Byzantium

  “You speak well,” Harald said, “but I would be less than a king if I did not reward you. Since you will not take silver, I charge you to name the thing you desire most, and, with all the power at my command, I will obtain it for you.”

  We sat down together then, and for the first time I felt an equal in his company. The feeling did not last long, however, for very soon the overtired jarl, lost in a fit of yawning, slumped onto his side and drifted off to sleep. I left the Sea Wolves to their death-like slumber, and crept away unseen to make my bed next to the amir’s fire.

  Although we had planned to move on the next day, we rested instead. The former slaves had spent all their strength in the escape and following march, and few were in any condition to renew their exertions. We might usefully have rested the following day as well, but Faysal, weighing our increased numbers against the rapidly dwindling provisions, suggested that if we did not make some progress, however small, we would soon be going hungry. “As it is,” he suggested, “we must go to Amida and replenish our supplies.”

  This meant a delay, which Amir Sadiq did not like, but there was no other choice. So, setting forth at a gentle pace, we proceeded down the long, meandering trail to the valley floor, resting often. The next day, we proceeded west towards the Amida road.

  Thus, upon reaching the road two days later, we turned not north to Trebizond, but south to Amida. Despite the fact that the amir no longer provided for them, many of the former captives preferred to remain close in order to travel under the protection of the rafiq. A few, however, unburdened by any such fears, left us as soon as we gained the road, eager to reach the city.

  Though the former captives could not walk fast, nor for any great distance, still we journeyed at a better pace than before. Indeed, over the next days I observed a general improvement in all of the newly freed men, Britons and Danes alike: they moved more easily, and their strength increased day by day. Sure, they were strong men who had survived the mines. Even Ddewi seemed to come more to himself, as if, little by little, he remembered who he had been.

  Each day I saw Kazimain, of course, but with everyone so close around us all the time, we had few opportunities to speak to one another, and these were all too brief. We contented ourselves with knowing glances, and hastily uttered words of endearment: not enough to make a man content, but it was all we had.

  Then, early on the morning we were to enter Amida, she came to me. Men were breaking camp and saddling the horses, others preparing food. I turned, smiling as Kazimain hurried to where I stood talking to Dugal; one glance at the set of her jaw, and I broke off my chatter. Drawing her a little apart, I said, “You look about to burst.”

  “The amir says I am to stay in Amida,” she told me, her voice shaking. “He intends hiring men to escort me back to Ja’fariya.”

  The thing had taken me unawares and before I could think what to say, she gripped my arm tightly and said, “He must not do this, Aidan.”

  “He fears for your safety,” I muttered without conviction.

  “And I fear for his!” she snapped. Taking in my bewilderment, she bent her head towards mine and confided in a low voice, not to be overheard. “He is not well.”

  I pulled back. “Not well?” Glancing around to where he sat breaking fast on some bread Faysal had given him, I said, “He seems in perfect health to me.”

  Kazimain dismissed my observation. “That is how he wants to appear,” she said. “He has begun sleeping too long, and too deeply. He does not rise so quickly.”

  “That is no cause for worry,” I suggested. “He is tired—we are all tired. Exhausted. No doubt we would all feel better for a day’s rest.”

  Kazimain’s smooth brow creased in a frown. “You are not listening!” she said. “Please, Aidan, do something. He must not leave me behind.”

  “I will speak to him,” I promised. “If that is what you want.”

  This was not the right thing to say, I quickly discovered, for she stormed away and would speak to me no more.

  Upon reaching Amida, late in the day, the amir ordered his tent to be erected a short distance from the settlement, and forbade the Sea Wolves to leave camp. Harald and his men were disappointed, but when Faysal explained that there was no öl of any kind, nor even wine, in all of Amida, the Danemen bore their disappointment more bravely. “Perhaps it is for the best,” remarked Gunnar with stoic forbearance; “it will mean more silver to take home to Karin.”

  With that the Sea Wolves set about cleaning themselves; they bathed and shaved their matted beards and cut their hair, and cast off their filthy rags for simple mantles the amir provided. When they finished, much of their former swagger had returned.

