He couldn't see the men, but he could feel them. Their presence filled the room with the crackle of anticipation. The warrior kept his eyes closed. They would have been of no use to him anyway, behind the bandage that didn't let a ray of light through. The master just understood his craft
But he would not have been a warrior all his life without his senses being sharpened. Even without using his eyes, he knew he was underground. He had left behind the sounds of the night, the screaming of the owl, the wind, light as cool fingers stroking his cheeks; the smells of the field still lingered in his nose; ghost flowers, long gone, memories from a world where it was now spring, and yet a shadow of their sweetness blew here to this place.
He felt stone under his feet; the echo of his footsteps had been close from the moment they had left the field, it must have been a passage, the coolness of the walls felt from both sides as they marched into the lap of the earth. Then the echo had widened and finally they had stopped.
It was no longer cool. The warmth of fire and living bodies filled the room; it smelled of the resinous tar of the torches and the smoke they spread; someone had burnt herbs; their delicate aroma mingled with the air. It also smelled of leather; of the leather worms of the invisible men who, carried in countless battles, had long since combined with the body scent of their wearers. The warrior could feel the presence of their bodies without seeing them, and on top of that, another, much stronger, powerfully pulsating one, exuding the comforting scent of stable warmth and animal. He could hear the clanging of a chain being pulled by someone. Another smell was in the air and made the warrior tense with every sinew, for it was unmistakable and unforgettable: the smell of blood dried on sweet grass.
"Here is one who desires recording," said the master's voice behind him. A pull on the back of his head; the bandage fell almost casually. Blinking, the warrior looked into the cave room, dancing, illuminated by the light of the torches, golden, orange and black. The men rested on the stone benches to the right and left of the offertory box. They had their eyes on him, old as life and dark with mystery. He recognized in the flickering light the figure of Julius Caesar, twenty-three cuts, cleanly red framed, adorned the otherwise blossom-white senatorial robes. Beside him Brutus, whom he seemed to bear no grudge against, since they both knew the game they were playing and the stakes as well. On the other side of the room, opposite the two of them, King Arthur, the sword Excalibur lay crosswise in front of him and the light danced across his blade. He had Lancelot at his side, and a dark curl fell on his even face. The two seemed tired from the eternal search for the Grail and relieved to be in a place where Guinevere would not, not even in depth, be the subject of discussion.
And further in the background, was that Mozart? The warrior was not quite sure, because the man was not wearing his wig and he had left the powder aside. A subtle smile played around his lips as if to say: "Freemasons - they don't know anything!
But the warrior was sure to be with the man who camped with him first: Che had taken off his cartridge belt and let it slip through his hands like a prayer chain. He looked at the warrior with a wrinkled forehead as if he was constantly annoyed that his beautiful face had turned him from partisan to teen idol.
In the middle between the stone benches stood the offertory box; a massive iron chain was attached to it and held a mighty bull, which awaited its fate snorting and stamping.
"Then he must pass the test," said King Arthur, the highest ranking man in the room, even if Caesar was annoyed and Che saw it differently.
Brutus stood up and, nodding the consent of Arthur, took Excalibur
Somehow it doesn't surprise me that the one with the butcher's knife takes over, the warrior thought when Brutus held the sword out to him.
He took it, weighed it in his hand, then followed the master along the gutter with dried sacrificial blood to the bull.
"Pass the test," cried the master, and the echo of his voice echoed across the cave walls. "You are a warrior. Now become a man!"
The warrior approached the bull. With the sword in his right hand, he stroked his left hand over the mighty neck, the smooth fur, and felt the pulsation of the artery under his hand. It was a quick death, he knew that. A merciful death. Whatever that means. He closed his eyes, inhaled the scent of the beast, so comforting, so strong.
Then he looked the bull in the eyes, dark and gentle. Something about this look seemed familiar to him, but he didn't remember it right away until it occurred to him. That was his look. It was his eyes that looked out at him.
The warrior struck out. Then he thrust his sword into the stone before the bull
"I am a man," he said. Then he turned around and went, without looking back, out of the cave, smelling of smoke, leather, spice and animal, towards the night, which became lighter and began to smell of cocoa, and as he walked he understood that he had passed the test, and she said:
"Good morning
When he opened his eyes, she was sitting on the edge of the bed, a cup of steaming hot chocolate between her hands and smiling down on him.
"Oh God!" he murmured, his voice still covering sleep, "I may have dreamed wildly... Mithra cult, animal sacrifice, Che Guevara..."
"It's from the stuff you sprayed on it last night," she said. I smelled that all night, too."
He put his wrist to his nose and sniffed. "You can still smell it," he said. "Fierce." And manly. And very archaic.
He smiled as he let himself sink back into the pillows. He would probably get a bottle of it if he could get hold of another one. A bit of archaic masculinity is allowed after all, at least on the wrist. You don't have to overdo it
Katzevogel
Ch03np
