The Tale of Krispos (131 page)

Barsymes bore away the empty mold from which the liver paste had come and the bowl that had held the squashes. Under the table, Krispos felt something on his leg, just above the knee. It turned out to be Iakovitzes’ hand. “By the good god,” the Avtokrator exclaimed, “you never give up, do you?”

“I’m still breathing,” Iakovitzes wrote. “If I haven’t stopped the one, why should I stop the other?”

“Something to that,” Krispos admitted. He hadn’t had much luck with the other lately, and he’d surely be too gorged after this banquet was done to try to improve that tonight. Just then Barsymes came back again, this time with a tureen and two bowls. Thinking about what the tureen might hold took Krispos’ mind off other matters, a sure sign of advancing years.

The vestiarios announced, “Here we have mullets stewed in wine, with leeks, broth, and vinegar, seasoned with oregano, coriander, and crushed pepper. For your added pleasure, the stew also includes scallops and baby prawns.”

After the first taste, Iakovitzes wrote, “The only thing that could further add to my pleasure would be an infinitely distensible stomach, and you may tell the cooks as much.”

“I shall, eminent sir,” Barsymes promised. “They will take pleasure in knowing they have pleased you.”

The next course was lobster meat and spawn chopped fine, mixed with eggs, pepper, and mullet broth, wrapped in grape leaves, and then fried. After that came cuttlefish boiled in wine, honey, celery, and caraway seeds, and stuffed with boiled calves’ brains and crumbled hard-cooked eggs. Only the expectant look on Barsymes’ face kept Krispos from falling asleep then and there. “One entree yet to come,” the vestiarios said. “I assure you, it shall be worth the wait.”

“My weight’s already gone up considerably,” Krispos said, patting his midsection. He could have used an infinitely distensible stomach himself about then.

But Barsymes, as usual, proved right. When he set down the last tray and its serving bowl, he said, “I am bidden by the cooks to describe this dish in detail. Any lapses in the description spring from my lapses of memory, not theirs of talent. I begin: to soaked pine nuts and sea urchins, they added in a casserole layers of mallows, beets, leeks, celery, cabbage, and other vegetables I now forget. Also included are stewed chickens, pigs’ brains, blood sausage, chicken gizzards, fried tunny in bits, sea nettles, stewed oysters in pieces, and fresh cheeses. It is spiced with celery seed, lovage, pepper, and asafetida. Over the top was poured milk with beaten egg. It was then stiffened in a hot-water bath, garnished with fresh mussels, and peppered once more. I am only too certain I’ve left out something or another, I beg you not to report my failing to the cooks.”

“Phos have mercy,” Krispos exclaimed, eyeing the big casserole dish with something far beyond mere respect. “Should we eat of it or worship it?” After Barsymes served Iakovitzes and him, he had his answer. “Both!” he said with his mouth full.

The feast had stretched far into the night; every so often, Barsymes fed charcoal to a brazier that kept the dining chamber tolerably warm. Iakovitzes held up his tablet. “I hope you have a wheelbarrow in which to roll me home, for I’m certain I can’t walk.”

“Something shall be arranged, I am certain,” the vestiarios said. “Dessert will be coming shortly. I trust you will do it justice?”

Iakovitzes and Krispos both groaned. The Avtokrator said, “We’ll deal with it or burst trying. I’d say it’s about even money which.” He’d taken an army into battle many times with better odds than those.

But the sweet scent of the steam gently rising from the pan Barsymes brought in revived his interest. “Here we have grated apricots cooked in milk until tender, then covered in honey and lightly dusted with ground cinnamon.” The vestiarios bowed to Iakovitzes. “Eminent sir, the cooks apologize for their failure to include seafood in this one dish.”

“Tell them I forgive their lapse,” Iakovitzes wrote. “I’ve not yet decided whether to sprout fins or tentacles from tonight’s fête.”

The apricots tasted as good as they smelled. Krispos nonetheless ate them very slowly, being full far past repletion. He was only halfway through his portion when Barsymes hurried into the dining chamber. The Emperor raised an eyebrow; such a lapse was unlike the eunuch.

Barsymes said, “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but the mage Zaidas would have speech with you. It is, I gather, a matter of some urgency.”

“Maybe he’s here to tell me Digenis dropped dead at last,” Krispos said hopefully. “Fetch him in, esteemed sir. If he’d come sooner, he could have helped the two of us commit gluttony here, not that we haven’t managed well enough on our own.”

