Krispos of Videssos

by Harry Turtledove

  Krispos bit his lip. He'd come to witness the execution because he thought he owed Gnatios that much. But did he owe him mercy—again? He shook his head. "May Phos judge you more kindly than I must, Gnatios, in the name of the service you gave me in the matter of Petronas, and in the matter of Rhisoulphos. Who would be next?" He turned to the guardsmen. "Take him to the stump."

  They dragged Gnatios the last few feet, not kindly but not cruelly either, just going about their business. One told him, "Hold still and it will be over soonest."

  "Aye, he's right," the headsman said. "You'd not want to twist and maybe make me have to strike twice."

  Still not roughly, the guards forced Gnatios' head down to the stump. His eyes were wide and bright and staring, with white all around the iris. He sucked in great noisy gulps of air; his chest rose and fell against the thin fabric of his robe in an extremity of fear. "Please," he mouthed over and over again. "Oh, please."

  The headsman stepped up beside the oak stump. He swung the two-handed sword over his head. Gnatios screamed. The sword came down. The scream cut off abruptly as the heavy blade bit through flesh and bone. Gnatios' head rolled away, cleanly severed at the first stroke. Krispos was appalled to see its eyes blink twice as it fell from the stump.

  Every muscle in Gnatios' body convulsed at the instant of beheading. It jerked free of the Halogai. Blood fountained from the stump of his neck as his heart gave a couple of last beats before it realized he was dead. His bowels and bladder emptied, befouling his robe and adding their stenches to the hot iron smell of blood.

  Krispos turned away, more than a little sickened. He'd read of bloodthirsty tyrants who liked nothing better than seeing the heads of their enemies—real or imagined—roll. All he wondered was whether the chunk of bread he'd had on the way over would stay down. Watching a helpless man die was worse than anything the battlefield had shown him. How Harvas could have struck down a whole city grew only more mysterious, and more dreadful.

  Krispos turned to the headsman, who stood proudly, expecting praise, conscious of a job well done. "He didn't suffer," Krispos said—the best he could do. The headsman beamed, so it must have been enough. Krispos went on, "Take the head—" He would not look at it. "—to the Milestone. I'm going back to the imperial residence."

  "As you say, your Majesty." The headsman bowed. "Your presence here honored me this morning."

  Not long after Krispos returned to the residence, Barsymes asked him what he wanted for lunch. "Nothing, thanks," he said. The vestiarios did not change expression, but still conveyed that his answer was not an acceptable response. Krispos felt he had to explain. "You needn't fear I'll make a bloodthirsty tyrant, esteemed sir. I find I don't have the stomach for it."

  "Ah." Now Barsymes' voice showed he understood. "Will you return to the army later today, then?"

  "I have a couple of things to do before I go. Do I remember rightly that Pyrrhos, while he was patriarch, condemned the hierarch Savianos for some tiny lapse or other?"

  "Yes, your Majesty, that's so." Barsymes' eyes narrowed. "Am I to infer, then, that you will name Savianos ecumenical patriarch rather than restoring Pyrrhos to his old throne?"

  "That's just what I intend to do, if he wants the job. I've had a bellyful of quarrelsome clerics. Will you arrange to have Savianos brought here as quickly as you can?"

  "I shall have to find out in which monastery he's been confined, but yes, I will deal with that at once."

  Toward evening that day Savianos prostrated himself before Krispos. "How may I serve your Majesty?" he asked as he rose. His face was craggy and intelligent; beyond that, Krispos had learned better than to guess character from features.

  He came straight to the point: "Gnatios' head went up on the Milestone this morning. I want you to succeed him as ecumenical patriarch."

  Savianos' shaggy gray eyebrows leaped like startled gray caterpillars. "Me, your Majesty? Why me? For one thing, I'm more nearly of Gnatios' theological bent than Pyrrhos', and I even spoke against Pyrrhos when you named him patriarch. For another, why would I want the patriarchal throne if you just killed the man who was on it? I have no interest in making the headsman's acquaintance just because I somehow offended you."

  "Gnatios didn't meet the headsman for offending me. He met him for plotting against me. If you plan on meddling in politics after you put on the blue boots, you'd best stay where you are."

  "If I'd wanted to meddle in politics, I'd have become a bureaucrat, not a priest," Savianos said.

