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

by Paula Constant

  “Acantha once said something similar,” she said slowly. “Since then, I have proven my worth. Won the right to come here, representing Illiberis. I may not have faced men on a battlefield as you have done. But I have faced my enemies – and won.”

  “You have won nothing.” There was no malice in Dahiya’s tone. “Proven nothing. You are the same girl you were when Theo left, still waiting for him to return, for your dream life to begin. You live beneath your grandfather’s roof. Soon you will live beneath your husband’s.” She stared evenly at Lælia. “Even as you disdain the chatter of the women, you are preparing for the life they lead, not the one I do. You came here wrapped in the protection of the legacy you were born to and the one to which you are now betrothed. And if you think any man such as Theo will stand by and watch his wife, the mother of his children, lead men to war, you are deluded.”

  The words hit Lælia in the place far within where inadequacy lived and no lie could stand the glare of truth. “I cannot do nothing,” she said tightly. “I will not.”

  Dahiya inclined her head. “No,” she said evenly. “And perhaps it was wrong of me to expect that of you.”

  She stood, extending a hand to Lælia and pulling the younger woman to her feet. “Acantha once taught me the secrets of working with your Illiberis horse,” she said. “But whilst there are none to compare with the women of your family when it comes to training horses, there are none to compare with my Riders when it comes to fighting on the back of them. Perhaps, whilst you are here amongst my Riders, I might train you to ride as we do.”

  Lælia felt excitement surge through her veins. Beside her, Jadis prowled restlessly, her tawny eyes gleaming in the dim light.

  “I would like nothing more,” she said, trying to retain at least a semblance of dignity.

  “Then come.” Dahiya moved decisively toward the open doorway. “After you learn a little, we will ride into the sands together. When you come out, we will discuss your future again. For now” – she cast Lælia a wry smile – “we will occupy ourselves with lessons on the best ways to kill. For these are always of use, whether for enemies or for those on a battlefield one is forced to call enemy.”

  “Are they not the same?” said Lælia, following her into the daylight.

  “Oh, no.” Dahiya walked away toward the horses. “In war, all men are brothers, all women sisters. There are no enemies on a battlefield. Only the dead, and those who live still.”

  10

  Yosef

  October, AD 690

  Ægyptus–Ilya

  Egypt–Jerusalem

  Yosef’s dreams had grown deeper as the nights had grown colder.

  “Yosef.” He felt the strands of Sarah’s thick, lustrous hair stroke his face on the desert night. “Yosef, I am still here.”

  “I know you are there!”

  Yosef tossed restlessly on the hard ground.

  “I cannot return to you, to Garnata. You do not know the man I have become.”

  “I know you, Yosef. You will come back to us. You must come back…”

  Yosef’s eyes opened. He lay in the still night, drawing deep breaths of crystalline air.

  They had reached the great, red-banded fortress of Babylon on the banks of the Nile. They paid their toll to cross the canal that led to the famed Erythra Thalassa, the inland sea the Arabs called Qeyyih Bāhrī. “Now,” said Bagay, “we reach the end of the lands we know.” The three young men looked at each other. Yosef felt an odd stirring of excitement and fear, a strange exhilaration after the long months of isolated desert travel during which his dreams had sometimes seemed more real than the air around him.

  “In less than one turn of the moon we will reach Jerusalem,” said Khanchla. “The place of your people – and where the new caliph, they say, has his winter palace.”

  The road from Babylon was walked by people from every corner of the Circle of Lands. The trio heard Aramaic, Hebrew, Arabic, Greek, Latin, and a dozen other tongues, many utterly unknown to them. Some were traders and merchants; others were pilgrims, travelling either to the great monastery of St Catherine in the south or to Jerusalem, which the Arabs called Ilya, an adaptation of the Roman name, Ælia Capitolina. The three travellers tried to keep to themselves, but it was a sociable road, and many nights they found themselves sharing a fire and food with their companions. The indigenous people themselves were the tall and handsome Nabateans, darker than the Arabs who now occupied their land, and unfailingly courteous. They met travellers with respect and a deep, quiet dignity. It seemed to Yosef that they watched the quick-tongued Arabs move through their country with guarded reserve, neither liking nor disliking. Yosef had the sense that the Nabateans occupied a different frame of time in which the coming and going of men mattered little to their lives and internal reflections.

