My Beautiful Life Read online

  I didn’t understand. You told me she was really popular. You said the people love her.

  Yes, but they hadn't seen her for years. Now they can see she’s got old. They're making all sorts of dirty cracks about the two of you, and it’s really bad for morale. Also, it’s obvious she’s far too old to have a kid, which sets people thinking. She’s got to go.

  I felt cold all over. No, I said.

  Don't be stupid, he said. You can’t divorce her, obviously, and while she’s alive you can’t marry and have a legitimate heir. Tell you what, he went on, as though he was doing me a tremendous favour, we’ll pretend she’s dead, and that’ll be just as good. We can have a grand state funeral, mother of her country and all that, and then she can stay up in her tower, you can marry and breed and we’ll be safe. A stable, guaranteed succession is the only way to ensure stability, everyone knows that. You needn’t kill her if that’d upset you, but she’s got to go.

  I THOUGHT ABOUT how I was going to do it for a long time. I’d never done anything like it before—Nico had always seen to everything like that—and if I got it wrong there’d be hell to pay. But I was a complete novice, a virgin. Not a clue.

  So I got into the habit of an hour or so alone in the evenings, between dinner and bed. I told Nico I was having a course of massage, which made him smirk, and I told Bia I was learning to read, which she approved of. And I found myself a clerk.

  I came across him quite by chance. I’d got lost— something that happened painfully often in that place— and I wandered into some office or other, where there were half a dozen clerks on tall stools, copying things out. One of them, I noticed, was a brown man; not a common sight. I only noticed him because he looked different. All the other clerks in the Service are indistinguishable.

  You, I said. Come with me.

  He looked worried. I’m not supposed to leave my desk, he said. I’m the emperor, I told him. Do as you’re told.

  So I had a quiet time, a place to go (I found a little room everyone seemed to have forgotten about and nobody ever used) and a clerk. I told him, go to the library and get me a book about government.

  He gave me a terrified look.

  Get me, I said, a book about how you run an empire. There’s got to be one. Bring it here and read it to me.

  He must’ve thought I was mad, but away he went, and some time later he came back with a big book, which turned out to be Institutions of the Imperial Court, written a hundred years ago by the old emperor’s grandfather. That sounded promising. Read it to me, I told him.

  I lasted about five minutes, then stopped him. That’s no good, I said.

  Majesty?

  That’s all useless, I said, it’s ceremonial and protocol, and who has precedence at levees and lyings in state. Skip all that.

  So he flipped though the pages, most of the book, until there was only about a finger’s breadth left. Then he started reading again; and it was the good stuff. Sources of revenue, Organisation of the provincial governments, chains of command in the military, the structure and function of the civil Service. He read for about an hour, and then there wasn’t any more to read.

  You're Robur, aren’t you? I asked him

  He looked nervous. I used to be, majesty, but I’m a Citizen now. I love the empire.

  What’s your name, I asked him.

  Gemellus Constantianus, he said. I shook my head. Your real name, I said. What your mother called you.

  I’d asked him something personal and embarrassing, which he was ashamed about. My Robur name, he said, was Heaven Thunders The Truth.

  I raised my eyebrows. That’s a name?

  Where I came from, our majesty.

  I can’t call you that, I said. All right, say it in Robur.

  So he said something, and I only caught the first bit of it, because it was just noises. Would it be all right, I said, if I call you Bemba, for short?

  As your majesty pleases, he said.

  Bemba was a short man, he just about came up to my shoulder; about fifty years old, bald as an egg, only a faint trace of an accent; he’d been sold to the Service thirty-six years ago, after he was stolen from his family by traders, and the City was his home now, and the Service was his life. And now, having read me the book, he knew as much about running the empire as I did, and probably more. Well, you’ve got to start somewhere.

  Why haven’t you got rid of her yet? Nico kept asking me. I’m scared, I told him. What if it goes wrong? You're useless, he said, I’ll do it. Just leave everything to me. You won’t hurt her, I asked him, will you? And he looked at me as if I’d just wet myself. No, of course not, he said. You’re my brother. Would I ever do anything that’d upset you?

