First, people were talking to each other--not to strangers, of course; it'd take more than a mere outbreak of hostilities for that to happen--but the pace of human movement in the streets and squares had changed quite significantly. People stopped when they met an acquaintance, instead of just nodding, smiling and walking on. They seemed to be listening to each other rather more than usual; a sign that they were worried, or at least bewildered. Although Aelius didn't pause to eavesdrop, he could tell a lot from the volume and pitch of voices. He'd witnessed the start of quite a few wars during his time in the City, and it was easy to gauge how people felt about them. Louder, deeper voices and laughter suggested a popular war, where the expectation was of quick, easy victories, enemy losses high, home casualties low, and no distressingly steep rise in the rate of taxation. Louder, higher voices, with scowls and shaken heads, implied an unpopular war--shortages, taxes, interruption of normal business, inconvenience and nuisance. Low voices meant people were afraid the war might come here, like an unwelcome relative inviting himself to stay. This time, the main topic of discussion was why: why had Basso suddenly taken it into his head to pick a fight with a bunch of foreigners who nobody liked much but who'd never done them any significant harm, and who might as well not exist for the effect they had on daily life? A good question, Aelius thought; and one which the group mind of the Republic hadn't yet found an answer to.
Just past the Arch of Lucanus, with Zeno's Arch dead ahead, he stopped. I know nothing at all about the Auxentines, he thought, and in a day or so's time, I'll be setting out to do them as much damage as I possibly can.
He took a slight detour, down Coppergate, through the Linen Market into the Foregate, where the booksellers' stalls were. He went to his favourite stall.
"I want a history of Auxentia," he said.
The stallholder, a huge barrel-chested man with a vast, mossy beard who really should've been a blacksmith instead of a book-dealer, grinned at him. "I bet you do," he said. "Lucky for you I've got one left." He extended an unnaturally long arm and pulled a bronze tube out of the rack. "There you go," he said. "Bryzes of the Studium, in six books, complete and unabridged. With pictures," he added.
Aelius frowned. "How old is it?"
"Oh, really old," the bookseller said. "Three hundred years, maybe even more. None of your rubbish."
"I thought it would be," Aelius sighed. "Haven't you got anything a bit more up to date?"
He'd said the wrong thing. "Sorry, I don't stock modern books," said the bookseller, as though he'd just been asked for the Bedchamber Dialogues. "One nomisma twenty."
"How much?" Aelius raised his eyebrows.
"They've been flying off the rack," the bookseller said. "Sixth one I've sold today."
"At that price?"
Grin. "War's good for business. Amazing the rubbish you can shift in a war. Soon as I heard the announcement, I went straight home and dug about in the cellar. And there was me thinking my grandsons'd be lumbered with them."
Aelius sighed and produced a coin. "One nomisma."
"One twenty."
"No," Aelius said. "Put it another way. Do you really want to haggle over twenty nummi with the commander of thirty divisions?"
The bookseller's enormous hand closed around the bronze tube. "That'll be another twenty nummi," he said. "Please."
Aelius paid the twenty nummi, stuck the tube in his coat pocket and carried on up the Ropewalk to Whitestairs. Another thing about this place: more people here who could read and write than anywhere else on earth, but all they ever did was copy out books written centuries ago. The specialist medical library in Longacre was the biggest in the world, but every book you looked at started with a catalogue of different types of malignant demon. If you wanted to learn about medicine, you had to find a friendly doctor and ask him.
There were three entrances to the Severus house. There were the great iron gates, ten feet high and topped with spikes, that opened only for weddings, funerals and the visits of extremely important foreigners; the small side gate set into an otherwise blank wall (four ply of interleaved oak and ash board, to withstand battering rams), which led directly into the cloister; and the back gate, reached by an L-shaped alley with its own iron gates, where the tradesmen delivered. Aelius decided he wasn't a tradesman and went in at the side. A porter in a stab-proof quilted habergeon (nice and snug in winter, unbearably hot in summer) opened up for him and handed him over to a footman, plainly dressed in brown, who took him through the cloister, up six flights of the back stairs, and left him in a small, bare room with a chair and a tiny window, like an arrow slit. The last time he'd been here, he'd gone to the main gate and rattled it until a porter came, who'd refused to open up until threatened with being arrested for obstruction. He'd left, however, by the back door, through the kitchens.
