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“Pray
that you don’t get a priest as a judge. All they’re after is feeding
souls to their master!”
Anonymous
convict, on the executioner’s stand,
Faithold, Arrufat Peninsula (ca. 3156 A.E.)
“’Are
you faithful to the gods?’
“It
often seems that is the first question a Dicerius priest asks as a judge.
Some say that is his only concern in finding out whether the accused is
guilty or innocent, yet this saying is most often heard in a prison cell.
Do the clerics of the chief god then make good judges who follow both the
law as well as the law of precedent?
“The
Darawk Academy of Dauverre, Cayaboré, has been publishing annual studies
on Dicerius judges for a little over a century now, on the behest of King
Radnalph XVII (Radnalphian Examinations of Legal Cases Tried by
Decirius Clerks, Vols. I – CIX). There is a solid foundation for
their work since the Cayaborean legal system requires extensive
documentation of each case brought before a court of law; indeed the
amount of documentation has increased since the introduction of the
Magical Session Recording System (MSRS). [Note by G.A.Q.: The author
refers to the Dictate Blessing of Darawk priests. A sheet or a series of
sheets of paper are blessed so that they will record every word spoken in
clear letters. Advanced versions of the blessing allow the magic to
include the speaker’s name. In Cayaboré, the blessing’s abilities
have been taken to a new level: the sheets are mass-produced and used at
every state function that requires reliable documentation. The MSRS needs
only be primed by the official scribe – who names every person present
to the sheet -, then it works autonomously. Cayaboré exports large
quantities of MSRS sheets to other nations.]
“The
Academy’s studies have concluded almost every year that less than two
percent of cases tried by Dicerius judges have successfully continued to
an appellant’s court. (In nine years, the percentage was between four
and nine percent. All those years were during wartime, most notably the
War of Armyron, from 3139 – 3144.) Sentences by state-appointed judges
were overthrown at a rate of between five and fifteen percent (the latter
maximum also reached in years of war). Therefore it would seem logical
that Dicerius judges are better than their non-clerical colleagues.
“We
have to remember, though, that there is also the fear of the gods to
consider. As the Academy’s studies have also shown, there are a certain
number of sentenced persons who feel treated injustly but do not appeal
their judgment because a priest had presided. This unwillingness to
question a sentence has indubitably been strengthened by the cleric’s
question about the accused’s faith in the gods in the beginning.
“The
inquiries were made anonymously, yet the Darawk priests underline that the
questioners were still clerics themselves. To quote from their latest
study, ‘Although names would not be made public in our reports, our
interview partners were sure that the gods would learn about their doubts
through the ears of the inquiring priests. Therefore we have to assume
that a lot more people doubt the fairness of their trial than would seem
from the number of registered appellation cases.’
“On
the other hand there are the statements made by both defense lawyers and
non-clerical judges. Since they are firmly placed within the system and
view the Dicerius judges as colleagues rather than priests, they are less
hesitant about offering criticism. From their statements the studies have
arrived at a rate of four to five percent of real and potential appeal
cases annually, numbers that closely match those of non-clerical judges.
“Therefore
the conclusion drawn by the Darawk Academy is that Dicerius judges are as
fallible – or as reliable – as their counterparts are, but the fact of
their being priests removes the ordinary checks and balances of the
Cayaborean legal system. Therefore the Academy has repeatedly argued that
only non-clerical judges should be allowed to preside over trials, while
Dicerius priests should be relegated to the positions of state or defense
attorneys.
“Thus
far, though, their demands have not been met, and it appears that the
Cayaborean legal system still has a fault within its cogs.”
Ardiel
Harv,
Hallowton, Cayaboré
(from the author’s article in “Monthly Gazette of Legal News”, Vol.
XI No. 7, Glymarion 3159 A.E.)
“What
do the village folks always cry when there’s a hard decision to be made?
‘Call a Decirius priest, he’ll solve the matter!’
