‘The basíleus sends heartfelt assurances of friendship, one sovereign to his brother.’
‘Does he, by heaven! Then let’s see what this brotherhood is worth to him.’ He leaned forward, prodding at various priceless articles before him, then shoving them away. He tipped a pouch full of gold solidi over the table, sending the coins scattering to the floor. He seemed to take pleasure in creating an almighty mess.
‘My lord, all this is a mere token. Emperor Leo promises far more. He asks only in return that you remember the treaty that still holds between Bulgar and Byzantine.’
The khan leaned heavily back in his chair and regarded Erlan with his full attention. ‘I may be an old man now, but my memory is not so dim I cannot think back two years. The man with whom I made my alliance was not your master.’ His vast belly shook, but whether with mirth or anger, Erlan couldn’t be sure. ‘The basíleus – as you call him – is a usurper. He stole his throne from my ally. Does that not make him my enemy?’
This was as Leo had warned him. ‘The emperor took the crown in order to save the empire.’
‘Did he? Well, that was most selfless of him!’ roared the khan. ‘And I suppose he will return it once the empire is safe.’
‘His Majesty is willing to honour the terms of the agreement you made with Theodosius—’
‘We agreed annual tribute. I’ve seen nothing since the Byzantines departed. That was two years ago.’
‘He promises double tribute for the years missed while the caliph’s armies have been harrying the east.’
‘Triple.’
He could feel Davit’s indignation burning behind him. These were enormous sums of gold which Erlan had no authority to promise. But he figured that could be someone else’s problem. ‘Triple then, for the years missed. And the resumption of the agreed annual sum once the Arabs have been swept from the empire. And Byzantium is safe.’
The khan smiled, his greasy lips catching the light. ‘So now we come to the point.’
‘Besides tribute, we offer you plunder. Anything won from the Arabs is yours.’
‘That goes without saying,’ scoffed Tervel. ‘But what plunder is there to be had? The last I heard, the Arabs were eating their own shit.’
A fair point. ‘They still have weapons. Siege machines.’
‘What do I want with siege machines?’
‘Every man still alive carries things precious to him,’ continued Erlan, pressing on. ‘All this. Besides which, the basíleus promises you a further payment—’
‘This Maslama. . . he possesses a vast army. Over one hundred thousand, they say.’
‘He has fewer now. As my lord must know, many have already died at your kinsmen’s hands.’
‘Opportunists,’ grunted the khan. ‘I cannot blame them. But they’ve acted on no orders of mine. Not yet.’ He let out a long, wheezing sigh. ‘So exactly how much is it worth to your master for us to do his killing?’
Erlan named the figure, one so fantastically high that for a second, the khan’s lazy eyelids heaved themselves open a little wider.
‘The empire does not possess so much gold. It could never pay.’
‘The empire will honour its promise.’ It was an offer no man could refuse. Erlan noticed the khan didn’t try to increase the figure.
‘How many of my warriors do you hope to buy with this?’
‘All of them.’
At this, the khan threw back his head and bellowed out a big, booming laugh so infectious Erlan couldn’t help smiling. ‘The gall of the Byzantine is truly a thing of wonder! You want us to win this war for you, huh? I wonder would you do the same for my people?’
‘Byzantium is doing this for you already. By standing. If the Great City falls, you will be next.’
The khan’s laughter died and he fell to tugging pensively at the thin rope of his beard. ‘Maybe. . . Maybe not.’
‘If the Arabs take Byzantium, they will rest, they will grow stronger, then they will come. And you have nothing but a heap of mud and a few sticks to keep them out.’ Erlan glared hard into the khan’s oval eyes. ‘If a man means to destroy you, when should you face him? When he’s at full strength, well rested, with his belly full? Or when he’s sick and demoralized and starving?’ Erlan gave a mirthless chuckle. ‘When he’s eating his own shit, as you so delicately put it?’ He leaned forward, pressing his knuckles on the khan’s table. ‘Take your chance now to secure what your father won for your people. And win the friendship of the Byzantines for ever.’
‘For ever? Bah! Nothing is for ever with the Byzantines. . . Still, you do speak some sense.’ The hall fell to silence for a while. At length, the khan sighed. ‘You are no Byzantine, are you?’
