Lion's Blood

by Steven Barnes

  There were stories that slaves on other farms were treated far worse. The overseers would sometimes imply that they were lucky to be here—thereby subtly threatening them with removal to one of these fabled terrible places.

  But that was little relief, little comfort. His sister, Nessa, was out there . . . somewhere. Aidan knew his mother's prayer was to ingratiate herself to her new masters, and plead with them to find her child and buy her. That would take time, and God only knew what might happen to Nessa in the meantime.

  Aidan began to babble, barely in control of the words as he complained of his hardship in learning the new tongue. "Tá beagán cúthaileacbia orm fós faoi bheith á labhairt—"

  Deirdre interrupted. Her face was drawn, once-flawless skin blemished and pulled tightly across her cheeks. She was still beautiful to him, but he could see clearly the old woman she would be, and knew that that age would crumble her before her time if he did not find a way to get them out of here. Their home betrayed the pitiful efforts she had made to create beauty and maintain dignity in their new surroundings. Candles, flowers, small shining rocks—anything that might create a pattern of their own in this place, something to remind them of the rhythms and spaces of their own world.

  "We are here in this land now," she said, then lapsing into Irish continued: "Tá sé tábhachtach nésanna na tire a cboinneáil i gcuimhne agus aird a tbabhairt orthu." It is vital to learn and practice these new customs.

  "The words don't fit in my mouth," he protested.

  "De réir mar a dhéanann tá botuin foghlaimeoidh tú." As you make mistakes, you will learn.

  Then, as though angry with herself for lapsing into her native tongue, she stumbled through her Arabic sentences. "Aidan, la tayyib. Not good. Learn to speak. Practice speak." She fought over the words, but he was suddenly ashamed that she had done so much better than he. He was the man of the house now! "This our home," she concluded, and there was a touch of exhaustion about her, as if the alien words were chunks of iron in her head.

  Aidan thought, searching his meager store of Arabic words and phrases. "Nil agam acb beagáinin Araby." I speak only a little Arabic, he said, lapsing into Gaelic again.

  "Isti'mal. Practice," she said. "Get good. Here. Akal. Eat."

  He sat. Speaking that damned devil tongue made his head spin, as if he had to learn to think like the black monsters in order to just speak their chittering, awful speech. Deirdre placed a bowl of stew on the table before him, and he sniffed deeply. Mutton, thickened with vegetables and teff flour. He wanted to turn his nose up at it, but his stomach rumbled. Aidan dipped his wooden spoon and lifted it to his lips.

  "Miswab. Spoon," he said, pulling the word out of his mind. "Batiya-i. Bowl."

  He took a bite of stew, and his face relaxed into pleasure at his first taste of the savory collation. At least they were not starved. That was a good thing. A warrior had to remain strong. To remain strong, he would have to eat. Eat and isti'mal. Practice.

  Deirdre watched him for a few moments. He met her eyes, saw the tiny trace of a smile that curved her lips, wished that he could offer more to her. She tried to be strong for him, but he heard her crying at night, every night. Knew that she was not whole without his father, who had died trying to save them. Knew that she felt she had failed his sister. He had to be strong, for her, for both of them.

  He finished another mouthful and sat, studying the spoon thoughtfully. He made a slashing gesture. At Mah-lick’s castle he had found a ventilation grate close to the ground. There he had squatted, watching the lesson as Kai and his terrifying teacher swirled through their paces. He was sure that Kai and the big man were related. Perhaps Mah-lick was an uncle: Aidan hadn't picked up enough of the language to ask that question yet, but there was a family resemblance. The teacher looked like the Wah-kill would look if he lost some belly. Not that the Wah-kill looked fat, or slow. Just that the teacher was as lean as a wolf, and moved faster than any human being he had ever seen. If only O'Dere's warriors had possessed such skill! Certainly, these blacks were more powerful than the Northmen. They probably had greater weapons as well.

  If Aidan could be a friend to Kai, he would have the chance to learn things, things that he might use one day to kill many of the black men, and perhaps the Northmen who had destroyed his village. Yes, that would be good.

