Chapter 7: Judges (11039)
Father Nimite had spent a week in and around Goldengreens now, and each new visit to a farm or camp brought fresh shame onto Father Dekulos’s head. His neglect to his duty and blatant corruption was there plainly to see in the records and receipts kept by the church in Goldengreens and the Committee leaders at the farms. Nimite did his best to turn a blind eye, or try and rationalise Dekulos’s actions, but after a while even that seemed to just make matters worse.
Nimite decided just to avoid Dekulos as best he could. It was not his place to judge the old priest, despite the fact that Dekulos often looked like he wanted to be judged. So Nimite was very thankful for the presence of Edward McQuade, the Red Cross worker. Working with the Red Cross provided Father Nimite an excuse to stay away from the church in Goldengreens and, with his car gone north with Samuel, also a means of transport. The tough looking ex-soldier seemed happy to help, as long as it was to the benefit of the local slave population. McQuade kept his own schedule though, so it had been slow going and sometimes Nimite had had to wait a day or two before going to the next camp. Each farm or camp he went to, he talked to surly Committee representatives and took copies of all their records, building up a picture of greed and corruption. It appeared that everyone Dekulos had gained power over, be they displaced people, backdam vagabonds or runaway slaves, he had sold to the camps. Nimite had often wanted to ask what he was spending all the money on, be he refrained from questioning the old priest – it was not his job. That would come later and from more senior figures in the church.
They were back in Goldengreens now, after days of travelling around the backdam. Nimite had bathed, slept, and eaten. After that he had gone down to the Post Office to see what the problem was with the phone lines. Unfortunately, the problem was simple, the line was broken somewhere between here and Evermarch and there was no likelihood of it being repaired any time soon. He now waited in a shady bench at the corner of the church yard while McQuade went to buy diesel for his truck. McQuade paid for his supplies from a stash of US dollars so secret that he had not even revealed to either of the priests where it was. After ten minutes or so he heard the, by now very familiar, roar of McQuade’s truck as it rounded the corner. It pulled up beside him and Edward looked down.
‘That’s her all set for another drive up to Develde, Father.’
‘That is good news Mr McQuade,’ remarked Nimite. ‘Let me just get my bag and I will come with you.’
Twenty minutes later they were rumbling out of Goldengreens, back into the jungle. Dekulos had, out of the blue, insisted on coming with them, and was sat in the back by himself while Nimite sat up front.
‘It has been very frustrating,’ said Nimite over the noise of the engine. ‘I cannot get a message out. I do not know if Samuel arrived safe and sound. I don’t know what is happening up north. I don’t know anything at all, Mr McQuade!’
Nimite laughed his loud musical laugh. McQuade said nothing. On the several trips they had taken together already, Nimite had done the majority of the talking and this one was turning out to be no different.
‘I have decided I like the jungle,’ declare Nimite as he sat with his elbow sticking out of the passenger door window. ‘It is hot here, but I feel like I am doing God’s work. Yes, Mr McQuade, the jungle is hot and there is much evil here, but in that case is this not where I should be? Where the suffering is at its most, where the need is the greatest, there is where a man of God should be, is it not?’
‘Just keep telling yourself that, Father,’ said McQuade.
Nimite laughed again. ‘How easily it comes to you to mock me! Thank God for you Mr McQuade otherwise what would I do? You and Big Brenda here, you come to aid me, send by Him I am sure this is true.’
‘You’ve decided my truck is called Big Brenda now?’
‘What not?’ chuckled Father Nimite. ‘It is the name of my grandmother. What could be better? Since you have not seen fit to name here. We are being of great help out here Brother McQuade.’
Nimite went from cheerful to pensive almost mid-breath and repeated his concerns. ‘I just hope that Samuel got back OK. Evermarch will send others eventually. We must put ourselves into God’s hands now. It is as simple as that.’
Nimite continued to talk, he had already learned that McQuade did not answer questions. He had asked about his faith, about how he had lost his eye, and how he and Big Brenda had ended up working for the Red Cross. He hadn’t received answers to any of these questions so he had given up and contented himself with doing all the talking. Eventually though, as always, he ran out of things to say and the remainder of the journey to Develde Farm was done in silence.
They passed a Committee roadblock, but the armed men there knew to let McQuade through. He had a rifle in the back of the truck be he had, as yet, never taken it out of its locker. Father Nimite could see that Big Brenda was imposing enough, roaring up to the checkpoint, towering over the men, she was not to be denied and McQuade did not wave, or even nod at the men as the stepped out of his way.
The farm was quiet when they arrived. They were used to Nimite’s comings and goings now. Anjulie was less pleased to see Father Dekulos in attendance, however. McQuade had his own routine and was back at Develde to collect letters and voicemail from the slaves to be sent back to Evermarch. He was a practical man and also planned to repair some of the slave’s accommodation, tasks that the Committee had no intention of ever doing.
Father Nimite had already taken copies of all the farm’s paperwork, so he planned to offer solace to those that needed it, either Committee or slave, and to lead the seven daily prayers for those that wished to attend, work permitting.
After Vespers on the second day of his visit he ate his evening with McQuade, at a table set up for them outside on the veranda. Dekulos had so far never joined them, he had not been much in evidence, something that Nimite was growing somewhat anxious about.
‘He missed Vespers again, Mr McQuade,’ he said. ‘And Nones. And the Sext prayers. I’ve not seen him since Matins. Such a shame, tell me did he lead the prayers when he came up here before?’
‘It’s been a while since he’s been to the farm, Father,’ replied McQuade. ‘I don’t remember.’
‘Such a shame,’ sighed Nimite. ‘He was such a fine preacher. He was such a good man, back in the days of St George’s Chapel. The reditus… I don’t know. The loss of his family had a profound effect on him.’
‘He had family?’
‘Oh yes, a wife and three children. Not seen or heard of in a year and a half. He volunteered for Goldengreens you know. Couldn’t stand it on the Delta he said. He was my mentor when I was a young priest. He was strong, and fiery, but we respected him. It is God’s will.’
‘Huh,’ grunted McQuade, who did not think much of God’s will, even now, a fact that Nimite had deduced from their talks.
‘Where you a religious man at all, in your army days, Mr McQuade?’
‘No so’s you’d notice, Father,’ McQuade admitted. ‘My sister was, but not one of the accepted ones.’
‘Oh, I understand Mr McQuade, say no more.’
Nimite did not dare ask about McQuade’s sister and what may have happened to her. Half the slaves on the farm were Methodists and their religion was why they were here.
