Knossos

by Laura Gill

  “We have offered all manner of sacrifices,” Zimrada answered. “Bloodless and bull, heifer and horse, and, yes, even human victims. We have uttered the names of every god, goddess, and spirit that dwells among us. We have fallen on our faces. We have fasted. We have examined the entrails of many creatures.”

  “What were the results of your auguries?” another man pressed. “Were the entrails diseased? Did you examine the flights of birds? The patterns of thunder and lightning in the heavens?”

  “Yes, yes.” Zimrada looked hunted, overwhelmed. His voice showed the strain. “The house snakes have retreated under the earth. The swallows have fled the island, and the dolphins, and herdsmen’s dogs behave strangely, barking at unseen spirits. Thunder shakes heaven and earth, and hot stones rain down from the skies.” He shook his head to forestall further questions. “Even schools of fish have deserted the island. Fishermen find nothing in their nets now but these.” From his voluminous robe he produced a lump of pumice, which excited negligible interest. “Our holy mountain is a wasteland. Ash chokes the air, and the sacred groves are blasted. Those priestesses who tried to honor Lady Potnia at the saffron harvest had their breath stolen away, and the harvest failed. The Lady and all the gods have turned their faces from us. Demons haunt those heights, I tell you!”

  A second priest thrust his face into the old man’s. “What sins have your people committed?”

  “Please, we have been through this!” Zimrada wailed. “We have done our utmost to repent whatever sins we have committed.”

  So they had. Amanas remembered all too well the committee of elders and priests who examined the conduct of all the citizens, without regard to status, gender, or age. Small infractions incurred harsh punishments, old quarrels renewed themselves as people recalled long-ago slights, and the people of Terasos became afraid to speak to or otherwise acknowledge their neighbors. Husbands and wives refrained from lovemaking. Parents disciplined their children more severely than usual. Licentiousness was banned, even on the holy days. Captains were admonished not to grant their sailors their customary shore leave lest they quarrel, drink too much, and seduce the wrong women, while whole cargoes of luxury goods were seized to be dedicated to the temples. Amanas had lost a year’s revenue that way, but had quickly learned not to complain. He had also learned not to swear, which for a born sailor like him was an excruciating torment.

  The second priest wagged a bedizened finger at Zimrada’s nose. “If your people have brought their sins here...”

  “Stop harassing him,” Amanas snapped impulsively. “We’re not imbeciles, and we’ve done everything we can to purge the sin from our ranks and discover the cause of the gods’ displeasure. We turn to you, Minos, because you’re our lord and master, the father of our people, and we don’t know what else to do.” He ignored Rusa’s horrified signal to close his mouth. If only he could have cursed to the rafters as he did aboard Asterion, he would have given that straitlaced court something to be scandalized about. “We’re not here to impose on your hospitality. All we want is for you to intercede for us with the immortal gods by calling upon your divine father Poteidan, and for you to grant a dispensation to petition the priesthood of Knossos to examine these signs. The temple has ancient knowledge. Perhaps somewhere in their archives...”

  The Minos gestured him to be silent. “What makes you presume that we have not petitioned the gods, or the temple?” His voice was thick with displeasure, and Amanas recognized that his outburst had probably been a mistake. “Concentrate your energies on maintaining order among your refugees in Katsamba, for we will not tolerate indigents or rioters.”

  Amanas bristled, his remorse gone in an instant. As most of the native islanders emigrated to nearby islands, many of those “indigents” and “rioters” had roots among the Minos’s own subjects. Their fathers and grandfathers had volunteered to colonize Minoa Kalliste, and to be regarded thus was insulting. Nevertheless, his business stated, he held his peace, because he saw that no matter what he said or did, the Minos was not going to do anything more for the refugees in Katsamba than the pittance of rations and housing he had already allotted them.

  An attendant stepped forward to escort him and Zimrada from the chamber, and from thence as far as the outer courtyard, where the slanting golden light and deepening violet shadows marked the late hour. Amanas collected his dagger from the steward of the door. All had been for nothing. The Minos was deaf and blind and thoroughly useless.

