A Burning Sea

by Theodore Brun

  He took hold of her arm. ‘You have my word,’ he said, and pulled her back inside, letting the chalice fall to the floor. . .

  Outside, the bell of the Holy Peace was ringing the midday when he helped her back into her stola, then wound her palla round her shoulders and arranged it over her arm. ‘I could develop quite a taste for all things northern, I think,’ he said. He had a complacent smile playing around his lips. ‘Of course, business is business but. . . we should do this again. For pleasure next time.’

  ‘I think not,’ she said, her voice cold as winter. ‘You will have Erlan Aurvandil delivered to my chambers in the palace by sundown tonight, clothed and in good health. If not, the emperor shall know he has a cuckold for a daughter. Do you understand?’

  He snorted, the colour draining from his face. ‘You’re bluffing. You wouldn’t have the nerve.’

  ‘By all means, put me to the test. Your choice.’ She went to the door. ‘By sundown tonight. Good day, general.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Erlan awoke with a shiver. He had been dreaming again. Absurd dreams of freedom and hope. The beach again. The beach where it had all begun. But instead of Inga’s laughter carried on the wind gusts, it was Lilla walking there, the hem of her cloak trailing in the surf, her long blonde hair blowing sideways like a war-banner, and as she drew closer he saw she was wearing a shirt of ring-mail. She looked taller. Stronger, somehow. A world away from the wretched maiden stripped naked whom he’d plucked from the darkness beneath the Earth. She cupped her hands to her mouth and called out, but the words were lost on the wind. She called again. The wind rose against her, the waves grew taller, folding onto the strand with a violent crash. . .

  The second bucket of water brought him fully to his senses. His hair was plastered to his head.

  ‘You alive down there, slave?’

  ‘I’m here, you bastards,’ he muttered.

  There was a chuckle far above. ‘It’s your lucky day, Northman.’ And a couple of heartbeats later, a rope fell into his lap.

  The sky was already reddening in the west by the time he was being marched across the Augustaion towards a constellation of gleaming columns and archways and tiled roofs that made Arbasdos’s mansion on the north side of the promontory seem little better than a goat stall. The Great Palace, seat of the emperor, house of the king of kings. . . Only kings? By the stars, it looked a home more fitting for the gods.

  Erlan gazed at it all in a trance. He hadn’t eaten a morsel in two days. They had at least let him drink, and washed and clothed him. He looked as clean as he had in a long time. Perhaps more so since he’d never been garbed in white before. The wounds across his back still hurt. Thick scabs had begun forming over the divots of flesh torn from his hide. They itched worse than a rash of ringworm.

  Silanos had been there, overseeing it all, but giving little away. ‘Someone wants to see you,’ was all he had said, with an enigmatic smile.

  It seemed too absurd to hope that his case had somehow come to the notice of the emperor. But who else could it be, dwelling in this mountain of marble and brick?

  It was late. Shadow had started to shroud the halls and courtyards of the palace by the time Arbasdos’s escort handed him over to the palace guard. There was a short exchange, out of earshot, and then four men assembled around him and off they went again. He had to quicken his step to keep up with his new escort, his heavy limp ringing out of kilter with the brisk tramp of their hobnailed sandals. These new guards knew where they were headed; it seemed to him that they led him away from the larger halls of the palace towards a quieter wing on the southern extremity of the complex of buildings, passing servants in a hurry to get the oil-lamps lit along the corridors and around the porticos and terraces overlooking the palace gardens. At last, and abruptly, they came to a halt in front of a heavy door of black ebony strengthened with brass studs.

  The captain of the patrol banged a leather-grieved fist against the door and, without waiting for an answer, turned the latch and pushed it open.

  ‘In here,’ he said curtly and stood aside.

  Uncertainly, Erlan passed him. The guard pulled the door shut behind him and he listened to their synchronised steps march away into silence.

  He stood perfectly still. The room was tastefully appointed, easily large enough to take the few pieces of furniture placed about it. He noticed a doorway into another room which was cast in shadow, and opposite him an opening onto a balcony, through which he could see the sea wall of the city and beyond that the Bosporus.

