Julian cast a wry glance at Laurentius. “And this is why I have ever encouraged first your father, and now you, to join our ranks, my friend. You would be a most welcome addition.” He gave a low laugh. “At the least, I could then enjoy our conversations without fearing for your immortal soul.”
Laurentius did not meet his eyes, though he laughed in return. “I suspect you simply wish to gain access to my library,” he said lightly.
“Ah, yes.” Julian accepted his deflection with grace. “I would be lying if I denied it.”
“I do hope you will continue to speak with me despite my refusal to take orders.”
“It would be my sincere loss if I did not.” Julian stepped back. “I am tired, my lord Laurentius, and we have long miles to ride tomorrow.”
Laurentius inclined his head. “I shall anticipate your company with pleasure, Your Grace.” He nodded at both men, remaining in the atrium as the archbishop made his slow progress into the night, given strength by Felix’s arm.
Turning to leave, Laurentius found himself confronted by a young soldier of the king’s guard. Clad in a short tunic and breastplate armour, the soldier’s bronze skin gleamed over hard muscle.
“I am sent to escort you back to your chambers, Fráuja.” His tone was quite proper, but the warm brown eyes and sensual half smile made an offer of quite a different kind. Laurentius had already sampled the delights offered beneath the brief tunic – had been sampling them nightly, since Toletum, in fact. But now he shook his head once in dismissal.
“I have no need of an escort tonight,” he said coolly. His own eyes, grey and clear, met those of the young soldier, who was pouting. “The dangers from this point in the journey,” Laurentius added, “lie not on darkened streets, but in the ears and eyes upon them.” He stared at the boy until he was certain his meaning had been taken. “I will alert your commander if I require an escort beyond tonight.”
“As you wish, Fráuja.” Nervous watchfulness had replaced the sulkiness; the boy had more to lose even than Laurentius himself should he be discovered.
Walking through the night to his family’s domus in Hispalis, Laurentius pushed the boy from his mind with an effort, reflecting instead on Julian’s offer. His family, he knew, had expected him to take the cloth. His house had already produced the famed Isidore of Hispalis, and his great aunt, Faustina, had founded over a hundred monasteries throughout Spania. The family’s libraries, at Laurentius’s estate in Toletum and here in Hispalis, were consulted by scholars the world over. His own entry into the clergy would come with political power and assured ascension through the ranks.
His sexual nature constituted a mortal sin. Laurentius knew it, had spent many dark nights contemplating the vagaries of a God who would make man as He had made him, condemned to live in eternal purgatory even before death. But he was honest enough to know that taking the cloth and devoting himself to God would not stop him pursuing the pleasures of the flesh.
Laurentius was an intelligent and educated man. He was also an honest one. His was a passionate nature. The fire ran beneath his skin, hidden far beneath the cool exterior of aristocratic birth but undeniably a force to be reckoned with. His lithe form was whipcord strong, and he was as happy behind a sword as a book. He did not find release only in the taking of what he desired sexually; Laurentius knew the thrill of battle blood-rush and relished it as much as the cut and thrust of politics.
It was not that he did not desire the power that came with Julian’s offer, he thought, as he pushed open the side door of his family home. The posticum was dark and silent, the servants gone to bed, and he passed into the peace of the atrium unseen. But whilst he knew it to be a mortal sin, Laurentius had no intention of spending the rest of his days in the hypocrisy of indulgence followed by repentance. He was not ashamed of who and what he was, and the integrity of his character precluded him from pretending otherwise. He would live his purgatory in quiet privacy, the price he paid for choices made; but he would not pretend to himself, nor to the God he loved, that he truly repented. Laurentius had searched the depths of his own soul and concluded that the God of Our Lord Jesus Christ, who had made Himself manifest in Word to man after so many centuries of relative silence, would have small tolerance for a man who knew His truth in his heart but pretended on the surface to be ignorant.
But in the company of Archbishop Julian, and the increasing hold the prelate had over the throne of Spania, it paid to be cautious indeed.
And Laurentius was, first and foremost, a very cautious man.
