“That’s about as I saw it.” Krispos walked back over to the generals. “Very well, excellent sirs, I welcome you to my cause. Now tell me how you think Petronas will dispose his forces to meet the attack I intend to make tomorrow.”
“He won’t dispose them so well, with us gone,” Dardaperos said at once. Krispos had no idea how good a general he was, but he certainly had a high officer’s sense of self-worth.
“Likely he won’t,” Krispos said. He found himself yawning enormously. “Excellent sirs, on second thought I’m going to leave the rest of your questioning to Mammianos here. And I hope you will forgive me, but I intend to keep you under guard until after the fighting is done tomorrow. I don’t know what harm you could do me there, but I’d sooner not find out.”
“Spoken like a sensible man, Your Majesty,” Vlases said. “You may welcome us, but you have no reason to trust us. By the lord with the great and good mind, we’ll give you reason soon enough.”
He stooped, found a twig, and started drawing in the dirt. Grunting with the effort it cost him, Mammianos also stooped. Krispos watched for a few minutes as Vlases laid out Petronas’ plans, then yawned again, even more widely than before. By the time he sought his cot, though, he’d learned enough to decide that the movements he and Mammianos had already devised would still serve his aims.
They would, that is, if Vlases and Dardaperos spoke the truth. He suddenly realized he could find out if they did. He sprang from bed once more, shouting for Trokoundos. The mage appeared shortly, dapper as ever. Krispos explained what he wanted.
“Aye, the two-mirror trick will tell whether they lie,” Trokoundos said, “but it may not tell you everything you need to know. It won’t tell you what changes Petronas has made in his plans because they deserted. And it won’t tell whether he encouraged them to go over to you, maybe so subtly they don’t even grasp it themselves, just for the sake of putting you in confusion and doubt like this.”
“I can’t believe that. They’re two of his best men.” But Krispos sounded unsure, even to himself. Petronas was a master of the game of glove within glove within glove. He’d twisted Anthimos round his finger for years. If he wanted to manipulate a couple of his generals, Krispos was convinced he could.
Angrily Krispos shook his head. A fine state of affairs, when even learning the truth could not tell him whether to change his plans or keep them. “Find out what you can,” he told Trokoundos.
Once Trokoundos had gone, Krispos lay down again. Now, though, sleep was slower coming. And after Krispos’ eyes closed and his breathing grew deep and regular, he dreamed he followed Petronas down a path that twisted back on itself until Petronas was following him….
AFTER A NIGHT OF SUCH DREAMS, WAKING TO THE CERTAINTY of morning was a relief. Krispos found himself looking forward to battle in a way he never had before. For good or ill, battle would yield but one outcome, not the endlessly entrapping webs of possibility through which he had struggled in the darkness.
As Krispos gnawed a hard roll and drank sour wine from a leather jack, Trokoundos came up to report: “So far as Dardaparos and Vlases know, they’re honest traitors, at any rate.”
“Good,” Krispos said. Trokoundos, duty done, departed, leaving Krispos to chew on his phrasing. Honest traitors? The words could have come straight from his near nightmare.
Scrambling up into Progress’ saddle gave him the same feeling of release he’d known on waking, the feeling that something definite was about to happen. The Haloga guardsmen had to stay tight around him to keep him from spurring ahead of the army to the scouts who led its advance.
Before the day was very old, those scouts began trading arrows with the ones Petronas had sent out. Petronas’ men drew back; they were far in advance of their own army, while Krispos’ main body of troops trotted on, close behind his scouting parties. Had he not already known where Petronas’ force lay, the retreating scouts would have led him to it.
Petronas’ camp was in the middle of a broad, scrubby pasture, placed so no one could take it unawares. The rebel’s forces stood in line of battle half a mile in front of their tents and pavilions. Petronas’ imperial banner flapped defiantly at the center of their line.
Mammianos glanced at Krispos. “As we set it up?”
“Aye,” Krispos said. “I think we’ll keep him too busy to cut us in half.” He showed his teeth in what was almost a smile. “We’d better.”
