Three
Basso's father died on the day of the election. He suffered a massive stroke in the middle of a shouting match with Ulpius Lorica on the steps of the New Reform Temple (the only time, Lorica said afterwards, that Elio had ever won an argument with him, adding that at least he'd have died happy). Given the dramatic nature of the election, it's likely that he died believing his son was about to lose, and he missed the unforgettable midnight scene in the House when the final result was brought in: Bassianus Arcadius Severus, by seventy-one wards to sixty-eight.
The death of the elder Severus would have been the talking point of the City under any other circumstances; as it was, it was noted in passing and hardly discussed. The events of that day--the outrageous pageantry of the twins' coming-of-age ceremony in the morning, the extraordinary scenes attending the Charity & Social Justice's hostile takeover of the Merchants' Benevolent Fund, followed by the vote itself, with its attendant riot and the unprecedented deployment of troops inside the City walls to restore order, culminating in Vipsanius Severus' death and the astounding denouement in the House--left the City too emotionally exhausted to react with anything more than stunned acquiescence when the King's envoy arrived with the news that the peace proposals had been rejected and accordingly the Vesani Republic was now at war with Scleria.
Under the circumstances, the new First Citizen would have been forgiven for not attending the House the next morning. But he was there, magnificent in purple and gold mourning robes that must have been designed, fitted and sewn in a matter of hours, to deliver a sombre but defiant reply to the King which most commentators place among his finest speeches. He said that in the three hundred years since the Republic had won its freedom, it had always gone out of its way to respect the King's interests; the citizens of the Republic regarded Scleria as a parent with whom they had had occasion to quarrel bitterly, but that they had always remembered where they came from and what had made them what they were: Sclerian justice and wisdom, Sclerian civilisation and institutions, the Sclerian dream of a better, fairer society; in a word, Sclerian freedom. If that love of freedom had withered in the mother country, it was the duty of its estranged but still loving offspring to remind her of what she had once been, and what she could be again.
Basso left the House with a headache, brought on by the dreadful noise of shouting and cheering in the bell-like acoustic of the debating chamber. He hadn't touched a drop for a week but he felt like he had the worst hangover of his life: splitting head, raging indigestion, nausea and an appalling mental numbness, the feeling of being temporarily but intolerably stupid. He collapsed into his seat in the covered coach and scrabbled for the blinds, unable to cope with the sight of the solid, howling wall of his fellow citizens, yelling his name and scrabbling at him with their outstretched hands. His mind felt like porridge, and he tried in vain to remember what he'd just said to the Sclerians. Given the situation, he was fairly sure he hadn't made matters worse (that would be impossible), but he had no idea whether he'd just made a fool of himself in public or not. A hell of a way, he decided, to celebrate his fortieth birthday.
Antigonus was waiting for him in the lobby. "Am I glad to see you," Basso said, stumbling on the threshold and barging the old man's shoulder. Then he saw the expression on Antigonus' face. "What?" he said. "Not something else, for God's sake."
"Your sister's here," Antigonus said quietly.
"Wonderful." Basso stuck out a hand and steadied himself against a pillar. "All right, I'd better see her. Can you...?"
Antigonus nodded. "All being taken care of. The twins are in temple, your mother's in her room and doesn't want to see anybody, I'm meeting the Patriarch's office in an hour to discuss the funeral, followed by the Merchants' Benevolent board at noon and your cabinet at three, so you're clear till the inauguration rehearsal at six." He smiled. "Enjoy your day off," he said. "Tomorrow you'll wish you'd never been born."
Basso nodded. "Thanks," he said.
Antigonus did that nod-bow thing, half ironic, half sincere. "I live to serve, as we used to say in the slate quarries."
Basso laughed. "When the hell were you ever in a slate quarry?"
"Actually, I visited one once. Interesting, but you wouldn't want to work there. Go on," he said, "I'll take care of things."
Basso pushed open the front door, then stopped. "Where's Bassano?" he asked.
