by K. J. Parker
“Is he alive?”
I got the impression I’d touched on a sore topic there. “Yes, of course,” Materculus said, in a tone that implied that there was no of course about it.
“Where is he?”
“It was felt necessary to place him in protective custody. For his own safety, it goes without—”
“I know what protective means, thank you. Fetch him. Now.”
Behind me I heard a hiss, as it might have been a sharp intake of breath, but I ignored her. Materculus looked at me for maybe a whole second, which was absolutely the longest possible time I could allow for disobedience if I was going to go through with this idiotic strategy. Then he nodded. “Majesty,” he said; then he turned and looked at one of the senators, who got up to leave. I half turned to Captain Very, but he was way ahead of me; he snapped his fingers and pointed, and five of his men fell in beside the departing senator, who looked rather miserable, as well he might.
“On behalf of the House,” Materculus started to say but I cut him short.
“Not a word out of you,” I said, “till Gelimer gets here. And that goes for the rest of you.”
Which left us with a rather fraught quarter of an hour of silent sitting around, during which Hodda leaned across and whispered in my ear, “Are you out of your tiny mind?”
“Be quiet,” I whispered back.
“You can’t talk to these people like that.”
“I can’t not talk to them like that,” I pointed out. “It’d be out of character.”
Puzzled look. “Whose character?”
“Mine.”
At which point she gave up and started picking at a loose thread on the hem of her divitision, and not long after that the soldiers came back, with the sad-looking senator and Gelimer, with a swollen jaw, one eye closed and his left arm in a sling. He looked absolutely terrified, and there were significant stains on the crotch of his snow-white senatorial robe.
“That’s your idea of protective, is it?” I said. “You’re not very good at it.”
It was one of those moments – you get them occasionally in the theatre and they’re terrifying – when nobody knows what’s going to happen next. And they were all waiting for me.
“Don’t any of you try and explain,” I said (as though I dealt with this sort of thing every day). “I can guess what’s been happening here. Captain, if your men would be so kind as to escort these gentlemen to the Ivory Chamber and keep them there. I’m going to have a few words with Senator Gelimer.”
Lambs to the slaughter – actually, I saw plenty of lambs being led to the slaughter when we lived in a sixth-floor tenement room overlooking the stockyards, and the stupid creatures obviously had no idea where they were going or what was going to happen to them when they got there. Captain Very sent about half his men with them, and the rest stayed where they were. I tweaked a corner of his sleeve and took him aside for a moment.
“If these jokers order the army to come and get me, what do you think will happen?”
That moment of intense thought; or maybe he wasn’t thinking deeply, just figuring out how to say what he wanted to say in Robur. Anyway, it was always most impressive. “Hard to tell,” he said.
“That’s not helping.”
“I’m sorry. I think if they tried that, only about a quarter of the company commanders would obey. After all, you’re not just the emperor, you’re Lysimachus. I think between a quarter and a third of the army would actively support you, to the extent of locking shields against their comrades-in-arms. If that happened, the pro-senatorial quarter would almost certainly back down. It’s one thing to obey an order that’s technically within the established chain of command, quite another to slog it out in the street against your own side, with a fair chance of losing and getting killed now or hanged later. That’s how I read it anyhow,” he added. “I could be wrong.”
Well, I asked. “Thanks,” I said. “Is there any way those bastards in there could get a message out of the palace?”
This time he didn’t think. “No, Majesty.”
“That’s all right, then.”
I went and sat down beside Gelimer; and if I hadn’t got to know him so well lately, I’m not sure I’d have recognised him. I don’t know what they’d done to him – just a few light smacks, by my dad’s standards, but for a man like that, more than enough to destroy him entirely.
“What happened?” I asked.
He turned to look at me. “They told me you were out of control and I wasn’t fit to run you any more,” he said. “I tried to reason with them, and they—”
“Yes, I can see that.”
“Popilius wanted to kill me,” he said, and the pain in his voice would’ve made a brick weep. “Ennius and Laeso wouldn’t let him; they said I’d be useful as a hostage. They put me in a cellar, in the dark. They said if I made so much as a sound, they’d break my arms and legs.”
“Don’t think about it,” I said gently. “I’ve got them locked up safe for now; they can’t talk to anyone.”
He gazed at me, then reached out, grabbed my hand and squeezed it.
“Much as I’d like to,” I said, “I can’t just slaughter the lot of them, so what I was thinking is this. We put the ringleaders on trial for treason, in public, where everyone can see. We’ll make them out to be enemies of the people, dead set on bringing down the Themes, and we’ll nail their heads up on an arch somewhere. Then I’ll pardon the rest of them, at your passionate request. And we’ll get rid of all the company commanders who might be on their side and put our people in instead. How does that sound?”
He nodded. I think he’d run out of words. I felt sorry for him. His world had just collapsed around his ears, and nothing would ever be the same again. And that’s what we in the trade call tragedy.
