7

The Bull-Dancers of Knossos

Nun, the sailor, on the island of Crete—The bull-ceremony—The Queen from Tyre, and the myth of Europa and the Bull—Information of impending attack on Gebal by the Cretan navy

It was the Day of the Bulls at Knossos. The court and the common people were gathered around the arena, the courtiers appearing indifferent and bored, the people expectantly awaiting the opening procession.

First came the bearers of jars, great colored vessels of mingled wine and water. This they sprinkled over the dancing floor, the wine to placate the Earth-Goddess, the water to stop the dust flying in the eyes and noses of the spectators.

Then came the soldiers, slim of waist, broad of shoulder, helmeted, and carrying their painted shields of bull’s hide, shaped like figures of eight.

Then came pipers and drummers and trumpeters.

Then came the bearers of the golden double-bladed axes, glinting in the sun, not weapons but symbols of ancient power.

Then came the priestesses, gaily skirted, bare-breasted, dancing as they came, making with their arms the sign of the bull’s horns, and in their midst the chief priestess, holding in each hand a snake, dweller in the earth, symbol of the Earth—Goddess of fertility.

Then came the young acrobats, the bull-dancers, in their groups, fair-haired, dark-haired, long-nosed, snub-nosed, all young and proud, each one confident of defying death at the horns of the bull.

Among them was Nun. He alone felt apart from the pageantry. What am I doing here, citizen of Gebal, sea captain, cedar salesman, he was thinking; what have these fripperies to do with me?

To the music of the pipes and drums the procession wound round the arena. As each section passed the royal box they turned and saluted King Minos and his Queen with upraised arms, sign of the Bull. Then they took their own seats.

Nun found himself beside the tall young man of the North. In the ring was the first team of performers. “What team is that?” Nun asked his neighbor. “Where do they come from?”

The other shrugged. “They say Ateni, Atenai, Athenis—something like that. I never heard of it. Some little town.”

The team marched to the center of the arena and then took their places in extended formation. They had danced the bull-dance before and their drill was perfect.

A trumpet sounded, a door opened, and a bull ran out into the arena and stood snorting and stamping and glaring around him.

For the first figure of the dance the bull was lured into the center of the ring of dancers and stood there, uncertain which one to attack. The dancers stood around, calling to the bull in solemn mockery, making the sign of the two uplifted arms or the two uplifted fingers, provoking him, eager for the honor of being the first to be attacked. The bull fixed his eyes on one of them and charged. This was the test—the dancer who provoked the charge had to stand his ground. Then at the last moment the dancer next to him ran across and deflected the charge to himself. Then, when the bull seemed to be gaining on the second dancer, a third would interpose and the bull would follow him. The music still played, and Nun found it difficult to believe that the bull was not deliberately joining in a formal dance, setting to a different partner in turn and threading an intricate measure in and out of the ring of men. But the sweat on the bodies of the men and of the beast was proof of the strain and exertion of what was going on in the ring. The bull had no rest as each of the team led him a dance: he was at full gallop all the time and Nun saw that he must be getting tired. But there were many occasions when his pointed horns missed brown bodies by less than inches, and the dancers’ faces sometimes showed how narrow were the escapes. At last the bull came to a stop, the dancers re-formed the ring around him and held his attention until a second team came up behind them and took their places.

“Girls now!” grunted the fair young man, and Nun realized that the next team consisted of maidens, with flowing, bright-colored scarves over their shoulders. They stood solemnly round the bull and greeted him gracefully. The bull stood a little bewildered, breathing heavily. Tired by the galloping first figure of the dance, he was lured into a formal ballet, a gavotte. He trotted after the whirling scarves appearing docile, but Nun looking intently could see that the sweeps and hooks of his horns were as vicious as ever, and that the serious-faced girls were all the time very carefully watching their distance. As a climax, two girls held out a wreath of flowers between them. The bull charged, and at the end of the charge he was standing rather foolishly, wearing the wreath round his great neck. But Nun’s heart missed a beat as he saw that one of his horns had carried away the scarf from one girl’s shoulders.

The dancing girls retired, and in the ring with the bull there was now a team of three, two young men and a girl, all of them very slim and wiry and light on their feet. They stood before the bull and provoked him with handsprings, cartwheels, and somersaults. The bull, tired by his dances, stood still, baffled by the spinning bodies, but looking as furious and regal as ever. While the bull was watching the girl and one of the men, the other ran to the side, ran lightly toward the bull’s flank, sprang, and with his hands on the bull’s spine flipped over in a neat handspring on to the other side. The animal whipped round indignantly and hooked with his horns, but the acrobat was out of range. The crowd clapped and cheered.

Next, the two men held the bull’s attention while the girl ran to the side and performed a handspring over the bull’s back. Then she executed a whirling one-handed cartwheel in front of the bull while the two young men approached from opposite sides and flipped over simultaneously.

The crowd cheered, and then was silent, expectant, as if they knew what was coming next. Now all three acrobats stood some distance in front of the bull, one of the men in the middle. The man advanced at an easy run straight toward the horns of the bull. What was this? Everyone had been avoiding the bull’s horns—was this one sacrificing himself by throwing himself on them? Nun looked open-mouthed at the fair young man. “What—?” he gasped.

The Northman grinned back. “Man charge bull!” he laughed.

