“There your new village.”
“It’s big!” Krispos said. “Look at all the houses!”
His father had a better idea of what to look for. “Aye, lots of houses. Where are the people, though? Hardly any in the fields, hardly any in the village.” He sighed. “I expect the reason I don’t see ’em is that they’re not there to see.”
As the party of Kubratoi and captives drew near, a few men and women did emerge from their thatch-roofed cottages to stare at the newcomers. Krispos had never had much. These thin, poorly clad wretches, though, showed him other folk could have even less.
The wild men waved the village’s new inhabitants forward to meet the old. Then they wheeled their horses and rode away…rode, Krispos supposed, back to their yurts.
As he came into the village, he saw that many of the houses stood empty; some were only half thatched, others had rafters falling down, still others had chunks of clay gone from the wall to reveal the woven branches within.
His father sighed again. “I suppose I should be glad we’ll have roofs over our heads.” He turned to the families uprooted from Videssos. “We might as well pick out the places we’ll want to live in. Me, I have my eye on that house right there.” He pointed to an abandoned dwelling as dilapidated as any of the others, set near the edge of the village.
As he and Tatze, followed by Krispos and Evdokia, headed toward the home they had chosen, one of the men who belonged to this village came up to confront him. “Who do you think you are, to take a house without so much as a by-your-leave?” the fellow asked. Even to a farm boy like Krispos, his accent sounded rustic.
“My name’s Phostis,” Krispos’ father said. “Who are you to tell me I can’t, when this place is falling to pieces around you?”
The other newcomers added their voices to his. The man looked from them to his own followers, who were fewer and less sure of themselves. He lost his bluster as a punctured bladder loses air. “I’m Roukhas,” he said. “Headman here, at least until all you folk came.”
“We don’t want what’s yours, Roukhas,” Krispos’ father assured him. He smiled a sour smile. “Truth is, I’d be just as glad never to have met you, because that’d mean I was still back in Videssos.” Even Roukhas nodded at that, managing a wry chuckle. Phostis went on, “We’re here, though, and I don’t see much point in having to build from scratch when there’re all these places ready to hand.”
“Aye, well, put that way, I suppose you have a point.” Roukhas stepped backward and waved Phostis toward the house he had chosen.
As if his concession were some sort of signal, the rest of the longtime inhabitants of the village hurried up to mingle with the new arrivals. Indeed, they fell on them like long-lost cousins—as, Krispos thought, a little surprised at himself, they were.
“They didn’t even know what the Avtokrator’s name was,” Krispos’ mother marveled as the family settled down to sleep on the ground inside their new house.
“Aye, well, they need to worry about the khagan more,” his father answered. Phostis yawned an enormous yawn. “A lot of ’em, too, were born right here, not back home. I shouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t even remember there
was
an Avtokrator.”
“But still,” Krispos’ mother said, “they talked with us as we would with someone from the capital, from Videssos the city—someone besides the tax man, I mean. And we’re from the back of beyond.”
“No, Tatze, we just got there,” his father answered. “If you doubt it, wait till you see how busy we’re going to be.” He yawned again. “Tomorrow.”
L IFE ON A FARM IS NEVER EASY. OVER THE NEXT WEEKS AND months, Krispos found out just how hard it could be. If he was not gathering straw for his father to bind into yealms and put up on the roof to repair the thatch, then he was fetching clay from the streambank
“It’s big!” Krispos said. “Look at all the houses!”
His father had a better idea of what to look for. “Aye, lots of houses. Where are the people, though? Hardly any in the fields, hardly any in the village.” He sighed. “I expect the reason I don’t see ’em is that they’re not there to see.”
As the party of Kubratoi and captives drew near, a few men and women did emerge from their thatch-roofed cottages to stare at the newcomers. Krispos had never had much. These thin, poorly clad wretches, though, showed him other folk could have even less.
The wild men waved the village’s new inhabitants forward to meet the old. Then they wheeled their horses and rode away…rode, Krispos supposed, back to their yurts.
As he came into the village, he saw that many of the houses stood empty; some were only half thatched, others had rafters falling down, still others had chunks of clay gone from the wall to reveal the woven branches within.
His father sighed again. “I suppose I should be glad we’ll have roofs over our heads.” He turned to the families uprooted from Videssos. “We might as well pick out the places we’ll want to live in. Me, I have my eye on that house right there.” He pointed to an abandoned dwelling as dilapidated as any of the others, set near the edge of the village.
As he and Tatze, followed by Krispos and Evdokia, headed toward the home they had chosen, one of the men who belonged to this village came up to confront him. “Who do you think you are, to take a house without so much as a by-your-leave?” the fellow asked. Even to a farm boy like Krispos, his accent sounded rustic.
“My name’s Phostis,” Krispos’ father said. “Who are you to tell me I can’t, when this place is falling to pieces around you?”
The other newcomers added their voices to his. The man looked from them to his own followers, who were fewer and less sure of themselves. He lost his bluster as a punctured bladder loses air. “I’m Roukhas,” he said. “Headman here, at least until all you folk came.”
“We don’t want what’s yours, Roukhas,” Krispos’ father assured him. He smiled a sour smile. “Truth is, I’d be just as glad never to have met you, because that’d mean I was still back in Videssos.” Even Roukhas nodded at that, managing a wry chuckle. Phostis went on, “We’re here, though, and I don’t see much point in having to build from scratch when there’re all these places ready to hand.”
“Aye, well, put that way, I suppose you have a point.” Roukhas stepped backward and waved Phostis toward the house he had chosen.
As if his concession were some sort of signal, the rest of the longtime inhabitants of the village hurried up to mingle with the new arrivals. Indeed, they fell on them like long-lost cousins—as, Krispos thought, a little surprised at himself, they were.
“They didn’t even know what the Avtokrator’s name was,” Krispos’ mother marveled as the family settled down to sleep on the ground inside their new house.
“Aye, well, they need to worry about the khagan more,” his father answered. Phostis yawned an enormous yawn. “A lot of ’em, too, were born right here, not back home. I shouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t even remember there
was
an Avtokrator.”
“But still,” Krispos’ mother said, “they talked with us as we would with someone from the capital, from Videssos the city—someone besides the tax man, I mean. And we’re from the back of beyond.”
“No, Tatze, we just got there,” his father answered. “If you doubt it, wait till you see how busy we’re going to be.” He yawned again. “Tomorrow.”
L IFE ON A FARM IS NEVER EASY. OVER THE NEXT WEEKS AND months, Krispos found out just how hard it could be. If he was not gathering straw for his father to bind into yealms and put up on the roof to repair the thatch, then he was fetching clay from the streambank
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