Academic Exercises (58 page)

“Yes we can,” Accila said. “Retrospectively. Since there is currently no high priest, you having been dismissed, the ecumenical council is us. And we can do anything we like.”

The others just sat there, grim-faced, hiding behind Accila. “I’ll have the lot of you for this,” I shouted. “I’ll expose you. I’ll tell everything. I’ll tell them it’s all a fraud.”

Accila sighed. “Please don’t,” he said. “You’ll just embarrass yourself. After all, nobody’s going to believe you, are they? They’ve seen us curing the sick, they saw the miracle of the reborn sun, they saw us end the war. They’ll just think, here’s a man who lost a power struggle and wants to make trouble. Politics. The people understand about politics. And then,” he added with a sad smile, “we’ll tell them how you defrauded the Church of a quarter of a million stamina. Or we can do it our way. Up to you entirely.”

I was breathing rapidly, and my palms were sweating. “Heresy,” I said. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Razo cleared his throat. “We’ll put out a statement saying that you object to the doctrine of vicarious absolution. The doctrine having been upheld by the ecumenical council, you’re a heretic.”

I blinked. “What,” I demanded, “is the doctrine of—?”

“Vicarious absolution.” Teuta steepled his fingers. “My idea. In exchange for a substantial offering, you can ensure the salvation of someone else’s soul, even if he’s not actually a believer himself. He doesn’t have to know about it, if that’s what you want. For double the money, you can even save someone’s soul against his will. We think it’ll be very popular.”

I tried. I went to the magistrates and swore a complaint, but the chief justice was a believer and threw the case out for lack of evidence. I went to the chief archimandrite of the Fire Temple, who told me that the last thing he wanted to do, in the present circumstances, was pick a fight with a much bigger, richer church. I tried to see the emperor, but the chamberlain wouldn’t even take my money. There are more important things, he said, with a sanctimonious scowl, and sent me away.

I preached in the market-place. The first time, I drew a good crowd. I hadn’t lost my touch. I told them; the Gospel of the Invincible Sun is a fake, written by five poor rich boys to make money. The so-called ancient scrolls dug up in the Temple foundations were fakes, made by a skilled forger with a criminal record for falsifying religious texts. The miracle of the Reborn Sun was no miracle at all; my former colleagues had started with Anaximander, carefully studied the other records, and accurately predicted a natural phenomenon that would have happened anyway. The cure for the mountain fever was just mouldy bread beaten up in garlic juice—a wonderful thing, granted, but no miracle. The other cures could all be explained by the scientifically-documented phenomenon of mass hysteria; it was all there in the Mezentine books, I told them, all we did was read and repeat. The Herulian war was almost over anyway, so we hadn’t ended that. As for the Church, it was nothing more than a mechanism for sucking in unearned wealth, which the five of us had always intended from the start to keep for ourselves.

My second street corner sermon drew about a dozen people, five of whom jeered and threw apples. On the third occasion, I was arrested by the kettlehats for disturbing the peace.

They kept me in for a week, in a dark, tiny cell along with two thieves, a wife-killer and a rapist. I preached to them, expounding the doctrine of right and wrong that I’d been given in my dream. I think the rapist was interested, but on the fourth day the wife-killer, a believer, hit me so hard I passed out, and when I came round, a lot of the evangelical zeal seemed to have faded.

On the seventh day, two kettlehats came and pulled me out of there. I was being transferred, they said, to the ecclesiastical courts. What ecclesiastical courts, I asked.

“They’re new,” Accila explained. He’d come to see me in my cell. “Very new.”

“How new?”

“Actually, we got the whole thing set up in six days. Soon as we heard you’d been arrested.”

I stared at him. “What?”

“In your honour,” he said grimly. “On account of, there wasn’t really anything in ordinary criminal law we could get you for, apart from disturbing the peace and criminal slander, maybe just possibly incitement to riot. At best, those would get you put away for two years. So, we created an entirely new jurisdiction, just for you. They had to rush an emergency enabling bill through the House; quickest piece of legislation this century, apparently. The emperor signed it yesterday, so it’s now the law. And of course it’s—”

“Let me guess. Retrospective.”

He grinned. “Not much point otherwise.” He sighed, a reasonable man brought to the limits of his patience. “Eps, you bloody fool, why can’t you just drop it and shut your face? You’ve lost, accept it, move on.” He hesitated, then added, “They’ve authorised me to make you an offer. One million stamina, provided you leave the country and never come back. That’s for old time’s sake, we don’t have to pay you anything. Well? What about it?”

“And if I won’t?”

He looked very sad and grave. “Well,” he said, “I don’t see where you leave us much choice. But for pity’s sake, Eps, you’re a sensible man, there’s absolutely no reason why we can’t sort this out in a reasonable, businesslike fashion. Damn it, we used to be
friends
.”

