“Of course not,” Laurentius snapped.
“Why not?”
“Why not?” Laurentius stared at him. “To what end? What possible purpose would be served by asking the boy such a thing? One who has devoted himself to God, no less?”
“Perhaps,” said Shukra, watching him carefully, “to reassure him that he is not alone, aziz-am.”
“I could not.”
“Or is it that you will not?” Shukra’s eyes narrowed. “You said I would despise you. Why would I despise you for suspecting Athanagild shares your nature, aziz-am? Or is there something else you do not say to me?”
Laurentius’s mouth tightened, but he did not answer.
“It is not only that you suspect he shares your nature.” Shukra spoke slowly. His eyes seared Laurentius’s face like sun burning through mist. “You hope he does.”
Laurentius met his eyes then, unable to speak. Shukra sucked in his breath. For a terrible moment, Laurentius thought his friend would turn away from him, and already he felt the shame and sadness of the loss. Then Shukra strode forward, his hands gripping Laurentius’s shoulders.
“The danger you would be in,” he muttered harshly, and for a moment the Persian lilt was all but gone from his words. “Both of you, should you be discovered.” Then, as he looked into Laurentius’s eyes, his grave expression softened, his mouth curving in a sad smile. “But you must talk with him, aziz-am. If you are right, you cannot allow the boy to carry this burden alone. And if he returns your feelings…” His hands tightened on Laurentius’s shoulders. “You will no longer be alone,” he said softly.
Laurentius shook his head in despair. “I cannot, Shukra,” he said hoarsely. “You know I cannot. Even if he did feel that way, you and I both know it is wrong. And you said it yourself. The danger I would put him in.” He met his friend’s eyes. “He has already lost his brother because of me,” he said. “How can I bring him more pain still?”
“Perhaps,” said Shukra quietly, “you should allow Athanagild to make that choice for himself. And as for the danger – well.” He shrugged, a flash of his old humour lighting his eyes. “I have never known you to run from a little danger, aziz-am.”
“Not for myself, perhaps. But I cannot endanger him, Shukra. I will not.”
Shukra opened his mouth to argue, then, seeing the hard resolve on Laurentius’s face, closed it again.
“Enough.” Laurentius’s voice was hard as stone. “I will not, Shukra, and that is an end to it.” Seeing the resignation on his friend’s face, Laurentius nodded, feeling his customary bland mask slip back into place. “We will not speak of this again,” he said coolly, waiting long enough to see Shukra’s reluctant nod.
Then he turned and walked away.
I can’t, he whispered to himself as he walked. Hazel eyes crept across his mind, full of loneliness and uncertainty.
I just can’t.
Alaric
September, AD 690
Hispalis, Spania
Seville, Spain
Alaric had changed his clothes after the morning’s training when he came to Sunifred’s œca. He found the Duke of Hispalis pacing across the marble floor. His face was already flushed with wine despite the early hour. In response to Alaric’s greeting he growled and waved a letter in the air. “Even now, after your father knows full well it is Egica’s bastard son who attacked your brother at sea, Suinthila refuses to ally with me!”
Alaric stood quietly beneath his tirade. Beside him, Teudolfo, one of his father’s men who had been at Alaric’s side since he left Aurariola four years ago, cast his eyes skyward behind Sunifred’s back. Alaric stifled a grin. Teudolfo’s stolid good humour was one of the few things upon which he could rely in Hispalis’s volatile atmosphere.
“For all his faults,” murmured Teudolfo, “your father shows uncommon good sense, magula.”
“Don’t call me boy,” Alaric murmured back, but there was no sting in his tone. Teudolfo was his lone ally in Sunifred’s volatile court, and the two had become close friends.
“Hm?” Sunifred turned hard blue eyes on them both. “What is that you say?”
“It is nothing, Fráuja,” Alaric said, turning a carefully bland expression to the duke. “We wondered what else my father writes.” He tried to keep the longing from his tone. Since Alaric had walked from the Toletum court at Sunifred’s side late last year, publicly choosing the duke’s rebellion over his father’s diplomacy, he had exchanged no direct word with him. Suinthila had been ill for some years now and rarely left Aurariola. Last year’s news that Theudemir, Alaric’s younger brother, had in fact survived the attack at sea and was alive somewhere on foreign soil seemed to have lifted Suinthila’s spirits somewhat. At least, that was what Alaric understood from Athanagild’s letters. He hoped it was true.