For a moment he remembered a pair of wide hazel eyes set in a pale face. He felt again the odd shock he had felt upon meeting Athanagild, who was stepbrother to his nephews Theo and Alaric. “I am not your nephew,” Athanagild had said, colour staining his face as he met Laurentius’s gaze with quiet dignity.
For the hundredth time Laurentius replayed the meeting. He had lived too many years with his nature not to recognise the signs in another. Yet what kind of man, he thought, as he had every time he contemplated the matter, would take advantage of a youth barely old enough to know his own mind – especially one who has taken orders in the Church?
Raised to a code of honour far deeper than any laid down by Church or law, Laurentius knew in his heart that to give in to such desire could only ever be moral transgression.
He made for his bedchamber, heartsick and lonely, regretting that he had turned away the young soldier, whose presence these past weeks had at least served to temporarily drive away the ever-present memory of that pale, angular face and the haunted expression in the wide hazel eyes. He thought for a moment of Shukra, his oldest friend, who was even now in Aurariola with Athanagild’s brothers. Shukra was perhaps the only man to know Laurentius’s secret and find no fault in it. He heard the little Persian man’s voice, his comments so many years ago when first he had surprised Laurentius with one of his male companions: Do you think Ahura Mazda cares with whom you take your pleasure, aziz-am? What matter is it where you are finding love, so long as it is love you find? Pah! Are you thinking your God has nothing better to do than concern Himself with whom you choose to lie?
Then Shukra’s light-hearted voice and laughing eyes disappeared, replaced once more by the deep, solemn hazel of Athanagild’s. Laurentius leaned his head against the cool stone of his bedchamber, one clenched fist hitting the stone beside his face.
“I will not give in to this,” he muttered. “I will conquer myself. I will.”
Athanagild
AD 688, one year later, after Erwig’s death and Egica’s coronation
Toletum, Spania
Toledo, Spain
The hour was late, and the monastery silent, when Athanagild heard the stealthy creak of the wicket beyond its walls.
Slipping silently from his pallet, he crept through the sleeping figures of his fellow students, out through the communal hall, to the low entrance to the chapel. It had been a long time since he had truly slept; he preferred to be awake if Sisebut came to his bed. That way, at least he could ensure they removed to Sisebut’s own chambers rather than forcing the others in the dormitory to witness his humiliation.
It was late even for Sisebut. By now the priest was generally wine soaked and maudlin, a state Athanagild had come to appreciate since at least it meant he would be spared his attentions.
Sisebut was not drunk tonight, however. He was seated in the chapel, head bowed as if for prayer, and the man who entered from the rear of the chapel was clad in the robes of a monk, his face covered. Moments later another monk joined them, and then, finally, another. There should have been nothing remarkable about their presence in the chapel. But there was something in the way they walked and held themselves that made Athanagild alert; that, and the odd hour and place they had chosen for their prayer. Monks tended to remain within the confines of their monastery. They were, in Athanagild’s experience, hardly inclined to seek city chapels in the early hours of the morning. Then one of the men put his hood back, and t
he others did the same. Athanagild shrank back into the shadows, his heart thudding with tension.
The men in the chapel were not monks. They were bishops: Maximo of Emerita, Idalio of Barcelona, and Mumulo of Corduba.
Athanagild crept closer. Barefoot, clad only in his homespun robes, he moved silently across the stone floor, concealing himself behind a carved pillar only feet from where the men sat. After greeting, all pulled their cowls back over their faces. They sat in two pews, all facing the altar in an attitude of prayer. Had any entered the chapel, there would have been nothing to witness other than four monks, all praying.
“Egica has grown bold since becoming king,” said Maximo grimly, without preamble. “Does he not recall that the Church put his predecessor on the throne – and can just as easily remove Egica from it?”
“Whilst Julian lives,” said Idalio, “Egica will remain on the throne. The archbishop is too concerned by his squabbles with Rome to countenance any upheaval at home.”
“But Julian will not live forever.” Mumulo’s dry tones dismissed the others. “And when he is gone, we will take care of this king, just as Julian did his predecessor.”
