When Tahmina's father brought her dowry down the central thoroughfare in Ctesiphon, the huge crowd of Persian onlookers began murmuring with excitement. Excitement—and deep approval. Even the street urchins knew that the dowry for an imperial wedding was the product of endless negotiations. The dowry which Baresmanas was bringing to the palace was so bizarre that it could only have resulted from the suggestion of the Romans themselves.
The approval of the crowd was profound. Many began chanting the name of the Roman emperor Photius, to whom Tahmina was about to be wed. Here and there, even a few haughty dehgan knights were seen to join in the plaudits.
They had been expecting a caravan, laden with treasure. Enough in the way of gold and silver and gems and jewelry and precious linens to bankrupt the Persian empire. A bitter price to pay for the security of a Roman alliance against the Malwa, but a price that could not be avoided. Not much more than a year before, the Malwa who had devastated Mesopotamia had only been driven off by the efforts and cunning of the Roman general Belisarius. Today, that same Belisarius would demand Persia's fortune in payment.
Instead—
Baresmanas of the Suren, the greatest of the seven great sahrdaran families who constituted Persia's highest nobility, was walking slowly down the thoroughfare. Dressed in his finest regalia, he was simply leading a horse.
Not any horse, of course. Even the street urchins realized that the magnificent black steed which pranced behind its master was the finest in all of Persia—a land which was renowned for its horses. But not even such a horse would bankrupt their empire.
The horse bore three things only.
The first was a saddle. No ceremonial saddle, this, glittering with gems and gold inlay. Instead, it was a heavy lancer's saddle, equipped with the new stirrups which the Romans had recently introduced into cavalry warfare. The finest such saddle imaginable, of course. No village dehgan could have afforded it. But, again, nothing to cause their emperor to raise the taxes.
The second was a bow, held in the small hand of the horse's rider. The finest that Persia's greatest bowyer could construct, of course. But, still, just a bow—to anyone but Persians.
The crowd's approval swelled and swelled, as the meaning of that horse and bow penetrated. Photius! Photius! By the time Baresmanas neared the great aivan in the center of the imperial palace where the wedding was to be held, the great throng was positively roaring. Precious few Persian emperors, in the long history of the land of the Aryans, had ever received such public acclaim.
A lowborn mongrel, the Roman emperor was said to be. So the crowd had heard. A bastard at birth, it was even whispered. But now, seeing the horse and the bow, they understood the truth.
Photius! Photius!
At the entrance to the aivan, Baresmanas assisted the third of the horse's burdens in her descent. The task was a bit difficult, not because his daughter Tahmina was a weakling, but simply because her wedding costume was heavy and cumbersome.
When she was securely planted on her feet, Baresmanas leaned over and whispered. "So. Who was right? I, or your mother?"
Tahmina's smile was faintly discernable through the veil. "I never doubted you, father. Even before I read the book you gave me."
Baresmanas started slightly. "Already? All of it? Herodotus?"
As Baresmanas handed the reins of the horse to one of his chief dehgans, Tahmina straightened. "All of it," she insisted. "My Greek has become almost perfect."
A moment's hesitation, before the girl's innate honesty surfaced. "Well . . . For reading, anyway. I think my accent's still pretty horrible."
Side by side, father and daughter walked slowly toward the aivan. The entrance to the aivan was lined with soldiers. Persian dehgans on the left, Roman cataphracts on the right.
"Then you understand," said Baresmanas. He did not have to gesture at the chanting crowd to make his meaning clear.
"Yes, father."
Baresmanas nodded solemnly. "Learn from this, daughter. Whatever prejudices you may still have about Romans, abandon them now. You will be their empress, before the day is done, and they are a great people worthy of you. Never doubt that for a moment. Greater than us, in many ways."
He studied the soldiers standing at their posts of honor alongside the aivan's entrance. To the Persians, he gave merely a glance. Baresmanas' dehgans were led by Merena, the most honorable of their number.
But it was the leader of the Roman contingent which was the focus of the sahrdaran's attention. An odd-looking soldier, in truth. Unable to even stand without the aid of crutches. The man's name was Agathius, and he had lost his legs at the battle of the Nehar Malka where Belisarius destroyed a Malwa army.
