by Eric Flint
"'S'our right," muttered Anthony. "A whole day wit'out 'avin' to listen t'a fuckin' tutor natterin' a' th'puir boy."
"Photius has to listen to them nattering seven days a week," said Hypatia. Primly: "Don't see him blind drunk two hours after sunrise."
"'Course not!" snorted Anthony. "'E's only eight years—no, by God! Nine years old, 'e is! Birt'day's yesserday!"
He lurched to his feet. "Hail Photius! Emperor of Rome!"
"Don't call me that!" shrilled the boy. "I'm sick of it!"
"Bein' called Emp'ror?" queried Marcus, bleary-eyed.
"No," groused Photius. "I'm sick of being Emperor!" He let out a half-wail. "I never asked them to!" And then a full wail. "They made me do it!"
The three cataphracts peered at the boy owlishly.
"Dissagruntled he is," opined Marcus.
"Downhearted'n downcast," agreed Anthony.
Julian bestowed a sage look upon his comrades. "Photius says he has terrible news to report."
It came out in a rush:
"They're going to make me marry somebody!" shrilled Photius. "Next year!"
Very owlish peers.
"A'ready?" queried Marcus. "Seems a bit—ah—ah—"
"Early," concluded Anthony. His eyes crossed with deep thought. "Ten years old, 'e be then. Still too early for'is pecker to—"
"Don't be vulgar!" scolded his wife, turning from the stove.
Anthony shrugged. "Speakin' fact, tha's all."
Hypatia sat down on the bench next to Photius. "Who are you supposed to marry?" she asked.
"Somebody named Tahmina," he replied sourly. "She's Persian. A Princess of some kind. I think she's the daughter of Baresmanas, the Persian ambassador who was here last spring."
"The Suren?" hissed Julian. His easy, sprawling posture vanished. He sat bolt upright. An instant later, Anthony and Marcus did the same.
The three cataphracts exchanged stares with each other. Then, suddenly, erupted into a frenzy of table-thumping, wine-spilling exhilaration.
"He did it! He did it!" bellowed Julian, lunging to his feet.
"Here's to the general!" hallooed Anthony, raising his wine cup and downing it in one quaff. The fact that he had already spilled its contents did not seem to faze him in the least.
Marcus simply slumped, exhaling deeply. His wife came over and enfolded him in her plump arms, pressing his head against her breasts.
All the women in the kitchen were standing around the table, now. They did not match the sheer exuberance of the cataphracts, but it was obvious that their own pleasure in the news was, if anything, greater.
"Why is everybody so happy about it?" whined Photius. "I think it's terrible! I don't want to get married! I'm only nine years old!"
His plaintive wail brought silence to the room. Everyone was staring at Photius.
Gently, Hypatia turned the boy to face her. "Do you understand what this means?" she asked. "For me? For us?"
Uncertainly, Photius shook his head.
Hypatia took Photius' hands in her own. "What it means, Emperor, is—"
"Don't call me that!"
"Be quiet, Photius. Listen to me." She took a deep breath. "What it means, Emperor, is that your father has ended the long war with Persia. No Persian—not a Suren, for sure—has ever married a Roman Emperor. That peace will last our lifetimes, Photius. And more, probably."
She turned her head, looking at Julian. "What it means, Emperor, is that my husband will not die somewhere, on a Persian lance. Our children will not grow up fatherless."
She looked around the room. "What it means, Emperor, is that Anthony's mother over there will not have to bury her own son before she dies. And Marcus' wife and children will enjoy a comfortable retirement, instead of grinding poverty on a cripple's dole."
When she turned back to face Photius, her eyes were leaking tears. "Do you understand?"
Staring up at her scarred face, Photius remembered a night when that face had been covered with blood instead of tears. A horrible, terrifying night, when a boy barely four years old had hidden in a closet while Hypatia's pimp savaged her with a knife for refusing a customer.
He had been helpless, utterly helpless. Had only been able to cower, listening to her shrieks. Powerless, to stop the torment of the woman who had raised him while his mother was gone. Powerless.
