“One presumes your questions might best be answered with, say, a translator assisting,” Princess Louise said.
“Point taken. But you understand me, don’t you, Mr. Layard?”
“So far,” Philip said.
“Then tell me about the fire on Amba Geshen.”
A small bloom of dread opened in Philip’s stomach, spreading its petals slowly outward. “What of it?”
“What did you see? Why were you there? I’d like the account to be as full as you can possibly make it.”
“In a war where I saw men die, there was a fire where I saw two more die.”
“I’m going to suggest that someone impress upon you the importance of this.” Naismith pushed himself away from the table. He motioned for Simon. “A brandy, warmed.”
Before her brother could say a word, Princess Louise took Philip by the arm and led him away from Alamayou’s questioning expression, and from the ambassador’s wary gaze, to the opposite side of the room.
“May I remind you of our previous talk?” she said.
“I don’t like him.”
“You’ve no right to any feelings whatsoever. There are royals in this room. A foreign prince. The ambassador to Abyssinia. A servant. And then, you. In that order. Am I clear?”
“Very, Your Highness.”
“For what it’s worth, I don’t like him either. But I know enough to distinguish between who I like and who I must deal with.”
“I understand.”
“Unless I’m very much mistaken, you’re Alamayou’s only friend. Don’t do something that will destroy him.”
But that’s exactly the point, Philip wanted to say, and for a moment he thought of saying it. I saw Alamayou come this close to death twice, and the only reason he’s here is because whatever secrets he lives with, he swallowed them back. He’s that strong. We can’t let this man pull those secrets out of him. We may not want to see them in the light.
He thought better of saying anything. Those were night words.
“I want what’s best for Alamayou,” he said.
“Good. I see that you do.” She was looking at him as if she’d come across him for the first time. It made him squirm, the way she appraised him, so he stepped away from her and sat back down to resume his response to Naismith.
“I was assisting Dr. Marcus Baker White,” he said, “in the camp of the Second Regiment, on the Falah Saddle.”
Naismith sipped his brandy, set the glass on Simon’s silver tray, and returned to the table across from Philip.
Falah. Alamayou sat up straight. He knew he was being watched closely. In Abyssinia, at his father’s capital at Debre Tabor before he trekked with his mother across the country to the fortress at Meqdala, he’d sat in his father’s tent surrounded by tribal leaders. They all hated his father. He’d brought the English army to their shores in search of a war.
They hated him, too. He was his father’s son.
His father knew their resentment and rage at him. He basked in it. A man, he told Alamayou, looks at everyone or no one. If a man is afraid, he looks at everyone in search of the biggest threat. If he’s brave, he looks at no one, because no one deserves his gaze.
Philip had said Falah. That was where the English camp stood, across from the fortress. Philip’s going to talk about the war. And that means he’s going to talk about me.
He and Philip had been trying to understand each other for months, and after all that time he still wasn’t sure what Philip thought or knew of him. He wanted to know those things. It took him by surprise how much he wanted that.
“Go on,” Naismith told Philip.
Philip cleared his throat. It felt as parched as it had in the war.
“We got a report in camp of a fire on the next peak over from the fortress. Small, unimportant, but scouts saw figures leaving Meqdala and heading in that direction, to Amba Geshen. They sent a small party to intercept. Dr. White was told he had to go because of the possibility of troop casualties. And if he went, I went.
“By the time we reached Amba Geshen and the cottage, it was already collapsing. It was engulfed on one side. The walls were buckling and the roof had fallen in partway. The fire was everywhere. Even the door. It split in so many places, and each crack was filled with fire, like veins.
“The first thing I saw was Alamayou. He was standing in the cottage doorway. I think he’d gotten it open somehow and the flames were swelling through, toward him. Behind him, there were two people. They were leaning against each other, on their knees.”
“Tewedros and the queen,” Naismith said.
“You couldn’t tell who or what they were. I only saw them for a moment.”
“Then him. Alamayou.”
“Yes.”
“How close was he to his parents when you saw him?”
“The flames covered everything. The heat made it hard to see. The whole cottage, even the air around him, it was all shimmering.”
“You didn’t answer me.”
“I can’t say for sure.”
“Close enough to touch?”
“It’s possible.”
“To be held there by one of them?”
“The angle I was at. I can’t say whether they were in arm’s reach or not. There was too much chaos.”
“I don’t understand why you’re asking all these questions,” Princess Louise said.
“I need you to be certain,” Naismith continued.
“I can’t be certain,” Philip told him. “Everything happened at once. I was just trying to get him away from there.”
“Because his hand was burning.” Naismith leaned forward. “Is that true?”
“Yes. It was in the fire.”
“It was in the fire.”
“Yes. Or it had been. I don’t know.”
“Can it be possible that he burned his hand earlier?”
“Maybe moments. The wound was fresh, open, and still smoking.”
“Could it be that Alamayou burned his hand because he was forcing someone to remain inside?”
“What?” Philip cried.
“If you can’t be sure what you saw, then you can’t be sure of him, can you? Can any of us?”
