by Laura Gill
He knew he could not bear another day shut up in the house and brooding. Should he demand an audience with Pasiphae? Should he attempt to reach the marketplace, futile though that move might be? Should he march straightaway to Pasiphae’s mansion and call out for Ikaros? Was the Minos as powerless as he had been led to believe? All Daidalos knew was that as a father he had to do something.
Sometimes he thought about praying; there were gods beside the hearth downstairs. No, he reflected, shaking his head ruefully. What good would it do him? His gods had forgotten him because he had been gone for so many years and had sojourned in lands where the immortals had strange names and attributes. He still remembered the morning and evening prayers as his parents had spoken them. On the dusty road leading through the Canaanite hills, during his wife’s final illness, he had appealed to the gods of Akkad and Naxos and Babylon—to whatever god might listen—and had offered sacrifices, but in the end death had claimed her, anyway. Had his ancestral gods been too far away to answer his prayers? Had they forsaken him because his faith had lapsed? After all, he had paid lip service to the gods his clients and neighbors had worshipped. Suppose he asked their aid now. If he humbled himself, sacrificed a ram or a jar of oil, and asked them to watch over Ikaros, might they in their wrath not condemn his son to the lightless realm of the dead as they had condemned Ikaros’s mother?
Nonetheless, Daidalos stretched himself out on the bed and tried to summon reverence, yet his heart remained empty. What was wrong with him? It was not for mortal men to shun the gods, yet whatever piety his parents had instilled in him as a youth, he had lost along the way. All he felt were his aching joints and the fleeces under his cheek and a numbing despair because he could not give that which was required.
It was almost midnight when a scratch at the door roused him. The servant woman timidly entered with a lamp. Her gestures told him that a visitor awaited downstairs.
“Has my son returned?” he demanded, squinting in the sudden lamplight. She shook her head. “Then tell whoever it is to piss off.”
Almost as soon as she shuffled away, heavier footfalls outside the door announced the visitor’s presence. Joints creaking, he maneuvered into a sitting position. He did not bother combing his fingers through his hair or pulling a tunic over his loincloth to make himself presentable, nor did he experience the slightest twinge of remorse over the state of his bedchamber.
The man who entered was Pasiphae’s brother Yishharu, the high priest of Poteidan, who tonight had left off his sumptuous ornaments and fringed vestments in favor of a plain woolen tunic. Yishharu shared his sister’s elegant features, but where Pasiphae was beautiful and beguiling, his handsomeness lent him an air of refined shiftiness. His hair was held away from his face by a yellow headband over which a single black curl escaped to tease the center of his forehead. His face was smooth-shaven, his true age difficult to determine.
Yishharu assessed the wreckage of the chamber. “You have obviously had a difficult time, Master Daidalos,” he observed quietly. “I cannot say I blame you.” He met Daidalos’s gaze. “Rest easy. Pasiphae has children of her own. She will take excellent care of Ikaros.”
Daidalos was in no mood to listen to the high priest’s pathetic attempts to persuade him. “That’s not the point.”
“Ah, yes.” Yishharu righted a stool, then sat down. “Of course, you are absolutely correct, your guest-right was violated, but my sister feels justified in her actions. Believe me, you will not—cannot—make her see otherwise.” He splayed his fingers, stared at the gold ring circling his thumb, and laid his hands flat on his thighs. “Take my advice and give her what she wants. Your life will be much easier for it. Pasiphae can be very generous when her wishes are met.”
“You’re still missing the point.”
Yishharu stopped twisting his ring. “No, I understand very well. You are outraged over the insult done to you and Ikaros. Never mind the sacrilege. You would probably murder my sister if you could. I grasp your dilemma, I do, but I implore you not to unleash your anger against me, because I am not your enemy.” He paused for effect. “Believe it or not, Master Daidalos, but you are not the only one in this room who has had his plans thwarted, who has been forced to make certain...accommodations.”
