How should he think of Tulliola now? As little as possible, and not, if he could, as having been his wife. He was so ashamed of her. He did not know why she had done such terrible things, and he never wanted to find out, and she had been so beautiful. He was almost grateful to her for having killed herself. It was better than having to have her executed.
So, his first thought was that, again, he was going to hear that something had happened to one of his family. Marcus, who was his heir now. Or even worse, his daughter Makaria – no, please, not her. Or it could be both of them, they were both in Greece.
‘We need you downstairs,’ said Glycon. ‘There has been a massacre.’
Oh, thank goodness for that, thought Faustus, disgracefully, glad that no one would ever know. He sat up and punitive pain flowed back into his head.
It eased off. ‘What do you mean by a massacre? How many people?’
He felt sorry for Glycon, knowing he would hate giving a straight answer. He saw Glycon flinch, resist the urge to dodge the question altogether and settle on saying softly, ‘The lowest figure I’ve heard was a hundred, the highest was four hundred. Yanisen can tell you more.’
‘This is on the Wall, then, of course?’ Yanisen was the Governor of Roman Terranova.
‘The Wall has been breached,’ said Glycon, just as gently.
Faustus felt a sharp twang of real shock for the first time. ‘The Wall has been breached? Are you telling me about an invasion?’
Again Glycon recoiled a little. ‘It’s a matter of the last few hours. It’s very unclear. I wouldn’t like to speculate. But you will need the military options before you: I have General Salvius waiting with Probus, and Memmius Quentin, because obviously the impact on the public will become important very soon.’
‘Good,’ said Faustus heavily. ‘You’d better get, ah …’ For an odd moment he could not get the name to form, either in his brain or on his tongue. ‘Falx,’ he said finally. Falx was an intelligence specialist on Nionia.
‘He’s on his way.’
He walked with Glycon through the Palace. The massage seemed to have done no good at all. He was as sluggish as before. He felt oily under his clothes.
‘We can talk to Nionia through Sina or our trade contacts,’ said Glycon. For eighteen months and more there had been, officially, only bitter silence between Nionia and Rome. The last Nionian ambassadors had been spies, or at least, the danger that they were spies had been too strong to take chances.
‘Sina,’ answered Faustus dully. The light through the gold-tinted glass hurt his eyes.
In the private office the doors were almost invisible when closed: carved leaves obscuring the edges, even the hinges and little handles concealed among the unbroken ivy and clematis painted in fresco round the walls, so that once inside you seemed to be within a large, cool, motionless garden, beautiful, with no way out. But there was a bright flat aperture now in the green wall opposite Faustus’ desk, where the shutters that covered the longvision were folded back, displaying Yanisen.
Yanisen was Navaho, but looked – was – as essentially Roman as the men in the room: dressed in crisp white, his stiff, lead-coloured hair cut short and square above his elegant long face. Terranova was one of the few regions left in the Empire where languages other than Latin still had much currency, but the Governor’s full name was Marcus Vesnius Yanisen, and he would probably have dropped or altered even the Navaho cognomen, if it had not run easily enough off tongues used only to Latin.
He and Probus should have been preparing what they would say to Faustus; instead they were in passionate argument: ‘If you had given me the resources—’
‘Do you – think – this is – an appropriate time – to be scoring points?’ said Probus, in a series of low, dry, furious gulps.
‘I think it’s a time to remember that I’ve been warning about this for years!’
‘Yes, we are all very aware of that, you’ve spent less time …’ he swallowed again, ‘actually doing anything about it.’
Probus was thirty-six, a short but upright man with dark hair and a square face. He was precociously high-ranking, the youngest person in the room, and the most afraid for himself – for it was true Yanisen had often complained to him, as the tension on the Wall grew and the skirmishes got worse. It was also true that Salvius and Faustus himself were just as responsible for refusing Yanisen everything he had wanted, but Probus must know he would be the easiest to blame, if it came to that.
