The Winter Prince (The Lion Hunters:01)(78)



In the time it took us to cross the cathedral square, Constantine and I had collected a following of what seemed like dozens of beggars: an eyeless, limbless group of mutilated men, some young, some older. They called to me in Greek and Ethiopic.

“Sister! Sister! Foreign lady, sister!”

They reached beseeching hands but did not try to touch me, not daring to come into range of the ceremonial spear bearers.

I turned frowning to Constantine and asked, “Why are the beggars all so badly maimed?”

“They are veterans of the Himyar,” he answered briefly. “I have tried to find employment and hospice for them, but there are too many. Ras Priamos’s legacy to Aksum.”

“The emperor Caleb’s legacy, surely,” I corrected.

“Of course, you’re right. Himyar embitters me. Caleb depleted his nation’s treasury and youth in conflict there, and I am left to sweep up the debris.”

I wondered what he had done. He had not held this office for more than a half year, after all. Anything he did for Aksum he might also do for Britain.

“Tell me,” I said, testing him.

“I’ve converted the old palace to an asylum for returning soldiers. I donated a boatload of my father’s tin to pay for it.”

“That is very generous of your father,” I said.

He did not answer that. We walked the rest of the way to the New Palace without a word.

We broke our fast together in a small room that was bright with bowls of flowers. I thought of Constantine’s proposal, and it made me want to laugh again. I bit my lip, embarrassed. He was trying to be courteous.

“What have you done for Aksum that you are proudest of?” I asked, trying hard myself.

“I have stopped the Beja tribes skirmishing over where their emeralds are sold, and curbed the banditry along the Salt Road,” he answered. “But I am most proud of this.”

He undid a purse by his side and passed to me a small and shining coin. It was curiously beautiful, copper daubed with gold, a broad cross imprinted with a sunburst at its heart.

“That is the new issue in bronze. I used my own tin in the minting of them. I have not enjoyed my tenure here,” Constantine confessed. “But I serve as I am able. I think I have done some little good as Ella Amida.”

“Why do you call yourself Ella Amida?”

“It was the title of the reigning negus when Constantine the Great was emperor of Rome, two hundred years ago, when Rome and Aksum became Christian.”

Constantine leaned across the table toward me. “Goewin, I meant what I said this morning. I think we should get married now. It would simplify a great deal, and it would set me free of the Aksumite regency.”

“I am not handing over my father’s kingdom so easily,” I answered.

Constantine paused. Then he took my hand and held it clasped lightly between us on the table, as he continued his gentle, obstinate persuasion. “Goewin, I shall not force you. And I don’t want to coerce you. But you have nothing without me. You have no following, no army, no great income—”

“Telemakos,” I interrupted.

“Excuse me?”

“I have Telemakos,” I said. My voice sounded cold and calm in my own ears.

For several long moments he did not speak.

“What can you mean?” he said at last.

With my hand still clasped beneath Constantine’s, I let these words spill steady and quiet from some dark place in my heart:

“I have Telemakos. My father would not let the kingship pass to Medraut, not because he was illegitimate, but because he was the child of incest. Telemakos is removed from that. He is the son of the high king’s eldest son. Who would deny that he has a greater claim to the British throne than you, or even I?”

Constantine said in astonishment, “Telemakos is Aksumite!”

I leaned toward him so that we stared across the table into each other’s eyes. I held his gaze. “You are British,” I said, “and no one questions your place on the Aksumite throne. What makes you think anyone will question Telemakos in Britain? He is the high king’s grandson. I am his daughter. Who are you?”

“Is that a challenge?”

“You may take it as one,” I said.

Constantine stood up and paced to the window. There was a bowl of small white highland roses sitting on the sill. He stood there a long time, still, looking down at the roses.

He said at last, “Have you a plan that goes with your posturing threat?”

Elizabeth Wein's Books