  The Britons, who had no silver to worry about, were also unwilling to go into the town. “I will not set foot in that accursed place,” Dugal vowed.

  “You have no purse,” I pointed out. “Therefore, you have nothing to fear.”

  “Ha!” Dugal mocked. “Think you I would give the slave-traders a chance to seize me and sell me again? I never will.”

  Dugal was, perhaps, closer to the truth than he knew. In any event, I was prepared to stay in camp with the others and await the amir’s return, but Kazimain insisted I go. “You must speak to Lord Sadiq!” she urged.

  This is how I came to be standing in the slave market at Amida when I heard someone cry, “Aedan!”

  62

  The market square was awash in an uneasy flood of people, most of whom were shouting at the top of their voices, trying to make themselves heard over all the others. On this day, there were no slaves to be sold, but there were horses and donkeys, sheep and goats aplenty, and also, an animal I had seen but once or twice in Trebizond: camels; loud, shaggy, and ill-tempered creatures much favoured by those of the dry southern places. Sellers appeared to outnumber buyers, and as the sun was already stretching the shadows across the square, desperation had begun setting in. Most of the sellers were herdsmen and farmers who did not care to begin the long journey home with empty purses.

  The shout came again, sharp and distinct: “Aedan!”

  I stood stump-still and listened. If I was not certain I had heard it the first time, I heard it clearly now, and I began searching the busy marketplace for whoever had called me. Though the square teemed with people, no one paid the slightest attention to me. Well, the market was so noisy, I might have imagined it after all; I made to continue on my way, following the amir and Faysal about the chore of procuring supplies. Yet, even as I turned to hasten after them, out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed the slight, wizened figure of Amet, the magus I had consulted in Trebizond.

  He moved towards me, holding up his hands in a peculiar gesture of greeting—as if he feared I would flee him before he could reach me. I hastened to join him, but before I took three strides, a herd of goats moved between us and suddenly I was surrounded by the bleating animals.

  Amet stopped. Gazing intently at me across a distance of fifty paces, his hands still raised, palms outward in his peculiar greeting, he called out; his mouth moved, but his words were swallowed by the din of the market and the nattering of the goats.

  Cupping a hand to my ear, I shouted, “What did you say?”—whereupon he repeated his call. I heard him no better the second time, and was only able to make out a single word: Sebastea.

  “I cannot hear you!” I shouted, and started towards him once again, shoving my way through the goat herd, only to have him taken from my sight by a man leading three horses. They passed before me, man and horses, and when I stepped forward again Amet was gone.

  I rushed to the place where he had been standing, but the little magus was nowhere to be seen. “Amet!” I cried.

  His voice came to me one last time, but further away. “Come to Sebastea, Aedan! Sebastea…”

  Nowhere among the mass of bodies pressing all around was Amet to be found. I called his name again, but received no reply. He had vanished so completely that I quickly doubted whether I had seen him at al
l. Making a last inspection of the square, I turned and hurried after Faysal and the amir, who were talking to a man standing beside a wagon loaded with sacks of grain.

  I quickly rejoined them, taking my place behind Faysal just as Sadiq struck a bargain with the man for his wagonload of barley. While Faysal told the man where to deliver the grain, Sadiq turned his attention to the other matter on his mind: finding an escort to take Kazimain back to Samarra.

  “The shaykh of this place will know men I can trust,” Sadiq said.

  “Lord Amir,” I said, “if I may be so bold as to suggest—” I hesitated.

  “Yes?” demanded the amir in a distracted way, his eyes searching the marketplace. “What? What? Speak.”

  “—to suggest that Kazimain should be allowed to continue the journey with us.”

  Amir Sadiq’s eyes shifted to me; his mouth twitched into an instant frown. “Continue with us,” he said, his voice leaden, “to Byzantium?”

  “Yes,” I replied, and could feel the resistance rise up within him.

  But before he could draw breath to refuse me, Faysal spoke up, “Lord, if you please, this is the very thing I have been thinking.”

