The Tale of Krispos (144 page)

“So you know about that, do you? We wondered, Father and I. We were afraid you knew and didn’t care, afraid you’d thrown your lot in with the heretics. You hadn’t seemed exactly eager when we went on campaign against them last year.” Evripos’ sarcasm stung like a whiplash.

“I wasn’t eager then,” Phostis admitted: No point denying it, for Evripos knew better. “It’s different now. Fetch a mage for the two-mirror test if you don’t believe me.”

Evripos glowered at him. “The Thanasioi have tricks to beat the two-mirror test, as you’ll recall from the delightful time Zaidas had trying to use it last year. And if Zaidas couldn’t make it work, I doubt another mage would be able to, either. And so, brother of mine, I’ll keep you and the heresiarch’s daughter off the platform. I can’t trust you, you see.”

“Can’t trust us how?” Phostis demanded.

“How d’you think? Suppose I let you go talk to the mob and instead of saying, ‘The golden path is a midden full of dung,’ you say, ‘Hurrah for Thanasios! Now go out and burn the High Temple!’? That would spill the chamber pot into the stew, now wouldn’t it?”

Noetos looked up from the map table and said, “Surely the young Majesty would commit no such outrage. He—”

Evripos cut him off with a sharp wave of the hand. “No.” He sounded as imperial—and as much like his father—as Phostis had with the same word. “I will not take the chance. Have we not seen enough chaos in the city these past few days to fight shy of provoking more? I say again, no.” He shifted his feet into a fighter’s stance, as if defying Noetos to make him change his mind.

The general tamely yielded. “It shall be as you say, of course, young Majesty,” he murmured, and went back to his map.

Phostis found himself furious enough to want to hit his brother over the head with the nearest hard object he could find. “You’re a fool,” he growled.

“And you’re a blockhead,” Evripos retorted. “I’m not the one who let Digenis seduce him.”

“How’s this, then?” Phostis said. “Suppose you summon Oxeites the patriarch here to the plaza of Palamas or anyplace else you think would be a good idea, and he can marry me to Olyvria as publicly as possible. That ought to convince people I’m not a Thanasiot—they’d sooner starve than wive…Curse you, Evripos, I mean it. What’s so bloody funny?”

“I’m sorry,” Evripos said, the first concession Phostis had got from him. “I was just thinking it’s too bad Father’s gone on campaign. The two of you might don the crowns of marriage side by side. Do you remember the serving maid named Drina?”

“Of course. She’s a pretty little thing, but—” Phostis gaped at his grinning brother. “Father’s gone all soft in the head over her?”

“I doubt that,” Evripos said judiciously. “When has Father ever gone soft in the head over anyone, us included? But she is pregnant by him. We’ll have ourselves a little half brother or half sister before Midwinter’s Day. Relax, Phostis—you don’t need to go so white. Father truly doesn’t plan on marrying her. Believe me, I’m as happy at that as you are.”

“Yes. A new half brother or half sister, eh? Well, well.” Phostis wondered if he was only half brother to Evripos and Katakolon as it was. He’d never know, not for certain. He said, “If you’re done gossiping, I’m dead serious about what I said. If you think it will help end the riots, I’ll wed in as open a ceremony as the chamberlains can dream up.”

Beside him, Olyvria nodded vigorously. “That might be the best way to discredit the gleaming path: let those who think of following it see that their onetime leaders are abandoning it.”

“The plan is sensible, young Majesty,” Noetos said.

“Mmm—maybe it is.” Evripos frowned in intense concentration. A messenger interrupted with a note. Evripos read it, snapped orders, and returned to study. At last he said, “No, I will not order it. One of the drawbacks of our rank, brother, is that we aren’t always free to make the matches we would. I see nothing wrong with this one, but I’m slowly finding out—” His grin was rueful and disarming at the same time. “—I don’t know everything there is to know. Too much rides here for me to say aye or nay.”

“What then?” Phostis demanded.

“I’ll send you along the courier route to Father. Tell him your tale. If he believes you, what can I possibly say? And if he thinks this marriage of yours a good idea, then married you shall be—and at a quickstep, if I know Father. Bargain?”

“Bargain,” Phostis replied at once. A couple of orders from Evripos and he and Olyvria might have disappeared for good. If Krispos ever found out, Evripos could claim they were fanatical Thanasioi. Who would contradict him, especially after he became the primary heir? “It’s…decent of you.”

“Meaning you expect me to throw you into some dungeon or other and then forget which one it was?” Evripos asked.

“Well—yes.” Phostis felt his face heat at being so obvious; had he made that kind of mistake at Etchmiadzin, he never would have got out of the fortress.

