Brian Lucey
184 Sallins Bridge, 
Sallins, Kildare
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+353 87 9739076
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THE WAR OF THE TRUE CROSS

by Brian Lucey

Chapter One
678 AD South of France

 Its golden hinges gleaming softly, the old man slowly lowered the reliquary into its cedar box, lined in the softest of silk and cotton. Straightening up, Donn placed both his hands on the railing, and slowly, so slowly, using arms and legs and willpower, stood, swaying slightly. Swivelling his scrawny neck, he glanced out the window, the sea chop showing white and grey and yellow against the greyblue. His eyes adjusted to the light, and he wondered that even closing on a century of experience, that of all his parts it was his sight that remained keenest and closest to how things had been in his prime. He squinted, cutting down the light, which even in the early winter was sharp and keen on the shore of the Mediterranean. He could barely make out the headland, and wondered if the cause was sea mist, or more likely that his eyes were poorly again. Donn sighed, wondering if he would be condemned to live so long as to become a bedridden blind helpless husk. He smiled, realising that at 98 years of age one could not take a very long perspective forward. He moved back from the rail, taking in the small chapel, the simple cross at odds with the richly decorated altar cloth which he had taken one night from the Church of the Holy Wisdom, the icons in the niches in the Alexandrian style, the tabernacle a riot of Arabic and Coptic styles, and turned to the door. 

He stumbled a little, a small gasp escaping him to alert the guard who had stood, back to the door, at ease with himself. Josep turned to see Donn stumble, and came forward, concern on his flat face. ``Are you in pain, master, does your leg trouble you, shall I fetch a litter” he asked, the Turkic fluid and agglutinative, incongruous but intelligible to Donn. ``no, thank you Joesp, as one gets older at times the body takes time to do what the mind directs. So my legs rebelled a little, traitors that they are” Donn answered in the same tongue. ``If you give me your arm however, let us walk back to the villa”

As the pair walked back, they talked. ``not long now Josep'' Don offered. ``no master, a moon or so. Yilig and his men must be close....'' Josep paused ``I will, I think, miss this place. It has a beauty'' he continued, stepping out again ``but my heart yearns for home, for the plains, for the wind whispering in the grass, for the life of the clan,  even for the cold of winter!’’  Don was going to miss Josep, his keen wit and calm demeanour. ``well Josip I will miss you. I hope your grandfather lives, and if he does you must give him my love and honor...as well as some of your considerable wealth! This will, I fear, be the last time we exchange news in this life'' As Don neared his villa, the trumpets sounded, and Josep stiffened swivelling towards the villa. 

On the road below, coming from the direction of Masilla, a carriage was visible, moving swiftly, smoothly but not at such a pace as to strain the horses. What marked this carriage has being more than the conveyance of a rich man was the troop of horse men which accompanied it. Two in front and two behind, they provided ample protection from any passing bandits, a narrowfaced archer alongside the driver  giving a degree of long-range protection. ``it seems as though we are going to have visitors Josep” Don said, `` leave me here, and perhaps you might be so good as to run ahead and let the steward know''. Josip looked at the frail wisp on his arm, smiled, half turned and waved in the direction of one of the guards, who came running over, and after a quick and hurried conversation with his superior ran back towards the villa no doubt to alert as had been requested. Josep took his arm again, and as they walked Don smiled, remembering the teenager that had arrived at his service 10 years previously, who would no more have thought of disobeying an order for the best of reasons then he would have had thought of cutting off his own leg. By the time Don, moving slowly and unhurriedly, for at his age he had seen, and he felt done, everything, reached the villa the carriage and accompanying horsemen were clattering in. 

Grooms and servants came forward, holding back a little. The guards at the gate, having left the carriage and travelling party in, had now closed the gate, but not barred it suggesting that they did not see the likelihood of threat. Don noticed with approval that two of the guards had strung but not nocked their bows. In the hands of experts such as these khazars the powerful composite bows could easily drive an arrow through the mail shirts worn by the riders. As Sophocles his Stewart moved forward Don noticed that his red round face was smiling as the curtain of the carriage was pulled back to reveal Paschal, returned early and most welcome. ``greetings grandfather''he said as he stepped down and moved to embrace Donn, the man who'd rescued his entire family from a life of poverty and slavery and who had provided Paschal with a new name and opportunity beyond the dreams of the majority of the peasants of this disputed region. Don embraced him, and moved towards the Villa. ``Why the need for the horsemen and guards Paschal'' he asked. 

Paschal looked sideways ``I have news grandfather'' but the silent entreaties of Don left him un moved. The interior of the villa was cool, a welcome relief from the cricketing heat outside. As the sounds of the horsemen dismounting and leaving their steeds to the stables faded Don and Pascal entered into a pleasant courtyard, a fountain to one side trickling gently, the scent of roses and bougainvillea heavy in the autumn air. Already alerted by their stewart a servant girl was placing fruit and some chilled wine on a marble table. Don and Paschal sat , one lightly one heavily, and Paschal poured a crisp dry vintage from Don's own vineyards, handing the cup to the old man he began to speak. ``I know you're wondering why I have returned so quickly from the city, but  you know that I would not do this did I not have news. You are aware of course that the emperors have never actually relinquished their claim on any of the lands of the ancient empire. and you know that in every town they have agents and these agents act, sometimes as they best see fit, usually to promote the glories of the Eastern Empire. Demetriuos is the agent in Massilla, and he told me that last night he had received note that the siege of Constantinople had finally been broken. The Arabs made a great assault, aided from the land side by the Avars, but the dromons of the fleet slaughtered  and burned the Arabs, and the Emperor's gold finally succeeded in bringing the Slavs to the war, so cutting the Avar host from its supplies and forcing them to withdraw or face starvation. He also brought a message for you: the Emperor, out of love for his great-grandfather, and therefore out of love for his friend - that would be you - sends his greetings. There is also a letter from the patriarch, and from a collection of monasteries. You're not been forgotten grandfather, no matter how many years have passed since you last went to the Queen of Cities. They beg you to return, of course safe in the knowledge that at your age you will not. I felt that you would be interested in knowing that the siege had been lifted, and also that you would like to see these letters, and thus I left our business in the hands of our agent. If I have erred, I apologise''. He halted. 

Don looked at the heavy parchment, examining the gold and purple of its bull, running his aged fingers over the creaminess,  staring at the waxed and sealed packages. He raised them slowly, bringing the parchment to his nose, inhaling deeply. A faint scent came to him, or so he imagined: a mixed scent of luxury, brutality, wisdom,  candles and chainmail, dust and screams, snowy mountains and dusty plains, days of heat and light against which even his present surroundings paled, of the world of far away and long ago, of Rita, of the life of which he could never have had believed of a young priest, on a damp foggy rock in the far western ocean.

Chapter Two

590: Persia/Byzantine Empire  Ctestiphon    

``Hold him!'' the deep voice boomed. The captive struggled, held  fast by his arms by two blank-eyed Nubians in silvered armour but game  yet. ``hold him you dogs or you will take his place''. The Nubians  half dragged the kicking man to the speaker. Reaching down, a silk  clad arm ended in a gnarled fist, wrapped around the oiled hair of  the captive. ``King of Kings of Iran'' he crowed, spitting in the  face of Hormizd. ``King of dung beetles more like''. `` you always  were a poor loser and a poor winner Bahram. Do as you will, faithless  dog, useless..'' a fist smacked into his face ``BRING HIM'' Bahram  roared, a voice trained on a battlefield filling the throne room,  ringing from the arched vault of the ceiling. The nubians dragged  the semiconscious man towards the throne. 
``Stop. there. Bring them  out `` Bahram called. ``is this needed Lord'' a tall thin man at  his side whispered ``is it needed? “. `` Shut up fool'' Bahram  hissed. ``you saw what he did. Women's clothes an edict calling me  faithless and craven, my lands and revenues taken. And he expected  me to lie down under THAT?'' his voice rose to a roar at the end. Hormizd stirred, opening one eye, the other crusted with blood and  swollen closed. ``ah, he wakes'' muttered Bahram , who waved to  a soldier standing beside and a little behind the throne. He turned and a coffle of misery emerged from a golden door - an older woman, several younger, a teenage boy - all with bruises, the boy defiant. Hormizd groaned, and started to rise, before being cudgelled down by the nearer guard. Bahram grabbed him by the hair, hauling him to his knees. "Behold, the royal family reunited" he crowed. "now to make an end of it!" he shouted. Behind Hormizd a man emerged from the thickening crowd of soldiers, walked forward and handed a thin knife to Bahram. "the last thing you will see is your family, dead before you" . He turned, and nodded to the men guarding the captives "do it".  One of the younger women began to wail as the guard stepped forward and calmly rammed a spear into the chest of the older woman, who fell choking and twitching. At the back of the hall a weather-beaten man winced, and backed slowly out. 
Hormizd groaned. "your mother! your wife! your children!” Bahram shouted into the ear of his once ruler, as the guards walked down the line dispatching the terrified and helpless victims. "not all of them..." Hormizd  whispered, his eyes fixed on the gore as the knife slashed, ending his reign and his life .
❖
590 Near Martyropolis
“Get out” the giant roared, “out, girl, out I need to talk to him now”. He stormed through the outer room of the ornate tent, knocking over a side table, boots bunching and catching on rugs to the daybed. A boot , placed gently but inexorably on the arse propelled the seminaked, fully scared girl towards and out the tent flap, where a guard caught her fall. 
“General. To what do I owe the pleasure, which will doubtless be more than I could have obtained with my late companion here” Chosroes said, emerging from the bedroom of the tent, as startled guards hung beside ShahBaraz, Suren of Persia, their commander., unsure as to whether to slay him or hide away in case he slew them. Chosroes pulled a robe over his shoulders. His thin face was expressionless, his eyes were wary. 
“Prince..” Shahrbaraz paused. “I have…I must..” Chosroes stared, as he pulled on a pair of leggings, securing them around his ankles, bending and rising to tie them to his inner belt. 
“My general. What is it? “ Shahrbaraz astounded him by falling to his knees, bowing his head. 
“Shahrbaraz, my wild boar. I have been your squire and your prince and your commanded for years and I have never seen you at a loss for words. What, by the Light, is wrong?” Chosroes was now worried
“Your father.. He is dead” axed out the words. “Slain, treacherously slain by Barham. And your family. May the light gather them and let Arihman not deceive them” To the utter surprise of Chosroes the enormous man fell from his knees, into full prostration 
“Shahanshah, beloved of AhuraMazda, keeper of the Sacred Fires, may you live forever” he exclaimed three times, striking his head gently on the rugs
Chosroes sat, mind racing. If his family were truly dead, then he should be ruler. But he was not ruler until he was accepted by the nobles, and the priests and the army. 
“Rise, Shahrbaraz. Please, rise. Sit.”. He called out “slave, wine, for two, and some bread and salt and olives. Shahrbaraz, tell me. What do you know and how” 
As the general spoke Chosroes grew more and more alarmed. Bharham had, indeed, made a clean sweep of things. As the head of the military he was ideally placeed to do harm if angered. He sighed, recalling the fury on Bharham’s face as he was paraded in women’s clothing before the court, the smile on his fathers face the smile, it was feared then, of a dead man. 
“So, your man brought the news swiftly. Hazek will have my gratitude, for what that is worth. But, surely the usurpers minions will not be far behind? If I stay here, I am as dead as any of my family” He fixed the eye of the general, who stared back. “The usurper would reward greatly any who brought my head, would he not” Chosroes spoke so softly it was almost inaudible over the flapping of the tent fabric and the sounds drifting in the first room. Sounds of a army at camp, orders shouted, marching feet, the clatter of pots and pans and arms and armour. Inside the room silence shrouded the two men. 
Shahrbahaz straightened. “ I am of the house of Suren. My family have given advisors, Shahanshas, satraps, soldiers and generals. We crown the chosen. I hold to the old ways - I do not lie and I do not break service” 
Chosroes released a breath he scarce realised he was holding. “Forgive me , Aspbed, great commander. I had to be sure.” 
“If I am your great commander, then may I advise you? “ 
“You must” 
“If you stay here you will die. Not by my hand but you will die. By poison, in the night. By a dagger, in a crowd. By arrow, by spear, by a cunning noose. You know this. We have scarce 1000 men. It is fortunate that I was near, but my personal guard is but a few hundred more. That is not an army. It cannot defend you. Moreover, Muntoz is not to be trusted. He is an intimate of Guldak, son of Bharham. He will not hesitate to slay or bind you at the command of the usurper. You must go. “
“I will not be a prince in exile Shahrbahaz” Chosroes cautioned. “Not one of those poor, despicable hangers around a court, ever a threat to their homeland but more a threat to the wineglass. I will take my rightful place with fire and steel” 
“No. But steel can be bought with gold and goodwill. And you cant do it if you are dead”
“What then?” 
Shahrbahaz sighed. “The romans…”
“WHAT” Chosroes shouted. “WHAT? Did you not hear me? I will not become a pensioned off alcoholic in daphne, laughed at by the romans and sassanids alike. Nor willI forment anoterh civil war!. NO!” he thundred
Shahrbahaz chopped down his hands, spades of flesh and mail. “Listen! Bharham will plunge, has already plunged the empire into civil war. I will never bow to him. Nor will the Satraps of Sogdania, India, Bactria, Albania or Mysahn. What he holds is the center. The west and the east despise him. The west, because we know his cowardice and his failure, for which your father was correct to punish him. Pity it was an punishment too great to bear and too little from which to expire! The east, they ever seek to gain advantage. I do not know of Margiana. So, even if you die now there will be war”
“Thats..bleak” Chosroes said as he stood up and streched. 
“It is. Blame your father and the usurper. Go to Martyropolis. After all, this time they might even let you in. Go with a small force, but as yourself. The romans are not fools. They know that if they aid you to the throne they can, and they will, impose the sttlement they have dreeamed of for centuries.” 
“You would have me lose the western provinces? Albania? The Caucasus? “
“I would have you win a throne. After all, you can always take them back. It wouldnt be the first time they had become a battleground…”

Chapter Three
590 Martyropolis
 Germanus was bored. It was chilly, and his leg ached where his boot top bit into the swollen vein. “too old for this …” he muttered. As he reached the end of the section of wall he noted the sky had definitely lightened. Dawn was coming and with it an end to this tedious night watch, with a whole week of day duty to look forward to, allowing him to spend the night sleeping. Well, drinking and dicing and whoring maybe as well, but sleep also. Back and forth he paced, from the turn of the wall to the top of the small gatehouse, never a person to talk to, the other guards pacing designed so as not to bunch them up, the gates barred for the night, the  gate guards , lucky bastards, snug in the gatehouse. He turned, shrugged his shoulders to settle his breastplate, observed the dawn was really on the way, and ...    He stopped. trotting forward out of the rising sun was a band of horsemen, a dozen riders and a string or remounts. A banner flapped over the lead rider. Germanus stared, as the troop came closer. "Captain" he shouted, sprinting to the gatehouse, hammering on the door, never taking his eyes off the horsemen "captain, quick, Sassanids! Cataphracts!"  A bolt shot back, and a grill appeared "what in the name of the martyrs are you shouting about Germanus. What sassanids? The only damned ovens here are the ones in the mess. And the only Sassanids are the ones in graves from last year." "honest to the lord Sir, theres a group of cataphracts approaching" Germanus stated. "Sir, that banner.... you might want to come and have a look"    "how many, how far, and if your drunk I WILL have your hide" Valens replied, his yell at once a consequence of a hangover and a cause of a headache. "a half dozen cataphracts, I can see the armour, 8 other riders all armoured lancers, a string of remounts and a few pack animals, they're stopping a couple of stade away from the walls" . The door opened, and Valens emerged, bucking on a sword-belt. "what banner" he asked, as he turned. "oh ..." Valens sighed. "Yessir, last time we saw that was last year, 'cept there was a lot more ovens then and they weren't sitting polite like" Germanus ventured. "Go to the gatehouse, turn out the guard, then run to the governor's palace. DO NOT return without him. Tell him a party has approached the walls flying the Derafsh Kaviani, and I believe we should allow them to approach to talk. Go, GO man" Valens turned to the walls as Germanus bustled off, the gate guard emerging to their posts, some on the wall, more forming up behind the gate, their counterparts in the other tower flanking the gate also moving into position.  
Outside the gates the riders waited. 
❖
590 Martyropolis
Choroes sat, sweating more heavily than he had ever done in a fire pit. The dawn had broken hours ago, and morning marched on. Sweat trickled down his neck, it pooled at his waist, it flowed down his legs into his boots. The chainmail was hot enough , he thought, pity them if they had to armour up.  Only a combination of fear, what were they going to do if they were turned away, and rigid discipline instilled into him in the royal household kept him form fidgeting and shifting on the unfamiliar horse. To his left a courtier spoke, like him sweating and still.
“so do you think that they will let us enter to the city Highness?” 
Above them the banner flapped listlessly, occasional gusts of hot dusty air doing nothing whatsoever to cool man and beast.
“I have no idea. If I was in their position I wouldn't let anybody near the place. It's not that long ago since they were fighting desperately to keep this, pretty successfully as I recall. Weighing against this must be the fact that here we have someone clearly from the Royal house, and doesn't take political genius to realise that the size of the party, and knowing what is going on, That This is somebody seeking refuge. On balance I think yes, they would give us an audience at the very least. Of course, they may still then cut our throats, but at least we will live another day”
“Highness, some water? Wine? “ Asked a weatherbeaten man , clad more comfortably in civilian clothes not the mail and leather of the warriors. 
“Water please Hazek, with a cut of wine. I need to remain clearheaded” 
He drank, ordering the others to water their horses, to dismount and rest them. Not clad in full cataphract armour they could mount alone, if not with ease. No need for living footstools, no matter how exalted, Chosroes thought. 
“Exalted one! The gates” a rider called “they open” 
Chosroes tensed. This was the moment of maximum danger. If the Romans wished they could sally forth, and obliterate his small troupe. Nobody would ever know what had become of him. He stiffened further, Noting– the walls had suddenly grown an awful lot more men, Hiding, mostly, but sufficiently large number obviously pointing  bows and in one case, may the Lord of light condemn them, a ballista. The gates swung open to the fullest extent, and Persians held their breath. There came a clatter and jangle. Would they see a welcoming party of medium level dignitaries and officers to take them to the governor, or a charge of the bucceliari, roman cavalry shamelessly copied from their own, a charge that would, combined with the bowmen and the artillery, wipe Chosroes from the world and grant Barham unfettered control over the empire. 
The first few riders appeared in the wavering heat and light. 
❖
591 Byzantium 
“so what does he want” the man lounging on the couch asked, reaching for a rock crystal glass half filled with chilled wine.  He leaned back, waiting…
“Revenge, his throne, your support, Augustus” came a reply, competing to be heard over a deeper one “sanctuary, nothing more” 
 ‘it is very clear to me Augustus–‘  came to deep voice of his Chamberlain
‘all that is ever clear to you is that your money  making schemes are paramount’ overrode the Count of the Executibors, a tall, spare, whip thin man, with a curiously light but penetrating voice
“at least my money making schemes , as you call them, do not end in disaster and ignominy, with regiments fleeing the pagans hither and yon. Even now Thessalonica – “
“Thessalonica will not fall to the Slavs. They lack the skill, the guile and the patience. Heraclius is moving as we speak to relieve it, and relieve it he will”
“and then we have Carthage. An exarchate for your friend, Basil, when all there is to rule is sand and savages” sneered the Chamberlain, settling back on his heels.
“Carthage-“ the count snapped his jaws shut as Maurice sighed, straightened and clapped his hands together
“So, confusion as ever gentlemen” Maurice grunted, sipping his wine and sighing. “We have the heir to the Sassanids camped out across the river, his father and family murdered. When not carving each other like a roast duck my most senior officials squabble like children and can offer me ABSOLUTELY NO ADVICE” he roared at the end. 
“ My chamberlain says he wants to flee here, by no means an unreasonable desire. The Count of the Executibors suggests a more ..manly response. Gentlemen, might I suggest that this is s time when you both need to work together. I am not dead yet, my recent will notwithstanding.

