Krispos the Emperor k-3

by Harry Turtledove

  "Even if what?" she asked.

  "Even if Anthimos was four years dead before Katakolon was born," Phostis finished, more smoothly than he would have thought possible.

  "Oh." Olyvria sounded disappointed, which meant his answer had convinced her. He nodded to himself. Krispos would have approved. And he'd lived through a completely unexpected attack. He approved of that himself.

  Krispos studied the gloomy stone pile of Etchmiadzin. It had been built to hold off men at arms, but the ones its designers had in mind came from Makuran. The stone, however, knew nothing of that. It would—and did—defy Videssians as readily as any others.

  The fanatics on those grim stone walls still screamed defiance at the imperial army below. Most of the territory the Thanasioi had once held was back in Krispos' hands again. Dozens of villages were empty; he'd given the orders to send streams of orthodox peasants on the way to replace those uprooted from the area. Pityos and its hinterland had fallen to Noetos' cavalry, advancing west along the coast from Nakoleia.

  But if Etchmiadzin held until the advancing season made Krispos withdraw, much of what he'd accomplished was likely to unravel. The Thanasioi would still have a base from which to grow once more. He'd already seen the consequences of their growth. He didn't care for them.

  Storming the fortress, though, was easier to talk about than to do. Videssian engineers had labored mightily to make it as near impregnable as they could. So far as Krispos knew, it had never fallen to the Makuraners, despite several sieges. It didn't look likely to fall to his army, either.

  "If they won't fall, maybe I can trip them," Krispos muttered.

  "How's that, your Majesty?"

  Krispos jumped. There beside him stood Sarkis. "I'm sorry—I didn't notice you'd come up. I was trying to work out some way to inveigle the cursed Thanasioi into coming out of Etchmiadzin without storming the place."

  "Good luck to you," Sarkis said skeptically. "Hard enough to trick a foe in the confusion of the battlefield. Why should the heretics come out from their citadel for anything you do short of leaving? Even if they stand and fight and die, they think they go up their gleaming path to heaven. Next to that, any promise you can make is a small loaf."

  "Aye, they're solidly against me, stiff-necked as they are." Krispos' voice was gloomy—but only for a moment. He turned to Sarkis. "They're solidly against me—for now. But tell me, eminent sir, what do you have if you put three Videssians together and tell them to talk about their faith for a day?"

  "Six heresies," Sarkis answered at once. "Each one's view of his two comrades. Also a big brawl, probably a knifing or two, a couple of slit purses. Begging your pardon. Majesty, but that's how it looks to a poor stolid prince from Vaspurakan, anyhow."

  "That's how it looks to me, too," Krispos said, smiling, "even if I have only a touch of princes' blood in me. I think like a Videssian, no matter whose blood I have, and I know full well that if you give Videssians a chance to argue about religion, they're sure to take it."

  "I don't hold your breeding against you, your Majesty," Sarkis said generously, "but how do you propose to get the Thanasioi squabbling among themselves when to them you're the impious heretic they've all joined together to fight?"

  "It's not even my idea," Krispos said. "Phostis thought of it and gave it to Evripos."

  "To Evripos?" Sarkis scratched his head. "But he's back in Videssos the city. How could anything there have to do with the Thanasioi here? Did Evripos write you a letter and—" The cavalry commander stopped. His black, black eyes sparkled. Just for a moment, through the sheath of heavy flesh, Krispos saw the eager young scout with whom he'd ridden like a madman back to the imperial capital in the days when his reign was new. He said, "Wait a minute. You're not going to—"

  "Oh, yes, I am," Krispos said. "Right out there where they can all watch from the walls. If it wouldn't brew more scandal than it was worth, I'd have them consummate it out there, too, not that it hasn't been consummated already."

  "You're a demon, you are—but then, you used to revel with Anthimos. now that I think of it." Sarkis let out a theatrical sigh. "Too bad you couldn't get by with that. She's a fine-looking young woman. I wouldn't mind watching that marriage consummated, not one bit I wouldn't."

  "Shameless old stallion." Krispos lowered his voice. "I wouldn't, either." They both laughed.

