The Tale of Krispos (58 page)

Dara understood that, too. “The good god keep you.”

“May that prayer fly from your mouth to Phos’ ear.” Krispos walked down the hall toward the doorway. As he passed one of the many imperial portraits that hung on the walls, he paused for a moment. The long-dead Emperor Stavrakios was shown wearing much the same gear Krispos had on. Blade naked in his hand, Stavrakios looked like a soldier; in fact, he looked like one of the veterans who had taught Krispos what he knew of war. Measuring himself against that tough, ready countenance, he felt like a fraud.

Fraud or not, though, he had to do his best. He walked on, pausing in the doorway to let his eyes get used to the bright sunshine outside—and to take a handkerchief from his belt pouch to wipe sweat from his face. In Videssos the city’s humid summer heat, chain mail was a good substitute for a bathhouse steam room.

A company of Halogai, two hundred men strong, saluted with their axes as Krispos appeared. They were fully armored, too, and sweating worse than he was. He wished he could have brought the whole regiment of northerners to the westlands with him; he knew they were loyal. But he had to leave a garrison he could trust in the city, or it might not be his when he returned.

A groom led Progress to the foot of the steps. The big bay gelding stood quietly as Krispos lifted his left foot into the stirrups and swung aboard. He waved to the Halogai. “To the harbor of Kontoskalion,” he called, touching his heels to Progress’ flanks. The horse moved forward at a walk. The imperial guards formed up around Krispos.

People cheered as the Emperor and his Halogai paraded through the plaza of Palamas and onto Middle Street. This time they turned south off the thoroughfare. The sound of the sea, never absent in Videssos the city, grew steadily louder in Krispos’ ears. When he first came to the capital, he’d needed some little while to get used to the endless murmur of waves and their slap against stone. Now he wondered how he would adjust to true quiet once more.

Another crowd waited by the docks, gawking at the Videssian troops drawn up on foot there. Sailors were loading their horses onto big, beamy transports for the trip to the west side of the Cattle-Crossing; every so often, a sharp curse cut through the low-voiced muttering of the crowd. Off to one side, doing their best to look inconspicuous, were Trokoundos and a couple of other wizards.

Along with the waiting soldiers stood the new patriarch Pyrrhos. He raised his hands in benediction as he saw Krispos approach. The soldiers stiffened to attention and saluted. The noise from the crowd got louder. Because the horses did not care that the Emperor had come, the sailors coaxing them onto and along the gangplanks did not care, either.

The Halogai in front of Krispos moved aside to let him ride up to the ecumenical patriarch. Leaning down from the saddle, he told Pyrrhos, “I’m sorry we had to rush the ceremony of your investiture the other day, most holy sir. What with trying to deal with Petronas and everything else, I know I didn’t have time to do it properly.”

Pyrrhos waved aside the apology. “The synod that chose me was well and truly made, Your Majesty,” he said, “so in the eyes of Phos I have been properly chosen. Next to that, the pomp of a ceremony matters not at all; indeed, I am just as well pleased not to have endured it.”

Only so thoroughgoing an ascetic as Pyrrhos could have expressed such an un-Videssian sentiment, Krispos thought; to most imperials, ceremony was as vital as breath. Krispos said, “Will you bless me and my warriors now, most holy sir?”

“I shall bless you, and pray for your victory against the rebel,” Pyrrhos proclaimed, loud enough for the soldiers and city folk to hear. More softly, for Krispos’ ears alone, he went on, “I first blessed you twenty years ago, on the platform in Kubrat. I shall not change my mind now.”

“You and Iakovitzes,” Krispos said, remembering. The noble had gone north to ransom the farmers the Kubratoi had stolen; Pyrrhos and a Kubrati shaman were there to make sure Phos and the nomads’ false gods heard the bargain.

“Aye.” The patriarch touched the head of his staff, a gilded sphere as big as a fist, to Krispos’ shoulder. Raising his voice, he declared, “The Avtokrator of the Videssians is the good god’s vice-regent on earth. Whoso opposes him opposes the will of Phos. Thou conquerest, Krispos!”

“Thou conquerest!” people and soldiers shouted together. Krispos waved in acknowledgment, glad Pyrrhos was unreservedly on his side. Of course, if Petronas ended up beating him, that would only prove Phos’ will had been that he lose, and then Pyrrhos would serve a new master. Or if he refused, it would be from distaste at Petronas’ way of life, not because Petronas had vanquished Krispos. Determining Phos’ will could be a subtle art.

