Charis turned and her mother’s arms were around her. She hid her face against her mother’s shoulder and sobbed, “It killed her… She is dead!”

A shaken Briseis tried to soothe her daughter, “There, Charis, shhh… Do not cry. Look-look, they are taking her away. She is alive, not dead… Look, she is waving!”

It was true. At the moment of the accident the doors had been flung open and handlers with bull nets had run to the animal and, with much tugging and pulling, were now wrestling it from the arena. Meanwhile, supported by three of her companions, the young woman was carried to the nearest door. Her head was back and her eyes open. One hand was pressed to her bleeding wound, but the other was raised in the bull dancer’s triumphant salute.

The spectators saw the salute and leaped to their feet with a great cry-mostly relief and astonishment, but also admiration for the young woman’s courage. The cry became a roar and then a victory chant as the dancer was borne away.

Still trembling, Charis raised her head to see the girl carried from the ring. “Will she be all right?”

“I think so,” replied Briseis. “I hope so.”

The bull was manhandled from the arena by the netmen and another bull introduced. The dancers performed, but the spark that ignited their art and made it burn so fiercely was gone. After a few perfunctory tricks the bull, too, lost interest and loped away as soon as the pitmen let it out.

“Well, I am glad it is finished for the day,” sighed Elaine. “I love to watch, but it is a shame when one of them gets hurt.”

Charis stared at her aunt. A beautiful woman was nearly killed and Elaine called it “a shame.” She looked around the arena, at all the people who appeared to have completely forgotten what had taken place only minutes before. She wanted to get up and shout at them, to thrust her finger at the dark stains in the sand and demand respect for the injury of one whose blood had been given for their pleasure.

But the crowd was already occupied with the next entertainment entering the arena: a line of trained elephants, trunk to tail, brightly painted, following their trainer on huge silent feet. Charis loved elephants; ordinarily she would have squealed for joy. But not now. Her heart was with the injured dancer and she could think of nothing else.

The rest of the festivities failed to kindle Charis’ interest. She neither saw nor did not see, heard nor did not hear. She ate some food offered to her, but did not taste a bite. The afternoon passed and she heard her mother saying, “It is time to go. Do you want to stay here all night?”

The shadows had grown long, and the sun was well along in its plunge to the sea. “Have you been asleep, Charis?”

“No,” she shook her head slightly. “Not asleep.”

Her mother stood. “We must hurry along.”

“Where are we going?”

“To the sacrifice. Have you forgotten?” Briseis studied her daughter closely. “Charis, are you well?”

Charis stood abruptly. “I want to see her.”

“Who?”

“The girl.”

“What girl? Charis, what are you talking about?”

“We are going to walk up the hill now and watch the Magi perform the sacrifice to Bel,” explained her aunt.

“I have to see her.”

“Who?” The queen knelt beside her daughter. “Charis, answer me. Who do you mean?”

“The bull girl-the dancer. I must go to her.”

“But it is late. We cannot”

“No! I need to see her. I must!” Charis cried.

Briseis stood; concern sharpened her features. “Very well, there is a room Below where the dancers ready themselves. Perhaps, she is still there-although the physicians may have taken her to the temple.”

The three made their way to the room beneath the royal loge where the bull dancers prepared themselves before each ceremony. It was dark there and cool, the light filtering in from narrow slit windows and from a grate above. They were met by a white-robed Mage who, having taken off his tall hat, appeared squat, his long, curling hair hanging limply to his shoulders.

“We have come to see the dancer who was injured,” explained Briseis.

“You wish to make an offering?” inquired the Mage.

“No, we”

“You cannot see her,” he said and moved to shut the door on them.

“Do you not recognize your queen?” asked Elaine sharply. She put her hand on the door. “This is Queen Briseis and her daughter. I am Queen Elaine of Tairn. We wish to see the bull girl now.”

The door creaked open a crack wider. “She is resting quietly.”

“We will stay but a moment,” said Elaine. “It might cheer her to receive us.”

Briseis extended her hand. The Mage raised his palm and four silver coins clinked into it. The door swung open to admit them. “Through there,” he said, pointing to a small door beyond.

The three passed through a long room, spare of furniture but containing a table, some chairs, and the few props and training apparatus of the bull dancer’s art. They passed the huge double doors that opened to the arena outside and went to the door of the inner chamber. Briseis knocked gently and entered. The room was dim but light enough to see the still form lying on the bed. Charis crept close.

The young woman lay without a covering, bare except for her loincloth and the thick bandage around her middle. Fresh blood stained the bandage and the girl’s skin glistened with clammy sweat; her breath was shallow.

“She is asleep,” whispered Charis.

They gazed at the girl for a moment and then turned to go. The injured dancer heard the movement and opened her eyes. “Nieri?” Her voice was soft and there was no force behind it.

Charis turned and their eyes met. “Who are you?” the dancer asked.

“I am Charis-I saw you dance.”

“What do you want?” the bull girl whispered.

“I wanted-we came…” Charis trembled and looked around to her mother for help.

“We came to see how you were,” explained Briseis.

“Now you have seen,” rasped the dancer. “Leave me.”

“Come along, Charis, we must go,” said her mother.

Charis hesitated. “Will you be all right?” she asked.

“Leave me!” the bull girl whispered.

“Come now, Charis,” said Elaine.

“Will you be all right?” Charis asked again, her tone gentle but insistent.

“What do you care?” sneered the girl softly. “You come to my deathbed to watch me die-did you not see enough in the ring?” A tear slipped from her eye to slide down her pale cheek.

“Charis?” the queen said.

But the princess stood unmoved. “Are you dying?”

The bull girl, lips trembling, closed her eyes. “Just leave me,” she said and turned her face away.

“We will send someone” began Charis.

“Go.” The word was a whisper but carried the finality of the tomb.

Charis turned and followed her mother and Queen Elaine out. “The ungrateful slut,” said Elaine when they reached the corridor. “We offer help and she orders us away.”

“Why, Mother?” Charis asked, near tears. “Why did she hate us?”

“Perhaps she thought we intended some offense.”

“Hmph!” sniffed Elaine. “She hadn’t the manners of one of her Beloved bulls. I say she got no better than she deserved. They do all sorts of unnatural things with those animals, I hear.”

“Elaine, please,” said Briseis softly, nodding toward Charis.

When they reached the outer doors once more and stepped into the daylight, Charis stopped. She glanced at the Mage who was now sitting in a chair beside the door. “Why was there no physician?”

“There should have been,” replied Briseis.

Charis turned to her mother urgently. “We must send for the king’s physician at once.”

“For her!” Elaine scoffed.

“He will be difficult to reach now,” said Briseis.

“We must reach him! I told her we would send someone.”

Briseis looked at her daughter and then back at the darkened doorway behind them. “Very well, we will try.”