Chapter Four
591 Byzantium 

The brocade was heavy, though Chosroes, heavier than he remembered. He fingered it. It was not as fine woven nor as delicate as the material he had worn as a prince. He smiled. He was still a prince, and if the meeting went well, would be more again. Around the walls of the meeting chamber a series of mosaics depicted events from the life of christian saints. He understood the symbols and the analogies, admired the work even as he denied the meaning. The priests of Zoroaster tended more to sculpture and mosaic was not something the Sassanid wealthy appreciated. He noted that the halo’s of the saints seemed to be real gold. At each corner one of the executibors, the palace guards, stood , motionless even as he scrutinised their arms and armour. He doubted they would kill him if he were to try pry a golden tile off the wall…but it wouldn't look good.  His attendants clumped in the middle of the chamber, talking animatedly but softly to the Count of the Executibors. Chosroes imagined it must not be easy for the guards - their ultimate commander, a deposed emperor and awaiting a ruling emperor. 
A hidden door opened a fraction, and a slight, spare, smoothfaced man slippered his way into the room, nodding at the nearest guard. “Ah, Narses. Are we ready? “ Asked the Count. 
“Yes, he comes. My Lord Chosroes” he nodded and bowed deeply, now looking at Chosroes 
The sound of boots began to echo down the corridor, and Narses opened the door fully. Two towering executibors in silvergilt armour , swords held aloft could be seen. “I see Nobel One, that the emperor comes as warlord and general, not in his civil guise” Chosroes noted to the Count. “Yes. He does.” A smile flitted across the thin lined face
The two guards marched into the room, peeling left and right. Maurice, in a plain tunic and breeches, also sword girt, followed.  As the courtiers and other Byzantines began to sink to their knees he gestured impatiently “none of that. This is a working meeting. Thank you Phocas, you may go” he gestured to the senior of the two guards,  who nodded, bowed and marched out. Behind him a covey of servants entered, carrying trays of wine and small foods, while other carried in camp stools and one rather more elaborate chair, ingeniously collapsed into a flat portable. As the servants set up Maurice cleared his throat. Silence fell. 
“My lord Chosroes, Shahanshah, Satrap of Media, King of Babylon, so on and so forth, etc … may you live forever”. A small sigh of relief escaped from one of the Sassanids, realising that in publicly hailing Chosroes thusly Maurice was, at the very least, agreeing that he was the legitimate ruler and would be treated as such. 
“I have consulted with my Senate. I have taken advice from my generals. I have spoken to the priests. All are as one” Maurice paused. “They advise me to not anger the Sassanids. To placate Barham. To maintain the peace. To abandon you” He looked directly at Chosroes. “They are wrong. They mean well. But they are wrong. For good or ill our two empires are fated to contend and rule the world together. Sometimes we do in peace, others in war. Neither, we know, can overthrow the other  - only internal division can do that. Each depends on each other more than we care to admit. Merchants may be dull but they are the sinews of empire and these sinews bind us together even when we are at war. Each needs the other to be strong - but not too strong!. The usurper Barham has ignited a war which will weaken your empire Chosroes. That is inevitable.  So, I have decided to aid you, to aid in finishing this war sooner than it might. Also, while he was my enemy I admired your father as ruler and general and grieve both his death and the manner of it”
“Basileus. I have no words” Chosroes bowed deeply. “But, I must ask. Emperors do not go to war for mere sentiment or trade. We who would rule must seek advantage. I will gain, if the Lord of Light wills it, my throne. But what will it cost? Some prices are too high”
Maurice gestured. “Please, all , sit. Shirin, come in “ 
Into the room came a short, plainfaced,  woman, draped in purple, red and cream. Chosroes nodded to himself - the colours of the Sassanid royal standard. This was the first price. “May I present you Shirin,  daughter of my late brother. Your wife, it is my hope” Maurice cooly looked Chosroes in the eye. Shirin looked downward, then raised her eyes to Chosroes. Both shared the knowledge of the net closing inexorably around them. “Narses, the map please” Maurice continued. “Shirin is of course a good orthodox christian are you not child” 
“Yes lord” Her voice was low, light and firm “But if I am to be wife to the great Shahanshah, I will become Nestorian” 
Chosroes was impressed, behind a mask of calm detachment. Nestorian christians were many in his soon-to-be empire.  He would have many wives, and at some stage one of them would have to be a gesture to the christian minority. That problem was now solved. It was not even unprecedented to have the royal houses swap minor members. As Maurice had said, the two empires were much closer bound than the almost incessant wars might suggest.  He glanced at Maurice who had spread the map on a small table. 
“I do not think you will find Shirin difficult. But…my final requirement. . This may be more onerous…. my son” he smiled, cold and distant. 
“You want land and cities” Chosroes replied flatly
“I will have them, one way or another” Maurice replied equally flatly.  “You will cede them, or I must needs take them to defend my own lands against the banditry and lawlessness that will infest your empire as the civil war plays out” He paused. “ You lose some cities and a province or two, which have over the years been Roman before, and will be Persian again,  such is their lot,  but you gain an empire and the friendship of an emperor.”
“Speak” Chosroes sighed. 
“Very well. Let us settle this. You will wed Shirin, when she has taken instruction from a Nestorian; you will cede the lands and cities here; we will not fortify them but will garrison troops there;  this after we aid you, with troops and gold and spies, to regain your throne. Are we agreed?” 
“We are” Chosroes stated, as he and Maurice clasped forearms. 
❖
591 Battle of Blarathon
“Lord Narses. A rider approaches” the courtier bowed, and backed out  of the partition separating the inner sanctum from the hubbub of a command tent. 
“Wait you imbecile. WAIT” Narses shouted, his voice deeper than his spare , almost emaciated frame might suggest. The courier halted.
“First, you do not report to me” Narses paused, sensing the confusion of the courier. “I may be General of the Armies but there” a bony arm shot out and pointed at the corner of the room “there is your Basileus. Report to him when he’s present. And REPORT. What rider, where, so on and so forth” Narses almost smiled at the confusion of the young nobel. Almost. It was not his fault he hadnt seen Maurice, in the dark. Nor that he might not have recognised the Vice Regent of God on Earth, clad as he was in a plain mail shirt and worn boots, unkempt and slightly smelling of horse and blood. Maurice had decided to decamp and join, indeed, lead, his troops and now after two days of hard fighting had retired as the battle lines settled in position as the evening drew in. 
 Narses was not sure what was more surprising - that he, a eunuch chamberlain had succeeded in his ambition to depose John Mystacon who now sat fuming in his own tent stroking his eponymous moustaches when he wasnt stroking his pleasure girls, or that he had shown more talent than he had felt he owned, or most amazing that Maurice had risen from his couch to take effective, in every sense, command, reminding everyone that he had once been and maybe still was an excellent general. 
The courtier paused, turned to Maurice and began to intone his many titles. Maurice silenced him with a wave and a command. “Tell us man,  just get to it. We are fighting a war in case you hadnt noticed. A few hours rest and as the sun comes up we are bound to be back in the saddle again”
“Err… a rider Baselius. From the persians. Bearing signs of peace!”
“Where is this rider” Narses interjected. “Never mind , bring him here”
“I ordered that he was to be detained Lord, and held nearby until I had gotten instructions from you..er from …that is…until”
“Your face is familiar” Maurice noted. 
The courier straightened. “I am Heraclius, Sire, eldest son of the Illustrius” 
“Ah, so we have Heraclius the younger, and the older. So”
“Go and fetch him , son of my new Exharch of Carthage, or did you send him to your father’s new domain in africa?” Maurice said, rising and cracking his back. “You out there” he shouted to the clerks of the command tent “get the senior commanders here for a conference, now” 
While the clerks busled about, lighting lamps, laying cushions, loading tables with food and drink,  Maurice’s senior commanders entered. Sketchy and abbreviated as the obseiances on campaign might be they still irked Maurice, and he almost relished the idea of riding back out tomorrow. They had driven Barham and his troops from Lake Van, week by week towards the foothills of the outriders of the Caucuses Mountains, skirmish after ambush,  each day gaining more and more support from the Armenians, for the christian Basilius, and from assorted hillmen and wildmen, Barham having spectacularly failed to obtain the support of the Zoroastrian priests. Joined now by Chosroes and several thousand elite heavy cavalry,  Maurice felt confident. Two days of increasingly heavy fighting had made it clear that Barham also felt that the scales were in danger of tipping decisivly against him. Best for all to bring the crisis. Hopefully, tomorrow’s battle could be avoided, if things were as he hoped. If not, then battle it would be, again.  “Alea jacunt est” Maurice murmured 
“My Lord?” Narses inquired
“Nothing Narses. Just musing” Maurice sipped his wine , then nodded as Chosroes entered. HE looked good, well and prideful Maurice thought. A veritable emperor, as he might well be by the end of the next day. 
“My Lord and Father, Maurice. Greetings” Chosroes bowed his head fractionally. A little less than yesterday, Maurice thought. Definitely less. 
“My Son, Lord Chosroes. We have a visitor I believe” 
“We have. I must confess, Maurice. I have been active not just on the battlefield. I have…”
“Your missions to your uncles? Yes, very neat. Very very neat work. Your spymaster deserves his reward” Maurice interrupted. Chosroes coloured slightly. 
“Of course, a more suspicious man than I might have taken this amiss. A family member, conspiring with the enemy, to ..how shall we put it… encourage my household cavalry into a heroic battle against the Median Guard.  Why anything could have happened. As well for all of us that I am not suspicious. At least, not after I …..augmented your offer. Bring in Lord Varsal”
A burly, middle aged man, Varsal looked, Maurice thought, a lot like a sawn off greyer Chrosroes. As Varsal approached, he prostrated himself, managing to point directly between the two emperors. 
“Uncle” Chosroes said in a voice as cold as the peaks in the distance. “What have you to say to your lord and to the Baselius” 
“Rise, Varsal. Rise. We are all men here, with one aim in common, if no other. To spare our brave soldiers. Heraclius,  push forward there. Let Lord Varsal be seated. Your son has done well in his courier duties, let him act as cupbearer to our ….hostage is such a loaded word…our guest, yes.” The courier, Heraclius the Younger, blushed, and moved to the table, returning to Varsal with wine and bread and salt. 
“Varsal. You betrayed your brother, my father. You dog. You will die in the fire of pur…” Chosroes began
“Ahem…My son. Your anger is understandable. Justified even” Maurice interjected. “But hear me. You have suborned Chillam, and his footmen. Neatly done. But Varsal here, he is the true mailed fist of Barham, is that not so Lord Varsal?” 
Varsal glared at Chosroes, then nodded. “I am. Without my cataphracts and horse archers, he is doomed, in the end” 
“Just as well then that I have your word, and you have my gold and my word, Lord Varsal” Maurice turned to Chosroes. “I have supported your campaign Lord Chosroes. With men, with money and marriage. And now, hear me. I have promised Varsal and his family and his men their liberty and position after you regain your throne” 
Chosroes half rose, face colouring “you have no right Maurice! NONE” he shouted and waved his fist, in the general direction of Varsal but taking in Maurice. Heraclius the Younger tensed, his hand on a hidden dagger. “SIT DOWN AND BEHAVE LIKE AN EMPEROR” Maurice roared in his battle voice, shaking the draperies. Chosroes blinked, astounded at being spoken at so, and sat. 

“Good. Your are again an emperor. Why? Not through battle alone. That would take years, even with my aid. And I have other borders to deal with.  Phocas there needs to tend to the Danube. Hercalius, illustrious father of your cupbearer , heads west, to relieve Thessaloniki and then against the savage tribes of the desert . In Italy Eusabius contends with the barbarian Langobards. I need peace. YOU need peace. Your uncle is a traitor indeed. And now a double one. But one who has no other master. Varsal? “ Varsal reached down, and opened the saddlebag he had carried, lifting by the hair a very fresh head.“Barham, once usurper of your throne Lord of Light” Varsal cried. 

❖
602  On the Danube
“Lord Basileus, the men are worn” Phocas rumbled. “They have fought hard, suffered previous casualties, broken themselves agai…” 
“Enough” Maurice sighed. Phocas cut off in mid sentence, so abruptly that some present thought he must surely have chopped the end of his tongue. 
Impressive discipline though Theofract, idly playing with his food, marshalling chicken bones against carrots. But then he glanced again, up, at the brutal, scarred, gigantic face of Phocas. Ah, there was anger indeed. Phocas was brutal, personally and in his work, but he cared for his men, if only because without them he would have remained behind a plough. Time to stoke that anger, Theofract thought
“My lord Phocas” he began, with a slight emphasis on Lord. “Your infantry have done well, there is no doubt. Why, they approach the standards of our forbears indeed, even if we have not quite retaken Dacia” That hit home, Theofract saw, as Phocas eyes narrowed and his lips compressed further. Looking down he saw his hands were clasping one another, no doubt with strength enough to crush a lesser. Some more , then a swerve towards conciliation, Theofract felt. Yes. “Our glorious basileus, praise to him” he bowed his head at Maurice, sure to annoy the man who insisted on the minimum of courtly ceremony when on campaign “surely he can ask no more of your brave men? Surely the time has come to allow a …heavier….set of troops to tale the lead? “ Theofract stared at Phocas, watching war on his face. To not back down now would be to admit that his heavy infantry could not do something which might be achieved by the Bucceleari cavalry. To back down would be to dash his men against the  riparine defences, perhaps gaining a breach. But his men were worn. And any breach they made would almost certainly have to be exploited by the cavalry anyway. 
“Lord Theofract. Can your men unaided take the defences? I think not. Horses do not climb well over even small walls, and find it difficult to pull apart thorn hedges, eh?” Maurice spoke tartly. “My Lord Phocas. The men are tired, and worn. I know this. But…they are not YOUR men but mine. They will attack in the morning, as agreed. Lord Theofract, stand your men and horses in readiness to exploit any breach, if Phocas can perhaps make one?” Maurice stood, followed by all others, and swept out to low bows. One by one the other commanders drained their cups, and left, leaving Phocas and Theofract alone, to confer on the morrow. 
“They will be massacred, you know” Theofract stated, pouring some more wine, unwatered, for Phocas, who swallowed it down in a gulp, banging the metal tankard so hard on the table the table shook and the tankard warped. He glared at Theofract
“Of course I know. And so does he. Bastard! “ He waved the tankard at Theofract, who obliged. “What was that about by the way? You know we have little chance, and your horseboys? Less. The Gepids are entrenched, they have cavalry wedges waiting to exploit, their own and those damned hunnic archers. Ever since we crossed the Danube our great Basileus has visions of being the new Trajan” He drank deeply. 
“Yes. Your men will , most probably fail. And then he will send in my troops. What a shame that the gepid heavy cavalry will be warned, and intercept us, delaying us from adequate reinforcement and giving us barely enough time to join up with you for a fighting retreat…” Theofact trailed off. Phocas looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time in a long period. Gone was the foppish courtier, replaced by someone equally as well turned out but with a mien that was infinitely cold and infinitely distant. 
“You play a dangerous game Theofract. A slip and we both fail. I don't fancy being a prisoner of Gram any more than I do of the special troops in the basement of the palace. Thousands of men will die. Your men, and mine, no matter what that idiot says”
“Yes, thousands will die. Needlessly. Pointlessly. For the glory of a man who already is covered in it. Needless, with the conquest of the caucasian marches we have no need for tribute to the Persians, and could have paid these barbarians off, or hired some other tribe of hairy arsed savages to harass them. But no. The new Trajan must march on. Over the corpses of his men.”
“Our men. Men we trained. Men who are loyal, in the first instance, to us…” Phocas replied. “The power lies with the army. Maurice has forgotten that, even as he marches amongst it.” 
“Yes, it does. He has. Power lies best with the powerful. And who is more powerful than the leaders of the army and the household cavalry….” Theofract paused. Phocas looked him in the eye. 
“In that order. Let us be clear. In that exact order” Phocas poured the last of the wine, sharing it between the two men. “The men will not thank the Basileus for a needless defeat. B the time we reach back to Adrianopole or Constantinople, winter will have set in. They will be  cold, angry..”
“More angry when they find themselves harassed by Avar irregulars, too fleet for the heavy horse to do much more than chase after impotently” Theofract interjected
“So thousands MORE will die. They will be boiling” Phocas paused. “But the city? It still loves Maurice” 
“The mob” sneered Theofract. “Since his actions tying his house to the Persians the goodly have no time for him. Why, as things stand now a Persian Shah has a good claim on the throne of the caesars! No, the good senators and merchants of the city may fear Maurice, they may even admire the peace his armies, you and I, won in the east. But they do not love or een like him. They will not weep for his passing”
 
❖
602 Byzantium 
“General Phocas,  the Hebdomon is in sight” the courier stated, a little out of breath, pointing needlessly. “Good, please find General Theofract, my compliments, and if he will attend me when we make camp this evening. Please ask him for the returns of todays losses. Not too many I suspect. You lot have been travelling around, what is your sense” Phocas fixed the courier, who settled himself on his horse. “Ah, General, the barbarians, that is….the losses have not been high today, it is true. But they have bled us hard my lord! Daily they strike, like demons of the wind, pick off a courier, camp followers, a water party. The men.…” he paused “what of them, man. Speak freely” Phocas barked, at the same time, without looking, holding out his hand to the side, into which a staff member dropped a small purse. Glancing at the purse, the courier spoke on “the men are angry Lord, not at you nor Lord Theofract!” he hastened “but at the Basileus. They say his lost for glory and his greed have led them to bleed for naught. The news that their pay will be reduced for not completion of the campaign has them at the boil Lord General. In the city the new taxes, for yon palace have the poor vexed almost to the point of revolt. The watch cannot keep control of the streets, and only private mercenaries guard the homes and warehouses of the wealthy from loot.” 
*
“So, Theofract. Have your men settled?” Phocas inquired. “Settled, but will they stay? What a shame that our losses have been such that we can only mount the lightest of camp guards. There is little to stop angry, hungry men from simply leaving the camp and heading into the city to join the mob. And yours of course have even less to keep them in camp. At least the majority of my riders, if not the grooms and farriers, care about their mounts enough to perhaps stay. Your theives and scum….” Theofract mused, nodding his head towards the darkling city walls, over which a flickering glow and a susurration of angry voices could be seen and heard. “Yes, well, in fact my thieves and scum are confined to barracks….for the moment. We need to decide what to do, and if we decide in a particular way, we will need men capable of holding a city. Horsemen will be of little use in a large city, no matter how broad the Mese may be. You might charge down that but fighting in alleyways and docksides?” Phocas drank some wine
Theofract paused. This was it, it seemed. The mention of the Mese, the broad central boulevard that speared through the heart of Constantinople made it abundantly clear what what afoot. 
“When” the fateful question dropped into the silence. 
“Let us be clear Theofract” Phocas leaned forward, gigantic, bearded, his hair halod by the setting sun. “Let us be very clear. I will lead. If fortune favours us, I will be Basileus. You can ask for whatever you wish but I would hope you will take over my position and lead the armies. Despite what the men said, some settlement with the Avars and Gepids needs to be made, and is best made at the point of a sword. And the Medes will need watching. War is not done yet. MAurice was a great general. But he ruled poorly. The mob are sheep, as individuals. But together they are a lion, and a cunning one. The lion knows the peace with the Medes has freed vast sums of gold. But they see tax and tax. They see the magnates growing wealthier and foreigners gaining power. They are an angry lion….So when? Tomorrow. Maurice will expect us two and some troops to the palace. Let us then go to the palace, in all strength. Our troopers will lead the lion against those hounds that bite them while we two and my bodyguard will proceed to reckon with our would be Trajan”
“What of the patriarch Phocas? He will not stand by and watch us…remove… the man he crowned?” 
“The patriarch will acquiesce when he sees the lion. He is a vain, and lecherous man. But nobody ever called Eusebius a fool. In any case, he is not the only Patriarch….” Phocas reached into a satchel, they being alone, and slid a parchment across the table. “This is from Gregory, patriarch and pope, bishop of Rome,  imploring me as a good son of the church to do all in my power to restore to office those bishops and abbots lately deposed by Maurice” 
“You mean , the plunderers and rapists he removed from their offices for abusing them in a manner worse than nero?” Theofract lightly quipped.
“Good men, mostly, perhaps misguided and sinners, as are we all, who should be under clerical authority not that of any secular power” Phocas grinned savagely “Maurice may have a patriarch, we have a patriarch also. And an army. And a lion” He drank down his wine, and stood 
“Tomorrow” 

Chapter Five
607  Loher
The pair walked, stumped really,  along the saddle of the hills. To the left the ground sloped downward in a bowl, before rearing up in mountainous ramparts down which fell a waterfall, White fuming even in the the height of the summer. To the right a smaller hill loomed, its top crowned with broken stones.  The stones clearly outlined a circle, with a larger stone rearing up. “God on high hear my prayer, let no spirit attack us!” the smaller of the two exclaimed. 
“More like black-flies and briars Brother.  Did not St Finian himself bless all the old tombs of the cursed in his mission here. Sure and such a powerful saint would have power to drive the foulest deamon from this place. Pity he had no power over nettles though” the taller concluded, as he winced his way through a patch of the same stinging plants”
Brother Aedan, the smaller, pushed on, casting the odd fearful glance at the tomb, crossing himself and muttering. Father Manchan, the taller , extricated himself from the nettles,  cursing and then blessing himself. 
The saddle narrowed,  the  stone crowned hill crowding the shoulder of the mountain so that the gap was scarce as wide the height of two men. The path, cow trodden and sheep cropped, split. One path dived down, towards the sea. The other clung onto the edge of the mountain, climbing up and up.  They walked to the split, and halted.  The mountain plunged down,  almost sheer, ending abruptly below with scarce a slope. Below the mountain lay a long, not narrow but not wide, pathcwork of fields, clean cut and well worked, ending at another set of sheer cliffs. These were mere minnows, four or five times the height of a man, compared to the gargantuan dark mass above. The mountain curved around , flowing away to the right, ending in a double crested hill and headland against which  the sea crashed. To the right and almost below them  the fields ended in a tangle of bog and broken stone, the root of the hill on whose flanks they stood. Further back from where they had come the cliffs faded to beach, with a small cluster of  dwellings visible, before resuming again and ramping up to a headland the twin of the one they faced. A bay, almost circular, filled the arms of the headlands, who framed two jagged teeth of stone. 
“Loher”  Manchan noted. “Lets go Brother, we can perhaps make the dun by nightfall.” 
“Im taking this slowly Father” the stocky man replied, “its steep, and St Finian notwithstanding I will trust in my staff”. 
The trail swithced back and forth, snaking down the scarp, then levelling off. As they walked, they noted the westering sun glinting on the whited walls of a dun. The dun commanded a view of the sweep of the bay, situated on a outthrust of the mountain spearing towards the cliff. 
“Praise the lord. Look” Aedan  pointed to the root of the ridge, where a crude but recognizable church was being rethached. “As we were told, he is using his wealth for the good of the Lord!” 

❖
607 Iveragh
“What do you mean he isn't here? Where would he be but here? I don't understand” Aedan voiced the confusion of both men. 
“He's gone to the rocks. For penitence, he says” Cormac drained his bowl, belched and wiped his mouth. “Im the Taoiseach here, and supposed to rule, but how can I when a amadan like that can wander around and defy me? I cant, can I…” 
“Cormac, where exactly has he gone, and why? What penitence, beyond what he is doing? What did he do?” Machan inquired, sipping his small beer, noting that the bowl was none to clean. 
Cormac leaned forward “There, the eegit. Out into the sea, to the rocks you see  between the headlands, St Michael’s. At least, he was going to. Leagues out into the sea, and he barely able to handle a currach. Hoy, some more beer and bring us some bread and cheese” Cormac slumped back on his bench. “A few days ago he got it into his head that he had sinned. Why? He ate meat. Now, if thats a sin, Im hell bound Father. He's been ill, from fasting and that discipline of his, and priest or no he's a prince of Desmond in my care and I am not going to let him die while under my care. Apart from the rudeness, I don't want Áed Bennán and his bullies setting me afire. So, I had him some broth made. Good beef stock. He was so weak he drank it like a man after a night of carousing drinks a beer. But then of course he decided this was a sin, and so he took off praying, then decided to join the crackheaded out on the rocks, living on gulls eggs and puffins and praying they don't get eaten by a fish”. Exhausted, seemingly, by this outburst Cormac slumped further back, a glum look on his face. 
“Cormac, you were in a place with no good outcome I see” Machan stated. “To let him die would have been a grievous insult to the King. He broke his fast of meat, not you. I see no sin, no dishonour in you. But we must speak to him! “ 
“Oh, he's not gone yet. One of the things I DO take seriously is provisioning the holy ones on the island. Such as they require, which isn't much. So anyone who goes out there takes salt, and some seeds, perhaps some fresh food. I asked him to wait until we had those ready. Which we do, now..” He heaved himself up, a large man running to fat, the sleeveless sheepskin jerkin revealing strong if somewhat fleshy arms,  scarred badly on the right “come, we can find him by Rineen, waiting” 
On the three walked, escorted against an attack of a crazed sheep by one of Cormac’s five household troops, a surly unwashed wiry strip of snot and misery, unlikely to bother even the mildest sheep if it took against them.. The ground was flat, and the path well trodden, half an hour seeing them scrambling down the scree to the small sheltered cove of Rineen. Drawn up on the sand were three curraghs, black hulls like beached whales, another acting as a makeshift hut, propped up on some branches. In the meagre shelter of its pitch daubed hides sat a man in black, his head crudely shaved, the bones of his skull making him seem more a dead thing than a live man. His boney hands obsessively fumbled a prayer ring and he mumbed as they drew nearer. “Jesu, ut nos perducat ipse regnabit super nos et terra nostra sit in pace” “Ah, Prince Donn. Origen. Very apt” cried Machan. The bony head snapped up “That is not my name. I am but a humble priest” 
“You are, indeed. But you are one whose grandfather is King, who was in good standing with the derbhfine and which King commands you to a task. And before you interrupt… the Abott at Caherleaheen has also commanded you to me. So , Prince Donn, Father Donn, you are bound by law , god and man, to attend me now. You have a great task ahead” Machan smiled. “You are for Rome”
❖
607 Iveragh
“I don't want to go. I am not worthy to go. I have sinned. I sinned against my wife when I lay with other women- and she died.  I sinned against my father when I defied him - and he exiled me , then died. I sinned against good Cormac here when I defied HIM- and you caught me. I sinned agai…” 
“Yes, you're a sinner. So am I. So is Brother Aedan. “ Machan interrupted
“Not a great sinner Father…” Aedan murmured
“We are all sinners. That is beside the point. What is not beside the point is that your king, against whom you sinned as you agree, has a task for you. One that will allow you to return to Cashel, as prince or priest as you prefer. This is not a choice, Father Prince Donn. It is a command” Machan stopped, examining the young man. Bony he might be but tall, and still well built, eyes green and blazing, the stubble of his halftonsure showing dark. “You say you have sinned? Do this and gain penance then”
Donn pushed up, spinning away. He groaned, and banged his head softly against the post of the wall. Again, less softly. Harder yet. 
“Father Donn….your head…” Brother Aedan murmured. Donn stopped, sighed, and began to pace. Marchan was reminded of the caledonian cat the King kept in his bestaiary in Cashel, the same sense of pent up fury, the same liquid grace, the same sense of competent authority. Cats rarely took holy orders when their mates and kits died, he mused. Almost never. Cats made poor keepers of mice. 
“Your wife died of a plague. The same plague that killed your father. The same that killed my brother, and Cormac’s third son, and Aedan’s niece. You didn't sin against them did you? No. So, my prince, my brother in Christ, you must stop this fleeing. Your church needs you, your King and Grandfather needs you”
“But Rome? Why must I go to Rome. Why me? Why not someone else?” sighed Donn
“O patéras mou, an eínai dynatón, afíste aftó to kýpello na perásei apó ména. ostóso, óchi ópos thélo, allá ópos tha thelísete”  responded Machan. 
“Indeed Father Donn, not as I will but as you will. This is your cup, my prince” counterpoised Brother Aedan
Donn sat, the shadows of the evening creeping across the floor of the roundhouse. Cormac had moved to the other end, eyes closed and affecting to doze, ostentatiously pretending not to hear a word while straining his ears to not miss a sound. The westering sun was visible out of the window, the kidskin pegged back to let air circulate. Although late the sun still stood a good hands breath over the horizon. As Donn watched, and was watched, the disc darkened, and slid down, into the slot between the two headlands, St Michael’s Rocks, the Skellig, casting dark toothy shadows over the calm water, the gloom of the headland to the left closing in, shadows creeping closer to the dun. Aedan and Machan watched and waited. 
As the disk touched the horizon Donn turned.  He began to speak, stopped, and began again. Cormac opened his eyes and sat up. 
“I can see no way out. I will go, as I am made. I am, like the centurion, indeed a man under authority. Or perhaps his servants, and I am told ‘go’, so I must go. As I understand you, I am to go to Rome and obtain a relic of St. Siadhal, and return it to Cashel. Very well. But why, and how?”
Father Machan rose. “Siadhal was a very learned man Father Donn. And you will travel as Father Donn. Not as a prince. Although, your grandfather will , I imagine, as will the Abbot, provide for a decent sum and sufficient letters to keep you and your companions alive. Your offence to your late father was very great and your grandfather is not yet ready to fully forgive. Nor will we release you from your vows. Siadhal was learned in the works of the Romans and Greeks, and a great translator of them each to the other and a great teacher. Your grandfather has it in mind to found a place of learning, of knowledge, at Cashel. Who better to be its patron than the most learned of men of Eireann? That is why. Why you? Who better - a priest, who is yet a trained fighter and not easily waylaid by evildoers in some forest glade. A humble man, who is learned in Latin and Greek. A prince,  who in other times might have come to power when your grandfather passes to his eternal glory. That is why. That is why you. We, we three, we will travel to his Holy Father and return, to forgiveness and for the honor of God”

