The Tale of Krispos (66 page)

He started to tell that to Mammianos, but Mammianos was not listening. Like a farmer who scents a change in the wind at harvesttime and fears for his crop, the general peered to the left. “Something’s happened there,” he said, certainty in his voice.

Krispos also stared leftward. He needed longer than Mammianos to recognize a new clumping of men at the wing, to hear the new shouts of alarm and fury and, a moment later, triumph. The sweat that dripped from the end of his nose suddenly went cold. “Someone’s turned traitor.”

“Aye.” Mammianos packed a world of meaning into a single word. He bellowed for a courier and started a series of frantic orders to plug the gap. Then he broke off and looked again. As if against his will, a grin of disbelief stretched itself over his fat face. “By the good god,” he said softly. “It’s one of theirs, going over to us.”

Since he felt it himself, Krispos understood Mammianos’ surprise. He’d feared the reliability of his own troops, not Petronas’. But sure enough, a sizable section—more than a company, perhaps as much as a regiment—of Petronas’ army was now shouting “Krispos!”

And the defectors did more than shout. They turned on the men to their immediate right, the men who held the rightmost position in Petronas’ line. Beset by them as well as by Krispos’ own supporters, the flank guards broke and fled in wild confusion.

Mammianos’ amazement did not paralyze him for long. Though he’d done nothing to force the break in Petronas’ line, he knew how to exploit it once it was there. He sent the left wing of Krispos’ army around Petronas’ shattered right, seeking to roll up the whole rebel army.

But Petronas also knew his business. He did not try to salvage a battle already lost. Instead, he dropped a thin line back from the stump of his army’s broken right wing, preventing Krispos’ men from surrounding too many more of his own. His forces gave ground all along their line now, but nowhere except on the far right did they yield to panic. They were beaten, but remained an army. Breaking off combat a little at a time, they retreated west toward Resaina.

Krispos wanted to press the pursuit hard, but still did not feel sure enough of himself as battlefield commander to override Mammianos, who kept the army under tight control. The bulk of Petronas’ troops escaped to the camp they had occupied before they came out to fight, leaving Krispos’ men in possession of the field.

Healer-priests went from man to wounded man, first at a run, then at a walk, and finally at a drunken shamble as the exhaustion of their trade took its toll on them. More mundane leeches, men who worked without the aid of magic, saw to soldiers with minor wounds, here sewing up a cut, there splashing an astringent lotion onto flesh lacerated when chain mail was driven through padding and leather undertunic alike.

And Krispos, surrounded not only by the surviving Halogai of the imperial guard but also by most of Sarkis’ cavalry regiment, approached the troopers whose defection had cost Petronas the fight. He and all his men stayed ready for anything; Petronas was devious enough to throw away a battle to set up an assassination.

The leader of the units that had changed sides saw Krispos coming. He rode toward him. Krispos had the odd feeling he’d seen the fellow before, though he was sure he had not. The middle-aged officer, plainly a noble, was short and slim, with a narrow face, a thin arched nose, and a neat beard the color of his iron helmet. He set his right fist over his heart in salute to Krispos. “Your Majesty,” he said. His voice was a resonant tenor.

“My thanks for your aid there, excellent sir,” Krispos said. He wondered how big a reward the officer would want for it. “I fear I don’t know your name.”

“I am Rhisoulphos,” the fellow said, as if Krispos ought to know who Rhisoulphos was.

After a moment, he did. “You’re Dara’s father,” he blurted. No wonder the man looked familiar! “Your daughter takes after you, excellent sir.”

“So I’ve been told.” Rhisoulphos let out a short bark of laughter. “I daresay she wears the face better than I do, though.”

Mammianos studied Dara’s father, then said, “What was the Avtokrator’s kinsman by marriage doing in the ranks of the Avtokrator’s foes?” Suspicion made his tone harsh. Krispos leaned forward in his saddle to hear how Rhisoulphos would reply.

The noble dipped his head first to Mammianos, then to Krispos. “Please recall that, until Anthimos walked the bridge between light and ice, I was also Petronas’ kinsman by marriage. And after Anthimos did die”—Rhisoulphos looked Krispos full in the face—“I was not sure what sort of arrangement you had with my daughter, Your Majesty.”

Sometimes Krispos also wondered what sort of arrangement he had with Dara. He said, “You have a grandson who will be Emperor, excellent sir.” That remained true no matter who Phostis’ father was, he thought. He felt like giving his head a wry shake, but was too well schooled to reveal himself so in front of Rhisoulphos.

