The Tale of Krispos (34 page)

While the Avtokrator stood up and used it, Krispos got him clean drawers and a fresh robe. He helped Anthimos dress, then ceremoniously escorted him to a mirror of polished silver. Anthimos made a face at his reflection while Krispos combed his hair and beard. “Looks like me,” the Emperor said when he was done. “Eyes aren’t even too bloodshot—but then, I got to sleep early last night.” He turned back to the bed. “Didn’t I, Dara?”

“What’s that?” Buried in blankets to the crown of her head, Anthimos’ Empress sounded more than half asleep herself.

“Didn’t I get to bed early last night?” the Avtokrator repeated. “I’ve even found an advantage to it—my eyes look much clearer than usual this morning.”

Dara rolled over and sat up. Krispos did his best not to stare—like Anthimos, she slept nude. Then she noticed him, squeaked, and yanked the blankets up to her chin.

Anthimos laughed. “No need for such worries, my dear. This is Krispos, the new vestiarios.”

Keeping his eyes on his own toes, Krispos said in his most formal voice, “I did not mean to startle you, Your Majesty.”

“It’s—all right,” Dara said after a moment. “Seeing the beard caught me by surprise, that’s all. His Majesty said you were a whole man, but it must have slipped my mind. Go ahead with what you were doing; I’ll summon a maidservant.” She had a bellpull on her side of the bed, too, with a green cord. She held the blankets in place with one hand, reached out with the other.

Krispos fetched the Emperor’s red boots from the closet and helped Anthimos into them. They were tight, and pulling them onto the imperial feet took some work. The maidservant came in while he was still fighting to get them on. She paid no attention to Krispos’ beard. Indeed, with him bent down in front of the Emperor, she could hardly have noticed whether he had one—or whether he had horns and fangs, for that matter. She chose a gown from Dara’s closet and whisked away the bedclothes so she could dress the empress.

Dara again glanced nervously toward Krispos, but relaxed when she saw him intent on his own duties. He did his best to take no special notice of her. If she had been easy in the presence of the former vestiarios, he did not want to rob her of that ease.

At the same time, even the brief, self-conscious glimpses he’d had of her showed she was a dazzling young woman. She was small and dark, with lustrous, almost blue-black hair that crackled as her maidservant brushed it. She had an aquiline profile, with high, sculptured cheekbones and a strong, rather pointed chin. Her body was as lovely as her face.

Krispos wondered why Anthimos, having such an Empress, also bedded any girl who caught his eye. Maybe Dara lacked passion, he thought. Or maybe Anthimos was like some of Petronas’ stable hands, unable to pass up any opportunity he found. And unlike them, he found plenty—few would say no to the Avtokrator of the Videssians.

Such wherefores were not his concern, though. Getting the Emperor’s boots on was. Grunting with effort, he finally succeeded. “Good job,” Anthimos said, laughing and patting him on the head. “From all I’ve heard, you had a tougher time wrestling with my boots than you did with that giant Kubrati.”

“Different sort of wrestling, Majesty.” Krispos had to remind himself what came next in the routine. “And now, with what would you and your lady care to break your fast?”

“A bloater for me,” Anthimos said. “A bloater and wine. How about you, my dear?”

“Just porridge, I think,” Dara said. Krispos’ sympathies lay with her. Smoked and salted mackerel was all very well, but not his idea of breakfast food.

He carried the imperial couple’s requests back to the kitchens and had a bowl of porridge himself while the cook fixed a tray. “The good god be thanked his Majesty’s in a simple mood today,” the fellow said as he poured wine from an amphora into a silver carafe. “Have you ever tried fixing shrimp and octopus stew while he’s waiting? Or, worse, had to go running out to try to buy oranges out of season because it crossed his mind he wanted some?”

“Did you find any?” Krispos asked, intrigued.

“Aye, there’s a shop or two that sells ’em preserved by magic, for those who have the urge and the money at the same time. Didn’t cost me above twenty times what they usually run, and what sort of thanks did I get? Precious little, I’ll tell you.”

Carrying the tray to a dining hall not far from the imperial bedchamber, Krispos wondered if Anthimos had even known the fruit was out of season. When would he have occasion to learn? All he needed to do was ask for something to have it appear before him.

