The Tale of Krispos

by Harry Turtledove

  “Aye, Majesty. Rhisoulphos’ regiment it is.” Vagn saluted and jogged away. His long fair braid flapped against his back at every step he took.

  Krispos said to Longinos, “After we get order back—by the good god’s mercy, we will—I’ll also want to speak with the most holy ecumenical patriarch Pyrrhos, to see if he can shed some light on what might have touched off this fighting. Be so good, esteemed sir, as to draft for my signature a formal summons for him to come to the Grand Courtroom and explain himself.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty. Directly. To the Grand Courtroom, you say? Not here?”

  “No. Riots round the temples are a serious business. I want to remind Pyrrhos just how dim a view I take of them. Making my inquiries in the Courtroom should help him understand that.”

  “Very well, Your Majesty.” Lips moving as he tasted phrases, Longinos went back into the imperial residence.

  Krispos stared east and north, toward the High Temple. The residence and the other buildings of the palace quarter hid its great dome and the gilded spheres that topped its spires, but arson often went with riot. He did not see the black column of smoke he feared. It was the rainy season, after all, he thought hopefully. Even if it was only drizzling today, walls and fences would still be damp.

  He went inside. Longinos approached him with the summons. He read it over, nodded, and signed and sealed it. The chamberlain took the parchment away. Krispos waited and worried. He knew he’d given the proper orders. But even the imperial power had limits. He needed others to turn those orders into reality.

  The sun was low in the west when a messenger came from Rhisoulphos with word that the disturbances had been quelled. “Aye,” the fellow said cheerfully, “we broke some heads. The city folk don’t have the gear to stand against us and, besides, they keep on fighting each other. Civilians,” he finished with a sneer.

  “I’ll want to see some prisoners, so I can find out what got these civilians started,” Krispos said.

  “We have some,” the messenger agreed. “They’re sending them back to the jail in the government office building on Middle Street.”

  “I’ll go there, then,” Krispos said, glad of something he could do. But he could not simply walk over to the big red granite building, as any private citizen might. Before he set out from the imperial residence, he required a squad of Halogai and the dozen parasol-bearers. Gathering the retinue took awhile, so that by the time he set out, he needed torchbearers, too.

  One of the palace eunuchs must have sent word ahead of his procession, for the warders and soldiers at the government offices were ready when he arrived. They escorted him to a chamber on the ground level, one floor above the cells. As soon as he was settled, two warders hauled in a captive whose hands were chained in front of him. “On your belly before his Majesty,” they growled. He went to his knees, then awkwardly finished the prostration. One of the warders said, “Majesty, this here is a certain Koprisianos. He tried to smash in a trooper’s skull, he did.”

  “Would’ve done it, too, Your Majesty, ’cept the bastard was wearing a helmet,” Koprisianos said thickly. He had an engagingly ugly face, though now his lip was swollen and split and a couple of teeth looked to be freshly gone.

  “Never mind that,” Krispos said. “I want to know what started the fighting in the first place.”

  “So do I,” Koprisianos said. “All I know is, somebody hit me. I turned around and hit him back—at least I think it was him; lots of people were running by just then, all of ’em screaming about heretics and Skotos-lovers and Phos knows what all else. I was giving as good as I got till some stupid soldier broke a spearshaft over my head. After that, next thing I know is, I wake up here.”

  “Oh.” Krispos turned to the warders. “Take him away. He just looks to have found himself in the middle of a brawl and enjoyed it. Bring me people who saw the riot start, or who made it start, if you can find any who’ll admit to that. I want to get to the bottom of how it began.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” the warders said together. One of them added, “Come on, you,” as they led away Koprisianos. They were gone for some time before they returned with an older man who wore the tattered remnants of what had been a fine robe. “This here is a certain Mindes. He was captured inside the forecourt to the High Temple. On your belly, you!”

  Mindes performed the proskynesis with the smoothness of a man who had done it before. “May it please Your Majesty, I have the privilege of serving as senior secretary to the ypologothete Gripas,” he said as he rose.

  A mid-level treasury official, Krispos thought. He said, “Having men sworn to uphold the state captured rioting pleases me not at all, Mindes. How did you come to disgrace yourself that way?”

