The 22 Letters (12 page)

“Too much bull in Crete!”

Nun's knowledge of Cretan was not extensive either, but he felt he should try to make conversation.

“Too much bull?” he repeated rather foolishly. The words did not seem to have much meaning.

“Bull talk,” said the fair young man. “Bull pictures, bull games, bull dancing. Lot of bull.” He flopped heavily on the bed.

“And the bull monster?” queried Nun, trying to keep up the conversation.

“No bull monster,” said the other. “Bull stories.”

“What about the women?” suggested Nun.

The other shut his eyes, was briefly silent, and then said:

“Cows.”

Conversation was clearly going to be difficult with this laconic stranger. There was a long silence. Nun was surprised when the other broke it.

“Where you come from?” He still had his eyes shut as he spoke.

“Gebal,” said Nun. The other made no remark at all—presumably the name meant nothing to him. Nun felt he ought to ask, “And you? Where are you from?”

The young man opened an ice-blue eye at the last rays of the westering sun shining on the courtyard outside, then pointed a long stringy arm toward the North, “Far,” he said. “Very far. You don't know.” There was another silence, and then he said, in a distant voice, as if not interested in the answer, “You have snow in Gebal?”

This was actually a difficult question to put and to understand, because in the language they were speaking “snow” was an uncommon word.

“Snow,” Nun repeated. “Why, yes. We have snow in Gebal. We have the sea, we have the mountains, and we have snow on top of the mountains.”

The young man sat up and his eyes seemed to come to life. “We, too, have sea, mountains, and snow,” he said. “But do you have this?” He pulled from round his neck a string of translucent golden stones. “Elektron,” he said, holding the amber out to Nun.

Nun took the strange gems. They seemed to hold the light and warmth of the sun, and they clicked with the gentle sound of wood or bone.

“In my land,” said the stranger, “much snow, much cold, much dark. But this sunstone we find by the sea, bring to King Minos. Look!” He rubbed the biggest stone on his woolen sleeve, pulled a twist of wool from the blanket, and held the stone over it. The wool jumped and clung to the stone.

What strange northern magic is this, Nun wondered, but the other made nothing of it, and hearing a movement of feet in the courtyard, stood up.

“Come!” he said. “We eat!”

Groups of young men seemed to be making for a big hall on the other side of the courtyard. Nun and the Northerner followed. They were all taking seats on long benches at big tables. There was a babble of different tongues. “Meet my friends!” said the Northerner, and Nun was glad to be introduced to a group.

Not that he felt he had much in common with them. Their very names seemed impossible to catch. His roommate introduced himself as something like Ag, and the others Nun decided to think of as Eg, Ig, Og, Ug, and so on. They were all much taller than Nun, each one had fair or reddish hair, one had a flaming red beard, all of them had great beefy limbs and massive hands. And Nun wondered that they seemed older than all the other Foreign Visitors, as well as much bigger.

They also seemed unconcerned, while the behavior of the other groups showed tension or bravado. The red-beard waved a meat bone at him. “Come, eat!” he called in bad Cretan. “We sailors, we like to eat.”

“I, too, am a sailor,” said Nun.

“And he comes from a land of mountains and snow,” said Ag.

“Good! Good!” came a chorus through mouthfuls of food, and Nun shook hands all round with large greasy fists, then sat down and joined them.

The food was good: fancy dishes of fish and meat and vegetables, spiced and sauced, wine, fruits in abundance, all served on the finest painted pottery. “Bull pottery too,” Nun remarked to himself, noticing that pictures of bulls being hunted, captured, netted, or wrestled with, seemed the favorite decoration.

He had not nearly satisfied his appetite when he heard above the chatter the voice of a page who had just come in, calling something which he at last distinguished as “Nun the Giblite! Nun the Giblite!”

“Who wants Nun the Giblite?” he called back, raising his voice in nautical fashion. There was a hush, and eyes were turned on him as the page approached. It was the same page who had rather contemptuously delivered him to his cell, but now his bearing seemed very much more respectful.

