The Tale of Krispos (55 page)

Gnatios delivered a traditional wedding sermon, touching on the virtues that helped make a good marriage. Then the patriarch said, “Are the two of you prepared to cleave to these virtues, and to each other, so long as you both may live?”

“Yes,” Krispos said, and then again, louder, so that people besides himself and Dara could hear, “Yes.”

“Yes,” Dara agreed, not loudly but firmly.

As they spoke the words that bound them together, Mavros set a wreath of roses and myrtle on Krispos’ head. One of Dara’s attendants did the same for her.

“Behold them decked in the crowns of marriage!” Gnatios shouted. “Before the eyes of the entire city, they are shown to be man and wife!”

The grandees and their ladies rose from their benches to applaud. Krispos hardly heard them. He cared only about Dara, who was looking back at him with that same intent expression. Although it was no part of the ceremony, he took her in his arms. He smelled the sweet fragrance of her marriage crown as she held him tightly.

The cheers got louder and more sincere. Someone shouted bawdy advice. “Thou conquerest, Krispos!” someone else yelled, in a tone of voice altogether different from the usual solemn acclamation.

“Many heirs, Krispos!” another wit bawled.

Iakovitzes came up to Krispos. The noble was short and had to stand on tiptoe to put his mouth near Krispos’ ear. “The ring, you idiot,” he hissed. Perhaps because he had no interest whatever in women, he was immune to the joy of the marriage ceremony and cared only that it be correctly accomplished.

Krispos had forgotten the ring and was so relieved to be reminded of this that he took no notice of how Iakovitzes spoke to him; for that matter, Iakovitzes relished playing the gadfly no matter whom he was talking to. Krispos had the ring in a tiny pouch he wore on the inside of his belt so it would not show. He freed the heavy gold band and slipped it onto Dara’s left index finger. She hugged him with renewed strength.

“Before the eyes of the whole city, they are wed!” Gnatios proclaimed. “Now let the people of the city see the happy pair!”

With the patriarch at their side, Krispos and Dara walked down the aisle by which they had approached the altar, through the narthex, and out onto the top of the stairway. The crowd in the forecourt cheered as they came down the steps. It was a smaller crowd now, even though the wedding attendants had fresh, full bags in their hands. They would not fling gold, but figs and nuts, fertility symbols from time out of mind.

Even the often dour Halogai were grinning as they formed up around the wedding party. Geirrod, the first of the northerners to acknowledge Krispos as Emperor, told him, “Do not fail me, Majesty. I have big bet on how many times tonight.”

Dara squawked in indignation. Krispos’ own humor was earthier, but he said, “How do you hope to settle that? By the good god, it’s something only the Empress and I will ever know.”

“Majesty, you served in the palaces before you ruled them,” Geirrod said, his gray eyes knowing. “Was there anything servants could not learn when they needed to?”

“Not that,” Krispos said, then stopped, suddenly unsure he was right. “At least, I hope not that.”

“Huh,” was all Geirrod said.

Giving his guardsman the last word, Krispos paraded with his new bride and their companions back the way they had come. Even without expectations of more money, a fair crowd still lined the streets and filled the plaza of Palamas; the folk of the city loved spectacle almost as well as largess.

After the plaza, the calm of the palace quarter came as a relief. Most of the Halogai departed for their barracks; only the troops assigned to guard the imperial residence accompanied the wedding party there. Save for Krispos and Dara, everyone stopped at the bottom of the steps. They pelted the newlywed couple with leftover figs and gave Krispos more lewd advice.

He endured that with the good humor a new groom is supposed to show. When he didn’t feel like waiting any longer, he slid his arm round Dara’s waist. Led by Mavros, the groomsmen and bridesmaids whooped. Krispos stuck his nose in the air and turned away from them, drawing Dara with him. They whooped louder than ever.

The happy shouts of the wedding party followed Dara and him down the hall to the bedchamber. The doors were closed. He opened them and found that the servants had turned down the bedcovers and left a jar of wine and two cups on the night table by the bed. Smiling, he closed the doors and barred them.

Dara turned her back on him. “Would you unfasten me, please? The maidservant took half an hour getting me into his gown; it has enough hooks and eyelets and what-have-you for a jail, not something you’d wear.”

“I hope I can get you out of it faster than half an hour,” Krispos said. He did, but not as fast as he might have; the more hooks he undid, the more attention his hands paid to the soft skin he was revealing and the less to the fasteners that remained.

