead. Now gather your wits, if you have any. There is very little time.”

The catchers had begun by stationing themselves a round ten paces away, but that had quickly proved inadequate as Stoberin went sailing over their heads to
land heavily in the dust a little way short of the door. They had retreated, then retreated again, and finally found themselves outside the warehouse altogether, arms linked, eyes trained on the giant inside as he readied himself for the next launch. The dwarfs rotated busily between being thrown, being caught, and catching their fellows. The giant was tireless, his delivery smooth, and clearly he was enjoying himself hugely. Above all, however, he was accurate.

“Wheee-eee
. … Oof!”

That was the General, who had spotted Bernardo first as the big man walked up, hesitant and confused at the sight of adult faces on child-size heads.

“Another good one, Bernardo!” he shouted back into the building. “We’ll try a somersault next time.”

“Right!” came the reply as the giant bent to pick up Coppernin. He steadied himself, rocked back, then launched the dwarf into space. A full rotation in midair, and,
whump!
Another perfect landing. The Pope was going to love this.

At first this Bernardo had insisted on playing a rather dull game that involved him standing there with his legs apart and arms outstretched while they clambered up and down him, two to each leg, one on each hip, and the remaining half dozen hanging from his arms and shoulders.

“I can keep this up for hours,” he proclaimed proudly. Then Alberich had got back from making inquiries at the inn and had tried to complete the formation by standing on the giant’s head.

“But he’s not a dw—” the giant began to protest.

“Sssh!” the General hissed in his ear. “He’s very touchy about that.”

Alberich stood almost four feet tall. “Easy does it,” he puffed cheerfully, one foot on Conopas’s head. He got an arm around Bernardo’s neck, then started to swing sideways. …

“I think,” gasped Bernardo. “I think …”

Anyhow, a few bruises apart, no one was hurt; and dusting themselves off, they explained to the concerned and apologetic giant that dwarfs are generally a lot tougher than they look and anyone who’s survived his or her mother’s rubbing grease rendered from moles, bats, and dormice into his or her spine every day, well, that person will already know pretty much all there is to know about discomfort, so not to worry, and how about another game, such as dwarf-throwing?

Whaaa-hey. …
Splot!

Alberich had, once again, proved problematic, protesting loudly when six of them had lined up to catch him instead of the usual four, then complaining that the amended quartet was creeping forward a few paces every time he was launched and thus denying him his full measure of airtime. He waved them back furiously whenever he spotted this happening and as a result would most often land short, just inside the door, then berate himself furiously, which seemed to fluster the giant. His next launch would often be unsteady, producing awkward uncontrolled turns in midflight and more difficulties for the catching-party,
which nevertheless applauded furiously each time, for the giant’s need for reassurance seemed insatiable.

“Bernardo, you’re the best thing that’s happened to us since we quit Magdeburg,” Stoberin confided to him as he was swung shoulder-high. “We were going to stay with a cousin of mine in Rome. Rooms in the Vatican Palace itself, we were promised, introduction to His Holiness. What happens when we get there? Turns out he lives in a cupboard and the Pope hasn’t set eyes on him in over a year. … Sometimes I think we’re the unluckiest dwarf troupe in the world.”

“Me too,” said Bernardo. He steadied himself.

“Right,” said Stoberin, eyeing the catchers thirty paces away through the door. “I’m going for a full somersault with double rotation. Give me plenty of torque.”

Bernardo nodded slowly. Stoberin saw the catchers bend their knees in readiness, felt the giant tense, an odd pause before the throw, and then he was shot forward, the torque strong as promised, kicking his legs up over his head to make the somersault; but something felt wrong, yes, something was definitely wrong. … What?

Direction. Stoberin saw his flight-plan peel off and leave him, an invisible line aimed straight at the catching-party from which he was now parting company; there they were, crouched and waiting at the end of a smooth and beautiful curve, a fast flat arc flying through the open barn door, a lovely, lovely line. But not his. He was headed for the closed door.

Clunk!

He came to a moment later. Two sets of twins stood over him, one pair dressed plainly, the other as gaudily as the giant. Or giants, for two Bernardos seemed to be retreating back into the warehouse, a look of panic on their faces, while the gaudy twins remonstrated with them, “No Bernardo, no. Everything’s changed. Don Antonio wouldn’t help us if he could. Now hurry up. We’ve got to get to the ship.
Come on. …

The Bernardos were shaking their heads and walking forward at the same time, while twenty-two dwarfs and two identical Alberichs pleaded with them to stay, but to no avail. The plainly dressed twins said nothing at all. Stoberin felt a lump the size of an egg rise from the top of his skull. More torque, he thought vaguely before passing out.

Oboni had six fingers on each hand and six toes on each foot. He was an Igala warrior from the north. He conquered the high country of Nsukka and the low country of Idoma. He achieved this alone. He had his people build a tower high in the air so that he might make war on the spririts above. It collapsed when he climbed it, killing many of his people. Then he declared war on the spirits below. He had his followers dig a great shaft in the earth and climbed down to
fight, but the shaft collapsed, too. Only Oboni climbed out alive. His name sounded like the word for a woman’s parts. A lot of people laughed at him for that.

Oboni sought a wife. Usse was eldest daughter of Onitsha’s King. Oboni took her while she walked alone on the banks of the River, and he made her his wife. The people around Onitsha and the Igala-people at Idah both told this story. She was named after that Usse, and she too was Eze-Ada. She was the King’s eldest daughter. She
had been
the King’s eldest daughter—this tongue was like a machete, cutting up lives into little bits of time: now, and then, and then
then,
and the time before
that
… But the King was dead. Her father was dead. And this white-faced Oboni had caught his Usse crouching by a keyhole.

Aguu
was a good month for the spirits, so she waited for her father to come and tell her what she should do. The two men talking in the kitchen had described the animal badly, but she had understood. It was the enemy of the “elephant.” An “elephant” was
Enyi,
she knew what that was. Its enemy was
Ezodu
.

“Not an enemy,” said Iguedo when she had finished drawing the two animals in the dust of her compound. “An opposite. Like sky and land. Wise old Enyi and mad old Ezodu.” Then she told her how they came to be so different, how they quarreled, and how Ezodu ran off to the desert in a rage and Enyi ambled south to live in the forest. “Just like us,” said Iguedo.

“Is that where Nri-people come from?” she asked.

“Where do we come from? Where do we come from?” Iguedo mimicked her tone. “Stupid question. Where are we going? Think about that.”

“Nowhere,” she replied in an instant. “We’re staying here.” She was clever. Namoke told her that twenty times a day.

“Stupid answer,” said Iguedo. “Everyone is going somewhere. How are they going, though? Like Enyi? Or like Ezodu?” More than a dozen children had sucked Iguedo’s breasts until now they were as flat as her own. No one and nothing had sucked her breasts. She had tried to interest Onugu once, the youngest and stupidest of her three stupid younger brothers. He had cried.