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

by Paula Constant

  One stray arrow. Just one, and Oppa would be gone forever. Theo’s hand tightened on his bow. Then he thought of Apsimar’s words: It is my experience that such men, bearing such gifts, have ambitions beyond doing the bidding of their masters…

  “Oppa is up to something.” Theo’s words sounded rusty to his own ears, and he felt the twin astonishment in Silas’s and Leofric’s eyes as they turned to him.

  “What does it matter what he is ‘up to’? Kill the bastard, Theo, or I will.” Leofric raised his bow, the swarthy face grim and set.

  “No.”

  At the sharp command Leofric relaxed his arm, though his face was dark with anger. “Give me one reason why not, magare. And it had better be a good one.”

  “If Oppa intended to kill me,” Theo said, “he would not have shown himself on this dock. He certainly would not have insinuated himself with our new commander. He is here for other reasons – reasons of his own.” He tore his eyes away from the retreating figure and met the accusation in Silas’s and Leofric’s. He bent his head and lowered his voice. “Apsimar believes Oppa has plans with Leontios. Plans that may not be in the best interests of the fleet.”

  Leofric frowned. “What do you care what Apsimar believes?”

  “Because he asked me to care.” Theo met their eyes. “The day will come when I watch Oppa die,” he said quietly. “And when I do, he will know from whom the death blow comes. It will not be a stray arrow on the dock. I pray it will be my steel in his belly and my face he sees. But if Oppa is dealing with Leontios, it is certain to mean trouble. Apsimar knew that.”

  Leofric and Silas stared at him. “And Apsimar expects you – the same man Oppa tortured and left for dead – to discover what that trouble is?” Leofric made a harsh noise and spat into the water. “Need I remind you, schnecke, that Apsimar has been recalled to Constantinople – which means we are no longer under his command?”

  Theo made an impatient noise. “We know Oppa. Leontios does not. We do not know what he has already put in motion – but I intend to find out.”

  “I hope you know what you are doing, magare.” Leofric scowled and spat overboard as he watched the retreating figure. “I would see the bastard dead, and worry about his plots later.”

  Theo did not answer. A part of him knew Leofric was right. Another part, one he did not quite understand, knew it was not yet time for Oppa to die.

  Lælia’s face, fierce and beautiful, made his heart clench. In his mind, she rode wild and free in the Illiberis mountains, untouched by the evil of Oppa’s sinister plots or the dirt of war. Theo had to believe that she, and the life he had once dreamed of, waited for him still.

  Somehow, Theo resolved, he must try to hold on to the man she had put her faith in. Even if that meant allowing the one man who had sworn to destroy her live for a while longer yet.

  12

  Lælia

  November, AD 690

  Montibus Awras, Mauretania

  Aures Mountains, Algeria

  The arrows came at Lælia from every direction. Holding the hand shield over her head with one hand, spear held low at her side with the other, she guided her horse with her legs and bent low over its neck across the undulating ground, riding in a line of men toward a cloud of dust. From the centre of it came the thundering of hooves, then a hail of arrows.

  “Throw!” called the man next to her, and Lælia hurled her spear overhead as she had been taught.

  Then the attackers were upon them.

  Lælia found herself amidst a whirling, shrieking mass of chaos. Arrows whistled past her, one catching the side of her head with a glancing blow. Had they been steel tipped instead of blunt practice arrows, she would be dead.

  “Sword!”

  Lælia fumbled as she reached for steel. She was wrenched from her horse, tumbling hard to the earth. She looked up to find Dahiya standing over her, the tip of her spear piercing Lælia’s throat. “Dead,” Dahiya said, not unkindly. “Too slow.”

  Scrambling to her feet, Lælia trudged back to her horse, Jadis prowling silently at her side. Around her the mock battle continued. The Riders who had charged toward her were the clear victors. They rode in tight concentric circles, releasing a never-ending hail of arrows that unhorsed most of the opposition before ever they released a spear.

  “These Riders.” It was Tosius, the little Illiberis tribesman who had come with Lælia to Africa and who rarely left her side. “They take our horses and make of them a weapon so lethal none can stand against it.”

