Despite the worry that gnawed at him, Krispos carried on with the routine business of the Empire. Indeed, he threw himself into it; the busier he was, the less chance he had to notice Petronas was still free.
He also wasted no time in organizing the synod that would ratify his choice of Pyrrhos to succeed Gnatios as ecumencial patriarch. That was connected to Petronas’ disappearance, but gave Krispos satisfaction nonetheless; on Gnatios, at least, he could take proper vengeance.
Yet even the synod proved more complicated than he’d expected. As custom required, he summoned to it abbots and high-ranking priests from the capital, as well as the prelates of the larger suburbs on both sides of the Cattle-Crossing, the strait that separated Videssos the city from its western provinces. Having summoned them, he assumed the rest of the process would be a formality. After all, as Avtokrator he headed the ecclesiastical hierarchy no less than he did the state.
But many of the prelates who gathered at his command in the chapel in the palace quarter owed their own appointments to Gnatios, were of his moderate theological bent, and did not take kindly to choosing the head of the more zealous faction to replace him.
“May it please Your Majesty,” said Savianos, prelate of the western suburb known simply as Across because it lay directly opposite Videssos the city, “but the abbot Pyrrhos, holy though he is, is also a man of harsh and severe temper, perhaps not ideally suited to administering all aspects of ecclesiastical affairs.” By the way Savianos’ bushy eyebrows twitched, he would have said a good deal more than that had he dared. Talking to his fellow clerics, he probably had said a good deal more than that.
Krispos said politely, “I have, after all, submitted three names to this holy synod.” He and all the clerics knew he’d done so only because the law required it of him. Moreover, he’d taken no chances with his other two candidates.
Savianos understood that, too. “Oh, aye, Your Majesty, Traianos and Rhepordenes are very pious,” he said. Now his eyebrows leapt instead of twitching. The two clerics, one the prelate of the provincial town of Develtos, the other an abbot in the semidesert far southwest, were fanatical enough to make even Pyrrhos seem mild by comparison.
“Never having known discipline, the holy Savianos may fear it more than is warranted,” observed a priest named Lournes, one of Pyrrhos’ backers. “The experience, though novel, should prove salutary.”
“To the ice with you,” Savianos snapped.
“You are the one who will know the ice,” Lournes retorted. The clerics on either side yelled and shook their fists at those on the other. Krispos had seen little of prelates till now, save in purely ceremonial roles. Away from such ceremony, he discovered, they seemed men like any others, if louder than most.
He listened for a little while, then slammed the flat of his hand down on the table in front of him. Into sudden quiet he said, “Holy sirs, I didn’t think I’d need the Halogai to keep you from one another’s throats.” The hierarchs looked briefly shamefaced. He went on. “If you reckon the holy Pyrrhos a heretic or an enemy of the faith, do your duty, vote him down, and give the blue boots to one of the other men I’ve offered you. If not, make that plain with your vote, as well.”
“May it please Your Majesty,” Savianos said, “my questions about the holy Pyrrhos do not pertain to his orthodoxy; though I love him not, I will confess he is most perfectly orthodox. I only fear that he will not recognize as orthodox anyone who fails to share his beliefs to the last jot and tittle.”
“That is as it should be,” said Visandos, an abbot who supported Pyrrhos. “The truth being by definition unique, any deviation from it is unacceptable.”
Savianos shot back, “The principle of theological economy grants latitude of opinion on issues not relating directly to the destination of one’s soul, as you know perfectly well.”
“No issue is unrelated to the destination of one’s soul,” Visandos said. The ecclesiastics started yelling louder than ever.
Krispos whacked the table again. Silence came more slowly this time, but he eventually won it. He said, “Holy sirs, you have more wisdom than I in these matters, but I did not summon you here to discuss them. Gnatios has shown himself a traitor to me. I need a patriarch I can rely on. Will you give him to me?”
Since even Savianos had admitted Pyrrhos was orthodox, the result of the synod was a foregone conclusion. And since no cleric cared to risk the Avtokrator’s wrath, the vote for Pyrrhos was unanimous. The priests and abbots began arguing all over again, though, as they filed out of the chapel.
