Kiya and the God of Chaos

by Philippa Bower

  Chapter Sixty Four: The Bath House

  Kiya was dragged past market stalls selling lengths of material, spices, oils, jewellery, ceramics and much more. Opulent scents mingled with the ozone of the sea. In other circumstances Kiya would have lingered to admire the treasures but the two guards urged her on. Ahead of them, beyond the harbour, she saw a low building. Behind it the hill rose steeply, almost forming a cliff. A large woman stood in the doorway, her arms folded, watching their approach.

  “Greetings Potnia,” said one of the soldiers. “The slave master, Itaja, wants this one to be presented at the palace.”

  Potnia regarded Kiya without enthusiasm. “Another virgin, I suppose.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Come this way, girl.” She looked over Kiya’s head to the soldiers. “You two can wait outside.”

  Kiya followed Potnia past a communal pool filled with water that smelled of sulphur. She wrinkled her nose. “Why does the water smell nasty.”

  “You have a lot of cheek for a prisoner,” said Potnia. “The water comes bubbling up hot from the depths of the earth. It is very healthy, despite its smell.” She opened the door of a small room in which was a stone bath. “Do you want a slave to scrub you?”

  “No thank you,” said Kiya. She entered the room and heard the door being shut and bolted behind her. There was a high window, near which was a wooden table with a comb, looking glass and oil bottle. She dragged the table to the window, climbed upon it and stood on tiptoe to peer out. Could she squeeze through the narrow opening? The sound of a bolt being drawn back made her hurriedly jump down. She landed on the floor with a thud as the door opened and Potnia marched in carrying towels and a jar.

  “There is no escape,” Potnia said. “But I cannot blame you for trying, child.”

  Three slave girls entered the room behind Potnia. Each carried two large, leather buckets, which they emptied into the bath.

  Kiya waited until they had left, then asked, “What is going to happen to me Potnia?”

  “Do you not know?” Potnia raised her eyebrows. “I thought everyone had heard of the Minotaur.”

  “What is the Minotaur?”

  “A man with the head of a bull and the teeth of a lion. Tomorrow you and the other virgins will be thrown into his maze.”

  Kiya stared at her wide-eyed. “Will we be eaten?”

  Potnia shook her head. “Not necessarily. The manner of your death is in the hands of the gods.” She smiled and the pity in her eyes made Kiya feel even more nervous of her fate. “Come child, take a bath. I have a jar of soap here for you and some nice thick towels.”

  Once Potnia had left the room, Kiya peeled off her shift and checked the pockets. The stitches were holding and the gold nuggets still in place. She plunged it into the bath and used the soap to scrub it clean, then she flattened it out on the floor in a patch of sunshine to dry. Potnia’s words were buzzing in her head. A monster with the head of a bull and the teeth of a lion? The Minotaur must have escaped from the Molloch Mine, but how did he get all the way to Crete? Why did the Cretans worship him? Did he have humanity? Perhaps she would be able to reason with him.

  She stepped into the hot water and lay in the bath so it covered her body. Her tired muscles relaxed, and it was not until the water started to cool that she reached for the soap.

  After her bath she towelled herself dry and combed out her wet hair. She sniffed the oil in the bottle on the table. It smelled of wild roses and she rubbed it onto her skin to hide the lingering odour of sulphur. Her stomach was still flat enough not to reveal her pregnancy. “I am sorry, my child,” she murmured and stroked in the oil as if she caressed the foetus that was growing inside her. “But if I die, so will you and without ever having known the beauty of life.”

  There was a knock on the door and Potnia entered. “Hurry up my dear, the soldiers are growing impatient. I have brought you a new tunic.”

  “No thank you, I prefer to wear my own clothes.” Kiya bent and picked up her shift, it was still damp but catching a chill was the least of her worries.

  “Very well, it looks clean enough,” said Potnia. Her eyes narrowed as they fixed upon the armlet Kiya wore around her neck. “Give me that. Slaves are not allowed to own such jewellery.”

  Kiya hurriedly put on the shift to hide the armlet. “Please let me keep it,” she said. “It was given to me by someone very special.”

  Potnia held out her hand. “You won’t need it where you are going.”

  “It figures the god Apis and I pray that he will bring me luck,” said Kiya.

  “You will need more than luck,” said Potnia. She took a step towards Kiya as if to wrest the armlet from her.

  “By rights it belongs to Itaja, the slave master,” said Kiya, keeping her hand firmly upon her chest. “He owns me and therefore owns my belongings.”

  Potnia hesitated and then shrugged. “Perhaps you are right,” she said. “I have no wish to tangle with such a man. Come with me, a chariot is waiting to take you to the palace.”

  Kiya followed the woman back past the pool and out of the door to where a soldier stood.

  “You took your time,” he said.

  “Why not,” said Potnia. “She has very little time left.” She turned to Kiya. “Good luck my child. I will be watching tomorrow. Be brave and you will be remembered with respect.”

  They were joined by the second soldier whose eyes brightened when he saw Kiya. “Wow! What a transformation!”

  The soldiers led her to a horse-drawn chariot. Kiya’s heart sank at the thought of another uncomfortable ride. “Do I have to lie down?” she asked.

  “Of course not.” The soldiers looked surprised. They showed Kiya where she was to stand beside the charioteer and mounted the platform behind her.

  The charioteer whipped the horses, and the chariot started with a jerk. Kiya seized the front edge to steady herself and gazed around as the horses trotted through the town. The houses were very different from those of Thebes. They had wide ground-floor verandas supported by wooden columns and were painted red. People in the streets were well dressed and often followed by slaves, carrying their bags. A few looked curiously at Kiya as the chariot passed.

  The horses slowed to a walk as the road steepened and soon the houses were left behind. Kiya expected the road to roughen but, just as in town, it was paved by closely-set flagstones. She could see little of the surrounding countryside for there were stone walls on either side, beyond which were densely-planted olive groves. Gnarled branches overhung the road and gave shelter from the sun, which was now high in the sky.

  As they neared the top of the hill, Kiya saw that they were approaching a small city, with tiers of terraces, flights of stairs and pillared balconies.

  “Welcome to the Palace of Knossos,” said one of the guards.

  Kiya was in awe. What she had thought was a city was a palace, which rivalled even the temple complex of Thebes in its grandeur. The chariot stopped at a side entrance. One of the men helped Kiya to the ground, while the other knocked on the door. After a long pause, it was opened by a palace guard, wearing a breastplate emblazoned with a bull’s head.

  “We have brought a virgin for tomorrow’s sacrifice. The slave master, Itaja, wants the usual payment.”

  The guard looked Kiya up and down. “This one will do. Wait here.”

  Kiya wondered if she should try to escape. Her captors were taking little notice of her and it was but a short sprint to the nearest olive grove. But where could she go? How would she get off the island? She would be doomed in either case so it was best to follow where fate was taking her.

  The guard came back with a small leather bag. He gave it to one of the soldiers, who looked inside. “Are you sure it is all here? Itaja will weigh it, you know.”

  “None of your cheek,” said the guard. “What are you implying – that I am a thief? Hand over the girl and be gone!”

  He grabbed Kiya roughly, pulled her inside the palace and sl
ammed the door.