“Welcome, Emperor!” boomed Julian.
“Don’t call me that,” grumbled Photius.
Julian’s grin widened.
“Feeling grouchy, are we? What’s the matter? Did your tutors criticize your rhetoric? Or did the Empress Regent find some fault with your posture?”
“Worse,” moaned Photius. “Terrible.”
“Well, lad, why don’t you come into the inner sanctum and tell us all about it?” Julian placed a large hand on the boy’s shoulder and guided him into the kitchen. Hypatia followed on their footsteps.
The room—the largest in the apartment, by a goodly measure—was crowded, as usual. Two of Julian’s fellow cataphracts were lounging about the huge wooden table in the middle of the kitchen. Wine cups in hand, as usual. Their wives and mothers busied about preparing the midday meal, while a small horde of children scampered in and out of the room, shrieking in play.
As usual.
“Hail, Photius! Rex Imperator!” cried out one of the cataphracts, lifting his cup. Marcus, that was.
The other, Anthony by name, matched the gesture. And the words, though he slurred them badly.
Julian plunked himself down at the table and said, “Ignore them, lad. They’re already drunk. As usual, on their day off.”
“‘S’our right,” muttered Anthony. “A whole day wit’out ‘avin’ to listen t’a fuckin’ tutor natterin’ a’ th’puir boy.”
“Photius has to listen to them nattering seven days a week,” said Hypatia. Primly: “Don’t see him blind drunk two hours after sunrise.”
“‘Course not!” snorted Anthony. “‘E’s only eight years—no, by God! Nine years old, ‘e is! Birt’day’s yesserday!”
He lurched to his feet. “Hail Photius! Emperor of Rome!”
“Don’t call me that!” shrilled the boy. “I’m sick of it!”
“Bein’ called Emp’ror?” queried Marcus, bleary-eyed.
“No,” groused Photius. “I’m sick of being Emperor!” He let out a half-wail. “I never asked them to!” And then a full wail. “They made me do it!”
The three cataphracts peered at the boy owlishly.
“Dissagruntled he is,” opined Marcus.
“Downhearted’n downcast,” agreed Anthony.
Julian bestowed a sage look upon his comrades. “Photius says he has terrible news to report.”
It came out in a rush:
“They’re going to make me marry somebody!” shrilled Photius. “Next year!”
Very owlish peers.
“A’ready?” queried Marcus. “Seems a bit—ah—ah—”
“Early,” concluded Anthony. His eyes crossed with deep thought. “Ten years old, ‘e be then. Still too early for’is pecker to—”
“Don’t be vulgar!” scolded his wife, turning from the stove.
Anthony shrugged. “Speakin’ fact, tha’s all.”
Hypatia sat down on the bench next to Photius. “Who are you supposed to marry?” she asked.
“Somebody named Tahmina,” he replied sourly. “She’s Persian. A Princess of some kind. I think she’s the daughter of Baresmanas, the Persian ambassador who was here last spring.”
“The Suren?” hissed Julian. His easy, sprawling posture vanished. He sat bolt upright. An instant later, Anthony and Marcus did the same.
The three cataphracts exchanged stares with each other. Then, suddenly, erupted into a frenzy of table-thumping, wine-spilling exhilaration.
“He did it! He did it!” bellowed Julian, lunging to his feet.
“Here’s to the general!” hallooed Anthony, raising his wine cup and downing it in one quaff. The fact that he had already spilled its contents did not seem to faze him in the least.
Marcus simply slumped, exhaling deeply. His wife came over and enfolded him in her plump arms, pressing his head against her breasts.
All the women in the kitchen were standing around the table, now. They did not match the sheer exuberance of the cataphracts, but it was obvious that their own pleasure in the news was, if anything, greater.
“Why is everybody so happy about it?” whined Photius. “I think it’s terrible! I don’t want to get married! I’m only nine years old!”
His plaintive wail brought silence to the room. Everyone was staring at Photius.
Gently, Hypatia turned the boy to face her. “Do you understand what this means?” she asked. “For me? For us?”
Uncertainly, Photius shook his head.
Hypatia took Photius’ hands in her own. “What it means, Emperor, is—”
“Don’t call me that!”
“Be quiet, Photius. Listen to me.” She took a deep breath. “What it means, Emperor, is that your father has ended the long war with Persia. No Persian—not a Suren, for sure—has ever married a Roman Emperor. That peace will last our lifetimes, Photius. And more, probably.”