As Savianos rose to depart, he told Krispos, “Majesty, I pray that you always recall we did this only at your bidding.”
“Why? Do you think I will regret it?” Krispos said.
Savianos did not reply, but his eyebrows were eloquent.
In spite of the prelate’s forebodings, Krispos remained convinced he had done a good day’s work. But his satisfaction lasted only until he finished the walk from the chapel to the imperial residence. There he found an imperial courier waiting for him. The man’s face was drawn with fatigue and pain; a bloodstained bandage wrapped his left shoulder.
Looking at him, Krispos wondered where disaster had struck now. The last time a courier had waited for him like this, it was with word that Harvas Black-Robe’s savage followers had destroyed the village where he’d grown up and that his sister, brother-in-law, and two nieces were gone forever. Did this man bring more bad news from the north, or had things gone wrong in the west?
“You’d best tell me,” Krispos said quietly.
The courier saluted like a soldier, setting his clenched right fist over his heart. “Aye, Your Majesty. The troops you sent to Petronas’ estates—well, sir, they found him there. And their captain and most of the men…” He paused, shook his head, and went on as he had to: “They went over to him, sir. A few fled that night. I heard what happened from one of those. We were being pursued; we separated to try to make sure one of us got to you with the news. I see I’m the first, sir. I’m sorry.”
Krispos did his best to straighten his face; he hadn’t realized he’d let his dismay show. “Thank you for staying loyal and bringing it to me…” He paused to let the courier give his name.
“I’m called Themistios, Your Majesty,” the fellow said, saluting again.
“I’m in your debt, Themistios. First find yourself a healer-priest and have that shoulder seen to.” Krispos pulled a three-leafed tablet from the pouch on his belt. He used a stylus to write an order. Then he drew out the imperial sunburst seal and pushed it into the wax below what he had written. He closed the tablet, handing it to Themistios. “Take this to the treasury. They’ll give you a pound of gold. And if anyone tries to keep you from getting it, find out his name and give it to me. He won’t try twice, I promise.”
Themistios bowed. “I was afraid my head might answer for bringing you bad news, Your Majesty. I didn’t expect to be rewarded for it.”
“Why not?” Krispos said. “How soon good news comes makes no difference; good news takes care of itself. But the sooner I hear of anything bad, the longer I have to do something about it. Now go find a healer-priest, as I told you. You look as if you’re about to fall over where you stand.”
Themistios saluted once more and hurried away. One of the Halogai with Krispos asked, “Now that you know where Petronas is, Majesty, and now you have longer to do something about it, what will you do?”
Krispos had always admired the big, fair-haired barbarians’ most un Videssian way of coming straight to the point. He did his best to match it. “I aim to go out and fight him, Vagn.”
Vagn and the rest of the guardsmen shouted approval, raising their axes high. Vagn said, “While you were still vestiarios, Majesty, I told you you thought like a Haloga. I am glad to see you do not change now that you are Avtokrator.”
The other northerners loudly agreed. Forgetting Krispos’ imperial dignity, they pounded him on the back and boasted of how they would hack their way
through whatever puny forces Petronas managed to gather, and how they would chop the rebel himself into pieces small enough for dogs to eat. “Small enough for baby dogs,” Vagn declared grandly. “For puppies straight from bitches’ teats.”
For as long as he listened to them, Krispos grinned and, buoyed by their ferocity, almost believed disposing of Petronas would be as easy as they thought. But his smile was gone by the time he got to the top of the stairs that led into the imperial residence.
BARSYMES STOOD BEHIND KRISPOS’ BACK, FUMBLING WITH UNFAMILIAR catches. “There,” he said at last. “You look most martial, Your Majesty.”
“I do, don’t I?” Krispos sounded surprised, even to himself. His shoulders tightened to bear the weight of the mail shirt the vestiarios had just finished fastening. He suspected he’d ache by the time he took it off. He had fought before, against Kubrati raiders, but he’d never worn armor.
And such armor! His was no ordinary mail shirt. Even in the pale light that sifted through the alabaster ceiling panels of the imperial residence, its gilding made it gleam and sparkle. When the Avtokrator of the Videssians went on campaign with his troops, no one could doubt for an instant who was in command.
