The Tale of Krispos

by Harry Turtledove

  Krispos frowned as he opened his door, then barred it behind him. He tried to tell himself what he’d seen didn’t mean what he thought it did. He could not make himself believe it. He knew what a good-night kiss looked like, no matter who was giving it.

  He asked himself what difference it made. Living in Iakovitzes’ household had taught him that the grooms who let the noble take them to bed were not much different from the ones who declined, save in their choice of pleasures. If Mavros enjoyed what Iakovitzes offered, it was his business and none of Krispos’. It did not make him any less cheerful, clever, or enthusiastic.

  That thought consoled Krispos long enough to let him undress and get into bed. Then he realized it was his business after all. Tanilis had charged him to treat Mavros as a younger brother. No matter how his perspective had changed, he knew it would not be easy if his younger brother acted as Mavros had.

  He sighed. Here was something new and unwelcome to worry about. He had no idea what to say to Mavros or what to do if, as seemed likely, Mavros answered, “So what?” But he found he could not sleep until he promised himself he would say something.

  Even getting the chance did not prove easy. Some of the Kalavrians were still gambling when he and Mavros came down for breakfast the next morning, and this was one conversation he did not want overheard.

  For that matter, some of the Kalavrians were still gambling when Iakovitzes came down for breakfast quite a bit later. He rolled his eyes. “You’d bet on whether Phos or Skotos will triumph at the end of time,” he said in disgust.

  Stasios and a couple of others looked up from the dice. “You know, we just might,” he said. Soon the bleary-eyed merchants started arguing theology as they played.

  “Congratulations,” Mavros told Iakovitzes.

  “By the ice, what for?” Iakovitzes was listening to the Kalavrians as if he could not believe his ears.

  With a sly grin, Mavros answered, “How many people can boast they’ve invented a new heresy before their morning porridge?”

  Krispos swallowed wrong. Mavros pounded him on the back. Iakovitzes just scowled. Through the rest of the day, he remained as sour toward Mavros as he was with anyone else. Krispos began to wonder if he’d made a mistake. But no, he knew what he’d seen.

  As the last of the all-night gamblers among the Kalavrians went upstairs, the traders who had gone to bed began drifting down once more. The game never stopped. Krispos fretted. Having to wait only made him more nervous about what he’d say to Mavros.

  After checking the horses the next morning, Iakovitzes decided to ride on. “Another day wouldn’t hurt the beasts, I suppose, but another day stuck in Develtos with those gambling maniacs would do me in,” he said.

  He was too good a horseman to push the pace with tired animals and rested them frequently. When he went off to answer nature’s call at one of those stops, Krispos found himself with the opportunity he’d dreaded. “Mavros,” he said quietly.

  “What is it?” Mavros turned toward him. When he saw the expression on Krispos’ face, his own grew more serious. “What is it?” he repeated in a different tone of voice.

  Now that he was at the point, Krispos’ carefully crafted speeches deserted him. “Did you end up in bed with Iakovitzes the other night?” he blurted.

  “What if I did? Are you jealous?” Mavros looked at Krispos again. “No, you’re not. What then? Why should you care?”

  “Because I was bid to be your brother, remember? I never had a brother before, only sisters, so I don’t quite know how to do that. But I do know I wouldn’t want any kin of mine sleeping with someone just to get in his good graces.”

  If Mavros knew about him and Tanilis, Krispos realized as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he’d throw that right back at him, no matter how unfairly. But Mavros must not have. He said, “Why do I need to get in Iakovitzes’ good graces? Aye, he lives at the capital, but I could buy and sell him. If he gives me too bad a time, I’d do it, too, and he knows it.”

  Krispos started to answer, abruptly stopped. He’d judged Mavros’ situation by his own, and only now did he see the two were not the same. Unlike him, Mavros had a perfectly satisfactory life to return to if the city did not suit him. With such independent means, though, why had he yielded to Iakovitzes? That was a question Krispos could ask, and did.

  “To find out what it was like, why else?” Mavros said. “I’ve had plenty of girls, but I’d never tried it the other way round. From the way Iakovitzes talked it up, I thought I was missing something special.”

