The Folding Knife Part 32

I'd never grasped before exactly how much there is to do after a battle. I guess I a.s.sumed 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 splas.h.i.+ng about over your ankles in mud); so when n.o.body'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 appet.i.te; 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), sc.r.a.pe the mud off your boots and polish them till they s.h.i.+ne, or go and queue up at the quartermasters' for a replacement pair (a.s.suming they've got any: big a.s.sumption); it's much less fuss just to drag a serviceable boot off the foot of some poor dead b.a.s.t.a.r.d, but if they catch you doing it, you're on a charge. Kit inspection, and G.o.d help you if you're not up to scratch. Then you've got the routine everyday ch.o.r.es-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 a.s.signed to digging another b.l.o.o.d.y 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 Ba.s.sano does: he stands around and watches. And please, don't be fooled into thinking he's neither use nor b.l.o.o.d.y ornament. Somewhere there's a grand overarching plan, of which Ba.s.sano 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 G.o.d, 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 fireb.a.l.l.s. 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 b.a.l.l.s plough huge gashes in their s.h.i.+eld 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 b.a.l.l.s 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 h.e.l.l. 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 s.h.i.+p, I'd be ever so grateful.

Cordially, Ba.s.sano 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 Ba.s.sia.n.u.s 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 inept.i.tude 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 ama.s.sed by the tribal aristocracies, that anybody could conceivably want.

However, if Ba.s.sia.n.u.s Severus wanted trinkets, there are wealthier 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 punis.h.i.+ng 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 Ba.s.sia.n.u.s 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 Ba.s.sia.n.u.s 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 Ba.s.sia.n.u.s Severus is likely to succeed in such a venture (a.s.suming 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. Ba.s.sia.n.u.s 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 a.s.sessment of the Vesani; nor can I understand how my earlier dispatches could have been interpreted as corroboration for such an a.s.sessment. 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...

(Ba.s.so 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 hara.s.s 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, princ.i.p.ally 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 const.i.tute 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 h.e.l.l does he want another six thousand for?"

"Six to eight thousand," Ba.s.so said gently.

"Have you any idea of the unit cost of sending a soldier to Mavortis?" The first time, as far as Ba.s.so 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."

Ba.s.so 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." Ba.s.so 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 circ.u.mstances, I'd leave it well alone. But we've been into all that, and the plain fact is, losing a war's a d.a.m.n 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," Ba.s.so 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 h.e.l.l 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," Ba.s.so 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, Ba.s.so 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 circ.u.mstances it's just a formality, but-"

"Don't do that," Ba.s.so said. "Ma.s.sage 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."

"Noted." Ba.s.so 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."

Ba.s.so 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 Ba.s.so what the matter was. She had to ask several times.

"That idiot Caecilius," Ba.s.so 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," Ba.s.so 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..."

"I did. And I was right." Ba.s.so scowled, and ma.s.saged the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. "The Bank lends to the Treasury, the Treasury buys war supplies, the farmers and tradesmen pay off their loans, the money goes round in a loop, and n.o.body ever gets to find out it isn't actually there. It's just that the timing's off by a little bit."

"If Caecilius is a little bit late in paying, does it actually matter?"

Ba.s.so sighed. "It shouldn't," he said. "So long as he actually does pay-which he will, because the Treasury will pay the farmers and tradesmen, eventually. What makes it a bit awkward is that Tragazes needs money now, to make good our deposits. Otherwise, he's got to report to the commission that our reserves no longer cover our exposure, and once that gets around, the markets will panic and the stock will start to slide. All quite ridiculous, of course, but that's how it works. You can make a fortune out of it if you're on the right side, but it's no fun if you're on the wrong end, like we are at the moment."

"What can you do?"

