Krispos the Emperor

another heartbeat, he would take her.

As he leaned against the bricks of the passageway and tried to find a scrap of his composure, her voice pursued him: 'Why do you flee from pleasure?'

Not until she asked him did he fully comprehend the answer. Digenis' test was marvelous in its simplicity: only his own conscience stood between himself and an act that, however sweet, went square against everything the priest had been telling him. Digenis' teaching must have had its effect, too: regardless of whether the priest learned what he'd been up to, Phostis knew he would always know. Since he found that reason enough to abstain, he supposed he had met the challenge.

Even so, he made as much haste as he could away from that dangerous doorway, although Olyvria did not call to him again. When he looked back to find out whether he could still see the light trickling under the bottom of the door, he discovered he could not. The passage did have a curve to it, then.

A little while later, he came upon another door with a lighted lamp behind it. This time, he tiptoed past as quietly as he could. If anyone in the chamber heard him, she—or perhaps he—gave no sign. Not all tests, Phostis told himself as he pressed ahead, had to be met straight on.

Pitch darkness or no, he could see Olyvria's lovely body with his mind's eye. He was sure both his brothers would have enjoyed themselves immensely while failing Digenis' test. Had he not become dubious of the pleasures of the flesh exactly because they were so easy for him to gain, he might well have failed, too, in spite of all the priest's inspiring words.

Moving along without light made him realize how very much he depended on his eyes. He could not tell whether he was going uphill or down, left or right. Just when he began to wonder if the passage under the city ran on forever, he saw a faint gleam of light ahead. He hurried toward it. When he pulled aside the curtain that covered the entrance to the tunnel, he found himself back in the temple again.

He stood blinking for a few seconds as he got used to seeing once more. Digenis did not seem to have moved while he was gone. He wondered how long that had been: his sense of time seemed to have been cast into darkness down in the tunnel along with his vision.

Digenis studied him. The priest's eyes were so sharp and penetrating that Phostis suspected he might have been able to see even in the black night of the underground passage. After a moment, Digenis said, 'The man who is truly holy turns aside from no test, but triumphantly surmounts it.'

Quite against his conscious will, Phostis thought of himself triumphantly surmounting Olyvria. Turning his back on the distracting mental image, he answered, 'Holy sir, I make no special claim to holiness of my own. I am merely as I am. If I fail to please you, drive me hence.'

'Your father, or rather your acceptance of his will, has already sufficed in that regard. But while not a man destined to be renowned among Phos' holy elite, you have not done badly, I admit,' Digenis said. That was as near to praise as he was in the habit of coming. Phostis grinned in involuntary relief. The priest added, 'I know it is no simple matter for a young man to reject carnality and its delights.'

'That's true, holy sir.' Only after Phostis had replied did he notice that, this once, Digenis sounded remarkably like his father. His opinion of the priest went down a notch. Why couldn't old men leave off prating about what young men did or didn't do? What did they know about it, anyhow? They hadn't been young since before Videssos was a city, as the saying went.

Digenis said, 'May the good god turn his countenance—and his continence—upon you during your wanderings, lad, and may you remember his truths and what you have learned from me in the hour when you will be tested all in earnest.'

'May it be so, holy sir,' Phostis answered, though he didn't understand just what the priest meant by his last comment. Weren't his lessons Phos' truth in and of themselves? He set that aside for later consideration, bowed deeply to Digenis, and walked out of the little temple.

His Haloga guards were down on one knee in the street, shooting dice. They paid off the last bet and got to their feet. 'Back to the palaces, young Majesty?' one asked.

'That's right, Snorri,' Phostis answered. 'I have to ready myself to sail west.' He let the northerners escort him out of the unsavory part of the capital. As they turned onto Middle Street, he said, 'Tell me, Snorri, how are you better for having your mail shirt gilded?'

The Haloga turned back, puzzlement spread across his blunt features. 'Better, young Majesty? I don't follow the track of your thought.'

'Does the gilding make you fight better? Are you braver on account of it? Does it keep the iron links of the shirt from rusting better than some cheap paint might?'

'None of those, young Majesty.' Snorri's massive head shook slowly back and forth as if he thought Phostis ought to he able to see that much for himself. In fact, he likely was thinking something of the sort.

Phostis didn't care. Buoyed by Digenis' inspiring word and by pride at turning down what Olyvria had so temptingly offered, he had at the moment no use for the material things of the world, for everything which had throughout his life stood between him and hunger, discomfort, and fear. As if fencing with a rapier of logic, he thrust home. 'Why have the gilding, then?'

He didn't know what he'd expected—maybe for Snorri to rush out and buy a jug of turpentine so he could remove the offending pigment from his byrnie. But whether the gilding helped the Haloga or not, he was armored against reasoned argument. He answered, 'Why, young Majesty? I like it; I think it's pretty. That's plenty for me.'

The rest of the trip to the palaces passed in silence.

Lines creaked as they ran through pulleys. The big square sail swung to catch the breeze from a new angle. Waves slapped against the bow of the Triumphant as the imperial flagship turned toward shore.

Krispos knew more than a little relief at the prospect of being on dry land to stay. The voyage west from Videssos the city had been smooth enough; he'd needed to use the lee rail only once. The galleys and transport ships never sailed out of sight of land, and beached themselves every evening. That wasn't why Krispos looked forward to putting in at Nakoleia.

The trouble was, he'd grown to feel isolated, cut off from the world around him, in his week at sea. No new reports slacked up on his desk. His cabin, in fact, had no desk, only a little folding table. He felt like a healer-priest forced to remove his fingers from a sick man's wrist in the middle of taking his pulse.