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Sinric comes into the sheltered courtyard, seeking somewhere to sit and think a while. It has been a strange few days. He meant to come quietly into to city, make a place for himself at one of the taverns singing for his supper and board.

But drawn in by the intellectual debate of the young men and the flourishing palace school, he’s caught out by his old tutor who recognises him - Alcuin, the new emperor’s favourite.

And now he finds himself lodging at the palace school, the centre of attention he never wanted here.

But the courtyard is cool and quiet and he sits down, letting himself have a moment to rest. Not noticing the young boy at first.

It seemed almost inevitable that Sinric should find himself walking the road to Paris. It was not the capital of the growing Carolingian Empire. That was Aachen, home to Charles the Great. The man who had, with the Pope’s blessing, supplanted the grandson of Sinric’s beloved Constantine as Imperator Romanorum Emperor of the Romans. But Paris was a shining light, it’s white stone walls a beacon of an empire born from the ruins of Rome.

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{From here]

Sinric takes Hannibal's hand and pulls him into the shadows of an alleyway, drawing him into a kiss. The heels give him an advantage he doesn't usually have.

The first thing I noticed about the young man we came to call Kokila were his clothes. Not his sun-gold hair or his unreadable eyes, but his clothes.

There was nothing unusual about them. They were the clothes of any city dweller of Kollam; simple and without much ornamentation. But too clean, too new. Too ordinary. Even his sandals were so new the straps still held their stiffness, leaving red marks where they chaffed his slender ankles.

They were workman’s clothes. And this delicate creature was no workman. Nor a native of Kollam. Not with hair and skin so pale.

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There is a story, a legend of sorts, for the Nara period, in the time of Ten'ō. The legend tells of a pale Spirit who came to the Island of Sun's Origin with an Envoy from Tang. A Spirit spun from gold and pearl, and blessed with great magics. In some versions of the tale, the Spirit is ryousei both man and woman; while others say the Spirit was seibetsu no nai unsexed. But every story holds one truth above all things – that the Spirit was beautiful. Beyond all telling of poetry and art.

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At court they called him Jīnsè de yǐngzi - the ambassador’s Golden Shadow. For once Sinric had recovered from his ordeal, he and Yan were rarely seen one without the other.

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The trade boats joined the caravans at Tyre, unloading their cargos of oil and wine, silver and gold from Rome and Greece alongside great barrels of salt beef and water and all the other necessities of the long voyage.

But the strangest cargo of all, as the traders and caravaners went to and fro packing and loading, was a young woman, given over to the foreman’s charge.

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The journey by sea from Thessaloniki to Tyre had not been a pleasant one for Sinric. After bringing him around, the Captain – a laconic, hard faced Arab in Niketas’s pay -- ordered Sinric to stay below and out of sight. The little cabin was cosy enough and food was brought to him regularly by a dark haired boy. A boy who, curious as a cat, had been cuffed by the captain for asking too many questions on the first day.

But Sinric had been sick for the entire voyage. Sick of body and heart.

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Sinric looked up from his work as Constantine came into the tent, setting aside the clothes he was mending. “My master.” He dipped a deep bow.

“My darling boy.” Constantine sighed tiredly. The strategy council had gone on late into the night, one of the few meetings Sinric was not permitted to attend even as Constantine’s cup-bearer. “You didn’t have to stay up for me. You must be tired.” Constantine cupped the blonde youth’s cheek and drew him into a kiss.

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Dawn found Sinric on the roof of the palace, eyes closed as the rising sun warmed his face. August had been pleasantly mild, the summer cooling into crisp evenings and the whispered the promise of a chilly autumn.

It had been a wonderful night. ( Read more... )

A day of cathartic tears washed Sinric’s heavy heart, if not clean, then certainly well rinsed. He came back to himself with the rising moon and began to prepare.

What was done was done. He could not take back his mistake, nor recompense the lady for his transgression. But he could vow that it would never happen again, and if she allowed; work to earn her forgiveness. If the good doctor had known of the lady’s edict, then he too must answer to her, as he surely was under the little cage of her revenge.

The night had that chill that threatened more than warmed and Sinric stretched as he looked around. A fire would be a wise addition to his surroundings. The heavily wooded mountain was generous with fallen branches and rotting timber that could be used to catch a spark, and the all but full moon gave him light enough to gather it by.

Mindful of Ragnar’s lessons, he cleared himself a pit and lined it with stones, striking a spark off the steel, just as he had been shown. It took him three or four tries to breathe life enough into those tiny spots of red and coax them into flame. But persistent, he nurtured a fire into being.

He had intended to forage along the mountain trail or fish in one of the streams that trickled down to join the lake but the tears and remonstrations had cost him the day. He had only that which he carried to satisfy the delayed hunger of two days.

It was enough – some bread of the hard kind favoured by travellers, some cheese, meat smoked and dried in a way Ragnar had promised to teach him, a little dried fruit. It would not make a lavish meal but it would do. Tomorrow he could begin to forage in earnest.

