The Tale of Krispos

by Harry Turtledove

  All the worshipers repeated Phos’ creed. It was the first prayer a Videssian heard, being commonly uttered over a newborn babe; it was the first prayer a child learned; it was the last utterance a believer gasped out before dying. To Phostis, it was as utterly familiar as the shape of his own hands.

  More prayers and hymns followed. Phostis continued to make his responses without much conscious thought. The ritual was comforting; it lifted him out of himself and his petty cares of the moment, transformed him into part of something great and wise and for all practical purposes immortal. He cherished that feeling of belonging, perhaps because he found it here so much more easily than in the palaces.

  Oxeites had the congregation repeat the creed with him one last time, then motioned for the worshipers to be seated. Phostis almost left the High Temple before the patriarch began his sermon. Sermons, being by their nature individual and specific, took him out of the sense of belonging he sought from worship. But since he had nowhere to go except back to the palaces, he decided to stay and listen. Not even his father could rebuke him for piety.

  The ecumenical patriarch said, “I would like to have all of you gathered together with me today pause for a moment and contemplate the many and various ways in which the pursuit of wealth puts us in peril of the eternal ice. For in acquiring great stores of gold and gems and goods, we too easily come to consider their accumulation an end in itself rather than a means through which we may provide for our own bodily survival and prepare a path for our progeny.”

  Our progeny? Phostis thought, smiling. The Videssian clergy was celibate; if Oxeites was preparing a path for his progeny, he had more sins than greed with which to concern himself.

  The patriarch continued, “Not only do we too readily value goldpieces for their own sake, those of us who do gain riches, whether honestly or no, often also endanger ourselves and our hope of joyous afterlife by grudging those who lack a share, however small, of our own good fortune.”

  He went on in that vein for some time, until Phostis felt ashamed to have a belly that was never empty, shoes on his feet, and thick robes and hypocausts to warm him through the winter. He raised his eyes to the Phos in the dome and prayed to the lord with the great and good mind to forgive him his prosperity.

  But as his gaze descended from the good god to the ecumenical patriarch, he suddenly saw the High Temple in a new, disquieting light. Till this moment, he’d always taken for granted the flood of goldpieces that had been required to erect the Temple in the first place and the further flood that had gone into the precious stones and metals that made it the marvel it was. If those uncounted thousands of goldpieces had instead fed the hungry, shod the barefoot, clothed and warmed the shivering, how much better their lot would have been!

  He knew the temples aided the poor; his own father told and retold the story of spending his first night in Videssos the city in the common room of a monastery. But for Oxeites, who wore cloth-of-gold, to urge his listeners to give up what they had to aid those who had not struck Phostis as nothing less than hypocrisy. And worse still, Oxeites himself seemed to have no sense of that hypocrisy.

  Anger drove shame from Phostis. How did the ecumenical patriarch have the crust to propose that others give up their worldly goods when he said not a word about those goods the temples owned? Did he think they somehow acquired immunity from being put to good use—being put to the very use he himself advocated—because they were called holy?

  By the tone of his sermon, he very likely did. Phostis tried to understand his way of thinking, tried and failed. The junior Avtokrator again glanced up toward the famous image of Phos. How did the lord with the great and good mind view calls to poverty from a man who undoubtedly possessed not just one but many sets of regalia, the value of any of which could have supported a poor family for years?

  Phostis decided the good god would set down grim words for Oxeites in his book of judgment.

  The patriarch kept preaching. That he did not realize the contradiction inherent in his own views irked Phostis more with every word he heard. He hadn’t enjoyed the courses in logic Krispos ordained for him, but they’d left their mark. He wondered if next he would hear a raddled whore extolling the virtues of virginity. It would, he thought, be hardly less foolish than what he was listening to now.

  “We bless thee, Phos, lord with the great and good mind, by thy grace our protector, watchful beforehand that the great test of life may be decided in our favor,” Oxeites proclaimed for the last time. Even without his robes, he would have been tall and slim and distinguished, with a pure white beard and silky eyebrows he surely combed. When he wore the patriarchal vestments, he seemed to the eye the very image of holiness. But his words rang hollow in Phostis’ heart.

