I asked Hahraklahs why he had not entered. He said he used to enter these things, but he generally killed or crippled someone. He told me how he had wrestled a giant who grew stronger each time he was thrown. Eventually Hahraklahs was forced to kill him, holding him over his head and strangling him. If I had not seen the six-armed giants here, I would not have believed the story, but why not? Giants clearly exist. I have seen and fought them myself. Why is there this wish to deny them? Idmon believes he will die, and that nothing can save him. I would deny giants, and the very gods, if I were not surrounded by so many of their sons.
Atalantah says she is of purely human descent. Why did her father order her exposed to die? Surely it must have been because he knew he was not her father save in name. I asked about Augah, to whom Atalantah is so often compared. Her father was Zeus, her mother a Teetan. May not Father Zeus (as he is rightly called) have fathered another, similar, daughter by a human being? A half sister?
When I congratulated Kastawr on his win, he challenged me to a friendly fencing match, saying he wanted to see how much swordcraft I had picked up from Kaeneus. I explained that Kaeneus and I have spent most of our time on the spear.
Kastawr and I fenced with sticks and pledged ourselves not to strike the face. He won, but praised my speed and resource. Afterward he gave me a lesson and taught me a new trick, though like Kaeneus he repeated again and again that tricks are of no value to a warrior who has not mastered his art, and of small value even to him.
He made me fence left-handed, urging that my right arm might someday be wounded and useless; it has given me an idea. Stone-throwing this morning; we will have boxing this afternoon. The stadium is a hollow surrounded by hills, as my Pukz (101–103) show. There are rings of stone seats all around the oval track on which we raced, nine tiers of them in most places. Stone-throwing, boxing, and the like take place in the grassy area surrounded by the track.
Hahraklahs was the only member of our crew to enter the stone-throwing, and it is the only event he has entered. I thought that they would measure the throws, but they do not. Two throw together, and the one who makes the shorter throw is eliminated. When all the pairs have thrown, new pairs are chosen by lot, as before. As luck would have it, Hahraklahs was in the final pair of the first pairings. He went to the farther end of the stadium and warned the spectators that his stone might fall among them, urging them to leave a clear space for it. They would not take him seriously, so he picked up one of the stones and warned them again, tossing it into the air and catching it with one hand as he spoke. They cleared a space as he had asked, though I could tell that he thought it too small. (Puk 104)
He went back to the line at the other end of the field, picking up the second stone on his way. In his huge hands they seemed scarcely larger than cheeses. When he threw, his stone sailed high into the air and fell among the spectators like a thunderbolt, smashing two limestone slabs in the ninth row. It had landed in the cleared space, but several people were cut by flying shards even so.
After seeing the boxing, I wonder whether I should have entered the spear-dueling after all. The boxers’ hands are bound with leather strips. They strike mostly at the face. A bout is decided when one contestant is knocked down; but I saw men fighting still when they were half blinded by their own blood. (Pukz 105–110) Polydeukahs won easily.
Since I am to take part in the spear-dueling, I had better describe the rules. I have not yet seen a contest, but Kaeneus has explained everything. A shield and a helmet are allowed, but no other armor. Neither the spears nor anything else (stones for example) may be thrown. First blood ends the contest, and in that way it is more humane than boxing. A contestant who kills his opponent is banished at once—he must leave the city, never to return. In general a contestant tries to fend off his opponent’s spear with his shield, while trying to pink his opponent with his own spear. Wounds are almost always to the arms and legs, and are seldom deep or crippling. It is considered unsportsmanlike to strike at the feet, although it is not, strictly speaking, against the rules.
Reading over some of my earlier entries, I find I referred to a “turbocycle.” Did I actually know what a turbocycle was when I wrote that? Whether I did or not, it is gone now. A cycle of turbulence? Kalais might ride turbulent winds, I suppose. No doubt he does. His father is the north wind. Or as I should say, his father is the god who governs it.
I am alone. Kleon was with me until a moment ago. He knelt before me and raised his head, and I cut his throat as he wished. He passed swiftly and with little pain. His spurting arteries drenched me in blood, but then I was already drenched with blood.