Finally the job was done. Dara turned to him. They kissed for a long time. When at last they broke apart, she ruefully looked down at herself. “Every pearl, every gem, every metal thread on that robe of yours has stamped itself into me,” she complained.

“And what will you do about that?” he asked.

A corner of her mouth quirked upward. “Let’s see if I can keep it from happening again.” Her disrobing of him also proceeded more slowly than it might have, but he did not mind.

The two of them hung their crowns of marriage on the bedposts for luck, then lay down together. Krispos caressed Dara’s breasts, lowered his mouth to one of them. She stirred, but not altogether in pleasure. “Be gentle, if you can,” she said. “They’re sore.”

“Are they?” Under the fine skin, he could see a new tracery of blue veins. He touched her again, as carefully as he could. “Another sign you’re carrying a child.”

“I don’t have much doubt, not anymore,” she said.

“All those nuts and figs did a better job than they know,” he said, straight-faced.

Dara started to nod, then snorted and poked him in the ribs. He grabbed her and held her close to keep her from doing it again. They did not separate, not until they were both spent. Then, his breath still coming quick, Krispos reached for the wine jar and said, “Shall we see what they gave us to keep us going?”

“Why not?” Dara answered. “Pour a cup for me, too, please.”

Thick and golden, the wine gurgled out of the jar. Krispos recognized the sweet, heady bouquet. “This is that Vaspurakaner vintage from Petronas’ cellars,” he said. When Anthimos broke his ambitious uncle’s power, he’d confiscated all of Petronas’ lands, his money, his horses, and his wines. Krispos had drunk this one before. He raised the cup to his lips. “As good as I remember it.”

Dara sipped, raised an eyebrow. “Yes, that’s quite fine—sweet and tart at the same time.” She drank again.

Krispos held his cup high. “To you, Your Majesty.”

“And to you, Your Majesty,” Dara answered, returning his salute with vigor—so much that a few drops flew over the rim and splashed on the bedclothes. As she looked at the spreading stain, she started to laugh.

“What’s funny?” Krispos said.

“I was just thinking that this time no one will expect to find a spot of blood on the sheet. After my first night with Anthimos, Skombros marched in, peeled that sheet off the bed—he almost dumped me out to get it—then took it outside and waved it about. Everyone cheered, but it was a ritual I could have done without. As if I were a piece of raw meat, checked to make sure I hadn’t spoiled.”

“Ah, Skombros,” Krispos said. The fat eunuch had been Anthimos’ vestiarios before Petronas got Krispos the post. An Emperor’s chamberlain was in a uniquely good position to influence him, and Petronas had wanted no one but himself influencing Anthimos. And so Skombros had gone from the imperial residence to a bare monastery cell; Krispos wondered if Petronas had ever thought the same fate could befall him.

“I liked you better than Skombros as vestiarios,” Dara said with a sidelong look.

“I’m glad you did,” Krispos answered mildly. All the same, he understood why imperial chamberlains were most of them eunuchs, and was not sorry his own vestiarios followed that rule. Since Dara had cheated for him, how could he be sure she would never cheat against him?

He glanced toward his Empress, wondering again whether the child she carried was his or Anthimos’. If even she could not say, how would he ever know?

He shook his head. Doubts at the very beginning of a marriage did not bode well for contentment to come. He tried to put them aside. If ever a husband had given his wife reason to be unfaithful, he told himself, Anthimos had provoked Dara with his orgies and his endless parade of paramours. As long as he treated her well himself, she should have no reason to stray.

He took her in his arms again. “So soon?” she said, startled but not displeased. “Here, let me set my wine down first.” She giggled as his weight pressed her to the bed. “I hope your Haloga bet high.”

“So do I,” Krispos said. Then her lips silenced him.

K
RISPOS WOKE, YAWNED, STRETCHED, AND ROLLED OVER ONTO
his back. Dara was sitting up in bed beside him. By the look of her, she’d been awake for some time. Krispos sat up, too. He glanced at where sunbeams hit the far wall. “Phos!” he exclaimed. “What hour is it, anyway?”

“Somewhere in the fourth, I’d say—more than halfway to noon,” Dara told him. The Videssians gave twelve hours to the day and another twelve to the night, reckoning them from sunrise and sunset respectively. Dara gave him a quizzical look. “What do you suppose you were doing last night that left you so tired?”

