Krispos the Emperor (12 page)

The trouble was, he'd grown to feel isolated, cut off from the world around him, in his week at sea. No new reports slacked up on his desk. His cabin, in fact, had no desk, only a little folding table. He felt like a healer-priest forced to remove his fingers from a sick man's wrist in the middle of taking his pulse.

He knew that was foolish. A week was not a long time to he away from events; Anthimos, even while physically remaining in Videssos the city, had neglected his duties for months on end. The bureaucracy kept he Empire more or less on an even keel; that was what bureaucracy was for.

But Krispos would be glad to return to a location more definite than
somewhere on the Videssian Sea.
Once he landed, the lodestone that was the imperial dignity would attract to his person all the minutiae on which he depended for his understanding of what was going on in Videssos.

"You can't let go, even for a second," he murmured.

"What's that, Father?" Katakolon asked.

Embarrassed at getting caught talking to himself, Krispos just grunted by way of reply. Katakolon gave him a quizzical look and walked on by. Katakolon had spent a lot of time pacing the deck of the
Triumphant;
the week at sea was no doubt his longest period of celibacy since his beard began to sprout. He'd likely do his best to make up for lost time in the joy-houses of Nakoleia.

The port was getting close now. Its gray stone wall was drab against the green-gold of ripening grain in the hinterland. Behind it, blue in the distance, hills rose up against the sky. The fertile strip was narrow along the northern coast of the west-lands; the plateau country that made up the bulk of the big peninsula began to rise less than twenty miles from the sea.

Katakolon went by again. Krispos didn't want him, not right now. "Phostis!" he called.

Phostis came, not quite fast enough to suit Krispos, not quite slow enough for him to make an issue out of it. "How may I serve you, Father?" he asked. The question was properly deferential, the tone was not.

Again, Krispos decided to let it lie. He stuck to the purpose for which he'd called his son. "When we dock, I want you to visit all merarchs and officers of higher rank. Remind them they have to take extra care on this campaign because they may have Thanasioi in their ranks. We don't want to risk betrayal at a time when it could hurt us most."

"Yes, Father," Phostis said unenthusiastically. Then he asked, "Why couldn't you simply have your scribes write out as many copies of the order as you need and distribute them to the officers?"

"Because I just told you to do this, by the good god," Krispos snapped. Phostis' glare made him realize that was taking authority too far. He added, "Besides, I have good practical reasons for doing it this way. Officers get too many parchments as is; who but Phos can say which ones they'll read and which ones they'll toss into a pigeonhole or into a well without ever unsealing them? But a visit from the Avtokrator's son— that they'll remember, and what he says to them. And this is an important order. Do you see?"

"I suppose so," Phostis said, again without great spirit. But he did nod. "I'll do as you say, Father."

"Well, I thank your gracious Majesty for that," Krispos said. Phostis jerked as if a mosquito had just bitten him in a tender place. He spun round and stalked away. Krispos immediately regretted his sarcasm, but nothing could recall a word once spoken. He'd learned that a long time before, and should have had it down pat by now. He stamped his foot, angry at himself and Phostis both.

He peered out toward the docks. The fleet had come close enough to let him pick out individuals. The fat fellow with six parasol bearers around him would be Strabonis, the provincial governor; the scrawny one with three, Asdrouvallos, the city eparch. He wondered how long they'd been standing there, waiting for the fleet to arrive. The longer it was, the more ceremony they'd insist on once he actually got his feet on dry land. He intended to endure as much as he could, but sometimes that wasn't much.

Along with the dignitaries stood a lean, wiry fellow in nondescript clothes and a broad-brimmed leather traveler's hat. Krispos was much more interested in seeing him than either Strabonis or Asdrouvallos: imperial scouts and couriers had an air about them that, once recognized, was unmistakable. The governor and the eparch would make speeches. From the courier, Krispos would get real news.

He called for Evripos. His second son was no quicker appearing than Phostis had been. Frowning, Krispos said, "If I'd wanted slowcoaches, I'd have made snails my spatharioi, not you two."

