Through the centuries the fierce nomads of the Asian steppe made many inroads on the more civilized peoples to the south and west. China finally built a series of walls to try to fence them out, while Europeans tried to oppose them militarily. Neither policy was very effective.
The territory between the Black Sea and the Caspian Sea, dominated by the Caucasus Mountain range, was like a way station, at the edge of civilization as we understood it. Many tribes passed there on their way to Asia Minor and Europe. Circa 2,000 BC the Cimmerians held sway to the north, the Hittites and Egyptians to the south. By 800 BC the Cimmerians remained to the north, but the Assyrians dominated south. By 600 BC the Scythians had displaced the Cimmerians, while the Assyrians were giving way to the Babylonians. By 500 BC the Sarmatians, which may have been a branch of the Scythians, dominated the Caucasus region, while the Persian Empire prevailed south. This gave way to the Empire of Alexander, then to the Roman Empire.
Meanwhile the Sarmatians split into three groups, one of which was the Alani. The Alani were to settle in the Caucasus, with the Kingdom of Armenia immediately south. Neither was able to conquer the other, both being formidable powers in their own right for many centuries. They were neighbors for two thousand years. At first relations were hostile, but later there was amelioration and intermarriage. Theoretically the Armenians were an outpost of civilization, while the Alani were barbarians. But this was always an oversimplification, if it ever was true. Sometimes they were destined to make common cause.
The setting is just south of the Caucasus, circa 1300 AD.
Craft saw that the situation was hopeless. The enemy, more numerous and better organized than his scouts had reported, and surely better led, had a commanding position. His soldiers were about to be slaughtered. They had already taken serious losses, and the wounded would die if not brought home immediately.
It was hunger that had done them in. They were well trained and disciplined, and had fought well in the past. But the enemy had laid waste the fields, filled in wells, and removed all stores of food. Foraging had become difficult, and as time passed, nigh impossible.
Oh, they had tried. They conserved water by pissing into sand-filled buckets and drinking the filtered liquid that dripped from holes in the bottom. It tasted foul, but was actually potable. They trapped rats and other rodents and roasted them as small delicacies. They made bread from anything handy, including trapped locusts, roaches, spiders, and other bugs. The vermin were dried before fires, and their dessicated bodies ground into flour which was then baked as bread. They ground up sticks of wood and baked it similarly. It was no pleasure to eat or to try to digest, but it was better than nothing. They even roasted animal dung.
But these were temporary measures, and there was no respite. Had there been rain to make seeds sprout—but the weather blessed the enemy with a drought.
Even retreat was not feasible. They could not travel. The men were simply too fatigued and ill with opportunistic diseases. A quarter of the army was lying on straw beds, dry heaving and awaiting the relief of unconsciousness and death.
The choices seemed to be cannibalism or capitulation. Craft did not like either. But neither did he prefer the likely doom of remaining inactive. So he did what he had to do.
“Fetch the white flag,” he told his lieutenant.
“Sir!” the man protested.
“You can see as well as I can that we are in no condition to continue hostilities. We must cut our losses. I will proffer myself in lieu of my men. For food and water for them now, and forbearance from slaughter. You will see to their evacuation when I am taken hostage, when they are able to travel.”
“But we can’t trust the enemy commander!”
“We have no choice. I should be worth enough to make the exchange worth his while. He has losses of his own to attend to, and he won’t want to be stuck with a field full of stinking bodies to bury. It is to his advantage to make the deal.”
“I act under protest, sir.” But the lieutenant fetched the flag. And balked again. “You must consult with your brother.”
He was right. Hero was commanding the army, and this would have to be cleared with him. “Notify him of my intention.”
The lieutenant galloped off on one of their few remaining healthy horses that had not yet been eaten, while Craft attended to matters of hygiene and sustenance. He could not be sure when the enemy would allow him to eat or piss again. Not that he had much to void; he had been on urine rations too.
Hero arrived shortly. “Have you gone crazy, brother?”
“You know the situation as well as I do, brother. We have to purchase respite for our troops, lest we make a bad situation worse than it needs to be.”
“What will Crenelle say?”
That was a sharp cut. “I think I need to do it before she finds out.”
“And if it goes bad, she’ll be a widow.”
Craft smiled grimly. “Then you’ll have to marry her, Prince. It would not be an unkind chore.”