  “Oh.” The straightforward hedonism in the reply reminded Krispos of Tanilis. He needed a moment to get up the nerve to ask, “And what did you think?”

  Mavros shrugged. “It was interesting to do once, but I wouldn’t want to make a habit of it. As far as I’m concerned, girls are more fun.”

  “Oh,” Krispos said again. He felt foolish. “I guess I should have kept my big mouth shut.”

  “Probably you should have.” But Mavros seemed to reconsider. “No, I take that back. If we are to be brothers, then you have the right to speak to me when something troubles you—and the other way round, too, I suppose.”

  “That’s only fair,” Krispos agreed. “This whole business takes some getting used to.”

  “Things my mother arranges usually do,” Mavros said cheerfully, “but they have a way of working out right in the end. And if this particular arrangement works out right in the end—” He broke off. They were altogether alone except for Iakovitzes off somewhere in the bushes, but he was still wary of speaking about what Tanilis had seen. Krispos thought the better of him for it. He was a good deal more than wary himself.

  “What were you two gossiping about?” Iakovitzes asked when he came back a couple of minutes later.

  “You, of course,” Krispos said in his best innocent voice.

  “A worthy topic indeed.” Iakovitzes was noticeably smoother mounting than he had been back at Opsikion. He used his legs and the reins to get his horse moving once more. Krispos and Mavros followed him toward the city.

  Chapter VII

  “HURRY UP, KRISPOS! AREN’T YOU READY YET?” IAKOVITZES said. “We don’t want to be late, not to this affair.”

  “No, excellent sir,” Krispos said. He had been ready for the best part of an hour. His master was the one who kept taking off one robe and putting on another, agonizing over how big a hoop to wear in his left ear and whether it should be gold or silver, bedeviling his servants about which scent to douse himself with. This once, Krispos did not blame Iakovitzes for fussiness. The Sevastokrator Petronas was giving the evening’s feast.

  “Come on, then,” Iakovitzes said now. A moment later, almost as an afterthought, he added, “You look quite well tonight. I don’t think I’ve seen that robe before.”

  “Thank you, excellent sir. No, I don’t think you’ve seen it, either. I just bought it a couple of weeks ago.”

  The garment in question was dark blue, and of fine soft wool. Its sober hue and plain cut were suited to a man older and of higher station than Krispos. He’d used a few of Tanilis’ goldpieces on clothes of that sort. One of these days, he might need to be taken seriously. Not looking like a groom could only help.

  He rode half a pace behind Iakovitzes and to his master’s left. Iakovitzes swore whenever cross traffic made them slow and grew livid to see how crowded the plaza of Palamas was. “Out of the way there, you blundering oaf!” he screamed when he got stuck behind a small man leading a large mule. “I have an appointment with the Sevastokrator.”

  Cheeky as most of the folk who called Videssos the city home, the fellow retorted, “I don’t care if you’ve got an appointment with Phos, pal. I’m in front of you and that’s how I like it.”

  After more curses, Iakovitzes and Krispos managed to swing around the muleteer. By then they were near the western edge of the plaza of Palamas, past the great amphitheater, past the red granite obelisk of the Milestone from which all distances in the
Empire were reckoned.

  “Here, you see, excellent sir, we’re all right,” Krispos said soothingly as traffic thinned out.

  “I suppose so.” Iakovitzes did not sound convinced, but Krispos knew he was grumbling only because he always grumbled. The western edge of the plaza bordered on the imperial palaces, and no one entered the palace district without business there. Soon Iakovitzes urged his horse up into a trot, and then into a canter.

  “Where are we going?” Krispos asked, keeping pace.

  “The Hall of the Nineteen Couches.”

  “The nineteen what?” Krispos wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.

  “Couches,” Iakovitzes repeated.

  “Why do they call it that?”

  “Because up until maybe a hundred years ago, people at fancy feasts ate while they reclined instead of sitting in chairs as we do now. Don’t ask me why they did that, because I couldn’t tell you—to make it easier for them to spill things on their robes, I suppose. Anyway, there haven’t been any couches in there for a long time, but names have a way of sticking.”

