“No. Of course you can't. But that's what it's like, being a god. And this place . . . it's a morgue.”
Brutha looked around at the ancient, shadowy temple.
“Well . . . do you know what it's like, being human?”
Om's head darted into his shell for a moment, the nearest he was capable of to a shrug.
“Compared to a god? Easy. Get born. Obey a few rules. Do what you're told. Die. Forget.”
Brutha stared at him.
“Is something wrong?”
Brutha shook his head. Then he stood up and walked over to Vorbis.
The deacon had drunk water from Brutha's cupped hands. But there was a switched-off quality about him. He walked, he drank, he breathed. Or something did. His body did. The dark eyes opened, but appeared to be looking at nothing that Brutha could see. There was no sense that anyone was looking out through them. Brutha was certain that if he walked away, Vorbis would sit on the cracked flagstones until he very gently fell over. Vorbis' body was present, but the whereabouts of his mind was probably not locatable on any normal atlas.
o;Yes?”
“They go to sleep.”
“After feeding-?”
Brutha looked round at Vorbis, who was slumped against a rock.
“Feeding?” he repeated.
“It'll be a kindness,” said Om.
“To the lion, yes! You want to use him as bait?”
“He's not going to survive the desert. Anyway, he's done much worse to thousands of people. He'll be dying for a good cause.”
“A good cause?”
“I like it.”
There was a growl, from somewhere in the stones. It wasn't loud, but it was a sound with sinews in it. Brutha backed away.
“We don't just throw people to the lions!”
“He does.”
“Yes. I don't.”
“All right, we'll get on top of a slab and when the lion starts on him you can brain it with a rock. He'll probably get away with an arm or a leg. He'll never miss it.”
“No! You can't do that to people just because they're helpless!”
“You know, I can't think of a better time?”
There was another growl from the rock pile. It sounded closer.
Brutha looked down desperately at the scattered bones. Among them, half-hidden by debris, was a sword. It was old, and not well-made, and scoured by sand. He picked it up gingerly by the blade.
“Other end,” said Om.
"I know!..