Priamos rose to his knees, shaking off Abreha’s concerned touch. He offered Constantine his open hand, as though holding something precious and invisible in its cup. His pale palm was still faintly striped with the marks of the beating he had taken in the season just past.
“My lord. My king,” he breathed. “Forgive me. I owe you my life and my allegiance.” He closed his eyes. “I beg your forgiveness.”
Constantine paused, looking down at the ambassador’s bowed head and open hand.
“You shall have mine when I have yours,” he said then, and took his rival’s hand.
He raised Priamos to his feet. They stood firm in their shared grip, gazing down at their clasped hands, pale and dark.
“You are welcome to our coalition,” Priamos said at last.
Constantine looked over his shoulder at me, and smiled.
“You noble pair of predators,” I cried, in high spirit. “You are both welcome to my pride.”
“Look, Gebre Meskal is coming,” said Telemakos, and struggled free of my embrace.
Abreha took one of the cubs from Medraut. In the exchange, as they both stood smiling with their heads bent over the young lions, I saw all that Medraut might have been.
Telemakos stood his ground before them, desperate. “Please, please don’t let them go. Let me present them to the emperor, oh, please, sir.”
He was all that Medraut might yet be.
Medraut nodded once to Telemakos. Abreha said to the child, “Stay calm and wait.”
Telemakos did so. He loped at Medraut’s side with his mouth pressed shut, occasionally glancing over at the lion cubs and breaking into his secretive, incomplete smile, but mostly focused on the meeting with the young emperor. When our parties came together, he knelt before Gebre Meskal with princely dignity, his impossible hair gleaming bright as any crown, and said, “Your Highness, I offer you these gifts to grace your palace as a symbol of your kingship.”
Then he was on his feet, dragging forward by the elbow first Medraut, and then Abreha. They held forth the cubs.
“I have named them Solomon and Sheba,” Telemakos proclaimed regally.
He held out his arms to Medraut in great longing; and Medraut, all the ice in his veins melting at this entreaty, gave him the cub. Telemakos held it cradled as if it were a house cat and offered it to the young emperor.
“This one is Sheba,” he said. “Keep them well. You must not chain them.”
“I will not, Lij Telemakos,” said the tame lion.
“Kind thought,” said Priamos, as we watched them construct a hutch for the cubs to be carried in. “It was a kind thought.”
Priamos had endured a thorough treatment with salt and spirits to clean the scratches on his face, which undoubtedly had been more painful than the getting of them. Now he had taken a skin of honey wine and some few minutes to regain his composure, and we stood at the camp’s edge as the life of the royal hunt went on about us: the silken tents and pennants hanging still, no breath of wind stirring in the golden heat of the silent noon; the lion and lioness carried in to be skinned; Turunesh sitting before her tent with Medraut and Telemakos at her feet as her son told her of his adventure.
“We will never share a kingdom,” Priamos said, his voice quiet and unhappy. “I will be in Britain before the short rains, and you still here.”
“It is only for two years. I will return you your Red Sea Itinerary so you may find your way back. Constantine must look to his life if he fails my trust.”
“He will not fail. Your kingdom will be safe in his care.”
“I was thinking of my heart,” I said, “which will also be in his care.”
“My lady…”
Priamos sighed, and turned his face away from me, unable to continue.
“I understand now,” I said, speaking slowly, “how Telemakos might have come to be.”
“The world does not need another Telemakos,” said Priamos, with equal care. “But I understand it also.”
He raised his head to look toward the Simien Mountains. The sky above the junipers was spattered with a mass of swooping, screaming birds.
I stood amazed. I spoke in Latin, because I did not know the Ethiopic words I needed. “Are they swifts? They sound like swifts.”
Priamos answered me in Latin. “Yes. They are not here all year. They come with the summer, and fly north before the rains.”
“In Britain, too, they come with the summer. They have flown here just as I have.”
“And without even an Itinerary to guide them.” Priamos laughed. His light, sweet laughter made my throat ache. “Ai, these poor lion kits! It is like sending them to Debra Damo. There are no flights of swifts tamed and clipped and kept in cages. But how else can you keep a lion in your house?”
And because he was speaking Latin, he used the word leo for lion. It brought Lleu to my mind so vividly that I caught my breath in a sob as sharp as a cough.
“What is it?”
“Leo,” I said. “Ah, Priamos, I have lost my best companion, and I am desolate to think that I must lose you now as well.”
He did not answer. The swifts wheeled overhead, crying their high and strange familiar song.
And then Priamos did what he had never done before: he raised his eyes to mine. They were so dark that they reflected the sky, making them seem the deep indigo-sheened coffee color of swifts’ wings. I no longer saw his heavy frown, his torn face. In his eyes I saw himself, his whole being.
“Oh, my dear Goewin,” Priamos said quietly, and took me by both hands. He lifted them and pressed his forehead against them, his shoulders shaking, bound by protocol against drawing me any closer than that or touching me in any more familiar way.
It was more than I could bear. I pulled his hands to my lips and kissed them gently, as Turunesh had done to Medraut. Still clutching each other’s hands, we touched our faces cheek to cheek, and stood so close a moment. I kissed the tracery of a tear across his cheekbone. And then we let each other go.
Priamos looked up into the sky again. He was not frowning. His expression was caught between sudden joy and inconsolable longing.
“Ah, summer has come, and I must fly from here and into the teeth of your British winter.”
Then he turned back to me with his rare, sweet, child’s smile. “Do you direct the swifts northward in a little while, that I may remember you.”