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

by Paula Constant

A shout of warning came from Boric, and Theo swung around in time to meet an evilly curved dagger meant for his neck. He deflected it with a quick dodge, and the man wielding it spun and leaped in the air. In a deadly, horrible flash, the steel was embedded in Boric’s throat. He fell to the ground, his eyes wide with shock.

  “Boric!” Theo fought around the fallen man with furious rage, cutting down any who would come near them; but it was almost over, the battered remnants of the rebel forces fleeing into the passes, beaten back and badly damaged. Theo threw his sword to the ground and grasped Boric, putting his hand to the wound to stem the bleeding. The man looked up at him through unseeing eyes, blood gurgling in his throat as he attempted to speak.

  “Don’t,” murmured Theo, holding him close. “Don’t speak, Boric. Rest now.”

  The man jerked in his arms, hands convulsively clutching his tunic; the eyes rolled once, toward the sea, visible on the horizon. He stiffened, then he let go, his body limp.

  He was gone.

  Theo stared down at the corpse. For an odd moment it seemed he was back in Illiberis, on the long-ago day when Sarah had been raped, staring down at Ilfric, the man Yosef had killed, the first corpse Theo had ever seen. Gently he brushed Boric’s lids closed. It never became any easier, he thought wearily. No matter how many men he had seen die, still the finality of death had the power to shock him, just as it had all those long years ago.

  He said a silent prayer for Yosef, as he did every time such memories came to him. I hope you travel in an easier place than here, my friend, he thought, staring at Boric’s lifeless form. And that your dreams bring more comfort than my own.

  He lay Boric’s body on the hard ground and turned for camp.

  17

  Yosef

  January, AD 691

  Al Sinnabra

  Palace on the Sea of Galilee, Israel

  “Yosef!” Sarah cried out to him, her face twisted in anguish. “Yosef, help me…”

  Yosef tried to reach for her, but he couldn’t break his captor’s grip. A cruel voice whispered in his ear: “You couldn’t save her. You can’t save anything.”

  “Yosef!”

  “I’m coming,” Yosef tried to say. “I’ll save you. I promise –”

  He woke, sweat cold and slick on his face, heart racing.

  But I did not save Sarah, he thought dully. I failed her.

  Rising from his bed, he washed and dressed hurriedly, trying to escape the ghosts that taunted his nights. Every day at Al Sinnabra had seemed to cast his journey more into stark parallels of success and failure, black and white. As his dreams became darker and the road ahead loomed more lonely, his ultimate goal yet more elusive, Yosef had begun to retreat from his emotions, finding comfort instead in his achievements.

  Making good trade deals was success.

  Making bad ones was failure.

  Mohammed bin Marwan, brother to the caliph, had proved to be a tough ground on which to measure both.

  It had taken Yosef the best part of the month in Al Sinnabra to have letters of accord drawn up, and in that time he had learned much about the Arabic mind and the manner in which business was conducted.

  Mohammed was such an interesting – and interested – companion, Yosef would frequently become so engaged in conversation that he would forget the object he had set out to accomplish. Only at the end, after he had spoken exhaustively on a topic Yosef had not even considered important before they began speaking, would Mohammed lightly return to the figures they had originally been discussing, and Yosef would find he had somehow talked himself into a position that gave Mohammed the advantage in the debate. Such was the genteel urbanity of the brother of the caliph that Yosef rarely realised he was engaged in a negotiation at all – until it dawned on him that he had come out the worse off without understanding quite how it had happened.

  As he became more adept in the language and in the style of conversation, spending long hours each day with Mohammed, he began to gain a sense of the nuances of speech and the meandering way in which the negotiations were conducted. Not least, this was because Mohammed himself had an equal fascination with the Western mind and so often shared experiences with Yosef to gain his opinion and perspective.

  One of these discussions centred around a recent negotiation between Mohammed’s brother, Caliph Abd al Malik, and Emperor Justinian II, in Constantinople.

