The Goddess Under Zakros

by Paul Moomaw

  “Perhaps two thousand new lambs. Last year there were close to three. They seem to wander more these days.”

  “North, I suppose.”

  “Yes, your majesty.”

  Agamemnon tugs at his beard. His soldiers are restless, and he hears grumbling that less wealth comes into Mycenae every month. He gathers it is no better in the kingdoms around him. Lines of trade are falling apart, and these odd new people from the north seem to be everywhere. They are few, but growing, and eager to slit throats and burn villages whenever the numbers are favorable. They have no ships, but they possess weapons of a black metal from the east, weapons that some claim can shatter bronze.

  “Buy it if you can, steal it if you can’t,” he mutters.

  “Your majesty?”

  “It’s what my father always said. He got it from my grandfather, who had it from his father, who said it came from King Atreus.”

  Koilius smiles. “Who was a master of both approaches.”

  Agamemnon returns the smile. He grasps Koilius’ wrist, gives it a hard squeeze. “And right now, we can’t afford to buy what we need. That is why we will steal it from the Trojans. They will just have to understand.” He releases the wrist. “How long has my new guardsman been fucking my wife?”

  “Ten days, no more. That is how long ago he came ashore. Her majesty happened to be at the dock that morning.”

  “Give him another ten days. That’s a nice, round number. Then have something arranged.” If whatever she’s got hasn’t killed him by then, he thinks. He nods dismissal, and Koilius bows his way out of the throne room.

  And the dance continues, the king muses. The thought makes him sad, and he wishes he could be angry instead. Being angry feels better. He rises and walks to the window, where he leans on the wide sill and stares at nothing. The wind has raged for days, while a horde of hungry soldiers, frustrated in their effort to set sail for the spoils of Troy, eat and drink his store rooms empty.

  I am the king of Mycenae, he thinks. The greatest of rulers. But he knows the other kingdoms follow him as much from habit as anything—a habit established in the time of his great-grandfather, that maintains itself partly out of fear of Mycenean arms, but even more from the plunder to be gained on Mycenean-led forays. Now the weather holds him helpless, locking Troy-bound warships in his harbor. It does little for his ability to inspire dread, and less for his treasury.

  What, he wonders, do the gods want from him? He has made offerings to every deity his advisors and priests can name—enough grain and olive oil to feed the city for a month, as well as six prime bulls slaughtered in the name of Hera, and a whole brace of prisoners from the north whose throats were lovingly cut and their blood collected to sweeten the soil for Poseidon Earth Shaker, who also rules the seas, and who must take personal responsibility for this damned storm.

  As if in answer, a lightning bolt strikes the terrace outside the hall, making the air crackle and lifting the hair on Agamemnon’s head and arms. In its wake, glowing blue spheres race across the ground in crazed patterns. One of them swoops into the hall and rolls toward him. He stands his ground and glares at it. The lightning ball hesitates, as if it is aware of his anger. Then it moves again, picking up speed as it approaches the king. He tries to force himself to stay, but his feet betray him and he walks, then half skips, and finally runs across the stone floor to his throne. As he leaps onto it, the lightning ball crackles and vanishes, leaving him standing on the elevated seat. Only then does he see the woman staring at him from the entrance of the hall.

  “What the hell do you want?” he asks.

  The woman approaches, her tread measured and calm, and her eyes fixed on his. She is young, and well put together, with broad hips and firm breasts, and skin so pale it is hard to distinguish it from the white tunics wears. She comes close enough to touch, and then stops.

  “I offer help for help,” she says, and stares until he wants to look away. Her eyes disturb him. The are blue, but dark as midnight, and the stormy light in the hall seems to reflect off them, as it might from polished stone.

  “What help does someone like you have for me?” he says.

  The woman waves a milky hand toward the storm outside. “The weather binds you to this rock, and me as well. My Lady, whom I serve, can calm the seas for you.”

  “That lies in the hands of the gods.”

  The woman shakes her head. “You underestimate my Lady.”

  “Who is this lady of yours?”

