The Tale of Krispos (45 page)

“He’s down with the flux, poor chap,” the other grandee answered. “Pyrrhos is a very holy man in his own right. The good god won’t mind.”

Everyone at the patriarchal mansion was down with the flux, Krispos thought. Considering the number of goldpieces he’d spent to make sure a particular potion got into the mansion’s kitchen, he was not surprised. Poor Gnatios and his clerical colleagues would be dashing to the outhouse for the next several days.

Anthimos climbed the three steps to the thrones and seated himself in the one that had always been his. Dara stood at his right hand on the highest step, Pyrrhos in the center of the lowest step. Krispos was also to the Emperor’s right, but off the steps altogether. He had helped plan the spectacle that was to come, but it was Anthimos’ to play out.

The Avtokrator sat unmoving, staring without expression back toward the entrance to the Grand Courtroom. Beside and in front of him, Dara and Pyrrhos might also have been statues. Krispos wanted to fidget. With an effort, he controlled himself.

Petronas came into the Grand Courtroom. His robe, of scarlet silk encrusted with gold and gems, was identical to Anthimos’. Only his bare head declared that he was not yet Avtokrator. Marching with military precision, he approached the thrones. A tiny frown crossed his face when he saw Krispos, but then his eyes went back to the crown waiting for him on the throne that was to be his. He looked at Krispos again and smiled, unpleasantly.

Then, for the last time, he performed the proskynesis before his nephew. He rose and bowed to Anthimos as to an equal. “Majesty,” he said. His voice was strong and proud.

“Majesty,” Anthimos echoed. Some of the courtiers started whispering again, thinking that the formal recognition of Petronas’ elevation. But Anthimos went on in a musing tone, “Majesty is the word we use to denote the sovereign of the state, the power that is his, a signpost of the imperial office, if you will, rather like the red boots only the Avtokrator is privileged to wear.”

Petronas gravely nodded. Krispos watched him go from attention to at ease. If Anthimos was going to make a speech before he got around to the coronation, Petronas would endure it in dignified comfort.

And Anthimos was going to make a speech. He continued, “The Empire, of course, is indivisible. Ought not its sovereignty and the acknowledgment of that sovereignty to be the same? Many would say no, for Videssos has known co-Avtokrators before; the creation of another would be no innovation on the ancient customs of our state.”

Petronas nodded once more, this time, Krispos thought, with a trace of smugness. Anthimos was still speaking. “And yet, those former Avtokrators surely each had reasons they reckoned pressing when they invested their colleagues with a share of the imperial dignity: perhaps to give a son or other chosen successor a taste of responsibility before the passing of the senior partner.

“My uncle Petronas, who stands before me now, is, as you all know, already familiar with the power inherent in the throne,” Anthimos said. Petronas nodded yet again. His nephew went on, “Indeed, for many years the administration of the state and of its armies was entrusted to him. At first this was because of my youth, later not least on account of his own desire to continue what he had begun.”

Petronas stood patiently, waiting for Anthimos to come to the point. Now Anthimos did: “In his control of the armies, my uncle has fought against our ancient foe Makuran. Having failed to win any victories to speak of in his first year, he seeks a second year of campaigning, and this at a time when other barbarians, brought near our northern frontier at his urging, now threaten us.”

The smile suddenly faded from Petronas’ face. Anthimos took no notice, continuing, “When I urged him to consider this, he held it to be of scant import, and as much as told me he would use his influence over our soldiery to topple me from my throne if I failed to do as he wished.” Anthimos raised his voice, called to the Halogai in the Grand Courtroom, “Soldiers of Videssos, who is your Avtokrator, Anthimos or Petronas?”

“Anthimos!” the northerners cried, so loud that echoes rang from the walls and high ceilings. “Anthimos!”

The Emperor rose from his throne. “Then seize this traitor here, who sought to terrify me into granting him a share of the imperial power to which he has no right!”

