The Tale of Krispos (25 page)

“You, of course,” Krispos said in his best innocent voice.

“A worthy topic indeed.” Iakovitzes was noticeably smoother mounting than he had been back at Opsikion. He used his legs and the reins to get his horse moving once more. Krispos and Mavros followed him toward the city.

Chapter
VII

“H
URRY UP, KRISPOS! AREN’T YOU READY YET?” IAKOVITZES
said. “We don’t want to be late, not to this affair.”

“No, excellent sir,” Krispos said. He had been ready for the best part of an hour. His master was the one who kept taking off one robe and putting on another, agonizing over how big a hoop to wear in his left ear and whether it should be gold or silver, bedeviling his servants about which scent to douse himself with. This once, Krispos did not blame Iakovitzes for fussiness. The Sevastokrator Petronas was giving the evening’s feast.

“Come on, then,” Iakovitzes said now. A moment later, almost as an afterthought, he added, “You look quite well tonight. I don’t think I’ve seen that robe before.”

“Thank you, excellent sir. No, I don’t think you’ve seen it, either. I just bought it a couple of weeks ago.”

The garment in question was dark blue, and of fine soft wool. Its sober hue and plain cut were suited to a man older and of higher station than Krispos. He’d used a few of Tanilis’ goldpieces on clothes of that sort. One of these days, he might need to be taken seriously. Not looking like a groom could only help.

He rode half a pace behind Iakovitzes and to his master’s left. Iakovitzes swore whenever cross traffic made them slow and grew livid to see how crowded the plaza of Palamas was. “Out of the way there, you blundering oaf!” he screamed when he got stuck behind a small man leading a large mule. “I have an appointment with the Sevastokrator.”

Cheeky as most of the folk who called Videssos the city home, the fellow retorted, “I don’t care if you’ve got an appointment with Phos, pal. I’m in front of you and that’s how I like it.”

After more curses, Iakovitzes and Krispos managed to swing around the muleteer. By then they were near the western edge of the plaza of Palamas, past the great amphitheater, past the red granite obelisk of the Milestone from which all distances in the Empire were reckoned.

“Here, you see, excellent sir, we’re all right,” Krispos said soothingly as traffic thinned out.

“I suppose so.” Iakovitzes did not sound convinced, but Krispos knew he was grumbling only because he always grumbled. The western edge of the plaza bordered on the imperial palaces, and no one entered the palace district without business there. Soon Iakovitzes urged his horse up into a trot, and then into a canter.

“Where are we going?” Krispos asked, keeping pace.

“The Hall of the Nineteen Couches.”

“The nineteen what?” Krispos wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.

“Couches,” Iakovitzes repeated.

“Why do they call it that?”

“Because up until maybe a hundred years ago, people at fancy feasts ate while they reclined instead of sitting in chairs as we do now. Don’t ask me why they did that, because I couldn’t tell you—to make it easier for them to spill things on their robes, I suppose. Anyway, there haven’t been any couches in there for a long time, but names have a way of sticking.”

They swung round a decorative stand of willows. Krispos saw scores of torches blazing in front of a large square building, and people bustling around and going inside. “Is that it?”

“That’s it.” Iakovitzes gauged the number of horses and sedan chairs off to one side of the hall. “We’re all right—not too early, but not late, either.”

Grooms in matched silken finery led away his mount and Krispos’. Krispos followed his master up the low, broad stairs to the Hall of the Nineteen Couches. “Pretty stone,” Krispos remarked as he got close enough to make out detail in the torchlight.

“Do you really think so?” Iakovitzes said. “The green veining in the white marble always reminds me of one of those crumbly cheeses that smell bad.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Krispos said, truthfully enough. He had to admit the comparison was apt. Even so, he would not have made it himself. Iakovitzes’ jaundiced outlook made him take some strange views of the world.

A servitor in raiment even more splendid than the grooms’ bowed low as Iakovitzes came to the entrance, then turned and loudly announced, “The excellent Iakovitzes!”

Thus introduced, Iakovitzes swaggered into the reception hall, as well as he could swagger with a limp that was still pronounced. Krispos, who was not nearly important enough to be worth introducing, followed his master inside.