Hero shook his head. “I’ll make Keeper do it.”
They were bantering, knowing the grimness of the situation. But it was true: Craft stood a fair chance of losing his life, and one of his brothers would then have to marry his widow, to protect his children. Both of Craft’s brothers liked Crenelle, and she liked both, so it would work out. But Crenelle would never let Craft walk into such danger if she had a choice. As it was, she would blame Hero for not stopping him. So it would be Keeper she married. But the men knew that this was a necessary sacrifice.
Hero put his hand on Craft’s shoulder. “Go with God, brother. I tried to stop you.”
“You tried,” Craft agreed. That was their cover story to satisfy Crenelle.
Craft mounted his steed, held the flag aloft on its short pole beside his royal banner, and rode out to meet the enemy. This was its own gamble, because they might elect simply to cut him down. But that would throw his less-wasted troops into a despairing fury that would pointlessly cost many more lives. What else would they have to lose? It was better for the enemy to parlay.
The enemy troops gave way before him, recognizing his banner. Then the enemy commander rode out to intercept him. Craft saw with surprise that the banner was royal. They had sent a baron out to parlay, an excellent signal.
Craft halted his horse and dismounted. He was putting himself at the mercy of the other, as he could readily be cut down before he could mount and escape.
The other dismounted and strode to face him, then waited for Craft to make his case.
“I am Baronet Craft. Our army is defeated. I proffer myself in lieu of the men, as hostage. Take me, and give them water and what food you care to spare. They will depart when they can travel.”
“I am Baron Tuho. I accept your submission. Mount and accompany me to the city.”
It was that simple. Craft remounted as Tuho did and guided his horse in the indicated direction. Tuho made a signal, and his troops started falling back, allowing Craft’s troops respite. Serving women emerged from behind their ranks, carrying jugs and baskets. Water and food! Obviously they had been prepared for this situation. Craft himself would be captive, imprisoned, but his men would survive.
But Tuho did not guide him to a prison site. Instead they went to the palace. There royal servants helped Craft remove his armor and soiled clothing, washed him, and gave him a robe. They stored his sword and knife in a cabinet but did not lock them away. This was better treatment than he had anticipated. As a rule, royal hostages were not abused, but neither were they given much chance to make mischief.
When he was dressed, Tuho reappeared, similarly robed. “I thank you for courteous treatment,” Craft said.
“We have long been neighbors. You are a man of honor. You will not abuse our hospitality.”
“True. However—”
“You will meet my daughter,” Tuho said. “The heiress Tula.”
Craft paused, confused. “I don’t understand.”
“First, a bit of wine and bread. You look hungry.”
“I am,” Craft said. He smiled. “I will probably be worth more ransom healthy than failing.”
Servants brought a jug and platter with flesh and bread. Craft looked at Tuho. “Eat, drink,” the man said. “It would be pointless to poison you. But perhaps take them sparingly, until your system recovers.”
Craft did so, taking a careful swig of the wine, which was excellent, and a piece of black bread. Tuho waited impassively.
When Craft had had a moderate meal, and was assured it would stay down, Tuho spoke again. “This way.” The baron guided him to an ornate suite.
There they encountered an eight-year-old child. She was of course well dressed, with a female attendant, rather pretty in her features and poise. She bowed to Tuho, then turned to Craft. “Hello, Baronet Craft.”
“Hello, Baroness Tula.”
She giggled. “I’m not. Not yet. Let me touch you.”
What was this? Craft glanced at Tuho, and was startled to find the man gone. So was the female attendant. He was alone with the little baroness, the baron’s heir. Honor was honor, but this was a singular act of trust. He was an enemy commander fresh off the battlefield, and this was an innocent royal girl.
What could he do? Slowly he extended his right hand, open.
Tula took it, clasping it with both her own small hands. She remained that way for some time. What was she doing?
Then she spoke. “Your sister will come.”
Craft smiled. “I think not. I have two sisters, both fair of feature, and neither would care to risk herself in an enemy city during war-time.”
She finally released his hand. “She will come tomorrow.”
This was curious, but evidently Baron Tuho wanted the two of them to become acquainted. “Why do you think so?”
“I had a dream.”
Oh. Imagination. “Do you want her to come?”
