His tranquil, imperial gaze fell on Medraut.
“Take Nafas’s spear, Ras Meder,” said Wazeb evenly, “and aim at the third target.”
Constantine’s ceremonial guard passed his lance to my brother.
Medraut is an archer. He had not held a spear in close to a year, and it was not his weapon of choice; but I have never known him to miss a target. He did not hesitate, now, but neither did he make any kind of haste. He weighed and tested this unfamiliar weapon for a long time, finding its balance, measuring his mark. When at last he let the spear fly, he threw heavily, without the fluid ease of the trained soldiers. But his aim was as true as any of their best.
“So,” said Wazeb, “that is one reliable spear behind me.”
Medraut took a step forward, as though he would speak, and moved a hand in protest.
“Only for the hunt,” said Wazeb. “It is a favor. There is no obligation attached.”
It was more than a favor; it was a tremendous honor. The lion skin Medraut wore snarled sightlessly at us as Medraut bowed his head and closed the fluttering hand.
“Ras Priamos,” said Wazeb, “take the other spear.”
I saw Priamos’s shoulders rise and fall, as though he had breathed a quick sigh. He seemed to frown, but it might have meant nothing. He did not look at me. But his step, the swing of his body as he moved clear of his guards, was so easy, so eager, so suddenly without tension. Constantine’s second spear bearer casually passed his weapon to Priamos, and Priamos stood holding it impassively, waiting for the next command.
“The fifth target,” said Wazeb.
Priamos did not weigh the spear. He scarcely took aim. He threw almost blindly, in sheer freedom of release.
His cast went wide, and he laughed.
Wazeb said lightly, “You are out of practice. Throw again. Use Tedla’s lance.”
Tedla was one of the guards over Priamos himself. Tedla did not simply hand over his spear: he bowed his head and knelt before Priamos, offering up the lance as if in ceremonial tribute.
“Thank you, faithful one,” said Priamos. “I am indebted to you, now.”
“Never,” said Tedla. “I and half the soldiers in this city would not have come home from the Himyar without your intervention.”
“I did nothing. There was no act of wit or courage on my part that brought us home alive and free. It was Abreha’s generosity.”
“Take my lance, Ras Priamos,” said the soldier.
Priamos did so, without another word, and threw again at the fifth target. And as he did I noticed things I had never seen in him or thought about before: how he lifted his spear with as much effortless grace as did the negus’s guards; the smooth glide of limb and torso as he launched the spear, the force with which it struck his mark; and the way he folded his hands slowly shut at his sides as he came to attention again, nodding slightly as he judged his cast. How could I not have seen how easily and fluently he moved, or that Caleb had trained his body as thoroughly as he had trained his mind? How could I have ignored or forgotten such whole and complete beauty in favor of one single striking feature of his face, in favor of his accidental frown?
“Better,” said Wazeb. “Now throw again, so we are sure it was no accident. The seventh target.”
There was only one spear still raised, not on the ground or stuck fast in a bale of straw, and that was held by Priamos’s other guard. As Priamos took it from him, I saw what Wazeb had done: he had seen to it that now Priamos alone was armed, of all the assembled throng of soldiers. If Priamos had intended revenge or treachery, it could have been his in that moment. He could have killed Constantine, or Wazeb, or taken any one of us as a hostage. His sovereign lord was granting him a public display of trust and honor.
Priamos threw again, well in control of himself now, and Wazeb said at last, “Well struck.”
“Well spoke,” I said quietly, “Gebre Meskal; emperor of Aksum.”
Telemakos lost his head. In the stillness that followed my words, he exploded into a run and hurled himself across the playing field at Priamos, crying out with open arms, “Now you can go hunting with the princess!”
Priamos lost his head as well. He swung Telemakos aloft as though the child were his own, then held him tightly to his chest and showered the silver hair with kisses.
“Have you given my brother his cup of coffee yet?” I asked Turunesh. “The one he said he’d give away his father’s kingdom for?”
She smiled. “He hates coffee. He was being sentimental.”
