"Nicetas, we have news. The Persian Basileus will come to visit. It was officially announced just now."
Nicetas, who was enjoying a cup of fine wine had his relaxing time disturbed by Phillipicus and the news he brought. He had to hurry.
"Do you think we can move? It hasn't been long since the rumours about us stopped circulating. I fear Heraclius will still be wary."
Phillipicus sit down with him, his green eyes piercing Nicetas, but mainly the jug of wine he reached out to. His black hair, short but trimmed wasn't common with Byzantine nobles. It was in contrast with Nicetas' dark brown eyes but light, long combed hair. After all, as the cousin of the Basileus and a potential heir to the throne, he had to look distinguished.
"I believe we have no time. If we do not act, Roman Empire and Persia will be bound too deeply. But right now, it is still possible to prevent it. And we have all the pieces. We have support in the local garrison, financial backing but mainly, we have a legitimate successor. But if we don't move fast enough, this all will mean nothing," said Phillipicus, as he drank the fine wine. The taste suited him.
Nicetas grew visibly nervous. But he trusted the strategic mind of Phillipicus. This is a prime opportunity. Removing both Heraclius and Yazdegerd would pave their path to the throne open, ideally capturing Roxane and having her marry Nicetas would cement their claim. And with the Persian Emperor out of their way, the whole Middle East would lay at their feet, ready to be harvested.
"Very well. I will begin the preparations. How much time do we have?"
"At most a month, but I would rather have it done in two or three weeks, so we can adapt to any unforeseen circumstances."
Phillipicus then stood up and left Nicetas. The plan was set to motion.
--
Rostam was quietly preparing himself for the journey. Once again, he was asked by Yazdegerd to accompany him on his journey. He reached for his beard, which was beginning to show signs of aging, with grey strands being visible here and there. Being nearly fifty, he knew his physical prowess was already fading away, but he still believed that he could be useful to his Shahanshah, if only as an advisor. It was truly an unforgettable experience for him, seeing the young boy from his beginnings, slowly building his way to the top. Originally, he sometimes doubted whether pledging loyalty to such a young Shah was the right choice. But it didn't take even a year for his doubts to fade away. Right now, he would go anywhere for his liege, and do anything. And he was proud of that.
And even when he became too old to be a capable advisor, he believed that the younger generation would help Yazdegerd to reach the dream they all had. His brother Farrukhzad, who was nearly ten years younger, Piruz, in his late thirties and Jalinus, the youngest of them all. Even Rostam had to commend him for his skill and capability, even though he had a dislike for him.
But he had a strange feeling. The rumours didn't fit well with him. Maybe it was dementia creeping its way into his brain. But maybe these were his experiences and instinct, telling him something was wrong. He needed to be cautious. A storm was brewing, and while he believed it wouldn't sweep Persia, he was not so sure about the Roman Empire.
"My Shahanshah, may he be immortal, I have a request to ask of you."
Rostam entered Yazdegerd's chambers, unannounced. Yazdegerd wasn't startled, merely surprised. That wasn't like Rostam. He stood up, wearing his royal attire, apparently in the middle of trying the clothes. His brown eyes demanded respect and emitted authority – a far cry from those childish eyes full of fear and moist with tears Rostam remembered when he asked them to serve him. He has really matured. Yazdegerd's long hair fell on his back, reaching just below his shoulders. Rostam realized the young Shah is nearly as tall as Rostam himself.
"What is it, Rostam? What do you need?"
"Please, my Shahanshah, I need you to hear me out. Increase your entourage. Take more pushtigban with you. For your and for your Shahanshahbanu's safety."
Rostam was acting strange. Normally collected and pragmatic, this Rostam was in a state Yazdegerd has never seen him – panic. But what could cause such a cool-headed man to be like that? Something serious. Yazdegerd knew Rostam well. He would never make decisions based on how he felt without properly analysing the situation and every piece of information. Maybe that was also the reason Rostam didn't want to tell him what is it that he fears. He didn't want to look like someone who decides based on such feeble things like emotions and instinct. But Yazdegerd saw it differently. Both emotions and instinct, while able to cloud the mind and deprive one of the right answer, they were also a tremendous weapon when dealing with the unknown, with something what lacked any information.
And so he listened.
"Thank you for your advice, my spahbed. I will ask Jalinus to assign one more cohort of pushtigban to my entourage. I just hope we don't cause a scandal with the Basileus, bringing an almost personal army to his capital."
Rostam sighed with relief. Then he stood up with a smile.
"I do not think of his Majesty Heraclius as someone who would doubt your intentions. We have his trust, and, in turn, he has ours. I believe he will understand."
Yazdegerd returned the smile.
"I think you're right."