“Up, up! How can I shake your hand when you’re lying there?” Anthimos III, Avtokrator of the Videssians, waited impatiently while Krispos scrambled to his feet. Then he did as he’d said, giving Krispos’ hand several enthusiastic pumps. “Nothing could be more boring than listening to the Kubratoi going on about how wonderful they are. Thanks to you, we don’t have to for a while. I am in your debt, which means, of course, that all Videssos is in your debt.” He cocked his head and grinned at Krispos.
Krispos found himself grinning back; Anthimos’ slightly lopsided smile was infectious. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” he said. For the moment, he was an awestruck peasant again. No matter what Tanilis might have foreseen, a big part of him had never really imagined he would feel the Emperor’s flesh pressing his own, be close enough to smell wine on the Emperor’s breath.
“Nephew, you might want to present Krispos with some tangible token of your gratitude,” Petronas said smoothly.
“What? Oh. Yes, so I might. Here you are, Krispos.” He chuckled as he pulled a golden chain from around his neck and put it over Krispos’ head. “I do apologize. Having the imperial treasury to play with, I’m apt to forget that other people don’t.”
“You’re very generous, Your Majesty,” Krispos said, feeling the weight of the metal on his shoulders. “A poor man could feed himself and his family for a long time with so much gold.”
“Could he? Well, I hope you’re not a poor man, Krispos, and that my uncle is doing a satisfactory job of feeding you.”
“Krispos is making a valued place for himself here as chief groom,” Petronas said. “He might have treated the post as a sinecure, and the same gratitude you feel toward him, nephew, would have compelled me to let him retain it all the same. But he has plunged in, instead; indeed, his working with such diligence is the chief reason I have not been able to present him to you before—I seldom find him away from the stables.”
“Good for him,” Anthimos said. “A spot of work never hurt anyone.”
Krispos wondered what Anthimos knew about work—by the look of him, not much. Though his features proclaimed him Petronas’ close kin, they lacked the hard purpose that informed the Sevastokrator’s face. That was not just youth, either; had Anthimos been Petronas’ age rather than Krispos’, he still would have looked indolent. Krispos could not decide what to make of him. He’d never known anyone who could afford the luxury of indolence except Tanilis and Petronas, and they did not indulge it.
Petronas said, “Wine, Krispos?”
“Yes, thank you.”
The Sevastokrator poured for him. “For me once more, as well, please,” Anthimos said. Petronas handed him a cup, as well. He tossed the wine down and held out the cup for a refill. Petronas poured again, and then again a moment later. He took occasional sips from his own cup, as did Krispos. They did not come close to emptying theirs.
The next time the Avtokrator held out his cup to his uncle, wine slopped over the rim and down onto his fingers when he pulled it back. He licked them off. “Sorry,” he said with a slightly unfocused smile.
“No matter, Your Majesty,” his uncle answered. “Now, if we may pick up the discussion in which we were engaged when Krispos came in, I still respectfully urge you to set your signature to the order I sent you last week for the construction of two new fortresses in the far southwest.”
“I don’t know that I want to sign it.” Anthimos stuck out his lower lip. “Skombros says they probably won’t ever be needed, because the southwest is a very quiet frontier.”
“Skombros!” Petronas lost some of the air of urbanity Krispos had always seen from him before. He did not try to hide his contempt as he went on, “Frankly, I can’t imagine why you even think of listening to your vestiarios on these matters. What a eunuch chamberlain knows of the proper placement of fortresses would fit into the ballocks he does not have. By the good god, nephew, you’d be better advised asking Krispos here what he thinks of the whole business. At least he’s seen more of the world than the inside of the palaces.”
“All right, I will,” Anthimos said. “What do you think of the whole business, Krispos?”
“Me?” Krispos almost spilled his own wine. Drinking with the Sevastokrator and Avtokrator made him feel proud and important. Getting into the middle of their argument was something else again, something terrifying. He was all too conscious of Petronas’ gaze on him as he picked his words with the greatest of care. “In matters of war, I think I would sooner rely on a warrior’s judgment.”
“Do you recognize plain truth when you hear it, Anthimos?” Petronas demanded.
