Oppa nodded absently, his mind still working. “It may be,” he said slowly, “that there is more to this alliance between Illiberis and the Jews of Garnata than we understand. If Ilyan hosts Lælia, it is not merely horseflesh he is interested in. Ilyan harbours Jewish merchants, most of them Spanish exiles.”
Should an Arabic army succeed in crossing Africa, Oppa thought, it was also Ilyan who stood to lose the most. He did not, however, voice this thought. An idea was dawning on the edges of his consciousness. An idea, Oppa realised, that had been growing for some time, certainly since the meeting with his father, and possibly even before that.
What if… instead of forcing her submission, I won it? Oppa thought, once again allowing himself to imagine Lælia on her knees before him. The thought was as novel and enticing as an intoxicating wine. What if instead of killing Theudemir of Aurariola and the Jew Yosef, I allied with them? He shivered, the idea so startling it gave him a visceral thrill. He thought of the Arabic horde he had seen last year. They are coming, he thought. Of that I am certain. What if there was a bigger game at play? One his father had not yet begun to grasp but that he, Oppa, was perfectly positioned to play?
Getting his emotions under control, he turned back to Giscila. “Are you aware,” he said, careful to maintain a neutral tone, “that my father intends to name his son, Wittiza, as his co-ruler?” Giscila looked confused by the change in subject. “It is true.” Oppa nodded. “Though Wittiza is barely ten years old, already my father tells his court that he will associate his rule with his son.”
“Such dynasties do not work, as your father should well know.” Giscila frowned. “Sunifred and the southern lords will not stand for it.”
“No.” Oppa’s tone was careless. “I daresay they will not. Sunifred’s rebellion gathers momentum. War, it seems, is inevitable, as my father well knows and plans for.”
“Then why speak of this now?”
Oppa looked at him meditatively. “What roles do you think my father plans for you and me in this new Spania he envisages?” Giscila stared at him but didn’t answer. “Ah.” Oppa smiled silkily. “You begin to see my point, Uncle. After we uncover the reason for the alliance between Illiberis, the Jews of Garnata, and Ilyan of Septem – then reveal it to my father in Spania – what do you think happens to us?” He took a gold coin from his robes and held it up so it gleamed in the sun. “Gold, perhaps? My father is generous with his coin when he is pleased, it is true.” He flipped the coin to Giscila, who caught it neatly, though his eyes had not left Oppa’s face. “Lands?” He shrugged. “Perhaps – though in Spania, I wear the robes of a priest, a role my father is eager I should continue to play, for he does not like the power the Church wields over his reign, so he places me amongst his enemies that I may serve his interests in the Church he intends to build. Bishops occupy abbeys. They rule monasteries. They do not hold titles and lands, even if they do hold power and coin.” He nodded at Giscila. “As for exiles,” he said softly, “even under a sympathetic king, have you ever known a murderer and exile to return to Spania and receive lands and a title?”
Giscila, seeming to emerge from a stunned stupor, spat into the sea once more. His eyes had not left Oppa’s face whilst his nephew spoke. Now they had turned an ugly shade of black, hard and angry as the metallic surface of the sea. “I believe I begin to understand you, nephew. And perhaps I might offer some insight of my own in return.”
Oppa nodded. “Speak.”
“Theudemir of Aurariola knows you come for him. He knows, too, of the whereabouts of the Jew, Yosef ben Radhan – but whatever alliance they once shared, it is now gone. Theudemir of Aurariola fights now for himself alone. He has offered to expose the Jew to me.” He spat to one side. “In exchange for leading you to him.”
It was Oppa’s turn to stare at his uncle. “Did you intend to tell me this,” he said finally, “or do Aurariola’s bidding?”
“Perhaps the latter.” Giscila smiled unpleasantly. “But that was before I heard you speak like a smart man, Oppa, bastard son of my kingly relative. Now you begin to see the reality of our position.”
Oppa raised his eyebrows. “You impress me, Uncle.”
“Then perhaps you will hear my suggestion.” Oppa inclined his head. “The Illiberis heiress is too valuable a piece to roam unmarked.”