  "Good enough. As for the other, I remember your speaking up for Gnatios. That took courage. It's one of the reasons I want you to be patriarch. And my own beliefs aren't as, as—" Krispos groped for a word. "—rigid as Pyrrhos'. I didn't object to Gnatios' doctrines, only to his treason. So, holy sir, shall submit your name to the synod?"

  "You really mean it," Savianos said in a wondering tone. He studied Krispos, giving him a more thorough and critical scrutiny than he was used to getting since he'd become Avtokrator. At last, with a nod, the priest said, "No, you're not one to butcher for the sport of it, are you?"

  "No," Krispos answered at once, queasily remembering how Gnatios' head had blinked as it bounced from the stump onto the grass.

  "No," Savianos agreed. "All right, your Majesty, if you want to give it to me, I'll take it on. Shall we aim to work without biting each other's tails?"

  "By the good god, that's just what we need to do." Krispos felt like cheering. He'd said that to Pyrrhos and Gnatios both, time and again; each in his own way had chosen to ignore it. Now an ecclesiastic was saying it for himself! "Holy sir—most holy sir to be—I already feel I've picked the right man."

  Saviano's chuckle had a wry edge to it. "Don't praise the horse till you've ridden him. If you tell me as much three years from now, we'll both have reason to be pleased."

  "I'm pleased right now. Let me come up with a couple of truly ghastly names to go along with the rules of the synod and I'll be able to get back to the army knowing the temples are in good hands."

  After Savianos left the imperial residence, Krispos summoned the grand drungarios of the fleet, a solidly built veteran sailor named Kanaris. That meeting was much shorter than the one with Savianos. But men, unlike Savianos, Kanaris did not need to be persuaded—when he heard what Krispos wanted, he rushed away as fast as he could go, all eager to start at once.

  Krispos wished he could look forward to the ride back to the army with equal anticipation.

  The ride north was as fast as the ride south had been, but even harder to endure. Krispos had hoped he would be inured to the endless rolling, jouncing hours in the saddle, but it was not so. By the time he returned to camp, his best walk was a spraddle-legged shamble. Sarkis and the squad of scouts were in hardly better shape. The worst of it was, Krispos knew more long days of riding lay ahead.

  The soldiers cheered as he rode up to the imperial tent. He waved back to them and put all the exuberance he had left into that wave. They would have been less flattered to know why he was so pleased, but he kept that to himself. He'd most dreaded coming upon their broken remnants as he hurried north.

  "Things have been quiet while you were gone," Mammianos reported that evening, when Krispos met with his officers. "A few skirmishes here, a few there, but nothing major. Oh, the wizards have had a bit to do, too, so they have."

  Krispos glanced at Trokoundos. "Aye, a bit to do," the mage said. Krispos concealed a start at the sound of his voice—he sounded more than tired, he sounded old. Battling Harvas had taken its toll on him. But he continued with sober pride, "Everything the Skotos-lover has hurled at us, we have withstood. I'll not deny he's cost us a handful of men, but only a handful. Without us, the army would be in ruins."

  "I believe you, magical sir," Krispos said. "All Videssos owes you and your fellows a great debt of thanks. With everything safe here, I can give you my own news from the capital." Everyone leaned toward him. "First, Gnatios is patriarch no more. He plotted against me once t
oo often, and I took his head."

  Only nods greeted that announcement, not exclamations of surprise. Krispos nodded, too. Trokoundos and Mammianos had both known why he'd returned to the city in such a hurry, and he hadn't ordered either one of them to keep quiet about it. For that matter, he often thought ordering a Videssian to keep quiet about anything was a waste of breath.

  He went on, "Next, I bring word of the eminent Rhisoulphos. He turns out to have given up the soldier's life for that of a monk, and is spending his days in Phos' service at a monastery in Prista."

  That produced all the reaction he could have wanted.

  "Prista?" Bagradas burst out. "By the good god, what's he doing in Prista? How'd he get there?" Several other officers loudly wondered the same thing. Krispos did not answer. One by one the soldiers and mages noticed he was not answering. They started to use their brains instead of their mouths. No Videssian of reasonable rank ignored politics; ignoring politics was unsafe. Before long they reached the proper conclusion. "I'm to keep my regiment, then?" Bagradas asked.

