Come Armageddon

by Anne Perry

  “The barbarians grow closer to us every week!” he said fiercely. “They are over a hundred miles into our borders already, and another village or town falls every month, or less! At this speed, in a year they will be here in the City!” He flung one scrawny arm out. “This is not some foreign war—it is against us—against you and me!” He was sitting on the First Archon’s seat and staring over the smooth marble-topped bench in front of him. “More than that! It is against all humanity. It is not meet or just that the army should fight it alone, or the law-keepers. This is our war!” He peered around at the rows of silent men in their white and purple robes, their faces expressionless as they waited in the safety of retreat until they should know what reaction he wanted from them. Only Merkator met his flat, yellow-brown eyes.

  Balour bit his lip with small, sharp teeth. His hands scribbled on the marble top, never still, and his body fidgeted beneath his robes as one spirit fought another, gnawing his belly, cramping his heart.

  “We are the ones who will suffer if there is defeat!” he went on, his voice thick in his throat. “We are the ones who will taste victory in the end, if we win, if we destroy the enemy, drive him into the ice-bound wastes of the north where nothing lives! Into the sea at the margin of the world! As the Shinabari will drive him into the burning hell of the south!”

  There was a murmur of assent all around the chamber. Heads nodded. One or two Archons shifted nervously in their seats.

  Balour leaned forward. Now he was looking directly at Merkator, his lips drawn back, his sharp nose twitching. “Therefore we must all fight against the evil within our land! From this day forward all men, all women, even children, will protect the law by reporting any treason among us. Whatever is spoken against the common good of the people will be told, assessed, judged and punished. Every man’s word will be listened to and weighed.” He swung his arm in a tight, cramped gesture. “We are all responsible, all answerable—and in the end we shall all be partakers in the final victory!”

  Merkator started forward, rising to his feet.

  There was utter silence in the room; every other Archon was frozen in his seat.

  “You will turn every citizen into an informer on his neighbours,” Merkator said, his voice trembling, half choked in his throat. His body was shaking, and he knew it was fear, but his fear of standing by silently while such a thing was said overcame all else.

  Balour bowed his head and stared at him, his pointed teeth chewing his knife-thin lip. “Do you question the right of everyone to fight this war for survival, Archon Merkator?” he whispered, his voice hissing softly.

  “I question the wisdom of inviting every man to police his neighbour, friend and foe alike,” Merkator answered him. “You invite an accusation without the need to prove its truth. Without the safeguard of law, fear will drive some, misunderstanding others, and old rivalries will tempt men to accuse where there is no evidence and perhaps no guilt.”

  Balour’s face twisted in a cold smile. “You think ill of your fellow countrymen, Archon Merkator!” he charged.

  Merkator also smiled. “I think some are traitors, Lord Balour,” he replied. “And what would be easier for a traitor than to accuse a patriot of treason ... and so destroy him in the eyes of others, and perhaps of the law.”

  The dark colour, black purple, swept up Balour’s face. One or two Archons straightened a little in their seats. Perhaps a whisper of courage had stirred.

  The silence was breathless.

  A pustule burst on Balour’s sunken cheek, and oozed down his skin. “We will trust to the judgement of the people!” he spat. He glanced around the chamber. “Does any man not accept that?”

  Merkator swallowed, his throat and lips dry. Now the victory of an instant had passed into the void of defeat.

  “I don’t!” The words were irrevocable. He knew it as he spoke. He thought of Belida, then of Ishrafeli and Tathea.

  Balour glanced around the room. “Does anyone else stand with Merkator against the people?”

  A score of men fidgeted in their seats. Not one looked at Merkator, each having a reason, an answer—next time perhaps, but not yet, not a useless sacrifice, not a family left alone and bereaved, perhaps a duty not yet served.

  Balour slammed the mallet down on the marble, unintentionally chipping it. “Then the law is passed—unanimously except for the Archon Merkator!”

