The Truth is Dead (2 page)

“No? Not girls.
Boys
, maybe? OK, keep your hair on. Don’t get your knickers in a twist; I was just asking. Live and let live, I say. Still
nyet
? Well, that’s what I reckoned. But you know how it is. I had to ask. If I didn’t follow the script, there’d be hell to pay.”

Through all this Jesus had remained impassive. Resisting temptation was his job, just as the role of the Father of Lies was to tempt.

“But that’s not all I’ve got here,” the man continued. “And we’re going multimedia with this one.”

He drew a rectangle with his finger in the air, and where he drew, a dark shape appeared, like a window into emptiness.

“I want you to watch this. Because the thing is, I know you’re a good guy. Hey, one of the best. No,
the
best. Your heart’s in the right place. No arguments there. You want things to work out well. You want the little people to be OK. I’ve read the book. Love thy neighbour, turn the other cheek, blessed are the cheesemakers, all that stuff. Who’s gonna argue with that? If you were thinking of starting up a religion, then that’s exactly the sort of material you’d want in there. But, well, the best-laid plans of mice and men, and… No, look, let’s just watch the movie. A picture’s worth a thousand words. Let me wind this on to the right place … yeah, here we go.”

Images appeared on the floating screen. There was music. There were voices. To Jesus it was all meaningless. Except that he could make out scenes of horror. Blood. The only meaning was blood. He closed his eyes.

“Oh, crap, I should have known you’d be a bit freaked by the technology. So why don’t I just talk you through what’s happening here? You know, like the extras on a DVD, when the director gives you his commentary. Except you don’t know. Anyway, with what I’m saying, and what you can see, you’ll get it. Get it? Cool.”

Jesus opened his eyes. The sun was below the horizon and the yellows and reds of the desert were turning grey and blue. It was a beautiful time. Cooler now than the terrible heat of the day, but warmer than the wretched cold of the desert night. He had tried to light fires, but that was not his skill, and so he had shivered and moaned like a fanatic through the cold black hours.

“Right, here we go. Your people, the people you pick, good men mostly. Except Ju— Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. But things start going pear-shaped pretty soon after you quit the scene. First your guys go and upset the Romans – and believe me, that’s never a good idea. Hang on, let me…”

He fished down the side of the leather sofa until he hit on the remote control, but not before he’d also found – and discarded in frustration – a number of coins, a box of matches, a hairbrush and a fluff-covered object that might once have been a gummy bear.

“Right, let’s fast-forward until … here you go.”

The screen showed a Roman amphitheatre. A family – a mother and a father, a boy and a girl – kneeling in the sand. A lioness, hungry, wary, circled them. The parents prayed. The children hid their faces in the folds of their father’s garment. The lioness made her lunge, and carried away the small girl by the throat.

“Let’s pause there, shall we? There’s lots more of that sort of thing – thousands of these guys getting chomped or speared or burnt. And I know exactly what you’re gonna say. This is the Romans’ doing. Can’t blame the victims, can you? But you see, the thing is, these people – the men, the women, the little ones – they’re only there because of good old Jesus H. Christ. Now, I don’t know about you, but that’s not something I’d like on
my
conscience. I mean, just how many kids being eaten like that would it take for this whole enterprise you’re planning to start looking, well, counter-productive, eh?

“But let’s move on. Because, you see, it isn’t long before your guys start dishing it out as well as taking it. In fact, they pretty soon begin to dish out a lot more than they take. Dish it out in spades. I’m giving you one case here, to begin with. Check out this lady. Hypatia, they call her.”

The screen showed a serene woman reading from a papyrus scroll.

“This is one clever lady, the most important philosopher of her time. Lives in a town called Alexandria, just when the Christians – that’s what your followers start calling themselves – are taking over as top dog. But she still has a soft spot for the old ways: Zeus, Athena, Apollo, that crowd. So along come a rabble of monks and zealots and fanatics and they do this…”

The image switched to show a mob attacking Hypatia, their faces contorted with rage and hatred. They tore her from her carriage, and as she pleaded for her life they sliced away her flesh with oyster shells, and then, her lips still moving, they burned what was left.