  Hatred, raw and corrosive, welled within him, gnawing at the emotional mask that he wore in the presence of the black men. That much he had learned. Never let an enemy know how you feel. The whip scars on his back had taught him as much. Smile and nod, do your work, find ways to make yourself useful when they are watching, and creep off when the work is done. Yes. These things and more he had learned.

  He swept the spoon up and down in the air, making sword strokes.

  He looked at the spoon. "Battar. Sword," he said in perfect Arabic.

  Yaqtul.

  Kill.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Belly full and warm, Kai was climbing to his bedroom on aching legs when he heard a faint voice originating from one of the far rooms on the second floor. His pulse quickened and he immediately abandoned his notions of heading to bed, where nothing more riveting than a book of local history awaited him. Who cared how much net profit his grandfather Rashid had accrued when the first boatload of wretched whites arrived in New Djibouti? The Wakil wanted Kai to memorize vast columns of financial data, but the idea of more study tonight made his head hurt.

  This wing and floor had been consigned to the royal Lamiya and her entourage, and the voices could only mean that a late-night lesson was under way. Kai tiptoed along the hallway and then paused outside the broad double doors of the library that had been converted for the use of Lamiya's brilliant tutor, Babatunde.

  Now in his fifties, Babatunde was the son of a Yoruba prince and a shepherd girl of Yoruba and Turkish extraction. Denied palace comforts and tutors by reason of his tainted blood, he was a true genius, renowned for his poetry and scholarship by the age of twenty, holder of a spiritual lineage at least forty generations old, extending back through Nur Addin Qwami and Jafar Al Siddik to Bilal, and ultimately to the Prophet himself.

  By twenty-five he had come to the attention of the Pharaoh, winning a royal appointment to serve the imperial house. During a cultural exchange between Alexandria and Addis Ababa, Babatunde had been hired by the Empress to educate her own family. It was her throne Babatunde had served for the last twenty years. Babatunde accompanied Lamiya as friend and tutor, and while in Dar Kush, the household's children had access to his wisdom. Education was a combination of lecture, guided self-study, and spontaneous discourse. Math, history, philosophy, science, theology, and warrior craft were Kai's disciplines. Elenya and Lamiya's educations were similar, save for the combatives. In early adulthood, varying, but usually between the ages of seventeen and twenty, children of the wealthy traveled to New Alexandria or even Addis Ababa for college. This would be Elenya's eventual journey, and perhaps Kai’s. Ali was receiving a far more practical education at his father’s side.

  Kai came close enough to the door to hear clearly. The air was a bit warm, and the door had been left ajar to enhance circulation. Babatunde's voice was melodic and distinct, well articulated in any of the six languages he spoke fluently. "And by what is the Royal House of Kush bound to the throne of India?" he asked.

  Lamiya answered so precisely she might have been reading from a book. "The Alexandrian Concords of 770 established trade and were the first of many mutual defense and assistance treaties for the Pan-Indian trade sphere."

  Kai felt his knees wobble a little. Her voice was the very epitome of feminine perfection. He thought that it reminded him of his sainted mother's, although he had not heard that voice in many years. It had the same calming effect on his heart,

  "Very good," Babatunde said patiently. "And the only interruption to that pact?"

  Lamiya answered without the slightest hesitation. "In 1008, during the Persian Insurgence, when India refused to i
mpose trade restrictions."

  Kai heard a book slapping shut. "Very good," Babatunde said. "Let's call that all for the day, shall we?"

  Lamiya sighed. "My head is very full," she said, and Kai could easily imagine her holding it between her hands. "I would be grateful."

  There was a general rustling sound, as books and papers were ordered and arranged, then Lamiya and her maids filed out of the room. Kai had already hidden himself behind a bookcase, a position from which he could watch unseen. They were all lovely, but beside Lamiya the most striking was Bitta, Lamiya's chaperone and companion, a tall, broad, shaven-headed woman of mixed Zulu-Ibo extraction. Her scarred cheeks and exceptionally alert eyes seemed more appropriate to a blooded warrior than any woman. Oddly, her hands and feet were delicate. He had glimpsed the black handle of the knife hidden beneath her shawl, and guessed that she wielded it with skill sufficient to shame most men.

