My Beautiful Life Read online

  The watch commander sympathised, I could see that, but he explained; it wasn’t up to him, his hands were tied. Theoretically, he had a budget for medical care for suspects in custody, but the fact was, money was tight, the surgeons in Roches were a bunch of thieves and bandits, and there really wasn’t any point spending money fixing up my brother's arm and leg when we were both going to be hung in two days’ time, sure as eggs. Think about the next poor devil who occupies this cell, he told me. He’ll come in here with a broken leg or busted ribs, and who knows, he could be innocent as a new-born babe, and all the money for fixing up injured criminals had been wasted on a dead man, or as good as. I thanked him, told him I could see his point, and asked nicely for four sticks and some old rag. He grinned, came back with a length of batten he’d fished out of the fire wood, and two military-issue scarves. I’m no doctor, but I’d seen a leg set a couple of times. Edax squealed like a pig while I was hauling him about trying to fit the two ends of the breaks together, and it nearly broke my heart. You clown, he told me with tears in his eyes, you’re doing it all wrong. Probably, I told him, but you heard the man, it really doesn’t matter. And then he called me a whole bunch of names, all of which I deserved, until I managed to get the splints tied down tight.

  They had us up in front of the judge the next morning. I did the talking, what little there was of it; names and where we were from, while Edax clung to my arm and sobbed. And it occurred to me to think that I hadn’t really made the best use of my life so far, so maybe it was just as well I’d be relieved of the responsibility. It’s like the parable, the one about the rich man who goes away leaving his Steward in charge of the vineyard, and when he comes back it’s choked with weeds and all the crops have rotten. And then the judge yawned and said, death by hanging, and that was that.

  It’s hard to pray when you’re squashed up in a cell the size of a chickencoop with someone bawling his eyes out. In prayer, you’re looking to forget your earthly body and join in metaphysical union with the Eternal, and it spoils the mood if you can’t hear yourself think, and someone keeps prodding you in the ribs with his splinted leg. I did my best. Lord, I said, I have no right to call on You. I had my chance and I wasted it. I’m weak and worthless and I can’t see any point in going on, but my brother here must love his life or he wouldn't be making that dreadful noise at the thought of losing it; if You could see your way to getting him out of this, it would be more than either of us could ever possibly deserve, but to You all things are possible, and maybe You can find a use for him some day, who knows?

  And then I guess I must have fallen asleep, because I distinctly remember the dream I had. I was sitting on a golden throne, and next to me was Edax; we were both wearing the lorus, divitision and greater dalmatic and the triple crown and pendetilia—I knew that’s what they were, though of course I’d never seen them in my life— and I held the sceptre and globe cruciger, and across my knees was a beautiful sword; and someone said to me; this is why. And I remember thinking, what could that possibly mean?

  In the morning, they came to get us. But there were three of them; the watch captain, an old man with a leather satchel and a short, small man with hedgehog bristle hair who obviously scared the other two to death. He didn’t say anything. The watch captain said; terribly sorry, this whole thing’s been a dreadful mistake, you’re free to go, and this is the surgeon, would you please let him have a look and see if there’s anything he can do? He was sweating, I remember, great fat drops of sweat rolling down his forehead, down the bridge of his nose. And the surgeon, the old man with the satchel, was furious; what stupid bloody fool set this leg, he said angrily, and I said, actually, that was me; and he went all quiet and gave Edax’s ankle a little twist which made him yell; a little click, and then he bound it up nice and tight with proper splints and proper new linen bandages. Then they had two soldiers help Edax out of the cell, up the stairs and out into the daylight, where there was a coach waiting; the mail, no less, fastest thing without wings in the world, with cushioned seats and rugs to put over our knees, and a wicker basket with fresh bread, cheese, dried sausage and a bottle of wine.

  And I thought; that's twice I’ve prayed, and twice it’s worked.

  We were two days in the coach—the mail doesn’t stop, except to change horses—and we hardly said a word to each other, mostly because when we were half an hour out of Roches I told Edax to for God’s sake stop whining, and he sulked a lot after that. Gave me a chance to think. Where were we going? No idea. But even if Edax hadn’t been all busted up, we couldn’t have jumped off the mail and survived, and when we stopped to change horses— at some point I think I must have tried the latch on the coach door, and it was bolted on the outside. And then I thought; well, my prayers have been answered, and this is the form the answer takes. Presumably I'm just too stupid to understand.

  Then the coach slowed down, and we were in a big city, much bigger than Chastel or Roches, the way a bull’s bigger than a day-old calf. So we slowed down, and I saw Edax try the doorlatch. Don’t be stupid, I told him, you can’t run and I can’t carry you, and he looked daggers at me and hugged his broken arm.

  And then we went under a low arch into a little yard, and the coach stopped, and someone jumped down and shot the bolts on the doors and opened them, and I stepped out; and there, standing right in front of me, was Nico, except he was wearing a long black gown like a priest. And he grabbed me and crushed all the breath out of me. You idiot, he said, you complete arsehole.

