The Folding Knife

by Parker, K. J.

  After the third drench, Aelius was towelled off and clothed in a simple sackcloth robe by the laticlavular and angustoclavular tribunes and led up the Temple steps, where he was officially received by the City legate and the deacon of the Studium. His eyes were then blindfolded as he was escorted into the nave of the Temple, while the choir sang "Hail, Invincible Sun" and "Behold Him who in glory". His eyes were uncovered at the foot of the steps of the high altar, where the Patriarch of the Studium presented him with the headless spear, while outside, in accordance with tradition, twelve sergeants from his regiment were supposed to be scattering handfuls of silver and copper coins (provided by the candidate) among the crowds. Since all of Aelius' men had gone straight back to the Cazar Peninsular as soon as they'd been paid, their place was taken by twelve senior NCOs of the City Guard. In another break with tradition, the coins distributed were gold, provided (an open secret) by the First Citizen; they were the very first release of the newly commissioned Victory issue, struck from the stock of foreign gold that the raiders hadn't touched, with Basso's head on one side and on the other, a helmeted, draped and cuirassed bust of General Aelius, holding the headless spear, under the inscription Saviour Of His Country.

  "It doesn't look anything like me," Aelius said.

  Basso laughed. "Everybody hates their portrait on the money," he said. "I remember my father moaned about it for weeks; said they'd made him look like a chicken. And as for that hideous caricature of me--"

  "I didn't say I didn't like it," Aelius interrupted. "But this is some hero, not me." He turned the coin over, hesitated and handed it back. "At least I got to see one," he said.

  "You'll be sick of the sight of it," Basso replied. "We're minting twenty thousand. Just think. All over the world, thousands of people who've never seen you will believe you look like that."

  Aelius frowned. "Here, let me see it again," he said. Basso spun him the coin; he caught it, looked closely and frowned. "One thing," he said. "The way I'm holding the stick."

  "Ah, yes," Basso said. "Sorry about that. Open to misinterpretation, especially when it's worn down a bit. That's what happens when you have to push things through in a hurry. Still, at least you'll have a different nickname now, instead of Cowshit."

  Aelius looked at him. "Quite," he said. He handed the coin back, but Basso waved it away. "Keep it," he said. "Drill a hole in it and hang it round your neck for a lucky piece."

  "Not likely," Aelius said. "I can't afford expensive jewellery. You know," he went on, "I'm deeply conscious of the honour, and I'm sure most men would give their right arm to have a chance of being totally humiliated in front of a hundred thousand people, but all things considered, I'd rather have had some money. Not a fortune necessarily," he added, "but just something would've been nice. At least enough to replace the pair of boots I ruined wading about in salt water."

  Basso shook his head. "Out of the question," he replied. "It'd be considered the most appalling insult."

  "Oh."

  "Well, of course. Think about it. The Headless Spear's reserved for citizens; which in practice, back when it was all dreamed up, meant members of the noble families who traditionally ran the army. Goes without saying, they didn't give a damn about money, since they were all born with far more than anybody could spend in a lifetime. All they cared about was honour. Which is why," he added, "everybody else involved on our side gets a nice lump sum in cash, and you get a stick." Basso looked at him, and narrowed his eyes a little. "What's the matter, Aelius?" he asked. "You're not short of money, are you?"

  Aelius raised his hand, palm outward. "Not in that sense, no," he said. "And I'm not asking for a pay rise, either. I'm perfectly comfortable on what I'm getting. And, of course, for what I get paid each month, you could buy half the Cazar Peninsula. It's just..." He turned his head away just a little. "I was thinking about retiring, that's all."

  Basso's head shot up. "Out of the question," he snapped. "Sorry."

  "You gave that a lot of careful thought."

  "Didn't need to," Basso said, and when Aelius turned back to face him, he found that Basso was staring at him with a look of barely restrained fury. "I don't know what I did to deserve that," Basso went on. "Funny, I'm sure I'd have remembered if I'd stabbed you in the back or had your entire family hunted down and murdered."

