Knossos

by Laura Gill

  Rusa made a face at the man’s sanctimonious tone and gesture; the stench of garlic compromised his usual composure. He nudged the steward. “Go and get some fresh air if you’re that warm,” he hissed.

  The steward, apparently oblivious to his own stink, mumbled an obscenity under his breath.

  “Ah, but we are with you in that respect!” the captain was saying, in response to a question from one of the priests. “Shauska the grain mother has turned from us, also. Our cereals have withered. We thought, we will go to Egypt and trade there, but they say their goddess, too, does not favor them.”

  The world was ruined, as though Kalliste had been its navel, and its sins proliferated everywhere. Rusa could not fathom how else the priests might interpret that, when the multitudes of foreign gods, led by the wrathful Kallistean goddess Terasia, had obviously conspired to unleash manifold calamities of the heavens, earth and sea upon mortal men.

  After the audience, as the Minos and several priests asked to consult further with the captain, a temple servant made his way through the crowd. “Master Scribe Dadarusa?” Confounded, and wanting to go home to repeat the tale to his wife and father-in-law, Rusa nevertheless acknowledged the youth. “My master, Senior Priest Massaman, seeks a private word with you.”

  Rusa recognized the name as belonging to a priest of Poteidan loyal to the conservative faction headed by Selukkos’s eldest son, yet he remained skeptical, cautious. “What business can he have with me?”

  He learned nothing until he met with the priest in a corridor off the inner court. Massaman was white-haired and venerable, as Selukkos had been, and he exuded an air of infinite patience. “Master Scribe Dadarusa,” he purred, taking Rusa’s hands in his own as though theirs was a reunion of old acquaintances. “We understand you have recently encountered some trouble with Sammaro.”

  What to make of that introduction? Rusa related the particulars of the incident, and nothing else, certainly not his personal sentiments, for he did not know whether the priest of Poteidan, who nodded and made sympathetic noises throughout, was genuinely concerned or about to chastise him.

  “It is unfortunate that it came to blows. A physical altercation involving a priest is a serious matter. However, he was clearly the aggressor, and you acted in self-defense.” Massaman bestowed on him a beneficent smile. Rusa was beginning to find his extreme amicability unnerving, even suspicious. “We have detained him, and obtained from him sacred oaths that he will trouble you no more.”

  Not very likely, as Rusa saw it. He suspected temple officials had exacted identical promises each time Sammaro had been detained, and that these oaths, like those, would be forgotten the moment the priest was released. “I do not understand what grievance he has against me in the first place.”

  Massaman haplessly spread his hands. “That we could not say.” Because he did not know, or because Sammaro had not given a coherent reason? “Were your relations with him civil when you served Minos Hammuras?”

  “I was the Minos’s personal scribe, and he was the priest. Our spheres were utterly different,” Rusa answered. “We hardly ever interacted.”

  “Then it is hard to say,” Massaman said. His dulcet tones could tempt a man to frustration.

  Kleonikos found him, led him to the outer court where he introduced Rusa to his kinsman. “Eteokles will be your bodyguard.” The man in question squared his shoulders and thrust out his spear to emphasize his readiness. “He will accompany you in your work, and dwell with your family. You cannot refuse. This is the Minos’s express command. You will receive extra rations for his upkeep.”

  Just like that, it was done. Eteokles donned his boar tusk helmet and escorted Rusa home. He looked ten years younger than Kleonikos, was half a head shorter, yet was still formidable enough that Rusa could not help wondering what magic resided in the milk of Hellene mothers to make their sons grow so strong.

  Dusani welcomed the young man’s presence, but Rusa soon discovered that having a bodyguard hindered his domestic life. Not that Eteokles leered at his wife and daughters, or otherwise fostered ill will among the household. Rather, he was too dedicated, too serious, standing sentry all night outside the family’s rooms, then accompanying Rusa throughout the day. When did the man sleep? Eteokles claimed not to require much rest. Who were his parents, friends, lovers? Had he been born in Knossos, or, like Kleonikos, had he emigrated from Hellas? He did not speak with an accent like his kinsman, which strongly suggested a Kaphti upbringing. When asked directly, however, Eteokles offered scant details about his personal life.

