Knossos

by Laura Gill

  Life would soon return to normal. The new dormitory was rising in the south quarter. Thirty-five masons, carpenters, and bricklayers labored long hours in the summer heat to rebuild the high priestess’s house. Current gossip held that Master Artisan Yarreh was going to paint an Egyptian-style fresco of blue monkeys in the Pipituna sanctuary. Maybe he could be persuaded to paint birds and flowers in the priestesses’ living quarters. Narkitsa imagined herself working elaborate embroidery beside a wide window such as the one being constructed in the west quarter weaving room. She pictured herself wearing new beads, smiling, attracting a serious suitor. Perhaps not handsome or wealthy, but someone who was affable, good-natured, and comfortable. She might at last be able to leave the temple with its demons and ghosts behind her.

  Life would be good. She took a lesson from the priests and architects, and set about burying that which could not be salvaged.

  *~*~*~*

  After the debacle with his broken engagement, Aranaru’s family had stopped talking to him.

  He did not worry much about their aloofness. Banabiru and their father had subjected him to identical treatment after he had chosen to pursue his trade with the priest-architects of Daidalos over settling for a younger son’s role supporting his brother’s priesthood.

  He had not spoken to Gula again, but paid her father a handsome sum of ornaments, cattle, linen, and wool from his savings. Unlike his kinsmen, he did not mourn the loss. All he really needed was food, serviceable clothing, the tools of his trade, and his work; everything else was a luxury. It was a shame that no one else seemed to understand that about him.

  Nikanur’s draconian measures concerned him only as long as it took him to assemble his crew and inform them that he would not tolerate any spying or tattling. “We’re here to do the work of the gods, not men. Watch what you’re doing, and concentrate on placating the gods through your labor. Let them worry about your neighbors’ sins.”

  The other priest-architects, he was satisfied to learn, had adopted the same measures. The sanctimonious, paranoid nonsense that Nikanur’s faction promoted had no place in the restoration of the temple.

  Neither the priests nor officials of Nikanur’s faction questioned the priest-architects’ allegiances. High Priestess Ereka never broached the topic in Aranaru’s presence. On those occasions when she did address him, her only concern was the rebuilding of the temple. Aranaru was surprised by how astute she was regarding architectural details, the properties of wood and stone, and engineering. She added liberally to Eshmal’s plan, making suggestions for the west entrance, even though the expansion of the storerooms, which took priority on account of losing the old granaries, meant that Aranaru could not get to the project for at least another year. “There should be a projecting portico above the entrance,” she said, “so that the people can see the high priest and the goddess when she appears.”

  Aranaru murmured agreement because etiquette demanded it, while inside he seethed. First Eshmal, and now the high priestess. Would no one ever trust him to execute his own design?

  Of course not, he realized, and chided himself for expecting otherwise. Months ago, Eshmal had seen through his aggravation over the assignment and explained that, no matter who devised it, the original plan would not remain intact. “The high priest and priestess will change whatever they want whenever they want, and half the time the changes will contradict each other.” He shrugged, unperturbed. “Even Daidalos had to accommodate his patrons.”

  *~*~*~*

  As autumn approached, Aranaru’s work increasingly led him away from the sanctuaries of the first floor, which, minus Master Artisan Yarreh’s decorations, and despite the construction going on upstairs and in the storerooms, were inhabited once more.

  One morning, on his way to a proposed sanctuary honoring the Minos, he encountered a familiar face at the Ashera sanctuary threshold. The stout woman wore the same threadbare dress she had worn the last time he had seen her, months ago when he snatched the necklace from around her neck. As before, today she was patiently sweeping the floor.

  He did not know why, as she did not project any sort of warmth, but he felt strangely compelled to talk to her. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Priestess, but I don’t believe I ever got your name.”

  When she raised her head to acknowledge him, he noted how distracted and melancholy she looked, a far cry from the shifty-eyed woman who had refused to give back the necklace. “You’re the architect,” she said softly.

  “I’m one of them, yes,” he replied. “Priest-Architect Aranaru.”

