The Dance of Time: Chapter Two

Axum

Capital city of the Ethiopian empire

    Across the Erythrean Sea, Belisarius’ wife Antonina woke to the same rising sun, coming through the window in her chamber in the Ta’akha Maryam. By now, more than a year and a half since Malwa agents had blown up the royal palace of the Ethiopian kingdom of Axum, the Ta’akha Maryam’s reconstruction was virtually complete.

    Stubbornly, as was their way in such things, the Axumites had insisted on rebuilding the palace exactly as it had been. If the heavy stonework was still susceptible to well-placed demolitions, they would prevent such by the spears of their regiments, not the cleverness of their architects.

    In the mornings, at least, Antonina was glad of it. At night, in the gloom of candlelight, she sometimes found the Ta’akha Maryam oppressively massive. But, in the daytime—especially at daybreak, with her east-facing chamber—the Ethiopian penchant for placing many windows even in outer walls was very pleasant.

    The windows were massive too, admittedly, with their Christian crosses in every one to serve as supports for the heavy stone as well as reminders of the new Ethiopian faith. Still, the sunlight flooding through bathed her sleeping chamber in a golden glory that matched her mood.

    Which it did, she suddenly realized. Sitting up in her bed, holding the coverings tight to ward off the chill, she pondered the fact.

    Why?

    It wasn’t the morning. Yes, the sunlight was splendid. On the other hand—this late in autumn, in the mile-high altitude of the Ethiopian highlands—it was also damnably cold.

    She shivered a little. But that was solely a matter of the body. Her spirits remained higher than they’d been in...

    Months. Since Eon died, leading the Axumites in their seizure of the Indian port of Chowpatty. Not only had Antonina lost one of her closest friends in that battle, but the unexpected death of the young ruler of Ethiopia—the negusa nagast, or “King of Kings”—had plunged the kingdom of Axum into a succession crisis. A crisis which Eon himself, as he lay dying, had appointed Antonina to solve.

    She’d dreaded that task almost as much as she’d grieved Eon’s death. Yet now, this morning, she felt light-hearted again.

    Why?

 

---

 

    It was not an idle question. By now, a lot closer to the age of forty than thirty, Antonina had come to know herself very well. Her mind did not work the same way as her husband’s. Belisarius was a calculator; a man who considered all the angles of a problem before deciding how he would handle it. Antonina, on the other hand, reached her conclusions through more mysterious, instinctive ways.

    This was not the first time in her life she’d awakened in the morning, flush with the satisfaction of having come to a decision during her sleep. And if Belisarius sometimes shook his head wryly over the matter, Antonina remained serene in the knowledge that her way of handling such difficult business was so much easier than her husband’s.

    A servant entered, after politely coughing to announce her arrival. The woman didn’t knock, for the simple reason that the Ta’akha Maryam had very few doors—and knocking on the thick walls of the entrance would be akin to rapping on a granite cliff.

    “The aqabe tsentsen wishes an audience.”

    Antonina grinned. She really was in a good mood.

    “I’ll bet he didn’t put it that way.”

    The servant rolled her eyes. “So rude, he is! No, Lady, he did not. He—ah...”

    Antonina slid from under the thick coverings and scampered toward her wardrobe against the far wall. Her haste was not caused by any concern for keeping Ousanas waiting, it was simply due to the cold.

    “He told you to roll the lazy Roman slut out of bed.” Still grinning, Antonina removed her night clothes and began dressing for the day.

    “Well. He didn’t call you a slut. Lazy Roman, yes.”

 

---

 

    Ousanas was waiting impatiently in the salon of her suite.

    “About time,” he grumbled. He gave her figure a quick look, up and down. “How does it take so long to put on such simple garments? By now—almost mid-morning—I expected to see you bedecked in jewels and feathers.”

    Antonina turned her head and looked out a window. The sun had just barely cleared the rim of Mai Qoho, the great hill to the east of Ethiopia’s capital.

    “If this is ‘mid-morning,’ I’d love to see your definition of ‘dawn.’” She moved to a nearby settee and sat down. “Oh, leave off, Ousanas. Whatever brought you here at this unfit hour, it can’t be that urgent.”

    She pointed to a nearby chair. “Sit, will you?”

    Ousanas sneered at the chair. Then, folded himself onto the carpet in a lotus position. Ever since he’d traveled to India with Belisarius, he claimed that awkward-looking posture was a great aid to thought—even if he’d have no truck with the ridiculous Indian notions concerning philosophy.