Daidalos remained unmoved. “If you’re so sympathetic, Priest, then make Pasiphae return my son.”
Yet the high priest spread his hands as though he were a helpless maiden. “Believe me, I would have brought Ikaros to you this very night if I could have, but Pasiphae’s authority is absolute.” Daidalos started to interject, to end the interview, but the high priest continued, “I have her ear, though, and swear to you now that I will do my utmost to make sure that both you and he are treated like princes. You will want for nothing.”
Pah! Yishharu’s words were but hot air meant to ameliorate the truth: that he was a weakling at his sister’s mercy. Want for nothing! What Daidalos wanted, the high priestess refused to grant him. He screwed up his face and turned his head to the wall.
“Your refusal is foolish, Master Daidalos. My sister is no architect, true, but when the gods speak to her, she listens. And they have told her that you, who are so accomplished, so well-traveled, are the best hope for building our great temple complex. I know you do not see what I am saying right now, but I assure you that it is the truth,” Yishharu averred.
“Pasiphae says she will grant you whatever you need to complete your work. Whatever comforts you wish, you have only to ask for them. Wine, scented oil, rich clothes, the best food, comely women to warm your bed—you have only to reach out your hand and ask.”
Did the high priest and his priestess sister think him so cheaply bought? “And what of Ikaros?” Daidalos pressed. “Is he to be kept in bondage for the twenty years or more it would take to build your temple?”
“Bondage?” Yishharu sounded wounded. “I would not call it that.” Then he shifted tone, and became more serious. “Listen carefully, Daidalos. You have not plumbed the true depths of Pasiphae’s anger when she does not get what she wants. She can be extremely generous when her will and that of the goddess are obeyed, but thwart her and, well... Surely you understand what women can be like in that regard. A woman’s anger is never a pleasant thing.”
Daidalos glared at him. “So you expect me to humor a spoiled brat of a woman?”
Yishharu held up long-fingered hand. “You are a blunt man, I appreciate that, but your stubbornness will avail you nothing. Where my sister is concerned, you can gain more favor with honey than vinegar if you will simply bend a little. Flatter her, agree to look over the building plans. Let me negotiate on your behalf.”
The high priest’s persuasive tone made it sound so easy, so appealing, but Daidalos realized that if he capitulated, humbled his pride to kiss Pasiphae’s hand and showed even the slightest interest in the project, she would trap him. He would rather swallow poison than submit.
Glancing away again, this time toward the room’s single, shuttered window, he asked, “What would she have done had I not suddenly appeared? Who would have built her temple then?”
Yishharu answered immediately, “She has spent the last two years interviewing other architects, but has managed to find fault with them all. You are the only one she feels certain about.”
Daidalos snorted. “How can she possibly find fault with her architects when she understands nothing about the mechanics of building?” He met the high priest’s gaze again. “You want to negotiate? Talk some sense into her. Convince her that this is the work of decades, and I’m an old man.”
He thrust out his hands to display the calluses, broken blood vessels, and yellowing fingernails that were the legacy of his labors. “Look here. This flesh is forty-one years old. I have maybe another decade before the god of death comes for my soul. That’s time enough to see my son grown to manhood and married. But I will build no more temples, no more monuments.”
*~*~*~*
Tonight was Pasiphae’s bath
night. She luxuriated in the hot water filling the ceramic tub, and in the feel of her handmaiden’s fingers as Senehat washed her hair. Later, she would have the Egyptian woman rub her down with oil of narcissus, then perhaps stain her nails with henna.
Such a shame that she had had to twist her guest’s arm and seize his son. A twinge of fear banished her lassitude, and she opened her eyes to stare up at the pink-plastered ceiling. If Daidalos could see through her lie—yes, she did own his lodging, and had violated his guest-right—then without a doubt the gods had noticed, too. Pasiphae, the high priestess of Knossos, had committed sacrilege.
Oh, but no, no, that was not what she had intended. She meant only to honor the deities by recruiting a master architect to construct their sanctuary; the end result would surely justify the means.
