The Mauricians: A Medieval Roman novel

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Sorry to keep you in suspense!


Anyhow, to all my cherished readers:

Although the next update is half complete, I am afraid that I will not be able to post it for a couple of weeks. More like 3 to be exact. I am finally taking a vacation from work after three long, tedious, and exhausting years. I'll be away for 2 weeks, after that I'll need another week to complete the next installment, to a degree that I'll be personally pleased with.

Thanks to all of you, and hope we meet again at the end of the month!

Pururauka

How dare you take a holiday! :p Seriously have a good break and looking forward to seeing how things develop when you get back.

Steve
 
have fun on your probably well deserved holdiday. where are you off to btw ?

Went to the Mayan Riviera; an absolutely stunning place. Highly recommended.

To everyone else, thank you for your patience and your kind wishes. Next update should be up between today-tomorrow.
 
Went to the Mayan Riviera; an absolutely stunning place. Highly recommended.

To everyone else, thank you for your patience and your kind wishes. Next update should be up between today-tomorrow.

Pururauka

Glad you enjoyed the holiday. Even gladder you're back and the story resumes.:D

Steve
 
Chapter 9 -II-
I love you son, and please be careful

The last words he had heard from her as he had boarded the ship, kept ringing about in his head incessantly. It made him curse the fact that he had been sent away, wish he had been there along with the others, and dead by now. When the timid soldier had informed him of the rumors that were circulating in Palestine, of the vile act committed by the usurper, it had taken all of his mental fortitude to avoid breaking down like a child in front of the whole assembly. For he had honored his siblings, and respected his father, but his mother…his mother he had loved.

…I love you son, and please be careful

Slowly, while still in the West, he had managed to muster his spirits from the shock of Maurice’s death, and that of his brothers’. The survival of Tiberius, Anastasia, and Irene had helped to mitigate the initial blow. But even more comforting had been the hope of reuniting with his mother Constantina, as well as his two youngest sisters Theoctista and Cleopatra, once he had been able to avenge his father. And now, she was dead. The centaur had killed her, like a lowly burglar, just as he had done with the rest of his kinfolk.

…I love you son, and please be careful.

In spite of the encouraging reports pouring in from all fronts, he had sunken into a deep depression. Tidings had reached him of the landing of enemy forces near Carthage, but he had had an unshakable faith in the abilities of the elder Heraclius to rally his Berber clients about him. In Italy, the treacherous Lombards were wasting their strength against the walls of Ravenna, as whatever troops could be spared from the southern garrisons of the peninsula, both Roman and Lombard loyalists, were gathering in Rome to prevent a further advance by Gisulf. Meanwhile, his lieutenants Nepotianus and the Goth Wamba, had seized Cyprus without opposition, completing the first step in their island-hopping track to Constantinople. And concurrently, he had advanced with the greater part of his forces into the Holy Land, in an attempt to secure an in-depth defense of Egypt, should the ongoing negotiations with the Persians break down. Even the weather in Gaza, where they were resting at the moment, was balmy and pleasant.

Still, he was spending the second day of his self-imposed reclusion in his chamber undisturbed, as he had ordered, alone with his memories; flashbacks of a time when his family had been together, perhaps even quite “happy,” but more importantly, his mother had been alive. Once, around the time he was ten years of age, he had broken one of Tiberius’ toys out of spite: a little wooden horse, left behind by their grandfather Tiberius Constantine. Instead of dismissing the issue lightly, Maurice whooped him severely, until Constantina stepped in and stopped him. There had been many more episodes such as that one, when she would fly to his rescue, sheltering him from “consequences.”

The deep knock on the door upset his recollections. Go away, he thought, answering the call with silence.

“Kyrie!” finally called out John, from the other side. The Comes Excubitorum, originally from Isauria, had become one of Maurice’s most trusted guards, and had been tasked many a time with Theodosius’ own personal protection while he still resided at the capital. As a result, he had come to consider him, for all practical purposes, as a member of his family. But now, he disregarded him as yet another pest.

“Kyrie…I know you left precise orders not to be bothered…but you must open the door. You have to read this!” the soldier exclaimed, louder.

Fuck you John.

When he was to select a bride, as a young teenager of seventeen, his mother had ruthlessly weeded out those “unfit” to marry the purple-born co-Emperor. Theodosius himself had seen some amazingly beautiful girls brought to his presence, who had left him dumbfounded. Had he been able to, he would have married all of them, and lain down with all of them. Forgive the thought, Christe. The remembrance brought a slight smile to his face, as the pounding on the entrance continued ever louder, for anyone that cared to hear it.

