by Laura Gill
“You sound like a trinket seller.” Bansabira took the cylinder, still warm from resting against Kubaba’s body, and held it to the light. It was a seal stone incised with markings in a wedge-shaped script that seemed to be Akkadian from the eastern lands; one rolled it across wax or damp clay to produce an image. Kaphti stonecutters also produced cylinder seals, which had become fashionable among priests and merchants—Bansabira himself owned one of jasper, with the hieroglyphs spelling out his name incised all around—but lapis lazuli was a rare, costly material, and one almost never saw it in the workshops. “What does it say?”
Kubaba shrugged as he took back the seal. “I have no idea. It’s been in my family since my grandfather’s time. A Canaanite trader was once laid up a week at Amnissos while the North Wind blew. He came here to make an offering—something about a flagging manhood, I think. This seal was one of the objects he offered to the sanctuary.”
Europa’s head turned. “And your grandfather kept it?” she asked sharply. “No wonder our abundance is so cursed, when such impieties go unpunished.” Her gaze rested on the seal as though she would reach across and tear it from Kubaba’s hands, yet she remained where she was, rigid in her chair, and seething. Perhaps she really should go to Juktas, Bansabira mused. The Knossians would certainly breathe easier with her gone.
The Minos interjected, “I’m sure there’s more to the tale than an unscrupulous priest pocketing an item meant for the god.” His tone was nonchalant; he did not particularly care what impiety Kubaba’s grandfather might have committed, as long as Europa was frustrated.
“Indeed,” Kubaba agreed. “The trader offered many other worthy items. This was simply the object my grandfather accepted as his fee. Why, I heard there were several other seals of silver and gold, and a wonderful golden diadem with flowers of amethyst and lapis.” That sounded like a boldfaced lie. The sad truth was that some priests and priestesses did stint the deities—Bansabira sometimes caught his own assistants taking liberties with the offerings dedicated to the sanctuary—which was why he endeavored to placate the gods with his own privations.
Those same assistants were now leading Spotty back into the enclosure. Bull dancers Sassaros and Yidini entered behind them, and after them came two more initiates.
“Take the wager, Bansabira,” the Minos urged. “I would like to see how you gamble.”
The next thing Bansabira knew, his wife’s fragrantly oiled ringlets brushed against his face, and she was peering over his shoulder to inspect the seal; Melisa had defied convention by leaving her seat. But she did not stop there. She retrieved her folding chair from the back, and arranged it beside her husband despite the withering look Europa gave her. “Tell me, Kubaba, how are you planning to swindle my husband?”
Kubaba held up the cylinder. “I will bet this fine Babylonian seal stone that Duripi bungles his turn.”
A collective gasp rose from everyone within earshot. Bansabira gaped at him. “What?”
Europa could scarcely contain her outrage. “You would wager against an initiate?”
Kubaba waved aside her sanctimonious criticism. “My lady, Duripi is the clumsiest boy you ever saw, and a stutterer, at that. Oh, I don’t wager that he’ll be injured or the god angered—oh, no, nothing impious. I don’t wish the boy to fail entirely. I merely state that he will slip and fall on his first attempt, and have to try again.”
“And yet,” the Minos pointed out, echoing Bansabira’s sentiments, “you are wishing ill upon him, after a fashion. As a priest, your words will surely echo with greater authority in the god’s ears than will the boy’s own humble prayers. It doesn’t strike me as correct to engage in this sport over an act of piety. If you must gamble, choose some other wager.”
Europa made a noise of assent and nodded.
Kubaba knew what he had done; his mouth scrunched and twisted in a way Bansabira recognized as regret. Sometimes he went too far with his comments, especially when upbraiding his charges, and then he could not take it back. That was probably why he had never married. “Very well. I say that he will succeed upon his second attempt, and that will please the god. Gods know, it takes him more than—” He stopped himself. “Duripi will succeed on his second attempt. Bansabira, will you accept that wager?”
“No, I—” Bansabira began.
“Five cows against your seal stone that young Duripi executes his maneuver perfectly on his first attempt,” Melisa said.
“Five cows is nothing!” Kubaba laughed anxiously. “Your wager should be equal to mine.”
