by I K Dirac
The waiting transport was a large mauve-coloured wheeled vehicle with chromed tail fins at the rear and the figure of a rather portly winged animal at the front of its long nose. A figure in a smart blue uniform with peaked cap sat in the front. Feducia motioned them to ascend into the rear seats, which were richly padded and decorated with abstract motifs. As the doors swished shut, a small bar with drinks and snacks slid out from the side and soft music began playing.
“We are now on our way to the Imperial Fields where the Triumph will start with the opening ceremony.”
They drove through thronged streets. Many of the onlookers appeared to be tourists. Occasionally others, slightly shabbier and who appeared to be in various states of inebriation, made gestures at them as they passed.
“Take no notice,” said Feducia, “Some of our lower orders, immigrants who don't share our religion or our customs, seem to forget their manners once they have started celebrating. They should be grateful for the chances they have been given.”
They arrived at the Imperial Fields, a large open area surrounded by porticoed buildings. In the middle was an enormous amphitheatre, its seats already crowded. Feducia led them to their box, one of several, which gave them a splendid view of proceedings. As they sat down, the spectacle began. Loud martial music seemed to make the whole amphitheatre vibrate. Flying machines, which Jim assumed represented Orsonian fighters, flew above them, discharging streams of fireworks. Figures swarmed all over the floor of the amphitheatre, some appearing to make gestures of triumph, others appearing to be fleeing in terror. The spectators cheered loudly and waved banners and flags. Jim noticed that some of the spectators in the seats in front of them had linked arms and were singing as they swayed back and forth. He leant forward to catch the words.
There once was an Admiral who went off to war,
Leaving his wives to weep at his door.
So I said stop your crying
And cease all this sighing
No need to lament any more.
When they looked at me and they gazed on my size.
They all started smiling and drying their eyes.
So I had them by twos.
And I had them by threes.
And I even had them by fives.
They had sung the verses several times when suddenly there was a commotion. Uniformed guards swept along the row and began beating the singers with large truncheons, before hauling them away. The other spectators looked on impassively. De la Beche seemed amused.
“Bravo! It reminds me of a performance I once saw of Rodelinda, where something similar to happened to the lead tenor. His top notes were quite dreadful.”
There was a sudden roar from the crowd as large doors on one side of the amphitheatre swung open and the procession entered. It was led by a marching band, hundreds strong, followed by a phalanx of military figures, resplendent in uniforms of every colour of the rainbow, marching in step. After them came a flotilla of open-topped vehicles carrying gorgeously-robed individuals who waved to the assembly.
“Those are our brave military, who gained this great victory, and the leaders of Orsonian society,” explained Feducia. “Our nobles, the members of our Supreme Assembly and our religious hierarchy. See how our people love and respect them.”
Jim listened to the raucous noise from the crowd and observed the gestures directed at the procession and thought that some Orsonians had a rather different way of expressing love and respect than any he had encountered before. The band had marched its way round the arena and out through a large decorated arch.
“That is the victory arch of the Emperor Gardinian, the founder of the Orsonian Empire,” said Feducia. “Our tradition is that all Triumphicators pass through the arch at the start of their Triumph to pay homage to Gardinian.”
“Spendid, darling,” said de la Beche, “and who is Emperor now?”
Feducia seemed a little flustered. “We do not have an emperor as such nowadays. There were some, ah, troubles when we had the hereditary succession, so now the First Citizen is chosen by the Supreme Assembly. He takes on the mantle of Emperor, but is not called Emperor.”
The band was followed out of the amphitheatre by the vehicles carrying the Orsonian notables and into the arena came a procession of what looked like models of buildings and monuments. At the same time huge holographic images of the same things appeared above the heads of the spectators, who oohed and aahed in appreciation.
“Those represent the Mandrinian cities and planets that are now part of the Orsonian Empire and must pay us tribute,” said Feducia.
“Castles in the air. How fetching,” said de la Beche.