The prince held up a hand, silencing Philip before he said anything more. “I need to understand what’s being said, Ambassador.”
Naismith sat back in his chair. A slight smile played about his face. “The Abyssinian council advises of witnesses who saw figures leaving the fortress as it fell.”
“Yes,” Princess Louise said. “He just told you that.”
“The figures were the emperor, Tewedros, and Alamayou. These witnesses say Alamayou brought his father to the cottage where his mother was. There was apparently a system in place between the two structures. The fortress at Meqdala and the cottage, owing to the fact that the queen and Alamayou lived there. Some sort of surveillance involving signals sent to each other by lamplight. This was how Tewedros kept watch over his wife. Perhaps Alamayou, as well. Or perhaps the son was just a younger brute like his father.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” Philip said. “Neither do you.”
“Speculation and innuendo,” Princess Louise said. “A son brings his father to a place of presumed safety during a war. And? What of it? The country was falling around their ears. You paint him as a cunning deviant, not a terrified young man trying to save the lives of his mother and father.”
“He brings his father to the cottage,” Naismith continued, “where, shortly after they arrive, a fire breaks out. There was no fire before they arrived at that cottage. After, there is, and it kills the emperor and queen. But not him.”
“This is outrageous.” The princess’s face reddened with anger. “Who are these witnesses? Abyssinians who hated the emperor and his bloodline? That would be the entire
country, Ambassador.”
“There’s more to it.”
“Philip?” Alamayou asked, alarmed. He wanted Philip to look at him, because everyone was saying words he knew—Falah, Amba Geshen, Tewedros—and the more they talked, the harder Philip stared at the table, as if it were on fire. The prince and princess watched him and he could hear his father’s voice ringing out across the plateau, louder than the English rockets. God did not make you like me.
“I know.” Philip put his hand next to Alamayou’s on the table. “Just be quiet.”
“Those Abyssinians I mentioned saw evidence of beatings,” Naismith said. “Bruises, whip marks, especially on the body of the queen. When she was summoned to the fortress, they were plain on her.”
“Tewedros was a monster,” Philip said, knowing full well he was out of place. “Everyone knows that.”
“Fresh marks, on the queen as she came from Amba Geshen, where Tewedros banished her and her son to.”
“Are you suggesting Alamayou took a whip to his own mother?” The princess stood. “My God, what sort of man are you?
You come to our home and accuse him of the most heinous acts, and on what basis? He whipped his own mother? He murdered his parents in cold blood, burning them alive? How could he? How could he hold two people inside a burning cottage without burning alive himself? It defies common sense and you, an ambassador on behalf of our country, think it wise to hurl slanderous accusations before exploring—”
“His father was wounded in the bombardment, Your Highness. And his mother couldn’t have escaped. The queen’s body was found later, charred beyond humanity, curled up against what was left of the cottage wall. There was a manacle around her ankle.”
“Oh my God.” The princess turned away.
“Did you know this?” Naismith asked Philip.
“No! We left Amba Geshen with him. The fire was spreading and the whole cottage was collapsing. No one could get close.”
“Did anyone try? Or were you, in particular, only interested in Alamayou? This young man?”
Philip’s fists curled.
“You make him out to be a far greater monster than his father,” Prince Leopold said.
“I’m not making him out to be anything, Your Highness. I’m merely doing what I was appointed and asked to do. My job. Which at the moment is trying to understand just who is living among the royal family. That applies to his companion, Philip Layard, just as much, if not more.”
“I’ve had quite enough of this,” the princess said. “He is a ward of the queen. Your queen.”
“You’ll forgive me, Your Highness, but there are men being honored tonight, men who saw war in the queen’s name, and while many returned home, some didn’t because of his father. The men here tonight know who he is. They know he gets to live here in luxury. To come here tonight and see Tewedros’ son and heir isn’t easy for them. They haven’t met the queen. He has.”
“It strikes me,” the prince said, “the similarities between what you say and the recent editorial in the Telegraph.”
“I had nothing to do with it, Your Highness. As I said. But I confess to sympathizing with it.”
“You’d better hope your investigation supports your brazen attack on the reputation of a foreign prince and our reputation for exercising good judgment,” Prince Leopold said coldly. “For now, we find ourselves at odds, clearly. That makes you unwelcome. Do what you must. Simon, see this man out.”
After Naismith left, the prince sat down heavily. He daubed at his brow with a linen napkin while his sister watched from the entryway.
“He’s gone,” she said.
She wasn’t coming back into the room. Alamayou studied her, the way her shoulders were turned away, her head tilted as if the sounds of the guests in the far ballrooms, the music and the clinking of crystal and porcelain, were suddenly and terribly important.
Her eyes, though. They kept darting to the corners of their room, to her brother and to them.
“Don’t look at her,” Prince Leopold said. “Look at me, both of you. Simon, see to it that no one comes near.”
Simon bowed and went to clear the next room of any stray guests.
