by Laura Gill
On hot nights, Daidalos slept on the roof, when he could sleep. He traced the milky firmament of stars while reciting their names as he had learned them in Naxos, Cyprus and Egypt, and then in Babylon where astrology was a refined art of divination. Ikaros had liked stars: the bluish-white star gleaming in the breast of the Lion, the red flame burning in the shoulder of the Shepherd of Anu and the fiery reddish orange heart of the Bull of Heaven heralding the vernal equinox.
Daidalos thought of his son and the stars and cold nights in the wilderness of Canaan. Eshaduana had not been so fond of the night sky as they, except for the bright Star of Stars sacred to women in childbirth. Pu-abi did not care for them, either, for in the east the observation of the stars and divination of omens was a pastime best left to learned men.
On the fourth night since being banished from the sanctuary, the glow of torches and chanting from that area kept him awake. The commotion must be Yishharu and his priests performing dedicatory rites to the Earth-Shaker. Daidalos suppressed an involuntary shiver at the mental images the wailing chants provoked. In his opinion, any ritual that could not be carried out by the light of day was a ritual he wanted to know nothing about.
After a time, knowing he would not be able to rest, Daidalos went downstairs, lit the alabaster lamp in his cubicle and worked at his sketches until the first sign of dawn brightened the sky. Pu-abi, rising early, found him at work and wordlessly scolded him for not getting enough sleep.
Yishharu released the area to him a day later. Daidalos kept the laborers working inside the north-south hall while he addressed the problem of the foundations with Balashu. Because the sanctuary would be nestled inside the hill and would rise a projected four stories, the foundations needed to be massive in order to counter the forces of erosion, earth tremors and outward thrust. “The walls must be double thickness with a rubble fill,” Daidalos decided. “I want the largest, sturdiest blocks available.”
Nearby, laborers were tamping down the earth prior to laying the flagstones in the sanctuary. Daidalos started to leave with Balashu when Enusat intercepted him. “I think you should see this.”
The earth around what would become the altar had been disturbed. Clouds of flies dispersed and resettled when Daidalos bent to examine the traces of blood mixed with the trampled dirt. He touched nothing, however, and quickly backed away. “Work around it. I’ll summon a priest.”
The priest, an elderly worrywart named Hulalos, mumbled something under his breath while kicking dirt over the seeping blood. “Lay the stones right over that,” he insisted. “No need to do more.”
“You understand that the ground has to be tamped to support the flooring?” What sacrifice had the Poteidan priests made that caused Hulalos such distress? Daidalos held his tongue against asking outright; he had a nagging suspicion that the offering had not been an animal.
Hulalos shooed him and the other onlookers away. “We will see to that. Move along. Back to work.”
During the night, someone came to cover the bloody ground and tamp it down. Had Daidalos not seen the evidence with his own eyes, he never would have guessed that anything was ever amiss.
Once the flagstones were laid, covering both the rammed earth and the channels with their terracotta pipes, Aridmos’s carpenters raised the framework of the various rooms. The staircase forming the spine of the complex functioned to convey men and materials from the courtyard to the base of the hill. The workers had outdone themselves. The inverted columns supported stepped balustrades and gypsum-floored stairs broad enough to accommodate processions, and its landings were positioned to service upper floors yet to be constructed. Aridmos explained that the pillars were inverted to prevent the cypress wood from putting out roots. “So my father told me, and his father told him,” he added. “We treat the wood so it doesn’t grow back.”
Yishharu regularly visited the site. Well versed in Akkadian and Egyptian architecture, he was intrigued by everything he saw. Moreover, he was fascinated with the notion that in Egypt a priest could also be an architect.
Daidalos told him, “Imhotep, the architect who built the first of the pyramid-tombs, served as a magician, priest, healer and advisor to the king.” As he spoke, he dropped a plumb line down the staircase to gauge an orthostat bolted to the exterior of the sanctuary; the angle was, just as he suspected, slightly, almost imperceptibly off. Whichever of Balashu’s masons was responsible for the mistake, it must be corrected immediately. “I’ve no idea how he managed it all.”