He lifted his little shoulders, then. Squared them.
He was powerless no longer. He was the Emperor of Rome.
True, the pimp Constans was beyond his reach. Years ago, when Maurice and Anastasius and Valentinian had come to bring Photius and Hypatia to the estate in Daras, they had paid a little visit on Constans. Two years later, after he married Hypatia, Julian and several of his cataphract friends had tendered their own regards to the crippled ex-pimp.
Constans was beyond his reach or any man's, now. But much else was not.
Powerless no longer. He had never, quite, thought of it that way. Had never, quite, realized what that meant. To other people. His people.
"Okay," he said. "I'll do it."
A new round of celebration erupted, in which, this time, Photius participated cheerfully. He even drank three cups of wine with his cataphracts, and got a bit drunk himself.
And why should he not? He was the Emperor of Rome, after all.
Their Emperor.
A farewell and a parting thought
Baresmanas and Agathius saw him off at the gates of Peroz-Shapur. As his army marched past, Belisarius and his two companions spoke briefly on the prospects for his coming campaign.
Briefly—and more out of habit than anything else. It was a subject they had already discussed at great length.
The time came when friends made their farewells, knowing it might be for the last time. Agathius was gruff and hearty. Baresmanas was flowery and profusive.
Belisarius was simply cheerful.
"Enough," he said. "We'll meet again—be sure of it! I don't intend to lose, you know."
Quick, final handclasps, and the general trotted away to join his army.
Damn right, spoke Aide. Then—
Belisarius broke into laughter.
"What was that last?" he asked. "Sounded like 'those sorry bastards are fucked.' Terrible language! But, maybe not. Maybe you just said—"
Mutter, mutter, mutter.
FORTUNE'S STROKE
Prologue
The best steel in the world was made in India. That steel had saved his life.
He stared at a drop of blood working its way down the blade. Slowly, slowly. The blood which covered that fine steel was already drying in the sun. Even as he watched, the last still-liquid drop came to a halt and began hardening.
He had no idea how long he had been watching the blood dry. Hours, it seemed. Hours spent staring at a sword because he was too exhausted to do anything else.
But some quiet, lurking part of his battle-hardened mind told him it had only been minutes. Minutes only, and not so many of those.
He was exhausted. In mind, perhaps, even more than in body.
In a life filled with war since his boyhood, this battle had been the most bitter. Even his famous contest against one of India's legends, fought many years before, did not compare. That, too, had been a day filled with exhaustion, struggle, and fear. But it had been a single combat, not this tornado of mass melee. And there had been no rage in it, no murderous bile. Deadly purpose, yes—in his opponent as much as in himself. But there had been glory, too, and the exultation of knowing that—whichever of them triumphed—both their names would ring down through India's ages.
There had been no glory in this battle. His overlords would claim it glorious, and their bards and chroniclers give it the name. But they were liars. Untruth came as naturally to his masters as breathing. He thought that was perhaps the worst of their many crimes, for it covered all the rest.
His staring eyes moved away from the sword, and fixed on the body of his last opponent. The corpse was a horror, now, what with the mass of f
lies covering the entrails which spilled out from the great wound which the world's finest steel had created. A desperate slash, that had been, delivered by a man driven to his knees by his opponent's own powerful sword-stroke.
The staring eyes moved to the stub still held in the corpse's hand. The sword had broken at the hilt. The world's finest steel had saved his life. That and his own great strength, when he parried the strike.
Now, staring at the man's face. The features were a blur. Meaningless. The life which had once animated those features was gone. The man who stared saw only the beard clearly. A heavy beard, cut in the square Persian style.
He managed a slight nod, in place of the bow he was too tired to make. His opponent had been a brave man. Determined to exact a last vengeance out of a battle he must have already known to be lost. Determined to kill the man who led the invaders of his country.
The man who stared—the invader, he named himself, for he was not given to lies—would see to it that the Persian's body was exposed to the elements. It seemed a strange custom, to him, but that was the Aryan way of releasing the soul.
