Shadow of Ararat

CONSTANTINOPLE

Thyatis stood on the bow of the Mikitis, the north wind in her face, her hair, loose, streaming behind her in a gold cloud. Though the wind off of the Sea of Darkness was chill, the Aegean sun was hot, and she had stripped down to a short leather vest and a thigh-high skirt. Her normally fair skin had bronzed under the Mare Internum sun, and she ignored the sidelong glances of the ship’s crew as she had for the three weeks of their journey from Ostia. Nikos was watching her back, a silent presence on the fore-deck where he sat, sharpening one of his many knives. Like a knife itself, the sleek merchantman that the Duchess retained for her “work” sliced through the deep-blue waters of the Propontis. Around her the narrow sea was broad and open, its waves gentle. Before her, between twin dikes run out from the towering walls of the capital of the Eastern Empire, the military harbor was a great confusion of sails, masts, ships, and longboats.

The Mikitis banked over and the crew ran to furl the main sail. The steering oars bit the water, and the ship shivered as the captain lined up to pass between the two hulking towers that stood watch on the entrance to the harbor. Beyond the profusion of sails and rigging, the granite walls of Constantinople rose up: height upon height topped with sharp-toothed crenellations and the jutting shapes of massive towers. Even from the deck of the ship, one hand holding easily to the forward guyline, Thyatis felt the brooding power of the fortresses. Beyond them she knew from the Duchess’s notes, a thriving city of close to two million souls bustled about its daily business. All this despite the six-month-old siege of the Avar barbarians and their Slavic and Gepid allies. Coming up the Propontis the signs of the nomads had been clear on the northern shore-burned-out farms and distant pillars of smoke. Now the Mikitis entered the harbor and the walls loomed even greater above her.

With a practiced eye, she surveyed the flotillas of short-oared galleys, crimson sails furled, drawn up on the slips of the harbor, their bronze beaked prows gleaming in the afternoon sun. Hundreds of merchantmen crowded the harbor as well, swarming with sailors, laborers, and a vast confusion of supplies, materiel, and men. Under the aegis of the walls, the wind died and the sailors aboard the Mikitis unshipped the long oars. The splashing of their first strokes was overborne by the sudden beat of a deep-voiced drum. Thyatis swung around on her perch and saw one of the galleys nose out of a shed built on the western rim of the harbor. Like a great hunting cat, it surged forth from concealment, a hundred oars on each side flashing in the sun like a thicket of spears. The drum beat a sharp tattoo and the ship leapt ahead as the oars, rising and falling as one, cut into the water.

The galley strode across the low chop of the harbor like a great water spider, each beat of the drum a stroke. The wicked shape, the glaring eyes on the prow, the unison of the rowers brought a lump to Thyatis’ throat. To command such a creature of war! she exulted. To be like a god, speeding across the waters… In too few moments the galley had crabbed out of the harbor and into the open waters of the Propontis. Sadly she gazed after it.

Within the half hour the Mikitis had slid into its assigned space at dock, and Nikos and the other men in Thyatis’ command were unloading all of their gear with practiced ease and speed. Thyatis had changed back into her nondescript garb, with the voluminous hood of her heavy cloak brought up, though now she had added a shirt of closely woven iron links underneath her other garb. The weight on her torso, and the close feeling of the padded cotton doublet that underlay it, gave her a comfortable feeling. Now that they were on land, she rationalized that its weight would not be a detriment. Besides, this was an unknown city-at least to her, though Nikos had been here before-and that meant it was more than usually dangerous. She moved through the crowd of men, speaking to them individually, double-checking that no one had forgotten anything.

Finishing her inspection brought her to the landward end of the dock and a young Imperial officer in a light boiled leather cuirass, a red cloak, and strapped leather boots. He wore a short fringe of beard in the eastern manner, though his hair was cropped short. He was peering down the dock while fidgeting nervously. A message pouch was slung over his shoulder and a bored-looking horse was tied up to a post on the dockside.

“Can I help you?” asked Thyatis, guessing that he had to be their guide into the city.

“Ah, well, perhaps… I’m looking for the centurion commanding this, ah, detachment. I have orders for him as well as quarters for his men.” He continued to peer past her, though she had moved to place herself directly in front of him. He suddenly turned to her, apparently seeing her for the first time. “Do you know which one he is? They all look kind of, well, scruffy.”

Thyatis smiled and pulled a leather orders pouch from one of the pockets on the inside of her cape. She handed it to him, flipping back the waxed cover. The sun flashed for a moment on the Imperial Seal and the smaller, though no less ornate, blazon of the house of Orelio.