“Why, you—” Petronas sprang toward his nephew. Dara screamed, throwing herself in front of Anthimos. Before Petronas could reach the steps that led up to the throne, though, Krispos grappled with him, holding him in place until three Halogai, axes upraised, came clattering from their posts nearest the imperial seat.

“Yield or die!” one shouted to Petronas, who was still struggling against Krispos’ greater strength. All the rest of the imperial guards also held their axes above their heads, ready to loose massacre in the Grand Courtroom if any of Petronas’ backers among the Empire’s assembled nobles and commanders sought to rescue the Sevastokrator. No one did.

Krispos thought Petronas’ fury so great he would die before he gave up. But the Sevastokrator was a veteran soldier, long used to calculating the odds of success in battle. Although hatred burned in his eyes, he checked himself, stepped back from Krispos, and bent his head to the big blond axemen. “I yield,” he choked out.

“You’d better, Uncle,” Anthimos said, sitting once more. “By the good god, I’d sooner see Krispos here on the throne than you.” From her place just below him, Dara nodded vigorously. He went on, “And since you have yielded, you must be placed in circumstances where you can no longer threaten us. Will you now willingly surrender up your hair and join the brotherhood of monks at a monastery of our choosing, there to spend the rest of your days in contemplation of the lord with the great and good mind?”

“Willingly?” By now Petronas had enough aplomb back to raise an ironic eyebrow. “Aye, considering the alternative, I’ll abandon my hair willingly enough. Better to have my hair trimmed than my neck.”

“Pyrrhos?” Anthimos said.

“With pleasure, Your Majesty.” The abbot stepped down onto the floor of the Grand Courtroom. In the pouch on his belt he carried scissors and a glitteringly sharp razor. He bowed to Petronas and held up a copy of Phos’ scriptures. Formality kept from his voice any gloating he might have felt as he said, “Petronas, behold the law under which you shall live if you choose. If in your heart you feel you can observe it, enter the monastic life; if not, speak now.”

Petronas took no offense at being addressed so simply—if he was to become a monk, the titles he had enjoyed were no longer his. He did permit himself one meaningful glance at the axemen around him, then replied, “I shall observe it.”

“Shall you truly?”

“I shall truly.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

After Petronas affirmed his pledge for the third time, Pyrrhos bowed again and said, “Then lower your proud head, Petronas, and yield your hair in token of submission to Phos, the lord with the great and good mind.” Petronas obeyed. Graying hair fell to the marble floor as the abbot plied his scissors. When he had it cropped short, he switched to the razor.

The crown Petronas had expected to wear lay on a large cushion of scarlet satin. After Pyrrhos was done shaving Petronas’ head, he climbed the steps to that second throne and lifted the cushion. Beneath it, folded flat, was a robe of coarse blue wool. The abbot took it and returned to Petronas.

“The garment you now wear does not suit the station in life you will have henceforth,” he said. “Strip it off, and those red boots as well, that you may don the robe of monastic purity.”

Again Petronas did as he was told, unhooking the fastenings that held the imperial raiment closed. With a fine shrug of indifference, he let the magnificent robe fall to the floor, then yanked off the imperial boots. His undertunic and drawers were of smooth, glistening silk. He stood easily, waiting for Pyrrhos to proceed. Defeated or not, Krispos thought, he had style.

Pyrrhos frowned to see Petronas’ rich undergarments. “Those will also be taken from you when we reach the monastery,” he said. “They are far too fine for the simple life the brethren live.”

“You may take them now, for all I care,” Petronas said, shrugging again.

Krispos was sure he’d hoped to embarrass Pyrrhos. He succeeded, too; the abbot went red to the top of his shaven pate. Recovering, he answered, “As I said, that may wait until you join your fellow monks.” He held out the blue robe to Petronas. “Put this on, if you please.” While Petronas slipped on the monastic robe, Pyrrhos intoned, “As the garment of Phos’ blue covers your body, so may his righteousness enfold your heart and preserve it from all evil.”

