Knossos

by Laura Gill

  “There is no one who has not been affected by this.” Rusa flashed back to the dead children he had buried. What sins could they have possibly committed that the gods should make them suffer so? “I am sorry for your loss.”

  Balinaru started to reply when Naptu appeared in the doorway. Momentarily setting aside his grief, he rose and seized his tutor in a crushing hug. “You’re as lucky as Dida, old man!”

  “I am glad to see you, too,” Naptu sputtered, while hugging his erstwhile pupil back. When Balinaru released him, the scribe straightened his clothing and dignity. “And how is Didanam?”

  “You haven’t heard?” Balinaru’s laughter filled the chamber. “Nothing touches that man, not even the wrath of the gods. He hasn’t a mark on him.” His broad face lit up with amusement. “You want to know how he survived the burning wind? Well, his room in the temple was wrecked by the earthquake. While everybody else was sleeping outside on the ground or in a tent, where the scorching wind caught them, Dida got it into his head to take shelter in the tomb of Daidalos!”

  There were mingled exclamations of shock and mirth. The tomb was not a holy sanctuary, and as a descendant of Daidalos, Dida had every right to enter, yet it was such an unconventional thing to do. Rusa found himself smiling despite his recent troubles. “That sounds just like him.”

  “I will never understand that boy,” Naptu commented.

  “Is this all right?” Rusa asked his brother, while gesturing to the pittance of bread, cheese, and wine the servants had set out. “Dusani told me yesterday that the temple is promoting rationing.”

  Balinaru nodded. “I know. The temple servants have been on rations ever since the earthquake. It’s all right. Lord Kikkeros explained when he received me.” He sat down a second time. “Shall we have the libation?”

  They poured libations for the continued safety and well-being of their families, and offered Hekate a measure of bread, cheese, and wine for the repose of Yikashata’s shade. “I meant to tell you earlier, Rusa, but there were losses in my household.” Balinaru chewed his bread thoughtfully. “A servant woman and my youngest daughter. We didn’t wait for the authorities to come around to take the bodies, but buried them straightaway. Of course, the temple knows, they were informed the first day, but since your father-in-law says you’re responsible for tallying the losses outside the Labyrinth, I didn’t know whether you had to be informed separately, or...” He spread his hands. “There’s so much about all this I don’t understand.”

  Balinaru meant more than simply the tallies. Rusa nudged his brother’s shoulder reassuringly. “After everything I’ve seen and heard this last fortnight, I understand even less than you.”

  They parted amicably, but Rusa had scant opportunity to reflect on the visit before a messenger arrived with a summons ordering his immediate presence before Minos Pyramesos. He had enough time to collect his writing materials and walking stick, and throw on a light mantle against the autumn cold before rejoining the messenger outside.

  To his surprise, Kleonikos and a second Hellene mercenary awaited him. Rusa knew better than to ask why they had come. He simply walked along with them, suspending his curiosity, even as a raucous commotion at the end of the street started to attract his attention.

  “Keep your head down, Scribe,” Kleonikos warned.

  A man’s voice was preaching a fiery, frothing diatribe against the sins of the people. “Throw yourselves on your faces, sinners! Bow your heads to Lord Poteidan and Lord Velchanos, and pray for mercy lest they bring back the burning wind.” Whoever it was haranguing the populace, he had attracted quite the following. People of all classes were kneeling, some bent double as though in pain, others sprawled on their faces, but all of them weeping, sobbing for forgiveness.

  Last night, Kikkeros had mentioned in passing that extreme religious elements were starting to make trouble, but Rusa, too tired from his journey and too preoccupied with his father’s passing, had not pressed him for details. Now he was caught in the midst of those elements.

  “I have seen the future!” Oddly garbled though it was, Rusa recognized that voice. “Velchanos will castigate us again with the burning wind. He will annihilate us if we do not repent by the Bull Dance!”

