“It was the first political decision I ever made,” he explained. “With time, I’d obviously have become the world’s greatest engineer. But a Points Bearer will only ever be a Points Bearer; engineering will absorb him to the exclusion of all else. Kings do not serve engineers but vice versa. And my aim is to be king.” He turned to face me. “Why do you ask?”
“If you were an engineer with Points,” I said, “I’d have to die for you. Given that you aren’t, that means I’m allowed to kill you without the slightest compunction.”
This tickled him greatly. “Yes, I had forgotten. Engineers and their hallowed Mystère. Do you really think it’s those little dots that stop you from stabbing me to pieces? Say if I gave you Verboom, the fact that he has three Points tattooed on his forearm would stop you from ripping his guts out?” He turned serious. “Le Mystère is nothing but an old wives’ tale, something engineers use to spice up the insipidness of stones and angles. Having your own secret god — or an anti-god — makes you feel important, more important than you really are. Le Mystère? No such thing.” He turned over, resting his head against the pillow and adding: “Snuff out the candles, would you.”
8
Jimmy was never one to dawdle. Early the next morning, in his most despotic voice, he said to me: “You said you’d obey my order. The time has come.”
I made an exaggerated, courtly bow, and asked: “Your orders?”
He swept the air majestically with one hand and became less tense. “Oh, a trifle,” he said. “Have a look at this.”
He spread two large maps out on his study table. The first showed the trench designed by Verboom and sabotaged by me, and the second, Dupuy’s planned trench. I took my time looking over both. And I can assure you: Sight can be a conduit for great remorse.
I couldn’t stop myself from crying. Silent tears that trickled down to my chin and off, pouring onto the maps. Jimmy noticed. “Why do you cry?”
“Such. . lovely trenches. .” I said. “What do you know about the feelings of an engineer?”
Whichever Attack Trench Jimmy opted for, our ancient and battered walls would fall. Add any good design to sufficient matériel and the right number of sappers, and there’s no way of stopping any Attack Trench; sooner or later, the ramparts will be reached. But if Jimmy went with Dupuy’s, which was perfection itself, it would take no time at alclass="underline" They’d be through in a week. For all that I was a prisoner, I had to do something, anything, to turn Jimmy against Dupuy’s. But how was I supposed to do that? How?
Sounding as offhand as I could, I said: “Did Verboom have a chance to look at Dupuy’s plan and vice versa?”
Jimmy failed to pick up on the fearfulness underpinning my question. I’d managed to fool Verboom, a Three Points, with my trench, with some difficulty. But if Dupuy, a Seven Points, looked closely at it, that would be curtains. He’d see the trumpery, all the subversions I’d introduced.
Luckily, though, Jimmy exclaimed: “Please, no! A cockfight is of no interest to me. I want them each to defend his plan, not to knock the other’s down. We’ll keep it friendly. When you’re involved in a siege, the number one thing is to have cohesion in your forces.”
If only the Red Pelts had been like Jimmy! Rather than backing Don Antonio, they spent all their time pestering him and having tantrums. Within the city, a small, divided force; without, Jimmy, an iron fist inside an iron glove.
“I’ve called them in. To expand on their plans. Of course, I’ll have the final say. You know more than I do when it comes to trenches. You can advise me.”
“What an honor!” I said. “Little me, judging such esteemed engineers. Dupuy is one of your staff officers. You sent him ahead to design an Attack Trench for you. Why wouldn’t you just go with his and be done with it?”
“I brought old Dupuy along because he’s the greatest living engineer. But if there are two offers on the table, why put down money for the horse without hearing about the second?”
He ceased his boyish informalities when the time came to hear the “two peacocks” (as he called them). It was as though he had stepped into a monarch’s guise. “We’ll hear what they have to say. And remember: You’ll be the critic who hides behind the king on the balcony and whispers in his ear. Really, without knowing it, they’ll be addressing you. I’ll ask your advice when they leave.”
He sent me into the room adjacent, the wall so thin that I’d be able to hear, without being seen. There was also a crevice at eye level for me to peep through.
In they came. Jimmy made them sit facing each other and asked them to go through the strong points of their respective plans. Dupuy first, then Verboom. This they did, but inevitably, disagreements arose. The Antwerp butcher was the first to be interrupted.
“Saint Clara?” scoffed Dupuy. “Attack the Saint Clara bastion? A travesty to all ideas of siege warfare!”
“A travesty?” said Verboom. “I’ve been working on this trench for years. You show up, cobble something together, and dare to say it’s better!”
Dupuy turned to Jimmy. “Marshal, please. This city has been besieged on three occasions in recent times. Three! And each time the trenches aimed for the same area — and it was not Saint Clara! Are we to suppose that every one of our illustrious forebears got it so wrong?”
“I may hail from Antwerp,” bellowed Verboom, “but I am, have been, and always will be loyal to Philip! God save him! I’ve suffered captivity for him, and never will I err in my loyalty.”
This was an extremely poor line of argument for him to choose. Jimmy could still remember the way Verboom had criticized him before Almansa on the basis of where he came from. Verboom was in for a tongue-lashing now.
“My dear Verboom,” said Jimmy. “We’re not here to discuss our places of birth. Roots, roots, roots. . Men are not vegetables. Would you suggest I lead an English army against His Majesty Philip V of Spain?”
Verboom imagined plots where there were none. “I see! This meeting is nothing but a formality. I’m an engineer, I was raised by engineers. But evidently, my stock pales in comparison to that of the great Vauban.” He got to his feet, fists clenched on the table. “The king of Spain will hear of this! How his true subjects are being overlooked in favor of the French!”
Now Dupuy had taken umbrage; though every inch the gentleman, he also had a volcanic temper. Overly volcanic, really. “Enough, you whore, flaunting your stones and your angles!” he spat, getting up from his seat. “Everyone knows the way you operate, claiming discrimination where there is none, gaining privileges that way. You don’t serve any king — you use them one and all.”
Jimmy found the slanging match deeply uninteresting and did nothing to hide the fact. I remember the way he gazed at the ceiling, fanning his face with a hand. Lord, it’s warm, he seemed to be saying, and how insufferable all this fervor is. Then a messenger came to the door. The message must have been pressing, to interrupt one of Marshal Berwick’s counsels. Jimmy read the letter, utterly uninterested in the cockfight going on in the room.
“Silence, gentlemen!” he said, looking up from the piece of paper. “I have a story for you. The month of July takes its name from Julius Caesar, August from Octavian Augustus. Augustus was succeeded as emperor by a certain Tiberius. The bootlickers in the Roman senate said would he like September to be named after him instead. Tiberius, less of a tyrant than he seemed, derided them: ‘What will you do,’ he said, ‘when you run out of months but still have emperors?’ ”