  “Either he has none, or he’s served as a mercenary and knows it’s no fit topic for conversation,” Rusa complained to his wife one night, after she extinguished the lamps and climbed into bed.

  “Keep your voice down,” she admonished. “As long as he gives us no trouble and performs his duty, why should you want to know?” Her naked body tempted his; he looked forward to the day when she finished weaning Khasos. Until then, Rusa forced himself to behave whenever she snuggled against him. “Now, I have no doubt the Hellenes are fierce raiders, merciless in battle, but I also hear now that fathers want them as husbands for their daughters.”

  Rusa huffed, “You’re toying with me.”

  “Oh, no.” Her low, throbbing laughter felt hot against his cheek; the sensation heated other areas, as well. “You remember Lady Shammat’s daughter, who lost her husband? She’s already remarried, to the captain of the Minos’s household guard. Shammat told me that Glaukos—I think that’s his name—was the only suitor with steady employment. Ummari certainly isn’t going to starve.”

  “They can always eat Shammat’s monkey.” Rusa did not like what he heard, or the thought that his daughters, well-bred Knossian girls, might themselves one day seek Hellene husbands.

  Dusani snorted, stifling laughter. “I had quite forgotten about that wretched little creature.”

  *~*~*~*

  “Now, this task would normally fall to the local scribe, but he is new, and given the sacred nature of the discovery, the temple requests an official inquiry by the Registrar of Deaths.”

  For this special assignment, Rusa found himself taking his orders from Ramush; the Minos was absent, having gone to the temple to serve as a mediator between the conflicting factions.

  “Inter the remains,” Ramush continued, “and secure relics for the temple. You were present when the Anatolian mariner told his tale, so I need not explain the importance of this goddess Terasia to the temple. Pumice only, Dadarusa, and make absolutely certain that only your hands or the priestess of Hekate’s touch the relics.”

  Rusa found returning to Katsamba a grim prospect, even though his rational mind reassured him that he would not this time encounter any horrors. Months ago, refugees from eastern Kaphtor had settled the area. Pyramesos, determined to prevent overcrowding and further shortages, had given the refugees a hard choice: rebuild Katsamba and learn their livelihood from the sea, or try their fortune farther west in Kydonia, where the gods had been more merciful. A hard choice, because no one among the refugees wanted to dwell near the coast now. Yet they were exhausted from wandering and in the end most accepted the Minos’s offer of scavenged material with which to build shelters and boats for fishing.

  Last Rusa had heard, the settlers were persevering, even prospering. Marineus and Diktynna of the Nets were smiling on their enterprise. What the land did not provide, the sea yielded in abundance. Katsamba was even able to send surplus fish and mussels to Knossos, though little trickled down to those who most needed it. One more grievance to add to the catalogue of grudges some held against the Minos. Some of the most destitute were even heading toward Katsamba to try their fortunes there.

  At least, Rusa looked forward to eating better in Katsamba, perhaps even securing some fish or mussels to bring home. It had been so long since he had enjoyed the luxury of a full stomach. His clothes hung on him, and he had had to tighten his belt. He suffered frequent bouts of lethargy. Whenever
his rations included a dried fish, goat’s cheese, or some edible snails, he gave those delicacies to his children. Kikkeros did the same with whatever scant resources his farm and flocks produced, distributing the choicest morsels among his grandchildren and most essential servants.

  Dusani would not accept more than what her husband ate, despite arguments from her family that she do so. As Khasos was now fully weaned, Dusani did not need supplemental rations to keep her milk flowing. Slowly, Rusa watched her voluptuous curves vanish, and threads of gray streak her lovely hair.

  They were always hungry. When he shut his eyes, Rusa tried his utmost to avoid dwelling on the wonderful feasts Minos Hammuras used to give. Ah, gods, all that food! Seasoned lamb and grilled octopi and pork, almond and sesame cakes and breads and fried onions. How wasteful the Minos’s courtiers had been, spilling wine indiscriminately, letting dainties fall to the floor, or feeding tidbits to their lapdogs and pet monkeys. His belly ached, thinking about it.

