Arkady Strugatsky - Hard to Be a God

“You won’t have enough time,” Don Reba said quickly. He was very pale.

“You’re a fool, Reba. You’re an experienced schemer, but you don’t understand a thing. Never in your life have you played a game as dangerous as this one. And you don’t even know it.”

Don Reba cowered behind the desk, his eyes glowing like embers. Rumata felt that he had also never been this close to death. They were laying their cards on the table. Soon they would know who was to be the master in this game. Rumata tensed his muscles, getting ready to leap.

No weapon, neither spear nor arrow, kills instantly—you could clearly read this thought on Don Reba’s face. The hemorrhoidal old man wanted to live. “Now, don’t be like that,” he whined. “We were just sitting around, talking… Your Budach’s alive, don’t worry, alive and well. He was still going to treat me. No need to overreact.”

“Where’s Budach?”

“In the Merry Tower.”

“I need him.”

“I need him, too, Don Rumata.”

“Listen, Reba,” Rumata said. “Don’t make me angry. And stop pretending. You’re afraid of me. And rightly so. Budach belongs to me, understand? To me!”

They had now both stood up. Reba was terrible. He had turned blue, his lips were twitching convulsively, he was mumbling and sputtering. “Whippersnapper!” he hissed. “I’m not afraid of anyone. I’m the one who could crush you like a bug!”

He suddenly turned around and pulled back a tapestry hanging behind his back. There was a wide window behind it.

“Look!”

Rumata went to the window. It faced the square in front of the palace. Dawn was approaching. The smoke from the fires rose into the gray sky. The square was littered with corpses. And a motionless black rectangle stood at its center. Rumata looked closer. These were horsemen, standing in an improbably precise formation—in long black cloaks, black hoods hiding their eyes, with black triangular shields on their left hands and long pikes in their right hands.

“I present to you!” Don Reba said in a clanging voice. His whole body was shaking. “The humble men of our Lord, the cavalry of the Holy Order. They landed tonight at the Port of Arkanar to suppress the barbaric rebellion of the night tramps of Waga the Wheel, in league with some swollen-headed shopkeepers! The rebellion has been suppressed. The Holy Order now has control of the city and country, which will henceforth be known as the Arkanarian Region of the Order.”

Rumata involuntarily scratched his head. I’ll be damned, he thought. So that’s who the unhappy shopkeepers were paving the way for. Quite the provocation! Don Reba was grinning triumphantly.

“We have not met yet,” he continued in the same clanging voice. “Let me introduce to you the Holy Order’s governor for the Arkanarian Region, bishop and battle master, the servant of God, Reba!”

You know, I could have guessed, thought Rumata. Wherever grayness triumphs, black robes come to power. Oh, historians, stick a tail in all of you… But he put his hands behind his back and rocked from toe to heel. “Right now I’m tired,” he said disdainfully. “I want to sleep. I want to take a hot bath and wash off the blood and saliva of your thugs. Tomorrow… actually, today… let’s say an hour after sunrise, I’ll come back to your office. By this time, the order for Budach’s release should be ready.”

“There are twenty thousand of them!” Don Reba shouted, pointing at the window.

Rumata winced. “A little quieter, please,” he said. “And remember, Reba, I know very well that you’re no bishop. You’re just a filthy traitor and an incompetent petty schemer.” Don Reba licked his lips, his eyes glazed over. Rumata continued. “I have no mercy. Any vile thing you do to me or my friends will cost you your head. Bear in mind, I hate you. I am willing to put up with you, but you will have to learn how to get out of my way in time. Do you understand me?”

Don Reba said hurriedly, with a pleading smile, “I want only one thing. I want you to be on my side, Don Rumata. I can’t kill you. I don’t know why, but I can’t.”

“You’re afraid,” said Rumata.

“I’m afraid,” Don Reba agreed. “Maybe you’re the devil. Maybe you’re the son of God. Who knows? Or maybe you’re a man from the powerful countries overseas—they say those do exist. I don’t even try to gaze into the abyss that brought you forth. My head spins and I fall into heresy. But I can kill you too. Any time. Right now. Tomorrow. Yesterday. Do you understand that?”

“I’m not interested in that,” Rumata said.

“Then what? What are you interested in?”

“I’m not interested in anything in particular,” Rumata said. “I’m having a good time. I’m neither the devil nor God, I’m Rumata of Estor, a merry noble gentleman, burdened with various whims and prejudices, and accustomed to freedom in every way. Can you remember that?”

Don Reba had already regained his composure. He wiped his face with a handkerchief and smiled pleasantly. “I value your determination,” he said. “After all, you also aspire to certain ideals. And I respect these ideals, even though I don’t understand them. I’m very glad that we’ve had this talk. It’s possible that some day, you will describe your views to me, and it’s entirely possible that you will force me to reconsider my own. People are prone to making mistakes. Perhaps I’m wrong and the goals I aspire to are not the ones worthy of the diligent and selfless work I’ve been doing. I’m an open-minded man, and I can easily imagine that one day I will work with you side by side.”

“We’ll see,” Rumata said, then walked toward the door. What a slug! he thought. Some colleague. Side by side…

The city had been stricken by intolerable terror. The reddish morning sun shone down grimly on the empty streets, smoldering ruins, torn-off shutters, and broken-down doors. Shards of glass glittered in the dust, crimson from the dawn. Hordes of uncountable crows had descended on the city as if on an empty field. Groups of two and three horsemen in black hung around the squares and intersections—slowly turning their whole bodies in the saddle, peering through the slits in the hoods pulled low over their eyes. Charred bodies were hanging from hastily erected posts over extinguished coals. It was as if there was no one left alive in the city—only the shrieking crows and the businesslike murderers in black.

Half the time, Rumata was walking with his eyes closed. He was suffocating, his battered body aching painfully. Are they people or are they not? Is there anything human about them? Some get slaughtered in the streets, while others sit at home and meekly wait their turn. And everyone is thinking, Let it be anyone but me. The cold-blooded brutality of those who slaughter, and the cold-blooded meekness of those who are slaughtered. The cold-bloodedness, that’s the worst thing. Ten people stand around, transfixed with horror, and meekly wait, while another one comes by, picks his victim, and cold-bloodedly slaughters him. These people’s souls are full of rot, and each hour of meek waiting contaminates them even more. This very moment, these silent houses are invisibly breeding rascals, informers, and murderers, thousands of people who will remain stricken by fear their whole lives, and who will mercilessly teach fear to their children and the children of their children. A little longer and I’ll go insane and become just like them; a little longer and I’ll no longer have any idea what I’m doing here. I need to rest, get away from all this, calm down…

At the end of the Year of Water—such and such a year by the new calendar—the centrifugal processes in the ancient empire became relevant. Taking advantage of this, the Holy Order, essentially representing the interests of the most reactionary groups of feudal society, who desired to stop the disintegration by any means necessary… And do you know how the burning corpses on the posts smell? And have you ever seen a naked woman with her stomach ripped open lying in the dust of the street? And have you seen a city in which all the men are silent, and only the crows scream? You, the still unborn boys and girls in front of the educational stereovisor in the schools of the Arkanarian Communist Republic?