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

by Paula Constant

  Oppa.

  Lælia’s hand tightened on her knife. She glanced at where Tosius had disappeared. Gratimo should have been back here by now, in place, ready to surround Oppa. That she couldn’t see him sent cold dread into her heart. She knew that it was too late now to change course.

  Oppa ignored his men’s questions as he looked around, then swung lightly from the saddle and landed with the silent fluidity of a serpent, despite the heavy mail. Although still a young man, there was a sharpness to Oppa’s features that gave him the appearance of being older, and men watched him warily. “Search the villa,” he ordered curtly. Oppa’s men spread out, creeping silently through the empty breezeways. “It is fortunate,” said Oppa carelessly to the man at his side, “that I bought the service of so many swords before we landed. It seems Giscila has met more opposition than expected. He should already be here.”

  “I don’t like it,” said his companion, looking about him uneasily. “There should be more than old men guarding these walls.”

  “She’s sent every man who can hold a sword to the fortress.” Oppa looked around him. “Illiberis cannot be held. It depends upon the fortress, which cannot hold back a force the size of that I sent, and the bridge, which she does not have the men to defend.”

  “Do you expect her men to draw steel against us?”

  “They’re dead men either way. They are outnumbered a hundred to one and more.” Oppa’s voice was like a chill wind. He gestured behind him, at the rows of men dismounting, men who had most definitely not ridden at his side from the south. Lælia froze. Her mind raced, wondering what had become of Gratimo, and what else Oppa had done that she did not know.

  There was a faint movement at her side and Lælia swung around, knife in hand. Teudolfo crouched beside her. “They came before we could leave,” he mouthed in her ear. “Rekiberga is hidden in the bathhouse. But Gratimo is not here, Lælia. Something has gone wrong. There are more men than we can safely take, and God alone knows how many more. You must leave. We do not have the men here to take him.”

  Lælia did not move. “I will not run from Oppa, Teudolfo.”

  “We can return with your Riders. But you must leave now. There is no choice. You cannot take him alone.”

  “There is always a choice.” Lælia held up a hand to still his words, watching Oppa, trying to think.

  A shout of triumph came from the direction of the bathhouse, and beside her Teudolfo swore. Rekiberga, pushed from behind by a guard, stumbled into the courtyard, her hair dishevelled, face pale and set. Teudolfo reached for a sword and Lælia put her hand on his arm, shaking her head slowly. No. Before he could object, she nodded to the east, where the shadows of tribesmen slipped between the silver olive trees. Teudolfo met her eyes and she gestured to the far side of the villa, the only place Tosius’s tribesmen were not. “That is where Gratimo should be,” she mouthed. “Join him, and if he is not there, be ready.” Nodding reluctantly, Teudolfo slid from sight, his eyes on Rekiberga.

  In the courtyard Oppa stared at Rekiberga, a slow, unpleasant smile stretching the corners of his mouth. “The Lady of Hispalis, I presume,” he murmured. “You have your father’s look. Your men led us a merry dance, I believe. Giscila spent valuable days chasing you from one side of the country to the other. I am not a man who likes to waste time.” He cupped her face with one mailed hand. “Your father is dead, you know,” he said conversationally. “Along with most of the traitors who opposed our rule. Their little rebellion is done. You are the Lady of Hispalis no more.” Rekiberga met his eyes without flinching but did not answer.

  He raised his head and looked around the courtyard, his eyes keen. “I know you are here, Lælia of Illiberis.” His tone was easy and conversational, as if they sat together at meat. Lælia tensed. “You sent for me, and I came. You did not think I believed your little letter, though, did you? Or that I would walk so easily into whatever trap you think you have laid?”

  He smiled coldly. “Your men in Garnata are dead,” he said. “I have had a force of a hundred men waiting in those godforsaken mountains of yours to the east for more than a month. They are cold and heartily tired of snow. They will be glad to avail themselves of your hospitality – and you will be glad to offer it to them.”

  Lælia felt a cold trickle of fear down her spine. She forced herself to breathe slowly, to think.

  “You will show yourself,” Oppa went on, “and surrender your villa. There is no escape, not for you, nor for any here.” His hand dropped to the handle of the whip at his side. His fingers curled around it, stroking it lovingly, whilst with the other he turned Rekiberga’s face toward his own. Lælia, recalling the last time she had seen him with his whip, in the woods where he had tried to ravish her, could not suppress a shiver. Rekiberga watched his hand, fear darkening her eyes.

