The Tale of Krispos (62 page)

“As I told you, most holy sir, you must act as you think best,” he said. “But, I pray you, remember also the”—what had Savianos called it?—“the principle of theological economy.”

“Where the principle applies, Majesty, rest assured that I shall,” Pyrrhos said. “I must warn you, though, its application is less sweeping than some would claim.”

No, Krispos thought, Pyrrhos was not a man to yield much ground. He gave a sharp, short nod to show the audience was over. Pyrrhos prostrated himself—whatever his flaws, disrespect for the imperial office was not one of them—and departed. As soon as he was gone, Krispos shouted for a jar of wine.

L
OOKING AT A MAP OF THE EMPIRE, KRISPOS OBSERVED, “I’M
just glad Harvas’ murderers decided to withdraw after they took Develtos. If they’d pressed on, they could have reached the Sailors’ Sea and cut the eastern provinces in half.”

“Yes, that would have spilled the chamber pot into the soup, wouldn’t it?” Mavros said. “As is, though, you’re still going to have to restore the town, you know.”

“I’ve already begun to take care of it,” Krispos said. “I’ve sent word out through the city guilds that the fisc will pay double the usual daily rate for potters and plasterers and tilemakers and carpenters and stonecutters and what have you willing to go to Develtos for the summer. From what the guildmasters say, we’ll have enough volunteers to make the place a going concern again by fall.”

“The guilds are the best way to get the people you’ll need,” Mavros agreed. Labor in Videssos the city was as minutely regulated as everything else; the guildmasters reported to the eparch of the city, as if they were government functionaries themselves. Mavros pursed his lips, then went on. “Stonecutters, aye; they’ll need more than a few of those, considering what happened to Develtos’ wall.”

“Yes,” Krispos said somberly. The reports from survivors of the attack and later witnesses told how one whole side of the fortifications had been blasted down, most likely by magic. Afterward Harvas’ northern mercenaries swarmed into the stunned town and began their massacre. “Till now, I thought battle magic was supposed to be a waste of time, that it didn’t work well with folk all keyed up to fight.”

“I thought the same thing,” Mavros said. “I talked with your friend Trokoundos and a couple of other mages. From what they say, the spell that knocked over the wall wasn’t battle magic, strictly speaking. Harvas or whoever did it must have spirited his soldiers past the frontier and got them to Develtos with no one the wiser. That made the sorcery a lot easier, because the garrison wasn’t expecting attack and didn’t get into that excited state until the stones came crashing down onto them.”

“Which was too late,” Krispos said. Mavros nodded. Krispos added, “The next question is, how did Harvas get his army over the border like that?”

Mavros had no answer. Neither did anyone else. Krispos knew Trokoundos had interrogated Agapetos with the same double mirror arrangement he’d used on Gnatios. Even sorcerously prodded, the general had no idea how Harvas’ men eluded his. Maybe magic had played a part there, too, but nobody could be sure.

Krispos said, “By the good god, I hope Harvas and his murderers can’t spring out of nowhere in front of Videssos the city and smash through the walls here.” The imperial capital’s walls were far stronger than those of a provincial town like Develtos, so much so that no foreign foe had ever taken the city. Nor had any Videssians, save by treachery. Harvas Black-Robe, though, was looking like a foe of an uncommon sort.

“Now we’ll have wizards ever on the alert here,” Mavros said. “Taking us by surprise won’t be as easy as it was in Develtos. And surprise, the mages say, was the main reason he succeeded there.”

“Yes, yes.” Krispos still fretted. Maybe that was because he was so new on the throne, he thought; with more experience, he might have a better sense of just how dangerous Harvas truly was. All the same, like any sensible man, he preferred to be ready for a threat that wasn’t there than to ignore one that was. He said, “I wish Petronas wouldn’t have picked now to rebel. If he gave up, I’d be happy to let him keep his head. Harvas worries me more.”

“Even after you’re buying Harvas off?”

“Especially after I’m buying Harvas off.” Krispos plucked at his thick, curly beard, then snapped his fingers in sudden decision. “I’ll even tell Petronas as much, in writing. If he and Gnatios will come back to the monastery, I won’t take any measures against them.” He raised his voice to call for a secretary.

Before the scribe arrived, Mavros asked, “And if he says no?”

“Then he says no. How am I worse off?”