“What
do they say after the priest – or in my case, the priestess – has been
there and stated her verdict? ‘That is no justice! Let’s call someone
who isn’t on the leash of the gods!’
“I
have spent the past five years as a roving judge on the Arrufat Peninsula,
primarily in Havencoast. You’d think that as a local I would have known
the stubborn souls that inherit this land, but time and time again I have
been struck dumb by their reactions to my verdict. Why is it that these
people cannot accept any other sentence than the one they want?
“Sure,
those whose expectations are met by my verdict, they shout praise to
Decirius, and should they be the ones who hired me, I actually get my
money. But if it’s the other way around, they claim that the gods have
turned away either from them or from me. That’s when they find out how
tenacious I can be to get the money I’m owed.
“I’ve
heard any kind of reactions – name one, I’ll tell you the date and the
place. Can you fault me if I’ve come to expect cries of complaint, and
that I act from the start as if they had been already uttered?
“Perhaps
you can. My superior certainly thinks so, but he has never been a roving
judge. No, he’s spent all his career in a comfortable courtroom in
Faithold, deciding on matters as whether a building site should be
allotted to a new Brithur temple or one devoted to Maidoyú. Sure, I know
the priests in Faithold, they can be a pretty rowdy bunch. But did any of
them ever scream that the gods are not with him or her? Hah! They are clerics,
after all.
“Roving
judge, that’s what my title is. I should be called a roving sacrificial
goat, that’s more like it. People don’t care about justice, they care
about serving their own needs, that’s all.
“I’ve
had it with my stubborn compatriots. I’ll quit the roving service in a
few weeks, and then I’ll see about what I’ll do. Maybe look for a nice
little temple where I can bury the idiots. At least then they can’t
complain anymore.
“Or
I’ll go looking for some other place. Perhaps I can find some folks with
more of a sense of justice – and faith – in their skulls than the
local fools.”
Lockner
Rym Amtaspo, Decirius priestess,
Currently Fowgelstadt, Arrufat Peninsula (3165 A.E.)
“It
is appropriate for the servant of Decirius to wear black, to represent the
shroud our lord wears. Likewise the cleric should wear a simple robe, not
adorned with anything but the emblems of his rank embroidered on his
breast.
“In
cold regions, it is recommended that warm underclothing is worn. Special
dispensation may be granted to the clerics in these places, so that they
may wear trousers and thick vests, both black, and preferably a black cape
as well.
“In
unusually warm regions, a white robe may be worn during ordinary
proceedings. It must be exchanged with the customary black robe for
official functions.”
(From
“Commandments to the Clergy”, no publishing date)
“Blast
these rules for clothing! Black robes! How can anybody be expected to
‘rove’ the countryside in impractical clothes like that? If you’re
sitting on a horse, the damn robe will hitch up your legs ever so quickly,
and the long sleeves get in the way of the reins all the time. And should
you be walking, you’re liable to trip over your own hem every once in a
while.
“Now
that’s a graceful entrance for a judge, falling down facefirst. ‘All
rise – especially the honored judge herself!’ It’s no miracle that
those priests in Faithold (and wherever else) walk so slowly and
majestically. They’re afraid of stumbling!
“Maybe
that’s good and fine if you have a permanent residence in a town. You
don’t have to journey that much, and you know which way to tread so your
hem doesn’t get caught in a bush or on a nail in a doorway.
“Very
nice, but it doesn’t do any good for me. So I’ve put the damn robe in
my saddle bag, and I’ll put it on in case somebody official could see
me. Not that I’m in a great hurry to do so. Should my superior from the
days back in Faithold see me now, wearing breeches, a shirt – and a
sword! -, well, I’d probably enjoy seeing him keel over in shock. As for
the rest, it might make them wonder if they shouldn’t loosen their rigid
code of clothing.
“I
don’t really care. I serve my god, and I think I do so pretty well.
