Page 36 of Confounding Oaths
They fucked again that night, obviously. And although it was not unknown for Mr. Caesar to dally with the same soldier more than once, it wasdifferentthis time. Partly, probably, because they had just been to the opera. And partly because the captain was an officer and so not so unambiguously below his own station as to make things simple. And partly because … because of a whole mess of unseemly human concepts that my people do not truck with.
Afterwards they lay sweat-slicked and satisfied on sheets that Mr. Caesar would not normally have touched with a barge pole that was on fire.
“So who was that feller at the opera?” asked the captain, staring at the ceiling cradling Mr. Caesar’s head against his shoulder.
“An old friend. Of the”—he waved a hand—“intimate variety.”
“He’s a prick.”
“He is. And I’m sorry you became the target of his … prickishness.”
Although he tried to look blasé, I could still read the memory of discomfort in the captain’s heart. “It’s fine. You had my back, that’s what matters.”
“In an ideal world, your back wouldn’t need having.”
The captain’s lips curled into a rueful smile. “In an ideal world, a lot of good men would still be alive who aren’t. Don’t see the sense in worrying about ideal worlds.” For a moment, they lay in silence, then the captain continued “What were you doing with a shit like that anyway?”
“We suited each other.”
Captain James turned his head sideways. “You’re not a shit, Caesar. You pretend to be, but you’re not.”
“Thank you, that’s the nicest thing anybody has ever said to me.”
“You know the sad thing,” the captain replied. “I think that might actually be true.”
That wasn’t a road Mr. Caesar was especially keen to go down. And it wasn’t true in the absolute sense. Within his family, at least, affection had always been freely given, at least until he and his sisters had reached the age of considering such things beneath them. Outside of it, however, that was rather a different story. “I suppose we all have our … difficult former lovers,” Mr. Caesar mused, in the hope that it would prompt the captain to change the subject.
“True. Had one try to sell me out to the French once. That was pretty difficult.”
“What happened?”
“Shot him.”
Mr. Caesar had been hoping for a touch more detail, and said as much.
“He had debts,” the captain explained. “From gambling. And Bonaparte has spies. Not a gambler, are you?”
“Never more than I can afford to lose. Which in practice means never very much at all.”
“Good.” The captain gave the best approximation of a nod he could give while horizontal. “Because I’ve still got the pistol.”
It was, Mr. Caesar was sure, mostly a joke. “Even if I owed a fortune, I don’t think Napoleon would find me useful enough to subvert.”
“Then we should be all right,” said the captain. Apparently to himself as much as anybody.
After that they lapsed into a relaxed silence, the furtive nighttime sounds of St. Giles drifting in from outside in a way that, in any other company, would have left Mr. Caesar determined to be a mile away at least but with Captain James beside him seemed almost comforting.
“I don’t suppose,” Mr. Caesar said eventually, “that you’d like to join me for a picnic tomorrow?”
“The opera and a picnic?” The captain laughed again, and Mr. Caesar let himself enjoy it. “You’re trying to turn me respectable.”
“I saypicnic.It’s more sort of an ill-fated effort to make contact with the Ambassador from the Other Court concocted by a young lady who leaves far too much to chance. But sheisbringing a hamper.”
“Oh.” The captain made a great play of suasion. “Well, if there’s a hamper, you can count me in.”
It was not the kind of mockery Mr. Caesar was used to, being gentler and less grounded in specific knowledge of his personal weaknesses. But it was the kind he could get used to. So he leaned over to the captain and demonstrated his gratitude.
Chapter Eight
