“I do not know where you find such wine, Spaniard – nor such women.” Leontios, strategos of the imperial army in Anatolia, inhaled the aroma of the wine and sprawled rudely on comfortable cushions.
“I am pleased to accommodate such honoured company.” Oppa’s smile did not reach his eyes, but Leontios didn’t notice. His attention was captivated by a buxom, dark-haired beauty who approached at his gesture to rest in his embrace, sultry eyes promising much. Oppa made a mental note to congratulate Nicalo on acquiring her. It was Nicalo who acted as Oppa’s chief procurer, for Oppa would never allow himself to be directly associated with such dirty work. Nicalo did not object. He was paid well, had all the women he could want, and had proven obedient.
Oppa’s mouth twisted; she was not to his taste, but then, the strategos had tastes both coarse and shamefully predictable. Even the wine he deemed superior was, to any refined palate, harsh and lacking subtlety. Everything about the man, Oppa thought, lowering his eyes to hide his distaste, revealed his low origins and the stink of the military barrack.
Leontios had risen to his current prominence by being both ruthless and obedient, qualities guaranteed to find favour in the emperor’s forces. He had a hard, square face with a brutal cast and favoured a clipped beard that grew a thick, coarse orange. The hand that rubbed it when he was agitated was equally heavy. He had found his way to Oppa’s company because his favourite pastime was employing that same hand to pummel the spirit out of the women he bedded.
It fingered the girl lying against him now. She eyed him with undisguised avarice. Oppa ensured that the women he had Nicalo find for Leontios had no contact with the others in the house before meeting him. It was Leontios’s preference to seduce them first, lulling them into the mistaken belief that he was a willing fool to be milked of his coin and led by the nose. Only when he had them exultant in their imagined power did he surprise them with a brutal fist. It was a game Leontios could eke out over days.
“You have, I believe, a countryman of mine in your ranks.” Oppa spoke carelessly, as if making casual conversation, but Leontios, no fool, looked at him sharply.
“I have many Spanish Goths in my service,” he said non-committedly. “Your country has been known to rid itself of those who do not share its views. Many exiles find their way to the coin of the emperor.”
“Yes,” said Oppa meditatively, “but few are men of good birth, and even fewer rise past the lowest ranks. The man I speak of is the son of a count, and he has risen fast and far in your service.”
“And why would you show an interest in such a man?” Leontios caressed the round, olive thigh of the girl with one thick hand as he spoke. Oppa tried not to look. There was dirt beneath the round nails, and the fingers were so squat as to appear like short, fat sausages.
“I have reason to believe he seeks to undermine my father’s rule.” Oppa studied his wine cup, watching Leontios from the corner of one eye. “Spania is currently in a state of delicate balance. Theudemir of Aurariola is a son of those opposed to my father’s house. I do not believe he is here solely to serve the emperor.”
“Whilst you, Oppa, a king’s son, no less, are devoted to the emperor’s service. Is that what you would have me believe? No.” Leontios waved Oppa away, sneering. “Don’t answer that.” He didn’t see Oppa’s hand clench on the wine cup and would likely have been unimpressed had he done so. Leontios was first and foremost a soldier. Despite patronising Oppa’s premises and taking the men and horses bought with Spania’s coin, he held the bastard son of Egica in a light contempt he made no effort to hide.
Laugh now, Oppa thought coldly, dropping his gaze so Leontios did not see the dark violence lurking there. I will see you undone before we are over here.
“I know Theudemir,” said Leontios. “What is it you want, Oppa? He is a good soldier, not an easy man to be lightly rid of.”
“I do not wish you to rid me of him,” said Oppa. He smiled coldly. “Not yet, at least. But I should like to know where he goes, and who he meets.”
Leontios looked at him quizzically. “I had thought you adept in collecting such information.”
“In Sebastopolis itself, yes,” Oppa said. “Here, I have the eyes I need. But when he leaves port on the business of the fleet, I am blind.”
“And if I should do this thing for you,” Leontios said, looking at him through narrowed eyes, “what might I expect in return?”
