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

by Paula Constant

  “But ask yourself this, Theudemir of Aurariola – will it matter what gold the Jew finds if you have no home left to defend?” Walking through the door, he called back over his shoulder, “I am not your enemy, Theo. The real enemy is out there – and unless we fight it together, we will both lose.” And then Oppa was gone, swallowed into the night, only the faint, sickly scent of musk on the air a reminder of his presence.

  Theo stood in the silent ruins, the pounding of his heart deafening, thoughts and questions swirling like a desert storm in his mind.

  26

  Lælia

  April, AD 691

  Septem, Mauretania

  Ceuta, Morocco

  Septem was a thread on one side of the dromon, Spania a jagged line on the other, when a shout from the stern alerted Lælia to the arrival of another vessel. “That is not one of my father’s dromons,” said Safia’s quiet voice at her side.

  “Do you know to whom it belongs?” Lælia fingered the knife at her side.

  Ilyan’s daughter nodded. “The man who owns it is a Spanish exile named Giscila.” She looked at Lælia through wide, almond-shaped eyes that seemed almost too big for her fine features. Safia was not yet ten years old, stood barely to Lælia’s chest, and was so finely built she seemed sometimes to disappear into the background. Any initial misgivings Lælia may have felt at the girl’s extreme youth, however, had been rapidly dispelled. Safia spoke seven languages fluently, knew when to speak and when to be silent, and had almost perfect recall. It was rumoured she was the daughter of Ilyan’s favourite courtesan. She had been raised in the women’s quarters and her face was not known, even to the men who transported them now, all of whom thought her Lælia’s own servant.

  “Giscila,” Lælia repeated now, frowning at the dromon. “He is bold, to approach us in Ilyan’s waters.”

  “He comes in a merchant dromon, not a fighting vessel. I do not believe you have cause for concern.” Safia’s perfect composure was at times unsettling.

  “I see that.” Lælia felt her heart beat faster as she watched the dromon approach.

  “We can outrun them,” said the gruff prōtokaraboi at the helm. “And we outnumber them easily.” He nodded at the dromons on either side of them. Ilyan had taken no chances in ensuring the safe passage of Lælia and Safia to Spanish shores. The dromons belonged to the imperial fleet, the Karabisianoi, and were manned by hard men. “The dromon is hailing us,” he said now. “It looks like our friend wishes to talk.”

  “Allow him to approach,” Lælia ordered. “But be alert.”

  The prōtokaraboi shot her a sideways look. “With respect,” he began, “this is my command. My orders are to take you to Spania –”

  “With respect,” Lælia cut him off without looking at him, “your men might hold the oars, but those who hold the swords are Ilyan’s. I know this because I requested it. I have seen what can happen on these seas. So has Ilyan. The other dromons may belong entirely to the fleet, but the men on this one are sworn to protect me. I respect your command. But make no mistake, I will take it if necessary.”

  Casting her a resentful glance, the prōtokaraboi nonetheless gave the order to slow, and the dromon thudded with the sound of fifty oars being drawn in. Lælia stroked Jadis’s head, and the cat growled low in her throat. “Remain close,” Lælia murmured to Tosius, and the little tribesman took up position behind her.

  The dromon pulled close enough for her to see the faces within, and the prōtokaraboi spat into the water. “They are putting out landing spars,” he growled to Lælia. “If we take them, they can board us.”

  “There are barely enough men to pull oar,” said Lælia, looking at the thin crew. “They are not here to take us. They are here to talk.”

  Lælia recognised Giscila almost immediately. His features were broader than Oppa’s, less sharp, and lacked Egica’s dark intelligence, but the similarity was there in the long nose and hooded eyes, the hard angles of his face.

  You are the man who murdered my parents.

  Lælia waited for a sense of enormity to sweep over her, but it did not come. She felt instead an odd combination of fascination and revulsion.

  “You board alone,” she called over the water. “And without weapons of any kind.” She ignored the mutterings of the men around her. If she had learned one thing after more than a year in Dahiya’s company, it was that when a woman commanded, men would mutter.

