by Laura Gill
Yikashata as the head of the household conducted the libation, with Beruti’s help in guiding his hand to splash the hearthstones. “Which god is this, child?” he asked. “And this one?”
Afterward, Amanas wasted no time addressing the subject on everyone’s minds. “I suppose the Minos had hard words to say after we left.” He snorted as he contemplated the liquid in his cup. “Well, Rusa, you warned me. Although how the people tolerate his ineptitude, I can’t fathom.”
“That’s because many share his views about the refugees,” Rusa admitted. “But the problem is widespread. The rulers of Mallia, Gournia and Zakros write to the Minos to complain about similar shortages, and even worse omens. This morning, we heard ash was falling on the isle of Mochlos.” When the wind blew from the northeast, occasional flurries of ash also fell on Knossos, but the amount was small, barely enough to dust thresholds and windowsills.
“And so day turns to night,” Zimrada said softly but ominously, “as the Lord of the Heavens and Earth blocks out the sun.”
“Papa,” Anath asked, “what does he mean? Are the gods angry with us?” Being old enough to understand, Rusa’s daughters had begun in the last few weeks to pose troubling questions.
He exchanged a querying look with his wife. How much to tell the girls now that childish explanations no longer sufficed? Dusani appeared resigned, and slowly nodded her consent.
“There’s a god on the island of Kalliste who is angry.” Rusa smoothed his daughter’s hair. “The priests in the temple are trying to decide which god, so they can make everything right again.”
Amanas sat hunched over, chewing his bread. “My thoughts keep returning to the burning mountain of Antimelos. I see it often in my dreams. Do you remember that story, Rusa?”
“I do.”
“I wonder whether some ship’s crew ventured too near, offended the spirits that dwell there, and brought them back to plague Kalliste.” He swallowed his morsel. “Was it Asterion, do you think?”
Rusa did not know what to make of his cousin’s sudden self-recrimination, much less how to answer.
“What’s a burning mountain?” Isiratos helped himself to a second piece of bread, even though he had hardly touched his salad. A disapproving look from Dusani forced him to reconsider. “Is it literally on fire?”
“Yes,” Amanas answered. “The Hellenes call them the forges of Hephaistos. The mountain burns from the fire demons inhabiting it, and they don’t like mortals venturing too close. They throw out choking clouds of ash and flaming rocks, and poisonous vapors reeking like rotten eggs. Those same demons now inhabit the holy mountain on Kalliste. They’ve conspired to turn the island into a burnt wasteland. That’s why we had to leave, young man, because the gods that once welcomed us have now turned against us. No one knows how to placate them.”
He addressed Rusa again, “Did you know, last year after you left there were a few months when everything became quiet? No more earthquakes or strange thunder, no more clouds of ash, nothing. We thought the gods had forgiven us. Then it started again, worse than before.”
“You said only that the disturbances had gotten so bad that your house was ruined,” Yikashata observed.
Amanas grunted. “I could spend all night telling you about every little disaster. We stayed a few months in Minoa Phylakopi before coming here. Mother insisted, but with the situation as dire as it is with the overcrowding and shortages and growing hostilities, I’ve decided that if the priests can’t fix things, we’ll probably head west to Kydonia next spring. Hamo’s already there, or at least that’s where he and his family were headed when they left. There’s plenty of room to settle, and I’ve heard from merchants who ply the seas west of Antikythera that there’s a good trade in tin to be had among the Latin tribes.” He grimaced. “I’m not looking forward to spending the winter in Katsamba. Our old neighbors seem to have forgotten us.”
“Is Aridmos supplying you as needed?” Rusa named his agent in Katsamba, a wool merchant who monitored notable comings and goings, and the price of imports on his behalf, because such knowledge was valuable currency at court. For a modest fee, to be paid by Amanas out of his goods, Aridmos had agreed to arrange lodging and rations for Amanas’s family, but of late had begun voicing resentment at having to supply Asterion’s sailors.