  “Only because I wanted to hear the most holy patriarch Pyrrhos preach, Your Majesty,” Mindes said. “His words always inspire me, and he was particularly vigorous today. He spoke of the need for holy zeal in routing out the influence of Skotos from every part of our lives and from our city as a whole. Even some priests, he said, had tolerated evil too long.”

  “Did he?” Krispos said with a sinking feeling.

  “Aye, Your Majesty, he did, and a great deal of truth in what he said, too.” Mindes drew the sun-sign as well as he could with his hands chained. He went on, “People talked about the sermon afterward, as they often do while leaving the High Temple. Several priests notorious for their laxness were named. Then someone claimed Skotos could also profit from too much rigor in the holy hierarchy. Someone else took that as a deliberate insult against Pyrrhos, and—” Mindes’ chains clanked as he shrugged.

  “And your own part in this was purely innocent?” Krispos asked.

  “Purely, Your Majesty,” Mindes said, the picture of candor.

  One of the warders coughed dryly. “When captured, Your Majesty, he was carrying five belt pouches, not counting the one on his own belt.”

  “A treasury official indeed,” Krispos said. The warders laughed. Mindes looked innocent—with the smoothness of a man who has done it before, Krispos thought. He said, “All right, take him back to his cell and bring me someone else who was there at the start of things.”

  The next man told essentially the same story. Just to be sure, Krispos had one more summoned and heard the tale over again. Then he went back to the imperial residence and spent the night pondering what to do with Pyrrhos. Ordering the patriarch to wear a muzzle at all times struck him as a good idea, but he suspected Pyrrhos would find some theological justification for disobeying.

  “He might not, you know,” Dara said when he mentioned his conceit out loud. “He might take it for some wonderful new style of asceticism and try to enforce it on the whole clergy.” She chuckled.

  So did Krispos, but only for a moment. Knowing Pyrrhos, there was always the chance Dara was right.

  THE GRAND COURTROOM WAS HEATED BY THE SAME KIND OF system of ducts under the floor that the imperial residence used. It was far larger than any room in the residence, though; the ducts kept one’s feet warm, but not much more.

  Krispos’ throne stood on a platform a man’s height above the floor; not even his feet were warm. Some of the courtiers who flanked the double row of columns that led up to the throne shivered in their robes. The Haloga guards were warm—they wore trousers. Back in his old village, Krispos would have been wearing trousers, too. He cursed fashion, then smiled as he imagined Barsymes’ face if he’d proposed coming to the Grand Courtroom in anything but the scarlet robe custom decreed.

  The smile went away when Pyrrhos appeared at the far end of the hall. The patriarch advanced toward the throne with the steady stride of a much younger man. He was entitled to vestments of blue silk and cloth-of-gold, vestments almost as rich as the imperial raiment. All he wore, though, was a monk’s simple blue robe, now soaked and dark. As he drew near, Krispos heard his feet squelching in his blue boots; he refused to acknowledge the rain by covering himself against it.

  He prostrated himself before Krispo
s, waiting with his forehead on the ground till given leave to rise. “How may I serve Your Majesty?” he asked. He did not hesitate to meet Krispos’ eye. If his conscience troubled him, he concealed it perfectly. Krispos did not think it did; unlike most Videssians, Pyrrhos had no use for dissembling.

  “Most holy sir, we are not pleased with you,” Krispos said in the formal tone he’d practiced for occasions such as this. He stifled a grin of pleasure at remembering to use the first-person plural.

  “How so, Your Majesty?” Pyrrhos said. “In my simple way, I have striven only to speak the truth, and how can the truth displease any man who has no reason to fear it?”

  Krispos clamped his teeth together. He might have known this would not be easy. Pyrrhos wore righteousness like chain mail. Krispos answered, “Stirring up quarrels within the temples serves neither them nor the Empire as a whole, the more so as Harvas Black-Robe alone will profit if we fight among ourselves.”

  “Your Majesty, I have no intention of stirring up dissent,” Pyrrhos said. “I merely aim to purify the temples of the unacceptable practices that have entered over years of lax discipline.”