“Iakovitzes!” Petronas hurried up to clasp the noble’s hand. “That was a fine piece of work you did for me in Opsikion. You have my gratitude.” The Sevastokrator made no effort to keep his voice down. Heads turned to see whom he singled out for such public praise.

“Thank you, your Highness,” Iakovitzes said, visibly preening.

“As I said, you’re the one who has earned my thanks. Well done.” Petronas started to walk away, stopped. “Krispos, isn’t it?”

“Yes, your Imperial Highness,” Krispos said, surprised and impressed the Sevastokrator remembered his name after one brief meeting almost a year before.

“Thought so.” Petronas also seemed pleased with himself. He turned back to Iakovitzes. “Didn’t you bring another lad with you from Opsikion, too? Mavros, was that the name? Tanilis’ son, I mean.”

Iakovitzes nodded. “As a matter of fact, I did.”

“Thought so,” Petronas repeated. “Bring him along one of these times when we’re at a function together, if you could. I’d like to meet him. Besides which”—the Sevastokrator’s smile was cynical—“his mother’s rich enough that I don’t want to get her annoyed with me, and chatting him up can only help me with her.”

Petronas went off to greet other guests. Iakovitzes’ gaze followed him. “He doesn’t miss much,” the noble mused, more to himself than to Krispos. “I wonder which of my people told him about Mavros.” Whoever it was, Krispos did not envy him if his master found him out.

Still muttering to himself, Iakovitzes headed for the wine. He plucked a silver goblet from the bed of hoarded snow in which it rested, drained it and reached for another. Krispos took a goblet, too. He sipped from it as he walked over to a table piled high with appetizers. A couple of slices of boiled eggplant and some pickled anchovies took the edge off his appetite. He was careful not to eat too much; he wanted to be able to do justice to the supper that lay ahead.

“Your moderation does you credit, young man,” someone said from behind him when he left the hors d’oeuvres after only a brief stay.

“Your pardon?” Krispos turned, swiftly added, “Holy sir. Most holy sir,” he amended; the priest—or rather prelate—who’d spoken to him wore shimmering cloth-of-gold with Phos’ sun picked out in blue silk on his left breast.

“Nothing, really,” the ecclesiastic said. His sharp, foxy features reminded Krispos of Petronas’, though they were less stern and heavy than the Sevastokrator’s. He went on, “It’s just that at an event like this, where gluttony is the rule, seeing anyone eschew it is a cause for wonderment and celebration.”

Hoping he’d guessed right about what “eschew” meant, Krispos answered, “All I planned was to be a glutton a little later.” He explained why he’d gone easy on the appetizers.

“Oh, dear.” The prelate threw back his head and laughed. “Well, young sir, I appreciate your candor. That, believe me, is even rarer at these events than moderation. I don’t believe I’ve seen you before?” He paused expectantly.

“My name is Krispos, most holy sir. I’m one of Iakovitzes’ grooms.”

“Pleased to meet you, Krispos. Since I see my blue boots haven’t given me away, let me introduce myself, as well: I’m called Gnatios.”

Just as only the Avtokrator wore all-red boots, only one priest had the privilege of wearing all-blue ones. Krispos realized with a start that he’d been making small talk with the ecumenical patriarch of the Empire of Videssos. “M-most holy sir,” he stammered, bowing. Even as he bent his head, though, he felt a rush of pride—if only the villagers could see him now!

“No formality needed, not when I’m here to enjoy the good food, too,” Gnatios said with an easy smile. Then those foxy features suddenly grew very sharp indeed. “Krispos? I’ve heard your name before after all, I think. Something to do with the abbot Pyrrhos, wasn’t it?”

“The abbot was kind enough to find me my place with Iakovitzes, yes, most holy sir,” Krispos said.

“That’s all?” Gnatios persisted.

“What else could there be?” Krispos knew perfectly well what else; if Gnatios didn’t, he was not about to reveal it for him.

“Who knows what else?” The patriarch’s chuckle was thin. “Where Pyrrhos is involved, any sort of superstitious excess becomes not only possible but credible. Well, never mind, young man. Just because something is credible, that doesn’t necessarily make it true. Not necessarily. A pleasant evening to you.”