‘There have been trying times,’ admitted Nimite. ‘You know, I have seen no sign of preparation for Christmas here. I had really hoped the Bishop would have made a pronouncement one way or the other on it. Did you celebrate Christmas last year Mr McQuade? It was, I would say, chaotic on the Delta and almost stamped out by the Committee in Evermarch.’
‘I missed it.’
‘I expect you did. It is not surprising to me that the Committee do not want people celebrating it. They say it is too frivolous now that God is here. But I say, when was God not here? God has always been with me, don’t you see Mr McQuade? So why should things change now that things prophesied in the Bible are happening? Now that God has shown his face they act as if Christmas is a shameful thing, I do not understand it. The Committee had too much power last year and now they do not like to let it go. But they must do as the church says, McQuade, otherwise what are they for?’
Nimite sighed. After a while he said, ‘what do you suppose Father Dekulos is doing?’
‘Well, if you want my opinion, I think the old fucker is here to try and cut a deal with the muta.’
Nimite nodded. ‘It is sad, but I think you might be right. It is sad to see such a fine man fall so far. He set up hostels in Georgetown, for orphans and battered women and suchlike. Saved many lives and many souls. Father Dekulos seems far from God now, is that not strange Mr McQuade, when God is right here with us all now? What sort of deal can he be doing with the Committee?’
‘Fuck knows,’ said McQuade. ‘But things around here are getting stranger and stranger. I’m going to report it all when I get back. It won’t do any good, but at least I’ll feel better.’
‘Stranger, how so?’
McQuade leaned in. ‘Well, for a start, I’ve been hearing stories of what’s happening down south. They say there is a huge volcano down there, visible from fifty miles away. The smoke from it blots out the sun. Some of the slaves say they have seen it. Some of the backdam women came north to escape the darkness and got caught up by the muta and ended up here. Muta wankers.’
A chill ran down Nimite’s spine and he remember talking to Samuel when the drove down here. What had he said?
They had discussed the ravaged sea and Nimite had quoted Revelations. Nimite spoke it now; ‘Then the second angel sounded his trumpet, and a great mountain burning with fire was thrown into the sea. A third of the sea turned to blood, a third of the living creatures in the sea died, and a third of the ships were destroyed.’
McQuade was at a loss for a reply for a moment, but then said, ‘no sea down there that I’ve heard of, but it’s a mountain burning with fire alright. One of the slaves said they had pictures of it on her phone, but that the muta took it.’
‘This is…’ Nimite was stunned. ‘Wait. Dekulos says all the food goes south. Who could be down there that needs feeding? Oh. Oh, deary me. I do not understand.’
Nimite turned to watch a group of Committee women walk past. They all wore long shapeless smocks and black headscarves tied right around their heads, right down to their brows.
‘You know, Mr McQuade, I have not read anything anywhere in their papers about what happens to all the food they produce here. I am going to ask them.’
Nimite followed the women into the main farm house where he was suddenly stopped by Father Dekulos.
‘There you are Father!’ cried Nimite. ‘You missed Vespers.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m going to find Anjulie and ask her where they send all their produce. It is most mysterious.’
‘No!’ yelped Dekulos. ‘I mean, please don’t William. You will stir things up. Make tings worse.’
‘But where does it all go Father?’
Dekulos had grabbed Nimite by both arms, and looking up at him said, ‘what it matter? The church can come and take all de slaves. Then it will stop. You can’t go and asking questions like that, not without a squad of armed Temple Guards at your back.’
Nimite stepped back. ‘What has gotten into you Father? Since when has a man of God been so terrified of the Committee? Father Dekulos, I have always thought highly of you but this is...’
‘I beg you William. It is not safe,’ said Dekulos. ‘Let me deal with it. I will get the information you need. Do not act in haste. Wait until tomorrow and I will give you the answers you want. This is a most sensitive matter, it would not do to stir things up. Leave it to me and I will sort it all out.’
‘Well, if you insist, Father Dekulos, but this is all very strange. I am getting very concerned, as if things were not bad enough.’
Dekulos nodded and motioned Nimite out of the farm house. Nimite returned to where McQuade was still eating.
‘I was stopped by Father Dekulos. He was in a most anxious state. I shall have to wait and see what he says.’
Nimite looked out across the fields and jungle beyond. It was a pleasant evening, warm with a cooling mountain breeze. This could be paradise, he thought, if only we would let it. He watched two armed men pass along the perimeter fence.
‘I can’t help feeling that something bad is happening here, Brother McQuade.’
‘You mean besides the slavery and all those women burned at stake?’
‘Yes even so,’ sighed Nimite. ‘I know the Red Cross does not approve of slavery, but it is God’s will and of course I do not condone the burning of women, witches or otherwise Mr McQuade.’
‘Legally the Methodists are all church slaves, as I understand it Father,’ said McQuade. ‘But the Committee can’t just hoover up DPs and backdam refugees and shove them into labour camps.’
‘Yes, I know Edward,’ admitted Nimite. ‘There is much work to do here. That is why I am so anxious to hear back from Samuel. The church can take all these people. But we have to put them somewhere do you see? Things are not so easy back in Evermarch. Bishop Thorman must decide what to do for the best. He is a good man, but it is very complicated.’
‘Seems simple enough to me,’ said McQuade as he rolled a cigarette stuck it to his lips.
Father Nimite picked up an orange from the table and put it in his pocket. ‘I am going to lie down for a while.’
Nimite had been sleeping in the truck with McQuade. There were two sleeping compartments in the rear, but McQuade had been sleeping in the cab to give the priest more privacy. This was where he spent his free time reading the Bible and where he slept.
It was very early when he was woken by a loud knocking on the door. As he pulled on his trousers he said, ‘who is it?’
‘It’s me, Father,’ replied McQuade. ‘You’d better come. It’s Dekulos.’
The sun was only just up and the morning light was still dull.
Nimite was half asleep, rubbing his eyes, as he was led to the rear of the farm, between an outhouse and a tool shed. Dekulos lay at the side of the shed, his head crush by a millstone.
‘Oh my God!’ said Nimite, half choking as he raised his hands to his mouth.
Blood was pooling between the old man’s skinny legs. He was dressed in black, his white dog-collar soaked red. There was nothing left of his head, it had been squashed to paste under the millstone.
‘One of the slaves took me to him,’ said McQuade. ‘Poor old bastard.’
'Draw thy sword, and slay me, that men say not of me, a woman slew him.' quoted Nimite.
‘Eh?’
‘In the book of Judges, Abimelech is killed by a woman dropping a millstone on him. As he dies he asks to be killed by the sword.’
‘The muta did this, Father.’
‘This is the devils work, Brother Edward.’
‘I’ll round up some strong slaves,’ said McQuade as he turned and left. ‘See if we can shift that stone.’