  HE’D BEEN SEARCHING for us, he told us later, for two years, ever since he’d got himself well enough established in the Service to be able to look after us and provide for us; but we would insist on moving about and making ourselves hard to find—we were both officially dead, for one thing, except he’d chosen not to believe that (faith; my brother had faith the way a soldier keeps the sword he brought back from the war, even though his side lost and the country's now occupied by the enemy). So he’d paid the best portrait painter in the City to paint miniatures of us both, on little ivory cards—a hell of a job, because he could only remember us the way we’d been when we were still just kids; he kept making the artist stop and scrape off what he’d done and try again. And then he sent his man Gigax (the little man with the hedgehog hair) all round the country with the miniatures in his pocket, have you seen these men? And eventually he found someone in a bar who said yes, but you’ll have to be quick, they're getting hung in the morning.

  But all that, Nico said, was over now. We were here, and we were safe, and nothing bad was ever going to happen to any of us ever again. And he told us all about his amazing rise to power, how incredibly successful he’d been; it was all for you, he said, it was all so we could be together again, as a family, and safe. After all, he said, what could possibly be more important than that?

  HE HAD THE best doctors in the City in to look at Edax, but they shook their heads and said the damage was already done, there was nothing they could do; he’d be lame for the rest of his life, and his right hand would never close properly. That made Nico very sad, but he told me it wasn’t my fault, not really, given the circumstances.

  I told him about how I’d prayed, and how my prayers had been answered. But Nico just laughed. Don’t be stupid, he said. There is no Invincible Sun, didn’t anyone ever tell you that? There’s just a big white thing in the sky that makes you go blind if you stare at it, and there's Edax and you and me, and that’s it. Nothing and nobody else matters, just us.

  But Nico, I said, I prayed—twice—and both times my prayers were answered. You idiot, he said. Think about that just a moment. If He exists and He wanted to save you, then surely the sensible time to do it would’ve been before you were right on the point of being killed, rather than leaving it to the very last minute. Better still, he’d have had you find a five-shilling piece in the Street, so you wouldn’t have had to go thieving. But no, He waits till the noose is practically round your neck, and then He intervenes. If
I had a clerk who arranged things as badly as that, I'd fire him tomorrow. Tell you what, Nico said, if your Invincible Sun ever needs a job, tell Him not to bother applying to the Service. He’d never make the grade.

  NICO HAD ROOMS, a room, in the attic of the Stables, though he more or less lived in his office. For us he bought a house on the Savatina, with an acre of garden, and a dozen servants to look after us. Are you crazy, I asked him. He grinned. He could afford it, he said. He could afford it out of a week’s pay, and still have change to buy a warship. Then he said; Look at me, what do you see?

  I told him, I didn’t understand the question.

  What you’re looking at, little brother, he said, is the second most powerful man in the Empire. And in case you’re wondering, no, not the Emperor, he’s number three. There’s me and there’s Cratylus, the Guardian of the Orphans, and between you and me, I’m planning to do something about that.

  You've lost me, I said. Nico, what the hell is going on?

  SO HE EXPLAINED.

  Let me take you back, he said, to when the old emperor died. Basiliscus V, greatest emperor we’ve ever had; on the throne for fifty-seven years, found the empire in ruins, left it bigger and richer and stronger than it’s ever been. He really was a great man, Nico said (and when Nico says something good about someone, without any excepts or apart froms, you’d better believe it) but there was one thing he didn’t do which made everything else a complete waste of time. He never had a son.

  Daughters, yes; two of them. But no son. Not for want of trying. Basiliscus never failed in anything because of not trying. Twice a day, morning and evening, whenever he wasn’t away at the wars, and according to the palace guards you could hear him trying out in the courtyard; but all the empress ever came out with was two daughters, until at last she’d had enough and withdrew to a convent. By which point Basiliscus was an old man, but he was halfway through getting the marriage annulled so he could remarry when he died himself, of lockjaw, and that was that. Because he assumed he'd live forever, and because he didn’t want his daughters to marry until he’d produced a son, the princesses were both old maids by then. The elder, Apollonia, had gone off to the convent when she was nineteen and had been there ever since; which left the other one.

  Now even I’d heard of her. The Princess Bia; Bia Carbonopsina, meaning coal-black eyes, the most beautiful woman in the world. Yes, Nico said, that’s her. But that was twenty years earlier. Twenty years, and she’s still there, still a princess wrapped in swansdown and ermine, only not quite so pretty as she once was. Never mind; the obvious answer was, princess Bia had to marry and produce an heir, and then we’d be back on track and everything will be fine.

  True, we all said, it’s cutting it a bit fine. Princess Bia is, as a matter of cold genealogical fact, forty-five years old; but stranger things have happened, and the alternative is civil war, so let’s give it a shot and see what happens. The princess herself was all for it, of course. All her life, all forty-five years of it, she’d been led to believe that one day she’d marry a handsome prince and live happily ever after, and as time went on, her patience was wearing thin. Didn’t help, of course, being a princess and blood royal. Other girls, other women, can usually find ways of amusing themselves, so long as they’re discreet and nothing disastrous happens, but not her, because of the unthinkable dynastic consequences. So, she lived in what was essentially a prison, and the only men she ever saw were, well, (Nico said) men like me. Most of the time she spent brewing perfumes; she was really good at it, good enough to earn her own living, and bottles of her choicest concoctions were sent as marks of special favour to queens and empresses right across the world. She, however, never left the North Tower, and she wasn't happy about that at all.