  Days went by. Merkator did not attempt to leave the City, even had he believed he could escape.

  Balour watched and waited. Then on the tenth day he had Merkator arrested on the accusation of a neighbour that he had betrayed his fellow countrymen by spreading alarm and discouragement, thereby assisting the enemies of the nation. He was taken to one of the great central prisons, and the following morning came up for trial.

  Tathea fought for him with all the skill she possessed, knowing before she began that it would be to no avail.

  She called witness after witness, trying to establish that he had counselled courage, honesty, the healing of old feuds and loyalty to the principles of ancient Camassia.

  But people were afraid for themselves, looking over their shoulders, fearing betrayal, the whisper of lies that would place them in the same dock, without help or defence.

  “What did he say to you?” she demanded of one evasive woman.

  “I can’t remember,” the woman replied, eyes avoiding Tathea’s.

  “Why did you go to him?” Tathea persisted. “You must remember that!”

  “I’d heard he was giving advice,” the woman said sullenly.

  “What sort of advice?”

  “On troubles.”

  “You had troubles you couldn’t mend for yourself?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “Probably. So you went to Merkator?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you don’t remember what he said?”

  “No. I told you.” She looked pleased with herself, relaxed at last.

  “Do you still have these troubles?” Tathea smiled.

  Seeing a trap, the woman shook her head. “No!”

  “Did Merkator suggest you despair, that you give in, or flee to somewhere else? It seems that what you actually did was to face your troubles and overcome them! Am I mistaken?”

  The trap was sprung, not where she had expected.

  “Yes—no. No, I did nothing more!”

  But in spite of all the passion, the reason and the evidence she could bring, fear prevailed.

  Merkator was sentenced to be stoned to death.

  Tathea went to the place of execution because she could not leave him to face that last ordeal alone, even though there was nothing she could do that would help or alter anything. Ishrafeli came and stood silently beside her, and also Severinus, Callia, and a host of the sick, the crippled and the simple.

  It was a desolate place outside the City boundaries. Stones lay around, many of them already dark with old blood and there was a smell of death in the air. The crowd huddled in a strange, stunned silence, no more than a dozen or so willing to take part in assisting the soldiers.

  Merkator stood straight, unflinching in the fine, cold rain, his eyes wide.

  Tathea stood next to Ishrafeli, and yet there was a terrible sense in which each person was alone here in this final place. She stared at an old man less than a dozen feet from her. He looked awed, as if the hideous and public execution of a man he revered took from him the last shred of understanding.

  The command was shouted. The first soldier stooped and picked up a piece of rock. But before he threw it there was a movement in the crowd, and a woman pushed her way through towards the front, excusing herself as she went. She carried no stone, and she was dressed in her finest clothes. She walked with her head high, even though her feet slithered a little on the stones. It was Belida.

  Tathea started forward, but Ishrafeli’s hand restrained her. Her movement was instinctive, to protect, to save, but he knew it was wrong. Belida was where she chose
to be.

  The soldier hesitated.

  Belida reached Merkator and stood beside him. He put his arm around her as she swayed, holding her closely.

  There was a murmur from the crowd.

  The soldier swung round, angry, then he turned back and with a cry of jubilation that sounded raucously inhuman, he hurled the stone with all his strength. It struck Merkator on the chest and he staggered back.

  A woman shrieked.

  Merkator regained his balance and faced them again. Tathea wanted to look away, not to see an agony she would never be able to wipe from her memory, but that would be a betrayal. Merkator was here because he had chosen to stand for his beliefs, and Belida because she loved him. Tathea must watch.

  Another stone caught him on the face, crushing his cheek, then a third. He fell to his knees, trying in vain to shield Belida. More stones struck them, landing hard. Belida collapsed and lay motionless in a spreading pool of blood.

  A man yelled in triumph, another in rage. Severinus wept without shame or pretence and Callia murmured blindly, holding his arm.

