Sailing to Sarantium

by Guy Gavriel Kay

  On the way there he stopped at another chapel—a larger one, with marble and some painted decoration, including the remains of a wall fresco behind the altar of Heladikos aloft, almost entirely rubbed out—and in the dimness and the quiet between services he prayed before the disk and the altar for guidance through and out of the half-world into which he seemed to have walked.

  He would not pray to the zubir, whatever ancient power of his own people it represented, but within himself Vargos sensed a terrible awareness of it, immense and dark as the forests on the borders of his childhood.

  Carullus was still IN his room, evidently sleeping off wounds and treatment, when Crispin came downstairs just past midday. He felt muzzy-headed and disoriented himself, and not only from the wine he’d had last night. In fact, the wine was the least of his azictions. He tried to put his aching head around some of the things that had happened in the two palaces and the Sanctuary and in the street afterwards, and then to come to terms with who had been in his room—on his bed—when he’d stumbled back at dawn. The conjured image of Styliane Daleina, beautiful as an enamelled icon, only made him feel more unsettled.

  He did what he’d always done at such times as this, back home. He went to the baths.

  The innkeeper, eyeing Crispin’s unshaven scowl with a knowing expression, was able to offer a suggestion. Crispin looked about for Vargos who was also—unaccountably—absent. He shrugged, ill-tempered and querulous, and went out alone, blinking and squinting, into the irritating brightness of the autumn day.

  Or, not really alone. Two of Carullus’s soldiers came with him, swords in scabbards. Imperial orders from the night before. He was to have a guard now. Someone wanted him dead. Not the other mosaicist, not the lady, if he could believe her. He did believe her, but was aware that he had no very good reason for doing so.

  On the way, passing the windowless façade of a holy retreat for women, he thought of Kasia—and then backed away from that as well. Not today. He wasn’t deciding anything significant today. She needed clothing, though, he knew that much. Considered sending one of the soldiers to the market to buy her some apparel while he bathed, and his first faint smile of the day came with the image of one of Carullus’s men judiciously selecting among women’s undergarments in the street market.

  He did get a minor, useful idea, however, and at the baths he asked for paper and a stylus. He sent a messenger running to the Imperial Precinct with a note for the eunuchs of the Chancellor’s office. The clever men who had shaved and attired him last night would be more than adequate to choosing clothing for a young woman newly arrived in the City. Crispin entreated their aid. On further reflection, he set a budget for the purchases.

  LATER THAT AFTERNOON, Kasia—dealing with some unexpected discoveries of her own—would find herself accosted at the inn by a swirling, scented coterie of eunuchs from the Imperial Precinct and spirited away by them for the surprisingly involved task of acquiring proper garb for life in Sarantium. They were amusing and solicitous, clearly enjoying the exercise and their own wittily obscene disagreements over what was suitable for her. Kasia found herself flushed and even laughing during the escapade. None of them asked what her life in Sarantium was to be, which was a relief, because she didn’t know.

  IN THE BATHS, CRISPIN had himself oiled, massaged, scraped down, and then subsided blissfully into the soothing, fragrant hot pool. There were others there, talking quietly. The familiar drone of murmurous voices almost lulled him back to sleep. He revived with a cool immersion in the adjacent pool, then made his way, wrapped in a white sheet like a spectral figure, towards the steam room, where half a dozen similarly shrouded men could be seen through the mist, lounging on marble benches, when he opened the door.

  Someone shifted wordlessly to make room for him. Someone else gestured vaguely, and the naked attendant poured another ewer of water over the hot stones. With a sizzling sound, steam rose up to enclose the small chamber even more densely. Crispin mentally declined the associations with a fogbound morning in Sauradia and leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes.

  The conversation around him was sporadic and desultory. Men seldom spoke with much energy amid the enveloping heat of the steam. It was easier to drift, eyes closed, into reverie. He heard bodies shift and rise, others enter and subside as cooler air came briefly in with the opening door and then the heat returned. His body was slick with perspiration, languorous with an indolent calm. Bathhouses such as this, he decided, were among the defining achievements of modern civilization.