“We all look scruffy* Optimate, it’s our job. I’m the centurion in command, Thyatis Julia Clodia.”

The optimate stared at her, the mill wheels in his head obviously jammed for the moment. His mouth opened, then closed. Then he shook his head and he made a short salute. “My pardon, lady, my brief did not include the gender of the commander. I apologize for any insult I may have given.”

Thyatis looked him up and down for a moment, theft shook her head. “I’m not in the mood for a duel today, and getting to quarters sounds pretty good. I’ve got twelve men instead of ten, will that be a problem?”

The optimate shook his head, relieved to have avoided a problem with the odd-looking Western officer. His tribune had taken great pains to impress upon him the necessity of keeping a steady ship with all the new crew aboard. Getting on the wrong side of a “special” unit was a quick way back to the farm with his head on a platter. He looked over the Western crew as they hauled what seemed to be an inordinate amount of kit up to the end of the dock. Their appearance did nothing to allay his sinking feeling that the junior officer had gotten the biggest hassle in this muster. None of the men was well kept at all; their beards were straggly or far too long. Their clothes were a jumble of rag pickings and armor, without any semblance of uniform. All of them had a villainous look, none more so than a quartet of short, bandy-legged men with long mustaches and slanting eyes. With a start the optimate realized that they were Huns, or at least Sarmatians.

Looking around, he realized that there was a serious problem. He turned partially away from the crew standing around behind the young woman, gesturing for her attention.

“Milady, I’m afraid that I was told that this was an infantry detachment-I didn’t think to bring any horse transport, or wagons, and your men have far too much to carry. Can I beg your indulgence to wait here for an hour or so while I round up something to carry your gear in?”

Thyatis tugged at one ear, glancing back over her shoulder at Nikos, who drifted toward them in his customary, silent manner.

“Well…” she said, dragging it out, “all this kit is awfully heavy to carry. I wouldn’t want to wear my men out, they have too much drinking and wenching to do later.”

She gently took the optimate by his elbow, her thumb digging into the pressure point behind it just enough to get his attention. Then she leaned close and whispered into his ear. “My men and I can carry this gear twenty miles in the hot sun without animals. Your city is barely two miles across. I think that we can make it. Now, if you’re too busy to give us directions, I’ll just let them follow their noses- they do have an instinct for finding someplace to stay, whether the locals like it or not.”

The optimate did not flinch, which bought him a point of favor with Nikos, who had come up on his other side. The Greek idly removed the orders from the waxed leather pouch at the young under-officer’s side and began leafing through them.

• “Ah… milady,” the optimate said, struggling to keep his voice even, “you misunderstand. My orders are to give you and your men all assistance in getting to your quarters and you to the staff meeting this evening. If you want to walk all the way to the…”

“… Palace of Justinian,” Nikos said, finishing his sentence. “The royal treatment, as it were.”

Thyatis grimaced at her second.

“What is it now,” she said, “a prison? Fallen down in ruins? They’re not going to put us up in a palace, for Hermes’ sake.” Nikos grinned and passed her the orders tablet. She read it over and shook her head in amazement, handing it back to him. The optimate sighed in relief as she let go of his elbo“w.

“We’d really better walk then,” Thyatis said with a resigned tone in her voice. “Best to get everyone settled down before they start breaking things.”

Martius Galen Atreus, Augustus Caesar Occidens, stood in the window embrasure of the suite of rooms that he occupied while in the Eastern capital. From the third floor of the Palace of Justinian, now commonly referred to as the “Other Palace,” he could see out over the rooftops of the Imperial precincts. The bulk of the “Great” Palace loomed almost due north, blotting out the skyline save for, beyond it in turn, the huge dome of the Temple of Sol Invictus. To the west the gardens filled the space between Justinian’s old brickwork palace and the rising wall of the Hippodrome. Beyond that the city, a vast teeming hive of people, three-, four-, and five-story apartment buildings, forums crowded with merchants, the great Mile Stone, and the rest of the sprawl of the Eastern capital. Leaning against the sill, Galen was stricken by an unaccustomed despair. By the count of his secretaries the precincts of the Constantinople held almost as many people as lived in Rome, Ostia, and their surrounding provinces. The plague had devastated Italy, but it seemed to have barely touched the East.

A polite cough behind him heralded the entrance of his aide. Galen turned, taking care to show a slight smile and betray nothing of the sadness that now filled him.

