The Tale of Krispos (13 page)

“As may be,” Krispos said. “It’s not why we were broken, but that we were broken that put me on my way here. Farmers have hard enough times worrying about nature. If the tax man wrecks us, too, we’ve got no hope at all. That’s what it looked like to me, and that’s why I left.”

Pyrrhos nodded. “I’ve heard like tales before. Now, though, the question arises of what to do with you. Did you come to the city planning to use the weapons you carry?”

“Not if I can find anything else to do,” Krispos said at once.

“Hmm.” The abbot stroked his bushy beard. “You lived all your life till now on a farm, yes? How are you with horses?”

“I can manage, I expect,” Krispos answered, “though I’m better with mules; I’ve had more to do with them, if you know what I mean. Mules I’m good with. Any other livestock, too, and I’m your man. Why do you want to know, holy sir?”

“Because I think that, as the flows of your life and mine have come together after so many years, it seems fitting for Iakovitzes’ to be mingled with the stream once more, as well. And because I happen to know that Iakovitzes is constantly looking for new grooms to serve in his stables.”

“Would he take me on, holy sir? Someone he’s never—well, just about never—seen before? If he would…” Krispos’ eyes lit up. “If he would, I’d leap at the chance.”

“He would, on my urging,” Pyrrhos said. “We’re cousins of sorts: his great-grandfather and my grandmother were brother and sister. He also owes me a few more favors than I owe him at the moment.”

“If he would, if you would, I couldn’t think of anything better.” Krispos meant it; if he was going to work with animals, it would be almost as if he had the best of farm and city both. He hesitated, then asked a question he knew was dangerous: “But why do you want to do this for me, holy sir?”

Pyrrhos sketched the sun-sign. After a moment, Krispos realized that was all the answer he’d get. When the abbot spoke, it was of his cousin. “Understand, young man, you are altogether free to refuse this if you wish. Many would, without a second thought. I don’t know if you recall, but Iakovitzes is a man of—how shall I say it?—uncertain temperament, perhaps.”

Krispos smiled. He did remember.

The abbot smiled, too, but thinly. “That is one reason, of course, why he constantly seeks new grooms. Truly, I may be doing you no favor, though I pray to Phos that I am.”

“Sounds to me like you are,” Krispos said.

“I hope so.” Pyrrhos made the sun-sign again, which puzzled Krispos. Pyrrhos hesitated, then went on, “In justice, there is one other thing of which I should warn you: Iakovitzes is said sometimes to seek, ah, services from his grooms other than caring for his beasts.”

“Oh.” That made Krispos hesitate, too. His memory of the way Iakovitzes had touched him was inextricably joined to the mortification he’d known on that Midwinter’s Day when the villagers poked fun at him and Idalkos. “I don’t have any leanings that way myself,” he said carefully. “But if he pushes too hard, I suppose I can always quit—I’d be no worse off then than if I hadn’t met you.”

“What you say has a measure of truth in it,” Pyrrhos said. “Very well, then, if it is your wish, I will take you to meet Iakovitzes.”

“Let’s go!” Krispos leaped to his feet.

The abbot stayed seated. “Not quite at this instant,” he said, his voice dry. “Iakovitzes may occasionally go to bed in the ninth hour of the night, but I assure you he is not in the habit of rising at this time. If we went to his home now, we
would
be turned away from his door, most likely with dogs.”

“I forgot what time it was,” Krispos said sheepishly.

“Go back to the common room. Sleep the rest of the night there. When morning comes, we will visit my cousin, I promise you.” Pyrrhos yawned. “I may even try for a little more sleep myself, assuming I don’t get thrown out of bed again.”

“Holy sir?” Krispos asked, but the abbot did not explain.

Chapter
IV

I
AKOVITZES’ HOUSE WAS LARGE BUT, FROM THE OUTSIDE, NOT
otherwise impressive. Only a few windows interrupted the long whitewashed front that faced the street. They were too narrow to let in any thief, no matter how young or skinny.