  “She is the pale goddess who needs no name.”

  “And why have I never heard of her?”

  “Because you are a fool, as are all men.”

  It takes a moment for the words to sink in, for the king to realize he has been insulted to his face. Even his wife does not dare do that. He clenches his fists and controls his voice. Kings don’t lose their temper, he reminds himself. Tantrums are beneath them.

  “Perhaps you are the fool, to talk like that to me. I am, after all, your ruler.”

  “You are just a man. My Lady rules me. She rules you, too, although you are too blind to see it.”

  “I can have you killed.” Agamemnon snaps his fingers.” Just like that.”

  “Then the storm will never end, at least not for you.”

  The king laughs. “All storms end, even the ones that women stir up.”

  “This one will be the end of you.”

  He tries to keep laughing, but the sound is forced, even to his ears, and he gives up the attempt.

  “And this lady of yours can end the storm?”

  The woman nods.

  “What does she want in return.”

  “Two things. First, a ship, to return her to her home on Crete.”

  “My ships are busy.”

  “Busy sitting in your harbor?”

  Agamemnon nods. “You make a point. A ship, then. Possibly I can spare a small one. And what is the second thing.”

  “My Lady demands a companion to accompany her, and to spend eternity with her.”

  “She has you.”

  “I am a servant.” For the first time, the woman looks away from Agamemnon. She drops her head and stares at the floor. “And I am blemished. My Lady requires innocence.”

  “These are hard times. The golden days are gone. There are no innocents.”

  “A child is innocent.” The woman stares at him again with her odd eyes. “I think you know such a child.”

  The king gazes back at her. An idea begins to form in the back of his mind. It germinates quickly and sends tendrils out to tickle a spot where hate lives.

  “And if I provide you . . .” he begins.

  “Not me. My Lady.”

  Agamemnon grins and twists his beard in mock abnegation. “My deep apologies. I provide your lady with a companion.”

  “And a ship.”

  The king makes a face. “A companion and a ship. And she in turn gives me?”

  “Troy.” The woman steps closer. “You must carry this out personally. Only the hand that gives may receive my Lady’s gift in return. But she will provide the means.” She reaches into her tunic and withdraws a long knife. Agamemnon jerks away and looks frantically for help. His wife has won after all, has caught him off guard; and now he will die. Then he sees that the woman holds the knife toward him hilt first. He sucks in a deep breath, swallows, and takes the weapon from her. It looks old, the bronze of the blade highly polished. Worked into the metal, in gold and silver, is the figure of a woman, dressed in a style his great-great grandfather might have recognized. A snake wraps itself around her extended arms. On her left, a standing male figure with a comically oversized penis reaches toward her with his arms. Another male figure lies bent and broken at her feet.

  “And I have to use this myself?” Agamemnon says. “I am no priest.”

  “All the better. One of your priests would defile the blade.”

  Agamemnon tosses the knife in his hand. The woman has a mouth designed for insult. The impulse to
kill her comes, and goes as quickly. First to settle his wife’s hash, and that of her brat. Then, if this woman is not merely mad, the journey to Troy. Time enough after that for punishment.

  “When?” he asks.

  “In three days,” the woman says. “At the new moon.”

  But the new moon has come and gone, and the winds have not stopped. If anything, they hurl themselves even harder at the palace, screaming through every opening so that even inside the Great Hall they tear at Agamemnon’s robes and set his great, curly beard to flapping against his chest.

  “I kept my half of the bargain,” he says to the woman at his side.” When does your goddess keep hers, and free my ships?”

  The woman gazes out the window at the storm. “My Lady never fails in her promises,” she says. “But she follows her schedule, not yours.”

  “Oh, I’m sure,” Agamemnon says. “Very complicated business, I can understand that. Nothing to be done too simply. I expect she’s juggling a handful of delicate negotiations on Mount Olympus, right this minute, to get my small favor handled. Or spreading her thighs for Zeus, to improve her bargaining position.”

