“I have already made my position clear. I will never be your ally.”
Something flashed in the dark eyes. “Ally, captive – there is so little distance between the two, would you not agree? You, I think, no longer have the options you did when last we spoke. And despite all your time at war, you neglect its first rule, Theudemir.”
“And what is that?” Theo’s eyes roamed the room, assessing the risks, deciding his strategy.
“Know your enemy.” Oppa smiled coldly. “You may not wish to ally with me. But returning home – that is something you do want, very much. And you no longer have dromons of your own in which to sail. I feel that alters the terms of our friendship. Perhaps I might remind you of what happens to your betrothed should I reach her before you do.” He lifted his whip, and Pelagia screamed hoarsely behind her gag as he brought it down toward her. Theo lunged forward, putting himself between Pelagia and Oppa. He swept his knife arm so that it deflected the stroke, though the ends of the whip licked the flesh of his neck in a touch so familiar it sickened him.
“Ah,” said Oppa lightly. “You remember the touch of it, ne? We all do. Once felt, the whip is not something the body forgets. It remains in your blood, in your flesh.”
Theo swept his knife again, but this time the whip was too fast, coiling about his wrist, then wrenching the knife from his hand, flinging the steel to clatter on the floor and leaving crimson stripes across the fingers, below his vambraces.
“When you allow yourself to imagine my whip on your betrothed’s flesh” – Oppa flicked the whip suddenly and fresh blood slipped from Theo’s neck, the heat of the lash coming after it – “perhaps you might find yourself more willing to be ally than captive. It would, at least, make for a more pleasant return journey for us both.”
But Theo had already read the motion of the strands and seen his opening. He ducked beneath their reach and spun behind Oppa, his spatha coming up in his hand, poised to take the other man from behind, straight through the kidneys. He was aware of a strange noise as he did so – like the creaking of a door – but there was no wooden door to the ruins, he thought, as he spun. He realised too late what it was.
There is a cellar, he thought, even as he felt iron arms catch him before the sword entered Oppa. They are hidden in the old wine cellar where Kyros once brewed his arak, and Oppa has cornered me where they will enter.
He took the first few men who emerged with his sword, another with a brutal blow to the head, several more with blade and fist. Then they were too many, and he went down beneath a rush of mail and steel, fighting until he hung uselessly between the men.
“Ah well.” The smile was gone from Oppa’s face. “You will have some months to reconsider your position. Tie him tightly,” he ordered. “He will sail with us.” He gave the order with cold precision. “But be careful. There will be others hidden somewhere.”
“We found them already,” said one of the men. “The big black one killed most of the men you set as guards. But he is ours now.”
“Good,” Oppa said. “Make sure he is dead before we leave.” He turned to Elpis and smiled silkily. “Come, my sweetling. I would ensure you are safe aboard when we sail.”
Elpis rose from the chair, revealing the ties as no more than loose loops. Turning very deliberately toward Theo, she smiled coldly, then she reached up and touched Oppa’s face in a gesture of intimacy that made Theo wince. Oppa caught her hand and kissed it, a small smile playing on his mouth. “The first rule of whores,” he said lightly, “is to always ensure it is you who pays them.”
Theo spat blood onto the floor. “I am sorry,” he said thickly, meeting her eyes. “For what I did to you – and for what you will face still at his side. He is not your friend, Elpis.”
Elpis made a hard noise. “A whore does not need friends,” she said. “She needs coin, and a master to protect her. If you had taken me that first day in Gortyn, I never would have taken his coin. I loved you at first, Theo. And still you cast me aside as if I were no more than rubbish to be left behind. All that I have become is because of you.”
“I suspect,” said Oppa, watching Theo’s face with a small smile, “that Elpis will enjoy making the acquaintance of your betrothed, Theo. They will, I should imagine, have much to speak of.”
“May I take Pelagia?” Elpis asked, casting her eyes flirtatiously at Oppa from the door. “You promised that she could come with us.”
“I will not,” said Pelagia, glaring at Oppa. “I’m not going anywhere with him.”
