The temple was very quiet, shadows around it. We went between the lacquered pillars into the gloom beyond.
And there was such a sense of peace there, not like the village temple this, with its close and spicy smell.
There was only oldness here, and quietness, and calm. A long dark aisle, three square stone columns on each side, holding the roof up, and at the end a little marble stand, veined red, where the image stood, in front, an altar draped with a green and scarlet cloth. Strange, should the altar not be bare so the blood of sacrifice could be easily cleaned away? And there should be a drain in the floor to catch it. The narrow door behind the altar opened, and a priest came out. I did not think he saw us, for he carried an iron bowl to the altar, set it there, filled it with oil and lit the flame.
Without turning he said, “Be welcome. May I help you?”
“Yes,” I said, half-whispering in the silence, “we have come to offer to the goddess.”
He turned and beckoned us forward. He had an old man’s face, but composed, kind, and oddly knowing. He it was, I thought, who had steeped this place in its feelings of peace.
“The goddess,” he said, smiling, “does not ask offerings.”
I was amazed. I had seen the temples of Ankurum, with their oxen, sheep, goats, and doves held captive in the sacred pens, ready to be brought for sacrifice, and fill the temple treasury even while they appeased the god.
“What then—?” I began.
“Look in her face and ask her what you want,” the priest said, “as you would ask a kind mother. If she can, she will grant what you ask.”
Darak said coldly, “Your goddess is too gentle for us. We want her help in the Sirkunix because we wear her red.”
The priest’s smile did not change; his eyes darkened a little, that was all.
“If you pray for the death of another, she will not listen, it is true,” he said, “but if you pray for your safety, that would be a different matter.”
I nodded. The priest turned and gazed up at the image. Darak’s eyes followed his, and mine also. She was like a little doll, white-robed, black-haired, the red vine around her brow. A little doll, and yet...
O gentle one, I whispered in my mind, I am cursed and should not speak to you, but be good to mefor my heart is open. If one of us must die, let it be me and not this man—not so much for hissake, as for mine. If you exist, then you know me and my trouble. Take pity on us both and savehim; make him brave, as he is, give him the victory he wants, and if death, let it be quick andclean. For both.
My eyes seemed to be on fire. I lowered them, and at that moment the priest spoke.
“She hears,” he said.
Curious, it seemed he knew it for a fact. Then abruptly he reached up and plucked two red leaves from the goddess’ chaplet, and I saw for the first time it was real, not a painted thing.
He turned and took my hand, and put the leaves into it.
“One for each,” he said.
My fingers closed around them, cool and crisp on my palm. The priest nodded and went away again behind his narrow door.
I looked at Barak’s face, and I saw all the darkness had gone out of it. So it had worked, then.
Superstition against superstition; and yet I felt it too, the joy and release.
We went out and the day was warmer still. I put one vine leaf in his hand. He said nothing, but, as we walked back toward the farm, I knew he was eager, thinking of the chariot, the team, the roaring crowd, the rushing Straight, the glory, and the prize. I did not know what would come of it, but he was Darak again. And this, to him, was the Day of Victory.
He went first to the stables to make love to the black team, eager and restive under their grooming, as though they sensed this was the time. He came in late to eat, a sparse meal, bread, a slice or two of cold meat, wine and water in equal measure. Bellan hovered around us to keep appetites in check. I did not eat—I could not risk those pains coming to distract me—but I had taken what I needed the night before.
Raspar had gone ahead of us to Ankurum. He would have his own fine seat, not far from the Warden’s place. Grooms were running everywhere, and soon the chariot and team were gone too, to the Sirkunix stables for the traditional inspection. We—Bellan, Darak, Maggur, and I—rode after, with an escort of more grooms.
“Every charioteer needs his own army,” Bellan remarked, “on this day of war.”
His own horse, a sturdy bay, he guided only by his knees, the reins looped in the buckle of his belt; but it was his, and knew him.
There were men and women, farmworkers most of them, leaning over walls and fences to watch us ride by. They raised cheers, for now we were dressed for the arena, and there was no mistaking us, or our colors—black for the team, scarlet for the vine. Darak wore the skin-tight black leggings that ended, thong-tied, at the ankles, the black hide belt, with its red enamel clasp, from which swung thick strips of stiffened black hide to mid-thigh—a protection, but allowing free movement of the legs. For the moment he still wore knee-high black boots, red tassels set thickly around the calf. Above the waist theoretically he was bare except for the shield-cuirass, hardened black leather shaped to the body but covering only lower back, abdomen, and ribs, leaving the arms and shoulders free for the team. It was open at the sides, too, held by three straps of black leather with garnet buckles. On the cuirass, front and back, was the scarlet sun burst, which was repeated in turn on the thick black iron armlets which strengthened the charioteer’s wrists. Across his shoulders, looped around his arms, was the blood-bright cloak, superfluous yet glamorous as the tasseled boots. I, the archer, was his echo, dressed the same, except that I had no protection above the waist save the scarlet cloak I wore around me now, and would slough in the stadium. Neither did I sport two armlets, only one to harden my left wrist. The right wrist would carry the black iron shield with its red sun burst, now across my saddle. My hair I wore plaited behind me and wound around itself, secured by scarlet thongs.
When we passed the little temple of the goddess of the vine, I turned to look my thanks. Darak did not turn, but I knew he carried the vine leaf under his left armlet as I did mine.
When we went through the Ring Gate and into Ankurum, the crowds were milling everywhere. They roared and shouted at us—praises, cheers, prayers: “I’ve put a tenth of my silver on you, northerner—get it for me, for the love of the gods!”
Women peered from windows and balconies in the “garden” quarter. Plump, pampered, pretty, they threw out flowers to Darak, yearning in their painted-ringed eyes. Indeed, he looked enough like one of their gods. Handsome, his body deep golden and hard as iron, his face arrogant and proud, and the eyes bright, fearless, self-amused. He could have his pick of them if he should win. But, if not, if not ... a pit, a heap of earth, no song, and no white Ankurum lady to share that bed with him.
7
Things crumble, civilizations fade; only their tokens are left behind them. Perhaps one day they will find the ruins of the Sirkunix at Ankurum, and say it was made by giants.
It was built partly from the same warm yellowish stone that was predominant in the town, but the greater area of it was hollowed out of the rock hills themselves. It was outside the original wall, but a new wall had been extended to wrap it around. From the outside its own walls reared up and up, crowned with round towers, like the ramparts of a fortress. At the town end were ten gates to admit men and women from the various hierarchies of society. At the wall end, the back door of the stadium, there were only five: the Gate of Iron—the wrestlers’ and boxers’ gate; the Gate of Alcum—the gate of the acrobats and dancers; the Gate of Bronze—the gate of duelers and fighters of beasts; the Gate of Silver—the racers’