  A soldier stepped forward and raised a sword to finish it, and a rock caught him on the arm, drawing bright blood. The man who had thrown it turned and ran. A youth hurled stones after him.

  The soldier killed Merkator in a swift act of mercy and glared at the crowd.

  “You have something to say?” he challenged, his voice breaking with emotion.

  No one answered.

  Ishrafeli put his hand on Tathea’s and together they walked out of the fallen rubble on to the steps of the street and began the long journey home.

  In the days immediately following, posters appeared saying that Merkator was a martyr to the cause of truth. They were instantly torn down by Balour’s police, but as fast as they were removed, others were put in their place.

  Merkator’s speeches were printed and became a kind of currency passed around. People remembered things he had said, and repeated them to one another. Women wound purple into their hair, the colour of Belida’s dress, and were proud to do it.

  Balour’s men were jeered at. There were ugly scenes in the streets and they dared not arrest the large numbers that sided against them.

  Public opinion was passionately divided, but Balour recruited a secret police, wearing no badge or uniform, and. answerable only to him. Justinus approved it.

  The country was on the brink of civil war.

  Across the battlements of Erebus, Asmodeus was satisfied. Tiyo-Mah had succeeded more than he had foreseen. Perhaps he should not have doubted her judgement after all. Mankind balanced on the brink of the abyss. There were things which could have been better if left longer. The pollution of the earth came foremost to his mind. There was a vast amount yet to be accomplished in that! He had had plans to encourage man’s pride and greed, and his cleverness at understanding the physical without seeing its results, to the point where the very balance of the air and the light could have been broken. The stuff of life itself could have been twisted out of shape until man dreamed himself capable of anything, and he would have created a hideousness that those alive now could not even have conceived in the darkness of their hearts. They would have deluded themselves they were masters of life and death, and denied God to His face.

  But perhaps it didn’t matter. Victory was the only real purpose. Why let it stop now just to taste it at greater length?

  But he wanted Tathea. She had been a needle in his side for long enough, and that required not just death but a very special vengeance.

  Not that her death was his to take. Man of Holiness held that power ... and the thought of Him seared Asmodeus’ heart and made him hate Tathea the more.

  Maybe he could not kill her but he could certainly make her long for death! And he would!

  The question was how to reach Tathea. She might be frightened, or discouraged, but success depended on the real weaknesses, not the trivial ones. The ones that bit soul-deep and hurt beyond any art to heal. Love. That was always the answer. Strike her where she loved!

  Ishrafeli!

  He was not certain how to do that yet. He would begin with the others. Isolate her. Loneliness is a sharp sword. It injured every time.

  Ishrafeli was young in war. He felt other people’s pain, and in his passionate arrogance he had promised Man of Holiness he would feel for the whole earth. He had not the faintest idea yet what that would mean. He had tasted merely the first drops of rain in a storm that would drown all mankind!

  Yaltabaoth would defeat him! Let him once know the real darkness of despair, and nothing else would matter. He would lose ... like all the rest.

  Yes: Asmodeus would win Armageddon! Let it roll forth, After the earth, there was the rest of creation waiting!

  Chapter XI

  ULCIBER LOOKED AT TIYO-MAH in her splendid robes, sitting beside one of the numerous lily pools of the palace. These days the Isarch was barely even a figurehead. He remained in his private quarters, brooding, pacing back and forth, creating plans he never had the courage to put into action.

  Tiyo-Mah stretched out her skeletal hand and took a ripe fig from the alabaster dish in front of her and put it in her mouth. Deliberately she allowed the juice to run down her chin, smiling at Ulciber.

  “It is time,” he said softly, smiling back at her.

  “Time for what?” she enquired, reaching for another fig.

  “Time for you to pay your side of our bargain,” he answered.

  “Bargain? I don’t recall a bargain.” She bit into the fig.

  “One day each year, your body is mine,” he said, watching her as she froze, her tongue in the midst of exploring the rich heart of the fruit.

