persisted. This was not the way it would be. She could not see this, she could not catch the happiness of it, could not hear the laughter of a child nor feel the warmth of its little body against her.
For a moment the dark curtains of time opened, and, as sometimes happened, she glimpsed the future, saw dark shapes and men and things that terrified her.
She clung to Huy and listened to his voice. It gave her comfort and strength, and at last she asked softly, ‘If I fetch your lute, will you sing for me?’
And he sang the poem to Tanith, but there were new verses now. Every time he sang it, there were new verses.
Marmon was the captain of the north, governor of the northern kingdom and commander of the legions and forts that guarded the northern border. He was an old friend of Huy’s, thirty years his senior but with the bond of scholarship between them. Marmon was a keen military historian, and Huy was helping him with a manuscript history of the third war with Rome. He was a tall bony man with a fine mane of silver hair of which he was inordinately proud. He kept it shampooed and neatly clubbed. His skin was smooth as a girl’s and firmly drawn over the prominent bones of his skull, but the shivering sickness had yellowed the tone of his complexion and yellowed the whites of his eyes also.
He was one of the empire’s most trusted generals, and for two days he and Huy discussed the situation along the border, poring over a clay-box map of the territory so that Marmon could show Huy exactly where each piece of the puzzle fitted in. Marmon’s fine-boned hands touched each of the counters, or drew out the lines and areas of disturbance and dispute, while Huy listened and asked his questions.
At the end of the second day they ate the evening meal together, sitting up on the ramparts of the fortress for the sake of the cool evening breeze. A slave girl anointed their limbs with perfumed oil to discourage the mosquitoes and Marmon filled Huy’s wine bowl with his own hands, but did not drink himself. The shivering sickness damages a man’s liver, and for him wine turns to poison.
Huy thanked Baal for the immunity that the gods had given him against the ravages of this disease which flourished in the hot lowlands of swamp and river. Huy’s mind chased after the thought: Why did the disease kill some, cripple others and leave others untouched? Why did it strike only in the lowlands, and leave the cool uplands untainted? He must think about it more, try and find answers to these questions.
However, Marmon was talking again now and Huy stopped his mind from wandering, brought it back to the problem in hand.
‘I am at last building up a system of spies upon which I can rely,’ Marmon was saying. ‘I have men with the tribes who report to me regularly.’
‘I should like to meet some of them,’ Huy intervened.
‘I would rather that you did not, Holiness,’ Marmon began, then noticed Huy’s expression and went on smoothly. ‘I expect one of them to report within the next few days. He is my most reliable informant. A man named Storch, a Vendi, an ex-slave. Through him I am recruiting a body of spies across the river.’
‘I will speak with him,’ said Huy, and the conversation changed, Marmon asking advice of Huy about his manuscript. As old friends they talked on, until darkness had fallen and the servants lit torches for them. At last Marmon asked deferentially, ‘My lord, I have been petitioned by my officers. Some of them have never heard you sing, and those who have wish to hear it again. They are importunate, Holiness, but I trust you will bear with them.’
‘Send to my quarters for my lute.’ Huy shrugged with resignation, and one of the young officers stepped forward with the lute.
‘We have already presumed. Holy Father.’
Huy sang the songs of the legions, the drinking and marching songs, the bawdy songs and the songs of glory. They loved it. The officers crowded silently about Huy on the ramparts, and in the courtyard below the common soldiers gathered with their faces upturned, ready to come crashing in with the chorus.
It was late when an aide pressed through the throng and spoke quietly to Marmon. He nodded and dismissed the aide before whispering to Huy, ‘Holiness, the man I spoke of has come.’
Huy set aside the lute. ‘Where is he?’
‘In my quarters.’
‘Let us go to him,’ suggested Huy.
Storch was a tall man, with the distinctive willowy grace displayed by so many of the Vendi, but the smooth velvety black skin of his shoulders was marred by the thickened scars of the slave lash.
He noticed Huy’s glance and adjusted his cloak to cover the ugly cicatrice, and it seemed to Huy there was a flash of defiance in his eyes although his face was handsome and impassive.
‘He speaks no Punic, Marmon explained. ’But I know you speak the dialect.‘
Huy nodded, and the spy looked at him a moment longer before he addressed Marmon. His voice was quiet, without either anger or accusation.
‘It was our agreement that no other should see my face,’ he said.
‘This is different,’ Marmon explained quickly. ‘This is no ordinary man, but the High Priest of Opet and the General of all the armies of the king.’ Marmon paused. ‘This is Huy Ben-Amon.’
The spy nodded, his face still showed no expression, not even when Huy spoke in Vendi.
They talked for an hour, and at the end of it Huy turned to Marmon, speaking in Punic.
‘This disagrees with much else you have told me.’ Huy frowned and knocked his knuckles irritably against the table top. ‘This man has heard nothing of a god with lion claws, nor of regiments of trained warriors armed with the weapons of the Drav.’
‘No, Marmon agreed. ’This section of the river is quiet. Our reports come from farther east.‘
‘You have spies there?’ Huy asked.
‘Some, Marmon nodded, and Huy thought a moment.
