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

by Paula Constant

  “What are we doing?” he asked, bewildered.

  “Waiting,” came the implacable answer. “Do not speak. We will move at night.”

  Yosef was cold, hungry, and exhausted, and for a moment he felt indignation swell in his chest. Long years on the road, however, had taught him the necessity of endurance, so he bit his tongue and closed his eyes, trying to block out the bitter cold and the tired, sad despair that crept through his blood.

  It was late, and Yosef had dozed when he felt his companion’s hand on his shoulder. “Now,” said the voice in his ear, “we move.” Yosef stumbled to his feet, and the man clicked his tongue in annoyance. “You are loud as a monkey,” he hissed in reprimand. “Follow me, and try to do it quietly.”

  It began to snow. All through the night they moved, silent and fast, and when dawn broke Yosef squinted around at the colourless landscape in confusion.

  “The gates of the city are nowhere in sight,” he said, frowning. “Where are you taking me?”

  “If you entered the Daming Palace, you would have been killed – or imprisoned – before half a day was out. I am taking you somewhere safe.”

  “Somewhere safe?” Yosef stopped and put down his roll of belongings. He felt a weary, tired anger rise through his body. “I understand that you are trying to help,” he said, trying to maintain an even tone. “But I must enter the palace, and I must find the family I am instructed to meet. If you just tell me where to go, I will enter the palace myself and tell none we met.”

  “No.” His companion picked up the roll with surprising ease, given he was slight and reached barely to Yosef’s shoulder. “You will walk where I tell you and cease arguing such nonsense.”

  Yosef stiffened. Stealthily, he slid one hand inside his cloak, reaching for the knife he had long carried strapped to his thigh. “I appreciate your concern,” he said carefully. “But our ways will part here.”

  His fingers had no sooner touched the hilt of his knife than the slender figure in front of him moved in a series of lightning-fast movements. Yosef felt a blow like a hammer in his chest and found himself on his back in the snow. When he touched his thigh, the knife was gone.

  “How did you –” he began, frowning.

  “I told you to cease arguing.”

  “At least,” said Yosef, squinting against the snow glare, “tell me your name.”

  His captor pushed back the hood of the cloak, revealing pale ivory skin, midnight hair tied in an elaborate knot, and features at once delicate and determined.

  “I am Jiang Fei Hong,” she said. “And you have been a long time fulfilling your father’s promise, Yosef ben Arun.”

  34

  Theo

  December, AD 691

  Sebastopolis, Anatolia

  Elauissa Sebaste, Cilicia, Turkey

  Theo found Pelagia on the dock at twilight and handed her a coin. “Go to the Spanish bastard,” he said, “and tell him to go to the ruins above the port.” He cupped her chin. “Tell no one, do you understand?” The child nodded solemnly. Theo cleared his throat awkwardly. “Your sister,” he said in a low voice. “Do you have word of her?”

  Pelagia looked around, to ensure nobody was listening. “Elpis is safe,” she said, but her face was troubled. “She said to tell you she thinks of you.”

  Theo felt unaccustomed colour flood his face. He was suddenly very aware of Leofric and Silas behind him. “Well, go on then,” he said roughly. “Off with you. Don’t spend it all at once.”

  Pelagia looked at him through wide eyes that hurt his chest, then turned and ran into the night. Theo walked back to where Leofric and Silas were coiling rope by the dromon.

  “Your heart is too soft, friend.” Leofric cast him a wry smile. “It is a wonder you have any coin left, ne? You are generous with that child.” Undeterred by Theo’s lack of an answer, he went on: “Will you not join us at the tavern tonight and find better sport upon which to bestow your coin?”

  Theo knew his absence from the nightly drinking in which his men indulged had begun to be marked. He kept his distance primarily to avoid conversations such as this with Leofric. Even the slightest thought of Leofric’s possible betrayal was enough to send him deep into a blackness that threatened to swallow him.

