The Emperor froze with fear at his blunder.
By long-standing protocol, the Emperor of Rome always called the Emperor of Persia the "Basileus" rather than the "King of Kings." By using the same title as his own, the Roman Emperor thereby indicated the special status of the Persian monarch. No other ruler was ever granted that title by Romans, except, on occasion, the negusa nagast of Ethiopia.
But Persians never called themselves Persians. That term was a Greek bastardization of the Persian province of Fars, the homeland of the old Achaemenid dynasty. Persians called their land Iran-land of the Aryans. They were immensely snooty on the matter, too, especially the distinction between Aryans and all lesser breeds. Many non-Aryan nations were ruled by the Shahanshah, but they were not considered part of the land of the Aryans itself. Those were simply "non-Iran."
The Emperor's paralysis was broken by the slight, encouraging smile on the ambassador's face.
"— the Basileus of Iran and non-Iran," he quickly corrected himself.
The ambassador's smile widened. A very friendly gleam came into his brown eyes. For a moment-a blessed moment-the Roman Emperor was reminded of his father. His old father.
He glanced at the mutilated face of his new father, the former Emperor Justinian. That sightless face was fixed upon him, as if Justinian still had eyes to see. That sightless, harsh, bitter face.
It's not fair, whimpered the Emperor in his mind. I want my old father back. My real father.
The ambassador was backing away. The Emperor of Rome began to sigh with relief, until, catching a hint of Theodora's disapproval, he stiffened with imperial dignity.
Maybe he won't be mean to me, after all.
The ambassador was fifteen feet off, now. He still seemed to be smiling.
It's not fair. The Sassanids are from Fars, too, so why can't we call them Persians?
Now, he did sigh, slightly. He felt the Empress Regent's disapproval, but ignored it.
It's too much to remember all at once.
Another sigh. The Empress Consort hissed. Again, he ignored her reproof.
I'm the Emperor. I can do what I want.
That was patently false, and he knew it.
It's not fair.
I'm only eight years old.
The ambassador was thirty feet away, now. Out of hearing range. Theodora leaned over.
The Emperor braced himself for her reproach.
Nasty lady. I want my old mother back.
But all she said was:
"That was very well done, Photius. Your mother will be proud of you." Then, with a slight smile: "Your real mother."
"I'm proud of you, Photius," said Antonina. "You did very well." She leaned over the throne's armrest and kissed him on the cheek.
Her son flushed, partly from pleasure and partly from guilt. He didn't think being kissed in public by his mother fit the imperial image he was supposed to project. But, when his eyes quickly scanned the throne room, he saw that few people were watching. After the Empress Regent had left, to hold a private meeting with the Persian ambassador and his father (both of his fathers), the reception had dissolved into a far more relaxed affair. Most of the crowd were busy eating, drinking and chattering. They were ignoring, for all practical purposes, the august personage of the Emperor. No-one standing anywhere near to him, of course, committed the gross indiscretion of actually turning their back on the throne's small occupant. But neither was anyone anxious to ingratiate themselves to the new Emperor. Everyone knew that the real power was in the hands of Theodora.
Photius was not disgruntled by the crowd's indifference to him. To the contrary, he was immensely relieved. For the first time since the reception began, he felt he could relax. He even pondered, tentatively, the thought of reaching up and scratching behind his ear.
Then, squaring his shoulders, he did so. Scratched furiously, in fact.
I'm the Emperor of Rome. I can do what I want.
"Stop scratching behind your ear!" hissed his mother. "You're the Emperor of Rome! It's undignified."
The Emperor sighed, but obeyed.
It's not fair. I never asked them to make me Emperor.
Chapter 1
Constantinople
Spring, 531 A.D.
As soon as Antonina put Photius to bed, she hastened to the imperial audience chamber. By the time she arrived, the Persian ambassador was reaching the conclusion of what had apparently been a lengthy speech.
Taking her seat next to Belisarius, Antonina scanned the room quickly. Except for the guards standing against the walls, the huge chamber was almost empty. The usual mob of advisers who sat in on Theodora's audiences was absent. The only Romans present to hear the Persian ambassador were Theodora, Justinian, and Belisarius.
Baresmanas himself was the only Persian present. Antonina knew that the extremely limited participation had been at the request of the Persians. That fact alone made clear the seriousness with which they took this meeting. She focussed her attention on the ambassador's final remarks.
"And so," said Baresmanas sternly, "I must caution you once again. Do not think that Roman meddling in the current internal situation in Persia will go unchallenged. Your spies may have told you that our realm verges on civil war. I, for one, do not believe that is true. But even if it is-all Aryans will unite against Roman intrusion. Do not doubt that for a moment."
The ambassador's stern expression relaxed, replaced by a semi-apologetic smile which was, under the circumstances, quite warm. Antonina was struck by Baresmanas' change in demeanor. She suspected that the friendly face which now confronted the Roman Empress and her top advisers was much closer to the man himself than the stiff mask which had delivered the previous words.
"Of course, it is quite possible that all of my teeth-baring is unnecessary. I do not mean to be rude. Rome is known for its wisdom as well as its martial prowess, after all. It is quite possible-likely, I should say-that the thought of intervening in Persia has never once crossed your mind."
Antonina was impressed. Baresmanas had managed to deliver the last sentence with a straight face. The statement, of course, was preposterous. For the last five hundred years, no Roman emperor had spent more than three consecutive days without at least thinking about attacking Persia. The reverse, needless to say, was equally true.
She leaned over and whispered into Belisarius' ear:
"What's this about?"
His reply also came in a whisper:
"The usual, whenever the Persians have to find a new emperor. Khusrau's been the leading candidate ever since Kavad died-he's been officially proclaimed, actually-but his half-brother Ormazd is apparently not reconciled to the situation. Baresmanas was sent here by Khusrau to warn us not to muck around in the mess."
Antonina made a little grimace.
"As if we would," she muttered.
Belisarius smiled crookedly. "Now, love, let's not be quite so self-righteous. It has happened, you know. Emperor Carus took advantage of the civil war between Bahram II and Hormizd to invade Persia. Even captured their capital of Ctesiphon."
"That was over two hundred years ago," she protested softly.
"So? Persians have long memories. So do we, for that matter. Carus' invasion was retribution for Ardashir's attack on us during our civil war after Alexander Severus was murdered."
Antonina shrugged. "The situation's different. We've got the Malwa to worry about, now."