“Don’t like it too well,” Krispos said. “A taste for blood is more expensive than even an emperor can afford.” He realized he laid that on too thick and tried to take some of it off: “But I was glad to see you at the fore. And if you go through the encampments tonight, you’ll find out I wasn’t the only one who noticed.”
“Really?” Krispos could see Evripos wasn’t used to the idea of being a hero. By the way the young man straightened up, though, the notion sat well. “Maybe I’ll do that.”
“Try not to let them get you too drunk,” Krispos warned. “You’re an officer; you need to keep your head clear when you’re in the field.” Evripos nodded. Remembering himself at the same age, Krispos doubted his son would pay the admonition too much heed. But he’d planted it in Evripos’ mind, which was as much as he could do.
He went off to see how Katakolon had fared in his first big fight. His youngest son had already disappeared among the tents of the camp followers, so Krispos silently shelved the lecture on the virtues of moderation. He did seek out a couple of officers who had seen Katakolon in action. By their accounts, he’d fought well enough, though without his brother’s flair. Reassured by that, Krispos decided not to rout him from his pleasures. He’d earned them.
Krispos had urged Evripos to go through the camp to soak up adulation. He made his own second tour for a more pragmatic reason: to gauge the feel of the men after the indecisive fight. He knew a certain amount of relief that none of the regiments had tried to go over to the foe.
A fellow who had his back turned and so did not know the Avtokrator was close by said to his mates, “I tell you, boys, at this rate it’s gonna take us about three days less’n forever to make it to Pityos. If the mud don’t hold us back, mixing it with the cursed heretics will.” His friends nodded in agreement.
Krispos walked away from them less happy than he might have been. He breathed a silent prayer up to Phos that the scouting parties could discover an undefended river crossing. If his men didn’t think they could do what he wanted from them, they were all too likely to prove themselves right.
Even though he’d not fought, himself, the battle left him worn. He fell asleep as soon as he lay down on his cot and did not wake until the gray dawn of another wet day. When he came out of the tent, he wished he’d stayed in bed, for Sarkis greeted him with unwelcome news: “Latest count is, we’ve lost, ah, thirty-seven men, Your Majesty.”
“What do you mean, lost?” Krispos’ wits were not yet at full speed.
The cavalry commander spelled it out in terms he could not misunderstand: “That’s how many slipped out of camp in the night, most likely to throw in with the Thanasioi. The number’ll only grow, too, as all the officers finish morning roll for their companies.” No sooner were the words out of his mouth than a soldier came up to say something to him. He nodded and sent the man away, then turned back to Krispos: “Sorry, Your Majesty. Make that forty-one missing.”
Krispos scowled. “If we have to use half the army to guard the other half, it’ll be only days before we can’t fight with any of it.”
“Aye, that’s so,” Sarkis said. “And how will you be able to tell beforehand which half to use to do the guarding?”
“You have a delightful way of looking at things this morning, don’t you, Sarkis?” Krispos peered up at the sky from under the broad brim of his hat. “You’re as cheery as the weather.”
“As may be. I thought you wanted the men around you to tell you what was so, not what sounded sweet. And I tell you this: if we don’t find a good road forward today—well, maybe tomorrow, but today would be better—this campaign is as dead and stinking as last week’s fish stew.”
“I think you’re right,” Krispos said unhappily. ‘We’ve sent out the scouts; that’s all we can do for now. But if they don’t have any luck…” He left the sentence unfinished, not wanting to give rise to any evil omen.
He sent out more scouting parties after breakfast. They splashed forth, vanishing into rain and swirling mist. Along with Krispos, the rest of the soldiers passed a miserable day, staying under canvas as much as they could, doing their best to keep weapons and armor greased against the ravages of rust, and themselves as warm and dry as they could—which is to say, not very warm and not very dry.
The first scouting parties returned to camp late in the afternoon. One look at their faces gave Krispos the bad news. The captains filled in unpleasant details: streams running high, ground getting boggier by the hour, and Thanasioi out in force at any possible crossing points. “If it could have been done, Your Majesty, we’d have done it,” one of the officers said. “Truth is, it can’t be done, not here, not now.”
