Ilario, the Stone Golem (32 page)

Ty-ameny’s artist, felt similarly comfortable.

‘Great Queen,’ I suggested, into the perfumed silence, that was broken

only by the noise of voices and vehicles in the city below. ‘I think the Admiral desires charts. His officer Jian was speaking of them.’

She nodded, receiving the suggestion equably. ‘Not to give too much

aid at first – Rekhmire’, if I send you with maps of the coast here, and the

waters to the east; let him see land-maps that show the road to Aleppo

and other Turkish cities. I think it’s well this Zheng He begins to believe

they’re at the other end of their trade route with us.’

‘Us barbarians.’ Rekhmire’ made the addendum gravely.

The Pharaoh-Queen gave him a look.

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‘That’s what he calls us.’ Rekhmire’ smiled down at Ty-ameny. ‘The

Admiral Zheng He says their empire has lasted five thousand years.

Older than Carthage.’

‘Five thousand years of emperors? And two hundred giant ships?’ The

Pharaoh-Queen craned to look around the carved stone frame of the

window, at pale light behind the gathering clouds. ‘I suppose they have a

trading colony on the moon, too!’

I risked mimicking Rekhmire’’s equable look. ‘That would explain why

they don’t look like anyone else, Great Queen. Or draw or paint like

anyone else.’

Ty-amenhotep of the Five Great Names glanced from me to

Rekhmire’, and stalked past us, back into the room to flop down on the

nearest seat. ‘Cousin, either you’ve been too much in Ilario’s company,

or Ilario has been too much in yours!’

The book-buyer gave me a more relaxed smile than I had seen since

we boarded the trireme in Venice.

He seated himself again on the marble bench, collecting silk pillows

with his free hand and stuffing them behind his back. I joined him. He

beckoned for my drawings, and ink and chalk-work, and the two of them

bent over my efforts again.

Jian had taken some of the Admiral’s scrolls out for me to look at.

Delicate, as if the colour had been put on with spring water, or spring

light. Language didn’t allow him to explain how.

As well as sketching all aspects that I could see of their great cistern-

shaped hull, I’d paced out the distances across the deck and made a quiet

note of the measurements. Looking at the Pharaoh-Queen Ty-ameny as

she scribbled furiously on a wax tablet, I thought her as capable as her Alexandrine ‘philosopher-scientists’ of working out the exact tonnage of

Zheng He’s ship. And the offensive power of the ship’s cannon (cast out

of recognisable bronze), and their engines that shot great long iron bolts

(if I could judge by the ammunition stores).

Among the scattered papers I saw my drawings of two-handed

ceramic containers, that might have been pots for oil or wine, but – from

Jian’s ardent keenness to remove me from their vicinity – I knew must be

weapons as well. They looked as if they could be fused. Some parts of

the hull stores had the distinctive scent of gunpowder.

Still, I thought, hauling my ankles up to sit cross-legged among the

cushions beside Rekhmire’. Magnificent as it is, it’s only one ship. It

can’t threaten to take on the navy here and bombard Constantinople’s

walls down . . .

Unless the rest of the hypothetical fleet turn up.

And then even Carthage and Venice will be pushed to hold on to sea-

power in the Middle Sea.

By the window, a patch of moonlight progressed across the shining

stone floor.

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I watched it, in silence unbroken except by the rustling of paper. My

hands felt oddly empty, since they held neither a stylus nor Onorata.

There has been little enough time, I thought, rubbing at the gravel that

seemed to be collecting in my eyes. Little enough time since we landed,

and all of it taken up by the Admiral of the Ocean Seas, but—

Sooner or later I must ask her.

Must ask the Pharaoh-Queen of New Alexandria,
How
do
I
make
the
Aldra
Pirro
Videric
into
the
First
Minister
of
Taraconensis
again?

‘—Ilario?’

The Pharaoh-Queen was turning back from dismissing a beardless fat

man who I took to be a eunuch servant. By the sound of her voice, it was

not the first time she had asked.

I straightened myself up beside Rekhmire’, piqued that he had not

used the elbow I was leaning against to nudge me into greater attention.

‘Yes, Great Queen?’

‘The hour’s late.’ Her eyes shone darkly in the many lamps’ light. ‘And

it’s a poor reward for you helping me with the foreigners’ ship. But I

need, urgently, to speak to you. Will you tell me everything that you

experienced with Carthage’s stone golem?’

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13

We left Rekhmire’ with a dozen of the Queen’s Royal Mathematicians,

checking calculations and speculations regarding the ghost ship.

A tall and unusually thin eunuch mathematician by the name of

Ahhotep joined Ty-ameny at her signal, walking the palace’s corridors

quickly enough beside me that his linen robe flicked against my bare

ankles. Two slaves took lamps ahead, light shading from terracotta to

burnt-earth colours up the carved walls.

If I had been paying closer attention, I could have overheard what Ty-

ameny and her black-haired adviser spoke of. Weariness and fear kept

me concentrating on putting one foot before the other and falling over

neither.

I wondered if Tottola had needed to call Ramiro Carrasco to feed

Onorata, and whether she was asleep or screaming.

Cool air touched my forehead. It was not until I saw sky above a wide

courtyard that I realised we had left the main palace. Obelisks blotted out

stars and moon.

Ahhotep glanced back at me with a friendly smile. The moonlight

caught the fine silver chain about his neck, that all the bureaucrats wore

symbolic of their slavery. He pointed to one side and a dimly-seen

frontage. ‘The Royal Library.’

