They halted at the foot of the flight of broad stone steps that led up to the Temple. This part of the Ka was deserted and the bustle of the labouring masses seemed far away. Korkungal had not recovered from the succession of shocks he had experienced so far that morning, but his warrior-nature tried to assert itself by means of a feeling of being scandalised by all these new sights and lessons. Confused, fearful, and angry, he glared from under beetling brows at the great facade of dressed stone, blank except for a small door through which nothing could be seen of the interior. He clutched his throwing stick defensively across his chest in his two great fists.
Kandrigi had drawn apart from his protector and was straining forward, head to one side, trying to catch at least one note of the heavenly music he remembered with such clarity. The noises of the Ka, however, were too loud. Losing patience, he signalled peremptorily with his hand to Korkungal.
‘Let us go up the steps, Korkungal, for I can hear nothing down here but the shouting of slaves at their work.’
Korkungal said nothing in reply and did not mount the first step until Kandrigi was halfway up the flight. He followed slowly, lifting his feet with care, shoulders crouched with tension.
Kandrigi’s expression changed as he approached the door and heard at last the harmonious strains of the sacred Temple music. Bliss settled on his wrinkled features and he forgot for the moment the fears and premonitions which had haunted him for so long and which had finally driven him to undertake this journey to the Ka. Head bowed, arms across his breast, he walked slowly into the dark interior of the Temple. As so long before, it seemed immense in its darkness, with no apertures in the walls to allow in the daylight, the gloom relieved only by a lamp at the far end of the hall, yellow and guttering in the distance. But the singing filled the space, to the delight of Kandrigi’s ears, echoing loftily from the high ceiling, booming with holy dread in unseen corners. His will weakened in worship and he dropped to his knees, hands clenched before him, moist eyes raised to rest in the infinitude of the dark.
Korkungal heard the singing from his station outside the Temple, at the top of the steps in the bright sunlight. He would not enter the Temple on any condition, knowing that a warrior’s struggle is with the human enemy and not with the dark unseen forces of the otherworlds. That was the business of the priest. He rested his throwing stick in characteristic pose, his cloak hanging loosely from his shoulders, head forward, weight thrown onto one leg. The eminence gave him an overall view of the Ka: the high, encircling wall, the ramparts visible, the ramps of beaten earth slanting up above the dwelling. And the dwellings! There was a multitude of them, square, rectangular and circular; timbered and wattled, thatched and mud-roofed. Korkungal had never seen so many crowded in to such an area. Towards the gate were the storehouses and granaries as long as council houses, but taller, built of stout timbers and heavy thatching. The sounds of unrelenting labour came to him as a continuous rumble.
In time he became restless. He went to the end of the platform and looked towards the back of the Ka. Here was quieter, the buildings less crowded in upon one another. Below him flowers and bushes grew among trees in a square garden. Buildings of many kinds were grouped a round it, from tiny beehive-like cells to a tall mud-brick dwelling of two stories. Behind this, there was a pond, and beyond, reaching to the wall, were two enclosures containing horses. Korkungal studied the quarter with puzzlement as well as curiosity. There was an atmosphere about the place that was strange to him. So many well-ordered buildings, the garden, the horses stock-still in the sunlight, flicking at flies with their tails, yet no man that he could see. It was the fact that nothing was happening that struck him as strange. For a short while he was as happy as a child, the stillness touching a far-off memory, but then he was deeply unhappy and he knew that he did not like such a sight as this. He turned away, strange-feeling and troubled, longing all at once for the homeland he had left so many months before to accompany the priest on his private mission. His eyes grew sightless and he envisioned Ullenbrig, its plains grassy and well-watered, and the ramparted dwellings of the Briga, and saw himself in the company of his kind, fleet-footed after game or resting in the evening above the sea. He heard the horns warning of raiders and experienced the excitement of the gathering outside his King’s fort, weapons ready, the air alive with the boastings and the calls.
Then, the longing satisfied for now, the visions faded and Korkungal saw again the high white wall and the crowded dwellings of the Ka. He paced back and forward along the platform before the Temple, throwing stick across his shoulder, patiently awaiting Kandrigi’s return.
He spied two figures walking towards the Temple from the direction of the artisans quarter. Both were dressed in long robes of saffron-dyed material, which were wrapped and tied about them in a complicated way. As they drew closer, Korkungal saw that both were of the same skin-hue: yellow. One of them appeared to notice Korkungal, the first person in the Ka to do so, and he paused and spoke to his companion, pointing up to the platform. Now both of them stared at him with calm faces and again conversed together. They resumed walking, coming in the direction of the steps. Korkungal edged along the platform until he had placed his bulk in the doorway to the Temple, where he raised his stick across his chest. Calmly and with steady practiced movements, the two yellow strangers mounted the steps, heading straight for him. Korkungal recognised his dilemma. He had no right to prevent these men from entering the Temple and yet he must protect his priest against possible danger. Because his duty to Kandrigi was greater than all alien rights and duties, he stood his ground and took a strong grip of his throwing stick. He felt the familiar inward plunging of the death-possibility.
