Blanco nodded. “It could be worse-he could be missing a hand ”or an arm or even a thumb. Then, of course, we’d have had to take two of him… I think, five-leader, that the schoolmaster did send him to us to protect the rest of the students-the good ones, or the ones who are paying a pretty aureus to be trained in whatever fraction of the Skill they have. They thought they could spare this one.“
“I suppose-he’s just a kid, though! I shouldn’t have been so hard on him.”
Blanco laughed, saying, “Happens all the time, five-leader, so get used to it. The question now is what are you going to do with him?”
Zoe looked up, meeting the centurion’s eyes. She didn’t know what to do, and she was loath to admit that to her superior officer. After a tiny struggle, she shook her head. “I don’t know. Have Eric work with him through the basics and hope that he won’t be such a liability if we get into a fight.”
“Why Eric?” Blanco squinted at her, his thin eyebrows crawling together over his nose.
Zoe looked back in confusion. “They’re already a pair. Why should I break them up?”
“Because,” Blanco said slowly, “Eric isn’t a very good teacher. He’s the second weakest of your five. He’s the second most inexperienced… You should pair Dwyrin with your best thaumaturge. That way he’ll learn faster and his weaknesses won’t be so exposed.”
Zoe grimaced. She had considered that and immediately rejected the idea. She and Odenathus were too good a team to break up.
“I can’t spare Odenathus,” she said, “we’re comfortable together-we’re close to feeling how the other thinks!”
Blanco guffawed. “Ha! I wasn’t thinking of Odenathus- you need to take the Hibernian under your wing. Odenathus and Eric are like brothers already-they won’t have any trouble meshing up. You’re the five-leader, you take the responsibility and the work.”
The centurion’s voice was firm. Zoe knew that he had already made a decision and it was an order.
Eew! she thought. Hours of tutoring the barbarian… he smells!
“Yes, centurion,” she said meekly.
You’ll pay for this, MacDonald, she thought.
THE PALACE OF BIRDS, CTESIPHON
The Great King comes! All bow before the Shahan-shah of all Persia!“
Trumpets pealed, sending echoes fluttering down the vast hall that marked the center of the Imperial palace. There was a rustling like the wind over the sea as two thousand attendants, ambassadors, and noble lords knelt along the sides of the chamber. Long stripes of sunlight, falling through the windows set high above the floor, banded the multitude. The crowd was a gleaming mass of gold, red silk, brilliant azure feathers, and rich brocades. At the end of the hall a high seat rose on a pyramid of enameled bricks. The seat had a high back of lustrous pearl and a thick cushion of dark-purple velvet. Above it, suspended by silvered chains, was a heavy gold crown, set with pearl and emerald and Indian ruby.
On the second step of the four-stepped pyramid that housed the Peacock Throne, Kavadh-Siroes knelt as well. It was difficult, in the stiff brocade and heavy silk robes, but he managed. He did not like the ceremony that insulated his father, but there was little hope of changing it. The King of Kings loved the ceremonies and rituals like a child with a new toy. Anything that enhanced his glory and majesty pleased him.
The tramp of a hundred feet sounded from the far end of the hall. Siroes glanced up, peering out from under the brim of the heavy ornamental hat he was forced, by ceremony, to wear. A phalanx of dark-skinned men, each no less than six feet tall, preceded the King of Kings. They were dressed in burnished gold-scale armor, with helms of brass and silver that hid their faces. Their arms and legs were bare, showing mighty sinew and muscle. Each man held a tall staff before him, surmounted by a pennon showing the crest of the House of Sassan.
Behind them three lines of attendants gowned in linen and samnite advanced, alternating those who bore the cupped fire of the Lord of Light, Ahura-Mazda, and those who held small copper pyramids of smoking incense. Behind these, at last, came the wall of guardsmen-swordsmen from the Hindic kingdoms of India-in ornamented armor of interlocking plates that covered them from head to toe. Their metal shoes rang on the azure and crimson tiles of the floor. Each armored plate was scribed with signs of defense and victory in gold inlay. Tall plumes, bobbed from their helmets. Only dark slits revealed the hidden presence of eyes. Each guardsman bore a blade of watery steel, held before him in a scabbard of tooled leather.
