Spira Mirabilis (20 page)

Sofia believed the inventory, but not that he’d been wielding it at the time. ‘Any Akkans?’

‘Oh, I do not count the infidels. I know what you are thinking: why is such a warrior willing to join our little rebellion? I will tell you that when I heard of you stirring up the sand like a Jinni my first instinct was to hunt you down, but the Old Man advised me otherwise.’

Sofia could see Roe de Nail was immensely proud to have the preacher under his protection.

‘He says a great change is at hand, and that all the faithful should lend their strength to it. The Napthtali dogs have not approached you? I’m not surprised. They are an impious lot, interested only in stealing land.’

‘They are no different from any tribe,’ said Bakhbukh, irritated by the nasi’s pomposity. ‘Did not the Benjaminites come from the Ein Gedi? Was it not once Benjaminites doing the displacing?’

Despite Roe de Nail’s bluster, his men could certainly fight. As the tribal coalition numbers swelled, so their reach expanded. Sofia’s ultimate ambition was to attract the Napthtali, and after each successful raid she waited for an embassy, growing more and more frustrated when none came.

Finally she concluded that they must do something Mik la Nan could not ignore.

*

The Kerak Malregard was the closest to Akka they had ventured. It was on a different scale to any of the keraks they had tackled
hitherto. It had a large garrison, and stores to feed them – oil tanks and water cisterns, grain, and a windmill to grind it. If any tribe ever had the audacity – or the technical wherewithal – to attempt to besiege it, its dual walls provided multiple firing positions to make life very unpleasant for those trying to get in.

Although Bakhbukh cautioned that it was premature, he still went along with Sofia’s plan. Yūsuf took part for different reasons. He was painfully conscious that the more successful raids Sofia led, the more his authority dwindled.

The men of the Zebulun let their torches in the hills be seen, their commotion designed to draw the attention of the sentries while the Sicarii scaled the eastern wall. While Bakhbukh and Zayid silently dispatched the guards who stayed at their posts, Sofia and Yūsuf threw ropes across the void to the inner wall, then covered them while two of their Sicarii climbed across. Meanwhile, the Benjaminites launched an oil-pot attack on the western gate.

All was going to plan until the Sicarii reached the top of the wall and found there were no sentries – instead, sitting at their ease and watching them, was a Napthtali tribesman – one of the pair Sofia had last seen in Akka’s Haute Cour.

‘Put your dagger away, Contessa. The Cat begs an audience with you.’

Yūsuf, Bakhbukh and Zayid followed Sofia down the stairway to the bailey. Mik la Nan’s men lined the walls of the courtyard, cradling armfuls of booty. Sofia had often seen the Sicarii in a similar state after a victory: some were sleeping, some boasting and some were affecting indifference to their fresh wounds while determinedly chewing wads of khat.

The Cat stood in the centre, dividing up the spoils – food and carpets, and arms – while the things they had no use for were thrown into a pile, to burn with the defenders’ bodies.

After Mik la Nan put a torch to the great pile, he turned to
Sofia and presented her with a silk scarf. ‘Contessa – this would make a splendid veil.’

‘Too bad I don’t need one. Are you ready to join us?’

‘I took the kerak for two reasons,’ he said calmly. ‘To show the Sands I am not afraid of the
franj
either, and to persuade you of your folly.’

‘The queen’s using you, Mik la Nan.’

‘I prefer to have no master, but I am a reasonable man. When the Winds chased me here I understood I must either find some accommodation with her or fight her. I chose the former because she is too powerful. For you, it’s different. You are a stranger in this land. The tribe that follows you is no tribe at all.’

‘I lead the Sicarii,’ Yūsuf protested, ‘and they are the vanguard of the Radinate—’

‘I have nothing against thievery; it’s an honest living,’ said the Cat, ‘but hypocrisy I cannot abide.’ He turned back to Sofia. ‘You have nothing to lose, but I am father to the Napthtali. Of course I will raid Catrina’s caravans, just as I raid the other tribes, but what you want, Contessa, is war.’

‘Do you shrink from it?’

‘You are too thin, Contessa, but tolerably pretty for a
franj
. These boys will do anything to prove their bravery to a fair maiden, but I am old and such games will not work on me. My dear, I do not shrink from suicide, I run from it. In a hundred years, we could not challenge Akka.’

