"Is: ismyson healthy? Is he strong?"

Rufio remained immobile, staring into the space above the Emperor's head. He said nothing.

"Answer me!" Heraclius hissed in rage, his hand scrabbling on the tabletop, seeking a weapon.

"He lives," said Rufio at last, after a long silence. "There is every hope that he will grow strong and hale and straight."

"Enough: " Heraclius looked away. Even my blood is corrupt. I am cursed by the gods.

"I will see the Empress on another day," said the Emperor, and put the letter aside, unread. "What is this other?"

Rufio unfolded the letter and placed it before the Emperor. Heraclius frowned, seeing the stiffness in the man's fingers. Where the first petition had inspired love, this one roused disgust or hate in his guard captain. Heraclius caught Rufio's eye and cocked his head in question.

"What is this?"

"The Lord Theodore," said Rufio, his jaw clenched. "requests your permission to send another physician to attend you. This one is a master of the Order of Asklepios."

"How has this transpired?" Heraclius was outraged. "What is he still doing within the city? He should be on his way to take up residence in Ctesiphon by now." The Emperor's hand was shaking and he pressed it firmly on the tabletop, trying to make it stop.

Rufio nodded stiffly, then said, "So you directed him, my lord, but he has refused to go. He claims that he loves you too much to abandon you here, while you are still sick." The guard captain seemed about to say more, but did not.

"Foolishness! If he waits here, the Persian dihquans will gather themselves together and reestablish order and control over the land between the two rivers. Bring him to me immediately."

Rufio nodded, then turned and strode to the nearest guardsmen. Heraclius gnawed on his knuckle, his thoughts occupied with incipient fury. Sometimes his reckless brother taxed him too much. Something was going on behind his back, too. He was not so far gone to miss the unspoken meaning in Rufio's words. If the Prince were loitering about the capital while his brother lay sick, Theodore would be prey to all kinds of conniving sycophants and intriguers. It had been far too long since the Emperor had appeared in public. Rumors would be rife in the markets and among the padded seats in the Hippodrome that he was dead, or mad, or worse. An ambitious and healthy brother could easily see an opportunity in such a time.

And, growled Heraclius to himself, he cannot stand Martina: I must do something.

"You will take yourself immediately to Tyre on the coast of Phoenicia with the greater part of the fleet and four Legions. There is already a Legion at Damascus that can join you."

Heraclius bit out the words, glowering at his brother, who stood before him on the terrace, a little stunned. The Emperor did not fail to note that Theodore was looking very smart today in a crisp red robe with purple edging, golden boots, and a polished breastplate worked with eagles and a laurel crown. He had trimmed his beard close to his jaw and his hair was carefully arranged. A striking image of a modern officer fresh from victory. Very Western, too. And so strong looking on those fit tan legs:

"With these men at your command, plus those local auxiliaries that prove trustworthy, you will establish direct Imperial control over those lands that had previously been the domain of the rulers of Palmyra and Nabatea. You will place garrisons in each city and provide administrators, governors, and judges in replacement of those that are already there."

Theodore blanched at the cold tone in the Emperor's voice.

"But: " He stammered, then paused and gained control of his voice. "I was to go to Persia? What about all our plans to rebuild Ctesiphon as the capital of a Roman Asia?"

Heraclius looked over at Rufio, though it cost him blinding pain to do so.

"Who: " He gasped. "Who now stands in command of the army at Antioch?"

"Vahan, my lord. The Armenian."

"I remember him." Heraclius thought for a moment. "Send new orders to him. He is to take the five Legions under his command east to ensure that we retain control of the roads to Ctesiphon and the lands thereabout. My brother, after securing the cities of the Arabian frontier, may join him. Vahan will be proclaimed governor of Persia for the nonce."

Theodore made an abortive half-bleat of outrage. He had just been demoted from the prize he had so greedily accepted, replaced by a mercenary from a barbarian nation. The Prince made to speak again. The Emperor turned, his face bilious with fatigue. He jabbed a gray finger at his brother.

"You. You will see that the Empire directly taxes the cities of the Decapolis. Their armies were shattered at Emesa or ground to mealpaste at Palmyra, so most of your work is already done. Be quick about it, too. You will leave the capital within the week."

"But: " Theodore spread his hands in an entreaty. "I've brought another physician:"

"Out," snarled Heraclius and he turned away, breathing heavily, and refused to look at his brother. "I've enough of your charlatans." Seven times the mummers had leaned over him, their fat faces sweating, using their powers to heal him. Seven times they had failed. Who could stand against the displeasure of the gods?

Rufio took the Prince by the arm, gently, and escorted him to the arched doorway that led into the palace. After a moment, Theodore shook his arm free and glared at the scarred guard captain. Rufio met his gaze with equanimity and after a moment the Prince stormed off, his cloak snapping in the air behind him. When he was gone, Rufio pursed his lips in thought. The Emperor was very tired and would need to be taken to bed soon. It was hurting the State for him to be so weak.

"Sviod, come here."

The strapping young Scandian with long blond braids who had helped carry the Emperor was standing in the hallway, talking in low tones with a middle-aged man with a thick gray beard and the robes of one of the Achaean priest-hoods. Sviod bowed to the priest and then stepped to Rufio's side. Unlike many of his fellows, Sviod spoke good Greek. Rufio leaned close, one eye on the Emperor, who was staring at the sky.

"Find the Empress and see if she will grant an audience today. Then find me. Most likely I will be with the Emperor in his quarters."

The Quirinal Hill, Roma Mater

Thyatis puffed air from her cheeks, watching the frosty cloud dissipate in the air in front of her. The weather had turned cold, startling the citizens who had decided that summer had come for good, and putting a chill on the flowers in the Duchess's garden. Petro the gardener had been beside himself, cursing the fickle gods, and driving his assistants to cover everything with burlap and cheese cloth. In the hour before dawn, as Thyatis stood in the stable yard of the house on the Quirinal, it seemed even colder.

"Why does it always seem colder now, when day approaches?" Despite a thick German-style cloak with a fur lining, Thyatis had her hands in her armpits, hoping that they would warm up. She always had cold hands and this was worse, since she had gotten very little sleep. She felt grainy and irritable. The yard was filled with muffled sounds of men moving about, checking their weapons and preparing to leave. "Night is almost done, it should be warmer."

"It's not that cold," said Nikos as he walked past with a bundle of long boar-spears on his shoulder. He was only wearing a light shirt and woolen breeches. Thyatis threw a glare in his direction, but the Illyrian ignored her. She entertained dark thoughts, watching him swing the heavy load into the back of their wagon. Centuries of forebears who had culled their living from the cold Adriaticum in open skiffs had thickened his blood. And his skull, she thought in disgust. Nikos loved the cold. But then, he liked it when it was hot, too. Thyatis found this very disturbing. The world, she thought, should be an even temperature all year round.