The Plains of Scythia, Somewhere East of Tanais
Smoke curled up over the rooftops of Itil, merging with a twilit sky. A lean-faced rider cantered over the long wooden bridge crossing the Rha as the first stars of evening began to appear in the east. The river was low and slow moving, and moss clung to the pilings of the span. Jusuf clucked his tongue at that-someone should have rousted the boys out to scrape the thick, wooden poles down and put new copper plates on them. He came to a gate of stone, thirty feet high, that loomed at the eastern end of the bridge and reined in. Lamps burned under the eaves of the tower, and guardsmen were already coming forth to meet him.
"Salve, viator," called the first, his voice a basso rumble. Jusuf leaned forward on his saddle, an expression of surprise on his face.
"By the one god, Basir, you wound me with such ugly speech! Where is the glad greeting for a lost son, home at last?"
The guard captain drew up short, his head turned to one side in surprise. Jusuf grinned, seeing the curious expression on the man's face. The uneasy light of the lanterns and torches made it difficult to see in this gloom, but still… Basir stepped closer, his hand ready on his saber.
"Ay! What is this? Some beggar comes creeping in at dusk, hoping to pass the gate without paying?" Basir's voice rose as he spoke and he strode forward. A smile grew on his face, half hidden by a mighty beard and the cowl of his helmet. "Some young fool riding at night, not knowing mist devils and surapa lie in wait for the unwary?"
Jusuf swung down easily, though the first days on his horse after the long sea voyage from Rome to Tanais had been rough going. He clasped hands with the old soldier and then crushed him into a fierce embrace.
"Ha! I saw nothing save some drunkards blinding themselves with lanterns by a gate!"
Basir met his hug and then stepped away, holding Jusuf's head in his hands.
"Oh, lad, you've grown old in these past years… look at you, such a neatly trimmed beard, such short hair! They'll not let you into the council of warriors now, not with this down on your chin." Basir rubbed Jusuf's cheekbones and the back of his head.
"What did you do? Get it all burned off?"
Jusuf shrugged and scratched behind his ear.
"It's nothing, Uncle. They have different ways down in Rumish lands. It's better to blend with the forest…"
"…than stand out for the lion." Basir nodded in appreciation, then he grinned and a sparkle came into his eye.
"Ho, now, what is this?"
Jusuf looked down, puzzled, and then blushed as Basir's thick fingers tugged a swatch of deep red cloth from beneath his jerkin. The other guardsmen, who had held back while the two met, came up in a cheerful, loud mob. Seeing the rich cloth, they whistled.
"Thunder! That's a fine silk tunic, Persian red, too!"
"What's her name? Say, she's pretty! Miss, will you have a drink with me?"
Jusuf snarled and made to draw his blade. The guardsmen jumped back, laughing, then closed around him, pounding him on the back and shoulders. Basir stepped back, letting the younger men greet the Prince. He smoothed his mustaches out, grinning fit to burst.
In a moment, when everyone had said hello, Jusuf shouldered his way to the older man's side.
"How's your back?" Basir put a trunklike arm around his nephew's shoulder, guiding him through the gate and into the city. Jusuf gave him a look.
"After that punishment? It's fine. How stand things here in the city?"
Basir sighed, his good humor gone. He stopped, standing in the shadow of the tower. The peaked shingled roofs of Itil rose up on either side of the street, making blocky shadows against the night. Small lamps hung before many of the houses, illuminating carved and painted doors. The street itself, as befitted the capital of a powerful nation, was surfaced with felled logs, planed smooth. In the spring and the fall even they would not keep the thick black mud of Scythia from oozing up and fouling the street, but it was better than nothing.
Jusuf took the lead of his horses from one of the guards, who clapped him on the shoulder again before returning to his post.
"Things are not well," he ventured, leaning towards the older man.
"No, no," said Basir gruffly, his voice catching. "There is no trouble, no strife amongst the people. There is… great sadness. I did not… no one expected Sahul to fall, to die far away, on some foreign field."