Gnatios’ shaven skull gleamed in the torchlight like one of the gilded domes atop Phos’ temple as he went on his way. Krispos took the rest of the wine in his cup at a gulp, then went over to the great basin of snow for another one. He was sweating in spite of the wine’s chill. The patriarch, by the nature of his office, was the Avtokrator’s man. Had he boasted to Gnatios instead of sensibly keeping his mouth shut…He wondered if he would even have got back to Iakovitzes’ house safe and sound.

Little by little, the wine helped calm Krispos. Gnatios didn’t seem to have taken seriously whatever tales he’d heard. Then a servant appeared at Krispos’ elbow. “Are you Iakovitzes’ groom?” he asked.

Krispos’ heart jumped into his mouth. “Yes,” he answered, readying himself to knock the man down and flee.

“Could you join your master, please?” the fellow said. “We’ll be seating folk for dinner soon, and the two of you will be together.”

“Oh. Of course.” Krispos felt like giggling with relief as he scanned the Hall of the Nineteen Couches for Iakovitzes. He wished the noble were taller; he was hard to spot. Even though he had trouble seeing Iakovitzes, he soon heard him arguing with someone or other. He made his way over to him.

Servants carried away the tables of appetizers. Others brought out dining tables and chairs. Despite guests getting in their way, they moved with practiced efficiency. Faster than Krispos would have thought possible, the hall was ready and the servants began guiding diners to their seats.

“This way, excellent sir, if you please,” a servitor murmured to Iakovitzes. He had to repeat himself several times; Iakovitzes was driving home a rhetorical point by jabbing a forefinger into the chest of a man who had been rash enough to disagree with him. The noble finally let himself listen. He and Krispos followed the servant, who said, “You have the honor of sitting at the Sevastokrator’s table.”

To Krispos, that said how much Petronas thought of the job Iakovitzes had done at Opsikion. Iakovitzes merely grunted, “I’ve had it before.” His eyebrows rose as he neared the head table. “And up till now, I’ve never had to share it with barbarians, either.”

Four Kubratoi, looking outlandish indeed in their shaggy furs, were already at the table. They’d quickly emptied one pitcher of wine and were shouting for another. The servant said, “They are an embassy from the new khagan Malomir and have ambassadors’ privileges.”

“Bah,” was Iakovitzes’ reply to that. “The one in the middle there, the big bruiser, you mean to tell me he’s an ambassador? He looks more like a hired killer.” Krispos had already noticed the man Iakovitzes meant. With his scarred, sullen face, wide shoulders, and enormous hands, he certainly resembled no diplomat Krispos had seen or imagined.

The servant answered, “As a properly accredited member of the party from Kubrat, he cannot be excluded from functions to which his comrades are invited.” He lowered his voice. “I will say, however, that his principal area of prowess does appear to be wrestling, not reason.”

Iakovitzes’ expression was eloquent, but a second glance at the enormous Kubrati made him keep to himself whatever remarks he thought of making.

The servant seated him and Krispos well away from the Kubratoi, only a couple of places from Petronas. Krispos hoped the arrival of food would help quiet Malomir’s envoys. It did help, but not much—it made them talk with their mouths full. Trays came and went, bearing soup, prawns, partridges, and lamb. After a while Krispos lost track of the number of courses he’d eaten. He only knew he was replete.

When the last candied apricots were gone, Petronas rose and lifted his goblet. “To the health and long life of his Imperial Majesty the Avtokrator of the Videssians, Anthimos III!” he declared. Everyone drank the toast. Petronas stayed on his feet. “And to the efforts of that clever and accomplished diplomat, the excellent noble Iakovitzes.” Everyone drank again, this time with a spattering of polite applause.

Flushed with pleasure at being toasted next after the Emperor, Iakovitzes stood up. “To his Imperial Highness the Sevastokrator Petronas!”

Petronas bowed as the toast was drunk. He caught the eye of one of the Kubrati envoys. “To the long and peaceful reign of the great khagan Malomir, and to your own continued success, Gleb.”

Gleb stood. He raised his goblet. “I drink also to the health of your Avtokrator,” he said, his Videssian slow but clear, even polished.

“Didn’t think he had manners enough for that,” Iakovitzes said to Krispos. From the murmurs of pleasure that filled the hall, a good many other people were similarly surprised.