  THANKS TO BEMBA and the book I was beginning to understand who ran the empire. The emperor, obviously; except the empire is huge, so one man can’t do all that, even if he’s God's brother, so naturally he delegates; and over the years, everything had been delegated. Most of everything was done by the Service, which was run by two senior officials, the Guardian of the Orphans and the Count of the Stables. The Count was in charge of three of the five departments, but the Guardian had the two that mattered; war and the treasury. Now, of course, Nico was both the Count and the Guardian, which meant he had everything.

  But not quite. The army had its own traditions. For centuries, it had chosen its leaders from six families, who between them owned about a quarter of the land in the empire, and naturally enough they hated the Service and the Service loathed them. Money to pay the troops came from the treasury via the war office, which was how the Service kept the army commanders under control; also, it was a longstanding rule that no military units were to be stationed within two hundred miles of the City (apart from the palace guard, which was under the command of the Count of the Stables) and any general who came within that distance without first resigning his command was automatically a traitor and sentenced to death.

  The old emperor had spent more time with the army than in the City, and he’d been a good Commander. Apsimar didn’t like soldiers and was scared stiff of the generals; also, he wanted money for the university he’d founded, and it pained him to think of the soldiers getting paid for just sitting around, so he’d dissolved two of the eight field armies, the two which happened to be commanded by the Stilian brothers, members of the oldest and proudest of the six army families. With no soldiers to lead, he figured, they couldn’t be a threat to anyone, now could they?

  Bemba wrote a letter to Stilian Zautzes, asking him to come to the City as soon as he possibly could, and sealed it with my private seal, which Nico had carelessly left lying about in a locked desk (I owed Bemba a dukedom for that; if they’d caught him, he’d have been crucified). Now, chances were, Stilian would think it was a trap, and a pretty crude one at that. But he had reason to feel safe in the City, even if it was. The palace guard, about eight thousand strong, was recruited from the very best men in the field armies; it was a sort of pension for fifteen years plus of exemplary service. And Stilian's army had been the best in the empire (before Apsimar dissolved it), so half the men in the guard were his veterans, and they worshipped him. The letter hadn’t gone into detail—too risky; we only dared send it because Bemba found out there was one other Robur clerk—just one— in the domestic Service, and he was in the Postmaster’s office, and could get away and deliver it without anyone taking much notice—but Bemba had chosen his words well, with the lines artfully spaced for reading between. So Stilian came; and Bemba let him in at the back door of the kitchen and brought him to see me.

  He didn’t like me, not one bit, I could tell. I was too pretty, for one thing, and my clothes stank of Bias per fumes, and he didn’t approve of an old woman’ gigolo being emperor, even though he’d thought Apsimar was the devil incarnate. I rather liked Stilian. He was short and stocky, grey haired and grey eyed, and he had that accent that only army officers have, which I must admit I quite like. Anyway, I told him what I had in min
d and what I wanted him to do. He looked at me as if I was mad. Can’t be done, he said. And if they catch us, they'll cut my head off. I felt like I was about to piss down my leg I was so scared, but I looked straight at him. If we don’t do it now, I said, we won’t get another chance. You do want what’s best for the empire, don’t you?

  You’re either mad or very stupid, he said. What’s that got to do with anything? I asked.

  I WASN’T THERE to see it, of course. I was in our bedroom when it happened, in the middle of the night, which is always the best time for anything like that. But Bemba went along, to be my witness and to carry the Great Seal in case anyone needed to see it.

  Later, Stilian told me the story. He’d had no trouble finding the men. He’d chosen a dozen of his old NCOs, men who’d served under him in the old emperor’s time; he told them to meet him in the quad next to the South Cloister at the start of Prime, and sure enough, there they were. They made their way quickly and quietly through the corridors, with Bemba leading the way, until they reached Nico’s room. The door wasn’t even locked. He was sitting up in bed reading official papers. They didn’t give him time to say a word, according to Stilian. They stuffed his mouth with rags, tied his hands and hustled him out of there in his night shirt and bare feet.