  They swung round a decorative stand of willows. Krispos saw scores of torches blazing in front of a large square building, and people bustling around and going inside. “Is that it?”

  “That’s it.” Iakovitzes gauged the number of horses and sedan chairs off to one side of the hall. “We’re all right—not too early, but not late, either.”

  Grooms in matched silken finery led away his mount and Krispos’. Krispos followed his master up the low, broad stairs to the Hall of the Nineteen Couches. “Pretty stone,” Krispos remarked as he got close enough to make out detail in the torchlight.

  “Do you really think so?” Iakovitzes said. “The green veining in the white marble always reminds me of one of those crumbly cheeses that smell bad.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Krispos said, truthfully enough. He had to admit the comparison was apt. Even so, he would not have made it himself. Iakovitzes’ jaundiced outlook made him take some strange views of the world.

  A servitor in raiment even more splendid than the grooms’ bowed low as Iakovitzes came to the entrance, then turned and loudly announced, “The excellent Iakovitzes!”

  Thus introduced, Iakovitzes swaggered into the reception hall, as well as he could swagger with a limp that was still pronounced. Krispos, who was not nearly important enough to be worth introducing, followed his master inside.

  “Iakovitzes!” Petronas hurried up to clasp the noble’s hand. “That was a fine piece of work you did for me in Opsikion. You have my gratitude.” The Sevastokrator made no effort to keep his voice down. Heads turned to see whom he singled out for such public praise.

  “Thank you, your Highness,” Iakovitzes said, visibly preening.

  “As I said, you’re the one who has earned my thanks. Well done.” Petronas started to walk away, stopped. “Krispos, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, your Imperial Highness,” Krispos said, surprised and impressed the Sevastokrator remembered his name after one brief meeting almost a year before.

  “Thought so.” Petronas also seemed pleased with himself. He turned back to Iakovitzes. “Didn’t you bring another lad with you from Opsikion, too? Mavros, was that the name? Tanilis’ son, I mean.”

  Iakovitzes nodded. “As a matter of fact, I did.”

  “Thought so,” Petronas repeated. “Bring him along one of these times when we’re at a function together, if you could. I’d like to meet him. Besides which”—the Sevastokrator’s smile was cynical—“his mother’s rich enough that I don’t want to get her annoyed with me, and chatting him up can only help me with her.”

  Petronas went off to greet other guests. Iakovitzes’ gaze followed him. “He doesn’t miss much,” the noble mused, more to himself than to Krispos. “I wonder which of my people told him about Mavros.” Whoever it was, Krispos did not envy him if his master found him out.

  Still muttering to himself, Iakovitzes headed for the wine. He plucked a silver goblet from the bed of hoarded snow in which it rested, drained it and reached for another. Krispos took a goblet, too. He sipped from it as he walked over to a table piled high with appetizers. A couple of slices of boiled eggplant and some pickled anchovies took the edge off his appetite. He was careful not to eat too much; he wanted to be able to do justice to the supper that lay ahead.

  “Your moderation does you credit, young man,” someone said from behind him when he left the hors d’oeuvres after only a brief stay.

  “Your pardon?” Krispos turned, swiftly added, “Holy sir. Most holy sir,” he amended; the priest—or rather prelate—who’d spoken to him wore shimmering cloth-of-gold with Phos’ sun picked out in blue silk on his left breast.

  “Nothing, really,” the ecclesiastic said. His sharp, foxy features reminded Krispos of Petronas’, though they were less stern and heavy than the Sevastokrator’s. He went on, “It’s just that at an event like this, where gluttony is the rule, seeing anyone eschew it is a cause for wonderment and celebration.”

  Hoping he’d guessed right about what “eschew” meant, Krispos answered, “All I planned was to be a glutton a little later.” He explained why he’d gone easy on the appetizers.

  “Oh, dear.” The prelate threw back his head and laughed. “Well, young sir, I appreciate your candor. That, believe me, is even rarer at these events than moderation. I don’t believe I’ve seen you before?” He paused expectantly.

