“And yet you must.”
Laurentius raised his eyebrows. “Were you not just saying that I should –”
Shukra waved an impatient hand. “Are you not knowing by now that you should be ignoring what I am saying? Surely after all these years you are knowing I speak without thinking?”
“What is it, Shukra?” Laurentius frowned at his friend. “Even your silence – which, I should tell you, is not so inscrutable as you like to believe – has been like a stirred wasp nest since you returned from Toletum.” His face coloured faintly, and he cleared his throat behind his hand, trying to keep his voice steady. “Is it Athanagild?”
Shukra eyed him narrowly. “The last time I am speaking of Athanagild you told me you could not look upon my face, and here we are, months later, still arguing. Do not blame a man for caution, aziz-am.”
“I know he continues to work for you.” Laurentius’s mouth tightened in a thin line. “I do not like it, but I know it. I know you saw him,” he said roughly. “And though I might despise the fact of it, I can bear even less not knowing what danger he is in.”
“There are things I do not say, with good reason. On your orders, I might add.” Shukra gave him a grim look. “This is being one of those things you do not want to hear.”
Laurentius took an uneven step forward. He gripped Shukra’s arm. “Is he… is Athanagild…” He swallowed, eyes searching Shukra’s face; then he released his grip and stepped back, fighting to regain control.
“If you are asking me,” said Shukra flatly, “how Athanagild is, I can tell you this: the young man – he is not a boy, Laurentius, and he has not been one for a long time, so do not be looking like this to me – the young man is in perfect health. He is a fine priest and an intelligent scholar.” He looked at Laurentius shrewdly. “He is also the most lonely, and alone, person I know. Except, perhaps, for you.”
Laurentius stared at him, colour chasing over his face, white to flushed and back to white again.
“You are asking me,” Shukra said quietly, “what I am thinking you should do in this ridiculous war. You and I are both knowing Sunifred’s cause is lost, was lost before it was ever starting. All of the south is knowing this, though they are having no choices but to fight. But this fight, you are right in knowing, is not being your fight. You have no lands, command no men. You need not declare at all; you may sit here, in Hispalis, and pretend to ponder your books and train your fleet, and no man can ever prove you do otherwise. This is being the smart thing. The safe thing. The right thing for all the reasons you are saying.
“But in Toletum, a young man is risking his life every day. He is having nobody to speak with, nobody to counsel him in what is right. On his shoulders he carries more weight than any other man in this kingdom, perhaps, at this time is carrying. And he is making decisions any grown man would drink himself to death attempting to fathom, whilst you hold yourself aloof, out of some misguided sense of honour.”
“But –”
Shukra held up a hand. “Do not,” he said bleakly, “be explaining to me. You are as my brother and are the only family I am having since we were both boys. We do not speak of your nature, not because I am repulsed by it but because you worry I will be. No, aziz-am – you will not wave me away. I have long known what you are. Do you think I would stand at your side if it concerned me? Did I not say as much, many years ago? I take my women in taverns, Laurentius, and more of them than many men would think rational. If you take your pleasure from a different tavern, who am I to care, or judge? But you do not even do this since your return to Spania. At first, I am thinking it is because your Church here is so stern and your people so grim. But it has been long now since I have known the true reason. I stayed silent only because I am respecting your wishes. But I can no longer be silent, aziz-am. I will no longer be silent.”
Laurentius frowned but did not speak.
“I will not listen anymore,” said Shukra, “to your reasons for this distance from Athanagild. I cannot hear the excuses you are telling yourself. I am not pretending to know what may lie in your heart, for no man can know the truth of another’s. I am knowing only this: that whatever comfort you both seek does not lie in my power to give, and that it is long past time you spoke to one another rather than through me. There is but one battle at this time that you must enter, aziz-am,” he said softly. “Only one battle that requires your honour, and only one warrior who needs your strength. And whilst we both must live with the decision to stand aside from a war we both know lost, I do not wish you to stand aside from the one battle that may still be won. And now I am saying all I must.” Shukra gripped his shoulder briefly then walked to the door. “Come, old friend. You can show me how your poor Spanish cook has murdered the meat this time.”