Mavros considered, then judiciously pursed his lips. “Put that way, I don’t suppose you are.”

When the secretary came in, he set down his tablet and stylus so he could prostrate himself before Krispos. Krispos waited impatiently till the man had got to his feet and taken up his writing tools once more. He had given up on telling underlings not to bother with the proskynesis. All it did was make them uneasy. He was the Avtokrator, and the proskynesis was the way they were accustomed to showing the Avtokrator their respect.

After he was done dictating, Krispos said, “Let me hear that once more, please.” The secretary read him his words. He glanced over at Mavros. The Sevastor nodded. Krispos said, “Good enough. Give me a fair copy of that, on parchment. I’ll want it today.” The scribe bowed and hurried away.

Krispos rose, stretched. “All that talking has made me thirsty. What do you say to a cup of wine?”

“I generally say yes, and any excuse will do nicely,” Mavros answered, grinning. “Are you telling me your poor voice is too worn and threadbare to call Barsymes? I’ll do it for you, then.”

“No, wait,” Krispos said. “Let’s scandalize him and get it ourselves.” He knew it was a tiny rebellion against the stifling ceremony that hedged him round, but even a tiny rebellion was better than none.

Mavros rolled his eyes. “The foundations of the state may crumble.” Not least because he had trouble taking things seriously himself, he sympathized with his foster brother’s efforts to keep some of his humanity intact.

Chuckling like a couple of small boys sneaking out to play at night, Avtokrator and the Sevastos tiptoed down the hall toward the larder. They even stopped chuckling as they sneaked past the chamber where Barsymes was directing a cleaning crew. The vestiarios’ back was to them; he did not notice them go by. The cleaners needed his direction, for thick dust lay over the furnishings inside the chamber and the red-glazed tile that covered its floor and walls. The Red Room was only used—indeed, was only opened—when the Empress was with child. The baby—Krispos’ heir, if it was a boy—would be born there.

I wonder if it’s mine,
he thought for the thousandth time. For the thousandth time, he told himself it did not matter—and tried to make himself believe it.

The wine, successfully gained and successfully drunk, helped him shove the unanswerable question to the back of his mind once more. He picked up the jar. “Another cup?” he asked Mavros.

“Thank you. That would be lovely.”

Barsymes stalked into the larder while Krispos was still pouring. The eunuch’s long smooth disapproving face got longer and more disapproving. “Your Majesty, you have servants precisely for the purpose of serving you.”

Had he sounded angry, Krispos would have gotten angry in return. But he only sounded sad. Absurdly, Krispos felt guilty. Then he
was
angry, angry at his own feeling of guilt. “You’d like to wipe my arse for me, too, wouldn’t you?” he snarled.

The vestiarios said nothing, did not even change his expression. Krispos felt his own face go hot with shame. Barsymes and the other chamberlains
had
wiped his arse for him, and tended all his other needs, no matter how ignoble, a couple of summers before when he lay paralyzed from Petronas’ wizardry. He hung his head. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“Many men would not have remembered,” Barsymes said evenly. “I see you do. Can we bargain, Your Majesty? If your need to be free of us grows so pressing from time to time, will you tolerate us more readily the rest of the time on account of these occasional escapes?”

“I think so,” Krispos said.

“Then I will essay not to be aggrieved when I see you occasionally serving yourself, and I hope you will remain sanguine when I and the rest of your servants perform our office.” Bowing, Barsymes withdrew.

Once the vestiarios was gone, Mavros said, “Who rules here, you or him?”

“I notice you lowered your voice before you asked me that,” Krispos said, laughing. “Is it for fear he’ll hear?”

Mavros laughed, too, but soon sobered. “There have been vestiarioi who controlled affairs far beyond the palaces—Skombros, for one.”

“Me for another,” Krispos reminded him. “I haven’t seen any of that from Barsymes, the lord with the great and good mind be praised. As long as he runs the palace, he’s content to let me have the rest of the Empire.”

“Generous of him.” Mavros emptied his cup and picked up the jar of wine. “I’m going to pour myself another. Can I do the same for you? That way he’ll have nothing with which to be offended.”

Krispos held out his own cup. “Go right ahead.”

T
HE IMPERIAL COURIER SAT GRATEFULLY IN FRONT OF A ROARING
fire. Outside, mixed sleet and rain poured down. Krispos knew that meant spring was getting closer. Given a choice between snow and this horrible stuff, he would have preferred snow. Instead, he would get weeks of slush and glare ice and mud.

