“What’s toward? Change,” Gnatios answered, raising an eyebrow at Krispos. “I would say that response covers the rest of your queries, as well.”
Barsymes spoke up. “Holy sirs, will your kindness permit us to enter the narthex so his Majesty may assume the imperial vestments?”
“I shall also require a vial of the scented oil used in anointings,” Gnatios added.
Krispos saw the priests’ faces go momentarily slack with surprise, then heard their voices rise as they murmured among themselves. They were city men; they did not need to hear more to know what was in the wind. Without waiting for their leave, Krispos strode into the High Temple. He felt the clerics’ eyes on him as they gave way before his confidence, but he did not look toward them. Instead, he told Barsymes, “Aye, this place will do well enough for robing. Help me, if you please.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.” The eunuch turned to the priests. “Could I trouble one of you, holy sirs, for a damp cloth wherewith to wipe clean his Majesty’s face?” Not one but four clerics hurried away.
“I’ll want to clean off after you do, Kris—Your Majesty,” Mavros said. “The good god knows I must be as sooty as you are.”
The cloth arrived in moments. With exquisite delicacy, Barsymes dabbed and rubbed at Krispos’ cheeks, nose, and forehead. When at last he was satisfied, he handed the cloth—now grayish rather than white—to Mavros. While Mavros ran it over his own face, Barsymes began to clothe Krispos in the imperial regalia for the first time.
The garb for the coronation was of antique style, so antique that it was no longer worn at any other time. With Barsymes’ help, Krispos donned blue leggings and a gold-belted blue kilt edged in white. His plain sword went into the bejeweled scabbard that hung from the belt. His tunic was scarlet, with gold threads worked through it. Barsymes set a white wool cape on his shoulders and fumbled to work the golden fibula that closed it at his throat.
“And now,” the eunuch said, “the red boots.”
They were a tight squeeze; Krispos’ feet were larger than Anthimos’. They also had higher heels than Krispos was used to. He stumped around uncertainly inside the narthex.
Barsymes took from his bag a simple golden circlet, then a more formal crown: a golden dome set with rubies, sapphires, and glistening pearls. He set both of them aside; for the moment, Krispos remained bareheaded.
Mavros went to the doors to look out. “A lot of people there,” he said. “Iakovitzes’ lads did their job well.” The noise of the crowd, which the closed doors had kept down to a sound like that of the distant sea, suddenly swelled in Krispos’ ears.
“Is it sunrise?” he asked.
Mavros looked out again. “Near enough. It’s certainly light.”
Krispos glanced from him to Barsymes to Gnatios. “Then let’s begin.”
Mavros opened the doors once more, this time throwing them wide. The boom they made as they slammed back against the wall drew the eyes of the crowd to him. He stood in the doorway for a moment, then cried out as loud as he could, “People of Videssos, Phos himself has made this day! On this day, the good god has given our city and our Empire a new Avtokrator.”
The hum from the crowd dropped as people quieted to hear what Mavros said, then redoubled when they took in the import of his words. He held up his hands and waited. Quiet slowly came. Into it, Mavros said, “The Avtokrator Anthimos is dead, laid low by his own sorceries. People of Videssos, behold the Avtokrator Krispos.”
Barsymes touched Krispos on the arm, but he was already moving forward to stand in the open doorway as Mavros stepped aside. Below him, on the steps, the Halogai raised their axes in salute—and in warning to any who would oppose him. “Krispos!” they shouted all together, their voices deep and fierce.
“Krispos!” yelled the crowd, save for the inevitable few who heard his name wrong and yelled “Priskos!” instead. “Thou conquerest, Krispos!”—the age-old Videssian shout of acclamation. “Many years to the Avtokrator Krispos!” “Thou conquerest!” “Krispos!”
Krispos remembered the heady feeling he’d had years before, when the nobles who filled the Hall of the Nineteen Couches all cried out his name after he vanquished Beshev, the thick-shouldered wrestler from Kubrat. Now he knew that feeling again, but magnified a hundredfold, for this was not a hallful of people, but rather a plazaful. Buoyed up on that great tide of acclamation, he forgot fatigue.
