5 The Hierophant (the Pope, the High Priest)
The Heirophant sits in finely woven and colourful vestments, wearing the triple-tiered Papal crown. He is the male consort of the High Priestess, although a suggestion in both cards is that they pay at least lip-service to the ideal of celibacy. He holds the Holy Book in his left arm – close to his chest, as if he is afraid other people might actually take it into their heads to try and read it. He is therefore custodian of the received religious Word and wisdom. In his right hand he clasps the crook: symbol of the shepherd drawing in wayward sheep, a mark of the power of the Church to draw all to its bosom, by force if need be.
He is the embodiment of religion – not necessarily of spirituality – and represents the higher echelons of the Church, or by extension of any large corporation with a vested interest in retaining its own power, wealth, and influence. He is proof that the further away you ascend from the ordinary priesthood, the less any form of religion is involved – he is basically the CEO of a very large company trading in theology. One commentator said "he appears to be smiling to himself as if at some very private joke", implying that the ordinary believer is the punchline.
General William Kiosk, in his sober black military-tailored uniform, put down the reports next to the balance sheet and sighed. (1)
He was alone in his office at the Citadel. Oh, Miss Rogerson was in the outer office, fielding communications and visitors for him, but in here, he was the General, at the desk next to the one where the buck ultimately stopped. As that other metaphorical desk was in the heavens somewhere and notionally occupied by the Great God Om, this effectively meant that the buck went no further, despite occasional fervent prayer.
He sighed again, and ran a finger round the red collar-tabs and silver braiding of his status.
Life had been so much simpler for the Legion in the old days, before Brutha. Under the command of Deacon Vorbis, the Divine Legion had been a fearsome military machine, which had converted whole nations to the Word of Om by brute force and lots of sharp metal spiky things.
Today, the only metal that could remotely be described as martial was in the hands of the Army's bands, and damn good they were, who regularly paraded in the City to play the old tub-thumping hymns that had such a hypnotic effect on the populace. The only problem was, the girl soldiers with the collecting boxes had to skip lively to take advantage of this before the hypnosis wore off: Kiosk had seen with his own eyes Ankh-Morpork citizens, drawn despite themselves into the hymn-singing, distractedly dig deep in their pockets for a mite or an elim to drop in the box being shaken in front of their singing face. I's better than nothing, but it's still only mites and elims. And they never stayed for the sermon… well, some did, but only in the hope of more music later.
Kiosk reflected on the history of the Legion. Threatened with disbandment by the Prophet Brutha(2)2, the Divine Legion had reformed and mutated to save itself. General Simony, its first commanding officer after Fr'it's Exquisition, had seen nothing wrong in principle with the regimental bands being kept on the Citadel's strength to pep everyone up with a bit of stirring music. Indeed , every new recruit had to be proficient in one musical instrument, be it only a tambourine in the case of the jolly, enthusiastic, girl soldiers who did so much to keep the Omnian Divine Army of Salvation in business.
Other ex-soldiers were forcibly made to take the course in persuading people with arguments, not spears and the threat of a duffing-over and having your house burnt down, friend.
After a period, bands and evangelists were sent out from the Citadel to the main cities of the Disc, to preach the Omnian way, the new Omnian way, through stirring music and good works.
And because they weren't bloody idiots, jut enough members were trained in the old Legion ways to act as bodyguard and visible deterrent to the forces of evil.
Which here in Ankh-Morpork were a legion of their own. The security detail was working overtime, escorting bands into the Shades, where musical instruments were seen as high-value theft items to fence and turn into hard cash. There was the particular force of evil represented by the Musicians' Guild, who said they didn't give a stuff about exemption on religious grounds, your bandsmen are musicians, ergo Guild members, and they pony up the subs, right?
Wrong, Kiosk had said, and street-fighting had ensued, rescued only by High Priest Ridcully, who had lent his support to the Omnians on the grounds that if one religion gets hit by those shysters, we are all in trouble. Faced by a united front of the city's religious groups – as one thing churches don't like is parting with hard cash – the Musicians had retreated, but still sent demands from time to time.
Kiosk had established the Ankh-Morpork Citadel, from which the Army of Salvation paraded and did good works. It provided hostels for the homeless; a shonky shop that provided clean and serviceable second-hand clothing; a soup kitchen (also resented by the Guild of Chefs, Cooks and Professional Caterers) and a second-hand furniture and domestic goods business, where donated items were refurbished and either sold on at low cost or given away.
But all this cost money…. Kiosk's concern was raising the costs and storing some in the bank for a rainy day. He started on the post.
Bill. Statement. Invoice… Ah, Om be praised! Lady Sybil Ramkin has given us two thousand dollars to carry on the charitable work. She has also suggested a charity dragon-show where the profits go to us.
This meant he would have to attend Ramkin Manor. He hoped his dress uniform was clean enough. Perhaps take some of the younger officers, if Lady Ramkin agrees? Maybe get the Times to do an article, at least run an iconograph. All good PR for the Church.
1 (1) Roundworld reference: Geeral William Booth founded the Salvation Army on Roundworld.
2 (2) SeeSmall Gods by Terry Pratchett.