A second story stood above the first, and overhung it by three or four feet. In summer, that would have created shade; now, with the rain coming down again, it kept Krispos and Pyrrhos from getting any wetter as the abbot seized the horseshoe that served for a knocker and pounded it against Iakovitzes’ stout front door.

A servant opened a little grillwork in the center of the door and peered through it. “Abbot Pyrrhos!” he said. Krispos heard him lift the bar. The door opened outward a moment later. “Come in, holy sir, and your friend as well.”

Just inside the doorway lay a mat of woven straw. Pyrrhos stopped to wipe his muddy sandals on it before he walked down the hall. Admiring the wit of whoever had come up with such a useful device, Krispos imitated the abbot.

“Have you breakfasted, holy sir?” the servant asked.

“On monastery fare,” Pyrrhos said. “That suits me well enough, but I daresay Krispos here would be grateful for a bit more. In any case, it is on his behalf that I have come to visit your master.”

“I see. Krispos, you say his name is? Very well. Wait here, if you please. I’ll have something sent him from the kitchen and will inform Iakovitzes directly.”

“Thank you,” Pyrrhos said. Krispos said nothing. He was too busy staring. “Here”—Iakovitzes’ waiting room—was the most magnificent place he had ever seen. The floor was a mosaic, a hunting scene with men spearing boars from horseback. Krispos had seen mosaic work once before, in the dome of Phos’ temple at Imbros. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined anyone save perhaps the Avtokrator possessing a mosaic of his own.

The waiting room opened onto a courtyard that seemed about the size of the village square Krispos had so recently left. In the center stood a horse, frozen in mid-rear. Krispos needed a moment to realize it was a statue. Around it were patterned rows of hedges and flowers, though most of the blooms had already fallen because the season was so late. A marble fountain plashed just outside the waiting room, as happily as if rain had never been invented.

“Here you are, sir.” The view so enthralled Krispos that the young man at his elbow might have spoken two or three times before he noticed. When he turned with a stammered apology, the servant handed him a covered silver tray. “Lobster tail in cream sauce, with parsnips and squash. I hope that suits you, sir.”

“What? Oh. Yes. Of course. Thank you.” Noticing he was babbling, Krispos shut up. So far as he could remember, no one had ever called him “sir” before. Now this fellow had done it twice in about as many sentences.

When he lifted the lid, the delicious aroma that floated up from the tray drove such maunderings out of his mind. The lobster tasted even better than it smelled, which amazed him all over again. It was sweeter than pork and more delicate than veal, and he could only regret that it disappeared so fast. Iakovitzes’ cook knew more about what to do with squash and parsnips than any of the village women had, too.

He had just set down the tray and was licking cream sauce off his mustache when Iakovitzes came into the waiting room. “Hello, Pyrrhos.” He held out his hand for the abbot’s clasp. “What brings you here so early, and who’s this stalwart young chap you have with you?” His eyes walked up and down Krispos.

“You’ve met him before, cousin,” Pyrrhos said.

“Have I? Then I’d best arrange a guardian to oversee my affairs, for my memory is plainly not what it was.” Iakovitzes clapped a hand to his forehead in melodramatic despair. He waved Pyrrhos and Krispos to a couch and sat down himself in a chair close to Krispos. He pulled it closer yet. “Explain to me, then, if you would, my evident decline into senility.”

Pyrrhos was either long used to Iakovitzes’ histrionics or, perhaps more likely, without enough sense of humor to react much to them. “Krispos here was a great deal younger then,” the abbot explained. “He was the boy who stood on the platform with you to seal one of your ransoming bargains with Omurtag.”

“The more I forget about those beastly trips to Kubrat, the happier I’ll be.” Iakovitzes paused, stroking his carefully trimmed beard while he studied Krispos again. “By Phos, I do recall!” he said. “You were a pretty boy then, and you’re quite the handsome youth now. By that proud nose of yours, I’d almost guess you were a Vaspurakaner, though if you’re from the northern border I don’t suppose that’s likely.”

“My father always said his side of the family had Vaspurakaner blood,” Krispos said.