The Minos concurred. “Why not add some fine linen or a vessel of costly unguent? Make his impious wager worth his while. Bansabira, what do you say? Are you going to let your wife do all the haggling for you? Make it twenty-five cows, and we’ll have a real wager.”
“You will beggar me,” Bansabira protested.
“But you believe in the young man’s skill, yes?” the Minos pointed out. “Then show it.”
Bansabira felt like a fish caught in a net. He reluctantly shook hands with Kubaba, but while the Minos and the high priestess stood to salute the initiates he grumbled to his wife, “What are you doing?”
She whispered back, “I think someone should bet for the young man.” Melisa indicated with an abbreviated nod toward the sand that his attention was required. “Didn’t you tell me he could do it?”
Duripi was clumsy because he lacked confidence, and his lack of confidence stemmed from his stuttering affliction; it was hard to perform when everyone was laughing at his demons. Bansabira might have teased him, too, or recommended treatment that included drinking from sacred springs and beating the demons out—remedies which the boy’s family had tried to no avail—but some years ago his second cousin had suffered from an inexplicable, sudden spell of muteness, during which an itinerant Egyptian physician had enlightened him. “Your kinsman sits in the hand of Thoth, he who shapes men into being on his potter’s wheel, and imbues them with the power of speech,” the man said. “Thoth is known for his magic, his long-winded speeches, but he is also a scribe, a listener, an observer. A man may be stricken by demons, yet he might also sit within the hand of Thoth, who enforces silence upon him that he may hear his inner voice.” Bansabira did not know which Kaphti god corresponded with ibis-headed Thoth, only that the Egyptian physician’s spells and prescriptions, which included rest, music, and quiet contemplation, had eventually effected a cure.
Bansabira had tried what he remembered of his second cousin’s treatment with Duripi, and, as he suspected, had discovered that the boy could perform, even stop stuttering, when no pressure was put upon him. Unfortunately, there was no incantation that could take away the crowd’s scrutiny. Duripi would simply have to reach within, find his center, and shut out the world as Bansabira knew he could, for the boy had achieved that trance-like state more than once in private. “What you’re doing is what priests and priestesses do when they meet the gods,” Bansabira explained, “and that’s perfectly fitting, because you’re going to meet Poteidan.” Then he ventured further, indulging in a white lie for the boy’s sake. “The Great Bull, the Lord of Heaven has afflicted your tongue because he wants you to contemplate the importance of that meeting.”
Was that true? Bansabira did not know which deity was responsible for the youth’s affliction, or why it had come about—his mother seemed to believe that her seeing a serpent flick its tongue in the hour of her childbirth was to blame—but the fib did no harm.
He studied the youth who had anxiously stepped onto the sand. Duripi was scrawny—nothing but bones, really—while Ashaya, the girl partnered with him, was willowy and very pretty. Bansabira smothered a groan of frustration. Damn the subordinate who had paired those two together! Duripi liked Ashaya, but became flustered in her presence.
Ashaya went first, climbing onto Spotty’s back while Sassaros and his partner Yidini held the beast still. Normally, a bull mounted this way bucked and thrashed to throw his rider, but Spotty had been carefull
y, gently trained to accept the weight of a seated human as well as a standing one. Ashaya flung her arms around his neck, and kissed and caressed him, so that the crowd immediately grasped that she was playing Europa to his Poteidan. Spotty, who adored having his shoulders and ears rubbed, minded not at all, and the crowd applauded. Ashaya slid from his back while Sassaros and Yidini stroked his muzzle, praising him.
Pinaya and another bull dancer priest named Rhukos entered the enclosure to assist Duripi with his routine. Bansabira sweltered in his cowhide garment. There was no breeze, not even in the shade, and the flies congregated around the remains of the morning refreshment.
Duripi’s routine was simple. All he had to do was balance long enough on Spotty’s back to execute a somersault into the dancers’ arms, but could he do it? His nerves showed. Ashaya’s presence did not help, and the crowd did not greet him as enthusiastically as it had her; he surely must have known that they were laying wagers against him. Bansabira oscillated between anger and sorrow, because no youth deserved that on his initiation day. “Come on,” he muttered. Melisa took his hand and squeezed it. “You can do it.” He should never have agreed to gamble on the outcome. It was wrong, all wrong, and insulting, besides.
