by David Bell
The horn sounded again outside the Palace walls, a long blast that rose and fell like a bull far away roaring its challenge. The crowd which had been allowed to gather at the entrance opposite the end where Kanesh and Sharesh sat, hastily made way for two herdsmen, who strode into the courtyard leading a bull by long ropes looped round its neck. He had garlands of flowers and greenery draping his back and his horns and hooves shone with gilt. He allowed himself to be paraded round he courtyard so that all could see him and was then led away through a gateway below the balcony on which the court ladies were sitting. The Commander leaned towards Sekara.
“My offering for the sacrifice. My wife chose him; on the advice of the victor in last year’s contest, she said. Fine animal, don’t you think?”
“A fine animal indeed, Commander, your bull.”
More shouts and cheers came from the far entrance and up the ramp marched the corps of bull dancers led by the Lord of the Dance wearing his crown of peacock feathers. As they paraded past, Sharesh searched every face until finally he saw her, Kallia, last in the line. Girls and youths alike wore short kilts and chains of flowers round their necks. They formed a half circle facing the Ruler’s Sanctuary before raising their arms in salute to the High Priestess and her Consort, and sang their hymn of reverence to the Lady Mother. Then they ran and skipped and turned somersaults round and round the great courtyard while the crowds applauded them and shouted encouragements. Again the horn sounded and they ran to the sides and stood in line panting and waiting.
Two young bulls were led in by stockmen holding cords attached to the ends of their horns. The bulls swung their heads to look around but seemed quiet under the touch of their keepers. They were led to positions in the centre of the court about twenty paces apart, facing each other. Two other stockmen walked up and placed wreaths of greenery on the paving in front of them. The bulls lowered their heads and cropped some of the leaves. Kanesh pointed to one side to show Sharesh where other men wearing leather aprons stood in the shade with heavy nets and rope hobbles weighted with stones lying at their feet. As the bulls chewed peacefully at their fodder, the herdsmen holding the cords stepped quietly away and two girls holding pipes took their places and began to play. Soft, soothing notes gradually silenced the murmuring of the spectators and as the girls played on, the bulls lifted their heads and stood quite still as if listening.
The Lord of the Dance stepped into the centre and began a slow and graceful dance, weaving up and down between the two bulls. Other dancers, girls and youths, joined him one by one, and began twisting and turning about one another as the same haunting melody played on. The Lord of the Dance led his troop to one bull and bowed, and then to the other and bowed again. The rhythm quickened and the bulls began to stir, roused by the music and the nodding, fluttering peacock feathers. The pipers now drew away from the bulls and still playing, coaxed them into the dance. The trailing cords were picked up to guide the bulls as the dancers trod their sinuous patterns, gliding past one another, now back against back, now face to face, brushing against the bulls and touching the horns as the music drew them on. The rhythm became urgent, not faster but more insistent and, feeling its power, the spectators began to sway and chant in time to the pipes and the dancers’ steps. Bewitched by the music and the graceful twisting movements of the dancers, the bulls themselves seemed to blend into the pattern of the dance. Seven times they danced the measure, paused, and danced again seven times, and then the same again, on and on as if they would never end. But imperceptibly the notes of the pipes softened and the dancers’ steps slowed, and the whole intricate maze of movement unfolded until the bulls were back in their original places with the wreaths under their muzzles and the dancers surrounding them in a simple circle.
The spectators gradually woke from their daze and began to applaud, louder and louder, causing the bulls to jerk their heads and pull against the cords. When the leather-aproned stockmen came on carrying their nets and hobbles, the crowd sensed the danger and became quieter. Keepers calmed the bulls with soft words and titbits and garlands were hung over their necks before they were led away. With the Lord of the Dance at their head, the pipe players and dancers ran lightly round the courtyard holding up their arms to acknowlege the applause. Sharesh jumped to his feet and clapped loudest of all as Kallia skipped by with only the briefest turn of her head, but that was enough to make him catch his breath. The troop stopped to salute the High Priestess and the Consort before they danced away down the ramp and out of the Palace, the music of the pipes fading away with them into the distance.
