Byzantium

66

Your business in Trebizond can wait," Theodore said bluntly. "The amir must not be moved."

"You said he would be able to travel."

"In a few days, perhaps," the physician allowed, "and even that is too soon. The amir has survived a most delicate procedure. Now he must rest if his wound is to heal properly. Given time, I have no doubt he will regain his former strength and well-being."

"Unfortunately, there is no time," I insisted. "Need is upon us; as you see, we must leave at once."

We spoke outside the tent as men broke camp and prepared to depart. Faysal stood nearby, a frown deepening on his brown face.

"Then I suggest you leave the amir with me. My house is large; I will care for him there. Never fear, I am well acquainted with the requirements of noblemen. When Lord Sadiq has recovered sufficiently, he can follow."

"Your offer is tempting as it is gracious," I replied. "However, we are hard pressed to continue our journey as best we may. The amir himself would agree-indeed, he would demand it if I did not."

"Then, it is my duty to tell you that the amir will not survive such a journey. If you persist, you will kill him."

Shouldering this grim responsibility, I replied, "We are grateful for your service." Motioning Faysal to join us, I said, "Faysal will reward you now. Go in peace."

The physician accepted his payment and said no more. He collected his tools, woke his slaves, and departed, his dire pronouncement hanging over me like a curse. Once he had gone, I commanded the rafiq to make ready the amir's riding sling, and by the time the rose-pink sun cleared the eastern ridge, we were well along the Trebizond road. Speed was our most reliable ally, I reckoned, for if we maintained the pace I had begun, we would reach Trebizond before news of the governor's death. Any messengers would be forced to go by the same road on which we journeyed; to do otherwise would take too long, and should anyone try to overtake us, we would certainly apprehend them long before they could come near. Not forgetting the last time I had travelled this same road, I kept scouts ranging far ahead to prevent us rushing into another ambush.

Though I bitterly regretted the urgency, I pressed ahead relentlessly, my cold heart fixed on Byzantium and the confrontation to come. Time and again, my hand strayed to the folded document beneath my robe. That square scrap of parchment, hastily scrawled in Honorius's hand, exposed the wicked heart of Nikos's treachery.

Upon our return to camp, I had immediately opened the packet and read out the letter contained within. That Honorius had written it, I had no doubt; I recognized both the hand and signature from the letter the eparch had received. Faysal, holding a torch near, watched the expression on my face as the dire truth came clear.

Lowering the document, I glanced at Faysal, eager in the torchlight. Even as I spoke the words, my mind was leaping ahead to what must be done to prevent the terrible act they described. "Nikos plans to murder the emperor," I said.

"For this they killed the governor?" he observed.

"And everyone else who came too near," I told him, and explained: "Honorius was taken prisoner because he found out about the plot and tried to warn the emperor. They kept him alive because they found his office useful to further their aims."

"It says this?" wondered Faysal, tapping the parchment with a finger.

"Oh, yes," I replied, "and much else besides." I passed the document to Faysal and held the torch while he read.

The letter, signed and sealed by the governor, provided damning evidence of Nikos's treachery-though even Honorius did not perceive the full extent of the plot. But I knew.

What is more, I was confident that I now possessed all the scattered fragments of the mosaic and that I had assembled them aright. The resulting picture may not have been pleasant; but it was true.

It seems that while making one of his periodic visits to the southern region, word had reached Exarch Honorius of a rumour that the emperor was to be killed by someone close to the throne. Upon further investigation, he had learned that the conspiracy originated in a city called Tephrike, and was thought to be the work of an Armenian named Chrysocheirus. Though I knew neither the city nor the man, I knew the word the governor used to describe them: Paulician.

Upon reading this, I recalled Bishop Arius telling me that after their expulsion from Constantinople, the Paulicians had fled east where their continual raiding, as much as their alliance with the Arabs, had eventually roused the anger of the emperor, who had ordered reprisals against the cult. The emperor was Basil, of course, and from Honorius's description, I gathered that Tephrike was the central stronghold of the Paulicians, and Chrysocheirus had been their leader; he was, like many of the sect's members, of Armenian descent. He was also kinsman to a courtier well placed in the imperial palace-an ambitious young man named Nikos.

Thus, the mystery had at last come clear. In order to maintain hostilities between the Sarazens and the empire, from which the cult benefited, the peace initiative had to be stopped; and for his part in the persecution, the emperor had been marked for death.

