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.