Kallista

by David Bell

  Maryannu excelled in the surprise attack, so he sent her a tablet in the old language forbidding her to enter the compound without his permission. As he expected, she ignored his warning, appearing the next day with one of her women, commandeering the chariot of a startled trooper and driving it furiously round the training ring with her petrified maid cowering at her feet. He sent her a second tablet repeating his warning. She came a third time to the compound and mounted the chariot that he had thoughtfully put in a prominent place near the gate. The right side wheel slipped from the axle when she was halfway round the ring and the chariot slithered to a stop in a cloud of dust and gravel. He rushed across and bent down to help her to her feet. We can escape from the city together, he said to her. Her furious expression changed to one of astonishment. She pushed him away and walked off, trying not to limp. See to my woman, she called over her shoulder. Many days passed and each was colder than the last.

  He was told that a troop of charioteers would accompany the prince on his progrees to the great temple for the wedding and he was to lead the troop. The wedding was to take place on the day in winter when the sun stood still. He had two days to rehearse his troop for their duties. Early in the morning on the day before the wedding a small boy stumbled in front of his horse as he led her from the stable, and dropped his basket spilling some barley cakes onto the ground. The boy begged to be allowed to give the horse a barley cake because of the silly thing he had done. As the horse snuffled the cake from his hand, the boy said there was a grove of trees outside the city wall near the gate of the lion woman where horses could be tethered unseen. If the lord wished to see, it was not a long walk from the temple, the one where the ladies held vigil in the presence of the Mother Hepatu before weddings.

  When darkness fell, the city swarmed with soldiers from the garrison and the retinues of the many petty kings and chieftains who had wisely responded with their presence to the Great King’s announcement of the wedding of his son. Tavern owners, harlots and thieves had not laboured so profitably in years. An excited throng, roaming the streets intent on pleasure, and guards more envious of joining in than doing their duty: who would notice two more revellers among so many?

  He sat down in the shadow cast by the wall that surrounded the temple, near the postern tunnel entrance, its massive stone pillars and lintel framing a black mouth. If anyone came by he would stretch out a hand and mumble pleas for alms. He could hear the sounds of harps playing and voices chanting. Within the walls there were guardhouses and wide paved squares; houses, storerooms and workshops for those who served the temple, and the light of many torches: would she be able to make her way past these unnoticed. I have nothing for a beggar, she said, stepping out of the tunnel. He had brought rough hooded cloaks, matching those of the crowd. They jostled their way up the winding streets and terraces, then across more open ground until they reached the spring at the head of the valley. They stopped to drink from the stone basin. She let a few drops of water fall to the ground and he saw her lips move. High above them on its flat-topped crag stood the Great King’s palace and citadel, the fastness from which he could look down on the city and survey the land that he ruled. Heavy-laden packhorses and carts laboured up the paved road towards the gate in the defensive wall. Light shone from wide windows, torches flared on the roofs, and the sound of many voices mixed with the clatter of activity in kitchens, halls and courtyards all spoke of the ceremony to come.

  Stone lion-women guarded the new gate in the partially built wall that curved along the slope towards the older part of the city. It was guarded but they stole through the tunnel of the sally port that he knew lay below it. The horses heard their footsteps and one whinnied softly. A mare and a gelding, chosen for their stamina, stood peacefully beside a pack mule loaded with clothing, water and food for the journey, and weapons. They will expect us to go to the river and take a boat downstream, he said, so we will go into the hills. It was cold, with the snow flurries of winter. Follow the scorched and ravaged path trodden by a marauding army and you can find shelter, not under a roof, but behind the heap of stones that was once a wall, and that will let you live through a freezing night. There will be no one left alive to see you pass. Where there were no walls, they made their horses lie down and huddled between them, holding each other close below the blankets and furs. The sky was clear on the morning of the fifth day and on the distant horizon rose the great cone of the burnt mountain he sought as his landmark. Late the next day they came to the river. It was deep but the ice was thick enough to let them cross. He smelt smoke, not woodsmoke, but the kind that comes from a forge.

