So what did that leave? Phostis didn't want to drink and he didn't want to pray. He didn't feel like fornicating, either, though the whores of Nakoleia were probably working even harder than the taverners—and probably cheating their customers less.
In the end. he went back aboard the Triumphant and curled up in the bunk inside his tiny cabin. After a few hours ashore, even the small motion of the ship as it rocked back and forth beside the dock felt strange. Before long, though, it lulled him to sleep.
Horns blared, pipes shrilled, and deep-toned drums thumped. Videssos' banner, gold sunburst on blue, flew tall and proud at the head of the army as it marched forth from Nakoleia's land gate. Many of the horsemen had tied blue and yellow strips of cloth to their mounts' manes. The sea breeze stirred them into a fine martial display.
People packed the walls of Nakoleia. They cheered as the army rode out of the city. Some of the cheers, Krispos thought, had to be sincere. Some were probably even regretful, from tavernkeepers and merchants whose business had soared thanks to the soldiers. And a few—Krispos hoped only a few—were lies from the throats of Thanasioi spying out his strength.
He turned to Phostis, whose horse stood beside his as they watched the troops ride past. "Go back to Noetos, who commands the rear guard. Tell him to have his men be especially alert to anyone sneaking out of Nakoleia. We don't want the heretics to know exactly what all we have along with us."
"Not everyone leaving the city is sneaking out," Phostis answered.
"I know," Krispos said sourly. Like every army, this one had its camp followers, women and occasional men of easy virtue. Also following the imperial force was a larger number of sutlers and traders than Krispos was happy about. He went on, "What can I do? With our bases at Harasos and Rogmor burned out, I'll need all the help I can get feeding the troops."
"Harasos and Rogmor?" Phostis said, raising an eyebrow. "I'd not heard that."
"Then you might be the only one in the whole army who hasn't." Krispos gave his eldest an exasperated glare. "Don't you take any notice of what's going on around you? They hit both caches while we were still asea; by the good god, they seemed to know what we were up to almost before we did."
"How do you suppose they managed to learn where we were storing supplies?" Phostis asked in a curiously neutral voice.
"As I've said over and over—" Krispos rubbed Phostis' nose in his inattention. "—we have traitors among us, too. I wish I knew who they were, by Phos; I'd make them regret their treachery. But that's the great curse of civil war: the foe looks just like you, and so can hide in your midst. D'you see?"
"Hm? Oh, yes. Of course, Father."
Krispos sniffed. Phostis hadn't looked as if he was paying attention; his face had a withdrawn, preoccupied expression. If he wouldn't give heed to something that was liable to get him killed, what would hold his interest? Krispos said, "I really wish I knew how the heretics heard about my plans. They'd have needed some time to plan their attacks, so they must have known my route of march about as soon as I decided on it— maybe even before I decided on it."
He'd hoped the little joke would draw some kind of reaction from Phostis, but the youngster only nodded. He turned his horse toward the rear of the army. "I'll deliver your order to Noetos."
"Repeat it back to me first," Krispos said, wanting to make sure Phostis had done any listening to him at all.
His eldest reacted to that, with a scowl. He gave back the order in a precise, emotionless voice, then rode away. Krispos stared after him—something about the set of his back wasn't quite right. Krispos told himself he was imagining things. He'd pushed Phostis too far there, asking him to repeat a command as if he were a raw peasant recruit with manure on his boots.
Of course, raw peasant recruits had more incentive to remember accurately than did someone who could aspire to no higher station than the one he already held. It was, in fact, difficult to aspire to a lower station than raw peasant recruit: about the only thing lower than peasant recruit was peasant. Krispos knew about that. Sometimes he wished his sons did, too.
The army was riding forward, Phostis back. That brought him toward Noetos twice as fast as he would have gone otherwise and cut in half his time to think. He had a pretty good idea how the Thanasioi had learned where the imperial army would set up its supply dumps: he'd named them for Digenis. He hadn't intended to betray his father's campaign, but would Krispos believe that?
Phostis didn't for a moment imagine Krispos wouldn't find out. He did not see eye to eye with his father, but he did not underestimate him, either. Nobody incapable stayed on the throne of Videssos for more than twenty years. When Krispos set his mind to learning something, sooner or later he would. And when he did ...
Phostis wasn't sure what the consequences of that would be, but he was sure they'd be unpleasant—for him. They wouldn't stop at scolding, either. Ruining a campaign was worse than a scolding matter. It was the sort of matter that would put his head on the block were he anyone but a junior Avtokrator. Given his father's penchant for evenhanded—at the moment,
Phostis thought of it as heavyhanded—justice, it might put his head on the block anyway.
He wondered whether he ought to pass his father's order on to Noetos. If he truly adhered to the principles of the Thanasioi, how could he hinder the cause of his fellow believers? But if he had any thought for his own safety, how could he not transmit the order? Krispos would descend on him like an avalanche for that. And if his father's suspicions were aroused, his own role in the matter of the supply dumps grew more likely to emerge.
What to do? No more time for thought—there was the rearguard commander's banner, blue sunburst on gold. The reversed imperial colors marked the rear of the army, and out from under the banner, straight toward him, rode Noetos, a solid, middle-aged officer like so many who served under Krispos, unflappable rather than brilliant. He saluted and called out in a ringing voice, "How may I serve you, young Majesty?"
"Uh," Phostis said, and then "Uh" again; he still hadn't made up his mind. In the end, his mouth answered, not his brain. "My father bids you to be especially alert for anyone sneaking out of Nakoleia, lest the stranger prove a Thanasiot spy." He hated himself as soon as he had spoken, but that was too late—the words were gone.
They proved not to matter, though. Noetos saluted again, clenched fist over his heart, and said, "You may tell his imperial Majesty the matter is already being attended to." Then one of the officer's eyelids fell and rose in an unmistakable wink. "You can also tell Krispos not to go trying to teach an old fox how to rob henhouses."
"I'll—pass on both those messages," Phostis said faintly.
He must have looked a trifle wall-eyed, for Noetos threw back his head and let go with one of those deep, manly chortles that never failed to turn Phostis' stomach. "You do that, young Majesty," he boomed. "This'd be your first campaign, wouldn't it? Aye, of course it would. Good for you. You'll learn some things you'd never find out in the palaces."
"Yes, I'm discovering that," Phostis said. He started back toward the front of the army. That was a slower trip than the one from the front to the rear guard, for now he was moving with the stream and gaining more slowly on any point within it. He had the time to think he could have used before. He certainly was learning new things away from the palaces, not least among them how to be afraid much of the time. He doubted that was what Noetos had meant.
The baggage train traveled in the center of the strung-out army, the safest position against attack. Beeves shambled along, lowing. Wagons rattled and squeaked and jounced; un-greased axles squealed loud and shrill enough to set Phostis' teeth on edge. Some of the wagons carried hard-baked bread; others fodder for the horses; others arrows tied in neat sheaves of twenty, ready to be popped into empty quivers; still others carried the metal parts and tackle for siege engines whose timbers would be cut and trimmed on the spot under direction of the military engineers.