“Suinthila commands more men than merely his own thiufae at Aurariola.” Paulus spoke without looking at them. “He has spent his life training those who would serve under the Chrismon and peacock. Men from across the country send their sons to the headquarters in Emerita to learn the art of war from Suinthila. The thiufae he trained may serve Egica in theory, but their allegiance has long belonged to Suinthila – not only from respect for his training but for what he represents. Suinthila is named for his uncle and Liuvgoto’s father, King Suintila, the man who united Spania. Suinthila’s own father, Geila, was the greatest general Spania has ever known. There is magic in such memories. The names themselves evoke a time of miracles, when the Chrismon-and-peacock symbol became Spania’s own and men proudly called themselves Spaniard in the knowledge that it meant something. All of this magic lies in Suinthila’s name and in his hands. I am told that when Sunifred’s force came to Emerita, the men followed Alaric without question. They followed the magic of that past.” He turned back to face his wife and granddaughter. “I can lead men,” he said harshly. “I know battle as well and better than any. But in the end, I am just another lord commanding men to ride away from the harvest lying on the fields and toward a war with a less-than-certain outcome. The men camped in my field are sullen. They do not know why they are here, except that Theodefred ordered them. They do not know for what they ride. The road between here and Toletum is long, with many opportunities for desertion. If I hope to march a decent force northward, I need men who believe in why they march. Suinthila’s presence would inspire that belief, more than anything I might tell them.”
Lælia stared at him. “Do they need more reason than the crimes Egica has committed?” Words she had not thought to speak rose inside her, anger she had disciplined herself to suppress. “Is it not enough that Egica took Theodefred’s son by force? That his bastard son orchestrated an attack that killed dozens of Spania’s own sons, then attempted to marry me against my will?” She held Paulus’s eyes and willed her voice not to shake. “Is it not enough to tell them,” she said, “that Egica was the architect of the attack that killed my parents?”
Paulus’s eyes flared in surprise. “It was Giscila who –”
“Perhaps.” Lælia cut him off curtly. “But I have met Giscila. Looked into his face. That he murdered my parents, there is no doubt. But I do not think he had either the ambition, the will, or the intelligence to execute such horrors alone. Egica, though – he is more than capable of doing so. Did he not return to court directly after the events? And do any of us doubt he was at least complicit in the attack upon the fleet in which Theo was almost killed?”
“Even if such accusations are true, they are hardly reasons I can give to the men camped on my ground.” Paulus was staring at her, an odd expression on his face that looked almost, Lælia realised, like respect.
“Why not?” she countered. “There are men amongst those camped here who lost their own fathers, and brothers, in the same attack that killed my parents. There is a reason they call it the Summer of Blood, even now. Hundreds died that day. Men do not speak of it, but only because they were sworn not to. All know of it. They remember.”
“Nothing can be gained from dragging up such events,” muttered Paulus.
Lælia opened her mouth to argue. She was interrupted by the clatter of a chair tumbling as Acantha, eyes flashing hard gold, came abruptly to her feet. She said nothing, merely stared at them both; then she turned and strode from the room.
By mutual assent, Lælia and Paulus followed her tall, stiff figure across the grass by the villa and passed the stables to the wide field where the men made their camp. At the centre of the hundreds who sat around cooking fires, drinking wine in the hot summer night, lay the wagons on which Theodefred had brought food for his men. Acantha leaped onto one and beat the side of it with the hilt of her knife until chatter ceased and men turned to her curiously.
“Tyr,” muttered Paulus, but he folded his arms and stood still rather than interfere.
“Most of you know me,” said Acantha. The fires lit her face, and she spoke in a low voice that carried clearly across the field. “For those of you who do not – I am Acantha, the Lady of Illiberis. This land has been that of my family since time before time, and it will belong to those of my blood” – she gestured to where Lælia stood – “long after these wars are done, and their kings with them.”
There was a low, superstitious murmur at this. Men crossed themselves. They had all heard the tales of the horse herders of Illiberis and their mane magic. Southern they might have been, but the men gathered attended church and prayed to the God they found there. They eyed Acantha suspiciously. Some spat to one side.
