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

by Paula Constant

  Alaric’s hand clenched about his wine cup. Is this how my brother has risen so high? he thought, quelling the feeling of disgust in his gut. He thought of Laurentius, normally so urbane and controlled, uncharacteristically grim at any mention of Athanagild; of the clouds over Shukra’s face whenever he returned from Toletum. Alaric had thought both no more than concern for the fate of Spania in such uncertain times. Now, watching his brother, he began to wonder if there had been more to both than he had previously considered. Is it this that is the cause of Shukra’s silence and Laurentius’s grim demeanour? He thought again of the boy his brother had once been, quiet and watchful – but stubborn, too. He was just as much a warrior as Theo or himself, Alaric realised. Even then. Athanagild, Alaric knew with a sudden surety, would no more step away from the duty he saw before him than either of his brothers would, no matter who asked him nor what he must suffer to carry it out.

  “Sisebut depends upon your brother,” Teudolfo remarked, watching the interaction. He turned to Alaric. “Just as Sunifred does on you.”

  Turning away so Teudolfo could not read his features, Alaric composed himself and grunted an answer: “Sunifred does not depend on anyone.”

  “You believe that?” Teudolfo looked at him shrewdly. “What do you notice about Sunifred’s army, magula?”

  Alaric made a disparaging noise. “Its total lack of preparedness.”

  “Ja.” Teudolfo nodded at the high table on the dais, at which Alaric had refused a place, citing his need to converse with his men as excuse. “The army contains no lords of Sunifred’s own rank, or even approaching his own rank. He is not a man who is able to withstand the scrutiny of his equals. Instead, he chooses you – a boy whose future he holds by his daughter’s skirts. Something in him knows that you have the qualities he himself lacks. Men may drink with Sunifred, but they will follow you. He needs you, Alaric. He always has. For once Egica turns his attention back to Toletum, no archbishop will hold the city for him.”

  Teudolfo’s was not the only dour face. There was a subdued note to the revelry, despite Sunifred’s best efforts. It was dawning on many that Toletum was simply the beginning of a much longer war. The older veterans amongst them were already fretting over what would feed the great host Sunifred had brought and how to best defend the city itself. At the high table, Sunifred talked of sending Alaric north to meet Egica’s armies as they turned southward.

  Alaric caught his brother’s eye. From the dais, Athanagild raised his cup slightly, a faintly sardonic smile curling his mouth. Alaric allowed his eyes to move to the right, where Athanagild’s hand rested on Sisebut’s shoulder. Athanagild coloured faintly but held Alaric’s eye, tilting his own face upward in both challenge and apology. Alaric tilted his own head in the direction of Sunifred. He shrugged, eyebrows lifting in a rueful gesture of equivocation, then raised his cup in salute.

  Athanagild’s face broke into an unguarded smile, filled with a mirth that recalled the sunlit days of their childhood, the understanding they had once taken for granted amidst the comfort of a life they had not known could end.

  Alaric felt his own face return the grin, felt the warmth of it steal through him like the Illiberis sun.

  Across the crowded hall of bloodthirsty men covered still in the dirt of battle, the two brothers stared at one another and felt the echo of the third smiling with them.

  Silently, unnoticed by the rest of the hall, Suinthila’s sons toasted one another and drank.

  41

  Lælia

  July, AD 692

  Illiberis, Spania

  Granada, Spain

  Lælia had thought she knew much of Illiberis. In the months following her return, however, her grandmother Acantha taught her much she had never known.

  Acantha, like Paulus, seemed to accept Lælia’s new place in the household with little opposition. “We have held Illiberis before,” she said as they rode together, her tall figure as straight backed and austere as ever. “And in years gone by, our people have survived famine, plague, and pestilence by using the caves in the mountains, knowing how to survive on little and hide when we must.”

