How to Rule an Empire and Get Away with It

by K. J. Parker

  “I think he’s dumped her,” I said firmly. “Probably found out she’s been cheating on him. It happens a lot in theatrical circles.”

  Nicephorus shook his head. “He needs a girlfriend,” he said. “Because of those other rumours. And you know this Hodda.”

  “I know lots of actresses. What about Andronica? She’ll do anything.”

  “Hodda knows the truth,” Faustinus said. “So she’s already in on this. The fewer people who get involved, the better, obviously.”

  Sometimes I hate logic. “So what do you have in mind?” I said.

  “There was no settled pattern,” Nicephorus said, every inch the trained strategist. “Sometimes she came to the palace, sometimes they met at one of a number of private houses. Never at the theatre.”

  “If you’d ever been out back of the Gallery of Illustration, you’d know why. What’s the plan?”

  “It’s easier and safer to have her come here, to start with,” Faustinus said. “Her carriage is quite distinctive, people will see. Word will get about.”

  “So I don’t actually have to see her.”

  Nicephorus pursed his lips. “We think the two of you should be seen together,” he said. “For one thing, if anybody is harbouring doubts about your identity, that ought to set their minds at rest. I mean, she’d know it was him—” He stopped. Upper-class reticence, rather cute. “And it’s just the sort of thing you wouldn’t allow to happen if you were running an impostor,” he said. “So it makes sense.”

  “You really think so? I don’t.”

  “We’ve decided,” Artavasdus said.

  “We think it’s for the best,” Faustinus said, with just a faint smear of an apology.

  I thought: what the hell. You leave your personal feelings backstage. Besides which, I had a vague recollection that it had been me who left her. Or maybe it was the other way round. Six of one, half a dozen of the other.

  10

  So they set about arranging a well-publicised clandestine meeting. Screw them. I decided it was high time I took an intelligent interest in the art of war.

  There are books on the subject. Can you believe that? Think about it. Either the book is no bloody good, in which case you follow its precepts and you and fifty thousand of your countrymen are slaughtered like geese at midwinter; or the book is true and authoritative and contains everything you need to know about the subject, in which case you follow its precepts and you and fifty thousand of your countrymen, see above, because the other side have read the same book and can predict your every move. Or both sides would wipe each other out to the last man, which really wouldn’t solve anything, would it?

  Still; there are books on the subject, including the Mirror of Battles, by Carnufex the Irrigator, who was a very great general a very long time ago, and which I’d happened to dip into when I was researching a play about, guess what, a siege. I wanted a whole bunch of military technical terms for the low comedian to reel off – ravelins and mamelons, I remember, and enfilades in side and rear, and pavises, and mangonels, and other stuff I never managed to find rhymes for. So I asked Nicephorus if he knew where there might be a copy, and of course the clown owned one. Slept with it under his pillow, probably.

  (In case you’re wondering; ravelin/javelin; mamelon/camel on; side and rear/hide in here; pavises/sneezes. I managed to find one for mangonel, but it’s slipped my mind.)

  Anyhow, I read the book, paying rather more attention this time, and I confess I found it illuminating. I also badgered Faustinus into letting me loose in the archive room, where they keep the reports filed by the section commanders for the duration of the siege so far; and other stuff as well, some of which I dipped into while I was at it.

  (“What do you want all that stuff for?” Faustinus asked me suspiciously. “Hardly in your line, I’d have thought.”

  “It’s all the sort of thing he’d know,” I told him. “And I don’t know it, so maybe I should.”

  He peered at me, convinced I was up to something. “We tell you everything you need to know.”

  “No,” I said politely, “you don’t. You couldn’t possibly. For instance, suppose I’m handing out medals, and some old soldier says to me, remember that time when the Fifteenth held the Southgate bastion, and Marcianus would’ve got chopped to bits, only you charged in and saved us? I could make a real fool of myself if I said the wrong thing.”

