by Laura Gill
Urtanos half-heartedly acknowledged the chief architect. “What do you have to tell us?”
Eshmal presented himself with a stack of wax tablets on which he and the surviving architects, including Labasha, had sketched out plans for the temple’s restoration. As chief architect and descendant of Daidalos and Iapyx, Eshmal had claimed for himself the most prestigious projects, the refurbishment of the Poteidan, Rhaya, and Mother Labrys sanctuaries. Tabna was assigned the rebuilding of the high priestess’s house and the dormitories of the south quarter. Labasha, despite his broken arm, would restore the north quarter with its hypostyle hall, reception rooms, and administrative cells. Aranaru had the west, with its network of smaller sanctuaries and storerooms.
Aranaru did not know whether the assignment pleased or frustrated him. The west quarter had sustained relatively little damage, which meant that rebuilding it provided far less challenge and almost no prestige.
Urtanos gave the sketches a perfunctory examination before passing them on to Ereka, who took her time perusing each and asking questions. “While it is essential to restore the dwellings of the gods,” she told Eshmal, “it is also crucial that the temple’s human servants be able to return to their dormitories and workplaces. I fear that the camp is not a healthy environment for long-term occupation.”
Before he went to consult with his scribe and overseer about tomorrow’s schedule, Aranaru managed to call on Gula. It pleased him to be able to give her a present, a strand of red agate beads that he had purchased days before the quake and retrieved from his sleeping quarters once Labasha declared the buildings of the north quarter stable enough.
Gula rewarded him with a soft-spoken thank you, and allowed him to place the beads around her neck.
The next night, Eshmal invited him and the other priest-architects to their regularly scheduled supper. Each month, to honor their predecessor and discuss the current temple project, the priests of Daidalos donned fringed yellow robes and assembled in the north quarter cubicle where the great architect had died. The cubicle was now a shrine in which Daidalos’s tools and original wax sketches for the temple had been preserved.
Eshmal had assessed the north quarter, and while much of it had withstood the shaking the Daidalos shrine was not presentable. So the priest-architects gathered in the corner of the west court where the ruins of Daidalos’s earlier house, the mansion that had once belonged to Minos Rasuros, were concealed under the pavement stones.
The meal consisted of whatever Eshmal’s scribe had been able to obtain from stores, which was not much. Priests were eating no better than menials nowadays. Aranaru drank his wine sparingly, and chewed his bread and cheese slowly to make it last. During the discussion, he did not venture an opinion unless asked. He had only been confirmed as a priest-architect three years ago. Although he had been Eshmal’s apprentice for seven years before that, and knew all the architects, craftsmen, and laborers as well as his own family, he still had yet to earn the privilege of speaking without permission.
He answered mundane questions about repairing the west quarter, and privately groused about his lot. Then, at evening’s end, as Labasha and Tabna were taking their leave, Eshmal took his arm and drew him aside. “Aranaru, you don’t like your assignment much, do you?”
Aranaru knew better than to complain. “Repairs are repairs. I will see them properly done.”
Eshmal chuckled. “Don’t dance around the truth, young man. Remember, I know you too well. You think I tossed you a bone in giving you the west quarter.” Aranaru remained silent; his professionalism did not allow him to admit his true sentiments. “So tell me,” Eshmal continued, “What is the biggest project I have ever given you?”
Rebuilding the west quarter. Aranaru exhaled heavily. “I know, I know,” he sighed.
“Do you?” Eshmal’s crooked smile challenged him. “It might please you to know that while the rest of us rebuild, you will be expanding as well as rebuilding. Urtanos and Ereka have plans to improve the west quarter. They want to extend the storerooms and widen the court, as well as give the old entrance a more impressive facade.” He slung an arm around Aranaru’s shoulder. “You may be the youngest architect, but this could become a very long project, where your youth and energy will work to your advantage.”
Maybe so, but the sketches were Eshmal’s. Aranaru should have had the authority to design and execute his own plans—for the gods knew, he possessed the technical skill—but the hierarchy discouraged him from attempting to overrule or outshine his superior. “I’ve been meaning to ask, what about the sanctuaries? I haven’t been able to examine them properly.”
