The Tale of Krispos

by Harry Turtledove

  Iakovitzes’ expression was eloquent, but a second glance at the enormous Kubrati made him keep to himself whatever remarks he thought of making.

  The servant seated him and Krispos well away from the Kubratoi, only a couple of places from Petronas. Krispos hoped the arrival of food would help quiet Malomir’s envoys. It did help, but not much—it made them talk with their mouths full. Trays came and went, bearing soup, prawns, partridges, and lamb. After a while Krispos lost track of the number of courses he’d eaten. He only knew he was replete.

  When the last candied apricots were gone, Petronas rose and lifted his goblet. “To the health and long life of his Imperial Majesty the Avtokrator of the Videssians, Anthimos III!” he declared. Everyone drank the toast. Petronas stayed on his feet. “And to the efforts of that clever and accomplished diplomat, the excellent noble Iakovitzes.” Everyone drank again, this time with a spattering of polite applause.

  Flushed with pleasure at being toasted next after the Emperor, Iakovitzes stood up. “To his Imperial Highness the Sevastokrator Petronas!”

  Petronas bowed as the toast was drunk. He caught the eye of one of the Kubrati envoys. “To the long and peaceful reign of the great khagan Malomir, and to your own continued success, Gleb.”

  Gleb stood. He raised his goblet. “I drink also to the health of your Avtokrator,” he said, his Videssian slow but clear, even polished.

  “Didn’t think he had manners enough for that,” Iakovitzes said to Krispos. From the murmurs of pleasure that filled the hall, a good many other people were similarly surprised.

  Gleb did not sit down. “Since his Imperial Highness the Sevastokrator Petronas has only now deigned to notice my lord the khagan Malomir and me”—suddenly the Hall of the Nineteen Couches grew still; Krispos wondered whether Iakovitzes’ joy was worth the slight the Kubrati plainly felt—“I now propose a toast to remind him of the might of Kubrat. Thus I drink to the strength of my comrade here, the famous and ferocious Beshev, who has beaten every Videssian he has faced.”

  Gleb drank. So did the other Kubratoi. Most of the imperials in the hall kept their goblets in front of them.

  “He goes too far!” Iakovitzes did not bother to speak softly. “I know Kubratoi are conceited and boastful, but this surpasses all due measure. He—”

  Krispos made hushing motions. The famous and ferocious Beshev was climbing to his feet. As he rose, Krispos took his measure. He was surely very strong, but how much quickness did he have? By the way he moved, not a great deal. Indeed, if he was as slow as he seemed, Krispos wondered how he had won all his matches.

  Beshev held his goblet high. His Videssian was much more strongly accented than Gleb’s, but still understandable. “I drink to the spirit of the brave Stylianos, whose neck I broke in our fight, and to the spirits of the other Videssians I will slay in wrestlings yet to come.”

  He drained the goblet. With a satisfied smirk, Gleb drank, too. Petronas stared at the men from Kubrat, stony-faced. Angry shouts rang through the hall. None of them, though, Krispos noted, came from anywhere close to Beshev. Not even Iakovitzes felt like affronting the Kubrati to his face.

  Krispos turned to his master. “Let me take him on!”

  “Eh? What?” Iakovitzes frowned. As comprehension dawned, he looked to Beshev, back to Krispos, and slowly shook his head. “No, Krispos. Bravely offered, but no. That barbarian may be a muscle-bound hulk, but he knows what he’s about. I don’t care to lose you for no good purpose.” He put his hand on Krispos’ arm.

  Krispos shook it off. “You wouldn’t lose me to no good purpose,” he said, angry now at Iakovitzes as well as the arrogant Kubrati. “And I know what I’m about, too. If you doubt it, remember how I handled Barses and Meletios a year and a half ago. I learned wrestling back in my village, from a veteran of the imperial army.”

  Iakovitzes looked at Beshev again. “That barbarian is as big as Barses and Meletios put together,” he said, but now his tone was doubtful. “Are you really sure you can beat him?”

  “Of course I’m not sure, but I think I have a chance. Do you want this banquet remembered for your sake, or just as the time when the Kubratoi bragged and got away with it?”

  “Hmm.” Iakovitzes plucked at the waxed ends of his mustache as he thought. With abrupt decision, he got to his feet. “All right, you’ll get your chance. Come on—let’s talk to Petronas.”