“Agreed.”
“One of us, then, should make it their mission to capture her. When it comes to negotiations with Theudemir of Aurariola, she could be useful.”
“Perhaps,” said Oppa slowly. “Or perhaps, in this instance, we may capture more flies with honey.” He was careful to keep his expression bland. “I think it would be preferable to monitor her movements and contrive a meeting with her.”
Giscila raised his eyebrows incredulously. “And do what? Smile and introduce myself as her parents’ killer, enslaver of her betrothed, and uncle of the man who recently tried to force her into marriage?”
“Yes.” Oppa gave him a half smile. “That is, a man who wishes to make amends. A man who seeks forgiveness, a pathway to redemption.”
“Why would she wish to offer me one?”
“She does not need to offer it. Only to know your desire for it exists.” Oppa looked out over the sea. “Tell her that if the time should come when Illiberis needs hands to defend it – from my father’s forces, for example – you are a resource upon which she might call for aid. You might also mention you have met with her betrothed, made of him an ally of sorts.”
Giscila stared at him. “Are you sea addled, nephew? Do you think after I make such an offer that we will drink wine together and embrace?”
“I think she will dream of thrusting a knife through your belly.” Oppa smiled coldly. “But she loves Illiberis and that whoreson from Aurariola more than she does even revenge, I think. If she considers you of possible benefit in safeguarding either, you open an infinitely easier road to Illiberis than if we take her by force.”
“Whilst I am paving this road,” Giscila said, “am I to assume you will follow the fleet?”
“Given that is what my father has ordered me to do – and what you have agreed with Aurariola – I believe that the wisest course.”
Giscila looked at him narrowly. “And what is to prevent you from making a deal of your own with him?”
“Nothing.” Oppa met his uncle’s eyes evenly. “But I hold my father’s gold, and I have no intention of handing it to you. Nor do I intend to give my father any reason to distrust me.”
“What guarantee do you then give me?”
“Only this.” Oppa stepped forward and spoke in a low tone only his uncle could hear. “When the Arab forces come for Spania – and we both know they will, Uncle – I will need those at my side I can trust. And if we cannot trust family” – his smile was as cold and venal as Giscila’s had been unpleasant – “who can we trust?”
After a brief pause, Giscila took Oppa’s proffered arm, gripping it at the elbow. “Where shall I await your return?”
Oppa nodded. “I will send word to Carthage.” He nodded to Nicalo’s silent figure. “Come, Nicalo.” He turned and stepped across the narrow gap of sea that separated his dromon from his uncle’s. Oppa’s mind was whirling.
If Theo had indeed turned on his friends – which Oppa doubted very much – then his allegiance could be valuable indeed. If he had not, then an opportunity existed for him, Oppa, to become part of whatever plans had been made to forge an alliance between Illiberis and Garnata. Those plans, Oppa knew, pertained to Spania’s future. A future Theudemir understood by now in the same way Oppa did. A future that encompassed the threats Oppa’s father did not see – and planned for them.
A vision arose in Oppa’s mind, a gleaming, shining image that would once have been unthinkable.
He, riding at Theudemir’s side, ahead of a force great enough to defend their homeland from the Arabic army. Theudemir, kneeling before him, laying his sword at Oppa’s feet. “I give you my allegiance, and my sword…”
Lælia, her face filled with the glowing admiration Oppa had once seen as she gazed at Theudemir, but now, gazing instead up at him: “I was wrong about you all this time… it is you I love, Oppa.”
And Oppa, the bastard son of a ruthless king, born in a brothel and raised in the shadows, felt the one thing he had carefully schooled himself never to feel, the one thing that he had learned from the cradle gave a man weakness and his enemies a weapon. Oppa felt hope.
Theo
September, AD 690
Gortyn
Crete
Theo himself frequently forgot about the brutal facial scars left by Oppa’s whip, but every new port gave him occasion to recall them. He stepped out of the dromon on shaking legs, trying to ignore the gasps of horror and covert glances of the dockworkers.
