by Laura Gill
How could she possibly be late? Euestor and the Minos’s own messenger had coordinated her arrival. Had she tarried too long with the Babylonian, or with her bath? Blinking, Umpara checked the sun’s position in the heavens. It was still early, scarcely midmorning. All should have been proceeding according to schedule, yet somehow she was late and could not fathom why.
*~*~*~*
Kitanetos squinted to catch his reflection in the sliver of polished bronze his attendant handed him. His bedchamber faced north, toward the unsightly industrial quarter, and his eyesight was not what it had been, but when he touched his chin where the young man had shaved him, he still felt the bristles. “Again, Idina. I refuse to appear before the people as raggedy as a beggar.”
He lifted his chin for the hot towel. Time was running short. Idina had better get everything right this time. “I should already be painted and dressed.” The young attendant offered no comment.
Closing his eyes, Kitanetos held still for the bronze razor. A split-second later, he felt a stinging pain along his jaw line. “Clumsy oaf! Watch what you’re doing.” He raised a hand to strike, but, murmuring an apology, Idina had already ducked beyond arm’s reach. Kitanetos grabbed the towel and pressed it to the wound. Fortunately, it was a shallow laceration that stung worse than it bled, yet nevertheless he was irked by the prospect of appearing in the Labyrinth with both stubble and a cut on his face. The Minos would take him for a drunken, addle-brained fool, and High Priestess Umpara, that dried-up hag, would snigger and spread rumors among the people.
Holding out the towel, he signaled to Idina. “Come here, boy, and finish what you’ve started.”
The young man dabbed at the scratch with warm water. “It’s not noticeable, sir.” Kitanetos grumbled and fussed, subsiding just long enough to let his attendant finish shaving him. He did not bother checking the results this time, because he knew he would find an imperfection, perhaps a stray bristle or hairs in his nose that Idina had not trimmed, and there was no time. He had exhausted himself last night trying to lie with his bed slave—all for nothing, as Pipituna of the Doves and the Great Bull failed to bless his phallus—and he had taken far too long in awakening. His joints were still stiff—the only part of him that invariably was, he reflected grimly—and he had yet to be painted and dressed. Why, just walking from his residence to the Labyrinth would take half an hour! A shame he could not afford a litter or bearers.
“Sir, I hear the trumpets for the royal procession.” Idina had finished drying and anointing his face, and now stood at his elbow holding a pot of kohl. “Shall I still paint your face?”
“What’s that?” Kitanetos’s vertebrae protested as he leaned forward in his chair. Whatever was the boy talking about? He heard nothing, certainly no trumpets. “You fool, we’ve an hour yet.” He settled once more against the cushion Idina had propped behind his back, and beckoned to the servant boy who had just entered bearing a tray. “There you are, Eshkar. Make sure you mix my wine with plenty of water. And you, Idina, hold your hand steady when you do my eyes.”
Kitanetos kept one eye open while Idina applied kohl and powdered malachite to the other. Out of habit, he watched Eshkar break the seal on the wine jar, and mix it with water poured from another jug. When the boy brought him his cup, Kitanetos did not take it immediately, but said, “Taste it first, young man.”
He observed Eshkar dutifully bring the cup to his mouth, where the liquid passed between his lips. Eshkar swallowed, lowered the cup, revealing a moustache of fermented purple. Kitanetos disliked having to ask a child to taste his food—it was absurd, really—but every servant in the household was required to take their turn sampling his meals for poison. And when they became deathly sick, he knew that the high priestess had tried once again to murder him, although, despite his best efforts, he could never gather quite enough substantial evidence to bring charges against her.
Umpara was not going to be rid of him that easily. Kitanetos meant to counter her ruthless suppression of the new cults, her midnight murders of the faithful, and her agents’ smashing of altars and idols for as long as breath remained in his body. The hidebound bitch refused to see reason. The ancient deities she persisted in elevating had turned against the people, punishing them with cycles of hunger, disease, and earthquake. The Labyrinth was almost bankrupt because of her mismanagement and bloated rituals, and her creditors were getting impatient.