Yishharu mopped the perspiration from his brow with a square of linen. He was not wearing his vestments but a saffron-yellow linen kilt fringed with scarlet. “As you know, the Bull Dance is in two days. I would like you to be my special guest.”
Far from being honored, Daidalos took an instant dislike to the idea. A man of Yishharu’s station did not extend personal invitations to lowborn workers such as himself, but sent an envoy. The high priest’s direct appeal placed him in an awkward position, where his instincts warned him that he was being manipulated. “I hadn’t planned on attending,” he answered cautiously.
After a moment’s silence, Yishharu said firmly, “You are building Lord Poteidan’s sanctuary. The Bull Dance is the paramount festival in his honor. Surely you, the chief architect, do not intend to snub him.” His fixed smile stated that he would brook no argument. “You will sit under the awning with me and Minos Rasuros. He has expressed great interest in the project.”
Daidalos did not believe that Yishharu cared one way or another whether a lowborn outsider like himself attended the Bull Dance; the high priest was not devout to the point of fanaticism, and the matter should have been beneath his concern. Rather, Yishharu sought something from him, something which required his presence at the Bull Dance. “Will she be there?”
“It is her duty,” Yishharu admitted, “but I will make sure you will not be seated near her.”
So Pasiphae was still alive. Pity. “And I can’t refuse?”
Yishharu remained firm. “It would look odd if the chief architect of the sanctuary refused to honor the god.” He narrowed his kohl-lined eyes. “Why do you object, anyway? Everyone enjoys the Bull Dance.”
“So did my son.”
“Ah, yes.” The high priest nodded. “But he also enjoyed watching you work, and that has not affected your labors. It is not as though you will be required to participate in the ceremonies. You need only be present and properly attired. I will hear no more arguments. You will attend.”
Daidalos’s belly turned somersaults as the day approached. Several invitations came from his masons, Aridmos and Arikusa; he had to refuse them all with genuine regret. He had not wanted to attend in the first place, but now that the choice had been utterly snatched from him, standing in the heat and press of the crowd with his workers started to sound a lot more appealing than the dubious comforts of the high platform.
“Is all this necessary?” He gestured to the fringed yellow tunic and jewelry Pu-abi had laid out on his fleeces. She had already rubbed him down with costly oil of narcissus and clubbed his shoulder length hair at the nape of his neck; the latter because he did not like the elaborate ringlets favored by the Kaphti nobility, and would not be transformed into something he was not.
Pu-abi showed her frustration through a flurry of gestures. Iapyx interpreted, “She says yes, it is. Everyone wants to see you.” More gestures. Pause. “You’re a famous man. You must look your best.” Iapyx seemed able to understand Pu-abi’s language of gestures where Daidalos often struggled.
“That’s ridiculous!” Daidalos fastened a linen loincloth around his hips. “Everybody wants to see the bull dancers.”
“People are coming to see you, too, the famous architect who worked on temples in Egypt, Cyprus and Akkad.” Iapyx’s dark brows knitted together. “Surely you must’ve known that.”
Daidalos waved Pu-abi aside as she tried to press the tunic on him. “I’m part of the spectacle?”
Iapyx looked thoroughl
y abashed. “I thought you knew. Everyone in town’s been talking about it.” The apple in his throat bobbed as he swallowed. “You don’t know what they’re saying?”
“When was the last time I went into town?” Daidalos retorted. He could not decide who he was angrier with: Iapyx for not speaking up, or himself for being so stupid. Yishharu was using him, then. “So what are they saying?”
Iapyx hesitated for a second, then answered, “People are talking about how the high priestess violated your guest-right, and how your son, how he...” He self-consciously lowered his gaze. “Those who hate her want her to go under Mother Labrys for her impiety, but her supporters claim she was afflicted by a demon which has been driven out, and she’s herself again.” Iapyx found courage enough to meet Daidalos’s stare. “High Priest Yishharu needs you with him today to show that all is well, that there’s peace between him and the Minos, and everything’s forgiven.”
Except that everything was not forgiven. Daidalos stood frozen, hot with rage, and a hair’s breadth from punching something. Yishharu was using him to save Pasiphae’s hide, and he—fool that he was—had known nothing. “That shifty bastard.” He turned again toward Iapyx. “And my workers know about this?”
