Taliesin

CHAPTER THREE

The dawn held all the promise of the day’s heat although the sun had not yet risen. The wind was out of the north, dry, bearing the woody smell of arid land. Charis awoke and knew at once what kind of day it would be. By the time the stadium doors opened and the throngs began pushing their way to their seats the sun would be a hot, white flame in an eggshell sky. The sand of the ring would burn underfoot; the bulls would be edgy and unpredictable, the crowd ill-tempered, hard to please.

It was a day that welcomed disaster.

Therefore, Charis would make certain the Gulls were ready. They would breakfast well on figs and honey, flatbread and smoked fish, sliced meat, milk, nuts, dates, porridge, and tea, and no one would be allowed to leave the table until all had eaten heartily and well. They would don practice clothes and troop into the empty stadium to stretch their muscles and rehearse.

When all were limber, Charis would call them together and they would begin planning the day’s dance. She already had them paired in her mind: Joet and Galai would take the first bull; their solid performance would settle the younger dancers. Kalili, Junoi, and Peronn would dance next-Junoi would benefit from her partners’ experience and would be less at risk. Belissa and Marophon could be depended upon to turn in a spirited performance under any circumstance, but she would choose a bull for them that would not give them trouble, a steady grandsire of the ring-Yellowhorn perhaps, or Broadhump.

For herself? Galai would join her, and then Belissa. The three of them would perform the routine they had prepared for the Temple Festival last season-an inspired dance that had not been performed since. It drove the crowd mad with delight.

And then?

Charis would take the last bull alone. The routine? There would be none set. Today she would dance for the god, for Bel alone. The movements would come to her as she danced, she would follow her instincts, she would dance her heart and soul. She would dance her last. They all would.

The others would not know this, could not know until it was over. Then she would tell them. Not before. They would not understand and the news would unsettle them; their rhythm would suffer and maybe so would they. Life in the ring hung by the slenderest of threads. The blink of an eye, a misplaced hand, a fleeting lapse of concentration and the thread was severed. These thoughts filled her mind as she rose and pulled on a light shift, washed, and went to the dancer’s lodgings.

Morning was but a rumor in the east as Charis walked across the square of green that separated her lodgings from those of the others. Her dancers were still asleep. Charis went to the pump that stood beside the path. The pump was shaped like a dolphin; she took the creature’s tail in hand and worked it up and down until water came sloshing up sweet and cold to pour into the brass basin which stood on a tripod beneath its snout.

That done, she turned to the first door, knocked gently, and pushed the door open. “Galai,” she whispered, shaking the young woman gently by the shoulder, “wake up.”

“Mmm,” the dancer moaned.

“Come, get up; breakfast will be set and I want to talk to you.”

Galai rolled into a ball. “It cannot be time yet,” she corn-plained.

“Today is a special day,” said Charis, walking out. “Dress yourself and come along.”

One by one she woke them. The first stumbled out of their rooms and moved dreamily toward the brass basin, splashing their faces and arms with cold water. “Ohhh,” groaned Peronn as he took his turn, “you are a cruel captain.”

“Cruel, yes, and heartless. I live to make your life a misery, lazy Peronn.” Charis wagged the dolphin’s tail and gave him another cold dowsing.

“And you succeed too well!”

“Where is Marophon?”

“Still abed,” replied Belissa. “He is the lazy one. Do you want me to rouse him?”

“Go to the table,” Charis told them. “I will wake him.”

The Gulls trooped off, chattering noisily as Charis entered Marophon’s room at the eed of the dancer’s lodgings. “Mar” she began and stopped. Two bodies lay entwined in the narrow bed.

Marophon woke suddenly and saw her. He jerked upright, shoving the girl next to him aside. “Charis! Please! Wait, I”

Charis stepped to the foot of the bed. “Dress yourself at once.”

“I can explain. Please”

“I do not want to hear it! Get her out of here.”

The girl, awake now and terror-stricken, stared at Charis, clutching the bedclothes to her chest. “Wait until the others have gone and then get rid of your whore. Let no one see her. Understand?” Marophon’s head worked up and down. With that, Charis spun on her heel and left.

All of the bull dancers took their meals together in the lower temple courtyard near the bull pit. The Gulls, however, had their own table in a partially enclosed section of the courtyard and their own specially prepared food which Charis purchased in the market herself.

This had always caused a certain amount of jealousy among the other teams of dancers, who accused the Gulls of elitism even as they envied team. But Charis knew it was important for her dancers to feel superior, set apart by virtue of their unrivaled skill. While in the beginning this might not have been strictly true, Believing it over time had made it so. They were the Gulls and they were better than the rest.

