by Laura Gill
Yet what most people had come to witness was the installment of the goddess Terasia. There was no surviving precedent for inducting a new immortal, but the makeshift ceremony was as splendid as the people could contrive. A procession of priests, priestesses, noblemen, and a Hellene honor guard set out from Katsamba to escort a carved, painted litter draped with the wild silk of Kos into Knossos. A triton sounded from the rooftop of the west court, a tremendous silence descended over the processional path, and the people fell on their faces.
Neither the high priestess nor her oracles had been able to determine how the pumice goddess wished to be represented, so no image rode in the yellow-curtained litter, only impressive examples of the goddess’s wrath. The head priests and priestesses of all the immortals made speeches of welcome, and heaped garlands of summer flowers and necklaces and amulets around the body of the goddess, to adorn her with before escorting her into the sacred enclosure of the temple. Rather than jubilation, an atmosphere of profound relief prevailed.
Later in the season, on the anniversary of Yikashata’s death, Rusa with his wife and children visited the family tomb. Now that the harvest had arrived, and there was bread and lentils and fruit, and sweet combs of honey, the family marked the occasion with a picnic, offering the deceased the libations and delicacies he had been denied during his secret night burial. Many other families who owned tombs nearby were also abroad, making their reverences.
Balinaru arrived with his family, and brought a dove for the sacrifice. True to form, Didanam forgot all about his obligations, but that was expected. “Father wouldn’t have been surprised,” Balinaru commented.
Isiratos accompanied Rusa to work, becoming his apprentice. Not willingly, at first, because the prospect of laboring among the dead did not appeal as serving as the Minos’s personal scribe would have. Rusa did his best to remain optimistic, as Dusani urged, and impress upon his firstborn child that the Registrar of Deaths performed a good and useful service.
Within three years, Rusa did well enough to move his family into a new house—or rather, a house that had been refurbished after its owners perished in the catastrophe. It faced west, and on clear days one could look out from the second-story windows and enjoy a panoramic view of the hills, with the snowy heights of sacred Mount Ida rising far in the distance.
Rusa and his wife grew old together, and in time their children started families of their own. Some years, the winters were long and the harvests meager. The earth sometimes trembled, the ruins of Kalliste belched smoke, and the sea god surrendered more victims of Terasia’s wrath. Once, a message arrived from Amanas’s brother Hamo, who had settled in Kydonia, but despite his many inquiries around Katsamba, Rusa had no good news to send back.
In time, green grass covered the scars of the churned earth where the dead in their thousands had been laid to rest, and a new generation of children who had never known the privations and horrors of that time played among them.
Eight
Inauguration Day
1457 B.C.
Today, on the day of the inauguration of the new Labyrinth, the people of Knossos beheld a chariot for the first time.
Covered with hides painted scarlet and blue, its gilded trappings and polished bronze axles gleamed in the midsummer morning sun. Oiled, plaited leather and seasoned wicker creaked as the vehicle rolled down the thoroughfare toward the temple mount, but the predominant sound the crowds lining the route heard was the jingling harness bells of the chariot’s team. Horses, too, were a rarity, having come to Kaphtor with the Hellenes two hundred years ago. And these were not just any horses, but magnificent specimens from the plains of horse-breeding Argos, a gift from the ruler of Mycenae to the Minos of Kaphtor. Purple ribbons twined among their braided manes and tails, their trappings were of scarlet leather, while they, high-spirited and intelligent, knowing they were objects of the crowd’s adoration, tossed their heads high.
Horses were sacred to Poseidon, and indeed, the display awed the crowd like the epiphany of an immortal. They raised their hands to their foreheads in a show of collective reverence.
The chariot’s principal occupant suppressed his laughter. What a shame, he reflected, that he was not handling the reins himself. Now that would have astonished the people! Alektryon had waited four years to undertake this triumphal procession through Knossos, holding the chariot in reserve against the inauguration of the new Labyrinth. He would have liked nothing better than to have savored it as he had always imagined it: cutting an imposing figure in a polished bronze corselet and boar-tusk helmet, driving his own chariot, but practicality forced him to swallow his regret. Custom forbade the Minos from wearing armor when entering the Labyrinth. He would have sweltered in it, anyway, even in the shade of the thoroughfare with its leafy oaks and tall cypresses and multistoried mansions, when he was already sweating in the constricting, antiquated fringes and codpiece of the priest-king of Knossos.
