by Eric Flint
Her next words came out in a rush. The girl's face was full of life, now, and her hands gestured with animation.
"I don't know what I would do, in another man's house. I am so afraid of being bored. Especially if my husband was a severe man. Most husbands are very strict with their wives. Since I was ten years old, my father has let me help him with his work. He is one of Mecca's richest merchants, and he has many caravans. I keep track of most of his accounts, and I write almost all his letters, and—"
Antonina's jaw dropped. She didn't think there were more than two dozen women in all of Arabia—and they were invariably middle-aged widows—
"You can read?" she demanded.
Rukaiya's own jaw clamped shut. For an instant, her young face reminded Antonina of a mule. A beautiful mule, true, but just as stubborn and willful.
The expression was fleeting, however. Rukaiya lowered her head. Her quick-moving hands, once again, were demurely clasped in her lap.
"My father taught me," she said softly. "He insists that all women in his family must know how to read. He says that's because they might be widows, someday, and have to manage their husbands' affairs."
Again, the words started coming in a rush. "But I think he just says that to placate my mother. She doesn't like to read. Neither do my sisters. They say it's too hard. But I love to read, and so does my father. We have had so many wonderful evenings, talking about the things we have read in books. My father owns many books. He collects them. My mother complains because it's so expensive, but that's the one subject on which my father lays down the law in our house. Most of our books are Greek, of course, but we even have—"
She stopped talking, then, interrupted by Antonina's laughter. The laughter went on for quite a while. By the time Antonina finally stopped, wiping tears from her eyes, Rukaiya's expression of shock had faded into simple curiosity.
"What's so funny?" she asked.
Antonina shook her head. "The negusa nagast of Ethiopia is one of the world's champion bibliophiles. His father, King Kaleb, amassed the largest library south of Alexandria in his palace at Axum. In all honesty, I don't think Kaleb himself actually read any of those books. But by the time Prince Eon was fifteen, he had read all of them. I remember, when he came to Rome, how many hours he spent with my friend Irene Macrembolitissa—she is the world's greatest bibliophile—"
Antonina fell silent, staring at the girl across from her. Again, tears welled up in her eyes, as she remembered a friend she thought she would never see again.
Oh God, child, how much you remind me of Irene.
Memory made the decision. Memory of another woman—intelligent, quick-witted, active—whose own life had been frustrated, so many times, by the world's expectations.
Fuck it. We have souls, too.
"You will be happy, Rukaiya," predicted Antonina. "And you will never, I promise you, be bored." Again, she wiped away tears; and, again, laughed.
"Not as that man's wife! Oh, no. You'll be keeping track of the King of King's accounts, Rukaiya, and writing his letters. He's building an empire and he's at war with the greatest power in the world. Soon enough, I think, you'll find yourself longing for a bit of tedium."
Finally, finally, the face across from her was nothing but that of a young girl. A virgin, barely sixteen years of age. Shy, anxious, uncertain, apprehensive, eager, curious—and, of course, more than a little avid.
"Is he—? Will he—?" Rukaiya fumbled, and fumbled.
"Yes, he will like you. Yes, he will be kind. And, yes, he will give you great pleasure."
Antonina rose and walked over. She took Rukaiya's face in her hands and fixed the girl's eyes with her own.
"Trust me, child. I know King Eon very well. Put aside all doubts and fears. You will enjoy being a woman."
Rukaiya was beaming happily, now. Just like a bride.
Chapter 21
Garmat did not beam happily, when he first saw Rukaiya.
"She's too skinny," he complained. Standing in his place of honor on the lower steps of the palace entrance, he turned his head and hissed in her ear: "What were you thinking, Antonina?"
Antonina's humor was a bit frayed, because of the heat. Standing under the bare sun of southern Arabia, wearing the heavy robes of imperial formality, was not enjoyable. So, for an instant, the decorum of a Roman official was replaced by the response of a girl raised on the rough streets of Alexandria.
