Knossos

by Laura Gill

  “Marynos is your name.” Menuash addressed the ship directly. “We name you after the Lord of the Sea, who is your father. Hamaya, Mistress of the Groves, from whose wood you were fashioned, is your mother. These men of the sea are your midwives.” He dipped his fingers into the jar and touched them to the talismans. “Marynos, we anoint your eyes with life-giving milk.” His fingers came away chalk-white with fresh pigment.

  “Live, Marynos, live!”

  “Marynos!” the men shouted. Menuash showed a shrewd mind, to name the vessel after the god. “Live, Marynos!”

  The men linked arms to dance the circle dance. Someone produced a pipe, another brought the drum from Dolphin, and as quickly as that the occasion became a celebration. When Urope came down from Dolphin, Knos caught her in his arms and planted a firm kiss on her mouth.

  “We have our ships,” he laughed.

  “Paint Dolphin’s eyes again.” Urope was laughing, too, and exchanging breathless kisses with him. Tonight, Knos hoped, they might make love. “Don’t let her spirit become jealous.”

  Word spread through the village, and soon the sailors’ women, children, and everyone else committed to the expedition crowded the beach to inspect the ship’s talismanic eyes. Women brought food and drink, including strong wine fermented from pomegranates and honey. Old men and boys collected wood to build a bonfire. People congratulated Menuash on his promotion.

  Fidra and Hariana ran down the path as giddy as girls, and flung themselves laughing into Knos’s arms, and covered him with kisses. They grabbed his hand, and Urope’s, and led them into the nearest circle dance.

  “Step to, Knos!” Rauda was in their circle with his slender wife. Knos did not remember them arriving. But who cared? Everyone was there who ought to be there, and the ship was sea-ready and named and blessed, and tonight they were going to rejoice!

  No one had invited the rival clans, but suddenly the elders of the Dolphin and Seagull Clans stood on the heights, watching the festivities with mingled distaste and fascination. All those feathers and painted leathers and shells made them appear as wrathful gods. Knos’s joy evaporated upon seeing them.

  A heavy hand fell upon his shoulder. “Ignore them.” A short while ago, Iroas and his sons had arrived with six goats for the spit. “Shobai won’t try anything this time.” Iroas took his elbow, and steered him away toward the bonfire. “Now he’s decided that he wants you gone, and quickly. I heard that he wants to build his own trading ship.”

  Knos let go of the urge to hurl a spear at Shobai. “And who does he expect to captain that ship?”

  “I heard Divos wants the job.”

  He laughed so loudly that Shobai surely must have heard him. “Divos is no seaman.”

  It was a good celebration. Knos ate and drank, sang old sailing shanties and danced with his men, and when night fell he let his wives lead him back to Dolphin. There in the darkness of the tent, all three of his women tugged at his clothes and lavished him with kisses and caresses. It was not something they had ever dared before, but the night was magical, the children were elsewhere, and the wine had been flavored with pine resin.

  One wife took his hand and guided it to her breast, letting him rub her erect nipple, while another kissed his mouth and stroked his chest, while the third reached below his waistband and... Groaning, Knos gave up trying to tell which woman was which and surrendered to their attentions.

  Menuash had his men up early, cleaning the festival debris and construction detritus from the beach. Knos’s crewmen took turns sleeping off their excesses and watching the ships. A single bonfire burned; it had become the locus of the sailors’ camp. A crone was stirring a pot of porridge. Yawning, scratching his belly, Knos looked for his wives but did not find them. They must have gone to attend to the children and tasks in the village. That might be just as well right now, for after last night’s love play Knos doubted he could face them without sputtering into boyish laughter.

  Or had he, drunk on strong wine, simply dreamt all that? Though his head pounded from drink, his body ached pleasantly from his exertions, and the coverings inside his tent smelled of women and arousal. He must get his wives alone again sometime soon.

  Knos attended to the household gods, took a bowl of porridge to settle any lingering discomfort from the wine, and, after finishing his breakfast, lent Menuash’s men a hand. The fresh air cleared his head, and the work allowed him to concentrate beyond thoughts of his women.