Iapyx nodded yes. “They’ve been ordered not to talk about those things with you.” Beads of sweat pearled along his hairline; it was already hot, despite the hour. “I should have said something, but I thought...”
Daidalos allowed Pu-abi to start dressing him. Regardless of what he knew, his obligations forbade him from staying home. “From now on, if you see or hear something I should know, tell me directly.” He raised his arms as Pu-abi worked the tunic over his head. The lightweight wool smelled of saffron, and had been rubbed with olive oil to make it gleam. “Are you going to the Bull Dance?”
“I don’t know, sir.” Iapyx shrugged. “I assumed I would stay behind and watch the house.”
“Are the guards on duty today?” The embroidered bands on the shoulders and collar were heavy, and the agate and gold ornaments Pu-abi loaded on him did not help. Daidalos should have realized months earlier how potentially useful Iapyx was. It embarrassed him to realize how much time he had spent avoiding the boy.
“Yes.”
“Then let them watch the house,” he said, “and you attend with Pu-abi and her family.” A grin broke across the boy’s face. Daidalos could not remember having ever seen him smile. “And, remember, if you see or hear anything of interest today, make certain I hear about it tonight.”
*~*~*~*
Pasiphae sat at her dressing table in a state of dread. Earlier, the priestesses attending her had given her something to soothe her nerves enough to allow her to participate in the Bull Dance. Milk of the poppy in small doses anesthetized her senses, kept away the worst nightmares, yet it also made her slow and disoriented, and could not wholly erase her fears without making her unconscious.
Her hands shook as she tried to pick up her hand mirror. Senehat at once retrieved it for her, and held it up so she could gaze upon her reflection.
The woman who gazed back at her through the polished bronze was pale and hollow-eyed. Her mouth was a blood-red gash. She had shed weight. “I look like Death,” she whispered. She might as well have been garbed in Lady Hekate’s black weeds; her colorful raiment and glittering jewels seemed only to leech the life from her. Even her scent betrayed her, for somewhere beneath the notes of coriander and lily essence she could smell herself rotting from the inside out.
“Oh, no, lady!” Senehat exclaimed. “You look beautiful.”
Senehat did not know what she was talking about. Pasiphae had been deathly ill earlier in the year, convinced that Daidalos had cursed her with a plague demon; the purification rituals with their rigorous fasting and bathing had further drained her reserves.
Pasiphae closed her eyes. “Last night I dreamt I gave birth to a son. Another Asterios. So dark and secret, the birth, and this Asterios...ah, such a strange child.” On a good day, she could thread together complete sentences, yet today it seemed so difficult. “A bull, a man, somewhere below the temple.” She wished she had the vocabulary to articulate the bizarre imagery of her dream and the overpowering dread it provoked in her. Her firstborn son, imprisoned in a subterranean warren of rooms in a temple she had never visited before. A hideous creature cursed with the head of a bull and the body of a boy who relished the taste of human flesh, who delighted in chasing helpless children through the mazelike corridors of his prison, and whose bestiality was such that he did not recognize her as his mother.
She did not have to think very hard to grasp what message the gods had sent. Asterios had become a monster, and that was her doing.
A man’s voice behind her offered reassurance. “Asterios has most certainly not been changed into a bull-man.” Yishharu in his priestly robes stepped around from behind to greet her; she had not heard him enter. “I am heartily sorry that you are not feeling stronger.” Ice-cold lips touched her cheek. “I have arranged a sedan chair for you. You will not have to walk.”
“Will the children be there?” Pasiphae reached for her brother’s hand, instead finding herself grasping a handful of blue and yellow tasseled fringe. Sometimes Yishharu brought news of her daughters and other sons. Never her firstborn, never Asterios, though. Part of the punishment, he said.
“No,” Yishharu replied, “but they are all in excellent health and have sent messages on this special day. I will read them to you later. Right now you must focus and be the high priestess.”
That was a challenge when she required his help to walk downstairs. Outside, she slumped into the sedan chair. The sun’s rays beat down harsh and hot, but the ritual requirements of the procession forbade a canopy. Yishharu placed Mother Labrys on her lap with a paternal admonition not to drop it.
