Mightier than the Sword

by K. J. Parker

  We walked through the cloister, with a charming garden in the centre. I asked to see the library. The abbot didn’t actually express surprise. “Of course,” he said, as though I’d just asked him for an elephant. “This way. We have a decent collection, and of course we’re adding to it all the time.”

  And decent enough it was; a smaller building than I’d become used to. The shelves were golden rather than dark brown, and the spines of the books were splendidly uniform, like a regiment of steelnecks on parade; all recent copies, or older books rebound. “Any treasures?” I asked.

  “Ah.” He smiled. “There is one we’re rather proud of.”

  He showed me a Greater Missal. It was the size of an infantry shield, covered in thin gold sheet studded with gemstones and pearls; possibly the most vulgar thing I’ve ever seen in my life. “A gift from a generous patron,” he said, “who wished to remain anonymous.” He turned the pages, and I wanted to shield my bad eye from the glare of the gold leaf. The vellum was milk-white. And that was when the notion that had been struggling up between the paving-slabs of my largely unsatisfactory brain finally burst into flower. “Of course,” I said aloud.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Of course you must respect your donor’s wishes,” I said. I lifted a couple of links of the chain. It reminded me of the stuff they use for big, savage guard dogs. Perhaps that’s what scripture is, though (big, noisy, bites you if you’re bad) in which case the precaution is justified.

  We toured the defences, which were quite admirable. “I have sixty armed lay-brothers on call at all times,” the abbot told me, “we take these things seriously. After all, we’re a rich house, and we live in a violent world.”

  “I don’t think you’ve got very much to worry about,” I reassured him.

  “HE'S A SMUGGLER,” she said.

  I nodded. “Of course he is. And he launders the proceeds by turning them into ghastly works of religious art, and if that’s not blasphemy, I don’t know what is.” I sat down on the bed. I really wanted to rub my bad eye, but I’d been given awful warnings not to. My cracked rib made me whimper. “My guess is that at some stage there’ll be a raid and all the gold and silver garbage will be stolen, the abbot and his people will, by some miracle, be away from the house at the time, and they’ll retire out East somewhere and divide up the proceeds. Or maybe I’m doing them an injustice and this is their way of glorifying the house of God, I really don’t know. In any case, they’re a red herring.”

  I hadn’t said what she expected me to say. “Hardly,” she said. “Obviously, this is how Trabea gets the stuff out of the empire. Up into Permia, then down the Long River, then overland with the silk caravans to Beloisa and all points east.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Trabea again.”

  “Of course. And more to the point, that’s where the ponies come from, and possibly the men as well.”

  I shook my head. “Permians are dark and brown-eyed.”

  “Permians are, yes, but there’s any God’s amount of savages up beyond them we know nothing about, except that they’re dirt poor and love to fight. That’s where your blue-eyed giants come from, bet you anything you like.”

  “In any case,” I said, “this house has nothing to fear from the raiders, so we don’t need to stay here any longer. Pass me that map, would you? I seem to remember there’s a river we can follow all the way back to the Doce valley.”

  “Aren’t you going to do anything? He’s a smuggler.”

  I sighed. “Not my problem,” I said. “Law enforcement and revenues are Trabea’s business. Besides, they’ve been nice to us, I don’t see why we should be nasty to them.”

  MY UNCLE ONCE said—in public—that I’m too stupid to be allowed out without a keeper. My aunt treats me like an idiot, but she’s the same with everyone who’s not as smart as she is, into which category falls the rest of the human race and several gods. At the University my tutors said I had a reasonably good mind buried under a coal seam of aristocratic inertia (rather a splendid phrase, don’t you think?) but I was always the one who had to have things explained to him by his kind friends after the lecture. In the army, intelligence is like ginger hair; some people have it, some don’t, and it really doesn’t matter. I have other stirling qualities to compensate. I work hard when there’s absolutely no alternative, I bother about details, I try and find the best in people while expecting them to do their worst. And I’m loyal, I will say that for myself.