Chapter Six
602 Byzantium
“Approach, and be recognized, in the name of the Baselius and Our Lord” the gate guard boomed from the arch of the bridge over the moat. Behind him, ranged on the first wall, taler than three men, the archers assigned to the Second Military Gate stood , if not at attention then attentively.  The first wall gate was open, the captain’s own guard standing under its arch.  Behind, rearing up as high as ten men the massive bulk of the main wall, banded red and grey , was dominated by a pair of truly enormous towers, the tops showing slight smoke from heated pots of oil and sand, the artillery of each ranged on them, the wall itself, twice the height of the first studded with spearmen. Phocas nodded, approvingly. It would be a brave slavic warband that made it this far, and a smarter one than had been seen to pass itself off as two Roman generals, but the commander clearly believed in being safe.  He wondered idly, as he did at each fortress, how he would assault it. Given that there were over 100 of these towers stretching along the main wall, each within artillery shot of the others, the moat, the double wall, he was glad he didnt have the task. Today all he had to do was ride through the gate…
“The lords Phocas and Theofract, generals, conquerers, servants of god and of the Lord Maurice, beg entry, to proceed to the palace to report to the Basileus” Theofract’s guard captain boomed back. 
“Welcome, and welcome again, my lords” the gate commander bowed. Behind him the enormous gate of the complex swng open, sunlight reflecting dully off the twin portfullises as they were winched up into the gatehouse. 
Theofract and Phocas stirred forward, their bodyguard around them. Through the first gate, they shivered a little as the early morning sun had not warmed the paved  area between the two walls. “My Lords, your men…” the gate captain hesitated.. “We were not told to expect your whole army, merely your exalted selves”….They had reached the inner wall, and were passing through “My Lords, I must , with respect, insist that your men not enter without my say” he glanced back through the main wall tunnel and began to raise his arm. With no hesitation whatsoever Theofract whipped his sword out and chopped into his head. Simultaneously the bodyguards peeled off right and left, some dropping from their horses and sprinting up the stairs left and right to seize the gatehouse portcullises, others riding back to hold the first wall gate, the rest fanning out into the forum from where speared the Mese, the great broad ceremonial way that ran through the city like a spear.  Through the first gate their army streamed, its leading units already forming up in the forum as the gatehouse guards were marched at spearpoint and made kneel. “The gate complex is ours, Lords” exclaimed a hardfaced man, scarred and balding, striking his chest with his fist closed in salute. “Good work Fulgentius, good work indeed” crowed Phocas. “Release those men when we have the gate closed again, then hasten to the Palace. There will be much work for you today” 
Ahead Phocas could see the crowd, the mob, forming. He heard snatches of what Theofract, always eloquent, was telling them - that the army was their friend against the magnates, that the Baselius needed to be informed of the wickedness of the magnates, that the wealth of the magnates should rightfully be distributed to those from whom it had been extracted and so on. Already detachments of the army, three or four men each, were heading off with the mob, to loot and pillage. 
“And now Theofract, let us hasten to the Palace. Destiny awaits” 

❖
603 Ctestiphon
“Tell me. Spare me not” Chosroes demanded. In front of him the messenger remained prostrate on the floor, raising his head but nothing else. “Most exalted one, Lord of Light…” “For the love of the light and hatred of the lie, man, GET UP” Chosroes roared. “Stand. You are a royal messenger - deliver the message”
The man gulped.  Chosroes did not, much, go for blaming the messenger, but nobody wished to be the bearer of such calamitous news. He took a deep breath. Concentrate on the task - look at Chosroes. Ignore, if possible, the trappings of power, and imagine he was just delivering something uncomplicated, such as news of a plague of locusts, or a rebellion, or earthquake…
“My Lord. Your exalted father, Maurice, Basileus of Rome…he is dead” Razades paused. “This I knew” Chosroes nodded. “Speak on” 
“ The generals Phocas and Theofract led their army through the city Lord. Through subterfuge they gained entry and whipped the mob to a frenzy of avarice and lust, promising them the wealth and daughters of the nobility. Which the mob went to take. There was savage fighting Lord. The households of the wealthy are not undefended, and so deterred the mob vented its fury on the merchants and tradespersons, scarce better off than them for most” he paused for breath
“While the traitor Theofract led the soldiery to secure the city and to whip the mob to madness, Phocas took his own men, not soldiers but his own personal retainers, to the palace.”
“By the light had Maurice no defences in place against such” Chosroes wondered. “No lord, the palace was, as the traitors knew, lightly guarded. Maurice was in his chapel, and was seized there. One by one his family were brought before him. One by one they were killed, by Phocas himself it is told, strangled or by the sword. His three daughters were abased by Phocas’s soldiers, the empress,we are told, burned alive. At the end Maurice was himself decapitated. All the heads of the royal family now sit on spears in front of the Holy Wisdom”
“The Christians are in grave error, we know. But why defile their own holy places” a priest of Zoroaster wondered aloud. “Holy one, the tales tell of Phocas as having little time for and less belief in any god. But if he has no God he has the church. Their chief priest , the Patriarch, has crowned him, and an envoy from Phocas has gone to their leader in Rome to seek approval. Which he will get. Recall that Maurice, may he remain in light, had imposed taxes on the church”
Chosroes rose from the dias, his guards moving forward a pace. He stepped down, moving to the center of the audience room. Clustered around a low ornate ceramic wall priests circled,praying in a low chant, bowing occasionally to the pit, within which burned a low fire. As Chosroes approached one of the priests broke off his chant and stepped out of the circle. Bowing deeply the old man clasped his hands in front, and nodded to Chosroes. 
“Dastur, I greet you” Chosroes bowed his head, while snapping his fingers. A young boy dashed forward, and placed some wood in Chosroes outstretched hand. “Dastur, I bring sandalwood, for the Atash Adaran. Sandalwood, and a request” 
“Speak, O Great One. You are in the presence of the Light”
“I profess myself a Mazda worshiper, a follower of the teachings of Zoroaster, rejecting the daevas” Chosroes stated, to the approving nod of the Dastur. “I reject the lie, and speak now the truth. Maurice, of the Romanoi, was as a father to me. I say it - without his aid the usurer would still sit on the throne, polluting the realm with the lie of his supposed legitimacy. So not only was Maurice as a father to me, and I will grieve him as a son, but he was as one to the realm. In his time we had put aside our age old emnity and we prospered, both. But now he is gone, murdered foully. A rage filled peasant and an ungrateful courtier has laid him low. I will be revenged on them.” Chosroes turned around a full circle. “I swear it here. Dastur, I would have you prepare a fire of victory, an Atash Behram, for we will have victory! I will reclaim all that we have ever lost, and more. We are strong, Rome is divided.” Chosroes turned abruptly, and , lips compressed, held his hand over the flame of the Atash Adaran, burning in its footed urn surrounded by clear water, for the count of three. “By my pain do I swear it” He thrust his hand into the water, sighed, and rose. The priest nodded again and in a high carryign voice cried out  “The righteous man Chosroes has sworn, he has purified himself and offered to the light. The righteous man Chosroes cannot lie in the presence of the Light and so what he has sworn he must accomplish” A small bell sounded, signallign the end of a fire watch. 
“Come, generals and advisors, let us retire. We have a war to plan” Chosroes shouted, as he strode from the audience chamber. 

❖
606 Carthage
The aged man sat, slowly, carefully, his spare body folding onto the camp stool. He sighed, quietly. “Bring him” he beckoned to the guard, who nodded, turned and called through the tent flap “the Exarch will see you now”
Into the room came a slight man, in grey and dusty black, with muddy brown eyes and a plain face. Heraclius looked at him, trying to fix his features, a habit he had mastered early in his career as a military commander when dealing with centurions, who always appreciated and gave loyalty to a commander who dealt wit them as persons, not just as the cogs in the vast military machine which they were. It had served him well the last decade as the rule of Maurice was wrenched apart in a welter of blood and retribution.  He found it difficult. The man was plain. Plain, unremarkable, apart from if you concentrated on what his body language said, which was, remarkably, nothing. The man stood, still and calm, slowly blinking, eyes carefully not fixed on the Exarch of North Africa, an emperor in all but name.  He stood as still and fixed as a PrimiPilus on parade, but with none of the stiffness. 
“Gaudes, welcome. Welcome and be at rest” Heraclius waved at the stool on the other side of the plain map table. Gaudes glided over and sat, Heraclius silently envying the grace and ease with which the younger spy sat. “Some wine perhaps?” Heraclius poured a goblet, watered it, then poured another mix, and gave to Gaudes who hesitated not at all in taking one. Outside the tent came a dull whaang-whirr-thud as the siege artillery continued its slow methodical demolition of the mud brick walls of the rebel city. A knock on the post sounded, and Heraclius the Younger entered, nodding “Gaudes, good to see you back. What news”
A cough, and Heraclius the Younger smiled, came to attention “Exarch! Your general begs to reports that we will, at this rate, have a workable breach in the walls before midday. Do we prepare for an immediate storming as you have ordered or do you wish to amend to a final offer” relaxing from his parade rest “Also, Father, your physician informs me that you have not been adhering to his regimen. You cannot afford to court death at this vital time” 
“No final offer my son. After this conference, set the order for an assault. Sack the city, burn it, bring me the wretch, alive preferably but dead will do. I will have his head sent to the capital before this day is out”
“My lord Exarch” Gaudes spoke softly. “As a Phocid, albeit a remote cousin, the present Basileus will be….displeased at recieving the head of a relative, even a minor rebellious one. In matter of fact, he may not even see him as rebellious. Arguably, it will be said, your policy was one that was not approved” he paused. “I understand that in fact that will be the case. In which case, my Lord, you will be declared at best insubordinate, at worst, rebellious” outside the rhythmic whang-whirr-thud continued, with occasional shouts and even more occasional screams. Heraclius the Younger bent forward, slapping his hand on the map table. “My lord father, if this is indeed the case, then by all the saints and Jesus enthroned, we cannot wait any longer if we are to save our position”. He glanced at Gaudes, who sat, immobile and relaxed. 
Heraclius sighed. “How bad is the capital Gaudes? I get reports from my official spies but I need your eyes. I have some of my bucceleari embedded in the capital units but they are soldiers, not spies and their reports are partial and local, as one would expect. How bad are things?” he leaned forward, refilling the goblets. 
“Lord. Phocas has a hold of the city, through brutality and profligacy. But the hold is hard.  In Anatolia Leo clings onto the coast, with difficulty, as SharBahaz and his armies rampage. Europe is solidly behind Phocas. This you know. What may not have reached you yet is that within the palace there is growing dissastisfaction, amongst the eunuchs and chamberlains” he paused
“I have never been one to place too much trust in those creatures” Heraclius muttered “nonetheless, they are essential to the running of the empire” his son interjected “just so. Just so. What is their grievance and” Heraclius paused “what would make them more amenable to …a basileus…any basileus” Gaudes leaned forward, the first move he had made since being seated other than to sip his goblet. For him this was as though a normal man had leaped in the air. “My Lord Exarch. They want power. More, they want respect. As you say you do not have a lot of time for them. But you are, you are both, known, as men who respect talent and who reward good service. Phocas does neither. Moreover, many of the palace staff are close to the staff of the patriarch, indeed some transfer between church and state many times. Phocas is not just dismissive of the church, he is downright hostile, even though the then Patriarch blessed his assumption of power. As basileus he is head of the church but he does not act so. A leader who respects the church, his position within and at its head, and who” from the outside a rumble, followed by loud cheering drifted in. Heraclius the younger moved to the tent flap, poked his head out, and back in. “My Lord Exarch” he stated formally . “A breach is forming. It will not be long” He paused, relaxing slightly. “Father. Phocas is a mad dog. He will, or will try, to have your head and mine for what we do today, despite that had we allowed the traitor to stay put it would have unravelled the entire southern frontier and let the sand dwellers ravage the interior. We have discussed this eventuality. As the first great Caesar said ‘iacta alea esto’. We have no choice but to venture or die, as if we do not venture, we will surely die” He stood, saluted, and left. A silence as profound as Gaude’s stillness filled the tent, even the sounds of siege falling into a lull as the troops saw their commanding general stride out of the command tent and look at the city wall which looked as though giants had been chewing on it. Heraclius looked at Gaudes, and nodded. “Make it so then, and may the lord favour us”
❖
8 608: After an arduous journey HERACLIUS reaches Rome, where  he is surprised to find that the pope, BONIFACE is in Carthage, he  having been dispatched there by the Byzantine emperor, PHOCAS, with  whom he is friendly. He resolves to travel there and signs on as a  rower on a galley.
❖
608  Rome
Donn paused, his hand resting on the muzzle of the donkey. “Steady there fellah, steady” he scratched the beast and looked round. He rotated his shoulders, easing the weight of the pack a little. On the donkey the body of Machan swayed. Donn looked at him again, his priestly piety thinking he should say a prayer or two for forgiveness for the men he had slain in his futile attempt to save his travelling companion,  his warrior soul cold and iron hard with rage at having first been ambushed and second for being too slow to react when the ambush struck. “Too long a priest boy” he muttered to the donkey as they plodded onward  and slightly downward. In front of him the walls stretched up the height of ten men or more, the road way dipping  and funnelling the travellers through a wide gate, flanked by two mighty towers. He noted archers in each tower at each window, leaning out. On the top of the tower to the left a torsion catapult was clearly being worked on, and on the other its twin was standing idle, but with a crew again visible. 
Donn sighed. He moved forward, the crowd giving some space around the donkey, glancing at the dead man stretched on it. Onward, and then the gate guards. Most people were being let through, those with goods being directed left or right to tables where they paid a toll. “Whos that then” a guard asked as he reached  the doorway. Donn sighed. “He was my friend, my leader. Bandits attacked us this morning, several of them”. The guard looked at the corpse with some professional interest. “What business brought you to Rome then Sir” erring on the side of caution as he reasssed the situation : a donkey,  two well fed healthy men albeit one dead, the living one with a posh voice, clothes travelstained but of good quality, and very very good boots. “I am Father Donn, this is….was…Father Manchan. We are here to seek audience with the Bishop of Rome , to seek a relic…” he tailed off as two other guards came over, hands on swords, not hostile. “Allright Edric” one of them asked “whos this then?” 
“Says hes a priest. And the dead one. Bandits he said” Edric looked at Donn, raising an eyebrow
“We came down the pilgrim road a few days ago, but Father Machan was very keen to pray at the tomb of Saint Cecelia, he being ….he WAS….a great lover of music. So we went to the catacombs, prayed, and then made our bed. Early this morning, we awoke to find ourselves being robbed. They stole one donkey, and some of our provisions, then waylaid us…thats when Machan was killed, may his soul rest in peace….” He trailed off. “Yet, you, a priest, you survived? How so?” the heretofore silent guard asked. Donn looked at him, pulling his cloak aside. “Before I was a priest, I was a warrior. I hesitated to slip back into that bloody life, and Machan died for my hesitation. I have no fear of death, but not at the hands of mere bandits, who would attack in a holy place. If I have to die for the Lord, so be it. But not for such as them. So, I struck one with my fist and stole his weapon, but too late” as he said this he removed the weapon at his side, and laid it on the table, stepping back. The guards moved closer, Edric picking up the mace, whistling it round. “Very nice Father. I hope you got some of them. They infest the catacombs, as you have found out. Rarely do they attack in daylight , but two soft looking wealthy seeming priests? Easy pickings…” he paused. “One for sure is dead, another has a smashed arm he will not use again, another  an eye and such teeth as he had. At that they left us alone, too late” 
The questioning guard nodded , Edric handed back the mace. “Where do you go now Father? And what of your friend?” 
“We have a task. I need to seek an audience with the Bishop of Rome, the Holy Father himself, and seek a relic. Not sure now how I will get it back…we started out with three , Father Machan, myself and Brother Aedan. Poor Aedan slipped over the side of our ship while taking a shit, not a martyrs death but perhaps as he was on a  task for the lord he might be counted as one. Now I am alone….”
“Father, if you seek the Bishop, you are in the wrong place” said the questioner “Forgive me, I am Gaiseric, undercommander of the gate. He is not there “ he waved at the bulk of the Lateran Palace dominating the hill up which he and Donn began to climb. “He is gone, summoned to Byzantium by the Basileus, Phocas. He left for Ostia two days ago. Your friends insistance on seeing the tomb of his saint cost not only his life but seems to have ruined your task….”
❖
608 At Sea
Donn had, despite living beside it most of his life, never actually liked the sea. He had a healthy respect for it,  tempered with jets of fear. But then, he mused, the seas around Ireland were a good deal wilder than this.  The sun beat down, as it had done since he had left Ostia a week ago, and Donn felt…relaxed. If not the homeric wine dark sea he thought, it was pleasant enough. He had marvelled as they passed through the strait between Italy and Sicily, discussing with a deacon, the only other passenger,  whether or not this was in fact where the ancients had located Scylla and Charybdis, and getting into a gentle intellectual row about whether if they had existed such creatures were mere monsters or in fact were demonic. A day ago they had resupplied at Syracuse, where the deacon had left,  and he had learned that the Bishop had in fact boarded another ship. Apparently the Exarch of Carthage had sallied forth with a fleet, making for Byzantium the rumours said. The sun slipped off its zenith, and slipped down, dusk gathering. 
“SAIL” shouted the watch “SAIL, behind us” 
The captain, a wiry dark man, stopped his discussion with another crewman, and ran to the aft rail, climbing onto it. Donn watched, for some reason concern growing, as the captain stiffened, poised like a hunting dog. Suddenly he swung around “All hand to the oars, and rig all sail. Pirates! Everyone arm yourself” 
The small ship became a hive of frenzied directed action as the half dozen or so crew began to try to draw away from the threat. Donn drifted to the rail, beside the captain “Father” he nodded curtly “you best arm” .  Donn looked at the oncoming pirate vessel. Even to his untrained eye it was clear that it was larger, faster and coming on at a pace, the wind belling out the lateen sail and the many many oars steadily beating the water “We wont outrun that Captain, and I dont think a single armed priest will do you good” 
“Maybe not, but these pirates respect neither God nor Man. At best they will chain you to an oar Father. At worst…well, Hell itself would be near preferable” 
“What will you do then” Donn asked
“We have one chance, and one only” the captain nodded towards the belly of the ship, where two sailors wrestled with a device. “We have a small catapult, and some firebombs. Let them get within three or four ship lengths, send some over,  hope they hit and they sheer off to deal with them. Now, Father if you wish to do something, go help them” he nodded to the catapult, and Donn went over 
“Sail ahead also Captain” the lookout called “seems a big one, hull down. Evening sun is hittin its sail” 
Donn walked over to the men. Their dialect was a mixture of italic, greek and Lombard, and although Donn had a facility for languages he missed much more than he got. Nonetheless, what words he had plus gestures and at least one kick allowed him to, if not exactly help at least appear to help. The catapult was a simple design , a ballista of a quarter-talent weight. One crew member operated the winch wheel, drawing back the arms and the twisted leather bowstring, the other dropping the ammunition onto the slider and releasing.  A brazier nearby stood in a frame of sand, several small globular iron cages heating up. Donn was fascinated - into each red hot globe the ballista operator placed a ceramic pot about as large as his two fists,  filled with oil and sealed across the top with a thin sheet of tin. A rack of several dozen stood close. The top of the cage was closed, and two prongs reached nearly to the tin. Donn noted that the top hinge was loose. When the cage and its cargo struck something the prongs would be driven in, if the pot did not crack, letting the oil spill out onto the red hot metal, causing a conflagration. 
“BALLISTA” shouted the captain. An arrow clattered onto the deck, another struck the mast and dropped off. Too far a range Donn mused. The arms were drawn back, and the captain nodded at Donn. He would keep the ammunition supplied, hot grunt work, while the hopefully experienced shooter landed some hits. Donn grabbed a cage with the tongs, placed it on the sand, quickly grabbed a ceramic pot, dropped it into the slot, closed the hinge and raised the missile to the runner. The shooter grunted, swivelled the ballista through a few degrees, raised it and WHAAAANG the missile was on its way. The pirate ship was closer now, and arrows were beginning to land and stick. A crewman screamed. Donn bent and loaded, bent and loaded, WHAAAANG. WHAAAANG. WHAAAANG , a roar of triumph from the catapult operator and Donn sneaked a look. A small fire was visible on the pirate ship. He loaded again, and another WHAAAANG. Another hit. Another crewman toppled over and Donn noted the captain had the stump of an arrow jutting from his leg, blood running in sheets down the knee as he propped himself on the rail with a  crossbow. The pirate ship was within easy shooting range now, and Donn noted the fires were out, the rails beginning to crowd with armed men, bolts thrumming across the narrowing gap. Donn bent to pick up the next missile when disaster struck. With a grunt the catapult operator was flung back, twisting, an arrow in his upper chest. Twisting and falling he reeled into Donn just as he was straightening up, the tongs extended, the redhot cage in their jaws going flying straight into the rack of oil pots. With a crack and whoosh the missile exploded, followed the next second by the rest of the oil. A ball of flame the height of a child exploded upwards, and a river of burning oil ran backwards, some falling into the hold onto bolts of cloth and more pouring over furled sails. Within seconds the mainsail was ablaze at its base, and the hold was roaring. The bolts and arrows stopped, and as Donn picked himself up he noted the pirate ship backing away, its prize ablaze and lost. Donn was almost alone on the deck, dead or dying crewmen apart. As he watched one of the remaining jumped into the sea.  The front part of the craft was now ablaze and beginning to settle. “Ill luck Father” a voice slurred “best swim for it if you can” said the captain, another arrow in his belly joining the one in his thigh. With that he rolled towards a gap in the railing, screaming as he broke off the belly arrow, and vanished overboard. Donn looked around, panic batting at his mind. He could swim, a little, but the coast was not close. To stay was to burn then drown, he knew, as he grabbed a hatch cover, threw off his cloak and plunged overboard. 
❖
608 At Sea/On Board 

