by Laura Gill
Expelling a belabored sigh, Yishharu laid his hands atop his knees. “If it were in my power, Master Daidalos, I would, but regretfully my sister refuses to change her mind.” He stood. “For the time being, I will arrange for you and Ikaros to exchange messages. Pasiphae should not object.”
What should he care about the high priestess’s objections? And why did she and Yishharu have to be so thick-headed? Every time Daidalos tried to explain that all he wanted was to be reunited with his son and be able to leave—both reasonable requests—he felt like he was talking to a wall. Yishharu was trying to manipulate him into staying and taking on the project much as his sister had tried to do, only with sympathy and calm persuasion where Pasiphae had tried to order and then shamelessly seduce him. Daidalos could see their machinations.
At dusk when she brought his supper, the servant woman passed him a flat wooden tablet covered with wax and bearing scripts in two separate hands. The first was comprised of tidy rows of cuneiform. Ikaros wanted to send you a message. The second hand was cruder, though more familiar.
Is well, Father.
A message from Ikaros. Daidalos kissed the wax. In one aspect at least, Yishharu had kept his word.
The first hand continued. Ikaros was quite pleased to be able to write to you. His knowledge of spoken Akkadian and Kaphti will serve him well, but as far as his writing is concerned he lacks some of the most basic rudiments of grammar and syntax. You may object, but tomorrow he will have lessons with a tutor to improve his vocabulary. As his protector, I would be remiss in my obligations if I did not try to keep him profitably occupied. An idle boy becomes a troublesome one.
Protector. Daidalos bristled. Did his wishes count for nothing? If Yishharu and Pasiphae wanted to confine Ikaros, they could just as easily have held him under house arrest with his father.
I understand you have been observing the workers. Please share your observations with me the next time I visit. If you wish to take some exercise and walk among them, Captain Mesehti will accompany you. This measure is strictly for your protection. Some of the rubble has been lying for a few years and is precarious in places.
Nonsense. The workers were already clearing away the debris, and if Daidalos knew anything, it was how to pick his way around rubble and rough terrain. Did Yishharu think he would trip over the first pebble he came across? Daidalos doubted that. No. Mesehti was his minder.
Last of all, Yishharu addressed the matter of the servant woman. Her name is Pu-abi. She may be mute, but she is not deaf or stupid. In fact, she is very intelligent. She is also an excellent cook and housekeeper, and comes highly recommended. I trust you to treat her with consideration.
Grunting, he set the message onto the table and appraised the servant woman, who occupied the other side of the hearth with her spinning. Daidalos had not taken the time to assess her before. He found her small but gangly, and old-looking. “Pu-abi is a Babylonian name,” he observed. “Is that where your people are from?” After a wary pause, in which he once again started to question her intelligence, she stopped her distaff, nodded once and then pointed to the food, motioning that he should eat.
“High Priest Yishharu says you’re intelligent. Why in the world do you play dumb, then?”
Setting aside her spinning, Pu-abi stood and pantomimed his gruffness, his dour brooding, then spread her hands. Her meaning was clear: what was she to do when he was angry?
Daidalos blinked, realizing only then how callous she must have thought him. Then he sighed. “Sometimes my wife used to say the same thing.”
*~*~*~*
Yishharu had asked him to share his observations. So, without anything else to do, Daidalos observed.
First, the young architect had not the slightest idea what he was doing. Ordering the workers to clear the rubble was one thing, but what was behind the man’s haste to plant stakes and lay out grids? Was he blind? Was he meekly following Pasiphae’s orders? Before any building could take place, the entire hill had to be cleared and leveled, and the extant terracing needed to be reinforced.
“Idiot,” he muttered.
Not that Daidalos cared. Let Pasiphae rush through the construction of her temple and then have it fall down, preferably right on her head. As he started to close the shutter, his builder’s instincts warred with his righteous indignation. If he chose, he could march outside and tell the young architect to stop planting stakes and pay more attention to preparing the foundations. Just a few minutes, just a few words, nothing more. Yishharu could do the remainder.