  And I’m lucky. Fool’s luck if you like. I get away with things. Fate intervenes to rescue me from the consequences of my ill-judged actions. And I’m lucky with the people around me. For some reason, I seem to attract the most wonderful people, like filings to a magnet—clever, brave, kind, patient, forgiving, resourceful; my wife, of course, and various tribunes and captains who’ve served with me over the years and won my battles for me and taken spears and arrows that were meant for me. That never ceases to amaze me. Apart from her, I couldn’t see myself doing that for anyone.

  But I can read, and anyone who reads the right book has an ally, an advisor who’s far more clever than he is and can tell him what to do. I have a box of books that goes with me everywhere; my cabinet, terrible pun intended; various Arts of War and practical guides to geology, meteorology, agriculture, economics, sensible stuff; if in doubt, look it up—it’s a good, solid box so I can sit on it as well, or stand on it to make speeches, and it stopped a dozen arrows when our camp was attacked at Trigentum. I take the utilitarian view, in other words, probably because I’ve always been acutely conscious of needing all the help I can get. Accordingly, I’m damned if I’m going to let the accumulated wisdom of the past perish from the face of the earth, whether through damp or fire or being used as arsewipe. And, since I’m not nearly bright enough to know which books are solid gold and which are expendable garbage, I have no alternative but to try and protect them all.

  Is that a fault in me? Have I got it wrong? Could I do a lot of harm along the way? A wise man once said that ninety-five parts out of a hundred of all the evil in the world stems from good intentions, and the older I get, the more I believe him. But that could never apply to me, could it, because I know my intentions are good—

  The first man I killed with a pen died for doing what I’d have done if someone hadn’t stopped me. The question is; should I have spared him, or confessed and handed myself in?

  THERE WAS A road to Cort Doce, but we never even got to start. Bright and early in the morning, that sight a general dreads most of all—an Imperial chaise, with outriders.

  “She’s heard about you,” I said. “I’m dead.”

  “Pull yourself together, for crying out loud,” my wife advised me. “Cut their throats, dump the bodies in the woods and say they never got here.”

  Sound advice, I guess, but I didn’t take it. I put on my brave face and went to meet the legate. Turned out I knew him slightly; a sour-faced old boy with a sharp edge to his tongue, staunch ally of my uncle in the House. He handed me a plain brass tube and said, “I’m sorry.”

  That turned my throat dry. I fumbled with the tube, trying to poke out the rolled-up letter. He took it back and did it for me. I’m useless a lot of the time.

  The usual greetings; then—

  I have to inform you that your uncle died this morning after a long and painful illness, which he did not bear well.

  I have tried to keep this news restricted, but I am well aware that I will not succeed. Our enemies have sources very close to the Signet, and will probably get the news before you do.

  For this reason, you cannot return to the City at this time. Proceed to gather whatever forces you can. I have reason to believe that the enemy army is in the north, and it is logical to assume that they will seek to dispose of you, as heir apparent, before marching on the City. Defend yourself as best you can. I regret to say that I have no soldiers to send you on whose loyalty I would be prepared to rely. The commanders of the Sixth, Eighth and Fourteenth Armies ar
e waiting to see what happens; presumably, if you are killed, they will proceed to fight it out among themselves. It is essential for the wellbeing of the Empire that this should not happen, and I therefore urge you to stay alive if at all possible.

  Given the resources at your disposal it would be unrealistic to expect you to bring the opposition to battle with any chance of success. I have written to the Great King of the Sashan asking him for troops; at times like these, when our friends are useless or hostile, our best hope lies with our enemy. In theory, the treaty obliges him to send help. In practice, I hope he will prefer the devil he knows, although obviously it will cost us dear in the East. If he refuses, frankly I have no idea which way to turn. It is all most frustrating; if we could field ten thousand men, the problem would be solved, and we pay the wages of a standing army twenty times that size.

