and boomed, "It means 'traitors,' that's what. We of Vaspurakan are a stubborn breed, and our memories long."
"Videssians are much the same," Phostis said. "When my father set out to reconquer Kubrat, didn't he take his maps from the imperial archives where they'd lain unused for three hundred years?" He blinked when he noticed he'd used Krispos as an example.
If Sarkis also noticed, he didn't remark on it. He said, "Young Majesty, he did just that; I saw those maps with my own eyes when we were planning the campaign, and faded, rat-chewed things they were—though useful nonetheless. But three hundred years—young Majesty, three hundred years are but a fleabite on the arse of time. It's likely been three hundred eons since Phos shaped Vaspur the Firstborn from the fabric of his will."
He grinned impudently at Phostis, as if daring him to cry heresy. Phostis kept his mouth shut; Krispos had baited him too often to make it so easy to get a rise out of him. He did say, "Three hundred years seems a long enough time to me."
"Ah, that's because you're young," Sarkis exclaimed. "When I was your age, the years seemed to stretch like chewy candy, and I thought each one would never end. Now I haven't so much sand left in my glass, and I resent every grain that runs out."
"Yes," Phostis said, though he'd pretty much stopped listening when Sarkis started going on about his being young. He wondered why old men did that so much; it wasn't as if he could help being the age he was. But if he had a goldpiece for every time he'd heard that's because you're young, he was sure he could remit a year's worth of taxes to every peasant in the Empire.
Sarkis said, "Well, I've kept you here long enough, young Majesty. When you get bored with chatter, just press on. That's the advantage of rank, you know: you don't have to put up with people you find tedious."
Only my father, Phostis thought: a single exception that covered a lot of ground. But that was not the sort of thought he could share with Sarkis, or indeed with anyone save possibly Digenis. He was somehow sure the priest would understand, though to him any concern not directly related to Phos and the world to come was of secondary importance.
Having been given an excuse to depart, he took advantage of it.
Even with an army newly arrived and crowding its streets, Nakoleia seemed a tiny town to anyone used to Videssos the city. Tiny, backwater, provincial ... the scornful adjectives came readily to Phostis' mind. Whether or not they were true, they would stick.
Nakoleia was sensibly laid out in a grid. He made his way back to Krispos through deepening dusk and streaming soldiers without undue difficulty. His father's quarters were at the eparch's residence, across the town square from the chief temple to Phos. Like many throughout the Empire, that building was I modeled after the High Temple in the capital. Phostis' first reaction was that it was a poor, cheap copy. His second, contrary one was to wish fewer goldpieces had been spent on the structure.
He stopped in his tracks halfway across the square. "By the good god," he exclaimed, careless of who might hear him, I'm on my way to being a Thanasiot myself."
He wondered why that hadn't occurred to him sooner. Much of what Digenis preached was identical to the doctrines of the heretical sect, save that he made those doctrines seem virtuous, whereas to Krispos they were base and vicious. Given a choice between his father's opinions and those of anyone else. Phostis automatically inclined to the latter.
The irony of his position suddenly struck him. What business had he sallying forth to crush the vicious heretics when he agreed with most of what they taught? He imagined going to I Krispos and telling him that. It was the quickest way he could think of to unburden himself of all his worldly goods.
It would also forfeit the succession if anything would. Suddenly that mattered a great deal. The Avtokrator was a great power in the ecclesiastical hierarchy. If he were Avtokrator, he could guide Videssos toward Digenis' teachings. If someone stodgy or orthodox—Evripos sprang to mind—began to wear the red boots, persecution would continue. It behooved him, then, not to give Krispos any reason to supplant him.
With that thought in mind, he hurried across the cobblestones toward the eparch's mansion. The Halogai newly posted outside it stared suspiciously until they recognized him, then swung up their axes in salute.
His father, as usual, was wading through documents when he came into the chamber. Krispos looked up with an irritated frown. "What are you doing back here already? I sent you out to—"
"I know what you sent me out to do," Phostis said. "I have done it. Here." He pulled a parchment from the pouch on his belt and threw it down on the desk in front of Krispos. "These are the signatures of the officers to whom I transmitted your order."
Krispos leaned back in his seat so he could more easily scan the names. When he looked up, the frown had disappeared. "You did well. Thank you, son. Take the rest of the evening as your own; I have no more tasks for you."
"As you say, Father." Phostis started to walk away.
The Avtokrator called him back. "Wait. Don't go off angry. How do you think I've slighted you now?"
The way Krispos put the question only annoyed Phostis more. Forgetting he intended to keep on his father's good side, he growled, "You might sound happier that I did what you wanted."
"Why should I?" Krispos answered. "You did your duty well; I said as much. But the task was not that demanding. Do you want special praise every time you piddle without getting your boots wet?"
They glowered at each other in mutual incomprehension. Phostis wished he'd just shown Krispos the parchment instead of giving it to him. Then he could have torn it up and thrown it in his face. As it was, he had to content himself with slamming the door behind him as he stamped out.
Full darkness had fallen by the time he was out on the plaza again. The Haloga guards gave him curious looks, but his face did not encourage questions. Only when he'd put the eparch's residence well behind him did he realize he had no place to go. He paused, plucked at his beard—a gesture very like his father's—and tried to figure out what to do next.
Drinking himself insensible was one obvious answer. Torches blazed in front of all the taverns he could see, and doubtless on ones he couldn't, as well. He wondered if the innkeepers had imported extra wine from the countryside while the imperial army's quartermasters brought their supplies into Nakoleia. It wouldn't have surprised him; to sordidmaterialsists, the arrival of so many thirsty soldiers had to look like a bonanza.
He didn't take long to decide against the taverns. He had nothing against wine in its place; it was healthier to drink than water, and less likely to give you the flux. But drunkenness tore the soul away from Phos and left it base and animalistic, easy meat for the temptations of Skotos. The state of his soul mattered a great deal to him at the moment. The less he did to corrupt it, the surer his hope of heaven.
He glanced across the square to the temple. Its entrance was also lit, and men filed in to pray. Some, by the way they walked, had got drunk first. Phostis' lip curled in contempt. He didn't want to pray with drunks. He didn't want to pray in a building modeled after the High Temple, either, not when he discovered himself in sympathy with the Thanasioi.
A breeze from off the Videssian Sea had picked up with the coming of evening. It was not what sent a chill through him. So long as his father held the throne, he was in deadly danger—had placed himself there, in fact, the instant he understood what Digenis' preaching implied. The odds that Krispos would turn away from materialism were about as slim as those of oranges sprouting from stalks of barley. Having been born with nothing—as he never tired of repeating—Krispos put about as much faith in things as he did in Phos.