“Baresmanas cherishes his daughter,” said Khusrau sternly. Then, even more sternly: “As do I myself, for that matter. Baresmanas placed her in my care when he left for Constantinople with his wife. She is an absolutely delightful child, and I have enjoyed her company immensely. It has made me look forward to having daughters of my own, some day.”
The Emperor began pacing back and forth.
“She is of good temper, and intelligent. She is also, as you can see for yourself, very beautiful.”
He stopped abruptly. “So. Tell me about the Roman Emperor Photius.”
Maurice’s eyes widened. His jaw almost dropped. “He’s only eight years old,” he choked.
The gesture which Khusrau made in response to that statement could only have been made by an emperor: August dismissal of an utterly trivial matter.
“He will age,” pronounced the Emperor. “Soon enough, he will need a wife.”
Again, the stern look. “So. Tell me about the Emperor Photius. I do not ask for anything but your personal opinion of the boy himself, Maurice. You will say he is a child. And I will respond that the child is father to the man. Tell me about the man Photius.”
For just a moment, Khusrau’s imperial manner faltered. “The girl is very dear to me, you see. I would not wish to see her abused.”
Maurice groped for words. Hesitated; vacillated; jittered back and forth in his mind. He was floundering in waters much too deep for him. Imperial waters, for the sake of Christ!
Then, as his eyes roamed about, they happened to meet those of Tahmina. Shy eyes. Uncertain eyes.
Fearful eyes.
That, Maurice understood.
He took a deep breath. When he spoke, his voice had more in it than usual of the Thracian accent of his peasant upbringing. “A good lad, he is, Your Majesty. A sweet-tempered boy. Not nasty-spirited in the least. Bright, too, I think. It’s a bit early to tell yet, of course. Precocious lads—which he is—sometimes fritter it all away as they get too sure of themselves. But Photius—no, I think not.” He stopped, bringing himself up short. “I really shouldn’t say anything more,” he announced. “It’s not my place.”
Khusrau’s eyes bore into him. “Damn all that!” he snapped. “I only want the answer to a simple question. Would you marry your daughter to him?”
Maurice started to protest that he had no daughter—not that he knew of, at least—but the sight of Tahmina’s eyes stilled the words.
That, he understood. That, he could answer.
“Oh, yes,” he whispered. “Oh, yes.”
Chapter 28
ALEXANDRIA
Autumn, 531 a.d.
As her ships approached the Great Harbor of Alexandria, Antonina began to worry that her entire fleet might capsize. It seemed to her, at a glance, that the soldiers on every one of her ships were crowding the starboard rails, eager for a look at the world-famous Pharos.
The great lighthouse was perched on a small island, also called Pharos, which was connected to the mainland by an artificial causeway known as the Heptastadium. The causeway, in addition to providing access to the lighthouse, also served to divide the Great Harbor from the Eunostus Harbor on the west.
Built in three huge “stories,” the Pharos towered almost four hundred feet high. The lowest section was square in design, the second octagonal, and the third cylindrical. At the very top of the cylindrical structure was a room in which a great fire was kept burning at all hours of the day and night. The light produced by that fire was magnified and projected to seaward by a reflecting device. At night, the light could be seen for a tremendous distance.
She and her troops had seen that light only a few hours earlier, as her fleet approached Alexandria in the early hours of the morning. Now, two hours after dawn, the beam seemed pallid. But in the darkness, the light of the Pharos had truly lived up to its reputation. And now that they could see it clearly, so did the lighthouse itself.
Her soldiers were absolutely packing the starboard rails. Antonina was on the verge of issuing orders—futile ones, probably—when a cry from the lookout in the bow drew her attention.