  Shouts drifted through the air, and Lælia saw a group of tribesmen, led by Tosius, flit between the trees, their darts taking several of Oppa’s men where they stood. Then came the sound of clashing steel and a group of men met Oppa’s on the ground before the portico, Teudolfo racing to join them from behind, taking some of those who would retreat. Lælia frowned, trying to make out the numbers. She must be disorientated; there seemed more than she had expected, and there was something unfamiliar in their figures. Seeing the ferocity with which they fought, she felt a surge of excitement.

  Oppa raised his whip, and Rekiberga gave a short, sharp scream. Across the courtyard Jadis slid between the stone on the breezeway. She eyed Lælia, who shook her head. Not yet.

  Staying close to the stone, Lælia balanced the knife in her hand, edging toward the courtyard, her eyes on Rekiberga. She approached the man guarding the corner, who had his back to her. Lælia’s knife took him from behind, slipping across his throat so his blood fell over her hands like oil from a jug. She held him until his body ceased to move and he was no more than weight in her hands, and then she laid him on the ground, not looking at his face.

  The world slowed, and she no longer thought or felt.

  She notched one arrow after another. The first two took men in the courtyard who were shooting into her forces. Tosius, on the other side of the courtyard, took more of them. Then other arrows joined theirs, and Oppa’s men were falling, one after another.

  “Baguadae!” one cried, just before he sagged in the saddle, an arrow straight through his heart. The horses jostled as men looked around them in confusion, then one of them pointed to the edge of the olive grove, where a small group of tribesmen stood, blood covered, chests heaving.

  “Baguadae!” he repeated the cry, calling them by the name all outsiders knew the tribes as – savages, criminals.

  His cry galvanised the men into action, and they scattered in pursuit of the small figures, who turned and ran, calling to each other as they went, leading the men into the shelter of the woods they called home. Oppa’s men would die there, Lælia knew. She heard in the tribesmen’s chilling cries the fury and grief of loss, and she knew this was the way they would mourn – by taking blood from those who had dared take that of their own.

  They honoured Acantha with their sacrifice. Lælia would not dishonour theirs by wasting it.

  “It would seem,” Oppa said curtly, “that time is of greater importance than I had imagined.” He pulled the whip from his side and tore Rekiberga’s gown down the centre. With cold detachment he raised his arm and brought the wicked tails down hard across her exposed skin. Rekiberga screamed. “Tell me where Lælia is,” said Oppa coldly. “Immediately.” His men looked around warily, gripping their weapons, readying for the battle coming closer to them.

  The bridge cannot fall. If it does, you have no choice but to run. Lælia heard Paulus’s voice in her head. But Paulus was dead, and her days of training were over. For a moment, her arrow pointed between Oppa’s eyes, and she knew she could take him; then she thought of Illiberis, of Paulus, of Acantha’s sacrifice. If he dies, I lose the only piece I hold. I will not sacrifice the game for revenge,
nor give Egica grounds to name me traitor.

  Lælia stood up from behind the wall and loosed an arrow that took the man closest to Oppa even as she notched another. “Let her go,” she said as Oppa turned in surprise, “or the next one will take you.” Oppa did not release Rekiberga. Behind him the clashing of swords continued still; it was impossible, from where she stood, to tell who had the advantage.

  “Lælia of Illiberis.” The dark eyes flashed. Lælia could sense the venal excitement beneath his veneer of detachment. It sickened her.

  “Let her go,” she said again.

  Oppa smiled coldly. “The hillfort will fall before midday, and we will take the bridge by mid-afternoon. I have men placed on every road south and two dromons at the port in Sexi filled with more who will kill any who try to take you away. Illiberis is lost. You will be captured, and you will be taken to Toletum. Call off your men now, and I will let this one live.”

  “No!” Twisting in Oppa’s grasp, Rekiberga cried out. “Go, Lælia. Run!”

  Lælia loosed another arrow. It took another of Oppa’s men between the eyes, and he fell soundlessly to the ground. She took another step forward. “Let her go,” she said again.

  The men around Oppa shifted uneasily. The sounds of battle beyond the courtyard intensified, coming nearer. Oppa threw Rekiberga to the ground and gestured to one of his men.

  “Take her to Toletum,” he said curtly. “Take as many men as you need – but go straight to Toletum with her and await me there. Ride hard, and ride fast.” He glared at the guard. “My father will want her intact. If she arrives other than how I see her now, you will pay with your life. Go!” The man swung onto his horse, hauling Rekiberga onto the saddle before him, his face pale with fear.

  Lælia had judged the distance and tautened her fingers on the string when she felt a knife at her throat. Her bow was wrenched from her hands. She had a last glimpse of Rekiberga’s agonised face and then the girl was gone, and Lælia found herself dragged into the courtyard to take her place. Oppa’s eyes shone obsidian black, and his body was taut with excitement as the men threw her in front of him.

