Coalition of Lions (13 page)

I told him of Priamos, and of Constantine, and finally, hesitating, of my hold over Telemakos. He put down the knife and wiped his hands on the grass. He watched me, listening, but he did not nod or shrug or raise his eyebrows or do any of the little things that people do to make themselves understood. It was as though, in forsaking speech, he forbid himself any kind of communication at all.

“Is Caleb here?” I asked.

At last Medraut gave me a single, brief nod.

“Will he talk to me?”

He shook his head. It might have meant no, it might have meant he did not know.

“Medraut,” I said, trying to make my voice gentle and reasonable, as if I were talking to Telemakos, or one of Telemakos’s birds. “Medraut, you owe me the favor of begging me an audience with Caleb.”

He looked at me with narrowed, burning eyes. There was in his look a little of the old outrage he must have felt when Lleu used to order him about.

I could well imagine what he was thinking: You take my son hostage, then command I grant you favors?

“Do you know what you left me with after Camlan?” I demanded.

He picked up the knife and set back to his work, as if this, too, were one more guilt that he could not bear. I continued relentlessly: “You left me hunted by your heartless and vindictive mother. You left me with my father’s legions and no one to lead them. You left me alone to seal and lock the iron gates on my parents’ tomb. And when I did that, finally, I had to do it knowing I might be sealing those gates on you as well, alive under the earth. It was not a fair decision to leave in my hands, Medraut. It should not have been my decision. I should not have had to hold myself responsible for your death.”

He gave another single, unhappy nod, jerking meat from bone with wet fingers.

“I have come in search of the emperor’s head cloth, to crown his heir. I need an audience with the emperor Caleb, with Ella Asbeha. I need it as a supplicant on behalf of his son, on behalf of his nephew, on my own behalf, on your son’s behalf. I know your silence is a penance; find your way around it. One diplomatic niceness from you can bring freedom for two, three, four princes.”

He held his hands up. Stop, his hands said. Stop. I will do it.

That night after we had eaten, he sat before the fire outside our shelter with Telemakos in his arms, as though the child were an astonishing gift that he had never expected and could not quite believe.

Turunesh repeated suddenly, but this time out loud: “Oh, why, why did you come here, why come to Debra Damo, why did you not come back to me?”

Medraut pulled up a handful of earth from the valley floor and let the dust trickle through his spread fingers. He held his hand there open, empty, and closed his eyes.

“I ask nothing of you but yourself,” Turunesh said.

I laid one of my own hands on his shoulder. He looked as though he needed steadying. Telemakos glanced up at me.

“This is all too hard,” I said. “Let’s sleep. Then let’s share a day or so together, eating and drinking and building cooking fires, until the shock of today’s meeting is behind us.”

“Stay with us a day,” Turunesh agreed lightly, as if she did not care whether he came or went, though her voice still shook.

Telemakos echoed, “Stay.”

Medraut slept with us in the stone cabin that night. I closed my eyes to the usual mad cackle of hyenas and night birds and opened them to the sound of Medraut’s voice.

He was talking in his sleep, as he has always done.

I knew his voice instantly, dark and musical and low, and full now of anguish and misery. Medraut spoke so softly he woke neither of the other sleepers. I think it must have been my own deep longing for home, for all things familiar, that made his quiet voice wake me.

He spoke, in our native British dialect, of the copper mines at Elder Field. It took me some time to work out what he was talking about, because he mumbled and muttered and did not connect his thoughts. But as I lay awake listening, fascinated and horrified, I understood how he came through the caves at Elder Field. He had not meant to find his way out. He spoke of being pressed in a narrow cleft, of thirst, pain in his pinioned leg, of running water.

I had to wake him at last, to shut him up.

He stared at me, appalled. He must have been aware he had been speaking, though perhaps not of the content of his words. He climbed heavily to his feet and left the shelter. He was back in our enclosure as the sun rose, stirring the charcoal fire before even the goatherds were away. He stayed with us for two more nights, but he did not sleep with us again.

He kept apart from Turunesh. She gazed after him with longing, as though from a distance. He never touched her.

