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…”