I had not seen her, of course, since my treacherous overthrow and exile. Before that time, I had s een her as little as I could, and would have seen her less than that had my mother not continually tried to make me act as a father toward her. That I did not wish to do, and would not do. All I could think of, whenever I set eyes on her, was that she had caused the death of her mother Eudokia, whom I had loved.
A decade's separation and near forgetfulness, I discovered, had not caused this feeling to ease, any more than that same decade had slaked my desire for vengeance against Leontios and Apsimaros. Nor did my marriage to Theodora, happy though it was, ease the pain of having lost Eudokia. Thus I felt not the slightest hesitation in offering the barbarous Bulgar the child of my flesh. In its way, that too was an act of vengeance.
"Tell me of this daughter," Tervel said, his voice so elaborately casual, I knew he was interested.
Having given him her name, I went on, "She would be seventeen now, I think. Now"- I help up a hand-"I have heard nothing of her since I was overthrown. It may be she has wed in that time: she would have been a small girl then, you know. It may even be she is no longer among the living, though God forbid it." I said that, I own, more for fear of losing the bargain than from concern for her safety. "But if she lives, and if she is not wed or has not accepted the monastic life, I swear by my God, the one true God, to yoke the two of you together in marriage."
"That is not a small promise," Tervel said slowly. He spoke in his own language, to enlighten those of his noble company- boyars, the Bulgars call them- who spoke no Greek. I could not understand their startled exclamations, but I could not mistake them, either.
Myakes leaned toward me, whispering, "Emperor, the Augusta your mother will-"
"Obey," I broke in. "My mother is not here, Myakes, nor are you she. Remember it." He bowed his head in acquiescence.
"That is not a small promise," Tervel repeated, fortunately having missed Myakes' comment and my equally soft-voiced reply. The khagan went on, "But it is a promise full of conditions. Maybe these are conditions you cannot speak to now, because you do not know enough. And maybe, too, you know more than you say. What will you do, Justinian, if you find your daughter is dead or cannot marry me?"
For a moment there, I hated him. But it was my own weakness I was hating, hating cruel necessity that caused me to come before him, as I had come before Ibouzeros Gliabanos, as a beggar. A beggar I was, though, and so I would remain until Constantinople was mine once more. If I could not make Tervel sweet, that time might never come. And so I said, "Khagan, if for any reason you cannot marry my daughter, I will name you Caesar."
Beside me, Myakes stiffened. Tervel's eyes went so wide, they were almost round. "You would do this?" he said.
"I would," I replied. "I will."
"But, Emperor"- Myakes was whispering again-"Caesar is-"
"I know what the title of Caesar is," I said aloud, both to him and to Tervel. "It is the highest title in the Roman Empire, save that of Emperor alone. The only difference between the Emperor's crown and the Caesar's is that a cross surmounts the Emperor's."
"Good," Tervel said. "I do not want a cross on my crown. I am not a Christian. I do not wish to become a Christian."
I wished he had not said that. The Roman Empire had not had a pagan Caesar since before the days of Constantine the Great. The Roman Empire, so far as I knew, had never had a Caesar who was at the same time a barbarian. None of that mattered longer than a moment. If Tervel did not aid me, I should be in no position to grant titles to anyone. And, relatively speaking, titles are cheap.
"I must think on this." After widening, Tervel's eyes narrowed. "Does it mean that, if you die, I become Emperor of the Romans?" His smile said this was not intended to be taken altogether seriously, but the hungry expression that followed said he wished it were.
Shaking my head, I replied, "I will not lie to you," by which I meant I saw no profit in lying. "For one thing, my wife is with child. For another, if you are not a Christian, you will never be Emperor of the Romans."
"You speak freely," he observed.
"I could tell you any number of pretty lies," I said. "They might make you help me now, but they would make you hate me later."
"You tempt me, Justinian," Tervel said. "I will not tell you yes now, and I will not tell you no, either. I will think on this, as I said I would, and I will give you my answer when I decide. Until then, you are my guest."
"You are kind beyond my deserts," I replied. That was probably a lie, but a lie I was obligated to tell. Tervel gave not a hint of what he would do with me if he decided not to give me the soldiers I had asked of him. I did not inquire. If he would not aid me, I cared little as to what happened next.
He set me up in a tent surprisingly similar to the one in which I had dwelt by the palace of Ibouzeros Gliabanos. Slaves- Romans- tended to my needs. After the first couple of nights, I took a good-looking woman named Maria into my bed. I loved Theodora no less, but she was far away, the slave woman close by. Maria was resigned rather than eager, but one seldom finds more in a slave.
A week after my first coming before him, Tervel summoned me to his tent once more. I went with outward impassivity as complete as I could muster, but with my heart pounding and my stomach knotted within me. How strange, how grim, that my fate should depend on the whim of a barbarian chieftain who was a lifelong enemy of the Roman Empire.
I bowed before him, as I had bowed before Ibouzeros Gliabanos: he was master here, not I. More often than not, I scorned the nomads for their lack of anything approaching proper ceremonial. This once, I welcomed their barbaric abruptness, for with it I learned more quickly what I wanted to- what I had to- know.
Without preamble, Tervel said, "I will give you soldiers. We will go down to Constantinople together, you and I, and see if we can set you back on the throne you lost."
My heart pounded harder than ever, but now from joy rather than concern. "If I reach Constantinople with an army at my back, I shall rule again."
"May it be so." Tervel sounded polite, but not altogether sincere. A moment later, he explained why: "If you win, everything will be as you said. Either I will have your daughter or I will be Caesar. And if you lose, my armies will still have their chance to plunder the Roman lands between here and Constantinople."
"That is true," I said. "But if I win, as I expect to do, your armies will have to come back here without plundering their way home. We will be allies then, and allies do not ravage each other's lands." And then, unable to contain my eagerness another instant, I burst out, "When shall we move against the Queen of Cities?" Nomads, I knew, were always ready to ride out at a moment's notice.
But Tervel said, "In ten days, or perhaps half a month. I have sent messengers to my cousins to the south and west, asking them if their men will ride with us."
"You cannot simply order them to ride?" I said in some surprise.
"If you Romans invaded us, we would all stand together," he answered. "But I cannot tell them to take their men to war outside their grazing grounds. I hope they will join us, though."
"I will reward them if they do," I said. Bowing again, I added, "But not so richly as I will reward you."
"Good enough," Tervel said. "May it be so." Again, though, he sounded less concerned than he might have. As Ibouzeros Gliabanos had before him, he purposed using me for his own ends. His lands marching with those of the Roman Empire, he could use my cause as a plausible excuse for what would in fact be an invasion. I regretted the evils the Empire would suffer as a result, but saw no alternative. I had come too far to go back. Forward was the only way left.