“You are aware that I own several houses here,” said Oppa. “All of which serve a different audience.” Leontios inclined his head. “I have one catering to the more affordable taste. It is close to the Slavic camp.”
“I know of it.”
“Usually, the Slavs monopolise that establishment. It is rough, crude, and most of all, cheap. But recently, a small group of Slavs have been patronising one of the more exclusive of my houses. One not within the financial reach of a common soldier. And when they pay, they do so with coin of a most interesting type.”
Oppa held up a shining coin and flipped it through the air. Leontios caught it in his outstretched palm and held it up to the light. “Now, my sweet,” he murmured to his companion, who was eyeing the gold with interest. “What do you notice about this coin?”
She leaned closer. “It has pretty decorations,” she giggled, tracing the odd characters around the edge of it. “I like the way they curl. What is it that they say?”
“I do not know what they say,” said Leontios. “But I know well where they come from. The script is Arabic, my pet – the language of the savages we fight to the east. Of those you know, I believe?”
The girl nodded, eyes wide. “But how do those coins come to be here?” She nestled suggestively against Leontios. “I thought you kept us safe from the Arabs?”
“A good question indeed,” said Leontios, “and one with a simple answer. There is only one way Arabic coin finds itself here, in territory held by the emperor.” A muscle worked in his jaw, and the thick hand tightened on her thigh. “It arrives in a chest brought from the lands in which Arabic citizens pay taxes to their caliph, which the caliph then sends here as part of his agreement with our emperor. A locked chest carried by soldiers of the emperor’s forces, and never opened by any other than the highest of the emperor’s officials.” He looked at Oppa thoughtfully. “There is only one way coins might escape that chest,” he said.
Oppa nodded once. “I believe you may have some renegades amongst your tame Slavs,” he said. “Men who exchange information for coin of their own before the chest is sealed.”
Leontios looked at him shrewdly. “And you offer to inform me when these renegades pay their coin?”
Oppa spread his hands wide. “Of course,” he said smoothly. “That is what good allies do, is it not? Protect one another against those who would betray their interests?”
Leontios sat back and stroked his beard, smiling lazily at Oppa as he pulled the woman closer to him, rucking the material of her gown higher so he could thrust one thick hand between the dark curls at the apex of her thighs.
“Indeed, it is, Oppa Kingson,” he said slowly. “Indeed, it is.”
Later, after Leontios had gone and the tavern become still and quiet, Oppa sat in the darkness, turning a cup of wine on the table before him.
“Fráuja.” Nicalo’s figure materialised in the darkness. Oppa looked up in annoyance.
“What is it?”
“Theudemir of Aurariola.” Nicalo shifted uneasily. “Would it not be safer to kill him?”
Oppa turned the cup meditatively. “Perhaps.”
“Then why let him live? The mountains here are unpredictable. It would be an easy enough task.” Emboldened by Oppa’s silence, Nicalo went on: “You narrowly escaped accusation last year, when the Illiberis bitch came to court. If Aurariola should survive and return to Spania, you will face worse than suspicion, Fráuja. Should any discover we were behind the attack on the fleet we will both swing, king’s bastard or no.”
“That is true.”
Oppa watched his cup.
“Then why?” The cup stilled.
“Tell me, Nicalo.” Oppa’s voice was dangerously soft. Nicalo blanched. “Do you enjoy the coin you earn, and the whores I allow you to enjoy?”
“Of course, Fráuja, you are very generous. I was merely saying –”
“Good.” Oppa cut him short. “If you wish to continue enjoying both, I suggest you cease attempting to offer advice.” Nicalo, who knew well his master’s capricious temper, swallowed hard and edged out of the room.
Oppa watched him go, tapping the cup thoughtfully. Nicalo, for all his stupidity, was right. Should Theo return to Spania as Oppa’s enemy the results could be disastrous.
And yet.
Accustomed to being always certain of his next move, Oppa was aware that, for once, that certainty was lacking.
Sending one of Leontios’s men to watch Theo was sensible, as was keeping a close eye on him here in Sebastopolis. It was also, as Nicalo said, dangerous.
