“They die.”
“No doubt,” put in Brynach, “this has come about that God’s glory may be increased.”
“No doubt,” I muttered sourly.
“Be of good cheer, brother,” Dugal exhorted. “It may be that this will be the saving of them both.”
With that, everyone turned to me expectantly, awaiting my decision. “Where else,” I asked Faysal, “can we find a physician?”
“Samarra or Baghdat,” he answered.
But, strange to say, it was not Faysal’s voice I heard; it was Amet’s, calling me across the marketplace. Come to Sebastea…
Oh, Brynach was right, it was a matter of faith—not as he imagined it, however. It was not God, or even Ddewi, who vied for my faith. The question was this: could I trust my vision? I had trusted once, and it had proven false. If it proved so again, the amir would pay with his life.
Samarra was a long way behind us now, and Baghdat further still. Even if we rode night and day, we could not reach either place before many days had passed and, looking at him now, I doubted whether the amir could endure the journey. Well, the choice was clear at least, if not easily made.
I felt a touch at my arm. “Aidan?” Faysal asked. “What are you thinking?”
“Faysal, listen. There may be another choice. What about Sebastea?”
He considered this for a moment. “It may be closer,” he allowed. “It is a sizeable city.”
“I think we should go there.”
Faysal hesitated; I was on the point of urging again when Kazimain spoke up. “We must do what is most expedient,” she said. “We do not know how long he can endure.”
“Very well,” replied Faysal. “I yield to your judgement.”
Turning to Brynach, who was bending over Ddewi, whispering in his ear, I said: “Bring Ddewi to the tent. I will allow him to tend Lord Sadiq until we get to Sebastea. However, Kazimain will remain with him to see that he does no harm.”
Dugal and Brynach, each taking an arm, raised the unwitting monk between them, and led him towards the tent, Brynach speaking low to his young charge the while. It was not a sight to inspire the highest confidence. I watched them walk away, misgiving deep and dire rising within me. May God help us all, I thought, but it was a cold-hearted wish with neither hope nor faith in it at all.
After escorting Ddewi to the amir’s side, Dugal returned to where I stood talking to Faysal about how best to proceed. “Never fear, Aidan,” Dugal told me, “all things work together for the good of those who love God.”
Faysal, regarding the big monk curiously, asked, “Please, what is he saying?”
“He said not to worry, that God ever toils for good,” I translated roughly, if enthusiastically.
“We have a similar saying,” Faysal replied. “The Faithful say, ‘All is as Allah wills.’ It is the same thing, I think.”
Faysal began to organize the arrangements which would enable Sadiq to travel, doing for the amir what he once did for me. “We may leave for Sebastea shortly; I will let you know when we are ready, he told me.”
While Faysal undertook the required preparations, I went to Jarl Harald and explained to the Danes why we yet lingered in camp. Gunnar, Hnefi, and some of the others crowded around to hear the news. I told them Lord Sadiq had fallen ill in the night, and that we were going to Sebastea to find a physician. Harald accepted this with good grace, saying that he would personally carry the Arab jarl on his back if it meant he could recover the sooner. “We owe him a great debt of honour,” he said, and meant just that.
Then, having set the Sea Wolves the chore of breaking camp, I returned to Sadiq’s tent. Brynach and Ddewi knelt beside the amir; Kazimain, who stood over them, turned to meet me as I entered. “It is remarkable,” she said. “Already Lord Sadiq rests more easily.”
“What did he do?”
“He merely touched the amir with his hands while he prayed.”
I did not doubt her, but attributed the observation more to her own desire to see her kinsman healed than anything Ddewi might have done.
“God willing, he will sleep now,” Brynach informed us.
“He was sleeping before,” I retorted. I cannot say why I took offence at the monk; I know he meant only good. But his assurance rankled me, and I bristled at his unquestioning confidence: it made of the amir’s injury a trivial thing. And, of course, nothing is simple.