When Zaidas came to the doorway, he started to prostrate himself. Krispos waved for him not to bother. Nodding his thanks, the wizard greeted Iakovitzes, whom he knew well. “Good to have you back with us, eminent sir. You’ve been away too long.”

“It certainly
seemed
too bloody long,” Iakovitzes wrote.

Barsymes carried in a chair for the mage. “Help yourself to apricots,” Krispos said. “But first tell me what brings you here so late. It must be getting close to the sixth hour of the night. Has Digenis finally gone to the ice?”

To his surprise, Zaidas answered, “No, Your Majesty, or not that I know of. It has rather to do with your son Phostis.”

“You found a way to make Digenis talk?” Krispos demanded eagerly.

“Not that either, Your Majesty,” the mage said. “As you know, till now I’ve had no success even learning the possible source of the magic that conceals the young Majesty from my search. This has not been from want of effort or diligence, I assure you. Till now, I would have described the trouble as want of skill.”

“Till now?” Krispos prompted.

“As you know, Your Majesty, my wife Aulissa is a very determined lady.” Zaidas gave a small, self-deprecating chuckle. “She has, in fact, determination to spare for herself and me both.”

Iakovitzes reached for the stylus, but forbore. Krispos admired Aulissa’s beauty and her strength of purpose while remaining content she was his mage’s wife, not his own. The two of them had been happy together for many years, though. Now Krispos just said, “Go on, pray.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. In any case, Aulissa, seeing my discontent at failing to penetrate the shield the Thanasiot sorcerers have thrown up to disguise Phostis’ whereabouts, suggested I test that screen at odd times and in odd ways, in the hope of ascertaining its nature while it might be weakest. Having no more likely profitable notions of my own, I fell in with her plan, and this evening I saw it crowned with success.”

“There’s good news indeed,” Krispos said. “I’m in your debt, and in Aulissa’s. Tell her when you go home that I’ll show I’m grateful with more than words. But for now, by the good god, tell me what you know before I get up and tear it from you.”

Iakovitzes let out his gobbling laugh. “It’s an idle threat, sorcerous sir,” he wrote. “Neither Krispos nor I could rise for anything right now, in any sense of the word.”

Zaidas’ smile was nervous. “You must understand, Your Majesty, I’ve not broken the screen, merely peeked behind one lifted corner of it, if I may use ordinary words to describe sorcerous operations. But this I can tell you with some confidence: the magic behind the screen is of the school inspired by the Prophets Four.”

“
Is
it?” Krispos said. Iakovitzes’ eyebrows were eloquent of surprise. The Avtokrator added, “So the wind blows from that quarter, does it? It’s not what I expected, I’ll say that. Knowing how the screen was made, can you now pierce it?”

“That remains to be seen,” Zaidas said, “but I can essay such piercing with more hope than previously was mine.”

“Good for you!” Krispos lifted the latest wine jar from its bed of snow. It was distressingly light. “Barsymes!” he called. “I’d intended to make an end of things here, but I find we need more wine after all. Fetch us another, and a cup for Zaidas and one for yourself. Tonight the news is good.”

“I shall attend to it directly, Your Majesty,” Barsymes said, and he did.

O
CCASIONAL SLEET RODE THE WIND OUTSIDE THE LITTLE STONE
house with the thatched roof. Inside, a small fire burned on the hearth, but the chill remained. Phostis chafed his hands one against the other to keep feeling in them.

The priest who had presided over the Midwinter’s Day liturgy at the main temple in Etchmiadzin bowed to the middle-aged couple who sat side by side at the table where they’d no doubt eaten together for many years. On the table rested a small loaf of black bread and two cups of wine.

“We are met here today with Laonikos and Siderina to celebrate their last meal, their last partaking of the gross substance of the world and their commencement of a new journey on Phos’ gleaming path,” the priest proclaimed.

Along with Phostis, Olyvria, and Syagrios, the little house was crowded with friends and relatives; the couple’s son and daughter and two of Laonikos’ brothers were easy to pick out by looks. Everyone, including Laonikos and Siderina, seemed happy and proud of what was about to happen. Phostis looked happy himself, but he’d learned in the palaces how to assume an expression at will. In fact, he didn’t know what to think. The man and woman at that table were obviously of sound mind and as obviously eager to begin with what they thought of as the last step of their earthly existence and their first steps toward heaven.
How should I feel about that,
Phostis wondered,
when it’s not a choice I’d ever make for myself?

