There was a cold silence. Then Sentio said, "If I'm going deaf I'm in good company, but I thought I heard you say our objection was valid."
"It is." Basso nodded. "The balance is all wrong. Particularly now," he added, "since by a nasty quirk of statistics, we lost twice as many citizens as offcomers in the plague. Add to that the steady decline in the birth rate, and we've got to face the fact. There's a genuine risk that, sooner or later, we're going to run out of Vesani."
"There you are, then," Sentio snapped. "So you can't seriously be suggesting--"
Basso raised his left hand. These days, that was all it was good for. "We have a shortage of Vesani citizens," he said. "Fine. Let's make some. I propose that we extend the franchise."
No buzz of voices, angry, incredulous or anything. Stone-cold silence.
"I thought you'd take it like that," Basso said pleasantly. "But what the hell. I'm suggesting we give automatic citizenship to all soldiers who've served at least seven years, to all foreigners who've lived here for more than fifteen years--" (it occurred to him: she told me once she was eighteen when she arrived here) "--and all foreigners employed for more than five years in government service. Excluding, of course, criminals and lunatics. Right," he said, and folded his arms. "Please don't all shout at once."
After a very, very long pause, Sentio said: "You're serious."
"Yes."
Sentio stood up. "In that case," he said, "it's been an honour working with you. I'll be going now."
"Shut up and sit down," Basso said, and Sentio, after a moment's hesitation, sat down. "Think about it, for crying out loud. If you paid even slightly more attention than I did to history lectures at school, you'll know that we're not exactly pure-bred stock, not like the Auxentines or the Sclerians. We're bits and pieces from all over, the sweepings of the granary floor, as my grandfather used to say. We need more citizens. We need them to work, to pay taxes, to row galleys in the fleet, to marry and have lots of little Vesani; otherwise, we're going to dwindle away until we're so frail we'll be easy prey for a revolution or a slave revolt." He paused to draw breath, and look at the faces round the table. "Another point you may care to consider," he went on. "If we give the vote to ten thousand or so hitherto excluded and marginalised people, who do you think they're going to vote for? The Optimates?"
A shorter silence. Dorico said, "That's a good point."
"Besides," Basso continued, "there's the balance that Sentio's so keen on. If the Republic's to survive, it's got to keep growing. That means more labour, which means people coming in from outside. Sentio's quite right about the importance of the balance. It's not just a here-and-now problem caused by the plague; it's going to be with us for the foreseeable future, so we'd do well to fix it now. What I'm suggesting is a system for maintaining that balance automatically, so we won't ever have to have a dreary debate like today ever again."
Lanio said: "We should've guessed something like this was coming when he started banging on about wanting to be Basso the Great. And now look." He drew a great sigh, right down to the soles of his feet. "Actually, it makes sense. God only knows how you're planning to get it past the House."
"That's my business," Basso said. "Dorico? What do you reckon?"
"I like the idea of ten thousand guaranteed votes. Where did that ten thousand figure come from, by the way?"
"The top of my head," Basso replied. "But it's probably not far off. Cinio?"
"I think you're out of your mind," Cinio said. "But if that's what you want to do, I'll back you."
"Really?" Basso said. "Why?"
Cinio shrugged. "Because I like being Chancellor," he said. "And if I don't support you, I won't be. Well, is that right?"
"Of course. Sentio? How about it?"
While he was waiting for an answer, he turned his head slightly and looked at the wall. He'd stared at it many times, but for some reason he'd never noticed the portrait of his great-great-grandfather, First Citizen a hundred years earlier. It stood to reason there'd be one, of course; all the First Citizens were there, in gilded ovals, a critical, disapproving audience. Laurentius Severus looks just like me, he thought; same idiot lower lip, same nose, same V-shaped fold above the junction of the eyebrows, permanently frowning, as though everything ever said to him was too ridiculous for words. He'd never seen a portrait of him before, apart from a meaningless silhouette on an old copper liard he'd got in his change.
