Arkady Strugatsky - Hard to Be a God

“Over here,” said the man with the imperious voice.

He opened a low door, and Rumata crouched down and entered a spacious room lit by a dozen lamps. There were tied-up, bloodied people sitting and lying down in the middle of a threadbare carpet. A few of them were either already dead or unconscious. Practically all of them were barefoot, in tattered nightshirts. Red-faced troopers, savage and self-satisfied, were standing along the walls, casually leaning on their axes and poleaxes—the champions of the night. An officer holding a sword, his hands behind his back, was pacing back and forth in front of them, wearing a gray uniform with an extremely greasy collar. Rumata’s escort, a tall man in a dark cloak, approached the officer and whispered something in his ear. The officer nodded, looked curiously at Rumata, and disappeared behind the colorful curtains at the opposite end of the room.

The storm troopers were examining Rumata curiously. One of them, with an eye swollen shut, said, “A nice rock on the don!”

“That’s some rock,” another one agreed. “Fit for a king. And the circlet’s solid gold.”

“We’re all kings today.”

“So let’s take it?”

“Enough!” the man in the black cloak said quietly.

The storm troopers stared at him, bewildered.

“Who’s this come to pester us?” said the swollen-eyed storm trooper.

The man in the cloak turned around without answering, walked over to Rumata, and stood by his side.

The storm troopers looked him up and down with hostile eyes.

“A priest, huh?” the swollen-eyed storm trooper said. “Hey, Friar, your robe on fire?”

The storm troopers guffawed. The swollen-eyed storm trooper spat on his hands, tossing his ax from one hand to the other, and moved toward Rumata. He’s really going to get it now, thought Rumata, slowly drawing back his right foot.

“Who I’ve always beaten up,” the storm trooper continued, stopping in front of him and examining the man in black, “it’s priests, literates of any kind, and toolsmen. Once I—”

The man in the cloak raised his hand, palm up. A loud snap came from just below the ceiling. Bzzzz! The swollen-eyed storm trooper dropped his ax and fell onto his back. A short, thick crossbow bolt with dense feathering protruded from the middle of his forehead. The room went quiet. The storm troopers backed away, nervously eyeing the vents beneath the ceiling. The man in the cloak lowered his hand and ordered, “Remove the carcass, quickly!”

Several storm troopers dashed forward, grabbed the dead man by his hands and feet, and dragged him away. A gray officer emerged from behind the curtains and waved invitingly.

“Let’s go, Don Rumata,” said the man in the cloak.

Rumata walked toward the curtains, going around the group of prisoners. I don’t understand a thing, he thought. In the darkness behind the curtains they grabbed him, searched him, tore the empty scabbards off his belt, and then pushed him into the light.

Rumata immediately realized where he’d been taken. He was in Don Reba’s familiar office in the lilac quarters. Don Reba was sitting in the same place and in exactly the same position, tensely upright, his elbows on the desk and his fingers interlaced. You know, the old man has hemorrhoids, Rumata suddenly thought with pity. On Don Reba’s right side, Father Zupic sat in state—pompous, concentrated, with pursed lips; on his left side, there was a genially smiling fat man with captain’s stripes on his gray uniform. There was no one else in the office.

When Rumata entered, Don Reba said, quietly and affectionately, “And here, my friends, is the noble Don Rumata.”

Father Zupic grimaced contemptuously, while the fat man nodded graciously.

“Our old and rather constant foe,” said Don Reba.

“Foes get hanged,” Father Zupic rasped.

“And what is your opinion, Brother Aba?” asked Don Reba, helpfully leaning toward the fat man.

“You know… somehow I don’t even…” Brother Aba gave an uncertain, childlike smile, spreading his pudgy little hands. “You know, somehow I don’t care. But maybe we shouldn’t hang him? Maybe we should burn him, what do you think, Don Reba?”

“Yes, probably,” Don Reba said pensively.

“You see,” the enchanting Brother Aba continued, smiling affectionately at Rumata, “we hang the trash, the small fry. And we must maintain the people’s respect for the social classes. After all, he’s a scion of an ancient family, a noted Irukanian spy—it’s Irukanian, if I’m not mistaken?” He grabbed a piece of paper off the desk and peered at it with nearsighted eyes. “Oh, and Soanian too. Even more so!”

“So let’s burn him,” Father Zupic agreed.

“Very well,” said Don Reba. “Agreed. We’ll burn him.”

“However, I think Don Rumata can improve his own lot,” Brother Aba said. “You see what I’m saying, Don Reba?”

“I have to admit, not exactly.”

“The property! My dear noble don, the property! The Rumatas are a fabulously rich family!”

“You are right, as always,” Don Reba said.

Father Zupic yawned, covering his mouth with his hand, and glanced at the lilac curtains to the right of the table.

“Well, let us then begin in due form,” Don Reba said with a sigh.

Father Zupic kept glancing at the lilac curtains. He was clearly waiting for something and was completely uninterested in the proceedings. What are they playing at? thought Rumata. What does this mean?

“Well, my noble don,” Don Reba said, addressing Rumata, “it would be extremely gratifying to have you answer a number of questions of interest to us.”

“Untie my hands,” said Rumata.

Father Zupic recoiled and dubiously moved his lips. Brother Aba frantically shook his head.

“Oh?” Don Reba said and first looked at Brother Aba, then at Father Zupic. “I understand you, my friends. However, under the circumstances, which Don Rumata probably suspects…” He gave an expressive look at the rows of vents beneath the ceiling. “Untie his hands,” he said, without raising his voice.

Someone silently came up behind him. Rumata felt someone’s strangely soft, dexterous fingers touch his hands, and he heard the ropes creak as they were being cut. Brother Aba, with surprising agility for his bulk, took a huge combat crossbow out from underneath the desk and placed it on the papers in front of him. Rumata’s hands dangled at his sides like whips. He almost couldn’t feel them.

“Let us begin,” Don Reba said briskly. “Your name, family, station?”

“Rumata, from the family of the Rumatas of Estor. A noble gentleman through twenty-two generations.”

Rumata looked around, sat down on the sofa, and began to massage his wrists. Brother Aba, breathing anxiously through his nose, aimed the crossbow at him. “Your father?”

“My noble father was an imperial advisor, loyal servant, and faithful friend of the emperor.”

“Is he alive?”

“He’s dead.”

“How long?”

“Eleven years.”

“How old are you?”

Rumata didn’t have the time to answer. There was a noise behind the lilac curtains. Brother Aba looked around, displeased.

Father Zupic, smiling ominously, slowly stood up. “Well, that’s all, my dear sirs!” he began, cheerfully and maliciously.

Three people Rumata least expected to see here jumped out from behind the curtains. They were enormous monks in black cassocks with hoods pulled down over their eyes. They swiftly and silently ran up to Father Zupic and took him by the elbows.

“Ah… b-bu—” mumbled Father Zupic. His face had turned ashen. He had clearly been expecting something completely different.

“With your permission, Brother Aba?” Don Reba inquired calmly, bending down toward the fat man.