7

      Hawkwood stared at the pink eyes and the shaven scalp and wondered about the colour of Matisse’s hair. There was a name given to people whose hair was so blond it was almost white and whose red-rimmed eyes looked as if they were leaching blood. Whiteface, some called it, though that wasn’t its only name. Spain was where Hawkwood had come across the phenomenon, for the first and only other time, in the person of a small boy in an orphanage run by priests outside Astariz. The boy had been abandoned in the confessional as a baby, wrapped in a blanket, his only possession a small silver crucifix strung on a bootlace around his neck. The child had been seven years old when Hawkwood had met him and something of a miracle, for no one had expected him to live beyond his fourth birthday. The boy’s eyes had been sensitive to light, Hawkwood recalled, forcing him to spend most of his waking hours in a darkened room. It was one of the brothers who’d told Hawkwood that the word used to describe the boy’s condition had been borrowed from Portuguese traders. It was the name they gave to the white Negroes they’d encountered on the coast of Africa. They called them albinos.

      The colour of Matisse’s eyes suggested he might be a victim of the same abnormality. Maybe that was how the Romans’ alleged preference for the dark had got started. Maybe the stories were based purely on a distorted understanding of the Roman leader’s affliction.

      Hawkwood’s thoughts were interrupted.

      “Captain Lasseur! This is an honour! It’s not often we get to meet one of the republic’s naval heroes. Why, I was regaling my friends here only yesterday with tales of your exploits. Very impressed they were, too; especially with your taking of the British brig. Justice. Where was it now? Off the coast at Oran? I heard you were severely outgunned. That must have taken some courage. We admire a man with backbone, don’t we, boys?”

      There was a curious rough yet sibilant quality to the voice. The mocking words were heavily accented and didn’t so much emerge as slither from the tip of the man’s tongue. Hawkwood presumed that was due to the speaker’s Corsican heritage. There was no response from the other men lounging at the table, who looked as dissolute as their leader and decidedly unenthused by the prospect of receiving visitors, irrespective of their reputation.

      “And you’ll be our gallant American ally, Captain Hooper! I regret to say, due to an oversight no doubt, Captain Hooper’s reputation has failed to precede him. My commiserations, nevertheless, on your capture, sir. The Emperor needs all the help he can get. My spies tell me you’re newly arrived from Spain; a bloody battleground, by all accounts. The newspapers here say that Wellington’s giving us a roasting. Is that true? Or are they pamphleteering, I wonder?”

      Hawkwood ignored the question. He stuck out his boot and shoved Juvert forward. “I’m told this belongs to you.”

      Surprise and gravity did the rest. The trip sent Juvert flying. Forced to put out his hands to save himself, he let out an undignified splutter as he slewed across the deck, forcing several of the onlookers to scramble back from his line of trajectory. The boy jumped nervously, his eyes wide. Shaken out of their insouciance, the men on either side of him sat up. Shock lanced across their faces.

      The shaven-headed man’s pose did not change. It was hard to read the expression in his eyes as he stared down at Juvert’s prostrate body. Only the contraction of his jaw muscles indicated the essence of his thoughts. He looked up, his arm still draped across the boy’s shoulders.