Amidst the bustle of ingratiating himself with Leontios and establishing his various businesses, both shadowy and obvious, since his arrival in Sebastopolis, Oppa had watched Theudemir of Aurariola. Had watched him at the head of his men and amongst his superiors. At rest in the company of whores and at work leading the men of the fleet. And whilst Oppa might pretend to Leontios he watched Theo as one would an enemy, Oppa himself knew it was a lie.
Oppa was beginning to see Theudemir of Aurariola as his ally.
He could not rid himself of the vision he had seen long ago, of him riding at Theo’s side, of them victorious in Spania together. At times over the past weeks, in the tense cesspool that was Sebastopolis, Oppa had found himself pondering things his former self could not have imagined. He had wondered, for example, how his life might have been if, instead of setting his bastard son to work bribing men in a backstreet brothel, Egica had sent him to train in his thiufae, as so many noblemen sent their byblows to do. Had put a sword in Oppa’s hand rather than a whip. If Egica had made him watch sword drills rather than the torture of whores, Oppa wondered, turning the cup methodically on the table, would he even now be Theo’s companion rather than his enemy? His hand clenched the cup convulsively. Oppa knew such thoughts were dangerous. The earliest lesson Egica had taught his bastard son had been never to hope for something he could not control. Research, plan, and contrive. Always remain in the shadows; never become so powerful that men noticed him; be what men feared rather than what they admired. Such lessons Oppa had imbibed with the rare coins his father had tossed his way, coins Oppa had always been certain to turn into more coins. He could not remember a time when he had not thought of impressing his father, of using his place in the shadows to ensure his father shone bright.
But with every day that passed in Sebastopolis, every corrupt scheme he uncovered, and every powerful man he lured into his web, Oppa was less convinced that his father was equipped to fight the world that was coming for him. The forces of the emperor and caliph did not fight with thiufae of one thousand men for the right to take this latifundium or that. They fought with legions of many thousands, for the right to rule entire nations. They fought with fleets and complex alliances and with the deadly war-fire that could decimate fifty dromons in a matter of moments.
Oppa had been sent by his father to train in the Spanish Church because Egica wished to have eyes and ears in the only institution he believed capable of undermining his rule. Being in the Church, however, had taught Oppa more than Egica could ever know: Oppa had learned the value of patience. Men of God, he had learned, did not think in terms of one lifetime, one king. They thought instead of the Church’s power, of how the Church might rule in fifty years, or a hundred. They did not plan for the glory of their sons, but for the domination of the Church itself. They looked to the past to learn their lessons and to the future to find their direction. When they built a cathedral, men of the Church knew they might never live to see it finished.
Now, Oppa found himself thinking the same way. And when he did, it was Theudemir of Aurariola he saw in Spania’s future. Theo, and men like him. Men who understood the enemies they faced and how to fight them. Men who spoke the languages of the future, knew today’s ally could as easily be tomorrow’s enemy, and understood how to turn course as needed.
Oppa knew he did not send eyes to watch Theo because he wished to harm him. He sent them because he was fascinated by him. But Theo himself, Oppa knew, hated him still.
He dashed the wine cup from the table in an uncharacteristic burst of anger, staring into the darkness. I cannot continue in such a way, he thought. Eventually, I must confront him. Oppa had seen the way Theo watched him, when on occasion their paths crossed. Had seen the vicious hatred in the faces of his two companions, who had also felt the lick of Oppa’s whip in the long-ago days when they had been held captive by him on his dromon. Such men would not easily ally themselves with the architect of their humiliation. But Theudemir himself, Oppa suspected, just might.
For all he does, Oppa thought, Theo does from duty. His loyalty to the Jew, to the fleet – even his betrothal to Lælia – all is done from loyalty to his family, his country, his commander. He is a man of duty. If I can make him see that Spania’s way forward, now, is one that perhaps he and I are the only Spaniards to understand, then I might have a chance. But how to do it?
