Krispos the Emperor

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Krispos sopped a heel of bread in the fermented fish sauce that had gone over his mutton. He ate the bread in two bites, washed it down with a final swallow of sweet, golden Vaspurakaner wine, set the silver goblet back on the table.

Before he could even let out a contented sigh, Barsymes came into the little dining chamber to clear away his dishes. Krispos cocked an eyebrow at the eunuch chamberlain. "How do you time that so perfectly, esteemed sir?" he asked. "It's not sorcery, I know, but it always strikes me as magical."

The vestiarios hardly paused as he answered, "Your Majesty, attention to your needs is the proper business of every palace servitor." His voice was a tone for which Videssian had no name, halfway between tenor and contralto. His long, pale fingers deftly scooped up plates and goblet, knife and fork and spoon, set them on a vermeil tray.

As Barsymes worked, Krispos studied his face. Like any eunuch gelded before puberty, the vestiarios had no beard. That was part of what made him look younger than he was, but not all. His skin was very fine, and had hardly wrinkled or sagged through the many years Krispos had known him. Being a eunuch, he still had a boy's hairline, and his hair was still black (though that, at least, might have come from a bottle).

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