Kitanetos drank from the cup, only half-heeding Idina’s admonishment not to move around too much. How could Umpara fail to recognize that the Hellene usurpers and their vigorous deities were the greatest blessings that had befallen Kaphtor in generations? The Hellene gods had not necessarily replaced the old gods but reinvigorated them, giving hope to the people. Poseidon was still the ancient Poteidan, but in his present aspect he was also Marineus. He also fostered fighting men and horses to protect the island. Velchanos the Thunderer, the Master of Beasts, had merged with Diwios the supreme Lord of the Heavens and father of the gods. Even Mother Rhaya had acquired a new, more powerful aspect: Atana, Mistress of Battles. How could the high priestess and her supporters not rejoice in these improvements?
He had vandalized her efforts to restore the Labyrinth in order to force her to see common sense. Handing the wine cup to Eshkar, he took a morsel of bread from the tray he proffered, and popped it into his mouth. He regretted nothing—except, perhaps, for switching out the snakes from Ashera’s sanctuary for dead snakes just before the last Serpent Dance. Remorse over the sacrilege warred with the immense satisfaction he had experienced over Umpara’s public discomfiture.
“Sir,” Idina suggested, “we should hurry and get you dressed. The procession has already started.”
“Nonsense! The Minos’s herald said midmorning. I remember perfectly.” Kitanetos expectantly pursed his lips for the application of red ocher mixed with animal fat. A moment later, he beckoned to Eshkar and ordered, “Go outside, young man, and see whether this scoundrel speaks the truth.”
The reed cosmetic brush had barely smeared his lips when the boy hurried back in, confirming the tale. “It’s true, sir! I heard the people cheering. Everyone’s on the roof watching.”
Kitanetos’s dismissive attitude instantly turned to horror. Dear gods, he was late, unpardonably late, and he had no idea how that could be. Surely the herald had said midmorning. “You imbecile!” He shoved at Idina. “Why did you not tell me? Fetch my clothes! We must hasten.”
*~*~*~*
“They are arriving, Wanax.”
Alektryon voiced his irritation with his personal servant. “How many times must I remind you to address me as Minos when we are inside the Labyrinth?” His Hellene-born retainers and slaves insisted on using the Hellene word for king, regardless of his admonishments. While he himself preferred the hard, martial resonance of “Wanax” over “Minos,” his scheme this afternoon depended on his playing the part of the priest-king of Knossos.
Kusos apologetically bowed from the waist. “Forgive the error, Minos.” His tongue stumbled over the Kaphti title as if he were suddenly obliged to speak Egyptian. “Will you admit your guests now?”
Alektryon spared a glance for the pier-and-partition doors separating the feasting chamber from the antechamber where his guests awaited his invitation to enter. Once he admitted them, the wheel would turn, setting his plans irrevocably into motion. He needed a moment to collect himself. “Return to the guests,” he told his servant, “and see that they continue to enjoy their wine and refreshments.”
“And when they ask why the delay, Wan—er, I mean, Minos?”
“Must I walk you through everything like a child, old man?” Alektryon tightened his right hand into a fist. Kusos’s bushy white eyebrows twitched, and he shuffled backward in alarm. Alektryon had mutilated and even killed servants for lesser crimes. Had he not been standing in a newly refurbished feasting chamber, and been wary of offending his guests by shedding blood, he would have drawn his dagger and sliced the man across the
cheek to reinforce his point. “Now close your mouth and follow orders.” He did not bother to watch Kusos scuttle away.
Bumbling servants like Kusos and having to finalize too many last-minute details aggravated his patience; he could not and would not entrust the latter to his subordinates. Moreover, the Kaphti-style codpiece he was obliged to wear chafed his balls, and his oiled lovelocks contrasted unfavorably with his hirsute physique. No wonder the dynasty he had supplanted had become so impotent.
It could have been far more humiliating, he mused, while scratching his crotch. The elaborate ceremonies surrounding the Minos could have required him to don a priestess’s vestments and pretend to be a woman, as certain priests and acolytes did when adoring the goddess Rhaya. After today, Alektryon decided, as Minos he would adopt Hellene fashions during ritual observances. And why not? Knossos was the last of the great, urban Kaphti settlements left standing after the Kallistean cataclysm, and only because Minos Pyramesos had employed Hellene mercenaries like Alektryon’s grandfather Glaukos to maintain order when elsewhere towns and villages had succumbed to chaos. Where much of the island was still depopulated, the Hellenes had established administrative centers around Knossos and funded the complete restoration of the Labyrinth. Therefore, Alektryon felt justified in doing what he pleased.