  Although it is entirely up to you, I strongly urge you to send your wife back to the City with Commissioner Clarus; she will be safe here, at least in the short term, and as the situation deteriorates I am confident I can make arrangements for her to obtain asylum in Scheria or Scona. It goes without saying that I thoroughly disapprove of the match, but at this time it is the least of our problems.

  I trust that it is unnecessary for me to tell you how proud I have always been of you, as was your uncle. If you survive this, I feel sure you will make a fine emperor. I hope very much to see you again.

  Your loving aunt,

  Eudoxia Honoria Augusta

  —and directly under that, the Seal, which I’ve always thought looks more like a horse than a dragon, but what do I know?

  I stared at the letter for a bit. Then I said; “What enemy?”

  “The republicans, of course,” the legate said. “Didn’t you know?”

  I WISH PEOPLE would tell me things, instead of assuming I’m omniscient.

  The republican movement has always been there, as long as we’ve had an empire. Get rid of the emperors, give power back to the people—quite; except the people never had any power at any stage in our history, which was probably just as well. In this context, the people means the two dozen ancient aristocratic families who own half the land in the empire, the six dozen rich men who hold the mortgages on that land, the priesthood and, of course, the army. They governed the Robur for a thousand years before Florian staged his coup, and because of or in spite of their best efforts we somehow conquered the world. All in self-defence, of course. You’d be amazed how many people we’ve had to defend ourselves against over the years.

  Republicans rebelled against Marianus and nearly won; they gave Detterich a run for his money, and we had to call in the Vesani, which cost us the Delta. It was republicans who assassinated Pacatian and Thrasianus, thereby doing the world an enormous favour, and we’re all told to believe that they started the Great Fire. Their heads have decorated arches and gateways for as long as I can remember. I’d never taken them seriously.

  “We don’t know anything for certain,” the legate told me, “but our best intelligence says that they have between four and seven thousand mercenaries standing by on the Permian border—not Permians, probably some new kind of savages we haven’t come across yet. Obviously you’re their primary target, and then they’ll head for the City; at which point it’ll be a race to see which general reaches them first and annihilates them. Whoever wins the race will get the City, and then we can look forward to twenty years of civil war, while the Sashan pick off the Eastern provinces.”

  I shook my head. “They must be mad.”

  He didn’t disagree. “It seems they genuinely believe the City will rise in their favour, and the other cities will follow suit. Quite possibly they’re right, except that the army would never let them reach the City.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “The empress believes you’re safest if you gather whatever men you can lay your hands on and hole up somewhere, but I’d venture to disagree. If you want my advice, get a ship and head for the Great King’s court. The empress is right about one thing, the Sashan are our only hope, and they know you, they know they can do business with you. It’s not much of a hope but it’s all we’ve got.”

  MY WIFE WANTED to stay with me but I nagged her into going back with the legate; mostly because I agreed with my aunt, she’d be safer in Town, but also because if she stayed she’d advise me, and I’d take her advice, because she’s probably the smartest person I know. And I knew what that advice would be, and it wasn’t what I intended to do.

  Trabea could move like lightning when he wanted to. By a sublime stroke of good luck he’d just taken delivery of the thousand steelnecks my aunt had agreed to send him, and they would be the backbone of our army. Add to them my five-hundred-seventy-five remaining Cassites and fifteen hundred local militia, neither useful nor ornamental— And the stupid thing was, I reckoned I knew where I could get a thousand ferocious and highly effective warriors just for the asking, except that I couldn’t possibly ask. I did consider it, very seriously. But there are some things I won’t be complicit in, even for the empire.

  When I told Trabea that I was planning to fight, he went white as a sheet and told me I was mad. But I calmed him down by threatening to cut his head off for embezzlement, and once we’d got that sorted out he proved to be efficient and useful. “It’ll be two to one or thereabouts,” I told him, pretending to be casual about it, “which is better odds than my uncle had at Boc Gresc, and for all we know, these savages of theirs might turn out to be useless, so—”

  He stared at me. “We know they aren’t,” he said. “Well, don’t we?”

