“Still, you’re making the right choice,” Iakovitzes said, nodding vigorously. “You can’t afford to treat with Petronas; that would be as much as recognizing him as your equal. A reigning Avtokrator has no equals inside Videssos. But paying off a foreign prince who’s made a nuisance of himself—why, it happens all the time.”
Krispos glanced to Mavros, who also nodded. Agapetos said, “Aye, Majesty, settle the civil war first. Once the whole Empire is behind you, then you can have another go at Harvas when the time is ripe.”
“How much did Petronas pay Harvas to bring his murderers south into Kubrat?” Krispos asked.
“Fifty pounds of gold—thirty-six hundred goldpieces,” Iakovitzes answered at once.
“Then you can offer him up to twice that much if you have to, and buy me a year’s peace with him,” Krispos said. “I trust you’ll be able to get him to settle for less, though, being the able dickerer you are.”
Iakovitzes glared at him. “I was afraid you were leading up to that.”
“You’re the best envoy I have,” Krispos said. “How many embassies to the folk of the north have you headed? We first met in Kubrat, remember? I still wear that goldpiece you gave the old khagan Omurtag when you were ransoming the lot of kidnapped peasants I was part of. So you know what you need to do, and I know I can rely on you.”
“If it were a mission to the Kubrat that was, or to Khatrish, or even Thatagush, I’d say aye without thinking twice, though all those lands are bloody barbarous,” Iakovtizes said slowly. “Harvas, now…Harvas is something else. I tell you frankly, Krispos—Your Majesty—he alarms me. He wants more than just plunder. He wants slaughter, and maybe more than that.”
“Harvas alarms me, too,” Krispos admitted. “If you think you’re going into danger, Iakovtizes, I won’t send you.”
“No, I’ll go.” Iakovtizes ran a hand through his graying hair. “After all, what could he do? For one thing, he may have to send an embassy here one fine day, and I know—and he’d know—you’d avenge any harm that came to me. And for another, I’m coming to pay him tribute, lots of tribute. How could I making him angry doing that?”
Mavros leered at the short, feisty noble. “If anyone could manage, Iakovitzes, you’re the man.”
“Ah, Your Highness,” Iakovitzes said in a tone of sweet regret, “were you not suddenly become second lord in all the land, be assured I would tell you precisely what sort of cocky, impertinent, jumped-up little snipsnap bastard son of a snake and a cuckoo you really are.” By the time he finished, he was shouting, red-faced, his eyes bulging.
“Kind and gracious as always,” Krispos told him, doing his best not to laugh.
“You, too, eh?” Iakovitzes growled. “Well, you’d just better watch out, Your Majesty. As best I can tell, I can call you anything I bloody well please for a while and not worry a bit about lèse-majesté, because if you send me to the chap with the axe, you can’t send me to Harvas.”
“That depends on where I tell him to cut,” Krispos said.
Iakovitzes grabbed his crotch in mock horror. Just then Barsymes brought in a fresh jar of wine and a plate of smoked octopus tentacles. The eunuch looked down his long nose at Iakovitzes. “There are not many men to whom I would say this, excellent sir, but I suspect you would be as much a scandal without your stones as with them.”
“Why, thank you,” Iakovitzes said, which made even the imperturbable vestiarios blink. Krispos raised his cup in salute. So long as Iakovitzes had his tongue, he was armed and dangerous.
IAKOVITZES SET OUT ON HIS MISSION TO HARVAS A FEW DAYS later. Krispos promptly put him in a back corner of his mind; what with the state of the roads during the fall rains and the blizzards that would follow them, he did not expect the noble to be back before spring.
Of more immediate concern was Sarkis’ continuing campaign against Petronas. By his dispatches, the regimental commander was making progress, but at a snail’s pace thanks to the weather. The rains were still falling when he reached the first of Petronas’ estates. “Drove off to westward the cavalry who sought to oppose us,” he wrote, “then attempted to fire the villa and outbuildings we had taken. Too wet for a truly satisfactory job, but no one will be able to use them for a good long while yet.”