“Pelagia,” said Elpis, her smile slightly strained. “Come now, hurry –”
“Go to the dromon,” Oppa commanded Elpis, all trace of softness gone. “I told you the little one would come with us. We will join you soon.”
Elpis, seeing the hard light in his eyes, turned reluctantly and left. The hilltop was oddly silent but for the pounding of Theo’s heart and the soft hitch of Pelagia’s breath.
The whip flashed out and this time it was no mere scratch; the blood flowed freely from Theo’s neck, warm and unwelcome as it ran down his chest. He must hold on, he told himself. He had to hold on until Yosef came, and until he was sure no other surprises waited in the shadows.
“This one” – Oppa turned to Pelagia and stood behind her, one hand stroking her cheek gently – “do you know why I kept her here, Theo?” He stroked the handle of the whip down her face, and the girl’s eyes widened in fear and revulsion. “Because she reminds me of the heiress from Illiberis,” said Oppa, dark eyes flashing. “She reminds me of Lælia. And before you board my dromon, I wish you to remember what I will do to Lælia if she does not relinquish Illiberis peacefully.”
His whip whistled through the air without warning, opening Pelagia’s flesh from shoulder to shoulder. Theo roared and Oppa spun, bringing the lash across the old wounds on his face. The world faded for a moment and Theo did not know if it was pain or fury that made his vision swim, but for a moment he feared he would lose consciousness, and he knew he could not, he must not. He must find a way to free himself from the cords and at the very least loose Pelagia so that she might escape before the whip rendered her unrecognisable. Oppa twisted between the two, his whip falling first on Theo, then on the child, who stared at him in mute anger, biting her lip to prevent herself from crying out. Theo felt the knots begin to give, the corded muscle of his arms beneath the rope manipulating the fibres and working them loose. He forced his eyes to remain on Oppa’s as the whip continued to hiss through the air, trying to remain alert to any other sounds before he called for help.
And then there was the sound of men and sword from beyond the ruins, and Oppa swung around, his face a picture of alarm.
A figure leaped into the room, spinning so fast Theo could barely discern who it was. With a flash of the newcomer’s knife, Pelagia was free, and at a murmured order she was racing from the ruins, clutching the shreds of her dress about her. Theo’s bindings were cut and he slumped to the floor, temporarily incapacitated as the blood raced back to his fingers. He raised his head to find Yosef facing Oppa, twirling a long, lethal sword, a small smile on his face.
“I know you told us to wait, Theo,” he said softly. “But the situation seemed to be growing rather urgent.”
“You.” Oppa stared at Yosef. “The Jew.”
A slow smile curled Yosef’s mouth.
“Yes,” he said softly. “I am a Jew.” Without warning, Yosef spun and vaulted into the air. When he landed, the whip was gone from Oppa’s hand, its coils wrapped around Yosef’s, the heavy handle dangling toward the floor. “Do you know,” said Yosef softly, staring at Oppa, “what Seneca said about the whip?” He spun and crashed the whip handle across Oppa’s face, a heavy blow that knocked him sideways. Yosef’s foot caught Oppa in his throat, knocking the air from him. Yosef pushed him up against the wall, the handle across Oppa’s throat holding the other man easily as he struggled against it. “You would not know of Seneca,” said Yosef, pushing the handle steadily harder so t
hat Oppa’s eyes began to cloud with blood. “Because you, just as your father before you, know nothing of the wisdom before your own time. Know nothing of learning, or knowledge, or beauty; value nothing more than the petty strength of your own arm.”
“Yosef,” rasped Theo, suddenly aware that the sounds of men and steel outside were coming closer. “We must hurry.”
“Seneca said,” went on Yosef, in the same calm, unhurried voice, “that there is no person so severely punished as those who subject themselves to the whip of their own remorse.” He pushed his face close to Oppa’s. “But you,” he hissed, “you have no remorse, do you, Oppa Egicason? You do not know what remorse is.” He pushed the whip handle hard against Oppa’s neck, then let it fall away. Oppa fell to the ground, panting, fingers clawing at the skin where the handle had been.
