by Eric Flint
He could see no siege guns. He would have been surprised to have done so. Weeks earlier, Belisarius had explained to him that heavy guns, even sectioned, require carts—or better, barges—for transport. Barges would be too heavy for the shrunken river, and, as for carts—how to haul them? Camels make poor draft animals, and horses could not manage a long and heavy-loaded march through the desert. There was no way to haul carts alongside the river itself, of course. The terrain directly adjoining the Euphrates was much too marshy—even more so now that the water level had dropped.
No, he thought with satisfaction, it is just as Belisarius predicted. They will be restricted to rockets and grenades—weapons which they can carry on camelback.
Without taking his eyes from the Malwa army, the Persian Emperor cocked his head toward the man standing at his side.
"You are certain, Maurice? It is still not too late. I can order a sally against that force."
Maurice shook his head.
"That would be unwise, Your Majesty." With only the slightest trace of apology: "If you forgive me saying so."
Maurice pointed to the south. Even at the distance, it was obvious that the main force of the enemy was mobilized and ready.
"They're hoping for that. They'll be prepared, today. They've erected their own pontoon bridges across the river. If you make another sally, they'll overwhelm you."
Khusrau did not pursue the matter further. In truth, he agreed with Maurice. He had made the offer simply out of a sense of obligation. He owed much to the Romans, and he was a man who detested being in debt.
Inwardly, he sighed. He would not be able to repay that debt for some time. If ever. Once again, circumstances forced him to allow his allies to fight for him. The great Malwa expeditionary force would have no Persians to contend with, other than Kurush's ten thousand men. And those troops would be needed to defend Peroz-Shapur, which the Malwa expedition would bypass on its way to the Nehar Malka. Kurush and his men would tie up at least their own number of enemy troops, true. But they would be unavailable to help in the defense of the dam itself.
Once again, Belisarius would fight for him. Almost unaided.
A sour thought came.
Except, of course, for the aid of a traitor.
Khusrau squared his shoulders. The foul deed needed to be done. He would not postpone it.
He turned to one of his aides. "Send for Ormazd," he commanded.
As the officer trotted away, Khusrau grimaced. Then, seeing the slight smile on Maurice's face, he grimaced even more.
"And this, Maurice? Are you also certain of this?"
The Roman chiliarch shrugged. "If you want my personal opinion, Your Majesty—no. I am not certain. I suspect that Belisarius is being too clever for his own good." Scowl. "As usual."
The scowl faded.
"But—I have thought so before. And, though I'd never admit it to his face, been proven wrong before." Again, he shrugged. "So—best to stick to his plan. Maybe he'll be right again."
Khusrau nodded. For the next few minutes, as they waited for Ormazd to make his appearance, the Persian Emperor and the Roman officer stood together in silence.
Maurice spent the time in a careful study of the enemy's expeditionary army. He would be leaving himself, the next day, to rejoin the Roman army awaiting the Malwa onslaught at the Nehar Malka. Belisarius would want a full and detailed description of his opponent's forces.
Khusrau, on the other hand, spent the time in a careful study—of Maurice.
Not of the man, so much as what he represented. It might be better to say, what the man Maurice told him of the general he followed. Told the Persian Emperor, not by any words he spoke, but by his very nature.
Belisarius.
Khusrau had spent many hours thinking about Belisarius, in the past weeks.
Belisarius, the ally of the present.
Belisarius, the possible enemy of the future.
Khusrau was himself a great leader. He knew that already, despite his youth. Part of that greatness was due to his capacity to examine reality objectively, unswayed by self-esteem and personal grandiosity. No small feat, that, for an Emperor of Iran and non-Iran. And so Khusrau knew that one of the qualities of a great leader was his ability to gather around him other men of talent.
He had never seen such a collection of capable men as Belisarius had cemented together in his army's leadership. He admired that team, envied Belisarius for it, and feared it at the same time.
Crude men, true. Low born, almost to a man. Men like Maurice himself, for instance, whom Khusrau knew had been born a peasant.