When Krispos was a youth, the world in winter had seemed to contract to no more than his village and the fields around it. Even as Avtokrator, something similar happened. Though news came in from all over the Empire, everything beyond Videssos the city seemed dim and distant, as if seen through thick fog. Not least because of that, he paid more attention to the people closest to him.
By Midwinter’s Day, Dara was visibly pregnant, though not in the thick robes she wore to the Amphitheater to watch the skits that celebrated the sun’s swing back toward the north. Midwinter’s Day was a time of license; a couple of the pantomime shows lewdly speculated on what Dara’s relationship with Krispos had been before Anthimos died. Krispos laughed even when the jokes on him weren’t funny. After looking angry at first, Dara went along, though she said, “Some of those so-called clowns should be horsewhipped through the plaza of Palamas.”
“It’s Midwinter’s Day,” Krispos said, as if that explained everything. To him, it did.
Some of the servants had started a bonfire in front of the steps that led into the imperial residence. It still blazed brightly when the imperial party returned from the Amphitheater. Krispos dismounted from Progress. He tossed the reins to a groom. Then, holding the crown on his head with one hand, he dashed toward the fire, sprang into the air. “Burn, ill luck!” he shouted as he flew over the flames.
A moment later he heard more running feet. “Burn, ill luck!” Dara called. Her jump barely carried her across the fire. She staggered when she landed. She might have fallen, had Krispos not reached out a quick hand to steady her.
“That was foolish,” he said, angry now himself. “Why have you been traveling in a litter the past month, but to keep you from wearing yourself out or hurting yourself? Then you go and risk it all—and for what? Holiday hijinks!”
She pulled away from him. “I’m not made of pottery, you know. I won’t shatter if you look at me sideways. And besides”—she lowered her voice—“what with Petronas, Gnatios, and Harvas Black-Robe, don’t you think more ill luck is out there than one alone can easily burn away?”
His anger melted, as the snow had around the campfire. “Aye, that’s so.” He put an arm round her shoulder. “But I wish you’d be more careful.”
She shook him off. He saw he’d somehow annoyed her again. Then she said, “Is that for my sake, or just on account of the child in my belly?”
“For both,” he answered honestly. Her eyes stayed narrowed as she studied him. He said, “Come on, now. Have you seen me building any minnow ponds?”
She blinked, then found herself laughing. “No, I suppose not.” Minnows had been a euphemism Anthimos used for one of the last of his debauched schemes—one of the few times Anthimos bothered with euphemism, Krispos thought. Dara went on, “After living with such worries so long, do you wonder that I have trouble trusting?”
By way of answer, he put his arm around her again. This time she let it stay. They walked up the steps and down the hallway together. When they got to their bedchamber, she closed and barred the doors behind them. At his quizzical look, she said, “You were the one who was talking about it being Midwinter’s Day.”
They wasted no time undressing and sliding under the blankets. Though brick-lined ducts under the floor brought warm air from a central furnace, the bedchamber was still chilly. Krispos’ hand traced the small bulge rising around Dara’s navel. Her mouth twisted into a peculiar expression, half pride, half pout. “I liked myself better flat-bellied,” she said.
“I like you fine the way you are.” To prove what he said, Krispos let his hand linger.
She scowled ferociously. “Did you like me throwing up every morning and every other afternoon? I’m not doing that as often now, th
e good god be praised.”
“I’m glad you’re not,” Krispos said. “I—” He stopped. Under his palm, something—fluttered? rolled? twisted? He could not find the right word. Wonder in his voice, he asked, “Was that the baby?”
Dara nodded. “I’ve felt him”—she always called the child to come him—“moving for a week or ten days now. That’s the hardest wiggle yet, though. I’m not surprised you noticed it.”
“What does it feel like to you?” he asked, all at once more curious than aroused. He pressed lightly on her belly, hoping the baby inside would stir again.
“It’s rather like—” Dara frowned, shook her head. “I started to say it felt like gas, like what would happen if I ate too much cucumber and octopus salad. It did, when he first started moving. But these bigger squirmings don’t feel like anything, if you know what I mean. You’d understand, if you were a woman.”
