He went on, "How can we hope to rise to the heavens while weighted down with gold in our belt pouches? I will not say it cannot be, friends, but I say that few of the rich live lives sufficiently saintly to rise above the dross they value more than their souls."
"That's right, holy sir!" a woman exclaimed. Someone else, a man this time, added, "Tell the truth!"
The priest picked that up and set it into his sermon as neatly as a mason taking a brick from a new pile. "Tell the truth I shall, friends. The truth is that everything the foolish rich run after is but a snare from Skotos, a lure to drag them down to his eternal ice. If Phos is the patron of our souls, as we know him to be, then how can material things be his concern? The answer is simple, friends: they cannot. The material world is Skotos' plaything. Rejoice if you have but little share therein; would it were true for all of us. The greatest service we can render to one who knows not this truth is to deprive him of that which ties him to Skotos, thereby liberating his soul to contemplate the higher good."
"Yes," a woman cried, her voice high and breathy, as if in ecstasy. "Oh, yes!"
The butcher who had spoken to Phostis still sounded solid and matter-of-fact. "I pray that you guide us in our renunciation of the material, holy sir."
"Let your own knowledge of moving toward Phos' holy light be your guide, friend," the priest answered. "What you renounce is yours only in this world at best. Will you risk an eternity in Skotos' ice for its sake? Only a fool would act so."
"We're no fools," the butcher said. "We know—" He broke off to give Phostis yet another measuring stare; by this time,
Phostis was sick of them. Whatever he had been about to My, he reconsidered, starting again after a barely noticeable pause: "We know what we know, by the good god."
The rest of the people in the shabby temple knew whatever it was the butcher knew. They called out in agreement, some loudly, some softly, all with more belief and piety in their voices than Phostis had ever heard from the prominent folk who most often prayed in the High Temple. His brief anger at being excluded from whatever they knew soon faded. He wished he could find something to believe in with as much force as these people gave to their faith.
The priest raised his hands to the heavens, then spat between Ills feet in ritual rejection of Skotos. He led the worshipers in Phos' creed one last time, then announced the end of the liturgy. As Phostis turned and left the temple, once more bracketed fore and aft by his bodyguards, he felt a sense of loss and regret on returning to the mundane world that he'd never known when departing from the superficially more awesome setting of the High Temple. An impious comparison crossed his mind: it was almost as if he were returning to himself after the piercing pleasure of the act of love.
He shook his head. As the priest had said, what were those thrashings and moanings, what were any earthly delights, if they imperiled his soul?
"Excuse me," someone said from behind him: the butcher. Phostis turned. So did the Halogai with him. The axes twitched In their hands, as if hungry for blood. The butcher ignored them; he spoke to Phostis as if they were not there: "Friend, you seem to have thought well of what you heard in the temple. That's just a hunch of mine, mind you—if I'm wrong, you tell me and I'll go my way."
"No, good sir, you're not wrong." Phostis wished he'd thought to say "friend," too. Well, too late now. He continued, "Your priest there preaches well, and has a fiery heart like few i've heard. What good is wealth if it hides in a hoard or is wantonly wasted when so many stand in need?"
"What good is wealth?" the butcher said, and let it go at that. If his eye flicked over the fine robe Phostis wore, they did so too fast for the younger man to notice. The butcher went on, "Maybe you would like to hear more of what the holy sir—his name's Digenis, by the way—has to say, and hear it in a more private setting?"
Phostis thought about that. "Maybe I would," he said at last, for he did want to hear the priest again.
Had the butcher smiled or shown triumph, his court-sharpened suspicions would have kindled. But the fellow only gave a sober nod. That convinced Phostis of his sincerity, if nothing more. He decided he would indeed try to have that more private audience with Digenis. He'd found this morning that shaking off his bodyguards was anything but easy. Still, there might be ways ...
Katakolon stood in the doorway to the study, waiting until Krispos chanced to look up from the tax register he was examining. Eventually Krispos did. He put down his pen. "What is it, son? Come in if you have something on your mind."
By the nervous way in which Katakolon approached his desk, Krispos could make a pretty good guess as to what "it" might be. His youngest son confirmed that guess when he said, "May it please you, Father, I should like to request another advance on my allowance." His smile, usually so sunny, had the hangdog air it assumed whenever he had to beg money from his father.
Krispos rolled his eyes. "Another advance? What did you spend it on this time?"
"An amber-and-emerald bracelet for Nitria," Katakolon said sheepishly.
"Who's Nitria?" Krispos asked. "I thought you were sleeping with Varina these days."
"Oh, I still am. Father," Katakolon assured him. "The other one's new. That's why I got her something special."
"I see," Krispos said. He did, too, in a strange sort of way. Katakolon was a lad who generally liked to be liked. With a youth's enthusiasm and stamina, he also led a love life more complicated than any bureaucratic document. Krispos knew a small measure of relief that he'd managed to remember the name of his son's current—or, by the sound of things, soon to be current but one—favorite. He sighed. "How much of an allowance do you get every month?"
"Twenty goldpieces, Father."
"That's right, twenty goldpieces. Do you have any idea how
old I was, son, before I had twenty goldpieces to my name, let alone twenty every month of the year? When I was your age,
"—lived on a farm that grew only nettles, and you ate worms three meals a day," Katakolon finished for him. Krispos glared. His son said, "You make that same speech every time ask you for money, Father."
"Maybe I do," Krispos said. Thinking about it, he was suddenly certain he did. That annoyed him; was he getting predictable as he got older? Being predictable could also be dangerous. But he added, "You'd be better off if you hadn't heard it so many times you've committed it to memory." "Yes, Father," Katakolon said dutifully. "May I please have the advance?"
Sometimes Krispos gave in, sometimes he didn't. The cadaster he'd put down so he could talk with his son brought good news: the fisc had gained more revenue than expected from the province just south of the Paristrian Mountains, the province where he'd been born. Gruffly he said, "Very well. I suppose you haven't managed to bankrupt us yet, boy. But not another copper ahead of time till after Midwinter's Day, do you understand me?"
"Yes, Father. Thank you, Father." Little by little, Katakolon's merry expression turned apprehensive. "Midwinter's Day is still a long way off, Father." Like anyone who knew Krispos well, the Avtokrator's third son also knew he was not in the habit of making warnings just to hear himself talk. When he said something, he meant it.
"Try living within your means," Krispos suggested. "I didn't say I was cutting you off without a copper, only that I wouldn't give you any more money ahead of time till then. The good god willing, I won't have to do it afterward, either. But you notice I didn't demand that."
"Yes, Father." Katakolon's voice tolled like a mourning bell. Krispos fought to keep his face straight; he remembered how much he'd hated to be laughed at when he was a youth. "Cheer up, son. By anyone's standards, twenty goldpieces a month is a lot of money for a young man to get his hands on. You'll be able to entertain your lady friends in fine style during that little while when you're not in bed with them." Katakolon