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 . . .
His eyes moved to the cluster of Roman scholars standing amidst the small mob of Persian priests packed against the far wall of the aivan. His tutors, those. Even at the distance, Photius thought their expressions could curdle milk. Greek philosophers, grammarians, rhetoricians and pedants did not appreciate being forced to mingle with Persian mobads and herbads. Bunch of heathen witch doctors. Traffickers in superstition and magic. Peddlers of—
The emperor’s eyes moved away. The first trace of a smile came to his face since he’d awakened that morning. As an official “man,” maybe he wouldn’t have to put up with quite as much nattering from his tutors.
When his eyes fell on the small group of his bodyguards, the smile widened a bit. Then, seeing the vulgar grin on the face of Julian, the chief of his bodyguards, Photius found himself struggling not to grin himself.
He would have preferred it, of course, if his long-time nanny Hypatia could have been present also. Damn the implied questioning of his manly state!
Sigh. But the only women which the stiff Aryans would allow at such a public gathering were the bride and her immediate female relatives. Darkly, Photius suspected the Aryans would have dispensed with them also, if it weren’t for the simple fact that—push come to shove—females were sadly necessary for the rite of marriage.
Now, catching the first hint of motion at the aivan entrance, Photius’ eyes were drawn thither. His about-to-be-bride was finally entering.
Tahmina’s mother, he knew, would not be coming. Her presence was customary at such events, but the woman claimed to have contracted some mysterious and incapacitating disease. Baresmanas had made fulsome apologies for her absence in advance, which the Roman delegation had accepted graciously. Even though not one of those Romans—nor, for that matter, any member of the Persian nobility—doubted for an instant the real nature of the disease. Incapacitating, yes; mysterious, no. Such is the nature of the ancient illness called bigotry.