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

by Paula Constant

  He moved quickly, the blade silent and sharp through the blackness, drawing a searing line of fire across Sisebut’s neck. The archbishop let out a shrill scream, clutching at a thin scratch that leaked small droplets of blood onto his fingers.

  “Ah,” said Shukra mockingly. “You fear the touch of my knife, is it so? I can understand. There is nothing more terrifying – no? – than that which comes at you in the darkness, when you cannot see nor protect yourself.” Again the knife sliced the air. This time, droplets sprayed from Sisebut’s face, and he whimpered, turning this way and that in an attempt to see where Shukra was. “And yet this is what you did,” went on Shukra’s low, merciless tone in the darkness. “You stalked an innocent through the darkest nights, causing his life to be a nightmare of fear. You thought to implicate him in your foul schemes, asking him to be crutch and conspirator, lover and slave – whilst never once asking what you took from him.” The knife came close to Sisebut’s face, a threat, no more, and the archbishop threw up his hands in a blind defence, crying out.

  “No!” said Sisebut shrilly. “Athanagild was never my slave, never forced! He loves me; he always has. He could have left me a thousand times and yet he never did. I forced nothing from the boy he did not want to give. You accuse me falsely, no doubt from your own jealousy!”

  “My own jealousy?” Caught by surprise, Shukra paused, his knife held high. “You think,” he said slowly, “that I come here to kill you because I am wanting Athanagild for myself?” The door cracked slightly open, and in the dim light he saw the mingled hatred and fear on Sisebut’s face.

  “I have seen the way you look at him!” Sisebut flung the words at him in the darkness with all the petulant fury of a thwarted lover. “He believes you friend, but I have seen it in you. I have seen the way you covet him, the elaborate lies you weave to win his confidence, the whoring and pretence. But God sees you, Persian or not, damned heretic that you are. God sees your corruption and your lies. He is not fooled – and nor am I.” Sisebut stepped forward, mistaking the blank shock on Shukra’s face for something else, shame, perhaps. He advanced upon Shukra with a finger pointed accusingly, his tone quavering and self-righteous. “You would bring me here by lies and scheming. Judge me, take my very life, no less, all so you can take Athanagild for yourself, take the body I have loved and protected, that even now I risk my own life to save. But I swear to you I will not allow it. Athanagild belongs to God, and to me. Those are bonds not easily broken by any normal man – and particularly not by a pagan heretic, corrupted by his own sick desires.”

  Shukra’s expression had altered from one of shock to an uncharacteristic blind, unadulterated fury. All trace of the mercurial trickster was gone, replaced by the cold killer who had been torn as a child from a temple in Persia and forced to watch whilst the last great magus of his temple was burned in the same fires he had been raised to tend. The boy who had been tortured by those who would force adherence to a God of their own choosing loomed over Sisebut, his face as hard and terrifying as any avenging angel. “I was raised to do nothing to transgress the will of Ahura Mazda,” he said coldly. “But I believe, in this instance, I am forced to be making an exception.” For a moment they were face to face, the hatred between them as raw as lust.

  Then the door behind him opened, and a lantern spilled light into the darkness. “The two of you will not add to your vile natures the sin of murder,” came a cold, austere voice. “You will, however, face a council of your peers, Sisebut of Toletum – and the judgement of God Himself.” Felix of Hispalis stepped into the room, his features dripping contempt as he eyed the two men before him. “I have seen many things in my life to cause me to question the morality of man,” he said icily. “But never have I witnessed anything more despicable than two grown men squabbling between themselves for the right to defile the body of an innocent young man consigned to their care.

  “One” – he glared at Sisebut – “entrusted with the transmission of God’s own light to young minds, charged with the safekeeping and guidance of innocent souls. And the other” – he turned hard eyes to Shukra – “with the training of young men given by the best families in the land for the defence of her borders. And how do you both repay this trust?” Felix beckoned to the street beyond, and a string of armed men entered, brutally shackling Shukra and Sisebut so they were bound to each other, ankle and wrist. “You repay it by nigh on destroying a young man who has shown more bravery, integrity, and moral strength in his short life than either of you in your finest hours have dreamed of. And I” – Felix spat the last words with an icy fury – “intend to ensure you both hang for it.”

