The Tale of Krispos

by Harry Turtledove

  The meeting began smoothly. The ecumenical patriarch’s aide, a lesser priest named Badourios, met Krispos at the mansion door and escorted him to Gnatios’ study. The patriarch sprang from his chair, then went to his knees and then to his belly in full proskynesis—so full, indeed, that Krispos wondered, as he often did with Gnatios, if he was being subtly mocked.

  Though his shaven pate and bushy beard marked him as a cleric, they did not rob the patriarch of his individuality, as often happened with priests. Krispos always thought of him as foxlike, for he was clever, elegant, and devious, all at the same time. Had he been an ally, he would have been a mighty one. He was not an ally; Anthimos had been a cousin of his.

  Krispos waited for Gnatios to rise from his prostration, then settled into a chair across the desk from the patriarch. He motioned Gnatios to sit and plunged in without preamble. “I hope, most holy sir, you’ve seen fit to reverse yourself on the matter we discussed yesterday.”

  “Your Majesty, I am still engaged in a search of Phos’ holy scriptures and of canon law.” Gnatios waved to the scrolls and codices piled high in front of him. “But I regret to say that as yet I have failed to find justification for performing the ceremony of marriage to join together you and the Empress Dara. Not only is her widowhood from his late Majesty the Avtokrator Anthimos extremely recent, but there is also the matter of your involvement in Anthimos’ death.”

  Krispos drew in a long, angry breath. “Now see here, most holy sir, I did not slay Anthimos. I have sworn that again and again by the lord of the great and good mind, and sworn it truthfully.” To emphasize his words, his hand moved in a quick circle over his heart, the symbol of Phos’ sun. “May Skotos drag me down to the eternal ice if I lie.”

  “I do not doubt you, Your Majesty,” Gnatios said smoothly, also making the sun-sign. “Yet the fact remains, had you not been present when Anthimos died, he would still be among men today.”

  “Aye, so he would—and I would be dead. If he’d finished his spell at leisure, it would have closed on me instead of him. Where in Phos’ holy scriptures does it say a man may not save his own life?”

  “Nowhere,” the patriarch answered at once. “I never claimed that. Yet a man may not hope to escape the ice if he takes to wife the widow of one he has slain, and by your own statements you were in some measure a cause of Anthimos’ death. Thus my continued evaluation of your degree of responsibility for it, as measured against the strictures of canon law. When I have made my determination, I assure you I shall inform you immediately.”

  “Most holy sir, by your own statements there can be honest doubt about this—men can decide either way. If you find against me, I am sure I can discover another cleric to wear the patriarch’s blue boots and decide for me. Do you understand?”

  “Oh, indeed, painfully well,” Gnatios said, putting a wry arch to one eyebrow.

  “I’m sorry to be so blunt,” Krispos said, “But it strikes me your delays have more to do with hindering me than with Phos’ sacred words. I will not sit still for that. I told you the night you crowned me that I was going to be Emperor of all Videssos, including the temples. If you stand in my way, I will replace you.”

  “Your Majesty, I assure you this delay is unintentional,” Gnatios said. He gestured once more to the stacks of volumes on his desk. “For all you say, your case is difficult and abstruse. By the good god, I promise to have a decision within two weeks’ time. After you hear it, you may do with me as you will. Such is the privilege of Avtokrators.” The patriarch bowed his head in resignation.

  “Two weeks?” Krispos stroked his beard as he considered. “Very well, most holy sir. I trust you to use them wisely.”

  “TWO WEEKS?” DARA GAVE HER HEAD A DECISIVE SHAKE. “NO, that won’t do. It gives Gnatios altogether too much time. Let him have three days to play with his scrolls if he must, but no more than that. Tomorrow would be better.”

  As he often had, Krispos wondered how Dara fit so much stubbornness into such a small frame. The crown of her head barely reached his shoulder, but once she made up her mind she was more immovable than the hugest Haloga. Now he placatingly spread his hands. “I was just pleased I got him to agree to decide within any set limit. And in the end I think he’ll decide for us—he likes being patriarch and he knows I’ll cast him from his throne if he tells us we may not wed. That amount of time we can afford.”