“So may it be,” Petronas said. He traced the circular sun-sign over his heart. So did everyone in the Grand Courtroom, save only the heathen Halogai. Krispos did not feel hypocritical as he silently prayed that the man who till moments before had been Sevastokrator would make a good monk. Like all his countrymen, he took his faith seriously—and better for Petronas, he thought, to end up in a monastic cell than to spill his blood on the polished marble in front of the throne.

“It is accomplished, Brother Petronas,” Pyrrhos said. “Come with me now to the monastery of the holy Sirikios, that you may make the acquaintance of your comrades in Phos’ service.” He began to lead the new monk out of the Grand Courtroom.

“Holy sir, a moment, if you please,” Anthimos said from his throne. Pyrrhos looked back at the Avtokrator with obedience but no great liking: he had worked with Anthimos to bring down Petronas, but felt even more scorn for the younger man’s way of life than for the elder’s. Nonetheless he waited as Anthimos went on, “You might be well advised to have Vagn, Hjalborn, and Narvikka there accompany you to the monastery, lest Brother Petronas, ah, suddenly repent of his decision to serve the good god.”

Dara had been proudly watching Anthimos since the drama in the throne room began, as if she had trouble believing he could face down his uncle and was overjoyed to be proven wrong. Now, hearing her husband speak such plain good sense, the Empress brought her hands together in a small, involuntary clap of delight. Krispos wished she would look at him that way.

He fought down a stab of jealousy. Anthimos, this time, was right. That made jealousy unimportant. When Pyrrhos hesitated, Krispos put in, “Were things different, Petronas himself would tell you that was a good idea, holy sir.”

“You’ve learned well, and may the ice take you,” Petronas said. Then, surprisingly, he laughed. “I probably would, at that.”

Pyrrhos nodded. “Very well. Such untimely repentance would be a great sin, and sin we must always struggle against. Let it be as you say, Your Majesty.” Along with his new monk and the three broad, burly Haloga warriors, the abbot withdrew from the imperial presence.

“Anthimos, thou conquerest!” one of the courtiers shouted—the ancient Videssian cry of approval for an Avtokrator. In an instant, the Grand Courtroom was full of uproar, with everyone trying to outyell his neighbor to show his loyalty to the newly independent ruler: “Anthimos!” “Thou conquerest, Anthimos!” “Thou conquerest!” “Anthimos!”

Beaming, the Emperor drank in the praise. Krispos knew much of it was insincere, made by men still loyal to Petronas but too wise in the ways of survival at the imperial court to show it. He made a mental note to ask Anthimos to post Halogai around the monastery of the holy Sirikios to supplement Pyrrhos’ club-wielding monks. But that could wait; for the moment, like Anthimos, Krispos was content to enjoy the triumph he’d helped create.

At last the Avtokrator raised a hand. Anthimos said, “As the first decree of this new phase of my reign, I command all of you here to go forth and live joyfully for the rest of your lives!”

Laughter and cheers rang through the Grand Courtroom. Krispos joined them. All the same, he was thinking Anthimos would need a more serious program than that if he intended to rule as well as reign. Krispos smiled a little. That program would have to come from someone. Why not him?

Chapter
XII

“W
HAT IS YOUR WILL, YOUR MAJESTY?” KRISPOS ASKED. “SHALL
we continue your uncle’s war against Makuran on the smaller scale we’ll have to use because we’ve shifted men back to the north, or shall we make peace and withdraw from the few towns Petronas took?”

“Don’t bother me right now, Krispos.” Anthimos had his nose in a scroll. Had the scroll been too far away for Krispos to read, he would have been impressed with the Emperor’s industry, for it was a listing of property that looked much like a tax document. But Krispos knew it listed the wines in Petronas’ cellars, which had fallen to Anthimos along with the rest of his uncle’s vast holdings.

