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

by Paula Constant

  –Athanagild

  Letter from Shukra to Athanagild

  Athanagild –

  Liuvgoto does indeed play dangerous games. She tells Sunifred of Egica’s movements, and Alaric says Sunifred grows ever more arrogant. He receives much correspondence from your archbishop, Sisebut, also. Can it be that Egica truly does not know that Sisebut plots against him? I am knowing men, aziz-am, and I do not believe Egica so very blind. Nor does Laurentius. He wishes to see Sisebut for himself. I know your feelings on this, aziz-am, but Laurentius is as stubborn as you and your brothers. If he chooses to come, I cannot stop him.

  I do not wish to interfere in matters private to your soul, aziz-am. But I might wish you would see Laurentius if he comes to Toletum.

  More than all the news you send, aziz-am, I am concerned for your own self. I fear Sisebut is a dark master. If you will not confide in me, I wish you would in Laurentius.

  –Shukra

  Letter from Athanagild to Shukra

  Shukra –

  Please tell Laurentius not to seek me out. It is not wise. Toletum is a hotbed of gossip and whispers, and the monastery is the centre of it. Sisebut grows ever more fearful and suspicious. A visitor would serve only to stoke his fears and make our communication more difficult.

  As to your comments on Sisebut’s nature, there is nothing to confide. What I do is done for Spania, my brothers, and my duty. It is done so that men like Laurentius might perform their duty.

  It is my choice and I do not wish to discuss it.

  Particularly with Laurentius.

  –Athanagild

  14

  Shukra

  December, AD 690

  Hispalis, Spania

  Seville, Spain

  Shukra folded Athanagild’s letter, staring unseeing into the darkness of the River Bætis. He was waiting in the shadows beyond the Hispalis monastery. His four years in Spania had developed in Shukra a certain dark fascination with Spania’s Church. He had found little to admire and much to despise in those who rose in its ranks. He had only recently begun watching Felix, bishop of Hispalis. Thus far, his clandestine observation had shown nothing more than a somewhat overzealous man of God, but Shukra was not yet convinced. It was no wonder the Church emphasised God’s forgiveness. Never had Shukra found more men in need of it.

  Perhaps the Church had been thus corrupted in Constantinople. Shukra, who had always taken comfort in the fires of his own faith, had never before had cause to ponder it. But that was before he met Athanagild and had reason to care how so-called men of God wielded their power.

  He recalled the day, long ago in Illiberis, when he and Athanagild had both signed the contract of betrothal between Theo and Lælia. Shukra, accustomed to identifying those who might possess unique talents others overlooked, had returned after the room emptied.

  “I believe you see a great deal, Athanagild. More than most.”

  Athanagild looked at him curiously but gave no answer.

  “Your brothers are both warriors, in their own way. But you, Athanagild – I am believing, aziz-am, that you may yet be the most dangerous of them all.”

  Athanagild frowned. “How?”

  Shukra leaned close and spoke very quietly. “At the Toletum monastery to which you are bound for training,” he said, “I am believing there is much you might observe that could prove helpful.”

  “Helpful how?”

  “Your Sisebut,” Shukra said, “the bishop under which you will study – he is an ambitious man. He is also a talkative one. You will be well placed to listen to him.”

  He had watched the boy closely, seeing the long hands still, a faint narrowing of the eyes.

  “What will that do?” Athanagild asked.

  “Ambitious men like powerful friends,” said Shukra. “They try to impress them, usually by doing favours and placing such people in their debt. Perhaps you might be seeing some of these powerful people.”

  “And listening to them,” said Athanagild, a barely suppressed excitement in his voice.

  “Ah.” Shukra rocked back on his heels and gave Athanagild a half smile. “You are already understanding me.”

  “But what should I be listening for?”

  “You are being more smart than most,” said Shukra. “You will know when words are important. And if you doubt – you may ask.”

  “Ask?” Athanagild frowned in confusion. “Will you be in Toletum, then?”

  “I will visit,” said Shukra. “Soon. But we might be keeping this visit between ourselves, no?”