  Sadiq’s baleful eyes swung from me to Faysal. “You are both mad.” He turned abruptly. “It cannot be allowed.”

  “I believe she could be of great use to us,” I persisted. “It may be that—”

  “No,” the amir said, moving away, “I have spoken and the matter is concluded.”

  “Lord,” implored Faysal, “please reconsider. Kazimain is shrewd and resourceful, as we know. We know not what manner of reception we will face in Byzantium, and—”

  “Precisely!” said the amir, rounding on us. “The very reason I cannot allow her to remain even a moment longer than necessary.” Sadiq stopped abruptly. He pressed a hand to his temple and squeezed his eyes shut, as if trying very hard to think of something he had forgotten.

  A strange apprehension came over Faysal’s features as he stood looking on. “Amir?” he said softly.

  “It is nothing—the sun,” Sadiq muttered; his face had lost some of its colour and his voice its strength. “Let us finish and return to camp.”

  Thus was Lord Sadiq determined and there was no changing his mind. One of the merchants in the market pointed out the shaykh, and Sadiq sought his counsel in hiring trustworthy men to escort Kazimain. The two conferred, money changed hands, and that was the end of it.

  Along with dry provisions of various kinds, the amir also bought a herd of sheep and some goats, three camels, and a wagon. That evening, as the supplies which had been delivered were being packed away in the wagon, I overheard Faysal and Kazimain talking in hushed, urgent voices.

  I joined them and heard Faysal saying, “…they are to come for you in the morning. The shaykh has pledged the life of his son for your protection, and—” He broke off at my approach.

  “I am sorry, Kazimain,” I said. “The amir would not be persuaded. Still, perhaps it is for the best. I would feel better if I knew you were safe.”

  “For the best!” she snapped. The fire in her dark eyes died as quickly as it flared. “You will remember that it is not for your sake that I sought to continue this journey, but for the amir’s alone. He is not well.”

  Her concern mystified me. Though I did not doubt its sincerity, I could not credit its cause. “So you have said,” I granted. “But I see no evidence of any illness. He seems to me as much himself as ever.” I shrugged, and looked to Faysal for confirmation. “Is this not so?”

  “No, it is not so,” she replied in a tone that indicated this should have been self-evident. Helpless against such overwhelming ignorance, Kazimain also appealed to Faysal. “Tell him!”

  “Kazimain believes the amir was injured,” Faysal explained, “at the mine—when his horse fell and rolled on him.” With a light lift of his shoulders, he said, “Lord Sadiq denies anything is wrong.”

  There was no persuading Kazimain, and she would not be consoled. The unintentional dispute left a sour taste in my mouth, so I walked around the camp for a while to think what I might do, eventually settling with the Britons as Dugal and Brynach prepared a meal. Sadiq had determined that each of the separate parties of our company would fare better if they did their own cooking, thus relieving the Arabs of the duty. Brynach raised his eyes from the pot as I settled myself against a rock. “No doubt I have seen a more woeful countenance,” he remarked, returning to his stirring, “but I do not remember when.”

  Ddewi, squatting nearby and tracing lines in the dust with his finger, lifted his head and laughed at Bryn’s small jest. Noticing my surprise, Brynach said, “He seems to be getting better.” Raising his voice, he called, “Aye, Ddewi? I say you are feeling a little better now.” Ddewi had returned to his reverie and made no sign that he had heard or understood. “But you, Brother Aidan,” the Briton continued, “seem a little worse. What is wrong?”

  I made to dismiss his question with a shrug and a smile. “I saw a man today who was not there. A curious thing, nothing more.”

  “Indeed?” Brynach’s eyebrows arched with interest, but he kept on stirring. “Have you ever seen him before?”

  “Aidan is always seeing things,” proclaimed Dugal, arriving with an armful of brushy twigs for the fire. “He has dreams and visions, and such.”

  I made to protest. “Dugal, no I—”

  “He does!” Dugal insisted.