They buried the old man later that day, in the small cemetery plot behind the farm. Ideally Father Dekulos should lie in his churchyard in Goldengreens, thought Nimite after he gave a brief service, but he could always be moved later.
That evening he and McQuade watched three of the Committee trucks leave, heading down to the main track before turning south. The trucks were driven by armed Committee men, men with long dark beards and sullen black eyes, almost hidden by the black baseball caps they wore. A group of Committee women saw them off.
Nimite was anxious, he had a dreadful idea forming in his mind and the more he thought about it the more he thought it might be true, and the truth was so awful he hardly dared confront it.
‘Come and get something to eat,’ said McQuade from the back of the truck. Nimite stopped pacing up and down in the yard and climbed up onto the tailgate. ‘We should probably leave tonight, it’s not safe here any more.’
‘You are right of course, Mr McQuade,’ agreed Nimite. ‘But I want to talk to Anjulie before I go.’
‘Are you sure about that Father? There are a lot of them, and they all have weapons.’
‘You know, what you told me about the volcano, it has made me think about some things, Brother Edward. Since the trumpet sounded, everyone in the church has gone over Revelations again and again. I need to talk to Anjulie, or no. I need to see her. Oh Lord give me strength! I will confront this woman and then we shall leave.’
‘If you say so, Father.’
McQuade took a pistol from his gun locker and tucked it under his shirt. They found Anjulie in the Committee dining room, sat with several other of the women.
‘I’ve come to tell you we are leaving,’ he said as she stood to meet him.
‘Of course, Father,’ she replied. ‘I am so sorry about Father Dekulos. The slave that did it will be found and punished.’
‘Do not pretend to me woman. Do not lie to me. I am not so blind. I go now back to Evermarch to tell the Bishop of everything I have seen here.’
She shrugged. ‘The Committee rules here, Father.’
‘God rules here, Anjulie, as he does everywhere, and the church represents God.’
Anjulie had no reply to this so Nimite went on. ‘I have one thing to ask of you before I go.’
‘Yes, Father?’
‘Remove your headscarf.’
Two armed Committee men entered the dining room and McQuade took a few steps back so he could watch them.
‘We are forbidden to uncover our heads in front of unmarried men.’
Nimite realised he had one chance before he was pushed away by the guards so he snatched the small woman by the arm and pulled back her headscarf. She barely resisted.
In the centre of her forehead was a mark, three symbols that appeared as “χξϛ”.
Nimite recoiled and made a gesture to ward of evil. ‘Vile creature!’ he gasped.
The two armed men came forward and Nimite backed off. He and McQuade then walked quickly to the truck. They were not stopped or challenged and were watched by the sullen Committee guards as they rolled out of the gate.
‘What was that mark on her forehead, Father?’ asks McQuade once they were well away from the farm.
‘You are not familiar with revelations, Brother?’ Nimite physically trembled as he quoted; ‘And he causeth all, both small and great, rich and poor, free and bond, to receive a mark in their right hand, or in their foreheads: And that no man might buy or sell, save he that had the mark, or the name of the beast, or the number of his name. Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is Six hundred threescore and six.’
‘Fuck me.’
By now they had reached the main road. ‘Turn left please, Mr McQuade.’
‘Left? That’s south. I thought you wanted to go back to Evermarch?’
‘Yes, but I want to see where all those trucks went this evening.’
‘I’m not sure I want to.’
But McQuade did not turn the truck to the right. He looked up the track to Evermarch and then back down the track that led south towards the mountains.
‘This road leads to Zion and Paradise. I’ve only been down that far once. That must be where the trucks are going, although fuck knows why.’
‘Please, Brother McQuade.’
‘OK then Father, I’ll take you to Paradise, but no further.’
***
Samuel was at home, his cat asleep on his lap, Des dozing on the sofa. He was looking out of his window at the dark rain soaked St George Street. There were so few people about that the muta had abandoned their barricade and gone home. The Bridal Shop was still doing some small business although it was late. Samuel wondered if it was a front for something else. Maybe it was Methodists or some other variety of heretics going in and out.
He’d been back for days now, and as far as he could tell the church had done nothing about Develde Farm. They had taken the women from him, thanked him for his efforts and sent him home for some rest. Two days ago, he’d briefly spoken to Bishop Thorman, who had informed him that ‘matters were in hand.’
‘”Matters are in hand”, he says,’ grumbled Samuel. ‘”I can’t do anything without the permission of the Archbishop” he says.’
‘Are you talking to me or de cat?’ asked Desdemona from the sofa.
‘Neither “It’s all very troubling”, he says, “leave it with me for now Samuel.”’
‘So, leave it with him.’
‘Listen here, woman,’ said Samuel. ‘I tell you about this white fella McQuade, right? He had this fancy truck that he use to talk on de radio to the city.’
‘You already tell me this,’ Desdemona sighed and went to the kitchen to make herself some tea.
‘I’ve been thinking though. He told me the truck was working and that the problem was here in de tong. So there must be a receiver in Evermarch somewhere. He was Red Cross. I think I’ll go to their office tomorrow.’
‘Why can’t it be in the Delta?’
‘Do you see any radio receivers here?’ Samuel pointed out of the window. ‘Stupid woman.’
‘You shut your face. Where are the biscuits?’
Samuel kissed his teeth, but not loud enough that she could hear, then went to help her in the kitchen.
He found the Red Cross office easily enough after work the next day, and there were still people in it when he got there. The building appeared to be in chaos. There were desks everywhere, overflowing with print outs, computers and even old fashioned type-writers. In the entrance hall there was a dozen or more cork boards, all with pictures and notices on them. Samuel look at them as he walked in. There must have been thousands of pictures of people, mainly clansmen, people who had gone missing during the reditus or in the confusion that followed.
‘I lucky everyone I know lived on the Delta,’ he muttered to himself.
He saw a short clanswoman go past. She had a lanyard with a Red Cross card on it so he tried to stop her. ‘Excuse me miss. Do you know a man called Edward McQuade?’
She stopped and looked up at him through thick glasses. ‘Ned, yes?’
‘How do you talk to him?’
‘Oh, the parabolic antenna isn’t working right now, and we can’t fix it.’
‘Why not?’
The woman was about to speak, but then stopped herself. After a pause she asked, ‘who are you?’
‘I’m Samuel Benjamin, I’m a Temple driver.’
‘I’m Lisa Beech, Evermarch Resource Manager. Come this way young man.’
