Come Armageddon

by Anne Perry

  But he insisted. “We need to have the knowledge,” he said. His voice was not harsh, but there was no yielding in it. Now that he had opened the Book and read, he would see every bit as clearly as she did how priest-craft had corrupted it.

  He looked at her unwillingness. “Know your enemy,” he said with a very slight smile. “We can’t afford to pass by, easier as it would be.”

  Tathea knew he was going to go in. She could either go with him, or wait outside. She went, as no doubt he had known she would.

  Through the great ornamental doors she stared around her. The style had changed in five centuries, but it was just as overwhelmingly beautiful. The High Priest stood up and intoned words, obviously ritual and recited from memory. His singsong voice made them curiously barren of meaning, but they were repeated back to him, and gradually the rhythm and the music gained a magnificent and somnolent beauty.

  Tathea gazed around the faces and saw the comfort in them, the love of the familiar. Cares slipped away as they were taught of a different and easier world. Promises were given of glory unimaginable, offered freely by a god who was inconceivable to the mind, possessing no definable qualities except total power and an infinite superiority to anything that held a physical, earthly form. Material was dross, and would eventually be burned away. No understanding was required of man, only humility, penitence and belief. Change was not expected. It was futile to imagine any of them being of worth to such a being. It was the supreme arrogance.

  The congregation left, apparently comforted. They had heard what they expected to hear, and the world was, after all, as they had supposed.

  There was a complacency in it which enraged Tathea. The priests were cheating the very people they had sworn to serve. It was Asmodeus’ message! Man is helpless, worthless, conceived in sin and born to failure. Do nothing, and trust in the mercy of a deity who will carry you safely to a paltry reward.

  The God Who had begotten your spirit in glory and Who ordained you to climb step by step all the way to the stars was a blasphemy no one mentioned.

  But surely the true blasphemy was to believe that God the Father had begotten the only offspring in the universe which could never become like their parents, but were destined from the beginning to remain immeasurably inferior? It was the negation of all love, the ultimate insult.

  Tathea and Ishrafeli walked in silence for some distance, then he took her elbow and slowed her pace a little. At first she was angry, thinking he did not understand, then gradually the warmth of his grip steadied her, and she became aware that he understood very well. It was not that his outrage was less, simply that his closeness to her was greater.

  That evening in the rooms they had taken she sat on the step down to the garden with its vines and lemon trees, and told him something of the Hall of Archons and all that it had once been.

  A small black and white cat joined them, jumping down from the wall and ambling over the warm stones in the sun. It rolled over several times in the dust, then thoroughly satisfied, came over and rubbed itself against Ishrafeli’s legs, leaving pale patches behind. Then it settled to wash itself, staring at Tathea with green eyes like jewels.

  “The best of the Archons was Maximian,” she said quietly, remembering how he had been. “He was stubborn. He never believed in the Book, but he held his own code of honour and nothing ever tempted him or frightened him away from it. In the end he gave his life so we could escape. It wasn’t really to save the Book, it was more to be certain it left Camassia, because of the way it had been used to corrupt.”

  “By those who used the Book to gain dominion over others?” Ishrafeli asked, narrowing his eyes against the evening sun. It picked out the lines on his face so clearly every passage of his life seemed written there.

  The cat finished washing itself and lay down in the dust again and went to sleep.

  “Mostly,” she agreed. “It was the best vehicle for power then. Tomorrow we should look at the Hall of Archons, listen to them.” She slid down the step and moved closer to him.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “Of course.”

  They had already purchased Camassian clothes, in case of need. Dressing discreetly in the morning they went as agreed to the Hall of Archons. They sat in the gallery reserved for visitors. Tathea was filled with a deep grief for the past and what had once been a place of passion and virtue, where ideals were argued and beliefs espoused more from loyalty than any expectation of personal gain. The longer they listened, the more it seemed a parody of that time, a façade with nothing behind it. The Archons themselves were mostly poseurs, time-servers whose eyes were more to profit than honour, and who wore their purple-bordered robes to further their own advantage.

