by Anne Fortier
“The northern sea,” said Myrina. “Is it far?”
He gave her a wry look. “It is not the distance. Anyone may sail there when the wind is right. But the Greeks are an ambitious and jealous race. They have founded many cities and guard them fiercely—none more so than Mycenae, home of their great king, Agamemnon. Perched on a hill well inside a protected bay, it is, I would say, untouchable. Unless, of course, you have a mighty fleet and a land army to spare, which I am guessing you do not.”
Myrina’s disappointment made a response impossible.
“To the Greeks,” Paris went on, “women are little more than livestock, and foreigners are considered more brutish still. This is why Agamemnon’s pirates think nothing of attacking a foreign temple and laying hands on a priestess, and why I urge you to forget this quest of yours. If your friends are not already dead, they will be soon. Why add more bodies to the pyre?”
Myrina was so shocked by his words that her growing respect for Prince Paris almost lost its footing. “If I were a man,” she said, straightening, “you would not have spoken to me thus. Because I am a woman, you assume my aim in life is comfort, and that my honor lies in my chastity alone. I can’t blame you, for you are merely saying what you think I am hoping to hear. But you are wrong. We have higher goals than that—goals that guide us like stars through the darkness, and our endeavor cannot be so easily discouraged.”
The words seemed to echo in the air for a while, and Myrina could feel her sisters shifting with discomfort, nervous that she might have dealt the final blow to the goodwill of their host. But in the end, Paris merely sighed and said, “Tomorrow I am meeting the Minos at the Knossos palace. We are to discuss business matters. Perhaps you should accompany me and tell him of your complaints. He is an ally of the Greeks, and they support his rule; if anyone can influence them in this matter, it is him. If your friends are still alive, we may be able to trade for them.”
Despite everything, Myrina nearly laughed. “Your generosity has blinded you to my condition. Surely, you do not wish to degrade yourself by escorting a woman in rags—”
Paris held up a hand to silence her. “I see nothing that cannot be overcome by a bar of tallow. Spend the night here, all of you, comfortably asleep in this room, and begin the morrow with breakfast and a sea bath. I wager—for you already know I am a gambler—that after a safe night’s sleep and a change of clothes, you just may turn out to be a queen.” He smiled, a glint of mischief returning to his eyes. “If not, we shall make you resemble one anyway.”
THE KNOSSOS PALACE ROSE effortlessly above the surrounding town with its layer upon layer of brightly colored roofs and colonnades. A harmonious structure, it seemed, without the slightest hint of fortification.
“Is anything the matter?” asked Paris, when he saw Myrina peeking out through the flimsy curtains of the litter. “Do you wish you were riding the formidable creature between my legs?”
The question set off peals of laughter all around. The morning had held no scarcity of amusement for the Trojans, beginning with an improvised satyr play on the beach as they were commissioned to stand guard around the bathing women, and concluding with the comedy of introducing Queen Myrina to her regal means of transportation.
“Goddess!” she had exclaimed, backing up in horror when she saw the animal Paris would have her ride. “Whatever is that?”
Taller than cows, but smaller than camels—and considerably more spirited than both—the creatures the Trojans were leading down the gangplank to the pier struck Myrina as being more beautiful, yes, but also more capricious than any other domesticated beast she had ever seen. Clearly skittish after their long sojourn on the ship, they bucked and reared up with the ferocity of wildcats, and when Paris confirmed Myrina’s growing suspicion that she was expected to ride one, she backed away, shaking her head.
“Come!” he taunted her, “I have called you fearless. Do not make me a liar. Nothing is simpler than riding a horse. Look.” He mounted one with ease, not deterred by its shying and prancing. “All you have to do is hold on.”
But no words could persuade Myrina to get up on a horse of her own. Nor could Paris talk her into sharing his. “Please,” she said at last, her fingers grappling for the security of her bowstring and quiver strap but finding only the embroidered dress that had been acquired for her—undoubtedly at great expense—in the market that same morning. “Why can I not walk?”
