The Folding Knife (2 page)

"Rosehip syrup, I think," she said, waddling across the room to the table where her apothecary chest stood. She took the key from the little lacquered box and opened the chest. "There's a jug of water on the stand beside the bed. Would you mind?"

The woman hesitated, then brought the jug. Her feet were bare, red, nearly purple; quite disgusting. "While I'm fixing this, have a look in the shoe closet. It's just there, look, on your left."

Not that the woman would be able to read the labels on the bottles. Basso's mother poured a little dark brown syrup into a glass and added water. "Here," she said, "drink this."

The woman had already pulled out two pairs of boots; she was clutching them, pinched together, in her left hand. The knife was still in her right. She hesitated, then threw the boots on the bed and took the glass.

"When you've drunk that," Basso's mother said, "I'll ring for some food. When did you last have anything to eat?"

The woman was staring at her, a stupid look on her face. Basso's mother counted under her breath. On five, the woman staggered; on seven, she flopped down on the floor. Usually it was at least ten before it had any effect at all.

Later, Basso's mother decided she must have given her too much (understandable, in the circumstances). Also, the woman may have had a weak heart or some similar condition. It was sad, of course, but just one of those things. Basso's mother paid for a coffin and a plot in the public cemetery. It was, she felt, the least she could do.

Whether the shock induced early labour the doctors couldn't say. In the event, there were no complications and the baby was perfectly healthy, though a little underweight. Basso's father had bars fitted over the skylight. A better catch would have done just as well, but he was that sort of man. Basso's mother tried not to notice the bars, but they were always there in her mind after that.

The woman must have dropped the folding knife when she fell over, and knocked it under the bed. A maid found it and put it away in a drawer. Basso's mother came across it some time later and decided to keep it; not quite a trophy, but not something you just throw away. Besides, it was very good quality. When Basso was ten years old she gave it to him. He knew the story that went with it, of course.

Back home his name was seven syllables long, but here, in the army of the Vesani Republic, he was Aelius of the Seventeenth Auxiliary, the youngest captain in the service, kicking his heels in barracks in the City when men with half his ability were shipping out to the war in charge of a battalion. He was checking supply requisitions in his office when a flustered-looking sergeant interrupted him.

"We've arrested a boy, captain," the sergeant said.

Aelius looked up. "And?" he said.

"He beat up a sentry."

The culture of the service demanded that enlisted men addressed officers as rarely and as briefly as possible. Aelius thought it was a stupid rule, but he observed it rigorously. "You'd better bring him in," he said.

A boy, sure enough. Fourteen rather than fifteen, Aelius decided, mostly on the evidence of the face; on the tall side for his age, but still only a kid. "And this child assaulted a sentry?"

The sergeant nodded. "Broken arm, broken jaw, two cracked ribs and knocked out a couple of teeth, sir. Unprovoked attack. Two witnesses."

The boy didn't seem to have a mark on him. Correction: skinned knuckles on his left hand. "This boy attacked a grown man for no apparent reason and broke his jaw," Aelius said. The boy was looking past him, at the far wall. "Well?" he barked. The boy said nothing. "I'm talking to you."

The boy shrugged. "I hit that man, if that's what you mean."

Aelius nodded slowly. "Why?"

"He spoke to my sister."

"And?"

The boy frowned. "He made a lewd suggestion."

Aelius managed to keep a straight face. "So you beat him up."

"Yes."

Aelius looked sideways at the floor. Bringing charges was out of the question. A soldier of the Seventeenth beaten to a jelly by a child; they'd never live it down. The face was vaguely familiar. Not a pleasant sight: his nose was a little concave stub, and his enormous lower lip curled up over his upper lip, smothering it. "What's your name?"

"Arcadius Severus."

That made Aelius frown. The boy wasn't dressed like a gentleman's son, but he had a formal name. The voice was completely nondescript, and Aelius hadn't been in the Republic long enough to distinguish the subtleties of class from a man's accent. Harder still with a boy with a tendency to mumble. "That's a big name for a kid," he said. "Who's your father?"

The boy felt in his pocket, produced a copper penny and held it out on his palm, heads upwards. "
He
is."

No wonder the face was familiar. "Sergeant," Aelius said, "get out."

As the door closed, Aelius leaned forward across his desk. The boy was watching him, to see what would happen next. He wasn't afraid, he wasn't smug. That alone was enough to confirm that he was who he said he was. "What kind of lewd suggestion?" Aelius asked.

"None of your business."

Aelius shrugged. "Fine," he said. "All right, you can go."

The boy turned towards the door, and Aelius rose smoothly to his feet, snatched his swagger stick off the desk and slammed it against the side of the boy's head, hitting him just above the left ear. He went down, started to get up, staggered, recovered and got to his feet.

"Can I go now?" the boy said.

Aelius nodded. "I think that makes us all square," he said. "Do you agree?"

"Yes," the boy said. "Yes, that's fair."

Fair, Aelius thought. Not the word he'd have chosen, but surprisingly appropriate. "Then go home," he said. "And maybe you'd like to think about the relationship between the military and the civil authorities. Ask your dad; he'll explain it to you."

Outside, the boy's sister was waiting for him. She was flanked by two sentries; not physically restrained, but held in place like a chess piece that can't move without being taken. "It's all right," the boy said. "They let me go."

She said something to him as they walked away. He couldn't make out the words--his ears were still ringing from the blow on the head--but he didn't really need to. His sister wasn't happy at all.

"You won't tell Father," he said.

She scowled, then shook her head. "I ought to."

"I settled it with the captain," the boy replied. "You'll only make trouble."

She made a tutting noise, like a mother reproving an infant. "They'll know something's happened when they see you like that," she said.

"I fell out of a tree."