Jusuf bent his head to meet his uncle's, forehead to forehead, his own hands holding the older man.
"He died in battle, gloriously. Without him, without the lancers he led, the day would have gone ill for us. Persia and its mad king would have triumphed. The southerners would besiege Itil even now and the Rumish would have been put under the yoke."
Basir wiped his eye, looking away.
"I miss my brother, lad. He was a fine man. Sometimes, when the learned men chant… I think I can hear his voice, in the chorus."
Jusuf nodded. "Sahul had a fine voice, Uncle. But the length of his years came to an end."
"I know." Basir straightened and the old gruffness came back into his voice. "Each man must mark his own time on the cord. He chose ten lively years when the noose was on him, and so it was. Come, enough of this maudlin talk. You almost missed it, but the first feast of the straw is tonight."
"I'm not too late?" Jusuf blurted, his face lighting up. "I was sure the funeral would be long done by now… Is Dahvos in the city?"
"He is," barked Basir, his humor entirely restored. "Come, I will ride with you to the citadel. Many old friends are there, raising their cups to the memory of our king. That young scamp, too!"
– |A great wash of heat and noise rolled out the doors of the citadel as Jusuf walked in, his head high in delight, letting the thunder of the revels crash against him. Basir was at his side, urging him on, but the Prince halted just within the massive double doors, surveying the crowd. The great hall, the feasting hall, was a round building a hundred feet wide. It had a high domed roof, supported by long spars of pine that curved to meet at a central oculus. Smoke billowed there, thrown up by four great roasting fires that lay in stone-lined pits at the center of the room. Long rows of benches surrounded the room, thronged with men and women. The walls, paneled with polished beechwood, were covered with trophies. Jusuf looked upon them and knew, remembered in his heart, all of the stories, all of the tales told by the campfire, all of the songs that carried the meaning and the history of his people through these relics.
The great hall of Itil was a hall of memories and mighty deeds. Jusuf smiled, content in himself, and knew that his people were a great people. Tonight, in grief and loss, they feasted and raised their voices to the heavens in song. With Basir going before him, he entered the chamber with the cowl of his cloak half turned up. They moved among the throng, seeing the warriors and chieftains of the people in their scaled mail and brocaded shirts, hair hanging long in braids and plaits. Tonight every man had entered without his helm, leaving them in racks by the door. Tonight the god looked down through the wide hole in the roof, seeing each man, marking his face, counting the deeds of his life. They were not dead, these men of the People, and they took joy in it.
It was not the way of the Khazar people to lament the passing of their king in dour mourning. Tonight, each house in the city would blaze with light, every candle and lantern lit. Each family gathered, even as the sprawling, rambunctious house of Asena crowded the hall of feasting. In each house, no matter how poor, cups were raised and the elders would give forth the tale of their fathers' deeds. Children sat at every hearth, listening, their eyes bright. In the shadows, where the red gleam of the fires lit their cheeks, mothers would sit, holding their youngest, telling the true tale of what had happened when Great-grandfather Avrahan did battle with the boar in the canebrake.
In the great hall, in the house of Asena, there was no throne of gold that set the king above all other men, there was no crown of ruby fire and emerald marking their leader. But there was a chair, a single carved seat, with wood so dark with age it gleamed in the firelight like oil, which had come out of the east with the people on the great journey. This chair had been placed here by the first Khazar to look upon the black waters of the Rha and it marked the place where his first yurt had been raised. It was old-the singers could tell its tale, but it was a long one and better suited for winter nights.
Tonight the chair stood empty.
Jusuf paused, his hand on the shoulder of a cousin. That empty place, so obvious in this crowded, boisterous hall, struck at him. Basir halted too and bowed his head. Young men and women, not yet come of age, flooded past them, dressed in white and gold, their hair twined with bright blue flowers. They were dancing, making a great circuit of the hall, their faces flushed with exertion.
