The Tale of Krispos (12 page)

“Oh.” Krispos scratched his head. What the innkeeper said made a strange kind of sense, even if he was not used to thinking in those terms. “I’ll take that bowl of stew, and thank you. But where am I supposed to sleep tonight? Even if it wasn’t raining, I wouldn’t want to do it on the streets.”

“Don’t blame you.” The innkeeper nodded. “Likely you’d get robbed the first night—doesn’t matter how sharp your spear is if you’re not awake to use it. Armed that way, though, you could try the barracks.”

“Not till I’ve tried everything else,” Krispos said stubbornly. “If I sleep in the barracks once, I’ll end up sleeping there for years. I just want a place to set my head till I find steady work.”

“I see what you’re saying.” The innkeeper walked over to the fireplace, stirred the pot that hung over it with a wooden spoon. “Your best bet’d likely be a monastery. If you help with the chores, they’ll house you for a while, and feed you, too. Not a nice stew like this”—he ladled out a large, steaming bowlful—“but bread and cheese and beer, plenty to keep you from starving. Now let’s see those coppers, if you please.”

Krispos paid him. The stew was good. The innkeeper gave him a heel of bread to sop up the last of it. He wiped his mouth on his damp sleeve, waited until the innkeeper was done serving another customer. Then he said, “A monastery sounds like a good idea. Where would I find one?”

“There must be a dozen of ’em in the city.” The innkeeper stopped to think. “The one dedicated to the holy Pelagios is closest, but it’s small and hasn’t the room to take in many off the street. Better you should try the monastery of the holy Skirios. They always have space for travelers.”

“Thanks. I’ll do that. How do I get there?” Krispos made the innkeeper repeat the directions several times; he wanted to be sure he had them straight. Once he was, he stood in front of the fire to soak up as much warmth as he could, then plunged into the night.

He soon regretted it. The directions might have served well enough by daylight. In the dark, with half the firepots that should have lit the streets doused by rain, he got hopelessly lost. The innkeeper’s fire quickly became only a wistful memory.

Few people were out and about so late. Some traveled in large bands and carried torches to light their way. Others walked alone, in darkness. One of those followed Krispos for blocks and sank back into deeper shadow whenever Krispos turned to look his way. Farm boy or not, he could figure out what that meant. He lowered his spear and took a couple of steps toward the skulker. The next time he looked around, the fellow was gone.

The longer Krispos walked, the more he marveled at how many streets, and how many miles of streets, Videssos the city had. From the way his feet felt, he had tramped all of them—and none twice, for nothing looked familiar. Had he stumbled on another inn, he would have spent his lucky goldpiece without a second thought.

Instead, far more by luck than design, he came upon a large low structure with several gates. All but one were barred and silent. Torches burned there, though, and a stout man in a blue robe stood in the gateway. He was armed with an even stouter cudgel, which he hefted when Krispos walked into the flickering circle of light the torches cast.

“What building is this?” he asked as he approached. He trailed his spear, to look as harmless as he could.

“This is the monastery that serves the memory of the holy Skirios, may Phos hallow his soul for all eternity,” the watchman replied.

“May he indeed!” Krispos said fervently. “And may I beg shelter of you for the night? I’ve wandered the streets searching for this monastery for—for—well, it seems like forever.”

The monk at the gate smiled. “Not that long, I hope, though it is the sixth hour of the night. Aye, come in, stranger, and be welcome, so long as you come in peace.” He eyed Krispos’ spear and sword.

“By Phos, I do.”

“Well enough,” the watchman said. “Enter then, and rest. When morning comes, you can present yourself to our holy abbot Pyrrhos with the others who came in out of the rain this evening. He, or someone under him, will assign you some task for tomorrow—or perhaps for some time, if you need a longer time of shelter with us.”

“Agreed,” Krispos said at once. He started to walk past the monk, then paused. “Pyrrhos, you say? I knew a man by that name once.” He frowned, trying to remember where or when, but gave it up with a shrug after a moment.

The monk also shrugged. “I’ve known two or three myself; it’s a fairly common name.”