Sofia had spent enough hours in the Palazzo dei Signori to know the sound of a man who does not believe his own arguments. The Cat really wanted her to persuade the doubters in his tribe. ‘I have no quarrel with the Akkans,’ she said. ‘The queen has many enemies within the city. If we show them she is weak, they’ll kill her for us.’

‘Or she’ll kill them first – she has a gift for smelling out disloyalty,
and much practise. And even if you are successful, what would we have gained?’

‘A life better than mere survival. There are some in Akka who know they can profit by working with the tribes, but Catrina means only to grind you down’ – Sofia picked up a handful of sand – ‘to
this
.’ She held her fist and let it drain, speaking loud enough for all the Napthtali to hear. ‘Tell me that is not so, you who have looked her in the eye.’

The Cat could not deny it. ‘Even if the Napthtali joined with you, our combined strength would still be insufficient. We would need the Gad too, but the Gad will not fight with the Benjaminites, and my Napthtali will not fight with the Gad.’

‘Your quarrels are hurting the Ebionites.’

‘I said
I
am reasonable. I never claimed my people were.’

‘With your quarrels, you hand the queen the stick to beat you. No sooner did you enter the Sands than she sought to exacerbate the feud between you and the Gad.’

‘That is not Sicarii business,’ the Cat growled. ‘Be careful, Contessa. Even Catrina knows better than to get involved with Ebionite matters.’

‘Is that what you do when a fight erupts between two Naphtali? Stand aside?’

‘No. I settle it.’

‘Why do they listen to you? It’s none of your business.’

‘They listen because I am their nasi,’ he said with kingly resolution, ‘but alas, no man has the authority to make peace between nesi’im.’

Bakhbukh had been listening to the fractious exchange with growing despair, but at these words he suddenly perked up. ‘There is one.’

Byzant, a Study in Purple
by Count Titus Tremellius Pomptinus

The streets were thronged as if it were a Holy Day, and the clackers of Akka made rickety ovation to welcome the Byzantines. The army’s large square banner was the richest Tyrian purple and its sharp streamers coiled like a nest of serpents. The two-headed eagle threaded in gold came alive as it bellied with a rare breath of fresh wind from the Sea of Filth. The Northerners carried their long kite-shaped shields over their shoulders. Their armour incorporated jointed metal scales and padded leather, and the coloured sashes revealed rank; those of the high officers were threaded with golden script. Many concealed their faces in ring-mail – but not young Prince Jorge. The Byzantine autokrator drove the quadriga with such ease that most onlookers did not recognise the skill required to control four feisty horses at once.

Although Akka was nominally Oltremare’s imperial capital, it had long ceased to think of itself as such: everything that
mattered came from Byzant, and everyone: politicians, actors, orators, and of course athletes.

Jorge entered the city gates like a conqueror, hardly slowing despite the pressing throng that roared his praise. He scattered coins and stopped to kiss children and women young and old. He knew how to delight them, and he left them wanting more as he cracked his whip and flew off to cries of, ‘Jorge! Prince Jorge!’

Most men who came to the Purple Throne were strangers to all but the queen and a few chosen courtiers. Prince Jorge, however, had been famous throughout Oltremare long before his accession. He made a quick circuit of the city, going down to the docks then through the packed bazaar, diving through the narrow streets with abandon, to the applause of the Sown and poor Marians alike, cheering him from the upper storeys of the tenements and flinging coloured paper and rice. The beggars roared their approval even as they dived out of the way. Finally he circled the citadel and came to a stop in the palace courtyard.

Only then did the jostling courtiers get a proper look at him. As he leaped down, his long-sleeved vest of metal scales rippled and clanked. The lamellae were made alternately of lacquered iron and gilded bronze. Manikelians – splint armour – wrapped his forearms and legs in protective metal: formidable, but not bulky enough to slow him down. His crown, though handsomely gilded and inlaid with precious gems, was similarly practical: thick enough to withstand a blow, with no vulnerable opening in the centre.

And if his armour failed to deter, his exkoubitores were fierce enough to daunt any would-be assassin.

