He had just climbed into bed when the bell on the scarlet cord rang. He scowled as he scrambled into his robe in the dark; what was Anthimos doing back in his bedchamber already? The only thing he could think of was that the Emperor had sneaked after him to twit him for going to sleep so soon. That was the sort of thing Anthimos might do, but not when he’d been so excited about dealing out little gold balls.
Several lamps glowed in the imperial bedroom, but Anthimos was not there. The Empress sat up in bed. “I can’t seem to get to sleep tonight, Krispos,” Dara said. “Could you please fetch me a cup of wine? My serving maids are all asleep, and I heard you just coming in. Do you mind?”
“Of course not, Majesty,” Krispos said. He told the truth—a vestiarios had better not mind doing what the Empress of Videssos asked of him. “I’ll be back directly.”
He found a jar of wine in the dining room and poured a cup from it. “My thanks,” Dara said when he brought it to her. She tossed it down almost as quickly as Anthimos might have. She was as bare as she’d been the morning Krispos first came into the imperial bedchamber, but did not bother to pull up the sheet; to her, he might as well have been a eunuch. Holding out the cup, she told him, “Fetch me another, please.”
“Of course,” he repeated.
She drained the cup a second time as fast as she had the first, set it down empty on the night table by the bed. “Tell me,” she said, “do you expect his Imperial Majesty to return any time soon?”
“I don’t know when his Majesty will come back,” Krispos answered. “When I left the feast, he still seemed to be enjoying himself.”
“Oh,” Dara said tonelessly. “He usually returns not long after you do, I’ve noticed. Why not tonight?”
“Because I have to be up early tomorrow morning, to make sure everything is ready for his Majesty’s meeting with the patriarch. His Majesty was kind enough to let me leave before him.”
“Oh,” Dara said again. Without warning, tears started streaming from her eyes. They ran down her cheeks and splashed on her uncovered breasts. That Krispos should see her upset bothered her more than him seeing her nude; she choked out, “Go away!”
He all but fled. One foot was already out in the hall when the Empress said, “No, wait. Come back, please.”
Reluctantly he turned. He would sooner have faced a wolf alone and unarmed than the distraught Empress. But he did not dare disobey her, either. “What’s wrong, Your Majesty?” he asked in the same soft, calm tone he would have used to try to talk the wolf out of ripping his throat open.
Now she raised the sheet to her neck; if not as a man, she was aware of him as a person rather than a faceless servant. “What’s wrong?” she echoed bitterly. “What could possibly be wrong, with me trapped here in the imperial residence and my husband at hunts or the horse races by day and his cursed revels by night?”
“But—he is the Avtokrator,” Krispos said.
“And so he can do just as he pleases. I know,” Dara said. “Sometimes I think he is the only free man in all the Empire of Videssos. And I am his Empress. Am I free? Ha! A tradesman’s wife has more freedom than I do, far more.”
Krispos knew she was right. Except for rare ceremonial appearances in the Grand Courtroom, the Empress lived a sheltered, indeed a sequestered life, always screened away from the wider world by her maidservants and the palace eunuchs. As gently as he could, he said, “But surely you knew this would be so when you consented to be his Majesty’s bride?”
“There wasn’t much consent to it,” Dara said. “Do you know what a bride show is, Krispos? I was one of a long line of pretty girls, and Anthimos happened to pick me. I was so surprised, I couldn’t even talk. My father owns estates in the westlands, not far from the border with Makuran. He was thrilled—he’d have an Avtokrator for a grandson. But I—haven’t even managed—to do that as I—should have.” She started to cry again.
“You still have time,” Krispos said. “You’re younger than I am.”
That distracted her, as he’d hoped it would. She gave him a sharp look, gauging his years. “Maybe a little,” she said at last, not fully convinced.
“I’m certain you are. And surely his Majesty still”—he paused to make sure he used the right words—“cares for you.”
Dara understood. “Oh, aye, when he’s here and not drunk asleep, or when he hasn’t futtered himself out with one of his doxies—or with six of them.” Fire flashed through her tears; Krispos saw she had a temper when she let it loose. Then her shoulders sagged and she bent her head. “But what’s the use? I haven’t given him a child, and if I don’t he’ll cast me out one of these days.”