Donn had found a rhythm, slow but undeniable. He held the hatch cover in front of him and tried to stay as horizontal as possible, kicking his way forward. The sea was not cold, exactly but he could feel himself chilling. Night was swiftly falling. As he looked forward he saw the ship, definitly closer now, as it had turned and was slowing beating back towards him at an angle into the wind. The sun continued to decline, the mountains  on the shore to his left now beginning to glow in the evening light  and Donn prayed he would be picked up before dark. 
Closer now, and the sun touched the horizon, darkness spreading from behind Donn. “Hello below”  a voice bellowed in Greek, followed by a muttered “stupid fucking pirate, why we have to stop to get him I do not know” 
“I am no pirate” Donn shouted back up. “It speaks” the man on the railing cried, rolling his eyes. “Here, not a pirate, take this” as he threw a rope, the end looped. Donn left loose his hatchcover, feeling slighly sad, slightly foolish at feeling so. He slipped the loop of the rope over his head and under his shoulders and cried “haul away”. As the man on the rail pulled he was joined by another,  better dressed by far,  in a plain tunic, albeit one that seemed to Donn’s salted eyes to have a golden collar. As he reached the edge of the ship Donn braced his legs, slipped, braced again and began his ascent, half pulled, half walking. Reaching the top of the railing he stumbled over and fell to his knees, coughing from the exertion and the constriction of the rope, with which he fumbled. He crossed himself, thumb to fingers, then traced a cross on the rough planking with his thumb, “praise the lord, who has raised me from the depths”. Raising his head, he noted the well dressed man staring at him with frank curiousity, while on either side of him stood two exceptionally large men, chain mailed and quite ridicilously heavily armed, each armed with spear, slung sword, and an axe or long dagger belted alongside, then sporting individually a variety of weapons, from bows to maces to slung staves to …what looked like a box that was eating a bow, the latter slung on the hip of a  man with a flat wide sallow face topped with a conical helmet made of overlapping scales, flaring out to a wide skirt covering the neck and shoulders. Their stares ranged from curiously watchful, the sallow man, through suspicious, on the face of a giant mustachoied blonde to seeming fury etched on the face of a man dark as burned wood. Donn noted the men stood tense, the two men closest to the well dressed leader watching him, the other two on the outside watching both him and darting their eyes ro and fro to keep watch on the deck. Bodyguards, Donn realised. He coughed, and began to stand. At once two armed men whom he had not noticed stepped forward, crossing spears in front of his neck, distant but unmistakable. Donn noticed the well dressed man gesture to his rescuer who came forward, causing the dark man glare at him, bowed, and they began to talk in low terms. All round the deck sailors began to light storm lanterns, lighting the scene. 
“So, not a pirate” the well dressed leader exclaimed. Donn examined him. He was tall, but not exceptionally so, grey eyed, his hair and beard a reddish blonde. His tunic was a dark blue, shot through with gold, open at the neck showing silver lacing, a lilac tunic showing. It was belted with red leather holding a frogged dagger, flaring out from a slim waist, red check trousers ending in plain sturdy booted sandals.  One of his toenails was black Donn noted.   “Stand up” he said in Greek, and gestured, the two spearmen stepping back but still presenting a barrier to him. “You prayed, and blessed the deck as well as yourself. Why, not a pirate?” 
“My lord, my thanks for rescue. May god on high himself reward you and bless you” he paused and gestured to his neck. Grey eyes nodded, and Donn moved to pull out his cross on its leather thong, noting the spearmen tensing. “ I am a priest, Lord, sent on a mission, which nescessitated my being on a poor wretched vessle sunk this night by pirates” Donn felt it best to note that technically he had sunk the ship, reckoning that had the pirates not attacked then he would….he realised he had paused. He knew he was dealing with someone powerful and nobel. He pulled out the cross, kissed it “I am called Donn, priest and deacon, more fully Cummíne Dun Mac Mael Bennan, Prince of Desmond, sent by my abbot to seek a boon from the Bishop of Rome” he paused. He bowed his head. “My lord, whom do I have the honour of addressing”
“I am Heraclius, son of Heraclius. I intend to be called basileus Rhomaíōn, Emperor of the Romans. You are on my personal vessel Donn, priest deacon and prince of somewhere I have never heard of. My chaplain will speak with you after you dry and have some food and drink. If you truly are a priest, as you claim, then we will converse. If not, then you can sit quietly in chains after we punish you for your impety and lies” Heraclius smiled, inclined his head briefly, and turned away, flanked by his bodyguards. A short, darkhaired fat, sweating man took his arm,  jowls and gold cross swaying. He smiled, showing blackened teeth.  “Come, father, if that is what you are. Let us go below, eat and drink, and converse. If you are a priest we shall pray. If not we shall anyhow for your punishment to be condign and merciful”

Chapter Seven
608 On Board 
Donn entered the cabin, ducking his head slightly. The morning light flooded into the space, the width of the ship. Two shuttered windows at the end were open, each with a wide wooden grid. Similar windows were on each side. Sitting on a stool back from one end of a  table was the scowling black man, a short sword on his knees. The flat-faced man, bareheaded now, gently but firmly steered Donn towards the table, bowed and left. A servant stood on the other side of the table,  bread, cheese fruit, beakers and jugs in front of him. Heraclius sat on the long end of the table, sunlit and golden, his blonde hair  pale fire, his beard a golden river,  tunic glowing. Donn gasped slightly. Then Heraclius stretched his arms and yawned, the god vanishing and a man took his place, early middle aged and slightly tired looking. Donn bowed deep, then waited in silence, hands clasped in front of him. He felt clean, albeit in borrowed clothes his own still drying. The tunic was amazingly soft, a shimmering shiny thick black cloth the like he had never seen, trousers of dark blue fine wool tucked into soft boots, a simple braided leather belt with an (empty) pouch which would normally hold coin and a knife. He was glad his cross had survived, safe now again around his neck, the last tangible link to his home. 
“Please sit, and take some food” Heraclius nodded, Donn complying gladly for he was in truth very very hungry. The servant poured some well watered wine, set a platter of grapes, olives (a fruit Donn had never eaten before he had entered Italy, and which he greatly loved),  a hard cheese (goat, from its scent),  dark bread and some cured meat, then withdrew and stood beside the guard. “Thank you Lord….forgive me, I am unaware of the proper form of address….”
“Ha, Donn, Priest-Prince of …wherever… how good it is to meet with someone who is, forgive me, refreshingly  ignorant. You have, my friend, no idea how liberating it is to just….talk. Lord, amongst small groups, is perfectly acceptable. There is, I am afraid, a veritable babble of terms with which you may be spared if God is good, should we be in a more public space. “ He paused, and began to eat, signalling Donn to do so likewise, which he did with relish
“So, Father Donn, for so my chaplain Nicepheros assures me you are,  what has a priest to do with pirates to end up floating to his doom?” 
The light shifted and the table began to shift. As his platter slid towards the edge Donn realised why there was a raised lip on the table. “Lord Heraclius, my most grateful thanks for saving my miserable life” Heraclius nodded “yes, you thanked me before, go on” he chopped out. “I was sent from my … well, my Grandfather in the end, who is a king in Ireland,  to obtain a relic, which we believed was in Rome, a relic of a learned man of our parts some decades past, a St. Siadhal.  I travelled with two companions, now dead, may their souls rest in eternal light, but to find that the most holy bishop of Rome had been summoned by Phocas, Basil..” 
“Phocas is an usurper, a murderer, a tyrant and a peasant who has no more right to the throne than does a fish” Heraclius stated flatly
“Indeed Lord…. The Bishop had been summoned to …Constantinople, so I took ship from Ostia.  Hence, here” he gestured around 
“So, Father Donn. You face a choice” Heraclius stated. “We also, eventually, are bound for Constantinople. My fleet is a day or two ahead. We , this ship, had stopped for some additional water and to take on more rowers. We are not in a great hurry, hence we stop most nights. Tis safer anyhow so my captain tells me.  We can put you ashore,  near Lacinium, there are ships aplenty calling there, and you can hire to Alun, there to the Via Egnatia, and onto the City.  But I must warn you. The way is beset by banditry” he sighed. “The greatest crime Phocas has committed against man is his sheer lack of care for the empire. He has allowed the Persians to maraud at will across the empire, and the Pecheneg and Avar pagans run riot. Father Donn, unless you are willing to fight you will not pass easily, and then only as part of an armed column” he paused. 
“I am a man of peace Lord Heraclius, but trained in war. Before trusting myself to the Lord of Hosts I was a warrior. It is no sin of pride to say, a good one. I will not shed blood, but I can carry a mace. But you mentioned a choice, Lord?” 
“The choice is to stay with me, here, and we will eventually get to the city. You will be safe! And as I have I think noted, it is rare for a great noble such as I to have so much informality as is available on a sea voyage. I will go to the city but I first need to take my fleet to Egypt. The bishop will not leave Constantinople without the approval of the tyrant, and that he will not get as he will not have the gold to secure an audience. So you and he will meet. But the city is not ripe yet for me to enter”
Donn thought for a moment. He would have to not just get the permission of Boniface, but then return to Rome to obtain the relic. Doing so on foot, alone and friendless, that would be ….difficult. No matter how slim the odds,  being in the court of a noble, even a noble rebel, could only improve his chances. 
“Lord, I will go with you, if it please. I would welcome the honour”
“Good. Now, as I say, despite its dangers, the voyage is …both a source of boredom and of relaxation. Tell me of the relic you hunt and I shall tell you of mine. For I seek the throne not just for power,  not just for glory, but for the glory of God. Phocas, cursed be his name, has weakened the provinces. Even Jerusalem, where our Lord and Saviour died for us, even it is threatened. Phocas has agreed with the jewish leaders to allow them to garrison the city and withdrawn imperial troops! This is intolerable, that the Holy Cross, the Sponge and the Spear should be held by other than Christians. I will restore order to Jerusalem” His voice had been rising through the peroration, to a shout. He banged his fist on the table, eyes wide and staring. The seated guard had been watching this , unmoving , clearly used to such. At the crash of the fist on the table the door to the cabin opened and the flat-faced guard peered in, helmeted and fronted by a shield. Catching sight of his  companion’s calm demeanour he nodded, and closed the door. Donn sat, externally calm but internally wondering at what the potent mix of religious fervour and imperial ambition would portend. 

❖
609 Byzantium
Phocas stared out the window. The glass was almost flawless, but not quiet, a small bubble in the top right. He contemplated it. “Eunomenes, this glass is flawed. Have it replaced, and find the man who installed it. Have him beaten and sent to the labour corp” The chamberlain bowed “as you wish Basileus” , thinking inwardly that he would certainly tell the increasingly unhinged Emperor he had done that. The way things were going, if he carried out every blinding, amputation, flogging and maiming there would not be a single craftsman in the empire, not to mind the capital. Emperors, he sighed inwardly, didnt stop to think where the meals came from, where the waste went, how the fires of the baths were maintained….”INDEED AS I WISH” Phocas roared, turning, his face livid and blotchy, the high crumpled cheekbones red , the cheeks white, eyes bloodshot and lips compressed. He turned, and punched the window, glass exploding out. “I AM IN CHARGE”. Through the now open window the sounds of the city drifted in more clearly. Not the normal sounds of hawking and prayer, but shouts, screams, the distant crackle of flame. Eunonemes bowed more deeply, and began to back away. Phocas stood, gazing out the window frame. He spat, loudly and wetly “Scum” he muttured. He turned “Nonnosus, what do we have to talk about now. The mob? The persian dogs? Rebels?”  
“Basileus, the mob indeed are revolting. However, they are not the only issue. The two Heraclii, we believe, have left Carthage. With a small fleet” he paused. Phocas stepped from the window, and sat, sprawling, on a couch, feet on the end. A boor and a peasant, Nonnosus grimaced internally, a savage and a mongrel half Avar. “We have sent out some of our ….operatives, to obtain some detailed information. I have not given orders for anything else, absent your orders”. He paused. Phocas nodded, picked up a bowl of olives and began to eat them, spitting the pits onto the rug. “The persians are… rampant Basileus. Sharbaraz has taken advantage of the rebellious state and sent raiding parties in all directions” he paused. “Basileus, have you reconsidered your decision on the family of Evgrius Attaliates? He is popular, wealthy, a noble. Crucifixion and his family to be sold as slaves is harsh” 
Phocas stood. “He is a rebel. He refused to send gifts, refused to even acknowledge me as sole ruler and autocrat. He must be an object lesson”. 
“Indeed, but consider Basileus, he is, he was, a power in Bythnia. With him gone, his bucceleari will disperse and that is the core of the militia. And so Bythnia is laid open to the Persians, bandits and rebels. The wild boar took a raid himself towards Abydos, which they forced. Whence he went then we do not know. Our lord Theofract has sent detachments hither and yon, but it is akin to stamping our a swam of bees. They are not in such numbers as to do serious damage or occupation but…bees hurt” 
Phocas sighed. “You deal with bees and wasps by burning out their nests. Once we achieve greater stability, and we will if I have to execute every nobel and commoner who defies me, we will need settle once and for all with the Persians. I shall burn Ctestiphon to the ground , march on Ecbatana and incorporate it into my empire. I shall take back the Mesopotamian themes Chosroes has stolen! I shall outdo Trajan…” he ran down, eyes staring, red from drink and the smoke drifting in the window. “Find Priscus, send him in to me and we will start planning”. 
****
Priscus glanced round the tavern, glad he had dressed plainly. The price of bodyguards had risen sharply, as every wealthy family who had not fled the city barricaded themselves into their homes and villas behind a hedge of hired swords.  It was not a time to display finery, as the city rioted,  the mob taking the failures of the peasant emperor as a license to loot rape and plunder their slightly wealthier craftsman and shopkeeper neighbours who were  in turn taking their opportunity to settle scores with their poorer kin.  Peasant stock the Phocids may be, he mused, bu since his marriage to Domentzia, becoming the son in law of the emperor, he had shown himself to be capable of generosity. But…. Years of brutal mismanagement and corruption by Phocas had resulted in this state, the city in low level riot, the Persians roaming round almost at will, striking and dissapearing, never staying long enough to become a serious danger or to take serious land, the nobility and their private armies growing in strength while refusing or stalling in their duties to the central armies. A brave soldier, a competent general, a bad ruler Priscis concluded, spying his contact. One of his men sat in the corner, a mug beside him, feet propped up and eyes half closed, masquerading as a pedlar, his pack beside him holding not trinkets and geegaws but a short sword and mace. Priscus sat, beckoning to the bargirl. 
“A sea voyage clears the mind I hear” he stated,in a low voice.  Gaudes nodded. “My Lord Priscus” The serving girl came with some wine, bread, cheese and olives. “You have been busy Gaudes”. “Not me alone my Lord. Your assistance has been invaluable. Burning the granary was ….audacious. I truly believe the mob would not have risen were it not for the specter of  hunger” 
“In truth, there was never a danger” Priscus snorted, and drank deeply, regretting it as the bitter wine seared his senses. “It was a spark, into a pile of kindling hewn by my esteemed Father in law as he chops away at the foundations of the empire” 
“What of our african colleagues My Lord”, Gaudes asked, then sipped at his wine 
“Communication is ….hard. Last information I had was they had rounded Italy. Nicetas has taken some men and much gold, to Egypt. Heraclius himself will proceed towards us, but we need to time his arrival carefully. He could not strip his father or the land fully of armed protection. His numbers are truly small. We need to ensure that when he arrives he will be seen as a liberator, he cannot hope to come as a conquerer. The city must be aboil”
❖
610 Thrace
Golgun stared at the prisoner, who stood, shaking with fear and cold. The morning was cool, and the prisoner had been exposed all night, naked and immobile. On either side slaves strained at ropes, two young trees bending down and down, closely watched each by a warrior, hand on the trunk of the tree, who guided the slaves by downward hand movements. 
“Rat, what do you have to say? Devourer of honour!” Golgun shouted,  his pony twitching and stepping. The prisoner stayed silent, unsurprising given his tongue had been torn out and his face showed signs of a severe beating. His head rose, a look of hatred in his eyes.  Gorgun nodded, and four more slaves ran forward, each with a rope terminating in a leather sleeved noose, which was made fast to an arm or leg. The left leg rope and right arm rope were then tied to one tree, the right leg and left arm to another. Beside Golgun Sharbaraz sat impassive. The crowd of warriors parted and a coffle of dejected people were pushed though and onto their knees. Behind each man stood with spear, ax or sword. 
Golgun held up his hand, and the crowd silenced. The sun was over the horizon now. “This man stole from me, from his Khan. He refused to pay his plunder share to me. If I do not have plunder, I cannot reward you, my warriors! So he stole from YOU” he screamed. “There is one penalty” Golgun turned and chopped his hands down, at which the waiting slaves released their ropes holding the trees. The trees sprang back to the vertical, lifting the victim up violently and then tearign his limbs from him, the mutilated torso thumping to the ground where it twiched and bled. The crowd sighed. Golgun licked his lips and wheeled his pony round. 
Back in the Khan’s tent Sharbaraz sat on the elegant (but stained) cushions, facing Golgun. Around the outer edge of the tent stood members of his personal guard, each a family member or bounded in honour and blood, the only people bearing arms more than a eating knife. “So Persian, what do you think of Pecheneg justice?” Golgun grunted in surprisingly good greek. Sharbaraz thought it quite amusing that the two powers conversed in the language of the third which they were plotting against. If he believed in any gods he would think they were playing a joke. He picked up a slice of meat on his dagger, placed it on some flatbread and began to chew. It was surprisingly good, for a barbarian camp meal. “Lord Golgun, it is certainly ….decisive. I am impressed at the resoluteness of your action, even in something so small as a mere thief. As in small so in large, I  trust?” he concluded
“Huh” Golgun shifted, draining his wine goblet. He turned it round in his hands, the golden interior of the skull gleaming faintly. “This was  Nicephorus, a byzantine general. Now he is my golden cup . He fought bravely, but forgot that gold can beat iron. Do you know how , Persian?” 
“Gold cannot itself beat steel Lord Golgun,  but it can buy sufficient steel or men to defeat almost any enemy, given enough. Of course, that presumes the men you wish can be bought…” 
“You persians think yourselves so pure Lord Sharbaraz” Golgun laughed. “Every man has his price, if not gold then blood, if not his then his family” 
“There is gold enough in Constantinople for all eternity, Lord GolGun, were it to be taken. But while gold may buy steel and men, it is not just steel and men that takes cities, but miners and artillery and yes, treachery. Brave men you have, bright steel you wield…but horses cannot take cities”  
“ Persians decry the lie, we are told and so disdain to use treachery where you can be brave and foolish instead. And Lord Chosroes has more gold than he can ever imagine spending. Why do you want me to send my young men to their doom, even if your cunning engines can aid us in taking the city. Take it yourself if it is so important” Golgun held out his cup to be refilled. Sharbaraz sipped, the level barely reduced from the start of the feast. Fool he thought. Even if the entire Pecheneg nation were to assemble they might hesitate to take a suburb , even if aided. And for all their bluster and bravery and savagry  it was clear that they were on the defensive, the Avars pressing them from the north, their allies the Lombards from the west. And the Avars themselves , Sharbaraz knew, were being pressed by the Khazars, the Khazars by the Onuk Turks, themselves a splinter of the Gokturk Khanate which had allied with and been enemies of both the Sassanid and Byzantines at times. Golgun was a …well not petty… a chieftain. Ignorant of the wider political game and cruel as a cat disembowelling a mouse. A fool but a useful one, to distract the Byzantines with raids and senseless cruelty, tying down armies in Europe while Chosroes marched into the heart of Byzantium. He sighed 
“Lord Golgun. We do speak truth, and plain truth. We do desire the city but we desire it gone more. If not gone then under control of a more sympathetic power. It is the seat of a corrupt religion. Many christians are loyal subjects of my emperor. But they descend in pure thought from the teaching of Nestor, blessed be. My own chief wife is a follower of Christos. But in Byzantium we have a festering mass of corrupt, luxurious intolerance. They alone claim to know the teachings of the Christ. And they insist that all who claim to be followers must give them allegiance and them alone. They spread their influnce with golden lies and silver coins, formenting dissent and undermining our peace. Thus Chosroes has deemed it fit that their church be put to an end. He will enthrone Theodosius, son of the martyred Maurice, in a new capital, Iconium or Ancyra perhaps” 
“And so….you will aid us with engineers and devices. We will take the gold and the city and you will be content with this?” 
“My lord Chosroes has no need of gold, still less of a city in Europe. We are far from Europe and wish to only trade on good terms with powers such as yourself” Sharbaraz congratulated himself on not laughing aloud, such was the look of sheer greed on Golgon’s face as he contemplated the sack of such a rich prize. He would waste his strength on the walls. Chosroes would send captured Goturk engineers, who if the died were a prisoner less and if they lived were a useful tool.  The Avars, more powerful and, Sharbaraz admitted, more civilised, would move into Thrace, posing a much more formidable threat to Byzantium.  All would be well. And Golgun would get gold, which he would use to conquer or not, and if not it would pass to Chosroes allies in time. “We will aid. Engineers, miners, officers to oversee and gold. We will send 50,0000 gold dinar to you. We will send the gold before the men, as a token of our friendship and trust”