"Nothing I want to," Ba.s.so replied. "What I can't do is put pressure on the Treasury for any of the money we've lent them, because I'm the b.l.o.o.d.y government. So, if we need to raise money in a hurry, we'd have to go after our private customers-basically, everybody else. And if we start squeezing, that'll cause an even worse panic, and we'll wipe millions of nomismata off the value of perfectly good a.s.sets."

"All right," Melsuntha said. "Lie to the commission."

Ba.s.so laughed. "That's what we're doing right now," he said. "And if Antigonus was still around, we'd be fine. But Tragazes doesn't seem to get it. I practically had to sit on his head to get him to tell a little white lie. Proper grown-up lying-"

"Get rid of him. Appoint someone else."

Ba.s.so smiled at her. "Do you fancy being chief clerk?"

She looked thoughtful. "Probably not," she said. "I could handle the broad sweep of policy, but not the details. I don't have the experience."

"That's the trouble," Ba.s.so said. "Right now, the only two men in the City who know how the Bank actually works are Tragazes and me; and I just don't have the time. I'm stuck with him."

She thought some more. "What about the twins? Haven't they been learning the business?"

Not something that had occurred to him, and he paused for a moment to give it serious consideration. "They're not up to it," he said, "even with Tragazes advising them. They're just kids."

"You were their age when you took over."

"They're not me." The force behind the statement took him by surprise. "I really miss Antigonus," he said. "In my life, there've been two men I've been able to rely on, him and Aelius; I mean really rely, so I can turn my back on something and know it'll be done right, as well as I could do it or better. My fault," he added with a grin. "When I dreamed up this scheme, I was sort of a.s.suming Antigonus would still be around. Probably I should have pulled the plug when he died. Just bad luck, really."

"I thought you didn't believe in good and bad luck."

That night he sat up late, even later than usual. He'd sent for the figures on the Caecilius loan. They sat on the table in front of him like a dinner going cold; the longer he left them, the more unpalatable they'd be.

Most of all, he thought, right now I'd like to talk to my sister again, just for a few minutes; about the weather, or something that happened when we were children, Mannerist architecture or the Dulichean heresy or trends in contemporary choral music, anything at all. It did seem faintly ridiculous that the First Citizen of the Vesani Republic, richest man in the City, controller of great armies and decider of the fate of thousands, wasn't allowed to talk to his own sister about the weather. But no; she might as well be dead, except that it was worse than that.

(Come on, Ba.s.so, you're a clever man, a remarkably fine orator, a politician. You could find the words, make the promises, arrive at a rapprochement, some kind of deal. He took a sheet of paper and reached for a pen.) A substantial part of his life, a major component in the mechanism that drove him, was inaccessible, as though a wall had been built right across the City, just to stop him going home. He thought about that. Finally, it occurred to him to wonder who would build such a wall. The answer came as no surprise.

Because I love my sister more than anybody else, he realised, I had to build the wall. A man who faces opposition must either fight or accept. I refuse to fight my own sister, to defeat her by any means necessary. Because I love her, I can't refuse her anything, and what she wants is to hate me. Fight or accept. Accept.

(And it occurred to him that in his life he'd done many things that other people considered admirable, brilliant, wonderful; all of which he placed little value on, just as a conjuror knows he hasn't really performed magic, no matter what the audience may think. There was just one admirable thing he'd done-one honest thing-and the only other person who'd ever know about it hated him enough to want to see him dead. And therein, it pleased him to think, lies the true magnificence of Ba.s.so the Magnificent; his one honest thing, his only failure, the one thing he wanted and told himself he couldn't have. Ba.s.so the Wall-Builder.) Instead of writing the letter, he dealt with the Caecilius loan. Eventually he managed to tack something together that'd mess up the audit commission just long enough to buy him the time he needed, all things being equal, which they seldom were.

Meeting of the House Treasury sub-committee: "In the light of General Aelius' recommendations," Ba.s.so heard himself say (but he felt far away, as though he was watching himself from the gallery), "I believe we need a fresh look at the currency situation."