Krispos persisted. “Your Majesty, spring is hard upon us.” He gestured to the open window, which let in a mild, sweet-smelling breeze and showed brilliant sunshine outside. “If you don’t want to meet the envoy the King of Kings has sent us, what shall I tell him?”

“Tell him to go to the ice,” Anthimos snapped. “Tell him whatever you bloody well please. This catalogue says Petronas had five amphorae of golden Vaspurakaner wine, and my cellarers have only been able to find three. I wonder where he hid the other two.” The Avtokrator brightened. “I know! I’ll cast a spell of finding to sniff them out.”

Krispos gave up. “Very well Your Majesty.” He’d hoped to guide Anthimos. Like Petronas, he was discovering guiding was not enough most of the time. If anything needed doing, he had to do it. And so, while the Avtokrator busied himself with his spell of finding, Krispos bowed to Chihor-Vshnasp, the Makuraner ambassador.

Chihor-Vshnasp bowed back, less deeply. That was not an insult. Like most of his countrymen, Chihor-Vshnasp wore a bucket-shaped felt hat that was liable to fall off if he bent too far. “I hope his Imperial Majesty recovers from his indisposition soon,” he said in excellent Videssian.

“So do I,” Krispos said, continuing the polite fiction he knew Chihor-Vshnasp knew to be a polite fiction. “Meanwhile, maybe you and I can see how close we get to settling things for his approval.”

“Shall we try that, esteemed and eminent sir?” Chihor-Vshnasp’s knowledge of Videssian usages seemed flawless. Thoughtfully studying Krispos, he went on, “Such was the custom of the former Sevastokrator Petronas.” It was as smooth a way as Krispos could imagine of asking him whether he in effect filled Petronas’ place.

“I think the Avtokrator will ratify whatever we do,” he answered.

“So.” Chihor-Vshnasp drew the first sound of the word out into a hiss. “It is as I had been led to believe. Let us discuss these matters, then.” He looked Krispos full in the face. His large, dark eyes were limpid, innocent, trusting as a child. They reminded Krispos of the eyes of Ibas, the horse trader who doctored the teeth of the beasts he sold.

Chihor-Vshnasp dickered like a horse trader, too. That made life difficult for Krispos, who wanted to abandon Petronas’ war on Makuran; because of what he’d known growing up on both sides of the northern frontier and because of the unknown quantity Harvas Black-Robe’s mercenaries represented, he thought the danger there more pressing than the one in the west.

But Krispos also feared just walking away from Petronas’ war. Some disgruntled general would surely rise in rebellion if he tried. The high officers in the Videssian army had all resworn their oaths to Anthimos after Petronas fell, but if one rose, Krispos wondered whether the rest would resist him or join his revolt. He did not want to have to find out.

And so, remembering how Iakovitzes had gone round and round with Lexo the Khatrisher, he sparred with Chihor-Vshnasp. At last they settled. Videssos kept the small towns of Artaz and Hanzith, and the valley in which they lay. Vaspurakaners from the regions round the other towns Petronas had taken were to be allowed to move freely into Videssian territory, but Makuran would reoccupy those areas.

After Krispos swore by Phos and Chihor-Vshnasp by his people’s Four Prophets to present to their sovereigns the terms on which they’d agreed, the Makuraner smiled a slightly triumphant smile and said, “Few from Fis and Thelaw and Bardaa will go over to you, you know. We saw that in the fighting last year—they loathe Videssos more for being heretic than Makuran for being heathen, and so did little to aid you.”

“I know. I read the dispatches, too,” Krispos said calmly.

Chihor-Vshnasp pursed his lips. “Interesting. You bargained long and hard for the sake of a concession you admit to be meaningless.”

“It isn’t meaningless,” Krispos said, “not when I can present it to his Majesty and the court as a victory.”