But the Persian Emperor was a great emperor, and so he was not blinded by his own class prejudices. Pure-blood empires had been brought down before, by lowborn men. The day could come, in the future, when the peasant-bred Maurice might stand again on that very hilltop. Not as an ally, but a conqueror. On that hill in Babylon; on the walls of Ctesiphon; on the horse-pastures of the heartland plateau.
So, while they waited for Ormazd, and Maurice gave thought to the near future, the Emperor of Iran and non-Iran gave thought to the more distant future. By the time his treacherous half-brother finally made his appearance, Khusrau had decided on a course of action.
He would outrage Aryan opinion. But he shrugged that problem off. With Ormazd removed, Khusrau did not fear the squawks of Aryan nobility. He trusted Belisarius to remove Ormazd for him, and he would entrust the future of his empire to an alliance with that same man.
Ormazd's progress up the slope of the hill was stately—as much due to his horde of sycophants as to his own majestic pace. So Khusrau had time to lean over and whisper to Maurice, "Tonight. I wish to see you in my pavilion."
Maurice nodded.
When Ormazd was finally standing before the Emperor, Khusrau pointed to the Malwa expedition making its own slow way across the river.
"Tomorrow, brother, you will take your army and join the allied forces at the Nehar Malka. You will give Baresmanas and Belisarius all the assistance you can provide, in their coming battle against that enemy force."
Ormazd scowled.
"I will not take orders from a Roman!" he snapped. "Nor from Baresmanas, for that matter. I am higher-born than—"
Khusrau waved him down.
"Of course not, brother. But it is I, not they, who is commanding you in this. I leave it to your judgement how best to assist Belisarius, once you arrive. You will be in full command of your own troops. But you will assist them."
His half-brother's scowl deepened. Khusrau's own expression grew fierce.
"You will obey your Emperor," he hissed.
Ormazd said nothing. Put that way, there was nothing he could say unless he was prepared to rise in open rebellion that very moment. Which he most certainly wasn't—not in the middle of Khusrau's main army. Not after his own prestige had suffered such a battering during the past two months.
After a moment, grudgingly, Ormazd nodded. He muttered a few phrases which, charitably, could be taken for words of obedience, and quickly made his exit.
Later that night, when Maurice arrived at the Emperor's pavilion, he was ushered into Khusrau's private chamber. As he entered, Khusrau was sitting at a small table, occupied with writing a letter. The Emperor glanced up, smiled, and gestured toward a nearby cushion.
"Please sit, Maurice. I'm almost finished."
After Maurice took his seat, a servant appeared through a curtain and presented him with a goblet of wine. Before Maurice could even take a sip, Khusrau rose from the table and embossed the letter with the seal ring which was one of the Persian Emperor's insignia of office. With no apparent signal being given, a man immediately appeared in the chamber and took the missive from the Emperor. A moment later, he was gone.
Maurice, watching, was impressed but not surprised. Persia had always been famous for the efficiency of its royal postal system. The man who took the letter to its destination was known as a parvanak, and it was one of the most prestigious posit
ions in the imperial Persian hierarchy. In contrast, the Roman equivalent—the agentes in rebus—were more in the way of spies than postal officials.
Which might be good for imperial control, thought Maurice sourly, but it makes for piss-poor delivery of the mail.
As soon as they were alone in the room, Khusrau took a seat on his own resplendent cushion.
"Tell me about the Emperor Photius," he commanded. "Belisarius' son."
Maurice was puzzled by the question, but he let no sign of it show. "He's not really his son, Your Majesty. His stepson."
Khusrau smiled. "His son, I think."
Maurice stared at the Emperor for a moment, then nodded. It was a deep nod. Almost a bow, in fact.
"Yes, Your Majesty. His son."
"Tell me about him."
Maurice studied the Persian, still puzzled. Under-standing, Khusrau smiled again.
"Perhaps I should give my question more of a focus."