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said, “I’ll lend you the keys. But most of it’s incredibly boring.”)

  So I spent a week in there on and off, when I wasn’t needed for balcony scenes, and by the time I gave Faustinus his keys back I wished I hadn’t. I’m all for a quiet life, and, generally speaking, if there’s bad news I’d far rather not know about it. Worrying just makes things worse, I always say, specially if there’s nothing constructive you can do to improve matters.

  You remember my scene with the ambassador: let’s start there. When the enemy started the siege, we quickly reached the position where they couldn’t get inside the walls and we couldn’t drive them away; not that it mattered all that much, because once the Fleet came back, we still had complete command of the sea, even though our land empire had been taken away from us. Big deal. Over the last seven years, the City’s turned itself into one enormous factory. We import raw materials and turn them into the most beautifully made and finished goods money can buy, which we then sell for a great deal of money, with which we buy everything we could possibly want. Brilliant. Between the factories, the dockyards and the Fleet, there’s work for everybody (in theory) and most of the City people are far better off than they were before the siege began.

  Except that, quite by chance and on the spur of the moment, I’d hit on the flaw in the scheme. The whole world wanted the things we made, because we made them so well; but we were asking too much money for them. So the foreigners had started making them at home, or trying to. We were losing skilled craftsmen, lured abroad by promises of better money and not living next door to a half-million murderous savages wanting to kill them; we’d made it illegal for a skilled man to leave the City, but that was a bit like punishing a man for committing suicide: once he’s done it, what can you do to him?

  Fine, I thought. Now let’s glance through the minutes of the cabinet meetings and see what they’re proposing to do about it. So I did. Nothing. Which left me with the ghastly conclusion that nobody except me had spotted that there was a problem, or else they’d figured it out but weren’t proposing to deal with it. I couldn’t believe that. It was so obvious, so painfully staring-you-in-the-face obvious that even I could see it. So I read the minutes again, and all I could find was Faustinus bleating at the Theme bosses to stop their skilled people slipping away abroad, and the bosses asking, reasonably enough, exactly what they were supposed to do about it: see above?

  Once you find the half-worm of doubt in the apple of confidence, you start to worry. I read the section commanders’ reports. A pattern started to emerge.

  Basically, the section commanders said, we were fine. Over the last seven years, the enemy had made a dozen all-out attempts at cracking the wall and getting inside, all of which had been beaten off with horrific losses to the enemy. They’d tried every trick in the book to sap and undermine the walls, but we’d read the same book (see above) and were ready for them every time. Therefore, they’d settled down for the long term and basically given up.

  Settled down for the long term; I could vouch for that. Go up any of the high towers and steeples in this man’s town and you can look out over the wall and see what the enemy have accomplished over the last seven years. What started off as a load of rickety tents has turned into a thriving town – make that city – with wattle-and-daub houses with neatly thatched roofs, which from time to time we set fire to – think pigeons; we put out grain on the battlements to lure in the pigeons that nest in their eaves; catch a pigeon, tie some smouldering straw to its legs, let it go, sit back and watch the fun. Well, they started it. But
they rebuild, and improve, and extend, and behind the narrow streets of thatched huts there are ploughed fields as far as the eye can see.

  But that’s all right, surely; because they can’t get inside, we’ve proved that, so there’s no reason why this happy state of affairs shouldn’t go on indefinitely. Fair comment, and while we’re at it, could I interest you in buying the Blue Star temple? The point being, we can, and do, hurt them regularly, to the fullest extent of our ability; and they’re still here. We only have to get it wrong once and we’re all dead. It’s like the contest of skill, instinct and nerve between the duck hunter and the duck. Nine times out of ten, the duck wins. The tenth time, he gets killed and eaten.