  Grain and dried meat were stored in the caves, enough to sustain them through a winter. Weapons were hidden in others, steel wrapped in suede. As Lælia and Tosius taught the men of the tribes and the Illiberis thiufae the methods used by Dahiya’s Riders, Acantha taught Lælia other things of the land to which she belonged. The ravines in which an attacking party could hide. The places where rivers might safely be crossed, and those where horses would fall beneath the current. The shadowed parts of a hillside on which men could be concealed, and the ridges that afforded a view of what came.

  Acantha seemed even more like Dahiya than Lælia recalled. At times when she spoke, Lælia felt the presence of the tall woman from the desert close by and wondered that two women could be so alike.

  “You knew her,” Lælia said to Acantha once. They were riding across the high ground to one of the cave stores where grain was kept. “Dahiya. She told me of the time you spent together in the sands.”

  “Did she tell you of the place of pictures?”

  Her question took Lælia by surprise. “No. She said only that you had ridden together – and that you had sought Giscila.”

  Acantha nodded grimly. “Sought but did not find.” She glanced sideways at Lælia. “I do not judge you for leaving him untouched,” she said, and only the tight line of her jaw betrayed what it cost her to say that. “There is a time for revenge. If it had been right, you would have known it.” She halted her horse and dismounted by a narrow creek. “There is something I must explain to you,” she said. “I had not thought it necessary, but perhaps it is, now more than ever.”

  To Lælia’s surprise, the older woman began to remove her pantalons, smiling wryly at Lælia’s expression. “I have not yet lost my wits, child,” she said dryly. “It is only to show you this.” She indicated a faint scar on the inside of her thigh. It was worn silver with age but clear still. It consisted of two straight lines parallel to one another, a slanted line joining the two in the middle. “The two lines are the walls of Carthage.” Acantha traced the scars. “The slanted line is a cord that must not break.” She pulled her clothing on and touched the woven horsehair cord at Lælia’s neck. “This, I knew the first time I saw it, is the cord that must not break,” she said. “Carthage’s walls must not fall, Lælia, and the cord must not break. Dahiya and I saw the same things in the place of pictures, many years ago. I saw things there that I did not understand. Some, now, I know. Others are yet to pass.” She nodded at the cord, her eyes vivid gold. “I saw the horses, lying in blood, the day the foals were born. I did not know what it meant when I saw it, but I do now. Those foals bound you and Theo together, and both of you to Illiberis. That cord might be merely something you wove of horsehair, but it is a symbol of a far greater connection.”

  Lælia touched the cord. “Since I returned to Illiberis,” she said, “I have dreamed many things. Things I did not see in the desert. I see Theo in my dreams. I always have. It is as if I know him, even if he is far away. Feel him.”

  Feeling her grandmother’s scrutiny, Lælia coloured. “He lies with another,” she said curtly. “I see them.” She met Acantha’s eyes briefly and turned away again. “I know that such things are not important,” she said, striving to retain her detachment. “Who he lies with does not matter to me.”

  Acantha made an odd noise. It took a moment for Lælia to realise her grandmother was laughing.

  “You find it amusing?” Lælia was unable to keep the hurt from her voice. “I saw it in my dreams, and yet I did not crumble, nor blame Theo for his actions. Was it not you who told me women must learn the art of sacrifice?”

  “Learn it, yes. Not ignore it.” Acantha’s eyes on her were not without sympathy. “You have not accepted Theo’s betrayal, Lælia. You have put it in a box and hidden it in a part of your soul you cannot see. You think that when he returns you need sp
eak nothing of this woman, whoever she is, that you will carry this knowledge like a martyr does a cross. You do not forgive Theo his infidelity. You hold the knowledge of it as testament to your own nobility, a secret weapon you will one day hurl at Theo in anger. This is not sacrifice, Lælia, and nor is it noble.”

  “And what would you have me do?” Lælia flung the words at her. “Theo is not here for me to confront. I cannot blame him for taking a woman. Any man would have done the same. I have no right to anger, and it serves no purpose to feel it.”