  Lælia nodded. “A weapon that may one day prove valuable, if we can learn it,” she said.

  Tosius looked worried. “I fear your grandfather would not like you here, far in the desert, learning such things.”

  “My grandfather is not here.” Lælia winced as she swung herself onto her horse. “And he would like it even less if I wasted such an opportunity.” Tosius tilted his head in acknowledgment, but his face remained dark.

  Realising Dahiya had heard the exchange, Lælia said, somewhat tartly: “As you once pointed out, women in Spania do not fight as you do here.”

  Dahiya’s bark of laughter was as hard as it was unexpected. “Do you think it is custom for women of the Imazighen to fight?”

  “Is it not?” It was Lælia’s turn to look surprised. “But there are many women training amongst your forces.”

  “Because I encourage them to. It is not our custom. There are many still who would prefer their women at home in the adwwar, making henna.” Dahiya shrugged. “But some women are made for steel, just as some men are made to make henna. I prefer to understand what a man – or woman – is best inclined to, then help them master it. Like this, we are all better.”

  She gave Lælia a sidelong smile, there and gone. “And I need all the fighters I can train. If your cat came to me and offered her teeth, I would train her.”

  Lælia laughed aloud. It was a good feeling, to laugh, and something she had done more of since joining the Imazighen than she could remember ever having done before. The Imazighen, she sometimes felt, would find humour in even the darkest moment. To them, the gravest sin was to show misery, anger, or impatience in conversation with another. Every grievance was laughed away, every hurt given to their gods and released. Emotion was saved for the haunting songs and passionate dancing around the fire, for the paintings done on rock or for ballads of tragic love.

  It was oddly peaceful.

  “You have had some training.” It was not a question.

  Lælia nodded. “My grandfather taught me to use a sword. Tosius” – she nodded at the little tribesman who ran silently at her side – “taught me to string a bow before I could walk.”

  “Yes. You taught her to shoot well,” Dahiya said. Tosius ducked his head, looking absurdly pleased with himself. “But not well enough.” The smile vanished. Dahiya turned back to Lælia. “You would not stand more than the first battle-rush. Your swordplay is clumsy, you cannot throw a spear with any force, and you do not use your shield correctly. Being good with a bow is the easiest thing you will master. Staying alive on a battlefield is quite another. And as for strategy – well.” Dahiya glanced at Jadis, who stared back at her with malevolent yellow eyes as if she took every insult personally. “You attack with the same lack of tact as your animal – riding straight at your enemy, hoping you will take him in your rush. You know nothing of how to think through a battle, how to plan it. This is what we will learn whilst you are here.”

  Lælia swallowed hard on her hurt pride. “Thank you.”

  “Ah.” Dahiya waved dismissively. “My sons gave me worse looks than that when I trained them. You will live to be grateful, and who knows what destiny holds? Perhaps you may be of use to me, one day, and my time will not have been entirely wasted.” She began to ride away, ordering her Riders back into formation.

  “Wait.” Lælia coloured as Dahiya glanced back at her, one eyebrow lifted politely, but with the humour of a moment earlier gone. “I overheard men saying a m
essenger had come.” Lælia stumbled clumsily on the words. “From Carthage.”

  “If there was news I thought you should hear,” said Dahiya, “I would have given it to you.”

  “Then you have not heard if Giscila is there?”

  “I did not say that.” Dahiya met her eyes steadily. “I said that if there was news I thought you should hear, I would give it to you.”

  “But if Giscila is in Carthage, that, surely, is news I should know of.” Lælia could not disguise her impatience.

  “I do not agree. Nor, for that matter, does Ilyan.”

  “You had news from Ilyan?” Lælia felt heat rise in her face and fought to keep her temper. “Then is there word from Spania? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I lead an army of many thousands, Lælia of Illiberis. I have an army of Arabs intent upon making my home their own. Your concerns, whilst undoubtedly of grave importance to you, are not always my priority. If I had a direct message for you, you would have it by now. All other news is for me to determine how best to use it.”