  Shukra’s hand clenched hard enough to crumble the edge of the wall against which he leaned. He had not known then what he asked. It had only been much later, after he overheard a conversation between Alaric and Athanagild, that the dark suspicions had begun to rise. When Athanagild had summoned him to the bathhouse next, he had questioned him directly.

  “Your brother asked you a question, aziz-am. He asked how it is at the monastery.”

  Athanagild did not answer.

  “You said it would not interest him to hear it.” Shukra watched him. “But I am interested, aziz-am. So, let me ask you: how are the good brothers in Christ?” His words were light, but he examined Athanagild closely.

  “It is nothing. I don’t wish to burden my brother.”

  “No,” said Shukra slowly. “But lying to him is no better, aziz-am.”

  Athanagild swallowed. “I am very grateful to serve God.”

  Shukra had spent enough of his life in the shadows to hear what was not said. “What are they doing to you?” His hand closed hard around his knife. Shukra was also a killer, and it was the latter who spoke now.

  “Nothing I cannot endure.” Athanagild turned to face Shukra and, for once, the wary veil fell from his eyes. “There is much I am able to learn.” His voice was tight and hard, but he held Shukra’s gaze without flinching. “If Sisebut did not… favour me, I could not learn what I do.”

  “This is not a burden you will carry.”

  “And if I do not,” said Athanagild grimly, “then someone else must. More importantly, I know the value of the information I can gather to others.”

  “By ‘others’, I assume you are speaking of Laurentius?” Flushing, Athanagild nodded. “Then, aziz-am,” said Shukra flatly, “you should know that Laurentius would never accept such sacrifice from you. And would probably kill me for even listening to you speak of it.”

  “But it is my choice,” said Athanagild stubbornly. “And besides – he need never know.”

  “You cannot ask this of me.” Shukra rose abruptly. “This is against my own feelings, aziz-am. It is not good feeling.” He tried and failed to soften his expression. “You are brave. But no man would ask this of you, nor want you to offer it.”

  “I’m not asking your permission.” Athanagild had returned his gaze evenly. “If you will not hear me, I will find someone else who will. And if you say anything to Laurentius, I will deny it.”

  Shukra looked at him for a long moment. When he finally spoke, the words tasted like ash in his mouth.

  “I will keep your secrets, aziz-am.”

  Bishop Felix emerged from the interior of the monastery and moved into the darkened street. Shukra followed the cowled figure, but Felix went nowhere more interesting than into the church to pray before returning to his bed.

  The acrid taste of disgust on Shukra’s tongue had nothing to do with the bishop and everything to do with his own guilt. He thought of Laurentius’s grey eyes and hidden pain, of Athanagild’s terrible, haunted loneliness. Tomorrow, Bishop Felix would ride for Toletum. Laurentius planned to accompany him and, Shukra knew, to visit Athanagild. Shukra knew he could have prevented his friend from going, could have honoured Athanagild’s wishes. He knew that Athanagild’s secrets could not withstand Laurentius’s scrutiny, and that when they were shown the light, Laurentius’s rage at Shukra for concealing them might well undo even their long friendship.

  In Toletum, Shukra knew, he would fi
nally face Laurentius’s inevitable rage. He paused for a moment and leaned his head against the rough stone. “I do not seek your forgiveness,” he whispered, and he did not know if he spoke to Laurentius, Athanagild, or Ahura Mazda, the One who saw all. “I will never seek forgiveness, for there is none for the man who knows evil and yet sends an innocent to face it. I will not shy from my guilt as do those hollow men before their crosses. I will mend what I may and carry the rest, for a man’s shadow is not a thing that can be left behind with prayers in a church, no matter how magnificent the roof above it.”

  15

  Laurentius

  December, AD 690

  Toletum, Spania

  Toledo, Spain

  Laurentius paused at the wicket leading to the monastery. Taking a deep breath, he pushed it open, trying to ignore the slow, dull thud of his heart.

  He was halfway to the great wooden doors when a voice spoke from the darkness by the trees.

  “If it is me you search for, you have found me.”

  Laurentius swung around, his hand automatically reaching for the sword at his side. He relaxed his grip on it when he saw the slender, pale-faced figure who stepped into the faint light cast by the moon.

