Rekiberga searched his face. Awareness dawned slowly on hers, the fierce light fading from her eyes. “Despite it all,” she said dully, “you believe in him still, don’t you?”
Teudolfo swung to Alaric, frowning.
“My brother was attacked.” Alaric shook his head, the words dust in his mouth. “Oppa and his father have wrought horrors upon my family, and others, that I can hardly think of without needing to strike something. Your father may not be perfect. But he acts, at least. And we must act, Rekiberga, or see Spania fall to men without honour or conscience.”
“But how can you be certain,” she whispered, “that the men who seek to take their place are any different?”
“Magula.” Teudolfo met his eyes. “Listen to your lady. This rebellion is doomed – you have said as much yourself. It is not too late. Your father’s door will never be truly closed to you. He will take you in, protect your wife as his own –”
“Protect her?” Alaric’s voice was rough. “As he protected my own mother – as he protected Theo? By hiding in Aurariola and leaving the work of revenge and war to other men? No, Teudolfo.” He shook his head, staring at the table. “If I run with Rekiberga, I have betrayed not only my father but the man I chose over him, and to whom I am sworn. How many times must I betray my word?”
“You made a mistake, magula. A mistake any man could have made.” Teudolfo’s tone was urgent. “But there is time still to undo that mistake. You are not reneging on your word, Alaric. You are returning to your homeland, to your father. Following a man whose heart you know, even if you do not agree with his way.”
Alaric was quiet for a long time, feeling the gulf opening wider before him. In it, he saw Theo’s face, the day his brother had asked him to care for Lælia if he did not return. He recalled Theo’s quiet resignation, his acceptance that he must do the duty his father and uncle had asked of him. He saw Laurentius’s cool mask as he faced Egica in court and pretended diplomacy when Alaric knew his uncle despised the king and all he stood for. He saw Athanagild’s gaunt face as he spoke of the Church’s own divided allegiance. So many sacrifices – and yet what had Spania gained from all that suffering? What true change had they wrought, with their secret plots and diplomacy?
The memories swirled in the black gulf before him, and Alaric felt how easy it would be to blind himself to those complexities and return to the house of his father. He could release himself from the burden of choosing a path and instead follow Suinthila’s way, blindly trusting in his father’s direction and ignoring all he had seen and learned.
When he finally spoke, his voice felt rusty and old.
“I can no longer follow my father’s way,” he said. He stared at the opposite wall, upon which it seemed he could see his brothers’ faces. “His world has fallen. It fell long ago, whether he wishes to acknowledge it or not. It fell when the king’s family attacked and killed my own and were allowed to flee with impunity. What price must we pay for the Spania of my father’s dreams, Teudolfo? What, or who, will be sacrificed next time?” His eyes slid to Rekiberga, who stood abruptly.
“Am I not already being sacrificed, Alaric?” Her eyes searched his. “What do you think it is when my father wields my hand as currency in his war?”
He caught her hand with his own. “You know I loathe his actions,” he said roughly. “I do not love the man, Rekiberga, and I despise that he plays with you, with us both. But I cannot say I disagree with his cause.” He turned to Teudolfo. “Just as I cannot say that because my father’s heart is honourable, I agree with his cause – for I do not.”
“Then you will stay,” said Rekiberga dully.
Alaric forced himself to meet her eyes. “I must,” he said simply.
“This is a mistake, magula.” Teudolfo’s face was dark. “You cannot split the heart of a man from his cause. Sunifred has neither honour nor integrity, for no man with either would play with his own child’s life.” He looked apologetically at Rekiberga. “Forgive me, my lady.”
“No.” Rekiberga’s colour was heightened, but she spoke clearly. “You are right, Teudolfo.” She looked at Alaric. “A cause is only as strong as the man who leads it,” she said quietly. “And my father does not have the strength that men will follow. Your father, however, is renowned for the integrity and strength that mine is not. It is why my father seeks to hold you at his side. He hopes men will follow the son of a man they respect.”
