'Majesty,' Anthimos echoed. Some of the courtiers started whispering again, thinking that the formal recognition of Petronas' elevation. But Anthimos went on in a musing tone, 'Majesty is the word we use to denote the sovereign of the state, the power that is his, a signpost of the imperial office, if you will, rather like the red boots only the Avtokrator is privileged to wear.'
Petronas gravely nodded. Krispos watched him go from attention to at ease. If Anthimos was going to make a speech before he got around to the coronation, Petronas would endure it in dignified comfort.
And Anthimos was going to make a speech. He continued, 'The Empire, of course, is indivisible. Ought not its sovereignty and the acknowledgment of that sovereignty to be the same? Many would say no, for Videssos has known co-Avtokrators before; the creation of another would be no innovation on the ancient customs of our state.'
Petronas nodded once more, this time, Krispos thought, with a trace of smugness. Anthimos was still speaking. 'And yet, those former Avtokrators surely each had reasons they reckoned pressing when they invested their colleagues with a share of the imperial dignity: perhaps to give a son or other chosen successor a taste of responsibility before the passing of the senior partner.
'My uncle Petronas, who stands before me now, is, as you all know, already familiar with the power inherent in the throne,' Anthimos said. Petronas nodded yet again. His nephew went on,'Indeed, for many years the administration of the state and of its armies was entrusted to him. At first this was because of my youth, later not least on account of his own desire to continue what he had begun.'
Petronas stood patiently, waiting for Anthimos to come to the point. Now Anthimos did: 'In his control of the armies, my uncle has fought against our ancient foe Makuran. Having failed to win any victories to speak of in his first year, he seeks a second year of campaigning, and this at a time when other barbarians, brought near our northern frontier at his urging, now threaten us.'
The smile suddenly faded from Petronas' face. Anthimos took no notice, continuing, 'When I urged him to consider this, he held it to be of scant import, and as much as told me he would use his influence over our soldiery to topple me from my throne if I failed to do as he wished.' Anthimos raised his voice, called to the Halogai in the Grand Courtroom, 'Soldiers of Videssos, who is your Avtokrator, Anthimos or Petronas?'
'Anthimos!' the northerners cried, so loud that echoes rang from the walls and high ceilings. 'Anthimos!'
The Emperor rose from his throne. 'Then seize this traitor here, who sought to terrify me into granting him a share of the imperial power to which he has no right!'
'Why, you—' Petronas sprang toward his nephew. Dara screamed, throwing herself in front of Anthimos. Before Petronas could reach the steps that led up to the throne, though, Krispos grappled with him, holding him in place until three Halogai, axes upraised, came clattering from their posts nearest the imperial seat.
'Yield or die!' one shouted to Petronas, who was still struggling against Krispos' greater strength. All the rest of the imperial guards also held their axes above their heads, ready to loose massacre in the Grand Courtroom if any of Petronas' backers among the Empire's assembled nobles and commanders sought to rescue the Sevastokrator. No one did.
Krispos thought Petronas' fury so great he would die before he gave up. But the Sevastokrator was a veteran soldier, long used to calculating the odds of success in battle. Although hatred burned in his eyes, he checked himself, stepped back from Krispos, and bent his head to the big blond axemen. 'I yield,' he choked out.
'You'd better, Uncle,' Anthimos said, sitting once more. 'By the good god, I'd sooner see Krispos here on the throne than you.' From her place just below him, Dara nodded vigorously. He went on, 'And since you have yielded, you must be placed in circumstances where you can no longer threaten us. Will you now willingly surrender up your hair and join the brotherhood of monks at a monastery of our choosing, there to spend the rest of your days in contemplation of the Lord with the great and good mind?'
'Willingly?' By now Petronas had enough aplomb back to raise an ironic eyebrow. 'Aye, considering the alternative, I'll abandon my hair willingly enough. Better to have my hair trimmed than my neck.'
'Pyrrhos?' Anthimos said.
'With pleasure, your Majesty.' The abbot stepped down onto the floor of the Grand Courtroom. In the pouch on his belt he carried scissors and a glitteringly sharp razor. He bowed to Petronas and held up a copy of Phos' scriptures. Formality kept from his voice any gloating he might have felt as he said, 'Petronas, behold the law under which you shall live if you choose. If in your heart you feel you can observe it, enter the monastic life; if not, speak now.'
Petronas took no offense at being addressed so simply—if he was to become a monk, the titles he had enjoyed were no longer his. He did permit himself one meaningful glance at the axemen around him, then replied, 'I shall observe it.'
'Shall you truly?'
'I shall truly.'
'Truly?'
'Truly.'
After Petronas affirmed his pledge for the third time, Pyrrhos bowed again and said,'Then lower your proud head, Petronas, and yield your hair in token of submission to Phos, the Lord with the great and good mind.' Petronas obeyed. Graying hair fell to the marble floor as the abbot plied his scissors. When he had it cropped short, he switched to the razor.
The crown Petronas had expected to wear lay on a large cushion of scarlet satin. After Pyrrhos was done shaving Petronas' head, he climbed the steps to that second throne and lifted the cushion. Beneath it, folded flat, was a robe of coarse blue wool. The abbot took it and returned to Petronas.
'The garment you now wear does not suit the station in life you will have henceforth,' he said. 'Strip it off, and those red boots as well, that you may don the robe of monastic purity.'
Again Petronas did as he was told, unhooking the fastenings that held the imperial raiment closed. With a fine shrug of indifference, he let the magnificent robe fall to the floor, then yanked off the imperial boots. His undertunic and drawers were of smooth, glistening silk. He stood easily, waiting for Pyrrhos to proceed. Defeated or not, Krispos thought, he had style.
Pyrrhos frowned to see Petronas' rich undergarments. 'Those will also be taken from you when we reach the
