‘A case in point,’ Alexius was saying, ‘is the fall of Ap’ Escatoy, an incident with which you are all doubtless familiar. You will recall that in those days, the Empire had not yet penetrated to the western sea, let alone crossed the northern straits; hard to imagine, I know, but worth the effort nonetheless, since it’s vital to bear in mind that the whole world as we know it today was arguably shaped by the actions of one man, at one turning point in history.’
Bardas scowled, trying to understand. He knew beyond a shadow of doubt that this wasn’t a dream. He was standing in the Academy (which was fire-cracked rubble overgrown with bindweed now); but this was some time in the future, and here was Alexius, somehow not yet dead despite all his assumptions to the contrary.
‘One man,’ Alexius went on. ‘One quite unremarkable man, regarded objectively; certainly unremarkable enough to his contemporaries. A man who was never happier than when he was hedging and ditching on his father’s farm in the Mesoge, or building bows on Scona, or planishing breastplates with the other workers in the armoury at Ap’ Calick; hardly a man of destiny, you’d have thought. But consider; if Bardas Loredan hadn’t accidentally broken through into the enemy’s main gallery under Ap’ Escatoy and brought down the city walls, what would have happened then? Let’s imagine that the siege dragged on another year, or two years, even; then a revolt in a far province or a change in administration at the central finance office or a political squabble between factions at court – whatever – led to the siege being abandoned. So, Ap’ Escatoy hasn’t fallen – and the world is utterly different. One man. The different development of one moment in time. This, gentlemen, is the Principle. In that moment, in the darkness of the mines – and they were dark, I can vouch for that – everything changed. Everything was brought down, made small – so small that it fitted comfortably into a tiny cramped spur, hardly high or wide enough for a man to crawl down – and then enlarged again, made to expand like ripples in water. This is the action of the Principle for you; an effect that does away with all dimensions, a place where all places meet, a tiny pinhole at the end and the beginning, into which everything goes and out of which everything comes-’
Bardas found that he couldn’t hear any more; it was as if his ears were blocked up with wax. He could see Alexius still talking, but he couldn’t make out the words. When he stood up to shout out, Speak up, we can’t hear you at the back, he felt his head crack against the low roof of the spur, just as the walls began to buckle and come in on him, like a tin cup being crumpled under the wheels of a cart.
‘Sergeant Loredan?’
His head snapped up. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I was miles away.’
‘As I was saying,’ the adjutant went on, giving him an austere look, ‘the situation in that part of the world is deteriorating steadily. Imperial interests are being directly threatened. We can no longer guarantee the safety of our citizens. Accordingly, central command is drawing up contingency plans in case military intervention becomes unavoidable.’
‘I see,’ Bardas said, not having a clue what the adjutant was talking about. ‘That’s – disturbing.’
‘Quite so.’ The adjutant folded his hands on the desktop, leaned forward a little. ‘Now, as you will appreciate, first-hand experience of these people will be of great value in planning our response, both long-term and tactical. Since you have fought in several wars against them-’
Gods. They’re going to attack Temrai. ‘I see,’ he repeated.
The adjutant nodded. ‘At the moment,’ he went on, ‘you’ve been ordered to stand by, pending a detailed debriefing by senior staff; I have little doubt, however, that as the situation develops, you will be reassigned to a more active role in the war. There may,’ he added alluringly, ‘be a further promotion, depending on the nature of the duties you are called on to undertake.’
A promotion. Gosh. ‘In the meantime?’ Bardas asked. ‘As I said, at present you are to await orders and hold yourself in readiness. It would be in order, however, for you to conclude any unfinished business you may have here, and make arrangements for handing over to your replacement in due course.’
Bardas stood up. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I’ll get on to it right away.’
Beats me why they don’t sling me out of this army, he reflected as he walked back down the endless corridors. Disrespectful, insubordinate, generally sloppy; ah, but I took Ap’ Escatoy for them. And now I’m going to take Perimadeia.
He stopped.
‘So you’re going to take Perimadeia, are you?’ the man said. Bardas couldn’t see him very well; it was a dark point in the corridor, halfway between two sconces, and he couldn’t make out his face; but he could smell coriander. He realised he’d stopped breathing, for some reason. Instinct, maybe.
‘They want me to,’ he replied. ‘I do what I’m told. If I do a good job, they’ll make me a citizen.’
‘They’ll make you a citizen,’ the man repeated. ‘Wouldn’t that be just fine? Imagine that; you, a citizen. Bardas Loredan, there isn’t a civilised society anywhere in the world that’d have you as a citizen.’
Bardas frowned. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘but do I know you?’
‘We’ve met. In fact, we’ve been here before – here or hereabouts. Don’t change the subject. You’re going to take Perimadeia. Why am I not surprised? Enjoy your work, do you?’
Bardas thought for a moment. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Well, it depends. I’ve done a lot of different things in my time. Some were worse than others.’
‘Such as?’
‘The mines,’ Bardas said. ‘I didn’t enjoy them at all. And serving with Maxen, that was pretty grim, most of the time.’
‘Fair enough,’ said the man. He hadn’t moved, and neither had Bardas. ‘What about being in charge of the defence of Perimadeia? Was that nice or nasty?’
‘I didn’t enjoy it,’ Bardas replied. ‘I knew I was the wrong man for the job. I did the best I could, but someone else might have saved the city. And the experience itself was pretty wretched.’
‘I see. And what about your career as a fencer? Was it exciting, thrilling? Did you relish the challenge? Did you feel good each time you won?’
‘Relieved,’ Bardas said. ‘Glad I was still alive. But I did it because it was something I was good enough at to make a living. I needed the sort of money I could earn by fencing, you see, to send home to my brothers.’
‘They frittered it all away, of course,’ the man said, ‘so it was all a waste of time. Well, that only leaves farming, teaching fencing, bowmaking and whatever it is you’re doing now. How do you feel about them? Happier, I suppose.’
‘Yes,’ Bardas said. ‘Farming was a hard life, but it’s what I was born to do. Teaching fencing was better than fencing, and the money was adequate; I could have carried on with that quite happily. The same with making bows – living that sort of life, I didn’t really need much money, and I like working with my hands. Same goes for this, I suppose, if only I could find something I could actually do here. Still, nobody’s trying to kill me, so I’m that much ahead of the game.’
The man laughed. ‘What an uncomplicated fellow you are, deep down,’ he said. ‘All you really want out of life is a hard day’s work and a fair day’s pay; and instead, you grind down tribes, defend and destroy cities, kill men by the hundred. Tell me; in all the fights to the death you’ve been in, all the him-or-me confrontations, why is it, do you think, that they all died and you’re still alive? Is it just your superior skill and hand-speed? I’d be interested to hear what you make of it.’
‘I prefer not to think about it,’ Bardas replied. ‘No offence, but what business is it of yours?’
‘None,’ the man replied. ‘Except that I’m curious, as most people are. I just wanted to know what you were really like. It’s so easy when you’re reading or hearing about a great historical figure to get into the habit of assuming that they were completely different from the rest of us, that they lived by entirely different rules. Talking to you like this, just the two of us, I realise it isn’t like that at all. It’s obvious to me now; most of the time, you simply hadn’t got a clue what you were doing; nothing more to it than that. But I’d never have seen that if I’d stuck to what it says in the books, or what Grandfather told us when we were kids. Well, I think that’s all. Goodbye.’