  “We fought the Greeks in the mountains of Armenia,” Mohammed told Yosef. They were walking along a coastal path dotted with date palms, overlooking the bay, the horizon hazy in the late afternoon sea air. “Armenia is the passage to Anatolia and to Constantinople. The Greeks defend the mountain passes fiercely, and we were unable to cross into their lands. But we did take most of Armenia itself. The Christians there have proven stubborn and resistant. They follow their own brand of Christianity and have little allegiance to any outside their own clan. They withdrew to their mountain fastholds and attacked our settlements and rearguard, making government difficult.”

  Mohammed paused to cast Yosef a wry glance. “We may accept those who worship Christ to dwell in our lands, but we do require a level of co-operation. The Maronite worshippers of Armenia would not submit or negotiate. So we came to an agreement with Emperor Justinian II in Constantinople: he would relocate the Armenians to Anatolia, where they would be absorbed into his forces. In return, we would split the taxes of Armenia and Cyprus, sharing the income of those lands under a flag of truce. We neither of us had the heart to continue waging war in those mountains.”

  Yosef thought this over. “The Christians themselves,” he asked eventually, “the Maronites. How did they accept their relocation?”

  Mohammed shrugged. “This is not my concern,” he said. “I believe they have joined those recently conquered by the Greeks in Macedonia – Slavs, and other rebels against the emperor’s rule, now conquered and conscripted. The emperor’s forces have been much enhanced by their arrival, and his strategos, Leontios, trains them now with his naval fleet at a place on the coast known as Sebastopolis, in Anatolia.”

  He trains them now, with his naval fleet…

  Yosef thought of Theo. Would he be there? he wondered. Might he be on his way there now?

  “What is it?” asked Mohammed, watching him. “It is unusual for a Jew to have such concern for conquered Christians.”

  “I have a friend,” said Yosef. “From Spania. He is in the Karabisianoi, the emperor’s fleet. I was thinking of him, wondering if he may be in the place you speak of.”

  “A Jew, fighting for the emperor?” Mohammed raised his eyebrows.

  “He is not a Jew,” said Yosef. “He is a Goth, a Christian. He… suffered a great deal, when first he left Spania. Much of it on my account. I would hope to see him well. I owe much.”

  Mohammed’s face slipped into an understanding smile. “We are similar, you and I,” said Mohammed. They had reached the edge of the cliff path. The sun was falling, and the dusk was purple and rose, hazy with dust and sea salt. The call to prayer would resound in a moment. Mohammed paused and took out his prayer mat, untying it as he spoke. “We have both been given tasks for which others must suffer, even those we care about. But nothing great is achieved without suffering, Yosef, remember that. For every negotiation you make, something must be lost for something to be won. You are about to go into the lands of the Persians, magicians and masqueraders all, men who follow pagan sorceries and beguile with words and beliefs as seductive as they are poisonous. And after that, to the land of Serica, where fearsome creatures live, and, it is said, they allow a woman to sit on the throne. If you survive all of this, to Constantinople you will travel – to the heart of the most corrupt regime in the Circle of Lands, rich in coin but destitute in moral integrity.” He turned to Yosef and smiled.

  “So it is good you are able to practise your negotiations with one as benign as me, is it not?”

  The call to prayer wailed across the water. Mohammed raised his hands to the sky and began to pr
ay.

  “I dislike you travelling alone.” Bagay frowned worriedly as Yosef packed his meagre belongings.

  “Then come with me,” Yosef joked, smiling at him.

  Bagay did not return the smile. “I would that we could. I tire of living amongst these Arabs.”

  “You do?” Yosef cast him a curious glance. “But you and Khanchla are welcomed, treated well, are you not?”

  “Exactly.” Bagay pursed his mouth. “Can I tell you something, Yosef?”

  “Of course.” Of the two, Yosef was closer in friendship to the younger brother. Khanchla had a hard edge that reminded Yosef somewhat of Alaric, Theo’s older brother. Bagay had a softer nature and seemed to see more in situations, much like Yosef himself.

  “Our mother sent us here to infiltrate the caliph’s palace, learn what we could, and return to her. She believed that the Arabs would accept us as Jews, where they would not as pagan tribesmen.”

