“Mother . . .” Kikeru tried, but she was already throwing open her own clothes chest and bringing out her best finery, the snow-white harvest shift with its edging of silver and the skirt of blue, green, and silver like the sea, and his heart eagerly awaited them.
He stood compliant and let her put underdress and skirt on him. “I don’t think I have a bodice to fit over those shoulders,” she said, patting the ruffles of the sleeves down to console him. “But now, thank the Lady I’m a little wide, because this will work.”
She laced a boned corset around his waist and tugged until he could hardly breathe. But he could hardly breathe anyway, feeling the touch of the garment like a welcome home. He kept smoothing his hands over the dip of his waist and the curve of his hips and chest by contrast, and all of a sudden he was fighting not to cry because this was . . . this was . . .
“Shh, shh, shh.” Maja chucked him on the chin and smiled, warm, into his brimming eyes. “I should have seen this too. But don’t cry. Hold still.”
With a deft hand, she painted his eyes, and twisted the whole sheer mass of his blue-black hair into a loose knot at the nape of his neck. “There. Look.”
She raised the mirror, and he peered in. The person in there, yellowed by the metal’s reflective surface as if she stood in candlelight, was the other half of his soul. He took hold of the mirror’s edges and pressed it to himself, as if he could join the reflection to himself and be whole, finally be who he was.
“You can attend the ceremony this afternoon as my handmaid, and if Potnia accepts you, then you can show yourself as a holy one whenever you like. We can talk about arranging the operation later, at the most propitious time.”
Kikeru smoothed his hands over the indentation of his waist again, and then down to where his cock and balls lay gently sleeping in the crook of his legs. Would it be nice to be rid of them? He felt he should be pleased at the thought. Cut them off—be forever a woman, powerful and respected and beautiful.
Oh goddess, why was he so fucking contrary? Why was he so convinced he wasn’t a woman either? He had to be one or the other, didn’t he?
“Argh!” He pushed his hands into the artfully tumbled mass of his hair and rebruised his scalp by accident. “I don’t know! I don’t know.”
Naturally that was when Rusa arrived.
Since no one was talking secrets, Kikeru had left the door open, folded back against the wall to take up less space. So Rusa simply knocked on the doorjamb and walked straight in. Once more, Time missed her step on the stairs and stumbled, catching herself with a jerk that made Kikeru’s heart hit against his ribs like a woodpecker against a tree.
Well.
He had not connected the ideas of the half-naked fisherman and the big house as he should have done. Now he was jolted at the magnificence of Rusa in overlapping kilts of sage and crimson, bordered with gold thread and finished with a tassel of gold and carnelian beads. Rusa had put on a rolled belt as amethyst as his sealstone, and purple boots to match. A pectoral pendant in the shape of a ship called attention to the massive solidity of his chest, and arm-rings and bracelets struggled not to burst under the pressure of his arms.
In truth—Kikeru’s analytic voice piped up—he was oversized for perfection. Too bulky, too thick. With a waist that could not be nipped in no matter how tightly he laced his belt. Sure, in the sacred game, he could probably lift the bull straight onto his shoulders and walk off with it, but aesthetically speaking his figure was not—
Goddess, he was overwhelming. Kikeru’s throat closed as his face went up in flames. Under the skirt, his snake stirred awake, raised itself, and oh Poteidon, the skirt!
Rusa had stopped too, looking at him, openmouthed. Now Time regained her footing and flounced a little, trying to pretend she had meant to do that all along. Rusa cleared his throat and seemed to be struggling after an apology.
“I— Forgive me,” he said, sparing Maja a fleeting glance before he turned an increasingly worried gaze back to Kikeru. “I didn’t know you were a temple maiden. I wouldn’t have . . .” Kissed you, Kikeru heard, and was glad that after another glance at Maja, Rusa continued with, “Come on so strong.”
It’s fine, he wanted to say. I haven’t decided on anything. I told you it was complicated, but Maja got there first.
