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

by Paula Constant

  Athanagild watched the terrible sight until he saw the defences crumble and his father and Paulus fall beneath the dreadful rush of men. Shukra turned to Athanagild, his face dark. “Now,” he said, “you must ride for the monastery and Laurentius. You can no longer be here.”

  Athanagild looked down at the blazing field, where the hordes of Egica’s men now poured across the bridge. From the walls of the city, the southern forces were no longer even discernible amongst the might of Egica’s numbers.

  Athanagild turned away, dead inside.

  “Ride.” Shukra’s cloak hid his face. “I will meet you there. But you must go, now.”

  “Yes.” Athanagild’s voice seemed to come from far away. “I will go.”

  He left the city by the lone northern road, his horse picking its way through olive groves littered with bodies. Night had fallen as battle raged. A dull moon showed blood in dark patterns on the olive leaves, but with the fighting having long moved south, the fields were strangely peaceful, so at odds with the destruction behind him it felt unnatural. Grief and guilt sat on Athanagild’s heart, heavy as the low mist that covered the dead. He wondered why he should ride at all. He should have been on the field at his father’s side, no matter the old warrior’s instructions. He did not know where Alaric was, but he could not imagine any surviving that slaughter. He could not bear to think of it, nor of his own terrible failure to do anything of material help.

  The olive trees had given way to holm oak, and he had turned toward the monastery, sick at heart, when horsemen barred his way. “I am a priest,” Athanagild said dully, caring little if they killed him. “I have nothing of value for you.”

  “Except,” said a familiar voice, muffled by a helmet, “a farewell, perhaps.”

  “Alaric!”

  Athanagild tumbled from his horse and met his brother in a hard embrace, the ground soft beneath their feet as holm oak dripped overhead.

  “I hoped to find you,” said Alaric, his eyes searching his brother’s face. “You are safe, then. Thank God you did as Father ordered – I was not sure you would. And Laurentius? Shukra?”

  Athanagild nodded. “All safe. Laurentius is at the monastery with Liuvgoto, Shukra close behind me. We did as you ordered – as Father ordered.” His mouth worked. “Though nothing has ever cost me so dear as to stand aside and watch it,” he said roughly. “Nor left me more shamed.”

  Alaric gripped his shoulders. “We must honour their wishes, Athanagild, no matter the cost. It is the right thing,” he said, his voice hoarse with pain. “You know it as well as I. This battle could never be won. Father knew it, as did Paulus. That is why they ordered us both to leave.”

  Athanagild swallowed, nodding. “And you?” he asked. “Where do you ride now, Alaric?”

  “To Illiberis, for Rekiberga and Lælia. On Father’s orders.”

  “He lives then?” Athanagild searched his brother’s face, hungrily.

  “He lived an hour ago. Now – I do not know.” Alaric met his eyes. “I do not think it likely, Athanagild,” he said quietly. Alaric glanced at the men behind him, then drew Athanagild aside. “I must trust Shukra’s men got Rekiberga out of Hispalis,” he said grimly, “for there is no time to ride there. Egica will not wait long after Toletum falls. He is hungry for vengeance and will give the south no time to rally. I must ride for Illiberis.”

  Athanagild gripped his brother’s arm. “Lælia.”

  “I know,” said Alaric harshly. “I remember our promise to Theo. I will see her safe.”

  Athanagild nodded. They embraced, hard and briefly, and mounted their horses.

  “I will pray for you,” said Athanagild.

  Alaric turned to his horse. “Don’t.” His smile was ironic as he mounted. “I’m far beyond salvation, Athanagild, as well you know.”

  “Keep Lælia safe,” said Athanagild again.

  Alaric’s mouth twisted. “What are brothers for?” For a moment they looked at one another, their eyes full of memories and of what could not be said. And then the brothers parted ways, riding in opposite directions.

  Neither looked back, for there was nothing left to say.