But then, he had lost much time and should be turning back towards the bar before dusk. Perhaps he would forage on his way, bring back his spoils to cook on the beach and share with his friends.

It was thoughts of Ragnar and Athelstan at his side, their bellies full and their embraces warm helped him to find an easy sleep. Even if it was nothing but a happy dream for now to have them both with him at once.

The next day dawned bright. The winter’s sun was, if not warm, at least welcoming and Sinric covered the fire and gathered his things. The dawn brought with it hope as the light caught a stand of berries, late and shrivel by the cold but tart and wonderful to taste. The valley they grew into flattened out into a small but deep pool, the sort that fish might be found in. Sinric lost track of time in the strangely mediative act of threading and casting his fine but strong flax line into water.

By the time he had a handsome sized fish, the sun was dipping low in the sky. Cold as the water was, Sinric felt compelled to wash. With no-one there to see, he stripped down, setting boots and clothes on a rock safely high of the water. He stepped in slowly, letting each part of him prickle with cold and grow use to it before moving deeper.

It was refreshing, invigorating both to body and soul, as he much hoped baptism should be. Although as he stepped naked onto the rocks, squeezing the water from his hair, he felt more like some pagan deity than the Christian his world expected him to be.

Sinric was due back the next day but he found he was in no hurry, enjoying the taste of his first caught meal, roasting the fish over the fire stuffed with the little berries that tasted so right with it. He even drew the little leather flask of wine he carried, sipping it with the warm happiness of a simple thing done well.

But the moon had not yet risen when the tops of the trees started to sway, leaves blown down to mingle with the sparks of Sinric’s fire as he dozed. Forewarning worse as clouds crowded across the sky.

The storm came on fast, the rain coming down in a sudden torrent in perfect harmony with the first clap of thunder. Sinric scrabbled for his pack and things, fighting to pull on boots and cloak as the wind whipped around him. He had been so relaxed, so careless with pride that nothing was in good order and he had slung no shelter between the trees. With the sky dark, there was little he could do to fetch back anything that wasn’t to hand.

By then the stream which fed the pool was flowing swiftly and filling faster than the pool could drain. Its banks expanded and the path by which Sinric had come was already awash. He shouldered his pack and with uncertain steps, headed for higher ground.

There had been cave, he remembered that much. In the rocky areas higher up. If he could reach them, he could take shelter till morning but the going was slippery with rain and mud and more than once he fell into the wet undergrowth.

At last he made it back to the rocky outcrop when the stones formed deep caves. As he came to the mouth of one, he became aware of a terrible, rotting scent and a strange heat from the rock.

A moment later, a gout of flame from the cave’s entrance sent him tumbling back, grazing cheek and hand and temporarily blinding him. The snarls of the demon-rabbits sent Sinric running blinding into the sodden night.

How he found the little niche, too small to be called a cave, he did not remember. His pack was gone, his sturdy trousers torn and no part of him left dry. Huddled there against the tempest and irrecoverably lost, he closed his eyes and wished he could prayer.

Sinric hiked for the first day, taking a lesser path away from the road and into the deepest areas of the woods. He moved upwards and away from the lights of the bar.

He had intended to stop at sunset and to set himself a camp but the moon rose early and gave him light enough to go on. Besides, it felt good to walk, to breathe clean cool air. In good boots and with moonlight enough travel on foot was not a hardship. And the exercise helped to put his most troubling thoughts from his mind.

As the moon set, Sinric grew weary and settled himself down to rest, wrapped in the heavy cloak of fur and resting his head on the pack. He had planned to fix himself a meal but he felt no hunger so drank a little from his water skin and slept.

He woke before dawn out of old habit but found his view of the lightening eastern horizon too blocked by trees. Hefting the pack, which seemed heavier than the night before, he made for the higher ground, the better to watch the rising sun.

On a rocky outcrop, his back to a great boulder, Sinric watched the sky turn from grey to pink, to yellow and slowly to blue. Unbidden tears slide down his cheeks, leaving warm tracks over his skin.

The lady’s fury had been righteous but it had been right also. Sinric ached to his heart for what he had unwittingly done to her. But what troubled him worse was the fear that the good doctor had done it knowingly. That she had spoken truth when she said she had forbidden him but he had done so anyway, Sinric found hard to doubt. Perhaps the good doctor had misunderstood, or forgiven; although neither seemed likely.

So surely the blame but lie on Sinric. From that first embrace, Sinric knew Hannibal had desired him, that his usurped form ached with want. Such overt passions from the usually taciturn doctor were heady and flattering, and Sinric never thought twice about fanning that smouldering desire into flame.

And their passion had been a rare thing, an experience for both of them. Not one Sinric would have sought had it not been Hannibal behind that smile, those moans. Sinric’s pride and eagerness to please had driven him to draw out those moans.

And never once had he given thought to the lady whose usurped form he held. Just as a master might give no thought to the pleasure of the slave, or the buyer to the whore.

Had he fallen so far from himself that it was what he had become?