  “That is the advantage of so long an abstinence.” He kept his tone light, and loud enough for the rest of the men to hear. “I have spare coin to buy a prettier face than yours for company, Slav.” His men guffawed, and Leofric clapped him on the shoulder, grinning appreciatively. Only Silas did not smile. Theo turned from the older man’s dark scrutiny and moved quickly uphill, turning until the dock was behind him and keeping his face hidden beneath his cloak.

  Silas alone had grown concerned at his continued absence. Theo knew his friend was worried. But it was unfair, Theo felt, to alert the other man to his suspicions. And despite what he had told Apsimar, Theo could not bring himself to truly believe Leofric a traitor. Nor could he bring himself to follow him in order to discern the truth. Somehow, doing even that felt like a betrayal. And from the moment he had shared knowledge of his suspicions with Apsimar to the conversation he was about to have, Theo knew he had already betrayed far more than he had ever, in his worst nightmares, imagined himself capable of.

  From the ruins, he could see anything coming up the hill. He settled into the shadows and took a pull on his wineskin, feeling a strange calm descend.

  Oppa appeared soon after, melding himself to the wall opposite and keeping his own hood raised over his features.

  “Kyros is dead,” Theo said without preamble. Oppa nodded but said nothing. “He told me the Slavs are stealing the Arabic coin.”

  “Not stealing,” said Oppa quietly. “They are being paid.”

  Theo looked at him sharply. “For information?”

  Oppa shrugged. “For information. And, perhaps, for more than just their loyalty.”

  “Does Leontios know this?”

  “Leontios knows. He doesn’t care.” Oppa said it simply, without emotion.

  “But you do.”

  “I care about the treaty with the Arabs. About ensuring it holds. Leontios likes to know which of his Slavs are traitors. Eventually he will use the information against them, make a show of force intended to humiliate them and bring them to heel. I fear that when he does, his actions will have the opposite effect.”

  “You think he will push the Slavic forces into open rebellion,” said Theo.

  Oppa nodded. “It was I who told him there were traitors amongst the Slavs. I thought he would act upon the information and shut it down. But he did not.” Oppa moved restlessly away from the wall and shifted his hood so the moon lit his features. Theo suppressed an involuntary shiver with an effort. The sharp features had been hated for too long for him to look upon them without instinctive revulsion. “The mutterings in the Slavic camp grow daily worse, their treachery more blatant. I take as much Arabic coin in my taverns as I do Greek. Not only does Leontios turn a blind eye to their dealings; he sends small parties such as yours to collect taxes without so much as a clerk to record it. Such carelessness is no accident.”

  “My men do not steal,” Theo said flatly.

  “If you were sure of that, you would not be here.” Oppa’s response was hard and sharp. “But it is not theft that should concern you. Leontios is sending a detachment of Neboulos’s army to Cyprus.” He met Theo’s eyes. “He will use the missing coin as grounds to take Cyprus back in the name of the emperor, reneging on the agreement to render it neutral ground with all taxes split evenly.”

  “He plans to break the treaty,” breathed Theo.

  Oppa nodded. “I believe he does.”

  “If it comes to war,” Theo said, “Sebastopolis cannot be held.”

  “And now you see why I seek you as ally, not enemy. Neither of us wishes to see the Arabs gain another toehold.” A short silence fell, in which Theo heard Neboulos’s words: I am afraid how it will end.

  Neboulos knows, Theo realise
d. He knows that if it comes to war, there is no guarantee the Slavs will remain loyal.

  “Why tell me this?” he said aloud. “What is it that you want from me?”

  Oppa made to move closer and Theo’s hand flew to his sword. “Do not come close to me,” he growled. “I will hear you, Oppa Egicason, but never make the mistake of thinking I trust you.”

  “Very well.” Oppa’s mouth twisted. “I will speak plainly, then. I believe you might have certain… allies… who would not agree with Leontios’s current actions. Who may yet be able to make him change his mind. Firstly, I would like you to make contact with those allies and see if there is a way to avoid the crisis.”

