Kallista

by David Bell

  “The Taphians have done well, I grant you that; better than I expected, in fact. But Thyras is clearly in the lead. My wife takes an interest in this sport and seems to know a great deal about the leapers, and bulls, I suppose, so I follow her judgment.”

  “ As you say, Commander, the Lady Pasipha has a nose for these things, if one might put it that way,” replied Sekara. “However, there is one more leap to come.”

  “Look,” said a woman behind Sharesh, “you can say what you like about that Taphian, but I think Thyras has better legs. I’ll wager you my new sash that Thyras will win the chaplet again.”

  “All right; your sash against my bracelet, but don’t tell my husband. You are right: he has very nice legs.”

  “Those Taphian girls are too flat-chested for my liking; might be all right for bull leaping or running, but not for the other.”

  “My wife comes from Taphis.”

  “I don’t care where he’s from, so long as it’s not Keftiu,” said Typhis in a voice loud enough for everyone in the crowd round the entrance to hear. “They think they’re the best at everything in this place. I’ve got a bag of pearl shells here that says the Taphian is going to win. Anybody take me on?”

  “Who do you think will win?” said Sharesh to Kanesh.

  “The one who reads the bull’s mind best, and has most luck.”

  They had practised this leap many times, on the wooden frame with the horns nailed on it that Kanesh had had built for them, but never on a real bull. The bull will know you now, Kanesh had said, and only you among all those people. Look deep into his eyes and deep into his mind and you will know your moment. Trust him and he will trust you. The bull was freed from his tether and given a smart cut on the rump with a cane which sent him cantering into the courtyard, testily swinging his head from side to side. He caught sight of the leapers waving their arms and set off towards them. They stood stock still and he slowed to a halt, his poor eyesight making him unsure as to what was happening. This was the moment. Dissias squeezed the girl’s hand.

  She danced towards the bull, took the horns and felt herself lifted high like a leaf in the wind, and as she came down it was with her legs wide apart and her hands between them to touch down on the bull’s back just behind the massive hump of his shoulders. She sat there straddling him, bending as low as she could. A breath later, and Dissias arced high over her, barely touched the bull’s back with his feet, turned, and somersaulted backwards over its rear to land perfectly, with his back to the catcher. He swung round to see the girl push herself up onto her feet and trip daintily along the backbone ridge before somersaulting onto the ground, where he seized one hand and the catcher the other.

  Two leapers moving together like dancers, and such somersaulting: no one had seen the like before. Astonishment gave way to acclaim and the courtyard echoed to the chant, Dissias, Dissias, Dissias!

  “He was lucky. If that bull hadn’t run forward just right he’d have come down on its arse bone and split his skull open. He was lucky, I tell you.”

  “Remarkable. Remarkable. My wife will be delighted. She does so enjoy fine technique.”

  “What about the girls? Don’t forget the girls. He couldn’t have done it without them, but he’s the one who’ll get the chaplet. Do you call that fair?”

  “Don’t you worry. He’ll give ‘em both something to remember it by.”

  “Indeed, Commander. And now Thyras must perform as well as the Lady Pasipha knows he can.”

  Thyras had already decided on a plan to better the Taphian’s leap. He had tried it out before, but not in front of such a crowd, in a place like this. It was risky, but if he was going to keep the chaplet, it had to be done. The bull seemed much less nervous this time and almost ambled across the courtyard. Even when the leapers waved and called to him he showed little interest. The crowd began to mutter impatiently. The almond-shaped eyes looking down from the balcony flashed with annoyance.

  “Wake him up, Thyras!” bellowed someone in the crowd at the entrance. “We can’t wait all day.”

  Stung by the ridicule, Thyras tore off his kilt, strode up to the bull and flapped the cloth in its face. The bull did a very strange thing, backing away and rising up on its hind legs to tower over the bull leaper. Thyras stood his ground, and as the spectators cheered this act of bravery, the bull’s forehooves came down again with a crash and he stood, swinging his tail, glaring straight at Thyras and tensing himself for the charge. This was exactly what Thyras wanted him to do. He stepped back three paces, breathed in deeply, and ran swiftly forwards. He leapt, not with arms held wide to catch the horns, but upwards and straight ahead, aiming at the space between, like a diver rising before he plunged into a pool. It was the most dangerous of all leaps to attempt because even if the leaper passed between the horns, once through he had to press much harder on the bull’s back to gain enough lift for the somersault to follow, and the forward movement made it harder for his hands to keep their grip.