“The people proclaim you Emperor, Krispos!” Mavros cried.
The acclaim got louder. Shouts of “Thou conquerest, Krispos!” came thick and fast. One burden of worry gone, Krispos thought. Had the crowd not accepted him, he would never have lasted as Avtokrator; no matter what other backing he had, it would have evaporated in the face of popular contempt. The chronicles told of a would-be Emperor named Rhazates, whom the mob had laughed off the steps of the High Temple for no better reason than that he was grossly fat. A rival ousted him within days.
Thvari held up the bronze-faced shield, displaying it to the crowd. The people quieted; they knew what that shield was for. With Mavros behind him, Krispos walked down to where the Haloga waited.
Too quietly for the people in the forecourt to hear, Krispos told Thvari, “I want you, Geirrod, Narvikka, and Vagn.”
“It shall be as you wish,” the northerner agreed. Geirrod stood close by; neither of the other guardsmen Krispos had named was far away. Thvari would know which soldiers he favored, Krispos thought. At the officer’s gesture, the two Halogai set down their axes and hurried over.
Barsymes approached, handing Mavros the golden circlet he’d brought. As Thvari had the bronze-faced shield, Mavros showed the circlet to the crowd. Those at the back of the courtyard could hardly have been able to see it, but they sighed all the same—like the shield, it had its place in the ritual of coronation.
The ritual went on. Mavros offered Krispos the circlet. He held out his hands, palms away from his body, in a gesture of refusal. Mavros offered the circlet again. Again Krispos rejected it. Mavros paused, then tried to present it to Krispos once more. This time Krispos bowed his head in acquiescence.
Mavros set the circle on his brow. The gold was cool against his forehead. “Krispos, with this circlet I join the people in conferring on you the title of Avtokrator!” Mavros said proudly.
As Mavros spoke, as the crowd erupted in fresh cheers, Thvari set the bronze-faced shield flat on the stair beside him. Krispos stepped up onto it. Thvari, Geirrod, Narvikka, and Vagn stooped and grasped the rim of the shield. At a grunted command from Thvari, they lifted together.
Up went the shield to the height of their shoulders, raising Krispos high above them and showing the people that he enjoyed the soldiers’ support as well as theirs. “Krispos!” all the Halogai shouted once more. For a moment he felt more like one of their pirate chieftains about to set forth on a plundering expedition than a staid and civilized Avtokrator of the Videssians.
The guardsmen lowered him back to the stone steps. As he got off the shield, he wondered if it was the one upon which Anthimos had stood—and who would be exalted on it after he was gone. My son, Phos willing, one day many years from now, he thought, then shoved that concern far away.
He looked up to the top of the stone steps. Gnatios stood in the open doorway, holding a satin cushion on which lay the imperial crown and the vial of oil he would use to anoint Krispos’ head. The patriarch nodded. Heart pounding, Krispos climbed the stairs toward him. Having been accepted by the people and the army, he needed only ecclesiastical recognition to complete his coronation.
Gnatios nodded again as Krispos took his place beside him. But instead of beginning the ceremony of anointing, the patriarch looked out to the expectantly waiting crowd in the forecourt below. Pitching his voice to carry to the people, the patriarch said, “Perhaps our new master will honor us with a few brief words before I set the crown on his head.”
Krispos turned around to glare at Gnatios, who blandly looked back. He heard Mavros’ angry hiss—t
his was no normal part of the coronation. Krispos knew what it was: it was Gnatios hoping he would play the fool in front of much of the city, and blight his reign before it properly began.
The expanding crowd in the forecourt grew still, waiting to hear what Krispos would say. He paused a moment to gather his thoughts, for he saw he could not keep from speaking. Before he began, though, he scowled at Gnatios again. He would never be able to trust the patriarch, not after this.
But when he looked out to the still-waiting throng, all thoughts of Gnatios vanished from his mind. “People of Videssos,” he said, then once more, louder, “people of Videssos, Anthimos is dead. I do not want to speak ill of the dead, but you know as well as I that not everything in the city or in the empire ran as well as it might have while he was Emperor.”
