For a few moments more Telemakos stood still, knowing he could give Menelik neither help nor any comfort. Then, in bitter grief and fury, he braced himself with his foot against the carcass of the lion he had just killed, wrenched free the spear in its back, and drove it between Menelik’s ribs, through his heart.
“Morningstar!” The rest of the hunters had caught up with him. “Hai! Morningstar! Are you hurt?”
“What’s the boy done? Mother of God!”
Men lifted Telemakos away from the dead animals. There was jubilation in their gibbering voices. He found himself standing before Abreha, who held open arms to him; Telemakos never afterward knew whether Abreha meant to congratulate him or to comfort him. He had no chance to do either: Telemakos flew at him and slapped him across the face.
“Lion against lion!”
Telemakos’s voice cracked, sounding as babyish as Athena’s in his own ears.
“Against his own kind! A lion against his own kind! You would not set a dog against another dog, oh never, not one of your precious salukis, but you would so despise a lion?”
The huntsmen had fallen silent now.
“And not one of your guard had wit enough to stop it happening! Ah, God, I am ashamed to be gifted with your damned dogs. Give me next time a pair of songbirds, so I won’t have to be party to another such murder!”
“Quiet, child, calm yourself,” Abreha said. “Calm yourself.”
Telemakos screamed at him, “What am I going to tell Athena?” He burst into tears.
They tried to make him drink water that was bitter with the taste of some added sedative. Telemakos spat this out in fury and struck the man who had offered him the drinking horn. They pinned Telemakos by the shoulders while Tharan pinched his nose shut until he gasped for breath. When Telemakos opened his mouth, Tharan jerked his head back in one swift movement and poured the drink straight down his throat.
“You are a damned pack of hyenas!” Telemakos wept, spitting and coughing. Abreha caught him gently when he fell.
He was lying on his back beneath the willows. Stars appeared and disappeared above him through the shifting leaves. Athena slept with her arms around his neck and her head against his shoulder, a warm, affectionate bundle of banked energy pressing him against the ground. The salukis were curled beside him as well, one tight against each leg. One of them had its head propped on his stomach.
He was still immobilized by the sedative and battled for consciousness. Someone else was there, someone awake, touching his head: combing his hair, so gently and lightly it did not hurt, even when the quick hands pulled through the snarls.
“He doesn’t like being put to sleep,” Muna said. “His father spends more on opium for him than the Scions are allowed for their clothes, and he disdains it. Rasha has found unopened vials of the stuff tied in his shirttails. You should not force it on him, even to calm him. You deal harshly with him, my lord.”
She was picking the sand from Telemakos’s scalp and plaiting his hair in tight rows against his skull, in the neat style of the Himyar warriors. He knew that she was using clarified butter to oil his hair, because he recognized the smell, but he could not remember where he was or why he had been drugged. It was all right; Athena was there.
“I dare not spoil him with any softness,” murmured the najashi’s voice. “For a prince of his stature, he is flawed severely enough as it is. Old enough to train as a warrior, and afraid to sleep alone! I hoped the dogs would come to substitute for the child as his comforter. Why should he need anything at all, this half-grown youth who killed two lions today all unaided? In Aksum, in my homeland, killing a lion is the ritual test of a king. If you can kill a lion, you are deemed fit to rule a kingdom.”
“He can’t light a lamp,” said Muna. “He can’t comb his hair. He can’t drink from a waterskin. He can’t sharpen his pens. He is healing, only healing still, and you deal harshly with him.”
“He has slain a lion,” the najashi said. “He could kill a man. He shouldn’t need help with lamps and combs! He doesn’t need it, any more than his sister needs to be carried about like a lap dog. She’s three years old. When will she learn to walk?” He sighed. “Neither one of them is whole. Neither one of them sleeps peacefully without the other near.”
They talk about us as though we were their own children, Telemakos thought, and fell back into his drugged sleep.