But he spoke to the air, for Laurentius had already gone. Shukra smiled to himself. “Go, aziz-am,” he murmured. “Go, and may Ahura Mazda bring peace to your heart.”
Laurentius rode hard through the night, his blood racing with a curious mixture of euphoria and dread. The air was hot and foetid, stars dim behind dust haze. War seemed to have trodden the very sky into sullen waiting, as if all the world hung on what was coming.
It was strange to ride from Hispalis to Toletum barely seeing any evidence of the war itself. In the north, he knew, battles were raging, coming ever closer to the capital. But south of the great plains, what men were left gathered their crops and tended their herds, raking the ground beneath the olive trees in preparation for the coming season.
He tried not to think of what he would do once he reached the capital. He must enter it officially, but clearly as no more than a visitor, a man who owned one of the greatest libraries in Toletum and had a right to be there. To appear otherwise would mean destroying his carefully guarded position of neutrality, and this he could not afford to do, no matter how much it chafed to be thought an idle aristocrat in a time of war.
He slept beneath a bush by the roadside as the sun rose, wrapped in his cloak, and rode as the shadows grew long, and under cover of darkness. He crossed the Tagus at the old Roman bridge on the eastern approach, the guards in the fortress accepting the scrolls he offered without question since they bore Sunifred’s own seal. Contemptuous of Laurentius’s neutrality Sunifred might be, but he was astute enough to know the value of the Severianus name on his council and had already asked that Laurentius advise him when peace came. Privately certain the day would never come when Sunifred would reign over peace, Laurentius nonetheless maintained good faith. Diplomacy, after all, he thought bitterly as he rode the steep road up to the domus he had long left unattended, is what I do best now.
He stabled his horse at the rear and entered the silent house quietly. He had sent no word of his arrival. His servants were all in his family villa, beyond Toletum’s walls. He had come here desiring few to know of his presence. He was relieved to find the place empty. He found wine in the cellar and ate the cheese and bread he carried, washing in water from his flask. He slept fitfully for the remainder of the night, wrapped in his cloak on a lectus, and made his way to the monastery in the still predawn. The priests were leaving the church after lauds, shuffling quietly back to the monastery to break their fast.
Laurentius spotted Athanagild immediately. Shukra is right, he thought, shrinking against the wall near the church as he watched from a distance. Athanagild was no longer a boy – though, in truth, Laurentius knew Athanagild had not been a boy for many years, perhaps not since they had met. It was a fiction Laurentius had told himself, a wall his conscience had built to shield his heart from what it had known from the first time he had looked into Athanagild’s perceptive hazel eyes.
The young man in front of him was tall and lean, and he walked with an assurance that belonged to one much older. He bent his head to listen to a senior priest, his face alert and intelligent. Perhaps because of Shukra’s words, Laurentius saw in Athanagild’s expression a certain watchfulness he had not before noticed. Guilt and affection seized his
heart like a physical pain.
A young boy was collecting water at the pump in the square. Laurentius beckoned him over and handed him a coin. The boy raced off, and when Athanagild held the door open for the older priest, the boy tugged his robes and the tall figure bent down to listen. Laurentius saw something in his face flare, a sudden rush of emotion; then the pale mask was back, and Athanagild nodded and held his hand on the boy’s head as if the child had done nothing more than ask a blessing.
Laurentius moved away, his heart thudding, and made for the bathhouse by the river.
“You should not be here.”
Athanagild moved into the dim light and closed the door behind him. His face was guarded, and he eyed Laurentius with a wariness that hurt the older man somewhere deep inside. I have done this, he thought despairingly. It is I who taught him that caution.
“This is a fine greeting,” said Laurentius, attempting a smile. Athanagild didn’t return it.
“Why did you come?”
Laurentius found himself uncharacteristically disconcerted. He waved a hand aimlessly. “Shukra –”
“He told you.” Athanagild’s composure broke, and he spun, knocking the brazier to the floor in an angry clatter. “I knew he would,” he muttered. “Can nobody be trusted?”
