Ilario, the Stone Golem (54 page)

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” –

267

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.

268

And Honorius’s grip felt surprisingly reassuring, even if his conclu-

sions 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.

On the third day a different bishop, Heldefredus, preached about

pardoning those who had sinned, and I took my place as one of the

genuflectentes
, kneeling between the cathedral door and the ambo, dizzy because of a whole day’s fast, and speaking only to implore the

procession of priests as they walked past me:

‘Pray for me, a sinner!’

Again, I was taken out before the Mass was celebrated.

Videric was not present. Nor Rekhmire’.

Honorius let me know himself forbidden to come, and offered his

presence all the same. I sent Orazi back with strict instructions to keep the Lion of Castile caged.

Let
this
not
cause
any
more
trouble
than
it
has
to!

King Rodrigo sent his household guard to assist in bringing me the

plain meats that the bishops had allowed in my penitential cell on the

first and second days.

Sergeant Orazi, scowling, told me each day in bad Alexandrine –

incomprehensible to the junior priests who oversaw us – that none of our

expected visitors had ridden into Taraco yet. And in the language of

Taraconensis added that Onorata was well, and possibly missing me.

Not knowing young babies, the sergeant said, he found it difficult to tell.

On the night of the first fast I didn’t see any of the guard, since no man

was to bring me food, and the bishops’ priests evidently thought

themselves capable of providing fresh water.

There was no candle or lantern in the hermit’s cell built outside, up

against the cathedral walls. I took advantage of what daylight there was

left coming through the door-grate to take the smuggled paper and chalk

out from under the thin straw palliasse.

I drew faces. Odoin, who’d been a lieutenant in Rodrigo’s royal guard

269

when I left, and now had his promotion to captain. Hunulf, and

Winguric; who had worked with me in the scriptorium, and Galindus, of

course.

I appreciated that they didn’t visit, since every other man or woman I

might know from nine years in Rodrigo’s palace crowded close to satisfy

their urge to stare at me.

The sheet of paper was not large. I drew faces in miniature. Egica,

who taught me Latin and letters at sixteen, when it became apparent that

Federico’s hired tutor had been cheap for a reason. Egica’s face was

more lined, his nose more covered in red broken veins, in this last year; I

could smell spirits on him when he stumbled past me, one hand

outstretched as if he would have ruffled my hair in passing.

More men greeted me with shuttered faces. Less than a year, and I am

ignored by those I have diced with and trained with in arms, and women-

gossips with whom I debated what colours one might put together in

embroidered tapestries . . . even young children whose parents had been

passing friendly to the King’s Freak –

The light was definitely gone.

I crumpled the paper up into a compressed ball in my hand, and

crammed it under the palliasse.

This is not the Empty Chair, or the Most Serene, or the city of the

Pharaoh in exile. This is not Carthage –
Although
I
am
under
a
penitence
of
sorts
, I found myself thinking, and smiled crookedly in the dark.

It was the kind of irony Ramiro Carrasco would have liked, when he

was a sardonic lawyer and not a slave.

They
ought
at
least
to
send
Carrasco
to
me
here,
a
time
or
two;
it
would
cheer
him
up
to
see
me
in
sackcloth
and
ashes
.
.
.

A voice outside the studded oak door of the hermit’s cell said, ‘Ilario?’

Yellow light glinted through the iron grate set into the door. An oil-

lamp or a candle; oil by the smell.

The voice was for one dumb-struck moment strange to me, and

then—

‘
Father
Felix?
’

‘May I come in? They’ve sent me to instruct you.’

‘Yes.’ I said it before I thought. ‘Yes, of course, Father!’

He had to duck almost double to get under the low lintel. The builders

had left a ledge against the far wall, where the masonry was set deep;

Father Felix put his lantern on the earthen floor with a muttered prayer,

swept his green robes around him, and seated himself. He gazed directly

at me.

He looks no different, I thought.

It only seems a decade since I left Taraco; in reality it is only ten or eleven months.

Father Felix’s copper-brown features showed as strong as ever,

270

illuminated under his hood; his astonishing pale grey eyes looked

through me as much as they ever used to.

‘The bishop wishes me to prepare you for the fourth and fifth stations

of the exomologesis.’ He leaned forward, and his fingers felt warm

against my forehead as he brushed my hair back. ‘Ilario, are you all

right?’

‘I haven’t practised fasting this year, so I’m unused to it.’ I could only

stare at him. ‘Father . . . ’

No man had ever known Father Felix’s name outside the church, or

his origins; all he would tell me was that he had travelled from beyond

the lands of the Turk, beyond the Caucasus mountains. Seeing him with

new eyes, I suddenly wondered if he would know more of Zheng He’s

land than the rest of us.

When
this
is
done,
I
will
persuade
him
to
take
word
to
Honorius,
and
bring
news
back
to
me.

‘Tertullian,’ Father Felix said, in a measured tone.

The black pupils in his grey eyes expanded in the dim lantern light.

‘Tertullian instructs us that exomologesis is the discipline which

obliges a man to prostrate and humiliate himself, so as to draw down

God’s mercy. You’ve performed three of the stations. Tomorrow, you

take your place as one of the
substrati
, as Gregory Thaumaturgus defines

it; prostrating yourself where you were kneeling today. The bishop will

lay his hand on you and bless you. The day after tomorrow, on the final

day, you’ll act as one of the
consistentes
, and be allowed to be present to

hear Mass. Then you come forward to the altar, recite a psalm and

litany, and beg forgiveness of the man you’ve wronged.’

My stomach rolled over.

Father Felix continued, ‘The King and the bishops and this man you

have offended will hold a
concilium
, there and then, to determine if you

deserve re-admission and pardon. And if so, you will be led around the

cathedral carrying a lighted candle, prayers will be said, and you will be

given public absolution. And the kiss of peace, by Aldra Videric.’

His voice altered on the last word.

‘Felix . . . ’ I sought desperately for words. For some reason

Rekhmire’’s prayer-box came into my mind’s eye: I wondered if he was

praying to Kek and Amunet and the rest of the Eight tonight, in Videric’s

provincial fortress. ‘Should I do this?’

Felix’s robes were coarse homespun wool, dyed the colour of hedge-

weeds. I suspected they were the same robes he had worn when I left last

year, faded through many washings. His dark hands were the hands of a

workman, if you looked at them apart from the rest of him.

‘If your desire for pardon is in any way not genuine, I would need to

inform the bishops.’ He held my gaze with more ease than most men.

‘Tomorrow they’ll smear wood-ash on your forehead, and dress you in