It was Basso himself who eventually came to retrieve him. "Sorry," he said, "they must've forgotten to tell me you were here. Follow me."
He hadn't been in Basso's office before. It was square, about the size of the chapter house in the Studium, with an extraordinarily high roof, tapering pyramid-fashion to a point. All four walls were decorated with gilded mosaics. Aelius didn't know much about art, but he'd been to enough functions in temple to recognise the style and the subject matter: the ascent of the Invincible Sun, with full allegorical accomplishment, done in the Mannerist style of three centuries ago. There was something rather like it above the altar in the cathedral, but smaller and not quite so well executed.
Basso must've noticed him staring. "Used to be the family chapel," he said, "but about ninety years ago my great-grandfather fell out with the priests and got excommunicated, and they're still making up their minds whether to let him back into communion. Apparently it's got to go before a committee, and there's a backlog. My father used it as a lumber room. The paintings are by Badonicus."
Aelius nodded. "Very nice," he said. "What can I do for you?"
Basso pointed to a chair, on the far side of the desk. It was a massive thing, its legs made out of the leg bones of some large, exotic animal. The carving on the back was exceptionally fine and rather horrible. He sat down, and Basso perched on a plain, straight-backed chair on the near side of the desk. "Well, you can invade Auxentia, for a start," he said. "I take it you've heard the news."
"Senator Massentius told me just now," he replied. "It came as something of a surprise."
Basso smiled. "You want to know why."
"Yes."
"A number of reasons." Basso leaned back, tilting his chair a little. "There's the reasons I gave the House--aid and comfort to the pirates, the Phrourion blockade, being nasty to our traders. Will that do?"
Aelius shook his head. "Old stuff," he said. "We've put up with it for a long time."
"True." Basso uncovered a large silver-gilt box, which turned out to contain biscuits. Aelius took one and nibbled at it. "The real reason is timber."
"Timber," Aelius repeated.
"Correct." Basso put the lid back on the box. "To be precise, about ten square miles of the tallest, straightest pine anywhere in the world, on the Opoion promontory. We need it, they won't sell. Or at least, they're trying to make me pay a price that'd mess up the naval budget for years. I'm sick of being held to ransom by a king who milks his own goats."
Aelius raised an eyebrow. "Is that really a good reason for going to war?"
Basso smiled thinly. "People reckon that my answer to that question would be no. If we want to keep our neighbours and enemies on their toes, we have to do what they least expect from time to time. Otherwise, we're predictable, and that's not good for business. My father used to say: every now and then, fly off the handle, overreact, pick a fight for no reason; it makes people a bit more cautious about pulling your tail."
Aelius paused for a moment. He'd only just registered how the room was lit: by four long, narrow vertical windows, made up of dozens of small panes of yellow glass, which turned the light to gold. Then he said: "You're not
entirely happy about it."
If Basso was surprised, he covered it up quickly. "Well done," he said. "Presumably Cinio said I've been acting strangely. Well yes, I'm not happy about it at all. War is an admission of failure, and I've failed to uphold the Republic's reputation for brutality and ruthlessness. People are starting to think of us as civilised, which is another way of saying soft. So, sooner or later it's got to be done, and if we do it now, we get something useful out of it."
"The timber."
"Correct. That'll be your main objective. Once we've secured Opoion and garrisoned it, we'll declare peace. All right?"
Aelius dipped his head. "If that's what you want. I don't actually know where Opoion is, but I'm sure we've got a map somewhere. Can we do it?"
"You're the soldier."
"Yes, but can we do it?"
