Ilario, the Stone Golem (18 page)

Seeing this, Honorius took it on himself to take at least one of the night

feeds (‘What, you think me not capable of feeding my own grandchild?

How many brats do you think a mercenary baggage-train
has
?’),

although he drew the line at changing her soiled cloths.

Rekhmire’, while content to nurse a sleeping child as he wrote his

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correspondence ready for sending east, lost his fascination for her as

often as she puked or burped over him. Although I did find her in his

company surprisingly often for a man who claimed to have no idea of

what eunuchs and babies might have in common.

‘The ability to bawl their heads off when they don’t get their own

way?’ was not the politest remark I ever allowed to unwisely escape me.

Rekhmire’ merely sniffed.

‘
I
am not as sentimental as those great oafs of soldiers,’ he observed, and then pinched at the bridge of his nose as if to ease a headache

brought on by writing. Eyes still closed, he added, ‘You have a dozen

“uncles” for the child, who would take more care of her than an egg

made of diamond – if only because they know Master Honorius would

unravel their guts if they damaged his precious grandchild.’

He opened his eyes and glared at me.

‘For the Eight’s sake, take advantage of that while you can!’

‘I will.’ I nodded at the portable writing-slope on his lap. ‘If you’ve

correspondence I can help write, I will. Meantime, since I’ve forgotten

the outside world exists, I’m going out to the Merceria.’

‘Only if you—’

‘—take half of Honorius’s company with me,’ I finished, ahead of the

Egyptian, and found myself with a grin. ‘I will. Can I run any errands for

you while I’m out?’

Rekhmire’ snorted, in a less than dignified manner, and rummaged

among the scrolls and documents on the table beside him. ‘“Run”? I

doubt you’ll run anywhere until those stitches heal! But if you care to

waddle about the city for a while, see if you can discover any more of

these put up on walls?’

I took the paper he handed me. It was instantly recognisable: one of

Leon’s seditious hand-bills.

‘You think Herr Mainz might be still here, and printing for someone

else?’

‘I hope so. I have no great desire to go to Florence . . . ’

Despite walking about considerable areas of Venezia, with various of

Honorius’s guard, I saw no similar hand-bills. The following day, I

conceived of asking among the scriptoria, on the pretence of looking

again for work, but found no one familiar with the overly-precise

lettering of the supposed printing-
machina
.

The following day brought sleet, slanting and chill, and took off every

appearance Venice might have had of being in early spring.

My healed stitches itched, and still pulled when I walked, I found.

Those of the soldiers I privately consulted assured me this was normal

for edged-weapon wounds – which I supposed Caesar’s cut at the base

of the womb might best resemble.

I refused to wear wooden pattens, and that at least made walking

easier, without trying to balance several inches above the mud.

89

Ramiro
Carrasco
can
clean
my
shoes
for
me
, I reflected, as I plodded over a high hump-backed bridge, treading in Attila’s footsteps through the

mire.
Ah,
the
evils
of
slavery
. . .

The thought that it might be a true evil took the smile from my face.

True
evil,
if
I
only
think
that
slavery’s
bad
when
I
am
the
one
sold
and
enslaved.

Leon Battista’s hand-bill crumpled up in my hand as I clenched my

fist.

I tugged off my leather gloves to smooth out the thick paper.

‘Holy Eight!’ I stopped suddenly enough that Tottola walked into me

from behind, and I felt him grab my biceps with hands like iron, so as not

to send me flying.

‘What?’ He looked down at my belly, under the long cloak, as he

released me. ‘You took ill?’

‘No. But I realise I’ve been looking in the wrong places!’

I held up the printed paper illustratively as Attila strode back to us, his

hand on his sword.

‘Master Leon Battista had enough of these printed . . . It doesn’t

matter if no man recognises the print.’ I rubbed my thumb over the rag-

made surface. ‘What I should have been looking for is the man who sold

him this
paper
.’

‘This the last workshop?’ Tottola rumbled behind me.

‘For today.’ I pointed. A tabarra stood a few doors down the narrow

street, torchlight reflecting into the mucky grey daylight and the half-

frozen canal. ‘You can wait for me . . . ’

‘We’ll come with you.’ Tottola didn’t have the hint of a sigh in his

voice. ‘Both of us.’

I recalled Sergeant Orazi’s advice, passed on to me at one point: that

his troopers should be made far more scared of him than they were of

any conceivable enemy. Between that and loyalty to Honorius, there was

no chance the two Germanic mercenaries would leave me unguarded.

We entered the fifth warehouse that day; I took a half-hour choosing

three variant colours of green earth pigment, and discussing with the

workshop-master the advantages and disadvantages of various mixtures

of size for wood and canvas.

‘I need to buy more paper,’ I finally observed. Attila and Tottola had

become bored enough to amuse themselves by looming over the

shopkeeper’s apprentices and watching them pale – doubtless having

been raised on Tacitus’s
History
of
the
Huns
.

‘What kind of paper?’ The workshop master stretched out his hand as

I put a torn-edged sample into it. ‘Ah.’

I fully expected to be told it wasn’t familiar, or wasn’t made by this

workshop, or sold here – or else that they had only small quantities

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available in stock. Two of the parcels Tottola carried contained

unavoidable purchases of paper.

