the horse of the dead Al·Ith had gone with the troop of soldiers to the king to tell him that there could be no marriage. The horse stood on the threshold of the wedding chamber and neighed three times, Ben Ata, Ben Ata, Ben Ata — and when he came out, said to him:
Cold and dark your wedding bed,
O King, your willing bride is dead.
The realm she rules is cold and dark.
And this was popular, and sung when everyone knew that Al·Ith was not dead, and that the marriage was a fact. That it was not the smoothest of marriages was of course known from the beginning. How? But how do these things get themselves known? The song was always being added to. Here is a verse that came from the married quarters of the army camps:
Brave King, your realm is strong and fine.
Where beasts may mate, then women pine.
I will be your slave, brave King.
Not anywhere with us, or at any time, have such verses as these been possible, though there were plenty of compassionate and tender ballads made up about Al·Ith. There are some who say that where there is rulership, there has to be criticism of this ribald kind, because no matter the level of the ruler, it is in the nature of the ruled to crave identification of the lowest sort. We say this is not so, and Zone Three proves it. To recognize and celebrate the ordinary, the day-to-day levels of an authority, is not to denigrate it.
Such Zone Four ballads, travelling upwards to us, found themselves transformed as they crossed the frontier. For one thing, there was no need of the inversions, the ambiguities, that are always bred by fear of an arbitrary authority.
We may almost say that a certain type of ballad is impossible with us: the kind that has as its ground or base lamentation, the celebration of loss.
In their Zone the riderless horse gave birth to songs of death and sorrow; in ours to songs about loving friendship.
The road, which cut straight across the plain, and was intersected at about the middle by one running equally straight, began to lift a little to reach the small hill that Al·Ith had seen with relief from the top of the escarpment. The canals were left behind, with their weight of dead water. There were a few ordinary trees, which had not been hacked into lumps and wands. At the top of the hill were gardens, and here the water had been forced into movement, for they rode now beside channels where it ran swiftly, fell from several levels to others, and broke into fountains. The air was lively and cool, and when she saw ahead of her a light pavilion, with coloured springing pillars and arches, she was encouraged. But there was no one to be seen. She was contrasting this empty garden and the apparently deserted pavilion with the friendly amplitude of her own courts, when Jarnti called an order, and the whole company came to a stop. The soldiers jumped off their horses, and surrounded Al·Ith, who, when she got down from her horse, found herself being marched forward in their midst, like a captive of war — and she saw that this was not the first time they had done this, from the ease of their arrangements.
But as they had enclosed her, Jarnti in front, she put out her hand to hold the horse she had been given, Yori, by the neck.
And this was how she arrived at the steps of the pavilion, when Ben Ata came out to stand in the doorway, arms folded, legs apart, bearded soldier, dressed in no way different from Jarnti or the others. He was large, blond, muscular from continual campaigning, and burned a ruddy brown on the face and arms. His eyes were grey. He was not looking at Al·Ith but at the horse, for his first thought too was that his bride had been killed.
Al·Ith went quickly through the soldiers, suspecting that there were precedents here she might not want followed, and arrived in front of him, still holding the horse.
And now he looked at her, startled and frowning.
‘I am Al·Ith,’ said she, ‘and this horse has been kindly given to me by Jarnti. Please, will you give orders for him to be well treated?’
He found himself speechless. He nodded. Jarnti then grasped the horse’s neck and attempted to lead him away. But he reared and tried to free himself. Before he would allow himself to be taken away, Al·Ith had to comfort him and promise she would visit him very soon. ‘Today, I swear it.’ And, turning to Jarnti, ‘So you must not take him too far away. And please see he is well fed and looked after.’
Jarnti was sheepish, the soldiers grinning, only just hiding it, because Ben Ata’s face gave them no guidance. Normally, on such occasions, the girl would have been bundled across a threshold, or pushed forward roughly, according to the convention, but now no one knew how to behave.
Al·Ith said, ‘Ben Ata, I take it you have some sort of place I can retire to for a time? I have been riding all day.’
Ben Ata was recovering. His face was hard, and even bitter. He had not known what to expect, and was prepared to be flexible, but he was repelled by this woman in her sombre clothes. She had not taken off her veil, and he could not see much of her except that she had dark hair. He preferred fair women.
He shrugged, gave a look at Jarnti, and disappeared into the room behind him. It was Jarnti then who led her into another room, which was part of a set of rooms, and saw that she had what she needed. She refused food and drink, and announced that she would be ready to join the king in a few minutes.
And she did join him, emerging unceremoniously from the retiring rooms just as she had arrived, in her dark dress. But she had removed the veil, and her hair was braided and hanging down her back.
Ben Ata was lounging on a low divan or settee, in a large light airy room that had nothing very much in it. She saw that this was a bridal room, and planned for the occasion. Her bridegroom, however, sprawling on one edge of the divan, his chin on his hand, his elbow on his knee, did not move as she came in. And there was nowhere else to sit, so she sat down on the edge of the divan, at a distance from him, resting her weight on her hand in the position of one who has alighted somewhere for just a moment and has every intention of leaving again. She looked at him, without smiling. He looked at her, very far from smiling.
‘Well, how do you like this place?’ he asked, roughly. It was clear he had no idea of what to say or do.
‘It has been built specially then?’
‘Yes. Orders. Built to specification. Exactly. It was finished only this morning.’
‘It is certainly very elegant and pleasant,’ she said. ‘Quite different from anything else I’ve seen on my way here.’
‘Certainly not my style,’ he said. ‘But if it is yours, then that’s the main thing.’
This had a sort of sulky gallantry, but he was restless, and sighing continually, and it was evident all he wanted to do was to make his escape.
‘I suppose the intention was that it should be suited to us both?’ she remarked.
‘I don’t care,’ said he violently and roughly, his inner emotions breaking out of him. ‘And obviously you don’t either.’
‘We’re going to have to make the best of it,’ she said, intending consolation, but it was wild and bitter.
They looked at each other with a frank exchange of complicity: two prisoners who had nothing in common but their incarceration.
This first, and frail, moment of tolerance did not last.
He had flung himself back on this marriage couch of theirs, arms behind his head, his sandalled feet dusty on the covers, which were of fine wool, dyed in soft colours, and embroidered. Nowhere could he have seemed more out of place. She was able to construct his usual surroundings by how he slouched there, gazing at the ceiling as if she did not exist.
She examined the place. This was a very large room, opening out on two sides into gardens through a series of rounded arches. The other two sides had unobtrusive doors leading — on one — to the rooms for her use where she had already been, and on the other, presumably, to his. The ceiling