Something warned Laurentius to remain quiet. “He meant it for the best,” he said, feeling his way carefully. “Shukra worries for you a great deal, Athanagild.”
“It was not his fault.” Athanagild looked at him, shame and defiance warring in his eyes. “I gave him little choice in the matter. But the ruse worked. Liuvgoto and her daughter fell ill, but the poison failed. They live because of our interference. And Sunifred will not readily make the same attempt twice. Sisebut himself is terrified at how close he came to accusation. The abbess asked some very probing questions during the time Liuvgoto and her daughter lay ill.”
Laurentius stared at him. “Poison,” he said blankly. “You gave Cixilo – the queen – and her mother poison?”
The colour drained from Athanagild’s face. “Shukra did not tell you,” he said.
Laurentius shook his head. “No,” he said slowly. “Not this.” There was a moment’s silence in which they stared at each other; then Laurentius exploded. “If they had died,” he said furiously, “what then? The south would have erupted into open war amongst themselves. Not only would this doomed rebellion have failed, but the very men who now at least find amity in their hatred of Egica would have turned on one another. Such an act is not only folly, Athanagild. It is vicious, the act of a madman or a fool.”
“Precisely.” Athanagild’s tone was cold. His eyes glittered dangerously. “Which is exactly why I sought Shukra’s help to neutralise the poison and render it harmless. And despite his own bitter opposition Shukra did so, knowing it was the best choice available.”
“The best choice?” Laurentius gaped at him. “As decided by whom? You, Athanagild?” His hand struck the wall so hard the sconce trembled. “How does it come to be that a boy who has barely taken orders is taking decisions a grown man would blanch at? Are you so seduced by the world of whispers you think yourself immune to the judgement of God?”
“The judgement of God?” Athanagild laughed derisively. “Listen to your own words! Since when have you cared for the judgement of God? And do you share your own plans with any? Plans that I know go far beyond the careless attitude you adopt at court or the fleet that conceals the mission upon which you sent my brother. You seem free in your condemnation of others whilst disdaining ever to lay your own agenda open for scrutiny. Yet you dare stand here and question my actions?” Athanagild shook his head impatiently. “You dare,” he said softly, holding Laurentius’s eye, “to deny who you are – what you are?”
Laurentius met the hard, glittering challenge in the hazel eyes, tasted the danger in the air. The words hung between them, living coals making the air spark. Laurentius felt the iron control he had clung to in the long, lonely years since his return to Spania falter, then finally fall.
“Damn it,” he muttered roughly. “I have tried, Athanagild. Xristus knows, I have tried to stay away.”
“Then don’t,” whispered Athanagild. “Please – don’t.”
Then Laurentius had the pale face between his hands, Athanagild’s lithe form against his own, and his mouth was hard and bruising on the other as he thrust him backward against the wall. For a moment Athanagild was frozen beneath his touch. Then he surged against Laurentius, taking as fiercely as Laurentius gave, the sparks in the air becoming a roaring blaze so the blood pumped in Laurentius’s ears and there was nothing but the pounding of his heart and the lean, hard body in his arms. He lost himself in the savage passion that had burned for years now until it melted, slowly, into something else, something deeper that made him groan in the back of his throat and finally push himself away so they stood staring at each other, breathing hard.
“Not here,” said Laurentius hoarsely, looking around at the bathhouse. “We need to talk. We need privacy.”
“No.” Athanagild’s hand came up and touched Laurentius’s cheek, then fell away. “No talking. Not now. Not with all this.” His waving hand indicated the world beyond the bathhouse: the war, the Church, his family. “We cannot stay here,” he said roughly. “This place is watched. And if I leave with you, if we are found together, Sisebut will kill us both. For now – at least – you must leave by the front entrance, perhaps take a whore with you. For now, this cannot be.”