The Emperor devoured his bloater with lip-smacking gusto. “Now, my dear,” he said to Dara, “why don’t you go and tend to your embroidery for a while? Krispos and I have some serious business to discuss.”

Krispos would have resented such a cavalier dismissal. Whatever Dara felt, she did not let it show. She rose, nodded to Anthimos, and left without a word. She took as much notice of Krispos as of the chair on which he sat.

“What business is there, Your Majesty?” Krispos asked, curious and a little worried; none of the Emperor’s eunuchs had warned him anything special was in the wind.

But Anthimos answered, “Why, we have to decide what the chances will be for tonight’s festivities.”

“Oh,” Krispos said. Following the Emperor’s pointing finger, he saw the ball-filled crystal bowl sitting on a shelf. He got it down, took apart the balls, and set their halves on the table between himself and Anthimos. “Where can I find pen and parchment, Your Majesty?”

“Somewhere around here,” Anthimos said vaguely. While Krispos poked through drawers in a sideboard, Anthimos continued, “I think the number tonight will be eleven, after the paired single pips on the dice when someone throws Phos’ little suns. What goes well with eleven?”

Krispos found writing materials at last. “Eleven dice, Your Majesty, since the number is taken from gambling?”

“Excellent! I knew you were clever. What else?”

“How about—hmm—eleven mice?”

“So you want to rhyme tonight, do you? Well, why not? I expect the servants can find eleven mice by evening. What else?”

They came up with eleven pounds of ice, eleven grains of rice, eleven lice—“I
know
the servants can find those,” Anthimos said.—eleven drams of spice, eleven things nice, and eleven kinds of vice. “Both of those will send the winner to the stews,” the Avtokrator declared.

“How about eleven gold
pice
?” Krispos suggested when their inspiration began to flag. “It’s not a perfect rhyme—”

“It is if you write it that way,” Anthimos said, so Krispos did.

“Your Majesty, could I get you to think on something else about these chances for a moment?” Krispos asked. At the Emperor’s nod, he went on, “You might want to give them out to the entertainers along with your guests. They’re not rich; think how overjoyed they’d be to pick one of the good chances.”

Anthimos’ answering smile was not altogether pleasant. “Yes, and think how downcast they’d be if they didn’t. That could be amusing, too. We’ll give it a try.”

Krispos knew he hadn’t got his way for the reason he wanted, but he’d got it. Some of the jugglers and musicians and courtesans would end up better off, and even the ones who came away from the chances disappointed would actually be in no worse state than before, he told himself.

“What’s next?” the Avtokrator asked.

“I am given to understand a new Makuraner embassy has come to the city,” Krispos said carefully. “If you cared to, I suppose you could meet the high ambassador.”

Anthimos yawned. “Another time, perhaps. Petronas will tend to them. That’s his proper function, seeing to such tiresome details.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty.” Krispos did not press the issue. He’d done his best to make the meeting sound dull. He knew Petronas wanted to keep his own hands firmly on the Empire’s relations with its neighbors.

Instead of meeting with the Makuraner high ambassador, Anthimos went to the Amphitheater. He ate the coarse, greasy food the vendors sold there; he drank rough wine from a cracked clay cup; he awarded five hundred goldpieces to a driver who’d brought his chariot from the back of the pack to first in the last couple of laps. The crowd cheered his generosity. It all worked well enough, Krispos thought; they had a symbol, Anthimos had fun, and Petronas had the government.

And what do I have?
Krispos wondered. Part of the answer was plain enough: good food, good lodging, even the ear of the Avtokrator of the Videssians—for such matters as chances at revels, anyhow. All that was marvelously better than the nothing with which he’d arrived at Videssos the city a few years before.

He was discovering, though, that the more he had, the more he wanted. He’d read two or three chronicles of the Empire’s past. None of them recorded the name of a single vestiarios.

A
FEW DAYS LATER, ANTHIMOS WENT HUNTING. KRISPOS STAYED
behind. Running the imperial residence, even with the Emperor absent, was a full-time job. He was not unduly surprised when Eroulos came by a little before noon. This time Petronas’ steward bowed to him. “His Imperial Highness the Sevastokrator would be pleased to take lunch with you, esteemed and eminent sir, your duties permitting.”

“Of course.” Krispos gave Eroulos a quizzical look. “So you’ve heard my new title?”

Eroulos sounded surprised that Krispos need ask. “It’s my business to hear such things.”