  56

  Lælia

  February, AD 693

  Illiberis, Spania

  Granada, Spain

  The Riders had landed at six different points on the coast, under cover of darkness and wearing the red tunics of the Karabisianoi. They were met by tribesmen who had spent the past months training Illiberis horse on the plains near Sexi, waiting for this moment. The Riders bundled the red tunics into their sleeping blankets, changed into their robes, and travelled through the night on mountain paths known only to the tribes, staying away from the eyes of those who would notice such things. They arrived at the villa three days later.

  Lælia greeted the first detachment on a winter dawn, and her face broke into a smile. “Zdan,” she said, greeting one of Dahiya’s oldest and most trusted lieutenants. “I did not think Dahiya would spare so valuable a man to my cause.”

  Jadis gambolled happily about his feet. The scarred old warrior bent his head courteously, but there was a glimmer of humour in his eyes as he patted the cat’s head and said, “With two hundred head of horse at stake, do you think she would entrust her Riders to anyone else?”

  The men behind him chortled with laughter, and then they were crowding around Lælia, greeting her with the gleaming eyes and open smiles she had not realised she missed until she felt their warmth again. Zdan, she noticed, greeted Acantha with unfeigned affection, hand over his heart.

  “We rode together,” Acantha said by way of explanation when they had finished their greeting. Her smile, rarely seen, was wide and unaffected. “It is good to see a face from those times.”

  “Gratimo,” Lælia said. Illiberis’s aged thiufadis stepped forward, eyeing the newcomers warily. “This is Zdan.” She introduced the Amazigh man. “Dahiya of the Jerawa considers him one of her finest Riders.”

  The two men, both hard and marked by war, eyed each other for a moment. “You and your men are welcome,” said Gratimo stolidly, with barely an ounce of warmth.

  “We are grateful,” said Zdan, with a similar lack of enthusiasm.

  Lælia exchanged glances with Tosius. The little tribesman rolled his eyes, and Lælia stifled a most undignified laugh. She suspected that half her battle might be won just in coercing the two old warriors to fight a common enemy rather than one another.

  “And so it is not yet battle,” said Zdan later that day as they rode out toward the hilltop fortress on their boundary. Jadis ran silently ahead, sniffing the air. Lælia had settled the Riders into the round huts of the tribesmen in the mountains around Illiberis. Such quarters would conceal their presence from casual visitors, but Lælia also suspected the Riders themselves would find more familiarity amongst the warm smiles and easy manners of the tribes than amidst the suspicious glances and superstition of the Illiberis men. Of the south the Illiberis men might be, but the sight of the dark-skinned Imazighen, faces swathed in cloth and speaking a foreign tongue, had turned most of them sullen and quiet. Placing the defence of the country they loved into the hands of those they had been raised to fear as pirates and barbarians went against their every instinct, no matter Lælia and Acantha’s assurances that the men came to help.

  “It is not yet battle, no.” Lælia glanced sideways. “But we expect it to come any day now.”

  “Do you have messengers posted?”

  Gratimo, on her other side, made a gruff sound. “Of course we do.” He glared across Lælia. “If so much as a flag should raise between here and Toletum, we will know of it.”

  Zdan cleared his throat in a sound that managed to convey both acceptance and scepticism at the same time.

  “On our voyage here,” said Zdan, ignoring Gratimo’s glowering expression, “we saw a dromon pulling south, from the east, close to the coast. I have seen this vessel before, many times, at port in Septem and drawn ashore near Carthage.” H
e glanced at Lælia. “It belongs to the man who once called himself brother to a king.”

  “Giscila.” Lælia nodded. “We met on my return journey from Septem. He offered me his help.”

  Both Zdan and Gratimo looked at her sharply.

  “Sheath your steel,” said Lælia genially. “It is not help I intend to take.”

  “I do not like such a man close to our shores.” Gratimo spat to one side, his face dark, and touched the place where his eye had been lost during Giscila’s long-ago attack on Illiberis. “Nor do I like that he came so close to you.”

  “He came aboard my vessel at my invitation,” Lælia said. “I wished to discover what manner of game he would play.”

  “And did you make this discovery?” asked Zdan in his grave, quiet way.