The two men halted within an arm’s length of him. Calm, sad eyes stared back into his bright, battle-tense eyes, Korkungal shook his stick. One of the men raised his hand, palm outward, and spoke in a language of a strange fluting quality that Korkungal could not understand. For the sake of doing so, Korkungal spoke
‘I defend my priest with my life, so beware.’
The stranger who had spoken shook his head, smiling wanly, and spoke again. Korkungal replied:
‘I am the warrior Korkungal of the Briga, renowned throughout Ullenbrig and kindred lands, Terror of the Northern Raiders and their allies. I am King Mekdan’s right arm in battle, the leader of a company, the flank of an army...’
The stranger raised his arm and spoke again. Then he pointed over Korkungal’s head into the Temple.
‘Kandrigi, the priest of my family, is within, stranger. I stand here to protect him.’
The stranger shrugged his shoulders and turned and spoke to his companion, who nodded and went clown the steps.
The remaining stranger faced Korkungal without movement or expression, while the warrior stared back, his tension losing force until he was only a statue in the doorway. The brown eyes in the oval yellow face were remote and did not convey authority, yet Korkungal could not act against them, could not make even a tiny gesture or intimidation. He felt his will drain away and his arms grow as wooden as the throwing stick he held. Yet he was not fearful.
From within the Temple, Kandrigi suddenly said:
‘What are you doing, Korkungal? Why do you block up the door?’
Korkungal remained unmoving.
Kandrigi grasped his shoulder and shook him, ‘Korkungal! Do you hear me?’
Dazed and stiff, Korkungal turned.
‘I was protecting you, Kandrigi.’
The priest stepped around him into the sunlight. He blinked rapidly. The second stranger followed him, a shy smile flickering on his lips.
Kandrigi raised his brows: ‘You are as ever eager in your tasks, Korkungal. That is a good thing – it has rightly made you famous among the Briga. But I wish you could judge matters in ways other than at the end of your throwing stick.’
The strangers had meanwhile been speaking among themselves. Now the one who had gone into the Temple to find Kandrigi turned to him and gestured towards
his companion. Kandrigi made a stiff bow and greeted him by drawing the forefinger of his right hand across the tips of the fingers of his left hands The stranger greeted him with a similar gesture. The three men then began to converse in the finger language of the Goddess, stiffly at first, for Kandrigi used many archaic expressions that were unfamiliar to the strangers. He introduced himself at length, informed them of his previous visit to the Ka – the reference to Lamla the yellow-skinned priest, drawing an abundance of nods and smiles – and gave a brief history of his journey to the Ka and his reasons for it. Then the strangers introduced themselves as priests of the Temple and welcomed Kandrigi, and his warrior escort, to the Ka and the Temple. They ended their speeches with many low bows and invitations to refresh themselves in the priests’ house. When they had eaten, Lamla would be notified of their arrival.
Korkungal had remained to one side during all this finger-talk, watching suspiciously, disregarding the rebuke he had received. Now Kandrigi turned to him.
‘They welcome us, Korkungal, as I said they would, and invite us to eat with them in friendship. They are priests of the Temple, which accounts for their dress and manner, for they remind me of Lamla, my old friend. I will now accept their invitation and remind you that they are our friends, to he treated with cordiality and respect, and not with glowers and grunts, and the handling of a throwing stick.’
He hand-spoke to the two saffron-robed priests and was answered with broad smiles and much tapping of fingers. They led the way clown the steps and around the Temple in the direction of the garden. Kandrigi and Korkungal followed them at a distance.
‘They are not men of much importance, Kandrigi,’ Korkungal said in a low voice, notwithstanding that the priests could not understand him. ‘They smile and bow too much.’
‘Do not make that mistake, Korkungal. Their Priesthood is important among the peoples of the Ka. They are possessors of profound knowledge concerning the workings of the world and the ways of the Thrice Blessed Mother. As for the bowing and smiling, their ways are gentle ones, and seek more to ingratiate than challenge. Such is their wisdom. But do not he mistaken in this, for it is not the accommodation of the weak that they practice, but the magnanimity of the powerful.’
‘ Then where are their warriors, Kandrigi?’ Korkungal hissed. ‘I see great walls and a few horses, but I do not see armed, reckless men. Tell me, do the slaves defend the walls with their toiling hands?’
