The Bull from the Sea

by Mary Renault

  Always, before I made myself known and worked my little wonder, I would ask for the altar of the ancestral god or goddess, and make an offering. It pleased my hosts and served my turn. These simple folk, shut in their fold of the hills, did not know the gods’ first names, nor that they were worshipped everywhere, but used some outlandish title from the old homeland; they seemed often to think, even, that their Zeus was theirs alone, and Zeus in the next valley was his enemy. And the mischief of all this was, it turned the local chief into a king. Of course he was the god’s high priest, or the Goddess’ husband; how could he swear fealty to the servant of another god?

  With a hard question, one cannot do better than bring it to Apollo; and that very night he sent me guidance. I dreamed of playing my lyre, which lately I had neglected, and of singing something wonderful. On waking I forgot the song; but I saw what the dream meant, and how the god would help me.

  I tried it out first myself, dressed as a poor men’s bard who sings for his supper and a bed. Coming to a valley farm at evening, I gave them a lay of Peleia Aphrodite, whom they worshipped there as something else. But of course they knew her in the lay, the Foam-Born with her doves and magic girdle; and I put in the song how the King had made her a shrine at Athens for helping him home from Crete. This time I went away without telling my name; it had pleased me to have my music praised by men who had no hope of favor. They gave me wine and a good cut off the saddle; and what is more, a pretty girl I had been playing eyes with while I sang came slipping to my bed when the house was quiet. Clearly, my plan had Apollo’s blessing.

  So then I got the bards together. I paid them well, since their work would bring them to places below their standing. But if I could do it, so could they. Besides, they could see glory waiting for them in Athens, once it had the chief shrines there of all the gods. They agreed with me that no service could be more pleasing to the Immortals; and very well they did it.

  As for me, I had to go about in my own person among the chiefs, and it was often tedious. One must remember their fathers’ deeds, right back to whichever god they sprang from; remark the heirloom in the hall; sit through the plodding lay strummed by a hanger-on. And never a look at the women; I had got a name for liking them, and where someone else could lead out the horse, as the saying goes, I could not glance at the bridle without putting the family in a panic. One could soon have enough of this. Often I wished for someone to share my mind with; but their hearts were in little things, they would have thought me a dreamer, and I had to plan alone.

  One summer day, I drove down to my great pasture on the plain of Marathon. It was royal land; my father had not stocked it for fear of raiders, it being much open to the sea. But I had had it cleared and the stone folds mended; and there I had reared the bull-calf got on old Hekaline’s heifer by the Cretan bull. He was three years old now, running true to the strain; last year’s calves were coming on, and a score of cows were carrying. For his dark-red muzzle, I had named him Oinops.

  I was coming along through the olive groves, when I saw the smoke of bale-fires rising above the trees, and heard the horns. My charioteer pulled up the team and the riders stopped behind us. He said, “Pirates, my lord.”

  I smelled the air for smoke. This was a new thing on the seas, since Crete had fallen; or rather, an old thing had gathered strength. The Cretan captains, when they came to the mainland to take our tribute, had claimed it went to keep pirates down. There had been something in it.

  My charioteer gave me a righteous eye. It said, “Why will you ride so ill-attended? I told you your father would have brought the Guard, if he went so far.”

  “Come, hurry,” I said, “and let us see.”

  We cantered along, and presently met a young lad running, the son of a small chief near. He knuckled the flaxen hair on his damp brow—he was about thirteen—and said out of breath, “Sir, my lord King, we saw you from the tower. My father says be quick, I mean be pleased to honor the house, sir, the pirates are landing.”

  I leaned down an arm and heaved him into the chariot. “What sails do they carry? What device?”

  One always asked this. Some sea-raiders were just a cutthroat rabble, content to burn the nearest peasant farm, steal the winter stores and sell the folk to slavery. But there were men of lineage too, younger sons, and warriors out to better their estates, who would make a war of it, and scorn a common prize. So we might see deeds today.

  Boys of that age know everything. Three ships, my lord, with a winged horse, red. That is Pirithoos the Lapith.”