“Suinthila reminds me of the betrothal contract between you and my daughter.” Sunifred’s eyes on Alaric were shrewd.
“Ah.” Alaric tried not to let his excitement show. Sunifred gave a grunt of laughter.
“Now that he knows Theudemir lives, his alliance with Illiberis is safe, thanks to that damned hellcat granddaughter of Paulus’s. But don’t think I don’t remember Suinthila broke with me last year and was set to marry you to the Illiberis wench when he thought Theudemir was dead. Now he comes scurrying back, reminding me of a contract he would have broken in a trice. Man has no stones, no loyalty.”
Alaric clenched his fists. Teudolfo’s reassuring hand was steady on his back. “Don’t rise,” murmured the other man. “You know it is just his way.”
“Ha!” Sunifred had not missed Alaric’s tension. “Like it or not, boy, you chose me when you walked from that council. And if you want my daughter in your bed, you had better mind that loyalty.”
Alaric tensed at the crudity, forcing himself not to react. He means no harm, he told himself. Sunifred was a man of war, of action. He goaded everyone thus. It did not pay to rise, as Teudolfo said. And besides, for all Sunifred’s crudity, the man was strong in a way Alaric understood. Unlike his own father, Sunifred did not waste time on diplomacy. He saw what was needed, then acted. Alaric missed his father. But he knew that if he were to stand in the basilica today faced with the same choice, still he would choose Sunifred, and war. The time for peace, he thought with a surge of strength, was gone. No matter what the outcome of Sunifred’s rebellion, Alaric would never again be rendered passive by the secrecy and lies of his father’s choosing.
“Suinthila will not so much as cede the men he commands at Emerita Augustus to my cause!” Sunifred’s face was dark with anger.
“Emerita Augustus is the seat of the king’s military headquarters.” Alaric spoke steadily. “Many of the men who train there are taken from my father’s lands in the area, it is true. But though he has commanded the training of the military for many years, the men in Emerita are sworn to the king, whoever that may be. Egica sits beneath the votive crown in Toletum. The men of Emerita are sworn to him.”
“And what if I defeat Egica, am crowned king? Would they not then answer to me?”
Alaric bowed his head. “They would, Fráuja.”
“Then why not declare themselves for me now?” Sunifred moved in front of Alaric, his eyes flashing. “Why don’t you command them in your father’s stead?”
Alaric stared at him, taken aback. “I could not do that. It would be treason, against everything my father has taught.”
“Well, it isn’t your father who holds the key to my daughter’s bedchamber, now, is it?” said Sunifred softly. “Rekiberga!” he commanded, without taking his eyes from Alaric’s. “Come in here, girl! I know you are listening at the door.”
The heavy wooden door opened. Alaric caught his breath as Rekiberga entered the œca.
Thick auburn hair, held by a silver band, hung to her waist. She wore a tunic of sheer emerald green over fine cotton, and it moved and glistened in the airy light of the hall like a sea creature on land. Her skin was the palest porcelain, wi
th a faint scatter of freckles across the nose, and she had her father’s brilliant blue eyes.
“Fráuja Alaric.” She greeted him simply, with open hands and a warm smile. Alaric felt as if his own hands were strangers to his body. He watched them rise to take hers, felt the shock as cool, slender fingers slid into them. Surely, he thought, she would recoil at his touch.
But she did not, and from a great distance Alaric heard himself return her greeting. “My lady Rekiberga. It has been too long since we met.” Almost a year, he thought, but did not say. Sunifred, he knew, exploited men’s emotions, found in them weapons he wielded in coarse humour. Only when Teudolfo nudged him did Alaric remember to release Rekiberga’s hands. Was it his imagination, he wondered, or was there a faint trace of colour on her cheeks as she took them back?
