Harry Turtledove - Krispos the Emperor

Krispos leaned back in his seat so he could more easily scan the names. When he looked up, the frown had disappeared. "You did well. Thank you, son. Take the rest of the evening as your own; I have no more tasks for you."

"As you say, Father." Phostis started to walk away.

The Avtokrator called him back. "Wait. Don't go off angry. How do you think I've slighted you now?"

The way Krispos put the question only annoyed Phostis more. Forgetting he intended to keep on his father's good side, he growled, "You might sound happier that I did what you wanted."

"Why should I?" Krispos answered. "You did your duty well; I said as much. But the task was not that demanding. Do you want special praise every time you piddle without getting your boots wet?"

They glowered at each other in mutual incomprehension. Phostis wished he'd just shown Krispos the parchment instead of giving it to him. Then he could have torn it up and thrown it in his face. As it was, he had to content himself with slamming the door behind him as he stamped out.

Full darkness had fallen by the time he was out on the plaza again. The Haloga guards gave him curious looks, but his face did not encourage questions. Only when he'd put the eparch's residence well behind him did he realize he had no place to go. He paused, plucked at his beard—a gesture very like his father's—and tried to figure out what to do next.

Drinking himself insensible was one obvious answer. Torches blazed in front of all the taverns he could see, and doubtless on ones he couldn't, as well. He wondered if the innkeepers had imported extra wine from the countryside while the imperial army's quartermasters brought their supplies into Nakoleia. It wouldn't have surprised him; to sordidmaterialsists, the arrival of so many thirsty soldiers had to look like a bonanza.

He didn't take long to decide against the taverns. He had nothing against wine in its place; it was healthier to drink than water, and less likely to give you the flux. But drunkenness tore the soul away from Phos and left it base and animalistic, easy meat for the temptations of Skotos. The state of his soul mattered a great deal to him at the moment. The less he did to corrupt it, the surer his hope of heaven.

He glanced across the square to the temple. Its entrance was also lit, and men filed in to pray. Some, by the way they walked, had got drunk first. Phostis' lip curled in contempt. He didn't want to pray with drunks. He didn't want to pray in a building modeled after the High Temple, either, not when he discovered himself in sympathy with the Thanasioi.

A breeze from off the Videssian Sea had picked up with the coming of evening. It was not what sent a chill through him. So long as his father held the throne, he was in deadly danger—had placed himself there, in fact, the instant he understood what Digenis' preaching implied. The odds that Krispos would turn away from materialism were about as slim as those of oranges sprouting from stalks of barley. Having been born with nothing—as he never tired of repeating—Krispos put about as much faith in things as he did in Phos.

So what did that leave? Phostis didn't want to drink and he didn't want to pray. He didn't feel like fornicating, either, though the whores of Nakoleia were probably working even harder than the taverners—and probably cheating their customers less.

In the end. he went back aboard the Triumphant and curled up in the bunk inside his tiny cabin. After a few hours ashore, even the small motion of the ship as it rocked back and forth beside the dock felt strange. Before long, though, it lulled him to sleep.

Horns blared, pipes shrilled, and deep-toned drums thumped. Videssos' banner, gold sunburst on blue, flew tall and proud at the head of the army as it marched forth from Nakoleia's land gate. Many of the horsemen had tied blue and yellow strips of cloth to their mounts' manes. The sea breeze stirred them into a fine martial display.

People packed the walls of Nakoleia. They cheered as the army rode out of the city. Some of the cheers, Krispos thought, had to be sincere. Some were probably even regretful, from tavernkeepers and merchants whose business had soared thanks to the soldiers. And a few—Krispos hoped only a few—were lies from the throats of Thanasioi spying out his strength.

He turned to Phostis, whose horse stood beside his as they watched the troops ride past. "Go back to Noetos, who commands the rear guard. Tell him to have his men be especially alert to anyone sneaking out of Nakoleia. We don't want the heretics to know exactly what all we have along with us."

"Not everyone leaving the city is sneaking out," Phostis answered.

"I know," Krispos said sourly. Like every army, this one had its camp followers, women and occasional men of easy virtue. Also following the imperial force was a larger number of sutlers and traders than Krispos was happy about. He went on, "What can I do? With our bases at Harasos and Rogmor burned out, I'll need all the help I can get feeding the troops."

"Harasos and Rogmor?" Phostis said, raising an eyebrow. "I'd not heard that."

"Then you might be the only one in the whole army who hasn't." Krispos gave his eldest an exasperated glare. "Don't you take any notice of what's going on around you? They hit both caches while we were still asea; by the good god, they seemed to know what we were up to almost before we did."

"How do you suppose they managed to learn where we were storing supplies?" Phostis asked in a curiously neutral voice.

"As I've said over and over—" Krispos rubbed Phostis' nose in his inattention. "—we have traitors among us, too. I wish I knew who they were, by Phos; I'd make them regret their treachery. But that's the great curse of civil war: the foe looks just like you, and so can hide in your midst. D'you see?"

"Hm? Oh, yes. Of course, Father."

Krispos sniffed. Phostis hadn't looked as if he was paying attention; his face had a withdrawn, preoccupied expression. If he wouldn't give heed to something that was liable to get him killed, what would hold his interest? Krispos said, "I really wish I knew how the heretics heard about my plans. They'd have needed some time to plan their attacks, so they must have known my route of march about as soon as I decided on it— maybe even before I decided on it."

He'd hoped the little joke would draw some kind of reaction from Phostis, but the youngster only nodded. He turned his horse toward the rear of the army. "I'll deliver your order to Noetos."

"Repeat it back to me first," Krispos said, wanting to make sure Phostis had done any listening to him at all.

His eldest reacted to that, with a scowl. He gave back the order in a precise, emotionless voice, then rode away. Krispos stared after him—something about the set of his back wasn't quite right. Krispos told himself he was imagining things. He'd pushed Phostis too far there, asking him to repeat a command as if he were a raw peasant recruit with manure on his boots.

Of course, raw peasant recruits had more incentive to remember accurately than did someone who could aspire to no higher station than the one he already held. It was, in fact, difficult to aspire to a lower station than raw peasant recruit: about the only thing lower than peasant recruit was peasant. Krispos knew about that. Sometimes he wished his sons did, too.

The army was riding forward, Phostis back. That brought him toward Noetos twice as fast as he would have gone otherwise and cut in half his time to think. He had a pretty good idea how the Thanasioi had learned where the imperial army would set up its supply dumps: he'd named them for Digenis. He hadn't intended to betray his father's campaign, but would Krispos believe that?

Phostis didn't for a moment imagine Krispos wouldn't find out. He did not see eye to eye with his father, but he did not underestimate him, either. Nobody incapable stayed on the throne of Videssos for more than twenty years. When Krispos set his mind to learning something, sooner or later he would. And when he did ...