  Half a fish and a handful of mussels would be a feast, he thought, if he could get his hands on them.

  First, he had to find the stamina to make it to Katsamba. Six miles, a morning’s excursion, might as well have been a journey to Egypt. Fortunately, Rusa once again had Nindani as his traveling companion; the priestess’s conversation diverted him from his weariness, although she, too, looked exhausted. Her long face was thinner than it had been before, and heavy shadows ringed her eyes.

  The recent torrential rains had subsided, giving way to better weather, fine for traveling but too late to rescue the harvest rotting in the fields. Seabirds shrieked overhead where once vultures had circled above the dead. Wounds remained in the earth to mark the location of graves. Rusa had hoped that grass would have started sprouting, covering those unfortunate sites.

  “Nothing has grown since we were last here,” he remarked. “Not even weeds.” Up ahead rose the hill where they had found so many corpses. Rusa averted his eyes from the landmark.

  “I am beginning to believe the dark rumors as to how Sammaro and his followers are sustaining themselves,” Nindani said. “Both Head Priestess Poulxeria and High Priestess Kapanni suspect some deaths are going unrecorded.” She quickly traced a labrys in the air, making a potent sign against evil.

  Rusa himself had suspected as much, when rumors of deaths in the surrounding countryside yielded missing residents but no bodies for burial. “As long as nothing can be proved, it’s best not to dwell on the subject.”

  In Katsamba itself, most of the rubble had been cleared away. Rough dwellings of plastered mudbrick and thatch stood where the receding inundation had scoured foundations clean. Where Rusa recalled a collapsed three-story house, the ruins had been picked clean, except for a single oak tree that had survived in what had been an inner courtyard. Talismans hung from its branches—bedraggled ribbons and tinkling brass ornaments and cloth dolls representing Rhaya—a celebration of survival, a place of veneration.

  Rusa and Nindani, accompanied by a close-mouthed Eteokles, paused to revere the sacred tree. They had not brought anything for the gods, but tore strips of fabric from their garments, and handed them to the crone serving the deities of the tree to hang on their behalf. “Mother,” Nindani said, “we have come from Knossos to honor the dead from the sea and inspect the relics.”

  The woman directed them to the main thoroughfare. “All the way to the end. Second house on the left. Ask for Adunash.”

  Adunash had been a wealthy merchant’s scribe in Gournia. He might have been handsome but for his disfiguring scars. His right hand had been burned and was now crabbed and useless. Paying his respects to the Knossian Registrar of Deaths and the priestess of Hekate, he volunteered his humble lodgings. “I will inform the elders you are here.” His formal diction, though marred by a hoarseness Rusa had come to recognize as an effect of the noxious, scorching wind, spoke of an excellent education.

  Humble was a charitable term. Neither the hearth nor floor appeared to have been cleaned in weeks, the fleeces had not been aired out, and the chamber pot was not altogether empty. However, it was cool and dry inside, and Rusa and his companions had brought their own fleeces.

  Upon his return, the scribe apologized profusely for his living conditions. “I have no woman, you see, and, well...” He indicated his injured hand. “But there is food, if you’re hungry.”

  “Is it difficult for you to maintain records in your condition?” Rusa asked gently.

  “Oh, no.” Adunash held up his left hand. “The gods blessed me when they made me different.”

  He brought each a fried fish from the communal kitchen. Whether the people of Katsamba ate so well every day, or whether they were making a special provision for their distinguished guests, Rusa’s eyes bulged when he beheld his portion, more than three days’ rations put together. He had to remind himself to eat slowly, not bolt down his food, and to proffer thanksgiving tidbits to Marineus and Diktynna.

  Adunash let them rest a while, rousing them later in the afternoon, again with his apologies. “The elders ask if you would inspect their discovery right now, so we can bury it sooner.”

  Nindani smoothed her rumpled robe and asked, “Are the dead troubling you, then?”

