Byzantium

  Brynach glanced up quickly. “By no means,” he said. “The book is still in Byzantium. And that is cause for hope. Nikos, the very man you condemn out of hand—he has the book even now.”

  I stared in stupefaction at the senior monk, overwhelmed by the immensity of the catastrophe: the hopelessness of Bishop Cadoc’s doomed trust, and Nikos’s monumental treachery. I felt as if the weight of the world had shifted and rolled upon my chest.

  “Nikos!” My hands balled to fists. “You gave it to Nikos! In God’s name, man, why?”

  Dugal, kneeling over the bubbling pot, stirdle in hand, looked from one to the other of us, a troubled expression on his face.

  “Peace, brother,” Brynach soothed. “We gave it to him, yes, for safe-keeping. And that is how I know he was trying to help us.” Brynach’s faith was as genuine as it was misplaced. “Nikos was much impressed by my thoroughness and particularity. ‘Such a meticulous indictment,’ he told us, ‘could not fail to move the emperor.’ Those were his very words.”

  The ache in my chest gave way to a hollow feeling. I felt as if I were a gourd, ripe to bursting, split down the middle and scooped out in a single, devastating swipe. Nevertheless, like murky sediment settling in a pool, the thing was gradually coming clear. I pressed on. “What of the governor? What was his place in this?”

  “Cadoc knew him well; the two had been friends in Gaul. Cadoc, then a priest, baptized Honorius into the faith. In respect of this singular blessing, Honorius always held that if Cadoc ever required his aid, he would give it. So it was that the bishop hoped to claim that promise. Over the years, Honorius had risen to a position of considerable influence; he was to guide us to the prize we sought.”

  Almost fearfully, I said, “This prize—what was it?”

  “A dispensation from the emperor,” Brynach replied, his voice taking on strength once more, “for the free practice of our faith.”

  I could make no sense of this. “Have you lost your mind, brother? Whatever can you mean? We are free,” I asserted, forgetting for the moment that I was done with such things and no longer cared one way or the other. “We owe allegiance to no earthly king.”

  “Not if Rome has its way,” countered Brynach blackly. “Even now the Pope is raising the cry of heresy against us.”

  “Heresy!” I could not imagine what Brynach was talking about. “It is absurd.”

  “But true just the same,” replied the monk. “The Pope would bring all who call themselves Christian beneath his sway. We have always vexed Rome, I think, with our different ways. The Pope would have us bow the knee to his authority.”

  “So you hoped to appeal to a higher authority,” I mused, hopelessness settling over me once more.

  “There is no higher authority on earth than the emperor himself,” Brynach declared, growing earnest. “He can grant us the peace we seek. Once we reach Sebastea,” he said quickly, “we can—”

  His words, combined with his rekindled intensity, filled me with alarm. “The pilgrimage is ended,” I said ruthlessly, my tone growing harsh. “We are returning to Trebizond, and then travelling on to Constantinople. It is finished,” I stated flatly. “The pilgrimage ended in disaster long ago.”

  Brynach opened his mouth, and then closed it again without speaking. He rose and went back to his place at the cooking pot. I thought the matter ended there; however, I was gravely mistaken.

  63

  My mind squirmed like an eel caught in the eagle’s grasp. Upset by Brynach’s talk, disturbed, angry, I walked a long time, watching night descend through a ruddy desert sky, trying to regain my peace and composure. The more I walked however, the more agitated I became—but obscurely so: I did not know what I was anxious about, nor could I discern the source of my aggravation. All the while, my thoughts spun and shifted, flitting first one way and then another, but never finding rest.

  Once, I felt as if I were about to burst with a sudden blazing insight. I waited, almost panting with anticipation. But nothing came, so I made my way back to camp and found a place to be alone with my troubled thoughts. Was it, I wondered, something Brynach had said that now sat so ill with me?

  Tossed by the turmoil of my unsatisfactory meditations, I heard, but did not attend, a soft, strangled sound. It came again, and I turned to see Dugal, his head bent, shuffling towards me, hands covering his face. Even in the darkness, I could see his broad shoulders curved down as under an unseen burden. He came to where I sat on my solitary rock a short distance from camp.