Iakovitzes nodded. “It could be so; ‘princes’ resettled there after some old war—or some old treachery. Whether or not, the look becomes you.”

Krispos did not know how to answer that, so he kept quiet. Some of the village girls had praised his looks, but never a man before.

To his relief, Iakovitzes turned back to Pyrrhos. “You were about to tell me, I expect, how and why dear Krispos here comes to be in the city instead of back at his rustic village, and also how and why that pertains to me.”

Krispos saw how his sharp eyes bored into the abbot’s. He also noted that Iakovitzes was not going to say anything of consequence until he heard Pyrrhos’ story. He thought better of him for it; whatever Iakovitzes’ taste in pleasures, the man was no fool.

The abbot told the tale as Krispos had given it to him, then carried it forward. His explanation of how he had come to call for Krispos in the monastery was vague. Krispos had thought so the night before. Iakovitzes, however, was in a position to call Pyrrhos on it. “I don’t follow you there,” he said. “Back up and tell me just how that happened.”

Pyrrhos looked harassed. “Only if I have your vow by the lord with the great and good mind to let the story go no further—and yours as well, Krispos.” Krispos swore the oath; after a moment, Iakovitzes did, too. “Very well, then,” the abbot said heavily. He told of his three dreams of the night before, and of ending up on the floor after the last one.

Silence filled the waiting room when he was done. Iakovitzes broke it, asking, “And you think this means—what?”

“I wish I knew,” Pyrrhos burst out. He sounded as exasperated as he looked. “That it is a sending, I think no one could deny. But whether it is for good or evil, from Phos or Skotos or neither, I would not begin to guess. I can only say that in some way quite unapparent to me, Krispos here is more remarkable than he seems.”

“He seems remarkable enough, though perhaps not in the way you mean,” Iakovitzes said with a smile. “So you brought him to me, eh, cousin, to fulfill your dream’s commandment to treat him like a son? I suppose I should be flattered—unless you think your dream does bode ill and are not letting on.”

“No. No priest of Phos could do such a thing without yielding his soul to the certainty of Skotos’ ice,” Pyrrhos said.

Iakovitzes steepled his fingertips. “I suppose not.” He turned his smile, charming and cynical at the same time, on Krispos. “So, young man, now that you are here—for good or ill—what would you?”

“I came to Videssos the city for work,” Krispos said slowly. “The abbot tells me you’re hiring grooms. I’ve lived on a farm all my life but for the last couple of weeks. You won’t find many city-raised folk better with beasts than I am.”

“There is probably a good deal of truth in that.” Iakovitzes raised an eyebrow. “Did my cousin the most holy abbot”—he spoke with such fulsome sincerity that the praise sounded like sarcasm—“also, ah, warn you that I sometimes seek more from my grooms than skill with animals alone?”

“Yes,” Krispos said flatly, then kept still.

Finally, Iakovitzes prompted him: “And so?”

“Sir, if that’s what you want from me, I expect you’ll be able to find it elsewhere with less trouble. I do thank you for the breakfast, and for your time. Thank you as well, holy sir,” Krispos added for Pyrrhos’ benefit as he stood to go.

“Don’t be hasty.” Iakovitzes jumped to his feet, too. “I
do
need grooms, as a matter of fact. Suppose I take you on with no requirement past caring for the beasts, with room and board and—hmm—a goldpiece a week.”

“You pay the others two,” Pyrrhos said.

“Dear cousin, I thought you priests reckoned silence a virtue,” Iakovitzes said. It was the sweetest snarl Krispos had heard. Iakovitzes turned back to him. “Very well, then, two goldpieces a week, though you lacked the wit to ask for them yourself.”

“Just the beasts?” Krispos said.

“Just the beasts”—Iakovitzes sighed—“though you must not hold it against me if from time to time I try to find out whether you’ve changed your mind.”

“Will
you
hold it against
me
if I keep saying no?”

Iakovitzes sighed again. “I suppose not.”

“Then we’ve got ourselves a bargain.” Krispos stuck out his hand. It almost swallowed Iakovitzes’, though the smaller man’s grip was surprisingly strong.

