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

by Paula Constant

  He knew he should not covet power, nor worship at the altar of ambition. Felix had seen good men undone by their desire to wield power in the Church. Julian had groomed him to be a better man than such opportunists, to be one who served the Church, and God, rather than seeking to put either at his own service.

  And yet.

  His hand touched the parchment.

  When God himself presented such an opportunity, should it be denied? When such corruption was exposed to his eye, was there not a duty to correct it, to restore honour and integrity to the office Julian had worked so hard to elevate?

  I have witnessed depravities of such vile corruption I cannot speak of them…

  Felix had read Athanagild’s parchment so many times the words played in his mind like an oft-sung ballad. The queen herself and her mother the victims of a poisoning thwarted only by careful planning. The Church made vulnerable by a plot that, if widely known, would threaten forever its credibility and honour.

  Felix halted in the corridor, sick and breathless with what the words meant. “Sisebut must be removed,” he said aloud; then he glanced around, colouring, his heartbeat calming only when he knew he was alone.

  There is no other way, he thought. Athanagild’s delicate phrasing had not deceived Felix. He had not lived his whole life in the Church without knowing the sins of which its adherents were capable. He had easily read between the pained lines. That Athanagild did not state his plight openly spoke only of the poor child’s own honour, his desperate and lonely attempt to ask for help without condemning his superior beyond redemption. But Felix was not fooled.

  He was furious.

  If, as Athanagild intimated in his letter, Sunifred himself suspected his archbishop’s depravities, sought even to exploit them, then Sisebut must be exposed, condemned, and made a symbol of what the Church would not tolerate within its ranks. If any should know of this conspiracy of priests and sodomites, kings and poison, the Church would be lost, undone forever, its rule destroyed and its authority forever tainted.

  The responsibility for the plot against Liuvgoto and her daughter must live and die with Sisebut and Sunifred, Felix thought, associated with the ambition of corrupt men and decisively condemned by the Church and all within it.

  So absorbed was he in the thoughts that had whirled in his mind since the letter had been slipped into his hand that Felix did not notice the shadow that did not belong in the corridor, nor sense the presence of another until an arm whipped about his throat, pulling him beneath the cover of an archway and into blackness. He struggled briefly, but the embrace held him like a vice.

  “The letter you hold,” came a voice in his ear. “From whom was it sent?” Felix felt a cold terror grip his throat; he knew only that he must not betray Athanagild at any cost.

  “I do not know what you speak of,” he said, his voice quavering but clear.

  “Yes, you do.” One hand touched Felix’s chest, covering the outline of the parchment beneath. “You touch it so many times a day you have worn a stain in your robes. Is it a letter of romance you so treasure? Do you, like your brother in Toletum, lust after young men in the service of the Church?”

  “No!” Felix gasped, his horror genuine this time. “I have never… such atrocities defile the word of God –”

  “But you tolerate them,” went on the voice in his ear. “You allow others to pursue their desires, to make victims of innocents. All this horror you allow, to protect your Church and your God.”

  “What do you want?” Felix squirmed against the iron grip, but he was held as easily as a worm on a hook, unable to turn to face his captor. “Why do you come here?”

  “Because I know the words of the letter you hold,” went on the voice, its chilling clarity striking terror deep into Felix’s blood. “I know who it condemns, and for what. My question to you is this: who will you see suffer for its contents? Who does the Church intend to see publicly exposed?”

  “I do not know of what you speak,” said Felix, and now he found an ice-cold resolve within. Even if I die, he thought fiercely, I will see that Athanagild, who has risked all, will suffer no more. I will not allow such sacrifice. Athanagild’s gaunt hazel eyes crossed his mind, and he felt again the mingled shame and rage that such a child, a noble child offered to God, should have been used in such manner.

  “Do you believe me,” hissed the voice, “when I am saying that should you so much as whisper of doing harm to the author of those words that I will be seeing you dead and the Church you love so dearly exposed to the world?”

