The Tale of Krispos

by Harry Turtledove

  “I’ll do both those things,” Krispos promised. As soon as he could he thought with wine-fueled intensity, he’d see Gnatios and ask for his prayers; who could be holier than the ecumenical patriarch?

  “Good. I will pray for you as well,” Trokoundos said. He yawned enormously. Whether that was a real yawn or a hint, Krispos knew it was time to go. He thanked the wizard one last time and took his leave. Dawn had already begun to pink the eastern sky. Krispos murmured two prayers to Phos, one for his own safety and the other that Anthimos would sleep late.

  “YOU WERE A BUSY LAD LAST NIGHT,” ANTHIMOS SAID ROGUISHLY as Krispos held up a robe for his approval. The Emperor had slept late, but not late enough. Krispos’ head ached. Anthimos went on, “You weren’t in your chamber when I got back. Did you go off with one of the wenches? Was she good?”

  Without looking her way, Krispos sensed Dara listening closely for his reply. “Not a wench, Your Majesty,” he said. “An old friend came to pay me a bet he owed, and afterward he and I went off and did a little more drinking.”

  “You should have told me before you left,” the Emperor said. “Come to that, you could have brought your friend in. Who knows? He might have livened things up.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. Sorry, Your Majesty.” Krispos robed Anthimos, then went to the closet to get his master’s red boots.

  As he turned, he got a brief glimpse of Dara. He hoped that “he and I” had eased her mind. It had the advantage of being at least partly true; if she checked, she was sure to find someone who had seen him with Mavros. He hoped she would. If she thought he was betraying her, she had only to speak to Anthimos to destroy him. He did not like being so vulnerable to her. Maybe he should have worried more about that before he got into bed with her, he thought. Now was far too late.

  Anthimos went off to the Amphitheater as soon as he had finished breakfast. Krispos stayed behind at the imperial residence for a little while, then headed for the patriarch’s mansion. Gnatios was domiciled in the northern part of Videssos the city, in the shadow of the High Temple.

  “You are…?” a lesser priest haughtily asked at the door, looking down his nose at Krispos.

  “I am the vestiarios to his Imperial Majesty Anthimos III, Avtokrator of the Videssians. I would have speech with the ecumenical patriarch, at once.” He folded his arms and waited. He hoped he sounded arrogant rather than anxious; only Petronas and his mage knew when they would unleash their assault. He might need Gnatios’ prayers right away.

  He must have hit the proper tone—the priest deflated. “Yes, uh, esteemed, uh, eminent sir—”

  “Esteemed and eminent,” Krispos snapped.

  “Yes, yes, of course; my apologies. The most holy sir is in his study. Come this way, please.” Chattering nervously and bowing every few steps, the priest led him through the mansion. The artworks on the walls and set into niches were as fine as those in the imperial residence, but Krispos hardly noticed them. He followed close on his guide’s heels, wishing the fellow would move faster.

  Gnatios looked up frowning from the codex on his desk. “Curse it, Badourios, I told you I did not wish to be disturbed this morning.” Then he saw who was behind the lesser priest and rose smoothly from his chair. “Of course I am always glad to make an exception for you, Krispos. Sit here, if you care to. Will you take wine?”

  “No thank you, most holy sir,” Krispos said, having mercy on his hangover. “May I ask for privacy, though?”

  “You have only to reach behind you and close that stout door there,” Gnatios said. Krispos did as he suggested. The patriarch leaned forward over the desk between them. “You’ve roused my curiosity, esteemed and eminent sir. Now, privately, what do you require?”

  “Your prayers, most holy sir, for I have discovered that I am in danger of magical attack.” As he started to explain to Gnatios, he realized that coming here was a mistake, a large mistake. His stomach knotted from something other than his hangover. Not only did the patriarch belong to Petronas’ faction, he was the Sevastokrator’s cousin. Krispos could not even tell him who had brought news of his danger for that might put Mavros at risk. Thus he knew his story limped as it came out.

  Gnatios gave no sign of noticing. “Of course I shall pray for you, esteemed and eminent sir,” he said fulsomely. “If you will give me the name of the man who so bravely brought word of this plot against you, I will pray for him as well. His courage should not go unrewarded.”