  Lifting his gaze, Rusa stifled a gasp when he saw the priest Sammaro standing atop a shattered plinth, eyes wide and ravenous, gesticulating wildly. One side of his face had been horribly burned, yet rather than conceal the injury the priest appeared to be using it to his advantage. “See here the proof of Velchanos’s wrath!” He motioned to his left eye socket, where the flesh of his eyelid seemed to have melted onto his cheek, shutting that eye forever. “Next time he will reach his burning hand into your homes—yea, even to your altars and nurseries where your infants sleep—and with his touch he will roast you alive, he will char the flesh from your bones, he will turn you to ashes unless you kiss the earth, kiss his image, and repent now!”

  He brandished in his good hand an image of the young god. “Hail the Lord of the Thunder!”

  Frightened citizens in their dozens reached toward the god to touch him, to press their lips to his cold alabaster. Rusa shuddered at the spell the once-inept priest was casting, and started to look away.

  “Repent, you godless Hellenes! And you, Dadarusa!” Rusa jumped to hear his name called out. “Your father perished for your sins. Fall on your knees and pray, sinner, lest you burn as he did.”

  Sammaro did not speak for the temple. Spewing sermons was one thing. Insulting Yikashata’s ghost was quite another, and it would not be borne. Rusa tightened his hand, making a fist with which to knock out Sammaro’s teeth—never mind that he would have to shove his way through a mob of worshippers to reach the man.

  He opened his mouth to shout out a challenge when a large hand fell on his shoulder. “Didn’t I tell you to keep your head down?” Kleonikos grumbled. “Now hurry along. The Minos hasn’t all day.”

  Frustrated, Rusa left with difficulty. Of all the people who had survived the burning wind! If he encountered Sammaro again, and without his followers, he vowed the fraudulent priest would answer for his insulting words. Maybe it had been a while, but Rusa still remembered how to break a man’s jaw.

  Many more priests than before crowded the portico and inner court of the Minos’s residence. Temple scribes were taking dictation. Armed Hellenes stood sentinel. Rusa’s trepidation returned, and increased as Kleonikos ordered him to wait while he informed the Minos’s steward. As he hunkered against a black pillar, Rusa wondered what could be so important, so dire that the Minos demanded his immediate presence while so many representatives of the temple, some wearing the badge of the high priestess, awaited his pleasure.

  He waited only a few moment before being admitted to the painted inner hall where Pyramesos was dining beside the hearth. As on Rusa’s previous visit, the Minos’s only attendants were the scribe Ramush and the intimidating Nubian bodyguard Massa. The household gods still occupied the hearth curb, which bore the leavings of old offerings: food crumbs, wine stains, and sticky honey around which flies hovered. The Minos’s wife was obviously not a very diligent housekeeper, if that squalor was how she permitted the gods to reside.

  “Master Scribe Dadarusa, Registrar of Deaths,” Kleonikos stated. Rusa suppressed a wince.

  “Dadarusa, you look much improved since we last met.” Wiping his greasy mouth, Pyramesos indicated the footstool opposite his chair. His bandages had vanished, his healing burns leaving pinkish-white splotches that stood out against his darker skin, but he was only slightly less slovenly than he had been on Rusa’s first visit.

  Rusa accepted the footstool. “You sent for me, Minos? I have only just returned yesterday and have not had a chance to collate the reports from elsewhere.”

  “Hmm, yes.” Pyramesos set down his napkin. “Kleonikos tells an astonishing story about the destruction you found in Katsamba. I have also heard such tales from those who visited Amnissos. Is it true that Marineus’s wrath drove the sea
into the town and even demolished houses on the highest ground?”

  “I do not know what they found in Amnissos,” Rusa answered cautiously, “but I lack words to describe what we saw in Katsamba. Yes, the sea inundated the town. Even the mansions higher up were flooded and thrown down. We found fishing vessels inland. The stench...” He shook his head. “We counted and buried 2,498 dead—roughly 988 men, 830 women, and 680 children. I say ‘roughly’ because the condition of some of the deceased was such that we could not determine their gender.” As the Minos did not interrupt, appearing interested in hearing more, Rusa continued, “I am certain there were many more dead in the rubble where we could not reach them. Some corpses we found were not whole, which has skewed the tallies. More people must have been washed out to sea. They might never be discovered.