“Yes. She will marry my father and maybe make him happy. Then I can be with Allele.”
“With whom?”
“Your niece.”
Her dream had gone wrong. “I have no niece. Only two sons.”
She looked perplexed. “But your wife had her.”
“My wife is Crenelle.”
Then she looked really confused. “But she married your brother and bore Allele!”
Craft shook his head. “I think your dream got things mixed up. Crenelle was interested in all three of us brothers, but she married me.”
“Something is strange. Where is Allele?”
“There is no Allele. Not in our family.”
Her face crumpled. “But I like her. She’s my age, almost.”
Craft found himself holding her, comforting her. She was obviously mixed up, but sensitive. “I’m sorry.”
“Maybe someone will have her later.”
“Maybe,” he agreed warily. Then he essayed a question of his own. “Why am I here with you, instead of in chains?”
“I told Father to bring you to me.”
Surprises continued. “And he does what you tell him?”
“Yes.”
He thought it best to let the matter drop, but curiosity overcame him. “Why did you want to be with Allele?”
“Because her family’s better than mine. Father’s a widower.”
“That’s why you want my sister to marry him?”
“Yes. When he’s happy, he won’t need me. Then I can go to a better family and be happy too.”
This child seemed physically and mentally healthy, but she had a problem emotionally. Yet how did that relate to Craft’s presence here? He decided not to ask.
In due course he was ushered to an adjacent bedroom. Was he to be this girl’s guardian or companion? That hardly made sense. But now it was time to sleep. He could not be sure when this remarkably polite treatment would end.
“Craft.”
He jumped. It was the child, in her nightclothes, standing by his bed. “Baroness, you should not be here.”
She ignored that. “Are you sure you don’t have a niece?”
“Sons only,” he said.
She sighed. “I don’t understand why my dream went wrong. But you will do.” She climbed into bed with him.
“Baroness!” he protested, appalled.
“Call me Tula. Put your arm around me.” She nestled close, as for sleep.
What could he say to her, that would not trespass on things no child was supposed to know? “Tula, you cannot be with a strange man! It would destroy your reputation.”
“My reputation for being weird? Why do you think I made Father bring you to me?”
“You made him do it? Tula, I’m a hostage, not a companion.”
“That, too,” she agreed. “Now hold me, so I can sleep.”
“Tula—”
“Be quiet, or I’ll kiss you.”
He started to laugh, weakly. Then she lurched forward and pressed her face into his, kissing him with surprising authority before withdrawing. She felt almost like a woman.
Was this a test of some kind? Were hidden servants watching? Well, he was at their mercy anyway. He put one arm around the girl, and let her snuggle close. She evidently wanted the comfort of an adult, and perhaps was accustomed to requiring a servant to do it. It seemed that her father was not the type, and where was her mother?
He closed his eyes, and slept surprisingly readily. It was oddly pleasant being close to this odd child. Could he have had a daughter or niece like this, had things been otherwise?
“She’s coming!”
That jolted him awake. It was dawn, and Tula was sitting up. “She is?” he asked foggily. Who was “she”?
“Yes. I knew she would.”
“Then perhaps you should get ready to meet her.”
“I will.” She bounced out of bed and ran to her own room.
That gave him a chance to see to his own morning details. He discovered a fresh robe on a chair beside the bed, so evidently a servant had been here in the night, seen them asleep embraced, and made no outcry. Which suggested that he had not trespassed in a way that could have gotten him summarily beheaded. Even the most innocent sleep, as this was, could have been lethal, otherwise.
Tula reappeared, freshly garbed, her hair neatly done. She was like a little princess. “This way,” she said, excited. “We have to eat first.”
Servants made them a meal for two. “Grape juice,” Tula said. “Father won’t let me have real wine. And poppy-seed bread.”
“Poppy-seed!” Craft exclaimed. “This is humor?”
“No. It makes me feel giddy and I like it. I am less bored when I eat it.”
Small wonder. Poppy seeds could be mind-bending, even hallucinogenic. But probably most of that was denatured by the baking process, so the effect was mostly imaginary.
He joined her in eating the bread. It was good enough. But soon he did feel slightly light-headed. Was it his imagination?
Again he wondered: was he being tested? Odd things kept happening.