Agathius was a lowborn man, even by Roman standards. But he was counted a duke, now, by Persians and Romans alike. Merena's own daughter had become his spouse.
"A thousand years ago," Baresmanas said harshly. "A time that we ourselves have half-forgotten, daughter, but they have not. A thousand years ago, one of their finest historians explained to his people the Aryan way of raising a manchild."
"Teach him horsemanship, and archery," murmured Tahmina. "And teach him to despise all lies."
"That is the Emperor of Rome's pledge to you, daughter, and to all of the Aryans," said Baresmanas. "A boy not yet eleven years old. Do you understand?"
His daughter nodded. She turned her head slightly, studying the cheering crowd. Photius! Photius! "I am so astonished," she whispered.
Baresmanas chuckled. "Why? That a half-Greek, half-Egyptian bastard whoreson would understand us so well?"
She shook her head, rippling the veil.
"No, father. I am just surprised—"
Photius! Photius! They were entering the blessed coolness of the aivan, the huge open-air entrance hall so distinctive of Persian architecture. The soldiers began closing in behind them.
A whisper:
"It had never occurred to me before this moment. Not once. That I might be able to love my husband."
Inside the huge aiwan, the Roman empress regent was scowling. Of course, there was nothing new about that. Theodora had been scowling since she arrived in Persia. For any number of reasons.
One. She hated to travel.
Two. She especially hated to travel in the desert.
Three. She didn't much like Persians. (A minor point, this. Theodora, as a rule, didn't much like anybody.)
Four. She had now been standing in her heavy official robes for well over an hour. Hadn't these stupid Persians ever heard of chairs? Idiots! Even the Aryan Emperor Khusrau was standing.
Five . . .
"I hate being proved wrong," she hissed.
"Shhh," hissed Antonina in return. "This is supposed to be a solemn occasion. And your scowl is showing, even through the veil."
"And that's another thing," grumbled Theodora. "How is a woman supposed to breathe with this monstrous thing covering her face? Especially in the heat of late afternoon?"
The veil rippled slightly, as she turned her head. "At least they have enough sense to hold public ceremonies in this—this—what's it called, anyway?"
Belisarius, standing on Theodora's other side, leaned over and whispered. "It's known as an aivan. Clever, isn't it? Of course, it'd never work in our climate. Not in the winter, anyway."
For all its majestic size—the aivan was a hundred and forty feet long and eighty feet wide; at its highest, the arching vault was a hundred feet above the floor—the structure was open to the elements. The entrance through which Baresmanas and Tahmina were proceeding served as an enormous doorway. The style of architecture was unique to the Persians, and produced a chamber which was much cooler than either the outdoors or an enclosed room.
Theodora was now scowling at Belisarius. "Oh, all right. Go ahead and say it. You were right and I was wrong."
Belisarius said nothing. He knew better than to gloat at Theodora's expense. Not even the insects perched on the walls were that stupid.
His diplomacy did not seem to assuage the empress regent's temper. "I hate being wrong," she repeated sourly. "And I still would have preferred taking the treasure. I can see gold. Can even count it with my own fingers."
Belisarius decided that a response would not qualify, precisely, as "gloating." True, Theodora wasn't fond of disagreement, either. But the woman was more than shrewd enough to have learned—long since—to accept contrary advice without punishing the adviser. Listen to it, at least.
"We'd have wound up losing the treasure anyway, soon enough," he murmured. "Bankrupt Persia, and then what? The Persians go looking for treasure to replace it. The nearest of which is in Roman territory."
He paused, listening to the chants of the huge crowd outside the palace. Photius! Photius! Then: "Better this way."
Theodora made no reply, beyond the inevitable refrain. "I hate being proved wrong."
Photius was standing alone at the center of the aivan, as befitted his manly status. And that he was a man, no one could deny, even if he was only ten years old. He was getting married, wasn't he?
The Emperor of Rome was not pleased at that new found status. He had been perfectly content being a mere boy.
Well . . .