"Sorry, Father," Evripos said, though he didn't sound particularly sorry.

At the moment, Krispos wished Dara had borne girls. Sons-in-law might have been properly grateful to him for their elevation in life, where his own boys seemed to take status for granted. On the other hand, sons-in-law might also have wanted to elevate themselves further, regardless of whether Krispos was ready to depart this life.

He made himself remember why he'd summoned Evripos. "When we land, I want you to check the number and quality of remounts available here, and also to make sure the arsenal has enough arrows in it to let us go out and fight. Is that martial enough for you?"

"Yes, Father. I'll see to it," Evripos said.

"Good. I want you back with what I need to know before you sleep tonight. Make sure you take special notice of anything lacking, so we can get word ahead to our other supply dumps and have their people lay hold of it for us."

"Tonight?" Now Evripos didn't try to hide his dismay. "I was hoping to—"

"To find someone soft and cuddly?" Krispos shook his head. "I don't care what you do along those lines after you take care of what I ask of you. If you work fast, you'll have plenty of time for other things. But business first."

"You don't tell Katakolon that," Evripos said darkly.

"You complain because I don't treat you the same as Phostis, and now you complain because I don't treat you the same as Katakolon. You can't have it both ways, son. If you want the authority that comes with power, you have to take the responsibility that comes with it, too." When Evripos didn't answer, Krispos added, "Don't scant the job. Men's lives ride on it."

"Oh, I'll take care of it, Father. I said I would, after all. And besides, you'll probably have someone else taking care of it, too, so you can check his answers against mine. That's your style, isn't it?" Evripos departed without giving Krispos a chance to answer.

Krispos wondered whether he should have left his sons back in Videssos the city. They quarreled with one another, they quarreled with him, and they didn't do half as much as might some youngster from no particular family who hoped to be noticed. But no—they needed to learn what war was about, and they needed to let the army see them. An Avtokrator who could not control his soldiers would end up with soldiers controlling him.

The
Triumphant
eased into place alongside the dock. Strabonis peered down into the ship. Seen close up, he looked as if he'd yield gallons of oil if rendered down. Even his voice was greasy. "Welcome, welcome, thrice welcome, your imperial Majesty," he declared. "We honor you for coming to the defense of our province, and are confident you shall succeed in utterly crushing the impious heretics who scourge us."

"I'm glad of your confidence, and I hope I will deserve it," Krispos answered as sailors stretched a gangplank painted with imperial crimson from his vessel to the dock. He, too, remained confident he would beat the Thanasioi. He'd beaten every enemy he'd faced in a long reign save only Makuran—and no Avtokrator since the fierce Stavrakios had ever really beaten Makuran, while even Stavrakios' victory did not prove lasting. But Strabonis sounded as if defeating the heretics would be easy as a promenade down Middle Street. Krispos knew better than that.

He walked across the gangplank to the dock. Strabonis folded his fat form into a proskynesis. "Rise," Krispos said. After a week aboard the rolling ship, solid ground seemed to sway beneath his feet.

Asdrouvallos prostrated himself next. As he got back to his feet, he started to cough, and kept on coughing till his wizened face turned almost as gray as his beard. A tiny fleck of blood-streaked foam appeared at one corner of his mouth. A quick flick of his tongue swept it away. "Phos grant your Majesty a pleasant stay in Nakoleia," he said, his voice gravelly. "Success against the foe as well."

"Thank you, excellent eparch," Krispos said. "I hope you've seen a healer-priest for that cough?"

"Oh, aye, your Majesty; more than one, as a matter of fact." Asdrouvallos' bony shoulders moved up and down in a shrug.

They've done the best they can for me, but it's not enough. I'll go on as long as the good god wills, and afterward, well, afterward I hope to see him face to face."

"May that day be years away," Krispos said, though Asdrouvallos, who was not much above his own age, looked as if he might expire at any moment. Krispos added, "By all means consider your oration as given. I do not require you to tax your lungs. Videssos has quite enough taxes without that."

"Your Majesty is gracious," Asdrouvallos said. In truth, Krispos was concerned for the eparch's health. And in showing 
that concern, he'd also managed to take a formidable bite out of speeches yet to come.