He woke again shortly after dawn, still unable to govern his body, and found himself trapped in the illusion of imprisonment that had scarred his mind in Afar. If he tried to move his legs, they were chained. If he tried to move his arms, they were bound. If he tried to open his eyes, they were held shut by the dreaded, hated blindfold. He struggled until he began to weep aloud. And then out of nowhere the najashi was holding him, clasping him firmly hand in hand and stroking his hair.
After a little while Telemakos murmured unhappily, “You must hate it that I am alive and your son Asad is not. I think that is why you are so strict with me.”
“I was not strict enough with Asad,” the najashi answered gently. “He had neither your will nor your endurance. God forbid you should grow to be so soft and submissive. Your aunt Goewin took him for a servant the one time she met him.”
“I am soft. I am a coward. I am always so afraid, sleeping and waking, it never gets any easier, any less cruel, any lighter. I am always so afraid!”
“So are we all,” Abreha said. “You learn to master it. Or you pay it no heed, as a lion pays no heed to the dangers of the life he leads. He lives from kill to kill, from drought to drought, from pride to pride. What safety is there in his life? He is always afraid, and never knows it. It does not ruin him.”
“Where is Athena?”
“Breaking her fast with my queen, like a good girl.”
“I want my dogs, then,” Telemakos said.
“They’re here.”
Telemakos had not noticed them, lying against him.
“Master it,” Abreha repeated. “Do not be afraid.”
Telemakos spent the morning watching the men working over the hide of his golden lion. The lions he had known in the highlands of Aksum were black maned, but this one that he killed in Himyar was all over a molten, burnished gold, from mane to tail. He could not believe how big it was. Its skin was bigger than the one that hung in Kidane’s reception hall at home, which Medraut had caught for Turunesh before Telemakos was born.
“What will your father say to this trophy when he receives it?” Abreha asked him, and laughed at his own question. “He’ll forbid you to go hunting again, most likely, in case you damage yourself.” Then the najashi added, more soberly, “The other hide is yours as well.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Send it to your aunt.”
I could do that, Telemakos thought; no one has ever given Goewin such a trophy of her own. She’ll be pleased. And she will understand why I’ve done it.
They did not tell Athena what had happened. They sent Menelik’s skin to Aksum and hoped she would not notice that her lion was gone.
X
THE TREE OF KNOWLEDGE
THEY ARRIVED BACK IN San’a as the nobles began to gather for the Great Assembly. Two years ago, they had been gathering for the Assembly when Telemakos had first arrived in Himyar, and again during his disgrace of the previous year. This year’s gathering was the third he would witness. Some of the Scions would sit in on the Assembly this year.
On the evening they came back to the Ghumdan palaces, Telemakos found the star globe alight in the Great Globe Room. He sat on his low bed by the window and let Athena unbuckle the straps to her harness so she could climb out of it. “Look how the Magus has welcomed us home,” Telemakos said softly. Dawit could no longer see the soft lights the globe’s pinprick surface cast against the ceiling; he never lit it for any reason other than to delight Athena.
Everything else in the room was exactly as Telemakos had left it a season earlier. The neglect was almost eerie. Dawit Al
ta’ir had touched nothing here for three months. A film of dust lay over the maps and measures; a cup of paint that Telemakos had left sitting on one of the windowsills still sat there, dry as mortar. He set about the renovation of his workplace, moving around the room on his knees; he was so tall now that he had to dodge the hanging crystal stars if he walked upright among them. He worked by the minute lights of the star globe. Athena sat very quietly on the couch, happily sorting the paint blocks she had not played with since the beginning of summer.
It gave Telemakos a start when Dawit suddenly appeared in the doorway. He carried no light, and came heavily down the three steps into the room. The scent of rosewater and kat came with him.
“Peace to you, Magus,” Telemakos greeted the Star Master, but Dawit did not sit. He reached up and took hold of one of the crystal stars, as if it would bear his weight if he lost his balance. Telemakos identified the star automatically: Antares, the heart of the Scorpion.
“Peace to you, Morningstar. Good evening, and welcome back to San’a. I wonder if in your travels you’ve missed the news from Adulis, where Gebre Meskal stations most of his armada?”
“What news?”