His eyes moved to the cluster of Roman scholars standing amidst the small mob of Persian priests packed against the far wall of the aivan. His tutors, those. Even at the distance, Photius thought their expressions could curdle milk. Greek philosophers, grammarians, rhetoricians and pedants did notappreciate being forced to mingle with Persian mobads and herbads. Bunch of heathen witch doctors. Traffickers in superstition and magic. Peddlers of—
The emperor's eyes moved away. The first trace of a smile came to his face since he'd awakened that morning. As an official "man," maybe he wouldn't have to put up with quite as much nattering from his tutors.
When his eyes fell on the small group of his bodyguards, the smile widened a bit. Then, seeing the vulgar grin on the face of Julian, the chief of his bodyguards, Photius found himself struggling not to grin himself.
He would have preferred it, of course, if his long-time nanny Hypatia could have been present also. Damn the implied questioning of his manly state!
Sigh. But the only women which the stiff Aryans would allow at such a public gathering were the bride and her immediate female relatives. Darkly, Photius suspected the Aryans would have dispensed with them also, if it weren't for the simple fact that—push come to shove—females were sadly necessary for the rite of marriage.
Now, catching the first hint of motion at the aivan entrance, Photius' eyes were drawn thither. His about-to-be-bride was finally entering.
Tahmina's mother, he knew, would not be coming. Her presence was customary at such events, but the woman claimed to have contracted some mysterious and incapacitating disease. Baresmanas had made fulsome apologies for her absence in advance, which the Roman delegation had accepted graciously. Even though not one of those Romans—nor, for that matter, any member of the Persian nobility—doubted for an instant the real nature of the disease. Incapacitating, yes; mysterious, no. Such is the nature of the ancient illness called bigotry.
Her daughter? Of the Suren, the purest blood of the Aryans short of the emperor himself! Married to—to—
The mongrel Roman whoreson bastard sighed. Great. Just great. My wife will hold her nose whenever I'm in the same room with her.
Tahmina was much nearer, now. Despite himself, Photius was fascinated to see her move. Even under the heavy Persian robes, he could sense the lithe and athletic figure. Tahmina was fifteen years old. Just old enough—quite unlike Photius himself—that she was beginning to bring her body under control. There was no gawkiness at all in that easy, gliding progress.
Maurice, his father's cataphract, had seen the girl before. Maurice had told him that she was extraordinarily beautiful. For a moment, Photius was cheered by the thought.
Only for a moment. Great. Just great. I'll have the most beautiful wife in the world. And she'll still be holding her nose whenever I'm around.
Then, finally, his eyes met those of his approaching bride. Between the heavy veil and the headdress, Tahmina's dark eyes and the bridge of her nose were all that Photius could see of her face.
The Emperor of Rome froze.
Tahmina's own eyes were fixed upon him. They never moved once, in the time it took for her to finally take her place next to him.
Beautiful eyes, of course. As clear and bright as moonshine, for all their darkness. Brown eyes, technically, but of such a deep hue they almost seemed black. So much, Photius had expected. But he had not expected the warmth he saw in them. Like embers, glowing.
And he certainly hadn't expected to hear the whisper, just as the ceremony finally began. In heavily accented but perfect Greek.
"Relax, husband. You will like me. I promise."
And he did relax, even if the ceremony itself was long, and tedious, and required him to follow a labyrinth of carefully rehearsed gestures and words. Photius, too, had read Herodotus. And so he knew the creed of the Aryans.
Teach them horsemanship, and archery.
And teach them to despise all lies.
Hours later, in the midst of the great festivities which were spilling all through the public areas of the palace—all through the entire city, in fact—Emperor Khusrau Anushirvan sidled up to Belisarius.
"That went supremely well, I thought."
Belisarius nodded. For once, his smile was not crooked at all. It was every bit as wide and open as the emperor's own.
"I thought so, too." They were still standing in the aivan. Through the great opening, the last colors of sunset could be seen. Belisarius glanced at the small door which led to the private quarters of the imperial entourage. Photius and Tahmina had been provided with a suite in those quarters, for their use until the imperial Roman delegation returned to Constantinople some days hence. The new husband and bride had just passed through that door, not more than ten minutes earlier.
Belisarius' smile now assumed its more familiar, crooked shape. "Of course, I'm not sure Photius is still of that opinion. He seemed cheerful enough earlier. But now—" The Roman general chuckled. "He looked for all the world like a man being led to his own execution."