Krispos did not intend that Pyrrhos would have to weigh such subtleties. He aimed to beat Petronas, not to be beaten. He rode down the dock to the
Sun-circle,
the ship that would carry him across to the westlands. The captain, a short, thickset man named Nikoulitzas, and his sailors came to attention and saluted as Krispos drew near. When he dismounted, a groom hurried forward to take charge of Progress and lead the horse aboard.

Once on the
Sun-circle,
Progress snorted and rolled his eyes, not much caring for the gently shifting planks under his feet. Krispos did not much care for them, either. He’d never been on a ship before. He told his stomach to behave itself; the imperial dignity would not survive hanging over the rail and giving the fish his breakfast. After a few more internal mutterings, his stomach decided to obey.

Nikoulitzas was very tan, but years of sun and sea spray had bleached his hair almost as light as a Haloga’s. Saluting again, he said, “We are ready to sail when you give the word, Your Majesty.”

“Then sail,” Krispos said. “Soonest begun, soonest done.”

“Aye, Your Majesty.” Nikoulitzas shouted orders. The
Sun-circle
’s crew cast off lines. Along with its sail, the ship had half a dozen oars on each side for getting into and out of harbors. The sailors dug in at them. That changed the motion of the
Sun-circle
and Progress snorted again and laid his ears back. Krispos spoke soothingly to the horse—and to his stomach. He fed Progress a couple of dried apricots. The horse ate them, then peered at his hands for more. Nothing was wrong with
his
digestion, at any rate.

The voyage over the Cattle-Crossing took less than half an hour. The
Sun-circle
beached itself a little north of the western suburb called Across; none of Videssos the city’s suburbs had docks of their own, lest they compete with the capital for trade. The sailors took out a section of rail and ran out the gangplank from the
Sun-circle
’s gunwale to the sand. Leading Progress by the rein, Krispos walked down to the beach. His feet and the horse’s hooves echoed on the planks.

The rest of the transports went aground to either side of the
Sun-circle.
Some Halogai had sailed on Krispos’ ship; those who had not hurried up to join their countrymen and form a protective ring around him. The Videssian troops, by contrast, paid more attention to recovering their horses. The afternoon was well along before the regimental commander rode up to Krispos and announced, “We are ready to advance, Your Majesty.”

“Onward, then, Sarkis,” Krispos said.

Sarkis saluted. “Aye, Your Majesty.” He shouted orders to his men. His Videssian had a slight throaty accent; that, along with his wide face, thick beard, and imperious promontory of a nose, said he was from Vaspurakan. So were a good many of his troopers—the mountain land bred fine fighting men.

A small strain of Vaspurakaner blood also flowed in Krispos’ veins, or so his father had always said. That was one of the reasons Krispos had chosen Sarkis’ regiment. Another was that the “princes”—for so every Vaspurakaner reckoned himself—were heretics in Videssian eyes and found fault, themselves, with the imperial version of Phos’ faith. As outsiders in Videssos, they, like the Halogai, had little reason to favor an old-line noble like Petronas—or so Krispos hoped.

Scouts trotted ahead of the main line of soldiers. Still surrounded by the Halogai, Krispos rode along near the middle of that line. Mule-drawn baggage wagons rattled along behind him, followed by the rearguard.

The Cattle-Crossing and its beach vanished as they moved west down a dirt road toward Petronas’ lands. From the road, Krispos could see farms and farming villages as far as his eyes reached; the western coastal lowlands held perhaps the most fertile soil in all the Empire. After a while Krispos dismounted, stepped into a field, and dug his hand deep into the rich black earth. He felt of it, smelled it, tasted it, and shook his head.

“By the good god,” he said, as much to himself as to any of his companions, “if I’d worked soil like this, nothing could have made me leave it.” Had the soil of his native village been half this good, he and his fellows there could easily have grown enough to meet the tax bill that forced him to seek his fortune in the city. On the other hand, had the soil there been better, the tax bill undoubtedly would have been worse. Videssos’ tax collectors let nothing slip through their fingers.

A few farmers and a fair number of small boys stayed in the fields to gape at the soldiers and Avtokrator as they went by. More did what Krispos would have done had he worn their sandals: they turned and fled. Soldiers did not always plunder, rape, and kill, but the danger of it was too great to be taken lightly.

