The Bull from the Sea

by Mary Renault

  There was no answer, but a squeal of fear. When it sank to sobbing, Hippolyta said quietly, “I have never fought with a knife. I will take one against your spear. Will you fight now?”

  Yelling as she ran, the girl came back to me, and fell upon the ground clawing her hair, begging me not to have her butchered by the Amazon, who had bewitched me for sure, else what could I see in such a freak of nature? Then before I could think to stop her (one does not think of such things) out came the bile such women hide from men till hate or fear makes them careless. I got six months’ siltings, thrown in one drench; thrice-chewed, spat-out backbitings of the closet and the bath. I gasped in the stream, then stood up, letting her fall. She lay on the floor between us, looking from face to face, gulping and moaning. She found she had meddled with something outside her ken, and did not like it. “What now?” I said, speaking across her. “She is yours.”

  We exchanged silent glances. We could not talk with the woman there. At last Hippolyta said in a low voice, “I have never yet killed a suppliant. If she is mine, send her away.”

  I had her taken out, still grizzling to whoever had ears to hear. When we were alone together, I said, “I would have spared you that, with your leave or without it, if I had known.”

  She turned slowly. I wondered, if she struck me, what I would do. But she said, “I am ashamed,” and covered her face.

  “You?” I said. “Of what? The shame is mine. With that I made do, before you came.” Then we were reconciled, and more in love than ever, if that could be. As for the girl, keeping my word I sold her to some Sidonian trader at Piraeus.

  That was enough for me. I made a clean sweep of every girl I had doubts of. Since still she would tell no tales, no one was punished; I gave them to my barons, or with dowries to marry decent craftsmen. That left a quiet house, but short service. Though lack of company was better than what she had had, the dose of poison had left a sickness on her spirit. I could not bear to see her dimmed.

  And then one day she said to me, “I have been talking to Amyntor.”

  She spoke as simply as a boy. She had still much innocence. After what had happened, I was pleased to see it. I smiled and said, “You could do worse. He was my best lad in the Bull Court.”

  “He tells me his wife was there too, and better than he. I should like to see her. But he says he must have your leave.”

  “He has it,” I said, thinking how times had changed, when men wanted to bring their wives under my roof. It was clear he had planned for this. When I sent for him he almost owned it. “She has settled down, sir, since she had the boy. I think she is happy most of the day, and perfection is for the gods. She knows that I understand; but no one forgets the Bull Court.”

  “No wonder. Nor will I forget that back-spring she used to do, off her finger-ends. She went like a song.”

  “There was a song,” said Amyntor. We hummed the air.

  “She would have grown too tall,” I said. “We were just in time, there.”

  “I once found her crying over that. But not since the child.”

  “She can bring him; would she be willing to come?”

  “Willing? She has been on at me, sir, board and bed. But you’ve surely seen, since your Lady came, every bull-dancer that is left would die for her.”

  So Chryse came from Eleusis. She had grown a tall full-breasted Hellene beauty; all but she herself, I suppose, had forgotten the fearless golden child of the Cretan songs. She loved Amyntor. Yet princes had staked on her a chariot-team or a country villa; young nobles had risked their necks and bribed the guard, to send her as the custom was their verses of hopeless love; she had heard ten thousand voices shout for her as she grasped the horns. Something she must have missed among the house-bred women with their talk of nurses and children, scandal and clothes and men.

  She and Hippolyta were friends at the first glance, neither having a mean thought to hide. I would find them in the evening telling tales of Crete or Pontos, or laughing while the little boy played at bull-leaping with a footstool. Peace and order came to the women’s quarters, which had stood in some need of it; and people began to say that the Amazon, for all her strangeness, had made King Theseus steady.

  But the barons, as I knew, thought more than they said when they saw her sitting by me in the hall. They knew it meant I would not marry yet, feared it would lay up strife for the day when I did, and wanted the bond with Crete tied firmly. Nor had they forgotten Medea, who had been, besides a sorceress, a priestess of the Mother, scheming to bring back the old religion and end the rule of men. Now here was another priestess of a Goddess; one who knew magic, as they had heard. It did not move them, or quiet their fears, that she wanted nothing but to be free in the woods and mountains, or else with me.