Khusrau grinned. "Nonsense. I raised the girl, you know, as much as Baresmanas did. She is every bit as intelligent as she is comely. I assure you that your stepson will soon be at ease."
The Emperor of Iran and non-Iran paused. "Well . . . Not at ease, precisely."
Belisarius' eyes widened a bit. "He's only ten years old, Your Majesty."
Khusrau's face bore an expression of supreme smugness. "Romans. Such a primitive folk."
After his servants dressed him in his bedclothes, Photius nervously entered the sleeping chamber and found Tahmina already waiting for him. She was lazing on the bed, wearing her own nightgown. As soon as Photius entered, she smiled and patted the bed next to her. "Come, husband," she said softly.
"I'm only ten years old," Photius managed to choke out.
"Relax, I say," murmured his wife. She arose and led him gently to the bed. "Lie down."
Photius did as he was commanded. He could not imagine doing otherwise. For all of Tahmina's poise and demure demeanor—how does she manage that, wearing nothing but a silk gown?—her hands upon him were strong and firm. She was bigger than he was, true. But it was more the certainty of her intentions, and the sheer beauty of her person—Maurice had been right, been right, been right—that drove him to obey.
It seemed but an instant before she had him stretched out on the bed, herself alongside, and was gently caressing his little body. Slowly, Photius felt the rigidity leaving his muscles.
"I'm only ten years old," he repeated. This time, more by way of an apology than an expression of terror.
"Of course you are," murmured Tahmina. Gently, she kissed his forehead. "Relax, husband." She raised her head and smiled serenely down upon him, while her hands continued their caresses.
"You will age. Soon enough, be sure of it. And when the time comes, you will not be anxious at all. You will know everything. About me. About you. It will be so easy."
Photius thought she had the most beautiful voice he had ever heard. He felt like he was drowning in the darkness of her eyes.
The rest of the night, until they fell asleep, was a time of wonder for him. Wonder of the body, partly. Ten years old is not too young for everything, after all, and Tahmina was as sensuous as she was beautiful. Her caresses felt more wonderful than anything Photius could imagine.
But, mostly, it was wonder of the mind. He had never imagined it. Not once. That he might come to love his wife.
Within an hour after awakening, the next morning, wonder turned to certainty. Ten years old was not, after all, too young for a man to understand that pleasures of the mind outweigh pleasures of the body.
His wife turned out to be a genius, too. Such, at least, was Photius' firm conviction. Who else would know so many ways to thwart officious tutors?
"And another thing," she explained, nestling his head into her shoulder. "When they start nattering about your grammar—"
For the first time, Photius assumed the proper mantle of husbandly authority.
"Hush, wife!" he commanded. He lifted his head, summoned his courage—Emperor of Rome!—and planted a kiss on his wife's cheek. After the evening and night, all those hours, it came almost easily to him.
Tahmina laughed. "See? Not long!"
Some time later, again, Tahmina was gazing down upon him serenely.
"You will have concubines," she said softly, "but I intend to see to it that you do not spend much time with them."
Photius cleared his throat. "Uh, actually, concubines are not permitted under Christian law." A bit guiltily: "Not supposed to be, anyway."
Tahmina's eyes grew very round. "Really? How odd!"
The beautiful eyes narrowed a bit. "I will be converting, of course, since a Christian empire must have a Christian empress." Narrowed further. "I foresee myself a devoted convert." Slits. "A religious fanatic, in fact."
Photius gurgled like a babe. "S'okay with me!"
"It better be," growled his wife. A moment later, she was giving him a foretaste of the punishment which awaited Christian sinners.
And so the servants found them. The servants, and Julian.
The prim and proper servants frowned, needless to say. Such unseemly conduct for royalty! But Julian, scarred veteran of many battlefields, was immensely pleased. A Persian empress tickling a Roman emperor, he thought, boded well for the future. Perhaps Belisarius was right, and the thousand year war was finally over.
That still left the Malwa, of course. But that thought brought nothing but a sneer to the cataphract's face. Anything was child's play, compared to Persian dehgans on the field of battle.