"Music lesson," Antigonus replied, "followed by double rhetoric, fencing and lunch. Routine is the best anaesthetic, in my opinion. Do you want to see him?"
Basso nodded. "But later," he said, "after I've seen Lina. Good work," he added, "I'm obliged to you."
"I know," Antigonus replied, and Basso walked through into the hall.
He looked up at the middle gallery, still garlanded from the twins' reception, and thought, I feel like a stranger in my own house. That was an uneasy feeling, because now it really was his own house, its previous owner having just died. He didn't want to climb the stairs; he didn't have the energy. If Antigonus was any good, he'd have arranged for a doctor.
A man he didn't know appeared from the west wing door, holding a blue glass. "Drink this," he said, "you'll feel better."
"Who the hell are you?"
The man (long black beard and the cleanest fingernails Basso had ever seen in his life) bowed efficiently. "Nestor Antimachus," he said, "president of the Grand College of Surgeons. It's just a basic tonic."
Oh, Basso thought. He drank the contents of the glass, which tasted like something from his mother's collection, and felt as though someone was squeezing his head in a giant pair of tongs. Then, as promised, he felt much better. "Thanks," he said. "You're hired."
"I'm not available," the doctor said, took the glass from his hand and walked away. Basso scowled, then decided not to worry about it. His head was still hurting, but at least he could think.
She was in her sitting room on the third floor, perched on the edge of the window seat, with a book open on her lap: a picture of something, Basso thought, by a good but not great artist. She looked up as he opened the door, then turned away.
"So you're here, are you?" she said.
"I live here," he replied.
"I'm moving out," she said to the window. "I'll need furniture and bedlinen, and you'll have to pay me a regular allowance."
He decided not to say anything, and after a moment or so she went on: "I'm going to have the lodge at Curcuas. It's plenty big enough, and you never use it for anything. I want it made over into my name."
"Why Curcuas?"
"It's a long way from the City. Less chance of meeting you there."
He thought for a few seconds. "There's also the house at Simisca," he said. "That's even further away."
"No it isn't."
"I think you'll find it is," he said. "You can measure it out on a map if you like."
"It's too big," she said sharply. "If I'm going to have to live on a fixed income, I don't want to have to pay a fortune staffing and heating a great big barn when there'll just be the two of us living there, and half a dozen servants."
The two of them. "Bassano's going with you, is he?"
"He's not staying here." She'd turned her face round so far he could only see the curve of her cheek. "In two years' time, of course, he can do whatever he likes. Till then, he'll come with me."
Basso came into the room and sat down. "Have you thought about that?" he said. "For one thing, there's his education."
"There'll be room for his tutors at Curcuas," she replied. "There's the three estate cottages in the grounds, or I'll make room for them in the house."
"Yes, but that's not what I meant." It was a ferocious effort to keep his voice quiet and even. "Do you really think it's fair on him, stranding him out in the country at his age? What about his friends?"
"They can visit," Lina said, in her end-of-discussion voice. "And it's not like it's in the middle of the desert. He can come into town if he wants to." She paused, judging her timing nicely,
then added, "He can stay at the Licinius house, or with a friend."
Basso breathed in slowly. "I don't think it'd be a good idea," he said. "And what about you? There's your friends. You always hated the country."
"Fine," she snapped. "Then buy me somewhere in town, for when I get sick of Curcuas. Just promise me you'll stay away."
He closed his eyes. Normally it helped him concentrate, but his mind was numb again, stupid. "Will you think about it some more?" he said. "Please?"
"No." She picked up the book, marked the place with a length of red cord, and stood up. "Your man Antigonus can make the arrangements," she said. "Let me know how much money I can have. Please don't be generous," she added. "I'd rather not take anything at all, but I haven't really got much choice." Now she turned and faced him, and he looked away. "I don't want you to give Bassano any money," she said. "I'll pay for him till he comes of age, and then he'll have the trust money, assuming you haven't spent it all. You haven't, have you?"
