Knossos

by Laura Gill

  Last of all came the six professional dancers, those young men who, having passed their initiation, had dedicated their lives in service to Poteidan. Bull dancer priests, as they were properly called, enjoyed cult status, gifts and adulation from admirers, and assisted in training the initiates. The Bull Dance was their shining moment. Not for them the cumbersome cowhide kilts and fleeces of the other priests. They adorned themselves with long ringlets, gold and silver armbands and earrings, and blue loincloths with startlingly red codpieces that prompted lascivious comments from both male and female admirers. They could be absolute popinjays, letting the adulation go to their heads, and often had to be reminded of their solemn responsibilities.

  Bansabira gritted his teeth, thinking about the bull dancers. Itaya’s behavior of late concerned him. If the young man hurled himself before the bull as a sacrifice, as Sassaros claimed that he had spoken of doing, then it would be disastrous Yes, his suicide might placate Poteidan and assure the harvest—sometimes the devout offered themselves in times of need—but the act would cast a pall on the festivities and dishearten the initiates. Bansabira’s first impulse was to withhold Itaya from the Bull Dance, or to at least discuss alternative means of self-sacrifice if the young man was determined to end his life, but Itaya had neither admitted nor denied anything, and insisted on his right to participate. There was nothing more Bansabira could have done without creating a scene, and he did not want to embarrass Itaya or his family if the rumor proved false.

  The Minos knew nothing about the situation, and if Europa had so much as suspected that a bull dancer priest wanted to become a sacrifice, then she would have already arranged for him to be dispatched secretly, as she had done with the sacrificial youth the priests had selected last autumn. Either there was no substance to the tale Sassaros had told—in which case, Bansabira figured, Itaya should have denied it outright—or the young man preferred Father Poteidan’s lethal horns during the Bull Dance to the cold bite of Mother Labrys by midnight.

  Bansabira and Kubaba entered the dancing enclosure behind the priestesses, and assumed their positions flanking the Minos. The enclosure was a permanent corral consecrated to the service of Poteidan. During the rest of the year, it hosted bull sacrifices, minor bull leaping exhibitions, and the Sun Dance, performed by the priests’ wives. Melisa, Bansabira reflected, always moved so beautifully across the sandy ground, putting the other wives to shame. Too bad the men were relegated to the sidelines; he would have liked to wind an arm around her slender waist and spin her about.

  Painters had decorated the west-facing wooden platform with scarlet and blue, Poteidan’s colors. A pale blue awning promising shade billowed in the slight morning breeze. Directly opposite, a plinth crowned with horns of consecration comprised the god’s altar, where generations of blood offerings had given the white limestone a pink cast.

  There would be no formal blood sacrifice today, for the bull was the personification of the god, a dancing partner, an honored guest. Whatever blood he desired he would take from the dancers themselves.

  A priest brought the Minos the rhyton set aside for libations to Poteidan. Bansabira had handled the vessel many times. Of black steatite, it was shaped like a bull’s head with rock crystal eyes.

  The Minos crossed to the altar and, turning so that all could see him, raised the rhyton to the heavens. “Poteidan, Great Bull, Lord of the Heavens, we of Knossos are your humble servants! Here is the finest fruit of the grape, spilled in your honor.” He drenched the horns of consecration with a flourish, bending the knee to kiss the sun-warmed, wine-drizzled stone before speaking once more. “Today is your day. Today, youths and maidens from the most ancient families will dance for you.” The initiates, garbed in white loincloths, the maidens also sporting white breast-bands, had since entered the enclosure and formed a line on the sand. They were all fit and well-muscled after their months of hard training. Bansabira knew how excited and apprehensive they were; he still remembered what it was like from his own initiation twenty-three years ago.

  The Minos exited the enclosure and ascended the platform, the two priests following his lead, but no one sat down yet. Now Europa took pride of place, raising Mother Labrys high in her slender arms. “Poteidan, Great Bull, Lord of the Heavens, here is your sacred symbol!” Her voice, otherwise low with a hint of perpetual disinterest, was always shrill when making announcements of this kind. “Come among us, Great Bull. Dance with your faithful servants.”