As the crimson ball of the sun neared the western horizon, the army camped in a field of clover not far from a grove of fragrant orange trees. Cookfires drew moths, and the bats and nightjars that preyed on them.

Krispos had ordered that he be fed the same as any soldier. He stood in line for hard cheese, harder bread, a cup of rough red wine, and bowl of stew made from smoked pork, garlic, and onions. The cook who ladled out the stew looked nervous. “Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, but I’m afraid this isn’t so fine as what you’re used to.”

Krispos laughed at him. “The gravy’s thicker than what I grew up with, by the good god, and there’s more in the kettle here, too.” He spooned out a piece of pork and chewed thoughtfully. “My mother would have thrown in some thyme, I think, if she had it. Otherwise I can’t complain.”

“He’s an army cook, Your Majesty,” one of the Videssian cavalrymen said. “You expect him to know what he’s doing?” Everyone who heard jeered at the cook. Krispos finished quickly and held out his bowl for a second helping. That seemed to make the luckless fellow sweating over his pots a little happier.

Three mornings later, as the army drew near a small town or large village called Patrodoton, one of the scouts came riding back at a gallop. He spoke briefly to Sarkis, who led him to Krispos. “You’d best hear this yourself, Your Majesty,” the general said.

At Krispos’ nod, the scout said, “A couple of the farmers up ahead warned me there’s already soldiers in that town.”

“Did they?” Krispos clicked his tongue between his teeth.

“Can’t expect Petronas just to sit back and let us do as we like,” Sarkis remarked.

“No, I suppose not. I wish we could.” Krispos thought for a few seconds. He asked the scout, “Did these farmers say how many men were there?”

The scout shook his head. “Can’t be too many, though, I figure, or we’d have some idea they were around before this.”

“I think you’re right.” Krispos turned to Sarkis. “Excellent sir, what if we take a couple of companies of our horsemen here and…” He spent a couple of minutes explaining what he had in mind.

But for one broken tooth in front, Sarkis’ smile was even and very white. His closed fist thumped against his mail shirt over his heart as he saluted Krispos. “Your Majesty, I think I just may enjoy serving under you.”

At the general’s command, the panpipers blew “Halt.” Sarkis chose his two best company commanders and gave them their orders. They grinned, too; like Sarkis and Krispos, they were young enough to enjoy cleverness for its own sake. Before long, their two contingents trotted down the road toward Patrodoton. The men rode along in loose order, as if they had not a care in the world.

The rest of the army settled down to wait. After a bit, Sarkis ordered them into a defensive position, with the Halogai in the center blocking the road and the remaining Videssian cavalry on either wing. Glancing apologetically over at Krispos, the general said, “We ought to be ready in case it goes wrong.”

Krispos nodded. “By all means.” Both Tanilis and Petronas had taught him not to take success for granted. But he’d never led large numbers of troops before; he didn’t automatically know the right way to ensure against mischance. That was why he had Sarkis along. He was glad the general had prudence to go with his dash.

Waiting stretched. The soldiers drank wine, gnawed bread, sang songs, and told each other lies. Krispos stroked his beard and worried. Then one of the Halogai pointed southwest, in the direction of Patrodoton. Krispos saw the dust rising over the roadway. A good many men were heading this way. The Halogai raised their axes to the ready. The Videssians were first and foremost archers. They quickly strung their bows, set arrows to them, and made sure sabers were loose in their scabbards.

But one of Sarkis’ two picked company commanders, a small, lean fellow named Zeugmas, rode in front of the oncoming horsemen. His wave was full of exuberance. “We’ve got ’em!” he shouted. “Come see!”

Krispos touched his heels to Progress’ flanks. The horse started forward. Thvari and several other Halogai stepped close together to keep Krispos from advancing. “Let me through!” he said angrily.

The northerner’s captain shook his head. “No, Majesty, not by yourself, not when it could be a trap.”

“I thought you were my guards, not my jailers,” Krispos said. Thvari and the others stood implacable. Krispos sighed. In his younger days, he hadn’t wanted to be a soldier, but if he had taken up sword and spear, no one would have kept him from risking his life. Now that he wanted to go into action, the Halogai would not let him. He sighed again, struck by the absurdity of it, but could only yield. “As you wish, gentlemen. Will you come with me?”