Again, Krispos knew she was right. Even Emperors like Anthimos, who worried about nothing, sooner or later worried about an heir. But Dara already felt far too hurt for him simply to agree with her. Instead, he said, “For all you know, you may be carrying the Avtokrator’s son right now. I hope you are.”
“I may be, but I don’t think I am,” Dara said. She studied him, curiosity on her face. “You sound as if you mean it. Skombros said the same thing, but I was always sure he was lying.”
“Skombros was ambitious for his own nephew,” Krispos said. With that, he thought of his niece—no, nieces now, he’d heard—back in his own village. He sent gold every year to his sister Evdokia and Domokos. Now that he had more, he resolved to send more.
“Yes, he was,” Dara said distantly. “I’m glad he’s gone.” After a little while, she went on, “If you fetched me one more cup of wine, I think I could sleep now, Krispos.”
He brought the jar into the bedchamber. “If you find you need a bit more, Your Majesty, here it is.”
“Thank you, Krispos.” She gave him the cup to fill. When he handed it back, her fingers closed over his for a moment. “Thank you, also, for listening to me. I think you’re kind.”
“I hope you do sleep, Majesty, and sleep well. Shall I blow out the lamps?”
“If you would. Leave the one on my night table burning, though, please. I’ll tend to it when I’m ready.” As Krispos bowed his way out of the bedchamber, Dara added, “I hope you sleep well, too.”
Krispos bowed again. “Thank you for thinking of me, Majesty.” He went back to his own room. Despite the wine he’d drunk at the Emperor’s feast, he lay awake for a long time.
ANTHIMOS ROSE FROM HIS CHAIR. “CARE TO COME FOR A STROLL with me, Gnatios?”
Krispos felt like pounding his head against a wall. If the Avtokrator and the ecumenical patriarch were going out walking, then three parts in four of his preparations for this meeting had been wasted effort. More to the point, he could have slept an extra hour or two. A dull headache and scratchy eyes told him he should have.
Gnatios also rose. “Whatever Your Majesty wishes.”
Maybe, Krispos thought hopefully, he could doze for a bit while his master and the patriarch talked. Then Anthimos said, “You come along too, Krispos.”
Thinking resentful thoughts, Krispos came. A couple of imperial guards attached themselves to the party as the Emperor and his companions walked outside.
Anthimos made cheerful small talk as he led his little party through the palace complex. Gnatios’ replies were polite enough, but also increasingly curious, as if he were unsure where the Emperor was going, either in the stroll or the conversation. Krispos quietly fumed. If Anthimos was only going to burble on about the weather, why did he need to see the patriarch at all?
The Avtokrator finally stopped in front of a tumbledown building set apart from its nearest neighbors—not that any were very near—by a thick grove of dark-green cypresses. “I’ve decided to study sorcery,” he declared. “After you left last night, Krispos, a mage worked such marvelous feats that I decided then and there to learn how they were done.”
“I see,” Krispos said. He did, too; it was just like Anthimos to seize on a momentary enthusiasm and ride it till he got bored.
Gnatios said, “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but may I a
sk what your sudden interest in sorcery has to do with this elderly temple here?”
“You see what it is, then, or was? Good.” Anthimos beamed. “Not all sorcery is easy or safe—you know that as well as I. What I propose to do, Gnatios, is knock the building down and replace it with a proper magical study. The site is ideal, you will agree, being isolated from the rest of the palaces.”
“You want to tear the temple down?” the patriarch echoed.
“That’s right. No one’s used it for what must be decades. You should see the spiderwebs inside. Some of them could catch birds, I expect. It wouldn’t be sacrilege or anything, really it wouldn’t.” The Emperor smiled his most engaging smile at Gnatios.
The ecumenical patriarch was more than twice his sovereign’s age, and a good deal more than twice as serious as Anthimos. Nevertheless, the Emperor charmed him almost as if he were already using magic. Gnatios was shaking his head, but he answered, “Pyrrhos and his narrow-minded followers will rail at me, but technically, Your Majesty, I suppose you are correct. Very well, I agree; you may demolish this unused temple to employ the area for your own purposes.”
“Perhaps, Your Majesty, you could have another temple built somewhere else in the city to make up for tearing down this one,” Krispos put in.