  So, obviously, it stands to reason there has to be a long-term plan for evacuating the hundred and fifty thousand people who live in the City, taking them over the vast ocean out of harm’s way and starting from scratch in a place where the Robur nation aren’t quite so obsessively hated by absolutely everybody. I looked for just such a plan. Maybe I didn’t look hard enough, or maybe it’s top secret. Or maybe—

  It slowly dawned on me that it’s possible for the wise men who run your life for you to see disaster coming and not have a plan for dealing with it; because they know what needs to be done but there are vested interests in the way, or they can’t figure out the politics, or they think it’ll be horrendously unpopular, or it’ll cost too much money, a commodity you can’t take with you if you get your throat cut by the enemy but never mind about that – it’s possible to build a beautiful house on the lip of an active volcano, with all the hot water you could ever want, and restructure your mind so you don’t actually think about what you’re doing, or what will inevitably happen.

  If you value a good night’s sleep, don’t ever have a similar revelation. True, I worry a lot, always having had plenty to worry about, but was it just me being silly? Don’t think so.

  So there I was, transformed against my will into the spit and image of the most powerful man in the City, staring at a medium to long term that could only end badly, knowing that if I really was who I was pretending to be, if I made a monumental effort I might just be able to change all that. It was one of those moments of perfect pellucid clarity. I knew exactly what I ought to do, if only I could find a way of doing it. What I had to do was find an opportunity, stuff my pockets with small items of great value, stow away on the next grain freighter out of the docks and leave the idiots to get on with it. Practically a moral duty, when you thought about it.

  11

  It was all arranged. We were to meet at Faustinus’ house at the foot of Hill Street. He and his family would be at the theatre – go and see the new play at the Rose, I told him, I gather it’s really quite good – so we’d have the place to ourselves; we being me, her, Nicephorus and Artavasdus, only she and I would arrive at the front door, while the others sneaked in at the back.

  (“Why?” I demanded.

  “She insisted.”

  “It’s an awful lot of trouble to put you to.”

  “It’s no trouble.”)

  I arrived in broad daylight, because that’s what he’d have done. I rode there in an open carriage, with four Green bodyguards; we talked and I told them a dirty joke, which amused them no end. The door was unlocked. I went inside.

  It was a nice house, very tasteful, very expensive; lots of small items of great value, and I was wearing a military greatcoat with deep, deep pockets. I was thinking seriously about my future when those two idiots came up from the kitchen.

  “She specifically said she didn’t want to be alone with you,” Artavasdus said. “And she’s a well-known actress, a public figure, so we can’t just disappear her, not without a lot of trouble and fuss.”

  It took me a moment to work out what he was getting at. “For God’s sake,” I said, “it’s nothing like that.”

  “She was very insistent,” he replied, looking at me.

  People like to believe the worst about me, I have no idea why. “Fine,” I said. “We can all sit here in embarrassed silence for an hour, and then go home.”

  “Let’s do that,” Nicephorus said, and made himself comfortable in the best chair in the room.

  I was beginning to wish I’d brought something to read when I heard carriage wheels outside in the street. They both stood up; so did I. While they were on their feet, I quickly set the scene the way I wanted to play it.

  There was a full-length mirror in the corner of the room. I dragged it out centre left, adjusted the position of a chair, sat down in it to make sure I had the line of sight. In the mirror I could see the door she’d come in through, but all she’d be able to see would be the back of my head and shoulders. I took a deep breath and a long look into another mirror, and waited.

  Enter Hodda left, advances upstage, sees man in chair. Just for a moment she freezes, like she’s seen a ghost. While she’s still frozen, I spin round in my chair and scowl at her.

  “You cow,” I said. “Where’s my money?”

  She recovered well, I’ll give her that. “Hello, Notker,” she said, and took off her hat.

  Artavasdus was on his feet, in case I made a lunge for her with some weapon I’d managed to conceal from him. I gave him my fish eye, and he sat down.

  “I haven’t got your money,” she said. “There was a closedown, remember?”

  “Which lasted three days. That was weeks ago.”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  I’d made my point. Time to let her off the hook. “How’s it doing, by the way?”

