Simony hauled on a spar, and then found the weight lessen as someone grasped the other end. He looked up into Brutha's eyes.
“Don't say anything,” said Brutha.
“Gods are doing this to us?”
“Don't say anything!”
“I've got to know!”
“It's better than us doing this to us, isn't it?”
“There's still people who never got off the ships!”
“No one ever said it was going to be nice!”
Simony pulled aside some planking. There was a man there, armor and leathers so stained as to be unrecognizable, but alive.
“Listen,” said Simony, as the wind whipped at him, “I'm not giving in! You've haven't won! I'm not doing this for any sort of god, whether they exist or not! I'm doing it for other people! And stop smiling like that!”
A couple of dice dropped on to the sand. They sparkled and crackled for a while and then evaporated.
The sea calmed. The fog went ragged and curled into nothingness. There was still a haze in the air, but the sun was at least visible again, if only as a brighter area in the dome of the sky.
Once again, there was the sensation of the universe drawing breath.
The gods appeared, transparent and shimmering in and out of focus. The sun glinted off a hint of golden curls, and wings, and lyres.
When they spoke, they spoke in unison, their voices drifting ahead or trailing behind the others, as always
.happens when a group of people are trying to faithfully repeat something they've been told to say.
Om was in the throng, standing right behind the Tsortean God of Thunder with a faraway expression on his face. It was noticeable, if only to Brutha, that the Thunder God's right arm disappeared up behind his own back in a way that, if such a thing could be imagined, would suggest that someone was twisting it to the edge of pain.
What the gods said was heard by each combatant in his own language, and according to his own understanding. It boiled down to:
I. This is Not a Game.
II. Here and Now, You are Alive.
And then it was over.
“You'd make a good bishop,” said Brutha.
“Me?” said Didactylos. “I'm a philosopher!”
“Good. It's about time we had one.”
“”And an Ephebian!"
“Good. You can think up a better way of ruling the country. Priests shouldn't do it. They can't think about it properly. Nor can soldiers.”
“Thank you,” said Simony.
They were sitting in the Cenobiarch's garden. Far overhead an eagle circled, looking for anything that wasn't a tortoise.
“I like the idea of democracy. You have to have someone everyone distrusts,” said Brutha. “That way, everyone's happy. Think about it. Simony?”
“Yes?”