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 positions 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.