The Folding Knife

by Parker, K. J.

  I'd never grasped before exactly how much there is to do after a battle. I guess I assumed that the victors retired wearily to their tents and drank, squabbled over the spoils or went to sleep. No chance. The battle's a piece of cake. Afterwards is when the hard physical slog begins.

  First, you've got to find your wounded and get them to the surgeons, or stack them up out of the way to die; round up enemy wounded who'll survive without medical treatment, and kill the rest; identify your own dead, strip off their armour and salvageable kit, lug the bodies off for burial; if you've got carts it's not so bad, if not, it's back-breaking work, and you know you've only just started. Next, you've got to dig graves--great big pits, six or eight feet deep, so you're down through the topsoil into the clay, which means you've got to chip it out in small chunks with picks and crowbars. Then you put the bodies in. You're supposed to handle your dead comrades with reverence and respect, but by now you're worn out, it's getting late, maybe you're working by lantern-light, or it's raining, and the grave is filling up with water (or you've dug down into the water-table, so you're splashing about over your ankles in mud); so when nobody's looking you just pitch them in any old how, and you get a faceful of muddy splash each time one goes in; the whole bodies aren't so bad, but there's bound to be a load of bits you haven't been able or couldn't be bothered to match up, arms and legs, heads; you bung them in too, and then you've got all the spoil to shovel back into the hole. At least you don't have to strip the enemy dead; the battlefield plunder contractors do that for you, and part of the deal is they dispose of the bodies. But time is money, so they don't bother digging big holes, they heap them up, sluice them down with the cheapest possible grade of lamp oil, and set them on fire. So, while you're digging and lifting and shovelling, all the air around you is full of smoke and the stink of burning meat. People I've talked to say the roasting smell gives them a real appetite; well, chances are they haven't eaten for twenty-four hours, quite likely longer than that.

  Job done? Not a bit of it. Quite possibly the general's in a hurry to move on, so as soon as you're done, it's get fell in and march off. If you're lucky and you're staying put for the night, and if there's no immediate risk of the enemy sneaking back to hit you when you're not expecting it, then it's back to camp, where you build a stockade for the prisoners (digging post-holes, ramming in posts, laying and stapling wire, lining up hinges); then two hours' getting your kit cleaned up, minor repairs to armour (big repairs mean you've got to stand in line at the armourers' tent all night), scrape the mud off your boots and polish them till they shine, or go and queue up at the quartermasters' for a replacement pair (assuming they've got any: big assumption); it's much less fuss just to drag a serviceable boot off the foot of some poor dead bastard, but if they catch you doing it, you're on a charge. Kit inspection, and God help you if you're not up to scratch. Then you've got the routine everyday chores--slopping out, KP, trudging half a mile to the nearest water, staggering back with a bucket in each hand (a full bucket of water weighs thirty-five pounds); sentry duty, building or repairing camp defences; if you're transport corps or cavalry, of course, you've got your horse to see to before you can even think about yourself. By now you're far too tired to eat, but you've got to, by order, to keep your strength up, so you queue for your bowl of slop and force it down, clean out your mess kit, clean out and pack up the cooking gear. After that, in theory, the rest of the night's your own. More likely, by now it's time for your sentry detail or your turn to guard the prisoners, fetch and carry their food and blankets, gather busted spear-shafts for their campfire; or some clown's thought up something else that needs doing and can't wait till morning. If you're really lucky, you get to your tent, and maybe you're not so tired you haven't got a hope of getting to sleep; in which case, you might get three hours before reveille, but don't bet the rent on that. Just your luck to get assigned to digging another bloody great hole, mounding up the earth and building a cairn of stones to mark the site of your famous victory.

  Please don't imagine, by the way, that I joined in any of this. I just stood around, getting in the way, watching. That's what Bassano does: he stands around and watches. And please, don't be fooled into thinking he's neither use nor bloody ornament. Somewhere there's a grand overarching plan, of which Bassano standing round and watching is a fundamental and indefeasible part.