  “You have no right to anger?” Acantha raised her eyebrows. “Anger is not earned, or justified, Lælia. It is experienced. If you have learned anything from our lessons together, surely it is that all emotion has a purpose to serve. Do not confuse logic with emotion. It may be logical that Theo would take a woman. But ignoring the pain it makes you feel is not acceptance.”

  “I cannot think on it.” Lælia struggled to push the words into the air. “When I imagine Theo… with her… it hurts so much I can barely breathe.”

  Acantha smiled gently. “And therein lies the challenge,” she said softly. “It is in such moments that a woman faces her darkest battles. They are not against an external enemy, Lælia. It is not the woman he lies with who angers you, and nor is it Theo himself. The battle lies within yourself. It comes from your fear that you are unworthy of his loyalty, or his love. That is what you must reconcile within yourself. It is a battle no other can win for you, Lælia. Not if Theo told you a thousand times you are all that matters to him. It is one every woman must win for herself.” She cast a sideways glance at her granddaughter. “If you do not confront it now, child, you will be forced to when Theo returns.”

  “What if he does not return?” Lælia struggled to get the words out. “What if he stays with her?”

  “Theo will come back for you.” Acantha’s voice was strong and sure, reassuring. “Such things are not to be understood, only trusted.”

  “I cannot imagine what life we could have together after all that has taken place, for me as well as him.” Lælia stared into the distance. “I have waited so long for his return. Now, though, I cannot even begin to see what that life might be.”

  “You do not need to see it.” Acantha reached out and briefly covered Lælia’s hand with her own. It was an unexpected gesture of comfort that touched her, and Lælia felt tears blur her eyes as Acantha went on. “Your destinies are entwined with that of Spania itself. Dahiya thought they were bound also to her own land, and perhaps she, too, is right.” She shrugged. “I have lived long enough to know all we plan is like to change. We can do no more than know ourselves and do what is right in any moment. I cannot tell you how your fates are joined, nor how they entwine with those of Illiberis or Africa. I know only that they are. But I will say the same thing your grandfather did, Lælia: do not sacrifice yourself for Illiberis, or for Spania. Change is coming. The vision I had in the sands was clear in that, if in nothing else. Change is coming. I may not live to see it – but you will.”

  Illiberis could be held to the west, where a series of fortresses were manned by men from Corduba, Illiberis, and Malaka. The Count of Malaka had lost a son of his own in the attack that had seen Theo almost drowned. He had been one of the first to join his men to Sunifred’s rebellion, and what men were left would hold their fortresses until the last, under Illiberis command. To the east, the vast mountains and desert beyond had repelled attacks for centuries beyond memory. To the south lay fifty miles of steep mountains between Illiberis and the port of Sexi, which was patrolled by allies loyal to Illiberis.

  It was from the north that they were most vulnerable. Lælia rode with Paulus, Acantha, and Gratimo, the scarred, old Illiberis thiufadis, to visit their allies in Gaius and the closer town of Ipocobulcola. Both lay on the road north to Toletum and would form a barrier before any army reached Illiberis. The lords there were tense and wary. Thus far, they had remained apart from the battles raging north of Toletum, but all knew war was reaching for them. Lælia sat at their tables and suffered their cynical expressions when Paulus told them his granddaughter would hold Illiberis if he were to leave.

  On their return, they rode to the fortress that marked the northern border of the Illiberis latifundium. It was perched on an impossibly steep mountain above a wide, sweeping valley. Stone walls stood atop the shale descent that no army could climb. Attackers must first fight their way around the mountain to the southern side, then through tall wooden gates at the base, for the only way to Illiberis lay on the other side of the fortress. The difficulty of the approaches was one of the reasons Illiberis had held against invaders from time immemorial and was largely considered impenetrable.

  “But all fortresses can fall,” Paulus said grimly, as they sat on their horses at the base of the mountain looking up at the fortress. “You must not allow any force close to the gates. Fight them on the valley floor, where they have no choice but to spend themselves on the fortress itself, for unless they breach the gates, it will hold.”