  The words were right. The tone was sincere—a little too sincere. Suddenly Krispos was certain that if he let Mavros’ name slip out, the patriarch would get it to Petronas as fast as he could.

  And so he answered, “Most holy sir, I fear I don’t know her—uh, his—name. He came to me because, he said, he could not bear to see his master treat me unjustly. I don’t even know who her—his—master is.” With luck, those pretended slips would keep Gnatios from guessing how much Krispos knew and how he knew it.

  “You will be in my thoughts and prayers for some time to come,” the patriarch said.

  Yes, but how? Krispos wondered. “Thank you, holy sir. You’re very kind,” he said. He bowed his way out, pondering what to do next. Ducking into a wineshop a few doors down the street from the patriarchal mansion let him ponder sitting down. He suspected Gnatios’ prayers would not be for his continued good health. Who, then, could intercede with Phos for him?

  While he sat and thought about that, a priest rushed past the wineshop. So close to the High Temple, blue robes were as common as fleas, but the fellow looked familiar. After a moment, Krispos recognized him: Badourios, Gnatios’ doorkeeper. Where was he going in such a hurry? After tossing a couple of coppers on the table for the rather stale cake he’d eaten, Krispos slipped after him to find out.

  Badourios was easy to follow; he did not seem to imagine he could be pursued. His destination soon became obvious: the harbor. Which meant, Krispos was sure, that as soon as he got over the Cattle-Crossing, Petronas would know his plans were no longer hidden from their intended victim.

  And that, in turn, meant Krispos surely had very little time. It also meant everything he’d suspected about Gnatios was true, and then some. But that, for now, was a side issue. Through his robe, Krispos touched the chalcedony amulet Trokoundos had given him. The mage had as much as said the amulet, the asphodel, and the raw snail were not enough by themselves to ward him fully.

  He started back toward the High Temple, intending to ask the first priest he saw to beseech Phos to protect him. Most blue-robes were fine men; he was willing to gamble on one chosen at random. Then he had a better idea. The abbot Pyrrhos had touched his life twice already. And not only was Pyrrhos notably holy, he was also bound to treat Krispos like his own son. Krispos turned, angry at himself for not having thought of Pyrrhos sooner. The monastery dedicated to the memory of the holy Skirios was—that way. Krispos headed for it faster than Badourios had gone to the harbor.

  The gatekeeper made him wait outside the monastery. “The brethren just began their noontime prayers. They may not be disturbed for any reason.”

  Krispos drummed his fingers on the wall until the monks began filing out of the temple on the monastery grounds. The gatekeeper stood aside to let him pass. Their shaven heads and identical robes gave the monks no small uniformity, but Pyrrhos’ tall, lean, erect figure stood out among them.

  “Holy sir! Abbot Pyrrhos!” Krispos called. All the while, he kept expecting the spell from Petronas’ mage to smash him down in the dust. The delay forced while the monks prayed might have given the wizard enough time to smite.

  Pyrrhos turned, taking in Krispos’ fine robe, so different from the plain blue wool he wore. Scorn sparked in the abbot’s eyes. Then he recognized Krispos. His face changed—a little. “I have not seen you in some while,” he said. “I gathered the loose life in the palaces was more to your liking than that which we live here.”

  Krispos felt himself flush, the more so because what Pyrrhos said held much truth. He sai
d, “Holy sir, I need your aid,” and waited to see what the abbot would do. If Pyrrhos only wanted to rant at him, he would go find another priest, and quickly.

  But the abbot checked himself. Krispos saw he had not forgotten that strange night when Krispos first came to the monastery of the holy Skirios. “Phos bids us aid all men, that they may come to know the good,” Pyrrhos said slowly. “Come to my study; tell me of your need.”

  “Thank you, holy sir,” Krispos breathed. He followed the abbot through the narrow, dimly lit corridors of the monastery. He’d walked this way once before, he realized, but he had been too bemused then to make special note of his surroundings.

  The study he remembered. Like Pyrrhos, it was spare and hard and served its purpose without superfluity. The abbot waved Krispos to an unpadded stool, perched on another, and leaned forward like a bearded bird of prey. “What is this aid you say you require? I would have thought you likelier to go to Gnatios these days, as he reckons most sins but a small matter.”