The acrobat seemed to hurl himself on to the lowered horns of the bull. Nun shut his eyes so as not to see the sharp horns goring the man’s body. There was a shout from the crowd and enthusiastic applause. Nun forced himself to open his eyes. There was the acrobat, very much alive, on his feet behind the bull and facing away from the bull’s tail, while the animal looked even more baffled and enraged. How had he got there? What had happened?

The team of three was again standing in front of the bull. The girl this time was in the middle and seemed to be preparing to take her turn. She was thin and boyish with hard muscles, and very much resembled the two young men: indeed, they might have been sister and brothers. The men were watching the bull carefully, and by calling and clapping their hands, were trying to lure him toward them. The acrobat runs to the bull, or the bull runs to the acrobat, it’s the same thing, Nun reasoned, watching closely. The team provoked the bull to attack at a gentle canter; Nun’s heart stood still as the girl stood her ground and reached for the lowered horns; her body arched and her legs went up; the upward thrust of the bull’s powerful neck lifted her into the air; heels overhead she flipped over, came down both feet together on the bull’s back and hopped off behind its tail on almost exactly the same spot as she had taken off. The spectators applauded—fellow acrobats warmly, knowing how difficult the feat was, the court languidly, politely approving the elegant spectacle.

Nun was almost tempted to think the whole thing was easy, if a mere girl could do it so gracefully. But the second man’s attempt at the same trick came near to disaster. The bull was moving at almost a gallop when acrobat and animal met, and at the last moment it hooked sideway instead of upward. The man twisted awkwardly and fell beside the neck of the bull, who whipped round and made to gore him. Immediately, the other two ran in; the girl slapped the bull’s muzzle to distract it, the brother hung on to its horns until the one who had fallen was able to spring to his feet. Nun applauded the courageous rescue, but most of the other teams were silent, and looking at the court, Nun could see frowns of displeasure at the clumsy performance. The performer was badly shaken, but clearly determined, to try again to retrieve his reputation. He ran before the bull, provoked it to a furious charge, and then started running toward it at full speed. When they met their combined velocity was so great it was difficult to see what happened; the man gave a great leap right over the bull’s lowered horns, landed with his hands on the bull’s back, and leap-frogged to the ground behind it. Even the court applauded enthusiastically. The honor of the team was saved, and they and the bull were allowed to retire from the ring.

Nun sat back in his seat and relaxed, with the feeling that the Minoan Bull-dance was a more pleasant spectacle than he had feared. But just then a haughty young Guard ensign came up. “You next. Northmen and the Giblite!” he said, and Nun’s heart plummeted again to his sandals.

Ag sprawled in his seat and looked at the officer. “You wish we should dance with the bull? We not pretty girls, nor circus men. What we do?”

The officer sneered down at him. “You don’t think the Earth-Mother will be satisfied without some blood, do you? And the court wants to know what color yours is. Is it white? Are you afraid?”

Ag showed no emotion. “No, we not afraid of your he-cows. Nor your Godmother neither.” The officer eyed him, wondering whether this was deliberate blasphemy; but deciding the man was a northern barbarian oaf who knew no better he merely snapped: “In the ring all of you! You too, Giblite! The court didn’t think much of your performance last night. Now’s your chance to please them—so long as you don’t actually run away.”

Nun stood up shakily. If he had to go in the ring with a bull, there was some comfort in being with these huge, red, unconcerned men. But he could not see them skipping lightly aside from a charge, or turning nimble somersaults. They were too ponderous and slow-moving.

“What are we going to do?” he asked Ag as they walked toward the entrance to the ring, trying to make his voice sound unconcerned.

“Not to worry! We have plan. You not run, though. They kill, if you run,” said Ag, indicating the guards. Nun wished he knew what the other rules were, and what the plan was they had prepared. Perhaps they had hidden arms—but at the ringside the guards searched them to make sure they had not. If there was to be blood, the Cretans wanted to make sure it was not the bull’s.

The Northmen lumbered casually into the ring, saluted the crowd perfunctorily, and gathered in an untidy group to exchange last-minute instructions. But as it was all in the outlandish murmuring northern tongue it was still no comfort to Nun. As they stood talking, the trumpet sounded, the door opened, and another bull entered the arena. It seemed to be twice as big as the last one, and Nun recognized the great beast they had overtaken in the cage the day before. The Northmen went on talking, until Nun nudged them and pointed out the animal standing switching its tail at the other end of the ring.

“Oh, yes,” grunted Ag. “Come. Cattle market begins.” They all moved off at a shambling pace toward the bull, who stood pawing and snorting and shaking his horns at them. The bull lowered his horns and took a few steps forward as if thinking of charging. Still the men took no notice but advanced toward it at a walk. “Heigha! Gerrup!” called the big red-bearded Ug, flapping a large hand. The bull stopped uncertainly. Ug walked up to it, slapped it playfully on the nose, and it turned tail and ran away from them round the edge of the ring. When the bull stopped on the other side of the ring, the men stopped where they were and shrugged their shoulders. There was a stunned silence at first from the crowd, then catcalls and cries of disapproval. The men ignored them and stood talking as if they were discussing the price of beef, as indeed they may have been.

But Nun saw that a soldier at the ringside was jabbing at the hindquarters of the bull with a long lance, trying to stir up its cowed fighting spirit. The bull whirled round, but seeing nobody because the soldier hid behind the parapet, faced the team again, and the soldier gave it another nasty jab that sent it charging angrily toward them.