Once the choices had been narrowed to only about four aspirants, something had caught his eye about Irene. The future Augusta, then fifteen years old and blessed with a gorgeous face, could not have captivated him with overt female curves, as they were still lacking. Neither could she have satisfied him with sheepish behavior, as that was also wanting. Though her father had already made a strong case for her before the court, the personality she demonstrated during a conversation they held over dinner was what made him discard the other candidates, as nothing more than well-shaped, but empty headed lassies.

How do you like the palace then?” he had asked.

It is a very beautiful building Kyrie,” she had replied. “It is unfortunate I have not seen it earlier.”

That’s a shame that your father wouldn’t bring you around much more often. A pretty girl such as yourself is always a pleasant sight to behold” he had teased.

It would have been too expensive to have her in The City the entire time Kyrie” had joked Germanus, with a chuckle.

Should God deem it so, that won’t be your worry anymore Father. Caesar could afford me” she had answered, in a daring, but captivating tone with a straight face. A woman with that character surely reminded him, perhaps unconsciously, of Constantina. And his mother had not only approved of the marriage; but in fact had been the only one to ask him if he “loved” Irene before the wedding took place.

“You have to be certain that you will love this young lady Theodosie. I was blessed by my own Father’s wisdom in selecting your Father, who proved to be a wonderful husband, since I knew after a short time he truly did love me.”

The sudden sound of the door bursting open made him turn his head abruptly in the direction of the noise. “Damn it John!” Theodosius barked at the incoming men. “Did I not fucking say to stay out?”

The Comes, flanked by Agila, the other mustached leader of the Gothic auxiliaries, and a few additional men dropped to the floor the wooden beam they had used to break the gate open. “Kyrie, for a moment we feared the worst, as you were so upset and we got no answer…”

“Nonsense! Just get out!” the Emperor yelled, waving them off.

“Imperator! You must read this letter!” cut in Agila, reaching out a small leather case, as he approached the bed on which Theodosius was sitting.

The Goth’s insolence incensed him further. “Everyone in here! Get the fuck out now, or I will have your heads thrown to the sea! Out I said!” he bellowed, shaking a fist over his head while jumping to his feet. “Out!”

Noticing Agila’s impatience, John stretched out an arm across the foederatus’ chest, stopping him, and saying softly: “Let’s just go.” Turning to Theodosius he added, “my apologies. We’ll come back later Kyrie.”

Still breathing heavily, he watched them all depart, through the now door-less entrance. Fuckers. Returning to sit back down, he noticed that the leather case had been left on the bed. Briefly, instead of his mother’s, Maurice’s words came to mind: And remember that you are also Emperor, act like one.

Whatever.

Grabbing it, he undid the latch around it, and pulled out a scroll held in place with a yellow string and a small, round lead seal. The letters on it indicated its provenance: ΒONOΣ on one side, KOM + ANAT on the other. Intrigued, and raising an eyebrow, the Emperor pulled the string out, breaking the seal, and stretched the missive out.

Flavio Theodosio Augusto:

In these times of desperation and tribulation for the Roman people, one of your most loyal servants calls on you to offer his services…”
 
Very interesting that Bonosus is apparently defecting. Why did Phokas kill of Constantina? One account I've read of Phokas' reign (perhaps the most balanced one) is that he had initially tried to be merciful-ish to the surviving Mauricians, but Constantina's incessant plotting drove him over the edge with stress and into alcoholism. There's not been much sign of that this time round, though...?

Excellent update, of course!
 
And with that, Phocas' chances of victory have just gone down the drain...

Nice update as always.

Excellent update. I agree with Magnum: Phocas is really screwed.

Technically he is just about to mobilize the large armies stationed on the Danube (should his deal with the Avars work out.) Also, there are the levies, numerically inferior, being gathered in Macedonia. Plus, it might be wise to wait and see the circumstances under which Bonosus is offering his “allegiance.”

Very interesting that Bonosus is apparently defecting. Why did Phokas kill of Constantina? One account I've read of Phokas' reign (perhaps the most balanced one) is that he had initially tried to be merciful-ish to the surviving Mauricians, but Constantina's incessant plotting drove him over the edge with stress and into alcoholism. There's not been much sign of that this time round, though...?

Excellent update, of course!