  She gave him a halfhearted smile, along with her name, “Narkitsa, priestess of Ashera.”

  “Narkitsa. The narcissus flower. A lovely name.” Was he disturbing her? Aranaru sensed that the woman was deeply troubled about something. He would have inquired, but it was not his place to ask. “I see you’re laboring for your goddess. Don’t let me bother you.”

  Aranaru was halfway down the corridor when she called him back. “Wait.” Narkitsa closed the distance between them, still holding the broom. “Do you want the beads back?”

  “The beads?” Then he recalled the agate beads that had gone flying when he snatched the necklace.

  “I don’t have them with me, but...” The way her forehead creased when she frowned added ten years to an already old-looking face. “I can bring them later, or tomorrow.”

  Aranaru did not comprehend the gesture. “You were rather intent on keeping them last time.”

  “They don’t matter so much now.” The lines graven around her mouth and the corners of her eyes hinted at deep regret. “You know,” she murmured, “I used to think you were very ugly.”

  “My face hasn’t changed,” he said.

  “No,” she admitted, “but I know how that true ugliness is something we wear inside ourselves. You aren’t ugly, Architect.” Narkitsa blinked, and with her hand swiftly wiped away a tear. “But I am.”

  That statement disturbed him so much that he felt compelled to ask, “What troubles you?”

  Glancing aside, she shook her head. “You would not understand.” Aranaru started to frame an excuse to leave when Narkitsa added, “Do you want the beads, Architect? I can fetch them straightaway.”

  He had almost forgotten about those. “No, no, you keep them,” he mumbled, taking a step back. He should never have engaged her. “If you’ll excuse me now, Priestess, but my men need me elsewhere.”

  *~*~*~*

  Later that afternoon as Aranaru brooded over a modified sketch of the storerooms, Humusi unceremoniously sat down beside him. “I came to tell you that Master Potter Dida’s men are ready to transfer the first pithoi, if you’re ready to take them.”

  It took Aranaru a moment to grasp that she was talking about filling the storerooms. His earlier encounter with the snake priestess bothered him so much that after the noon meal he had hastened back to the sanctuary with the beads that he taken from her. Perhaps giving them to her would lighten whatever burden she carried. However, she had not been there. What had she meant, that she was ugly? What secret was she harboring? Even now, in the air and sunshine of the west court, he was not able to concentrate on his work.

  He felt a hand on his arm. “What’s wrong?” Humusi asked.

  “Nothing.”

  Humusi nudged him. “You’re a bad liar. Now, what’s wrong?”

  At first, not wanting to trouble her, he resisted, but in the last few months Eshmal’s daughter had become less immature and much easier to talk to, so it was not long before he found himself confiding to her his impressions regarding the incident in the sanctuary.

  “I don’t know Narkitsa very well,” Humusi said afterward, “but Ehat and Gashansi talk to me sometimes. They say Narkitsa’s turned strange ever since Head Priestess Arishat died. You found her crying? Gashansi says she cries all the time nowadays. Cursed from the terrible shock of the landslide that killed Head Priestess Arishat. Stunned, really, like those survivors we rescued from fallen buildings
. She’s certainly not weeping for Arishat, though. She couldn’t stand that woman.”

  The light slanting across the court was copper-burnished, and the shadows blue. The days were getting shorter. “She just seemed so lost, so sad, a thousand leagues away.” Aranaru shook his head. The pavement underfoot and storehouse wall against which they leaned retained the heat of high noon, but he could feel the first stirrings of the evening breeze. Somewhere nearby, onions were frying.

  “It’s an uncertain time.” Humusi must have felt the slight breeze, too, because she shifted closer, until their arms and thighs touched. Aranaru did not know how to respond. He enjoyed the closeness of the human contact, just not the reminder that he was so starved for it. When had he last embraced someone? He vaguely recalled Banabiru hugging him the day of the first quake. And when had he last been with a woman? Too long ago to contemplate.