“That’s true enough.” Mammianos half grunted, half chuckled. He yelled to the army musicians. Horns, drums, and pipes sent companies of horsemen galloping from the second rank to either wing as they bore down on Petronas’ force.
The rebels were also moving forward; the momentum of horse and rider played a vital part in mounted warfare. Petronas had musicians of his own. Their martial blare shifted his deployments to match Krispos’.
“Good,” Krispos said. “He’s dancing to our tune for a change.” He’d most feared Petronas trying to smash through his army’s deliberately weakened center. Now—he hoped—the fight would be on his terms.
Arrows flew. So did war cries. The rebels still acclaimed Petronas. Along with Krispos’ name, his men had others to hurl at their foes—those of Rhisoulphos, Vlases, and Dardaperos. They also shouted one thing more. “Amnesty! We spare those who yield!”
The armies collided first at the wings. Saber and lance took over for the bow. Despite defections, Petronas’ men fought fiercely. Krispos bit his lip as he watched his own troops held in place. The treachery he’d looked for simply was not there.
When he complained of that, Mammianos said, “Can’t be helped, Your Majesty. But aren’t you glad to be worrying over the loyalty of the other fellow’s army and not your own?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact,” Krispos said. Only last fall he’d wondered if any Videssian soldiers at all would cleave to him. Only days before he’d wondered if his army would hold together through combat. Now Petronas’ bowels were the ones that griped at each collision of men. Amazing what a victory could do, Krispos thought.
The fight ground on. Thanks to Rhisoulphos’ defection, Krispos had more men in it than Petronas. Rhisoulphos’ men were not in a hotly engaged part of the line—they held the middle of the right wing. But their presence freed up other warriors for the attack. The men on the extreme right of Petronas’ line found themselves first outnumbered, then outflanked.
They bent back. That was not enough to save them; Krispos’ horsemen, scenting victory, folded round them like a wolf’s jaws closing on a tasty gobbet of meat. Petronas’ men were brave and loyal. For half an hour and more, they fought desperately, selling themselves dear for their comrades’ sake. But flesh and blood will only bear so much. Soldiers began casting swords and lances to the ground and raising their hands in token of surrender.
Once the yielding started—and once Petronas’ men saw that, as promised, those who yielded were not butchered—it ran from the end of Petronas’ line toward the middle. The line shook, like a man with an ague. Shouting, Krispos’ warriors pressed hard.
All at once Petronas’ army broke into fragments. Some men fled the field, singly and in small groups. More, sometimes whole companies at a time, threw down their weapons and surrendered. A hard core of perhaps three thousand men, Petronas’ firmest followers, withdrew in a body toward hill country that corrugated the horizon toward the northwest.
“After them!” Krispos cried in high excitement, pounding his fist against Mammianos’ armored shoulder. “Don’t let a one of them get away!”
“Aye, Majesty.” Mammianos shouted for couriers and stabbed his finger out toward Petronas’ retreating soldiers. He roared orders that, properly carried out, would have bagged every fugitive.
Somehow, though, the pursuit did not quite come off. Some of Krispos’ men rode after Petronas’ hard core of strength. But others were still busy accepting surrenders, or relieving of their portable property soldiers who had surrendered. Still others made for Petronas’ camp, which
lay before them, tempting as a naked woman with an inviting smile. And so Petronas’ followers, though in a running fight all the way, reached the hills and set up a rear guard to hold the gap through which they fled.
By the time the column that had given chase to Petronas returned empty-handed, night was falling. Krispos swore when he found out they had failed. “By the lord with the great and good mind, I’d like to send the fools who stopped to plunder straight to the ice,” he raged.
“And if you did, you’d have hardly more men left than those who escaped with Petronas,” Sarkis said.
“They should have chased Petronas first and plundered later,” Krispos said.
Sarkis answered with a shrug, “Common soldiers don’t grow rich on army pay, Your Majesty. They’re lucky to hold their own. If they see the chance to steal something worth stealing, they’re going to do it.”