Percennius Macer (old-style Optimate, furious with him for agreeing to the war, back in favour after a long time in the cold) raised a hand to interrupt. "Your inspired currency reforms have worked exceptionally well," he said. "Surely the last thing we want to do is mess about with them."

"I'm not proposing any change to the nomisma," Ba.s.so said. "What I have in mind is a short-term measure designed to help with procurement of military supplies and war materiel."

Percennius raised an eyebrow (he practises, Ba.s.so reckoned, in front of a mirror). "Is there a problem? We haven't heard anything about it before."

"Not yet," Ba.s.so said. "And I'd like to keep it that way. But yes, I do see a problem coming." He turned his head and made eye contact with Lollius Vipsanius, Caecilius' uncle. "At the moment, whenever we buy something or order something, payment is-nominally at least-in gold coin. Now, because we've got better things to do than drive cartloads of heavy, stealable money across two continents, when we buy something in Scleria, say, we don't send them actual cash. We write a letter to someone in Scleria who holds money for us, or who owes us money, or who's contracted to pay us money for something they've had from us, and we ask the Sclerian to pay what we owe on our behalf. That, in a nutsh.e.l.l, is the letter-of-credit system, and in peacetime, for everyday commercial transactions between businessmen, it works just fine. Right now, though, in places like Scleria and Auxentia we're paying out a lot more than we're getting paid, so it's getting hard to arrange letters of credit. Result: important war-supplies deals are getting jammed up, suppliers whose good will we need aren't getting paid on time; it's bad for the army, and it's bad for our good name as a commercial nation. Fairly soon, we'll find that if we want to raise letters of credit, we'll have to do it through foreign banks, who'll charge us for the privilege, or else treat the transactions as loans and screw us for interest. Hands up anybody who wants to see that happen."

He used the rhetorical pause to examine key faces. They didn't appear to know what was likely to come next. He sucked in some air and went on: "How'd it be if, instead of letters of credit, we used something else, some other kind of currency; not physical gold, or a promise of gold, or a complex system of balancing debts in gold, but something quite other; as good as gold, but not quite so heavy or so bulky? Good idea?"

Clodius Faber: on his side when it suited him. "What do you have in mind?"

Ba.s.so grinned. "Paper," he said. "Actually, it's not a new idea. We considered it just after the Treasury robbery, when we didn't have any gold. I believe the technical term is a.s.signats. Paper notes," he went on, as the faces frowned or looked blank, "bearing a promise to pay, in gold money, on demand; backed by solid a.s.sets, such as government land. A man on a fast horse can carry a sackful of them and still be in Tavia or Gonessus in sixty hours. Also," he pressed on, before anyone had a chance to speak, "there's the small matter of money supply. The fact is, we have more wealth than gold. There isn't enough s.h.i.+ny yellow metal in the City, quite possibly in the West, to represent the value of our a.s.sets. Right now, we need to draw on the value of our a.s.sets to pay for stuff we're actually using, like wheat and wool and timber; but we're hampered by the fact that we don't have enough metal tokens. To get more tokens, we have to buy and import gold, melt it down, hammer it into thin sheets, stamp out a load of small flat discs and bash them between two dies. It takes time, it costs money. We can't afford to waste either. So, instead, we write paper notes. a.s.signats. People who get paid with them know they're good; it says on them, the Vesani Republic promises to pay, and in the wildly unlikely event that it doesn't, this piece of paper you're holding is as good as a mortgage on the most valuable real estate in the civilised world. What's in it for us? We can spend money that we've got, that we can afford to spend, but which is currently locked up and useless because we haven't got quite enough s.h.i.+ny yellow discs. Think about it. Liquidity problems solved at a stroke. No need to mess with letters of credit, no more relying on foreign intermediaries, so we pay our bills on the nail. If you're worried about hundreds of foreigners turning up on the Treasury steps waving bits of paper and clamouring for gold coin, don't be. Our a.s.signats will be as good as money; in no time flat, they'll be money, a whole new circulating medium-better than gold coin, for the reasons stated, almost certainly changing hands at a premium; a handy windfall for us, just like what happened when we purified the nomisma. Honestly, gentlemen, if there's a drawback I can't see it. Well? Anybody?"

