The Shadow Master, page 15
He took his time undressing though, as if it were vitally important that each item of clothing be folded just so. “Do you remember when we were younger and spent a week on that small farm in the hills?” she asked him. She often let her memory roam back to their youth. Back before everything. But they were painful memories to him as they were so wonderful.
“Yes,” he said. “It was a blessed time.”
“We made the majestic moth together endlessly,” she said.
He nodded his head, recalling it. It was warm and they were alone in the farmhouse and had dismissed the servants whenever they were able and spent the day in each other’s embrace. “Truly blessed,” he said. But it was a different time too, he thought. He had been much younger and she had been, well, she had been the woman he had married. Had been young and vibrant and full of wit. This evil disease had left but a shadow of his wife. A woman who was like her in so many ways, but also not quite her.
Finally he stood there naked and she held out a hand to him. The way she had when they were younger and alone in that farm house. He wanted to take her hand, but he also wanted to weep at the sadness that was filling him. “Come,” she said.
Wordlessly he climbed into bed beside her and lay down next to her. “Stroke my hair,” she said, and he did. “Hold me,” she said, and he did. Her good hand touched his bare chest and he closed his eyes and tried to remember the feeling of being in the farm house with her. Any glimpse of a naked part of her body had filled him with passion. He had wrapped his arms around her tightly and they’d flown on the breeze like a majestic moth, to all corners of the house, settling on a couch in the sunshine, or on a rug on the floor.
He screwed his eyes tight to try to recall it now, but he could not feel the lightness filling him. She ran her hand lower down his stomach, but he was still failing to respond. He tried to think of her when she was younger. And then he felt himself stirring. She grabbed hold of his ivory tower and felt it rise in her hands. “Come,” she said again.
He had to do the rest of the work. Her limbs were too weak. She could but lie there and let him enter her cave of wonders. Let him climb the heights of the mountain of desire. Let him try to carry them both away in the flight of the majestic moth. But all he could feel was his weight upon her. She had been the one who’d filled him with lightness. She had been the soft wings that had beaten for them, bearing them aloft. And now she was broken and he felt his mortal weight pushing her into the mattress of the bed each time he plunged inside her.
And he felt the passion leaving him. Felt himself getting heavier. Felt like weeping aloud for the frustration of it. He cupped one of her mountains of the goddess in one hand and then found an image of Lucia’s bosom in his hand filling him. Her body beneath him. And he resumed his climb up the mountain. He imagined it was her he was embracing. Imagined her arms and legs were metamorphosing into the limbs of the butterfly. Imagined the wings were spreading out beneath him. Then he felt the lightness filling him. Felt the wonderful weightlessness come upon him.
He wanted to hold the moment as long as he could. It had been so long since he had felt it again. But he continued climbing the mountain, faster and faster, floating higher and higher until he reached the pinnacle of lightness. He moaned aloud, suspended in that moment of apogee, and then felt the soft sadness of the falling start to fill him. He lay his body down upon her and felt her push back at his weight. He rolled to one side and opened his eyes. She was staring at him and had a curious look on her face. What had she felt? Did she know he had just betrayed her in his mind?
“Was that good, my love?” she asked.
He worked his jaw and then said, “Let us rest now.” He closed his eyes so she would not see the sadness welling up in them. He reached out one hand and cupped her mountain of Aphrodite again. Tried to think of his wife in that farm house, but could not prevent himself thinking of Lucia lying there beside him, her soft moth wings slowly folding back into her body as she lay there, breathing softly beside him.
“Yes, let us rest and dream of happier times,” his wife said.
XXXVI
“Many more of them have come overnight,” said the guardsman to the Sergeant of the Guard. “I used to try to count them, but have given up.”
Sergeant Cristoforo looked out over the mass of the plague people that huddled around the gates and he nodded his head in agreement. “I will inform the Captain of the Guard,” he said, “And he will inform the City Council. Again.” The guardsman thought that if he had not been standing in the company of the Sergeant he would say that the Council were no more likely to pay the news any heed than pigs were likely to start speaking.
“One or two of the City Councillors should come down to the wall one day and see for themselves,” the guardsman said. And Sergeant Cristoforo thought that if he were not standing in the company of a common guardsman he would say that was as likely to happen as pigs were likely to start singing hymns.
“The Captain should offer them an invitation to that one day,” the Sergeant agreed. And both men thought that if they were not in the company of each other, they would say that it was more likely that pigs would start pissing wine.
“Do you think there are other cities, like us, that have withstood the plague?” the guardsman asked the Sergeant.
“They say there are,” he replied. “They say that there are cities across the seas that have resisted it.”
“Are they but stories? What if the whole world is dying of plague but for us?”
“My wife’s brother was the capitano of a Medici vessel,” Sergeant Cristoforo said. “He told me that the cities they sailed to in the heathen lands to buy the spice from were free of the plague. They did not even know its value for warding away the disease. If they had, they would have charged ten times the price or refused to sell it, perhaps.”
