stressed, ‘Hot as anything, he was. If I hadn’t taken pity and
brought him water . . . That’s why he’s still here, see? No man wants to
move him when he’s got jail-fever, it’s the risk they might get it.’
I stepped forward, towards the door. Another ducat made its way from
my fingers to the middle-aged man’s hand.
More cheerfully, he said, ‘Tough little bugger, though! He was dizzy
and falling over and raving for a week; it would have killed another man.
Here.’
57
The jailer swung the oak door open, and I saw it as thick through as a
man’s hand is wide.
Muttering, the jailor felt in his pockets for flint and tinder-box, and set
about lighting the torches in the cell. A curve emerged from the darkness:
became a man’s back, where the man slumped on straw on the floor. For
several minutes I watched.
Ramiro Carrasco de Luis did not raise his head.
‘I know what it’s like,’ I said.
He turned over, at last. I saw comprehension on his face.
Hoarsely, he said, ‘Ilaria . . . You were a slave. You know what it’s like
to be chained up like a dog.’
‘And now you know, too.’
The torchlight showed me his face clearly enough. His bruises were
mostly healed. Fading scabs still covered the cuts; the swelling had
finished going down over his right eye. Under his prison-filthy clothes, I
suspected there would be other injuries; a cracked or broken rib or two,
now probably healed.
Ramiro Carrasco rasped, ‘Not so pretty to draw, now?’
‘You’d be more interesting to draw now,’ I said truthfully.
He flinched as I stepped near to him.
I wondered: Have you begun to learn what can happen to a man in a
prison?
‘ . . . Although I don’t know if I could use you for the beaten Christus
Imperator in the same panel as St Gaius.’
Another flicker of expression that was almost a flinch. Painfully,
slowly, he got to his feet. As he straightened up, I thought he might be doing it simply to stand taller than I was, and not be intimidated.
He blinked at me. I saw him realise that we were much of a height.
‘I thought you’d come for a look.’ He attempted a glare of moral
superiority. ‘Poke a stick through the bars.’
He spoke with his gaze on me, ignoring the jailer and Attila and
Tottola as if they were not present. I admired that attempt at dignity.
‘You think I’m petty enough to want to see the man who tried to kill
me chained up in his own filth?’
That wasn’t quite accurate: the cell had basic facilities of straw and a
chamber-pot. But Ramiro Carrasco coloured up all the same; I saw that
clearly in the torchlight. To paint a blush in that light would require
skill.
‘ I would.’ Carrasco shrugged. ‘Why wouldn’t you?’
‘I didn’t say I wouldn’t. I’m as petty as the next . . . woman,’ I
specified, remembering the jailer behind me. ‘You put a pillow over my
face. I was terrified. I don’t much mind seeing you here, terrified
yourself.’
‘I’m not afraid!’
He might be speaking the truth. What I saw, if I looked as close as an
58
artist can, was not necessarily fear. It was very like the desperation I had
seen in his eyes as he pushed me back against the bed. But mixed with
hopelessness, now.
‘Why did you want to kill me?’
He scrubbed his fingers through his curly hair, each as filthy as the
other. ‘I didn’t want to!’
And that is the truth.
The realisation surprised me. I caught Ramiro Carrasco’s eye, and the
half-sardonic and half-frightened look there.
A smugness, at having told me a truth he thinks I will dismiss out of
hand.
And something that isn’t fear of execution, or exile, or dying in jail.
‘Why did you try?’ I ticked it off on upraised fingers just protruding
from the fur of the cloak, wrapped warm around me in this freezing
prison cell. ‘Near to the Riva degli Schiavona. In the gondola. Across the
lagoon, on Torcello. You tried , certainly.’
Temper slashed in his tone.
brought him water . . . That’s why he’s still here, see? No man wants to
move him when he’s got jail-fever, it’s the risk they might get it.’
I stepped forward, towards the door. Another ducat made its way from
my fingers to the middle-aged man’s hand.
More cheerfully, he said, ‘Tough little bugger, though! He was dizzy
and falling over and raving for a week; it would have killed another man.
Here.’
57
The jailer swung the oak door open, and I saw it as thick through as a
man’s hand is wide.
Muttering, the jailor felt in his pockets for flint and tinder-box, and set
about lighting the torches in the cell. A curve emerged from the darkness:
became a man’s back, where the man slumped on straw on the floor. For
several minutes I watched.
Ramiro Carrasco de Luis did not raise his head.
‘I know what it’s like,’ I said.
He turned over, at last. I saw comprehension on his face.
Hoarsely, he said, ‘Ilaria . . . You were a slave. You know what it’s like
to be chained up like a dog.’
‘And now you know, too.’
The torchlight showed me his face clearly enough. His bruises were
mostly healed. Fading scabs still covered the cuts; the swelling had
finished going down over his right eye. Under his prison-filthy clothes, I
suspected there would be other injuries; a cracked or broken rib or two,
now probably healed.
Ramiro Carrasco rasped, ‘Not so pretty to draw, now?’
‘You’d be more interesting to draw now,’ I said truthfully.
He flinched as I stepped near to him.
I wondered: Have you begun to learn what can happen to a man in a
prison?
‘ . . . Although I don’t know if I could use you for the beaten Christus
Imperator in the same panel as St Gaius.’
Another flicker of expression that was almost a flinch. Painfully,
slowly, he got to his feet. As he straightened up, I thought he might be doing it simply to stand taller than I was, and not be intimidated.
He blinked at me. I saw him realise that we were much of a height.
‘I thought you’d come for a look.’ He attempted a glare of moral
superiority. ‘Poke a stick through the bars.’
He spoke with his gaze on me, ignoring the jailer and Attila and
Tottola as if they were not present. I admired that attempt at dignity.
‘You think I’m petty enough to want to see the man who tried to kill
me chained up in his own filth?’
That wasn’t quite accurate: the cell had basic facilities of straw and a
chamber-pot. But Ramiro Carrasco coloured up all the same; I saw that
clearly in the torchlight. To paint a blush in that light would require
skill.
‘ I would.’ Carrasco shrugged. ‘Why wouldn’t you?’
‘I didn’t say I wouldn’t. I’m as petty as the next . . . woman,’ I
specified, remembering the jailer behind me. ‘You put a pillow over my
face. I was terrified. I don’t much mind seeing you here, terrified
yourself.’
‘I’m not afraid!’
He might be speaking the truth. What I saw, if I looked as close as an
58
artist can, was not necessarily fear. It was very like the desperation I had
seen in his eyes as he pushed me back against the bed. But mixed with
hopelessness, now.
‘Why did you want to kill me?’
He scrubbed his fingers through his curly hair, each as filthy as the
other. ‘I didn’t want to!’
And that is the truth.
The realisation surprised me. I caught Ramiro Carrasco’s eye, and the
half-sardonic and half-frightened look there.
A smugness, at having told me a truth he thinks I will dismiss out of
hand.
And something that isn’t fear of execution, or exile, or dying in jail.
‘Why did you try?’ I ticked it off on upraised fingers just protruding
from the fur of the cloak, wrapped warm around me in this freezing
prison cell. ‘Near to the Riva degli Schiavona. In the gondola. Across the
lagoon, on Torcello. You tried , certainly.’
Temper slashed in his tone.
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