Krispos the Emperor

'Do you know, esteemed sir, I was thinking of giving the job to Evripos.' Krispos spoke in a deliberately neutral tone. If Barsymes had anything to say against the appointment of his middle son, he didn't want to intimidate the eunuch into keeping his mouth shut.

Barsymes tasted the appointment with the same sort of thoughtful attention Krispos had given to the weather. After a similar pause for that consideration, the vestiarios answered, 'That may serve very nicely, your Majesty. By all accounts, the young Majesty acquitted himself well in the westlands.'

'He did,' Krispos agreed. 'Not only that, soldiers followed where he led, which is a magic that can't be taught. I'll also leave behind some steady officer who can try to keep him from doing anything too rash if the need arises.'

'That's sensible,' Barsymes replied, saying by not saying that he would have reckoned Krispos daft for doing anything else. 'It will be valuable experience for the young Majesty, especially if—if other matters do not eventuate as we would desire.'

'Phostis still lives,' Krispos said suddenly. 'Zaidas' sorcery continues to confirm that, and he's fairly sure Phostis is in Etchmiadzin, where the rebels seem to have their headquarters. He's made real headway in penetrating the masking sorcery since we realized it springs from Makuran.' His briefly kindled enthusiasm faded fast. 'Of course, he has no way of telling what Phostis believes these days.'

There lay the nut of it, as was Krispos' way, in one sentence. The Avtokrator shook his head. Phostis was so young; who could say what latest enthusiasm he'd seized on? At that same age, Krispos knew he'd had a good core of solid sense. But at just past twenty, he'd been a peasant still, and he could imagine no stronger dose of reality than that. Phostis had grown up in the palaces, where flights of fancy were far more easily sustained. And Phostis had always taken pleasure in going dead against whatever Krispos had in mind.

'What of Katakolon?' Barsymes asked.

'I'll take him with me—I'll need one spatharios. at any rate,' Krispos said. 'He did tolerably well in the westlands himself, and rather better than that during the Midwinter's Day riots. One thing these past few months have taught me: all my sons need such training in command as I can give them. Counting on Phos' mercy instead of providing for the times to come is foolish and wasteful.'

'Few have accused your Majesty of harboring those traits— none truthfully.'

'For which, believe me, you have my thanks,' Krispos said. 'Find Evripos for me, would you? I've not yet told him what I have in mind.'

'Of course, your Majesty.' Barsymes went back inside the imperial residence. Krispos stood and enjoyed the sunshine. The cherry trees around the residence were putting on leaves; soon, for a few glorious weeks, they'd be a riot of sweet pink and white blossoms. Krispos' thoughts drifted away from them and back toward raising troops, moving troops, supplying troops ...

He sighed. Being Avtokrator meant having to worry about things you'd rather ignore. He wondered if the rebels he'd put down ever realized how much work the job of ruling the Empire really was. He certainly hadn't, back when he took it away from Anthimos.

If I thought Livanios wouldn't botch things, I ought to give him the crown and let him see how he likes it, he thought angrily. But he knew that would never happen: the only way Livanios would take the crown from him was by prying it out of his dead fingers.

'What is it, Father?' Evripos asked, coming up in Barsymes' wake. The wariness in his voice was different from what Krispos was used to hearing from Phostis. Phostis and he simply disagreed every chance they got. Evripos resented being born second; it made his opinions not worth serious disagreement.

Or it had made them so. Now Krispos explained what he had in mind for his son. 'This is serious business,' he emphasized. 'If real trouble does come, I won't want you throwing out orders at random. That's why I'll leave a steady captain with you. I expect you to heed his advice on matters military.'

Evripos had puffed out his chest with pride at the trust Krispos placed in him. Now he said, 'But what if I think he's wrong, Father?'

Obey him anyhow, Krispos started to say. But the words did not pass his lips. He remembered when Petronas had maneuvered him into the position of vestiarios for Anthimos. The then-Avtokrator's uncle had made it very clear that he expected nothing but obedience to him from Krispos. He remembered asking Petronas a question very similar to the one he'd just heard from Evripos.

'You have command,' he said slowly. 'If you think your advisor is wrong, you'd better do what you reckon right. But you have to remember, son, that with command comes responsibility. If you choose to go against the officer I give you and your course goes wrong, you will answer to me. Do you understand?'

'Aye, Father, I do. You're telling me I'd better be sure—and even if I am sure, I'd better be right. Is that the meat of it?'

'That's it exactly,' Krispos agreed. 'I'm not putting you in this place as part of a game, Evripos. The post is not only real but also important. A mistake would be important, too, in how much damage it could do. So if you go off on your own, against the advice of a man older and wiser than you are, what you do had better not turn out badly, for your sake and the Empire's both.'

With the prickliness of youth, Evripos bristled like a hedgehog. 'How do you know this officer you'll appoint for me will be smarter than I am?'

'I didn't say that. You're as smart as you'll ever be, son, and I have no reason to doubt that's very smart indeed. But you're not as wise as you're going to be, say, twenty years from now. Wisdom comes from using the wits you have to think on what's happened to you during your life, and you haven't lived long enough yet to have stored up much of it.'

Evripos looked eloquently unconvinced. Krispos didn't blame him; at Evripos' age, he hadn't believed experience mattered, either. Now that he had a good deal of it, he was sure he'd been wrong before—but the only way for Evripos to come to the same conclusion was with the slow passage of the years. He couldn't afford to wait for that.

His middle son said, 'Suppose this officer you name suggests a course I think is wrong, but I go along with it for fear of what you've just said. And suppose it does turn out to be the wrong course. What then, Father?'

'Maybe you should be pleading your case in the courts, not commanding men in the field,' Krispos said. But the question was too much to the point to be answered with a sour joke. Slowly, the Avtokrator went on, 'If I put you in the post, you will be the commander. When the time comes, making the judgment will be up to you. That's the