Hard to Be a God

by Arkady Strugatsky

  “Don’t be so upset, my friend,” Rumata said. “After all, the baronet is keeping her company, and I’m here with you.”

  “That’s completely different,” said the baron. “You don’t understand at all, my friend. You’re too young and flighty. You probably even get pleasure out of looking at these whores.”

  “Well, why not?” Rumata said, looking curiously at the baron. “They seem like very nice girls.”

  The baron shook his head and smiled sarcastically. “The one standing up,” he said loudly, “has a saggy ass. And the one brushing her hair has no ass at all. These are cows, my friend—at best these are cows. Just think of the baroness! Think of her hands, her grace! Think of her poise, my friend!”

  “Yes,” Rumata agreed. “The baroness is lovely. Let’s leave this place.”

  “Where would we go?” the baron asked with melancholy. “And why?” Resolve suddenly appeared on his face. “No, my friend, I’m not leaving this place. You do what you like.” He started climbing off his horse. “Although I would be very hurt if you left me here alone.”

  “Of course I’ll stay with you,” Rumata said. “But—”

  “No buts,” the baron said.

  They threw the reins to an approaching servant, proudly walked past the girls, and entered the hall. It was stifling inside. The lamplight barely penetrated the mist of fumes, as if they were in a large and very dirty steam bath. The benches by the long tables were filled with sweaty soldiers in unbuttoned uniforms, seafaring vagrants in colorful caftans over naked bodies, women with barely covered breasts, gray storm troopers holding their axes between their knees, and craftsmen in scorched rags—all of whom were drinking, eating, cursing, laughing, crying, kissing, and bawling bawdy songs. To the left of them, you could make out a bar, behind which the owner sat at a special dais between giant barrels, managing the swarm of nimble, shifty-eyed servants. To the right of them, a bright rectangle of light shone through—the entrance to the clean half, which was reserved for noble dons, respectable merchants, and gray officers.

  “Why shouldn’t we have a drink, after all?” Baron Pampa inquired irritably, grabbing Rumata’s sleeve and hurrying toward the bar through the narrow passage between the tables, scratching people’s backs with the spikes of his armor. At the bar, he snatched the capacious ladle that the owner was using to pour wine into cups, silently drank it down, and declared that all was lost and the only thing left to do was make merry. Then he turned toward the owner and inquired thunderously whether this establishment boasted a place where noblemen could decently and modestly spend their time, without being annoyed by the presence of various tramps, scamps, and thieves. The owner assured him that this was just such an establishment.

  “Excellent!” the baron said majestically. He tossed a few gold pieces at the owner. “Bring the best things in the house for myself and this don here, and let us be served by some respectable matron and not some cute little coquette!”

  The owner conducted the dons into the clean half himself. There weren’t many people there. In the corner, a party of gray officers was sullenly making merry—four lieutenants in tight-fitting uniforms and two captains in short cloaks with the stripes of the Ministry of the Defense of the Crown. Two young aristocrats, sour-faced from general disenchantment, were sitting looking bored by a window, behind a large narrow-necked jug. Not far from them was a cluster of impecunious dons in shabby tunics and darned cloaks. They took tiny sips of beer and constantly looked around the room with thirsty eyes.

  The baron collapsed on a seat at an empty table, looked askance at the gray officers, and grumbled, “Even this place has some tramps.” But then a stout woman wearing an apron brought out the first course. The baron grunted, took his dagger off his belt, and started to make merry. He silently devoured hefty chunks of roast venison, heaps of pickled clams, mountains of lobsters, tubs of salads and mayonnaise, washing it all down with waterfalls of wine, beer, or mead, or a mixture of wine, beer, and mead. The impecunious dons started to trickle over in ones and twos, and the baron would meet them with a grand wave of the hand and a guttural growl.

  He suddenly stopped eating, stared at Rumata with bulging eyes, and roared in a monstrous voice, “It’s been a long time since I’ve been in Arkanar, my noble friend! And to be honest with you, there’s something I don’t like around here.”

  “What is it, Baron?” Rumata asked with interest, sucking on a chicken wing. The faces of the impecunious dons expressed deferential attention.

