VII
"Hurry up, Krispos! Aren't you ready yet?" Iakovitzes said. "We don't want to be late, not to this affair."
"No, excellent sir," Krispos said. He had been ready for the best part of an hour. His master was the one who kept taking off one robe and putting on another, agonizing over how big a hoop to wear in his left ear and whether it should be gold or silver, bedeviling his servants about which scent to douse himself with. This once, Krispos did not blame Iakovitzes for fussiness. The Sevastokrator Petronas was giving the evening's feast.
"Come on, then," Iakovitzes said now. A moment later, almost as an afterthought, he added, "You look quite well tonight. I don't think I've seen that robe before."
"Thank you, excellent sir. No, I don't think you've seen it, either. I just bought it a couple of weeks ago."
The garment in question was dark blue, and of fine soft wool. Its sober hue and plain cut were suited to a man older and of higher station than Krispos. He'd used a few of Tanilis' goldpieces on clothes of that sort. One of these days, he might need to be taken seriously. Not looking like a groom could only help.
He rode half a pace behind Iakovitzes and to his master's left. Iakovitzes swore whenever cross traffic made them slow and grew livid to see how crowded the plaza of Palamas was. "Out of the way there, you blundering oaf!" he screamed when he got stuck behind a small man leading a large mule. "I have an appointment with the Sevastokrator."
Cheeky as most of the folk who called Videssos the city home, the fellow retorted, "I don't care if you've got an appointment with Phos, pal. I'm in front of you and that's how I like it."
After more curses, Iakovitzes and Krispos managed to swing around the muleteer. By then they were near the western edge of the plaza of Palamas, past the great amphitheater, past the red granite obelisk of the Milestone from which all distances in the Empire were reckoned.
"Here, you see, excellent sir, we're all right," Krispos said soothingly as traffic thinned out.
"I suppose so." Iakovitzes did not sound convinced, but Krispos knew he was grumbling only because he always grumbled. The western edge of the plaza bordered on the imperial palaces, and no one entered the palace district without business there. Soon Iakovitzes urged his horse up into a trot, and then into a canter.
"Where are we going?" Krispos asked, keeping pace.
"The Hall of the Nineteen Couches."
"The nineteen what?" Krispos wasn't sure he'd heard correctly.
"Couches," Iakovitzes repeated. "Why do they call it that?"
"Because up until maybe a hundred years ago, people at fancy feasts ate while they reclined instead of sitting in chairs as we do now. Don't ask me why they did that, because I couldn't tell you—to make it easier for them to spill things on their robes, I suppose. Anyway, there haven't been any couches in there for a long time, but names have a way of sticking."
They swung round a decorative stand of willows. Krispos saw scores of torches blazing in front of a large square building, and People bustling around and going inside. "Is that it?"
"That's it." Iakovitzes gauged the number of horses and sedan chairs off to one side of the hall. "We're all right—not too early, but not late, either."
Grooms in matched silken finery led away his mount and Krispos'. Krispos followed his master up the low, broad stairs to the Hall of the Nineteen Couches. "Pretty stone," Krispos remarked as he got close enough to make out detail in the torchlight.
"Do you really think so?" Iakovitzes said. "The green veining in the white marble always reminds me of one of those crumbly cheeses that smell bad."
"I hadn't thought of that," Krispos said, truthfully enough. He had to admit the comparison was apt. Even so, he would not have made it himself. Iakovitzes' jaundiced outlook made him take some strange views of the world.
A servitor in raiment even more splendid than the grooms' bowed low as Iakovitzes came to the entrance, then turned and loudly announced, "The excellent Iakovitzes!"
Thus introduced, Iakovitzes swaggered into the reception hall, as well as he could swagger with a limp that was still pronounced. Krispos, who was not nearly important enough to be worth introducing, followed his master inside.
"Iakovitzes!" Petronas hurried up to clasp the noble's hand. "That was a fine piece of work you did for me in Opsikion. You have my gratitude." The Sevastokrator made no effort to keep his voice down. Heads turned to see whom he singled out for such public praise.
"Thank you, your Highness," Iakovitzes said, visibly preening.
"As I said, you're the one who has earned my thanks. Well done." Petronas started to walk away, stopped. "Krispos, isn't it?"
"Yes, your Imperial Highness," Krispos said, surprised and impressed the Sevastokrator remembered his name after one brief meeting almost a year before.
"Thought so." Petronas also seemed pleased with himself. He turned back to Iakovitzes. "Didn't you bring another lad with you from Opsikion, too? Mavros, was that the name? Tanilis' son, I mean."
Iakovitzes nodded. "As a matter of fact, I did."
"Thought so," Petronas repeated. "Bring him along one of these times when we're at a function together, if you could. I'd like to meet him. Besides which—" The Sevastokrator's smile was cynical, "—his mother's rich enough that I don't want to get her annoyed with me, and chatting him up can only help me with her."
Petronas went off to greet other guests. Iakovitzes' gaze followed him. "He doesn't miss much," the noble mused, more to himself than to Krispos. "I wonder which of my people told him about Mavros." Whoever it was, Krispos did not envy him if his master found him out.
Still muttering to himself, Iakovitzes headed for the wine. He plucked a silver goblet from the bed of hoarded snow in which it rested, drained it and reached for another. Krispos took a goblet, too. He sipped from it as he walked over to a table piled high with appetizers. A couple of slices of boiled eggplant and some pickled anchovies took the edge off his appetite. He was careful not to eat too much; he wanted to be able to do justice to the supper that lay ahead.
"Your moderation does you credit, young man," someone said from behind him when he left the hors d'oeuvres after only a brief stay.
"Your pardon?" Krispos turned, swiftly added, "Holy sir. Most holy sir," he amended; the priest—or rather prelate—who'd spoken to him wore shimmering cloth-of-gold with Phos' sun picked out in blue silk on his left breast.
"Nothing, really," the ecclesiastic said. His sharp, foxy features reminded Krispos of Petronas', though they were less stern and heavy than the Sevastokrator's. He went on, "It's just that at an event like this, where gluttony is the rule, seeing anyone eschew it is a cause for wonderment and celebration."
Hoping he'd guessed right about what "eschew" meant, Krispos answered, "All I planned was to be a glutton a little later." He explained why he'd gone easy on the appetizers.
"Oh, dear." The prelate threw back his head and laughed. "Well, young sir, I appreciate your candor. That, believe me, is even rarer at these events than moderation. I don't believe I've seen you before?" He paused expectantly.
"My name is Krispos, most holy sir. I'm one of Iakovitzes' grooms."
"Pleased to meet you, Krispos. Since I see my blue boots haven't given me away, let me introduce myself, as welclass="underline" I'm called Gnatios."
Just as only the Avtokrator wore all-red boots, only one priest had the privilege of wearing all-blue ones. Krispos realized with a start that he'd been making small talk with the ecumenical patriarch of the Empire of Videssos. "M-most holy sir," he stammered, bowing. Even as he bent his head, though, he felt a rush of pride—if only the villagers could see him now!