Theo had pulled on his clothes, wincing as the material brushed the raw meat where the whip had struck. He watched Yosef from the corner of his eye, seeing him raise his arm to deliver the death blow.
Then the door opened and men crashed through it in a haze of weapons and blood, Silas struggling in their midst. The room was suddenly full of steel and flesh, the deathly whirl of battle. Theo saw the welcome figure of Leofric lunge through another wall and cut Silas free from their grasp. “Theo!” Silas yelled. “Come! We must hurry!” Theo tried to cut his way through the crowd, but man after man poured into the small space in a steady stream: Slavs he knew from the camp, making a wall before Oppa and another behind Theo, preventing escape. Then there was nothing but the grim work of death and cutting. Yosef fought at his side with Silas and Leofric, the four of them grappling sword, iron, and mace, Theo’s blood and pain forgotten as he cut down man after man. It was terrible fighting, close and bloody, and for long moments there was nothing but grunts and bitter survival, but finally Theo saw the Slavic expressions turn from fight to fear, and they began to fall back.
But just as he pressed his victory, Theo staggered on a fallen body, and when he came up he realised it was not him the Slavs had run from, but whatever it was behind him. The Slavs looked over their shoulders, pointing and shouting as they ran down the hill. With sudden dread, Theo turned – and found himself facing a wall of spears and a sea of unfamiliar, Arabic faces.
One man stepped forward. Jerking their hands behind their backs, he clasped manacles about their wrists. “Oppa,” snarled Theo, lunging against the iron, bloodlust still coursing through his veins, watching in frustration as the Slavs pointed up at them from far below, clearly gloating over their capture. “Where has he gone?”
“Be still,” came Yosef’s voice, oddly calm, behind him. “Oppa did what he always does when he faces a fight he cannot win. He ran, Theo.”
Theo struggled impotently, staring out over the water far below as Oppa and his dromon pulled out, bound, Theo knew with dull certainty, for Spania and Lælia, safe in the knowledge that Theo would soon be tied to an Arabic oar and powerless to stop him telling whatever lies he chose.
Theo felt the cold weight of iron on his wrists, and dark despair grew within him.
The Arabic fulk bobbed up and down, Sebastopolis smoking and receding before Theo’s eyes as the harbour gave way to the sea. In a grim reprieve Theo did not yet understand, he and his three companions were the only prisoners not attached to oars. The other slaves, captives from lands unknown to any of them, stared at them in dumb incomprehension, not understanding their words. At least, Theo thought bitterly, it is not Oppa’s dromon. Their captors were Arabic, not Oppa’s paid mercenaries. The knowledge did little to appease him.
“Every time,” said Leofric bitterly, “that I follow you, Spaniard, I find myself in chains.” Silas’s heavy shoulders shook, and for a strange moment Theo thought the big man was crying; then he realised, with something of a shock, that Silas was shaking with suppressed laughter.
“You laugh!” Leofric spat into the ground, glaring at Silas and then at their Arabic captors. “You have a strange humour, African! Our dromons, they left. Dromons bound for Constantinople, to wine and women. We could have sailed, but, oh no. Instead we ride to find yet another enemy, and to the rescue of whores who do not wish to be rescued. And after all that, we do not kill the bastard and his whip. Oppa is gone. The child is gone.” His face darkened. “And this child,” he said roughly, “I like.” He spat to cover his emotion. “Theo is covered in whip marks. And you and I, African, once more, we are in chains.” Leofric lowered his head and shook it in sheer frustration. “It is done! I am done! The next time we fight, I leave you fools to die. How many times must a man tolerate chains? And now we have a Jew to add to our troubles.” He shot Yosef a faintly apologetic glance. “And I am having nothing to argue with Jews, you understand, but they are not easy travelling companions, ne? People, they are not liking so much Jews in many places – so now we have another reason to be killed. As if we need any more. Yehbach!”
“Why are we not rowing?” Silas said, looking around them. “This is something new for us, wenkai, no?”
But Theo did not answer. He was watching Yosef, who sat silently, a small smile on his face.
