“May it be so,” Zaidas said.
“Due east, you say?” Krispos went on musingly. “They’d be somewhere not far from, hmm, Aptos, I’d say. Is that about right?”
“Given where we are now—” The mage frowned in concentration, then nodded. “Somewhere not far from there, yes.”
“Uh, Father…?” Phostis began in a tentative voice.
He hadn’t sounded tentative since he’d escaped from the Thanasioi. Krispos gave him a curious look, wondering why he did now. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Uh,” Phostis said again. By the hangdog look on his face, he regretted having spoke up. He needed a very visible rally before he continued. “When I had to go out on that Thanasiot raiding party, Father—remember? I told you of that.”
“I remember,” Krispos said. He also remembered what a turn news of Phostis’ movement had given him, and how much he’d feared the youth really had decided to follow the gleaming path.
“When I was on that raid,” Phostis resumed, “to my shame, I had to join in attacking a monastery. I know I wounded one of the holy monks; if I hadn’t, he’d have broken my bones with his cudgel. And my torch was one that helped fire the place.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Krispos asked. “Oxeites the patriarch is a better one to hear it if you’re after the forgiveness of your sin.”
“I wasn’t thinking of that so much—more of making amends,” Phostis said. “By your leave, I’d like to set aside a third of my allowance for the next couple of years and devote it to the monastery.”
“You don’t need my leave; the gold I give you each month is yours to do with as you will,” Krispos said. “But this I will say to you: I’m proud of you for having the idea.” He thought for a moment. “So you’d give them eighty goldpieces a year, would you? How would it be if I matched that?”
He watched Phostis’ face catch fire. “Thank you, Father! That would be wonderful.”
“I’ll leave my name off the money,” Krispos said. “Let them think it all comes from you.”
“Uh,” Phostis said for a third time. “I hadn’t planned on putting my name on, either.”
“Really?” Krispos said. “The most holy Oxeites would tell you an anonymous gift finds twice as much favor with Phos as the other kind, for it must be given for its own sake rather than to gain acclaim. I don’t know about that, but I admit it sounds reasonable. I know I’m all the prouder of you, though.”
“You know, you tell me that now twice in the space of a couple of minutes, but I’m not sure you ever said it to me before,” Phostis said.
Had he spoken with intent to wound, he would have infuriated Krispos. But he had the air of a man just stating a fact. And it was a fact; Krispos’ memory confirmed that too well. He hung his head. “You shame me.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“I know,” Krispos said. “That makes it worse.”
Sarkis rode up then, rather to Krispos’ relief. After saluting, the cavalry general asked, “Now that the heretics are drawing near, shall we send out scouts to learn exactly where they are?”
Instead of answering at once, Krispos turned to Phostis. “Your store of wisdom seems bigger than usual this morning. What would you do?”
“Urk,” Phostis said.
Krispos shook a finger at him. “You have to answer without the foolish noises. When the red boots are on your feet, these are the questions you must deal with. You can’t waste time, either.” He studied the youth, wondering how he’d do.
As if to redeem that startled squawk, Phostis made his voice as deep and serious as he could: “Were the command mine, I’d say no. We’re tracking the Thanasioi well by magic, so why let them blunder against our men before the last possible moment? If Zaidas’ magic has worked as well as he hopes, Artapan should be nearly blind to us. The more surprise we have, the better.”
Sarkis glanced toward Krispos. The Avtokrator spoke six words: “As he said, for his reasons.” Phostis looked even more pleased at that indirect praise than he had when Krispos said he was proud of him.
“Aye, it does make sense.” Sarkis chuckled. “Your Majesty, you were a pretty fair strategist yourself before you really knew what you were doing. It must run in the blood.”
“Well, maybe.” Krispos and Phostis said it in the same breath and in the same tone. They looked at each other. The Avtokrator started to laugh. A moment later, so did Phostis. Neither one seemed able to stop.
Now Sarkis studied them as if wondering whether they’d lost their wits. “I didn’t think it was that funny,” he said plaintively.