  I said, “This fellow has a name, then?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. He is the King’s heir of Thessaly. They say he is a great horse-raider up north, but sometimes he goes to sea. Roving Pirithoos they call him. My father says he fights for the love of trouble, he won’t wait till he needs meat.”

  “He can have his wish,” I said. “We must get to your father’s place before him.” I set down the charioteer, who was the heaviest, and touched up the horses. As we got up speed, the boy said, “He is after your cattle, sir. He has a bet on it.”

  When I asked him how he knew, he quoted me a fisher-lad from over at Euboia, where the ships had watered. Often I wonder where such boys go later, when I look at the foolishness of men. This is a bold dog,” I said, “to count his spoils beforehand.”

  He had been clutching the rail with rattling teeth, for the road was rough; but now he looked straight up at me. “He wants to try you for the sake of his standing, sir, because you are the best warrior in the world.”

  It would have been nothing from some place-seeker at Athens; but here it was good, as when they called out “Sing again!” at the valley farm. I answered, “Well, it seems that is for proving.”

  As we neared the village, the beacon-smoke rose higher, and the sound of the horns; people were beating too on basins and pots and anything they could find of metal, as they do to ease their feelings when an alarm is on. At the chief’s steading, the top of the tower was full of craning women. Further on were shouts, and the bawling of cattle.

  The chief met me at the gate. He had seen from afar I had few men with me; he was afraid I would strip him of his, lose them in battle, and leave him naked. I took none, but sent a horseman to scout. He came back, having been no further than the pasture. Two wounded men were there; the rest of the cow-wards had run away. The gate of the fold was broken and the Sun Herd gone; and the pirate band had turned towards their ships again. The boy had been right.

  Time is short,” I said. “Have you two fresh horses?”

  He gave me two, the only chariot-horses he had. I saw the riders would not keep up far with me; the great Thessalian breed were rare then in the southlands, and none of theirs would carry a man for long. But one could not sit doing nothing.

  As we went down along the olive-slopes towards the plain, I saw the chief’s son running down a path and waving. “Sir, sir! I have seen them, I climbed the pine tree. Take me up, my lord, and I’ll show you where.”

  “This is war now,” I said. “Have you your father’s leave?”

  He swallowed, and said strongly, “Yes, my lord.” At his age I would have said the same. Seeing me pause, he said, “Someone must hold your horses, sir, while you are fighting.”

  I laughed, and pulled him up. It is better to learn war early from friends, than late from enemies.

  I drove on, and when the riders flagged, waved them back before their ponies foundered. Presently from an open place on the slope one could see the plain. The boy pointed.

  On the curved shore of the bay were three long snake-headed pentekonters, riding as pirates do, close in with a stone anchor, which they cut to get quickly away. They had left a strong ship-guard. Pirates do not carry oarsmen who are not spearmen too, and about half their strength must have been there, some eighty men. The rest must have planned an inland foray, to need this care. Mostly they go for what they can see offshore.

  The sound of bawling reached me. I drove to the next turn
, and then I could see the raiders. They were driving the herd, like men who know how. While I watched there was a check; they clustered, heaving to and fro; then one went flying. It was the bull, living up to his forefathers. But the odds were against him; presently they got more halters on, and pricked him along with spears. Counting the horns, I saw they had taken only the Cretan stock, and the cream of that. They could be well away, before the footmen could catch them.

  I shaded my eyes. There was a man apart, waving his arm, giving orders. His helmet gave off a flash of silver. “That’s Pirithoos,” I thought. “The man who is off to range the Hellene coastlands, boasting of how he pulled Theseus’ nose.”

  I turned to the boy and said, “You can get down now. I am going after him.”

  He cried, “Oh, my lord, no!”

  “Why not?” I said. “A man must fight when he is challenged. I daresay the fellow hasn’t reckoned on my coming alone; but if he is a warrior and cares about his standing, he must meet me, not set on me with his band. If he is no gentleman, I am out of luck. But it only comes once to us.”

  “But, sir!” he said. “I only meant don’t put me down.”

  “This loses time,” I told him. “You have heard me. Out!”

  “But I am your man now,” he said, grabbing at the rail and going red as if he would cry. “You took me for the horses. I have to go into battle with you, or lose my honor.”

  “Well, you have a fair case there.” I had to admit it. “This is no way to go on, to make old bones. Very well, then, let us go with our fate. Hold tight.”

  We clattered down the slope on to the flat plain. Then we could go. The light car hopped and bounced over the salty clods. The sun shone brightly. Marathon always has the feel of luck for me. The horsehoofs pounded; my arms rattled about me; my shield tugged in the wind and I slid it off for the boy to hold. He clutched it with one hand and held on with the other, drinking with open mouth the air-wash of our speed.

  The pirates had turned to stare. They were big hairy men, with the bowlegs Lapiths have from getting off their mother’s back straight on to a horse’s. They pointed, shouting, at my team; I remembered they are famous horse-thieves, and thought it would be a comedown if they killed me just for these. Their words were half lost in hair; at sea they do not shave their upper lips like Hellenes, nor their cheeks, but let it grow down like bears before and behind. Some had it to their middles.

  The herd milled about; the Lapiths hailed each other in their bastard speech, antique Hellene and pirate slang. With all the noise, the leader had not seen me; the herd was between. It was odds-on one of these ruffians would have me with a javelin first. Remembering the bull knew his own name, I yelled out, “Oinops!” and for a moment he stopped dead.

  The bright-helmed leader came running; just in time, too; one of the pirates was an archer, and had an arrow fitted to his string. The chief shoved him toppling backwards, and beckoned his armor-bearer, who brought his spear and shield.

  He was about four-and-twenty; taller than the rest, and barbered like a Hellene, with a black rakish short-clipped beard and the rest shaved clean. He had dark brows just like the wings of a hawk, with that upward curve at the outer tips; and his eyes were light green, almost golden: wild, bright and watchful as a leopard’s, only beasts do not laugh. He balanced his spear and called, in true Greek but with a broad up-country lilt to it, “Hoy, get back there. Who are you?”

  His clothes were rich, but with something antique about them: great studs of worked bronze, a helmet of burnished silver, a lionskin cloak with the teeth and claws. Round his right arm a long blue snake was twisted, stained into the skin as the Thracians do it. But the Lapith kings have married often into Hellene houses; they know the right names of the gods, and the famous battle-lays, and the rules of war.

  I called out, “I am Theseus, the man you have come to see.”

  He grinned, and the corners of his brows shot higher. “Well met, King Theseus. Don’t you feel lonely, so far from home?”

  “Why should I,” I said, “if I can find good company? I have come to fetch back my cattle. Leave them where they are. As you are strangers, I will remit the fine.”

  The pirates bellowed, and started forward. But he barked at them, and they pulled up like well-trained hounds.

  “Your bull knows you, it seems. Have you missed each other?” He added a joke so rustic that it shocked the boy. I could tell from his men’s laughter that they loved him dearly.

  I said, “What are you, Pirithoos? A lord of men, or just a cattle-lifter? I have come to see.” And I reached for my shield.

  “Call me a cattle-lifter,” he said, “who likes to pick and choose.” His bright open eyes were insolent as a cat’s are: without malice, and lazy, until it springs.

  “Good,” I said. “That goes with what I heard of you. Well then, there is a matter of standing for us two to settle.” I gave the reins to the boy, who grasped them as if his life were in them. Then I leaped from the chariot with all my arms.

  We stood there face to face. Now I had got what I wanted, I found myself thinking I had never seen a man I should be sorrier to kill.

  He had paused too, idling on his spear. “You seem in love with trouble,” he said. “Well, you want it, I have got it to give. I will make dogs’ delight of you or any man who comes to me asking civilly. And what a squealing of women over your body! Oh, I have heard.”

  “Don’t be concerned,” I answered him. “No woman hereabouts will squeal under yours. Not girls but birds will be getting their fill of you, when our business is done.”

  “Birds?” he said, raising his brows. “Don’t you mean to eat me yourself, then? You are not the man they told me of.”

  “You should come down oftener from the hills,” I said, “and learn the ways of folk who live in houses.”

