The King's Coin: Ambition is the only faith (Visigoths of Spain Book 2)

by Paula Constant

  “What,” said Leofric, staring after her in astonishment, “in the name of Tyr, was she talking about?”

  Letter from Athanagild to Shukra

  September, AD 690

  Toletum, Spania

  Toledo, Spain

  Shukra –

  Egica has acted swiftly in the wake of Julian’s death, holding a council in the province of Tarraconensis, far distant from the scrutiny of the capital, in which it was decreed that the two queens should be cloistered “for their own safety”. Sisebut and I were tasked with conducting Egica’s own lady wife, Cixilo, and her mother, the old queen Liuvgoto, to an abbey some distance from Toletum. All know, of course, that it is simply another step in Egica’s ambition to separate Liuvgoto from those who would ally themselves to her cause, such as her own cousin, Sunifred, Duke of Hispalis. The old queen is both wily and proud. Egica is rightly wary of her. Liuvgoto has survived worse than Egica, and she will not quietly rest behind God’s walls. Her daughter, Cixilo, is made of weaker stuff, and she is now even further cowed, since she was separated not only from her allies but from her son, Wittiza, who remains in Egica’s care.

  My father, along with Duke Theodefred of Corduba, tries still to speak for peace in the king’s council. We all know, however, that his is a lost cause. Egica has done all he can to provoke Sunifred and the southern lords to war. He wants to flush his enemies into the open so all may see them tried for treason. I cannot imagine how painful it must be for my brother to stand so close to a cause he must surely know to be flawed. If, as you say, Sunifred prepares to march on Toletum, Alaric will have no choice but to march at his side. It will break our father’s already frail heart. I wish I could mend the rift between them, just as I wish there were news of Theo. I know no more of him – nor of Oppa, from whom nothing has been heard from the moment he sailed.

  The silence, I believe, is ominous.

  I am not, I confess, surprised that Lælia is not returned. If she discovers Giscila’s whereabouts, I doubt she will return until one of her arrows has ended his life. I have learned never to underestimate her.

  I thank you for bringing news of Alaric. It does not surprise me to learn that he is in dark humour. He loves Rekiberga as few men love their women. That Sunifred now delays their wedding is a cruel twist indeed, and it is undoubtedly contrived to ensure Alaric remains at his side, bringing our father’s forces in Emerita to his cause. It is an impossible bind for Alaric. My only consolation is that he trains in the new fleet Laurentius builds there, under your combined guidance.

  I must also remind you of the promise you gave not to disclose the source of your information to Laurentius. I could not bear his ill opinion of me.

  I pray for you, though I know it is not to my God you look.

  –Athanagild

  Laurentius

  September, AD 690

  Hispalis, Spania

  Seville, Spain

  “Are all of you Goths so slow like this? Or is it just the air in Spania?”

  The only parts of Shukra that moved were his arms, parrying blows from two young swordsmen from his stance on the bowsprit. He spoke in his customary unhurried lilt, grinning as he did so. “I am being very glad I am not now on open sea, fighting an enemy, for the flames of war-fire would be stinging my – oh, dear, aziz-am. Is the water very cold?” Shukra’s white teeth flashed in a smile as he peered over the edge of the dromon to where Alaric and another youth gasped for air, their heavy armour cumbersome as they tried to clamber out of the river.

  It was before dawn proper and the light was fine grey, shadowy and deceptive. After Toletum’s chill winds, Laurentius found himself grateful for both the mild air of the lingering Hispalis summer and the comfortable familiarity of Shukra’s company and military routine.

  The youths pulled themselves from the river to the good-natured ribbing of their fellows. Alaric, Laurentius noticed, was not smiling, but rather glaring at Shukra’s back, his face dark and sullen. Laurentius sighed. He had trained a hundred and more young men. There was nothing new to him in Alaric’s anger. But never before had Laurentius felt responsible for being the cause of it.