“So.” Chihor-Vshnasp hissed again. “I have word, then, to take to his puissant Majesty Nakhorgan, King of Kings, pious, beneficent, to whom the God and his Prophets Four have granted many years and wide domains: that his brother in might Anthimos remains ably served by his advisors, even if the names change.”

“You flatter me.” Krispos tried not to show the pleasure he felt.

“Of course I do.” Chihor-Vshnasp was in his mid-forties, not his late twenties. The look he gave Krispos was another act of flattery, for it seemed to imply that the two of them were equal in experience. Then he smiled. “That you notice says I have good reason to.”

Krispos bowed in his chair toward the Makuraner envoy. He lifted his cup of wine. “Shall we drink to our success?”

Chihor-Vshnasp raised his cup, too. “By all means.”

“B
Y THE GOOD GOD!” MAVROS EXCLAIMED, STARING WIDE-EYED
at a troupe of young, comely acrobats who formed a pyramid with some most unconventional joinings. “I’ve never seen anything like
that
before!”

“His Majesty’s revels are like no others,” Krispos agreed. He’d invited his foster brother to the feast—Mavros was part of Anthimos’ household these days. All of Petronas’ men, all of Petronas’ vast properties were forfeit to the Avtokrator when the Sevastokrator fell, just as Skombros’ had been before. Anthimos had his own head groom, but Mavros’ new post as that man’s aide carried no small weight of responsbility.

And now, without warning, his eyes lit with a gleam Krispos had seen there before, but never so brightly. He turned and hurried off. “Where are you going?” Krispos called after him. He did not answer, but disappeared into the night. Krispos wondered if watching the acrobats had stirred him so much he had to go find some companionship. If that was what Mavros wanted, Krispos thought, he was foolish to leave. The women right here were more attractive than any he was likely to find elsewhere in the city—and Anthimos did not bid any likely to say no to come to his feasts. Krispos shrugged. He knew he didn’t think things through all the time, however hard he tried. No reason Mavros should, either.

A man came out with a pandoura, struck a ringing chord, and began to sing a bawdy wedding song. Another fellow accompanied him with a set of pipes. The loud, cheerful music worked the same magic in the palace complex as in any peasant village throughout the Empire. It pulled people off couches and away from plates piled high with sea urchins and tuna, asparagus and cakes. It made them want to dance. As at any village wedding throughout the Empire, they formed rings and capered round and round, drowning out the singer as they roared along with his song.

The Halogai might have shouted outside. If they did, no one ever heard them. The first Krispos knew of Mavros’ return was when a woman facing the entrance screamed. Others, some men among them, screamed, too. Pandoura and pipes played on for another few notes, then raggedly fell silent.

“Hello, Your Majesty,” Mavros said, spotting Anthimos in one of the suddenly halted rings. “I thought it was a shame for your friend here to be missing all the fun.” He clucked to the horse he was riding—one of Anthimos’ favorites—and touched its flanks with his heels. Hooves clattering on the smooth stone floor, the horse advanced through the revelers toward the tables piled high with food.

“Don’t just stand there, Krispos,” Mavros called. “Feed this good fellow a strawberry or six.”

Krispos felt like throwing something at Mavros for involving him in this mad jape. Reluctantly he stepped toward the tables. Refusing, he thought, would only look worse. He picked up the bowl of strawberries. Amid vast silence, the snuffling of the horse as it ate was the only sound.

Then Anthimos laughed. All at once, everyone else was laughing, too: whatever the Emperor thought funny could not be an outrage. “Why didn’t you bring a mare in season?” Anthimos called. “Then he could share all the pleasures we do.”

“Maybe next time, Your Majesty,” Mavros said, his face perfectly straight.

“Yes, well, all right,” Anthimos said. “Pity there’s no entertainment that really could amuse him.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Your Majesty,” Mavros answered blithely. “After all, he has us to watch—and if we aren’t funny, what is?”