  “And if it does not?” Lælia asked.

  “Come.” Paulus led them through the gates where men were at work reinforcing the ramparts. They rode down the steep, winding path to the bridge that led to the township of Illiberis, which lay several miles from the villa itself. The river beneath it roared deep and swift, the bridge the only means of crossing it for miles in either direction.

  “If the fortress does fall,” Paulus said, “then only this bridge stands between an army and the villa.” He fixed Lælia with a stern eye. “The bridge cannot fall,” he said flatly. “If it does, you have no choice but to run. Do you understand me, Lælia? If the bridge falls, Illiberis is gone.”

  Lælia nodded.

  “Grandfather,” Lælia said as they ate that evening. Paulus looked up. “You have said I cannot hold the bridge. Not with the forces we have. The fortress above that, on the mountain, we also cannot hold if a large force rides against us.”

  Paulus frowned. “What is your point?”

  “If Illiberis falls, you have told me to flee to Septem,” she said slowly. “And yet Dahiya has shown me another way. Acantha, too, knows such ways. Our women did not always flee.”

  “They were different times.” Paulus’s jaw worked tensely. “In decades past, women here were trained, as men were. They made bows of bone and wood and were taught the secrets of battle and land. But those days are gone, Lælia. And no matter your training, even if Acantha maintains the caves – and I am glad she does, for there are those who will need to eat, regardless of what comes with this war – you cannot hold Illiberis from there as the women of old did.” He looked at her with hard eyes. “I have ordered you to leave here if Illiberis falls. If I thought you could hold it, I would not order differently.”

  “Would you not at least have me try?”

  “No.” Paulus pushed his plate away and stared at her across the table.

  “If it falls, Lælia, the forces arrayed against us are too great for any army you might have to defeat. I would have you live to return here one day with your own children, who might in turn take it back. But they cannot do that if you do not live to see them born. Your life is more important than any ground upon which we stand. Land is land. Villas are no more than stone and wood. Illiberis is yours, Lælia; but you are the last of my blood, and I would not lose you to a vain hope.”

  A tense silence was broken by the sound of hoofbeats coming down the long approach. Not a lone horseman – the thunder of a force.

  “Gratimo!” Paulus roared, pushing the table from him with such force the cups spilled onto the floor. He was already reaching for his sword, and Lælia for her bow leaning against the door. But when Gratimo’s scarred face appeared, he was smiling broadly, waving at Paulus to relax.

  “Did you truly think your thiufa would allow an unknown force to enter your own home unmarked?” He shook his head in mild reproof. “You insult me, maists.”

  Paulus was still frowning as he peered into t
he darkness. His face only relaxed when a tall, cloaked figure came close and pushed back his hood.

  “Theodefred!” Paulus embraced the other man hard.

  Theodefred looked terribly old, Lælia thought, but the eyes that met her grandfather’s were lit with an odd triumph. “Paulus.”

  “Are you mad, man?” Her grandfather still held his friend’s arm at the elbow, and his gruff tone belied the reprimand in his words.

  “I am not staying.” Theodefred gestured at the men who rode behind him; Lælia had never seen a force so great travel together in Spania. The dark mass of man and horseflesh filled the plains about Illiberis, a thousand or even more. “But my men will. And they will fight for you, Paulus.”

  Paulus dropped his head, and Lælia saw his throat working with emotion. “Why?” he asked eventually, his voice hoarse. “Why would you do such a thing?”

  “Because,” said Theodefred, “I cannot sit idly by and do nothing. Egica has taken my son; he has taken my brother’s son. And now,” he said bitterly, his face darkening, “he has taken my brother as well. Egica’s games forced Favila to join his neighbours in rebellion against the Crown. Now Favila’s forces have been defeated, he and his men taken captive. If I ride against Egica myself, I give him all he needs to condemn me forever. But you, Paulus, none will expect you to remain out of it forever, and if my men must fight beneath any banner, there is none I would entrust them to but you.”