Telemakos said. “He didn’t always bother, but it made my mother choose carefully before she employed anyone. My British relatives think I sound like a Byzantine.”
“You do,” Julian agreed. “There is some Aksumite in your accent, as well, though; you don’t sound very British, grandson to Artos and like your uncle though you may be. Well, well. To think that Artos the Dragon has a grandson. Does Constantine the high king of Britain know that Artos has a grandson?”
“Oh, of a surety. He’s known me since I was a child. Constantine was ambassador and viceroy in Aksum when my father and my aunt came to stay there.”
When Telemakos was six, and his aunt Goewin had first arrived in Aksum, she had threatened to take Telemakos to Britain and set him up as king-in-waiting to rival Constantine. His most vivid memory of Constantine was of a strong hand dragging him mercilessly by the hair through the corridors of the New palace, and then the viceroy’s cold voice informing Goewin that he had the right to cut off Telemakos’s head. There was no doubt Constantine knew who he was.
“Constantine is my cousin,” Telemakos added.
“Close?”
“Once removed.” Closer than Queen Muna, he thought; closer than the najashi’s children by her would have been. Poor, doomed, biddable Asad wasn’t even my blood kin. “Inas of Ma’in says I am related to everybody. I’m also cousin to Gwalchmei of the Orcades, who used to be Constantine’s ambassador to the najashi. But I never met Gwalchmei, and a new British emissary has not yet been appointed, so I am all alone here.”
“I’m not surprised Abreha drags his heels in appointing a new emissary, after Gwalchmei’s carry-on.”
“Sir?” Telemakos asked in polite incomprehension. Over the past three months he had become so schooled in masking his emotions that he did not even lift an eyebrow.
“Gwalchmei was … given to sweet deception? Adored by every noblewoman in San’a, shall I say?”
Telemakos laughed, delighted. It was the first clue he had to Gwalchmei’s sudden departure from Himyar. “I’ve not heard that!”
“The king of Himyar is likely refusing the recent choices he’s been given for a new ambassador. He’ll be wary of any of Gwalchmei’s kin, and if necessary he can boast of you as a British representative.”
“I am far more Aksumite than British. I don’t know anything about Britain other than the names of its rivers.” Telemakos paused, and asked politely, “How long were you there? What was the best thing about it, and the worst?”
“Oh—” the legate laughed. “The worst thing about it was the weather, of course. It is supposed to rain all the time, you know, but there was severe drought the year I arrived. And several times since my return to Constantinople, their crops have failed through cold. Constantine sent to us for grain more than once, before Britain’s own plague quarantine shut down our trade with them, and just as well, for by then we had none to spare and were importing extra from our najashi here in South Arabia, sitting pretty atop his restored dam in the warmth of the equator. We have suffered, too, since the comet came, even in Byzantium. These past ten years have been cold and dark throughout the northern reaches of the world. Did you hear about the snow in Rome, three years in a row, and frost in summer? It was worse in Britain. But I liked Britain well enough while I was there—skies so vast and near, avenues of ancient stone, and summer evenings of endless light.”
Julian looked aslant at Telemakos and held up his cup for more wine.
“Shall you travel there, someday?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps.” The charm bracelet jangled as Telemakos hefted the wine jar aloft. His daily use of a spear in the najashi’s training yards had greatly improved the balance that so eluded him since he had lost his arm. But in preparation for this evening he had filled a thousand goblets, he was sure, with the
“You do,” Julian agreed. “There is some Aksumite in your accent, as well, though; you don’t sound very British, grandson to Artos and like your uncle though you may be. Well, well. To think that Artos the Dragon has a grandson. Does Constantine the high king of Britain know that Artos has a grandson?”
“Oh, of a surety. He’s known me since I was a child. Constantine was ambassador and viceroy in Aksum when my father and my aunt came to stay there.”
When Telemakos was six, and his aunt Goewin had first arrived in Aksum, she had threatened to take Telemakos to Britain and set him up as king-in-waiting to rival Constantine. His most vivid memory of Constantine was of a strong hand dragging him mercilessly by the hair through the corridors of the New palace, and then the viceroy’s cold voice informing Goewin that he had the right to cut off Telemakos’s head. There was no doubt Constantine knew who he was.
“Constantine is my cousin,” Telemakos added.
“Close?”
“Once removed.” Closer than Queen Muna, he thought; closer than the najashi’s children by her would have been. Poor, doomed, biddable Asad wasn’t even my blood kin. “Inas of Ma’in says I am related to everybody. I’m also cousin to Gwalchmei of the Orcades, who used to be Constantine’s ambassador to the najashi. But I never met Gwalchmei, and a new British emissary has not yet been appointed, so I am all alone here.”
“I’m not surprised Abreha drags his heels in appointing a new emissary, after Gwalchmei’s carry-on.”
“Sir?” Telemakos asked in polite incomprehension. Over the past three months he had become so schooled in masking his emotions that he did not even lift an eyebrow.
“Gwalchmei was … given to sweet deception? Adored by every noblewoman in San’a, shall I say?”
Telemakos laughed, delighted. It was the first clue he had to Gwalchmei’s sudden departure from Himyar. “I’ve not heard that!”
“The king of Himyar is likely refusing the recent choices he’s been given for a new ambassador. He’ll be wary of any of Gwalchmei’s kin, and if necessary he can boast of you as a British representative.”
“I am far more Aksumite than British. I don’t know anything about Britain other than the names of its rivers.” Telemakos paused, and asked politely, “How long were you there? What was the best thing about it, and the worst?”
“Oh—” the legate laughed. “The worst thing about it was the weather, of course. It is supposed to rain all the time, you know, but there was severe drought the year I arrived. And several times since my return to Constantinople, their crops have failed through cold. Constantine sent to us for grain more than once, before Britain’s own plague quarantine shut down our trade with them, and just as well, for by then we had none to spare and were importing extra from our najashi here in South Arabia, sitting pretty atop his restored dam in the warmth of the equator. We have suffered, too, since the comet came, even in Byzantium. These past ten years have been cold and dark throughout the northern reaches of the world. Did you hear about the snow in Rome, three years in a row, and frost in summer? It was worse in Britain. But I liked Britain well enough while I was there—skies so vast and near, avenues of ancient stone, and summer evenings of endless light.”
Julian looked aslant at Telemakos and held up his cup for more wine.
“Shall you travel there, someday?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps.” The charm bracelet jangled as Telemakos hefted the wine jar aloft. His daily use of a spear in the najashi’s training yards had greatly improved the balance that so eluded him since he had lost his arm. But in preparation for this evening he had filled a thousand goblets, he was sure, with the
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