“Krispos Avtokrator of the Videssians to the excellent and noble lady Tanilis: Greetings.” Thus far formula took him, but no further. He needed the smooth phrases that came naturally to anyone who had the rhetorical training that went with a proper education. He did not have them, and would not entrust this letter to a secretary.
“Majesty?” Geirrod’s deep voice came from outside the tent.
“What is it?” Krispos put down the pen with a strange mixture of relief and guilt.
The guardsman’s reply warned him he had known relief too soon. “A matter of honor, Majesty.”
The last Haloga to speak of honor in that tone of voice had been Vagn, talking about killing himself. Krispos ducked out through the tent flap in a hurry. “What’s touched your honor, Geirrod?” he asked.
“Not my honor alone, Your Majesty, but the honor of all my folk who take your gold,” Geirrod said. Krispos was tall for a Videssian. He still had to look up at Geirrod as the stern northerner went on, “I am chosen to stand for all of us, since I was first to bow before you as lord.”
“So you were,” Krispos agreed, “and I honor you for that. Do you doubt it?” Geirrod shook his massive head. Exasperated, Krispos snapped, “Then how have I failed you—aye, and all the other Halogai, too?”
“By not sending us forth in combat this day against those who follow Harvas, and holding us back despite what we told you on the road south of Imbros,” Geirrod said. “It struck many among us as a slur, as a token you lack trust in us. Better we fare home to Halogaland than carry our axes where we may not blood them. Videssians delight in having troops for show. We took oath to fight for you, Majesty, not to look grand in your processions.”
“If you truly think I held you back for fear you would betray me, blood your axe now, Geirrod.” Not without second thoughts—the Halogai could be grimly literal—Krispos bent his head and waited. When no blow came, he straightened up and looked at Geirrod again. “Since you do not think so, how can you have lost any honor on account of me?”
The guardsman stiffened to attention. “Majesty, you speak sooth. I see this cannot be so. I shall say as much to my countrymen. Any who doubt me may measure their doubt against this.” He hefted his axe.
“Good enough,” Krispos said. “Tell them also that I didn’t send them forward because I hoped I could clear the Halogai—Harvas’ Halogai, I mean—away from the barricade with archery. If it had worked, we would have won the fight without costing ourselves too dear.”
Geirrod let out a loud snort. “You may think partway as we Halogai do, Majesty, but I see that at bottom you’re a Videssian after all. As it should be, I guess; can’t be helped, come what may. But a fight has worth for its own sweet sake. The time for reckoning up the cost is afterward, not before.”
“As you say, Geirrod.” To Krispos, the northerner’s words were insanely reckless. He knew the Halogai knew most Videssians thought as he did, and also knew the Halogai reckoned imperials overcautious at best in war, at worst simply dull. The Halogai fought for the red joy of it, not to gain advantage. That, he supposed, was why no Videssians served a northern chieftain as bodyguards, nor likely ever would.
As he went back into the tent, Geirrod resumed his post outside, evidently satisfied with their exchange. Krispos allowed himself the luxury of a long, quiet sigh. He hadn’t lied to Geirrod, not quite, but he had entertained doubts about the Halogai. But by asking Geirrod if he believed his countrymen were held back from fear of treachery, Krispos had taken the onus off himself. The next time he faced Harvas’ men, though, he did not think he would have to hold back his guardsmen.
He sat down at the little folding table that served him for a desk in the field. Parchment and pen were where he’d left them when Geirrod called. But for the salutation, the parchment remained blank. Krispos sighed again. He wished Trokoundos knew a spell to make unpleasant letters write themselves, but that probably went beyond sorcery into out-and-out miracle-working.
After one more sigh, Krispos inked the pen again. As was his habit, he plunged straight ahead with what he had to say. “My lady, while I was fighting Petronas in the westlands, Mavros heard Agapetos had been beaten and took an army north from Videssos the city to stop Harvas Black-Robe from moving farther forward. I grieve to have to tell you that, as you foresaw, your son was also beaten and was killed.”
Setting down the words brought back to him afresh the loss of his foster brother. He studied what he’d written. Was it too bald? He decided it was not. Tanilis approved of straightforward truth…and in any case, he thought, she might well already know Mavros was dead, being who and what she was.