  He stared between them for a long moment.

  “Well?” he ground out finally. “Do neither of you have anything to say?”

  Sisebut hung limp on his shackles, his face down, defeat written in every inch of his slack frame. But Shukra met Felix’s eyes. His own were full of a pain that made even Felix pause, and his mouth curled in an odd, twisted smile when he spoke.

  “No, aziz-am,” said Shukra quietly. “I have nothing to say in my defence – for every word you say is correct. I accept your punishment, and that of Ahura Mazda, the One who sees all and knows the truth that lies in the hearts of men – even when we, in our hubris, think ourselves above it.”

  58

  Yosef

  February, AD 693

  Septem, Mauretania

  Ceuta, Morocco

  The doors of Ilyan’s Septem palace flew open, and Dahiya strode through. “Ilyan,” she said.

  “Let me guess,” said Ilyan drily. “We must talk?”

  She tilted her head to one side, a small smile playing around her mouth. “In fact,” she said, “this time it is not I.” She stood to one side and gestured behind her.

  “Yosef!” Ilyan leaped to his feet, his customary detachment temporarily abandoned. His eyes shone as he took the steps down from his dais in three easy paces and came forward, his hands outstretched in unfeigned delight. “I had not thought to see you so soon. I did not… but never mind that now.” He grasped the younger man’s hands, his eyes roaming over Yosef’s face. “You live. And you are here.”

  Yosef bowed his head. It was a strange thing, to be back in Septem, a reminder of a place and time that seemed so far removed he could barely remember the days he had lived here, nor the person he had been when he lived them.

  “We have much to speak of.” Ilyan waved him to cushions nearby. “Will you sit and take wine?”

  “I will, Ilyan, but briefly, I fear. I confess I come only to bring you information. I sail, today, for Spania.”

  “Spania?” Ilyan sat back with a quizzical expression. “I might advise you to wait, my friend. For wine and a meal at the very least. Spania’s fortunes are, at present, somewhat in the wind.”

  “I will leave you to talk,” said Dahiya. “I have much to arrange, for young men, it seems, lack both patience and sense, and I must also stop in the market.” The smile she exchanged with Ilyan was brief, but it seemed full of something Yosef could not quite read. “I will return shortly, Yosef.”

  “Wait.” Dahiya paused but did not turn around. “The young men who are so impatient,” Ilyan said mildly. “Do they have names?”

  This time her smile was wide, the amber eyes dancing with a rare light. “They do,” she said. “Two of them, in fact, bear my own name, are of my own blood. And the other is a name we both feared might never be heard again: Theudemir of Aurariola.” Waiting just long enough to see wonder light his eyes, she left the room, the smile still curving her mouth.

  “Clearly,” Ilyan repeated as she left, “there is much I do not know.” His customary insouciance was betrayed by a smile he could not hide, an almost savage excitement in his face. “But you return, Yosef ben Arun. A man grown. One with tales to tell, I have no doubt. The things you must have seen!” He shook his head, eyes gleaming, and for a moment Yosef glimpsed the man within the urbane shell of the diplomat. Ilyan, he suspected,
dreamed of shores far from the complex ones he governed. “But tell me,” Ilyan went on. “Did you achieve what you set out to do? Did you make it to Serica and discover the workings of silk?”

  “I did.” Yosef leaned forward. “The secrets of silk are nothing as we had thought,” he said.

  “Then you could not bring back the seeds of the tree?” Ilyan could not hide his disappointment.

  “The tree itself is of small import, and easily managed.” Yosef smiled faintly. “It is the worms that feed upon the trees themselves that are our business, Ilyan.”

  “Worms!” Ilyan shook his head in wonder. “But how?” He looked around. “And where are they? Do you carry them with you?”

  “They are a delicate species,” said Yosef, “and could not bear such a voyage. I had to decide between remaining with them in a climate where they could hatch and returning to Spania.”

