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.”
THE HOUSE OF DRACUL, NEAR THE HIPPODROME, CONSTANTINOPLE
Dwyrin was thrown to a tiled floor, landing heavily. The bag over his head was untied and pulled off with ungentle fingers, allowing fresh air, at last, to reach him. He gagged and tried to spit to clear his mouth, but there was no moisture left in him. The tiles under his hands were small and worked into a mosaic. The sharp scent of incense came to him, though the pain of his right wrist was overriding all other senses. A clammy hand dragged him up by the scruff of his neck. A warm white light from a hundred candles filled the room, banishing even the smallest of shadows. Dwyrin knelt at the edge of a great rug; an opulent room surrounded him, filled with rich lacquers and wood, hung with silk and brocade. A sizable wooden desk was set a little off to one side, and before it sat a sturdy-looking man in a light-colored shirt and dark breeches.
The man bent forward a little and gestured to Khiron to bring Dwyrin closer. The dead man hoisted the boy up by his arms and dragged him forward, dropping him on the carpet at the end of the desk.
“Now, Khiron, don’t be harsh to the boy. He’s young. Not used to rough treatment.”
The voice was thick with the burr of an accent, but not one that Dwyrin had heard before. Still queasy at Khiron’s touch, Dwyrin looked up, meeting the eyes of his owner. They were a merry blue, twinkling in the light of the lanterns. The man’s face was broad and rather plain, but creased with the beginnings of a smile. A light-blond beard edged his chin, and he showed the signs of incipient fat.
His whole body was broad, like a cart, as were his hands. A gentle finger brushed Dwyrin’s forehead, tracing the line of his forebraid.
“Pretty young thing, isn’t he?” The voice was cheerful, but despite all appearances Dwyrin shrank from the man. For all his jollity, this was Khiron’s master. The time with the dead man was still a blur of horror and despair. Even this place, wherever it was, was better than the boat with Khiron and his captives.