  When he was met with nothing but Theo’s blank face and silence, he went on. “There is also the matter of what happens if, or when, we both return to Spania.” Theo remained silent. Oppa made an impatient sound. “You have been at war long enough to know that nothing will come of this rebellion in the south. My father will crush it. He has already sent word requesting that I return and help him to do so. When I do return, it will be with enough men and coin to ensure my father’s victory.” He spoke with flat certainty, and Theo felt a cold dread in the pit of his stomach. “My father will not be content with peace. He will take the lands he has conquered and treat his enemies mercilessly. You know, as do I, that Spania cannot afford such squabbles.” His eyes gleamed unpleasantly in the moonlight. “Nor,” he said softly, “do I wish to find myself accused of crimes such as the attack on the fleet. Or of anything else that might result in my father’s displeasure.” He looked pointedly at the scars on Theo’s face. “So I propose that you and I make an arrangement between ourselves, here, to which we adhere in the event that we return to discover our homeland rent by open war. An agreement that safeguards us both and helps us to ensure Spania itself is best prepared for what might come.”

  “An agreement,” said Theo slowly. “What kind of agreement?”

  “Your father’s lands in Aurariola are on the eastern coast. Precisely the point where a foreign force might invade. At present your father has ensured that entire reach of coastline is well defended and protected. I wish that to continue, and I believe you are the right man to do it. I will guarantee you keep Aurariola, and I will extend your lands around it, as far south as Cartago Nova.”

  “You do not have the power to do so.”

  “You would be surprised by what coin might achieve. And coin I have. More than my father would ever have dreamed of.”

  “Very well.” Theo folded his arms. “And what do you ask in return?”

  “I need a stronghold in the south. I need to give my father a prize, and I need horses. I will take Illiberis in my father’s name.”

  “And now you show your face.” Theo stood and began to walk for the door, shaking his head. “You will never have Lælia. You will never have Illiberis. And I should never have come here.”

  “I don’t ask for Lælia.” Oppa’s voice was uncharacteristically rough. “I would never ask such a thing again.” Theo paused in the crumbling door frame and glanced back, curious despite himself. There was a raw emotion in Oppa’s face that took him aback, something almost like regret. “You forget,” said Oppa harshly, “that I faced your betrothed across my father’s council. I looked into her eyes. I know she will never be mine. And I know that in taking Illiberis, I will make of her an enemy even more dangerous than she already is.”

  “If I traded Illiberis,” said Theo equally curtly, “then so would I.”

  “Lælia does not need to know,” Oppa said quietly. “The south will be defeated. She will either be your wife, and the Lady of Aurariola, or she will be given to whomever my father chooses.”

  “You,” said Theo. “She would be given to you.”

  Oppa nodded. “It was, always, my father’s intention.”

  Theo stared at him. “You disgust me,” he said softly.

  “Perhaps.” Oppa’s mouth twisted. “But you have been at war too long to ignore what I say. One day soon we will face one another across a Toletum court. Your family and Lælia’s will be traitors. I will be the son of the king who defeated them. I offer you an agreement that can save both you and Lælia from my father’s games.”

  “Even if I agreed,” said Theo, the words like ash on his tongue, “I would never trust you to keep your word.”

  Oppa withdrew a roll of parchment from his tunic. “You would, if it was written and witnessed.”

  Theo stared at the parchment as if it were a snake. “A contract,” he breathed. “You have drawn up a contract?”

  Oppa shrugged. “I have come to respect the power of the written word – and to be wary of it. There are two copies of this contract. If we agree upon terms, we will sign it in the presence of men who cannot be bought, and who will stand witness should they be needed.”

  Theo’s mind seemed split in two. On one side, he could see Lælia’s accusing eyes, horrified at his betrayal. On the other, he saw his father lying dead, Alaric dragged through the streets, and, perhaps even more painfully, Lælia standing beside Oppa in a church, forced to marry against her will.

  “It is an impossible choice,” he breathed.

  “It is war.” Oppa moved toward the crumbling wall, readying to leave. “Whilst you think on my offer,” he said, “you might wish to visit the brothel near the Slavic camp. The whore, Elpis, is there. I bought her from the Slav who wanted her, for more coin than he could refuse.” Seeing Theo’s face darken, he held up a hand. “Do not slice me with that sword arm. She is safe. I have ensured she does no more than pour ale.”