“I’m going to make him drink it.” Turunesh had taught me how to perform the coffee ceremony, and it gave me a great and absurd pleasure to manage it deftly. “I’ve still to instruct my king and my ambassador in what they must accomplish on their return to Britain, and I’ve yet to see them speak directly to each other. I am sick to death of these formal meetings in the New Palace. Let me serve them coffee in your garden.”
It was a week since our return from Debra Damo. All politics seemed to be swept aside in the plans for Wazeb’s royal hunt, and I, with Constantine, was growing anxious over the fate of my own distant kingdom. Constantine readily accepted my invitation to coffee. He might be Britain’s high king, but he suddenly found himself with no place in the Aksumite court, and that was hard for him.
“Wazeb, Gebre Meskal, is a madman,” said Constantine, sitting stiffly upright in Kidane’s garden court with his arms folded, watching me light Turunesh’s burner.
Priamos and Kidane watched also. Medraut and Turunesh sat side by side, across from me. Except the time she had kissed his hands in greeting, I still had never seen them touch each other; but Telemakos stood between them, leaning in his casual, affectionate way against his mother’s side, one small brown hand holding tightly to his father’s large fair one. Medraut and Turunesh were, unquestionably, united; Telemakos linked them.
“The emperor is a madman,” Constantine repeated. “He forbids me to leave until we have hunted together. I fear for Britain.”
“Yes, I do as well,” I said, speaking slowly as I watched the flames in Turunesh’s borrowed burner. “But if we do not wait for the Red Sea winds to change, we will have an overland journey of a thousand miles, and in all honesty, I think another month will make little difference now.”
“I am with Constantine,” said Priamos. “The emperor is a madman.”
“I am glad you have found something that you and Constantine agree on,” I said, pouring steaming water over the roasted seeds. “Tell me then, what reason have you to accuse your new sovereign of madness?”
“He has invited Abreha to join the hunt,” said Priamos.
I dropped and smashed the pot and spilled hot coffee all down my front, and gave a scream that was more of fear than pain. Medraut, you can imagine, came pelting across the court. Constantine leaped to his feet, shouting for an attendant, and Priamos dragged me to my own feet by one wrist.
“She has scalded herself—” he cried, and Medraut lifted me off the ground and carried me straight into the cold water of the stone pool.
I sat among the weed and fishes, gasping and choking, drenched. “It’s all right, it’s all right. My shamma caught most of it.”
Turunesh found herself at once trying to calm Telemakos and to keep him from treading in broken pottery. Kidane bellowed for a nurse and a broom. Priamos and Constantine hovered helplessly at the pool’s edge, as I and Medraut peeled back layers of fabric so that we could expose my arms and shoulders to the air, hunting discreetly for burns. “I should not have screamed so. I was frightened—”
There was a narrow band of stinging red skin arcing down from my left shoulder. Medraut poured handfuls of water over it, hesitating to undress me further.
Priamos flung himself down on the rim of the pool, bent double with his face in his arms, shaking with sobs. “Ai, sweet lady, well am I named Hornbill! My wild speech is more treacherous than any plot! In the shared cup of a single afternoon I do you more harm than all your enem
ies have ever done—”
He glanced up wildly. “Ah, Goewin, Goewin, I will cut out my tongue myself if I have hurt you!”
“Priamos, I am not hurt!”
Unthinking, I reached to wipe tears from his face. Medraut pulled the soaked cotton cloth back across my shoulders.
“Goewin?” said Priamos softly.
He had never called me by my name before.
“Let me change my clothes,” I said, feeling more scalded by Constantine’s scorching, silent gaze than by the coffee. “Let me change my clothes, and then you may both tell me about Abreha.”
I was sure they would kill each other on this confounded lion hunt.
CHAPTER XIII
Arabia Felix
THE YOUNG EMPEROR’S HUNTING party included some four hundred courtiers and nobles, porters, cooks, and servants, as well as oddments like myself and Turunesh and Telemakos and even his nurse; I could imagine what Constantine must have thought of the expense. I could seldom come near Priamos, nor Medraut, who were at Wazeb’s back as the negus’s spear bearers. And Constantine dogged me, as though he found it necessary to take over the job of his foot soldiers now that they had been dismissed.
