“No,” Krispos said. “I must see Iakovitzes right now. Tell him that, Gomaris, and tell him I won’t take no for an answer.” He waited tensely—if Gomaris said his master was out, everything was up for grabs again. But the steward just slammed the grate shut and went away.
He returned in a couple of minutes. “He says he doesn’t care if it’s the Emperor himself who wants to see him.”
“It is,” Krispos said. “It is the Emperor, Gomaris.” The little grate did not show much of Gomaris’ face, but he saw the steward’s right eye go wide. A moment later, he heard the bar lift. The door swung open.
“What’s happened in the palaces?” Gomaris asked eagerly. No, he was more than eager, he was all but panting to hear juicy news before anyone else did. That, to an inhabitant of the city, was treasure more precious than gold.
“You’ll know when Iakovitzes does,” Krispos promised. “And now, hadn’t you better run ahead and tell him you let Mavros and me in after all?”
“Aye, you’re right, worse luck,” the steward said, his voice suddenly glum. He hurried off toward his master’s bedchamber. Krispos and Mavros, who still knew their way around the house where they had once served, followed more slowly.
Iakovitzes met them before they got to his bedroom. The fiery little noble was just knotting the sash of his dressing gown when he came up to his former protégés. He stabbed out a finger at Krispos. “What’s this nonsense about the Emperor wanting to see me? I don’t see any Emperor. All I see is you, and I wish I didn’t.”
“Excellent sir, you do see the Emperor,” Krispos answered. He touched his own chest.
Iakovitzes snorted. “What have you been drinking? Go on home now, and if Phos is merciful I’ll fall back to sleep, forget all about this, and never have to tell Anthimos.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Krispos said. “Anthimos is dead, Iakovitzes.”
As Gomaris’ had just before, Iakovitzes’ eyes went wide. “Hold that torch closer to him, Gomaris,” he told his steward. Gomaris obeyed. In the better light, Iakovitzes examined Krispos closely. “You’re not joking,” he said at last.
“No, I’m not.” Almost by rote, Krispos told the story he had already told four times that night. He finished, “That’s why I’ve come to you, excellent sir, to have your grooms and servants spread word through the city that something extraordinary has happened and that people should gather at the High Temple to learn what.”
To his surprise and indignation, Iakovitzes started to laugh. The noble said, “Your pardon, Your Majesty, but when you first came here, I never thought I had a future Avtokrator shoveling out my horseshit. Not many can say that, by Phos. Oh, no indeed!” He laughed again, louder than before.
“You’ll help, then?” Krispos said.
Iakovitzes slowly sobered. “Aye, Krispos, I’ll help you. Better you with the crown than some dunderheaded general, which is the other choice we’d likely have.”
“Thanks, I suppose,” Krispos said—Iakovitzes never gave praise without splashing vinegar on it.
“You’re welcome, I’m sure,” the noble said. He sighed. “And to think that with a little luck I could have had an Avtokrator in my bed as well as in my stables.” Iakovitzes turned a look that was half glower, half leer on Mavros. “Why didn’t you overthrow the Emperor?”
“Me? No, thank you,” Mavros said. “I wouldn’t take the job on a bet. I want to go through life without food tasters—and without using up a few of them along the way.”
“Hrmmp.” Iakovitzes gave his attention back to Krispos. “You’ll have plenty to keep you occupied tonight, won’t you? I suppose you’ll want me to go and wake up everyone in the household. I may as well. Now that you’ve ruined my hope for a decent night’s sleep, why should I let anyone else have one?”
“You’re as generous and considerate as I remember you,” Krispos said, just to see him glare. “By the good god, I promise you won’t be sorry for this.”
“If both our heads go up on the Milestone, I’ll make sure mine reminds yours of that,” Iakovitzes said. “Now get moving, will you? The faster this is done, the better the chance we all have of avoiding the chap with the cleaver.”
Since Krispos had come to the same conclusion, he nodded, clasped Iakovitzes’ hand, and hurried away. He and Mavros were just climbing onto their horses when Iakovitzes started making a horrible racket inside the house. Mavros grinned. “He doesn’t do things by halves, does he?”