  “The man I saw was no vision,” I declared. “He was a man I met in Trebizond. I thought I saw him today in the marketplace—he called out to me. But it was crowded, and by the time I reached him, he had gone. Perhaps I did not see him at all.”

  Brynach frowned in disapproval of my explanation, but said no more and returned to his cooking. Dugal, breaking the twigs into smaller pieces, said, “What was it like, this Trebizond?”

  At his mention of the word, something Brynach had said before squirmed uneasily in my head. Rather than answer Dugal’s question, I asked one of my own. “You told me you were going to see the governor, why?”

  “Cadoc desired his aid,” Brynach answered.

  “But not on behalf of the cumtach,” I suggested. “You could have had a new cover made in Constantinople.”

  “That is true.”

  “Then why? What aid could Governor Honorius provide?”

  Brynach stopped stirring. He looked from Dugal to me, and then down into the pot, as if trying to read a purpose in the bubbling liquid. “I suppose,” he said, “it makes no difference now.”

  He gestured to Dugal to take his place at the fire, then came and settled himself on the ground facing me. “Cadoc is dead.” The sadness in his voice went deeper, I thought, than grief for the beloved bishop. “He would have told you himself.”

  I remained silent, tingling with anticipation. Even so, his first words surprised me. “Governor Honorius was to be our advocate against Rome.”

  “Rome!” I wondered in amazement. “What has Rome to do with this? Why did—”

  Brynach raised a hand to fend off any more questions. “It was, you might say, the true purpose for the pilgrimage.” As he spoke, an image formed in my mind: men at a board—monks breaking bread and talking in quiet fellowship with one another. The image changed and I saw myself sitting with Brynach, and him beckoning me closer. “Those I choose to be my friends call me Bryn,” he was saying. “May I tell you something?”

  The memory struck me with the force of a blow. Gazing at him now, I cast my mind back to that night. “That is what you were going to tell me,” I said. Brynach returned my gaze with a blank expression. “The night of our first meeting—you were going to tell me, but one of the monks intruded.”

  He nodded slightly. “Yes, I suppose I meant to…”

  “We should have been told,” I said, my tone growing harsh. “If there was a hidden purpose to our journey—”

  Dugal, silent as a stone, stared at us, trying to take in the revelation he was hearing.

&nbs
p; “Not a hidden purpose—” protested Brynach quickly. “Never that.”

  “We should have been told,” I insisted. “Tell me now.”

  Brynach shook his head slowly; the sadness in his eyes was raw and deep. “Do you also remember,” he said softly, “that we were to go first to Ty Gwyn?”

  Again, I was assailed by a sudden recollection. “Ty Gwyn,” I murmured. “The storm prevented us from putting to shore.”

  “You do remember,” Brynach confirmed.

  “I also remember we were never told why we were to go there,” I remarked tartly.

  “For years, I had been travelling from abbey to abbey, hearing the complaints of abbots and bishops, detailing the grievances, so to speak, writing them down. The Book of Sins, I called it.” He smiled sadly. “Rome’s sins against us.”

  “But we sailed on without it.”

  “Well,” Brynach shrugged, “that could not be helped. When I finished my little red book, Bishop Cadoc had three copies made: one was kept at Ty Gwyn, one at Hy, and one at Nantes, in Gaul.”

  “That was where Cadoc and Honorius met,” I said, recollecting our previous talk.

  “Indeed,” he confirmed. “Having laboured so long over our appeal, we thought to share the fruit, so to speak. The churches of Gaul are pressed as sorely as those of Britain and Éire. We hoped to enlist these brothers in our cause.” He shook his head again. “We were making for Nantes when the Danes attacked us.”

  “But you reached Nantes,” I said. “You must have retrieved your red book.”

  “We did, yes.”

  “And you brought it to Byzantium, did you not?” Brynach affirmed my question with a nod. “What happened to it?”

  “We were to deliver it into the emperor’s hands,” Brynach replied simply, “but—” Frowning, he hesitated.

  “But it was lost when your ship was attacked,” I suggested, believing I had guessed the book’s fate.