  “Why this woman?” Aranaru watched the shadows behind the cypress trees darken. “I’ve seen people who’ve been pulled from the rubble. People who’ve lost parents, children, loved ones, all grieving so hard. I’ve seen bodies crushed and mangled. Women. Children. You become numb after a while. So why now, and why some serpent priestess who was so shifty, so insolent the last time I saw her?”

  “Maybe you like her?” Yet Humusi’s teasing was faint-hearted, where a scant five months ago she would have been merciless. “Oh, no, no, I know. Maybe what troubles you so much is what she said about ugliness. That’s an odd thing to say, especially to a stranger, but don’t dwell on it so much.” She chewed her lower lip thoughtfully. “Narkitsa’s been selfish and lazy, from what I’ve heard, and she might be afraid of Nikanur’s agents. Haven’t you noticed how nervous the women in town and around the temple have become?”

  Women’s concerns did not touch his daily life. “I’m afraid not.”

  Leaning away from him, Humusi scooted back against the wall where she drew up her knees. “No one stays around to gossip anymore. I never hear singing when the neighbor women hang out their laundry. Mothers don’t let their children out to play, but keep them inside and worry about strangers coming to the house.”

  Something in her tone alerted Aranaru to the possibility that she was voicing personal fears. “Humusi,” he asked, “are you worried about the high priest’s agents spying on you?”

  Snorting, Humusi threw up her hands. “I already know they’re watching me. This morning Priest-Steward Amarnas came by the house and scolded Father for allowing me to run wild.”

  Aranaru noticed then that she had concealed her unruly curls under a drab headscarf. What else had he missed in his distraction? Her dress looked freshly laundered, drawn in with a sash, and when she pulled up her knees she had tugged her hem down so that he could barely see the fine, dark hairs of her calves. “Was there a fine?”

  “Not this time.”

  “Then let it go.”

  “Let it go?” Apparently that was the wrong thing to say, judging from her reaction. “You didn’t hear what that imbecile said. I ought to be ashamed, he said, behaving like a child and running everywhere instead of sitting at home spinning, weaving, and keeping house. Furthermore, an old, flat-chested hag like me should already be married and making babies.” With each word she spat out, Humusi’s color went from scarlet to purple. “You know, he dared to suggest—no, it’s much too embarrassing.”

  “What’s too embarrassing?” Now that she had him engrossed in her plight, Aranaru wanted to know the rest. “Tell me.”

  Folding her arms across her breasts, she replied defensively, “He suggested checking to see whether or not I was still a maiden. What business is that of his?” Indeed. Awkwardly aware of the blush creeping into his cheeks, Aranaru regretted having inquired. There were some things men and women just should not discuss. “There’s no law saying I can’t lie with a man before marriage, and I told that fool so, right to his face. It’s none of his business—none!”

  “No, it isn’t.” Aranaru did start to wonder, though, whether she had ever lain with a man. “I had no idea the high priest’s officials were going around asking such questions.”

  Her face registered her surprise. “You didn’t know how he reprimanded the Minos’s wife for rouging her breasts too much for the Bull Dance?” She leaned closer. “If the high priestess doesn’t do anything to oust him soon, the Minos and the people will.”

  Aranaru raised a finger to her lips, stopping shy of touching them. “Don’t say that to anyone else.”

  She met his gaze steadily. “I’ve started thinking, Aranaru. I see things as you do, really. I’ve seen people killed, young and old, and become numb to the horror. I hate that.” Her expression grew thoughtful. “Don’t laugh at this, don’t. I want to create something, make a life—I don’t know.” Then she raised a finger as if to scold him. “I’m not growing sentimental, no. I’m not certain of anything, really, except that the urge is there.”

  Aranaru had never heard her talk like that before. “I’m not going to laugh at you.” Then he thought about everything she had said. “This isn’t because that official upset you this morning, is it? Because you aren’t an old hag—well, not old, anyway.” He crooked a reassuring smile. “Many of my workers say their wives want more children, even though times are hard. I don’t understand that, but with what you said, maybe it’s part of this wanting to create that you mentioned. Men raise buildings, and women make babies.”

