He rode as if blithely unaware of that, waving to the people as Krispos and Phostis had before him. The guardsmen who had surrounded him took their places with their countrymen while he climbed up to stand by Phostis and Olyvria.
Without turning his head toward Phostis, he said, “They’re not pleased that I didn’t give them all a kiss and send them to bed with a mug of milk and a spiced bun. Well, I wasn’t any too pleased that they did their best to bring the city down around my ears.”
“I can understand that,” Phostis answered, also looking straight ahead.
Evripos’ lip curled. “And you, brother, you come through this everyone’s hero. You’ve married the beautiful girl, like someone out of a romance. Hardly seems fair, somehow.” He did not try to hide his bitterness.
“To the ice with the romances,” Phostis said, but that wasn’t what was bothering Evripos, and he knew it.
The low-voiced argument stopped then, because someone else ascended to the platform: Iakovitzes, gorgeous in robes just short in imperial splendor. He would not make a speech, of course, not without a tongue, but he had served in so many different roles during Krispos’ reign that excluding him would have seemed unnatural.
He smiled at Olyvria, politely enough but without real interest. As he walked past Phostis and Evripos toward Krispos, he managed to pat each of them on the behind. Olyvria’s eyes went wide. The two brothers looked at Iakovitzes, looked at each other, and started to laugh. “He’s been doing that for as long as we’ve been alive,” Phostis said.
“For a lot longer than that,” Evripos said. “Father always tells of how Iakovitzes tried to seduce him when he was a boy, and then later when he was a groom in Iakovitzes’ service, and even after he donned the red boots.”
“He knows we care nothing for men,” Phostis said. “If we ever made as if we wanted to go along, the shock might kill him. He’s anything but young, even if he dyes his hairs and powders over his wrinkles to try to hide his years.”
“I don’t think you’re right, Phostis,” Evripos said. “If he thought we wanted to go along, he’d have our robes up and our drawers down before we could say ‘I was only joking.’”
Phostis considered. “You may have something there.” On a matter like that, he was willing to concede a point to his brother.
Olyvria stared at both of them, then at Iakovitzes. “That’s—terrible,” she exclaimed. “Why does your father keep him around?”
She made the mistake of speaking as if Iakovitzes couldn’t hear her. He strolled back toward her, smiling now in a way that said he meant mischief. Alarmed, Phostis tried to head him off. Iakovitzes opened the tablet he always carried, wrote rapidly on the wax, and showed it to Phostis. “Does she read?”
“Yes, of course she does,” Phostis said, whereupon Iakovitzes pushed past him toward Olyvria, scribbling as he walked.
He handed her the tablet. She took it with some apprehension, read aloud: “His Majesty keeps me around, as you say, for two reasons: first, because I am slyer than any three men you can name, including your father before and after he lost his head; and second, because he knows I would never try to seduce any wives of the imperial family.”
Iakovitzes’ smile got wider, and therefore more unnerving. He took back the tablet and started away. “Wait,” Olyvria said sharply. Iakovitzes turned back, stylus poised like a sting. Phostis started to step between them again. But Olyvria said, “I wanted to apologize. I was cruel without thinking.”
Iakovitzes chewed on that. He scribbled again, then proffered the tablet to her with a bow. Phostis looked over her shoulder. Iakovitzes had written, “So was I, to speak of your father so. In my book, the honors—or rather, dishonors—are even.”
To Phostis’ relief, Olyvria said, “Let it be so.” Generations of sharp wits had picked quarrels with Iakovitzes, generally to end up in disarray. Phostis was glad Olyvria did not propose to make the attempt.
Iakovitzes nodded and walked back to Krispos’ side. The Avtokrator held up a hand, waited for quiet. It came slowly, but did at length arrive. Into it Krispos said, “Let us have peace: peace in Videssos the city, peace in the Empire of Videssos. Civil war is nothing the Empire needs. The lord with the great and good mind knows I undertook it unwillingly. Only when those who followed what they called the gleaming path rose in rebellion, first in the westlands and then here in Videssos the city, did I take up arms against them.”