The tears fell thicker and faster as Sinric let his fears and insecurities overtake him.

He curled in on himself, the heavy cloak wrapped around him like a cocoon. He cried himself into a stupor and lay there till the sun rose past the zenith and began to set, barely feeling the biting cold of the coming night settle on him.

{after this and left here.}

To Athelstan and Ragnar,

Forgive me, beloveds. A thing had happened that had given me the great need time alone to think. You need not trouble yourself; it is not a shadow that falls on you, but stands between myself and another.

I have taken food and provisions, and look forward to testing the lessons you have taught me.

I will return in three days, before the moon is full.

Forgive that I went without speaking to you but my heart is heavy and I don’t yet have the words to explain what is in my heart in this matter. Know that I love you both with all my heart and will see you soon.

The Lark, to your Raven and Dove.

{after this and left here.}

Hannibal,

I spoke to the lady on your behalf regarding the key to your predicament but I fear, could not procure it. She spoke to me in great distress that what we shared was against her will and without her permission.

I fear in this we have done her a great wrong. And as one who knows what it is not to own one’s own body, I am wounded to the heart by it.

I have gone into the mountains to think and to test myself for the travels to come. I will return in three days. I hope then, we may talk.

Sinric.

Sinric danced as long as and as prettily as the energy drink would allow him, trying to laugh and smile with a joy he didn’t feel. Feeling himself tire, he fell artfully across the cushions at Constantine’s feet.

The Emperor, in deep conversation with the one of the ambassador’s clerks, reached down to pull Sinric up into his lap, resting boy’s golden head against his shoulder. The clerk, an educated man far more interesting than the ambassador himself seemed to ignore the little eunuch, continuing to argue the point of theology they had been debating. Few people dared to argue such things with Constantine whose stance on iconoclasm was well known and at odds with the princes of the church.

Sinric could see flaws in the man’s arguments but didn’t speak up, just rested in his lover’s arms, being fed little bites of fruit from the Emperor’s fingers. The days of sadness and the evening of keeping the mask up had exhausted him.

“I fear my lord, we are boring your-” The man cut himself off, unsure how to refer to the boy.

Constantine chuckled and stroked Sinric’s long hair. “Are we boring you, my lovely boy? You’re not usually one to keep silent in a conversation like this. My Aureus is well read and well spoken. Most of my Birds are.” It was a brag and an affectionate one.

“Forgive me, my lord.” Sinric yawned. “The Frankish wine was rather stronger than I expected.” It didn’t hurt to stroke the Frankish ego a little.

Constantine kissed the top of his head. “Sweet boy. Luka is all but asleep already too.” He nodded across the room where the youngest of the Birds was dozing in a corner with the Princess Anthousa. “Take him to his bed then wait for me in my chambers.” He smiled indulgently. “You need not stay awake. I will come, by and by.” He bent to capture Sinric is a slow, deep kiss.

Castor fell in at Sinric’s side as Sinric lifted Luka and carried him to the golden cage. “You seem off kilter. Is anything wrong?” He bent to take the sleeping boy from Sinric’s arms. “I’ve never seen you become so quiet and tired so fast.”

“The wine was strong.” Sinric explained, attempting to shrug off the guard’s observations. “And the last draft was too bitter.”

“And yet, you’re not drunk now.” Castor’s too sharp comment comes back.

Sinric shook his head and turned back Luka’s cote, taking the boy from Castor. “No, now I am ill. I hope our lord is in no great hurry to have me. I think I may need to empty my stomach before I will be of any use to him.”

Castor gave him a long piecing look. “Shall I have the physician come to you?”

“I’m fine.” He promised, stripping the boy’s clothes and helping him into his night clothes. With Luka comfortably tucked in, Sinric took the time to change himself, shedding the collar of stars for a flowing robe of yellow silk.

Castor fell in at his side again, acting as Sinric’s shadow. “Aureus, you can confide in me, you know?” He said gently, his hand on the youth’s shoulder as they entered the Emperor’s chambers. “You can trust me.”

Sinric turned to look up at him, forcing a smile. “I know. And I want to, very much. There is much I long to tell someone, someone who will not think me mad.” He lowered his eyes. “But now is not time. I hope you will forgive me.”

Castor cupped Sinric’s shoulders lightly. “When you’re ready, Aureus. I will listen.” He turned to leave but Sinric stopped him, a hand on his arm.

“Sinric.” He whispered softly. “Aureus is my court name, the name my lord chooses to give me. The name I was bought with was Sinric. That’s my real name.”

Castor stilled, looking down at the delicate youth. “Sinric.” He whispered softly. “I’m very glad to know you.” He gently touched Sinric’s cheek and turned to guard the door.

Sinric was swift in cleansing himself, making good use of Emperor’s hot bath and the little tube of toothpaste he had stashed in the sleeve of his robe. He dried his hair and stretches out on the bed, meaning to stay awake till his emperor returned.

But many days of sadness and worry weighted heavy and he slipped into a deep sleep.