Before the empty seat, a plate of silver was laid, filled with meat and cheese and bread. A cup sat beside it, topped with wine.
Jusuf could not speak, his throat constricted, for he saw the memory of his uncle before him.
Sahul was shorter and stouter than other men, with streaks of gray in his sandy-blond hair, and watchful, watery-blue eyes. He was strong, with powerful shoulders that could lift a foundered horse. He rarely spoke, but his voice in song was a marvel. He lifted a young boy who had fallen from a pony and broken his leg. His eyes were compassionate and warm and the boy stifled his tears, for it did no honor to the People to be weak. He stood, his short beard ruffling in the wind, on a platform of cut logs, watching the army of the Roman emperors parade before him.
At either side of the empty chair, the great chiefs of the People sat. Here was old Yakov, his barrel chest straining at a brocaded shirt, his wise old wife, Rahel, at his side. There were the chiefs of the northern clans, there the clan-lords of the fishermen who plied the waters of the salty sea. Their clothes were rich, their jewels bright, for the People prospered in their kingdom.
He smiled in darkness, grinning at Jusuf through slow-falling dust. A tomb rose around them, vaulted arches lost in the gloom. Between them, a woman, her face intent, drew in the dust. She was clad in armor, fiery hair tucked up in a bun at the back of her head. Jusuf protested, but Sahul shook his head. They would follow the plan of the Roman huntress.
At the left hand of the empty chair, a young man sat, his hair a cascade of red-gold curls, his beard rich and carefully combed. Seeing him, alive, Jusuf smiled. The young man seemed strong, with powerful arms and the broad shoulders of his father. He wore a dark shirt of silk embroidered with flowers and ivy. A bracelet of silver was on his wrist. He bent his head low, laughing with a young woman at his side. Her hair was a dark, rich brown, like the wings of a kestrel. She was wearing green and gold. Over the din of the crowd, what they shared could not be heard a foot away.
Before the chair, beside the plate, a riding whip lay, waiting for a skilled hand to take it up.
Hooves thundered, shaking the earth, as the People wheeled, their horses surging under them. Sahul rose up in his stirrups, his face clear under the crown of his helm. He raised his voice, calling out to the riders. As one, they followed him, shouting his name. As one, they swept towards the lines of the Persians. Forty thousand of the People rushed forward.
Basir bulled ahead through the crowd, pushing his way through a flock of priests who were arguing amongst themselves, debating the words of the book. Jusuf followed, slowly, remembering.
The shock of contact shuddered through the mass of armored men. Horses screamed and men cried out in agony. Wood splintered on shields, maces rose and fell. The sky was dark with arrows. Sahul was at the center, his sword a bright blur in the air. A Persian champion stormed forward, armor glittering in the sun. Sahul took the first blow on his blade, then-swift!-stabbed, transfixing the man's eyeslit. Red blood gouted, staining the metal.
The young man with golden hair rose, his face breaking into a smile. Jusuf pushed through the crowd the last few feet, feeling the fierce, strong grip of his brother on his arm.
"Jusuf!" Dahvos was shouting, grinning, clasping his brother to him. Jusuf wrapped his arms around his little brother, feeling the warmth of his body, the strength in his arms. Tears were wet on his face, but he did not care.
"Hello, Dahvos. You live, I see."
Sahul coughed blood onto the ground, feeling the earth under his hands shake with the thunder of hooves. Somewhere on the field of battle, a cavalry charge was going home. He staggered up, a long knife in his hand. His helmet was missing, smashed off by the blow of a Persian war mace. Blood streamed into his eyes. Horses and men rushed by him in the swirl of battle. His horse was gone, as was the small round shield that had been strapped to his upper arm.