He rose and strode over to one side of his chamber. Drawing aside the curtain, he called out a name. A moment later, moving with stiff and shy uncertainty, a young girl entered the chamber.
Maurice estimated her age at thirteen, perhaps fourteen. The daughter of a high Persian nobleman, obviously. And very beautiful.
"This is Tahmina," said Khusrau. "She is the oldest daughter of Baresmanas, the noblest man of the noble Suren."
With a gesture, Khusrau invited the girl to sit on a nearby cushion. Tahmina did so, quickly and with a surprising grace for one so young.
"My own children are very young," said Khusrau. Then, with a little laugh: "Besides, they are all boys."
The Emperor turned and bestowed an odd look on Maurice. Maurice, at least, thought the look was odd. He was now utterly bewildered as to the Emperor's purpose.
"Baresmanas cherishes his daughter," said Khusrau sternly. Then, even more sternly: "As do I myself, for that matter. Baresmanas placed her in my care when he left for Constantinople with his wife. She is an absolutely delightful child, and I have enjoyed her company immensely. It has made me look forward to having daughters of my own, some day."
The Emperor began pacing back and forth.
"She is of good temper, and intelligent. She is also, as you can see for yourself, very beautiful."
He stopped abruptly. "So. Tell me about the Roman Emperor Photius."
Maurice's eyes widened. His jaw almost dropped. "He's only eight years old," he choked.
The gesture which Khusrau made in response to that statement could only have been made by an emperor: August dismissal of an utterly trivial matter.
"He will age," pronounced the Emperor. "Soon enough, he will need a wife."
Again, the stern look. "So. Tell me about the Emperor Photius. I do not ask for anything but your personal opinion of the boy himself, Maurice. You will say he is a child. And I will respond that the child is father to the man. Tell me about the man Photius."
For just a moment, Khusrau's imperial manner faltered. "The girl is very dear to me, you see. I would not wish to see her abused."
Maurice groped for words. Hesitated; vacillated; jittered back and forth in his mind. He was floundering in waters much too deep for him. Imperial waters, for the sake of Christ!
Then, as his eyes roamed about, they happened to meet those of Tahmina. Shy eyes. Uncertain eyes.
Fearful eyes.
That, Maurice understood.
He took a deep breath. When he spoke, his voice had more in it than usual of the Thracian accent of his peasant upbringing. "A good lad, he is, Your Majesty. A sweet-tempered boy. Not nasty-spirited in the least. Bright, too, I think. It's a bit early to tell yet, of course. Precocious lads—which he is—sometimes fritter it all away as they get too sure of themselves. But Photius—no, I think not." He stopped, bringing himself up short. "I really shouldn't say anything more," he announced. "It's not my place."
Khusrau's eyes bore into him. "Damn all that!" he snapped. "I only want the answer to a simple question. Would you marry your daughter to him?"
Maurice started to protest that he had no daughter—not that he knew of, at least—but the sight of Tahmina's eyes stilled the words.
That, he understood. That, he could answer.
"Oh, yes," he whispered. "Oh, yes."
Chapter 28
ALEXANDRIA
Autumn, 531 a.d.
As her ships approached the Great Harbor of Alexandria, Antonina began to worry that her entire fleet might capsize. It seemed to her, at a glance, that the soldiers on every one of her ships were crowding the starboard rails, eager for a look at the world-famous Pharos.
The great lighthouse was perched on a small island, also called Pharos, which was connected to the mainland by an artificial causeway known as the Heptastadium. The causeway, in addition to providing access to the lighthouse, also served to divide the Great Harbor from the Eunostus Harbor on the west.
Built in three huge "stories," the Pharos towered almost four hundred feet high. The lowest section was square in design, the second octagonal, and the third cylindrical. At the very top of the cylindrical structure was a room in which a great fire was kept burning at all hours of the day and night. The light produced by that fire was magnified and projected to seaward by a reflecting device. At night, the light could be seen for a tremendous distance.