“Does your brother-in-law ever think of staying in one of those foreign ports?” the guardsman asked. “I have heard of ships that have sailed away and never come back.”
Sergeant Cristoforo shook his head. “Those ships have been lost at sea,” he said curtly. “Captains choose their crews with care and the men in the employ of the great Houses would never betray them.”
“Of course,” said the guardsman quickly. “I was not implying any dishonour on your brother-in-law’s part. It is just a story I have heard.”
Sergeant Cristoforo looked out over the hovels and the shelters that the plague people had built around the walls of the city and thought it was time they sent out a detachment to clear them away again. But there were so many of them now. What would happen if the plague people turned on the guardsmen? They would be overwhelmed quickly. They needed more men.
“What is his ship?” the guard asked.
“It was the Windseeker,” Sergeant Cristoforo said. And then before the guardsman could ask any more, he said, “It was lost to the maelstrom recently.”
“I am sorry for your loss,” the guardsman said.
Sergeant Cristoforo nodded his head. Just a little. He would rather his brother-in-law had fled to a foreign port and set himself up as a merchant or a slaver or anything other than to have died just in sight of the safe harbour of the Walled City.
The two men stood there in silence for some time, staring out at the uncountable numbers of plague people there before them. The Sergeant knew that if you stood there too long you started seeing individual disfigurements, and then started seeing each figure as a man, a woman or a child. That meant it was time to go below. He would wear armour over his eyes to fortify his senses against it. He would have liked to ask the guardsman if he ever saw them like that, but it was not a question that a Sergeant of the Guard ever asked a guardsman.
“I hear stories,” said the guardsman, “Of a great army of the plagued who are roaming the land like vermin, overwhelming each city they come to, be it free of plague or not.”
“Just stories,” said Sergeant Cristoforo.
“They say that this army is so large that when it moves across the land it is like one of the plagues of rats from the era of the ancients that moved like a giant black cloud many leagues in length.”
“Just stories,” said the Sergeant again.
Both men stood in silence a while longer. Then the guardsman said, “I have heard the plague will last eight years and will then leave the lands.”
“I have heard that too,” said the Sergeant.
“How many years now has it been?” asked the guardsman. “Five?”
“Six,” said Sergeant Cristoforo.
“Two years then,” said the guardsman. “We can last two more years.”
“Of course we can,” Sergeant Cristoforo replied. As long as the war between the great Houses did not continue that long. As long as there was no army of the plagued out there. As long as ships were able to continue trading without losing too many to the maelstrom. Then he turned to the guardsman and asked, “What do you see when you look out upon these wretches below?”
The guardsman shrugged. “I am a guard. They are the enemy trying to get into our city.”
Sergeant Cristoforo thought upon that a moment. Wondered if thinking of them as the enemy made the task of standing here on the wall more bearable. “So would you attack them and drive them away?”
“I would.”
“Would you put a case to the City Council that to defend our walls we must kill them?”
“No,” said the guardsman, and spat over the ramparts. “No point in killing them. They are dying already. We just need to stand here and wait.”
It was an interesting logic, thought the Sergeant. Then he asked, “But what happens when the number of plague people outside our walls is greater than the number of people inside the Walled City?”
“But that has already happened,” said the guardsman. “That’s when I gave up counting them.”
XXXVII
The Nameless One had been standing outside Lucia’s door, watching her through one of the spy holes for at least a quarter of a small candle’s length. He wondered if the letter he had sent to Cosimo Medici had been an error. He must find out. When he finally gave a quick tap on the door and stepped inside he was surprised to see how startled she was. He had been watching her so closely, surely she had felt him there. Surely.
But perhaps she was just good at masking her feelings from him? Not all masks were made of leather, he knew. He had watched every breath she had taken and watched the way her long hair moved when she turned her head. Surely she suspected she was being watched and was showing him how beautiful she was. Some of his guests had sat on the bed with their head in their hands for the whole duration of their internment here. Others had lain on the bed and cried, or hidden under the covers. But not this young woman. She was brave. She was willing to stand up to him. He admired that. And more. Of course more.
But what did she think of him? He had to know. “How is my little bird today?” he asked her. “Do I detect a sense of sadness in you?”
She stared at him coldly. “Do I detect a little conceit in you?” she asked.
He smiled. “Perhaps it is just that the little bird wishes for a warm scented bath, or some fresh air. Anything can be arranged,” he said.
“Birds do not have warm scented baths,” she replied. He pulled a mock sad face as if he was going to miss a treat. “Neither do reptiles,” she said, “So we can both go without.”
From anybody else he would have grown angry at that insult, but he smiled again. “And what type of reptile might I be?” he asked. “A dragon?”
“A lizard,” she said.
“Yes. One who can disappear into the walls, and when its tail is trapped it still escapes.”
“A snake then,” she said.
“A silent foe that lies in wait and strikes with deadly accuracy.”
“A scorpion,” she said.
“An armoured warrior that fears nobody.”
She stopped. “You are not a reptile,” she said. “You are a rodent.”
