Vengeance of Rome: The Fourth Volume of the Colonel Pyat Quartet (Colonel Pyat Quartet, 4) - Softcover

Moorcock, Michael

Softcover

ISBN 10: 160486494X ISBN 13: 9781604864946

Verlag: PM Press, 2013

Inhaltsangabe

Byzantium Endures, the first volume of Michael Moorcock’s legendary Pyat Quartet, appeared in 1981. The Laughter of Carthage (1984) and Jerusalem Commands (1992) followed. Now the quartet is complete. Pyat keeps his appointment with the age’s worst nightmare.

Born in Ukraine on the first day of the century, a Jewish antisemite, Pyat careered through three decades like a runaway train. Bisexual, cocaine-loving engineer/inventor/spy, he enthusiastically embraces Fascism. Hero-worshipping Mussolini, he enters the dictator’s circle, enjoys a close friendship with Mussolini’s wife and is sent by the Duce on a secret mission to Munich, becoming intimate with Ernst Röhm, the homosexual stormtrooper leader. His crucial role in the Nazi Party’s struggle for power has him performing perverted sex acts with “Alf,” as the Führer’s friends call him.

Pyat’s extraordinary luck leaves him after he witnesses Hitler’s massacre of Röhm and the SA. At last he is swallowed up in Dachau concentration camp. Thirty years later, having survived the Spanish Civil War, he is living in Portobello Road and telling his tale to a writer called Moorcock.

This authoritative edition presents this work for the first time in the United States, along with a new introduction by Alan Wall.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorinnen und Autoren

Born in London in 1939, Michael Moorcock now lives in Texas and Paris, France. A prolific and award-winning writer with more than eighty works of fiction and nonfiction to his name, he is the creator of Elric, Jerry Cornelius, and Colonel Pyat amongst many other memorable characters.

Alan Wall is a novelist, short story writer, poet, and essayist. His novels include Bless the Thief, The Lightning Cage, The School of Night, China, and Sylvie’s Riddle. He is currently professor of writing and Literature at the University of Chester.

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The Vengeance of Rome

The Fourth Volume of the Colonel Pyat Quartet

By Michael Moorcock

PM Press

Copyright © 2013 Michael Moorcock
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-60486-494-6

Contents

INTRODUCTION BY ALAN WALL, 
INTRODUCTION BY MICHAEL MOORCOCK, 
The Vengeance of Rome, 
ABOUT THE AUTHOR, 
BIBLIOGRAPHY, 

CHAPTER 1

My achievements are a matter of history. A record. I am the voice and the conscience of civilised Europe. I am one of the great inventors of my age. I am a child of the century and as old as the century. Unlike Göring and Goebbels and those lickspittles of the SA and SS, I was never afraid to be judged by my actions. No court in the civilised world would countenance such allegations. They are absolutely insubstantial. Yet still that Turk, whose filthy fried-meat shop remains a nightmare for those of us forced to live in its ambience, insists I am a Jew he knew in Pera! I would have been five years old! What could he remember? I suspect a familiar hand in this but am allowed to say nothing. These days, even a casual mention of Comrade Brodmann means Mrs Cornelius will mock me until we have a row. My heart is not strong enough. I console myself. At my age I fear only God's disapproval and there can be precious little of that in store for one who has devoted so much of his life to the service of Christ!

I was always of an evangelical disposition and had meditated a great deal on matters of religion while in service to El Glaoui, so my conversation more readily turned to spiritual matters which was why Mr Mix sometimes likened me to an Old Testament prophet. We had discovered that our cattle truck was not going directly to Casablanca and my normally genial darkie had grown disconsolate. I reassured him that at least our train was bearing us away from the medieval dangers of Marrakech and the sinister whimsicality of her Caïd, and to pass the time I attempted to instil a sense of our Greek faith into my loyal companion. At length the usually easygoing black insisted that Baptist was good enough for him; he always felt uneasy around incense and chanting. 'That voodoo stuff gives me the willies.' Had I seen Ben-Hur? Or was he thinking of Intolerance? Confining my answer to the murmured remark that the early Church was scarcely the same as Babylonian paganism, I was content to avoid controversy while we travelled in intimate discomfort and as a result fell into the pleasant habit we had developed in the USA of discussing favourite films. We were both great 'buffs'.