He woke only slightly as the bed beside him dipped and Constantine pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “My lord?” It came out as a soft moan, his eyes still closed. He didn’t need to open his eyes to know it was his beloved emperor. Since the night he had returned to the palace, still bearing the marks Leo left on him, Sinric had rarely slept anywhere in the palace but in his Emperor’s bed, in his Emperor’s arms. Everything about Constantine – his scent, his skin, his touch was as familiar to him as his own heartbeat.

It don’t trouble him as Constantine slid in behind him, the wiry hair of his chest brushing against Sinric’s shoulder, his broad, strong hands moving over Sinric’s hip. On instinct, Sinric rolled onto his stomach a little, opening himself to his emperor as Constantine entered him.

It felt like being complete, like being made whole. He reached back to pull Constantine’s arm around him, losing himself in the feeling of home.

Six months more. He had six more months of this, of being with his first and eternal lover. And he didn’t want to waste a second of it.

Set just before Ragnar's Trojan coffin attack on Paris. Written on the assumption that a) Sinric was in on the plan, and b) he provided the drug that made Ragnar appear dead.

***

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Sinric lay snuggled between Ragnar and Athelstan, enjoying the warmth of them. Their company and their kindness helped to keep the nightmares at bay. He lay with Ragnar’s arm around his waist, Athelstan’s lean body against his back.

But sleep would not come to him; however they had worn themselves out with pleasure and play. As safe as he felt in their arms, he could not find rest.

The kindly doctor’s words echoed in his ears. Leo’s attack had been a message. A message written on Sinric’s skin. But Sinric had taken the message away and with each passing day the lines of it faded from his skin

Would Leo send it again, on the flesh of another? Probus with his dark curls. Octavo and his too swift wit. Or tender little Lukas, so new to their company that the Emperor had not yet taken him.

The doctor was right. None of them were safe.

He slid out from between the two northman, carefully not to wake them as he returned to his room. He stood before the great mirror there, clearer than any glass he’s ever seen. In it he could see all of him, all of the body others have worshipped and enjoyed.

The bruises had fading somewhat, drifting from the dark shadows of black and red to shades of purple and yellow. The gash down his back had healed to a raised line of scar by Rae’s kindness, for all the panic it caused in him. His breasts still bore the marks of much mishandling, some of which he fears would never heal and mar his smooth skin for the rest of his days.

With care he probed his innermost portal, still tender but no longer torn. Even his own touch triggered a panic in him that he pushes back with much effort.

His body was no-longer the ruin it had been when first he returned from the palace but nor was it healed of that that had been done.

It had to be now, while the marks were still on him and the message could still be read. He had to go.

He dressed with care, covering the worst of his injuries with a long pale blue tunic and cloak of grey wool with a mantle of wolf fur. In that he could slip through the palace almost unseen, his golden mane hidden from view until he came to his master’s rooms.

He stopped to pen a message for the north-men, in Latin so Athelstan could read it. He could not wake them and tell them what he planned to do. For he knew they will try to talk him out of it. His own mind had railed against it but the words of the doctor had work in his mind.

I have gone to my master. There are things he must know. I will return, you have my word. And my thanks.

With the hood of his cloak high, he made his way to the door.

***

When he left the palace last he had been almost insensible of his surroundings. A day and a night in the care of the Varangian’s women had brought him only partly back to himself, enough to walk with unsteady steps. Now he walked the ways of the palace with confidence and purpose, his mind clear.

The Emperor’s personal Spatharioi guard the door, their spears crossing the closed way as he neared them. “The Emperor is in conference. He is not accepting petitioners at this time.”

They Sinric trusted, and knew well. Most of them had served the Emperor for longer than Sinric so he had known them all his life. He lowered his hood as he stopped before them, lifting his still blackened eyes to them. As much as he hadn’t wanted others to see, the Emperor’s guards watched over the Emperor’s property, his little birds included. “Then I will wait.”

Castor, first of the guards dropped his spear in sudden shock at seeing Sinric so abused. “Aureus! Then it is true?” He reached for Sinric but still gripped by a fear that has healed slower than his wounds, Sinric pulled away.

“Forgive me, Aureus.” Castor stepped back, aghast. “I did not think. Go in, he will want to see you.”

Within, Constantine paced the richly decorated floor, railing in anger as Gunnarr the Proud knelt before him. “How dare he! How dare he touch my golden one!” The Emperor turned on his guards. “Gif, Mehrak, go with the Varangian. Fetch my boy back to me. I want my Aureus.”

“I am here, my master.” Sinric called, stepping out of the shadows of the door.

Constantine rushed to him, gathering Sinric up in his arms. “My golden child. This Varangian has told me such terrible things. He said you had been maimed and yet here you are.”

“He has not lied.” Sinric whispered, lifting his face to his master’s view. “But with the grace of god and the care of his women I am much healed.” He did not want to lie but the truth of the week that has passed in the beat of a heart was not a story he was ready to tell.