  “In part.” Lælia frowned. “He wished me to believe he would protect Illiberis against Oppa’s greed. From which I understood that he expects Oppa’s return.” She did not mention what Giscila had said of Theo fighting at Oppa’s side. She did not yet know what truth was in it, and she was loath to plant so much as the seed of doubt in the minds of men who already had much to fear. “Then not a week ago,” she went on, “Gratimo received word that a large force had landed to the north east – close to Aurariola.”

  “The messenger said the force landed and rode south without meeting any real resistance,” said Gratimo grimly. “Suinthila has taken his men to Toletum, and there is no other lord along that coast with men enough to mount a significant defence.”

  Zdan frowned. “Where is this force now?”

  “Riding south,” said Lælia. “But so far they have not attacked any of the fortress holdings along the way, nor called upon the hospitality of the lords upon the road for shelter. They fly no standard, and if they come to fight for Egica, they do not ride north to join his forces.” She looked at Zdan. “Do you think Giscila recognised you and your men as Riders when he passed you at sea?”

  “We travelled with the Karabisianoi. Their dromons are a common sight in those waters, and my men wore rough red tunics that would pass from that distance. We did nothing to rouse suspicion, and Giscila’s dromon showed no interest in our passing. I asked the rest of my men, but no other encountered him on their passage. I think he saw only us.”

  “We must hope so,” said Lælia grimly. “Everything we do now relies on Egica, and Oppa if he comes, believing we are poorly defended.” They came to the bridge, and she drew rein. “This,” she said to Zdan, “is our last line of defence. If all else falls, it must be held if Illiberis is to stand.”

  Zdan nodded, studying the terrain around it through narrowed eyes. “It is not a terrible place to stand,” he said.

  Gratimo snorted derisively, then he caught Lælia’s warning glance and held his tongue.

  They rode on, up the steep track, to the fortress atop the hill. Zdan took in the tall wooden gates and the men busying themselves on the ramparts without comment. Gratimo’s mouth twitched in a satisfied smile he did not quite succeed in hiding. They rode up the winding path to the fortress, and Zdan stared down the steep shale drop to the wide plain below. “This,” he said, with open satisfaction, “can be held.”

  Gratimo sniffed. “I had thought to do more than simply hold it.”

  Zdan turned raised eyebrows to him. “If your men can hold it, old man,” he said disdainfully, “mine will ride onto the plains and kill whatever enemies dare come at us.”

  Lælia interrupted before Gratimo could deliver the scathing rejoinder he was clearly preparing.

  “I have no doubt,” she said, “that between you, Illiberis will be well served. Tonight we will sit to meat and you will present to me your plans for defending the fortress. Now I will meet with Tosius and the tribes and discuss how best to defend the walls of Garnata. When we talk later, we will share our plans and decide the best course of action. Are we agreed?”

  The two men gave reluctant nods, both as rigid as the granite walls surrounding them.

  Smiling to herself, Lælia left them to bicker amongst themselves and rode down the slope, Tosius chuckling quietly at her side as they went.

  Later that night, after a quiet meal eaten in the intimacy of the Illiberis kitchens rather than the grander surrounds of the œca, Lælia leaned forward and stared into the glowing coals of the fire in her grandfather’s study. Zdan and Gratimo, their mutual animosity temporarily suspended in the afterglow of good meat, wine, and a day during which both had established to their satisfaction that the other was not entirely imbecilic, sat quietly at her side, whilst Acantha and Tosius sat at a short distance.

  “Tosius,” Lælia said to the little tribesman. “Tell the others what your friends in Sexi told you of the dromon Zdan saw.”

  Tosius bent his head. “The dromon at Sexi does not carry Giscila, brother to a king,” he said, in the chirruping accents of the tribes. “It holds Oppa, bastard son of a king, and a thiufa of his men.”

  Zdan and Gratimo exchanged a startled glance. “How did you discover this so quickly?” Gratimo asked, frowning at Tosius, but it was Lælia who answered.