I cannot remember the name of the implant that will move me forward in time, but I hesitate to use it. (They are still shoveling dirt upon this tomb. The scrape of their shovels and the sounds of the dirt falling from them are faint, but I can hear them now that the others are dead.) Swiftly, then, before they finish and my rescuers arrive.
Eeasawn won the chariot race. (Pukz 111–114) I reached the semifinals in spear-dueling, fighting with the sword I picked up during the battle in my left hand. (Pukz 115–118)
Twice I severed a spear shaft, as Kastawr taught me. (Pukz 119 and 120) I was as surprised as my opponents. One must fight without effort, Kaeneus said, and Kaeneus was right. Forget the fear of death and the love of life. (I wish I could now.) Forget the desire to win and any hatred of the enemy. His eyes will tell you nothing if he has any skill at all. Watch his point, and not your own.
I was one of the final four contestants. (Pukz 121) Atalantah and I could not have been happier if I had won. (Pukz 122 and 123)
I have waited. I cannot say how long. Atalantah will surely come, I thought. Hahraklahs will surely come. I have eaten some of the funeral meats, and drunk some of the wine that was to cheer the king in Persefonay’s shadowy realm. I hope he will forgive me.
We drew pebbles from a helmet. (Pukz 124 and 125) Mine was the black pebble (Pukz 126), the only one. No one would look at me after that.
The others (Pukz 127 and 128) were chosen by lot, too, I believe. From the king’s family. From the queen’s. From the city. From the palace servants. That was Kleon. He had been wine steward. Thank you, Kleon, for your good wine. They walled us in, alive.
“Hahraklahs will come for me,” I told them. “Atalantah will come for me. If the tomb is guarded—”
They said it would be.
“It will not matter. They will come. Wait. You will see that I am right.”
They would not wait. I had hidden the dagger I won and had brought it into the tomb with me. I showed it to them, and they asked me to kill them.
Which I did, in the end. I argued. I pleaded. But soon I consented, because they were going to take it from me. I cut their throats for them, one by one.
And now I have waited for Atalantah.
Now I have waited for Hahraklahs.
Neither has come. I slept, and sat brooding in the dark, slept, and sat brooding. And slept again, and sat brooding again. I have reread my diary, and reviewed my Pukz, seeing in some things that I had missed before. They have not come. I wonder if they tried?
How long? Is it possible to overshoot my own period? Surely not, since I could not go back to it. But I will be careful just the same. A hundred years—a mere century. Here I go!
Nothing. I have felt about for the bodies in the dark. They are bones and nothing more. The tomb remains sealed, so Atalantah never came. Nobody did. Five hundred years this time. Is that too daring? I am determined to try it.
Greece. Not that this place is called Greece, I do not think it is, but Eeasawn and the rest came from Greece. I know that. Even now the Greeks have laid siege to Ilion, the city we feared so much. Agamemnawn and Akkilleus are their leaders.
Rome rules the world, a rule of iron backed by weapons of iron. I wish I had some of their iron tools right now. The beehive of masonry that imprisons me must surely have decayed somewhat by this time, and I still have my emergency rations.
I am going to try to pry loose some stones and dig my way out.
The Mayflower has set sail, but I am not aboard her. I was to make peace. I can remember it now—can remember it again. We imagined a cooperative society in which Englishmen and Indians might meet as friends, sharing knowledge and food. It will never happen now, unless they have sent someone else.
The tomb remains sealed. That is the chief thing and the terrible thing, for me. No antiquarian has unearthed it. King Kuzikos sleeps undisturbed. So does Kleon. Again . . .
This is the end. The Chronomiser has no more time to spend. This is my own period, and the tomb remains sealed; no archeologist has found it, no tomb robber. I cannot get out, and so must die. Someday someone will discover this. I hope they will be able to read it.