  There were exceptions, men fighting a lone battle against the tide. One such, named Merkator, spoke eloquently against a relaxing of the laws on financial privilege, and was overruled. His opponents jeered at him, insulted his family, and made poor jokes which were received with roars of laughter.

  “Are you surprised?” Ishrafeli asked Tathea as they left.

  She looked away from him. “No. But I had hoped ...”

  “No, you hadn’t,” he said quietly. “This is the beginning of the final war, my darling. How else would they be but corrupt, here in the Centre of the World?”

  She turned to him, and felt the tears prickle her eyes. The truth of his words burned inside. She put out her hand and took his, clinging to it.

  The day came for their audience with Justinus. They each dressed carefully because impressions mattered. Tathea chose a hot, fierce terracotta to give light to her dark skin. She looked across at Ishrafeli in a severe, dark green Island tunic, cut with skill to sit smoothly across his shoulders and chest. He was regarding himself in the glass, readjusting the fastening, and he caught her glance.

  She smiled at him and he coloured very faintly, but there was laughter in his eyes. He was perfectly aware of his vanity, and of how it amused her. For a moment it was as if they were an ordinary couple, with time for the little things.

  They went by carriage to the Emperor’s palace, and this time they were kept waiting only a matter of minutes before being shown into the splendid audience chamber lined with murals set between rose marble pilasters.

  Justinus was a handsome man with thick hair, a clear brow, narrow nose and a mouth which only on second glance seemed loose-lipped. He was dressed in magnificent robes of silk brocade in shades of cream, embroidered and embossed in gold thread. The whole thing must have taken months of labour to make, and yet he wore it carelessly, as if it were of little worth.

  He welcomed them with all the appropriate phrases, and asked them about their voyage.

  “No pirates, I hope?” he said wearily. “Travel is becoming dangerous these days, wherever you go. Barbarian tribes growing stronger in every direction. One hears terrible stories. I suppose you have them also?” He raised his eyebrows slightly.

  “No,” Ishrafeli replied. “We have had over a decade of peace, and there are no incursions on to our shores as yet.”

  “You are fortunate.” Justinus indicated where they might sit, and then himself reclined on a well-upholstered sofa, swinging his feet up to make himself comfortable. He regarded them with a certain curiosity, picking idly at a dish of almonds as he waited for them to ask for whatever it was they wished, and state discreetly what they would pay him in return. He did not grant favours for nothing, unless it amused him, but to a man essentially bored, amusement was a legitimate currency. His patience was short, and the evidence of that was in his face.

  “No doubt you are aware of the latest news from Shinabar, Majesty,” Ishrafeli began. The word “Majesty” sat ill on his tongue, and it showed in faint distaste in the line of his mouth.

  “Someone has invented a new musical instrument with strings to play with a bow of horsehair. I am told it squeaks like a bag full of cats fighting!” He snorted abruptly. “So much for Shinabari—genius!”

  Tathea drew in her breath sharp
ly, and felt Ishrafeli’s fingers bite into her arm. “We have something in the Island made of a leather bag that you blow into and squeeze,” he said with a smile. “The result sounds rather the same. I thought it was an instrument of torture.”

  Justinus stared at him for a moment, then roared with laughter.

  Tathea avoided Ishrafeli’s eyes and kept her temper with difficulty. She understood what he was doing but she had been too long away from the need for diplomacy to find it easy.

  “I must tell the Shinabari ambassador that!” Justinus said with delight. “That will catch him on the wrong foot! Have you ever seen the Shinabari dance? It is so complicated it would be easier, and more fun, to command a fleet of ships in a storm, than learn to perform one of their court rituals.”

  “I have never seen one,” Ishrafeli confessed.

  “You would be no wiser if you had,” Justinus retorted. He waved his arm. “We have everything here that anyone could want. Forget Shinabar.”

  Ishrafeli disregarded the warning. “Word is that the Isarch has acquired a new adviser.”

