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.