The Two of Swords: Part 6 (7 page)

The emperor was a tall man, though these days a slight stoop made him look shorter; but his shoulders were still broad, and there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. He’d been a mighty wrestler in his youth, so they said – classical wrestling, of course, strictly in accordance with the rules set down by the Academicians nearly a thousand years ago. His high cheekbones and long, straight nose looked very well on the backs of coins, though in real life his eyes were small and just a bit too close together. But you wouldn’t know that if all you’d seen was his gold and silver profiles. Still, it was impossible to deny that he was a fine-looking man, very dignified and intellectual. It was hard to believe, just looking at him, that he’d murdered all four of his brothers.

“Now, then.” The old man put down his wine glass. “What’s all this about young Forza? Is he dead or isn’t he?”

The little glow of hope in Senza’s heart sputtered out and died. “Ah,” he said. “I’d been hoping you could tell me.”

Slight frown. “You don’t know.”

“I’m afraid not, sir, no.”

A grunt of disappointment. “Well, we don’t know either. Been trying our damnedest to find out, of course, but none of the usual sources can tell us a damned thing. Mardesian reckons they don’t know themselves, which I suppose is possible.” He paused, and peered at Senza with those sky-blue eyes. “I’d have thought you’d have known. First report that came in had it that you’d killed him yourself, single combat.”

Senza took a moment to reply. “That may quite possibly be true,” he said. “I hit him pretty hard at one point, though he was still very much alive when I ran for it. If he’s dead, it’s my guess that that’s what he died of.”

The old man considered that for a moment – you could almost see his intellect and his instincts in conclave – then nodded briskly. “Quite likely,” he said. “Blunt force trauma to the head, entirely possible for death to follow sometime later. Ursinian, third book of the
Medical Commentaries
. Sulpicius disagrees, of course, but he was two centuries earlier. Blunt force trauma leading to internal bleeding inside the skull. You could be quite dead and still walking around. Question is, though, is he or isn’t he? Until we know
that
—”

“Quite,” Senza said quickly, hoping to forestall any further scholarship. “Meanwhile, acting on information received, I’ve sent cavalry to where what’s left of his army might be. If it’s where it’s supposed to be, we’ll soon find out if Forza’s alive and in charge of them. If he is, he’ll have our boys for breakfast, and then we’ll know.”

The old man grinned at that; thought it was funny. “Good idea,” he said. “What information, exactly?”

“I was hoping you weren’t going to ask me that.”

“Ah.” The old man thought about it. Good day or bad day? “Well, we’ll forget about the source, then, for now. How about the quality?”

Good day, evidently. “To be honest with you, sir, I have no idea. That’s why I sent the cavalry.” He paused. More was required. “My best guess is that it’s good information. I could so easily be wrong.”

His Serene Highness Glauca III was a clown but definitely no fool. “You’ll know soon enough, I imagine. It’s the same in my business, of course; intelligence and scholarship, it’s the source that matters. If your source is reliable and sound, you have facts.” He paused to nod approval, as though he was also the audience. “On the other hand, even a doubtful source is still
information
. If a man’s lying to you, you can learn ever so much from his lie. Why’s he lying, what for, is he lying so as to mislead you or because he doesn’t know? And lies, of course— It’s like astronomy, I always say. Clever fellows, the astronomers, they can tell ever such a lot about something they can’t see by the shadow it casts over something they can. Same with lies. The shape of a lie will often give you the truth.” He stopped for a moment, thinking about something else. “In that case,” he said, “what are you going to do next?”

“Good question,” Senza replied. “In fact, I’d welcome a suggestion.”

He’d said the right thing. The old man went all still and quiet for a while – the Pillar of the Earth, deep in thought – then leaned back a little in his chair. “Here’s how I see it,” he said. “There’s this new trouble in Blemya.”

Senza nodded.