If memory serves me right, there were only two main plots IOTL (everything else might have been Heraclian propaganda, or minor conspirancies.) One was to have Theodorus, the Praetorian Prefect replace Phocas; the other one, would have had Germanus, Theodosius’ father-in-law, play the starring role. Constantina was involved in both of them, and that cost her her life, as well as her daughters’.

ITTL, the stress, and the alcoholism, derive from his inability to crush Theodosius, as well as experiencing failure after failure, with limited results, against the Sassanians. His patience was running shorter. And Constantina did play a part in Theodorus’ and the patrician Gennadios’ foiled attempt. When they were captured and executed, so was she (see Chapter 4 -IV-.) Her daughters, however, are still alive and there is the possibility of one of them being sent off to the Avar Khagan Bayan II.

With the breakdown of direct communications between Egypt and Constantinople, it would have taken this long (a couple of months) for the news to get there, I suppose.
 
Chapter 9 -III-

“And it was in such a fashion that the impious Persians seized the most holy city of Theoupolis [1], and gave the Church of St. Ignatius [2] over to the Jews, to the dismay of Christians everywhere. This ignominy was achieved in no small measure through the sinful enemies of Romania and Caesar, who withheld the riches of Egypt, which God and His Most Holy Mother had destined for all Romans, an event that limited the abilities of the Christian forces, and aided the Devil-inspired hosts of Chosroes…”

“Clarissime…[3]” called the deep voice accompanied by a soft knock, breaking his concentration as he wrote. Lifting his gaze slightly, Menander noticed one of his scholarians, accompanied by two ordinary foot soldiers, standing at the door of his office.

“Clarissime, these men think there is something you must know” continued his subordinate.

Sighing, he put the stylus down and started to roll the papyrus parchment, as he asked “who are these men, centenarie [4]?”

“Hadrianus, Pedes [5], 3rd tagma, Army of Thrace, clarissime” answered one of them.

“Eutropios, Semissalis [6], 1st tagma, Army of Thrace, clarissime” replied the other.

“At ease” ordered Menander, making a gesture with his hand, and leaning back on his seat, wrapping a thin blue thread around the scroll. “Say what you must.”

Clearing his throat, Hadrianus began “clarissime, we are both loyal soldiers of the Augustus. And it’s because of that loyalty that we feel the need to inform you…of the behavior of Comes Priscus…”

Menander stared impassively at both men, before Eutropios added “some of the officers have started making quiet announcements in his behalf…saying that…that…” But seemingly could not continue.

He only raised his eyebrows slightly. Well? The soldier, seemingly embarrassed, resumed his point. “…that the calamities that vex us, are the Emperor’s responsibility…and that he must be defenestrated, and the son of Maurice, crowned in his stead…and that the Comes would lead us in the endeavor…”

Following several additional seconds of uncomfortable silence, the clarissimus asked in a dry voice “would you be able to point out the officers that approached you?” The men assented.

“And notify me of whatever other comrades of yours have spoken favorably of these intentions?”

They nodded eagerly, one more time.

“Very well then; not a word is to be said to anyone about this. I will look into this matter myself, later in the day. You are dismissed.”

They stood at attention, saluted, and departed as the scholarian centenarius stayed behind. Once he made sure they could not hear him anymore, Menander spoke to his soldier. “I want you to gather a small turma [7]. Forty men at the most; we’ll pay the Comes a visit at the first hour of the night. Also, have those two followed, and compile a record of where the go, and who they see, until we take action.”

Concluding his orders and while his subordinate left, he stood up, and opened a wooden chest, placed behind his seat. In it, were several scrolls, neatly tied with a red thread. Taking the one he had been working on recently, he put it on top of the others. We’ll finish with you some other time. Now, to work. Turning to a smaller table on his side, he grabbed a blank parchment of papyrus, took ahold of the inkwell, and having dipped the stylus in it, commenced writing, once more.