He expelled a sigh and wrinkled his nose in disgust; the reek of urine pervaded the west court below the open window where he stood, even after the beggars who regularly congregated there had been dispersed. Alektryon would have assigned men to permanently keep them away after the Labyrinth’s sentries, protesting the chronic lack of payment from the high priestess, had abandoned their posts three months ago. However, Alektryon had been obliged to honor the protocol of the Labyrinth during the reconstructions; secular servants were not employed on the temple mount.
That would change shortly. Orders had already been issued. Alektryon had not undertaken the expense of restoring the Labyrinth to see it cheapened and vandalized by vagrants.
At least the feast chamber was everything Priest-Architect Daida had promised. The frescoes were faction-neutral, depicting servants of the temple harmoniously drinking wine together. Alektryon considered it a misfortune that life did not imitate art. While the figures pictured on the wall exuded an air of amicable cooperation, they were silent, obedient, everything that the real priests and priestesses of the Labyrinth were not. And therein lay a particularly vexing problem.
Alektryon rubbed his pointed beard, pondering the precarious situation he now found himself in. Bringing High Priestess Umpara and High Priest Kitanetos with their respective factions together was akin to mixing flame and oil. Tensions were bound to explode this afternoon.
A man clad in faded saffron yellow, the color of the priest-architects of Daidalos, intruded on his peripheral vision. “I just received your summons, Minos.” Priest-Architect Daida’s saturnine face betrayed no emotion as he spoke. “The answer is no. I require no assistance from your men to carry out your request. They will not know where to light the brands.”
Alektryon did not care what his secretive architect needed or wanted. One of his retainers would be on hand to make absolutely certain that Daida followed orders when commanded to do so. And should he hesitate, or attempt to subvert Alektryon’s plans by warning others, then he could be done away with. “Good. I rely on your knowledge and particular sense of, ah, refinement. Wait upon my signal. I will send a man with further instructions.”
Loyal lieutenant Eruthras was his man for that task; he had no qualms about spilling blood so close to the Labyrinth. There was nothing to worry about, Alektryon told himself.
“You may go, Daida,” he told the priest-architect. “And remember, you must speak to no one of this, not even your assistant. Your discretion is essential.”
Alektryon observed as Daida paid his respects and withdrew. A shame if the man insisted on becoming a casualty. There were other priest-architects who could assume the responsibility of overseeing the next stages of the restoration, but the direct descendants of Daidalos had been blessed with a singular talent for disentangling and interpreting the Labyrinth’s complexities. For this undertaking, Daida had been Alektryon’s Daidalos. Why, “Daidalos” was even the architect’s given name—a favorable omen—bestowed by an old, eccentric father who had passed away only ten years ago at the advanced age of ninety. Alektryon thanked the gods for that blessing, for bending the hard-headed, outspoken Priest-Architect Didanam to his purpose would have been impossible.
The musical tinkling of bangles and gold appliqués along the servant’s passage announced his wife’s arrival. Karpathia entered just as Daida exited. “Husband,” she complained, “your guests are growing impatient. Many are asking whether you are feeling well.”
The younger daughter of the Pylian king, and therefore a distant cousin, Karpathia’s formidable stature lent itself well to the heavy ornaments and bold colors she preferred. Perspiration darkened the fabric under her arms and along her breasts, and while Alektryon appreciated the way the dampness enhanced her cleavage, he could not afford the distraction. “Tell them not to worry. I am fine,” he answered. “I simply wanted to gaze upon the decorations and arrangements one last time before the guests entered.”
“Are you growing sentimental in your middle age, Husband?” she teased.
Alektryon snorted. “Me, sentimental? Please!” Sentiment had nothing to do with his actions, yet he could not explain his motivations. His wife knew nothing about his plans. Even those with active roles to play understood nothing beyond their own small part. Only he held all the counters. Only he possessed a god’s eye view of the gaming board. What others did not know, they could not betray.