    “That depends on how you define ‘urgent.’ Antonina, we must resolve the succession problem. Soon. Garmat’s agents are telling him that the Arabs in the Hijaz are getting restive, especially in Mecca. And, especially, of course, the Quraysh tribe.”

    Antonina pursed her lips. “What about the Ethiopians themselves? Not to be crude about it, Ousanas, but so long as it’s only the Arabs who are ‘restive,’ there’s really not much they can do about it. Militarily speaking, at least.”

    “To be sure. The regiments of Axum can suppress any combination of Arabs, even with much of the army in India. But neither I nor Garmat is worried about an actual rebellion. What we are concerned with is the erosion of trade. Things had been going very well, in that regard, until the news of Eon’s death arrived. Now...”

    He shrugged. “All the Arab merchants and traders had thought the situation secure for them, with Eon married to a princess of the Quraysh and the succession running through his half-Arab son. But with a babe for a prince and a young girl for a widowed regent queen, they are fretting more and more that the dynasty will be overthrown by Ethiopians. Who will impose a new dynasty that will return the Arabs to their earlier servitude.”

    Antonina grimaced. “In other words, the Axumites are reasonably content with the situation but the Arabs don’t believe it, and because they don’t believe it there’ll be more and more trouble, which will start making the Axumites angry.”

    The aqabe tsentsen nodded curtly. “Yes. We really can’t postpone this matter, Antonina. The longer we wait, the worse it will get. We need to assure everyone that the dynasty is stable.”

    “More than ‘stable,’” Antonina mused. “Those Arab merchants—the Axumites, too, for that matter—won’t simply be worrying about attempts at rebellion. There’s also a more insidious, long-term danger.”

    She rose and moved slowly toward another window. The glorious mood she’d awakened with was growing stronger by the minute. She was on the verge of making her decision, she could sense it. She thought the sight of the southern mountains would help. So majestic, they were. Serene, in their distance and their unmoving steadiness.

    The problem was figuring out what the decision was in the first place. At was often the case, she’d made her decision while asleep—and now couldn’t remember what it had been.

    She smiled, thinking of how Belisarius had reacted so many times in the past to her habits. Peevish, the way men usually got when the workings of the world upset their childish notions.

    How in the world can you make a decision without knowing what it is in the first place?

    Antonina was moving slowly enough that she was able to finish her thought before reaching the window.

    “There are really only two options, it would seem—neither of which will please anyone. The first option, and the simplest, would be for Rukaiya to remain unmarried. If not for the rest of her life, at least until the infant negusa nagast is old enough to take the throne and rule himself.”

    “Unmarried and chaste,” Ousanas grunted. “We can’t afford any royal bastards, either. Not produced by a widowed queen.”

    His tone skeptical, he added: “And I don’t see much chance of that, being honest. Wahsi is only a few months old, and Rukaiya...”

    “Has the normal urges of a young woman. Yes, I know.”

    She did know, in fact—and in considerable detail. She was not guessing based on generalities. In the time after their wedding, Rukaiya had confided in Antonina the great physical pleasure she took from being married to Eon.

    “She’s only eighteen. Expecting her to abstain from sex until she is in her late thirties is... not a gamble anyone will be pleased with. Rukaiya least of all, once her grief for Eon finally fades away. As it happens, I think she’d do it, if she agreed. She’s a very strong-willed and self-disciplined person. But she wouldn’t like it—and even if she restrained herself, the gossip would be endless.”

    “Endless—and savage,” Ousanas agreed. “That would be true for any young widowed queen, even an ugly one. For one as beautiful as Rukaiya? Not a chance, Antonina. Long before Wahsi could reach an age to assume the throne, the ugly rumors would be believed by half the populace—and a much bigger portion of the kingdom’s elite.”

    Antonina had reached the window, by now, but didn’t look out of it yet. Instead, she turned to face Ousanas.

    “Yes. That leaves the second option, which is no better. If she marries anyone prestigious enough to be an acceptable match, everyone will start worrying that her children by her second husband will become too powerful. A second and informal dynasty, as it were, growing up within the formal one. A recipe for civil war, a generation from now.”

    Ousanas nodded. “The Axumites would not accept an Arab husband, and the Arabs—though they’d have no choice, given the military realities—wouldn’t like an Axumite one any better. For that matter, the Axumites wouldn’t like it—except those who were part of the husband’s clan.”