“The stockmen didn’t have to use their nets,” said Sharesh. “Why do they tie stones to the hobbles?”
“If they have to bring a charging bull down, they throw the hobble low and the stones wrap the rope tightly round its legs. Then they can fling the net over it. No, they were not needed this time, but they will be keeping them ready for what happens next.”
In the centre of the courtyard a group of men were taking handfuls of something from baskets and scattering it on the on the paving stones. Sharesh asked what it was.
“Sand, to stop the leapers, and the bulls, from slipping. It does not always work. They will keep some in reserve; you will see why later. Look, here they come.”
Shouts and cheers came from the entrance as three young bulls burst into the courtyard sending the crowd there scrambling in all directions. Young men were running for their lives ahead of the bulls, while others raced after them grasping at tails and being whirled round and flung to the ground as the beasts swerved and bucked all round the courtyard. Jumping and waving, some taunted the bulls into charging and then fled, yelling with fear and excitement for the safety of a staircase, or a column to hide behind. Spectators waved, laughed and shouted encouragements, whether to the bulls or their tormentors, Sharesh was not sure, until he saw one of the sprinting men trip and fall under the hooves of the bull that chased him. As his body rolled over and over the bull turned with astonishing agility, lowered its head and charged at him again as the crowd cheered it on. The man’s friends darted towards the bull, trying to distract it by waving and shouting, but they were too late and he was caught on his knees by the great curved horns and tossed to one side. While the bull careered away searching for other targets, the man was seized by the arms and dragged away towards a doorway, still alive but spouting blood from a wound in his thigh. The shattering noise, the swirling movement of men and bulls, the stink of sweat and fear, made Sharesh wonder how this could ever end, but what he did not know was that it all had a purpose: first the spectators, especially the notables, had to be given plenty of excitement, and then, as the bulls eventually began to tire a little, would come the chance for the young men to show off their other skills which would be seen as further offerings to the Lady Mother. Most of them, in fact, feeling they had given enough proof their daring, or not wanting to tempt fate any further, drifted away to join the crowd and enjoy the jokes and back slapping that awaited them. Three remained in the courtyard readying themselves for another encounter with the bulls.
Two of the bulls now stood quietly together at the side of the courtyard below the ladies’ balcony, as peaceful as if they were dozing in a meadow. The other had found some shade near the ramp and he was more alert, occasionally pawing the paving stones and shaking his head. The men approached this one first. Two of them provoked him into pursuing them and as they ran round the courtyard, the other man kept pace, using a long pole to vault over the bull’s back from one side to the other repeatedly until they came to the exit through which all three disappeared, followed by the bull, only to reappear a few moments later and single out another bull for the pursuit. This time the vaulting was performed by a different man and without a pole, the vaulter running alongside the bull and pressing down hard on its back with the hand nearest to give enough lift for a leap to the other side, and then back again a few paces further on, until the course was run and the bull in its turn charged through the exit
and out of sight.
One bull remained and he was no longer peaceful. The sun was hot; frightening noises filled his ears; unknown creatures menaced him. Two of these creatures were coming at him now. He had to attack them, drive them off. They ran from him. Another appeared in front of him, very close. He charged. The creature disappeared, came back on the other side. He charged again. It disappeared, loomed close, disappeared again. The sun was very hot. He was hot, inside his head. He charged again.
The point of the horn grazed the skin of the man’s shoulder and the crowd roared its delight: closest yet. The bull turned and came for him again. He did not move, only arched his back and it swept past him, a finger’s width away. He smelt its rank sweat, and his own. The crowd howled. The bull player turned once more and circled the bull, bringing him round to face the exit. Man and beast stood, two, three paces apart, staring into each other’s eyes. Neither moved. He thought, we are one in the eyes of the Mother; am I the offering, or is he? One last pass and it’s over; like this.