One of their captors moved from the prow of the fulk down to where they huddled around the thin mast, followed by another of his companions. Their features were broader than those of the Arabic captain, and when they reached Yosef, a smile broke out on their faces. Turning to check the sea behind them was clear of watching eyes, the first man reached down and removed Yosef’s manacles. “It was as you said it would be, Jew,” he said, grinning. “They saw what you wished them to see. Though I am sorry we lost your Spanish friend. He is a slippery one.”
Yosef gripped his arms, smiling. “You did all you promised, and more besides. Had you not come when you did, we would be dead. As it is, Oppa will certainly believe us to be, and that can only be an advantage.” He pulled a canvas away from some crates, and Pelagia scrambled from beneath it, hurling herself into Theo’s arms. Over her head, Yosef met Theo’s astonished smile with his own. “Oppa is not the only one to have made alliances in the Arabic camp,” he said. “But my allies have as much wish to return to their homeland as we do to ours – and allegiances that far outweigh Oppa’s coin.” He reached out to draw two men forward. “My friends have most recently been swords for Mohammed bin Marwan. In their homeland, however, they are known to all as sons of Dahiya, Queen of the Jerawa – and to me as my brothers. Their names are Bagay and Khanchla, and they have offered to facilitate our passage west to Septem and, from there, on to Spania.”
49
Laurentius
July, AD 692
Hispalis, Spania
Seville, Spain
“Given that every available man has already ridden north, leaving their crops to die in the fields and us all likely to starve come this winter, would you like to join me at meat tonight?” Laurentius’s tone was light, but his grey eyes were shadowed. Shukra was plaiting rope, his head bowed. The dromons lay slack in the river, their sails rolled in hemp sacking and safely stored. The young men they had worked so hard to train were gone, conscripted on one side of the war or the other.
None could stay out of it now. As the long days brought summer closer, the war had become a line dividing families, estates, and provinces.
“Are we to pretend at friendship, then, aziz-am?” Shukra spoke without looking up, and though his tone was mild, Laurentius heard the tension beneath it. “We have managed many months of strained silence. I do not like it. But I prefer it to eating good meat in bad company.”
“I do not forgive you for making Athanagild your spy, Shukra.” Laurentius’s tone was grim. “But this has gone on long enough. We can no longer afford petty quarrels to lie between us.”
Shukra snorted softly, not looking at him. “And so it is eating meat and sampling your finest vintages we will be – as everyone we know risks their lives?”
Laurentius stared at him. “You would censure me? On what grounds?”
Shukra flung down the
rope and faced him. “What are you thinking will happen when this is over? Are you thinking that Theo will come back to Spania? That Yosef will? That Athanagild will find himself in a church untouched by corruption? That Alaric might somehow survive and live to actually command this fleet that we both know was only ever a cover for your presence here?” He flung a hand in the air, eyes flashing, his face uncharacteristically dark. “You and I both know war. Most of those we trained will never return to us, aziz-am. Even if they do, they will be different to the boys they were when it began.”
“What of the mission we sent Yosef and Theo upon? What of Garnata, and Ilyan, the alliances we have laboured to put in place?” Laurentius looked at his friend, his face gaunt and pale. “Do you think those, too, doomed? What is it you expect me to do – ride to war myself, when it is you who have counselled discretion these four years past and more? If I declare now, I lose any hope left to me of helping them all. I will no longer be neutral, will be named traitor and imprisoned, at best.” His mouth tightened grimly as he stared unseeing at the dromons on the water, silent and still. “If I join this fight, who will they have to fight for them when this is done? If I ride to war, who will ensure their sacrifices are not in vain?”
“Ah!” Shukra paced agitatedly. Then he slowed, and his face softened as he looked at the tall, strong shoulders upon which so much rested that could not be shared. “Aziz-am,” he said gently. “I am not thinking good, nor speaking, nor doing. Forgive me.”
Laurentius turned, his face tired and resigned. “But you are right,” he said bleakly. “I cannot stay out of this any longer. I cannot bear to.”
The King's Coin: Ambition is the only faith (Visigoths of Spain Book 2) Page 41