  So winter passed. We had a great wolf-hunt on Mount Lykabettos, following the tracks in new-fallen snow to their den in the high rocks above the pines. It was a fierce fight and a good killing; we laughed to see her bitch and my dog fight side by side, as we did. In her jacket of russet lambskin with her scarlet boots and cap, her eyes and her cheeks all glowing, she shone in the white cold like a warm bird. She loved the snow.

  I asked to this hunt, and the feast after, all the young men who had gone to Crete with me, and as many of the girls as chose to come. Chryse, who had fined down and toughened with riding and running, was the first of these; there were two more who were serving Artemis in a shrine above Eleusis. For Thebe and Pylia it was too late.

  After this, the word went round that those who had known the Bull Court would be welcome in my hall. They had always been so; but I had been much away, at war or about the kingdoms, and had not had time to seek them out. Now I began to see not only those who had sailed with me from Athens, but those who had been levied from all the old tribute-lands of Minos, lads and girls I had led to freedom when the Labyrinth was destroyed. They came from the Cyclades; from the Twelve Isles of Asia; from Phoenicia and Rhodes and Cyprus; and from Crete itself. Some came for what they could make out of it; some to give thanks for life and freedom; some, whom I remembered among the best in skill and daring, out of mere restlessness, because the mark of the Bull Court was on them yet.

  They were still young, for the tribute-ships had taken them from thirteen upwards; and though they were mostly men who made so long a journey, they had known the fellowship where maids and men had lived by what was in them. Some had stayed on in Crete, and were horse-tamers or charioteers; they came in the fringed kilt of Knossos, with shaven faces and curled hair, wearing the jewels of the Bull Court; for though the House of the Ax had fallen, the glory of the bull ring was slow to die. Some had gone roving, and were spearmen in pirate ships, or had set themselves up by it with steadings in the islands. And some, who had known no trade or a poor one, or had been slaves at home before, had turned to the life of tumblers, roaming from town to town; the best keeping their pride, dancing with swords or fire instead of bulls, the worst content to please the ignorant, and sunk to petty tricksters or common thieves. Even these, for the sake of all we had endured together, I would not send off without a meal, a night’s lodging and a guest-gift; and the Palace people who had lived softly all their lives could make of it what they chose. None grumbled openly, knowing their own sons and daughters might have seen the Bull Court, but for my friends and me. It is true some of them looked odd in a king’s hall. The quiet and steady, who had taken up their old lives among their kindred, had business and did not come. The foot-loose came, who loved adventure, and had the taste for gaiety and splendor that one learned in Crete.

  There were many of the best I found places for, not only in my chariot-stables but around the court. Gently born or not, they had picked up behavior in the Labyrinth, from eating at lords’ tables there; only quick learners lived long among the bulls. Often their manners were nicer than those of my home-bred barons. They honored Hippolyta from the heart, for what she was, not with the lips from fear of me. They gave a polish to the household; and whatever
they brought of the ways of Crete they did not bring its softness, but what was skillful, quick and bright; so it did no harm.

  Before long, with such a market ready, came the battle-bards and harpers, the master chariot-builders, the swordsmiths and famous jewellers, the carvers of gems and rings. All these Hippolyta delighted in. She loved all fine things, but still more the talk of the craftsmen, their tales of travel, their thinking and their skills. She had no greed of show, no wish to put other women down or prove herself regarded. She would keep one perfect thing with her all day, to feel and understand it. Bards loved to sing for her, for, as one told me, she never asked a foolish question, and saw straight through to the core.

  The barons’ wives and honest matrons, who talked of the same things year by year, felt their minds as far outpaced as their legs would have been, if they had raced with her on the hills. I would see them look down their noses when she talked with men, and then peep to see if I was jealous. They were full of the arts she knew nothing of, to keep their men in doubt of them and cloud the clear truth of love. If she had changed to me, I would have known it as soon as dust blown in my eye.