Constantine cupped Sinric’s cheek and examined him, turning his face up to the light of great candles. “Tell me truth, my boy. Who has done this?”

Sinric pulled away, his face pale. “The Spatharioi of co-emperor Leo IV. On their master’s orders.”

Constantine held him tight, his face the iron of the great general he was. “All of them.”

Tears welled in Sinric’s eyes, shaking like a leaf in the wind. “All but two, my lord. Varangian called Gunnarr the Proud and his fellow. They came back from me and brought me to their women for care.”

Constantine kissed him then, softly despite the rage the boiled in him. “My sweet, sweet child. How you have suffered.”

He held Sinric still, looking up at the waiting Castor. “Send for my son and his guards. Have them brought to the hall. Wait for me there.”

He turned back to Sinric, pressing his lips against the curve of his brow. “My gentle child. I will see justice done for you.”

“He broke no law, master.” Sinric’s lips moved even as he buried his face in the cloth of Constantine robe. No gentle touch of Ragnar’s or Athelstan’s could heal his heart as the scent of his beloved and those strong arms around him.

“He has broken faith with me.” Constantine growled, stroking Sirnic’s hair. “And for a petty slight done terrible harm to one who is dear to me. And I fear he did it because you are dear to me.” He kissed Sinric’s brow again. “You should go to my chamber and rest, I will be with you soon.”

Sinric shook his head. “I wish to go with you, master. To confront the men who did this to me. I do not want them to believe they have broken me by what they’ve done.”

Constantine cupped his cheek, bringing him up to look him in the eye. “My golden boy. You have the soul of a nobleman. More than my fool of a son has ever had.”

***

In the hall, Leo waited, looking proud and angry, his men gathered around him. “Why have you summoned me, father?” And then his eyes fell on Sinric, standing proud and tall by Constantine’s throne like a monument in marble. “It is bad enough you take these little whores to your bed. Now you must soil the throne with them.”

Constantine stepped down from his dais and crossed the space between them in long, fast strides. With the back of his hand he struck Leo hard across the face, his golden ring of office scoring Leo’s cheek.

Leo reeled, covering his bleeding cheek, glowering. “How dare you raise your hand to me! What right do you have to strike me?”

Constantine adjusted his ring, ignoring Leo’s outburst. “I know what you have done. I have been told by one of your men too noble to follow your orders.” He gestured to where Sinric stood like a monument next to the throne. “And I have seen the proof of it.”

“You dare to strike me, because of that.” Leo spat at Sinric. “A slave? Are you so weak that you would challenge me for what? Staining a carpet, breaking a cup. He is a slave, he is nothing. And as co-emperor, I have my right by law to use him as I may any palace property, just as you do -”

But his words were cut off as Constantine struck him again. His expression flat and dark. “You will not speak again.” It was an order and spoke as such.

Leo opened his mouth and Constantine struck him again and again, kicking his knees out from under him.

The proud emperor returned to his throne, looking down at the fallen man. “You may be my son but you are a fool. A petty child with no more wisdom or honour than a street brawler.”

Leo spat blood on the floor and moved to rise but Constantine’s look cautioned him not to.

“Aureus is not a thing. He is a man, a living creature of God. As is every slave in this empire. The law may permit you to call on his service but you do not seem to know the difference between what you see as your right, and what is right.”

“You have much to learn before you take my place. If you are to be at all worthy.” Constantine lent back in his throne, looking tired. “You will go to the Anastasian Wall and oversee repairs to the defences. You will not return to the city until all thirty five miles of it are fortified and manned. Is that understood?”

Leo wiped the blood from his lips and started to speak but Constantine raised a hand. “You do not have permission to speak. Just nod. You leave at once. Go prepare.”

Leo growled under his breath and got up, waving for his men to follow.

“They,” Constantine intoned darkly, “will not be going with you.” He gestures to his men who placed themselves between Leo and his Spatharioi. “These men have proved themselves unworthy of the honours they have been given here. They too will be assigned to other tasks more befitting their statue.” It’s very, very clear from his tone that their statue was lower than worms and their duties will reflect that. “Castor, escort these men to their new lodgings.”

Leo cast one look at his men and stormed away without another word.

Furious at both the Emperor’s orders and their lord’s abandonment, Leo’s disgraced Spatharioi vibrated with anger. The tall Nubian, the one who favoured knives and was the cause of the worst of Sinric’s nightmares shifted his weight.

“Castor, look out!” Sirnic screamed, surging forward as the man drew his blade and struck out. Moved by the warning, Castor spun, his short sword in his hand. The Nubian’s knife skittered across the captain’s shoulder, missing his heart even as Castor spilt the Nubian's guts across the tiles.

The blood ached into the air as the Nubian fell, splashing across Sinric’s face and chest. Sinric relished it, the heat of it washing away his fears as he watched the man fall in his own intestines. With vehement spite, Sinric spat on the man where he lay and returned to his Emperor’s side.