"All right," Sentio said eventually. "I guess it serves me right for being difficult. And I've been sitting here trying to think of a good argument against it, and for some reason I can't; all I can think of is the sort of stuff you'll get thrown at you in the House, about the integrity of the Republic and betraying the trust of our ancestors." Suddenly he grinned. "Just saying it makes me sound like a bloody Optimate. At least we can enjoy ourselves making them look stupid in the debate."
"What better reason could there possibly be?" Basso said graciously.
"Why?" Antigonus said.
"It's obvious, surely." Basso had picked a rose from the standard outside the back entrance, where there was a small, irrelevant garden. Carefully he lifted the dying flowers from the vase on the windowsill and put his rose in there instead. "If we're going to go ahead with the new shipyard, we'll need a lot of extra workers; skilled men, not just labourers. The obvious place to get them from is Auxentia, but they're not going to uproot themselves and come over here with their families and everything if they reckon they'll be little better than indentured servants. This'll give them the incentive: come over here, stay long enough, and they get the citizenship. Simple as that."
Antigonus nodded slowly. "I'll say this for you," he said. "You're not short on self-confidence. Change the nature of the Republic for ever, just so you can have your shipyard."
"My monopoly on shipbuilding, you mean."
"Exactly. No lack of belief in yourself." Antigonus paused to catch his breath. It didn't take much, these days. "There's one thing you may not have considered."
"Well?"
"If your wonderful scheme goes ahead, that'll mean I'll be a citizen too."
Basso felt as if he'd just walked into something in the dark. "That's something you want."
"Yes, as it happens."
"Why didn't you tell me before?"
"It's not something that someone like me asks for." Antigonus made a vague gesture with his hand. "Don't worry about it," he said, "I certainly don't hold it against you. It's just a silly notion of mine. Like you," he added, "wanting to be Basso the Great."
"I wish I'd never opened my mouth," Basso said sourly. "Anyway, I'm happy for you, and you deserve it. Like Aelius; bloody stupid that a man like him--and you, of course--should be a second-class human being in the eyes of the law."
Antigonus looked at him; you made Aelius a citizen, he didn't say. "Fortunate," he said, "that righting a social injustice should fit in with your plans. Like the free bunch of grapes you get when you buy a bushel of olives."
"Does it matter?"
"No." Antigonus shrugged. "You have the knack of being able to do what you want, and then finding excellent reasons for it afterwards. No, that's not it; you do something for your reason, and it turns out that it was the right thing to do anyway. Why are you doing this, by the way? It's not because of the shipyard, and it's not for the public good." He paused, then added, "Or can't you tell me?"
"No," Basso said. "Does that matter?"
"Of course not. What matters is the outcome, not the intention. You produce very good outcomes, so who cares?" He smiled, and Basso knew that he'd given offence and been forgiven. "I've got a name for you, though. Basso the Lucky. Will that do?"
"Perfectly."
The Lady Tertullia Placidia was late for the appointment.
"I was playing dice with the Sulpicii sisters," she explained, taking off her gloves. Her hands were long and pale. "Renzia needed double five to go out, but she couldn't make it." She sat down on the straight-backed gilded chair h
is mother had always favoured, and smiled at him. "This is rather unusual, isn't it?"
He sat down opposite her. There wasn't much in the way of cover: a small table with a potted fern on it, a tall wrought-iron lampstand his grandfather had brought back from Eschia. Aelius, he felt, would approve. Fight your pitched battles in the open, he'd once heard him say.
"This isn't your usual sort of marriage," he said. "Given the circumstances, I thought it'd probably be just as well if you got a good look at me before we take things any further."
"Ah." She nodded; conceding that he had a point, though she didn't necessarily agree. "Well, my father's quite keen..."
"I know," Basso said. "But that's all politics and business. I thought you might like to make your own mind up. If you decide you'd rather be dead in a ditch, I'll break off the negotiations. Tactfully, of course."