Karpathia wrinkled her nose as she approached. “Fah! The west court stinks of transients!” Without turning, she barked at the servant who had followed her into the room. “Kyprios, fetch lengths of perfumed linen from the storerooms and tack them over these windows. We will not give our guests cause to complain.” She turned back to her husband. “Surely you noticed the stench.”
Alektryon shrugged. “I fear I have grown accustomed to it.” He watched the servant hasten away, then commented, “You do realize those lengths of cloth belong to the high priestess?”
“Hmmph! The way she spends, she has so much excess she will scarcely notice.” Karpathia moved among the inlaid, three-footed dining tables and the chairs with their soft cushions, also taken from the Labyrinth’s storerooms. “I hear her creditors have started bypassing her scribes and knocking directly on her door. Just this morning, that Babylonian usurer, Nidantu-Adad-Sin—”
“You need not tell me,” Alektryon said firmly. Had he been interested in his wife’s gossip, he would have sent for her after the procession. Besides, he knew all about High Priestess Umpara’s runaway spending, because his scribes had, without her knowledge, painstakingly combed through the copies of the accounts she filed with the Labyrinth. Five vessels of scented oil for a single ritual? A scarlet canopy fringed with precious purple just sitting in storage? Alektryon had had to fund the restoration of the Labyrinth out of raids, donations, and his own substance because of her incompetence with figures and inability to economize.
Some women, he concluded, should not be permitted to manage anything beyond their own cosmetic palettes.
A troupe of slaves entered bearing painted wooden and exotic ostrich fans—another excess Alektryon’s scribes had discovered gathering dust in the Labyrinth’s storerooms. Karpathia had obviously expected them, because she hustled them into position, while still carrying on a conversation with her husband. “I noticed High Priest Kitanetos and High Priestess Umpara were not on hand to greet you earlier. Dare I hope that you did not invite them?”
Alektryon adjusted his codpiece yet again. It was rubbing him raw. His gods were humbling him, lest he overreach today and commit an act of hubris. “They will arrive later.” His words were for his wife, but his gaze lingered on one fan bearer, a lithe Egyptian g
irl who flashed him a sly, impertinent wink. Egyptian women had such stamina in bed. Perhaps he might indulge later, to celebrate his triumph.
“It’s a shame you had to invite them at all.” Karpathia frowned. Had she noticed the exchange between him and the girl? Alektryon thought not, for she would have summarily dismissed the girl with a sharp reproof if she had. “They will argue and spoil everything, you know.”
He was starting to chafe again. Gods, to have this day behind him! “That cannot be avoided.” His hand strayed once more to his crotch. Karpathia would laugh once she understood his purpose. Not only did he expect the Labyrinth’s religious factions and their leaders to clash during the feast, he was counting on it.
*~*~*~*
Umpara plastered an artificial smile on her face as Minos Alektryon took her hand to raise it to his lips. He looked ridiculous in his priest-king’s garments, and, to judge by the rawness around his inner thighs, had obviously been scratching like the barbarian he was. But the midnight-blue kilt spangled with gold honeybees that covered his buttocks roused her admiration and jealousy. She would have looked well in such expensive fabric, had she been able to afford it. Worse still, his brawny physique glittered with more jewels than she now owned.
She breathed easier when the temple servants seated her amongst her allies. Head Priestess of Ashera Tanqara’s necklaces moved sinuously against her breasts as she saluted Umpara with an upraised cup. Head Priestess of Hekate Amunisa acknowledged her with a cordial nod.
Snow-white fleeces cushioned the chair she was given, and a three-legged table inlaid with electrum and mother-of-pearl had been provided for her use. A Nubian girl stationed behind the priestesses stirred the air with ostrich feathers from Punt, and two more Nubian servants immediately hastened to Umpara’s side with a finger-bowl of perfumed water and linens, and offers of wine, perhaps some delicacies. Yes, yes, she wanted everything, seeing as how Alektryon was providing the feast, and considering that she had been too rattled by that morning’s events to eat breakfast.