Chapter Eight
610 Byzantium ; the harbour 
The city slipped by left and right. Donn tried not to seem a bumpkin - he had seen Alexandria, when Nicetas had conducted a near bloodless takeover of Egypt, and thought it the grandest city on Earth, even half devastated from earthquakes and inundation. But Alexandria was a glorious corpse. Byzantium on the other hand was gloriously, vibrantly alive. On the right the Asiatic shore was forest interspersed with grand villas, some still standing. Chalcedon, famed in ecclesiastical history lay nearly astern now, as the ships of the Heraclian fleet rounded the entrance to Bucoleon harbour. A chain could be seen being played out from the capstans at either end of the pier, one disguised as a lion the other as a bull. Donn craned his head, giving up on any pretence, and frankly gawped. Roofs like terracotta hills ranged up and away, from the marble fronted terraces and colonnades of the harbour buildings. Disappearing now were the domes of the Holy Wisdom, blinding in their gold and marble, a snowcapped peak queening it over lesser hills. 
“Well Donn, how do you find the queen of cities” asked Nicephoras, fat and smiling as was his wont. Donn had never seen the man ill humoured, which was quite something over the last 6 months on this dromon, a luxurious one to be sure but still a ship with all its attendant cramped dampness. “She is as beautiful as a young girl, as delightful as a fine meal, as capricious as a wife and as cruel as a pagan. She is not my home but has become the place of my heart” He smiled, Donn smiling back, knowing well the grandelquouent words were mostly true. 
“What know you of wives and girls Father. For shame” Donn quipped back. 
“Alas, Donn, I am a sinner. Yes, but doth it not say in the words of the great Augustine “Love the Sinner, hate the sin” , thus I say to the ladies as they beguile me…” Nichephorus broke off, and bowed “Most Illustrious Heraclius” . “My Lord” Donn followed. 
Heraclius was arrayed for battle, clad in armour from head to foot, a sword and an ax by his side, shielded and helmed. “Fathers. I come for a last blessing. In truth, today all changes. By this evening I will be Basileus, and we shall dine in the great palace, or dead, and we shall meet again at the side of Our Lord and God. I would have your blessings, Father. And I give you my thanks” . The dromon bumped the side of the harbour. Kava, the black guard looked at the two priests “quickly gentlemen” he muttered. Two more of the bodyguards, Jurgutha the Mauritanian and Florus the Greek had jumped onto the quay , while Rorun flanked Heraclius. Boris and Gese were nowhere to be seen. As the two rushed an abbreviated blessing more and more ships crowded into the small harbour, men pouring off and into the colonnaded dark. Donn finished, and straightened up, seeing Heraclius striding off towards the emaciated frame of his cousin Nicetas. They conferred, nodded and strode off. 
“Shall we follow or….?” Donn asked. “Oh, by all means let us depart this foul vessel” Nicephoras begged. “Listen, hear…the sound of the hippodrome..” 
The two men walked, or in one case, waddled, up the steps leading from the harbour. Through a series of enclosed gardens, fountained squares, passageways between cyclopian buildings they walked, or in Donn’s case were led. They came out of a walled garden and Donn stopped stock still. Slightly to his left a triple level of arches rose up from an open space, sheeted in marble and porphyry, as large as the Flavian amphitheatre he had glimpsed in Rome, but sweeping back as far as the eye could see in blank walls set with arched entrances. At the very peak of the colonnade rose a podium, set with a giant gold quadriga . Florus the bodyguard spotted them “Fathers. Come to see the show?” he nodded towards the square. 
“Should you not be over there Florus, guarding? “ Donn asked. “I AM guarding” Florus said grandly “part of the job is engaging bystanders to ensure they are not dangerous. Besides, this is a big day, so the boss wants the most impressive show he can. And they don't come much more impressive than Kava and Gese, do they? “ 
Donn looked over. Both bodyguards were in full parade armour, gilt and steel, more weapons than a small army, one dark as night the other pale as a ghost, each as wide as two men and ten times as dangerous. Heraclius, no lightweight, seemed as a child between them. 
A crash, and the enormous doors in the base of the Hippodrome opened. Behind Heraclius his troops finished dressing their lines, fanned out to form a U shape lapping out from behind Heraclius to anchor on the edge of the stadium. The noise from the hippodrome rose and fell, no coherence to it as Donn could make out. A column of men emerged, each near as tall as one of the bodyguards, lamellar armour silver washed, each with a circular chest-piece in gold, all over red tunics. Black trousers and high boots completed the dress, and each was armed with an oval shield in green, a long spear and a sword. Forming a funnel with two lines each side, one facing out the the other in, they paused a couple of spear lengths away from Heraclius. Down the funnel of men walked a plainly dressed civilian. Florus , Donn noted, had disappeared. “Ah, Priscus….Phocas’s son in law” Nicephoras nudged Donn. “Head of the palace guards. Pretty fellows, aren't they…but look over there. Proper troops” Donn looked to the right. Along the side of the stadium, as best he could see, a mass of horsemen and much less showy troops were massing
Donn edged forward, towards the rear lines of the Heraclian troops. They were spaced out, trying to seem more than the were. “He is risking it all, on one toss” Nicephoras muttered. They watched. Heraclius was in deep conversation with Priscus. The armies watched each other. The conversation continued, the hippodrome crowd noises waxed and waned. 
Crash, the palace guards smacked their shields with their spears. Crash….”HERACLIUS IMPERATOR”….Crash “HERACLIUS IMPERATOR…” Nicephoras sighed “we live” 
❖
610 Byzantium : the palace

Donn was unsure exactly what he was supposed to do, so he did nothing. Nicephoras had suggested they follow in the wake of , he supposed now Basileus  Heraclius. Basileus in waiting anyhow, although with his own army, small but loyal, the (at least temporary) loyalty of the palace guards, and the happy rioting of the circus mob to whom Heraclius had promised a donative, he stood a good chance of keeping power. Six months on the flagship, often in close company with Heraclius, this had somehow made the guards and courtiers see him as one of them. At least, so far nobody had asked him to leave. Donn was frankly numb from sensory overload. The great palace seemed to consist of gold, pearl, marble and eunuchs in equal proportion. Hall  had followed courtyard followed pavilion, trending upwards ever.  They had finally reached a flatter area,  on their right the topmost terraces of the circus.  A vast hall reared up, a bridge of purple and gold inlaid marble arching over them, allowing emperors direct passage to the imperial box of the circus.  They  had entered the octagonal building, and passed into heaven, Donn thought. Rearing up through three octagonal courses each turned round through a half turn  the building had little natural light,  eight narrow windows on the upper level alone.  Two giant candelabra blazed with candles , mirrored sconces reflecting back from the gold and silver mosaics. Directly opposite Donn stood a throne, mounting up from polished wood and bas relief terracotta, the throne of dark wood, arms studded with inlaid gems and back fretted with ivory and gold. It stood behind a bronze railing. The apse leftward from it also was barred with a bronze grill, containing a number of chests and cases displaying reliquaries. At the other side a door plated in silver inlaid with rose gold crowns led who knew where. Heraclius stood, dishelmed but with a bearded axe in hand resting on the ground. Gegas stood beside him. It was his axe that the Basileus leaned on. 
“Well priest. How do you like the Chrysotriklinos? Impressive, eh” snorted Florus. Donn started. Despite his size the big greek moved as silent as a cat. 
“It is ….beyond my imagination Florus”
“When the Basileus holds audience or a banquet here it is more impressive yet. Oh yes, wealth unimaginable. Gold plate, silver gilt table settings, the Basileus on his own elevated above all, priests and abbots in rich clothes, more food thrown away after than would feed a district - we couldn't have the poor eating food that exalted lips had touched could we. The nobles at play…” he trailed off
“Florus, you sound pained. And how do you know this?” Donn asked 
Florus looked down at Donn, his lips compressed, and shaking his head. “You seem decent enough as a man, for all you are a priest. I guess living on that barren land has given you some degree of humility. I am from here, Father Donn” he laughed softly. “I served in this very hall,  cupbearer to the blessed Maurice, whom that bastard there “ he nodded to where the silver doors had opened and through which Boris and Rorun strode, a giant man in tattered finery and heavy chains half stumbling between them “ that bastard Phocas slew. We, us pages, we were taken that very night to Carthage, on the orders of Heraclius. He knew that whether it was Phocas or someone else were Maurice to fall we would be in peril. A foundling child, a cupbearer who would have been made a eunuch before too long more, or slain as being too close to Maurice, I became a soldier and pledged my loyalty to the Heraclian. But I have seen too much poverty Father. Did the lord himself not express doubt about rich men and heaven? Now, attend…” Florus stepped forward, joining his other guards as they formed a semicircle in front of which stood Heraclius. Phocas, for that is who it was, knelt, a short spear held by Boris under his chin forcing his head up. Donn drifted closer. Heraclius bent down, even then Phocas head being level with his chin. He was berating Phocas.
“Avar and Pecheneg rampage through Thrace. Lombards pillage Italy. Persians have taken Mesopotamia and threaten the Lakhamids,  their columns ranging where they will across the land, desert raiders lay waste to the steps of Our Lord, pirates have taken Cyprus and regularly extort our grain supply,  the Georgians press Armenia, the treasury is empty, the city half destroyed, heresy runs rampant, and the people riot. Is this how you have ruled, wretch?” 
Phocas looked up, his face livid and awful, his beard streaked with grey and blood, bloody fluid oozing out his broken nose. He raised his eyes further looking over Heraclius head, then looked down again. He hawked, and spat on the mosaic, the gobbet landing, Donn noted, on the idiot face of a wise man, Phocas was kneeling on the Christ child. “Tell me, will you rule better?”  he roared. 
Heraclius took a step back, face grimly set.  He picked up the bearded axe. Its blade was black and damascene, the edge a finger width of bright death. He stared at Phocas. Heraclius lifted and chopped, the axe sinking half its blade into the shoulder joint of Phocas, who groaned. Heraclius pulled the ax out, chopped again, and again, Phocas now grunting louder, blood spattering and spouting. Heraclius swung again, this time lower, chopping into Phocas chest. Donn heard the ribs break as the ax entered, then again as Heraclius, no weakling, wrenched it back out.   The big man slumped, panting. Donn was taken back to his time on the battlefield. He had seen the tremendous strength in Heraclius upper body as he trained on board, but to see it used for outright torture was not meet, he felt. Heraclius, he knew, was strong enough to kill. Even a skull as strong as Phocas would split with a solid blow. Donn realised Heraclius intended to kill his rival by chopping him into pieces for as long as possible. Chop, splatter. Heraclius was swinging low now, whittling Phocas hands down. He stepped back glaring at Phocas, who's breath came in bellowing waves. Blood pooled all round him, soaking his trousers, flowing into the cracks of the mosaic, drowning the nativity in blood. Incredibly, Phocas smiled. A bad man, a worse king Donn thought, but he was dying well, killed in a way that the worst common criminal did not deserve. Heraclius suddenly stepped back, roaring “Die, you monster” and swung the ax down with jovian fury, the blade sinking into Phocas’  head above his ear. He spasmed, Heraclius released the ax, and Phocas slumped to the ground, twitching , a keening sound dying away, the ax still sticking out of his head. Everywhere was silent. 
❖
610 Byzantium : the palace
Donn marvelled at the change in the hall. Last night an execution chamber, today a flower bedecked fantasy.  
He had slept poorly, images of Phocas gruesome death replaying in his mind. At dawn he had risen, prayed, breakfasted on some bread and fruit he had taken to his room, then leaned out the window. The city stretched away to the sea below, calm now for the first time in months. He sighed. Phocas had died bravely, and Heraclius had behaved abominably. He had, Donn concluded, been positively gleeful as he chopped the life out of his rival. 
He had been resigned to a day, days, of tedium, and had resolved to not give into idleness, planning to walk about the city, visit the shrines, generally try to learn more. That fantasy had lasted all of a moment, blown out like a candle by a summons to attend the wedding of Heraclius. Donn was to form part of the phalanx of priests, deacons, catechumens, and who knew what in the blessing of Heraclius and the lady Fabia. Donn had never heard her name mentioned in the months he had spent on the floating court. He suspected that her womb and her wealth were the attraction. Thinking of marriage drive his thoughts to his own dead , and his marriage day. As a minor grandson of a king he had been allowed to marry for (mostly) love, but love did not cure plague. He  had sighed, running the bronze razor over his forehead and head, shaving his tonsure back to a line running from ear to ear. 
The wedding was …bewildering. Donn was used to the Celtic style of ceremony, spare, short and pointed to the event. It was only halfway through the event, as he stood there swinging a censor chanting “Ave” and taking his cue from the other religious that he realised that the marriage had morphed into a coronation, or possibly the other way around. The gigantic church of the Holy Wisdom was crowded with what seemed like half the world. Donn had been hustled into it from the rear, and was shocked to see that in the alcoves and side chapels there were stalls selling everything from sizzling meats to relics to candles and medallions. On the altar, remote and inhuman in a gold robe that must have weighed on him like the sin of murder, Heraclius had stood, immobile.  Donn had been dressed in a long white robe, with a dark red sash denoting him as priest. The sub-deacon who had aided him noted the bishops got purple, archpriests blue, priests red and deacons black. Other stylistic hierarchies were also noted but Donn frankly was by that stage suffering from hallucinatory sensory overload and exhaustion. Hh had shuffled forward, nodded when others did, mumbled when he needed. The wedding-coronation had been officiated by the Patriarch of Constantinople , the new one, Sergius, who had been appointed that morning, Thomas, the previous appointee of Phocas having decided the previous evening that the monastic life was his true calling. The ceremony had gone on and on, relieved only when the Patriarch and the Bishop of Rome had silently and doggedly wrestled with the purple cushion on which the newly consecrated (by the Patriarch) Basileus would sit, the Roman winning. Nobody pretended to notice. The Augusta Fabia Eudoxia, as she had been announced sat without benefit of cushion. Donn suspected it made sense to someone. He rather hoped so. . Eventually the intertwined ceremonies had come to an end, in a riot of hymns and applause. Donn had walked in the procession of the priests and out the rear of the giant church, where  the clergy scattered like mercury. He had stood, lost , at the entry to the Augustation the large marble floored square that linked the Mese, the main thoroughfare, with the Great Wisdom, the hippodrome and the Great Palace. It was truly the centre of the city he thought, today hosting a feast for the Green faction of the circus mob, in recognition of their role in rescuing Fabia. The square was crowded with drunken charioteers, prostitutes, revellers and thieves. At one end , near the Mese entrance, by the column topped by a large silver statue of the great Justinian he saw Nicphorus, drinking from a leather flask he shared with a lady of clearly dubious virtue and less clothing. Donn had walked over, glancing as he did at the other major landmark, the monumental statue of Constantine, gilded bronze, one arm upraised with a staff bearing the Chi-Ro as a topping, the other holding a shield and spear, the statue as large as ten men standing tall on a column around which snaked a bas-relief carving of the man’s deeds. Its base was a four arched structure, the Milon, the starting point for all measures in the empire, facing the Chalke  Nicephoras had seen him, and beckoned him over, drunkenly informing Donn that for some reason he, Donn, was to be honoured to attend in the Chrysotriklinos to applaud the newly married and enthroned couple. So they had headed onward, towards the Chalke gate into the palace. Outside the gate stood a row of sturdy metal spikes, newly flowered with heads, of Phocas and his closest advisors. Like the milion the Chalke was a quadrangle, with two arches on each wall at the first floor, each holding a statue of an apostle, four more in the open arches, the whole topped with giant mosaic of Christ enthroned facing out onto the square. The ceiling of the gatehouse was mosaic in lapis lazuli and precious stones, and the gates themselves, now open but guarded, were sheeted in bronze, four and five times the height of a tall man. 
So now Donn stood in the chamber where a man had died not twelve hours ago, by far the lowest ranked of all, bar Nicephoras who had been with Heraclius for so long he was seen as almost family. He stood in the crowd, drinking little, pages and flower-girls circulating with trays of small foods and strong drink. In the throne niche the imperial couple sat, taking homage from various elements. Flanking them Boris and Florus stood like golden death, the other bodyguards in silver at corners. Gegas caught Donn’s eye, and winked, not moving, his head moving slowly from side to side. 
Donn found himself close to Boniface, Bishop of Rome. He groaned, there was no way he could press his case here now, it would not be fitting. Beside, the bishop was facing the wall, his hand pressed onto it. Donn wondered if he was ill, and moved forward. He stopped…. “Your eminence!” he hissed “Stop. You will be seen” Boniface had found a corner, and was using his eating dagger to pry out gold mosaic  tiles, gems and silver from a hunting scene. Boniface twirled, stumbled. He was clearly drunk beyond reason. “Who are you priest, to instruct me” he slurred, and stepped back. Unfortunately for him, in doing so he began to lose his footing again, and windmilled his arms to maintain balance. His knife was still in his hand and hiss arm rose, as he faced the Basileus. Donn stepped back, his warrior training rushing back. Trouble, he thought. He saw Gegas stepping impossibly large towards the perceived threat. Superbly trained,  he had no sword in hand but rather his reversed short spear which he smashed into the knife wielding arm. With a crack the bone broke, and Boniface fell to his knees, his knife clattering into the silence. From the folds of his cassock a stream of small wealth followed the knife to the mosaic. Gegas stood, the spear now facing the Bishop, who looked at Donn with fury then at an enraged Heraclius with fear 
“Depart, this instant, before I forget your ecclesiastical dignity! You disgrace yourself. Be on a ship this day to Ravenna” he waved at Gegas “take him to the docks, as he is, and the first suitable ship you see put him on it. Take four guards, have them accompany him to Ravenna. He is to wait there on my pleasure” 
Gegas hauled the whimpering prelate up and marched him off.  Speech began to drift back into the hall. Heraclius turned to Donn. 
“Well, friend Donn. You will not get your relic from him now….I am sorry for your loss. But perhaps I can make up for it? You should not, nor should your community, be at loss for the greed of a small man. I have a gift for you. It is our custom on a wedding day to exchange gifts. You have given me the gift of realising that Boniface is a greedy small man. In exchange, I give you this. You have my authority to go to Jerusalem, as my envoy. There you are to converse with the Patriarch, and ensure that the most precious relic, the remnants of the True Cross, are safe. In recompense, you may take a small sliver as a relic.” 

Chapter Nine
610 Byzantium : the walls

Donn walked forward, towards the edge of the tower. George, his minder, leaned on a battlement. 
“Savage looking lot, aren't they Father?” he nodded out over the ranks of walls, ditches and lesser towers. The suburbs smouldered. Burned out churches, plundered palaces,  all swarming with looting soldiery.  Donn had seen plenty of barbarous types in his travels, but the pechenegs were a whole order more organised. Down towards the inlet , where the walls marched into the sea, a group of them clustered around a large wooden structure. “See there, Father. Trying to mine.” George noted. 
“Mine? Why are they mining? “ Donn inquired. He had no clue how a siege of a walled city would possibly ever succeed.
“They dig a tunnel and then a large space, under a wall or a tower. Propped up, then they fill it with something flammable, light and retreat. The supports burn away, the weight of the tower is too much for the ground. Crash, in they go” 
“Should then the defenders not be worried?” asked Donn, looking at the supremely unworried George. The defenders on the walls did not look concerned. Nor did the two ladies and their attendants who had  mounted up to the top of Donn’s tower. 
“Lord no, Father. These lot haven't a hope. Barbarians never have the patience to do it right. Surprised to be honest that they have even started…must be the Persians put them up to it” 
“What of the suburb? They are destroying it” Donn asked. 
“Yes, that is unfortunate. These savages should never have been allowed this close to the city. I don't understand Phocas. He campaigned enough against them. Stupid, thats what this was” 
Donn looked further off, to where the land began to rise in forests to hills. In the middle distance a building gleamed, unburned, standing out  in the devastation. He could see the mail-clad warriors there, the Khan’s personal guard. Off to the right a mob of horse archers milled about, in front of the walls, occasionally darting close to fire an arrow, less often throw a spear. 
“They have no hope of getting over even the first wall, do they” Donn remarked
“No, they don't. Although the Persians there might. The first anyhow. They have plenty of experience with walls…” George pointed to the side of the Khans building. “Doubtful though, this is a demonstration of force by the Persians, I imagine”
“Forgive me, but can you be sure of that” a woman’s voice from behind the two men. It was the two ladies they had seen earlier, with a retinue of guards, servants and hangers-on. “If the Persians can make it to besiege us, then what can they not do” she continued. 
“My lady Helena” George bowed “I cannot, of course. But in my experience a much larger force would be required. Even then I cannot see it. The walls and defences are simply unassailable, and so long as we have a navy we cannot starve. You are safe, My Lady” 
“Who is your colleague” Helena inquired. Beside her a short, dark-haired woman started frankly at Donn. She spoke “Madam, he is the Frankish priest” She said
“I am not Frankish, Lady, I come from another land, Hibernia, further than even the old province of Britannia. I am Father Donn” he inclined his head. 
Helena laughed “See Rita, even your knowledge sometimes fails” . The other lady, Rita inclined her head gracefully, acknowledging her fault. “Stay, speak with the good  priest, and I shall walk to the next tower. You will meet me there. I have ordered some food  and drink be brought to the commander, Gregory” She walked off, leaving Rita 
“Who is that lady, lady?” Donn asked. “Helena, a cousin of Basileus Heraclius. I am Rita, one of her companions” 
Donn was staring at Rita, and broke his glance when he realised. Rita had the most extraordinary eyes, grey and calm, outlined in dark makeup. Her hair was plainly styled under a gauzy orange net held in place by a thin silver band from ear to ear over her head. She wore a long wide-sleeved robe, of a brighter orange, slashed at the sleeves showing slim brown arms. Donn was entranced. 
“ So Father, shall we walk?” Rita waved her arm towards the walls. Donn was confused 
“My lady, is it normal that the public would come to the walls to view a battle? This is strange to me” he said 
“Father, you are a man of peace, so I warrant that all this is strange to you. The city cannot be taken, although the suburbs may be ravaged. So people have come to see the savages beat themselves against the walls. It is many years since they were so close and will be many again after they reel away!” Rita laughed. 
Donn was needled. Since landing in this stange city he had been feeling more and more unmoored. The religious life here was alien - yes, they worshipped the same god as he, but the degree of structure, of ritual, the overwhelming wealth and power of the church, this was as far from his own experience as it was possible.  When he had been travelling with his companions  they had been able to exist mostly outside the bounds of the church of whatever area they found themselves in , which to be truthful was usually fairly scant in Gaul. Even in Italia they had, down to two, been able to slide through. Then on the boat and latterly in the floating court Donn had been quite alone for many times. The sailors and crew tended to regard him as an oddity, certainly not as a priest. He suspected his habit, back into which he had needed to get, of training with a borrowed mace and shield, swapping each from hand to hand, running on the spot, taking tumbles, these did not mark him as a priest in their eyes. So they had gone to Nicheporus, and left him to his private devotions. 
“My lady, not as much as you might think. I was a warrior before I was a man of god. I have fought to capture places, and defended them, if nothing so mighty as this.” He stopped. 
“Truly?” Rita raised a shaped eyebrow. 
“On the souls of my wife and child, may they rest in the light of the savior, I swear it” Donn slapped his hand on the wall as he swore
“You are deeper than you seem Father Donn. ….I take it your wife and child are dead?” She noted, tentative at the end. Donn flinched. He did not like to speak of them 
“Yes, a plague. They sickened and died. I would rather not speak of it, if it please you. They rest in heaven now and from my mortal grief came my desire to defend Christ in another way” his voice trailed off
“Of course. Plague comes and goes, and it is the will of the lord who is spared and who taken. My father died, some years ago, and it was with fortune that the Lady Helena was known to the family, and took me as an attendant. I have some small fortune but without her, unmarried, I have no position” Rita looked out , not meeting Donn’s eyes. 
“Come Lady….” Donn began. “Call me by my name please, Rita. We are both somewhat outsiders” she interrupted. “Come Rita, then, let us walk to your mistress “
❖
610 Outside the Walls
Priscus sat, rather nervously, on his horse. He wasn't much of a fighter, truth be told. Oh, he could fight, but not well.  All round him the armoured cavalry gathered.  Close by his own personal guard, men from his family and estates, a dozen tough dangerous men. The rest of the Scola Armaturarum Iuniorum, the 500 men rostered for that day, sat their horses,  each armed with a long lance, a straight sword and  shield. Priscus settled his feet again in the stirrups. He had learned to ride without them, and was still unsure as a rider if he approved of them. As a soldier and as a leader he loved the like his children, and thanked the Avar captives who had spread them through the empire. The strength and force of the blows his men could deliver when armed with them was impressive. A horn blew, and a storm of arrows flew from the battlements, clearing the ground in front of the gate of attackers. Further away catapults twanged, sending boulders, chains, flaming bundles into a killing ground . Priscus smiled. The defenders had been hardly exerting themselves. There was little threat to the walls.  from light horse archers. The real threat, such as it was, came from the Persian miners. That was their target. Priscus stood up (something else the stirrups allowed) and looked over the heads of the cavalry. At the other gate,  three stade away, the infantry were ready. Behind them the middle and inner walls rose. He sighed. He had advised Heraclius to allow the pechenegs to dash themselves against the walls, to allow the Persians (actually Hephatelite if you believed the deserters) to exhaust themselves in digging fruitlessly, to just….wait. But the new Basileus was insistent. He would show his new subjects how he meant to rule. 
Another flight of arrows and catapults, and the gates opened. Horns, and the infantry began to march out, forming a perimeter around the two gates. Another horn blast, and the scholae formed up and exited the opening gates.  Priscus spoke to the man beside him, lightly armoured in comparison to the heavy horse. 
“Comes Hilarion. Your infantry will double time to mask our movement. We will make our way towards the mine workings. When the time is opportune, we will charge, carry the mine entrance, and the engineers can collapse it” he nodded to a group of men on ponies, clad in smocks and skins, panniers filled with mattocks and picks and shovels.  Comes Agrabaz , ready the scholae”
The infantry moved forward, shields held in front, more and more men feeding out to hold the line.  Archers followed behind, keeping up a barrage on the milling horsemen, who darted out of their lines to launch light javelins and arrow. Mostly these rattled off the tall shields, but occasionally a grunt and a scream testified to a hit. As they moved forward the lines became more uneven, the burned out houses and gardens impeding them. The horse-archers were getting thicker now and the advance slowed. “Agrabaz, it's time” Priscus asked. “My lord Priscus, we are not close enough. The horses will be blown before we reach the mine. I say again, this is folly” Agrabaz was insistent. 
“You argued this with the Basileus.  He is adamant. We do not have fast light troops to hand, so we must suffice. We will have to” Priscus pointed to the mine workings. “Form the men, we will go in three groups” 
Agrabaz looked shocked “Sir, that invites defeat in detail! Together we are strong enough to deter any attack from their horsemen, but apart we will be cut to gobbets!. Plus, I fear we have not seen their full force. We have reports Sharbaraz himself is here, and he will not travel alone” 
“ We have to break up. The infantry need reinforcement, and we need someone to beat off any attack on the mine workings while the engineers do their work. And they need to be protected. We go in three groups” Priscus turned away, buckling his faceplate, and pumped his arm three times. 
The infantry peeled away from the anchoring points on the city walls, trusting to the artillery to keep things safe,  and edged forward against stiffening resistance. More and more men were falling now. The three divisions of the scholae, mailed and armoured, their horses likewise, trotted forward, picking up speed as they went. In front of them the Pecheneg infantry backed away in groups, utterly unable to stand against the horsemen, those that stood being ridden down like chaff. Priscus was at the head of the leftmost group, thinking as he rode of how this would be the last time he ever wore armour if he could help it. The promise of being head of the chancellory, in charge of the administration of the entire empire, that was heady wine. And now he was drunk on it, he ruefully mused as he charged forward, towards a low ridge on which for some reason his infantry were pausing. Behind him the first of his riders were overrunning the mine works, over a low wall into the camp, while the second group was pivoting to support him. He glanced forward, as he gained the ridge. To his left the infantry was stalled completely, now hunkering down under an unceasing rain of arrows as Pecheneg horse archers wheeled out and back, mail clad infantry massing to take advantage of any breaks in the line. Priscus charged on, plunging down the reverse slope, horrified at what he now saw, several hundred heavy horse, seemingly Persian cliobarnim beginning to thunder down the other side of the dry river valley, flanked on either side by Pecheneg lancers, the Khans own guard. He held up his arm and circled it, his bodyguards closing in and the flag-bearers beginning to signal “stop” . But 150 heavy  cavalry cannot stop quickly, the gentle downslope not helping. As Priscus looked round he saw the end of his infantry line collapse under the charge, while arrows began to thud into his riders. The heavy mail and leather armour of the horses and men protected them, mostly but so many arrows were coming now that chinks were being found. They had slowed now to a stop, and Priscus chanced a stand. He was nearly encircled by mounted archers, each with a couple of lightly armoured men running beside the horses. As his cavalry began to compress and turn, some of these men darted in, with long axes and knives, trying to get to the horse’s legs and bellies. “Retreat, back parallel to the ridge, and up there” he pointed, towards a dry wash. His blown horsemen began to trot but this forced them to turn their backs to the enemy, a few staying behind for a moment or two to act as rearguard, then trying to make the main group when another set would act as defence. With each sally a man or horse was lost. The group began to pick up pace, nowhere near fast enough. The power of the heavy cavalry was in shock, to smash an enemy formation and allow others to sweep in. Priscus realised he was in deep trouble. Suddenly, from the wash, a wave of lancers emerged, nearly as powerful man for man as his own, but far fresher. One came straight for him, his moustachioed face set, framed by a pointed helmet from which flew streamers of red and blue. His lance was couched, and his feet braced in stirrups. Time seemed to slow for Priscus, and he raised his shield to take the lance. The collision spun him round , and his tired horse stumbled, Priscus not skilled enough to curb the beast’s natural instincts. The Pecheneg lancer was skilled, and he and horse had worked together for years. Around he curvetted his horse, his lance gone, a sword in his hand. Priscus saw the blade falling, and felt no more. 