  “No,” Dara said, even more firmly than before. “I grudge him every grain of sand in the glass. If he’s going to find for us, he doesn’t need weeks to do it.”

  “But why?” Krispos asked. “Since I’ve already agreed to this, I can’t change my mind without good reason, not unless I want him preaching against me in the High Temple as soon as I leave him.”

  “I’ll give you a good reason,” Dara said: “I’m with child.”

  “You’re—” Krispos stared at her, his mouth falling open. Then he asked the same foolish question almost every man asks his woman when she gives him that news: “Are you sure?”

  Dara’s lips quirked. “I’m sure enough. Not only have my courses failed to come, but when I went to the privy this morning, the stench made me lose my breakfast.”

  “You’re with child, all right,” Krispos agreed. “Wonderful!” He took her in his arms, running a hand through her thick black hair. Then he had another thought. It was not suited for the moment, but passed his lips before he could hold it back: “Is it mine?”

  He felt her stiffen. The question, unfortunately, was neither idle nor, save in its timing, cruel. Dara had been his lover, aye, but she’d also been Anthimos’ Empress. And Anthimos had not been immune to the pleasures of the flesh—far from it.

  When at last she looked up at him, her dark eyes were troubled. “I think it’s yours,” she said slowly. “I wish I could say I was certain, but I can’t, not really. You’d know I was lying.”

  Krispos thought back to the time before he’d seized the throne; as vestiarios, he’d had the bedchamber next to the one Dara and Anthimos had shared. The Emperor had gone carousing and reveling many nights, but not all. Krispos sighed, stepping back and wishing life did not give him ambiguity where he most wanted to be sure.

  He watched Dara’s eyes narrow and her mouth thin in calculation. “Can you afford to disown a child of mine, no matter who it looks like in the end?” she asked.

  “I just asked myself the same question,” he said, respect in his voice. Nothing was wrong with Dara’s wits, and just as Gnatios liked being patriarch, she liked being Empress. She needed Krispos for that, but he knew he also needed her—because she was Anthimos’ widow, she helped confer legitimacy on him by connecting him to the old imperial house. He sighed again. “No, I don’t suppose I can.”

  “By the good god, Krispos, I hope it’s yours, and I think it is,” Dara said earnestly. “After all, I was Anthimos’ Empress for years without quickening. I never knew him to get bastards on any of his tarts, either, and he had enough of them. I have to wonder at the strength of his seed.”

  “That’s so,” Krispos said. He felt relieved, but not completely. Phos he took on faith. His years in Videssos the city had taught him the danger of similar faith in anything merely human. Yet even if the child was not his by blood, he could set his mark on it. “If it’s a boy, we’ll name him Phostis, for my father.”

  Dara considered, nodded. “It’s a good name.” She touched Krispos’ arm. “But you do see the need for haste, not so? The sooner we’re wed, the better; others can count months as well as we can. A babe a few weeks early will set no tongues wagging. Much more, though, especially if the child is big and robust—”

  “Aye, you’re right,” Krispos said. “I’ll speak to Gnatios. If he doesn’t like being hurried, too bad. It’s just deserts for surprising me and making me speak unprepared when he was crowning me. By the good god, I know he was hoping I’d flub.”

  “Just deserts for that piece of effrontery would be some time in the prisons under the government offic
e buildings on Middle Street,” Dara said. “I’ve thought so ever since you first told me of it.”

  “It may come to that, if he says me nay here,” Krispos answered. “I know he’d sooner see Petronas come out of the monastery and take the throne than have me on it. Being Anthimos’ cousin means he’s Anthimos’ uncle’s cousin, too.”

  “He’s not your cousin, that’s for certain,” Dara said grimly. “You ought to have your own man as patriarch, Krispos. One who’s against you can cause you endless grief.”

  “I know. If Gnatios does tell me no, it’ll give me the excuse I need to get rid of him. Trouble is, if I do, I’d likely have to replace him with Pyrrhos the abbot.”

  “He’d be loyal,” Dara said.

  “So he would.” Krispos spoke without enthusiasm. Pyrrhos was earnest and able. He was also pious, fanatically so. He was a far better friend to Krispos than Gnatios ever would be, and far less comfortable to live with.