He saw he had said the right thing. Rhisoulphos’ eyes, so like Dara’s with their slightly folded inner lids, softened. His father-in-law said, “So I heard, and it set me thinking: what would that boy be if Petronas won the throne? The only answer I saw was an obstacle and a danger to him. I showed Petronas none of my thoughts, of course. I pledged him my loyalty again and again, loudly and rather stupidly.”

“A nice touch,” Mammianos said. His eyes slid toward Krispos. Krispos read them without difficulty: if Rhisoulphos could befool Petronas, he was a man who needed watching.

Krispos had already worked that out for himself. Now, though, he could only acknowledge Rhisoulphos’ aid. “Our first meeting was well timed, excellent sir,” he said. “After Petronas is beaten, I will show you all the honor the Avtokrator’s father-in-law deserves.”

Rhisoulphos bowed in the saddle. “I will do my best to earn that honor on the field, Your Majesty. I know my soldiers will support me—and you.”

“I’m sure they will,” Krispos said, resolving to use Rhisoulphos’ men but not to trust them with any truly vital task until Petronas was no longer a threat. “Now perhaps you will join my other advisors as we plan how to take advantage of what we’ve won with your help.”

“I am at your service, Your Majesty.” Rhisoulphos slid down from his horse and walked over to the imperial tent. Seeing that Krispos did not object, the Halogai in front of the entrance bowed and let him pass. Krispos also dismounted. Grunting and wheezing with effort, so did Mammianos.

Along with Rhisoulphos, Sarkis and Trokoundos the mage waited inside the tent for Krispos. They rose and bowed when he came in. “A fine fight, Your Majesty,” Sarkis said enthusiastically. “One more like it and we’ll smash this rebellion to bloody bits.” The rest of the soldiers loudly agreed. Even Trokoundos nodded.

“I don’t want another battle, not if I can help it,” Krispos said. The other men in the tent stared at him. He continued, “If I can, I want to make Petronas give up without more fighting. Everyone who falls in the civil war, on my side or his, could have fought for me against Harvas. The fewer who fall, then, the better.”

“Admirable, Your Majesty,” Mammianos rumbled. “How do you propose to bring it off?” His expression said he did not think Krispos could.

Krispos spoke for several minutes. By the time he was done, he saw Rhisoulphos and Sarkis running absentminded fingers through their beards as they thought. Finally Rhisoulphos said, “It might work, at that.”

“So it might,” Sarkis said. He grinned at Krispos. “I wasn’t wrong, Your Majesty—you are a lively man to serve under. We have a saying in Vaspurakan about your kind—‘sneaky as a prince out to sleep with another man’s princess.’”

Everyone in the tent laughed. “I have a princess of my own, thank you,” Krispos said, which won him an approving glance from Rhisoulphos. His own mirth soon faded, though; he remembered the days when Dara had not been his, and how the two of them had both done some sneaking to be able to sleep with each other. Sarkis’ Vaspurakaner saying held teeth the officer did not know about.

Mammianos’ yawn almost split his head in two. “Let’s get on with it,” he said. “The Emperor’s scheme has to move tonight if it moves at all, and afterward I aim to sleep. If the scheme doesn’t come off—maybe even if it does—we’ll have more fighting in the morning, and I for one am not so young as I used to be. I need rests between rounds, in battle as in other things.”

“Sad but true,” said Rhisoulphos, who was within a few years of the fat general’s age. He yawned, too, less cavernously.

“Go get some of your scouts, Sarkis,” Krispos said. “They’re the proper men for the plan.” Sarkis saluted and hurried away. Along with the rest of his companions, Krispos stepped outside the tent to await his return. A couple of Halogai stayed almost within arm’s length of him, their axes at the ready, their eyes never leaving Rhisoulphos. He must have known they were watching him, and why, but gave no sign. Krispos admired his sangfroid.

A few minutes later Sarkis returned with fifteen or twenty soldiers. “All young and unmarried, as you asked,” he told Krispos. “They don’t care if they live or die.”

The scouts thought that was very funny. Their teeth gleamed whitely in their dirty faces as they chuckled. Krispos realized that what Sarkis had said was literally true for most of them; they did not believe in the possibility of their own deaths, not down deep. Had he been so foolish himself, ten or twelve years before? He probably had.