  Felix frowned. He had heard that odd lilt before, yet he could not precisely place where. “I told you,” said Felix resolutely. “I know nothing of any letter, nor your purpose here.”

  A soft chuckle moved the hair by his ear, and Felix flinched. “I am thinking,” came the voice again, “that you were the right choice, aziz-am. I had not thought to find an honourable man in your number. It seems that, for once, I was wrong.” Felix felt a fierce rush of relief, which disappeared when the grip on his neck tightened. “But you will be remembering,” came the voice again, and this time the deadly note in it had returned, “that I am watching you. I am protecting the hand that wielded that pen. Should you be thinking that perhaps your loyalty is misplaced, I will be there, my friend, to remind you. Do you understand?”

  Felix did not speak, though his head moved briefly in a curt nod of agreement.

  The soft chuckle came again, and the grip on his neck loosened. A moment later, Felix spun wildly on the spot, his eyes searching the empty corridor. But the shadow was gone, and there was nothing but the still, dark silence of the house of God. Felix stood for a moment, his heart thudding sickly. What would cause a man to risk his very soul by attacking a priest in the house of God? he thought. And that accent – where have I heard it before?

  An image of Laurentius Severianus crossed his mind. He shook his head. It was not the scholar, he would swear it. He knew Laurentius well, had sat whilst Severianus’s son and Julian discussed books until late in the night. The man was many things, and Felix would gamble his career – and more – that Laurentius’s sword had tasted blood more than any priest might wish to know of, but he was not a shadow who skulked in corners, of that he was certain.

  Then why do I think of him when I hear that voice?

  He frowned, searching his memory until he remembered standing outside Laurentius’s study in Hispalis, long ago, by a half-opened door. I forbid you to approach Athanagild again, Shukra, Laurentius had said. I do not know what games or whispers have brought you to his door, but you will desist … And for the time, at least, remove yourself from my house and from my sight. I cannot look at you any more than I can look at myself.

  Shukra.

  That is his name, Felix thought. The shadowy Persian who trains Laurentius’s fleet, who has unfettered access to all those young men. The man my monk suspected of meeting Athanagild in a house of sin in Toletum.

  Laurentius’s words came to him again: I do not know what games or whispers have brought you to his door, but you will desist…

  He remembered the white face and stricken eyes of the Persian when Shukra had pushed past him in Laurentius’s house that day long ago. So intent upon his own business had Felix been that he had not given much thought to a private quarrel. Besides, training young men in the art of war was, he had imagined, a volatile exercise.

  But now the exchange played through his mind again, and he sifted through the information he knew about the foreigner. He has made it known that he frequents brothels, Felix thought. Has paraded it, in fact. I know barely anything of the man, but I know that. His antics with women are the stuff of legend in Hispalis.

  And what better way to disguise his true proclivities?

  Felix clenched his hands in anger. He thought of Laurentius Severianus, a man of unimpeachable honour, probably dependent on Shukra’s alliance with Count Ilyan and the coin sent from across the seas. What injustice, for a man of Laurentius�
�s calibre to be forced to endure the company of a depraved sodomite and yet unable to condemn him out of duty to Spania! Felix bowed his head sorrowfully at the thought of Laurentius’s nobility and sacrifice.

  And now this Persian, the descendant of sorcerers and heretics who practised arcane arts and defiled the name of God, came out of the shadows and threatened one of God’s own – all because he wished himself to pursue the innocent young man he purported to defend.

  He desires Athanagild for himself, thought Felix in disgust. And he wishes to ensure the boy is protected, all the better for him to take what is left when Sisebut is condemned.

  Athanagild’s letter had not stated so blatantly his relationship with Sisebut. But Felix could tell the enormous pressure the boy was under, the impossible position in which he had been placed. And now, he thought bitterly, when finally he reaches out for help from those who should have protected him, another waits in the wings, already planning his insidious approach.