“And think, Your Majesty,” Mammianos added soothingly, “had everyone gone after Petronas, who would have protected you if his men decided all at once to remember their allegiance?”
“I should have gone after Petronas myself,” Krispos said, but then he let the matter drop. What was done was done; no matter how he complained, he could not bring back an opportunity lost. That did not mean he forgot. He filed the failure away in his mind, resolving not to let it happen again with any army of his.
“Any way you look at it, Majesty, we won quite a victory,” Mammianos said. “Here’s a great haul of prisoners, Petronas’ camp taken—”
“I’ll not deny it,” Krispos said. He’d hoped to win the whole war today, not just a battle, but, as he’d just reminded himself, one took what one got. He was not so mean-spirited as to forget that. He undid his tin canteen from his belt, raised it, then swigged a big gulp of the rough wine the army drank. “To victory!” he shouted.
Everyone who heard him—which meant a good part of the army—turned at the sound of his voice. In a moment, bedlam filled the camp. “To victory!’ soldiers roared. Some, like Krispos, toasted it. Others capered round campfires, filled with triumph or simple relief at being alive.
And others, the crueler few, taunted the prisoners they had taken. The former followers of Petronas, disarmed now, dared not reply. From taunts, some of the ruffians moved on to roughing up their captives. Krispos did not care to think about how far their ingenuity might take them if he gave them free rein.
Hand on sword hilt, he stalked toward the nastiest of the little games nearby. Without his asking, Halogai formed up around him. Narvikka said, “Aye, Majesty, there’s a deal of us in you, I t’ink. You look like a man about to go killing mad.”
“That’s how I feel.” Krispos grabbed the shoulder of a trooper who had been amusing himself by stomping on a prisoner’s toes. The man whirled round angrily when his sport was interrupted. The curse in his mouth died unspoken. Quickly, shaking with fear, he prostrated himself.
Krispos waited till he was flat on his belly, then kicked him in the ribs. Pain shot up his leg—the fellow wore chain mail. By the way he twisted and grabbed at himself, he felt the kick, too, through links, leather, and padding. Krispos said, “Is that how you give amnesty: tormenting a man who can’t fight back?”
“N-no, Majesty,” the fellow got out. “Just—having a little fun, is all.”
“Maybe you were. I don’t think he was.” Krispos kicked the trooper again, not quite so hard this time. The man grunted, but otherwise bore it without flinching. Krispos drew back his foot and asked, “Or do you enjoy it when I do this? Answer me!”
“No, Majesty.” Overbearing while on top, the soldier shrank in on himself when confronted with power greater than his petty share.
“All right, then. If you ever want to get mercy, or deserve it, you’d best give it when you can. Now get out of here.” The soldier scrambled to his feet and fled. Krispos glared around. “Hurting a man who’s yielded, especially one who’s promised amnesty, is Skotos’ work. The next trooper who’s caught at it gets stripes and dismissal without pay. Does everyone understand?”
If anybody had doubts, he kept them to himself. In the face of Krispos’ anger, the camp went from boisterous to solemn and quiet in moments. Into that sudden silence, the fellow he’d rescued said, “Phos bless you, Your Majesty. That was done like an Avtokrator.”
“Aye.” Several Halogai rumbled agreement.
“If I have the job, I should live up to it.” Krispos glanced over at the prisoner. “Why did you fight against me in the first place?”
“I come from Petronas’ estates. He is my master. He was always good to me; I figured he’d be good for the Empire.” He studied Krispos, his head cocked to one side. “I still reckon that might be so, but looks to me now like he’s not the only one.”
“I hope not.” Krispos wondered how many men throughout the Empire of Videssos could run it capably if they somehow found themselves on the throne. He’d never had that thought before. More than a few, he decided, a little bemused. But he was the one with the job, and he aimed to keep it.
“What is it, Majesty?” Narvikka asked. “By the furrow of your brow, I’d guess a weighty thought.”
“Not really.” Laughing, Krispos explained.
Narvikka said, “Bethink yourself on your good fortune, Majesty: of all those might-be Avtokrators, only Petronas wears the red boots in your despite.”