Petronas had heard it, too. “Ah, the esteemed and eminent vestiarios,” he said, bowing back when Krispos went on one knee before him. “Here, have some wine. How fares my nephew?”

“Well enough, Highness,” Krispos said. “He showed no great interest in making the acquaintance of the new envoy from Makuran.”

“Just as well,” Petronas said, scowling. “There will be war soon—if not this year, then the next. Probably next year. I’ll have to take the field in person, and to do that, I need you solidly in place with Anthimos so he won’t listen to too much nonsense while I’m away from the city in the westlands.”

There lay the weakness in Petronas’ position, Krispos thought: while he ruled, he was not Videssos’ ruler. If Anthimos ever decided to take up the reins of power for himself, or if someone else steered him, the prestige that went with the imperial title might well make officials follow him rather than his uncle.

Krispos said, “I’m glad you place such confidence in me, Highness.”

“We’ve discussed why I do.” Petronas suavely changed the subject. “Anthimos’ gain is my loss, I’m finding. The stable hands still do their individual work well enough, but there’s less overall direction to things without you. I asked Stotzas if he wanted your job, but he turned me down flat.”

“He did the same with me when I asked him if he wanted me to mention him to you.” Krispos hesitated. “May I suggest someone else?”

“Why not? Whom do you have in mind?”

“How about Mavros? I know he’s even younger than I am, but everyone likes him. And he wouldn’t be slack; he takes horses seriously. He’s more a real horseman than I, as a matter of fact. I got to the point where I knew what I was doing, but he comes by it naturally.”

“Hmm.” Petronas stroked his beard. At last he said, “You may have something there. He’s likelier than anyone I’d thought of, at any rate. I’ll see what Eroulos has to say; he’s not Mavros’ personal friend, as you are. If he thinks the youngster will answer, I may well give him a try. My thanks.”

“I’m pleased to help, even if I’m not part of your household anymore.” Krispos doubted Eroulos would have anything bad to say about Mavros. All the same, he took note of Petronas’ caution. Knowing Krispos’ advice was not disinterested, the Sevastokrator would not move until he heard some that was.

Another bit of business worth remembering, Krispos thought. He wondered if he’d ever have a chance to use it.

T
HE CHANCE CAME SOONER THAN HE’D EXPECTED. A FEW DAYS
later, he received a letter from a certain Ypatios, asking if the two of them could meet to “discuss matters of mutual interest.” Krispos had never heard of Ypatios. Some discreet inquiry among the eunuchs let him find out that the fellow headed a large trading house. Krispos arranged a meeting at the imperial residence on an afternoon when Anthimos was watching the chariots.

Barsymes ushered Ypatios into the antechamber where Krispos sat waiting. The man bowed. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, esteemed sir,” he began, and then stopped, seeming to notice Krispos’ beard for the first time. “I meant no offense by that title, I want you to know. You are vestiarios, after all, but I see—”

“I’m usually styled ‘esteemed and eminent.’” This routine, Krispos realized, was one he’d need to get used to.

Ypatios quickly recovered his poise. “‘Esteemed and eminent’ it is. Very good.” The merchant was about fifty, well fed and shrewd-looking. “As I said in my letter, esteemed and eminent sir, I believe we have interests in common.”

“You said so,” Krispos agreed. “You didn’t say what they were, though.”

“One can never tell who all reads a letter,” Ypatios said. “Let me explain: my sons and I specialize in importing fine furs from the kingdom of Agder. For some time his Imperial Majesty, may his years be many, has had under consideration a law to lower the import duties upon such furs. His favorable action upon this law would, I’ll not deny, work to our advantage.”

“Would it?” Krispos steepled his fingertips. He began to see in which quarter the wind lay.

Ypatios nodded solemnly. “It would indeed. And my sons and I are prepared to be generous in our appreciation. As you are in such intimate contact with his Imperial Majesty, surely you might find occasion to suggest a course of action to him. Our own humble requests, expressed in written form, perhaps have not had the good fortune to come under his eyes.”

“Maybe not,” Krispos said. It occurred to him that even had Anthimos been the most conscientious ruler Videssos ever knew, he would have had trouble staying up with all the minutiae of the Empire. Since Anthimos was anything but, he undoubtedly had never seen the law he was supposed to be considering. Krispos went on, “Why are the duties against the furs so high now?”