“For too long, we did not, Majesty,” Damasos said. “Even after we realized what we faced, we needed no small space of time to overcome the wizardry. Whoever set it on the wound bound it with the power of the victim’s blood, making it doubly hard to banish. It was, in effect, a deliberate perversion of my own ritual.” Tired though he was, Damasos set his jaw in outrage.
Krispos asked, “You are ready to heal now, you say?” At the healer-priest’s nod, he went on. “Take me to Iakovitzes. I would see him healed, as best he may be.” He also wanted Iakovitzes to see him, to know how guilty he felt for sending him on an embassy about which he’d had misgivings.
He gasped when Damasos ushered him into Iakovitzes’ chamber. The little noble, usually so plump and dapper, was thin, ragged, and filthy. Krispos coughed at the foul odor that rose from him: not just that of a body long unwashed, but worse, a ripe stench like rotting meat. Yellow pus dribbled from the corner of his mouth. His eyes were wide and blank with fever.
Those blank eyes slid past Krispos without recognizing him. A healer-priest sat beside the bed where Iakovitzes thrashed. Four beefy attendants stood close by. Damasos spoke to the priest. “Are you ready, Nazares?”
“Aye, holy sir.” Nazares’ glance rested on Krispos for a moment. When Krispos showed no sign of leaving, the healer-priest shrugged and nodded to the attendants. “Commence, lads.”
Two of the men seized Iakovitzes’ arms. A third grabbed his head to pull down his lower jaw, then wedged a stout stick padded with cloth between his teeth. Iakovitzes had not seemed aware of his surroundings till then. But the instant the stick touched his lips, he began to struggle like a man possessed, letting out bloodcurdling shrieks and a string of gurgles that tried to be words.
“Poor fellow,” Damasos whispered to Krispos. “In his delirium, he must think we’re about to cut him again.” Krispos’ nails bit into his palms.
In spite of the battle Iakovitzes put up, the fourth attendant forced a metal gag into his mouth, of the sort horse doctors used to hold an animal’s jaws apart so they could trim its teeth. When the gag was in place, Nazares reached into Iakovitzes’ forcibly opened mouth. Seeing Krispos still watching, the healer-priest explained, “For proper healing, I must touch the wound itself.”
Krispos started to answer, then saw Nazares was dropping into a healer’s trance. “We bless thee, Phos, lord with the great and good mind, watchful beforehand that the great test of life may be decided in our favor.” The priest repeated the creed again and again, using it to distract his conscious mind and to concentrate his will solely on the task of healing before him.
As always, Krispos felt awed to watch a healer-priest at work. He could tell just when Nazares began to heal by the way the man suddenly went rigid. Iakovitzes continued to moan and kick, but he could have burst into flames without turning Nazares from his purpose. Almost as if lightning were in the air, Krispos felt the current of healing as it passed from Nazares to Iakovitzes.
Then, all at once, Iakovitzes quit struggling. Krispos took a step forward in alarm, afraid his onetime patron’s heart had given out. But Iakovitzes continued to breathe and Nazares continued to heal; had something been wrong, the healer-priest surely would have sensed it.
At last Nazares withdrew his hand. He wiped pus-smeared fingers on his robe. The attendant removed the gag from Iakovitzes’ mouth. Krispos saw the noble was in full possession of his senses again. Now when he moved in the grip of the two men who held him, they let him go.
He bowed low to the healer-priest, then made a series of yammering noises. After a moment, he realized no one could understand him. He signed for something to write with. One of the attendants brought him a waxed wooden tablet and stylus. He scribbled and handed the tablet to Nazares.
“‘What are you all standing around for?’” Nazares read, his voice slow and dragging from the crushing fatigue that followed healing. “‘Take me to the baths—I stink like a latrine. I could use some food, too, about a year’s worth.’”
Krispos could not help smiling—Iakovitzes might never speak an intelligible word again, but he still sounded like himself. Then Iakovitzes wrote some more and handed the tablet to him. “Next time, send someone else.”
Sobered, he nodded, saying “I know gold and honor will never give you back what you have lost, Iakovitzes, but what they can give, you will have.”
“I’d better. I earned them,” Iakovitzes wrote.