  Dara said, “Now I hope Gnatios does stand up on his hind legs against you, if you truly mean to slap him down for it.”

  All at once, Krispos was tired of worrying about Gnatios and what he might do. Instead he thought of the child Dara would have—his child, he told himself firmly. He stepped forward to take her in his arms again. She squeaked in surprise as he bent his head to kiss her, but her lips were eager against his. The kiss went on and on.

  When at last they separated, Krispos said, “Shall we go to the bedchamber?”

  “What, in the afternoon? We’d scandalize the servants.”

  “Oh, nonsense,” Krispos said. After Anthimos’ antic reign, nothing save perhaps celibacy could scandalize the palace servants, though he did not say so aloud. “Besides, I have my reasons.”

  “Name two,” Dara said, mischief in her voice.

  “All right. For one, if you are pregnant, you’re apt to lose interest for a while, so I’d best get while the getting’s good, as they say. And for another, I’ve always wanted to make love with you with the sun shining in on us. That’s one thing we never dared do before.”

  She smiled. “A nice mix of the practical and the romantic. Well, why not?”

  They walked down the hall hand in hand. If maidservants or eunuch chamberlains gave them odd looks, neither one noticed.

  BARSYMES BOWED TO KRISPOS. “THE PATRIARCH IS HERE, YOUR Majesty,” the eunuch vestiarios announced in his not-quite-tenor, not-quite-alto voice. He did not sound impressed. Few things impressed Barsymes.

  “Thank you, esteemed sir,” Krispos answered; palace eunuchs had their own honorifics, different from those of the nobility. “Show him in.”

  Gnatios prostrated himself as he entered the chamber where Krispos had been wrestling with tax documents. “Your Majesty,” he murmured.

  “Rise, most holy sir, rise by all means,” Krispos said expansively. “Please be seated; make yourself comfortable. Shall I send for wine and cakes?” He waited for Gnatios’ nod, then waved to Barsymes to fetch the refreshments.

  When the patriarch had eaten and drunk, Krispos proceeded to business. “Most holy sir, I regret summoning you so soon after I promised you would have your two weeks, but I must seek your ruling on whether Dara and I may lawfully wed.”

  He had expected Gnatios to splutter and protest, but the patriarch beamed at him. “What a pleasant coincidence, Your Majesty. I was going to send you a message later in the day, for I have indeed reached my decision.”

  “And?” Krispos said. If Gnatios thought this affable front would make a rejection more palatable, Krispos thought, he was going to get a rude awakening.

  But the ecumenical patriarch’s smile only grew broader. “I am delighted to be able to inform you, Your Majesty, that I find no canonical impediments to your proposed union with the Empress. You may perhaps hear gossip at the haste of the match, but that has nothing to do with its permissibility under ecclesiastical law.”

  “Really?” Krispos said in glad surprise. “Well, I’m delighted to hear you say so, most holy sir.” He got up and poured more wine for the two of them with his own hands.

  “I am pleased to be able to serve you with honor in this matter, Your Majesty,” Gnatios answered. He lifted his cup. “Your very good health.”

  “And yours.” Avtokrator and patriarch drank together. Then Krispos said, “From what you’ve just told me, I don’t suppose you’d mind celebrating the wedding yourself.” If Gnatios was just going along for the sake of going along, Krispos thought, he ought to balk or at least hesitate.

  But he replied at once, “It would be my privilege, Your Majesty. Merely name the day. From your urgency, I suppose you will want it to come as soon as possible.”

  “Yes,” Krispos said, still a bit taken aback at this wholehearted cooperation. “Will you be able to make everything ready in—hmm—ten days’ time?”

  The patriarch’s lips moved. “A couple of days after the full moon? I am your servant.” He inclined his head to the Emperor.

  “Splendid,” Krispos said. When he rose this time, it was a sign Gnatios’ audience was done. The patriarch did not miss the signal. He bowed himself out. Barsymes took charge of him and escorted him from the imperial residence.

  Krispos gave his attention back to the cadasters. He smiled a little as he took up his stylus to scrawl a note on a waxed tablet. That had been easier than he’d figured it would be, he thought with a twinge of contempt for Gnatios. The patriarch seemed willing to pay whatever price he had to in order to keep his position. A firm line with him would get Krispos anything he required.