CHAPTER 2

Oh, the boy. That boy. Her boy. How I loved him. He was going to be my son. I was teaching him everything. At first he listened. Then he became restless. The most important information is that which you don't wish to hear. He lied to me. He lied to me. He was the first one, that erstwhile son of hers! What was I? Some Abraham? Fear thou not Jacob, my servant. Though thou make a nest as high as the eagle and though thou set it among the stars, I will bring thee down from hence. He lied to me. Elijah lied to me. I know. You do not believe it. Nobody can believe it. He lied. He lied. There was no precedent for this. This was the worst of all captivities and it had not been predicted. It taught us that not every lesson is, after all, a big lesson. Big lessons are made up of many small lessons, said the Jew in Arcadia. He wanted me to escape with something. I forget what.

CHAPTER 3

The Jew in Arcadia predicted I would lose what I most valued in the ruins of what I least knew I valued. He called me meshumad. They said he was a tsaddik, eyn maskil. He thought I was slow. He thought he confused me with his riddles. I was not slow and I was not confused by him. I followed his arguments but I could not agree with them, that was all. He was the slow one. I was too quick for his old-fashioned parlour games. Mutti! Mutti! Wer ist das? They believe they are so sophisticated in their provincial professionalism. But it would be rude to challenge them. It would be stupid to make enemies. I can smell the yellow blossoms, the green and yellow stalks in the red mud turned up by the ploughman's skill. The fog rolls across the fields. The smoke drifts through the market. I can smell the market, the plotki, the cooking zrazy, the tubs of lokshen; brass and copper wink among the iron, the enamelled trays, the glittering bowls of dumpling soup. I can smell the golden stones of my old Kiev, the Hero City of the Russ. Oh, Russia, my homeland. Oh, Ukraine, my home. Golden grass blooms in Babi Yar. Golden grass still blooms in my Babi Yar. Mia madre! O, Esmé, how we rose towards the stars that day over the old gorge. And what if only these memories remain? Is there any crime forgetting pain? Is a meek man of any more or less worth than a proud man? We are rarely given the example. Our prophet celebrated the meek. Our society continues to celebrate the violent. I know all this. I followed it through the 1950s. They were saying it on the radio and TV. But gradually we forgot. The meek hero disappeared.

City of sleeping cats. City of goats. City of Greeks. We lived in that world, the Jew and I. We lived in the deep history of it, so deep that no enemy could find us. Our only fear was that a friend should betray us. It was the life of a very fortunate intellectual rat but it was life. That's show business, says Brady, the child-killer. Is there some primitive sense they have that by killing us they empower themselves? They eat our brains. There are more terrible ideas than this, I suppose. But they behave like film stars, these secret service interrogators, these prison guards. I read what I could in the camps. For a while they let me use the library, but first all you were allowed was Mein Kampf or Völkischer Beobachter. They were not exactly designed to stimulate the mind but rather to reduce it. There are teachers who take great joy in passing on wisdom. But we must not forget the other kind of teacher who loves to repress knowledge and leave us more ignorant and brutal than themselves. Believe me, I am not complaining. I had it easy compared to most. But, of course, my imprisonment was completely unjust. I had done nothing to deserve those camps. There were a number of others, like myself. Guilty or not, few deserved to be props for the showmanship of illiterates or sadists. In the camps my old friends turned into terrifying enemies. Jude, mach Mores! Jude, verrecke! Hep! Hep! Even in Dachau they had their Judengasse. Zionismus ist ein überwundener Standpunkt!

I came out of Egypt. I came out of Libya and Abyssinia. I came out of the land of the Moors and the land of Sefarad, Zarefat and all the lands of Edom or Ishmael. I came out of Zarefat and Rome and Carthage. I came out of Troy and Athens, Constantinople and London. Out of New York and Los Angeles. Captive and conqueror both. I came out of Atlanta and Memphis and Cairo. I will come out of the world. My cities shall fly.

CHAPTER 4

1648, you say? As if this somehow makes up for 1492. Everyone is talking in that dingy distance. A no man's land of howls, imploring shrieks. And then they are talking again. And you say there is nothing to fear from the East? I say you are looking in the wrong places. Look to Australia or China or Siam, not to Russia or her empire, who will always be European, for it is Christendom herself she defends. It is her free Cossacks who will ensure Christendom's boundaries. For it is written that the borders were drawn upon the world by God's own finger...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: PM Press
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2013
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 160486494X
• ISBN 13: 9781604864946
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 608
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar