The Adventures of Guido Petrosco, pt. 2
I had seen many pictures of Caesar crossing the Don --- or was it the Ober? maybe the Danube? --- and he always stood defiantly in the prow of his ships, facing down the sea winds without concern. I tried to attempt this as we set sail from Genoa, to inspire my men. Unfortunately, I fell overboard and had to be fished out, which did very little, if anything at all, to inspire my men. Come to think of it, how was Caesar getting around in 10 man rowboats?
I soon discovered that I had two previously unknown allergies: the first was to sea air and the second was to the swaying of a below-decks cabin. So my trip was a study in personal misery. The plans, schemes, and methods I had planned to concoct during the voyage remained unconcocted, careening about wherever unconcocted plans exist in the ether.
My landfall on Corsica did not bode well either. I had been expecting the populace to turn out to welcome me, as I would effectively become their new governor. At least a military retinue would have been in order. Instead there was a surly Corsican who appeared unhappy to have left his goat herd in other hands.
Spitting just to the left of my feet, he growled, "Eh, so you're the new bastard?"
I acknowledge that I was indeed he, though I would prefer not to be so labelled. Meliaro, as this man was called, showed no interest in my protests. However, he would become my most trusted aid and confidante.
Upon my arrival in Bastia, I was surprised to find that there was no residence for the tax collector - I'll not use that wretched title, quaestor - and that Meliaro was preparing to disappear.
"Eh, you know the saying," he told me when I challenged his departure, "time is goats, and goats are money."
I revealed to him that I was in possession of great sums of money, and he in turn told me something of great importance for the future.
"Eh, I did not say time is money, like you mainlanders. Your money, it is nothing here. What will we do with Genoese pounds, or Venetian ducats, or Arab dinars? Wealth here comes from the Old Things - land, family, herds, olive groves. And you cannot take 10% of a goat."
All the same, I prevailed upon him to return in a month. I trusted that I would be able to finish my work in Bastia by then, leaving one month to deal with the rest of the island, after which I could spend the next 10 months back in Genoa.
I was to be rudely disillusioned over the next month. No one, it seemed, actually lived in Bastia. They came, they went. If they stayed, they moved about. If they went, they never went to the same place twice. Once a season, they had assigned taxes to bring, and that first occasion in my duty as tax collector occurred three weeks after my arrival.
Gerardo Beran, the old bailiff of Corsica, had set up table and some pens near the central square. For the occasion, the bishop of Bastia had hauled himself up from wherever he kept himself; I never determined any rhyme or reason to his strange schedule of appearing in church to perform mass and disappearing for weeks on end.
The first peasant led a cow up to Gerardo. "I offer this cow as the tax on my lands, herds, and groves," he said lazily. The bailiff, eyes half-shut with boredom, nodded, and the peasant left with his cow.
I calmly noted to the bailiff that the peasant had forgotten to leave his tax.
"Don't you yell at me, you thin excuse for a reed," the bailiff retorted unfairly, for truly I don't recall raising my voice. "This is March, no? How can the farmers farm if they give over their livestock or produce to us before the planting season?"
I wondered aloud if the peasant would later return it, after the harvest.
The bailiff shrugged and mumbled, "It all balances out ... somehow."
So the morning went, until a new thought hit me. Two peasants had just arrived and I asked if the lords would be coming to pay their taxes. Both peasants replied at once:
"They don't have to pay taxes."
"We pay their taxes for them."
The two glared at each other, then both spoke again:
"We pay their taxes for them."
"They don't have to pay taxes."
The two stared furiously at each other. Suddenly the first screamed,
"Alright, I've had it with you, Furio!"
He drew a knife and leapt at his countryman who had drawn his own knife and reacted in kind. Instantly a crowd appeared out of nowhere, forming a circle around the two adversaries. They in turn circled, occasionally leaping in for a quick stab, or diving out of the way. It was not long before both were bloodied. I saw chits passing among various onlookers, but was never able to determine what they were attempting to transact.
Then, just as suddenly, it was over. Everyone cheered good-heartedly and the whole mob moved off for food and drink, including the bailiff and bishop. The only one remaining was Meliaro, who had greeted me upon my arrival.
I expressed my dismay at the day's outcome.
"Eh, what did I tell you? A goat is not a stack of coins. It has a purpose beyond being wealth." Then for the first time his expression softened. "Come, leave Bastia behind. It is no more Corsica than you are a man who has known a woman."
As I explained to him his mistake in regards to the last point, we set off for a most fateful journey across the island.
Sir Jonathan tried to sip his coffee, only to find that it was empty. Harrumphing in irritation, he levered himself out of his chair and poured a bit of brandy into his favorite snifter. Then he sat back down, curious to see how young Guido's adventures would end.