He thought for a while before he wrote more. “I loved Mavros as if he were my brother by birth. I would have kept him from attacking Harvas if I’d known that was in his mind, but he hid it from me till too late. You will know better than I do that going ahead no matter what was always his way.”
He spread fine sand over the letter to dry the ink. Then he turned over the parchment and wrote on the reverse, “The excellent and noble lady Tanilis, on her estate outside Opsikion.” He sanded those words dry, too, then rolled the letter up into a small tube with them on the outside. After tying it shut, he let several large drops of sealing wax fall across the ribbon that closed it. While the wax was still soft, he pressed his signet into it. He stared at the imperial sunburst for a long time. It remained as perfect as if his armies had won three great victories instead of being thrashed three times running and seeing a city sacked and its populace destroyed.
He stuck his head out of the tent to call for a courier. As the fellow stuffed the letter into a waterproof tube, Krispos promised himself that before the war with Harvas was done, the Empire would again become as whole and complete as its seal. He was glad he’d made the vow, but would have felt easier about it had he been surer he could bring it to pass.
Chapter VII
VIDESSOS THE CITY MOURNED. ALONG WITH THE MOURNING came no little fear. Not since the wild days three centuries before, when the Khamorth tribes swarmed off the steppes of Pardraya to carve Kubrat, Khatrish, and Thatagush from the Empire of Videssos, had the folk of the capital felt threatened from the north.
“People act as if we’re going to be besieged tomorrow,” Krispos complained to Iakovitzes a few days after he’d returned to the city. “Harvas’ killers are on their own side of the Paristrian Mountains; they’ll likely stay there till spring.”
Iakovitzes scribbled in his tablet and passed it to Krispos. “Not even Harvas is wizard enough to stop the fall rains.” He pointed upward, cocking a hand behind his ear.
Krispos nodded; raindrops were drumming on the roof. “Last year I cursed the rains when they came early, because they kept me from going after Petronas. Now I bless them, because they keep Harvas out of the Empire.”
Iakovitzes took back the tablet and wrote some more. “Phos closes his ears to curses and blessing both, as far as weather goes. He hears too many of each.”
“No doubt you’re right,” Krispos said. “It doesn’t stop people from sending them up, though. And Harvas’ being a couple of hundred miles from here doesn’t stop people from looking north over their shoulders every time they hear a loud noise in the next street.”
“It won’t last,” Iakovitzes wrote with confident cynicism. “Remember, city folk are fickle. Pyrrhos will give them something new to think about soon enough.”
Krispos winced. “Don’t remind me.” More than ever, he wished Gnatios had stayed loyal to him. Gnatios was politician as well as priest, which made him pliable. Pyrrhos chose a course and pursued it with all the power he had—and as ecumenical patriarch he had more power, perhaps, than anyone save Krispos. He also cared not a copper whether the course he chose raised the hackles of every other ecclesiastic in the Empire. Sometimes Krispos thought he aimed at just that. Whether he did or not, he was accomplishing it.
“I’ve known him longer than you have, if you’ll remember,” Iakovitzes wrote.
“After all, he’s my cousin. He doesn’t approve of me, either. Of course, he doesn’t approve of anything much, as you’ll have noticed.” He made the throaty noise he used for laughter.
“No wonder he doesn’t approve of you!” Krispos laughed, too. Iakovitzes’ sybaritic habits and unending pursuit of handsome youths did not endear him to his stern, ascetic cousin. Krispos went on, “I notice you haven’t slowed down, either. If anything, you’re squiring more lads around than ever.” Krispos wondered if, after his mutilation, Iakovitzes had plunged so deeply back into the world of the senses to remind himself he was still alive.
The noble made that throaty noise again. “Backward, Your Majesty,” he wrote. “These days they squire me.”
Krispos started to laugh once more, too, but stopped when he saw Iakovitzes’ face. “By the good god, you mean it,” he said slowly. “But how—why? You know I mean you no disrespect, excellent sir, but you’ve baffled me.”
Iakovitzes wrote one word, in big letters: “UNIQUE.” Grinning, he pointed to himself, then wrote again. “Where else would they find the like? And like it they do.” He leered at Krispos.
Krispos did not quite know whether to laugh some more or to be revolted. Barsymes came in and saved him from his dilemma. “I have here a petition for Your Majesty,” the vestiarios said, holding out a folded piece of parchment. “It is from the monk Gnatios.” Nothing in his voice showed that Gnatios had ever held high rank.
“Speak of him and he pops up,” Krispos observed. He took the parchment from Barsymes. The eunuch bowed his way out. Krispos glanced toward Iakovitzes as he opened the petition. “Do you want to hear this?”
At Iakovitzes’ nod, Krispos read aloud: “‘The humble, sinful, and repentant monk Gnatios to his radiant and imperial Majesty Krispos, Avtokrator of the Videssians: Greetings.’” He snorted. “Likes to lay it on thick, doesn’t he?”
“He’s a courtier,” Iakovitzes wrote, which seemed to say everything he thought necessary.
Krispos resumed. “‘I beg leave to request the inestimable privilege of a brief interruption in my sojourn in the monastery dedicated to the memory of the holy Skirios so that I might enjoy the boon of your presence and acquaint you with the results of certain of my historical researches, these having been resumed at your behest, as the said results, reflections of antiquity though they be, also appear of significance in the Empire’s current condition.’” He put down the parchment. “Whew! If I have trouble understanding his request, why should I expect his historical researches, whatever those are, to make any better sense?”
“Gnatios is no one’s fool,” Iakovitzes wrote.
“I know that,” Krispos said. “So why does he take me for one? This must be some sort of scheme to have him escape again. He’d pop up all over the countryside till we caught him again; he’d preach against Pyrrhos and do his best to raise a schism among the priests. With Harvas to worry about, trouble in the temples is the last thing I need. That can lead to civil war.”
“You won’t hear him?” Iakovitzes wrote.
“No, by the lord with the great and good mind.” Krispos raised his voice: “Barsymes, fetch me pen and ink, please.” When he had the writing tools, he scrawled “I FORBID IT—K.” at the bottom of Gnatios’ petition, using letters even bolder than the ones Iakovitzes had employed to call himself unique. Then he folded the parchment and handed it to Barsymes. “See that this is delivered back to the monk Gnatios.” He made Gnatios’ title deliberately dismissive.
“It shall be done, Your Majesty,” the vestiarios said.
“Thank you, Barsymes.” As the eunuch chamberlain started to leave, Krispos added, “When you’re done with that, could you bring me something from the kitchen? I don’t much care what, but I feel like a snack. You, too, excellent sir?”
Iakovitzes nodded. “And some wine, if you would, esteemed sir,” he wrote, holding up his tablet so Barsymes could read it.
Before long, the vestiarios carried in a silver tray with a jar of wine, two cups, and a covered serving dish. When he lifted the cover, savory steam rose. “Quails cooked in a sauce of cheese, garlic, and oregano, Your Majesty. I hope they will do?”
“Fine,” Krispos assured him. He attacked his little bird with gusto and finished it in a few bites.
Iakovitzes made slower going of his quail. He had to cut the meat into very small pieces, and he washed down each little mouthful by tilting back his head and taking a swallow of wine: without a tongue, he could not push food around inside his mouth or move it toward his throat. Here, though, as in other things, he evidently managed, for he’d regained most of the weight his ordeal had taken from him.
As the noble sucked the last scrap of meat from a leg bone, Krispos raised his cup in salute. “I’m glad to see you doing so well,” he said.
“I’m glad to see myself doing so well, too,” Iakovitzes wrote. Krispos snorted. They drank together.
DARA STRAIGHTENED, HER FACE PALE. A MAIDSERVANT WIPED the Empress’ mouth and chin with a damp cloth, then stooped to pick up the basin at her feet and carry it away. “I wish I just had morning sickness,” Dara said wearily, “but I seem to be vomiting any time of the day or night.”
Krispos handed her a cup of wine. “Here, get the taste out of your mouth.”