Anthimos laughed again. As far as he was concerned, Mavros’ headlong style of wit was a great success. Thinking about it, though, Krispos wondered if his foster brother hadn’t been telling the exact and literal truth.

The Emperor said, “One reward we can give him—if he’s finished with those strawberries there, why don’t you fill that bowl up with wine? Here, you can use this jar if you care to.” Nodding, Mavros took the jar to which Anthimos had pointed. He brought it back to where the horse stood patiently waiting, upended over the bowl that still held a few mashed strawberries. The thick wine poured out, yellow as a Haloga’s hair.

“Your Majesty!” Krispos exclaimed. “Is that jar from one of the missing amphorae from Petronas’ cellars?”

“As a matter of fact, it is.” Anthimos looked smug. “I was hoping you’d notice. The spell I employed worked rather well, wouldn’t you say? It took my men right to the missing jars.”

“Good for you.” Krispos eyed the Avtokrator with more respect than he was used to giving him. Anthimos had stuck with his magic and worked to regain it with greater persistence than he devoted to anything else save the pleasures of the flesh. As far as Krispos could tell, he still botched conjurations every so often, but none—yet—in a way that had endangered him. If only he gave as much attention to the broader concerns of the Empire, Krispos thought. Whenever he wanted to be, he was plenty capable. Too often, he did not care to bother.

Krispos wondered how often he’d had that identical thought. Enough times, he was sure, that if he had a goldpiece for each one, the pen-pushers in the imperial treasury could lower the taxes on every farm in Videssos.

They wouldn’t, of course; whenever new money came along, Anthimos always invented a new way to spend it. As now: the thought had hardly crossed Krispos’ mind before the Avtokrator sidled up to him and said, “You know, I think I’m going to have a pool dug beside this hall, so I can stock it with minnows.”

“Minnows, Your Majesty?” If Anthimos had conceived a passion for fishing, he’d done it without Krispos’ noticing. “Trout would give you better sport, I’d think.”

“Not that sort of minnows.” Anthimos looked exasperated at Krispos’ lack of imagination. He glanced toward a couple of the courtesans in the crowded room. “
That
sort of minnows. Don’t you think they could be very amusing, nibbling around the way minnows do, in lovely cool water on a hot summer evening?”

“I suppose they might,” Krispos said, “if you—and they—don’t mind being mosquito food while you’re sporting.” Mosquitoes and gnats and biting insects of all sorts flourished in the humid heat of the city’s summer.

The Emperor’s face fell, but only for a moment. “I could hold the bugs at bay with magic.”

“Your Majesty, if a bug-repelling spell were easy, everyone would use it instead of mosquito netting.”

“Maybe I’ll devise an easy one, then,” Anthimos said.

Maybe he would, too, Krispos thought. Even if the Emperor no longer had a tutor, he was turning into a magician of sorts. Krispos had no interest whatever in becoming a wizard. He was, however, a solidly practical man. He said, “Even without sorcery, you could put a tent of mosquito netting over and around your pool.”

“By the good god, so I could.” Anthimos grinned and clapped Krispos on the back. He talked for the next half hour about the pool and the entertainments he envisioned there. Krispos listened, enthralled. Anthimos was a voluptuary’s voluptuary; he took—and communicated—pleasure in talking about pleasure.

After a while, the thought of the pleasure he would enjoy later roused him to pursue some immediately. He beckoned to one of the tarts in the hall and took her over to an unoccupied portion of the pile of pillows. He’d hardly begun when he got a new idea. “Let’s make a pyramid of our own,” he called to the other couples and groups there. “Do you think we could?”

They tried. Shaking his head, Krispos watched. It wasn’t nearly so fine as the acrobats’ pyramid, but everybody in it seemed to be having a good time. That was Anthimos, through and through.

“M
INNOWS,” DARA HISSED
.

Krispos had never heard the name of a small, nondescript fish used as a swear word before, and needed a moment to understand. Then he asked, “How did you hear about
that
?”