6
We still didn’t really know whether we’d got away with the Themes thing. I couldn’t think who to talk to about it. I hardly knew anybody around the palace, apart from Captain Very. Out there somewhere, on the other side of my substantial oak-ply door, were a couple of thousand clerks who ran the empire and were supposed to know everything, but I had no idea how to get in touch with them. It’s always quiet in the palace. Nobody shouts or runs in the corridors. They talk in soft voices with their heads close together and wear felt-soled shoes. Anything could be happening outside (riots, the enemy breaking through the wall, the end of the world) and you wouldn’t know about it. Every day the same, and the only new faces are ambassadors.
There’s also a very specific way of doing things, designed to stop things getting done. Nothing wrong with that, since ninety-two out of every hundred things done by any government will turn out to be counterproductive and just plain stupid, but you can take checks and balances too far. I wanted to know if I was a hero, or if I’d sparked off a civil war, and I didn’t know who to ask.
So I asked Captain Very. “I need a clerk,” I said.
He looked at me gravely. “They’re afraid to talk to you,” he said.
“Afraid in what sense?”
He looked down at his hands, which meant he was telling me something I wouldn’t want to hear. “They don’t know if you’ll still be the emperor this time tomorrow,” he said. “So they don’t want to be associated with you, if they can help it.”
I could see their point. “Bring me the most senior clerk you can catch,” I said. “Quick as you like.”
She was lolling on the bed, looking at me. “Don’t start,” I said.
“Charming. I was about to say, that was pretty smart.”
“I doubt that, somehow.”
“Suit yourself.” She propped herself up on one elbow. Nobody can do languid like she can. “It’s what I’d have done. That’s a compliment.”
I sat down. “What would you do next?”
“Find out what’s going on, obviously. Until we know that, we can’t decide anything.”
“Agreed.” I put my feet up on a priceless ivory occasional table. One of
the legs broke. She laughed. “What can we do till he gets back?” she said.
“I don’t know. Try and figure out some sort of backstop plan, I guess.”
“Let’s play Auditions instead.”
I couldn’t help it; I burst out laughing. In case you don’t know, Auditions is the word game we play while we’re hanging about in the wings waiting to go on. I won’t try your patience with the rules, which are silly and inconceivably complicated, and unless you know the rules the game makes no sense. Suffice to say we had a thoroughly enjoyable game, which I won, though she maintained I cheated; and then Captain Very came back, with one of his sergeants and a clerk.
I’ve played eunuchs loads of times but never actually met one before. Most of the senior officials in the palace administration are eunuchs. It’s the only known cure for nepotism and it doesn’t really work; key jobs get handed out to idiot nephews instead of idiot sons. It strikes me as rather a drastic way of getting on in the civil service, but in most aristocratic families the fourth son in each generation gets chopped and they think nothing of it. I got the impression that this particular specimen hadn’t come willingly.
“Name and job title,” I said.
He was a short man, skinny, with a round face and short, curly hair. “My name is Spado,” he said, in a high, very refined voice. “I’m the permanent deputy secretary to the Count of the Stables.”
I glanced at Captain Very, who nodded; a big shot. “You’ll do,” I said. “Do you know who I am?”
“Yes, Majesty.”
“Splendid. I’m new at all this, and I need somebody to look after me. Tell me what’s going on, how to do things, stuff like that. You can do that?”
“Of course.”
“Marvellous. You start straight away. Go and find out if the Themes are out smashing and looting, and if so what anybody’s doing about it. And I want to know what the army thinks about all this, the Themes and the spot of bother we had with the Senate.” I paused. “You know all about that?”
“Yes, Majesty.”
“Right,” I said. “And when you’ve done that, I want a list of who’s who and who does what in the civil service, and who I need to talk to about what. Then the same for the army and the navy. And you’d better find me a dozen clerks I can trust, to handle letters and reports and all that.”
Not a flicker. “Yes, Majesty.”
“Good. Oh, and in case you were wondering, the captain here will stay with you wherever you go, and if the thinks you’re up to anything, he’ll stab you to death. For the time being, anyway. Sort of a probationary period.”
Maybe his eyes opened a little bit wider, maybe not. What the hell. The ability to stay calm is an asset in administrative work. “Understood,” he said. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Yes. Find me somewhere I can use as an office, not too big, and where the captain can control who goes in and out. He can advise you on that.”
When they’d gone, she said, “So you’re taking charge, are you?”
I nodded. “I think I’ve got to. Otherwise—” I let her think for a second or two. “You saw what happened with the Senate. We’re this close to getting our throats cut, so we need to be in charge of everything.”
She contemplated me, as if she was considering a play for the Gallery. “Fair enough,” she said. “If that’s the way you want to go.”
“It absolutely isn’t. But like I said, I don’t really see we’ve got a choice.”
“Not if we stay here.”
That took me by surprise. But I didn’t need any distractions. “I don’t think we’ve got a hope in hell of sneaking out quietly through a downstairs window, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
She smiled. “Besides,” she said, “you want to stay. Of course you do. You’re the fucking emperor.”
I felt I hadn’t deserved that. “And you’re the empress,” I said. “Isn’t that every girl’s dream?”
“Not mine. Not like this.”
“Nor mine,” I told her. “Doing this job makes me realise how ungrateful I’ve been all these years. It’s true, you really don’t know when you’re well off.”