Basso nodded. "Piece of cake," he said. "It's a tongue of land sticking out into the sea. Simultaneous amphibious landings on either side of the narrowest point. When they see our fleet in the Gulf, they'll assume we're headed for Perigouna--that's their second city--so you should have an unopposed landing. In fact, you may get it done without having to fight."
"That would be good," Aelius said gravely. "And then what? Do we start chopping down the trees, or do we just sit around waiting for something to happen?"
Basso laughed. "I'll let you know when the time comes," he said. "Seriously, though, it's possible. It all depends on who gets the upper hand in the political dogfight they're going through right now. If it's the old families allied with the city people, they probably won't fight. If the small to medium landowners manage to patch up a deal with the southern gentry, they'll want a proper war. I'm afraid you won't find anything to help you in your book," he added. "Much too recent. When that was written, the Eumolpidae were still in power."
Aelius smiled and pushed the tube deeper into his pocket. "I only bought it for the pictures," he said.
"Oh, there's useful stuff in there," Basso replied. "Good sections on geography and topography, and some of what he says about the legal system is still valid. Most of the rest of it's copied out of an even older book, and everything else I think he just made up."
They discussed equipment and supply issues for a while, agreed a provisional timetable and managed to avoid falling out over a budget. Then Aelius left, and Basso leaned forward across the desk, his head in his hands. He was still sitting like that a quarter of an hour later, when his nephew walked in.
"Headache?" Bassano asked.
"You could say that," Basso replied. "I've just started a war, and I'm not quite sure why."
"Oh." Bassano walked round the desk to the gilded cedarwood cabinet where Basso kept the wine. "Can I get you one?"
"No, thanks. There's enough garbage in my head without adding to it chemically."
Bassano poured himself a drink, and brought the bottle with him. "I heard about the war," he said. "I was a bit surprised. I thought you always reckoned war's an admission of--"
"Yes," Basso said. "And I do. Which makes me ask myself why I did it. If I'd failed at something, I'd have thought I'd have known about it." He sighed and opened the biscuit box.
Bassano shook his head. "So?" he asked.
"The only explanation I can come up with is that I lost my temper," Basso replied. "Which I rarely do." He took a biscuit and put it down on the desk. "I've been playing stupid diplomatic games with those clowns, and they're a little bit better at it than I am; not good enough to beat me, but I haven't been able to beat them, and meanwhile they keep on poking me with a stick, to try and needle me into making a mistake. Usually I pride myself on my patience," he added, "but I guess they caught me on a bad day."
Bassano nodded. Yesterday had been his mother's birthday. He'd been there when she sent away Basso's present unopened, as she always did.
"It's not a mistake, though," Basso went on. "We ought to do quite well out of it, in fact. It's good to be a man of peace, but it's bad when that's how people think of you. Did you ever meet Gannarus? No, he died before you came to the City. He used to be our coachman, when I was a boy. Anyway," Basso went on, lifting his head to look at the painting directly above him, "he told me once that when he was a boy and his parents sent him to school--he came from a good family in his own country, poor devil--the first thing he did on his first day there was find the biggest boy in the playground, pick a fight with him over some nonsense or other, and smack him round the head with a lump of rock. After that, he said, he never had any bother from the other kids, even though he was small for his age and a born coward. Really, I suppose, I should've done this earlier."
"You started off with the war with Scleria," Bassano reminded him. "Maybe you thought that'd do."
Basso shook his head. "They attacked us," he replied. "That's different. That's where the school bully picks a fight with you, and you deck him. The virtue of the Gannarus protocol lies in your attack being unprovoked and gratuitous. If you let the bully start it, you're inviting his competitors to have a go at you later on, to see if they can do better. But people generally steer clear of someone they suspect of being dangerously unbalanced." He yawned, and picked up the biscuit, while Bassano refilled his glass. "I've made a lifetime study of violence," he said. "I like to tell myself I study it in the same way a doctor studies a disease, but that's not entirely true. Trying to run a business, or a country, come to that, without using violence is like playing the harpischord and only using the white keys. No," he added with a frown, "bad example. I'll have to think of a better one sometime. Anyway, how are you? How's your mother?"