He hoped someone would shout out in agreement and bring a laugh from the crowd. No one did. People stood silent, listening, judging. He took a deep breath and reminded himself to try to keep his rustic accent under control; he was glad his years in the city had helped smooth it. He plunged ahead.
“I served Anthimos. I saw how he neglected the Empire for the sake of his own pleasure. Pleasure has its place, aye. But the Avtokrator has to look to Videssos first, then to himself. As far as I can, I will do that.”
He paused to think again. “If I did everything I might possibly do, I think I’d need to pack three days into every one.” His rueful tone was real; as he stood there, looking out at the people who were under his rule alone, picturing their fellows all the way to the borders of the Empire, he could not imagine why anyone would want the crushing weight of responsibility that went with being Avtokrator. No time to worry about that now, either. He had the responsibility. He would have to bear up under it. He went on, “With the good god’s help, I’ll be able to do enough to help Videssos. I pray I can. That’s all.”
As he turned back to Gnatios, he listened to the crowd. No thunderous outpouring of applause, but he hadn’t expected one, not after the patriarch ambushed him into coming up with a speech on the spot. But no one jeered or booed or hissed. He’d got through it and hadn’t hurt himself. That was plenty.
Gnatios realized it, too. He masked himself well, but could not quite hide his disappointment. “Carry on, most holy sir,” Krispos said coldly.
“Yes, of course, Your Majesty.” Gnatios nodded, bland still. He raised his voice to speak to the crowd rather than the Emperor. “Bow your head for the anointing.”
Krispos obeyed. The patriarch drew the stopper from the vial of scented oil and poured its contents over Krispos’ head. He spoke the ritual words: “As Phos’ light shines down on us all, so may his blessings pour down on you with this anointing.”
“So may it be,” Krispos responded, though as he did, he wondered whether a prayer had to be sincerely meant to be effective. If so, Phos’ ears were surely closed to Gnatios’ words.
The patriarch rubbed the oil through Krispos’ hair with his right hand. While he completed the anointing, he recited Phos’ creed, intoning, “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 echoed the prayer, which, since it did not mention him, he supposed the patriarch truly meant. The city folk gathered in the forecourt below also recited the creed. Their voices rose and fell like surf, individual words lost but the prayer’s rhythm unmistakable.
And then, at last, Gnatios took the imperial crown in both hands and set it on Krispos’ lowered head. It was heavy, literally as well as for what it meant. A sigh ran through the crowd. A new Avtokrator ruled Videssos.
After a moment, the noise began to build again, to a crest of acclamation: “Thou conquerest!” “Krispos!” “Many years!” “Krispos!” “Hurrah for the Emperor!” “Krispos!” “Krispos!” “Krispos!”
He straightened. Suddenly the crown seemed to weigh nothing at all.
Book II
KRISPOS OF VIDESSOS
To Constantine VII
(who liked rice pudding)
and Leo the Deacon
Chapter I
THE GOLD FLAN WAS FLAT AND ROUND, ABOUT AS WIDE AS Krispos’ thumb—a blank surface, about to become a coin. Krispos passed it to the mintmaster, who in turn carefully set it on the lower die of the press. “All ready, Your Majesty,” he said. “Pull this lever here, hard as you can.”
Your Majesty. Krispos hid a smile. He’d been Avtokrator of the Videssians for only eight days, and still was far from used to hearing his new title in everyone’s mouth.
He pulled the lever. The upper die came down hard on the flan, whose soft gold was squeezed and reshaped between it and the one beneath.
The mintmaster said, “Now if you please, Your Majesty, just ease back there so the die lifts again.” He waited until Krispos obeyed, then took out the newly struck goldpiece and examined it. “Excellent! Had you no other duties, Your Majesty, you would be welcome to work for me.” After laughing at his own joke, he handed Krispos the coin. “Here, Your Majesty, the very first goldpiece of your reign.”
Krispos held the coin in the palm of his hand. The obverse was uppermost: an image of Phos, stern in judgment. The good god had graced Videssos’ coinage for centuries. Krispos turned the goldpiece over. His own face looked back at him, neatly bearded, a bit longer than most, nose high and proud. Yes, his image, wearing the domed imperial crown. A legend ran around his portrait, in letters tiny but perfect: KRISPOS AVTOKRATOR.
