Collected short fiction, p.376
Collected Short Fiction, page 376
Time seemed oddly slowed. He felt aware of every watching eye, and found time even for a glance toward Ariadne. She was leaning forward in the white-curtained box, white face intent, cool green eyes fixed on him. He thought of her wager that the bulls would kill him, and shouted a taunt at her:
“All-Mother, remember your child!”
There was no time to see her response, however, for the bull was upon him. He caught his breath, and set his feet in the hot sand, and tensed the great lean body of Gothung. He wished that he were not so stiff and weak from the dungeon, for the thing he had to do required a quick, smooth-flowing strength.
Theseus was untrained in bullvaulting. But he had traveled through Thessaly. He had seen the half-savage Thessalonian herdsmen seize a charging bull by the horns, and throw it with a clever twist. He had even tried the thing himself.
It took but half a heartbeat. The wide-spaced grasp upon the curving horns. The twist aside. “The sudden thrust of all his weight upon the leverage of the horns. But he had never thrown such a mighty beast as this.
Under the hot black skin, tremendous muscles resisted. The horns surged up, to toss him. Every thew of tall Gothung’s body was strained. But the huge head twisted aside. The weight of the bull finished the thing, and the very momentum of the charge. The animal went down in a kicking pile.
Theseus walked out of the little cloud of dust, and breathed again. His limbs were trembling. In spite of the sun, a quick sweat made him a little cold. Standing relaxed, watching the bull, he caught voices from the vast murmur of the crowd:
“But he can’t throw three!” . . . “See, he is weak and shaking already!” . . . “Ten to one the first man kills him, if he escapes the bulls.” . . . “No man has won in a thousand years!” . . . “No man will ever win!”
The bull struggled back to its feet. It stood with lowered head, bellowing and pawing up sand. But it did not charge again. Presently the horns blared, and the herald shouted:
“Gothung the Northman has survived the first test, by the Dark One in his aspect of the bull. Gothung has mounted one step toward the throne of Minos. Therefore let him try the second step.”
A WIDE GATE was opened at the arena’s farther end. Light-footed professional bull-vaulters, with their red mantles, lured the first bull through it. The gate was closed, and the second admitted.
The second bull refused to fight. If Theseus had run, it might have pursued him. But he stood still in the center of the arena, weak with hunger and the strain of his first contest, while the animal ran around and around the wall, seeking escape.
The thousands jeered it. The bull-vaulters hurled barbed javelins into its black hide in an effort to infuriate it. But it merely ran the faster, and at last leaped over the gate and escaped from the arena.
The third, however, was made of more deadly stuff. It lowered its head without a sound, and came with a savage rush at Theseus. Theseus crouched again, and spread his hands to grasp the horns.
But they twisted, evaded his fingers. The bull swerved. The horns made a vicious slash. A keen point raked across the ribs of Theseus. Pain staggered him. He stood swaying as the bull wheeled beyond him, came back. Again the horns escaped his hands, caught his thigh.
The beast wheeled and charged again. This time he knew its way. His hands were waiting, and that quick deceptive twist brought the horns into them. He flung all his strength, not against the savage thrust of that mighty head, but with it. The bull went down. One horn plowed deep into the sand, and the head turned back under the body. There was the sharp little crack of a snapping spine, and it lay still.
Theseus swayed aside, quivering from the effort, gasping for breath. The sun was driving, merciless. The white sand began to move in slow undulations under him, like a sea of white fire. The red marks the horns had left on chest and thigh were dully painful, and flies sought them.
A deep awed whisper had come from the mob on the piled tiers of seats. Now, reeling, Theseus listened to the talk as the bets were laid again. The boxes were close above him. Without looking, he knew the golden voice of Ariadne:
“Three more talents, that the men kill him!”
“Taken, daughter.” It was the silken voice of Minos himself.
“Three talents that he lives to face the gods.”
Theseus shuddered, and covered his eyes against the searing sun. Was his guise in vain? Was his victory in the games already anticipated—and provided against—by this fat, dimpled, merry-eyed man whose sinister magic had ruled Crete for ten centuries?