Dara took a small, cautious sip. She cocked her head and waited, gauging the wine’s effect on her stomach. When the first swallow sat well, she drank more. She said, “Maybe I should have nursed Phostis myself after all. The midwives say it’s harder for a nursing mother to conceive.”
“I’ve heard that,” Krispos said. “I don’t know whether it’s so. Whether or not, I hope you’re better soon.”
“So do I.” Dara rolled her eyes. “But if I do with this baby as I did with Phostis, I’ll keep on puking for the next two months.”
“Oh, I hope not.” But Krispos knew he would keep a close eye on the date Dara’s morning sickness stopped and on the day the baby was born. He did not doubt her, not really. Though he’d been in Videssos the city only a couple of days between the campaigns against Petronas and Harvas, he and she’d been anything but idle during that little while, and her sickness had begun about the right length of time after it—no use reckoning by her courses, which were still disrupted after Phostis’ birth.
But he’d watched the days, all the same. Dara had cheated with him, which meant she might cheat against him. He thought that unlikely, but Avtokrators who ignored the unlikely did not reign long.
Dara said, “Phostis sat up by himself yesterday.”
“So his nurse told me.” Krispos did his best to sound pleased. Try as he would, he had trouble warming to Phostis. He could not help wondering if he was raising a cuckoo’s chick. If this next child is a boy…he said to himself, and in thinking how much he would enjoy raising it, he discovered he was sure it was his.
Dara changed the subject. “How are the tax revenues looking?”
“From the westlands, pretty well. From the island of Kalavria, from the peninsula of Opsikion, from the lands right around the city, pretty well. From the north—” Krispos did not need to go on. Only carrion birds found anything worth picking over anywhere near the Paristrian Mountains.
“Will we have enough to fight Harvas next spring?” Dara asked. She was a general’s daughter; she knew armies needed money and everything it bought as much as they needed men.
“The logothetes in the treasury say we should,” Krispos answered. “And with Petronas gone at last, we’ll be able to bring all our soldiers to bear against him.” He shook his head. “How I wish we could have done that this year. We might have saved Imbros. Phos be praised that the Empire is united now.”
That might have been a mime show cue. The eunuch Longinos came bustling into the room, moving so fast that sweat beaded his fat, beardless face. “Majesty,” he gasped. “There’s word of rioting around the High Temple, Majesty.”
Krispos got up and glared at him so fiercely that the eunuch flinched bac
k in alarm. With an effort, he took hold of his temper. “Tell me about it,” he said.
“Save the news itself, Your Majesty, I know no more,” Longinos quavered. “A soldier carried the report here; I’ve brought it to you fast as I could.”
“You did right, Longinos; thank you,” Krispos said, in control of himself again. “Take me to this soldier. I’ll hear what he has to say for myself.”
The eunuch turned and left. As Krispos followed him out the door, Dara spoke one word. “Pyrrhos.”
“That thought had crossed my mind, yes,” Krispos said over his shoulder. He trotted down the hall after Longinos.
When Krispos came out of the imperial residence, the soldier prostrated himself, then quickly got to his feet. He looked like a man who had been caught in a riot; his tunic was torn, the crown of his wide-brimmed hat had been caved in, his nose was bloody, and a bruise purpled his right cheekbone. “By the good god, man, what happened?” Krispos said.
The man shook his head and ran a sleeve under his nose. “The ice take me if I know, Your Majesty. I was goin’ along mindin’ my own business when this crowd boiled out of the forecourt to the High Temple. They was all screamin’ and whalin’ each other with whatever they had handy. Then they lit into me. I still don’t have no notion of what it’s all about, but I figured you got to hear of it straightaway, so I came here.” He wiped his nose again.
“I’m grateful,” Krispos said. “Give me your name, if you would.”
“I’m Tzouroulos, Your Majesty, file closer in Mammianos’ command—Selymbrios is captain of my company.”
“You’re file leader now, Tzouroulos, and you’ll have a reward you can spend, too.” Krispos turned to the Halogai, who had listened to the exchange with interest. “Vagn, go to, hmm, Rhisoulphos’ regiment in the barracks. Get them over to the High Temple as fast as they can march. Tell them it’s riot duty, not combat—if they start slaying people out of hand, the whole city’s liable to go up in smoke.”
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