The Avtokrator rubbed his chin. The tip of his beard was waxed to a point. Sounding faintly surprised, he said, “Yes, that is sensible, isn’t it? Very well, Uncle, I’ll sign your precious order.”
“You will? Excellent!” Petronas sprang to his feet and slapped Krispos on the back hard enough to stagger him. “There’s another present you’ll have from me, Krispos, and another one you’ve earned, too.”
“Your Highness is very kind,” Krispos said.
“I reward good service,” Petronas said. “Don’t forget that. I also reward the other kind, as it deserves. Don’t forget that, either. Now run along, why don’t you? You’ll just be bored if you hang about longer.”
“Good to meet you, Krispos,” Anthimos said as Krispos bowed his way out. Even half sozzled, the Avtokrator had a charming smile.
Petronas’ voice came clearly through the door Krispos closed behind him: “There, you see, Anthimos? That groom has a better notion of what needs doing than your precious vestiarios.” The Sevastokrator paused. His voice turned musing. “By Phos, so he does—”
“Here, I’ll show you out,” Eroulos said. Krispos jumped. He hadn’t heard the steward come up behind him.
“The Emperor. You didn’t tell me you were taking me to see the Emperor,” Krispos said accusingly as Eroulos took him past the guards.
“I was told not to. The Sevastokrator wanted to see how you would react.” Eroulos started up the stairs with Krispos. “Truly, though, you should not have been surprised. Petronas once ruled for the Avtokrator, and still rules—with him.”
Krispos caught the tiny pause. Through him, Eroulos had started to say. But a man discreet enough to be the Sevastokrator’s steward was too discreet to say such things aloud.
Something else turned Krispos’ thoughts aside. “Why did he want to see how I’d react?”
“I do not presume to speak for his Imperial Highness,” Eroulos answered discreetly. “Would you not think it wise, though, to learn what you can of the quality of men who serve you, not least those you appoint to responsible posts on brief acquaintance?”
That means me, Krispos realized. By then, he and Eroulos were at his door. He nodded thoughtfully as he went inside. Tanilis would have done the same sort of thing. And if Petronas thought like Tanilis—Krispos could find no higher compliment to pay the Sevastokrator’s wits.
TANILIS WOULD NEVER HAVE FORGOTTEN A PROMISED REWARD. Nor did Petronas. More, he gave it to Krispos publicly, coming to the stables to present him with a dagger whose hilt was lavishly chased with rubies. “For your quick thinking the other night,” he said in a voice that carried.
Krispos bowed low. “You honor me, Highness.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Onorios suddenly become very busy with his scissors as he trimmed a horse’s mane. Krispos smiled to himself.
“You deserve it,” Petronas said. “You’re doing well here, from all I’ve heard, and from what I’ve seen of the condition of my animals.”
“It’s not all my doing. You had fine horses and fine hands long before you ever noticed me—not that I’m not grateful you did, Highness,” Krispos added quickly.
“I’m glad you noticed, and also that you have the sense to share the credit. I know I am not in the habit of employing fools, and I’m increasingly pleased to discover I have not broken my rule with you.” Petronas glanced into a stall, smiled a littl
e at what he saw, and took a few paces to the next one. “Come, Krispos, walk with me.”
“Of course, Highness.”
As Stotzas had a few weeks before, the Sevastokrator waited until he and Krispos were out of earshot of most of the stable hands. Then he said, “Tell me what you know of a body servant’s tasks.”
“Highness?” The question caught Krispos by surprise. He answered slowly, “Not much, though, come to think of it, I guess you’d say I was Iakovitzes’ body servant for a while there in Opsikion when he was laid up with a broken leg. I sort of had to be.”
“So you did,” Petronas agreed. “That may suffice. Indeed, I think it would. As here, in the post I have in mind you would be involved in overseeing others as much as with actually serving.”
“What post is that?” Krispos asked. “Not your steward, surely. Or are you angry at Eroulos for something I don’t know about?” If the Sevastokrator was displeased with Eroulos, the gossip of his household had not heard of it. That was possible, Krispos supposed, but unlikely.
