by Guy Haley
‘I could, should I wish, retrace the steps of the bolt of doth to its point of origin. I might even find the man who made it. Our nature dictates our curiosity. It is in our nature to invent a story for our bolt of doth, but all such suppositions are, to a lesser or greater degree, verifiable. Similarly, you tell stories of the gods to make sense of the patterns you see. That is commendable, but they cannot be proved. Religion is not a rigorous discipline. Myths are not verifiable, therefore they are flawed.’
‘We are rigorous in our worship,’ said the priest.
‘But not in your thinking,’ replied Perturabo. ‘The better way would not be to impute divine origin for the world around you. It is one possibility among several.’
‘What is the truth then? What is the truth of the sun?’
‘I have yet to determine it exactly,’ said Perturabo. ‘However, in this library I have read many older texts—’
‘Blasphemous texts,’ interrupted the priest.
‘Older texts,’ asserted Perturabo calmly, ‘that state the sun is a star, akin to the other stars in the skies, which are themselves suns made small by distance My own calculations have proven these writings to be correct.’
‘And what did you base these calculations upon?’ said the priest with a sneer.
‘The formulae of Dennivhor Astrokon,’ said Perturabo.
‘Those are calculations intended to give correct proportions according to the laws of perspective,’ said the priest. ‘An artist’s tools.’
‘The tools of art and science are the same. Everything is pan of one whole The thinking of Olympia is imperfect in that it is divisive Your philosophers are preoccupied with classification. Classification imposes divisions on the whole that is the physical and metaphysical world. These divisions are artificial and unhelpful. The tool becomes the determiner of the nature of a thing, thus preventing knowledge of the thing itself.’
‘And you?’ said the priest ‘You are surely proof of the gods. There is no other like you. You were born of no human mother!’
‘I believe you are correct,’ said Perturabo. ‘I have become convinced that I am the product of design, not of nature My abilities are too many, my difference from other men too profound for it to be any other way.’
‘Yet you insist the gods did not make you. Who did?’
‘I am a bolt of doth,’ said Perturabo. ‘One day I will find the one who wove me I am certain that he or she was no god.’
‘Such things are beyond men!’ said the priest incredulously.
‘Once they were not,’ said Perturabo.
Listening to the exchange Adophus leaned in to Dammekos and softly whispered, ‘How old did you say he was?’
‘Rumours of him came to Lochos two years ago,’ replied Dammekos as Perturabo carried on speaking. ‘There was nothing before that. I suspect he is no more than a handful of years old.’
‘Impossible!’ said Adophus, looking at the rangy, hard-muscled young man.
‘Everything about this boy is impossible,’ said Dammekos. ‘Watch.’
The priest had by now become a little less composed. ‘Your arguments are blasphemous,’ he was saying. ‘Do you not fear for your soul?’
‘If I have a soul,’ said Perturabo. ‘That is another thing I can neither touch nor see, another unverifiable object taken as an article of faith. That is a debate for another day. I have nothing to fear. My reading of your histories show that all punishments for blasphemy have been meted out by men, and not the gods - those in the Mythica aside, and it cannot be trusted. I thus deduce with complete confidence that no divine being will reach out to smite me.’
‘The faithful will punish you,’ said the priest, his beatific attitude slipping further.
Perturabo cocked an eyebrow. ‘Again, the action of men, not gods. And I defy any man to dare.’
‘He will bring doom on Lochos!’ said the priest, directly to the crowd. ‘Famine, war. These will be the fruits of this poison tree!’
‘You act as demagogue now? That is a defining characteristic of a man in the wrong. If there is to be famine, it will be because of multiple interrelated factors coming together to produce the inevitable outcome of hunger - the weather, poor farming techniques, the skewing of the amount of land under tillage by economic considerations, the dispossession of the poor by the avarice of the rich. Not because I angered a being who does not exist.’
‘You say your blasphemy is a hypothesis,’ said the priest. ‘You swing towards certainty without proof.’
Perturabo smiled coldly, an expression far too old and reptilian for his youthful face. ‘I have the courage of my convictions. I do not yet know I am right, but I am certain I will not be punished, and you will look foolish.’