  Most of the worshipers filed out of the High Temple after the liturgy was over. A few, though, went up to the ecumenical patriarch to congratulate him on his sermon. Phostis shook his head, bemused. Were they deaf and blind, or merely out to curry favor? Either way, Phos would judge them in due course.

  As he walked down the steps from the Temple to the surrounding courtyard, Phostis turned to one of his guardsmen and said, “Tell me, Nokkvi, do you Halogai house your gods so richly in your own country?”

  Nokkvi’s ice-blue eyes went wide. He threw back his head and boomed laughter; the long blond braid he wore bounced up and down as his shoulders shook. When he could speak again, he answered, “Young Majesty, in Halogaland we have not so much for ourselves that we can give our gods such spoils as you fashion for your Phos. In any case, our gods care more for blood than for gold. There we feed them well.”

  Phostis knew of the northern gods’ thirst for gore. The holy Kveldulf, a Haloga who came to revere Phos, was reckoned a martyr in Videssos: his own countrymen had slaughtered him when he tried to convert them to worshiping the lord with the great and good mind. Indeed, the Halogai would have been far more dangerous foes to the Empire did they not incessantly shed one another’s blood.

  Nokkvi stepped down on the flat flagstones of the courtyard. When he turned to look back at the High Temple, his gaze went wolfish. He said, “I tell you this, too, young Majesty: let but a few shiploads full of my folk free to reive in Videssos the city, and your god, too, will know less of gold and more of blood. Maybe that savor will better satisfy him.”

  Phostis gestured to turn aside the northerner’s words. The Empire was still rebuilding and repeopling towns that Harvas’ Halogai had sacked around the time he was born. But even having such a store of riches here in the imperial capital was a temptation not just to the fierce barbarians from the north, but also to avaricious men within the Empire. Any store of riches was such, in fact.

  He stopped, his mouth falling open. All at once, he began to understand how the Thanasioi came by their doctrines.

  THE GREAT BRONZE VALVES OF THE DOORWAY TO THE GRAND Courtroom slowly swung open. Seated on the imperial throne, Krispos got a sudden small glimpse of the outside world. He smiled; the outside world seemed only most distantly connected to what went on here.

  He sometimes wondered whether the Grand Courtroom wasn’t even more splendid than the High Temple. Its ornaments were less florid, true, but to them was added the ever-changing spectacle of the rich robes worn by the nobles and bureaucrats who lined either side of the colonnade leading from the bronze doors to Krispos’ throne. The way between the two columns was a hundred yards of emptiness that let any petitioner think on his own insignificance and the awesome might of the Avtokrator.

  In front of the throne stood half a dozen Haloga guardsmen in full battle gear. Krispos had read in the histories of previous reigns that one Emperor had been assassinated on the throne and three others wounded. He did not aim to provide similarly edifying reading for any distant successor.

  A herald, distinguished by a white-painted staff, had his place beside the northerners. He took one step forward. The courtiers left off their own chattering. Into the silence, the herald said, “Tribo, the envoy from Nobad,
son of Gumush, the khagan of Khatrish, begs leave to approach the Avtokrator of the Videssians.” His trained voice was easily audible from one end of the Grand Courtroom to the Other.

  “Let Tribo of Khatrish approach,” Krispos said.

  “Let Tribo of Khatrish approach!” Sprung from the herald’s thick chest, the words might have been a command straight from the mouth of Phos.

  From a small silhouette in the bright but distant doorway, Tribo grew to man-size as he sauntered up the aisle toward the throne. He slowed every so often to exchange a smile or a couple of words with someone he knew, thereby largely defeating the intimidation built into that walk.

  Krispos had expected nothing less; Khatrishers seemed born to subvert any existing order. Even their nation was less than three centuries old, born when Khamorth nomads from the plains of Pardraya overran what had been Videssian provinces. To some degree, they aped the Empire these days, but their ways remained looser than those that were in good form among Videssians.