The page bowed. “Nun the Giblite is requested to accompany me to the Chief Chamberlain's office.” The other diners exchanged glances and murmurs, clicking their tongues and sniggering.

The young man with the fair hair opened his eyes wide. “My friend, what have you done?” he asked.

Nun, who had been sitting unnoticed and ignored by most of the gathering, now got up with the eyes of the whole room on him. He bowed, smiled briefly, and walked out with the page.

The page took him along corridors to the chamberlain's office, where another chamberlain, wearing the usual worried expression of the palace officials, took charge of him and led him at an even faster pace through more corridors and up more steps murmuring apologetically as they went. “An error of the administration—regret the temporary, inconvenience—see to your proper accommodation myself—immediate audience with His Majesty …”

“Audience with his Majesty!” exclaimed Nun, almost as out of breath as the flustered official. “But I don't want to see the King.”

“Understand your feelings—” babbled the chamberlain. “Such short notice—our fault entirely! But you will find His Majesty so condescending, so gracious—especially to his friends—no need for anxiety.”

So His Majesty does have friends, thought Nun. But puzzled as he was to know how he had reached this dizzy promotion, he kept the remark to himself.

The halls and passages through which they were passing were becoming richer and more luxurious. There were paintings on every wall—sea creatures, birds and beasts and flowers, processions of libation-bearers and throngs of gay ladies. And in the ante-rooms they encountered the courtiers themselves, supercilious young noblemen and bright-eyed, fashionably dressed women who stared at Nun as he was hurried through, and whispered and giggled behind his back as soon as he had passed. At last they came to a living barrier of palace guards with figure-of-eight shields. There was a group of courtiers laughing and chatting to the aristocratic young officer in charge, apparently trying to cajole him into letting them through. The officer was chaffing them in return, but still apparently being quite firm and admitting no more. The Chamberlain led Nun up to him and said in an agitated voice, “Get your soldiers out of the way, please. We're late as it is.”

“Throne room's full, old man,” said the officer haughtily. Orders to let no more in.”

The chamberlain actually began to wring his hands in frustration as if he was trying to twist his fingers off.

“But I have special instruction to bring Nun the Giblite in time for the audience,” he moaned.

“What, this?” sneered the officer, looking Nun up and down. “He's not even dressed!”

Nun felt he could say a number of things. That he had not asked to come to the palace; that, having come, he had no desire for an audience with the King; and that, anyhow, he was wearing more clothes than the young officer, whose summer uniform seemed to consist of an inflated chest and a narrow kilt. But he was not going to be made a fool of after coming all this way. Without a word he felt in his wallet for the seal the Chaldean had given him. In the light he could see the device of the lion attacking the bull. He held it out between finger and thumb before the nose of the officer. At first he thought that it had not had any effect—he had no idea why it
should
—then he realized that the barrier of guards had melted away in front of him, and with the chamberlain clucking in the rear he walked into the throne room.

Well, this was odd! Nun had never met a king before, but he had heard tales of the grandeur of Pharaoh and the Lord of Babylon, and even King Abishram of Gebal kept a remote and mysterious state. Nun had nerved himself for magnificence: he had been telling himself that he was a man and a seaman and would not be impressed by all the pomp and ceremony of royal courts. But what he saw before him was disconcerting in an unexpected way.

The room was a rather low-ceilinged chamber of moderate proportions. The walls were gaily painted with a design of lilies on a background of clouds, with some imposing but friendly gryphons lying among them. About a score of men, mostly middle-aged or elderly, all dressed in fine linen and exquisite jewelry, were standing in groups or sitting on the upholstered bench that ran round the edge of the room, conversing in soft high-pitched voices. One of the larger groups was centered round the Chaldean: the councilors were obviously trying to put him at his ease with the utmost politeness.

Nun, prepared to be defiant and independent, suddenly felt rude and awkward in this elegant assembly. He moved toward the only face he knew, the Chaldean, who bowed and smiled gravely; and one of the group came forward to welcome him, addressing him in his own language.