"It's not up to me," she said; then she fell silent, aware that she'd spoken before thinking about her choice of words. "I mean, naturally I rely on my parents' judgement. They wouldn't marry me off to a monster, after all. I'm their daughter."
Basso shrugged. "My father married my sister to a drunken idiot who sniffed round anything in a skirt," he replied. "He needed the money. Your father needs money. Or didn't you know that?"
Her face answered for her. "I have no idea," she said. "That's none of my business."
"And my parents married me to a whore," he added pleasantly. "Two disasters out of two. Which is probably why I don't have as much confidence in the system as you do."
She was looking at him. Probably, he decided, just as well. Plazidio was a political ally and a sort of a business partner; he always reminded Basso of the little birds who make their living by picking the teeth of crocodiles. His daughter, fortunately, took after her mother in appearance. The disconcerting thing was, he'd had a crush on Hostilia Tertullina when they were both fifteen. Being married to her daughter, who looked so very like her, would be rather bewildering.
"Mother says you and she were great friends once," she said.
"That's one way of putting it," Basso said. "I seem to remember her saying to me once that she wouldn't go to the Ascension Ball with me if I was the last living creature on earth. I could see her point," he added quickly. "I wasn't much to look at even then. Also, I'm deaf in one ear and your mother's very softly spoken. She got sick to death of having to say everything twice."
"Are those honey-cakes?" she said in a very clear voice, looking past him to the table next to the wall. "I adore honey-cakes, and it's so hard to get proper ones, with cinnamon."
He stood up and fetched the plate. She took two. He tried to take one for himself, but he used his left hand. It slipped through his fingertips and landed on the floor. She tried to look as though she hadn't noticed; and he recognised that look. So her father drinks, he thought, I must remember that.
"I'm afraid this hand's not much good for anything," he said. "It got cut up in a fight when I was young."
"Poor you," she said. "It must be terribly inconvenient."
"Most of the time, no," he replied. "Just occasionally, like then."
"You've learned to adapt."
He smiled. "People can adapt to most things," he said. "Which doesn't mean they should have to. There's no merit in it."
She didn't reply to that, partly because her mouth was full of cake. She was very beautiful when she ate; just like her mother at her age. Last he'd heard, she'd got as fat as a pig. "Your brother," he said. "He's reading for the priesthood, isn't he?"
"That's right," she said. "In his second year."
"My nephew's at the Studium."
"I know." She nodded. "My brother's in the same class for Ethics and Accountancy. He's got the same name as you, hasn't he? Bassianus?"
"We call him Bassano in the family," Basso replied. "Less confusing."
"He's always top in everything, my brother says."
(And he thought: she's talking to the wrong Bassianus; though I don't suppose Bassano would be all that bothered. He'd want someone with a bit more flavour, even just for polite flirtation. What I ever saw in her mother I can't imagine.) "He's a smart boy," Basso replied. "But I don't see him as a priest."
"Oh? Why not?"
"He's too spiritual."
She wasn't sure if that was supposed to be a joke, and he couldn't blame her. "And he's lazy," he went on, "though I'm hoping that's just his age." No offence taken, by the look of it; she'd be, what, six months younger than him? "I believe he's the sort of young man who'll take a long time to settle to anything, but when he does, he'll do it well. I'm not like that. I started in business when I was younger than he is now. I couldn't see the point in youth."
"Oh." She looked at him as if he was one of those street preachers. "Isn't it supposed to be the happiest time of your life?"
"Maybe. I didn't think so. Couldn't wait to get rid of it, to be honest with you."
"It's different for men," she said gamely. Had to give her credit for making some sort of a fight of it.
"I suppose so," he said. "It's rather an unfair advantage, if you ask me. Women are only allowed twenty-five years to find happiness, if that. Men can take twice as long. But I couldn't see the point in wasting time like that. It's different for someone like my nephew, of course. He's got charm and good looks, so being young suits him." Like a girl, he didn't need to add.
