Phoenix Without Peer, Rose With Thorns

Chapter One

Song of Homecoming

The horizon stretched before her like a crimson prayer mat, merging with the silver sky. The hint of spires and minarets in the distance stirred her heart. Home, the song tugged at her, home. Beneath her, Hakim snorted and pawed the hard earth. She patted the stallion's neck. They had been riding hard; his coat was shiny with sweat. Yet, he still seemed full of nervous energy. Just as he was, when he was a mere colt.

"Been too long," she told the war-charger. Hakim whinnied as if in response.

She could hear the bells and most haunting of all, she heard the call to prayer. This song rang the loudest within her, her sinews and bones lute strings played by invisible hands.

"Been too long," she repeated to herself.

Then she gently nudged Hakim into motion once more. The stallion cantered and began to gallop.

Tiny sand devils swirled in the horse's wake.

*

The City always looked like a dream when she approached it from its East entrance. A waking dream of hazy memories, soaring steeples and minarets reaching towards the clouds like praying hands, of sounds and songs of the souks, and of richly coloured figures standing at ornate windows. The dream often hinted of the lingering caress of frankincense and myrrh. Resins sold at the souks. Resins sizzling and sending forth plumes of perfumed smoke in the sanctuaries.

Hands cupping the glistening bits of brown and amber hardened sap, mirroring the sparkle on the murals of the Theotokos and the saints.

A smile behind an embroidered veil and the music of a lute playing in the background.

The Virgin in crimson, the Child in Her hands.

Then she crested the hill and there was the City beneath her. The spires gleamed. She glimpsed throngs of people, made tiny by distance, in the souks. The main path led to the magnificent cathedral. It shone like a diamond.

Home. She hadn't been home for a long time. Too long.

Riding up to the Eastern Gates was easy. It was a road she had taken many times, over many moons. Yet, as Hakim made his way through the usual crowds of pilgrims and merchants, she felt something amiss, like a missing lute string. She felt it in the air, an odd silence between the gaps of human and animal bodies. She felt it in the gestures and body language of the pilgrims and merchants on their camels. She felt it in the voices; the merchants' joviality hid an undercurrent of fear.

They made it through the Gates, though she knew the guards stared hard behind her back. She was garbed as a masculine warrior in the style of the westerners who came through moons ago. The memories of their arrival lingered still in the bones of its people.

The smells of the lanes filtered past the grills of her helmet. With a sigh, she removed it, shaking out her hair. It had grown long during her travels. She longed to trim it short once more. Didn't men want to witness her visage with long hair? She shook her head. She was a rose with thorns. She was a phoenix in flight. Nobody, except herself, would make decisions for her. A few women cast gazes on her as Hakim moved unerringly down the lane. Their kohled eyes sparkled behind their veils. She ignored them.

She knew where she was going. Perhaps they had forgotten about her.

*

She knew they won't.

The manse was built close to Ayasofya. It had links to older empires and histories, hints of soaring towers and fortresses, of a time where they had to protect themselves from war. The stone was granite, unearthed from a nearby hill, and the face it showed to the rest of the City was a stubborn one.

Yet, she was surprised to hear the music of lutes playing and joyful laughter coming from within the manse as Hakim drew up to the gate. They still maintained the moat which she knew was also an efficient drainage system. The water was actually fresh, coming from a spring, and constantly moving. It looked deceptively deep.

"Lady Marfisa," one of the guards recognised her. She in turn recognised him as the stable boy she had helped train to ride. He had indeed grown up.

"Timothy," she smiled and he still had the ability to blush.

"Welcome back," Timothy recovered his ability to speak. "Welcome home."

"Thank you," she said.

Welcome home. How strange.

*

She had fought in many wars. Hers and other people's, lately her family's. She never knew she had an other family. The family she only knew was here in Byzantinum. She had a twin brother. A brother she never knew.

Then, Bradamante, her brother's fiancé.

With a sigh, she placed a gloved hand on her chest; there the gift from Bradamante rested on her heart. They might never see each other again.

They were probably married by now, the progenitors of a new dynasty. She would in turn become an aunt to nieces and nephews. Knowing Ruggiero, she would become their godmother as well.

She was destined to walk alone. Why did she feel a deep pang then? Regret? Sorrow? Anger? Why didn't she speak more to Bradamante?

Why did she turn away?

Nevermind now. She was home. Her home.