Lawyers in Hell (4 page)

When Eshi and the second of the Seven stopped under the thickest billows of sulphur, the tall weapon spoke softly to him.  Eshi stretched out his wings, and his arms, and pointed.  Then the second of the Seven raised his sword.  Lightning spat from its tip into the cloud and the bevy.

There was a snapping sound, then a squawk, then a screech, and Eshi nearly took wing.  But before the boy could leave the ground, down plummeted two fat red-tails.  The second of the Seven caught them both before they struck the earth, so fast was he.

Erra’s molten-eyed destroyer bent down on one knee and, with teeth bared, solemnly presented Eshi with the two fresh kills.  Eshi took them both, then made a gesture worthy of a lord:  he gave one red-tail back to the weapon of the god.  The pair of them squatted down there, Kigali boy and son of heaven and earth, and ate their lizard tails raw, together, tearing off the wings, cracking the spines, and letting the blood dribble down their chins.

At this Erra said, “Good.  Your boy and my bringer of lightning will be allies.”

“Good,” Kur agreed, not sure that this was so, but proud of Eshi:  there was a leader growing in this child of Ki-gal.

When the two returned to sit once more in the circle, Kur took the boy under his arm and told him so:  “You are brave and you are clever, Eshi.  You have made a friend.”

Then Eshi and the second of the Seven presented Kur with both pairs of chewy wings in front of everyone, and the tribe began to call and chirp and sing, once the gift to their leader was bestowed.

*

In New Hell, there was but one Hall of Injustice, where the gravest cases were tried.  Overnight the primordial sea, Tiamat, had flooded city streets knee-high; flotsam and jetsam bobbled on an ancient tide:  Erra was in town.  Or so Draco had told Lysicles.

Flanked by counsel on either side (with Alexander, Lawrence, and Aristotle bringing up the rear), Lysicles splashed through streets awash in brine until they reached the slippery stairs of the Hall of Injustice.  Here and there, Hellions with rubber rafts and leaky dinghies floated, hawking their services.  But few rode the rafts and boats:  a plague was abroad, and no one in New Hell wanted to be close to anyone else.  On stoops and from second-story windows, vendors offered prophylactic amulets of the god Anu and lesser charms guaranteed to keep the boils away.

Someone had written with paint or blood on the marble pediment of the Hall:  “He who steals my words steals my soul.”  And someone else had crossed it out and scrawled:  “We, the resentful, do the minimum for the incapable.  We have done so little with so much for so long, we can now do nothing with everything.”  And a third scribe had scribbled under that:  “The truth shall get you torment.”

Lysicles took one greaved step after another, looking neither left nor right, climbing up the slick stairs toward his judgment.  His senses were sharp:  he could hear his five companions breathing; he could smell the garbage floating in the brine.  Now, finally, confrontation with his accusers was upon him.  He felt joy.

Battle is battle, and a battle about to be joined always calms him.  No more interminable delays.  No more unanswerable questions.  He was and is a man of action.  Today he would act:  his gut thrilled with anticipation.  In hell where food has no taste and drink no intoxication, where all is hopeless, he tastes hope.  A second chance for glory might lie behind those tall bronze doors.

At the top of the stairs, they are stopped by two scaly green fiends, to whom Hammurabi announces:  “We are on the docket.”

The doors open, creaking and scraping across the muddy marble.

Then they are inside, in the dimness of futures unformed and chances to be taken.  Almost, Lysicles thinks he sees the three Fates, Atropos and her sisters, unsnarling his life.  But it is just a wall carving of the Fates.  Beyond them, on the opposite wall, the dreadful
Erinyes,
personifications of the anger of the dead, are carved:  dwelling here beneath the earth to punish those who swear false oaths, waiting for a taste of irredeemable flesh.  Will they step out of the wall, shed their marble skins and flap overhead among the damned?  Bite throats?  Tear out hearts?  They might:  it’s hell.

It is so quiet here, footsteps are too loud.  They walk and walk in silence, turn and turn and turn again amid labyrinthine corridors, looking for their appointed judgment hall.