  They didn’t have far to go; about a hundred yards to the kitchen gate, where Bemba had let Stilian in, and then a quarter of a mile through empty streets to the Golden Shell temple. One of the canons there owed Stilian’s cousin a large sum of money, so there was no trouble; doors unlocked, everything they needed laid out ready for them. They tied Nico to a prebendary stall, shaved his head so he’d be acceptable as a monk, and put his eyes out. It’s an old-established tradition, so they tell me, in the Imperial court; it effectively gets rid of some¬one as a potential threat without actually killing them, which is why it’s referred to as the Divine Clemency of the Emperor. I wish they hadn't told me that.

  From there, he was taken by boat down the South canal to the harbour, where Stilian had arranged passage (you can see why he was such a good general) for Nico and three guards to the Blue Rock monastery on the island of Olethria. In case you haven't heard of it, it’s a rock in the middle of the sea—sailors know how to find it, apparently, but it’s not on any maps.

  SHE STARED AT me when I told her. What the hell did you do that for, she said.

  I told her. She went white as a sheet. He wanted me to have you killed, I told her, so I could marry someone else and have kids, for the succession.

  I want him dead, she said. Right now.

  He’s my brother, I told her. And he did it all for me, and Edax. Then I realised. She hadn't known Nico was my brother. She’d figured out that we knew each other, that Nico had arranged for me to be assigned to her because I was good-looking, but that was as far as she’d got; and I assumed she knew, and besides, I never really talked much about myself. It doesn’t matter, I told her. He had to go anyway, for the empire.

  She scowled at me. What are you talking about, she said.

  For the empire, I said. He’d never have let me put anything right. He wasn’t interested in that sort of thing. He only cared about getting power and holding on to it—so we’d be all right, him and me and our kid brother Edax. He’d have told me not to be so bloody stupid, and leave everything to him, and keep out of things that don’t concern me. And when he got rid of the old Guardian, he took all that embezzled land for himself, and I know he’d never have given it back, and we’ll need that money. He’d have said it was for just-in-case; in case anything went wrong and we had to clear out in a hurry and go somewhere else . He’s very careful, my brother, he always expects the worst.

  (Except he hadn’t; not the very worst. But nobody’s perfect.)

  She looked at me as though I was a stranger. Well, she said, it’s done now. And nobody liked him anyway.

  I APPOINTED GENERAL Stilian as the new Guardian. It had never been done before, having a soldier in charge of the war office, not to mention everything else. I had no idea whether I could trust him or not, and I was well aware he didn’t like me, but I didn’t see that I had any choice. I didn’t know anyone else.

  And I made Bemba the new Count. I figured, he has no friends, nobody’s ever wanted him on their side, nobody’s spoken to him unless they absolutely had to, but he knows his way round the Service; he’ll be on my side, because he’ll know that if anything happens to me, he’ll be dead within the hour. That’s how you make sure of loyalty. Love and trust don’t work, I’ve found.

  First thing I had them do was make a list of everything that was wrong with the empire. It sounds stupid, doesn’t it, but I thought, we might as well start at the beginning.

  It was worse than I thought; worse, I think, than anyone had realised, even Nico, who was so smart. To start with, all the money had gone. When the old emperor died, we’d had a surplus of something like twelve billion; now we owed something like seven billion to the banks and the merchant venturers, and we didn’t dare default because it’d start a panic and everything would go to hell. We couldn't raise taxes, because taxes were too high already. The way it works is, the treasury fixes on an amount for each province and charges it to the districts, who pass the assessments on to the landowners, who pass it on to the tenants, with a little bit extra added for luck at each stage. Things were so bad that farmers were simply packing up and leaving, without any clear idea of where they were going, and large parts of the eastern and southern provinces—where all the grain for the City comes from—were just empty houses and fields full of briars and nettles. A fair number of them ended up in the City, where they thought they might find work, but taxes were high there, too, and workshops and factories were going out of business every day. The price of grain in the City had doubled over the last six months, and rather too often there simply wasn’t any grain to buy, not at any price, because the corn-chandlers were in debt to the merchant venturers, who had a habit of sequestering the grain barges before they reached the City harbour and sending them off to Scheria or Messagene, where prices (because of the strength of the Scherian angel and the Messagene thaler against the Imperial solidus) were higher.

