The Tale of Krispos (79 page)

“Spies would do that just as well,” Dara said reasonably.

“It’s not the same if I don’t hear it myself.” Krispos didn’t know why it wasn’t the same—probably because he’d been Emperor for less than a year and a half and still wanted to do as much as he could for himself. Come to that, Pyrrhos was not the sort to change his words because Krispos was in the audience.

“You just want to play spy,” Dara said.

His grin was sheepish. “Maybe you’re right. But I’d feel even more foolish going down now than I would staying.” Dara’s eyes rolled heavenward, but she stopped arguing.

Down below, worshipers filed into their places. When they all rose, Krispos and Dara stood, too: the patriarch was approaching the altar. “We bless thee, Phos, lord with the great and good mind, by thy grace our protector, watchful beforehand that the great test of life may be decided in our favor,” Pyrrhos declaimed. Everyone recited with him, everyone save the two Halogai in the niche, who stood as silent and unmoving—and probably as bored—as if they were statuary.

More prayers followed Phos’ creed. Then came a series of hymns, sung by the congregation and by a chorus of monks who stood against one wall. “May Phos hear our entreaties and the music of our hearts,” Pyrrhos said as the last echoes died away in the dome far above his head.

“May it be so,” the worshipers responded. Then, at the patriarch’s gesture, they sank back onto their benches. Dara let out a small sigh of relief as she sat.

Pyrrhos paused to gather his thoughts before he began to preach. “I shall begin today by considering the thirtieth chapter of Phos’ holy scriptures,” he said. “‘If you understand the commands the good god has given, all hereafter will be for the best: well-being and suffering, the one for the just, the other for the wicked. Then in the end shall Skotos cease to flourish, while those of good life shall reap the promised reward and bask forevermore in the blessed light of the lord with the great and good mind.’

“Again, in the forty-sixth chapter we read, ‘But he who rejects Phos, he is a creature of Skotos, who in the sight of the evil one is best.’ And yet again, in the fifty-first: ‘He who seeks to destroy for whatever cause, he is a son of the creator of evil, and an evildoer to mankind. Righteousness do I call to me to bring good reward.’

“How do we apply these teachings? That the vicious foe who prowls our borders is wicked is plain to all. Yet note how perfectly the holy scriptures set forth his sin: he is a destroyer, an evildoer to mankind, a son of the creator of evil, and one who gives no thought to the commands of the good god. And indeed, one day the eternal ice shall be his home. May it be soon.”

“May it be soon,” Krispos said. Beside him, Dara nodded. A low mutter also rose from the congregation below.

Pyrrhos went on, “Aye, with Harvas Black-Robe and the savage barbarians who follow him, the recognition of what is good and what evil comes easily enough. Would that Skotos knew no guises more seductive. But the dark god is a trickster and a liar, constantly seeking to ensnare and deceive men into thinking they do good when in fact their acts lead only toward the ice.

“What shall we say, for example”—the patriarch loaded his voice with scorn—“of priests and prelates who make false statements for their own advantage, or who condone the sins of others, or who remain in concord with those who condone the sins of others?”

“He’s whipping Gnatios again,” Dara said.

“So he is,” Krispos said. “Trouble is, he’s using Gnatios to whip all the priests in the whole hierarchy who don’t spend every free moment mortifying their flesh, and I told him not to do that.” Now he wished he was down by the altar. He could rise up in righteous wrath and denounce the patriarch on the spot—and wouldn’t that make a scandal to resound all through the Empire! He laughed a little, enjoying the idea.

The laughter left his lips as Pyrrhos repeated, “What shall we say of these men who have blinded themselves to Phos’ sacred words? By the lord with the great and good mind, here is my answer: a man of such nature no longer deserves the appellation of priest. He is rather a wild animal, an evil scoundrel, a sinful heretic, a whore, one who does not deserve and is not worthy to wear a blue robe. He will spend all eternity in the ice with his true master Skotos. His tears of lamentation shall freeze to his cheeks—and who would deny this is his just desert?”

The patriarch sounded grimly pleased at the prospect. He went on, “This is why we root out misbelievers when and where we find them. For a priest who errs in his faith condemns not only himself to Skotos’ clutches, but gives over his flock as well. Thus a misbelieving priest is doubly damned and doubly damnable, and must not be suffered to survive, much less to preach.”

