The Tale of Krispos (133 page)

Evripos’ features revealed nothing whatever. His eyes were watchful and hooded. Krispos prodded to see what lay behind the mask. “Aren’t you glad to be sure your elder brother lives?”

“For blood’s sake, aye, but should I rejoice to see my ambition thwarted?” Evripos said. “Would you, in my boots?”

The question cut to the root. Ambition for a better life had driven Krispos from his farm to Videssos; while he was one of Iakovitzes’ grooms, ambition had led him to wrestle a Kubrati champion and gained him the notice of the then-Emperor Anthimos’ uncle Petronas, who administered Videssos in his nephew’s name; ambition led him to let Petronas use him to supplant Anthimos’ previous vestiarios; and then, as vestiarios himself, to take ever more power into his own hands, supplanting first Petronas and then Anthimos.

He said, “Son, I know you want the red boots. Well, so does Phostis, and I have but the one set to give. What would you have me do?”

“Give them to me, by Phos,” Evripos answered. “I’d wear them better than he would.”

“I have no way to be sure of that—nor do you,” Krispos said. “For that matter, a day may come when Katakolon here begins to think past the end of his prick. He might prove a better ruler than either of you two. Who can say?”

“Him?” Evripos shook his head. “No, Father, forgive me, but I don’t see it.”

“Me?” Katakolon seemed as bemused as his brother. “I’ve never thought much of wearing the crown. I always figured the only way it would come to me was if Phostis and Evripos were dead. I don’t want it badly enough to wish for that. And since I’m not likely to be Avtokrator, why shouldn’t I enjoy myself?”

As Avtokrator and voluptuary both, Anthimos had been anything but good for the Empire. But as Emperor’s brother, Katakolon would be relatively harmless if he devoted himself to pleasure. If he did lack ambition, he might even be safer as a voluptuary. The chronicles had shown Krispos that rulers had a way of turning suspicious of their closest kin: who else was likelier both to accumulate power and to use it against them?

“Maybe it’s because I grew up on a farm,” Krispos began, and both Evripos and Katakolon rolled their eyes. Nonetheless, the Avtokrator persisted: “Maybe that’s why I think waste is a sin Phos won’t forgive. We never had much; if we’d wasted anything, we would have starved. The lord with the great and good mind knows I’m glad it isn’t so with you boys: being hungry is no fun. But even though you have so much, you should still work to make the most you can of your lives. Pleasure is all very well in its place, but you can do other things when you’re not in bed.”

Katakolon grinned. “Aye, belike: you can get drunk.”

“Another sermon wasted, Father,” Evripos said acidly. “How does that fit into your scheme of worths?”

Without answering, Krispos pushed past his two younger sons and down the corridor. Phostis was unenthusiastic about ruling, Evripos embittered, and Katakolon had other things on his mind. What would Videssos come to when the common fate of mankind took his own hand from the steering oar?

Men had been asking that question, on one scale or another, for as long as there were men. If the head of a family died and his relatives were less able then he, the family might fall on hard times, but the rest of the world went on. When an able Emperor passed from the scene, families past counting might suffer because of it.

“What am I supposed to do?” Krispos asked the statues and paintings and relics that lined that hallway. No answer came back to him. All he could think of was to go on himself, as well as he could for as long as he could.

And after that? After that it would be in his sons’ hands, and in the good god’s. He remained confident Phos would continue to watch over Videssos. Of his sons he was less certain.

R
AIN POURED DOWN IN SHEETS, RAN IN WIDE, WATERY FISHTAILS
off the edges of roofs, and turned the inner ward of the fortress of Etchmiadzin into a thin soup of mud. Phostis closed the wooden shutter to the little slit window in his cell; with it open, things were about as wet inside as they were out in the storm.

But with it closed, the bare square room was dark as night; fitfully flickering lamps did little to cut the gloom. Phostis slept as much as he could. Inside the cell in near darkness, he had little else to do.

After a few days of the steady rain, he felt as full of sleep as a new wineskin is of wine. He went into the corridor in search of something other than food.

Syagrios was dozing on a chair down the hall. Perhaps he’d had himself magically attuned to Phostis’ door, for he came alert as soon as it opened, though Phostis had been quiet with it. The ruffian yawned, stretched, and said, “I was beginning to think you’d died in there, boy. In a little while, I was going to check for a stink.”