  He clenched his fists unconsciously by his side. Theo was lost somewhere beyond Spania’s shores. Athanagild was silent and distant, as unreachable behind the monastery walls as if he were in a foreign land. And Alaric was wounded and angry, estranged from his own father and longing for a woman he had thought won only to then lose her in a trap deep enough to destroy the strongest man. Laurentius was a soldier, and yet he had never felt more helpless. Guilt was his constant companion, chafing his conscience raw every time he witnessed Alaric’s hurt and anger.

  “You know,” murmured Shukra as he leaped to the dock, landing lightly as a cat, “it is a pity your coin did not stretch to lamellar armour. They will be dead in an instant beneath that absurd iron plate they wear.”

  “They will likely be dead on a Spanish field long before they face the sea.” Laurentius was unable to disguise his bitterness. “We are fortunate they train at all. I am astonished Egica has not ordered us to cease.”

  “Egica worries only for his crown,” said Shukra. “And Toletum cannot be attacked from the sea.” Laurentius would have responded, but Alaric’s voice, tight with frustration and pent-up rage, interrupted them.

  “Now you will face me with a sword, as true men do.”

  The hubbub on the docks subsided. All eyes swivelled to where Alaric stood, dripping, on the stone landing by the river. Behind him the half-built dromons lay like forgotten skeletons in the water. He was glaring at Shukra.

  “Alaric,” began Laurentius, frowning, but he never got to the next word. In a sudden swirl of black cloak, Shukra was behind Alaric, his knife at the young man’s throat. “How is it that you are thinking ‘true men’ fight?” Another quick movement and Alaric was on his knees, arms painfully bound behind his back. “Are you thinking men stop to agree upon the rules before battle?” Shukra leaped over Alaric and, with one slash, cut him free again, tossing him the knife he had managed to take without any of them noticing. “You will show me these rules, aziz-am. You will be showing me how a Goth from Spania conducts himself in these games you think are war.”

  Alaric’s eyes glittered with the tight anger that had simmered ever since he had been forced to choose Sunifred’s rebellion over his father’s opposition. Laurentius sighed, crossing his arms and stepping back. Shukra’s lessons were no doubt preferable to an actual sword fight with Sunifred. That fact did not lessen their brutality. Alaric drew his longsword and faced Shukra in a fighting stance.

  “It is not yet dawn,” said Shukra softly. “We have come out of the sea mist to a foreign shore. You are stepping onto it for the first time, and you are not knowing, aziz-am, what you will be finding there. Are you drawing your big sword already?”

  Alaric thrust at him and Shukra moved easily away, appearing behind him. Alaric whirled to face him, clutching his longsword in both hands. “We could meet an enemy as soon as we step onto land,” said Alaric. “Yes, I have my sword.”

  “A big army of men are making sound,” said Shukra. “And not only sound. Even if they are hidden, even if they are masters of concealment, men are smelling like men; an army is smelling like an army. If you are closing your eyes, aziz-am, are you smelling an army?”

  Laurentius closed his own eyes and inhaled, smiling as he remembered the first time he and Shukra had taken this same lesson, remembering the scents of cinnamon and mint and frankincense that he always associated with Constantinople, recalling the faint cry of donkeys in the distance and the stench of city and people – and then the contrast, many months later, when together they had faced the stench of metal and sweat and fear.

  He opened them abruptly at the sound of Alaric’s sword clattering on stone.

  “Now you are dead already,” said Shukra silkily, grinning as he circled Alaric. “Because one man with silence and a knife who rules himself is faster and deadlier than an army w
ith longswords who obey the rules of others. No battle is won because the men fighting it had big swords and played by rules.” He twisted and flowed around Alaric until he held the knife at his throat once more. “Battles are won in the mind first,” he whispered, drawing the other youths close to hear him. “In Eran, we are teaching this one thing: good thoughts, good words, good deeds. Are you knowing why we are teaching this?” They shook their heads. Shukra released Alaric, sending him spinning clumsily across the ground. Alaric stood up, scowling.