“Look out!” cried Nun. Must not run, but no harm in getting out of the way. He skipped aside from the path of the charge, but facing the bull all the time, hoping that he looked poised and defiant. The others looked round. They had not bothered to notice the way the soldier had goaded the bull, and this unprovoked charge did not seem to fit in with their plan. They scattered clumsily, and to his horror Nun saw that Ag had stumbled and fallen over his big feet right in the bull’s path. The bull was passing Nun and he was the only one who could save Ag. Nun the sailor knew little about animals, but he knew a lifeline when he saw one. He made a desperate grab at the bull’s tail as it whisked past, hung on, and dug his heels into the sand of the arena. The braking effect was sufficient to allow Ag to get to his feet and out of the way, but Nun now did not dare let go. There he was, being towed round the arena in a cloud of dust at the tail of the cavorting bull—and he realized that his teammates were merely standing around cheering encouragement to the bull and holding their sides with laughter.

So long as the bull’s horns were pointing away from him Nun felt safe—though far from comfortable. But suddenly the bull came to a halt and started bucking round in a circle, trying to dislodge him with its horns. Nun held on desperately, but a last flying kick made him lose his grip, he was hurled to the ground and the bull was upon him.

But the other men were upon the bull. Four of them tackled the bull at once, grabbing a leg apiece. Ag and Eg each clung on to a horn. Ig got astride the neck. Heads down and arms locked round each other, the rest got their shoulders against the bull’s flank and heaved, and the great beast went over like a house falling down. All that could be seen under the mass of brawny bodies was its muzzle and one despairing eye.

There was a great stillness around the arena. Then the royal trumpeter sounded the call for the end of an event. The Northmen got up and dusted themselves down. The bull scrambled to its feet and made sheepishly for the open gate. Never had a Cretan bull been so humiliated.

There was uproar in the stands. As far as Nun could make out, standing in the middle of the arena feeling foolish and exposed, both court and commons were split. Some were delighted by the exhibition of clowning and sympathized with the tall blond strangers: others were howling for blood. Some of the courtiers, the younger, sophisticated set, were pleased with the originality of the performance, and were applauding, but the more serious councilors were plainly horrified and angered by this act of sacrilege. People started throwing fruit, and the Northerners good-humoredly fielded it and chucked it back. Nun looked at the section of the stand reserved for the priests: there was no doubt their reaction was one of black fury. Much of the solemnity of the rites had been destroyed. Among the priests Nun could see the Chaldean, sitting silent and impassive. Nun could not tell what he was thinking.

They were hurried put of the arena under guard and the games went on. The prize bull was not reintroduced, and Nun supposed that its nerve had been too shattered by the experience. There were some rather botched performances by second-rate bulls and teams, enough blood was spilt to satisfy the spectators, and presumably the Earth-Goddess, but Nun was too apprehensive about what would happen at the end of the games to take much in.

Sure enough, as soon as the final flourish of trumpets had sounded Nun felt a tap on his shoulder. It was what he had been expecting, but he jumped violently. It was the officer of the guard.

“You’re wanted,” said the officer.

“You want us?” asked Ag unconcernedly.

“Not you, cattle-herds,” said the guard contemptuously. “Just the Giblite.”

“What you want him for?” demanded Ag.

“Maybe they give him prize for pulling bull’s tail,” said Ug. “We come with you,” said Ag protectively.

“No, no,” Nun protested. He didn’t want to cause any more trouble. “I’ll be all right. I’ll see you later.”

“But maybe we not see you,” said Ag. “We go back North. Come with us, no?”

But Nun also had business to attend to. So they said affectionate farewells in the palace corridor, in case they never met again, with a special hug for Nun from Ag for saving him from the bull. Then Nun followed the Cretan guard.

“Where am I wanted?” Nun asked as he was again marched along the labyrinth of corridors.

“Royal chambers,” was the curt reply, and the escort would say no more.

As they passed through apartments which, by their magnificence, seemed to be antechambers to the royal quarters, they were stopped by another officer of the guard.

“Is that the Giblite you have there?” asked the second officer.

“Yes.”

“I’ve orders to take him to the Sea Lord.”

“And I’ve orders to take him to the Queen.”

The Queen! What could she want with him, Nun wondered.

“But I have the Sea Lord’s special authority,” said the second guard, and produced a seal ring.

The first guard looked a little confused, and spoke to Nun. “Giblite, haven’t you the Queen’s seal?”

Nun looked blank for a moment, and then thought of the cylinder that had got him into the throne room the night before. He felt in his bag and took it out. “Do you mean this?” he asked.

“Yes,” said his escort. “The Queen’s own seal, the lion and bull. That’s worth more than the Sea Lord’s,” he said, turning to the second guard. “Let me pass, please. You can have this man when we’ve finished with him.” And he led Nun on.

The chamber that Nun was at last shown into was even more beautifully painted than the King’s throne room. There were patterns of great rosettes all over the beams and uprights, and a great panel of swimming dolphins, little fish, and sea plants. But the most beautiful thing in the room was the woman sitting among a few attendants, her great dark eyes on Nun as he came in. He realized that she must be the Queen—and yet something about her reminded him of the girls he knew in Gebal.

“Is this the foreigner who pulled our sacred bull’s tail?” came the cool voice of the Queen. “Let him approach so that I can see him.”

