A Burning Sea by Theodore Brun (i am reading a book txt) 📕

village hunted him deep into the forest where he was forced to accept protection from a band of worthless men. It was mere days before they betrayed him too, selling him to one of the Bulgar clan chiefs.

Katāros glided down the staircase towards the Boukoleon Harbour, shielding his eyes from the sun, recalling the chain of humiliating transactions that had followed. He was sold down the river lands to the port of Varna and from there slung in the hold of a ship and didn’t see the light of day again till he was dragged onto the block in Byzantium. The Queen of Cities.

Aye, he thought in disgust, if the queen were a pox addled whore. Everywhere, he saw this fetish for a figure they called the Mother of God, and with her the Christ, and above him one God. The One True God, they claimed. Although they knew nothing of the dark powers he had seen.

Of course, at first he had been taken in like every other newcomer, awed by the city’s scale, delighted by its confusion, thrilled by its beauty. But he was to have a new master now. One who had coin enough to buy up all the best-looking boys in the market. He hoped, maybe, to be trained in the arts of war. He felt strength growing in his youthful body, his muscles winding tighter like bowstrings, ready to release him into manhood and, if fate was kind, better things. Instead, that which made him a man was taken from him, root and branch. The thought of it burned his heart now as hotly as the wound had burned his body then. He was transformed into a thing, a sexless thing.

Both. And neither.

All so that he could be sold for still greater profit into the court of the Emperor Justinian, second of his name. The Slit-Nosed. He was put to learning and learn he did, quicker than the other boys, quicker even than the other men – or eunuchs, as he learned to call them. He learned to speak many tongues; he learned to read, to dress, to serve. He learned the protocols of court; he learned the laws of empire; he learned to see people, to read them, to know their thoughts before they formed them. He learned to hide in plain sight. He learned to shine.

Emperors had come and gone as revolt succeeded revolt. But he remained at court, a constant. And all that while, he had never forgiven the city that had meted out his final humiliation. Had never forgiven its people, nor its god. The priests told him that God the Father loved him, that God had ordered every moment of his life, and somehow God meant it all for good. A sick joke. The priests spoke often of the Father’s love, and every time he heard the seiðman’s laughter ringing in his ears and felt his cold breath prickle the back of his neck. The Father didn’t love him. If this life was the Father’s gift then He could have it back. God had tried to crush him. But he would not be crushed. Instead he had waited, watching the empire thrash in its noose, watched as the Arab tide rose ever higher until the city stood in isolation, like a rock in a roiling sea. And as their armies drew closer, his path became more certain. God could not defeat him. It was God who would be defeated. And this city, His precious jewel, that would be destroyed.

Now, at last, the day had come. Now – this very moment! He spilled out of the shadows under the archway of the Boukoleon Harbour into the sunlight. Below him on the quayside, preparing to embark, was the envoy. Katāros slowed his pace, calmed his breathing, stilled his racing heart beneath his spotless white robes, and smiled. He had not been too late after all.

‘My lord,’ he called. The envoy turned and looked back up the steps. ‘A word with you.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The darkness was almost a friend now. Its comfort cold perhaps, but at least familiar.

The funny thing was, Erlan didn’t think much about the men who had put him there. About the slaver’s betrayal, or the steward’s insouciance, or the general’s retribution. He didn’t think about the mysterious Lucia, or Aska, or Kai, or even Lilla. Why sully her memory with this stinking hole?

He thought of home, the home he had foresworn – forbidden himself even to think of. Yet here, in this place of silent darkness, he allowed himself this morsel of memory – like a drunkard licking up a drop of wine. Jutland. He imagined the marram grass bending in the wind off the Juten Belt, the curved dunes sweeping down to the frothy grey breakers. He thought of the nutwood above the hall-stead, the furrowed strip-fields, frosty and mist-wreathed on an autumn morning, martins swooping under the eaves of the dark hall of Vendlagard. Old Hadding’s coarse laughter, Tolla’s chiding words which really meant, ‘I love you.’

Home. . .

His father—

His mind recoiled then as if from a jagged edge. No. All of it was shattered, for ever. By her. By him. He could never forgive them. Never forgive himself. Didn’t he deserve this foul fate he had fallen into? Hadn’t he brought it on himself? Softly, he knocked his head against the stone wall, ignoring the slime sticking to his hair. Knocked so he would clear away all thoughts of home. Of that place.

I am Hakan. I am the chosen son, a voice said.

No. Hakan is dead, answered another.

I am dead, he thought. Only Erlan lives.

It was simple. He must drink the blood of the king of kings. And so. . . the king of kings must die.

This time, Lilla chose her own clothing. Layers of lightweight silk, a sky-blue stola under a cream palla, which fell more naturally over her figure, and left her room to breathe. Her arms were bare, but for two