Heraclius nodded, ignoring the petulant look on Theodore's face. " Yes," he said, holding out a hand to the Western Emperor. "The devastation wrought by the Persians and Avars has cost me too many skilled men. It will take decades to restore the administrative corpus of the east, even with my new organizational plan. Those cohorts and scribes and clerks will better serve in the new provinces. My brother has a weighty task ahead of him and he will need all the good men he can get."

"Even so," Galen said, glancing sidelong at Theodore and smiling crookedly, "if I can help in any way, do not hesitate to summon me to the telecast."

Heraclius nodded. He had forgotten the odd device that his wizards had found in the ruined library at Pergamum. Normally an interlocking plate of bronze half circles, the telecast could be brought to life by a skilled thaumaturge, and once it was at speed it could show places and people far away. The Eastern Emperor distrusted the device, but Galen swore by its powers. Heraclius allowed that it was sometimes convenient.

"I will," Heraclius replied. "When can we expect the first of your governors and their staffs?"

"Within three months," Galen said briskly. "Lucius Nerethres should be sailing from Carthago Nova in Hispania even now."

This was a man who was well acquainted with the travel plans, locations, and dispositions of his governors. Another thing that Heraclius envied. While the disasters of the past decade had all but eradicated the ancient professional bureaucracy from the East, it still survived in the West. Where Heraclius grappled on a daily basis with a foment of regional warlords, thematic dukes, and unruly priests, Galen presided over a long-established and far-flung network of well-maintained roads, appointed professional officials, regular postal service, and steady tax collection. So it had been for nearly seven centuries.

Heraclius shook his head, dispelling the growing jealousy that threatened to turn his thought. This was why he would return by land to Constantinople. There were towns and even cities in the provinces of Anatolia, Bithnia, and Cilicia that had not seen the standards of the Emperor in decades. The Imperial order must be restored. His passage home would see to that.

Galen had continued speaking, though more to Theodore than to the Eastern Emperor. "Use these engineers well, Lord Prince. They will serve you very well in the plains between the Two Rivers. You saw, I am sure, the extensive damage to the fields due to flooding as we marched back from Ctesiphon? These men can repair the dikes and canals and ensure it does not happen again. You will be well received, I think, if you can rescue Persia from famine!"

"Let them starve," Theodore snarled. "It will leave more land for Roman settlers! A land empty of Persians and Medes is a peaceful land. I would be better pleased, O Caesar, if you left me those regiments of Sarmatian heavy horse. That would be a princely gift, in truth!"

"Really?" Galen's voice was light, but the light in his eyes grew bitter and cold. "You've not had enough of my hospitality and familial affection?"

Theodore stopped, his mouth open, and one hand moved unconsciously to his cheek. The blood that had spattered there from the dying Persian boy, Kavadh-Siroes, was long washed away with scented oils and waters, but the sting to Theodore's pride remained fresh. Galen had wielded that knife with swift assurance, resolving a potentially damaging political issue and sending the last competing heir to the Eastern Roman throne into the outer darkness. In some ways, Theodore owed Galen a great deal, but the Prince saw only the patronizing smile and pointed wit. Heraclius coughed, drawing both of their attentions.

"We have much to be about, as well, my brother. I know you are anxious to be home. May your voyage be safe and swift."

Galen clasped hands with the Eastern Emperor and nodded in thanks. The great ships would leave soon, first for Egypt on the southerly winds, and then out across the deep blue Mediterranean to Rome.

"Ja, Centurion, I haff seen it before! Mein unkles often suffered from this when they were at sea for a long time. The svelling."

Heraclius roused himself from dream slowly, hearing an odd voice speaking. He tugged at the quilts that lay over him. They seemed very heavy, but then his hand was moving so slowly, too.

"Martina?" Someone was asking for his wife. It took a moment to realize that it must be his own voice. He opened his eyes.

Tall, narrow windows let thin slats of light into a dim room. A charcoal brazier stood at the foot of the bed, vainly trying to banish the chill that hung in the air. There was a scattering of tallow candles smoking in the corners of the room, but on the whole it was dark and dank. Just like every other frontier outpost, thought Heraclius wryly. Cold beds, cold food, cold women. Rufio was standing at the foot of the bed with another Varangian, a muscular young man of no more than twenty, with long blond hair in braids that hung down on his chest. The guard captain had turned back the bottom quilts from the Emperor's feet.

Heraclius looked away quickly. It did not seem possible that his feet were these shiny distended bags of flesh. He could not even feel them, or really anything below his knees. He closed his eyes again, trying to drive the image away. They look like fish, he thought, and then shuddered. Dead fish.

"Do you know how to cure this?" That was Rufio's voice, rumbling like a heavy wagon on a rocky road.

"Ja, if I can find the proper ingredients. Mein mama vould make a hot drink of juniper berries and parsley seeds- mein unkles vould drink gallons uf it! This will pass, then, as it did for them:"

Heraclius tried to sit up, but the weakness in his legs seemed to have infected his arms as well. He could barely raise his head. It occurred to him that he could not feel his fingers well. He felt nauseous with fear.

"Juniper berries?" Theodore's voice intruded harshly, and the sharp clacking sound of his boots on the stone floor could be heard as he stormed into the room. "A woman's drink, to drive away the bad humors of childbirth!"

"Lord Prince," Rufio growled warningly, "this man is well respected among his people:."

"And our own physicians? The Emperor's priests of Asklepios?" Theodore's voice rose almost to a shout. "You ignore and belittle their skills? They are civilized men- men who have studied in Pergamum and Alexandria! Do you follow their advice? No! You bring in this barbarian to give our Emperor a woman's potion!"

"It iss not a voman's drink!" The young man's voice began to rise in anger. "It vill cure the altjaarl!"

Heraclius struggled with his left arm and managed to inch it out from under the quilts. He was terribly tired, even with this little exertion. His mouth was very dry, and he tried to speak, to ask for wine, but he could not make his tongue work. Then he saw his fingers, peeking out from under the quilt. They were swollen, all gray and shiny like fresh sausages. His fingernails were almost hidden by puffy flesh. He gulped.

The Emperor turned his head away from his ruined hand. In his mind, he was gibbering in complete panic. Unable to help himself, he moaned aloud in fear.

"Out!" came a distant shout, then a scuffling sound and more men shouting.

"Get everyone out of here!" Theodore had taken command at last. " Bring my physician!"

This is an ill omen.

Theodore, Prince of the Eastern Empire, commander of the left wing of the host of the Avtokrator of the Romans, ran a hand nervously through his hair. The physicians- his own men, adepts from the temples of Asklepios in glorious Egypt- had gone. A draught of wine, laced with medicinal powders, had been forced down the Emperor's throat, giving him sleep. Theodore fidgeted, tapping his fingers on the badly carved headboard of the canopied bed. His brother, the strong, powerful figure of his youth, was lying under blankets and quilts, a pasty gray color, helpless.