  “In this, she was correct, was she not?”

  “Mohammed believes us to be Jews, that much is true. But he knows, too, that we are of the tribes. And he is too wily a strategist to think the tribes his allies.” Bagay’s face was grave. “Why would the Arabs be so willing to accept two of their sworn enemies into the highest echelons of their leadership, into their palace itself? They have shared with us their secrets of weaponry, of tactics and warfare, even training us amongst them, as if we were Arabs ourselves. Why would an enemy do that?”

  “Perhaps Mohammed seeks to seduce you to his way of thinking – to his prophet and beliefs?”

  “Perhaps.” Bagay looked unconvinced. “I have a different opinion. Would you like to hear it?”

  Yosef nodded, continuing to fold his belongings and put them away. He hated packing. No matter how many times he did it, it always seemed to be a lesson in sacrifice – this must go, this be left behind.

  Much like the people in my life, he thought sourly. He was not looking forward to being without the company of Bagay and Khanchla. They had become his family in these strange lands. Now he would be alone once more.

  “I think the Arabs do not concern themselves at all with any threat we may pose, because they know already that our defeat is guaranteed.” Bagay’s flat tone stopped Yosef cold. He turned to look at Bagay.

  “Defeat guaranteed? What do you mean?”

  Bagay shrugged. “I have watched them for months now,” he said. “I have seen how they train, and fight. Together, like one body, just as my mother’s Riders do. But there are more of them, Yosef. Many more than my mother could ever recruit or train. And this is but a small detachment of a far greater force. This is an army that fought the Greek emperor to a truce. That defeated the khan of the Persians. That rules, now, as much as half the Circle of Lands, with plans to take the rest. And the Arabs do not fight simply for coin, Yosef, though the gods know they care for it as much – more – than any man. They do so in the name of their prophet, and for the society they create in his name. When men truly believe, they will fight to the death in a way they will not for coin alone.”

  “But your people – the Imazighen – they fight also for what they believe, for their land and gods, surely?”

  Bagay looked troubled. “My people will fight together when our home is threatened,” he said. “But we are not united. We never have been. When the immediate threat passes, we disperse, return to our villages and the sands, to survival and family. To create a standing army, a system of government such as my mother dreams of – when I watch the Arabs, I see a people who can do that. I do not believe my own people capable of such cohesion. Not in their soul, nor their habit.”

  “Then you believe your people doomed to fall to the Arabs?”

  Bagay shrugged. “The Arabs believe it. What does it matter what I believe?”

  18

  Lælia

  February, AD 691

  Montibus Awras, Mauretania

  Aures Mountains, Algeria

  Lælia was drilling with sword and spear when Dahiya sought her out.

  “Now thrust,” panted the Rider coaching her. To one side, Tosius looked on, the little tribesman’s eyes gleaming as he watched Lælia whirl and duck beneath the onslaught.

  “Spear,” grunted the Rider, and Lælia came up from a crouch using her body to propel the spear into the target behind him. She whirled and ducked, thrusting the sword before her as she reached for the short knife at her side with her other hand. When she finished, the knife was held at the man’s heart and his face wore a reluctant smile. Tosius leaped up from his customary squatting position, clapping and crowing his delight.

  “You improve, child.” At the sound of Dahiya’s slow handclap Lælia swung around, hair stuck to her face with exertion.

  “I have little else to do than train.” Her attempt at a nonchalant shrug did little to hide her gratification, and there was no sting in her words. The long desert nights had given Lælia much solitude to ponder Dahiya’s words, just as the long, hard days of training had served as a shield between her and the decisions that must, soon, be made. It had been almost a year since she left Spania, and many months since leaving Ilyan’s court. It was a strange limbo. Dahiya’s messengers brought word that Giscila sailed the coast, clearly seeking word of her whereabouts. She did not like his nearness and her own passivity. Nor would she do anything that played into the hands of Oppa – or Egica. Lælia knew that even now Theo’s brother Alaric may be riding to civil war. Her grandfather might be riding beside him. She pushed the thought away, as she did every time it came.