  In fact, he thought dreamily, the mist here had nothing in common with the chill, half-worldly fog of that distant wilderness in Sauradia. He heard the hiss of steam again as someone poured more water, and he smiled to himself. He was in Sarantium, eye of the world, and much had already begun.

  ‘I should be greatly interested to know your views on the indivisibility of the nature of Jad,’ someone murmured. Crispin didn’t even open his eyes. He’d been told about this sort of thing. The Sarantines were said to be passionate about three subjects: the chariots, dances and pantomimes, and an endless debating about religion. Fruit-sellers would harangue him, Carullus had cautioned, regarding the implications of a bearded or a beardless Jad; sandalmakers would propound firm and fierce opinions on the latest Patriarchal Pronouncement about Heladikos; a whore would want his views on the status of icons of the Blessed Victims before deigning to undress.

  He wasn’t surprised, therefore, to hear well-bred men in a steam room discoursing this way. What did surprise him was his ankle being nudged by a foot and the same voice adding, ‘It is unwise, actually, to fall asleep in the steam.’

  Crispin opened his eyes.

  He was alone in the swirling mist with one other person. The question about the god had been addressed to him.

  The questioner, loosely wrapped in his own white sheet, sat eyeing him with a very blue gaze. He had magnificent golden hair, chiselled features, a scarred and honed body, and he was the Supreme Strategos of the Empire.

  Crispin sat up. Very quickly. ‘My lord!’ he exclaimed.

  Leontes smiled. ‘An opportunity to talk,’ he murmured. He used an edge of the sheet to wipe sweat from his brow.

  ‘Is this a coincidence?’ Crispin asked, guardedly.

  The other man laughed. ‘Hardly. The City is rather too large for that. I thought I’d arrange a moment to learn your views on some matters of interest.’

  His manner was courteous in the extreme. His soldiers loved him, Carullus had said. Would die for him. Had died—on battlefields as far west as the Majriti deserts and north towards Karch and Moskav.

  No visible arrogance here at all. Unlike the wife. Even so, the utterly confident control behind this encounter was provoking. There had been at least six men and an attendant slave in the steam a few moments ago . . .

  ‘Matters of interest? Such as my opinion of the Antae and their readiness for invasion?’ This was blunt, he knew, and probably unwise. On the other hand, everyone knew his nature at home, they might as well start finding out here.

  Leontes merely looked puzzled. ‘Why would I ask you that? Do you have military training?’

  Crispin shook his head.

  The Strategos looked at him. ‘Would you have knowledge of town walls, water sources, road conditions, paths through mountains? Which of their commanders deviate from the usual arraying of forces? How many arrows their archers carry in a quiver? Who commands their navy this year and how much he knows about harbours?’

  Leontes smiled suddenly. He had a brilliant smile. ‘I can’t imagine you could help me, actually, even if you wanted to. Even if any such thing as an invasion was being contemplated. No, no, I confess I’m more interested in your faith and your views on images of the god.’

  A memory clicked into place then, like a key in a lock. Irritation gave way to something else.

  ‘You disapprove of them, might I guess?’

  Leontes’s handsome face was guileless. ‘I do. I shar
e the belief that to render the holy in images is to debase the purity of the god.’

  ‘And those who honour or worship such images?’ Crispin asked. He knew the answer. He had been through this before, though not perspiring in steam and not with a man such as this.

  Leontes said, ‘That is idolatry, of course. A reversion to paganism. What are your thoughts?’

  ‘Men need a pathway to their god,’ Crispin said quietly. ‘But I confess, I prefer to keep my views to myself on such matters.’ He forced a smile of his own. ‘Uncharacteristic as reticence about faith might be in Sarantium. My lord, I am here at the Emperor’s behest and will endeavour to please him with my work.’

  ‘And the Patriarchs? Pleasing them?’