She led him through the ground floor chaos into a small office upstairs. He entered the room and she shut the door. To Samuel, she looked about fifty. She was barely five feet tall, and had ginger hair going grey at the front. One of those fierce type of clanswoman that seem to run everything that wasn’t part of the church these days. Samuel reckoned if she hadn’t have been Red Cross she would have been a layman at the Temple, or a just as easily a muta Commander. Her office was stacked with papers and lined with over-stuffed filing cabinets, there were half a dozen dirty coffee cups around the room and two dead plants. It was the workplace of an over-worked woman.
Once she was seated she looked at him and said, ‘a Temple driver? We don’t often get church people over here. Do you even know what we do here?’ She gestured at a stack of paper.
‘De left-overs?’
‘We prefer the term Displaced Persons, but also we lobby for the release of slaves. All slaves Mr Benjamin.’
‘That’s what I’m here about. That’s what I want to talk to McQuade about.’
‘Well,’ she said as she finally offered him a seat by the desk and sat down herself. ‘The antenna was set up by Ned and a man called Darren Marks. They are the only ones that know how to operate it or fix it. The whole thing looked rather foolish to me, but it seemed to work, and they did a lot of good.’
‘Edward seemed like a good fella.’
‘Well,’ she went on. ‘Darren was taken by the muta two weeks ago and no one has seen him since. If you work for the church perhaps you can try your connections? We’ve had no luck at our end. Until we get him back, we can’t do anything. Ned is due back in two months anyway, when his money runs out.’
‘Can I see it?’
Beech shrugged. ‘If you like.’
She took him up to the roof where there was a radio dish about eight feet wide. Next to it was a jack leg cabin. The door was not locked and she led him in and pointed out the jumble of electronic equipment that operated the dish.
‘I dinnae even know how to turn it on if I’m honest,’ admitted Beech.
‘It’s that box there,’ pointed out Samuel. ‘But that’s about all I can figure.’
He looked over some of the notebooks that had been left by Marks. ‘He writes co-ordinates here. But where does he put them?’ Samuel even stooped to look under the desk in case he was missing something.
‘You’d best see if you can find Darren, Mr Benjamin. I’d not like you fiddling with all this if you don’t know what your doing.’
Samuel nodded. She was right. ‘All I can do is talk to de Bishop.’
***
It was late and the Temple was empty apart from the guards. Bishop Thorman was still at his desk, trying to make a decision about what to do about Goldengreens. He had already drafted two letters to the Archbishop and discarded them.
Samuel seemed like a decent enough fellow, but he was impatient. Perhaps he was right to be though? Was Father Nimite in danger? Should he act now? But act in haste, and repent at leisure. The lives of hundreds of people were at stake, it wouldn’t do to endanger anyone because of impatience.
‘Gnn,’ he groaned as he bit down on his sleeve and rested his head against the desk.
Shadwell chose that moment to barge into his office. Thorman looked up and spat out his sleeve.
‘For God’s sake Shadwell!’ he exclaimed.
‘Not going home, Your Grace?’ asked the sin-eater.
‘I’ve a letter to write.’
Shadwell peered into the bin by the desk, then fished out a crumpled bit of paper.
‘You really don’t have any boundaries at all do you Shadwell?’
‘Oh, the slaves down in Goldengreens is it, Your Grace?’ asked Shadwell as he read the discarded letter. ‘That’s easy, no? Like you say here, send down a detachment of Temple Guards and bring them all up here. You’ve already opened the Stadium, haven’t you?’
Thorman leaned back in his chair. ‘Tell me though, how should I clear this with Archbishop Sinclair?’
Shadwell pointed at the crumpled paper. ‘As you say, Your Grace. The Committee broke the Covenant Code. They can’t kill slaves. The church has every right to confiscate all of them. Start with the woman’s camp first and then do the others.’
‘And then what, Shadwell?’
‘Bring them here. Put them in the Stadium.’
‘And then?’
‘Well,’ laughed Shadwell. ‘If it were me, I would emancipate them. But I suppose the Archbishop would…’
‘He’d sell them,’ sighed the bishop. ‘To whoever. The Archbishop wants money for his new Temple. Those slaves wouldn’t be in the Stadium a day before he’s set up an auction at the turnstiles. Can you imagine the turmoil? The upset? Evermarch has been quiet for six months now. Can you begin to imagine how the city will react to a slave market at Angster Stadium? The scars of last year are still raw. And then think of the slaves. More dislocation, and all to be moved from one farm to another. At least they are warm in the jungle. Perhaps they are better off where they are.’
‘But Your Grace!’ cried Shadwell. ‘They’re killing them! You have to do something. Just don’t tell the Archbishop then.’
‘He’d find out. Then I’d be executed. Then they’d all be in his hands anyway.’
‘Hey,’ said Shadwell with a snap of his fingers. ‘You know there is an army camp just five miles north of here? They are all back from the war. What about the army?’
‘That’s what I’m sat here trying to figure out if you must know. Is it better or worse to involve the men with all the guns?’
Shadwell grinned broadly.
‘I don’t like that look on your face,’ remarked the bishop. ‘Whatever you are thinking, just stop it.’
Shadwell laughed. ‘Oh, don’t worry Your Grace, you know me!’
The sin eater turned and made to leave. At the door he turned and threw the paper ball at the bin and landed it straight in. ‘Harddwch chi!’
The next day, all thought of the problem in Goldengreens was put from Thorman’s mind when he received a summons to Strake. It had arrived by courier, a brief note from the Archbishop to come at once. What could it be? It could be anything as minor as a synod all the way up to an invitation to his own execution. There was no explanation in the message, which was typical of Sinclair.
He couldn’t leave today though, it was Sunday and the trains were not running, so he stayed at the Temple, performed his usual duties and then went home.
His wife watched him pack.
‘Ask them about the circumcisions,’ she said to his back as he neatly folded robes into a suitcase.
Thorman sighed.
‘Why are you even going to Strake?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘A synod probably. Sinclair didn’t say.’
‘Well, ask him then. A bloody husband thou art. What use are you if you don’t do God’s work?’
Annoyed Thorman straightened up and turned. He took the leaflet he had taken from Nimite and tossed it on the bed. ‘This is God’s work? Tormenting people? Don’t we all have enough problems without this nonsense? Have a word with Elder Richie.’
This was unprecedented defiance from Thorman, and his wife was incandescent with rage. She picked up the leaflet and threw at him as she yelled Bible verses.
‘This is My covenant, which you shall keep, between Me and you and your descendants after you: every male among you shall be circumcised!’
‘Jesus Christ sorted all that out woman, or does the Committee not go beyond the Old Testament?’
‘Blasphemy drips like poison from your tongue!’ she spat at him. ‘I hope Sinclair nails you to a cross!’
‘While we’re at it,’ he said calmly. ‘The Committee are holding someone called Darren Marks. He should either be released or handed over to the police or the Temple. You no longer have authority to hold people without trial.’