  “Well, I will not allow it!” Felix’s own voice startled him. He looked around guiltily, but none had heard him. “I will see both of them condemned for this horror,” he whispered, picturing Sisebut’s plump, lascivious face and the dark-eyed, slender little Persian, who now, in his mind, appeared the very essence of stealth and deception.

  “I will see both held accountable for their horrors to God and man. I will give that brave child the satisfaction of the Church’s justice. I will see he is rewarded for his extraordinary loyalty to the institution sworn to protect him – and which yet betrayed him in the foulest way imaginable.”

  He began walking again, his heart beating steadily now with the intensity of his purpose. I will do what must be done, he thought resolutely. I will honour Athanagild’s confidence by bringing to public justice those who would threaten him.

  And content in the knowledge that he trod a moral path that would deliver a justice others could never appreciate, Felix, bishop of Hispalis and soon to be prelate over all Hispania, returned to his bedchamber – and to the untroubled sleep of a man assured of his righteousness.

  52

  Oppa

  November, AD 692

  Carthage, Mauretania

  Carthage, Tunisia

  The port of Carthage, Oppa thought, seemed an oasis after the cesspool of Sebastopolis. As busy and hurried as the docks were, still men paid him barely a passing glance as he disembarked. He was no more than another wealthy merchant in a port full of them. A few cursory enquiries led him to a tavern on the outskirts of the city. It was barely sundown, but Giscila had clearly been there for some time.

  “Uncle.” Oppa looked about him in distaste. “Surely my coin buys better surroundings?”

  “In Carthage,” said Giscila, spitting to one side and looking about blearily, “it is often better to remain in the shadows. It is not a city for ostentation.”

  “There is a fine line between the shadows and the gutter.” Oppa wrinkled his nose. “This establishment crossed that line long ago.”

  “I am certain we have better things to discuss than the quality of the tavern.” Giscila gestured for wine as Oppa took a stool opposite him. “I will confess, I am glad to see you. I had heard ominous rumblings from the Arab merchants arriving here.”

  “Sebastopolis fell to the caliph’s forces,” said Oppa bluntly. “It was a rout.”

  “And yet you escaped?”

  “Of course.” Oppa shrugged. “I made alliance with the winning side long before it came to war.”

  “And Theudemir of Aurariola?”

  It was only long-established habit that kept the emotion Oppa felt from showing on his face. It had taken most of the voyage from Sebastopolis, and the frenzied whipping of several unfortunate slaves, before he had managed to get his rage under control.

  “If Aurariola is not dead, he is a slave of the Arabs.” Something of what he felt must yet have been discernible in his eyes, for Giscila recoiled slightly. Oppa felt a flash of savage satisfaction. It did not hurt, he thought, for men to suspect something of the darkness within.

  “I had thought,” Giscila said carefully, “that you meant to find common ground with him.”

  “I found it for long enough to catch him in a trap that will make him mine should he dare return to Spania.” He gave Giscila a hard look that forbade any further enquiry. Oppa was not a man who liked loose ends. Theudemir of Aurariola was a dangerous loose end, one Oppa would have preferred tied neatly in a knot of his own devising before landing on Spania’s shores.

  “The heiress from Illiberis,” Oppa said. “I heard you found her?” He saw surprise flare in Giscila’s eyes. In fact, Oppa had heard no such thing, had not known it until he saw his relative’s reaction. But there was no reason for Giscila to know that.

  “You have good sources,” said Giscila, eyeing him warily. When it became clear Oppa would give no answer, Giscila continued: “I found her, yes.”

  “And?” Oppa turned the cup slowly in his hand, feeling no satisfaction at the wariness he saw in Giscila’s eyes.

  “I assured her of my support should she ever wish to call upon it.” When Oppa continued to look at him, Giscila sighed. “She did not welcome my offer. But I believe I sowed doubt enough to make her question what she did not before – Theudemir’s loyalty.”

  “Good.” Oppa sat back, stroking his wine cup meditatively. Lælia’s uncertainty, combined with the presence of the whore Elpis and the parchment Oppa never let out of his tunic, were tools enough to destroy Theudemir should he make another miraculous reappearance. “This gives us something, at least, to work with.”