The autokrator was supposed to remain neutral in the rivalry of the racing teams beloved of the rabble, but Jorge’s partisanship was obvious in his lush green cloak fastened at his right shoulder with a gaudy dolphin brooch. The green advertised his
affiliation in the hippodrome and the dolphin his success there. If any doubts remained, the golden whip in his belt confirmed that here was an Imperator of the Quadriga as well as the battlefield.

His every gesture revealed energy and enthusiasm, and all remarked on how different the young hero was to the boorish Prince Andronikos, who had come to Akka to browbeat and overthrow his niece. The queen’s ladies swooned over Jorge’s entourage of young bloods, all, like him, heroes of the tracks, and many of them gamblers too, who’d won their fortunes there. The rumours surrounding Jorge’s ascent added an irresistible hint of danger.

Grand Master Basilius and Patriarch Chrysoberges ran to the queen to warn her what to expect. Basilius described the strength of the expeditionary force, while the patriarch breathlessly reported that the young prince had brought an army of bureaucrats too.

‘Whatever for, I wonder?’ But before Catrina could speculate further, the man himself was announced.

‘Queen Catrina, I came as soon as I received your summons.’

‘I’m unused to such fidelity in my northern subjects,’ the queen said dryly.

There was no chink in the young man’s confident smile as he dropped to his knee. ‘You shall find me in every respect loyal.’

‘Forgive my scepticism, Prince Jorge, but I heard similar protestations from your predecessor.’

‘Forgive my boldness, Majesty, but your uncle lacked the essential skill to be a prince.’

Catrina looked amused. ‘What skill, pray, is that?’

‘How to recognise a queen, of course.’

‘How to recognise a queen …’ She turned to the patriarch. ‘I like
that
.’ Then she returned her gaze to the prince. ‘Tell me, how do you like Akka?’

‘Since I was a boy I have heard of its glories.’

She noted the evasion and said only, ‘I hope we live up to the stories.’

He smiled blandly. ‘I’m here to assist you with this tribal trouble you’ve been having, but also to make peace between us.’

‘Are we at war with Byzant?’ She looked askance at the Grand Master. ‘I was not aware of this, Grand Master – surely I should have been informed of such a thing?’

Her ladies tittered, but Jorge answered seriously, ‘For decades the energy of our two cities has been wasted in futile rivalry. Empires do not fall at once: they bifurcate, then splinter into a thousand shards until there is nothing left but a rabble of warring states where once was a family, happy and united.’

Catrina looked at him speculatively before asking, ‘And how do your propose to mend this state of affairs?’

‘If you will publicly endorse me, I will recognise Akka’s suzerainty over Byzant.’

‘
Recognise?
’

There was a sharp intake of breath from the patriarch, and the prince at once corrected himself.

‘Excuse me – I meant, of course,
reaffirm
.’

‘You ask a lot,’ the queen said. ‘Remind me: what branch of the Guiscards do you come from?’

‘An obscure one,’ he answered without embarrassment. ‘I was born in the wilds of Thrace, far from the purple. I do not regret my obscurity.’

The queen’s curiosity was piqued. ‘Why not?’

‘Forgive me – I’ll say no more.’

‘I beg you, Prince Jorge, you’ve begun wonderfully. Do not fail at this jump.’ She gestured around at her court as she added, ‘We’ve too much secrecy in Akka already, so I command you: speak freely.’

His habitual smile reasserted itself. ‘How can I disobey such
a command? As soon as your late uncle ascended to the throne, he applied the time-honoured medicine to all close relatives. I escaped the catgut only because I was barely considered noble.’

‘Ha! So you did not expect to be a prince – what did you expect to be?’

‘You must not laugh, but all I ever wanted was to ride …’

So began Jorge’s tale of his ascendancy to the purple. Besides his ample charm, he was an able storyteller, and like all Thracians, he knew horses. At first he had put that knowledge to use gambling at the chariot races, but before long, he realised he could earn far more actually riding the quadriga through the blood-soaked dust.

‘The crowd called me the Prince of Green. They were the first to crown me,’ he said modestly. ‘They applauded my luck – but the true secret of my success was simply that I was a judge of horseflesh and ran the best stable in the city, I had the pick of the right four horses for any particular day.’