Bassano pulled a face. "Hard to live with," he said. "This religious phase she's going through shows no sign of wearing out. It's a pain in the bum, believe me."
"I do," Basso said earnestly. "Really I do. How far has it gone?"
Bassano scowled. "When I left home this morning," he said, "there were six priests in the house, and Mother had them debating the indivisibility of the soul." He drank half his glass of wine. "She wants me to read for the priesthood," he said. "It's getting quite embarrassing."
"Have you thought about it seriously?"
"Uncle Basso, don't say things like that. Not funny."
Basso leaned across the table and topped up his nephew's glass. There was something, subtle but not capable of misinterpretation, about the way he did it that told Bassano there wouldn't be any more. "It's not the worst idea ever," he said. "No, really, think about it. I can get you fast-tracked through seminary, so you won't actually have to read anything, and then, as soon as you're ordained, we'll find a way of getting you a good monastery."
"Uncle Basso..."
"Hear me out," Basso said. "You don't have to run it in person. You don't ever have to go there, even. Half the monasteries in the Republic are held by absentee priors and abbots. What matters is, you get control of the land and the endowment money. A hundred years ago it was a recognised career path, like the House or the army. Even now, the major temples own nearly a fifth of the fixed capital in this town. Meanwhile, you can put in a good freedman as manager and do what the hell you like." He smiled. "And wouldn't your mother be pleased."
Bassano wriggled, as if trying to slip out of a net. "I'll think about it," he said.
"You mean no." Basso shrugged. "Face it," he said, "sooner or later you're going to have to do something. I only suggested it because it's as close as anything to what I know you really want to do."
"Which is?"
"As little as possible. Which is fine," Basso added quickly. "The less you do, the less chance there is that you'll do something wrong. Really, I think the priesthood would suit you much better than the law. Too much work in the law. Could seriously impinge on your free time."
Bassano pulled that face: tease me if you enjoy it, but please get it over with. "Actually," he said, "I've been thinking. How would it be if I joined the Bank?"
Basso sat very still for a moment or so, and when he spoke his voice was much quieter. "You
r mother wouldn't want that," he said.
"No, but I think I would. No," he added quickly, "please listen. A few months back, I started following the markets; just for fun, to see how I got on. I pretended I had a hundred thousand to invest, and I've kept a ledger and accounts; you can see them if you like. The fact is, if it'd been real money, I'd have made fifteen thousand profit by now. I really do believe I've got the touch. Inherited, of course, from my uncle."
Basso sighed. "For a start," he said, "it's not quite the same when it's real money. Also, the market's been rising steadily all this year--too much, as it happens, which means there's going to be a nasty fall. Have you predicted that? No, I don't suppose you have. It's not something you can pick up just by light of nature."
"You did."
"No offence, but you're not me." Basso looked away, apparently concentrating on a painted angel just above the door. "For which you should be eternally grateful. I don't doubt you could learn it easily enough," he went on, "particularly if I taught you; even better, if Antigonus taught you, like he taught me. But your mother wouldn't stand for it, so that's that. Sorry." He kept his eye on the angel, so he wouldn't see Bassano's face. "If you like," he went on, "I'll give you some money, so you can bet for real. Just don't let your mother--"
"I don't want to play at it, Uncle Basso," Bassano interrupted. "And if you gave me money I'd probably spend it. I want to learn the business. I think it's what I want to do."
For some reason, the Invincible Sun chose that moment to drive a shaft of bright light through the thick yellow glass of the long windows. It caught the gilded mosaics just right; exactly how the man who'd designed them must have intended. If Basso had been so inclined, he might have taken it as an omen, or at least some sort of expression of divine interest. Unfortunately, the Invincible Sun had never acquired the knack of making His meaning clear; like a man with a cleft palate, Basso decided, or a sad old man who shouts in the street. "Bassano," he said, "I want you to listen to what I'm going to say. Please don't interrupt, and if you want to be mortally offended, please do it after I've finished talking. All right?"
The Folding Knife Page 10