“You asked yesterday,” Amanas reminded him, “and the answer is yes. We’re fine, though there’s also the crew to consider. I can tell Aridmos is impatient and put out by Asterion not being able to launch, but there’s nothing I can do about that.” His cousin was reading his thoughts. Rusa flushed with embarrassment. “I’ve tried telling him about the rafts of pumice clogging the waters, making fishing and even sailing very difficult, but what he can’t see with his own eyes, he refuses to believe. Ask anyone down by the waterfront, they’ll tell you the same thing. More and more fishermen are coming back with empty nets—when they’re able to go out at all.”
Rusa said, “Aridmos understands shepherds and customs officials, not sailors. I will vouch for your explanation in my next message, and inform him that I, too, have seen these things.”
“Meanwhile, why not send your mother for a visit?” Yikashata suggested. “Lovely lady, I’ve always liked her. Perhaps she would like an opportunity to make offerings at the tombs of her father and sister.” Rusa’s mother, Elissa’s sister Kitane, had died four years ago. Zuhatta had been gone longer, seventeen years. “In fact, send your wife and children along with her. We would welcome the company.”
Dusani’s eyes widened and she appeared to be holding in her breath. Rusa knew precisely what she was thinking, because the same thought entered his mind: their household could support one guest through the winter, maybe two, but not an entire family comprising seven or eight individuals. How to withdraw the invitation without giving offense, either to Amanas or the gods of hospitality who made such offers sacred and binding, that was the question.
It came as a relief, then, that Amanas had a shrewder head than his host, and did not pounce on the offer. “I will try to persuade Mother to visit, but the rest? That would be imposing.”
Rusa decided to change the subject before his well-meaning but misguided father insisted. “Now that you’ve had your petition more or less rejected, you can appeal to Lord Pyramesos. He works closely with High Priest Selukkos and has a dispensation from High Priestess Kapanni to enter the Labyrinth at will, which means he can access the sanctuaries and storehouses. If you need extra rations that Aridmos can’t provide, apply directly to him. Unfortunately, he’s been estranged from his father ever since his mother died, so I can’t risk going with you and being seen, but tell the steward at the door that your kinsman is Master Scribe Dadarusa, and he will arrange the meeting.”
Amanas nodded throughout this lengthy explanation. “There’s bad blood between the Minos and his heir?”
“The Minos held his firstborn son in great esteem,” Yikashata explained, “and does not give Pyramesos enough credit.” That was a colossal understatement, Rusa reflected. While Hammuras was obliged to acknowledge his second son as his heir, he nevertheless gave the capable Pyramesos trivial responsibilities without any real authority. What power the heir managed to acquire came through his business contacts in Tylissos and Archanes, his associations with the Labyrinth and the mercenaries in the Hellene quarter, and through his marriage to a junior priestess of Ashera.
Amanas indicated the priest eating quietly beside him. “I’m surprised Zimrada here doesn’t automatically have access to the Labyrinth.”
Rusa had noticed how Zimrada did not speak much, but engaged in semi-constant meditation with the deities. He had never encountered such a peculiar holy man. “But that’s typical,” he explained. “When the ruler of Phaistos came to Knossos four years ago, even he needed a direct invitation and letters of recommendation from the high priest and high priestess of the Phaistos temple. I myself need such letters simply to enter the temple archives, and special permission to examine any
thing.” Not to mention that the scribes serving the gods were disdainful of anyone associated with the Minos, and overly confident of their own innate superiority.
The servant woman Nefret entered bearing the second course: grilled lamb and asparagus. With the arrival of the food, Dusani made a concentrated effort to turn the conversation toward more pleasant topics.
Later, Amanas and Zimrada bedded down in the spare cubicle reserved for Naptu on those nights when he could be persuaded to stay overnight. Rusa helped his wife tuck in the children, then retreated with her and their infant son to their bedchamber. In the glow of a solitary lamp, he undressed, removing his embroidered tunic, leather shoes, and elaborate jewelry, while Dusani nursed the baby.
At least the child had a suitable Kaphti name, he reflected, watching mother and son together. Always fashionable, Dusani had wanted to give the baby an Egyptian name; the Minos’s granddaughter had named her child Meryt-neith, and now Egyptian names were all the rage at court. Rusa had stoutly refused, stating, “What am I going to do with a son named Khmun-nefer?”