You might have found one,
Phostis thought. Because the Thanasioi reckoned the body Skotos’ creation, they neither lavished baths on it nor disguised its odors with sweet scents. Sometimes Phostis didn’t notice the resulting stench, as he was part of it. Sometimes it oppressed him dreadfully.

He said, “I’m going downstairs. I’ve grown too bored even to nap anymore.”

“You won’t stay bored forever,” Syagrios answered. “After the rain comes the clear, and when the clear comes, we go out to fight.” He closed a fist and slammed it down on his leg. Syagrios was bored, too, Phostis realized: he hadn’t had the chance to go out and hurt anything lately.

A couple of torches had gone out along the corridor, leaving it hardly brighter than Phostis’ cell. He lit a taper from the burning torch nearest the stairway and headed down the steep stone spiral. Syagrios followed him. As always, he was sweating by the time he reached the bottom; a misstep on the stairs and he would have got there much faster than he wanted to.

Livanios’ soldiers crowded the ground floor of the citadel. Some of them slept rolled in blankets, their worldly goods either under their heads in leather sacks that served for pillows or somewhere else close by. However much the Thanasioi professed to despise the things of the world, their fighters could still be tempted to take hold of things of the world that were not things of theirs.

Some of the men who were awake threw dice; there coins and other things of the world changed hands in more generally accepted fashion. Phostis had been bemused the first time he saw Thanasiot soldiers gambling. He’d watched the dice many times since and concluded the men were soldiers first and followers of the gleaming path afterward.

Off in a corner, a small knot of men gathered around a game board whereon two of their fellows dueled. Phostis made his way over to them. “If nobody’s up for the next game, I challenge the winner,” he said.

The players looked up from their pieces. “Hullo, friend,” one of them said, a Thanasiot greeting Phostis was still getting used to. “Aye, I’ll take you on after I take care of Grypas here.”

“Ha!” Grypas returned to the board the prelate he’d captured from his opponent. “Guard your emperor, Astragalos; Phostis here will play
me
next.”

Grypas proved right; after some further skirmishing, Astragalos’ emperor, beset on all sides, found no square where he could move without threat of capture. Muttering into his beard, the soldier gave up.

Phostis sat in his place. He and Grypas returned the pieces to their proper squares on the first three rows on each man’s side of the nine-by-nine board. Grypas glanced over at Phostis. “I’ve played you before, friend. I’m going to take winner’s privilege and keep first move.”

“However you like,” Phostis answered. Grypas advanced the foot soldier diagonally ahead of his prelate, freeing up the wide-ranging piece for action. Phostis pushed one of his own foot soldiers forward in reply.

Grypas played like the soldier he was. He hurled men into the fight without much worry about where they would be three moves later. Phostis had learned in a subtler school. He lost a little time fortifying his emperor behind an array of goldpieces and silvers, but then started taking advantage of that safety.

Before long, Grypas was gnawing his mustache in consternation. He tried to fight back by returning to the fray pieces he’d taken from Phostis, but Phostis had not left himself as vulnerable as Astragalos had before. He beat the soldier without much trouble.

As the dejected man got up from the board, Syagrios sat down across it from Phostis. He leered at the junior Avtokrator. “All right, youngster, let’s see how tough you are.”

“I’ll keep first move against you, by the good god,” Phostis said. Around them, bets crackled back and forth. Over the long winter, they’d shown they were the two best players in the fortress. Which of them was better than the other swung from day to day.

Phostis stared over the grid at his unkempt opponent. Who would have guessed that a man with the looks of a bandit and habits to match made such a cool, precise player? But the pieces on the board cared nothing for how a man looked or even how he acted when he wasn’t at the game. And Syagrios had already showed he had more wit behind that battered face than anyone who judged by it alone would guess.

The ruffian had a special knack for returning captured pieces to the board with telling effect. If he set down a horseman, you could be sure it threatened two pieces at once, both of them worth more than it. If a siege engine went into action, your emperor would be in trouble soon.

His manner at the game betrayed his origins. Whenever Phostis made a move he didn’t like, he’d growl, “Oh, you son of a whore!” It had been unnerving at first; by now, Phostis took no more notice of it than of the twitches and tics of some of his opponents back in Videssos the city.