  Thyras aimed true and rose well. His arms were almost through the gap between the horns when the bull suddenly swung its head to one side, caught him at the shoulder and hurled him to the ground bleeding from a long gash across the chest. Trained to react quickly, he rolled away and got to his feet, but the bull was almost as quick and rushed at him furiously, sending him sprawling again. The other leapers ran up, shouting and waving to draw the bull off, but he ignored them and, lowering his head, went again for the stunned and helpless Thyras. Pandemonium filled the Palace. Shrieks of fear and horror came from all sides. Sharesh was terrified and reached for Kanesh’s arm. But Kanesh was out there, stooping in front of the bull. He seized Thyras by his long hair and half dragged, half threw him, away from the skewering horns. The bull now turned on him and Kanesh drew the long sword from its sheath for the second time that day. He held it in a strange way, high, with the flat of the blade angled back towards him. Sharesh quickly saw why: the sun’s rays flashed from the blade and into the eyes of the bull. Blinded, it stood confused, shaking its head, and giving the stockmen the chance they needed to come in and throw their weighted hobbles. Kanesh lowered the sword, and seeing him again, the bull tried to charge, only for the hobbles to bring it crashing to the ground in a cloud of dust. As it struggled there, Kanesh knelt beside its great head, speaking softly and gently stroking the heaving flanks. Froth dripped from the open gasping mouth and the heavy body squirmed and tried in vain to rise to its feet. Kanesh continued whispering his soothing words and at last the bull lay still. The crowd looked on, some in pity, some openly gratified to see the powerful and fearsome overcome and at the mercy of a man. While they were telling one another that this bull would never walk again, Kanesh was whispering in his ear that he had decided who would be Victor of the Games this year.

  The High Priestess looked out over the roofs of the Palace and the hills and valleys beyond, over the City of the Dead and its royal tombs, towards the sacred mountain, Jaduktas, where the Lady Mother sat and watched. She had decided, as she always did. She had turned the head of the bull to cast aside the old Victor and bring forward the one who had replaced him in her favours. And yet, a Taphian: was this a sign of her displeasure with the Palace, or a warning of some kind? In time, the meaning behind her choice might be revealed; as for now, her intent was clear. The chaplet must go to the Taphian.

  On Kanesh’s order the hobbles had been loosened a little and after several efforts the bull struggled back onto its feet. A net was draped over it and several stockmen took hold of ropes tied to its horns and neck. When all was ready Kanesh led the procession slowly out of the courtyard and the applause grew with every step they took. Once they were out of sight, the cedar pedestal bearing the gilded bull statue was brought out, preceded by the white-robed priestess of purification, and placed in the centre of the courtyard in full view of all the spectators. Dissias marched up to stand on one side of it, and a limping Thyras, bloodstained cotton band across his chest, took up position on the other, each
with the women leapers at their sides. Silence fell and all eyes looked up towards the Ruler’s Sanctuary. Where would the Lady Mother’s choice fall? The High Priestess with the Consort at her side stood between the red columns supporting the roof parapet of sacred horns. Together they lifted their arms and pointed into the courtyard below. Dissias the Taphian stepped forward to have the olive leaf chaplet of Victor of the Games placed on his brow by the priestess. He and the two Taphian women leapers sank to their knees before the statue of the bull then leaped up and offered the salute of reverence towards the Ruler’s Sanctuary. Thyras and his two companions followed with their devotions and the two parties of leapers resumed their places beside the statue.