  “Because,” said Shukra, coming forward to meet Alaric again, throwing the younger man his knife and sword, “everything is coming from your thoughts. Victory, defeat. All of it is happening first in your mind.” He moved swiftly past Alaric again as the younger man lunged toward him. “You are seeing first, Alaric is thinking he will pierce my side.” Shukra spoke lightly, parrying another thrust. “But he is thinking this so loudly, it is blowing through the air like a storm at sea, so I am feeling his thought before his hand has moved. And now – see – he is thinking to strike my other side, and this time even his eyes are speaking aloud.”

  Laurentius could not help but smile at Alaric’s frustration, the increasingly wild thrusts. No matter how many times he had watched Shukra work, still it was poetry to him. The others watched in wide-eyed amazement as Shukra ducked and weaved, speaking in an unhurried, conversational tone as Alaric thrust and panted with increasing frustration.

  “You – don’t – stand – still,” said Alaric through gritted teeth, as he missed again. Shukra leaped and whirled through the air, an impossibly lithe acrobatic movement that defied logic and expectation, and Alaric was once more helpless on the ground, face down and weaponless.

  “And now your words join your thoughts,” said Shukra, his voice cutting through the dawn just as light began to grow. “You are thinking I am cheating, and so you are waiting for me to somehow play by your rules. And then you are saying aloud that I am not standing still. And now your body and your mind are believing two things: first, that I am playing a game you do not understand and second, that I am not standing still long enough for you to kill me. And because you are believing these two things, your body and mind are already dead, for they have decided the battle is impossible. And so here you are finding yourself, aziz-am. On the ground, helpless.”

  He looked around the group of observers, dark eyes watchful. Releasing Alaric, he pushed him to his feet and threw him his weapons again.

  “He is still wet,” pointed out one of the young men watching, ignoring Alaric’s dark look, “and clad in heavy armour. He cannot move as fast as you like this.”

  “Wet! Wet is your thoughts!” Shukra pushed him hard enough that the lad nearly toppled into the river. “First we change your thoughts – then we see if you can fight or not. Wet, not wet. This is not my problem. Now we train.”

  Laurentius watched as the boys began their drills again, his eye taking in those who had promise and those who would spend their time repairing barrels rather than wielding a sword. For all Alaric’s rage, he was a fighter, and a good one. Laurentius knew that Alaric baited Shukra not least because he needed an opponent against whom he could safely throw his full might. Now that he had exercised his rage, Alaric moved between the young men, murmuring a word of encouragement here, correcting a stance there. Subjecting himself to daily humiliation at Shukra’s hands did nothing to harm his standing amongst them. If anything, Laurentius noted approvingly, Alaric’s anger matched their own, and his willingness to accept repeated lessons inspired their own dedication. Alaric was a different man to his brothers, a blunter instrument in some ways. But men will follow him, thought Laurentius. They know he will never shy from a fight.

  An unexpected vision of Athanagild’s face flitted across his mind. He, too, would be immersed in training of his own at this moment in the monastery in Toletum. The stark contrast between the two worlds struck Laurentius as much as the visual difference between the brothers. As he watched Alaric’s powerful form fight back against his opponent, a memory crossed his mind of Athanagild’s hectic colour, the wide hazel eyes, like a deer startled by a forest pool. He felt again the odd twist in his heart he had felt when they settled on him, the desire to draw the thin form close and protect him against a world that seemed too harsh for one so delicate.

  I am not your nephew.

  Laurentius frowned into the distance, the sound of swords fading away, thinking again of the strange look on the boy’s face. Could he have guessed? Could he be disgusted?

  No.

  Laurentius shook his head in frustration, wanting to clear any such thought from his mind, unwilling even to think of his own, hidden, inner life at the same time as Athanagild.

  Must it always come back to that? he thought tiredly. Must everything I ever do, think, or see be perceived through this one aspect of myself that I cannot change? Will I never be free to meet others simply as I am and who they are? Or will I ever be wondering if they see the truth – and if they do, if they will condemn me?

  Shukra’s voice pierced his reverie, and he focused on the swordplay in front of him, welcoming the mental discipline of training as he always had.