“She only had the courage to tell me about it today,” his mother said, pride in him overspilling her body, her bright eyes and grin lighting up the room. She moved away from the door and gestured to Rusa to take one of the stools. “She said she had met someone. I presume that was you?”
Please don’t let her be gearing up for the “temple maidens are precious and holy and can’t be wasted on a mundane life like normal women” talk, Kikeru thought, his pleasure in her pride marred by doubt and a sense of having only stepped from one trap into another.
“I hope so.” Rusa lowered himself carefully onto the stool, giving it time to adjust to his weight.
“Then you probably gave her the strength she needed to make her choice. I must thank you. The sense that something has been hanging over us for the past year, which I could not pin down, has been . . . And all I could do was wait for the crisis and hope whatever came was bearable. It’s been so— I have to admit there have been times when I was afraid. I have even wondered if the cosmos had been broken by the earthquake and all things would go awry here on, but this news is wonderful.”
She wheeled to give Kikeru a hug. Hadn’t she just been saying something completely different? Had she never meant her words about his future as a family man, about her loneliness because she too was set apart in her own way? It baffled and irritated him. He wanted to please her, but how could he if he couldn’t work out what it was she really wanted?
“I’m so proud of you.” She beamed, squeezing his shoulders tight, leaving a scent of iris oil and honey and a lingering sense of confusion and guilt.
He caught Rusa’s eye with an expression he hoped said plainly, Please rescue me. Already, it was becoming a pleasant habit to be able to do so.
Rusa gave a snort like an amused boar. “Did you tell your mother about the Greeks?”
“I haven’t been able to break the flow,” Kikeru exclaimed, raising both hands as if supplicating a goddess. A gesture of habit impious in his other clothes now looked right—graceful, numinous. And yet all I have changed about myself is to exchange one garment for another. Why does that make such a difference?
“We’ve been discussing an important life change which deserves to be celebrated,” Maja rebuked him fondly. Kneeling, she drew the storage box out from under her couch and produced their pottery cups and bowls, a loaf of barley bread, and a small goats’ cheese. Taking the hint, Kikeru poured anise-flavoured honey wine from the jug and went over to stand in front of Rusa on his stool and offer them.
He smiled down into Rusa’s approving gaze. This was nice. Again, this felt right—the act of bestowing food, like a sacrificial priestess. Maybe it was what he was meant to do? Except, when he thought of doing it for the Powers, it didn’t carry the same warm thrill. His mind shied away from running through the same debate again, brought him back to Rusa’s tawny eyes. They shared a moment, their spirits expanding towards one another even while they held quite still.
“So what about the Greeks?” Maja asked, settling on her couch with her own lunch. “You’re a trader, I see. Have they been—”
“Kikeru here overheard them plotting to attack the temple.”
Kikeru was briefly overwhelmed by a mixed gratitude and resentment that Rusa had dared to interrupt his mother. Admittedly, she was a fairly minor priestess—though one undeniably blessed by a god—and granted, anyone could tell on meeting her she would do all the talking if you let her. Even so, fancy just cutting in! It only escaped being rude because the subject was so important.
He pulled out the second stool and settled into it, distracted by the feel of skirts against his feet. He could not afford to be distracted. There was a more important m
atter to chew over. But still, look how feminine his bare feet seemed where they poked out beneath the flowers of his dress. The outfit was very warm, but it was an energising, life-filled warmth, prickling with the knowledge that like this, yes, he was beautiful. The moment of having touched Rusa’s soul seemed to remain around him. He was acutely conscious the man found him desirable and he basked in Rusa’s admiration like a cat in a sunbeam.
“Why in all the oceans would they attack us?” Maja was saying, somewhere outside of the bubble of Kikeru’s pleasure. “We protect their trade routes on the sea. We taught them everything they know! We have friends among every nation. If, through some madness, they didn’t fear the wrath of the goddesses, you would have thought they would at least respect the strength of our navy. The strength of our colonies and our friends. The Queen of Egypt, do you think she would leave such a sacrilege unpunished? She would not.”