"Piss on you, old fart," she hissed back. Then, remembering her duty, Antonina relented.
"I checked the family history, Garmat. All the women are slender, but none of them have had problems with it. Rukaiya's mother—"
There followed a little history lesson. Not so little, rather. Antonina had expected the issue to arise, so she had supplemented Rukaiya's own account with a more thorough investigation. Happily, the girl had not been sugar-coating the truth. For as many generations as clan memory went—which, typical of Arab tribesmen, was a long way back—only two women in that line had died in childbirth. That was better than average, for the day.
Her history lesson concluded, with all the solemnity of a Roman official, the Alexandria street urchin returned.
"So piss on you from a dizzy height, old fart."
"Well said," came Ousanas' whisper. The former dawazz—he still had no official title—was standing right behind them, on a higher step.
Antonina cocked her head a quarter turn. "You're not worried?" she whispered over her shoulder. Sourly: "I expected every man within fifty miles to be crabbing at me about it."
Ousanas' gleaming grin made a brief appearance. "Such nonsense. It comes from too much exposure to civilization and its decadent ways. My own folk, proper barbarians, never fret over the matter. Women drop babies in the fields, just like elands and lions."
Garmat, still tight-faced, began to mutter again. He was giving his own lecture, now, on natural history. Explaining, to a bird-brained Roman woman and an ignorant Bantu savage, the difference between passing a large human skull through a narrow pelvic passage and the effortless ease with which mindless animals—
He fell silent, stiffening with formal rigidity. The King of Kings was finally entering the square before the palace, where his bride and her party were waiting.
It was quite an entrance. Antonina, even after her years of exposure to Roman imperial pomp, was impressed. Axumites, as a rule, were not given to formality. But, when occasion demanded, they threw themselves into it with the wild abandonment of a people shaped by Africa's splendor.
Eon was preceded by dancers, leaping and capering to the rhythm of great drums. The dancers were garbed in leopard skins and cloaks of ostrich feathers. The drummers were clothed less flamboyantly. They wore shammas, the multilayered togas which were the usual costume worn by Ethiopians in the highlands. But these shammas were for ceremonial occasions. The linen was richly dyed, and adorned with ivory and tortoiseshell studs.
Behind the dancers and drummers came Eon's ceremonial guard. This body consisted of the officers of his regiment, and was much larger than normal. Eon had been adopted by three regiments, not the customary one, and all of them were present. Wahsi, Aphilas and Saizana, as commanders of the Dakuen, Lazen and the Hadefan sarawit, led the procession.
Here, Axum's more typical practicality made its reappearance. True, the soldiers were wearing ostrich-plume headdresses which were far larger and more elaborate than anything they would have worn in battle. But the weapons and light armor were the same practical and utilitarian implements with which the Ethiopian army went to the field of slaughter.
The soldiers were there, not so much to protect their king from assassins, as to remind the huge crowd packing the square of a simple truth. Axum rules by the spear, when all is said and done. Do not forget it.
Studying the crowd, however, Antonina could detect no signs of resentment in the sea of mostly Arab faces. The people of the desert, for all their love of poetry, were not given to flights of fancy when it came to politics. T
hat rulers will rule, was a given. That being so, best to have a strong rule, and a firm one. That makes possible—possible—a fair rule as well.
Antonina decided she was reading the crowd properly. All the faces she could see were filled with no expressions beyond satisfaction and the pleasure of people enjoying a great spectacle. The measures which Eon had taken, the concessions which he had given the Hijaz even more than his leniency toward the bedouin rebels, had gone a long way to mollify southern Arabia to Ethiopian rule. The marriage about to take place, she thought, would finish the job. Arabs were as famous for their trading ability as they were for their poetry and their incessant political bickering. They knew a good bargain when they saw one.
Eon entered the square, now, and splendiferous royal pomp soared to the heavens.
"Good God," whispered Antonina, "is that thing solid gold?"