  * * *

  For a day, the imperial army besieging Etchmiadzin had sent no darts, no arrows, no stones against those frowning gray walls. Instead, heralds bearing white-painted shields of truce had approached the walls, bidding the Thanasioi also desist from battle "so that you may join us in observing a celebration at noon."

  The choice of words must have intrigued the heretics; they had gone along with the heralds' suggestion, at least thus far. Phostis wondered how long they would remain calm when they observed what was about to happen. Not long, he thought.

  He'd suggested to Evripos that he marry Olyvria to help calm the rampaging Thanasioi of the city. Trust Krispos to take his suggestion and turn it into a weapon of war against the belligerent heretics here at Etchmiadzin.

  "Noon" was an approximation; the only sundial in the imperial army was a little brass one that belonged to Zaidas. But men accustomed to gauging the apex of the sun's path when they were working in the fields had no trouble doing the same while on campaign. Imperial soldiers gathered to protect the wooden platform that had been built safely out of bowshot of Etchmiadzin's walls. On those walls, the Thanasioi also gathered.

  A herald with a shield of truce strode from the imperial lines toward the rebel-held fortress. In a huge bass voice, he called to the Thanasioi: "His imperial Majesty the Avtokrator Krispos bids you welcome to the marriage of his son Phostis to the lady Olyvria, daughter of the late Livanios."

  Phostis wished the herald had omitted the late; the words would hurt Olyvria. But at the same time, he understood why Krispos had told the man to include them: they would remind Etchmiadzin's defenders of the defeats their cause had already suffered.

  The Thanasioi rained curses on the herald's head. A couple of them shot at him, too. He lifted the shield of truce to protect his face; he wore a helmet and a mail shirt that covered him down to the knee.

  When the arrows stopped coming, the man lowered the white-faced shield and resumed: "The Avtokrator bids you ponder the import of this wedding: not only what it says about your fortune in battle, but how it reminds you of the joy that life holds and the way it continues—and should continue— from one generation to the next."

  More curses—and more arrows—flew at him. Having delivered his message, he needed to stand up under them no more, but hastily drew back out of range.

  The wedding party ascended to the makeshift stage. It was not a large group, certainly not the horde that would have been involved had the marriage taken place at the High Temple in Videssos the city. Ahead of Phostis and Olyvria came a healer-priest named Glavas, who would perform the ceremony. Behind them walked Krispos, Katakolon, and Zaidas. That was all.

  Even Zaidas' presence was not directly required by the ceremony, though Phostis was glad to have him close by. But the wizard was there mainly because he owned a small magic that would let the voices of the people on the platform carry farther than they would have without it: Krispos wanted the Thanasioi to listen to all that passed here.

  The priest said, "Let us praise the lord with the great and good mind." He recited Phos' creed. So did Phostis and Olyvria; so as well did Krispos, Katakolon, and Zaidas. Phostis also heard the watching soldiers echo the prayer they made several times every day of their lives.

  "We are come together in this unusual place to celebrate an unusual union," Glavas said. "After the boon of many healthful years, the greatest gift the good god can grant his worshipers is continuance of their line. A marriage is a time of rejoicing not least because it marks hope and expectation for that continuance.

  "When the marriage comes from the imperial family, more hopes ride on it th
an those of the family alone. Continuance of the dynasty, generation upon generation, is our best guarantee against the disaster of civil war."

  Phostis noticed he did not mention that Krispos was the first member of his family to hold the imperial throne, or indeed anything more than a peasant plot. The priest went on, "And with this marriage, we also have the chance to heal a rift that has opened among the faithful of Videssos, to symbolize the return to their familiar faith by those who for a time thought differently in the union of the young majesty Phostis to Olyvria the daughter of Livanios."

  That, Phostis thought, was as conciliatory toward the Thanasioi as Krispos could be without following the gleaming path himself. He hadn't even had Glavas call them heretics. He wanted to make them forget their beliefs, not stubbornly cling to them.

  The priest went on for some time about the qualities bride and groom should bring to a marriage to ensure its success. Phostis' mind wandered. He was taken unawares when Glavas asked, "Are the two of you prepared to cleave to these virtues, and to each other, so long as you both may live?"