The courier undid his waterproof message pouch and handed Krispos a rolled parchment. “Here you are, Your Majesty.”

Even had the fellow’s face not warned Krispos that Petronas was not about to come back to his monastery, the parchment would have done the job by itself. It was bound with a scarlet ribbon and sealed with scarlet wax, into which had been pressed a sunburst signet. It was not
the
imperial seal—Krispos wore that on the middle finger of his right hand—but it was an imperial seal.

“He says no, does he?” Krispos asked.

The courier set down the goblet of hot wine laced with cinnamon from which he’d been drinking. “Aye, Majesty, that much I can tell you. I haven’t seen the actual message, though.”

“Let’s see how he says no, then.” Krispos cracked the sealing wax, slid the ribbon off the parchment, and unrolled it. He recognized Petronas’ firm, bold script at once—his rival had responded to him in person.

The response sounded like Petronas, too, Petronas in an overbearing mood: “‘Avtokrator of the Videssians Petronas, son of Agarenos Avtokrator, brother of Rhaptes Avtokrator, uncle to Anthimos Avtokrator, crowned without duress by the true most holy ecumenical patriarch of the Videssians Gnatios, to the baseborn rebel, tyrant, and usurper Krispos: Greetings.’”

Krispos found reading easier if he did it aloud in a low voice. He didn’t realize the courier was listening until the man remarked, “I guess he wouldn’t say you aye after a start like that, would he?”

“Doesn’t seem likely.” Krispos read on: “‘I know that advice is a good and goodly thing: I have, after all, read the books of the learned ancients and Phos’ holy scriptures. But at the same time, I reckon that this condition obtains when matters may be remedied. But when the times themselves are dangerous and drive one into the worst and most terrible circumstances, then, I think, advice is no longer so useful. This is most true of advice from you, impious and murderous wretch, for not only did you conspire to confine me unjustly in a monastery, but you also pitilessly slew my nephew the Avtokrator.’

“That, by the way, is not so,” Krispos put in for the courier’s benefit. He resumed. “‘So, accursed enemy, do not urge me to deliver my life into your hands once more. You will not persuade me. I, too, am a man with a sword at my belt, and I will struggle against one who has sought to lay my family low. For either I shall regain the imperial glory and furnish you, murderer, a full requital, or I shall perish and gain freedom from a disgusting and unholy tyranny.’”

The courier’s eyes were wide by the time Krispos rolled up the parchment once more. “That’s the fanciest, nastiest ‘no’ I ever heard, Your Majesty.”

“Me, too.” Krispos shook his head. “I didn’t really think he’d say yes. A pity you and your comrades got drenched carrying the letters there and back again, but it was worth a try.”

“Oh, aye, Majesty,” the courier said, “I’ve done my soldiering time, fighting against Makuran on the Vaspurakaner frontier. Anything you can try to keep from having a war is worth doing.”

“Yes.” But Krispos had begun to wonder just how true that was. He’d certainly believed it back in his days at the farming village. Now, though, he was sure he would have to fight Petronas. Just as Petronas could not trust him, he knew a victory by his former patron would only bring him to a quick end, or more likely a slow one.

And he would have to fight a war against Harvas Black-Robe. Though he paid Harvas tribute for the moment, that was only buying time, not solving the problem. If he let a wild wolf like Harvas run loose on his border, more peasants who wanted nothing but peace would be slaughtered or ruined than if he fought to keep them safe. He also knew the ones who were ruined and the loved ones of those slaughtered in his war would never understand that. He wouldn’t have himself, back in the days before he wore a crown.

“That’s why the Empire needs an Emperor,” he said to himself: “to see farther and wider than the peasants can.”

“Aye, Majesty. Phos grant that you do,” the courier said. Krispos sketched the sun-circle over his heart, hoping the good god would hear the fellow’s words.

T
HE RAINS DRAGGED ON. IN SPITE OF THEM, KRISPOS SENT OUT
couriers ordering his forces to assemble at Videssos the city and in the westlands. Spies reported that Petronas was also mustering troops. Krispos was glumly certain Petronas had spies of his own. He did his best to confuse them, shuttling companies back and forth and using regimental standards for companies and the other way round.