Nun and his escort went up to the Queen’s chair, and Nun knelt before her. It seemed the natural thing to do, and he felt none of the awkwardness he had felt when he had met the King. And she was speaking his language as if it was native to her.

“Are you aware, Giblite, that you have offended my Lord the King and shocked our holy priests and priestesses?” said the Queen in a level voice, with a strange expression in her eyes.

“We must have disgusted you with our rude performance, Your Majesty,” said Nun. “I am sorry for that. But I’m only a simple sailor. I held on to the first thing that came to hand.”

The Queen turned her head, so that Nun could not see her expression, and spoke to her attendants. “Retire!” she ordered them. “As priestess, I must speak to this man alone.” The attendants and the guard hesitated a little, then, after an angry flash from the Queen’s black eyes, moved to the other end of the chamber, looking more than a little shocked and disapproving.

The Queen turned her face back to Nun, and this time her eyes were twinkling with laughter.

“I want to thank you, Giblite. I have not enjoyed the bull games so much for years.” Once again Nun felt taken aback, and this seemed to amuse the Queen even more. “You are surprised,” she went on, “to hear me speak your language perhaps? I was not born a Cretan, but a princess of Tyre, your neighbor state. Oh! I know that Tyrians and Giblites are not always friends at home, but I like to speak to sailors from that coast. I was tempted to come here by stories of the Bull King—there is even a foolish belief that I swam here on the back of a bull. But I am frivolous, I suppose, and still cannot take our games as seriously as my dear husband would wish. It was good of you and your friends to make me laugh.”

“It might not have been so funny for me if it hadn’t been for the Northerners,” said Nun. “Will they be allowed to go now?”

“Do not worry about your friends,” replied the Queen. “They are barbarians, clowns. What can you expect from people with yellow hair and red faces? They will be permitted to leave. But I am concerned about you, Giblite.”

“Your Majesty is most kind,” said Nun, the anxiety returning within him.

“What I am going to tell you is a secret of state,” the Queen continued. “I am only letting you know of it because you have no possibility of escaping and telling your people. The King my husband has plans to harry the coastal cities with his ships. Gebal and Sidon will be attacked: Tyre is, of course, in league with us. You know how strong our navy is. Nothing can withstand them. They want you as a navigator. If you refuse, they will certainly not let you go, but you will be put to death for sacrilege. They say you know strange secrets of navigation, but that means nothing to me. I merely wish to save you because you are of my race—and because you made me laugh. Here, take this! It is my royal commission, sealed with the seal of the lion and bull, that seal of which there are only two copies. One I sent as a token to Babylon for the Chaldean astrologer, and one I keep myself.”

The Queen handed to Nun a clay tablet, covered with the incomprehensible long-legged script, with the lion and bull across the bottom. He stood, holding it, and the only words that came to his lips were, “I cannot accept. If Gebal is to be attacked, my place is at home.”

The Queen looked at him with compassion. “I tell you, Giblite, if you work for us and have my backing there is an honorable future for you. Nothing can save you otherwise.”

And at that moment there was a disturbance at the entrance to the chamber, and in strode the distinguished white-haired councilor whom the King had addressed as Sea Lord.

The Queen rose to her feet. “Sea Lord,” she said icily, “this intrusion is very sudden!”

“A thousand pardons, Your Majesty,” said the Sea Lord smoothly. “It did not enter my head that you could be in—ah, private audience with this person.” He looked coldly at Nun. “As you know, he is urgently invited to a—er—a conference on nautical affairs at Mallia. That is, of course, if he deigns to accept hospitality at my humble country mansion.”

Nun bowed, not to be outdone in politeness now that he knew how little it was worth. “Your Sea Lordship is most kind,” he said. “I have already heard of your delightful residence at Mallia.”

“That’s settled then. An honorable escort awaits you and your—ah—mathematician friend. Infinite apologies again, Your Majesty, for the intrusion. But it was His Majesty’s express wish.”

The Queen nodded to the Sea Lord, but said nothing. She held out her hand to Nun. He knelt and kissed it.

“Farewell, Your Majesty,” he said. “And thank you.” But he could not see the expression in the Queen’s eyes.

Nun and the Sea Lord left the chamber, and outside they met an escort of soldiers with the Chaldean among them. They were taken from the palace to where a painted chariot waited to drive them to Mallia. Nun and the Chaldean traveled together in the same chariot, but his companion was very silent. Hardly a word passed between them, even when they came to a high part of the coast road and they both suddenly saw directly to the North over the blue sea, just above the horizon, a harmless-looking cone with a faint wisp of smoke coming from the top. It was Thira, the island of menace.

But nothing could be more peaceful than Mallia. After driving across a fertile coastal strip, they emerged from olive orchards to see a palace of golden stone standing in a semicircle of soft, rounded hills. At the seaside was a small harbor where a few ships lay. Everything was on a much smaller scale than at Knossos, and instead of the bustle and magnificence of the King’s palace, here all was luxury and calm. They were shown into airy apartments hung with fine linen, but they did not know whether they were prisoners or guests, and when the Sea Lord sent for them after dinner he himself seemed uncertain how to treat them.

