The Tale of Krispos (56 page)

“All right,” Krispos said without enthusiasm. Anthimos, he knew, would have pitched a fit at the idea of handling business before noon—or after noon, for that matter. But Krispos had impressed on his servants that he intended to be a working Avtokrator. This was his reward for their taking him at his word.

He pawed through the proposals, petitions, and reports, hoping to begin with something moderately interesting. When he found a letter still sealed, his eyebrows rose. How had the secretaries who scribbled away in the wings that flanked the Grand Courtroom let it slip past them unopened? Then he exclaimed in pleasure.

Dara gave him a curious look. “You don’t usually sound so gleeful when you go over those parchments.”

“It’s a letter from Tanilis,” he said. Then he remembered that, for a variety of reasons, he’d told Dara little about Tanilis, so he added, “She’s Mavros’ mother, you know. She and Mavros were both kind to me when I went there with Iakovitzes a few years ago; I’m glad to hear from her.”

“Oh. All right.” Dara took another bite of muskmelon. Krispos supposed that hearing Tanilis described—truthfully—as Mavros’ mother made her picture the noblewoman—most untruthfully—as plump, comfortable, and middle-aged. Though she had to be nearly forty now, Krispos was sure Tanilis retained all the elegant sculpted beauty she’d had when he knew her.

He began to read aloud. “‘The lady Tanilis to his Imperial Majesty Krispos, Avtokrator of the Videssians: My deepest congratulations on your accession to the throne and on your marriage to the Empress Dara. May your reign be long and prosperous.’” Then his glance happened to stray to the date above the salutation. “By the good god,” he said softly, and sketched Phos’ sun-circle above his heart.

“What is it?” Dara asked.

He passed her the letter. “See for yourself.” He pointed to the date.

For a moment, it meant nothing to her. He watched her eyes widen. She made the sun-sign, too. “That’s the day
before
you took the throne,” she whispered.

“So it is,” he said, nodding. “Tanilis—sees things. When I was in Opsikion, she foresaw that I might become Emperor. By then I was Iakovitzes’ spatharios—his aide. A couple of years before, I’d been a farmer laboring in the field. I thought I’d already risen as high as I could.” Some days he could still be surprised he was Avtokrator. This was one of them. He reached across the table and took Dara’s hand. A brief squeeze reminded him this was no dream.

She gave the letter back to him. “Read it out loud, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.” He found his place and resumed. “‘May your reign be long and prosperous. My gratitude for your naming Mavros Sevastos—’” He broke off again.

“If she knew the rest, no reason she wouldn’t know that,” Dara pointed out.

“I suppose not. Here, I’ll go on: ‘…for your naming Mavros Sevastos. I am sure he will serve you to the best of his ability. One favor I would beg of you in regard to my son. Should he ever desire to lead troops against the northern barbarians, I pray that you tell him no. While he may win glory and acclaim in that pursuit, I fear he will not have the enjoyment of them. Farewell, and may Phos bless you always.’”

Krispos set down the parchment. “I don’t know that Mavros ever would want to go out on campaign, but if he does, telling him no won’t be easy.” He made a troubled sound with tongue and teeth.

“Not even after this?” Dara’s finger found the relevant passage in the letter. “Surely he knows his mother’s powers. Would he risk defying them?”

“I’ve known Mavros a good many years now,” Krispos said. “All I can say is that he’ll do as he pleases, no matter who or what gets defied in the doing. The lord with the great and good mind willing, the matter won’t ever come up. Tanilis didn’t say it was certain.”

“That’s true,” Dara agreed.

But Krispos knew—and knew also Dara knew—the matter might very well arise. Having overthrown the khagan of Kubrat on Videssos’ northern frontier, an adventurer called Harvas Black-Robe and his band of Haloga mercenaries had begun raiding the Empire, as well. The generals on the border had been having little luck with them; before too long, someone would have to drive them back where they belonged.

One of the palace eunuchs stuck his head into the dining chamber. “What is it, Tyrovitzes?” Krispos asked.

“The abbot Pyrrhos is outside the residence, Your Majesty,” Tyrovitzes said, puffing a little—he was as fat as Barsymes was lean. “He wants to speak with you, at once, and will not speak with anyone else. For your ears alone, he insists.”

“Does he?” Krispos frowned. He found Pyrrhos’ narrow piety harsh and oppressive, but the abbot was no one’s fool. “Very well, fetch him in. I’ll hear him.”