‘Pff, what do you care?’
‘None of your business,’ he said, but he could see her curiosity had halted her anger.
‘Talk to Sinclair about enforcing circumcision and I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Fine,’ he said as he aggressively zipped closed his suitcase. ‘Fine, then.’
Thorman slept well that night. He enjoyed the feeling of a victory over his wife, even if it was a small one.
On Monday morning he caught the earliest train he could get to Strake. He had considered bringing an acolyte or two with him to look more important, but in the end he decided not to. Anyone he took with him would be in danger.
There were Christmas decorations up in the station. Thorman didn’t care, good luck to them, whoever they were. The Tinsel Guerrillas braving the wrath of the Committee. He smiled at the notion of black clad figures flitting through the building at night with bags full of Christmas tat.
Agnostic on the subjected of Christmas, Thorman knew that the argument went that it was a false holiday. It had deep pagan roots. There had been no word from God on the subject so the beardy killjoys in the Committee had insisted on Christmas Day being struck from the Christian calendar.
Dressed in a grey tasselled coat and black hat, looking like any other middle-aged man travelling on business, he boarded his train and settled in for the journey to Strake. The line had re-opened recently and the elderly diesel locomotive, two hours late, finally pulled out of Evermarch Station and into the harsh morning sunlight. Thorman turned from the light and read his newspaper.
It would take all day to make the two hundred mile journey, through several Zones and multiple checkpoints. Thorman had brought his own sandwiches. Once past the Evermarch Transition Zone the train would enter an area of what was possibly a bit of the Gobi desert, followed by a long stretch of Eurasian Steppe and eventually find its way back into the rough formerly-British terrain that surrounded Strake. Most of the passengers were prepared for the transitions, but the conductor thoughtfully provided blankets for those that were not.
Thorman found himself enjoying the journey. He had not been on a train trip since the reditus and its familiarity reminded him of less troubling times. The scenery was pleasant in all the biomes they passed through and he put his newspaper down and was content to merely watch the countryside roll past at the leisurely pace set by the diesel engine. He had heard that the Steppe was empty but that heretics from Evermarch had been settling it. If that were true they kept well away from the railway line. He sat up when he saw two white furred foxes watching the train pass from on top of a fallen tree. Their bright blue eyes looked so knowing, so penetrating that suddenly Thorman felt ashamed.
The train rumbled on, and lunch was served. Thorman took a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits. As the sun set over the Steppe, they transition into the final biome – the Strake Zone. Thorman at first felt like he had returned to Evermarch, the landscape was so familiar, but after a while, in the dying light, his eyes picked out small differences. This was border country, parts of the Scottish Southern Uplands mingled with the Pennines and bits of Yorkshire. Strake itself was made up of parts of Glasgow, Newcastle and Manchester. There had been fighting in and around Stake the year before. There were burnt out houses, the skeletal remains of trees, craters and the rusting instruments of war still in evidence here and there. The railway line entered the heart of the city on a large steel bridge. The carriage wheels clicked and clacked as they rolled slowly into the station.
Thorman stretched then gathered up his things and took his suitcase down from the rack. He exited the train with the other passengers, pulling down his hat against the harsh wind and walked out of the station towards his hotel.
Strake was larger than Evermarch, but not as busy. Not only the war, but the pogroms had been worse in Strake and the violence had raged for months. It had taken a lot of bloodshed for Sinclair to finally dealt with all the heretics and the city’s population were still cautious about leaving their homes.
The Archbishop was in control here and he ruled with an iron fist. It was only two weeks to Christmas there was little sign of it. If Sinclair ever had an opportunity to put a boot on someone’s throat, he took it. There were church sanctioned signs up in the streets warning that those attempting to celebrate Christmas would be executed.
Thorman was met in the hotel lobby by an Acolyte sent by the Archbishop.
‘It’s to be a pillar of cloud!’ declared the young man breathlessly.
‘Who told you that?’ asked Thorman as he was handed his key card.
‘The Archbishop himself! God right here in Strake, can you believe it? What an honour.’
Thorman headed for the lifts. The Acolyte made to follow, but Thorman shooed him back. ‘Thank you, that will be all.’
The lift doors closed, and he let out a long-wearied sigh. In his room he took off his shoes and lay back on the double bed. A pillar of cloud. That was God then alright. God wanted a word with them all. He put the sleeve of his coat to his mouth and began to chew on it. They were probably all for it now. Thorman really hated God.
He wondered how many of the hundred or so bishops of the province would turn up. There were seven archbishops in total, but only Sinclair would be there tomorrow. Thorman presumed the others would be getting their own pillars.
He stood up and looked out of the window. He was on one of the upper floors and could see the Temple and Tabernacle from where he was. The Temple was modelled on Solomon’s, but on a grander scale, while the Tabernacle, built to the precise measurements specified in the Bible, down to the last ringlet, resided within the inner courtyard of the Temple. It was this sort of monstrosity that Sinclair wanted built in Evermarch. It was dark now, but it was all lit up. Thorman was not a fan, it looked like an impracticable construction. The first Christian churches had been Roman grain sheds, so the idea of using civic buildings such as Merrick College appealed to him. After having a bath, he read passages of the Bible that he thought might be useful for tomorrow’s meeting with God for several hours and then went to bed.
Thorman had entered the Strake Temple many times before and he had to admit it was impressive when you walked up to it. He had not slept well, but he had carefully combed and trimmed his beard that morning and made sure his robes were freshly pressed. An Acolyte had come to meet him at the hotel and take him across to the Temple. Its front archway was very tall and intimidating, as such structures were meant to be, and once in the outer courtyard they crossed to the next tall arch and into the inner area. Here was the Tabernacle, essentially a large marquee tent surrounded by a rectangular canvas fence. A splendid arrangement if you were conducting a church service in the desert, a decidedly cold and draughty affair if you were doing it in Scotland on a chilly December morning.
Other bishops were drifting in, the elderly ones looked somewhat absurd in their thick thermal coats and woolly hats. The Tabernacle would be too small to hold them all though, so they walked past that, the outer altar on the right and the Molten Sea on the left. God would be appearing to them on the steps of the porch, between the two huge bronze pillars that guarded the main chamber.
The bishops huddled together like penguins to keep warm, dressed in their full pontifical vestments, most wearing mitres, some bearing crosiers and holy relics. With additional layers of hats, scarfs, and quilted jackets, Thorman reflected on how absurd they all looked. Still, if you were not ready to dress up in outlandish attire then you were not ready to be a bishop.