“I understand that Her Majesty the Queen sent for you in the first place, Chaldean, and that you, Giblite, came over with a cargo of logs. That is correct?” And without waiting for a reply he continued, “Good. Then let’s begin with the facts. Now we in Crete, of course, always welcome traders from abroad, and Her Majesty’s particularly interested to see jugglers and magicians from the East. But we have in Crete certain standards, you know. We like to think of ourselves as civilized, and it’s not asking much for visitors to our shores to pay a little regard to the decencies and so forth. So it’s my embarrassing duty to make you realize that your respective public performances at Knossos made a very bad impression, a very bad impression indeed. Let’s take the incident with the bull first. You foreign visitors are not expected to be able to play the game as we Cretans do, of course. But we do expect you to remember that it’s an honor for you to take part in our bull festival. I admit it was a mistake ţo invite those northern barbarians—they’re just not civilized like us, and people with skins that color never will be. But you Giblites aren’t savages. I should have thought the honor of representing your city in front of Ring Minos would have been enough to make you take the bull by the horns, and so on, instead of pull—instead of acting as you did.”

The recollection of the bull’s tail being pulled seemed to give the elegant gentleman pain. “You don’t look like a coward. Well, there it is, a very good bull with its nerve gone—it will never fight again—and the priests foretelling all sorts of trouble with the harvest.”

The lord turned in his chair and faced the Chaldean. “And that brings me to your performance, Chaldean. I won’t say your prophecy wasn’t very well delivered, perfectly correct in its form. And it would have been quite in order to foretell a little famine or so, some disaster threatening the common people. But to accept the hospitality of His Majesty King Minos, to stand in his palace and tell him to his face that it’s going to fall down—well, I mean it’s beyond the bounds of decent behavior. I think His Majesty took it very well. He’s graciously given orders that you should be well treated at present. And he is paying you the compliment, both of you, which I for one—with all respect to His Majesty—believe to be thoroughly undeserved, of taking the rest of your story seriously, and asking me to find out about it. So now you know what you’re here for.”

Nun had rather lost the thread of that last sentence, and permitted himself a glance at the Chaldean. But his friend’s face was expressionless.

The Sea Lord continued his monologue. “You know very well what I mean. You claimed that in an ordinary laden cargo vessel you made the passage from the port of Gebal to Crete in two days. It was quite obvious to anyone who knows anything about the sea that this was the normal sort of exaggeration you Orientals go in for. My flag officers”—he glanced at the languid young men sitting around—“have advised me that the minimum time for that passage is four days, even with the most favorable winds. You talked some nonsense about sailing at night and being directed by the stars. His Majesty seemed to think it might be a practice the Cretan Navy could adopt—though wisely he’s left it to me, and while I’m responsible there’s no danger of our ships being allowed to blunder around in the dark.” He laughed, and the flag officers copied him. “And unfortunately for your claim it’s been refuted by your own crew. I had some trouble rounding them up and bringing them and your vessel to Mallia for examination. But they saved me a lot of trouble. They all agreed that it had in fact taken you four days to get from Gebal to Amnisos. So there it is. I don’t suppose, in the face of that, you will want to press your fantastic claims about a new-fangled method of navigation.”

The Sea Lord was silent and sat with a bored look on his face. Nun looked over at the Chaldean, who met his gaze, and it seemed that they were sharing the same thoughts. The members of the crew had, of course, told the truth. They had arrived at Amnisos four days after leaving Gebal, having spent two nights at sea and two in the islands. And after that self-satisfied harangue, neither of them felt inclined to convince the Cretan of the facts of star-navigation even if he would have listened.

One of the flag officers broke the silence, addressing Nun in a sneering voice. “Well, Captain? You have heard his Lordship’s question. How long did you take from Gebal to Amnisos?”

“Four days,” said Nun.

The officer raised his eyebrows and turned to the Chaldean. “Is this the truth?”

“The voyage took four days,” said the Chaldean.

There was a silence. The wind had been taken out of the questioners’ sails so suddenly that they were at a loss for what to do next. A weather-beaten, middle-aged man who had the looks of a real seaman broke the silence.

“If I may put a question, my Lord—” he said tentatively.

“Oh, certainly, yes,” murmured his Lordship.

The man turned to Nun. “Captain,” he began, “I’ll admit that even four days from Gebal to Crete in a craft of your type was a pretty smart bit of sailing. Perhaps you’d tell us the facts now, how you planned the voyage, the course you steered on, and so on.”

“Why? Are you thinking of taking the same trip,” asked Nun pleasantly. They would like to know, so they can plan their campaign against the mainland, Nun thought. What the Queen said was true.

“Taking the same trip?” repeated the other. “No, no, not at all, why should I? Just for general interest, though,” and he tried to make his smile look pleasant.

“Oh, quite,” said Nun. “You just want the facts.” He’d give them the facts, he thought. “Well, first of all there was Balaat-Gegal—”

“Where’s that,” interrupted the other.

“Where?” exclaimed Nun, pretending to be deeply pained. “I am speaking of our revered Mother-Goddess. It was a matter of beseeching her aid, and requesting favorable winds, which I must say She was gracious enough to grant us most of the way, though, indeed, I have been often neglectful of Her rites and observances—”

“Yes, of course, very pious and proper,” put in the Sea Lord. “These things have their place. But we were thinking of more material—”

“Oh, sir!” continued Nun. “Don’t imagine we neglected the material offerings. Our priests are not as neglectful as that. They were kind enough to accept a gold figurine, a Cretan one indeed. I had got it here on a previous voyage, and good value I paid for it too. You see, it doesn’t pay to skimp these things. And look what a lovely east wind we—”

“Yes, yes, yes,” the weather-beaten seaman interrupted again. “I’m sure you did the right thing. But what about stores, and rigging, and so on. As one seaman to another, you know, I’m interested in these things.”