The horn entered his side, just above the hip. He felt it rip his flesh, spin him, and tear free before he fell and instinctively rolled away before trying to get back on his feet. He slipped on something wet and fell and rolled again. The noise died away. He felt cold. How could that be when the sun was so hot?
The stockman knew his craft and threw the hobble well, binding the forelegs tight; but the force of its charge made the bull somersault as it fell, sending the massive jerking beast sliding on its back towards the crumpled body of the bull player. His two friends dragged the bleeding man away an instant before he could be crushed. The crowd which had held its breath, burst into a tempest of applause. The bull player was lifted onto a hurdle and hastily carried away with one of his companions pressing a thick cloth to his side to staunch the wound. But the blood fell fast, painting a crimson path through the exit and out of the Palace.
The bull had broken his back. He lay on the blood-spattered stones, moaning and feebly struggling, with froth and slime drooling from his mouth. The stockmen threw a net over him, but there was no need: he would never get up again. The crowd, having cheered his bravery earlier, now ignored him as they argued over how good the performances had been, and haggled over their wagers about the number of vaultings and the passes made by the bull player. Eventually a team of bullocks was led in and ropes were tied to the bull’s rear hocks. The carter raised his whip to start his team, but before he could crack it a deep voice boomed out above the noise of the crowd.
“Stop!”
The crowd fell silent and all heads turned to stare as Kanesh strode down the length of the courtyard until he stood over the stricken bull. He drew the long dark sword from its sheath, raised it, and turning on his heel, swept the point around the courtyard, starting with the Ruler’s Sanctuary, passing along all the packed balconies, and ending where he had begun, gazing steadily at the rooftop temple with the sword held high. He knelt down beside the bull’s head, bent close and seemed to speak. He stood up, held the sword high with both hands and thrust the blade deep between the shoulder blades. The bull raised its head, perhaps to look at him, and then its body shuddered, relaxed, and it was dead. Kanesh drew out the sword and raised it again towards the Ruler’s Sanctuary. A stream of blood fell from it and mingled with the blood of the bull player on the stone slabs. His voice rang out again.
“Honour the brave!”
The crowd took up the call and shouted again and again. “Honour the brave. Honour the brave. Honour the brave…!”
No bull had ever before been despatched in the Games with such a weapon. It was a sign that must be obeyed. The Consort rose from his throne and stepped forward to the low wall of the Sanctuary, the gold bull mask turning to look down on its reflection, the death mask of the sacrificed bull below. The crowd fell silent, awestruck, bewildered. Two thin white hands were slowly raised and placed together in the gesture of respect, then lifted towards the sky and opened in the sign of dedication. Kanesh lowered the sword and drew the flat of the blade across the bull’s flanks, one side then the other, to clean it of blood. Honour had been done. He sheathed the sword and looking straight ahead, marched back across the open courtyard towards his place. As he approached, the other spectators hastily made way for him. He looked down at them and spoke seriously like a teacher explaining an important matter to his pupils.
“Ladies, I beg you to forgive the interruption. Untidiness: I cannot abide it.”
He resumed his seat. The ladies looked at him with wide-open speculative eyes. Other eyes were also turned on him, and on the boy beside him, from high above in the Ruler’s Sanctuary. Muffled words came from behind the golden bull mask.
“The ceremony must proceed; without delay.”
The High Priestess raised her hand, and a moment later came the sound of the triton shell horn from outside the Palace. The carter jerked up his head like someone roughly shaken awake. He looked around. People seemed to be waiting for something to happen. He raised his whip again. No one stopped him. He twirled it about his head and snapped it over the bullocks’ shoulders with a loud crack. They strained forwards as the whip cracked again, and slowly dragged the dead bull out of the courtyard, giving the men waiting with their baskets room to scatter sand over the pools of blood.
Everone now looked eagerly towards the ramp entrance. Wagers over the number of successful vaults and whether or not somebody would be gored had been settled, and new ones were being made as to which of the bull leapers, Thyras, the reigning champion, or Dissias the Taphian, would be crowned Victor of the Games this year. The wager made the evening before in the scented chamber at the Commander’s house, was about to be decided, one way or the other. On the balcony, the lady with the almond-shaped eyes arched her eyebrows and smiled again, to herself, as she thought of the prize that Thyras was soon to win for her.
