Harald Bull-Roar, in a mood of jubilant anticipation, declared a feast to celebrate his great good fortune. Dauntless battlechief that he was, he arrayed himself for war and led his brave Sea Wolves into the fearsome markets to face the cunning tradesmen of Constantinople and secure the necessary provisions. They returned some while later, much wounded in pride and pocket, but victorious, bringing with them six casks of Cypriot wine, a dozen bags of bread, bundles of charcoal, and the carcasses of several pigs and three bullocks, ready-spitted and dressed for the roasting pit.
Wasting not a moment, they set the charcoal to life and put the meat to the flame. Then they opened the first of the casks and slaked their thirst with dark red wine, easing their hunger with loaves of good flatbread while waiting for the pigs to roast. It was not in Harald to forget his bread allowance, and he had collected it, still warm from the oven, despite the fact that not a man among them spoke Greek. I could only imagine how they had made their wishes known to the unfortunate baker.
The Arabs, beguiled by the Danes' irresistible good will, joined easily into the festivities. Some of the rafiq helped prepare the food and showed their hosts how to mix wine with water for best flavour and less devastating effect. Although Sadiq did not drink wine, he allowed the others to do as they would, and by way of blessing the occasion, sent Faysal to procure additional delicacies of a variety and array to make the long tables groan: dates, sweetmeats, olives both black and green, cakes in honey syrup, pots of thickened milk sweetened and flavoured with almonds, and several kinds of fruit unknown to me.
As eventide shadows stole across the courtyard and the heat of the day dissipated into the brilliant pinks and purples of a warm Mediterranean night, the merrymaking burst into song and dance to the delight of all-save myself and my brother monks. They were lamenting the failure of the pilgrimage, but I was grieving for a greater loss.
Owing to the sound of raucous singing and the rhythmic thump of improvised drumming emanating from the banqueting rooms, I did not hear the others as they approached. "Brother Aidan," announced Brynach firmly, "we would speak with you."
I turned to see the three of them standing uncertainly nearby. "Come then, and sit down," I said. "My solitude is large enough to share."
They stepped closer, but stood over me and would not sit-as if what they had to say should not be compromised by informality. Brynach gave out their concern at once. "We have been thinking and praying about the events of the day," he said, "and we believe you have acted rashly. We think we should go to the emperor and present our petition. If we tell him why we have come and what it means, he will take pity on us and give us the aid we so desperately need."
I raised my eyes to look at his face, earnest and determined in the twilight. Stars were beginning to shine in the sky, and the delicious scent of roasting meat curled along the gently wafting breeze of the courtyard. I drew the aroma deep into my lungs as I took a breath to answer. "You have seen, yet you still do not understand," I told him. "What more do you require to convince you? Would you have me explain it again?"
The three looked at each other. Dugal replied, "Yes, brother. Unless you tell us we cannot understand."
"Then hear me," I said, standing to address them. "This is the way of it: when greed and power conspire together, let all men beware. You have heard this said, and now, through bitter experience, you know it to be true. Moreover, when those who uphold justice are far more guilty than those whom they must judge, there is neither hope nor redemption. Why believe the unrighteous judge will honour the truth, or look beyond his own interests to protect yours?"
"If that were so," Brynach observed, "nothing in this world would be safe, or certain."
"Nothing is safe," I said flatly. "But one thing, and one thing only is certain: the innocent will suffer."
"I do wonder at your words," Brynach confessed, not without compassion. "It is unlike you-unlike the man I once knew."
"I am not the man I was! That man is long since dead. But what of that? He deserved no better fate than all the rest who died along the way."
"How can you speak so, brother?" the elder monk chided gently. "God has guided and protected you through all things to now. He has showered his favour upon you. Even now he holds you in the palm of his loving hand."
I turned my face away. "Speak to Cadoc and the others of God's protection," I muttered. "Do not speak to me. Sure, I know full well how God cares for those who trust him."