An uncomfortable silence met this statement. Athanagild held his breath. He had only ever heard rumours, whispers, of the actions that had resulted in Wamba’s death and Erwig’s taking the throne. To hear it so blatantly stated was shocking.
“Whether he lives or not, Egica is not Erwig.” Athanagild could sense the barely restrained excitement in Sisebut’s voice. “If we wish to truly take control of Spania, more drastic measures must be taken. If we allow Egica to sit on the throne for long, he will find a way to undermine the Church – and in doing so, undo the great gains we have made.”
“I will not see murder done twice,” Maximo interjected. Athanagild felt his blood turn to ice. Barely breathing, he strained to listen.
“We do not know King Wamba was poisoned –”
“Yes, we do.” Maximo cut off Idalio’s words brutally. “We all of us turned a blind eye to Julian’s plot with Queen Liuvgoto, and with good reason. We needed her husband on the throne. Erwig was pliant. Wamba would have seen us all die in his battles and taken the spoils of what was left. Conscripting men of the Church to fight, like any common man, in the Crown’s wars? It was unconscionable. But that was then, and a different time. We cannot be seen to interfere now.”
“Then what?” Mumulo’s voice was thick with distaste. “I, also, will not be party to murder.”
“Rebellion is brewing in the south.” Sisebut leaned in and the others drew close to listen. Athanagild held his breath. “Sunifred has sent word, and I have met with him. He has both the men and cause to take Toletum – but he cannot hold the capital without our support.”
“You are speaking of treason,” said Idalio, shocked.
“Not I.” Sisebut smiled unpleasantly. “Sunifred. What can the Church do, once Toletum is taken? We are forbidden to take up arms ourselves. What choice do we have, after the city falls, than to anoint the king that God has favoured in battle?”
Mumulo sucked in his breath. “And after this anointing? What then? Do you have any idea what kind of man Sunifred is? Because I do, Brother – and believe me when I say that his is not the rule that Spania needs.”
“Of course it is not,” said Sisebut, the excitement in his voice clear now. “But Sunifred’s rule is exactly what we – the Church – do need. Egica is dangerous. He is smart, cunning, and calculating. He understands the power of the Church and is determined to cauterise it. Sunifred, on the other hand, is an eager fool with a sword and a love of power. He is a fighting man, with nothing but contempt for the rule of God. He believes, as all pagans do, that God is there simply to serve his own interests; that with the right offerings, he can bribe not only God himself, but those who represent him on earth. It does not occur to him that the Church may have knowledge and foresight that he himself does not. The arrogance of the man precludes any such understanding.”
“And how are we advantaged by such a man sitting on the throne?” asked Maximo, interested despite himself.
“Because Sunifred will fail spectacularly,” said Sisebut. “He may win Toletum at the point of his sword. But what of it? Do any of you believe Sunifred has the diplomacy – or even the will – to rule?”
Mumulo gave a dry laugh. “The man cannot see beyond the next prize in his sight,” he said. “And the only way he knows how to rule a chamber is by shouting at it and insisting upon his right to do so.”
“Exactly.” Sisebut looked at each face with satisfaction. “Sunifred will not last a year on the throne before Spania erupts into outright disarray, the nobles begging for someone – anyone – to restore order. And who is able to do that?”
“Those who hold the Lex Visigothorum,” said Idalio, his voice slow with comprehension. “Since Braulio of Saragossa edited the Visigothic code of law in the time of Reccesuinth, the Church is the ultimate authority – even over the king.”
Sisebut’s eyes gleamed. “My brothers,” he said, “the Church has been passive enough. God’s very will in Spania is threatened by Egica’s rule, and by the ambitions of all those he represents. Will we stand idly by and watch as Spania falls from the light of Christ into the darkness of sin – and possibly even heresy?” The pale blue eyes glittered with excitement. “Julian ages. His time is nearly done – and when it is, we must act, and act quickly. If I am able to bring Sunifred’s plots to fruition, do I have your word you will support my accession to the primacy of Toletum?”
“If you can do what you say,” said Mumulo, “then we – and the Church itself – will owe you a debt that can never be repaid.”