  The women chatted among themselves as they headed for their rooms. When the hall was empty, Kai crept back to the door.

  Babatunde's back was to him. The great teacher seemed always in motion, engaged in this or that project, lecture, or experiment. Kai crept toward him. Babatunde seemed completely absorbed by shelves of beakers and bubbling vials containing whatever arcane project currently occupied his vast mind. Transmutation of gold? Kai had heard rumors that the Yoruba knew that secret. True? False?

  Babatunde gave no external sign that anything had impinged upon his consciousness. He picked up a hard rubber ball that sat on the table next to him and weighed it in his hand. What was Babatunde up to? Was this part of a precious secret? Kai felt almost ashamed to be spying on the great man. So a ball of India rubber, immersed in one of the bubbling vats, yes . . .

  Babatunde tossed the ball over his shoulder, bouncing it off the ceiling. Kai's eyes followed it, confusion momentarily clouding his reflexes. The rubber sphere descended at a steep angle, and bopped him squarely on the nose.

  "Ow!"

  He stumbled back, rubbing the offended body part, eyes smarting.

  When he had recovered, Babatunde regarded him mildly, muscular arms crossed. Babatunde's face was kindly and sharp, with no more than a touch of chalk about his cheeks and brown skin. His black eyes twinkled with mischief above a strong, prominent nose. "Shouldn't you be studying, young sir?"

  "Your lessons are more interesting."

  "Did you learn much, crouching in the shadows?"

  Kai blinked the water from his eyes. "Lamiya was wrong," he said.

  Babatunde's expression was mild. "Really?"

  Kai nodded. "India didn't refuse to impose restrictions on Persia."

  "Hmmm," Babatunde said, as if his mind had already moved on to something else. He picked up a piece of red cloth from the back of a chair and tied it around Kai's face, effectively blindfolding him. He smelled of cinnamon. "Tell me why you think so." Babatunde picked up a stick and drew its tip carefully and lightly across the wall. Kai pivoted, pointing with his finger, following the sound. "Tell me what you think happened."

  In darkness, Kai used his ears. As he spoke, Babatunde changed the direction of scraping stick, using the sound of speech to mask his action. Tricky. But not tricky enough. "According to Al'hadif, who chronicled the event for the Empress . . ." up, and then in a circle, Babatunde moved the stick. Listen carefully, carefully. Kai fought to create a still, silent space within himself. He became very quiet, which is difficult when simultaneously attempting to answer questions. 'The Abyssinian Pan-Indian trade sphere was the Empress's attempt to balance Egypt's military power. The throne of Egypt disapproved and wanted to punish the Empress, but only unofficially."

  Babatunde had changed the game. Now he was pushing the little red ball with the tip of his stick. The ball made almost no sound at all, and Kai had to pause and concentrate in order to hear it. Wait. . . there it was. Kai began tracking again, following a whisper-thin thread of sound. Then the sound ended. Pause. A moment later, a thump on the floor.

  Babatunde had pushed the hall off the edge of the table.

  "So that. . . ?" Babatunde asked, as Kai fought to keep track of the bumps and thumps as the ball bounced across the floor.

  "The whole trade thing was just . . . a convenient . . . excuse for the Pharaoh's punishment."

  Kai snatched at the ball, and caught it on the third bounce. He took off the blindfold, and Babatunde applauded delightedly. "Excellent," he beamed.

  Kai smiled with pride. It had taken months to learn how to track the ball. Babatunde was always coming up with new tricks and tests. It sometimes seemed that El Sursur, the Cricket, lived for nothing other than teaching.

  A few of the beakers in the racks were smoking, heated from beneath by chemical flames.

  "What are you doing this time? Making gold from lead?"

  "Another convenient fiction, I'm afraid," Babatunde said, though Kai still suspected that El Sursur might be keeping secrets from him. Crickets were wily insects. "The world is not its symbols, Kai. The form is not the essence. When wise men speak of creating gold from lead, they speak of any transformation of lesser to higher form. Usually it is a reference to the growth of the human spirit itself. My intent here is nothing so lofty. I am precipitating solids from a solution. Do you remember what I taught you about that?"