He felt inside his mouth with his fingers, poking and prodding, then let out a soft grunt of wonder and bowed again to Nazares. He scrawled again, then handed the healer-priest the tablet. “‘Holy sir, the wound feels as if it happened years ago. Only the memory is yet green,’” Nazares read. Behind the brassy front Iakovitzes habitually assumed, Krispos saw the terror that still lived in his eyes
An attendant touched Iakovitzes on the arm. He flinched, then scowled at himself and dipped his head in apology to the man. “Excellent sir, I just wanted to tell you I would take you to a bathhouse now, if you like,” the attendant said. “There’s one close by the Sorcerers’ Collegium here.”
Iakovitzes tried to speak, scowled again, and nodded. Before he left with the attendant, though, Krispos said, “A moment, Iakovitzes, please. I want to ask you something.” Iakovitzes paused. Krispos went on. “By the messages you sent me, you and Harvas traded barbs all winter long. What did you finally say that made him do—that—to you?”
The noble flinched again, this time from his own thoughts. But he bent over the tablet and wrote out his reply. He gave it to Krispos when he was done. “I didn’t even intend to insult him, worse luck. We’d settled on a price for the year’s truce and were swearing oaths to secure it. Harvas would not swear by the spirits, Kubrati-style, nor would he take oath by the Haloga gods of his followers. ‘Swear by Phos, then,’ I told him—a truce is no truce without oaths, as any child knows. Better I had told him to go swive his mother, I think. In a voice like thunder, he cried out, ‘That name shall never be in my mouth again, nor in yours either.’ And then—” The writing stopped there, but Krispos knew what had happened then.
He sketched the sun-sign over his heart. Iakovitzes did the same. Krispos promised, “We’ll avenge you, avenge this. I’ve just sent out a force under Agapetos to harry Harvas’ land. When I’m done with Petronas, Harvas will face the whole army.”
Again Iakovitzes tried to reply with spoken words, again he had to stop in frustration. He nodded instead, held up one finger while he pointed to the west, then two while he pointed northeastward. He nodded again, to show he approved of Krispos’ course. Krispos was glad of that; while Iakovitzes had helped him form his priorities the winter before, he could hardly have blamed the noble for changing his mind after what had befallen him. That he hadn’t helped convince Krispos he was on the right course.
Iakovitzes turned to the attendant and mimed scrubbing himself. The man led him out of the chamber.
“I am in your debt,” Krispos said to Nazares.
“Nonsense.” The healer-priest waved his words away. “I praise the good god that I was able to end Iakovitzes’ agony. I only regret his injury is such that it will continue to trouble him greatly despite being healed. And the charm set on the wound to keep from healing it…that was most wicked, Your Majesty.”
“I know.” Krispos opened the waxed tablet and read again the words that had cost Iakovitzes his tongue. No man unwilling to say Phos’ name, or even to hear it, was likely to be good. If only Harvas were as inept as he was evil, Krispos thought, and if only Petronas would disappear, and if only Pyrrhos would grow mild, and if only I could be certain I’m Phostis’ father, and if only I could rule by thinking “if only”…
EVEN IN EARLY SPRING, THE COASTAL LOWLANDS WERE HOT AND sticky. The roads were still moist enough, though, that armies on the march kicked up only a little dust—as good a reason as any for campaigning in the spring, Krispos thought as he trotted along on Progress toward the Eriza River.
; The army in whose midst he traveled was the biggest he had ever seen, more than ten thousand men. Had Sarkis captured or killed Petronas over the winter, this new round of civil war would not have been needed. By keeping Anthimos’ uncle from gaining ground, though, the Vaspurakaner soldier had managed the next best thing: he’d convinced the generals of the local provinces that Krispos was the better bet. Those generals and their troopers rode with the force from Videssos the city now.
Krispos saw the inevitable host of farmers busy in their fields on either side of the road. Though the force with which he traveled was far larger than the one that had fought Petronas the previous fall, fewer farmers fled. He took that for a good sign. “They know we’ll keep good order,” he remarked to Trokoundos, who rode nearby. “Peasants shouldn’t fear soldiers.”
“This far before harvest, they have little to steal anyhow,” Trokoundos said. “They know that, too, and take courage from it.”
