The men walked the remainder of the journey in silence, following the path that zigzagged up the descending spine of Oaxsa. A piece of the spine was missing, maybe once having broken away, leaving a triangular plateau. As they neared the plateau, it became clear to the priest that this was the site of the temple. He found it remarkable that anyone, ancient or otherwise, would build in stone in such an inaccessible place. He had seen the larger clay vessels in the storeroom and marvelled at who could possibly have carried them up this steep path he now walked on.
The archaeologist had created a ramp and paved steps to the north-facing entrance of the excavation where there was a latched gate surrounded by a six-foot wire fence. Within the fence lay the temple remains, walls that had been reconstructed to a height of three feet. The internal floor was shaved flat. It was empty. The priest had expected shovels, holes, grid wires. But there was none of it apart from a protruding stone from the central chamber at the rear.
Instead of entering the fenced gate of the temple site, Mimis escorted Father Dimitrios to the rise behind it. They stood in an elevated position where they could both look northward over the temple remains and out into the blueness of the Mediterranean Sea.
Mimis sat on the ground, folding his legs beneath him. The priest followed in the same manner, awaiting an explanation of what was uncovered here, but the archaeologist lit a cigarette and laid back to stare off into the sky, leaving the priest’s eyes to wander freely, unimpeded.
At first the priest was aware of Steffanakis behind him, but his presence seemed to vanish. Dimitrios became comfortably alone, within himself, looking out. Below he could see the clock tower of the church, looking small and insignificant. Next door was the Church of St Constantino and Eleni, his home and the home of God on earth that now seemed so far away.
The afternoon sun warmed Father Dimitrios’ skin. He sat alone with his thoughts. The wind had lost its wickedness. Maybe he had grown more comfortable with its nature. Still, it blew sharply, pushing and pulling all in one instant. This was not the same wind from down below. Up here she had a desire. His fear subsided. Each gust made him smile with delightful thoughts as if coming from something heavenly, maybe God. God always has a purpose, he thought. The wind does speak. And this chill from the air makes me shiver, awakens my very soul.
“If you want to view life clearly, view it from very far away.” These were the words that came to the priest’s mind, words from his university philosophy professor many years before. He had heard similar words from Demetra: “I live up there because it suits me and I see things more clearly when viewing from the moon.” It was the startling elevation; everything below seemed so quaint. He wondered if this distance removed him from God’s Church and brought him closer to the heavens. Most certainly he felt removed from humanity.
Does this make me a free man, he thought, or just alone with myself? Mimis sleeps. How can he sleep when I am so excited with life? This air is so crisp. My heart pounds. He sleeps. He must know what I am feeling. He has been here a thousand times before.
He remembered words that Mimis had said to him: “To understand these ancient people, we cannot view them with our eyes. We must view them with their eyes.”
The priest’s eyes swallowed the entire temple. He wanted to see the world just as the Minoans must have done. Mimis’ words returned: “To understand the ancient people, you must become one.”
This view has not changed in four thousand years, thought the priest. From here they would have seen what I see now, looking northward. The villages of Elefsis and the Venetian fortress of Spinalonga were not here then, but should the earth shake hard, they would collapse and all would be as it was. Nothing changes here. How important our lives are down there. Up here it seems inconsequential. All of us living within a small space are unaware of the enormity of the earth – and now, for the first time, I am above it. If you want to view life clearly, view it from far away, from the moon.
He imagined this temple as a very old church, a church of secrecy and ritual. His church had secrecy and rituals performed behind the altar, away from the eyes of the congregation. The Minoans moved the secrets higher up the mountain, closer to God. Of course! Father Dimitrios mused. In clear view of the universe. The horizon. And beyond.
And there in the central chamber is the xoanon fully clothed and attached to the clay feet. Like my Christ on the cross, they would worship him. Yet he is simply an object of worship. Christ is everywhere. Not just here. Ancient priests are at the feet of the xoanon beside the rock of consecration on which the blood of beasts is poured. Is it so different than us drinking the blood of Christ through consecrated wine?