The people of Knossos, all of whom surely hated her, greeted her appearance with ominous silence. She had dreamt of them, also. Dreamt of a hundred-headed monster, each head representing someone who sought her destruction, someone she had wronged. That was why Yishharu had equipped her with Mother Labrys, except that it was so heavy that she could not heft it to defend herself. Even if she could have, for each head she severed she knew that three more would have grown in its place.
The sedan chair gave a little jolt as the bearers set it down. She gave a start. No more dreaming. She had to focus. Someone—she did not notice who—took Mother Labrys from her hands. Just as she started to panic, to protest that she needed it to protect herself against the monster, a hand grasped hers to help her stand. Then she had to concentrate on walking. Her skirts got in the way, the steps leading up to the platform seemed so numerous and left her lightheaded. She wanted to lie down and close her eyes. Yishharu—for it was he holding her hand—squeezed her fingers to remind her that they were in public, and that she had to act her part.
At least she could sit down, and Yishharu had Mother Labrys. He raised the gleaming double axe before the people to warn the monster away. He opened the Bull Dance for Lord Poteidan. The triton horn blew, a cheer went up, and voices called out the names of favorite dancers. Pasiphae heard them acclaim the Minos and her brother. Those few who shouted her name were jeering. She felt small and cold and vulnerable, and wished she could become invisible.
And then, what was that she heard? Shouts of “Daidalos!” reached her ears. Why were they acclaiming the architect? He was lowborn, beneath such notice, and moreover had transformed himself into a demon that haunted her nightmares. He had imprisoned Asterios under the earth and caused him to transform into a horror. An absurd notion, but then she remembered his hands strangling her that night, his demonic voice vomiting curses, and she shuddered.
She must have made some utterance, because Yishharu leaned in and murmured, “You are doing so well, dear sister. Sit back and enjoy the dance. I have ordered refreshments to revive you.”
Pasiphae had no appetite—the drugs and her tormented dreams had stolen her desire for food—but to
please her brother she took some water fortified with barley, honey and mint. Sometimes Senehat brought her nourishing Egyptian beer, the only thing besides porridge she could keep down.
She tried to watch the Bull Dance, but everything seemed to her a hot blur. Spotted bulls and youths, youths and spotted bulls melding together. Was one of the boys Asterios? He dwelled among the bulls now. He had not undergone his initiation; that would be next year. But surely he was out there cavorting among the bull-youths. She lifted a thin hand hoping that he might notice and acknowledge her.
Yishharu was saying to someone, “Oh, nothing is amiss. She but communes with Poteidan. It has been thus ever since work started on his sanctuary.”
“You will forgive me for saying so, High Priest,” an older man said, “but she looks unwell.”
“That is what it means to commune with a god, Rasuros. Do you not agree, Lady Yallit?”
“Indeed, High Priest.”
Yallit tried repeatedly to engage her in conversation. Pasiphae did not care how imposing Lord Arshaqa’s wife’s and daughters’ headdresses were when her own polos hat pressed hot and heavy upon her head, and her oiled hair itched. Moreover, she instinctively disliked the woman. Yallit acted as her proxy in the sanctuary. She had ambitions of marrying into the family.
In recent nightmares, she experienced Yallit with Yishharu’s connivance slicing off her face and donning it to become false-Pasiphae. True-Pasiphae cried out to the people that it was a sham, but who would listen to her with her face flayed and dripping blood? Even her voice became strange, guttural, her tongue as thick as clay. She did not confide this horror to Yishharu; she knew the woman had been his lover for many years. She knew also that if she did not behave exactly as told, Yishharu and Yallit would find a way to eliminate her just as she and Akalla had once eliminated High Priestess Orata.
She turned her gaze from the Bull Dance and the many-headed audience. She absorbed their presence as the buzzing of insects—no, as bees—and imagined herself browsing through a sunlit field under a summer sky. A breeze buffeted her, soughing through the ripe wheat as though the stalks were bowing en masse to Mother Rhaya. Pasiphae welcomed the sun’s touch on her face, despite her mother’s bothersome complaints that it would ruin her complexion. She was a maiden once more, roaming among the bees and bright poppies blooming red as a woman’s blood...