The tide of victory

imperial palace where the wedding was to be held, the great throng was positively roaring. Precious few Persian emperors, in the long history of the land of the Aryans, had ever received such public acclaim.

A lowborn mongrel, the Roman emperor was said to be. So the crowd had heard. A bastard at birth, it was even whispered. But now, seeing the horse and the bow, they understood the truth.

Photius! Photius!

At the entrance to the aivan, Baresmanas assisted the third of the horse's burdens in her descent. The task was a bit difficult, not because his daughter Tahmina was a weakling, but simply because her wedding costume was heavy and cumbersome.

When she was securely planted on her feet, Baresmanas leaned over and whispered. 'So. Who was right? I, or your mother?'

Tahmina's smile was faintly discernable through the veil. 'I never doubted you, father. Even before I read the book you gave me.'

Baresmanas started slightly. 'Already? All of it? Herodotus?'

As Baresmanas handed the reins of the horse to one of his chief dehgans, Tahmina straightened. 'All of it,' she insisted. 'My Greek has become almost perfect.'

A moment's hesitation, before the girl's innate honesty surfaced. 'Well. For reading, anyway. I think my accent's still pretty horrible.'

Side by side, father and daughter walked slowly toward the aivan. The entrance to the aivan was lined with soldiers. Persian dehgans on the left, Roman cataphracts on the right.

'Then you understand,' said Baresmanas. He did not have to gesture at the chanting crowd to make his meaning clear.

'Yes, father.'

Baresmanas nodded solemnly. 'Learn from this, daughter. Whatever prejudices you may still have about Romans, abandon them now. You will be their empress, before the day is done, and they are a great people worthy of you. Never doubt that for a moment. Greater than us, in many ways.'

He studied the soldiers standing at their posts of honor alongside the aivan's entrance. To the Persians, he gave merely a glance. Baresmanas' dehgans were led by Merena, the most honorable of their number.

But it was the leader of the Roman contingent which was the focus of the sahrdaran's attention. An odd- looking soldier, in truth. Unable to even stand without the aid of crutches. The man's name was Agathius, and he had lost his legs at the battle of the Nehar Malka where Belisarius destroyed a Malwa army.

Agathius was a lowborn man, even by Roman standards. But he was counted a duke, now, by Persians and Romans alike. Merena's own daughter had become his spouse.

'A thousand years ago,' Baresmanas said harshly, 'a time that we ourselves have half-forgotten, daughter, but they have not. A thousand years ago, one of their finest historians explained to his people the Aryan way of raising a manchild.'

'Teach him horsemanship, and archery,' murmured Tahmina. 'And teach him to despise all lies.'

'That is the Emperor of Rome's pledge to you, daughter, and to all of the Aryans,' said Baresmanas. 'A boy not yet eleven years old. Do you understand?'

His daughter nodded. She turned her head slightly, studying the cheering crowd. Photius! Photius! 'I am so astonished,' she whispered.

Baresmanas chuckled. 'Why? That a half-Greek, half-Egyptian bastard whoreson would understand us so well?'

She shook her head, rippling the veil.

'No, father. I am just surprised-'

Photius! Photius! They were entering the blessed coolness of the aivan, the huge open-air entrance hall so distinctive of Persian architecture. The soldiers began closing in behind them.

A whisper:

'It had never occurred to me before this moment. Not once. That I might be able to love my husband.'

Inside the huge aivan, the Roman empress regent was scowling. Of course, there was nothing new about that. Theodora had been scowling since she arrived in Persia. For any number of reasons.

One. She hated to travel.

Two. She especially hated to travel in the desert.

Three. She didn't much like Persians. (A minor point, this. Theodora, as a rule, didn't much like anybody.)

Four. She had now been standing in her heavy official robes for well over an hour. Hadn't these stupid Persians ever heard of chairs? Idiots! Even the Aryan Emperor Khusrau was standing.

Five.

'I hate being proved wrong,' she hissed.

'Shhh,' hissed Antonina in return. 'This is supposed to be a solemn occasion. And your scowl is showing, even through the veil.'

'And that's another thing,' grumbled Theodora. 'How is a woman supposed to breathe with this monstrous thing covering her face? Especially in the heat of late afternoon?'

The veil rippled slightly as she turned her head. 'At least they have enough sense to hold public ceremonies in this-this-what's it called, anyway?'

Belisarius, standing on Theodora's other side, leaned over and whispered. 'It's known as an aivan. Clever, isn't it? Of course, it'd never work in our climate. Not in the winter, anyway.'

For all its majestic size-the aivan was a hundred and forty feet long and eighty feet wide; at its highest, the arching vault was a hundred feet above the floor-the structure was open to the elements. The entrance through which Baresmanas and Tahmina were proceeding served as an enormous doorway. The style of architecture was unique to the Persians, and produced a chamber which was much cooler than either the outdoors or an enclosed room.

Theodora was now scowling at Belisarius. 'Oh, all right. Go ahead and say it. You were right and I was wrong.'

Belisarius said nothing. He knew better than to gloat at Theodora's expense. Not even the insects perched on the walls were that stupid.

His diplomacy did not seem to assuage the empress regent's temper. 'I hate being wrong,' she repeated sourly. 'And I still would have preferred taking the treasure. I can see gold. Can even count it with my own fingers.'

Belisarius decided that a response would not qualify, precisely, as 'gloating.' True, Theodora wasn't fond of disagreement, either. But the woman was more than shrewd enough to have learned-long since-to accept contrary advice without punishing the adviser. Listen to it, at least.

'We'd have wound up losing the treasure anyway, soon enough,' he murmured. 'Bankrupt Persia, and then what? The Persians go looking for treasure to replace it. The nearest of which is in Roman territory.'

He paused, listening to the chants of the huge crowd outside the palace. Photius! Photius! Then: 'Better this way.'

Theodora made no reply, beyond the inevitable refrain. 'I hate being proved wrong.'

Photius was standing alone at the center of the aivan, as befitted his manly status. And that he was a man, no one could deny, even if he was only ten years old. He was getting married, wasn't he?

The Emperor of Rome was not pleased at that new found status. He had been perfectly content being a mere boy.

Well.