there’d never been more than two guards on the door
before, but there’s a first time for everything. Fortunately, not this time. I
dragged the guard inside, slipped out into the passageway, gently pulled the
door shut and turned the key. An hour, my best guess; maybe a bit more,
unlikely to be much less. Just how far could I get in an hour?
*
Scholars are proverbially celibate, and
the life of the professional criminal doesn’t leave much time for romance, so
it won’t surprise you to learn that I was only in love really and truly the one
time.
Which would’ve
been enough, if things had worked out a little better. She was perfect;
beautiful, clever, kind, funny, gentle; a joy to be with, under any
circumstances. And she loved me, almost as much as I loved her; but what she
loved most of all (which was better than her loving me) was philosophy. If it
hadn’t been for her, I’d never have written On Form & Substance. She had this way of making me think; just the slightest of frowns, or a tiny
upwards movement of an eyebrow, and suddenly I could see past the certainties
to the real questions behind them. She made me realise that, up till then, all
I’d cared about was making it so my enemies couldn’t prove me wrong; in other
words, winning. Then she came along, and the world changed, and what actually
mattered wasn’t beating some opponent but getting it right—
Perfect. Almost
perfect. Just one thing about her that I’d have changed, if I could. She was
married. To prince Phocas.
Which led, I’m
sorry to say, to a falling-out between my old college chum and me. Not the first,
and certainly not the last. He took the view that it was a betrayal of trust,
not to mention criminal adultery and treason. I could see his point, and I also
accept that under the circumstances, given his position of head of state and
fountain of all justice, he had no option but to allow the law to take its
course. What I couldn’t forgive, still can’t, is that it wasn’t me he put on
trial.
To his credit, he
entered a special plea for clemency on her behalf. Unfortunately, in the
political climate prevailing at that time, he couldn’t have made things worse
if he’d tried; the six judges were all Popular Tendency, and that was that.
There have been times, in my darker moments, when I’ve wondered whether he made
that plea deliberately, knowing it’d prompt the judges to order the death
penalty out of sheer spite; but no, I don’t think so. He loved her, no doubt
about it, and losing her, especially that way, tore him apart. Didn’t exactly
cheer me up, either. By loving her, I’d killed her, simple as that. Phocas was
just the weapon I used.
So; she died, I
lived. Phocas had his chief investigator swear on oath, by the majesty of the
Invincible Sun, that he hadn’t been able to discover the identity of the
adulterer. The judges (two of them are dead now; the other four will have to
wait till I’ve got a little free time) offered to grant him permission to put
the accused to torture to extract the name, if he thought that would do it; I
remember, he went white as a sheet and mumbled no, he didn’t believe torture would
be effective in this case. And the judges shrugged, as if to say, well, if
you’re sure, and moved smoothly on to passing sentence.
I watched, from a
high window. I remember how she stayed calm and controlled right up to the
moment they started roping her to the stake. Then, when they grabbed her wrist,
she screamed and went all to pieces, she was terrified, it took four strong men
to hold her still while they tied the knots. They put a lot of green wood in,
so the smoke killed her before the flames reached her. Standard practice, I
gather. It’s one of those small mercies we’re supposed to be grateful for.
I’m a terror for
not wasting anything useful, so when it was my turn to deliver the Onesander
Memorial Lecture at the Studium, I used her death as a paradigm of alchemical
theory. She was, I
before, but there’s a first time for everything. Fortunately, not this time. I
dragged the guard inside, slipped out into the passageway, gently pulled the
door shut and turned the key. An hour, my best guess; maybe a bit more,
unlikely to be much less. Just how far could I get in an hour?
*
Scholars are proverbially celibate, and
the life of the professional criminal doesn’t leave much time for romance, so
it won’t surprise you to learn that I was only in love really and truly the one
time.
Which would’ve
been enough, if things had worked out a little better. She was perfect;
beautiful, clever, kind, funny, gentle; a joy to be with, under any
circumstances. And she loved me, almost as much as I loved her; but what she
loved most of all (which was better than her loving me) was philosophy. If it
hadn’t been for her, I’d never have written On Form & Substance. She had this way of making me think; just the slightest of frowns, or a tiny
upwards movement of an eyebrow, and suddenly I could see past the certainties
to the real questions behind them. She made me realise that, up till then, all
I’d cared about was making it so my enemies couldn’t prove me wrong; in other
words, winning. Then she came along, and the world changed, and what actually
mattered wasn’t beating some opponent but getting it right—
Perfect. Almost
perfect. Just one thing about her that I’d have changed, if I could. She was
married. To prince Phocas.
Which led, I’m
sorry to say, to a falling-out between my old college chum and me. Not the first,
and certainly not the last. He took the view that it was a betrayal of trust,
not to mention criminal adultery and treason. I could see his point, and I also
accept that under the circumstances, given his position of head of state and
fountain of all justice, he had no option but to allow the law to take its
course. What I couldn’t forgive, still can’t, is that it wasn’t me he put on
trial.
To his credit, he
entered a special plea for clemency on her behalf. Unfortunately, in the
political climate prevailing at that time, he couldn’t have made things worse
if he’d tried; the six judges were all Popular Tendency, and that was that.
There have been times, in my darker moments, when I’ve wondered whether he made
that plea deliberately, knowing it’d prompt the judges to order the death
penalty out of sheer spite; but no, I don’t think so. He loved her, no doubt
about it, and losing her, especially that way, tore him apart. Didn’t exactly
cheer me up, either. By loving her, I’d killed her, simple as that. Phocas was
just the weapon I used.
So; she died, I
lived. Phocas had his chief investigator swear on oath, by the majesty of the
Invincible Sun, that he hadn’t been able to discover the identity of the
adulterer. The judges (two of them are dead now; the other four will have to
wait till I’ve got a little free time) offered to grant him permission to put
the accused to torture to extract the name, if he thought that would do it; I
remember, he went white as a sheet and mumbled no, he didn’t believe torture would
be effective in this case. And the judges shrugged, as if to say, well, if
you’re sure, and moved smoothly on to passing sentence.
I watched, from a
high window. I remember how she stayed calm and controlled right up to the
moment they started roping her to the stake. Then, when they grabbed her wrist,
she screamed and went all to pieces, she was terrified, it took four strong men
to hold her still while they tied the knots. They put a lot of green wood in,
so the smoke killed her before the flames reached her. Standard practice, I
gather. It’s one of those small mercies we’re supposed to be grateful for.
I’m a terror for
not wasting anything useful, so when it was my turn to deliver the Onesander
Memorial Lecture at the Studium, I used her death as a paradigm of alchemical
theory. She was, I
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