“
Tut
, and I say again,
tut
. And all because she liked to offer up a little incense to the wrong gods. But things really heat up from here. Let me zip through this.”

And there were more scenes of horror and persecution and war, each more terrible than the last. Christian armies converted pagans by the sword. Crusaders in clanking armour pillaged, raped and torched their way through the Jerusalem they had come to redeem. The great cities of Muslim Spain were left desolate. Everywhere: blood, fire and the burnt-out death of fire, and the bodies of children, and the cries of carrion birds circling.

“And the Jews, the Jews. You should see what they do to the Jews. Two thousand years of persecution. What kind of legacy is that for a nice Jewish boy like you?”

Jesus bowed his head and mumbled a prayer.

“But this is only the beginning. The really good stuff isn’t done by your guys to the other lot, pagans, unbelievers, whatever. No, the fun really gets going when the Christians start tearing each other apart. You know this as well as I do – real hatred is between brothers.”

More pictures of war followed. Massacres of Catholics by Protestants; of Protestants by Catholics.

The eyes of Jesus burned but he could not look away.

“I reckon we’ve seen enough of that, don’t you? Now there’s just one last thing I want to show you.”

The blank window filled with an image of the night, or so it first appeared. Millions of tiny lights glittered against a blue-black sky. And then the camera began to zoom in. The millions became thousands, and the thousands became hundreds. The dots of light took on a troubling complexity until just a few filled the screen. They were not stars, not these, and Jesus felt his stomach knot in revulsion.

“We’ve got a smell function here, if I can find the right button.” The nail tapping at the remote was now oddly hooked and thick and grimy.

A smell drifted through the desert. The smell of scorching fat and the acrid stink of burning hair.

And now just one figure, wreathed in flames, was visible. The woman’s rags had burnt away, and her skin was blackened and her face was in a place beyond pain. No, not beyond pain, but at the furthest reaches of pain, and the only place beyond it is death.

“Popcorn?”

The man held out a bucket. Jesus knocked it from his hand, scattering the popcorn over the ground, where it turned again to pebbles and grit. For a second, the cheerful, inquisitive, businesslike face of the figure changed, and not even the mirrors fastened to the man’s face could conceal the red fire in his eyes. And then the fire was hidden again.

“Yeah, sure, you got upset,” he said. “Only to be expected. Who’s the woman? You wanna know who she is? Does it matter? Pagan, heretic, witch, who cares? My point is, she’s burning – hell, they’re all burning – because of you. Because of what you teach. Because of what it makes men do. But you can stop it. Just walk away. Give it all the finger. The disciples, the water into wine shtick, the lepers, the woman who washes your feet with her hair, the guy you bring back from the dead, the scourging, the crown of thorns, the death on the tree, the whole lot. Say the word and it’s gone. Quite literally never happens. And when that goes, everything else goes too. No persecutions, no crusades, no burning babes like this one here. We’re all laughing.”

Jesus stared into the desert and saw an unexpected last brilliant flaming of red ochre before the darkness came.

“Let’s get it on paper, shall we? Not that I wouldn’t take your word, but it’s good to have these things on file. No need to read the small print; it’s just the usual stuff for the lawyers – you know what they’re like. Just sign here. In blood. No, only kidding. It’s not like we’re a couple of spindly goths hanging round a graveyard in Sheffield. Ink’s fine. Use this. Just click on the top there and it … you got it.
Thaaaaat’s
great. OK, OK. Give you a lift back into town? No? Suit yourself.”

And then Satan was gone, leaving Jesus alone on the bleak mountainside with the darkness upon him. And the screen was just the stars in the night sky, and the soft seat was a flat rock.

And Jesus thought about the smile on the face of Satan as he left and the truth came to him at last, and he allowed himself a glimpse of the future as it now stood. He saw what would become of the world. Saw that the evil was now greater. Saw that what had been small points of flame was now one great conflagration.

And then, not knowing whether to go up to the mountain top, where still a little light might be found, or down into the endless black of the valley, he cast himself onto the stony ground.

And Jesus wept.

THE BURNING GLASS

Marcus Sedgwick

In May 1814, following his abdication, the former Emperor of France Napoleon Bonaparte was exiled by the allied governments to the Mediterranean island of Elba.