Krispos grunted as if kicked in the belly. Agreeing with Sarkis that he wanted to hear from his subjects what was so was one thing. Listening to an unpalatable truth, one that flew in the face of all he wanted, was something else again. But he had not lasted two decades and more on the throne by substituting his desires for reality: another lesson learned from poor wild dead Anthimos.
“We can’t go forward,” he said, and the scout commanders chorused agreement. “The lord with the great and good mind knows we can’t stay here.” This time, if anything, the agreement was louder. Though the bitter words choked him, Krispos said what had to be said: “Then we’ve no choice but to go back to Videssos the city.” The officers agreed once more. That did nothing to salve his feelings.
THE THANASIOI TRAMPING INTO THE KEEP OF ETCHMIADZIN DID not look like an army returning in triumph. Phostis had watched—had taken part in—triumphal processions down Middle Street in Videssos the city, testimonials to the might of his father’s soldiers and to the guile of his father’s generals.
Looking down from his bare little cell in the citadel, he saw none of the gleam and sparkle, none of the arrogance, that had marked the processions with which he was familiar. The fighting men below looked dirty and draggled and tired unto death; several had bandages, clean or not so clean, on arms or legs or heads. And, in fact, they’d not won a battle. In the end, Krispos’ army had forced them back from the position they tried to hold.
But even defeat hadn’t mattered. Instead of pressing forward, the imperial force was on its way back to the capital.
Phostis was still trying to grasp what that meant. He and Krispos had clashed almost every time they spoke to each other. But Phostis, however much he fought with his father, however much he disagreed with much of what he thought his father stood for, could not ignore Krispos’ long record of success. Somewhere down deep, he’d thought Krispos would deal with the Thanasioi as he had with so many other enemies. But no.
The door behind him swung open. He turned away from the window. Syagrios’ grin, always unpleasant, seemed especially so now. “Come on down, you,” the ruffian said. “Livanios wants a word with you, he does.”
Phostis did not particularly want a word with the Thanasiot leader. But Syagrios hadn’t offered him a choice. His watchdog stepped aside to let him go first, not out of deference but to keep Phostis from doing anything behind his back. Being thought dangerous felt good; Phostis would have been even happier had reality supported that thought.
The spiral stair had no banister to grab. If he tripped, he’d roll till he hit bottom. Syagrios, he was sure, would laugh the louder for every bone he broke. He planted his feet with special care, resolved to give Syagrios nothing with which to amuse himself.
As he did every time he came safe to the bottom of the stairs, he breathed a prayer of thanks to Phos. As he also did every time, he made certain no one but he knew it. Through the years, Krispos had gained some important successes simply by not letting on that anything was wrong. Even if the tactic was his father’s, Phostis had seen that it worked.
Livanios was still out in the inner ward, haranguing his troops about the fine showing they’d made. Phostis could wait on his pleasure. Unused to waiting on anyone’s pleasure save his own—and Krispos’—Phostis quietly steamed.
Th
en Olyvria came out of one of the side halls whose twists Phostis was still learning. She smiled and said to him, “You see, the good god himself has blessed the gleaming path with victory. Isn’t it exciting? By being with us as we sweep away the old, you have the chance to fully become the man you were meant to be.”
“I’m not the man I would have been, true,” Photsis said, temporizing. Had he still been back with the army, half his heart, maybe more than half, would have swayed toward the Thanasioi. Now that he was among them, he was surprised to find so much of his heart leaning back the other way. He put it down to the way in which he’d come to Etchmiadzin.
“Now that our brave soldiers have returned, you’ll be able to get out more and see the gleaming path as it truly is,” Olyvria went on. If she’d noticed his lukewarm reply, she ignored it.
Syagrios, worse luck, seemed to notice everything. Grinning his snag-toothed grin, he put in, “You’ll have a tougher time running off, too.”
“The weather’s not suited to running,” Phostis answered as mildly as he could. “Anyhow, Olyvria is right: I do want to watch life along the gleaming path.”
