"If we start pillaging our own land one day, we put ten thousand men into the camp of the Thanasioi by the next sunrise," Krispos said, grimacing. "I'd sooner retreat; then I'd just seem cautious, not a villain."
"As you say, your Majesty." Sarkis dipped his head. "Let's hope we have a swift, triumphant advance, so we needn't worry about any of these unpleasant choices."
"That hope is all very well," Krispos said, "but we also have to plan ahead so misfortune, if it comes, doesn't catch us by surprise and strike us in a heap because we were napping instead of thinking."
"Sensible." Sarkis chuckled. "Seems to me I've told you that a good many times over the years—but then, you generally are sensible."
"Am I? I've heard what was meant to be greater flattery that I liked less." Krispos tasted the word. " 'He was sensible.' I'd
sooner see that than most of the lies stonecutters are apt to put on a memorial stele."
Sarkis made a two-fingered gesture to turn aside even the implied mention of death. "May you outlast another generation of stonecutters, your Majesty."
"And stump around Videssos as a spry eighty-year-old, you mean? It could happen, I suppose, though the lord with the great and good mind knows most men aren't so lucky." Krispos looked around to make sure neither Evripos nor Katakolon was in earshot, then lowered his voice all the same. "If that does prove to be my fate, I doubt it will delight my sons."
"You'd find a way to handle them," Sarkis said confidently. "You've handled everything the good god has set in your path thus far."
"Which is no promise the prize will be mine next time out," Krispos answered. "As long as I remember that, I'm all right, I think. Enough jabbering for now; the sooner we get to Aptos, the happier I'll be."
After serving under Krispos for his whole reign, Sarkis had learned the trick of understanding when the Emperor meant more than he said. He set spurs to his horse—despite advancing years and belly, he still had a fine seat and enjoyed a spirited mount—and hurried away at a bounding canter. A moment later, the horns of the military musicians brayed out a new command. The whole army picked up the pace, as if fleeing the storm clouds piling up behind.
Harasos lay at the inland edge of the coastal plain. From it, the road toward Rogmor climbed onto the central plateau that took up the majority of the westlands: drier, hillier, poorer country than the lowlands. Along riverbanks and in places that drew more rain than most, farmers brought in one crop a year, as they did in the country where Krispos had grown up. Elsewhere on the plateau, grass and scrub grew better than grain, and herds of sheep and cattle ambled over the ground.
Krispos eyed the plateau country ahead with suspicion, not because it was poor but because it was hilly. He much preferred a horizon that stretched out for miles on every side. Attackers had to work to set an ambush in country like that. Here sites for ambuscades came up twice in every mile.
He ordered the vanguard strengthened, lest the Thanasioi delay the army on its push to Rogmor. When the whole strung-out force ascended to the plateau, he breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief and a prayer of thanks to Phos. Had he commanded the heretics, he would have hit the imperial army as early and as hard as he could: delaying it on its march now would be worth as much as a great battle later. Thinking thus, he made sure his own saber slid smoothly from its scabbard. Though no great champion, he fought well enough when combat came his way.
The leader of the Thanasioi thought with him strategically, but not in terms of tactics. Not long after the army from Videssos the city reached the plateau, some sort of disturbance broke out at the rear. Krispos' force stretched for more than a mile. He needed awhile to find out what was happening: as if the army were a long, thin, rather stupid dragon, messages from the tail took too long to get up to the head.
When at last he was sure the disturbance really meant fighting, he ordered the musicians to halt his whole force. No sooner had their peremptory notes rung out than he wondered if he'd made a mistake. But what else could he do? Leaving the rear to fend for itself while the van kept moving forward was an invitation to getting destroyed.
He turned to Katakolon, who sat his horse a few yards away. "Get back there at the gallop, find out what's truly going on, and let me know. At the gallop, now!"
"Aye, Father!" Eyes snapping with excitement, Katakolon dug spurs into the horse's side. It squealed an indignant protest at such treatment, but bounded off with such celerity that Katakolon almost went over its tail.
The Avtokrator's youngest son returned faster than Krispos would have thought possible. His anger faded when he saw Katakolon had in tow a messenger he recognized as one of Noetos' men. "Well?" he barked.
The messenger saluted. "May it please your Majesty, we were attacked by a band of perhaps forty. They came close enough to shoot arrows at us; when we rode out to drive them off, most fled but a few stayed behind and fought with the saber to help the others escape."
"Casualties?" Krispos asked.
"We lost one killed and four wounded, your Majesty," the messenger answered. "We killed five of theirs, and several more were reeling in the saddle as they rode away."
"Did we capture any of them?" Krispos demanded.
"We were still in pursuit when I left to bring this word to you. I know of no prisoners, but my knowledge, as I say, is incomplete."
"I'll ride back and find out for myself." Krispos turned to Katakolon. "Tell the musicians to order the advance." As his son hurried off to obey, he told the messenger, "Take me to Noetos. I'll hear his report of the action directly."
Krispos fumed as he rode toward the rear of the army. Forty men had held him up for a solid hour. A few more such pinpricks and the army would go hungry before it got to Aptos. Better cavalry screens, he told himself. Raiders had to be beaten back before they reached the main body. Screening parties could fight and keep moving, or fall back on their comrades if hard-pressed.
He hoped the rear guard had managed to lay hold of some Thanasioi. One interrogation was worth a thousand guesses, especially when he knew so little about the enemy. He knew the methods his men would use to wring truth out of any captives. They did not please him, but any man taken in arms against the Avtokrator of the Videssians was on the face of it a traitor and rebel, not to be coddled if that meant danger to the Empire.
One of the wounded imperials lay on a wagon, a blue-robed healer-priest bent over him. The soldier thrashed feebly; an arrow protruded from his neck. Krispos reined in to watch the healer-priest at work. He wondered why the blue-robe hadn't drawn the arrow, then decided it was all that kept the wounded man from bleeding to death in moments. This would be anything but an easy healing.
The priest repeated the creed again and again. "We bless thee, Phos, lord with the great and good mind, by thy grace our protector, watchful beforehand that the great test of life may be decided in our favor." As he used the prayers to sink down toward the healing trance, he set one hand on the trooper's neck, the other on the arrow that bobbed back and forth as the fellow fought to breathe.
All at once, the blue-robe jerked the arrow free. The trooper let out a bubbling shriek. Bright blood spurted, splashing against the priest's face. So far as breaking his concentration went, it might have been water, or nothing at all.
As abruptly as if the blue-robe had turned a spigot, the spurting stopped. Awe prickled through Krispos, as it always did when he watched a healer-priest at work. He thought the air above the injured trooper should have shimmered, as if from the heat of a fire, so strong was the force of healing that passed between priest and soldier. But the eye, unlike other, less easily nameable senses, perceived nothing.