  “Dugal?”

  In a moment, he raised his face. I expected tears, but his eyes were dry. The torment he felt was etched in every line of his face, however, and his voice was raw when he spoke. “Christ have mercy!” he said. “It is all because of me.”

  “Sit you down,” I told him sternly. Still preoccupied by my own concerns I had no inclination towards gentleness and understanding. “Tell me now, what ails you?”

  “All the evil that has befallen us—” he said, his voice cracking with regret, “it is all because of me. God have mercy on my soul, I am the cause of our afflictions.”

  “Tch!” I clicked my tongue at him. “Listen to you, now. Even if you were the Devil incarnate, you could not have wrought such havoc.”

  In his shame, he bent his head to his hands, and covered his face, murmuring, “Jonah…I am Jonah.”

  Rising to my knees, I leaned towards him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Hear me, Dugal,” I said firmly. “The fault is not yours. The misfortunes which have befallen us are the work of a zealot who shrinks not from murder, or any other crime, to further his wicked purpose.”

  “The man you describe is me,” came the muffled reply. “I am that Jonah.”

  “Do not be a fool,” I told him bluntly. “The man I describe is Komes Nikos. The iniquity is his alone.”

  Dugal, however, would not be comforted. “You do not understand,” he said, his cry a very wound. “From the beginning—before ever we left Éire…” He shook his head, overwhelmed by misery.

  “Stop that, Dugal. Look at me.” I spoke severely, trying to brace him with sharp speech and firm purpose. “Look me in the eye, man, and tell me what you did.”

  Slowly, a man crushed by his burden of guilt, Dugal raised his head. There were tears in his eyes now. He pushed them away with the heels of his hands.

  “Well? I am waiting.”

  “I cheated my way onto the ship,” he said at last.

  “What ship?” I could not imagine what he was talking about.

  “Our ship—Bán Gwydd,” he said; once loosed, the words came tumbling out. “I knew I would never be chosen like you, Aidan. But I knew also I could not let you go on pilgrimage without me. So, with God as my witness, I schemed and plotted night and day for a way to get aboard that ship. I steeled myself to do whatever vile thing came to hand so that I might be included with you. The Devil placed the chance in my hand and I seized it.” Dugal gazed forlornly at me with damp eyes. “God save me, I did the deed without thinking twice.”

  “You pushed Libir on the path,” I said, remembering our leave-taking, and the slippery rocks leading down to the little ship.

  The change in Dugal’s demeanor was wonderful to behold. The pain in his eyes passed through bewilderment and arrived at amazement. “You knew?”

  “Dugal! I have always known!”

  “You knew,” he said again. “Yet, you never breathed a word.”

  “Of course, I knew. Listen to me now: Libir was old; he could not have endured the journey—he would have died in the shipwreck, and if not then, he certainly would have been killed any number of times after. Most likely, you saved his life.”

  Dugal stared, not willing to believe what I was saying.

  “Did you really think God would curse us to ruin because you took an old man’s place in a boat?” I demanded.

  “But I hurt him,” he replied dully. “I hurt him, Aidan. Our misfortunes came upon us through my prideful sin.”

 
“Put that out of your mind,” I told him. “Whatever happens in this world happens. That is all. The only misfortune is thinking God cares. Hear me, Dugal: He does not care. Still less does He intervene in our affairs one way or another.”

  My words stung him; I could see it in his eyes. He did not expect such venom from me, and was shocked by what I said. After a moment, he said, “I would feel better if I confessed.”

  “You have already confessed,” I pointed out, my anger subsiding.

  “Would you hear my confession, Aidan?”

  “No,” I told him. “But confess by all means, if it will make you feel better; get Brynach to shrive you. I want no part of it.”

  Dugal nodded glumly and climbed to his feet. I watched as he approached Brynach; the two talked, whereupon the elder monk led Dugal a little apart, and the two knelt together to pray. God help me, I could not bear to see them, so turned my back, pulled my robe around my shoulders, lay down and tried to sleep. The cool desert air was still and soft, the sky bright, and my mind kept circling, circling endlessly, unable to alight and unwilling to rest.

