The Goddess Under Zakros

by Paul Moomaw

  Skevis kicked water at Andreas, who kicked back, and they traded splashes, laughing, until both were soaked below the knee.

  “I give up,” Skevis said, tucking his feet under him. “But think about it. Julian Pray was broke. I heard he was about to lose his boat, and certainly he owed everybody money. The only merchant in this town, at least, who would give him regular credit was your father.” He said the last angrily, an accusation.

  “He likes the American.”

  “We all have our blind spots. Yours is Lydia, right?”

  Argyros cuffed the other man lightly on the side of the head. “Watch out. She’s just a woman, and women can get their heads turned. But it never lasts.

  “I suppose. The point is, all at once Kyrios Julian Pray, who has been poverty stricken, pays off all his debts, with bank notes, and dresses up in nice new clothes. I hear, also, that he had his boat overhauled—scraped, painted, auxiliary engine rebuilt, new sails. Now how could he afford all that, when the week before he had to borrow money for food?”

  “He got a job. He brings papers to my father for the big Frenchman. He must get paid, right?”

  “Enough to have his boat made like new?”

  “Who knows?”

  “What I think,” Skevis said, “is that he found treasure. You know he looks for it; that is why he spends so much time sneaking around the islands, diving into underwater caves. He has been looking for treasure, and I bet he found it.” Skevis banged his fist lightly on the other man’s forehead. “Use your brain, if Lydia hasn’t fucked you stupid. Let’s say you are an American who has found a treasure, a big one, gold, statues, that kind of thing. You have to keep it a secret, or the government will take it away and put it into a museum. So you sell it off, one piece at a time, so as not to arouse suspicion.”

  Argyros shook his head. “No. If I found such a treasure, I would take off to another part of the world, and sell the treasure for as much as I could get. Then I would buy a villa on some little island like Zia, so I could spend my days there with my rich neighbors, and my nights in Athens, getting drunk.”

  “That’s because you are a Greek, and so you understand fate. Americans are greedy, and they don’t believe in fate. Pray thinks he found that treasure by being smart, so he will stick around and try to find more. That’s how Americans are.”

  Andreas looked at his feet for a moment and nodded. “There is another thing, though,” he said. “This Adam Pray is quick as a snake. You know why the Frenchman has a cast on his arm? The American did that to him. Lydia told my father, and he told me. The Frenchman tried to jump him the other night on the street, and he paid for it. The American is dangerous.”

  “There will be four of us,” Skevis said. “And there will be this.” He reached into his shirt and retrieved a worn, 25-caliber Beretta. “He is not faster than a bullet.” He poked the barrel against Argyros ribs, and laughed when the other jumped away.

  “No shooting,” Argyros said.

  “Of course not. This is just for persuasion.”

  Andreas looked doubtfully at the gun. “It makes me nervous.”

  “If you’re the nervous type, maybe I had better not include you.”

  “I’ve already said I’m in. You’re stuck with me. And we divide the money equally, right?”

  “Four equal shares.”

  “That’s not fair. You and your brother and your father are all one family. It should be half for me, and half for the three of you.”

  “You sound like an American yourself. Take it or leave it.”

  Andreas opened his mouth to speak again, then closed it with a sigh of resignation. “When?” he asked.

  “Sooner or later, the American will leave to meet his brother. You have to make up with Lydia so you can find out when. That way we will be able to catch him outside.”

  “When you kidnap somebody, you have to have a place to hide him.”

  Skevis pointed to the rusty steamer. “Right there,” he said, and laughed. “We will give him the captain’s cabin. It’s mostly above water, and the door can be secured with a padlock and chain, so no curious kids will find him, as long as he is tied up and his mouth taped shut.”

  “He will need food and water.”

  “Food would give him strength. Who needs that? As for water, maybe we will let you take that to him.”

  Andreas stood up and shook his head. “Not me,” he said. “Do it yourself.”

