by David Bell
Koreta sat in his usual high-backed chair beside the window from which he could view all the comings and goings in the harbour. Apigoron withdrew silently from the room after Potyr had accepted a chair but declined the offer of food or drink. He was disturbed by the appearance of his old comrade, but knew better than to express any concern in word or look.
“I sit here so that I may catch the smell of the salt air. Despite my decrepitude, I feel it does invigorate me. You will forgive my not taking your hand. You came in on the Palace ship from Keftiu, captained her, in fact. That is a rare concession.”
“The Deputy Commander can be very generous.”
“Sekara knows well that you taught a severe lesson off Kestera and that merits the gratitude of many a seafarer.”
“We harried a fine seaman and all his crew go to their deaths.”
“I understand, but what is surely the significant point is that it was a fight between equals and not the despatch of a mere rabid sea dog. You must realise that probing and reconnaissance of our position have been going on for some time now and your adversary in that action was paying the price for trouble he had caused you earlier.”
“Are you saying that this was the same ship that struck off Karakya? How can you know that?”
“You had an archer on the warship wounded by a bronze-tipped javelin. He kept hold of it and on his return to Keftiu sold it to a crewman on the Palace cargo ship that you brought here. It is exactly the same as a javelin found in a body washed up on Karakaya after the ship carrying your timber was lost there: the same marks on the shaft, the same tang, the same pins for fixing the head: everything the same. I have both of them here now. You may see them for yourself. It seems that after our raider left Karakaya he headed for Kestera intending to prey on the shipping that passes through the strait. It is almost certain that he was also the same raider who took the Kallista vessel near Hyria some time ago: the boy who escaped that attack said something about the captain wearing a boar’s tusk helmet and your man wore the same, did he not?”
“He did. What can we make of all this?”
“That we know certain things but need to know more. For that reason it is fortunate that you will be back on the trade routes again soon – and in greater safety for a while – because the most useful information is gathered by seafarers. They need it to be trustworthy for their own good. I would not tell this to everyone but I have had word that envoys from the Labarna, the Great King, are seeking certain luxury goods and wines that are not available in their own lands. There may be opportunity for your employer when the new ship is ready. Her maiden voyage could be to the port the Labarna has secured near the long straits.”
“It bears thinking of,” said Potyr, “but from what I hear, the Labarna is inclined to take possession of anything he thinks may be of use to him. The new ship might be just such a thing.”
A strange hoarse sound came from Koreta’s throat. Potyr realised he was laughing. “You are as cautious as ever, Captain. Let us talk of other matters. First, you will tell me of the action off Kestera – I wish to know particularly about the archers – and then of the ship, and last, of Kanesh’s activities in Keftiu.”
“I have here a report from Kanesh.” Potyr opened his wallet and placed the tablets where Koreta could reach them.
There was a discreet but firm knock on the door and Apigoron entered the room. Without turning his head, Koreta raised one hand and slowly waved his bandaged forefinger once from side to side. Apigoron came forward, took the tablets from the table, looked meaningly but respectfully at Potyr for a moment, then bowed and went out.
“My nurses are here,” said Koreta, “but they will wait a little while you talk to me. Would you believe, it but my physician’s latest recommendation is a potion made from bats’ blood and the tears of virgins?” The strange strained laugh sounded again. “It is some time now since I gave any virgin cause to weep.”
Akusha had just lit the lamps in preparation for her evening devotions when the little maid appeared at her door to say that a captain was waiting in the courtyard below. He would not say why he had come. She found Potyr standing by the fountain looking up at the first stars appearing in the purple evening sky. He turned at the sound of her approach, bowed his head briefly and placed his hands together in the gesture of reverence made to a priestess. She waited for him to speak but he simply opened the leather wallet hanging from his shoulder, took out a short roll of white cloth and offered it to her. She took it from his hand without a word. They looked at each other in silence, each knowing the thoughts of the other. Potyr bowed again to her, then strode away with his sailor’s walk towards the gate and was gone.