When they find it, there are hundreds waiting, and these are all murmuring at once.  Row after row of benches against the walls have signs above them:  gluttony; sloth; murder; theft; rape; betrayal … and on and on.  The gluttons overflow their benches, their vast envelopes of flesh bulging, eating ceaselessly from stained sacks, complaining about the tasteless food.  The slothful stink, sitting on the wet floor atop stains and mud and their own feces, tangled and disheveled.  The smell is so bad even the murderers put their bloody hands over their noses and turn away.  The thieves are nearly buried in their treasures, guarding all with promissory stares, hands too full to fend off one another:  they curse and threaten anyone approaching.  The rapists are skeletons in coffle:  heavy chains keep their hands bound at their waists (below which no fleshy organs remain) and their feet together.  Near at hand, the shifty-eyed betrayers promise anything for a price, if only you will forsake all others and place your trust in them alone….

Lysicles has seen it all before.  He remains unmoved.  With his champions beside him and his hangers-on behind, he leans against the marble wall and waits:  he knows how to wait – he is a soldier yet.

Then they are called:  the doors screech back like harpies; within, there is no one:  empty benches; an empty dais.

Behind them, the doors screech shut again with no human or inhuman hand upon them.  Every hair on Lysicles’ body stands up straight.  A chill pervades his soul.  His mouth dries up.  His hand wants a weapon; his belt holds no comfort for him:  he has come unarmed, but for the truth.

The bailiff’s voice from a gallery high above intones, “All rise to honor the godly Erra and his Seven, weapons of pitiless justice, auditors from Above.”

Erra and the Seven arrive, dreadful in their raiment, their tread heavy and loud, glorious and proud as their power is announced.  They wear cloaks of human skin, decorated with long-haired scalps like fringe.  Teeth are their buttons; braided entrails hold their scabbards on their hips; pouches made of scrota dangle from their horrid belts.

Erra and the Seven climb the dais.

“Present the accused.”  Near the source of the bailiff’s voice in the gallery, Lysicles sees two pairs of glowing eyes catch the light.

Lysicles and his counselors are already standing before the dais in plain sight….  He looks around:  Aristotle, Lawrence, and Alexander have taken seats as if they were an audience at a play.

With Hammurabi on the left of him and Draco on the right, Lysicles takes two steps forward.  His future hangs by this thread.  He knows what he sees in the Seven:  warriors from the home of the gods, mythic, heroic in form, bloodthirsty and full of rage under wraps:  these are here to render judgment, exact punishment, carry out whatever sentence is pronounced.  They are not the ones to reason with.

Hammurabi begins detailing the facts of the case, as the Seven flank their lord and master and Erra looks Lysicles up and down.

Hammurabi is saying, “And on the battlefield, our client was brave and true, fighting beside his soldiers, never quailing, until the enemy, with its oblique phalanx and its longer spears and its mercenary cavalry, broke through Athenian lines….”

“Enough,” said Erra.  “I know.  I walked that battlefield.  I saw that carnage.  But this death was inflicted by senators, by orators, by the most civilized, upon the accused – for rashness causing death to a thousand.  Is it so, damned soul?  Were you rash?”

Draco attempted to intervene:  “My lord Judge, he was merely following his orders.  And his commander was tried on the same evidence and exonerated.  This soul is innocent of all but doing his duty….”

“Quiet, fool,” said the second of the Seven, whose eyes were hot like the deepest pit of hell.  “Let him answer.  It’s his fate, not yours, at stake.”

“But
my
laws were used to –”

“Silence or I will silence you myself,” said the first of the Seven in a voice like chariots rumbling over carcasses.  “One more outburst, and all here will share his fate.  Who are those behind you, Lysicles?  More of the damned?  Here to gawk?”

Then Alexander popped up, his hands waving.  “I am Alexander the Great, victor in the very battle under discussion, here to testify to the glory and heroism of this soul, unjustly condemned.”

Old Aristotle pulled hard on Alexander’s pteruges, jerking the skirt down to his buttocks.

But it was too late.  The second of the Seven said, “Out, or the bailiff will eject you – all three of you – unless you wish to hold the accused while judgment is rendered.  We are the auditors here.  We know the facts.  We come prepared.  Will you hold him, or will we?”

Now Alexander took his seat, and huddled with Aristotle and Lawrence.  Lysicles liked the sound of this not one bit:  he looked first at Draco, then at Hammurabi.  Hammurabi looked away.  Draco shook his head and spread his hands.

Lawrence rose, speaking for all three character witnesses:  “We will stay and perform whatever service is required of us.”  Then he sat down quickly, one hand on Alexander’s shoulder.