“But what type? A rat that lives beneath the city and emerges when it pleases? A mouse, that can move into a kitchen and steal cheese so stealthily that it is never seen nor heard?”
She clamped her mouth shut, refusing to play any more of his games, and the Nameless One shrugged and walked along to one of the few pictures on the wall and moved it a little one, way and then a little the other, as if it had been crooked and he needed to straighten it. Then he turned back and asked, “And what kind of bird are you, my dear?” But she would not answer.
“I will tell you,” he said. “You are a most rare bird. Probably there is no other like it in the world. One of the most beautiful birds even held in captivity. Undoubtedly the bird has a beautiful song too, but this is the sad thing about this bird. When it is in captivity it will not sing. It deprives all who would capture it and hear its beautiful song the pleasure of its music.”
Lucia narrowed her eyes and stared closely at him. “But I think the bird just needs to realise that it is not in captivity,” he said. “The bird needs to realise that it has freedom, but within the limits of a new master.”
“This bird will sing for no master,” Lucia said. “This bird only sings when it finds dead reptiles and rodents to feast on.”
That was too far. The Nameless One tried to control his temper but felt his face reddening. He clenched his fists by his sides, working his jaw a moment, and asked carefully, “Do you know what I am offering you?”
“No,” she said. “I do not.”
The Nameless One came and sat down on the bed beside her. She moved away a little. “I am a very lonely man,” he said. “I’d give all my wealth for a chance to live in solitude with a song bird to keep me company.”
“Then buy one in the markets,” she said.
He shook his head a little and then reached up and touched her hair. “Think again,” he said. “Do you know what I am offering you?”
“I don’t care,” she said.
He reached for her hand, but as soon as he touched her she pulled it back, as if bitten, and then slapped him on the face. He made no move to stop her. Let her hand connect with his jaw and he even closed his eyes a moment as if wanting to prolong the feeling of her touch.
But then he stood slowly and looked down at her, feeling the heat from the blow, feeling the heat of his anger filling him again. He reached out quickly and did grab her hair, pulling her a little off the bed. Then he saw the angry plague scars on her neck there and let go quickly. He stood up and remained completely still for a long time, the sound of their breathing suddenly loud in the room. He was aware that she was now watching him as he had watched her. Carefully monitoring his every small move to see what he would do next.
“You have made me very angry,” he said eventually, in as calm a voice as he could manage. “I am at times a violent man and you do not want to make me angry. You would do much better to make me happy. I am a very generous man when I am happy.”
“I don’t care,” she said again, though much softer this time.
“Do you know what would make me the most happy of men?” he asked. Perhaps she guessed, but she did not say so. “It would make me the most happy of men if you would ride away into the hills with me and sing your bird songs to me.” And I could pretend I was twenty years younger once more, he thought. I could pretend life was other than it is. Even if for only a short time.
“I do not wish to leave the city,” she said softly. “I do not wish to sing for you.”
“Consider it carefully,” he said. “And don’t respond so readily with haste and hot words. The city is falling into a war that will end badly for all involved and we may be the only two who can hope to hear a bird’s song rather than the drums of war.” When she said nothing still, he added, “Or the drums of death!” Then he turned and stepped back out the door. Returned once more to the peep holes to see how she would react. Would she drop her head to her hands now, or throw herself onto the bed, or just sit there and glare around the room, hoping to defiantly meet his eyes somewhere?
XXXVIII
The City Councillors had never felt more like impotent old men. Well, there was that one time of the mid-summer’s feast when the dancing girls had been arranged, but they had collectively vowed never to talk of that again. Apart from that evening, they had never felt more like impotent old men.
There had been a time when their word was not just law, but it was a law that was trusted and followed by the citizens of the Walled City. But that had not been for some time. The only power and authority they now held was at the Medici and Lorraines’ bequest. They had less troops in the City Guard than the two families had. They had less money in their coffers than the two families had. And they held less sway over the citizens of the city than the two families had.
It would have been good to point the blame at some city statute or some individual, and say, “That is what caused this. But we can turn it around.” But in truth they were all guilty of trading away their powers. For small favours. For gems. For spice wine. For a private dinner with the Duke or the Medici. For a pageant or a portrait or a fresco. All small vanities really.
The current Head Councillor, an elderly man called Signor Pacciani, who had particularly embarrassed himself on the night of the dancing girls, waved the slip of paper in his hand at his fellow councillors as if it were a large sword, and said, to bring them to order, “The City Guard reports the number of plague people at the gates has increased again. We must make a decision as to what is to be done.”
The men around the table looked at him, waiting for him to make a suggestion. It was his turn in the chair, after all, so all responsibility for failure should be his. The City Council rotated leadership every two months, which was ideal in better times because it allowed no one to scheme too much or demonstrate too much corruption, and it also meant that almost no decision was in the hands of a single leader as the implementation of any decision generally took more than two months. But since the plague people had arrived it seemed a good excuse for the Head Councillors never to have to make a hard decision – just wait out their turn and pass the problems to the next Head Councillor.
