“I know,” Heraclius said with a grim look on his face, “your generals will have to be careful and draw him southward with the promise of battle. One legion of Eastern troops and one of Western will be coming up the coast from

Alexandria to join you. If you can keep Shahin’s attention and fall back to meet them, then you will have the fighting men to fight him on even terms. But… that is not the plan either.“

Malichus and Adathus looked up from the map in concern.

Heraclius took a deep breath, steeling himself for the next words. “By the time you would come to that battle, our armies will have engaged and defeated Chrosoes’ main army somewhere between Samosata and Tauris. Then we will turn south to assail the Persian capital. Shahin will know our movements by then for sure, so he will be forced to turn back to defend their heartland. When that time comes, your forces, and those of the two Legions that have come up from Egypt, will be well placed to press him as he retreats back across the Euphrates.”

Now the two border chieftains glanced at each other and smiled. An army in retreat would be easy prey for the swift horsemen and raiders that their principalities commanded. There would be rich loot to be had as well from the fleeing baggage train. At little cost or even risk if the Persians could be denied battle…

From his chair, Galen watched the by-play between the two ambassadors, and saw their native caution warring with naked avarice.

Adathus pursed his lips and stroked his mustaches with a long, olive-toned, finger. “This plan has promise, great lord. Still, it is risky if Shahin should managed to trap one of our forces and bring us to battle. Our peoples are not great in number and we husband our fighting men carefully-what assurances can you offer me that the Legions from Egypt will arrive on time? What restitution will you make us for the losses as the Persians march through our lands?“

Heraclius fought to keep his face impassive. The haggling had begun. He nodded solemnly. “War is a terrible business, and Palmyra, in particular, may suffer greatly. To this end I propose that in recognition of the aid and assistance you give us, as you have given in the past, the Queen shall be proclaimed Tribune for her part in this defense of the East.“

The eyebrow of the Palmyrene ambassador inched upward in surprise. Within the hierarchy of the Empire, a Tribune stood just below a Caesar in rule, only two steps from the Purple itself. Such honors were not bestowed lightly, and never upon the head of an allied state. The Eastern Emperor is both tremendously assured and in a grave situation, he thought, to make such an offer.

Heraclius turned to the Nabatean, his, face serious. “Our friends in Nabatea have long stood by our side as well. Your state handles the vast majority of the sea trade from Axum and Sinope, your ports on the Sinus Arabicus are thronged with ships carrying our goods and the goods of others, destined for Rome and Constantinople. Your frontier patrols restrain the nomads of Arabia. We have been remiss in not acknowledging your aid and assistance. It seems to us, if you join in this endeavor, that Petra and Bostra should be treated as Roman cities henceforth.”

Now the Nabatean roused himself from his languid air of detachment. The alliance between Bostra and Palmyra was °ld› and loosely fitting, but traditionally the Northerners had taken the lead in dealing with the Empire. The Nabateans had long been more than content to count the coin that spilled into their coffers from the vast flow of trade between the Empire, India, and distant Serica. Still, as an allied state, they were forced to pay a hefty toll when the goods actually passed into Imperial lands. Were Bostra and Petra to be proclaimed urbes, true Roman cities, then nearly a third of that toll would be removed. Great sums were to be made from such a change in tax status.

Malichus nodded involuntarily.

Heraclius smiled genially. “Let us drink, then, friends, and discuss the more mundane details of such a joint effort.”

The moon rose huge and yellow-orange over the spires and towers of the city. Galen stood on an embrasure of the palace overlooking the waters of the Propontis. To the east, across the band of dark water, he could make out the twinkle of bonfires on the farther shore. A cool wind blew out of the north from the great open waters of the Sea of Darkness. He turned to his companion.

“A nice ploy with the desert chieftains,” he said in a quiet voice.

Heraclius nodded somberly, leaning on the still-warm stone of the crenellation. Even in the soft light of the moon, Galen could see that his brother Emperor was troubled.

“I think that it will work as we have planned,” the Eastern Emperor said. “Their greed will lead them to battle and defeat at Shahin’s hands.”

“Do you doubt your stratagem now? Do you wish to discard it? We can still split off the Sixth Gemina and enough Germans to make another Legion-strength auxillia band to prop them up.”

Heraclius pushed away from the wall and hooked his thumbs into his belt. “No, we are committed. I do not want to face the Boar with twenty thousand fewer men than I could. Sending those troops to fight in Syria would be a waste. Besides”-and now the Emperor smiled-“both of those cities are rich enough to take the loss.”

Galen frowned, tapping his fingers on the stone. “Petra and Palmyra have been allies of the Empire for hundreds of years-are you sure you want to expend them in such a manner? It does not seem particularly honorable.”

Heraclius laughed, a grim sound. “That bastard Chrosoes was surely honorable when he violated the treaty and attacked me five years ago. This is not an honorable war, my friend, this is survival. I will repay him insult for insult. I am the Emperor of the East.”

“True,” Galen said, shaking his head a little at the venom in the Eastern Emperor’s voice, “but what of afterward. when we have won? The desert frontier will still have to be defended-and the men of these cities will be dead.“

“There is nothing to defend against,” Heraclius said, dismissing the subject. “Chrosoes is the enemy. He will pay for his treachery and his pretensions to my throne.”

Galen was silent, balancing the good of the Empire as whole against the devastation that would be visited upon the distant cities in his mind. He was still standing by the wall, looking out on the dark bulk of Asia, beyond the moonlit waters, when Heraclius went back inside. lBQHOHQHQMQMQMQH()HOM()H()M()W()M()H()H()M()MQH()MOHQMQH()f]

THE VIA APPIA, SOUTH OF ROME H

The moon rode lower now, a great orange melon in the sky. Clouds obscured part of its face and cast the road into a deep gloom. Maxian nudged his horse forward to keep up with the lead rider. The clip-clop of the horses hooves echoed from the metaled surface of the Via Appia, but the sound was swallowed by the hedgerows that bounded the road on either side. Beyond the hedges, unkempt fields were scattered with small buildings and raised mounds. Almost three miles behind the Prince, the guard-towers of the city wall at the Porta Appia could barely be made out, marked by gleaming lanterns and torches. The guide halted and raised his lantern. A black opening yawned on the right side of the road, marked by two pale white columns. The lantern lowered as the man leaned down from his horse to make out the inscription on the pillar.

An owl hooted softly in a nearby tree, then there was a rustle of leaves as it took flight.

Maxian, his face shrouded by a deep hood, fingered a gold coin. It was a double aureus, with the face of his brother on one side. Freshly minted, almost sharp-edged. He sighed and put the coin back in the pocket of his tunic. At his side, the old Nabatean laughed softly.