Small Gods (18 page)

His philosophy was a mixture of three famous schools—the Cynics, the Stoics, and the Epicureans—and summed up all three of them in his famous phrase,
“You can’t trust any bugger further than you can throw him, and there’s nothing you can do about it, so let’s have a drink. Mine’s a double, if you’re buying. Thank
you
. And a packet of nuts. Her left bosom is nearly uncovered, eh? Two more packets, then!”

Many people have quoted from his famous
Meditations:

“It’s a rum old world all right. But you’ve got to laugh, haven’t you?
Nil Illegitimo Carborundum
is what I say. The experts don’t know everything. Still, where would we be if we were all the same?”

Om crawled closer to the voice, bringing himself around the corner of the wall so that he could see into a small courtyard.

There was a very large barrel against the far wall. Various debris around it—broken wine amphorae, gnawed bones, and a couple of lean-to shacks made out of rough boards—suggested that it was someone’s home. And this impression was given some weight by the sign chalked on a board and stuck to the wall over the barrel.

It read:

DIDACTYLOS and Nephew

Practical Philosophers

No Proposition Too Large

“We Can Do Your Thinking For You”

Special Rates after 6 pm
Fresh Axioms Every Day

In front of the barrel, a short man in a toga that must have once been white, in the same way that once all con
tinents must have been joined together, was kicking another one who was on the ground.

“You lazy bugger!”

The younger one sat up.

“Honest, Uncle—”

“I turn my back for half an hour and you go to sleep on the job!”

“What job? We haven’t had anything since Mr. Piloxi the farmer last week—”

“How d’you know? How d’you know? While you were snoring dozens of people could’ve been goin’ past, every one of ’em in need of a pers’nal philosophy!”

“—and he only paid in olives.”

“I shall prob’ly get a good price for them olives!”

“They’re
rotten
, Uncle.”

“Nonsense! You said they were green!”

“Yes, but they’re supposed to be black.”

In the shadows, the tortoise’s head turned back and forth like a spectator’s at a tennis match.

The young man stood up.

“Mrs. Bylaxis came in this morning,” he said. “She said the proverb you did for her last week has stopped working.”

Didactylos scratched his head.

“Which one was that?” he said.

“You gave her ‘It’s always darkest before dawn.’”

“Nothing wrong with that. Damn good philosophy.”

“She said she didn’t feel any better. Anyway, she said she’d stayed up all night because of her bad leg and it was actually quite light just before dawn, so it wasn’t true. And her leg still dropped off. So I gave her part exchange on ‘Still, it does you good to laugh.’”

Didactylos brightened up a bit.

“Shifted that one, eh?”

“She said she’d give it a try. She gave me a whole dried squid for it. She said I looked like I needed feeding up.”

“Right? You’re learning. That’s lunch sorted out at any rate. See, Urn?
Told
you it would work if we stuck at it.”

“I don’t call one dried squid and a box of greasy olives much of a return, master. Not for two weeks’ thinking.”

“We got three
obols
for doing that proverb for old Grillos the cobbler.”

“No we didn’t. He brought it back. His wife didn’t like the color.”

“And you gave him his money back?”

“Yes.”

“What, all of it?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t do that. Not after he’s put wear and tear on the words. Which one was it?”

“‘It’s a wise crow that knows which way the camel points.’”

“I put a lot of work in on that one.”

“He said he couldn’t understand it.”

“I don’t understand cobbling, but I know a good pair of sandals when I wears ’em.”

Om blinked his one eye. Then he looked at the shapes of the minds in front of him.

The one called Urn was presumably the nephew, and had a fairly normal sort of mind, even if it did seem to have too many circles and angles in it. But Didactylos’s mind bubbled and flashed like a potful of electric eels on full boil. Om had never seen anything like it. Brutha’s thoughts took eons to slide into place, it was like watching mountains colliding; Didactylos’s thoughts chased after one another with a whooshing noise. No wonder he was bald. Hair would have burned off from the inside.

Om had found a thinker.

A cheap one, too, by the sound of it.