He wished he could have found some equally effective and polite way to make Strabonis shut up. The provincial governor's speech was long and florid, modeled after the rhetoric-soaked orations that had been the style in Videssos the city before Krispos' time—and probably would be again, once his peasant-bred impatience for fancy talk was safely gone. He tried clearing his throat; Strabonis ignored him. At last he started shifting from foot to foot as if he urgently needed to visit the jakes. That got Strabonis' attention. As soon as he subsided, so did Krispos' wiggles. The governor sent the Avtokrator an injured look Krispos pretended not to see.

After that, he had to endure only an invocation from the hierarch of Nakoleia, who proved himself a man able to take a hint by making it mercifully brief. Then Krispos could at last talk with the courier, who had waited through the folderol with more apparent patience than the Avtokrator could muster.

The fellow started to prostrate himself. "Never mind that," Krispos said. "Any more nonsense and I'll die of old age before I get anything done. By the good god, just tell me what you have to say."

"Aye, your Majesty." The courier's skin was brown and leathery from years in the sun, which only made his surprised smile seem brighter. That smile, however, quickly faded. "Your Majesty, the news isn't good. I have to tell you that the Thanasioi put your supply dumps at Harasos and Rogmor to the torch, the one three days ago. the other night before last. Damage—mm, there's a lot of it, I'm sorry to say."

Krispos' right hand clenched into a fist. "A pestilence," he ground out between his teeth. "That won't make the campaign against them any easier."

"No, your Majesty," the courier said. "I'm sorry to be the one who gives you that word, but it's one you have to have."

"You're right. I know it's not your fault." Krispos had never made a habit of condeming messengers for bad news. "See to yourself, see to your horse. No—tell me your name first, so I can commend you to your chief for good service."

The courier's flashing smile returned. "I'm called Evlalios, your Majesty."

"He'll hear from me, Evlalios," Krispos promised. As the courier turned away, Krispos started thinking about his own next step. If he hadn't already known the Thanasioi now had a real soldier at their head, the raids on his depots would have told him as much. Bandits might have attacked the dumps to steal what they needed for themselves, but only an experienced officer would have deliberately wrecked them to deny his foes what they held. Soldiers knew armies did more traveling, encamping, and eating than fighting. If they couldn't get where they needed to go, or if they arrived half starved, they wouldn't be able to fight.

He'd already sent Phostis and Evripos on errands. That left— "Katakolon!" he called. Ceremonial had trapped his youngest son, who'd been unable to sneak off and start sampling the fleshly pleasures Nakoleia had to offer.

"What is it, Father?" Katakolon sounded like a martyr about to be slain for the true faith.

"I'm afraid you'll have to keep your trousers on a bit longer, my boy," Krispos said, at which his son looked as if the fatal dart had just struck home. Ignoring the virtuoso mime performance, Krispos went on, "I need an accounting of the contents of all the storehouses in this town, and I need it tonight. See the excellent Asdrouvallos here; no doubt he'll have a map to send you on your way from one to the next as fast as you can go."

"Oh, yes, your Majesty," Asdrouvallos said. Even the short sentence was enough to set him coughing again. By his expression, Katakolon hoped the eparch wouldn't stop. Unfortunately lor him, Asdrouvallos drew in a couple of deep, sobbing breaths and managed to break the spasm. "If the young Majesty will just accompany me—"

Trapped, Katakolon accompanied him. Krispos watched him go with a certain amount of satisfaction—which, he thought, was more in the way of satisfaction than Katakolon would get tonight: now all three of his sons, however unwillingly, were doing something useful. If only the Thanasioi would yield so readily.

He feared they wouldn't. That they'd known just where he was storing his supplies forced him to relearn a lesson in civil war he hadn't had to worry about since he vanquished Anthimos' uncle Petronas at the start of his reign: the enemy, thanks to spies in his camp, would know everything he decided 
almost as soon as he decided it. He'd have to keep moves secret until just before he made them, and so would his officers. He'd have to remind them about that.