“If you think the notion didn’t cross my mind, you’re daft.” Phostis needed a moment to realize the strangled noise Evripos made was intended as laughter. His younger brother went on, “Father always taught us to fear the ice, and I guess I listened to him. If you’d gone over to the gleaming path, nothing would have made me happier than hunting you down and taking your place. Always believe that, Phostis. But stealing it after you’ve got loose of the Thanasioi?” He made a wry face. “It’s tempting, but I can resist it.”

Phostis thought of the chamber under Digenis’ tunnel, and of the naked and lovely temptation Olyvria had represented. He’d passed her by—then. Now he lay in her arms whenever he could. Had he yielded to temptation? Would Evripos, with some future chance to seize the throne, spring after it rather than turning his back?

As for the first question, Phostis told himself, the situation had changed by the time he and Olyvria became lovers. She wasn’t just so much flesh set out for him to enjoy; she’d become his closest friend—almost his only friend—in Etchmiadzin. Were circumstances different, he’d gladly have paid her formal court.

As for the second question…the future would have to answer it. Phostis knew he’d be a fool to ignore the possibility of Evripos’ trying to usurp him. In the future, though, he’d have the power, not his brother—as Evripos did today. And maybe today showed they had hope, at least, of working together.

Evripos said, “Come the day, brother, we may not make such a bad team. Even if you end up with the red boots on your feet, give me something to do with soldiers and I’ll do well for Videssos with them.”

Not
in your service,
Phostis noted. He didn’t quibble. Among the other things Krispos had taught was that the Empire came first, that anyone who didn’t put it ahead of everything else didn’t deserve to have his fundament warm the throne in the Grand Courtroom. The lesson made more sense to Phostis than it ever had before.

“You know what?” he said. Evripos raised a questioning eyebrow. Phostis continued, “It’ll be good to see Father. It’s been too long.” Phostis paused again. “I don’t suppose I could bring Olyvria along?”

“No,” Evripos said at once, but then added, “Wait. Maybe you should. She’ll know a lot about the Thanasioi—”

“She does,” Phostis said, at the same time as Olyvria was saying, “I do.”

“Well then,” Evripos said, as if that settled things, “if you don’t bring her, Father will come down on me for making you leave her behind so he can’t wring her dry with questions. Take her by all means.”

“I shall obey your commands, young Majesty,” Phostis said with a salute.

Evripos saluted in return. “I’ve obeyed yours a time or two, young Majesty,” he answered.

“Brothers,” Olyvria said; she might have been referring to some lower form of life. Phostis and Evripos looked at each other. Grinning, they both nodded.

Chapter
XI

K
RISPOS SLAMMED HIS FOREHEAD WITH THE HEEL OF HIS
hand, hard enough to hurt. “By the good god, I’m an idiot,” he exclaimed.

“No doubt, Your Majesty,” Sarkis agreed cheerfully; along with Iakovitzes, Zaidas, and Barsymes, he could say something like that without going up on charges of lèse majesté. “In which particular matter are you being an idiot today?”

“With all the hoorah over Garsavra, I clean forgot to write to Evripos and warn him to be alert for Phostis,” Krispos answered. He thumped himself again, in disgust. Characteristically, he wasted no more time on reproaches. Instead, he pulled a scrap of parchment and pen and ink from pouches on his belt, scrawled a few nearly illegible lines—the motion of the horse didn’t help—and then called, “Katakolon!” After a moment, he called again, louder.

“Aye, Father? How can I help you?” His youngest son brought his own horse trotting up alongside Krispos’ mount.

Krispos handed him the note. “Seal this, stick it in a message tube, and get it off to Videssos the city as fast as you can.”

“Just as you say.” The piece of parchment was too small to roll or fold conveniently. Katakolon read it before he took it to do as Krispos had commanded. His eyes were troubled when he raised them to look at his father again. “Surely it can’t be as bad as—this?”

“I don’t know whether it is or not,” Krispos said. “But as to whether it can be—by Phos, boy, it could be ten times worse. He might be landing in the city with a shipload of fanatics all hot to die for the gleaming path.”

“Phostis?” Katakolon’s voice rose. He shook his head. “I can’t believe it.”

“I can, which is what matters,” Krispos answered. “Now get moving. I didn’t give you that note to argue over it, just to have it start on its way to the city.”

“Aye, Father,” Katakolon said dolefully.

“You don’t suppose he’ll ‘accidentally’ lose that, do you?” Sarkis said.

“He’d better not,” Krispos answered; the same thought had crossed his mind. He remembered his talk with Evripos back in the city. If his sons thought strongly enough that they were right, they would follow their own wills, not his. They were turning into men—at the most inconvenient time possible.

