Noncombatants traveled with the baggage train. Healer-priests in robes of blue rode mules that alternated between walk and trot to keep up with the longer-legged horses. A few merchants with stocks of fancy goods for officers who could afford them preferred buggies to horseback. So did some of the loose women any army attracts, though others rode astride with as much aplomb as any man.
Some of the courtesans gave Phostis professionally interested smiles. He was used to that, and found it unsurprising: after all, he was young, reasonably well favored, rode a fine horse, and dressed richly. If a woman was mercenary or desperate enough to sell her body to live, he made a logical customer. As for buying such a woman, though—he left that to his brothers.
Then one of the women not only waved but smiled and called out to him. He intended to ignore her as he had all the others, but something about her—maybe the unusual combination of creamy skin and black, black hair that framed her face in ringlets—seemed familiar. He took a longer look ... and almost steered his horse into a boulder by the side of the road. He'd seen Olyvria, naked and stretched out on a bed, somewhere under Videssos the city.
He felt himself turn crimson. What did she expect him to do, ride over and ask how she'd been since she put some clothes on? Maybe she did, because she kept on waving. He looked straight ahead and dug his knees into his horse's ribs, urging the beast up into a fast canter that hurried it away from the baggage train and the now-dressed wench.
He thought hard as he drew near Krispos. What war Olyvria doing here, anyhow? The only answer that occurred to him was spying for Digenis. He wondered if she'd somehow sailed with the imperial army. If not, she'd made better time overland than he'd have thought possible for anyone but a courier.
He wondered if he ought to tell his father about her—she certainly was the sort of person about whom Krispos worried. But his father had no reason to believe he knew anything about her, and she was likely a Thanasiot herself. He had no reason to give her away, not even his own advantage.
Krispos rode at the head of the army. Phostis came up and delivered both messages from Noetos. Krispos laughed when he heard the second one. "He is an old fox, by the good god," he said. Then he turned serious again. "I would have failed in my duty, though, if I'd failed to give him that order. There's a lesson you need to remember, son: an Avtokrator can't count on things happening without him. He has to make sure they happen."
"Yes, Father," Phostis said, he hoped dutifully. He knew Krispos lived by the principles he espoused. His father had given the Empire of Videssos two decades of stable government, but at the cost of turning fussy, driven, and suspicious.
He'd also developed an alarming facility for picking thoughts out of Phostis' head. "You no doubt have in mind that you'll do it all differently when your backside warms the throne. I tell you, lad, there are but two ways, mine and Anthimos'. Better you should shoulder the burden yourself than let it fall on the Empire."
"So you've said, more than once," Phostis agreed: more than a thousand times, he meant. Hearing the resignation in his voice, Krispos sighed and returned his attention to the road ahead.
Phostis started to carry the argument further, but forbore. He'd been about to put forward the wisdom and reliability of a small group of trusted advisors who might carry enough of the administrative burden to keep it from overwhelming an Avtokrator. Before he spoke, though, he remembered the false friends and sycophants he'd already had to dismiss, people who sought to use him for their own gain. Just because advisors were trusted did not mean they wouldn't be venal.
He jerked on the reins; his horse snorted indignantly as he pulled its head away from that of Krispos' mount. But conceding his father a point always annoyed him. By riding away from Krispos, he wouldn't have to concede anything, either to his father or to himself.
By the end of the day, the imperial army had moved far enough inland to make sunset a spectacle very different from what Phostis was used to. Having land all around seemed suddenly confining, as if he were closed off from the infinite possibilities for travel available at Videssos the city. Even the sounds were strange: night birds unknown in the imperial capital announced their presence with trills and strange drumming noises.
Krispos' tent, however, did its best to recreate the splendor of the imperial palaces, using canvas rather than stone. Torches and bonfires held night at bay; officers going in and out took the place of the usual run of petitioners. Some emerged glum, others pleased, again as it would have been back in the city.
As in the capital, Phostis had no choice but to establish his own lodging uncomfortably close to that of his father. Also as in Videssos the city, he did choose to stay as far from Krispos as he could. The servitors who raised his tent carefully did not raise their eyebrows when he ordered them to place it to the rear and off to one side of Krispos' larger, grander shelter.
Phostis ate from the cookpot the Halogai set up in front of Krispos' pavilion. He ran no risk of bumping into his father there; by all accounts, Krispos' habit on campaign was to share the rations of his common soldiers, so he was probably off somewhere standing in line with a bowl and a spoon like any cavalry trooper.
Had he sampled his own guards' stew that evening, he would not have been happy with it. It had a sharp, bitter undertaste that made Phostis' tongue want to shrivel up. The Halogai liked it no better than he, and were less restrained in suggesting appropriate redress.
"Maybe if so bad next time, we cut up cook and mingle his meat with the mush," one of them said. The rest of the northerners nodded so soberly that Phostis, who had at first smiled, began to wonder if the Haloga was joking.
He'd hardly finished supper when his guts knotted and cramped. He made for the latrines at a dead run and barely managed to hike up his robes and squat over a slit trench before he was noisomely ill. Wrinkling his nose at the stench, he got painfully to his feet. A Haloga crouched a few feet away. Another came hurrying up a moment later. Before he could tear down his breeches, he cried in deep disgust, "Oh, by the gods of the north, I've gone and shit myself!"
Phostis made several more trips out to the slit trenches as the night wore on. He began to count himself lucky that he hadn't had to echo the Haloga's melancholy wail. More often than not, several guardsmen were at the latrine with him.
Finally, some time past midnight, he found himself alone in the darkness out there. He'd gone a good ways away from his tent in the hope of finding untrodden, unbefouled ground. Just as he started to squat, someone called from beyond the slit trenches: "Young Majesty!"
His head went up in alarm—it was a woman's voice. But what he had to do was more urgent than any embarrassment. When he'd finished, he wiped sick sweat from his forehead and started slowly back toward his tent.
"Young Majesty!" The call came again.
This time he recognized the voice: it was Olyvria's. "What do you want with me?" he growled. "Haven't you seen me mortified enough, here and back in the city?"
"You misunderstand, young Majesty," she said in injured tones. She held up something; in the dark, he couldn't tell what it was. "I have here a decoction of the wild plum and black pepper that will help relieve your distress."