‘No.’
‘Then why do you stand here, speaking for them?’
Erlan thought about this. Thought about explaining how they had lost their envoy when they were not half a day’s ride beyond the walls. ‘Because of the city,’ he said instead. ‘Because of what it stands for. . . I believe it’s worth saving.’
The khan considered this answer, nodding slowly. ‘True. Its history has been long. But not always honourable.’
‘I also believe in the emperor. . .’
‘Ahh. It is a wonderful thing, the faith of a young warrior in his lord. . . Alas, such faith is only a distant memory now for an old sceptic like me.’ Tervel snorted. ‘What is your name, young man?’
‘Erlan Aurvandil.’
‘Aurvandil. Mmm. Well, Erlan Aurvandil, I find myself almost persuaded.’ He chuckled. ‘But only almost—’
He was interrupted by the sound of a sudden disturbance below. Footsteps thundered up the stairs and all at once a warrior entered in haste, trailed by two others. The man was young, though still a little older than Erlan, lean as a spear and garbed in a silk coat the colour of midnight with a crimson sash around his waist.
Without a glance in Erlan’s direction, he started berating the khan in a voice far from respectful, banging his fists on the table in his passion. Tervel listened indulgently, his jovial face unmoved by the newcomer’s tirade.
‘Aurvandil,’ he said, gazing over the younger man’s shoulder. ‘Meet my son.’ When the warrior turned, the face did not lie. It was the khan’s, but leaner, the beard longer and tied into twin braids. The eyes, however, had nothing of their father’s humour. Prince Kosmesy. ‘He is upset. Anxious that we might have reached an agreement without his consent.’
‘Is a man in your position beholden to the will of his son?’
The khan laughed. ‘Clearly you have no son of your own. Of course I must indulge him! Besides, he carries great honour among the tribes I hold in alliance.’ He looked at his son. ‘They respect him because he is not me. He still follows the old gods and the old ways, while I follow the Christ. Still, he speaks for many of my people.’
‘Do we have an agreement?’ Erlan demanded.
‘Patience, Aurvandil. I must put it to my son.’ Erlan quietly seethed while father and son spoke in their native tongue, their exchange becoming heated at times, until it was the father who listened and the son who spoke. At length, the khan turned back to Erlan. ‘I said I was almost persuaded. My son, it seems, needs more persuasion.’
‘You mean more gold.’
‘Not gold, man! He wants proof that the omens are in our favour.’
‘Omens?’
‘That if we go to war, the old gods are with us, as well as the new. He demands a sign, Aurvandil, a sign!’
A strange chill of foreboding crept into Erlan’s bones. ‘What sign?’
‘A test as old as our people. It goes back a hundred generations. One man against three wolves. Each represents the mightiest of our gods. Tangra – god of the sky, Kaira – god of the earth, and Arlik – the god of death. Pick a champion to fight the gods!’ the khan crowed merrily. ‘If he lives, then the Bulgar nation will ride to war!’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Lilla had given Katāros nothing. And for nothing, h
e had exacted a heavy price.
Her secret was submission. Submission to everything but him. Submission even to Death, if Death wanted her – though he hadn’t taken her yet. Angels and devils, gods of light and darkness, truth and lies, life and death. These all melded into a single perfect point, an apex where pain reached its purest form.
And still there was not a mark on her.
At times her dread and pain wove together into such a pinnacle of horror that she would have told Katāros anything to stop it. If only she had something to tell. If only he would give her the words he wanted to hear then she could speak them. . . That would be her confession.
But before the silk was removed, always another voice answered her wilting resolve. Hold on. . . hold on.
For what? she would later ask herself. What did it serve her not to break? Was not death by execution in a sudden, single instant preferable to this slow erosion into Hel’s shadow in this dark place under the city? She had staked all and all had unravelled. There had been a murder. That much she now knew. She also knew there was evidence against her. But it was nothing without her confession. Enough to hold her; not enough to condemn her. Although the whole city, Katāros assured her, was clamouring for her head.