Actually I’ve done a lot better since I’ve ditched the robe. One less
reason to be angry about. I’ve become a lot more patient with the local
fools – who admittedly are a bit more godsfearing than my Arrufatian
compatriots.
“So.
There you have it. The robe’s gone, the judge is still in office. I
don’t need a robe to level a sentence!”
Lockner
Rym Amtaspo, Decirius priestess,
Currently Garrutwold City, Topay Coalition (3167 A.E.)
Note
by G.A.Q.: Unfortunately I have not been able to find a text that best
describes the Dicerian temples. Although architects clearly take pride in
having built a temple to their chief god, none of them have devoted their
articles exclusively to the construction itself, but rather have worked
snippets of descriptions into long discussions of how faithful they are to
Dicerius, and how worthy of worship he is. It would be a tiresome affair
stringing the various excerpts together, so I will try to cull the best of
my information for the following explanations.
There
are three major types of Dicerius temples. The first is dedicated to the
caring for the dead, which I hereafter call the funeral temple; the second
deals only with matters of justice and the law, aptly called the court
temple; the third and final is commonly found in rural areas where both
previous functions are combined into the dual temple.
One
can also find other varieties, such as the small shrines where the chief
god can be worshipped, but rarely are any of the other functions served
here. The shrines are small houses, holding at best two rooms: the place
of worship, with Dicerius’ black shroud at the back, and sometimes a
small cell with a bed. A single priest services several of these shrines,
journeying to them in a fixed succession from his main temple, to deal
with the pleas of the populace, and possibly to arrange for conveying a
deceased to the temple. As one can imagine, this practice occurs in thinly
populated areas where a village alone cannot support a full temple. (The
practice of “roving judges” seems to have developed from this, but in
modern times the roving judges are no longer bound to specific shrines or
a set route.) Temples connected to a series of shrines are always of the
dual variety, since both tasks have to be accomplished by a single priest
(or a small group of clerics.)
One
unifying element of all the temples is that they are not the living
quarters of the priests but only of the god himself. (There are a number
of statements, especially by clerics serving the other deities, about
this. The most edifying, though, is one made by the roving Dicerius judge
Lochner Rym Amtaspo, “They’ve just gotta set themselves apart from the
rest of the clerics. Can’t be like the rest, right? We serve the lord of
the gods, so we’re better. But look at Faithold, and there are places
where the living adjunct is bigger than the temple itself. So, who’s the
better here? The god, or the clerics?”)
The
cleric’s quarters are built next to the temple itself, never less than
five feet apart from the temple wall. In some cases, the so-called parish
house is connected by a tunnel, leading to the Holy Entrance in
the temple. There are no rules for how the secondary building is
constructed, or what it should contain. Indeed the refreshingly direct
Lochner is right in her comments. Occasionally a parish house will outgrow
the temple itself, with a priest’s family growing and demanding more and
more space, while the temple remains as it has been for the last decades
or centuries.
Priests
who replace their predecessors often have to fight long legal battles with
the family so that the new cleric can move into the parish house. After
all, it has now become the family’s home. (For that reason, there is
also a dynasty of priests in some areas. The father demands that his
eldest also join the Dicerian order, so that the house can remain in the
family’s possession.) Sometimes, after the legal battle has been
decided, the new cleric will have the parish house torn down and replaced
by a “more suitable” smaller building (which may have been expanded to
its old size by the time this priest has finished his tenure).
The
parish house always contains at least one office, where the priest will
receive visitors and take care of his daily business, such as sifting
through documents of law for a new case, or to write the sermon for a
funeral. In larger temples, commonly in cities, the office space often
becomes the primary function of the building, since the high priests of
these temples have to direct their subordinates in other places, such as
rural temples, or the roving judges. There are large libraries in these
city temples, treasuries, map rooms, as well as debating chambers for
legal topics.