  That's what it's like, by the way, if Heaven has smiled on you and you've won the battle. So far, thank God, I've had no opportunity to observe what it's like to be on the losing side. I imagine there's just as much work, probably more, and infinitely more depressing.

  I didn't have to eat the slop, of course. I have my own cook. I had rissoles.

  Tomorrow we march on Stisileon (which is not what it's called, and I have no idea where it is). Our objective is to draw the enemy out into a pitched battle. Being realistic, we'll chase them inside their pathetic excuse for a fence, then bring up the light mangonels and lob in fireballs. The thatch will catch on fire, and then we'll see if they stay inside and burn or come out and get slaughtered. There's a betting pool. I've got two solidi on stay-inside-and-burn. Wish me luck.

  Some news. Aelius has landed in the north, taken a large town, established a base of operations, and has turned the Hus loose to drive the natives into the mountains. Same as we're doing here, basically.

  I feel like there's two of me. One of me finds this whole business indescribably horrible and barbaric. Because of a conscious decision by you (in which, of course, I am entirely complicit), people are dying who needn't die; people are getting cut up, losing limbs, losing fathers and husbands and sons, losing their homes and livelihoods; which is appalling, when you stop and think about it. Earthquakes and tidal waves, plague, fire; and us. What could possibly justify doing something like this on purpose?

  The other me wants us to win; feels an extraordinary kind of joy when the shower of arrows pitches and the charge goes home and the artillery balls plough huge gashes in their shield wall; hates the enemy; can look at a hundred dead Mavortines twisted on the ground and think, that's a hundred who won't give us any more grief; cheers when the general rides past; wishes he had the balls to stand in the front rank alongside the Cazars and kill a couple of dozen bad guys; can see nothing whatsoever wrong in a war that is, after all, being fought against the enemy.

  I'm both those people, equally, simultaneously, indivisibly. I used to tell myself it was survival instinct; when the battle's on and the other side are dead set on killing me, naturally I'm all in favour of us, because we're all that stands between me and them. But that's not how it works. Before the fighting, after it, during it, makes no odds. I think the truth is, you can't just observe a war. It changes you. Just being here makes me a soldier. Define soldier, in this context: someone who can be both of me at the same time, and not even notice the contradictions.

  What the hell. I finished Scaphio's Dialogues, and now I haven't got anything to read. If you could send me a copy of Polydectus' Paradoxes of Ethical Theory on the next supply ship, I'd be ever so grateful.

  Cordially,

  Bassano

  From Segimerus, intercepted:

  ... has so far overcome all native resistance with almost contemptuous ease.

  As to their prospects of success, I must confess that at this time I am unable to form an opinion. Much depends on how Bassianus Severus and his cabinet define victory. If their intention is simply to slaughter the Mavortines, plunder the country and withdraw, I can see no reason why they should fail. If their objective is to capture, take over and exploit Mavortis' mineral wealth, failure would require a degree of ineptitude of which they have so far shown no sign. And it is hard to imagine any other reason for invading the country. Quite simply, there is nothing here, apart from the mines and the very small amount of wealth, in the form of gold and silver jewellery amassed by the tribal aristocracies, that anybody could conceivably want.

  However, if Bassianus Severus wanted trinkets, there are wealth
ier savages closer to home. If the Vesani wish to secure continuous supplies of metal ores, there are uninhabited islands known to have substantial unworked deposits. In neither case would Mavortis be a logical target. Manpower? The Mavortines have always been almost pathetically eager to serve the Vesani as migrant labour. Why enslave a people who will cheerfully work for you for a pittance? Agricultural land, with a view to settlement and the establishment of colonies: Mavortis is a country of steppe, mountain and forest, hardly suited to cereal production; cattle are grazed extensively, but I believe it would be cheaper for the Vesani to buy Mavortine beef, mutton, hides and wool from free Mavortines than to take the land and try and farm it themselves. In short, there seems to be no single reason to justify this war, other than the stated objective of punishing the Mavortines for the attack on the Vesani treasury--a fatuous objective, since the attack was the work of individuals, not of the government (there is no Mavortine government), and one that could have been effortlessly achieved by burning a few villages and returning home.