  Pyrrhos was not a man to make things easy, Krispos thought. But when he answered, “Gnatios would not help me, for the person from whom I need aid is the Sevastokrator Petronas.” He knew he’d captured the abbot’s attention.

  “How did you fall foul of Petronas?” Pyrrhos asked. “Did you presume to suggest to the Emperor that his time might be better spent in attending to the duties of the state than in the wantonness and depravity in which, with his uncle’s connivance, he currently wallows?”

  “Something like that,” Krispos said; he had indeed tried to get Anthimos to do more toward running the Empire. “And because of it, holy sir, the Sevastokrator, though now out of the city on campaign, seeks to slay me with sorcery. I’ve been told the prayers of a priest might help blunt the magic’s power. Will you pray for my protection, holy sir?”

  “By the good god, I will!” Pyrrhos sprang to his feet and caught Krispos by the arm. “Come to the altar with me, Krispos, and offer up your prayers as well.”

  The altar of the monastery temple was not of silver and gold and ivory and gems like the one in the High Temple. It was plain wood, as befitted the simplicity of monastic life. Pyrrhos and Krispos spat on the floor in front of it in ritual rejection of the dark god Skotos, Phos’ eternal rival. Then they raised their hands to the heavens and spoke the creed together: “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.”

  Krispos prayed on in silence. Pyrrhos, more used to ordering his thoughts aloud, kept speaking after the creed was done: “Phos, I beseech you to protect this upright young man from the evil that approaches him. May he walk safe and righteous through it, as he has walked safe through the iniquity of the palaces. I pray for him as I would pray for my own son.” His eyes met Krispos’ for a moment. Yes, he remembered that first night Krispos had come to the monastery.

  “Will your prayer save me, holy sir?” Krispos asked when the abbot lowered his arms.

  “That is as Phos wills,” Pyrrhos answered, “and depends on what your future is meant to be—also, I’ll not deny, on the power of the sorcery sent against you. Though Phos will vanquish Skotos in the end, the dark god still ranges free in the world. I have prayed. Within me, I pray yet. May that suffice, that and whatever other wardings you have.”

  Pyrrhos was narrow, but he was also straight: he would not promise what he could not deliver. At any other time, Krispos would have had only approbation for that. Now, he thought, a reassuring lie might have felt very good. He thanked the abbot, dropped a goldpiece into the monastery poorbox, and started back to the palaces.

  HE SPENT THE REST OF THE DAY IN ANNOYED SUSPENSE. IF THE wizard was going to strike, he wished the fellow would strike and have done. Wondering whether he could withstand the attack seemed harder than waiting for it to come.

  As he was carrying dinner in for Anthimos and Dara that evening, he got his wish. And, as is often the way of such things, he regretted ever making it. He was just lowering a wide silver tray from his shoulder to the table at which the Emperor and Empress sat when the strength suddenly flowed from his body like wine pouring from a jug. All at once, the tray seemed to weigh tons. Despite his desperate grip, it crashed to the floor.

  Anthimos and Dara both jumped; the Empress let out a squeak. “That wasn’t very good, Krispos,” Anthimos said, laying a finger by the side of his nose. “Even if you think the meal is bad, you should give us the chance to fling it about.”

  Krispos tried to answer, but only a croak came from his mouth; he was not strong enough to force his tongue to shape words. As Dara began to ask, “Are you all right?” his legs gave out from under him and he slid bone-lessly down into the messy ruins of the dinner he had brought.

  By luck, he landed with his head to one side. That let him keep breathing. Had he fallen face down in spilled soup or gravy, he surely would have drowned, for he could not have shifted to clear the muck from his mouth and nose.

  He heard Dara scream. He could not see her; his eyes pointed in the wrong direction and he could not move them. Each breath was a separate struggle for air. His heart stuttered, uncertain in his chest.

  Anthimos stooped beside him and rolled him onto his back. Breathing grew a precious trifle easier. “What’s wrong, Krispos?” the Emperor demanded, staring down at him. Fetched by the racket of the dropped tray and by Dara’s scream, servants rushed into the dining room. “He’s had some sort of fit, poor beggar,” Anthimos told them.

  Barsymes said, “Let’s get him to his bed. Here, Tyrovitzes, help me move him out of this muck.” Grunting, the two eunuchs pulled Krispos away from the spilled food. Barsymes clicked tongue between teeth. “On second thought, we’d better clean him up before we put him into bed. We’ll just take him out to the hallway first.” As if he were a sack of lentils, they dragged him away from the table and out of the dining room.

