by Laura Gill
He asked his two laborers what they knew, but as they dwelt far from the mansions of the nobility, they could not answer his queries with any certainty. “There are dozens missing,” said Uttu, the elder of the two, “and too many rumors going around. This morning we heard that the high priestess and her women were killed inside her house, then someone said she was alive, then we saw the wreckage on the—”
“She’s fine. I saw her myself.” Uttu had more words than he had teeth, Aranaru reflected, and relished the rumors he claimed to dislike. “Now who have you seen alive and well? No stories.”
Both men rattled off the names of people whom they all knew. Of Aranaru’s workers, four were injured, two were with their families, and one was missing. “Just before noon,” Uttu said, “I think I saw Master Mason Shamash helping tear down a building to find survivors. It certainly looked like him from the back, but...” He shrugged.
By late afternoon, a sea of displaced souls had overtaken the meadow. Not all had shelter for the night, and Humusi, who had gone earlier to get something to eat, reported that there were delays. “It’ll take time for everyone to get settled,” she said through a mouthful of dried fig. “Guards had to break up two fights.”
Aranaru nodded toward Uttu and Mharas, the younger worker. “You’d better claim your place in line if you want to eat tonight.”
“Here.” Humusi handed him a fig. “It’s not much, and rather tasteless, but I know you. You need some meat on those sticks you call limbs, and there won’t be anything left by the time you decide you’re hungry.”
He overlooked the familiar jibe and tucked the dried fig into his tunic. “You’d better find your father.”
“I know where he is. You see that hut going up?” Humusi pointed out the impressive shelter rising in the southwest, near the still-smoking ruins of the pilgrim hostel. “He’s building that for the high priestess.” She scrunched her freckled nose, making the face she typically made when she disliked something but certain strictures forbade her from saying so openly. Aranaru could guess what it was, because he privately concurred. Ereka and her women could have survived a few nights crowded into a goatskin tent if it meant that others could receive their shelters. If Eshmal had to build a hut, it should have been to house the injured.
“So, where are you sleeping tonight?” she asked him.
Was she propositioning him, or simply being nosy? Aranaru shrugged. “Somewhere.”
“Hah!” she laughed, and left him.
The afternoon was growing short. As the sun sank toward the horizon, a triton call directed the people’s attention to the west court of the Labyrinth, where Minos Khalanas had arrived with his wife to dedicate a sacrifice to the god. Aranaru followed the crowd, skirting around in order to claim a better view. If there was to be the blood offering of a bull, then his brother would surely be involved.
Urtanos, wearing borrowed vestments, occupied a prominent position on the terrace. High Priestess Ereka in her rumpled finery stood off to the side with her attendants. Aranaru did not see Gula among them, but as she was not a consecrated priestess her absence did not surprise him.
A strip of linen bandaged the Minos’s head, and he limped when he moved to reverence the sacral horns before the altar. While he smeared the plaster horns with wine, his elegant wife hung them with the necklaces that she removed from around her neck.
Urtanos raised both arms heavenward. “Poteidan, mighty Earth-Shaker, Great Bull, we offer you a spotless white bull to slake your wrath. Receive with favor this tribute of your fearful and devoted subjects!”
Acolytes led forward a magnificent specimen from the god’s sacred herd. Aranaru held his breath waiting for the bull priest to step forward, then exhaled with relief upon seeing his elder brother in his familiar cowhide apron. Not only was Banabiru alive, but he appeared unhurt. Had the rest of the family fared as well? Aranaru would have to wait until after the rites to seek out his brother and make inquiries.
Banabiru brandished the shining sacrificial knife for the god to see, as High Priestess Ereka sprinkled barley between the bull’s horns and Urtanos readied the hammer to stun the beast. Some of the onlookers expressed bewilderment over the absence of holy Mother Labrys. Aranaru, having seen the damage from within the temple, did not think it so strange. Most likely, the Mother Labrys shrine was still inaccessible.