I just looked at him. “You’re the ones who had me locked up,” I said. “You threw me out of my own Church. I’m sorry, but I can’t see how it’s my fault.”

He shrugged. “You don’t want money,” he said. “You don’t want a quiet, prosperous life. For crying out loud, Eps, what do you want? A martyr’s crown?”

So they were going to kill me. Oh, I thought. “If the crown fits,” I heard myself say.

“You bloody idiot,” Accila said, and left.

The trial was short and, as I understand, very orderly and efficient. I wasn’t actually there, having been ejected for gross contempt about ten seconds after they put me in the dock. They sent some clerk down to the cells to tell me the verdict. Guilty of blasphemy, twelve counts, fraud and embezzlement, ninety-six counts, other offences, a hundred and four counts. Sentence: death by fire. I’d pleaded guilty, apparently.

“Death by fire?” I asked.

The clerk nodded briskly. “Only the refining power of flame,” he told me, “can purge the taint of blasphemy, which would otherwise form a miasma and lead to plague.”

“Is that right?”

“That’s what it says here,” he said. “Tomorrow morning, at dawn. Sorry,” he added, which was nice of him.

“I’d like to see a priest,” I said.

“Sorry.”

I spent the night on my knees, in prayer. Sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it, but you do that sort of thing in a condemned cell. After all, why not? Not as if there’s anything better to do, sleeping would be a sinful waste, and—well. If it was true, and I really had invented God, brought him in to existence—I thought about that. Why not? There are innumerable examples of sons who turn out to be a thousand, a million times better, cleverer, stronger than their fathers. If I really had invented God, then I reckoned he owed me; a vision, a visitation, a sign or portent at the very least. No dice. I fell asleep kneeling.

I woke up, and it was still dark. The floor was shaking.

We don’t get earthquakes in the City. If you want to experience that sort of thing, you have to go to Permia, or up North. It’s the weirdest feeling. It’s like being on a ship in a storm. You have to keep moving your feet just to stand still, and the vibration goes right down and through you, till you can feel your bones moving. Everything blurs, as though you’ve just had a bang on the head, and there’s this noise like nothing else, a sort of deep rumbling purr, as though you’re a flea on the back of a cat the size of Scheria. I jumped up, promptly fell over, got up again; I was trying to learn how to stand upright on a moving surface when the floor split, right between my feet, and a huge gap appeared—a great big slice of nothing, with a foot on either side of it. I yelped like a dog, and then a chunk of the roof came down, missing me by a whisker. I could feel pee running down the inside of my leg. Then there was this extraordinary singing, moaning noise, which later on I was able to rationalise as the sound of steel under intolerable tension, and the doorframe burst. The cell door actually flew open—it swished past me, if I’d been a hand’s breadth closer, it’d have swatted me like a fly. A head-sized chunk of roof bashed me on the shoulder; it hurt like buggery, I staggered and nearly went down the hole in the floor. The hell with this, I thought, and I did a sort of standing jump through the open doorway.

I landed on my bruised shoulder, which really didn’t improve matters, and sat up. One end of the corridor was blocked with chunks and slabs of fallen roof. The other end was clear. I scrambled to my feet and ran. The floor played funny games with me; I ended up flat on my back three times before I reached the stairs. They’d pulled away from the wall on one side, but I was in no mood to be fussy. When I was a few steps from the top, I felt the whole lot give way under the pressure of my heel; I sprang, like a cat, as the staircase just sort of fell away, and landed in a ball on something relatively solid.

It was a miracle that I got out of there. About ten seconds after I burst out through a shattered window into fresh air, the whole prison sort of folded in on itself and subsided into a heap of stones. How come I wasn’t squashed by any of the huge slabs of flying rubbish, I simply don’t know. All I remember was how hard it was to breathe, because I couldn’t stop running, even though my legs were jelly and my lungs stabbed like knives; I ran, dodging falling trees and collapsing buildings, jumping over dead people and people trapped under things, I ran and ran until a particularly violent tremor swept me off my feet and I fell down and no effort on my part could make me get up again. Then, I guess, I went to sleep, or something like that.

I woke up in a weird landscape; masonry trash, blocks of stone, as far as the eye can see; I remember thinking, whatever possessed me to spend the night in a quarry? But then I caught sight of a building I knew; the
Integrity Rewarded
, in Sheep Street, except that Sheep Street wasn’t there; just the
Integrity
, taken out of context, floating serenely on a sea of rubble.

I limped over and banged on the door, but it was bolted shut. Pity. I could really have done with a drink (except I had no money, and they don’t do credit at the
Integrity
). I wandered away and just sort of drifted for a while. It was a very long time before I saw anyone, but when I did, it was a patrol of kettlehats. They looked at me and shouted, You there, stop where you are. So, naturally, I ran.