“An excellent notion,” Gnatios said. “Will you pledge to do that, Your Majesty?”
“Oh, certainly,” Anthimos said. “Krispos, see to it that the logothetes at the treasury know to set aside funds for a new temple. We’ll knock down this old ruin one day next week, then. Gnatios, I want you to be here.”
Gnatios ran a hand over his shaven head. “As you wish, Your Majesty, but why am I required?”
“Why, to say a prayer while the temple gets demolished, of course.” Anthimos flashed his charming smile again.
This time, it did not work. Gnatios slowly shook his head. “Your Majesty, I fear I cannot. There is in the liturgy a prayer for the construction of a temple, but we have not inherited from our forefathers a prayer over the demolition of a temple.”
“Then invent one,” Anthimos said. “You are a great scholar, Gnatios. Surely you can find words that will please the good god.”
“How can he be pleased that one of his temples is destroyed?” the patriarch said. “Because the temple is old and has long stood vacant, he may tolerate it, but I dare not ask him to do more than that.”
“Because this one is being torn down, he’ll soon have a new one that won’t be empty,” Krispos said.
Gnatios gave him an unfriendly look. “I will joyfully pray at the erection of the new. I would do so in any event. But at the loss of a temple—no, I cannot pray over that.”
“Maybe Pyrrhos would,” Krispos said.
“No. Here we would agree…or would we?” Gnatios was as much politician as prelate. That undid him now. More to himself than to Krispos or Anthimos, he went on, “Who knows what Pyrrhos might do to gain imperial favor for his fanaticism?” After another pause, he said sourly, “Oh, very well, Your Majesty, you shall have your prayer from me.”
“Splendid,” Anthimos said. “I knew I could rely on you, Gnatios.”
The patriarch set his jaw and nodded. Happily clapping him on the shoulder, Anthimos started back to the imperial residence. Gnatios and Krispos trailed along behind the Emperor. Gnatios said softly, “I wish you would have kept your mouth shut, vestiarios.”
“I serve my master,” Krispos said. “If I can help him get what he wants, I will.”
“He and I will both look like fools because of this ceremony he’s asked for,” Gnatios said. “Is that your idea of good service?”
Krispos thought Gnatios worried more about Gnatios than about Anthimos, but all he said was, “His Majesty doesn’t seem worried.” Gnatios sniffed and stamped on ahead of him, blue boots scuffing flagstones.
A week later, a small crowd of priests and officials gathered for the function the Emperor had demanded. Petronas was not there; he was closeted with the Makuraner envoys. He had real work to do, Krispos thought.
Anthimos walked up and said, “Krispos, this chap with me is Trokoundos, the mage who will be instructing me. Trokoundos, this is my vestiarios, Krispos. If Trokoundos needs funds to secure apparatus or mystical goods, Krispos, make sure he has what he asks for.”
“Very well, Your Majesty.” Krispos eyed Trokoundos with suspicion. Someone else who wants a grip on the Emperor, he thought indignantly. The anger that surged through him brought him up short; all at once, he understood how Petronas felt about his nephew.
Trokoundos looked straight back at Krispos, his eyes heavy-lidded and clever. “I will see you often, for I have much to teach his Majesty,” he said. His voice was deep and rich. It did not suit his frame—he was only of medium height and on the thin side. He shaved his head like a priest, but wore a robe of a most unpriestly orange.
“A pleasure to meet you, mage.” Krispos’ cool voice gave his words the lie.
“And you, eu—” Trokoundos stopped short. He’d started the same rude rejoinder Krispos had used against Skombros, only to notice, too late, that it did not apply. “And you, vestiarios,” he amended lamely.
Krispos smiled. He was glad to find the mage human enough to miss things. “My title is esteemed and eminent sir,” he said, rubbing Trokoundos’ nose in the mistake.
“Ah, here comes Gnatios,” Anthimos said happily. Krispos and Trokoundos both turned to watch the patriarch approach.
Gnatios stopped in front of the Avtokrator and prostrated himself with grim dignity. “I have composed the prayer you required of me, Your Majesty,” he said as he rose.
“By all means say it, then, so the workmen may begin,” the Emperor said.
