Byzantium

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “I knew,” she continued, “that if you left Samarra I would never see you again. I decided to come with you.”

  “And now you must go back.”

  “That is what Lord Sadiq has said,” she agreed, but the way she said it made me wonder.

  Four days later, we arrived at the enormous timber gate of the slave camp that was the caliph’s silver mine. Yes, and Kazimain remained with us still, for on the morning that the amir had decreed for her return, she had respectfully pointed out that if her uncle truly cared about her safety, he would allow her to continue her journey since remaining with him and his bodyguard would undoubtedly be safer than returning alone, or with an escort of only two or three. The amir countered by saying he would send half his men, and received the reply that this proposal seemed needlessly foolhardy since it would compromise the amir’s enterprise.

  “On the other hand,” Kazimain pointed out, “while I know little of your purposes, I am persuaded that there are times when a woman’s presence may be of considerable value.”

  While Sadiq was none too certain about this, Faysal concurred whole-heartedly. “It is true, my lord amir,” he said. “The Prophet himself, grace and peace be upon him forever, often rejoiced in the aid of his wife and kinswomen, as is well known.”

  In the end, Sadiq allowed himself to be persuaded—against his better judgement, it must be said—to allow his niece to continue. “But only so far and until proper arrangements can be made to send you home,” he vowed. Kazimain, of course, meekly acquiesced to this, as she did to all his wishes.

  Although the sun remained hot, we left the heat of the lowlands behind and entered the cooler heights of the hills, climbing steadily towards the mountains. Now and then we felt a freshening breeze on our faces, and slept more comfortably at night. Day by day, we pursued the winding trail into the hills, arriving at the mine four days after leaving the valley behind.

  Sure, I was anxious to gain the freedom of my friends. From the moment when, still far off, we glimpsed the white-washed timbers of the gate—a mere glimmer in the midday sun—freeing the captives occupied my every thought. And now that we stood before the very gate—yawning open as if to mock the freedom denied to the inhabitants within—it was all I could do to keep from throwing myself from the saddle and rushing headlong to the overseer’s dwelling and commanding him to unchain them and set them free.

  Sadiq sagely advised against such rash behaviour. “Perhaps you would allow me the pleasure of serving you in this,” he offered. “The chief overseer may balk at the request of a former slave. He will not, however, find it so easy to refuse me, I think.”

  As he spoke, the sick hatred welled up inside me. Again, I felt the ache of oppression in my bones and the sting of the lash; I felt the shaking frustration of enforced weakness, and the exhaustion of body and soul, the waking death of bondage. I wanted nothing more than to make those who practised this injustice suffer as I had suffered.

  “I thank you, Lord Sadiq,” I said, drawing myself up in the saddle, “but I will speak to him myself.”

  “Of course,” the amir replied, “I leave the choice to you. However, I stand ready to aid you should your efforts fall short of the desired result.” He regarded me, trying to read the depth of my intent. Then, with the air of a man passing on a dangerous duty, he summoned Faysal and three of his rafiq to accompany me. “Take Bara, Musa, and Nadr with you,” he said, “and attend Aidan as you would attend me.”

  Satisfied with this preparation, Sadiq dismounted to await my return, saying, “Be wise, my friend, as Allah is wise.”

  I looked to Kazimain, who favoured me with an encouraging smile before replacing the veil. Then, turning in the saddle, I lifted the reins and rode through the hateful gate once more, and felt the slow heat of righteous wrath simmering in my heart. This day, I thought, vengeance begins. So be it.

  We made our way along the narrow pathway through the close-huddled dwellings to the square of sun-blasted dirt outside the whitewashed house of the overseer. Keeping my saddle, I signalled Faysal to summon the man, which he did, calling out in a loud voice.

  Word of our arrival, I expect, had been passed to the overseer the moment we reached the gates, for he appeared in the open doorway of the house, and stood looking out at us for a moment before emerging. I could see his white-turbaned head motionless in the dark as he gazed out at his unexpected visitors.

