The Ruler gave a quick smile, showing small sharp teeth. ‘You seem very well informed. And no doubt you will understand that in a rapidly advancing nation, old traditions die slowly. In France you still employ the guillotine. And yet, in the West, you are such masters of hypocrisy! When in my country a thief is caught and his hand is cut off, or when he tries to run away and his foot is cut off, you call it barbarism. Yet innocent citizens do not fear to walk the streets of our cities, Monsieur Pol, as they do in most Western countries. So why are you so anxious to criticize and condemn?’
‘I do neither,’ said Pol. ‘On the contrary, I admire your progress. I am tepid that the amputations are no longer carried out in public, but under local anaesthetics in a special air-conditioned clinic.’
There was a pause. ‘I trust you are not being impertinent, Monsieur Pol?’
‘Your Majesty, I understood that you had summoned me here with the possible purpose of hiring my services. I certainly did not come to discuss the ethics of Your Majesty’s rule. Since you have my file, you are probably aware that recently my circumstances have become somewhat straitened. You will also know that until a few months ago I myself, in a not too modest way, also enjoyed wealth and power. While I have never actually brought down a government, I have caused several to have bad indigestion. As for money, I too have enjoyed far more than was necessary to gratify those few appetites that are still left to me. But with respect to your own wealth and power, Your Majesty, let me say at once that I am more impressed by the genius of Yehudi Menuhin, or of the English novelist Graham Greene, or even by the culinary skills of the late Monsieur Point, proprietor of the “Pyramide”.’
As the Frenchman finished speaking, the door opened on its well-oiled hinges and the black-suited retainer appeared. The Ruler said something in his own tongue and the man came across the room and stood behind Pol’s chair.
The Ruler sat back and said to Pol, ‘In my own country most of my subjects believe that I am endowed with powers of divine guidance. To a sophisticated person like yourself, this will seem like childish idealism — the simple totem worship of a primitive people in search of a tangible god. I admit that many of my people are still simple. But you must also remember that my throne has not been occupied for a few generations by one of your inbred European dynasties — a mongrel breed of Germans and Greeks, seedy Mediterranean princelings and Balkan impostors. The Emerald Throne of the Hama’anah — a legendary bird that draws its strength from the talons of the eagle, the beauty of the peacock, and the venom of the snake — has been occupied for more than 3000 years. It has withstood the assault and intrigue of almost every race and alliance, from the Greeks, the Huns, the Turks, the Tsars, the Arabs, and, in recent times, the infectious plague of international socialism. I carry on the ancient tradition of my throne without fear or favour. If I do not always expect love, at least I command respect.’
Pol turned his head enough to observe the rigid figure of the servant standing less than a foot from his shoulder. The man’s hands hung straight at his sides, the fingers thick and square-tipped. His eyes did not move from his master’s face.
Pol’s lips parted in an impish grin. ‘I think we already know enough of each other, Your Majesty, not to have to play the comedy between ourselves. I am a failed financier — a buccaneer — a bum — whatever it pleases you to call me. As for you, I know that your throne was seized in a coup d’état by a common army sergeant who mutinied against his superiors, promoted himself Colonel, overthrew the old Imperial dynasty, and proclaimed himself King of Kings, Ruler of All Princes. You were merely his illegitimately begotten son.’
The Ruler said calmly, ‘I think it was St Paul, in your Bible, who spoke of those who can suffer fools gladly, seeing they themselves are wise? Monsieur, you are a fool.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Pol. ‘But it was Napoleon who said that the fool has one great advantage over the man of sense — he is always satisfied with himself.’
The Ruler murmured something and the retainer moved up against Pol’s chair. A hand closed round the side of Pol’s neck and the fingers hardened, squeezing and probing into the rolls of fat until they found the right spot. Pol’s face turned blue; he tried to blink through the tears, and tasted bile choking his throat. It was several seconds before he could make out the Ruler’s voice, slow and measured, with that tone of bored disdain.
‘We are fortunately under Swiss territorial jurisdiction, Monsieur Pol. Otherwise I might be tempted to dispense with legal properties. It is not wise to call me a bastard and a fool.’
Pol dabbed a silk handkerchief to his eyes and cheeks, and smoothed its cool surface over the side of his neck. The carefully arranged kiss-curl was splayed out like a crushed spider on the shining dome of his forehead, and the sweat trickled down his cheeks, collecting in the folds of his chin. He wiped his eyes again and said, ‘Your Majesty, I am surprised that a man in your position, should want to descend to such clumsy and embarrassing dramatics. In my experience, one is always at a disadvantage talking business with somebody one has just reduced to tears.’
He sat back and blew his
