by David Bell
“When she told me of her Consort’s torment, she spoke of him in such a tender voice.”
“Why should she not? She is his sister.”
SACRED BULLS
Two archers led the way on foot. Behind them came Kanesh mounted on a shaggy-coated gelding, followed by Sharesh astride a young she-donkey and holding the traces of two others that had blankets and cloaks strapped to their backs and food baskets slung on their flanks. Two more archers brought up the rear. They had left the Palace stables soon after daybreak and with the sea behind them took the paved road that ran along a ridge heading inland towards the mountains. By the side of the road was a straight stone-lined ditch with flowing water in it. One of the archers told Sharesh that the water came from springs higher in the hills and was led down the channel to feed cisterns in the Palace grounds.
“It’s good to drink, nice and sweet, but it’s more than your life’s worth to be seen taking it from that channel. It’s all for the Palace, see, because they don’t have enough wells there for all the water they need for washing and cooking and cleaning out all the privies and such. Up near the springs you can have a drink from one of the cisterns, but woe betide you if you puts your mouth into the spring itself, because that’s holy, see? Now, get off that animal and let her rest a bit. The master’s called a halt and I wouldn’t mind a sit-down myself. Further on it gets steeper and you’ve got cobbles instead of paving slabs, and horses can slip, but not these beauties, they have nimble little hooves. We take a turn across the valley soon.”
On the other side of the valley was a small flat-topped hill with a number of stone buildings shaped like beehives on its summit. Sharesh watched a bullock cart crawling along a road that led off the one they were following and up the slope towards the buildings. When the party reached the turn off, they found a guardhouse manned by two spearmen who watched them closely as they passed by.
“Not allowed up there,” said the archer to Sharesh. “City of the Dead, they call it. Royal tombs and burial ground, not for the likes of us. They say there’s a princess buried in one with a horse next to her. Waste of a horse, I’d say, but don’t you go telling anybody I said that. They have gardeners and masons and smiths living up there; some of them have been there all their lives keeping the place right and doing all the work. They won’t be able to stay there when they’re dead, though, oh no: they’ll have to find a hole somewhere else for them. Look, that’s where we’re going, over there.”
By now, the sun was at its highest and as he looked in the direction the archer was pointing, Sharesh was dazzled at first. He shaded his eyes with his hand, and gasped in surprise. On a little plain not far off he saw the Palace again, its shining walls with their wide windows, its stairways and colonnades, its courts and roofs, all set about with gardens full of flowering plants and trees in full leaf. Their road was only one of many that led towards it, all with people and carts on them and all seeming to be heading there. He could see a round lake and fields, some with sheep in them, and others planted with rows of olive trees and vines, lots of vines. But they had left the Palace early in the morning; had they gone round in a circle?
Kanesh reined in his horse and turned to Sharesh. “That is Setujia ahead. It is the summer residence for the Palace so most of it is unoccupied at present. It was built to resemble the Palace as closely as possible, except in size, so that the courtiers would not feel the change of scene too keenly, though it must become somewhat crowded at times. The best of Keftiu’s wine is made from the grapes grown in those vineyards. We will water the animals there and rest them until the sun goes down a little. There is a Court official I must consult about the next stage of our journey, and our visit to the stud farm; his name is Sukare. I think you should be presented to him. There is a bathhouse near the cistern where you can wash and prepare yourself. These gentlemen,” he said, bowing solemnly at the archers, who grinned back at him. “Will see that you do not drown.”
Before he knew what was happening, Sharesh had been grabbed by two hefty archers and hurled into the huge cistern he had thought was a lake. The water was clear and cool and he splashed happily back towards the edge, only to have a sinewy hand push him under again. He scooped up the water and flung it as his tormenters until they backed away, soaked and laughing. The hot sun soon dried him as he sat with the men in the shade of some tamarisk trees, sharing his salt fish and barley cakes with their olives and cheese while the horse and donkeys sucked water from a stone trough nearby. After eating, Sharesh sat with his back against a tree trunk and dozed. Voices seemed to come to him from far away.