Then Tula led him down to the presentation chamber, where Tuho awaited them. “She is now being admitted,” he said.
Soon their visitor was ushered into the room, as the soldiers who had guarded her faded back. Only when he saw her did Craft remember: Tula had predicted that his sister would come. “Rebel!” he exclaimed.
She hurried to him and hugged him. “You are safe!” she said, relieved.
“Of course he is safe,” Tula said. “I guarded him all night.” She shot an imperious glare at her father.
Tuho looked abashed. “I wasn’t really going to cast him into the dungeon,” he protested. But his manner hinted that there could have been such a plan, foiled by the intercession of the child. Tula evidently had a fair notion what was what. So it had not been just her need for adult comfort that put her into Craft’s bed and in close physical contact. She had stopped the men from coming for Craft after she was safely asleep.
“I made sure.” Tula turned to Rebel. “You’re pretty.”
Indeed she was. Her fair hair and pale eyes made her stand out among ordinary women, and she had dressed to accentuate her female qualities. At age twenty-seven she was a stunning figure of a woman, and knew it. “Thank you.” She did not seem to find it remarkable that a child was present and participating.
“What is your business here, Baroness?” Tuho asked Rebel, according her a title of honor that was barely technically accurate. Hero was the baron; his siblings were only relatives. Tuho’s manner was controlled, but Craft knew he was taking in the qualities of body and bearing that Rebel was displaying. No man could do otherwise.
“I come to plead for the release of my brother. He is a family man; his wife and children need him.” As she spoke she breathed a bit more deeply than she needed to, and angled her head prettily. She was exploiting her sex appeal. Her words were only a portion of the case she was making.
“Prince Craft is hostage for the safety of his troops,” Tuho said. “They have been spared slaughter. They have been fed and watered. He must remain for ransom.”
“Fed with poppy-seed bread!” she snapped.
“It is what we have to spare. It will make their condition more comfortable.”
She evidently decided to let that pass. Any bread was better than none, and this was better than what they had been eating. “It has been a bad year. We don’t have a lot for ransom.”
“Then we shall be obliged to wait for a good year.”
“But his family!” she protested.
“That is not my concern. I need resources for my own troops, and a fair ransom should help.”
Rebel seemed about ready to cry. This was of course artifice, but just might be effective. “What can I do?”
“You can marry Father,” Tula said.
All three adults were startled. “That is not the nature of this negotiation,” Tuho informed his daughter.
“Yes it is,” Tula insisted. “I saw it in my dream. That she would come here and marry you. You need a wife and she’s pretty.”
As if that was all there was to it. But the baroness was after all a child.
“I will consider it,” Tuho said.
Rebel saw that her calculated physical appeal had gone too far. “You don’t want me. I’m barren.” She smiled with a tinge of bitterness. “A barren baroness.”
“You can’t be,” Tula said. “Somebody has to have a daughter. I saw her in my dream.”
Rebel shrugged. “It wasn’t me.” She turned back to Tuho. “I must return to my people. Maybe we can raise a sufficient ransom.”
“I think not. You will remain here while I consider.”
“You want a mistress, not a wife,” Rebel flared. “I would not be suitable for either, unwilling.”
“We shall see.”
Rebel turned to go. Guards reappeared, blocking her way. She had been taken hostage too.
“She would not be good,” Craft said, trying to save the situation. “She has a mind of her own.”
Tuho’s eyes narrowed. “How would you see it, Baroness, if your brother were put to the torture, pending your cooperation?”
“Don’t threaten her, Father,” Tula said. “She’ll kill you. You can win her if you do it right.”
The man eyed his daughter as if taking her seriously. “Is she worth winning?”
“Yes.”
Tuho spread his hands. “I bow to my daughter’s wisdom. Remain as my guest.”
“But I do have to remain, regardless of my preference?” Rebel asked, unpleased.
The baron nodded.
So it was that Rebel moved in with Craft and Tula. She had tried to rescue him, and gotten herself captured too. She seemed to accept it, but Craft knew that Tuho’s life would be in peril if he got close to her.
“Father is not a bad man,” Tula said. “He does what he thinks he has to do. When you marry him, the ransom will be forgiven and you will be free to go home on occasion.”
“If I marry him,” Rebel said tightly.
“He’s already smitten with you. He’d take you to bed today, if you let him.”