Scornful look. "Since when did you climb trees?"

He grinned at her. "That's why I fell," he said. "Lack of experience."

"I'm sick of covering up for you," she said, walking a little faster. It cost her disproportionate effort, because she would wear those ridiculous shoes. "I'm always having to lie for you, and I've had enough. Next time..."

"Oh, that's wonderful," the boy said. "It was all your fault anyway. If you hadn't been making eyes at that soldier..."

(Which he knew was a lie; but a lie he could pretend to believe, thereby putting her on the defensive.)

"That's just rubbish," she snapped. "And you're stupid. I've got a good mind to tell Father what happened. It'd serve you right if I did."

She didn't, of course. As it turned out, there was no need for anybody to say anything. The First Citizen and his wife were out for the evening at a reception, and off early the next morning for the state opening of the Assembly. Undoubtedly the servants noticed his scabbed knuckles, and when the ringing in his ears didn't go away, they quickly learned to talk to his right side or speak a little louder. He had no trouble hearing his father, because the First Citizen's voice was plenty loud enough, even at home, and his mother never had anything much to say for herself at the best of times.

* * *

Six months later, the boy's father lost the election and was replaced as First Citizen by Didius Vetranio, whose father had been a sausage-maker. That is to say, Didius Maesus had owned a twenty per cent stake in a slaughterhouse where they made the best-quality air-dried sausage for the export trade, along with a large number of other sound investments. As far as the boy's father was concerned, that made him a sausage-maker. He sulked for a month, then bought a ship--ridiculously cheap, he told anybody who'd listen, the most incredible bargain--and cheered up again. His good mood lasted five weeks, until the ship sank in the Strait of Essedine with a full cargo of pepper and saffron.

"Fucking disaster," the boy overheard his father telling one of his business associates (a small, dried man with hollow cheeks and a very sharp nose). "Eight hundred thousand, and that's without what that bastard gouged me out of for the ship."

The little man frowned. "Borrowed?"

"Six hundred thousand." The boy's father sighed. "Unsecured, which is a blessing, I suppose, but it puts me where I squelch when I walk. Bastard had no business selling a ship that wasn't seaworthy."

The little man thought for a moment. He was a study for a major sculpture,
Man Thinking
. "You need capital," he said.

"Yes, thank you, that had in fact occurred to me already." The boy's father took a peach off the top of the fruit dish, bit off a third and discarded the rest. "You wouldn't happen to..."

"No."

A slight shrug; no harm in trying. "Looks like marriage, then," he said. "That or mortgage the vineyard, and I'd be reluctant to do that."

The little man nodded. "Which one?"

"Oh, the boy," the boy's father said. "I've already done a deal for the girl, but it's a long-term job, I'd hate to spoil it by rushing it along. The good thing about children," he went on, "is that when you run out you can always make some more. Friend of mine used to say, a man of good family carries his pension between his legs. No, I had an offer for the boy only last month, but of course I was flush then and told them to stuff it."

"Good offer?"

The boy's father leaned back in his chair and let his head droop forward. "It'd be enough to see me out of this mess, and a bit left over, but that's about it. On the other hand, it'd be cash up front on betrothal, with the real estate settled till he comes of age. I could borrow against the realty, invest it, pick a winner, clear off my debts with the profit and break off the betrothal. It's a thought," he added defensively, though the little man hadn't said anything. "No, I suppose not. I have an idea my luck's not at its best and brightest right now."

The little man folded his hands in his lap. "None of this would've happened if you'd insured the ship," he said.

"Yes, well."

But the little man was like a little dog that gets its teeth in something and won't let go. "How much have you got left, Palo?"

A long sigh; and the boy saw that look on his father's face, the one that meant he was about to answer quietly. "Not enough," he said. "Oh, I've got assets to show for it, land and good securities, but either they're tied up or they're long-term. Like the brickyard," he said, rubbing the sides of his nose with both forefingers, like a man just waking up. "I've put a lot of money into that. Fifteen years' time it'll be a gold mine, but if I sold it now I'd be screwed. Actual ready cash..." He shook his head. "Hence the short-term unsecured loans, which are eating me alive, of course. And I spent a lot of money on the election, of course, and that was a joke. Beaten by a sausage-maker, very funny, ha ha. Makes you wonder why you ever bother in the first place."

The little man coughed, a strange noise, a bit like a bone breaking. "I never could see the point in running for office," he said. "I've always had better things to do with my time. People talk about the contacts and the influence, but I don't see it myself. Personally, I prefer to concentrate my energies on business."

The boy's father grinned. "With hindsight, I tend to agree with you. Still, your circumstances are a bit different. You could always afford the best senators money could buy."

A very slight shrug, to concede an inconsequential point. "The offer for your son."

"Quite." (The boy shifted to ease the cramp in his leg and banged his foot against the leg of a table. Fortunately, neither man heard.) "Malo Sinvestri's daughter. Could be worse."

"The Licinii have done very well in bulk grain," the little man said. "You have those warehouses down by the weir standing empty. Presumably your intention--"

"Actually, I hadn't thought of that." A suddenly-cheering-up lilt in his father's voice. "Thanks, Galba, that puts quite a nice edge on the deal. Of course, I'd have to use proxies."

"Licinius doesn't know?"

"Why should he?" A short laugh, like a hammer on an anvil, or a bell. "Not in my name, you see, so not on the register. It'd be worth it just to see the look on Malo's face."

On the day of the betrothal ceremony, he wasn't well. He had an upset stomach, ferocious stabbing pains between his navel and his groin that made him twist like a dancer.

His mother didn't appear to believe him. "Don't be stupid," she said. "This is a serious occasion. It's not something you can get out of by pretending you're ill."