He set his conical helmet on his head, fiddled with it until it fit comfortably over his ears. The helmet was gilded, too, with a real gold circlet soldered around it at about the level of the top of his forehead. His scabbard and sword belt were also gilded, as was the hilt of the sword. About the only things he had that were not gilded were the sword’s blade, his red boots, and the stout spear in his right hand. He’d carried that spear with him when he walked from his native village to Videssos the city. Along with a lucky goldpiece he wore on a chain round his neck, it was all he had left of the place where he’d grown up.
Dara threw her arms around him. Through the mail and the padding beneath it, he could not feel her body. He hugged her, too, gently, so as not to hurt her. “Come back soon and safe,” she said—the same wish women always send with their men who ride to war.
“I’ll come back soon enough,” he answered. “I’ll have to. With summer almost gone, the fighting season won’t last much longer. I only hope I’ll be able to beat Petronas before the rains come and turn the roads to glue.”
“I wish you weren’t going at all,” Dara said.
“So do I.” Krispos still had a peasant farmer’s distaste for soldiering and the destruction it brought. “But the soldiers will perform better under my eye than they would otherwise.” Better than they would under some general who might decide to turn his coat, Krispos meant. The officers of the regiment he would lead out were all of them young and ambitious, men who would rise faster under a young Emperor weeding rebels from the army than they could hope to if an old soldier with old cronies wore the crown. Krispos hoped that would keep them loyal. He avoided thinking about his likely fate if it didn’t.
Dara understood that, too. “The good god keep you.”
“May that prayer fly from your mouth to Phos’ ear.” Krispos walked down the hall toward the doorway. As he passed one of the many imperial portraits that hung on the walls, he paused for a moment. The long-dead Emperor Stavrakios was shown wearing much the same gear Krispos had on. Blade naked in his hand, Stavrakios looked like a soldier; in fact, he looked like one of the veterans who had taught Krispos what he knew of war. Measuring himself against that tough, ready countenance, he felt like a fraud.
Fraud or not, though, he had to do his best. He walked on, pausing in the doorway to let his eyes get used to the bright sunshine outside—and to take a handkerchief from his belt pouch to wipe sweat from his face. In Videssos the city’s humid summer heat, chain mail was a good substitute for a bathhouse steam room.
A company of Halogai, two hundred men strong, saluted with their axes as Krispos appeared. They were fully armored, too, and sweating worse than he was. He wished he could have brought the whole regiment of northerners to the westlands with him; he knew they were loyal. But he had to leave a garrison he could trust in the city, or it might not be his when he returned.
A groom led Progress to the foot of the steps. The big bay gelding stood quietly as Krispos lifted his left foot into the stirrups and swung aboard. He waved to the Halogai. “To the harbor of Kontoskalion,” he called, touching his heels to Progress’ flanks. The horse moved forward at a walk. The imperial guards formed up around Krispos.
People cheered as the Emperor and his Halogai paraded through the plaza of Palamas and onto Middle Street. This time they turned south off the thoroughfare. The sound of the sea, never absent in Videssos the city, grew steadily louder in Krispos’ ears. When he first came to the capital, he’d needed some little while to get used to the endless murmur of waves and their slap against stone. Now he wondered how he would adjust to true quiet once more.
Another crowd waited by the docks, gawking at the Videssian troops drawn up on foot there. Sailors were loading their horses onto big, beamy transports for the trip to the west side of the Cattle-Crossing; every so often, a sharp curse cut through the low-voiced muttering of the crowd. Off to one side, doing their best to look inconspicuous, were Trokoundos and a couple of other wizards.
Along with the waiting soldiers stood the new patriarch Pyrrhos. He raised his hands in benediction as he saw Krispos approach. The soldiers stiffened to attention and saluted. The noise from the crowd got louder. Because the horses did not care that the Emperor had come, the sailors coaxing them onto and along the gangplanks did not care, either.
The Halogai in front of Krispos moved aside to let him ride up to the ecumenical patriarch. Leaning down from the saddle, he told Pyrrhos, “I’m sorry we had to rush the ceremony of your investiture the other day, most holy sir. What with trying to deal with Petronas and everything else, I know I didn’t have time to do it properly.”