The man who stared had invaded, and murdered, and plundered, and conquered. But he would not dishonor. That low he would not stoop.
He heard the sound of approaching footsteps behind him. Several men. Among those steps he recognized those of his commander.
He summoned the energy to rise to his feet. For a moment, swaying dizzily, he stared across the battlefield. The Caspian Gates, that battlefield was called. The doorway to all of Persia. The man who stared had opened that doorway.
He cast a last glance at the disemboweled body at his feet.
Yes, he would see to it that the corpse was exposed, in the Persian way.
All of the enemy corpses, he thought, staring back at the battlefield. The stony, barren ground was littered with dead and dying men. Far beyond the grisly sight, rearing up on the northern horizon, was the immense mountain which Persians called Demavend. An extinct volcano, its pure and clean lines stood like some godly reproach to the foul chaos of mankind.
Yes. All of them.
His honor demanded it, and honor was all that was left to him.
That, and his name.
Finally, now, he was able to stand erect. He was very tall.
Rana Sanga was his name. The greatest of Rajputana's kings, and one of India's most legendary warriors.
Rana Sanga. He took some comfort in the name. A name of honor. But he did not take much comfort, and only for an instant. For he was not a man given to lies, and he knew what else the name signified. Malwa bards and chroniclers could sing and write what they would, but he knew the truth.
Rana Sanga. The man—the legend, the Rajput king—who led the final charge which broke the Persians at the Caspian Gates. The man who opened the door, so that the world's foulest evil could spill across another continent.
* * *
He felt a gentle touch on his arm. Sanga glanced down, recognizing the pudgy little hand of Lord Damodara.
"Are you badly injured?"
Damodara's voice seemed filled with genuine concern. For a moment, a bitter thought flitted through Sanga's mind. But he dismissed it almost instantly. Some of Damodara's concern, true, was simply fear of losing his best general. But any commander worthy of the name would share that concern. Sanga was himself a general—and a magnificent one—and knew full well that any general's mind required a capacity for calculating ruthlessness.
But most of Damodara's concern was personal. Staring down at his commander, Sanga was struck by the oddity of the friendship in that fat, round face. Of all the highest men in the vast Malwa Empire, Damodara was the only one Sanga had ever met for whom he felt a genuine respect. Other Malwa overlords could be capable, even brilliant—as was Damodara—but no others could claim to be free of evil.
Not that Damodara is a saint, he thought wryly. "Practical," he likes to call himself. Which is simply a polite way of saying "amoral." But at least he takes no pleasure in cruelty, and will avoid it when he can.
He shook off the thought and the question simultaneously.
"No, Lord Damodara. I am exhausted, but—" Sanga shrugged. "Very little of the blood is mine. Two gashes, only. I have already bound them up. One will require some stitches. Later."
Sanga made a small gesture at the battlefield. His voice grew harsh. "It is more important, this moment, to see to the needs of honor. I want all the Persians buried—exposed—in their own manner. With their weapons."
Sanga cast a cold, unyielding eye on a figure standing some few feet away. Mihirakula was the commander of Lord Damodara's Ye-tai contingents.
"The Ye-tai may loot the bodies of any coin, or jewelry. But the Persians must be exposed with their weapons. Honor demands it."
Mihirakula scowled, but made no verbal protest. He knew that the Malwa commander would accede to Sanga's wishes. The heart of Damodara's army was Rajput, unlike any other of the Malwa Empire's many armies.
"Of course," said Damodara. "If you so wish."
The Malwa commander turned toward one of his other lieutenants, but the man was already moving toward his horse. The man was Rajput himself. He would see to enforcing the order.
Damodara turned back. "There is news," he announced. He gestured toward another man in his little entourage. A small, wiry, elderly man.
"One of Narses' couriers arrived just before the battle ended. With news from Mesopotamia."
Sanga glanced at Narses. There was sourness in that glance. The Rajput king had no love for traitors, even those who had betrayed his enemies.
Still—Narses was immensely competent. Of that there was no question.
"What is the news?" he asked.