A memory crossed his mind. “Nicalo!” he called. His companion entered the room after a moment, eyeing Oppa warily. “There is a girl,” Oppa said curtly. “Her name is Elpis. She is owned by the Persian woman, Athanais.” Nicalo nodded. “Buy her,” said Oppa. “Find one of her customers and inform him that he has fallen in love with the girl and wishes to own her exclusively. Send him with enough coin to ensure the Persian will not argue, but not enough to make her suspicious.”
“What if the girl does not agree?”
“She has a younger sister. Make it clear to her that should she object, the child will be taken in her stead. And without any coin to sweeten the blow.” He gestured to the door. “Do it soon,” he said. Nicalo nodded and left, too long accustomed to Oppa’s capricious temper to question the order.
Even as he planned, Oppa felt doubt corrode the edges of his resolve. He would try to make Theo see things his way. The girl should certainly help matters. His informants whispered that Theo, who was renowned for never taking whores, could barely take his eyes from her. But Oppa would also send word to Giscila, discover if he had found the Illiberis heiress. Theo was one plan. Oppa, though, would never settle for one plan alone. He was far too careful for that.
Outside, the sound of the Slavs singing their savage war songs rumbled over the hill. Inside, Oppa sat in the darkness and planned to make an ally of his enemy.
21
Lælia
February, AD 691
Montibus Awras, Mauretania
Aures Mountains, Algeria
Lælia had thought the desert her home. Surrounded by Riders and camels, the means to make camp and to shelter from sand, home had seemed simple and ever present. Without them, she was a stranger in a strange land. In the hours after Dahiya left her, as the wind grew and sand swirled so she no longer knew where the land ended and sky began, Lælia knew herself truly lost.
She wandered until she grew thirsty, and then she ceased wandering and hunkered down in the sands. Her guerba contained some water and she clutched it close to her body, reluctant to drink lest she find herself with none at all. Her logical mind told her that Dahiya would not leave her alone in the sands to die. But as the hours passed and the storm grew, her logical mind faded. As the orange world of day faded into a starless night of wind and sand in which she could neither hear nor see, Lælia found herself in a strange state somewhere between sleeping and waking. It was not the deep dreaming she had once experienced in the caves with Acantha, where visions had come to her as if she lived them. Instead, the wind scoured her clean and brought snatches of past and future to her conscious mind. The incessant gale howled
through her, tearing away control over her thoughts and dredging up those that had dwelled deep within, in the places she had chosen not to see.
Dahiya’s face: Tell me. When Theo returns, what life do you imagine at his side?
Lælia remembered the shattering betrayal she had felt the day she found the contract of betrothal in her grandfather’s study. I forgot myself, she realised, when I met Theo and became part of what we are together.
Now, as the desert wind raged, she heard Acantha’s words to her on that long-ago day: All learning begins with sacrifice, and women must master the art of sacrifice early … You do not see that for women, battlegrounds come disguised as harmless things such as love or a betrothal.
I thought my sacrifice was playing the games of the Toletum court. Lælia did not know if her eyes were open or closed in the blackness, if the thoughts were within her or without. They seemed at once on the wind and in her mind. I thought my battleground was facing Oppa across a room.
Now, lying amidst the wind and sand, she wondered if she had truly understood Acantha’s meaning.
She felt shadows from her dreams tugging at her. Instead of waking from them, she allowed herself to walk toward them, to the distant shore where she felt Theo, the dark turbulence of his soul churning like the wind. In front of him was a girl, no older than Lælia, with a sweet face and eyes the colour of a morning sky, shining as they fell upon Theo, her lips curving in a tremulous smile of hope and welcome.
Lælia felt Theo’s desire as hot and fierce as her own. She reached for him, felt the moment he turned to find her, but they were no more than shadows across a dim sea, whereas the girl was flesh and blood before him.
No, she thought savagely. He is mine and I am his, and nothing can come between us.
But even as she felt it she knew the futility of her thought, and she knew the sacrifice she must already make. Rough sand cut across her face like a whiplash and she did not know if the shriek on the wind was her own or the storm, but it rent the air and split her away from Theo, cutting him adrift so that the last things she saw were the two shadows meeting on the shore as she drifted away from it, back out to sea.
The King's Coin: Ambition is the only faith (Visigoths of Spain Book 2) Page 18