This place is so peaceful and out there, too, where the sea and sky meet and disappear into God’s domain. That is why they came here! And, now, for me, the same! I have come by design.
My love for You is exalted here. Here I find reverie. You are with me. You are on the branch of every mountain bush, upon the wings of every bird, within every rock, within the soil. I cannot see You, but I can hear a choir of angels in the wind, in the air across this sky. I cannot touch You but I feel a presence, the warmth of it, the tingling in my brain that makes me want to leap with joy, leap up into the heavens, soar into Your waiting arms. I am, at this moment, everlasting. I am a free man.
The priest stood up, and with eyes closed, tried to fill his lungs with God’s breath. His body shivered with excitement as he removed the two sea-washed pebbles from his cloak. He held them in his open palms, his arms outstretched. He howled like a wolf into God’s blue dome.
Mimis’ body jerked with fright, yanking him out of dreamy thoughts to witness the priest’s gesture to the heavens, to witness the sudden wicked wind rage across the mountain’s spine. One enormous gust came from nowhere, a cannon shot of air that snatched the stones away like tufts of cotton. Mimis’ mouth was agape at the sight of it; the catapulting stones were flung backwards many metres, ricocheting off a large aconi boulder. A further gust forced Dimitrios to the earth. He spun around and fell hard on his chest upon a bush of mountain thyme. He lay motionless for a moment. Mimis watched fearfully as the priest slowly pressed himself onto his hands and knees while spitting out dirt. He saw a face with fiery eyes and an unsaintly grin.
“This place,” bellowed the priest. “It is alive.” He slapped the earth and spat upon it. “It is alive.”
Relieved, Mimis closed his eyes and smiled. He took a deep breath of air, enjoying every moment of what was happening before him. Placing his hands behind his head, he laid back down on the ground. He rested his thoughts upon a cloud of contentment. With a soft and gentle voice he whispered: “I know.”
Eleus
1643 BC
The rivers of fire poured out of the mountain on Akrotiri for many years, spewing Meterra’s flames of anger. Heavy smoke filled the sir and white dust fell on Keftiu from time to time. It lay like scum upon the water. Hollow rocks spat out of Meterra’s mouth into the sea. Thousands washed onto Keftiu’s northern shores. Those who lived on Akrotiri were now forced to leave it.
All the King’s ships had carried the homeless people safely to Eleus, leaving the villages empty of life. It was within the powers of their Goddess to have killed them all with one great belch, but She did not. For this Basilius was joyful. I could feel his noos within me, saying there was still time for his Keftiu people. Meterra’s warnings had become more severe and I knew the blood of Sarapos must be poured into the earth. There was no other way.
While my thoughts were silently within me, the eyes of Basilius could see them deep inside my noos. “Your thoughts are wise,” he said.
I remained silent, for once again I heard my father’s words return. It was not I, Minunep, who was wise. I was but a lost man of the sea and nothing more. Here I would remain for many years, a frightened man.
Basilius came close to me and placed one hand on my shoulder. He was such a large man that I felt the weight of it. I looked to the ground. He asked t
hat I attend a special ceremony for those whose thumos were coughed out from Akrotiri to Keftiu. He said all of Eleus must help the deceased on their voyage across the Great Green Sea. We would all dance with the dead. He asked that I fill myself with joy and not sorrow. Good thoughts were like the oars on a ship; they made the journey swift.
In the land of my Pharaoh, preparation for the death journey was made by emptying the body of its innards and filling it again with honey and secret mixtures. It was never my place to witness this ritual and my thumos filled with panic. I would dance with the Keftiu dead.
Basilius showed me a carved seal stone which he wore on this wrist. It was engraved with a lone Keftiuian on a small boat with tips that turned upward in the shape of a labrys. The vessel was the shape of the fresh new moon. I wished to look away for fear the seal would take me in, place me on that boat, but its beauty was compelling. I set my eyes upon it, but did not touch it.