“Aye, so it is.” Krispos yawned. The monk pointed the way to the common room.

T
HE ABBOT PYRRHOS WAS DREAMING. IT WAS ONE OF THOSE
dreams where he knew he was dreaming but did not particularly want to break the mood by exerting his will. He was in a line of people coming before some judge, whether imperial or divine he could not say.

He could not hear the judgments the enthroned figure was passing on those in front of him, but he was not greatly concerned, either. He knew he had led a pious life, and his worldly sins were also small. Surely no harsh sentence could fall on him.

The line moved forward with dreamlike quickness. Only one woman stood between him and the judge. Then she, too, was gone. Had she walked away? Disappeared? Pyrrhos had not noticed, but that, too, was the way of dreams. The abbot bowed to the man—if it was a man—on the throne.

Eyes stern as those of Phos transfixed Pyrrhos. He bowed again and stayed bent at the waist. Almost he went to hands and knees and then to his belly, as if he stood before the Avtokrator. “Illustrious lord—” his dream-voice quavered.

“Silence, worm!” Now he could hear the judge’s voice. It reverberated like a thunderclap in his head. “Do as I say and all will be well for Videssos; fail and all fails with you. Do you understand?”

“Aye, lord,” dream-Pyrrhos said. “Speak, and I obey.”

“Go then to the monastery common room. Go at once; do not wait for dawn. Call out the name Krispos, once, twice, three times. Give the man who answers every favor; treat him as if he were your own son. Get hence now, and do as I have ordained.”

Pyrrhos woke to find himself safe in his own bed. A guttering lamp illuminated his chamber. Save for being larger and packed with books, it was like the cells in which his monks slept—unlike many abbots, he disdained personal comfort as a weakness.

“What a strange dream,” he whispered. All the same, he did not get up. He yawned instead. Within minutes, he was asleep again.

He found himself before the enthroned judge once more. This time, he was at the head of the line. If he had thought those eyes stern before, they fairly blazed now. “Insolent wretch!” the judge cried. “Obey, or all totters around you. Summon the man Krispos from the common room, once, twice, three times. Give him the favor you would your own son. Waste no time in sottish slumber. This must be done! Now go!”

Pyrrhos woke with a violent start. Sweat beaded his forehead and his shaven crown. He still seemed to hear the last word of the judge’s angry shout dinning in his ears. He started to get out of bed, then stopped. Anger of his own filled him. What business did a dream have, telling him what to do?

Deliberately he lay back down and composed himself for sleep. It came more slowly this time than before, but his disciplined mind enforced rest on him as if it were a program of exercise. His eyes sagged shut, his breathing grew soft and regular.

He felt a cold caress of terror—the judge was coming down from the throne, straight for him. He tried to run and could not. The judge seized him, lifting him as if he were light as a mouse. “Summon the man Krispos, fool!” he roared, and cast Pyrrhos from him. The abbot fell and fell and fell forever…

He woke up on the cold stone floor.

Trembling, Pyrrhos got to his feet. He was a bold man; even now, he started to return to his bed. But when he thought of the enthroned judge and those terrible eyes—and how they would look should he disobey yet again—boldness failed. He opened the door to his chamber and stepped out into the hallway.

Two monks returning to their cells from a late-night prayer vigil glanced up in surprise to see someone approaching them. As was his right, Pyrrhos stared through them as if they did not exist. They bowed their heads and, without a word, stood aside to let the abbot pass.

The door to the common room was barred on the side away from the men the monastery took in. Pyrrhos had second thoughts as he lifted the bar—but he had not fallen out of bed since he was a boy. He could not make himself believe he had fallen out of bed tonight. Shaking his head, he went into the common room.

As always, the smell hit him first, the smell of the poor, the hungry, the desperate, and the derelict of Videssos: unwashed humanity, stale wine, from somewhere the sharp tang of vomit. Tonight the rain added damp straw’s mustiness and the oily lanolin reek of wet wool to the mix.