“Good night, Captain,” said Akusha to the shadows. “May the Lady Mother always light stars to guide you.”
He had written the letter on wadij, the first she had ever seen, and wrapped the rolled sheet in silk so fine she knew it to be from the High Priestess’s own gown makers in the Palace. She could see that he had written it himself: no scribe ever tilted the marks with such force and no scribe in Keftiu knew the words of the tongue used here. It was for her alone; only she could read it. It had been one of her earliest acts of defiance, bribing the besotted old scribe to teach her the script when she was hardly more than a girl. The mystery was confined to the guild of scribes and all scribes were men. But she had found a way and once she had been shown how to make and how to read the first marks, she made it clear that revealing her initiation into the mystery would inevitably also reveal the identity of the initiator, to his deadly peril, was that not so? In the end, of course, she had been discovered, and punished, but once the skill had been learned, the words were never forgotten, especially when the hand was known.
Her eyes flew back and forth across the rows of marks, that looked like like arrows, birds in flight, swallow tails, separate, joined, reversed. Her lips formed the words, the images, the hidden meanings:
Hear a voice on the wind
In the night-time it is close
Wait but a little
The horses will run again in the full moon
The foal flees the darkness for his mother
When the birds fly here
The fig tree will put on new leaves
The sail of my ship fills
My heart fills I see the shore
Listen!
Hear my voice on the wind
It was a song with many words within the words that told the story of what had taken place and might take place. It sounded a warning and sent a promise. Wait but a little. She would wait, as she had so many times in the past. The sky beyond the mountain was showing the first rose streamers of dawn when Akusha at last lay down beside her sleeping husband, but not to find sleep.
Sharesh looked longingly after the ship as she turned to starboard outside the harbour wall and made for the open sea. Namun waved to him from the stern then suddenly disappeared from view, no doubt as Typhis told him to get about his work. Sharesh smiled at the thought, then loneliness flooded over him. He saw her sail fill with the wind and soon she was gone. He had lists to make and others to read. There was a smell coming from some of the jars of grain which Dareka didn’t like, so would he open one and see what was wrong. Rats were becoming too bold and too many: could he do something about that. Yes, he thought, he could, and the thought made him feel happier. He would bring Tika down to the warehouse and let her hunt for rats. But first the lists, and they would take most of the morning. Then he was free. The rats had no idea what was in store for them.
As things turned out, the rats were spared, at least for another day. Seized by a sudden urge to have one last sight of the ship before she disappeared over the horizon, Sharesh swallowed the barley cake whole, gulped water from his beaker to help it down and dashed through the courtyard gate into the dusty street outside, calling over his shoulder to the maid to tell his mother that he was going looking for birds’ nests. A sharp whistle brought the dog scampering out of the house aft
er him. He trotted through the gardens at the edge of the town where one or two men resting from their work lay dozing in the shade with their backs against the trunks of olive trees. The dog raced up the slope of the ridge ahead of him and stood panting at the top with her tongue hanging out until he reached her, and then ran on again. He stopped to get his breath back, and shading his eyes with both hands scanned the sea as far as the horizon, from one side to the other, as Typhis had instructed him. Outside the harbour and here and there across the broad bay beyond he could see a scattering of fishing boats lying offshore and farther out a larger ship that had passed the cape and was on course for the harbour. That would be the ship out of Telchina with a cargo of timber and copper that Dareka had told him was due soon. She would be outward bound for Keftiu herself in a few days’ time. He felt the pangs of loneliness again. Where was Potyr’s ship? He must see it once more. There, was that it: that white speck against the blue, with the misty grey dome of Tholos beyond? The next ridge was higher. He would have a better view from there. He dropped quickly down into the valley near a dried out marshy patch, ran along a paved causeway and started up the side of the long spur that ran down from the Temple peak to the Red Cliffs. When he reached the top of this, the dog, which had bounded on ahead, was nowhere to be seen. Again he scanned the sea. It was Potyr’s ship, no doubt about it. He pictured the crew at their oars, a stroke on every third breath, Typhis would have told them. Namun would be trailing his line from the stern. He could almost hear the creak of the oars in their tholes and the flap of the sail. She would reach Keftiu in the morning, as he had done. Would there still be snow, a tiny patch perhaps, somewhere high on the great mountains? He could not take his eyes from the white speck that seemed from this distance to lie there motionless, although of course the ship was slipping swiftly through the sea with its bow waves creaming astern on either side, eager to join again in the churning frothy wake she trailed behind her.