    He scowled at the floor’s covering. “Ugly carpet. Ethiopians may know stone and iron work, but their weaving is wretched. You should get a Persian one.”

    His eyes widened, slightly, and he looked up. “Persian... You know, Antonina, that may be the solution. Find her a foreign husband of suitable rank. A Persian grandee or a Roman senator.”

    Antonina shook her head. “That won’t work, either. A Persian husband is impossible, from Rukaiya’s standpoint. Now that she’s had the experience of being Eon’s wife, just how well do you think she’d take to a Persian husband? With their attitudes?”

    Ousanas went back to scowling at the carpet. “She’d have him poisoned, within a year. Or simply stab him herself. But a Roman...”

    “No. I could probably find her a suitable Roman husband—suitable from her standpoint—but that wouldn’t solve the political problem. Rome is now simply too strong, Ousanas. A Roman husband during Rukaiya’s regency would make everyone fear—Arabs and Ethiopians alike—that Axum was becoming a Roman satrapy. In reality, if not in name.”

    “True.” He gave her a sly little look. “Perhaps you should poison your husband, Antonina. It’s his fault, you know. If Belisarius hadn’t spent the past five years proving to everyone that Roman military power is supreme... even against the Malwa empire, the world’s greatest...”

    Antonina smiled back, sweetly. “Can’t, I’m afraid. I’m here and he’s in the Punjab. Damnation. One of the reasons I’d like to settle the succession problem is so that I can get back to him—at which point, I assure you, poisoning the fellow will be the last thought on my mind. I’m finding that my own urges haven’t subsided any, even at my advanced and decrepit age.”

    Finally, she turned and looked out the window. “So. We need an impressive husband. Impressive to Rukaiya as much as her subjects, so she isn’t tempted to stray and no one thinks otherwise. But—but!—one who has no pre-existing ties that will make anyone worry about undue influences. And whose loyalties to Axum are unquestioned.”

    Far to the south, the snow-capped peaks of the Simien Mountains shone brightly, but the flanks were still dark. The sun hadn’t risen high enough yet to bathe them in light.

    Dark, massive, majestic beneath their crowns—and quite indifferent to any of those words. What did mountains care about attempts to depict them—much less the petty political frets and worries of humans? They simply were. And, being so, dwarfed any dynasty.

    She understood her decision, then. It came to her, all at once, and in all its splendor.

    “It’s so obvious,” she said happily. “I can’t believe it took me this long to figure it out.”

    “Perhaps you will be so kind as to make clear this ‘obvious’ decision to me, at some point?” Ousanas said grumpily.

    Antonina bestowed the sweet smile on the mountains. “Oh, yes. You can be sure of it, when the time comes.”

 

---

 

Peshawar, in the Hindu Kush

    Kungas launched the final assault just before dawn. By sunrise, his Kushan soldiers had demonstrated to the Pathan clansmen that they were just as adept at fighting in the rocks as the rebels—and far more disciplined.

    Not to mention numerous. Kungas had calculated—correctly, it was now clear—that the Malwa were too pre-occupied with Belisarius in the southern Punjab at the moment to launch any serious attack on the new Kushan kingdom he was forging in the mountains to the northwest. So, he’d left a skeleton force guarding the passes while he took most of his army to suppress this first attempt by any Pathan tribesmen to rebel against his rule.

    First—and hopefully last. For all his ruthlessness, when need be, Kungas took no pleasure in killing.

    “Suppress” was a euphemism.

    By late morning, the clansmen were routed and the Kushans had broken into their walled town nestled in the rocks of the mountains. Then, began the massacre Kungas had ordered. No member of that Pathan clan would be allowed to survive. Not women, not children, not oldsters. All animals in the town were to be slaughtered also. Then, the town itself completely destroyed. Not simply gutted by fire, but blown up. Razed from existence. Kungas had enough gunpowder to afford that, now that the supply lines through Persia had been stabilized.

    While his Kushans finished that business, Pathans from other clans allied to Kungas chased down and butchered the Pathan warriors who tried to flee into the shelter of the mountains.

    There weren’t many of those. Pathans could be as stupid as any humans alive, but they never lacked courage. All but a handful of the defeated clansmen died in the town, desperately trying to defend their kinfolk.

 

---

 

    By mid-afternoon, it was done. The entire clan had ceased to exist.

    Throughout, Kungas remained at his position high on a nearby mountain—a spur of the same range, really—watching.