Yanisen opened his mouth, incensed, but cut himself short, seeing Probus react as Faustus entered. The appalled, argumentative look of them brought the ache and the weariness to a peak again in Faustus. The lovely green room felt inexplicably stuffy.
Salvius made him tired too; he was sitting on one of the green couches, scowling at the argument but taking no part in it. He sprang up to greet Faustus with the energy of a charge going off. He was white-haired, but the hair was still thick, and combed to a snowy gloss, and he was as muscular and handsome as he had been at twenty-five. Leo, Faustus’ dead brother, had been similarly careful of his appearance, and yet Faustus did not believe Salvius was really vain at all, as Leo certainly had been. Salvius had simply realised at some stage that to look this way helped him extract respect. He certainly had none of Leo’s loucheness – he seemed to have been happily faithful to his wife for thirty years. Oddly, even though politically they must have violently disapproved of each other, Leo and Salvius had got on quite well, out of military fellow-feeling, and the conscious shared possession of a certain kind of strength.
Salvius bowed. Faustus took his hand, and felt that though it gripped firmly on his own, it trembled too, but not with fear like Probus’. Faustus looked into Salvius’ face and saw the spontaneous, wounded outrage there, and was surprised. Again he felt rather ashamed of himself; he just did not feel as if he personally had been attacked, when presumably of all people he ought to.
Salvius burst out, ‘That’s the last shred of Mixigana gone, Your Majesty, and frankly it’s been a farce for years anyway: we’ve got no choice but to show we won’t tolerate this.’ Mixigana was the peace treaty that had established the Roman–Nionian border more than three hundred years before.
‘That’s probably the best way to let this out, it makes it clear you’re still in control,’ agreed Quentin, although Salvius did not seem to relish the advisor’s support and glanced at him with minor distaste. Quentin was in his forties but plumply boyish-looking, round-faced, with smooth chestnut hair. He did not look particularly shocked by what had happened.
‘Quiet,’ said Faustus. ‘You may think you know what this is all about, but I don’t. Yanisen?’ It was principally for Salvius’ benefit that he tried to sound forceful, pulled his protesting body up as straight as he could. You’ve got to watch people like that, he felt, deeply and instinctively. The Novii might have ruled in Rome for two hundred years now, but it would never be long enough to be completely certain they were safe; not for any Emperor.
Salvius looked at him broodingly, and he and Quentin subsided. Probus stood and clenched his teeth.
Yanisen nodded. ‘Sir. Our troops came under the kind of attack they’ve experienced many times, especially in the last four years.’
Probus grimaced, longing to interrupt.
‘Where?’ said Faustus.
‘This was in – that is, it began near Vinciana.’
‘I’ve never heard of it.’
‘No, there’s no reason you would have done. But it’s in Arcansa, very near the Wall, close to where it intersects the Emissourita. Of course, our troops retaliated. I think we lost four or five men at this point, sir. You must understand that with all of this – because of the way things escalated, it’s hard to be precise. A detail in armoured vehicles advanced a little way into Nionian territory to disperse the enemy. It appeared they had done so successfully. But on the return they were attacked again. Sir, the Nionians must have reinforced at some point in the last month; it was much more sus
tained, the numbers were such that the Roman soldiers were all but wiped out. We haven’t been able to recover the bodies.’
‘But that can’t have been a hundred people?’ asked Faustus.
‘No. The Nionians pursued the remnants back. And this is when they fired explosives at the Wall itself. Of course, by this time our surviving troops had called for support, but it didn’t come in time, there was no way they could hold the breach. The fighting spilled into Vinciana. And then, I think they – the Nionians – must have begun simply killing people indiscriminately.’
Faustus exhaled heavily; he hadn’t realised so many of the deaths were civilian. He understood Salvius’ indignation better now, but he still couldn’t share it, not really; he felt more depressed than anything.
‘But they were driven back or killed after that? They’re not still there?’
‘No. The back-up from the next fort arrived; it doesn’t seem there’s been any more gunfire.’
‘And the breach itself?’
‘They’ve got it contained for the moment.’
‘But how big is it? What does the town look like now?’ ‘Well, it’s – the damage must be – I’m not there.’
