She turned her head, looking at Julian. “What it means, Emperor, is that my husband will not die somewhere, on a Persian lance. Our children will not grow up fatherless.”
She looked around the room. “What it means, Emperor, is that Anthony’s mother over there will not have to bury her own son before she dies. And Marcus’ wife and children will enjoy a comfortable retirement, instead of grinding poverty on a cripple’s dole.”
When she turned back to face Photius, her eyes were leaking tears. “Do you understand?”
Staring up at her scarred face, Photius remembered a night when that face had been covered with blood instead of tears. A horrible, terrifying night, when a boy barely four years old had hidden in a closet while Hypatia’s pimp savaged her with a knife for refusing a customer.
He had been helpless, utterly helpless. Had only been able to cower, listening to her shrieks. Powerless, to stop the torment of the woman who had raised him while his mother was gone. Powerless.
He lifted his little shoulders, then. Squared them.
He was powerless no longer. He was the Emperor of Rome.
True, the pimp Constans was beyond his reach. Years ago, when Maurice and Anastasius and Valentinian had come to bring Photius and Hypatia to the estate in Daras, they had paid a little visit on Constans. Two years later, after he married Hypatia, Julian and several of his cataphract friends had tendered their own regards to the crippled ex-pimp.
Constans was beyond his reach or any man’s, now. But much else was not.
Powerless no longer. He had never, quite, thought of it that way. Had never, quite, realized what that meant. To other people. His people.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll do it.”
A new round of celebration erupted, in which, this time, Photius participated cheerfully. He even drank three cups of wine with his cataphracts, and got a bit drunk himself.
And why should he not? He was the Emperor of Rome, after all.
Their Emperor.
A farewell and a parting thought
Baresmanas and Agathius saw him off at the gates of Peroz-Shapur. As his army marched past, Belisarius and his two companions spoke briefly on the prospects for his coming campaign.
Briefly—and more out of habit than anything else. It was a subject they had already discussed at great length.
The time came when friends made their farewells, knowing it might be for the last time. Agathius was gruff and hearty. Baresmanas was flowery and profusive.
Belisarius was simply cheerful.
“Enough,” he said. “We’ll meet again—be sure of it! I don’t intend to lose, you know.”
Quick, final handclasps, and the general trotted away to join his army.
Damn right, spoke Aide. Then—
Belisarius broke into laughter.
“What was that last?” he asked. “Sounded like ‘those sorry bastards are fucked.’ Terrible language! But, maybe not. Maybe you just said—”
Mutter, mutter, mutter.
THE END