Pyrrhos waved aside the apology. “The synod that chose me was well and truly made, Your Majesty,” he said, “so in the eyes of Phos I have been properly chosen. Next to that, the pomp of a ceremony matters not at all; indeed, I am just as well pleased not to have endured it.”
Only so thoroughgoing an ascetic as Pyrrhos could have expressed such an un-Videssian sentiment, Krispos thought; to most imperials, ceremony was as vital as breath. Krispos said, “Will you bless me and my warriors now, most holy sir?”
“I shall bless you, and pray for your victory against the rebel,” Pyrrhos proclaimed, loud enough for the soldiers and city folk to hear. More softly, for Krispos’ ears alone, he went on, “I first blessed you twenty years ago, on the platform in Kubrat. I shall not change my mind now.”
“You and Iakovitzes,” Krispos said, remembering. The noble had gone north to ransom the farmers the Kubratoi had stolen; Pyrrhos and a Kubrati shaman were there to make sure Phos and the nomads’ false gods heard the bargain.
“Aye.” The patriarch touched the head of his staff, a gilded sphere as big as a fist, to Krispos’ shoulder. Raising his voice, he declared, “The Avtokrator of the Videssians is the good god’s vice-regent on earth. Whoso opposes him opposes the will of Phos. Thou conquerest, Krispos!”
“Thou conquerest!” people and soldiers shouted together. Krispos waved in acknowledgment, glad Pyrrhos was unreservedly on his side. Of course, if Petronas ended up beating him, that would only prove Phos’ will had been that he lose, and then Pyrrhos would serve a new master. Or if he refused, it would be from distaste at Petronas’ way of life, not because Petronas had vanquished Krispos. Determining Phos’ will could be a subtle art.
Krispos did not intend that Pyrrhos would have to weigh such subtleties. He aimed to beat Petronas, not to be beaten. He rode down the dock to the Sun-circle, the ship that would carry him across to the westlands. The captain, a short, thickset man named Nikoulitzas, and his sailors came to attention and saluted as Krispos drew near. When he dismounted, a groom hurried forward to take charge of Progress and lead the horse aboard.
Once on the Sun-circle, Progress snorted and roll
ed his eyes, not much caring for the gently shifting planks under his feet. Krispos did not much care for them, either. He’d never been on a ship before. He told his stomach to behave itself; the imperial dignity would not survive hanging over the rail and giving the fish his breakfast. After a few more internal mutterings, his stomach decided to obey.
Nikoulitzas was very tan, but years of sun and sea spray had bleached his hair almost as light as a Haloga’s. Saluting again, he said, “We are ready to sail when you give the word, Your Majesty.”
“Then sail,” Krispos said. “Soonest begun, soonest done.”
“Aye, Your Majesty.” Nikoulitzas shouted orders. The Sun-circle’s crew cast off lines. Along with its sail, the ship had half a dozen oars on each side for getting into and out of harbors. The sailors dug in at them. That changed the motion of the Sun-circle and Progress snorted again and laid his ears back. Krispos spoke soothingly to the horse—and to his stomach. He fed Progress a couple of dried apricots. The horse ate them, then peered at his hands for more. Nothing was wrong with his digestion, at any rate.
The voyage over the Cattle-Crossing took less than half an hour. The Sun-circle beached itself a little north of the western suburb called Across; none of Videssos the city’s suburbs had docks of their own, lest they compete with the capital for trade. The sailors took out a section of rail and ran out the gangplank from the Sun-circle’s gunwale to the sand. Leading Progress by the rein, Krispos walked down to the beach. His feet and the horse’s hooves echoed on the planks.
The rest of the transports went aground to either side of the Sun-circle. Some Halogai had sailed on Krispos’ ship; those who had not hurried up to join their countrymen and form a protective ring around him. The Videssian troops, by contrast, paid more attention to recovering their horses. The afternoon was well along before the regimental commander rode up to Krispos and announced, “We are ready to advance, Your Majesty.”
“Onward, then, Sarkis,” Krispos said.
The Tale of Krispos Page 48