❖
610 The Palace
“This is an utter disaster” Heraclius stated, coldly. “A disaster. Priscus and his command dead, shattered. Near half the infantry gone. For what…” He slumped down, gulping his wine, gesturing with the empty glass and silver goblet to the cupbearer. 
“Basileus. We muse consider if now that martial power has failed the Lord of Hosts is laying out to us a path of using our other weapons, our guile and material wealth” Donn looked up, having been examining the marvellous inlaid floor of the small recieving room. A sombre man, tall and spare, with a gold and red cloak inlaid with fish, chi-ro, crosses and a host of saintly faces (or sufferers of irritated bowels, Donn mused, most of the saints seemed to need to take a purge) was speaking. A bishop or prelate of some sort. His eye wandered round the room, wondering again why he was here. Although no general, he had seen the disaster unfolding from the walls from the moment Priscus had divided the force. Heraclius had called out his council members as he stalked away from the tower where he had observed, and sighting Donn had signalled him also. Donn looked at Heraclius, who had filled his cup and now sat, arms crossed on the table, glaring at the cleric. This is not a happy man Donn thought
“So therefore Basileus, shall we remember the words of the proverb, and rid ourselves of two evils - corrupting wealth and the evil pagans “The name of the Lord is a strong tower; the righteous man runs into it and is safe.A rich man's wealth is his” 
“STOP” Heraclius slammed his fist on the table. “Shut your mouth now and say no more” He pointed at the prelate. “You talk of corrupting weath, you, Jeremiah of Tzouroullon, who has fortified his church to a fortress, and furnished it with a luxury I as emperor would envy? You talk to me of corrupting wealth? All of you” he stood,  waving his hand, his other hand clutching the hilt of his sword “all of you bishops climg to wealth as a miser, while the Imperial chamberlain begs for gold from even the moneylenders of Ctestiphon itself!.  We will NOT pay off the enemy. They cannot stay on this side of the straits for long. Sharbaraz is not a fool, and knows that he must retreat. So, we wait. Soon he will ask for a truce, and we will give it, after the customary discussions. Chosroes is no fool. He will take the gold I give. What he will not take, fool Jeremiah, is the gold you would give, which is all I have and none of yours” 
He stalked forward, putting his face into the face of the now pale Jeremiah. “Do not presume to talk to me of the scripture. I am the Emperor, the viceregent of the Lord, first amongst the Patriarchs. That I do not remove you from your role, and your miserable life, is soely down to the need to have empire and church working together in harmony. But know this” He stood. “All of you, prelates, bishops and clerics, chancellors and cubiculors, you must all work together or face me” His eyes met Donn.
“Father Donn. You are here as someone who stands outside our system. I understand you are of a royal house?” It was not a question.
“Basileus, I am, although the grandest king in Hibernia would not be as wealthy and powerful as a lesser lord of the romans ..nor  even a bishop” Donn replied, and as a chuckle ran round the room he felt the tension bleed off. He caught the eye of Florus, who stood as ever a few paces behind the Basileus. Florus nodded fractionally and Donn noted his grip relaxed, minutely, on his spear. Heraclius seemed less amused “So, Prince and Priest, how would a King in your country deal here, with enemies at the gate?” Donn looked again. Heraclius did not have the look in his eye of rage. Rather he seemed …calculating. 
“Lord, my Grandfather is accounted a great king. He has always been of the view that gold is good for merchants, silver for priests but Iron is the tool of princes. He negotiates where he can and where he cannot he falls on his enemies when they least expect where it hurts them the most…. to make them negotiate. War, he has always noted, almost always ends in two men talking and each coming away dissapointed, thus indicating a good settlement” Donn stated, almost truthfully. True, his grandsire did care to negotiate if he could avoid to  fight, but he generally preferred to fight first and negotiate with an enemy cowed and horrifed at the cruelty and voilence of the warbands of Cashel.  A man negotiated in better faith when he had seen some of his family executed, that was Grandfather’s way.  Heraclius was clearly in no mood to lose more men when his enemy was busy dashing his stregth against impregnable walls, the sortie having been a way Donn now realised to either raise Priscus to even more lofty heights the better to fall from or else die trying. 
“Even in the farthest reaches of the world there is wisdom” Heraclius stated, coming towards Donn. As he embraced him Heraclius whispered “a smart answer my friend” 
“Know this” Heraclius stepped back. “Donn, Prince and Priest, has travelled far to seek a boon for his church. I have granted him this and he shall travel to JErusalem to obtain it. While he organizes his travel, with my support, he shall be a member of my inner household with the rank of Pinkernes, and a personal chaplain. Know also : I will send gold and treasure to the Pecheneg. They are like stinging flies, who evade us when we strike them but who fly to sweetness. We will give them sweetness to leave us” He walked forward, Florus trailing “Come Father” he turned, and nodded Donn onward. Rorun, who had been standing at the door half turned and opened it, and Donn swept out in the wake of the imperial retinue. 
“I need someone ….disposable…Father. I mean no disrespect, but you I can confide in for you have absolutely no power base, and no ties, nor does it seem to me that for all your political cunning you shirk from telling truth to power at need. So, equip yourself, but I fear it will be some time before you can head for Jerusalem. The persians are running at will throughout Syria, and I need clear them. So, when I go with the army you can accompany me”
“Will you not have to then take Jerusalem, Basileus?” Donn asked? 
“No. The walls are near impregnable, and the garrison large. And for all that it is holy, it is not really strategic, so no sensible general….and whatever he may be Sharbaraz is a sensible general… no sensible general will spend much effort in subduing it. Oh, he may invest it but” Heraclius mused
“My lord, you sound as though you admre the Persian?” Donn ventured
“I do. He is a captain without peer, loyal to his king even when nobody would have thought him worse for abandoning him, and not needlessly cruel. When this war is over and we have all scowled at each other he and I will drink wine and tell lies about our martial prowess” 
“And Chosroes?” Donn asked
“A different man. He is scion of a line of kings that go back centuries and he looks on me as what I am, a usurper and a jumped up provincial governor. And he is fanatical about his religion, to a fault. You may note Donn that as you travel around this city I permit some freedom to Jews, to Zoroastrians. They cannot prosletise but they can conduct discrete worship for thier own followers. This displeases the church…In Chosroes mind there is no tolerance. No leniency. Priests are crucified, Rabbai’s stoned, if the mob takes a mind, and no hand will be lifted to apply any law to one if a Persian, for all they profess to abhor the lie, calumnises them or breaches contract. Chosroes is a fanatic. Such men in power are dangerous, as to rule is to bend.”

❖
611 Thrace
The forest was, to Donn’s eyes, somewhat manicured. He trotted along in a group of minor officials, somewhat behind the main body of the hunters. Ahead, Heraclius was on point, a spear half as tall again as his height  and as thick round as a swordsman's wrist propped on his shoulder. In the distance Donn thought he heard faint horns. 
“My friend, what is next? I am unfamiliar with this approach to hunting” he asked of the pale youth beside him, a slightly lost looking man rumoured to be Heraclius illegitimate son. 
John Atlarikos turned to Donn “you are the Frankish priest? How does a priest hunt then?” he asked, not quite sneering but not not…
“It please you, I am not Frankish but Hibernian, from an island to the west of Britannia. I am Donn, Priest but before that Prince, and I greet you in the name of the Lord” he responded in what was now a semi automatic way, trying to impart who and what and where and how to be dealt with in as few words as possible. “To your question, in my land the forests are more rugged, so horses are not that useful in hunting. There are no wisent, nor lions nor truth to tell many bears. We hunt boar and deer in the main, on foot, with wolfhounds, and as you might imagine, wolf. I have never seen a wisent…” he trailed off. 
Ahead the forest had thinned to a grassy meadow, with occasional low bushes. At the far side the ground sloped upward, rising towards a hilly distance. The sounds of horns were clearer now. A figure in green and brown, small and dark and savage looking, was walking down the straggling line of courtiers and hangers on, chanting “his prize, nobody else” pointing with his left hand towards the clot of armed men around Heraclius. A group of pages scurried between the royal group and various points of the support, carrying spears, bows, wine. Donn now heard barking, and a deep booming ‘hoooooo’.  He was still somewhat unclear as to what he, or indeed any of the courtiers, were doing. Heraclius now had his thick long spear fronted. To his side Donn noted the tall figure of Kava, also armed with a spear. On the other side stood two figures, the wiry savage looking hunt-master and one taller. A page ran forward, to the tall man, who drew slightly apart, listened, looked at Heraclius and Kava, then turned back. The page ran back to a group of his peers. 
The barking, and howling and booming came louder. Out of the far edge of the clearing a hunting dog ran, its muzzle bloody, darting back into the gloom, the now shaking gloom Donn noticed. Two men appeared from the woods, dogs darting from them to the gloom, then two more a bowshot away. Out of the gloom between the men a giant head appeared. Horned, one covered in blood, small eyes below the horns set back in a dark brown mat of fur, a tangled black felting between the horns, the head as big as a hunting hound. From the head the shoulders humped up, man high. Donn whistled “that is not a docile cow” he noted to his companion. “Indeed. The wisent is a king in the forest, vast and dangerous. I have seen one toss a lion on its horns and stamp it to death. Observe, father” he pointed. Donn noted that John’s eyes glittered and he was flicking his tongue along his lips. Donn looked. The two groups of dog handlers had short bows slung, an arrow loose. “Should there be danger to the Basileus they can try to drive off the beast. But the arrows are not enough to kill, not swiftly” Donn looked, slightly aghast, as Heraclius stepped forward, a banner in hand, and waved. The hunting dogs which had been circling around the beast, nipping and yelping, took this signal and went for its rump and heels, driving the giant beast forward. Heraclius handed the banner to a page, who ran back, glancing to the taller man. “Who is the tall man, Honourable?” he asked his companion “please , father , call me John. Everyone else does, except when they call me bastard” he smiled, Donn noting that he was now edging forward. Donn followed. They were perhaps twenty paces away from the royal party, he noted. “The tall man?” he prompted? “Himerius, who manages the pages” John murmured. Donn looked at him, really looked. John’s gaze was fixed now on the royal party, now on Himerius, now on the leftmost body of dog handlers. The wisent was being driven, slowly, bite by bite, towards Heraclius, who stood, braced, his spear couched.  The bellowing of the beast, the barking of the dogs, everyone silent…The wisent dipped its great head, catching a dog on a horn, tossing it yelping and broken over its head to crash into the undergrowth. It lurched forward, one leg clearly hamstrung or as near as. Dogs circled it, scenting blood, nipping, yipping.  Heraclius dipped his spear, preparing to strike into the side or neck of the great beast to sever its spine, pierce its lungs or heart. 
It all happened at once. As the animals neared the Basileus John shouted “NOW”, and waved the standard which Heraclius had earlier given to a page.  The two leftmost dog handlers swung their bows up, Kava glanced once at them then turned towards Heraclius, the bowmen shooting then running forward. To his horror Donn saw Kava stumble back, fall, roll, an arrow in his side. Kava rose to his knees and tried to rise using his shield as a support. The bowmen moved forward, reloading. At John’s shout Himerius had shoved Heraclius forward, into the path of the enraged wisent. Heraclius stumbled forward, his spear tangling his legs, and fell. John darted forward, dagger drawn. Donn acted without thinking, the trained warrior overcoming the tame priest. “I behold the treacherous, and loath them” he muttered, sprinting towards John, who was closing on the Basileus, himself perilously close to the stamping hooves and swinging horns of the enraged bovine. John flung the standard at Himerius, who caught it and swept off the silver orb at the top to reveal a wicked silvered point. Behind the others stood rooted, a few beginning to shout “ware” or “my lord” or “danger”, or other useless imprecations. Donn crashed into John, punching him with his knuckles behind the ear once twice, dropping him to the ground. He grabbed the fallen dagger, felt a wiiippp as an arrow passed him at far too close a range, rolled on top of Heraclius and sidekicked Himerius in his off leg, toppling him. He heard a bellow-shriek, as the wisent went for the nearest tormentor then a muffled “get off me man, for Jesus sake get off me” as the Basileus squirmed forward with the strength of a hardened fighter. “Mine now lad” Kava panted, as he lumbered forward, the arrow wavering in his side. Donn looked round. The others in the hunting party were beginning to come to life, running forward. Some of the quicker witted had secured the remaining half dozen or so pages, while a medicus thrust forward to examine Heraclius. He stood, brushed off the flustered jewish man and pushed him towards Kava. “You saved my life Father”. “A debt repaid Basileus, but no more than any christian should do to someone so treacherously betrayed” Donn replied. “You saw it? All?” Heraclius looked round. “Huh. The huntsmen have fled. No surprise there. But this was palace intrigue - pages intrigue. The royal questioners will be busy with them and this creature whom I had trusted despite his baseborn bastard nature” this speech punctuated by repeated kicks at the groaning John. 
❖
612 : Off Antioch
“We cannot put in here Father” the ship master said. “It would be the death of us” 
“Why? The harbour seems quiet..I am no seaman but the port seems open” Donn replied. The captain sighed. “Two reasons then” as he hitched his belt, the axes he carried  jangling “first, Seleucia has been silting for as long as I have sailed these waters. The reason its quiet is because only the lightest craft, of the shallowest draft, can now safely berth at anything but the highest tide. This beast wont do so” he waved his hand around at the merchant ship. “Too deep. We don't want to be caught in the mud, so we would have to wait for high tide, and then wait until the next, at the mercy of the tide as it were in a silting harbour. Not something any captain would be happy with…. Second.. Look at the city. You said the port is quiet. Why is that do you think.” He pointed, Donn looked, closely. The harbour was indeed quiet, nestled between two ranges of low hills which marched off into the interior, framing the Orontes, up which some 20 stade lay Antioch, whence he was bound. There his plan had been to join with the Patriarchal military relief which rotated every six months or so between Antioch, Jerusalem and Alexandria. Recently these had become rather more serious military expeditions, from their origins as ceremonial detachments showing the link between the church and state. Donn looked again, this time with a military eye. He sighed. “Persians. I see some riders on the hills, and some banners in the town. ALL the churches seem burned. One might expect some to survive even in a normal siege or sack. That none do seems to suggest religious extremism. Flawed and pagan as it may be the Persians are devoted to their false god if nothing else. Plus there are corpses on the quay and in the water. The town has fallen”. “Aye. And, bless and save us, if the town has fallen, what of Antioch itself? Either way, whether Nicetas defends it still or not, you wont be going there Father. 
“Can we go further south? Laodocia? Tartus?” Donn asked, recalling the map he had examined that evening at Rita’s fathers home when he had attended Heraclius and his new wife. He had been there instead of the regular chaplain, Heraclius and his church being at strained relations on account of Fabia, Most Pius Augusta, being also Fabia, daughter of the same Nicetas now defending (or not) Antioch and brother of Heraclius. 
“Im not contracted to go further south.” The captain declared flatly. “If the Persians are besieging  Antioch, and I would see no reason why they would not, then they will have sent ships and contracted pirates all along the coast. They know how to war here as well as we Romans do. We run, fast. I am going back to  Constantinople. IF you insist Father “ he paused, looking keenly at Donn “IF you insist, I will sell you the smallest boat and bid you good sailing to the inner harbour. I know you can fight Father. But now is not the time to fight but to run. Fighting here would be suicide. And that, I think you agree, is a sin”
Donn looked at the town. Now and again a crash or a clatter signified some residual destruction. The horsemen on the ridge had disappeared but half glimpsed figures with a distinct glitter and gleam could be seen in the town.
“Constantinople it is then” he said, sighing deeply. Ten days to get here, ten minutes to analyse the hopelessness, ten more days to go back. And no nearer his aim
“
❖
612 Byzantium 
“I, a  sinner, prostrate myself Lord, in the presence of your holy priest. I freely confess my worthlessness, and my sinfulness. I repent, Oh Lord, as a sinful man must if he is to gain your presence” Heraclius was not in fact prostrated. Donn looked round the chamber, cracking his neck. Heraclius was seated, on a hard stool to give him credit, a concession to the need for some discomfort. Eyes downcast, his hands clasped in front of him, he continued on.  They were not alone. At the far end of the room stood Jugurtha, facing in. Donn caught his eye, nodded and got back the same. Jugurtha was , Donn noted wryly, far enough away that he could not really hear the low-voiced conversation between the Basileus and , Donn supposed, his personal chaplain now. But Donn also noted that the Mauritanian was well close enough to skewer him with a well aimed (and he could very well aim …) javelin before closing to chop him to pieces with any or all of the large array of edged weapons he carried. Priest, chaplain, even perhaps a friend to the Emperor of the Romans he might be. But trusted? Gese, Donn knew, was outside the door, and at the end of that corridor stood more regular troops. Donn shifted, on his stool. Heraclius was recounting a dismal litany of oppression, torture, extortion, violence, lust and essentially every sin bar (So far) matricide and heresy.  
“I confess, I confess, I confess” Heraclius finished, striking his chest each time, his voice rising, a tone of anguish faintly evident. He had been well trained in oratory Donn felt, resisting an urge to applaud. 
“Your sins are many, Basileus, and grave…..for a man. And yet, the Lord on high has given you dominion here on earth, to rule. To rule is to sin, as sinful men need correction. As a man you have sinned, as a ruler, you have been just. Your confession is noted, and your penance to the lord shall be to fast for a day and a night, and to scourge yourself thrice with a rod.”
Heraclius rose “walk with me if you would” he gestured towards the door, which Jugurtha opened, bowing slightly as he did so. Outside Geta had stepped back a pace, his hand not quite on his sword. He inclined his head towards the Basileus, and nodded at Donn. 
“Majesty” Jugurtha said “where to?” 
“Father Donn and I will walk in the upper garden, perhaps take a refreshment. I trust Father my penance does not start immediately” he smiled as he spoke
“Indeed not” Donn replied. “I would be honoured to walk with you. I never cease to be amazed at the wonders of the palace”
As they walked Donn glanced round at Heraclius. He seemed troubled. They walked into the blinding sunlight, into a portico crowded with ancient looking weapons and armour. “The sword of Caesar, so I was told.” Heraclius pointed at a plain gladius with an ornate ivory handle, displayed alone on a plinth. “The panoply of Decebalus, allegedly. It was to be fair given to the great Constantin by the family of Maximus, so perhaps” This was gilded scale armour, a gorgeous silver and ivory inlaid helmet and assorted arm and leg pieces, a single handed falx with an ivory handle  which Heraclius picked up and idly examined. He turned. “Tell me, Donn, how do you see your position in my household.” Donn swallowed. He was very conscious of the guards, standing silent but watchful, one between each pair of displayed weaponry, and his two companions Jugurtha and Geta, who now moved closer to Heraclius and he, tensing. Donn was acutely aware that he was as close to death as he had ever been perhaps, despite that he knew these men. Heraclius was not cruel, but calculating. Donn was an outsider. Would his death or life serve the Basileus better, that was the question. 
“My lord Basileus. I am your pensioner, here until it please you to allow me to return home, with I hope a relic of worth, or empty handed as it may be” he paused. “I owe you, as a man, my life. I hope to partially repay that by serving your household as a priest, a confidant at need…” he paused, took the plunge “as an outsider I can perhaps stand aside from the factions that all courts are prey to, and perhaps provide you with an opinion beholden to no faction but your good  fortune”
Heraclius looked at him keenly “yes, you are all that” he sighed. “I have the problem all rulers have. Good advice is hard to get. Those who are in one faction or another will advise truthfully but with arguments to their own position. Others are sycophants and will tell me not what I need to hear but what they think I wish to hear. And more and more. I need someone close, who is as you say not of any party, who is beholden to me but who is also bound by other ties, as you are, to be truthful and honest. As my confessor and confidant I can be frank and free with you. I ask that you be to me” 
Donn looked at the Basileus. He was almost pleading with him. Donn realised that for all his power Heraclius was in a cage, of expectation and precedent. “My lord, my brother in christ, I will always give you honest counsel, for all it may be. I am but a humble priest, a barbarian in your eyes perhaps, as you say an outsider. But, if you want to hear my views, I will air them” 
Heraclius looked at Donn. “You know how we are placed. The pagans rage across the country. Antioch has fallen and the wild boar ravages Syria. Raids spring out, raping the land, stealing what they can carry and burning what they cannot. The usurper drained the treasury and men will not fight without pay. The great lords estates are ravaged on one land by the Pecheneg on another by the Persians. Africa is calm but it cannot alone support the Empire. Egypt is held by the cousin of the usurper. I have no money” 
Donn smiled. He stopped, and looked round the arms and armour. He walked over to the end wall, where he could see through the opening to a terrace. “My Lord, if you will follow me?” he beckoned to Heraclius. As he passed through he marvelled at the organization of the trophy collection, noting the rolls of heavy canvas above the doors, which could be rolled down in inclement weather to protect the relics. 
Heraclius joined him on the terrace. In front and below them the city spread out, hovels and palaces, streets and slums.  Almost directly in front of them rose the Holy Wisdom. Its dome glittered in the late afternoon sun, seeming to float over the massive structure. “There is your money Lord. The church is rich beyond measure. And yet. If a great lord submits to the Persians, or even the barbarian Pecheneg, it is possible, probable even, that they will let him keep his lands, or the most part. Who else to best manage an estate? Even if the lord is slain, and a pagan put in his place, the chamberlain, the huntsman, the overseers and butlers and all the other functionaries that survive will stay so long as they serve. But the churches? We know what is the fate of the churches. They are looted, stripped and defiled. Far worse is the fate of the religious. The nuns are whored, the priests and deacons enslaved if they are not simply tortured to death. In this the Persians are worse. The Pecheneg care only for wealth. They hit, and they run. With modest warning the treasures of a church or a monastery are hidden and the people moved to safety. Or an Abbot or presbyter will offer ransoms, which they will pay, seeing the church as they do their sheep, something you shear but do not slay. The Persians however see the church not as sheep but as vermin, something that competes with them. They slay, burn and destroy, and erect fire temples where they can, bribing the populace with relief of tax and duties if they will yield to Zoroaster” He paused.
Heraclius sighed. “It is so. Chosroes knows too well the way in which we rely on the Church as an arm of the state. He knows that to destroy it is to gravely weaken the state. Indeed, I do not truly know if he believes so deeply in his religion, false as it might be, or believes in his stratagem. But Donn. The Church relies on the Basileus for protection in the secular as he relies for the church to protect in the spiritual. As the Basileus, I balance both”
“My Lord. I am but a barbarian. However, my Grandfather is, as we count it, a king. And what you say is true also for him. Howsoever, the Church in my land pays a tithe. Although his lands are not bothered by pagans, warfare is always present, as he seeks to expand into Demet in the Saxon lands and they seek to expand into his, for the two peoples are intertwined. The lands are poor, and money rare. So all, all Lord, including the church, who have some wealth must pay. Tax the Church Basileus, for their own salvation. They will not like it but they will pay. And if they do not? Well…. As you know the Pecheneg seek money. They are not the threat the Persians are. Hire them, and if any will not pay, use them to collect. This is not a war you can lose” 