Dusani had smiled behind drowsy, half-lidded eyes, and answered, “Hmm, ‘Khmun-nefer’ sounds lovely.”
Rusa coddled baby Khasos after he had his fill from his mother’s breast, stroking his son’s back and rocking him to burp him while Dusani washed at the bedside basin. At such times, Rusa found himself indulging in rather sentimental reveries. Perhaps it was the distinctively milky odor his son exuded, or the warm, tiny weight snuggled against him that made him alternately proud, and protective, and a bit melancholy. Remembering how infrequently he and his brothers used to see Yikashata when they were children, he in turn regretted how little time he had for his own offspring. He would be thirty-nine that winter. Middle age had crept upon him before he had even realized it. His sons and daughters were growing like weeds, little shoots by morning, tall by afternoon. He had but to blink, it seemed, and Khasos would already be toddling and talking.
Dusani was at his elbow. “You have that faraway look in your eyes, Dadarusa.” She used his given name to call him back to attention—apparently she had addressed him before without response. “Don’t take what happened today to bed with you.” She twined an arm around his middle, and rested a hand on his chest, sometimes raising it to caress the nestling infant. “It’ll keep you awake. Then the baby will start crying.”
He breathed in the scent of her hair. Other ladies perfumed their tresses, yet Dusani needed no costly unguents. “I know,” he admitted, “but there are times when I truly despise court.” And he also knew that his admission was becoming a commonplace complaint. “It seems as if nothing ever gets done, as if all the audiences, the fawning courtiers, even the scratching of my stylus, are meaningless. In a hundred years, who will care that the Minos supplied eight measures of oil, thirteen vessels of coriander and seventeen crocus bulbs to Widina the perfumer?”
“You’re a senior scribe,” she affectionately reminded him. “You don’t record tallies unless the Minos offers a lavish donation to the temple, and he hasn’t done that since before Lady Sarmi died.”
“I still have to check those tallies.” Rusa acknowledged that his wife was right in insinuating that his was a trivial complaint, but, like the symptom of a larger ailment, it nevertheless bothered him. “You haven’t been to court lately. You don’t know what it’s become. It’s a haunt for bottom feeders and maggots like Sammaro. The Minos complains about everything. He abuses his servants, shouts down petitioners, discourages dignitaries from visiting, and ignores all messages from Pyramesos and the temple.” Rusa frowned, shaking his head. “He might as well be ruling from the tomb, and we’ve all been buried with him.”
“He’s old, Rusa.” Dusani rested her head against his chest. The baby was already drowsing. “He should have been dead and buried years ago.”
So the courtiers and servants muttered behind closed doors. “That may be so,” he confessed, “but there are days when I think he might outlive us all.”
Rusa gingerly laid the baby down in the middle of the bed while Dusani blew out the lamp. Khasos should have slept in his cradle, but the tremors and rumblings had become so frequent in the last week that it was easier to have him in the bed than to have to get up repeatedly to soothe him. Moreover, Rusa liked having his son with them at night; it compensated for the time he spent away.
Khasos passed the night as soundly as anyone could expect a baby needing regular feeding and changing to do. Instead, it was Rusa’s sleep that was disturbed, whose restless dreams conjured visions of the Minos holding court in a chamber that might have been a subterranean cave, a haunt for shades and serpents that was shaken by periodic tremors. Everywhere children were crying, and he had to count their voices, but they were invisible, distant, and the Minos on his throne remained as immovable as stone. When Rusa at last mustered enough nerve to reach out and touch the ruler of Knossos, he perceived that the cold stone was radiating heat. But the moment he touched the Minos, the warm stone dissipated under the slight pressure of his finger, crumbling, becoming a heap of ashes.
*~*~*~*
Sunrise saw Amanas and the priest on their way back to Katsamba. Rusa, dressed for court, walked with them as far as the main road, then, bidding them farewell, headed to the Minos’s mansion.
