Someone suggested advertising in the international newspapers, but the rest of the council thought that was undignified. Finally they decided to do nothing. Just wait. Surely the prince would send a letter home to say whether he liked school, and when he did that, the council could check the return address. Then they would send someone to fetch home the new king of Monemvassia. It was an exceptional plan, approved by the entire council. They informed the public that while the king was away at school, they would act as regents. There were important decisions to be made and very few restrictions on the council’s power. They couldn’t increase the taxes, and they couldn’t call out the army, but they could collect taxes that were already levied, and they were authorized to disburse money from the royal treasury. They made up a budget for the upcoming year. They organized the annual summer spool festival, and they waited.
Nine years passed, and they were still waiting. The prince hadn’t written home. The councillors kept thinking that they would hold off just a few more months before making any decisions that they might regret. Meanwhile, the citizens of Monemvassia were the happiest of any country in the area. In the intervening nine years, there had been revolutions in other countries and several wars. Monemvassia was surrounded by democracies, and dictatorships, and one communist state. But Monemvassia itself was peaceful and prosperous. Unable to call up the army, the council had been circumspect in its foreign policy, and of course, taxes hadn’t been raised since the old king died. The wooden spool trade was booming. The council felt secure and decided to wait another year before addressing the problem of the missing prince. Surely by then he would have finished his education and be on his way home to take the throne.
When a letter arrived addressed to the king’s council, the ministers were overjoyed, thinking that at last the prince had sent word. Unfortunately the letter was not from the prince. It was from a man named Spiro Popodoupaoulas.
In the letter, he explained that it had come to his attention that the king of Monemvassia had been missing for nine years. Having only just realized that the kingdom was without any sort of sovereign guidance, a most deplorable and in this case remediable state, he was offering himself as a replacement for their delinquent monarch. He and his associates would arrive on the tenth of the following month to assume all rights and responsibilities of government. He wished to have the coronation ceremony the day he arrived, and there should be plenty of malmsey on hand to serve guests. The council should have ready suitable residences for himself and his many, many associates. He would send more details with future messengers. He signed his letter “Most Sincerely, Spiro Popodoupaoulas the First.”
“Spiro Popodoupaoulas,” said one minister. “Is that the bandit Spiro the Unpopular who has been holding up trade in the inland mountains?”
“The same,” said another minister.
“I don’t understand what he wants.”
“He wants to be king,” the minister of finance explained.
“But we have a king.” The minister of the royal wardrobe was over ninety, and sometimes things had to be explained to him very carefully.
“What’s this about associates?” asked the minister of the armed forces, who hadn’t had a lot to do in the last decade and spent most of his time fishing.
“I think that means army,” said the minister of finance, with whom the minister of the armed forces usually fished.
“This is very bad.” It was going to interrupt the fishing.
“What are we going to do?”
“Call up the army?” the minister of finance suggested.
“Can’t do it without a royal decree,” said the minister of the armed forces. “Wouldn’t do much good if we did. They haven’t trained in ten years.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Does anyone have any suggestions?” asked the prime minister.
The sun was shining, and the air was brisk. Orvis, who was the king’s minister of cultural events (that meant he organized Monemvassia’s annual festival to celebrate spool making), walked down the hill from the palace with the cloth of his ministerial robes going fphliit, fphliit, fphliit against his legs. He watched his feet stamp in the cobblestones and rehearsed in his head the cutting speech he should have addressed to the council. It had taken him hours of careful work to convince them of the threat of this Spiro Popodoupaoulas and his private army. More careful work had convinced the council that only a new king, one that could call up an army, would do in this crisis, and if the true king arrived later, the substitute could always abdicate. That was a concession to the conservatives. Of course, the new king should have an impeccable character and a great deal of experience. He should be selected from the council, for example. He should be a minister who was used to responsibility.
After hours of meandering debate, Orvis had gently, gently suggested a nomination of two candidates for kingship to be voted on the following Friday. His suggestion was taken, but neither of the candidates, neither of them, was Orvis!
Fphliit, fphliit went the council robes, and smack smack his feet jarred on the cobblestones until he ran bang into someone hard. There was a tricky moment when a collection of white objects flew through the air, before the world settled down and the white things turned out to be cake boxes. Orvis sat up from where he had fallen and looked at the heavyset master baker who had been his partner in the collision.
“You should have watched where you’re going,” snapped Orvis.
“One of us should have been watching,” said the baker. “Good thing those cake boxes are empty.”
“A very good thing,” said Orvis stiffly. “We might have had quite a mess.” He was thinking of his council robe. It was dark purple, and he was particular about its neatness.
“We’re in luck, I guess,” said the baker, and Orvis agreed, each thinking it was the other who had been lucky.
Some of the flour on the baker’s apron had brushed off on the purple ministerial robe, and Orvis asked the man if he had a handkerchief to get it off. The baker handed Orvis a handkerchief even more covered with flour than he was himself. Orvis handed it back and stepped into the bakery to find something more suitable.