My bitterness stung them, and they stared at one another in dismay. After a moment, Ddewi plucked up his courage. "Are you saying these things because you killed Nikos and now you fear to stand before the emperor once more?"
So, that was on their minds. Why not? They did not know what I knew. "Listen to me," I said sharply, "and heed me well. Put away any notion that you will receive favour from the emperor's hand. Do not be deceived: he is no God-fearing man. Nikos was acting on behalf of Leo from the beginning. What Nikos did, he did for Leo, as much as for his own insatiable ambition."
"But, Aidan," objected Dugal, "you said Leo told the truth when he said Nikos did not kill the emperor."
A great weariness drew over me. They still did not comprehend the enormity of the evil allowed to flourish in Byzantium's holy palaces. I shook my head in despair. "Think, Dugal. All of you, think! Think what it means. Leo said that Nikos did not kill his father-and that was the truth." Dugal and the others gaped at me, baffled and hurt.
"Do you still not see it?" I said, my voice lashing at their ignorance. "Emperor Basil was not Leo's father." I let this sink in for a moment, before proceeding, "This is the way of it: Michael seduced and bedded many noblewomen of his court; one of them was Basil's wife. Basil knew this; indeed, he even encouraged it because it gave him a hold over the emperor. When a son was born of the adulterous union, he used the occasion to advance himself."
"Leo is Michael's son?" wondered Brynach in amazement.
"Yes, and in exchange for keeping the boy as his own, Basil was raised to the purple and made co-sovereign. When Michael's profligacy no longer served him, Basil arranged the old emperor's murder-some say he even did the deed himself-and then claimed the throne outright. Years pass, and the unloved boy grows up determined to avenge his true father's death. To this end, Nikos was employed by Leo; to this end the wicked scheme was laid-long before we ever thought to come to Byzantium."
I could see them struggling against this hard truth.
"We should tell someone," suggested Dugal weakly. "The emperor should be made to answer for his crimes."
I did not allow them the luxury of false hope. "The emperor is sovereign of the church, and judge over all, answerable only to God himself. Who do you propose to tell? God? I tell you He already knows, and does nothing."
"We could tell the Patriarch of Constantinople," suggested Brynach, more out of desperation than hope.
"The patriarch," I said savagely, "the same who owes his appointment and continued survival to the emperor-do you think he would listen? Even if he did, the only one who could prove the truth of our accusations was Nikos, and I silenced him forever." My voice became mocking. "I killed Nikos, yet his master and protector-the very same whose commands Nikos obeyed and for whom he died-shed not a tear. It seems our Holy Emperor was only too happy to heap all the blame for the hardship and havoc his schemes have wreaked onto Nikos's bloodied head. The deaths of monks and Danes and Arabs, the murder of the eparch and the governor, and who knows how many of his own subjects-all this will now be buried with Nikos and his name.
"Oh, it was a very great service I performed for the emperor. And out of his considerable gratitude, the Wise Basileus has allowed me to keep my life."
The others stared at me, stunned.
"There can be no justice here," I concluded, grim with the hopelessness of it. "Basil was never the rightful emperor; Leo, as Michael's bastard, has a valid claim to the throne, but he, like the man who raised him, is a schemer and murderer."
The water trickling in the fountain grew loud in the silence that followed. I saw that the moon had risen and poured soft light into the many-shadowed courtyard.
"I know now what Nikos meant," Brynach said, "when he called Basil usurper." Looking at me, he asked, "What did he mean when he called you a fallen priest?"
I made no reply.
"Aidan," he said gently, "are you still one of us?"
I could not bear the hurt and sadness in their eyes any more, so I looked away when I answered. "No," I said softly. "I ceased being a priest long ago."
After a moment, Brynach said, "No one is ever far from the reach of God's swift sure hand. I will pray for you, brother."
"If you like," I replied. Brynach accepted this and did not press me further. A wave of laughter from the banqueting room washed across the courtyard just then. "You should go and enjoy the feast," I told them. "Rejoice with those who rejoice."
"Will you be joining us, Dana?" asked Dugal.
