The Tale of Krispos (114 page)

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 condemning 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 for 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.

Forgetting his thought of a moment before that all his sons were usefully engaged, he looked around for one to yell at. Then he remembered, and laughed at himself. He also remembered he’d sent Phostis out on precisely that mission. His laugh turned sour. How was he supposed to beat the Thanasioi if he found himself turning senile before he ever met them in battle?

S
ARKIS REMINDED PHOSTIS OF A PLUMP BIRD OF PREY. THE
Vaspurakaner cavalry commander was one of Krispos’ longtime cronies, and close to Krispos in years—which, to Phostis’ way of thinking, made him about ready for the boneyard. A great hooked beak of a nose protruded from his doughy face like a big rock sticking out of a mud flat. He was munching candied apricots when Phostis came into his quarters, too, which did not improve the young man’s opinion of him.

As he already had a score of times that afternoon and evening, Phostis repeated the message with which Krispos had charged him; he’d give Krispos no chance to accuse him of shirking a task once accepted. Sarkis paused in his methodical chewing only long enough to shove the bowl of apricots toward him. He shook his head, not quite in disgust but not quite politely, either.

Sarkis’ heavy-lidded eyes—piggy little eyes, Phostis thought distastefully—glinted in mirth. “Your first campaign, isn’t it, young Majesty?” he said.

“Yes,” Phostis said shortly. Half the officers he’d seen had asked the same question. Most of them seemed to want to score points off his inexperience.

But Sarkis just smiled, showing orange bits of apricot between his heavy teeth. “I wasn’t much older than you are now when I first served under your father. He was still learning how to command then; he’d never done it before, you know. And he had to start at the top and make soldiers who’d been leading armies for years obey him. It couldn’t have been easy, but he managed. If he hadn’t, you wouldn’t be here listening to me flapping my gums.”

“No, I suppose not,” Phostis said. He knew Krispos had started with nothing and made his way upward largely on his own; his father went on about it often enough. But from his father, it had just seemed like boasting. Sarkis made it feel as if Krispos had accomplished something remarkable, and that he deserved credit for it. Phostis, however, was not inclined to give Krispos credit for anything.

The Vaspurakaner general went on, “Aye, he’s a fine man, your father. Take after him and you’ll do well.” He swigged from a goblet of wine at his elbow, then breathed potent fumes into Phostis’ face. The throaty accent of his native land grew thicker. “Phos made a mistake when he didn’t let Krispos be born a prince.”

The folk of Vaspurakan followed Phos, but heretically; they believed the good god had created them first among mankind, and thus they styled themselves princes and princesses. The anathemas Videssian prelates flung their way were one reason most of them were well enough content to see their mountainous land controlled by Markuran, which judged all forms of Phos worship equally false and did not single out Vaspurakaners for persecution. Even so, many folk from Vaspurakan sought their fortune in Videssos as merchants, musicians, and warriors.

Phostis said, “Sarkis, has my father ever asked you to conform to Videssian usages when you worship?”

“What’s that?” Sarkis dug a finger into his ear. “Conform, you say? No, never once. If the world won’t conform to us princes, why should we conform ourselves to it?”

“For the same reason he seeks to bring the Thanasioi to orthodoxy?” By the doubt in his voice, Phostis knew he was asking the question as much of himself as of Sarkis.

But Sarkis answered it: “He doesn’t persecute princes because we give no trouble outside of our faith. You ask me, the Thanasioi are using religion as an excuse for brigandage. That’s evil on the face of it.”

Not if the material world is itself the evil,
Phostis thought. He kept that to himself. Instead, he said, “I know some Vaspurakaners do take on orthodoxy to help further their careers. You call them Tzatoi in your language, don’t you?”

“So we do,” Sarkis said. “And do you know what that means?” He waited for Phostis to shake his head, then grinned and boomed, “It means ‘traitors,’ that’s what. We of Vaspurakan are a stubborn breed, and our memories long.”

“Videssians are much the same,” Phostis said. “When my father set out to reconquer Kubrat, didn’t he take his maps from the imperial archives where they’d lain unused for three hundred years?” He blinked when he noticed he’d used Krispos as an example.

If Sarkis also noticed, he didn’t remark on it. He said, “Young Majesty, he did just that; I saw those maps with my own eyes when we were planning the campaign, and faded, rat-chewed things they were—though useful nonetheless. But three hundred years—young Majesty, three hundred years are but a fleabite on the arse of time. It’s likely been three hundred eons since Phos shaped Vaspur the Firstborn from the fabric of his will.”