Brynach gazed at me curiously. Forcing a more reasonable tone, I said, “Make him ready. I have already given orders to break camp.”
Leaving the tent, I hastened to where Kazimain’s escort was waiting. “Our plans have changed,” I told the head man. “You are no longer needed. Thank the shaykh and tell him that the amir wishes you to keep the money you have been paid. Lord Sadiq may have need of your services another day.”
For good or ill, the decision was made. I turned my face towards Sebastea.
64
Owing to the heat, we took to travelling at night, setting out at dusk and continuing until mid-morning when the sun’s blistering rays became too hot. Fortunately, the moon was in a quarter to aid us, so we did not lack for light; the well-worn trail shone with a pale phantom glow allowing us to push a relentless pace towards Sebastea. It was here that the camels—truly disagreeable beasts in every way—displayed their chief, perhaps only, virtue: they could move quickly and with little need for rest or water, and this while carrying loads that would crush a horse.
Thus, we journeyed swiftly, pressing ever northward through the cramped and crooked valleys, more often than not in sight of the Tigris’s murky waters. One night we passed a tiny, fly-blown holding on the riverbank and Faysal, after conversing with a few of the holding’s inhabitants, returned to inform us that it was the last Arab settlement we would see. Sebastea, he was told, lay three days’ journey to the north and a little east, and Trebizond a further seven days north and west. Beyond Sebastea, however, there was a good road, and Faysal assured me the journey would be less arduous. Sometime during the night we crossed the much-disputed border into imperial lands.
We did what little we could to make the amir comfortable. Ddewi remained steadfastly at Lord Sadiq’s side, eating and sleeping nearby, and walking with the horses and sling. Kazimain always rode with them, and assured me that the young monk, though quiet and withdrawn, was constantly alert to his duty, performing many small tasks which, taken together, seemed to produce a beneficial effect.
For his part, the amir was not often conscious, and even when he woke seemed unable to rouse himself so much as to lift his head from his bed. I feared the worst, and we pushed as swift and relentless a pace as could be achieved without further endangering him.
Thus it was with a feeling of great relief that after three nights I glimpsed the white walls of Sebastea shimmering in the dawnlight of a day already hazy with heat. We proceeded to the city and adopted the amir’s practice of establishing camp a short distance outside the city walls. While the rafiq and Danes prepared the tents, Faysal and I hastened to procure the services of a physician.
Arabs were a common sight in the busy streets of Sebastea so no one made bold to hinder us as we made our way to the marketplace. There, I selected the most prosperous-looking money-changer—a gold and silver merchant with a red-and-blue striped canopy over his stall—and asked him who was the most skilled physician in the city.
“Theodore of Sykeon is the man you seek,” replied the merchant without hesitation. Regarding Faysal and myself shrewdly, he added, “I must caution you however, his services will not be bought cheaply. This, I find, is the rule with all men who ply their arts at the pinnacle of perfection, and the excellent Theodore is no exception.”
I thanked the merchant, and inquired where Theodore could be found, that we might secure his services without delay. But the merchant would not send us away like errand boys. “Only tell me where you are staying and I will have one of my servants bring him to you.”
I thanked him for his thoughtful
ness, but declined. “The need is urgent, and we are anxious that there should be no delay. I think it best to arrange matters ourselves.”
“Make no mistake,” the gold merchant replied graciously, “it is not compassion, but self-interest that prompts me. For if you are men who do not shrink from engaging the very best for your ailing friend, then I think such men may require other services while sojourning in Sebastea,” he allowed himself an appreciative glance at the Qadi’s jewelled handle protruding from my belt, “perhaps the services of a money-changer. Should this need arise, I hope you will deem it necessary to look no further than your humble servant, Hadjidakis.”