“You may fear my kind,” Acantha said, “and curse me as witch. But know this: it is not my belief in different gods that prevents me from taking my place at my husband’s side in Illiberis. There are those here who remember the years when I did stand beside him. Perhaps I would still – had it not been for the time you know as the Summer of Blood.”
A hush fell across the field. The men stared at her, fully attentive now.
“Ja.” Acantha watched them with some satisfaction. “You all know those words. If you were not alive, you have heard the tale. Fever, people said. It was the summer of fever. Barbarians from across the sea took advantage of the illness and attacked the lands of my daughter and her husband. Many are the tales told of that day. But I know, as do you, that none of them are true.”
A murmur rose amongst the watching men.
“More recently,” Acantha went on, raising her voice to speak over them, “there was another attack, this time at sea. Many were lost, including the man destined to marry my granddaughter. Another attack on Illiberis. Again, we were told it was unfortunate. A storm, bandits looking for fortune. Another tale.”
Now the murmuring rose louder, and men began to fold their arms and nod in agreement.
“Do any of us believe these tales?” Acantha gripped the side of the wagon and stared a challenge out at the watching men. “Do any of you believe these attacks were accidents, misfortune given by God to the house of Illiberis?”
“No!” called one of the watching men, and others took up the cry.
“No,” repeated Acantha, looking at them. “No, they were not. Just as the king sending his bastard son Oppa to Illiberis four years ago was not by chance. Oppa’s rape and torture of an innocent girl during his visit was not an accident, and nor was his blaming a Jewish boy from Garnata, Yosef ben Arun, for that same crime. Nothing done by this king and his family is done by chance.” At this, there was a swell of indignation from the local men in the crowd, many of whom had witnessed the sadism of Oppa’s actions when he had come to Illiberis four years earlier.
“I have stayed silent long enough.” Acantha had the crowd captive now. “I have retreated to the mountains and raised our horses, far from the men who committed these acts and those who would hide them. But now we have an opportunity to overturn those who have visited such pain upon my family. To honour the Chrismon and peacock that my family fought and died for, instead of the corruption of those who seek to suck Mater Spania dry.”
Men roared at that, banging their swords against their shields.
“They are listening to her.” Paulus stared at his wife with narrowed eyes, a strange light stirring in their grim depths. “She has them, by God.”
“My husband” – Acantha gestured at Paulus – “will not invoke such old revenge in his bid to lead you north, to war. He is a man of honour and not given to such tactics. But I… I am a woman who has lost her last child and who cares no longer for the opinions of men or priests. I have defended Illiberis before. I will do so again. I am not afraid to die for the land I love. My granddaughter and I will hold it with our last breath – and defend your women and children with it, for we are women of Illiberis, and this is our right.” She drew herself up proudly at their cheers and faced them, eyes flashing in the light of the fires bu
rning around the camp. “In the next days,” she cried, “you will ride behind my husband to war. Not a war for coin, or one between lords for reasons you do not understand. This war is vengeance. It is retribution for the lies we were told and the wrongs we have swallowed. It is for the land we stand upon, land this king has conspired again and again to take from us. I will die before I relinquish Illiberis, and in the days to come, we might all have to make that choice!”
They were cheering her now, a roar that swept over the grounds, men clashing their swords against anything they could find, crying out their battle rage and anger. From the mountains above came the thunder of the horse herders’ drums and the savage cries of those who had called Illiberis home long before Roman, Goth, or Greek. Acantha stared over the crowd to Paulus, her chest rising and falling as she heard their cheers. She thrust her own knife savagely to the sky in defiance.
Striding across the ground, Paulus climbed onto the wagon beside her. “I have a message,” he said, his normally rough voice hard and clear, the commander who had led men onto a hundred fields in his youth. “You!” he pointed at one. “You will take four others, along with our fleetest horses. Ride for Aurariola. Tell Count Suinthila that Illiberis will bow no longer to those who killed our children.” They roared their approbation, and he turned to Acantha. The firelight lit her eyes a blazing red as she stared at him, something wild and beautiful in her face Lælia had never seen. “Tell him,” he said, and though he spoke to the crowd, the small smile on his face was for Acantha alone, “that we ride north, for Egica and for blood.”
