The Tale of Krispos (51 page)

Krispos heard the deep-voiced shouting as soon as he was out of the chamber. He looked at Mavros again. They both smiled. Gnatios scowled at each of them in turn.

When the three men got to the front entrance, the shouting abruptly stopped. Gnatios stared out in dismay at the whole regiment of imperial guards, hundreds of armed and armored Halogai drawn up in line of battle before the patriarchal mansion. He turned to Krispos, nervously wetting his lips. “You would not, ah, loose the barbarians here on, ah, holy ground?”

“How could you think such a thing, most holy sir?” Krispos sounded shocked. He made sure he sounded shocked. “We were just having a nice peaceable talk in there, weren’t we?”

Before Gnatios could answer, one of the Halogai detached himself from their ranks and strode toward the mansion. As the warrior drew closer, Krispos saw it was Thvari. Gnatios stood his ground, but still seemed to shrink from the northerner, who along with his mail shirt and axe also bore a large, round bronze-faced shield.

Thvari swung up his axe in salute to Krispos. “Majesty,” he said soberly. His gaze swung to Gnatios. He must not have liked what he saw on the patriarch’s face, for his already wintry eyes grew colder yet. The axe twitched in his hands, as if with a life of its own.

Gnatios’ voice went high. “Call him off me,” he said to Krispos. The axe twitched again, a bigger movement this time. Krispos said nothing. Gnatios watched the axe blade with fearful fascination. He jumped when it moved again. “Please call him off me,” he said shrilly; a moment later, perhaps realizing what was wrong, he added, “Your Majesty.”

“That will be all, Thvari. Thank you,” Krispos said. The Haloga nodded, turned, and stalked back to his countrymen.

“There,” Gnatios said to Krispos, though his eyes stayed on Thvari till the northerner was back into the ranks of the guardsmen. “I’ve publicly acknowledged you. Are you satisfied?”

“You haven’t yet honored his Majesty with a proskynesis,” Mavros observed.

Gnatios looked daggers at him and opened his mouth to say something defiant. Then he glanced over to the Halogai massed in the street. Krispos watched the defiance drain out of him. Slowly he went to his knees, then to his belly. “Majesty,” he said as his forehead touched the floor.

“Get up, most holy sir,” Krispos said. “So you agree I am the rightful Avtokrator, then?” He waited for Gnatios to nod before he went on, “Then can you show that to the whole city by setting the crown on my head at the High Temple when morning comes?”

“I would seem to have little choice,” Gnatios said bleakly.

“If I’m to be master of the Empire, I will be master of all of it,” Krispos told him. “That includes the temples.”

The ecumenical patriarch did not reply in words, but his expression was eloquent. Though emperors traditionally headed ecclesiastical as well as secular affairs, Anthimos had ignored both impartially, letting Gnatios run Videssos’ religious life like an independent prince. The prospect of doing another man’s bidding could not have appealed to him.

Mavros pointed down the street; at the same time, Haloga heads turned in the direction his finger showed. A man carrying a large, heavy bundle was coming toward the patriarchal mansion. No, not a man—as the person drew nearer, Krispos saw beardless cheeks and chin. But it was not a woman, either…. “Barsymes!” Krispos exclaimed. “What do you have there?”

Panting a little, the eunuch set down his burden. “If you are to be crowned, Your Majesty, you should appear before the people in the proper regalia. I heard your orders to the Halogai, and so I knew I could find you here. I’ve brought the coronation regalia, a crown, and a pair of red boots. I do hope the rude treatment I’ve given the silks hasn’t wrinkled them too much,” he finished anxiously.

“Never mind,” Krispos said, touched. “That you thought to bring them to me is all that counts.” He put a hand on Barsymes’ shoulder. The eunuch, a formal soul if ever there was one, shrugged it off and bowed. Krispos went on, “It was bravely done, and perhaps foolishly done, as well. How would you have fought back if robbers fell upon you and stole this rich clothing?”

“Robbers?” Barsymes gave a contemptuous sniff. “A robber would have to be insane to dare assault one like me, who is so obviously a eunuch of the palace.” For the first time, Krispos heard a sort of melancholy pride in Barsymes’ description of himself. The eunuch continued, “Besides, even a madman would think three times before he stole the imperial raiment. Who could wear it but the Emperor, when even its possession by another is proof of treason and a capital crime?”