Gortyn was a bustling port, a small but vital resupply point between the shores of Africa and the metropolis of Constantinople. The passage here had been lean on supplies and hard on the body. Apsimar’s fleet, it seemed, had been urgently recalled by Emperor Justinian II. Theo was learning that when his droungarios desired a particular outcome, he spared no man to achieve it. When the wind had not blown, as happened often during late summer days on the flat water, every man took shifts on the oar. Regardless of rank, they rowed. Hard.
“Well!” Silas clapped him on the shoulder, looking about with satisfaction. “Even the mighty Apsimar must pause whilst the dromons are resupplied – and for once, it is not us who must carry the barrels.” The whites of his eyes gleamed against the pitch-black, scarred face as he pulled Theo away in the act of reaching to take one of the supply crates from a passing dockworker.
“Then what must we do?” Theo watched the crates pass, feeling oddly at a loss.
“We must get drunk.” It was Leofric, his other companion, who answered. “And find whores. It seems we will finally get the coin we are owed.” The Slav grinned widely and gestured to where the other skutatoi of their rank queued before a harried-looking man with parchment and pen. Beside him was a somewhat more brutal-looking man of tremendous bulk and dull face. He had a bare torso and stood in front of an iron chest, arms folded. As each man stepped forward, the scribe checked the stigma on his hand, then glanced at the man’s kentarchos for confirmation before reaching around the broad figure of the guard, into the chest, and withdrawing gleaming coin, which he counted into the man’s hand.
“The best part of being raised to skutatoi in the emperor’s service,” grinned Silas, putting a hand on Theo’s other shoulder, “is that we risk our necks now more often than our backs. And are paid for it before the others, also. Come, wenkai.” They collected their coin and walked away from the port into the rapidly falling dusk. The night was mild, and figs grew ripe on low-hanging branches as they passed through thick stone walls into the small city on the hill.
The night smelled dusty and exciting, and Theo looked around in interest, ignoring the shocked glances and whispered asides of the locals. They made an odd party, he knew.
Silas stood a good head and shoulders above the tallest of men, and his permanent smile had the unsettling impact of appearing much like most men’s killing look, made all the more chilling by his bald scalp and tribal scars. Leofric was thickset and hard, hairy as one of the bears he described from the dark forests of his home, and, at six feet, just as powerful. He moved with a silent menace that carried at all times the vague threat of violence, and the scars crossing his body made it clear he had both endured and inflicted his fair share.
Theo suspected that he, too, presented a fearful sight, given the way other men shrank from him. The months training at sea had hardened his body into that of a man, and he stood taller than Leofric now. He did not often look upon his own face, but he could see the ridges of skin on his arms where Oppa’s lash had caught him, and he knew, by feel, those on his face to be the same. They felt as if the skin had been melted and pushed into a new form, then frozen – hard, unnatural ripples both smooth and brutal to the touch.
Long hair and beards were forbidden for soldiers of their rank, so he lacked even their fragile protection. When he had asked Silas quietly if the scarring was very obvious, the big black man had raised his eyebrows and grinned crazily, tilting his head from side to side. The reaction hadn’t been reassuring.
Nevertheless, Theo strode through the city, feeling the comforting weight of iron at his side and caring little for the stares they attracted. He was a skutatos in the emperor’s service – and, more importantly, he carried Lælia within. He touched the amulet at his neck, and Leofric caught the gesture.
“This may be one time when is best you forget your child bride,” he said, grinning. “A man should not think of wife when with whores. It will spoil what we are about to enjoy.”
“What you are about to enjoy, perhaps,” corrected Theo mildly. “I am merely here for the wine.”
“Wenkai.” Silas paused outside the low entrance to a tavern and faced him, taking his shoulders in two large hands and gripping him tightly. “Believe me when I say there are some things all men need when they fight in the emperor’s service. Wine is one. Women are another. No man can wield a sword if he does not take it from the baldric once in a while, no?”
Chuckling, Leofric clapped him on the back and pushed open the door. The tavern was clean and well swept, with low wooden stools set by whitewashed walls. As they entered, a young girl spotted them and came immediately to their side, smiling in greeting. Despite glancing briefly at Silas and Leofric, her eyes, which Theo saw sparkled the same brilliant blue as the sea they had just crossed, remained locked admiringly on his own form.