  Chapter 20

  Windmills dominated everything. Their spindly ranks marched toward the horizon in all directions, filling the sky with cloth sails, and the air with a constant grumbling and creaking as they turned their faces to the wind the way flowers seek the sun.

  Adam Pray and Lydia had come by bus from Sitia to the village of Psykron, had paused to rest, after the jouncing, crowded ride, under the ancient plane tree that gave the town its name, and had taken water from the cold, fresh spring that the tree guards. Now Pray turned in a slow circle, shaking his head.

  “So many,” he said.

  “They say ten thousand. It is how they water their fields, just as they always have.” Lydia pointed to the steep side of Mount Dikte that lay ahead of hem. “That is where we will go. It is not too far.”

  It was far enough, and more than steep enough. Pray stepped gratefully into the shade of the cave that pierced the mountain part way up its flank. From here the windmills were smaller, and silent. He turned at the sound of Lydia’s voice.

  “This man is a guide,” she said to Pray. “He insists we may not go into the cave alone.” She turned back to the man, and they exchanged more words in Greek. Pray understood none of it, but could sense the heat rising on both sides.

  “Do you have dollars?” Lydia asked suddenly.

  “I expect so.” Pray reached inside his shirt, to the leather wallet designed like a shoulder holster where he kept valuable items like passport and credit cards. He found a five dollar bill and handed it to her. She passed it to the guide, who backed away with a quick smile and waved them into the cave.

  Pray let Lydia take the lead. The way was steep, poorly lit, and slippery, but she seemed to know where she was going. She descended smoothly, without haste, not speaking, stopping at irregular intervals to gaze at the wall. Occasionally she ran her fingers over the rock. Once, as she was doing that, a distant roar filled the cave, a moan that rose and then faded away, while the ground vibrated under Pray’s feet.

  “The Minotaur is on the loose,” Pray said.

  Lydia smiled at him. “It was an earthquake,” she said. “Crete is limestone, with many hollow places. When an earthquake comes, the island booms like a drum.”

  “The bull is favored of the Earthshaker.”

  “What?”

  “Something Homer said about Poseidon.”

  “The god of the sea.”

  “But also of the earth. They called him Earthshaker, and he could make the ground roar like one of his bulls.”

  Lydia laughed. “You teach me my own mythology, Adam Pray.” She started down again, examining the cave walls with her eyes and fingers until she found a large crevice in the stone, a couple of feet above her head.

  “This will be good,” she said. She fumbled in her purse, and withdrew a small medallion that she held out to Pray. “This is what Irene wanted me to leave here.”

  Pray examined the disc. It carried the image of a woman, and looked old. “Good luck charm?”

  “I suppose,” Lydia said. “People have worshipped in this place along, long time. Zeus was hidden here for safekeeping, so that his father would not eat him.” She grinned shyly and ducked her head. “That is what they used to believe, anyway. You probably think Irene and I are superstitious fools.”

  “I think you are a very loving sister.” Pray handed the disc back. “And if people have filled this cave with their dreams for thousands of years, maybe they left a little good luck behind.”

  Lydia smiled. “You are nice, Adam Pray,” she said. She sto
od tiptoe and stretched her hand out to place the medallion in the niche. Then she stepped back and leaned against Pray as she looked up at it. “And maybe you are right. There is no harm in it, at least.” She shook her head. “My sister wants so badly to please her husband. She believes if she loses her baby, she will be disgraced.”

  “Women lose babies. It’s no disgrace.”

  “On Crete, just being a woman is a disgrace,” Lydia shrugged and made a face. “You get used to it.”

  “Do you worry that being with me could cause trouble for you?”

  Lydia laughed sharply. “No more than what I was doing with Andreas.” She stepped away from Pray and turned to look at him, hands on hips, her eyes flashing even in the dim light. “And I am not caring less. Is that good American? My friend Diana Targiou, who had an American sailor boyfriend, said it was.” She crossed her arms under her breast. “And if I am disgraced, I will run away with you, Adam Pray, like Dina Skevis did with your brother.”