“I can do it,” said Sisebut, his voice high with excitement. “It is already happening.” He held out his hand, and one by one, they each kissed the ruby ring on its third finger.
Unseen by any of them, Athanagild shrank from the chapel. He had stopped shaking. His skin felt icy cold, as numb as his heart. They are plotting to undo the very fabric of Spania, he thought. Around and around in his head the words travelled, making no more sense the more he thought of them. Who can I tell?
Archbishop Julian’s face crossed his mind, only to be instantly dismissed. Even if Julian believed him, what could the archbishop do against a plot Athanagild could never prove, that was to be implemented on his own death? One by one, he considered those he knew and loved. He thought of his stepbrother Theo, somewhere far away on foreign seas, fighting with the Karabisianoi, and of Theo’s betrothed, Lælia, whom Athanagild already thought of as a sister. Of his other stepbrother Alaric, already riding to support Sunifred’s cause, blind to the trap he would be caught in. Then Laurentius’s cool grey eyes passed before his face, and Athanagild shuddered with mingled longing and shame.
He allowed himself the rare luxury of recalling the day he had come across Laurentius in the library at his villa in Toletum. In the moments before Laurentius had realised he was there, Athanagild had seen the stark loneliness on the older man’s face, a terrible despair that had made his heart twist in sympathy. A scar ran down the back of Laurentius’s neck, a livid red welt that was usually hidden from view by his robes. When he had grasped Athanagild’s arm, he had felt the rough callouses on the other man’s palm, a hardness that came from oar and steel and battle. Somewhere amidst the scars and the books, Athanagild thought, lay a complex soul who seemed in his own way to be as alone as Athanagild himself. He longed to reach out to him, to offer comfort and receive it in turn; but such desire sent him spiralling into shame and self-doubt. The thought of Laurentius’s rejection was as terrifying as it was inevitable.
I cannot go to him, he thought fiercely. He carries enough of a burden already. And if he knew what I had become, he would despise me.
Kneeling by his pallet, he bowed his head. Holy God, he prayed silently, who should I tell? What should I say – and to whom? How can I prevent corrupt men from committing terrible acts in Your name? From twisting the minis
try of Your Word to suit their own human ambition? For a moment, he heard the echo of Shukra’s voice, long ago: I think there is much you see, aziz-am, which others do not.
Yes, Athanagild thought, and the realisation opened a door in his mind hitherto unconsidered. Sisebut thinks me his plaything. The others barely know my name. His prayers stopped, replaced by a tense stillness. He felt both slightly sick and oddly excited. I have chosen the Church, he thought. If I am to truly be a man of God, then I must learn to do His work in His house. I will serve those I know work for Spania, and trust to God that He has placed me here for His own purposes and that He will not inflict upon me any suffering I cannot bear. He felt his body straighten with his resolve, hope stealing through his veins. I may be Sisebut’s plaything, he thought, but suffer I will, if it means I can prevent what I know is against God.
From the corridor beyond, he heard the soft slap of footfall, the clumsy shuffle that meant Sisebut had drunk more than his fill. The plump figure filled the doorway, and Athanagild rose, moving silently to the bishop’s side.
“Athanagild,” slurred Sisebut, stroking his face with one hand, the other sliding along his thigh.
“Father,” Athanagild murmured, manoeuvring Sisebut out of earshot of the sleeping acolytes, toward his chambers. “I was praying you would come.”
Three years later
Letter from Athanagild to Shukra
March, AD 690
Shukra –
Archbishop Julian is dead.
I doubt many saw the farce of his funeral for what it was. At King Egica’s command, Julian’s body was carried through the city. People lined the streets, aromatic herbs and flowers were cast upon the ground. Julian lay with hands crossed. In one of them was a cruet of holy oil; the Book of the Gospels rested on his chest. The corpse lay on a byre and women wept as it passed, holding their babies up to see the body, hoping they would be touched by the great archbishop’s grace. Egica, of course, followed behind it on foot, his head bare and bowed in respect, and the people seemed convinced he truly mourned Julian – the same man Egica hated as much as any man can loathe another.
The King's Coin: Ambition is the only faith (Visigoths of Spain Book 2) Page 3