  “Yes, yes.” Justinus flicked his fingers in dismissal. “The old woman from the desert, widowed by the barbarian incursions, and trying to persuade him to send more men into the army. What of it? I have my own barbarian problems. I am not interested in theirs.”

  “He has made her a special adviser,” Ishrafeli persisted. “And now also an emissary, to come to your court and try to persuade you to ally with Shinabar.”

  Justinus sat up a little and the almonds slid from his fingers back into the dish. “Indeed? And how do you know this, when I don’t?”

  “We have friends in Shinabar,” Ishrafeli replied.

  Justinus’ eyes slid to Tathea. “Indeed? And a Shinabari wife too, by the look of her!” Suspicion was sudden and sharp in his face. “Why should I believe you? And what odds if this old woman does come here? I shall listen to her, out of curiosity, then I shall send her on her way. I have no need or desire to ally with anyone. And what would either of us gain by it? We trade already. That is enough.”

  “You have nothing to gain by it,” Ishrafeli said. “And much to lose.”

  “To lose?” Justinus’ voice was dangerously close to offence. “Camassia has no need to fear one old Shinabari woman, my Lord of the Island. If you imagine so, then you are less astute and far less wise than I had assumed.” His underlip pouted a little. “You do not seem to know much of the world at large. You should learn more before you presume to advise the Emperor of Camassia upon whom to deal with, and whom not to!”

  Ishrafeli controlled his temper with an effort that perhaps Justinus did not see, but Tathea did.

  “You assume that my wife is Shinabari,” he said very softly, his voice level. “You are perfectly correct. Her name is Ta-Thea, as perhaps you recall?”

  Justinus had obviously forgotten. “Of course I recall!” he snapped. “What of it? It’s an old name, not used now. But we all know who the first Ta-Thea was! Shinabari culture might bore me, but I am not ignorant of its history, or of our own.” He shrugged. “She brought the Book, before Ra-Nufis took it from her, and then she stole it back and escaped with it ... God knows where. She was never seen again.”

  “To the Island at the Edge of the World,” Tathea answered for herself. “It was sealed for a space, but it is open again now. I still have it.”

  Justinus stared at her, and started to laugh. Then very abruptly he stopped, his mouth sagging a little.

  “What do you mean, you still have it? That was centuries ago!”

  “I know how long it was,” she said very calmly. “Yes, I still have it. That is how I know who Tiyo-Mah is, and what she can do—and will do, if you allow her to ally with Camassia. She has spread the infection of civil war in Shinabar, and she will do it here, if you give her the power.”

  “Tiyo-Mah ...” he repeated the name very slowly, sounding the syllables as if to make it familiar again from long ago. He stared at Tathea, studying her face feature by feature. “You look like the portraits of Ta-Thea,” he said after several minutes. Then he shook his head. “But it’s ridiculous! Nobody lives five hundred years! Do you take me for a fool?” The thought angered him again. “And why should you care if Camassia allies with Shinabar? You live on the edge of the world—what is it to you?”

  “I care about Camassia,” she replied. “I lived here once, and loved its people. I don’t want to see the contagion of civil war spread.”

  “Why should it?”

  “Because Tiyo-Mah will see that it does. That is her purpose.”

  “Why? It makes no sense.”

  “Do you think Shinabar is enough for her?” she asked. “She wants the ruin of all the world. This is only a beginning.”

  “Rubbish!” Justinus said defiantly. “Why should she?” But the first edge of fear was in his voice.

  “You said you knew your Shinabari history,” she answered him. “Do you not remember she murdered both her son and grandson in order to keep her power? And when I conquered Shinabar with a Camassian army, and faced her with it, she disappeared ... into time. Do you think she has any love for Camassia:

  “Then ... then she’s hardly likely to come here and seek alliance now—is she?” he said as if clinging to some small moral victory.

  “Not for any benefit of yours, no! So you know that if she does, it will bring you no good.”

  His eyes narrowed and he stared at her fixedly. “Ta-Thea? Can you prove who you are? How can I believe it?” He bit his lip. “But you do look like the old painting that the Emperor Isadorus had of her. I’ve seen it. It’s still in the old Imperial apartments.”

  She looked back at him unflinchingly. She remembered it also. It was a good likeness. It caught not only her physical features, but her expression as well, the tilt of her head, the passion in her eyes and the tenderness of her mouth.

  For a moment it was plain in his face that he believed her, perhaps even that he knew. Then a courtier, standing a few yards away, bent his head and coughed discreetly.

  Justinus swivelled round to stare at him.

  The man raised his hand, and there was a smirk of contempt on his mouth.

  It was enough. Justinus was furious. He could not bear to be mocked. “You look like her,” he said scathingly “No doubt you are a descendant. But don’t come here with your charlatan ideas. And if you value your safety, don’t try to tell anyone you have the golden Book of Ta-Thea!”

  “It’s not the Book of Ta-Thea!” she snapped, her eyes blazing. “It is the Book of the law of God! I was simply the one who brought it here!”

  “You?” Justinus shouted, leaning forward, his face red. “You are forty-five, at the most! She would be five hundred and forty-five! More! The only reason I don’t have you thrown out is that you claim to represent the Island at the Edge of the World, and that is a kingdom that all respect, and I would not insult their name!”

  Ishrafeli stepped forward, his face grim. His body was rigid with the effort of controlling his anger. “Whatever you believe of us, Majesty,” the word rang with no honour, “consider the news from Shinabar, which your own ambassador will tell you is true. They are massing great armies, adding to them every day. Hardly any man escapes conscription, regardless of his age or his skills. Taxes are increasing by the week.”

  Justinus was impassive. He levied high taxes himself. His eyebrows rose very slightly in a swift flicker of temper.

  Ishrafeli ignored it. “What civilian population is left is riddled with terror and betrayal,” he continued. “They walk in fear of each other. All news is controlled by the government. They are told only what the Isarch’s advisers wish them to know.”

  “That is unavoidable in war,” Justinus said with exaggerated patience.

  Ishrafeli was not yet finished. He held his head a little higher. “Tiyo-Mah arrived from the desert, so she said, with a dozen or so advisers. She was no one, a widow without a name or a fortune.” His eyes flickered for a
second, no more, at the grandeur of the palace hall. “Now a few months later she tells the Isarch what to do and, regardless of how it ruins his people or wounds his country, he does it. They are at war with one another, every man suspects his neighbour. Fear and betrayal are on every street. Is that what you want for Camassia as well?”

  Justinus was pale. Unwittingly he glanced again at the courtier who had smirked, and then at another, who looked back at him with an open, contemptuous smile.

  “The Emperor is not afraid,” the second man said to Ishrafeli, a sneer on his lips. “Shinabar may be too weak to stand up to this old woman from the desert, but we are made of different stuff.” He gave a little snigger. “She can come here and try if she wants, but she’ll gain nothing ... except perhaps an education in the practical sense of Camassians. The Shinabari are a bunch of superstitious weaklings who outgrew their time centuries ago. They are dying, and their culture with them.”

  “I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Justinus agreed, the tension easing out of him. “I shall grant you the courtesy of believing your warning was well meant, but quite unnecessary.” He breathed out slowly, glancing at Tathea. “And I shall consider your fanciful claims of identity as an embellishment intended to add colour to your words. I am not familiar with Island manners.” He dismissed their entire culture with a sentence. “Perhaps that is the way you do things there? Thank you for coming. You are welcome to stay in the City as long as you wish. Good day.”

  There was nothing they could do but accept the rebuff and leave, walking side by side, seething with anger and helpless to say or do anything further to undo the sheer, blind stupidity of it. They had spoken only the truth, and hardly a word had been believed.

  Perhaps they should not have been surprised, but even the wildest hope dies hard and leaves an emptiness behind.