All the Kushans in the room nodded solemnly.
“Unthinkable to do otherwise,” agreed Vasudeva. “Foolish for the captor, insulting to the captive.”
“Yes. But since I will be undertaking a campaign of rapid maneuvers—feints, forced marches, counter-marches, that sort of thing—it would be impossible to detail any troops to waste their time overseeing a lot of surly, disgruntled slaves. Who would slow us down enormously, in any event, since they’d have to march on foot. Can’t have slaves riding horses! Ridiculous. They could escape.”
“Most improper,” intoned Vasudeva. “Grotesque.”
Belisarius scratched his chin. “It’s difficult, difficult.”
He raised his hand.
“A moment, please, while I consider the problem.”
He lowered his head, as if in deep contemplation. Sent a thought inward.
Aide?
Piece of cake.
* * *
When Belisarius raised his head, a familiar expression had returned to his face. Seeing that crooked smile, the Kushans grinned.
He gave Vasudeva—and then, the other Kushan officers—a keen scrutiny of his own.
“You have heard, perhaps, that I have some small ability to see the future.”
Vasudeva snorted. “You are a witch! Everyone knows that. Not even thumb-sucking Persians will take our wagers on that subject. And we offered very excellent odds. Twelve to one.”
Belisarius chuckled.
“Slavery is an interesting condition, Vasudeva. It takes many forms. Different in the past than in the present. And different still, in the future. Many forms.”
He leaned forward. Sixteen Kushans did likewise.
“Let me tell you about some slaves of the future.”
Leaned forward. Leaned forward.
“They will be called—Mamelukes.”
A message and a promise
When Antonina opened the door, Koutina hurried into her bedroom.
“I was hoping you’d still be awake,” said the maid, “even though you left the birthday celebration so early.”
Her young face was eager, almost avid. She held out a sheet of papyrus.
“It’s a message! A message! For you! They say it came by the semaphore network—all the way from Mesopotamia!”
As she passed the paper over, Koutina added, “I think it’s from your husband. I’m not sure. I can’t read.”
Uncertainly:
“Though it seems awfully short.”
Antonina studied the message. Koutina was quite right, she saw. It was a very short message.
Just long enough. Her heart soared.
Next year, love. Next year.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I will be there. I promise.”
An emperor and his people
The morning after his birthday party, Emperor Photius made his way to the servant quarters of his palace.
Trudge, trudge, trudge.
Some of the nine-year-old boy’s gloom came from simple weariness. The birthday party had been a tense, unhappy, and exhausting affair. What with the huge crowd, and the presentation of the Senators, and the ever-critical eye and tongue of the Empress Regent, Photius had enjoyed himself about as much as a sheep enjoys its shearing. Or a lamb, its slaughter.
Mostly, though, his black and dispirited thoughts came from The News.
Theodora had told him last night, just before the party began. Much as Photius imagined a farmer tells his piglet, “How marvelous! Aren’t you just the fattest little thing?”
Reaching his destination, Photius knocked on the door. That was the only door which the Emperor of Rome ever knocked upon. All others were opened on his command.
The door to the modest apartment in the palace’s servant quarters swung open. A young woman stood in the doorway. She was quite a pretty woman, despite the scars on her face.
“Oh, look! It’s Photius!”
She smiled and stepped aside.
“Come in, boy, come in.”
As he stepped through the door, Photius felt his melancholy begin to lift. Entering the living quarters of Hypatia and her husband Julian always cheered him up. It was the only place in the world where Photius still felt like himself. Hypatia had been his nanny since he was a toddler. And, though Julian had only become his chief bodyguard recently, Photius had known him for years. Julian had been one of Belisarius’ bucellarii.
Julian himself now appeared, emerging into the small salon from the kitchen. He held a cup of wine in one hand.
Grinning cheerfully. The same cheerful grin the man had worn the first time Photius met him, at the estate in Daras. Photius had been six years old, watching wide-eyed from his bed while a burly cataphract climbed through his window and padded over to the door leading to Hypatia’s quarters. Cheerfully urging the boy to keep quiet. Which Photius had, that night and all the nights which followed.