Those that were wearing winder clothing over their vestments were the wise ones, as God was known to keep people waiting. A few flakes of snow fell from the sky. There were somewhere in the region of fifty bishops on the porch steps now and as the sense of spiritual awe began to fade, they started talking amongst themselves. Thorman could even hear Sinclair’s uncultured oafish voice somewhere in the crowd.
A younger bishop sidled up to him, a short man wearing a body warmer over his vestments. ‘Hi Thomas, you know what this is all about?’
It was Bishop Aitken, from the Old Kingdom Zone. ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Thorman. ‘The archbishop thinks it’s the appointment of Judges.’
‘Could be. Do you remember last time? We got all worked up thinking it was the Last Judgement and it turned out to be about harlots and concubines.’
‘It sparked debate anyway. How are things in the Old Kingdom?’
‘Settled. And that is all to the good. Are you doing Christmas this year? I don’t see much sign of it here.’
Thorman felt his nose was running and reached for a tissue in his pocket. ‘I’ve just left everyone to it,’ he sniffed. ‘I’ve not the heart to outlaw it.’
‘It was my favourite time of year, I don’t mind admitting it,’ said Aitken. ‘I hope it’s about that. Christmas is back on-again guys, get the trees up and the tinsel out!’
‘We should be so lucky.’
Thorman squinted up at the sky, was that a pillar of cloud up there or just a regular cloud that looked a bit pillar-like?
‘You’ll know it when you see it,’ laughed Aitken. ‘There is no mistaking God.’
‘I know, I know, I just…’
‘Oh, bloody hell,’ cursed Aitken. ‘It is as well, brace yourself!’
The pillar grew bigger and lurched down from the sky in a massive white vertical column. There was a central beam of light in the swirling mists and a sudden rush of air as it touched down before them, between the porch steps and the entrance to the Tabernacle.
‘Now we’re for it,’ whispered Thorman to himself. The tissue he was holding was snatched from his hand and blew towards the beam of light. Several woolly hats were snatched from their old heads and sucked into the vortex in a similar fashion.
After that it was all just blinding lights and averting of the eyes. Thorman knew he must be wrong, but he did not feel in awe, he just felt irritated, and confused. He lost track of time, and lost track of his sense of self, like the temporary amnesia that sometimes came in the first moments of waking up. Everything else except the Word of God crept from his mind, there was no room for anything else.
When humans spoke, they passed air over their vocal cords which vibrated the molecules in the air, which were then picked up by the sensitive bones and things in the listener’s ears and converted into meaning in the listener’s brain. When God spoke, He had no need of all that sort of stuff, and there were no words, as words were a construct of man. There was only meaning, and it arrived directly in your soul, all in one go. Once, as a young man, Thorman had drank a yard of ale, and managed to put three pints of beer into his stomach in about twelve seconds. His stomach had not known what had hit it and it had been a struggle to hold it all in. In terms of what happened to his body after God had talked to him, the effect was almost identical. A feeling of nausea and of having something large suddenly arriving inside you.
Then God left, the pillar receded, and the wind died down. Some of the bishops fell to their knees or sat down on the steps. Laymen arrived with hot tea and coffee and a selection of biscuits and cakes.
After a while they drifted into the Outer Sanctum and started debating. There was no organisation to it, just a group of old men talking amongst themselves. Bishop Aitken approached Thorman again, with a China cup in one hand and three Ginger Nut biscuits in the other.
‘Judges then!’ he remarked. ‘Looks like you were right.’
‘The archbishop was right,’ said Thorman and nodded over the where Sinclair was stood with the most senior clergy. He’d not seen the archbishop so happy since he had had Bishop Carlisle put to death.
‘It’s a good thing, right?’ asked Aitken optimistically. ‘I mean, it has all been rather haphazard, don’t you think?’
‘I’d watch what you are saying,’ warned Thorman.
‘Yes!’ said Aitken, nearly choking on a biscuit. ‘I mean, it’s all part of God’s plan of course. All according to plan!’
Aitken sidled off and Thorman found himself alone. He helped himself to a coffee and as many biscuits as he could stuff under his vestments, then tried to figure out how long he would have to wait before heading back to the hotel. Like everyone else though, he didn’t want to be the first to leave, not least because then everyone else would talk about you. Lives have been ended that way.
He stood with the others and drank his coffee. God was going to select Judges. Just like in the Bible. Thorman’s mind was racing with what this could mean. Sinclair was already mad with power, if God anointed him a Judge, what then?
‘This is great!’ declared the archbishop as he made his way around the chamber glad-handing everyone. ‘Now God is really getting down to it! No more half measures!’
The other bishops nodded in agreement, but Thorman wondered how many of them were thinking the same thing he was. He nodded along. Sinclair was literally foaming at the mouth he was so filled with emotion after receiving God’s wisdom.
That was it though, much more was said, and proclamations were drafted, and everyone assumed that the Judge for this province would be Archbishop Sinclair, although no one remembered God saying as much, or even telling them what the job of one of God’s Judges would be. They debated all night, pizza was delivered, and the Book of Judges was read over again and again until even Sinclair, full of religious fervour as he was, had had enough. Thorman suspected that everyone was as in the dark as he was. God had given them a hint at what was to come, and nothing more. God did that a lot.
Thorman had plenty of time to reflect on recent mistakes he had made on his return journey to Evermarch. He looked out of the window, but he didn’t take in the scenery this time. His mind kept retuning to the freeing of Jett again and sending Nimite to Goldengreens. He was stepping way out of bounds. Sinclair had been giving him enough rope to hang himself with, he could see that now. And with the authority of a God-appointed Judge he’d have no trouble at all putting Thorman to death. Was he being paranoid? Probably, but it was paranoia that had saved his skin last year during the purges. Bishops like Aitken too, that spoke unguardedly, they would have to watch their backs. Sinclair didn’t have to have a reason to execute a bishop, he would do it solely as an example to the others. All he could do was go home and wait. It was in God’s hands now.
***
Shadwell Jones was not a terrific time keeper, but he usually made it through the gates of Merrick College around nine in the morning.
‘Good morning, Nathan,’ he said to the guard on the gate.
‘Hello Shadwell, oh hey guess what?’
Shadwell stopped and looked up at the tall young man, ‘what?’
‘Randy is back!’
Shadwell was so overcome with joy at this news that he clutched Nathan by the elbow. ‘Why, this is wonderful news! Wonderful news! When did he get back?’
‘Oh, over a week now. He comes and goes, but he’s back from the wars.’
‘When do you get off? Day shift, is it? Tell you what, meet me in the Prince, I’ll buy you both a drink!’