“How nice to know,” Rebel said wryly.
“You will like him, when you get to know him.”
“You hope. Are you looking for a replacement mother?”
Now the girl seemed pensive. “Not exactly.”
Rebel zeroed in. “What, exactly?”
“I want to be with Allele.”
“Who?”
“She dreamed I had a daughter,” Craft said, misspeaking.
“Not you, exactly,” Tula said. “But somebody.”
“Who is the mother of this Allele?” Rebel asked alertly.
The child struggled. “Nel. . . Nell—”
“Crenelle?”
“Yes! And—”
“Hero?”
“No.”
“Keeper?”
“Yes!”
Rebel glanced at Craft. “If you die, Crenelle will marry Keeper, and maybe have that daughter. That’s Tula’s vision.”
“But she’s my age, almost,” Tula said.
“Let’s change the subject,” Rebel said. “If I am to marry your father, I need to know more about you. What interests you, Tula?”
“Big stories. But we’re out of new ones. That’s why I eat the poppy seed. It keeps me from being bored.”
Rebel considered only briefly. “We Alani have stories. Do you know of King Arthur?”
“No.”
“Then let’s get comfortable, and I’ll tell you.”
“Let me get some food,” Tula said.
A servant appeared, and the girl gave the order: bread, jam, mead. Soon they were all seated on the bed, eating poppy-seed bread and drinking mildly alcoholic mead, and Rebel started in on the major Alan legend of King Arthur and his Round Table.
“Round?” Tula asked.
“Round. Because the king had many nobles, and they were all supposed to be even, and they could quarrel about which of them deserved to sit most royally, so they made the table round so that no one could sit above or below anyone else. It was a wonderful compromise.”
“Oh,” Tula agreed, fascinated.
“The story really begins when young Arthur pulled the sword from the stone.”
Tula laughed. “Swords don’t live in stones!”
“Yes, it was unusual. The sword had been plunged into the stone by the prior king, who said that the man who drew it out would be the next king. Everyone tried, but no one could do it. It was really wedged in tightly. Until Arthur, who was just a servant in a noble’s estate, tried it. And the sword came out readily.”
“That’s crazy! Unless he was very strong.”
“He wasn’t. There’s a different version, where Arthur was noble, destined to be king, but others weren’t sure he had the discipline or power to handle it. He needed a persuasive sword. So the Lady of the Lake gave him her sword.”
“Well, he never saw her. It was just this delicate hand emerging from the water, holding the sword. He took it, and after that others knew he deserved to be king.”
“Ridiculous!” Tula said. “Tell me more.”
Rebel did, evidently appreciating the audience. Craft appreciated it on two levels: it was a great old story, long told among Alani, and it was distracting the child from whatever other mischief she might otherwise come up with. It was also nice to see Rebel enjoying herself. For once she wasn’t establishing her militant independence, but relaxing. That made her prettier than ever. Maybe the intoxicating bread and mead had something to do with it. Yet again Craft wondered exactly what was going on.
At length Rebel called a halt. “We have to sleep,” she said diplomatically.
“That is unfortunate,” Tuho said.
Rebel and Craft jumped; they had not known he was there. But Tula seemed unsurprised. “Can I stay up late, Father, to hear more?” she asked.
“No. You do need your sleep. Princess Rebel will be here tomorrow.”
“I’m no princess,” Rebel protested. “Not even a baroness.”
“Yes you are,” Tula said.
“Honorary title,” Craft murmured, to stifle Rebel’s rebellion.
“Which of us gets to sleep with her tonight?” Tula asked with a half-knowing smile.
Again, Tuho seemed to take her seriously. “She will choose.”
Rebel considered. Craft knew what was in her mind: which one of the two could she better impress, and thus gain power over, in one night?
She decided. “Tula. Tonight.”
Tuho was surely disappointed, but he accepted it with grace. It was evident that he already understood that Rebel had to be won her way. “There will be other nights.”
“Perhaps,” Rebel agreed.
She was definitely considering.
Tuho departed. “You will,” Tula said confidently.
“Which?” Rebel asked.
“First a night, then marriage.”
“How can you know?”
“I remember, from my dream.”
Rebel glanced at Craft. “Should I?”
“Do you want to?”
“The night? Yes, it could be fun. But I don’t like marrying under duress.”
