A Burning Sea Theodore Brun (ebook reader that looks like a book .txt) 📖

‘At full strength.’

‘Well then – there’s the answer.’

But Alexios was dismissive. ‘They can’t be trusted. They never could.’ On that point, he was adamant. Even so, he reluctantly agreed to bring Erlan’s post duty forward by a few days so that he could attend the emperor that night.

‘You won’t persuade him. That’s if he’ll speak to you at all. Just keep my name well out of it.’

It so happened that Alexios was wrong; Erlan found the emperor in a talkative mood. He was ensconced in his private solar – his work chamber set high on the western gallery of the Daphne wing of the palace – buried under a fur and digging his way through a pile of parchments on his desk, a half-empty wine-pitcher by his hand. By the time Erlan relieved the previous guard, the pale winter sun was close to setting, casting long, spectral shadows through the pillars of the Hippodrome to the west.

‘Ah, Northman,’ he said, swiping his glass from the desktop and leaning back in his chair. ‘Or Erlan, I should say. You have a name, after all.’

‘Your Majesty.’

‘And quite a name now, after your heroics in the breach. Well, potential breach,’ he corrected himself.

‘I’m only glad the crisis passed, Majesty.’

‘Yes, for now. Although one crisis succeeds another soon enough.’ He gestured at the parchments scattered across the table. ‘Drink?’

‘I’m on duty, sire.’

‘I won’t report you,’ he chuckled and rose to retrieve another glass. ‘Come, remove your sword. Make yourself comfortable. I need a rest from all this.’ Hesitantly Erlan unbuckled his sword and leaned it against a pillar, accepting the tall glass of wine the emperor offered, but he stopped short of taking a seat. ‘Life was considerably simpler when I was a soldier,’ mused Leo. ‘It wasn’t that long ago. But it seems like a lifetime.’

Erlan knew that Leo the Isaurian had worn the purple for not even a year. And what a year. . . ‘They say you rose through the ranks.’

‘Every rung,’ nodded Leo. ‘There’s always another to climb.’

‘Until now.’

Leo shot Erlan a glance, then smiled. ‘Indeed.’ He took another sip. ‘I cut my teeth in the east. Well, I learned my trade there anyhow. The Emperor Justinian sent me to Alania in northern Persia, I think mostly to get rid of me. But he did me a service. I learned strategy, and combat of course – but more importantly I learned diplomacy. How to weave and dissemble. The art of empire is not in strength but cunning.’

‘The Arabs have strength.’

‘Certainly. But are they a match for the other? I flatter myself that Maslama is not.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

Leo gave a hesitant grunt, his eyes narrowed, perhaps considering whether to continue. ‘I’ve met the man. Face to face. A meeting he must regret now.’ He chuckled at some memory. ‘It’s thanks to him I now sit upon the throne.’

‘How so?’

‘Simple. We cut a deal. I commanded the most powerful army the empire possessed – which wasn’t saying much against the might of the Arab host. But I had sway within the empire at least. The emperor then was a dithering old sheep, put in the purple for the worst of reasons by men ambitious for their own good. I did what I had learned best. I lied. But for the good of the empire. I made a deal with Maslama, and persuaded him to let me have a moment of glory, to be hailed as the new defender of the empire’s lands, and he drew back. In return, I convinced him I would rule for him. For his master. They merely had to come and collect on the debt. He was deceived.’

‘And now he knows.’

‘One imagines. But many things can blind a man to the truth.’ A sudden passion filled his steady gaze. His fist fell hard upon the table. ‘Someone had to take control, damn it! The empire was on its knees! . . . Is on its knees.’ His temper cooled as quickly as it had flared. ‘But now, at least, we may get up. One day.’

‘The city is that strong?’

‘I believe so. But who can predict the hand of history? The Arab is a formidable enemy. The Muslim. . .’ he murmured, trailing to silence.

‘You mean their numbers?’

‘No.’ He turned, frowning, as if it should be obvious. ‘They have no fear,’ he said in a whisper. ‘For them – well, for the best of them – to die in the cause of their god is the highest honour. Not only honour in this life. They die fighting for the promise of extreme reward in the next.’

‘What kind of reward?’

‘Gardens of pleasure, splendid banquets, gold ornaments, silken garments, unending quantities of wine, voluptuous virgins to do their every bidding. . .’ He smiled.

‘Valhöll,’ murmured Erlan, half to himself.

‘What is that?’

‘It is the place of reward for my own people.’ He stared into the empty air, remembering the north. ‘A mighty hall for the chosen who die in battle. Its gates are guarded by wolves. Eagles fly above it. The heroes feast on the boar, Saehrimnir, who comes back to life every time he is butchered. They drink mead from the goat Heiðrunn, whose udders never run dry. The Valkyries – the All-Father’s beautiful maidens – serve them whatever they desire. And all the while the einherjar, the heroes, await the final battle. . .’

For a few moments, Leo said nothing, a subtle smile settled on his lips. ‘A beautiful dream for a warrior.’ He raised his cup to the setting sun where Maslama’s encampment lay. ‘Especially one freezing to death in a foreign land.’ He suddenly leaned forward in a flush of enthusiasm. ‘But can you see – if a man believes this, really believes. . .’ He squeezed his fist before his face. ‘What will he not do? What can he not achieve?’

Erlan nodded at Leo. ‘And what do you Christians believe? You speak of a life beyond this one.’

‘We do,’ Leo admitted, turning