“Maybe it’s not,” Krispos said.
“On the other hand, maybe it is,” Phostis said. Thinking back to the grueling and in the end uncertain talk they’d had a few nights before, the Avtokrator found himself nodding. If they could laugh about it, that probably boded well for the future.
“I still say you’ve gone mad in the morning,” Sarkis rumbled. “I’ll try one of you or the other this afternoon and see if you make any sense then.” He rode off, beak of a nose in the air.
THE TENT WAS SMALL AND CLOSE. THE WARM NIGHT MADE IT seem even closer. So did the stink of hot tallow from the candle stuck in the ground where its flame couldn’t reach anything burnable. As she had for the past several nights, Olyvria asked, “What did you go back to talk about with your father?”
“I don’t want to tell you,” Phostis said. He’d been saying that ever since he’d come back from Krispos’ pavilion. It was not an answer calculated to stifle curiosity, but he knew no better to give.
“Why don’t you?” Olyvria demanded. “If it had to do with me, I have a right to know.”
“It had nothing to do with you.” Phostis had repeated that a good many times, too. It was even true. The only trouble was, Olyvria didn’t believe him.
Tonight she seemed to have decided to argue like a canon lawyer. “Well, if it has nothing to do with me, then what possible harm could there be to my knowing it?” She grinned smugly, pleased with herself; she’d put him in a logician’s classic double bind.
But he refused to be bound. “If it were your business, I wouldn’t have wanted the talk to be private.”
“That’s not right.” She glared, angry now.
“I think it is.” Phostis didn’t want anyone wondering who his father was. He wished he didn’t have to wonder himself. One person could keep a secret—Krispos had, after all. Two people might keep a secret. More than two people…he supposed it was possible, but it didn’t seem likely.
“Why won’t you tell me?” Olyvria tried a new tack. “You’ve given me no reason.”
“If I tell you why I won’t tell you, that would be about the same as telling you.” Phostis had to listen to that sentence again in his head before he was sure it had come out the way he wanted it. He went on, “It has nothing to do with you and me.”
“What you talked about may not have, but that you won’t tell me certainly does.” Olyvria needed a moment’s hesitation, too. “What could you possibly want to keep to yourself that way?”
“It’s none of your concern.” Phostis ground out the words one at a time. Olyvria glowered at him. He glowered back; these arguments got him angry, too. His hissed exhale was almost a snarl. He said, “All right, by the good god, I’ll tell you what: suppose you go over to the Avtokrator’s pavilion and ask him. If he doesn’t mind telling you what we talked about, I suppose it’s all right with me.”
She had spirit. He’d known that from the day he first encountered her, naked and lovely and tempting, under Videssos the city. For a moment he thought she’d do as he’d dared and storm out of the tent. He wondered what Krispos would make of that, how he’d handle it.
But even Olyvria’s nerve could fray. She said, “It’s not just that he’s your father—he’s the Avtokrator, too.”
“I know,” Phostis said dryly. “I’ve had to deal with that my whole life. You’d best get used to it, too. Phos is the only true
judge, of course, but my guess is that he’ll be Avtokrator a good many years yet.”
Videssian history knew instances of imperial heirs who grew impatient waiting for their fathers to die and helped the process along. It also knew rather more instances of impatient imperial heirs who tried to help the process along, failed, and never, ever got a second chance. Phostis had no interest in raising a sedition against Krispos for, among others, the most practical of good reasons: he was convinced the Avtokrator would smell out the plot and use him for it as a failed rebel deserved. He counted himself lucky that Krispos had forgiven him after his involuntary sojourn among the Thanasioi.
Probing still, Olyvria said, “Is it something that discredits you or your father? Is that why you don’t want to talk about it?”
“I won’t answer questions like that, either,” Phostis said. Not answering was another trick he’d learned from Krispos. If you started responding the questions around the edge of the one you didn’t want to discuss, before long the exact shape and size of the answer to that one came clear.
“I think you’re being hateful,” Olyvria said.