As the models left the arena a procession of bedraggled figures, who appeared to be roped together, entered. Escorted by uniformed guards, they marched slowly and dejectedly round until they filled the full circuit.
“They are the Mandrinian prisoners taken as punishment for their resistance to our fleet,” explained Feducia. “They now know how wrong they were to resist.”
“I rather think they do,” said de la Beche. “What is going to happen to them?”
“The ringleaders,” she said, pointing to a particularly woebegone group, “will, of course, be executed when they get to the Temple of Sublime Peace. The others will be sentenced to hard labour. Most of them won't last very long,” she added.
A guard barked orders and the prisoners began to march out of the arena. As the last of them disappeared through the doors, a company of buglers marched in and formed up in two lines. They raised the bugles to their lips and sounded a fanfare. As they did so, the crowd began to roar even louder, and into the arena came a huge, ornate golden carriage pulled by four equally huge white animals of a kind that Jim had never seen before. They were at least twice as tall at the shoulder as an Orsonian and had broad chests, massive heads with short snouts, stout legs, long manes down their necks and short, stumpy tails. He realised that these must be the famed Gryphodons. As they tossed their heads Jim could see the breath spurting from their nostrils. Two liveried drivers at the front handled the reins. Behind and higher stood a figure dressed in robes of purple and wearing a golden crown. Behind him on a raised seat sat another figure who appeared to be whispering in his ear.
“That is the High Admiral of our fleet,” said Feducia. “He is the military genius who led us to our great victory over the Mandrinians. For that victory he has been awarded the signal honour of a Triumph, and, as Triumphicator, he has been chosen by acclaim to be the next First Citizen.”
“He does cut quite the dashing figure, darling, but I'm not sure puce really suits his colouring. By the way, who is that other chappie who keeps whispering to him?”
“He is a slave, an important part of the Triumph ritual. His role is to remind the Triumphicator that, however high and mighty he might feel, he is still mortal.”
“Fascinating. I'm sure the Admiral takes a great deal of notice.”
The buglers sounded another fanfare, the crowd roared louder still. The carriage stopped and the High Admiral imperiously acknowledged the cheers. Then the carriage moved slowly and majestically towards the arch. Jim looked closely at the Gryphodons and then at the arch and reckoned it was going to be a tight squeeze.
It was even tighter than he realized. The two lead animals entered the arch and became stuck. Alarmed, they started moving agitatedly, attempting to extricate themselves. The two animals following also became alarmed. One of them reared up, shaking its head and making a loud, huffing noise. From its haunches a massive stream of ordure shot back towards the carriage. The High Admiral and the whispering slave received its full force. The Admiral was catapulted backwards off the carriage. He flew through the air and skidded along the ground, dung flying in all directions, his robe around his neck, his legs akimbo, waving in the air, and his private parts visible for all to see. At the same time, the efforts of the leading Gryphodons to free themselves succeeded, as the arch crumbled and was reduced to a heap of rubble.
“Bravo again,” said de la Beche. “It reminds me of a performance of Serse I once saw. The entire set collapsed all over the singers, but the audience pulled them from the rubble and the orchestra kept playing to the end. Quite magnificent.”
Gasps of dismay rose from one section of the crowd that Jim realized occupied the better seats. Roars of laughter came from another section, where most of the spectators were standing, accompanied by ribald comments on the size of the Admiral's privates. Guards rushed to the High Admiral to help him to his feet but he brushed them angrily away, before knocking the whispering slave down again with a blow from his fist. The Admiral was ushered quickly into a nearby marquee.
After the initial shock, the arena became a hive of activity. Other guards caught the Gryphodons and coach and brought them back. They seized the unfortunate drivers, stripped them of their livery and led them away with the slave. A glass screen was hurriedly mounted on front of the carriage. Two of the guards were deputed to don the livery and drive the carriage. Ten minutes later the High Admiral emerged from the marquee, clad in a new robe and remounted the carriage. It drove slowly out of the arena to the jeers and laughter of the many of the spectators.