“Where are we off to after this, then?… he said something about the stud farm… that’s up in the hills… where’s he from, the big man?… not from Keftiu, by the look of him… you see him on that chariot?… handled it like he was born on one… what’s he doing here?… never you mind, you’re here to do what the Captain ordered… look lively now, officer coming.”
Sharesh swam back to consciousness and found Kanesh looking down at him. He scrambled to his feet, scratching his head and yawning. “Splash some water on your face and come with me,” said Kanesh. “Sukare is ready to receive you.”
It was cool on the roof terrace under the canopy of plaited freshly cut rushes. In the far hazy distance lay the sea like a flat dark blue plain, with Dia, the sand-coloured island, sitting there, as still as the lizard whose shape people fancied they could see in it. Over that horizon, thought Sharesh, only a day’s good sail away, was Kallista. His mother might be resting in the courtyard at home thinking of him, or at her prayers in the Temple on the Hill; Dareka was bound to be checking lists in the dusty warehouse; he felt a pang of longing for Tika and hoped someone remembered to feed her. He dropped his gaze. There was the Palace, the Great Palace of Kunisu as he thought of it now he had seen this one, with its tiers of elegant pavilions, halls and colonnades fitted so neatly together, shapely and gleaming as if a jeweller had carved it from the very rock of the hill on which it stood, overlooking the valley. It seemed contented, sure of itself, as it slept in the afternoon sun. He felt a big hand push him gently but firmly forward. He shook his head, came to his senses, placed his hands in the gesture of greeting and bowed to the elderly man who stood near the edge of the canopy, regarding him with a slightly amused smile.
“I am Sharesh, sir.”
“And I am Sukare, Chamberlain of the Palace and Governor of this province. You were far away in your thoughts. I knew your mother.”
“My mother? How did you know I…”
“But that was before you were born. Come closer. Yes, now I see something of her in you: your eyes, and the shape of your hands. She is a devout servant of the Lady Mother; take pride in her. Come over there with me and look. Now, you see, down there, that stone circle with the half roof and the sacred horns on top? That is the holy spring whose water is guided along channels and conduits to the Palace. Your mother assisted in the rites of purification at the spring before your birth. Now, look across the valley and up there: the mountain Jaduktas, with its cavern sacred to the Lady Mother since time began, where your mother also served. From its height in every direction the Lady Mother’s holy places, sanctuaries, temples, the Palace itself, can be seen. What are you thinking now?”
“I was wondering how far the Lady Mother can see from her holy place. If I were on a ship sailing on the Endless Ocean, could she see me there?”
“Wherever the sun shines and the moon shines, she can see.”
“A sailor told me that the sun goes down in the Endless Ocean. Could she see then?”
“Sharesh,” said Kanesh, “the Governor has given us permission to see the farm where the bulls are bred and trained, a great privilege and one for which we should thank him.”
“Thank you. I picked these flowers for you on the way. They smell very sweet. My mother likes them.”
It was a long hot ride on a road that climbed up ridges and dropped into valleys leading down towards the coast. On one
sharp corner they came across a pile of shattered pots. One of the archers said that there were clay pits higher up the slopes where a village of potters made their living making large pots used for grain storage which they supplied to big estates and even the palace at Setujia itself. They must have had bad luck with this delivery, maybe because the bullocks pulling the cart got scared by a snake on the road and bolted, and a wheel came off on the bend. Further on when they stopped to rest the animals again, Sharesh saw a rough track leading up into the hills and asked if that was the way to the potters’ village. At first the archer pretended not to hear him, but when he persisted, the man told him, speaking in a low voice.