  “But Giscila is in Carthage.”

  “Yes.”

  Lælia drew a sharp breath. She felt her face darken and felt powerless to stop it. “Then that is where I will go. Come, Jadis.” Turning the horse, she began to ride back toward the camp.

  “You will do no such thing.” Lælia halted at the steel in Dahiya’s tone, but she did not turn. “Why do you think Giscila has come to Carthage?”

  Lælia lifted one shoulder in a non-committal gesture.

  “No.” Dahiya strode to Lælia’s side and turned her, not gently, to face her. No trace of humour remained in the older woman’s face. “You do not know, Lælia, and neither do I. What I do know I will share with you. Not because you are performing like the most childish infant in the adwwar – and you are – but because we may need to ride soon, and when we do, there will be no time for conversation. The messenger brings word that Giscila has come to Carthage, yes. But there is more.” She looked gravely at Lælia. “He brings word, too, that the king’s bastard son was with him. He has sailed east, in the company of Leontios, a commander in the Karabisianoi.”

  “Oppa?” Blood drained from Lælia’s face. The desert wind sounded hollow in her ears. “Sailed to the fleet? He has gone to find Theo,” she said flatly. “To kill him.”

  “Perhaps.” It was Dahiya’s turn to raise her shoulder. “Perhaps not. That is the point, Lælia: neither I nor Ilyan knows. Has Oppa gone in search of Theo? Had word of Yosef?” The amber eyes pinned Lælia like twin rays of fire. “Or,” she said quietly, “has Oppa heard word that you are here – and sent his kinsman to take you captive?”

  “He could not know I am here. Nobody knows I am here.”

  “I am sure Oppa believes the same of his presence on our shores. The messenger tells me he took great pains to remain hidden and move swiftly until he was far from Ilyan’s shores.” Dahiya’s short laughter was contemptuous. “Fool that he is. Nothing sails the Circle of Lands that Ilyan does not know of.”

  “If Oppa sails for the fleet, then that is where I must go.” Lælia began to walk determinedly toward the camp. “He enslaved Theo once. He killed Yosef’s father and ordered the rape of Sarah, the girl Yosef was to marry.” The terrible memories assailed her in a series of dark images. She had never seen Sarah since that day, knew nothing of what had become of her, though she had searched hard enough. The memory of Sarah’s bleeding flesh, however – and Yosef’s gaunt horror – she recalled with a clarity she wished she could forget. Her dreams of Theo during the time she now knew he had been enslaved, though indistinct and felt in a dream rather than actually seen, were even worse than the memories. She shuddered at the recollection of the stark terror she had felt on waking from them, the sickening pain she had sensed through the veil of sleep.

  “Enough!” Dahiya ordered, loud enough that men stopped their work and turned to look at them. “You will stop, Lælia. You will listen and do as I say. And if you dare countermand my orders another time, I will tie you to a camel myself – yes, and gag you, so I am not forced to listen to your stupid pride making you its servant.”

  “I came to Africa to discover what I could of Theo, and of Yosef,” Lælia countered, feeling all the pent-up frustration of the long years that had passed since Theo and Yosef had gone, of the silent nights she had stared into the darkness and wondered what had become of them. “Yet you have told me next to nothing. Only that Theo was enslaved, and that he fights now for the fleet. That Yosef’s journey to the east continues. Both things I knew already from the messenger who came to Illiberis before I came here. You tell me I cannot seek revenge on Giscila, the man who killed my parents and Theo’s mother, although he is barely the turn of a moon’s ride away. All because you wish to wait – for what? If Oppa is gone, we can take Giscila without him knowing of it.”

