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?