“Ah, there’s one thing I should mention. This anchor. A good big one it was. The priests of Reshef suggested it would be a good thing to dedicate to their God, for a safe passage you know. So we lugged it up and put it among the obelisks there. And very efficacious too, not an enemy did we meet all the way. All friends …” He looked at the faces around him, all more or less bored at his pious chatter, with perhaps a hint of suspicion that he was pulling their legs.

The Sea Lord’s voice sounded again. “Kindly tell us, Captain, exactly how you directed your ship from Gebal to Crete. And it might be better if you just related the facts of your voyage.” Now his voice carried a threat.

“Oh, the fact, my Lord,” said Nun without thinking, “is that we started by following the Little Dog—”

There were angry exclamations from more than one voice at this: “Following a little dog! The man’s an idiot! He’s mocking us!”

“I mean, my Lord,” Nun went on hastily, seeing that he had gone too far by telling the truth, “I beg your pardon, one of our sea-going terms. I mean I just pointed the ship toward Crete and kept going—”

But the Sea Lord was on his feet. “I think we have heard enough,” he said to the gathering, without even troubling to look at Nun. “I’m satisfied that the fellow is wandering in his wits and whatever he knows can be of little value to us. If anyone else wishes to get sense out of him tomorrow, let him try whatever method he chooses. This meeting is adjourned. Meanwhile the prisoners are to be confined to the North Tower.”

The Sea Lord made a dignified exit, the meeting broke up, and Nun and the Chaldean were marched off to confinement.

Their accommodation as prisoners was not so fine as when they had been guests of the palace. But it was by no means a prison. It was a loft in a tall watch-tower, reached by a kind of ladder, which the Chaldean climbed with some difficulty. The soldiers stayed in the room at the bottom of the ladder, satisfied that there was no other way out.

The first thing Nun did was to go to the window overlooking the sea, but the drop to the ground was too great to think of letting himself fall, and the building was of smooth stone, impossible to climb. There were two low beds in the room. The Chaldean sat down on one and Nun on the other, and they looked at each other.

“We must escape,” said Nun quietly.

“My dear young friend,” protested the Chaldean. “You may think of these things. I am too old. I must stay here and await—”

“Await what?”

“Await the destruction that will certainly overtake this palace.”

“There is no doubt, then, about this happening?” asked Nun.

“For me there is no longer any doubt. No place by the sea like this can possibly survive.”

“The more reason for us to escape,” said Nun, briskly, getting to his feet and going to the window again. He looked up and down the coast. There was a quarter-moon shining on the still waters of the bay beyond the harbor—and Nun caught his breath. But it was not the natural beauty of the scene that made him do so, it was something he had noticed. There was a little island a very short distance offshore, with a building or two on it. And moored there, and clearly outlined against the path of the moonlight, was a ship. There was no mistaking its lines. It was his own ship.

“Look, Chaldean!” he exclaimed, only just remembering to keep his voice down. “It’s our ship!”

The Chaldean did not trouble to look. “Indeed, the Sea Lord told us he had brought the ship here, and her crew. But it must make you happy to see her,” he said sympathetically.

“I had forgotten. I wonder where the men are?” said Nun, and he started pacing restlessly about the chamber. How to escape from the tower? A rope, that was all he needed. The room was bare of hangings and there were only rotten pallets on the beds, nothing he could tear up to make a rope. He looked at his garments and those of the Chaldean, and thought of the long drop outside and shook his head.

He sat down despondently on the bed—and no sooner had he sat than he sprang up as if he had been bitten, and before the astonished eyes of the Chaldean flung the pallet off the low bed. He could hardly restrain an exclamation of triumph. The bed was a rough affair of wood, but the mattress was supported by a network of good strong cord, woven from side to side and from head to foot, fathoms and fathoms of it. What had been woven could be unwoven.

In feverish but systematic haste he set to work, undoing the lashings, unthreading the warp and the woof of it, cursing beneath his breath at the tangles in the kinked cord. For the more he undid the longer was the part he had to pull through each time. The Chaldean watched him remotely, not offering to help. But he wandered over to the trapdoor at the top of the ladder. And when there were only a few lengthwise strands left to undo, Nun heard his voice saying very loudly, “Welcome, soldier! It is kind of you to visit us in our comfortable quarters.”

Wildly Nun gathered up the loose cord, flung the mattress back on the bed, and by lying uncomfortably across the framework managed desperately to keep the mattress from falling through on to the floor.

“My companion is asleep,” said the Chaldean calmly, as the head and shoulders of a soldier appeared through the trapdoor. “Ah, you have brought food. You are most kind. Set it down. Please do not trouble to serve us.”

The soldier dumped a jug of water and a plate of bread on to the floor, took a look at Nun’s contorted body on the bed, grunted, and retired down the ladder. And not a moment too soon, for one side of the mattress immediately flopped through the gap in the support and Nun nearly fell through with it.