“Let us pray,” the priest said. Phostis bent his head, sketched the sun-circle over his heart. Everyone recited Phos’ creed. As he had at Etchmiadzin’s temple, Phostis found the creed more moving, more sincere, here than he ever had in the High Temple. These people
meant
their prayers.

They put fervor into a round of Thanasiot hymns, too. Phostis did not know those as well as the rest of the folk gathered here; he kept stumbling over the words and then coming in again a line and a half later. The hymns had different tunes—some borrowed from the orthodox liturgy—but the same message: that loving the good god was all-important, that the next world meant more than this one, and that every earthly pleasure was from Skotos and to be shunned.

The priest turned to Laonikos and Siderina and asked, “Are you now prepared to abandon the wickedness in this world, the dark god’s vessel, and to seek the light in the realm beyond the sun?”

They looked at each other, then touched hands. It was a loving gesture, but in no way a sensual one; with it they affirmed that what they did, they did together. Without hesitation, they said, “We are.” Phostis could not have told which of them spoke first.

“It’s so beautiful,” Olyvria whispered, and Phostis had to nod. Dropping her voice still further, so only he heard, she added, “And so frightening.” He nodded again.

“Take up the knife,” the priest said. “Divide the bread and eat it. Take the wine and drink. Never again shall the stuff of Skotos pass your lips. Soon the bodies that are themselves sinful shall be no more and pass away; soon your souls shall know the true joy of union with the lord with the great and good mind.”

Laonikos was a sturdy man with a proud hooked nose and distinctive eyebrows, tufted and bushy. Siderina might have been pretty as a girl; her face was still sweet and strong.
Soon,
Phostis thought,
they’ll both look like Strabon.
The idea horrified him. It didn’t seem to bother Laonikos and Siderina at all.

Laonikos cut the little loaf in half and gave one piece to his wife. The other he kept himself. He ate it in three or four bites, then tilted back the wine cup until the last drop was gone. His smile lit up the house. “It’s done,” he said proudly. “Phos be praised.”

“Phos be praised,” everyone echoed. “May the gleaming path lead you to him!”

Siderina finished her final meal a few seconds after Laonikos. She dabbed at her lips with a linen napkin. Her eyes sparkled. “Now I shan’t have to fret about what to cook for supper anymore,” she said. Her voice was gay and eager; she looked forward to the world to come. Her family laughed with her. Even Phostis found himself smiling, for her manifest happiness communicated itself to him no matter how much trouble he had sharing it.

The couple’s son took the plate, knife, and wine cups. “The good god willing, these will inspire us to join you soon,” he said.

“I hope they do,” Laonikos said. He got up from the table and hugged the young man. In a moment, the whole family was embracing.

“We bless thee, Phos, lord with the great and good mind—” the priest began. Everyone joined him in prayer once more.

Phostis thought the blue-robe had intruded himself on the family’s celebration. He thought his own presence an intrusion, too. Turning to Olyvria, he whispered, “We really ought to go.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” she murmured back.

“Phos bless you, friends, and may we see you along his gleaming path,” Laonikos called to them as they made their way out the door. Phostis put up his hood and pulled his cloak tight around him to shield against the storm.

“Well,” Olyvria said when they’d gone a few yards down the street, “what did you think of that?”

“Very much what you did,” Phostis answered. “Terrifying and beautiful at the same time.”

“Huh!” Syagrios said. “Where’s the beauty in turning into a bag of bones?” It was the same thought Phostis had worried at before, if more pungently put.

Olyvria let out an indignant sniff. Before she could speak, Phostis said, “Seeing faith so fully realized is beautiful, even for someone like me. My own faith, I fear, is not so deep. I cling to life on earth, which is why seeing someone choose to leave it frightens me.”

“We’ll all leave it sooner or later, so why choose to hurry?” Syagrios said.

“For a proper Thanasiot,” Olyvria said, emphasizing
proper,
“the world is corrupt from its creation, and to be shunned and abandoned as soon as possible.”

Syagrios remained unmoved. “Somebody has to take care of all the bloody sods leavin’ the world, or else they’ll leave it faster’n they have in mind, thanks to his old man’s soldiers.” He jerked a thumb at Phostis. “So I’m not a sheep. I’m a sheepdog. You don’t have sheepdogs, my lady, wolves get fat.”