After that, he had to endure only an invocation from the hierarch of Nakoleia, who proved himself a man able to take a hint by making it mercifully brief. Then Krispos could at last talk with the courier, who had waited through the folderol with more apparent patience than the Avtokrator could muster.
The fellow started to prostrate himself. "Never mind that," Krispos said. "Any more nonsense and I'll die of old age before I get anything done. By the good god, just tell me what you have to say."
"Aye, your Majesty." The courier's skin was brown and leathery from years in the sun, which only made his surprised smile seem brighter. That smile, however, quickly faded. "Your Majesty, the news isn't good. I have to tell you that the Thanasioi put your supply dumps at Harasos and Rogmor to the torch, the one three days ago. the other night before last. Damage—mm, there's a lot of it, I'm sorry to say."
Krispos' right hand clenched into a fist. "A pestilence," he ground out between his teeth. "That won't make the campaign against them any easier."
"No, your Majesty," the courier said. "I'm sorry to be the one who gives you that word, but it's one you have to have."
"You're right. I know it's not your fault." Krispos had never made a habit of condeming messengers for bad news. "See to yourself, see to your horse. No—tell me your name first, so I can commend you to your chief for good service."
The courier's flashing smile returned. "I'm called Evlalios, your Majesty."
"He'll hear from me, Evlalios," Krispos promised. As the courier turned away, Krispos started thinking about his own next step. If he hadn't already known the Thanasioi now had a real soldier at their head, the raids on his depots would have told him as much. Bandits might have attacked the dumps to steal what they needed for themselves, but only an experienced officer would have deliberately wrecked them to deny his foes what they held. Soldiers knew armies did more traveling, encamping, and eating than fighting. If they couldn't get where they needed to go, or if they arrived half starved, they wouldn't be able to fight.
He'd already sent Phostis and Evripos on errands. That left— "Katakolon!" he called. Ceremonial had trapped his youngest son, who'd been unable to sneak off and start sampling the fleshly pleasures Nakoleia had to offer.
"What is it, Father?" Katakolon sounded like a martyr about to be slain for the true faith.
"I'm afraid you'll have to keep your trousers on a bit longer, my boy," Krispos said, at which his son looked as if the fatal dart had just struck home. Ignoring the virtuoso mime performance, Krispos went on, "I need an accounting of the contents of all the storehouses in this town, and I need it tonight. See the excellent Asdrouvallos here; no doubt he'll have a map to send you on your way from one to the next as fast as you can go."
"Oh, yes, your Majesty," Asdrouvallos said. Even the short sentence was enough to set him coughing again. By his expression, Katakolon hoped the eparch wouldn't stop. Unfortunately lor him, Asdrouvallos drew in a couple of deep, sobbing breaths and managed to break the spasm. "If the young Majesty will just accompany me—"
Trapped, Katakolon accompanied him. Krispos watched him go with a certain amount of satisfaction—which, he thought, was more in the way of satisfaction than Katakolon would get tonight: now all three of his sons, however unwillingly, were doing something useful. If only the Thanasioi would yield so readily.
He feared they wouldn't. That they'd known just where he was storing his supplies forced him to relearn a lesson in civil war he hadn't had to worry about since he vanquished Anthimos' uncle Petronas at the start of his reign: the enemy, thanks to spies in his camp, would know everything he decided almost as soon as he decided it. He'd have to keep moves secret until just before he made them, and so would his officers. He'd have to remind them about that.
Forgetting his thought of a moment before that all his sons were usefully engaged, he looked around for one to yell at. Then he remembered, and laughed at himself. He also remembered he'd sent Phostis out on precisely that mission. His laugh turned sour. How was he supposed to beat the Thanasioi if he found himself turning senile before he ever met them in battle?
Sarkis reminded Phostis of a plump bird of prey. The Vaspurakaner cavalry commander was one of Krispos' longtime cronies, and close to Krispos in years—which, to Phostis' way of thinking, made him about ready for the boneyard. A great hooked beak of a nose protruded from his doughy face like a big rock sticking out of a mud flat. He was munching candied apricots when Phostis came into his quarters, too, which did not improve the young man's opinion of him.
As he already had a score of times that afternoon and evening, Phostis repeated the message with which Krispos had charged him; he'd give Krispos no chance to accuse him of shirking a task once accepted. Sarkis paused in his methodical chewing only long enough to shove the bowl of apricots toward him. He shook his head, not quite in disgust but not quite politely, either.
Sarkis' heavy-lidded eyes—piggy little eyes. Phostis thought distastefully—glinted in mirth. "Your first campaign, isn't it, young Majesty?" he said.
"Yes," Phostis said shortly. Half the officers he'd seen had asked the same question. Most of them seemed to want to score points off his inexperience.
But Sarkis just smiled, showing orange bits of apricot be- j tween his heavy teeth. "I wasn't much older than you are now when I first served under your father. He was still learning how to command then; he'd never done it before, you know. And he had to start at the top and make soldiers who'd been leading armies for years obey him. It couldn't have been easy, but he managed. If he hadn't, you wouldn't be here listening to me flapping my gums."
"No, I suppose not," Phostis said. He knew Krispos had started with nothing and made his way upward largely on his own; his father went on about it often enough. But from his father, it had just seemed like boasting. Sarkis made it feel as if Krispos had accomplished something remarkable, and that he deserved credit for it. Phostis, however, was not inclined to give Krispos credit for anything.
The Vaspurakaner general went on, "Aye, he's a fine man, your father. Take after him and you'll do well." He swigged from a goblet of wine at his elbow, then breathed potent fumes into Phostis' face. The throaty accent of his native land grew thicker. "Phos made a mistake when he didn't let Krispos be born a prince."
The folk of Vaspurakan followed Phos, but heretically; they believed the good god had created them first among mankind, and thus they styled themselves princes and princesses. The anathemas Videssian prelates flung their way were one reason most of them were well enough content to see their mountainous land controlled by Markuran, which judged all forms of Phos worship equally false and did not single out Vaspurakaners for persecution. Even so, many folk from Vaspurakan sought their fortune in Videssos as merchants, musicians, and warriors.
Phostis said, "Sarkis, has my father ever asked you to conform to Videssian usages when you worship?"
"What's that?" Sarkis dug a finger into his ear. "Conform, you say? No, never once. If the world won't conform to us princes, why should we conform ourselves to it?"
"For the same reason he seeks to bring the Thanasioi to orthodoxy?" By the doubt in his voice, Phostis knew he was asking the question as much of himself as of Sarkis.
But Sarkis answered it: "He doesn't persecute princes because we give no trouble outside of our faith. You ask me, the Thanasioi are using religion as an excuse for brigandage. That's evil on the face of it."
Not if the material world is itself the evil, Phostis thought. He kept that to himself. Instead, he said. "I know some Vaspurakaners do take on orthodoxy to help further their careers. You call them Tzatoi in your language, don't you?" "So we do," Sarkis said. "And do you know what that means?" He waited for Phostis to shake his head, then grinned