She was scarcely older than Lælia would be now, he thought; then, noting the rich swell of breast and the barest hint of a nipple straining the thin cloth of her gown, he coloured and turned away. His mind, unwilling to relinquish the mental pathway, continued on to envisage Lælia dressed thus. Theo was suddenly hit with such a bolt of longing it literally took his breath away.
“Ah,” murmured Silas at his side. “And already you are finding yourself convinced, I think.”
“My name is Elpis,” said the girl, in Greek. She smiled shyly. Placing three cups on the table, she bent across him to pour wine from a terracotta jug. Glancing at Theo, she looked likely to speak when a tiny scrap of a girl scurried beneath her legs and peeped out at them through a long fringe of white-blonde hair. “Pelagia!” Elpis whirled, red faced, and knelt to speak to the child. “What are you doing in here?”
“There’s a man,” said the small girl, eyes examining the men at the table with frank scrutiny. “At the docks.”
“What are you talking about?” Frowning, Elpis turned to the men. “Please excuse my sister,” she murmured, blushing prettily. “She is just a child.”
But Theo had leaned forward, elbows on knees, and was returning the girl’s stare with a smile. “Would you care to share some of my bread, Lady Pelagia?” he asked gravely. The little girl looked up at him with wary eyes. “I have been at sea for a long time,” said Theo, still smiling. “I am afraid it means that when I come ashore, my legs are a little unsteady and my appetite is gone.”
“Lots of men from the boats get sick when they come ashore.” The girl reached up and, quite unafraid, touched the stiff scar tissue on his cheek. “Your face looks funny,” she said.
“Pelagia!” Frowning, Elpis tried to bustle her sister away.
“Don’t worry,” said Theo, putting out his hand to the young girl. She reminded him so much of Egilona, the young sister he had left behind, that he felt his heart twist. “Yes,” he said, smiling at her. “I imagine it does.”
Elpis pulled Pelagia close to her. “My sister is just a child,” she said protectively, her face clouding over. Theo recoiled as if he had been struck.
“Of course,” he said, frowning. “I have a sister the same age. Her name is Egilona.”
“Oh.” Elpis looked relieved. “I’m sorry. It’s just that some men –”
&n
bsp; “We are not such men.” Silas spoke gently, covering Theo’s shock and Leofric’s grunt of disgust. Pelagia tugged at her sister’s gown, which, Theo noticed, was grubby and torn at the side. He felt his heart twist with pity; what must her life be like, in a tavern by a port, with men like him searching for a moment’s pleasure? Filled with an uncomfortable sensation of self-disgust, his colour deepened, and he turned away to his wine cup.
“The man at the docks,” said Pelagia, more urgently now, glancing between Theo and her sister. “He gave me coin –”
“Pelagia!” Giving her sister a fierce look of warning, Elpis nodded tightly at their group before hurrying the little girl away. Theo saw her bend down to talk to her urgently by the wall.
“Well,” said Leofric, looking about the room. “We might have found your entertainment for the night, magare, but I am seeking something a little more rounded.” He made a gesture with his hands at chest height. Silas chuckled, shaking his head.
“What about that one?” He nodded across the room, where a dusky girl with lush rolls of flesh laughed at a comment from one of the customers. Her laughter had a rich, suggestive tone, and Leofric’s eyes lit up.
“Now that,” he said, draining his cup, “is almost worth a year on an oar. Make sure you do not sail without me.” Jingling the coin in his tunic and whistling through his teeth, he rose and sauntered over to the girl. As they watched, he put an arm about her shoulders, whispering something in her ear that made the girl laugh aloud and look at him suggestively through lowered lashes.
“Well,” said Silas in his low, rich voice, white teeth flashing at Theo. “We had best make our choices before the rest of the fleet discover this place and take all the beautiful girls.”
The King's Coin: Ambition is the only faith (Visigoths of Spain Book 2) Page 6