“Blemyans can’t cope. You and Forza go in and save their skins, but they’re still damned weak. Forza, alive or dead? We don’t know. Without Forza—” He made a falling-over gesture with his hand. “Invade Blemya,” he said. “Reclaim the province for the empire, crucial strategic position and rich as fig sauce, so I gather. Men and money. Just what we need for a final push. The nomads—” He closed his eyes, then opened them again. “They’re the problem, aren’t they? Phraxantius, seventh book of the
Universal Geography
– two hundred years ago, but I don’t imagine anything’s changed very much out there. Fascinating people, very much a force to be reckoned with, underestimate them at your peril. The question is, if we ignore them and spend all our resources taking back the empire, will they pounce on us while we’re weak and overwhelm us? That’s it, isn’t it? Herulius and the Sashan, fall of the Twelfth dynasty. Fifteen years of bitter war wiping out the Sashan so they’d never be a threat ever again, and then realises that it was only the Sashan standing between him and the entire Auzida confederacy. Savages overrun the empire. Result, a dark age lasting ninety years. All there in Phraxantius, and pray God it doesn’t happen again. Well?”

“Quite,” Senza said. “I’m glad you see the problem so clearly.”

The old man grinned. “Not such a fool as they say I am,” he said cheerfully. “I’ve had them all in here, you know, last couple of weeks. Do this, do that, annexe Blemya immediately, ripe for the picking and all that. Half of the damned fools have never opened a book in their lives. No, all they’re interested in is the copper mines and the linen trade and the spot market in charcoal and palm oil futures and God knows what. And then there’s your lot, any excuse for a fight, killing my soldiers and spending my money. For two pins, it’d be the galleys for the lot of ’em. Present company excepted,” he added graciously, “of course.”

“Thank you,” Senza replied. “So, what you’re saying is, we don’t invade Blemya.”

“I don’t know,” Glauca said, rather disarmingly. “On the other hand, you see, what if Forza isn’t dead, and
he
invades Blemya? Worst of both worlds. Same ghastly mess, only we don’t even have the initiative. Or even if he is dead, if you see what I mean. If my bloody fool of a nephew takes it into his head to invade, by way of showing he’s still a force to be reckoned with even without your damned brother— And so he blunders in there, stirs up the nomads, them at our throats, war on two fronts, exactly what we don’t want. Answer: get in there first. If the bloody stupid thing’s going to be done by one of us, better it’s you than my imbecile nephew. Better still if it’s not done at all, but do we have that option? You can see the problem, I’m sure.”

Senza’s head was beginning to hurt. “Precisely,” he said, and waited. Not for long.

“I think the best thing,” the old man said, “would be for us to agree a diplomatic rapprochement with the nomads, leaving us free to annex Blemya and then take the fight to my nephew. Not sure that’s possible, mind you; the nomads aren’t fools, last thing they want is a united enemy instead of a divided one. Still, you’ve just given them a bloody nose, so they wouldn’t mind a bit of breathing space, and that prophet fellow’s got his own position to think of, major military defeat and the insult to the god still unavenged. Don’t suppose he’d object to a little peace and quiet so he can sort out his domestic enemies. Question is, do we
want
to give him that? Wouldn’t it be better to make his life as miserable as possible, so that one of his own people cuts his throat for us and saves us all a lot of bother? Plenty of parallels for that in history, and you don’t need to go very far back. You know,” he went on with a sad sigh, “I never could understand why so many people want my job. Hell on earth, sometimes, trying to figure out what to do. What I wouldn’t give for it all to go away, so I could have some peace and concentrate on my work.”

That, from the cause and author of the civil war. But Senza had heard it many times before. “People just don’t understand,” he said sympathetically. “So, going back a bit, we don’t invade Blemya.”

“Not at this time, no.” The old man frowned. “No, I don’t think so. Really, we need to know about your goddamned brother before we can do any damned thing. That’s what it comes down to, isn’t it?”

Out of the mouths of emperors. “I guess you’re right, sir. When you put it like that.”

One of these days he’d go too far; and it’d be a bad day, and that would be the end of Senza Belot. Not today, though. “Stands to reason, really,” the old man said. “Oh, I know what they say about me behind my back, nose always stuck in a book, armchair tactician, doesn’t know a damn thing. Truth is, though, it’s all there in the books, if only you can be bothered to look. Atriovanus of Pila, eight hundred years ago; he said, the ideal form of government is the rule of the king who is also a scholar, a poet and a philosopher. Read that first when I was six years old, always stayed with me. Of course, back then it never occurred to me that one day I’d be in a position to put it into practice, not with three healthy brothers all older than me. Wish it hadn’t been that way, of course. Still, you never know, maybe it was all for the best. When I stop and think what might’ve happened if one of those boneheads had had the running of things, it makes me shiver. Utter disaster, no other word for it.”