‘Ach, you do not understand, Korkungal. Why do you not think? Where is the enemy? Who is the enemy that seeks to despoil the Ka? See! You do not know. Do you think the inhabitants would throw up such great walls for the protection of their rich merchandise and yet have no men to defend it? You must think on these things.’
They reached the garden and followed the two priests around its perimeter. Korkungal was silent for a moment, then he spoke.
‘Do you know what I think, Kandrigi? You are a wise man in the ways of the Briga and our enemies. You are wise in the matters of the seasons and the progress of the moon. You are wise concerning the workings of the minds of such simple men as I. But for all that I do not believe you understand this Ka in any way better than I do.’
Kandrigi shook his head with impatience.
‘Bah. Believe this, Korkungal. I have more important things to think on than the dispositions of the warriors of those I hold to be friends.’
Before Korkungal could reply they rejoined the company of the two priests, who stood smiling before the entrance to a large timbered dwelling. They made finger-talk with Kandrigi.
‘They invite us to enter and wash after our long journey,’ he told Korkungal.
‘I will go first, Kandrigi,’ Korkungal replied, smiling with mock-friendship at the two priests, who smiled in return.
With a firm grip on his stick, he strode through the door and entered the dimly lit room. A small fire glowed in the hearth in the centre. In a corner, beside a large earthenware bowl containing steaming water, an old man sat on his heels.
Kandrigi joined him in the room.
‘You will assuredly never learn, Korkungal,’ he said acidly.
The two priests pointed to the bowl and Kandrigi went to it without hesitation. Korkungal, however, walked with stiff steps to the end of the room and stood with his back close to the wall. From here he had a clear view of the room and its occupants. Kandrigi unpinned his cloak and slid it from his shoulders. One of the priests spoke and the old man got to his feet and gathered up the fallen cloak, folding it carefully. Then he brought a small ewer and poured some of its contents over Kandrigi’s hands, he washed his arms and face, and when he had dried himself, the old man pulled a low stool from behind the large bowl and signalled that he was to sit. The old man washed his feet slowly and with care.
‘Now, Korkungal, will you leave your station and bathe, for I must confess that I an faint with hunger.’ Kandrigi said, stroking his face with his fingertips. ‘The water, by the way, is very pleasantly scented. It is sure to soothe you.’
Korkungal went to the bowl and laid his throwing stick against the wall close by. The old man unpinned his cloak and removed it before he could stop him. Seeing the bright metal sword, he went to pull it from his belt, but Korkungal stopped him.
Kandrigi spoke at his back: ‘Let him, Korkungal. There is no shame in it,’
Korkungal glared at his priest but did not resist the old man. He submitted to his directions and ministrations with ill-grace, refusing to admit to enjoying the gratuitous attention.
When it was done, he leaped to his feet and threw his cloak about him. Grabbing his weapons, he rushed from the room.
Kandrigi and the two priests followed him.
‘You are beginning to shame me, warrior, with your childish actions,’ Kandrigi said petulantly.
‘Leave me be, Kandrigi. I will not suffer gladly such attentions from a slave.’
Kandrigi turned to the priests, a look of mortification on his face. They continued smiling and seemed not to notice the look. They pointed to the house at the end of the garden, beside the back wall of the Temple, similar to the wash-house in materials and construction, and set off walking in its direction. Kandrigi and Korkungal followed, ignoring each other and fuming.
The interior of this house was better lit, lamps hanging at intervals from all four walls. Brightly coloured cushions were arranged in a rough circle around a straw mat and three graceful chairs stood side by side against the wall opposite the door through which they entered. The smell of fresh bread pervaded the air.
The priests together indicated first the chairs, paused, and then the cushions, smiling more widely in encouragement as they did. Kandrigi made a slight how in the direction of the cushions. As he prepared to sit, Korkungal caught him by the arm.
‘Will they have us on the ground, Kandrigi?’
‘That is their custom, Korkungal. They do not use the couches we use, but recline instead on these deep cushions. Would you rather sit in a chair, as a cowherd will sit on a
rock to eat his bread and cheese.’
Mollified, Korkungal followed Kandrigi’s example and sank gingerly on to the soft pile of cushions. One of the priests disappeared through a small door in the corner of the room, while the remaining one knelt opposite them on the other side of the straw mat. Tilting his head to one side, he stared expressionlessly at them.
Kandrigi sighed: ‘Korkungal?’
‘Yes, Kandrigi?’
