Under the hot sun, the city lay somnolent in the late afternoon. Maxian restrained himself from seeing the city, knowing that eddies of corrosive power were lapping even around this temple. The problem presented by Tarsus, or his brother, occupied his mind. How could he defeat this curse upon the city if he could not tell anyone else? He was far too weak to break the spell, or spells, that anchored it to the city. He needed powerful help. Another sorcerer, someone who was a master of the art, someone who could supplement his own meager skills.

Another thought occurred to him as he sat with his back against the cool marble pillar. He needed help that was not Roman. By constant vigilance he held the curse from his own mind and body with the Shield of Athena, but in some way it was a part of him as well. He could feel a vestige of it slipping and sliding through his arteries and veins.

Another Roman wizard, brought into such an enterprise, could well be overwhelmed and destroyed-like the seri-canum had been consumed-before he could defend himself. The Prince rubbed the stubble that had come during the last few days. I need to shave, he remarked to himself. And I need to find a foreigner who is strong enough to help me…

Feeling vastly better that he had at least the beginnings of a plan, he left the temple, striding down into the narrow streets and alleys of the Subura district. lg.0MQHQMQHQMQMOM()HQMQMQMQHQHQMQMQMQM0MQH()WOH()MQa|

THE GREAT PALACE OF CONSTANTINE, THE EASTERN CAPITAL

The flood of servants ebbed back at last, leaving the small dining chamber on the top floor of Heraclius’ palace at last inhabited only by himself, Theodore, the Western Emperor Galen, and the ambassadors from Naba-tea and Palmyra. Heraclius poured the latest round of wine himself, careful to avoid spilling more of the fine Miletean vintage onto the thick carpets that filled the room. All of the diners were well full, having demolished a nearly endless series of courses. Galen, as seemed to be his wont, had eaten moderately and drunk even less. His dry wit, and Western accent, had greatly amused the two ambassadors. Adathus, the Palmyrene, leaned over and picked two perfect grapes from the remains of the bunch. His aquiline face was creased by a slight smile. His garments were rich, embroidered with tiny jewels and pearls. His hands were well adorned with rings, and the brocade of his shirt was an intricate wonder. Beside him the Nabatean, Malichus Obo-das, seemed plain in comparison, though Malichus was dressed in an elegant sea-green silk robe and girdle. Both men had spent vast sums upon their attire, but was that not expected when one visited the court of the Emperor of the East?

“So,” Adathus said, “what blessing brings us the attention of the two most powerful men in the world?” His words were flattering, but his eyes were not for they calmly considered both of the Romans before him. Galen was attired in his customary costume; the field garb of a legion commander: white tunic with a red cape, a heavy leather belt, and lashed-up boots. Heraclius much the same, though he had forgone the cape and settled for a tunic of heavier material, edged with j^old. As the Palmyrene had expected, both were calm and possessed of a tremendous confidence. Even with the sad state of the Eastern capital on this day, both of the ambassadors could count ships in the harbor and see that strength was flowing to the Roman hand.

Heraclius helped himself to a peeled apricot dusted with sugar. He took a bite and savored the play of flavors on his tongue. Then he put it aside on the little silver tray by his dining couch.

“The wind is turning in the East,” he said, his voice calm. “In short time the Persians will be blown back to Ctesiphon by it. The barbarians who are camped before my walls will be destroyed or chased back to their grasslands. The Boar will be hunted down with long spears and skewered. These things will transpire, regardless of what we discuss this evening.” r Malichus rubbed his sharp chin with a well-trimmed fingernail. “If this is so, and I do not doubt it, great lord, why summon us to your presence?”

“We intend more than the simple chasing off of the Persians,” answered Heraclius. “We intend to deal them such a defeat as they have not suffered in almost a thousand years. We have the men and the will. All we need are the pieces put into the proper motion. For that, frankly, we need the aid of both of your states.”

Adathus stole a look at his companion, then arched an eyebrow, saying: “Even now the armies of both our cities, as allies of Eternal Rome, have forestalled the advance of the Persians from Antioch southward. We protect Damascus and thence the road to Alexandria. What more can we do to bring about the defeat of the Persians?”

Heraclius nodded in agreement. “This is so. However, the Persian army at Antioch will soon be marching south, intending to capture Palestine and then Egypt. There will be battle in Syria Coele somewhere. Our plans are already in motion, as are Shahr-Baraz’s. It is vital that the Persian army in Antioch remains south of the city, preferably diverted to a siege of Damascus or some other strong city. This state of affairs need not pertain for long, no more than a few months. This will give us time to complete our part of the evolution.”

Adathus leaned back in his couch, his brow furrowed in thought.

“And what evolution would that be?” he asked, clearly suspicious.

Heraclius rang a spoon against the pewter goblet he had been drinking from. Servants entered the chamber and cleared away the platters and other dishes. The last servant gathered up the dining cloth that had covered the table used to serve the four men. Beneath it, the surface of the wooden table was inlaid with a map of the Eastern Empire in tiny, carefully crafted, mosaic.

“The Persian armies are four,” Heraclius began, using his dining tine as a pointer. First he pointed to the narrow strip of blue between the Mare Aegeaum and the Sea of Darkness. “Shahr-Baraz stands across the Propontis in my Summer House with a swift force of cavalry. Though he daily bites, his thumb at me, he holds no more land there than the width of his lances.”

The tine moved south and east, across the brown shape of Anatolia, to the eastern edge of the Mare Internum, where the Levantine coast ran up to meet the body of Asia Minor.

“The nearest true Persian army is at Antioch, under the command of his cousin, Shahin. This is the army that will threaten Egypt as soon as it can. Beyond those two armies, the main force of the Persians is at Ctesiphon, under the command of the Shahanshah himself. A fourth army is currently in the uttermost East, campaigning along the Oxus.

“We desire to defeat the Persians one at a time, so we have let rumor slip that our army will sail north from Constantinople and land at Trapezus.” The tine slid north across Anatolia to the verge of the Sea of Darkness, and then east along that coastline to the mountains that ran down to the dark waters. “From there that army will advance south through Armenia and Luristan, to threaten the Persian heartland. To counter this, the Boar will take his horsemen back east, across Anatolia, to join up with Chrosoes’ army from the heartland.”

The Palmyrene broke in, eyeing the map. “But that is not your true plan then.”

“No.” Heraclius smiled and pointed to the plain of Issus to the northwest of Antioch. “Our army will land here instead and march inland to Samosata. We will be between the Boar, to the north in the mountains, and the main Persian army to the south at Ctesiphon. But our situation will be very precarious if Shahin and his army at Antioch are not already engaged in campaign.”

“So we are to occupy their attention,” Malichus commented, frowning. “Our armies are equipped for border skirmishes, for fighting bandits and policing the desert. We do not have the heavy infantry or horsemen to face Shahin and his clibanari. They would roll right over us in the first standup fight.”