  The Sevastokrator turned around in his chair as Iakovitzes and Krispos came up behind him. “What is it?” he growled; Gleb and Beshev had taken the joy out of the evening for him.

  “I have here, lord, a man who, if you call on him, would wrestle with this famous”—Iakovitzes loaded the word with scorn—“Kubrati. For his boasting is a great disgrace to us Videssians; it would grow even worse if he returned to Kubrat unbeaten.”

  “That is true enough. The Kubratoi are quite full of false pretensions as it is,” Petronas said. He studied Krispos with an officer’s experienced eye. “Maybe, just maybe,” he said to himself, and slowly rose. He waited for silence, then lifted his goblet above his head. “I drink to the courage of the bold Krispos, who will show Beshev the folly of his insolence.”

  The silence held a moment longer, then suddenly the Hall of the Nineteen Couches was full of shouts: “Krispos!” “Krispos!” “Hurrah for Krispos!” “Kill the barbarian!” “Flatten him!” “Stomp him!” “Beat him to a pulp!” “Krispos!”

  The sound of his name loud in a hundred throats tingled through Krispos’ veins like wine. He felt strong enough to beat a dozen Kubratoi at the same time, let alone the one he was about to face. He sent a challenging stare toward Beshev.

  The look the wrestler gave back was so cold and empty that it froze Krispos’ excitement. To Beshev, he was just another body to break. Without a word, the Kubrati got to his feet and began taking off his clothes.

  Krispos pulled his robe over his head and tossed it aside. He took off his thin undertunic, leaving himself in linen drawers and sandals. He heard a woman sigh. That made him smile as he unbuckled the sandals.

  The smile faded when he glanced over at Beshev. He was taller than the Kubrati, but he saw his foe outweighed him. And none of Beshev’s bulk was fat; by the look of his huge, hard muscles, he might have been carved from stone.

  Petronas had been shouting orders while Krispos and Beshev stripped. Servants scurried to shove tables aside and clear an open space in the center of the Hall of the Nineteen Couches. The two wrestlers walked toward it. Krispos studied the way Beshev moved. He still did not seem quick. He’d better not be, Krispos thought, or he’ll break my neck just like Stylianos’.

  He went through his own private wrestling match to put that thought down. Fear could cost him the fight, sure as his foe’s strength. He took several deep breaths and concentrated on the feel of the cool, slick marble under his feet.

  Slick…He turned back to Petronas. “Highness, could you have them strew some sand out there? I wouldn’t want this affair decided on a slip.” Especially not if I make it, he thought.

  The Sevastokrator looked a question at Beshev, who nodded. At Petronas’ command, four servants hurried away. Both wrestlers stood around and waited until the men returned, lugging two large tubs of sand. They dumped it out and spread it about with brooms.

  When they were done, Krispos and Beshev took their places at opposite ends of the cleared space. Beshev’s great hands opened and closed as he stared. Krispos folded his arms across his chest and stared back, doing his best to look contemptuous.

  “Are you both ready?” Petronas asked loudly. He swung down his arm. “Wrestle!”

  The two men slid toward one another, each crouched low with arms outstretched. Krispos feinted at Beshev’s leg. The Kubrati knocked his hand aside. That first touch warned Krispos Beshev was as strong as he looked.

  They circled, eyes flicking to feet, to hands, and back to eyes again. Beshev sprang forward. He knew what he was about; nothing gave away the move before he made it. All th
e same, Krispos ducked under his grasping hands and spun behind him. He grabbed Beshev by the waist and tried to throw him down.

  Beshev, though, was too squat and heavy to be thrown. He seized Krispos’ forearms, then flung himself backward. Krispos twisted so they landed side by side instead of with Beshev on top. They grappled, broke away from each other, scrambled to their feet, and grappled again.

  Beshev had an uncanny ability to slip holds. Every time Krispos thought he was about to throw his foe, the Kubrati managed to break free. It was almost as if his skin were oiled, though it did not feel slick to Krispos. He shook his head, baffled and frustrated. Beshev seemed to have tricks old Idalkos had never heard of.

  Fortunately, the hulking Kubrati also found Krispos difficult. They stood panting and glaring at each other after a passage where Beshev somehow escaped from a wristlock Krispos knew he’d set well and truly, and where a moment later only a desperate jerk of his head kept Beshev from gouging out an eye.