“Hemin Kyrio Alexandro Comiti Scholae Palatinae [8]:

It is with the utmost regret, that I inform you of the events taking place amongst the armies of Thrace. I have come to find unequivocal evidence, as your Lordship suspected, which compromises the safety of our beloved Augustus, and that of the entire Empire. The Comes Excubitorum Priscus…”
______________________________________​

Yet again, like in many of the “visits” he had paid to those snobby aristocrats, arrogant senators, and crafty eunuchs in The City, Menander found himself at the head of a small band of horsemen, approaching the home in which Priscus temporarily resided in Dourostolon [9]. The many successful calls he had paid in this fashion to the camps of the Danubian soldiers had earned him the promotion from doryphoros to clarissimus in a rather short time. But now, to get the big fish, he thought. The four excubitors guarding the locked gate were surprised, although they had seen them coming from a distance, and disarmed quickly, and quietly, by the troop outnumbering them. He only gestured them to keep silent, and to unlock the entrance. Once they had done so, his men scattered across the front patio, in search of alternate exits, as he kicked the door open. This was not to be a covert mission, since he intended to arrest the traitor, not dispatch him quietly. Immediately, he could hear the commotion from somewhere in the depths of the home, as well as encountering two servants near the entrance, who stared at him and his men horrified. He motioned to preselected groups to spread out in search of the Comes, while he asked the help “where’s Priscus?”

One of the slaves pointed towards a corridor to the left of the anteroom, without uttering a word. Sword in hand, he raced down the hall, escorted by five more of his men, until coming against a heavy and darkened wooden door. Interestingly, he could hear sobs inside. Is he…crying? The treacherous coward…

Knocking on the gate with his sword’s pommel, he called out: “Comes Priscus, I am clarissimus Menander, you must come out immediately!” The reply from within the room was not what he had been expecting; a shriek answered his demand. But more puzzling still, it was a feminine one. What the

He kicked heavily against the chamber’s gate, but it did not yield. That’s the way you want it then. Having rapidly motioned to one of his men, who left in the act, he attempted to bring the door down a second time with another kick, achieving the same results. Seconds later, a group of excubitors arrived, spears in hand to defend their leader, but realizing that it was Romans who were in the home, hesitated in attacking.

“Stop! We are here to arrest the Comes! He’s been found guilty of treason, and will be taken to account for his crimes before the Emperor!” Menander shouted, pointing his sword at them. Although they outnumbered the scholarians, the defenders quickly subsided, and stepped back, as the man that the clarissimus had dispatched outside returned accompanied by four more soldiers, carrying huge axes. The crying from the chamber continued, growing louder.

“Come on! Take it down!” he roared.

The hatchets began to hack at the dense and ancient wood, which still resisted the blows, as chips and splinters flew off of it. He thought quickly; though at the very least one man would have been posted on the street below the windows, this was taking too long, and now there was a risk: that the Comes could best the only guard there present, and escape. “Sergie!” he called out, to one of his own guards, “get back to the entrance and take five men with you. Surround the chamber from the outside, and make sure that the windows are watched! Go now!”

On and on, the cuts on the wood grew deeper and wider, until finally small hole was made, which allowed him to see into the room. Ordering the men to stop, he lowered his head for a look, but noticed nothing else besides an empty bed. Nevertheless, the weeping continued. Someone’s there. “Cut this damn thing open now!”

It would take some additional tense and seemingly eternal minutes for the wooden planks to finally yield before the axes. Shoving the shattered gates open, and to the sound of yet another loud shriek, the men rushed into the bedchamber with Menander at their head, as the excubitors watched, in confusion, from the entrance.

The first thing he noticed was that, in addition to being locked, the doors had been barricaded with two, now fractured, thick beams. And the source of the sobbing was also easy enough to locate. Sitting on the bed, wrapped in sheets, was a young woman, perhaps around twenty some years, crying with sheer terror. Around, on the floor, were some pieces of clothing, and on some of the crude tables, what seemed to be a wine pitcher and a goblet, as well as some scattered papers. However, what caught Menander’s attention instantly was the abandoned cuirass which belonged to Priscus, and the gaping open window, with the curtains shoved to the sides, at the far end of the room. Fuck.

Running to it, he stuck his head out the opening. The way the street descended towards the back of the house, had left this window at a higher level above it, than was the case with the others throughout the rest of the residence. But still not high enough to become an impediment for a determined man. Damn! For below him, Menander saw seven men: six looking around the adjacent dirt paths in desperation, and one lying on the ground, in a pool of his own blood.

Turning around to the expectant group, he screamed at the young woman, his face just a few inches away from hers “where is he? Where did he go?”