Long ago, I heard, my people had once sailed upon this vessel of the dead. Boats were buried in the tombs of great Pharaohs. Yet Basilius’ words surprised me. He said the Keftiu people knew the way across the Great Green Sea as most had been there before. Had they gone to their Goddess many times before their death? This thought made me weak, feeling I would die here untravelled, forsaken and alone.
I would join the ceremony with my Keftiu friends, walk beside them with honour and I would learn to walk with joy in my thumos. It was a day of dark haze without the face of the sun. The air was still, and smelled of Meterra’s breath.
All of Eleus joined in the march. People sang songs that I had once heard them sing during the harvest of the food. Many played the sistrum, all plucking the same tune. Others blew through the sacred spiral shell, playing the song of life reborn.
The three whose breath had left them were placed in clay chests, knees pulled upward in the manner of their birth. The clay chests were painted in the bright colours of life and the insides of the lids were painted as blue as the sky. We walked to the burial ground at the base of Oaxsa, singing louder as we came near. The clay chests were placed within the rock-cut chambers and later covered with rock and earth.
We gathered near a giant ancient olive tree and our voices sang. It was a sacred tree with branches that spread out widely and were filled with fruit. The roots, they said, bore deep within the earth. It was the tree of strength and of renewal. Beneath its sacred boughs grew the rose of narkissos whose roots were boiled with wine and special mountain leaves for all of us to drink. The power of the Goddess was within us, one and all.
Basilius stood upon a rock and called to Meterra in a voice that sang of her pleasures. His voice was deep, his eyes wild as the lion. The wind blew hard upon us. All Keftiu voices sang along with him. From my mouth came the words of joy. We sang so strongly it filled the air with courage. Our breath joined the pneuma of the sacred tree and my phrenes turned red with heat. The louder we sang, the stronger the wind blew, and our hair rose above our heads like stiffened straw.
Basilius arched his back and shouted toward the wind. His eyes were wild; his long hair was lifted upwards and the wind carried him into the air. He was held there for all of us to see.
For one moment Basilius became a bird, became the wind, both man and bird, both man and god. I stood in awe. I felt the power of this vision deep within and I was not afraid.
The wind returned him to the earth and he led us all in dance. Hand in hand we circled round the tree. It was as frenzied as our songs, making circles within circles. We danced around the dead, each of us joined to the other, spiralling ever outward before returning inward once again. We danced inward from life to death, then outward to be reborn. With our epiphanies of song and dance we, along with the dead, had entered a divine while place inside the wind. Upon their boats they left, and we travelled partway with them. We watched as they were carried across the Great Green Sea. Soon they were gone.
Later the words of Basilius returned to me, saying that death was not a moment of deep sorrow, but a moment of great joy. In my fearful nature, I wondered: could I ever be a man who could be free?
Elefsis, Crete
September, 1980
T
hroughout his long career in archaeology, Livitos Skoulis seemed destined for success and great discoveries, yet none of accomplishments seemed great enough for him. How could his work ever be compared to the enduring achievements of Arthur Evans at Knossos or Heinrich Schliemann’s historic unearthing of Troy? Were there not other mysteries beneath the earth as grand or as glorious as Knossos or Agamemnon’s golden death mask for him to uncover?
Befriending the junta generals had brought him numerous rewards. He had been given senior roles in the excavations of others, given credit for the discoveries of other minor archaeologists. Yet none could quite be measured on the scale of notoriety he desired. Time was passing quickly and for Skoulis, time was running out.
As a young archaeologist, Mimis had been forced to share the credit for one of his discoveries with Skoulis. He had concluded that Skoulis’ talent was considerable but was supplanted by some anxious desire to find those very special objects that would leap into the history of mankind. If only he could have discovered the golden mask and uttered Schliemann’s words: “I look upon the face of Agamemnon.”