  The chanting began very softly, growing in volume with each repetition until the walls reverberated with the name Ata-nia Pot-in-ia, Ata-nia, Pot-in-ia, Ata-nia, Pot-in-ia and into the waves of sound came the sacrificial bull led by priestesses holding the sacred ceremonial axes. The bull, strangely docile, allowed itself to be drawn forwards to stand in front of the statue, with the priestesses forming a circle around it. The priestess of purification sprinkled water from a long tapering vase over the bull’s head and spine. The axeman stepped into the circle and stood at the bull’s side. He raised the great bronze axe first towards the Royal Sanctuary, then in the direction of the sacred mountain, and finally, legs apart and feet firmly planted on the sanded pavement slabs, before his face, ready to raise it high for the fatal blow. The sound of the chanting rose to a climax and suddenly was silent.

  “My wife does not appreciate this moment,” hissed the Commander into Sekara’s ear.”

  “Nevertheless, my Lord, she will wish for a satisfactory stroke.”

  The axe swept up, then down in a flashing arc. The head fell. Blood spouted and spattered the gowns of the priestesses. It splashed over the gilded effigy and onto the faces of the leapers.

  A great lascivious sigh rose up from the watchers. The headless body of the bull stood upright and rigid long enough for some to feel fear that the Lady Mother would not accept this sacrifice. Then the knees bent and the haunches settled and the body crouched as if weary, and was still. Its lifeblood ran down the flanks of the bull statue. The High Priestess felt a sense of great relief flow through her, like a pulse of living blood. The Lady Mother’s promise was given: it will be as it has always been. Sharesh was shaking. So much blood: too much for all the sand in all the baskets to soak up. The smell of it sharpened the warm sweaty stink of animal and human bodies packed close in the hot sun that filled the air in that enclosed space.

  The almond-shaped eyes were scanning the courtyard, looking for Kanesh. He had not returned. Oh well, Thyras it would have to be, but not just yet. The Commander would have duties to attend to at the Palace tonight and Luzar had had all day to prepare.

  The High Priestess and the Consort had withdrawn from view and many people were making their way out of the Palace, while the more notable retired to rooms and chambers deep within it to rest and prepare for the evening banquets. The bull effigy had been returned to its temple and the sacrificed bull’s head and carcass had been hauled away to a chapel where the head was to lie on an altar overnight. On the following day it would be solemnly conveyed to the sanctuary of the Lady Mother on the sacred mountain Jaduktas and delivered into the hands of the priestesses who served the shrine. The carcass was taken to a room below, there to wait for Palace butchers to divide it up and despatch the parts to those who had the right to claim them. As they left the courtyard some people dipped rags in the bloodstains at the place of sacrifice. It would bring them luck during the coming year.

  Sharesh was at a loss: Kanesh was nowhere to be seen. He stood up on a stool and surveyed the departing crowd, section by section as they had taught him to carry out his watch at sea on the Dolphin. He saw the painter standing at the top of a flight of stairs below the Ruler’s Sanctuary and waved to him but the man’s eyes were fixed on the balcony where all the fine ladies had been sitting. Only one of them was still there: the lady with the big eyes and bright red lips who Sharesh thought had been watching him.

  A hand closed round his ankle and looking down he saw Namun’s upturned face with its usual grin.

  “He sent me to fetch you. Come on, you mustn’t miss the archers. This way’s quicker, along the side, through that gateway and down the ramp.”

  “We came in through the corridors.”

  “You wouldn’t catch me going in there. You can get lost in all those twists and turns, and never find your way out.”

  The exit was almost choked with a mass of people shuffling forwards and trying to get out. Slipping this way and that, the two boys squeezed through the crush and raced down the ramp, trying to shove each other into skidding on the trampled piles of cow dung plastering the cobbles. They stopped at the bottom to catch their breath.

  “Did you see much?”

  “Nearly all of it. I crawled between everybody’s legs till I got to the front and sat down there. Had to get up pretty sharp when the bulls came through.”

  “You saw Kanesh?”

  “I saw him. Not everybody near me liked what he did that first time. They said he shouldn’t have pointed his sword at the High Priestess.”

  “But they all joined in with Honour the brave.”

  “That’s it, see? It was Kanesh made them do that, not the High Priestess, and it was Kanesh who made the Consort do what he did. These people I’m telling you about reckon he did it so as he looked important, like he was running things, and they didn’t like that.”

  “Kanesh isn’t like that. He does what he thinks is right.”