‘Then go there. But first find me someone who’s there already. And decent pictures. And some idea of where these numbers are coming from.’
‘Very well,’ said Yanisen, his voice strained. Then, seemingly trying in vain to stop himself, he continued through his teeth. ‘The town is still vulnerable, of course, and will continue to be. I am sorry, Your Majesty, I feel I have to say, this could have been prevented—’
‘Yes, you could have prevented it,’ exclaimed Probus savagely. ‘Don’t you try and lay the blame here because we weren’t prepared to throw good money after bad.’
‘Stop,’ barked Faustus, acting fury easily enough; after all these years he could produce the right voice and expression on demand. ‘You can continue this in person. Probus, you should be out there too.’ Probus nodded shakily, but Faustus added, ‘Now, go now,’ and felt – vague as his desire for the girl in the bath-suite – a pang of pleasure at being able to flick Probus across the globe. Infantile, really. Probus left, still swallowing dryly; Faustus thought, with mingled scorn and pity, that he might even burst into tears.
He gestured at the screen and a slave turned it off. An aide had entered and whispered something to Glycon.
‘What are we hearing from Cynoto?’ Faustus asked.
Glycon looked disconsolate. He was training a quietly tormented, imploring expression on a cherry tree painted on the wall, and he had to lower his hand from his mouth to speak; unconsciously, he’d been biting the flesh of his index finger. ‘It’s taking time,’ he replied.
‘They’re not refusing to speak to us?’
‘No. Possibly keeping us waiting to make a point.’ He slipped out of the room.
Faustus and Salvius exchanged a silent look now, not quite of guilt, but both were aware that for years they had considered quietly, why lavish money on the Wall when a war with Nionia might be coming, after which the Wall would be pointless? Yanisen must have known as much.
‘All right, now you can talk.’
‘We have almost the numbers on the Wall to head north already; we can reinforce them within weeks. I don’t believe it would take more than four months to take control of the territory.’
Faustus nodded. Glycon re-entered to interject. ‘Falx is here.’
‘In a minute. But could we keep the war contained in Terranova?’
‘Obviously we would attack Cynoto from the air at the same time,’ said Salvius.
‘And their bases in Edo?’
‘It goes without saying.’
Faustus nodded again, but he looked at Quentin. ‘Are you sure this looks like being in control? Because you could equally well say the opposite.’
‘Well,’ said Quentin, ‘people will want to feel something is being done.’
‘But – not to belittle what’s happened today – we don’t need to overstress it to the public, do we? People are used to hearing about skirmishes.’
Quentin looked thoughtful. ‘It’s true that it’s a long way away for most people. But it’s not as easy to keep things quiet these days; and even if we were successful, they might then find it harder to accept if you did decide war was necessary.’
Salvius by this time was looking overtly disgusted. ‘What?’ demanded Faustus loudly, finding with some surprise that he was contemplating Salvius almost with hatred. Oh, you think you’d do so much better, he thought sourly.
Salvius hesitated, bristling warily. ‘I suppose it seems like a question of right or wrong to me. A question of the interests of Rome, at the least. I’m a little surprised it’s being considered in these terms.’
‘We’re considering everything, I hope,’ Faustus snarled.
‘Of course,’ said Salvius, trying to sound dispassionate.
Faustus wanted Salvius out of the room so he could release his body from the straight posture he’d hauled it into, knead his face with hands. He said, ‘You talk with Falx. Come back and tell me what we can expect from the Nionians, and what we need to do to be ready.’
Salvius was even a little appeased by this. When he and Quentin were gone, Faustus let himself sag, as he’d wanted to. He rubbed at the back of his neck and head, trying to mimic what the girl had been doing, but holding his arm aloft like that only seemed to make the muscles stiffen even more painfully and he let it drop.