Eshmal nodded his understanding. “I’ve already arranged for you, your scribe, and your workers to receive a special dispensation to enter the Ashera, Payawon, and Marineus sanctuaries—ah, which reminds me.” He made a face. “The head snake priestess, she’s a pain in the backside demanding that the Ashera sanctuary be given priority. However, Lady Ereka agrees that the sacred messengers must be enticed to return, so hold your tongue around that woman.”
Aranaru slept that night wrapped in a blanket in the west courtyard. The physical presence of the court manifested itself through the darkness, keeping him awake contemplating the changes to be made there. In order to enlarge the space for worshippers, he would have to extend the existing terrace and fill in the trio of ceremonial granaries obstructing the proposed west porch. Aranaru thought the west court might be just the place to leave his own mark on the temple. He simply did not know yet what that mark should be.
He woke before dawn, stood in line for half a round of bread, and awaited his workers, who, also having to stand in line, trickled in while still eating their breakfast. Something needed to be done about providing for the laborers and craftsmen on site, because an hour lost here or there would eventually accumulate and whole work days would be wasted.
Aranaru started with the Ashera sanctuary. The head priestess straightaway issued his men a ritual dispensation. Arishat led them down to the sanctuary threshold, made them kneel in the cramped space, and scattered earth, water, and salt over each man. In her low, harsh voice she intoned, “Go now into the holy precinct and do the work of Lady Ashera.” At least she did not make them kiss or otherwise handle serpents. Those coldblooded creatures were the sole province of women.
Once allowed to enter, Aranaru’s men cleared the rubble from the doorway and assessed the damage. Fortunately, the sanctuary had not suffered any fire damage because no lamps had been burning at the time of the earthquake; the two rooms allotted to Ashera were kept dark and cool for the serpents that dwelt there.
Another blessing: the few timbers that had fallen were part of the second-level floor and not load-bearing. Aranaru had his men clear them away, made arrangements for replacing the carpentry, then, wary of accidentally stepping on a snake that might have escaped one of the overturned serpent jars and offending Ashera, he moved his crew to another area where he knew the damage was greater.
Southwest of the serpent sanctuary, a corridor leading to a bank of storerooms was obstructed with debris from the floor above. Aranaru directed his carpenter, Rakhash, to recycle the fallen timbers from the Ashera sanctuary in bracing the ceiling before clearing out the passage. Meanwhile, he needed to venture upstairs to ascertain the extent of the damage.
Six looms occupied the room directly above. Aranaru whispered a prayer of thanks that none of them had fallen through, but the fierce initial temblor had shifted them from their original positions and thrown them together into the center of the chamber. The high clerestory windows made it difficult to tell, and Aranaru was not about to leave the stable ground of the doorway, but from what he could see the floor underneath the bunched looms appeared to be sagging. Aranaru did some quick calculations. Three paces south-by-southeast of the existing hole put the danger zone inside the storerooms where raw fleece and finished wool products were kept. The shrewdest thing to do would be to dismantle and rebuild the entire floor.
The ceiling showed no signs of damage, but the hairline cracks zigzagging through the wall plaster concerned him. Master Mason Shamash had examined the foundations and found them secure. That did not, however, preclude the possibility that the earthquake had wrenched parts of the second story from their ashlar foundation blocks.
Whatever a closer inspection might reveal, Aranaru knew that rebuilding and adding onto the west quarter would require significant amounts of timber. Building standards had changed since Daidalos’s time. Nowadays there was less emphasis on bulky masonry, and more on half-timbered mudbrick sheathed in a new type of plaster with a higher lime content. With old, clay-heavy plasters rendered obsolete, walls could be made thinner without sacrificing strength, and the timber frames allowed for greater flexibility in quakes. Banabiru’s house was one such construction. It had been built atop the ruins of the old house, and had the wide windows the newer style allowed.