  “I know that, but they like doing things their own way here, some of them anyway, and a lot of them have lost wagers because of that Taphian. You should see what Typhis won.”

  “The Taphian won, but it was Kanesh who saved Thyras’s life.”

  “Him again, don’t you see? Some hold that if you miss the leap for Victor you are marked to die. It’s what the Lady Mother wants. It’s a sacrifice to her. It’s always blood they want. This whole thing’s not about leaping, it’s about death.”

  Sharesh didn’t know what to say. Namun’s face was bleak with contempt. “You said we mustn’t miss the archers.”

  “What? Right, I know where they are. We should be just in time.” His grin came back and he bounded away from Sharesh. “I’ll be there waiting when you turn up.”

  Targets of straw packed thickly and bound on planks had been set up at the far side of what the Palace officials called the Sunset Courtyard and ordinary people called the Market Square, because of all the stalls that were set up and all the bargaining and trading that went on at the time of this festival and others later in the year. The place was buzzing with noise and swarming with people buying cheese, olives, smoked fish and fruit, fingering the pots and jugs, and eyeing the hanks of wool and sheets of cloth before deciding whether to haggle and how much to pay.

  It was the place for the games and competitions that the common people came to watch because few of them could get in to see the bull sports in the Great Courtyard. The archery contest was nearing its climax with a Keftiu archer from the Palace Company pitted against yet another Taphian. The scores were level when Sharesh and Namun arrived, with victory to be decided by the final arrow. At the centre of the target was a pomegranate hanging from a cord. The Taphian drew first and put an obsidian-tipped shaft through the knot tied round the crown of the pomegranate. The fruit had barely touched the ground before an urchin snatched it up and disappeared into the crowd followed by hoots of laughter from the spectators. Another fruit was hung in its place and the Keftiu archer stepped up to his mark. His bow was much shorter and more curved than the Taphian’s. Sharesh recognised him as one of the archers who had been their escort on the journey to the high plain where the bulls were bred for the leaping, and told Namun.

  “Wager something on him, then, while you have a chance. A honey cake you can get from that woman over there a
gainst my pomegranate.”

  The bronze-headed arrow hit the centre of the pomegranate and carried on through the straw and board behind it to clip the tail of a passing dog and send it howling out of the square. Namun whistled in admiration.

  “That’s a real war bow if ever I saw one. You win. I’ll get the pomegranate.”

  He came back and pressed something wet and sticky into Sharesh’s hand. It was the splashed-open pomegranate from the target. The sticky juice stained his palm like blood. They watched the boxing and the wrestling and were there to cheer when the winner of the hill race which had started near the Lady Mother’s shrine on Jaduktas came panting into the square. The sun was casting long shadows when Namun said it was time to find Kanesh. Lighted oil lamps had been set on some of the market tables and parents with younger children were making their way home, or to their lodgings and rest houses for the night. The games were over and it was time for other pleasures.

  As twilight thickened, the small square across the road from the Courtyard of the Setting Sun began to flicker with the light of torches that stood in tall jars at the ends of stone benches, and oil lamps ringing the square itself. In the still evening air invisible sweet perfumes mingled with tendrils of smoke that stole among the seated spectators, slowly wrapping them in contented drowsiness. Squatting cross-legged with their backs against the front bench where Kanesh sat, the boys began to nod and dream. A pipe started to play softly somewhere in the dusk and the dancers, lithe young men and slender girls, filed barefoot and silently into the circle of lamps. They linked hands and formed a ring facing towards the centre where the last girl to enter stood head down, holding a slender branch from a fig tree in each hand crossed over her breast. The melody changed and pairs of dancers, man and girl, turned to face each other. The men stood still and the girls danced round them, one after the other, this side, that side, round the circle until they were all back where they began. The men then repeated the dance in the opposite direction. It seemed as if the dancers were searching for something or someone, and then, as the dance went on and the pace quickened, the fluid movements of the bodies blended into one, like a pale snake winding its length round trees and rocks until, one by one, the men stepped back from the ring into the darkness, leaving the girls to continue their sinuous circling past the smouldering lamps, now with both arms raised above their heads, and leaning backwards from the waist, pushing out their breasts.