As the men cheered, for Illiberis and for war, Paulus turned to Lælia. “And you,” he said, in a voice meant only for her, “will send word to your desert witch. Tell her it is time she made good on her promise.”
“But we are not yet under attack,” said Lælia, her heart tripping unsteadily.
“No.” Paulus’s mouth stretched in a grim smile. “But after this, child, we will be. Mark my words.”
48
Theo
July, AD 692
Battle of Sebastopolis
The battle for Sebastopolis began at mid-morning, when a white sun turned the harbour to shimmering glass. Theo stood on the dock, eyeing the dromons critically, turning constantly to the hilltop beyond the agora, his mind on the serried ranks beyond the walls. He had sent a messenger to Leontios but received no response, which had not surprised him. Theo was unsure what warning he could have given anyway. He knew only that Oppa had contrived to betray them, not the means by which that betrayal would occur. And Leontios, he knew, was not the man to heed a vague warning. The battle was upon them, and they must fight it as it came, however it came.
From the docks Theo could see nothing beyond the walls, and for a time he heard only the dull thud of horses’ hooves, the faint jangle of steel as men gathered in preparation, but nothing of the violent screams of blood.
Then Pelagia tumbled down the hillside. Theo caught the child as she came to a stop. “The Arabs,” she panted. “They have ridden to their lines. And they carry a sea of parchment with them.”
Theo frowned. “Parchment? What do you mean?”
“Every man mounted on a horse has one,” said Pelagia. “Pinned to the tips of their lances. They are waving them, in place of flags. One of the men said there is writing on them, that they are the pages of the tree– the tret–”
“Treaty?” Theo’s eyes widened. “The treaty between the emperor and the caliph? They’ve ridden to war flying pages of the treaty that Leontios betrayed – on their lance-tips?”
Pelagia nodded eagerly. “And when Leontios tried to speak, they waved their lances in the air and burned the parchments.”
“I knew it,” Theo said grimly, glancing sideways at Silas. “The time for talking is done. The Arabs will not negotiate.” Pelagia turned to go, and Theo took her arm. “Here! You stay with us. If the walls fall, it is not safe for you, do you understand? You need to be close.”
Pelagia stared back at him. “Why?” she asked bluntly. “I heard what Sanyi said. You cannot take us if the walls fall. We are to be left behind.”
Theo’s face tightened. “We are trying to find another option. There are merchants’ ships still here.”
Pelagia rolled her eyes. “Merchants need money. We do not have enough. And besides, who else will warn you if the walls are falling?”
“I rather think we will know immediately if the walls fall,” said Theo drily.
“Pelagia.” Silas stepped forward. “The Slavs,” he said, frowning. “Where are they? Do they stand?”
Pelagia’s eyes slid away from his face. “Yes,” she said quietly.
“Pelagia,” Theo said, taking her arm again. “What is it?”
She looked between them, her face troubled. “I have heard the Slavs talking,” she said. “In the tavern where Elpis is now.”
“And?”
“They are not happy,” she said quietly. “Not after Neboulos was whipped. They are saying bad things about Leontios.” She looked at Theo. “And about the man with the whip.” Glancing at the walls, Pelagia backed away. “If the walls come down, I will be here,” she said, then scampered off up the hill.
Silas watched the little figure go, his face troubled. “Will the Slavs stand? That is the question.” He shook his head. “I do not like this.”
Theo squinted into the hard sunlight, his jaw set and hard. The villagers had gathered atop the walls. From a distance they looked like a swarm of insects, tiny black dots clinging to the faded ochre, watching the coming carnage. They will all die, Theo thought. They have nowhere to go but into the water – or beneath an Arab sword. They are Maronites, Christian rebels not only against Islam but against Marwan himself. They will be shown no quarter.