Swallowing the last morsel of fig, he went downstairs, and circled around the house to confront the mason. Mesehti called out but did not restrain him; the captain followed at a respectful distance.
Daidalos marched straight up to the architect and asked, “What do you think you’re doing?” The young man stared uncomprehendingly at him. “Why are you staking out buildings when you haven’t even cleared, leveled and prepared the hill?” The sweep of his arm encompassed the hill. “You’re in too much of a hurry.”
As the young man regained his equilibrium, his eyebrows crept up. “I have my orders from the high priestess.”
“Is she an architect?”
“Are you?”
Everyone within earshot had stopped working and, anticipating a confrontation, had gathered around to observe. Daidalos ignored the snickers and muted catcalls; he had endured such derision from the local laborers and overseers every time he started in a new town, and it had ceased to trouble him. “Yes, I am,” he answered. “What are you thinking, taking shortcuts like this?”
The young man gave him a condescending once-over. “By whose authority do you question me, old man?”
“Leave him alone, Dashratta.” A hairy, stocky man pushed his way to the front of the crowd. “You must be the master architect we’ve been hearing about,” he said to Daidalos. “We’ve been wondering when you would come. High Priest Yishharu told us you would be building the temple.”
How dare Yishharu presume to make that decision! Daidalos gnashed his teeth. That two-faced bastard.
“Yet I am the one who was hired.” Dashratta puffed out his chest. “And I know precisely what I am doing.”
Daidalos ignored him. Dashratta could do as he pleased once he understood the rudiments of architecture. “Who is in charge of the workers?”
The stocky man replied, “I’m Master Mason Balashu.” He nodded toward a black-skinned man who stood a head taller than everybody else. “Diwinaso is the Overseer of the Laborers.”
“Then pull up these stakes and clear the entire hill. Level it. You’ve got erosion all around the slopes under the old terraces. You’ll have to redo them. No patchwork repairs. Terrace the hill properly or it won’t be able to support the weight of the structures you build. Kaphti architects know at least that much, if they’ve done it before.” He shot a look at Dashratta. “Where are your plans?”
“Plans?” Balashu exchanged a puzzled look with Diwinaso. Both men shook their heads, while Dashratta said nothing. “All we know is that the temple has to be situated on a north-south orientation, with a great central courtyard.”
“Then why are you working out here and not at the center of the hill?” Even as he queried them, Daidalos knew the answer. Had the crews been laboring elsewhere, they would not have attracted his notice, and he would not have been tempted to come outdoors. That conniving bastard, he thought angrily. No matter. Yishharu was not going to trick him into accepting the commission.
Frowning, he started to stalk away when Balashu caught hold of his arm. “Wait, Daidalos! Where are you going?”
Daidalos took in the man’s confusion, and the bewilderment circulating among the workers, and slowly shook his head. “There’s been a mistake. I’m not the appointed architect, just passing through.”
After returning home, he soon noticed that the work did not resume. Not his problem. Raised voices reached his ears, though too indistinct for him to eavesdrop on the argument. Curios
ity led him upstairs to peek through the shutter. He saw Balashu and Diwinaso interrogating Dashratta, who stood there, arms crossed and shaking his head. Again, not Daidalos’s problem.
Yishharu visited him that evening. “I understand you refused to assist the workers today.”
The high priest made it sound like an act of rebellion. “Why should I assist them? Dashratta’s the architect. He ought to know what he’s doing,” Daidalos shot back. “If he’s incompetent, that’s on you.”
“Dashratta is not a qualified master architect, only an apprentice journeyman hired to measure and stake out the foundations of the sanctuaries.” Yishharu paused to help himself to the freshly baked bread Pu-abi placed before them. “He does not have your years of experience.”
Daidalos came out with it, “Stop trying to trick me into taking on the project and find yourself an architect who knows something about proper procedure. With all the demolition going on, the existing terraces have been weakened. There’s erosion. They won’t be able to support the weight of the structures above.”