  “Athanagild.” He smiled involuntarily in welcome, a smile that faded as he saw the drawn tension in the boy’s face. “Ilyan has sent word,” he said, the years of discipline making his tone coolly impersonal despite the emotion warring within.

  Athanagild waved impatiently. “Our own messengers brought word already that Giscila has been seen in Carthage.”

  “You know Lælia will be in danger, then.” Slightly taken aback by the harsh response, Laurentius stepped forward, an arm outstretched; then he checked himself, suddenly grateful for the night’s shadows that hid the stain he could feel on his face.

  “I know.” Athanagild had not moved away from his arm. He stood beneath the wide branches of an old holm oak, staring at Laurentius through cavernous eyes that held secrets Laurentius could not read. “I know, too, that Oppa is gone – sailed east toward Theo, we must presume.” Tension flickered in his jaw. “Of course, I should know none of this, so I cannot speak of it to any.” He said the last in bitter accents, his face tight and closed. Laurentius felt his heart twist in sympathy.

  “It is not your responsibility to listen to such whispers,” he said roughly. “I know you feel you should help. I would not have you listen at doorways, nor risk your own life, simply to pass me the gossip of churchmen and politicians.”

  “Gossip?” Athanagild gave a short, humourless bark of laughter. “Is that what you think I do here, Laurentius? Listen to gossip?”

  His face was entirely devoid of colour except for his eyes, which glittered a strange, hard gold, visible even in the grey shadows of night. His voice held a brittle, mocking tone that pierced Laurentius to the core. Reaching out, he gripped one narrow shoulder, surprisingly firm and hard for such a slender young man.

  “Athanagild,” he said gently, “I have always known you to be more perceptive than most. But you also have much in common with your brothers. Your loyalty, your sense of duty; all of these matter to you just as they do to Alaric or Theo. I know your loyalties must be torn between the Church and your family –”

  “You know nothing!” Athanagild flung the words at him and Laurentius stepped back, shocked by the barely suppressed fury in his voice. “You think you understand the truth of the Church? You know the barest fragments of it. You have no idea of the evil of these men. No concept of what corruption they conceal, what dark ambitions they hatch in the name of God. Sisebut’s support for Sunifred’s cause is only the beginning.” He glared at Laurentius, fists clenched into hard balls at his side, looking so very much like Alaric in a rage that Laurentius forgot, for a moment, that the two were not blood-born brothers. “Do you think all that is at stake here is soil and coin? Or that I care only for the blood my family will spill trying to win it?”

  “I think,” said Laurentius quietly, trying not to betray his shock, “that I know very little indeed, Athanagild, of what your true sufferings are.” He studied the face before him, the high jaw and glittering eyes, and for a moment he saw the naked agony in the back of them and felt his body seize with such longing and pity that he would have crushed the boy to him had the doors of the monastery not flung open at the same moment, casting a sickly yellow light on the flagstones beyond.

  “Athanagild – are you here?”

  Sisebut stepped out into the night, frowning into the shadows where they stood. It was not his face, though, that Laurentius noticed, but the possessive, almost petulant note in the priest’s voice.

  It was not the stern tone of a master to his student, Laurentius thought, with a sudden roiling of disgust in his belly. It was the caressing note of a lover.

  “I am here,” said Athanagild, his voice low and quiet, submissive. “I am fortunate, Father. My uncle, Laurentius, has just this moment arrived.”

  “Your uncle!” Immediately the tone changed, assumed the haughty note of authority, and Sisebut stepped into the darkness, holding his hand with its heavy ring out for Laurentius to kiss.

  Swallowing his revulsion, Laurentius stepped forward and bent over the pudgy flesh, which bulged obscenely over the thick gold. When he pressed his lips to the fat ruby at its centre, he noticed that the priest’s hand smelled of lavender and something else – something that made his gut churn.

  When he raised himself again to standing, Athanagild was at Sisebut’s side, his face composed and showing none of the wild emotion of moments ago. It was disconcerting to see how readily the blank mask descended – and how complete it was.

  “You are far from Hispalis, my dear Severianus.” From the coldness in Sisebut’s tone, it was clear he did not find the fact a welcome one. Laurentius did not smile.