    Throughout, there was no expression on his face. None at all. To the Pathan chieftains who stood there with him, the leaders of the allied clans, it did not even seem like a face at all. Just an unmoving, iron mask.

 

---

 

    Those old men had been told that, in his palace in Peshawar, the new king of the mountains was known to show an expression, now and then. Not often, and usually only in the presence of his Greek wife.

    That was possible, they thought, although they had their doubts. It was hard to imagine that inhuman mask of a face ever showing an emotion.

    Still...

    Maybe. The woman was known to be a sorceress, after all.

    What the clan chieftains knew, however, was that with a king like this and his witch of a queen, rebellion was insane.

    Any form of open resistance. The destroyed clan hadn’t even rebelled. They’d simply thought to use the old and well-tested method of intimidating a new would-be ruler of the mountains by assassinating one of his officials.

 

---

 

    The official had, indeed, been assassinated.

    In return, Kungas had now proved that he was, indeed, the king of the mountains. The arithmetic of the equation was clear even to those illiterate clan leaders.

    Clans assassinated officials.

    Kings—real ones—assassinated clans.

 

---

 

    So be it. The old men, no strangers to brutality themselves, chose to look on the bright side. The new king did not meddle with them much, after all, as long as they obeyed him. And trade was picking up a lot. Even the clans in the far mountains were getting richer.

 

---

 

    When Kungas returned to Peshawar, he was in a very foul mood.

    “That was a filthy business,” he told his wife Irene. Scowling openly, now, in the privacy of their quarters in the palace. “It’s your fault. If you hadn’t stirred up those idiot clansmen letting their young women claim to be Sarmatians and join your idiot so-called ‘queen’s guard,’ it wouldn’t have happened.”

    The accusation was grossly unfair, and on many counts, but Irene kept silent. Until Kungas’ mood lightened, there was no point arguing with him.

    Yes, it was true that Irene’s subtle undermining of Pathan patriarchalism irritated the clan chiefs. So what? Everything irritated those barbaric old men. They were to “conservative thinking” what an ocean was to “wet and salty.” They practically defined the term.

    And, again, so what? Irene and Kungas—with Belisarius, in times past, while they’d still been with him in Persia—had discussed the matter thoroughly. No one had ever ruled these mountains, in the sense that “ruled” meant in the civilized lowlands. Just as no one had ever “ruled” the great steppes to the north into which she and Kungas planned to expand their kingdom.

    But if a king couldn’t rule the mountains and the steppes, he could dominate them. Dominate them as thoroughly and as completely as, in a future era in another universe, the Mongol khans would dominate them.

    There was one key difference, though, and Kungas understood it as well as she did. The new Kushan realm in central Asia would use the same methods as the Mongols, true enough. Methods which, in the end, amounted to the simple principle: oppose us and we will slaughter all of you, down to the babes and dogs.

    But it did not have the same goal. In the future of that different universe, Genghis Khan and his successors had had no other purpose than simply to enjoy the largesse of their rule which came with the annual tribute. Kungas and Irene, on the other hand, intended to forge a real nation here in central Asia, over time. And that could not be done simply by dominating the ancient clans. The domination was itself but a means to an end—and the end was to undermine them completely, in the only way the human race had ever found it possible to do so.

    “Civilization,” in a word. Create a center of attraction in the new cities and towns, with their expanding wealth and trade and education and culture and opportunities for individuals from anywhere. And then just let the old clan chiefs rot away, while their clans slowly dissolved around them. Irene’s “Sarmatian women’s guard” that Kungas had just denounced was only one of a hundred methods that she and Kungas were using for that purpose.

    It was not even the one that irritated the clan chiefs the most. That honor probably belonged to the new Buddhist monasteries that Kungas was starting to set up all over. In the end, for all their savage attitudes toward women, the old clan chiefs didn’t really care what women did—as long as they did it outside their tightly-controlled villages.

    Why should they? From their viewpoint, beyond the sexual pleasure they provided, women were simply domestic animals and beasts of burden. No different, really, from their other livestock. As long as they had enough women to keep breeding clansmen, who cared what wild women did somewhere else?

    Boys, on the other hand, mattered. And now—curse him!—the new king was seducing boys away from their proper and traditional allegiances to babble mystical nonsense in monasteries. Even teaching them to read, as if any Pathan tribesman ever needed such an effeminate skill.