“Does that mean your father would have let the Thanasioi alone if they’d been quiet, peaceful heretics?” Olyvria asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe,” Phostis said. “He’s never persecuted the Vaspurakaners, that’s certain.” Phostis puzzled over that: Krispos always said religious unity was vital to holding the Empire together, but he didn’t necessarily practice what he preached. Was that hypocrisy, or just pragmatism? Phostis couldn’t answer, not without more thought.
He’d missed a few sentences. Krispos was saying “—shall rebuild the city so that no one may know it has come to harm. We shall rebuild the fabric of our lives in the same fashion. It will not be quick, not all of it, but Videssos is no child, to need everything on the instant. What we do, we do for generations.”
Phostis still had trouble thinking in those terms. Next year felt a long way away to him; worrying about what would happen when his grandchildren were old felt as strange as worrying about what was on the other side of the moon.
He’d fallen behind again. “—but so long as you live at peace with one another, you need not fear spies will seek you out to do you harm,” Krispos declared.
“What about tax collectors?” a safely anonymous wit roared from the crowd.
Krispos took no notice of him. “People of the city,” he said earnestly, “if you so choose, you can be at one another’s throats for longer than you care to imagine. If you start feuds now, they may last for generations after you are gone. I pray to Phos this does not happen.” He let iron show in his voice: “I do not intend to let it happen. If you try to fight among yourselves, first you must overcome the soldiers of the Empire. I say this as warning, not as threat. My view is that we have had enough of strife. May we be free of it for years to come.”
He did not say “forever,” Phostis noted, and wondered why. He decided Krispos didn’t believe such things endured forever. By everything the Avtokrator had shown, he worked to build a framework for what would come after him, but did not necessarily expect that framework to become a solid wall: he knew too well that history gave no assurance of success.
“We shall rebuild, as I said, and we shall go on,” Krispos said. “Together, we shall do as well as we can for as long as we can. The good god knows we can do no more.” He stepped back on the platform, his speech done.
Applause filled the plaza of Palamas, more than polite, less than ecstatic. Along with Olyvria and Evripos, Phostis joined it. As well as we can for as long as we can, he thought. If Krispos had picked a phrase to summarize himself, he couldn’t have found a better one.
THOUGH KRISPOS WAVED FOR HIM NOT TO BOTHER, BARSYMES performed a full proskynesis. “I welcome you back to the imperial residence, Your Majesty,” he said from the pavement. Then, still spry, he rose as gracefully as he had prostrated himself and added, “The truth is, life is on the boring side here when you take the field.”
Krispos snorted. “I’m glad to be back, then, if only to give you something interesting to do.”
“The cooks are also glad you’ve returned,” the vestiarios said.
“They’re looking for a chance to spread themselves, you mean,” Krispos said. “Too bad. They can wait until the next time I dine with Iakovitzes; he’ll appreciate it properly. As for me, I’ve got used to eating like a soldier. A bowl of stew, a heel of bread, and a mug of wine will suit me nicely.”
Barsymes’ shoulders moved slightly in what would have been a sigh in someone less exquisitely polite than the eunuch. “I shall inform the kitchens of your desires,” he said. “The cooks will be disa
ppointed, but perhaps not surprised. You have a habit of acting thus whenever you return from campaign.”
“Do I?” Krispos said, irked at being so predictable. He was tempted to demand a fancy feast just to keep people guessing about him. The only trouble was, he really did want stew.
Barsymes said, “Perhaps Your Majesty will not take it too much amiss if the stew be of lobster and mullet, though I know that diverges from what the army cooks ladled into your bowl.”
“Perhaps I won’t,” Krispos admitted. “I did miss seafood.” Barsymes nodded in satisfaction; Krispos might rule the Empire, but the vestiarios held sway here. Unlike some vestiarioi, he had the sense not to flaunt his power or push it beyond its limits—or perhaps he had simply decided Krispos would not let him get away with the liberties some vestiarioi had taken.