"Can I have another one of those cakes? They're really good."
He managed to keep from smiling. A sensible young woman, he decided, after all; load up on the cakes while they're going, and the day won't have been completely wasted. "Help yourself," he said. "Our cook made them. I'll get him to send you round a couple of dozen."
The Twenty-Second Law of Bassianus Severus, more usually referred to as the Enfranchisement Act, scraped through the House like, as Basso put it, a fat dog squeezing through railings. To general surprise, the faction led by Tertullius voted against, whereas the law received unexpected support from Olybrias and his hard-core Optimates. The two surprises effectively cancelled each other out, and Basso won by a margin of six wards.
"Why?" he asked later.
The priest--Basso had taken the trouble to find out his name, since it seemed like they'd be seeing a lot of each other in the future: Chrysophilus--made his distinctive don't-blame-me gesture. "Your sister," he said, "felt that if you lost the vote, your government would probably fall."
"Unlikely," Basso interrupted. "But so what? She'd want that, surely."
"Not," Chrysophilus said, "under those circumstances." He hesitated, and Basso read the pause as "I owe her my loyalty, but I like you more than her." "To be blunt," he said, "she wants to be the sole author of all your misfortunes. If your government falls, she'd like it to be because she made it happen. I'm sorry," he added quickly, "but that's the way she thinks."
Basso nodded slowly. "I know," he said. "She's as jealous in hate as normal people are in love. Not your fault," he said brightly. "Have another brandy."
Chrysophilus hesitated for as long as he could; five seconds. "Thanks," he said, "I think I will. There are times when the wishes of my patroness..."
"Quite." Basso poured a large measure. "So she told Olybrias to save my neck, so she could have the pleasure of stretching it later."
"More or less," the young priest replied, after he'd swallowed his drink. "I believe her instructions were that he was to vote with you if there seemed like there was a serious risk that you'd fail. Otherwise, he was to vote against."
"Bless her," Basso said. "She's a bit like her mother. By and large a kind-hearted woman, but when she wanted to, she could spin out a grudge like a tramp with a drink in a bar. Talking of which," he added, lifting the decanter. Chrysophilus smiled and shook his head.
"You put up with a lot from her," he said.
"She's my sister," Basso replied. "I'd do anything to make her happy, except I don't think she's capable of happiness. Well, almost anything. I draw the line at cutting my own throat."
Chrysophilus smiled weakly. "One must draw the line somewhere, I agree. I can't help thinking, though, that your forbearance--"
"Forbearance has got nothing to do with it," Basso cut him off. "I ruined her life--not intentionally, in self-defence and maybe she's contributed to it a bit, but that doesn't matter. She's entitled to want to hurt me, which is why I let her do it. You don't think I couldn't stop her if I wanted to." He stopped talking, looked up at the ceiling. "There's a thing," he said. "You're a priest, and this room contains some of the finest examples of pre-Reformation religious art in the City. Had you noticed?"
"I'm not an art person," Chrysophilus replied. "Wasted on me, I'm afraid."
"We used to use it as a lumber room," Basso said. "Which is probably how it survived. If we'd ever come in here, we'd have redecorated, a hundred years ago, and now you'd probably have cheerful hunting scenes or tasteful shepherdesses on the walls instead of some of the most sublime expressions of the human spirit you'd ever hope to find. When I was a kid, my mother had a full-sized Advancing Victory by Sositheus smashed into gravel for the herb garden path. Waste not, want not, she said, and she didn't like old-fashioned ornaments. With the possible exception of my nephew and myself, my family..." He shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said, "I'm being embarrassing. You don't want to hear me moaning about my family."
"I understand," Chrysophilus said. "It's often easier to talk to strangers."
"I find it easiest to talk to my enemies," Basso said. "Of whom, technically, you're one. Which reminds me. Please be good enough to tell my sister that I'll be getting married at the end of the month."
The Folding Knife Page 19
