Her daughter? Of the Suren, the purest blood of the Aryans short of the emperor himself! Married to—to—
The mongrel Roman whoreson bastard sighed. Great. Just great. My wife will hold her nose whenever I’m in the same room with her.
Tahmina was much nearer, now. Despite himself, Photius was fascinated to see her move. Even under the heavy Persian robes, he could sense the lithe and athletic figure. Tahmina was fifteen years old. Just old enough—quite unlike Photius himself—that she was beginning to bring her body under control. There was no gawkiness at all in that easy, gliding progress.
Maurice, his father’s cataphract, had seen the girl before. Maurice had told him that she was extraordinarily beautiful. For a moment, Photius was cheered by the thought.
Only for a moment. Great. Just great. I’ll have the most beautiful wife in the world. And she’ll still be holding her nose whenever I’m around.
Then, finally, his eyes met those of his approaching bride. Between the heavy veil and the headdress, Tahmina’s dark eyes and the bridge of her nose were all that Photius could see of her face.
The Emperor of Rome froze.
Tahmina’s own eyes were fixed upon him. They never moved once, in the time it took for her to finally take her place next to him.
Beautiful eyes, of course. As clear and bright as moonshine, for all their darkness. Brown eyes, technically, but of such a deep hue they almost seemed black. So much, Photius had expected. But he had not expected the warmth he saw in them. Like embers, glowing.
And he certainly hadn’t expected to hear the whisper, just as the ceremony finally began. In heavily accented but perfect Greek.
“Relax, husband. You will like me. I promise.”
And he did relax, even if the ceremony itself was long, and tedious, and required him to follow a labyrinth of carefully rehearsed gestures and words. Photius, too, had read Herodotus. And so he knew the creed of the Aryans.
Teach them horsemanship, and archery.
And teach them to despise all lies.
* * *
Hours later, in the midst of the great festivities which were spilling all through the public areas of the palace—all through the entire city, in fact—Emperor Khusrau Anushirvan sidled up to Belisarius.
“That went supremely well, I thought.”
Belisarius nodded. For once, his smile was not crooked at all. It was every bit as wide and open as the emperor’s own.
“I thought so, too.” They were still standing in the aivan. Through the great opening, the last colors of sunset could be seen. Belisarius glanced at the small door which led to the private quarters of the imperial entourage. Photius and Tahmina had been provided with a suite in those quarters, for their use until the imperial Roman delegation returned to Constantinople some days hence. The new husband and bride had just passed through that door, not more than ten minutes earlier.
Belisarius’ smile now assumed its more familiar, crooked shape. “Of course, I’m not sure Photius is still of that opinion. He seemed cheerful enough earlier. But now—” The Roman general chuckled. “He looked for all the world like a man being led to his own execution.”
Khusrau grinned. “Nonsense. I raised the girl, you know, as much as Baresmanas did. She is every bit as intelligent as she is comely. I assure you that your stepson will soon be at ease.”
The Emperor of Iran and non-Iran paused. “Well . . . Not at ease, precisely.”
Belisarius’ eyes widened a bit. “He’s only ten years old, Your Majesty.”
Khusrau’s face bore an expression of supreme smugness. “Romans. Such a primitive folk.”
* * *
After his servants dressed him in his bedclothes, Photius nervously entered the sleeping chamber and found Tahmina already waiting for him. She was lazing on the bed, wearing her own nightgown. As soon as Photius entered, she smiled and patted the bed next to her. “Come, husband,” she said softly.
“I’m only ten years old,” Photius managed to choke out.
“Relax, I say,” murmured his wife. She arose and led him gently to the bed. “Lie down.”
Photius did as he was commanded. He could not imagine doing otherwise. For all of Tahmina’s poise and demure demeanor—how does she manage that, wearing nothing but a silk gown?—her hands upon him were strong and firm. She was bigger than he was, true. But it was more the certainty of her intentions, and the sheer beauty of her person—Maurice had been right, been right, been right—that drove him to obey.