Constantine gave a signal to his spear bearers. They moved to stand guard over Priamos, the bronze blades of their ceremonial spears held menacingly at his either side.
“Ras Priamos, you may have fought against Abreha under Caleb’s orders, but you are still Abreha’s brother,” said Constantine. “Why he spared you and all your regiment is beyond my comprehension. He did not even try to ransom you. I cannot trust anyone so favored by the Himyarite pretender. My loyalty must lie with Wazeb.”
“Your loyalty lies with me,” I interrupted in cold fury, hearing the frost in my voice as blowing straight down from the northern sea. “How dare you. How dare you stand cloaked in imperial robes not your own, in a palace not your own, with the royal spear bearers of a rival empire at your back, accusing your own sovereign’s ambassador of treachery! You were to return to Britain next spring. Even if I had not meant to recall you, you would deliberately disobey Artos in seeing this command to its completion!”
Well, we were battling now, and openly, and not even in Latin, but in our common British dialect.
“Is that an accusation of treason, or your own interpretation of my actions?” Constantine said, barely controlling his fury. “On whose authority do you speak?”
“On my own,” I said. “My God! That you should be wallowing in such splendor, while your sovereign lord and the sweet prince who was to fill your position here next year, my own twin, lay bleeding on the cold fields around Camlan! I traveled four thousand miles to reach you, who have been named my father’s heir in the event of my brothers’ deaths. Do you think anything less than the total destruction of my kingdom could have brought me here?”
Now Constantine seemed unsure how seriously to take me. “Do you mean to tell me—”
“Artos the high king of Britain is dead,” I avowed, “and Lleu the young lion, the prince of Britain, slain in battle with him. Medraut, my father’s eldest son, should have been our regent, as you know; but he, too, is lost. The king of the West Saxons is in control of our southern ports, the queen of the Orcades is grasping for what is left, and both have offered bounties for my capture. Britain’s collapse is held in check by your own father and those of the high king’s comrades who survived the battle of Camlan…”
I took a breath and thumped my fists against my forehead in despair. “Oh, God, I have not the strength to repeat all of this in Ethiopic!”
I took another breath, trying to collect myself. Constantine and I stood face to face, but when I sought to hold his gaze he let his eyes slide away from mine, like all the people of this land.
“My father named you his heir in the event of his sons’ deaths. Britain is yours for the taking,” I said slowly, searching for appropriate words, “though I am now loath to bless your kingship with my hand in marriage, however long we have been promised.”
The weight of my tale struck him now, and for a moment he shut his eyes, grimacing. Then he mastered himself and said evenly, “You are upset.”
“I mean it,” I swore, though by the terms of my father’s legacy Constantine would be king whether or not I married him. He was the high king’s eldest living nephew, and the high king’s sons were dead.
“Would you spend your life in exile, battling against my reign, as Morgause did Artos?” Constantine asked, as though he were already crowned.
I answered coldly, “I do not need to seduce my brother to produce a queen’s pawn, as she did when she created Medraut. I am Artos’s own daughter. Any son I bear would have a greater claim than you to Britain’s kingship.”
“Don’t covenant your unborn children,” Constantine said contemptuously.
“Don’t compare me to my aunt!”
We glared at each other.
Then Constantine gave a tired smile, and took my hands again, gently. “Forgive me, lady,” he said, speaking Ethiopic himself, so that it would be understood by all and was something of a formal apology. “Your news has shocked and dazed me, and I am taking it in ill grace. I would not have greeted you so jestingly to begin with if I had known what news you bore.”
“How can you know what news anyone bears before he tells it?” I said, and shook off his hands.
I glanced down at Priamos, who still lay flat on his face at our feet. I could see the gentle rise and fall of his back as he breathed; he lay quietly, not trembling or straining in any way, though the ceremonial spears biting into his ribs held him transfixed. Surely I had some authority over my own ambassador.
“Do you release Priamos Anbessa and make apology for the ill reception you have given him. He has most steadfastly served and protected me, and the prince of Britain as well.”
