Purple and Black (9 page)

Three hours now. The poor bastard. And not just him. They'll have got his horse all ready, tacked up and tethered in the despatch yard, with a groom standing by. I expect they're all wondering what's going on. Me too.

All right, let's start at the beginning.

Gorgias is alive. You can't imagine how wonderful that is. Particularly after you told me he was dead. Phormio, you bastard, you lied to me. Why did you do that? Gorgias is alive; you've known that all this time, and you didn't tell me. Us.

The others have been in here with me all night. A sort of pattern emerged. There'd be a long silence, minutes at a time. Then we'd all start talking at once; then we'd be shouting, swearing at each other—the guard came busting in at one point, they thought I was being murdered—and then back to the long silence.

You two should know that the four of us have talked it through, and I'm speaking for Menestheus and Aristaeus. Strato gave up at about five o'clock this morning. He stood up, said, I think I'll go to bed now, and off he went. He hasn't been back. It's been too much for him, I guess. I think, when we all thought Gorgias was dead, it hit him the hardest. Now this.

Four hours. About an hour ago, I got a note from Strato. It says; whatever the rest of you decide is fine by me. Then they told me he's gone. Left the City. My guess is, he's gone back to Anassus. So it's just the three of us here now. But we've sort of reached an agreement, though we haven't actually called it that.

Phormio, I can't. When I read your letter the sixth time, I thought; hell, yes, why not? Do what they say, and it'll be all right. It'll work. As soon as their army passes the twentieth milestone, go to the Senate and abdicate, like Phormio suggested. It'll work, I thought; and then it'll all be over, this stupid job, this pretence. Gorgias is coming to take charge, and I've been let off.

Let off; that was where it broke down.

When I was at school in Histamenon—actually, thinking about it, Histamenon was a good experience for me. Because whatever happens to me in later life (a monastery, on campaign, even prison), it's got to be better than Histamenon. When you've been that miserable, as I was there, it gives you a wonderful sense of freedom. And I survived school, so I can survive anything.

When I was at Histamenon, they used to make us play the boot game, once a week, even when it was so cold outside that even the peasants stayed indoors. I hated that so much. So I spent a large part of my life trying to find ways of getting let off the game. Illnesses; I had my brother smuggle me in Semonides' Medical Summary, and I'd read it for hours, looking for new illnesses I could fake. I joined every club and society going, took up every musical instrument going. I'd do anything, just to be let off. And when I was successful, I'd watch the other poor bastards trooping off to the playing field in the murderous cold, and I felt awful.

So; I'm done with being let off. That's not a good enough reason.

Then I went to the cellar, where they generously allow me to store a few personal things (can't have them in the palace; it's not seemly) and I dug about in my old college trunk until I found my diary. You never knew I kept a diary; you'd have kidded me about it, and got hold of it somehow. But I sat there and read it, trying to remember. And I found the entry for 16 aK Trip, 1115. I quote;

Board meeting, back bar. Poverty & Justice. Very drunk. Gorgias on good form, Aristaeus had a good point but said it badly. Phormio, mostly. Can't remember what he said. Can't remember what I said. Can't read own handwriting, so sod it. Got stuck with the bill, again. All right, I've got more money than them, but it'd be nice if just once, someone else paid for something. Must go bed now; head hurts.

So much, then, for when we could all see clearly.

Phormio, it's not as simple as that. Real politics, in the real, grown-up world; Gorgias simply doesn't understand that. I do. I have no choice. I hated Histamenon, every waking moment. But— you know, this has only just become clear to me; thank you—do you suppose for one moment that if I'd said to Dad, I don't like it there, don't send me back, that he wouldn't have taken me out of there so fast, people would've been knocked down by the slipstream? I stuck it there because it was so much better than home. Home, where my father and brothers and uncles lived. Until they murdered each other.

So don't you fucking dare talk to me about politics; or power, or the evils of authority, or the menace of faction and a standing army. I understand all that. When the only important things to you were the girl two doors down and exam results and your arrowhead collection, I was eavesdropping on my father conferring with his steelnecks about how to kill his brothers and his other two sons. So, yes. Yes, you're both absolutely right. We were right, back in the Poverty. All power is evil. All government is evil. All armed force is evil. And there's nobody on earth knows that better than me.