“The hour remains young,” Barsymes said after a glance at the shadows. “Would Your Majesty care for an early supper?”
“Thank you, no,” Krispos said. “I could plunge into the pile of parchments that no doubt reaches tall as the apex of the High Temple’s dome. I will do that…tomorrow, or perhaps the day after. The pile won’t be much taller by then. For now, though, I am going to march to the imperial bedchamber and do the one thing I couldn’t in the field: relax.” He paused. “No. I’m not.”
“Your Majesty?” Barsymes said. “What, then?”
“I am going to the bedchamber,” Krispos said. “I may even rest…presently. But first, please tell Drina I want to see her.”
“Ah,” Barsymes said; Krispos read approval in the nondescript noise. The vestiarios added, “It shall be just as you say, of course.”
In the privacy of the bedchamber, Krispos took off his own boots. When his feet were free, he happily wiggled his toes. In the palaces, his doing something for himself rather than summoning a servant was as much an act of rebellion as a Thanasiot’s taking a torch to a rich man’s house. Barsymes had needed quite a while before he accepted that the Avtokrator was sometimes stubborn enough to insist on having his own way in such matters.
A tapping at the door sounded so tentative that Krispos wondered if he’d really heard it. He walked over and opened the door anyhow. Drina stood in the hall, looking nervous. “I’m not going to bite you,” Krispos said. “It would spoil my appetite for the supper the esteemed Barsymes wants to stuff down me.” She didn’t laugh; he concluded she didn’t get the joke. Swallowing a sigh, he waved her into the bedchamber.
She walked slowly. She was still a couple of months from giving birth, but her belly bulged quite noticeably even though she wore a loose-fitting linen smock. Krispos leaned forward over that belly to give her a light kiss, hoping to put her more at ease.
He succeeded, if not quite the way he thought he would. She smiled and said, “You didn’t bump into my middle there. You know how to kiss a woman who’s big with child.”
“I should,” Krispos said. “I’ve had practice, even if it was years ago. Sit if you care to; I know your feet won’t be happy now. How are you feeling?”
“Well enough, thank you, Your Majesty,” Drina answered, sinking with a grateful sigh into a chair. “I only lost my breakfast once or twice, and but for needing the chamber pot all the time, I’m pretty well.”
Krispos paced back and forth, wondering what to say next. He hadn’t been in this situation for a long time, and had never expected to find himself in it again. It wasn’t as if he loved Drina, or even as if he knew her well. He wished it were that way, but it wasn’t. He’d just found her convenient for relieving the lust he still sometimes felt. Now he was discovering that convenience for the moment could turn into something else over the long haul. He used that principle every day in the way he ruled; he realized he should have applied it to his own life, too.
Well, he hadn’t. Now he had to make the best of it. After a couple of more back and forths, he settled on, “Is everyone treating you well?”
“Oh, yes, Your Majesty.” Drina nodded eagerly. “Better than I’ve ever been treated before. Plenty of nice food—not that I haven’t always eaten well, but more and better—and I haven’t had to work too hard, especially since I started getting big.” Her hands cupped her belly. She gave Krispos a very serious look. “And you warned me about putting on airs, so I haven’t. I’ve been careful about that.”
“Good. I wish everyone paid as much attention to what I say,” Krispos said. Drina nodded, serious still. Even with that intent expression, even pregnant as she was, she looked very young. Suddenly he asked, “How many years do you have, Drina?”
She counted on her fingers before she answered: “Twenty-two, I think, Your Majesty, but I may be out one or two either way.”
Krispos started pacing again. It wasn’t that she didn’t know her exact age; he wasn’t precisely sure of his own. Peasants such as he and his family had been didn’t worry over such things: you were as old as the work you could do. But twenty-two, more or less? She’d been born right around the time he took the throne.
“What am I to do with you?” he asked, aiming the question as much at himself, or possibly at Phos, as at her.
“Your Majesty?” Her eyes got large and frightened. “You said I’d not lack for anything…” Her voice trailed away, as if reminding him of his own promise took all the courage she had, and as if she’d not be surprised if he broke it.