  Europa crossed to the altar, set Mother Labrys into its slot upon a pyramidal plinth where the sun’s light could flash and glint off the polished bronze, then she ascended the platform with her attendants. Once she sat down, everyone else on the platform could relax and take their seats, and the preliminary ceremonies could finish with the presentation of the bull.

  The bull, the first of two that would be used during the Bull Dance, was a two-year-old brown-and-white-spotted specimen that had been bred from the god’s own special herd. His name was Spotty. Bansabira and Kubaba had selected him for his gentle disposition. A dancing bull could not be sluggish, otherwise there was no challenge and no excitement, but on the other hand he could not be too aggressive. Spotty wore a floral garland and his horns had been gilded for the occasion. He was bright and alert, and snuffled when the dancers took turns genuflecting before him; he seemed to be enjoying the attention. Bansabira and Kubaba had introduced the initiates to the bull three months ago, letting them interact under strict supervision. Spotty loved to be combed and washed, liked green grass and the company of the young cows he grazed with, and the young people had been instructed on how to engage him without provoking aggression.

  As the people cheered Spotty’s arrival, their shouts carried to the heavens, an appeal to Poteidan to descend, inhabit the bull dedicated to him, and dance with the young initiates.

  The dancers withdrew, and the priests attending Spotty removed his decorations. Spotty truly was a handsome beast, far better suited to the Bull Dance than the monster the young Bansabira had danced with. That bull had been a quarter crossbred aurochs, possessing the worst attributes of his foul-tempered grandsire. Bansabira had not attempted any acrobatics with him, only ventured close enough to touch his horn—the minimum requirement—and then had cleared out of the way. Dusky—yes, that had been his name. Dusky had sent plenty of professional dancers and not a few initiates to the afterlife before the priests had decided enough was enough and offered him back to Poteidan as a sacrifice.

  The Bull Dance began with two bull dancer priests, Puro and Pinaya, who warmed up the crowd, as well as captured and maintained the god’s interest before the first of the initiations. They ran alongside Spotty trailing red flags, easing him into the rhythm of the dance. The trick was not to enrage the bull, but to entice him to run, for bull leaping could not be done when the bull was standing still.

  Outsiders witnessing the dance never saw quite what they expected. People collected little wooden or ivory carvings that depicted the dancer gripping the bull’s horns, using the animal’s head toss to vault himself up and over—a feat that was physically impossible, even by the professional dancers of Poteidan. Bulls shook their heads erratically, sometimes up and down, but also diagonally. A dancer relying on a straight toss-back might be broken across the bull’s back, or thrown clear to land awkwardly on the sand. When Bansabira had asked a local artist why he did not sculpt the dance it was actually performed, the man answered, “Ah, but which Bull Dance would you have me show? There are as many different ways to approach the bull as there are birds in the sky. Here, the dancer touches the horns to honor the god, and he jumps over. Isn’t that what the Bull Dance is: mortal man celebrating with the god, acknowledging his power?”

  As Spotty chased the flags, Tarinu with his long legs sprinted toward him, somersaulting five feet into the air a heartbeat before he would have collided with the bull. His momentum, coupled with a perfect form and Spotty’s forward motion, saw him safely vault the bull.

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nbsp; Tarinu stuck the landing, and then triumphantly pumped his fist into the air to the sound of the crowd’s ecstatic cheering. Bansabira and Kubaba observed carefully as he blew kisses to his admirers, who tossed flowers, strands of beads, and ribbons onto the sand. He had every right to take pride in his feat; the professional dancers, for all their personal faults, trained very hard, enduring sprains, lacerations, and broken bones to make what they did during the dance appear effortless. Only when a dancer’s pride became hubris, when he failed to remember and honor Poteidan’s favor in his success, did the priests become concerned.

  “He’s one of the better ones,” Kubaba commented in a low voice. He had brought a wooden fan shaped like a palm leaf, and was swishing the hot air away from his face. Down on the sand, a pair of acolytes hastily collected the flowers and love trinkets. “Now when those two cads Puro and Pinaya take their leaps...” He snorted knowingly.

