The Tale of Krispos (148 page)

“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

K
ATAKOLON 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.

His horse let out a frightened squeal and tried to rear. Krispos fought the animal back under control. An arrow protruded from its rump.
Poor beast,
he thought—it knew nothing of the differences in worship because of which it had been wounded.

The Thanasioi charged again. This time some of them broke through his screen of bodyguards. Phostis traded saber strokes with one, Katakolon with another. That left Krispos facing two at once. He slashed at the one on his right side, used his shield to hold off the blows of the one to his left, and hoped someone would come to his aid soon.

Suddenly the horse of the Thanasiot to his right screamed, far louder and more terribly than his own mount had a few minutes before. A Haloga axe had bitten into its spine, just behind its rider. The horse foundered. The Haloga raised his axe again and slew the Thanasiot.

That let Krispos turn against his other foe. He still remembered how to use a sword himself, and slashed the fellow on the forearm. Another Haloga guard, his axe dripping gore, bore down on the heretic. The Thanasiot ignored him, bending every effort toward slaying the Avtokrator. He paid the price for his fanaticism: the guardsman hacked him out of the saddle.

“Thanks.” Krispos panted. Sweat ran down his forehead and stung his eyes. “I’m getting old for this business, much as I hate to admit it.”

“No man is young enough to be happy fighting two,” the Haloga said, which made him feel a little better.

Among them, his sons and the northerners had put an end to the other Thanasioi who’d broken through. Katakolon had a cut that stretched halfway across one cheek, but managed a blood-spattered smile for Krispos. “Iakovitzes won’t like me so well anymore,” he shouted.

“Ah, but all the girls will sigh over how brave you are,” Krispos answered, which made his youngest son’s smile wider.

Another Thanasiot surge. The Halogai on foot and Videssians on horseback contained it. Krispos gauged the fighting. He had not asked a great deal of his men, only that they hold their place against the onslaught of the Thanasioi. So much had they done. The heretics were bunched against them, still trying to force their way out of the valley.

“Send for Zaidas,” Krispos commanded. A messenger rode off.

He soon returned with the wizard, who had not been far away. “Now, Your Majesty?” Zaidas asked.

“The time will never be better,” Krispos said.

Zaidas set to work. Most of his preparations for this magic had been made ahead of time. It was not, properly speaking, battle magic, nor directed against the Thanasioi. Battle magic had a way of failing; the stress of fighting raised emotions to such a pitch that a spell which might otherwise have been fatal failed to bite at all.

“Let it come forth!” Zaidas cried, and stabbed a finger up toward the sky. From his fingertip sprang a glowing green fireball that rose high above the heaving battle line, growing and getting brighter as it climbed. A few soldiers from both sides paused for an instant to call Phos’ name or sketch the sun-sign above their hearts. Most, however, were too busy fighting for their lives to exclaim over the fireball or to notice it at all.

Zaidas turned to Krispos. “What magic may do, magic has done,” he said. His voice was ragged and worn; sorcery cost those who worked it dear.

Little by little, the green fireball faded. Before too long, it was gone. Watching the indecisive fight to which he had committed his army, Krispos wondered if it had been sent skyward in vain. Men should have been watching for its flare…but one of the lessons he’d learned after close to half a lifetime on the throne was the chasm that sometimes yawned between
should have been
and
were.

His head went rapidly back and forth from one side of the valley to the other. “Where are they?” he demanded, not of anyone in particular but of the world at large.

As if that had been a cue, martial music rang out in the distance. Soldiers in the imperial army cheered like men possessed; the Thanasioi stared about in sudden confusion and alarm. Down into the valley from left and right rode fresh regiments of horsemen in line. “Krispos!” they cried as they bent their bows.

“Taken in both flanks, by the good god!” Sarkis exclaimed. “Your Majesty, my hat’s off to you.” He doffed the iron pot he wore on his head to show he meant his words literally.

“You helped come up with the plan,” Krispos said. “Besides, we both ought to thank Zaidas for giving a signal the watchers from both concealed flanking parties could see and use. Better by far than trying to gauge when to come in by the sandglass or any other way I could think of.”

“Very well.” Sarkis took off his helmet for Zaidas, too.

The wizard’s grin took years off his age and reminded Krispos of the eager, almost painfully bright youngster he’d been when he began his sorcerous service. That had been in the last campaign against Harvas, till now the hardest one Krispos had known. But civil war—and religious civil war at that—was worse than any attack from a foreign foe.

Where the Avtokrator and the general had praised his sorcery, Zaidas thought about the fighting that remained ahead. “We still have to win the battle,” he said. “Fail in that and the best plan in the world counts for nothing.”

Krispos studied the field. Had the Thanasioi been professional soldiers, they might have salvaged something by retreating as soon as they discovered themselves so disastrously outflanked. But all they understood of the military art was going forward no matter what. That only got them more thoroughly trapped.

For the first time since fighting began, Krispos turned loose a smile. “This is a battle we are going to win,” he said.

P
HOSTIS WAS ONLY A FEW FEET FROM HIS FATHER WHEN KRISPOS
claimed victory. He was no practiced strategist himself, but he could see that a foe attacked on three sides at once was on the way to destruction. He was glad Olyvria had stayed back at the camp. Though she’d given herself to him without reservation, seeing all her father’s hopes go down in ruin could only bring her pain.

Phostis knew pain, too, but of a purely physical sort. His shoulder ached with the effort it took to hold up a shield against arrows and saber slashes. In another couple of weeks it could have borne the burden without complaint, but not yet.

Screeching “The gleaming path!” for all they were worth, the Thanasioi mounted yet another charge. And from the midst of the fanatics’ ranks, Phostis heard another cry, one not fanatical at all: “If we slay the Avtokrator, lads, it’s all up for grabs!”

Fueled by desperation, fervor, and that coldly rational cry, the heretics surged against the right wing of the imperial line. As they had once before, they shot and hacked their way through the Halogai and Videssians protecting Krispos. All at once, being of high rank stopped mattering.

Off to one side of Phostis, Sarkis laid about him with a vigor that denied his bulk. To the other, Krispos and Katakolon were both engaged. Before Phostis could spur his horse to their aid, someone landed what felt like a hammer blow to his shield.

He twisted in the saddle. His foe was yelling at the top of his lungs; his was the voice that had urged the Thanasioi against Krispos. “Syagrios!” Phostis yelled.

The ruffian’s face screwed into a gap-toothed grimace of hate. “You, eh?” he said. “I’d rather carve you than your old man—I owe you plenty, by the good god.” He sent a vicious cut at Phostis’ head.

Just staying alive through the next minute or so was as hard as anything Phostis had ever done. He didn’t so much as think of attack; defense was enough and more. Intellectually, he knew that was a mistake—if all he did was try to block Syagrios’ blows, sooner or later one would get through. But they came in such unrelenting torrents that he could do nothing else. Syagrios was twice his age and more, but fought with the vigor of a tireless youth.

As he slashed, he taunted Phostis: “After I’m done with you, I’ll settle accounts with that little whore who crowned me. Pity you won’t be around to watch, on account of it’d be worth seeing. First I’ll cut her a few times, just so she hurts while I’m—” He went into deliberately obscene detail.