  He found their measured pace and guarded eyes a stark contrast to the ambition and haste of the Arabic conquerors. It was the first time Arabs had surrounded them, and it had taken some time for Bagay and Khanchla to relax when companies of the caliph’s army passed, which they did often. The Nabateans spoke their own language, a low, mellifluous sound Yosef found soothing and intriguing. By comparison, the clicks and chirrups of Arabic seemed alien and strange. In reality, the caliph’s forces were a polyglot of men from conquered lands – Persians, Nabateans, Armenians, and, Yosef observed with not a little disquiet, a considerable detachment of slaves drawn from Bagay and Khanchla’s own desert tribes.

  Bagay’s fists clenched the first time a group of these slaves was marched by them. Men stumbled along in chains, thin and exhausted, pulled angrily by an armed man on a horse and whipped from behind by his companion.

  “They are Imazighen.” Bagay stopped so abruptly his brother walked into him.

  “Yes,” hissed Khanchla. “And it is better the men driving them do not realise we are, also. Move.”

  The brothers lowered their heads and continued, trying not to look as the long, miserable column passed them. Clad in robes they had purchased in Babylon, Yosef and his friends looked much as the other merchants on the road did from that city, and if their features were not Nabatean, they took care to speak only Greek amongst themselves, and there was nothing to mark them as extraordinary. But alongside the weary column of beaten slaves, Bagay and Khanchla’s identity was unmistakable to any who cared to look. They kept their heads down, but Yosef, watching his friends’ tight lips and anguished faces, could only guess what it cost them to do so, confronted with the suffering of their own.

  In Jerusalem, they ate in a narrow alley facing the Temple Mount. Having been raised on his father’s stories of the magnificent Greek church that stood on the ground of his ancestors, Yosef was still reeling from the sight of a great dome being erected in its place. It had been more than six years since the Arabs had conquered Jerusalem, and yet still Yosef felt a strange shiver at the sight of an Arabic place of worship growing on the very ground beneath which, according to the beliefs with which he had been raised, the Holy of Holies dwelt still.

  “Why do your people venerate this place?” asked Bagay, eating the warm unleavened bread and rich paste served by the stalls about the Mount.

  “According to the first teachers of my faith,” said Yosef softly, “it was from this place that the world as we know it was created. Here, the divine presence of God gathered the dust used to create the first human, Adam.” He paused, but despite the profound nature of his words, the prosaic scene before him did not change.

  “My people built temples here,” Yosef continued. Looking at the swarm of men carrying stone and tools up the slope where the new building was taking shape, he added: “It is said that we will, one day, build a final, third temple – which will celebrate the coming of the Jewish Messiah.”

  Khanchla squinted at the light shining from the new stone construction. “It looks to me, my friend, as if you may be waiting some time for that Messiah,” he said, grinning at Yosef.

  Yosef felt as if he should have s
ome kind of deep revelation, here at the place where so much of his own history had taken place. Instead, the evening shadows grew long, and they sought a bed for the night. In the morning, they walked from the city with little more than a backward glance, toward the palace of the caliph.

  They entered the fortress of the Al Sinnabra qasr upon the Sea of Galilee, which the Arabs called Kinneret, in the late afternoon when a cool breeze rippled the olive leaves and rustled the date palms. The great walls of the qasr ran a mile or more about the palace and surrounding settlement, more than twenty feet thick, studded with round and rectangular towers. Even after the magnificence of Carthage, Yosef had yet to become accustomed to the sheer scale of the castles and fortresses he entered, and Al Sinnabra, the winter palace of the caliph Abd al Malik, was the most magnificent he had yet seen.

  They entered through a tall, arched gateway made of basalt and brick and passed a granary large enough, Yosef thought, to feed an army. Houses were packed tightly together in the outer part of the complex, prosperous dwellings from which robed women bustled to and from the market to the east, from whence he could hear the calls of the sellers.