  A priest led out the first two initiates, a youth and a maiden. Even from a distance, Bansabira noticed how anxious they were; they had not rehearsed standing before a crowd of thousands. People shouted advice and encouragement, entirely forgetting their own experiences of fearful anticipation and stage-fright; an adolescent initiate heard only a deafening cacophony of noise. Perhaps he or she vomited before entering the enclosure, or voided his or her bowels in terror, despite the priests taking pains to explain that there was nothing to fear. Many of them had not slept a wink last night.

  Then the Minos stood, raising his hand for silence. The priest directed the initiates’ gaze toward the platform so that the ruler of Knossos could salute them. “Today you honor Poteidan, the Great Bull, Lord of the Heavens. Do not be afraid.” Glancing up, Bansabira glimpsed the grin lightening the man’s face. The Minos was prone to off-the-cuff gestures such as this, especially as they so irritated the high priestess. Bansabira could not see Europa from where he sat, but could imagine her rolling her eyes.

  The Minos sat down again, and a priest blew the triton to summon the god to dance with the initiates. For each pair, he stopped the festivities to extend the same blessing, explaining, “It’s the most special event of their young lives. We should celebrate it.”

  Puro and Pinaya remained on the sand to gentle the bull and distract him by grasping his horns. Kneeling, the girl cupped her hands to give the boy the boost he needed in order to somersault over Spotty’s back. He landed with a stumble, but was unhurt and flush with his success. The crowd held its acclamation until after the girl completed her maneuver, which was just as well, because Bansabira knew that, even though she had practiced on a wood-and-leather facsimile for months, Theano was shy and did not need the distraction.

  Kubaba, seated on Bansabira’s left, radiated delight at Theano’s successful dismount. “She was worried about nothing. I recognized her talent months ago.”

  There was a brief intermission while the next dancers prepared. Servants appeared with refreshments: sweet wine, almonds sticky with honey, fresh figs, and oysters harvested in Katsamba and marinated in seasoned olive oil. Bansabira, content with cool water flavored with mint and barley, waved away each delicacy as it was offered to him.

  Kubaba commented on his austerity, “Take some figs, Bansabira. You always behave as though your fasting will somehow appease the god should something go wrong.”

  A server suddenly deposited a tray with an oyster and some figs on Bansabira’s little side table. “Pardon, Priest,” the man murmured, “but your wife insists you eat something.”

  Bansabira twisted around in his folding chair to catch Melisa’s eye; she nodded sharply. He would have liked to have her sit beside him where the view was better, rather than see her shoved to the rear. Not even the Minos, however, was allowed to place his wife next to him. For ceremonial purposes, High Priestess Europa was his official consort.

  To satisfy Melisa, Bansabira choked down a fig.

  “Everything will fine,” Kubaba assured him. “In fact, I went to the Juktas sanctuary recently to make a sacrifice assuring the success of the dance. Why, had you not been so adamant about staying and worrying over last minute details, I would have dragged you with me.”

  “Is that where you went?” Bansabira gulped some water; the oyster was too heavily seasoned. He swallowed, still tasted the sting of too much coriander, and considered taking some wine. “I thought you’d gone to Archanes to inspect your vineyard.”

  “I did that, too.” Kubaba bit into a fig. “The new constructions on Juktas are quite magnificent,” he said, chewing. Then he turned to the man on his right. “Minos, you are to be commended on your efforts.”

  Bansabira did not care for the political turn the conversation was taking. The Minos had begun constructing a sanctuary on Mount Juktas to bring the worship of Poteidan and Velchanos closer to the heavens, so that they would bless Kaphtor with sufficient rain and sunshine to nourish the crops and feed a growing population. Anything that pleased the gods should have unanimous support, unless one asked the high priestess. Then the peak sanctuary was a colossal and thoroughly unnecessary expenditure, and Europa outright refused to humor the Minos’s suggestion that she should devote her energies to the project and become the Juktas sanctuary’s first priestess.