  “I apologize for our early return. We would have kept searching, but our rations dwindled and we found nothing in the ruined storehouses to sustain us. Everything there is ruined.” Rusa loathed having to make excuses. “It may take several trips to secure a more accurate tally.”

  “Your recall for figures is excellent.” Pyramesos helped himself to more wine. Rusa expected no such consideration as he was a servant, not a guest. “Your performance in this emergency has been commendable. Submit the tallies when you collate them all. Also, you should take over the headquarters of the Registrar of Deaths as soon as possible. A representative will bring you the keys. As long as we remain mortal and transitory, the people here still have need of you.”

  Rusa supposed he should be grateful. No other advisor or servant from Minos Hammuras’s old court had been retained. Nonetheless, he dreaded having to spend the remainder of his career dealing with the dead. He foresaw having to undertake those aforementioned trips back to the charnel house that was Katsamba. “Thank you, Minos,” he croaked.

  Pyramesos seemed to read his thoughts. “You will not be returning to Katsamba, Dadarusa. Your duties are confined strictly to Knossos.” Then he set down his cup. “I understand you are in mourning. I had the pleasure of knowing Master Scribe Yikashata for many years. A fine man. You have my condolences, even though I do not approve of the circumstances under which his burial was carried out.”

  “There should not have been a problem, Minos,” Rusa stated warily. “My father prepared his tomb years ago.”

  “You object to the measures I imposed for the mass burial of the dead?” Pyramesos raised a heavy eyebrow. “I do not have to justify my policies to you, Dadarusa, but as the Registrar of Deaths you are entitled to some explanation. Grave robbing has become problematic. Indigents have stolen valuables and food offerings, and desecrated other noble burials. My men are responsible for maintaining order here in town, not guarding the tombs outside its limits.” He braced a hand on his thigh. “Now, I will not fine your brothers on account of their defiance or disturb your father’s ghost by shifting the burial, but I will not intervene, either, should looters break into the tomb.”

  That was fair enough. Rusa thanked him for his consideration and, seeing that the audience was over, courteously took his leave.

  He was surprised when the scribe Ramush elected to escort him from the hall. “Pyramesos reveres the immortals,” Ramush stated. “He knows they will forgive us our trespasses and bless us, and preserve us as long as we keep our faith.”

  What had that to do with anything? Rusa doubted the Minos’s own personal scribe sought to indulge in casual conversation with him. There was some hidden meaning in his words, perhaps even some warning. “There are many more priests here than before,” he observed blandly.

  “Yes, indeed.” Ramush was half a head shorter, even when wearing the thick-soled shoes he favored, and was balding. His reliance on cosmetics to hide his crowfeet only accentuated them. He wore too much scent. “You are acquainted with a priest named Sammaro?”

  “He served the Minos’s father.”

  “Are you aware that Junior Scribe Ensham has been seen among his followers?” Ramush’s soft-voiced query was nonetheless audible above the buzz of the priests conversing around them.

  Rusa now grasped where Ramush was headed. “I am not particularly close with the young man.”

  Ramush continued as though he had not heard. “The boy’s mother has become a devotee. Needless to say, neither the temple nor the Minos condone preaching by rogue elements. It would be most unfortunate if the new Registrar of Deaths gave credence to Sammaro’s ravings.”

  “I was not aware that Sammaro even had the ear of the gods,” Rusa answered drily. Acknowledging Ramush’s threat was beneath him, he deemed it unwise to ask why Pyramesos did not act on his claim of maintaining order by simply removing the troublesome priest.

  Leaving the inner court, the scribes passed a pair of Hellene sentries and entered a painted corridor leading to the exit. The tall foreigners in their boar-tusk helmets looked incongruous posed against a background of soft blue depicting a scene of pheasants and flowering shrubs.

  Ramush folded his arms in his voluminous sleeves. “You do not believe Sammaro’s claims?”

  Rusa caught the skepticism in his tone. “He has never said anything an untutored, unconsecrated child could not say.”