But—Phormio, for crying out loud, this is not the way. If you do this, and I let you, we'll end up right back where we were before my grandfather's time. Seventy-seven emperors in a hundred years; all steelnecks, each with an army. My family were all murdering bastards, but at least Grandad kept the peace for twenty years. In passing, interesting piece of family history I only found out recently, looking through old papers, the way you do. When Grandad became emperor, the first thing he did was have death warrants made out for all his sons except Uncle Vatatzes. He knew that after his death, Dad and Uncle Zeno and Uncle Phrontis would try and carve up the empire; so he took the decision to have three of his four sons killed, to stop that happening. My grandmother managed to talk him out of it, but only just. Then, when Dad had Arcady and Philo and me, and Grandad got sick, Grandad ordered him to have me and Philo killed. Dad actually had to pretend he'd done it; Philo and I were whisked away and hidden for a month, until Grandad got better and it was fairly certain he wasn't going to die after all.

When you tell Gorgias about that, he'll say it's just more evidence in favour of his view; that power makes men evil. I don't agree. I remember Grandad, just about. He was a nice old man, a bit stern but quite kind really; he gave me strawberries he'd grown in his glasshouse, and we talked about something I'd been learning at school. He actually listened to what I was saying, which was the first time a grown-up had done that. But he was prepared to kill his own sons and grandsons to avoid the evil; and, for pity's sake, Phormio, he was right. And grandmother was wrong, and she's responsible for the deaths of tens of thousands.

That was his way. He was a steelneck, and so was my father, his brothers, my brothers. And you know what, Phormio? If you do this, you'll be a steelneck too.

Have they done the inauguration yet? Where they make you stand on a shield, and four captains lift you up, and all the soldiers whoop and holler? My personal theory is, that's when it happens. That's when the brain and the heart die. When they lift that shield, it doesn't matter who you were before. When they raise you off the ground, you become something else. A bit like my crazy predecessors declaring themselves gods, I suppose.

I left it for an hour, and I'm calmer now. I think the courier's given up and wandered off. It's unnaturally quiet around here. They know something's wrong. I walked down the corridor just now and I didn't meet anybody. Usually there's clerks and servants and guards everywhere. Maybe they know something I don't. Hey, Phormio, you haven't arranged to have me murdered, have you?

I'm calmer, and I've thought about it some more. I thought a lot about Grandad. If he was prepared to slaughter his family, I suppose I have to declare war on my friends. Steelneck is as steelneck does. That'd be the one thing I'd have serious trouble forgiving you for, if it turns out you've made me into one of them.

If you possibly can, please change your minds. It goes without saying, if you do, I'll grant a full pardon—you and your men, whoever you damn well like. If you're afraid that if you give it up now the soldiers will kill you, then we'll think of some way to get you out of there.

Gorgias; when you read this, I want you to know something. I'm so glad you're alive after all. That's the main thing.

*

Gorgias Bardanes to Phormio, greetings

The war goes well.

That, I believe, is what soldiers say. How goes the war, my friend? The war goes well. We have today engaged the loyalist armies, and we have defeated them.

And that, I must confess, is a gross simplification. I received a message from Nico's latest general, a man called Euphorbus; I confess I hadn't heard of him. I can only suppose he's the next in line of seniority, after the recent spate of defections. General Euphorbus wished to put me on notice that he would be deploying his forces at (some map reference). I understood this to be a sort of invitation; be there or be square. So I wrote back and said I'd be delighted. I asked Nico's previous five generals who this Euphorbus was, and none of them had heard of him, either.

So we went to the place on the map. That's all it was, a place on a map; no village, no river or mountain or anything. I think we arrived unfashionably early, because it was a long time before the enemy showed up. They shuffled onto the battlefield; they reminded me of Strato in the morning, before he's had anything to eat. Nearly two thirds of the army were auxiliaries, and even I could tell, from a mile away, that they really didn't want to be there. And can you blame them? You know the recruiting pitch, out there in the territories; join the army, see the civilised world, fight Vesa's enemies and earn good money. Fighting Vesani regular troops wasn't what they joined up for. The battle was over before it started.