  “And you chose to return?” Ilyan frowned. “I would have thought such a valuable resource one worth the sacrifice of time.”

  Yosef smiled. “I did not sacrifice them,” he said. “The worms are best carried by a woman, close to her body. They require very specific care. It took me some time to find the right woman and a solution that would keep them safe.”

  “But you found such a solution,” said Ilyan, looking at him curiously.

  Yosef nodded. “I did.” He gave Ilyan a small smile. “I believe you might be acquainted with the woman, Athanais?”

  Ilyan’s eyebrows lifted so high they almost disappeared into the wild shock of white hair. “The Persian! Of course I remember her. Quite the most outstanding of whisperers I have met, save Shukra, of course. This is a day of wonders indeed! But you do not mean to tell me you left the worms with Athanais?”

  “I bought her safe passage on a dromon to Constantinople, where people already know her as a whore keeper, and where she will be one once more, for a year at least. There she will join the Jewish partners my father once traded with, experts themselves in cloth. There are those amongst them who know some, but not all, of the secrets of the silk tree, for the emperor himself has rooms beneath the palace where the fibre is produced in secret. The means of doing so is carefully guarded. Until now, there has been no other source of the fibre, no knowledge of the full process, and thus no way of weaving the cloth.”

  “But this will change that.” Ilyan’s eyes gleamed.

  “Yes.” Yosef smiled. “It will. When the season turns again, Athanais will sail west, bringing our precious cargo with her. Mishaps notwithstanding, we will have our industry in the turn of a year.”

  “Silk,” breathed Ilyan. “With the means to weave the cloth, we will have secured our future, Yosef, and that of your people. They need never live in fear again.” His eyes darkened suddenly. “Nothing must happen to endanger this,” he said. “I will send men to Athanais to ensure her safety.” He was restless, already making mental plans.

  “No,” said Yosef. He stood up, placing the wine cup, barely touched, back on the table. “Athanais knows that the best way to move undetected from one place to the next is to be the wind, Ilyan, no more. When we set sail, the wind is caught. Let Athanais come to you. She will take what disguise she must, become who she must, in order to avoid detection.”

  Ilyan nodded slowly. His eyes on Yosef were curious as he stood up. “You are much changed, my young friend,” he said. “And now you would return to Spania. I confess, I had not thought you would ever wish to land again upon those shores whilst Egica remained king.” He shrugged. “Which, I suppose, he may not still be.”

  “It is not for myself that I sail,” said Yosef. “There is nothing left for me in Spania. I know that. I will return to Septem before the turn of a moon, I imagine.”

  “Then why?”

  “We stopped at Carthage on the way here.” Yosef’s face tightened. “It appears we missed the pleasure of Giscila’s company by barely a day. He had just sailed – and with him, Oppa.”

  Ilyan’s smile vanished. “That is not possible. Nobody passes my port without my knowledge.”

  “I believe they may not have passed it but landed on Spania’s eastern coast instead.” Yosef turned for the doors. “Which is why we sail, with the horses and men Dahiya has so kindly offered to provide, on the outgoing tide.”

  “I would not delay any help they may offer Illiberis,” said Ilyan, “though I am sorry I do not welcome Theudemir of Aurariola to my court. I have heard much of him.” Seeing that Yosef was preparing to leave, he put out a hand. “Since it appears your time here is short,” he said, “might I suggest that you use it wisely? You may be right in believing that little awaits you in Spania. But a great deal has awaited your return to Septem.”

  He gave Yosef a small smile. “Some,” he said, “you will learn of soon enough and, I hope, be glad to know. But there is other news that you should know of before you sail.” He leaned forward. “The Jews of Garnata have been fleeing Spania in increasing numbers,” he said. “However, they are not content to flee to peaceful exile.” He smiled grimly. “It seems that Spania’s Jews have decided that the time is ripe for them to fight for their rightful place in Spania.”

  Yosef felt his heart stutter, then begin to beat again, harder this time. “They mean to launch another rebellion,” he breathed, barely daring to say the word.