  Tribo paused the prescribed distance from the imperial throne, sinking down to his knees and then to his belly in full proskynesis: some Videssian rituals could not be scanted. As the envoy remained with his forehead pressed against the polished marble of the floor, Krispos tapped the left arm of the throne. With a squeal of gears, it rose several feet in the air. The marvel was calculated to overawe barbarians. From his new height, Krispos said, “You may rise, Tribo of Khatrish.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.” Like most of his folk, the ambassador spoke Videssian with a slight lisping accent. In Videssian robes, he could have passed for an imperial but for his beard, which was longer and more unkempt than even a priest would wear. The khagans of Khatrish encouraged that style among their upper classes, to remind them of the nomad raiders from whom they had sprung. Tribo was also un-Videssian in his lack of concern for the imperial dignity. Cocking his head to one side, he remarked, “I think your chair needs oiling, Your Majesty.”

  “You may be right,” Krispos admitted with a sigh. He tapped the arm of the throne again. With more metallic squeaks, servitors behind the courtroom wall returned him to his former place.

  Tribo did not quite smirk, but the expression he assumed shouted that he would have, in any other company. He definitely was less than over-awed. Krispos wondered if that meant he couldn’t be reckoned a barbarian. Perhaps so: Khatrish’s usages were not those of Videssos, but they had their own kind of understated sophistication.

  All that was by the way—though Krispos did make a mental note that he need not put the crew of musclemen behind the wall next time he granted Tribo a formal audience. The Avtokrator said, “Shall we to business, then?”

  “By all means, Your Majesty.” Tribo was not rude, certainly not by his own people’s standards and not really by the Empire’s, either. He just had a hard time taking seriously the elaborate ceremonial in which Videssos delighted. The moment matters turned substantive, his half-lazy, half-insolent manner dropped away like a discarded cloak.

  As Avtokrator, Krispos had the privilege of speaking first: “I am not pleased that your master the khagan Nobad son of Gumush has permitted herders from Khatrish to come with their flocks into territory rightfully Videssian, and to drive our farmers away from the lands near the border. I have written to him twice about this matter, with no improvement. Now I bring it to your attention.”

  “I shall convey your concern to his mighty Highness,” Tribo promised. “He in turn complains that the recently announced Videssian tariff on amber is outrageously high and is being collected with overharsh rigor.”

  “The second point may perhaps concern him more than the first,” Krispos said. Amber from Khatrish was a monopoly of the khagan’s; his profits on its sale to Videssos helped fatten his treasury. The tariff let the Empire profit, too. Krispos had also beefed up customs patrols to discourage smuggling. In his younger days, he’d been to Opsikion near the border with Khatrish and seen amber smugglers in action. The firsthand knowledge helped combat them.

  Tribo assumed an expression of outraged innocence. “The khagan Nobad son of Gumush wonders at the justice of a sovereign who seeks lower tolls from the King of Kings on his western border at the same time as he imposes higher ones to the detriment of Khatrish.”

  A low mutter ran through the courtiers; few Videssians would have spoken so freely to the Avtokrator. Krispos doubted whether Nobad knew about his discussions with Rubyab of Makuran over caravan tolls. Tribo, however, all too obviously did, and served his khagan well thereby.

  “I might reply that any soverign’s chief duty is to promote the advantage of his own realm,” Krispos said slowly.

  “So you might, were you not Phos’ viceregent on earth,” Tribo replied.

  The mutter from the nobles got louder. Krispos said, “I do not find it just, eminent envoy, for you who are a heretic to use to your own ends my position in the faith as practiced within Videssos.”

  “I crave Your Majesty’s pardon,” Tribo said at once. Krispos stared suspiciously; he hadn’t thought things would be that easy. They weren’t. Tribo resumed, “Since you reminded me I am a heretic in your eyes, I will employ my own usages and ask you where in the Balance justice lies.”

  Videssian orthodoxy held that Phos would at the end of time surely vanquish Skotos. Theologians in the eastern lands of Khatrish and Thatagush, however, had needed to account for the eruption of the barbarous and ferocious Khamorth into their lands and the devastation resulting therefrom. They proclaimed that good and evil lay in perfect balance, and no man could be certain which would triumph in the end. Anathemas from Videssos the city failed to bring them back to what the Empire reckoned the true faith; abetted by the eastern khagans, they hurled anathemas of their own.