Had Phostis done that? When he chose to walk the gleaming path, was he making his own judgments as best he knew how, no matter how wrongheaded they seemed to Krispos? Or had he merely found someone whose lead he preferred to his father’s? Krispos shook his head. He wondered if Phostis knew.

As he had so often over the years, he forced personal worries—and worries about which he could do nothing—to the back of his mind. Enough other business remained to occupy him. The army was up on the plateau now, with everyone a bit on the hungry side because supply arrangements hadn’t kept up with the changed route.

Of Livanios’ force there was no sign. That worried Krispos. If the Thanasioi scattered before he could smite them, what point to the campaign? How was he supposed to beat them if they turned back into harmless-looking herders and farmers and tanners and candlemakers and what-have-you? If he went back to Videssos the city, they’d be raiders again the moment his dust vanished over the horizon. He was bitterly certain of that.

The army camped for the night by a stream that wouldn’t have water in it too much longer. Now, though, it would serve. The men saw to their horses before they cared for themselves. Krispos strolled through the encampment, checking to make sure his orders on that score were obeyed. He’d served as groom first for Iakovitzes and then for Petronas after he came to the imperial city; he knew what went into tending horses.

He was sound asleep on his folding cot in the imperial tent when a Haloga called “Your Majesty” over and over until it woke him. He groaned as he made himself sit; his eyes felt as if someone had poured sand into their sockets. The guardsman said, “Your pardon, Majesty, but out here waits a courier who must see you.”

“Aye, send him in,” Krispos said in a voice that sounded nothing like his own.

He waved for the courier not to bother prostrating himself; the sooner the fellow was gone, he thought, the sooner he could get back to sleep. “May it please Your Majesty,” the courier said, and Krispos braced himself for bad news. The man delivered it: “I have to report that the Thanasioi have fallen on and taken the city of Kyzikos.”

“Kyzikos?” Still foggy, Krispos needed a moment to place the town on the map. It lay down in the coastal plain, east of Garsavra. “What’s Livanios doing there?” As soon as he raised the question, the answer became obvious: “The imperial mint!”

“Aye, Your Majesty, it’s taken and burned,” the courier said. “The temple is burned, as well, and so is much of the central part of the city—like many towns in the western lowlands, Kyzikos has, or rather had, no wall to hold invaders at bay. And the farmland round the city is ravaged as if locusts had been at it.”

“Aye,” Krispos said. “A heavy blow.” If Livanios’ warriors could ravage Kyzikos, no place in the westlands was safe from them. And if Livanios had the gold from the mint in Kyzikos, he could work untold mischief with it, too. Gold and the Thanasioi did not normally mix, but Krispos did not think Livanios was a typical Thanasiot. If he read the heresiarch aright, Livanios cared more about Livanios than about the gleaming path.

But no matter how much damage they had done—Krispos’ wits began working a little faster—they’d also made what might prove a bad mistake: they’d given the imperial army the chance to interpose itself between them and their stronghold near the border with Vaspurakan.

“If you stick your neck out too far, it gets chopped,” Krispos said.

“Your Majesty?” the courier asked.

“Never mind.” Clad only in his linen drawers, the Avtokrator strode out into the night. Ignoring the grunts of surprise that rose from the Haloga guards, he started bawling for his generals. If he couldn’t sleep, he wouldn’t let them sleep, either, not with work to be done.

T
WO DAYS LATER, SARKIS SAID, FOR ABOUT THE DOZENTH TIME,
“The trick, Your Majesty, will be to make sure they don’t get by us.”

“Yes,” Krispos said, also for the dozenth time. The westlands’ central plateau was not flat like the lowlands; it was rough, broken country, gullies running into ravines running into valleys. If the imperial army didn’t position itself correctly, slipping between the Thanasioi and Etchmiadzin wouldn’t matter because the raiders would get past without being noticed till too late. That was probably the gamble Livanios had made when he decided to strike Kyzikos.

Sarkis found a new question to ask: “How will you choose the right spot?”

“The best way I can figure is this,” Krispos said: “I’ll station us near one of the central valleys and fan scouts out widely ahead of us and to either side. It’s no guarantee of anything, of course, but it’s what we’ll do unless you have a better idea. I hope you will.”

“I was thinking something along the same lines,” Sarkis said. “The trouble is, it’s what Livanios will think is in our minds, too.”

“That’s so,” Krispos admitted. “But if we play the game of if-he-then-we and if-we-then-he, we’re liable to get lost in the maze. I’ll cut through it and just do what I think best under the circumstances.”