  None of which bothered general Stilian particularly, since his family estates were in the north, and the City could bum to the ground for all he cared. What really upset him was the fact that the peasant farmers and smallholders whose sons had supplied the army with recruits for a thousand years were being driven off the land by the thousand, when the rich City aristocrats called in their mortgages, so they could take the land and work it with slave labour. That and Apsimar’s dissolution of three regiments meant that the army had shrunk to a third of what it had been in the old emperor’s time. But we’re at peace, who is there left to fight? Apsimar had said to him, with that winning smile of his, and hadn’t waited for an answer.

  Besides, Stilian told me, even if you really feel the need to make things better for people, as you put it, you can’t, the Service won't let you. I said that the old emperor hadn’t allowed the Service to interfere; that made him roar with laughter. The Service is three times bigger than it was in his day, he told me; and I had Bemba look into it, and he was right. Also, its budget was four times what it had been in Basiliscus’ day, and ninety per cent of that went on wages, although the pay of the junior grades, three quarters of the total staff, who do the actual work, had fallen by fifteen per cent.

  I’VE NEVER DONE an honest day’s work in my life, so I don’t know how it feels. But I can use my imagination. I picture myself walking up from the house to the barn just when the sun rises. I can see myself walking the oxen into the yoke, linking up the plough, driving the team to the field, leaning on the plough-handles to dig the share into the earth as the oxen lurch forward. I can see myself stopping at the end of each furrow to wipe the sweat off my face and look back at what I’ve done and what I’ve still got to do. It’ll never happen, of course, but I can imagine it.

  The fie
ld I had to plough in real life was a bit more daunting; and I didn’t know how to go about it, or where to start. My plough-oxen, God forgive me for calling them that, were an ill-matched pair. One of them despised me, and the other one was scared stiff of more or less everything; and one was a blueblood military aristocrat, with a better pedigree than God, and the other one had been born in a Robur Caravan and weaned on broth boiled down from the bones of his father's enemies—did I mention the Robur are cannibals? But there; I don’t suppose either of them ever thought they’d be serving an emperor whose mother was a village whore. Things don’t ever seem to turn out the way we thought they would, but here we all still are. For now, anyway.

  I asked Stilian to have a word with the bankers. He scowled at me, but I think the idea appealed to him; his family had lost about a hundred thousand acres to the banks over the last fifty years. He came back and told me that they’d agreed to accept forty nummi on the solidus, with payments spread out over fifty years, at two per cent (we’d been paying five). I have no idea what he said to them, which is probably just as well.

  Bemba wrote me a report on the Service. It was very long, carefully copied out on new parchment and rolled up in a gold tube. I pointed out that I couldn’t read it, so he read it to me. We put our heads together and decided what to do. The next day, Stilian’s guards arrested all twelve heads of department on charges of embezzlement, peculation, dereliction of duty and fraud; the charges would be dropped, Bemba told them, if they cut their departmental budgets by a half and got rid of a third of their staff. Since the penalty for embezzlement in public office is crucifixion, they agreed to see what they could do.

  It took a lot of work, ingenuity and imagination to unravel the paper trail Nico had left to cover his ownership of the public land he’d taken over from his predecessor. When we finally got to the bottom of it, we were stunned. A million acres, and none of your rubbish; prime arable in the most fertile districts of the home provinces. We parcelled it up, ten acres a man for a hundred thousand homeless farmers—freehold, I insisted on that, though Stilian called me all the names under the Sun and even Bemba frowned and asked me if I was sure that was a good idea. But it had to be freehold; no rent, no debt. The proviso was, the land couldn’t be sold or mortgaged for fifty years. That was for Stilian, and he eventually got the point. A new generation of soldiers for the empire.