  They continued along a paved road lined with date palms until they reached the entrance to the palace proper. A guard, clad in pointed helmet and chain mail, raised his spear to guard their way and glared at them.

  Yosef stepped forward and, clearing his throat, bowed.

  “I am here to see Khalifatul Mu’mineen, Abd al Malik,” he said, in halting Aramaic.

  The guard looked at his fellow and laughed. “Indeed,” he said, grinning. “And I am here to make love to his daughters.”

  Yosef remained bowing. “Please accept this.” He handed one of the scrolls to the guard. “We have travelled far, from Spania itself, and at great danger, to meet with the Khalifatul Mu’mineen.”

  The guard’s smile faded, and he eyed the good-quality robes and shoes of Yosef and his companions, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Wait here,” he said abruptly, and he turned into the palace.

  They waited as evening grew and the call to prayer rang out from the minaret high above the palace. Since Babylon, it was a sound they had heard at every settlement, but they had yet to become accustomed to the strange, wailing song, though it had a plaintive beauty that touched something in Yosef’s soul. It was odd, too, to see people halt in their daily tasks and roll out their prayer mats, turn to the east, and bow their foreheads to the ground every time the mu’addhin made his song.

  In the chill of the evening after prayers, though, the streets were alive and festive, and people watched them curiously when the guard returned, this time with a well-dressed man in tow who bent his head in an expression of apology. “I did not mean to keep you waiting,” he said, the deference in his tone in marked contrast to the guard’s earlier disdain. The guard opened the wrought-iron side gate, commanding them to follow.

  Beyond the inner wall, the palace gardens were thoughtfully laid out, reminding Yosef of those at Septem. Water trickled through fountains placed amidst marble columns. They walked through the central courtyard and beneath intricately carved arches, finding themselves in a small antechamber topped by a rich dome, threaded with gold and painted in careful geometric patterns. Beneath them, the tiled mosaic depicted, to Yosef’s fascination, the signs of the zodiac, carefully laid out in a circle.

  Presently they turned to the sound of footsteps coming down the corridor. The palace guard marched in full mail about a group of palace officials clad in rich robes with turbans wound about their heads, curled slippers on their feet. At their centre was a tall, strongly built man with dark, keen eyes and the hard look of command. He stepped forward and eyed them with interest.

  “You will bow before Mohammed bin Marwan, brother of Caliph Abd al Malik, general to his armies, and victor in the name of Allah,” ordered the guard.

  Yosef and his companions duly bowed.

  “You are from Spania,” said Mohammed bin Marwan, without preamble. “But you do not come from the king.” He held up the scroll. “My clerk transcribed your document. He tells me of your journey to Serica and your request for aid. Shall we take refreshment whilst we talk?” He held out an arm politely, but with no less an air of command, and they followed him into a room that held a number of carved wooden chairs about a low table. Mohammed indicated they should sit and waited until they had done so, swirling his robes with an efficient flourish and settling into his chair with one knee crossed over the other, long fingers stroking the pointed beard at his chin.

  “You are Jews,” he said. Yosef, feeling it impolitic to refine his statement, nodded. “Jews, I am to understand, are not well liked in Spania.”

  Yosef hid his surprise. “You are well informed, Sidi.”

  Mohammed did not react to the honorific but watched him with shrewd interest. “In the Caliphate of the Umayyads, people of the book are welcome to live in peace under the One True God. They are dhimmi, protected persons under law. Taxes are paid, this is true; jizya is paid by all those who do not follow the law of Mohammed. But as Jews you are equal beneath the law, able to trade, hold property, do business, and worship according to your own custom. It is not thus in the Spanish kingdom of the Goths, I understand.”

  A sudden memory of his father burning in the square flickered through Yosef’s mind, and he smelled again the sick reek of oil and flesh. “No,” he said shortly. “It is not.”

  It seemed that Mohammed had perceived something of the nature of his thoughts. He sat back in his chair and stroked the short beard again, watching Yosef with a faint glimmer of a smile.

  “And so, you come here to make alliance with the Caliphate. You have heard, then, of our progress, Alhamdulillah, across Africa?”

  Bagay and Khanchla stiffened beside him. Mohammed’s eyes flickered to them, then back to Yosef.

