But once again the najashi rolled and sealed the letters without objection.
When he had finished, Abreha stood up and spread his hand across the middle of Telemakos’s shoulders to steer him out of his study. The inside of the najashi’s heavy signet weighed like lead against the base of Telemakos’s neck; it was still warm with the touch of the wax Abreha had used to seal the letters.
Abreha wears Solomon’s ring and lives in Solomon’s palace, Telemakos thought; Solomon is his ancestor. The najashi rules in Himyar as if by birthright. He styles himself mukarrib, federator, like Himyar’s ancient kings. But he is Aksumite, like me. He was not born to his reign here; he was chosen for it. He is the keystone of an alliance of tribes and kingdoms. He is respected, and he is fair, and he has been kind to me.
Telemakos’s eyes were burning again.
He glanced back longingly at the salukis as Abreha guided him into the reception chamber. He would have given his soul to call one of these dogs his own. He scarcely ever saw them now that he was forbidden to visit the kennels.
As Telemakos was about to step into the corridor where his guards were waiting for him, Queen Muna came in carrying Athena.
She would not have done it if she had known Telemakos would be there. Athena was nearly two years old, rapidly learning to express herself with equal fluency in South Arabian and Ethiopic, and she kept her loyalties plainly clear.
“Boy!” she screamed, lunging toward Telemakos. “Tena’s boy!” She became a demon whirlwind of wild bronze hair and smooth brown limbs, her gray eyes wide and glittering. When Muna did not let her go, Athena bit her. Muna gasped and put the baby on the floor.
Abreha abandoned ceremony. He gripped Telemakos by the back of his shirt, hauled him through the door, and slammed it shut behind him. Then he let go of Telemakos, and they stood still together for a moment, with the waiting guards, listening to the screeching from inside. They could hear Athena scrabbling at the door, and Muna trying to calm her.
“I’m sorry,” the najashi said. “Go.”
“Please don’t hurt her,” Telemakos croaked.
“Don’t be stupid, boy. She’s here to play with the dogs. You know how she loves them.”
Telemakos went back upstairs, bowed to dismiss his guard, and crossed the scriptorium. Harith the librarian gave him a skeptical glance as he passed; two visiting historians did not look up from their work. Telemakos sat down with his head against his knees on the bottom step of the Globe Room.
“Do you need the basin?” Dawit inquired warily.
“I’m all right.” Telemakos swallowed, and swallowed again, despairing of the long season that stretched ahead of him.
II
SUNBIRD IN A CAGE
THE WORST OF THE daily march to and from the training ground was passing the door to the children’s room. Behind this door, or through it if it were open, came sounds that reminded Telemakos of what he was missing. Sometimes, the tame songbirds trilled and fluted; the Scions, Abreha’s royal foster children, who would inherit most of Himyar’s kingdoms, sang together to Queen Muna’s lyre; or the increasingly unmanageable Athena screamed in hysterical fury or threw things across the room.
Abreha did not arm Telemakos’s jailers with anything more dangerous than whips. The najashi rotated the watchmen daily, and they were all chosen from his personal guard; they took their orders seriously and were not to be won over by charm or familiarity, or by superstitious fear of Telemakos’s British eyes, steely and strange as witchcraft in an Aksumite face. These men made it clear that playing nursemaid to a disobedient boy was beneath their station, whatever he was and whatever his crime. They tolerated no childishness in Telemakos, treating him almost as a disgraced equal.
One morning Telemakos boldly defied his escort on his way back up the stairs, and turned out of the corridor and through the door into the children’s room.
“Out,” ordered one of the guards.
Telemakos paid no attention. They had to follow him into the room, ducking around the hanging birdcages of willow and silver. Twelve of Abreha’s fourteen royal foster children looked up from their breakfast in surprise. Only Athena and the two youngest Scions, Habib and Lu’lu, were missing; they were presumably in the nursery with Queen Muna.
“Come away now,” the watchman told Telemakos. “Don’t shame yourself before your fellows.”
Telemakos made his way purposefully toward the nursery, and the other guard cracked his whip around Telemakos’s ankles. The sting made him miss his step; his legs were bare beneath his sandal straps. He stopped, not because he was afraid of the whip, but because it was embarrassing. The Royal Scions were all staring.
“Turn and face me,” the soldier ordered. He spoke as calmly as if he were offering Telemakos a second helping of rice. Telemakos hesitated, then confronted his escort squarely.
He saw, as he turned, that the three eldest of the Scions no longer showed any interest in this scene. Tall Jibril, motherly Inas, and the dark, edgy young king Shadi had all bent low over their bowls of honey yogurt.
“Will you stand fast to be disciplined?” the soldier with the whip asked Telemakos. “Or must Butrus hold you still?”
“I’ll stand,” Telemakos said.
The soldier struck him in the face with the tail of his lash, sharply and accurately. It left a narrow, burning blaze across his cheek.
“You are required to do as you are bid,” the soldier told him, with the same sure, controlled lack of excitement. “If anyone asks how you came by that mark on your face, you are to tell them you were whipped for disobedience. Now leave this hall and continue up the stairs to the scriptorium, where the Star Master waits to give you your daily instruction.”
Telemakos, his face afire more with humiliation than anything else, stalked back out to the corridor and continued up the stairs.
“What is that?” Harith the librarian in the scriptorium asked, when he came to the landing to let Telemakos through to the Great Globe Room. He stabbed a short finger toward Telemakos’s cheek, pointing. The soldiers stood waiting and listening, and Telemakos knew he could not lie.
“It’s a lash mark.”
“What were you lashed for?”
Telemakos bit his lip. He was beginning to realize how this particular punishment was supposed to work.
“Disobedience,” he managed to answer, through clenched teeth.