She turned to her father, and Alaric lowered his head to hide his discomfort. “Liefs,” said Sunifred, clearly enjoying Alaric’s discomposure, “it appears the Count of Aurariola would like to see us honour our betrothal with his son. What say you to such a plan?”
Rekiberga lowered her head demurely, but not before Alaric saw a flash of something he could not read flare in her eyes. “I am yours to command in all things, Abba,” she said softly.
“Hmph.” Sunifred eyed his daughter’s bent head suspiciously. “Well, since you are here, you may listen to what I tell your would-be husband. It may be that you will need to remind him of it.”
It is just his way, Alaric told himself again, aware that his fists were clenched. He pushed away the unwelcome thought that his own father would never dream of treating Alaric’s sister thus. They are different men.
“I will allow you to marry my daughter.” Sunifred’s words were so unexpected that Alaric’s head snapped up.
“You will?” he said, unsure he had heard correctly.
Sunifred nodded. “I will,” he said. “On three conditions. One, that you bring the men of Emerita to my cause. Two, that you convince Paulus to bring Illiberis with them.” As Alaric began shaking his head, Sunifred held up his hand. “I haven’t finished. My third condition is that you bring Theodefred, Duke of Corduba, to support my rule.”
“The Duke of Corduba?” Alaric stared at him in disbelief. “Theodefred is a son of Chindasuinth. He is one of the most powerful men in Spania, every stade of his land sworn to the Crown, and he with it. He cannot go against Egica.”
“That might be so. But Theodefred is also bound to Illiberis by marriage. His wife, Riccilo, is kin to Paulus’s wife, and if what I hear is true, she wields as much power over her husband as any woman ever has. Theodefred’s own brother, Favila, already stirs in rebellion, north in Gallæcia. Theodefred will have to choose his allegiance eventually, as will all the lords of the south, your father included. So here is my promise to you, Alaric of Aurariola.” Sunifred drew his daughter forward. “Find a way to bring the support of these southern lords to my side, and you will marry my daughter, as agreed. Will that make you happy, liefs?” He smiled down at Rekiberga with avuncular affection.
“Yes, Abba,” she said, colouring and lowering her eyes.
Alaric was so absorbed in looking at her that his mind turned away from the unspoken ultimatum Sunifred had left hanging in the air.
If Alaric could not bring the southern lords to Sunifred’s side, he knew the duke meant to marry his daughter to someone who could.
It was war, after all, Alaric thought, pushing his distaste aside. And in war, men must at times be ruthless.
“Yes, Fráuja,” he said grimly. “I understand.”
Alaric was storming away from Sunifred’s domus, heedless of the people in his path, when he heard his name called.
“Alaric!”
He swung around to find Rekiberga facing him, her face flushed and breath short. She was not clad for the street; a shawl barely covered the thin sea-green gown that showed more of her form than was decorous in public. She reached for him, her hands on his arms both delicate and somehow strong, as if the heat within her were a solid wall of reassurance holding him at peace.
“Forgive me following you,” she said, trembling. “I could not bear to let you go without explaining –”
Alaric’s hands clenched at his side in the effort not to reach for her. “You should not be here,” he said roughly.
“Few will recognise my face. I so rarely leave my father’s house.” Rekiberga’s tone was bitter as she waved dismissively. “I have tried to find opportunity to speak with you, but we are never alone.” Her touch on his arm seared like fire. “I have begged my father,” she said, “implored him, to let us marry. I would not have you think I support this game he plays.”
“I know you do not.” Alaric brushed a long strand of auburn hair away from her face, his heart aching. “And it is war, so I do not judge him too harshly. But I do not know how to give what he asks. My father will never join this rebellion.”
“And mine will never give it up.” Despair clouded her face. “My mother says I should forget you. They do not care what I wish for.”
Alaric found he could barely breathe. “What is it that you wish for?” He searched her face. “We were betrothed once, but I do not now know what is in your mind, or your heart. I see you from a distance only, or at meat in your father’s hall. I would not wish for you to feel bound to me against your will.”