The horns made a thin far sound, and the herald’s voice seemed to waver and fade upon the hot air:
“The bull is dead. In the aspect of the bull, the Dark One looks with favor upon the candidacy of Gothung the Northman. He has mounted three steps toward the throne of Minos. Now let him test the will of the Dark One in his aspect of the man.”
A yoke of black oxen dragged the dead bull out of the arena. Theseus waited, giddy with the heat. His mouth was bitter and dry. It was no great wonder, he reflected, that no man had won these games in a thousand years. The bugles whined again, and a dark Nubian boxer came into the arena.
THE MAN was gigantic, naked but for tight belt and loincloth, long muscles gliding beautifully under oiled gleaming skin. A heavy, leathern helmet protected his head. His hands were heavy with copper-weighted leather cesti—cruel things, that could crush a skull like an egg.
Theseus stood waiting for him, fighting a silent battle with heat and hunger and fatigue. The Nubian crouched, came in. The deadly fists thrust like rams. One caught the arm of Theseus with a bruising shock. The other grazed his head, with staggering pain.
Bare fists were quicker than the loaded ones, but not quick enough. Theseus struck again for the dark shining body. But the Nubian rolled aside, caught his shoulder with a swinging cestus.
Theseus ducked, feinted, danced away. But he was reeling. He wanted to drop on the hot sand, relax, forget, let the black end this agony. The evil power of Minos no longer mattered to him. He had no desire for the rich plunder of Knossos, nor even Ariadne’s white beauty.
But—he mustn’t fail!
Somehow, he made himself stand again to face the grinning Nubian. He groped for something through the vagueness of his spinning brain. He found it. A trick he had learned, painfully, from a camel driver who had come with a silk caravan from the east.
He tensed his quivering body, crouched, waited. The Nubian struck again. He caught the dark wrist, ridged with the thongs that held the cestus. He twisted, then, dragging the slick oiled arm over his back. A blow on the neck staggered him. But he kept his grip, lunged, bent.
Twisted sidewise from his feet, the Nubian went spinning over the shoulder of Theseus. Released with a final well-timed fling, he came down upon the helmeted head. There was another small muffled snap in the arena, and the boxer was dead.
Black oxen dragged away the body. Horns snarled, and the herald cried:
“Gothung has mounted the fourth step. Let him strive again, with the aspect of the Dark One that is man.”
There was a murmur in the crowd. Giddy, reeling, breathless, Theseus did not look up. But he caught the lowered husky voice of Amur the Hittite:
“If Minos is betting on the Northman, I am through. An honest man can’t wager with wizards! I’ll lay you fifty talents that they have already seen the final victory, in their spheres of time!”
Theseus shared the same uneasy suspicion. Blinking against the sun, he found the merry blue eyes of Minos again, and wondered what mockery lay beyond their twinkle. He saw Ariadne, impatient and white, with three talents on his death. And again he glimpsed that gnarled dark figure, in the box behind Minos, and caught the glare of sunken, evil eyes. He shivered once more to the feel of cold, supernal power.
The horns whined again, and Theseus waited. Desperately, he wanted a drink of water. He closed his eyes against the glaring sand, and saw the shaded pool in Attica where he had learned so long ago to swim. Flies clustered about the smarting scratches on his chest and thigh, grimy sweat ran down into his eyes. And at last the second man entered the arena.
THIS WAS a swart, little Cretan marine, with his weighted net and bronze-pronged trident. He trotted out watchfully across the sand, spinning the net into a blurring circle. Theseus wished for the good hilt of the Falling Star in his hand, and flexed his empty fingers.
The Cretan circled him cautiously, ran in abruptly, flung the net. But Theseus, watching his narrowed dark eyes, had seen warning of the effort. He crouched, reached out, caught the spinning web.
Once, on Captain Firebrand’s pirate galley, a captured marine had paid for his life with instruction in all the tricks of net play. Theseus dropped to his knees upon the sand. But he kept the net spinning, and held its weighted cords from whipping about his limbs, and tossed it back to meet the Cretan.