  Marynos’s crew was divided between experienced sailors from Dolphin, and volunteers from the expedition selected for strength and aptitude. If Menuash was anxious about breaking in inexperienced hands and a brand-new ship, he expertly concealed it. He circulated among his crewmen wearing his usual grin, his topknot bobbing with his constant movement.

  Knos shoveled wood shavings into a basket. Had the waves in the harbor not been so choppy and unsuitable for maneuvers, he and Menuash could have taken the crews out to exercise them on the oars; instead, the novice crewmen would have to practice their strokes and acclimate their bodies by rowing air. Knos disliked the necessity. There was no substitute for the weighty push-pull of the ocean under a wooden oar, and the burning ache which consumed a man’s shoulders and arms as he strove against the immortal god of the sea.

  “Kno-os!” A sing-song voice from the path leading to the village alerted his attention to the woman heading toward him. Setting his basket down, he went to meet Rauda’s wife.

  “There you are!” she said breathlessly. Lairi was a lovely woman, long-necked and elegant as a swan, but far too thin for his taste. She took a moment to regain her breath—had she been running?—before offering an explanation. “Oh, Aramo’s being such a fool. He insisted I tell you right away.”

  Knos humored her. “Tell me what?”

  She shrugged. “I told Alit this morning that Gamon got drunk and nearly knocked me over last night, and called me a stupid bitch who should be dead.” Lairi chattered a league a minute, leaving Knos scratching his head. “Alit said that was a terrible thing for him to say. No excuse. I shouldn’t have to bear that insult, she said—not that Rauda will do anything, even to defend my honor.” Lairi sniffed. “Aramo overheard the whole thing, and asked me a dozen questions, and then said I must go straight to you.”

  “And he wants me to knock the man’s teeth out for you?” Knos had not the slightest idea what an insult to Lairi had to do with him; he listened only because his elder brother, who never wasted his time with frivolous matters, had decided that he ought to hear whatever their sister-in-law said. Therefore, it must be worth hearing.

  Lairi’s eyes widened. “Oh, no, he never said that, but—” She fluttered her eyelashes. “Would you?”

  Knos demurred. “Did Aramo say anything else?”

  Her face fell. “He kept asking about Gamon, and why he spent last night complaining about Dravan taking away seven ewes. Who cares about sheep? What about the horrid way that man insulted me? I want to know what you and Aramo are going to do about it.”

  “What seven ewes?” Knos did not hear the rest of her complaint. What he needed to do was to hear the story straight from Aramo, because his brother clearly recognized something that he did not.

  Lairi groaned. “The seven ewes Dravan gave him, of course!” She tossed her head impatiently. “He took them back, that cheapskate, because Gamon made a mistake.”

  Women obsessed over the most insignificant things. Knos managed a smile, though, and said, “Let me talk this over with Aramo.” Grasping her hand, he stroked it for emphasis, as ladies liked.

  Again, she batted her long lashes at him. “Oh, Aramo’s at our house. He and Rauda are working.”

  Knos found his brothers behind Rauda’s house, mending the wattle-and-daub fence. The men’s hands were soiled from the clay and cow dung they were mixing to make the daub. “Aramo, what’s going on?” Knos asked. “Lairi just came to me with some story about Gamon the herdsman insulting her, and him forfeiting some ewes to Dravan.
”

  “Is she still on about that?” Rauda’s cheek bore a long smear of clay. “Gamon got drunk last night, bumped into her, and started swearing when she made a fuss. Said she ought to be dead and burned up—but that’s nothing. I’m sure he doesn’t even remember it now.”

  Knos leaned against a sturdy post. “Then why was it worth my hearing about?” he asked Aramo.

  “It wasn’t, except for the part about ‘dead and burned up.’” Aramo set aside his wooden scoop. “I overheard him later raving about the forfeited ewes, complaining about the ‘stupid fire’ and doing the wrong job.” He moistened his lips, casting a cautionary glance toward their younger brother. Knos understood. Rauda was not privy to everything. “We’ve heard this story before, Knos. Now, I didn’t want to alarm Lairi by asking the wrong questions, and I certainly didn’t want to leap to the wrong conclusions. So, since you have such a way with women, I thought it best that you deal with her.”