The bakery was a large room with a counter near the door to separate the bakers from the customers. Behind the counter were the huge ovens and the racks for the fresh breads and pastries. Beyond them were doors leading to the cold storage rooms cut into the solid rock that was under the bakery and all the buildings in Monemvassia. While Orvis was swatting at his robe with a clean handkerchief, a young man stepped out of one of these doors carrying a limp snake. The bakers left a wide path between the young man and the door. The only person who didn’t move out of the way was Orvis, who was busy.
“Excuse me, sir.”
“Yes?” Orvis looked up. He froze when he saw the snake, but Orvis didn’t jump back in fright the way someone less attached to his dignity might have done.
“Young man, that is a poisonous snake you have in your hand.”
“Yes, sir, it’s asleep.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, sir,” the journeyman baker explained. “They crawl into the cold storage pantries sometimes and fall asleep there. I like to pick them up and carry them away before they wake up enough to eat anything.”
“Why not kill them?” It seemed like a more obvious solution to Orvis.
“Well, they eat the seagull eggs, sir, and that keeps the seagull population down.”
Orvis had to agree that anything that got rid of seagulls couldn’t be all bad. Seagulls were a terrible pest in Monemvassia. They came in with the fishing ships and roosted all over the island, leaving dirty streaks on the laundry hung up to dry and on the one statue in the kingdom, the first king of Monemvassia, holding a eucalyptus spool in one hand.
“So go ahead and get rid of it then,” said Orvis, and the young man disappeared through the bakery door.
Orvis returned the handkerchief to its owner and was about to leave when one of the master bakers coug
hed politely.
“Excuse me, Minister, but I wonder if you could tell us any news. There have been rumors about a bandit, Spiro the Unpopular.”
“Oh?” said Orvis at his most haughty.
“Well, yes,” said the baker. “And you being a minister and no doubt a very important man, I was sure that if there were anything to be concerned about, you would surely know.” This just shows that the master baker was a smart man. It was no wonder his bakery was the largest on the island.
“My good man,” said Orvis, “let me lay your fears to rest.” And he proceeded to tell the baker all the reasons why he had nothing to worry about, which only made the old baker more nervous than ever. Orvis was still going on when the journeyman baker returned from having disposed of the cliff snake.
“Any news from the king?” he asked.
Orvis went back to being silent and haughty. “No,” he said, and turned to go.
“Wonder if anyone will recognize him when he shows up,” said the journeyman. “You’d think anyone at all could arrive and say that he was the king.”
Orvis paused in the doorway.
“I could be king myself,” said the young man, and he puffed out his chest and struck a royal pose that was spoiled by the smile on his face. The rest of the bakery laughed.
“All hail King Nele,” called out someone in the back.
Orvis looked at the young baker thoughtfully. Most Monemvassians had broad shoulders and short legs. Their hair tended to be thick and dark and curly. But the old king and his son had had high foreheads and straightish fair hair. In the king’s case, the hair had wisped away, leaving his pink skin to show through. The young baker, with his sandy-colored hair and his fair skin, could in fact pass for the missing king.
Someone bumped into Orvis, who was still blocking the bakery door. Distracted by his thoughts, the minister of cultural events was more polite than usual. He excused himself and hurried away. By the time he got home, he was quite pleased with the plan he had in mind—so pleased that when his daughter asked if he would take her to the puppet show the following month at the summer spool festival, he actually agreed, to his daughter’s surprise. She had expected the same answer he gave every year, which was absolutely not—he spent too much time organizing the event to waste money attending it himself. (The ministry of cultural events did not pay well. No position on the council did.)
That evening, Nele and the other employees filed out of the bakery at closing time. All of them carried the leftover bread that they would have for dinner. As Nele walked down the street toward his home, someone fell into step beside him. He assumed it was his friend Bet, but when he looked, he saw it was Orvis, minister of cultural events. Orvis asked if Nele had just a few minutes to talk.
Orvis wanted to know if Nele had any family. Nele said he had none. What had Nele’s father done before he died? Nele explained that he had been apprenticed before he had any clear idea of how his father occupied his time. Orvis smiled. And did Nele remember where he had lived before he had been apprenticed? Nele did not. It was a big house with a wonderful garden, but more he couldn’t say. Orvis rubbed his hands in delight and explained that he had considered what Nele had said in jest earlier that day, and perhaps it was true. Perhaps Nele was the missing king and didn’t know it.
Nele looked at him in blank consternation. His eyes were round, and Orvis began to think maybe the boy was not very bright. That suited Orvis.
Someone standing beside them gave a low whistle. It was Bet. “King Nele,” said Bet. “What a laugh.”
Orvis jumped. He hadn’t realized that he and Nele were not alone. “I remind you, young man, that the missing king’s given name was Maninele.”
“So?” said Bet.
“Well, it could very easily have been shortened to Nele. We won’t say any more about it now,” he said. “Let me give you a silver piece…” He looked at Nele, who was still standing like a lump. He handed the silver piece to Bet instead. “To keep your thoughts to yourself,” Orvis said. He looked at Bet significantly and left.
“What do you think of that?” Bet asked Nele.
“What I think,” said Nele, “is that if that man is my councillor, I wouldn’t want to be king.”