She nodded her head, causing the handmaiden to stop scrubbing her hair. “Is something wrong, Mistress?” the woman inquired.
“Nothing.”
After she had been toweled dry and anointed with oil of narcissus, Pasiphae, wearing a flowing robe, retired to the outer chamber where her brother awaited her. Yishharu paced the stuccoed floor, rubbing his hands together. She reclined on a cushioned couch so that Senehat could massage her feet while she listened to her brother’s report.
“Master Daidalos is not taking the situation well.” Yishharu spoke without confidence; he feared her displeasure too much. “He protests the unlawful abduction of his son and...” An unsteady breath. “Are you sure this is wise?”
Pasiphae waved aside his doubts; it was not his place to question her judgment. “What else did the man say? And, for the bull god’s sake, would you sit down? You’re making me nervous.”
Yishharu claimed the footstool positioned against the wall. “He says you have sufficient architects for the project, not to mention the fact that it will take decades to complete, and he is far too old to undertake the task. Of course...” He stumbled over his tongue, as he often did when bringing her unsatisfactory news. Then, taking a breath, he started again. “Of course, I explained that he should not cross you, that you expect things to be done a certain way, but...”
Pasiphae closed her eyes with pleasure. Senehat had warmed the oil, and her kneading fingers felt magical. “What a fool! A commoner and foreigner like him, he should be honored by our choice. All this fuss about him being too old to serve us, and the project taking decades—that’s him exaggerating, making excuses to avoid a task he does not want.”
“I have no idea,” Yishharu admitted, “but from what the architects from Phaistos and Tylissos said, any large-scale project will take—”
“It can be done within eight years. Master Samushanas assured me of that,” Pasiphae snapped.
Daidalos would come to heel. He had to, because she had not spent the last twelve years working to restore her family’s lost prestige just to be thwarted by an outsider. Minos Nashua might have silenced Europa a century ago, but he had not counted on her descendants. After Europa’s death, her kinsmen had done what they could to undo the damage. When Pasiphae’s great-aunt Akalla assumed the duties of the Juktas sanctuary, she had, over the course of her long life, concealed her ambitions while accumulating great influence and wealth. Pasiphae had learned from her how to bide her time, and how to wreak vengeance.
Minos Nashua’s descendants had become complacent and weak-willed, their power diminishing as the prestige of the Juktas sanctuary grew. Pasiphae had found it easy to regain the office of high priestess of Knossos. Now she owned Minos Rasuros’s three-story house and would have her monumental temple. Her name would live forever. She would leave Knossos a better, more prosperous place than she had found it, and that was that.
Now her brother was arguing with her. “You did not hire Samushanas,” Yishharu pointed out. “The man strikes me as substandard.”
Pasiphae stretched out her feet, flexing her toes. Perhaps she should have Senehat dye her toenails with henna. “I liked him very much.”
“You liked that he flattered you. Yet you are not an architect.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Had she not observed the local masons and carpenters at their work, and questioned the various architects she had summoned to Knossos and interviewed? She had learned enough to comprehend that her ambition was possible. Daidalos was simply being unreasonable. “We must make him want the task,” she stated.
“Holding his son captive will not change his mind,” Yishharu said. “In fact, he is more firmly against accommodating you than ever.”
“Be quiet!” she hissed. “I do not need your opinions.” Pasiphae wished he would go away and leave her be, yet before sending him to negotiate with Daidalos she had insisted on having his immediate report. “Did you not tell that stubborn fool that the boy is being well cared-for?”
Yishharu made a sound in his throat. “I made a point of stressing how well Ikaros is being treated. However...” More hemming and hawing. “Hmm, it occurs to me that Ikaros himself might persuade his father where we cannot. He is a bright boy, polite and very well-spoken. I recall the other night when Daidalos was our guest at supper that he mentioned continuing Ikaros’s education.”
Pasiphae would have relished the massage and the cool breeze wafting through the draperies much more if she did not have to think about anything. Just humoring Yishharu’s meanderings was an effort. “I do not recall.”
