Glancing briefly at her mother’s drawn, fearful face, Alaric knew that life to be too uncertain, and himself to be unworthy of such faith.
“Yes,” he said, meeting Rekiberga’s eyes bleakly. “It is too late. I am sworn to your father’s course, Rekiberga. I will not dishonour us both by disavowing him now.”
She stared at him, the last vestiges of colour leaching from her eyes and cheeks.
“Then go,” she whispered finally. “And remember that this decision was yours, Alaric – not mine.” Pulling herself free of her mother’s grasp, Rekiberga turned and stalked from the œca, straight backed and proud.
Alaric watched until she had gone. Then, under the watchful eye of Sunifred’s men, he turned and left, shame and resentment warring inside him.
32
Lælia
November, AD 691
Illiberis, Spania
Granada, Spain
Lælia could see Theo on a distant shore, his back turned to her. She felt the sharp edge of danger close by, and she sensed many men, a dark undercurrent of violence.
“Turn around,” she tried to say, but the words wouldn’t come, were choked in her throat as they had been for so many years, and then his figure was fading from view, sucked into the mists of a dream.
She woke drenched in sweat, her blankets crumpled at the foot of her bed, the blazing Illiberis moon lighting the mountains beyond the villa. Striding to the window, she leaned out and dragged breath into her body, shaking her head. Coming back to Illiberis had brought a return of the dreams that had tortured her youth and which, she realised belatedly, she had been blissfully free of in the desert sands. Here, she seemed bound by worlds beyond the immediate one, connected to an invisible force she both craved and ran from.
She missed Safia. Ilyan’s daughter had felt like her last link to the desert and the freedom she had felt there. Safia would already be in Corduba with Lælia’s aunt Riccilo. Lælia suspected the girl would do well at the Toletum court. She had her father’s mercurial nature, powers of observation, and ability to meld into the background of any room, welcome but unobtrusive.
Dawn was coming, a thin crest of gold on the horizon. Lælia dressed and left the villa, welcoming the crisp air on her face as she rode onto the low plateaus where grass was still plentiful, Theo’s figure still vivid in her waking mind. Lælia knew her dreams held a reality. She had lived too many of them to doubt they had meaning. She knew, too, that their meaning was indiscernible in practical terms. Separating impression from reality was impossible, for the world of dreams was where souls roamed in the mists, free to speak truths beyond human rationale.
Her mind kept returning to the sense of resignation she had felt, as if Theo had given up on something in himself, had withdrawn not only from her but from a part of himself. I am still here! she thought fiercely, digging her heels into the horse’s side and cantering up the last of the narrow path. I do not relinquish you, Theo. Even if we must turn from each other – we are bound, you and I.
She forced the dream from her mind, knowing she could learn nothing more from it. She turned instead toward the drill ground, craving the mindless discipline of training. By mid-morning, three young horses were breathing hard and Jadis raced at her side as she galloped the final stretch on a fourth. Lælia leaped from the horse in mid-stride, as she had learned to do in the sands, tumbling and coming up with arrow drawn. There was a comfort in performing the skills she had spent so many long months mastering, even if here, on her home soil, it seemed none cared for them at all.
The sound of a slow handclap startled her and she swung her bow, ready to release. Her grandfather, Count Paulus of Illiberis, moved from behind a clump of holm oak, holding his hands up in surrender.
“Hold your arrows, child,” he said, a crooked smile on his grim features. “There will be time enough for them, I suspect.”
“It is early for you to be riding.” Lælia lowered her bow.
Paulus inclined his head. “That presumes I rode out from the villa this morning. I did not. I am come from Gaius.”
“Gaius?” Lælia frowned; the town was more than a day’s ride north. “I was not aware you had left Illiberis.”
“No.” Her grandfather raised his eyebrows sardonically. “You seem aware of little other than the herd and training since your return.”
“If war is coming, little else matters.” Lælia met his eyes steadily. Paulus had yet to grant her a formal audience. She had the sense he was taking her measure from afar, assessing who she had become in her time away. Her grandmother, too, had been uncharacteristically quiet, leaving her mountaintop abbey only once, to welcome Lælia home, before returning to her solitude.