Constantine spoke to his guards. “Withdraw your spears.”
The spearmen ceased to threaten Priamos, and he got slowly to his feet. But the guards, who had not been dismissed, remained at his sides. Priamos did not raise his eyes; he showed no trace of defiance or injury.
“What was that all about?” the forward boy in white asked casually.
His regal self-assurance was so like my brother Lleu’s that I realized who he must be: this was Wazeb, Caleb’s heir, whose kingdom Constantine was guarding. I noticed now that he was even crowned, after a fashion; his head cloth was bound with a simple circlet of twisted grass, whose points met in a cross.
“Artos the high king of Britain is dead,” Constantine said in Ethiopic. He faced Priamos again. “For your safe delivery of the princess of Britain you have the gratitude of two kingdoms. But I must insist on your detainment here, until such time as you can prove to me surely that you are no threat to Wazeb’s sovereignty.”
Constantine turned to me. “And you, of course, my lady, we shall serve in any way we may, as best we can. We shall prepare you an apartment here—”
“Thank you, but I think not,” I answered. “I have already accepted the hospitality of my brother’s dear friends in the city. I think Kidane has less claim to royalty than Ras Priamos, and I trust you will not find my hosts guilty of any secret sedition.”
“Come see me tomorrow morning. I am up to my neck in negotiations with the Beja tribesmen this afternoon. We can talk more privately in the morning, and decide what there is for us to do. You could meet me for the service at St. Mary of Zion, then break your fast with me. You’ll like the cathedral.”
“All right.”
But our trust was in shards before it ever had a chance to set.
Other guards came in to escort Priamos out of the chamber. He nodded a farewell to me, his expression impassive. If he had tried to hold my gaze, I do not think I would have been able to look at him; I felt as though I had led him into a trap. But of course he did not try to meet my eyes. Our shared tragedy at Camlan, our conspiratorial flight from Britain, our partnered voyage, vanished like sea spray after a breaking wave.
Telemakos was waiting in the corridor.
“Have you met your husband? What did you think of him? Do you have to stay here longer, or will I bring you home to meet my mother now?”
I could make no answer. I watched Priamos being led away.
“Why is Ras Priamos under guard?”
I managed to collect myself, and answered with bitter anger: “Because he is Abreha’s brother, as you have pointed out. Abreha was kind to him in Himyar, and Constantine therefore thinks Priamos is not to be trusted.”
“Kind to him!” Telemakos exclaimed. “Ras Priamos was brought before Abreha naked and in chains after their battle. So say his warriors.”
“Yes, well, there is kindness and kindness. When your enemy sends you home alive and free it counts as kindness.”
“What did the viceroy say when you told him he was to be high king of Britain?”
“Told me not to conceive my own nephew, like Morgause the queen of the Orcades,” I answered impulsively and inappropriately. Medraut was after all the child’s father, beloved though never known, a legend; like Odysseus to Telemakos’s namesake.
The dark subtlety of my sarcasm was lo
st on Telemakos. He laughed, showing off his missing teeth. “Why would you need another nephew?” he asked. “You have me.”
I stared at him. He was the high king’s grandson, the only child of my father’s eldest son.
“Why, so I have,” I whispered.
CHAPTER III
Coffee and Frankincense
THERE WAS A LION skin hanging in the reception hall of Kidane’s mansion. Telemakos stopped below the skin and said, “This is my father’s lion.”
The skin covered nearly an entire wall. Its sightless eyes stared upward at the ceiling over snarling, bared teeth; the mane was black. All the pelt was dark, but it had an edge of gold that made it seem always changing color when you moved past.
“Ras Meder killed this himself, with a spear, and no one to guard or help him,” Telemakos told me.
After a moment he added, “Gedar’s children across the street don’t believe that.”
“Gedar’s children never met your father,” I said. “But I believe it.”
Telemakos asked suddenly, “Did my father look like you?”