  They gripped hands in the secret way smiths use to know each other. The smith looked at her and back at him. There was no question in his glance. He took her hands in his big black grasp and warmed them. He did not speak. He never spoke. Many years ago a raiding party had said he made arrowheads for the enemy. He said he could tell them nothing so they tore out his tongue, laughing that he had no use for it. Now he used his hands to speak. He pointed to a wooden stable with a roof of turf and heather. A ladder led up to a loft full of coarse hay and barley straw. He watered and fed their horses and the mule and tethered them in the stable below the loft but his movements did not disturb their sleep. In the morning there was a steaming cauldron of rabbit and barley stew at the top of the ladder. They listened to the ring of his hammer and the rushing breath of the bellows as they ate.

  She asked why the soldiers tore out his tongue and did not kill him? They had need of my skill, his hands said. How do you know this man, she asked. Smiths take their skills where they are needed; for two years his forge burned in the city and he shared the mystery with me, he said. Now he is here. He will not stay but while he does we will stay with him. For a while we will be safe.

  He took her stalking deer and the smith showed her how to make and set snares, this way for birds, that for rabbits. She had keen eyes and a quiet step and her fingers were nimble: she soon excelled them at the crafts. The meat was salted for the winter. She had never roasted her own partridge over a fire before, but she soon learned and hers tasted better. There was still some grazing for their mounts but forage was needed for the time when deep snow would cover the ground, so they took the smith’s sickles and spent days gathering what they could before darkness fell. The smith loaded the pack mule with the tools, vessels, cups, needles, trinkets and jewellery he had made and led her off along a track only he could trace. Merchants and traders in goods of every kind led their mule and donkey trains across deserts, mountains and rivers to converge on the city of Kanesh from every direction. Many would be there for the last great fair before real winter set in, he said, and he knew there was a ready market for what his hands created. He would return when everything was sold. I understand him now, she said; he has no tongue but his hands and his eyes speak for him. The day after he left, the sun rose into a pale blue sky setting the frost sparkling on the earth. He took her arm and they raced hand in hand to the ice-covered river. He smashed a hole in the ice with the smith’s biggest hammer and made it wider with stones thrown onto the edges. He flung off his cloak and leapt into the icy water. She cowered for a moment on the bank and then followed. Their heads rose above the surface and her hair spread and floated round her face like a water lily. He held up both hands, folding down his fingers one after the other: ten, enough time. They splashed to the bank, gasping in the freezing air. He seized the thick cloak and wrapped it about her trembling body. Your nose is as red as a berry, he said, and icy cold. He kissed it, holding the tip between his lips. Not only my nose, she smiled.

  The smith returned, leading their mule loaded wth sacks of barley and spelt, and bags and baskets filled with lentils, beans, olives, dried figs, salt and cakes of hard cheese. They worked together at the forge and, as the days grew shorter, she came to sit there for the warmth while she sewed coarse cloth into covers for the windows and coats for the horses. He would hold and turn the bronze while the smith wielded the
hammer and then they would exchange tools. They mixed the powders to make the black metal for inlaying on beakers and bowls that she later polished with leather to bring out the rich black shine. They argued over the secrets locked in the different coloured stones and how to judge the heat of the furnace. At night the sparks flew from the anvil, like stars falling to earth. He learned the mystery of releasing the heavy hard grey metal from the crushed and roasted red stones, how the hot charcoal and the blast of air from the bellows set it free to fall to the bottom of the furnace. He spent days hammering it and heating it again and again to drive out the dross and make it pure. It takes a better edge, but can it be made as hard as bronze, he asked? The smith shook his shaggy head slowly from side to side. He did not yet know that secret. But one day, he would.