My brother monks simply had the great misfortune of wandering into Nikos's elaborate snare. Their unwitting desire to see Honorius had brought them to Nikos' attention, and they had been eliminated. In much the same way, the eparch had been dealt with as well. When Honorius discovered the plot, he was taken prisoner; and, when his usefulness came to an end, he was killed. So far as Nikos knew, no one remained alive to confront him with his crimes.

Oh, but he had not reckoned on the resilience of the Irish spirit, the determined strength of barbarians, nor the tenacity and resourcefulness of Arab resolve.

True, I had no special concern for the emperor; I confess it freely. My sympathies were entirely otherwise. The poor and powerless-like the blessed Bishop Cadoc, and all those women and children killed in the ambush-claimed my small store of compassion. The emperor had his bodyguard of Farghanese mercenaries; he had his ships and his soldiers and his fortresses. But it was the weak and innocent who always suffered in the clash, and who protected them?

God alone, it seemed; and time and again, he proved himself a highly unreliable defender. If anything were to be done to help those in harm's way this time, it would be myself, not God, who shouldered the burden.

Still, all my efforts would be worth less than nothing if Nikos's plot succeeded. I had long ago vowed that if I ever got free, I would see Nikos's head nailed to the Magnaura Gate and his corpse trampled in the Hippodrome. Driven by my singular desire for revenge-rekindled to a fine and handsome blaze by Honorius's letter-my thoughts flew towards Trebizond and Harald's waiting ships. How I ached to be in Byzantium with my hands around Nikos's throat.

Faysal finished reading and lowered the parchment, his face grim in the flickering torchlight. "The conspiracy against the emperor must not be allowed to succeed," he intoned softly. "For the sake of the peace treaty, we must expose it. The amir would not be pleased if we allowed anything to stand in our way."

"My thoughts exactly," I replied. "Then we agree-it is on to Byzantium as quickly as possible."

Alas, so many of our number were afoot we could not move with anything near the speed I desired. Indeed, I seriously considered going on ahead myself, perhaps taking a few men for protection, but we would need every available man to help crew the ships and I would gain nothing if, arriving in Trebizond, we were unable to sail at once.

Thus, I had no better alternative than to proceed as best and as fast as circumstances allowed-ever mindful of the amir's infirmity. Sebastea lay some small distance behind us when we stopped to rest that first day, taking shelter from the hammering sun in an olive grove beside the road. While the rafiq and Danes drew water from the well that supplied the grove, Kazimain and Ddewi tended Lord Sadiq, and Brynach, Dugal, and myself sat down to talk.

"It appears," Brynach began as soon as we were settled, "that we have embarked on a mission of some urgency." His gaze was direct and his manner straightforward, as if addressing an equal. "Are we to know its aim?"

"Indeed, and I would value your counsel, brother," I replied, and began to detail the convoluted path by which we had arrived at the place we now occupied. The elder monk listened, nodding thoughtfully from time to time-as if what I said supplied the answers to questions of longstanding concern. I finished by explaining my speculations on what had happened to the governor. "Regretfully, Honorius was killed before we could rescue him. I have no doubt the deed was carried out by the same faction of which Nikos is a member."

"This faction," Brynach asked, "have you discovered its identity?"

"They are Armenians, for the most part," I told him, "and adherents to a heretical sect known as Paulicians."

"I have never heard of them," said Dugal, struggling to imagine why these people should wish him ill.

"Nor I," replied Brynach. "But then, there are many sects. Not all of them are heretical."

"Perhaps not," I conceded. "As it happens, they were cast out of the Holy Church and driven from Constantinople several years ago. Their faith has been anathematized, and their leaders declared enemies of the emperor. Persecution has forced them to become secretive."

"Granting what you say is true," Brynach said somewhat doubtfully, "why would these Paulicians concern themselves with us? We have done nothing to rouse either their wrath or interest."

"So far as I can see," I answered, "their aim is twofold: they hope to thwart the peace between Byzantium and the Sarazens, and they are also intent on murdering the emperor. Governor Honorius learned of their plans and was preparing to warn the emperor when he was made prisoner."

"What has that to do with us?" wondered Dugal, still struggling to imagine why people he had never heard of, much less seen, should wish harm on a handful of Irish monks.