“Walk?” Paris nearly fell backward out of the saddle. “Since when did a prince of Troy let a queen walk through the streets like a prostitute?”
Looking more than a little irked, he had sent the servant out again, this time to order a sedan. When it finally came, all Myrina could do was climb inside. Her sudden timidity, she decided, was a consequence of being stripped of her weapons and trapped in useless robes … and yet, to her secret astonishment she knew it had to do with Paris. The way he had looked at her when he placed the slim gold band around her head and said, “There! I win my bet. You really are a queen!” haunted her all the way through town, and no amount of humorous comments could still the foolish flutter in her chest.
THE PALACE GUARDS DID not detain them for long. Without even looking inside the litter, they let the Trojans through the grand gate into the courtyard, and from behind her curtains Myrina heard the horses step from gravel onto tile.
Peeking out once more, she saw the clean angles of the palace buildings against the bright blue sky and the broad stairs teeming with people. It was a magnificent sight, much grander and far more sophisticated than the dwelling of the Moon Goddess at home, and she could not help but marvel at the fact that this sparkling maze of lofty halls and bright red colonnades had been erected for the sake of mortal men—a ruler and his administrators.
Then the curtain was drawn aside, and Paris held out his hand to help her down. “Queen Myrina,” he said, with unsmiling cordiality. “Allow me.”
As she descended from the litter to find herself surrounded by stony-faced Trojans and self-important palace heralds, Myrina felt peculiarly small. Although the dainty slippers that went with the dress had elevated wooden heels on them, it was as if she had shrunk in stature when she took off her snakeskin tunic and donned the costly guise. Paris was tall, yes, but he had not appeared to tower over her quite like this before. It didn’t matter that his golden headband was temporarily on her head; the heir of Troy looked every bit the prince as he stood there in his embroidered blue tunic and mantle, while Myrina, for all her borrowed elegance, had never felt so low.
Even if the Trojans had been right in assuring her she had a noble countenance and could easily pass for royalty, Myrina was only too aware of her own graceless gait in the treacherous slippers. And despite her many months at the Temple of the Moon Goddess, where dresses were mandatory, she had never been comfortable fluttering about with the ethereal air of a priestess. “You are not sneaking up on a groundhog, Myrina!” the High Priestess had once scolded her, much to the amusement of Kara and Egee. “You are a celestial body, a star in the sky, a thing without thoughts.”
For all her willingness to fit in, Myrina had never quite mastered the art of becoming a thing without thoughts. And as she let go of Paris’s hand to clumsily adjust her skirts, she feared the palace guards saw neither queen nor woman, just a foreigner in poor disguise.
If they did, they did not show it. Bowing to Paris and the seven other Trojans with the utmost respect, the heralds proceeded to lead the guests across a mosaic of tiles far more elaborate than any Myrina had seen in the consecrated halls at home. “See the double ax?” whispered Paris, nodding at the pattern. “It is a sacred symbol here.”
As they walked up the clean-swept white stairs to the audience hall, Myrina glanced out over the courtyard, wondering why this apparently welcoming open place made her feel so uneasy. At the far end of the tiled square, a red double door stood out against the pale yellow of the surrounding brick, and a golden pattern of bulls’ heads and double axes on the li
ntel suggested the room beyond the door was a holy destination.
“Now, remember,” whispered Paris, his hand tight around Myrina’s elbow, “when we come into the throne room, we must bow to the Holy Mother first, even if the real power is with the Minos.”
Despite its lofty name, the throne room was not big, but it was so full of people Myrina might not have noticed the Holy Mother unless she had specifically looked for her. Seated on a throne against the brightly decorated wall, slumped as if in sleep, the Lady of Knossos gave the impression of a large field mammal dressed up and dragged inside against its nature. Only when Myrina knelt before her did the woman raise her head and fix a weary eye on the golden band crowning the curly hair of her unusual supplicant. Then, with bovine resignation, the Holy Mother raised a bejeweled hand and pointed Myrina in the direction of the true ruler of Crete.
