that enemy force.”
Ormazd scowled.
“I will not take orders from a Roman!” he snapped. “Nor from Baresmanas, for that matter. I am higher-born than—”
Khusrau waved him down.
“Of course not, brother. But it is I, not they, who is commanding you in this. I leave it to your judgement how best to assist Belisarius, once you arrive. You will be in full command of your own troops. But you will assist them.”
His half-brother’s scowl deepened. Khusrau’s own expression grew fierce.
“You will obey your Emperor,” he hissed.
Ormazd said nothing. Put that way, there was nothing he could say unless he was prepared to rise in open rebellion that very moment. Which he most certainly wasn’t—not in the middle of Khusrau’s main army. Not after his own prestige had suffered such a battering during the past two months.
After a moment, grudgingly, Ormazd nodded. He muttered a few phrases which, charitably, could be taken for words of obedience, and quickly made his exit.
Later that night, when Maurice arrived at the Emperor’s pavilion, he was ushered into Khusrau’s private chamber. As he entered, Khusrau was sitting at a small table, occupied with writing a letter. The Emperor glanced up, smiled, and gestured toward a nearby cushion.
“Please sit, Maurice. I’m almost finished.”
After Maurice took his seat, a servant appeared through a curtain and presented him with a goblet of wine. Before Maurice could even take a sip, Khusrau rose from the table and embossed the letter with the seal ring which was one
Ormazd scowled.
“I will not take orders from a Roman!” he snapped. “Nor from Baresmanas, for that matter. I am higher-born than—”
Khusrau waved him down.
“Of course not, brother. But it is I, not they, who is commanding you in this. I leave it to your judgement how best to assist Belisarius, once you arrive. You will be in full command of your own troops. But you will assist them.”
His half-brother’s scowl deepened. Khusrau’s own expression grew fierce.
“You will obey your Emperor,” he hissed.
Ormazd said nothing. Put that way, there was nothing he could say unless he was prepared to rise in open rebellion that very moment. Which he most certainly wasn’t—not in the middle of Khusrau’s main army. Not after his own prestige had suffered such a battering during the past two months.
After a moment, grudgingly, Ormazd nodded. He muttered a few phrases which, charitably, could be taken for words of obedience, and quickly made his exit.
Later that night, when Maurice arrived at the Emperor’s pavilion, he was ushered into Khusrau’s private chamber. As he entered, Khusrau was sitting at a small table, occupied with writing a letter. The Emperor glanced up, smiled, and gestured toward a nearby cushion.
“Please sit, Maurice. I’m almost finished.”
After Maurice took his seat, a servant appeared through a curtain and presented him with a goblet of wine. Before Maurice could even take a sip, Khusrau rose from the table and embossed the letter with the seal ring which was one