  Giscila’s eyes on her face were hungry and curious as the dromons drew near enough for him to board. Jadis stood at Lælia’s side, rumbling as he approached, tense and wary, her tail low and dangerous behind her. Safia had moved slightly away and drawn her cloak over her face, in the strange manner she had of rendering herself invisible in any room.

  Giscila made a clumsy bow. “I am –”

  “I know who you are.” Lælia stared coldly at him. “It was ill advised of you to hunt me on these waters, Giscila, son of Tulga. I have many reasons to kill you.” His face tightened at the mention of his father, the long-ago king who had been tonsured and disgraced, torn brutally from the throne by Chindasuinth. The hardening of his features made his resemblance to Oppa more marked. For a moment, Lælia recalled a long-ago night in Toletum, staring down at Oppa’s body asleep in bed. She felt again the savage desire to kill, remembered how her every instinct had urged her to slide her knife into him – and yet she had not. Had waited, until she could eviscerate him in court, humiliate him before his fellow men.

  It had, she knew, been better thus.

  But the temptation remained.

  Something of what she felt must have crossed her face, for Giscila licked his lips and looked sideways, then back at her. “I had hoped to meet in different circumstances.”

  “But Ilyan no longer tolerates your dromons in his port. Dahiya’s Riders would see you dead before letting you close to their camp. And you are not bold enough to land on Spanish shores.” Something moved in his eyes, and Lælia tensed. “Not yet, at least,” she added, watching him closely.

  “You are perceptive.” Giscila smiled. His features were so reminiscent of Oppa’s that Lælia had to force herself not to recoil. “But if – when, perhaps – I land upon Spanish shores once more, I would pose no danger to you, Lælia of Illiberis.” Her name on his lips was like an unwanted caress. Lælia had the sense he had been waiting to use it, to taste it in his mouth, and the thought made her ill.

  “What do you want?” she asked bluntly. “I have three dromons of trained men who need only my command to kill you. None would miss you, and Ilyan certainly would not question my decision. I must assume you have good reason for such an unwise approach.”

  Giscila inclined his head. “I understand your anger. I ask only that you hear my apology. Then, if you wish to kill me, you might do so.” He held up his hands. “I am unarmed, as you see, and have no men but those on the oar. My life is in your hands.”

  “Your apology,” said Lælia flatly. “There is no apology you can offer that I wish to hear.”

  “Nonetheless, I must offer it.” He knelt on the damp timbers of the dromon. Lælia watched him narrowly, her hand on Jadis’s head. “I was responsible for the death of your parents.” Lælia’s hand stilled on Jadis’s head. “I was driven by love, though I do not plead that as an excuse.” Giscila kept his head down. “Had I known I would lose everything in my bid to win your mother, I would never have done what I did. I have had many years to regret my decisions and to recognise that I was driven as much by greed and ambition as I was by love.” He raised his eyes slowly to hers. “I do not expect your forgiveness,” he said softly. “But I wish you to know my only desire now is to protect you – and I believe you might be in danger.”

  Lælia stared at him in silence until she was certain her voice would be steady. Then she said curtly, “What danger do you speak of?”

  Hesitantly Giscila rose to his feet. “From my nephew, Oppa.” He spat over the side of the dromon, watching her closely. “He fights now at
the side of your betrothed – Theudemir of Aurariola.”

  “That is a lie.” Hearing the anger in her own voice, and seeing the flash of satisfaction in the dark eyes facing her, Lælia brought herself under control and said more calmly, “Oppa may seek my betrothed for his own dark schemes, but Theo will never raise sword at his side.”

  “Perhaps not in the Spania you left behind.” Giscila’s tone was still conciliatory, but Lælia, watching him, sensed the dark thrust behind them. This, she knew, was what he had come for. “But in the world in which Oppa and Theudemir find themselves,” Giscila went on, “such old enmities are soon forgotten. When last I met with your betrothed, he seemed more than willing to forge new alliances.” He spat to one side, holding her eyes. “If what I hear is true, he is forging one with Oppa even now. That is why I seek you out. My regrets may mean nothing to you. But if you care about Illiberis as I know your mother did, then my warning should.”

