The Tale of Krispos (154 page)

“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 ignorant, 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.”

“I should thank you, Your Majesty, for not ignoring me or casting me out of the palaces or putting me in a sack and throwing me into the Cattle-Crossing because my belly made me a nuisance to you,” Drina said.

“You shame me,” Krispos said. He saw she didn’t understand, and felt bound to explain: “When I’m thanked for not being a monster, it tells me I’ve not been all the man I might be.”

“Who is?” she said. “And you’re the Avtokrator. All the things you keep in your head, Your Majesty—I’d go mad if I tried it for a day. I was just glad you saw fit to remember me at all, and do what you can for me.”

Krispos pondered that. An Avtokrator could do what he chose—he needed to look no further than Anthimos’ antics to be reminded of that. The power made responsibility hard to remember. Seen from that viewpoint, maybe he wasn’t doing so badly after all.

“Thank you,” he said to Drina again, this time with no hesitation at all.

A
BOYS’ CHOIR SANG HYMNS OF THANKSGIVING. THE SWEET,
almost unearthly notes came echoing back from the dome of the High Temple, filling the worship area below with joyous sound.

Phostis, however, listened without joy. He knew he was no Thanasiot. All the same, the countless wealth lavished on the High Temple still struck him as excessive. And when Oxeites lifted up his hands to beseech Phos’ favor, all Phostis could think of was the ecumenical patriarch’s cloth-of-gold sleeves and the pearls and precious gems mounted on them.

Only because of the peace he’d made with Krispos had he come here. He recognized that celebrating his safe return to Videssos the city at the most holy shrine of the Empire’s faith was politically and theologically valuable, so he endured it. That did not mean he liked it.

Beside him, though, awe turned Olyvria’s face almost into that of a stranger. Her eyes flew like butterflies, landing now here, now there, marveling at the patriarch’s regalia, at the moss-agate and marble columns, at the altar, at the rich woods of the pews, and most of all, inevitably, at the mosaic image of Phos, stern in judgment, that looked down on his worshipers from the dome.

“It’s so marvelous,” she whispered to Phostis for the third time since the service began. “Every city in the provinces says its main temple is modeled after this one. What none of them says is that all their models are toys.”

Phostis grunted softly, back in his throat. What she found wondrous was cloying to him. Then, of themselves, his eyes too went up to the dome. No man could be easy meeting the gaze of that Phos: the image seemed to see inside his head, to know and note every stain on his soul. Even Thanasios would have quailed under that inspection. For the sake of the image in the dome, Phostis forgave the rest of the temple.

The choirmaster brought down his hands. The boys fell silent. Their blue silk robes shimmered in the lamplight as the echoes of their music slowly faded. Oxeites recited Phos’ creed. The notables who filled the temple joined him at prayer. Those echoes also reverberated from the dome.

The patriarch said, “Not only do we seek thy blessing, Phos, we also humbly send up to thee our thanks for returning to us Phostis son of Krispos, heir to the throne of Videssos, and granting him thine aid through all the troubles he has so bravely endured.”

“He’s never been humble in his life, surely not since he donned the blue boots,” Phostis murmured to Olyvria.

“Hush,” she murmured back; the Temple had her in its spell.

Oxeites went on, “Surely, lord with the great and good mind, thou also viewest with favor the ending of the Empire’s trial of heresy, and the way in which its passing was symbolized by the recent union of the young Majesty and his lovely bride.”

A spattering of applause rose from the assembled worshipers, vigorously led by Krispos. Phostis was convinced Oxeites would not know a symbol if it reached up and yanked him by the beard; he suspected the Avtokrator of putting words in his patriarch’s mouth.

“We thank thee, Phos, for thy blessings of peace and prosperity, and once more for the restoration of the young Majesty to the bosom of his family and to Videssos the city,” Oxeites said in ringing tones.

The choir burst into song again. When the hymn was finished, the patriarch dismissed the congregation: the thanksgiving service was not a full and formal liturgy. Phostis blinked against the late summer sun as he walked down the broad, wide stairs outside the High Temple. Katakolon poked him in the ribs and said, “The only bosom you care about in your family is Olyvria’s.”

“By the good god, you’re shameless,” Phostis said. He couldn’t help laughing, even so. Because Katakolon had no malice in him, he could get away with outrages that would have landed either of his brothers in trouble.

In the courtyard outside the High Temple, people of rank insufficient to get them into the thanksgiving service cheered as Phostis came down from the steps and walked over to his horse. He waved to them, all the while wondering how many had shouted for the gleaming path not long before.

The Haloga guard who held the horse’s head said, “You talk to your god only a little while today.” He sounded approving, or at least relieved.

Phostis handed Olyvria up onto her mount, then swung into the saddle himself. The Halogai formed up around the imperial party for the return to the palaces. Olyvria rode at Phostis’ left. To his right was Evripos. His older younger brother curled his lip and said, “You’re back. Hurrah.” Then he looked straight ahead and seemed to concentrate solely on his horsemanship.

“Wait a minute,” Phostis said harshly. “I’m sick of cracks like that from you. If you wanted me to be gone and stay gone, you had your chance to do something about it.”

“I told you then, I don’t have that kind of butchery in me,” Evripos answered.

“Well then, quit talking to me as if you wish you did.”

That made Evripos look his way again, though still without anything that could be called friendliness. “Brother of mine, just because I won’t shed blood of my blood, that doesn’t mean I want to clasp you to my bosom, if I can steal the patriarch’s phrase.”

“That’s not enough,” Phostis said.

“It’s all I care to make it,” Evripos answered.

“It’s not enough, I tell you,” Phostis said, which succeeded in gaining Evripos’ undivided attention. Phostis went on, “One of these days, if I live, I’m going to wear the red boots. Unless Olyvria and I have a son of our own, you’ll be next in line for them. Even if we do, he’d be small for a long time. The day may come when you decide blood doesn’t matter, or maybe you’ll think you can just shave my head and pack me off to a monastery: you’d get the throne and salve your tender conscience at the same time.”

Evripos scowled. “I wouldn’t do that. As you said, I had my chance.”

“You wouldn’t do it
now,
” Phostis returned. “What about ten years from now, or twenty, when you feel you can’t stand being second in line for another heartbeat? Or what happens if I decide I can’t trust you to stay in your proper place? I might strike first, little brother. Did you ever think of that?”

Evripos was good at using his face to mask his thoughts. But Phostis had watched him all his life, and saw he’d succeeded in surprising him. The surprise faded quickly. Evripos studied Phostis as closely as he was studied in turn. Slowly, he said, “You’ve changed.” It sounded like an accusation.

“Have I, now?” Phostis tried to keep anything but the words themselves from his voice.

“Aye, you have.” It
was
accusation. “Before you got kidnapped, you didn’t have the slightest notion what you were for, what you wanted. You knew what you were against—”

“Anything that had to do with Father,” Phostis interrupted.

“Just so,” Evripos agreed with a thin smile. “But being against is easy. Finding, knowing, what you truly do want is harder.”

“You know what you want,” Olyvria put in.

“Of course I do,” Evripos said.
The red boots
hung unspoken in the air. “But it looks like I can’t have that. And now that Phostis knows what he wants, too, and what it means to him, it makes him ever so much more dangerous to me than he was before.”

“So it does,” Phostis said. “You can do one of two things about it, as far as I can see: you can try to take me out, which you say you don’t want to do, or you can work with me. We spoke of that before I got kidnapped; maybe you remember. You scoffed at me then. Do you sing a different tune now? The second man in all the Empire can find or make a great part for himself.”