“She’s right about more than that,” Syagrios said. “Your cursed father can’t hurt us the way he thought he could. Come spring, all these lands’ll be flowing smooth as a river under Livanios, you bet they will.”
A river that didn’t flow smooth had won more for the Thanasioi than their soldiers’ might, or so Phostis had heard. He kept that thought to himself, too.
Olyvria said, “It shouldn’t be a matter of running in any case. We won’t speak of that again, for we want you to remain and be contented among us.”
“I’d also like to be contented among you,” Phostis answered. “I hope it proves possible.”
“Oh, so do I!” Olyvria’s face glowed. For about the first time since she’d helped kidnap him, Phostis longingly remembered how she’d looked naked in the lamplight, in the secret chamber under Videssos the city. If he’d gone forward instead of back…
Outside in the inner ward, Livanios finished his speech. The Thanasiot soldiers cheered. Syagrios set a strong hand on Phostis’ arm. “Come on. Now he’ll have time to deal with the likes of you.”
Phostis wanted to jerk away, not just from the contempt in his keeper’s voice but also from being handled as if he were only a slab of meat. Back at the palaces, anyone who touched him like that would be gone inside the hour, and with stripes on his back to reward his insolence. But Phostis wasn’t back at the palaces; every day reminded him of that in a new way.
Olyvria trailed along as Syagrios led him out to Livanios. The Thanasioi who still filled the courtyard made room for the ruffian and for Livanios’ daughter to pass. Phostis they eyed with curiosity: some perhaps wondering who he was; and others, who knew that much, wondering what he was doing here. He wondered what he was doing here himself.
Livanios’ smile instantly changed him from stern soldier to trusted leader. He turned its full warmth on Phostis. “And here’s the young Majesty!” he exclaimed, as if Phostis were sovereign rather than prisoner. “How fare you, young Majesty?”
“Well enough, eminent sir,” Phostis answered. He’d seen courtiers who could match Livanios as chameleons, but few who could top him.
The Thanasiot leader said, “Save your fancy titles for the corrupt old court. I’m but another man making his way along the gleaming path that leads to Phos.”
“Yes, sir,” Phostis said. He noticed Livanios did not reject that title of respect.
“Father, I do think he’ll choose to join you on the gleaming path,” Olyvria said.
“I hope he does,” Livanios said, and then to Phostis: “I hope you do. Our brave and bright warriors surely kept your father from making life difficult for us this year. We have a whole season now in which to build and grow. We’ll use it well, I assure you.”
“I don’t doubt that,” Phostis said. “Your little realm here already reminds me of the way the Empire is run.”
“Does it?” Livanios sounded pleased. “Maybe you can help keep it running as it should, as a matter of fact. Knowing your father, he’s doubtless made sure you have some of the same skills he uses, though now you’d turn them to the cause of righteousness.”
“Well, yes, some,” Phostis said, not caring to admit he’d disliked and scanted administering imperial affairs. He wanted Livanios to think of him as someone useful, not as foe or a potential rival to be disposed of.
“Good, good.” Livanios beamed. “We’ll yet scour greed and miserliness and false doctrine from the face of the earth, and usher in such a reign of virtue that Phos’ triumph over Skotos will be soon and certain.”
Olyvria clapped her hands in delight at the vision her father put forward. It excited Phostis, too; this was the way Digenis had spoken. Before, Livanios had seemed more an officer out for his own advantage than someone truly committed to Thanasios’ preaching. If he meant to put it into effect, Phostis would have more reason to think hard about fully binding himself to the movement.
Syagrios said, “We’ll hit the imperials some more licks, too. I want to be in on that, by the good god.”
“There’ll be slaughter aplenty for you, never fear,” Livanios told him. Phostis’ newly fired zeal chilled as suddenly as it had heated. How, he wondered, could you get rid of greed and at the same time maintain a red zest for slaughter? And how could the gleaming path simultaneously contain both righteousness and Syagrios?
One thing was clear: he’d have time to find out. Now that his father’s push had failed, he’d stay among the Thanasioi indefinitely. Had he really wanted that as much as he’d thought before he got it? He’d find that out, too.
