Star Master acting as his long-suffering gull and pretending he did not mind his robes awash with spilled water. Telemakos was steady now, and though he could not fill the wine jar himself, nor a water bottle for that matter, he could pour from either into a cup. He thought, as he poured now, how strange that he should have come to a point where it was an honor and a triumph to be able to pour out a cup of wine.
I am good at waiting on people, Telemakos thought. It was in waiting on that hyena Anako that I trapped him.
He shivered. Anako again. Oh, if only I could stop thinking .
He set the wine jar carefully on the low flagged sill among the scented herbs that grew there, and reached down for the water to mix in Julian’s cup. One of the other pages, unthinkingly helpful, had topped up the water jug so that it was now brimful. It was too heavy for Telemakos to pour one-handed. He considered briefly, then knelt and braced the water jar against his thigh. He tipped it slightly to spill away the excess into the herbs, and warm water splashed over his sandaled feet.
Vivid memory clubbed him from out of nowhere, stunning him as brutally as when it had been real. He was at the salt mines; he had accidentally dropped and split open a waterskin, and his sore feet were soothed with an unexpected wash of warm water even as it evaporated in the dry desert air. The waste —Telemakos crouched, cowering, with his head tucked into his knees, expecting to be beaten to the ground in punishment.
“ What is it ?”
That was what Anako the Lazarus had said, seeing Telemakos. Not Who is that ? but What is it ?—as though Telemakos were such a freak he could not be considered human.
“What is it?”
The voice was real, and a real hand took hold of Telemakos’s fingers. He sobbed aloud, as he had never done in Afar, dreading to have to endure the knife beneath his nails again. He choked breathlessly, “Do not, do not —”
“Are you ill, child?” the Roman legate asked kindly.
After a long moment, when the piercing blade did not come and no one kicked him, Telemakos looked up. The legate, and the ambassador from the Persian emperor Khosro, and two sheiks of Gharun, stared at Telemakos curiously. Julian had put down his cup. The water jar, thank fortune, had righted itself when Telemakos had witlessly let go of it.
“Are you ill?” Julian repeated.
Telemakos fumed inwardly, furious that he was not able to master himself better. “Your pardon, sir,” he gasped aloud. He steadied his voice and managed to speak levelly. “I thought I was going to spill the water. I am inexpert! Please forgive me. I should know to take better care.”
He lifted the jug again.
“Your cup, sir?”
Late, late that night, transformed from honored cupbearer to disgraced prisoner once again, beneath the gaze of two vigilant guards, Telemakos made the lengthy climb back to his solitary existence at the height of Ghumdan’s towers.
Am I not biddable? he wondered. Have I winning charm and a backbone of steel? Am I really more like Lleu than Asad? Am I at all like either one of them, adored by their kingly fathers? What humiliation, what deprivation, what cruelty disguised as discipline, did either one of them ever endure? Blessed and fortunate, what harshness was ever visited on them, those beloved young princes?
Beloved young prince . Telemakos smiled ruefully to himself in the dark as he continued up the endless stairs. That was his own title.
I should expect no mercy, Telemakos supposed, from a man who was imprisoned all his boyhood only because he was the emperor’s nephew; a man who saw his elder brother crippled in trying to escape the chains that were forced on him. In one more week, Telemakos told himself, only one more week, my own imprisonment will be over. I will have Athena back. She can help me with my cup. She can hold my pen and paper steady. She likes to comb my hair. And as long as she is at my side, the hideous dreams stay
I am good at waiting on people, Telemakos thought. It was in waiting on that hyena Anako that I trapped him.
He shivered. Anako again. Oh, if only I could stop thinking .
He set the wine jar carefully on the low flagged sill among the scented herbs that grew there, and reached down for the water to mix in Julian’s cup. One of the other pages, unthinkingly helpful, had topped up the water jug so that it was now brimful. It was too heavy for Telemakos to pour one-handed. He considered briefly, then knelt and braced the water jar against his thigh. He tipped it slightly to spill away the excess into the herbs, and warm water splashed over his sandaled feet.
Vivid memory clubbed him from out of nowhere, stunning him as brutally as when it had been real. He was at the salt mines; he had accidentally dropped and split open a waterskin, and his sore feet were soothed with an unexpected wash of warm water even as it evaporated in the dry desert air. The waste —Telemakos crouched, cowering, with his head tucked into his knees, expecting to be beaten to the ground in punishment.
“ What is it ?”
That was what Anako the Lazarus had said, seeing Telemakos. Not Who is that ? but What is it ?—as though Telemakos were such a freak he could not be considered human.
“What is it?”
The voice was real, and a real hand took hold of Telemakos’s fingers. He sobbed aloud, as he had never done in Afar, dreading to have to endure the knife beneath his nails again. He choked breathlessly, “Do not, do not —”
“Are you ill, child?” the Roman legate asked kindly.
After a long moment, when the piercing blade did not come and no one kicked him, Telemakos looked up. The legate, and the ambassador from the Persian emperor Khosro, and two sheiks of Gharun, stared at Telemakos curiously. Julian had put down his cup. The water jar, thank fortune, had righted itself when Telemakos had witlessly let go of it.
“Are you ill?” Julian repeated.
Telemakos fumed inwardly, furious that he was not able to master himself better. “Your pardon, sir,” he gasped aloud. He steadied his voice and managed to speak levelly. “I thought I was going to spill the water. I am inexpert! Please forgive me. I should know to take better care.”
He lifted the jug again.
“Your cup, sir?”
Late, late that night, transformed from honored cupbearer to disgraced prisoner once again, beneath the gaze of two vigilant guards, Telemakos made the lengthy climb back to his solitary existence at the height of Ghumdan’s towers.
Am I not biddable? he wondered. Have I winning charm and a backbone of steel? Am I really more like Lleu than Asad? Am I at all like either one of them, adored by their kingly fathers? What humiliation, what deprivation, what cruelty disguised as discipline, did either one of them ever endure? Blessed and fortunate, what harshness was ever visited on them, those beloved young princes?
Beloved young prince . Telemakos smiled ruefully to himself in the dark as he continued up the endless stairs. That was his own title.
I should expect no mercy, Telemakos supposed, from a man who was imprisoned all his boyhood only because he was the emperor’s nephew; a man who saw his elder brother crippled in trying to escape the chains that were forced on him. In one more week, Telemakos told himself, only one more week, my own imprisonment will be over. I will have Athena back. She can help me with my cup. She can hold my pen and paper steady. She likes to comb my hair. And as long as she is at my side, the hideous dreams stay
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