Phostis stared down his nose at her. It wasn’t quite as long and impressive as Krispos’, but it served well enough. “I’m doing what I think I need to do. You’re Livanios’ daughter, but no one has tried to tear out of you any of his secrets that you didn’t care to give. Seems to me I ought to be allowed a secret or two of my own.”
“It just strikes me as foolish, that’s all,” Olyvria said. “How could telling whatever it is possibly hurt you?”
“Maybe it couldn’t,” Phostis said, though he wondered how much hay Evripos might make out of knowing how uncertain his paternity was. Then he started to laugh.
“What’s funny?” Olyvria’s voice turned dangerous. “You’re not laughing at me, are you?”
Phostis drew the sun-circle over his heart. “By the good god, I swear I’m not.” His obvious sincerity mollified Olyvria. Better still, he’d not taken a false oath. When he thought of Evripos making hay, whose perspective was he borrowing but that of Krispos the ex-peasant? Even if Krispos hadn’t sired him, he’d certainly shaped the way he thought, at levels so deep Phostis rarely noticed them.
Olyvria remained mulish. “How can I trust you if you keep secrets from me?”
“If you don’t think you can trust me, you should have let me put you ashore at some deserted beach.” Now Phostis grew angry. “And if you still don’t trust me, I daresay my father will give you a safe conduct to leave camp and go back to Etchmiadzin or wherever else you’d like.”
“No, I don’t want that.” Olyvria studied him curiously. “You’re not the same as you were last summer under the temple or even last fall after you—came to Etchmiadzin. Then you weren’t sure of what you wanted or how to go about getting it. You’re harder now—and don’t make lewd jokes. You trust your own judgment more than you did before.”
“Do I?” Phostis thought about it. “Perhaps I do. I’d better, don’t you think? In the end, it’s all I have.”
“I hadn’t thought you could be so stubborn,” Olyvria said. “Now that I know, I’ll have to deal with you a little differently.” She laughed in small embarrassment. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. It sounds as if I’m giving away some special womanly secret.”
“No, I don’t think so,” Phostis said; he was happy to steer the conversation away from what he and Krispos had talked about. “Men also have to change the way they treat women as they come to know them better—or so I’m finding out, anyway.”
“You don’t mean men, you mean you,” Olyvria said with a catlike pounce. Phostis spread his hands, conceding the point. He didn’t mind yielding on small things if that let him keep hold of the big ones. He slowly nodded—Krispos would have handled this the same way.
Someone rode up to the nearby imperial pavilion in a tearing hurry. A moment later, Krispos started yelling for Sarkis. Not long after that, the Avtokrator and his general both yelled for messengers. And not long after that, the whole camp started stirring, though it had to be well into the third hour of the night.
“What do you suppose that’s all about?” Olyvria asked.
Phostis had an idea of what it might be about, but before he could answer, someone called from outside the tent, “Are you two decent in there?”
Olyvria looked offended. Phostis didn’t—he recognized the voice. “Aye, decent enough,” he called back. “Come on in, Katakolon.”
His younger brother pushed aside the entry flap. “If you are decent, you’ve probably been listening to all the fuss outside.” Katakolon’s eyes gleamed with excitement.
“So we have,” Phostis said. “What is it? Have scouts brought back word that they’ve run into the Thanasioi?”
“Oh, to the ice with you,” Katakolon said indignantly. “I was hoping to bring a surprise, and here you’ve gone and figured it out.”
“Never mind that,” Phostis said. “The fuss means we fight tomorrow?”
“Aye,” Katakolon answered. “We fight tomorrow.”
Chapter XII
KATAKOLON POINTED TO THE RISING CLOUD OF DUST AHEAD. “Soon now, Father,” he said.
“Aye, very soon,” Krispos agreed. Through the dust, the early morning sun sparkled off the iron heads of arrows and javelins, off chain mail shirts, off the polished edges of sword blades. The Thanasioi were hurrying through the pass, heading back toward Etchmiadzin after a raid that had spanned most of the length of the westlands.
Sarkis said, “Now, Your Majesty?”