“Ave, Augustus,” Aetius said, bowing slightly. The boy was still a little stiff in his presence, a tendency made worse by the ritual of the Eastern court. Galen shook his head in dismay; had anyone ever been so young? Romulus Aetius Valens was the scion of one of the few patrician families left in Rome that still boasted numbers of sons. Nomerus Valens, the patriarch of the family, had been smugly pleased to obtain the appointment for his son, but from Galen’s point of view there had been a paltry number of suitable candidates put forward. Of them Aetius was the best, even if his instinct was to bow at any occasion.

“Aetius, I am only a man, not a god. You need not bow and scrape before me.” Galen’s voice was gentle and filled with wry amusement. Aetius looked up and saluted again.

“Stand at ease, lad, and tell me the news.”

Aetius saluted again, standing straight. His short brown hair was cropped in a severe line above his brows and his usually pale skin was beginning to brown in the Greek sun. He pulled two wax tablets from under his arm, placing them on the writing desk that stood between them. Galen sat down in his camp stool and perused the tablets. While he did so, Aetius reported:

“Augustus, the third and sixth cohorts of the Seventh Augusta, the equites of the Sixth Gemina, and four thousand Gothic auxillia have landed today at the harbor. With these men, the numbers of the Western vexillation here in the capital have grown to twenty-five thousand men. The quartermaster has requested that I inform you that we are out of places to put more troops. If, perhaps, you could discuss this with the Emperor Heraclius…”

Galen waved off the rest of the statement. His men could double or triple bunk for the short time that the army would be in the Eastern capital. Now that both he and the Eastern Emperor were in the same place and able to meet face to face, the coordination of the great expedition had vastly improved. The use of the telecast had been intermittent and tremendously tiring to the sorcerers maintaining the link. The ancient devices still tended to lose focus and drift to other scenes or faraway lands. Though they had shown great promise, they were not a reliable mechanism. Galen had been forced to dismiss them from his calculations save as a means of emergency communications. The trouble now was not on the part of the Western Empire, but rather the East, for Heraclius was engaged in a power struggle with the great landowners that supplied the majority of his fighting men.

“Go on, what other news?”

“Resupply of the ships continues apace, though it seems backward that we should come here to bring on supplies when all of the supplies in the city are already brought in by boat.” Aetius paused, but Galen did not respond to the implied question. Gamely the youth continued, “The word from the chamberlain of the palace is that the Khazar embassy has still not shown up, delaying that meeting and a letter came by messenger from the Duchess de’Orelio.”

Galen raised an eyebrow at this last and put down the tablet. “Where is the letter?”

“In the hands of the messenger, Augustus. She informed me that she had been directed to deliver it in person.” The boy, if anything, became stiffer. Galen shook his head-he was afraid that the boy’s reaction would only be a small reflection of the trouble to come with the Easterners.

“She is here, then?”

Aetius nodded.

“Show her in then, lad, and stop looking like you’d swallowed a prune pit.”

“Ave, Augustus!”

Aetius turned on his heel and marched to the door. A moment later the messenger entered and Galen raised an eyebrow in surprise. Rumor had held for some months that the notorious and “oriental” Duchess had finally decided to bring her mysterious ward out into the open. Though An-astasia had been the Imperial spymaster for three Emperors and had never given Galen any indication that she was anything but utterly loyal to the state, he was pleased to see some indication that she was mortal.

An Emperor required many spies and informers to serve his will and be his eyes throughout his domain. Over the last eleven years, the de’Orelio faction had gathered nearly all of those resources to themselves-first when the old Duke had been the spider, now that his widow was. Galen had taken pains in the last year to establish his own sources of information, ones that were not beholden to Orelio, but it was slow work. Most damnably, he had not found any man who could execute the covert strategies of the state as well as the Duchess. It galled him, though he felt no ill will toward de’Orelio, that she was so obviously his superior in this area.

The messenger planted her feet and stood at parade rest before the writing desk. Galen noted with interest that she was both as young as had been reported and as beautiful. Too, she wore simple garb, most reminiscent of a Legion scout. Tall worn leather boots, light-green cotton breeches in the Gothic style, a loose tunic of weathered brown with piping at the collar and cuffs. A dark-gray cloak was pulled back a little off of broad shojjjders. Her hair, a rich gold-red, was braided back from her head. Gray-green eyes surveyed him calmly, even as he looked upon her.

“Ave, Augustus Caesar. Thyatis Julia Clodia, centurion, Legio Second Italia, at your service,” she said, handing him a scroll tube. “Greetings from my mistress, the Duchess Anastasia de’Orelio. She hopes that you are well and that your venture is blessed with success. I am to tell you that if there are any questions, I am to answer them.”

