Lion's Blood

by Steven Barnes

  "Now you hold still, girl," said Auntie Moira, who had been ancient in Aidan's youth and now seemed more spirit than flesh. Most slaves just called her Crone or Rune Woman. Her fingers were twisted with arthritis, but still nimble enough with a needle and thread.

  "What if it won't fit?"

  "Bah. Every woman in the tuath's been married in this gown. Every one of them looked beautiful." She completed her stitch. "And none more than you. There!"

  Moira produced a bit of mirror, held it so that Sophia could see herself clearly. The dress made her ravishing, and the breath caught in her throat at the sight. Still, she couldn't quiet her butterflies. "I'm so nervous."

  The crone cackled. "Don't be, girl. Just say yer vows, and do yer wifely duty tonight. Ye'll be fine."

  Sophia squinted. "Wifely . . . duty?"

  The old woman gave her a gap-toothed, bawdy grin. "Bumpty-bump, girl. Nothing strange to ye. Now get on!"

  One of the other girls handed her a bouquet of posies, and Sophia stepped out of the door.

  The celebration outside quieted as she went to meet Aidan. Rows of slaves stood watching expectantly and eagerly. She walked between the rows like an empress. At the village square waited Aidan, dressed in tattered but freshly mended and washed work clothes.

  Sophia smiled shyly at Aidan, and stepped forward.

  Moira stood between the two of them, holding their hands in hers. "Do you, Sophia De Moroc, and you, Aidan O'Dere, vow to hold and help one another, and leave off all bundling about with others?" There was a general chuckling at the words. "If so, by the Good Lady we love, by the powers of earth and sky, and the heart of the mighty Christ, I say you are married."

  They turned. Two of the male villagers stretched out a strand of fence wire at knee level. Aidan and Sophia stepped backwards and then jumped the wire, landing with a laugh. "Green pastures!" the Rune Woman cackled, and the new couple kissed greedily.

  With a cheer, the gathering broke into song and dancing. Sophia and Aidan stepped together to the clapping and shouting of the village. The song ended. Aidan gathered Sophia into his arms for another kiss, to which she responded with relish.

  Auntie Moira clapped in approval. "Bumpty-bump!"

  Aidan broke off the kiss and laughed. Both of them were handed flagons of beer, which they quaffed heartily. As Aidan drank, he searched the crowd, warmed by the warm and joyous faces. Still, something was missing. . .

  Sophia slipped her hand to his cheek, turned his face back to hers. "My love?"

  He slipped his arm around her shoulder. "Nothing," he said. "Nothing at all."

  And he smiled at her, and they entwined arms and drank from each other's cup.

  Night had fallen and the party was torchlit but still going strong. Brian performed an energetic version of "Laddie" for the dancers, adding a verse that was never, ever sung when the masters were listening. It was a variation that inevitably raised eyebrows and nods of grim approval from the assembled:

  Cut us low, swing us 'round

  Iron shackles tightly bound

  Thresh your soul by the mornin' lark

  Lie in your dreams in the dead of dark—

  Laddie are ya workin'?

  Suddenly the music died. Aidan and Sophia paused in the middle of their dance, and the crowd parted.

  They turned, and there stood Kai. He was dressed in black robes and a turban, and black slippers. His face was carefully composed, placid, adorned with a small, polite smile. When he moved, it was with a slightly stiff, puppetlike quality, as if he were watching himself rather than living fully in his body and the moment.

  For a long, nervous moment he stood before Aidan and Sophia, then extended a small cask, one similar to one that had begun a friendship, long years before.

  Kai inclined his head in the merest suggestion of a bow. When he spoke, his voice was soft and precisely measured. "Once, long ago," he said, "we plundered my father's cellar for hemp beer, spirits intended for the servants. Occasionally, my father entertains guests who are not Muslim, but possess a more rarefied taste. I thought, on this special night, you might want to consider yourselves guests of my house." He extended the cask. "Our best," he said.

  Sophia and Aidan were unable to speak. Then Aidan stepped forward and took the cask from Kai. "Thank you."