"No, of course not." Which was perfectly true. It was Father who'd lost the entire capital, buying into a trading consortium on the point of bankruptcy; competing with his son, as always. But a sum like that was small change to Basso these days. "I suppose you'll want to see the accounts next."
"Yes, please. I want Bassano to know it was his father's money, and nothing to do with you." She walked straight at him, making him give ground so she could pass through the doorway. "Send Antigonus to tell me the arrangements," she said. "Don't come and see me yourself."
He heard the hem of her skirt rustle on the stairs. Chasing after her would probably just make matters worse; so did everything he said or did. Without realising he was doing it, he rubbed his right thumb up and down the scars across his left palm, tracing the smooth raised line of the damage.
Three days of making speeches, government stuff; getting rid of people who'd helped him win the election, because they were dangerous; making peace with those of his enemies who he knew were more capable than his own people in their various specialities; paying off political debts with appointments, honours and Treasury contracts; struggling into the mind of his predecessor (like trying to put on shoes three sizes too small). Fortunately, Caelius had assumed he'd be re-elected, and so hadn't made a ghastly, poisonous mess of the administrative and operational systems, with a view to making life interesting for his conqueror. Small mercies.
On the fourth day, the funeral; and in the afternoon, the deputy assistant commissioner of the Guard asked to see him. When he saw the man's name, he sent for him at once.
"I'm resigning my commission," Aelius said. He was standing to attention, which was ridiculous, since there was nobody else but Basso in the room, and Basso wasn't a soldier.
"Sit down," Basso replied. "Have a drink."
"No, thank you."
"Fine." Basso stood up, crossed to the table in the corner of the room and poured himself a glass of water. "You can't resign," he said, turning his back on Aelius. "You've still got nine months of your term to run, and I won't let you go early."
"I'd have thought--"
"Why?"
"Why?" Aelius repeated. "Well, let's see. Because of me, you're deaf in one ear. I was the investigating officer when you killed your wife and her lover, and in my report I recommended a state prosecution. I led the Guard unit that broke up the riot started by your supporters on election day, and my men killed over a hundred of them, quite probably illegally. All things considered--"
"Be quiet," Basso said, and turned to face him. "And for crying out loud sit down." Aelius opened his mouth, thought better of whatever it was he was about to say, and sat down. "Thank you," Basso continued, and perched on the edge of the desk. "Now, then. First, I've probably got you to thank for winning the election. I don't know what possessed Caelius to break the law and send in the troops like that, but it was about the only thing he could've done to make himself lose. A lot of men in your position would've questioned the order. Just out of interest, why didn't you?"
Aelius shrugged. "There was a riot going on," he said. "They were setting fire to buildings, the whole of the south quarter could've gone up. We tried to be nice about it, and they killed two of my men. Naturally, I take full responsibility for what happened after that."
Basso nodded. "Moving on," he said, "in your report you said I probably killed my brother-in-law in self-defence, but in your view killing my wife was murder."
Aelius waited for a moment, then said, "And?"
Basso smiled. "You were quite right," he said. "You went on to say that since, in law, any complaint would have to be lodged by my sister, who's under my control, the interests of justice demanded a state prosecution. You must've felt quite strongly about it to stick your neck out like that."
"Yes."
"Finally," Basso said, touching his left ear with his fingertips, "there's this. About which, all I have to say is that you taught me a valuable lesson which I've never forgotten. The fourth infantry division needs a new commander. I'm giving it to you."
Aelius stared at him. "You're joking," he said.
Basso frowned; a mild rebuke. "I've had you researched," he said, picking up a sheet of paper. "You're fifty-one years old, born in a wooden hut in Beroea, father unknown, mother died when you were six; recruited at fifteen, commissioned lieutenant at eighteen, captain by the time you were twenty-one." He turned the paper over. "Served with distinction--well, you know all that." He folded the paper in half and dropped it in the scraping-tray. "Well? Do you want the job or not?"
"You know I do," Aelius said.
"You're sure about that?" Basso stood up, went round the desk and sat in his chair. "Maybe you hadn't heard, we're at war with Scleria. Perhaps I'm sending you to the front to get killed."