Moreover, he had not practiced driving a chariot in almost seven years, not since returning from abroad. And certainly not this vehicle, which had been a congratulatory present from his distant kinsman, the wanax of Pylos, upon his seizing the throne of Knossos. An accident today, especially at his own hands, would have been construed as ill-omened and would have spoiled his plans. Better to trust in his charioteer, a skilled Argive horseman, and save a demonstration for another occasion.
A spray of blood-red poppies, tossed by an enthusiastic child, landed on the plaited leather platform. Another, thrown by a comely woman, struck Alektryon’s chest; he deftly recovered and held it aloft to signify the Great Goddess’s approval. The crowd’s cheers intensified. He responded with a broad smile. How little the people suspected! If all went according to design, if the gods favored his enterprise, then today’s coup would proceed with little bloodshed.
If. The serpent of anticipation coiling in his belly reminded him too strongly of the morning four years ago when he, his kinsmen, and their retainers—all sentries of the royal establishment—had overthrown Minos Narramo and his sons, and usurped power for themselves. Too much could go awry today, just as it could have then, only now the stakes were higher, for both himself and his sons. Suddenly his smile felt forced, wooden, and the morning no longer seemed as bright.
Up ahead and to the right loomed the Labyrinth’s restored north entrance, lavishly decorated with bull reliefs—all his work. The previous dynasty and the temple’s quarreling factions had, between them, let the Labyrinth deteriorate in the decades since the great destruction. Alektryon had grown up navigating the detritus of its ruins and listening to his grandfather Glaukos’s tales of its former splendor. Now, taking in his achievement, his breast swelled with pride, especially when he glimpsed dozens of priests and priestesses arranged in their fine vestments along the supporting terrace. As a youth in Glaukos’s sprawling house in the Hellene quarter, he never could have imagined that one day the self-absorbed priesthood of Knossos, who had always sneered at half-breed mercenaries like his father and himself, and who assumed that he still needed their support, would wait upon his pleasure.
Only High Priestess Umpara and High Priest Kitanetos, heads of the warring factions, were absent, just as Alektryon had intended. They would arrive later, come stumbling in flustered, tardy, at a perfect disadvantage, and in the carefully orchestrated chaos neither one would perceive that anything was amiss until Alektryon had already played his gambit.
He expelled a breath, abruptly sucking it in again and grasping the guardrail as the chariot wheels encountered an unexpected rut. Had he not ordered the thoroughfare repaved? The reassuring look his charioteer threw him did not help. Did this small hazard, which should have been avoided, betoken greater disasters to come?
Alektryon forced back his tremors of alarm, reminding himself that a little fear was natural, even healthy. There was no way to move but forward, for too much was at stake to change course now.
*~*~*~*
Umpara tried to dab her throat with the
last drops of narcissus oil from an Egyptian faience jar as the flies hovered around her dressing table. “Pima, girl, pay attention!” Stammering an apology, the handmaiden holding the fly whisk began swishing the air once again.
The high priestess’s chamber faced southeast, and it was a sweltering midsummer morning. Too many women jostled with each other in that confined space to attend her comfortably. She could scarcely breathe. Perspiration slicked her brow and under her arms. One would never know she had bathed but half an hour ago.
Nothing pleased her, not the well-worn vestments her women brought out for her approval, not the outdated jewelry and fading ribbons they selected, and definitely not the insolent creditor who had awakened her before sunrise with his infernal hammering upon her door. Worst of all, and contrary to her orders, her household steward had trudged upstairs to fetch her from bed.