  She bit on it, sucked it and swallowed. “And if I don’t?”

  Now it was he whose smile widened, showing his perfect teeth. “Then I do not go back to Camassia and corrupt the law, make a mockery of justice and set the people at each other in violence and despair.”

  “Balour can do that,” she retorted with a sharp bark of laughter.

  Ulciber raised his eyebrows. “You think Balour is a match for Tathea, when she has Ishrafeli by her side? Are you prepared to account for your failure to Asmodeus?” He watched with satisfaction as she paled. “And if you think I cannot turn your own forces against you, then you have not dreamed the beginning of my power!” He leaned forward a little. “Think of it, Tiyo-Mah! Why do they follow you? Love, loyalty, honour, patriotism?” His sneer dismissed them all. “Are they incorruptible? Are they more afraid of you than of me?” He did not need to number the horrors he could create, using one man against another; she knew it only too well.

  “One day!” she snarled. “Only one! Don’t exceed it. I’m an old woman, you’ll burn it out, and then neither of us will possess my body.”

  “I know. Now yield it!” He stepped forward, his eyes shining, lips parted.

  Cautiously, reluctantly, she kept her word and as his body melted into hers, she disappeared, and only one figure was left standing, an old, old woman with wrinkled skin and nearly bald head, but lustrous eyes that stared in wonder at a sensuous world of colour and vibrancy: the sound of the water sliding over the ledge and falling into the pool below, the smell of it in the air, the heat on the skin, the dust, the texture of the lilies floating on the translucent surface. But most of all her crooked hand curled over another fig, fingers sliding over it, feeling it, savouring it, and she put it to her lips and bit.

  Ulciber also kept his word, not out of honour but because it served his own cause. It fed the appetite of his spirit. Also, it was a good bargaining tool for next year, when again he would take Tiyo-Mah’s body for a day. He must constantly remind her how much she needed him. It was a pleasure to watch the hatred seething behind her eyes anyway.

  Balour was good. He had corrupted Camassia profoundly.

  People joined factions to protect themselves. Extortion became normal practice. Citizens formed their own militias, against armed robbers or assault, bu
t more as private armies. Certain men gained power, and others sought to take it from them.

  Balour called on Ulciber, who knew of different and more efficient ways of refining the metal out of the rock, and instructed the industrial princes in them. Wealth abounded. What mattered it that the new ways polluted the land, poisoned the rivers with sulphur, leaving dead fish and beasts in its wake?

  The law became more and more ridiculous as verdicts were brought in to convict those who endangered anyone’s perception of his or her safety, and the guilty were excused in the name of the good of the country.

  Witnesses were intimidated, men were bought and sold, sometimes with money, sometimes with promises of office, power, or that their own offences would be erased from the records.

  Tathea came home late and exhausted, defeated yet again. She and Ishrafeli had heard little from Ardesir, and nothing from Sardriel. The darkness seemed to be closing in.

  Ishrafeli stood behind Tathea, his arms around her, holding her close to him.

  “Are you sure it’s worth it?” he asked, aching for her, wishing he could give her of his own strength, the hope he gained from a hundred men like Severinus, deformed of body but burning with compassion which made them whole in spirit.

  “Yes,” she said with a weary smile. “As long as I keep trying, Balour knows he is not safe. He knows who I am, and he dare not relax. He has to watch me, just in case I win something he can’t afford to lose.” She put her hands over his gently. “And if people see me give up, who else can be expected to fight? They have to believe in something. A little hope is better than none at all.”

  He stared past her to the faint gleam of the last light over the sea to the south, far beyond the rooftops of the City. It was spring again and the days were growing longer.

  “And if I give up fighting, however often I lose, how can I tell anyone else to continue?” she asked. “You can’t preach what you won’t do.”

  “I know,” he replied, resting his cheek against her hair. “I wish we were making more mark against Balour.”