"Perhaps," I allowed. "In a little while."
They departed, leaving me to myself once more. It was only after they had gone, that I became aware of Kazimain, standing across the courtyard in the shadow of a column. She was watching me, waiting. I rose at once, but before I could go to her, she strode towards me purposefully, her jaw set, her lips firm. I had seen the look before.
"You were speaking to your kinsmen," she said, lifting her veil. "I did not wish to intrude." Glancing down, she folded her hands before her as she ordered the words she had prepared.
"You are never an intrusion, my love," I said lightly.
"Aidan, please, it is hard for me to say this." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice had taken on a determined tone. "I shall not marry you," she said simply.
"What?"
"We will not be married, Aidan."
"Why?" I said, astonished by the abruptness of her announcement. She lowered her eyes to her folded hands. "Why are you saying this, Kazimain? Nothing has changed between us."
She shook her head slowly. "No, my love, you have changed."
Unable to answer, I merely stared at her, a cold familiar numbness spreading outward from my heart.
She raised her head and looked at me, her dark eyes grave and serious. "I am sorry, Aidan."
"Kazimain, tell me, how have I changed?"
"Need you ask?"
"I do ask," I insisted, though in my heart I knew she was right. Without knowing precisely why, I felt like a thief caught in the act of robbery, or a liar discovered in his falsehood.
"I have observed you these last many days. It is clear to me that you are no longer a man of faith."
"I am no longer a Christian, it is true," I told her, "so the difference in our beliefs need not pose any difficulty to our marriage. I love you, Kazimain."
"But it is not love we are talking about," she said gently, "it is belief. I see that you are no longer a Christian, not because you renounced your faith in the Christ, but because you have abandoned God. Having forsaken God, you no longer believe in anything. Aidan, it is forbidden for a woman of Islam to marry an infidel. To do so is death."
There was nothing but pity in her eyes as she said this; nevertheless, I felt the last small square of solid ground crumbling away beneath my feet. "But in Samarra-"
"In Samarra it was different," she said sharply; "you were different. I knew you were disappointed, but when I saw you in the mosq I thought you were a man who yet put his trust in God. I know now that you believe in nothing higher than yourself." Lowering her head, she added, half to herself, "I hoped for what cannot be."
"Kazimain, please," I said, clinging desperately to the last remaining certainty I possessed. Though it cut me deep, there was no disputing what she said. I had enough honesty left in my heart to recognize the truth when I heard it.
"We are betrothed no more."
I cannot say the strength of her resolve surprised me. She was, after all, the same Sarazen princess who had defied her uncle and risked all to follow us into the desert alone. She had shown herself steadfast in every way, and she demanded no less from the man who would share her life. Sure, a blind man could have seen I was not her equal. Once, perhaps, but no longer.
"If only we could have stayed in Samarra," I said, accepting the finality of her declaration at last. "I would have married you, Kazimain. We would have been happy there."
This touched her, I think, for her manner softened towards me, and she stretched a hand to my face. "I would have followed you to the end of the earth," she whispered. Then, as if this admission would recoil upon her, she pulled away, straightened, and added, "Even so, it is finished between us."
Gathering her robes about her, she lowered the veil once more. "I will pray God grants you peace, Aidan."
I watched her move away, slender and regal, her head high. She turned as she reached the colonnade and, looking back, called, "Farewell, my love." Stepping into the shadows, she disappeared, leaving only the faint, lingering scent of oranges and sandalwood in the air.
Farewell, Kazimain. I have loved you, and love you still. No other woman will ever own my heart; it is forever yours.
I stayed alone in the courtyard for a long time, listening to the sounds of the celebration, and marking the slow progression of the stars overhead. In the end, I did not join the revelry, but remained in the courtyard all night, wretched and alone.
Never had I felt so rejected and forsaken. I wept that night for the loss of my faith, no less than for the loss of my love. The last frail cord that bound me to the world and to myself had been severed, and I was now a soul wholly adrift.