  Forgetting himself in the heat of the moment, he cursed in the shade of the Minos’s orchard, and continued to curse even when an ashen-faced Zimrada asked him to stop.

  “Please, Captain Amanas, mind your blasphemy.”

  “I’ll swear by Marineus’s balls and Diktynna’s tits, and anything else I please,” he retorted. “We’ve just wasted an entire day.” Hacking purposefully in his throat, Amanas hawked a gob of yellowish spit onto the pavement.

  *~*~*~*

  Rusa could remember a time, not so long ago, when Minos Hammuras had been a congenial judge and shepherd of the people. Two or three years ago when the first refugees landed in Katsamba and Amnissos, he had listened to their pleas, assured them of food and shelter and spiritual intercession with the temple. Then his beloved spouse and eldest son had died within two months of each other, and in his grief his heart had hardened. Perhaps he believed the rumors attributing a rash of tertian fevers to the influx of refugees, and thus associated the Kallisteans with the deaths of his loved ones, even though his son had been middle-aged with a weak heart and his wife old and frail long before that.

  “That man’s insolence in instructing us what to do will not be borne!” Hammuras clenched his fists on his knees, yet did not go on to elaborate precisely how he intended to chastise Amanas for his outburst.

  His comment elicited obedient agreement from the sycophants with which the Minos surrounded himself. How dare a rough sea captain presume to criticize the ruler of Knossos! Rusa, observing from his place beside the dais, wondered whether any of them realized that Amanas had not actually criticized Hammuras, only defended the priest from unwarranted needling, and asked for his intercession with the great temple in the form of a special dispensation.

  “The refugees are hiding some crime,” the gaunt priest who had thrust his finger in Zimrada’s nose insisted. “They think they can hide from their sins, that the immortal gods cannot see them, but in running all they do is further spread the malaise, like a disease.” Sammaro was a particularly vile example of priesthood, a prize equivocator and occasional zealot who, though he could not find employment in the temple, had nonetheless charmed his way into the secular court. He would have tortured the entire refugee community to elicit confessions had the Minos granted him the license, and Rusa suspected that the Minos might eventually agree to do so.

  Given how thorough the Kallistean priesthood had been, it was doubtful that any infraction committed on that island in the last fifty years had gone unrecorded. From his experience visiting Minoa Kalliste, Rusa had borne witness not only to the unsettling phenomenon and air of dread infecting the place, but also to the numerous signs of piety throughout the town. He considered it a shame that the Minos, who had, after all, granted permission for the trip, had never expressed much interest in his observations.

  “Indeed so,” the second priest agreed. It was a point of mockery around court that Annatusu never voiced an original opinion, but parroted the sentiments of the majority. He could not even perform a simple libation without looking to his betters for their approval.

  What the priests did not do was attempt to identify any specific crime, or offer any remedy—a sure sign they knew nothing. In Rusa’s humble opinion, the Minos should have employed qualified priests from the temple to advise him and interpret the omens, but he stubbornly refused to tolerate the presence of anyone who did not profess absolute loyalty to him.

  Once, not so long ago, Hammuras had been a regular visitor at the Labyrinth, dining regularly
with High Priest Selukkos and High Priestess Kapanni. These days, the Minos interacted with the temple’s rulers only during the high holy days of the Opening of the Sea Lanes and the Receiving of the First Fruits, and at the Bull Dance, where anyone standing on the dais could have carved through the tension with a dagger. He might not have accused them outright, but everyone knew that Hammuras blamed the healer-priests for not saving his wife and son.

  And what a waste that was, Rusa thought, watching the priests prevaricate and pontificate. Selukkos had sent emissaries to learned men throughout Kaphtor to find a solution to the Kallistean problem, and even beyond its shores, to magicians in faraway Egypt and various Akkadian states. He and the Minos should have worked together to placate the gods. This divisiveness hurt everyone.

  What was done was done. Now that the Minos had more or less rejected Amanas’s petition, Rusa could refer his kinsman to the Minos’s second-born son and current heir, Pyramesos, who might be able to arrange a meeting with Selukkos.

  A cough from the dais called him back to attention. Hammuras’s posture indicated physical discomfort. His joints were probably bothering him again, after sitting so long on that uncomfortable throne.