I met with the salvage companies and struck a good deal, and then we had a final staff meeting, and then I couldn't put it off any longer, so we advanced. I did as you said and put a lot of auxiliary archers out front. It worked. They shot up Nico's auxiliary infantry for about five minutes at maximum range, and provoked a wild, spontaneous charge; they fell back, and our Vesani cavalry cut them off and slaughtered them like rats in a barn. That was enough. The rest of Nicos auxiliaries started to pull slowly back, and it was obvious they hadn't been ordered to do so. The regulars just stood there, trying to figure out what to do. I ordered our heavy centre slowly forward. Immediately, I got a message from General Euphorbus; he'd considered his position, and wished to join the Alliance.

Call that a victory? I just think it's depressing.

So now I have six of Nicos generals, and five of his armies. We only need two more for the complete set. We held a welcome-to-the-club party that evening. I was appalled to see the condition his Vesani were in. Most of them hadn't eaten for two days, and when one regiment was called on to lay down their arms, they just laughed, because they hadn't got any; just shields, no swords or spears. I gather they hadn't been paid since the war began. Nico's run out of money, as well as everything else.

Our poor friend; I feel desperately sorry for him. But we have to face facts. It's too late now. I imagine he's virtually a prisoner in the palace, and his keepers are most likely arguing among themselves about the best way of getting rid of him before we reach the fifteenth milestone. I asked the special forces people if there was any way we could get a unit inside the City and pull him out, but they advised against it; chances of success were slight, and projected losses unacceptable. Docs Nico constitute an acceptable loss? I didn't ask them that. I don't like to ask questions I don't know the answer to.

By the time my next letter reaches you, it may well all be over. I do hope so. It's been the most dreary, miserable business. I never thought doing something so well could be so tedious.

Added in haste; I just managed to catch the messenger before he set off. Excellent news, the best—almost the best—possible. Guess who's looking over my shoulder while I write this. Menestheus; and Aristaeus is standing next to him, drinking cinnamon tea. And Strato's safe at Anassus; he'll join us at the City when it's all over. They didn't want to leave Nico, but he insisted. They say he's been bearing up remarkably well, right up till the last defection—well, the last defection but one, strictly speaking. Then he called them all in and said that the only thing that mattered now was for them to get out and be safe, and the safest place would be here. I'm pleased to say they don't blame him for what's happened.

Not long now, Phormio, and the five of us will be together again, and then; you wait and see what we'll do. It'll be amazing.

*

Phormio, commander in chief of the Imperial farces, to His Divine Majesty Gorgias, brother of the invincible Sun, father of his people, defender of the faith, emperor of the Vesani, greetings.

Phormio begs to inform His Majesty that his forces have arrested the criminal traitor Nicephorus Tzimisces and sent him to Vesa to await His Majesty's pleasure.

No message.

*

Nicephorus, brother of the Order of the Invincible Sun at Tyene, to General Phormio, commander in chief of the Imperial forces, greetings.

Gorgias came to see me today.

He, of course, did all the seeing. I couldn't see him back, for obvious reasons.

When I was a kid, they taught me that the custom of blinding illustrious prisoners and banishing them to monasteries, rather than killing them outright, was a mark of how civilised our society is. I thought, that's wrong, it's barbarous. How could anybody bring himself to do such a thing? I guess Dad and the rest of our family thought the same way, or else they weren't taking any chances. After all, it's just a convention that a blind man can't be emperor.

Now that I've been on the receiving end, literally and figuratively, I've changed my views somewhat. It's not so bad. It's a damned sight (pun) better than being dead. It has its advantages. They don't expect a blind man to do all the hard manual labour that a novice brother usually gets lumbered with; weeding the vegetable garden, lugging jars of water about, sweeping up, emptying the latrines. I think I'd have quite liked copying manuscripts, mind you, but would they have ever let me? You know what my handwriting's like. So, what I mostly do is sit here in this room, which I can't describe to you because I've never seen it, and some of the older brothers take it in turn to read to me. I have Strato to thank for that. He paid HS 1,000 for a permanent endowment; monks to read to me while I'm alive, prayers for my soul when I'm dead. I'm not all that fussed about the prayers—I can't see the look on the face of brother Anthemius, who's writing this down for me, but I bet he's shocked at that last bit. You're not? No, don't write that, you fool.