The blow fell. Banabiru deftly severed the bull’s carotid artery. The beast lumbered, dropped, and as the blood spilled, the people gave a tremendous shout. Aranaru did not watch the acolytes quarter the carcass and dress the thigh meats in succulent fat for the burnt offering; he needed to see his brother before Banabiru withdrew from the court.
The guards cordoning the west court recognized and admitted him. Banabiru supervised the acolytes in the sacral area. Acknowledging his younger brother, he nevertheless had to finish his grisly work and wash his basins before he could seize Aranaru in a fierce embrace. “There you are! Urtanos said you were all right.” Banabiru’s large hand delivered a forceful thump across Aranaru’s back. Aranaru winced. “What’ve you been doing that you couldn’t spare an hour to come by the house?”
“Is it still standing?” Aranaru wished they could move farther away from the sacral area, as the smell of roasting flesh reinforced unpleasant memories of that morning’s chaos, but Banabiru was obliged to remain until the offering was consumed.
The blue and gold faience beads fringing Banabiru’s polos hat sparkled as he nodded. “Apart from some minor cracks in the plaster, the house is undamaged.” Aranaru made a mental note to inspect those cracks. All his brother knew about architecture was that the fashionable updates his wife wanted cost more than he was willing to spend. “One of the servant women twisted her ankle. Abbas bruised his elbows going down the back stairs, the cook was scalded but not too severely—we came out of it very well, thanks be to Lord Poteidan.”
“Praise him,” Aranaru affirmed, while trying to avoid concentrating on the burning offering. “There’s been so much to do today. Digging through the rubble, evacuating people, getting shelters built.”
Banabiru made a sympathetic noise. “Come home tonight. Hadera has the courtyard set up.”
The sun was sinking, taking with its light the brilliance of the bull priest’s ornaments. The encroaching dusk fostered apprehensions that Aranaru had not experienced since childhood. He envisioned a massive temblor shaking the valley, splitting open the earth under the meadow, the hill, and the town, and swallowing everything. He imagined falling through darkness, through the screams of thousands, suffocating, and being crushed as the ground closed again above and around him. “I don’t know.”
“You can’t possibly sleep in the temple.”
“No, but...” Aranaru found it difficult to articulate his reluctance. Banabiru would not have understood the nagging discomfort he felt whenever he went home, anyway. All the family talked about was bulls and the business of being a bull priest. Aranaru grasped the obsession up to a point—after all, bulls were in the family’s blood, as it had been since before the time of Bansabira—but their interests were not his. Aranaru regarded bulls with the healthy respect they deserved, yet no more. He did not relish the smell of manure and cowhide, was not fascinated by bovine bloodlines, and wished that, just once, his kinsmen would demonstrate the same respect for his trade as they expected him to have for theirs.
Banabiru’s eyes widened. “You prefer the meadow over my house?”
Yes. When they were children, Banabiru had regularly repeated their elders’ whispers that Eleuthia must have switched Aranaru at birth. While Banabiru had forgotten those taunts, Aranaru had not, and neither had their father. Dipanasu, housebound and bad-tempered, constantly complained about his ugly, gangly, architect son.
Aranaru squared his shoulders. “I am needed here.”
*~*~*~*
Narkitsa loathed the camp even more than the dormitories, which she had considered a plague from the gods. In the goatskin tent she sh
ared with six other priestesses of Ashera, it smelled terrible from the open chamber pot and the lack of regular bathing. There were flies everywhere, and no change of clothing. At night, she felt every bump and rock underneath the reed mats that served as a floor, and got no sleep. There were lines for clean water and for food, which was neither warm nor plentiful nor particularly appetizing. The only thing the priestesses in her group had in abundance was hard work.