Castor stopped Sinric with a smile, even as he clutched his scratched and bleeding shoulder. With his free hand, he wiped the blood from Sinric’s cheek. “You saved my life, Aureus. I will never forget that.” He took Sinric’s hand and kissed it. No small gesture.

Constantine rose and crossed to Sinric’s side, drawing the boy into his arm. “Come, let’s get you cleaned up. Castor, have your wounds seen to. The rest of you, remove this scum from my sight. And if any of them offer the least resistance, you have my permission to kill them.” He wrapped his arm around Sinric and led him away.

***

In the Emperor’s private chamber, Constantine bade water be heated and a bath be drawn, dismissing all his servants as soon as it was done.

He turned to Sinric, washing his face with gentle touches. “I must see you, my boy.” Constantine’s voice was gentle and so very sad. “I need to know what was done to you by those men.” He stroked back Sinric’s golden hair, carefully caressing the healing bruises around Sinric’s eyes. “I’m told this thing happened only hours after you left me last, these seem at least a week old.”

Sinric stayed his hand, very gently. “The worst of it is healed, my lord. You need not fret for me.” He swallowed and ducked his head, the lies that kept him up all night ready on his tongue. “I did not wish to tell you how, for I fear you will be upset.”

Constantine’s expression hardened. “Explain.”

Sinric ducked his head, making a show of reluctance. “One of the Varangian’s women has the gift of healing, old pagan magic. I know by law that the Varangian cannot practice their own ways when serving a Christian court but her kindness to me was great and I don’t wish harm to come to her for it.” He looked up at his master, pleading in his eyes. “Please don’t ask me to name her, my Lord.”

Constantine cupped Sinric’s face and kissed him slowly. “Why would I punish one who has done me such a service? When the Varangian told me of your injuries, I feared the worst. That you would never recover from what was done. And yet here you stand; strong and brave. I saw how you ran to Castor’s aid, how you stood over the man who hurt you without fear.” He smiled into Sinric’s eyes. “You are small, and beautiful, but let no man ever say you are weak.”

With his own hands, the Emperor stripped and washed Sinric, his touch the ever caring caress of a father and master.

Sinric closed his eyes, relishing each moment of this tenderness. Constantine’s love warmed him to the core, like the rising sun on a winter’s day with the promise of spring in the air. That night he fell asleep in the arms and bed on his beloved master.

Home.

I needed my things. No other reason to go back than that. I needed my things.

At least that’s what I was telling myself. A palace slave isn’t supposed to have possessions. We are possessions but the Little Birds are, as always, a bit of an exception to the rule.

I have jewellery and clothing, beautiful things given to me by grateful guests and admirers but most of those where public gifts which I’m required to keep in the eunuch quarter’s vast collection for everyone to use. But there’s an unspoken understanding that we don’t. If it was a gift, you leave it for the one who earned it or you ask to borrow it.

My wide silver belt and its matching anklets were in the communal dressing room. As were my golden arm bands. The string of tiny brass bells I plait into my hair and the gold sunrise mask.

But hidden under the loose board under my pallet were the special things, wrapped in sackcloth for safe-keeping. The collar of filigree gold with its great droplets of sapphires, blue as the sky. The little enamelled portrait of Constantine, the little dragon of milky green stone with its bright ruby eyes, the robe of feather light silk painted with mist covered mountains. These things were mine and mine alone. All of us kept at secret place like this and surely the Master of Eunuchs knew. He must have been like us once before rising to a higher position.

I would need to start secret hoard of other things too. Simple things that had no meaning to me. Coins, rings, simple sliver pieces to be traded and sold. I would need those.

It had been the beat of a heart since I had left; the last of the party still staggering to their rooms as the sun rose over the Golden Horn. I had been on my way to watch it rise when the magic of that strange place had taken me. I had seen three sunrises since but this was the one I had left.

I went to the wall to watch it, giving myself time to think. Too much had happened and I had had too little time to let it sink in.

But time, I was not to have. Probus, one of my fellow birds called to me as I slipped through the door. “Aureus, he wants you.” No need to ask who. He is the Emperor, the centre of our world. And I could tell from Probus’ expression, all was not well.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, walking fast towards his chambers.

Probus shook his head. “He can’t sleep. He frets and paces. He’s tried to have me twice but he can’t keep it up. Even with my mouth, I can’t keep him hard. Something is worrying him so badly.” He swallowed roughly. “Aureus, he might be sick.”

“There’s trouble in the Balkans, that’s all.” Even to myself, my words sounded hollow but I made an effort for his sake. “He’s just worried about that. I’ll sing him to sleep and tomorrow he’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

Probus stopped in the hallway to let me go on alone. “If anyone can, it’s you. Good luck.”

I made my way to the Emperor’s chambers at a trot, not wanting to be seen to run. The birds do not run to the Emperor. We come when called but everyone knows he confides in us. If we run, people might think something is wrong. And none of us want to give Leo that hope.

