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

PART THREE

B

LOOD

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The first snows fell in the tenth month. And the snow continued to fall.

It was the talk of every square, every atrium, every bathhouse, from the lowest taverns to the loftiest mansions: snow that snapped at the toes, that clogged the gutters, that piled up in mountains of filthy slush along the Mese, that bowed the cedar branches in the imperial gardens. The city had never seen such a thing.

‘It is the Lord’s doing,’ the citizens said.

What else could it be? The thing was clear. The city was God-favoured. He had spared it from disaster and now He was making His enemies suffer.

Whenever a merchant stamped his feet and cursed the cold, or a tavern-keeper’s wife complained at the draughty tiles on her roof, it was answered with the same knowing chuckle. ‘Aye – but it’s worse for them.’

Even in the palace, where the hearth fires had burned without respite for more than fifty days now, the furs on the imperial couch and the heavy silk curtains could not keep out the seeping cold. A harsh winter, bitter as death.

And yet, thought Emperor Leo, third of his name, it’s worse for them. It was hard not to see the work of some unseen hand in all this, although Leo was not a man who would lightly attribute some trifling good fortune to Divine intervention. But when the news came in the autumn that his rival, the Caliph Sulayman, had died suddenly. . . even Leo had to admit that something greater than all of them was moving in his favour.

Yet still, he must be certain. The fate of the city remained in the balance.

‘They say the Arabs are eating their own horses.’ Arbasdos smiled lazily through the steam rising off his hot cinnamon-spiced wine.

‘They’ll say worse than that before this winter is done,’ returned Leo.

‘It’ll be thanks to you if they do.’

‘Maybe. Or to Maslama’s credulity. Poor fool.’ Leo took an impatient pull on his wine. ‘Still, I can hardly believe it. He can’t be that stupid, can he? We can’t be that lucky.’

‘Why not? You play the game well.’

‘And yet I don’t know my next move.’ Leo rose from his couch in frustration, feeling restless.

‘Wait till you do, then,’ said his friend in a languid voice. ‘And meanwhile have another drink.’ Arbasdos refilled Leo’s cup.

‘I’ve never waited. I act.’

Arbasdos chuckled and raised his cup to his emperor. ‘And there’s the difference between a strategos and a basíleus, my friend.’

‘What would you do?’

‘I just told you—’

‘No. I mean if you were him.’

His old ally sighed. ‘Supplies are low. Morale is low. My lord and brother just died. The winter’s hard.’ He gave a shrug. ‘Go home, perhaps.’

‘And lose face for ever? No. He won’t do that. Not yet. Maybe that’s why he still treats with me. He longs to believe there’s a chance I could still offer him what he wants.’

‘Like any whore promised marriage,’ Arbasdos sniggered. ‘One day. . .’

‘Hmm.’ Leo moved to the window and gazed out over the grey waters of the Bosporus, almost hidden by the flurrying snow. ‘Do you believe that the Virgin watches over this city?’

‘What? Has that old vulture Germanus been getting to you again? Taking credit for the Arabs’ failure to break through.’

Leo snorted. He didn’t need the patriarch to put the question in his mind; it lurked there of its own accord, haunting his thoughts. ‘Maslama must be planning something. He must. He can’t just sit there and let his army rot away until spring comes.’

‘They say the Bulgars have been raiding his lines from the north.’ Arbasdos chuckled. ‘Perhaps Khan Tervel’s men will do the job for us. I heard the only thing an Arab fears more than winter is a Bulgar night-raid.’

‘The Bulgars are wild. And cannot be trusted.’ Leo suddenly spun around. ‘I want you to find out what Maslama intends.’

‘Me?’

‘In the east, you had a spy who served us well. Do you have her with you here, in the city?’

Arbasdos’s face clouded for a second. ‘I think I could find her—’

‘Good. Make a plan. See it accomplished. No delay.’

When a player could not see his opponent’s next move, there was only one thing to do.

Cheat.

‘Your wounds heal fast.’ Lilla’s finger traced the weal of pink flesh across Erlan’s thigh, her touch light as gossamer.

‘I have a good healer.’ He smiled, catching her wrist just before her fingertip could tease him in earnest. He pulled her hand to his face and kissed her palm.

She closed her fingers on the invisible trace of his lips. ‘You’re lucky. Men fight with steel. They bleed. They die or else they live. The Norns decide. The wounds of the heart don’t heal so easily.’

‘You think I carry none of those?’

‘I know you do.’ Lilla pulled herself up the bed and rolled onto her back next to him. ‘Although you tell me nothing of them.’

‘Why should I burden you with them? Aren’t they mine to bear?’

‘Why, indeed?’ she said with a scoff, turning away from him.

‘Hey.’ He caught her shoulder. ‘You’re safe here. We’re both safe. We have each other.’

‘Aye, we’re safe. For now. But what are we doing here, Erlan? And how long must we be here, trapped like salmon in a flood-pool?’

‘The siege could be months more. Years even. We have to be patient.’

‘I don’t want to be patient,’ she snapped. ‘Every day we are here is another day that Thrand drives his claws deeper into my father’s kingdom. He’s a traitor. . . A monster,’ she murmured in an afterthought.

Erlan’s eyes narrowed, watching the lines around her mouth crease. These were new. They lent her face a hardness not there before. ‘What did he do to you?’

Her eyes snapped up at his. ‘It’s not what he did. It’s what he will do. He’s going to run the land to ruin.’

‘So let him,’ said Erlan. ‘Is it so bad to stay here? What if we made a home here? The emperor plainly