7
When I was a kid – you’re sick of hearing about my irrelevant and unedifying childhood, but bear with me just one more time – there was a Theme boss in the Greens, colleague and friend of my dad, who ran half a dozen wards adjoining Dad’s turf. They were very much alike in lots of ways. Because of, or in spite of, that they were great friends; Uncle Luto, I used to call him, and every time he came to our house he gave me a honey-cake or fifty trachy; and flowers or a couple of yards of silk for my mother, and a bottle of the good stuff for him and Dad to share. I remember him as a big, round man with bushy white hair. It gushed up from the front of his shirt, scrambled up his face like ivy and exploded in a luxurious tangle on top of his head. I never gave him a moment’s thought, except as a bringer of treats and a nice man generally.
Then one day I was inside the house and I heard the most appalling racket outside, mostly angry voices, male and female. I went to look out of the window, but my mother held me back. I wasn’t having that. I was twelve years old, reckoned I was a grown man, like you do at that age if you’re stupid. I ducked under her arm and headed for our front door, which was open.
There was Dad, standing out in the street, and on the ground in front of him was Uncle Luto, with his arms round Dad’s knees, sobbing. Behind him was a big crowd, with axe-handles and bricks and God knows what else. I saw that Uncle Luto was bleeding.
“Well, did you or didn’t you?” my dad said.
“For God’s sake,” said Uncle Luto, “what does that matter? I’m your friend.”
I couldn’t see Dad’s face, he had his back to me. But he must have known I was there, because he said, “Come here, son.”
I wasn’t sure I liked the look of the crowd, but if Dad was there I knew there was nothing to be afraid of. I went round and stood next to him.
“You see this man here,” Dad said, loud enough to carry to the crowd. “He’s been stealing Theme funds.” Uncle Luto shook his head and mumbled something, but I didn’t dare look at him. “What do you think about that, son?”
“It’s bad,” I said.
“Speak up, son, I can’t hear you.”
“It’s very bad,” I said.
“That’s what I thought,” Dad said. “If a man does a thing like that, you can’t let him get away with it, can you?”
“No, Dad,” I said.
“What do you think we ought to do with him, son?”
I looked at the crowd, then at my dad. Then I kicked Uncle Luto in the mouth, as hard as I could.
Dad smiled as he shoved me well clear; then he brought the heel of his boot down hard on his friend’s ear, and took a long step back. The crowd did the rest. It lasted about three minutes, but two minutes was just crunching up a dead body. Then Dad clapped his hands three times and the kicking stopped. He gestured with his thumb and the crowd sort of melted away. He looked down at the mess on the ground, then grabbed me by the elbow and marched me inside and shut the door.
A year or so later, he told me that he’d killed Luto with that boot strike; it was the least he could do for an old pal, even though he’d betrayed the Theme. I didn’t say that I’d seen Luto move several times after that, because I knew Dad had seen it, too. He never mentioned the matter again after that.
What I did had no effect on the outcome, so it made no difference, so it didn’t matter. At the time I believed I was destined to be a good little Green soldier. If you’d asked me then what I’d learned from Uncle Luto’s death, I’d have answered: never, ever embezzle Theme funds.
Ask me the same question now, I’ll give you a different answer. The original answer is still true, and the facts haven’t changed, but I believe the answer I’d give you now is equally true, though back then I’d have denied it absolutely.
So, the truth isn’t immutable; it can change. I’
ll go further; inevitably it changes as we change, just as the twelve-year-old kid who booted his dad’s best friend in the teeth isn’t the man just crowned emperor – undeniable fact, susceptible of objective proof. Measure them: different heights. Weigh them: different weights. Ask them about their core values: get two diametrically opposing answers. Two entirely different animals: the same man. The kid who stomped a Theme traitor: the emperor who abolished the Themes by a trick.
In fact, the truth is so flexible it can accommodate practically everything. The kid who was Notker, the man who used to be Notker, became Lysimachus, became His Majesty Lysimachus II. You’ll argue that Lysimachus wasn’t my name; big deal. Cleophon IV, nicknamed the Invincible, wasn’t called Cleophon when he was twelve years old. He had a different name, eight syllables long, meaning Blue Horse in Euxine. He changed his name to Cleophon when, as captain of the palace guard, he assassinated Lerus II and seized the throne. He chose Cleophon because Cleophon III, fifty years earlier, had been the last of the glorious Manethrite dynasty and people loved and trusted the name. Perfectly legitimate, statesmanlike act, and Cleophon IV saved the empire from the Aram no Vei, and if there’s one thing nobody can deny in this life, it’s that the end justifies the means.
The hell with it. If the truth really was absolute and immutable, how could someone like me be expected to live with himself?
Don’t get me wrong. I don’t hate my father. I learned so much from him. From him I learned how to defend myself; how to push people around, either by bullying or cajoling; how the Themes work; how people en masse think and react; how to use other people to get what you want; how to do all the above and still be loved. If it hadn’t been for him I’d never have been emperor – and just think how deeply, genuinely proud he’d have been of me, his little boy, on the Imperial throne. I’ve never for one moment doubted that he loved me; and really and truly, what more can you ask than that?