Kikeru smiled at the indignation. It was pleasant to be reminded he was a small part of one of the greatest nations under the sun. Maybe he should accept his destiny and do the job given to him to keep this mother of civilisations strong in a newly unsettled world?
And die under the knife? There was always risk in having one’s genitals cut off. Not so much the wound itself, which was surprisingly small if done right. But sometimes the channel for piss would heal shut, and then death was sure and hideous. And of course there was always the risk of the cut going bad, and that death was little better.
His warm bubble burst and left an itching sensation as his serpent tried to crawl back up inside his skin at the thought. He hoped he wasn’t just afraid. Hoped his spirit recoiled out of honesty, not fear, but it was so impossible to tell.
“I think they are mad,” Rusa was speaking again. Maja had left a gap for him, as if she respected him, which was nice on the one hand—because Kikeru wanted them to like each other—but it was frustrating too. What did it say about her relationship to him?
“Did you know they refuse to believe Zeus ever dies? We know he dies and is reborn every year, but they won’t close the circle. They say he just goes on and on, unchanging. And . . .” Rusa laughed, as though he was not sure of his footing, a very quiet and retiring laugh for a man of his size. “I sometimes think perhaps the death has to come into their minds another way.”
Maja breathed out and leaned towards him, apparently surprised. This was her professional face—the elated focus on the nature of the goddesses. She rarely wore this, except with other priestesses. “You have a point. Their ‘greatest god’ has never tasted death, never wept over it or suffered or rested and been restored. He has never been humbled, and he has never learned pity, and naturally he shapes his followers in the same mould as himself. If they only worshipped his mother as we do, they would know he’s only a very minor fellow after all, but try telling them that!”
“Or don’t, unless you want a spear in the gut.” Rusa looked pleased to have been heard—dimples in his cheeks because he had given his theological opinion to a priestess and she had found it good.
“I still think they have too much to lose to do something so blasphemous,” Maja mused. “Are you sure that’s what they said? Did you hear them say it too, or was it just Kikeru who thought he heard it?”
Kikeru might be distractable at the moment, but he wasn’t deaf. He bristled. “I didn’t ‘think’ I heard it,” he snapped. “I did hear it. Is my word not good enough for you?”
“My daughter,” Maja started, gentle. After the respect she had shown Rusa, it felt patronising, and Kikeru’s skin bristled across his back as if spiders were walking there. “I love you very much, and I know you are touched by the goddesses, and you hear many voices. But that’s my worry too, because you know as well as I do not all of them speak the truth. Once you’re initiated, you’ll have to go through many lessons to teach you how to discern which voices should be listened to and which should be ignored, but for the moment, I—”
“You don’t believe me.”
She raised a rebuking eyebrow at him as if to say, Don’t interrupt me, and that only poured more oil on the flame inside. Yes, he’d wanted her to like Rusa. He’d wanted Rusa to like her. That didn’t mean he wanted them talking above his head like two parents with their child. The way he felt towards Rusa was not at all filial, and his mother could keep her hands off, thank you.
“It’s not that I don’t believe you, my little one. It’s just . . .” She trailed off as the expression on his face must have alerted her that tack was not taking her upwind. Sighing, she took a slow, meditative bite of bread and cheese and chewed it while Kikeru tried to suppress this latest bout of temper. After those men had had their hands on him, everything seemed to irritate him. He hoped it would wear off once the memory faded.
Then Maja turned to Rusa, as if she’d dismissed Kikeru altogether. “Do you think you could help gather more accurate information? I don’t want to alarm anyone unduly until we’re sure.”