  Adunash nodded. “It has been several days already,” he rasped. “We have moved everything above the high tide mark and covered it, but in the night we see strange lights. Corpse lights.” He swallowed to moisten his throat. “Their shades call out to us.”

  Rusa and Nindani followed him to the beach, Eteokles a silent shadow in their wake. What the elders showed them was so bizarre, so macabre, it almost defied description.

  A raft of pumice had washed ashore. Entangled in the buoyant mass were human skeletons. The Anatolian captain had mentioned such phenomena, though Rusa had not necessarily believed his account. Were the dead from Katsamba itself, washed out to sea and returned months later as a mark of Marineus’s favor, or had they come from elsewhere? Decomposition had erased all identifying features. Exposure to the elements had taken everything but a few faded ribbons of clothing, not even enough to distinguish whether the remains were male or female.

  While Nindani knelt and, chanting, beat her hands upon the earth to implore Hekate, Rusa circled the pumice raft, trying to tally the number of individuals embedded therein. Thirteen skulls, fourteen, maybe fifteen or more. He would not know for certain until the remains were separated from the pumice. “Have you prepared a grave?” he asked the town elders. They led him to a place above the beach, near the ruined foundations of what he remembered had been a boathouse, to a trench.

  The elders also provided workers, as Rusa had left his assistants behind to handle his everyday business. They had been guarding the remains ever since the remains had washed ashore, and now labored with reverence to separate the bones from the pumice, as both were sacred. Pumice and bone were fused in some places, as though they had passed through a crucible together. Rusa had such remains interred as they were, rather than chance offending the dead.

  He counted eighteen dead—two children and sixteen adults of indeterminate gender. Nindani performed the obsequies, for which all the settlers were present. Before the workers shoveled in the earth, the elders performed a ceremony in which they adopted the dead as honorary kinsmen, that their shades should find rest, secure in the knowledge that someone would make the offerings for them. Rusa considered it a touching gesture, a spark of compassion amid the sadness. He only wished that in the act of recording their deaths he had been able to restore to them their names.

  Briefly, he wondered if Amanas was among the dead they buried that day. Surely his cousin would have sent word or found his way to Knossos had he survived.

  After the rites, the elders led Rusa and Nindani to the shrine they had erected to the Kallistean pumice goddess Terasia. Using the best foundation stones and salvaged mudbricks and wood, the people of Katsamba had done their utmost to honor her. On the makeshift altar, which was a slab of broken alabaster, the peopl
e had heaped pumice together with colorful potsherds, bits of rescued frescoes, jewelry, bells, and whatever treasures they had discovered in the rubble. There was even a priest, who went about clad in a priestess’s garb, as was customary in certain rural sanctuaries for men serving the female immortals.

  “We are devout,” he assured them, “but we cannot agree on a representation of the goddess. Will you ask the high priestess in Knossos to consult an oracle, and to send more priests? We can only guess at what gifts and prayers will best please our new goddess. Gods help us all if she finds our offerings unsatisfactory!”

  On their way home the next day, Nindani revisited the topic with Rusa. “It will be difficult to persuade any priests or priestesses to leave the temple for Katsamba. I was sorely tempted to sweep that poor scribe’s hut myself, but for the embarrassment it would have caused him.”

  Rusa knew it was not his place to speculate on whether Terasia wanted priests or priestesses serving in her cult, or how many should serve, or how her sanctuary should be established. “Tell them there will be food.”

  Katsamba’s bounty was, in truth, an illusion. With 158 mouths to feed, one fishing vessel, and only three fishermen possessing any familiarity with the coastal waters, the erstwhile refugees were hard-pressed to fill their bellies. Nonetheless, they had been generous hosts, providing their guests with a smoked fish and three mussels each as payment for services rendered.

  Rusa grinned, anticipating with pleasure his family’s delight when he presented them with his windfall.

  An hour into their trek, Eteokles noticed a dark plume of smoke on the horizon. “Knossos,” he muttered. Directing Rusa and Nindani to take shelter under an uprooted olive tree, he scouted ahead, crouching, sprinting across a meadow, climbing a hillock half a mile away to survey the road south.