  “A gift that Mother Rhaya gives women when terrible things happen, and so many die?” Humusi nodded, then, half a second later, she scrunched up her face. “Because of what that official said? Oh, please!” A spark of the old, mischievous Humusi showed through her newfound gravity. “Have you seen his daughter? Now that’s an old hag!”

  *~*~*~*

  Narkitsa had hoped for paintings in the new dormitory, but, setting her bundle down on her assigned cot, told herself with a ponderous sigh that going without was another penance that she must bear. She should count herself lucky, for some in the camp faced the grim prospect of spending the winter in those drafty huts. Ashluli proposed sending those people their extra blankets and helping them coat the huts’ wooden walls with insulating plaster. Narkitsa volunteered before anyone else, a gesture that drew comments and strange looks from those who knew her.

  “When have you ever wanted to help anybody but yourself?” Gashansi challenged.

  Narkitsa did not meet her gaze, but stared at the lime-washed wall. “The gods have granted us a roof over our heads. We must show our gratitude by donating our labor.”

  Ehat snorted contemptuously. “You pissed and moaned the whole time when we last gave our labor.”

  “She’s just afraid that the high priest’s informants are watching her,” Melata added. “She doesn’t mean any of it.” Narkitsa found it tempting to fall back on old ways, twist the girl’s ear, and give her the tongue-lashing she deserved, but she recognized that she was being tested.

  Ashluli held up a hand. “Enough.” The priestesses subsided, although not without some mumbled catty remarks. “Narkitsa,” the head priestess said, “are you offering to do this because you fear High Priest Nikanur’s scrutiny, or on account of a genuine conviction? Remember, you might fool us all, but the gods will know what motives lie in your heart.”

  “I must do this because the labor I gave the temple before was not well done.” What Narkitsa did not tell Ashluli or anyone else, however, was that she had struck a bargain with the gods: she would work hard and never, ever complain, and they would not persecute her. For a time, the nightmares had ceased, and she had felt lighter, as though the gods understood her dilemma, until the coming winter gloom dampened her spirits.

  Ashluli studied her for a long moment. Narkitsa continued staring straight ahead. A shame about the plain walls; the stark white space gave her space to daydream, and then to brood on her numerous sins.

  “Very well, Narkitsa,” Ashluli said. “Tomorrow you will serve with the plasterers.”

  Having be
en an overcast day, with storm clouds looming on the horizon, night brought a cold and steady drizzle. Narkitsa, lying awake in the darkness of the dormitory, thanked the gods for the gift of rain that helped muffle her sobs. A crying demon had afflicted her of late, forcing her to seek out isolated corners in which to release her tears. People looked at her strangely, and probably thought, as the other priestesses asserted, that she was shirking her duties again, so their disapproval nourished the demon. She could not plead monthly moodiness, because all the priestesses cycled together. Nor did she seek help from the healer-priests of Payawon, knowing that the demon had been sent to flog her for the many callous thoughts and deeds she had nursed over the years.

  No matter how hard she tried, it seemed, the gods would not banish the demon, even after she had given away her treasured possessions. Her precious black eggshell cup now resided in the sanctuary of Rhaya as a gift to the goddess. Her bronze hairpin she had given away to an old woman who had lost everything—home, children, and grandchildren—in the first earthquake. She had broken the strand of the cast-off beads her cousin had given her and divided the chunks of jasper among the altars of the gods. Only the wooden comb remained, only because it was so plain and she needed it for basic grooming. Had she dwelt alone, without others to see and criticize, she would have burned it, hacked off all her hair, ripped her clothing, and lived in the filth that she deserved.

  Even strangers commented on her odd behavior. The priest-architect Aranaru, returning to the sanctuary, had tried to lift her spirits by offering the beads that he had torn from her neck, while she, refusing and in tears, had thrust at him the handful of beads that she had recovered—their fumbling exchange might have been comedic had it not been so anguished.

  “What’s wrong?” he had asked solicitously. “Why do you think that you’re so ugly that you don’t deserve these?”