Arishat insisted that the priestesses of Ashera dedicate three days of labor to Poteidan. High Priest Urtanos had issued a proclamation stating that the Earth-Shaker could be appeased through the community’s contrition and pious toil. Many of the temple’s orders joined the effort to provide housing and comfort to those less fortunate, and to clean up the rubble. Rumors went around that a new, even more magnificent Labyrinth would take the place of the old.
“It will be even bigger than before,” Ehat said, “and cover the whole hill right down to the river.”
Phryne braided her greasy hair. “I heard all the rooms will be decorated with pictures.”
Narkitsa disliked such trade in speculation; it was not worth saying something unless it was true. “Where did you hear that?”
“From one of the high priestess’s women.”
“And she knows this for certain?”
Phryne shrugged as she tied off the end of her braid. “Well, she heard it from Yari, and she’s the wife of Priest-Architect Tabna, so it must be true.”
“I never heard of putting pictures on a wall.” Melata, the youngest of the priestesses, expressed Narkitsa’s thoughts exactly.
“The Egyptians do it,” Ehat answered. “A merchant told me how they paint pictures of the gods on the walls of their tombs and palaces. There are also walls depicting flowers and feasts. Sometimes, he said, they even cover their walls with writing when their ruler has done something great. It’s all very strange.”
Melata retrieved her comb from Phryne in order to dress her own tangled hair. “Imagine a room painted with flowers! That sounds pretty.”
Narkitsa silently agreed, although she doubted that such a thing existed, or, if it did, that it would be wasted on a dozen serpent priestesses. Color-washed walls and patterned dadoes were for the sanctuaries and public spaces, and for the houses of those wealthy enough to afford them, not for a simple dormitory. Yet still, a wall blooming with lilies and narcissi and pretty pink anemones—yes, she would like to see that, because there was little that was beautiful about her situation. She had never been a woman that men gravitated toward, and at twenty-six whatever bloom she had had was gone. Marriage would have been an escape from the temple, but she felt certain that now there would never be a husband or children. Only one man had ever showed any interest in her—or rather, it was her maidenhead that he had been after—and that was nine years ago. Blessed Rhaya, but men were no good! Narkitsa dreaded the long, solitary march of years awaiting her. She would end her days a stout, ugly crone in a dark sanctuary reeking of molting snakes. So a room full of flowers would have gone quite a way toward cheering her.
There was nothing of beauty in the labor that the overseers assigned her. They gave her a basket and directed her to an area in the ruined south quarter to sort through the rubble for any valuables or other salvageable items. The common laborers, those rough men, had shovels and handcarts, but she, a priestess of Ashera, had to get on her hands and knees!
When she complained about the lack of tools, Arishat came straightaway and slapped her across the face like a child, right there in front of everyone. “Humble yourself before the god, you lazy slut, and consider yourself fortunate that Poteidan spared your miserable life.”
So Narkitsa dug with her bare hands even though her nails broke and wood splinters pricked her skin. Even though she covered her nose and mouth with a cloth against the plaster dust, the linen weave could not mask the odors of death, burned timbers, and charred flesh.
The aftershocks had subsided, and the architects had shored up the ruins to prevent further collapses—which there would not have been in the first place had they done their job properly, she privately groused. She tried not to complain, because Poteidan could hear impious thoughts, but it was difficult. She really should not have been there—not on her hands and knees picking through the rubble, and not in the temple. Her family had dedicated her to Ashera’s service after her mother had discovered the house snake in her cradle licking her right ear. Was that where her pathological fear of snakes had originated, or had Ashera simply decided to play a colossal prank on her?
At least her job took her away from the Ashera sanctuary. She was working a corridor of the devastated Pipituna sanctuary, searching for ritual equipment, furniture, clothing, or anything else that could be salvaged. Whatever broken sacred objects she found had to be separated from the rest, and taken away for special disposal. Any valuables such as jewelry, bronze implements, gold cups, and the like must be relinquished to the priests, who would probably, she felt certain, keep it all for themselves.