With that, he took up and rang a small brass bell, and a slender and barefoot youth appeared. “Now then,” Hadjidakis said, “where are you staying?” I told him, and he relayed the information to the young man, speaking in a language I did not understand. The youth nodded once and darted away into the thronging marketplace. “You may return to your friend in confidence: Theodore of Sykeon will be with you shortly. Unless,” he said hopefully, “there is anything else I can do for you?”
“A small matter comes to mind,” I said. “We have business with the governor. I am told he resides in the city. Is this so?”
“Indeed so,” he answered. “Even now Exarch Honorius occupies a palace in the street next to the forum. It is not difficult to find. Ask anyone, they will tell you the way.”
I thanked Hadjidakis again, and we made our way back to camp, returning only a few moments before the physician himself appeared. A man of mature years, small-boned and neat-featured, he was dressed simply and impeccably in a white linen cloak and mantle. A gold chain hung heavily around his neck and a blue hat of soft cloth sat far back on his head. He arrived in a covered chair borne by four Ethiope slaves led by the youth in Hadjidakis’ employ. Upon ascertaining that he had not been led astray, the physician paid the youth with a bronze coin, then ordered his slaves to lower the chair.
“I am Theodore,” he said simply, making a small bow. “If you would kindly take me to the sufferer, I will make my examination now.”
I conducted the physician to the amir’s tent and entered to find Kazimain and Ddewi, as always, by his side. “Here is the physician,” I told them, “he has come to tend Amir Sadiq. We will leave him to make his examination.”
“There is no need,” Theodore replied affably. “Please, stay, my friends, if you will. I may have cause to question you about his care.”
This impressed Kazimain, who, when I had translated the physician’s words, replied that Theodore put her in mind of Farouk, which she considered a very auspicious sign. Ddewi favoured the newcomer with a sharply appraising glance of his solitary eye, but said nothing.
As the tent was somewhat crowded, I elected to wait outside and instructed Theodore to come to me when he finished. Upon emerging from the tent, I met Faysal lingering by the entrance. “I believe we have done the best for Lord Sadiq,” I told him.
“Pray Allah it is enough.”
Leading him a few paces from the tent, I said, “Faysal, I would like your opinion of a thing I have been considering.” So saying, I began to relate my suspicions regarding the governor’s place in Nikos’s treachery.
He listened, nodding now and again to himself. “You have learned something of subtlety, my friend,” he said appreciatively. “If the governor stands at the heart of the mystery, then we must go to him and see what we can learn.”
Theodore emerged from the amir’s tent just then. Stepping quickly to where we stood, he said, “I have concluded my examination.” He spoke with clipped efficiency. “The amir is in distress by reason of a head wound—as you know. The bone at the base of his skull has been crushed. It is my belief that bleeding inside the skull has brought about his unfortunate condition.”
“Will he live?” I asked.
“The injury is severe,” he said with smooth evasion. “That he remains alive even now is a credit to the young man who attends him.” He looked from me to Faysal and back again. “Yet, I am puzzled.”
“Yes?”
“The wound is in no way recent;” he said, “and I see by your camp that you have been travelling. Is this so?”
“We have come from Amida,” I told him. “There was no help for him there, so we came north to obtain the best care for the amir.”
Theodore shook his head in amazement. “Then the young man’s skill is more extraordinary than I imagined. Together we will undertake the healing of Lord Sadiq.” Placing his palms together neatly, he said, “I trust this meets with your approval?”
“As you will,” Faysal replied. “We defer to your learning and judgement.”
“Then, if you will excuse me, I must send for certain of my tools. This evening we must perform a most delicate operation. I need time to prepare.” With that he hastened to speak to his slaves, two of whom departed on the run. Returning to the tent, Theodore bowed once in our direction and then entered.
“Come, Faysal,” I said, “I think we must pay a visit to the governor.”