De la Beche beamed. “Well that was a most splendid spectacle, darling. I can't wait to see what more you have in store for us.”
Feducia looked at him for a few seconds as if not quite sure what to make of his remark.
“You will now be taken to the Martial Parade, which is the most magnificent boulevard in the city. There you can watch the Triumph procession pass and experience the joy and celebrations of our citizens.”
Jim thought the Martial Parade was indeed magnificent. At least a hundred metres wide, it was edged on both sides by lines of trees from all over the Empire in foliage coloured from dark red through green to gold. Behind them, buildings clad in the finest and most expensive materials rose majestically into the sky. On their balconies, Jim could see figures waving flags and banners and cheering. More holograms depicting battle scenes and Orsonian heroes floated above the procession. Confetti, tape and balloons showered the marchers. Under the trees were stalls, giving out free food and drink. They had clearly been well patronized. Hundreds of inebriated spectators lay on the ground, many of them vomiting while others urinated at will. Jim spied several couples who appeared to be copulating, to the enthusiastic applause of those watching. The procession passed to cheers and jeers in about equal measure. When the High Admiral in his carriage came into view many female spectators waved their underwear while male spectators bared their buttocks in salute. Jim looked at Feducia, whose expression was alternating between disgust and disbelief. She attempted to divert their attention.
“In the distance you may just see the Imperial Palace. It is the largest and most magnificent building in the Empire. It covers more than four square kilometres and has ten thousand rooms and a hundred courtyards. Building started under the Emperor Gardinian and it has been added to by many of his successors. It contains treasures and artworks from every corner of the Empire and is now the official residence of the First Citizen. Beyond that is the Temple of Sublime Peace, where we will be going now for the closing service of the Triumph.”
“Do we have to go right now, darling?,” asked de la Beche. “I must say, I am finding everything most enjoyable and I'm feeling a little peckish. The food on that stall looks delicious. Do you mind it we stop here for a bite?”
Feducia tried to protest but de la Beche was already striding towards the nearest stall. Jim, Doctor Culpepper and Mister Betelgeuse followed, picking their way through the prostrate spectators.
“Do try these sweetmeats, darling,” said de la Beche to an increasingly flustered Feducia. “They are absolutely delicious.”
Doctor Culpepper agreed. “And look at the beverages – brandies, whiskies, wines, beers. All first class. No wonder some of those round here are a few sheets to the wind. I might be tempted myself.”
De la Beche gave him a stern glance.
“Plenty of time for that later, Sawbones, darling. I can see Feducia is getting a little fretful. Let us go on our way.”
Their vehicle drew up in the courtyard outside the Temple of Sublime Peace. Jim gazed in awe at the building. Its many towers and domes, some gilded, others painted in a profusion of colours, adorned a structure whose every surface was decorated with carving, some intricately geometric, others bas reliefs of scenes that he assumed had religious significance. On a parapet running across the entire front of the Temple, numerous statues looked out over the courtyard. They disembarked and Feducia bowed towards the building and then turned to face them.
“The Temple of Sublime Peace is the holiest place in the Orsonian Empire. It contains the tomb of the Prophet Mistrali, who is the last and greatest prophet of our god Zoabh. Mistrali is the prophet of the one true God. There are others who claim to have their god and their prophet. They are heretics and apostates and deserve only damnation.”
“I'm sure they do, darling,” agreed de la Beche, “No doubt they will get their just deserts when the time comes. Now, what next for us?”
Feducia gestured towards the entrance of the Temple.
“Seats have been reserved for you inside, so that you may see the ceremony. Females are not allowed on the floor of the Temple, so my colleague Bixtor will show you to your place.” She gestured to a pimply-faced youth who had been following their party. “It is a place of worship, so I would ask you to be respectful in your demeanour.”