“Well, I do, Sister. Offer Daidalos the honor of a priestly education for his son. Indoctrinate the boy. Fire him with enthusiasm for the temple, and his father will almost certainly follow suit.”
Had she heard him correctly? Her eyes flew open. “Indoctrinate a foreign-born commoner in the mysteries of Knossos? Are you mad?”
Yishharu wore an infuriatingly self-satisfied look. “Do you know a better way, Pasiphae?”
“Yes.” She closed her eyes again. “There are easier, cheaper ways to persuade that stubborn old man than granting his son privileges above his station.” A sigh escaped her as Senehat switched her ministrations to her other foot. “Go home to that woman of yours, Yishharu.” Pasiphae flicked her wrist dismissively. “Leave these details to me.”
Pasiphae slept well that night, her bathed and perfumed limbs cushioned by snowy fleeces. She dreamt that she was processing through a courtyard brilliant with color, and alive with music and dance. All around her were luminous sanctuaries into which the gods descended like falling stars to dwell. She felt an immense wave of satisfaction move through her, a transport akin to sensual pleasure, and she knew the gods had sent her a sign. Mortal though she was, and bound to the same obligations and taboos as any other mortal, the gods wanted her to succeed. Therefore, what did it matter what she did to bring about that divine vision, as long as she accomplished it?
*~*~*~*
Daidalos could not stand one more day of idle brooding. Taking a piece of carbonized wood from the hearth, he scrawled a message in Akkadian on a swatch of starched linen, the only suitable writing surface he had to hand. While dining with the high priestess and her brother three nights ago, Pasiphae had let it slip that Akkadian was the official diplomatic language of Kaphtor. Excellent. Let that work in his favor.
“Take this,” he told the servant woman, thrusting the fabric at her, “and give it to the Minos. No one but him, do you understand?”
Her nod did not reassure him, nor did her evasive manner when she returned empty-handed to the house. Confronting her directly, he took her by the shoulders and shook her. “Where’s the Minos’s answer?” Her eyes were blank but for terror. “Did you even take the message?”
No acknowledgement. Daidalos roughly unhanded her. Pasiphae had assigned him an imbecile. He might as well have gone himself.
Had she thrown the message away? Had someone taken it from her? Frustrated yet determined, Daidalos scrawled a second message and with it exited the house. Where did the Minos live? Someone in the town would be able to steer him in the proper direction.
He never got far
enough to ask. A pair of sentries accosted him the moment he tried to descend the hill. “Where are you going, Master Daidalos?” the bigger and more senior of the two inquired.
If he could have shoved the men aside, he would have. Suspecting that these were Pasiphae’s men, he knew better than to tell them the truth. “The marketplace,” he barked. “Why do you want to know?”
“You don’t need to go there,” the guard replied. “Everything is provided for you.”
Daidalos challenged him, “Maybe I want to go.”
“You should return to your house.”
“And if I don’t want to?” Daidalos squared his shoulders and thrust out his chest to appear more menacing, but the sentries were both half a head taller and twenty years younger.
“Then our orders are to escort you.” The senior sentry shifted his hold on his spear for emphasis. “You can walk around the hill if you want exercise, but you can’t leave. High priestess’s orders.”
Walk around the hill. Perhaps, Daidalos speculated, he might yet confound the sentries and accomplish his goal. He withdrew, but instead of returning to the house he navigated through the ruins along a footpath that took him to another possible route into the town. Finding it unguarded, he started his descent.
He took no more than three paces before someone challenged him from above. Again, the sentries, who had obviously followed him. “Come away, Daidalos,” the senior guard ordered.
He tried to stand his ground. “I’m a free man.”
“You’re under the high priestess’s protection.”
Daidalos did not budge. “Protection? Is that what that bitch calls it?” he spat. “She violated my guest-right and holds my son hostage, so I’ll go where and do what I damn well please.”