“You won’t—by the good god I swear it. “He sketched the sun-circle over his heart to reinforce his words. “But that’s not what I meant.”
“What then?” Drina’s horizons, like his when he’d been a peasant, reached no farther than plenty of food and not too much work. “All I want to do is take care of the baby.”
“You’ll do that, and with as much help as you need,” he said. He scratched his head. “Do you read?”
“No, Your Majesty.”
“Do you want to learn how?”
“Not especially, Your Majesty,” Drina said. “Can’t see that I’d ever have much call to use it.”
Krispos clucked disapprovingly. A veteran resettled to his village had taught him his letters before his beard sprouted, and his world was never the same again. Written words bound time and space together in a way mere talk could never match. But if Drina did not care to acquire the skill, forcing it on her would not bring her pleasure. He scratched his head again.
“Your Majesty?” she asked. He raised an eyebrow and waited for her to go on. She did, nervously: “Your Majesty, after the baby’s born, will you—will you want me again?”
It was a good question, Krispos admitted to himself. From Drina’s point of view, it probably looked like the most important question in the world. She wanted to know whether she’d stay close to the source of power and influence in the Empire. The trouble was, Krispos had no idea what reply to give her. He couldn’t pretend, to himself or to her, that he’d fallen wildly in love, not when he was more than old enough to be her father. And even if he had fallen wildly in love with her, the result would only have been grotesque. Older men who fell in love with girls got laughed at behind their backs.
She waited for his answer. “We’ll have to see,” he said at last. He wished he could do better than that, but he didn’t want to lie to her, either.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” she said. The pained resignation in her voice cut like a knife. He wished he hadn’t bedded her at all. But he hadn’t the nature or temperament to make a monk. What was he supposed to do?
I should have remarried after Dara died, he thought. But he hadn’t wanted to do that then, and a second wife might have created more problems—dynastic ones—than she solved. So he’d taken serving maids to bed every now and then…and so he had his present problem.
“I told you before that I’d settle a fine dowry on you when you find yourself someone who can give you all the love and caring you deserve,” he said. “I don’t think you’ll find an Emperor’s bastard any obstacle to that.”
“No, I don’t think so, either,” she agreed; she was i
gnorant, but not stupid. “The trouble is, I don’t have anyone like that in mind right now.”
Not right now. She was twenty-two; not right now didn’t look that different from forever to her. Nor, in fairness, could she look past her confinement. Her whole world would turn upside down once she held her baby in her arms. She’d need time to see how things had changed.
“We’ll see,” Krispos said again.
“All right.” She accepted that; she had no choice.
Krispos knew it wasn’t fair for her. Most Avtokrators would not have given that a first thought, let alone a second, but he knew about unfairness from having been on the receiving end. If he hadn’t been unjustly taxed off his farm, he never would have come to Videssos the city and started on the road that led to a crown.
But what was he to do? Say he loved her when he didn’t? That wouldn’t be right—or fair—either. He was uneasily aware that providing for Drina and her child wasn’t enough, but he didn’t see what else he could do.
She wasn’t a helpless maiden, not by a long shot. Her eyes twinkled as she asked, “What do the young Majesties think of all this? Evripos has known for a long time, of course; he just laughs whenever he sees me.”
“Does he?” Krispos didn’t know whether to be miffed or to laugh himself. “If you must know, Phostis and Katakolon seem to be of a mind that I’m a disgusting old lecher who should keep his drawers on when he goes to bed.”
Drina dismissed that with one word: “Pooh.”
Krispos couldn’t even glow with pride, as another man might have. He’d spent too many years on the throne weighing everything he heard for flattery, doing his best not to believe all the praise that poured over him like honey, thick and sweet. He thought some of the man he had been still remained behind the imperial façade he’d built up—but how could you be sure?
He started pacing again. Sometimes you think too much, he told himself. He knew it was true, but it was so ingrained in him that he couldn’t change. At last, too late, he told Drina, “Thank you.”
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