We traveled south from Aksum and descended into the gorge cut by the Takeze River, a northward-flowing tributary to the Nile. We followed the Takeze toward its source, until we came to a wide plain at the foot of the Simien Mountains. It was not far from Aksum, but the grassland and forest seemed empty after the cultivated fields surrounding the city. Late in the afternoon on the second day in this high valley, Wazeb took it into his head to set those of us who were on horseback at racing.
“Whatever are they doing?” I asked, as the emperor’s retinue taunted and chased one another. It was a chill and sun-lit evening in December, the air sage-scented and colored like liquid gold.
“It is guks,” said Turunesh. “A game.”
“It’s a royal game of Tig,” Constantine said.
When one rider came close to another he would hurl a wand at him, which the other would duck, or fend off with his shield.
“I see Wazeb isn’t playing,” I remarked.
“Oh, he is. Gebre Meskal is the puppeteer. He guides the strings,” Constantine explained. “He will not compromise anyone’s loyalty in a personal challenge.”
Now Wazeb said a word to Priamos, who turned on Ityopis.
“Come on, you skulking minister of dinner parties! You soft-pawed mongoose of a man! When did you last spur your horse to a gallop? Can any mount still carry you after so many years of your mother’s fried cakes? Has anyone ever seen you race?”
“Hai!”
With a yell of outrage, Ityopis snatched a blunt spear from one of the footmen and tore after his brother, laughing. Their shouts were muffled by the thunder of hooves.
“So, Constantine,” I said. “Are you playing?”
Constantine shrugged. “I have no great skill at this.”
It is beneath your dignity, I thought, but restrained myself. There was no reason to nettle him.
“It’s Medraut who’s not playing,” said Turunesh. “No one dares challenge him. He did once unseat three riders in an afternoon.”
She added, not without pride, “They are all afraid of him.”
“Well, I’m not afraid of him,” I said scornfully.
Then I was seized with the kind of deviltry that used sometimes to overcome Lleu. Medraut was such a self-contained prig; somebody had to challenge him. I neither knew nor cared what rules of protocol I might be breaking: this was my brother, my lifelong friend and opponent.
“Ras Meder, Medraut son of Artos, you posturing stiff-necked hermit!” I cried. “We used to call you marksman! How long has it been since you rode in the hunt? You’ll never catch me!” I crouched down in my saddle and tore away.
God, it was good to race. I glanced over my shoulder and saw, with a thrill of excitement and crazy joy, that Medraut was pounding after me.
We left Wazeb and his band on the river’s edge. Medraut could not get close to me. I slowed my horse and came to a halt, waiting for him.
He was smiling. His mouth had quirked unaware into its odd, characteristic half-smile, amused and relaxed. Since before Camlan, I think, I had only ever seen the ghost of that smile, in Telemakos.
Medraut reached over to give me a playful clout on the shoulder. I laughed. Then he raised his head, scanning the highland fields.
“What is it?” I asked.
Medraut pointed at a dark and glinting patch that moved across the plain beyond us. It would have had the look of an approaching herd of buffalo or gazelle, but for the glitter and toss of something like gold in its midst.
“It looks like a hunting party.”
Medraut nodded, narrowing his eyes and gazing into the distance.
“It is Abreha,” I said.
Medraut saluted me, then turned quickly and rode back toward our own party. His first duty now was as Wazeb’s spear bearer.
With fearful speed, our huntsmen became courtiers and soldiers. The racing contestants now waited in ordered ranks, bright with armor and ceremonial silks, as Abreha’s embassy approached. Medraut and Priamos stood opposite each other in place at Wazeb’s shoulders, each armed formally, and somewhat vainly, with a short spear cast in solid gold.
“Well,” Constantine remarked, at my own side, “At least Priamos makes a show of loyalty.”
It was outrageous. I laughed aloud.
“Priamos Anbessa is the most loyal man I know. Let him serve you faithfully, and he will. What does everyone see in him that makes him such a monster?”
“We see Abreha,” answered Constantine simply.