The crowd laughed. The priest became angry.
Perturabo thought a moment. ‘You cannot be blamed for your ignorance. Allow me a metaphor. Imagine a cave, wherein men are imprisoned throughout their lives. They are chained to a wall, unable to see the mouth of the cave, but they face another wall that does face the entrance. A fire bums at the mouth of this cave, day and night. Shadows are cast by the things of the wider world that pass to and fro in front of the cave. These shadows are cast upon the wall and viewed by the imprisoned men—’
‘I do not see how this relates to the gods,’ interrupted the priest.
‘Listen, and I will illuminate you. You deal in stories, so I am telling you one.’ Again the crowd laughed. Perturabo smiled at his effect on them, for had intended to be humorous and was beginning to enjoy their laughter, so long as it was not directed at him. The shadows are all the prisoners see They give them names, and they guess at their nature. The shadows are their world. The objects that cast the shadows are real, as is the light, but the true nature of either thing cannot be inferred from the shadows. Nevertheless, they exist, though the prisoners are in ignorance of them. This is the state you are in. You see part of something real - the shadow - and infer what you can about its essence. In your case, it is the gods.
‘Then, one day, a single prisoner is taken from the cave,’ continued Perturabo. ‘He sees the fire. It hurts his eyes. He cannot see the objects clearly for the pain, and they are but silhouettes against the blaze. But he is told that these articles are the reality of the objects he has seen, and the shadows only a by-product of their actuality. But because he cannot perceive the solid objects - his eyes hurt, the fire dazzles and he has little frame of reference for what he sees - he does not believe what he is told. All he sees is their blackness against the firelight. To save himself from agony, he turns back to what he knows and flees into the cave. His pain gone, and having seen the fire, he perceives the shadows more clearly than before and regards their truth to be absolute. He knows a little of the true nature of things now, but dare not probe further for fear of the pain. In this way, a little truth is worse than none.
‘But imagine the prisoner is dragged bodily from the cave once more, and now up into the light of the full sun. There he suffers untold agonies until, slowly at first, his eyes adjust to the day. He then sees solid objects and the shadows they cast. Finally, he understands the true nature of shadows, and that there must be three things to enable him to see - himself, the object and light. See how far he has come from the shadows! Eventually, he can look up into the sky, and maybe also at the very sun. Only then can he contemplate the nature of the world beyond. He realises that the world is another cave, and the sun another fire, and if he wishes to learn more he must travel further.’
The audience listened in silence. Adophus was spellbound. Even the priest had ceased his bluster.
Perturabo had not finished. ‘But you cannot learn from this,’ he said to the priest.
‘How so?’ asked the priest.
‘Because you are one of the prisoners still within the cave. Gripped with excitement, the man rushes back into the cave to tell his fellows of the truth of the world. But his eyes are now adapted to the day, and he can no longer see the shadows that
entrance his fellows still. They, lacking any other point of reference, regard his revelations of the truth as madness, and his blindness to their shadows an affliction. Thus, they deem the outside world as harmful. They kill the man to stop his madness, and they resolve to destroy any other person that would remove them from the cave.’ Perturabo’s face darkened. ‘And so you priests inflict death on those who disagree with you in order to preserve your comforting ignorance.’
Gasps ran through the crowd, some of them appreciative, others horrified.
‘You arrogant youth,’ said the priest. ‘I see what you are doing. You want to turn the city against the gods by setting yourself as this man who knows the truth.’
‘That was not his intention,’ murmured Dammekos at this accusation. He toyed with his ring of office. Adophus frowned at him, but the tyrant had forgotten his guest for the moment.
‘You are mistaken. I am not the man. I am the sun,’ said Perturabo. ‘I will burn your eyes until you see. I am the truth.’
‘You are wrong! The gods will punish you!’ The priest advanced on the youth. ‘You will bring disaster upon this place, and if you persist, upon the whole world! Mark my words! Let it be recorded that I, Rodask of Byzellion, foretold this!’