The others were busily eating when Marophon joined them. He became the butt of some gentle teasing, although no one noticed his glance of stark guilt as he slipped into his place at the table.

They ate, and when they had nearly finished Charis rose and said, “You noisy Gulls, quiet now and listen. Today is a special day.”

“The queen has but one natal day,” remarked Joet.

“Shhh! Listen,” said Belissa.

“Some of you,” continued Charis, “may know that I spoke with the Belrene yesterday. It has come to mis” She paused.

They stopped eating and sat up. “Well, must we stand on our heads?” asked Peronn.

“He has agreed to give us half of the gold sacrifice from now on”

“Half!” cried Joet, leaping to his feet. The bull dancers looked at one another in disBelief. Joet swept Charis into a clumsy embrace and kissed her cheek. “Half, by the god’s golden gonads! Did you hear? Praise for our beautiful headstrong leader!”

“Sit down, Joet,” shouted the others. “Let her finish.”

“The Belrene has also agreed to allow me to choose the bulls. Yes, and he has seen the error of trying to force his ridiculous rules on us.”

“We are free!” cried Peronn and Galai together.

“And rich!” added Joet.

“What is the matter, Maro?” teased Beiissa. She nudged him in the ribs. “Did you leave your head under the covers this morning?”

Marophon smiled weakly. “No, I heard. I am glad…”

Other teams of dancers had begun filing into the courtyard. “Now then,” said Charis, “I want you to begin your exercise at once. We must be finished before the sun gets too hot. Do not rush. Begin slowly. It will be an oven out there today; we will be wise to nurse our stamina.” She clapped her hands. “Get along with you now. I will join you very soon.”

The dancers shoved back their chairs and started across the courtyard. “Maro,” Charis called. “A word please.”

The dancer returned, shamefaced. He opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it and stood gazing down at his feet instead.

“I will not remind you of your sacred vow of abstinence,” Charis began. Although she spoke softly, there was a wilting anger behind her tongue just waiting to be unleashed. “We are all virgins-or were-sacred to the god alone as long as we dance. Tell me, why have you seen fit to break this holy vow? And how long have you been sleeping with this whore?”

“She is no whore,” he began. “She is a dancer. She”

“More the shame! You have caused her to break her vow as well. Maro, what were you thinking of? Today of all days!”

“I-I am sorry…”

“If I were Belrene you would both be scourged and flung down the temple steps.”

“But you said the Belrene gave you permission to deal with us yourself.”

“Shut up, Maro! You make things worse with your whining. Yes, I have the Belrene’s authority to do with you as I please. Do you think I should be more lenient with you because of that? Why? Tell me!”

The unhappy young man hung his head and said nothing.

“You show wisdom, Maro, but too late.”

The dancer’s head snapped up. “You will let me dance? Please, it will never happen again. I swear it! Never! You must Believe me.”

“You violated a dancer’s most sacred vow! How could you!”

The dancer grimaced with pain.

“You know this jeopardizes us all. The others will be put at risk because of you.”

“I will dance alone,” he mumbled hopelessly.

“I should not let you dance at all!” Charis stared at him a long time. “But it seems I have no choice. If I strike you from the group now it will be weeks before I can ready a replacement, and even one inexperienced dancer is too many. Junoi is just now gaining confidence. If I added another new dancer now…” She sighed. “What am I to do?”

“I could dance alone,” Maro repeated. “I would not endanger anyone.”

“Except yourself.” Charis shook her head. “No, it will be best if the others know nothing about it. You will dance with Belissa and me-we will perform the routine I created for the Festival.”

Marophon nodded and kept his eyes downcast. “Thank you.”

“Thank me later. Go now, before I decide to have you flung down the temple steps instead.”

The dancer hurried away without looking back. Marophon must still be punished, she thought; it would not do for dancers to discover they could violate the most holy vow without serious consequence.

But no, it did not matter. After today it would not matter anymore.

It took longer than Charis anticipated to choose the bulls for the day’s dance. Finding a pitman proved difficult, and getting the bullmaster to take her orders seriously even more so. But Charis persisted; she demanded, cajoled, and invoked the Belrene’s authority several times more than she would have liked and in the end succeeded.