“Envoy from Gebal, welcome! They tell me a stupid mistake has been made about your accommodation. They shall, of course, be punished. I beg you to forgive us—most embarrassing! And how is your dear King—er, Abishram?”

Nun felt as a sea captain does when a sudden squall takes him unawares. He should have had a polite diplomatic message from King Abishram ready—but he was saved from saying anything by the hush that fell over the gathering. Those that were sitting rose to their feet and those who were standing moved with dignified ease into a circle facing a second entrance to the throne room; and in came King Minos. The circle of councilors bowed deferentially, the King greeted one or two of them cheerfully by name, made his way to a little low throne at the top of the room, and sat down. Then he gave a sign, and everyone else sat down on the surrounding bench, except for one white-haired man, who seemed to be the senior councilor, who addressed the King: “Your Majesty, the envoy from Chaldea craves audience and speech, on a matter which he claims is of the gravest import to the kingdom.”

“Let him approach,” said the King.

The Chaldean rose to his feet, stepped toward the throne, bowed deeply three times, and waited for the King to speak.

“I trust you had a pleasant journey,” said the King urbanely.

“Most High Majesty,” said the Chaldean. “The stars spoke to me of Your Majesty in far Chaldea. At their bidding for many days I journeyed across the desert, scarce stopping to rest the camels at night. Rivers I have crossed and mountains, and in two days I crossed the sea from Gebal—”

“
How
many days?” put in the King.

“Your Majesty is most kind to be interested in our journey. Two days we sailed from Gebal, voyaging without ceasing to carry our tidings to the Great King of Knossos.”

“You mean you didn't stop at night?” asked the King.

“There was no need, Most High Majesty. The stars led the way in the night-time.”

“
Most
interesting,” said the King. Then, turning to the councilors, “Is the Sea Lord here?”

A red-faced man rose and bowed. “Your Majesty?”

“Two days from Gebal to Crete,” said the King.

“Astonishing!” said the Sea Lord skeptically.

“Find out how it's done,” said the King, curtly. “I believe the sea captain is here.”

All eyes turned to Nun, who stood up, bowed, and did not know what to do next. The Sea Lord spoke.

“Er—His Majesty expresses interest to hear that Giblite ships are sailed at night. Is this true?”

Doing his best to give the impression that he was the representative of a powerful naval force in possession of navigational secrets unknown to the rest of the world, Nun said, “Yes.”

The Sea Lord seemed to be casting about in his mind for technical questions to ask, but the King intervened smoothly: “I am sure the Sea Lord would be delighted to ask you down to Mallia to talk about navigation. The rest of us are but landlubbers.” The Sea Lord bowed and sat down with relief, and so did Nun. The King then addressed the Chaldean.

“You spoke of matters of grave import to the realm, Chaldean. If they are merely mathematics, you must excuse me. I have a bad head for figures, but I am sure my councilors would be deeply interested.”

The face of the Chaldean became even graver. “Your Most High Majesty,” he said, “is pleased to be modest about his understanding of the mystery of mathematics, but he will know that we servants of the heavenly bodies, we astronomers, must speak of divers things. As astronomers we may speak of astro-navigation: as astrologers we may have to foretell the disasters of nations. In Chaldea I and my fellow magi read strange signs in the House of the Bull. These signs led me westward to the isle of Thira. There the signs and portents spoke more strongly, and as a man, I weep for it. I learned in Thira what I sought to learn; I confirmed it in the stars over Crete. For myself, all I need do is return to my country. But what I have learned concerns Your Majesty, your country, and your people, and the peoples who dwell on the edges of the sea. If Your Majesty wishes to know, bid your servant speak: but do not blame your servant if the tidings are too heavy to be borne.”

Once again something inside Nun's breast chilled and turned over, as he wondered what the Chaldean had learned. But as he looked round the room he was amazed to see that the councilors, instead of looking grave, were exchanging little smiles as if they had heard a good performance by a singer and were expecting more. There was even a gentle murmur of applause, and he heard the fastidiously dressed gentleman sitting next to him say in a low voice to his neighbor: “Always good value, these Eastern sages.”