The marine had lunged after the cast net, with both hands on his trident. The returned net tangled it, tripped him. Theseus caught the trident, dragged it out of clutching hands, reversed it. A bronze point ripped the Cretan’s breast and shoulder.
“Do you yield?” Theseus demanded.
White with pain, the man half-lifted himself. Theseus stopped him, with the prongs against his throat. Faintly, then, he gasped:
“I yield.”
And he sprawled back on the sand, dead. Theseus dropped the trident and stumbled back from him. He was cold with a shuddering wonderment. He knew that wound had not been fatal.
The horns shrilled. The herald made announcement that the Northman had mounted the fifth step toward the throne. Black oxen returned to drag off the dead marine. Theseus waited, too weary to slap at the flies on his wounds. And at last the third man came into the arena.
This champion of the Dark One was a tall, harsh-visaged Etruscan—one of the wandering warrior race that Minos had brought from the north coasts to guard his throne. Shining bronze plated his helmet and his greaves. He carried a notched shield nearly as tall as himself, and a long bronze sword.
Theseus reeled, staring at the glitter of the sun on that sword. He fought down a brief desire to fling himself upon it, and find a swift, clean end to all his weariness and pain. He brushed the flies away, and fumbled dimly for another plan.
There was a long dark blot on the sand, where the bulls must have killed another victim. That might be useful. Because he had to go on. Not for the throne of Minos, nor the loot of Knossos, nor even Ariadne’s insolent beauty. But for a naked brown baby, it seemed, crying in a gutter.
The Etruscan’s shield was heavy. Weary as he was, Theseus could move fast enough to keep out of the way for a little time, until he got trapped in a corner. He retreated, turned, paused, fled again.
The Etruscan ran after him, panting, sweating, cursing. The sun was blinding on the helmet and the sword. Theseus passed the dark pool of blood passed it again, and a third time. But the mercenary avoided it. Tt was the few drops the dead marine had spilled that set him at last to stumbling.
Theseus stopped, stooped, whirled back. Trembling fingers caught a bronze-greaved leg, lifted. The Etruscan sprawled flat on his back, beneath the long shield. The bare heel of Theseus came down on his elbow, and the bronze sword dropped. Theseus snatched the weapon, swung it high.
But he did not strike.
For Minos, in the black-curtained box, had risen suddenly. His rosy cheeks still dimpled genially, and his small blue eyes were merry. But he lifted a round pink arm, in a gesture of annoyance. A blinding blue bolt whipped out of his empty fingers. Authentic thunder crashed. Smelling of burned leather and seared flesh, the struggling Etruscan fell again.
XI.
THESEUS stood reeling, staring up into those jolly eyes. The dazzling sand rocked again, and the ruddy dimpled smile of Minos was suspended before him like a mask of jovial merriment, against a flaming haze of weariness and pain. He thought that one twunkling eye winked at him, and Minos sat down again.
Despite the sun’s dry sting, Theseus felt cold. This thing was proof enough, it seemed to him, that Minos was actually a god, that he in fact commanded the lightning. How, he wondered, was any winner of these contests to make good his claims, against such powders? Was that the meaning of the wink?
Theseus had hoped that the priests and the people would insist on fair play with the winner. But the awed hush that followed that crashing bolt seemed proof enough of Minos’ absolute dominion. Theseus could expect no aid.
Few contestants, Theseus guessed, had ever mounted so far toward the throne of Minos. For the seated thousands were leaning forward, breathless, white-faced, staring. Even the-voice of the herald had gone hoarse and unsure:
“Gothung the Northman has been favored to mount the throne of Minos, by the Dark One in his aspects of bull and man. Therefore let the Northman now test the will of the Dark One in his sublime aspect of the god.”
The horns whined again.
“Gothung will stand and wait at the center of the arena. First let him determine the will of the Dark One through Cybele, daughter of the Dark One and mother of men, whose vessel is the fair Ariadne.”
Swaying, bewildered, Theseus stumbled to the middle of the arena. He found the outline of the sacred double ax of Minos, marked with black sand poured upon the white, and stood upon it. Half blinded with the glare of sun on sand, he stood there, watching Ariadne, wondering what the next test would be.