  Expressing an opinion meant supporting one faction over the other. By mentioning his visit in front of Europa, Kubaba had openly declared for the Minos’s faction. Bansabira tried to focus on the acrobats entertaining the crowd during the intermission, but discovered to his dismay that even that was laden with political undertones. A man wearing motley rags and plaster bull horns chased a young man dressed in flounced skirts and a polos headdress around the enclosure. “She” was supposed to represent the legendary Europa, but her pantomimed outrage and squeamishness clearly belonged to the high priestess. Bansabira’s head sank into his hand. Kubaba had hired the troupe; he must have known about and approved their routine.

  “Bansabira,” the Minos said, “you should visit Juktas.” His tone implied a command rather than a suggestion. “I have found that sacrificing to the immortals in their realm brings us closer to them. Besides—” Bansabira glanced over to find him grinning, showing his even teeth, though his eyes were not smiling. “No expense was spared in the quality of the materials or workmanship.”

  “Are you talking about that ridiculous mountain shrine?” Europa interjected petulantly.

  The Minos switched his attention to her, grasping her dainty white hand, and raising it to his lips with an air of mock courtesy. Bansabira noticed that the Minos’s wife said nothing; she was watching the drama play out with bemused curiosity. “How can you say that? You’ve never visited, never even sent your steward to inspect the place, when I’ve gone to such trouble to make certain that everything would be to your liking.”

  Europa withdrew her hand from his. “If you wanted to spend so outrageously,” she retorted, “you could have expanded the current sanctuary.”

  “Ah, but there’s no space on the hill to build as you desire, unless you’re willing to tear down your house.” Tsk-tsking her, the Minos shook his head. He and Europa ruthlessly vied with each other to have the tallest, most magnificent house on the hill. Where most people in Knossos were content with two stories, the Minos and the high priestess each owned houses boasting three, and there was talk that Europa intended to add an improbable fourth story to hers.

  Europa ignored his comment. “Ugh, this pantomime is second-rate garbage.” Say what she would, the crowd was loving it. Even her attendants were snorting with laughter. “Call out the dancers.”

  When the Minos nodded, granting his permission, Kubaba gestured to the attendant bull priests opposite the platform to blow the tritons and resume the Bull Dance. Bansabira found their actions troubling. Europa’s command should have been sufficient.

  Then Kubaba was leaning toward him. “Who’s next among the initiates?” he asked.

  “Duripi and Ashaya.” Bansabira took another swig of water; whoever had prepared the oysters should be d
ismissed for incompetence. “Was that the best troupe you could find?”

  Kubaba ignored his question. “Let us have a wager.”

  “On the acrobats?” Bansabira watched the departing bull-god actor pinch the boy-Europa’s bottom on the way out. The crowd bellowed its laughter. “They were dreadful.”

  “You are too straitlaced,” Kubaba chuckled. “I meant, let us wager on the initiates.”

  Europa overheard. “Shame on you.” She disapproved of gambling on sacred occasions—Bansabira could not say he blamed her—and forbade her attendants from wagering.

  “Oh, come!” the Minos chided. “Betting enhances the Bull Dance.” Twisting around in his seat, he flirted shamelessly with his mother-in-law. “Lady Meliame, will you do me the honor of joining me in a wager?”

  Meliame fluttered her wooden fan. She wore too much paint on her cheeks, Bansabira thought. It emphasized rather than alleviated the signs of middle age. “Not until I hear your wager, Nashua. Will it be something to do with the bull dancers, I hope?” She tittered in an embarrassingly girlish fashion. “I insist on inspecting the goods.”

  “Bull dancer priests are not slabs of meat for you to pinch and poke,” Europa chastised.

  “Well, Bansabira,” Kubaba pressed, nudging him, “shall we make a wager, or not?”

  Bansabira demurred. “I really do not gamble.” And Kubaba always won his wagers, because although gambling was his colleague’s one great vice, the gods continuously favored him.

  “Ah, but I have something that might interest you.” Kubaba set down his fan, reached into his collar, and withdrew a cord strung with a dark blue cylinder. He removed it, and passed it to Bansabira, saying, “It’s lapis lazuli from Babylon. You won’t find better craftsmanship anywhere.”