"Our main army in Mesopotamia has suffered reverses." Damodara took a deep breath. "Severe reverses. They have been forced to lift the siege of Babylon and retreat to Charax."
"Belisarius," stated Sanga. His voice rang iron with certainty.
Damodara nodded. "Yes. He defeated one army at a place called Anatha, diverted the Euphrates, and trapped another army which came to reopen the river. Shattered it. Terrible casualties. Apparently he destroyed the dam and drowned thousands of our soldiers."
The Malwa commander looked away. "Much as you predicted. Cunning as a mongoose." Damodara blew out his cheeks. "With barely ten thousand men, Belisarius managed to force our army all the way back to the sea."
"And now?" asked Sanga.
Damodara shrugged. "It is not certain. The Persian Emperor is marshalling his forces to defeat his brother Ormazd, who betra—who is now allied with us—while he leaves a large army to hold Babylon. Belisarius went to Peroz-Shapur to rest and refit his army over the winter. After that—"
Again, he blew out his cheeks.
"He marched out of Peroz-Shapur some weeks ago, and seems to have disappeared."
Sanga nodded. He turned toward the many Rajput soldiers who were now standing nearby, gathering about their leader.
"Does one of you have any wine?" He lifted the sword in his hand. "I must clean it. The blood has dried."
One of the Rajputs began digging in the pouch behind his saddle. Sanga turned back to Damodara.
"He will be coming for us, now."
The Malwa commander cocked a quizzical eyebrow.
"Be sure of it, Lord Damodara," stated Sanga. He cocked his own eye at the Roman traitor.
Narses nodded. "Yes," he agreed. "That is my assessment also."
Listening to Narses speak, Sanga was impressed, again, by the traitor's ability to learn Hindi so quickly. Narses' accent was pronounced, but his vocabulary seemed to grow by leaps and bounds daily. And his grammar was already almost impeccable.
But, as always, Sanga was mostly struck by the sound of Narses' voice. Such a deep voice, to come from an old eunuch. He reminded himself, again, not to let his distaste for Narses obscure the undoubted depths to the man. A traitor the eunuch might be. He was also fiendishly capable, and an excellent advisor an
d spymaster.
"Be sure of it, Lord Damodara," repeated Rana Sanga.
His soldier handed him a winesack. Rajputana's greatest king began cleaning the blade of his sword.
The finest steel in the world was made in India.
He would need that steel. Belisarius was coming.
Chapter 1
PERSIA
Spring, 532 a.d.
When they reached the crest of the trail, two hours after daybreak, Belisarius reined in his horse. The pass was narrow and rocky, obscuring the mountains around him. But his view of the sun-drenched scene below was quite breath-taking.
"What a magnificent country," he murmured.
Belisarius twisted slightly in the saddle, turning toward the man on his right. "Don't you think so, Maurice?"
Maurice scowled. His gray eyes glared down at the great plateau which stretched to the far-distant horizon. Their color was almost identical to his beard. Every one of the bristly strands, Maurice liked to say, had been turned gray over the years by his young commander's weird and crooked way of looking at things.
"You're a lunatic," he pronounced. "A gibbering idiot."
Smiling crookedly, Belisarius turned to the man on his left. "Is that your opinion also, Vasudeva?"
The commander of Belisarius' contingent of Kushan troops shrugged. "Difficult to say," he replied, in his thick, newly learned Greek. For a moment, Vasudeva's usually impassive face was twisted by a grimace.
"Impossible to make fair judgement," he growled. "This helmet—" A sudden fluency came upon him: "Ignorant stupid barbarian piece of shit helmet designed by ignorant stupid barbarians with shit for brains!"
A deep breath, then: "Stupid fucking barbarian helmet obscures all vision. Makes me blind as a bat." He squinted up at the sky. "It is daylight, yes?"
Belisarius' smile grew more crooked still. The Kushans had not stopped complaining about their helmets since they were first handed the things. Weeks ago, now. As soon as his army was three days' march from Peroz-Shapur, and Belisarius was satisfied there were no eyes to see, he had unloaded the Kushans' new uniforms and insisted they start wearing them.