    The process would take decades, of course, even generations. But it would work, as surely as the sunrise—provided that Kungas established from the beginning that however much the clan chiefs hated him they did not dare to oppose him openly. Or try any violent tactic against him, whatsoever.

    Which he had just done. More efficiently, ruthlessly, pitilessly, and savagely than any of the clan chiefs had ever imagined he would. Just as, in a different universe, the Mongols had obliterated the cult of the Hashasin which had given the world the term “assassin” to begin with—by demonstrating that they were perfectly willing to transform the definition of the word by an order of magnitude.

 

---

 

    Yet...

    Irene knew her husband very well, by now. Kungas enjoyed her intelligence and her sense of humor, but this was no time for rational argument, much less jests.

    She fell back on an emotional appeal that was even more powerful than horror and disgust and anger.

    “There’s this, if it helps. The dynasty is secured.”

    She looked down, stroking the silk raiment covering her belly. She was still, to all appearances, as slender as ever. “Well. Most likely. I might have a miscarriage.”

    His eyes were drawn to her waist, and she could sense Kungas’ mood shifting. So, smiling gently, she ventured a little joke.

    “Of course, you’ll make that good, soon enough.”

    For a moment, Kungas tried to maintain his ferocious mood. “Typical! Salacious Greek women. Seductresses, every one of you. If you weren’t so beautiful...”

    In point of fact, Irene wasn’t beautiful at all. Attractive, perhaps, but no more than that. Her thick and luxurious chestnut hair was not even much of an asset, any longer, tied back as she now had it in a pony tail. And she’d found, to her disgruntlement, that becoming a queen hadn’t made her big nose any smaller or made her narrow, close-eyed face any fuller. Even with the pony tail, she still looked like exactly what she was—an intellectual, not a courtesan.

    Happily, none of that mattered to Kungas. Her little joke wasn’t really even that. By the end of the evening, most likely—tomorrow night, at the latest—Kungas would demonstrate that there wasn’t any danger that the new dynasty would die out from lack of vigor.

    Kungas sighed. “It really was a hateful business, Irene. Damn those old men! I would have preferred...”

    He let the thought trail away. Then, gave her something in the way of an apologetic shrug.

    In point of fact, it had been Irene who suggested that he restrict himself to simply executing all of the clan chiefs—and Kungas who had declined the suggestion.

    “No,” he’d said. “That won’t be enough. However stupid and vicious, no clan chief is a coward. They’ll accept their own deaths, readily enough, as stubborn as they are. The only thing that will really terrify them is the extinction of their entire clan. So I have no choice but to demonstrate that I’m quite willing to do so. Maybe if I do it once, right now, I’ll never have to do it again.”

    He’d been right, and Irene had known it. She’d only advanced her suggestion because she knew how much Kungas detested the alternative. As hard a man as he was, and as hard a life as he’d led, not even Kungas could butcher babies to punish octogenarians without shrieking somewhere in his iron-masked soul.

    Finally, she could sense the mood breaking. The surest sign came when Kungas made his own jest.

    “And who’s the father, by the way?”

    Irene’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t be stupid. As often as you mount me, when would I have the time to cuckold you? Even assuming I wasn’t too exhausted, you insensate brute.”

    Kungas was still scowling. In his own way, he could teach stubbornness to clan chiefs.

    “Not that,” he said curtly, waving the notion aside with an economical little gesture. “I don’t doubt my cock’s the only one that gets into you. But it’s just a conduit. Spiritually speaking. Who’s the real father? Have we moved up to gods, yet? Will I discover as an old man that the children I thought mine were actually sired by Zeus and who knows how many randy members of the Hindu pantheon?”

    “What a heathen notion!” Irene exclaimed. “You should be ashamed of yourself!”

    “I’m not a Christian,” he pointed out.

    “You’re not really a Buddhist, either, even if you insist on the trappings. So what? It’s still a barbarous notion.”

    She drew herself up with as much dignity as she could manage. That was... hard, given that she was almost laughing.

    “And it’s all nonsense, anyway. Of course, you’re the father. The ancestry gets interesting, though.”

    His first smile came, finally. “More interesting than Alexander the Great? Whom—to my immense surprise—you have explained was one of my forefathers. Odd, really, given that he passed through this area long before we Kushans got here.”

    “My scholars assure me it is true, nonetheless. But now, they tell me, it seems that in addition—”

    “Please! Don’t tell me I’m descended from Ashoka also!”