  “The winds will stop, and you will have Troy.” The woman still does not look at the king. “How my Lady will later repay your insolence, she will decide, at a time and place of her choosing.” She faces Agamemnon. “You may also be sure of that, and all the wealth of Troy will do you little good then.”

  She turns again to the window, and falls silent, and the wind stops at the same time, not dying gradually away with little rearguard flurries as the wind usually does, but all at once, the way a man stops breathing when he dies.

  Agamemnon looks around. A part of him keeps listening for the sound of the wind, and missing it. Then he shakes his head clear and runs, sandals clattering on the stone floor, to the entrance of the hall. Two soldiers sit cross-legged in the outer passageway playing at dice. They jump awkwardly to attention.

  “You!” Agamemnon shouts, pointing to one of the men. “Tell them to prepare the ships. Tell them we must leave with the tide.” A sense of urgency pushes him, drives him to break free of the harbor before this strange woman’s unknown goddess can change her mind. “Tell them that I, Agamemnon the King, order it.”

  “You have your journey, now I must have mine.”

  Agamemnon flinches at the voice just under his shoulder. He has not noticed that the woman has followed him across the hall. He has forgotten her entirely, in fact.

  “You must give me a ship,” the woman says. “A ship and a crew, to take me to Crete.”

  “No!” Agamemnon stalks away from her.” Guard this one,” he says to the other soldier.

  “My Lady gave you what you begged of her,” the woman says. “The wind has stopped, and you will have safe passage to Troy.”

  Agamemnon holds up a finger. “One part of it,” he says. “You promised me Troy as well. When I have that prize, you will have your ship. And to ensure that, you will come to Troy with me.”

  “You will be sorry,” the woman says. “My Lady has a long memory.”

  “Good,” Agamemnon says. “I have a very short one.” He laughs loudly at his joke, and walks out.

  Chapter 22

  Irene Argyros woke in terror. She stared into the dark, suffocating, and finally realized that she was holding her breath. With infinite care and patience, she opened her mouth and began to release the air, ready to stop instantly if the clawing pain that had wakened her returned.

  She told herself it was only a dream. But she could still hear the squealing hiss of the huge black-and-red spider that had leaped on her from the foot of the bed, still feel its weight pressing down on her as she lay helpless on her back, and the sharp pain as its legs pierced her sides. The image of the beast faded, but the pain remained, deep in her side, and in her lungs, as if they were filled with acid. The dull ache in her kidney had returned as well. For a few days, she had thought she was getting better. But the illness had crept back, and now she was worse than ever. The morning before she had noticed a rash, which was something new. More and more, the slightest touch left her with dark, ugly bruises. And her vision was failing. At first her eyes had blurred at the end of the day, when she was tired. Now the haze came unpredictably, and more frequently.

  Staring at the whitewashed ceiling that glimmered dimly above her, she willed away the memory of the chittering apparition that had come in her dream. Her hands moved protectively over her belly, and the child inside responded to the pressure with a sharp little kick. That hurt, too, but it was a good pain, a sign of life. She stroked herself lightly with her fingertips, and the child shifted again, pressing itself against the underside of her skin.

  Milos turned heavily by her side and snorted. His arm brushed against her, and she winced. It hurt her skin to be touched, the way it hurts when you have a high fever. She pressed the back of her hand carefully against her forehead. No unnatural warmth there; if anything, her face felt cold and clammy. An odd flavor began to fill her mouth, a taste that reminded her of the way empty, unwashed tin cans smell after too many days in the sun. It made her want to be sick. She tried distract herself by listening to Milos’ breathing, but the nausea grew stronger. She curled her tongue inside her mouth, as if she could block everything out, but the clammy feeling began to spread down, and the twisting in her stomach rose to meet it. She knew she would vomit; the only question was where.

  Carefully, trying not to cause herself more pain, and wanting not to rouse Milos, she slid on her back to the edge of the bed. She extended her legs out from under the covers, settled her feet on the floor, and sat up, keeping her lips pressed tightly together to contain the bile that had begun to fill her mouth. Then, supporting herself with her hands, she rose to her feet and took a step toward the bathroom.