  Yet she could keep her counsel for others’ good. There were some young men of my Guard whose cult it was to worship her, and honor Artemis for her sake. It started as a pretty fancy, but one had kindled a fire to burn him. At last, being out of his head with love, he importuned her in secret. From pity for him, she dealt with it all without a word to me, till in despair he drowned himself; then she brought me her grief to comfort. I too was sorry, feeling in my own joy the measure of his want; and I named one of my new towns after him, because he had no sons.

  But it gave me a thought; and to bring a good thing out of trouble, I gave her her own Guard. I chose these same young men to lead it; they wore her badge of a leaping leopard, and she trained them herself for war. Thus I showed the world my trust in her; and something that might have grown dangerous was brought into the open, where it turned to pride and honor. There were no more dark deaths, but good clean rivalries. It was the same when they teamed against my Guard at the Games, for bad feeling would have slighted us both alike. Those who understood such things, we liked to have about us; the rest could make the best of it.

  Of course there was some muttering in corners. It was a time for the young. The world had changed and could not be put back again; it was no place for men whose minds were stiffening. All their long lives, they had been fretting under the power of Minos; now they thought it could be broken, and nothing would move that it had held. If I had not ridden the change, I could not have steered the kingdom through its dangers; but once they had built their houses and married off their sons, they wanted the ride to stop. As for me, I had the reins in my hands and the wind in my hair, and love beside me in the chariot; and it seemed to me I would never weary.

  The Hellene lands were all in ferment, now there was no Cretan fleet to keep down upstart greatness. The kingdoms were finding their own level, learning to live by what was in them. In these years, both weakness and overweening brought their reckoning quickly. One needed a feel for it, when to give and when to take, such as wrestlers learn.

  It was the time of the Theban War. Oedipus’ curse had flown back home, and his brother-sons were battling for the kingship. I watched, biding my time. It tempted me, to snatch the bone while the dogs were fighting. But the son in Thebes had the people with him; the one outside had Argive chiefs for allies, with whom I wanted no blood-feuds. Both sides sent me envoys; I parleyed, and took the omens, which were bad for both. Within a month they were dead by each other’s hands; the Argives went home, and Uncle Kreon was King.

  But I doubted the curse was laid yet. I had taken Kreon’s measure while the war was on, and did not doubt he had pricked his nephews into hatred, hoping for what had come to him. During the siege, the gods had called for a royal sacrifice, and he had left his son to step forth and die. He was getting old, and trying to make fear do the work of strength. For terror’s sake, he left the dead chiefs to rot in the sun unburied. So the poor girl Antigone, chained to her pieties like a patient ox, crept out at night to strew earth on her worthless brother. Her indeed King Kreon gave a tomb to; but he walled her in alive. It outraged his own people, and all the Hellene lands. The kin of the riteless dead came to me suppliant, with ashes on their heads. And then I moved.

  The Thebans were sure by now I would not meddle; surprise was easy. We slipped down at fall of night from the Kithairon foothills, and by moonrise had scaled the walls. There was hardly a fight; the people were sick of war and Kreon. I put him in prison only, wanting no part in that poisoned blood-guilt; but his sins sat heavy on him, and he shortly died. By then I ruled Thebes in all but name.

  Better than the assault, I remember the tail-end of the night in the taken Kadmeion, when Hippolyta and I went to unarm and rest. We had not considered, till we were there, that they would bring us to the royal bedchamber. The heavy roof-beams were painted red and purple, and carved with knots of snakes; on a hanging that filled one wall crouched a huge black Sphinx, the ancient Theban Goddess, with dead warriors in her paws. We could not sleep, for the creaks and whispers that filled the dark, like the swing of a weighted rope; nor could we join in love—not in that bed. We lay there clasping each other like cold children, and presently lit the lamp.

  But one good came of it: we spent the hours till light in council. To talk with her always cleared my mind. I saw that to sit on the throne of Kadmos would be that one thing more that sinks the ship. The greater kings would have taken fright, and joined to bring me down. Besides, half a night in that room told me no luck could come of it. So when morning came, I proclaimed the elder brother’s son, who was still a child, and promised him my safeguard, choosing his council from some of the men who had called me in. Then I went home. Everyone praised my justice and moderation; and Thebes was safer in my hand than if I had been King.