Galen nodded at the politeness, breaking the thick wax seal at the end of the tube. Within were thick sheaves of finely rolled papyrus sheets. They were covered with the spidery writing, in dark ink, that de’Orelio favored. He be gan readirtg but put the report aside after the first page. Much of it was routine business and the other he would go over in private. The messenger interested him more than the message. He gestured that she should sit on one of the stools facing the desk. With only a minute hesitation, she did so.

“Aetius, could you go and get something for me to eat. Something light. And wine, but not the Greek, something we brought with us.”

The boy bowed and hurried out, closing the door behind him. Galen smiled again and scratched his ear, looking sidelong at the young woman sitting across from him. How to approach this? He realized with a rueful chagrin that he had never had a “business” conversation with a woman save the Duchess. De’Orelio had always made him nervous, though she did not give him heart palpitations as she did the Senate. Galen realized that the foremost reason he trusted the Duchess was the effect she had on the senatorial class.

He shook his head slightly, then decided to dispense with the usual politeness that obtained between women and men in his social circles. This was one of his officers, for all that she was a woman, and he had work for her to do. Being polite and following convention would not speed things up or make them more efficient

“Clodia, you are a bit of a puzzle for me, given that you are, to my knowledge, the only woman officer that I have on this expedition, indeed, the only woman soldier that I have in my army. I have discussed you and your situation, and your talents, with the Duchess on more than one occasion and I will be blunt. I did not think that you could do the work that she set you to. In fact, I was entirely opposed to the concept of this… ‘special’… contubernia when she proposed it to me.”

Thyatis was very still, not even blinking. Galen paused a moment, seeing if he could gauge her reaction. She waited patiently, so he continued.

“I did not interfere, however, when she pressed ahead with your team on her own initiative, and I understand from her reports that you have been successful. She took great pleasure in relating to me the events of your pursuit in the Subura. I am, I was, pleased by your success. You have proved your ability enough to win you and your men a place here, on this expedition.”

Now the girl cracked the smallest of smiles. Galen did not smile back; he was not finished.

“Our situation here is different. I have noted in my admittedly limited time here in the city that the Eastern officers are even more traditionally minded, more constrained in their thinking than mine. I do not believe that you are going to be useful here in an… open way.”

Galen held up a hand to still the young woman’s incipient protest.

“In the rolls of the expedition, you are listed as one of my couriers, a member of my staff. I am uneasy at bringing you to the general meeting tonight, but I do not want you to be unfamiliar with the other officers. I put this question to you. Can your optio, Nikos, go in your stead?”

Storm clouds gathered in Thyatis’ gray eyes. Only the ceaselessly drummed lessons of Krista and Anastasia kept her from launching into a stream of invective suitable to a sailor. Instead, she breathed deeply and seriously considered the Emperor’s request. “Augustus Caesar, Nikos is a steady man with many useful skills, but he is not the leader of my team, I am. The men follow me because I have won their respect and fear. If he goes in my stead, then my authority will be challenged and I will lose that respect. I urge you to reconsider your decision.”

Galen frowned. The girl, no-the centurion, was all too right. He would not undermine the authority of any of his other officers in such a way. Though it would cause trouble with the Eastern officers, he could see no way to avoid taking* the minotaur by the horns.

“I don’t suppose you can be unobtrusive?” he asked, re signed to an even longer and more contentious staff meeting than usual. If she proves too much trouble, he thought, I’ll send her back to Italia.

Thyatis suddenly smiled and the room, to Galen’s surprise, seemed suddenly brighter.

“Imperator,” she said, “you won’t even notice that I’m there.”

True to Thyatis’ suspicion, the quarters that she and her men were assigned were in no way “royal.” Beneath the Palace of Justinian were a series of great vaulted cisterns, now long dry and replaced in function by the cistern of Philoxenus, beyond the Hippodrome. Now they were crowded with engineers, servants, great heaps of equipment, wicker baskets of grain, and other goods. At the back of the far chamber, in stuffy darkness, she found Nikos and the rest of her detachment. The rest of the interview had gone well, the Emperor finally becoming just a harried and overburdened army commander to her rather than a suspicious near enemy. Unlike some who had gone before, this Emperor was irritated by the practices of the court and seemed more of a provincial landowner like one of her uncles than a living god.

She couldn’t help grinning to herself. Her right hand flexed unconsciously and drifted to the hilt of her sword. The mechanics of a plan, the hundreds of options and possibilities inherent to violent action, swam in her mind, rising and falling in a lake of possibilities. As they had always done since she was a little girl, her thoughts coalesced into a strategy and intent. She slapped her hand against her thigh in delight.