The Minos stood in the far corner, engulfed in a fog of politics. Surrounded by the intense gestures of men with opposing interests, he was clearly a man rarely left in peace. Even from across the busy room there was no mistaking a reptilian cunning in his face; no one could have stood in greater contrast to the Lady of Knossos than this small, fidgety man. As Myrina knelt before him, she found herself wondering about the exact relationship between the two. Were they man and wife? Mother and son? It was hard to determine.
“Today I bring Queen Myrina,” said Paris to the Minos in the language spoken in the Temple of the Moon Goddess, his voice and manner completely undaunted by the commotion. “She has traveled far to visit this country and brings a gift of peace.” He motioned at his trusted companion, the long-limbed Aeneas, to step forward with the small tablet Kyme and Myrina had composed that same morning.
The change in the Minos was immediate. As soon as he saw the round clay disk with the elegant spiral of text, he opened his arms in a most generous greeting. “Rise, dear queen!” he exclaimed, taking the tablet from Aeneas. “And tell me of your country. From what exotic sphere did you come?”
Myrina did not even attempt to reply. Paris had impressed upon her that, despite all the kind words and gestures, only men were allowed to speak directly to the Minos. “Queen Myrina rules a vast country,” he lied on her behalf, “near Lake Tritonis.”
“Ah!” said the Minos, his enthusiasm fading briefly, then flaring up again. “I see. You have come for food, I gather. To carry your people through until the good times return.” He looked down at the tablet, his brow contracting. “I am not familiar with this language. What manner of pledge is it?”
“Blessings,” explained Paris. “And an offer of friendship.”
“What? No gift of people? I should think that under the circumstances—” The Minos turned the clay disk over, as if hoping to find the desired pledge on the other side. “These are desperate times for her people!” he pointed out to Paris, ignoring Myrina completely. “Surely she sees that the gods are angry and must be appeased.”
Paris nodded, his aspect perfectly calm. “The queen knows that. But she is not here to bargain for food. She is here because she knows Crete is on friendly terms with the Greeks.”
The Minos straightened. “Indeed, King Agamemnon’s son was just here.”
“Is that so?” Paris glanced at Myrina. “Then he must have come directly from Lake Tritonis.”
The Minos frowned. “He did mention having to drag his ships through a snake-infested marsh to return to the ocean. And there was some talk of a large, black statue. But may I ask why you are so interested in the movements of the Greeks? I sincerely hope there is not another conflict afoot.”
Myrina stepped forward, forgetting in her excitement that she must remain silent. Before she could speak, however, Paris squeezed her arm so hard she cringed. “Three weeks ago,” he told the Minos, “Agamemnon’s son visited Queen Myrina’s palace under a pretext of friendship, but made away with several precious objects, including nine of the queen’s maiden cousins.”
The Minos took a step back. “I am appalled!”
“Naturally,” Paris continued, “the queen is furious. But she would prefer not to launch a campaign.”
“But of course.” The Minos swallowed hard. His wealth and power, Paris had explained to Myrina, depended entirely on the free movements of ships around his island. A war would stifle such movements and add even more insecurity to the world of trade. For that reason alone the Minos had always been a man of peace.
“It is perhaps not widely known,” Paris went on, “but the queen commands an army of thousands, most of which are cavalry.” An additional pinch told Myrina that Paris was toying with her, even now. “Surely it is in no one’s interest to have such violence unleashed on mankind.”
The Minos attempted a smile. “Of course. But why have you come to me? How can I possibly be of help?”
Paris nodded at the clay disk. “The queen is hoping for an agreement, stipulating that you have agreed to an alliance with her. Faced with such an agreement, the Greeks may be prevailed upon to give back what they stole—”
“Oh, dear.” The Minos sighed. “That will take a while. The priests are terribly busy, yet they must approve … take omens—”
Myrina could bear it no longer. “Please,” she exclaimed, before Paris could stop her, “can you not make an exception?”