Lælia herself had felt uneasy since her return. Everything seemed different, yet entirely as she had left it. She was aware that what had altered the most was herself, but she did not have the words to explain what had changed within her, and neither of her grandparents were of the disposition to enquire. Perhaps as a result of her disturbed night, she felt an uncharacteristic urge now to try to explain herself.
“There is much of which we should speak,” she said, then she stopped abruptly, wondering why it was that she felt entirely in control of her words on a dromon of soldiers, yet unable to so much as form a sentence in the presence of her grandfather.
“It is normal.” Her grandfather’s voice was gruff. “Men come back from war much the same. We long for home, then reach it and find ourselves lost.” Paulus gave her a sideways glance and then, as if regretting his words, made a dismissive gesture. “Enough of this. I rode to Gaius to meet Theodefred, but he sent a messenger in his stead. And before you ask, the servant girl, Safia, arrived in Corduba. I have news of her.”
Theodefred was the Duke of Corduba. He was married to Riccilo, whose mother had been Acantha’s sister and whom Lælia called Aunt. Theodefred himself was the youngest son of the great king Chindasuinth, who had once taken the throne from Egica’s grandfather, Tulga, and whose rule had brought Spania into the longest peace it had known. He was also one of Paulus’s oldest friends. Theodefred’s position at court, Lælia knew, had become increasingly precarious since rumours swirled that his younger brother, Favila, rebelled against Egica in the mountains of Gallæcia.
“Egica has taken Theodefred’s son, Roderic, and sent him with his own, Wittiza, to his family lands in Tuy, far to the north west,” said Paulus. “He says he is to be companion to Wittiza, but none are fooled. Roderic has been taken hostage. And it is not only Roderic he has taken.” He moved restlessly in the early-morning sun, looking out over the valley below. “Theodefred’s younger brother, Favila, left his own son Pelayo in Theodefred’s care some months ago, when rebellion broke out in the mountains of Gallæcia. Now Pelayo, too, has been taken to Tuy. The children are held in a fortress under strict guard, and Egica has named Favila traitor to the Crown.”
“Riccilo must be distraught,” Lælia said. “Roderic is her only son.”
“She is also smart – and ruthless.” Paulus smiled grimly. “When Egica took the children from the Toletum court, Egilona of Aurariola was with them.”
“Egilona? Theo’s sister?”
Paulus nodded. “She has been a companion to Roderic since they were infants. Riccilo saw an opportunity. She sent your Safia to Tuy with Egilona.” He gave Lælia a wry smile. “The messenger tells me Riccilo was very impressed with your gift.”
Yes, Lælia thought, her mind racing. Riccilo had always been astute in the ways of court, and in reading people. She would have perceived Safia’s skills immediately. Ilyan, she thought, could not have hoped for anything better. His little spy was even now positioned beside the future king and his closest companions.
Paulus was watching her closely. “I suspect a bow is not the only weapon you learned to wield in the desert sands,” he said dryly.
Lælia ignored his comment. “What does Favila do?” she asked instead. “What does he mean by this rebellion in Gallæcia?”
r /> “It is not Favila’s rebellion, though it is likely to soon become his.” Paulus’s face darkened. “The men who attack Egica’s holdings in the north are not Favila’s. They are from the tribes, allied to no lord, men who fight for coin. The messenger says that Theodefred believes Egica plots to destabilise his brother’s rule in Gallæcia and ensure that neither Favila nor Theodefred join Sunifred’s rebellion in the south. I believe he is right.”
“Declaring a son of Chindasuinth traitor is a bold move, even for Egica.”
“Indeed. Taking his son hostage even more so. But by naming him thus, he forces Theodefred to his knees, taking the one ally Sunifred needs to take Toletum.”
“What will Theodefred do?” Lælia asked.