“You would never do that.”
She nodded. “I will decide. I will probably do it for the right price.”
“He’ll meet it,” Tula said. “He’ll do anything for you.”
“And this is what you want, Tula?”
Now the girl considered. “It will happen. Is that enough?”
“No.”
“I thought you wanted it, Tula,” Craft said, surprised.
“I do, if it’s right.” The child faced Rebel. “Will you leave your family?”
“No,” Rebel said. “I will always be close to my family. Your father will have to accept that.”
“Then it’s right,” Tula concluded.
“It’s right?” Craft asked.
“I will join your family. That’s what I want. Even if Allele’s not there. I will be the only girl.”
“So nice to have that settled,” Rebel said with an irony Craft hoped escaped the child.
“Yes,” Tula agreed. “Now hold me.”
Rebel didn’t even roll her eyes. She settled down on Tula’s bed with her, leaving Craft to sleep alone.
That, he thought, was just as well. Tula had protected him by staying close, but there was more than a hint that she viewed him somewhat as Rebel viewed Tuho. That attitude, however far-fetched, could get him promptly tortured to death.
In the morning, after routine activities, Tuho joined them. “Tell us more about King Arthur,” he said.
“Shall I hold you close so that you won’t be frightened?” Rebel asked.
“By all means.”
“Maybe later,” she said with good humor.
She was definitely warming to him.
They settled down around the bedroom, with Tula nestling close to Rebel, and Rebel continued the story of King Arthur. Craft, listening to the familiar narrative, fell into a kind of daze or stupor, perhaps a dream. The food and drink were definitely intoxicating. He found himself in the role of King Arthur, taking the shining sword from the hand in the lake, which also seemed to be like glassy stone, and carrying it as his badge of legitimacy to govern his kingdom. Establishing the Table Round and summoning knights from across the land to help defend it from the invading hordes. Marrying a lovely princess for political reason, and falling in love with her. Only to have her attention stray. Finally betrayed by his illegitimate son and severely wounded in battle.
“You would not do that to me.”
Craft came out of it with a start. It was Tuho speaking to Rebel. He was reacting to the legend of Arthur too.
“I would not,” she agreed. “If you were mine, and you thought to stray, I’d kill you before you could sire an illegitimate son.”
He was unperturbed. “I would not stray. There are similarities to our own legend of bold King Artashes.”
“And lovely Satenik,” Tula said rapturously. “It’s so romantic!”
Of course the Armenians had legends too. “Similarities?” Craft asked.
“Artashes was a real king of Armenia, about fifteen hundred years ago,” Tuho said. “Who became legendary. He did relate in part to the Alani.”
“The Alani!” Rebel said, surprised.
“Tell us! Tell us!” Tula exclaimed.
“My daughter insists,” Tuho said apologetically.
“Because the legend is like us,” the girl said. “Like you and Rebel.”
“That’s what you dreamed!” Tuho said.
She nodded. “The legend foretold it. She is Satenik. Look at her wild fair hair and eyes, her imperious nature.”
The baron glanced assessingly at Rebel, who stared back defiantly. She was exactly as the girl described. “Perhaps.” Tuho settled back and began the narrative. And Craft soon found himself back in a vision.
The Alani, as seen in the Armenian legend, were a wild and powerful force, ranging down from the northlands. They brought sword, fire, and terror to the settled peoples they raided. They crossed the Caucasus mountain range and invaded Armenia. But King Artashes, intent on building the fair capital city of Artashat, rallied and defeated them. He drove them back across the river Kura, and in the process captured the Alani chief’s son and heir. This was an impressive setback for the fierce warriors.
The Alani king sent an emissary with pleas to return his son. But Artashes kept him prisoner, concerned that only such a hostage would prevent the Alani from attacking again. He had beaten them this time, but they were too dangerous to leave to their own devices.
Then the Alani king’s beautiful daughter Satenik came to plead. She stood at the riverbank and begged for the release of her brother. “O brave Artashes, conqueror of valiant Alani, hear the plea of a princess. Return my brother to the king, his father. ’Tis unworthy of heroes to enslave their prisoners, forever perpetuating the enmity ’twixt Great Armenia and the Alani.”