  "Don't give me that," Aelius said, with a certain degree of bluster. "I'm not indispensable."

  "That's for me to decide," Basso replied. "And I've decided, and you can't leave. I couldn't do without you when everybody was demanding I have you arrested and slung in jail, and I can't do without you now. That's all there is to it." He paused for a moment or so, then went on (quieter and gentler): "Look, if this is anything at all about money, just say how much and I'll write you a personal draft." Aelius glowered at him; he smiled. "I knew it wasn't," he said. "All right. Is it a protest about having to ride backwards on a donkey with no clothes on? Because that was just show business, for your fellow citizens. You know how it is. Ninety per cent of my job is keeping them entertained."

  Aelius looked down at the floor. "I'm starting to feel my age," he said.

  Basso laughed. "Don't be ridiculous."

  Aelius looked offended, if anything. "Back home, I'd be an old man. My grandfather died at fifty-six--that's just five years older than I am now. He didn't die of anything, just wore out."

  "Then be grateful you've been living in a civilised country," Basso replied. "Besides, you didn't do too badly for an old man the other day."

  Aelius furrowed his brows. "They didn't want me with them," he replied. "My mother's people, when I went to hire them. They said they'd do the job, but they wanted me to stay behind. They said I'd slow them up."

  "Then they were wrong."

  Aelius shrugged. "I had a real job keeping up," he said. "When they were hardly feeling it, my lungs were bursting and my legs felt like lead. It was only because I had other things on my mind all the time that I didn't give up and just lie down and pass out. All right, I'm not quite dead yet, but I'm too old for all that bloody running about."

  "Fine," Basso said impatiently. "And how often are you going to have to do that?"

  "I had to the other day."

  "Then train someone to run about for you," Basso snapped. "Find a good man and teach him how to be you. When you've done that, I'll let you go. Till then, I can't spare you. Is that clear?"

  Aelius looked at him for a moment, then let his shoulders sag. "It's proof that I'm right," he said, "that I haven't got the strength to argue with you."

  "You'll stay."

  Aelius made a let-me-be gesture. "I only said I was thinking of retiring," he said. "I mean, what's wrong with that? I was considering how pleasant it would be to buy a nice house with a bit of land out back somewhere in the southern suburbs. Put on some weight, grow roses. I wasn't actually about to resign my commission." He twisted round in his chair, so he could look out of the window. "You're right about one thing, though. I need to bring on someone I can rely on, for things like this latest business."

  Basso nodded. "A Cazar."

  "Wouldn't have to be," Aelius replied. "I went to my mother's clan because they were the only people I could think of in a hurry who could do the job, and who I'd dare trust with all that money. That's not to imply Cazars are the world's best fighting men. Actually, it'd be far better if we had a unit capable of jobs like that stationed here, permanently--picked men, really well trained, assured loyalty..." He frowned. "Why are you pulling that face?"

  "Don't even think about it," Basso said. "Assured loyalty: who to? What you're describing is what in other countries they call the palace guard. Bad idea. Next thing you know, they're running the Republic. We've always steered well clear of that sort of thing, thank you very much."

  "Which is why the bandits were able to stroll right up Portgate and rob the Treasury."

  "Maybe." Basso spread his hands. "And we got the money back. If we're dumb enough to station a standing army in
the City, we stand to lose a hell of a lot more than twenty million nomismata. No, I can see why the idea appeals to you--it's plain common sense from a military perspective--but politically it'd be plain lunacy. Simple rule. Vesani aren't soldiers. Vesani hire soldiers. They row in the fleet, sure, but that's quite another matter. We're the only civilised country in the world that doesn't have an aristocracy that doubles as the military elite. Which is why you don't see so many kings and dictators around the place as you do abroad."