  “Tell me, my friend!” the baron uttered, wiping his greasy hands on the hem of his cloak. “Tell me, noble dons! Since when is it the custom in the capital of His Majesty the King for the descendants of the ancient races of the empire to be unable to take a single step without bumping into all sorts of shopkeepers and butchers?”

  The impecunious dons exchanged looks and started to move away. Rumata glanced into the corner where the gray officers were sitting. They had stopped drinking and were peering at the baron.

  “I’ll tell you what it is, noble dons,” Baron Pampa continued. “It all comes from cowardice. You tolerate them because you’re scared. Yes, you, you’re scared!” he bellowed at the nearest impecunious don. The man’s face turned pale and he walked away with a wan smile. “Cowards!” barked the baron. His mustache stood on end.

  But the impecunious dons weren’t much use. They clearly didn’t want to fight; they wanted to eat and drink.

  Then the baron threw his legs over the bench, grabbed the right side of his mustache in his fist, and, glaring into the corner where the gray officers sat, declared, “But I’m not scared of a damn thing! I beat up the gray scum whenever I have the chance!”

  “What’s that beer barrel wheezing about?” a gray captain with a long face inquired loudly.

  The baron gave a satisfied smile. He got up from the table with a clatter and clambered onto the bench. Rumata, raising both eyebrows, started eating a second wing.

  “Hear me, gray scum!” the baron bellowed as if the officers were a mile away. “Know that three days ago, I, Baron Pampa don Bau, gave your kind a good thrashing! You see, my friend,” he said to Rumata from his perch, “we were drinking with Father Cabani at my castle. Suddenly, my groom rushes in and tells me that a band of gray soldiers is tearing up the Golden Horseshoe. That’s my inn, on my ancestral land! I give the order: ‘Saddle the horses!’—and we’re off. I swear by my spurs, there were about twenty of them there, a whole gang. They had captured some three men, then got as drunk as pigs. These shopkeepers don’t know how to drink … so they started walloping everyone and breaking everything. I grabbed one of them by the feet—and the fun began! I chased them all the way to Heavy Swords. There was blood—you won’t believe me, my friend—up to the knee, and the number of axes they dropped—”

  Here the baron’s tale was interrupted. The long-faced captain motioned with his hand, and a heavy throwing knife clanged against the breastplate of the baron’s armor.

  “About time!” said the baron. He hauled a huge two-handed sword out of its sheath.

  With unexpected agility, he jumped down to the floor; the sword swept a gleaming arc through the air and cut through a ceiling beam. The baron swore. The ceiling sank, and debris rained on everyone’s heads.

  Everyone was now on their feet. The impecunious dons recoiled and clung to the walls. The young aristocrats climbed onto a table for a better view. The grays, holding their blades in front of them, formed a semicircle and started taking small steps toward the baron. Only Rumata remained seated, trying to gauge which side of the baron he could stand up on without getting in the way of his sword.

  The wide blade was humming ominously as it described gleaming circles above the baron’s head. The baron was awe inspiring. He bore an uncanny resemblance to an idling cargo helicopter.

  Having surrounded him from three sides, the grays were forced to stop. One of them had carelessly stood with his back to Rumata, so Rumata bent over the table, grabbe
d him by the collar, flipped him onto his back into the plates with leftovers and struck him beneath the ear with the edge of his palm. The soldier closed his eyes and went still. The baron cried, “Slaughter him, noble Rumata, and I’ll finish off the rest!”

  He’ll kill all of them, thought Rumata with displeasure. “Listen,” he said to the grays. “Let’s not spoil a pleasant night for each other. You can’t stand against us. Lay down your weapons and leave this place.”

  “Hey!” said the baron. “I want to fight! Let them fight! Keep fighting, damn you!” As he spoke, he advanced on the grays, sword rotating faster and faster. The soldiers retreated, turning visibly pale. They had obviously never seen a cargo helicopter.

  Rumata leapt over the table. “Wait, my friend,” he said. “We have absolutely no reason to quarrel with these men. You don’t like their presence here? They’ll leave.”

  “We’re not leaving without our weapons,” one of the lieutenants informed them sullenly. “We’ll get in trouble. I’m on patrol.”

