A Coalition of Lions

“Ras Meder asks, ‘What is that picture, Telemakos?’

“Well, sir, that is Menelik traveling to visit his father, Solomon. Menelik is going to steal the Ark of the Covenant from Solomon’s palace when he leaves.’

“Ras Meder says, ‘That’s not right, is it, boy?’

“Indeed not, but Solomon will forgive him.”

Or again:

“Ras Meder says, ‘Look, child, can it be that this is the very lion skin I gave to your mother, before you were alive?’

“It is, sir; it has an esteemed place in this house. No one but yourself or a chieftain may wear it.”

Medraut had the child underfoot almost constantly, and must have heard it all. He never answered, but I could see him biting down on rising tears, could see his jaw and hands tightening as he flinched against the assault. Telemakos would walk a far, hard road before he healed his father, but effortlessly he won his father’s heart.

When we made ready for our parade to the New Palace on the following morning, Medraut appeared among us prepared for his role like a general returning triumphant from war. He had shaved clean his face and cropped his hair short, in the style of a Roman senator. Over one of Kidane’s well-made shammas he wore Turunesh’s lion skin. The glaring head crowned him, and the shimmering black mane hung over his shoulders and down his back. It must have been heavier than battle armor. He had no other ornament. He stood taller than any of Kidane’s household; he looked like Caesar Augustus.

He gave me the only smile I had seen from him in the weeks since we had found him: a proud, bitter smile of encouragement.

“Medraut son of Artos,” I said.

He bent his head in acknowledgment.

I smiled back at him, and said with determination, “Let us go now and give away our father’s kingdom.”

He held out his arm to serve as my escort.

It was a triumphant march to the palace for me, accompanied by the party of priests that Caleb had sent with us to bring his blessing to Wazeb. Passersby stopped to bow and kiss their wooden or silver crosses, instead of veering away from my guard. Medraut walked into the New Palace as though it were his own. Everyone knew who he was, though it had been more than six years since he had been in the city; with Artos dead, for all anyone knew, this was the high king of Britain. I sailed in his wake, outraged at how simple this was for him, at how simple all the last year would have been for me, if I had been a man. Medraut did not even have to open his mouth.

It was a day of clear, scoring sunlight, and we found Constantine afoot in one of the training yards, watching a troop of spearmen at practice. The yard was sited so that the crenelated shadows of the palace’s towers tricked the eye and made the spearmen’s targets difficult to see. Rows of seven soldiers at a time took turns casting in unison, with unerring precision. I waited for Constantine to call them to a halt. He stood with seventy armed men ranked at his back, and I with my sundry entourage of priests and child and mute.

“Saints be praised, Princess, I had nearly given you up for dead!”

Constantine grasped me by the elbows in a warm yet formal embrace, and kissed me on either cheek.

Well, so he should.

“I have been frantic for your safety—” He stopped abruptly, and stared at Medraut. Then he fell to his knees.

“My lord. My king.”

Constantine knelt before Medraut. He knelt, and waited to be told to rise. Medraut, of course, said nothing.

“I submit to your authority,” said Constantine.

Would I were a man. Here was I to bestow on him a kingdom, and still he addressed my companion as though I were not there.

My voice seemed loud in my own ears as I said, “I mean to make you high king of Britain, my cousin. It pains me a little to do so, but you are my father’s chosen heir. Your regency ends as Wazeb becomes the emperor Gebre Meskal, the servant of the cross. I bring Caleb’s blessing for his son, and have crowns for you both.”

Constantine glanced up at Medraut and said hesitantly, “My lord?”

“I have crowns for you both,” I repeated, with fearful warning in my voice. “I have brought you the crown of the prince of Britain.”

“My lady.”

Constantine finally inclined his head in my direction.

He challenged: “Here stand a son, a daughter, and a grandson to Britain’s high king. Three of you stand before me alive and whole, and still you would offer me this kingship?”

“Not without condition.”

“Of course not,” Constantine acknowledged bitterly, just as though we were battling in his study once again, as if he were composing a new set of choice words to tell me how stubborn and irrational I was, only he could not embarrass himself before the troop of imperial spearmen.

“Of course not,” I agreed, temperate and composed. This was not a battle, and Constantine would see so eventually. I waited.

He murmured at last, “What are your conditions?”

“My engagement to you is sundered, that I may stay here in your place, as Britain’s next ambassador to Aksum.”

He blinked in surprise. Then I saw his jaw tighten, and knew it for jealousy, as he considered what I might do alone in Aksum after his return to Britain.

“There’s more,” I said, cool and proud.

“Go on,” he answered politely, through his teeth.

“Ras Priamos shall be freed, and formally pardoned by you. Caleb and I have agreed that Priamos must return with you to Britain to fulfill his embassy there under your rule.”

Constantine knelt quiet, nonplussed and speechless for a moment. Then hesitantly he began: “What then of your talk of choosing Britain’s heir…”

He glanced at Telemakos. I shook my head warningly.

Constantine gathered himself. “Who then will follow me?”

“Your issue,” I said, “or your choice. You shall not be bound to me any more than I to you.”

Again I waited. The terms were set.

“My lady,” Constantine said, and this time turned his reverence to me as well as his words. “This is a fair and generous offer. I will serve as I am able.”

Then, to one of the officers, “Bring Wazeb.”

“Bring Priamos,” I commanded, with cold and absolute authority, though my cheeks burned as I said it. I had not seen him since the Meskal parade. I had not spoken to him for more than two months.

So they joined the congress: Wazeb in his unadorned white shamma, emperor to be, wearing his cross of twisted grass like the novices from the monasteries or the children of the mountains; and Priamos with his two attendant spear bearers, like a pretender to the kingship.

Constantine saw it, too. He barked out, “My God, but this is madness. He has the very face of treachery.”

But why, why? That heavy brow, which I had held dear and inaccurate in my mind for so long, seemed faintly worried; but not treacherous. Eyes lowered, Priamos wore the careful, blank expression that meant he was hiding himself. I knew that look. It was the look Priamos had worn as he knelt to have his hands whipped. It meant he was afraid and would not let it show.

I stamped one foot in an agony of impatience and restraint. Here was Constantine calling Priamos before seventy armed warriors; for all Priamos knew he was being summoned to his execution. What had he endured this past month, waiting for my return, suspected of collusion in my disappearance—

“I will test him for you,” said Wazeb. He came forward to stand before the practicing guards, then raised one arm above his head.

“Let fall your spears,” he commanded.

The forest of spiked barbs disappeared. There was scarcely a clatter as the ranked soldiers gently placed their weapons on the ground.

“We must have a royal hunt before a royal investiture,” Wazeb said. “No man becomes a king until he has proven his strength.”

“A royal hunt—a lion hunt?” Constantine objected, out of habit, I think. “You have not the experience!”

“It is a ritual,” said Wazeb, mildly. “I have never heard of a king killed in a royal hunt. What do you think the spear bearers are for? I shall choose mine carefully…”

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?