True to his word Shadwell went to the pub across the road from the Temple after work and waited to see if the boys remembered to come. He was half-way through his first pint when they turned up, both in civilian clothes. There was Nathan, tall and thin, and his younger brother, a little shorter, a little stockier and a little fairer. Such lovely boys, with open honest faces, even now after everything that had happened since the reditus.
They both smiled when they saw him and came over. Shadwell was delighted to get a long hug from Randolph.
‘I can’t say how much I have missed you, boyo! Look at you there,’ he said as he broke the hug and held Randolph be the elbows. ‘You need to get your mother to feed you up again boy! You’ve waisted away to nothing!’
‘Hardly!’ laughed Randolph. ‘All the do is feed me in the army. Stodgy bule food for every meal.’
‘Of course, of course! Well, get a table, boys and I’ll get the first round in!’
The Jack brothers did as they were bid and sat down at one of the long wooden tables at the back of the room.
‘Same old Jonesy!’ said Randolph.
They were not used to being in a pub. Their father had taken them once or twice, and since the reditus they had only been once, a leaving do for one of the older guards.
‘Such good boys,’ said the Welshman on his return. ‘I know you don’t drink. A Diet Coke and a Fanta though, eh? See, I do remember. How was the army? We heard stories, but how could we know what was true or not? Some of it sounded completely crazy!’
Shadwell sat down and took two bags of crisps from his fleece pockets. He ripped the first one open and laid it out on the table. The boys stared picking at it and sipping their drinks.
‘I don’t know where to begin,’ said Randolph. ‘It wasn’t what I expected. We went through lots of zones and fought lots of different people. Probably all the crazy stories you heard were true.’
‘Giants, was it? And fiery serpents.’
‘All true Jonesy. There will be giants in Evermarch next year. They are already in Harkencourt.’
Shadwell asked more questions, but Randolph was evasive with his answers. Eventually Shadwell turned to Nathan.
‘Have you heard anything new about the Stadium?’
‘Just what I heard from Bunn,’ admitted Nathan, ‘So, same as you probably. Temporary shelter for a bunch of illegal slaves from the backdam.’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ said Shadwell as he sipped at his pint. ‘It’s a dreadful shame, is what it is. Old Thorman doesn’t know what to do at all.’
‘You’ve been talking to the bishop about it?’ asked Nathan.
‘He was talking to me about it. It was a problem he didn’t have a solution to. He won’t bring them up for fear of the archbishop.’
‘It’s just three hundred, is it?’ asked Randolph. ‘I could talk to my captain, get some trucks sent down. Can’t see it being a problem.’
‘Talk to the captain is it boyo?’ snorted Shadwell. ‘You’re just a Private!’
Randolph held three fingers up to his arm. ‘Got stripes now, Jonesy. You’re talking to Sergeant Jack here you know!’
‘Oh anyway, I don’t know,’ mused Shadwell. ‘It was the archbishop was the problem.’
‘Well, whatever you like. Just let me know.’
The evening wore on, they drank and talked, Shadwell enjoying how they both sat there so politely and well behaved, you would never have thought one was a Temple Guard and another a sergeant in the clansman army.
Later more young soldiers turned up at the pub and being friends of Randolph, they joined them, and these ones did drink alcohol and as a result of this all Shadwell remembered when he woke up on the floor of his bathroom in the morning was that things had rather gotten out of hand.
***
Bishop Thomas Thorman was at his desk, his head in his hands, wondering what in God’s name he should do next. If Sinclair got wind of what had happened here while he had been away, he’d be surprised if he’d be alive by the end of the week.
He’d sent a layman to fetch the Sin-eater and it wasn’t long before he was at the bishop’s desk.
‘Come in and shut the door,’ he growled.
‘Now, I think I know what this might be about,’ said Shadwell with his hand up.
‘What did you do?’ asked Thorman looking heavenwards. ‘I can’t even begin to fathom it. I’d not even begun the paperwork on the slaves and now they are here! I’ve not made any arrangements at all for their care.’
‘It just sort of happened, Your Grace,’ cried Shadwell. ‘It was the demon drink! I am an awful, wicked man. My own mother used to say…’
‘Oh, be quiet,’ snapped Thorman. ‘How can I stop this now? The army are down there rounding up all these slaves. I can’t even begin to imagine the chaos. And bloodshed, did you think of that Shadwell?’
‘I am really sorry Your Grace!’ said Shadwell, nearly in tears. ‘I was so happy to see them all home. It was only meant to be a couple of drinks, just to toast the return of the conquering heroes you understand, and well, I said some things that – I didn’t mention your name Your Grace – but well, looking back it may have sounded like I was acting on your authority when I wasn’t.’
Thorman put his head in his hands and made some sounds that could have been laughter or sobbing.
‘Well, you’ve done it now Shadwell,’ Thorman finally said when he looked up. ‘It’s in the archbishop’s hands now, whatever happens next.’
‘I am so very sorry, Your Grace, I shall offer a…’
Shadwell’s apologies were interrupted when an Acolyte came to the door and said, ‘you asked me to let you know when the army showed up, Your Grace.’
Thorman stood up and sighed. ‘Well, this is it.’
Bishop Thorman and Shadwell the sin-eater went down the main entrance of the Temple where a row of large army trucks were drawing up. An army sergeant hoped down from the lead truck and walked towards them. Thorman recognised him.
‘Oh, is that young Randy Jack?’ asked Thorman.
Randolph was all smiles. ‘Hello again Your Grace!’
‘I might have known you’d be mixed up in this – oof!’ Thorman grunted as the tall young soldier hugged him. He remembered now that Randolph Jack was a hugger.
‘Ok ok,’ gasped the bishop. ‘Let go of me you idiot.’
‘It’s just so good to see you again Your Grace,’ still not letting go, burying his head into the bishop’s shoulder in fact. ‘It’s been really awful.’
‘Yes, ok, we can talk later, but what’s all this?’
Randolph finally let him go and turned to the trucks. ‘Well, my captain told me to take the trucks down to Goldengreens. We went round all the farms and took every slave we could get our hands on. You want them at the stadium?’
‘It’s not ready yet, but it’s the only place they can go. Did you see Father Nimite?’
‘No. The muta said him and the Red Cross guy just up and left.’
Thorman did not go home that night and, coward that he was, he got an Acolyte to call his wife, telling him to offer her no explanation other than he was out of the Temple on church business. It was nearly midnight by the time he got to the Angster Stadium. He stood with a collection of Acolytes and other lackeys, surveying the thing that he had wrought. Over three hundred souls were camped out on the playing field of the Stadium – what had once hosted football matches, and then executions, was not a makeshift camp.