“That is good to know.” Yishharu swallowed his morsel. “Oh, by the way, Master Dhipatsu speaks highly of Ikaros’s verbal fluency and willingness to learn.” He dabbed his mouth with the linen cloth spread across his knee. “Ikaros would rather be home with you, of course, but when I spoke with him earlier I explained that you have a very important task to undertake.”
Daidalos braced his hands on his knees to keep from knotting them into fists. “Leave Ikaros out of this.”
Smiling tightly, Yishharu continued, “The last thing in the world I want is to come between you and your son. But let me ask you a question. You want to return to Naxos, yes? Tell me, what will you do once you have been reunited with your kinsmen and exhausted the tales of your travels? A man like you might live another twenty years. What will you do with yourself? Think, Daidalos. You do not take well to inactivity. Look at how you chafe and brood, even when you have nothing to worry about. Why not accept the challenge of constructing the greatest temple Kaphtor has ever seen? Why not build something that will ensure your name lives forever?”
Yishharu’s arguments were logical and persuasive, but Daidalos knew he was being played. “If I wanted to go on being an architect, I would have stayed in the east where Ikaros might have grown up among his mother’s people, and his mother might have...” He could not finish the sentence.
All the while, the high priest drank wine, dabbing his mouth when he finished. The Kaphti elite had some of the most fastidious table manners Daidalos had ever seen. “Why should you have stayed in the east, when no one there ever gave you credit for your accomplishments?
“Go home to Naxos, then. Retire. If it were within my power, I would release your Ikaros to you in an instant and see you laden with gifts and seen safely to your village. But...” Yishharu held up a finger. “When the day comes that a passing ship brings word of the marvelous temple at Knossos, you will consume yourself with jealousy and regret that you refused to be part of it.”
Still manipulating, still making his case, even now. Daidalos shook his head. “I won’t do anything for your sister.”
“Of course not. Why should you?” Yishharu smiled broadly. “Do it for yourself, for your own enrichment and glory. Make your son proud. Take on this commission and I will ensure that Ikaros is returned to you to be properly apprenticed.” Daidalos started to balk, to remind the priest to leave his son out of the discussion, but Yishharu talked right over his objections. “Are you not entitled to pursue your own fame? You are a born architect, Daidalos. This would make you truly happy.”
Daidalos went to bed troubled. Yishharu might be a manipulator, but he knew how to sow the seeds of doubt, and there was a kernel of truth to his arguments. What did Daidalos expect to do back in his home village? He had originally left Naxos to pursue his ambitions. Who was to say that he was not still ambitious? To construct a temple complex, the first such temple on Kaphtor, and to be able to take the credit for it as its master architect rather than remain in the shadows as an unacknowledged underling. Daidalos had to admit that he was sorely tempted.
But there was yet the insult, the violation of his and Ikaros’s rights. He would never submit to Pasiphae, not even for his own personal glory. He stared at the moonlit patterns of black and silver the night threw onto his ceiling. Had she simply returned Ikaros to him, had Yishharu explained the situation and tried to persuade him before the whole debacle started, maybe then there would have been room for negotiation.
No longer. Daidalos had his pride, he had his natural rights as a father, and Pasiphae had trampled all over them. He would not lift a finger to help her.
Yet to build a temple from the ground up—his design, his name—what an exquisite torment! Daidalos could envision the great courtyard, the sanctuaries, the sturdy new terraces. Had the gods brought him to Knossos for this one last chance at glory? Had they driven Pasiphae to seize his son in order to get him to open his eyes and see what was being offered? Gods. He did not know that he believed in their benevolence. If they loved him so, then why had they claimed his wife on the road through Canaan? Her grave was unmarked. No one would tend her remains or know to make the offerings.
Daidalos closed his eyes, then opened them again. He shifted onto his side, tossed and turned. He drew up the coverlet, then kicked it off. Curse that infernal, conniving pair of siblings! He did not want to be tempted.
The next morning over breakfast, he made up his mind, then changed it, and changed it yet again. The greatest temple Kaphtor had ever seen. His name could survive through his work.