“She is right, magula.” Teudolfo’s face was grim. “In Sunifred you find a man concerned only with his own self-interest, one who will return us to the savage days your own father fought to bring us out of. Sunifred does not care for Spania. He cares for enriching his own pocket and gaining revenge on those he believes disrespect him. Is such a man worthy of a crown?”
“Perhaps not.” Alaric felt tired as he spoke. “But though he may not be worthy of it, he will not, I think, stoop to murdering women and children – and that is more than can be said of Egica. And perhaps, too, if I remain at his side, I might be a voice of reason to him, save him from his worst excesses.” He met Teudolfo’s eyes. “You may leave, if you wish.” Alaric felt the words catch in his throat. “I will not hold you here, Teudolfo.”
The older man made a rough sound of dismissal. “You know it is more than duty that holds me,” he said bluntly. “I cannot leave you, Alaric. I will not. Though I will say I think your dreams of acting as wise counsel to be whimsical. Sunifred is not a man to listen to counsel with which he does not agree.”
Alaric had no answer to that. Rekiberga stared at him for a long moment, then she sat down slowly on the stool opposite Alaric. She bent forward and their foreheads touched, their breath mingling in the silent room. “Nor can I abandon you,” she whispered softly. “But I beg you think on what I have said, Alaric. And remember this: if you decide to leave, I will ride with you, no matter how hard the road, nor the risks upon it.”
They remained like that, inhaling the strength of each other, until Teudolfo finally stretched out his hand and led Rekiberga away.
Lælia
September, AD 690
Montibus Awras, Mauretania
Aures Mountains, Algeria
The adwwar lay in a shallow depression amidst soaring mountains of red rock. In the early morning, the stone glowed like fire, and even in the late months of summer, dew sat on the foliage. It was this time Lælia enjoyed the most, before the Jerawa stirred, when she had the dawn to herself.
She was surprised by how much she loved the desert. The way each night erased the tracks of the previous day, leaving the sand rippled in perfect symmetry, as if it had never known human footprint. The deep silence of the nights, and the strange isolation of the days when wind threw sand into the air. Each mood seemed to Lælia perfect in its own way, finding an echo in her soul. Here she had no need to be the heiress of Illiberis, but was merely another Rider on the sands, swathed in material and following in silence through the vast spaces.
The adwwar, though, where the women and children of Dahiya’s army made their home in low mud huts, was different.
“Lalla!” It was one of the women, calling her into the hut to eat. As far as Lælia could make out, lalla was a term of affection and respect. She hoped so. All of Dahiya’s companions called her by it.
After she had eaten the flaky bread with almond paste that was a treat from the clay ovens of the adwwar, the women led her away to make henna patterns on her feet. Lælia inwardly sighed as she submitted to their ministrations. She had learned the hard way that such decoration could take all day, but also that it was useless to protest that she didn’t want it. Just like the women of the Toletum court, the young women of the adwwar took every chance to make themselves beautiful and gossip amongst themselves about the men. Lælia did not need to understand their language to know the manner of their conversation. It left her feeling just as lonely and bored as she once had felt listening to the women at court.
Jadis, her cat, lay at the rear of the hut, eye
ing the activities with profound disinterest. As footsteps approached, the cat’s tail began to thud gently on the earth. Lælia was relieved when Dahiya entered the hut and the other women fell silent, then left them alone.
“You do not, I think, enjoy the talk of women,” Dahiya said by way of greeting.
“I do not judge them.” Lælia gestured to her feet and the intricate patterns the women had spent hours delicately tracing on the skin there. “I just cannot imagine thinking the making of these patterns an important use of my days.” She gave Dahiya something of a reproachful look. “When you mentioned, in conversation with Ilyan, leaving me with the women to have henna made, I confess I had thought you joking.”
“It is the safest place for you,” said Dahiya bluntly.
“Safest?” Lælia was not smiling. “Is that what you have sought for yourself – the safest course?”
“I might have been wiser had I done so.”
“But you did not. You wanted more.”
