from functions to which his comrades are invited.' He lowered his voice. 'I will say, however, that his principal area of prowess does appear to be wrestling, not reason.'
Iakovitzes' expression was eloquent, but a second glance at the enormous Kubrati made him keep to himself whatever remarks he thought of making.
The servant seated him and Krispos well away from the Kubratoi, only a couple of places from Petronas. Krispos hoped the arrival of food would help quiet Malomir's envoys. It did help, but not much—it made them talk with their mouths full. Trays came and went, bearing soup, prawns, partridges, and lamb. After a while Krispos lost track of the number of courses he'd eaten. He only knew he was replete.
When the last candied apricots were gone, Petronas rose and lifted his goblet. 'To the health and long life of his Imperial Majesty the Avtokrator of the Videssians, Anthimos III!' he declared. Everyone drank the toast. Petronas stayed on his feet. 'And to the efforts of that clever and accomplished diplomat, the excellent noble Iakovitzes.' Everyone drank again, this time with a spattering of polite applause.
Flushed with pleasure at being toasted next after the Emperor, Iakovitzes stood up. 'To his Imperial Highness the Sevastokrator Petronas!'
Petronas bowed as the toast was drunk. He caught the eye of one of the Kubrati envoys. 'To the long and peaceful reign of the great khagan Malomir, and to your own continued success, Gleb.'
Gleb stood. He raised his goblet. 'I drink also to the health of your Avtokrator,' he said, his Videssian slow but clear, even polished.
'Didn't think he had manners enough for that,' Iakovitzes said to Krispos. From the murmurs of pleasure that filled the hall, a good many other people were similarly surprised.
Gleb did not sit down. 'Since his Imperial Highness the Sevastokrator Petronas has only now deigned to notice my lord the khagan Malomir and me—' Suddenly the Hall of the Nineteen Couches grew still; Krispos wondered whether Iakovitzes' joy was worth the slight the Kubrati plainly felt, '—I now propose a toast to remind him of the might of Kubrat. Thus I drink to the strength of my comrade here, the famous and ferocious Beshev, who has beaten every Videssian he has faced.'
Gleb drank. So did the other Kubratoi. Most of the imperials in the hall kept their goblets in front of them.
'He goes too far!' Iakovitzes did not bother to speak softly. 'I know Kubratoi are conceited and boastful, but this surpasses all due measure. He—'
Krispos made hushing motions. The famous and ferocious Beshev was climbing to his feet. As he rose, Krispos took his measure. He was surely very strong, but how much quickness did he have? By the way he moved, not a great deal. Indeed, if he was as slow as he seemed, Krispos wondered how he had won all his matches.
Beshev held his goblet high. His Videssian was much more strongly accented than Gleb's, but still understandable. 'I drink to the spirit of the brave Stylianos, whose neck I broke in our fight, and to the spirits of the other Videssians I will slay in wrestlings yet to come.'
He drained the goblet. With a satisfied smirk, Gleb drank, too. Petronas stared at the men from Kubrat, stony- faced. Angry shouts rang through the hall. None of them, though, Krispos noted, came from anywhere close to Beshev. Not even Iakovitzes felt like affronting the Kubrati to his face.
Krispos turned to his master. 'Let me take him on!'
'Eh? What?' Iakovitzes frowned. As comprehension dawned, he looked to Beshev, back to Krispos, and slowly shook his head. 'No, Krispos. Bravely offered, but no. That barbarian may be a musclebound hulk, but he knows what he's about. I don't care to lose you for no good purpose.' He put his hand on Krispos' arm.
Krispos shook it off. 'You wouldn't lose me to no good purpose,' he said, angry now at Iakovitzes as well as the arrogant Kubrati. 'And I know what I'm about, too. If you doubt it, remember how I handled Barses and Meletios a year and a half ago. I learned wrestling back in my village, from a veteran of the imperial army.'
Iakovitzes looked at Beshev again. 'That barbarian is as big as Barses and Meletios put together,' he said, but now his tone was doubtful. 'Are you really sure you can beat him?'
'Of course I'm not sure, but I think I have a chance. Do you want this banquet remembered for your sake, or just as the time when the Kubratoi bragged and got away with it?'
'Hmm.' Iakovitzes plucked at the waxed ends of his mustache as he thought. With abrupt decision, he got to his feet. 'All right, you'll get your chance. Come on—let's talk to Petronas.'
The Sevastokrator turned around in his chair as Iakovitzes and Krispos came up behind him. 'What is it?' he growled; Gleb and Beshev had taken the joy out of the evening for him.
'I have here, lord, a man who, if you call on him, would wrestle with this famous—' Iakovitzes loaded the word with scorn, '—Kubrati. For his boasting is a great disgrace to us Videssians; it would grow even worse if he returned to Kubrat unbeaten.'
'That is true enough. The Kubratoi are quite full of false pretensions as it is,' Petronas said. He studied Krispos with an officer's experienced eye. 'Maybe, just maybe,' he said to himself, and slowly rose. He waited for silence, then lifted his goblet above his head. 'I drink to the courage of the bold Krispos, who will show Beshev the folly of his insolence.'
The silence held a moment longer, then suddenly the Hall of the Nineteen Couches was full of shouts: 'Krispos!' 'Krispos!' 'Hurrah for Krispos!' 'Kill the barbarian!' 'Flatten him!' 'Stomp him!' 'Beat him to a pulp!' 'Krispos!'
The sound of his name loud in a hundred throats tingled through Krispos' veins like wine. He felt strong enough to beat a dozen Kubratoi at the same time, let alone the one he was about to face. He sent a challenging stare toward Beshev.
The look the wrestler gave back was so cold and empty that it froze Krispos' excitement. To Beshev, he was just another body to break. Without a word, the Kubrati got to his feet and began taking off his clothes.
Krispos pulled his robe over his head and tossed it aside. He took off his thin undertunic, leaving himself in linen drawers and sandals. He heard a woman sigh. That made him smile as he unbuckled the sandals.
The smile faded when he glanced over at Beshev. He was taller than the Kubrati, but he saw his foe outweighed him. And none of Beshev's bulk was fat; by the look of his huge, hard muscles, he might have been carved from stone.
