by K. J. Parker
Nicephorus, brother of the Order of the Invincible Sun at Tyene, to General Phormio, commander in chief of the Imperial forces, greetings.
Gorgias came to see me today.
He, of course, did all the seeing. I couldn't see him back, for obvious reasons.
When I was a kid, they taught me that the custom of blinding illustrious prisoners and banishing them to monasteries, rather than killing them outright, was a mark of how civilised our society is. I thought, that's wrong, it's barbarous. How could anybody bring himself to do such a thing? I guess Dad and the rest of our family thought the same way, or else they weren't taking any chances. After all, it's just a convention that a blind man can't be emperor.
Now that I've been on the receiving end, literally and figuratively, I've changed my views somewhat. It's not so bad. It's a damned sight (pun) better than being dead. It has its advantages. They don't expect a blind man to do all the hard manual labour that a novice brother usually gets lumbered with; weeding the vegetable garden, lugging jars of water about, sweeping up, emptying the latrines. I think I'd have quite liked copying manuscripts, mind you, but would they have ever let me? You know what my handwriting's like. So, what I mostly do is sit here in this room, which I can't describe to you because I've never seen it, and some of the older brothers take it in turn to read to me. I have Strato to thank for that. He paid HS 1,000 for a permanent endowment; monks to read to me while I'm alive, prayers for my soul when I'm dead. I'm not all that fussed about the prayers—I can't see the look on the face of brother Anthemius, who's writing this down for me, but I bet he's shocked at that last bit. You're not? No, don't write that, you fool.
Actually, they've all been very kind to me, ever since I got here. Partly, I think, it's a sort of vague respect for my former office. After all, for a while there I was the second cousin of the Invincible Sun. I asked the prior about that, by the way, and he explained it to me very clearly, how I could be a blood relative of the Supreme Essence one minute and no relation at all the next. I wish I could remember his argument. It was very good. Father Prior has, in fact, been exceptionally kind. He even lets the monks read me proper books, not just religious stuff, which is a great blessing. Mind you, I've grown quite fond of the Precepts and the Offices lately. For the first time in my life (never thought I'd say this), they're starting to make some kind of sense. Perhaps we were wrong after all, Phormio, about seeing things clearly. Maybe this is what you have to go through before it's possible.
(In case you think I've adjusted really well, I haven't. Every morning, when I wake up, I try and open my eyes. Then there's a moment of panic; and then I think, Oh.)
I'm wandering, I know. Easy to do in the dark. The reason for this letter is, Gorgias came to see me. The emperor, himself. I have to confess, the truly special nature of the honour was wasted on me just a bit. But then, I've always loathed and despised emperors, until now, of course. All the emperors I ever knew before I came here were rubbish.
I heard his footsteps in the cloister, and I knew it was him. You don't believe me, but it's true. I asked the brother to stop reading, and called out his name. I heard the door open. Hello, Nico, he said. Hello, Gorgias, I replied, how are you? Fine, and yourself? A bit blind, I replied, but otherwise not so bad. I could hear the monk who'd been reading to me suck in his breath sharply, so I asked him if he'd mind leaving us, and I heard him go.
I'm sorry, he said. There's a coincidence, I said, so am I. He wasn't quite sure how I meant that, so I said; Let's not talk about bad stuff. Sit down and tell me something cheerful. So he sat down next to me on the bed and started talking—well, lecturing; like he was making a speech—about all the political stuff you're doing. Shut up, Gorgias, I said.
He was quiet for some time. Then he laughed, like a twig snapping. Sorry, he said. I guess that's not what you want to hear. Doesn't bother me, I replied, but it's boring. All right, he said, and there was another silence. So, he said, what isn't boring?
I couldn't help smiling. Is it true, I said, that you're hanging round Eudocia's kid sister?
A sort of a gasp; then, Who told you that?
Strato was here, I said. So it's true, then.
Emperors don't hang around, he said gravely. They negotiate marriage contracts with dynastically and politically suitable candidates. And she isn't, I said, and he clicked his tongue. Unfortunately not, he said. I'll probably end up marrying some savage with a bone through her nose, to safeguard the northern frontier. Meanwhile, he added, I'm hanging round Pulcheria. Nice kid, he added, but she reminds me of her sister.
Then we talked a bit about the old days, and then he gave me the news about the rest of the gang (nothing Strato hadn't already told me); then we started arguing about textual cruces in the Bessaid, of all the crazy things. I thought I'd win for sure, because the monks had just finished reading me Glycerius' Commentaries; but no, Gorgias somehow managed to dredge all the relevant stuff up out of his memory, from ten years ago. I'm telling you, Phormio, it was a hell of a good debate. And Gorgias won, of course.
Then, I really am sorry, he said suddenly; and I said, Forget it. You don't really mean that, he said. True, I said. I can't forget something just because I want to, in the same way I can't fly. But I can forgive. Besides, I said, it doesn't matter all that much.
I think that upset him a bit, but I wasn't too bothered about his fine sensibilities. All that stuff, I said, politics and morality and good and evil, it's just nonsense we used to talk about in the Poverty when we were kids. But if you insist on being deadly serious, I want you to answer me some questions. Truthfully, I said. On the Book.
Book?
I grinned. Not the Precepts, stupid, I said. On our book. I don't suppose you've got it with you.
As a matter of fact, he said. (I don't know if he was telling the truth. Could've been any book. It's easy to lie to a blind man.) All right, he said, on the book. So?
Question one, I said. Is it true that, all along, you wanted to be emperor?
No, he said.
On the book.
Yes, he said. And then he added, in a rush, Because how else could I ever get anything done? Good things, like we're doing now. Like the land reform proposals, or—
Question two, I said. When we were kids, was the only reason you let me hang out with you because I had money to pay for the drinks?
He laughed. No, of course not, he said. I'm not saying it didn't help us like you, but no, it wasn't that. It's true, he went on, we were never as close to you as we were to each other. I tended to think of you as Phormio's friend, rather than my friend, to begin with. But that changed, by second year.
I nodded. Question three, I said. If Phormio had been emperor instead of me, or Strato, would you have done the same thing?
Can't answer that, he said. The situation could never have arisen.
I let him get away with that. One lie out of three wasn't bad.
He stayed for two hours. Apparently, there's going to be a sort of visiting rota, which is a bit patronising, but very welcome nonetheless. Next month, Aristaeus will come and see me, and Menestheus the month after that; and Gorgias promised me faithfully you'll all come and visit on my birthday. I'm not holding my breath, but it'd be nice. In fact, it'd be the best thing.
My friends the monks read me the Gazette each week, Phormio, and I know how to interpret all those official announcements. I know that Gorgias has more or less given up trying to change anything. He'll be the Emperor from now on. I think he'll be a good one, so that's all right. Better than me, anyhow. Anyway, what do I care? I've been let off all that.
This is probably the best place I've ever been, and I've only been happier once. Please write, when you can spare the time.
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