  In the end, I gave up and simply stared at the stars. Even that was no good. For, though I watched the glowing opalescent sky, I saw only the black chain of deceit stretching back and back—to Byzantium. I thought of Nikos and his treachery, but instead of allowing myself to renew my rage and hatred—which is what I always did whenever his memory crossed my mind—this time I considered him dispassionately: a riddle to be solved, rather than a serpent to be killed.

  Strangely, my mind ceased flitting restlessly from thought to thought, and a profound calm eased into my spirit. I began to see the difficulty in a cool, clear light. It came to me that both Eparch Nicephorus and Bishop Cadoc had been betrayed by Nikos. Why? Neither man, so far as I knew, had ever so much as heard of the other, and yet Nikos went out of his way to destroy them. What was it that united the two men as objects of Nikos’s treachery?

  Well, there was only one answer: both men knew Governor Honorius. Indeed, both had been going to see him, and both had been attacked. Honorius, then, lay at the centre of this mystery.

  So then, what was it about the governor that Nikos feared? Whatever the answer, I reasoned, it must be terrible in its import: hundreds of people had died to keep it hidden—and those were just the ones I knew. How many more had been sacrificed, and why?

  Try as I might, I could not get beyond the why?

  Gazing up at the glowing sky-vault above me, my mind turned again to my vision of the afternoon: Amet standing in the centre of the marketplace, hailing me, calling me. Come to Sebastea, he had said. Sebastea…

  I was on my feet before I knew it, and stumbling through the sleeping camp. Kneeling over the sleeping Brynach, I took him by the shoulder. He came awake at my touch.

  “How did you know the governor was in Sebastea?” I said, my voice shaking with excitement.

  “Peace, brother,” he said, and made to rise.

  “Answer me! How did you know?” I demanded, already guessing what he would say.

  “Nikos told us,” Brynach replied. “He said the governor always spent the summer there.”

  A thin, icy chill trickled along my ribs. Oh, Nikos was cunning as a viper and just as poisonous. He knew, even before setting foot in Trebizond that the governor would not be joining us there. He had sent the monks, not to Honorius’s home in Trebizond, but to Sebastea where he knew the governor could be found; and, when the eparch had concluded the treaty, then Nikos diverted us to Sebastea, too.

  Nikos was, it seemed, always sending people to Sebastea, but none of them ever arrived. Why?

  My quick-kindled excitement died. I had thought myself close to solving the riddle. But the more I probed, the more the mystery deepened, and now I was no nearer a solution than before. I returned to my sleeping place, dispirited and disgusted, to wrestle with thoughts that would not yield.

  A pale white dawn found me awake still, unrested and aching in head and heart. Slowly, the camp began to stir; I lay listening to the idle talk of the amir’s warriors as they built up the fires once more. Thus, I was already alert when I heard Kazimain approach, her footfall soft in the dust.

  “Aidan,” she said tentatively. Her voice quivered.

  “My love,” I replied, rolling over to look at her. She appeared to have slept no better than I; her hair was unbound, and the corners of her eyes were red. “Kazimain?”

  “It is Lord Sadiq.” Her hand was shaking, so I grasped it; her fingers were cold. “I cannot wake him.”

  I was beside the amir in an instant. In swift steps I entered the tent, knelt over him and pressed my hand to the side of his neck, much as Farouk had done to me countless times. The amir’s skin was warm to the touch, and I could feel the rapid flutter of a strong pulse beneath my fingertips; his breath was quick and shallow. He seemed to sleep, but it was a false repose. There was a faint mist of sweat on his brow.

  Touching his shoulder, I jostled him gently, but firmly. “Lord Sadiq,” I said, “wake you now.” I repeated this three times, but the amir made no sound, neither did he move.

  “You see how he is,” Kazimain said, peering over my shoulder.

  “Where is Faysal?”

  “He did not eat anything last night,” she replied. “He said he was not hungry…It is not like the amir to sleep so long…”

  “Kazimain,” I said sharply, drawing her back. “Where is Faysal?”

  “Out there—” She gestured vaguely behind her. “I did not—” She looked at me, frightened now. “I woke you instead.”