  The first shy flowers of spring appeared and as the days slowly lengthened and grew milder, a green mist of grass shoots spread over the high plains. Their meat was finished. With the smith leading the pack mule, they rode into the foothills to search for the great black bulls and their herds. Many would not have survived the deep snows of that hard winter and the wolf packs that trailed the herds, waiting to cut out and drag down the weak and old.

  The herd was drinking at a pool in a sheltered valley when they found it: twenty cows, heavy with calf and one or two yearling bulls. It was better than they could have hoped. He severed the great vein in the young bull’s throat moments after the smith had brought it to its knees with his bronze-headed spear. The cattle lumbered away leaving the smith to start his butchering while he rode upstream with her to take the horses away from the scent of blood. He heard the sound of hooves and furious snorting and turned to see the huge bull bearing down upon the smith, his crescent horns lowering in the charge. The terrified mule galloped off before the smith could mount. He turned his horse and kicked her flanks to drive her down towards the smith who was kneeling with his spear aimed at the charging bull with the butt pressed into the ground. He crossed the bull’s path yelling and waving his cloak. It slowed but did not stop. A javelin, the one he had showed her how to throw, suddenly quivered in the bull’s haunch. The beast roared and turned towards her, giving him the chance to throw his hobble round its knees and bring it down. He strode towards the struggling animal, carrying the smith’s heavy axe. He sat beside the great head with its lyre-shaped horns and stroked its muzzle while he spoke soft ancient words into its twitching ear. He drew the javelin from its haunch as gently as a mother takes the toy from a sleeping child’s hand. They watched him as he released the hobble and stood up. The bull heaved itself to his feet, snorted, shook himself, and trotted away to find his cows.

  That night, by the glowing forge, the smith held a sword in both hands and offered it to him. The grip was made of polished ivory and the pommel gleamed with gold. The long heavy double-edged blade was made of glistening grey metal with a centre ridge tapering towards the point. The smith touched the blade and pointed to the sky. He had forged the brand from a thunderbolt. Not for my life, said the smith’s hands, but for the life of the sacred bull.

  Spring gave way to early summer. They packed food in sacks to strap over the horses’ backs and rode away for days. His troop had ranged these plains and hills. The reckless, he among them, had challenged the great wild bulls, galloping at them and goading them with lances as they rushed past, to see who could get closest and survive. Now they watched the peaceful herds grazing the sweet grass. She pointed to the newborn calves. She saw patches of blue near houses far off and asked what they were. Flax, he said, blue as the sky in summer. They rode into the higher hills, winding up valleys below steep crags, where the wild goats eyed them without fear and the streams rushing down from the snow cooled their wine. He looked up and saw her beckoning from a flat rock slab. Finger to her lips, those sweet soft lips, she showed him a mother leopard suckling her three new kittens on a ledge below. At night, they lay, gazing up at the sky ablaze with stars, wanting to be nowhere else but there, beneath the rugs.

  The smith’s hands moved rapidly. Horsemen; they will be back. They hurried to get ready what they needed while their own horses rested and fed. The horsemen had not gone far. He heard a noise and came out of the stable with the short bow in his hand, to see five of them, two dismounted and dragging the smith along the ground with a rope round his neck. His first arrow drove through the eye of one of them, spurting the brains from the back of his head. The other fell shrieking across the smith with an arrow quivering in his shoulder. The smith wrenched it out and drove it into the man’s throat. The three still on their mounts kicked with their heels and fled towards the river. He loosed his arrow at the leading horse, to bring it down and the others when they crashed into it from behind. The shaft struck the second horse in the croup. It reared and threw its rider into the path of the last horse which trampled him, staggered, and threw its own rider. The man rose to his feet and had reached the river bank before the last arrow pierced his shouder blade and lodged in his lung. He fell face downwards and coughed out his life’s blood at the water’s edge. The javelin fell short of the last horseman as he struggled out of the river and fled without a glance behind him.

