Small Gods

Brutha had known about these parts of the Citadel only by hearsay. Brother Nhumrod had never seen them, either. Although he had not been specifically included in the summons, he had come nevertheless, fussing importantly around Brutha as two sturdy novices carried him in a kind of sedan chair normally used by the more crumbling of the senior clerics.

In the centre of the Citadel, behind the Temple, was a walled garden. Brutha looked at it with an expert eye. There wasn’t an inch of natural soil on the bare rock — every spadeful that these shady trees grew in must have been carried up by hand.

Vorbis was there, surrounded by bishops and Iams. He looked round as Brutha approached.

‘Ah, my desert companion,’ he said, amiably. ‘And Brother Nhumrod, I believe. My brothers, I should like you to know that I have it in mind to raise our Brutha to archbishophood.’

There was a very faint murmur of astonishment from the clerics, and then a clearing of a throat. Vorbis looked at Bishop Treem, who was the Citadel’s archivist.

‘Well, technically he is not yet even ordained,’ said Bishop Treem, doubtfully. ‘But of course we all know there has been a precedent.’

‘Ossory’s ass,’ said Brother Nhumrod promptly. He put his hand over his mouth and went red with shame and embarrassment.

Vorbis smiled.

‘Good Brother Nhumrod is correct,’ he said. ‘Who had also not been ordained, unless the qualifications were somewhat relaxed in those days.’

There was a chorus of nervous laughs, such as there always is from people who owe their jobs and possibly their lives to a whim of the person who has just cracked the not very amusing line.

‘Although the donkey was only made a bishop,’ said Bishop ‘Deathwish’ Treem.

‘A role for which it was highly qualified,’ said Vorbis sharply. ‘And now, you will all leave. Including Subdeacon Nhumrod,’ he added. Nhumrod went from red to white at this sudden preferment. ‘But Archbishop Brutha will remain. We wish to talk.’

The clergy withdrew.

Vorbis sat down on a stone chair under an elder tree. It was huge and ancient, quite unlike its short-lived relatives outside the garden, and its berries were ripening.

The Prophet sat with his elbows on the stone arms of the chair, his hands interlocked in front of him, and gave Brutha a long, slow stare.

‘You are … recovered?’ he said, eventually.

‘Yes, lord,’ said Brutha. ‘But, lord, I cannot be a bishop, I cannot even—’

‘I assure you the job does not require much intelligence,’ said Vorbis. ‘If it did, bishops would not be able to do it.’

There was another long silence.

When Vorbis next spoke, it was as if every word was being winched up from a great depth.

‘We spoke once, did we not, of the nature of reality?’

‘Yes.’

‘And about how often what is perceived is not that which is fundamentally true?’

‘Yes.’

Another pause. High overhead, an eagle circled, looking for tortoises.

‘I am sure you have confused memories of our wanderings in the wilderness.’

‘No.’

‘It is only to be expected. The sun, the thirst, the hunger …’

‘No, lord. My memory does not confuse readily.’

‘Oh, yes. I recall.’

‘So do I, lord.’

Vorbis turned his head slightly, looking sidelong at Brutha as if he was trying to hide behind his own face.

‘In the desert, the Great God Om spoke to me.’

‘Yes, lord. He did. Every day.’

‘You have a mighty if simple faith, Brutha. When it comes to people, I am a great judge.’

‘Yes, lord. Lord?’

‘Yes, my Brutha?’

‘Nhumrod said you led me through the desert, lord.’

‘Remember what I said about fundamental truth, Brutha? Of course you do. There was a physical desert, indeed, but also a desert of the soul. My God led me, and I led you.’

‘Ah. Yes. I see.’

Overhead, the spiralling dot that was the eagle appeared to hang motionless in the air for a moment. Then it folded its wings and fell—

‘Much was given to me in the desert, Brutha. Much was learned. Now I must tell the world. That is the duty of a prophet. To go where others have not been, and bring back the truth of it.’

— faster than the wind, its whole brain and body existing only as a mist around the sheer intensity of its purpose—

‘I did not expect it to be this soon. But Om guided my steps. And now that we have the Cenobiarchy, we shall … make use of it.’

Somewhere out on the hillsides the eagle swooped, picked something up, and strove for height…

‘I’m just a novice, Lord Vorbis. I am not a bishop, even if everyone calls me one.’

‘You will get used to it.’

It sometimes took a long time for an idea to form in Brutha’s mind, but one was forming now. It was something about the way Vorbis was sitting, something about the edge in his voice.

Vorbis was afraid of him.

Why me? Because of the desert? Who would care? For all I know, it was always like this — probably it was Ossory’s ass that carried him in the wilderness, who found the water, who kicked a lion to death.

Because of Ephebe? Who would listen? Who would care? He is the Prophet and the Cenobiarch. He could have me killed just like that. Anything he does is right. Anything he says is true.