  Krispos had no use for the Balancer heresy, but he had trouble denying that it was just for Khatrish to expect consistency from him. Concealing a sigh, he said, “Room for discussion about how we impose the tariffs may possibly exist.”

  “Your Majesty is gracious.” Tribo sounded sincere; maybe he even was.

  “As may be,” Krispos said. “I also have complaints that ships from out of Khatrish have stopped and robbed several fishing boats off the coast of our dominions, and even taken a cargo of furs and wine off a merchantman. If such piracy goes on, Khatrish will face the Empire’s displeasure. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Tribo said, again sincerely. Videssos’ navy was vastly stronger than Khatrish’s. If the Avtokrator so desired, he could ruin the khaganate’s sea commerce without much effort.

  “Good,” Krispos said. “Mind you, I’ll expect to see a change in what your people do; fancy promises won’t be enough.” Anyone who didn’t spell that out in large letters to a Khatrisher deserved the disappointment he would get. But Tribo nodded; Krispos had reason to hope the message was fully understood. He asked, “Have you any more matters to raise at this time, eminent envoy?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty, may it please you, I do.”

  The reply caught Krispos by surprise; the agenda he’d agreed upon with the Khatrisher before the audience was complete. But he said, as he had to, “Speak, then.”

  “Thank you for your patience, Your Majesty. But for the theological, er, discussion we just had, I would not presume to mention this. However: I know you believe that we who follow the Balance are heretics. Still, I must question the justice of inflicting upon us your own different and, if I may say so, more pernicious heresies.”

  “Eminent sir, I hope you in turn will forgive me, but I haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re talking about,” Krispos answered.

  Tribo’s look said he’d thought the Emperor above stooping to such tawdry denials. That only perplexed Krispos the more; as far as he knew, he was telling the truth. Then the ambassador said, as scornfully as he could to a sovereign stronger than his own, “Do you truly try to tell me you have never heard of the murderous wretches who call themselves Thanasioi? Ah, I see by your face that you have.”
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  “Yes, I have; at my command, the most holy sir the ecumenical patriarch Oxeites is even now convening a synod to condemn them. But how do you know of their heresy? So far as I have learned, it’s confined to the westlands, near our frontier with Makuraner-held Vaspurakan. Few places in the Empire of Videssos lie farther from Khatrish.”

  “That may be so, Your Majesty, but merchants learn the goods most worth shipping a long way are those with the least bulk,” Tribo said. “Ideas, so far as I know, have no bulk at all. Perhaps some seamen picked up the taint in Pityos. Be that as it may, we have bands of Thanasioi in a couple of our coastal towns.”

  Krispos ground his teeth. If Khatrish held Thanasioi, their doctrines had undoubtedly spread to Videssian ports, as well. And that meant Videssos the city probably—no, certainly—had Thanasioi prowling its streets. “By the good god, eminent envoy, I swear we’ve not tried to spread this heresy to your land. Very much the opposite, in fact.”

  “Your Majesty has said it,” Tribo said, by which Krispos knew that were he addressing anyone save the Avtokrator of the Videssians, he would have called him a liar. Perhaps realizing that even by Khatrisher standards he’d been overblunt, the envoy went on, “I pray your forgiveness, Your Majesty, but you must understand that, from the perspective of my master Nobad son of Gumush, stirring up religious strife within our bounds is a ploy Videssos might well attempt.”

  “Yes, I can see that it might be,” Krispos admitted. “You may tell your master, though, that it’s a ploy I don’t care to use. Since Videssos should have only one faith, I’m not surprised to find other sovereigns holding the same view.”

  “Please note I intend it for a compliment when I say that, for an Avtokrator of the Videssians, you are a moderate man,” Tribo said. “Most men who wear the red buskins would say there should be only one faith through all the world, and that the one which emanates from Videssos the city.”