  “You work with Oppa,” said Lælia flatly. “You launched an attack on the fleet that nearly killed Theo.”

  Giscila bowed his head. “I did.”

  “Then what makes you think I would ever believe you – or make an alliance with you?”

  “Because Oppa and Theo no longer fight for Illiberis. They fight for Spania. And if that means they must trade Illiberis, or the spoils from the journey your Jewish friend takes as we speak, then believe me, they will. Oppa and Theo may hate one another. But they have learned to fight on the same side. And neither of them will hesitate to sacrifice Illiberis to ensure their victory.”

  “And you come here to tell me that you, by contrast, care for my wellbeing, and that of Illiberis?” Dark rage rose inside her, and Lælia had to fight to keep her voice steady. “You have been too long at sea, Giscila. Your mind is addled.”

  “I come here because I am a man who has lost everything for his family and their ambitions, only to be exiled and repeatedly betrayed.” His tone was no longer conciliatory but hard and unyielding, and there was an ugly gleam of old bitterness in his eyes. “Because it was their greed that took your mother from you, and the only woman I have ever loved from me. I agreed to the attack on the fleet because I thought it would buy my return from exile. Had I known the attack would injure you, I never would have allied with my family once again – and it is the last time I will ever do so.” He met her eyes, and try as she might, Lælia could not read what lay in the depths of his. “I said I do not come to ask anything of you. It is I who owe you a debt. My offer is the only means I have to repay it.” He stepped closer, stopping when Jadis surged at him with a warning growl. “I have men, coin, and dromons. Should the day come when Illiberis is threatened, Lælia, you need only send word to the port in Sexi and I will come to your aid.”

  “You would offer yourself as ally to the same house you once tried to destroy?” Lælia’s tone was scathing. “Even if I were deluded enough to consider such an offer, what makes you so certain that Illiberis will be threatened?”

  “Oppa told me that the southern rebellion cannot prevail against Egica’s armies. Theudemir’s brother, I understand, has sided with the rebels. When they are defeated, he will be killed as a traitor. Theudemir will be heir to Aurariola in his place. He will also be considered a traitor – and Aurariola itself forfeit to the Crown.”

  His eyes were dark and cold, and his words cast a shadow over Lælia’s heart. “Oppa and his father do not need Aurariola,” Giscila said softly. “But they want Illiberis, and for such a prize, treason may be forgiven. Illiberis may well be the price of your betrothed’s return to Spania.”

  “You draw a long bow,” said Lælia, but she could not fully disguise the tremor in her voice.

  “Only two years ago,” Giscila said quietly, “your betrothed looked me in the eye and told me he was a man without country or allegiance. He agreed to betray Yosef ben Arun in exchange for gold.” Despite her certainty that Theo was merely playing a part, despite her knowledge of the man who had kissed her three years ago, still Lælia felt a dread fear cold inside her. She stared at Giscila, not trusting herself to speak. “Theudemir bears scars that will never fade,” he went on relentlessly. “He is not the man who left Spania. I do not believe he will place Illiberis above all else. And nor do I believe that he considers Oppa the enemy he once did. I will say it again, Lælia of Illiberis, that you may hear me clearly: if the day should come when you need aid, send word and I will come.”

  He turned as if to leave, then paused and glanced back at her. “Oppa has been fighting beside Theudemir for some time now,” he said. “Before you dismiss my warnings, ask yourself this: if Theo is truly the man you remember, then why does Oppa still live?”

  27

  Yosef

  April, AD 691

  Eran

  Iran

  Home had long since become a distant concept to Yosef. Garnata and Illiberis were dark memories, filled with terrible images that still haunted his dreams. Africa and the sands had been home for a time, but they lay behind him now, fading with every passing step. Without the jocular company of Bagay and Khanchla, Yosef found his thoughts took strange turns, dredging up emotions and memories he thought he had long ago buried. Amidst the darkness, Sarah glimmered like a distant light. In his most private moments, Yosef knew that she, above all, had come to symbolise home for him. Yet as soon as he allowed the thought, he recollected the cruel circumstances in which they had parted and berated himself for imagining that Sarah could ever welcome home the man who had been unable to prevent other men from raping her.