  The brief rest let Krispos notice the din that filled the Hall of the Nineteen Couches. While he fought, the crowd’s yells had simply washed over him. Now he heard Iakovitzes screaming for him to maim Beshev; heard Petronas’ calls of encouragement; heard dozens of people he did not know, all crying out for him. The shouts helped restore his spirits and made him eager once more.

  No one shouted for Beshev. Gleb and the other Kubratoi stood at the edge of the cleared space and watched their man wrestle, but they did not cheer him on. Gleb’s face was a mask of concentration; his hands, which he held in front of his chest, twitched and wiggled as if with a life of their own.

  Somewhere long ago Krispos had seen hands jerk like that. He had no time to grope for the memory—Beshev thundered down on him like an avalanche. The Kubrati needed no cheers to spur him on. Krispos dove to one side; Beshev snagged him by an ankle and hauled him back.

  Beshev was slow. But once he got a grip, that mattered less. Krispos kicked him in the ribs with his free leg. Beshev only grunted. He did not let go. And when Krispos tried to lay hold of the Kubrati’s arm, his hands slid off it.

  Since Krispos could not tear free, he went with Beshev’s hold and let his foe pull him close. He butted the Kubrati under the chin. Beshev’s head snapped back. His grip slackened, only for an instant, but long enough to let Krispos escape.

  Panting, he scrambled to his feet. Beshev also rose. He must have bitten his tongue; blood ran into his beard from the corner of his mouth. He scowled at Krispos. From just behind him, so did Gleb. Gleb’s hands were still twitching.

  Whose hands had writhed so? Krispos shifted his weight, and remembered how it shifted at every step up on the hide platform during the ransom ceremony that had set him on the path to this moment. On the platform with him had been Iakovitzes, Pyrrhos, Omurtag—and Omurtag’s enaree.

  When the shaman checked the quality of Iakovitzes’ gold, his hands had moved as Gleb’s moved now. So Gleb was working some minor magic, was he? Krispos’ lips skinned back from his teeth in a fierce grin. He would have bet all the gold Tanilis had given him that he knew just what kind. No wonder he hadn’t been able to get a decent hold on Beshev all night long!

  Krispos stopped, picking up a handful of the sand the servants had strewn about. With a shout, he rushed at Beshev. The Kubrati sprang forward, too. But Krispos was quicker. He twisted past Beshev and threw the sand full in Gleb’s face.

  Gleb screeched and whirled away, frantically knuckling his eyes. “Sorry. An accident,” Krispos said, grinning still. He spun back toward Beshev.

  The brief look of surprise and dismay on his foe’s face told Krispos his guess had been good. Then Beshev’s eyes grew cold once more. Even without sorcerous aid, he remained large, skilled, and immensely strong. The match still had a long way to go.

  They grappled again. Krispos let out a whoop of glee. Now Beshev’s skin was just skin—slick with sweat, yes, but not preternaturally so. When Krispos grabbed him, he stayed grabbed. And when he hooked his leg behind Beshev’s and pushed, Beshev went over it and down.

  The Kubrati was a wrestler, though. He tried to twist while falling, as Krispos had before. Krispos sprang onto his back. Beshev levered himself up on his great arms. Krispos jerked them out from under him. Beshev went down flat on the sandy floor.

  He tried to get up again. Krispos seized a great hank of greasy hair and slammed Beshev’s face into the marble under the sand. Beshev groaned, then made one more effort to rise. Krispos smashed him down again. “For Stylianos!” he shouted. Beshev lay still.

  Krispos climbed wearily to his feet. He felt the cheers of the crowd more than he heard them. Iakovitzes rushed up and kissed him, half on the cheek, half on the mouth. He did not even mind.

  Something hit him in the heel. He whirled in shock—could Beshev want more? He was sure he’d battered the Kubrati into unconsciousness. But no, Beshev still had not moved. Instead, a goldpiece lay by Krispos’ foot. A moment later, another one kicked up sand close by.

  “Pick ’em up, fool!” Iakovitzes hissed. “They’re throwing ’em for you.”

  Krispos started to bend down, then stopped. Was this how he wanted these nobles to remember him, scrambling for their coins like a dog chasing a thrown stick? He shook his head and straightened. “I fought for Videssos, not for gold,” he said.