Frantic yapping jerked him out of his daydream. Tika was rushing through the coarse scrub down into the next valley that led towards Red Beach. She had started a hare. Sharesh could see it bounding along, long ears flattened against its back, twisting and swerving through the spikey grass, easily outpacing the dog. By the time she had reached the dry watercourse the hare was sitting on its haunches on the ridge top opposite, ears now upright, gazing back at both of them as if challenging them to catch it. Sharesh laughed out loud. He knew the way across these ridges, so why not take up the chase? Some time later, gasping for breath and with his legs stinging from scratches, but still laughing between gulps of air, he flung himself down on a flat patch of ground from where he could see the beach that Namun had told him with a wink was a good place to swim. The hare had disappeared and the dog, who had now forgotten all about it, stood over him licking his face with her dripping tongue. He was hot, sticky with sweat and covered in itchy dust. The thought of the cool salt water was too much. He jumped up, shouted to Tika that he would race her to the sea and set off without a thought of the ship or anything else in his head, except the longed-for shock of plunging into the sea. Tika was already dancing in the little waves at the water’s edge as he ran across the sand, pulling off his kilt and loincloth and flinging them behind him. The water closed over his head and he drifted through a pale blue world sprinkled with tiny bubbles. He rose gasping for air, turned on his back and floated with his legs and arms outstretched, letting the sun’s warmth steal across his skin. The dog paddled up to him and tried to climb on his chest. He pushed her off and they wrestled in the water, coming up spitting and blowing. She tired of the game and paddled back to the shore to start snuffling at the fronds of dry weed and bits of driftwood that lay scattered on the sand. He settled on his back again, floating, drifting and dreaming of Keftiu; the snow-topped mountains; the dancers in the twilight; the Lady Pasipha’s perfume; the lady Pasipha coming close to him and lifting his hands to her breast.
He heard Tika barking again and turned over to tread water, looking towards the beach. The sun was lower now and glittered on the water’s surface and the white sand beyond, dazzling him. He swam lazily into the shallows and, feeling sand under his feet, stood up and walked through the little waves towards the beach. Shrieks of laughter coming from somewhere in the blinding sunlight in front of him stopped him in his tracks. Girls! Girls laughing! Great Potheidan! Had they been watching him floating out there while he was… where were his clothes? He turned to look for them and the laughter changed to whoops of mocking admiration. He saw his kilt floating in the waves and as he ran to snatch it up he was cheered at every step. His loincloth was nowhere to be seen so he quickly wrapped the wet sandy kilt round him as the cries changed, again, this time feigning disappointment.
He could see them now: three girls in short flounced skirts with bands of blue and yellow, and light bodices, sitting on the rough grass outside a hut that fishermen had built to store their nets and tackle. Had they come to gather crocuses? No, it was not quite the time for that. When they saw him looking towards them they stood up. One threw a stick for Tika who rushed after it. The tallest of the girls waved at him and without thinking he lifted his arm to wave back at her. She beckoned him towards them. He couldn’t go, could he, after what they must have seen him doing? She beckoned again and the others did the same. Who cares, he thought, they must have brothers, anyway. Tika dropped the stick at the girl’s foot and backed away slavering, eager for it to be thrown again. That settled it. If he were going to get his dog back, he would have to go over there and fetch her.
