'Twas not to my taste, to be sure. And yet it was better than one might expect. Deprivation is a sharp sauce for hunger.
With our schedule returned to something resembling normalcy, Joscelin resumed the practice of his Cassiline exercises—morning and night, tireless and diligent. It may be that I saw only what I desired, but I thought he was regaining a measure of his old fluid grace. Of a surety, 'twas meaningless without an opponent; and yet the forms were there.
So we made our way to Meroë, and with each mile that passed, Kaneka and Safiya's excitement grew. Their long homecoming was at last becoming a reality.
We had to cross the river to reach the city, a dubious crossing on a vast, swaying bridge that hung suspended over the rapids. I will own, I was nervous, as our camels strung out in a long line, proceeding one after the other, Mek Timmur going first to argue the tarif on the far side. Nonetheless, the crossing was made without incident.
We had reached Meroë, the capital city of Jebe-Barkal.
As the desert has its own harsh beauty, Meroë has its splendor.
Bordered on either side by broad, rushing rivers, it is nearly an island unto itself, afforded natural protection and ready irrigation. On the outskirts of the city lie the royal cemeteries, looming pyramids of red dish mud-brick that challenge the brilliant blue skies, awing the weary traveller. Inside was the city proper, a busy and bustling place, with temples raised to the many gods of Menekhet and indeed, as Safiya told us, to other gods native to Jebe-Barkal, such as lion-headed Apamedek and Kharkos the Hunter, who wielded two bows in his four arms.
At the heart of Meroë lies the royal palace.
It is guarded by high walls, and both the east and west gates are flanked by sculptures of kneeling oliphaunts, massive beasts with trunks upraised, twice as tall as a man. I did not believe a living beast could be so large until I saw one ambling the streets of Meroë, a moving turret in which two soldiers rode affixed to its broad back. Its hide was grey and wrinkled, as thick as cured leather, and its feet the size of serving-platters. I stared, open-mouthed, having only read of such wonders. Its broad ears flapped like sails, moving the hot air. A squadron of soldiers preceded it, chatting inconsequentially among themselves, resplendent in embroidered capes over light mail, carrying the rumored shields of camelopard skin.
"So," Kaneka said softly, watching them pass. "At last you see my land."
I will own, it was humbling. There was so much I had not known of Jebe-Barkal.
'Twas Safriya's turn, in the city of her birth, to play the guide, and she directed our caravan to the finest lodgings in town, which were quite fine indeed. The camels were unloaded, and our farewells said; Mek Timmur and his assistants were bound for an encampment, and thus to seek employ on a return journey. I wished them the joy of it, glad to leave the desert behind. Beyond, to the south, the purple shadow of mountains loomed, the highlands of Jebe-Barkal. It was there that Kaneka's village lay, and there we were bound; south, ever south. For all its splendor, Meroë was but another station on the way.
First, though, we would seek the Queen's blessing and see Safiya restored.
Of Queen Zanadakhete, I knew little; I had not even known, until this journey, that Jebe-Barkal, by tradition, is always ruled by a woman, wed or no. To some extent, her power is largely ceremonial, for there are princes—Ras, is the title—who rule each province. But in Meroë, her role is taken seriously indeed.
We composed our missive over dinner, all of us putting our heads together, and Safiya wrote it out in Jeb'ez, using parchment and ink that I provided. For all that I'd grown proficient at the spoken tongue, the script itself eluded me still. Safiya wrote it with a flowing hand.
"My father was a scribe," she said modestly. "I trained at his knee."
The hotel-keeper was paid, and the message delivered; a full link of gold, it cost us, one-fifth of the cost of our journey from Majibara. One pays, for access.
In the late afternoon of the following day, the reply came. We were summoned to court come morning.
Let Joscelin laugh—and he did, thinking me vain—but I dressed in D'Angeline finery for the audience, hauling my one court gown out of our trunks; the rose-silk with crystal beading that I had worn to meet Pharaoh. I would accord no less to the Queen-Regent of Jebe-Barkal. At Kaneka's insistence, we contracted an entourage and made our way to court thusly, beneath the fringed shade of our hired parasol-bearers.
Queen Zanadakhete received us in her inner courtyard, her august personage concealed behind a curtained alcove while the soft cries of caged birds and the redolent scent of citron surrounded us.
"So," she murmured in Jeb'ez, a half-glimpsed figure, her breath stirring the gauze curtains. "You have come from Khebbel-im-Akkad."
"If it please your majesty." I knelt, proffering the Lugal's letter. A dark arm swathed in ivory bangles emerged to take the letter; an older woman's hand, I thought, the knuckles swollen. There was a stir behind the curtains, and I heard a second voice murmur, translating the Ak kadian text into Jeb'ez.