  The cheers got louder. No one in the Hall of the Nineteen Couches knew why Krispos smiled so widely. Without the stake from Tanilis, he could never have afforded such a grand gesture.

  He brushed at himself, knocking off as much sand as he could. “I’m going to put my robe back on,” he said and walked out through the crowd. Men and women clasped his hands, touched him on the arm, and patted his back as he went by. Then they turned to jeer the Kubrati envoys who came into the open space to drag away their fallen champion.

  The world briefly disappeared as Krispos pulled the robe on over his head. When he could see again, he found Petronas standing in front of him. He started to bow. The Sevastokrator raised a hand. “No formality needed, not after so handsome a victory,” he said. “I hope you will not object if I choose to reward you, Krispos, so long as”—he let amusement touch his eyes—“it is not in gold.”

  “How could I refuse?” Krispos said. “Wouldn’t that be—what do they call it?—lèse-majesté?”

  “No, for I am not the Avtokrator, only his servant,” Petronas said with a perfectly straight face. “But tell me, how were you able to overthrow the savage Kubrati who had beaten all our best?”

  “He likely had some help from that Gleb.” Krispos explained how he knew, or thought he knew, what Gleb had been up to. He went on, “So I figured I would see how well Beshev fought without him making those tiny little Kubrati-style passes, and the big fellow was a lot easier to handle after that.”

  Petronas scowled. “Gleb always fidgets that way when we’re dickering, as well. Do you suppose he’s trying to ensorcel me?”

  “You’d be able to guess that better than I could,” Krispos said. “Could it hurt, though, to have a wizard of your own there the next time you talk with him?”

  “It could not hurt at all, and I will do it,” Petronas declared. “By the lord with the great and good mind, I wondered why I said yes to some of those proposals the Kubrati set before me. Now perhaps I know, and now I have two reasons to reward you, for you have done me two services this night.”

  “I thank you.” Krispos did bow this time, and deeply. As he straightened, his face bore a sly grin. “And I thank you.”

  Petronas started to answer, then checked himself. He gave Krispos a long, considering look. “So you have a working wit, do you, to go along with your strength? That’s worth knowing.” Before Krispos could reply, the Sevastokrator turned away from him and called to the servants. “Wine! Wine for everyone, and let no one’s cup be empty the rest of the night! We have a victory to celebrate, and a victor. To Krispos!”

  The Videssian lords and ladies rased goblets high. “To Krispos!”


  KRISPOS PLIED THE CURRYCOMB WITH A RHYTHM THAT MATCHED the dull pounding in his head. The warm, smelly stuffiness of the stables did nothing to help his hangover, but for once he did not mind headache or sour stomach. They reminded him that, though he was back to the down-to-earth routine of his job, the night before had really happened.

  Not far away, Mavros whistled while he plied the shovel. Krispos laughed softly. Anything more down-to-earth than shoveling horse manure was hard to image. “Mavros?” he said.

  The shovel paused. “What is it?”

  “How come a fancy young noble like you doesn’t mind mucking out the stables? I’ve shoveled plenty, here and back in my village with the goats and cows and sheep and pigs, but I never enjoyed it.”

  “To the ice with goats and cows and sheep and pigs. These are horses,” Mavros said, as if that explained everything.

  Maybe it even did, Krispos thought. Iakovitzes didn’t mind working up a sweat in the stables, but Krispos could not picture him having anything to do with a pigsty. He shook his head. To anyone farm-bred like him, livestock was livestock. Getting sentimental about it was a luxury he hadn’t been able to afford.

  Such mostly pointless musing helped him get through the quarter of an hour he needed to finish bringing the coat of the mare he was working on to an even glow. Satisfied at last, he patted her on the muzzle and went on to the next stall.

  He’d just started in when he head someone come into the stable. “Krispos! Mavros!” Gomaris called.

  “What?” Krispos said, curious. Iakovitzes’ steward hardly ever came back where the grooms labored.

  “The master wants the two of you, right now,” Gomaris said.

  Krispos looked at Mavros. They both shrugged. “Beats working,” Mavros said. “But I hope he’ll give me a few minutes to wash and change clothes.” He held his nose. “I’m not what you call presentable.”

  “Right now,” Gomaris repeated.

  “Well, all right,” Mavros said, shrugging again. “On his floors be it.”