  “Ah,” Ramush drawled. “Then we understand each other.”

  They parted at the gate. Kleonikos remained, however, to escort Rusa home. Late afternoon was creeping toward sunset. The streets were quiet and empty, Sammaro and his followers having dispersed. Rusa breathed a sigh of relief, when to his surprise Kleonikos commented, “His insults are nothing, Dadarusa. Even his wounds are not the signs from the gods he claims they are.”

  Kleonikos had never before addressed him by his personal name, but Rusa was well enough acquainted with him by now to know that when the Hellene volunteered personal information or engaged in conversation it was a sign of respect. “You know this for certain?” Rusa asked.

  “The burning oil of a lamp splashed on him when the scorching wind struck Minos Hammuras’s tent,” Kleonikos explained gruffly. “I saw the proof myself when we went to recover the old man.”

  Interesting. Rusa filed the information away for future reference. The Hellene volunteered no further observations, but that was not the last Rusa heard about the fraudulent priest that evening.

  No sooner had he entered his father-in-law’s house than he found Kikkeros castigating one of his servants. “You will stay away from this charlatan if you want to keep your employment.”

  “But we must repent, my lord!” the young man argued.

  Kikkeros cuffed the youth’s ear. “Sammaro has no authority to instruct anyone to do anything. We obey the laws of the temple, and it is not the place of a servant to lecture his betters to do otherwise.”

  A female servant directed Rusa to an adjoining room where the women of the house worked the loom. There among the colored wools and bobbins and uprights, Rusa found his wife nursing the baby.

  Dusani glanced up at him. “Is everything all right?” she asked. “You left quite suddenly.”

  He shifted a basket of new-combed wool and sat down next to her on the cushioned bench. “The Minos wanted my report.”

  “Was he pleased?”

  “He seemed so.”

  She leaned over to kiss him. Rusa returned the kiss, though his heart was heavy. His attention shifted to Khasos, suckling contentedly at his mother’s nipple. He had never given it much thought, but the Registrar of Births was always a woman, usually a priestess of Eleuthia. Should the Registrar of Deaths, then, not be a priestess of Hekate? The mysteries of life and death rested within the female sphere, after all.

  Dusani offered him an exasperated smile. “I know the post isn’t what you want, but try to see the good in things, Rusa. An official post means we have income.” So saying, she gently but deftly detached the suckling Khasos, handing him to Rusa to hold while she dried her nipple and rearranged her dress. “Shall we head to the evening supplication? You can thank the gods for your good fortune there.”


  When Yishana’s wife rang the brass bells, the entire household from Kikkeros to the lowliest kitchen boy and scrub maid crowded into the main hall to honor the gods. Rusa observed how much cleaner the hearthstones, curb, and arrayed gods were in contrast with Pyramesos’s slovenly hearth; he glowed with pride at how diligent his wife and sister-in-law were about their duties. A kernos had been brought out to receive the various offerings. Sometimes the servants offered such trinkets as they had worn in more prosperous days, or treasured bits of colored tile or frescoes or glass paste they had found. Rusa’s daughters had offered toys to make the rumbling and shaking and burning winds go away, while Isiratos dedicated scraps of papyrus displaying his very best penmanship, a skill which did not come easily to him, and over which he labored long into the night.

  Rusa occasionally saw crude clay votive limbs, thanksgiving offerings for healing a burned or broken body part, heaped upon the kernos. Those served to remind him, who had so much on his mind, to obtain a clay torso, legs, and arms to thank Payawon for lessening his injuries. Perhaps when he went to the temple tomorrow to register his post with the Hekate priestesses, he could purchase limbs in one of the many votive stalls lining the road to the northern entrance.

  Kikkeros was not content to rely on the familiar catch-all “to all the gods” when dedicating the offerings, but insisted on reverencing each god and goddess, and allowing members of the household to step forward and place what they would in the kernos. Rusa regretted not having had the opportunity to fetch anything before the rites, especially when Dusani pressed into his hand the lock of their infant’s hair which she had cut.