“Theodefred is Duke of Corduba, possibly the most powerful man in Spania next to Egica himself, and he is sworn to the Crown. Egica has demanded Theodefred send the Corduba thiufae north to fight alongside Egica’s forces – even if that means taking up arms against Favila.” Paulus’s face was dark. “Theodefred’s messenger told me hundreds have ridden north under the Corduba banner, as Egica commanded.”
“You do not approve,” Lælia guessed.
“I cannot.” Paulus strode restlessly, first this way, then that. “I do not like Sunifred,” he said bluntly. “But the time comes when we may have to join him. If we take up arms against our own blood, our own brothers – where does it end?” He met Lælia’s eye gravely. “We may not be able to remain out of it now,” he said. “None of us. Egica wants a war. He has already tried to take Illiberis, and you, once. We must assume he will do so again.”
Lælia did not flinch from the unspoken question in his tone. “I am not yet a proven warrior,” she said. “I have not led men in battle and I do not pretend to know how to do so. But I have not spent this last year in the sands learning to lay down my sword.” Feeling the weight of what must be said between them, she chose her next words carefully. “Illiberis does not have the strength to defend our own boundaries and also fight a rebellion. That is why I made an agreement before I returned. I have two hundred men, trained warriors from the desert sands, whom I can call upon and have here within a matter of weeks.”
Paulus looked at her closely. “Might I ask what you have traded for such bounty?”
“Two hundred horse,” answered Lælia promptly. “And a favour.”
“Two hundred,” repeated Paulus flatly. “Impossible.”
“Not at all.” Lælia met his eyes directly. “We have over five hundred head in the mountains. Ten different herds. More than half of those are at least partially trained by the tribes. Your men are already mounted, and you need less than a hundred to mount any others you can find. We can spare the others. The horses will remain in Sexi for one year, as surety for Dahiya’s men, after which time they are given whether we need the men or not. It is a light bargain for the service of good warriors, and you know it.”
Paulus’s eyes narrowed. “And the favour?”
“Nothing that has a cost to Illiberis, to you, or to me.” She met his eyes. “Beyond that, I can say no more.”
Paulus raised his eyebrows. “And if I agree to this, who do you propose will lead the defence of Illiberis?”
“With the Riders from the sands and the Illiberis tribes with Tosius, we will have the men to counter any attack. They need only command. And I can command, Grandfather.” She spoke quietly, without boast. “I have learned much from Dahiya, not least how to listen. You have men here who have seen war: your thiufadis, Gratimo, and the ten men of your personal thiufa. They are hardened in battle and know the ground here. I may not have wielded sword on a battlefield, but I can learn from those who have and take their counsel. Egica and his men might try to take me, it is true. But first they must take Illiberis. And in our long history, Grandfather, that is a feat none have yet managed.”
Paulus watched her face as she spoke. When she finished, he drew a deep breath. “I have watched you since your return. I do not say you cannot do this, but nor am I convinced you can, and there is not another man in my position I know who would let you try.”
“If you had planned for me to stay out of this, you would never have sent me into the sands to train with Dahiya.” Lælia held his eyes steadily. “I have men amongst the Riders who know me, Grandfather. They trust me. And they are not unaccustomed to riding behind a woman.”
Paulus gave her a half smile and nodded briefly. “You will join Gratimo and me in my study this morning,” he said. “We will wait a time before we send for your desert swords. But even if we do use them, Lælia, if it comes to that, if Illiberis falls and Egica comes for you, then you must promise you will ride for the coast, and for Ilyan.” He stepped forward and cupped her face, looking at her closely. “Do not die for Illiberis, Lælia,” he said roughly. “We have lost too much already. Live – even if it is on a foreign shore.”
He released her and turned away, his eyes looking restlessly to the horizon. “I had not thought Theodefred so quick to give up.” Lælia, seeing the gaunt expression on the rugged features, thought it was the first time she had seen her grandfather look old.