‘I know well that you are ill at ease in this place, Korkungal, for if I am to he truthful and open-hearted with you, I must say that I am also ill at ease. It is a confusing thing to he among strangers who have not heard of Ullenbrig and its people, who do not show fear or respect on account of our greatness. We are here like men come back from the dead, with no reputation going before us, travelling unknown and unseen, worse even than slaves – for slaves have the name of their masters to give them some significance – like ghosts abroad on a winter’s night. The confusion I sp
eak of has before been unknown to you. You were always joyfully greeted by friends and ever-watched by enemies while hitherto you were abroad. But I knew this confusion once before, when I first visited the Ka. Then I was a young man, fluid in mind and easy in habits, for whom strangeness held all the gaiety of adventure. Nevertheless, I was clumsy and light-headed and many times in later years, when I learned the true meaning and purpose of manners, I cried over my foolishness during my days here. But later again I learned that it was better to be foolish among strange things and strange people than to he ungrateful and arrogant, for such foolishness admits of ignorance where ignorance is to he expected, while ingratitude merely compounds ignorance with stupidity and boorishness. I know that I am a long-winded old priest, Korkungal, but do you understand me?’
Korkungal raised his head and allowed the light to fall on his face. It was long in misery and tears welled in the corners of his eyes.
‘I understand you, Kandrigi. But I believe it is right for me to remain a warrior in this place and see things through the eyes of my experience. You were young when you were foolish, and that is a good excuse. I am old, well-formed in my years, my knowledge and experience well-proven by numberless exploits. Your wisdom is made up of much brain-spinning and fine words and it is a pleasant thing to hear on a winter’s night, when our enemies are vanquished or far away. But this is not the time for it and it is your constant correcting that creates my confusion by shaming me and my warrior title. I know well enough what it is like to be a stranger among men, for is not a warrior in battle a stranger to the world at large and him full of death-possibility? Is he not a stranger to himself? Does he not struggle with demons that rise up out of the ground at his feet and come hurtling from the sky at him when he goes out to face the enemy?...’
Kandrigi held up his hand for Korkungal to he silent. The second priest had returned, followed by two youths, also yellow-skinned, wearing loin clothes, who carried trays
loaded with bread, fruit and jugs of milk. These they laid out on the mat.
Kandrigi made finger-signs to the two priests and then spoke to Korkungal:
‘Now, Korkungal, let us eat and he content. I am famished.’
But Korkungal ignored the food.
‘I have not finished speaking, Kandrigi.’
Kandrigi slapped his thigh.
‘I understood you, Korkungal, and I now acknowledge the truth of your wisdom. When we have eaten and are alone again we will discuss these things, if you still wish it. Now we must show gratitude to our hosts for all this fine food. Great Mother, I am hungry.’
Korkungal reddened in anger and gripped his throwing stick. Kandrigi smiled at the two priests and reached for bread. The warrior, realising that he would get no satisfaction for his anger, grunted loudly and fell to eating.
The priests drank only a little milk during the meal and spent most of the time staring at Korkungal and Kandrigi with blank eyes. Kandrigi made noises of appreciation for their benefit, to demonstrate his enjoyment of their food, but Korkungal ate with downcast eyes, munching sullenly.
When they had eaten, one of the priests got to his feet and spoke to Kandrigi with his fingers, saying that he would now go to Lamla and announce the arrival of Kandrigi, priest of the Briga, and his escort, and ask for instructions concerning their lodgings. Kandrigi replied, thanking him, and begged him to tell Lamla that his business was of the greatest importance to both of their peoples. The priest bowed low, smiled, and went out.
Korkungal was in better temper, now that he had eaten his fill, and lay on his side, supporting his head in his hand.
‘We have eaten well, Kandrigi.’
‘We have, Korkungal. Do you believe their hospitality now?’
Korkungal was reluctant.
'A farmer would do as well, Kandrigi. I wish now for company. Musicians. A king’s troop for boastings and tales. And a maiden to fill my cup.’
‘Huh. You do not wish for much, Korkungal.
‘I do not. It is what a warrior of the Briga would expect in the fort of his friends.’
‘These are the quarters of the Temple, Korkungal, not the house of a King strong in the defence of his land.’
‘More’s the pity then, Kandrigi. You have brought me to a barbaric place.’
‘Let us have no anger, Korkungal. I will speak to the priests and explain the matter. It will take time, for it is a delicate business broaching the subject of your legendary sensuality in the precincts of a great Temple.
‘Do that, Kandrigi. I am not a priest, to keep a tight rein on my appetites.’
Kandrigi pushed himself stiffly to his feet.
‘Will you walk with me in the garden, Korkungal?’
‘No, I will not.’
'It is still daylight, and it is a green and pleasant place.’
‘I will rest here. It has been a long journey, Kandrigi.’
‘Very well. I will not be long.’
He bowed to the yellow-skinned priest and went out.
Korkungal gazed about him for some time and frequently glanced over at the smiling, smooth face of the priest, who seemed to watch him and yet not to watch him. Soon, his eyes grew heavy. Lulled by the silence in the room, he fell asleep, his head slipping from its perch on his hand and sinking into the deep pile of the cushions.
Chapter Four