  “I would have liked to take more time to enjoy this.” He stroked her face with the whip. “But events, it seems, may be about to overtake us. Get the horses,” he ordered one of his men curtly. “We will meet my uncle at the hillfort and return here when it is done.” His knife blade was cool on Lælia’s throat. “And you,” he said curtly, “will come with us. I have even brought a priest.” He gestured to one of the men who rode with him, a bloodied, dishevelled priest who eyed Lælia with apology in his face.

  “Frauja,” said one of his guards hesitantly, “we do not have enough men to take the bridge from this side. We were not prepared for such opposition.”

  “Then find them!” snarled Oppa. “My uncle has three hundred men. The hillfort will not stand against him.”

  Lælia smiled up at him. “Your uncle is dead,” she said, enjoying the shock he could not hide. “And I will not go anywhere with you.” She gave a low whistle and Jadis’s gold body streaked across the courtyard, leaping at Oppa and knocking him to the ground before his surprised guards could so much as shout a warning. Lælia drew her sword, tense and cold, turning the steel in her hand.

  Oppa’s eyes narrowed. “You cannot prevail.”

  “Ah.” Lælia smiled tightly. “That is where you are wrong. I think you will find that the game no longer belongs to you.”

  Oppa looked as if he might answer, then his mouth closed. He got slowly to his feet, his eyes trained on something behind her. Lælia tensed.

  “Lay down your swords.” The voice was a cool, unhurried drawl.

  A rush of heat flooded Lælia’s body, and her heart began to thud in a heavy, rich rhythm.

  “We are six to your four,” the voice continued, as if it were an afterthought. “I’ve won against far worse odds. As you are well aware, Oppa Egicason.” He said the last in the same calm tone, but there was no mistaking the chill in his words.

  “You were gone,” Oppa hissed.

  “Not quite. But unless you stand down, you soon will be.” Lælia felt locked in place, unable to move. “The men you left in Sexi are dead,” the voice went on, “as are those on the road south. Two hundred of Al Kahinat’s Riders are at the hillfort as we speak. You know well those of whom I speak, Oppa, son of a king. No bought swords will defeat them.”

  Very slowly, Lælia forced herself to face the speaker. He was a tall man on a dark, sweating horse, hair blazing white in the morning sun, long and braided with no helmet to cover him. He wore leather and a tunic and carried a round shield in the Gothic style. His skin was rich brown over iron muscle, and fierce scars rippled across his face. The eyes that held Oppa’s with such contempt were the brilliant green that had haunted her dreams for years now.

  “Besides,” he said, a savage note of possession in his tone that took her breath away, “as I’ve told you before – Lælia is mine.” His eyes met her own, and something within Lælia’s soul slipped into place. A large hand came up and covered his heart. He smiled crookedly.

  Promise.

  Theudemir had come home.

  Afterword

  Writing fiction set in an era so remote from our own poses many challenges. Not least of these is determining the correct modern location of ancient place names. Where the location is not known with absolute certainty, I have drawn conclusions based on my own research. Any mistakes are mine alone.

  Sebastopolis is often referred to as being in modern Sulusaray, Turkey. Sulusaray, however, is located well inland. Accounts of the battle refer to the ‘Port of Sebastopolis’, and it is known that the Karabisianoi fought in the conflict, which would be unlikely if the battle was fought inland. Elaiussa Sebaste is the other alternative for Sebastopolis. Close to the modern port of Mersin, and central to all the locations in which the caliph’s forces threatened those of the emperor’s, Elaiussa Sebaste seemed far more logical to me, and so I have used it.

  The story of the Arabic forces riding to battle in Sebastopolis flying copies of the peace treaty between emperor and caliph is well documented enough to be taken seriously. Of the many battles fought between the Caliphate and the remnants of the Eastern Roman Empire, Sebastopolis was arguably one of the most pivotal, and certainly one that had far reaching consequences for all involved.

  Some readers have queried why I have characters in both Northern Africa and Spain refer to citizens of the Eastern Roman Empire as ‘Greeks’. Primary source materials from the time use this reference up to a century and a half before the time this book is set. By the late 7th century, Greek had largely replaced Latin as the language of the Eastern Roman Empire, based in Constantinople. This is particularly true for the naval forces, for which all the names of ranks and themes are rendered in Greek rather than Latin. The last Imperial outpost in Spain, won back by King Suintila in the early 7th century, was referred to as the last ‘Greek’ toehold in Spain.

  Coins bearing Sunifred’s name and likeness were indeed struck during the period mentioned, and the rebellion itself referred to in the records from the 16th Council of Toledo.

  I have done my best to adhere to dates, locations, and historical accuracy as far as it is known. All errors and liberties taken are entirely my responsibility.