A Persian in half-armor spurred towards him, cutting overhand with a long, straight sword. Sahul ducked aside, slashing at the horse's legs. He missed, but the tip of the Persian sword caught in his shoulder. The diquan disappeared into the fray. Sahul jumped at the next horse that thundered by, but missed the saddle horn and was knocked down hard. Gasping for breath, he caught a glimpse of a spear flashing in the sun, then there was a stunning blow to his stomach.
Jusuf shouted, seeing him fall, then furiously attacked, trying to cut his way to the King's side. The spear rose up, thin red blood sluicing off the leaf-shaped blade. Jusuf's saber cut into the Persian's neck. Then he stood over the body lying on the ground.
A cry went up in the hall, and Dahvos led it, springing up onto the feasting table.
"Look you, see who comes among us! See my brother, he is safe a-home!"
The hall quieted for a moment, then Dahvos dragged Jusuf up onto the table. A plate of roasted grouse went flying, but Dahvos raised his brother's arm high.
"See the prodigal returned! Now, there may be feasting and celebration!"
The roof shook with the cheer that rose, and Jusuf blushed red, seeing the bright and smiling faces of his people all around him, their cups raised to him. A skirl of pipes and drums cut through the tumult and Dahvos shouted in delight.
"Ho, my brother, join me!"
Jusuf laughed too, and between them they danced the Rider's Homecoming on the tabletops. Before long, the whole of the building shook with the chanting and the thunder of tables rattling.
– |"Wait just a moment," said Aunt Rebekah, raising a small brown hand. Jusuf, as was befitting a son of the house, paused in his story. "You've said a great deal about all these doings with tunnels and tombs and battles, but you've not said anything about my girl."
Jusuf repressed a smile, for he could see desperate worry in his aunt's small, bright eyes. Rebekah was the youngest of his father's wives, the last taken by old Cis. The dynastic business of the house of Asena, with each khagan having, perhaps, more than one wife, was complicated. To make things simpler, each mother was referred to as "Aunt"; each brother of a different mother, "Uncle." Sahul and Basir were the sons of Gea, who had died when Jusuf was very young. She had fallen into the Rha while hunting for winter geese that had frozen to the ice. Nami was the mother of Jusuf and Dahvos, while young Rebekah had only borne one living child before Cis had been killed in an ambush by the Bulgars.
"Ah, our wayward sister, she of the shining face and long hair, that impudent brat, Shirin."
Rebekah, who had been quite a beauty herself in her youth, glared hard at Jusuf.
"Yes, my little bird! Now, quit your lovesick maundering on about the white thighs of this Roman woman and tell me-did you get word of her down there in the southlands? Is she well? I have heard from this braggart"-now Rebekah clouted Dahvos on the head, and sharply too-"that her husband, the boy Khusro, is dead. What has become of her?"
Jusuf raised an eyebrow at Dahvos in surprise. Rebekah was very angry and quite beside herself with worry. Then Jusuf clapped a hand against his forehead in dismay.
"Aunt, forgive me! I forgot that Dahvos went north with the army! He has not heard of all that transpired in Ctesiphon… no one has!"
Jusuf stood. The inner circle of the family had gathered to hear of his journey and the latest news from Rhomanoi lands. They sat in a companionable circle in the comfort of one of the old yurts in the citadel. It was piled thick with rugs and lit by small lanterns. He bowed deeply to all of them, knowing beautiful young Shirin was the best loved of all the children. The thought that she might be friendless and alone, even dead or captive, must have weighed heavy on them.
"Listen, then, and I will tell you what happened. But fear not, Rebekah, when last I saw your daughter, she was getting into a longboat-yes, like a coracle, but made of fitted planks-in the middle of the ocean! She was safe and happy."
"Humph!" Rebekah said, her eyes bare slits, still glowering. "And those children of hers by that southland prince who got his head knocked in? What of them?"
Jusuf hid a grin, for Rebekah doted on all children, hers most of all.