“Gomaris!” Iakovitzes shouted. The man who had let in Krispos and Pyrrhos appeared a moment later, panting a little. “Gomaris, Krispos will be one of the grooms from now on. Why don’t you find him some clothes better than those rags he has on and then get him settled in with the rest of the lads?”

“Of course. Come along, Krispos, and welcome to the household.” Gomaris waited till he was halfway down the hall, then added softly, “Whatever else it is around here, it’s rarely dull.”

“That,” said Krispos, “I believe.”

“H
ERE COMES THE FARM BOY
.”

Krispos heard the whisper as he came into the stable. By the way Barses and Meletios sniggered at each other, he had been meant to hear. He scowled. They were both younger than he, but they were also from the city, and from families of more than a little wealth. So were most of Iakovitzes’ grooms. They seemed to enjoy making Krispos’ life miserable.

Barses took a shovel off the wall and thrust it at Krispos. “Here you are, farm boy. Since you’ve lived with manure all your life, you can clean out the stalls today. You’re used to smelling like the hind end of a horse.” His handsome face split in a wide, mocking grin.

“It’s not my turn to shovel out today,” Krispos said shortly.

“Oh, but we think you should do it anyway,” Barses said. “Don’t we, Meletios?” The other groom nodded. He was even handsomer than Barses; almost pretty, in fact.

“No,” Krispos said.

Barses’ eyes went wide in feigned surprise. “The farm boy grows insolent. I think we’ll have to teach him a lesson.”

“So we will,” Meletios said. Smiling in anticipation, he stepped toward Krispos. “I wonder how fast farm boys learn. I’ve heard they’re not too bright.”

Krispos’ frown deepened. He’d known for a week that the hazing he’d been sweating out would turn physical sooner or later. He’d thought he was ready—but two against one wasn’t how he’d wanted it to happen. He held up a hand. “Wait!” he said in a high, alarmed voice. “I’ll clean ’em. Give me the shovel.”

Barses held it out. His face showed an interesting mix of amusement, triumph, and contempt. “You’d best do a good job, too, farm boy, or we’ll make you lick up whatever you—”

Krispos snatched the shovel from his hands, whirled, and rammed the handle into the pit of Meletios’ stomach. The groom closed up on himself like a bellows, gasping uselessly for air.

Krispos threw the shovel aside. “Come on!” he snarled at Barses. “Or aren’t you as good with your hands as you are with your mouth?”

“You’ll see, farm boy!” Barses sprang at him. He was strong and fearless and knew something of what he was doing, but he’d never been through anything like the course in nasty fighting Krispos had taken from Idalkos. In less than two minutes he was down in the straw beside Meletios, groaning and trying to hold his knee, his groin, his ribs, and a couple of dislocated fingers, all at the same time.

Krispos stood over the other two grooms, breathing hard. One of his eyes was half closed and a collarbone had gotten a fearful whack, but he’d dished out a lot more than he’d taken. He picked up the shovel and tossed it between Meletios and Barses. “You can shovel out for yourselves.”

Meletios grabbed the shovel and started to swing it at Krispos’ ankles. Krispos stamped on his hand. Meletios shrieked and let go. Krispos kicked him in the ribs with force nicely calculated to yield maximum hurt and minimum permanent damage. “Come to think of it, Meletios, you do the shoveling today. You just earned it.”

Even through his pain, Meletios let out an indignant squawk and cast a look of appeal toward Barses.

The other groom was just sitting up. He shook his head, then grimaced as he regretted the motion. “I’m not going to argue with him, Meletios, and if you have any sense, you won’t, either.” He managed a lopsided grin. “Nobody with any sense is going to argue with Krispos, not after today.”

T
HE HARASSMENT DID NOT DISAPPEAR. WITH A DOZEN GROOMS
ranging from their mid-teens up to Krispos’ age, and all living in one another’s pockets, that would hardly have been possible. But after Krispos dealt with Barses and Meletios, he was accepted as one of the group and got to hand it out as well as take it.