  Rauda looked from one brother to the other and back again. “This isn’t about Lairi at all, is it?” His voice was cold sober, suddenly tremulous with uncertainty. “What’s going on?”

  Knos exhaled slowly. Aramo straightened and admitted, “This is about Pashki’s house being burned and his family killed.” He then paraphrased what had been said during the interview with Rabbas. “Pashki was never, ever a target. The two men apparently bungled the job and set fire to the wrong house.” Aramo glanced at his youngest brother. “It must have been you they were trying to kill.”

  Rauda went ash-white. Knos ventured forward and caught his arm as he stumbled. “Sit down,” he urged, steering his younger brother to a dry area near the house.

  “Why would anyone...?” Rauda, who got along with everyone, could not comprehend why someone could possibly want him dead so urgently as to torch his house and his family along with him.

  “No one’s got anything against you, little brother,” Aramo said. “You were storing the new sail.”

  Rauda still could not grasp it. “My life, my family’s lives, all burnt for a few scraps of animal hide?”

  Aramo did not comment. “What struck me, Knos,” he said, “was that Dravan took back the ewes, which means that he must have paid Gamon to begin with, which means that our own clan chieftain...”

  Behind Knos’s shock was anger, an all-consuming, smoldering rage. He found himself sucking air through his nostrils like a bull. Something had to be done about Dravan. It was inconceivable that he could conspire against the very clansmen he was sworn to serve—no, it was blasphemy! He deserved to have his throat cut, burned alive with his entire family, called out, stoned...

  “Knos!” Aramo said sharply. Blinking, he realized that his brother had been trying to get his attention. “What are we going to do about Gamon? Do you want to handle him like the other one?” He meant Orzu. Their younger brother had his head sunk in his hands and was not listening closely enough to question the details of their conversation.

  Knos shook his head. “He’s Bull Clan, which means we can deal with him openly, but not, I think, until our departure.” Plotting his revenge distracted him somewhat from his rage against Dravan; it gave him a certain macabre satisfaction to have a plan to implement. “We don’t want to alert the other one—or the one behind him.”

  Aramo stared intently at him. “You know we can’t deal with the elder in that way.”

  “No,” Knos grudgingly agreed. A clan elder’s flesh was sacrosanct, unless the clan as a whole elected to revoke that privilege. To be able to denounce Dravan, and have him stripped of his power and brought to justice... He drew a deep, steadying breath. Patience and determination would see it done.

  Aramo was satisfied. “Come on, Rauda!” He edged closer, nudged their brother’s shoulder. “Why don’t you show Knos the breeding stock you selected? There’re some good animals there.”

  Young Knos, who with his sisters and mother was staying with his uncle, hastened outside at his father’s call; the boy was bursting with excitement over the chosen animals. “Uncle Rauda said I could help him herd them to the ships when the time comes.”

  “Well,” Rauda demurred, “as long as your father doesn’t object.”

  Knos perused the livestock in their separate pens. Rauda had ten cows in one pen, and three bulls in another on the opposite side of the farmstead. Good breeding stock. The cows and bulls would have to travel on different ships to avoid trouble. “You’ve done very well.” He tousled the boy’s dark curls. Astaryas had never tolerated that gesture. “You can help, as long as you obey your uncle’s instructions.”

  Touring the pens reminded him that the gods required a great sacrifice in exchange for their blessings and protection during the voyage. Eight bulls would be suitable, as long as the others donating animals agreed. It should be done soon.

  Hariana’s father, a venerable elder and high priest of the Cypress Clan, had recently asked him what sort of sanctuary he intended to build in the new land. “It troubles me,” he said, “that you have no priest going with you. The women have their special knowledge, but...” His breath rattled in his chest as he breathed. “Listen carefully. The Bull Clan needs sacred skulls for its sanctuary, wherever you build it. That means you will have to offer the animals in sacrifice well before the voyage, dedicate them to your gods, and prepare the skulls. Take the greatest care in stowing them aboard your ships. Speak to them, consult them, respect them as elders who will watch over untold generations of your descendants, and in turn they will take care of you.”