“Is something wrong with your wits, Euestor?” she had demanded. “I specifically instructed you to turn away such miscreants. Tell him he will be repaid after the harvest, and close the door upon him.” Her handmaidens, roused by the commotion, were starting to congregate in the corridor. “Priest-Scribe Rabbel handles the accounts. These matters are beneath my—”
“Mistress, forgive me, but I cannot.” Euestor wrung his age-spotted hands. “Nidintu-Adad-Sin brought his enforcer with him. He threatened to have the man break my legs, then send him upstairs to break yours if you will not receive him.” He gave a perceptible shudder. “If only the sentries had not deserted their—”
“Be quiet!” Umpara snapped. How could she receive anyone disheveled from sleep, without her paint? No commoner was going to see her in her night shift, certainly not a Babylonian swindler and his hired ruffian. Nidintu-Adad-Sin should have pounded on Priest-Scribe Rabbel’s door, not hers—and why had the temple sentries not done their job? They would receive a thorough dressing-down for their negligence. “Women, attend me. You, Euestor, return downstairs at once and delay them.” She thrust her finger toward the curtained door. “And do not give me that pathetic, hangdog look. I ought to crack your head for your incompetence.”
Euestor went away shaking his head and moaning, much to Umpara’s annoyance. Imbecile. No one would dare assault the high priestess of Knossos, least of all in her own mansion.
She had second thoughts, though, when Nidintu-Adad-Sin’s Nubian enforcer towered over her with meaty arms crossed over a broad, naked chest; he could have easily reached up and touched the rafters—or wrapped a hand around her throat and squeezed. His master’s shifty, hostile look only reinforced her perceptions. Nevertheless, Umpara stood her ground, acknowledging the Nubian once, then disregarding him entirely to focus on his squat master. “What do you mean by this, you Babylonian scoundrel, banging on my door at this ungodly hour?”
“Your payment is past due, High Priestess.”
Umpara drew her embroidered dressing gown’s collar up to her throat; she swore the Nubian was staring at her breasts. “And you will be repaid after the harvest, as Priest-Scribe Rabbel has no doubt informed you. Now do not trouble me further. You have no business even—”
“Ah, but your debt is my business.” Nidintu-Adad-Sin stroked his chin with thick fingers. His black beard was crimped and glistening with oil. “Especially when you already owe so many others.”
Umpara bristled at his admonishing tone. “There are expenses in maintaining the Labyrinth,” she answered stiffly.
“Ah, but the Minos is paying for the restoration. You have no part in the building. Perhaps you spend too much on raiment and cosmetics. Or maybe as a woman you cannot properly count what is in your storehouses, eh?” He dared shake a finger at her, the lowborn scum! “Too bad you have no husband to manage your accounts for you.”
She felt her cheeks burning. Who was he to tell her how to spend or manage her household accounts, especially when she spent absolutely nothing on her own personal adornment! Everything went toward the Labyrinth: costly frankincense to sweeten the sanctuaries, saffron and other exotic spices for the women’s rites in the Rhaya sanctuary, expensive raiment for the xoana, thrice-annual hecatombs for the blood offerings to all the deities, plaster and paint to repair the vandalism done by heretics, and extra sacrifices to ameliorate the anger of the gods over the defacements. Not that a foreign commoner like Nidintu-Adad-Sin, who cared only about material wealth, would have grasped the importance of her constant struggle to keep the gods happy and thereby forestall another catastrophe such as had destroyed the Labyrinth in her great-grandmother’s time. Not that Umpara owed him an explanation.
A properly devout Kaphti creditor, she reasoned, would have canceled her debt as a donation to the Labyrinth, but she had been unable to find such a one willing to offer a reasonable rate of interest. At least Rhaya was smiling on her, and the harvest would be bountiful, because she could no longer borrow against her mortgaged estates. Either she repaid her creditors soon, or she would have to surrender the deeds. Just the thought of an oily criminal like Nidintu-Adad-Sin enjoying her Archanes estate, which had been in the family for almost three hundred years, turned her stomach.
“You know my estates are bountiful.”
“But you owe so many,” he tut-tutted. “Between now and then you may forget Nidintu-Adad-Sin. Perhaps a reminder would help you?” He gestured to the Nubian, who advanced menacingly.