Guards came to Rodask’s side and took his elbows. Perturabo glared at him.
‘I invite you to prove it,’ he said.
The priest was dragged from the hall shouting. ‘I have the gift of sight! The gods bless me! Do not listen to him!’ he yelled. His shouts faded, and were cut off by the closing of the great doors to the library.
Perturabo stood and gave his audience a defiant stare. A patter of polite applause quickly died.
Adophus let out a long breath. ‘Clever arguments are all very well, Dammekos, but prodigies do not seal alliances. I have seen what I came to see. I am impressed, but there will not be an alliance between our cities.’
‘No?’ said Dammekos mildly. ‘Well then, a final demonstration for you. Tell me, who is the mightiest warrior in your entourage?’
‘What?’
‘You heard my question. Who is the best killer you have?’
‘You know full well that the champion Ortraxes Falk is my personal guardian. He is the mightiest.’
‘We shall have him fight Perturabo,’ said Dammekos.
‘Have you lost your wits?’ snorted Adophus. ‘Ortraxes is the best warrior in Pellekontia!’
‘I am aware of this - as aware of it, in fact, as you were aware that others have tested Perturabo’s strength in a similar way.’ He had finished his apple by now, and popped a candied cherry into his mouth. ‘You brought Ortraxes with you for exactly that reason.’
Adophus gripped his chair and grinned.
‘He will destroy your prodigy. What a waste! I am disappointed. This is not the wisdom I would have expected from the great Dammekos. I had expected you to back down when you discovered Ortraxes was in my party.’
‘Why should I? You shall see A wager, perhaps?’ Dammekos leaned towards his fellow ruler conspiratorially. ‘If Perturabo wins, then you will accede to my terms of alliance and open trade between our cities. If he fails, you will be free to refuse Isn’t that what you want?’
‘You have to do better than that.’ Adophus thought a moment. ‘You will make no further attempts at alliance while I am on the throne, and you will provide our city with forty pounds of silver every year.’
‘Done!’ said Dammekos easily.
‘No bargaining?’ said Adophus.
‘None,’ replied Dammekos, somewhat smugly.
‘Now I know you have lost your wits. I will not have the boy killed. He is too talented. Perhaps he might be convinced to come to Kardis by your lack of care for him.’
Dammekos shrugged. ‘We shall see if he is killed. You will not sway him. He knows what is expected. Shall we proceed with the bout?’
Adophus drained his cup again. ‘If you insist,’ he said angrily. ‘Ortraxes!’
Ortraxes ploughed his way through Dammekos’ courtiers without apology. Very few of them needed encouragement to clear his path. Ortraxes was enormous for an Olympian, over two metres tall. Unlike some men of unusual stature, who trade power for height, his limbs and torso bulged with muscle. He wore a modified version of the armour worn by Adophus’ guards, with a livery of blue-stained leather and bronze. His breastplate was heavily embellished with relief work, the leather of his kilt carved intricately. His eyes were rimmed in kohl, and the well-oiled rings of his beard cascaded over his bulging chest in the Selenian style. Under one arm he carried a tall-crested helm.
‘My lord,’ he said in a voice deeper than oubliettes of Lochos.
‘My lord Dammekos wishes you to fight the prodigy,’ said Adophus.
Ortraxes turned to look at Perturabo. His wargear creaked like the too-small harness of a draft beast. ‘The boy?’ he said.
Perturabo glowered at him from under his broad forehead.
‘If you can, do not hurt him. Much,’ said Adophus gleefully, for he could see nothing but an easy victory ahead, with much benefit for his city, not least the humbling of the Tyrant of Lochos. ‘He is too great a talent to waste.’
‘No, no, make no special allowances on Perturabo’s part,’ said Dammekos airily.
Ortraxes looked from the boy to his lord and back.
‘Very well,’ said Adophus. ‘Kill him.’
Ortraxes considered for a moment, then put on his helmet. The best warriors spurn over-confidence, and he was among the very best.
‘As you wish,’ he said, drawing his sword with an oily rasp.
