My Beautiful Life Read online

  Bemba did a bit of digging, and found out that the merchant venturers who held the debt on the corn chandlers’ barges had neglected to pay any tax for the last eight years; they’d paid about a quarter of what they owed to Nico’s predecessor, and their tax demands somehow got lost in the paperwork. I set Stilian on them—he was starting to enjoy bullying civilians, and I like people to be happy in their work—and we got possession of the barges, which meant we could guarantee supply. We also managed to bring the price down twelve per Cent, by cutting costs; not nearly as much as I’d have liked, but at least it was a start. In the medium term, corn would be cheaper, once the newly-installed smallholders started producing and selling; I had Bemba set up a cooperative to buy their grain and sell it to the chandlers at an honest price, though how long that’ll last remains to be seen.

  Apsimar had commissioned a whole lot of building work—temples, his precious university and a whole new palace (we’ve already got four palaces in the City). I cancelled all that, but the contractors didn’t lose out. Instead, I set them to work renovating the walls—they hadn’t been looked at since the old emperor was a boy, and large parts of them were a mess—and paving the City streets, which are so bad in places, you can drown in the wheel-ruts if it’s been raining heavily. Ridiculous extravagance, Stilian called it, but it made work for about twelve thousand City men who hadn’t had any work for a long time, and I paid for it by selling the books from Apsimar’s university, or at least suggesting to the bankers that they might care to take them in lieu of cash for their next instalment of interest. I didn’t have to make Stilian go along and make the request, I just had Bemba mention his name. They remembered him very well.

  I HAD A private chapel on the top of the East tower. It used to be a lookout post for the beacon system, before the mail was set up. It was small and circular, white washed walls, with an icon of the Transfiguration—at least until I found out how much it was worth; then I had it sold and made do with just the wall.

  I went there every day to pray. Lord, I said, I have sinned. I murdered the Emperor. I let my brother murder other people—I don’t know how many, dozens maybe. I can’t think of anything worse than what I’ve done. And You rewarded me with the Empire, and a chance of making life better for Your people, and—I wasn’t quite sure what the word meant, but I used it anyway; happiness. Does this mean I’m forgiven?

  The thing is, I had no idea. I’d had a dream, once, under difficult circumstances; this is why. And I’d been shown myself, sitting on the throne (but with Edax next to me; that part of it I couldn't figure out), so I’d assumed that He meant me to become Emperor, so I could do what was pleasing in His sight—and I’d assumed that feeding the poor and putting the Empire to rights must be pleasing in His sight, though maybe I’d been jumping to conclusions. But in order to do that, I’d murdered a man, and I’d stood by while Nico murdered probably dozens more; and there was treason and adultery and all those other bad things, and surely that couldn’t be His will?

  Where was I when He laid the foundations of the earth? Good question.

  So I prayed; Lord, if I’m doing the right thing and what I’m doing is pleasing in Your sight, send me a sign. Something so clear, even an idiot like me can understand it.

  I REMEMBER THAT day very clearly. It was the day the news reached the City that the Robur had sacked Charnac.

  I ASKED BEMBA about the Robur. Were they really cannibals? Well, yes and no. Most of the time they lived on milk, cheese, butter and yoghurt, along with whatever wild fruit they came across as they lumbered in their enormous wagons across the north-eastern plains. But when they fought anyone, assuming they won, they ate the bodies of men they’d killed, and what they didn’t eat fresh they salted down, like bacon. And were they really as merciless as people made out? Yes and no, Bemba said. Among themselves they prized justice, honour and mercy; but none of that applied to people who weren’t Robur, therefore by definition inferior and not really human. What did they want, I asked him. To be left alone in peace, mostly; except that when they felt their honour had been insulted, it was their highest duty to avenge it. For instance; they didn’t care a damn about gold, silver, silks, ivory, all the things we set so much store by in the Empire. To them, it was all just so much junk that took up space in the wagons that could be used for something useful; when the Emperor sent them gold coins, they buried them, with a pile of stones to mark the spot. No risk of them getting stolen, because who in their right mind would want them?

  But when a Robur king dies, he’s buried with all the prizes he’s won in his lifetime; and Robur kings tend to die at frequent intervals, because they’re a competitive people. Now the king had just died, but the Emperor had stopped sending gold, so there was nothing to bury him with, and this was the most appalling dishonour. No good sending tribute now, because the damage had been done. Honour would only be satisfied if they took it by force.

  Just how much force exactly, I asked, before honour was satisfied? Bemba thought about that and said he didn’t know precisely; as much as it took until they felt better, was about as close as he could get. Also, he said, his people had been cooped up in their grazing-lands for many years, ever since the emperors started paying tribute, which meant the Robur could no longer honourably raid the Empire. A whole generation had grown up without the chance to establish their status by fighting, and to the Robur that sort of thing was desperately important. The most likely thing was that they’d set their heart on burning the City itself. Could they do that, I asked him? Oh yes, he said.