Chapter VI
KRISPOS PACED THE PALACE CORRIDORS LIKE A CAGED ANIMAL. The fall rains were done; now sleet and snow came down from the cold gray heavens. The occasional clear days or even, once or twice, clear weeks were salt in his wounds: If they but lasted, he could fare forth once more against the Thanasioi.
One long stretch of good weather sorely tempted him, but he restrained himself: he knew too well it would not hold. But each successive bright morning gave a fresh twist of the knife. That once, he welcomed the blizzard that blew in. Though it trapped him, it let him feel sagacious.
Now Midwinter’s Day, the day of the winter solstice, drew near. Krispos ticked off the passing days on the calendar one by one, but somehow they raced too swiftly even so. He faced the coming solstice with more resignation than joy. Midwinter’s Day was the greatest festival of the religious year, but he found himself in no mood to celebrate.
Not even previewing the mime troupes that would perform in the Amphitheater restored his good humor. Among other things, Midwinter’s Day gave folk more license than any other festival, and a good many of the skits poked fun at him for failing to put down the Thanasioi. More than one teased him for losing Phostis, too.
Not only would he have to watch this foolishness from the imperial box on the spine of the Amphitheater, he’d have to be seen to laugh. An Avtokrator who couldn’t take what the mimes dished out quickly forfeited the city mob’s fickle favor.
He took advantage of the imperial dignity to complain loud and often. At last Mystakon, the eunuch chamberlain who had most often served Phostis, said, “May it please Your Majesty, I am of the opinion that the young Majesty, were he able, would gladly assume the duty you find onerous.”
Krispos felt his cheeks flame. “Yes, no doubt you’re right,” he mumbled. After that, he bottled his forebodings up inside himself.
Perhaps in one of Barsymes’ efforts to cheer him, the serving maid Drina showed up in his bed again after a particularly trying day. This time he actively wanted her, or at least his mind did. His body, however, failed to rise to the occasion despite her ingenuity.
When it became clear nothing was going to happen, she said, “Now don’t you fret, Your Majesty. It happens to everyone now and again.” She spoke so matter-of-factly, he got the idea she was tal
king from experience. She added, “I’ll tell you something else, too: you foolish men make more of a much about it than women ever do. It’s just one of those things.”
“Just one of those things,” Krispos echoed between clenched teeth. Drina wrapped a robe around her and slipped out of the imperial bedchamber, leaving him alone in the darkness. “Just one of those things,” he repeated, staring up at the ceiling. “Just one more thing that doesn’t work.”
Maybe Drina knew better than to gossip, or maybe—and more likely, given the way news of any sort raced through the palaces—the servitors knew better than to show the Avtokrator they knew anything. Back in his own days as vestiarios, he’d chattered about Anthimos, though never where Anthimos could listen. At any rate, he heard no sniggers, which relieved him in a way altogether different from the one he’d sought with Drina.
Compared to failing in bed, the ordeal of facing public mockery on Midwinter’s Day suddenly seemed much more bearable. When the day finally dawned, cold and clear, he let Barsymes pour him into his finest ceremonial robe as if it were chain mail to armor him against the taunts he expected.
The procession from the palaces to the Amphitheater took him past bonfires blazing in the plaza of Palamas. People dressed in their holiday best—women with lace at their throat and ankles, perhaps with a couple of bodice buttons undone or skirts slit to show off a pretty calf; men in robes with fur collars and cuffs—leapt over the fires, shouting “Burn, ill-luck!”
“Go on, Your Majesty, if you care to,” Barsymes urged. “It will make you feel better.”
But Krispos shook his head. “I’ve seen too much to believe ill-luck’s so easy to get rid of, worse luck for me.”
Preceded by the dozen parasol-bearers protocol required, flanked by bodyguards, the Avtokrator crossed the racetrack that circled the floor of the Amphitheater and took his place on the seat at the center of the spine. Looking up to the top of the great oval was like looking up from the bottom of a soup tureen, save that the Amphitheater was filled with people, not soup. To the folk in the top rows, Krispos could have been only a scarlet dot; to anyone shortsighted up there, he was surely invisible.
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