The army had simply deposited the slaves here and then gone back to their camps in the north, Randolph giving an apologetic shrug before hoping back up into the cab of the lead truck. The slaves were cold and hungry and Thorman didn’t know how to fix that.
He had managed to arrange some tents at least, and some wood for a few fires. A detachment of Temple guards was here, but the slaves were confused and subdued. They were mainly women, mainly black, a selection of people from the backdam and a large group of heretics from the Delta. There were a few children too, of varying ages, and they were the only ones having fun, running up and down between the stadium seats. Thorman had just ordered all but a few of the lights to be switched off so the slaves could sleep. Tonight, he would have to organise food for them in the morning.
He watched as down below, by torchlight Shadwell and young Nathan Jack passed out blankets and bottled water. At least that Welsh fool had stayed to help. Thorman went back inside to one of the stadium offices to start drafting requisition orders for food when a man was escorted to him by two Temple guards. He recognised him as a Committee commander. Thorman could not remember his name.
‘This!’ declared the small wretched man waving his arms down at the slaves. ‘This, Your Grace! This is Committee property!’
It hadn’t taken them long to find out what was going on, thought Thorman. Well, he wasn’t in the mood to be particularly nice. ‘Who are you?’
‘Commander Dreek, of the Blessed South Bannock Laity. I have come to ask when we can expect to have our property returned to us, Your Grace.’
‘This is not the time or place, Commander Dreek, make an appointment to see me during Temple hours. Bring a lawyer.’
Thorman nodded to him in dismissal, but Dreek was not going to be got ridden off so easily. ‘Elder Richie will want to know the reason why so much of our property has been confiscated. He’ll want to know under what law it was done.’
‘Under the Covenant Code as always, Mr Dreek,’ replied Thorman dryly. ‘Slaves were being killed on your farms, which is directly against the code. The slaves were removed for their safety.’
‘What?’ snorted Dreek. ‘Executed? What an outrageous slander!’
‘Murdered, Mr Dreek. Burned at the stake.’
‘What does the church care what happens down in Goldengreens? And anyway, what proof of this do you have?’
‘If you want to know that,’ said Thorman with finality. ‘Make an appointment to see me during Temple hours and bring a lawyer. No please go away.’
Thorman nodded at the guards who then shepherded the Commander out of the office and away into the night. It felt good to have brushed off the Committee like that, but he knew he was going to hear about it from his wife at great length when he finally dared go home.
He set up his office in the stadium and worked through the night. He had Shadwell go around all the slaves to get their details.
‘Mostly people from the Delta, Your Grace,’ said Shadwell on his return.
‘Good, you can help me then,’ said Thorman tossing over some papers. ‘I’ve decided there is only one thing we can do. It’s not great, but if we share them out across all the church estate farms and businesses, we can at least put them as close to their families as possible.’
‘So, we send them back to work on the farms, Your Grace?’
‘What?’ asked Thorman, he was tired and irritable. ‘It was your runaway tongue that caused all this. With no time to prepare what other option is there? And they are still slaves, I’ve no powers of emancipation. I’ve no food or shelter to give them here, which is what they will get on a farm, and they will be safe enough from the Committee.’
Shadwell picked up some of the papers. ‘Where is the list of Delta farms?’
Thorman pushed over a printout.
And if they are scattered all over the countryside, it makes them harder for the Archbishop to find and sell, thought Thorman. There were dozens of farms and small factories within the diocese and if he spread then thinly enough, they would not overwhelm any one place.
‘People from the Delta can go to the Delta. Send the clansmen to the Galloway farms and the backdam people can stay in Evermarch. Any clansmen with family in Evermarch can stay too.’
Shadwell nodded, picked up a pen and got to work.
Bishop Thorman worked two days straight, sorting out food, supplies and transport for the slaves and had very nearly cleared out the Stadium by the time Archbishop Sinclair turned up in a black limousine. It rolled right into the remains of the camp, where the archbishop stepped out and walked up to Thorman. He was flanked by two Temple guards from Strake.
The archbishop was as corpulent and red faced as ever, his brush of white hair sticking up like a cock’s comb. He surveyed the scene, the mess of the camp, the few remaining slaves waiting for relocation. There were discarded clothes, blankets, and food packages everywhere.
‘How is this circus helping me get my Tabernacle, Thomas?’
‘The army got involved, Your Grace,’ said Thorman. ‘It was out of my hands.’
‘Look at all this,’ said the Archbishop gesturing to the mess left by the slaves, strew across every square foot of the pitch. ‘It’s complete chaos. You had no authority to do this.’
‘You said as long as I…’
‘Don’t you fucking dare!’ interrupted Sinclair. ‘I said you could rocket them to the moon – as long as you built me a Tabernacle. It looks to me you are too busy shipping church property from one end of the parish to the other. So, tell me, why should you continue to be bishop of Evermarch if you are not willing to do the work of God?’
Thorman was about to speak, but suddenly Shadwell was at his shoulder. ‘It was all my fault, Your Graces, it was me that did it, yes right enough.’
‘Who are you?’ demanded the Archbishop.
‘I’m the sin-eater, Your Grace,’ wept Shadwell. ‘I committed the dreadful sin of drunkenness, and it was me that told the army about the Goldengreens farms.’
‘Shadwell!’ said Thorman trying to step in his way. ‘It was me that told him about it, Your Grace. It was my fault for discussing it with him at all.’
The Archbishop held up his hands to silence them both. ‘I don’t care about your excuses. All I see is a fuck up. A fuck up that someone is going to have to pay for.’
He paused and took them both in, they were both dirty and tired, their hair and beards unkempt and their skin blackened from the soot of the slave’s campfires.
‘If sounds to me, Thomas, that this man overstepped his bounds considerably. If he was anything other than a sin-eater I’d have him strung up from that goal posts over there here and now. So, I’ll leave the choice to you Bishop Thorman. Who is going to face the consequences of this? Who goes to the cells? You or him?’
Thorman was initially taken aback at the archbishop’s cruelty, but then he remembered who he was dealing with. Sinclair was a monster. He hesitated and could see that the archbishop was enjoying Thorman’s torment.
Thorman knew there was only one choice. If he was taken away then he was finished, and then Shadwell’s fate was delayed, but just as certain. If Shadwell was taken, then there was still a chance that Thorman could save him, possibly even himself as well.
Thorman could not speak so only nodded at the sin-eater.
‘Right then!’ grunted the archbishop. ‘Get that wretch in the cells. I want him in your deepest dungeon while I figure out a punishment suitable to his station. Thorman, I want to see you back at Merrick College in three hours.’
Thorman watched as Shadwell was taken away by the Temple guards. Sinclair headed back to his car, saying, ‘and for God’s sake go home first and wash Thomas, you stink.’