But
let us return to the design of the temple itself. Since it is the abode of
the god himself, there is no need for any rooms aside from that devoted to
the worship of Dicerius himself. (There is an exception in the case of
court temples: a small room is added to the back where an accused will be
held before and after the trial; it is connected to the main room by the Convict’s
Entrance.)
The
base outline is rectangular, keeping to a measure of nineteen to eight.
Nineteen is the number of gods of the first two generations, eight the
number of the prime gods (strangely excluding one of the first generation,
the Dicerian order has not decided whether Shenaumac or Olmawi is the one
not counted). This ratio never varies since it is considered a holy edict,
as are several other measures in the building.
The
height of the temple is set according to its length, the main roof being
seven nineteenths as high as the temple is long. (Seven is the number of
life-giving primal gods.) A dome rises from the end where the altar
stands, coming to a height of nine parts of the length of the temple.
(Nine is the number of all primal gods. Therefore the height here is the
same as the width of the temple.) The dome merges with the main roof,
while its outer side curves gently down to the ground. It is topped by
polished metal that will gleam brightly at noon.
Inside,
ten parts of the length are given to the benches of worshippers, which are
secluded from the remainder by a bannister. (Ten is the number of the
secondary gods.) Thus, nine parts remain, of which one part is devoted to
the altar of Dicerius. The other eight parts depend on which of the major
types of temples this is.
So,
let us first consider the altar. It is placed on a dais which measures
five seventh of the width of the room. To its right, there is the Holy
Entrance, to its left, the Convicts’ Entrance. (In funeral
temples, this door is only painted in, as a reminder of the legal aspects
of Dicerius.) The altar itself is a table measuring five seventh of the
width of the dais. Customarily it only holds a bell, otherwise its top is
equipped as the priest sees fit. (In the case of court temples, that would
be documents and books of law.) Behind the altar, on the curved dome wall,
a black shroud is hung as the symbol of Dicerius. In some cases, such as
Cayaboré, the nation’s flag also adorns that wall.
In
court temples the space not yet described is devoted to trials.
The
witness stand is centered before the altar’s dais, while a measure of
one fifth of the temple’s length separates it from the stand of the
accused. Both stands look the same, a square box made of wooden rods with
no chair. The idea here seems to be that the witness and the accused must
look each other in the eyes, which of course happens rarely.
To
the right of the altar, the table of the prosecuting attorney is placed.
On the opposite side, the defense attorney’s table is located. Unusual
enough, there are no precise measurements for either size or placement of
these tables. They differ widely, apparently according to the needs of the
various lawyers.
Additional
tables are next to the witness stand, aligned with the dais. On the
prosecuting side are displayed the pieces of evidence against the accused,
on the defense’s side those that are supposed to prove his innocence.
Funeral
temples have a similar layout to the court temples.
Here
the stand of the accused is replaced by the bier of the deceased. In lieu
of the witness stand are seats reserved for the children as well as the
husband or wife. Replacing the prosecution table are seats for the
paternal family, while the maternal family finds seats on the opposing
side reserved for them.
The
court temple’s evidence tables are present here as well, but they are
moved next to the bier. To the right, there are signs of mourning, gifts
given to the bereaved family as tokens of sympathy and to help them
through the next weeks. To the left there are gifts which shall be buried
with the deceased.
It
is important to note here that the funeral temple is not only for the
funeral itself, but also to hold remembrance mass for an ancestor.
Finally,
the dual temples serve both primary functions. Therefore they can assume
both configurations, and the elements – such as tables, stands, biers,
seats – can be easily moved or replaced. That is commonly not the case
in single purpose temples.
The
Blessing of the Summoning
“If
the portents of doom are visible in a soul, and if the soul’s faith in
our lord is strong, then allow it to journey onwards to the Divine Realm
for its final judgment. Send your calling to the Messenger of Death, that
he may relieve the soul of its pain.”