  She felt, rather than heard, a heavy pop, as her leg gave way under her, sending her to the floor and flooding her body with red pain.

  She screamed, then, and Milos sat up abruptly. “What’s wrong?” he asked, and pawed at the sheets beside him. “Where are you, Irene?”

  She could not answer. The pain took her wind away, and her will. Milos heaved himself from the bed and turned on the light. He looked down at Irene, and she looked back, her eyes filled with anguish and fear. Then they both looked at her leg, which extended crookedly in front of her. Halfway between knee and foot, it was bent at right angles.

  Chapter 23

  Gotard drew to within a thousand meters of the craft he had been approaching, then shifted into neutral and let his own boat coast to a dead stop. He picked up a heavy pair of nautical binoculars and examined the other vessel. It was a motor launch, about fifteen meters long, with a shiny white hull reflecting the sunlight, and lots of wood, brass and big windows. Balancing the binoculars on the windshield, Gotard shifted into drive and circled to port so that he could approach his target from the rear. As the stern of the larger boat came into view, he peered through the glasses again. He made out the name CIELITO AZUL in dark block letters, and under that, Barranquilla. He nodded with a grunt, and accelerated.

  A man in blue jeans and a yellow T-shirt stepped onto the deck of the motor launch and tossed a line across the alley of water that separated the two boats. Gotard cleated it and allowed himself to be hauled alongside.

  “Enseneme el dinero,” the man said. Gotard shook his head and extended his palms upward to show his lack of comprehension.

  The man bared unnaturally white teeth in a grin. “Show me the money,” he said.

  English. Everybody in the world spoke English. The fucking Americans were taking over. Gotard had an impulse to pretend he still didn’t understand, but caught himself. Business before pride, and this little negotiation would be tricky enough as it was. He picked up a black valise and held it up.

  “In here.”

  “Let me see it.”

  Gotard shook his head and pressed the bag against his thigh. “Only your boss sees this.”

  “Ma
ybe I am the boss.”

  “Not in a million years.” Gotard allowed a small smile to twist his lips. “One knows these things.”

  The other man smiled back and shrugged. “Come aboard.” He stepped away from the decorative brass railing and gave Gotard space to pull himself across. Then he pulled a small, black pistol from his pocket. “Please place your hands against the bulkhead. A necessary thing. You can understand, yes?”

  “I am not armed.”

  The man waved the gun in a small circle. “Please.”

  Gotard leaned against the bulkhead. The other man patted him down quickly, then stepped back and pocketed the gun.

  “This way,” he said, and led the Frenchman toward the stern, where a covered afterdeck provided access to the interior. He motioned Gotard forward. “Go in there and knock on the door at the other end.”

  Clutching the valise, Gotard stepped through the entryway, ducking his head instinctively, and feeling foolish when he realized that it had not been necessary. He marched to the other door and knocked. A buzzer sounded, accompanied by the click of a latch. He pushed, and the door opened, with some resistance.

  “Come in,” a voice said in English. Gotard shouldered his way through the door. Beyond it lay a carpeted cabin furnished with an oversized bed, a couple of chairs, a bottle-covered bar against the wall, and a desk. Behind the desk sat a man with olive skin and curly black hair. Sunglasses obscured his eyes. They made Gotard uncomfortable; his survival had depended more than once on being able to read another man’s eyes.

  The man motioned toward one of the chairs. “You are Gotard?”

  The Frenchman nodded and sat down. “You are Bermudez?”

  “The one and only.” Bermudez rose and stepped to the bar. “You want something?”

  “A brandy.”

  “I have ice.”

  “No ice.”

  “That’s right. You Europeans aren’t used to ice.” Bermudez splashed brandy from a crystal decanter into a glass, then poured himself a drink from another bottle and dropped a couple of ice cubes into it. “Rum for me,” he said. “With ice.” He stepped around the desk, handed Gotard his drink, then sat down again. “You have a nice trip?”