  Aelius grinned. "I'm so glad I don't do politics. So, I can't have a City garrison, but I can have an apprentice. Is that about the strength of it?"

  He had to wait a full second for an answer. For that second, he got the impression that Basso was miles away. "That's it," Basso said. "A bright young man looking for a good career with prospects. That's exactly what you need."

  He went straight from the meeting with Aelius to the House, where the Opposition had tabled a motion calling for punitive action against the Mavortine Confederacy. On the way there, he read through his briefing notes, which told him nothing he didn't already know. There was, of course, no case to answer. In reality there was no such thing as the Mavortine Confederacy. The peace treaty between the nineteen tribes had lasted less than ten years, and that had been ninety years ago. Since then, there had been nothing any civilised man could recognise as a government. The tribal elders had a vague customary authority over their own clans, but clan leadership was decided by a challenge to mortal combat, and leaders tended not to last very long. From time to time a strong man tried to unite his tribe for an attack on a neighbour, but before long he was killed in the ring or poisoned.

  As far as the interrogators had managed to find out, the raid on the Treasury had been a purely private-enterprise affair, the raiders being outlaws and exiles drawn from half a dozen different tribes. The organiser (killed on the beach) had been a bricklayer in the City for five years, during which time he'd painstakingly planned every stage of the operation, walking the route to be taken over and over again, memorising distances and times (he couldn't write them down because he was illiterate). When he returned to Mavortis, he spent another two years recruiting, taking infinite care over security so that nobody outside the conspiracy should have the faintest idea what he had in mind; the raiders weren't told which city they'd be attacking until they were on board ship, though a few of them, who'd been in the City themselves, had a shrewd idea. The village wasn't even the ringleader's home; it was just a village close to the sea whose headman had agreed to stash the loot in return for a generous payment. Wiping the Mavortines off the face of the earth would, therefore, solve nothing. More to the point, it would be a difficult and expensive job; the Mavortine economy was nearly all subsistence farming, which meant there were no stocks of food larger than a single household's winter store. An invasion army would therefore have to take its provisions with it, and there would have to be a long and difficult supply chain. It was a very large country, sparsely populated. Catching the Mavortines would be a protracted, tedious busines: they had an endless supply of remote mountains and impenetrable forests to hide in. Starving them out wasn't a practical option, since twelve of the tribes were practically nomadic--they could hide themselves and their flocks and herds in the rough country and survive there for years, with no chance of bringing them to battle against their will. Victory, in other words, would be slow, costly and difficult to achieve, or even define; and there was always the risk of defeat, which would do untold damage to the Republic's prestige. The game wasn't worth the candle, and that was all there was to it.

  He stopped his chair at the House door, but didn't get out straight away. Instead, he sat reading the brief one more time. It was a splendidly thorough document, put together by a young clerk by the name of Tzimisces, a recent discovery by Antigonus. All the facts, clearly arranged in a logical sequence; sections on geography, society, economy, history, all the statistics neatly tabulated in an appendix; when he'd finished reading, he found himself staring at the page as if the words were one of those children's games, a picture cut up into hundreds of irregularly shaped pieces, which you put back together again. There was a pattern, a shape hidden in among all those facts, dates, numbers, but he wasn't quite sure what it was supposed to be.

  Lazio Rufrio opened the debate for the Optimates. He was his usual melodramatic self. An insult to the Vesani people that could only be avenged by blood; the eyes of the world were watching for a hint of weakness; only a show of immediate and overwhelming force would be adequate; the First Citizen's duty to his people to eradicate this nest of thieves, pirates and murderers. Basso could have told him what he was going to say before he opened his mouth, except that Basso would've put it considerably better.

  The idea was that Sentio would reply to the opening speech, saving Basso for the closing round. Before he could stand up, however, Basso frowned at him. Puzzled, he settled back in his seat and waited to see what Basso had in mind.

  Basso stood up and looked round. He had their attention.

  "I support the motion," he said, and sat down.