It was just as well he'd thought it through beforehand. But he had, and none of the objections fired at him found him unprepared. Forgery: there was a new kind of paper, the Bank's trading arm had bought the formula and technique for making it direct from the inventor, so the Republic would have a total world monopoly, and forgery would be impossible. What about the debts the Treasury had already incurred; in particular, the huge debts it owed to the Charity & Social Justice? Would the Bank allow the Treasury to buy back those loans, using the new paper? Of course it would, Ba.s.so replied, no problem at all. He'd even waive the early-repayment penalties written in to the loan agreements- "Which means," Ba.s.so said (he was exhausted, more tired than he could ever remember being), "that once the Treasury's repaid a couple of the smaller loans, we'll have plenty of cash in hand to cover our deposit requirements, and the problem just melts away."

"I see," Melsuntha said, ma.s.saging between his shoulder blades. As always, he found the strength in her fingers disconcerting. "Or at least, I think I see. Won't you lose money?"

Ba.s.so shook his head. "We'll only repay a few of the loans," he said, "I'll see to that. It's more a gesture of good faith than anything. And we raise enough to secure our deposit, which means Tragazes won't have to lie to the banking commission."

"How on earth did you manage to get it through?"

Ba.s.so laughed. "I needed two enemy votes," he replied. "Lollius Vipsanius was easy; I sent him a note telling him that if he voted in favour, I'd let his nephew off the hook over the payment he's due to make us-you know, the one that caused all this mess in the first place."

"That's one. Who was the other?"

"Laelius Priscus," Ba.s.so replied. "Two years ago, he poisoned his wife's lover. Small piece of insurance I've been keeping for a rainy day. I pinned a copy of the poisoner's confession to his copy of the order sheet. He went ever such a funny colour when he saw it."

From Ba.s.sano; ... Victory. Sort of.

I'm writing this in the back of a cart, under a tree, somewhere in the foothills of the Big Pointy Mountains (marked brown on your map; they fill the middle of Mavortis). We've just been round picking up bales of captured enemy s.h.i.+elds. Of course, we don't use them as s.h.i.+elds. They're just sheets of limewood, the fancy ones with a copper rim. We smash them up and use them for kindling. I say we. The soldiers smash them up. I watch.

Anyway, these s.h.i.+elds need collecting because we just fought a pitched battle, against the last major tribe this side of the Big Pointies. We demolished them, of course; same old drill. They broke and ran before we even reached them, and the rest was just butcher's work. G.o.d help me, I was deeply annoyed I wasn't allowed to join in. They're running away, I said, there's no danger, they aren't even trying to fight back; but no, not allowed. I was livid. I might not get another chance, I told them; all the ha.s.sle we've had drawing these people into a pitched battle, I don't want to go home and admit I'm the only soldier in the Vesani army who never got to kill even one Mavortine. But you're not a soldier, they pointed out.

There wasn't time to explain. So I sulked instead.

Statistics. By my estimate, there were about seven thousand of them, to start with. Five hundred or so pulled out before the lines were drawn up. They must've taken one look at us and refused to come out to play; just turned round and walked off the battlefield. Killed: two thousand, give or take. We tend to work on the number of s.h.i.+elds we recover (another reason for gathering them); of course, more men drop s.h.i.+elds than die, but at least a fifth of the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds don't have s.h.i.+elds to start with, so it sort of balances out. So, say two thousand dead. We caught and spared another seven hundred. That leaves three and a half thousand still at large. Mind, I'm not saying I'd have killed them all. Just some.