Nikos had not been idle, waiting for her return. The men were quartered behind a great pile of wicker baskets in a corner of the vast room. Most were inspecting their gear for rust or broken links when she walked up; the others were huddled in a corner of the little camp, engrossed in the rattle of dice. The optio looked up, then cleared off the overturned crate that he had been using to fletch arrows on. Thyatis grunted and slid the whole smoked ham off her left shoulder. It made a meaty thwack on the wood.

Nikos grinned. “Been to the kitchens, I see. Was there wine as well?” His dark eyes glittered in the light of the nearest lamp.

Thyatis snorted in amusement. “By the example of the Divine Julius, the favored drink of the legionnaire is vinegar.”

Nikos rolled his eyes and pulled a wineskin from under the crate. “No matter, I’ve my own. Was there trouble at the commander’s office?”

Thyatis shook her headv “No, we got along fine. He was concerned that my delicate nature would be offended by attending the general staff meeting tonight, with the officers in the Eastern army. He wanted you to go instead.”

Nikos paled. The prospect of hobnobbing with more than a hundred officers, nearly all of them of noble birth, filled him with dread. Better a thousand screaming woad-blue Picts charging your position than a general staff meeting. Thyatis was still smiling though, so it couldn’t be that bad.

“Settle down,” she said, pulling a knife from her belt and spinning the blade around its point on the top of the crate. “I disagreed, politely, and promised to be unobtrusive. There seems to be trouble brewing between the two armies. He doesn’t want to rock the galley right now.”

Nikos rubbed his nose, thinking.

“How are you going to avoid notice?” he asked, thinking of her with her looks and hair and attitude among the bearded nobles of the East or the stiff-backed Western officers. There was surely going to be trouble of it. The word that the Legion commanders were at each other’s throats was all over the city. Brawling between the soldiers only one incident away. Though neither Heraclius nor Galen had affected to notice it yet did not make it go away.

Much of the problem sprang from the simple fact that while the Western Empire had clung tenaciously to the mil itary organization of the early Empire, the East had not. Where the Western forces were in the numerical minority, they had a clearly defined chain of command. The Eastern army that was gathering was more a collection of personal retainers, each under its own warlord, than a professional army. The Western officers expected there to be a single overall commander, preferably their own Emperor, while the Eastern lords all demanded a voice in the course of the expedition. The Western troops and officers spoke Latin, the Easterners Greek or Aramaic. This was just the beginning of the difficulties, mused Nikos, watching his commander with a worried eye.

How will they accept her? he wondered. We accept her, even though she is younger than most of us, save Tycho, and a woman besides. Why is that? he questioned himself. We follow her without question, she is our commander, yet by no precedent should that be so…He shook the thought away. It was not germane to the situation. She was his commander. Even when he had first met her, it seemed only natural that she should lead and he should follow. Her shoulders are broad enough to carry us, he thought, and nodded to himself.

Thyatis had turned away from her lieutenant and threw an apple core at the crowd of gamblers in the corner. It bounced off the partially turbaned head of a Syrian. The Syrian looked up, scandalized, but his handsome face cleared when he saw who had thrown it.

“Anagathios, get your perfumed buttocks over here. I’ve a question.”

The Syrian gathered up the pile of coin in front of him, pocketed the dice, and sauntered over to the little desk. He knelt on the floor next to Thyatis and prostrated himself with a great flourish.

Thyatis grinned but cuffed him on the side of his head. “Stop trying to look up my dress, I’m not wearing one.” She grabbed on his ears and dragged his head up. He put on a pained expression, and his mouth dragged down in a doleful grimace. He spread his hands wide in supplication.

Thyatis leaned close. “Do you still have your box of mummers’ paints?”

Anagathios nodded in the affirmative and pointed off into the pile of bedrolls and kit.

“Go get it,” she said, slapping the side of his head affectionately. “I’ve work for you to do before evening comes.”

The Syrian sprang up from his crouch and then fairly bounded away into the gloom to the rows of packs. Thyatis shook her head in amusement. She turned back to Nikos, but her face was concerned now. He knew that face. It was the mission face.

“Do we have anyone that speaks Valach well? I mean really well.”