Good-bye. I wish that I had sailed with the Pilgrims and spoken with the Native Americans—the mission we planned for more than a year. Yet the end might have been much the same. Time is my enemy. Cronus. He would slay the gods if he could, they said, and in time he did.
Revere my bones. This hand clasped the hand of Hercules.
These bony lips kissed the daughter of a god. Do not pity me.
The bronze blade is still sharp. Still keen, after four thousand years. If I act quickly I can cut both my right wrist and my left. (Pukz 129 and 130, infrared)
The Zhou Dynasty of China came to an end during the Warring States Period (475–221 B.C.), when a number of vassals broke away from Zhou rule and fought vigorously among themselves. Amid this turmoil the arts thrived and the period came to be called “One Hundred Flowers Blooming.” Brenda Clough, who has already brought elements of the Near Eastern Bronze Age into modern times in two recent novels, illuminates this contradiction, that art may indeed be born out of war, and serve it.
How the Bells Came from
Yang to Hubei
BRENDA CLOUGH
I had never beheld such a miserable wretch. My master Chu gulped. The prisoner was bone-thin, the weeping sores easily visible through his rags. His dirty bare feet left red smears on the tile floor. “The carpet,” old Lord Yang murmured, and servants carried the priceless textile aside. We ourselves had not dared to walk on it and had stepped around.
The soldier in charge jerked the rope attached to the unfortunate’s leg shackle, and the prisoner fell flat on his face with no attempt to break the fall. I saw that his hands had been chopped off, the wrists ending in black cauterized stumps. How could one come to such a horrendous pass, the ultimate catastrophe for a handiworker? My own fingers twitched in sympathy. From my place just behind and to his left I saw Master Chu’s cheek blanch. He is oversensitive, a true artist. Luckily he has me, young Li, for First Assistant. Discreetly I gripped him by the elbow to keep him upright. Lord Yang would not think a faint amusing.
“Tell your tale, worm,” the soldier barked.
The prisoner’s Chinese was accented but understandable: “The battle in Guangdong—we should have won. We were winning. Our arrows darkened the sky. We had a third again as many spears.”
“And?” Lord Yang flicked a glance at my master. I squeezed his arm to make sure he was listening.
“The bells. They had sorcerers with bronze bells. Racks and racks of them, dangling like green skulls, carried into the field on wagons. And the sound . . .”
“Ah, the sound!” My master straightened. “Was the note high-pitched, or low?”
“Both. Neither. I cannot say. They beat the bells with mallets, and we fell down. Blood poured from our noses and assholes. Our guts twisted in our bellies . . .” The prisoner began to sob, muffling the noise in the crook of his elbow.
Lord Yang sighed. “This one’s usefulness is at an end.” The soldier hauled the prisoner roughly up, and the servants ushered them out. More servants crawled in their wake, silently mopping up the red stains with cloths. I tried not to look. “Now, Master Chu. You know of these bells that Lord Tso used to defeat Guangdong?”
“I can guess, my lord.” My master would have scratched his head in his usual thoughtful gesture, but I twitched his arm down—you can’t scratch in front of a warlord. “When I was First Assistant in his foundries, the Lord Tso was their most munificent patron.”
“As I shall be yours.” Lord Yang flicked a wrinkled finger. A servant came forward with two bulging leather bags. “Make me bells, Master Chu. Bells of war.”
“My lord, the Lord Tso ordered a set of sixty bells.”
“You shall make me eighty.”
“Eighty!” My master drew in a deep joyful breath. “Such a commission—the foundry’s resources will be yours alone, lord. And a huge ensemble like this—they must be zhong bells, of course, mounted upon racks for easy transport . . .”
It was just like Master Chu to immediately plunge into technical matters. He is like the phoenix, the bird that we inlay in gold upon the cylindrical sides of bells. The phoenix thinks only of its music, and flies higher and ever higher, singing. It doesn’t worry about practicalities.
My thoughts ran otherwise. The Lord Tso was a warrior in his prime, reputed to be a tiger in both combat and peace. If he had devoured Guangdong, his power would be overweening. And we were going to fight him? “Then it is war, lord?” I burst out.