She walked through the subterranean chambers, pausing before each stall, peering through the dark lattice as the pitman held his smudgy torch. Each beast regarded her with a docile disinterest which might have deceived a less-experienced appraiser but did not mislead Charis for a moment. She knew most of the animals and had only to glance at the wear of horns and hoofs, condition of the hide, size of hump and hindquarters, the set of the eyes to form an accurate opinion of an unfamiliar beast’s likely behavior in the ring.

After looking at a dozen or more and choosing four which she was sure would allow her bull dancers solid yet spirited performances, Charis found herself unable to find the right bull for her own final performance. One after another, she appraised and rejected each animal until, time running out, she forced herself to make a choice, reminding herself that there was not a bull among them that she could not handle with ease.

The last bull she looked at was a huge red beast she had not seen before. “What of this one?” she asked as the pitman leaned against the heavy iron lattice.

“Oh, ah! Umm,” said the pitman cryptically, screwing up his face in an odd contortion Charis took to approximate a knowing wink. “He is a new one. From the west country, from Mykenea he is.”

“Is he trained to the ring?”

“Oh, ah, yes. Small rings mostly-but aren’t they all?- although we, ah, have it that he was a season at King Mu-saeus’ ring at Argos.”

Charis examined the animal closely. A bull unaccustomed to a large, noisy ring could well be trouble. But an unknown red-his appearance would give the crowd a thrill appropriate for her last performance.

“We, ah, received another from Mykenea. Do you want to see it?”

“No,” replied Charis firmly. “This one will do. I want him last.”

They returned to the bullmaster, who was giving his pitmen instructions about the animals to be readied for the day’s per- formance. “These are my choices for the Gulls,” Charis told him, relating the bulls she had chosen in the proper order. “And the new one-it is to be last. I want it for myself.”

“As you wish,” replied the bullmaster, recording her instructions. “It will be done.”

Charis left the pit and hurried to the ring. Her Gulls would be nearly finished with their exercises and she had not yet begun. At the ring she passed through the dancer’s ready room and pulled off her shift, replacing it with a short, Belted tunic. Still winding the Belt around her waist, she stepped out into the ring. Several other teams were limbering up as well. The Gulls had finished their exercises and were practicing jumps with the wooden standards. Charis began stretching, slowly, gently, pulling the tightness out of her back and legs, all the while watching her dancers with a trainer’s critical eye.

“Knees together, Peronn!” she called, coming across the sand to where they stood. “And keep your chin tucked in. Feel the curve of your spine. Now try it again.” She turned to the others. “Belissa, Galai, Kalili, Junoi-everyone. I want to see seven perfect doubles.”

They all worked on the wooden standard while the sun rose higher, glinting hot and bright off the sand in the ring. The sweat ran freely down the dancers’ arms and legs, soaking their tunics. Charis felt the need of additional exercise for herself but did not want to tire her dancers. The sun would leach away their strength; stamina would flow away like water. Already they were jumping closer to the standard, their arcs tighter, less open and easy.

Charis clapped her hands. “Enough! It is enough. We will rest now. Everyone inside. It is time to rest.”

They trotted off to the ready room, leaving the ring to the other teams of dancers. It was cool arid dark inside. They scraped the sweat from their limbs with bronze strigiis and rubbed themselves with strips of clean linen, sipped water from cups, and talked to one another, moving all the while to cool off slowly.

“Gather around, chattering Gulls,” said Charis, arranging them in a circle around her on the floor. Once settled, she began explaining the order of the day’s performance, giving each dancer his or her instructions and going over the routines one by one.

She concluded by saying, “Let us dance today as we have never danced before. It will be a difficult day. The heat, the sun, is against us and the crowd will be surly, but I want them on their feet cheering as never before. Let no one who sees us dance ever forget this day.”

Joet, the most vocal of the troop, asked, “Is there something different about this day, captain?”

Charis hesitated and her hesitation piqued interest. Maro-phon looked away. “Yes,” she answered finally. “Or have you forgotten?”

Blank stares. “The gold!” she said. “Today we receive half of all that is given. Therefore, I want a never-ending shower, a river of gold poured out for us.”

The dancers laughed and began bantering over whose exploits would earn them the most. Charis moved toward the door, saying, “Rest now. I will return when it is time to dress for the ring.”

Charis went back to her room and lay down on her bed but found that she could not rest. She kept thinking ahead, past the performance to the awful, inevitable moment when she would tell her dancers that they had performed their last.

Was she being fair to them? she wondered. Was there another way, any other way?

Of course, they were free to choose for themselves. If they wanted to remain in the temple, they could join another team. No doubt they would be welcome in any team they chose, unless petty jealousy prevented it. But they would no longer be Gulls. No, that had to end. Without Charis there would be no more Gulls.