  Kai nodded in acknowledgment. Sophia darted uncertainly forward, planting a kiss on his cheek. Kai gave no visible reaction.

  Then he turned and walked away, almost floating with each step.

  The village gates closed behind him. When he was gone, the slaves gathered in tightly.

  "Well, Aidan," Brian said. "We're dyin' to know."

  Aidan raised an eyebrow. "Why the hell not?" He poured some of the cask's contents into a goblet. At the first sip his senses glowed. The golden brew slid down his throat, intoxicating even before it reached his belly.

  The crowd waited in an expectant hush. Aidan nodded enthusiastically, and they began to cheer as he passed the keg around. Sophia drank from the goblet, and her eyes widened with delight. Then she was spirited away by giggling friends. Aidan handed the goblet to Brian. Brian drank deeply. The men watched the dour, scarred face, waiting for him to pass judgment.

  "If they can afford this," Brian said, "I can understand why the blacks won't let themselves drink."

  "And why is that?"

  Brian took another swallow. "For the same reason a man can't lick his own balls. If he could, he'd never give two shites for aught else." An absolutely evil grin split his face, and the tuath cheered and gathered around, eager to sample.

  Spring swelled sweetly, and with it came word that Allah had blessed Ghost Town with fertility: among the children due come winter would be the fruit of Aidan and Sophia's marriage.

  Soon after came even greater news: Malik and Fatima had, at last, conceived a child. Malik seemed to swell with pride and expectation, bending every ear that would listen with tales of how his son would outride and outfight the proudest sons of New Alexandria. Fatima herself seemed to accept the news with as much relief as joy, spending her days in her hothouse, her nights in Malik's arms as they watched the sky and spoke quietly of the future.

  Harvest time came, and with it the mellowing of leaves from green to brown and a growing edge of chill in the air. Bondsmen labored in the fields, harvesting beans and teff. They cut wood, and began the laying of a foundation for a new barn. Aidan worked out in the fields or quarries at Brian's side, the two of them in a harmony that was more like family than anything Aidan had known since the early days with Kai.

  Sophia worked with the women: cooking, cleaning, mending, carrying food to the men out in the fields, sometimes working at their sides.

  Aidan grew accustomed to the rougher food eaten by the other slaves, often corncakes and a little beef. Sometimes he would look enviously at the overseers, white and black, who feasted on roast beef or turkey or lamb. But his envy lasted only a moment, and then he would stuff his mouth greedily. He would not have changed his current state for theirs. Despite the limitations of his life, he was a happy man.

  On al-ahad, the first day of the week, Aidan sang and worshipped with Sophia beneath the grove's shadowed canopy. His own voice was rough but strong, hers tutored and sweet, focused now on worship rather than seduction.

  Their small community, made up of workers, had no trained priests or druids. They did the best they could, however. Several translations of sacred Christian scrolls sat on the Wakil's shelves, and Abu Ali had made a compilation available to Tom Leary, who served as the community's lay priest. Moira spoke to those who chose the druidic path, as she had longer than anyone could remember. Tall, sour, and dark of hair, lantern-jawed Leary shared her stump. Their words were crafted to blend the village, not divide it, so the services were often a meld of Celtic Catholic, Gnostic Christian, Druidic, and the Gospel of Mary Magdalene.

  When Aidan sang, he forgot his troubles. When he cast a glance at Sophia's swelling stomach his heart soared far above Da
r Kush, into another landscape entirely. Since the night of their marriage, when she had cast aside the herb-soaked sponge that had prevented Kai from impregnating her, the potential for creating new life had warmed their bed, sweetened the already aching tenderness of their lovemaking. Now that his seed had caught. . .

  Sophia noted his glance, caught his hand and placed it over her navel, as if by so doing he might sense the warmth and life of their unborn child.

  He closed his eyes, praying as he sang, as the voices of his tuath rose to enfold him, and for that blessed moment, neither he, nor his wife or child, belonged to anyone but their God.