A man said something to himself as he turned over in his sleep. Others snored. One fellow sat against a wall, coughing the consumptive’s endless racking bark.
I’m to pick one of these men to treat as my son?
the abbot thought.
One of
these?

It was either that or go back to bed. Pyrrhos got as far as putting his fingers on the door handle. He found he did not dare to work it. Sighing, he turned back. “Krispos?” he called softly.

A couple of men stirred. The consumptive’s eyes, huge in his thin face, met the abbot’s. He could not read the expression in them. No one answered him.

“Krispos?” he called again.

This time he spoke louder. Someone grumbled. Someone else sat up. Again, no one replied. Pyrrhos felt the heat of embarrassment rise to the top of his tonsured head. If nothing came of this night’s folly, he would have some explaining to do, perhaps even—he shuddered at the thought—to the patriarch himself. He hated the idea of making himself vulnerable to Gnatios’ mockery; the ecumenical patriarch of Videssos was far too secular to suit him. But Gnatios was Petronas’ cousin, and so long as Petronas was the most powerful man in the Empire, his cousin would remain at the head of the ecclesiastical hierarchy.

One more fruitless call, the abbot thought, and his ordeal would be over. If Gnatios wanted to mock him for it, well, he had endured worse things in his service to Phos. That reflection steadied him, so his voice rang out loud and clear: “Krispos?”

Several men sat up now. A couple of them glared at Pyrrhos for interrupting their rest. He had already begun to turn to go back to his chamber when someone said, “Aye, holy sir, I’m Krispos. What do you want of me?”

It was a good question. The abbot would have been happier with a good answer for it.

K
RISPOS SAT IN THE MONASTERY STUDY WHILE PYRRHOS BUSTLED
about lighting lamps. When that small, homely task was done, the abbot took a chair opposite him. The lamplight failed to fill his eyesockets or the hollows of his cheeks, leaving his face strange and not quite human as he studied Krispos.

“What am I to do with you, young man?” he said at last.

Krispos shook his head in bewilderment. “I couldn’t begin to tell you, holy sir. You called, so I answered; that’s all I know about it.” He fought down a yawn. He would sooner have been back in the common room, asleep.

“Is it? Is it indeed?” The abbot leaned forward, voice tight with suppressed eagerness. It was as if he were trying to find out something from Krispos without letting on that he was trying to.

By that sign, Krispos knew him. He had been just so a dozen years before, asking questions about the goldpiece Omurtag had given Krispos—the same goldpiece, he realized, that he had in his pouch. Save for the passage of time, which sat lightly on it, Pyrrhos’ gaunt, intent face was also the same.

“You were up on the platform with Iakovitzes and me,” Krispos said.

The abbot frowned. “I crave pardon? What was that?”

“In Kubrat, when he ransomed us from the wild men,” Krispos explained.

“I was?” Pyrrhos’ gaze suddenly sharpened; Krispos saw that he remembered, too. “By the lord with the great and good mind, I
was,
” the abbot said slowly. He drew the circular sun-sign on his breast. “You were but a boy then.”

It sounded like an accusation. As if to remind himself it was true no more, Krispos touched the hilt of his sword. Thus reassured, he nodded.

“But boy no more,” Pyrrhos said, agreeing with him. “Yet here we are, drawn back together once more.” He made the sun-sign again, then said something completely obscure to Krispos: “No, Gnatios will not laugh.”

“Holy sir?”

“Never mind.” The abbot’s attention might have wandered for a moment. Now it focused on Krispos again. “Tell me how you came from whatever village you lived in to Videssos the city.”

Krispos did. Speaking of his parents’ and sister’s deaths brought back the pain, nearly as strong as if he felt it for the first time. He had to wait before he could go on. “And then, with the village still all in disarray, our taxes went up a third, I suppose to pay for some war at the other end of the Empire.”

“More likely to pay for another—or another dozen—of Anthimos’ extravagant follies.” Pyrrhos’ mouth set in a thin, hard line of disapproval. “Petronas lets him have his way in them, the better to keep the true reins of ruling in his own hands. Neither of them cares how they gain the gold to pay for such sport, so long as they do.”