He took far fewer chances against Syagrios than he had against Grypas. In fact, he took no chances at all that he could see: give Syagrios an opening and he’d charge right through. Syagrios treated him with similar caution. The game, as a result, was slow and positional.

Finally, with returned foot soldiers paving the way, Syagrios broke up Phostis’ fortress and sent his emperor scurrying for safety. When he was trapped in a corner with no hope of escape, Phostis took him off the board and said, “I surrender.”

“You made me sweat there, by the good god.” Syagrios thumped his chest with a big fist, then boomed out, “Who else wants a go at me?”

Astragalos said, “Let Phostis take you on again. That’ll make a more even match than the rest of us are apt to give you.”

Phostis had stood up. He looked around to see if anybody else wanted to play Syagrios. When no one made a move, he sat back down again. Syagrios leered at him. “I ain’t gonna give you first move, either, boy.”

“I didn’t expect you would,” Phostis answered, altogether without ironic intent: any man who didn’t look out for himself wasn’t likely to find anyone to do it for him.

After a game as hard-fought as the first one, he got his revenge. Syagrios leaned over the board and punched him on the meaty part of his arm. “You’re a sneaky little bastard, you know that? To the ice with whose son you are. That ain’t horse manure between your ears, you know?”

“Whatever you say.” Compliments from Syagrios made Phostis even more nervous than the abuse that usually filled the ruffian’s mouth. Phostis stood up again and said, “You can take on the next challenger.”

“Why’s that?” Syagrios demanded. Quitting while you were winning was bad form.

“If I don’t leave about now, you’ll have to wipe up the floor under me,” Phostis answered, which made Syagrios and several of the other men around the game board laugh. With the fortress of Etchmiadzin packed full of fighters, the humor there was decidedly coarse.

In better weather, Phostis would have wandered out into the inner ward to make water against the wall. There was, however, an oversufficiency of water in the inner ward already. He headed off to the garderobe instead. The chamber, connected as it was to a cesspit under the keep, was so noisome that he avoided it when he could. At the moment, however, he had little choice.

Wooden stalls separated one hole in the long stone bench from another, an unusual concession to delicacy but one Phostis appreciated. Three of the four were occupied when he went in; he stepped into the fourth, which was farthest from the doorway.

As he was easing himself, he heard a couple of people come in behind him. One of them let out an unhappy grunt. “All full,” he said. By the slight accent he gave his words, Phostis recognized him as Livanios’ pet wizard.

The other was Livanios. “Don’t worry, Artapan,” he said easily. “You won’t burst in the next couple of minutes, and neither shall I.”

“Don’t use my name,” the wizard grumbled.

Livanios laughed at him. “By the good god, if we have spies in the latrine, we’re doomed before we start. Here, this fellow’s coming out. You go ahead; I’ll wait.”

Phostis had already set his clothes to rights, but he waited, too, waited until he heard Livanios go into a stall and shut the door. Then he all but jumped out of the one he’d been in and hurried away from the garderobe. He didn’t want either Livanios or Artapan to know he’d heard.

Now that he knew the wizard’s name, he also recognized the accent that had tantalized him for so long. Artapan was from Makuran. Phostis wondered what a mage from Videssos’ perennial enemy was doing in Livanios’ camp. Why couldn’t Livanios find a proper Thanasiot mage?

After a few seconds, he stopped wondering. To one raised in the palaces, to one who had, however unwillingly, soaked up a good deal of history, the answer fairly shouted at him: Artapan was there serving the interests of Rubyab King of Kings. And how could Rubyab’s interest be better served than by keeping Videssos at war with itself?

Two other questions immediately sprang from that one. The first was whether Livanios knew he was being used. Maybe he didn’t, maybe he was Makuran’s willing cat’s-paw, or maybe he was out to exploit Rubyab’s help at the same time Rubyab used him. Phostis had a tough time seeing Livanios as a witless dupe. Choosing between the other two alternatives was harder.

Phostis set them aside. To him, the second question carried greater weight: if the Thanasioi were flourishing thanks to aid from Makuran, what did that say about the truth of their teachings? That one was hard enough to break teeth when you bit into it. Would Thanasios’ interpretation of the faith have grown and spread without the foreign—no, no mincing words—without the enemy—help? Was it at bottom a religious movement at all, or rather a political one? If it was just political, why did it have such a strong appeal to so many Videssians?