Aranaru gave the dim chamber one last look. The feature was not included in Eshmal’s plans that he could recall, but he saw how the women who worked in that room would appreciate the increased light and air he could achieve by lowering and widening the existing windows. The thought gave him a sense of satisfaction as he returned downstairs to place an order for more timber.
Around noon, as he and the men headed out for the afternoon meal, a most unexpected messenger placed a diptych in his hand. “Father sent me with demands from the Ashera head priestess.” Humusi tucked a stray lock of hair under her head scarf. “Arishat insists on having a kaselle placed under the threshold for a dedication deposit. Oh, and she wants paintings on the walls. Ashera dancing with snakes, or something like that.” A familiar roll of the eyes. “Father says not to hurry with her request. He knows you have problems with the stability of the upper floors. Shore up the ceiling in the corridor and storerooms before anything else. Only then, while you’re—”
“Are you going to let me read this?” One look at the diptych confirmed everything that Humusi had already said. “You’ve already read this, haven’t you?” Aranaru asked irritably.
Humusi was entirely unapologetic. “Of course I have. Who else is going to answer your questions? Father’s down in the basement of the Poteidan sanctuary with the high priest, and not to be disturbed.”
Urtanos had arranged for Head Cook Aratta to send regular meals to the work crews, including meat from the sacrifices to keep up their strength, so they would not have to stand in line and waste valuable work time. Aranaru appreciated the favor. Kanma brought him half a round of bread and some salted beef, while he finished perusing the tablet.
“Is this what you’ve been doing all morning, delivering messages?” Aranaru handed the diptych back to her.
She shrugged. “It’s not as though I’m allowed to shape blocks or cut timbers, even though everyone knows I could do both very well.” Aranaru made a noise indicating his agreement. “Running errands keeps me out of trouble and away from making mud bricks. Gods know, I must have slapped down at least a hundred of those yesterday.”
“And you’re sick of it,” he finished. The bread was still warm from the oven. Aranaru would have liked some goat’s cheese or olives to go along with it, because the half-round that was the afternoon ration was not enough to keep a man going.
Humusi nodded. “It’s something any woman or child dedicating labor to the temple can do. So what are you doing, besides propping up timbers and keeping that bitch snake priestess happy?”
He told her. When she was not ribbing him, she was easy to talk to, and understood the technical terms he used. She also asked pertinent questions, such as whether he intended to replace the second story throughout the quarter, or just in areas where the floors were structurally unsound, and whether he was going to preserve the mix of colored stone that Iapyx had instituted throughout the Labyrinth.
“I have nothing to say about decorative stonework or these fantastic wall paintings I keep hearing rumors about,” he answered, chewing. “It’s not my decision, anyway.”
Humusi was observing him eat with all the intensity of a woman who had prepared the bread herself and wanted a verdict on her cooking skills. “Can I tell you something?” She leaned forward, ready to divulge whatever it was whether Aranaru wanted to hear it or not. “Father can’t stand the thought of replacing anything that Daidalos did in the Poteidan sanctuary. Not that he’s told me what the great architect did.” She cast him a sly, suggestive look. “Women aren’t allowed down there, you know.”
He laughed. “Are you trying to pry the information from me? I’ve never been there, either.”
Humusi’s mock pout did not really suit her strong features. “You realize what this means, don’t you?” she complained. “I have to try to charm the information from Labasha, and gods know but his wife is a jealous old hag. She’ll smack me with her broom the minute I flutter my lashes at him.”
The mental image of her attempting feminine wiles with any man, much less choleric Labasha, made Aranaru grin. “Why are you so interested in the Poteidan sanctuary, anyway?”
“I was just wondering if someone who knows could tell me if it’s true that Poteidan sent Daidalos a half-man, half-bull creature to imprison down there,” she replied.
Chuckling, Aranaru offered her the last piece of bread, which she, signaling that she had already eaten, turned down. “You don’t actually believe that story, do you?”