"The eparch and his skilful negotiation of the peace was a threat to the Paulicians because the treaty abolished their safety in Arab lands from which they are allowed to raid with impunity," I explained. "The monks of Kells were merely unlucky-Cadoc wanted to see the governor, and Nikos could not risk allowing you to meet with Honorius and then returning to warn the emperor of the plot against him."

"We wandered into a hornets' nest unaware," mused Dugal, shaking his head at the wild caprices of fortune.

"That you did, brother."

Brynach, frowning under the oppressive weight this distressing knowledge produced in him, lifted woeful eyes to me. "So we are hastening to Byzantium to warn the emperor," he concluded.

"To warn the emperor, yes," I agreed, and added, "but also to bring Nikos to justice. I mean to confront him with his crimes and see him die the death he so richly deserves."

"What if you cannot reach the emperor?" Dugal wondered. "We were many days waiting to see him, and sure, we never did."

"We have the amir with us," I reminded him. "The emperor will be more than eager to meet with the man who can deliver peace with the Arabs. If we can but keep Lord Sadiq alive, the basileus will see us, never fear; and what is more, once he sees the governor's letter he will believe us." I saw no reason to mention my own pledge to bring word to the basileus, who would be more than eager to hear what I had to tell him.

Later, we left the shaded grove and moved out once more, some riding, most walking, silent as the shadows stretching along the road: a curious karwan, made up of horses and camels, lithe Sarazens and lumbering Sea Wolves, Christians and Muhammedans, veiled Kazimain and bearded Irish monks, the stricken amir in his swaying sling, and Faysal and myself walking side by side, leading the ungainly company. We had not been joined together by choice: our unlikely allegiance had been formed by circumstance and fate-kismet, the Arabs called it-but was no less strong for that.

Though the sun was still hot, the air was beginning to lose its heat. By the time the far hills turned purple in the dusky light, night's chill had begun seeping into the land. We journeyed through starlit night, silently, wrapped in our cloaks for warmth-only to cast them off again when the sun spread the eastern sky with its blood-red glow. When the heat-blast became unbearable, we sheltered in whatever shade we could find, thus completing the circle.

Each day was a duplicate of the one before-save that the land began to change as the hills became rough and craggy, the valleys deeper and more narrow. Though I saw Kazimain daily, we spoke infrequently, and then only about the amir's precarious condition; it occupied her every thought. She wore her worry well, bearing up with admirable fortitude; even so, the journey exacted its price. With each passing day, the distance between us grew the more. Concerns of my own prevented me from crossing the divide; I confess I did but stand aside and watch that gap increase.

Then we reached the place I dreaded most-where the road passed beneath high cliffs and the emperor's envoy had been ambushed.

Little remained of that iniquitous outrage and the bloody butchery that followed; I suppose anything of value had long since been scavenged by other travellers on this road. Even so, a few signs persisted: the ragged heaps of rock along the cliffside where scores lay buried, killed in their unsuspecting sleep; haphazard scatterings of sun-bleached bones picked clean by bird and beast; a few broken spears, and a battered shield or two. That was all. Little enough, as I say, to mark the magnitude of the tragedy.

Though the days remained bright, a thick soul-hugging gloom settled over me. While all around me moved in sun-dazzling brilliance, I walked in winter bleak and grey. Over the next days, I thought about the ambush, all that had gone before, and all that had come after. I dreamed of reprisal and justice; more, I dreamed of satisfaction: eye for eye, flesh for flesh, life for life.

Into this desert melancholy, the dead bishop's words came back to me: All flesh is grass, Brother Aidan. But so immersed was I in my dreams of vengeance, that I could discern no meaning to the riddle. Eating little, sleeping less, I thought of nothing and no one save myself and the fearful retribution I held within my grasp.

All else dwindled to insignificance against the all-consuming hunger for revenge. When at last the walls of Trebizond appeared on the plain below us-and beyond the city the clean blue sweep of the sea, glittering in the early-morning light-that craving was honed keen and sharp as a blade in the gut.

What is more, I felt well-armed and ready to strike. True, returning to Constantinople might mean my own death-it was a possibility I had not forgotten-but I no longer cared. Despite my vision and previous apprehension, I wanted nothing more than to see Nikos on his knees begging for his worthless life before the disembowelling spear. Beside that, my own demise was of no account. If I perished, so be it. I meant to collect the blood debt for those who had been so brutally slaughtered.