the room, Khusrau took a seat on his own resplendent cushion.
“Tell me about the Emperor Photius,” he commanded. “Belisarius’ son.”
Maurice was puzzled by the question, but he let no sign of it show. “He’s not really his son, Your Majesty. His stepson.”
Khusrau smiled. “His son, I think.”
Maurice stared at the Emperor for a moment, then nodded. It was a deep nod. Almost a bow, in fact.
“Yes, Your Majesty. His son.”
“Tell me about him.”
Maurice studied the Persian, still puzzled. Under-standing, Khusrau smiled again.
“Perhaps I should give my question more of a focus.”
He rose and strode over to one side of his chamber. Drawing aside the curtain, he called out a name. A moment later, moving with stiff and shy uncertainty, a young girl entered the chamber.
Maurice estimated her age at thirteen, perhaps fourteen. The daughter of a high Persian nobleman, obviously. And very beautiful.
“This is Tahmina,” said Khusrau. “She is the oldest daughter of Baresmanas, the noblest man of the noble Suren.”
With a gesture, Khusrau invited the girl to sit on a nearby cushion. Tahmina did so, quickly and with a surprising grace for one so young.
“My own children are very young,” said Khusrau. Then, with a little laugh: “Besides, they are all boys.”
The Emperor turned and bestowed an odd look on Maurice. Maurice, at least, thought the look was odd. He was now utterly bewildered as to the Emperor’s purpose.
“Baresmanas cherishes his daughter,” said Khusrau sternly. Then, even more sternly: “As do I myself, for that matter. Baresmanas placed her in my care when he left for Constantinople with his wife. She is an absolutely delightful child, and I have enjoyed her company immensely. It has made me look forward to having daughters of my own, some day.”
The Emperor began pacing back and forth.
“She is of good temper, and intelligent. She is also, as you can see for yourself, very beautiful.”
He stopped abruptly. “So. Tell me about the Roman Emperor Photius.”
Maurice’s eyes widened. His jaw almost dropped. “He’s only eight years old,” he choked.
The gesture which Khusrau made in response to that statement could only have been made by an emperor: August dismissal of an utterly trivial matter.
“He will age,” pronounced the Emperor. “Soon enough, he will need a wife.”
Again, the stern look. “So. Tell me about the Emperor Photius. I do not ask for anything
“Tell me about the Emperor Photius,” he commanded. “Belisarius’ son.”
Maurice was puzzled by the question, but he let no sign of it show. “He’s not really his son, Your Majesty. His stepson.”
Khusrau smiled. “His son, I think.”
Maurice stared at the Emperor for a moment, then nodded. It was a deep nod. Almost a bow, in fact.
“Yes, Your Majesty. His son.”
“Tell me about him.”
Maurice studied the Persian, still puzzled. Under-standing, Khusrau smiled again.
“Perhaps I should give my question more of a focus.”
He rose and strode over to one side of his chamber. Drawing aside the curtain, he called out a name. A moment later, moving with stiff and shy uncertainty, a young girl entered the chamber.
Maurice estimated her age at thirteen, perhaps fourteen. The daughter of a high Persian nobleman, obviously. And very beautiful.
“This is Tahmina,” said Khusrau. “She is the oldest daughter of Baresmanas, the noblest man of the noble Suren.”
With a gesture, Khusrau invited the girl to sit on a nearby cushion. Tahmina did so, quickly and with a surprising grace for one so young.
“My own children are very young,” said Khusrau. Then, with a little laugh: “Besides, they are all boys.”
The Emperor turned and bestowed an odd look on Maurice. Maurice, at least, thought the look was odd. He was now utterly bewildered as to the Emperor’s purpose.
“Baresmanas cherishes his daughter,” said Khusrau sternly. Then, even more sternly: “As do I myself, for that matter. Baresmanas placed her in my care when he left for Constantinople with his wife. She is an absolutely delightful child, and I have enjoyed her company immensely. It has made me look forward to having daughters of my own, some day.”
The Emperor began pacing back and forth.
“She is of good temper, and intelligent. She is also, as you can see for yourself, very beautiful.”
He stopped abruptly. “So. Tell me about the Roman Emperor Photius.”
Maurice’s eyes widened. His jaw almost dropped. “He’s only eight years old,” he choked.
The gesture which Khusrau made in response to that statement could only have been made by an emperor: August dismissal of an utterly trivial matter.
“He will age,” pronounced the Emperor. “Soon enough, he will need a wife.”
Again, the stern look. “So. Tell me about the Emperor Photius. I do not ask for anything