Her knees ached from crouching on the uneven ground, and the stench was getting worse. Five days after the earthquake, corpses were still being discovered in buildings. Sometimes it was dead animals or rotten food, or the spilled contents of a shattered chamber pot, but most of the time it was men and women, crushed, and rendered unrecognizable.
A gleam of gold suddenly caught her eye. Narkitsa scrabbled across a broken orthostat to investigate. Through the dust, she perceived a ring set with a greenish cabochon, either jasper or agate. Green being her favorite color, it would look well on her hand. Taking it, however, would make her a looter, and anyone caught pilfering outside their known dwelling was summarily executed or maimed.
Narkitsa glanced around, seeing no one. Someone could be watching from a portico above, as there were laborers and volunteers working all over. Perhaps she should leave the ring. Maybe it was test sent by the gods to judge her character. Then again, those avaricious priests who had issued the proclamation against looting would just add it to their overflowing coffers, making them no better than the criminals they punished, whereas she owned so few ornaments, and green was her favorite color, and she had been working so hard.
If she shifted over just so, her body would shield her actions against overinquisitive eyes while she scooped the ring up in one hand and—
Oh, gods above and below, the ring was still attached to a hand! In her fascination with the gold and jasper, she had failed to notice anything else in the surrounding dust and debris. Gagging, she snatched back her hand and wondered whether the ring was worth disturbing the dead over.
A few moments was all it took for her common sense to reassert itself. All mortals died. Moreover, she had seen corpses before: her aged grandmother who had languished for two years with a racking cough; a laborer who had tumbled from a scaffold and fallen three stories onto the street before her family’s home; Arishat’s predecessor, whom Narkitsa suspected had been smothered with a pillow by her successor. Their possessions had been divided, in some cases even misappropriated, before the flesh was cold, and their ghosts had not returned to chastise the living. Whoever this corpse had been in life, he or she did not need gold ornaments any more than flesh. It was just dead meat and a few worms. She had stomached worse in emptying her hut’s communal piss pot in the nearest latrine.
Holding her breath, she reached in again, grasped the corpse’s flaccid finger, and pried at the ring, only to discover to her boundless dismay that the process of decomposition had caused the skin to bloat. The only way to retrieve the ring would be to sever the finger, which would alert everyone to the theft. She would be searched, watched, and found out.
She was not ready to risk death or mutilation for a trinket.
In the end, Narkitsa fought back frustrated tears and summoned the overseer. Heavens above and darkness below, but the gods despised her!
*~*~*~*
Mother Labrys had been destroyed, the ancient bronze bent and melted by the
forces that had brought down its shrine. A grave loss for the Labyrinth, one more casualty among the thousands that the scribes were, ten days after the quake, still recording.
Aranaru was with the other priest-architects in a chamber of the north quarter when the high priest’s personal scribe read out the latest tolls: 336 at Knossos, 102 in town, 76 in Katsamba, 29 in Amnissos, and a shocking 378 in Archanes, which had been nearly leveled. Among the notable dead, Priest-Architect Piyanalas had been killed at home with his wife and three children.
Urtanos hung his head, and absently twisted the ring on his finger. Dark bags encircled his eyes; he had not been sleeping. Plans for a magnificent bull and ram sacrifice did not cheer him. He nodded toward High Priestess Ereka, who occupied the folding chair beside him, and murmured something.
Ereka’s face drew tight. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I will assume full responsibility for the sacrifice. Find the victim. Carry out the deed myself.”
Aranaru pretended not to hear. Some people had been calling for a human sacrifice. Between his brother’s obsession with choosing the bulls for the placatory offering and the stream of corpses being dug out and carted away for mass burial, he wanted to put death and bloodshed behind him and concentrate on rebuilding.
Ereka reached out, laying a hand atop Urtanos’s. “Mother Labrys is not available.”
“We will make do.”
Her hollow smile consoled no one, though she tried. “Let us hear from Priest-Architect Eshmal.”