She was bold and brave, and fair to behold. In fact she was absolutely beautiful in her person and her animation. She was also making sense. Artashes did not want perpetual hostility with his neighbors. He was, after all, trying to build a fabulous new city.
The king gazed upon her, hearing her words, pondering their import, and was overcome by passion for her. He made a decision. How better to nullify the thrust of these wild warriors, than to make an alliance by marriage?
So he rode his spirited steed across the stream, right toward the princess. Like an eagle on the wing he leaped across. He unleashed a rope from his saddle, a royal cord bejeweled with rings that flashed in the sun. He flung it out, and it circled her lithe waist and drew her to him. Her struggles were ineffective. He hauled her up onto his saddle, holding her before him, and bore her to his camp.
“Now you are mine, you comely creature!” he exclaimed jubilantly as his horse slowed.
“Am I?” she asked. She turned, caught hold of his head, and kissed him. Then the sun’s motion stopped in the heavens, and all else faded away; there was only the divine contact of her precious lips. And in that moment he knew he was lost.
And so it was that they married, and fair Satenik governed Artashes’s heart and his household, and peace was made with the Alani.
“She set a trap for him!” Rebel exclaimed. “She could have escaped him had she wanted to. Ineffective struggles indeed! She knew what she had to do.”
“She dressed to be sure everything showed,” Tula agreed. “Especially when he was looking down at her from his high horse. Big girls have things to be seen.”
“Of course,” Rebel agreed.
“She looked just like you.”
Rebel smiled. “Well, I am Alani.” She glanced sidelong at Tuho. “I did come to save my brother.”
“You are playing the game she did,” Tuho said. “With similar effect. I admit it.” He took a breath. “Come with me now.”
Rebel did not pretend to misunderstand. “Remember, I am barren.”
“I already have a child.”
“You will let my brother go.”
“I will.”
“There will be no ransom.”
“No ransom.”
She rose. “This won’t take long.”
“It’s about time,” Tula said.
“Time,” Tuho agreed wryly.
Rebel left with Tuho. “She’s already bound him,” Tula said with satisfaction. “He is so desperate to clasp her willing he’ll agree to anything she demands.”
So it seemed. Big girls did have their ways. Rebel had succeeded in rescuing Craft, her way. Probably it was for the best.
Tula turned to Craft. “Did she really not know our legend?”
Craft laughed. “Dare I answer that?”
Now she laughed. They understood each other.
The legend of the captured princess is authentic; the Armenians have a collection of poems known as the Songs of Koghten describing it in detail. There does seem to have been a battle and a capture, and certainly there was King Artashes. That Alan princess may have been the grandmother of the foremost early Armenian king, Tigran the Great, who ruled from 95 to 55 BC.
The Arthurian legend’s origin, in contrast, is shrouded. It has been thought to be based on a historical King Arthur, circa 410 AD when the Romans left Britain and the barbarians invaded, but there are no references at that time. Indeed, nothing stopped the invasions for long, and Britain was in time overrun by the Angles, the Saxons, and the Jutes. There seems to have been no hero to halt the process. Only more than a century later does the name start appearing, and it was several hundred years before the full flowering of the legend.
The indication is that there may have been a historic Arthur, but not in Britain. It was a legend of the Alani of Asia. How did it get to England? In the second century AD the Romans sent a garrison of 3,000 Sarmatian troops to Britain to help defend it, and they brought their legend with them. The Alani were Sarmatians. Some may have intermarried with natives and remained in Britain after the Romans withdrew. Their children learned the stories, and taught them to their children, and gradually it spread and amplified, becoming one of the major legends of Britain, Europe, and the world. Its true origin was lost, and assumed to be British. It seems that only the Alani know the truth.
But historical records are indicative. The Sarmatians worshiped a sword stuck in a stone. They fought under a wind sock–style banner shaped like a dragon and known as the Draco. It was said to roar when they rode into battle. They truly impressed the natives. They were commanded in England by a Roman officer named Lucius Artorius Castus. Legendary King Arthur was also known as Artorius. Even his weapon, the magic sword Excalibur, was first called Caliburn, meaning “white steel,” deriving from the words chalybus (steel) and eburnus (white). There was a tribe of Sarmatian smiths known as the Kalybes, and such a sword could have been named for them.
The Alani may not have conquered the world physically, but perhaps they fared better mythologically.