“Against any other foe I would say you were wise, Your Majesty, but Livanios…Livanios never seems to do what you’d expect.” Sarkis turned his head at the sound of galloping hoofbeats. So did Krispos. Sarkis said, “Looks like another courier coming up—no, two of ’em together.”

“Oh, Phos, what now?” It was more a groan than a prayer. Every courier who’d ridden up to Krispos lately had brought bad news with him. How much longer could that go on?

Sure enough, the riders made straight for the imperial standard that marked Krispos’ place in the line of march.
They’re sending out babies,
he thought. One of the couriers had no beard. The other didn’t seem much older.

Krispos braced for the call of “May it please Your Majesty” and the displeasing message that would follow it. The bearded rider spotted him under the sunburst standard, then raised a hand to his mouth to make a shout carry farther. But he didn’t yell “May it please Your Majesty.” Instead, he called, “Father!”

Krispos’ first thought was that Katakolon was playing some kind of trick on him, and not a funny one. Then he recognized the voice. He hadn’t been sure he’d ever hear that voice again, or want to. “Phostis,” he whispered.

His son approached, and the other rider with him. Several Halogai quickly moved to put themselves between Phostis and Krispos—they knew where Phostis had been, and did not know what he’d become. Krispos wanted to thank them and punch them at the same time.

“It’s all right, Father—I’ve escaped the gleaming path,” Phostis said.

Before Krispos answered, one of the Halogai said, “What proof of this have you, young Majesty?” The big fair men from the north did not stand aside.

What proof could Phostis possibly have?
Krispos wondered. But he produced some: “Allow me to present Olyvria, the daughter of Livanios.”

By then, Krispos had figured out that Phostis’ companion was a woman. To remove any doubt, she doffed her traveler’s hat with a flourish and let her piled-up hair tumble out in a curly black waterfall. “Your Majesty,” she said, bowing in the saddle to Krispos.

She’s not just accompanying Phostis,
Krispos realized.
She’s
with
him.
Phostis’ eyes did not want to leave her, even to look at his father. Katakolon got that mooncalf gaze, but never over the same girl for more than a couple of months. Krispos hadn’t seen it on Phostis before. Olyvria looked at Phostis the same way.

Acting? Krispos didn’t think so. He asked Olyvria, “Are you here of your own will, girl, or did he kidnap you?”

“As a matter of fact, Your Majesty, I kidnapped him,” Olyvria answered boldly. Krispos stared; that was not the reply he’d expected. Olyvria added, “We’ve made other arrangements since.”

“So I gather.” Krispos glanced over to Phostis, who was still grinning like a besotted schoolboy. The Avtokrator made his decision. He told the Haloga guards, “Stand aside.” After a moment’s hesitation, they obeyed. He urged his horse up alongside Phostis’, held out his arms. The two men, one young, the other vividly remembering when he had been, embraced.

Phostis pulled away. “Sorry, Father, but hugging chain mail hurts. I have so much to tell you—did you know, for instance, that Makuran is aiding the Thanasioi?”

“As things turn out, I did,” Krispos said. “I’m glad to hear you tell me as much all the same—it lets me know you are to be trusted indeed.”

He wondered if he should have been so frank. He watched Phostis’ face freeze into the mask he’d seen so often before, the one that concealed whatever went on behind it. Minutes into their reunion, would the two of them go back to misunderstanding each other?

But Olyvria said, “I don’t blame you for being wary of us, Your Majesty. Truly, though, the gleaming path lures us no more.”

To Krispos’ relief, Phostis’ face cleared. “That’s so,” he said. “I’ve seen more along those lines than I can stomach. And Father!—is Zaidas with you?”

“Aye, he is,” Krispos answered. “Why?”

“I have much to tell him—and little of it good—of Artapan, the Makuraner mage who aids Livanios’ schemes.”

“All that can wait till tonight when we camp,” Krispos said. “For now, it’s enough to see you again.”
And to see you here as something besides a Thanasiot fanatic,
he thought. He kept that to himself, though Phostis would have to be a fool if he couldn’t figure it out. Let the lad have his time in Phos’ sun now, though. “How did you escape the zealots’ clutches, then?”

Phostis and Olyvria took turns telling the tale, which, as it unfolded, seemed only fair to Krispos. Phostis didn’t try to minimize what he’d done as an unwilling Thanasiot raider; if anything, he dwelt on it with pained guilt. “How are your arm and shoulder now?” Krispos asked.

“They still pain me now and again,” Phostis said, working the arm. “I can use them, though. Anyhow, Father, getting wounded helped convince Syagrios I could be trusted, and prompted him to let me go to Pityos—”