    Irene had considered Ashoka, in fact, and quite seriously. But, in the end, she’d decided that claiming India’s most famous and revered emperor as one of her husband’s forefathers would probably cause too many political problems. India’s ever-suspicious rulers would assume that meant the Kushans had designs on India also.

    Which, they didn’t. To meddle in India’s affairs—even the Punjab, much less the great and populous Gangetic plain—would be pure folly. As long as she and Kungas controlled the Khyber Pass and the Hindu Kush, they could expand to the north without stirring up animosities with either the Indians or the Persians. Animosities, at least, that would be severe enough to lead to war. Soon enough, of course, Persians and Indians—and Romans and Chinese too, for that matter—would be complaining bitterly about Kushan control of the trade routes through central Asia.

    But those quarrels could be negotiated. Irene was an excellent negotiator—even without the advantage of having a husband who could terrify Pathan clan chiefs.

    “Nonsense,” she said firmly. “You’re no relation to Ashoka at all, so far as my scholars can determine. Just as well, really, since we have no ambitions toward India. However—what a happy coincidence, given the centrality of Buddhism to our plans—would you believe that—”

    Kungas choked. Irene pressed on.

    “It’s true!” she insisted. “Not the Buddha himself, of course. After he became the Buddha, that is. He was quite the ascetic sage, you know. But before that—when he was still just plain Siddhartha Gautama and was married to Yashodhara. It turns out that their son Rahula—”

    Kungas burst into laughter, and Irene knew that she’d saved his soul again. That was always her greatest fear, that a soul which had shelled itself in iron for so long would eventually become iron itself.

    The mask, the world could afford. Even needed. But if the soul beneath the mask ever became iron, in fact, she dreaded the consequences. In the new universe they were helping to shape, the name “Kungas” would someday become a term like “Tamerlane” had been in another. A name that signified nothing but savagery.

    No fear of that, so long as she could make Kungas laugh that way. No fear at all.

 

---

 

The Iron Triangle

    As always, the sound of Luke’s footsteps awakened Calopodius. This time, though, as he emerged from sleep, he sensed that other men were shuffling their feet in the background.

    He was puzzled, a bit. Few visitors came to the bunker where he and Luke had set up their quarters. Calopodius suspected that was because men felt uncomfortable in the presence of a blind man, especially one as young as himself. It was certainly not due to lack of space. The general had provided him with a very roomy bunker, connected by a short tunnel to the great command bunker buried near the small city which had emerged over the past months toward the southern tip of the Iron Triangle. The Roman army called that city “the Anvil,” taking the name from the Punjabi civilians who made up most of its inhabitants.

    “Who’s there, Luke?” he asked.

    His aide-de-camp barked a laugh. “A bunch of boys seeking fame and glory, lad. The general sent them.”

    The shuffling feet came nearer. “Begging your pardon, sir, but we were wondering—as he says, the general sent us to talk to you—” The man, whoever he was, lapsed into an awkward silence.

    Calopodius sat up on his pallet. “Speak up, then. And who are you?”

    The man cleared his throat. “Name’s Abelard, sir. Abelard of Antioch. I’m the hecatontarch in charge of the westernmost bastion at the fortress of—”

    “You had hot fighting yesterday,” interrupted Calopodius. “I heard about it. The general told me the Malwa probe was much fiercer than usual.”

    “Came at us like demons, sir,” said another voice. Proudly: “But we bloodied ’em good.”

    Calopodius understood at once. The hecatontarch cleared his throat, but Calopodius spoke before the man was forced into embarrassment.

    “I’ll want to hear all the details!” he exclaimed. “Just give me a moment to get dressed and summon my scribe. We can do it all right here, at the table there. I’ll make sure it goes into the next dispatch.”

    “Thank you, sir,” said Abelard. His voice took on a slightly aggrieved tone. “T’isn’t true, what Luke says. It’s neither the fame nor the glory of it. It’s just... your Dispatches get read to the Senate, sir. Each and every one, by the Emperor himself. And then the Emperor—by express command—has them printed and posted all over the Empire.”

    Calopodius was moving around, feeling for his clothing. “True enough,” he said cheerfully. “Ever since the old Emperor set up the new printing press in the Great Palace, everybody—every village, anyway—can get a copy of something.”

    “It’s our families, sir,” said the other voice. “They’ll see our names and know we’re all right. Except for those who died in the fighting. But at least...”

    Calopodius understood. “Their names will exist somewhere, on something other than a tombstone.”