Heraclius, Augustus Caesar Oriens, looked down the long marble table with something akin to disgust in his heart. Though his impassive face showed none of the growing rage within him, his eyes were beginning to betray his temper. Theodore, sitting at his side and a little lower, nudged his arm gently and shook his head. Heraclius sighed; his impetuous younger brother was the one he was supposed to keep in check, not the other way around. To his left hand, in watchful silence, sat the Western Emperor, Galen, his Legion commanders, and a few underofficers and couriers. To his right, in loud confusion, milled the thematic commanders, their aides, in two cases their concubines, and a constant procession of underlings. Of them, only Mikos Andrades, the drungaros of the fleet, showed any sign of organization or respect.

At last, Heraclius rose, his face carefully ordered, and tapped loudly on the tabletop with the hilt of his dagger. The sharp sound rang off the marble and through the whole long chamber. Some of the Eastern commanders looked around and, grudgingly, began seating themselves. After almost ten minutes there was something approaching quiet in the room. Heraclius looked them over slowly.

The comparison between the richly attired and bejeweled Eastern commanders, each a Duke or better, commanding thematic provinces from Egypt to Anatolia, with their beards and long curled hair, and the little collection of Romans on the opposite side of the table grated on Heraclius. The Eastern Empire had not been ravaged with plague, invasion, and civil war like the West, yet for all the robust survival of the East, the Western officers carried themselves better, were politer, and more… Roman… than the rabble that Heraclius had struggled to lead for the last five years.

“Gentlemen,” he said at last, “today we are to discuss the planning and execution of the greatest Roman military expedition in almost two hundred years. The specifics of our intent have been discussed with all of you separately, either in person or by letter, so I will not belabor them.

“I will, however, formally- introduce my counterpart in the west, the Augustus Martius Galen Atreus, who stands together with me today as no Emperors of East and West have done since the time of Constantine the Great. We are of like mind, we see that a bold stroke is necessary to resolve the threats to the Eastern Empire…”

This was too much for one of the Dukes, and Theoplanes surged to his feet, shouting.

“Bold! Reckless and suicidal is more like it! What of Thrace and Achaea, which lie under the Avar yoke? What of the army of barbarians that besiege this city? What of the Persian army encamped within sight of this palace, across the waters in Chalcedon? You have had bold plans before, Augustus.Caesar, but they have been failures, expensive failures!”

Heraclius surveyed the crowd of nobles and officers, ignoring the ranting of the Thracian duke for the moment. Theophanes was right; past efforts to drive back both the Persians and the Avars had been disasters. In his heart, Heraclius wondered if the entire Eastern Empire was cursed, or if, at least, he was. His support among the remaining nobles was very slim, which was only one of many reasons that he was very glad that Galen and the Westerners were in the city. Not only did Galen’s Legions give him troops that would support him personally, but also they showed the citizens of the city, as well as the nobles, that he was still Emperor.

“Lord Theophanes, sit. I know what has happened before. I know the setbacks we have suffered. But the state of affairs remains this: The Avars cannot take the city unless they can bring a fleet against us. They have neither the skills nor the facilities to build ships to match ours. This means that the only way they can take the city is if the Persians are able to cross the Propontis. The only way to cross the Propontis is if the Persians have a fleet. Though the Royal Boar sits in Chalcedon in my Summer Palace, eating figs from my orchards and drinking wine from my vinyards, he does not have a fleet. If, however, the Persians take Antioch, or Tyre, or Alexandria from us, then they could build one. So, the Persians are the true enemy. If they are defeated, then we can turn against the Avars and run them back into Dacia with their tails between their legs.”

Theophanes was still standing, but the vehemence in Heraclius’ voice had stilled him, and his courtiers, in low whispers, urged him back to his seat. Eventually, with the air of bestowing a great favor, he did so. Well, Heraclius thought sourly, that is past at least… He tapped Theodore on the shoulder. The Prince rose, bowed to the Western Emperor, nodded to the Legion officers and ignored the Eastern nobles. With the assistance of one of his aides, he unfolded a long parchment map on a wooden frame, then took his place beside it.

“My lords, this is the eastern half of the Empire, from Pontus Polemoniacus in the north on the Sea of Darkness to Arabia Felix in the south on the Sinus Arabicus. As my brother has alluded, the Persians have thrown their armies forward to Chalcedon in the west and Antioch in the south. By good fortune their advance south against Palestina and thence to Egypt has been halted for the past nine months by the presence of the Shahr-Baraz here, beyond the Propontis. We expect, however, for this to change soon. Luckily for the continued grain supply of the city, the approaches to Egypt are blocked by our allies, the kingdoms of Palmyra and Nabatea.“

Theodore paused and glanced aside at his brother. Her-aclius shook his head minusculely and the Prince skipped forward over that part of the plan. “Our forces have almost completed gathering here, in the western end of the Eastern Empire. Once the muster is complete, we will leave the city by ship under the cover of darkness. Now, our spies in Chalcedon and the ports of the East have circulated that our intent is to sail an expedition north, into the Sea of Darkness, past Sinope, to Trapezus. From there, this purported expedition will march south, gathering the support of the Armenians and cutting off the Persian armies that are still to the west of this line of advance. By this means we could force the Persians to abandon all of Anatolia and Cilicia.”