“No, that’s further back. This track used to be a wide road, so they say, and all paved. It went up to a big house, a mansion, maybe a palace, I shouldn’t wonder, on a plain all of its own hidden away up there in the hills. Grand people lived there; owned all the land round here, they did. Then they must have done something really bad, don’t ask me what, because I don’t know, but really bad. Why, you ask? Because one night the earth shook like a tree in a storm and the house fell down, every pillar and post and wall, so it was only a heap of stones afterwards with everybody dead under it.” He paused and made the sign of the plea for protection. “And now there’s only bats and vultures and snakes living there, and some say devils, though I don’t believe in that sort of thing; but it’s a place of bad luck, don’t you mistake, and I wouldn’t go near it if I were you.”
Kanesh must have overheard what was being said. “Many a big house was destroyed on Keftiu when the earth shook then, even the Palace, but most were rebuilt. This one was abandoned because the shaking broke rocks and blocked the springs below ground, so the water was lost.”
“I expect you’re right, my Lord, but there’s still people dead under there. I’ve heard stories.” They started again on the last stretch of the day. As he rode along, Sharesh wondered how many dead people lay under the ruins of their house. The sun was nearing the horizon when they reached the rest house where Sukare had told then they should stop for the night. It was built of stone with two rooms for sleeping. On the roof stood the sacred horns, showing that it was in the care of the Palace. A small spring trickled its water into a hollowed out stone basin. The animals were tethered on cords long enough to allow them to reach the water and graze on the rough grass and scrub growing on the cleared space around the house. The baskets held food, barley cakes and oil to soak them, salt meat, figs and cheese, and flasks of sweetened wine which was shared out among everyone. One of the archers used his firestone and striking flint to spark resin-soaked tinder into smouldering strands which were carefully blown into flame; dry grass stems caught next and then some kindling twigs. Logs stored ready in the house were added and soon there was a fire going whose embers would keep any sleeping archer wrapped in his blanket warm through the night. The men squatted round the fire chewing olives and spitting the stones into the flames, and talking as soldiers always did, ribbing each other, making bets, yarning of drinking bouts, stupid officers and women. Sharesh tried to stay awake and listen to their stories, but tiredness after the journey and the warmth of the fire were finally too much for him and he fell asleep. He did not wake up as one of the archers carried him inside the house, laid him on the heap of straw and covered him with a blanket, but he dreamed of houses falling down and whimpered a little as he slept. Outside, except for one who stood guard, the archers lay under their blankets around the glowing embers, their weapons ready to hand.
Kanesh stood near the road, looking up at the stars scattered across the sky as thickly as ears of barley on a warehouse floor when a sack has burst. There was the Sailors’ Star: an immovable beacon lit by the Lady Mother to guide ships, or so Potyr believed. Behind, but hidden by the mountains, the Hunter waited to stride the skies again: was he wounded in the shoulder where the star was red, as well as bitten in the heel by a scorpion where the white star shone? Let the mind wander, and it could see what it wanted in the stars, if it were not afraid of offending someone or something up there. One of the archers had said to him that was the Charioteer aloft in the direction they had come from, where the big yellow star gleamed. He had asked him where the wheels were, and the man had said they took them off at night, as every charioteer knew. They had both laughed at that, and the man went off to join his mates round the fire, hugging the bottle Kanesh gave him.
Sharesh woke to the sound of voices and men stamping their feet outside. It was cold and he hugged the blanket round his shoulders as he went out, hoping that someone had blazed up the fire. He was given a piece of warm salty fish that had been parcelled in leaves and put in the ashes to heat up, and told to get it down quickly as they would be on their way as soon as the sun was up and the animals had drunk from the stone basin. It was mid-morning, at their first stop at a fork in the road, before he felt warm enough to roll up his blanket and tie it with the others on the pack animal. The smell of woodsmoke was in the air and a herd of goats was being chivvied along the side road in the direction of a small stone cottage by a boy with a stick in his hand and a dog at his heels. Beyond the cottage was a grove of cypress trees enclosing and almost hiding what Sharesh saw from the sacred horns on its roof must be a temple, or perhaps the country house of a Palace official. Their own route lay ahead, curving around rocky outcrops and clumps of trees, and climbing steadily towards a range hills whose slopes were scored with ravines, that rose abruptly from the plain like the half-ruined ramparts of some deserted city. The road twisted its way up towards a saddle in the ridge and by midday they were sitting at the top the pass, with the cool breeze drying the sweat from their bodies while they gazed down at the country on the other side.