  So, when they broke the bad news that she was going to have to marry and breed to save the world from drowning in a sea of blood, she was only too happy to comply. As to who the lucky man was going to be, she had very strong opinions on that. Years ago she’d fallen in love with a handsome senator. She hadn't seen him for a while, but no matter. There had been a slight delay, but never mind about that, either. One day my prince will come, and here he finally was.

  Vestinus Apsimar had been every woman’s dream when he was twenty-seven and Bia was fourteen; he was still solidly handsome at fifty-eight, so long as he stuck his chin out and his stomach in. He’d been married, very happily, for thirty years, but off went his wife to the Convent, along with their three daughters, and Apsimar had a haircut and a shave, splashed his face all over with rosewater, and went to the palace to be married to his princess.

  What he found when she lifted the veil was a tall, thin woman with big, dark eyes, and I don’t suppose he felt like he’d been ill-used or cheated. She wasn’t exactly hideous, and he was to be the new emperor, and the one duty expected of him was something he’d been doing all his adult life, with boundless enthusiasm and a fair degree of skill.

  Well, said Nico, that was eleven years ago. For the first six years, Apsimar went about his one duty with all the diligence and sense of civic duty that you'd expect from a son of one of the oldest families in the Empire; after that, I guess, he came to the conclusion that there really wasn’t any point to it; and besides, he told himself, the empire didn’t need another emperor, because it had him, and he was doing a fine job; and as for an heir, there was always his nephew. So back went Princess Bia to her tower and her alembics—didn’t go quietly, so they tell me, and she may be thin but she’s wiry, but they got her there in the end—and Apsimar set about being the best emperor in history. Apsimar the Great was what he was aiming at, though he’d probably settle for Apsimar the Strong, or Apsimar the Wise would do at a pinch. And there he still is, and there she still is, and everything would be fine, except—

  Except what? I asked him. And he looked at me.

  APSIMAR, SAID NICO, lowering his voice even though we were alone, is a pinhead. An idiot. Far worse than that, he’s a pinheaded idiot who thinks he’s great and strong and wise.

  Now, that needn’t be a problem, Nico went on. Half of our greatest emperors—Florian III, Cleophon, Artax II—have been pinheads, or drunks, or crazy as jaybirds, but it didn’t matter because they took no interest in the job and were happy for the Service to deal with everything for them. Not so with Apsimar. He interferes. First thing he did was have Ninus arrested, tonsured and sent to a monastery. Who’s Ninus? Before your time, I suppose. They used to call him Ninus the Weasel. He was a loathsome little man who ran the Empire for Basiliscus when he was away at the wars, and he did it very well, very well indeed. But Apsimar got rid of him the moment the lorus landed round his neck, and that’s how come I got promoted from Count of the Stables to Chancellor, because Cratylus, who was Chancellor before me, got kicked upstairs to Guardian of the Orphans. And when I tell you Apsimar and Cratylus deserve each other—

  Actually, that’s not quite fair. Cratylus is smart. But for the last thirty years he’s been systematically robbing the Treasury on an industrial scale—you take a ride on the mail from the City to Trabasc, and all the land you'll ride over belongs to him, through one dummy corporation or another—and he knows for a fact that if he ever loses his grip on power, his head will be decorating a pike in the Square. So, whatever Apsimar tells him to do, he does it, no matter how crassly idiotic it might be, because his only chance of staying alive is to be second-in-command to an easily led clown. Now if I was him, I'd look back and ask myself, if that’s the outcome, was it all worth it? Still, it wouldn’t do if we were all the same.

  How bad? Oh boy. Second thing Apsimar did, he cancelled the protection money to the Robur.

  Yes, really. That’s what I mean. Even Basiliscus, who never lost a battle, made sure the savages got their money, twenty million in gold, first day of spring every year. There’s just too many of them, he used to say, and if we were to fight them instead of buying them off, first, we’d lose, second, it’d cost a hundred and fifty million a year to
keep an army on the frontier which stands any chance of keeping them in check. So, what does Apsimar do? He cancels the tribute and uses the money to endow a school of philosophy. Apsimar the Wise. Idiot.

  And then Nico sighed, and said; That’s why it’s so important that we’re together, where I can look after you. Trust me, everything’s about to go to hell, it won't be long before nowhere and nobody’s safe, not unless they're really in tight, where they can pull the walls in round them like a blanket and snuggle down till it’s all over. It’s not just the wars. The Treasury’s empty, there’s fifty thousand men out of work in the City alone, rents are so high the Farmers can’t pay the taxes to keep the army in the field, there's honest men selling their kids, honest men who can’t sell their kids because nobody can afford to buy them—from here you’d never believe it, but out at the edges it’s all coming apart, and everyone still thinks it’s like it was when the old emperor was alive; and it looks that way, because we keep up appearances as though our lives depend on it, but it isn’t.