“I can’t imagine,” Krispos said, only partly in irony. He’d grown up a peasant, after all, and what labor was more exhausting than farming? Yet he’d risen with the sun every day. On the other hand, he’d gone to bed with the sun, too, and he’d been up considerably later than that the night before.

Yawning again, he got up, ambled over to the bureau to put on some drawers, then opened a tall wardrobe, picked out a robe, and pulled it on over his head. Dara watched him bemusedly. He was reaching for a pair of red boots when she asked, “Have you forgotten you have a vestiarios to help you with such things?”

He paused. “As a matter of fact, I did,” he said sheepishly. “That was foolish of me, wasn’t it? But it’s also foolish for Barsymes to help me just because I’m Avtokrator. I didn’t need his help before.” As if to defy custom, he tugged on his own boots.

“It’s also foolish not to let Barsymes do his job, which is to serve you,” Dara said. “If you don’t allow him to perform his proper function, then he has none. Is that what you want?”

“No,” Krispos admitted. But having done entirely without service most of his life, and having given it first as groom in Iakovitzes’ and Petronas’ stables, then as Anthimos’ vestiarios, he still felt odd about receiving it.

Dara, a western noble’s daughter, had no such qualms. She reached for a green cord that hung by her side of the bed and pulled down on it. A couple of rooms away, a bell tinkled. Moments later, a maidservant tried to open the doors to the imperial bedchambers. “They’re still locked, your Majesties,” she said.

Krispos walked over and lifted the bar. “Come in, Verina,” he said.

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” The serving maid stared at him in surprise and no little indignation. “You’re dressed!” she blurted. “What are you doing being dressed?”

He did not turn around to see the I-told-you-so look in Dara’s eyes, but he was sure it was there. “I’m sorry, Verina,” he said mildly. “I won’t let it happen again.” A scarlet bellpull dangled next to his side of the bed. He pulled it. This bell was easier to hear—the vestiarios’ chamber, the chamber that had until recently been his, was next door to the bedchamber.

Barsymes’ long pale face grew longer when he saw Krispos. “Your Majesty,” he said, making the title into one of reproach.

“I’m sorry,” Krispos said again; though he ruled the Empire of Videssos, he wondered if he was truly master of the palaces. “Even if I did dress myself, I’m sure I’m no cook. Will you be less angry at me after you escort me to breakfast?”

The vestiarios’ mouth twitched. It could have been a smile. “Possibly a trifle, Your Majesty. If you’ll come with me?”

Krispos followed Barsymes out of the bedchamber. “I’ll join you soon,” Dara said. She was standing nude in front of her wardrobe, chattering with Verina about which gown she should wear today. Barsymes’ eyes never went her way. Not all eunuchs were immune from desire, even if they lacked the capacity to satisfy it. Krispos wondered whether the vestiarios felt no stirring or was just a discreetly excellent servant. He knew he could never ask.

Barsymes fussed over seating him in a small dining room. “And how would you care to break your fast this day, Your Majesty?”

“A big hot bowl of porridge, a chunk of bread and some honey, and a couple of rashers of bacon would do me very well,” Krispos said. That was the sort of hearty breakfast he’d had back in his home village when times were good. Times hadn’t been good often enough. Sometimes breakfast had been a small bowl of porridge, sometimes nothing at all.

“As you wish, Your Majesty,” Barsymes said tonelessly, “though Phestos may be disappointed at having nothing more elaborate to prepare.”

“Ah,” Krispos said. Anthimos had gloried in the exotic; he’d thought his own more mundane tastes would be a relief to everyone. But if Phestos wanted a challenge…“Tell him to make the goat seethed in fermented fish sauce and leeks tonight, then.”

Barsymes nodded. “A good choice.”

Dara came in, asked for a stewed muskmelon. The vestiarios went to take her request and Krispos’ to the cook. With a wry smile, she patted her belly. “I just hope it stays down. The past couple of days, I’ve hardly wanted to look at food.”

“You have to eat,” Krispos said.

“I know it full well. My stomach’s the one that’s not convinced.”

Before long, Barsymes brought in the food. Krispos happily dug in and finished his own breakfast while Dara picked at her melon. When Barsymes saw Krispos was done, he whisked away his dishes and set in front of him a silver tray full of scrolls. “The morning’s correspondence, Your Majesty.”