  What Krispos wanted to do was scream, “Not now, you cursed idiot!” Instead he said, “Since these practices you don’t approve of have been a long time growing, maybe you’d be wiser to ease them out of the ground instead of jerking them up by the roots.”

  “No, Your Majesty,” Pyrrhos said firmly. “These are the webs Skotos spins, the tiny errors that grow larger, more flagrant month by month, year by year, until at last utter wickedness and depravity become acceptable. I tell you, Your Majesty, thanks to Gnatios and his ilk, Videssos the city is a place where the dark god roams free!” He spat on the polished marble floor and traced the sun-circle over the sodden wool above his heart.

  Several courtiers imitated the pious gesture. Some looked fearfully toward Krispos, wondering how he dared ask the patriarch to restrain his attack on evil.

  But Krispos said, “You are wrong, most holy sir.” His voice was hard and certain. That certainty made Pyrrhos’ eyes widen slightly; he was more used to hearing it in his own voice than from another. Krispos said, “No doubt Skotos sneaks about in Videssos the city, as he does all through the world. But I have seen a city where he roamed free; I see Imbros still in my dreams.”

  “Exactly so, Your Majesty. It is to prevent Videssos the city from suffering the fate of Imbros that I strive. The evil within us, given time, will devour us unless, to use your phrase, we root it out now.”

  “The evil Harvas Black-Robe loves will devour us right now unless we root it out,” Krispos said. “How do you propose to minister to the soul of an impaled corpse? Most holy sir, think which victory is more urgent at the moment.”

  Pyrrhos thought; Krispos gave him credit for it. At length the patriarch said, “You have your concerns, Majesty, but I have mine, as well.” He sounded troubled, as if he had not expected Krispos to make him admit even so much. “If I see evil and do nothing to rid the world of it, I myself have done that evil. I cannot pass it by in silence, not without consigning my soul to the eternal ice.”

  “Not even if other men, men of good standing in the temples, fail to see anything evil in it?” Krispos persisted. “Do you say that anyone who disagrees with you in any way will spend eternity in the ice?”

  “I would not go so far as that, Your Majesty,” Pyrrhos said, though by the look in his eyes, he wanted to. Reluctantly he continued, “The principle of theological economy does apply to certain beliefs that cannot be proven actively pernicious.”

  “Then while we are at war with Harvas, stretch it as wide as you can. If you did not go out of your way to make enemies in the temples, most holy sir, you would find many who might be your friends. But think again now and answer me truly: can you see stretching economy to fit Harvas or his deeds?”

  Again Pyrrhos paused for honest thought. “No,” he admitted, the word expressionless. As much as he wanted to keep his face straight, he looked like a man who suspected, too late, he’d been cheated at dice. He bowed stiffly. “Let it be as you say, Your Majesty. I shall essay to practice economy where I can, for so long as this Harvas remains in arms against us.”

  One or two courtiers burst into applause, amazed and impressed that Krispos had wrung any concession from Pyrrhos. Krispos was amazed and impressed, too, but did not let on; he also noted the qualifying phrases the patriarch used to keep those concessions as small as possible. He said, “Excellent, most holy sir. I knew I could rely on you.”

  The patriarch bowed again, even more like an automaton than before. He started to prostrate himself once more so he could leave the imperial presence.

  Krispos held up a hand. “Before you go, most holy sir, a question. Did the monk Gnatios ask leave of you to come out of his monastery not long ago?”

  “Why, so he did, Your Majesty—and in proper form, too,” Pyrrhos added grudgingly. “I rejected the petition even so, of course: no matter what reasons he gives for wishing to come forth, no doubt he mainly seeks to work mischief.”

  “As you say, most holy sir. I thought the same.”

  Pyrrhos’ face twisted. For a moment he seemed about to smile. In the end, as befit his abstemious temperament, he contented himself with a sharp, short nod. He performed the proskynesis, rose, and backed away from the throne until he was far enough from it to turn his back on Krispos without giving offense. No sooner had he gone than a servitor with a rag scurried out to wipe up the rainwater that had dripped from his robe.