  “I said we would ride into the desert together.” Dahiya nodded dismissal to the Rider coaching Lælia, and he left. “Be ready to leave before mid-morning.” Tosius flitted like a shadow to Lælia’s side, and Jadis curled between her legs. Dahiya’s mouth twitched. “You have an army of your own, even here,” she murmured, before fixing Tosius with a stern eye. “You will remain in camp.” Seeing his face darken, she grinned at him. “Do you think yourself better able to defend her in the sands than I, little man?” Tosius glared at her and folded his arms, but his clear disapproval elicited no more than a low chuckle. When they rode from camp soon after, he was left staring worriedly in their wake, whilst Jadis ran silently at their side.

  “A messenger came, from Ilyan, with news of Spania,” said Dahiya as they rode. The air was not yet stirred by wind, and the desert lay silent and wide about them, mountains of ochre rock soaring in jagged peaks.

  “What news?” Lælia asked.

  “Little you do not know. An army gathers under a man named Sunifred.” She glanced at Lælia. “It must be a significant force, though, for word of it to reach so far.”

  “Has Illiberis joined the rebellion?”

  “That, I do not know.” Dahiya looked at her curiously. “This king against whom they fight,” she said.

  “Egica.”

  “Yes. He is your enemy, no? Giscila’s kinsman, and father to Oppa?”

  Lælia nodded.

  “Surely, then, your people will fight against him?”

  Lælia paused. “It would seem simple,” she said slowly. “But as you yourself once told me: ‘There is more at stake than petty revenge.’”

  “Ah.” Dahiya’s smile was a brief flash of humour. “I am surprised to hear you approve of such restraint.”

  “There was a time I did not.” Lælia remembered her anger, in the dark days when all had thought Theo dead. “I wanted revenge. War.”

  “What altered your mind?”

  “Theo,” said Lælia simply. “And Yosef. The realisation that they were still out there, despite all that had befallen them. Fighting for Spania. Or the idea of it, at least. The dream of Mater Spania, for which my grandfather once wielded steel, and which my ancestors have fought for countless times.” She met Dahiya’s eyes. “You fight here for Altava,” Lælia said. “An independent nation, ruled by the Imazighen, independent of overlords. Spania won that right. In my grandfather’s own lifetime, our armies drove the Greek
emperor’s forces from our shores and united under the Chrismon-and-peacock symbol in Toletum. For almost a generation we have had relative peace, been a united nation with our own laws.” An image of Yosef’s father, screaming in pain as he burned alive, crossed her mind. “No matter how unjust some of those laws might be,” she went on, “we have fought hard for the right to make them ourselves. Even Yosef, I think, does not wish to see Spania ruled by a foreign power once more. For this reason, his mission must succeed. And now that I am here” – she gestured around at the training men – “and see the force you fight against, I understand it even more.”

  “Your own soil,” said Dahiya. “Illiberis, from whence your horses come. Acantha once told me that it is the women who hold this soil.”

  Lælia nodded. “We hold its secrets, yes. Illiberis is passed through the female line.”

  “Then you rule it as equals with your men? Your grandmother, she rules in Illiberis now?”

  Lælia frowned. “Acantha rules the tribes, raises our horseflesh. My grandfather does not interfere with what she does.”

  “But it is your grandfather who is the Count of Illiberis?”

  Lælia was quiet. Dahiya’s questions raised uncomfortable memories. Of the day she had first learned she was to be betrothed to Theo, when she had felt as if both she and Illiberis were no more than horses to be traded at market. The deep, visceral sense of betrayal at the thought that it would be Theo who would one day bear the title of count. Oddly, though, Lælia realised she had never paused to think that Acantha, too, had suffered that same fate. Her grandmother had been born to Illiberis just as she, Lælia, had. Yet when Lælia thought of Illiberis, it was her grandfather’s rule she recalled. Even if Acantha’s teachings lived within her, Lælia knew her grandmother had never ruled, had never held control over the reins of Illiberis. Even now, as war grew, the choice to fight or not would lie with Paulus, not with his wife.