Normally I would have gone back to the eunuch’s quarters to cleanse myself before going to him but the bath I had shared with Ragnar and Athelstan was more than enough. My hair was clean and fragrant and my skin fresh and ready for him.

He was at his desk when his guards let me in, several scrolls and books open across the wood. Something I loved about his chambers – they were always full of books. “Master.” I ducked a bow, so deep my hair brushed the floor.

“My golden one.” He smiled wanly, pushing back his chair to make room for me on his knee. “You should be in bed, my little one. You worked so very hard at keeping my guests happy last night.”

I went to him, as I always did, perching on his knee and cuddling close to his chest. Constantine was a broad chested man in his fifties, still strong for all the grey in his hair and beard. He wrapped his warrior’s arms around me and held me to him, kissing my hair. “I’m fine, master. I’ve had sleep enough.” I shifted to kiss him, little soft kisses to the corners of his lips. “Probus was worried about you.”

He stroked my hair back from my face, returning my kisses. “I should have known he’d fetch you. Only you can sing me to sleep when I’m troubled.” His touch was sure and gentle, always gentle with us. But there was an edge to his caresses tonight, a neediness not borne of desire.

A need for comfort.

The palace was a gilded cage, trapping birds and Emperor’s alike. And with age setting the ache in his bones, Constantine was starting to feel it. Duty weight down on him, aging him past his years. He was a strong emperor who had turned back attack after attack from those who coveted our golden city and the vast Empire of the East but like a castle of sand, the Empire needed constant protection from the tides of them. His pro iconoclasm stance brought him into near daily strife with the church, their bickering embittered every devotion. His wife, the third he had taken was a woman of broiling spite who brought him no joy.

Was it any wonder he turned to seven boys, his beloved birds to bring light to the oppression of his later years? To allow him for just a little time, to be a man and no more.

“Pater.” I whispered, running my fingers through his short hair and he held me close. Our secret name when we knew he needed comfort. Not master but father – protector, cherisher. Nurturer.

I loved him, from the first time I was brought to his chamber. We birds are slaves – owned and kept. He had no reason to be more careful with us than one is with a piece of furniture, as we are just as easily replaced. But with us, with all of us, he had always been kind and gentle, mindful of our wants and needs as well as his own.

That first night I had trembled as I was taken to him, barely more than a child and unsure what to expect. Instead of using me as others might have, he held me; stoking my hair and rocking me as he might with any child of his own. When he found out I wanted to read, he sat me on his knee and taught me letters, letting me read from his own correspondence. It was almost a year before I became bold enough to kiss him and to desire his touches. Only then did he allow himself the pleasure of my body.

As with all his little birds, he had been father to me first, then lover, then lord. And for that, I loved him. I had read the histories in the great library of Milliways that my beloved Emperor had but a few years left before the campaign against the Bulgarians would claim his life. And I was not yet ready to say goodbye to him.

I clung to him then, hiding my face in his neck. I had a future, the whole wide world to explore but he didn’t. The first and only father I had ever known.

We held each other for a long time, trading small kisses and gentle caresses, just relishing the warmth of each other for what seemed like hours. The party had gone all night and though he had retired early, I knew he had not slept. He slept less and less these days and careworn, it showed on him.

Our warm embrace must have kindled the fire in him that Probus could not keep lit because his lips found that spot just behind my ear and I moaned softly. “It doesn’t seem like it’s my song you want, cupitus.” I teased. Because with him, I was always safe teasing.

“A different song perhaps but just as sweet.” He opened my tunic, hands and kisses moving to my breasts.

I let my head fall back. He had tried with Probus but I’m not Probus. I am his golden bird. His favourite. And all night, he had watched me dance with hungry eyes. If anyone could ease him to a sated sleep, it would be me.

Of course that turned out not to be as easy as I hoped. It took me every trick I knew to keep him hard inside me as I wrapped myself around him. Old age or weariness, I could not say but finally I felt his seed fill me, hot and perfect as his breath dampened my skin. I slid off him, clenching tight to keep his seed inside me. I wanted to lose no part of him now that I knew our days together were few.

I pulled the blankets and furs around him and sung to him then, stroking his greying hair and rubbing my cheek against his outstretched hand as I eased him to sleep. Finally his breathing grew even and the heavy furrows between his brows relaxed. He was asleep at last. Any other night, I might have curled myself in beside him, content to sleep in his arms but I had much to do, much to plan.

***

I was walking back to the eunuch’s quarters when one of Leo’s Spatharioi caught me by the arm. The man was a Pharganoi Arab and I knew had no love for the emperor’s little birds.

“The Emperor wants you.” His voice was a hard as his grip on my upper arm which was already too tight.

“The Emperor has had me.” I responded lightly, knowing the instant the words left my mouth that it had been a mistake. With the Constantine, I may be able to joke and tease but Leo and his men were never known for their humour.

The guardsman’s hand tightened and I felt the skin bruise under my long trailing tunic. I have always bruised easily but by tonight my arm would be black with his hand print. I was shoved forward towards the chambers of co-emperor Leo the forth.