  Theo stared at him. “Why would you do that?”

  “Do not mistake my interest as compassion,” said Oppa dryly. “I assure you, the gesture was entirely motivated by self-interest.” He cast Theo a slightly amused glance. “The Slav wanted to keep her under my roof. I have learned enough of you and your damned honour,” he said, “to know that if you found her in such circumstances, any conversation between us would be over. It seemed a bargain worth my coin.”

  “Elpis is not mine.” Theo winced at the defiance in his tone. Oppa shrugged again.

  “If that is the case,” he said mildly, “then I shall put her to work. An idle whore is nothing but trouble.” He turned to leave, seemingly oblivious to Theo’s clenched fists. “Whilst you consider my offer, I suggest you ask your Persian brothel keeper to send one of her messages to Apsimar, warning him of Leontios’s intentions.” He smiled grimly at the flare of surprise Theo could not quite conceal. “In the game of war, you might well be a master. But when it comes to the games of men, you can never hope to be my equal. Remember that, Theudemir of Aurariola.” Pulling the hood of his cloak over his face, he moved away through the fallen wall at the far end.

  Theo waited until the hooded figure was gone.

  When he finally left, he took the way past the brothel outside the Slavic camp. He stood for a long time in the shadows beyond the entrance, watching men come and go, his stomach churning at the brief glimpses he caught of Elpis when the door opened and closed.

  35

  Yosef

  Winter, AD 691–692

  Wudangshan, Serica

  Wudang Mountains, China

  Deep in the Wudang Mountains, behind a temple devoted to the dark warrior deity Xuanwu, lay a small valley of fertile ground. On one side of the river, tea grew on terraced fields. On the other, hidden by a seemingly impregnable wall of rock, lay a small plantation of mulberry trees.

  In the early-morning mist that swirled above the river like celestial smoke, Yosef moved in silent imitation of Fei Hong whilst her grandfather, Jiahao, watched from his seat on a wooden chair nearby. Jiahao had not walked since his legs were cut off nearly twenty years earlier, when he had helped a Jewish merchant named Arun Radhan escape those who did not agree with opening Serica’s trade to foreign interests.

  Now, two decades later, Arun’s son Yosef moved through morning air scented by the delicate white flowers of a st
ewartia tree, which grew alone by the platform at the monastery where they trained. On the steep slopes of the ravine beyond, kudzu and kiwi vines coiled amidst the tree canopy, and only the bleak caw of crows broke the silence.

  Yosef inhaled, arms moving across his body, balancing on one foot as he turned and exhaled, lowering himself gently, feeling the minute extension of his muscles, the infinitesimal changes in the air about him. He followed Fei Hong into the deep, poised crouch that had taken him weeks to master, uncoiling with slow precision, heat burning through his body. It always amazed Yosef how strenuous such graceful, slow movements could be – and how hard he must focus to execute them.

  “Today,” said Fei Hong, when they had ended the sequence, “the eggs will hatch, and you will learn.” Yosef’s heart lurched with excitement. He glanced up to where Jiahao watched them with features as inscrutable as the deep forest. “My grandfather has ordered it,” added Fei Hong, following his gaze. “Time passes. Normally, you would spend many years tending the mulberry trees, understanding the five elements, before working directly with the silkworms. But you are not Han. Not one of us. We owe your family a debt, one that must be repaid. Today your training in the art of silk begins.”

  Yosef bowed his head, swallowing the response on his lips. Several months in the mountains living the rigorous life of discipline and obedience demanded by the Daoist tradition of Jiahao and his granddaughter had taught him caution in what he said. Now he followed Fei Hong along the narrow path that led to the mulberry plantation, picking his way carefully so as not to disturb the plants that grew alongside the path. Nothing here grew by chance; all was constructed to enhance the growth of the mulberry trees themselves, every plant contributing to create the perfect environment amidst which the trees could flourish.