  After a day when no amount of miles had served to still the turbulent thoughts of what he might do, where he might go, when all this was done, Yosef lay down to sleep in the wilderness, far from any man. His body was tired if his mind was not, and he slipped into darkness.

  “Yosef…” Thin wind blew over his face, and the ground was hard as he turned in his blankets. Stars glittered high above. Dawn was still far away. “Yosef…” The voice tortured him, full of such longing it made Yosef’s heart twist. “I miss you.”

  He burrowed into the blankets. You cannot miss me, he thought, fighting the rise to consciousness, wanting to return to the dark sanctuary of sleep, the sound of Sarah’s voice, her imaginary touch. You are lost to me.

  “Come back to us…”

  Yosef sprang into waking, sitting up in his blankets, heart tripping wildly. To us? He stood and stepped out of the blankets, the dream alive around him as if he could reach through it to touch Sarah as he once had beneath the almond trees in Illiberis before Oppa and his men had come upon them and ravaged the flesh that even now tortured Yosef’s dreams. The whisper of the voice clung to the high mountain air around him, making him swing around, examining the still blackness with suspicious eyes.

  Slipping his sandals on, he reached for the water skin and splashed his face, welcoming the cold shock despite the chill of the night. He was alone on this stretch, a rare solitude he had come to savour rather than fear. At times the incessant company of other travellers could become tiring.

  He pondered the dream. Sarah’s voice had become a constant companion, but usually it was just the whisper of his name, an entreaty to return. Yosef had given the dreams much thought as he walked. He had tried to tell himself they were no more than his own guilt. His father had wanted him to return, had made Yosef promise he would come back to Garnata. Some trick of Yosef’s mind, he told himself, had made Sarah’s voice the sound of that promise. And he could not deny that even the imagining of her voice was a delicious, secret pleasure, a comfort he could not quite bring himself to resent during the long, lonely miles he had walked alone. Whilst he knew in himself that they would never have a future, out here, so far from anything he knew, he could not imagine it a sin to allow himself dreams of what could never be.

  Especially when those dreams came upon him when he slept. No man could be held responsible for their dreams. Except that a secret voice within Yosef whispered that the dreams seemed something mo
re than a trick of the mind, stronger than illusion.

  Normally it was just his name he heard.

  Come back to us. Yosef shook his head, trying to clear away the words that clung there still. Was his mind trying to tell him his father lived?

  A recollection of Arun’s tortured, burned flesh, hanging in tatters where the oil had melted it from his body, hit Yosef with a savagery that made him wince.

  No. Even he could not imagine Arun alive. No man could survive such horrors. He turned his mind from the image with a discipline born of long nights alone in strange places, where such memories could turn a man to insanity if he did not learn to master them.

  It is Garnata, Yosef told himself firmly. The community my father hoped I could save. Sarah’s voice is the way my conscience reminds me I made a promise to save my community, even if I no longer imagine myself a part of it.

  The thought took him by such surprise it temporarily drove the memory of Sarah’s voice from his mind. Do I truly feel so lost to my own people? he wondered. It made him feel indescribably lonely, a man with no home, either of the flesh or of the soul.

  He dressed in the silent night and began walking before the dawn so much as lit the far edge of the eastern sky.

  Persia was a bewildering land of extraordinary riches – and terrible decay. Yosef passed the abandoned ruins of mighty temples to the Fire God, Ahura Mazda, desecrated by the Arabic conquerors and the bitter wars that had ravaged the lands here for a generation. Peace was still a localised affair and very much dependent on the integrity of the individuals tasked with tax collection. The Persians themselves treated their new Arabic overlords with a polite disdain that often deteriorated into outright contempt. To those proud, fearsome horsemen, educated men of often extraordinary riches, their new rulers were little more than desert peasants. Obedience to Arabic rule was given with sullen resentment.