  We had a great homecoming. The people sang me as judge and lawgiver of Hellas, and shared the pride of it. And indeed, from that time on wronged folk from all the clans of Attica would come to sit on my threshold: slaves with cruel masters, widows oppressed or orphans disinherited; and not even the chiefs dared murmur when I saw right done. It was called the glory of Athens; for myself, I saw it as an offering to the gods. They had used me well.

  Often I thought how, if I had been roving off with Pirithoos, I should have missed my chance at Thebes. The times moved quickly. Besides, what should I rove for? It would never bring me such a prize again. I was content, and stayed at home.

  And then, as we got up one morning early for a ride, Hippolyta sat down on the bed again and said, “Oh, Theseus, I am sick.”

  Her face looked green and her hand was cold; soon she threw up. While they fetched the doctor, I felt sick myself from fear; my mind ran upon poison. He came, and asked for her women, and waited for me to go. I was still too slow to understand, till he came out smiling, and said he must not steal the midwife’s trade.

  When I got her alone, she was brisk and light, as if she had got a scratch in battle that she did not mean to make a song of. But when I took her in my arms she said softly, “You told me true, Theseus. Maiden Crag is far away.”

  At the fifth month, she put on woman’s dress. I found her in it, alone, standing hands on hips and feet apart, staring down at her skirts and her growing belly. When she heard me, she kept her back turned and said in a sulky growl, “I must be mad, or I would be killing you.”

  “Then so must I,” I answered. “For when I can’t have you, there’s no one I can fancy; and that never happened to me all my life.”

  She wore the clothes well, from pride lest she should be laughed at; seeing her sweep by, I could have laughed, or cried. But soon after, when I stood on the balcony looking out across the Attic plain, I heard her feet behind me in their old swift stride. She put her hand over mine on the balustrade, and said, “He will be a boy.”

  Later on, as she grew heavy and idle,
she would send for the bards to sing. She chose the songs with care; no blood-feuds, or curses coming home, but lays of victory, or the birth of heroes from the loves of the gods. “Who can be sure,” she would say, “that he does not hear?” At night she would take my hand and lay it over where the child was, to feel it move. “He sits high. They say it is the sign of a man.”

  Her pains began when I was over in Acharnai, dealing with a lord who had beaten a serf to death. I got home to find she had been three hours in labor. Strong as she was, always in the open and never ill, I had thought she would bring forth quickly. But she was travailing all night, with long hard pains. The midwife said it was often so with girls who had followed the life of Artemis; either the Goddess grudged it, or their sinews were too strongly knit to stretch. I went to and fro outside the door, hearing voices murmuring and the sputter of torches, but no sound from her. In the cold low hours, I was seized by a notion she was dead, and they dared not tell me. I pushed through the gaggle of sleepy women on the threshold, and went inside. She was lying quiet between the pains, pale, with sweat on her forehead. But when she saw me she smiled and held out her hand. “He is a fighter, this lad of yours. But I am winning.” I held her hand awhile, till I felt it tighten; then she snatched it back saying, “Now go away.”

  As the earliest sunlight touched the Rock, while the plain was still in shadow, for the first time I heard her cry aloud; but there was triumph in it as much as pain. The midwives chattered; then came the voice of the child.

  I was so near the door, I heard what the midwife told her; but when I went in, I let her be first with the news. She did not look sick now, only dead tired as if after a day in the hills or a long night’s love. Her limbs lay slack, but her gray eyes glowed. She threw the bedclothes back and cried, “What did I say?”

  The midwife nodded, and said no wonder my lady had had to work all night, with this great boy. I took him up; he felt heavier than my other children I had handled, yet neither big nor small, just what was right. Nor was he red, or wizened, but bloomed and glowed as if the sun had ripened him in a good year. And though his eyes were the dim misty blue one always sees at birth, wandering and squinting, yet they were already hers.