  “Is that what her family is so angry about? That she dishonored herself with Julian?”

  “The dishonor is theirs,” Lydia said. She spit at the rock. “Her brother, not Minas but the older one, Antoni, would know about that. She hated him. If she had been braver, she would have killed him, because he used her from the time she was five years old. She told her father, but he just called her a slut and beat her. When she was older she tried a few times to fight Antoni off, so he knocked her down and raped her. By the time she told me about it, she had given up, and let him do whatever he wanted.” Lydia spit again.” Someday, maybe I will kill him,” she said, then grinned at Pray and wrapped her arms around his middle. “Unless I have already run away with you.”

  Pray started to kiss her. The cave roared again, louder this time, and the ground rocked under their feet. Pray lurched and held Lydia more tightly. As they regained their balance, the guide’s voice floated down from above. Lydia let go of Pray and answered.

  “He was worried we were hurt,” she said. “I guess he would be in trouble then.” She turned to the niche, and her hand shot to her mouth.

  “Oh!” she said, and stared at the wall. Pray followed her gaze. The medallion had vanished.

  “The earthquake must have knocked it loose,” Lydia said. She started to walk deeper into the cave, then shook her head and turned back. “It’s too dark,” she said. “It was silly, anyway.”

  “Maybe it’s a good sign,” Pray said. “Maybe it means the cave has accepted your offer.”

  “Sure. Maybe so,” Lydia said, but her voice was flat. She turned away and began the climb back to the entrance.

  Chapter 21

  The barge had the dock to itself. A Marseilles policeman stood by the gate in the tall, chain link fence, waving the last of a string of trucks through. He saluted each one as if it were visiting royalty.

  A crane swung a large wooden flat, loaded with a dozen black barrels, onto the deck of the barge. A dock worker balanced nonchalantly under the giant crane hook, lighting a cigarette.

  Dieter Fugger watched the platform swing, and frowned. He had not shed his discomfort about dealing with radioactive waste. He was afraid of it. And something had gone wrong already.

  “The French do things with such flair,” he said. “But not with much efficiency. This cargo was supposed to carry a special marking. I don’t see anything.”

  Emile Gotard crossed his arms. The left one still wore a cast, dented now, and filthy with grease stains. “What difference does it make?” He spat into the water. “What is so special about this batch of garbage?”

  “Take my word for it.”

  “Of course. I am just the fucking employee. I don’t need to know anything, do I? Why trust me with your big secrets?” Gotard stepped in front of Fugger and glared down at him. The German recognized the attempt to intimidate. He gazed coolly back at the other man for a moment, then returned his attention to the barge, where the dock worker had unhitched the load of barrels and now stepped into the curve of the hook to allow the crane to carry him back to shore.

  “That is absolutely correct,” Fugger said. “You are only my employee, and you don’t need to know anything.” Especially not anything that would require you to have brains or impulse control, he added silently. Gotard had become increasingly surly recently, especially since the American had made a fool of him. Fugger wondered whether he should not cut the Frenchman loose now, before he did something disastrously stupid.

  “Ride the barge back to the ship,” he said. “Find some paint—make it yellow paint—and have all of those barrels marked with an X, small but in a visible spot—by the time you reach der Rattensinger.”

  “There’s paint on the ship. I can take care of it there.”

  “Do as I say.”

  Gotard looked as if he wanted to protest. Then he rolled his eyes and nodded. “You’re the boss,” he said.

  Fugger smiled. “Very perceptive. I may not be aboard when you arrive, but I will get there by the following morning.” He turned to go.

  “There is another thing,” Gotard said. “I need an advance. A loan, really.”

  “For what?” Fugger said. He kept walking.

  “A little bit of private business.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “Some things you don’t tell me. Other things I don’t tell you. Call it my French need for egalite, if you like.”

  “I call it no deal. You can keep your secret, and I will keep my money.” Fugger walked faster, and Gotard kept pace silently.

  “All right,” he said finally.” It’s to do with a shipment of cocaine.”