Others had confessed. She had heard their screams in that gloomy underworld of pain. A man called Silanos had admitted to betraying secrets to the enemy for which he had already paid with his life. He was Persian by blood and had cause to hate the Byzantines, so Katāros told her. There were others, too. Those of religious sects that stood at odds with the main body of the Church – dangerous, dissident voices whose dearest love was to see the empire fall and usher in some new age. Lilla knew nothing of that. But they had talked and so they died.
Only she would not.
Instead she became inured to her dread of the sounds that roused her from half-consciousness to face still more ordeals. Perhaps the half-wisdom of her younger years was at last growing into its fullness. She had plumbed the depths of despair and found she still had hope to live. She had scaled the heights of fear and found she still had courage to go on. She accepted the opening of the door to her cell and the entering in of pain like a wrestler welcoming an old opponent. Steadying herself before him, knowing his moves, wise to the tricks he liked to play.
But when one day, or night – she knew not which – the door opened, and instead of the tall figure of the eunuch, she perceived dimly a different shape, a different shadow, she wasn’t ready for it.
‘Lilla.’ The voice was strong and low. She lifted her head and saw, half-lit in the torchlight, an ordinary face, eyebrows creased in concern. ‘Lilla.’
‘Leo?’ Her voice a hoarse whisper. She tried to look at him, but found her gaze welded to the doorway which was still ajar.
‘I’m alone,’ he said, seeing this. ‘There’s no one else.’ He stood awkwardly, his mouth working. She wondered bitterly what fatuous questions rose and fell in his mind.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Are you getting your sleep?’
‘Are they feeding you well?’
‘I told Katāros he cannot kill you,’ he said suddenly. ‘Though word has spread that you are being held and many tell me to make an example of you. The patriarch warns that—’
‘I’ve done nothing against you or against this city,’ she said, the words coarse as rust. ‘Nor ever would I.’
‘Why did you befriend the lampros?’
Aye, she thought ruefully. That was the question. ‘It was you who brought us together.’
‘Only once.’ His jaw worked again. ‘It was a mistake, I admit it. Either I helped a traitor. Or else I have compromised you—’
‘Your conscience need not trouble you, either way. I am responsible for my own choices.’
‘Have they. . . hurt you?’
She lifted her head. A greasy lock of blonde hair fell across her eye. ‘There are no marks on me, Majesty. So I suppose they have not.’
‘If they but laid a finger on you, without my authority—’
‘No one has touched me.’
He nodded, apparently satisfied. But if he was satisfied with that, he was a fool. ‘I had wanted to help you.’
‘Had?’
‘Now I find I cannot trust you. . . I realize how little I know of you. . . I would release you but—’
‘The evidence.’
He nodded. ‘It demands an explanation. And you give none. Why were you with the lampros? You were heard arguing. What about?’
Lilla closed her eyes. More questions. Did they not know by now that she had no answers to their questions? ‘I must rest now,’ she said softly. ‘I am tired.’
‘Your pride will destroy you, Queen Lilla. I can end this. Only tell me the truth.’
‘What is truth?’ she murmured.
A stranger answer. She wasn’t even sure why she gave it. He looked at her with a curious expression. ‘So be it,’ he said abruptly, and left her hanging there in the cold and the dark. . .
Each day wore hard on Gerutha’s heart. She found no comfort from Yana, who seemed to take Queen Lilla’s imprisonment as mere respite from her duties. Gerutha’s attempts to see Lilla herself were met with a stone wall. She knew nothing – nothing but the gossip of the marketplace and kitchens and back passages of the palace. That her mistress was a murderess, that the evidence against her was damning and conclusive. It was only the emperor’s misplaced favour that kept her alive, the gossips said – and even he could not protect her for ever. Gerutha dreaded to think what state Lilla was in.
The only one to offer Gerutha any solace was Domnicus. ‘The Almighty knows her heart,’ he told her. ‘If she is innocent, God’s hand of mercy will protect her. Only believe. . .’
Aye, only believe, and pray. It seemed cold comfort. As if the innocent did not meet the fate of the wicked every single day in every land across the world of men.
She found keeping busy a far more effective balm for her troubled heart. And so she accompanied Domnicus whenever she could in his forays into the city to bring relief to the poor.