He went in search of the master mason and overseer, and found them where the hill overlooked the confluence of the river and a stream. Both men were surprised to see him. Diwinaso executed a formal little bow. “Master Daidalos, you honor us today with your presence.”
Daidalos acknowledged the dark skinned man’s salutation with a nod before getting straight to business. “You said yesterday that you had no building plans?”
“Nothing,” Diwinaso confirmed, “except for a list of the sanctuaries and other buildings the high priestess wants. We’ve no schedules, no orders for material, no answers from Dashratta.”
“We haven’t seen him all morning,” Balashu added.
“He’s not a qualified architect, anyway.” This was precisely the sort of challenge Daidalos liked—the planning, the division of labor, and the gathering of resources. A sudden hunger for stone and wood and mudbrick called to him. “Has either one of you drawn up anything?” he asked. “Overseers keep their own lists of resources and most masons I know make their own sketches. Master Balashu, you must be familiar with the local sources of limestone, timber and clay.”
Balashu nodded. “I have that information. Master Menashtu runs a quarry.” He gestured south toward the dun-colored hills separating the Knossos valley from the Juktas mountain ridge. “He’s a reliable source of stone.”
“Diwinaso, have your men pull the stakes and continue shifting rubble from the hill. Some of the stones might be useful later as rubble fill,” Daidalos directed. “Balashu, bring everything you have to the house.”
Daidalos did not linger to see the orders issued, but returned to the house to inform Pu-abi to expect visitors. She was already baking bread for the noon meal, slapping rounds of dough against the side of the oven. “Make enough for two,” he told her. “And when you’ve finished, bring me writing materials: a wax tablet—no, several tablets—and a stylus.”
Pu-abi admitted the mason, directed him toward the hearth and offered water for washing. When she served the bread, Daidalos noticed that she proffered bread, salt, and a fingerbowl of wine to the household gods in their niche. The Babylonian woman was, he noticed, very devout, and did not seem to comprehend his lack of devotion; he did not trouble himself with trying to explain his views to her.
Balashu splashed a libation onto the hearthstones. Daidalos followed his example for courtesy’s sake.
As Pu-abi went to fetch writing materials, Balashu handed Daidalos a covered tablet on which he had made a rough sketch of the hill, including the existing terraces and remaining structures. There was space to situate a substantial central courtyard without disturbing the present sanctuary. Using the mason’s stylus, Daidalos sketched the planned courtyard in the wax.
Balashu also produced a list of the sanctuaries, storehouses, anterooms, halls, and workshops that the high priestess wanted. “I hear Mallia and Phaistos already have such complexes,” he said, “but this one is to be much bigger and grander.”
Daidalos immediately thought of the Akkadians, whose temples were simultaneously places of worship, public spectacle, record keeping, storage, distribution and manufacture. Where native-grown complexes might already exist elsewhere on Kaphtor, Daidalos suspected that Pasiphae had heard about the immense temple complexes of Akkad and had decided she wanted one on the same scale.
The scuffle of sandaled feet in the entryway told Daidalos that Pu-abi had returned from her errand. She interrupted long enough to deposit a stack of five wax tablets on his armrest and hand him a reed stylus. Shifting the items to his lap, he thanked and dismissed her.
“The storerooms and workshops will need maybe as much room as the sanctuaries,” Balashu stated. “I’ve calculated this from the lists High Priest Yishharu gave us for the last harvest. Here.” He handed another tablet to Daidalos. “Bushels of grain. Quantities of wine and oil.”
Daidalos refrained from letting on that he could not read written Kaphti beyond the handful of signs he had learned as a boy. Nodding, he resumed studying Balashu’s sketch. “Here in the northeast is a good area for the workshops.”
He asked to keep the sketches and lists, and that evening almost forgot to eat as he transcribed the drawings onto his wax tablets. He refined Balashu’s sketches, added measurements and scribbled marginal notes in cuneiform. Pu-abi kept pressing food on him, then, as the hour grew ever later, encouraged him to go to bed. “An architect doesn’t retire early,” he told her. She had her spindle in her hand, but was not spinning. Daidalos grasped why. “You don’t have to stay awake on my account.”