The Eastern lords were abuzz now, for this very plan had already been related to them by their spies as well as by various officers of the Imperial Court. It had made good sense, and for this reason they had agreed to meet with the Emperor. Now, however, it seemed that the plan would be changed. None stood, however, to put the question to the Prince.

Theodore waited until they subsided before continuing. “This will not be our plan. Despite the long alliances that the Empire has held with the kingdoms of Armenia and Lazica, they are unwilling to join us in this campaign. The state, frankly, is too poor to bribe them, and we do not have the men to spare in fighting our way through the mountains. We will use a different axis of attack. Both Emperors are united in the belief that only way to defeat the Persians is to strike against their heartland, the provinces between the city of their.capital at Rayy and Ctesiphon. It is not enough to defeat their armies, though we will surely have to do that as well, but we must capture their centers of religious and political power.“

Theodore turned again to Heraclius, who now stood‘. He surveyed the assembled nobles and officers with a gimlet eye. He needed these men, their troops and their gold, to carry out his plan. In a moment of odd clarity, he understood that they were as surely his enemies as the Persians or the Avars, the more dangerous because he had to rely on them. In their faces he saw, in varying degrees, treachery in the desire for power, for gold, for dominance over their fellow men. For the moment, and only for the moment, he was their master. Slowly he took a battered iron dagger out of the folds of his brocaded robe and placed it on the ta-bletop.

“This is the blade of my father,” he said. “What you will now be told must remain in strict confidence among those assembled in this room. The plan that my brother has outlined is what we desire the Persians to learn, but what he will now tell you is what they must not learn. The betrayal of this confidence will earn you death, by my hand, by this blade. Do you swear secrecy in this?”

There was a moment of silence, and then the Western Emperor rose, his face stern, like a statue cut from Minoan marble. His men rose at his back.

“I, Martius Galen Atreus, Augustus Caesar Occidens, so swear.”

His men, as one voice, echoed their master. The Western contingent sat. Heraclius turned his gaze to the easterners. They were eyeing one another, uncertain of this new tack. At last, the drungaros of the fleet stood. He was a thick-bodied man with a thick black beard and beetling eyebrows. His garb was plain, a cotton tunic with the emblem of the fleet upon it, a mail shirt underneath. Alone among the commanders of the East, he had been elevated to his position by means of ability and skill. He turned to Heraclius.

“I, Mikos Andrades, drungaros of the fleet of the Eastern Empire, so swear.”

With some reluctance, the other nobles swore as well, finally sitting.

Theodore resumed.

“The fleet will sail south, rather than north, first to Cyprus and then to the port of Tarsus. We know that the Persians hold Tarsus only lightly, and the army will seize it. From this port the army will disembark the fleet and then march with good speed northeast to Samosata on the old border with the province of Osrhoene. If our reports are to the good, the Persian army that had been encamped at An-tioch will have already marched away south, to capture He-liopolis and then Damascus on its way to Egypt. Engaged as it is against the Palmyrenes and Nabateans, this army will then be unable to prevent the movement of our force deep into southern Armenia, to the Persian city of Tauris, beyond Lake Thospitis.

“At or before Tauris, our armies shall meet our allies in this expedition, the forces of the Khazar Kagan. From Tauris we shall strike farther east, towards Rayy in Tabar-istan, before turning south to come down upon Ecbatana and Khermanshah before striking at Ctesiphon not from the west, as we have always done, but from the* north. In this way the Persians will be cut off from their traditional retreat into the highlands. Their capital shall fall and their Empire with it.”

The Eastern lords looked on with a variety of sour expressions. Heraclius could see that they felt the plan far too ambitious. No matter, he thought, we will win this time or the East will fall into the same darkness that almost consumed the West.

Theophanes rose again, with a considering look upon his face. The Thracian glanced up and down the eastern side of the table speculatively. “Now, Avtokrator, this is a bold plan indeed, and I can see that there is both the possibility of victory as well as the possibility of considerable loot to be had. No Roman army has ever gone beyond Ctesiphon; the lands beyond it must be rich indeed. The Khazars are well feared for their horsemen. I agree that this is the plan to follow. I have only one small question.“

Heraclius sat up a little in his seat; he suspected what the Thracian would ask next, and inwardly he smiled in anticipation. He motioned for Theophanes to go ahead.