“You’ve been drinking sour wine this morning,” Krispos said, a trifle startled; such cynicism was worthy of Iakovitzes.
“Maybe so,” Trokoundos said. “We also have supplies for the army well arranged, this being territory that stayed loyal to you. We’ll see how the men behave when we enter country that had been under Petronas’ hand.”
“Oh, aye, we’ll do a bit of plundering if our supply train has trouble,” said Mammianos, one of the provincial generals who had at last cast his lot with Krispos. He was in his mid-fifties and quite round, but a fine horseman for all that. “But we’ll do a bit of fighting, too, which makes up for a lot.”
Krispos started to say nothing could make plundering his own people right. He kept the words to himself. If folk farther westward worked for his rival and against him, they and their fields became fair targets for his soldiers—Petronas’ men, he was sure, would not hold back if they reached territory he controlled. Either way, the Empire and the fisc would suffer.
When he did speak aloud, he said, “Civil war,” as if it were a curse.
“Aye, the times are hard,” Mammianos agreed. “There’s but one thing worse than fighting a civil war, and that’s losing it.” Krispos nodded.
Two days later he and his army forded the Eriza—the ruined bridges were yet to be rebuilt. This time the crossing was unopposed, though Krispos found himself looking back over his shoulder lest some imperial courier come riding up with word of a new disaster. But no couriers appeared. That in itself buoyed Krispos’ spirits.
He began seeing traces of the fighting Sarkis had done the previous winter: wrecked villages, fields standing idle and unplanted, the shells of burned-out buildings. Peasants on this side of the Eriza, those who were left, fled his soldiers as if they were so many demons.
The land began to rise toward the westlands’ rugged central plateau. The rich, deep black earth of the lowlands grew thinner, dustier, grayer. Because of the early season, the countryside was still bright green, but Krispos knew the sun would bake it dry long before summer was done. In the lowlands, they sometimes raised two crops a year. On the central plateau, they were lucky to get one; broad stretches of land were better suited to grazing cattle than growing crops.
Krispos’ advance stopped being a walkover about halfway between the Eriza and the town of Resaina. He had started to wonder if Petronas would ever stand and fight. Then, all at once, the scouts who rode ahead of his army came pelting back toward the main body of men. He watched them turn to shoot arrows back over their shoulders, then saw other horsemen pursuing them.
“Those must be Petronas’ men!” he exclaimed, pointing. Only by the way they attacked his own cavalry could he be sure: Their gear was identical to what his own forces used. One more hazard of civil war that hadn’t occurred to him, he thought uneasily.
“Aye, by the good god, those are the rebels,” Mammianos said. “A whole bloody great lot of them, too.” He turned his head to shout orders to the musicians whose calls set the army in motion. As martial music blared out and units hurried from column to line of battle, Mammianos sped them into place with bellowed commands. “Faster there, the ice take you! Here’s the fight we’ve been waiting for, the chance to smash the stinking traitor once for all. Come on, deploy, deploy, deploy!”
The fat general showed more energy in a couple of minutes than he had used all through the campaign thus far, so much more that Krispos stared at him in surprise. The curses he kept calling down on Petronas’ head, and the spleen with which he hurled them forth, were also something new. When Mammianos paused to draw breath, Krispos said, “General, forgive me for ever having doubted your loyalty.”
Mammianos’ eyes were shrewd. “In your boots, Majesty, I’d doubt my own shadow if it wasn’t in front of me. May I speak frankly?”
“I hope you will.”
“Aye, you seem to,” Mammianos said judiciously. “I know I didn’t lend you much aid last fall.”
“No, but you didn’t aid Petronas, either, for which I’m grateful.”
“As well you might be. Truth to tell, I was sitting tight. I won’t apologize for it, either. If you’d stolen the throne without deserving it, Petronas would’ve made quick hash of you. Likely I would have joined him afterward, too; the Empire doesn’t need a weakling Avtokrator now. But since you did well enough against him, and since most of the decrees you’ve issued have made sense”—Mammianos clapped his hands together in savage glee—“I’ll help you nail the whoreson’s hide to the wall instead. Put me on the shelf, will he?”