“Against my will?” Rekiberga’s voice was low and fierce. She stepped forward, so close he could smell the faint scent of citron from her hair. “From the moment I saw you in my father’s hall,” she said, “I knew it was you. I knew it then, Alaric, and every day since.” Her mouth curved in a smile Alaric thought might make his heart stop. “I know it now,” she whispered, “with you standing in front of me.”
Alaric stared at her, taking in the long line of her neck, the brilliant blue eyes that always reminded him of the summer seas at home in Aurariola; and without thinking, with barely even an awareness of what he was doing, he lowered his head and took her mouth with his own, groaning as she surrendered beneath him. He kissed her on and on, fingers twined in the scented weight of her hair, pressing her hard against him until there was nothing but her mouth and the feeling of her beneath his hands, the soft sound as she moaned against him.
It was this that brought him back to some realisation of where they were. With an effort he broke the kiss and found they had become an attraction for a group of children who pointed at them from a distance and giggled, hooting when they broke apart. Putting an arm protectively about her shoulders, he whispered, “Come – you should not be outside.”
Rekiberga’s face was flaming and her lips were still swollen from where he had bruised them with his own. Alaric could barely restrain himself from taking her there, in the street, and be damned all who looked at them. Instead, he drew her close and hurried her through the alleys to a low dwelling with a wooden door. He knocked twice, and Teudolfo opened it. Seeing who Alaric was with, he frowned. He was less than a decade older than Alaric, but it was enough that he felt a certain responsibility for the young man he had known from birth.
“This is a dangerous game I will have no part of,” he said sternly, looking between them. “My lady” – he addressed Rekiberga, taking in her dishevelled appearance and the way she clung to Alaric – “I will get you a cloak. I am taking you home.” He glared at Alaric. “Stupid as you are, magula,” he said, “I thought you had more sense than this.”
“It was I who sought him.” Rekiberga had gained some of her composure. She drew herself up and faced Teudolfo. “Please allow me in for a time. I can send word to the villa that I am safe and will return presently.”
Looking between the two, seeing the grim set of Alaric’s face and the concern on Rekiberga’s, Teudolfo sighed and opened the door. “Your father is going to kill us all,” he said resignedly, showing them in.
They sat at a low wooden table and drank rough posca. Rekiberga sat close to Alaric. Her presence beside him was both calming and intoxicating; he dr
ew her close to him, and when Teudolfo frowned, he glared in return. Alaric had ceased, he realised, to care what any man thought.
“We have to speak to your father,” he said.
“He won’t listen.” Rekiberga shook her head.
“Still.” Alaric cupped her head, drawing it gently down to his shoulder. “We must try, Rekiberga.”
Alaric’s eyes met Teudolfo’s across the table. Teudolfo shook his head. “I do not see it,” he said bleakly. He rose, his face stern as he eyed Rekiberga.
She held up her hand. “Wait,” she said, and there was a note of command in her voice that made Teudolfo pause and Alaric look up. There was a shadow in her eyes that made Alaric’s heart clench as she drew away and faced him.
“Don’t say it,” he said. “Whatever you are about to say – do not say it.”
“I must.” One hand came up and touched his face. “I do not wish you to speak to my father. No,” she said firmly as Alaric started to speak. “Listen, Alaric. I know you, just as I know my father. You will not be able to live with yourself if you do his bidding and drag others into this rebellion against your own conscience.” A fierce light flashed in her eyes. “And I will not suffer the indignity of being the bait used to lure men and swords to a cause I believe flawed.”
Taken aback, Alaric looked instinctively to Teudolfo, who was watching Rekiberga intently. “If you do not believe in your father’s rebellion, my lady,” said Teudolfo, “then what would you have Alaric do?”
“Leave my father’s court.” Rekiberga met their eyes in turn. “Go now, to your father, while you still can.” She swallowed, and when she continued, her voice shook slightly, but there was no doubting the sincerity in her face. “And if you will take me,” she said, “I will go with you. I will marry you, Alaric, whether my father sanctions the match or not.”
Her words fell into the stillness of the small room like a turbulent current, stirring the dust about them. Alaric felt the ground shift beneath him, a gulf opening within that he did not know how to fill.
The King's Coin: Ambition is the only faith (Visigoths of Spain Book 2) Page 9