“Abreha, still chewing over the evils of Abreha! Heaven help us! We are all awaiting Abreha’s great offer of reconciliation,” I said. “What has Priamos to do with it?”
Abreha’s company had landed at the southern port of Deire and trekked across the Salt Desert, a more arduous journey than our own. They marched solemnly with pennants and silken fringes fluttering. I could hear nothing but the whine of insects and the distant squeal and titter of baboons as we waited for the Himyarites to join us.
Priamos stood frowning ferociously. Like Ityopis, he had covered his hair with a head cloth bound with silver to mark his nobility. I thought of the image on the reverse of Caleb’s coin.
I looked toward Abreha’s arriving retinue and saw, crowned and frowning, the coin’s opposite face.
I thought I must be hallucinating. I glanced back at Priamos, and then again at the approaching suzerain who must be Abreha. It was no trick of the light. They were form and opposite, reflections of each other. They were made in each other’s image.
It was not his kinship with Abreha that made everyone distrust Priamos so; it was not his tenuous alliance with Abreha after the battle that ended the war in Himyar. It was his face.
Priamos looks like Abreha: he must be like Abreha.
Abreha’s party drew near and came to a halt before us. Abreha dismounted and gave his reins to an attendant. He even moved like Priamos; he walked with the same lanky grace. When he came before Wazeb and slowly lay down on his chest in a profound reverence at the young emperor’s feet, it was with the same sincere courtesy that Priamos affected, when he was being courteous.
“You may kneel,” said Wazeb, and Abreha rose to his knees. Priamos stood tense at Wazeb’s back, glaring as though he disapproved of the whole expedition.
“Gebre Meskal,” said Abreha, “Your Highness, I am your servant. I would like to offer you a formal tribute from the state of Himyar, to be granted annually, in return for recognition of our independence.”
“In what name do you offer this?”
“In my own,” said Abreha, “as najashi, that is the Arabic for negus; as najashi over Himyar, Saba, Hadramawt, and over all their Arabs of the Coastal Plain and the Highlands.”
“I accept your fealty,” said Wazeb, “and will not insist on those lands being named in my title.”
The blade of Medraut’s spear caught a glancing ray of the fading sunlight as he shifted his grip on the shaft. I tore my gaze from Abreha to look at Medraut, and saw that despite his blank expression his face was a river of tears.
There was no adder, as there had been at Camlan. The kings would treat in fair exchange, the warriors could hang up their shields. There would be no battle.
“I have already sent a shipment of myrrh to Adulis in anticipation of this agreement,” said Abreha. “We have had an abundant year.”
“Your harvests are ever abundant,” said Wazeb. “What is it the Romans say? Ras Priamos, remind me of the old Roman name for the Himyar.”
“Arabia Felix,” Priamos answered faintly. “Arabia in fertility, O prosperous Arabia.”
“O fortunate Arabia,” said Abreha.
“Princess Goewin,” Abreha said to me in Latin, “I would like a British representative in Sana, our capital.”
I sat alone in the evening, close to the camp fires; Turunesh was singing good night to Telemakos. Abreha knelt before me and kissed my hand.
“May I sit with you?” he said, and I moved aside to make room for him on the carpet. He sat down, cross-legged. A young servant handed goblets to each of us and poured honey wine from an earthen flask.
“Wait,” Abreha said, and put out a hand to stop me drinking. He sipped his wine before I did, in formal courtesy, as though he were tasting it for poison. He let the warning hand fall then, and raised his cup to me.
“Your health and good fortune.”
He tilted his head to avoid meeting my eyes, as Priamos did, as though they were identical clay mannequins cast from a single mold, one a bit more worn than the other.
“I am agog to hear of the war in Himyar from the man who ended it,” I said. “All who marched with Priamos speak reverently of your mercy.”
“I do not think of myself as merciful,” Abreha said. “I have fought too many battles and killed too many men, and will again if driven to it.”
Even their voices were alike.
Abreha turned and handed his drink to the cup bearer, and placed his hands on his knees. He sat there, still and at ease, and I could almost believe it was Priamos waiting for me to speak.
A Coalition of Lions Page 12