  ‘One always hopes for the approval of one’s betters,’ Crispin murmured. He passed a corner of his sheet across his streaming face. Through the steam, he thought he saw blue eyes flicker and the mouth quirk a little. Leontes was not without a sense of humour. It came as a relief of sorts. It was very much in his mind that there was no one here with them, and that this man’s wife had been in Crispin’s bedchamber this morning and had said . . . what she had said. This did not, he decided, represent the most predictable of encounters.

  He managed another smile. ‘If you find me an inappropriate conversationalist on military matters—and I can see why you might—why would you imagine we ought to discuss my work in the Sanctuary? Tesserae and their designs? How much do you know or care to know about tinting glass? Or cutting it? What have you decided about the merits and methods of angling tesserae in the setting bed? Or the composition and layers of the setting bed itself? Have you any firm views on the use of smooth stones for the flesh of human figures?’

  The other man was eyeing him gravely, expressionless. Crispin paused, modulated his tone. ‘We each have our areas of endeavour, my lord. Yours matters rather more, I would say, but mine might . . . last longer. We’d likely do best conversing—should you honour me—about other matters entirely. Were you at the Hippodrome yesterday?’

  Leontes shifted a little on his bench; his white sheet settled around his hips. There was a vivid diagonal scar running from his collarbone to his waist in a reddened line like a seam. He leaned over and poured another ewer of water on the stones. Steam cloaked the room for a moment.

  ‘Siroes had no difficulty telling us about his designs and intentions,’ the Strategos said.

  Us, Crispin thought. ‘Your lady wife was his sponsor, I understand,’ he murmured. ‘He also did some private work for you, I believe.’

  ‘Trees and flowers in mosaic, yes. For our nuptial chambers. Deer at a stream, boars and hounds, that sort of thing. I have no difficulty at all with such images, of course.’ His tone was very earnest.

  ‘Of course. Fine work, I’m sure,’ Crispin said mildly.

  There was a little silence.

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Leontes. ‘I imagine it is competent.’ His teeth flashed briefly again. ‘As you say, I could no more judge it than you could appraise a general’s tactics.’

  ‘You sleep in the room,’ Crispin replied, perversely abandoning his own argument. ‘You look at it every night.’

  ‘Some nights,’ said Leontes briefly. ‘I don’t pay much attention to the flowers on the wall.’

  ‘But you worry enough about the god in a sanctuary to arrange this encounter?’

  The other man nodded. ‘That is different. Do you intend to render an image of Jad on the ceiling?’

  ‘The dome. I rather suspect that is what is expected of me, my lord. In the absence of instruction otherwise from the Emperor, or the Patriarchs, as you say, I should think I have to.’

  ‘You don’t fear the taint of heresy?’

  ‘I have been rendering the god since I was an apprentice, my lord. If this has formally become heresy instead of a matter of current debate, no one has informed me of the change. Has the army taken to shaping clerical doctrine? Shall we now discuss how to breach enemy walls with chanted Invocations of Jad? Or launch Holy Fools in catapults?’

  He’d gone too far, it seemed. Leontes’s expression darkened. ‘You are impertinent, Rhodian.’

  ‘I hope not, my lord. I am indicating that I find your chosen subject intrusive. I am not a Sarantine, my lord. I am a Rhodian citizen of Batiara, invited here as a guest of the Empire.’

  Unexpectedly, Leontes smiled again. ‘True enough. Forgive me. You made a . . . dramatic entry among us last night, and I have to confess I felt easier about the decorations being planned, knowing Siroes was doing them and my wife was privy to his concepts. He was intending a design that did not . . . incorporate the rendered image of Jad.’

  ‘I see,’ said Crispin quietly.

  This was unexpected, and solved another part of the puzzle. ‘I had been told his dismissal might distress your lady wife. I see it is also a matter of concern to you, for different reasons.’

  Leontes hesitated. ‘I approach matters of faith with seriousness.’

  Crispin’s anger was gone. He said, ‘A prudent thing to do, my lord. We are all children of the god and must do him honour ... in our own way.’ He felt a certain weariness now. All he’d come east to do was put pain a little way behind him, seek solace in important work. The tangled complexities of the world here in Sarantium seemed extremely . . . enveloping.