  So I asked general Stilian, who told me that the old emperor had never fought the Robur, but his grandfather had; four battles, three of which he lost, the fourth one drawn, and that was when the Tribute started. What made them so special he didn’t honestly know. The Robur don’t have horses; their wagons are drawn by oxen, and they fight on foot, but they're superb archers with the most marvellous composite cane bows; also, they're very big and strong and brave, and they don’t seem to care about getting killed. If only it was possible to hire them as mercenaries, he’d have done so like a shot. But they don’t use money, and they think fighting for hire is the most disgusting thing a man can do.

  I asked him; do we stand a chance against them? He thought for a very long time, and said; yes, because we've got very good cavalry. But it’d mean bringing up the main cavalry forces from the South and the West, as well as the Northern heavy infantry; we only really stand a chance if we hit them in overwhelming force, and like I’ve been telling you all this time, the army is dangerously under strength.

  Never mind about that, I told him. Overwhelming force it is. He shrugged. I can do that, he said, but I’ll need money. I’ll see about that, I said, not having the faintest idea where it was going to come from. And I’ll want my brothers and my uncle Tzimisces as my battalion commanders. Fine, I said. And then he couldn’t think of anything else to ask for on the spur of the moment, and I left him to his plan of campaign.

  THE NEXT DAY I received a delegation from the Supreme Conclave. It was led by the abbot of the Studium, and the heads of all the City temples were with him. It was imperative, they told me, that I should put away the empress at once. Otherwise, they would have no choice but to close all the temples and pronounce sentence of excommunication on the entire City.

  I asked them as respectfully as I could if they’d all gone raving mad. The City takes its religion seriously; excommunication, particularly with the Robur on the warpath, would mean panic, riots, the guards being called in to stop the riots, at least one horrendous massacre—they knew all that, they assured me, but it had to be done. The law was quite clear. They had no choice.

  There’s always a choice, I told them, and what’s this all about anyway? They looked at me, very gravely. There was evidence, they said, that the empress had murdered her husband, the late emperor. As such she was an abomination in His sight, and unless she was removed and confined, He would punish the Empire. Indeed, it co
uld hardly be a coincidence that His scourge had already been set in motion, a point their priests would be sure to make from every pulpit in the City unless I took immediate action.

  I can’t do that, I said, she’s my wife. I love her.

  Maybe I was mumbling or something; they didn’t seem to have heard me. At once, they said. In fact, we would prefer it if you issued the order in our presence, right now.

  You’ve got it all wrong, I told them. It wasn’t her who killed the old man, it was me.

  They looked at me as if I was stupid or something. You are the emperor, they said, the emperor can do no wrong. It would be a legal impossibility for you to be guilty of murder. But someone clearly is; and since there are only two parties involved, it has to be her.

  Besides, said the archimandrite of the Crooked Horn, lowering his voice just a little, she’s lived in that tower most of her life, she’s used to it by now. And you’re a young man, and the empire needs an heir. And you’re quite popular in the City right now, what with all the reforms, you needn’t worry on that score. We’ve got just the formula for annulling the marriage, and then you’ll be free.

  I didn’t answer him. I can’t do it, I said.

  You must, they said. It’s God’s will.

  SHE DIDN’T GO quietly. I made sure I wasn’t anywhere I could hear, but I gather there was a terrible scene. That evening, the abbot of the Studium made an official announcement at evening prayers. There were no riots, but only because Stilian had posted guards on all the Street comers. I sent for the abbot and told him, but he shook his head. It’s too late now, he said, the annulment has gone through, and besides, you can’t go back on your word. If you do, we’ll excommunicate you, and that would mean civil war.

  Bemba told me that any support I’d had in the City was gone. I was the cunning, contriving usurper who’d seduced the old emperor’s daughter, then had her locked up the moment she stopped being useful. They’d never forgive me for that.

  I went to my chapel and prayed. Lord, I said, I think I understand. I did what was unpleasing in your sight, and you punished me; first my brother, now my wife. But you sent me a dream, after I’d prayed to you; this is why, you told me. I’ve tried to do what I thought you wanted. I expect I got that wrong. I get everything wrong, according to Nico.

  So what I’d like you to do, if it’s perfectly all right, is to punish me, not the City or the Empire. If you punish me, with death or disgrace or anything You like, I’ll know I was wrong all along and I’ll go quietly, and I won’t ask you for anything ever again. But please, if it’s all my fault, don’t hurt anyone else because of it.

  ON THAT UNDERSTANDING, I sealed Stilian’s formal Commission for the Robur campaign.

  He’d taken me at my word and put together the biggest land army ever fielded in the Empire outside of a civil war. He’d brought up the Second and the Fourth from the south, mostly comprising light and heavy cavalry, and the First from the west, with its eight battalions of heavy infantry. I’d found him some money by appealing to the better nature of the abbot of the Studium, who issued a bull for a tithe of all ecclesiastical property in the City; I was stunned by how much that came to, but never mind; that particular gift horse had golden teeth.

  We had a big Service for him in the Studium chapel, and another in the Offertory, and then off he went. That night I repeated my prayer, just in case He hadn’t heard me.