  If, then, there is no single reason, we must look for a concatenation of reasons, which combine to justify the effort and expenditure involved in this costly and large-scale venture. If no one objective suffices, we must conclude that Bassianus Severus wants them all--revenge, plunder, minerals, slaves and land for settlement. Discounting revenge as a pretext rather than a functioning motivation, we are left with what I can only describe as the components of empire: immediate monetary gain to offset the expenses of conquest, a long-term source of income, a strategic objective, the materials whereby that objective may be gained. In short, my belief is that Bassianus Severus intends Mavortis to be the first of a series of conquests--in short, the first step towards empire. His objectives are: manpower, to be conscripted into a very substantial professional standing army; metals and timber, for war materiel; a base of operations, for further attacks on neighbouring states; food production, to feed and supply his army; land, to be parcelled up into ranches and worked by Mavortine serf labour, to be granted as pensions to his Cazar veterans in return for military service.

  As to whether Bassianus Severus is likely to succeed in such a venture (assuming my interpretation is correct), I am unconvinced and sceptical. It is easy enough to rape a woman; subsequently marrying her and living happily every after is rather more problematic. Bassianus Severus would not be the first to confuse successful invasion with conquest, or conquest with empire. A great deal depends on whether he has thought the matter through, and made plans accordingly.

  I confess that I was much surprised by your Eminence's assessment of the Vesani; nor can I understand how my earlier dispatches could have been interpreted as corroboration for such an assessment. In my opinion, the Vesani have both the ambition and the capacity to become a serious threat to Imperial territory in the short to medium term. What I have seen here strongly reinforces my view. I would therefore recommend...

  (Basso drafted a letter of his own and had it copied out by the champion forger. Much of it was the same, apart from the last few paragraphs, but the recommendations were rather different.)

  From Aelius, official dispatches:

  ... Intend therefore to establish a chain of strongly defended forts, with adequate garrisons, to cut off each of the major tribes from its traditional allies. Objective: to prevent any possibility of Mavortine tribes uniting and mounting serious resistance. Main risk at present lies in formation of tribal confederacy hiding out in enormous forests in centre of country; such a force would be able to split country in two, isolating our expeditionary forces, and would thereafter be able to raid and harass our forces at will, retreating immediately into inaccessible territory, where pursuit too dangerous to contemplate. Only after forts built, tribes isolated and any ongoing insurgent activity crushed, long-term aim to clear broad channel through forest and build military roads to link northern and southern regions. Once this has been achieved, planned development of Mavortis should be feasible, all things being equal.

  To achieve immediate aim of creating chain of forts, I will require reinforcements, principally to act as garrisons. At present, estimated requirement 6,000 to 8,000 heavy infantry (preferably Cazars) plus 1,000 to 1,500 cavalry (not Hus--unsuitable for stationary duty); also increased supplies &c. Would be grateful to receive instructions as soon as possible, since decision will inevitably affect immediate future conduct of operations. Appreciate that additional troops and supplies will constitute heavy burden on the Republic's resources; would venture to suggest, however, that in the long term, would prove the cheapest and most efficient way of attaining the ultimate objective, which may not be possible to achieve by any other currently available alternative strategy.

  "He's already got twelve thousand," Cinio protested, "and he's hardly lost a man, or so he's told us. What the hell does he want another six thousand for?"

  "Six to eight thousand," Basso said gently.

  "Have you any idea of the unit cost of sending a soldier to Mavortis?" The first time, as far as Basso could remember, that Cinio had lost his temper in his presence. "Including recruitment, outfitting, training, transport? Fifty-one nomismata. Do you know how much it costs to keep a soldier over there for a day? One nomisma four. Nearly sixteen thousand a day, and he wants to up that by another ten thousand. And please don't say we can bring that down a little, because I've cut costs to the bone as it is."