  From behind, Krispos nudged Phostis. He realized he had to speak first. "Yes," he said, and was glad Zaidas' magic made his voice larger than it was.

  "Yes, for all my life—this is the path I will walk," Olyvria responded firmly.

  Krispos and Katakolon set on her head and Phostis' garlands of sweet-smelling herbs—the crown of marriage that completed the ceremony. The priest stepped down from the platform. As quickly as that, it was over. "I'm married," Phostis said. Even to himself, he sounded surprised.

  The Thanasioi on the wall screamed insults and catcalls for all they were worth. Ignoring them, Krispos slapped Phostis on the back and said, "So you are, son—and to a wise woman, too." He turned to Olyvria and added, "That last touch was perfect. Phos willing, they'll do a lot of stewing over it."

  Katakolon poked Phostis in the ribs. "Now you're supposed to grab her and carry her off to your—well, to your tent it would be here."

  Phostis had a well-founded suspicion that Olyvria would not permit any such thing. He glanced over to her. Sure enough, a steely glint in her eye warned him he'd better not try it.

  "I've heard ideas that sounded more practical," Krispos said; the amusement in his voice said he'd seen that glint, too. "But do go on back to your tent. You would anyhow—that's what the day is for—but you should do it now, while you're still decked in the crowns of marriage."

  That tickled Phostis' curiosity. He extended his arm to Olyvria. She took it. As they headed away from the hastily built platform, some of the soldiers cheered and others called lewd advice. Phostis smiled foolishly at Olyvria. She smiled back. Lewd advice from the bystanders came with every wedding celebration.

  A grinning Haloga held the tent flap wide, then let it fall behind the newly weds. "We'll not see you for a while, I think," he said.

  "Will you look at that?" Olyvria exclaimed.

  Phostis looked. At the top corners of their unfolded blankets, someone—maybe Krispos himself, maybe a man acting at his orders—had driven stout sticks into the ground to stimulate bedposts. "It's good luck to hang the crowns on them," Phostis said. He doffed his and carefully set it on top of one post.

  Olyvria did the same on the other side. "It starts to feel real," she said.

  "It is real." Phostis lowered his voice so the guardsmen outside would not hear—not that they wouldn't know perfectly well what was going on in there, but the forms had to be observed. "As long as it's real, and as long as we're here by ourselves and no battle's going on right this moment—"

  "Yes? What then?" Olyvria played the game with him. She spoke quietly, too; her hands worked at the catch of the white linen dress Krispos had given her for the wedding. It came open. "What then?" she repeated softly.

  Between the two of them, they figured out what then. Because Phostis was still quite a young man, they got to try again soon, and again after that. Phostis had lost track of the hour by then, though the sun still lit one side of the tent. He yawned, wiped his sweaty forehead with a sweaty forearm, and dozed off. Beside him, Olyvria had already fallen asleep.

  It was dark when a horrible racket woke him. He sat up and looked around, blinking. Olyvria lay beside him, still sleeping—snoring just a little—a small smile on her face. Carefully, so as not to disturb her, he put on a robe and walked outside. A new shift of Halogai ringed his tent. "What's toward?" he asked one of them.

  The northerner pointed toward Etchmiadzin. The ruddy light of campfires and torches gave him the look of a man made of bronze. "Fighting in there," he said.

  "By Phos," Phostis murmured, smacking a fist into the other palm. He looked over toward the imperial pavilion not far away. Krispos was outside, too, watching. Phostis felt a surge of relief that he'd not thrown in his lot with the Thanasioi. One way or another, he was more sure now than ever, Krispos would have found a way to beat them no matter what they did.

  Inside Etchmiadzin, they sounded as if they were going at each other with everything they had. They probably were, Phostis thought. The men and women who followed the gleaming path were fanatics—whatever views they held, they held with all their hearts and all their souls. If Krispos had managed to drive a wedge between two groups of them over the propriety of Olyvria's marriage, they'd fight each other as savagely as—maybe more savagely than—they'd opposed the imperial army.

  The Haloga pointed again. "Ha! Look, young Majesty— smoke. With blazing brand they burn their burg."