  It would be all right, Bemba told me. If there was one thing on earth his people were terrified of, it was men on horses. In the past, when they’d fought us, they’d stuck to the mountains, where cavalry can’t go. But now they were down in the plains, with nowhere to hide. Besides, Stilian was a fine general. He’d learned his trade under the old emperor.

  Next morning I woke up and found both my ankles had swollen. They were as thick as my calves, and when I pressed them with my thumb, I left a thumb-sized hollow. So I sent for the doctors, who said it was nothing to worry about, and they’d be back the next day. The morning after that, the swelling was up to my thighs. You’ve got dropsy, the doctors said.

  Ah, I thought. So that’s all right.

  IN THE WEEKS that followed, I drew great strength and satisfaction from my sickness. I don’t know if you're familiar with dropsy; you swell up like a wineskin, your skin goes purple, your joints ache horribly all the time and no matter what you do, you can’t get comfortable. I couldn’t get to my chapel at the top of the tower—I couldn’t leave my chair without three men to help me—but I prayed nonetheless. Thank you, I said.

  I knew it had to be the answer to my prayers, because it was just the right illness for me to have. All those good looks, all that prettiness, gone. Instead I turned into this ludicrous bloated monster, like an animal that’s been dead for a week. My skin was sort of glazed, like ham cured with honey, and it took me all my time and effort just to breathe. Thank you, I said to Him. That’s a sign even I can understand.

  The doctors made me drink things and rubbed stuff into my skin, all of which made the pain worse but did nothing about the swelling. After a bit I thanked them and told them to go away. The last thing I wanted was for them to cure me, at least not until Stilian was back home with his army intact.

  And the news was good. Stilian had encountered a Robur raiding party, live thousand strong, heading for Beal Defour. He surrounded them with horse-archers and drove them like sheep onto the spearpoints of the 5th lancers. Only a handful of the enemy survived, and his own losses were trivial.

  The swelling moved into my neck, and then my head, making my eyes blurry. I sent for the doctors. That's perfectly normal, they said. Nothing to worry about, then, I said. Not quite, they told me. It’s perfectly normal for your vision to blur when you’re as seriously ill as you are. Look on the bright side, though; your heart will probably give way before you go blind.

  Thank you, I said, and I thought about poor Nico. The Divine Clemency of the Emperor, only in reverse. But divine clemency was what I’d prayed for, and if my prayers were granted I could ask for no more.

  THEY WOKE ME up to tell me the news. Stilian and his entire army were dead.

  I tried to get up, but there weren't enough people to help me. I fell on the floor, which was agony. They fetched a doctor, who said I wasn’t to move for at least an hour on any account. So I received the messenger flat on my back, and hardly able to think straight for the pain.

  The messenger was one Aelian Boutzes, a colonel in the lancers. He’d been sent off to reconnoitre, but he got lost, and by the time he found his way back it was all over. He had no idea what had happened, but there was our camp, swarming with Robur, and dead men everywhere, very few of them Robur. He pulled out quick sharp and galloped off to find the survivors. It was a flat plain. He didn’t find any.

  He spent the rest of the day avoiding Robur scouts, and the night trying to figure out what to do. Just before dawn he rode back, and saw the remains of the biggest harvest festival the Robur had celebrated for a very long time. Then he headed straight back to the City. It was just possible, he said, that a few hundred of Stilian's men had made it, but he doubted it very much. If there’d been any significant number of survivors, in that terrain he’d have seen them. And so, of course, would the Robur. No, he said, it was far more likely that he and his men were the only survivors. In which case, he added, there was nothing apart from a bit of geography between the Robur and the City.

  It wasn’t easy for me to talk right then. Drawing breath was like drawing water from a very deep well. But I asked him; so who’s the most senior officer in the army right now?

  He looked at me, very sad. That would probably be me, he said.

  WELL, HE EXPLAINED later, strictly speaking that wasn't true. But he was from the six families himself (younger son, junior branch, but he obviously knew what he was talking about) and he could pretty well guarantee that as soon as the news of the disaster reached the remaining field armies—the ones Stilian hadn’t marched off to t
heir deaths—their Commanders would immediately withdraw to their home provinces with an view to defending them in depth, and let the City burn, if so be it. As far as the six families were concerned, the army was the empire and the empire was the army, and wherever there was an army in being, that was the Capital city and all the provinces. The City was just some place where money went to and never came back from, and idiotic parasites dictated bloody stupid orders to an army of eunuchs, more often than not sending brave men to their deaths. Let it burn, in other words. Who gives a damn?

  But there’s a quarter of a million people here, I told him. He shrugged. Omelettes and eggs, he said. That’s how my cousins will see it, anyhow, he added quickly. As of now, there’s no army. And no officers.

  Except you, I said.

  He gave me a please-don’t-do-this look. I’m only a colonel, he said. And besides, like I just told you—

  There’s the palace guard, I said. That’s eight thousand men.

  Last we heard, said Aelian, as gently as he could, there were a hundred sixty thousand Robur. And Stilian was right. The only way you can beat them is over whelming force.