Tyrovitzes bowed as deeply as his rotund frame would permit, then hurried away. He soon returned with Pyrrhos. The abbot bowed low to Dara, then prostrated himself before Krispos. He did not seek to rise, but stayed on his belly. “I abase myself before you, Your Majesty. The fault is mine, and let my head answer for it if that be your will.”

“What fault?” Krispos said testily. “Holy sir, will you please get up and talk sense?”

Pyrrhos rose. Though a graybeard, he was limber as a youth, a kinder reward of the asceticism that also thinned his face to almost skeletal leanness and left his eyes dark burning coals. “As I told Your Majesty, the fault is mine,” he said. “Through some error, whether accidental or otherwise I am investigating, the count of the monks in the monastery dedicated to the memory of the holy Skirios may have been inaccurate last night. It was surely one too low this morning. We do indeed have a runaway monk.”

“And who might this runaway be?” Krispos inquired, though he was sickly certain he knew the answer without having to ask. No trivial disappearance would make the abbot hotfoot it to the imperial residence with the news.

Pyrrhos saw his certainty and gave a grim nod. “Aye, Your Majesty, it is as you fear—Petronas has escaped.”

Chapter
II

T
RYING TO MEET BAD NEWS WITH EQUANIMITY, KRISPOS SAID
, “I don’t think he’s going to be very pleased with me.”

Only after the words were out of his mouth did he realize what an understatement that was. Petronas had virtually ruled the Empire for a decade and more while his nephew Anthimos reveled; he had raised Krispos to the post of vestiarios. Finally Anthimos, worried lest his uncle supplant him on the throne, a worry abetted by Krispos and Dara, clapped him into the monastery…for good, Krispos had thought.

Dara said bitterly, “While all the eyes of the city were on us yesterday, Petronas took the chance to get out.”

Krispos knew she was just echoing Gnatios’ words, but what she said raised echoes in his own mind, echoes of suspicion. He’d wondered why Gnatios had suddenly become so obliging about the wedding. Now maybe he knew. “The patriarch did keep harping on that, didn’t he? He and Petronas are cousins, too, and if anyone could arrange to have a monk taken from his monastery without the abbot’s knowledge, who better than Gnatios?”

“No one better, Your Majesty,” Pyrrhos said, following Krispos’ line of thought. His sharp-curved nose, fierce eyes, and shaven head made him resemble a bird of prey.

“Tyrovitzes!” Krispos shouted. When the fat eunuch reappeared, Krispos told him, “Take a squad of Halogai and fetch Gnatios here at once, no matter what he’s doing.”

“Your Majesty?” Tyrovitzes said. At Krispos’ answering glare, he gulped and said, “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Tyrovitzes had hardly left before Krispos shouted, “Longinos!” As soon as that eunuch responded, Krispos said, “Go to Captain Thvari. Take all the Halogai save enough to guard me here, take whatever other troops are in the city, and start a search. Maybe Petronas has gone to ground inside the walls.”

“Petronas?” Longinos said, staring.

“Yes; he’s escaped, curse him,” Krispos answered impatiently. The chamberlain started to go. Then Krispos had an afterthought. “If Thvari does use our own troops along with the northerners, have him make sure he puts more Halogai than Videssians in each party. I know his men are loyal.”

“As you say, Your Majesty.” Longionos bowed deeply and departed.

He
was scarcely gone when Krispos yelled, “Barsymes!” The vestiarios might have been waiting right outside; he came in almost at once. “Go to the house of Trokoundos the wizard and bring him here, if you please.”

“Certainly, Your Majesty. I suppose you’ll want him to interrogate Gnatios,” Barsymes said calmly. At Krispos’ expression of surprise, he went on, “You have not kept your voice down, you know, Your Majesty.”

Krispos thought about that. “No, I suppose I haven’t. Go get me Trokoundos now, if you please. If Gnatios did have a hand in Petronas’ escape—” He pounded a clenched fist down on the tabletop. “If that’s so, we’ll have a new ecumenical patriarch before the day is out.”

“Your pardon, Majesty, but perhaps not so quickly as that,” Pyrrhos said. “You may of course remove a prelate as you wish, but the naming of his successor lies in the hands of a synod of clerics, to whom you submit a list of three candidates for their formal selection.”

“You understand that all that rigmarole would just delay your own choice,” Krispos said.

Pyrrhos bowed. “Your Majesty is gracious. All the same, however, observances must be fulfilled to ensure the validity of any patriarchal enthronement.”

“If Gnatios helped Petronas get away, he deserves worse than being deposed,” Dara said. “Some time with the torturers might be a fit answer for his treason.”