Still, she hoped that they would choose freedom, to walk away from the ring while they were still whole and sane.

The Belrene was right: she had had a long and illustrious tenure, but it had to end. Better to end it now at the peak of her prowess, in triumph, by her own choice.

Her mind full of the ferment of her decision and its implications, she rose, slipped on her gown and sandals, and went out to wander the temple byways, walking aimlessly, feeling the old nervous flutter in her stomach. It was not the dance she was nervous about this time, but the feeling reminded her of that first day, the first time she danced.

It was a day in early spring; she had been two years in the temple, undergoing the rigorous training of the bull dancer, advancing through the neophyte ranks with uncanny facility. She had taken to the dance as if bom to it, as if it were in some way a natural thing to cavort with slavering, enraged beasts. And even that first day, though her performance was in no way extraordinary, those who saw her remembered the solemn-faced girl who danced with such aplomb, so completely abandoned to the fate of the ring.

This casual disregard for her body became an emblem. It was not long before people were rilling seats in the arena solely to see the girl who danced with death. Although no one who saw the slim figure standing alone in the center of the ring ever doubted death was more than the merest heartbeat away, she eluded that grim reality with almost whimsical ease-even while performing feats considered too dangerous by other dancers. Her inspired performances quickly earned her the respect of the other older dancers and she was made leader of her team, the Grays.

She proved a demanding leader, however, and one by one the members of her team were pared away to be replaced by other, more talented dancers chosen by her. Soon the Grays became the Gulls.

Now it was to end. She had never deceived herself about that; despite what she told the Belrene, she knew that one day it would end. There would be a mistake, an error, a miscalculation however minute, and it would end. Pain and blood, yes, but also release. Life would end.

Her recognition of this certainty had made it possible for her to hold off the pain and blood for as long as she had. She accepted the inevitable fact; more, she embraced it, gloried in it, flaunted it. The gods responded to her bravery and abandon by conferring upon her a longevity denied other dancers, a gift Charis had never sought and did not value.

Until now. “It is time you made a decision,” the queen had told her. Very well, she had made her decision. The others would have to make their own. She could not be responsible for them forever. She would give them one more dance and then set them free. And she would be free. They would dance once more for the gold and the gold would buy a future.

Charis’ steps had taken her far from the temple precinct. She stood in a near-deserted side street in a market district where merchants were busily striking their awnings and shuttering their shops. She realized they were closing because it was time for the arena gates to open.

She turned and fled back the way she had come.

The first team of the day had already entered the ring by the time Charis reached the ready room. The cries of the crowd in stands directly above covered Charis’ breathless entrance. She dressed quickly, pulling on the stiff leather clout, tugging the hip laces tight; she wound the linen band around her chest and from a camphor box lifted out a laurel necklace with leaves of thin gold. With deft fingers she plaited her long hair into a thick braid and, snatching up a white leather thong with which to bind it, joined her dancers.

The Gulls were dressed and ready. They sat in a loose circle, legs crossed, arms resting lightly on knees, eyes closed in meditation. Charis eased into the meditative position, took the three breaths of ritual purification, and began:

“ Glorious Bel, god of fire and light,

Ruler of the skyways, Lord of the Underworld,

And of all things enduring,

Hear the petitions of your servants! Eldest of Heaven, look down from your high throne,

Shower the favor of your presence upon us,

Give us strength, give us courage, give us valor,

We who dance before you this day. Great of Might, Illuminator of the Earth,

Flourish in our sacrifice,

Live in our spirits,

Inhabit the beauty of the dance. “

When the prayer had been recited three times, the dancers rose silently and began stretching, loosening limbs and muscles, each dancer reaching deep down into the well of the soul to bring up the courage required to take that first step into the ring. Once over the threshold, the endless hours of practice and repetition would take over and movements would be instinctive. But the first step required an eifort of will no training or repetition could render involuntary. And each dancer had to find that strength alone.

From the sound of applause they knew that the first team of dancers had finished and that the second team had entered the ring. The Gulls continued with their preparations. One by one they came to the large amphora of alabaster which sat in’a low tripod in the center of the room, dipped their hands into the fragrant oil, and began smoothing it over their bodies.

Taking up a small stone jar, Charis circulated among her dancers. At her approach each dancer knelt-eyes closed, hands raised in the sun sign. Charis dipped her finger into the jar and then drew a golden circle at the base of each dancer’s throat.