The dawn had an unsettling greenish cast. Always, the skies appeared most ominous to the northeast, from the direction of Kalliste. What could the burning mountain portend for the people of Knossos, apart from an influx of refugees? Rusa’s hackles rose whenever he dwelled too long on such omens. No, he would not think about it now. Duty beckoned.
As master scribes, he and Ankeros were obliged to report upstairs with the Minos’s household steward and body servant to attend the ruler of Knossos upon his rising. On the terrace one floor below, a priestess sang in her clear voice the sacred hymn to the morning. Sometimes the Minos, his eyes still sandy and his breath sour from sleep, wished to send a message straightaway, or he wanted someone to read aloud his correspondence while he ate breakfast and was then dressed and painted.
That particular morning, the Minos woke irritable, with a pain in his lower back that Zanda had to massage before he could get out of bed. “Someone tell that woman to stop her wailing,” he grumbled. Hammuras barely tolerated the steward’s announcements, and he banished his personal scribes before they could formally wish him a good morning. That freed Rusa and Ankeros to spend the next hour or so downstairs in the royal archive.
On their way down the stairs, they were jolted by a sudden temblor that shook the mansion. The jolt lasted but a few seconds, but was intense enough to excite comment throughout the house. Rusa saw servants dash for cover. A scrub maid squealed. Ankeros grasped the stone balustrade. “The Great Bull preserve us!” he exclaimed. “That was a big one.”
Nothing was disturbed in the archive. Ankeros opened the shutters of the clerestory window to let in light while Rusa sorted through yesterday’s petitions to verify the junior scribes’ work. Those five young men were held to the highest standards, as Rusa, who had started his career inventorying household stores and taking dictation from the steward of the house, could well attest to.
As always, Ankeros asked about his father. “My wife has an ointment for enflamed joints. Tell your father I will bring it around when I visit.” He had been promising such since Yikashata’s retirement, but neither Rusa nor his father took Ankeros’s failure to deliver as a slight. At sixty-nine, the senior-most scribe could still remember the days when the Minos’s father had ruled, yet forget what he had eaten for breakfast.
Ankeros shifted aside the many scrolls and tablets cluttering his work space. “By the way, Dadarusa, have I told you about my latest work?”
Many times, but Rusa had grown to tolerate his colleague’s lapses of memory. “You mentioned something about a history of the royal line.” Ankeros fancied himself a historian. Rusa found his anecdotes nothing he had not heard before, and his style rather dull, but Yikashata ha
d reminded him that one day he, too, would be old, obsolete, and in need of a project to fill his days.
“Indeed, yes.” Ankeros sifted through the disorganization of his notes. “The temple scribes were most helpful. Sima helped me locate an earlier reference on the names of the Minos. Hamasharu of Tylissos theorizes that the first Minos’s childhood name was Knos, a name which his mother Europa gave him.” The elderly scribe grew animated with the excitement of being able to share his findings with someone. “It is known that the hill of Knossos where the temple now stands was once gifted to Europa from Poteidan, and since ‘Knossos’ means ‘the Place of Knos,’ and ‘Knos’ is a man’s name, well, it must have been named after the young Minos.”
“Interesting.” Rusa was not lying when he said it. Although the boy and ambitious young man he had been considered such scholarly inquiries a dry waste of time, the older he grew and the more complicated and unsatisfying his life became, the more pleasure rooting through the archives gave him. He discovered unexpected gems among the foreign correspondence: requests for advice or amulets from the princes of the various Akkadian kingdoms, copies of long-ago peace treaties between warring states, sacred texts, and a wonderful Egyptian medical treatise written on yellowing papyrus describing the nature and treatment of all manner of wounds. Someday, he thought, he would like to devote time to copying out the document before the hieroglyphics in their fading lamp-black ink became illegible.
The junior scribes arrived around mid-morning, just before the formal opening of the court. In the outer court, the day’s petitioners, having already submitted their names and the nature of their business to the steward of the door, would be lining up to await their turn; the highest ranking among them would have automatically advanced to the front of the line, guaranteeing them a seat in the antechamber, though not necessarily a speedy judgment. The Minos oftentimes kept visitors waiting, either because he was feeling sick or misanthropic, or because, deep down, he took a perverse pleasure in the exercise.