“He never did,” Krispos said. “I’m only glad he’s with us and not against us. Gnatios won’t be so easy.”
“You’ll persuade him,” Mavros said confidently.
“One way or another, I have to,” Krispos said as they rode through the dark, quiet streets of the city. Only a few people shared the night with them. A couple of courtesans beckoned as they trotted by; a couple of footpads slunk out of their way; a couple of staggering drunks ignored them altogether. Once, off in the distance, Krispos saw for a moment the clump of torches that proclaimed respectable citizens traveling by night. He rounded a corner and they were gone.
More torches blazed in front of the patriarchal mansion. Krispos and Mavros tied their horses to a couple of the evergreens that grew there and walked up to the entrance. “I am heartily tired of rapping on doors,” Krispos said, rapping on the door.
Mavros consoled him. “After this, you can have servants rap on them for you.”
The rapping eventually had its result—the priest Badourios opened the door a crack and demanded, “Who dares disturb the ecumenical patriarch’s rest?” Then he recognized Krispos and grew more civil. “I hope it is not a matter of urgency, esteemed and eminent sir.”
“Would I be here if it weren’t?” Krispos retorted. “I must see the patriarch at once, holy sir.”
“May I tell him your business?” Badourios asked.
Mavros snapped, “Were it for you, be assured we would consult you. It is for your master, as Krispos told you. Now go and fetch him.” Badourios glared sleepy murder at him, then abruptly turned on his heel and hurried away.
Gnatios appeared a few minutes later. Even fresh-roused from sleep, he looked clever and elegant, if none too happy. Krispos and Mavros bowed. As Gnatios responded with a bow of his own, Krispos saw him take in their dirty faces and torn robes. But his voice was smooth as ever as he asked, “What has so distressed his Majesty that he must have a response in the middle of the night?”
“Let us speak privately, not in this doorway,” Krispos said.
The patriarch considered, then shrugged. “As you wish.” He led them to a small chamber, lit a couple of lamps, then closed and barred the door. Folding his arms across his chest, he said, “Very well, let me ask you once more, if I may, esteemed and eminent sir: what theological concern has Anthimos so vexed he must needs rout me out of bed for his answer?”
“Most holy sir, you know as well as I that Anthimos never worried much about theology,” Krispos said. “Now he doesn’t worry about it at all. Or rather, he worries in the only way that truly matters—he’s walking the narrow bridge between the light above and the ice below.” He saw Gnatios’ eyebrows shoot up. He nodded. “Yes, most holy sir, Anthimos is dead.”
“And you, most holy sir, have been addressing the Avtokrator of the Videssians by a title far beneath his present dignity,” Mavros added. His voice was hard, but one corner of his mouth could not help twitching upward with mischief.
Suave and urbane as he normally was, the patriarch goggled at that. “No,” he whispered.
“Yes,” Krispos said, and for the half-dozenth time that night told how Anthimos had perished. Listening to himself, he discovered he did have the story down pat; only a few words were different from the ones he’d used with Iakovitzes and Dara. He finished, “And that is why we’ve come to you now, most holy sir: to have you set the crown on my head at the High Temple in the morning.”
Gnatios had regained his composure while Krispos spoke. Now he shook his head and repe
ated, “No,” this time loudly and firmly. “No, I will not crown a jumped-up stableboy like you, no matter what has befallen his Majesty. If you speak the truth and he has died, others are far more deserving of imperial rank.”
“By which you mean Petronas—your cousin Petronas,” Krispos said. “Let me remind you, most holy sir, that Petronas now wears the blue robe.”
“Vows coerced from a man have been set aside before,” Gnatios said. “He would make a better Avtokrator than you, as you must admit.”
“I admit nothing of the sort,” Krispos growled, “and you’re mad if you think I’d give over the throne to a man whose first act upon it would be to take my head.”
“You’re mad if you think I’ll crown you,” Gnatios retorted.
“If you don’t, Pyrrhos will,” Krispos said.
That ploy had worked before with Gnatios, but it failed now. The ecumenical patriarch drew himself up. “Pyrrhos is but an abbot. For a coronation to have validity, it must be at my hands, the patriarch’s hands, and they shall not grant it to you.”
