gate and the men with chariots; and the fifth, at the center of the rest, the Gate of Gold—through which passed the riders of the Sagare. Over that gate, high up, in carved letters that must have been stretched ten feet high or more, was an inscription, Ankurumite, yet with an odd spelling that reminded me of another tongue, close to me, but which I must forget:
MORTAL, NOW YOU ARE GOD
Beyond the Gate of Gold, we rode down a long ramp into red gloom, lit by torches in the stone walls.
There was a smell of horses here, and something more besides, inexplicable yet intense. The ramp took a long while to travel, for it led under the high terraces of the stadium to the level of the arena floor.
At last we emerged in the vast under-rock cavern. To left and right, passages led away to baths, weapons halls, physicians’ rooms, and the stables. Beyond these complexes lurked the other deeper caves—beast pits, and the death crematoria of those who died here without kin. At the cavern’s far end, the long corridor, ten chariots wide, leading out into the open.
Most of the horses were done with their stables now. It was noon, and the Warden would be at his dinner, but in an hour the traditional procession of his gracious self, favored ladies, men of important houses, would amble through this place of strength and tautness, languidly sizing up the form for the last time before all final bets were taken.
The cavern was very wide and high, torches splashing yellow from the walls. There were ten divisions in all, horse high stone partitions, and inside each enough space for chariot, horses, and grooms to maneuver in comfort. Six of the chariots were in place, glittering metal and color, the horses being coaxed into the shafts. In the fifth stall, the three blacks waited, taking their final grooming patiently enough, while behind them the chariot was taking its own. The bodywork and wheels of every vehicle dripped oil, and oil ran in pools along the floor until it reached the drains. The aroma was mostly of oil, metal too, sweat of horses and men, leather, horse droppings, straw, stone, and the knife sharp, knife-bright smell of tension.
The blacks tossed their heads at Darak as he stroked and caressed them, polished ebony, their manes and floating tails plaited so full of scarlet ribbons that they seemed to be on fire.
“You’ve watched the chariot and team?” Bellan asked his chief groom at once.
“Yes, sir. No one came near. There’s been nothing of that sort I know of. Number seven—the Renshan—one of the grays lost a shoe, but it was all in the run of the thing, nothing tampered with I’d say.”
The charioteers and their grooms were everywhere in the cavern, attending the teams, joking, drinking.
“Barl,” Bellan remarked. A man in yellow had sought the Altar of All Gods, in a recess, and was bowed before it.
“Barl of Andum,” Ballan said. “A good driver, not a master. He’ll take second if he keeps steady. Those grays of his have too much temperament.”
The archers were there, too, slight young men, stripped off to the waist already, only keeping their colored cloaks for display. A group were talking together, friendly, it seemed, for men who would soon be at odds. Yet I could tell from their gestures—slightly feminine and spiteful—that this too was all part of the game. They had a feline look. Some of the faces were pretty as a girl’s, and painted to make them more so. Many wore necklets and little earrings, and one had twisted his black club of hair through with pearls.
A rattle of wheels and the last of the chariots emerged from the side passages, three grays first, drawing their purple enameled chariot already, which was then backed into the second stall. Then a blue and gold car drawn by three satin bays. The driver took it into position—six—himself, a big dark-skinned man, hook-nosed, with a long grinning mouth. Eyes, bright and questing as those of an eagle, looked around him, and found what they sought, I felt Bellan stiffen, hard as rock. This, then, was Essandar of Coppain, the man who had sent Bellan into the Skora because of “some girl,” as Raspar had said. Essandar’s grin broadened. He nodded, and raised one hand in exaggerated salute.
It was a filthy mockery. Others sensed it, and stillness fell for an instant in the cavern. Then one of the archers laughed at something, the silence broke, and the incident was smothered. Essandar had dismounted and was seeing to harness. I turned and looked at Bellan and his face was white. I was so fired by fear, anticipation, dread, excitement, and sentiment, I felt his pain strike to the quick of me, but abruptly he strode off behind the chariot to check the turn of the oiled wheels.
The hour of waiting went fast, and besides that, the Warden came early. Surrounded by his red and white liveried guard, he emerged from the passages and stalked up and down the stalls, gentlemen and ladies trailing after. Their elegance and chat had no place here; even they seemed to know it and did not stay long. Even so, the Warden, portly, handsome, and much-ringed, had a gracious word for all. By the blacks he smiled and nodded.
“Raspar’s brood. Very fine. And you are the young merchant-adventurer, are you not? Darros, is it?
Well, well. Commend me to your groom. Fine work, all of it.”
The ladies lingered a little longer, keeping nervously away from the “terrifying” horses.
“I shall not take my eyes from you, Darros; you are quite the most beautiful man in the Sirkunix. You should have a sculptor cast you in metal—just as you are now. Oh! How I wish they wouldn’t shake their heads so! Such magnificent devils, I can scarcely stay near them any longer.”
After they went, the tension grew taut as a bowstring. Only the wait now for them to gain their seats, place their bets, and then the stadium trumpets, the summons, the beginning. We were all mounted now.
Still, poised for that sound. The horses felt it too, restless, nostrils flared. The last grooms scurried and withdrew. Bellan checked the chariot once more. His face was as pale and as set as any of the faces of the drivers and riders. He nodded at Darak, at me.
“No last questions? Good. Remember what I told you; build your speed, don’t snatch it, give her the weight on the left when you pass the turns alone, right when in company. Yes,” he said, soft, to the three blacks, “you will do well today. Now I have a son and daughter.”
It came then. That crack of silver sound, terrible, wondrous, irresistible cry to the heart and the guts and the soul.
Every chariot started forward. I leaned back across the bar to Bellan as we started forward too.
“Bellan,” I called.
He trotted to keep up and listen.
“If I can,” I whispered, hoarse, my mouth full of fire, “that blue one—if I can, I will take him for you. Not clean, not the shaft. Somehow, as he served you.”
He dropped back, and the chariots were moving fast, the quick parade trot.
Into the dark; vague torch shimmer, eight pieces of a single front moving forward. Then the dim glow—the ten openings ahead, all mouths of the Gate of Love where the marble god stood leaning out above us, over the Straight.
Like birth, moving toward the light.
Stronger, stronger, burning light, white, gold, blue—
We were out.
A roar, thunder, the sea, a great sound going up all around, because they saw us now, their gods, who had come to be beautiful for their ugliness, achieve the victories they would never know, and die for their sins. The light was all around now. Above, blue sky pressing on the tops of the stadium and their round towers. On every side the steep banks of terraces alive with house banners, and the colors of the chariots. The Straight, so wide, white as yet with its fresh sand, one great dancing hall for death and joy.