It might have been part of the palace or separate; I would not be able

to see unless by daylight.

The pressure of air at my right hand was suddenly less; I guessed at an

empty outdoor area, perhaps a larger public square. Our footsteps came

clicking back from a nearer wall – except for Ty-ameny, barefoot and

noiseless.

What caught my interest, through the ache in my muscles, was that

Ty-ameny stopped by the vast doors of a final building, and dismissed

her slaves, taking one of the lamps into her own hands.

The
Pharaoh-Queen
of
the
Lion-Throne
can
walk
around
at
night
without
guards
. . .

Either that argues a devout respect for the Queen, unlike that in other

kingdoms, or – it belatedly occurred – her guards might merely be very

good at keeping themselves out of sight.

Ahhotep opened a postern gate, bowing Ty-ameny and myself

through. Inside, the lamp’s inadequate light showed the curves of vast

159

pillars, set close together. I could not see their tops. The eunuch

mathematician took the lamp from the Queen and led the way forward,

out across an open space tiled in red and blue and gold.

‘Throne room,’ Ty-ameny murmured, as if she too were reluctant to

disturb the silence.

Ahhotep suddenly held up the oil-lamp.

I found myself facing the Carthaginian golem.

‘
Ilario!
’

The female voice sounded sharp, but with concern. I fought to throw

dizziness off and move in response.

Mosaic tiles were hard under my hands and knees.

I sat back, falling heavily to one side. Ty-ameny thrust a cloth at me.

The eunuch Ahhotep returned out of the darkness with a bucket, and

began spilling sand over something on the floor that the lamplight did

not clearly show.

My throat felt raw. The taste of vomit was disgusting in my mouth.

‘I ought to have realised!’ Ahhotep sounded as if he were repeating

himself. ‘Great Queen, I’m so sorry! Master Ilario, how can I apologise!’

I dimly remember Rekhmire’ once mentioning that the Royal Library

kept fire-buckets of sand in every room. Evidently it was a practice

throughout the palace complex.

I doubt he ever imagined them being used to cover up sick.

I pushed my heels against the tiny ridges of the mosaic, edging back.

Wiping the cloth over my mouth took away some of the taste.

Only yards away from me, at the edge of the lamplight, stood feet too

large for life-size – but skilfully painted in the colours of flesh.

The stone feet of the Carthaginian golem rested immovably against

the floor. The shadows hid its height, but I glimpsed a curve of reflected

light on its fingers, where its hands hung by its sides.

‘I should have realised!’ Ahhotep moaned again.

My own realisation was closer to
I
wish
to
hit
Ahhotep
.

The golem stood, half-painted, beside the Queen’s ancient stone

throne. Under other circumstances, the carved porphyry block would

have been impressive in itself: a dark purple stone, the seat worn down

into a deep dip by dynasty upon dynasty of Pharaohs. But the crystalline

glitter in the rock could not take my eye from the painted golem.

Like
a
Venetian
harlequin
.

I’d forgotten we hadn’t finished the face.

In the gold lamp-light, one blind stone eye looked at me. The other

was painted to have the brilliance of life. Lustrous and brown and my

stomach rose again, threateningly, as I recognised it – the evident model

for the painted stonework was Masaccio’s eyes, where he had begun to

give its face some touches of a self-portrait.

I wiped the cloth hard across my lips.

160

If I’d thought anything, after Menmet-Ra’s arrival at the Alexandrine

house, it was that Ty-ameny must have had one of her craftsmen finish

off the painting here. I’d even imagined asking, with insouciant gallows

humour, ‘What butcher did you get to finish this paint job?’

Instead I throw up, like a child.

‘You know that it killed the master I was apprenticed to?’

Ty-ameny moved her bird-boned shoulders in a shrug. ‘Yes. I regret

that.
You
know, that if I had a choice, I’d wrap in anchor-chain and dump it in the Bosphorus!’

Ahhotep fumbled in the sleeves of his robes, bringing out a stylus and

wax tablets. ‘The diplomatic representatives of Carthage would notice,

Great Queen, and we dare not seem afraid of anything they offer us.

Master Ilario, anything you can tell us will be helpful. Don’t worry what

Lord Menmet-Ra may have reported before. Just begin at the start, in

your own words.’

Climbing to my feet, I realised I recognised the gleam in the skinny

eunuch’s eye.
It
is
Masaccio’s
.

I thought of Rome; the chill of early autumn. If Tommaso Cassai had

had the chance to hear about this golem, would he have cared if it had

killed a man before?

In all truth – no, he would not.

And this Ahhotep, black hair cut at jaw-level and wearing formal

Alexandrine robes, might have been the Florentine painter’s blood

brother in that respect.

All my muscles tensed, every tendon; every nerve on edge.

If
that
thing
moves,
I
will
be
out
of
this
throne
room
so
fast—

I thought it not impossible it might have connected itself to me,

somehow, in the embassy at Rome; that my presence might move it to

act.

Fear moved me to recklessness. I picked the lamp up from where

Ahhotep had stood it on the dais of the throne, and held it close to the golem. This close, the light showed me every scratch on the bronze and

brass metalwork of the joints.

The nobles of Carthage being what they are, Ty-ameny will have been

put in possession of the words to make it move.

Even if she will not use them.

‘The paint looks absurd.’ Mimic skin and veins and hair as it might,