Laurentius nodded slowly, his blood racing with a strange, reckless euphoria he had never thought to feel again, like a lick of freedom amidst the cold, grey control he exerted on every other aspect of his life. He reached out to touch the pale face. Athanagild bent his head, leaning into the hand calloused by sword and war, his hazel eyes fierce in the dim light. Laurentius felt the mad heat of lust simmering beneath his skin. Searching for distraction, he cleared his throat. “Tell me though,” he said. “Liuvgoto and her daughter Cixilo. Are they still in danger?”
Athanagild nodded, and Laurentius felt the frantic tension of his jaw against his hand. “I cannot risk visiting them too often.” He looked at Laurentius, his eyes heavy with hidden knowledge. “Everything is watched, you understand,” he said in a low voice. “Every visit, every word. To slip is to die.”
Laurentius shook his head. “My God,” he said softly. “All this you have lived alone.”
Athanagild’s hand came up and covered his own. “But not anymore,” he whispered.
“No.” Laurentius’s eyes searched his face, and a quiet joy spread through his chest. “No, Athanagild. Not anymore.”
50
Alaric
September, AD 692
Toletum, Spania
Toledo, Spain
“My lord, the die cutter is here to discuss your coins.”
Sunifred’s face lit up. “Send him in, send him in!”
Alaric and Teudolfo exchanged a glance. “My lord,” said Alaric carefully, “we need to discuss strategy in the north. Favila has been captured, and Egica is riding for Vallisoletum. It is less than three hundred miles from here. We do not have a lot of time.”
Sunifred’s face darkened. He drank deeply from his wine cup. “I have already sent messengers to the lords on the plains between here and there, ordering them to lay down arms. When my coins are struck, they will become the new currency. Anyone trading in Egica’s coin will be known as a traitor.” He sat back and looked at them with a smug smile. “See how long they remain in rebellion once Egica’s coin cannot buy so much as a goat for meat.”
Alaric stared at him. “My lord –” he began tentatively.
Sunifred waved him aside. “Wars are no longer won,” he said loftily, “with the sword alone. They are won primarily with coin, and persuasion. It is time for the harvest. Men’s thoughts turn to the coming winter and how they will feed their families.”
He beckoned Cato, the die cutter, forward. The man wore rich robes and ey
ed Sunifred disdainfully. His, Alaric knew, was a private trade, handed down from father to son, jealously guarded. Sunifred had sent Alaric to search the man out, and it had taken considerable amounts of both ale and coin before Cato had condescended to attend Sunifred’s court. He did not choose who sat on the throne, Cato had sniffed to Alaric, and must cut the dies he was ordered – but since his family were the sole owners of the secrets of punching the planchets into shape, he did not demean himself to those whose images graced his finished product.
Now he handed the dies to Sunifred for examination. “My lord has not granted enough time for sophisticated work,” he said.
Sunifred waved his hand dismissively. “Read it to me.”
“Sunifred,” intoned the cutter, tracing the letters. “Victor of Toletum.” He glanced at Alaric, who nodded for him to continue. His lips pursed. “My son has made the same for the city of Emerita, as you decreed.”
“Good.” Sunifred nodded at the die. “And the bust – it is as I ordered: of myself, not of Christ?” Behind him, Sisebut’s mouth tightened.
The die cutter cast the archbishop a wary glance, then nodded to Sunifred. “I have removed the three-pointed cross, my lord.”
“Gut.” Sunifred nodded in satisfaction and dismissed Cato with a wave. The cutter pursed his lips and cast a resentful glance at the throne as he gathered his dies. The planchets, he had informed Alaric haughtily, would be of the crudest alloy – and he would make certain no mark was left to designate such barbaric coin as his own work.
Sunifred watched the man go, a satisfied smile on his face. “Sisebut,” he said. The archbishop moved to stand behind him. “Do you have the list of names I asked you to prepare?”
“I do, Fráuja.” Sisebut nodded to a young deacon, who scurried out of the hall. “We can review them immediately.”
The King's Coin: Ambition is the only faith (Visigoths of Spain Book 2) Page 42