  “How?” Giscila leaned forward. “There is a great distance between sowing doubt and alliance. Lælia of Illiberis is not like to trust me simply because she no longer knows if her betrothed is loyal to her.”

  “Not knowing whom to trust may not be the basis for alliance. But it does provide fertile ground upon which a successful attack might be launched.” He met Giscila’s eyes. “What word from Spania?”

  “Toletum has fallen to Sunifred, Duke of Hispalis.”

  Oppa’s hand clenched hard on the wine cup. He felt cold dread squeeze his chest. “Fallen,” he repeated, endeavouring to keep his voice even. “And my father?”

  “Egica lives.” Oppa was aware of Giscila watching him closely. “He is not yet beaten. Only a matter of days ago I came across a Spaniard who recently fled our beloved homeland. Now that his enemies have shown themselves, Egica turns south, razing everything between the northern border and Toletum. He rides to take back the capital, and he shows no mercy to those who betrayed him. The man I met had lent his support to Sunifred. He was forced to flee with no more than his wife, his children, and what he could carry.” He met Oppa’s eyes. “He believes Egica allowed Toletum to fall deliberately.”

  Oppa felt satisfaction curl in his stomach. “Yes,” he mused. “That was always my father’s plan, to lure our enemies into the open.”

  “And what do you plan?” Giscila looked at him. “Will you return?”

  “I think I must.”

  “What will you do?”

  “First,” said Oppa, smiling faintly, “I will ride to Illiberis. I have men enough, I think, to take it, and I can buy more whilst here. Sebastopolis proved more lucrative than even I had imagined. After I exchange the Arabic coin I hold here in Carthage, I will have resources to rival those of my own father.” He smiled at Giscila’s shock. “And you, Uncle? Will you stay and drink in Carthage – or join me on my return?”

  Giscila spat to one side and looked at Oppa with narrowed eyes, all trace of drunkenness gone. “I think, nephew,” he said, “that it is time I went home.”

  Oppa nodded slowly, feeling excitement unfurl inside him. At last, he would return. He would take both Illiberis and Aurariola and, if Theudemir lived still, he held a parchment that would do it for him whilst also driving a sword between Theudemir and Lælia that could never be truly removed. If Theudemir of Aurariola dared return, he would live
only by his, Oppa’s, mercy and absolutely under his control. And control, Oppa would have.

  Oppa was no longer dependent on his father’s coin or goodwill. He had no need to bow to the Church unless it served his purpose. And if the Arabs came, he would be the man with whom they dealt.

  I need never, Oppa thought with a savage satisfaction, bow to anyone again. He thought of Lælia’s golden stare, her defiance in court. We shall see, he thought exultantly, how defiant you are when your grandfather is dead, Theudemir is gone or condemned as traitor, and you face the might my coin can buy. His mind was already busy plotting his conquest. Illiberis would have sent men to fight alongside Sunifred. Its defences would be weak and focused on the northern approaches.

  They will not expect attack from the south or east, he thought, and I will ensure none know we come until it is too late. If it must be taken by force, take it I can.

  He raised his cup, and Giscila met it with his own. “To Mater Spania,” Giscila said.

  “Ja.” Oppa smiled. “To going home.”

  53

  Alaric

  January, AD 693

  Toletum, Spania

  Toledo, Spain

  The plains were bitterly cold. Alaric and his men rode with hard rain in their faces and no sound but the dull thud of hooves and despair. They were too tired to talk, and too filled with what they had seen to wish to share it. Of the five thousand men Alaric had led north, barely five hundred remained. Of those, most were on foot and scattered now across the country, trying to find a way back to their own lands unmolested after their cause had been lost.

  “They all knew you would have to ride hard in retreat if it came to it,” Teudolfo said, riding close to him. “You cannot fear for them now, Alaric. We can only return to Toletum and hope to hold it.”