All the girl managed to blurt out, in between sniffles, was “I…I…I do…don’t…don’t know…”

“Stupid bitch!” he hissed, slapping her with the back of his hand. No one had ever escaped him; the whole situation left a disgustingly bitter taste in his mouth. Addressing his men, he added in a frantic voice “shut the city gates! No one leaves Dourostolon until I say so!” We have to find him! Find him!”
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[1] Antioch’s official name. Justinian I rechristened as Theoupolis once he rebuilt it, following the great earthquake of 528.
[2] The once Tychaeum of Antioch.
[3] Used here in a military context. It was a rank amongst the Scholae, equivalent to the Primicerius in the regular army. The highest NCO of sorts.
[4] The contemporary equivalent of a centurion of old.
[5] A common infantry private.
[6] A senior soldier, still a member of the infantry, but with higher pay than the pedes.
[7] Used here, in its late antique context: a cavalry unit, attached to the larger infantry armies, and led by a dekarchos.
[8] Forgive the mixture of tongues here. I only thought it reasonable for the letter to be written in Greek for expediency’s sake, but Alexander’s title to be specified in Latin, as it still is the official language of the Empire.
[9] Modern Silistria.
 
Another excellent update. It seems Menander realized Priscus' move too late- the lone guard certainly paid for that mistake...:p

slydessertfox

Not too late to force him to flee so the chance of a revolt from the Thracian army is significantly reduced, especially since there is likely to be a rain of terror against suspected supporters of Priscus. However if he can get away, or at least the fact he has been forced to flee will undermine Phocas's rule further. The fact that such a leading figure is accuse of plotting against him and further has gotten away, at least for the moment.

However it does seem like a damned good chance to end the civil war quickly has probably been lost so things will continue to deteriorate for a while longer.

Steve
 
Indeed, another good update. Priscus seems likely to go to Italy, I reckon: but will Tiberius and co. welcome a man who stood aside and let Maurice be butchered? I wonder. Perhaps the Avars are a more likely source of refuge: they've been suspiciously absent from the narrative so far!

As an aside, I still want to see Theodosius dying and Phocas apparently triumphant, before Tiberius rises from the ashes. We will see!
 
or we could see a civil war start out immediately in Thrace between Priscus' dudes and loyalists, maybe prolonging the civil war or perhaps shortening it by causing the collapse of the Thracian army just as the Eastern armies switch sides, leaving Phocas without many soldiers at all.
 
Chapter 9 -IV-

They were becoming increasingly annoying, with their unending pleading, so he tuned them out for a few seconds. These Jews, why would Khosrau ever bring them into play? All they do is scheme, and whine, and bitch. If anything, I should arrest these two, and send the other one’s head back home in a basket for sedition. Accompanied by his compatriot Kardarigan, Farrokhan Shahrbaraz had before him Moshe ben Tahmid, leader of the Syrian Jewish rebels, escorted by one of his adjutants, and Nehemiah ben Hushiel, son of the Exilarch at Tysfun. Although admittedly, it had proven instrumental, perhaps even crucial, for the advance into the Levant, in his opinion, Jewish aid was fast outliving its purposes.

“Maybe, I should request an audience with the Shah, through my father?” asked Nehemiah, recapturing his attention. The Shahrbaraz sought Kardarigan’s eyes; upon meeting them, the other spahbod’s head bowed slightly. The two Iranians were thinking the same thing.

“Stopping now, when the road to Jerusalem lies open is utterly idiotic!” cried out Moshe. The other Jew there present, a younger one, whose name he could not remember, only assented enthusiastically.

“Gentlemen, I must insist that my orders are very specific!” he finally snapped. “The Roman ambassadors will meet with the Shah, and my orders will be issued. Until then, no one lifts a finger!”

The resentment burning in the face of the most outspoken of the group, Moshe, was obvious. This nifty little former merchant had engineered the revolts all across Syria that facilitated the fall of Antioch, along with other innumerable cities. In addition, Farrokhan barely had had to waste his own men in occupying the lesser municipalities, as they were turned over to Jewish administrators who welcomed the Iranians with open arms, and pledged allegiance to Khosrau on the spot, allowing him to move south with an incredible speed. Moreover, this inexorable advance seemed bent on rolling through all the way to the Egyptian border with the arrival of the Jewish levies under the command of ben Hushiel. But then, Theodosius’ emissaries had arrived, complicating the until now easy political situation.

