The Persian boy did not flinch, though now Galen’s eyes widened in understanding.

Ah, the Western Emperor thought sadly, then I did not win the throw.

“Would his murder sate you?” the Western Emperor said in a voice of steel, his hand on Heraclius’ shoulder. “Did Phocas’ death make you sleep better at night when you became Emperor?”

“Yes,” Heraclius growled, pushing Galen’s hand away. “There will be an end to this struggle. A clean break with the past. Only the Queen Shirin will remain, once this sapling is cut down, and she I have promised to Theodore.”

Galen’s eyes narrowed and he stepped in front of the Persian boy, turning to face Heraclius squarely. The Eastern Emperor stepped back, regarding him with a calculating expression.

“And then,” Galen said, “your brother would rule the Persian lands, with a Persian Queen at his side?”

“She is beautiful, I have heard,” Heraclius said, hooking his thumbs into the broad leather belt around his waist. “She bears strong sons. But Persian? No… she is, what?

Armenian? It does not matter. She will be a fitting prize for my brother.“

Galen turned, his eyes seeking out Theodore. The young man was grinning, his face flushed with the prospect of a crown of laurels for himself. The Western Emperor’s eyes were like flint, and Theodore stepped back, suddenly pale. Galen reached to his belt with his right hand and drew out a short, broad-bladed knife. All around the room, men froze at the sound of metal rasping on metal. The Varangians made to rush forward, their axes raised, but then they stopped in confusion. They could not lay hands upon the Emperor of the West.

“A young man should have a peaceful household,” Galen said in a loud voice so that all in the chamber could hear him, “not one stained by blood. This man before you is a Roman, born of a Roman woman. He is the grandson of an Emperor of Rome, he called Maurice, who was murdered by the degenerate Phocas. He is the last of that line, the son of an Emperor himself.”

Galen put his left hand on the hand of the Persian boy, raising it up over his head. “By the right of blood, this man should be your Emperor. By the right of blood, he should rule both Persia and the Eastern Empire as one undivided state.”

Heraclius made to exclaim at this, but Galen caught his eye and the Eastern Emperor stilled, though his face was thunderous with anger.

“But rule is in the hand of the man who rules. It is the responsibility of the pater, the head of the household, to obtain order in his house, to see that civil cordiality is maintained. This, by ancient usage among the people of Rome, extends even to the brother of a brother. I would not have my brother’s brother have a household filled with anger and rancor.”

Galen’s left arm stiffened and the flat-bladed dagger sank into Kavadh-Siroes’ side, sliding sideways between his ribs.

The boy turned dreadful eyes upon Galen and clutched at the blood oozing around the knife. The Western Emperor pulled the dagger out, the blade making a popping sound as it sucked free. Kavadh-Siroes’ eyes grew even wider and he gasped. Galen lay the boy down gently onto the pavement. Blood spattered on the tiny blue tiles. The Western Emperor bent over and kissed the boy on both cheeks. Breath hissed between the boy’s teeth, then failed.

“Good-bye, cousin,” Galen said, and stood up. He wiped the blood from the knife on the dark-purple hem of his robe. He looked around at the stunned faces of the Eastern officers, at Theodore, at Heraclius.

“This is the duty of an Emperor,” he said, his loud clear voice dripping with acid. “Now there is peace, both in your house, brother, and in the world. And your hands”-he held forth his own, spotted with blood-“are clean.”

Theodore looked away, unable to meet Galen’s eyes.

Dwyrin sat on a soot-blackened brick platform near the public gardens at the edge of the palaces. A statue had been raised on the platform before the Romans came. All that was left were.the stumps of the legs and the head, rolled across the street against the front of an abandoned tavern. The thaumaturgic cohort camped in the gardens themselves, which had escaped the great fire. The sound of axes cutting wood filled the air. The Hibernian’s heels kicked at the bricks. Zoe sat next to him, neither close nor far. Odenathus was lying on the bricks too, one leg crossed over the other knee. The day was gray, the clouds had not departed.

“What now?” Dwyrin wondered aloud. He fingered a heavy string of gold coins that he had draped around his neck. Holes had been punched in each coin so that they could be carried easily. He had new boots too, taken from the house of some well-to-do Persian who did not need them anymore. Zoe had acquired so many lengths of silk

The Shadow’of Ararat and linen and fine cotton weave that she had almost doubled in size.

“What now?” Odenathus said with a wry tone in his voice, raising his head up to look at the Hibernian. “Now you go home, to Rome, and another twenty years of this.” He waved his hand airily at the ruined city.

Dwyrin grimaced, fingering his identity disk, still on its leather thong around his neck. He turned to Zoe, catching her by surprise. She seemed sad, but she gave him. a cynical smile.

“And you, leader of five? Do you and Odenathus stay too?”

“No,” she said, shaking her long braids, “we go home to the house of my aunt, in the city of Silk. She sent us to the Legions to learn, not to stay. Now that the war is over, we’ll go home and serve in the army of the city.”

Dwyrin sighed. He had feared that it would be so. Zoe reached over and squeezed his hand.

“You might be stationed in Syria,” she said, her voice hopeful. “Then we can come visit you at the great legion camp of Denaba. It’s only a few days’ ride from our city.”

“I suppose,” he said, feeling his throat constrict. “I would like to see Palmyra. It must be beautiful.”

“It is,” Zoe said, her face lit by a smile. “It is the most beautiful and gracious city in the world.”

“MacDonald!” Colonna stamped out into the square, his voice rattling the shutters. “You’ve duty. Get your lazy barbarian backside over here! And you too, little miss!”

Dwyrin grinned at Zoe and they slid off of the platform. Odenathus got up more slowly and brushed the sand and soot off his trousers. Then he clambered down and jogged across the square to join them.

Galen stood in a small stone room, his arms crossed over his chest. Around him, the walls were blackened by fire and the roof had cracked and fallen in. His boots were muddy and his cloak stained with the tenacious black mud that had been birthed from ash and rain. Two of his Germans grunted as they turned heavy blocks of cut stone over.

“Are you sure of this?” The Western Emperor’s voice was tinged with sadness.

“Aye, lord,” the chief of the Germans said, his blond beard smeared with soot. “One of the palace geld-men we caught knew the ring and the band of silver.”

The German reached down and gingerly picked up a withered, fire-blackened limb from among the debris on the floor. A partially melted silver band clung to the arm, and a gob of gold clung to one skeletal finger.

“A woman with dark hair, my lord, wearing the signs of the Princess Shirin. Dead, I think.”

The arm fell back onto the muck on the tile floor with a rattle. Galen turned away, looking around the room. The door, too, had burned away, but he could see the bite marks of axes on its outer face.

‘There was a struggle?“

The German nodded, pushing one of the other bodies aside with his boot. The body, even burned and withered, showed a thick gash in the sternum. In the mud, the Emperor could see the glint of broken rings of iron mail and the edge of a sword.

“Some fought, but then they fell and the others-the women-were murdered.”