He’d gone through his initiation two years ago, and still she thought of him as a child! Still she turned to a stranger for help rather than to him. He might not know if he was a man or a woman, but he certainly knew he was an adult. Angrily he threw himself to his feet, making them both stop and look.
“Mother! You’ve known Rusa for the space of one meal. I’m your child. If you need help, you should ask me. I’m fully grown up and perfectly capable of dealing with the Greeks myself. I will be back with the evidence you seek before the sun goes down.”
They were still gaping when he picked up his skirts in both hands and stormed out of the door.
Rusa met Maja’s eyes, looking for guidance. It was in his heart to run straight after Kikeru and stop her from doing anything which would put her in even more danger. Had she forgotten already the fate he had averted this morning? Or was she so brave, so indomitable, she could rise up after an experience like that and be yet more fierce? And if she was, should she be restrained anyway, for her own good?
Maja had half risen from her seat on the couch, her hands clenched over her womb, perhaps in some piece of magic designed to protect the life she had created. But when she saw him watching, she sank back down and gave a rueful, thin laugh. “I think I caused that, and so perhaps I’m not the best person to go after her.”
Maja was not yet old, having the ripeness of a fig ready to drop from the tree. Kikeru’s face—the heart shape of it and the beautiful bow of a mouth—was rounder and warmer and more powerful in her. Lioness to Kikeru’s ferocious kitten. If he’d met the mother first, perhaps . . . but there was something sexless about her for all her ample breasts. He felt he’d met a mind here, and the body was irrelevant.
“You think I should?” he asked, to be sure. Maja was a priestess, trained to sense the unseen currents of the cosmos. He trusted her reading of the situation more than his own.
Clenched fists again, pressed into her apron, and her gaze was appealing, afraid. “I wish she could understand. It’s not that I don’t trust her, it’s just . . .”
This was where his heart flowered towards her. He had liked her manner before, and the way she treated him with respect, rather than assuming the inner mysteries were inaccessible to him as a man. But this reminded him she, too, was human. He knew that feeling himself. Every night Jadikira went out and did not come home. She is a grown woman, and I cannot take away her freedom. But please Earth, please Sea, keep her safe.
By now the bare light footsteps down the corridor had faded from hearing. In the twists and turns of the complex, Kikeru could be anywhere. Had she run straight out to confront the Achaeans in their stronghold? She seemed too clever for that. “Where should I look first? Would she go to friends?”
Maja put her head on one side to think, light from the air shaft in the corridor outside gilding the pearls in her hair, making her look for a moment as golden melancholy as autumn. Then she smiled. “Try the workshop first. Left at the second potters, down a stair, past the honey vats, up again, right at the lab
rys pillar, then left.”
“I will bring her home. Or if I can’t, I will go with her.” Her look of thankfulness blessed him.
He threaded his way through the comfortable warren of Knossos, feeling both afraid for Kikeru’s sake and humbled for his own. He rarely came up to the temple, perhaps because every time he did his life was utterly upended. He could feel the power in the walls here. Even in its private places where it was most like a house, he could feel the echoes of millennia of worship. The goddesses’ voices, and the gods’, ran down the passages like dancers and buffeted him.
He was glad of his boots, keeping his feet insulated from this well of the divine, but in the confusion of turns and changes of light and utter darkness, where only his fingertips on the sacred pictures on the walls were left of him, he began to lose himself to the daemons and haunting things in the dark. As he passed the sunken storage jars brimful of offerings of honey, sweetness trailed him into the presence of the pillar. That, he passed quickly, spine prickling, for it was covered in votive double axes like sharp butterflies swarming—labryses, labia, representations of goddess power, and he wasn’t exactly sure if he was welcome here.
Not like Kikeru, who was . . .
Just having the pillar near him forced him into honesty. Yes, all right. He was impressed Kikeru was so holy, so whole, a man so perfect he was allowed to be a woman, having in himself the life-giving power of goddesses. Of course she should be dedicated here where her exceptional blessedness could give life to the whole realm.
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