Krispos did not like the buzz of approval that rose to the imperial niche. Religious strife was meat and drink to the folk of Videssos the city. Pyrrhos might have promised to exercise economy, but the promise went too much against his nature for him to keep it: he was a controversialist born.

“I’ll have to get rid of him,” Krispos said, though saying it aloud made him wince. Pyrrhos had given him his start in the city. Driven by some mystic vision, the then-abbot had taken him to Iakovitzes, thus starting the train of events that led to the throne. But now that Krispos was on the throne, how could he afford a patriarch who kept doing his best to turn Videssos upside down?

“With whom would you replace him?” Dara asked. Krispos shook his head. He had no idea.

Pyrrhos was finishing his sermon. “As you prepare to leave the temple and return to the world, offer up a prayer to the Avtokrator of the Videssians, that he may lead us to victory against all who threaten the Empire.”

That only made Krispos feel worse. Pyrrhos remained solidly behind him. But the patriarch threatened the Empire, too. Krispos had tried to tell him so, every way he knew how. Pyrrhos had not listened—more accurately, had refused to hear. As soon as Krispos could decide on a suitable replacement, it would be back to the monastery for the zealous cleric.

The congregation recited Phos’ creed a last time to mark the end of the service. “This liturgy is accomplished,” Pyrrhos declared. “Go now, and may each of you walk in Phos’ light forevermore.”

“May it be so,” the worshipers said. They rose from their benches and began filing out to the narthex.

Krispos and Dara also rose. The Halogai behind them unfroze from immobility. One of the northerners muttered something in his own tongue to the other. The second guardsman started to grin until he saw Krispos watching him. His face congealed into soldierly immobility.
Laughing at the ceremony,
Krispos guessed. He wished the Halogai would see the truth of Phos. On the other hand, an Avtokrator who proselytized too vigorously was liable to see the size of his bodyguard shrink.

The Halogai preceded the imperial couple down the stairs. The men and women in the narthex bowed low as Krispos emerged. No proskynesis was required, not here: this was Phos’ precinct first. Flanked by watchful guardsmen fore and aft, Krispos and Dara went out to the forecourt.

With a flourish, the chief litter-bearer opened the door to the conveyance so Dara could slip in. Narvikka came over to hold Progress’ head. Krispos had his left foot in the stirrup when somebody not far away shouted, “You’ll go to the ice with the lax priest you follow!”

“Too much pickiness will send
you
to the ice, Blemmyas, for condemning those who don’t deserve it,” someone else shouted back.

“Liar!” Blemmyas shouted.

“Who’s a liar?” Fist smacked flesh with a meaty
thwock.
In an instant, people all over the forecourt were screaming and cursing and pounding and kicking at one another. Wan sunlight sparkled off the sharpened edge of a knife. “Dig up Pyrrhos’ bones!” someone yelled. The ice that walked Krispos’ spine had nothing to do with chilly weather—digging up somebody’s bones was the call to riot in the city.

A stone whizzed past his head. Another clattered off the side of Dara’s litter. She let out a muffled shriek. Krispos sprang into the saddle. “Give me your axe!” he shouted to Narvikka. The Haloga stared, then handed him the weapon. “Good!” Krispos said. “You, you, you, and you”—he pointed to guardsmen—“stay here and help the bearers keep the Empress’ litter safe. The rest of you, follow me! Try not to kill, but don’t let yourselves get hurt, either.”

He spurred Progress toward the center of the forecourt. The Halogai gaped, then cheered and plunged after him.

The axe was an impossible weapon to swing from horseback—too long, too heavy, balanced altogether wrong. Had Progress not been an extraordinarily steady mount, Krispos’ first wild swipe would have pitched him out of the saddle. As it was, he missed the man at whom he’d aimed. The flat of the axehead crashed into the side of a nearby man’s head. The fellow staggered as if drunk, then went down.

“Go back to your homes. Stop fighting,” Krispos yelled, again and again. Behind him, the armored Halogai were happily felling anyone rash enough to come near them or too slow to get out of the way. From the cries of anguish that rose into the sky, Krispos suspected they weren’t paying much heed to his urge of caution.

The riot, though, was murdered before it had truly been born. People in the forecourt broke and ran. They were too afraid of the fearsome northerners to remember why they had been battling one another. That suited Krispos well enough. He held the axe across his knees as he brought Progress to a halt.