  Why would he be released from Arbasdos’s black hole into this empty set of rooms? Was he still a prisoner? If so, he infinitely preferred these new quarters.

  There was a movement in the corner of his eye. He turned as a figure appeared out of the shadow and stopped in the darkened doorway.

  Seeing it, he felt a strange fissure crack open in his chest. He was still dreaming, surely. This was some cruel mockery brewed in his befuddled brain. All of it – the pleasant scent filling the room, the dusky glow off the Bosporus, this slender form he knew so well, stepping gracefully into the dim light of the chamber – must be a lie. ‘You,’ he whispered.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied softly. It was her voice, and the shock of it struck him like a whip. Her face looked thinner than he remembered. It wore on it, he realized, the mark of suffering, her high cheekbones sharp as arrow-tips, the full curves of her lips a little drawn, the restless swirl of those dark ocean eyes calmer now but brighter, almost feverish. Yet she was still astonishingly beautiful.

  ‘I dreamed of you,’ he said.

  Her lips pressed tighter, not quite a smile. ‘And I, you.’

  ‘I. . . I have a hundred questions. A thousand—’

  ‘Later,’ she murmured.

  They moved towards each other with a sudden rush, meeting in the middle of the room, folding into one another, his doubting mind only now believing what his hands could hold. She clasped him even tighter, as if the vision of him might slip away like smoke through her fingers if she gripped him any the less. Pain flared across his back like a hearth flame, making him suck in his breath. She immediately relented her grip.

  ‘You’re wounded,’ she said.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he murmured. ‘I’ll live.’

  ‘Let me see.’

  She made him sit on the small backless seat set to one side of the room and had him pull off his tunic. They said nothing as her fingers traced the lines and furrows that the scourge had drawn in his flesh, her touch light as a moth’s wing. She left off and crossed the room, soon returning with a basin of water and a cloth. The water was soothing against the hot, dull throb of the whip wounds. And soon he felt the warm patter of some other liquid on his shoulders. She was weeping.

  ‘You’ve tended my wounds before,’ he said. A world away, in the frozen forests of the north. ‘When I came for you. This time, it was you who came.’

  ‘I had to.’ She left off her swabbing and sat down beside him, lifting something from round her neck. ‘I had to return this.’ She opened her hand and there, in the dim light, he saw his amulet nestled in her palm. ‘I know it means much to you.’

  Such a simple thing. Two pieces of silver fashioned into the shape of a little hammer. But she was right, its twin arms had much to tell. . . although she didn’t know what. His hand moved over hers, closing her fingers. ‘It’s yours now.’

  ‘I followed you to Dunsgard but I was too late.’

  ‘Huh. I couldn’t serve that worthless piece of—’ He stopped, not wanting to sour this moment with the memory of a man like Osvald. ‘I had to leave.’

  ‘Why did you come here?’

  He shook his head. ‘Why did you follow?’

  She sighed. ‘We have ample time to tell each other everything. It’s enough for now to know you live. You are here.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘With me.’

  His gaze was falling deep into hers, but he found himself afraid. He knew how he had been there befor
e, had not forgotten the wound that the loss of her had scoured into his heart. ‘And Ringast,’ he said, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. ‘Does he live?’

  ‘Is this answer enough for you?’ Gently, her hand slid behind his head and pulled him towards her. They kissed and it was like a spark to dry tinder in his heart. He breathed in the scent of her – even here she smelled like the woods of her homeland, fresh and free, untainted by the decadent concoctions of the perfumers of this city. He remembered that scent, remembered their one stolen encounter in the darkness among the byres of Uppsala. The start of so much. And yet the end of it all.

  The kiss ended and she rested her forehead against his, her eyes closed. He listened to the ebb and flow of her breathing, answered by the distant turn of the waves on the Bosporus.

  At last her fingers threaded through his. ‘Come,’ she said.

  He must never know, Lilla thought to herself.

  He will never know.