  “My name is Krispos, most holy sir. I’m one of Iakovitzes’ grooms.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Krispos. Since I see my blue boots haven’t given me away, let me introduce myself, as well: I’m called Gnatios.”

  Just as only the Avtokrator wore all-red boots, only one priest had the privilege of wearing all-blue ones. Krispos realized with a start that he’d been making small talk with the ecumenical patriarch of the Empire of Videssos. “M-most holy sir,” he stammered, bowing. Even as he bent his head, though, he felt a rush of pride—if only the villagers could see him now!

  “No formality needed, not when I’m here to enjoy the good food, too,” Gnatios said with an easy smile. Then those foxy features suddenly grew very sharp indeed. “Krispos? I’ve heard your name before after all, I think. Something to do with the abbot Pyrrhos, wasn’t it?”

  “The abbot was kind enough to find me my place with Iakovitzes, yes, most holy sir,” Krispos said.

  “That’s all?” Gnatios persisted.

  “What else could there be?” Krispos knew perfectly well what else; if Gnatios didn’t, he was not about to reveal it for him.

  “Who knows what else?” The patriarch’s chuckle was thin. “Where Pyrrhos is involved, any sort of superstitious excess becomes not only possible but credible. Well, never mind, young man. Just because something is credible, that doesn’t necessarily make it true. Not necessarily. A pleasant evening to you.”

  Gnatios’ shaven skull gleamed in the torchlight like one of the gilded domes atop Phos’ temple as he went on his way. Krispos took the rest of the wine in his cup at a gulp, then went over to the great basin of snow for another one. He was sweating in spite of the wine’s chill. The patriarch, by the nature of his office, was the Avtokrator’s man. Had he boasted to Gnatios instead of sensibly keeping his mouth shut…He wondered if he would even have got back to Iakovitzes’ house safe and sound.

  Little by little, the wine helped calm Krispos. Gnatios didn’t seem to have taken seriously whatever tales he’d heard. Then a servant appeared at Krispos’ elbow. “Are you Iakovitzes’ groom?” he asked.

  Krispos’ heart jumped into his mouth. “Yes,” he answered, readying himself to knock the man down and flee.

  “Could you join your master, please?” the fellow said. “We’ll be seating folk for dinner soon, and the two of you will be together.”

  “Oh. Of course.” Krispos felt like giggling with relief as he scanned the Hall of the Nineteen Couches for Iakovitzes. He wished the noble were taller; he was hard to spot. Even
though he had trouble seeing Iakovitzes, he soon heard him arguing with someone or other. He made his way over to him.

  Servants carried away the tables of appetizers. Others brought out dining tables and chairs. Despite guests getting in their way, they moved with practiced efficiency. Faster than Krispos would have thought possible, the hall was ready and the servants began guiding diners to their seats.

  “This way, excellent sir, if you please,” a servitor murmured to Iakovitzes. He had to repeat himself several times; Iakovitzes was driving home a rhetorical point by jabbing a forefinger into the chest of a man who had been rash enough to disagree with him. The noble finally let himself listen. He and Krispos followed the servant, who said, “You have the honor of sitting at the Sevastokrator’s table.”

  To Krispos, that said how much Petronas thought of the job Iakovitzes had done at Opsikion. Iakovitzes merely grunted, “I’ve had it before.” His eyebrows rose as he neared the head table. “And up till now, I’ve never had to share it with barbarians, either.”

  Four Kubratoi, looking outlandish indeed in their shaggy furs, were already at the table. They’d quickly emptied one pitcher of wine and were shouting for another. The servant said, “They are an embassy from the new khagan Malomir and have ambassadors’ privileges.”

  “Bah,” was Iakovitzes’ reply to that. “The one in the middle there, the big bruiser, you mean to tell me he’s an ambassador? He looks more like a hired killer.” Krispos had already noticed the man Iakovitzes meant. With his scarred, sullen face, wide shoulders, and enormous hands, he certainly resembled no diplomat Krispos had seen or imagined.

  The servant answered, “As a properly accredited member of the party from Kubrat, he cannot be excluded from functions to which his comrades are invited.” He lowered his voice. “I will say, however, that his principal area of prowess does appear to be wrestling, not reason.”