  Fugger stopped. “Cocaine?”

  “Yes. I need half a million francs, today.”

  “You want to buy half a million worth of cocaine?”

  “And I can pay you back almost right away. I already have a buyer.”

  “You are crazy.”

  “With interest. You name the amount.”

  “Not a chance, Gotard. I’m not going to finance your criminal career.”

  “But I have to have it.” Gotard whined, and Fugger paused again, fascinated by the novelty of this giant man playing the sad child.

  “I have already made the deal,” Gotard said. “I take delivery in two days, at sea. If I don’t have the money, I’m in the shit. Understand?”

  “You can either be a drug dealer or my employee, not both. Nothing illegal if you’re going to work for me.”

  “What’s so legal about what you’re doing?”

  “That’s the point. The last thing I need is for you to load der Rattensinger up with contraband, and give the police an excuse to raid my operation.” He started walking again. “It wasn’t smart to make a deal before you talked to me.”

  Gotard grabbed at Fugger’s shoulder. “But I naturally thought . . .”

  Fugger spun around. “Take your paws off me!” He was yelling. He tried to quiet his voice and failed. “That’s your trouble. You don’t have the brains to think. You’re an imbecile, good for frightening people and breaking things. Now shut up and get on that goddamned barge, or you’re through. Understand?” Fugger walked toward the gate, and this time the Frenchman made no attempt to follow. Fugger was half skipping in anger. He forced himself to slow down. He never lost his temper. He prided himself on that. Only fools and failures blew up, yelled, called names. As he got himself back under control, Fugger decided it was time for Gotard to go. But at the same time he saw, and wondered why he hadn’t realized it before, that the big Frenchman would be like a loose cannon ball whether Fugger kept him or fired him.

  “We will have to think of something a little more final for you,” he murmured, and walked through the gate and into the parking lot.

  * * *

  MYCENAE, 1250 B.C.

  Agamemnon the King shifts his weight to one cheek, because his hemorrhoids hurt, and watches his wife sourly as she backs from the throne room with an insincere smile.

  Snakeface, he thinks.


  Koilius, his chancellor, leans closer to the king.

  “Her latest lover is named Astarkos,” he says. “Lately he commanded a ship. Now he serves in your palace guard.”

  “She’s getting bolder.”

  “Bearing you a child has bolstered her nerve.”

  Agamemnon snorts. “A girl child. How many soldiers can a girl kill?”

  And only the Gods know whose child it really is, he thinks. He has not shared his wife’s bed since she took up briefly with his Anatolian horse trainer three years before. The Anatolian lost his eyes and tongue, as did the sergeant of guards who bedded the queen earlier, and the armorer before that, always on some false charge, and always with the king and queen to witness, as tradition and law require.

  Agamemnon shakes his head. She seems to make it a point that he should discover each affair, with the inevitable result for the unfortunate paramour. Perhaps she hates men. The Anatolian episode has, at any rate, left her with an odor that arises from between her legs. It might mean nothing, but he has no desire to find out. He has more than enough opportunities to wet his cock elsewhere.

  Agamemnon waves a hand before his face, as if to brush away the thought of his wife and her brat. “Tell me the numbers again,” he says. He could read them himself, a rare feat for a king, but only with much labor and very little joy. Deciphering signs holds no charm when nothing worth knowing is marked down—no songs, or poems, or marvelous tales—only lists and names and numbers.

  “A thousand medimnoi of wheat,” Koilius says. “A little less of barley. Enough to feed the household, but no surplus to trade south for lemons and olives. His majesty will have to choose.”

  Agamemnon winces. Whenever Koilius goes formal on him, the news will be bad.

  “Was the crop so poor this year?”

  “I believe the farmers have been selling much of it to the northerners, your majesty.” Koilius pauses. “In exchange for the very gold you sent to the invaders to buy secure borders.”

  “Zeus fuck a cow!” The king slams his fist against the arm of the throne. “What about the herds?”