Just then Badourios knocked urgently on the door. Without waiting for a reply, the priest tried the latch. When he found the door barred, he called through it: “Most holy sir, there’s an unseemly disturbance building in the street outside.”
“What’s happening in the street outside does not concern me,” Gnatios said angrily. “Now go away.”
Krispos and Mavros looked at each other. “Maybe what’s happening in the street does concern you, most holy sir,” Krispos said, his voice silky. “Shall we go and see?”
The lines on Gnatios’ forehead and those running down from beside his nose to the outer ends of his mouth deepened in suspicion. “As you wish,” he said reluctantly.
Krispos heard the deep-voiced shouting as soon as he was out of the chamber. He looked at Mavros again. They both smiled. Gnatios scowled at each of them in turn.
When the three men got to the front entrance, the shouting abruptly stopped. Gnatios stared out in dismay at the whole regiment of imperial guards, hundreds of armed and armored Halogai drawn up in line of battle before the patriarchal mansion. He turned to Krispos, nervously wetting his lips. “You would not, ah, loose the barbarians here on, ah, holy ground?”
“How could you think such a thing, most holy sir?” Krispos sounded shocked. He made sure he sounded shocked. “We were just having a nice peaceable talk in there, weren’t we?”
Before Gnatios could answer, one of the Halogai detached himself from their ranks and strode toward the mansion. As the warrior drew closer, Krispos saw it was Thvari. Gnatios stood his ground, but still seemed to shrink from the northerner, who along with his mail shirt and axe also bore a large, round bronze-faced shield.
Thvari swung up his axe in salute to Krispos. “Majesty,” he said soberly. His gaze swung to Gnatios. He must not have liked what he saw on the patriarch’s face, for his already wintry eyes grew colder yet. The axe twitched in his hands, as if with a life of its own.
Gnatios’ voice went high. “Call him off me,” he said to Krispos. The axe twitched again, a bigger movement this time. Krispos said nothing. Gnatios watched the axe blade with fearful fascination. He jumped when it moved again. “Please call him off me,” he said shrilly; a moment later, perhaps realizing what was wrong, he added, “Your Majesty.”
“That will be all, Thvari. Thank you,” Krispos said. The Haloga nodded, turned, and stalked back to his countrymen.
“There,” Gnatios said to Krispos, though his eyes stayed on Thvari till the northerner was back into the ranks of the guardsmen. “I’ve publicly acknowledged you. Are you satisfied?”
“You haven’t yet honored his Majesty with a proskynesis,” Mavros observed.
Gnatios looked daggers at him and opened his mouth to say something defiant. Then he glanced over to the Halogai massed in the street. Krispos watched the defiance drain out of him. Slowly he went to his knees, then to his belly. “Majesty,” he said as his forehead touched the floor.
“Get up, most holy sir,” Krispos said. “So you agree I am the rightful Avtokrator, then?” He waited for Gnatios to nod before he went on, “Then can you show that to the whole city by setting the crown on my head at the High Temple when morning comes?”
“I would seem to have little choice,” Gnatios said bleakly.
“If I’m to be master of the Empire, I will be master of all of it,” Krispos told him. “That includes the temples.”
The ecumenical patriarch did not reply in words, but his expression was eloquent. Though emperors traditionally headed ecclesiastical as well as secular affairs, Anthimos had ignored both impartially, letting Gnatios run Videssos’ religious life like an independent prince. The prospect of doing another man’s bidding could not have appealed to him.
Mavros pointed down the street; at the same time, Haloga heads turned in the direction his finger showed. A man carrying a large, heavy bundle was coming toward the patriarchal mansion. No, not a man—as the person drew nearer, Krispos saw beardless cheeks and chin. But it was not a woman, either…. “Barsymes!” Krispos exclaimed. “What do you have there?”
Panting a little, the eunuch set down his burden. “If you are to be crowned, Your Majesty, you should appear before the people in the proper regalia. I heard your orders to the Halogai, and so I knew I could find you here. I’ve brought the coronation regalia, a crown, and a pair of red boots. I do hope the rude treatment I’ve given the silks hasn’t wrinkled them too much,” he finished anxiously.