One of thre girls was coming out of the fishermens’ hut carrying a pitcher when he reached the place and he felt himself flush with embarrassment when he saw that it was Kallia. Of all people to have seen him without his clothes, floating on his back and… it had to be Kallia. He thought desperately of something to say, but could only stammer.
“Cat got your tongue?” said the girl who was throwing sticks for Tika.
“Lucky it didn’t get anything else belonging to him,” sniggered the other and all three laughed.
“Listen. I didn’t know you were there; it’s not fair to be snooping on people. That’s my dog. Here, Tika, come here; we’re going. What are you doing here, anyway?”
“Sit down,” said Kallia, handing him the pitcher. “Drink some of this: pomegranate juice. It will cool you down.”
“He certainly needs cooling down?” said the stick thrower.
Sharesh turned to her in annoyance and sweet red juice slopped from the pitcher onto the ground. Tika lapped it up.
“An offering to the Lady Mother and the dog got to it first!”
The girls looked at one another with shocked expressions and then all squealed with laughter. Sharesh could not help himself joining in and soon felt his embarrassment disappear. They all sat down on the grass and passed the pitcher of pomegranate juice around. It turned out that the two other girls, Mara and Teptria, were cousins of Kallia who lived on Keftiu and had come to stay in Kallia’s family house to take part in the crocus gathering which would start fairly soon, now that autumn had arrived. Sharesh knew of this sacred festival because his mother was one of the matrons who accompanied the young girls in their search for the crocus, but had never seen what took place since the presence of men was forbidden.
“Is that why you came back to Kallista? I thought you were one of the chosen,” he said to Kallia.
She gave him a strange look, then smiled ruefully and said it was one of the reasons. He thought her voice was so beautiful, like doves cooing.
“We know all about you,” said Teptria, the bold one.
“How can you? I’ve never seen you before today.”
“Your friend from the ship, the black one, Namun; he comes here to swim, like you; well not altogether like you,” she grinned. “He told us about you; how you found the stranger lord after the shipwreck and how you sailed in the Lagoon, and how he beat you at boxing.”
“And did he tell you how I beat him i
n the running? No, I’m sure he didn’t.”
“We know Kallia beat everybody in the hill race at the Festival. Namun told us that.”
“We must go,” said Kallia. “My mother wants to hear us recite the words as the sun goes down.”
“Does she know you come here?”
“Oh yes, she knows where we are and she sends Kavrar to carry the pitcher and the food for us. He’s up there lying in the grass somewhere playing his pipe to his goats.”
“Don’t look so glum,” said Mara. Come again tomorrow. We come every day, sometimes with a crowd. There’s a rock out there you can dive from. Kavrar says there are octopuses near it. He says that, but I haven’t seen any yet.”
On his way home Sharesh vowed to strangle Namun for telling him about the good place to swim but not about the girls who went there. At supper Dareka asked him what birds laid their eggs so late in the year. Hastily changing the subject, Sharesh told him about how he and Tika had chased a hare. Dareka did not press the point, saying mildly that he liked hare and the best way to cook it was in wine with plenty of onions and thyme.
He lived for those days when Dareka would say at last that that was enough for one day and he could go, but be sure to be home before supper and let the birds keep their eggs this time. He knew she would not be there during the days when the crocus was being gathered but he went, nevertheless, simply to be where she had been and hope to hear the echo of her voice. When she was there the advance of autumn seemed to be held back and the day was warmer and the sea a deeper blue. The grassy patch by the fishermens’ hut was their favourite place where they would sit with the others, sometimes all talking at once and sometimes exchanging a secret glance or a private smile. He gave her little gifts: a piece of driftwood smoothed by the waves and sand into the shape of a sea horse; a tablet on which he had scratched her name and a square which he said was a picture of the hut; some figs from Gubal which had been soaked in honey then dried and soaked again and again until they were sweeter than any she had ever tasted. One day she gave him a little skirted figure made from twisted flax. He put it in his room beside his statue of the Lady Mother.