A gasp of horror all around let her know the severity of her misstep before the Minos was even able to express his dismay. “Perhaps it were better,” he hissed, his voice almost failing him, “that the queen made herself comfortable with the other women while the men settle matters here.”
It did not take Paris long to finish with the Minos and come looking for Myrina in the other part of the crowded throne room. As he escorted her back out into the blinding daylight, Myrina feared his contemptuous grimace was brought on by her impetuous behavior. “I am so sorry,” she began, trying to keep up with his angry steps. “I forgot myself.”
Paris paused on the staircase, looking around for the men he had left outside. “If you must apologize, be sorry you did not insult him further. Pinprick of a man. Muzzled by his own priests. Mark my words: This island has seen its heyday.”
As Paris and Myrina descended the stairs together, the long-limbed Aeneas came forward to speak quickly and urgently into Paris’s ear. Although she could not understand the words, Myrina guessed the narrative was a horrendous one, for Aeneas was pale with agitation, and Paris’s contemptuous glower soon gave way to tight-lipped outrage.
“What is it?” she asked him, when Aeneas finally fell silent.
“Nothing,” replied Paris, his eyes drawn toward the red double door across the courtyard. “Let us leave this place with no further delay.”
“But what is so terrible?” Myrina tried to make out the thoughts that had etched such a dreadful expression across his face. “Is it about the Greeks?”
Paris did not respond until they were reunited with the horses and ready to leave. “It seems we missed them by a hair,” he said, with an attempt at levity. “They left six days ago, to return directly to Mycenae.”
Myrina stared at him, sensing there was more. “Any word of my sisters?”
“The women never left the ships.” Paris took her hand to help her into the litter. “Except one. She was given to the Minos as a present—”
Myrina clasped her mouth. “She is here? At the palace?”
The men exchanged grave glances, and once again, Paris’s eyes were drawn to the double door across the courtyard.
Without another word, Myrina let go of his hand and began walking, as fast as she dared, toward the red square crowned with golden symbols.
“Don’t go there!” Paris chased after her, but Myrina kicked off her slippers and ducked away from him, breaking into a run. She did not care who might be looking; she could never leave a sister behind.
Finding the door unlocked, Myrina pushed through it without hesitation, entering the holy room with Paris and Aeneas close behind her. And even though the contrast between the sunny courtyar
d and the windowless cave she had entered was blinding, she stumbled on in the near-darkness, more anxious to escape the Trojans than to prepare herself for what she might find.
The room turned out to be long and narrow, more of a corridor, lined with a few flaming torches stuck in cressets. At the end of the passage, a staircase led down into the unknown.
“Myrina!” Paris finally caught up with her. “We should not be here.” But when he saw the determination in her eyes, he said no more, and followed.
They walked down the steps together, with the other Trojans closely behind. At the bottom of the stairs was another, darker corridor, which in turn opened up into a circular room lit by sacrificial fires in brass bowls. It was the inner sanctum of the palace.
Stopping on the threshold, Myrina looked around at the golden bulls’ heads mounted on the wall and the altars stacked with meat and bones. She was no stranger to animal sacrifice or, being a hunter, to the sight of entrails and dismembered limbs, but there was something about the unbearably putrid smell of this place that ran counter to all her instincts….
And then she saw the human heads arranged in a small pyramid on the main altar with dismembered arms and legs stacked neatly on either side. Some of the limbs were dark with rot, others were merely gray and bloodless, as if they had been placed there recently. As Myrina stared at them in terror, a shiny object caught the light of the flickering torches…. It was a jackal bracelet encircling a narrow wrist.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Now seeing the watchdog deep in sleep, Aeneas
Took the opening: swiftly he turned away
From the river over which no soul returns.