"They are well-though I have seen them more recently. They are in, if you can believe it, mighty Rome herself! Staying with a dear friend, in a palace, with ornamental pools and gardens and their own servants…"
Rebekah settled back, apparently mollified that her grandchildren were being lavished with the proper care. Jusuf took up the tale of himself and the Roman woman, Thyatis, in the streets of the Persian capital, Ctesiphon, itself.
– |"…and so I come home again, with the favor of the Emperor of the Romans and this news."
Jusuf sighed and drank deep from a cup of kumis that was at his side. His voice was hoarse from speaking through the night and into the dawn, relating all that he had seen and done. Like many of his people who had trained under the regime of the ozan priests, his memory was prodigious.
Seeing that he was done, his aunts nodded to one another and rose, stiffly, to file out of the yurt. They would take themselves to the steam baths by the river and discuss this matter among themselves. The men, being men, would just fall asleep somewhere. Jusuf wondered, as he rose and stretched, if his old rooms were still his.
Probably not, he groused silently; someone will have thrown all my things in a basket and put them away. Probably Rahel! The very old woman, the wife of Great-uncle Yakov, was fond of cleaning up other people's business. Jusuf wondered if he would ever find his belongings. Probably not.
"Well," drawled Dahvos, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion. "I see you skipped lightly over certain matters between you and this duchess while you were in Rome. But no matter, you can tell me the details later, after we've slept! I am glad Shirin is safe and happy."
Jusuf nodded, smiling. "How is it," he asked, "that she is able to find the finest match? This is twice now."
Dahvos nodded, but his face was shadowed with concern. "Yes… but we clasped hands with Chrosoes, too, and called him brother. He seemed a mighty king and faithful friend as well. You see how he ended!"
"He is dead?" Jusuf caught Dahvos' eye. He had not seen the king of kings fall. "This is not a rumor, circulated by the Romans to make trouble among the diquans? You are sure of it? What of Kavadh-Siroes, the Crown Prince?"
The younger man nodded, a shock of his long hair falling in front of his face.
"I am," he said, "the news spread like fire in dry grass. The Eastern Emperor Heraclius paraded Chrosoes' corpse before the whole of the city. No one has come forth to gainsay it. And that youth, Kavadh-Siroes? He is dead, too, and they say that the Western Emperor Galen killed the boy himself while Heraclius watched."
Frowning, Jusuf ducked under the low door and came out into the dim morning light. This corner of the citadel was planted with trees and brushy vines. Piles of cut wood and lattices of drying sable furs lay against the fieldstone walls. The skins on the yurt had good company. Dahvos followed and stood blinking, watching him.
"What is it? I see your thoughts; they are dark as carrion crows."
Jusuf shook his head and raised a hand.
"I was thinking of little Avrahan… Shirin's son, her son by Chrosoes." Jusuf turned, his face dark with worry.
Dahvos met his gaze, his limpid blue eyes puzzled. But then understanding flickered in them and he put a finger to his lips.
"Say it not, my brother…"
"Chrosoes' son," grated Jusuf. "His surviving eldest son. Our nephew, the silly little rabbit, is by blood Shahanshah of Persia, the rightful king of kings."
Dahvos made a sign to ward off ill luck. "But he is safe, and far from harm, and by your words, no one knows he is alive!"
"Rebekah knows," Jusuf said sharply, "and she can count who begat who as well as anyone. You've heard her in her cups-My father ruled from the Chin capital to the Rhomanoi frontier, from the ice in the north to Persia in the south…"
Shaking his head, Dahvos turned away, his nose in the air.
"Come on, I smell breakfast cooking. All those things can wait."
– |The gelding sprinted, hooves flashing over the grass, its head stretched out, legs pumping. Jusuf leaned low, his face split by a wild grin. The land rushed past as the young horse let on full speed. The Khazar let the wind flow, rejoicing in the feeling of the horse running under him.
