The Tale of Krispos (63 page)

Thanks to the civil war, his strength in the north and east were less than it should have been. Thus he breathed a long sigh of relief when Iakovitzes wrote: “Harvas has agreed to a year’s truce, at the highest price you would suffer me to pay him. By the lord with the great and good mind, Majesty, I would sooner gallop a ten-mile steeplechase with a galloping case of the piles than chaffer again with that black-robed bandit. I told him as much, in so many words. He laughed. His laugh, Majesty, is not a pleasant thing. Skotos might laugh so, to greet a damned soul new-come to the ice. Never shall I be so glad as the day I leave his court to return to the city. Phos be praised, that day will come soon.”

When Krispos showed Mavros the letter, the Sevastos whistled softly. “We’ve both seen Iakovitzes furious often enough, but I don’t think I ever heard him sound frightened before.”

“Harvas has done it to him,” Krispos said. “It’s been building all winter. Just one more sign we should be fighting Harvas now. May the ice take Petronas for keeping me from what truly needs doing.”

“We settle him this year,” Mavros said. “After that, Harvas will have his turn.”

“So he will.” Krispos glanced outside. The sky was still cloudy, but held patches of blue. “Before long we can move on Petronas. One thing at a time, I learned on the farm. If you try to do a lot of things at once, you end up botching all of them.”

Mavros glanced at him, mobile features sly. “Perhaps Videssos should draw its Emperors from the peasantry more often. Where would a man like Anthimos have learned such a simple lesson?”

“A man like Anthimos wouldn’t have learned it on the farm, either. He’d have been one of the kind—and there are plenty of them, the good god knows—who go hungry at the end of winter because they haven’t raised enough to carry them through till spring, or because they were careless with their storage pits and let half their grain spoil.”

“You’re probably right,” Mavros said. “I’ve always thought—”

Krispos never found out what his foster brother had always thought. Barsymes came into the chamber and said, “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but her Majesty the Empress must see you at once.”

“I’ll come as soon as I’m done with Mavros here,” Krispos said.

“This is not a matter that will wait on your convenience, Your Majesty,” Barsymes said. “I’ve sent for the midwife.”

“The—” Krispos found his mouth hanging open. He made himself shut it, then tried again to speak. “The midwife? The baby’s not due for another month.”

“So her Majesty said.” Barsymes’ smile was always wintry, but now, like the weather, it held a promise of spring. “The baby, I fear, is not listening.”

Mavros clapped Krispos on the shoulder. “May Phos grant you a son.”

“Yes,” Krispos said absently. How was he supposed to stick to his one-thing-at-a-time dictum if events kept getting ahead of him? With some effort, he figured out the one thing he was supposed to do next. He turned to Barsymes. “Take me to Dara.”

“Come with me,” the vestiarios said.

They walked down the hall together. As they neared the imperial bedchamber, Krispos saw a serving maid mopping up a puddle. “The roof stayed sound all winter,” he said, puzzled, “and it’s not even raining now.”

“Nor is that rain,” Barsymes answered. “Her Majesty’s bag of waters broke there.”

Krispos remembered births back in his old village. “No wonder you called the midwife.”

“Exactly so, Your Majesty. Fear not—Thekla has been at her trade more than twenty years. She is the finest midwife in the city; were it otherwise, I should have sent for someone else, I assure you.” Barsymes stopped outside the bedchamber door. “I will leave you here until I come to take her Majesty to the Red Room.”

Krispos went in. He expected to find Dara lying in bed, but instead she was pacing up and down. “I thought I would wait longer,” she said. “I’d felt my womb tightening more often than usual the last couple of days, but I didn’t think anything of it. Then—” She laughed. “It was very strange—it was as if I was making water and couldn’t stop myself. And after I was done dripping…now I know why they call them labor pains.”

No sooner had she finished speaking than another one took her. Her face grew closed, secret, and intent. Her hands found Krispos’ arms and squeezed hard. When the pain passed, she said, “I can tolerate that, but my labor’s just begun. I’m afraid, Krispos. How much worse will they get?”

Krispos helplessly spread his hands, feeling foolish and useless and male. He had no idea how bad labor pains got—how could he? He remembered village women shrieking as they gave birth, but that did not seem likely to reassure Dara. He said, “Women are meant to bear children. It won’t be worse than you can take.”

“What do you know?” she snapped. “You’re a man.” Since he had just told himself the same thing, he shut up. Nothing he said was apt to be right, so he leaned over her swollen belly to hug her. That was a better idea.