She and her troops had seen that light only a few hours earlier, as her fleet approached Alexandria in the early hours of the morning. Now, two hours after dawn, the beam seemed pallid. But in the darkness, the light of the Pharos had truly lived up to its reputation. And now that they could see it clearly, so did the lighthouse itself.
Her soldiers were absolutely packing the starboard rails. Antonina was on the verge of issuing orders—futile ones, probably—when a cry from the lookout in the bow drew her attention.
"Ships approaching!" he bellowed. "Dromons! Eight dromons!"
She scrambled down the ladder from the poop deck and hurried along the starboard catwalk to the bow. Within a minute, she was standing alongside the lookout, peering at the small fleet which was emerging from the Great Harbor.
Eight dromons, just as he had said. Five of them were full-size, the other three somewhat smaller. In all, she estimated that there were at least one and a half thousand soldiers manning those dromons. Most of them were oarsmen, but, after a quick count, she decided there were well over four hundred marines aboard as well.
Armed and armored. And the oarsmen would also have weapons ready to hand, in the event of a boarding action.
As she watched, seven of the dromons spread out, forming a barrier across the entrance to the Great Harbor. The eighth, one of the smaller ones, began rowing toward her.
She felt someone at her elbow. Turning her head, she saw that Hermogenes had joined her, along with two of his tribunes and the captain of her flagship.
"What are your orders?" asked the captain.
"Stop the ship," she said. "And signal the rest of the fleet to do likewise."
A pained look came on the captain's face, but he obeyed instantly.
"What did I say wrong this time?" grumbled Antonina.
Hermogenes chuckled. "Don't know. I'm not a seaman either. But I'm sure you don't just 'stop' a ship. Much less a whole fleet! That's way too logical and straightforward. Probably something like: 'belay all forward progress' and 'relay the signal for all ships to emulate execution.' "
Smiling, Antonina resumed her study of the approaching dromon. The warship was two hundred yards away, now.
"I assume that dromon is bearing envoys."
"From whom?" he asked. Antonina shrugged.
"We'll find out soon enough."
She pushed herself away from the rail. "When they arrive, usher them into my cabin. I'll wait for them there."
Hermogenes nodded. "Good idea. It'll make you seem more imperial than if you met them on deck."
"The hell with that," muttered Antonina. "It'll make me seem taller. I had that chair in my cabin
specially designed for it." Ruefully, she looked down at her body. "As short as I am, I can't intimidate anybody standing up."
As she hurried down the catwalk toward her cabin, Antonina noted that the appearance of the eight dromons had at least had the salutory effect of eliminating the danger of capsizing her ships. The soldiers of her fleet had left off their sight-seeing and were taking up battle positions.
She stopped for a moment, steadying herself against a stay. Now that Antonina's fleet had come to a halt, the flagship was wallowing in the waves, drifting slowly before the wind. The sea was calm that morning, however, and the wind not much more than a light breeze. The ship's motion was gentle.
Searching the sea for John's gunship, Antonina spotted the Theodora within seconds. To her satisfaction, she saw that John was already tacking to the northwest. In the event of a conflict, the gunship would be in perfect position to sail downwind toward the dromons blocking the harbor.
Ashot came to meet her.
"There'll be several envoys from that ship"—she pointed to the dromon—"coming aboard. Hermogenes will usher them into my cabin. I want you and—" She broke off, studying the officers in the oncoming warship. Taking a count, to be precise. "—and four of your cataphracts to be there with me," she concluded.
Ashot smiled, rather grimly. "Any in particular?"
Antonina's returning smile was just as grim. "Yes. The four biggest, meanest, toughest ones you've got."
Ashot nodded. Before Antonina had taken three paces toward her cabin, the Armenian officer was already bellowing his commands.
"Synesius! Matthew! Leo! Zenophilus! Front and center!"
The first thing the visiting officers did, after Hermogenes ushered them in, was to study the four cataphracts standing in each corner of Antonina's large cabin. A careful study, lasting for at least half a minute.
