“Ah, my friend,” Heraclius said, bowing to the boy. “Theodore, let him stand on his own.” The Eastern Prince pushed the young Persian forward. The boy looked up sullenly, his mouth trembling. Galen put his hands on his waist.
“And this?” he said, looking steadily at Heraclius. The Eastern Emperor smiled and ran a finger over his mustaches. He looked back over his shoulder at the bundle of canvas that the Varangians were dragging down into the garden. One of the Scandians had a shovel over his shoulder. The Eastern officers nudged each other and smiled at some secret jest.
“Am I satisfied?” Heraclius said, seemingly to himself. “A nation with which a treaty obtains assails my state. The armies of my enemy plunder my cities, enslave my citizens, loot my farms. I send embassies of peace to this nation, and severed heads, pickled in brine, are returned to me. I send letters, seeking the nature of the grievance against me, and I am called a vile and insensate slave in return. I learn, by other means, of the nature of the quarrel between my house and that of Chrosoes. I send the very head of the murderer of the friend of the Persian Emperor as a token of peace!”
Galen looked around the circle of faces. The Eastern officers were grinning, their faces flushed with some secret hunger. The Persian had stopped trembling and his head had come up. The Western Emperor frowned to himself again; this boy seemed terribly familiar!
“I seek to protect myself and the citizens of my state, and armies are sent against me. Tens of thousands die, and more cities are set to the torch. Yet, in all this, though the people of my city beg me to remain in the safety of my capital, I persevere. I come forth, with the aid of by brother Emperor, and assert my authority.“
Now Heraclius, at last, met the eyes of the Persian boy. Behind the fellow, Theodore and two of his cavalry officers moved in close. Galen took a step back, feeling the ugly mood running through the young officers with their neatly clipped beards and red cloaks. He signaled his guardsmen. The Germans perked up their ears and sidled closer, brawny hands creeping to the hilts of their weapons.
“I bring ruin and thunder. 1 break armies. I shatter cities. I stand above the body of my enemy!” Heraclius was shouting, his face red, pressed close to the face of the Persian boy. “Am I satisfied? Am I satisfied? No! I am not. There is blood between your house and mine, Kavadh-Siroes, blood that still obtains between us!”
The Persian boy did not flinch, though now Galen’s eyes widened in understanding.
Ah, the Western Emperor thought sadly, then I did not win the throw.
“Would his murder sate you?” the Western Emperor said in a voice of steel, his hand on Heraclius’ shoulder. “Did Phocas’ death make you sleep better at night when you became Emperor?”
“Yes,” Heraclius growled, pushing Galen’s hand away. “There will be an end to this struggle. A clean break with the past. Only the Queen Shirin will remain, once this sapling is cut down, and she I have promised to Theodore.”
Galen’s eyes narrowed and he stepped in front of the Persian boy, turning to face Heraclius squarely. The Eastern Emperor stepped back, regarding him with a calculating expression.
“And then,” Galen said, “your brother would rule the Persian lands, with a Persian Queen at his side?”
“She is beautiful, I have heard,” Heraclius said, hooking his thumbs into the broad leather belt around his waist. “She bears strong sons. But Persian? No… she is, what?
Armenian? It does not matter. She will be a fitting prize for my brother.“
Galen turned, his eyes seeking out Theodore. The young man was grinning, his face flushed with the prospect of a crown of laurels for himself. The Western Emperor’s eyes were like flint, and Theodore stepped back, suddenly pale. Galen reached to his belt with his right hand and drew out a short, broad-bladed knife. All around the room, men froze at the sound of metal rasping on metal. The Varangians made to rush forward, their axes raised, but then they stopped in confusion. They could not lay hands upon the Emperor of the West.
“A young man should have a peaceful household,” Galen said in a loud voice so that all in the chamber could hear him, “not one stained by blood. This man before you is a Roman, born of a Roman woman. He is the grandson of an Emperor of Rome, he called Maurice, who was murdered by the degenerate Phocas. He is the last of that line, the son of an Emperor himself.”
Galen put his left hand on the hand of the Persian boy, raising it up over his head. “By the right of blood, this man should be your Emperor. By the right of blood, he should rule both Persia and the Eastern Empire as one undivided state.”
Heraclius made to exclaim at this, but Galen caught his eye and the Eastern Emperor stilled, though his face was thunderous with anger.
“But rule is in the hand of the man who rules. It is the responsibility of the pater, the head of the household, to obtain order in his house, to see that civil cordiality is maintained. This, by ancient usage among the people of Rome, extends even to the brother of a brother. I would not have my brother’s brother have a household filled with anger and rancor.”
Galen’s left arm stiffened and the flat-bladed dagger sank into Kavadh-Siroes’ side, sliding sideways between his ribs.
The boy turned dreadful eyes upon Galen and clutched at the blood oozing around the knife. The Western Emperor pulled the dagger out, the blade making a popping sound as it sucked free. Kavadh-Siroes’ eyes grew even wider and he gasped. Galen lay the boy down gently onto the pavement. Blood spattered on the tiny blue tiles. The Western Emperor bent over and kissed the boy on both cheeks. Breath hissed between the boy’s teeth, then failed.
“Good-bye, cousin,” Galen said, and stood up. He wiped the blood from the knife on the dark-purple hem of his robe. He looked around at the stunned faces of the Eastern officers, at Theodore, at Heraclius.
“This is the duty of an Emperor,” he said, his loud clear voice dripping with acid. “Now there is peace, both in your house, brother, and in the world. And your hands”-he held forth his own, spotted with blood-“are clean.”
Theodore looked away, unable to meet Galen’s eyes.
Dwyrin sat on a soot-blackened brick platform near the public gardens at the edge of the palaces. A statue had been raised on the platform before the Romans came. All that was left were.the stumps of the legs and the head, rolled across the street against the front of an abandoned tavern. The thaumaturgic cohort camped in the gardens themselves, which had escaped the great fire. The sound of axes cutting wood filled the air. The Hibernian’s heels kicked at the bricks. Zoe sat next to him, neither close nor far. Odenathus was lying on the bricks too, one leg crossed over the other knee. The day was gray, the clouds had not departed.
“What now?” Dwyrin wondered aloud. He fingered a heavy string of gold coins that he had draped around his neck. Holes had been punched in each coin so that they could be carried easily. He had new boots too, taken from the house of some well-to-do Persian who did not need them anymore. Zoe had acquired so many lengths of silk
The Shadow’of Ararat and linen and fine cotton weave that she had almost doubled in size.
“What now?” Odenathus said with a wry tone in his voice, raising his head up to look at the Hibernian. “Now you go home, to Rome, and another twenty years of this.” He waved his hand airily at the ruined city.
Dwyrin grimaced, fingering his identity disk, still on its leather thong around his neck. He turned to Zoe, catching her by surprise. She seemed sad, but she gave him. a cynical smile.