“More comes with a price.” Dahiya stood restlessly, moving to the opening of the hut and looking out at her people going about their day: driving herds of goats to feed, weaving dried sabay grass into baskets, pounding grain with long wooden poles. Jadis growled softly. “A price I would not wish you to pay.”
“The women told me of the revenge you took, long ago.” Lælia saw the other woman’s back stiffen, but Dahiya did not turn around. “They say you killed your father’s murderer with your own hands, then fed him his own private parts as punishment for ravaging you.” She could not hide the admiration in her tone.
“The women speak too much. You should not listen to their gossip.”
“It is not gossip,” Lælia said with certainty. “You wanted more, and you took it. Why do you think it so strange that I would want the same? Or that I would want my revenge on those who have wronged me – and my family?”
“This vengeance you speak of and think you want.” Dahiya still did not look at her. “Tell me about it.”
“You know what Giscila did to my parents.” Unconsciously, she put a hand on Jadis’s large head. “He attacked our home when I was barely a month old, with an entire thiufa of men. Most of ours were north fighting with his brother, King Wamba. He murdered my father and the household guard. Theo’s mother was visiting us and died in the attack. My mother escaped, taking Theo and I with her. She died later, in the caves where she hid us. If men of the tribes had not found us, Theo and I would also be dead.” Lælia told her story in short, hard sentences. The cat butted her gently, curling into her side.
“You tell this story as if it belongs to someone else.” Dahiya’s face was shadowed by the brilliant daylight beyond the doorway. “Is it for this story that you seek vengeance?”
Lælia swallowed a growing feeling of resentment. “My grandmother told me that when she met you in Septem long ago, Giscila was in her grasp. She came to kill him, and she would have done so had your wars not intervened. She left with her revenge undone.” Lælia tilted her chin proudly. “Now she has given the task of vengeance to me. I intend to see justice is done.”
“My wars,” said Dahiya, a small smile on her face. “This is what you call the Arabic force that even now bears down on us, determined to take Africa for the Caliphate. You think these wars do not concern you, that they are no more than an obstacle to be overcome on the pathway to exacting your revenge?”
“I think you have won the right to fight whom you choose, as you see fit. I ask for the chance to win the same right.”
“And you believe that finding Giscila, and killing him, will give you this ‘right’?” Lælia nodded, feeling foolish, though she did not know why. “Tell me this.” Dahiya folded herself smoothly into a cross-legged position on the cushions opposite Lælia. “When you think of pushing your sword into Giscila’s belly, of watching him die, what do you see? What do you feel?” Then, as Lælia opened her mouth to answer, Dahiya went on: “No. Close your eyes. Tell me what you see, what it is you feel.”
The sounds beyond the hut faded away, and Lælia saw a man before her. She felt the weight of steel in her hand, the short, lethal dagger her grandfather had trained her to wield with deadly dexterity. She saw herself approaching the man, unbalancing him, causing him to fall to the ground, his eyes staring up at her. She stood over him, the sword in her hand.
“What do you see?” urged Dahiya.
Lælia stared at the face in her vision, her arm raised high, feeling the rage and bitterness course through her. Not you! she thought furiously, as she stared into the dark eyes of her imagined enemy. Jadis made a long, low sound beside her, of warning and hunger.
“What do you feel?” Dahiya’s voice tugged at her, and Lælia’s eyes flew open.
“I feel rage,” she spat, staring angrily at the other woman.
“Ah.” Dahiya’s mouth curled in a knowing smile. “But anger at what? At whom?”
Lælia paused. I could lie, she thought. Dahiya could not know. But she knew, somewhere inside herself, how futile a lie it would be.
“Oppa,” she said dully. “I saw the king’s bastard in my mind – and I wanted to kill him.”
“Oppa.” Dahiya sat back, nodding in satisfaction. “Yes. He, I think, has wronged you.”