We found our way to the forum quickly and easily; the many-pillared colonnade in the heart of the city could be seen from any of several approaches. Once there, locating the street Hadjidakis had mentioned posed no greater difficulty. The governor’s house was large, with a single door opening almost directly onto the street, save for two steps rising between two ornate columns. A guardsman stood outside in the street, spear in hand, a shield slung over his shoulder. People passed him without a glance, however, and from this I deduced that he was a familiar feature of the place. Leaving Faysal to watch the house from across the street, I strode to the house.
“I was told the governor is in residence,” I said upon greeting the guard, who regarded me with bored suspicion.
“He is receiving no one,” the guard replied in a tone that suggested he had said this too many times for his own liking.
“That is truly unfortunate,” I sighed. “I have travelled a very great distance to see him. Perhaps you might allow my name to be put forward.”
Without bothering to reply, the guard motioned me on with his spear. Clearly, his was not the final authority. Once inside however, I was met by another, more formidable obstacle in the person of an official in a robe and mantle of faded green; he wore a braided thong around his neck on which was affixed a large metal box, and sat at a table in the centre of a spacious vestibule, writing on a vellum roll. He deigned not to notice me as I came to stand before him. Two more equally bored-looking guards stood either side of a door directly behind him.
“If you please,” I said, “I was told the governor is in residence.”
The official raised his eyes from the document before him and all but yawned in my face. “He is seeing no one. Leave your name and come back tomorrow.”
“I have travelled a very great distance.” Leaning close, I confided, “It is a matter of some delicacy involving a very great deal of money.” Reaching into my sleeve, I pulled out one of the silver coins Faysal had given me and placed it on the table. “I would be most grateful if the governor could be notified.”
Obtaining no response, I placed another coin beside the first. The official finally lay aside his pen. His lips curled in a smile, but his eyes remained cold. “Perhaps I may be of service. My name is Casius; I am Proconsul of Sebastea. What is the nature of your business with Exarch Honorius?”
Thinking quickly, I said, “It concerns property belonging to my betrothed wife.”
“Property, you say?”
“Yes, it is a delicate matter, and I should not like to say too much about it to anyone except the governor. When do you think he might see me?”
“This is not a matter for the exarch’s arbitration,” Casius informed me flatly. “I suggest you place your matter before the magister or, better still, your local apographeus.”
“Ah, yes, well, it was, in fact, the magister who suggested I come here.” Once given to the lie, I became brazen. “He said
that inasmuch as Honorius was a friend of my father’s, the governor would want to advise me personally.”
The proconsul—if indeed he was the proconsul—hesitated; I could see him calculating his next response. “Why did you not tell me the governor was a friend of yours in the first place?”
“A friend, as I say, of my father’s,” I corrected. “Would that have made a difference?”
“I will put your name forward,” he said, taking up his long reed pen once more; he dipped it in the ink pot and scratched something on the vellum. “Perhaps the exarch will see you.”
“All the better if that could be arranged,” I said, laying a third coin on the table. “There have been rumours that the governor is ill, you know. I am certain Honorius’s friends in Trebizond will welcome reassurances of his health.”
He stopped writing and tapped his teeth with the pen. “These rumours—what are they saying?”
“Oh, one thing and another,” I replied casually. “They think it strange that he should remain so long in Sebastea when he has such a splendid residence in Trebizond.”
Casius made up his mind at once. Pushing back his chair, he rose. “Wait here.” With that, he stepped to the guarded door, opened it, and disappeared into the room beyond—returning a few moments later. “This business,” he said, “I believe you told me it concerns your betrothed also?”
“Yes,” I lied, “so it does.”
“Fetch her,” the proconsul said. “Return with the woman, and the governor will see you.”
I knew I had gained a prize. “Very well,” I said, “I will do as you suggest.” Thanking the man, I told him to expect us shortly, then departed before he could change his mind.
In the street once more, I hurried from the house, motioning Faysal to follow. “The governor is there,” I told him as he fell into step beside me. I explained how I had convinced them to let me see him, and said, “I thought Kazimain might assist us.”
“Undoubtedly,” he agreed, “but will they allow you to speak to him alone?”