Humusi’s eyes widened. “Why not? Mother Rhaya and Lady Potnia dwell in caves under the earth, and women see them all the time. Why shouldn’t there be a mighty bull-man underground that shakes the Labyrinth? Father always told me that naughty children were taken down there and left to die.”
Having never heard that tale before, Aranaru frowned. “I doubt that’s true, and even if it were, it hasn’t stopped you from misbehaving.” He offered a wry grin to alleviate the criticism.
When Humusi scowled, Aranaru reflected that she was at her most attractive when her eyes glowed with enthusiasm over something he said. “What,” she countered, “you think I ought to mind my spinning and weaving like an obedient woman?” She raised both hands. “Look. Are these the hands of a woman who can hold a needle or spin an even thread? Hah! Father’s lucky I can make bread without burning it.”
Aranaru glanced around the courtyard. The men had since finished eating and were dozing in the shade of the cypress trees fringing the north side. He would wake them in an hour to go back into the temple and finish the day’s work. As for himself, Humusi was interesting company, and he wanted to linger. It was a shame that she always felt the need to tease him. He had heard that women teased those whom they liked, of course, but that had never been true in his experience. Women engaged in banter with handsome men who played their game. It was a courtship ritual, he understood that, but Eshmal’s daughter had made it plain through her tomboyish ways that she was not and never would be interested in marrying, and he was already betrothed.
“I had no idea you could cook,” he remarked.
She turned up her nose. “Forget I said that.”
Assigning his men the delicate task of dismantling the weaving room, Aranaru took his mason to the Ashera sanctuary to discuss removing one of the floor slabs to create the kaselle that Arishat demanded.
A serpent priestess was already in the empty antechamber, sweeping the plaster dust that the demolition had raised. She was small and stout, and Aranaru remembered her as the woman who had crouched with him in the doorway on the day of the earthquake. Her yellowing shift had seen better days, and around her bullish neck she wore a strand of graduated red beads so familiar that he stopped in his tracks.
“Where did you get that?” He wondered why he was so alarmed when the priestess could have bartered for the necklace with the same merchant. Because, he decided, he did not recall the man having offered duplicate wares. “That necklace. Where did it come from?”
The woman stopped sweeping and with one hand self-consciously fingered the necklace.
“I found it.” She had a guarded, unfriendly aura that showed in her appearance. Lines suggesting perpetual bitterness were graven around her tight-lipped mouth.
“Found it where?” he pressed.
She hooded her eyes. “In the latrine trench behind my hut. What’s it to you, Architect?”
A step closer allowed Aranaru to confirm his suspicions; the bronze beads framing the largest bead were the same. “It belongs to my betrothed.” Had Gula discarded it because she scorned him and his gifts? Surely not. It must have gone missing and ended in the latrine by mistake—provided that the serpent priestess was telling the truth. She had a look about her that said she was the type to snatch sesame balls from a child. He held out his hand. “Give it to me.”
She defiantly stood her ground. “No.”
Aranaru reached out and tore it from her neck. Beads flew everywhere. He gathered what he could, which was not everything, and stalked away, leaving the priestess to glare impotently at him while clutching her throat. Halfway down the corridor, he realized that he had neglected to attend to the problem for which he had entered the sanctuary in the first place. As far as he was concerned, Arishat could excavate the kaselle herself.
Gazal, his mason, did not speak until they were outside. “What was that all about?”
Aranaru stared at the broken strand in the sunlight. Yes, it was the same. “Nothing,” he growled.
That evening, he returned what was left of the necklace to his betrothed. “I believe you misplaced this.”
Gula regarded the ruined strand with a suspicious juxtaposition of guilt and surprise. Aranaru had since had time to cool down and assess the situation, and, acknowledging that there might be extenuating circumstances, was prepared to give his betrothed the benefit of the doubt. Until she hesitated. Until the faint revulsion in her eyes revealed what she had concealed behind her shy smiles—the fact that she despised him.
“Should I take my leave?” he asked sharply. When she, apparently not comprehending his double meaning, started to nod, he added, “Do my attentions displease you that much?”