“So has Giscila,” said Lælia furiously. “He murdered my parents. He left me for dead –”
“Yes,” Dahiya cut her short, “but you did not know your parents. You were a baby. This tragedy, it affected you, of course. Such events have their impact, leave indelible scars upon our souls, in ways that forever mark and change us. The murder of your parents is part of who you are. But the pain of their loss is your grandmother’s revenge to take, not yours. It is she who sees Giscila’s face in her dreams, who knows a dark, visceral rage when she thinks upon him. Not you. Yours is reserved for Oppa, for the man who hurt Theo and tried to take you against your will. For Oppa, you have the dark rage of grief, the deep passion from which comes power. One day, it is Oppa who will create the warrior you may be. Not Giscila. Giscila is no more than a faceless symbol of what you have lost. Killing him will not bring you the power of which you dream. It will simply be killing, which alone does no more than stain the soul and weaken it. To kill Giscila would be to follow the false lead of your own pride, which seeks to make its mark and sees in his death a trophy that others might admire. There is no honour in such killing – and no justice.”
Lælia wanted to protest, but the words tasted like dust in her mouth. Jadis stared at her, tail swinging low and slowly. “How are you so certain?” she said finally. “Did you allow any to tell you what revenge was yours to take? Acantha passed this task on to me. I will not fail her in it.”
“I did not need anyone to tell me what revenge was mine to take.” Dahiya’s eyes flashed deep amber. “I stared down at the face of a man who had taken my body by force and who I had watched put steel through my father, and I knew he was mine to kill. I could not live whilst he did, and he could not be permitted to walk the earth again. My revenge was uncomplicated, and I do not regret it.
“But in the days since that man died, I have taken many lives. Most in the heat of battle, where revenge plays no part and steel will take what Ghurzla, the god of war, wills. But some lives I have had to take in the cold light of day and reason. Lives of men who betrayed me, or those captured whom it was too dangerous to allow to live. Such deaths I take with my own blade, that the deed will not stain the souls of my men, for I am their leader and such tasks must be mine alone. Often the deaths are well deserved. I mourn the men dead at their hands, or I loathe them as enemies on my land. But when my blade runs their flesh, it is not the savage heat of revenge I taste, but the cold, sickly flavour of death. There is no satisfaction, no justice, in such killing. Only the darkness of the deed itself, a darkness I must make room for in the home of my soul and carry with me all my life, for no light can ever truly take it away.”
Lælia felt a secret relief that her soul did not yet carry any su
ch burden. Then she looked around at the earthen walls of the hut, and she felt the frustrated impotence of sitting there, inactive, whilst events swirled around her.
“Tell me.” Dahiya looked at her curiously. “When Theo returns, what life do you imagine at his side?”
“Theo will learn to administer justice in Illiberis, as my grandfather does. I will manage the herd as the women of our family have always done. We will marry.” She coloured. “Have children.”
“And what if there is no Illiberis?”
Lælia stared at her. “Illiberis is mine,” she said flatly. “It will always be mine.”
“Perhaps.” Dahiya shrugged. “Perhaps not. Wars change things. And Spania will soon be at war. What will you do, Lælia, if war comes for Illiberis? Will you fight?”
“Of course I will fight.”
“And if you are defeated – what then?”
“Then we will fight again.”
“You say ‘we’,” said Dahiya quietly. “After you are married, is it you who will lead the men of Illiberis to battle, or Theo? Who will care for your children?”
“Theo knows who I am. He knows I can fight and that I will defend Illiberis with my last breath.” She met Dahiya’s eyes defiantly. “You have children,” she pointed out. “And yet you fight.”
The ghost of a smile crossed Dahiya’s face. “I met their father as an equal, fought beside him as such, and bore his children alone in the sands. My ways are not yours, Lælia of Illiberis.” Her use of the title emphasised the difference between them. “You do not wish to sit in the adwwar with the women,” said Dahiya quietly. “You think yourself separate from them, destined for something more than the life of wife and mother.”
The conversation was uncomfortably reminiscent of that Lælia recalled having with Acantha when she first learned of her betrothal to Theo: When you have found the courage to face the challenges life already offers you, we might discuss again the great deeds you think yourself destined to accomplish…
The King's Coin: Ambition is the only faith (Visigoths of Spain Book 2) Page 10