Inside it was even more spectacular. Pillars rose towards a ceiling that Jim thought must be at least one hundred metres above them. A gallery at the back of the Temple was almost full with females, while, on the floor, the congregation was entirely male. Almost every surface was covered with intricate mosaics or murals. In the middle was a large oblong structure – covered in gold and decorated with jewels – that he thought must be the tomb of the prophet. A number of figures stood round it, either in meditation or nodding to and fro and touching it.
Rows of pews extended forward from the entrance. Jim could see that about half of them were already occupied; seats seemed to be filling rapidly. Bixtor led them along a side aisle to the front of the Temple and showed them to their seats. Jim found himself looking at what he assumed was an altar. A massive stone table stood between carved side screens. Above it was a painted triptych of scenes he found impossible to decipher. They contained Orsonian figures, animals and other creatures of fantastic appearance. Some seemed to be breathing fire, others were assaulting the Orsonians, biting them with their huge fangs or impaling them on blood-tipped spears. As he was still puzzling over the triptych, an orchestra in a gallery above the altar started playing, joined by a large choir. A phalanx of Orsonian military led the High Admiral in procession up the main aisle of the Temple to the altar. From a side chapel a procession of robed figures emerged, some carrying lighted candles, others swinging vessels from which smoke and the sweet scent of incense emerged. They chanted rhythmically as they walked slowly towards the altar.
“They are singing in Old Orsonian,” explained Bixtor. “It is a language that only our religious hierarchy are allowed to use. It is the language that they speak in Heaven.”
“Is it?,” said de la Beche, “Perhaps I should brush up on it, just in case. What do you think?”
Bixtor could think of no reply. Jim turned to watch the ceremony. The High Admiral stood erect and impassive before the altar as one of the robed figures donned an intricately textured cope and then, to more chanting, placed a huge tiara, decorated with gold and jewels, on his head.
“That is the headdress used when Gardinian was crowned as the First Emperor,” said Bixtor. “It is always used to acknowledge the Triumphicator.”
“Very fetching, darling,” said de la Beche, “but I'm not sure puce quite goes with gold. Somebody should have said something. It's a shame that chappie who was supposed to whisper in his ear wasn't with him. I'm sure he could have had a word
.”
The music swelled ever louder as ritual waves of the hand and incantations were made to the High Admiral. Then the entire congregation burst into an exultant hymn and the High Admiral turned and marched slowly towards the door, followed by the military.
“We are now going to have the last part of the Triumphal service, which is the execution of the Mandrinian ringleader,” said Bixtor.
As they emerged from the Temple, Feducia rejoined them. Jim saw that a large vertical wheel had been erected in the courtyard. The High Admiral and his attendants stood directly in front of it and the rest of the congregation arranged themselves in a semi-circle behind them. Directly in front of the wheel, a choir was intoning a slow, rhythmic chant. From out of a small building to one side, several guards appeared and marched towards the wheel. Jim saw that in their midst was a figure in a tattered military uniform. As they arrived at the wheel, the guards hoisted the figure onto it and tied him, limbs akimbo, to its circumference. A robed figure began to speak, his utterances alternating with the chants of the choir, as the wheel slowly started to spin.
“He is being told that he must acknowledge Zoabh and throw himself upon His infinite mercy,” explained Feducia.
“And what if he doesn't care to, darling?,” asked de la Beche.
“Sonic vibrations will be delivered to his body. They will start to break his bones and reduce his inner organs to pulp.”
“Most persuasive, I'm sure.”
For several minutes, the wheel spun as the groans and screams from the Mandrinian became ever louder – until they could be heard over the choir. Then the robed figure made a gesture and the wheel stopped.
“He has acknowledged Zoabh,” said Feducia, “so now we can be merciful.”
The robed figure untied a rope that had been round his waist, mounted steps at the back of the wheel and began to utter what seemed to Jim to be some sort of litany.