  Nice to have one worry settled, he thought, and went on to the next tax register.

  “DON’T WORRY, YOUR MAJESTY. WE HAVE PLENTY OF TIME YET,” Mavros said.

  Krispos looked at his foster brother with mixed gratitude and exasperation. “Nice to hear someone say so, by the good god. All of Dara’s seamstresses are having kittens, wailing that they’ll never be able to have her dress ready on the day. And if they’re having kittens, the mintmaster is having bears—big bears, with teeth. He says I can send him to Prista if I like, but that still won’t get me enough goldpieces with my face on them to use for largess.”

  “Prista, he?” Amusement danced in Mavros’ eyes. “Then he probably means it.” The lonely outpost on the northern shore of the Videssian Sea housed the Empire’s most incorrigible exiles. Few people went there willingly.

  “I don’t care if he means it,” Krispos snapped. “I need to have that gold to pass out to the people. We grabbed power too quickly the night I was crowned. This is my next good chance. If I don’t do it now, the city folk will think I’m mean, and I’ll have no end of trouble from them.”

  “I daresay you’re right,” Mavros said, “but does it all have to be your gold? Aye, that would be nice, but you hold the treasury as well as the mint. So long as the coin is good, no one who gets it will care whose face it bears.”

  “Something to that,” Krispos said after a moment’s thought. “The mintmaster will be pleased. Tanilis would be, too, to hear you; you’re your mother’s son after all.”

  “I’ll take that for a compliment,” Mavros said.

  “You’d better. I meant it for one.” Krispos had nothing but admiration for Mavros’ mother. Tanilis was one of the wealthiest nobles of the eastern town of Opsikion, and seer and mage, as well. She’d foretold Krispos’ rise, helped him with money and good advice, and fostered Mavros to him. Though she was a decade older than Krispos, they’d also been lovers for half a year, until he had to return to Videssos the city—Mavros did not know about that. She was still the standard by which Krispos measured women, including Dara—Dara did not know about that.

  Barsymes politely tapped at the open door of the chamber where Krispos and Mavros were talking. “Your Majesty, eminent sir, your presence is required for another rehearsal of assembling for the wedding procession.” In matters of ceremony, the vestiarios ordered the Avtokrator about.

  “We’ll be with you shortly, Barsymes,” Kr
ispos promised. Barsymes withdrew, a couple of paces’ length. He did not go away. Krispos turned back to Mavros. “I think I’ll use the wedding to declare you Sevastos.”

  “You will? Me?” Mavros was in his mid-twenties, a few years younger than Krispos, and had a more openly excitable temperament. Now he could not keep his surprised delight from showing. “When did you decide to do that?”

  “I’ve been thinking about it ever since this crown landed on my head. You act as my chief minister, so you should have the title that says what you do. And the wedding will be a good public occasion to give it to you.”

  Mavros bowed. “One of these days,” he said slyly, “you ought to tell your face what you’re thinking, so it’ll know, too.”

  “Oh, go howl,” Krispos said. “Naming you Sevastos will also make you rich, even apart from what you stand to inherit. It’ll also set you up as my heir if I die without one.” As he said that, he wondered again whether Dara’s child was his. He suspected—he feared—he would keep on wondering until the baby came, and perhaps for years afterward as well.

  “I see that, since you’re Emperor, you don’t have to listen to people anymore,” Mavros said. Realizing he hadn’t been listening and had missed something, Krispos felt himself flush. With the air of someone doing an unworthy subject a great favor, Mavros repeated himself. “I said that if you die without an heir, it will likely mean you’ve lost a civil war, in which case I’ll be a head shorter myself and in no great position to assume the throne.”

  In his breezy way, Mavros had probably hit truth there, Krispos thought. He said, “If you don’t want the honor, I could bestow it on Iakovitzes.”

  They both laughed. Mavros said, “I’ll take it, then, just to save you from that. With his gift for getting people furious at him, you’d lose any civil war where he was on your side, because no one else would be.” Then, as if afraid Krispos might take him seriously, he added, “He is in the wedding party, isn’t he?”