"Hey-yup!" Dahvos, astride a black-and-white horse, galloped a dozen feet away. His long hair whipped in the air behind him as the two horses, going all out, reached the turn. A spear thrust into the earth blurred past, a kerchief snapping atop it. Jusuf urged his mount close around the marker, putting the heaving shoulder of the roan into his brother's path.
Dahvos let out another yell, his horsewhip snapping behind him. The black-and-white jolted forward, swerving to the outside. Jusuf and the roan were away, in the straight, and now the horse really started to run. Head down, letting the air whip over him, Jusuf urged the horse on. The wooden fence of the agil grew closer. The course from the corral by the river, up the hill, around to the spear and back again was two full Roman miles. Both horses burst up over the ridge overlooking the river. Below them, as they thundered down the slope, were the long docks of Itil, crowded with river barges and shallow-draft ships plying the waters of the Mare Caspium. On this side, the east, there were great stockyards built for the cattle cull. Now they were empty, filled only with weeds and short-grass.
The slope down to the agil was not too steep, just enough to let them build up a fierce speed as they came down into the final stretch along the riverbank. Scattered yellow flowers went past and Jusuf let out a yell as his roan began to pull away on the flat. Dahvos cracked his riding whip again, trying to get another length of speed out of the black-and-white.
It was not enough. Jusuf and the roan thundered into the corral in a cloud of dust. Whooping with joy, Jusuf swung down, catching the horse's bridle.
Dahvos cantered up, his black-and-white blowing and running with sweat. Two of the boys set to watch the horses ran up with towels and leather buckets of water. The younger Khazar swung down as well, catching a thrown rag. The sky was very blue and cloudless. Summer heat was beginning to come on, and soon it would be blisteringly hot. Jusuf stepped into the shade of a tent that was put up next to the agil by the watch-boys. There was kumis and wine and tea inside. He took up a cup and filled it with the tea, a strong green blend that came out of Tashkent on the caravan trade.
"A fine horse," he said to his brother as Dahvos entered the tent and flopped down.
"Indeed! What will you give me for it?" Dahvos grinned, but Jusuf shook his head.
"Nothing, wretch! It is fast in the sprint, but it was blowing hard at the end-no good for a long chase… pretty, though."
"True enough."
In the corral, the boys walked the horses until their heaving flanks and pounding hearts calmed. Jusuf squinted, seeing a rider approaching from the city, cantering up the path along the riverbank. He stepped out into the sun again, waving. The messenger arrived moments later, his young, beardless face grave.
"Lord Basir said to bring this to the Prince," said the lad, handing down a leather pouch. It was sealed with a clasp showing a doubled star. During the rule of the T'u-chueh, a courier service had been established among all of the cities of that far-flung realm. Even after throwing off their yoke, the Khazars maintained the innovation. Old Cis and Sahul had spent a goodly sum establishing regular way posts throughout the Khazar realm where fresh horses and fodder could be found. Only government business went by dispatch rider, but when it did, it flew.
Jusuf snapped open the clasp and pulled out a sheet of parchment. It was covered with crabbed writing, in the Greek style favored among the merchant houses of Constantinople. Dahvos, peering over his brother's shoulder, made a groaning sound.
"Greek! The Lord of Heaven bless us, what a dreadful language… even the Persian yodeling is easier to learn."
"Quiet," Jusuf said absently, his attention focused on the letters. Dahvos' Greek was quite good, but Jusuf had enough of the written language to make out what was on the paper. It came from one of Anastasia's agents in the Eastern capital, relayed through from Tyre on the coast of Phoenicia. The Prince, reading, smiled grimly at the first fruit of the promises made to him by Emperor Galen and the Duchess in their last meeting. Though relations between the two Roman Empires had been good for the last fifty years or so, before that there had been intermittent warfare and continuing economic struggle between the two states. Galen was a farsighted man; it was not beyond him-and certainly not beyond the Duchess-to establish an alliance with the Khazar nation to counterbalance a resurgent Eastern Empire.