  Basso waited for a moment or so, then said: "Actually, it's more like nine and a half thousand. He wants cavalry as well, remember."

  "Cavalry." Cinio made it sound like the most depraved of luxuries. "Let me just remind you what a military horse eats in a day. Oats, eight pounds six ounces. Hay--"

  "Cinio." Basso raised his voice just a little, and Cinio subsided, like a pan of boiling water taken off the fire. "War is very expensive. It's how kings bankrupt whole countries. Under normal circumstances, I'd leave it well alone. But we've been into all that, and the plain fact is, losing a war's a damn sight more expensive than winning one. If we win, we get it all back, with interest. If we lose, it's all gone for ever. This is one of those times where we've just got to find the money and try and look cheerful." He leaned back in his chair. "The money's there, after all."

  Cinio looked at him. "Will the Bank cover it?"

  "We'll underwrite an issue of war bonds," Basso replied, "which is much the same thing. Look at it rationally. If we do it the way Aelius says, we'll break the back of the resistance and it'll all be over in a few months. If we try and do it on the cheap, we could be tangled up out there for years, and then it really will start to cost money." He grinned. "You're a hell of a finance minister, Cinio, but you wouldn't last five minutes in business."

  "The Republic isn't a business," Cinio said rebelliously. "If it all goes wrong, we can't just wind it up, sell off the buildings and start again with someone else's money. We could be responsible for fifty years of grinding poverty, not to mention the risk of being invaded by the Empire when we're too weak to defend ourselves. And if the state goes under, the Bank will go with it. Have you considered that?"

  Going a bit too far. "That's like asking me if I remembered to breathe this morning," Basso said. "The Bank's not going anywhere, and neither is the Republic. In six months' time, when we're mining iron and copper, I'll expect an apology."

  After Cinio had gone, Basso sent for Tragazes.

  "We are, in fact, at the extreme limit of our cash reserve," Tragazes told him blandly, as though he'd just asked him the time. "When you sent for me, I was preparing a draft of a statement to the banking commission, which we will need to file at some point in the next five days, unless the situation changes radically. Under the circumstances it's just a formality, but--"

  "Don't do that," Basso said. "Massage the books a little. We both know the Bank's all right really, and a statement might be misunderstood, the way the markets are going."

  Tragazes blinked at him. "I would have to record a formal protest."

  "Not
ed." Basso looked at him, but that sort of thing never seemed to work on Tragazes. A man entirely without fear, and at the same time a born worrier. "But as far as the commission's concerned, we're still within our reserve. All right?"

  "As you wish." Tragazes made a note, as though it was something that was likely to slip his mind. "I can bring forward the payments from the Caecilii by ten days. The money is already on deposit with the United Central, awaiting clearance. Provided their letters of credit are honoured in Scleria, I can foresee no problem there."

  Basso frowned. "What's Scleria got to do with it?"

  "Vipsanius Caecilius financed his investment in the military supplies cartel by selling various debts to the Advancing Victory in Scleria. To pay us, he needs to draw down on the proceeds of the sale. He's written letters of credit, but has not yet received confirmation of clearance."

  "What sort of debts?"

  "The benefit of agricultural and industrial development loans," Tragazes said. "Quite sound, as far as we can gather."

  "The Caecilii bought into the cartel by trading loans to small farmers?"

  "And some manufacturers, here in the City. War work, mostly, so quite reliable. And the same with the farmers. Given war demand, the price of grain is high, as you know."

  Later, Melsuntha asked Basso what the matter was. She had to ask several times.

  "That idiot Caecilius," Basso told her. "He owes us a lot of money, which he's due to pay back. In order to pay us, he's relying on a bunch of loans he's palmed off on the Victory in Scleria."

  "Oh," she said.

  "Quite," Basso replied. "The loans are farm and small business, which means they're dependent on us--the Treasury--paying the farmers and tent-peg-makers and sword-fittings-wholesalers on time. Which isn't going to happen."

  She nodded slowly. "I thought you said..."