  Ilyan nodded slowly. “They are not yet ready,” he said quietly. “And there is much that needs to happen before they will be. The current war in Spania will be done before they are ready. Most of all, they need a leader.” He met Yosef’s eyes. “One who knows both the threat they face on these shores and the enemies they face on Spania’s. One whom they trust to lead them.”

  Yosef stared at him. “You cannot mean me,” he said flatly. “I am no warrior, Ilyan.”

  Ilyan sat back and raised his eyebrows. “Are you not?” He shrugged. “This is not what I hear of you, Yosef. And at any rate, not all wars are won by warriors. Men with swords are easy to buy. It is the sense to lead them wisely that is the true commodity. And though I may know little of you, Yosef, this I do believe: you have sense enough both to lead an army and to manage whatever outcome it may face. Before you sail to Spania on this rescue mission of yours, I would have you know your life must yet serve another purpose.” He smiled wryly. “So you do not too lightly throw it away.”

  Yosef turned the wine cup in his hand. “Once, I would have thrilled at the thought of my own people rising up against the Goths.”

  Ilyan looked at him closely. “But now you do not?”

  “I have seen what war can do. And how easily it can be lost.”

  “Sometimes war is necessary.”

  “No, Ilyan.” Yosef’s voice was calm and clear. “War is never necessary. And I will not be the man who leads others into it.”

  “Spania cannot continue as it is, Yosef. Change must come.”

  “I am no longer certain,” Yosef said quietly, “that my future lies in Spania.”

  “Ah.” Ilyan leaned back, toying with his cup. “Well, perhaps this may change your mind.”

  Yosef frowned. “Time is short,” he began, but as he spoke, the great doors swung open to admit Dahiya once more. Her face wore the same odd smile it had earlier. “There is someone,” said Ilyan gently, “who has waited a long time for your return. And someone else who has been waiting to meet you.”

  Dahiya stepped aside, and Yosef felt his heart stop. Standing behind her, a tremulous smile hovering on her mouth and deep-brown eyes looking at him hesitantly, was a woman with a heart-shaped face and thick chestnut hair that hung just as he had seen in his dreams. Holding fast to her hand was a small, dark-haired boy, no more than four years old.

  Ilyan rose from the cushions. “Sarah, my dear,” he said, brushing her cheek with a light touch as he passed. Extending a hand to the child, he said gravely, “Arun, I believe I have not yet shown you my gardens. Would you like to walk with me?” Capturing the boy’s hand in his own, Ilyan quietly closed the doors behind h
im.

  “You have a child.” Yosef’s heart beat in a slow, thick pulse. He found his mouth was quite dry. His voice seemed to come from far away. “And after all you suffered, you gave him my father’s name.” The words seemed caught in his throat. “A letter came. I thought it was madness. But is it possible? Does my father…?” He stopped, unable to finish the sentence.

  Sarah stepped hesitantly forward. “No man could survive such injuries,” she said quietly. “But I was with your father when he died. He gave me the silk cloth and dictated a letter. He told me to bring them here, to Ilyan, who would ensure both letter and cloth reached you.” She lowered her eyes. “After… what had happened, he worried you might never return if he did not send word.”

  “I thought I had nothing to return for.” Yosef heard the question in his own voice but could do nothing to stop it.

  Sarah nodded and looked away briefly, drawing a deep breath. “I told your father what happened to me at the hands of Oppa’s men,” she said, and now there was a note of strength in her voice. “That I knew myself to be carrying a child my parents would never accept. Your father told me that Yahweh would never shun a child born of such sin, nor the woman who carried it. But he suggested that it might be easier for both across the seas, where we were unknown.” Her face softened. “It was he who gave me the coin to come to Septem, and the words to tell Ilyan.”

  “All this,” said Yosef hoarsely, “you bore alone.”

  “Not alone, Yosef.” She stepped forward as he stepped down from the dais, and then she was before him, so close he could smell the faint citron scent of her, so sweet and achingly familiar it twisted his heart so he could barely breathe. “You,” she whispered. “You were there, through it all. I saw you in my dreams. The night Arun was born, it was you who held my hand. You have been there every day of my life since you left.”