  Krispos surveyed the Grand Courtroom with a broad, benign smile. The courtiers were not shouting, “Thou conquerest, Krispos!” at him, but he knew he’d won a victory, just the same.

  PHOSTIS ROLLED FROM BELLY TO BACK, FROM BACK TO BELLY. The baby started to roll over one more time. Krispos grabbed him before he went off the edge of the bed. “Don’t do that,” he said. “You’re too smart to be a farmer, aren’t you?”

  “‘Too smart to be a farmer’?” Dara echoed, puzzled.

  “The only way a farmer ever learns anything is to hit himself in the head,” Krispos explained. He held Phostis close to his face. The baby reached out, grabbed a double handful of beard, and yanked. “Ow!” Krispos said. He carefully worked Phostis’ left hand free, then the right—by which time, the left was tangled in his beard again.

  After another try, he was able to put down the baby. Phostis promptly tried to roll off the bed. Krispos caught him again. “I told you not to do that,” he said. “Why don’t babies listen?”

  “You’re very gentle with him,” Dara said. “I think that’s good, especially considering—” She let her voice trail away.

  “Not much point to whacking him till he’s big enough to understand what he’s being whacked for,” Krispos said, deliberately choosing to misunderstand. Considering he might be another man’s son, Dara had started to say. She wondered, too, then. Phostis refused to give either of them much in the way of clues.

  The baby tried to roll off the bed once more. This time he almost made it. Krispos snagged him by an ankle and dragged him back. “You’re not supposed to do that,” he said. Phostis laughed at him. He thought being rescued was a fine game.

  “I’m glad you’ll be here the winter long,” Dara said. “He’ll get a chance to know you now. When you were out on campaign the whole summer, he’d forgotten you by the time you came back again.”

  “I know.” Part of Krispos wanted to keep Phostis by him every hour of the day and night, to leave the child, if not Krispos himself, no doubt they were father and son. Another part of him wanted nothing to do with the boy. The result was an uneasy blend of feelings that grew only more complicated as day followed day.

  The baby started to fuss, jamming fingers into his mouth. “He’s cutting a tooth, poor dear little one,” Dara said. “He’s probably getting hungry, too. I’ll ring for the wet nurse.” She tugged the green bell cord that rang back in the maidservants’ quarters.

  A minute la
ter someone tapped politely on the bedchamber door. When Krispos opened it, he found not the wet nurse but Barsymes standing there. The vestiarios bowed. “I have a letter for you.”

  “Thank you, esteemed sir.” Krispos took the sealed parchment from him. Just then the wet nurse came bustling down the hall. She smiled at Krispos as she brushed past him and hurried over to the baby, who was still crying.

  “Who sent the letter?” Dara asked as the wet nurse took Phostis from her.

  Krispos did not need to open it to answer. He had recognized the seal, recognized the elegantly precise script that named him the addressee. “Tanilis,” he said. “You remember—Mavros’ mother.”

  “Yes, of course.” Dara turned to the wet nurse. “Iliana, could you carry him someplace else for a bit, please?” Anthimos had been good at acting as if servants did not exist when that suited him. Dara had more trouble doing so, and Krispos more still—he’d had no servants till he was an adult. Iliana left; Barsymes, perfect servitor that he was, had already disappeared. Dara said, “Read it to me, will you?”

  “Certainly.” Krispos broke the seal, slid off the ribbon around the letter, unrolled the parchment. “‘Tanilis to his imperial Majesty Krispos, Avtokrator of the Videssians: Greetings. I thank you for your sympathy. As you say, my son died as he lived, going straight ahead without hesitating to look to either side of the road.’”

  The closeness of the image to the way Mavros’ army had actually been caught made Krispos pause and reminded him how Tanilis saw more than met the ordinary man’s eye. He collected himself and read on: “‘I have no doubt you did all you could to keep him from his folly, but no one, in the end, can be saved from himself and his will. Therein lies the deadly danger of Harvas Black-Robe, for, having known the good, he has forsaken it for evil. Would I were a man, to face him in the field, though I know he is mightier than I. But perhaps I shall meet him even so; Phos grant it may be. And may the good god bless you, your Empress, and your sons. Farewell.’”