Aelius grinned. "You can't drown a fish in water," he said. "But I can't do it. I haven't got the experience."
Basso shook his head. "Experience is a myth," he said. "I was put in charge of the Bank after a few weeks sitting in with the chief clerk. You'll do just fine."
"All right," Aelius said. "Provided you tell me why."
From his pocket, Basso took his gold-handled penknife and started trimming the nib of his pen. It was sharp enough already. "I want this ridiculous war over as soon as possible," he said. "I don't care whether we win or not, just so long as we don't lose in a way anybody will notice. I want it off my desk. General Basiliscus, on the other hand, wants a comprehensive victory. He wants a campaign they'll teach at the military academy for the next thousand years. Do you see where there might be a conflict of interests?"
"Basiliscus is a military genius."
"Quite," Basso replied. "And Scleria's the only truly worthy opponent he's ever likely to face. For him, it's the opportunity of a lifetime. Which is why I'm bringing him home. He can be the new City prefect, where he can't do any damage. The way I see it, you don't hire an icon-painter to whitewash a wall. Besides, if you screw it up, I'll send him out to replace you and he'll love that. Now, is that a good enough explanation?"
There was a confused look on Aelius' face that Basso found mildly entertaining. "I suppose it has to be," he said. "Thank you, Arcadius Severus, I'm honoured."
"Yes," Basso replied. "Now salute and go away. You interrupted me, remember?"
* * *
"What on earth possessed you...?"
Basso frowned, and poured Antigonus a glass of wine. "Oh come on," he said. "Think about it."
"I have been," Antigonus replied. "And I'm afraid I don't see it. Basiliscus..."
Basso leaned forward, picked a book up off the desk and lobbed it at Antigonus, who caught it clumsily. "Amandus' History of the Wars," he said. "They made me read it when I was a kid. Open it at random and you'll see where I've drawn sea serpents in the margins. It's a very dull book," he went on, leaning back in his chair. "The same thing happens, over and over again. A great general arises in the Republic's hour of greatest need. He defeats the enemy, and his loyal troops, who worship the gro
und he treads on, demand that he leads them against the wicked and corrupt administration back home and sets the Republic free. A few years later, the same thing happens. We had seventy-three military dictators in a hundred years. It was awfully bad for business."
Antigonus smiled. "That was a long time ago."
"So?" Basso shrugged. "Just because it rained a thousand years ago doesn't mean it won't rain tomorrow. Basiliscus isn't just a soldier, he's a hero. I can't take the risk. General Aelius, on the other hand, is a barely house-broken Beroean with a knack for doing the right thing. He'll end the war and we can get back to normal. That's what sensible people do with wars. They put a stop to them." He yawned. "Can we talk about something else now?" he said. "War's just violence, and violence is an admission of failure. I don't like thinking about it."
Antigonus handed back the book. "If that's what you want," he said. "Now then, what else? Oh yes. Your sister's found a house she likes in town."
Basso turned his head and looked out of the window. Across the square from the Bank, the absurdly long, narrow windows of the Notaries' Hall were lit up and golden, their light reflected in the water of the fountain below. "They must be having a function of some sort," he said.
"Inscription Day," Antigonus said. "Big occasion. Shouldn't you be there?"
"I don't know. Should I?"
"Affairs of state," Antigonus replied. "Unavoidably detained. It's a pretty dull affair, actually. Each newly registered notary has his name called out, and he stands up while they write his name on the roll. I suppose it'd be all right if you're a proud father."
"That's it?"
"More or less. There's speeches too, of course."
"Anything political?"
"From the notaries? I'd be greatly surprised."
Basso nodded. "Where?" he asked.
"Lower town," Antigonus said. "Nice quiet square, just round the corner from the Victory Temple. You paid eight thousand for it."
Basso opened his eyes wide, then shrugged. "Big enough for both of them?"
"Comfortable. Comfortable without being snug."
The Folding Knife Page 7