The cries of the crowds in the stands above reached a crescendo and then died suddenly. The dancers glanced at one another silently. They knew the sound and what it meant: a dancer lay in the ring, crimson blood seeping into the hot, white sand.

“Bel has chosen his own,” whispered Chairs. “Bel be praised.”

“Bel be praised,” repeated the others.

She held out her hands and dancers on either side took them, and one by one they all joined hands, forming a circle in the center of the room. “Who are we?” asked Charis softly.

“We are the Gulls,” the dancers replied.

“Who are we?”

“We are the Gulls!” they shouted, their voices rising. “The Gulls! We are the Gulls!”

“We are the best,” cried Charis. “The best!”

“We are the Gulls and we are the best!” they shouted.

At that moment the huge inner doors of the room swung open. Two pitmen stood watching them, sweating. Still holding hands, the dancers walked quickly into the hard, bright sunlight. A roar of recognition and delight surged from a thousand throats. Charis felt the familiar thrill run through her body. She looked up at the steeply-banked sides of the arena into the cheering mass and slowly raised her hands. The simple gesture brought the crowds to their feet amidst a peal of acclaim, her name thunder in the tormented air.

Char-is! Char-is! Char-r-isss!

There was no prelude. Across the arena another door opened and a bull rushed into the burning ring. He shook his monstrous head, trailing streams of saliva. His horns had been painted red, the tips sharp and gleaming. At Charis’ signal Joet and Galai advanced, walking easily to the center of the oval; the remaining Gulls left the ring to their comrades.

The bull charged at once. Head lowered, he swept toward the two. But by the time he reached them, the dancers were gone. To the animal’s dumb surprise they were never quite where they appeared to be, so that when the dance was over and the doors were opened once more and the pitmen raced out waving their nets, the confused animal went willingly. The spectators laughed and shouted; Joet and Galai ran tumbling from the ring.

“Well done,” said Charis, hugging them both as they came running up, breathless, glowing with exhilaration. She nodded to the others. Joining hands, Kalili, Junoi, and Peronn dashed forward to take their places in the center of the ring. Peronn lifted Junoi high over his head and Kalili whirled around them, arms flung wide.

The pitmen released the bull from across the ring. The animal stalked casually toward them, Bellowed once, and made its charge. The crowd gasped. Did the dancers even see it? If they did, they appeared to take no notice. Kalili spun in circles behind Peronn, who still held Junoi poised above him.

The bull rushed toward them. At the last possible second Peronn gently released Junoi, who righted herself and lightly touched down on the bull’s back, skipped along the animal’s spine, and jumped to the ground as Peronn dodged to the left. Kalili had moved to the side and now sprang up on the beast’s back. She rode the bull, standing straight, legs together, arms wide, while the creature Bellowed and spun, trying to dislodge her.

The rest of their dance was flawless, and when they finished they rejoined the others and received their hugs, saying, “Do you feel it? It is a firepit out there!”

“What about the bulls?” asked Charis. She had seen the way the first two animals lunged, their movements desperate and slow.

“Sluggish,” answered Peronn.

Joet agreed. “They feel the heat and it makes them surly.”

Belissa and Marophon found their places in the ring. Charis allowed them the first few figures and jumps before joining them. The crowd shouted when they saw her, but she danced only in support of the other two and did not take prominence.

The routine contained many spectacular leaps and dives, one after another in rapid succession, disaster averted only by the narrowest margin. The bull charged again and again, throwing his horns from side to side in the futile effort to catch one of the lively phantoms leaping and spinning all around him. The creature did indeed seem lethargic, its movements turgid and slow. And yet the beast charged and lunged with a furious desperation-as if trying by might of brute flesh to shake off the thing binding it and preventing it from pinning the dancers with its homs. Charis had rarely seen a veteran of the ring so distracted.

The three moved through their routine easily, drawing squeals of delight from the crowd as they tumbled effortlessly through the shimmering air.

The bull was tiring. It backed away from the three and lowered its head for a final encounter. The dancers set themselves for the last jump, an intricate figure in which Charis and Marophon performed doubles one over the top of the other, while Belissa took the horns in a handstand.

As the animal began its charge, Charis glanced over at Belissa and Maro to see if they were in position. Belissa stood poised, watching the bull which was now pounding toward them, but Maro was smirking at her-as if to say, See? Breaking my vow has not affected my performance.

“Maro!” Charis screamed. There was time for nothing else. The bull was upon them.