Led by the Kouropalates Heraclius, the delegation had outlined the main points that the son of Maurice had to offer in exchange for peace: the cessation of Roman control over greater Armenia, the surrender of Dara in Mesopotamia, a free exchange of prisoners, a hefty payment of 300,000 nomismata to repay the Shah for his aid, and a treaty of perpetual peace and friendship between the two “brothers.” To him, the proposal was not half as bad, as the Eranshahr would recover in one fell swoop all of the Caucasian domains held before Khosrau, as well as attaining an advantageous position in Mesopotamia. Nevertheless, the final decision was the Shahanshah’s. Then, the monarch had other factors to consider, and might extract furthers concessions from Theodosius: his armies had seized all of Syria, and were poised to strike at Palestine; while further north, Shahin had, albeit with heavy Armenian aid, inflicted a rather serious defeat on the last army sent by the Constantinopolitan ruler, and resumed his advance into Cappadocia.

“Spahbod, would you at least permit us to advance on our own? There will be no need for Persian involvement in our actions! Our contacts have been reached, and are awaiting the word to break out in rebellion. We care not for the ruler of the Romans, and we’ll secure Jerusalem for your King, without the loss of a single Persian soldier!” Moshe implored, once more.

Bored, tired, and with his mind wandering in a different direction, Farrokhan decided to end the pointless interview. I’ve had enough of politics for today. “I can’t make any promises, but I will beseech the Shah’s attention to your ordeal. However, as I said before, for the moment, we stay put. That’ll be all.”

“But…” muttered the nameless young Jew.

“Moshe, let your page know his place!” he said hoarsely, pointing an accusatory finger at the unnamed companion. “I have other matters to attend. Now, be gone.”

The Hebrews stood up in silence and left the room. Once they were past the door, he could hear their ramblings in their own tongue. Turning on each other like snakes. What a surprise.

“You do know, that they will move without us regardless, right?” asked Kardarigan, ironically, stretching his arms out.

“Of course I know. I’m not too sure about Nehemiah, however…he might be calmer; he’s got too much at stake back home. But the other fanatics…”

“And you’ll let them?”

He stood up, and began to crack his knuckles. “Sure, why not? If the Shah takes the deal, they’ll wreck some havoc, and then they’ll be crushed; but they’ll be the Romans’ problem. We can just shrug it off and claim that they acted independently. If the war goes on, then they’ll keep on clearing the way for us.”

Letting out a soft chuckle, the other Iranian switched topics. “What do you make of Shahin’s victory?”

“It’s a shame he had to rely on Christians to achieve it.” The subtle competition between spahbods would not allow him to heap praises on his rival. “If anything, the armies of the Qaisar Phocas now know that the Armenians are in charge of the offensive in Anatolia. Should their leader, this Bonosus, bribe them, or else, what will the Surenian do?

“Shahin’s not that inept. He’s probably found a way to keep them close, and under a watchful eye. Besides he hasn’t had the luck that we’ve had with the Jews…”

Kardarigan could not finish. Farrokhan shot a resentful look, with narrowing eyes, his way. Don’t even. “We’ll see what Khosrau says” he cut in, sternly. “Personally, I find the Roman deal appealing; far better than what that boy Domentziolus last offered us back in Dara. But then again, we made much progress since. Perhaps we could ask for more” he added, as if ignoring the previous comment.

In more careful manner, his comrade answered, “that might be a bit too much…and whoever ends up winning between those two might choose to continue the fight.”

“Not necessarily,” he countered, scratching his bearded chin. “It was almost a century ago that we last invaded and took Antioch. But we didn’t occupy anything for long. Now it’s different…we haven’t had this much luck since the first Sahpuhri [1]. Surely the Romans will consider this as well. By the way, how’s the work coming along at the docks? ”

“Slow, but I think we are making progress. If anything we should have a small fleet by the beginning of the following year. Nothing large, but enough to intercept supply convoys, and carry out small raids” responded his aide, swaying his head back and forth, as if to reassure himself of what he was saying.

“You better put those effete new serfs of yours to work faster then. If we can start establishing a naval presence to shield our conquests off from seaborne attacks… we might just be here to stay!”

“Ha! Khosrau will never go for that! You really think that?”

“It’s just a thought…” A captivating thought. A brief moment of silence ensued, before the Shahrbaraz continued, adding a smile. “And quite honestly, I don’t like the idea of sitting idly while Theodosius wins this war. The longer the Christians are at each other’s throats, the better off we’ll be at the end. Perhaps we can begin to release some of those they call ‘heretics’ into positions of power in Syria…to show an example for a potential advance into Egypt?”

Kardarigan clicked his tongue. “That’s why you’re in charge, Eran Spahbod!”

_______________________________​
[1] Shapur I. Shah of Iran, 240/42 – 270/72 A.D.
 
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