Skoulis had been involved in many good excavations, but in his urgency, the final interpretations were often flawed. Though Mimis acknowledged him, it was done out of courtesy and not out of respect. In the privacy of his house, Steffanakis studied the letter from the Ministry signed by Rombakis. It caused his blood to boil and urged him to consider his fate. He felt that Aristides had prior knowledge of the closing of Oaxsa and this suggested his involvement in the decision, but where did the hungry ego of Skoulis fit in? That Mimis had not heard a tell-tale whisper, a relevant rumour, no doubt meant that this decision had come from outside the community of archaeology, outside normal channels, from the Minister himself or further up … the Cabinet.
If Skoulis was involved, then he had more friends at the top than Mimis imagined. His friends in the junta had been ousted. To ingratiate himself to the left-wing Pasok government would have been difficult, but well within his capabilities. The bitterness Mimis felt was often sweetened with pity for the man who would never achieve what he thought was deserving of him. But there was no time for pity now. His own career and future were spinning quickly into a manmade vortex.
Steffanakis was a large target, but not an easy one. He had international respect, had written six books and scores of academic papers. His work had been reported in magazines throughout the world and was the principal of two documentaries. Now, as the Ephor of the most important archaeological area in Crete, it seemed likely that this position might be the target. Should a sudden appointment make Skoulis the Ephor, he would surely be able to exert his influence over nearly every excavation in the region. All of them, including Oaxsa.
Alone at his desk, Mimis considered his entrapment. No one in the Ministry knew the digging on Oaxsa was finished. Mimis’ monthly reports made no mention of it. His secretive nature served him well. He thought Skoulis could have guessed the excavations were finished after viewing the storeroom. Would he try to claim an empty site? The storeroom? Without Mimis’ interpretation and analysis, what would be the point of it? He would need to steal the diary, seize all Mimis’ written work. Mimis felt certain he would reach out and grab it all. Time was running out for Skoulis … Steffanakis too.
Mimis pulled an empty sheet of paper from his drawer and wrote: Excavation site on Oaxsa fully secured. Nothing more.
About to sign his name to it, he collected the telephone and dialled a number he knew by heart. Mimis spoke softly to his wife, hesitantly, as though the telephone line was not secure, not to be trusted. He read her the letter from the Ministry, then asked if she knew of it. Her reply was short. “Nothing.” They both hung up the phone. Mimis signed the paper and placed it in an envelope. Addressed and stamped, he rested it c
arefully against his lamp stand for Aoide to mail.
The archaeologist stared at the envelope, wondering: would Skoulis read this with disappointment, wishing more from his reply? Would he prefer an enraged response with vitriolic words crammed onto a page? This letter would give him no pleasure; that is, if Skoulis read it. The department was large. It could be read by anyone there and filed away along with the letters of every archaeologist in Crete with a tick in one corner denoting secured and unsecured.
Only six weeks remained. Six weeks of work, or at least only three weeks of funds remaining to pay staff, buy equipment, continue with lab work.
The face of Demetra flashed before him … her cave. He thought about secretly moving his entire storeroom there. A desperate thought. How could he move tiny fragments of pottery and bone? Delicate things. If he moved them at all, then he would have to be selective. They must go to a place completely beyond suspicion. He shook his head in exasperation, thinking: Why would I even stoop to their intrigue?
Mimis picked up the phone and dialled the National Forensic Laboratory in Athens. He waited as they tried to find his old friend, Dr Yannis Keffolakis. This was the man he had once toasted as the most gifted forensic scientist in the world. He could join a million bone fragments found lying in the sand and form them into a skull, a foot or the pelvic bone. His nickname, Donatello, came from his precision in making a mould of the skull, then applying layers of clay, slowly, painstakingly, until the face of the deceased was recreated. If the skull could be put back together, then he could make the face return to life like Donatello’s sculptures. Had Keffolakis been alive during the time of the 19th century excavation of Troy, Heinrich Schliemann could honestly have said: I have looked into the face of Agamemnon.
“Yannis!”
“Professor, you are calling me too soon. I’m not finished yet.”
Digging at the Crossroads of Time Page 12