“I’m grateful for what you did,” Prince Leopold said when they were alone. “Without you I might well be dead now in a pool of my own blood. I’m grateful for your discretion and your silence in the days since. But don’t for a moment think we’ll tolerate lies, or the sort of monstrosities we just heard about. Naismith wouldn’t simply weave such stories out of thin air. Maybe they’re the stuff of rumor and malicious retaliation against the son of Tewedros, as my sister would believe. Or maybe we truly don’t know who we’ve invited into our home, before all of England. Call me cynical, but this needs to get sorted. Now. It’s already moved past us, into newspapers. Into the bloody halls of Parliament, for God’s sake.”
“What do we do?” Princess Louise asked plaintively.
“Nothing tonight. But beginning tomorrow, we hear the truth or we send you away. Both of you. You and your secrets, Layard, don’t matter. You’re expendable and you have somewhere to go or you don’t. But he’s a different story entirely. He sits at the center of a war and a peace we’re trying to forge. We took him in, and to cast him right back out again would be extraordinary. It would be fraught with problems.”
“Cast him out where?” Philip asked.
“Abyssinia, in all likelihood.”
“I’m stepping over bounds, I know, Your Highness, but I can’t believe he’s what that man says he is.”
“Why can’t you believe it, Layard?”
“Yes,” Princess Louise said. “What do you know that could help him, or yourself?”
“I’m no one, Your Highnesses. I don’t matter. He does. I don’t know any more about what happened, but I’ve seen him for months now. He’s a good man. At the fire, on the Feroze, all I’ve seen is good, and pain. Not hate and not cruelty.”
“And so, for reasons I’m not clear about, Alamayou has one witness against Abyssinians, soldiers, God knows who else.” The prince shook his head dismally. “Poor odds. You are who you are. Is there something of you, Layard, yet to come out?”
Philip fell silent.
“Bloody hell. Both of you leave us. We’ve much to discuss.”
“Let us make no mistake, brother.” The princess came to Leopold’s side. “He dies if we send him back to Abyssinia. They hated his father. That much we can be sure of. He’s his father’s son.”
“He may well be. More than we know.”
§
Sitting at the window of the apartment, Alamayou painted the trees across the grounds. His mind was thousands of miles away, back on Amba Geshen.
Since the fire, he sometimes imagined that he never really left. That everything around him now was a dream. The reality was the fire, and it was a reality he’d never left. He’d never escaped it. He’d gone in, in the end, and died there. At this moment he was dying and this, everything he saw, was where his heart took him to be as far away as possible from the agony of burning. Any moment he’d wake up to see the last of himself melt and go to ash, like his parents.
It was with him every day. It clung to him as they’d crossed Abyssinia to Annesley Bay and the waiting English ships. It covered him the whole way across the sea, and each day since. He’d grown used to it. He told himself that it was a measure of his good fortune to have lived through so much. Some might call the sensation gratitude.
But he didn’t like the sensation now. As he watched Philip get up and go to the door, the sensation felt like loss.
“Did you hear footsteps?” Philip asked. He opened the door and peered into the hall. Simon was at the far end, turning a corner.
An envelope lay at his feet.
Returning to the chair, Philip opened it and unfolded the stationary.
5 Novem
ber 1868
From the Desk of Her Majesty
First, we have been successful in locating a translator for Alamayou despite what appear to be certain obstacles. We instruct you go to the docks at Wapping tomorrow, for the auction of Abyssinian items, which will take place. You will meet the translator there. This may seem a hardship to Alamayou but he shall not have another glimpse of his once-life. Perhaps he shall see something he desires. We expect you to set an example for Alamayou on grace above all. We ask that you explain this to him in your inimitable, silent way.
Discretion is key. Speak of this not at all.
And this, to answer Alamayou’s question: each clove of cinnamon represents our children. The orange represents the late Prince Albert. We find it a more pleasant way to remember him than what life has left us.
“That’s it, then.”
Philip folded the letter and left it on the bed. “They’ve seen to it. One way or the other, you’ll talk. I wish to God we could talk first. If I knew what the truth was, I could tell you you’re safe, or not. It’s us and it’s them, Alamayou. The way it always is.”
He went to the window to see what Alamayou was painting. The bare elms, a night sky. Just the world outside.
“No stars?” He dotted the air with a finger, then pointed to the sky.
Alamayou gestured to the painting, because Philip wanted stars but the English night’s sky wasn’t what he wanted to portray. He wanted clouds. “See?”
Philip looked closer. The black had pigments of gray in it. “Clouds. You and bloody clouds.”
Alamayou waited for the slight smile to come to Philip, the one he’d come to know. It made him want to work harder, learn the words, and hear what snide, funny thing Philip said to bring that smile out.
Philip wasn’t smiling. He looked afraid. “Alamayou, listen to me now.”
Alamayou put down his paintbrush, more than ever feeling the sick anxiety that his dream was closing like a door, and in a moment the fire would be all over him.
“Ah, but I wish to hell you understood me,” Philip said. “They’re going to talk to you. Ask you about things. I told them you didn’t do what that man Naismith says. You couldn’t. I don’t believe it, but I think he does. What the royals believe, I don’t know. But I’m worried for you. I told them what I know.” He paused. “I didn’t tell them what I felt.”
The Night Language Page 14