“Yes, I suppose I would. But since I’m not, I have to ask foolish questions.” As if on cue, the baby moved again. Krispos hugged Dara close. “We did that!” he exclaimed, before he recalled he might not have had anything to do with it at all.
If Dara remembered that, too, she gave no sign. “We may have started it,” she said tartly, “but I’m the one who has to do the rest of the work.”
“Oh, hush.” The feel of Dara’s warm, smooth body pressed against his own reminded Krispos why they were in bed together. He rolled her onto her back. As they joined, he looked down at her and said, “Since you’re complaining, I’ll do the work tonight.”
“Fair enough,” she said, her eyes glowing in the lamplight. “We won’t be able to do it this way too much longer anyhow—someone coming between us, you might say. So let’s”—she paused, her breath going short for a moment—“enjoy it while we can.”
“Oh, yes,” he said, “Oh, yes.”
THE MESSAGE IAKOVITZES HAD SENT OUT WELL BEFORE MIDWINTER’S Day arrived several weeks after the festival was over. All the same, Krispos was glad to have it. “Harvas wants to take the tribute. We’ve been haggling over how much. His is not simple Haloga greed; he fights for every copper like a prawn-seller in the city (not a prawn to be had here, worse luck—nothing but bloody mutton and bloody beef). By the lord with the great and good mind, Majesty, he nearly frightens me: he is very fierce and very clever. But I give as good as I get, I think. Yours in frigid resignation from the blizzards of Pliskavos—”
Krispos smiled as he rolled up the parchment. He could easily summon a picture of Iakovitzes’ sharp tongue carving strips off a barbarous warlord too slow-witted to realize he’d been insulted. Then Krispos read the letter again. If Harvas Black-Robe was clever—and everything Krispos knew of him pointed that way—Iakovitzes’ acid barbs might sink deep.
He closed the letter once more and tied a ribbon around it. Iakovitzes had been treating with barbarians for close to thirty years—for as long as Krispos had been alive. He’d know not to go too far.
What had been a quiet winter in matters ecclesiastical heated up when Pyrrhos abruptly expelled four priests from their temples. Seeing the blunt announcement in with the rest of the paperwork, Krispos summoned the patriarch. “What’s all this in aid of?” he asked, tapping the parchment. “I thought I told you I wanted quiet in the temples.”
“So you did, Majesty, but without true doctrine and fidelity, what value has mere quiet?” Pyrrhos, as Krispos had long known, was not one to compromise. The patriarch went on, “As you will note in my memorandum there, I had reason in each case. Bryones of the temple of the holy Nestorios was heard to preach that you were a false Avtokrator and I a false patriarch.”
“Can’t have that,” Krispos agreed. He wished Gnatios had never gotten out of his monastic cell. Not only did he confer legitimacy on Petronas’ revolt, but as patriarch-in-exile he also provided a focus for clerics who found Pyrrhos’ strict interpretation of ecclesiastical law and custom unbearable.
“To continue,” the patriarch said, ticking off the errant priests’ transgressions on his fingers, “Norikos of the temple of the holy Thelalaios flagrantly cohabited with a woman, an abuse apparently long tolerated thanks to the laxness that prevailed under Gnatios. The priest Loutzoulos had the habit of wearing robes with silk in the weave, vestments entirely too luxurious for one of his station. And Savianos…” Pyrrhos’ voice sank in horror to a hoarse whisper. “Savianos has espoused the Balancer heresy.”
“Has he?” Krispos remembered Savianos speaking out against Pyrrhos’ nomination as patriarch. He was sure Pyrrhos had not forgotten, either. “How do you know?” he asked, wondering how vindictive Pyrrhos was: more than a little, he suspected.
“By his own words I shall convict him, Majesty,” Pyrrhos said. “In his sermons he has declared that Skotos darkens Phos’ radiant glory. How could this be so unless the good god and the master of evil”—he spat in renunciation of Skotos—“stand equally matched in the Eternal Balance?”
Imperial orthodoxy preached that in the end Phos was sure to vanquish Skotos. The eastern lands of Khatrish and Thatagush also worshiped Phos, but their priests maintained no man could know whether good or evil would triumph in the end—thus their concept of the Balance.