As opposed to, say, the civil war. Well. The sad, dreadful thing was that he was probably right, at that. Senza didn’t dare get up, not until given a clear sign to do so, but he did his best to look like a man who was just about to stand up, in case the emperor was inclined to take the hint. Apparently not.

“My didrachm,” the old man said. “You mentioned there was a provenance. Good God, man, you’ve hardly touched your tea, it’ll be stone cold. I’ll send for another pot.”

“Please don’t trouble, sir,” Senza said. “Really.”

“No trouble to
me
,” the old man said accurately, and rang the little silver bell. “So, where exactly did you come across it?”

Senza told him, and what he couldn’t remember he made up. Then, as flippantly as he could, he added, “Talking of coins.”

“Yes.”

“I’d rather like some. Modern ones. For my men.”

Puzzled frown; then a click of the tongue and a grin. Amazing what you could get out of the old man if you could make him laugh. “Pay for the troops, well, of course you must have that. Tricky, though, money’s damned tight. Those idiots troop in here, morning, noon and night; the Treasury is empty, the people won’t stand for more taxation, the money simply isn’t there. Don’t be so stupid, I tell them, go and read Varian on economic theory. All you need is a slight adjustment of the gold-to-silver ratio, suddenly you’ve made two million angels out of thin air. Can’t overdo it, of course. You can only go so far, playing about with the coinage. Take Euthyphro V, for example. Old Coppernose. They called him that because he drank like a fish, but also because he added so much copper to the silver coins, quite soon it wore through, and the nose on his portrait was the first bit to show up red. Cost him his throne, and all because of a nickname. Still, we’ve a fair way to go before we reach that point. Don’t you worry about money, I’ll find it for you. Thank God nobody reads Varian these days except me, so they don’t know what I get up to.”

“I read the copy you sent me,” Senza said, remembering just in time. If the old man sent you a book, God help you if you didn’t read it. “Mind you, I’m not sure I quite follow all the stuff about money of account. I got a bit lost somewhere around Ezentius’ reform of the gold standard.”

The old man’s eyes shone. “Oh, it’s perfectly simple,” he said, and launched into an explanation that (to do him credit) almost made sense, at times. “Basically, it’s just the old, old rule,” he concluded, “bad money drives out good. Really, so long as you remember that, economic theory is child’s play.”

So that was all right. “Thank you, sir,” Senza said, “I’ll bear that in mind. So, if I send a requisition to the Treasury—”

The old man shook his head. “Better let me have it,” he said, just as Senza had hoped. “Can’t trust those idiots with anything important; if they don’t lose it they’ll quibble over it for months while the soldiers starve. Pay them first, find the money later. That’s what Herulius did, during the insolvency crisis. I mean to say, that’s the whole point of having an emperor, it means things can actually get
done
.”

Sadly true, Senza thought. At least with an emperor things get done, even if they’re catastrophically bad. Last time, or was it last time but one, he’d had one of these summit conferences in the Blue Chamber, the old man had told him all about the rise and fall of the Blue Sky Republic. Much to his regret, he’d had to take the point: autocratic rule by a succession of incompetents and lunatics was bad enough, but government of the people by and for the people had been a disaster, from which only a handful had been lucky enough to escape alive. Moral (the old man had said), government of any sort is the art of putting out fires with lamp oil; the less you do it, the less you make things worse. All there in the books, as His Majesty hadn’t failed to point out—

Senza tried not to relax, now that he’d achieved the one thing he wanted out of the meeting. Victory is, after all, a rose; hard to acquire without getting pricked, harder still to preserve once achieved. Time, therefore, to attack. “There was one other thing.”

The emperor blinked at him. “Oh yes?”

“The savages on the northern frontier,” Senza said. “The Jazygites and the Hus and the Tel Semplan, out in the badlands beyond Beal Escatoy. Doesn’t it strike you that they’ve been quiet for an awfully long time?”

The Imperial hand stroked the Imperial chin, rasping on the Imperial bristles. Glauca was a martyr to razor rash. “They’ve been quiet, certainly. Ever since you gave them that thrashing five years ago.”