Academic Exercises (74 page)

“Anyhow,” I went on, “it worked. And, thanks to you arranging the extradition for me, I was twelve miles from the city in the company of irreproachable witnesses when Phocas died, putting both you and me in the clear. Then, all I had to do was escape from the Mezentines—”

“How did you—?”

I mock-scowled at him. “Trade secret,” I said. “Which I intend to keep to myself, for when I need it to escape from your scuttlehats, when the time comes.”

He was too smart to be drawn by that. “It worked out all right,” he said, “just about. When you suggested this whole thing, I—”

“You thought I was crazy, I know. But you trusted me. Thanks.”

“I have this feeling I’ll live to regret it,” Pescennius said.

“Then you’ll be luckier than Phocas,” I replied. “Anyway, the hell with it. You got what you wanted; Phocas dead, the government in chaos, all the ingredients for a successful coup.”

“Don’t call it that,” Pescennius said irritably. “It was a popular revolution.”

“Of course it was.” I stood up. “Thanks for the tea,” I said. “I’ll be going now.”

He looked at me. “Where?”

I smiled. “I’ve never lied to you,” I said. “So don’t ask me that, or I’ll have to spoil a perfect score.”

He nodded. “Take care,” he said. “For what it’s worth, you’re a hero of the people.”

“And a priest, too,” I said. “Is there no end to my talents?”

I went to Choris Seautou, where I had money and a place to work, and it was there that I successfully concluded my life’s work, the achievement with which my name will for ever be linked, my great contribution to humanity, the source of my considerable wealth. It was about time, and I’d earned it.

And here I am. After a lifetime of wandering and running away, I now live in a big house, with two hundred acres of parkland and seventy-odd servants. I spend most of my time reading, now that I can afford to buy all the books I could possibly want. I don’t write any more. Don’t need the money.

I did make some notes of my various experiments in alchemy; but last year I had a huge bonfire out in the meadow and burned the lot. So, for example, the only directions for making silver fulminate anywhere in the world are the ones you’ve just read. The idea is that anyone disturbed enough to want the stuff will follow said instructions and, since there’s a deliberate mistake in them, won’t survive the attempt. The recipe for gold-out-of-garbage will die with me; arguably no great loss, since I never did find out if it works or not. The only data from my alchemical researches which will survive me is the formula for my great invention, which I sold, along with the business, to a Vesani consortium for more money than anybody could possibly spend in a lifetime. Needless to say, they intend to guard it with the utmost ferocity. It was a term of the contract that I didn’t keep a copy of the formula myself. No problem, I told them.

I’m an honest man now, a pillar of the community. I even pay taxes. In fact, last year alone I paid enough to keep a regiment in the field for a year (now, there’s something a man can be proud of, don’t you think?). Every Solstice I get a basket of white plums and a case of Faventine red wine from First Citizen Pescennius, who never did get around to holding free and fair elections, and is now practically indistinguishable from my other college chum Phocas, except he doesn’t kill alchemists. I eat the plums and give the wine to my gardeners.

Oh, and last autumn I got married. She’s a nice girl; not much to look at but sharp as a knife, and she makes me laugh. She married me for my money and my library. I think I married her because I like someone who gets their priorities right. I still think about Theodosia, of course. After giving it a great deal of thought, I’ve reached the conclusion that I probably didn’t kill Phocas because he had Theodosia executed. I’ve tried to blame him for that, but I can’t. My fault.

My invention, by which I turned base materials into negotiable gold and assured myself of the only true immortality—Sorry, I haven’t been entirely straight with you. My name really is Saloninus, but I changed it when I came to Choris. You’ll know me as Longinus Agricola, the inventor of synthetic blue paint.