He looked up at the wall behind the barrel. Further along was an impressive set of marble steps leading up to some bronze doors, and over the doors, made of metal letters set in the stone, was the word LIBRVM.

He’d spent too much time looking. Urn’s hand clamped itself on to his shell, and he heard Didactylos’s voice say, “Hey…there’s good eating on one of these things…”

Brutha cowered.

“You stoned our envoy!” shouted Vorbis. “An unarmed man!”

“He brought it upon himself,” said the Tyrant. “Aristocrates was there. He will tell you.”

The tall man nodded and stood up.

“By tradition anyone may speak in the marketplace,” he began.

“And be stoned?” Vorbis demanded.

Aristocrates held up a hand.

“Ah,” he said, “anyone can
say
what they like in the square. We have another tradition, though, called free listening. Unfortunately, when people dislike what they hear, they can become a little…testy.”

“I was there too,” said another advisor. “Your priest got up to speak and at first everything was fine, because people were laughing. And then he said that Om was the only real God, and everyone went quiet. And then he pushed over a statue of Tuvelpit, the God of Wine. That’s when the trouble started.”

“Are you proposing to tell me he was struck by lightning?” said Vorbis.

Vorbis was no longer shouting. His voice was level,
without passion. The thought rose in Brutha’s mind: this is how the exquisitors speak. When the inquisitors have finished, the exquisitors speak…

“No. By an amphora. Tuvelpit was in the crowd, you see.”

“And striking honest men is considered proper godly behavior, is it?”

“Your missionary had said that people who did not believe in Om would suffer endless punishment. I have to tell you that the crowd considered this rude.”

“And so they threw stones at him…”

“Not many. They only hurt his pride. And only after they’d run out of vegetables.”

“They threw vegetables?”

“When they couldn’t find any more eggs.”

“And when we came to remonstrate—”

“I am sure sixty ships intended more than remonstrating,” said the Tyrant. “And we have warned you, Lord Vorbis. People find in Ephebe what they seek. There will be more raids on your coast. We will harass your ships. Unless you sign.”

“And passage through Ephebe?” said Vorbis.

The Tyrant smiled.

“Across the desert? My lord, if you can cross the desert, I am sure you can go anywhere.” The Tyrant looked away from Vorbis and towards the sky, visible between the pillars.

“And now I see it is nearing noon,” he said. “And the day heats up. Doubtless you will wish to discuss our…uh…proposals with your colleagues. May I suggest we meet again at sunset?”

Vorbis appeared to give this some consideration.

“I think,” he said eventually, “that our deliberations may take longer. Shall we say…tomorrow morning?”

The Tyrant nodded.

“As you wish. In the meantime, the palace is at your disposal. There are many fine temples and works of art should you wish to inspect them. When you require meals, mention the fact to the nearest slave.”

“Slave is an Ephebian word. In Om we have no word for slave,” said Vorbis.

“So I understand,” said the Tyrant. “I imagine that fish have no word for water.” He smiled the fleeting smile again. “And there are the baths and the Library, of course. Many fine sights. You are our guests.”

Vorbis inclined his head.

“I pray,” he said, “that one day you will be a guest of mine.”

“And what sights
I
shall see,” said the Tyrant.

Brutha stood up, knocking over his bench and going redder with embarrassment.

He thought: they lied about Brother Murduck. They beat him within an inch of his life, Vorbis said, and flogged him the rest of the way. And Brother Nhumrod said he saw the body, and it was really true. Just for talking! People who would do that sort of thing deserve…punishment. And they keep slaves. People forced to work against their will. People treated like animals. And they even
call
their ruler a Tyrant!

And why isn’t any of this exactly what it seems?

Why don’t I believe any of it?

Why do I know it isn’t true?

And what did he mean about fish not having a word for water?

The Omnians were half-escorted, half-led back to their compound. Another bowl of fruit was waiting on the table in Brutha’s cell, with some more fish and a loaf of bread.

There was also a man, sweeping the floor.

“Um,” said Brutha. “Are you a slave?”

“Yes, master.”

“That must be terrible.”