  “What the hell, take your weapons,” Rumata gave permission. “Sheathe your blades, hands behind your heads, single file! And none of your tricks! I’ll break your bones!”

  “How are we supposed to leave?” the long-faced captain said irritably. “This don is blocking the way!”

  “And I’ll continue to block it!” the baron said stubbornly.

  The young aristocrats laughed derisively.

  “All right,” Rumata said. “I’ll hold the baron, and you run by, and better hurry up—I won’t be able to hold him long! Hey, you, in the door, out of the way! Baron,” he said, hugging Pampa around his ample waist. “My friend, I think you have forgotten something important. As you know, your ancestors only used this glorious sword for noble battle, for it is said, ‘Thou shalt not bare thy blade in a tavern.’”

  The baron continued rotating the sword, but his face turned pensive. “But I have no other sword,” he said uncertainly.

  “That’s even worse!” Rumata said significantly.

  “You think so?” the baron still hesitated.

  “You know this better than I do!”

  “Yes,” said the baron. “You’re right.” He looked up at his furiously spinning wrist. “You may not believe me, my dear Rumata, but I can keep this up for three to four hours in a row—and I wouldn’t even get tired. Oh, why doesn’t she see me now!”

  “I’ll tell her about it,” Rumata promised.

  The baron sighed and lowered his sword. The gray soldiers ducked and rushed past him. The baron followed them with his eyes. “I wonder, I wonder …” he said indecisively. “Do you think I was right not to send them off with a kick to the rear?”

  “You were absolutely right,” Rumata assured him.

  “Well,” said the baron, sheathing his sword, “since we didn’t succeed in having a fight, we now finally have the right to have a bit of food and drink.” He dragged the still-unconscious gray lieutenant off the table by his feet and boomed, “Hey there, kind hostess! Food and wine!”

  The young aristocrats came over and politely congratulated them on the victory.

  “Nonsense, nonsense,” the baron said complacently. “Six miserable thugs, cowardly like all shopkeepers. I scattered two dozen of them in the Golden Horseshoe. How lucky,” he turned to Rumata, “that I didn’t have my fighting sword that time! I may have carelessly bared it. And even though the Golden Horseshoe isn’t a tavern but only an inn—”

  “That’s how some say it,” said Rumata. “‘Thou shalt not bare thy blade in an inn.’”

  The hostess brought some fresh plates of meat and jugs of wine. The baron rolled up his sleeves and dug in.

  “By the way,” Rumata said, “Who were the three prisoners you freed in the Golden Horseshoe?”

  “Freed?” the baron stopped chewing and stared at Rumata. “But, my noble friend, I must not have expressed myself clearly! I didn’t free anyone. They were under arrest—it’s a matter of state. Why in the world would I free them? There was a don, probably a big coward, an elderly bookworm, and a servant.” He shrugged his shoulders.

  “Yes, of course,” Rumata said sadly.

  The blood suddenly rushed to the baron’s face and he savagely rolled his eyes. “What! Again?” he roared.

  Rumata looked around. Don Ripat was standing in the doorway. The baron began to get up, knocking over benches and scattering dishes. Don Ripat gave Rumata a significant look and went outside.

  “I beg your pardon, Baron,” said Rumata, getting up. “His Majesty’s service …”

  “Oh,” said the baron in disappointment. “My sympathy. I would never join the service!”

  Don Ripat was waiting just outside the door.

  “What is it?” Rumata asked.

  “Two hours ago,” Don Ripat informed him briskly, “by the order of the Minister of the Defense of the Crown Don Reba, I arrested Doña Ocana and conveyed her to the Merry Tower.

  “All right,” Rumata said.

  “An hour ago, Doña Ocana died, unable to withstand the trial by fire.”

  “All right,” Rumata said.

  “Officially, she was charged with espionage. But …” Don Ripat faltered and looked down. “I think … It seems to me …”

  “I understand,” Rumata said.

  Don Ripat raised guilty eyes at him.

  “It’s none of your business,” Rumata said gruffly.

  Don Ripat’s eyes turned opaque again. Rumata nodded to him and went back to the table. The baron was polishing off a plate of stuffed cuttlefish.

  “Pour me some Estorian wine!” said Rumata. “And let them bring more food.” He cleared his throat. “We’ll make merry. We’ll make merry, goddamn it.”