“Here’s what I want you to do,” he said, and the scouts drew closer to listen. “I want you to get into Petronas’ camp tonight, when everything there is still in disorder. I don’t care whether you pretend to be his soldiers or you take off your armor and make as if you’re farmers from around here. Whatever you do, you need to get among his men. I don’t order this of you. Anyone who doesn’t care to risk it may leave now.”

No one left. “What do we do once we’re in there, Majesty?” one of the scouts asked. The light from the campfires played up the glitter of excitement in his eyes. To him it was all a game, Krispos thought. He breathed a prayer to Phos that the youngster would come through safe.

“Here’s what,” he answered. “Remind Petronas’ soldiers that I offered him amnesty, and tell them they can have it, too, for the asking…if they don’t wait too long. Tell them I’ll give them three days. After that, we’ll attack again, and we’ll treat any we capture as enemies.”

The young men looked at one another. “Sneaky as a prince out to sleep with another man’s princess,” one of them said with a strong Vaspurakaner accent. As Sarkis had, he sounded admiring.

When they saw Krispos was done, the scouts scattered. Krispos watched them slip out of camp, heading west. Some rode out, armed and armored; others left on foot, wearing knee-length linen tunics and sandals.

Mammianos watched them go, too. After the last one was gone, he turned to Krispos and asked, “Now what?”

“Now,” Krispos said, picking a phrase more likely in Barsymes’ mouth than his own, “we await developments.”

T
HE FLOOD OF DESERTERS HE’D HOPED FOR DID NOT MATERIALIZE
. A few riders came over from the rebel camp, but Petronas’ cavalry pickets stayed alert and aggressive. If they’d given up on the chief they followed, they showed no sign of it.

To Krispos’ relief, all his own scouts managed to return safely. He would have felt dreadful, sacrificing them without gaining the advantage he’d expected. On the third day after he’d sent them out, he began readying his forces for an attack on the morrow. “Since I warned Petronas’ men, I can’t make myself out a liar now,” he told Mammianos.

“No, Your Majesty,” Mammianos agreed mournfully. “I might wish, though, that you hadn’t been so exact. Since Petronas must know we’re coming, who can guess what sort of mischief he’ll have waiting for us?” Without words, his round face said,
You wouldn’t be in this mess if you’d listened to me.

Krispos did not need to be reminded of that. Thinking to save lives, he’d probably cost Videssos—and his own side in particular—a good many men instead. As he sought his tent that evening, he told himself that he had generals along for a reason, and kicked himself for ignoring Mammianos’ sage advice to pursue his own scheme.

Thanks to his worry, he took awhile to fall asleep. Once slumber took him, he slept soundly; he had long since learned to ignore the usual run of camp noises. The commotion that woke him was nothing usual. He grabbed sword and shield and clapped a helmet on his head before he peered out through the tent flap to see what was going on.

His first thought was that Petronas had decided to beat him to the punch with a night attack. But while the noise outside was tremendous, it was not the din of battle. “It sounds like a festival,” he said, more than a little indignant.

Geirrod and Vagn stood guard in front of his tent. They turned to look at him. “Good, you’re up, Majesty,” Geirrod said. “We’d have roused you any time now, had the clamor not done it for us. Two of Petronas’ best generals just came into camp.”

“
Did
they?” Krispos said softly. “Well, by the good god.” Just then Mammianos came out of his tent, which was next to Krispos’. Krispos felt like putting his thumbs in his ears, twiddling his fingers, and sticking out his tongue at the fat general. Instead, he simply waited for Mammianos to notice him.

The general’s own guards must have given him the news. He glanced over toward the imperial tent and saw Krispos there. Slowly and deliberately, he came to attention and saluted. A moment later, as if deciding that was not enough, he doffed his helm as well.

Krispos waved back, then asked the guards, “Who are these generals, anyway?”

“Vlases and Dardaparos, their names are, Majesty,” Geirrod said.

To Krispos they were only names. He said, “Have them fetched here. What they can tell me of Petronas and his army will be beyond price.” As the Haloga walked off to do his bidding, Krispos waved Mammianos over. He was sure his general would know everything worth knowing about them.

Guards brought up the pair of deserters within a couple of minutes. One officer was tall and thickset, though muscular rather than fat like Mammianos. He proved to be Vlases. Dardaparos, on the other hand, was small, skinny, and bowlegged from a lifetime spent in the saddle; by looks, he might have been father to some of Sarkis’ scouts. He and his comrade both went down in proskynesis before Krispos, touching their foreheads to the ground. “Majesty,” they said together.