"It is good," the Queen's voice said when the translation was done, soft and satisfied. Behind the curtains, her gauze-misted figure inclined its head. "Although they have not come here, whispers have reached our ears of these . . . these things, these bone-priests, which even Phar aoh in Menekhet feared. It is good they are overthrown, that my people are not in thrall there. The Khalifs son is pleased. Daughters of Jebe-Barkal, you have done well. You shall be rewarded for it, and every honor given unto your families."
Kaneka and Safiya bowed low before her.
"Majesty." I drew a deep breath, redolent with citron. "My com panions and I—we seek your permission to travel further south, in search of the descendents of Makeda, the Queen of Saba. Do you grant it?"
There was a pause, and a rustling; a swift exchange of whispers.
The gauze curtains were twitched apart and a bright black eye peered out, set in a wrinkled visage. "You are the chosen of your gods?" the soft voice inquired. "The one who defeated the bone-priests?"
I hesitated, unwilling to make that claim.
"She is, Fedabin." It was Kaneka who spoke, firmly, bowing to press her brow to the earth. "I have seen it. Though she appears weak, the breath of her strange gods blows hard upon her neck."
Another long, assessing pause ensued. I knelt and held myself still, abeyante, in the earliest manner to which I had been trained. 'Twas naught new to me, Kaneka's revelation. Hyacinthe had spoken the prophecy for me long ago, delivering it to Melisande Shahrizai in the days when he would not dare bespeak my fate. That which yields is not always weak.
Not always, no. I have learned that much about myself.
"So be it," whispered the soft voice of the Queen, the aged hand turning palm-outward, scored with dark lines, ivory bangles clattering. "In the name of Amon-Re, in the blessed names of Isis and Osiris, your request is granted. Such aid as we have will be given. Where the name of Zanadakhete of Meroë holds sway, let these people pass unmolested."
I let out my breath in a sigh. It was done.
Inside, we were met by Ras Lijasu, a grandson of the Queen. He was a handsome young man with his grandmother's bright inquisitive gaze, his ebony skin set off by splendid attire in cloth-of-gold—shirt and breeches, and the togalike chamma. I was glad, seeing him, that I'd worn my D'Angeline garb.
"So!" he exclaimed, clapping his hands. "All the way from Terre d'Ange, you have come! And Grandmother likes you, I am told. Such fun! Muni, where are the passage-tokens for our guests?"
His attendant comrade grinned and opened a coffer, and the Jebean prince reached in to grasp a handful of gold cords, each strung with an ivory cylinder that bore the seal of Meroë—Isis enthroned and lion- headed Apamedek.
"With these," Ras Lijasu said, taking my hand and knotting a corded token about my wrist, "you may wander anywhere in Jebe- Barkal, and declare yourself under the divine protection of Queen Zan adakhete." Still holding my hand, he smiled into my eyes. "And everyone you meet will be bound to offer you aid, even Ras Lijasu himself, do you ask him; the moon and the stars, do you ask him for it! Do you speak Jeb'ez, dream-spirit?”
"I do." I laughed. "Though I am more like to ask for maps and guides than the moon and stars, my lord Ras."
He staggered and put a hand to his chest. "She wounds me! Ah, she wounds me, Muni, this one with skin like new cream. What of you, lady?" Lijasu turned his winning smile on Safiya, taking her wrist to bestow a token upon her. "Will you, too, break my heart?"
Safiya stammered and blushed, unprepared for his attentions; I daresay as a scribe's daughter, she never expected to return from perdition to find herself the object of her prince's flirtations. He jested equally with Kaneka, who bore it with amusement, and he treated Joscelin with a warrior's courtesy, according scarce less to Imriel.
I liked him; it was impossible not to do so. For all his flirtatious ways, he took his duties seriously. An escort for Safiya was arranged in short order. In the interim, we adjourned to his study to pore over maps.
"Here, you see," he said, pointing to a broad plain alongside the Tabara River, "is Debeho; your home, Lady Kaneka," he added, sparing her a sly glance. "There is a man, a soldier of my guard, who is from the highlands very near there, and it is he I will release from his duties to guide you. And here ..." his finger traced a winding route amid the mountains along the river, stopping shy of a vast inland lake. "Here is where our borders end, and the lands of the descendants of Makeda begin." Ras Lijasu tapped the map. "There are bandits along the way, my lady of Terre d'Ange, who will not heed the Queen's seal; highland tribes never brought to heel. Are you sure you must venture thence?"
"Yes," I said. "I am."
He gave a gusty sigh. "And who knows what welcome the Sabaeans will give you! Well." He rolled the map and extended it to me. "Take it."