  "I'd say it's very likely," Krispos agreed with a straight face.

  "A nice bit of work, that, your Majesty," Mammianos said. Almost everyone echoed him. Nobles and courtiers had an artist's appreciation for underhandedness brought off with panache.

  "I did one more brief bit of business while I was in the capital," Krispos said. "I ordered Kanaris to send a fleet of dromons up the Astris River. If the Halogai want to cross into Kubrat to fight for Harvas, why should we let them have an easy time of it?"

  Fierce growls of approval rose from the officers. "Aye, let's see 'em take on our dromons with the canoes they hollow out of logs," Mammianos said.

  "All this may hurt Harvas indirectly, but how do we do more than that?" Sarkis asked. "We can't go through him; we tried that last summer." He pointed to a map that a couple of stones held down and unrolled on Krispos' portable desk. "The next pass north into Kubrat is easily eighty miles east of here. That's too far to coordinate with a flying column, and if we set the whole army moving, what's to keep Harvas from shifting, too, on his side of the mountains?"

  "We could double back—" Mammianos began. Then he shook his head. "No, it's too complicated, too likely to go wrong. Besides, if we march away from here, what's to keep Harvas from just jumping right back down into Videssos?"

  "There is a pass closer than eighty miles from here," Krispos said.

  Wizards and officers crowded close around the portable desk, peered down. Sarkis pointed out the obvious. "It's not on the map, your Majesty."

  "I know it's not," Krispos said. "I've been through it all the same, when I was maybe six years old and the Kubratoi herded my whole village up into their country. The outlet at the southern end is hard to find; a forest and a spur of hillside hide it away unless you come at it from the right angle. The pass is narrow and winding; a squad of troops could hold back an army inside it. But if you gentlemen don't know of it, the odds are decent that Harvas doesn't, either."

  "The Kubratoi won't have told him, that's certain," Mammianos said. Everybody nodded at that; by all accounts, Harvas and his Halogai had been no gentler in Kubrat than they were in the Empire of Videssos.

  Sarkis said, "I mean no offense, your Majesty, but even if all is as you say, you have not been six years old for some time. How can you lead us to this hidden pass now?"

  Krispos looked to Trokoundos. "The good god willing, between them the talented mages here should be able to pull the way from my mind. I traveled it, after all."

  "The memory is there," Trokoundos affirmed. "As for bringing it into the open once more ... We can try, your Majesty. I would not presume to say more than that."

  "Then tomorrow you will try," Krispos said. "I'd say tonight, but I'm so tired right now that I don't think I have any mind left to look into." The officers chuckled, all but Sarkis, who had ridden with Krispos. Sarkis was too busy yawning.

  Trokoundos ceremoniously handed Krispos a cup. "Drink this, if you please, your Majesty."

  Before he drank, Krispos held the cup under his nose. Beneath the sweet, fruity odor of red wine, he caught others smells, more pungent and musty. "What's in it?" he asked, half curious, half suspicious.

  "It's a decoction to help loosen your wits from the here-and-now," the mage answered. "There are roasted henbane seeds in it, ground hemp leaves and seeds, a distillate from the poppy, and several other things as well. You'll likely feel rather drunk all through the day; past that, the brew is harmless."

  "Let's be about it." With an abrupt motion, Krispos knocked back the cup. His lips twisted; it tasted nastier than it smelled.

  Trokoundos eased him down into a folding chair. "Are you comfortable, your Majesty?"

  "Comfortable? Yes, I—think so." Krispos listened to himself answer, as if from far away. He felt his mind float, detach itself from his body. Despite what Trokoundos had said, it was not like being drunk. It was not like anything he had ever known. It was pleasant, though. He wondered vaguely if Anthimos had ever tried it. Probably. If anything yielded pleasure, Anthimos would have tried it. Then Anthimos, too, slid away from Krispos' mind. He smiled, content to float.

  "Majesty? Hear me, your Majesty." Trokoundos' voice echoed and reechoed inside Krispos' head. He found he could not ignore it, found he did not want to ignore it. The mage went on, "Your Majesty, cast your mind back to journeying through the passes between Videssos and Kubrat. I conjure you, remember, remember, remember."