“There has been a battle, and a great mutiny suppressed.”
“Oh.”
Telemakos still held a rolled map, which he had been about to put away. He laid it gently on the floor.
“Fifty soldiers of the najashi’s who served in a squadron of Gebre Meskal’s fleet were attacked and overwhelmed. They are prisoners now.”
“Oh,” Telemakos said again, sounding stupid now even to himself. He clenched his teeth and made himself form a sensible response. “What does this mean, sir?”
“It means the najashi would like to ask you some questions,” said Dawit evenly, “though why you should know anything about a mutiny on the far side of the Red Sea is anyone’s guess. So. Consider that I have given you fair warning, and answer me: did you know of this before our najashi knew of it?”
“How could I?” Telemakos gasped.
“Good,” said Dawit. “I thought you couldn’t, as you were away in Marib at the time.”
The old, sickening fear crawled up and down Telemakos’s spine.
“Is he coming up here now?”
“He is waiting in the scriptorium. He wants to speak to you privately. I will send him in.”
The Star Master gathered his robes about his knees and heaved himself back up the steps. Telemakos sat where he was. He picked up the map again, but he was shaking so that the charms at his elbow rattled. He set the scroll down again and waited with his eyes closed.
“The Magus didn’t see me,” said Athena.
Telemakos had forgotten she was there.
“He can’t see,” Telemakos said softly. “And it’s quite dark.”
“The najashi has got a light.”
Telemakos opened his eyes. He watched the light grow brighter until the najashi’s shadow filled the door. Abreha came in and put his lamp on the floor, then sat down facing Telemakos and held out his arm to Athena.
She slid from the mattress and scuttled on hands and feet to join him. The lights in the dark surface of the star globe glowed steadily overhead.
“Look at the stars, my najashi!”
“They’re lovely, my honey badger.” He smoothed her springing hair back from her face. “Be quiet now, and sit with me. I want to talk to your brother.”
Telemakos sat back on his heels and bowed his head. A part of him wanted to scream at Abreha to get this over with; Telemakos had been living in dread of this conversation, or one like it, for well over a year. But Abreha did not hurry. He pulled Athena close to him, with her back against his chest. One hand he wrapped about her waist, and the other he held circling her throat, gently, gently cupping her chin.
Telemakos found himself gripping his own shoulder. He heard the trinkets of his bracelet clinking as he clenched and unclenched his fingers, and for a moment tried solely to concentrate on being still.
The najashi bent his heavy brow and spoke softly into the bronze mist of Athena’s hair.
“My honey badger, I want you to ask your brother a question for me. Can you do this?”
She gazed at Telemakos with wide, wondering eyes.
“Ask the boy who sent him here.”
She demanded obediently, “Who sent you here?”
Telemakos raised his head. The silver bells rang wildly.
“Who sent you?” the beloved, childish voice insisted.
“My grandfather sent me,” Telemakos hissed, “for my protection; as you know, my najashi.”
The najashi murmured again in Athena’s ear. “Ask the boy if he told my cousin where to find my men.”
She repeated in her deep, clear baby voice, “Did you tell his cousin where his friends are?”
Telemakos could not answer.
“You knew,” the najashi said quietly. “You knew, and you wanted Gebre Meskal to know. Did you tell him in a letter?” He wrapped his arms around Athena’s neck and waist, like a gentle python tightening its coils. “Try to copy exactly what I say, little honey badger. Ask the boy, ‘Are you employed by the emperor Gebre Meskal?’”
She blinked in agreement. “Are you employed by the emperor Gebre Meskal?”
Telemakos hid his face in the crook of his elbow. The charms brushed cold against his cheek and chin.
“Are you employed by the emperor?” his baby sister asked again, patiently.
“I have not formally sworn allegiance to anyone!” Telemakos cried aloud, his face hidden.
“Good girl,” the king murmured at Athena’s ear. “The boy knows as much and more about Gebre Meskal’s kingdom as he does about mine. I’ll wager he knows secrets I have spent years in trying to discover. He does not want to tell me, my honey badger, but I think he will tell you. Ask him …” He whispered at her ear again. Now the najashi’s strong, narrow fingers were locked around her throat.