  Chapter Forty-three

  As Lamiya completed her morning ride, a gentle mist rolled across the lawn from the east, as if driven by the dawning sun. She enjoyed the infrequent gift of time alone and unfettered by obligation. Always, it seemed, it was state dinners, excursions to the homes of the wealthy and powerful, who longed to hear of affairs at court. Or time with Ali, more important as the day of their marriage approached.

  Would that she could have followed her heart! Simply married whom she loved, like any slave girl could do. And who might that have been? A dreamy smile warmed her face as she contemplated. If she had been a simple peasant girl, mightn't she have found love with a shepherd, or a cobbler? And mightn't a simple home and hearth, warmed with love, have been equal to a palace . . . ?

  Her eye was pulled to a solitary figure standing on the crest of the northern hill overlooking the estate. It was Kai. As had been his preference for some months now, he was dressed in black robes, and stood with his hands behind his back, looking out toward the eastern horizon.

  She pulled her horse up and dismounted. He didn't seem to notice her. "Kai. . . ?" she asked.

  He held up a hand, shushing her. She suppressed her flash of irritation and followed his gaze, and watched as a single, solitary eagle flew in front of the sun's blinding golden disk.

  "Beautiful," she said, and again noted his lack of reaction. He seemed to be walled away from her, his family . . . from everything. Ali had the same ability, to simply disappear inside himself, and at such times she wondered if he had feelings at all. She thought it was probably just his way of preparing to assume power.

  But Kai was different. Even when he retreated, as he recently had, she knew that he was still present. Hiding. Frightened of his own feelings. "Kai," she said as gently as she could, almost as if afraid to startle him. "You've been so alone the last few weeks. You barely talk to me anymore."

  He clasped his hands behind his back. "I've had much to think of. But you've been busy. Plans for the wedding, certainly."

  "But not too busy to see that my little brother is troubled."

  Kai's hand gripped the medallion around his neck, a meld of the Islamic mooncrest and the enigmatic symbol Babatunde called the Naqsh Kabir, doubtless one of the mystic mysteries locked in the scholar's esoteric little heart.

  Kai held it almost as if he believed it would ward off evil, or unwanted emotion. "For now," he said, "I have Allah to hear my prayers. I need no more."

  He seemed completely sealed off. She leaned forward, and kissed his cheek. He turned and looked at her, and there was such love and hunger in his eyes that she was taken aback. "I must go," she said.

  He nodded, and watched as she mounted her horse.

  "I miss you," she said.

  She turned her horse, her heart sad and confused, and rode away.

  Kai said nothing more, lost in the mist and the light.

  Standing in his study, Wakil Abu Ali made a few elegant cuts in the air with Nasab Asad as Kai entered. His younger son's eyes lighted on the sacred blade, then ranged back to his father.

  "You called me, Father?"

  "Yes, Kai. These are perilous times. You have seen the new map?"

  Kai nodded. "The Aztecs are on the move again." The Wakil waved his hand at the relief map sprawled across the wall above his fireplace. Across the hills and ridges, valleys and rivers, lines were drawn, fiery symbols representing aggressive actions on the part of the Aztecs. The lines had come close, too close, to the Shrine of the Fathers, which was marked with a silver model. Kai knew that several frontier homesteads had been burned by the Aztec prince, said to be the tenth Montezuma, a mighty horseman and warrior. The wealth of the New World had induced the first Muslim traders to part with horses and steel as early as the year 300. The trading had been good, but now the wisdom of their choice seemed questionable.

  Behind their strange, feathered armor, the Aztecs were said to be as rapacious and innumerable as the sands of the desert. And the frontier was but a week's ride from Dar Kush.

  "Just a few days' ride from here, Montezuma has burned estates." The Wakil dropped his head. "My dear friend Akbar Muhammad is dead."

  "I am sorry," Kai said. He was shocked as well. Akbar Muhammad had accompanied Abu Ali and Malik on one of their most notorious campaigns, pushing back the Tawakoni and the Comanche, defining the current western boundaries. He remembered Akbar as a rotund, jovial man who enjoyed Abu Ali's hemp crop for other than purely constructional purposes.