Garmat smiled. His usual good humor was back. "Of course not, Antonina," he whispered in return. "A chariot made of solid gold would collapse of its own weight. The wheels and axle, anyway."
Garmat bestowed a look of admiration on the vehicle lumbering into the square. "But there's plenty of gold on it, believe me. Enough gold plate to make it seem solid, even on the undercarriage." He made a little pointing gesture with his beard. "Those elephants aren't there just for show. The beasts have their work cut out for them, hauling the thing."
"Not to mention their own costumes," murmured Antonina. The four elephants drawing the chariot were cloaked in a pachyderm version of ceremonial shammas, not battle armor, but Antonina didn't even want to guess at the weight of ivory and tortoiseshell decorations.
Eon was riding alone in the open-backed, two-wheeled chariot. The chariot itself was patterned after the ancient war chariots of Egypt, which were designed for two men—one to control the horses, while the other served as an archer. But Eon did not require assistance. He had no reins to hold. The elephants were controlled by four mahouts. Those men, Antonina was relieved to see, were wearing nothing beyond their usual practical gear. The four elephants drawing Eon's chariot were war elephants, with the temperament to match. God help the crowd if the mahouts lost control of them.
Eon's own costume, to Antonina's eye, was a bit odd at first, until she realized she was seeing the usual Axumite combination of splendor and practicality. On the one hand, his tunic was made of simple, undyed linen. A Roman emperor—any Roman nobleman, for that matter, above the level of an equestrian—would have worn silk. But the utilitarian cloth was positively festooned with pearls and beads of red coral, and the threads which held the garment together were inlaid with gold.
His tiara, unlike the grandiose crowns of Roman or Persian emperors, was nothing more than a silver band studded with carnelian. The simplicity of the design, Antonina suspected, was to emphasize the importance of the four-streamered headdress which the tiara held in place. That was called a phakhiolin, by Ethiopians, and it was the traditional symbol of Axum's King of Kings.
She thought there was a subtle message in that headgear. Eon had already announced, the day before, that the capital of Axum was being moved to Adulis. The Arab notables gathered in the palace had reacted to the announcement with undisguised satisfaction. The decision to move the capital, those shrewd men knew, was the surest sign that their new ruler intended to weld them into his empire. The center of Axum, from now on, would be the Red Sea rather than the highlands—a center which was shared by Arabia along with Africa.
Today, gently, Eon was reminding them of something else. He still had the highlands, after all, and the breed of disciplined spearmen forged in those mountains. Their symbol, still, rode on the top of the negusa nagast's head.
His staff of office carried the same message. The shaft of the great spear was sheathed in gold, as was the Christian cross surmounting it. Sheathed in gold, and decorated with pearls. But the blade itself—the great, savage, leaf of destruction—was plain steel, and razor sharp.
The slow-moving chariot finally reached the center of the square. The mahouts brought the elephants to a halt, and Eon dismounted. In a few quick strides, he took his place next to his bride, and the wedding ceremony began.
* * *
The first part of the ceremony, and by far the longest, consisted of Rukaiya's conversion to Christianity. That went on for two hours. Long before it was over, Antonina, sweltering in her robes, was cursing every priest who ever lived.
In fairness, she admitted, the fault lay not principally with the priests. True, they were their usual long-winded selves, the more so when they basked in the warmth of such a gigantic crowd's attention. But most of the problem came from the sheer number of conversions.
Rukaiya was not converting alone. Everyone had known, of course, that the new Queen of Ethiopia would have to become a Christian (if she was not one already, as many Arabs were). Her own father, the day after Rukaiya's selection was publicly declared, had made his own announcement. He—and all his family—would convert also.
That had been a week ago. By the day of the wedding, well over half of the Beni Hashim had made the same decision, and a goodly portion of the other clans of the Quraysh as well. There were hundreds of people in the square—well over a thousand, by Antonina's guess—who were undergoing the rite alongside their new queen.
