'Don't like it too well,' Krispos said. 'A taste for blood is more expensive than even an emperor can afford.' He realized he laid that on too thick and tried to take some of it off: 'But I was glad to see you at the fore. And if you go through the encampments tonight, you'll find out I wasn't the only one who noticed.'
'Really?' Krispos could see Evripos wasn't used to the idea of being a hero. By the way the young man straightened up, though, the notion sat well. 'Maybe I'll do that.'
'Try not to let them get you too drunk,' Krispos warned. 'You're an officer, you need to keep your head clear when you're in the field.' Evripos nodded. Remembering himself at the same age, Krispos doubted his son would pay the admonition too much heed. But he'd planted it in Evripos' mind, which was as much as he could do.
He went off to see how Katakolon had fared in his first big fight. His youngest son had already disappeared among the tents of the camp followers, so Krispos silently shelved the lecture on the virtues of moderation. He did seek out a couple of officers who had seen Katakolon in action. By their accounts, he'd fought well enough, though without his brother's flair. Reassured by that, Krispos decided not to rout him from his pleasures. He'd earned them.
Krispos had urged Evripos to go through the camp to soak up adulation. He made his own second tour for a more pragmatic reason: to gauge the feel of the men after the indecisive fight. He knew a certain amount of relief that none of the regiments had tried to go over to the foe.
A fellow who had his back turned and so did not know the Avtokrator was close by said to his mates, 'I tell you, boys, at this rate it's gonna take us about three days less'n forever to make it to Pityos. If the mud don't hold us back, mixing it with the cursed heretics will.' His friends nodded in agreement.
Krispos walked away from them less happy than he might have been. He breathed a silent prayer up to Phos that the scouting parties could discover an undefended river crossing. If his men didn't think they could do what he wanted from them, they were all too likely to prove themselves right.
Even though he'd not fought, himself, the battle left him worn. He fell asleep as soon as he lay down on his cot and did not wake until the gray dawn of another wet day. When he came out of the tent, he wished he'd stayed in bed, for Sarkis greeted him with unwelcome news: 'Latest count is, we've lost, ah, thirty-seven men, your Majesty.'
'What do you mean, lost?' Krispos' wits were not yet at full speed.
The cavalry commander spelled it out in terms he could not misunderstand: 'That's how many slipped out of camp in the night, most likely to throw in with the Thanasioi. The number'll only grow, too, as all the officers finish morning roll for their companies.' No sooner were the words out of his mouth than a soldier came up to say something to him. He nodded and sent the man away, then turned back to Kripos: 'Sorry, your Majesty. Make that forty-one missing.'
Krispos scowled. 'If we have to use half the army to guard the other half, it'll be only days before we can't fight with any of it.'
'Aye, that's so,' Sarkis said. 'And how will you be able to tell beforehand which half to use to do the guarding?'
'You have a delightful way of looking at things this morning, don't you, Sarkis?' Krispos peered up at the sky from under the broad brim of his hat. 'You're as cheery as the weather.'
'As may be. I thought you wanted the men around you to tell you what was so, not what sounded sweet. And I tell you this: if we don't find a good road forward today—well, maybe tomorrow, but today would be better—this campaign is as dead and stinking as last week's fish stew.'
'I think you're right,' Krispos said unhappily. 'We've sent out the scouts; that's all we can do for now. But if they don't have any luck ...' He left the sentence unfinished, not wanting to give rise to any evil omen.
He sent out more scouting parties after breakfast. They splashed forth, vanishing into rain and swirling mist. Along with Krispos, the rest of the soldiers passed a miserable day, staying under canvas as much as they could, doing their best to keep weapons and armor greased against the ravages of rust, and themselves as warm and dry as they could—which is to say, not very warm and not very dry.
The first scouting parties returned to camp late in the afternoon. One look at their faces gave Krispos the bad news. The captains filled in unpleasant details: streams running high, ground getting boggier by the hour, and Thanasioi out in force at any possible crossing points. 'If it could have been done, your Majesty, we'd have done it,' one of the officers said. 'Truth is, it can't be done, not here, not now.'
Krispos grunted as if kicked in the belly. Agreeing with Sarkis that he wanted to hear from his subjects what was so was one thing. Listening to an unpalatable truth, one that flew in the face of all he wanted, was something else again. But he had not lasted two decades and more on the throne by substituting his desires for reality: another lesson learned from poor wild dead Anthimos.
'We can't go forward,' he said, and the scout commanders chorused agreement. 'The lord with the great and good mind knows we can't stay here.' This time, if anything, the agreement was louder. Though the bitter words choked him, Krispos said what had to be said: 'Then we've no choice but to go back to Videssos the city.' The officers agreed once more. That did nothing to salve his feelings.
The Thanasioi tramping into the keep of Etchmiadzin did not look like an army returning in triumph. Phostis had watched—had taken part in—triumphal processions down Middle Street in Videssos the city, testimonials to the might of his father's soldiers and to the guile of his father's generals.
Looking down from his bare little cell in the citadel, he saw none of the gleam and sparkle, none of the arrogance, that had marked the processions with which he was familiar. The fighting men below looked dirty and draggled and tired unto death; several had bandages, clean or not so clean, on arms or legs or heads. And, in fact, they'd not won a battle. In the end, Krispos' army had forced them back from the position they tried to hold.
But even defeat hadn't mattered. Instead of pressing forward. the imperial force was on its way back to the capital.
Phostis was still trying to grasp what that meant. He and Krispos had clashed almost every time they spoke to each other. But Phostis, however much he fought with his father, however much he disagreed with much of what he thought his father stood for, could not ignore Krispos' long record of success. Somewhere down deep, he'd thought Krispos would deal with the Thanasioi as he had with so many other enemies. But no.
The door behind him swung open. He turned away from the window. Syagrios' grin, always unpleasant, seemed especially so now. 'Come on down, you,' the ruffian said. 'Livanios wants a word with you, he does.'