Maro’s head swiveled and he gathered himself for the jump. Charis knew even then that he would jump late. She tried to adjust her own timing to keep from colliding with him. Belissa back-stepped behind them. Marophon sailed up, tucked into a tight ball. Charis sprang. She felt the air beneath her shudder as the bull streaked by.

She held her arc flat to give Maro room above her. Tumbling, Charis heard Belissa’s shouted signal as she took the horns.

Maro’s foot struck Charis square between the shoulder blades as she completed the second somersault and looked for the ground Below her. The blow knocked the air from her lungs and she fought to regain her balance, pulling her jump short to keep from going over onto her back. The ground came up beneath her feet and she landed heavily. Maro fell and pitched forward onto his hands and knees. Charis spun to see him cover his mistake with an additional roll. He scrambled to his feet, shaken. The color had drained from his face. Belissa kicked out of her handstand and leaped from the bull’s back.

The three dancers scurried back to the others then as the pitmen drove the bull away.

“Maro, you idiot! What were you doing?” The accusing voice was Joet’s. “You could have killed someone!”

“Are you all right, Charis?” Belissa peered intently at her with eyes full of concern. The others looked on in horrified silence.

“I am sorry-I…” Mario’s voice faltered; his eyes were wide with terror at what he had done.

“I am not hurt,” Charis managed between clenched teeth. “Take your hands away.” Seething, she wanted to lash out at Maro, but there was no time. Her dance was next and she could not waste precious concentration. The performance is almost over, she told herself; chastise him later. With that she dismissed the incident from her mind.

A clamor had begun in the stands. Char~ris! Char-ris! Chaar-ris!

“There is no harm,” she told her dancers. She tightened the criss-crossed bands of her handstraps and strode into the center of the ring.

The crowd screamed with pleasure, and Charis raised her arms to their noisy adulation.

Across the arena the pitmen tugged open the doors. Charis turned to meet the bull, but the animal was slow appearing. She waited.

And then it was there, materializing suddenly as an apparition, its glossy hide shimmering in the harsh light: a huge beast, sleek and magnificent, its thick muscles knotting and bunching as it trotted onto the sand, a great white mountain of brute flesh.

The wrong bull! The shock struck her like a blow. “This is not the bull I chose!”

The beast took a few steps and stopped to gaze at her calmly, raking the sand with a gleaming golden hoof. Its horns were gilt with gold as well, sweeping in lethal curves from either side of the huge head. Its hump was a snow hill rising from the broad expanse of its back; its legs were massive birch stumps, its tail a white whip, lashing back and forth. Foam streamed from the broad pink muzzle. The beast’s wide-set eyes were red.

The crowd went momentarily quiet. Never had anyone seen such an enormous, powerful creature.

With an almost physical effort, Charis pushed all emotion from her. She had faced strange bulls before, and every one had succumbed to her mastery. She advanced slowly and the crowd oegan cnanung ner name once again, sne aio not near it. She heard nothing but the blood rushing in her ears.

The white bull gave a toss of its head and trotted toward her, lowering its horns as it came. Charis stood directly in its path, making no move to leap or dodge away.

The wicked horns ripped the air. Flecks of foam sparkled in the sun. The bull thundered nearer, closing the distance between them with terrible swiftness. Charis collapsed before the hurtling beast.

The effect brought a gasp of horror from the crowd as Charis disappeared beneath the churning hooves.

But Charis was there, unharmed, arms raised in salute. A great sigh of relief escaped from the crowd. The bull spun, swinging its head from side to side. Charis leaped lightly onto its back, pressing her knees to either side of its hump. The animal Bellowed with rage, and Charis sensed something of the animal’s mindless hate. It would kill her or kill itself in trying.

She leaned down and seized the gilt horns, gave a slight kick and arched her back, toes pointing skyward. The bull whirled in a tight circle, trying to dislodge her, but she held her pose until the creature relented and streaked across the arena, whereupon she swung down, bringing her feet between her hands. Then, hooking an arm around either horn, she let herself fall down the beast’s great forehead, her bare legs dangling in the sand.

The bull stopped and began tossing its head. Once, twice, again. Charis released her hold as the great white head lifted her once more; she soared, tucking herself into a ball and tumbling to the sand.

Whirling, the beast was on her. But Charis was ready. She sprang-vaulting up, up, and over the hind quarters to roll quickly out of range of the slashing horns.

“He gores to the right,” she thought, suppressing a shudder at the monster’s incredible strength and speed.