“We’ll worry about that later,” Krispos said. With peasant patience, he settled down to see whether Gnatios or Trokoundos would be brought to the imperial residence first. When Pyrrhos began to look restive, he sent him back to his monastery. Sitting quietly, he kept on waiting.

“How can you be so easy about this?” demanded Dara, who was pacing back and forth.

“Nothing would change if I fussed,” he said. Dara snorted and kept pacing.

Rather to Krispos’ surprise, Tyrovitzes’ party fetched back Gnatios before Barsymes arrived with Trokoundos. “Your Majesty, what is the meaning of this?” the patriarch said indignantly after the eunuch chamberlain escorted him into Krispos’ presence. “I find it humiliating to be seized in the street like some low footpad and fetched here with no more consideration for my feelings than such a criminal would receive.”

“Where’s Petronas, Gnatios?” Krispos asked in a voice like iron.

“Why, in the monastery sacred to the holy Skirios.” Gnatios’ eyebrows rose. “Or are you telling me he is not? If you are, I have no idea where he is.”

The patriarch sounded surprised and curious, just as he would if he were innocent. But Krispos knew he had no small rhetorical talents; sounding innocent was child’s play for him. “While all the eyes of the city were on us yesterday, Gnatios, Petronas was spirited out of the monastery. To be blunt, I know you have scant love for me. Do you wonder that I have doubts about you?”

“Your Majesty, I can see that you might.” Gnatios smiled his most engaging smile. “But after all, Your Majesty, you know where I was yesterday. I could hardly have helped Petronas escape at the same time as I was performing the wedding ceremony for you and your new Empress.” He smiled again, this time at Dara. She stared stonily back. His smile faded.

“No, but you could have planned and arranged a rescue,” Krispos said. “Will you take oath on your fear of Skotos’ ice that you had no part of any sort in Petronas’ getting out of the monastery?”

“Your Majesty, I will swear any oath you wish,” Gnatios answered at once.

Just then, Krispos saw Barsymes standing in the hall with a short spare man who shaved his head like a priest but wore a red tunic and green trousers. He carried a bulging carpetbag.

“Your Majesty,” Trokoundos said. The mage started a proskynesis, but Krispos waved for him not to bother. “How may I serve you, Your Majesty?” he asked, straightening. His voice was deep and rich, the voice to be expected of a man a head taller and twice as wide through the shoulders.

“Most holy sir, I will require no oath of you at all,” Krispos said to Gnatios. “You might throw away your soul for the sake of advantage in this world, and that would be very sad. Instead, I will ask you the same questions you have already heard, but with this wizard standing by to make sure you speak the truth.”

“I will need a little while to ready myself, Your Majesty,” Trokoundos said. “I have here some of the things I may use, if your vestiarios spoke accurately about your requirements.” He began taking mirrors, candles, and stoppered glass vials of various sizes and colors out of the carpetbag.

Gnatios watched him prepare with indignation but no visible fear. “Your Majesty, I will even submit to this outrage, but I must inform you that I protest it,” he said. “Surely you cannot imagine that I would violate my oath.”

“
I
can,” Dara said.

Krispos took a different line. “I can imagine many things, most holy sir,” he told the patriarch. “I can even imagine giving you over to the torturers to find out what I must know. A mage, I think, will hurt your body and your pride less, but I can go the other way if you’d rather.”

“As you will, Your Majesty,” Gnatios said, so boldly that Krispos wondered if he was indeed innocent. The patriarch added, “My thanks for showing consideration for me, at least to the extent you have.”

“Just stay right there, if you would, most holy sir,” Trokoundos said. Gnatios nodded regally as the mage set up a mirror on a jointed stand a few feet in front of him. Between mirror and patriarch, Trokoundos lit a candle. He opened a couple of his vials and shook powder from them onto the flame, which changed color and sent up a large cloud of surprisingly sweet-smelling smoke.

Muttering to himself, Trokoundos set up another mirror a few feet behind Gnatios and slightly to one side: this one faced the one he’d set up before. He fussily adjusted the two squares of polished silver until Gnatios’ face, reflected from the first, was visible in the second. Then he lit another candle between the second mirror and Gnatios’ back. He sprinkled different powders over this flame, whose smoke proved as noxious as the other’s had been pleasant.

Coughing a little, the mage said, “Go ahead, Your Majesty; ask what you will.”

“Thank you.” Krispos turned to the patriarch. “Most holy sir, did you help Petronas escape from the monastery dedicated to the holy Skirios?”