  The Minos waved his wrist. “Leave us.”

  His command applied only to the priests and councilors. The servants, including the scribes, were obliged to remain behind to await further instruction. Zanda, his body servant, hovered at his elbow, a woolen mantle draped over one arm just in case the Minos decided he was cold.

  Whenever Hammuras showed signs of testiness, as now, he wanted no one touching or even breathing on him. “Get out,” he ordered the scribes, while a shooing motion prompted Zanda to withdraw several paces. “Ah, not you, Dadarusa. I have words for you.”

  So Rusa was to be chastised for bringing Amanas and the priest to court. Inclining his head, he signaled to the junior scribes that he would inspect their tablets later, for nothing was ever filed in the court archives unless he or Ankeros, the household’s other senior scribe, checked it first for errors. Quickly tucking his writing palette into its wooden box, he fell in beside Zanda, and together they escorted their master up the three flights of stairs to his apartment.

  Hammuras lived simply but elegantly in a suite decorated by his late wife. Frescoed scenes of river plants and waterfowl complimented the view of the Kairatos from the terrace where the Minos and his lady used to dine on cool summer evenings. Now, he ignored the magnificent sunset to complain about the draft, and seemed disinterested in the supper his daughter-in-law had set out. Either his teeth bothered him again, or, to judge from the unappetizing fare on the platters, he had grown weary of eating mush.

  “That was your kinsman, Dadarusa?” He tolerated Zanda’s ministrations as the body servant removed his jewelry. “You assured me he had something worthwhile to say.” The necklaces, bracelets, and rings clinked together when Zanda deposited them in the ivory jewel casket. “A thoroughly unpleasant fellow.”

  Rusa bowed his head. “Forgive me, Minos.”

  “I do not wish to see him again.” Hammuras fumbled with his own belt, slapping Zanda’s hands away. “Now leave us.”

  Rusa gratefully withdrew from the Minos’s chambers, and then from the mansion altogether. Because dusk was falling and he was well-liked by the household garrison, a lantern-bearing sentry escorted him home. “Was that sea captain your cousin?” the man inquired.

  “Yes.”

  “Heard it’s getting hard to ship goods from the colonies. The sea lanes are full of dangers.”

  Seppa’s gregarious nature usually did not wear on Rusa’s nerves. The men of the Minos’s garrison led a dour existence under their geriatric master, and Rusa welcomed the opportunity to unwind with a bit of friendly company on the way home, but tonight he preferred not to discuss his problems when the summer twilight was cool and fresh, and the sky twinkling with emerging stars.

  His two daughters, Anath and Beruti, rushed across the entryway in linen smocks to welcome him. “Papa! Papa!” they cried.

  He made them wait until he placed his writing box in its customary place before gathering them in a hug. Their dark hair was still damp, and they smelled like the almond oil their mother rubbed into their skin after their baths. “Have you been good today?” he asked them.

  They nodded solemnly. “Cousin Amanas is still here, Papa,” nine-year-old Anath informed him.

  Pouting prettily, seven-year-old Beruti complained, “We’re not allowed to hear his stories.”

  “Absolutely not.” Rusa and his wife had had this conversation with their daughters yesterday: gentle-bred young ladies should not hear naughty tales from sailors, even from kinsmen like Captain Amanas. In truth, neither wanted their children to be frightened by accounts of smothered priestesses, burning ashes, or dead livestock when they were already unsettled by the constant earth tremors. Explaining that Poteidan was moving his furniture comforted the girls only so much.

  “The priest is nice,” Anath added.

  Rusa kissed her cheek. “That’s good.” He noticed his firstborn, thirteen-year old Isiratos, hanging back at the bottom of the stairwell. “Have you mastered your last row of Akkadian signs?” he asked his son.

  Isiratos was a short but serious-minded boy, too conscious of his dignity to rush squealing into his father’s arms. “Yes, Father. Master Naptu says I did very well.” He maintained an almost inaudible tone, because the breaking of his voice embarrassed him so. “The tremors interrupted us, though. We had to calm them down.” He nodded toward his sisters.