On the third day Medraut climbed back to the hermitage and did not join us again until late in the afternoon. He carried a leather bag, and shepherded us all into the dooryard of the cottage. When he had us captive and attentive, he drew from the satchel an Aksumite head cloth. As he unfolded it, with almost reverent care, I saw that it was not the simple white cotton that everyone wore, but linen woven through with gold thread so that it sparkled like sunlight on water. The three ribbons that banded it across the forehead and tied at the back were of solid gold mesh.

It was the imperial head cloth of the negusa nagast, Caleb’s own. Medraut laid open its folds, spread the cloth between his hands, and held it up to me.

“So simple as that?” I whispered.

He shook his head, once, and held up a finger.
Wait.
He unwound the shawl from about my hair and unpinned my plaits so that they hung down my back, out of his way. Then he banded the golden cloth across my forehead, and tied it behind my head. When he had finished Medraut reached again into his leather bag, and this time brought out the simple circlet of gold that had been Lleu’s crown.

“Ai, my brother,” I whispered.

For a long moment Medraut bent over the slender gold band balanced gently between his hands, his shoulders hunched together tightly, as though he were being whipped.

“Oh, Medraut,” I said softly, “is there no way to heal you of Camlan?”

He shook his head. Then he raised the circlet to his lips and kissed it. He had failed his brother and killed his father, and there was nothing left in him for anyone else.

He looked up. He crowned me with my brother’s crown and beckoned me.

“What are you doing?”

He beckoned me again, patiently. I followed him out of the hut and along the rocky path to the foot of the amba.

“I am not allowed up—” I began.

Medraut touched the circle of gold over my brow, and the head cloth beneath it. He touched my lips gently to stop me talking.

The emperor’s head cloth would allow me passage.

“F
IX YOUR GAZE ON
the portal above,” the sentries advised me at the bottom of the cliff, as Medraut adjusted the leather sling around my waist.

Two dark faces waited for me at the portal, one aged and lined, one young and smooth. The men helped me onto the ledge that served as their gatehouse. I stood breathless with the view and the climb, as Telemakos must have done earlier, while I waited for Medraut to follow me.

Beyond the portal was a narrow passage of rough-cut slopes and stairs between steep walls of rock. At the summit of the tortuous climb the plateau opened to a world of its own, a city in the clouds, floating serene above the valley floor. Stone houses were scattered across the wide tableland, built in imitation of the great houses of the capital, with flat roofs and high walls enclosing them. The church there also was built of geometric blocks and tiers, and I recognized it from the
Red Sea Itinerary.

We passed a small reservoir cut into the stone of the mountaintop, its edges green with moss. Higher up I could see the rim of another.

Here: ten years ago. Priamos and Hector were chained back to back in one of these, for giving a spear to their mad brother, Mikael. Mikael was still here, somewhere.

I walked resolutely at Medraut’s side, holding my crowned head as fixedly as a face on a coin.

Medraut took me to a thatched shelter in a sunny garden, where men worked and weeded companionably. There was a strong scent of herbs and goat hanging in the thin air. By and by one of the novices brought us some of the fried cakes of which Candake was so fond, and honey with them, and honey wine.

The sun was setting when Ella Asbeha joined us.

The emperor Caleb was a small, neat man, older than my father. His hair, like his sister’s, had gone white, and his beard was cropped close around his dark, lined face. He was dressed in the simple shamma of undecorated woven cloth that all the novices wore. And yet he was Aksum in all her many climates, from her salt basins to her clear and verdant highlands to her ice-capped peaks; grudging and forgiving, generous and unyielding, constant and unpredictable, all at once.

I thought, in that instant, that I was boldly presumptuous in pretending myself a queen only to trick an audience out of this imperial and holy man. God help me, what was I thinking in coming here, how would I ever come away from this beautiful and terrible place alive, with my soul and my mind and my freedom intact? I was ashamed to be sitting before Caleb wearing his borrowed head cloth, or even my brother’s crown. I lay with my face in my arms.

Caleb said to me, in my mother’s native dialect: “Britannia, there is no need for that. Not from you; and not here.”