  Faysal called again, and the overseer stepped, blinking, into the sun. “Greetings in the Holy Name,” he said. “What is your business here?”

  Not deigning to dismount, I addressed him from the saddle. “I have come to obtain the release of slaves.”

  I do not believe he recognized me at all, but I remembered him: he was the pit overseer Dugal had inadvertently struck, and who had directed our torture. He now stood in the sun, his small pig eyes all asquint, trying to work out how this unexpected demand might be turned to his advantage. The wrinkles of his sun-swarthy face arranged themselves in a shrewd expression. “Who are you to speak thus to me?”

  “My name is Aidan mac Cainnech,” I told him. “I am advisor to J’amal Sadiq, Amir of Samarra.”

  He stiffened at the name, the memory of his predecessor’s treatment at the hands of the amir’s men still sore to him. “The amir has no authority here,” he declared. “Who makes this demand?”

  “Protector of the Faithful, Khalifa al’Mutamid,” I replied.

  The chief overseer became sly. “You have proof, I presume?”

  Taking the khalifa’s decree, I passed it to Faysal, who leaned down from the saddle and offered it to the overseer who untied the silk band and carefully unrolled the parchment. “You can read, I presume?”

  A frown appeared on his face as he scanned the document. After a moment, he lowered the decree and stared at me; this time he seemed to find something familiar in my face, but clearly could not think where he had seen me before.

  “Come down from your lofty perch, my friend,” he said, “and let us discuss this matter face to face.”

  Looking down on him, revulsion surged through me. God help me, I despised him. Oh, he was a vile creature.

  “We have nothing to discuss,” I replied. “I will tell you the names of those who are to be freed, and you will free them.”

  His face closed like a fist. “Names mean nothing here,” he replied with an air of superiority. That was true, and I should have remembered. Thinking he had thwarted me, he allowed himself a smug sneer.

  “It makes no difference,” I responded coolly, “you will assemble the slaves and I will choose those I require from among them.”

  “All the slaves?” He sputtered like a pot about to boil. “But there are hundreds of slaves here—scattered everywhere in these hills. It would take the entire day to assemble them all.”

  “Then I suggest you begin at once.”

  “I would lose a day’s worth of silver!” he shrieked. “Come back tomorrow,” he suggested. “Come at dawn and you can see them before they begin their labour.”

  “Do you refuse the emissary of the khalifa?”

  “You are being hasty,” he said. “I must point out to you that what you ask is very difficult. There are many questions to be considered.” His pained expression smoothed. “There is no need to invoke the khalifa’s name; this is a matter between the two of us.”

  “My thoughts precisely.”

  “Seeing that you understand me,” he said, his voice oily and insinuating, “I believe we can reach a fair agreement.” He rubbed the fingertips of his right hand against the palm of his left.

  “I understand you better than you know,” I told him, my voice thick with loathing. Placing a hand to the jewelled daigear at my belt, I said, “Assemble the slaves at once, or lose your worthless tongue.”

  Turning to Faysal, I said, “I am going to wait in the overseer’s house. See that this son of a rat does what is required of him.”

  “If I refuse?” the overseer said, the arr
ogant sneer back on his face.

  “If he refuses,” I said to Faysal, “kill him.”

  59

  The overseer gaped, unable to decide if I was in earnest; he opened his mouth to protest, then decided to save his breath, and hastened away to begin the task of summoning and assembling the slaves. While Faysal and one of the rafiq accompanied the overseer, I dismounted, secured my horse to the whipping post and went into the overseer’s house to await his return.

  The interior was dim, the low wide windholes shuttered against the sun. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw a room of clutter and filth. The powder-fine red-brown dust, which was everywhere in the mines, blew in on the breeze and was never swept out again; it clung to everything, and was hard caked in the places he habitually walked.

  The dwelling reeked of bitter smoke; the stink clung to the carpets and cushions on the floor. “Hashish,” muttered one of the warriors scornfully, and pointed to a small iron brazier filled with ash which stood beside a large greasy leather cushion. Here then, the chief overseer spent his nights, inhaling the potent vapours of the stupefying plant. I did not like to sit down in this hovel, so I stood, and the rafiq stood with me, contemptuous of a man whose life could be read in this slovenly mess.