  “Wake him now and tell him to bring some water.”

  She nodded and backed from the tent. Straightening the amir’s head, I began to gently remove his turban. So far as I knew, he had not changed it since the incident at the gate. As the long strip of cloth unwound, I held my breath, fearing what I would find.

  As the last length came away, I put the cloth aside and examined the amir’s head. To my relief there was no injury that I could see; so I began to search, lightly lifting his matted dark hair to see the scalp beneath. By the time Kazimain returned, I had completed my examination, finding nothing unusual.

  Kazimain knelt beside me, worried still, but better composed. Faysal appeared a moment later, with a jar of water. He poured from the jar into a small bowl, and brought it to the amir’s lips. I placed my hand behind the amir’s head and raised it to receive the water. As I lifted, the amir moaned, as if in pain, but he did not wake.

  “Wait,” I told Faysal. “There is something here.” To Kazimain I said, “Let us turn him over.”

  Half-lifting, half-rolling, we placed the amir on his side, and I quickly found the place my fingers had touched.

  The wound was little more than a deep-coloured bruise at the base of his skull. But when I probed with my fingers, rather than solid bone beneath the skin, I felt pulpy flesh. “Here,” I said, guiding Kazimain’s fingers to the place. “But gently, gently.”

  The amir moaned again as Kazimain touched the wound; she pulled back her hand as if she had burned her fingers. “The bone is crushed,” she gasped, her voice dwindling to a whisper.

  “Faysal,” I commanded, “ride to Amida. Bring a physician at once.”

  He stared at me. “I do not think there is a physician in Amida.”

  “Go, man,” I snapped. “Hurry!”

  Faysal inclined his head in acknowledgement of the command—a gesture I had seen him make a thousand times, but always to Lord Sadiq, never to anyone else. He left the tent, and Kazimain and I attempted to get the amir to drink some water, but succeeded only in wetting his chin and the side of his face.

  “Stay with him,” I told Kazimain, “I will fetch Brynach. He is learned in many things; he may know what to do.”

  Upon emerging from the tent, one of the rafiq met me and announced that Kazimain’s escort had arrived and was ready to take her away. I looked to where the warrior pointed and saw six men on horseback. “Tell them they m
ust wait,” I said, and hurried on.

  Brynach, Dugal, and Ddewi had risen and lit a fire to take the chill from the morning air. Upon hearing of the amir’s distress, Brynach nodded and said, “Have no fear for Lord Sadiq. We have among us one who is many-gifted in the healing arts.” He put out his hand to Ddewi, who sat with hand extended before the crackling fire, his features placid.

  “You cannot mean—” I protested.

  Brynach nodded.

  “But he is not himself. His mind—he does not even know where he is. Sure, he cannot do anything.”

  “Are you God now that you know what a man is capable of doing?” There was no rancour in Brynach’s tone. He turned to regard Ddewi with satisfaction. “He is hiding within himself. We have but to coax him into the daylight once more.”

  “Your faith is laudable,” I said, struggling to keep the contempt out of my voice. “But it is the amir—I fear for his life. And if any ill should befall him at Ddewi’s hands…”

  Brynach blithely waved aside my objection. “It is right to bear concern for one another, but your fears betray a lack of faith.”

  “It is not a matter of faith,” I declared harshly, “but one of expedience. Ddewi does not even remember his own name. What if I were to entrust to him the care of the amir, and Lord Sadiq died?”

  Brynach placed a hand on my shoulder in a fatherly way. “O, man of little faith, trust God, and see what he will do.”

  In my experience, all that came of trusting God was that matters went from bad to worse—and usually so rapidly as to steal the very breath away.

  Despite Brynach’s faith-blinded confidence, I would not have allowed Ddewi to so much as sit quietly in the amir’s tent, if Faysal had not returned to camp with the unhappy word that there was no physician in Amida.

  “No one?” I growled.

  He shrugged. “A few old women sit with those who are ill.”

  Dugal, having seen Faysal’s lathered horse, joined us, and as Bryn explained what was happening, I asked, “What happens when someone falls seriously ill?”