“Never mind,” Krispos said, touched. “That you thought to bring them to me is all that counts.” He put a hand on Barsymes’ shoulder. The eunuch, a formal soul if ever there was one, shrugged it off and bowed. Krispos went on, “It was bravely done, and perhaps foolishly done, as well. How would you have fought back if robbers fell upon you and stole this rich clothing?”
“Robbers?” Barsymes gave a contemptuous sniff. “A robber would have to be insane to dare assault one like me, who is so obviously a eunuch of the palace.” For the first time, Krispos heard a sort of melancholy pride in Barsymes’ description of himself. The eunuch continued, “Besides, even a madman would think three times before he stole the imperial raiment. Who could wear it but the Emperor, when even its possession by another is proof of treason and a capital crime?”
“I’m just glad you got here safely,” Krispos said. If thinking himself immune from robbers had helped Barsymes come, he would not contradict the eunuch. Privately he suspected Barsymes had been more lucky than secure.
“Shall I vest you in the regalia now?” Barsymes asked.
Krispos thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, let’s do it at the High Temple, where the ecumenical patriarch will set the crown on my head.” He glanced over at Gnatios, who nodded without speaking. Krispos looked eastward. Ever so slightly, the horizon was beginning to gray. He said, “We should go there now, to be ready when the new day comes.”
He called to the Halogai. They formed up in a hollow rectangle that took the whole width of the street. Krispos, Mavros, Barsymes, and Gnatios took their places in the middle. Krispos thought Gnatios still wanted to bolt, but the patriarch got no chance. “Forward to the High Temple,” Krispos said, and forward they went.
The Temple, as was only fitting, lay but a few steps from the patriarchal mansion. It bulked huge against the brightening sky; the thick piers that supported the weight of its great central dome gave it a squat, almost ungainly appearance from the outside. But within—Krispos knew the splendor that lay within.
The forecourt to the High Temple was as large as a couple of the smaller plazas in the city. The boots of the Halogai slammed down on slate flags; their measured tramp echoed from the building they approached.
Gnatios peered out between the marching guardsmen. “What are all these people doing, loitering in the forecourt so long before the dawn?” he said.
“A coronation must be witnessed,” Krispos reminded him.
The patriarch gave him a look filled with grudging respect. “For an adventurer who has just seized the state, you’ve planned well. You will prove more difficult to dislodge than I would have guessed when you came pounding on my door.”
“I don’t intend to be dislodged,” Krispos said.
“Neither did Anthimos, Your Majesty,” Gnatios replied, putting a sardonic edge to the title Krispos was still far from used to.
The forecourt was not yet truly crowded; the Halogai had no trouble making their way toward the High Temple. Men and women scurried out of their path, chattering excitedly: “Look at ’em! Something big must be going on.” “I wanted to kill the bloody sod who woke me, but now I’m glad I’m here.” “Wouldn’t want to miss anything. What do you think’s happened?” One enterprising fellow had a tray with him. “Sausage and rolls!” he shouted, his eyes, like those of most who lived in Videssos the city, on the main chance. “Buy your sausage and rolls here!”
Priests prayed in the High Temple by night as well as by day. They stared from the top of the stairway at the imperial guards. Krispos heard them exclaim and call to one another; they sounded as curious as any of the onlookers gathering in front of the temple. But when the Halogai began to climb the low, broad stairs, the priests cried out in alarm and withdrew inside, slamming doors behind them.
Under their officers’ direction, most of the northerners deployed on the stairway, facing out toward the forecourt. A band that included Thvari’s warriors accompanied Krispos and his Videssian comrades up to the High Temple itself. Krispos looked from the closed doors before them to Gnatios. “I hope you’ll be able to do something about this?”
Gnatios nodded. He knocked on the door and called sharply, “Open in there. Open, I say! Your patriarch commands it.”
A grill slid open. “Phos preserve us,” said the priest peering out. “It is the patriarch.” A moment later, the doors were flung wide; Krispos had to step back smartly to keep from being hit. Ignoring him, the clerics hurled questions at Gnatios: “What’s toward, most holy sir?” “What are all the Halogai doing here?” “Where’s the Emperor, if all his guards have come?”
The Tale of Krispos Page 42