  She lay in the darkness, her heart still beating fast, feeling joy, fear, relief, shame. Feeling too much for one heart to understand. Instead she focused on the presence of him lying next to her, sound asleep. She guessed the silk sheets and soft pillows were as good as a sleeping draught to his weary body after the torment he had endured. It was strange. She hardly knew the man and yet their lovemaking came as naturally as breathing. She remembered that from the first time. The only time. It was like inhaling him, drawing him deep inside her like the smoke of Urtha’s weed, filling her mind and body with him until those waves of sweet thunder swept through her body and left her undone.

  Was that love? Did she love him? He had suffered and she couldn’t stand the thought of it. And yet here she was, about to ask him to suffer some more. . .

  ‘Lilla.’

  She glanced down, surprised to see his dark eyes staring up at her.

  ‘You asked why I’m here. You deserve to know. . . I came to find the king of kings.’ He gave a wry snort. ‘But I only found more chains.’

  ‘Well, you’re free now.’

  ‘Thanks to you.’ He smiled. ‘So how much did I cost you?’

  ‘Enough.’ More than you will ever know, she thought. ‘But I’d have paid it twice over to see you free.’

  He reached out and stroked her cheek. ‘I’ll pay you back.’

  ‘I don’t need you to,’ she said, hiding the pain behind a smile. ‘But you can help me.’

  ‘How?’

  So she told him. Told him. . . almost everything, leaving out what she knew would only vex him. Now was not the time to stir up his wrath against Thrand. There would come a time for that, if the gods willed it. But there was nothing he could do about Thrand from here and she saw no good coming from infecting him with her fury.

  On the other hand, she hid nothing of their long journey from Dunsgard to Byzantium. Erlan was entranced and bewildered in equal parts, and delighted to hear that Einar was with her.

  ‘Who knew the fat man had it in him?’ he laughed.

  ‘Certainly he didn’t,’ she replied, glad to laugh with him.

  ‘So you came here seeking an alliance?’ he said when she was finished.

  ‘An alliance. And you.’

  ‘A Hel of a long way to come for either.’

  ‘I need you,’ she said simply. ‘As I need Leo.’

  ‘The kings of kings,’ Erlan murmured, shaking his head. ‘It’s strange, isn’t it? That fate would have us both seek him.’

  ‘I suppose it is. But now we’ve found him. And I need something from you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I have little enough to bargain with Leo as it is. Already I’ve made too much of what the empire stands to gain if he helps me.’

  ‘This time next year there may be no empire.’

  ‘There has to be. Because if the empire dies then so does any hope we have of success. That’s why we must help him. And when the empire is safe, we will reap the emperor’s gratitude. We will return home and Thrand will pay the price of all traitors.’

  ‘Wait a second. By help you mean. . . me?’ His mouth fell open.

  ‘You. And Einar. I want to present you to him as his personal bodyguards.’

  ‘Bodyguards? This palace is swarming with men to protect him. What are two more to him?’

  ‘You don’t know your worth, Erlan. You never have. But the emperor shall.’ She nodded, as if the thing were already done. ‘At root the man’s a soldier. So I shall give him a soldier’s gift.’

  Erlan frowned. ‘Even if he accepts us, what do you hope for in return?’

  She looked away. ‘I don’t know exactly. . . An edge.’

  ‘Odin’s beard, it’ll have to be a bloody sharp one.’

  Her eyes gripped his again, shining in the darkness ‘Will you do it?’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  Lilla smiled and shook her head. ‘No. Your queen demands it.’

  ‘Does she now?’ He chuckled and rolled over on top of her, propping himself above her. She felt his manhood growing hard against the inside of her thighs. ‘And what else does my queen demand?’

  ‘Everything,’ she whispered, slipping her fingers around him and guiding him into her.

  They could have slept till noon the next day, but for the clanging of a thousand church bells at the first grey of dawn.

  Lilla’s eyes opened. She sat up from her pillow. ‘What is that?’

  ‘Sounds like some kind of alarm,’ he replied, drowsily.

  Shaking off their sleep, they rose quickly, covering themselves with robes against the cool of the morning. Even in the quiet surroundings of that remote wing of the palace, the sound of anxious voices carried to them, of barked orders and men hurrying to their duties.