  Later, it was asserted that the silence that followed his intervention was the longest in the history of the House. How anybody could know that wasn't clear, but it was accepted as true and eventually passed into Vesani political folklore. Nobody on either side knew what to do next. Obviously there was no point in anybody else saying anything. Eventually, the Speaker stood up, looking mildly concussed, and called for a division. The motion was passed unanimously, with no abstentions.

  Bassano had taken up fencing. That was quite all right; it was a perfectly acceptable accomplishment for a gentleman, though rather out of fashion these days--somewhere between hawking for captive pigeons and playing the rebec. Basso had insisted that he enrol in the Three Circles Fight, the oldest and most austere fencing school in the City. They taught the authentic, unadulterated Three Circles practice, which Basso himself had reluctantly learned when he was fifteen. There was a tediously high proportion of theory, a lot of which was arcane to the point of semi-religious obscurity, and you didn't learn nearly as many flashy set-piece plays as they taught in the more fashionable schools; but as part of the final exam you had to defend yourself against, among others, a six-foot-tall dock worker armed with an axe and using a three-legged stool as a shield, a Cazar soldier in full armour and a Sclerian with a pitchfork and a long knife, you yourself armed only with your gentleman's walking sword, and no armour. A significant proportion of students failed the final exam, or didn't even attempt it.

  Bassano studied hard. In fact, the head of the school wrote to Basso (who'd insisted on weekly reports), he showed a degree of dedication and enthusiasm unusual for someone of his class and background. Basso wasn't surprised; he could guess the reason, though naturally he confirmed his guess by asking his nephew a direct question.

  "Simple," Bassano had replied. "When the raiders came, I was terrified. I knew that when I was standing in the doorway, if one of them had decided to come after me, I wouldn't even have been able to run, I'd have frozen and he'd have killed me where I stood. That really shocked me."

  Basso said he took the point. "But there's a hell of a difference between learning fencing in a school and actually being in a fight. I've known people who were fencing champions, but in a punch-up in a bar, they were completely useless."

  "Maybe," Bassano had replied. "But at any rate, it'll make me feel better. Besides, I never take any exercise. I get out of breath walking up Maltgate."

  Little chance of that, after four weeks at the Three Circles. "Also," Bassano said, "some of the theoretical stuff is actually quite interesting. When you were there, did you do the thing where you break down the stages in the flight of an arrow?"

  "And you end up proving the arrow never actually gets there?" Basso grinned. "Yes, of course. I thought it was ridiculous. Gratuitous neo-Mannerist mysticism. The arrow does get there, so it's fatuous."

  "I can believe you thought that
," Bassano said with a grin. "I bet you told the Master so, too."

  "Good God, no." Basso raised his eyebrows. "He'd have made a point of explaining it all over again. I just tried to look respectful and stay awake."

  At Basso's request, the Master introduced a number of extra items into the curriculum, though he neglected to tell the students that they weren't part of the traditional course. These were mostly standard drills from the military book of forms (Aelius' recommendations): basic form for infantry against charging cavalry, two forms for infantry with shield against archery bombardment, close-order sword and shield in the event of a melee following the collapse of the shield wall (for which the Master had to bring in a drill sergeant from the Guard, since none of his adepts knew it).

  "Which is odd," Bassano commented at dinner, "because I was talking to some of the men in the class above, and they didn't do any of this military stuff. They all did advanced defensive geometry in fifth week."

  "I think they like to vary the syllabus a bit," Basso replied. "Certainly, we did a few bits and pieces of military drill when I was there. Good for general fitness and agility training, they told us."

  Bassano shrugged. "Well, I don't mind," he said. "I'd rather do that than endless repetitions of the salute. That bit where you move your back foot across to the right while keeping the left leg perfectly straight..."

  Basso groaned. "Tell me about it," he said. "I gave up trying to get that right. Cost me two marks in the exam, but I got them back in bonus points by breaking the Cazar's arm."