  “Put him down a moment,” Tyrovitzes said. Barsymes helped ease Krispos to the marble flooring. Tyrovitzes went back into the dining room. “Your Majesties, I am sorry for the disturbance. Someone will be along directly, I assure you, to clean up what was unfortunately spilled and to serve you a fresh meal.”

  Had he been able to, Krispos would have snickered. So sorry the vestiarios turned to a puddle of mush right before your eyes, your Majesties. A fresh meal will be along directly, so don’t worry about it. But had someone else been stricken in the same way, he knew he also would have tried to keep things running smoothly. That was how life worked in the palaces.

  “Krispos, can you hear me? Can you understand me?” Barsymes asked. Though the answer to both was yes, Krispos could not give it. He could only stare up at Barsymes. The eunuch’s smooth face lengthened in thought. “If you do understand, can you blink your eyes?”

  The effort was like lifting a boulder as big as he was, but Krispos managed to close his eyelids. The world went frighteningly dark. Sweat burst out on his face as he fought to open his eyes again. At last he succeeded. He felt as worn as if a hundred harvests had all been pressed into one day.

  “He has his wits, then,” Tyrovitzes said.

  “Yes.” Barsymes laid a cool hand on Krispos’ forehead. “No fever, I’d say. The good god willing, we don’t have to fear catching—whatever this is.” The chamberlain undid Krispos’ robe and eased his arms out of it as if he were a doll. “Fetch water and towels, if you would, Tyrovitzes. We’ll wash him and put him to bed and see if he gets better.”

  “Aye, what else can we do?” Tyrovitzes’ sandals flapped down the hall.

  Barsymes squatted on his heels, studying Krispos. Watching him in return, Krispos realized how helpless he was. Any small remembered slight, any resentment the eunuch still felt at being passed over for a whole man, and Petronas’ magic would prevail even if it had not—quite—killed him outright.

  Tyrovitzes came back, setting a bucket next to Krispos’ head. Without a word, the two eunuchs set to work. Th
e water was chilly. Krispos found himself shivering. Movements not under his conscious control seemed to function, after a fashion. But that blink had been plenty to exhaust him; he could not have raised a finger to save his soul from Skotos’ ice.

  The eunuchs hauled him down the corridor to the chamber that had once been Skombros’. “One, two—” Barsymes said. At “three,” he and Tyrovitzes lifted Krispos and put him on the bed.

  Krispos stared up at the ceiling; he had no other choice. If this was what the Sevastokrator’s magic had done to him while he was warded, he wondered what would have become of him without protection. About the same thing, he supposed, that happened to a bull when the fellow at the slaughterhouse hit it between the eyes with his hammer. He would have dropped down dead, and that would have been that.

  Barsymes came back a little later with a wide, flat pan. As gently as he could, he worked it under Krispos’ buttocks. “You won’t want to soil the sheets,” he observed. Krispos did his best to put a thank-you look on his blank face. That hadn’t occurred to him. A lot about being completely unable to care for himself hadn’t occurred to him. Over the dreadfully long, dreadfully slow course of that summer and fall, he found out about all of them.

  The palace eunuchs kept him alive. They cared for members of the imperial family at all phases of life. Sometimes they treated Krispos like an infant, sometimes like a senile old man. Longinos held him upright while Barsymes massaged his throat to get him to swallow broth, a spoonful at a time. He watched himself grow thinner day by day.

  Physicians poked and prodded him and went away shaking their heads. Anthimos ordered a healer-priest to come see him. The priest fell into a trance, but woke from it baffled and defeated. “I am sorry, Your Majesty, but the illness has no cause upon which my talent can light,” he told the Avtokrator.

  That was only a few days after Krispos was stricken. For those first few days, and for a while afterward, Anthimos was constantly in his chamber, constantly making suggestions to the eunuchs about his care. Some of the suggestions were good ones; he urged the eunuchs to roll Krispos from side to side periodically to slow the start of bedsores. But when Krispos showed no signs of leaping to his feet and getting on with his duties as if nothing had happened, the Emperor began to lose interest not so much in him but in his case, and came to see him less and less often.