"And both sides must have thanked the lord with the great and good mind afterward," Rhavas said. He laughed again, the mirth bitter as wormwood in his mouth. How could anyone with an ounce of sense believe Phos had anything to do with such slaughter? Whatever happened on these fields, it didn't involve goodness.
No, what happened in places like these was surely Skotos' affair, not Phos'. It seemed so obvious to Rhavas now. He marveled that he'd been blind to it for as long as he had. He marveled even more that so many Videssians were blind to it still.
If they came out and examined this field, they wouldn't be, not anymore . . . could they? No one who had seen what was left on a battlefield after the battle was done could possibly believe the lord with the great and good mind controlled everything that went on in the world . . . could he? The mere idea insulted the intelligence . . . didn't it?
Shaking his head at the follies, the foibles, and the self-deluding ignorance of mankind, Rhavas rode on. The battlefield stench lingered in his nostrils for quite some time. A man with a good nose could tell the difference between roasting pork and beef. Could that same man use his good nose to tell rotting soldier from rotting horse? Rhavas wouldn't have been surprised, but had to admit he wasn't connoisseur enough to make the distinction.
The highway didn't carry much traffic. Normally, he thought, any road that led to Videssos the city should have been crowded. But these were not normal times. Fear of rival armies—and probably fear of bandits as well—kept people indoors, or at least off the road.
Most of a day's travel west of Develtos, Rhavas rode up to a checkpoint on the road. It didn't look like much: half a dozen soldiers on horseback off by the side of the highway, with a like number of dismounted archers standing around by the other side. Casually, but not in a way that brooked any argument, one of the horsemen said, "Stop right there, holy sir."
Rhavas realized all the soldiers were more alert than they seemed. He wasn't sure he could curse them fast enough to kill them all before at least one of them shot him. Doing his best to make his voice mild, he asked, "By what right do you stop me?"
"In the name of the Avtokrator," the cavalryman replied. "Answer some questions and you can go on your way."
In the name of which Avtokrator? Rhavas wondered. The soldier had made a point of not telling him. He forced himself to nod. "Say on, then."
"Who are you, where are you bound, and where have you been?"
"My name is Koubatzes; as you see, I am a priest." If these were Stylianos' men, as seemed likely, Rhavas didn't want to give his own name. He went on, "I'm from Podandos, in the northeast. I managed to get away from bandits when I came through the mountains, and I am on my way to Videssos the city." He didn't want to say that, but thought the soldier would reckon him a liar if he tried to claim anything else; anyone heading west from Develtos was likely to be bound for the capital.
The horseman frowned. "Any of you boys know much about this Podandos place?" he asked his comrades. To Rhavas' relief, no one spoke up. That could have been awkward. The soldiers' attention swung back to him. "Who is the rightful Avtokrator of the Videssians?"
Now there was an interesting question. It was likely these were Stylianos' men, yes, but it wasn't certain. That a wrong answer would be fatal was certain, as certain as anything in this world could be. In a peevish voice, Rhavas said, "I don't care." That astonished not just the man questioning him but all the horsemen and foot soldiers. He proceeded to embroider on the theme: "I'll tell you what I do care about, I will. I'll tell you what Podandos cares about. First man who drives off the stinking Khamorth, he's the rightful Avtokrator, far as Podandos is concerned. The other fellow? A plague take him."
He waited, hoping that performance was good enough. If it wasn't, he didn't think he could give a better one. "You've got your nerve, don't you?" said the soldier who was doing the talking. "What's your business in Videssos the city?"
"My business? Why, the synod, of course." Rhavas sounded like a man who knew exactly what he was talking about. One synod or another was almost always going on at the capital. If this cavalryman didn't know which one, that just made him an ignorant lout.
The man eyed his companions again. Some of them were smiling. A couple seemed to have trouble not laughing out loud. The horseman waved. "Pass on, priest. And Stylianos will rout out those nomads, just as soon as he finishes winning this war. You can count on it."
"May it be so." Rhavas urged his horse into motion with his knees. He didn't even let his shoulders slump to show how relieved he was. He had the feeling any sign of weakness would bring the soldiers down on him. His back itched, and kept on itching long after he got out of arrow range.
And how many more checkpoints would he have to talk his way past before he got to the capital? Stylianos had won near Imbros, west of here, and presumably still controlled that stretch of territory—Rhavas hadn't heard that Maleinos' men had driven him back from it. But Maleinos ruled in Videssos the city. He would also hold some land beyond the city. His soldiers would be snoopy, too.
I can give them my own name and rank, Rhavas thought. That's something, anyhow. But he would have to make certain they were his cousin's men. He didn't want Stylianos' soldiers to seize him and hold him hostage.
He laughed a sour laugh. They wouldn't get much use out of him if they did. Maleinos would tell them to do whatever they pleased, and would go on about his business without losing a moment's sleep. Rhavas hadn't seen his cousin since going off to Skopentzana, of course, and they hadn't been close before that. Maleinos was a careful, conscientious administrator, but no one had ever accused him of scholarship, and nothing else mattered to Rhavas.
Besides, Rhavas knew it was hard for an Avtokrator to get close to anyone, even—or maybe especially—a family member. So many people were ambitious, the ruler had to assume everybody was. If he didn't, he'd be sorry. Maleinos had trusted Stylianos as far as an Avtokrator could trust a general—and look what that had got him. If he survived the civil war, he would never make that mistake again.
He relied too much on Phos, and on the power of goodness. Slowly, Rhavas nodded to himself. The more he looked at the world, the more the new pattern he'd found seemed true. He nodded again, this time toward the west, toward the capital. Yes, he would have a lot of preaching to do when he got there . . . and plenty of examples to draw on when he did preach.
Up in the northeast, cities were few and far between. Skopentzana was—or had been—the exception, not the rule. Things were different south of the Paristrian Mountains. Crops were far richer and more abundant here than on the Empire's periphery. And Videssos had ruled these lands for close to a thousand years. Compared to them, the north country was an afterthought.
And Maleinos treated it like one, Rhavas thought grimly. The way he'd pulled garrisons from the towns showed he didn't care if the worst happened—and made it more likely the worst would. And Stylianos was just as bad. Taking men out of the frontier fortifications . . . Videssos would be paying for that for years, if not for centuries.
The long journey Rhavas had made showed how true that was. The short remaining journey he was making showed him how unlikely the Avtokrator was to care. Here, relatively close to Videssos the city, things looked almost normal. This was what Maleinos saw. If Stylianos triumphed, it would be what he saw, too. How likely was either man, comfortably ensconced in the capital, to venture forth and try to set things right? Not very, or so it seemed to Rhavas.