They waited together. After a while, a pain gripped Dara. She clenched her teeth and rode it out. Once it had passed, though, she lay down. She twisted back and forth, trying to find a comfortable position. With her abdomen enormous and labor upon her, there were no comfortable positions to find. Another pain washed over her, and another, and another. Krispos wished he could do something more useful than hold her hand and make reassuring noises, but he had no idea what that something might be.

Some time later—he had no idea how long—someone tapped on the bedchamber door. Krispos got up from the bed to open it. Barsymes stood there with a handsome middle-aged woman whose short hair was so black, Krispos was sure it was dyed. She wore a plain, cheap linen dress. The vestiarios said, “Your Majesty, the midwife Thekla.”

Thekla had a no-nonsense air about her that Krispos liked. She did not waste time with a proskynesis, but pushed past Krispos to Dara. “And how are we today, dearie?” she asked.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m bloody awful,” Dara said.

Unoffended, Thekla laughed. “Your waters broke, right? Are the pangs coming closer together?”

“Yes, and they’re getting harder, too.”

“They’re supposed to, dearie. That’s how the baby comes out, after all,” Thekla said. Just then Dara’s face twisted as another pain began. Thekla reached under Dara’s robes to feel how tight her belly grew. Nodding in satisfaction, she told Dara, “You’re doing fine.” Then she turned to Barsymes. “I don’t want her walking to the Red Room. She’s too far along for that. Go fetch the litter.”

“Aye, mistress.” Barsymes hurried away. Krispos judged Thekla’s skill by the unquestioning obedience she won from the vestiarios.

Barsymes and a couple of the other chamberlains soon returned. “Put the edge of the litter right next to the side of the bed,” Thekla directed. “Now, dearie, you just slide over. Go easy, go easy—there! That’s fine. All right, lads, off we go with her.” The eunuchs, faces red but step steady, carried the Empress out the door, down the hall, and to the Red Room.

Krispos followed. When he got to the entrance of the Red Room, Thekla said firmly, “You wait outside, if you please, Your Majesty.”

“I want to be with her,” Krispos said.

“You wait outside, Your Majesty,” Thelka repeated.

This time the midwife’s words carried the snap of command. Krispos said, “I am the Avtokrator. I give orders here. Why should I stay out?”

Thekla set hands on hips. “Because, your most imperial Majesty, sir, you are a pest-taken man, that’s why.” Krispos stared at her; no one had spoken to him like that since he wore the crown, and not for a while before then, either. In slightly more reasonable tones, Thekla went on, “And because it’s woman’s work, Your Majesty. Look, before this is done, your wife is liable to shit and piss and puke, maybe all three at once. She’s sure to scream, likely a lot. And I’ll have my hands deeper inside her than you ever dreamed of being. Do you really want to watch?”

“It is not customary, Your Majesty,” Barsymes said. For him, that settled the matter.

Krispos yielded. “Phos be with you,” he called to Dara, who was carefully wiggling from the litter to the bed in the Red Room. She started to smile at him, but a pain caught her and turned the expression to a grimace.

“Here, Your Majesty, come with me,” Barsymes said soothingly. “Come sit down and wait. I’ll bring you some wine; it will help ease your worry.”

Krispos let himself be led away. As he’d told Mavros, he ruled the Empire but his servants ruled the palaces. He drank the wine Barsymes set before him without noticing if it was white or red, tart or sweet. Then he simply sat.

Barsymes brought in a game board and pieces. “Would Your Majesty care to play?” he asked. “It might help pass the time.”

“No, not now, thank you.” Krispos’ laugh was ragged. “Besides, Barsymes, you’d have a hard time losing gracefully today, for my mind wouldn’t be on the board.”

“If you notice how I lose, Majesty, then I don’t do so gracefully enough,” the vestiarios said. He seemed chagrined, Krispos noted, as if he thought he had failed in the quest for perfect service.

“Esteemed sir, just let me be, if you would,” Krispos said. Barsymes bowed and withdrew.

Time crawled by. Krispos watched a sunbeam slide across the floor and start to climb the far wall. A servant came in to light lamps. Krispos only noticed him after he was gone.

He was not close to the Red Room. Barsymes, clever as usual, had made sure of that. Moreover, the door to the birthing chamber was closed. Whatever cries and groans Dara made, for a long time he did not hear them. But as the lamps’ flickering light grew brighter than the failing day, she shrieked with such anguish that he sprang from his chair and dashed down the hall.