Lysicles wished he’d never met those three.  Something here was very wrong.  This Erra was godlike; the Seven were executioners, terrifying even at rest; and the word ‘audit’ meant ‘judicial hearing’ in the most primitive meaning of the term, today.  But he had asked for this and here it was.  He squared his shoulders.  He tried to see in his mind’s eye his wife, his sons, his lovers, laughing and running through the green fields of Elysion to greet him.  All he risked was his eternal soul, he presumed to think.  Hell was forever if he did nothing to better his lot.  And he had never been a man for standing by and doing nothing.

“Once more, Lysicles:  do you say you were rash?  Or were you just when you led your men to their death?”

“I was just.  I believed we could win.  And we could have won – if so many citizen-soldiers had not deserted; if Philip hadn’t outsmarted us; if our allies could have held the line….”

“Were you just?”
  Erra’s booming voice boxed his ears and caromed around the room, echoing: 
“Just…ust…us…s.”

“I was just.  I, Lysicles, say it so.”  Old formula, from wars gone by, from days standing straight and tall.  Athenian generals were meant to die of old age, or at least in old age … not the way he had died.  He blinked back tears that had never overcome him in all this time:  he wished he had never brought that battle to the enemy, never gone along with Chares’ plan, never had marched his men into that valley of doom….

Erra looked into him, past his eyes, into his heart, into his soul.  “Good,” said the god of pestilence and mayhem, now auditor of Lysicles’ fate.  “You see the truth.  You speak the truth.  And here is my judgment….”

The Seven rose up on either side of Erra and strode down, off the dais, to form a semicircle in front of Lysicles, Hammurabi, and Draco.  Hammurabi and Draco took two steps back, away from Lysicles.

And he was alone, facing his judgment.

“Character witnesses, approach and do your duty,” said the molten-eyed weapon of the god, one hand upon his sword-hilt.  “Take hold of this damned soul.  Hold him tight.”

Now the hands of Lawrence, Aristotle, and the hated Alexander were upon him.  He almost fought:  insult to injury, was Alexander’s touch.  But the irony was not lost on Lysicles, only unwelcome.  He kept his head high and his eyes on Erra’s awful visage as it changed from beautiful to horrible and back again.

Erra said:  “Your audit is complete.  My judgment is this:  we shall cut out both your eyes, which have seen the truth; we shall cut out your tongue, which has said the truth; we shall cut out your heart, which knows the truth.  Then we shall eat them and we shall know the truth.  If the truth is as you say, you will be sent to Erebos, in the realm of Hades, and from there to Elysion, where you believe you belong.  If you are lying, then you shall go from there to Tartaros, and suffer its tortures thereafter, never to leave again.”

Lysicles nearly staggered, but held his ground.  He said nothing.  He had a soldier’s pride.  The three souls holding him from behind tightened their grip. 
Alexander, I’ll find a way to take you with me if this goes bad.
  Hammurabi blustered and Draco began officiously to object.

Then the second of the Seven fixed Lysicles with that fiery stare from an impassive face and said only, “I am very skilled at this, have no doubt.”  He drew his glittering sword.

Lysicles reached around and grabbed Alexander in a death-grip.  Then lightning exploded in his face, in his brain, in his heart and soul, and Lysicles knew nothing more.

*

Erra and his Seven eat the eyes and tongue and heart of Lysicles the Athenian, and of various other defendants of the day, until the auditors can eat no more.  In the corridors of the Hall of Injustice, crowds thin as liars and nuisances and the guilty learn what sorts of verdicts are being handed down and what punishments meted out.  Fools flee, but all petitioners and their counsels are apprehended and brought back to await their turn in the dock.  Those who have come to bear false witness sneak away, only to be returned to their places in the lines that stretch to the street….

When darkness falls over New Hell, Erra is content with the day’s labors:  the wailing of the adjudged is like a paean to heaven.  Out the back of the Hall of Injustice he goes with his Seven.  Up in the air they rise, and Kur and Eshi take wing to lead their charges back to Ki-gal.  The damned queued there will still be there in the morning:  anticipation is its own special kind of torment.  Lesser evildoers will be processed all night long, and the next day, and the next, to await Erra’s pleasure whenever he and his Seven may return here.  There are many cities in hell, and many sinners, and the work of Erra and the Seven has just begun.  Fear must overtake so many wizened hearts.  This audit of the underworld will be neither quick nor easy.