“I’m just glad you got here safely,” Krispos said. If thinking himself immune from robbers had helped Barsymes come, he would not contradict the eunuch. Privately he suspected Barsymes had been more lucky than secure.

“Shall I vest you in the regalia now?” Barsymes asked.

Krispos thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, let’s do it at the High Temple, where the ecumenical patriarch will set the crown on my head.” He glanced over at Gnatios, who nodded without speaking. Krispos looked eastward. Ever so slightly, the horizon was beginning to gray. He said, “We should go there now, to be ready when the new day comes.”

He called to the Halogai. They formed up in a hollow rectangle that took the whole width of the street. Krispos, Mavros, Barsymes, and Gnatios took their places in the middle. Krispos thought Gnatios still wanted to bolt, but the patriarch got no chance. “Forward to the High Temple,” Krispos said, and forward they went.

The Temple, as was only fitting, lay but a few steps from the patriarchal mansion. It bulked huge against the brightening sky; the thick piers that supported the weight of its great central dome gave it a squat, almost ungainly appearance from the outside. But within—Krispos knew the splendor that lay within.

The forecourt to the High Temple was as large as a couple of the smaller plazas in the city. The boots of the Halogai slammed down on slate flags; their measured tramp echoed from the building they approached.

Gnatios peered out between the marching guardsmen. “What are all these people doing, loitering in the forecourt so long before the dawn?” he said.

“A coronation must be witnessed,” Krispos reminded him.

The patriarch gave him a look filled with grudging respect. “For an adventurer who has just seized the state, you’ve planned well. You will prove more difficult to dislodge than I would have guessed when you came pounding on my door.”

“I don’t intend to be dislodged,” Krispos said.

“Neither did Anthimos, Your Majesty,” Gnatios replied, putting a sardonic edge to the title Krispos was still far from used to.

The forecourt was not yet truly crowded; the Halogai had no trouble making their way toward the High Temple. Men and women scurried out of their path, chattering excitedly: “Look at ’em! Something big
must
be going on.” “I wanted to kill the bloody sod who woke me, but now I’m glad I’m here.” “Wouldn’t want to miss anything. What do you think’s happened?” One enterprising fellow had a tray with him. “Sausage and rolls!” he shouted, his eyes, like those of most who lived in Videssos the city, on the main chance. “Buy your sausage and rolls here!”

Priests prayed in the High Temple by night as well as by day. They stared from the top of the stairway at the imperial guards. Krispos heard them exclaim and call to one another; they sounded as curious as any of the onlookers gathering in front of the temple. But when the Halogai began to climb the low, broad stairs, the priests cried out in alarm and withdrew inside, slamming doors behind them.

Under their officers’ direction, most of the northerners deployed on the stairway, facing out toward the forecourt. A band that included Thvari’s warriors accompanied Krispos and his Videssian comrades up to the High Temple itself. Krispos looked from the closed doors before them to Gnatios. “I hope you’ll be able to do something about this?”

Gnatios nodded. He knocked on the door and called sharply, “Open in there. Open, I say! Your patriarch commands it.”

A grill slid open. “Phos preserve us,” said the priest peering out. “It
is
the patriarch.” A moment later, the doors were flung wide; Krispos had to step back smartly to keep from being hit. Ignoring him, the clerics hurled questions at Gnatios: “What’s toward, most holy sir?” “What are all the Halogai doing here?” “Where’s the Emperor, if all his guards have come?”

“What’s toward? Change,” Gnatios answered, raising an eyebrow at Krispos. “I would say that response covers the rest of your queries, as well.”

Barsymes spoke up. “Holy sirs, will your kindness permit us to enter the narthex so his Majesty may assume the imperial vestments?”

“I shall also require a vial of the scented oil used in anointings,” Gnatios added.

Krispos saw the priests’ faces go momentarily slack with surprise, then heard their voices rise as they murmured among themselves. They were city men; they did not need to hear more to know what was in the wind. Without waiting for their leave, Krispos strode into the High Temple. He felt the clerics’ eyes on him as they gave way before his confidence, but he did not look toward them. Instead, he told Barsymes, “Aye, this place will do well enough for robing. Help me, if you please.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.” The eunuch turned to the priests. “Could I trouble one of you, holy sirs, for a damp cloth wherewith to wipe clean his Majesty’s face?” Not one but four clerics hurried away.

“I’ll want to clean off after you do, Kris—Your Majesty,” Mavros said. “The good god knows I must be as sooty as you are.”

