Ilario, the Stone Golem (10 page)

‘Who’s buying me?’ I inquired.

Berenguer somewhat automatically tied my cloak-ties for me and then

stood back a little awkwardly and permitted me to raise the silk-lined and

fur-trimmed hood myself. His sharp glance assessed me.

‘The weasel-lord,’ he announced. ‘What’s-name? The one with the

horse-faced wife.’

‘Federico. That’s my foster father you’re insulting,’ I added, settling

the folds of the green cloak about me. ‘Accurately, I may say. Although

Valdamerca has her charitable moments.’

Berenguer chuckled, at least partly with relief that his lord’s son-

daughter hadn’t chosen to take offence when treated like a woman and

spoken to like a man.

‘Her husband’s about to be
very
charitable!’ He held the room door open for me, hand on the hilt of his bastard sword. ‘Do you think you

could look frightened for us?’

‘Us’, it transpired, were fifteen of my father’s soldiers – Attila and

Tottola without smiles, and therefore at their most intimidating; every

man else in brigandine or breastplate, with swords or maces; even

Saverico with his polished sallet under his arm, a red and gold silk sash

tied from shoulder to waist.

44

A tall, thin soldier with his cloak hood raised proved, on lifting the

edge of it, to be Honorius.

‘Help,’ I observed gravely. ‘Oh, oh, I am being stolen away! Will

nobody help a poor defenceless—’

‘“Defenceless”’, my backside!’ Honorius brushed his knuckles against

my cheek with open affection. ‘I told Berenguer when he brought me this

story – if we just take the money and hand you over, not only will we be

rich,
I’ll
have some peace and quiet!’

Under the cover of general amusement, and donning of cloaks over

armour, intended to disguise the immediate passage of armed mercen-

aries through Venice’s alleys, I asked Honorius, ‘What in Christ-the-

Emperor’s name does he think he’s
doing
!’

‘Lord Videric? Sending your foster father to buy off my soldiers. After

all, they’re only common mercenaries.’

Over the less-than-sincere thanks offered by his men at that point, I

managed to amend my question. ‘Truly, I meant Federico.’

‘Being desperate! That’s what
he’s
doing.’ My father produced a short

length of rope, wrapped it about my wrists in a false knot, and gave me

the two ends to grip in my hands so that I looked sufficiently bound. ‘I

spoke to the Egyptian about this. He suggests that, if messages and

travellers are getting through from the Peninsula, Federico will have

heard directly from Videric. I think he’s right. Whether or not Videric

knows we disposed of Carrasco, he’s clearly told Federico to move his

arse.’

I nodded. ‘Something was going to happen, now. It’s inevitable.’

The sky above me was the colour of lapis lazuli ashes. The warm air

shifted, bringing me the scents of cooking, canal water, and the lagoon.

However cold it may still be, and how wet, the world is beginning to

move again. If long sea voyages are still unsafe, there are the coastal

routes. And some of the better-maintained roads, the Via Augusta

included, will be open.

‘Is Rekhmire’ coming to make sure I’m properly sold?’

Honorius shook his head. ‘He’d be recognised. I’ve requested him to

stay here with the rest of the guard, and protect my granddaughter.’

I ignored a stab of disappointment. Because, injured leg or no, I will

trust Rekhmire’’s determination to protect Onorata above most men’s.

‘Videric will send more men to kill me,’ I observed as we walked across

the Campo S. Barnaba. ‘True, the more men he hires, the more gossip,

the more danger people will hear what he’s doing – but I think he’ll be willing to risk that, now.’

‘Bandits. Pirates. Thugs.’ Honorius grunted. He pulled the front of his

hood forward. Dressed as a plain soldier, there was nothing to mark him

out from the other cloaked mercenaries. ‘Knew I should have brought

more than three lances . . . ’

45

‘We’re worth six!’ Saverico grinned. Tottola slapped him on the

shoulder, which all but sent the slight ensign staggering.

I expected a boat to be waiting, but we instead walked on into the mass

of lanes and small squares, until we had left the Dorsodura quarter, and

finally approached the Grand Canal. We emerged on the edge of that

wide thoroughfare at the foot of the Rialto Bridge.

Berenguer glanced at Honorius for permission, and fell in beside me as

we walked in under the wooden roof that capped the bridge.

‘We’ve arranged a public place for the exchange.’ Berenguer’s grin

showed two teeth missing, far back on the left side. ‘Less chance of

anybody cheating . . . ’

The sides of the bridge were also walled with solid planks, but no man

could see that except from the outside. Inside, too many shop-booths

blocked the line of sight; goods piled up clear to the bridge’s roof. We picked a way up the wide stone steps, between merchants and gossiping

servants; groups of men purchasing goods or changing money; woman

accompanied by male relatives or armed servants.

I shook my head, amazed. ‘Federico approached you directly?’

Berenguer gave that kind of shrug that invites discrete admiration.

‘Sent one of his servants. But I’d seen the man at that palazzo, when you

went after the secretary. Told him I wouldn’t talk to anybody but his

master.’

‘And Federico
agreed
?’

If that’s the case, Honorius will not be so far from the mark if he

describes my foster father as desperate.