  When Rumata came to, he found himself standing in the middle of a large vacant lot. A gray dawn was breaking; the timekeeping roosters were shrieking in the distance. Cawing crows were densely circling over some unpleasant heap nearby; it smelled of dampness and decay. The fog in his head was quickly dissipating, the familiar state of piercingly sharp and clear sensations was setting in, and something bitter and minty was pleasantly melting on his tongue. The fingers on his right hand really smarted. Rumata brought his clenched fist to his eyes. His knuckles were raw, and he was squeezing an empty vial of casparamid in his fist. Apparently, after he had already gotten to this vacant lot, before he had turned into a complete pig, he unconsciously, almost instinctively, poured the entire contents of the vial into his mouth.

  The place was familiar—the tower of the burnt-out observatory loomed in front of him, and to his left he could see the thin, minaret-like watchtowers of the royal palace through the gloom. Rumata took a deep breath of cold damp air and headed home.

  Baron Pampa had really made merry last night. Accompanied by a host of impecunious dons, who were quickly losing human form, he made a gigantic tour of the bars of Arkanar, drank away everything including his splendid belt, demolished an unbelievable quantity of food and drink, and got into at least eight fights along the way. At least, Rumata could distinctly recall eight fights he had intervened in, trying to break things up and prevent loss of life. His later memories were lost in the fog. Certain images floated up through the mist: predatory faces with knives in their teeth, the vacantly sad face of the last impecunious don, whom Baron Pampa was attempting to sell into slavery at the port, a furious hook-nosed Irukanian angrily demanding that the noble dons give back his horses …

  Early in the night, he was still an operative. He drank as much as the baron: Irukanian wine, Estorian wine, Soanian wine, Arkanarian wine, but before each new wine he would furtively put a casparamid pill under his tongue. He still retained his judgment, and by force of habit noted the clusters of gray patrols at the intersections and bridges, and the outpost of mounted barbarians on the road to Soan, where the baron would certainly have been shot if Rumata hadn’t known the barbarian tongue. He distinctly recalled being shocked by the realization that the motionless rows of strange sold
iers in long black hooded cloaks, who were lined up in front of the Patriotic School, were a monastic militia. What does the church have to do with anything? he thought then. Since when does the Arkanarian church interfere in secular affairs?

  It had taken him a while to get drunk, but when he did, it happened abruptly, all at once; and when in a moment of clarity he saw an oak table cut in half in a completely unfamiliar room, a drawn sword in his hand, and the applauding impecunious dons around him, he did briefly think that it was time to go home. But it was too late. A wave of fury and repulsive, obscene joy at being free from everything human had already gotten hold of him. He was still an earthling, an operative, an heir to the people of fire and iron, who didn’t spare himself or others in the name of a great purpose. He couldn’t become Rumata of Estor, flesh of the flesh of twenty generations of warlike ancestors, renowned for their pillaging and drunkenness. But he was no longer a communard. He no longer had responsibilities to the Experiment. He was only concerned with his responsibilities to himself. He no longer had any doubts. He was certain of everything, absolutely everything. He knew exactly whose fault everything was, and he knew exactly what he wanted: to hack them to pieces, set them on fire, hurl them down from the palace steps onto the spears and pitchforks of a roaring crowd.

  Rumata started and took his swords out of their scabbards. The blades were notched but clean. He remembered fighting with someone, but whom? And how did it end?

  They drank away the horses. The impecunious dons had disappeared somewhere. Rumata—he remembered this, too—had dragged the baron home with him. Pampa don Bau was full of energy, utterly sober, and completely ready to continue the merrymaking—he simply could no longer stand on his feet. Furthermore, for some reason he thought that he had just said good-bye to his beloved baroness and was now on a military campaign against his ancient enemy Baron Kaska, who had become impudent to the last degree. (“Judge for yourself, my friend—this scoundrel gave birth to a six-fingered boy from his hip and called him Pampa.”) “The sun is setting,” he declared, looking at a tapestry depicting a sunrise. “We could make merry the whole night, noble dons, but military feats require sleep. Not a drop of wine during the campaign. Besides, the baroness would be displeased.”