  I shook my head. “You’re assuming the raiders are the mercenaries,” I said.

  “Well, of course they are. It stands to reason.”

  “I disagree,” I told him, in my subject-closed voice. “Of course they may turn out to be fire-eaters, or they may turn out to be woolly lambs, we just don’t know. All we can do is make damn sure we’re ready for them.”

  TRYING TO TRAIN militia will break your heart, so we didn’t bother. Instead, I made a deal with them. Stay where you’re put and don’t move until you’re told to go somewhere else; that’s all. Put like that it doesn’t sound much, but in fact it’s everything—don’t run away, even though Death comes charging towards you. I couldn’t promise to do it, but they did.

  Steelnecks are extraordinary creatures. For them, life is a series of competitions, the Lathrian Games three-sixty-five days a year. They train like lunatics because every month there’s a prize for everything—the archery medal, the javelin medal, the laurel wreath for long-distance running in full armour, at company, battalion and regimental level, team and individual. Ten medals automatically gets you promotion, fifteen means double pay, twenty is double pension. On campaign there are endurance awards, and on the actual battlefield there’s a long list of prizes and honours, from the Silver Buckle to the Headless Spear. After ten years in the service, gongs and braid are all you’re capable of caring about, the honour of the corps and who’s where in the league table. What or who you’re fighting for, or whether you’ll still be alive in the morning, doesn’t enter into it. They’re even worse than athletes, and without them that guttering flame I talked about earlier would’ve been snuffed out centuries ago.

  Steelneck tribunes are a different kettle of fish altogether. I think I understand a little bit about them, because I used to be one. You take a spoiled rich kid, age about thirteen. You make him live in conditions they’d jib at down the quarries, you send him on twenty-mile marches in full kit and when he gets back, you make him learn Cirra’s Elegiacs by heart and recite them in front of the whole class; you teach him to be fluent in four living languages and three dead ones, make him learn philosophy like it was weapons drill and weapons drill like it was philosophy; you don’t feed him properly, so he’s forced to steal food and thereby learn stealth and deception, but if he’s caught he’s tied to a gate and flogged; when he’s sixteen you give him powers of life and death over a hundred steelnecks and se
nd him off to war. Then, if he’s one of the few who lives to reach fifty, you enrol him in the House and let him shape the future of the empire. It’s a completely ridiculous system, and seems to work quite well.

  I’ve lived with these people most of my adult life, I admire them and some of them I actually like, but I’m not one of them. Not sure I’m one of anybody else, come to that. If I felt at home anywhere it was probably the University—sometimes I wake up and, in that dreamy half-awake-half-asleep interval before you really come to, I’m convinced I’m still a student, with lectures in the morning and the library all afternoon. I was only there for a year, before I had to rejoin my regiment, and to tell you the truth I was always out of my depth, though mostly people were very kind.

  SEEK OUT THE enemy and destroy him; quite. I was asking myself how on earth I was going to find the enemy, in a country with seven roads and thousands of forests, combes and valleys, but I needn’t have worried. They came to us.

  IT TAKES SEVEN years for an apple tree to mature and bear fruit. Roughly seven years earlier, someone—monks, presumably, nobody else would’ve had the capital—had planted out sixty acres of gently sloping hillside in cider apple trees. Whoever it was knew their business. They’d clear-felled a rectangular tongue into one of those ancient holm-oak forests, so the plantation would be sheltered on three sides and still get plenty of sun; the slope faced west, so it would catch the frost in winter, and frost is essential for setting the fruit. I imagine it must have been monks, and they read about orchard-building in a book; stored wisdom put into useful practice, which is the point of the exercise.

  We ruined all that. I drew up my militia half-way down the slope in two long, sparse lines, stretching from the woods on the left to the edge of the steelneck phalanx, five ranks of one-hundred-eighty, hard up against the woods on the right. That left a hundred steelnecks as a reserve and my personal bodyguard. The Cassites—