  My thoughts turned to my friends, and I wondered what they would say when they saw that I had returned to free them. Did they think I had forgotten them? Did they imagine I had abandoned them? Or was hope yet alive in their hearts? When this day dawned and they rose to take up the tools of their torment once again, did they realize how close was their liberation? Did they sense the nearness of their freedom even now?

  From somewhere high on the hill the sounding iron clanged, and after a time the first slaves began streaming down the hill paths to their accustomed places along the boundary of the sun-baked square outside the overseer’s house. I watched them as they arrived, searching among the ranks for any familiar face, but saw none. The distressing thought flitted through my mind: what if they are dead? What if I have tarried too long and they have all succumbed to cruel labour and the lash? What if none now survived for me to set free? This was something I had never considered, but I did so now; and, had I imagined it would have done any good, I would have prayed that God had sustained them and kept them to this day.

  I waited. More and more slaves were coming to the square. They saw the horses tethered to the post in the yard—where on such occasions someone among them provided an exemplary sacrifice—and wondered what new torture was at hand.

  The slave throng slowly gathered. I stood in the doorway, searching the crowd, and had begun to fear I would not find anyone I knew, when I saw Jarl Harald. He stood a head or more taller than anyone around him, which should have made him easier to find. But then I realized why I had not seen him sooner: he had changed. His fine mane of flame-red hair and beard were now a matted, moth-eaten mass; his broad shoulders were bowed and he stood with a slump, his body twisted to one side, as if favouring a crippled limb. Grey-faced, the once proud lord gazed down at the ground, never raising his eyes.

  With awful dread, I searched the ranks and found, to my horror, others I should have recognized before. One after another—and each more wretched than the last—I identified them. I could not bear to look at them, and turned away in a sudden panic of doubt, thinking, It was a mistake to come. I should have left them to their fate. There can be no salvation; liberation has come too late.

  Finally, the chief overseer returned to stand uncertainly in the centre of the yard. Faysal left him in the company of the warrior named Nadr, and proceeded to the house. “The slaves are assembled,” Faysal reported.

  I thanked him and said, “I wish I could free them all. Would the khalifa’s generosity stretch so far, do you think?”

  “They are waiting,” he said.

  I nodded. “They will wait no longer. Captivity has ended for a fortunate few.”

  Stepping from the overseer’s house into the full brightness of the sun, it was a moment before I could see properly. The sun scorched through the thin cloth of my robe, and my heart went out to those standing naked beneath the burning rays. At least the mines were dark and cool. Now I was making them burn in the blast furnace of the day’s heat.

  Faysal regarded me out of the corner of a narrowed eye, but I shook off his concern. “Let us be done with this,” I murmured, striding forward once more.

  Not knowing where else to begin, I went first to the place where Harald stood and pointed to him. The barbarian did not so much as glance in my direction. “Bring him here,” I ordered the nearest guard, who seized Harald roughly by the arm and jerked him from his place. “Gently!” I told the guard sternly. “He is a king.”

  The Dane shuffled forth, his leg chains rattling on the ground; he came to stand before me, never once looking up. “I have returned,” I told him. “I have come for you.”

  At these words, he raised his head for the first time. With pale, watery eyes he looked at me, but without recognition. My heart fell.

  “Jarl Harald,” I said, “it is Aidan. Do you not remember me?”

  Into his dull gaze flickered a light I had never seen before—beyond mere recognition, or realization; beyond common hope, or joy. A light which was nothing less than life itself reawakening in a human soul. Awareness at its most profound and pure kindled in that spark of light and blazed in the smile that slowly spread across Harald BullRoar’s face.

  “Aidan God-speaker,” he breathed. And then could say no more for the tears that choked his voice. He raised a trembling hand to me, as if he would stroke my face. I seized the hand and grasped it tight.

  “Stand easy, brother,” I told him. “We are soon leaving this place.” Turning my eyes once more to the throng, I asked, “How many of the others still live?”