Chapter Ten
613 - The Cilician Gates 
“Basileus, we have to withdraw. The Boar has outflanked us , and we wil surely all perish if he has enough numbers to pin us here while the main force continues through the gates” Heraclius looked at the man, a leader of the Scholae Palatine, not a barracks dandy from the scars on his close cropped head, sweat stained and steaming slightly in the morning chill. “Akin to Thermopolae, he sent light forces over the mountain tracks. They came at night and” he stopped as Heraclius raised his hand
“What of the fortress of Anhasa? What of that garrison?” 
The messenger sighed. “Lord, they fled at first approach. They were local militia, competentlytrained, in strength enough to stopper the secondary roads, with competent officers. They rebelled, disarmed the officers and sent them to us. It was them that informed us of this disaster.”
“ Thank you Mikael” Heraclius nodded his head in acknowledgement and dismissal. “Count Callinicus. What is the situation?” 
Callinicus stepped forward, a middle aged middle sized man in ornate but clearly used armour, a helmet hanging on his hand. “Basileus, this situation will soon become untenable, as Mikael has noted. Although the troops behind us are few, as yet, and light, they will grow in number. We cannot let them raid our supply lines, and so must draw some of our own troops off to protect them and eliminate the threat. The best choice would of course be the Pecheneg mercenaries. But then we do not have the ability to make cuts at the Persian thrusts over the shoulders of the hills. So heavier troops will flank us, and while the heavy infantry batter at each other in the pass our flanks roll up. It is masterful from Sharbaraz. He knows his craft.” 
“What then?” Heraclius grimaced. “If we abandon here it will be like the stopper in a barrel being pulled out. Cilicia and Syria will fall, and more. The empire will be split in two, and the pagans will feast on its bones. We have to hold” he said , almost pleadingly
“With respect Basileus, we can hold for a day or two but….this positon is lost. A rearguard, to hold for as long as they can and then break and flee, while the rest of the troops withdraw in good order, and most of all your person is preserved” Callinicus did not look happy or unhappy sayign this, Donn noted. He was a craftsman, explaining to a client why a particular wish was not possible. 
Heraclius sighed deeply, looked up at the sky then half turned , facing the pass. Faintly he heard thuds and clangs, as a stade or more away the heavies of both armies battered each other across the narrow pass. “I do not know how it has come to this” he said, striking his thigh with his gauntleted fist. “Why has this happened” 
Nones stepped forward “Basileus, you know why this has happened. It is the Zoroastrian priests meddling in the population. They send acolytes and supporters to the markets and taverns, prying apart the people on religious lines. To the faithful they complain of the taxes and tithes draining the church. To our dissidents, those deluded fools , they talk of the monophysite view being similar to their devilish pantheon, saying that Ahura Mazda was never sullied with human problems. These peasants and merchant militiamen are almost all monophysite, lost to reason and god.” Nones stopped, noting Donn. “Celtoi, you have been roaming around, like a lost hound. Have you not heard of this division? Are you not supposed to be part of our Lord Basileus’s household? Are you not his confidant” the bishop all but spat the last word. Nones moved forward, his corpulent body but a handspan away from Donn. In the corner of his eye Donn noted Kava tense a little, his spear swinging down from where it had been resting on his shoulder to be held lightly in his hand not quite pointing at the enraged churchman. Donn himself stepped back a step, one step, and rested his hand on the haft of his mace. “It is bad enough that we are shorn like sheep for gold” Heraclius stiffened at this but the prelate ground on, all sense of place now lost “but to suffer a barbarian at the heart of the familia , one of incompetence in not informing his Lord Basilius of what he has been tasked to find, asked only to swim amongst the lowest orders and take their mood and report to his betters, to find that he has failed in this and let my flock be suborned by the demon worshippers….it is intolerable and I cannot suffer it anymore Heraclius of Carthage”. Nones had stepped closer and closer to the Basileus as he ranted on. Heraclius, Donn noted, had a mildly amused look fading from his face. As Nones reached out both hands, perhaps to shake Heraclius he stopped, dead in his tracks. A spearpoint hovered a hairsbreadth from his eye. “back, my lord Bishop” Kava growled. Nones blinked, drew in a breath, went pale and stepped back, colliding with Donn who now stood behind him, mace held loose . Behind and around them armed men from various units began to stream past. 
“Nones. You will suffer what I deem fit, as counselor and bishop. For what it is worth Father Donn has informed me of the …discontent…amongst the people. There is little I can do at present. I cannot stamp out religious dissent when I am fighting for the very life of the empire. I need, as much as I can, these men to fight for Christendom, regardless if they err in doctrine. When the time is right, we will deal with them. For now, we fall back. The gates are lost, and with them I fear we will lose much much more. Father Donn, please go and find the Pecheneg Kangirmak. Tell him, no ASK him, for four warriors to escort Nones to the Gates, then make your way to me as fast as may. My lord bishop, we will be leaving a rearguard here to stopper the gates while I go about extracting the troops. I am sure that monophysite or not they will appreciate a spirutal commander.” He held up his hand as he saw Nones open his mouth “fear not. The pechenegs will be tasked with getting you out. You can ride, I presume” he eyed the grossly obese man sweating in front of him. “And if you fall, why then, you fall a martyr” he concluded coldly. 
Heraclius stalked off, trailed by Kava. Donn smiled “My lord bishop, please come with me, at haste” and he strode off through the rapidly disintegrating positions. 
❖
614 Jerusalem

The horses hooves slipped a little as the grade increased. Sharbaraz sighed. “Time to dismount?” he posed to the leader of his bodyguard “in any case the blood is getting rather sparse”
“escort, dismount, guard positions” Nabex shouted, the 15 remaining guards dropping into a protective box around the giant general and his entourage. 
“My lord Sharbaraz” Benjamin bowed slightly “This way. It is not far” he pointed up the slope down which indeed flowed a slight sluggish stream of blood. “I would wish Nathan was present to see this retribution…but of course if he was then there would be no need for retribution would there” he continued. Sharbaraz snorted. “ever with the cryptic remarks my friend…Ho, you there” he broke off and shouted at a trio of Sogdians with torches lit, who were seemingly preparing to burn down a house. Outside the lintel a small crowd kicked and hacked at a lifeless body. “What in the name of the lie are you doing” he strode over, his guards scrambling to keep up as he ploughed his way through the crowd “no arson. There’s enough to deal with from accidental fires not to start some. What’s the meaning here” 
“Sire” the oldest of the trio bowed “these people were taking their revenge on the Christian dogs and we thought…” he stopped dead as he noticed Sharbaraz drawing his sword, then swallowed hard as it was pointed at him “The Jewish population and the Christians are ever at each other’s throat, soldier. Thus it is with unbelievers. At the start of the year the Christians were in control. Today the Jews are on top. Let them both fight it out. What we, as followers of the light will NOT do” his voice rose “we will not take sides. I don’t think an occupying army will be above a little rapine but wanton destruction of what is now a city under the rule of His Magnificence Chosroes, that we will not engage in. Are we clear?” The Sogdian’s nodded, punched their chests with their left hand , picked up some sacks and wlaked off. 
“Waste” muttered Sharbaraz. 
“My lord, when the Christians of Tyre massacred thousands of my people, and when my fellow Jews slaughtered thousands of them in Caeserea Maritima, when your armies ran riot in Damascus and laid it to waste, was that not also waste?” Benjamin asked. Sharbaraz nodded. “yes, my friend. But there at least there was some military excuse. Tyre and Caeserea were ports, which both sides wanted and Damascus had not yielded even when it was clear it was lost”. They strode on, the hill flattening now. “we had been lucky, the population here had been lucky. You and Nathan were able to exploit the stripping bare of the garrisons by Heraclius, and take governance. And you did it well, I know. But this is a city of merchants and tradesmen, so when you sent the flower of your men to aid me in Gaza, your militia was weak. And so the wheel turned, and the Christians began to massacre your men and followers in return. And here we are.” He said the last as the procession stopped, now augmented by several dozen of Benjamin’s own guard, tough looking bearded men armed with axes and spear, augmenting still more of their fellows who guarded the gates of a blank wall. With his great height Sharbaraz was able to see the full extent of the dome, the Anastasis, which covered the site wherein lay, so the Christians believed, the tomb of Jesus. He strode forward to the gate, a massive structure. “is it open” he asked one of the guards. Another stepped forward “no, Lord. We were asked by Benjamin to secure the site but not enter beyond that. We know there are services ongoing - we can hear them. We asked those inside- and Lord, they are temple guards, used for ensuring basic order , hardly even militia – to open but they refused. I sent a few men to guard the building sticking out there ” he gestured to the Baptristry, on his left 
Sharbaraz nodded “Do it” he said, almost mildly, and six strong Babylonian spearmen who had joined them picked up a ram and began pounding on the doors. Within minutes it was clear the ornamental, if heavy, timbers were failing, and shortly after the doors hung askew. “Bostrotes, take a squad, nobody in or out” he said. “Nabex, bring the guard, send someone to clear the place…. If they find anyone, wipe them out, all of them” Sharbaraz walked into the colonnaded atrium, trailing his hand along the walls “really quite good work here” he mentioned to Benjamin “the frescos are vivid and the mosaics exquisite” he broke left, out of the shade and moved forward, across a small courtyard into a basilica. At the top left, beside a backwards curving forest of pillars he saw a pile of bodies, with his guardsmen cleaning their swords. He moved forward, and examined the pile. They were priests and monks, guardsmen and novices, all horribly slashed about. They lay around a rather plain looking boulder, which was topped by a gold and jewelled cross half again as high as Sharbaraz. “This, lord, is where the Christians believe Jesus of Nazareth was crucified” Benjamin offered. Sharbaraz nodded, and walked round the pillars, out into a small courtyard which led to the Anastasis, its golden dome towering up. He walked in, and stopped dead. Even for a general in the empire, used to seeing the Sassanid court in its full pomp, the sheer amount of gold and gilt and silver and jewels stunned him. High above the vault of the dome was covered in murals, the walls of the dome in mosaics, the walls of the building covered in porphyry and polished stone. The floor was an intricate web of black and white stone fanning into a central point under the center of the dome, where a silver lantern as large as a bull was suspended from a gilt baldacchino. An ivory tent like structure covered, on inspection, a carving into the rock. Sharbaraz walked round the structures, nodding and occasionally touching a carving, or a jewel. Finally he straightened up. “Nabex. Get a work party in here, a large one. Every jewel, every bit of gold, strip it out. If you can, take the marbel and porphyry slabs but the jewels, ivory, silk, all that, a must. You have 5 days then we demolish it. All of it.” 
❖
614 Byzantium
The city was in flames. The angry mob had set fire to the houses and shops of the nobles and merchants, who had fled, some to the safety of the palace, others taken to the water to the Asiatic side. The mob was made up of the lower and middle orders, a roaring roiling stew of peasants, workers, and craftsmen whipped into a religious frenzy which acted as a convenient pretext to strike back at their betters, to settle scores and generally act out their basest desires. Few if any could explain the theological niceties of why exactly the Patriarch had decided to investigate the well settled (and fruitful) marriage of the Basileus. Fewer still cared. The clerics preaching incendiary tales of the dangers of the entire empire being cast into hell were motivated in the main by the loss of income. They were the spark into the perpetual chaff of poverty. And now it had exploded the mob was armed with whatever weapons they could find: pitchforks, axes, knives, clubs, stones. They faced off in running battles against the city guards, who were well-trained and well-equipped with swords, spears, shields, and armour. Well trained and equipped they may be but here were only so many vigils, and they themselves were drawn from the city. More than one had found themselves facing off against their neighbours’ relatives. The guards tried to hold back the mob, but they were outnumbered and overwhelmed. The mob fought with fury and desperation, not caring about their own lives. They killed some of the guards, wounded others, and pushed them back. The guards set a barricade, the mob broke on it and then lapped around by side streets, forcing the guards back. They advanced slowly towards the palace gates, shouting slogans and curses. Inside the palace there was an increasing fear. Donn noted the courtiers, eunuchs and myriad hangers on stopping in their duties occasionally to listen to the swelling roar. More than once he spotted discarded equipment, garments or other accoutrements. Clearly some of the palace staff had decided to abandon ship. He walked through the colonnaded garden, upwards towards the private quarters of the Basileus. Taking a shortcut through the innermost of the barracks he noted with disquiet that the several hundred Pecheneg of the imperial bodyguard appeared to be preparing to ride out. Saddles were being hitched, armour being donned, men stretched.  He reached the entrance, nodded to the two guardsmen, who nodded back “Father, he is with the Patriarch. Perhaps you might wait?” “If he is with the instigator of this riot, I think the good Heraclius could do with a friendly face” he responded. “aye, perhaps. But Father…. tread carefully” Protasis, the senior guard on duty said. He knocked on the door, three times, then twice, then three times again. A grillwork was slid back and Gese’s bearded face appeared. Peered out, then a set of clunks and clanks suggested heavy locks and at least one chain. Despite having been in and out of the innermost quarters time innumerable, Donn had never managed to work out where or what was the security. That it was built into the doors was clear but how? He reflected that in that instance at least things were as they should, the mechanism being hidden from idle curiosity. 

Donn entered, nodding to Gese. “How are things going” he asked . Gese shook his head. “I think I might have to go over there and look menacing “ he nodded towards the bay window. The Patriarch Sergius and Basileus stood, quite close, a small table between them. Heraclius face was flushed. Donn moved closer and the voices, low but heated, became more distinct. 
“These preachers and agitators of yours have given us this” Heraclius hissed, waving his hand towards the window, through which could be seen drifts of smoke. “Not mine my Lord Basileus” Sergius declared. “The people are…concerned…at your marriage, your, may I say, impious marriage and so “ HE was overruled by a shout from Heraclius “IMPIOUS? You yourself celebrated the marriage ceremony! IMPIOUS?” he drew a shuddering breath and continued “I know you conducted the ceremony, aye, and he was there also assisting” he pointed at Donn. “Basileus, lord Heraclius, she is your niece. As such she is within the prohibited degrees of marriage. I erred in performing the the ceremony, I admit. I was pressed by time, as were we all, and should have spoken. As should others” Sergius looked pointedly at Donn 
“Do not ask a priest, aye and a foreigner, to intervene in theology where a bishop and patriarch errs” Donn stated flatly. “It is and was not my place”
Sergius sneered “I imagine in your island you marry whom you wish, sister, mother, niece…” Donn tensed. “Why, you know nothing of marriage bar what people tell you, and if paid enough will perform any ceremony, am I right?” Sergius continued. Donn gritted his teeth and looked at Heraclius, who was now under control. Sergius continued on “My lord, the people grieve for your sin, and they have been perhaps over zealous in demonstrating their grief. They blame the loss of the holy city on it. Perhaps if you were to consider showing your humility before God… a donative to the church, an endowment, perhaps a lifting of the tithe…?” Sergius paused. 
Heraclius smiled. “And so we come to it. Your creatures” “not mine, the Lord’s” Sergius interrupted, only to be overridden “YOUR CREATURES are whipping up the mob for gold. Not god. I tell you now, this ends today” He turned to Gese, and nodded. Gese opened the grille, speaking in low words to the guards outside. Heraclius held his hand up as he saw Sergius begin to talk “Fabia is my brothers wife's daughter, by her previous marriage. She is no blood to me. What she IS is my wife, the mother of my child, your Empress” he pointed at Sergius “She will not be foresworn, through a technicality you find useful now” he paused. “You say the agitators and preachers are not yours? Then you wont miss them” . The door was opened with its accompanying clanks and grinds, and two men entered. One was known to Donn, Boris, the bodyguard. The other was shorter, darker, long coarse black hair drawn into a tail secured with silver ties, a long (empty) cavalry sabre scabbard banging on his hip. A flat mustachiod face smiled as he bowed deeply “Great King, greetings. I come to seek your will” he declared in a strong accent. 
“Greetings Mehama, lord of the Basileus’s Pechenegs, may prosperity and health follow you” Heraclius declared formally. “Drink with me” he said, as he poured some wine from a jug, into two cups, taking one himself and handing the other to the Pecheneg, who bowed again. “Mehama. There is riot and rapine in the city. The guards have proven unable to stem it. Go with Boris, to my chamberlain. There you will be given a list of those driving this disturbance. Find them, stop them by every means nescessary. Take your men, take them into the streets, and disperse the mob. Again, do what is needed. Boris, you I charge with overseeing this. Try keep Mahama’s men in some degree of control”
Sergius had gone pale “Basileus, you cannot loose these…these pagans on my flock and arrest my monks and priests. They will.” He stopped, as Heraclius had grabbed his tunic “A moment ago they were not yours but the Lords. In that case he will welcome them into his kingdom. Are they now yours? IF they are then I hold you and the rest of the hierarchy to account. “ He glared at the older man, who began to shake his head “no no, they are .. That is , they , these are but misled men, they are excessivly holy perhaps, if I might be allowed to speak to the crowd, I could” Heraclius thrust him away, wiping his hands on his legs “Boris, Mahama, restore order. Donn, please escort this wretched creature to a chapel where he can can pray for the dead and soon to be dead”

Chapter Eleven
30 614: DONN arrives as the christians revolt, kill the persian  garrison and forcing the main persina army to return to lay siege.  The war assumes a religious character. 

Chapter Twelve
31 DONN makes contact with Patriarch Zacharias who is despised  by all sides as a moderate. Zacharias allows him to examine the cross  in constantines magnigficent church

Chapter Thirteen
32 the siege continues. Some of the persian arab troops are  sent to pillage the routes towards arabia. They make contact with  other arabs who tell them of the rise of muhammed

Chapter Fourteen
33 the siege finally breaks the walls and a terrible slaugtter  ensues. DONN goes to the the reliquary, but it is gone. He flees to  the tunnels avoiding the rampant jews and persians who are sackig  the city. SHARBARAZ triues with great diffifulty to keep his troops  under control.

Chapter Fifteen
34 SHARBARAZ meets with the tortured Zacharias who is despondent.  He shows him the reliquary, promising that he will not allow the TC  to be despoiled. He himself reveales that he is totally a-religious.  He frees Sergius, but orders the other priests crucified, for his  troops.

Chapter Sixteen
25 CHOSROES is delighed when a courier comes to him telling  him of the fall and capture of the city and the cross. However, his  wife and other senior courtiers who were christian are horrified.  To no avail they suggest that a religious disputte will make it harder  to control the region Chapter 8

Chapter Seventeen
36 617: DONN, having escaped from Jerusalem throug sewers and  having gone to Alexandria returns to contantinople in the same fleet  as NICETAS and some others. Alexandria has fallen as has the remainder  of egypt.

Chapter Eighteen
37 HERACLIUS decides to abandon the capital ; a Persian column is in Chalcedon and SAHIN asks that he surrender honourably.  prepares his  personal treasury to be sent to Carthage. He will use there as a base  to go west, ceding ht eeast to CHOSROES. He releases DONN from his  service. However, a few days later, news comes that his treasure ship  has foundered. He is plunged into despair.

Chapter Nineteen
38 619: DONN has grown close to RITA who was also trapped in Alexandria.  They have become lovers. Despite his opposition to the marriage Patriarch  SERGIUS personally likes and respects MARTINA. They take the drunken HERACLIUS  to Haiga Sophia, where when he sobers up they make him swear never  to abandon the city. The following sunday he reswears the oath, in  public and Sergius offers half the patriarchial wealth to the cause.  The clergy will be taxed

Chapter Twenty
620: we see DONN on an embassy to the Khazars, north of the  pechenegs and the caucuses. They are the enemies of the avars ; he  is empowerd to offer an alliance between the empire and the kazahars  with a cousin of HERACLIUS and military advisors thrown into the mix. HORSA, a jewish trader, accompanies him and goes hunting with the Kazhar Khan

Chapter Twenty-One
40 621: we see Heraclius training the troops, training them  primarily as light and rapidly moving troops to counter the cataphracts  of the persians. The central army is composed of avars, huns and anatolian  knghtts with the thematic infantry and cavalry as light troops. There  is also the emperors personal guard of gepids Chapter 9

Chapter Twenty-Two
41 CHOSROES sends SHARBARAZ to conquer taron, north east anatolia  west of lake van

Chapter Twenty-Three
42 The turkish tribes move over the caucuses but are defeated  by SHIHAN near TUS.