The cloth arrived in moments. With exquisite delicacy, Barsymes dabbed and rubbed at Krispos’ cheeks, nose, and forehead. When at last he was satisfied, he handed the cloth—now grayish rather than white—to Mavros. While Mavros ran it over his own face, Barsymes began to clothe Krispos in the imperial regalia for the first time.

The garb for the coronation was of antique style, so antique that it was no longer worn at any other time. With Barsymes’ help, Krispos donned blue leggings and a gold-belted blue kilt edged in white. His plain sword went into the bejeweled scabbard that hung from the belt. His tunic was scarlet, with gold threads worked through it. Barsymes set a white wool cape on his shoulders and fumbled to work the golden fibula that closed it at his throat.

“And now,” the eunuch said, “the red boots.”

They were a tight squeeze; Krispos’ feet were larger than Anthimos’. They also had higher heels than Krispos was used to. He stumped around uncertainly inside the narthex.

Barsymes took from his bag a simple golden circlet, then a more formal crown: a golden dome set with rubies, sapphires, and glistening pearls. He set both of them aside; for the moment, Krispos remained bareheaded.

Mavros went to the doors to look out. “A lot of people there,” he said. “Iakovitzes’ lads did their job well.” The noise of the crowd, which the closed doors had kept down to a sound like that of the distant sea, suddenly swelled in Krispos’ ears.

“Is it sunrise?” he asked.

Mavros looked out again. “Near enough. It’s certainly light.”

Krispos glanced from him to Barsymes to Gnatios. “Then let’s begin.”

Mavros opened the doors once more, this time throwing them wide. The boom they made as they slammed back against the wall drew the eyes of the crowd to him. He stood in the doorway for a moment, then cried out as loud as he could, “People of Videssos, Phos himself has made this day! On this day, the good god has given our city and our Empire a new Avtokrator.”

The hum from the crowd dropped as people quieted to hear what Mavros said, then redoubled when they took in the import of his words. He held up his hands and waited. Quiet slowly came. Into it, Mavros said, “The Avtokrator Anthimos is dead, laid low by his own sorceries. People of Videssos, behold the Avtokrator Krispos.”

Barsymes touched Krispos on the arm, but he was already moving forward to stand in the open doorway as Mavros stepped aside. Below him, on the steps, the Halogai raised their axes in salute—and in warning to any who would oppose him. “Krispos!” they shouted all together, their voices deep and fierce.

“Krispos!” yelled the crowd, save for the inevitable few who heard his name wrong and yelled “Priskos!” instead. “Thou conquerest, Krispos!”—the age-old Videssian shout of acclamation. “Many years to the Avtokrator Krispos!” “Thou conquerest!” “Krispos!”

Krispos remembered the heady feeling he’d had years before, when the nobles who filled the Hall of the Nineteen Couches all cried out his name after he vanquished Beshev, the thick-shouldered wrestler from Kubrat. Now he knew that feeling again, but magnified a hundredfold, for this was not a hallful of people, but rather a plazaful. Buoyed up on that great tide of acclamation, he forgot fatigue.

“The people proclaim you Emperor, Krispos!” Mavros cried.

The acclaim got louder. Shouts of “Thou conquerest, Krispos!” came thick and fast. One burden of worry gone, Krispos thought. Had the crowd not accepted him, he would never have lasted as Avtokrator; no matter what other backing he had, it would have evaporated in the face of popular contempt. The chronicles told of a would-be Emperor named Rhazates, whom the mob had laughed off the steps of the High Temple for no better reason than that he was grossly fat. A rival ousted him within days.

Thvari held up the bronze-faced shield, displaying it to the crowd. The people quieted; they knew what that shield was for. With Mavros behind him, Krispos walked down to where the Haloga waited.

Too quietly for the people in the forecourt to hear, Krispos told Thvari, “I want you, Geirrod, Narvikka, and Vagn.”

“It shall be as you wish,” the northerner agreed. Geirrod stood close by; neither of the other guardsmen Krispos had named was far away. Thvari would know which soldiers he favored, Krispos thought. At the officer’s gesture, the two Halogai set down their axes and hurried over.

Barsymes approached, handing Mavros the golden circlet he’d brought. As Thvari had the bronze-faced shield, Mavros showed the circlet to the crowd. Those at the back of the courtyard could hardly have been able to see it, but they sighed all the same—like the shield, it had its place in the ritual of coronation.