  Obediently—he did not seem to have much will of his own— Krispos let his mind spin back through time. All at once he gasped; his distant body stiffened and began to sweat. Halogai chopped down his horsemen at the barricade. A black-robed figure gestured, and boulders sprang from the hillsides to smash his army. "Harvas!" he said harshly.

  "Farther, reach farther," Trokoundos said. "Remember, remember, remember."

  The lost battle of the summer before misted over and vanished from Krispos' thoughts. He rolled back and back and back, one gray year after another passing away. Then all at once he was in the pass again, the pass he had tried and failed to force—somehow he both knew and did not know that at the same time. A short, plump man in the robes of a Videssian noble rode by. He looked cocky and full of spit. Krispos knew his name, and knew—and did not know—much more than that. "Iakovitzes!" he exclaimed. He exclaimed again, wordlessly, for the voice that came from his lips was not his own but a boy's high treble.

  "How old are you?" Trokoundos demanded.

  He thought about it. "Nine," the boy's voice answered for him.

  "Farther, reach farther. Remember, remember, remember."

  Again he whirled through time. Now he emerged from a forest track toward what seemed at first only a spur of hillock in front of the mountains. But shouting men on ponies urged him and his companions on with curses and threats. Beyond that spur was a narrow opening. A man in a tunic of homespun wool steadied him with a hand on his shoulder. He looked up in thanks. Amazement ran through him—he thought he was looking at himself. Then the amazement doubled. "Father," he whispered in a child's voice, a younger child's voice now.

  Trokoundos broke into his—vision? "How old are you?"

  "I—think I'm six."

  "Do you see before you the pass of which your adult self spoke? See it now with adult eyes as well as those of a child. Mark well everything about it, so that you may find it once more. Can you do this and remember afterward?"

  "Yes," Krispos said. His voice was an odd blend of two, of boy's and man's, both of them his own. He did not simply look at the opening to the pass anymore, he studied it, considered the forest from which he'd emerged, contemplated the streak of pinkish stone that ran through the spur, examined the mountains and fixed their precise configuration in his mind. At last he said, "I will remember."

  Trokoundos put another cup in his hand. "Drink this, then."

  It was a hot, meaty broth, rich with the taste of fat. With every swallow, Krispos felt his mind a
nd body rejoin each other. But even when he was himself again, he remembered everything about the pass—and the feel of his father's strong hand on his shoulder, guiding him along. "Thank you," he said to Trokoundos. "You gave me a great gift. Not many men can say their father touched them long years after he was dead."

  Trokoundos bowed. "Your Majesty, I'm pleased to help in any way I can, even that one which I did not expect."

  "Any way you can," Krispos mused. He nodded, more than half to himself. "Ride with me, then, Trokoundos. If need be, you can use your magic again to help me find the pass. We'll need a sorcerer along anyhow, to keep Harvas from noticing us as we slip around his flank. If he catches us in that narrow place, we're done for."

  "I will ride with you," Trokoundos said. "Let me go back to my tent now, to gather the tools and supplies I'll need." He bowed again and walked away, rubbing his chin as he thought about just what he ought to take.

  Krispos thought about that, too, but in terms of manpower rather than sorcerous paraphernalia. Sarkis and his scouts, of course ... Krispos smiled. No matter how sore Sarkis' backside was, he couldn't complain his Emperor had ordered him to do anything Krispos wasn't also doing. But he'd need more than scouts on this mission ...

  The column rode south out of camp the next day before noon. The imperial standard still fluttered over Krispos' tent; imperial guards still tramped back and forth before it. But some dozens of horsemen concealed blond hair beneath helms and surcoat hoods. They stayed clustered around one man in nondescript gear who rode a nondescript horse—Progress was also still back at camp.

  Once well out of view of their own camp and that of the foe, the soldiers paused. Trokoundos went to work. At last he nodded to Krispos. "If Harvas tries to track us by magic, your Majesty, he will, Phos willing, perceive us as continuing southward, perhaps on our way to the imperial capital. Whereas in reality—"

  "Aye." Krispos pointed to the east. The riders swung off the north-south thoroughfare and onto one of the narrow dirt tracks that led away from it. The forest pressed close along either side of the track; the column lengthened, simply because the troopers lacked the room to ride more than four or five abreast.