On her arrival in Spanish Leeds, having been more than anyone else responsible for stopping the Redeemers at the Mississippi, and therefore preventing them from swarming into Switzerland to begin the first stage of the end of the world, she was greeted with polite, if brief, applause and a place at the bottom of the table, like a wedding guest who’d been invited for form’s sake but no one wanted to talk to. She was being ignored not just because she was a woman, although it was partly that; even if Artemisia had been a man it would have been hard to place her in the scheme of things. No one whose judgement they especially trusted had actually seen her in action. Perhaps her successes were just good luck or exaggerated. History was full of striking successes by people who either never repeated that success or who spectacularly failed when they attempted to do so. There’s a reason why we feel that trust has to be earned – by and large it’s the product of repeated success. But Artemisia had emerged from nowhere and her manner would not necessarily have inspired confidence even in an open-minded person. She deserved that confidence but it was not impossible to understand why she didn’t have it. She had asked to be put in charge of the defence of the South Bank of the Mississippi but this had not been so much refused as simply referred to various war committees where her request would evaporate like a shallow puddle in Arnhemland. She could have returned to command her own small private army, but only on the banks opposite Halicarnassus where no one, certainly not Artemisia, thought the Redeemers would cross because there were so many better places to do so. So she decided to stay in Spanish Leeds and see what she could do to find a position where she could properly influence events.
Five days after arriving she was already in despair. Whenever she spoke at the interminable meetings to discuss the war her observations were followed by a short, slightly puzzled, silence and then the arguments continued as if she had never spoken. It was at a garden party on the sixth day that she first met Thomas Cale. She had been trying to insert herself in the discussion around various military advisors without success – once she offered an opinion it acted like soap on oil – the group quickly dispersed, leaving her holding a glass of wine and an amuse bouche of toasted bread and anchovies and feeling like an idiot. Eventually, in high frustration, she went up to a young man, not much more than a boy, who was leaning against a wall and eating a vol-au-vent with his right hand, while holding two others in his left.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m Artemisia Halicarnassus.’
The boy looked her over while continuing to chew slowly like, she thought, an unusually intelligent goat.
‘Big name for such a little girl.’
‘Well,’ she replied, ‘after you tell me your name perhaps you can give me a list of your achievements.’
In most other circumstances this would have been successful at putting such an obvious nobody in his place. ‘I’m Thomas Cale,’ he said, and set out all his great deeds in a boastfully matter-of-fact way.
‘I’ve heard of you,’ she said.
‘Everyone’s heard of me.’
‘I’ve heard that you’re a well-poisoning yob who lets children and women starve and brings carnage and massacre wherever he goes.’
‘I’ve done my fair share of well-poisoning and murder. But I’m not all bad.’
He was used to hearing abuse like this, if not directly. What was strange about it this time was not just that it was said to his face, but that it was done in a slightly distracted manner, her blue eyes fluttering, and in a tone that if she were not accusing him of dreadful infamies would have been almost sickly sweet. She was looking at her fingernails as if they were an object of total fascination.
‘I’ve heard of you, too.’
She looked up at him, eyes fluttering, for all the world like some fabulous social butterfly about to receive yet another compliment about her refulgent beauty. She knew, of course, an insult was coming. Cale spun the moment out. ‘Not bad,’ he said at last. ‘If what I heard was true.’
‘It is true.’
She had not meant to show she cared for other people’s good opinion so much. And indeed she didn’t. At least not so much. But she did care for it. And she had been so cross about not being given her due that this surprising compliment caught her out.
‘Then tell me about it,’ said Cale.
Perhaps not even girls or cake can equal the pleasures offered by someone of the highest reputation informing you of your unique brilliance. Cale may have been a well-poisoning murderer but Artemisia found these unhappy qualities receding into the background as it became clear both that he knew what he was talking about and that he admired her enormously. It was not just his flattery that warmed her. His questions, scepticism and doubts, all of which she was able to answer, gave as much delight as having the sore muscles of her delicate neck and shoulders massaged by expert hands. She was, by this time, nearly thirty years old and while she had liked her late husband, who had adored her and indulged her in her peculiar interest, she had not loved him or any man. Men desired her not because she was beautiful in any conventional way, but because of the very quality of otherworldly distraction and a lack of interest in them that also perplexed them. In short, they found her excitingly enigmatic but what they failed to realize as they praised her mysteriousness was that she did not want to be mysterious. She wanted to be admired for her abilities, appreciated for her good judgement, cunning and brains. Cale, without showing any apparent interest in her as a woman, understood her brilliance and set it out to her in adorable detail, and for several hours.
By the end of the evening she was (how could she not be?) already half in love. Both were equally astonished that the other was not in some position of great importance, given how wonderful they were. Neither of them, perhaps for similar reasons, had any idea how galling and irritating it was to be around them. They could not easily grasp that no one, especially if they were untalented, wanted to have their lack of ability made plain. He arranged to meet her the next day at the wine garden in Roundhay Park, which delighted her, and said that he would bring a friend of his if he was well enough, which did not delight her quite so much. Then he was gone. His sudden departure made him seem mysterious to her and it also left her off-balance; he had seemed so fascinated by her but had then left suddenly and in an almost off-hand way. She was somewhat put out that this only made him seem more attractive. The truth was he’d left so suddenly because he felt as if he was going to throw up. Anxious to avoid the bad impression this might make he left abruptly and only made it to the street outside before he started retching.
‘Artemisia Whasername?’ said IdrisPukke, the next morning. ‘I wouldn’t have thought she was your type at all.’
‘Meaning?’
‘A bit winsome.’
‘Windsom?’
‘Affected.’
‘Affected?’
‘Making a show of being endearing and mysterious – all those fluttering eyelashes and staring into the distance.’
‘She wasn’t making a show – she was just bored. She’s a brilliant woman.’
‘You don’t think all that stuff about her is exaggerated?’
‘If I say it wasn’t exaggerated, then it wasn’t. I went through everything, tried to dismantle her head to foot, but she stood it up. As it happens, she’s a marvel.’
‘Well if the Great Bighead thinks so well of her we must take a look.’