I
n the Musée des Arts et Métiers in Paris there are some extraordinary machines from across the ages of scientific invention. Here hangs Foucault’s famous Pendulum, whose gentle swings disclose the rotation of the earth, and here also sits another of his great inventions: a multiple contraption comprising a large wooden table under which rests an enormous pair of bellows. On top of the table there are various clamps and tubes of brass construction. There is a tuning fork, a series of seven small round mirrors on spindles, and a small lens able to spin freely and at great speed. There is something a bee-keeper would recognize as a smoke generator. With this unlikely assortment of instruments, in 1862 Foucault determined the speed of light to within 0.6 per cent of its currently accepted value. Next to the machine is a larger but at first glance similar-looking apparatus. On the whole it seems a clumsy, unsophisticated ancestor of Foucault’s cunning device, waiting in vain to evolve into something that actually works; but in fact its true function remains a mystery to this day.

A small brass plaque bears the name of its creator, an illustrious predecessor of Foucault’s: Antoine Laurent Lavoisier.

December 1814. The one-time King of Italy, Mediator of the Swiss Confederation, Protector of the Confederation of the Rhine, First Consul of the French Republic, Emperor of the French, Napoleon Bonaparte, stood at the railing of the terrace, his hands clamped to the cold iron balustrade. He stared gloomily down across the grounds of the house, across the town, to where he could, if he stood on tiptoe, catch a glimpse of the bay, a knife of sullen water piercing the coast of Elba.

He tried to outstare the cold grey eye of the sea for a moment longer, then spun on his heel and stomped inside to his bedroom.

The sea. The irony was not lost on him. Apart from maybe that early glorious victory at Point L’Eguillete, he’d never been any good with the sea. To think he’d originally sought a naval commission! Thank God he’d studied artillery at the École in the end. Guns were simpler; you knew where you were with a gun: either it was pointed at you, or you were pointing it at someone else. Yes, the sea had dogged him always; it had always been there. Growing up on a small island had fixed that destiny for him, yet he had never understood the sea. And yes, the British fleet was unassailable, as it had been in Egypt, as it had been at Trafalgar. He banished the name as soon as it reared in his head, but he was left with the inevitable self-confession that his failures at sea were not only due to British ships, but the bald fact that he had always been useless at naval matters. He had long ago given up being angry at why, when his encyclopedic knowledge of and skill at warfare on land had secured the imperial title for him, his decisions at sea had always been ineffectual at best, contradictory and suicidal at worst.

Yes, the sea, the sea. And yet now, with a last twist of fate, it would be the sea that would bring him his salvation. Even now, somewhere out in the Mediterranean, that salvation would be approaching on a small sloop from Sicily.

It was getting dark; night would come and then there was the long emptiness to be got through. He glared at his bed in the corner of the fine room, the typical French bateau lit: another reminder of the sea. He would lie adrift there again through the small hours, gazing at the ceiling in the half-light, brooding, planning, plotting.

A tedious image of Mathilde, the slow-witted maid who performed general serving duties, flashed through his mind, and he decided to pour a large glass of Armagnac himself. It was foul weather, cold and damp, though at least it was not raining for once. He swilled the brandy around the glass, closed his eyes and inhaled the distilled sunshine that reminded him of happier days, of the vineyards of Corsica, of his youth, of girls he had caressed, then poured the fire of the drink down his throat, rang the bell to have supper in his room, and steeled himself for the clumsiness of Mathilde and the soup tureen.

It was a strange exile, he thought as he lay in a warm bath the next morning. Ever since the frozen hell of Moscow two years ago he’d been on the retreat, he could see that now, a series of defeats culminating in that drubbing at Leipzig. From there it had been just six months till the allied forces took Paris and days later forced his abdication. And yet, rather than the guillotine or some jail, he’d been sent to Elba, to rule over the tiny island just as he had once ruled over half the civilized world. Under the ever watchful eye of the British Commissioner, his powers were limited to an extent, but damn them! If they intend to humiliate me, he had thought, they will think again.
Alors
, I shall rule this Lilliput with pride and skill and I shall make the people love me!