  “And then what?” Dahiya countered. “Question Giscila? Torture him until he tells us what Oppa plans? What, then, do you think would happen to those plans? At the very least, Oppa would discover the disappearance of his kinsman. That fact alone would alter whatever plans he might have. But the longer we allow Giscila to sit at Carthage, the more questions he will ask, and the more visible he will become. With every day that passes, his frustration will grow. His questions will become less subtle, his purpose more clear. He will become clumsy, and we will be closer to learning exactly what game he and Oppa play on these shores.” She gripped Lælia’s shoulders. “If we ride to Carthage now, we lose that precious time. Did he come to capture you? To use you as bait for Theo or Yosef? You cannot know what he plans. If you ride straight to him, will it give him an unexpected gift that can be used against both Theo and Yosef? No matter how you turn it, Lælia, to show yourself to Giscila now takes away any power we hold. It would be the most foolhardy of acts.”

  Lælia’s rage had calmed as she listened. “Why did you not simply say as much? Why keep his presence a secret from me?”

  “Because I know the rage you feel and the revenge you seek. I understand it, child.” Dahiya reached out, an odd expression on the hawkish features. Then her hand dropped away, and the hard mask returned. “There is more at stake than your own petty revenge,” she said brusquely. “You are not a fool, nor is there time for you to be a child. You, of all people, should understand the importance of the mission Yosef undertakes, the sacrifices that have already been made, by more than just your Theo, to ensure he succeeds.” A fleeting expression of pain crossed her face, and Lælia remembered that Dahiya had sent her own sons to ride at Yosef’s side.

  She felt a surge of shame at her own selfish ambition, then an answering stab of anger that she, Yosef, Theo – all of them – must ever sacrifice their own interests for those of others.

  When will it ever be our turn? she thought savagely. Will we always live to serve others – our country, the fleet, Illiberis itself? Will Yosef ever find happiness again, or Theo and I ever reunite?

  Hidden beneath the last question was one she had never even dared ask herself: Is it still me of whom Theo dreams when he closes his eyes?

  Dahiya was momentarily forgotten as odd recollections swirled in her mind. It has been months since I knew him in my dreams, she thought, realising as she did that a part of her had been aware of this for some time but reluctant to face it. When I feel his presence it is distant, angry. And there is something standing between us: a woman…

  She spun away from Dahiya, feeling a strange, proud anger she could not bear the other to see.

  When Dahiya spoke, though, the older woman’s voice was uncharacteristically gentle. “I know it is not easy to love from afar.” Lælia felt the briefest touch on her shoulder, there and then gone, comforting nonetheless. “I know it better than you might imagine. I know, too, the difficulty of doing nothing when action seems the only antidote to the pain. But this, too, is part of war, child. The waiting. Watching. Patience. It is everything. There is a time for action, and when it comes, you will know the
re is no choice. In that moment, blood will spill – and you may find you wish, very much, it had not. You may find the moment takes more from you than it gives, and that you wish you could take it back. That is why I know the value of patience, Lælia. When that day finally arrives, I wish for you to understand what sacrifices you suffer, and to know they were not endured for foolish pride or insignificant ends. When finally you know the deep pain of blood and loss, I hope that you, at least, do not regret the price.”

  13

  Letter from Athanagild to Shukra

  December, AD 690

  Toletum, Spania

  Toledo, Spain

  Shukra –

  To do nothing in these times feels harder than any war could. All that happens does so in the shadows, and whilst I wait and watch, it feels that the entire world crumbles around me.

  Trouble stirs on the northern border with Francia. So far, Egica’s men hold it for him. Should trouble worsen, however, he may himself need to ride north. He forces those he does not trust to remain close. Theodefred, the Duke of Corduba, remains in the capital. His son Roderic has become the favoured companion of Egica’s own son Wittiza. I suspect it is an intentional ploy by Egica to keep Theodefred close. It is whispered that on the northern border, Theodefred’s brother, Favila, stokes the trouble Egica seeks to quell. They are sons of Chindasuinth, and all know Egica has no love for them. I do not like how close he keeps Roderic. Theodefred is pale and drawn, and his wife keeps to the house.

  I have visited Liuvgoto and built some measure of trust with her, as we discussed. She has a fine mind and a refreshingly blunt manner. Sunifred is her cousin. Egica is her son-in-law. I believe she plays a dangerous game between them. But then, we live in dangerous times.