  He laughed, standing with a loose shield and half his right side bare to me; he knew I would not take him off guard. I could not make him lose his head, nor get really angry myself. But it was no use to dawdle and wish we had met some other way. “Listen, Pirithoos; this boy brought me your challenge. He is a sacred herald: if I fall, don’t chance your luck. And now let us stop calling names like a couple of women yattering over a cracked jar at the wellhead. Come on, stand up to me, and let us try each other’s bronze.”

  I threw my shield before me. He stood a moment, looking straight at me with his big green cat-eyes. Then he shrugged his shoulder out of the shield-sling, so that the tall shield fell clattering, and tossed away his spear.

  “No, by Apollo! Are we mad dogs or men? If I kill you, you will be gone, and I shall never know you. Thunder of Zeus! You came alone to me, with a child for shield-bearer, trusting in my honor. And I your enemy. What would you be for a friend?”

  When I heard these words, it was as if a watching god had stepped down between us. My heart lightened; my spear fell from me; my foot stepped forward and I held out my hand. His with the blue snake round the wrist came out to meet it; the grip seemed one I had always known.

  “Try me,” I said, “and see.”

  We clasped hands, while the Lapiths rumbled through their hair. “Come,” he said, “let us start clear. I will pay your fine for the cattle-lifting. I have done well this trip, my holds are full, meeting my debts won’t break me. You’re the King; you make the judgment. If you weren’t to be trusted, you’d never have trusted me.”

  I laughed and said, “I saw old Oinops squaring his own score. Feast me one day and we’ll call it quits.”

  “Done,” he cried. “I’ll ask you to my wedding.”

  After that we exchanged our daggers as a pledge of friendship. Mine had a gold inlay of a king in a chariot, hunting lions. His was Lapith work, and very good, not what you would expect from looking at Lapiths; the hilt was covered with fine gold grains, and the blade had running horses done in silver. As we embraced to seal the pledge, I remembered the boy who had come to see a battle. But he did not look downcast; even the Lapiths, wh
en their slow thoughts had come abreast of us, cheered and waved their shields.

  I knew, as one sometimes may, that I had met a daimon of my fate. Whether he came for good or ill to me, I could not tell; nor, it may be, could a god have told me plainly. But good in himself he was, as a lion is good for beauty and for valor though he eats one’s herds. He roars at the spears upon the dike-top, while the torchlight strikes forth fire from his golden eyes; and one’s heart must love him, whether one will or no.

  VI

  WHEN WE HAD SACRIFICED and feasted, I took it without saying he would stay as my guest at Athens. He said, “Gladly; but not till after the hunt at Kalydon. I have come south ahead of the news, it seems. They have one of those giant boars there, that Bendis sends for a curse.” That is an up-country name for the Moon Mistress; there was a good deal of Lapith in him, as well as Hellene.

  “What?” I said. “I killed a big sow once in Megara; I thought she was the only one.”

  “If you hearken to Kentaurs’ tales, there used to be a mort of them.” His Greek was partly stiff and stilted, the work of his boyhood’s tutor where even the Court did not speak it daily; the rest was the coastwise jargon that pirates talk, and only better than his men’s because his mind was quicker. “They say their forefathers killed them off with poisoned arrows. Kentaurs don’t hunt like gentlemen; they are too wild.” I thought of his Lapith band, and wondered what folk were like who seemed wild to these. “They eat meat raw,” he said, “and never come down off the tops except for mischief. If the pigs had killed their forefathers, it would have been all one to me. Or if their fathers had made a right end to the pigs, that would have been something. Kentaurs are curse enough; and once in a while there are pigs as well.”

  I had been offended with him for refusing to be my guest; but he had always some odd yarn to turn one’s anger.

  “In Kalydon,” he said, “they sacrificed some virgins to Artemis.” He had remembered her Hellene name this time. “Three they burned, and three they shipped up north to that shrine of hers, where the maidens sacrifice men. But she sent them omens that what she wanted was the boar. How they angered her I don’t know, but she is a goddess needs watching out for. Even Kentaurs look out for her. So the King has a hunt on, and open house for warriors. This, Theseus, forgive me, I cannot miss. Friendship is dear where honor is dearest.” (I could see the tutor, beating the old lays into him.) “Well, no need to part company. We’ll go together.”