Ashaya gave Duripi a boost where she herself had not needed one. It was not gracefully done. Duripi’s limbs trembled, and he wobbled as he attempted to gain his balance. Bansabira wondered whether his eyes were deceiving him, or if that actually was a spot of wetness on the front of the boy’s loincloth. Just climbing onto Spotty’s back and standing there was enough for the initiation, but Bansabira knew that Duripi wanted to achieve more than the bare minimum, more than what Bansabira himself had done. And Bansabira wanted that for him. A man should never look back on his initiation day with shame or regret.
Duripi bent his knees, poised himself, and leapt—but not high enough. The somersault would be far too shallow, he would land badly—he might even break a bone—and the crowd would... But no, Pinaya caught him just as he straightened out of the somersault, and lowered him gently to the ground. Applause rippled through the crowd.
Bansabira realized then that he had not drawn a breath throughout the whole routine. Melisa pinched his arm while kissing his cheek. “We won.”
No, it was Duripi who had won. The youth was flushed with the excitement of his success. Bansabira saluted him, but he did not notice until Rhukos directed his attention toward the platform. Duripi returned the salute, gleefully waving his gangly arms.
Kubaba muttered an obscenity, but the Minos, laughing, said, “That was well done by the boy. Hand over the seal.”
Sassaros and Yidini performed for the crowd, then Spotty was given a reprieve, and the second bull, brown with a white star on his forehead, was led out wearing garlands and gilding upon his horns to receive the adulation of the people. He was as good-natured as Spotty, but a habitual bellower and snuffler, which accounted for his name, Noisy.
Bansabira let Melisa hold onto the seal, lest he be tempted to give it back to Kubaba.
As Noisy’s handlers removed his ornaments, Kubaba leaned closer. “How did you know that boy would succeed on the first try? You must be the only one who wagered on him.”
“Because I practiced with him in secret.”
“Even though he was my responsibility?”
Bansabira nodded. “He was afraid to ask you for more than you had already given, when you were so patient and understanding.” Considering his response, he restrained his sarcasm; he did not want to offend his fellow priest. “So I took on the task.”
“And just how long did it take him to ask you?” Kubaba asked. “It t-t-takes him an hour t-t-to utter a s-s-single sentence.” Chortling at his own jest, he called for more wine.
His mockery did not warrant a response. “I see Itaya and Tarinu are about to perform.” Bansabira wondered whether Kubaba knew about Itaya’s possible suicidal bent. A knot formed in his throat as the crowd lauded the entrance of the two dancers. He prayed that Tarinu had been wrong, that Itaya had refused to answer his question because he found it insulting, not because it struck a nerve.
Itaya executed an elegant back flip, then pirouetted into position and launched into a sprint; he was going to jump Noisy as Tarinu had jumped Spotty. But his stride was wrong, very wrong, and much too slow; he was not gaining the speed to clear Noisy’s head, much less the length of his body. Itaya would land upon the horns, or worse, be head-butted and trampled. Bansabira realized it, his wife, gripping his arm, realized it, and the crowd realized it. The Minos leapt to his feet, bellowing across the sand to Itaya to abort his charge, and to his partner to drop the scarlet flag urging Noisy on, before...
And then, something remarkable happened.
Noisy veered to the side a split-second before Itaya jumped. The young man landed facedown in the sand, and stayed there, too stunned and far too humiliated to climb to his feet. Tarinu ventured toward him, hastening his stride even as Noisy lumbered forward from the other end of the enclosure. “Get up!” the Minos shouted. Bansabira and more than two thousand spectators echoed his desperate command, because Itaya was not yet beyond danger.
The bull, however, did not charge. Noisy moved slowly toward the downed dancer, as though approaching a patch of sweet grass in a meadow, and then—then, to everyone’s astonishment—he lowered his massive head and gently nudged the young man’s shoulder, mussed his oiled ringlets, and snuffled into his ear.