‘You will give no weapon to the boy?’ said Adophus.
Dammekos put his hand to cover his mouth in mock secrecy. ‘He doesn’t need one,’ he said in a stage whisper.
The first flickers of doubt crossed Adophus’ face.
Ortraxes made a false move towards Perturabo, making as if to charge. Perturabo didn’t move a muscle. Ortraxes made another display, holding out his arms and half-lunging. The boy looked unimpressed. Ortraxes chuckled appreciatively.
Then he did charge.
Almost too quickly to see, Perturabo sidestepped the giant man, tripping him with a foot and grabbing his backplate. With a hefty shove, he propelled the man forwards into a column. Ortraxes’ helm rang like a bell.
He staggered back upright, pulled his dented helmet off and threw it down. Perturabo could have pressed the advantage, but he paced the growing circle in the crowd and waited for his foe to recover. Ortraxes hefted his weapon, shook his head and prepared to attack again.
Perturabo stamped hard on his chair, shattering it, and plucked up a stave from the frame.
‘He will fight Ortraxes… with part of a chair?’ said Adophus incredulously.
‘He must feel threatened,’ said Dammekos. ‘He beat all my warriors bare-handed.’
Ortraxes roared and came for Perturabo. Despite his great size, Ortraxes was nimble and handled his sword expertly. He and Perturabo traded blows, the youth parrying the sword with his wooden stick. Twice he rapped Ortraxes hard on the side of the head. Splinters flew everywhere as the giant warrior struck again at the youth. The sword chopped through the wood, and Perturabo cast it away. He bent forwards, into a wrestler’s crouch.
‘Do you know, we have taught him none of this,’ said Dammekos, unconcerned by his favourite engaging in combat, unarmed and unarmoured, against a man half his height again. ‘His abilities are entirely innate.’
Adophus wasn’t listening. The boy was humiliating his finest warrior and, by extent, the tyrant-prince himself. His jaw was clenched. ‘Finish him, Ortraxes!’ he shouted.
Perturabo swatted at Ortraxes’ hand, sending the Kardian’s sword spinning from his grasp, and jumped at him. The giant and Perturabo grappled. Ortraxes was enraged and had abandoned any attempt to hold himself back. He smashed his elbow across Perturabo’s nose, breaking it with a wet crack. The youth was not bowed, and the flow of blood stopped almost immediate
ly. Perturabo grabbed Ortraxes’ wrist as he swung a dub-like fist at his head. The Champion of Kardis growled like a provoked leonid, but he could not overcome the boy’s strength. His muscles bulged. His skin went red with the effort. Slowly, his grasping hand descended until, as the fingers brushed the bridge of Perturabo’s swelling nose, the youth twisted, yanked hard and sent Ortraxes crashing into the ground.
The giant rolled over with impressive speed, but Perturabo’s foot descended to meet him, breaking Ortraxes’ nose in return and knocking him out cold. Perturabo dropped to his knees and drew back his fist to finish the job with a blow to the throat.
‘Enough!’ shouted Dammekos, his voice a little strained. Perturabo nodded and stepped back. Absentmindedly he re-broke his already set nose and pushed it back into place.
‘By the gods,’ said Adophus.
‘I saw Perturabo as a gift from the gods,’ said Dammekos, his light manner gone ‘But as he tells us, there are no such things. Come forward, Perturabo,’ he said, beckoning to his foster-son. Adophus stood as Perturabo came to stand before the two lords. ‘Here boy, let us drink to your victory.’ Adophus held out his cup to the side. A serving girl filled it. He took a deep draught and offered it to Perturabo.
Perturabo just stared at him.
‘He will not drink,’ explained Dammekos.
‘Why not?’
‘Because Zhinnar of Sodalian tried to poison him with a cask of gifted wine Alas, this and other attempts on his life have made him suspicious of others. The other tyrants are so jealous of my foster-son.’
Adophus made a sour face, and a noise in his throat to accompany it. ‘The day a man of Olympia loses his paranoia is the day he loses his life,’ he said. ‘Then I toast your good health, young Perturabo.’