“Definitely on the sneaky side,” said Bet. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to have wine and cheese with my dinner tonight and share it with you.” He swept the silver coin out of Bet’s hand and tossed it in the air. “He can’t take back what we’ve already eaten.”
The next morning, Bet was careful to remind the other bakers of Nele’s joke the day before. With elaborate courtesy, he addressed him as King Nele. The bakers and their early-morning customers laughed, and for the rest of the day people bowed and called King Nele to please come collect the snakes from the pantry and bring up baking supplies when he was done. King Nele waved his hands, declaring that it would be his royal pleasure to haul sacks of flour.
But that evening, when all the bread was sold and the shop was closed, Nele went to see Orvis in his home on the east side of the island. Nele didn’t like the house very much. Most of the houses on Monemvassia were small and dark, built with thick stone walls and small windows. But unlike its neighbors, this house had no garden, no patio, no pleasant place to sit on warm evenings. Instead, Nele and Orvis sat in a small room behind the kitchen. Previously it had been a garden, but it had been roofed over and turned into Orvis’s private office. Nele thought the minister’s sharp and unpleasant personality might have been fostered by too much paperwork about parades, read in a room that smelled like last week’s fish and onion dinner.
Orvis asked Nele a lot of questions about his childhood that Nele answered in short, not very clever sentences. It pleased Orvis that Nele seemed not too bright and would make an easily malleable king. After all, Orvis thought, who knew more about puppet shows than a man who had planned them every summer for years?
“Now, you don’t remember much of your father, right?”
“Right.”
“So you don’t know for sure that he wasn’t the king of Monemvassia, right?”
“Right.”
“So he could have been king?”
“I suppose.”
“Let’s say he is.”
“Okay.”
“So this is what your childhood was like,” and Orvis explained everything in detail. Every few sentences, he asked Nele to repeat back what he had heard. Nele made a lot of mistakes, but eventually seemed to get the material down pat. Orvis gave him another silver coin and told him to come back the next evening.
In the morning, he convinced the council to delay the vote on the two nominees for kingship. He suggested they wait a few more weeks just in case the true king actually arrived. After all, the militia could be called out right up to the last minute and nobody needed to know that they would be armed only with boat hooks and cooking knives. After nine years, waiting was a habit the council found hard to break. The ministers agreed to hold off the vote until Spiro’s arrival was imminent.
Every night, Orvis drilled Nele. Every day, he racked his brains to come up with a way to explain how the king of Monemvassia could show up as an employee in a local bakery. He would have liked to pretend that Nele, the baker, had fallen off a cliff, and that his candidate for king was someone entirely new, but he didn’t think Nele was smart enough to keep up with the pretense. And Monemvassia was a small enough island that there were too many people who were bound to recognize him.
“Well,” Nele suggested one night, “maybe the real king fell out of the carriage and got lost and the baker took him in?”
“I told you to stop saying ‘the real king,’” Orvis snapped. “You are the real king. Remember that.”
“Right,” said Nele sheepishly. “Well, maybe the real, I mean maybe I didn’t fall out of the carriage. Maybe I jumped out because I didn’t want to be king.”
“That’s ridiculous,” snarled Orvis. “And it would be hard to explain
how your father’s name came to be signed on your apprentice papers.” Every possible plan fell to pieces when it struck the apprentice papers. Each apprenticeship in the kingdom was recorded in the Monemvassia archives, with the name of the apprentice as well as his parent or guardian’s signature.
“Nah,” said Nele. “My dad’s name isn’t on mine. One of the neighbors brought me in and signed the papers because my dad was sick.”
“Oh?” said Orvis.
“Yeah,” said Nele, at his most innocent. “Maybe you could tell everyone that the old king didn’t really send the prince off to school. He got one of his ministers to take me, I mean him, I mean me, down to the bakery and sign me up as an apprentice. Maybe he wanted the prince, you know, to get an idea of everyday life.”
Orvis thought for a moment. “Much too farfetched,” he said. “That sort of thing could never have happened.” He outlined instead a story in which the crown prince fell out of the carriage and was found lost by a good citizen who took him to the bakery to learn a trade. The next night, he started drilling Nele on authenticating details.
Meanwhile, the bandit king, Spiro the Unpopular, had been getting closer and closer. He had been sending messages about his whereabouts and further details of his billeting requirements. He sent a long list of loyal retainers that he suggested be put up in the royal palace. The king’s councillors blanched, mainly because there wasn’t a royal palace. The king had always lived in a house only slightly larger than that of a common citizen in Monemvassia. It was distinguished by the pleasantness of its gardens, not by the luxury of its rooms.
“No matter,” said the messenger who had carried Spiro’s letter. “I’m sure he would have wanted to build a whole new palace anyway.”
The council went on debating the relative merits of the two chosen royal candidates, and Spiro the Unpopular got closer. Finally, Spiro’s army arrived on the edge of the sandbar leading to the harbor gate. The tide was rising fast so he sent a message by boat to say that he would cross to the island at low tide the following morning and he hoped the royal palace was ready.
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