What is more, I was confident that I now possessed all the scattered fragments of the mosaic and that I had assembled them aright. The resulting picture may not have been pleasant; but it was true.
It seems that while making one of his periodic visits to the southern region, word had reached Exarch Honorius of a rumour that the emperor was to be killed by someone close to the throne. Upon further investigation, he had learned that the conspiracy originated in a city called Tephrike, and was thought to be the work of an Armenian named Chrysocheirus. Though I knew neither the city nor the man, I knew the word the governor used to describe them: Paulician.
Upon reading this, I recalled Bishop Arius telling me that after their expulsion from Constantinople, the Paulicians had fled east where their continual raiding, as much as their alliance with the Arabs, had eventually roused the anger of the emperor, who had ordered reprisals against the cult. The emperor was Basil, of course, and from Honorius's description, I gathered that Tephrike was the central stronghold of the Paulicians, and Chrysocheirus had been their leader; he was, like many of the sect's members, of Armenian descent. He was also kinsman to a courtier well placed in the imperial palace-an ambitious young man named Nikos.
Thus, the mystery had at last come clear. In order to maintain hostilities between the Sarazens and the empire, from which the cult benefited, the peace initiative had to be stopped; and for his part in the persecution, the emperor had been marked for death.
My brother monks simply had the great misfortune of wandering into Nikos's elaborate snare. Their unwitting desire to see Honorius had brought them to Nikos' attention, and they had been eliminated. In much the same way, the eparch had been dealt with as well. When Honorius discovered the plot, he was taken prisoner; and, when his usefulness came to an end, he was killed. So far as Nikos knew, no one remained alive to confront him with his crimes.
Oh, but he had not reckoned on the resilience of the Irish spirit, the determined strength of barbarians, nor the tenacity and resourcefulness of Arab resolve.
True, I had no special concern for the emperor; I confess it freely. My sympathies were entirely otherwise. The poor and powerless-like the blessed Bishop Cadoc, and all those women and children killed in the ambush-claimed my small store of compassion. The emperor had his bodyguard of Farghanese mercenaries; he had his ships and his soldiers and his fortresses. But it was the weak and innocent who always suffered in the clash, and who protected them?
God alone, it seemed; and time and again, he proved himself a highly unreliable defender. If anything were to be done to help those in harm's way this time, it would be myself, not God, who shouldered the burden.
Still, all my efforts would be worth less than nothing if Nikos's plot succeeded. I had long ago vowed that if I ever got free, I would see Nikos's head nailed to the Magnaura Gate and his corpse trampled in the Hippodrome. Driven by my singular desire for revenge-rekindled to a fine and handsome blaze by Honorius's letter-my thoughts flew towards Trebizond and Harald's waiting ships. How I ached to be in Byzantium with my hands around Nikos's throat.
Faysal finished reading and lowered the parchment, his face grim in the flickering torchlight. "The conspiracy against the emperor must not be allowed to succeed," he intoned softly. "For the sake of the peace treaty, we must expose it. The amir would not be pleased if we allowed anything to stand in our way."
"My thoughts exactly," I replied. "Then we agree-it is on to Byzantium as quickly as possible."
Alas, so many of our number were afoot we could not move with anything near the speed I desired. Indeed, I seriously considered going on ahead myself, perhaps taking a few men for protection, but we would need every available man to help crew the ships and I would gain nothing if, arriving in Trebizond, we were unable to sail at once.
Thus, I had no better alternative than to proceed as best and as fast as circumstances allowed-ever mindful of the amir's infirmity. Sebastea lay some small distance behind us when we stopped to rest that first day, taking shelter from the hammering sun in an olive grove beside the road. While the rafiq and Danes drew water from the well that supplied the grove, Kazimain and Ddewi tended Lord Sadiq, and Brynach, Dugal, and myself sat down to talk.
"It appears," Brynach began as soon as we were settled, "that we have embarked on a mission of some urgency." His gaze was direct and his manner straightforward, as if addressing an equal. "Are we to know its aim?"