“On the shelf?” Krispos echoed, perplexed. “But you’re the general of—”
“—a province that usually needs a general about as much as a lizard needs a bathtub,” Mammianos interrupted. “I was with Petronas when he invaded Vaspurakan a couple of years ago. I told him to his face he didn’t have the wherewithal to push the Makuraners out.”
“I told him the same, back at the palaces,” Krispos said.
“What’d he do to you?” Mammianos asked.
“He tried to kill me.” Krispos shivered, remembering Petronas’ sorcerous assault. “He almost did, too.”
Mammianos grunted. “He told me that if I didn’t want to fight, he’d send me someplace where I wouldn’t have to, which is how I got stuck in the lowlands where nothing ever happens. Except now it has, and I get a chance to pay the bastard back.” He shook his fist at Petronas’ horsemen. “You’ll get yours, you lice!”
Krispos watched the oncoming soldiers, too. His military eye was still unpracticed, but he thought his rival’s army was about the size of his own. His lips skinned back from his teeth. That was only likely to make the battle more expensive but less decisive.
A blue banner with gold sunburst flew above the center of Petronas’ force, a twin to the one a standardbearer carried not far from Krispos. He shook his head. This sort of fight was worse than confusing. It was as if he battled himself in a mirror.
A great shout rose from his men: “Krispos! Krispos Avtokrator!” Petronas’ men shouted back, crying out the name of their commander.
Krispos drew his sword. He was no skilled soldier, but had learned that did not always matter in the confusion of the battlefield. A company of Halogai, the sharpened edges of their axe blades glittering in the spring sunshine, formed up in front of him to try to make sure he did no fighting in any case. He’d given up arguing with them. He knew he might see action in spite of them; not even a captain of guardsmen could always outguess combat.
Arrows flew in beautiful, deadly arcs. Men fell from their saddles. Some thrashed and tried to rise; others lay still. Horses fell, too, crushing riders beneath them. Animals and men screamed together. More horses, wounded but not felled, ran wild, carrying the soldiers on them out of the fight and injecting chaos into their comrades’ neat ranks.
The two lines closed with each other. Now, here and there, men thrust with light lances and slashed with sabers rather than shooting arrows at one another. The din of shouts and shrieks, drumming hooves, and clashing metal was deafe
ning. Peering this way and that, Krispos could see no great advantage for either side.
He looked across the line, toward that other imperial banner. With a small shock, he recognized Petronas, partly by the gilded armor and red boots his rival also wore, more by the arrogant ease with which Anthimos’ uncle sat his horse. Petronas saw him, too; though they were a couple of hundred yards apart, Krispos felt their eyes lock. Petronas swung his sword down, straight at Krispos. He and the men around him spurred their mounts forward.
Krispos dug his roweled heels into Progress’ flanks. The big bay gelding squealed in pain and fury and bounded ahead. The Halogai, though, were waiting for Krispos. One big man after another grabbed at Progress’ reins, at his bridle, at the rest of his trappings. “Let me through, curse you!” Krispos raged.
“No, Majesty, no,” the northerners yelled back. “We will settle the rebel for you.”
Petronas and his companions were very close now. He had no Haloga guards, but the men who rode with him had to be his closest retainers, the bravest and most loyal of his host. Sabers upraised and gleaming, lances poised and ready, they crashed into the ranks of the imperial bodyguards.
For all the tales he had heard, Krispos had never actually seen the Halogai fight before. Their first couple of ranks simply went down, bowled over by their foes’ horses or speared before they were close enough to swing their axes. But Petronas’ men fell, too; their chain mail might have been linen for all it did to keep those great axes from their flesh. Their horses, which wore no armor, suffered worse. The axes abattoir workers used to slaughter beeves were shorter, lighter, and less keen than the ones in the northerners’ strong hands. One well-placed blow dropped any horse in its tracks; another usually sufficed for its rider.
A barricade of flesh, some dead, some writhing, quickly formed between Krispos’ men and Petronas’. The Halogai hacked over it. Petronas’ mounted men kept trying to bull their way through. The ranks of the guardsmen thinned. Krispos found himself ever closer to the fighting front. Now the Halogai, battling for survival themselves, could not keep him away.
The Tale of Krispos Page 54