  Sure enough, a thick column of smoke rose from inside the walls, orange-tinted gray against the black of the night sky. Phostis tried to figure out where in the town the fire had flared. His best guess was that it wasn't far from the Vaspurakaner cobbler's shop where he and Olyvria had first made love.

  Another plume of smoke sprang up, and a few minutes later yet another. A tongue of yellow fire, perhaps from a burning roof, leapt into sight above the walls like a live thing, then sullenly fell back.

  Before long, more and more flames sprang into view, and not all of them died down again. Fire was a terror in any city; it could so easily race ahead of anything men were able to do to hold it back. Fire in a city at war with itself was a horror to rank with the ice in Skotos' hell: how could you hope to fight it when your hand was turned against your neighbor, your friend—and his against you?

  The answer was, you couldn't. The fires in Etchmiadzin burned on and on. The air of the imperial camp grew thick with the stink of smoke and, now and again, of burned flesh. Screams rent the air, some of terror, some of agony, but most of hate. In the burning streets, the battle among the Thanasioi went on.

  After a while, Olyvria came out of the tent to stand beside Phostis. She slipped her hand into his without saying anything. Silently, they watched Etchmiadzin burn. Olyvria wiped at her eyes. The smoke made Phostis' sting, too. For the sake of his own peace of mind, he assumed that smoke was why she dabbed at hers.

  He yawned and said, "I'm going back inside the tent. Maybe the air will be fresher in there."

  Olyvria followed him in, still without speaking. Only when they were away from the guards did she say in a low voice, "There is the dowry I bring to you and your father— Etchmiadzin."

  "You knew that," he answered. "You must have known it, or you'd not have answered the priest as you did."

  "I suppose I did know, in a way. But knowing in advance what a thing is and seeing what it looks like when it comes to pass are not the same. Tonight I'm finding out how different they can be." She shook her head.

  Had Krispos been in the tent, Phostis suspected he would have said that was one of the lessons of growing up. Phostis couldn't put a middle-aged rasp in his voice to make that sound convincing. He asked, "If you'd known, would you have done differently?"

  Olyvria stayed quiet so long, he wondered if she'd heard. At last she said, "No, I suppose I would have left things as they were, but I'd have thought about them more beforehand."

  "That's fair," Phos
tis agreed. He yawned again. "Shall we try to get some more sleep? I don't think they're going to sally against us; they're too busy warring with each other."

  "I suppose so." Olyvria lay down and closed her eyes. Phostis lay down beside her. To his surprise, he dropped off almost at once.

  Olyvria must have fallen asleep, too, for she jerked up at the same time as he when a great cheer roared through the encampment. He needed a moment to realize what time it was— sunshine against the east side of the tent meant dawn had broken.

  As he had the night before, he poked out his head and asked a Haloga what was going on. The northerner answered, "Those in there, they have yielded themselves. The gates are thrown wide."

  "Then the war is over," Phostis blurted. When he realized what he'd said, he repeated it: "The war is over." He wanted to say it again and again; he couldn't imagine four more wonderful words.

  XIII

  a line of men and women and children trudging wearily down a dirt track, carrying such belongings as they could, the cows and goats and donkeys with them as thin and worn as they were. The only difference Krispos could see between them and the uprooted Thanasioi was the direction of their journey: they were moving west, not east.

  No, there was another: they'd not rebelled to give him a reason to remove them from their old homes. But the land from which war and policy had removed the Thanasioi could not stay empty. That was asking for trouble. And so peasants who lived in a relatively crowded—and safely loyal—stretch of territory between Develtos and Opsikion east of Videssos the city were taking the place of the Thanasioi whether they liked the idea or not.

  Phostis rode up alongside Krispos and pointed to the villagers on the way to resettlement. "Is that justice?" he asked.

  "I just put the same question to myself," Krispos answered. "I don't think the answer is clear or easy. If you asked any one of them now, no doubt they'd curse me to the skies. But after two years, who can say? I've granted them tax exemptions for that long, and put them on half rates for three years more. I'm not moving them just to fill space—I want them to thrive."