  “The play? Oh, not bad. First night was a bit touch and go, but it’s settled down now. Mitto got your part. They say he’s the best thing in it.”

  “He couldn’t act his way out of a rotten sack.”

  “He’s always good in cheap melodrama.”

  She was looking at the wall, not me. But for a split second there, she thought she’d seen him, Lysimachus. I decided to point this out.

  “Yes,” she said, “that was really quite impressive. Pity, really. If I’d known you could act, I’d have given you a job.”

  That made Artavasdus laugh out loud, and Nicephorus smiled behind his hand. Not that I minded. Someone has to be the straight man. A bit like fight scenes; you don’t mind one bit when he stabs you and you die, so long as he minds what he’s doing and doesn’t accidentally jab you in the leg first.

  “Do you people always carry on like this?” Artavasdus said. We both looked at him. He shrugged. “I was only asking,” he said. She looked at him some more. “You wanted us to be here,” he said.

  “And it was very kind of you,” Hodda said sweetly. “But I’m sure two important gentlemen like you have better things to do.”

  That’s the disadvantage you’re under if you’ve been

  born and bred a gentleman. If you get a direct order from a lady, or someone dressed up as one, you’re obliged to obey

  it. No matter that the carriage wouldn’t be there to collect them for another hour or so, and they’d have to walk home through the streets. My heart bled for them, and then they left.

  And then we looked at each other for a bit. I’ve always liked Hodda. She’s not as pretty as she looks. Consider her face in repose and you’ll see she’s quite plain really, nose too long, face a bit thin, forehead unfashionably broad, the first signs of crow’s feet under her eyes. But her face never is in repose. She’s smiling or frowning or pouting or doing her thoughtful face; she can do a whole three-act tragicomedy without saying a word, all by expressions. She says or does something horrible and you forgive her instantly, because of that little didn’t-really-mean-it twist at the corner of her mouth. Her own hair is coarse and wiry and just sort of droops, so she coils it up tight in a bun. Six years ago she was slim but now she’s skinny, and the backs of her hands are starting to show. She’s got a tongue like a razor, but she’s smart. Thousands of men in this city are madly in love with her, and I don’t blame them.

  “You’ve really got yourself in
a mess this time, Notker,” she said.

  I nodded. “Not through choice,” I said.

  “It’s not a bad take, though,” she went on. “When I saw you there just now—”

  “Just so I know,” I said. “Were you fucking him while you were with me?”

  Her turn to nod. “And there the similarity ends,” she added. “Not that it signifies. Did I ever tell you, I’ve never really liked sex?”

  I took a beat, then my cue. “If I’d known you could act, I’d have written a play for you.”

  She gave me her genuine smile. It’s not genuine, of course. It’s better than the real thing. “I don’t get what people see in it,” she went on. “I’ve always thought it’s a bit like paunching a rabbit. If you stopped and thought about it, you’d never do it. So I don’t stop and think.”

  “When did you ever paunch a rabbit?”

  “Didn’t you know? I grew up on a farm, in the Paralia. God, was I glad to get out of there. I was betrothed at birth to the local tanner, would you believe. He had three teeth and smelled of brains.”

  Great line, good character, but not actually true. I met her father once. He was the stage doorman at the old Lion. Still, you can’t expect people to remember everything.

  “What are you going to do?” she said.

  “God knows. See it through, probably.”

  “You’ll never get away with it.”

  “Probably not.”

  She gave me the acid look. “That’s stupid,” she said. “You can’t embark on something knowing it’ll end in disaster. You’ve got to do something.” She paused. “What are you grinning about?”

  “Nothing. No, you’re right. I can’t keep this up for very long, and I’ve never tried so hard in all my life. It’s crazy.”

  “And now I’ve been dragged into it,” she said, “and you’re playing the lead. Thank you so much.”

  “Don’t start on me,” I pleaded. “That’s not fair, and you know it.”