“We are alike, but not in looks,” I answered. “Most of my family looked like me, dark-haired, dark-eyed; but Medraut—what do you call him? Meder, Ras Meder, was more like you. His skin was fair as mine, but his hair and eyes were like yours.”
“He’s dead now,” Telemakos stated frankly.
I hesitated. “He was wounded in the battle of Camlan,” I said. “He was wounded in body and spirit, and we lost him after we buried our father.”
Telemakos sank both hands deep in the dark fur of the lion skin, and stood silent. At last he pushed himself away from the wall and said evenly, “Look, here is my mother.”
Turunesh was older than Priamos and I, younger than Medraut. She stood tall and calm. Her hair was fixed in many tiny plaits that lay close against her scalp, following the curve of her head, then billowing loose at her neck in an ebony cloud. Telemakos went to stand close to her side, beneath her arm, and she held him against her.
“This is my mother, Turunesh Kidane,” said Telemakos.
She looked me up and down, taking in my travel-stained clothes and salt-spattered boots. “Peace to you, Princess Goewin,” she said, in accented Latin. “Peace to you, little sister. You’ve been lost.”
She held out her hand, and I took it. She touched my cheek to hers. I sighed.
“I am a disagreeable guest,” I said. “I bring only evil news, and I have just had a roaring quarrel with my fiancé before half the imperial court.”
“So did your brother, six years ago, when Constantine arrived.” Turunesh laughed, then stopped suddenly. She lifted her hand from her son’s shoulder to smooth down his thick, luminous hair. “Have you brought me news of Medraut?”
“I cannot tell—”
Again I hesitated. I hated what I would have to tell her. Throughout the last day I spent with Medraut he had not spoken a single word aloud.
Turunesh said gently, “It does not come as such a shock. I thought it must be so, or you would not have traveled alone. Tell me later, perhaps.”
I sighed again. “I mean, I truly cannot tell,” I said. “I do not know what happened to him. I think Medraut took his own life. I don’t know. He’s gone,”
I dropped Turunesh’s hand and knelt by her side, so that I was level with Telemakos. He turned his head toward me. He kept his eyes politely lowered, his expression quiet and still. I, too, touched his bright hair.
“I would never have seen him anyway,” Telemakos said.
“Ask Ferem to bring our supper in the garden,” his mother told him. “And then coffee. You may eat with us, child, if you do not talk, but straight to bed when the coffee is brought out. You’ve been playing with the emperor’s monkeys again, haven’t you? Go take a bath.”
Telemakos bowed his head, then turned quickly and ran past us into the house. I watched him go, my nephew.
We shared a meal without speaking. Darkness fell suddenly, and the butler Ferem lit lanterns that stood in standards about the garden. The night seemed full of little noises: the soft, wet pip-pip of the ornamental fish breathing at the surface of the granite pool at my back, the slight ripple of the water as they dived again; moths and lizards fluttering and jumping in the thatched awning above our heads, the rustle of wind in the leaves of the giant sycamores. I dreaded my morning meeting with Constantine.
Ferem cleared away the baskets that had held the flat injera bread, and set before Turunesh a tray heavy with strange equipment: a small burner, a round and tall-necked earthen jug, a mortar, pans, and tiny earthen cups. The butler put a hand on Telemakos’s shoulder, and the child stood up and let himself be led away to bed without protest.
I opened my mouth to ask, “What happens now?” and what came out was, “What happened in Himyar?”
“We were at war with them for seventeen years,” Turunesh answered. “Himyar has alternated as our enemy and our ally longer than Aksum has been Christian, three hundred years or more. When their king began persecuting the Aksumite Christians there, Caleb defeated him and made the region a protectorate under a native viceroy. But the Aksumite settlers did not like Caleb’s choice, so they threw the viceroy out and elected one of their own to take his place.”
“Abreha.”
“Yes.”
“Why was Abreha in Himyar?”
“Caleb had sent him as a translator.”
Have no trust in translators, I thought.
I asked aloud, “So then Caleb sent Priamos with an army to bring down Abreha?”