He watched Gnatios’ lips shape the word “No” but did not hear him speak it. At the same time, the patriarch’s second reflection, the one in the mirror behind him, loudly and clearly said, “Yes.”

Gnatios jerked as if stung. Krispos asked, “How did you do it?”

He thought the patriarch tried to say “I had nothing to do with it.” The reflection answered for him: “I sent in a monk who rather resembled him to take his place while he was at solitary prayer and to stay into the evening. Then, last night, I sent a priest who asked for the substituted monk by his proper name and brought him out of the monastery once more.”

“What is the name of this monk?” Krispos demanded.

This time Gnatios stood mute. His reflection answered for him nonetheless. “Harmosounos.”

Krispos nodded to Trokoundos. “This is an excellent magic.” The wizard’s heavy-lidded eyes lit up.

Gnatios shifted from foot to foot, awaiting the next question. “Where did Petronas plan to go?” Krispos asked him.

“I do not know,” he answered, out of his own mouth.

“A moment, Your Majesty,” Trokoundos said sharply. He fiddled with the mirrors again. “He sought to move enough to shift his image from the second mirror.”

“Don’t play such games again, most holy sir. I promise you would regret it,” Krispos told Gnatios. “Now I will ask once more, where did Petronas plan to go?”

“I do not know,” Gnatios repeated. This time, strangely, Krispos heard the words both straight from him and from the mirror at his back. He glanced toward Trokoundos.

“He speaks the truth, Your Majesty,” the wizard said.

“I was afraid that was what that meant,” Krispos said. “Let’s try something else, then. Answer me this, most holy sir: you being kinsman to Petronas, where would you go in his boots?”

Gnatios plainly tried to lie again; his lips moved, but no sound came out of his mouth. Instead, his doubly reflected image replied, “Petronas’ greatest estates are in the westlands, between the towns of Garsavra and Resaina. There he would find the most support for any bid to take the crown.”

“You expect him to do that, eh?” Krispos said.

The answer to that question was so obvious, Krispos did not expect Gnatios to bother giving it aloud. And, indeed, the patriarch stayed silent. But under Trokoundos’ spell, his second image spoke for him. “Don’t you expect it, Your Majesty?”

Krispos’ chuckle was dry. “Well, yes, as a matter of fact.” He turned to Trokoundos. “I’m in your debt once more, it seems.”

Trokoundos waved that away. “I’m happy to do what I can for you, Your Majesty. Your warning saved me from Anthimos’ wrath a couple of years ago.”

“And your wizardry let me live through the enchantment with which Petronas would have killed me otherwise,” Krispos said. “Don’t be shy when you name your fee for today.”

“Your Majesty, people have accused me of many things, but never of being shy about my fees,” Trokoundos said.

Whether anxious over his fate or simply resentful at being forgotten for the moment, Gnatios burst out, “What will you do with me, Your Majesty?”

“A good question,” Krispos said musingly. “If helping to set up a rival Emperor isn’t treason, what is? Shall I put your head on the Milestone as a warning to others, Gnatios?”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” the patriarch answered, coolly enough to win Krispos’ reluctant admiration.

“I think you should, Krispos,” Dara said. Gnatios winced as she went on, “What does a traitor deserve but the axe? What would Petronas do to you, and to me, and to our child, if—Phos prevent it—he beat you?”

Gnatios missed very little. Though he could not have known of Dara’s pregnancy before she mentioned it, he used it at once, saying, “Your Majesty, would you slay the man who performed your marriage ceremony and so made your heir legitimate?”

“Why not,” Dara shot back, “when part of the reason you married us was to draw attention away from the holy Skirios’ monastery so you could loose Petronas against us?” The patriarch winced again.

“I don’t think I’ll kill you now,” Krispos said. Gnatios looked delighted, Dara disappointed. Krispos went on, “I do cast you down from the patriarchal throne. In your place I intend to propose the name of the abbot Pyrrhos.”

Gnatios winced a third time. “I’d almost rather you killed me, if afterward you named in my place someone not a fanatic.”

“I can trust the clerics of his faction. If I thought I could trust one from yours, I’d take you up on that.”

“I did say ‘almost,’ Your Majesty,” the patriarch reminded him quickly.

“So you did. Here’s what I will do. Till the synod names Pyrrhos, I will send you to the monastery of the holy Skirios. There you will be under his hand as abbot. That should be enough to keep you out of mischief for the time being.” Krispos watched Gnatios open his mouth to speak. “Think twice if you are about to say again that you’d rather be dead, most holy sir—no, holy sir, for you are but a monk now. I just may oblige you.”