She said, “Who is the sunbird?”
The words took Telemakos like a blow to the stomach, knocking the breath from his chest.
“Who is the sunbird?”
And with the iron hands poised ready to snap his sister’s neck, all Telemakos’s resolution evaporated. He was damned now.
“Who is the sunbird?”
“I am,” he whispered.
The najashi breathed out a sudden, shaking sigh, like a soft explosion. He said, as though it were absurd, “The informer that stopped all Aksum’s exports of salt during the plague quarantine? The sunbird? The sunbird?”
“You have said so,” Telemakos whispered.
“You were no more than a child during Gebre Meskal’s quarantine!”
“I have no authority,” Telemakos acknowledged, speaking through his teeth. “But I hear everything. What do you imagine I was doing, hunting on my own in the Salt Desert, four years ago? My father made it sound like an accident when he told you. But I did it knowingly, I did it on purpose, I thought out the plan myself! I crossed Afar on foot, and then sold myself into servitude so that I might find out the identity of your captain there—” It was wonderful to be damned. You did not have to guard yourself at all. “—Anako archon of Deire, who held me captive and gave the order that my fingernails be torn out and salt splinters be rubbed into my eyes, not knowing who I was! I owed you no loyalty whatever in Afar!”
“You owe it to me now,” the najashi said simply. He whispered again in Athena’s ear. She parroted his words calmly.
“The najashi reminds you of—what is the word, najashi?”
She waited, listening attentively. Then she spoke again, pleased to be doing this challenging work so well.
“The najashi reminds you of your covenant with him.”
Abreha the Lion Hunter raised his head, let go of Athena’s throat, and reached toward Telemakos. Telemakos pulled away from him. The silver bracelet crashed and clattered. Telemakos began, “I swear, I swear by my life—”
The Lion Hunter interrupted
contemptuously, “What is your life worth?”
Telemakos swallowed. “By my sister’s life, then. My grandfather thought the threats Gedar delivered to our house, the murdered sunbirds, were meant for me. We didn’t know you suspected my father, or my grandfather, or whomever body it was you were trying to flush out for getting in the way of your cursed salt smuggling! I was sent here for my own protection, and not to cast abroad the secrets of your kingdom!”
“Then deny that you have done so.”
Telemakos knelt bent double with his face hidden in the crook of his arm, and could not answer. The silver charms scratched his cheek.
“Deny that you have done so, knowing full well what the consequence would be should I discover you.”
Telemakos thought he heard the najashi set Athena on the floor, but he could not summon the strength to raise his head and look.
“‘Of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat,’” the najashi said, “‘for in the day you eat of it you shall die.’” His voice was not so steady as it had been. “I want to treat you justly, Morningstar. And, God help me, I want desperately to forgive you. But it is not me alone you have betrayed: it is my kingdom, my nation, my people.”
Telemakos raised his head at last, his eyes burning, unable to endure such hypocrisy.
“You are Aksumite,” he said, “and these are not your people.”
Abreha spoke to Telemakos in deadly quiet, his upper lip curled in scorn.
“Mother of God, you shame yourself.”
The baby was still sitting on his lap, but now the najashi did lift her to the floor. She stayed leaning quietly against his knee, sensing that she had not entirely been dismissed.
“I never thought to hear such narrow, blind intolerance from you, you of all, you, who have your mother’s African skin and your father’s North Sea eyes. You are blood kin to my dead children. Do you deny your great-uncle the Star Master? Do you wash yourself of Sheba and Qataban, whose future sovereigns adore you? You call yourself Aksumite; do you bear no allegiance to Goewin of Britain? Who are your people, Athtar, Lij Bitwoded Telemakos Eosphorus?”
The najashi picked up his lamp and stood up. “You shame yourself,” he repeated quietly. “You are justly condemned. I shall leave my guard outside your door, as befits an arrested traitor awaiting sentence. But they will not disturb you. Put your sister to bed now.”
The Empty Kingdom Page 10