  Knos would have liked to bring the ancient, yellowed skull from the village sanctuary, but with the clan divided that was impossible. Still, he regretted having to leave it behind with Dravan and his ilk.

  According to his father-in-law’s instructions, he asked Rauda to go around, choose bulls for the sacrifice, and negotiate a fair price with their owners. “Those coming with us will be more willing to part with their beasts. Tell them that their offerings will be preserved and granted special honor as the clan’s sacred totems in the new land.”

  On the beach, Menuash had his sailors assembled and air-rowing aboard Marynos. Astaryas would be among them, seated on one of the benches, learning the rhythm of the drum and the feel of the oars. Knos rallied his crewmen, rousing them from sleep and withdrawing them from sentry duty, and did likewise aboard Dolphin; only a fool would attack the ships while they were fully crewed.

  As the drum beat out the stroke, Knos hung back near the bow, ostensibly watching the rowers. His mind roved elsewhere, fixating on Dravan’s betrayal. His stomach ached. Something had to be done about him, but what, what? Killing him outright could bring down the wrath of the gods. Calling him out with an accusation might not be enough when the clan chieftain could simply swear an oath and deny his role in the fatal fire, when he could call down a curse on the ships. Would the gods listen? Knos did not want to take that chance.

  Thinking about chieftains and curses reminded Knos that they needed to select and consecrate a priest, someone to take charge of the totems. Knos could not do it himself—that would be presuming too much, when he had no special training—but Yikadi would be ideal. The singer had elected to join the expedition for the adventure and pleasure of composing new songs. His natural arrogance might cause future problems, but as Knos’s father-in-law had pointed out, preserving the ancient songs, laws, and genealogies was a kind of priesthood. Yikadi would jump at the honor. And then he would become insufferable.

  A thought occurred to him then. It exploded full-blown into his brain, an inspiration from the gods, and it was delicious, the perfect vengeance. But how to implement it?

  Late that afternoon, when the oarsmen came down from the rowing benches, Knos sought out Menuash—his clever cousin with the deft fingers—and explained the situation. Menuash listened carefully, showing little surprise and no disapproval, and carried out Knos’s request late the very next night.

  Knos met him in the morning darkness below Dolphin. No words were exch
anged, only gestures and a wooden box padded with multiple layers of linen and waterproof goatskin. Knos did not examine it further; he trusted Menuash’s solemn word. Instead, he fastened the box’s lid with twine, sealed it with wax, and stowed it away.

  *~*~*~*

  Two days later, Knos instructed his followers to begin loading the ships for imminent departure.

  The ships became a locus of activity as the prospective settlers brought tools, blankets, bundles of obsidian, straw and hay, and jars of seed and provisions to the waterfront, where Knos and Menuash supervised the loading. Knos’s tent had been dismantled so his men could erect the cow pen at the stern.

  “Look upon this as a great adventure,” he told his youngest children, who were not altogether sure what was happening other than that they were going somewhere. “You’ll be mariners, just like your father, and you’ll see many places that you’ve never seen before.”

  Men and women tearfully bade farewell to kin and friends. An older couple backed out of the venture, which came as little surprise. But then a pair of newlyweds from the Cypress Clan, excited by the activity and chafing at the close living quarters with their extended kin, gladly offered to take their place. Masar could vouch for them. “Hard workers. They won’t be a burden.”

  People visited their ancestors at the sacred cave and left offerings. Knos officiated at the interment of Pashki and his family, choking back a pang of grief at the thought that the young oarsmen, his children, and mother must stay behind. Clan neighbors assured Knos that Pashki would not be forgotten.

  He urged his followers to say their goodbyes quickly and set themselves apart from those staying behind to make parting easier. Aramo and Rauda with their families had both taken leave of their hearths, though not without some difficulty. Rauda constantly strove against the temptation to check on his house, which he had left to a good friend whose eldest son and daughter-in-law wanted to establish their own household. Aramo sought out any menial task he could perform to distract him from worrying about the farm and animals he had bequeathed to a distant cousin.