Krispos tasted the moment. “Aye, now.” he said.
Sarkis waved. Quietly, without the trumpet calls that usually would have ordered them into action, two regiments of cavalry rode up the pass from the imperial lines. Sarkis’ grin filled his fat face. “That should give them something new to think about. If Zaidas spoke truly, they don’t know we’re anywhere nearby, let alone in front of them.”
“I hope he spoke truly,” Krispos said. “I think he did. By all the signs his magic could give, their Makuraner mage is altogether stifled.”
“The good god grant it be so,” Sarkis said. “I have no love for Makuraners; every so often they take it into their heads that the princes of Vaspurakan should be forced to reverence their Prophets Four rather than Phos.”
“One day, maybe, Videssos can do something about that,” Krispos said. The Empire, he thought, ought to protect all those who followed the lord with the great and good mind. But Vaspurakan had lain under the rule of the King of Kings of Makuran for a couple of hundred years.
“Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, but I’d sooner we were free altogether,” Sarkis said. “Likely your hierarchs would make spiritual masters no more pleasant than the men from Mashiz. Your folk would be as harsh on us as heretics as the Makuraners are on us as infidels.”
“Seems to me you’re both quarreling over the taste of a loaf you don’t have,” Katakolon said.
Krispos laughed. “You’re probably right, son—no, you are right.” Then in the distance, shouts said that the Thanasioi and the regiments Krispos had sent out to delay them were knocking heads.
This time, Krispos waved. Now trumpets and drums and pipes rang loud. The imperial force that had been aligned parallel to the direction of the pass swung in a great left wheel to block its mouth and keep the heretics from breaking through.
As the imperials raised their own dust and then as they came into view, the shouts from the Thanasioi got louder. Their red banners waved furiously. They might have been taken by surprise, but there was no quit in them. On they came, driving the lead regiments back on the main body of Krispos’ force.
The Avtokrator, who now stood at his army’s extreme right rather than to the fore, admired the bravery of the Thanasioi. He would have admired it even more had it been aimed at the Empire’s foreign enemies rather than against him.
Phostis tapped him on the shoulder, pointing to the center of the heretics’ line. “That�
�s Livanios, Father: the fellow in the gilded shirt between those two flags there.”
Krispos’ eye followed Phostis’ finger. “I see the man you mean. His helm is gilded, too, isn’t it? For someone who leads a heresy where all men are condemned to the least they can stand, he likes imperial trappings well, doesn’t he?”
“He does,” Phostis agreed. “That’s one of the reasons I decided I couldn’t stomach the Thanasioi: too much hypocrisy there for me to stand.”
“I see,” Krispos said slowly. Had Livanios been a sincere fanatic rather than an opportunist, then, he might have used Phostis’ self-righteousness to draw him deep into the Thanasiot movement. But a sincerely destructive fanatic would not have gone after the imperial mint at Kyzikos. Had Krispos needed any further explication of Livanios’ character, that raid would have given it to him.
Which was not to say he lacked courage. He threw himself into the thick of the fighting, flinging javelins and slashing with his saber when the battle came to close quarters.
It was, to all appearances, a fight devoid of tactical subtlety. The Thanasioi wanted to break through the imperial line; Krispos’ soldiers aimed to keep them bottled up inside the pass. They plied the heretics with arrows from a line several men deep. Even when the first ranks had to struggle hand to hand, those behind them kept shooting at the Thanasioi who piled up ever tighter against the barrier the imperials had formed.
Fewer Thanasioi were archers. In any case, archery by itself would not sweep aside Krispos’ men. In spite of the galling wounds they received, the heretics charged again and again, seeking to hew a path through their foes. “The path!” they cried. “The gleaming path!”
Along with trying to break through in the center, the Thanasioi also sent wave after wave of fighters against Krispos and his retinue. With their shields, mail shirts, and heavy axes, the Halogai stood like a dam between the Avtokrator and the fighters who sought to lay him low. But the northerners could not hold all arrows away from him. He had a shield of his own, and needed it to protect his face.
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