Chapter Twenty-Four
43 622: Easter day and Heraclius takes the cross

Chapter Twenty-Five
44 Battle of the eclipse. We see the same religious appeals  from both sides. Present in the Byzantime army are Lakhamid arabs  who listen intently, and in the Persian army Ghassanid arabs
https://byzantium.gr/battle.php?byzbat=b7_05

Chapter Twenty-Six
44.1 Battle of issus : donn finds the hidden persians
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Heraclius%27_campaign_of_622

Chapter Twenty-Seven
45 623: having been recalled due to the renewed Avar threat,  HERACLIUS is nearly captured in negotiations. He vows never to trust  he AVARS again. 

Chapter Twenty-Eight
625: HERACLIUS drives his army through persian occupied  anatolia, driving north. DONN is sent back to the Khazars with more  treasure, and while he fails with these the princes of Georgia send  some reinforcements to join Heraclius as he swings south to Zhiz    CHOSROWS has massed his army to defend Shiz. His nerves fail  and he deserts the army. SHAHIN is furious but cannot stop the army  disintigrating

Chapter Twenty-Nine
49 625: its late autumn. HERACLIUS has defeated two of the three  main persian armies and now turns on SHARBARAZ whom he nearly captures  due to his having had to disperse the troops under his command for  lack of payment from CHOSROES.

Chapter Thirty
50 SHARBARAZ rallies his troops and the Battle of the Bridge  takes place in which DONN takes place, reluctantly. Meanwhile, SHAHIN  has fallen foul of CHOSROES , and is sent to the AVARS. Chapter 11

Chapter Thirty-One
 HERACLIUS takes Shiz (Takht-i Suleiman) , and despoils the  holy city of zoroastrianisim. CHOSROES however regains his nerve and  moves to box in HERACLIUS between SHAHIN and SHARBARAZ

Chapter Thirty-Two
51 626: SHARBARAZ has continued his advance towards the capital.  In Sebastea DONN leaaves with 7000 cavalry to the capital. He has  approval from HERACLIUS to take some other relics . But he also wants  to see RITA.

Chapter Thirty-Three
52 SHAHIN has died in the fightine. His body is returned to  CHOSROES who has it skinned, stuffed and prostrated. Members of the  court being to realise that CHOSROES is losing it\dots .

Chapter Thirty-Four
53 SHARBARAZ is again at Chalcedon, and the AVARS siege is two  weeks old. After a general assault it has resolved into attrittional  warfare. DONN is part of a delegation sent to the Avar kahn , where  they also see persian emissaries. There is a very tense meeting, and  the kahn is the winner. That evening the persians are captured as  they try to go back across the bospherous.

Chapter Thirty-Five
54 the death of the ambassadors and the battle of blachernae.  SHARBARAZ gets news that the Kazhars have invaded and he ups from  Chalcedon. /Withdrawal of the avars

Chapter Thirty-Six
54.1 Khazar and turkic invasion of transcaucasia

Chapter Thirty-Seven
55 627: CHOSROES talks to RHAZAD, commander of the main other  army of the persians. He instructs him to defend Ninevh at all costs.  At the battle of Ninevh he is defeated. SHARBARAZ delays in returning  to Ctestiphon. Chapter 12

Chapter Thirty-Eight
56 MERDANSHAH and KHAVAD, the crown princes meet with SHARBARAZ  (and the stuffed skin of SHAHIN). They agree that unless things turn  around quickly a peace must be made

Chapter Thirty-Nine
57 HERACLIUS presses onto Ctestiphon, but cannot take it. He  takes the outskirts and the west bank but doesn't cross the east,  imposing a loose seige with the turks. A small party is sent to pursue  CHOSROES whom we see in a peasants hut. DONN is sent with these as  a checker.

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One
627 Battle of Nineveh 
Donn, by now a  veteran of countless skirmishes, stood towards the middle of the Byzantine palace guard ranks, his eyes trained on the sprawling mass of Sassanian soldiers that lay before him. As ever he carried a mace, knowing that though he said to others that he would advance with the men to give some spirutal comfort, if he could in reality he knew that his need for revenge was paramount. As the dawn broke over the plains of Nineveh, he felt a mixture of anticipation and trepidation coursing through his veins. The air was thick with tension as both armies stood poised on the brink of a cataclysmic clash that would determine the fate of empires.
Heraclius, a resplendent  target in his battle armour, rode down the line, his wandering gaze flicking out and back ,meeting the eyes of each of his soldiers. Donn felt a surge of pride and determination he nodded and raised his hand passed him, a moment of connection that stirred within him a fierce loyalty and an unwavering resolve to fight to the bitter end.
As the horns sounded, the Byzantine forces advanced, their tightly formed ranks moving  like a well-oiled machine. The ground shook beneath their feet, the rhythmic cadence of march filling the air with an ominous rumble. Donn gripped his mace tightly, the weight of the weapon reassuring in his calloused hands, thinking that the legions of old Rome would not have done this better. He glanced at the soldiers beside him, young me men he had confessed, old men he had known for years, and found comfort in their steely resolve.
Against them the larger, but less cohesive Sassanid ranks ebbed and flowed. The flags rose, and the Byzantines halted, dressing their lines. Dipped, and at a quick march they advanced, a rain of spears, bolts, arrows and slingshots scything into their ranks, clattering off the raised shield, grunts and cries where they penetrated mail or plate. The battle lines collided with a deafening cacophony of clashing steel and the screams of dying men. Donn and his comrades met the Sassanian charge with unyielding ferocity, their weapons thrusting into the oncoming wave of enemies like a row of deadly teeth. Blood and sweat mixed with the dust of the battlefield, creating a miasma of chaos and destruction that seemed to engulf the very earth itself.
In the thick of the melee, Donn's instincts took over, his years of experience guiding his every move. He danced a deadly ballet of thrusts and parries, bashing and pushing at  foes left and right, but never allowing himself to become consumed by the carnage. Each life he took weighed heavily on his soul, but as much as he knew that this was the price of war, the burden that he and his brothers-in-arms must bear for the sake of their empire, he revelled in it.
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All through the day the lines clashed and retreated. Sometimes the gaps between clashes were scarce enough for men to catch their breath, others long enough for heralds and officers to meet in the blood soaked ground and parlay. At night the two sides retreated, word going round both sides had agreed to a truce for the hours of darkness. On the second day it began again. Donn had celebrated a hurried mass, grabbed and bolted down down a block of hard biscuit and taken his place in the lines. The second day the Byzantines pushed the Sassanids back, the Scholae cavalry caving in their left flank and the battle wheeling away into the ornamental wood, small palaces and  gardens that formed the outskirts of the city. 
As the hours stretched on, the battle ebbed and flowed like the tides of a stormy sea. At times, the Byzantines seemed on the verge of victory, only to be pushed back by the indomitable spirit of the Sassanid warriors. Donn fought on, his body aching and his limbs trembling with exhaustion, but his spirit remained unbroken.
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It was on the third day of the battle that the tide finally turned. As the sun rose once more over the blood-soaked plains, Heraclius led a daring cavalry charge of heavy horse against the now crumbling Sassanid center, his eyes fixed upon the figure of General Rhahzadh. Donn watched. The charge was like a thunderbolt, a devastating blow that shattered the already faltering Sassanid lines and plunged their ranks into chaos. The byzantines, seizing the moment, rallied and pushed forward with renewed vigor, the scent of victory spurring them on. 
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In the midst of the chaos, Donn found himself face-to-face with a Sassanid warrior, a man much younger than himself. Their eyes met, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. Then, with a silent nod, they clashed, their weapons singing the song of death. Donn knew that his opponent was faster and more agile than him, but he was confident in his strength and his weapon. He had fought with his mace for years, and he knew every inch of it. The heavy iron head was ridged, spiked and serrated, capable of crushing armour and bones alike. They pushed at each other with their shields, gauging strength. The Sassanid knew that the mace was a formidable weapon, but it was slow and cumbersome. He was counting on his speed and agility to avoid its deadly swings. The first real attack came from Donn. He lunged forward, swinging his mace with all his might in a short arc. The Sassanid sidestepped the blow and countered with a swift cut of his sword. Donn countered with his shield, but he could feel the impact reverberating through his arm. His opponent pressed the attack, striking with lightning speed and forcing Donn to back away. For a dozen stroked he reeled back, saving himself mainly by luck he felt, the Sassanid like a snake.  Donn was starting to feel the heat and the weight of his armour. His breathing was laboured, his movements slowed, his responses becoming sluggish. He knew that he had to end the fight quickly before he ran out of stamina. He gambled. As the Sassanid stepped back from his latest attack with a loud roar, he charged, bashing forward with his shield to and swinging his mace with all his strength. The Sassanid raised his shield to block the blow, but the force of the impact sent him stumbling backward. Donn followed up with a quick thrust of his mace, hoping its point would connect, but the Sassanid managed to deflect it with his own sword. Donn could feel the sweat pouring down his face, stinging his eyes. He knew that he had to finish the fight now or risk losing to exhaustion. With a burst of energy, he pushed hard again, swinging his mace in a wide arc low to the ground. His opponent tried to dodge, but he wasn't fast enough. The ridged head of the mace caught him on the knee, wrecking the joint and sending him sprawling to the ground. Donn smashed his face with three quick blows, and fell to his knees. He was spent. Around him, mostly in front, the battle lines moved forward , momentum with the Byzantines.
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With General Rhahzadh's death, the oriental army began to crumble, their once-proud warriors now gripped by fear and confusion. The Byzantine forces, sensing their impending victory, pressed on, cutting down the remnants of the enemy as they attempted to flee. The battlefield became a cacophony of screams and cries for mercy, the air thick with the coppery scent of blood. 
As the sun began to set the last of the Sassanid forces were routed, and the victorious Byzantines stood triumphant. Donn surveyed the carnage around him, his heart heavy with the weight of the lives lost on both sides. This was the cost of victory, the price paid in blood and tears for the preservation of their empire. Donn trudged to the center of the camp, making for the royal tent. He needed to congratulate the Basileus on his victory, thank him for allowing him to fight, clean himself up, pray, and then seek release in wine, in that order 

627 Dastargid
Donn contemplated on mud. He believed he was becoming  truly knowledgeable on mud. The mud of his homeland, the mud of francia, italian mud, anatolian mud….now the sticky glue like mud of the irrigation and canal works of the middle courses of the Diyala. He crouched. Nearby, Heraclius waded through the marshy ground, his royal legs slathered in muck. The ground was getting distinctly former he thought. Dawn was beginning to filter into the sky, and the marsh was alive with birdcalls, the sounds of nocturnal animals heading to their dens, the plashing of small animals and the flow of water.  Heraclius smiled. Since smashing the Persians at Nineveh they had plunged south but not along the river. The Persians had expected them to take to the rivers and head for Ctestiphon, as had Hadrian, Severeus, Carus and others. He motioned, and called forward Gallenius, the commander of the ground component. 
“Lord, the cavalry have continued to sweep randomly through the countryside. Few now dare venture outside their villages or towns save in large groups, well guarded. The Persians know that the Scholae and the Khazars cannot take fortifications. So they man their walls but not in strength, and keep the gates open but guarded” Gallenius gestured toward the city. “It is a little under three stadia. We should go when the early carters are entering. See, they are gathering. We send the Khazar troop here to sow panic, at some of the gates. They will not be able to close them swiftly. At the same time the other troops must run as fast as possible. We do not have a large force Lord, and I am troubled that you have put yourself in such danger” 
Heraclius looked round. The high reeds of the marshy ground and the embankments of the canal works concealed his force, imperfectly but enough he hoped. “A few thousand men and a few hundred horse to take the royal seat” he mused aloud. “Father Donn” he called. “A quick blessing on the troops and we will be on our way” 
Donn slogged forward, his mace awkward, and sketched out a blessing. Taking advantage of his proximity to the leader he sidled close. Kava nodded to him, his teeth brilliant in his dark face. In front of him the dawn was crowding in. “Lord. I beg leave to accompany you if I may. There may be some functionaries or Zoroastrian wizards in the palace with whom I have met. This force is….low.. On diplomacy”
“Oh indeed it is Donn” Heraclius laughed. “Indeed it is. This my friend is the tip of the spear, the point of the arrow.  The Persian main force is busy shadowing me, so they think, advancing to their capital. But that is not where their heart is. Here is where we will tear out Chosroes heart. This is his home. This is his retreat. This contains his paradise, his personal treasury, his family, who will be untouched of course, this is where he feels safe. No more. After today it will be a smoking pile of defeated hopes and he will negotiate a broken man. But I would kill as few, even of pagans, as I must. So yes, come with me. It is for this that I asked you to accompany me. Now. Time flees. Gallenius. Release the horse, and prepare the trumpeters to order our men forward”
Gallenius withdrew. Donn heard the snickering and snorting of horses, knowing that the sound was the Khazar mercenaries urging their animals to a stand and mounting. This was the dangerous time - even on their ponies a mounted man rose into view, were anyone truly looking. He heard a low hoot, and a splashing , and looking left and right saw some hundred riders on each wing racing hard. As they drove into the scarce knee deep water and began to mount the bank a trumpet blared, and he, along with the rest of the byzantine infantry began to quick march forward, a dozen or more steps to the bank of the canal, a slipping sliding down and a muddy trudge across, , a scramble up the opposite bank, and the scene came into view. Gallenius’s staff moved back and forth, urging men to keep pressing forward, so that the rear ranks could emerge.  Donn was on the edge of the royal group. Heraclius was surrounded by several dozen tall, grim looking, heavily armoured moustachioed men, his personal gothic bodyguard, accompanied by Kava, Boris and Florus as close guard. He glanced forward, hearing screams and shouts. His heart leaped - the trap was seemingly sprung. The Khazars wheeled about, javelins and arrows emerging from their groups, sweeping the walls of defenders whenever they showed their face. Tall though these walls were, three or four times a man’s height, they were as children's toys to those of Byzantium. Ahead the gate was half open, the guards attempting to close it on the shattered remains of a cart of vegetables. Whenever a defender tried to hook a line to the cart to pull it into the city, or bravely shouldered it forward they were skewered. At the edges of the gate some of the tribesmen had flattened themselves against the wall, and now and again darted spears and long swords into the gap between the gate and the wall, making a misery of the lives of those trying to crush the cart by main force. There was a way in. Gallienus also saw that, glanced at a group who ran forward then ran as fast as they could to the gate, braving the arrows of the defenders still remaining. Some fell, most remained to make a wall and roof of shields off which arrows and stones banged. A second group ran forward to defend and strengthen them while a few Cretan slingers began to augment the still undiminished arrow-storm of the Khazars. The infantry marched forward, quick and fast. Donn marvelled again at the discipline. As they neared the extreme edge of the arrow range of the remaining defenders he saw a handful of the gothic guard sprint forward, yelling. They could not keep the pace up for long in their armour but it was enough. They threw themselves and rolled into the tunnel of shields, one two three, and leaped up onto the remains of the cart, the gates now scarce an arms-breath open. Donn saw the first man flailing at something, a flash of red , he fell, to be replaced by another. Some of the shield-men were now climbing on the cart, throwing themselves over it. They had breached the walls. Heraclius roared “For God, for GOD” and charged forward, trailing yellow haired goths like a deranged comet, clumps of mud falling from his cloak. Boris and Florus ran beside him, and as he reached the now slowly opening gate displayed no care for his royal dignity in checking his progress, letting his bodguard form back around him while the rest of the army charged through the now open gates. Dastagird was taken.
❖
627 Dastargid 
Heraclius strode forward, his boot-heels ringing on the tessellated marble floor of the atrium. All round him soldiers were rounding up and slaughtering the tamer and slower exotic animals, the contents of Chosroes paradise. Donn watched as two spearmen skewered a large orange ape which beat the ground with its amazingly long arms and cried out in a distressingly human way, as a ostrich was thrown on a cart containing two other large birds, as the painstaking years of collection were turned into rations. The paradise grounds were filled with rose hedges, separating animals each from the other, the flower filled bowers now a slaughterhouse. Studded throughout were large airy cages which contained more cunning or dangerous beasts, most now untouched. 
Ahead, in the soaring archway, a gaggle of Persians stood. In the centre three Mobadin, senior priests, anchored the door. Clad in gleaming white their baggy trousers were inlaid with silver as were the coats and tunics of two, the center most and oldest being inlaid with gold thread. All three wore tall cylindrical caps, of white, with coloured tassels. Behind them were various court officials, gorgeous as the peacocks screeching about the atrium. Two golden winged lions guarded the giant archway which led into the massive vaulted room beyond. The colonnaded atrium was filling up Donn noted. 
“Atrius, is the city secure?” Heraclius turned to a short, stout dark complexioned man. “It’s large. We have the men in hand, there is not much in the way of looting or rapine. But we don't have enough to garrison it. We have parties rounding up the pagan soldiery, they are all going to be confined in a square. We await your orders. As for the common folk, they mostly have shut themselves in, quite sensible. The situation is tense but manageable” 
“And the pagan priests?” 
“Being dealt with as your command. None, I would say, bar those here, now live”
Donn felt cold. He had seen the increasingly harsh way in which the Zoroastrian priests were treated, scorned and abused, ever more often their possessions looted and they dehomed. But this was new. 
“Come. Let us see what awaits in the lair of the beast” Heraclius shouted, striding forward. As he did so the priests and functionaries dropped to the ground, performing the proskynesis, fully flat with arms outstretched. Heraclius stepped forward, hesitated, stepped back. He glanced down, and around, then deliberately and slowly ground his boot on the hand of one of the Mobadin. The priest groaned, but did not otherwise move. Heraclius pressed harder. The priest, pained and humiliated, made a grab at the boot with his free hand. The hand never made it, Florus’s ax separating it from the arm, gouging the marble and mosaic. Blood jetted forward, spattering the back of the head of a yellow robed balding eunuch, who jumped up, to be met by the backswing of the same ax, dropping to the pavement with his chest caved in, bubbling out his life. 
“ON YOUR KNEES” Heraclius roared. The prisoners complied. “You, stand” he pointed at the oldest priest, who complied. 
“Who remains in the throne room?” he asked “in the palace, who is in charge. Where is the chamberlain? The butler ? 
“Lord Caesar, I greet you in the Light. May I speak only the truth, or perish” at this he glanced down at his two dead companions, his old, lined thin face otherwise impassive. “At the knowledge of your coming most fled in terror. These are the servants of the throne-room sacred fire, my servants. They serve the holy flame, as do I. I do not think here there are any others” The old man bowed, and stepped back, his hands clasped in front of his chest, eyes fixed on the Basileus. 
Rustam and a party of soldiers, some of them the gothic guard others regulars moved through the crowd, pushing past, knocking down some of the prisoners, and disappeared into the archway, through the beaded hangings. He heard indistinct shouts echoing from the vaulted room, then Rustam emerged “all clear Basileus, bar one Mobad at the fire. One of the goths is holding him. You can enter safely”
Heraclius pointed at a dozen officers and Donn “come with me” he commanded, and stepped forward “you also” as he propelled the old priest forward, his gothic guards pushing open a path. As he passed the end of the lines of functionaries he stopped, beckoned to Florus, and whispered something in his ear. Florus looked displeased, Donn thought, but then the big man composed his face into a mask of compliance and nodded. Donn followed the group, under the archway, pressing through the hanging strings. As he passed he noted the strings were of silk and gold, what he had taken as beads being in fact pearls, lapis lazuli, garnet and polished stones of all types. He glanced up as he entered the vaulted room taking in the frescos on the roof and walls, of hunting scenes lower down, of what he presumed to be various gods and heroes higher up. About a third of the way forward into the room, which stretched away, Heraclius had stopped. He beckoned forward Donn, who advanced. He heard a hissing, and stopped, horrified. The Basileus was pissing into a basin, set in the ground, surrounded by intricate braids of gold and silver, in the center of which was a small fire now guttering. A young mobad stood staring at the desecration his eyes wide, his jaw clenched with rage. 
“You disapprove, pagan?” Heraclius laughed. “Speak freely” he urged as the young man stood shaking with shock and anger. “SPEAK” Heraclius roared. 
“You profane the fire of Ahura Mazda! You are a servant of Arhiman, the dark one and of the Lie! You will go to everlasting torment for your impieties” the Mobad cried out. He drew breath, preparatory to resuming his denunciation, but never got to speak. Heraclius had whipped out his sword, and sliced the man’s throat. He laughed, and motioned to two of his goths. “Put his head into that, let his blood drown his false god’s fane” . 
Heraclius strode forward, towards the end wall. He stopped, in front of the throne. Unlike the one in Ctestiphon, which was all show, this was more of a large comfortable (if rather gold and gem encrusted) chair. Donn walked to its side. Behind it the wall was did not completely span from side to side, creating behind it a space which was half as high as the main hall, well lit from windows and chandeliers. It contained a bath, a privy and a massage table. He walked back out. The Basileus was staring at the throne, unmoving, scarce breathing. He walked towards him, pulling Florus’s eyes to him at the same time. “My lord? Are you well” he asked. In response Heraclius pointed to the wide comfortable seat, padded in faded purple leather. Donn looked, a pattern on the leather appearing. He inhaled sharply as the pattern became clearer. There on the seat of the shah was a human face, eyes sown shut, mouth agape, two ears, on either side two hands, unmistakable. He looked again, seeing what could only be a chest, genitals, and feet, all sown lovingly together. 
“Behold, the mortal remains of Publius Licinius Valerianus, sometime Emperor of the Romans, zealous persecutor of christians, patron of the arts, warrior and failure….” He trailed off, shook his head, and continued to the crowd now gathering “there is more…. Examine the wall…” he pointed. What many had taken at a casual glance as a line of candleholders at head height now revealed themselves as golden eagle figures, wings half raised, beaks open, head and wings alone depicted. “They lied, they that say they despise the lie. Look closer gentlemen, and see the numbers….these 9 are the standards lost by Marcus Crassus, fifty years and more before the birth of our saviour. For nearly seven hundred years they have stood here, impotent.. We will loot this palace, take everything of value and then deal with it as Aleksander did at Persepolis. I want the entire city burned in fact” 
“Basileus , what of the remains…? “ Donn asked. 
“He was a mighty persecutor of christians and is now no doubt burning in hell. Let his mortal remains go to the flames here tonight” 

Chapter Forty-Two
58 DONN is part of a group that meets with the persian priests  as they surrender Dastargerd , the summer palace of CHROROES. Donn  sails down the river with the governor into Ctestiphon and opens the  gates

Chapter Forty-Three
59    We see KHAVAD in the (bare) royal throneroom in Ctestiphon, talking  to SHARBARAZ who promises to take all best efforts for peace. Meanwhile,  HERACLIUS has gone back to Shiz which is the army headquarters. Agents  are dispatched with a letter of peace, DONN being one of the byzantine  go-alongers

Chapter Forty-Four
628: HERACLIUS arrives at chalcedon, there to his surprise  seein a large embassy/small army with SHARBARAZ in charge. They discuss  the situation. S wants to be Shah, and H the cross. A swap is agreed and the status quo ante bellum is restored

Chapter Forty-Five
61 14 September 628 Triumph of Heraclius

Chapter Forty-Six
62 DONN and RITA talk to HERACLIUS. DONN notices that HERACLIUS  even in his private moments has begun to act \textquotedbl{}god like\textquotedbl{}.  DONN is disgusted when HERACLIUS has some Pechneg prisoners executed.

Chapter Forty-Seven
63 DONN and RITA determine to leave, and live quietly. They  ask HERACLIUS but he is by now obsessively determined on reestablishing  the glory days of JUSTINIAN. DONN is to play a part here. But he wants  nothing more now than to leave and live with RITA. He sneaks into  Hagia Sophia, where the Cross is on display ad steals it, replacing  it with the fake. Off he goes to Menton.....

Chapter Forty-Eight
64 678 : Conclusion