The next series of jumps were perfectly executed; yet Charis could feel the heat of the brutal white sun stealing away her strength. She jumped and jumped again, leaping, spinning, tumbling, soaring. But the precise maneuvers were taking their toll. She labored to recover each time, whereas the bull, instead of tiring, seemed to grow faster and stronger with each pass.

Still, Charis danced with characteristic abandon, her body at once graceful and vulnerable, dwarfed by the white mountain of animal flesh wheeling and careening about her. The awe of the crowd was a physical force to her. There were no cheers now, no more cries, no wild shouts of acclaim. A vast and profound quiet settled over the arena; the crowd sat stupefied as the death dance whirled toward its climax.

One more high vault, thought Charis, and I will turn the bull for the triple. The last triple. It had not occurred to her to leave it out. It was her signature, as much a part of her as her name; easier to abandon her name than omit the jump that had earned her immortality as the greatest bull dancer who had ever lived.

The bull made a quick lunge. Charis sprang, reaching for its back. Her hands found their mark, but as she straightened her elbows to push herself up and over, something snapped in her back-between her shoulders where Marc’s foot had struck her. Pain blossomed ugly and red behind her eyes. She forced her limbs to complete the figure and managed to land safely.

The bull had pulled up a short distance away. It stood half-turned toward her, breathing heavily, its sides working like forge Bellows, its pale hide matted and wet. Sweat glistened on Charis’ sun-browned skin as well, but she had gone suddenly cold. Her back felt as if someone had touched her with a firebrand at the crease between her shoulder blades. She could feel her muscles stiffening as pain twitched them tight.

“I must jump now,” she thought. “If I wait any longer it will be impossible.”

Moving slowly sideways, she circled the bull, turning it so that the sun would be behind her. The creature, huge heavy head lowered, glared at her with its red eyes and bawled as if in torment, and Charis noticed that the foam streaming from its open mouth was pink with blood.

“So we are both hurting,” she thought. “Well, come on then. Once more. Let us get it over with.”

The arena might have been a tomb, silent and empty-the crowd merely shadows fixed in their places.

The sun shone mercilessly down. The air singed her lungs. She estimated the distance between herself and the bull and took a quick step backward. The bull stood immobile, an immense white hill.

Come on! shrieked Charis inwardly. Charge!

The pain throbbed in her back, spreading weakness through her like a narcotic. If she did not jump now she would be unable to move. Why did the bull just stand there?

“Bel!” Her voice was a whip-crack in the silent arena.

The crowd stared transfixed. Was she calling on the god? Or was she talking to the bull?

The beast stood as if carved from a massive block of milk-white marble.

“Bel!” Charis screamed again, her cry going up into the firebright haze of sky.

Bel, she thought, I have given you everything. And yet you mean to take my pride as well. Take my life then too. I will not walk away beaten.

With that, she rose on her toes and leaped forward, running straight for the waiting bull, her long legs hurling her to her doom. At the same instant the bull gathered its hoofs under it and charged.

She saw the bull lurch into a trot. She was aware of someone shouting and recognized her own voice ringing in her ears.

She saw the massive neck bending low, the gilt hoofs pounding, golden horns slicing the air. She stretched forth her right hand to meet the horn as it swung toward her. But the head swerved away and Charis saw her destruction-the creature was goring left.

There was no time to switch hands. She would have to leap off her right foot and take the entire force of the jump on her left arm alone. It could not be done, she knew, but it was either try or simply impale herself on the wicked horn.

The cool clarity of these thoughts surprised Charis and, strangely, pleased her. She felt no fear, just a fleeting regret that she would not be able to complete this, her last jump.

And then her hand was on the horn, her leather-wrapped palm gripping its smooth surface. Her legs flew up, feet finding their mark on the wide forehead. The bull locked its legs and dug in its hoofs, throwing its head high, trying to snag its phantom tormentor from the air, bawling its terrible rage to the burning white sun.

But Charis was soaring free. The force of the bull’s lunge had flung her skyward. Bringing her knees to her chest, she tucked her chin down and wrapped her arms around her shins. She tumbled… once… high above the ground… twice… saw earth and heaven reversed, revolving slowly… and again. Then the ground was rushing up to meet her with alarming speed.

She arched her back and spread her hands as if to embrace the whole arena. But she was drifting slowly sideways-the one-handed jump had thrown her into a side spin and the momentum of her leap was carrying her past vertical. Instinct had taken over; already her arms were moving, the left swinging up, the right coming across her chest, increasing the speed of her rotation.