Siroes flinched to see his father. The Great King, Chro-soes, King of Kings of Iran, Shahanshah of the Persians, was carried forward on a platform raised on the shoulders of sixteen massive Ethiops. He wore a mask of gold, as had been his custom for the last nine years, exquisitely carved to emulate the features of the ancient Achaemaenid King Darius the Great. A beard of gold curled at his chin, and his eyes peered out from under cunningly crafted eyelids. His robes, a dazzling midnight purple in the finest silk, fell from broad shoulders. He wore a close-fitting tunic in gleaming white beneath them. He lounged on a smaller throne of ivory that sat amid a platform strewn with fresh-cut flowers. As he passed, the assembled court rose, filling the air with the rustling of their gowns, tunics, and robes. Behind the rear rank of guardsmen, four slaves in short cotton kilts walked, holding great palm-shaped fans that stirred the air for the King of Kings.
As the royal litter approached the dais of the throne, Siroes, like all the other great ones assembled on the steps, pressed his forehead to the floor. The attendants who accompanied the King of Kings peeled away as they approached the throne, until only the finest of the guardsmen ascended the steps and took up positions on the second step, each facing outward. Two pageboys scurried out from behind the pedestal and carefully unrolled a carpet from under the massive onyx-, amethyst-, and jewel-studded throne. The special carpet held dried, aromatic flowers within its roll, and the King of Kings stepped down on rose petals and the hearts of lilies. Chrosoes mounted to the throne, where he carefully arranged his robes and sat.
The trumpets pealed again, and there was the rattle of hidden drums. Gundarnasp, the commander of the gyanav-syar, the Companions of the King, stepped forward on the lowest step and raised a cone of enameled brass to his lips.
“The King of Kings has come,” he proclaimed, his voice echoing from the trumpet. “Great Chrosoes, he who bestrides the world like a Titan of old, receives you. Stand forward to seek his judgment, his mercy, his love!”
Siroes groaned inwardly and picked at the stiff collar of his raiment. It chafed and always gave him a rash. He hated to spend hours in the court-and there was no day of court that did not involve six or seven hours of standing, as still as could be managed, at the side of his father. He thought longingly of Barsine and the other concubines waiting in his quarters to ease his fears and while the time away.
Below, the embassy from the Prince of Samarkhand approached, swarthy men with deep blue-black-colored robes and hair swept back like a raven’s wing. Siroes sighed; this would take forever! The vizier Khomane nudged him from behind, and the Prince straightened up, keeping his face impassive. The appearance of the court and the endless ceremonial that it engendered consumed a great deal of the Prince’s time, yet all the wise heads agreed that it was absolutely necessary to reassure the people and the subject nobility of the strength and permanence of the Empire.
There was a final clash of cymbals and the last troupe of dancers fluttered off the raised platform at the center of the dining chamber in a cloud of feathers and trailing, translucent silks. Servants entered and began clearing away the silver and gold platters from the long tables that surrounded the platform on three sides. The fourth side fell away from the dining room through a wall pierced by many arches onto a long series of terraces. The gardens led down to the reflecting surface of the great square Lake of Paradise that Siroes’ grandfather had ordered built. Now it was the domain of birds and fish and a thousand reeds. The gardens that occupied the terraces that marked the northern side of the palace were redolent with orange and jasmine and rose. The smell, when the wind turned over the lake, was heady and thick in the rooms along the border of the garden. Siroes drained the last of the wine, a Luristani vintage, and discarded the goblet-silver and ruby on bronze-under his couch. He smiled weakly at one of the serving maids as she passed, her arms laden with the heavy platters and goblets.