Thekla was indeed a veteran of her trade. She knew who pounded on that door, and why. “Nothing to worry about, Your Majesty,” she called. “I was just turning the baby’s head a little so it’ll pass through more easily. The babe has dark hair, a lot of it. Won’t be too much longer now.”

He stood outside the door, clenching and unclenching his fists. Against Petronas or Harvas, he could have charged home at the head of his troops. Here he could do nothing—as Thekla had said, this was woman’s work. Waiting seemed harder to bear than battle.

Dara made a noise he had never heard before, part grunt, part squeal, a sound of ultimate effort. “Again!” he heard Thekla say. “Hold your breath as long as you can, dearie—it helps the push.” That sound burst from Dara once more. “Again!” Thekla urged. “Yes, that’s the way.”

Krispos heard Dara gasp, strain—and then exclaim in excitement. “Your Majesty, you have a son,” Thekla said loudly. A moment later, the high, thin, furious cry of a newborn baby filled Krispos’ ears.

He tried the door. It was locked. “We’re not ready for you yet, Your Majesty,” Thekla said, annoyance and amusement mixed in her voice. “She still has the afterbirth to pass. You’ll see the lad soon enough, I promise. What will you call him?”

“Phostis,” Krispos answered. He heard Dara say the name inside the Red Room, too. Sudden tears stung his eyes. He wished his father had lived to see a grandson named for him.

A few minutes later Thekla opened the door. The lamplight showed her dress splashed with blood—no wonder she hadn’t worn anything fancy, Krispos realized. Then Thekla held out to him his newborn son, and all such thoughts vanished from his mind.

The baby was swaddled in a blanket of soft lamb’s wool. “Five fingers on each hand, five toes on each foot,” Thekla said. “A little on the scrawny side, maybe, but that’s to be expected when a child comes early.” The midwife fell silent when she saw Krispos wasn’t listening.

He peered down at Phostis’ red, wrinkled little face. Part of that was the awe any new father feels on holding his firstborn for the first time. Part, though, was something else, something colder. He searched those tiny, new-formed features, trying to see in them either Anthimos’ smooth, smiling good looks or his own rather craggier appearance. So far as he could tell, the baby looked like neither of its possible fathers. Phostis’ eyes seemed shaped like Dara’s, with the inner corner of each lid folding down very slightly.

When he said that out loud, Thekla laughed. “No law says a boy child can’t favor his mother, Your Majesty,” she said. “Speaking of which, she’ll want another look at the baby, too, I expect, and maybe a first try at nursing him.” She stepped aside to let Krispos go into the Red Room.

The chamber stank; Thekla had meant her warning. Krispos did not care. “How are you?” he asked Dara, who was still lying on the bed on which she had given birth. She looked pale and utterly exhausted; her hair, soaked with sweat, hung limply. But she managed a worn smile and held out her hands for Phostis. Krispos gave her the baby.

“He doesn’t weigh anything,” Dara exclaimed.

Krispos nodded; his arms hardly noticed Phostis was gone. He saw Dara giving Phostis the same careful scrutiny he had, no doubt for the same reason. He said, “I think he looks like you.”

Dara’s eyes went wary as she glanced at him. He smiled back, though he wondered if he would ever be sure who Phostis’ father really was. As he had so often before, he told himself it did not matter. As he had so often before, he almost made himself believe it.

“Hold him again, will you?” Dara said. Phostis squalled at being passed back and forth. Krispos clumsily rocked him in his arms. Dara unfastened her dress and tugged it off one shoulder to bare a breast. “I’ll take him now. Let’s see if this will make him happy.”

Phostis rooted, found the nipple, and began to suck. “He likes them,” Krispos said. “I don’t blame him—I like them, too.”

Dara snorted. Then she said, “Ask the kitchen to send me supper, would you, Krispos? I’m hungry now, though I wouldn’t have believed it if you’d told me I would be.”

“You haven’t eaten for quite a while,” Krispos said. As he hurried off to do what Dara had asked, he paused and thanked Thekla.

“My pleasure, Your Majesty,” the midwife said. “Phos grant that the Empress and your son do well. No reason she shouldn’t, and he’s not too small to thrive, I’d say.”

Chamberlains and maidservants congratulated Krispos on having a son as he walked to the kitchens. He wondered how they knew; a baby girl’s cry would have sounded the same as Phostis’. But palace servants had their own kind of magic. The moment Krispos walked through the door, a grinning cook pressed into his hands a tray with a jar of wine, some bread, and a covered silver dish on it. “For your lady,” the fellow said.