The dazzling white sand of the arena engulfed her field of vision. She straightened her legs at the last instant to plant her feet firmly in the sand.

Crack!

Charis straightened slowly. She had come down hard-too hard. Her injured back had absorbed the force of her landing and something inside had given way. Her vision dimmed as an inky mist passed before her eyes. She knew she could not move.

The bull wheeled around and stopped. It faced her from across the ring, splay-legged, head drooping low, the massive neck unable to hold the heavy head upright any longer. It stared at her, red eyes cloudy, its sides bespattered with blood-flecked foam. Then it raised a hoof and raked the ground, throwing sand high over its back.

Charis stood with head held high. The animal would charge again and there was no way she could elude the inevitable.

You shall not take me, she thought. I give myself.

Slowly, with as much dignity as her injury would allow, she knelt down, drew her arms across her chest, and bowed her head.

With a last Bellow of challenge, the white bull lurched into a lumbering trot, its legs driving it ahead, gathering speed as it came.

The Gulls looked on, stunned. “No!” Belissa screamed, shattering the horror-stricken silence of the ring.

Charis raised her head and opened her eyes.

“No-o-o!” Belissa’s cry echoed from across the ring.

Charis turned her face toward her dancers. She smiled and raised her face to the sun.

The bull swept toward her, hoofs and horns glittering. “Curse you, Bel!” she cried and raised her hand in a final, defiant salute.

Little more than a body length separated them when the bull appeared to tumble. Its forelegs buckled and the awesome head crashed down, one golden horn gashing a furrow in the sand as the hind legs continued driving ahead. Then the horn dug in, caught, and the enormous neck snapped, choking off the beast’s startled cry as it foundered awkwardly onto its side.

Charis stared in disBelief at the blood gushing from the animal’s mouth and nostrils. Its legs twitched spasmodically as a series of tremors animated the great carcass. And then, with a last shuddering convulsion, the beast jerked and lay still.

At first there was but a single voice, filling the arena with a shout of triumph. Charis looked and saw Joet racing toward her. And then the crowd was on its feet, cheering and cheering, the sound of their wild jubilation a deafening ocean roar. Gold sparkled in the sun, a trickle at first, and then more, and still more, filling the air, raining down into the ring, a river of gold, then a flood.

“Careful… I am hurt,” Charis heard herself saying as she was lifted onto Joel’s and Peronn’s shoulders to make her triumphant circuit around the ring. Belissa, Galai, Kalili, and Junoi pranced around them, laughing, hugging each other, tears streaming down their faces. Marophon had forgotten his shame, and he too joined in, running here and there, grabbing up golden objects and flinging them into the air as one gone mad.

The tumult raged to heaven, reverberating into the cloudless sky, booming though the empty streets of the royal city.

“Charis! Char-ris! Char-r-ris!” they cried. People were spilling out into the arena, flinging themselves over the wall and dropping to the sand to run to her. More and more and still more came, hands reaching out to touch her, surrounding her with their adulation. “Char-ris! Char-ris!”

Charis, sick with pain, saw them reaching for her, saw the elation on their faces, heard her name on their lips. The Gulls drew close around her to keep her from getting crushed by the onslaught. They stood in the center of the ring, surrounded by the screaming crowd.

Because of the noise, oo one heard the first faint rumble. The first tremor went unnoticed. But the rumble grew louder and the tremors increased. From her vantage point on the dancer’s shoulders above the crowd, Charis looked up and saw a strange sight: the Temple of the Sun trembling in the air, its upper levels swaying precariously as if made from some fluid, supple material. The great crystal obelisk high atop the temple shook, rocking back and forth and finally toppling from its peak.

And under the crowd noise came a sound from deep, deep in the earth. A sound like stony bones being wrenched from stone sockets, like gigantic stone querns grinding against one another, like great teeth gnashing, like ancient roots creaking and popping and giving way.

Charis saw the joy evaporate from the sea of faces around her, replaced by expressions of stark terror as the white sand beneath their feet undulated like ocean waves. Joet and Per-onn held their leader tight, bearing her aloft as the ground quivered underfoot.

The next thing Charis heard was the eerie silence, into which came the sounds of dogs baying. An odd, unnatural sound. “Strange,” she thought, “every dog in the city must be howling.”

Fine white dust rose into the air to veil the naked sun. People peered at one another in the pale, unearthly light, unable to comprehend what had happened.

But the quake was over. Nothing remained to attest to the fact that it had even happened at all-only the silent shroud of dust rising up and frightened dogs wailing.