He shook his head. Seeing the goldpiece brought home once more that he was Emperor. He said, “Thank your die-maker for me, excellent sir. To cut the die so fast, and to have the image look like me—he did splendidly.”
“I’ll tell him what you’ve said, Your Majesty. I’m sure he’ll be pleased. We’ve had to work in a hurry here before, when one Avtokrator replaced another rather suddenly, so we, ah—”
The mintmaster found an abrupt, urgent reason to stare at the coin press. He knew he’d said too much, Krispos thought. Krispos’ own ancestry was not remotely imperial; he’d grown to manhood on a peasant holding near Videssos’ northern frontier—and spent several years north of that frontier, as a serf toiling for the nomads of Kubrat.
But after a cholera outbreak killed most of his family, he’d abandoned his village for Videssos the city, the great imperial capital. Here he’d risen by strength and guile to the post of vestiarios—chamberlain—to the Emperor Anthimos III. Anthimos had cared for pleasure more than for ruling; when Krispos sought to remind him of his duties, Anthimos tried to slay him by sorcery. He’d slain himself instead, with a bungled spell…. And so, Krispos thought, my face goes on goldpieces now.
“We’re cutting more dies every day, both for this mint and those out in the provinces,” the mintmaster said, changing the subject. “Soon everyone will have the chance to know you through your coins, Your Majesty.”
Krispos nodded. “Good. That’s as it should be.” He’d been a youth, he remembered, when he first saw Anthimos’ face on a goldpiece.
“I’m glad you’re pleased, Your Majesty.” The mintmaster bowed. “May your reign be long and happy, sir, and may our artisans design many more coins for you.”
“My thanks.” Krispos had to stop himself from bowing in return, as he would have before the crown came to him. A bow from the Avtokrator would not have delighted the mintmaster; it would have frightened him out of his wits. As Krispos left the mint, he had to hold up a hand to keep all the workers from stopping their jobs to prostrate themselves before him. He was just learning how stifling imperial ceremony could be for the Emperor.
A squad of Halogai stood outside the mint. The imperial guardsmen swung up their axes in salute as Krispos emerged. Their captain held his horse’s head to help him mount. The big blond northerner was red-faced and sweating on what seemed to Krispos no more than a moderately warm day; few of the fierce mercenaries took Videssos’ summer heat well.
“W
here to now, Majesty?” the officer asked.
Krispos glanced down at a sheet of parchment on which he’d scrawled a list of the things he had to do this morning. He’d had to do so much so fast since becoming Avtokrator that he’d given up trying to keep it all in his head. “To the patriarchal mansion, Thvari,” he said. “I have to consult with Gnatios—again.”
The guardsmen formed up around Krispos’ big bay gelding. He touched the horse’s flanks with his heels, twitched the reins. “Come on, Progress,” he said. The imperial stables held many finer animals; Anthimos had fancied good horseflesh. But Progress had belonged to Krispos before he became Emperor, and that made the beast special.
When the Halogai reached the edge of the palace quarter and came to the plaza of Palamas, they menacingly raised their axes and shouted, “Way! Way for the Avtokrator of the Videssians!” As if by magic, a lane through the crowded square opened for them. That was an imperial perquisite Krispos enjoyed. Without it, he might have spent most of an hour getting to the other side of the plaza—he had, often enough. Half the people in the world, he sometimes thought, used the plaza of Palamas to try to sell things to the other half.
Though the presence of the Emperor—and the cold-eyed Halogai—inhibited hucksters and hagglers, the din was still dreadful. He rubbed an ear in relief as it faded behind him.
The Halogai tramped east down Middle Street, Videssos the city’s chief thoroughfare. The Videssians loved spectacle. They stopped and stared and pointed and made rude remarks, as if Krispos could not see or hear them. Of course, he realized wryly, he was so new an Avtokrator as to be interesting for novelty’s sake, if nothing else.
He and his guards turned north toward the High Temple, the grandest shrine to Phos in all the Empire. The patriarch’s home stood close by. When it came into view, Krispos braced himself for another encounter with Gnatios.
The Tale of Krispos Page 43