  “You were scared, too,” Anath shot back in a sing-song voice, “and then you messed your ink.”

  “Children, I told you not to tell tales on each other,” said a woman’s musical voice. Rusa’s pulse quickened, as it always did upon seeing his wife, or hearing her speak after an absence.

  When Dusani came to greet him, he kissed her on the mouth, and reveled in the sensuality of her glorious blue-black hair. “How was your day, love?” Rusa breathed the question against her full lips. She was more beautiful now that she had been that afternoon fourteen years ago when he first glimpsed her among the late Lady Sarmi’s attendants. The daughter of a high-ranking official, Dusani could have had her choice of husband—even Lord Pyramesos sought her hand—but through the benevolent auspices of blessed Pipituna of the Doves, her gaze had turned with love to the shy, gangly junior scribe working in the Minos’s archives, and they had married the next autumn. To this day, Rusa could scarcely believe his good fortune.

  Wearing a little frown, Dusani drew away. “I should ask you the same, after hearing what Amanas and the priest had to say about this afternoon’s audience. The Minos won’t give an inch, will he?”

  Rusa sighed. “No.” Even in the lamplight, which usually flattered his wife’s honey-colored skin, he noticed how tired she appeared. Her lovely doe eyes were rimmed with shadows. “You should be in bed.” The birth of their youngest had been difficult, and the midwife had advised Dusani to rest for a month. “We have servants, you know. Let them handle everything.”

  “Nonsense,” Dusani retorted, as he knew she would. His wife was indefatigable. She laundered clothes alongside the servants, and worked in her own vegetable garden—shocking behavior for a noblewoman. “Supper’s almost ready. Go wash.” She lifted an admonishing finger. A knowing smile teased the corners of her mouth. “And leave the baby be. He’s finally sleeping. All these tremors keep waking him, and it takes forever to soothe him again.”

  Rusa reassured her with a nod. “I’ll visit him later.”

  As she turned to go, Dusani appeared to remember something. “Oh, Lady Shammat wants us to be her guests for the Festival of the Vines.” Rusa’s immediate reaction was to refuse. “Now, I know what you’re going to say, Rusa, but she sent an amphora of her best vintage to apologize for the other night’s damage.”

  “That wretched beast,” he muttered. Shammat’s obnoxious blue-dyed monkey had screeched, broken, and hurled ob
jects, terrifying the children and reinforcing Rusa’s natural loathing for the creatures. Shammat had professed herself astonished by her “baby’s” bad behavior. “What has him so riled?” She had clutched her ample bosom while making the comment, as if she thought Rusa might forgive the damages on account of her perfumed cleavage. “He never behaves this way.”

  Rusa had had half a mind to seize the monkey by his scruff, take him outside, and strangle him. At least his daughters had stopped pestering him to give them their very own monkey.

  “Shammat’s messenger assured me she sold Baby Blue just this morning.” Dusani stroked Rusa’s cheek. “I told her to expect us, dear. Now go wash. Our guests are waiting for you.”

  He washed his hands and face in the bathroom, removed his fringed outer wrap, and rejoined his family in the main room. A fire crackled on the hearth. Beruti snuggled like a contented cat at her grandfather Yikashata’s side, while Anath helped her mother bring out the first course of hot bread, seasoned olive paste, and a salad of watercress, radishes, and slivered carrots.

  Rusa was dismayed to find Dusani blithely going around filling cups from the wine pitcher when the midwife had specifically ordered her to refrain from any heavy lifting for a month after the birth.

  He reprimanded the servant woman standing behind her. “Nefret, take the pitcher. Dusani, dear, we should bring down the gods.” His suggestion salved her pride, as well as served a practical purpose.

  “Oh, yes, we must have the libation.” Yikashata’s failing eyesight meant he could scarcely see anything unless he held it close and squinted. Everything else was a blur. “Bring them all down. Neglect none.”

  That meant removing more than twenty deities great and small, and setting them on the hearth curb. As he prepared to move Velchanos, Rusa noticed that someone had deposited a lump of pumice before the god. What was a commonplace sight on Kallistean altars was starting to appear in Knossos.