Those three and a half thousand will not, however, escape to the safety of the Big Pointies. We fought with the mountains at our backs. The ones that got away now have nowhere to go except back into territory we've already thoroughly subdued. No villages to feed and harbour them; they'll wander around till they're starving hungry, then they'll turn themselves in and take advantage of our justifiably celebrated clemency. A clean surrender buys a place in a work gang: food, shelter, new shoes, and so much work they're too tired to think about patriotism and the freedom of Mavortis. Six months on the gang and they earn their discharge; they can go home (if it's still standing) to their wives and their thin, cold children and the empty s.p.a.ce where their herds and flocks used to be. Then they're back, begging for work so they can feed those hungry, whining mouths. Every chance the forts will be completed way ahead of schedule. We have eager, motivated men working on building them.

All through, Aelius' strategy has been to keep the hostiles from getting into the mountains and the forest. That's all he's been concerned about. So, we've blasted a way through, got here as quickly as we can, and sealed off the loathsome, inaccessible middle of the country. Job done. From now on, it's a matter of building forts. We've had the devil's own job provoking the hostiles into the field; for good reason, they always lose, we always slaughter them. The most we expect out of them from now on is feeble little attacks on the forts, which will fail. At this rate, won't be long before there's one fort for every twenty square miles. Basically, the forts are nails, to pin them to the ground so they can't move.

We're using the new recruits you sent us to garrison the forts. It means most of them haven't yet seen a Mavortine armed with anything more lethal than a shovel or a bucket. If all goes to plan, they never will.

Sure, some of them are going to slip through and make it into the forest. Fine. Let them stay there and eat squirrels. When they get sick of that, they can come out and get a job working for us, in the mines or on the new farms, just like everyone else. Pretty soon, the Mavortines will wonder how the h.e.l.l they ever managed to survive by the old ways, before we came along to look after them. It'll be as though they'd come to the City and got rubbish-wage jobs on building sites or in sweatshops, which has been the dream of every Mavortine male for generations; only they won't have to leave their motherland or their families to do it. Perfect solution; everybody happy. So nice when things turn out that way.

I used to worry about what being here was doing to me. I don't worry any more. I guess that's what's worrying me. I guess, if the value you put on human beings sinks low enough, you stand a fair chance of establis.h.i.+ng universal peace and prosperity. Bring those values down, and everybody can afford to be happy. It's only when you start packing out the shopping basket with luxury goods such as freedom and dignity and the right to self-determination that you price poor folks out of the market.

It makes sense, once you've seen it for yourself. If you've never seen it, of course, it must sound barbaric.

I had a chance to discuss this very issue with Segimerus; Aelius has finished with him, so he's back with us for a while. He agrees with me. He says our traditional views are parochial and limited, the result of cultural influences. But the time he spent in the Empire convinced him that truth depends on where you are. Truths universally acknowledged in the City are meaningless in a place like this, and vice versa. Truth is a product of geography and history; you have to reset your conscience, like resetting your watch when you get off the boat in a foreign port.

Question is: will Mavortine truths still be true once I get home? I'm worried about that.

Cordially, Ba.s.sano "I hope I'm wrong," Ba.s.so said, "but you look depressingly like a deputation. Come in, close the door and for crying out loud stop looking so d.a.m.n solemn."

If they'd been the enemy, he could have handled them easily-blend good humour and sudden grim determination, informality, bl.u.s.ter, gentle threats and sweet reason; disconcert, worry, confuse. Few better at it in the history of the Republic. But they were supposed to be on his side.

"Let me get this straight," he said, when they'd made their nervous case. "You're proposing that we abandon a war in which we've yet to lose a single battle, in which we've pacified three-quarters of the country, in which we've done all the hard work and are poised to start mining operations that are guaranteed to pay back the large sum of money we've already spent, and which, if you have your way, we'll have to write off. Well?"

"It'll be six months at least before the first ore is ready to be s.h.i.+pped," Cinio said wretchedly. "At this rate, by then we'll have spent-"