The ridge they were sitting on formed an almost complete circle enclosing a grassy plain dotted here and there with cottages round which sheep and goats were grazing. In the centre of the plain was a cluster of larger buildings and walled enclosures. A road led from these across the plain and through a gap in the wall of hills in the direction of the sea. In the opposite direction the hills rose in rocky steps towards a snow-capped mountain peak. The animals must have smelt water on the plain below because they need little urging to start the descent and before much longer they had their muzzles in a large pond fringed with reeds on the edge of the plain. They were allowed to graze while the men finished their own food.
“Cow shit,” said the leading archer, sniffing the air. “Can’t mistake it. We must be getting close.”
“Look out for bulls,” said another. “No trees to shin up here,” he explained to Sharesh.
A loud voice hailed them as they approached an enclosure with walls built from piled-up boulders. The archers reached for their bows but Kanesh held up his hand. A young man carrying a long staff appeared and challenged them, demanding who they were. Kanesh rode up to him and spoke a few harsh words. The man backed away and hurried out of sight, returning a few moments later with an older man who wore a grey woollen tunic with a leather belt round his waist from which hung a bronze disk bearing the sign of the sacred horns. He carefully examined Sukare’s personal seal that Kanesh dropped into his outstretched hand. He looked up, smiled, bowed briefly and held out his arm to show the way towards the farmhouse.
Sharesh worked hard in the next few days, heaving fodder into the pens where cows were waiting to give birth, cleaning out stalls, bringing in bales of clean bedding loaded on the back of his donkey, fetching and carrying for Dasitas, the stock farmer. He soon began to think he was being watched and tested, because in spite of asking several times, he had not been allowed to see any of the bulls. He was right; but he must have passed the test because one night he was jerked out of sleep by a rough hand shaking him, and a voice telling him to come quick. He was too late for the moment of birth but in the light of the lanterns he could see a calf crumpled on the straw, its coat wet and slippery, with its mother licking it clean. He watched as the calf struggled to its feet at last and fumbled with its m
uzzle along the cow’s flanks until it found the teats.
“Look at him,” said the stockman, “he’s the one all right. Look at his shoulders, full of muscle, and his back end, nice and slim but good legs; and he’s got the colouring. He’s one for the Games, he is. Watch him suck. No, don’t touch: she won’t like that, not her. He’s her first and she’s jealous. Got a lot of spirit, she has; we could see that right from her being born. He’ll get it from her; spirit always comes from the mother, if it comes at all.”
“What do they get from the father?”
“Nobility. You should see his father.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow, after he’s done his duty with a heifer that’s ready for him. You can’t watch that, you’re too young.”
“I know what you’re talking about. I’ve seen dogs –”
“It’s different with him. He’s a sacred bull, because of his colour, and what happened at the Games as well.”
“What did happen at the Games?”
“I haven’t time now. Wait till you see him tomorrow. Maybe Dasitas will tell you then.”
The huge white bull stood motionless a few paces away on the other side of the wall. There was a pile of fodder on the ground in front of him but he ignored it. He seemed to be looking into the distance, towards the mountains.
“He’s calming down now,” said Dasitas. “Look at him; he knows what’s up there, all those carvings of him in the Cave. Every time he gets a cow in calf we take a carving up and the priestess puts it on the Lady Mother’s altar and we pray for a strong young bull calf to serve her at the Games when it grows up. He’s always looking up there when he’s out here.”
“It could be that he likes to keep the onshore wind at his back, like all cattle,” said Kanesh.