Krispos knew the Balance had its attractions even for some Videssian theologians. But he asked, “Are you sure that’s the only meaning you can put on what Savianos said?”
Pyrrhos’ eyes glittered dangerously. “Name another.”
Not for the first time, Krispos wished his formal education went further than reading and writing, adding and subtracting. “Maybe it was just a fancy way of saying there is still evil in the world. Phos hasn’t won yet, you know.”
“Given the sad state of sinfulness I see all around me, I am but too aware of that.” Pyrrhos shook his head. “No, Majesty, I fear Savianos’ speech cannot be interpreted so innocently. When a man of that stripe admires Skotos’ strength, his remarks must have a sinister import.”
“Suppose a priest who had always supported you spoke in the same way,” Krispos said. “What would you do then?”
“Upbraid him, chastise him, and expel him,” Pyrrhos said at once. “Evil is evil, no matter from whose lips it comes. May the lord with the great and good mind guard against it.” He drew the sun-circle over his heart.
Krispos also signed himself. He studied the ecumenical patriarch he had created. At last, reluctantly, he decided he had to believe Pyrrhos. The patriarch was narrow, aye, but within his limits just. Sighing, Krispos said, “Very well, then, most holy sir, act as you think best.”
“I shall, Your Majesty, I assure you. These four are but the snow-covered tip of a mountain of corruption. They are the ones who shine most brightly when Phos’ sun lights their misdeeds, but their glitter shall not blind me to the rest of the mountain, either.”
“Now wait one moment, if you please,” Krispos said hastily, holding up his hand. “I did not name you to your office to have you spread chaos through the temples.”
“What is the function of the patriarch but to root out sin where he finds it?” Pyrrhos said. “If you think some other duty comes before it, then cast me down now.” He bowed his head to show his acceptance of that imperial prerogative.
Krispos realized that in Pyrrhos he had at last found someone more stubborn than he was. Seeing that, he also realized he had been naive to hope the greater responsibilities of the patriarchate would temper Pyrrhos’ pious obstinacy. And finally, he understood that since he could not afford to oust Pyrrhos from the blue-boots—no other man, hastily set in place, could serve as much of a counterweight to Gnatios—he was stuck with him for the time being.
“As I told you, most holy sir, you must act as you think best,” he said. “But, I pray you, remember also the”—what had Savianos called it?—“the principle of theological economy.”
“Where the principle applies, Majesty, rest assured that I shall,” Pyrrhos said. “I must warn you, though, its application is less sweeping than some would claim.”
LOOKING AT A MAP OF THE EMPIRE, KRISPOS OBSERVED, “I’M just glad Harvas’ murderers decided to withdraw after they took Develtos. If they’d pressed on, they could have reached the Sailors’ Sea and cut the eastern provinces in half.”
“Yes, that would have spilled the chamber pot into the soup, wouldn’t it?” Mavros said. “As is, though, you’re still going to have to restore the town, you know.”
“I’ve already begun to take care of it,” Krispos said. “I’ve sent word out through the city guilds that the fisc will pay double the usual daily rate for potters and plasterers and tilemakers and carpenters and stonecutters and what have you willing to go to Develtos for the summer. From what the guildmasters say, we’ll have enough volunteers to make the place a going concern again by fall.”
“The guilds are the best way to get the people you’ll need,” Mavros agreed. Labor in Videssos the city was as minutely regulated as everything else; the guildmasters reported to the eparch of the city, as if they were government functionaries themselves. Mavros pursed his lips, then went on. “Stonecutters, aye; they’ll need more than a few of those, considering what happened to Develtos’ wall.”
“Yes,” Krispos said somberly. The reports from survivors of the attack and later witnesses told how one whole side of the fortifications had been blasted down, most likely by magic. Afterward Harvas’ northern mercenaries swarmed into the stunned town and began their massacre. “Till now, I thought battle magic was supposed to be a waste of time, that it didn’t work well with folk all keyed up to fight.”
The Tale of Krispos Page 51