The Venetian workmaster put the torn scrap of paper down by the

edge of the terre verte pigment tub. ‘Yes. Whoever recommended you

here was correct: this is our make – I’d know that drying-lattice pattern

anywhere.’

He straightened up, and spoke again before I managed to collect

myself:

‘I’d like to help, but we’re out of stock. A customer came in at the

beginning of Lent, bought up the whole stock; it’ll still be a week or two

before we have any more of that particular kind pressed. When do you

need it by? Or can I offer you this other—’

‘I need it now,’ I interrupted, mouth unaccountably dry.
Whatever

Rekhmire’
can
do
as
a
book-buyer,
I
can
do
. It’s nothing but pretence and asking questions.

With what I hoped resembled genuine rich-man’s petulance, I whined,

‘Are you sure you don’t have any left? Just a small piece?’

The man shook his head, as one will do when wondering at the

vagaries of customers. ‘He bought up all the sheets. Don’t forget a sale

like that.’

I looked brightly at him, as if the thought had just struck me, instead of

being painstakingly constructed between Attila and myself in the gondola

that brought us here.

‘Where did you have the paper delivered to? If I could go and ask him

if he has any left . . . even a quarter sheet . . . ’

My heart thudded in my chest.

Here’s
where
he
says
the
man
had
it
collected,
they
didn’t
deliver
.

The works master reached down for a ledger, thumbed through it with

agonising slowness – and halted his finger halfway down a page. ‘You’d

tell him we sent you? Like his custom again, if I can get it.’

‘I’ll make certain he knows.’ I offered the carefully saved end-sheet of

paper, and watched him write down an address.

Once outside, I took a deep breath of wet, freezing air – and realised

Attila and Tottola were looking down at me with identical expressions.

‘Escort me there,’ I directed, with a look that plainly informed them I

did not expect to come to harm in their company. ‘But you’ll have to

wait outside. If this Herr Mainz knows Leon Battista got thrown into

prison, I imagine he’s somewhat nervous.’

‘So I am!’ Tottola muttered, as we set off towards the churches the

master had used as landmarks while telling me directions. ‘The General

will have my balls!’

‘And that Egyptian bastard will have
my
balls to go with yours – and

his!’ Attila muttered.

Tottola made no reply, but he looked worried. On a bearded Hun a

91

head taller than any man in the streets of Venice, that is suitably

impressive.

‘Honorius expects you to guard me,’ I said, the cold air welcome in my

lungs after what seemed like weeks indoors. I stepped out more briskly.

‘And “that Egyptian bastard” will be too busy being pleased, if this

comes off, to even think about how we did this –
or
about your balls, Attila. Which, let’s be honest, no one wants to think about . . . ’

I said it much in the same manner as the young ensign Saverico might

have. The large German soldier snickered. I thought Attila was more

comfortable with the part of me that was young man than young woman.

Attila continued my arguing for me with Tottola as we trudged across

campo, bridge, canal-path, and more bridges.

The address turned out to be a small shed at the back of a closed-up

house. The house looked to have no occupants; the shed had two

shutters propped open to let in the light.

I left the two mercenaries at the head of the alley.

There being nothing to be lost by a direct approach, I knocked on the

shed door and opened it without waiting for an answer.

In the dim natural light that was all the illumination, a lean man with

rough-cropped black hair turned away from a bench and towards me,

both his hands laden down with long thin metal teeth that I thought Leon

Battista would have recognised as type.

I spoke in the clearest Frankish Latin I could manage.

‘You’ll be the German Guildsman, Herr Mainz.’

I added rapidly, as I saw consternation on his face:

‘The Alexandrine embassy would like to speak with you.’

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3

At
Alexandrine
, a flood of emotions passed over his face. He stepped forward, into the better light. The lines of his face spoke of hunger and

distrust, and of hope.

Irritably, he muttered, ‘You ignoramuses still have it wrong! “
Master

of Mainz”, not “Herr Mainz”! “The Master of Mainz” is still my title,

even if expelled from the guild!’

‘Ilario Honorius,’ I introduced myself. Something in the shadows at

the back looked very like a wine-press, if a great carved wooden screw

might be combined with trays and racks, rather than a grape-tub. ‘If I

have your name wrong, how should I say it? It was Messer Leon Battista

who called you “Herr Mainz”.’

‘Chicken-hearted Florentine!’ The German came almost up to the

door. With the dying light from outside, I could see his robe and hose

were patched and worn. ‘My name is Johannes Gutenberg, of the
city
of

Mainz. Where is Herr Alberti? I have not seen him these many weeks.’

‘Prison. Florence. Exile.’ I gave the knowledge in chronological order,

and briskly – what a man who has been lied to needs is the truth, blunt as

it may be. ‘Why didn’t you come to the Alexandrine embassy?’

The German printer seized at his hair, knocking his black felt hat off

the back of his head, and yanking his short crop up into hedgehog-spikes.

‘
You
ask me that! You, one of Alberti’s lackeys! I could be in

Constantinople!’ Gutenberg choked out. ‘With a patron! I could work

with the best materials – the finest resources – and
you
—’

He spat on the dirt floor at my feet.