  “Yes,” said Yosef, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible. “I have heard of your victories.”

  “Victories we have had, yes. But losses, also. No matter. Sabr, patience, is a gift from Allah. Indeed, Allah is with the patient.”

  “Salla Allah alayhi wa salaam,” murmured the palace guard.

  “And when the forces of the Caliphate come to the gates of Spania,” Mohammed continued, “the Jews there, you will rise in support and welcome us.”

  He said it as a statement, nodding his head.

  “For that,” said Yosef quietly, “I cannot answer.”

  Mohammed looked up in surprise. “You cannot answer?” He frowned at Yosef. “You stand here in the court of the caliph, begging for his mercy and indulgence upon your road, but yet you cannot pledge the allegiance of your people – who suffer beneath the corrupt yoke of rulers who oppress you?” He held out a hand, palm upraised in question. “Why?”

  Yosef felt colour flood his face and tension prickle beneath his skin. From the corner of his eye, he saw the guards’ grip on their spears tighten infinitesimally. He suspected his would not be the first blood to flow without ceremony on the floor of the magnificent council chamber. Urbane and benevolent Mohammed might appear, but Yosef sensed he was also ruthless as a sharp sword. Beside him, Bagay and Khanchla were taut and still, and Yosef knew they were thinking of the short knives concealed beneath their robes. For the first time, he doubted the wisdom of allowing them to accompany him. They stood in a chamber in front of a man sworn to destroy all they knew. How long could they hold their peace?

  “Your armies work to conquer Africa,” Yosef said, trying to keep his voice steady. “They may or may not succeed. I have seen much of the desert and its people, and I know they do not wish subjugation beneath another foreign power.” Mohammed’s eyes narrowed, but he did not interrupt, gesturing with an abrupt flick of his fingers for Yosef to continue. “In Spania, it is the same for the Jews,” Yosef said slowly, trying to find the words to express what he wished to say. “We suffer under the laws of King Egica and the Church, it is true. But so we suffered before first we came to Spania. Such i
s the fate of our people – to be oppressed, to live apart from others. We do not seek to foment rebellion or start war. We seek only to trade in peace, to pursue our business, and worship in our own way.”

  “And this is what I offer you,” said Mohammed, spreading out his hand.

  “But we do not know what kind of society you will make,” said Yosef. “Will subjugation beneath you benefit or hinder us? As yet, we do not know. And Jews know also the virtue of patience: Many are the purposes in a man’s heart; but the counsel of Jehovah, it standeth.”

  For a moment, there was silence. Mohammed watched him closely, the guards watched Mohammed, and Dahiya’s sons watched them all. Finally, a reluctant smile broke across Mohammed’s face. “So,” he said. “You are here to decide whether the caliph is a man to your liking – to judge our society, no? You, a Jewish boy from a state in which you are oppressed and persecuted, have travelled halfway around the Circle of Lands to pass judgement on those who have conquered the armies of the emperor. We should, I suppose, be honoured by your presence.”

  The guards laughed. Yosef allowed himself a smile, feeling his heart begin to beat once more. “In fact,” he said, “I come simply to beg passage through your lands, and to make known my people’s wish to trade freely amongst them. I have neither the political understanding nor the authority to enter into any kind of official alliance. If I have mistakenly given that impression, I hope you will forgive it as the error of a boy not yet wise enough to manage his mistakes.”

  Mohammed regarded him for a moment; then he nodded briefly and flashed a quick, short smile. “I know many Jews,” he said. “But I have never met one from Spania. I would speak with you more – you will dine in my home tonight, with your friends, of course.” He glanced at Bagay and Khanchla and his smile twisted slightly. “Although I suspect their conversation is better on the topic of camels than the Torah.” He raised an eyebrow quizzically when the young men looked up warily. “I do not command our armies in Africa,” he said, “but I have received enough recruits from there to know faces from tribes when I meet them. Jews you clearly are, if you protect this one.” He nodded at Yosef. “Spaniards, though, you are not. Nonetheless, you are welcome in our court. Perhaps what you learn in your time here may alter your opinions on my people.”