  She looked at the body lying by the river. Only a prince wears such a rich cloak, she said. He turned the body over and she looked at the dead face. He was to be my husband, she said. A prince would have a bigger retinue than this, he said. He must have ridden on ahead of his main force and that cannot be far away. He pulled the arrows from the dead flesh and helped the smith throw the bodies into the river. It would cause some delay when the searchers came back seeking the prince. They would send the deadly news back to the Great King by frightened messenger, before resuming the pursuit.

  They left the smith strapping his gear on the backs of the horses. Three of them would bring a very good price in the town and the other would take him where he planned to go. They turned their own horses’ heads towards the sun and the distant mountains and rode away with the pack mule following. Some time later, they looked back to see if the smith and his train were still in sight A plume of smoke was rising from the burning stable and its loft of straw that had kept out the cold. You are two of a kind, she said, you and the smith, men of metal and both of you use the other hand. But I also know you are more than that, she said, and would not tell him what she meant. Lying under the rugs, on the edge of sleep, she said quietly, he was maryannu, the one who taught me to drive the war chariot. Then one day, he left saying I was to tell no one or he would lose his life. He was with me in our last charge, he said.

  The moon was bright enough for them to travel by night. They crossed a plain and climbed up to a col between two mountains, passing silent obsidian quarries on the flank of a great snow-capped mountain and stopping to sleep before descending into a valley where the marshes could only be crossed safely by day. They found a goatherd who agreed to guide them through the swamps when they spoke to him in the old language. He led them through the sedge-choked pools and reed beds on quaking paths they could not see, where the horses sank almost to their hocks in water that was salt to the taste. In open stretches they saw flocks of stately flamingo ignoring the ducks that skimmed past their legs. They roused waterbirds into chattering mobs and sent turtles skittering away from their clumsy feet. The heat was stifling, draining their strength and causing the horse’s heads to droop and blobs of foam to fall from their mouths. It was desperately hard, but it was safe. No one came there except the reed cutters and they were far away on the others side of the swamp. At last they reached firm ground. The goatherd said they must not rest there. What they might think was welcome sleep coming on was death borne on the poisonous air that the swamp breathed out at this time of the year. They must climb as quickly as they could up to the col where the air was clean and the water pure. It was safe up there. No road led over the col. They went on foot, leading the mule at the front. She climbed better and the horses would always follow her.

  At noon the next day they stood on a col w
ith great ranges of mountains stretching into the distance on both sides and a soft breeze blowing into their faces. They could hear the gurgle of water winding through small stones and hurried to find it. It was from melting snow and ice cold. Water had never tasted better even though it made their teeth ache. The wind is strange, she said, almost warm. It is coming from the sea, he said. I have never seen the sea, she said.

  They had to take care once they were down on the low land near the sea, so she wore the clothes of a man, bound up her hair in a cloth and sometimes rode in front, leading the mule. They made a wide detour round a town on the river that had started as their mountain stream, and rode towards a small harbour at the outlet of a lagoon that lay behind a beach of shingle. The sea, she said, it goes on forever. Not forever, he said, there is a place beyond it called Alasya. That is where we will be free.

  He left her on the ship with their belongings and rode back to the village where they had left the other horses and the mule. They were the price for their passage to Alasya. A great king becomes a Great King because he is relentless and selects as his commanders men of similar resolve who never rest until his orders are carried out. Since he was the one who had brought this maryannu to the court, the general was ordered to find the traitor and bring his head as proof of his due punishment. They were waiting for him. He was bound tightly, thrown into a cart and driven off, it seemed to him for days, until at last they stopped near a huddle of fishermens’ shacks on the coast. Boats had been drawn up on the sand where a river built out a spit of land into the sea. They know they have enemies in this land, he thought, and must do what they have to do unseen and then escape themselves. He did not care. They had not found her and she would now be on the ship making for Alasya. He had told the captain to sail with her on board if he did not return by the time he gave.