That was no idle threat; the man truly intended to break her bones. She had to act quickly, seizing upon the first item of worth that would satisfy the Babylonian enough to persuade him to call off his brute. Goddess help her, she had counted on wearing that gold heirloom to the inauguration. She told herself that her great-grandmother’s bracelet was a necessary sacrifice on behalf of the Labyrinth, but the mere thought of that swindler clasping it onto the wrist of the ignorant, uncouth peasant woman he was surely married to soured the back of her throat with bile, bitterness that lingered long after Nidintu-Adad-Sin took his Nubian and departed. She had so few ornaments left.
Frowning exacerbated her headache. Where was that infernal girl with the cooled wine she had ordered? Umpara must have sent Piria to the storeroom more than an hour ago. “Someone get me something to drink,” she barked. “And those of you who aren’t making yourselves useful, get out.” Bodies shifted, skirts rustled, and at least half a dozen women departed the chamber.
Their absence provided scant relief. In the heat, Umpara’s thinning hair refused to maintain a curl, and her flustered handmaiden scrambled to arrange an acceptable alternative style. Umpara resisted the urge to teethe her lower lip; her grandmother always used to admonish her not to resort to childish gestures. Yet she could not help her aggravation. First, her favorite bracelet, and now her hair... Was Rhaya angry with her today?
She cast a worrisome glance toward the precious elephant ivory image of the goddess guarding her bedside. Rhaya’s features betrayed no hint, but Umpara knew she must be displeased. Certainly not over her high priestess’s arrears, because such sacrifices were expected, but rather over the fact that Umpara had not done enough to rid the land of non-believers, and that she had not honored her solemn vow to restore the Labyrinth to its former grandeur. Instead, the Minos—a Hellene usurper, no less—was financing the endeavor. And what had she contributed?
A handmaiden appeared with a cup of wine. Umpara drank carefully, lest the grape’s dark juice discolor the white paint around her mouth. Curse High Priest Kitanetos and his cronies for their meddling! While he funded the vandalism of her attempts at restoration—although she had no proof, she was absolutely certain of his involvement—elsewhere he undermined her authority by acknowledging obscene, hybrid Kaphti-Hellene gods like Velchanos-Diwios, by paying the fines imposed on known heretics, and by promoting the Hellene script, which was nothing more than a pitiful imitation of written Kaphti.
She was also certain he had desecrated the last Serpent Dance by killing the sacred snakes in their jars, within the very protection of Ashera’s sanctuary! Why had Rhaya not punished his
blasphemy? Did the goddess mean for her high priestess to act as her divine instrument? Umpara had tried, but Kitanetos employed servants to taste his food, and she hesitated to resort to violence. Killing heretics by night in the countryside was one thing. Smothering the high priest in his bed or slicing open his throat in a shadowy corner of the Labyrinth was quite another. Besides, Umpara could not afford to hire anyone to make the attempt.
As one of her women started lacing her into her scarlet bodice, Euestor breathlessly hastened into the chamber. “Apologies, Mistress, but you must hurry.” His concave chest heaved like a smith’s bellows. “The Minos’s procession is already underway. You will be late.”
What nonsense was this? She had at least an hour left before she had to assume her position at the north entrance. “You are mistaken, old man.” And more than mistaken, that morning. Worse than useless.
Euestor gulped for oxygen. “No, Mistress. Go outside. Hear the crowds. My man Kynos, on the roof, he has seen. The Minos, in a chariot, with the royal kinsman, marching down the main—”
Umpara’s laces were not yet done when she shoved past the wheezing, incompetent steward, headed into the narrow corridor, and climbed the dozen stairs leading to the roof. Morning sunlight striking the whitewashed stucco temporarily blinded her, and the pavement, already scorching under her bare feet, caused her to mince her steps. She raised a hand to her eyes to shield them, while behind her, her women buzzed with gossip.
“Silence!” she barked. Her eyes watered as they tried to adjust to the light. Her compromised vision did not matter quite so much at that moment, however. The high priestess’s house, situated as it always had been against the southeast corner of the Labyrinth, afforded no view of the fashionable district with its mansions and processional thoroughfare. But what slight, hot breeze there was, was blowing from the north, carrying the tumult of thousands of voices.