Jusuf let out a long hiss of dismay as he reached the end of the page.
"What is it?" Dahvos felt the change in his brother's demeanor. The cheerful good humor of the afternoon had fallen away.
"There has been a battle," Jusuf said, beginning to read the letter again. "The Imperial Army of the Great Prince Theodore has been decisively defeated at a place called Yarmuk in Roman Syria. The cities of the Decapolis rose up in revolt over taxation, then were joined by the Nabateans and some unknown number of Arab and Palmyrene mercenaries. Theodore cornered them at this place and then lost badly in a stand-up fight. Forty thousand Roman troops were bested by half their number. Theodore has fallen back to Damascus, but his army has scattered."
Dahvos whistled, considering the professionalism of the Roman army, its skill, the power and weapons at its command. Even under poor generals, a Roman army could usually thrash twice its number in provincial levies, tribesmen and barbarian sell-swords.
"What happened?"
Jusuf read the last sentence again, shook his head and then put the paper back in the dispatch pouch.
"Sorcery. The Petrans whistled up a sandstorm to plow over the Romans, breaking their morale. Then a flank charge by Arab lancers cracked them wide open."
Dahvos shook his head in admiration. He had served alongside the Romans in their common war with Persia and he knew them to be brave fighters. Still, he had crossed paths with Prince Theodore too and the thought of the man forced to flee, his dreams of empire in ruin, brought a faint smile to Dahvos' face.
"What does this mean?"
Jusuf considered, staring off into the bright blue sky over the river and the towers of the city. Itil was a wooden city, but the Khazars and their Slav craftsmen were fond of curlicues and ornaments. Nearly every house had a carved roofline, wild with fantastic creatures and stylized, interlocking plants. The temples of the god in the city were brightly painted, too. Thin pillars of smoke marked the cookfires, forges and workshops in the city.
"It means more war, dear brother. Despite our victory over the Persians, the Eastern Empire is very weak. Heraclius was counting on a time of peace, with his enemies humbled, for him to restore trade and commerce and those border provinces ruined by Chrosoes' war. Now he will not get it. Too, his policies in the Decapolis have lost him two valuable allies-Petra and Palmyra-as well as the riches of the Indian and Serican trade."
Dahvos scratched his nose, watching his brother.
"Will they need our help?"
Jusuf turned, puzzled. "Our help? Why would they ask for that? Even this disaster is only a local setback. Heraclius will return his main army from Constantinople and suppress the revolt. Without some kind of patron-some great power-these rebels have little chance. In the old days, this would be a grievous situation, for the Persians would already be invading. But Persia…"
"Is in ruins," sighed Dahvos. "I guess there will be no letters begging our help then, no embassies heavy with gold and gifts."
Jusuf laughed. "You have become quite mercenary, little brother! Has Sahul taught you this lesson? What did you hope to gain-more glory, more feats of arms to swell your engorged legend?"
Dahvos, unexpectedly, blushed and turned away. Jusuf cocked his head, even more puzzled.
"What… You were hoping to extort something from the Romans! What is it?"
Intrigued, Jusuf stepped around his brother and stared hard at him, hands on his hips.
"Tell me. Come, we're brothers. If you have set yourself on something, tell me and I will help you get it."
In answer, Dahvos reached into his shirt and took out a small enameled gold locket. Jusuf had seen such things before, in the markets of Van and Chersonesos. Inside would be an engraving, or a cameo of… a woman?
"May I?" Dahvos still refused to meet his eyes, but he handed the locket over. Jusuf, his fingers gentle, worked the little clasp and opened it. Within, set in ivory, was a tiny painting, a miniature, of a young Greek woman with dark brown hair and a thoughtful, pensive face. She seemed very young. Jusuf looked up, meeting his brother's eyes with a questioning expression.
"And the young lady is?"
Dahvos muttered something, looking down at his feet. Jusuf coughed and then smiled when his brother looked up.