“Not at first. He sent his own son, Aryat, and Aryat was slain by Abreha. Then he sent Priamos’s elder brother, Hector. Hector’s force rebelled against him; he was very young. He was murdered by his own officers. Priamos’s army fought after Hector’s, and Abreha defeated him.”
It was strange to sit in the dark courtyard, both of us tight with grief, and calmly discuss a war that had ended three years ago.
“They struck a truce,” Turunesh finished. “Priamos was spared so that he might carry Abreha’s message back to the emperor Caleb.”
“Cynric used him in that exact way after Camlan,” I said. “He was the only one of my father’s men who knew anything of the Saxon tongue.”
“That will not help his reputation at all,” Turunesh commented, lighting the burner. “‘Have no trust in translators,’ Caleb used to say.”
She blew gently on the flames in the brazier.
“Now watch,” Turunesh said, straightening. “Let’s no longer speak of Himyar. I am going to make you coffee. We’ll drink in memory of your brother. He once told me he would give away a kingdom if it meant he might share another cup of coffee with me.”
I saw her smiling over the blue and yellow flames.
“What is it?”
“A mild stimulant. It grows wild on the highland hillsides; we roast and grind the seeds, then steep them to make a drink. Your brother hated it. But he liked the ceremony. Only a woman may make coffee. Watch.”
She was busy as she spoke, deftly sorting the seeds. They rattled musically against the earthen pan she held them in; the flames of the burner whiffled and leapt. I could not ever remember being so aware of the light, quiet sounds of a garden at night.
Perhaps because I was listening so intently, perhaps because the cool highland air and rustling sycamores and bitter scent of roasting coffee were so strange to me, I heard a thing Turunesh did not hear. Behind me, below the gentle breathing of the fish, I heard the gentle breathing of another small creature. Turunesh began to pulverize the seeds in the mortar. I lowered my head, slowly, and glanced sideways back over my arm.
There was a border of tall flowers along one edge of the pool; their leaves were nearly black in the darkness, and all was black beneath their leaves. I sat with my head bent, as though lost in thought, and let my eyes adjust to the dark.
Turunesh lifted the roasting pan from the burner and set the water in the fat pot to boil. The flames
soared, crackling around the bottom of the jug. Their sudden flaring lit a shape beneath the leaves with a faint edge of silver, and for one second I could see that Telemakos lay there as stone himself, his chin resting on his hands and his eyes closed. I only saw him for a second. He seemed at ease lying in the soil beneath the tall flowers, and he might have been asleep; but something in the alert angle of his still head told me that he was wide awake, and listening, listening.
For a few moments I did not move my head either, so that I should not let him know I had discovered him. I had seen Telemakos take enough mild blows and rebukes in one day that I had no heart to call him out. He could listen if he liked.
“What is that smell?” I murmured.
“The coffee?”
“More like perfume. Familiar …”
“Frankincense, perhaps? There is a plantation on the hillside above this suburb. Our priests burn it as incense; your own may do the same.”
“Yes, so they do. I recognize it now.”
I sat sorting out the strange smells and sounds. The light, even breathing went on steadily behind me, scarcely perceptible. But I did not notice when it stopped. Telemakos was not there when we went to bed: I never heard him coming or going. He moved with the sure and absolute silence of a leopard stalking its prey.
In the cathedral the next morning the frankincense was overpowering. Clouds of it rose from the censers swung by the priests in their red-bordered robes; the gilt wings of the angels painted on the ceiling seemed to float in haze. Constantine stood at my side as we listened to the morning service.
The chanting, the drumbeat and rattle of sistrums, was strange to my ears. I stood looking up at the mild, wide-eyed, host that flew across the vaulted ceiling on gold wings. As the service ended and the assembly began to process out, Constantine whispered in Latin, close to my ear, “Marry me now.”
I had to bite the knuckle of my index finger, hard, to keep from bursting into laughter. It did not seem to merit an answer, there and then.