And Petronas shook his head. “No, Eroulos suits me right well. I was thinking of rather a grander place for you. How would you like to be Anthimos’ vestiarios one day?”
Krispos said the first thing that popped into his head: “Doesn’t the vestiarios have to be a eunuch?” He felt his testicles creep up toward his belly as he spoke the word; he had all he could do to keep from shaping his hands into a protective cup over his crotch.
“It’s usual, but by no means mandatory. I daresay we can manage to keep you entire.” Petronas laughed, then went on, “I’m sorry; I’d not seen you look frightened before. I want you to think on this, though, even if I cannot promise you the office soon—or at all.”
“You can’t promise, Highness?” Krispos said, startled at the admission. “How could you lack the power? Aren’t you both Sevastokrator and the Avtokrator’s uncle? Wouldn’t he heed you?”
“In this, perhaps not. His chamberlain also has his ear, you see, and so may not be easily displaced.” Petronas took a slow, deep, angry breath. “That cursed Skombros is sly as a fox, too. He plots to weaken me and aggrandize his own worthless relations. I would not be surprised to learn he dreams of putting one of them on the throne, the more so as the Avtokrator’s lady, the empress Dara, has yet to conceive.”
“And so you want Anthimos to have a vestiarios loyal to you and without schemes of his own,” Krispos said. “Now I understand.”
“Yes, exactly so,” Petronas said.
“Thank you for your trust in me.”
“I place no great trust in any man,” the Sevastokrator answered, “but in this I do trust: that having raised you, I can cast you down at need. Do you understand that, as well, Krispos?” His voice, though still quiet, had gone hard as stone.
“Very well, Highness.”
“Good. I think the best way to do this—if, as I say, it can be done at all—is to place you in Anthimos’ eye from time to time. You seem to think clearly, and to be able to put your thoughts into words that, although they lack polish, carry the ring of conviction. Living as he does among eunuchs, the Avtokrator is unused to plain ideas plainly stated, save perhaps from me. They may prove an exotic novelty, and Anthimos is ever one to be drawn to the new and exotic. Should he wish to see more of you, and then more again—well, that is as the good god wills.” Petronas set a large, heavy hand on Krispos’ shoulder. “Shall we try? Is it a bargain?”
“Aye, Highness, it is,” Krispos said.
“Good,” Petronas repeated. “We shall see what we shall see.” He turned and tramped back toward the stable entrance without a backward glance.
More slowly, Krispos came after him. So the Sevastokrator expected him to remain a pliant creature, did he, even after becoming vestiarios? Krispos had said he understood that. He’d said nothing about agreeing with it.
Chapter VIII
THE HUNTERS AMBLED ALONG ON THEIR HORSES, LAUGHING and chatting and passing wineskins back and forth. They sighed with relief as they rode under a stand of trees that shielded them from the pounding summer sun. “Who’ll give us a song?” Anthimos called out.
Krispos thought of a tune he’d known back in his village. “There was a young pig who got caught in a fence,” he began. “A silly young pig without any sense…” If the pig had no sense, neither did the men who tried various unlikely ways of getting it loose.
When he was through, the young nobles who filled the hunting party gave him a cheer. The song was new to them; they’d never had to worry about pigs themselves. Krispos knew he was no great minstrel, but he could carry a tune. Past that, no one much cared. The wineskins had gone back and forth a good many times.
One of the nobles cast a glance at the sun, which was well past noon. “Let’s head back to the city, Majesty. We’ve not caught much today, and we’ve not much time to catch more.”
“No, we haven’t,” Anthimos agreed petulantly. “I’ll have to speak to my uncle about that. This park was supposed to have been restocked with game. Krispos, mention it to him when we return.”
“I will, Majesty.” But Krispos was willing to believe it had been restocked. The way the Avtokrator and his companions rode thundering through woods and meadow, no animals in their right minds would have come within miles of them.
Grumbling still, Anthimos swung his horse’s head toward the west. The rest of the hunters followed. They grumbled, too, and loudly, when they rode back out into the sunshine.
All at once, the grumbles turned to shouts of delight—a stag sprang out of the brush almost in front of the hunters’ faces and darted across the grass.