(From
“Commandments to the Clergy”, no publishing date)
I
find this a troubling blessing. On the one hand, I very well understand
the desire to lessen a person’s agony. Then again, I have seen so many
miracles performed in my lifetime – when priests of healing have managed
to cure somebody of what I had thought were mortal wounds, or a fatal
disease. It seems that a Dicerius priest would take away a chance at
living with this.
From
personal experience I cannot say how frequently this blessing is applied.
I would hope it is a very rare occurrence.
Blessing
of Truth
“Let
the truth be spoken, with no words held back!”
(From
“Commandments to the Clergy”, no publishing date)
As
so much about Dicerius, this blessing is also a two-edged sword. It is an
ordinary part of courtroom practice, where it is clearly welcome. A person
thus blessed cannot dissemble and must perforce speak the absolute truth.
Unfortunately this can also lead to the person speaking on more than just
the trial’s topic, and then very unpleasant truths are spoken. The
reader surely can imagine that these are words which the speaker would
have rather held back.
That
doesn’t always happen, though. It seems to depend on the cleric’s
skill in this blessing, as well as the subject himself or herself. If the
latter bears many secrets which are a burden on the soul, then the cleric
needs a lot of experience to keep the subject on the topic at hand.
Moreover,
there is the duration of the blessing. Some priests can time it precisely
to the duration of the trial, but occasionally the blessing will still
affect the subject after leaving the witness stand. Then the truth must
still be spoken, with the results easy to imagine.
Blessing
of the Cold Heart
“Lest
emotions cloud the judge’s mind, cleanse your heart of all passion. Make
it as the stone, that only the facts may be put on the scales and weighed
according to their truthful relevance.”
(From
“Commandments to the Clergy”, no publishing date)
This
is one of the few blessings that are commonly cast on the priest himself,
although they can also be applied to other people. Their effect is most
curious, for it indeed removes all emotion from the subject for a certain
amount of time. The face hardens, resembling a statue, and the eyes seem
devoid of life (though not dead, a common misperception made by people who
have not seen truly dead eyes).
For
the duration of the blessing there won’t be a smile, or a frown, or any
other reaction that we associate with living persons. Questions and
statements are made in a coldly dispassionate voice, without any
subliminal emotions. It is a frightening affair to witness this, how a
person seems to take a leave from humanity.
I
would also like to note that true dispassion is very different from an
un-blessed person trying to push emotions aside. In that case, you can
sense the emotions underneath the layer of functionality. You can feel
that this is a human being, not, say, a statue come to life.
Curse of
Silence (directed/blanket)
“If
a listener shall disrespect the court, stay his ambling mouth with a curse
that he fall silent for the time you desire.”
(From
“Commandments to the Clergy”, no publishing date)
Although
the priest casting this curse may consider it a blessing, I can assure you
from personal experience that it is indeed a curse. Your mouth seems to
dry up, like the hoarseness of a cold, and however you try, you can only
croak unintelligible sounds, at a very low volume. The sensation fades
over time, and your voice will return to its normal resonance after that
time.
I
should also note that Dicerius priests do not feel bound to use this curse
only in a courtroom. They apply it rather freely, whenever they think they
aren’t paid proper respect. (In particular, the Roman priests of Jupiter
also have access to this blessing, and it was one of those who, quite
literally, dumbstruck me for a few hours.)
That
is the directed form which can be cast by a low level cleric as well,
though the duration is limited by his magical strength. Yet there is also
a “blanket” version which can affect a group, such as a rowdy
courtroom. This second curse requires a great deal more effort and
experience, wherefore it is limited to the higher-ranked clerics, for
which I am quite thankful.
A
cleric of Jupiter served in the Senate during my own tenure there, and I
believe that my colleagues would have slain him on the spot, had he tried
to silence all of us. (When he tried the curse on one of my fellows, he
soon learned that his efforts went for nought. The remaining senators
shouted him off the speaker’s dais, although the priest still had half a
clepsydra’s – or waterclock’s – time left to speak. Aquam
perdere, that’s what he always did anyway, waste our time.)
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