The man leaned on his broom. “You’re right. It’s terrible. Really terrible. D’you know, I only get one day off a week?”

Brutha, who had never heard the words “day off” before, and who was in any case unfamiliar with the concept, nodded uncertainly.

“Why don’t you run away?” he said.

“Oh, done that,” said the slave. “Ran away to Tsort once. Didn’t like it much. Came back. Run away for a fortnight in Djelibeybi every winter, though.”

“Do you get brought back?” said Brutha.

“Huh!” said the slave. “No, I don’t. Miserable skin-flint, Aristocrates. I have to come back by myself. Hitching lifts on ships, that kind of thing.”

“You
come
back?”

“Yeah. Abroad’s all right to visit, but you wouldn’t want to live there. Anyway, I’ve only got another four years as a slave and then I’m free. You get the vote when you’re free.
And
you get to keep slaves.” His face glazed with the effort of recollection as he ticked off points on his fingers. “Slaves get three meals a day, at least one with meat. And one free day a week. And two weeks being-allowed-to-run-away every year. And I don’t do ovens or heavy lifting, and worldly-wise repartee only by arrangement.”

“Yes, but you’re not
free
,” said Brutha, intrigued despite himself.

“What’s the difference?”

“Er…you don’t get any days off.” Brutha scratched his head. “And one less meal.”

“Really? I think I’ll give freedom a miss then, thanks.”

“Er…have you seen a tortoise anywhere around here?” said Brutha.

“No.
And
I cleaned under the bed.”

“Have you seen one anywhere else today?”

“You want one? There’s good eating on a—”

“No. No. It’s all right—”

“Brutha!”

It was Vorbis’s voice. Brutha hurried out into the courtyard and into Vorbis’s cell.

“Ah, Brutha.”

“Yes, lord?”

Vorbis was sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring at the wall.

“You are a young man visiting a new place,” said Vorbis. “No doubt there is much you wish to see.”

“There is?” said Brutha. Vorbis was using the exquisitor voice again—a level monotone, a voice like a strip of dull steel.

“You may go where you wish. See new things, Brutha. Learn everything you can. You are my eyes and ears. And my memory. Learn about this place.”

“Er. Really, lord?”

“Have I impressed you with my use of careless language, Brutha?”

“No, lord.”

“Go away. Fill yourself. And be back by sunset.”

“Er. Even the Library?” said Brutha.

“Ah? Yes, the Library. The Library that they have here. Of course. Crammed with useless and dangerous and evil knowledge. I can see it in my mind, Brutha. Can you imagine that?”

“No, Lord Vorbis.”

“Your innocence is your shield, Brutha. No. By all
means go to the Library. I have no fear of any effect on
you
.”

“Lord Vorbis?”

“Yes?”

“The Tyrant said that they hardly did anything to Brother Murduck…”

Silence unrolled its restless length.

Vorbis said, “He lied.”

“Yes.” Brutha waited. Vorbis continued to stare at the wall. Brutha wondered what he saw there. When nothing else appeared to be forthcoming, he said, “Thank you.”

He stepped back a bit before he went out, so that he could squint under the deacon’s bed.

He’s probably in trouble, Brutha thought as he hurried through the palace. Everyone wants to eat tortoises.

He tried to look everywhere while avoiding the friezes of unclad nymphs.

Brutha was technically aware that women were a different shape from men; he hadn’t left the village until he was twelve, by which time some of his contemporaries were already married. And Omnianism encouraged early marriage as a preventive against Sin, although any activity involving any part of the human anatomy between neck and knees was more or less Sinful in any case.

Brutha wished he was a better scholar so he could ask his God why this was.

Then he found himself wishing his God was a more intelligent God so it could answer.

He hasn’t screamed for me, he thought. I’m sure I would have heard. So maybe no one’s cooking him.

A slave polishing one of the statues directed him to the Library. Brutha pounded down an aisle of pillars.

When he reached the courtyard in front of the Library
it was crowded with philosophers, all craning to look at something. Brutha could hear the usual petulant squabbling that showed that philosophical discourse was under way.