  “All of them, I think,” he replied nodding.

  “Where are they? I do not see them.”

  By way of reply, the wily Dane raised his hands to his mouth, drew breath and gave out a bellowing roar. It was, I remembered, the sea marauder’s war cry, now weakened and strained. He gave it again, and then cried, “Heya! Aidan has returned! Come, men, we are going home!”

  The echo of Harald’s shout died away to silence. I watched the gathered ranks as out from among the dead-eyed slaves came the wasted remnant of the Sea Wolf pack. My spirit writhed within me to see them shambling forth—some in pairs still, others by themselves, but all dragging their irons. Off to one side, one poor wretch hobbled towards me, his eagerness made pathetic by his lurching gait. His last steps were ill-judged and he tottered headlong to the dust. I reached down to raise him and found myself looking into Gunnar’s haggard face.

  “Aeddan,” he said, tears streaming from his eyes. “Aeddan, thank God, you have come at last. I knew you would return. I knew you would not leave us to die in this place.”

  I helped him to his feet and clasped him to me. “Gunnar,” I said, “forgive me, brother. I should have come sooner, forgive me.”

  “How should I forgive you?” Wonder made his features childlike. “You have returned. I knew you would. I never doubted.”

  I looked at the other slaves slowly making their way to where we stood. “Where is Dugal?” I said. “I do not see him.” Once more, panic assailed me. Have I come too late? Dugal! Where are you, brother? “Where are the Britons?”

  In the same instant, I heard a cry from across the yard. I turned and saw, stumbling forward through the press, the hulking figure of my dearest friend and brother. Vastly changed, he was—still, I knew him as I would have known my own self. “Dugal!” I cried, and hastened to meet him.

  Seeing me, he half-turned and gestured to someone behind him, and then came on. We met in the centre of the yard before the whipping post where we had last seen one another, and where Bishop Cadoc had gone to death in my place. “Dugal!” I cried, my own eyes filling with tears. “Are you alive, Dugal?”

  “Just so, Dána,” he whispered, kneading the flesh of my s
houlders with his hands. “I am.”

  Faysal appeared beside us just then. “We best move quickly,” he reminded me. “The slaves and their masters grow restive.”

  To Dugal I said, “Do the Britons yet live?”

  “They do,” he said, and turned to the slaves looking on, their agitation increasing by the moment. No longer slack-witted, I could tell by the expressions on their faces they had begun to perceive that there would be no execution today. But the sight of strangers choosing slaves seemingly at random confused and excited them.

  “Brynach! Ddewi!” At Dugal’s shout two round-shouldered figures lurched from the throng. I would not have known them in a thousand years for the men they had once been. Brynach’s hair was white and he walked with a stoop, and the young Ddewi had lost an eye. The hair and beards of both, like the hair and beards of all, were nasty, matted, lice-infested tangles.

  I took up their hands and embraced them. “Brothers,” I said, “I have come for you.”

  Brynach smiled; his teeth were discoloured and his gums were raw. “All praise to Christ, our Lord and Redeemer! His purposes shall not be seen to fail.”

  At his words my heart twisted within me. I wanted to shout at him: Christ! How dare you thank that monster! Had it been left to God, the mines would claim your rotting bones. It is Aidan, not Christ, who frees you now!

  But I swallowed the bile and said, “We are leaving this place. Can you walk?”

  “I will crawl to freedom if need be,” he said, his mouth spreading in a grin. The skin of his lips split in the violence of his smile and began to bleed.

  “Come, Ddewi, the day of our liberation has come. We are leaving our captivity.” With the gentleness of a mother bending to an ailing child, the elder monk took hold of the younger’s hand and began leading him away. It was then that I understood Ddewi had lost more than an eye only.

  Some of the slaves across the yard began shouting at me. I could not make out what they wanted, nor did I want to know. My only thought now was to escape with the prize as quickly as possible. “We must go,” Faysal said, his voice urgent, his eyes wary. “To wait any longer is to tempt the devil.”