Shapur knelt beside this pair, then gestured for Jovian to sit opposite. The shahanshah then gestured to the injured warrior and the shrivelled, bald man in turn; ‘Cyrus, Spahbad of the Persis Satrapy, and Ramak, Archimagus of those lands, will be joining us in our negotiations.’ Cyrus nodded curtly, while Ramak remained statue-still, his eyes seeming to search Jovian.
Jovian awkwardly knelt opposite them. As soon as he settled, his eyes latched onto the silver goblet of dark-red wine that a slave placed before him. He poked out his tongue to wet his lips, reaching for the cup, when Shapur spoke in Greek.
‘We find ourselves at an unfortunate juncture, Roman brother.’
Jovian snatched his hand back from the goblet, cursing his shaking fingers. His mouth had never been drier. He shuffled to sit straight and tried to flush the fear from his face, but his upper lip twitched nervously.
‘Your armies are broken,’ Shapur continued, ‘you have nowhere to flee. Persian steel and the dark, cold depths of the Tigris ensnare you. So what am I to do?’
‘I trust we will be able to find a solution to this problem, Persian brother?’ Jovian croaked in reply.
‘Oh, I am sure we will,’ Shapur said. ‘In my years I have seen many brave Romans dare to stride into these lands. I grow tired of their folly and of spilling their blood.’
Jovian heard the retort in his mind. And your armies have just as often marched gaily into Roman Anatolia and Syria, claiming those lands as your own by ancestral right. But fear gripped him before he could muster the courage to voice this, and so he merely nodded.
‘I know the thoughts that dance in your mind, Roman. As masters of east and west, we each have much to take pride in, but more to be shameful of,’ Shapur added, his gaze growing distant and a hint of submission lacing his words.
For a precious moment, Jovian felt his fear ebb just a fraction. This legendary figure who had led Persia and her armies like a god for so long cut a tired figure. Cyrus and Ramak seemed unaffected by their shahanshah’s melancholy though. Cyrus looked on with a barely tempered scowl, his disdain for Jovian plain. Archimagus Ramak, however, perplexed him most of all. The man watched him studiously, as if searching his thoughts, reading them like a scroll. Then the archimagus turned his eyes upon Shapur, and Jovian wondered if he could read the great king of kings as easily. A curious creature, Jovian surmised. He snatched at the goblet and gulped at the wine, anxious to wash away his distress.
Shapur continued; ‘The struggle is endless, Rome tears at our borders and then Persia finds itself battering back at Rome’s. To and fro. Forlorn fathers look on from the afterlife as their sons repeat their follies.’ He stopped, his gaze again growing distant, as if caught in a storm of unpleasant memories. Finally, he snapped out of his malaise, his eyes meeting Jovian’s once more. ‘Today, Persia is the master of this eternal struggle.’ He paused for a moment, the silence from Jovian upholding his assertion, then pushed out a sheaf of paper. It had two passages inked upon it — one in Parsi and one in Greek. ‘If you wish to see your army safely back in Roman lands, then I am sure you will see the wisdom in conceding to me the following imperial possessions.’
Jovian nodded then listened as Shapur read the document aloud. Virtually all of Roman-held Mesopotamia was to be surrendered. Everything between the Tigris and the Euphrates. Five trade-rich and strategically positioned regions, plus fifteen well-walled forts. Worse, the three mighty fortress cities on the western banks of the Euphrates — Nisibis, Singara and Castra Maurorum — were to be abandoned by Rome then garrisoned and populated by Persia. These were the bulwarks of Rome’s eastern frontier. With these three cities, Shapur and his armies would have the perfect staging post to crush the remainder of Roman Syria. The blood pounded in Jovian’s ears. His eyes darted. He clutched the goblet and drank deeply. Yet the wine struggled to quell his panic.
‘You must accept these concessions,’ Shapur concluded, placing the scroll before him. ‘Else I will be forced to darken the shores of the Tigris with yet more blood.’
The words felt like an icy lance through Jovian’s gut.
‘Do you accept?’ Cyrus hissed, thumping a fist upon the table then wincing and clutching at his bandaged wound.
‘At ease, Spahbad,’ Shapur raised a placatory hand to Cyrus. ‘The Roman will agree, I am sure. The new lands will be yours, as we discussed.’
Jovian looked up, blinking. He looked to the scroll. Several copies lay rolled up beside it. His lips trembled. So far, his meekness and cowardice had afflicted his life like an insatiable parasite. Now it threatened the empire. His thoughts swirled like a sandstorm until he saw one possibility. Let them have the fortress cities, let them have Mesopotamia, he thought, but they must give something in return.
‘Permit me to present to you an amendment,’ he croaked.
Shapur’s eyes narrowed at this. Cyrus frowned in confusion, then Ramak leant in close to him, whispering in his ear.
Cyrus nodded, then fixed Jovian with a foul glare, his nose wrinkling; ‘You are in no position to bargain.’
Shapur raised a hand to the spahbad. ‘A bargain is more virtuous than yet another slaughter.’ Then his expression darkened. ‘But it must be the right bargain. Go on.’
Jovian gulped. ‘Have Mesopotamia. But the armies of Persia must never set foot west of the River Euphrates. In return, Rome’s legions will never tread upon its eastern banks.’
At this, Cyrus’ eyes darted this way and that in confusion. Ramak seemed unmoved, then leant in to whisper again in Cyrus’ ear. Cyrus’ pallid face wrinkled in anger, then he cast out a disdainful hand towards Jovian. ‘With our blade at his neck, he endeavours to dictate the destiny of our people?’
Jovian continued before Cyrus could protest further. ‘While such an amendment might be to our advantage now, it may not be so for long. The eternal struggle you speak of will doubtless soon swing back upon Persia eventually. Let us end it. Here. Now.’ He heard the words as if spoken by another. His chest tingled with pride.
Shapur’s eyes darted as he contemplated the suggestion. A long silence passed. ‘A noble proposal,’ he said at last. ‘But will the generations to come abide by such an agreement, when we are both but dust and bones?’
The Persian Shahanshah contemplated his own words in another silence. Jovian willed him to agree. Cyrus and Ramak looked on, eyes narrowed. At last, Shapur gave a faint nod. ‘Perhaps, with some adjustment, an amendment can bring stability between our great empires.’
Cyrus stood up at this, his chest heaving in disgust. ‘I must protest!’
Shapur looked up to his spahbad, and spoke calmly. ‘Leave us then, Cyrus, while we draw up the finer detail of the agreement.’
Cyrus stood, glowered around the gathering, then strode from the table. Jovian instinctively tensed like a strung bow as the man brushed past him. The spahbad stopped at the tent flap, his breath coming and going in a weak and wet rattle, then beckoned Ramak with him. The archimagus hesitated at first, seemingly unable to tear his steady gaze from Jovian. Then he too stood and followed Cyrus outside.