  “Indeed,” he said levelly. “And yet – as you may recall, Your Grace – I have a library in Toletum. One the Church has freely availed itself of in my absence, I note.”

  “All knowledge belongs to God.” Sisebut eyed him disdainfully. “You did not, I think, object when Julian perused your library. Are you now to dishonour his memory by withholding that which belongs, by right, to God?”

  “Julian was a friend to my family.” Laurentius felt a faint catch in his throat at the memory of the old patrician. Stern though he may have been, the archbishop had been his last link to Laurentius’s own father. He felt the loss keenly.

  “And I, I take it, am not considered as such by you – or those who follow you.”

  “Those who follow me?” Laurentius smiled coldly. “You flatter me, Your Grace. I lead no thiufa. Nor, as you are well aware, do I sit on the king’s council. I wield far less influence than Your Grace appears to believe.”

  “I doubt that.” Sisebut stepped closer, reaching out as he did so, a faint movement of the arm that drew Athanagild to his side. It was a subtle gesture, but one of ownership, nonetheless – and of challenge. If Laurentius had needed any more confirmation that Sisebut suspected what he himself was, the light, gloating smile that passed over the archbishop’s face was enough. He felt his stomach lurch in loathing and rage, and he bit down hard on it, refusing to give Sisebut the satisfaction of confirming what he obviously suspected to be the truth.

  Ignoring Athanagild, he forced his face into a more amenable expression. “Perhaps, Your Grace,” he said in a milder tone, “we may come to some kind of arrangement that suits us both. In the meantime” – he bowed courteously – “please feel at liberty to avail yourself of any works in my library that may assist you in your contemplations. Athanagild” – he nodded carelessly at the young man, who stared at him from hollowed eyes, turned now to the rich hazel of a pond at midday, eyes destined to haunt his every waking moment now that he knew the burden they carried – “please ensure your father receives the news I brought about the progress of our training, as I will not have time to visit him in person.”

  “Of course.” Sisebut’s fat
lips pursed in a sneer. “You persist still in this folly of yours – this fleet?”

  He said the last words with a delicate emphasis that clearly conveyed his belief in the inherent futility of any such force.

  “I am aware of the king’s disdain for our efforts,” said Laurentius calmly. “But, yes, nonetheless, I do. Unless the Arabs cease their somewhat relentless progress across the sands of Africa, I intend to ensure I do my best to train the men of Spania to defend her.”

  “Arabs!” Sisebut laughed contemptuously. “Heathen fools who follow a false God. They will perish beneath His hand and suffer beyond death for their heresy, as will all those who turn their face from His wisdom.”

  “Indeed,” murmured Laurentius, clenching his fists behind his back so the priest did not see the knuckles turn white. “I am certain you are correct, Your Grace. But until that happy day arrives, it is my duty to ensure the readiness of our men – just as it is yours to ensure that their souls are clean and free of sin.” He let his eyes slide to Athanagild at Sisebut’s side, and a faint sneer entered his voice. “It is well,” he said, injecting his tone with a contempt that cost him dearly, “that your father is unaware of your benefactor’s… desires, Athanagild. Suinthila, as you know, feels strongly that every man’s duty is to his country first. I fear he would not agree with His Grace’s opinions.” He looked at Sisebut with hard eyes and had the satisfaction of seeing the archbishop look disconcerted and, more gratifyingly, suddenly unsure as he looked between his young charge and the tall, grim-faced figure of Laurentius. “Do not think,” said Laurentius softly, “that you know me well, Archbishop. I have been away from Spania many years. Both manner and custom are different in other places. But there are certain proclivities that are universally despised. Particularly when they are indulged by those who have sworn themselves to God.” Laurentius could not bear to look at Athanagild. He knew he could not hold to his grim facade if he did. And everything, he knew, depended on Sisebut believing his lie. He knew, suddenly, why Athanagild had been so loath to meet with him. He had not wanted Laurentius to see this, to know the truth of what he suffered. And one glimpse into the dark desperation Athanagild was living had told Laurentius everything he needed to know about the danger Athanagild would be in should Sisebut suspect anything but the most distant connection between them.