  On the facing bench, Leontes leaned back, not replying. After a moment he reached over and tapped on the door. At that signal it was pulled open by someone, letting in another rush of air, and then it closed. Only one man seemed to have been waiting to enter. He shuffled, favouring one foot, past the Strategos to take a seat opposite Crispin.

  ‘No attendant?’ he growled.

  ‘He’s allowed a few moments to cool down,’ Leontes said politely. ‘Ought to be back shortly, or a different one will come. Shall I pour for you?’

  ‘Go ahead,’ the other man said, indifferently.

  He was, Crispin realized, evidently unaware who had just volunteered to serve as a bathhouse servant for him. Leontes picked up the ewer, dipped it in the trough, and poured water over the hot stones, once and then again. The steam sizzled and crackled. A wave of moist heat washed over Crispin like something tangible, thick in the chest, blurring sight.

  He looked wryly at the Strategos. ‘A second employment?’

  Leontes laughed. ‘Less dangerous. Less rewarding, mind you. I ought to leave you to your peace. You will come to dine one night, I hope? My wife would enjoy speaking with you. She . . . collects clever people.’

  ‘I’ve never been part of a collection before,’ Crispin murmured.

  The third man sat mute, ignoring them, closewrapped in his sheet. Leontes glanced over at him briefly then stood. In this small chamber he seemed even taller than he had in the palace the night before. Other scars showed along his back, and corded ridges of muscle. At the doorway, he turned.

  ‘Weapons are forbidden here,’ he said gravely. ‘If you surrender the blade under your foot you will have committed only a minor offence to this point. If you do not, you will lose a hand to the courts, or worse, when tried on my evidence.’

  Crispin blinked. Then he moved extremely fast.

  He had to. The man on the bench opposite had reached down with a snarl and ripped a paper-thin blade free from under the sole of his left foot. He held it deftly, the back of his hand up, and slashed straight at Crispin, without challenge or warning.

  Leontes stood motionless by the door, watching with what seemed to be a detached interest.

  Crispin lurched to one side, sweeping his sheet from his shoulders, to catch the thrusting blade. The man across from him swore viciously. He ripped the knife upwards through the fabric, trying to wrench it free, but Crispin sprang from his bench, wrapping the great sheet in a sweeping movement like a death shroud about the other man’s arms and torso. Without thought—or space for thought—but with an enormous, choking fury in his chest, he hammered an elbow viciously into the side of the man’s head. H
e heard a dull grunt. The trammelled blade fell to the floor with a thin sound. Crispin pivoted for leverage, then swung his left arm in a backhanded arc that smashed the side of his fist full into the man’s face. He felt teeth shatter like small stones, heard the breaking of bone, and gasped at a surge of pain in his hand.

  The other man fell to his knees with a weak, coughing sound. Before he could grapple for the dropped knife, Crispin kicked him twice, in the ribs and then, as his assailant slid sideways on the wet floor, in the head. The man lay there and he did not move.

  Crispin, breathing raggedly, slumped back naked onto the stone bench. He was dripping wet, slick with perspiration. He closed his eyes then opened them again. His heart was pounding wildly. He looked over at Leontes, who had made no movement at all from his position by the door.

  ‘So kind . . . of you . . . to assist,’ Crispin gasped. His left hand was already swelling up. He glared at the other man through the eddying mist and the wet heat.

  The golden-haired soldier smiled. A light sheen of perspiration glistened all along his perfect body. ‘It is important for a man to be able to defend himself. And pleasing to know one can. Don’t you feel better, having dealt with him yourself?’

  Crispin tried to control his breathing. He shook his head angrily. Sweat dripped in his eyes. There was a pool of blood trickling across the stone floor, seeping into the white sheet in which the fallen man lay tangled.

  ‘You should,’ Leontes said gravely. ‘It is no small thing to be able to protect your own person and your loved ones.’