Thomas Harlan - The Gate of fire

And, growled Heraclius to himself, he cannot stand Martina… I must do something.

– |"You will take yourself immediately to Tyre on the coast of Phoenicia with the greater part of the fleet and four Legions. There is already a Legion at Damascus that can join you."

Heraclius bit out the words, glowering at his brother, who stood before him on the terrace, a little stunned. The Emperor did not fail to note that Theodore was looking very smart today in a crisp red robe with purple edging, golden boots, and a polished breastplate worked with eagles and a laurel crown. He had trimmed his beard close to his jaw and his hair was carefully arranged. A striking image of a modern officer fresh from victory. Very Western, too. And so strong looking on those fit tan legs…

"With these men at your command, plus those local auxiliaries that prove trustworthy, you will establish direct Imperial control over those lands that had previously been the domain of the rulers of Palmyra and Nabatea. You will place garrisons in each city and provide administrators, governors, and judges in replacement of those that are already there."

Theodore blanched at the cold tone in the Emperor's voice.

"But…" He stammered, then paused and gained control of his voice. "I was to go to Persia? What about all our plans to rebuild Ctesiphon as the capital of a Roman Asia?"

Heraclius looked over at Rufio, though it cost him blinding pain to do so.

"Who…" He gasped. "Who now stands in command of the army at Antioch?"

"Vahan, my lord. The Armenian."

"I remember him." Heraclius thought for a moment. "Send new orders to him. He is to take the five Legions under his command east to ensure that we retain control of the roads to Ctesiphon and the lands thereabout. My brother, after securing the cities of the Arabian frontier, may join him. Vahan will be proclaimed governor of Persia for the nonce."

Theodore made an abortive half-bleat of outrage. He had just been demoted from the prize he had so greedily accepted, replaced by a mercenary from a barbarian nation. The Prince made to speak again. The Emperor turned, his face bilious with fatigue. He jabbed a gray finger at his brother.

"You. You will see that the Empire directly taxes the cities of the Decapolis. Their armies were shattered at Emesa or ground to meal-paste at Palmyra, so most of your work is already done. Be quick about it, too. You will leave the capital within the week."

"But…" Theodore spread his hands in an entreaty. "I've brought another physician…"

"Out," snarled Heraclius and he turned away, breathing heavily, and refused to look at his brother. "I've enough of your charlatans." Seven times the mummers had leaned over him, their fat faces sweating, using their powers to heal him. Seven times they had failed. Who could stand against the displeasure of the gods?

– |Rufio took the Prince by the arm, gently, and escorted him to the arched doorway that led into the palace. After a moment, Theodore shook his arm free and glared at the scarred guard captain. Rufio met his gaze with equanimity and after a moment the Prince stormed off, his cloak snapping in the air behind him. When he was gone, Rufio pursed his lips in thought. The Emperor was very tired and would need to be taken to bed soon. It was hurting the State for him to be so weak.

"Sviod, come here."

The strapping young Scandian with long blond braids who had helped carry the Emperor was standing in the hallway, talking in low tones with a middle-aged man with a thick gray beard and the robes of one of the Achaean priest-hoods. Sviod bowed to the priest and then stepped to Rufio's side. Unlike many of his fellows, Sviod spoke good Greek. Rufio leaned close, one eye on the Emperor, who was staring at the sky.

"Find the Empress and see if she will grant an audience today. Then find me. Most likely I will be with the Emperor in his quarters."

The Quirinal Hill, Roma Mater

Thyatis puffed air from her cheeks, watching the frosty cloud dissipate in the air in front of her. The weather had turned cold, startling the citizens who had decided that summer had come for good, and putting a chill on the flowers in the Duchess's garden. Petro the gardener had been beside himself, cursing the fickle gods, and driving his assistants to cover everything with burlap and cheese cloth. In the hour before dawn, as Thyatis stood in the stable yard of the house on the Quirinal, it seemed even colder.

"Why does it always seem colder now, when day approaches?" Despite a thick German-style cloak with a fur lining, Thyatis had her hands in her armpits, hoping that they would warm up. She always had cold hands and this was worse, since she had gotten very little sleep. She felt grainy and irritable. The yard was filled with muffled sounds of men moving about, checking their weapons and preparing to leave. "Night is almost done, it should be warmer."

"It's not that cold," said Nikos as he walked past with a bundle of long boar-spears on his shoulder. He was only wearing a light shirt and woolen breeches. Thyatis threw a glare in his direction, but the Illyrian ignored her. She entertained dark thoughts, watching him swing the heavy load into the back of their wagon. Centuries of forebears who had culled their living from the cold Adriaticum in open skiffs had thickened his blood. And his skull, she thought in disgust. Nikos loved the cold. But then, he liked it when it was hot, too. Thyatis found this very disturbing. The world, she thought, should be an even temperature all year round.

"My lady." Thyatis turned and saw that Jusuf had come down the steps from the house. Lanterns faced with panes of cut crystal had been put out to shed some light on the preparations. The Khazar's long face was half cast in shadow. Thyatis smiled in greeting; she had not had much chance to catch up with the Prince since her return.

"You will be leaving today?"

Jusuf nodded. He fingered his tunic. It was a dark indigo with subtle red edging in stitched silk and a faintly military cut. A cape of heavy green wool like the shade under forest trees hung from his shoulders. Thin bracelets of gold were clasped around his wrists. The Khazar seemed astonished at the soft nap of the fabric. He kept rubbing it between his broad fingertips.

"I will, but first I am to speak with this Emperor of yours. Anas' tells me that he was one of the last men to speak with Sahul, before he was killed. We will discuss 'friendship' between our peoples and give the embassy of the Eastern Court apoplexy."

Thyatis felt a strange sense of disassociation at the Prince's words. Everything seemed turned about and a giddy sensation of being outside of herself, looking down and seeing her body from above, overcame her. Thoughts tumbled like stones in a millrace; the Duchess referred to as an intimate, the lanky barbarian in exquisite clothes, the reminder of her old friend's death. She blinked, feeling choked up, and coughed, covering her mouth.

"You've come a little way since I met you crawling about in that thicket." Thyatis smiled sadly.

"Yes," he said, allowing his own grief to show in the shadow behind his eyes. "You have led me astray."

"Not as far as some, I see." Thyatis blushed at the tart sound of her words. "I'm sorry!"

"No need," said Jusuf quietly, looking down. Thyatis craned her neck and saw that he was blushing. "I will have a daredevil tale to tell when I return. I feel foolish… I was difficult and pigheaded for months while you drove us into the heart of Persia and then brought us out again."

Thyatis laughed softly, frost puffing from her mouth, and laid a gloved hand on his arm. He covered it with his own. "I could not have succeeded without you. I would never have met Shirin. Her children would have been quietly strangled by now and she a jeweled captive in the Eastern Court."