  There was a knock at the door. A moment later Gerutha entered. Her eyes flicked suspiciously at Erlan, a little circumspect at first. Perhaps she felt shy, or else blamed him for all her mistress’s hardships – and by extension her own. Erlan offered some awkward word of greeting but she cut him off. ‘Yes, yes. I’m glad you’re safe, of course, but there’s something you must see. Both of you.’ She took Lilla’s hand and led her through the drapes onto the balcony. Erlan followed them out, feeling the sudden blaze of the dawn sun strike his face.

  ‘There!’ exclaimed Gerutha.

  But his gaze was already away over the rooftops below them, over the cedar trees bending in the wind and the massive sea walls, out onto the waters of the Bosporus. Because there, filling the strait from one shore to the other, were hundreds of ships.

  ‘The Arab fleet,’ said Gerutha, and the bells rang out the doom of the city.

  They watched for hours as more and more vessels moved north up the straits under black and red sails bulging with the warm wind blowing up from the Sea of Marmara. With every passing ship Erlan felt the hard knot of foreboding grow tighter in his stomach. He listened while Lilla and Gerutha told him what they knew of the siege and the wider war between Byzantine and Arab, feeling like a man come late to a feast.

  ‘We’ve walked into a hurricane,’ he muttered.

  They were astonished how ignorant he was of it all, considering the length of time he had been in the city. He had no idea the city was sealed on the landward side to the west. And no inkling, until now, that it had been standing on the edge of a precipice, waiting for the Arab fleet to arrive and stopper them all up in the city like wasps in a bottle.

  The vanguard of the fleet, made up of many hundred-oared war-galleys, had long since vanished out of sight to the north, presumably to drop anchor at some point on the western shore already known to them. After them came hundreds of smaller vessels. Troop-carrying ships, light attack craft, heavyladen supply ships churning through the waves. A world of war processing with stately conceit before the walls of the beleaguered city.

  ‘Why don’t the Byzantines do something?’ Erlan couldn’t understand it. Hardly a spear’s throw below them, standing on the towers spaced along the sea walls, was an array of ma
chines built for the city’s defence. Yet they all remained still. And the hundreds of Byzantine soldiers manning the parapets merely looked on at their enemy.

  ‘Perhaps they’re afraid,’ suggested Gerutha. ‘Or resigned to their fate.’

  Lilla leaned against the stone balustrade, her gaze intent on the scene below. ‘They’re not afraid. The emperor knows what he’s doing.’

  ‘I hope you’re right. Look.’ Erlan pointed south. ‘There’s the last of them.’ The rearguard of the fleet was another two lines of war-galleys labouring their way into the mouth of the Bosporus.

  ‘That’s well over a thousand ships,’ said Lilla. ‘Maybe two.’

  ‘Ymir’s blood!’ Erlan snarled. ‘And a hundred thousand warriors to the west, you say?’ He seized Lilla’s hand. ‘We should leave here, Lilla. Now, while we can.’

  ‘No.’ Her jaw muscles stiffened in that obstinate way of hers. ‘I didn’t come this far to leave with nothing.’

  ‘You haven’t left with nothing. You have me.’

  ‘Can one man win a war?’ She looked at him, and for the first time he saw a hardness in her eyes he didn’t recognize.

  ‘The wind’s dying, look,’ said Gerutha. ‘See the banners on the wall.’

  She was right. After fluttering all morning, the long trails of silk, each blazoned with the empire’s double-headed eagle, now hung limp as pelts on their poles.

  Below, almost level with them now, the procession of sails slowed, as if the sea had turned to tar. The waves settled to a glassy sheen. The lighter ships took to their oars and set about rowing themselves out of the calm, although it was heavy going against the stream. They slowed even more when a breeze picked up from the north, licking the limp banners back into life.

  Something else caught Erlan’s eye. A little to the north, a small flotilla of rowing craft nosed out from behind the city promontory. Each boat was a third of the size of the great Arab war-galleys languishing against stream and now wind; each with no more than forty oars at work, but they moved across the ruffled waters with surprising speed.