He noticed Glycon, who had retreated diffidently into a chair at the edge of the room. As the conversation had gone on, he had wound himself by subtle degrees into a position that looked agonising: his legs twisted round each other, his shoulders skewed, his hands up to his face with the interlaced and steepled fingers spikily protecting the lower half of his nose, his thumbs under his chin, jutting into his neck. He might be unaware he was doing it, but Faustus was sure Glycon wanted him to say, as he did now, ‘You’re looking very gloomy.’
Glycon separated his hands to hold them splayed in midair. ‘Of course,’ he murmured. ‘The situation …’
‘No, don’t give me that,’ said Faustus, tersely gentle. He dragged a chair into place to sit opposite Glycon.
Glycon unknotted himself fully, sighing. ‘I think the general reaches decisions so fast,’ he confessed. ‘I think it … it’s possible he underestimates the cost – financially, apart from anything else. And in – destruction.’
This was an unusually strong word for Glycon: having said it he blinked and made a mute gesture, as if to rub it out of the air.
‘Of course, he may very well be right,’ he added quickly, which almost made Faustus want to laugh, but Glycon went on again gravely, his eyes distant. ‘But if Nionia is stronger than he thinks, then this would be something we’ve never seen before. A world conflict. It doesn’t bear thinking about.’
‘I haven’t decided anything yet,’ Faustus said quietly.
As the afternoon wore on, however, he became increasingly angry with Nionia, for still all they heard through Sina were imprecise promises that the Nionian Emperor would be ready to speak with them soon. Faustus found himself roaring at Glycon, as if it were his fault: ‘Make sure they know they’re taking a damn stupid risk playing this game! Blind gods! He should be glad I’m willing to talk to him at all!’
Glycon only nodded, unflinching. At last he came into the private office again to tell Faustus, ‘The Nionian Prince will speak with you, if you want.’
‘Which one?’ asked Faustus. He found the workings of the Nionian court confusing; he knew the Emperor had a lot of children. Faustus felt envious. It was curious and regrettable that he and his two brothers had only managed to produce one child each. He thought again of his daughter Makaria, and of Marcus. If Makaria had been a son – if she had married and had children like a normal woman … how much easier everything would have been. Of course, it was still not impossible, though she was thirty-six now. But he no longer seriousl
y expected it to happen.
If he had had a son with Tulliola – a child of six, at the oldest, now …? Briefly, he imagined such a boy, with black hair and a crooked Novian mouth. But the idea of Tulliola jabbed at his head again, and in honesty, did he remember what you were supposed to do with a child that young? A grandchild would have been different. Very occasionally he heard rumours that Makaria had a lover out on Siphnos; if so, he wished she would produce him, Faustus would really not care who it was.
‘Tadasius, the Crown Prince,’ answered Glycon. But of course the Prince did not call himself Tadasius, that was only the Latin rendering of it. His name was Tadahito.
Faustus exhaled at length again, trying to puff the anger out of himself so that he could think clearly. ‘Suppose that’ll do,’ he muttered.
The aides adjusted the longdictor and Faustus took it. ‘Your Majesty,’ said a voice.
For a moment Faustus thought this must be some Roman intermediary, for the Prince’s Latin was disconcertingly flawless. Faustus was thrown, not only by this, but by the Prince’s age, older than Marcus, true, but what – twenty-two, twenty-four? ‘Your Highness,’ Faustus said, ‘can I not speak to your father?’ and realised too late that this sounded, absurdly and offensively, like something one might say to a child – ‘Is your daddy there?’
In response he heard a quiet, sharp intake of breath. ‘My father trusts me to represent him accurately; I hope and believe he is right to do so. May I pass on to him your condolences for the murders of our people today? Shall I say Rome feels at last some degree of remorse for her actions?’
‘Flawless’ was almost an inadequate word for the Prince’s fluency. And yet Faustus no longer thought he would have mistaken him for a native speaker: though the accent was exhaustively correct, it was somehow clearly not intended as a pretence or disguise of being Roman. The structure of each sentence, the resonance of the voice were all deliberately, even insultingly perfect. Faustus felt uncomfortably aware of the very few, very faltering words of Nionian that had survived in his memory through the fifty or fifty-five years since his schooldays.
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