Following custom, Dissias, as challenger, was first to leap. He entered the courtyard so unobtrusively that many of the spectators did not realise he was there until the bull was led in and he and his companions lined up before it to perform the simple ceremony of bowing in reverence. They wore shoes and gaiters of soft leather and nothing else but short tight kilts split at the sides. The bull looked back at them with massive unconcern. He was the son of his father, all right, thought Kanesh: mostly white with some spashes of pale brown across his back, and noble-looking, no doubt about that. Now, would Dissias leap as he had shown he could, with grace and daring, and with those other refinements they had practised so often in the last few days?
Taphians were taller and slimmer than the people of Keftiu. The men wore their hair short and had a reputation for hard work and physical stamina. The women were often as tall as their men, slim-hipped and small-breasted, and bold enough in any company to make some other women feel slighted and some other men feel tantalised. Taphians had a reputation as tireless runners, not as bull leapers. Dissias and his two women were rarities. The crowd was intrigued, but almost all were behind Thyras, who, after all, had been born and raised on Keftiu.
The crowd fell quiet as the Taphians took their positions: Dissias and one of the women side by side, a few paces in front of the bull, and the other woman a similar distance behind it, on her toes with her feet apart and her arms half raised in the catching stance. The bull began to feel some of the tension in the atmosphere and lowered his head. With the woman following close behind him to distract the bull in the event of any mishap, Dissias immediately took three long, high-stepping paces up to the bull, seized a horn in each hand and, as the startled animal jerked up its head lifting him upside down, let go of the horns and turned over in a somersault to land on his feet near the tail, flex his knees, and instantly leap off to land facing the catcher who took his hands to steady him. The crowd politely applauded a good standard opening leap and the almond-eyed lady on the balcony felt confident in her wager: that was unexpectedly smoothly performed but it was nothing that Thyras could not do better. The bull was led t
o a tethering ring set in the wall at the side of the courtyard and the Taphians stood near it with their arms about one another’s waists, waiting for Thyras’s entrance.
Thyras strode in with the Victor’s chaplet on his brow and stood in the centre of the courtyard with his two companions, bowing repeatedly to the cheers and waves of his supporters. It was some time before the noise subsided enough for the bull to be led in. Kanesh saw at once that it was not one of those from the high plain where Dassitas bred his bulls for the festival. It was said later that the priestess who performed the purifying ceremony had heard a rumour that the bull reserved for Thyras had run loose on the drive to the Palace and mounted a cow, and nothing that the outraged stockman said would dissuade her from refusing to purify Dassitas’s beast for the leaping. Thyras had seemed unconcerned when he heard of this, and himself selected a bull that came from a breeding farm at Sivrita in the valley between the two sacred mountains. Now it stood out in the sun for everyone to see, its keepers close by whispering their soothing words. It was a fine-looking animal, tall at the shoulder and mostly brown in colour with a white flash down the chest. It held its head high but it swayed a little and its tail lifted and swung slowly from side to side. Thyras watched it carefully; he could see that it was nervous.
The leap was flawless. Thyras seemed to float through his arc, barely touching the bull’s back before leaping again high into the air, over the tail to land rock-steady on the sanded flagstones, without any need for the catcher to touch him. He had to plead with the audience to end their applause so that the bull could be kept calm enough for its keepers to lead it to the tethering ring.
The second leap was performed only by the women. The bull watched Dissias and his companion rising up and down slowly on their toes before him, keeping his attention, waiting for the moment. He lowered his head slightly and the girl sprang forward. The leap was well timed but she was flung higher than expected and came out of the somersault only halfway along the bull’s back. She recovered well with a graceful little hop towards the tail before bounding high into the air and landing well beyond the bull’s rear, almost in the arms of the catcher. Her rival did even better, matching the leap but ending more daringly by twisting her body in the air as she descended behind the bull.
