Harry Turtledove - Krispos the Emperor

Phostis wasn't sure what the consequences of that would be, but he was sure they'd be unpleasant—for him. They wouldn't stop at scolding, either. Ruining a campaign was worse than a scolding matter. It was the sort of matter that would put his head on the block were he anyone but a junior Avtokrator. Given his father's penchant for evenhanded—at the moment,

Phostis thought of it as heavyhanded—justice, it might put his head on the block anyway.

He wondered whether he ought to pass his father's order on to Noetos. If he truly adhered to the principles of the Thanasioi, how could he hinder the cause of his fellow believers? But if he had any thought for his own safety, how could he not transmit the order? Krispos would descend on him like an avalanche for that. And if his father's suspicions were aroused, his own role in the matter of the supply dumps grew more likely to emerge.

What to do? No more time for thought—there was the rearguard commander's banner, blue sunburst on gold. The reversed imperial colors marked the rear of the army, and out from under the banner, straight toward him, rode Noetos, a solid, middle-aged officer like so many who served under Krispos, unflappable rather than brilliant. He saluted and called out in a ringing voice, "How may I serve you, young Majesty?"

"Uh," Phostis said, and then "Uh" again; he still hadn't made up his mind. In the end, his mouth answered, not his brain. "My father bids you to be especially alert for anyone sneaking out of Nakoleia, lest the stranger prove a Thanasiot spy." He hated himself as soon as he had spoken, but that was too late—the words were gone.

They proved not to matter, though. Noetos saluted again, clenched fist over his heart, and said, "You may tell his imperial Majesty the matter is already being attended to." Then one of the officer's eyelids fell and rose in an unmistakable wink. "You can also tell Krispos not to go trying to teach an old fox how to rob henhouses."

"I'll—pass on both those messages," Phostis said faintly.

He must have looked a trifle wall-eyed, for Noetos threw back his head and let go with one of those deep, manly chortles that never failed to turn Phostis' stomach. "You do that, young Majesty," he boomed. "This'd be your first campaign, wouldn't it? Aye, of course it would. Good for you. You'll learn some things you'd never find out in the palaces."

"Yes, I'm discovering that," Phostis said. He started back toward the front of the army. That was a slower trip than the one from the front to the rear guard, for now he was moving with the stream and gaining more slowly on any point within it. He had the time to think he could have used before. He certainly was learning new things away from the palaces, not least among them how to be afraid much of the time. He doubted that was what Noetos had meant.

The baggage train traveled in the center of the strung-out army, the safest position against attack. Beeves shambled along, lowing. Wagons rattled and squeaked and jounced; un-greased axles squealed loud and shrill enough to set Phostis' teeth on edge. Some of the wagons carried hard-baked bread; others fodder for the horses; others arrows tied in neat sheaves of twenty, ready to be popped into empty quivers; still others carried the metal parts and tackle for siege engines whose timbers would be cut and trimmed on the spot under direction of the military engineers.

Noncombatants traveled with the baggage train. Healer-priests in robes of blue rode mules that alternated between walk and trot to keep up with the longer-legged horses. A few merchants with stocks of fancy goods for officers who could afford them preferred buggies to horseback. So did some of the loose women any army attracts, though others rode astride with as much aplomb as any man.

Some of the courtesans gave Phostis professionally interested smiles. He was used to that, and found it unsurprising: after all, he was young, reasonably well favored, rode a fine horse, and dressed richly. If a woman was mercenary or desperate enough to sell her body to live, he made a logical customer. As for buying such a woman, though—he left that to his brothers.

Then one of the women not only waved but smiled and called out to him. He intended to ignore her as he had all the others, but something about her—maybe the unusual combination of creamy skin and black, black hair that framed her face in ringlets—seemed familiar. He took a longer look ... and almost steered his horse into a boulder by the side of the road. He'd seen Olyvria, naked and stretched out on a bed, somewhere under Videssos the city.

He felt himself turn crimson. What did she expect him to do, ride over and ask how she'd been since she put some clothes on? Maybe she did, because she kept on waving. He looked straight ahead and dug his knees into his horse's ribs, urging the beast up into a fast canter that hurried it away from the baggage train and the now-dressed wench.

He thought hard as he drew near Krispos. What war Olyvria doing here, anyhow? The only answer that occurred to him was spying for Digenis. He wondered if she'd somehow sailed with the imperial army. If not, she'd made better time overland than he'd have thought possible for anyone but a courier.

He wondered if he ought to tell his father about her—she certainly was the sort of person about whom Krispos worried. But his father had no reason to believe he knew anything about her, and she was likely a Thanasiot herself. He had no reason to give her away, not even his own advantage.

Krispos rode at the head of the army. Phostis came up and delivered both messages from Noetos. Krispos laughed when he heard the second one. "He is an old fox, by the good god," he said. Then he turned serious again. "I would have failed in my duty, though, if I'd failed to give him that order. There's a lesson you need to remember, son: an Avtokrator can't count on things happening without him. He has to make sure they happen."

"Yes, Father," Phostis said, he hoped dutifully. He knew Krispos lived by the principles he espoused. His father had given the Empire of Videssos two decades of stable government, but at the cost of turning fussy, driven, and suspicious.

He'd also developed an alarming facility for picking thoughts out of Phostis' head. "You no doubt have in mind that you'll do it all differently when your backside warms the throne. I tell you, lad, there are but two ways, mine and Anthimos'. Better you should shoulder the burden yourself than let it fall on the Empire."

"So you've said, more than once," Phostis agreed: more than a thousand times, he meant. Hearing the resignation in his voice, Krispos sighed and returned his attention to the road ahead.

Phostis started to carry the argument further, but forbore. He'd been about to put forward the wisdom and reliability of a small group of trusted advisors who might carry enough of the administrative burden to keep it from overwhelming an Avtokrator. Before he spoke, though, he remembered the false friends and sycophants he'd already had to dismiss, people who sought to use him for their own gain. Just because advisors were trusted did not mean they wouldn't be venal.

He jerked on the reins; his horse snorted indignantly as he pulled its head away from that of Krispos' mount. But conceding his father a point always annoyed him. By riding away from Krispos, he wouldn't have to concede anything, either to his father or to himself.

By the end of the day, the imperial army had moved far enough inland to make sunset a spectacle very different from what Phostis was used to. Having land all around seemed suddenly confining, as if he were closed off from the infinite possibilities for travel available at Videssos the city. Even the sounds were strange: night birds unknown in the imperial capital announced their presence with trills and strange drumming noises.