33
Yosef
September, AD 691
Chang’an, Serica
Xi’an, China
The wind was freezing, and dust whipped from the plains against the great walls surrounding the city. Yosef endured the admonitions of the Sogdian merchant who headed the caravan with his head down, standing by the double-humped, long-haired camel that had carried him across wastes already growing icy with the coming season.
“We do not enter the Danfeng Gate.” The merchant was stolid and implacable. “The Daming Palace is the seat of power of Shengshen Huangdi, the most powerful of the powerful. It is no place for merchants and trade. We go to Chang’an, where we can trade our goods peaceably.”
“But I must enter the gates to find the family I seek. Perhaps Empress Wu can help.” Yosef was too tired for his customary circumspection. He had ceased, many miles ago now, to think of anything but making the connection his father had dreamed of. His destination was Serica and the family connected to the silk tree. Beyond that, Yosef no longer knew, nor cared, what would happen to him.
“Shh.” The merchant put a finger over his lips and frowned. “Do not say that name aloud. The person of whom you speak has assumed the title of Huangdi – what your people might call emperor, or empress. To refer to her by name is punishable by death.”
Yosef clicked his tongue in frustration. “I have a letter of introduction.” He was generally more careful; experience had taught him that those who knew of the scrolls would find him, or at the very least, find a way to make themselves known to him. To speak openly of his business went against everything he had learned since leaving Spania. But to stand less than a handful of miles from his ultimate destination after so many long years of travel and be refused entry seemed to Yosef a frustration beyond endurance.
“I am entering those gates,” he said fiercely. “With or without your consent.”
“If you will permit me?”
A quiet, well-modulated voice speaking Greek broke into their conversation. Yosef and the Sogdian swung around to find a hooded figure wearing simple black robes. Yosef could not see his face, and nor could he understand where the man had appeared from – the plains were wide and deserted, and the caravan had drawn to a halt for this discussion long before they neared the main entrance to the palace.
“Who are you?” The Sogdian merchant’s hand was on his knife, and he glanced around uneasily.
“My name is unimportant.” The figure let a small fragment of material unravel in his fingers. “This, perhaps, will help you understand.” The merchant took it and examined the symbol painted there. Yosef’s heartbeat, which had for months now felt oddly weak, seemed to shift and jump in his chest. The symbol was the winged sun of the Zoroastrians, a symbol every merchant through Persia knew and understood. The merchant bowed deeply.
“I w
ould speak to your friend alone,” said the newcomer, his face still hidden. Yosef moved closer, and the two stepped slightly aside, out of hearing.
“Are you a merchant?” Yosef asked. “I have a family I need to find –”
“What is needed,” said the figure, in a surprisingly stern tone, “is for you to stop talking and start listening. Your words have already sung to the wrong ears. Now you do as I say, and the letter you carry will find the right hands. Do you understand?” He flicked back his hand, and on the white hem of his sleeves, Yosef saw the mulberry tree symbol, delicately picked out in silk thread.
Yosef swallowed and nodded. His new companion turned back to the Sogdians. “This one will come with me.” The figure bowed low to the merchant. “He is wanted for questioning by Huaiyi – Buddhist monk and adviser to Shengshen Huangdi.”
“Ah.” The Sogdian merchant took in the austere robes and bent head, and a new tone of respect entered his voice. “We are honoured to serve those who serve Shengshen Huangdi,” he said humbly. Returning the messenger’s bow, he inclined his head to Yosef. “It seems you had the right of it, friend,” he said, smiling. Putting his hand out, he shook Yosef’s. “I wish you well. You know where to find us should you require anything.”
Yosef barely had time to untie his meagre belongings before his new companion prodded him with somewhat painful urgency in the side. “Move,” he hissed, and Yosef found himself walking away from the caravan in the direction of the gates. “Do not speak.” His companion spoke with his head down, hood still covering his face. In the distance, the Sogdian caravan swayed on its way, gradually disappearing into the bitterly cold dust haze. A moment later, Yosef found himself pushed to the ground into a slight hollow, and his new companion’s cloak was drawn over them.
The King's Coin: Ambition is the only faith (Visigoths of Spain Book 2) Page 25