“What did the merchants say about taking Elpis and the other girls?” he asked aloud. Silas shook his head silently. “There must be someone!” Theo ground out the words, trying to think. “We cannot leave them here, Silas. I will not.”
As he spoke, a roar broke the morning air, and the very light seemed to ripple about them. A hollow rumble travelled over the ground, echoing up into their own feet. Theo was still, fists clenched at his sides. Behind him the crews of the dromons stood quivering to attention in the ships, every man straining toward the sound of battle over the hill, trying to envisage the movements beyond.
“Cataphracts,” murmured Silas. They felt rather than heard the clash as the cataphracts broke against the Arabic forces. Theo could imagine that first rush, the heavily armoured horsemen charging to meet their Arabic counterparts. A flood of arrows from the rear, then the lances, thrown as they came closer, effective against the lightly armoured Arabic horses. Then, finally, wicked maces drawn and whirled to a frenzy, the momentum of horse and arm driving deadly iron spikes right through a man’s body. Theo had seen men die from the mace even beneath steel helmet, the sheer weight of the blow breaking their necks. His own body quivered, part of him on the battlefield living every moment as the thundering hooves broke into a melee of clamour and steel. Above it all came the high-pitched screams of the Arabs, a chilling sound that hung over the port and drowned out the guttural, hoarse cries of the emperor’s forces. The sound grew louder, became triumphant, and as it did they heard a fast, drumming sound accompanied by a strange whistle on the wind.
“Cavalry with bows,” said Silas grimly.
Theo’s mouth tightened with cold fury as he thought of Oppa riding beneath the Chrismon-and-peacock insignia beneath which Theo’s ancestors had fought and died, the Slavic forces blindly following his lead, probably to their deaths. Then he frowned. I cannot imagine him there, he thought suddenly. Oppa, in danger? At the head of an attack? He recalled Oppa’s words with a terrible, bitter sense of misgiving: Appearance is everything.
“Ergan!” He called one of Pelagia’s young friends over from where he had been huddling with his mother against the wall. Many of the villagers had taken refuge by the port, hoping to beg
passage on the dromons if it came to that. The boy approached, and Theo pressed a coin into his hand. “Run to the walls,” he said curtly. “You know the Spanish bastard, the one with the whip?” The boy paled and nodded. “Tell me if it is he who rides with the cavalry. Go.” The boy ran swiftly. Theo turned to Silas. “I have known Oppa many years,” he said. “And I have never known him to directly endanger himself.”
Silas frowned. “You said he planned to take the field.”
“I was wrong.” Theo’s mouth was tight. “Oppa said that ‘his father’s standard’ would take the field – not that he himself would. I did not see him mount up this morning. Nor lead his horsemen to battle.”
Silas stared at him as the words sank in. “If he is not on the battlefield,” said Silas slowly, “then where is he?” He looked up at the hilltop, fingering the curved swords at his side. The roar became louder and, atop the walls, the black dots began to move, swarming down the hillside in a trickle that became a torrent, racing toward the port. The movement broke the deathly silence on the docks.
“Fetch Athanais and her girls,” Theo ordered the messenger who had been standing by.
Silas raised his eyebrows. “Why?” he asked bluntly. “We can do nothing for them, wenkai. You know this.”
“There will be fighting in the streets soon,” said Theo grimly. “I would at least protect them as long as we are able.”
The messenger had barely moved on his errand when Yosef appeared, leading a string of girls from Athanais’s tavern, all carrying their goods wrapped in bundles on their backs. Theo felt a sudden, deep sense of relief. He had not dared ask Yosef his plans. It was only as he looked at his friend’s face now that Theo realised how much he had dreaded knowing the answer.
“Theo,” Yosef said lightly. He was as immaculate as ever, seemingly entirely undaunted by the increasing chaos around them, but a faintly guarded expression cloaked the eyes that met Theo’s, and he waited for a moment as if to gauge both Theo’s actions and his own reception.
The King's Coin: Ambition is the only faith (Visigoths of Spain Book 2) Page 39