  Abu Ali tapped Cetshwayo's estate, where months before their mares had been impregnated. "I wish you to court Nandi. In times like these, our families must stand together, bound by blood."

  There it was. No more dancing about, and Kai supposed that he should have felt relieved. Instead, he felt irritation. "They are not true Muslims."

  "Nandi is a Zulu woman. She will be obedient to her husband."

  Oh, yes, I just bet, Kai thought. He remembered their night in her father's study. Who was providing stud service for whom?

  "She will convert," his father continued. “This is important, Kai. You will respect my wishes."

  "Regardless of my heart?" Strange. He felt Nandi's pull powerfully, and perhaps left to himself might have taken her to wife. But his contrary heart betrayed him: his father's insistence seemed offensive.

  The Wakil's face went cool. "It should be your heart's wish to respect my command."

  Kai's irritation increased to anger. This is why you were born. This is the obligation of privilege. Kai bowed. "Very well, Father," he said.

  Stud service indeed.

  12 Shawwal 1289

  (December 10, 1872)

  Although Aidan's cottage was still humble, it had been more thoroughly decorated by a woman's hand and eye, and was now more a home than a mere house. Lace hangings softened the room's corners, and embroidered tablecloths and chair cushions reminded him of lost boyhood in Eire.

  Aidan slept, comfortable in dreams of his lost homeland. At his side, Sophia was swollen with child, and lost in an even deeper slumber.

  Distantly, he began to register the tolling of a bell. He rose groggily and dressed, kissing Sophia before he went.

  "Whazzit?" she said, not even a quarter awake.

  "Sleep, little one," he said. Certainly, whatever this latest problem was, there was no need for the love of his life to wake herself.

  By the time Aidan reached the swinging wood-and-wire frame of the main gate, he understood the nature of the alarm.

  The Wakil's private road, which stretched north to Malik's estate and then continued for ten miles beyond, linked to other trade and travel routes and was the broadest, best-paved road for a hundred miles. Refugees streaming from the west crossed that road north of Malik's holdings, intending to travel to the more civilized territories bordering New Alexandria. In the past few days dozens of them had come south to the Wakil, where they knew charity could be found. Some were afoot, others mounted on horse or camel, and driving wagons packed to creaking with their furniture, tools, and children.

  The caravan at the gate now was the most pitiful Aidan had yet seen: black dirt farmers scratching out a living raising hemp and beans on land leased from the Aztecs fifty years ago and recently claimed as part of Bilalistan's western territory. They looked hungry and frightened, and were dressed more poorly than most of Abu Ali's servants. Five
small black children stared out from the mountain of lashed-down shovels and seed sacks.

  Aidan felt sorry for them until one of the children looked at him, his thick lips curling into a sneer. We may be poor, that expression said, but at least we're black.

  The Wakil and his sons were already parlaying with the family. Elenya and Lamiya were heading out from the mansion leading a pair of servants carrying plates of food, an oft-repeated ritual in the last few days.

  "No, sir," one of them was saying to the Wakil as Elenya handed fresh bread to his daughter. "I have no urge to return at all. The Aztecs are demons."

  Ali bristled. "But you can't just leave your land to the infidels!"

  "If I don't," he said, "they'll water it with our blood. My son must grow to be a man."

  Ali was unconvinced. "But—"

  "Be silent, Ali," the Wakil said. "Sir, if my humble house may be of comfort to you, consider it yours. Provisions, a place to rest—whatever I can provide."

  "If we can camp by your lake. Water for our horses—perhaps fresh food for the children?"

  Lamiya smiled graciously. "You shall have a banquet."

  "Help them," Abu Ali said to his servants. "Show them to the camp." No surprise there: from three to five families were camped out by Lake A’zam constantly now, eating the Wakil's bread, drinking his water.

  Alongside the other servants, Aidan helped to unload necessities from the wagons. He turned to address Kai, who was helping an exhausted and disheartened woman down from the buckboard.

  "What happened here?" Aidan asked.

  "Refugees heading east from the frontier," Kai said, his manner still formal, as it had been since their skirmish. 'Their encampment was wiped out."