When he looked back, he saw about what he’d expected: several men and a woman down and unmoving. The Halogai were busy slitting belt pouches. Krispos looked the other way. Things could have got very sticky had they not waded into the crowd in his wake.

From the top of the steps, priests peered down in dismay at the blood that splashed the snow in the forecourt. Under that snow, old blood still stained the flagstones from the last riot Pyrrhos had inspired. Enough was enough, Krispos thought.

He leaned down from the saddle and returned Narvikka’s axe to him. “Maybe one day I show you what to do with it,” the Haloga said with a sly smile.

Krispos’ ears heated; that stroke had looked as awkward as it felt, then. He pointed to a couple of corpses. “Take their heads,” he said. “We’ll set them at the foot of the Milestone with a big placard that says ‘rioters.’ The good god willing, people will see them and think twice.”

“Aye, Majesty.” Narvikka went about his grisly task with no more concern than if he’d been slaughtering swine. He glanced over to Krispos when he was done. “You go at them like a northern man.”

“It needed doing. Besides, if I hadn’t, the fighting just would have spread and gotten worse.” That was a most un-Halogalike notion. To the northerners, fighting that spread was better, not worse.

Krispos rode the few steps to the litter. The bearers saluted. One of them had a cut on his forehead and a blackened eye. He grinned at Krispos. “Thanks to you, Majesty, we were only at the edge of things. They plumb stopped noticing us when you charged into the middle of ’em.”

“Good. That’s what I had in mind.” Krispos leaned down and spoke into the small window set into the litter door. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Dara answered at once. “I was in the safest place in the whole forecourt, after all.”
The safest place as long as the bearers didn’t run away,
Krispos thought.
Well, they didn’t.
Dara went on, “I’m just glad you came through safe.”

He could hear that she meant it. He’d worried about her, too. This was not the fiery sort of love about which lute players sang in wineshops, this marriage of convenience between them. All the same, bit by bit he was coming to see it was a kind of love, too.

“Let’s get back to the palaces,” he said. The litter-bearers stooped, grunted, and lifted. The Halogai fell into place. Narvikka swaggered along, holding by their beards the two heads he’d taken. City folk either stared at the gruesome trophies or turned away in horror.

Narvikka had fought to defend the Emperor whose gold he’d taken, and had enjoyed every moment of it. How, Krispos wondered uncomfortably, did that make him different from the Halogai who followed Harvas? The only answer he found was that Narvikka’s violence was under the control of the state and was used to protect it, not to destroy.

That satisfied him, but not altogether. Harvas could trumpet the same claim for his conquests, no matter how vicious they were. The difference was, Harvas lied.

“A
PETITION FOR YOU, YOUR MAJESTY,” BARSYMES SAID
.

“I’ll read it,” Krispos said resignedly. Petitions to the Avtokrator poured in from all over the Empire. Most of them he did not need to see; he had a logothete in aid of requests who dealt with those. But even the winter slowdown did not keep them from coming into the city, and the logothete could not handle everything.

He unrolled the parchment. His nostrils twitched, as if at the smell of bad fish. “Why didn’t you tell me it was from Gnatios?”

“Shall I discard it, then?”

Krispos was tempted to say yes, but had second thoughts. “As long as it’s in my hands, I may as well read it through.” Not the smallest part in his decision was Gnatios’ beautifully legible script.

“‘The humble monk Gnatios to his imperial Majesty Krispos, Avtokrator of the Videssians: Greetings.’” Krispos nodded to himself—gone were the fawning phrases of Gnatios’ first letter. Having seen they did no good, the former patriarch was wise enough to discard them. They were not his proper style anyhow. Krispos read on:

“‘Again, Your Majesty, I beg the boon of an audience with you. I am painfully aware that you have no reason to trust me and, indeed, every reason to mistrust me, but I write nonetheless not so much for my own sake as for the sake of the Empire of Videssos, whose interest I have at heart regardless of who holds the throne.’”

That might even be true,
Krispos thought. He imagined Gnatios scribbling in the scriptorium or in his own monastic cell, pausing to seek out the telling phrase that would make Krispos relent, or at least read further. He’d succeeded in the latter, if not in the former; Krispos’ eyes kept moving down the parchment.