For all her sweltering discomfort, Antonina did not begrudge them that ceremony. True, she suspected that most of the converts were driven by less-than-spiritual motives. Canny merchants, seeing an angle. But not all of them. And not even, she thought, any of them—not completely, at least.
Arabia was a land where religion seethed, under the surface. Most Arabs of the time were still pagans, despite the great success which Jewish and Christian missionaries had found there. But even Arabia's pagans, she knew, had a sense that there was a supreme god ruling the many deities of their pantheons. They called that god Allah.
As the conversion ceremony wound its way onward, Antonina's mind began to drift. She recalled a conversation she had had with Belisarius, before he left for Persia.
Her husband had told her of a religion which would rise out of Arabia, in what had been the future of humanity. Islam, it would be called, submission to the one god named Allah. The religion would be brought by a new prophet not more than a century in the future. A man named Muhammad—
For a moment, she started erect, snapped out of her reverie by a specific memory of that conversation. Her eyes darted to Rukaiya, standing in the center of the square.
Muhammad will also be from the Beni Hashim clan of the Quraysh. And, if I remember right, will have a daughter named Rukaiya.
She realized that her choice of Rukaiya, in ways she had not even considered, had probably already changed history. The Beni Hashim of Muhammad's future had not been Christians, except for a few. After today, they would be. How would that fact affect the future?
* * *
She slipped back into memory.
"Will it still happen, now?" she had asked Belisarius. "After all that's changed?"
Her husband shrugged. "Who's to know? The biggest reason Islam swept the Levant, and Egypt, was because the Monophysites converted almost at once. Voluntarily, most of them. Muhammad's stark monotheism, I think, appealed to their own brand of Christianity. Monophysitism is about as close as you can get to Islam, within the boundaries of the Trinity."
Belisarius scowled. "And after centuries of persecution by orthodox Christians, I think the Monophysites had had enough. They saw the Arabs as liberators, not conquerors."
Antonina spoke. "Anthony's trying—"
"I know he is," agreed Belisarius. "And I hope the new Patriarch of Constantinople will be able to rein in that persecution." Again, he shrugged. "But who's to know?"
Standing in the square, sweating in her robes, Antonina could still remember the strange look which had come to her husband's face.
"It's odd, really," he'd said, "how I feel about it. We have already, just in what we've done these past few years, changed history
irrevocably." He patted his chest, where Aide lay in his little pouch. "The visions Aide shows me are just that, now. I can still learn an enormous amount from them, of course, but they're really no more than illusions. They'll never happen—not the way he shows me, anyway."
His face, for a moment, had been suffused with a great sadness. "I don't think there will ever be a Muhammad. Not the same way, at least. He might still arise, of course, and be a prophet. But if Anthony succeeds, I think Muhammad will more likely be a force regenerating Christianity than the founder of a new religion. That was how he saw himself, actually, in the beginning—until orthodox Christians and the Jews rejected him, and he found an audience among pagans and Monophysites."
Antonina had been puzzled. "Why does that make you sad? I would think you'd prefer it. You're a Christian, yourself."
Belisarius' smile, when it came, had been very crooked. "Am I?"
She remembered herself gasping. And, just as clearly, could remember the warm smile in her husband's face.
"Be at ease, love. Christianity suits me fine. I've no intention of abandoning it. It's just—"
The look of strangeness, of strange wonder, was back on his face. "I've seen so much, Antonina," he whispered. "Aide has taken me millions of years into the future, to stars beyond the galaxy. How could the simple certainties of the Thracian countryside withstand such visions?"
She had been mute. Belisarius reached out and caressed her face.
"I am certain of only one thing," he said. "I can't follow half of Anthony's theology, but I know he's right. God made the Trinity so unfathomable because He does not want men to understand Him. It's enough that we look for Him."
His hand, leaving her cheek, swept the universe. "Which we will, love. Which we will. We are fighting this war, at bottom, so that people can make that search. Wherever the road leads them."
His gentle smile returned. "That's good enough. For a simple Thracian boy, raised to be a soldier, that's more than good enough."
* * *