  “My tribesmen have spent a year paying for eyes in every port on our part of the coast,” she said. “When I sent men to meet Zdan, I also sent messengers to those ports. It did not take long to find the eyes that had seen Giscila’s dromon resupply at a small port near Sexi, nor to discover that the man who had paid for the supplies was not Giscila, who is well enough known on those waters. What I did not know, until you told me where you saw the dromon, Zdan, is what game Oppa played.”

  “But now you do,” said Gratimo, eyeing her with something akin to respect.

  “Almost.” Lælia’s lips pursed. “I know he sent Giscila to offer me help. I know that he is now in Giscila’s dromon, purporting to be him, by all accounts. I know that a large force has landed to the north east. And today, thanks to Zdan, I learned that Oppa sailed to the south from a north-easterly direction. Between those facts, I believe, it is easy enough to deduce that Oppa has sent a force, presumably under Giscila, to distract us with an attack from the north whilst waiting for the moment to attack us from the south.”

  “What do you suggest we do?” It was Acantha who asked the question.

  Lælia looked at the expectant faces and smiled grimly. “I intend to do exactly what Giscila asked. I will send for help.”

  “And then ambush his forces on the road.” Zdan nodded. “That is a good plan, lalla.”

  “No,” said Lælia. “I am going to let him come all the way to Illiberis.” She stared into the fire, feeling its heat upon her face.

  Gratimo stared at her in bewilderment. Zdan’s eyes narrowed. When Acantha spoke, it was with exaggerated patience. “Might you then share with us what it is that you do plan, child?”

  Lælia pushed her boot into the fire, sending a spray of sparks up into the chimney. “I will let Oppa commit every resource he has to capturing Illiberis,” she said grimly. “And I will ensure he believes he has won. Only then will I defeat his army and take him captive.”

  “You do not intend to kill him,” said Acantha, watching her.

  “No.” Lælia met her grandmother’s eyes. “The Crown has played with Illiberis for long enough. It is time we took back their most valuable piece – and made the game our own.”

  57

  Shukra

  February, AD 693

  Toletum, Spania

  Toledo, Spain

  The bathhouse was deserted, the whores gone to ground in places of their own hiding. With no candle to light it, the room was blacker than the darkest night. The air smelled dank and still, the warm perfume turned now to rot. Shukra waited, silently working the razor-sharp edge of the blade with his thumb. Never could he recall longing to use it more.

  The sound of battle continued beyond the city. Egica’s forces had not yet breached the walls, but Shukra had seen enough to know it would not be long now. He had waited until the outcome was certain, and desperate men would seize any
chance they saw.

  And Sisebut, as Toletum fell, was as desperate as any man could be. Shukra thumbed his blade, listening and waiting. The roar of battle had edged closer when he heard the more immediate sound of humanity in the room beyond. He tensed, taking his position at the rear of the bathhouse.

  The door creaked open. “Athanagild,” Sisebut whispered, his cowled figure peering blindly through the opening. “I am here. Where are you?”

  Shukra moved forward, the hood hiding his face, no more than a dim shape in the blackness.

  “Athanagild!” Sisebut did not attempt to hide his relief. He stepped forward, hands out eagerly. “We must run, and quickly. They breach the walls – soon there will be no escape.” He squinted in the darkness, his plump figure quivering with uncertainty. “Athanagild?”

  Shukra stepped out of the inky blackness and slipped the cowl from his head, dark eyes glowing like coals in his face. “Athanagild,” he said in a lethal undertone, “will not be coming. He is busy protecting the two women you attempted to poison. I am afraid it is me you are fortunate to be meeting, my dear father in God.” The silken caress of his words did nothing to hide the death in them. Sisebut shrank from the figure before him, turning blindly for the doorway, but Shukra was already there, his lithe figure closing the door, plunging them into pitch blackness. “You thought,” he went on in the same low tone, “that you are owning the soul of the young man you corrupted. In your hubris, the unholy pride and arrogance sanctioned by that frock you hide behind, you are thinking Athanagild no more than a plaything, there for your own convenience – is it not so, Archbishop?”