She was shaking now and pale with fear.
‘I know it was you who set fire to the bridge.’
This was a bit of a shock.
‘Did I?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the proof?’
‘I know you.’
‘They’ll need more than that.’
‘And I know two witnesses who know you too.’
This was entirely possible; there were a lot of people at the bridge and maybe some of Artemisia’s men had snitched.
‘You’ve changed your tune,’ said Cale. ‘First it’s tears, now it’s threats.’
‘It was you.’
‘Nobody cares. Whoever set fire to the bridge was a god-damned hero. It just wasn’t me. Even if someone confessed it wouldn’t matter. Someone has to be to blame. Conn’s the one. That’s all. Now take your sniffles and menaces and shove off.’
He stood up and walked out, half of him pleased, the other half devastated. Outside in the hall, Riba and Vague Henri broke off the earnest conversation they were having. She moved towards him and started to speak.
‘Shut up!’ he said, and like a spoilt and angry child stormed off up the stairs to bed.
23
‘What did Arbell Materazzi want?’ asked Bose Ikard.
The meeting with Cale had started badly with another ill-tempered question. ‘What the bloody hell did you think you were playing at?’ This was in regard to Cale’s peculiar performance at Conn Materazzi’s trial. ‘It was made perfectly clear to you what you were supposed to say.’
This was true enough.
‘That was before I realized you had your witnesses queuing up to give the same story. I don’t know why you didn’t go the whole hog and pay them on their way down from the witness stand. I made the whole thing look plausible at least.’
This was entirely true. Cale’s half-baked prevarication had indeed had the effect of drawing the sting, if only in part, of the Materazzi claim that the trial was a mere show. Conn’s impressive performance at the trial had won him some sympathy and when at Riba’s urging her husband had raised objections on behalf of the Hanse as to its fairness, Ikard had been able to point to Cale’s testimony as proof that the evidence had not been fixed in advance. It had also benefitted Cale by giving the impression he was honest and had refused to do a bad turn to a fellow soldier even when it was in his interests to do so. Besides, a kind of mania had lifted Cale out of the realm of ordinary men. In a matter of days he had become famous. It was hardly surprising given the hideous circumstances in which the Axis found itself. If ever a saviour was required it was now.
‘Are you spying on me?’ asked Cale, very well aware of the answer.
‘You are the observed of all observers, Mr Cale. You can’t piss in a pot without its significance being discussed at every dinner table in the city. What did she want?’
‘What do you think?’
‘And?’
‘And nothing.’
‘You aren’t going to intercede on his behalf?’
‘Would it help if I did?’
‘You could put in a plea for leniency, if you wished. In writing. I’d make sure the King received it personally.’
That was it then.
‘No, it’s nothing to do with me.’
A pity, thought Bose. He would certainly not have passed it to the King had Cale been foolish enough to write such a plea. The King had forgotten his obsession with Conn – or rather he now regarded himself as having been overly influenced by Bose Ikard’s enthusiasm for the young man (as if his Chancellor had had any choice but to go along with his master’s hysterical favouritism). For now, Cale was everyone’s favourite, including the King’s, so it wouldn’t do to be seen to work against him. But Bose was sceptical about the boy’s ability to keep people happy for long. Whatever his skills, politics wasn’t one of them. And in the end ability and talent were nothing in the face of politics. It might have been useful to have a letter in his back pocket.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah,’ said Cale, touching himself just under the chin with the flat of his right hand. ‘I’m up to here with sureness.’
‘Is that supposed to be some sort of pleasantry at my expense?’
‘No.’
‘And are you also sure that you have the men to create your New Model Army?’
‘Yes.’
‘Because I have experienced and knowledgeable advisors who say it’s not possible to create an army out of peasants, not in general and certainly not one capable of beating the Redeemers. Let’s not even consider the lack of time involved.’
‘They’re right.’
‘I see. But it’s possible for you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘At the Golan the Laconics inflicted the greatest defeat on the Redeemers in their history. Ten days later the Redeemers inflicted on the Laconics the greatest defeat of theirs. The difference was me.’ Cale had been slumped insolently in his chair but now stretched upright. ‘Is that sneak behind the screen going to join in or am I going to have to go over there and drag him out?’
Bose sighed. ‘Come out.’ A young man, smiling amiably and in his early twenties, emerged. It was Robert Fanshawe, Laconic scout. Cale had last seen him when they’d cut a deal over prisoners after the battle he’d just been boasting about.
‘You don’t look well, Cale, if you don’t mind me saying.’
‘I do mind.’
‘You don’t look well all the same.’
‘Well,’ said Bose Ikard. ‘At least it proves you know him.’
‘Know him?’ said Fanshawe. ‘We’re special pals.’
‘No, we’re not!’ said Cale, his alarm at how this might be taken delighting Fanshawe who laughed, revelling in his discomfort.
‘Do Mr Cale’s claims about his importance to the Redeemer victory have merit?’
‘I’m not claiming anything,’ said Cale. Fanshawe looked at him, cool, not laughing any more.
‘Yes, this young man was the difference.’
‘So why are you so sure his New Model Army will fail?’
‘There have been peasant rebellions as long as there have been peasants,’ said Fanshawe. ‘Tell me one that succeeded?’ He looked at them both, head mockingly turned, waiting for a reply. ‘The Laconics have fought six wars against our Helots in the last hundred years – if you can call the slaughter of untrained hillbillies a war. It ends one way. Always.’
‘Not this time,’ said Cale.
‘Why?’
‘I’d rather show than tell.’
‘Excellent. I look forward to your presentation of the details.’
‘No.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Bose Ikard.
‘I’m not giving a performance so your dunces get to offer me the benefit of their experience. There’s going to be a fight and whoever’s left standing at the end wins the argument. One hundred each side.’
‘The rules?’
‘There are no rules.’
‘A real fight?’
‘Is there any other kind? Bring who you like, how you like.’
‘And you’ll just have your peasants?’
‘I’ll bring whoever I damn well please.’ But it was too hard to resist. ‘There’ll be eighty plebs and twenty of my veterans.’
‘And you?’
‘I’ll be watching Fanshawe getting the shit kicked out of him.’
‘Me? I’m just a Laconic advisor. I couldn’t possibly take part.’
Bose Ikard was suspicious, always, but considered that perhaps it was for the best: he wanted to know what Cale was up to and it was hard to think of a better way than something like this. There were Swiss soldiers who felt they deserved recognition before some miserable-looking boy. Now they’d have the chance to prove it.
‘I’ll get back to you,’ he said. ‘Close the door on your way out, Mr Cale. A word, Mr Fanshawe.’