Thyatis grinned a little. Then she frowned, considering what he had said. “Augustus Caesar, I am a soldier, you are my commander. Command me. It is my honor to obey. Those men who followed me from Rome will follow me still-the others? I cannot say. I will put it to them, but whether they come or go? That is their decision.”

Galen pursed his lips in consideration, but then rose and walked to the worktable he inflicted upon his household servants to carry from Rome to the Eastern capital to Tarsus to here. It disassembled into manageable pieces and was cunningly fitted together with wooden pegs. He ran a finger across the worn varnish on the top. Once it had been in his father’s study, in Narbo, when he had been a child. When Galen had left Hispania with his Legions to fight against the pretenders and to claim the purple for himself, it had traveled with him. For the last decade, the office in the Palatine had housed it, and now it was here. He pushed aside a pile of tablets and dragged a parchment map up from under the other debris on the table.

“See here, Centurion, we are at Tauris, in these mountains…” His finger began to trace a path on the map. Thyatis came to his shoulder and leaned over the table herself, listening to him speak, following the finger. “And here, here is Persia proper. Our intent now is to move north into the valley of the Kerenos River, which runs from these mountains down to the Khazar Sea-the Mare Caspium- and join the army of the Great Khan Ziebil.“

The Mare Caspium was a large oblong of blue, slanting from north west to south east. The map showed a rampart of mountains rising at its southern end.

‘There is a pass,“ Galen continued, his forefinger resting among those mountains, ”through what the Persians call the El’Burz, and beyond it the highlands of Parthia. These lands are rich beyond counting-the heartland of the Sas-sanid realm. With our combined army-Roman and Khazar-we will wreak great havoc upon those lands.“

Thyatis looked up, seeing a grim smile on the face of the Emperor.

“No Roman army has ever penetrated into Parthia itself,” he said, answering her unspoken question. “It has always been their surety, their fortress we could not breach. It is the purpose of this campaign, but the prize-ah, the prize- is Ctesiphon.”

His hand drew her eye back west, and south, across the mountains that bounded the land of the Two Rivers and the sweep of the plain of Mesopotamia. Hundreds of small notations marked cities, canals, roads. At the south, where the Euphrates and the Tigris drew together, almost touching, was a golden symbol.

“The capital of Persia. The residence of Chrosoes, King of Kings, regnum parthorum. The heart of his realm. A city of nearly a million people, housing all the mechanism and artifice of government. This is your target, if I am to draw you to the bow again.”

Thyatis measured the distances on the map. It was a long way to the enemy capital. “And you desire that I deliver it to you, a neat package wrapped with twine?”

“No,” Galen said, shaking his head, his eyes dark with worry. “For all its importance, Ctesiphon is not well defended. Rome has higher walls and it is nothing to match the defiance of Constantinople. It is a city that can be de fended only by a field army. If we reach it, it will be ours. I want you there, within the city, in secret, when our armies arrive-as insurance.“

He paused, his gaze settling upon her. Thyatis straightened up. There was some odd emotion behind the eyes of the Emperor. After a time he sighed and looked down at the map again. “You are well capable of seizing an opportunity, should it present itself. You cannot do that if you do not know what an opportunity is. This is little known, centurion, but the first wife of the King of Kings, Chrosoes, was a Roman princess-Maria, daughter of Emperor Maurice of the East. Yes, Maurice who was murdered by the usurper Phocas, whom Heraclius then slew. The sons of Chrosoes are claimants to the throne of the Eastern Empire. Indeed”-the Emperor of the West stopped and drew a breath-“with a better claim than Heraclius himself, should the matter be argued in the court of law.”

Thyatis let out a low, soft whistle. Then she clasped her hands behind her back and waited.

Galen rolled the map back up and slid it into the tube of ivory. He met her eyes with a level gaze. -

“Law has nothing to do with this,” he said. “This is a matter of strength and the contest between empires. We will win, because our victory means peace over the whole of the world. I want you, and your men, in Ctesiphon when our armies arrive. If fortune smiles, I want you to take any advantage offered to ensure that the children of the Princess Maria either”-He paused-“do not survive the fall of the city or come into my protection.”

Thyatis felt a chill pass over her. A reckless, political mission with almost no chance of success. Death seemed to hover at her shoulder, whispering in her ear. The Emperor looked away.

“Ah… Augustus, do you mean that the children are not to fall into the hands of the Eastern Emperor or his agents?”

“Yes,” he said, still looking away. “In my hands, or none.”

“Very well.” Her response was toneless and clipped short.

Galen turned back to her, his eyes haunted.

“We will reach Ctesiphon,” he said in a low voice. “I will look for you in the ruins.”

Thyatis sat on a boulder, huge and gray, half covered with dark-green lichen. Pale morning sunlight fell across her, making her red-gold hair glow. Below her, below the huge trees that surrounded the boulder and its clearing, there was a rumbling sound. The Roman army was crossing the bridge at Tauris, heading north with a long train of wagons. Between the giant boles of the trees, she could see regiments passing up the road to the Araxes and the north. The sun, even through the scudding clouds, sparkled on their spear points and gleamed from their helmets. Behind her a roan horse cropped contentedly on the little white and yellow flowers that grew in the clearing. Among the trees, uphill, Nikos and her men were sitting on a mossy slope, sharpening new weapons or repairing armor or mending clothes.

She looked back down, to the valley. The outline of the great camp was still visible, but all of the tents were gone; even the bathhouse had been disassembled and the great copper kettles loaded up on to wagons. She picked at the lacing on her leather leggings. One of the laces made a corner, and she absently played with it, rubbing her forefinger over the sharp edge. The clip-clop sound of a horse came through the dim greenness under the trees. Dahvos, his eye still covered with a patch, rode up.

The young Bulgar looked older, much older than the day Thyatis had found him and his brothers hiding in a thicket. His face was still drawn with the memory of pain, though the wound to his eye would not disfigure him. He seemed to have grown within himself. His armor, a shirt of iron scales chased with silver and cunningly worked to fit like a skin to his broad chest, sat easily on his shoulders. The horse followed his lead, and his eyes were wary, watching the forest.

Thyatis sighed and raised her hand in greeting.

Dahvos pulled up close, looking up at her perched on the boulder. He wore fine kid leather gloves and had acquired a heavy furred cape with a hood to go with the armor and the profusion of weapons slung on the saddle of his horse. His long legs were wrapped in dark-green woolen pants stitched with burgundy thread. He was wearing his hair in a long braid. His face was troubled. “My lady.”

“Lord Dahvos,” Thyatis said, her expression sad. “Is there news of your brother?”

Dahvos shook his head, looking away. Thyatis noted that his jaw was clenched.

“And you? North with the army to meet the KhazarsT

He looked back, his eyes filled with pain and an unexpected anger.