"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.
75
When the Logothete of the Treasury arrived at midday the next day, he found a somewhat groggy King Harald surrounded by a ragged band of bleary barbarians, the splintered remains of six wine casks, and an assortment of scattered bones and broken dishes. Upon presentation of the imperial official, the jarl revived wonderfully well and, after graciously offering the logothete a haunch of congealed pork-which the courtier declined with equal grace-the two sat down to reckon accounts.
Naturally, I was required to sit with them so as to translate for Harald. As on similar occasions, I was very soon moved to a kind of awe at the wily Dane's ability to exploit the latent opportunities of any situation. Armed with a modest array of weapons, he nevertheless used them with impressive skilclass="underline" now wheedling, now cajoling, then pouting, coaxing, or demanding; he could shout, shaking the rooftrees with anger, yet never lose his temper; he could cozen with a convincing display of good-natured ignorance one moment, and the next perform the most intricate calculations with bewildering speed and accuracy.