Pyramids - Terry Pratchett [98]
And the crowds were still outside. Religion had ruled in the Old Kingdom for the best part of seven thousand years. Behind the eyes of every priest present was a graphic image of what would happen if the people ever thought, for one moment, that it ruled no more.
“And so, Dios,” said Koomi, “we turn to you. What would you have us do now?”
Dios sat on the steps of the throne and stared gloomily at the floor. The gods didn’t listen. He knew that. He knew that, of all people. But it had never mattered before. You just went through the motions and came up with an answer. It was the ritual that was important, not the gods. The gods were there to do the duties of a megaphone, because who else would people listen to?
While he fought to think clearly his hands went through the motions of the Ritual of the Seventh Hour, guided by neural instructions as rigid and unchangeable as crystals.
“You have tried everything?” he said.
“Everything that you advised, O Dios,” said Koomi. He waited until most of the priests were watching them and then, in a rather louder voice, continued: “If the king was here, he would intercede for us.”
He caught the eye of the priestess of Sarduk. He hadn’t discussed things with her; indeed, what was there to discuss? But he had an inkling that there was some fellow, sorry, feeling there. She didn’t like Dios very much, but was less in awe of him than were the others.
“I told you that the king is dead,” said Dios.
“Yes, we heard you. Yet there seems to be no body, O Dios. Nevertheless, we believe what you tell us, for it is the great Dios that speaks, and we pay no heed to malicious gossip.”
The priests were silent. Malicious gossip, too? And somebody had already mentioned rumors, hadn’t they? Definitely something amiss here.
“It happened many times in the past,” said the priestess, on cue. “When a kingdom was threatened or the river did not rise, the king went to intercede with the gods. Was sent to intercede with the gods.”
The edge of satisfaction in her voice made it clear that it was a one-way trip.
Koomi shivered with delight and horror. Oh, yes. Those were the days. Some countries had experimented with the idea of the sacrificial king, long ago. A few years of feasting and ruling, then chop—and make way for a new administration.
“In a time of crisis, possibly any high-born minister of state would suffice,” she went on.
Dios looked up, his face mirroring the agony of his tendons.
“I see” he said. “And who would be high priest then?”
“The gods would choose,” said Koomi.
“I daresay they would,” said Dios sourly. “I am in some doubt as to the wisdom of their choice.”
“The dead can speak to the gods in the Netherworld,” said the priestess.
“But the gods are all here,” said Dios, fighting against the throbbing in his legs, which were insisting that, at this time, they should be walking along the central corridor en route to supervise the Rite of the Under Sky. His body cried out for the solace over the river. And once over the river, never to return…but he’d always said that.
“In the absence of the king the high priest performs his duties. Isn’t that right, Dios?” said Koomi.
It was. It was written. You couldn’t rewrite it, once it was written. He’d written it. Long ago.
Dios hung his head. This was worse than plumbing, this was worse than anything. And yet, and yet…to go across the river…
“Very well, then,” he said. “I have one final request.”
“Yes?” Koomi’s voice had timber now, it was already a high priest’s voice.
“I wish to be interred in the—” Dios began, and was cut off by a murmur from those priests who could look out across the river. All eyes turned to the distant, inky shore.
The legions of the kings of Djelibeybi were on the march.
They lurched, but they covered the ground quickly. There were platoons, battalions of them.