Unlike his father, Leo was a hard man; disinterested in the pleasures of song or dance or poetry or anything involving the flesh, other than killing things. A commander of armies, he saw his father’s more gentle habits as weakness.

And his interest in the little birds as perversion.

Shoved into the room, I lowered myself to one knee, eyes down. “My lord?” Beyond the odd sneer and nasty comment, Leo had shown no interest in me as an individual and the fact he was doing so now was worrying.

Leo sat a small dais on a simple campaign chair compared to his father’s lavish throne. He studied me for a long silent moment, long enough for me to become uncomfortably aware of the Spatharios fanning out around me. Hard men, just as hard as the leader they served. “What was it my father wanted from you?”

“Nothing more than my company, my lord.” I answered softly, my eyes still low. “To sing him to sleep.” To stroke his hair and keep the nightmares at bay. To wash his body and ease his aches. To promise him that he is loved, even as his wife and children plague him. To lift the burden of leadership, if only for a short time. To let him be nothing more than a man.

All the weakness Constantine can never show in front of his son and successor.

Leo snarled, his lips twisted in disgust. “What is it he sees in you little slaves? His birds” The word sounded like a curse on his lips, battering against my ears like a blow.

I knew well enough not to answer him. He didn’t want to hear from me, didn’t want to see me as a person; just a symptom of his father’s weakness.

He stepped down from the dais and circled me, looking me over but never touching. He would never sully himself with the stain of a slave like me. “Could it truly just be the pleasure of your flesh? And if so, why you? Do you have something special hidden under those robes of yours?”

I was braced for the yank as soon as Leo started to muse about my body. It wasn’t him, I knew that. He wouldn’t touch me but one of the Spatharioi had hold of the back of my dress and was ripping it open. I flinched, not from the threat of it but at the destruction of my robes, knowing I would have to repair them later.

“Stand.” Leo ordered and I stood, stepping out of my ruined clothes. I stayed still, letting him circle me again. I made no move to cover my naked body. If I did, he would only have his Spatharioi hold my arms and I was already bruising where Pharganoi held me earlier.

The cold steel of Leo’s mace pushed against the top of my sternum, making me finch as its flanged head dug into the curves of my chest.

“Breasts, but then any whore from the market has those and bigger ones that yours.” He pushed the mace harder and he moved, the cold steel making my nipple sting and another bruise form. The mace was no ceremonial piece and often used in battle. The small burs on the flanges marked my skin with fine scratches that oozed blood as he slid the weapon lower. “And this. What is this? Some tiny excuse for a prick.” He struck, not at my manhood thankfully but at the soft skin of my inner thigh, dropping me to the floor with the power and pain of the blow. The ceramic tiles were cold and hard under me as he circled again.

“Must be that.” He shoved me forward with his boot to fall on my hands and knees, my rear exposed to him. “There must be something very special in there.”

I clenched as the cold steel brushed the opening of my body, feeling fear for the first time during this encounter. I had heard of slaves being tortured in this way and few survived. And those who did might wish they had not.

After a moment he stepped back, whipping the shaft of the mace across my buttocks with a resounding crack that drove a scream from between my teeth. I felt the tears hot in my eyes, my rear burning with the pain of it.

Distantly, through the ringing in my ears, I heard him order his Spatharioi to find out what the Emperor saw in me. Through blurred vision as they grabbed at me, I saw the two Varangian shake their heads and walk away, ignoring Leo’s rage as the first of the Spatharioi entered me.

I had no sense of the time it took, or how many times each of them used me. Only that they used me roughly and with such force that no part of me was left unmarked by them. I was glad when they used my mouth, silencing my cries. I didn’t want them to hear me sob.

Only when I was alone on the floor did I come back to myself, relishing the cold tiles against my burning skin. A hand touched my neck lightly and I tried to pull away, my throat mottled with their grasps.

“Hush now. It’s over.” The red-headed Varangian the others called Gunnarr the Proud bent over me, brushing my hair back from my stained cheek. “Don’t try to stand.” He slid arms under me, lifting me like a child and carrying me away from that place.

I didn’t know the rooms he took me to, part of the garrison lodging I suppose. There, women washed me, dressed my wounds and wrapped me in the fur of the great white bears the Swedes set such high value to. The women fussed over me but Gunnarr shooed them away. He fed me broth, spooning it to my swollen lips himself. “He isn’t a leader worth following, someone who would see this done to a mere half grown boy.” He muttered darkly and angrily as he wiped broth from my chin. “My men and I will leave before the week is out. If you wish it, you will come with us.”

I shook my head and tried to speak but my voice would not come, my throat worn rough with crying and abuse.

“You want to stay with your Emperor, is that it? Constantine is very gentle with his pets, it’s no wonder you fear to stray from his protection.” He looked at me with pity then, as he had not done before. As if I was an injured animal, cringing for fear of the storm. I wanted to explain, wanted him to know I had plans of my own but words would not come. Only tears.

He nodded and stepped away, letting the women nurse me.