It took them a while to wend their way through the maze of back streets that made up the coppersmiths’ quarter, avoiding grey puddles and fetid gutters, listening to the street-hawkers’ cries and tinkers’ songs as they went about their work.
Usually Alethea could be found seated outside a certain wine shop on a little lane known as Bakers’ Alley. Sure enough, there she was, propped in her little box, wrapped up for midwinter even though the air was milder now. A cracked cup sat beside her, half-filled with cheap wine.
Gerutha called out to her.
‘Well now – what have we here?’ the beggar woman cried. ‘Didn’t I say to myself this morning, “Today will be a blessed day! You mark it, my girl – something fine will turn up.” And see, here you are!’ Gerutha clasped her filthy, mottled hand. Alethea’s knuckles were cold as a barrow stone. ‘And look now, His Holiness, Father Domnicus! A double pleasure.’
‘Bless you, sister,’ Domnicus said warmly.
‘No miracle for me today, have you, Father?’
‘God willing. In any case, I remember you in my prayers every night.’
‘Is that so? Seems you’re out of favour with the Almighty then, Father – since today I woke up with no legs, same as every day.’ She cackled long and hard at that. ‘Anyhows, I ain’t complaining. Old Red Nose in there has spared me a cup or two of charity so I’ve some fire in the grate, eh?’ She and the wineshop keeper, a man called Cornelius, had an understanding. He gave her the dregs of abandoned wine-jugs in return for her noting the face of any man entering his shop, in case there was trouble. ‘Usual piss, naturally.’
‘You look well,’ Gerutha lied. In truth, she looked wretched; the infection that was eating away the flesh across her face was livid and purple. ‘Here.’ She passed Alethea two small loaves of bread out of their basket.
‘Oh, God bless you for your kindness, girl. Now then – what’s been keep
ing you from visiting your dear old friend?’
‘Far too much to tell.’ Which was true. And she didn’t want to worry the old crone about Lilla.
‘You’re still keeping company with this firebrand, eh? You watch out, girl. He’ll bounce you into the Kingdom of God soon as look at you.’
Domnicus smiled. ‘Oh, sooner than that if I could. There’s room enough for all of us in God’s house. Even you. . . Especially you. Our Lord said that the last shall be the first.’
‘Well, he can keep my place for now, Father,’ she sniffed. ‘I’m happy right where I am.’ The beggar woman raised her broken cup and took a slurp, then leaned forward in her box with a conspiratorial glint in her glassy eye. ‘Interesting times round here, I tell you. I suppose you heard about that poor lampros fellow?’ Gerutha started at mention of the fire-maker. She had hardly been able to think of anything else. ‘A horrible business, that. Mother of God, the state he was in when they found him. . .’
‘They still haven’t caught the man who did it.’
‘That’s because they ain’t looking for a man. They say it was a woman. Some say it was that grand lady used to come here with you.’
‘Whoever says that is a liar,’ said Gerutha sharply.
‘Oh, I know it!’ Alethea cried. She beckoned her two visitors closer with a long, gnarled fingernail, so close Gerutha could smell her rotting teeth. ‘Because I saw him.’
‘Who?’
‘The man that did it. Yes,’ she nodded slowly. ‘They found the poor fellow’s corpse not two streets from this spot. Did you know that?’
‘What do you mean you saw the man that did it? How would you know it was him?’ asked Domnicus.
‘I was right there. Just there, look!’ She pointed to a murky corner along the street where Gerutha could make out a small heap of dirty rags. Evidently Alethea’s bed. ‘I couldn’t sleep that night, I remember. It was that cold. And then I hear footsteps coming up from that end. Slap-slap – and I’m thinking, “Hey there, someone’s in a hurry.” I look up and he stops right there on that corner.’ She pointed to the entrance of another alleyway twenty paces or so past the wine shop. ‘That’s when I saw his face. No woman. No! A moonbeam settles right on his face and he glanced upwards for a second and I saw his eyes. Dark as the Devil’s, they were. And his jaw – sharp as a knife. That face – oh, it chilled me to the bone. I’d never forget it.’
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