“Who will lead this expedition? Which general, which lord will carry out your plan?”

The shouting began immediately and Heraclius settled back in his high-backed chair to watch with interest as the great lords bickered with one another. On the left side of the table the Westerners, who already knew what Heraclius had decided, had called for wine and something to eat. It was going to take awhile at this rate. The Eastern Emperor let them argue among themselves for a time, carefully gauging who thought himself the strongest, who had the alliance of whom. At last he tired of the game and rapped on the tabletop again. He was ignored, so he nodded to Theodore. Theodore stood, took a breath, and then thundered, in his best battlefield voice:

“The Emperor would speak!”

Echoes died and the lords of the Eastern Empire slowly turned to their nominal master. Remaining seated, Heraclius toyed with the dagger for a moment, then he said simply: “I will take personal command of the expedition.”

For more than a mere moment, silence absolute reigned around the table. The faces of the thematic lords were studies in puzzlement, alarm, and outright fear. No Emperor had essayed to lead the armies of the Eastern Empire to battle in over two hundred thirty years. The very thought that the Emperor should stand on the field of battle at the side of the fighting men was unthinkable. Heraclius glanced over at Galen, who smiled a little, and spoke again.

‘These are desperate times, as has been repeatedly pointed out. The legionnaires, the people, expect their Emperor to defend them and their families. I can think of no better way to show that I mean nothing but victory than to go myself. It also resolves the question of who will lead, for Galen and I will command the armies of the Empire, as it was in the beginning.“

Behind Galen, the Western underofficers stood forward from the wall, raising their arms in salute. “Ave! Ave Caesar! Thou conquerest!” The Eastern lords stared back at them in puzzlement; in some the sense that a new and unexpected factor was forcing itself upon them began to grow. Theodore rolled up his map and, with his aides in tow, departed the room. The other lords milled about but then began to disperse as well. Heraclius continued to sit, watching their faces as they left. At his side, Andrades remained until all of the others were gone save the Western Emperor and two of his aides. The room was quiet and a servant entered and began blowing the lamps out.

“Avtokrator,” Andrades said quietly, “your oath was stirring, but I doubt that these words will stay in confidence for more than a day or pair of days.”

Heraclius nodded and looked to Galen and the two young men who stood behind him. The Western Emperor smiled. “Drungaros Andrades, sometimes it is necessary to set bait to find the fox. So we have done tonight. My hunters”-he gestured at the blond youth with only a trace of beard on his left-“are waiting to see what is flushed.”

Andrades stroked his beard, still lush though now shot with streaks of white, considering the poised young man at the western Emperor’s side. Then he eyed Heraclius. “A risk, Avtokrator. What if the Persians get wind of it? What if someone escapes the net? The Boar has at least one sorcerer in his camp across the water. They could send a message to Chrosoes in Ctesiphon and a new army could be raised to meet you in the highlands as you march to Tauris. There would be nowhere1 to retreat to.”

“The Persians will know sooner or later,” Heraclius answered. “Our ploy here is to see who in the city is in the pay of the Avars or their Persian allies. Despite the speed of a wizard, Shahr-Baraz still has to march himself and his men back to Syria. Our fleet is vastly faster. We can beat him to any location on the coast that he tries to reach. I am more concerned with treachery here, at home, than with the Persian army.“

Andrades nodded glumly, seeing the truth of it. More troubles had come from Roman fighting Roman over the past thirty years than from the invasions of the Avars or the Persians. More trouble could come of it now.

“Avtokrator, who will command the defense of the city while you are gone?”

Heraclius frowned. This was a thorny issue that he had been struggling with himself. He had found no good answer. Any lord he left behind would be well tempted to seize the Empire for himself if things went awry for the army in the field. Heraclius had sent armies against the Persians twice before; each had been soundly defeated. This was his last throw of the dice.

Seeing no answer from the Emperor, Andrades cleared his throat. “A suggestion, if you would not take it ill. The priest Bonus, of the temple of Sol Invictus, is a man of good character and wit. He was, if I remember rightly, a centurion in his youth before entering the temple, so he knows the way of war. The people would support him, and as a priest of the god, I doubt that he would want the Purple.”

Heraclius considered, biting his lower lip. Galen, now sitting beside him, nodded in agreement with the drunga-ros. The Eastern Emperor nodded as well. “A good suggestion. So it shall be.”