Nun let out a sigh of relief, and then had to smother his laughter at this absurd episode. The Chaldean carried the food back to his bed and began to eat the bread. Nun realized he, too, was hungry, but he could not stop the work he was doing. He took mouthfuls of bread from the Chaldean and chewed them as he went on. Soon he had finished unstringing his own bed.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said urgently but quietly to his companion, “yours now.”

“My dear friend,” said the old man mildly. “You are welcome to all I have. But let me say now, in case you have thoughts of my descending like a spider on a thread from this tower, that I have no intention of doing any such thing. It is many years since I played such boyish games, and even as a child I was far from adventurous.”

“Don’t worry, sir,” said Nun. “Leave everything to me. It’s not a difficult bit of seamanship, if the gear will stand it. I’ll have you down there as safely as off-loading a basket of eggs.”

“But—” protested the old man.

“Why should you stay here to share the fate of Crete?” asked Nun urgently. “You have done what you can to save these people. Why should you perish with them? Besides, how can I escape without you as my navigator?”

His companion moved, still protesting, to the floor, and Nun set to work on the other bed. He worked more quickly as he got the hang of it, and soon had four or five tidy coils of cord.

“Now for testing,” he said. “Don’t worry, sir, a seaman leaves nothing to chance, even if the world is coming to an end.”

The rafters of the room were not too far off the floor, and he was able to pass each length of cord over them and try his weight on every fathom of it. Doubled, it took the strain well. Single, he was not so sure of it. He looked at the Chaldean’s heavy, bony frame. He could hardly trust that to a single strand. But was there enough to reach the ground doubled? The only way to be sure was to try. He carefully knotted the lengths together and lowered the doubled line out of the window, having made as sure as possible that no one was likely to be passing below. It reached, but only just. He hauled it in again, then tested each knot separately by hanging from the rafters.

He was satisfied with his rope, but then it struck him that if it only just reached from the window to the ground, there would not be enough to pass round the Chaldean and for him to hang on to at the top. He must think again. He looked at the Chaldean’s flowing cloak.

“Sorry, sir,” he said. “Your cloak, please.” Meekly the Chaldean took it off and handed it to him. He considered it for a while, and at last devised a kind of sling that could go under his companion’s armpits and which he could wriggle out of when he reached the ground.

The beds, now deprived of their stringing, could still be useful. He stood one against the wall by the window, and the other on its side upon the first. This provided a solid bar across the window frame which could not possibly slip through it. He passed the cord several times round the bar, so that he could lower the weight of the Chaldean slowly to the ground by easing the rope out round the bar.

“We’re ready, sir,” he said to the old man. Without a word, the Chaldean let himself be secured into this sling. Nun showed him how to climb through the window and lower himself from the bar until the rope took his weight. Then, muttering what was presumably a prayer to his gods, he took his hands from the bar and Nun paid out the rope as slowly and smoothly as he could, and watched the courageous old man descending, as he had said he would never do, like a spider on its thread to the ground.

Nun sweated quietly as the friction of the rope round the bar caused a groan like the rigging of a ship in a storm, and the knots threatened to snag and jam—and then he felt his heart stop as the dead end of the rope came into his hand. The strain of the Chaldean’s body was still on the rope, which meant that his feet were not on the ground, and there was no more to pay out! He hung on blindly to the end of the rope, while beneath him the Chaldean seemed to be floundering like a fish on the end of the line, trying to free himself, Nun supposed. Then the rope snapped slack, and Nun leant his head against the bar and felt he would cry like a child, as he realized it had broken!

He took several deep breaths and controlled himself. Then he forced himself to look down into the obscurity below. The Chaldean was not lying in a broken heap below the window, as he had feared, but had moved away a little and was standing against the wall. Nun could see his white face looking up. Then he let his eyes follow the rope dangling down the wall. His heart settled to a normal beat again as he saw that there was still quite a length of rope, perhaps two-thirds of it, intact. There was nothing else for it, he must slide down what was left of the rope, and drop the rest of the way.

It was Nun’s turn to pray to his gods as he secured the end of the rope to the bar and swung off on to it. It is not easy to slide down a thin doubled cord with knots in it. He braked himself with his legs and feet as best he could, then he was dangling only by his handhold, and then there was nothing he could do but let go. The drop was shorter than he had thought it was going to be, and he landed hard but safely on his feet.

The Chaldean came up to him muttering something about “Too old for this kind of thing.” But he seemed to be unhurt, and Nun took him by the arm and hurried him off toward the shore, and the ship.

They made their way in silence along a sandy track that led through cultivated ground behind the harbor, and came at last to the beach. The landscape was so peaceful under the setting moon, the air was so balmy with the scent of growing things, and the sea was so calm with its tiny wavelets falling softly on the sand, that Nun found it difficult to believe that he was still in great danger; he had to remind himself that he had not the slightest idea of how to get out of his predicament.

They walked along the beach until they were opposite the island. Nun judged it to be within easy swimming distance from the shore, though after misjudging the length of the rope he did not have too much confidence in himself. It was certainly near enough for him to be able to hear voices drifting over the water. Somebody on the island was singing—and then Nun clutched his companion’s arm and stood listening. He knew the song, a doleful sailor’s love-song from Gebal—and what was more, he knew the singer. There was surely only one man in the world who sang that song with always the same mistakes, and he knew just which member of his crew it was. So the crew, or at least some of it, were on the island too.

