“Yes, sir.”
With that, Solomon Solomon turned and marched back to his podium. Cale slowly got to his feet, his head ringing. All of the other apprentices were staring ahead in terror, except for Vague Henri and Kleist, who stared ahead because they knew what was required. One person, however, was looking at him: the tallest and most graceful of the Materazzi, the one in front of whose shield Cale was standing. Those around him were laughing, but the blond Materazzi was not. He was almost bright red with anger.
Not even the beating he had handed out to Cale improved Solomon Solomon’s temper; the loss of so much money had been a deep blow to the heart. “Attend to your apprentices. Shortswords.”
The Mond walked toward the line of apprentices and stood opposite. The tall young Materazzi looked at Cale and spoke softly. “Make an exhibition of yourself like that again and I’ll make you wish you’d never been born. Do you hear?”
“Yes, I hear,” replied Cale.
“I am Conn Materazzi. You call me Boss from now on.”
“Yes, Boss, I hear.”
“Give me the shortsword.”
Cale turned around. There were three swords hanging from a wooden bar, with blades of equal length but different shapes, from straight to curved. To Cale, a sword was a sword. He picked one.
“Not that one.” This was followed by a kick in the arse. “The other one.” Cale reached for the sword next to it. He took another kick. There was much laughter from Conn Materazzi’s cronies and some of the apprentices. “The other one,” said Conn. Cale picked it out and handed it to the smiling young man. “Good. Now say thank you for that instructional kick.” There was quiet at this, the quiet of expectation that perhaps the apprentice might be foolish enough to protest or, even better, strike back.
“Thank me,” repeated Conn.
“Thank you, Boss,” said Cale, almost pleasantly, much to the relief of Vague Henri and even Kleist.
“Excellent,” said Conn, looking at his pals. “A lack of backbone, I like to see that in a servant.” The ingratiating laughter was cut short by another barked order from Solomon Solomon. For the next two hours Cale watched, head aching, as the Mond went through their training routines. When it was over, they left the field, laughing, to bathe and eat. Then several older men, the scouts, came out and instructed the apprentices in the use and care of the weapons stacked behind them.
Later, the three sat and talked, Vague Henri and Kleist surprisingly more miserable than Cale.
“God,” said Kleist, “I thought we’d finally had a bit of luck turning up here.” He looked at Cale bitterly. “You have a real talent, Cale, for getting under people’s skin. It took you, what, twenty minutes to pick a fight with the two biggest smells in what looked like being a really cushy number.”
Cale considered this thoughtfully, but said nothing.
“Do you want to leave tonight?” asked Vague Henri.
“No,” replied Cale, still thoughtful. “I’ll need time to steal as much stuff as I can.”
“It isn’t wise to wait. Think what might happen.”
“It’ll be all right. Besides, there’s no need for you two to leave. Kleist is right, you’ve landed on your feet here.”
“Hah!” said Vague Henri. “Once you’re gone, they’ll move on to us anyway.”
“They might, they might not. Perhaps Kleist is right-it’s something about me that makes people angry.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Vague Henri.
“Don’t.”
“I said I’ll come.”
There was a long silence, finally broken by Kleist. “Well, I’m not staying here on my own,” he said, and stormed off in a sulk.
“Perhaps,” said Cale, “we could leave before he gets back.”
“It makes sense for us to stick together.”
“I suppose so, but why does he have to whinge so much?”
“He just does. It’s his way. He’s OK.”
“Really?” asked Cale, as if only mildly curious.
“When do you want to leave?”
“A week-there’s a lot of stuff worth filching here. We need to stock up.”
“It’s too dangerous.”
“It’ll be fine.”
“I don’t agree.”
“Well, it’s my head and my arse, so it’s my decision.”
Vague Henri shrugged. “I suppose so.” He changed the conversation. “What did you think of the Mond-full of themselves, wouldn’t you say?”
“Pretty good, though.”
“Well,” said Vague Henri, smiling, “pretty, anyway.” After a pause he said, “Do you think Riba will be all right?”
“Why shouldn’t she be?”
It was clear that Vague Henri was truly worried. “The thing is,” he said, “she’s not like you and me. She couldn’t take a beating or anything. She wasn’t brought up to that.”
“She’ll be fine. Vipond has seen us all right, hasn’t he? What Kleist said is true-if it wasn’t for me, you’d be in clover here.” He didn’t in fact know what clover was, but he’d heard the saying a couple of times and liked the sound of it. “Riba knows how to get on with people. She’ll be all right.”
“Why can’t you get on with people, then?”
“I don’t know.”
“Just try and stay out the way, and if you can’t, stop looking like you want to slit their throats and feed them to the dogs.”
But the next day Vague Henri’s hope that things might blow over with Solomon Solomon and Conn Materazzi was disappointed. Solomon Solomon found another excuse to continue the hefty beating of the day before, but this time in the middle of the field so that everyone could have a good look and be encouraged to find an excuse to do likewise. Conn Materazzi, however, more subtle than his fighting master and unwilling to be seen merely to be copying him, continued kicking Cale on the slightest pretense but putting hardly any force into it. The young man had a talent for humiliation, treating Cale as if he were an amusing burden that was his lot to deal with as kindly as possible. With his long and flexible legs and after a lifetime of practice, he could hit Cale on the back of the leg, his arse or give him a gentle clip around the ear, as if using his hands on someone like Cale was to take him too seriously. After four days of this, it was Conn’s effect on Cale that began to worry Vague Henri more than the rough treatment handed out by Solomon Solomon. Cale was used to a brutality more extreme than anything Solomon Solomon could come up with. But mockery, being made to look ridiculous, was outside their experience. Henri began to worry that Cale might be provoked into striking back.
“He seems calmer than ever to me,” said Kleist as Vague Henri sat beside him worrying.
“As quiet as a haunted house until its demon be up.” They both laughed at this often-repeated line from the Redeemers.
“Just two more days.”
“Let’s get him to leave tomorrow.”
“All right.”
Conn Materazzi continued to develop his role as the tolerant master of a ridiculous fool with ever greater malice-and was much admired by his friends for doing so. In between the hefty beatings handed out by Solomon Solomon, he would ruffle Cale’s hair over some pretended mistake, as if he were an old family pet, incontinent yet much pitied. There were endless provoking gentle slaps to the back of his head, light taps on the buttocks with the flat of his sword blade. And all the time Cale became quieter and quieter. And Conn would see this-see that the hefty beatings seemed to leave no impression, but that, however carefully disguised, his mockery was slowly penetrating through this very hard soul. Conn Materazzi was a monster, but no fool.
The Materazzi were famous for two things: the first, their supreme skill in the martial arts and a reckless courage to go with it; the second, the extraordinary beauty of the Materazzi women, matched by their extraordinary coldness. Indeed, it was said that it was impossible to understand the Materazzi’s willingness to die in battle until you had met one of their wives. The Materazzi individually and collectively were a terrifying war machine. But if you really did encounter one of their wives, you would certainly be met with a condescension, pride and dismissal such as you would never have experienced before. But you would also have been thunderstruck by their beauty-and, like the Materazzi men, been willing to endure almost anything for a smile or a patronizing kiss. Although the Materazzi held nearly a third of the known world in the solid grip of their military, economic and political power, the conquered could always console themselves with the thought that, however great their ascendancy, the Materazzi were slaves to their women.