“After him!” Anthimos yelled. He dug spurs into his horse’s flank. Someone loosed an arrow that flew nowhere near the fleeing stag.
None of the hunters—not even Krispos, who should have paused to wonder—bothered to ask himself why the stag had burst from cover so close to them. They were young enough, and maybe drunk enough, to think of it as the perfect ending the day deserved. They were altogether off guard, then, when the pack of wolves that had been chasing the stag ran onto the meadow right under their horses’ hooves.
The horses screamed. Some of the men screamed, too, as their mounts leaped and reared and bucked and did their best to throw them off. The wolves yelped and snarled; they’d been intent on their quarry and were at least as taken aback as the hunters by the sudden encounter. The stag bounded into the woods and vanished.
Maybe only Krispos saw the stag go. His mount was a sturdy gelding, fast enough and strong enough, but with no pretense to fine breeding. Thus he was in the rear of the hunters’ pack when they encountered the wolves, and on a beast that did not have to be coaxed out of hysteria if a leaf blew past its nose.
No one, of course, rode a higher-bred horse than Anthimos’. Iakovitzes could not have thrown a finer fit than that animal did. Anthimos was a fine rider, but fine riders fall, too. He landed heavily and lay on the ground, stunned. Some of the other hunters cried out in alarm, but most were too busy trying to control their own mounts and fight off the wolves that snapped at their horses’ legs and bellies and hindquarters to come to the Emperor’s aid.
A big wolf padded toward him. It drew back for a moment when he groaned and stirred, then came forward again. Its tongue lolled from its mouth, red as blood. Ah, crippled prey, that lupine smile seemed to say. Easy meat.
Krispos shouted at the wolf. In the din, the shout was one among many. He had a bow, but did not trust it; he was no horse-archer. He drew out an arrow and shot anyway. In a romance, his need would have made the shaft fly straight and true.
He missed. He came closer to hitting Anthimos than the wolf. Cursing, he grabbed the mace that swung from his belt for finishing off large game—in the unlikely event he ever killed any, he thought, disgusted with himself for his poor shooting.
He hurled the mace with all his strength. It spun through the air. The throw was not what he’d hoped, either—in his mind, he’d seen the spiky kn
ob smashing in the wolf’s skull. Instead, the wooden handle struck it a stinging blow on the nose.
That sufficed. The wolf yelped in startled pain and sat back on its haunches. Before it worked up the nerve to advance on the Avtokrator again, another hunter managed to get his horse between it and Anthimos. Iron-shod hooves flashed near its face. It snarled and ran off.
Someone who was a better archer than Krispos drove an arrow into another wolf’s belly. The wounded animal’s howls of pain made more of the pack take to their heels. A couple of wolves got all the way round the hunters and picked up the stag’s scent again. They loped after it. As far as Krispos was concerned, they were welcome to it.
The hunters leaped off their horses and crowded round the fallen Emperor. They all yelled when, after a minute or two, he managed to sit. Rubbing his shoulder, he said, “I take it back. This preserve has quite enough game already.”
Even the Avtokrator’s feeblest jokes won laughter. “Are you all right, Your Majesty?” Krispos asked along with everyone else.
“Let me find out.” Anthimos climbed to his feet. His grin was shaky. “All in one piece. I didn’t think I would be, not unless that cursed wolf was big enough to swallow me whole. It looked to have the mouth for the job.”
He tried to bend down, grunted, and clutched his ribs. “Have to be careful there.” A second, more cautious, try succeeded. When he straightened again, he was holding the mace. “Whose is this?”
Krispos had to give his fellow hunters credit. He’d thought some ready-for-aught would speak up at once and claim he’d saved the Avtokrator. Instead, they all looked at one another and waited. “Er, it’s mine,” Krispos said after a moment.
“Here, let me give it back to you, then,” Anthimos said. “Believe me, I won’t forget where it came from.”
Krispos nodded. That was an answer Petronas might have given. If the Avtokrator had some of the same stuff in him as the Sevastokrator, Videssos might fare well even if something befell Anthimos’ capable uncle.
The Tale of Krispos Page 23