Nun took off his upper garment and handed it to the Chaldean in silence. His companion became agitated, put his mouth to Nun’s ear and whispered, “I cannot swim!” as if fearful of being forced into some other impossible activity.

“Stay here!” breathed Nun. “Don’t move. I’ll come back for you.” And he slipped as quietly as he could into the warm clear water.

Gently he launched himself into deeper water and began to swim toward the island, trying not to break the surface with his arms. If the crew and the ship were on the island, there must be guards to keep them there, though they might have little reason to be vigilant in this peaceful spot. He made for the ship, which seemed silent and deserted, and after a while he was in its shadows and his movements were less conspicuous among the cluck of waves that surrounded the hull.

There was a rope hanging over the side, and Nun grasped it, hung on for a while listening hard, and then pulled himself painfully and carefully out of the water and into the ship.

For a time he was content to rest upon the planking, as if he had come home at last. But what to do next? He listened to the voices on the island. A regular sing-song was now shattering the peace of the night, and as far as Nun could make out there were Cretan songs as well as the songs of Gebal. Apparently the guards were joining in. This might be to his advantage, he thought. Then he froze as he saw a figure outlined against the stars, coming along the wooden jetty toward the ship.

The man carelessly put his foot on the bulwark of the ship, causing the whole vessel to roll, and jumped aboard. He started rummaging about among the stores stowed in the forepeak, cursing as he blundered against the timbers in the dark. The curses were from Gebal too. Nun took a chance and let out a low hiss to attract his attention. The man straightened up, and said in a normal voice, “Who’s there?” and Nun recognized the tones of the boatswain.

“Shh!” hissed Nun. “It’s I, Nun, the captain.” The boatswain came over to him and peered at him in the dark.

“That really you, sir? What are you doing here?”

“We’re escaping, boatswain. Is all the crew here?”

“Yes,” came the reply. “All present, sir. They’re treating us well enough, as you can hear. Having a good time. They call us their guests, but I reckon we’re prisoners just the same.”

“You’re right, boatswain. How many guards?”

“Fewer than we are, anyway. But they’ve taken away our weapons, and they’re fully armed.”

“Could you rush them?” suggested Nun.

The boatswain considered. “I daresay we could, with things as they are. All very matey tonight. Why don’t you join the party, sir? Guards wouldn’t notice another Giblite among the rest of us.”

“Very well. But find me some clothing. It will look pretty odd if I appear naked.”

When the boatswain had found Nun a sailor’s tunic, they went back together along the jetty and casually joined the party of Giblites and Cretan guards who were sitting around on the rocks by the light of one or two torches. No one took any notice of them in the gloom. It was not a very hilarious party, rather a means of whiling away the tedium of the hot night, it seemed. The Giblites had embarked upon one of their interminable, repetitive chorus songs—and Nun seized his opportunity. He joined a little group of sailors, and confident that whatever words might be sung would mean nothing to the Cretans, joined in the chorus loud and clear, but with his own words:

“I am your captain, I am Nun,

We must escape from Crete.

When this song ends, rush the guards!

Bind and gag them, keep them quiet!

Then to the ship without a sound,

And off we’ll go to sea!”

The sailors’ looked startled, and nearly stopped singing, but Nun kept the rhythm going with hand-claps. When he saw by their nods that they were understanding, he moved on to another group, and repeated the chorus to them. The words caught on, and he could see the men grinning and joining in the joke. As the song continued the original words of the chorus, were abandoned, and one by one the sailors joined in together with:

“When this song ends, rush the guards!

Bind and gag them, keep them quiet,

Then to the ship without a sound

And we’ll away to sea!”

It was not poetry, but it was certainly popular. Clearly none of the guards understood the language: and to Nun’s delight he heard some of the Cretans trying to join in the song parrot-wise, little knowing what they were inciting the prisoners to do.

The, presumably, sad old story of the girl that had loved a sailor drew to its end. The sailors rose to their feet as the final chorus was reached. Then with a united shout on the words “We’ll away to SEA!” each Giblite jumped on the nearest Cretan soldier. The guards, too astonished to do anything, had their heads muffled in cloaks and their limbs secured with good sailors’ knots before they knew what was happening.

“Keep singing, boys!” said Nun. If anyone was listening from the shore a sudden silence might raise suspicion. Keeping the regular chorus going as they made for the ship, the sailors unshipped the oars, cast off the moorings, and pushed off from the jetty. When the ship’s head was pointed north to the open sea, Nun gave the order, “Heave away!” and the vessel leaped forward.

Then suddenly—“Avast! Hold water! Back her down!” Nun cried, to the bewilderment of the crew. “Ye gods! We’ve forgotten the pilot!”

They backed the ship over the short stretch of water to the shore. As they got as near as Nun dared, he could see the Chaldean standing patiently on the beach, holding Nun’s clothes. “Come on, sir,” he called across the water, “you’ll have to get a little wet.”

Without hesitating the Chaldean walked into the dead calm water until it was up to his shoulders and he was under the quarter of the ship. Then Nun and the boatswain quickly reached over and hoisted him aboard.

Once again Nun gave the order to row, and the ship moved away from the land. Soon as they moved farther out, they began to meet rougher water and could feel the breeze from which the mountains had hitherto protected them. Putting the steering-oar over Nun turned the ship’s head to the East.

“Which stars for the eastern passage, Chaldean?” he sang out.