“Even Petronas is one man too many in them.” Krispos turned to go back to his tent, then stopped. A grin of pure mischief slowly spread over his face. “I know just how to get him out of them, too.” His voice rose. “Trokoundos!”
The mage hurried over to him. “How may I serve Your Majesty?” he asked, bowing.
Krispos told Trokoundos what he needed, then said anxiously, “This isn’t battle magic, is it?”
Trokoundos’ heavy-lidded eyes half closed as he considered. At last he said, “It shouldn’t be. And even if Petronas’ person is warded, as it’s sure to be, who would think of protecting his boots?” His smile was a slyer version of Krispos’. “The more so as we won’t do them a bit of harm.”
“So we won’t,” Krispos said. “But, the lord with the great and good mind willing, we’ll do some to Petronas.”
Chapter V
PETRONAS, AS WAS HIS HABIT, WOKE SOON AFTER DAWN. HIS back and shoulders ached; too many years of sleeping soft in Videssos the city—aye, and even when he took the field—left him unused to making do with a single blanket for a bedroll. At that, he was luckier than most of the men who still clove to him, for he had a tent to shelter him from the nighttime chill. Theirs were lost, booty now for the army that followed Krispos.
“Krispos!” Petronas mouthed the name, making it into a curse. He cursed himself, too, for he had first taken Krispos into his own household, then introduced him into Anthimos’.
He’d never imagined Krispos’ influence with his nephew could rival his own—till the day he found himself, his head shorn, cast into the monastery of the holy Skirios. He ran a hand through his hair. Only now, most of a year after he’d slipped out of the monastery, did he have a proper man’s growth once more.
He’d never imagined Krispos would dare seize the throne, or that Krispos could govern once he had it—everyone, he’d been sure, would flock to his own banner. But it had not happened so. Petronas cursed himself again, for putting that fat fool of a Mammianos in a place that had proven so important.
And with that fat fool, Krispos had beaten him twice now—and by the good god, Petronas had never imagined that! Just how badly he’d underestimated Krispos, and Krispos’ knack for getting other people to do what he needed, was only now sinking in, when it was on the very edge of being too late.
Petronas clenched a fist. “No, by Phos, not too late!” he said out loud. He pissed in a chamber pot—likely the last of those left to his army—then decked himself in the full imperial regalia. Seeing him in the raiment rightfully his could only hearten his men, he told himself.
He stooped to go out through the ten
t flap and walked over to his horse, which was tied nearby. He sprang onto the beast’s back with a surge of pride—he might be nearing sixty, but he could still ride. He smiled maliciously to think of Gnatios, who quivered atop anything bigger than a mule.
But as Petronas rode through the camp, his smile faded. Years of gauging armies’ tempers made him worry about this one. The men were restive and discouraged; he did not like the way they refused to meet his eye. When a soldier did look his way, he liked the fellow’s stare even less. “By the ice, what are you gaping at?” he snarled.
The trooper looked apprehensive at being singled out. “B-begging your pardon, Your Majesty, but why did you don black boots to wear with your fine robe and crown?”
“Are you mad?” Petronas took his left foot from the stirrup and kicked his leg up and down. “This boot’s as red as a man’s arse after a week in the saddle.”
“Begging your pardon again, Majesty, but it looks black to me. So does the right one, sir—uh, sire. May the ice take me if I lie.”
“Are you telling me I don’t know red when I see it?” Petronas asked dangerously. He looked down at his boots. They were both a most satisfactory crimson, the exact imperial shade. Petronas had seen it worn by his father, by his brother, and by his nephew; it was as familiar to him as the back of his hand—more familiar than his own face, for sometimes he did not see a mirror for weeks at a stretch.
Instead of answering him directly, the trooper turned to his mates. “Tell his Majesty, lads. Are those boots red or are they black?”
“They’re black,” the soldiers said in one voice. Now it was Petronas’ turn to stare at them; he could not doubt they meant what they said. One man added, “Seems an unchancy thing to me, wearing a private citizen’s boots with all that fancy imperial gear.”
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