Small Gods

DIDACTYLOS and Nephew

Practical Philosophers

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In front of the barrel, a short man in a toga that must have once been white, in the same way that once all continents 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 colour.’

‘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,^{43} 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 behaviour, 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.’