‘Yeah. Next time, sure enough, there’s Lord Weasel – beg pardon,

Lord Federico – muffled up to the eyes, and telling me that he knows

we’re mercenaries, we’re for hire, and he can offer us a better contract

than Captain-General Honorius—’ Berenguer put up his hand, as if to

say
you’ve
heard
nothing!
, and added, ‘His
first
offer is, every man who comes in on this can get a place in Lord Carmagnola’s Venetian army,

and have a share of the plunder of Milan, along with Lord Weasel’s hefty

bribe—’

Attila stepped up on Berenguer’s other side, towering a full head

above us. He had braided his beard, but left his mane of hair loose; any

man could believe him an eater of babies and easily hired murderer. He

snorted. ‘The General and Lord Carmagnola fought together, up north,

so he’d have our arses skinned if we even
thought
about this!’

Berenguer grinned. ‘Lord Weasel thinks we’re too dumb to know that.

So I ask: what will Lord Federico pay in cold cash? And he says: every

man can have a safeguarded voyage to the mainland, a saddlebag of

gold, and a horse to ride away on. All we have to do is bring him the General’s son-daughter, so she can be put away in a convent, safe and

sound!’

Ahead, at the top of the steps, I could see light. The open drawbridge

46

section of the Rialto, that is winched up to let tall-masted boats through

on their way up the Canal Grande.

‘Kidnapped and put in a convent.’ I glanced at Honorius, but he had

already fallen back into the crowd of armed men, indistinguishable as

their captain. Tottola moved in on my flank, a mirror-image of Attila’s

Germanic wildness.

Berenguer gave me an apologetic glance and took hold of my elbow.

‘Lord Weasel, he sounded like he believed it. But if he’s your foster dad,

he’d want to, wouldn’t he? This Lord back in Taraco, this Aldra

Videric, he didn’t mind sending men to kill us. I don’t reckon you’d ever

see the inside of any convent.’

‘No.’ My pulse jolted, chest feeling hollow. The muscles and tendons

at the back of my knees pulled, walking up the steps, after so long

recovering from Physician Baris¸’s surgery.

Berenguer scanned the crowds blocking the steps. ‘Anyhow, I told

Lord Weasel as how he’d have to give us gold.
And
a ship to get off this

island. He bargained a bit, but he agreed. Normally, I’d reckon he’d tell

the Doge we stole his money and have us taken up and hanged for theft,

but he can’t risk us talking. Not that it matters . . . ’

The crowds became no thinner at the high arch of the Rialto Bridge. I

found myself in the midst of cloaked men who might be conspicuous in

their number.
But
then,
Federico
will
have
brought
household
men-at-arms,
too
. . .

Looking above the heads of the Venetians, I saw a mast and sails

gliding past.

The creak of the winch and clatter of chains indicated the drawbridge

was being wound down into place again.

‘Deal is, half the gold when we hand you over; half when we reach the

mainland.’ Berenguer surveyed me, head to foot. ‘Could you maybe look

frightened now?’

I
have
over
a
dozen
armed
soldiers
around
me,
and
my
father.

‘No.’ I shrugged. ‘It would look unconvincing. He’d see that. I can

manage “sullen”.’

Berenguer’s hand went up, tilting his sallet’s visor to shield his eyes

against the spring sun. ‘We don’t want him to run before we get the

money . . . He’s here!’

Gathered in the small open space between the sheltered Rialto and the

drawbridge itself, we were not quite enough to block the general way. I

saw Federico instantly, his white face visible under a brown felt hat as he

approached from the Rialto’s other side.

One man in his livery colours walked behind him, a middling-sized

iron-bound chest clasped in both arms.

I bit my lip, preventing myself with difficulty from pointing this out to

Berenguer or Tottola.
They
see
it
too
–
and
they
are
besides
supposed
to
have
betrayed
you!

47

Berenguer pulled at my elbow, striding forward onto the drawbridge

itself. ‘Come on, you!’

The planks did not shift underfoot, but I could see the green waters of

the Grand Canal between them.

Only Berenguer and Tottola came forward. The dozen others

remained on that side of the Rialto Bridge; I supposed by prior

agreement. The urge to break out laughing almost overwhelmed me. If I

could not manage fear or recalcitrance, I contrived to look exasperated –

by way of thinking of my silverpoint drawing of Onorata back at the

embassy, which I had spent three days on, and ruined with four unwise

strokes just before the midday meal.

I looked across the short distance at Federico, and greeted him with a

glare of hate.
He
will
expect
me
to
have
deduced
himself
behind
this:
who
else
is
there
in
Venice
now
who
can
act
on
Videric’s
behalf?

It may not be true in a week or two’s time – but for now, there is only

my foster father.

‘Lord Federico.’ I spoke before either he or Berenguer could, and

heard my voice shake. With excitement, but I hoped he did not recognise

that. ‘You were never a father to me. But I didn’t think even you could

hand me over to be butchered like a hog!’

Tottola’s immense arm wrapped around my upper chest, squeezing

my tender breasts painfully if (I thought) accidentally. His other hand

clapped over my mouth.

It was less violent than it looked, by far, but the sensation that he need

only move the upper edge of his hand to stifle me made it easy to

struggle. The German soldier’s grip locked solidly around me.

Federico pulled off his brimless hat, ran his hands through disordered

wispy hair, and pulled the hat on again. His skin was pale, dotted with

sweat across his wide brow. He hissed, ‘You will not be butchered! I have

a promise of that! It is no more than giving you up to the life of a devout

religious!’

Imprisoned in some cold stone nunnery or monastery, woken every

three hours through the night to pray, and fed only on what we might

grow – nothing of this appeals to me, whether in God’s name or man’s.