"Sorry, I couldn't hear you."
Dahvos scratched the back of his head, then said, "Her name is Epiphania."
"A good name. A good Greek name, a good Roman name. Did she give you this token?"
Dahvos shook his head, finally standing up straight and sighing. "No, Sahul gave it to me, the night before Kerenos River. He said I should keep it for him. He said… he said that Emperor Heraclius was offering her in marriage to seal the alliance between the Eastern Empire and our realm. Sahul thought she was a little young for him…"
Jusuf made a clucking sound, thinking on his uncle's thoughtful nature and eye for the long ride, rather than the sprint. He turned the cameo over in his hands. It was magnificently made, the product, no doubt, of one of the Imperial workshops in Constantinople itself.
"A relative of the Emperor's? A niece?"
Swallowing, Dahvos shook his head. "No, she's his daughter from his first marriage."
Now Jusuf whistled and raised an eyebrow at his brother. "You've no lack of ambition behind that charming blond face, do you?"
Dahvos blushed again.
"You will be the next khagan, so much I know from the elders," continued Jusuf, his tone serious. "You have yet to take a wife. The daughter of the Eastern Emperor would be a bold victory, if you could secure her. A strong alliance with a powerful ally and a bond with her family, who, if memory serves, are rich and well connected within the Empire. Even greater glory than khagan of the Khazars might be within your reach-or if not yours, then your son's."
Nodding, Dahvos met his brother's eyes. "But Sahul is dead," he said, voicing Jusuf's question as well. "There is no formal treaty, no nuptial arrangements. Everything was private between Heraclius and our uncle. Now, we might have to start over…"
Jusuf waited. It was clear that Dahvos had given this a great deal of thought.
"I thought," continued the younger man, after a strained pause, "that we might strike the same bargain again, if the moment arose. With this war in the Levant, I hoped-"
"It is not impossible," Jusuf said, interrupting, "for such a thing to come to pass. But it will take some doing, and hard riding, to be in the right place at the right time."
Spreading his hands in question, Dahvos returned the raised eyebrow. Jusuf laughed.
"Have you taken note, dear brother, of the way the young men of the People hang on your every word? How they plague us for tales of our adventures in the Persian campaign? Do you think that they have neglected to notice the fine jewels, the gold, the cloth, the loot that your troops were laden with on their return?"
Jusuf, smirking, laughed again and put his hand on his brother's shoulder. "Consider, if you will, what will transpire if you let it be known that you intend to take an army to the aid of the Eastern Empire in their war against these rebels. Why, it would not surprise me if more than a few young fellows, barely come into their beards, might follow you. Even some veterans might agree to come, just to keep the youngsters out of trouble."
"You are wise, brother." Dahvos bowed, but he was still worried. "But where do we go?"
Jusuf wagged a finger, saying, "Not the Levant, if that is what you are thinking. No, for this matter, we must go to Constantinople. The Emperor will muster any response to this disaster from there. He is a man that believes in central control. He will want, particularly now that his brother has failed him, to make sure that things are done right. Besides, the Eastern Empire possesses a large fleet. Let us put it to work."
Understanding dawned in Dahvos' eyes. He knew the lands about the Khazar realm as well as any man. "Chersonesos? Or Tanais? We could barge everyone up the Rha to the Khazarim Way, ride the portage road, then down past Sarkel on riverboats. That would be fastest. We could be to Tanais in a month, Chersonesos in two, even if we had to ride overland from the mouth of the Don."
"You have the right of it, brother." Jusuf was pleased, both with the initiative of his brother and the prospect of returning to Roman lands. There was a dark-haired woman that he found he missed, even here, amongst his people. Constantinople was still far from Rome, but it was closer than Itil! Something occurred to him, and he caught Dahvos' shoulder.
"One thing, if you do not take it amiss. Don't fall in love with this woman, pretty as she is, until you've actually made her acquaintance."