  He watched Alaric, nodding in satisfaction to see him adjust his own technique to Shukra’s training, accepting the corrections with good grace and the kind of bluff good humour that put the others at ease. When finally Alaric succeeded in disarming his opponent, Shukra bestowed a rare smile. “Still you are pointless as a blunt knife,” he said, shrugging, “but at least now you are not dead today. Go and wash the river scum from your clothes. We are done until after breakfast.”

  Alaric, his anger temporarily forgotten, joined the bantering of the others as they left the docks.

  “He is angry,” said Laurentius as he stood by Shukra, watching them go. “But I am glad he trains here rather than spending all his day at Sunifred’s side, hoping the man will change his mind about the daughter. Better he expends his anger on training than in that bastard’s service.”

  “Anger is good,” said Shukra lightly. “Anger is life. Anger is hope.” His eyes rested on Laurentius thoughtfully. “I am thinking there are worse things than anger.”

  Laurentius turned away from the dark gaze, busying himself with a tangle of ropes.

  “Hm.” Shukra watched him shrewdly. “You cannot run from what you feel, joon-am. I have taught you this, no? But here in Spania you seem to forget your lessons, and you have much in your mind always. Not so much time for the heart, here, in this land.”

  Laurentius laughed humourlessly. “There is never time for the heart, Shukra. Not for me. And especially not in Spania.”

  “And yet the heart is all there is.”

  Stepping forward, Shukra gently lifted the coils of rope and deftly folded them. He turned and faced Laurentius, and there was such compassion in his eyes that Laurentius had to look away.

  “Thoughts are not only for battle, joon-am. They are our life, also. What you feel here” – he put a hand on Laurentius’s heart – “is deciding what you are thinking here.” He tapped his own head. “When Alaric is swinging his sword without direction, do you think it is only his head deciding to swing it? Of course not. It is his heart, the feelings of anger and frustration in his heart, which are talking to his head and his hand. ‘Good thoughts’ are not being only in your mind, joon-am. They are your heart also.”

  “I thought your training was done for the day?” Laurentius’s tone was sharp.

  Shukra’s mouth twitched; Laurentius bit his lip, turning away.

  “Guilt is as dangerous as anger,” said Shukra softly to his back. “It is a river in which a man will drown if he does not find a way to swim across it.”

  “I have made my choices,” said Laurentius harshly. “And I must live with their consequences.”

  “Must you always find something with which to punish yourself?” said Shukra. “And what will you do, I am wondering, when happiness comes searching for you instead of pain?
”

  Laurentius began walking away without answering.

  “What you are feeling will find what it searches,” Shukra called after him. “Just as steel finds war so does guilt find punishment, loneliness exile. You are bringing to you what you run from, my friend.”

  “And what would you have me do?” Turning, Laurentius faced him, speaking in a low, fierce tone. “What would you have me feel?”

  Shukra stepped close to him. He was no longer smiling, his eyes dark and full of compassion.

  “I would have you feel joy,” he said quietly. “I would have you feel joy in who you are instead of searching for shame around every corner. And I would have you find joy in another.”

  Laurentius felt the slow beating of his heart, the horrible desert of loneliness an ache in his throat. He was very aware of Shukra’s searching gaze. His friend’s eyes narrowed. “What is it, that weighs upon you? What is it you will not say? Speak, aziz-am.”

  “You will despise me.” The words rasped from his chest.

  Shukra snorted. “I am Persian, aziz-am.”

  The ghost of a smile crossed Laurentius’s face. “Even your Ahura Mazda, I fear, will not forgive me this.”

  Shukra merely tilted his head, waiting.

  “Athanagild.” Laurentius could not look at his old friend. “He… that is, I think… or suspect…” He swallowed, his customary eloquence deserting him completely. Shukra, for once, did not attempt to finish his words. “I believe Athanagild and I are… similar.” Laurentius finally looked up, defiance and shame warring within him, to find Shukra watching him with eyes that were curiously opaque.

  “And Athanagild,” said Shukra quietly. “Have you spoken of this with him?”