Lord Yang’s lean mouth pursed in a smile. “High politics are for me to determine, apprentice. Do you stick to your master’s craft, and I will hew to mine. You are but one tile in the mosaic, and who can say which tile is the most essential? Here is gold enough. And from my storehouses you may draw bronze and tin. In two years’ time my armies shall march.”
“Two years?” Master Chu nodded. “I must consult with your musicians . . .”
“My lord!” I licked my lips, which had gone unaccountably dry. “No one loves bronzework better than I. But—bells are only bells. They are only our plea to heaven, our voice to the gods. There is no power against mortals in them. The symptoms the prisoner described—could it be that his army merely had drunk bad water?”
When Lord Yang clapped his hands the sound was thin and dry as reed striking reed. “Let the prisoner be returned,” he said. “You and your master shall question him closely. Wring from him all you can—indeed my spies brought him from Guangdong for this very purpose. Master Chu, you have my permission to have his captor exert whatever persuasion necessary.”
The idea made me shudder, and my master stared. He is incapable of hurting a fly. But the servant returned and fell to his knees, crying, “My lord, you indicated the prisoner was no longer of use to yourself. He has already been executed. Perhaps your lordship would care to see the body?”
Lord Yang shook his head sadly. “Regrettable. No, have the useless carrion flung onto the midden. You must manage without, Master Chu. I look forward to seeing the bells. And—” He nodded at the servant. “You have served me long. Is it your wish to be executed for your incompetence, or to commit suicide?”
“I shall hang myself immediately, lord, thank you!” The servant kowtowed and scuttled away. We were dismissed with another gesture, and gratefully backed out of the room.
“Bells we can cast,” I said, once we were safe in the forecourt. “Bells that will sing a true note clear as crystal, and not only a single note, but sometimes even two harmonious ones. But a bell that can kill? Master, are there secrets to the craft that you have not yet taught me?”
“Never, lad! I was First Assistant in Lord Tso’s foundries, and I can attest that no magics were used in those bells. It’s some fanciful story that our lord got into his head. He shouldn’t have consulted that prisoner. Under threat of death a man will say any nonsense.”
“But you didn’t tell him that.” I could not blame him. The fate of Lord Yang’s servant did not encourage frankness.
“Bells are musical instruments, my boy. You could easier make a military weapon of needles and thread! I like your idea that the losing army had drunk bad water. And it could be that the music of Lord Tso’s bells greatly enheartened the troops, urging them on to victo
ry. If they believe it is magic, then it is so.”
This was an encouraging line of reflection. “So perhaps our bells could be likewise,” I said. “Like the jade button on the top of a mandarin’s cap: not the cause of his greatness but an ornament upon it.”
“Two years is a long time,” my ever-hopeful master said. “Let us design and cast the bells, a fascinating project! And worry about slaying armies with them later—”
“Master?”
We both looked up from our talk. A maid beckoned from a circular archway in the wall. “Do I know you?” my master said uncertainly.
“Of course not. But surely you know of my mistress, Lady Yang. She summons you.”
“I?” Bemused, my master followed her, and I fell in behind. Beyond the archway was a walled garden. A plum tree drooped over a carp pool bordered with elaborate stonework. Beside the tree sat a woman, almost lost in the amplitude of brocade sleeves and robe. The mere sight of the gold embroidery on her black satin slippers told us both that we should bow down to the pavement. “Great lady,” my master murmured.
“Do it again, only this time don’t let your butt stick up.”
Astonished, I twisted around to stare up with one eye. The robe and cap and sash were huge, impossibly grand, but the little face beneath the cap was girlish, delicate and pale as plum blossom. “Go on,” she commanded. “More elegantly this time.”
The little foot in its satin slipper tapped impatiently. I hastened to set the example for my master, rising and then kowtowing again. Both of us tucked our sterns well under this time. I remembered now, how old Yang had lately married a new and exalted wife, a princess from Jiangsu. “Great lady, how may these humble ones serve you?”
The First Heroes Page 4