  Kai searched his memory. "Super—super . . . saturate the solution, and it forms precipitates."

  Babatunde clapped approval. "Very good. Hand me that, would you?" He indicated a leather pouch next to Kai's elbow. Kai hefted it. It weighed a kite or so, and contained some kind of powder.

  "Why are you so interested in these things?" the boy asked.

  Babatunde opened the pouch, then began examining a rack of little scoops and spoons of various size, finally choosing one with a bowl the size of Kai's thumb, measuring a cubic digit. "Al-Mubdi, the Originator, created a miraculous universe, and expects us to learn its marvels." He took two heaping scoops and placed the contents into a metal pan. Then he chose a second container, which was filled with a thick clear liquid. With a second, clean spoon, he scooped out a glob of the stuff, and seemed to be measuring it with his eyes. "You're actually quite good at this, you know." Kai glowed. The occasions on which Babatunde allowed him to play in the lab were some of the very best times in his life.

  Babatunde mixed the gel with the powder, took a step back and produced a timepiece from the folds of his robe. He counted to himself. In fifteen seconds, just as Kai was becoming a bit impatient, fire flashed with a sharp crack! followed by a tiny puff of black smoke.

  Kai jumped back a step. "My soul!"

  Babatunde nodded to himself. He may have been pretending to conduct some sort of experiment, but Kai knew that that particular demonstration had been just for him. "Yes. Useful." He became more animated as he turned to face Kai. Now he looked to be at least twenty years younger than his half-century. "I would like to speak with your father again. I think sending you to school in Addis Ababa would refine certain qualities of mind . . ."

  Kai frowned. As the flames died down he found a little flat wooden stick and stirred the mess. It hissed at him. "Father will never agree. He doesn't like me to spend so much time with you."

  Babatunde shrugged. "Well, there are sometimes ways to make even the strongest change his mind. Turn up the burner, would you?" Babatunde turned his attention to a bubbling beaker on the other side, and found the dial controlling the fire vent. While Babatunde wasn't looking, Kai managed to secure a bag of each of the volatile ingredients beneath his shirt.

  "Very interesting," Babatunde said behind him, and Kai gave a guilty start. "Did you know it is possible to predict the color of a solution by its components?"

  Kai breathed a sigh of relief. "Really?"

  Before another word was said the great door opened. Faster than conscious thought, the boy dropped down behind the nearest counter as his father swept imperiously into the room. Kai crouched and hid, barely able to breathe.

  He crept around to a corn
er until he was slightly behind the Wakil, staying low. Kai watched Babatunde bow, nothing in his face or manner betraying either amusement or nervousness. "Wakil. Can I be of service?"

  Abu Ali shook the tutor's hand, wrist to wrist in the manner of equals. A high complement to El Sursur indeed. "Babatunde, my friend. We are entering negotiations with the northern Gupta settlement, and I wished to make a present to the lady of the greatest house."

  Babatunde's fingers combed his beard. "Ah. That would be the Benares. And this concerns . . . ?"

  "Quarry sales. Several thousand cubic cubits of granite."

  Babatunde stroked his beard. "Excellent," he said after a few moments. His gaze was distant. "They will probably be building, expanding the settlement. Let me see—"

  Kai knew that his father would be completely involved in Babatunde's comments, and that this was his best chance. He began to sidle his way out of the room, holding the bag of stolen treasures.

  "Some in their settlement worship Shiva," Babatunde mused, "but Allah has touched the hearts of the Benares." He snapped his fingers. "I would suggest a gift of silk, something that might decorate the new home."

  "A curtain." Abu Ali sounded excited. "Or wall hanging . . . ?"

  As the conversation continued, Kai scampered out of the room with his prizes. At the door he glanced back. Babatunde held his father's attention, but simultaneously managed to make eye contact with Kai. He winked.

  That night, Djidade Berhar visited Abu Ali, and the two friends smoked, drank nectar, and spoke of business and the eternal political wrangles between the Senate and the Ulema. Meanwhile, their children played. When they weren't feuding like natives, Kai often hosted Fodjour for the night, and many were the times they were up until all hours, talking of the mighty deeds they would accomplish once they had reached their majority, and which of them would make the greatest mark.