I rose to my knees but could not make myself stand. I was a supplicant; it seemed appropriate.

“Are all you children of Artos so full of humility?” Caleb said, again in my mother’s tongue, and there was humor in his voice.

“Why did you send my father your lions?” I asked absurdly, like a sphinx posing a riddle.

Oh, he laughed and laughed, and even Medraut turned his face aside.

“Did you come from Britain to ask me this?”

I thought of Priamos’s introduction to his uncle:
Solomon walks among us in your wisdom.
“Please excuse me,” I muttered, trying to pull my thoughts together, still on my knees.

“I sent Artos my lions to seal our coalition,” Caleb said gently. “I was not going to leave them for the viceroy Ella Amida; he has no right to them. And Wazeb will have to find his own.”

Then Caleb addressed Medraut in Ethiopic. “Ras Meder, will you stay with us while Britannia tells her story?”

It was dusk now, and two of the novices came by with torches that they fixed in the ground just outside the tent. An evening wind stirred across the amba, bringing with it the sound of a single voice chanting from some unseen place on the plateau. The full moon came blazing forth as I spoke, so bright you could see colors in the dark. The torches were eclipsed.

Caleb said, when I had told him all, “So in effect you would agree to marry Constantine, if he allowed you to choose Britain’s king yourself? Whom then would you choose, Britannia?”

His manner of addressing me was unnerving, but made clear the serious formality of his questions. I glanced at my brother and held open a hand toward him. “My father’s eldest son still lives,” I said.

“He no longer speaks, though,” Caleb pointed out, and asked suddenly, “Whom would you choose, Ras Meder?”

Medraut pointed to me, and Caleb chuckled.

Then the emperor motioned one of the attendants to his side and whispered to him. The boy went running off into the molten dark.

Caleb turned back to me. “Wait a moment for the child to return,” he said, “and I will show you something.”

We waited. The distant clear voice continued to sing.

And then the messenger came back. His hands seemed empty, but Caleb picked something small from his open palm.

“Have you ever seen an Aksumite gold piece?” the emperor asked me.

I thought of the brave sunburst on Constantine’s new coin. But that had been copper. “I don’t think so.”

“Here is one of mine,” said Caleb, and he held out a thin, bright coin. It winked more golden than rising moonlight as he passed it across to me. Its face showed the profile of a king wearing a heavy and elaborate tiered crown.

“Is this you?”

“The image is a symbol,” said Caleb, “not a close likeness. You will find a like portrait on hundreds of years of Aksumite coins. See, on the face is the king, royally robed and crowned, and here he bears the imperial fly whisk that scatters the enemy like insects. Now here—”

Caleb flipped the shining disc over on my palm. “On the reverse the king is no more than a man, the servant of the people, wearing only a head cloth.”

It was a simple counterpart to the king on its face. Three ribbons banded the head cloth in place, tiny stripes across his forehead. The delicate miniature contrasted sharply with the first figure: crown, no crown; king and mortal man; image and opposite.

“A king’s power may come from God, but he is not a god,” said Caleb. “When you do battle against Ella Amida, Britannia, are you battling the king he represents, or the man he is? What wrong has he done as a king? Look carefully at the other side of the coin.”

I sat silent as Medraut, and thought.

Constantine had arrested Priamos for abandoning a post he had, in fact, abandoned. Constantine had had Priamos punished for running riot in a palace that was held in stewardship for another, and Priamos had chosen the punishment himself. Constantine had placed a guard over me because I, a foreign princess barely past girlhood, was followed through the streets by a crowd of beggared soldiers. Constantine had found Telemakos lurking in his office and had turned him out with a slap on the head.

I stared down at the engraved face on the coin in my palm, modest in its shining head cloth, then turned it over. The crown glittered in the torchlight.

Constantine was not a kind man, but he was an excellent viceroy. I prized and valued kindness, but I knew it was not kindness that would repair my father’s war-torn kingdom.

I glanced at Medraut and remembered that he, too, had had a thundering argument with Constantine before half the imperial court when they first met, whatever that had been about.