Itaya raised his head to reveal a face streaked with sand and tears. Propping himself up shakily on one arm, he touched the bull’s dark muzzle, stroking it as Noisy liked being stroked, then touched his head to the animal’s wet nose and broke down sobbing. Great, wracking sobs of despair shook his slender body, and the bull did nothing but stand there placidly and, as though he somehow understood Itaya’s desperation, let the young man cling to him.
“What is going on?” Europa demanded.
“The god refused his sacrifice,” Bansabira answered quietly. “Itaya meant to gore himself on the horns, but the god would not let him die.”
The spectators were muttering among themselves, shaking their heads in bewilderment and disgust; some had begun catcalling the crying dancer. Bansabira blinked at the scene before him. Itaya’s weeping had nothing to do with a thwarted attempt to jump the bull, but what demons had driven him to want to attempt such a thing?
“How do you know that, Priest?” A grating harshness edged the Minos’s voice. “And why did you not say anything earlier?”
Bansabira felt a dozen pairs of eyes crawling over him. “Because I did not know—not for certain. Tarinu suspected something was amiss, but when I asked him, Itaya would neither admit nor deny an intention to kill himself, only demanded his priestly right to perform.” Bansabira was shaking; his explanation did not justify his silence. “If he had admitted it, said he wanted to die, I would have pulled him immediately.” He drew a trembling breath. Melisa was squeezing his hand. “Minos, perhaps you ought to say something to the crowd.”
So the Minos stood and cleared his throat, but the spectators were in no mood to listen. From what Bansabira witnessed, the crowd despised Itaya for bungling his leap, for clinging and sobbing like a babe on the neck of a bull which should have trampled him. In another moment, Bansabira knew, they would shout for Mother Labrys to shed his blood and placate Poteidan.
Knowing he must do something, though not quite what, Bansabira rose, descended from the platform, and entered the enclosure. The sun’s heat created a shimmer above the sand, and beat down upon his head. With thousands watching, hooting, making the sign against evil, he felt like a mote in Poteidan’s eye, but his purpose banished the worst of his fear, driving him on toward the bull and the young man.
As Bansabira touched Noisy’s head to reassure him, he noticed how soft, even sympathetic, the bull’s brown eyes were, as though at that moment Poteidan himself inhabited his flesh. “My lord,” Bansabira murmured. “I will tend to the young man now.”
He knelt down, took hold of the distraught dancer, and said, “Dry your tears, Itaya. Lord Poteidan does not want your blood. He wants you to live.” Although he uttered those words for the spectators, they could not hear him above their own catcalling.
Bansabira cast about him seeking a solution. The wisest thing to do, of course, would be to hustle Itaya from the sand, let the furor die down, and then offer some placatory explanation to the crowd. Yet Itaya refused to budge. “No, no,” he blubbered. What little of his face Bansabira could see appeared grimy and kohl-streaked. “Go away.”
“You foolish boy,” Bansabira hissed. “Do you want the high priestess to fetch Mother Labrys and strike off your head? What good will that do? Poteidan does not want your death.”
Straightening, he looked toward the platform, where the Minos remained standing, but Europa had not moved a muscle. Kubaba sat shaking his head. The assistant bull priests stood frozen, as did Tarinu. Apparently no one else in all of Knossos possessed the courage to intervene.
Bansabira left the young man’s side, and made straight for the plinth where Mother Labrys gleamed in the sun. Its oak handle was warm to the touch, its weight heavy in his hands. Though he had never before wielded the sacred double axe, as a bull priest of Poteidan he bore the privilege and responsibility to do so should the god demand. And Mother Labrys was ancient, powerful, and bloodthirsty; he felt its soul beating, and noticed the nicks in the polished bronze indicating past sacrifices both animal and human.
A tremendous roar went up from the spectators, who thought their wishes—and the god’s own desires—were about to be fulfilled; the air trembled from the fervor of their bloodlust, and the ground vibrated underfoot. Europa, taut with anger and anticipation, her hands gripping her armrests, leaned forward in her chair, as did the Minos, who had since reclaimed his seat. Kubaba looked dumbfounded. Bansabira avoided gazing at Melisa.