The silver horns sounded again.
Green-eyed Ariadne rose lazily in her white-curtained box. She tossed her head, to send ruddy flame-tresses rippling back, and strolled with an insolent grace out upon a long railed platform that ran before the boxes. The sun turned her long white body to gleaming marble, shimmered green on her daring gown.
The white dove clung to her bare shoulder, fluttering to keep its balance when she moved. The girdle about her thin waist, Theseus saw, was fashioned in the shape of a silver serpent. It seemed to writhe, oddly, as if it were alive—perhaps, Theseus thought, his uncovered head was getting too much sun.
A fat red-robed priestess brought Ariadne a long white bow, and another offered her a full quiver of arrows. Displaying a strength and skill surprising to Theseus, she strung the bow, tested its pull, let the string twang viciously.
Carefully she selected a long, green-feathered arrow from the quiver, nocked it, then stood for a little moment watching Theseus. Her voice rang out, clear as a golden horn:
“Northman, I am glad you have lived to try the steps of the gods. For Cybele has her own quarrel with you.”
The drive of the sun was an intolerable searing thrust and Theseus felt a prickling over all his skin, and a weakness in his limbs. His throat was painful and parched, but he managed to shout hoarsely:
“And I have a lesson for Cybele. The All-Mother should not kill, but love.”
He saw color, then, in the whiteness of her face. The red splendor of her head made a little angry toss. Slowly, with a splendid strength, she drew the bow, pulled the arrow to her cheek. And her clear voice pealed:
“Even Cybele can slay!”
SOMETHING, even in that breathless moment, drew the eyes of Theseus from her tall beauty and her peril. Something made him look high above the curtained boxes. There, in the topmost tier of seats, he glimpsed the face of Snish.
The seamed ugly features of the little Babylonian were stiff and pallid. And his hands came up, with an odd swift gesture, as if to fend the arrow from himself. Could—or would—the little wizard help?
The glance of Theseus fled back to Ariadne. The sun gleamed on the silver scales of the serpent-girdle, and he thought the bright coils tightened around her. The dove fluttered white wings. And the bow twanged.
Theseus had dodged arrows. He tried to drop flat, at the sound of the string, in hope that the shaft might pass above him. But he couldn’t move!
His weary body was held rigid, above that sand-laid outline of the double ax, as if he had been bound to an invisible post. Now he had met the gods—and their wizardry!
But it was an angry defiance that sprang into him, and not a fear. His head set grimly, and. his open eyes looked straight to meet the hissing shaft. The warlocks might chain his body, but his mind still fought!
The arrow whispered by his ear!
Free of the invisible bonds, Theseus swayed. A trembling looseness came into his knees, and he wanted to sit down on the burning sand. He shaded his eyes, stared up at the boxes, where an uneasy murmuring ran.
He was incredulous. He could have sworn that the arrow was drawn straight at his right eye. Her practiced stance had told him that Ariadne was a well-skilled archer. Nor could he suspect that, for any possible reason, she had deliberately spared him.
For all color had left her lovely face again. The splendor of her head was high with anger. The green light of her eyes turned dark, dangerous. She turned swiftly to her red-robed priestess, reaching for another arrow.
The soft woman’s voice of Minos stopped her.
“Stay, daughter! The Dark One guided your arrow, and it missed. The Northman has mounted the seventh step toward my throne.”
The small eyes danced genially. “Let him try the eighth.”
THE DIMPLES deepened as Minos smiled; his fat pink hands made a little gesture to the herald and the priests. Thoroughly puzzled—and still with a deep, invincible apprehension of this stout merry man and his power—Theseus looked up across the silent throng again, and found the wrinkled, wide-mouthed face of Snish.
The yellow popeyes of the little wizard were staring at him. And one of them deliberately winked! Was it Snish, whose arts had deflected the arrow? With a sudden fear that his eyes would betray the Babylonian, Theseus looked swiftly away from him.
The horns keened again, and the herald shouted:
