The prosecution witnesses assembled by Jorgi Miltiadu, such as the Yovanovi boy, were not called, since the defense admitted the acts to which they were to testify. On the other hand, Miltiadu caused the question of the truth of the Descensionist doctrine to be ruled out as irrelevant, so Rigas Lazarevi never had a chance to show the books he had assembled as exhibits. Privately, Marko was just as glad. Many of these books were of foreign origin, and Marko well knew the Skudrans’ suspicion of intellectual argument and hatred of anything foreign.
By dinnertime, when Muphrid stood almost overhead, all that remained were the summing-up speeches. The court recessed. Marko ate his dinner with the other prisoners: mostly cottage cheese and native Kforrian fungi, with a little mutton. Prisoner, judge, jury, witnesses, attendants, and spectators scattered to eat their dinners likewise and to stretch out for their three-hour siestas.
After siesta, Marko and the rest returned for the final arguments. Jorgi Miltiadu tore into Marko’s foreignness: “… so thisthis unspeakable alien not only tried to poison the minds of our youth by false and unholy beliefs. He even went to another outsider, this foreigner”he pointed at Mongamri, who glared back“from whom he got the damnable doctrine that all men are, in effect, aliens in their own world. Have you ever heard of anything so un-Vizantian?
“Do not be deceived by the specious arguments of my colleague, that it is the teacher’s duty to follow the truth wherever it leads. Is Marko Prokopiu a god, that he can tell truth when he sees it, when wiser heads than his have been in disagreement? Obviously not. Shall we allow men tainted by alien blood to teach our children that black is white, or that Kforri is flat, or that Muphrid is cold, merely because some quirk of their natures or some insidious foreign influence has led them astray? As well hire the Einstein-worshiping witches of Mnaenn to teach their deadly arts and spells in our schools! Or the black hermits of Afka to teach that they are the chosen people of their god!
“Who shall, then, decide the truth? Why, the government of his serene majesty, Krai Maccimo, which can call upon the keenest minds in the Kralate and upon the divine wisdom of the Holy Three as incarnated in the Syncretic Church …”
On he went, Marko’s heart sank. Rigas Lazarevi, when his turn came, stoutly accused Jorgi Miltiadu of prejudicing the jurors by dragging in the irrelevency of Marko’s birth. But, argue as be might, he could not get around the fact that Marko had broken the law.
When the jury was sent out, the clerk announced: “The next case is that of the Kralate against Mihai Skriabi of Skudra, thirty-four years old. It is charged that the said Mihai Skriabi did, on the eleventh of Ashoka of the present year, ride his paxor down Cankar Street in Skudra while drunk; that he did moreover cause the said paxor to knock down two porch pillars from the house of Konstan Cenopulu the jeweler, causing grievous harm to the house of the said Konstan Cenopulu …”
By the time this case was over, the jurors considering Marko’s case came back with their verdict:
“Guilty.”
The spectators applauded. Marko cringed inwardly. What in the name of Yustinn had he ever done to them? When he got out, he would go far from this bigoted backwoods hamlet with its insensate feuds and its bitter xenophobia. He had been a fool to stay with them as long as he had, under the delusion that it was his duty to enlighten their savage brats.
The judge said: “Marko Prokopiu, I sentence you to imprisonment in the district jail for three years, beginning today, and to pay a fine of one thousand dlars, in default of which you shall spend an extra year in prison.”
At this there was another spattering of applause. There were also a few murmurs of surprise at the severity of the sentence. Marko hoped that some of the spectators at least thought he was being unfairly used.
Marko caught a glimpse of Jorgi Miltiadu shaking hands with the Metropolitan, and then his own friends came up. His wife and his mother wrung his hands. Chet Mongamri said in his Anglonian accent:
“It’s a damnable shame, Marko, but it will be the making of my book. Wait till you read the chapter about your trial!”
Marko gave Mongamri a sharp look. This seemed like an odd attitude, especially as Mongamri had, in a way, put Marko up to teaching Anti-Evolution.
Back in the month of Aristotle (or Ristoli as the Vizantians called it) Mongamri had arrived in Skudra with a mass of notes. He explained that he was an Anglonian who made his living by traveling about the continent and then writing and lecturing on his experiences. He was looking for a place to do a few months’ quiet writing before returning to his home in Lann. As no other family in Skudra would admit a foreigner unless paid a fantastically high rent, Mongamri had naturally ended up in the house of the more tolerant and cosmopolitan Marko Prokopiu.
Many a night, Marko had sat up late with his boarder, discussing the world beyond the Skudran Hills and the ideas that stirred men’s minds in other lands. Marko had come to consider Chet Mongamri his closest friend. This was not saying much, as he had few friends of any kind and no real intimates. Now, evidently, Marko saw that to Mongamri he was at best a chapter in a book.
“Come along, Marko,” said Ivan Haliu, grasping Marko’s elbow.
Marko let himself be led away.
2
Marko Prokopiu sat on a stool in one corner of his cell. He rested his elbows on his knees and his chin on his fists, staring down at the floor in front of him. Outside, the rain slanted grayly past the barred window.
Although to some, solitude is a punishment, Marko was glad that he had no roommate. He wanted nothing but to sit on his stool and wallow in solitary despondency.
Behind his somberly immobile face, his mind was a stew of emotions. One of his minds was proud of him for being a martyr to truth. Another was ashamed of himself for exposing himself to punishment for the sake of a mere theory, which might not even be true. A third told him that all was over, that he might as well kill himself, while a fourth tried to console him with the thought that at least his mother and his wife, Petronela, and his friend Mongamri would remain true to him….
The lock went clank and the door groaned open. Ristoli Vasu, the jailer, said: “Your mother is here to see you, Marko. Come.”
Marko silently followed the jailer into the anteroom. There stood little Olga Prokopiu, in her old raincoat of wool impregnated with stupa gum.
“Mother!” he said. He checked an impulse to hug Olga Prokopiu when he saw that she held a cake in her hands.
“Here, Marko,” she said. “Don’t try to eat it all in one bite.” She gave it to him with a sharp look. “Now sit down. I don’t want you to fall down when you hear the news.”
“What news?” said Marko, alarm shrieking in his mind.
“Petronela has run off with that man Mongamri.”
Marko’s jaw dropped. “What… when…”
“Just an hour or two ago. That’s why I came over. I told you no good would come of taking that alien into our house. Either of them. Those Anglonians have no more morals than rabbits.”
Marko sat back, waiting for his stunned wits to revive. His mother said sharply:
“Now, don’t sniffle. You’re a grown man, and it’s unseemly to show such emotions. You know what you must do.”
Marko glanced around the walls of thick stupa-wood planks. “How?”
“Something will turn up.” She glanced at the cake, which Marko’s huge hands had badly squashed out of shape.
“Oh,” said Marko. He wiped away a fugitive tear and pulled himself together. When not crushed by adversity, he could think as well as the next man. “Tell me what happened.”