Gnatios faced the temple to be torn down. He spat on the ground in rejection of Skotos, then raised his hands to the sky. “Glory to Phos the long-suffering at all times,” he declared, “now, forever, and through eons upon eons. So may it be.”
“So may it be,” the assembled dignitaries echoed. Their voices were less hearty than they might have been; Krispos was not the only one who glanced over to see how the Emperor would respond to a prayer that as much as said Phos had to be patient to put up with his whims.
The implied criticism sailed past him. He bowed to Gnatios. “Thank you, most holy sir. Just what the occasion demanded.” Then he called, “Go to it, lads,” to the band of workmen standing by the temple.
The workers attacked the dilapidated old building with picks and crowbars. The ceremony over, court officers and prelates began drifting away. Krispos started to follow Anthimos back to the imperial residence when Trokoundos put a hand on his arm. He pulled free. “What do you want?” he asked roughly.
“I need enough money to purchase several hundred sheets of parchment,” the mage answered.
“What do you need with several hundred sheets of parchment?”
“I have no need of them,” Trokoundos said. “His Majesty does. If he would be a mage, he first must need copy out in his own hand the spells he will thereafter employ.” He set hands on hips, plainly expecting Krispos to say no—and ready to go to Anthimos with the tale.
But Krispos said, “Of course. I’ll have the money sent to you straightaway.”
“You will?” Trokoundos blinked. His belligerent air vanished.
“In fact,” Krispos went on, “if you want to come to the residence with me, I’ll give you the gold right now; I’ll take it from the household chest.”
“You will?” Trokoundos said again. Those heavy-lidded eyes widened. “Thank you very much. That’s most gracious of you.”
“I serve his Majesty,” Krispos said, as he had to Gnatios. “How much do you think you’ll need?” However much it was, he would cheerfully pay it. If Trokoundos was going to set Anthimos to transcribing several hundred pages’ worth of magical spells, he thought, the Avtokrator would not stay interested in sorcery for long. And that suited Krispos just fine.
“GNATIOS IS NOT HAPPY WITH YO
U,” PETRONAS SAID A COUPLE of days later, when Krispos found a chance to tell him how the ceremony had gone.
“Why, Highness?” Krispos asked. “I didn’t think it was a matter of any importance, especially since Anthimos is going to build another temple to take the place of the one that got knocked down.”
“Put that way, you’re right.” Despite reassuring words, Petronas still studied Krispos through narrowed eyes. “My cousin the patriarch, though, is, shall we say, unused to being faced down in front of the Emperor and having to do something he did not care to do in consequence.”
“I wasn’t trying to embarrass him,” Krispos protested.
“You succeeded nevertheless,” Petronas said. “Well, let it go. I’ll soothe Gnatios’ ruffled feathers for him. I didn’t think you were quite so good at getting folk—especially a strong-willed fellow like my cousin—to go along with you.”
“Oh,” Krispos said. “You wanted me to be vestiarios because you thought I’d be able to help get Anthimos to do what you wanted. Why are you angry if I can do the same thing with someone else for his Majesty?”
“I’m not angry. Merely…thoughtful,” the Sevastokrator said.
Krispos sighed, but consoled himself by remembering that Petronas never had trusted him much. He didn’t think this latest brush would hurt his standing with Anthimos’ uncle.
Petronas went on, “What’s this I hear about some wizard sucking up to the Emperor?”
“Oh, that. I think I took care of that.” Krispos explained how he’d given Trokoundos exactly what he wanted.
The Sevastokrator laughed out loud. “You’d kill a cat by drowning it in cream. That’s better than I would have done; I’d have just sent the beggar packing, which would have made Anthimos sulk. And I don’t need him sulking right now.”
“The talks with the Makuraners aren’t going well?” Krispos asked.
“They’re not the problem,” Petronas said. “The Makuraners like talk as much as we Videssians, and that’s saying something. I just need to keep them talking a while longer, till I’m ready to fight. But I don’t like the rumbles I hear out of Kubrat. Malomir’s stayed quiet ever since old Omurtag died. If he decided to start raiding us now, then the war with Makuran might have to wait, and I don’t want it to wait. I’ve waited too long already.” He pounded a fist down on the padded arm of his chair.
The Tale of Krispos Page 29