Knossos

by Laura Gill

  As the high priestess and her cohorts started to retort, a nobleman, the magistrate of Archanes, raised his voice in protest. “Minos, we came to celebrate the restoration of the Labyrinth, not witness a quarrel between factions.” Those seated near him voiced their agreement.

  “Then let this agitating talk cease. Kyprios, have the servants bring wine and dessert melons. Send in musicians. High Priest Kitanetos, High Priestess Umpara, priests and priestesses of the Labyrinth, we will have only amiable conversation.” Alektryon sounded contrite, and even smiled, but through that guise Kitanetos sensed an undercurrent of disappointment.

  The lute player and flautist who entered began playing a lovely melody, the accompaniment to an old favorite about springtime lovers. Kitanetos relished desserts, but suddenly lacked an appetite for the honey cakes and melons the servants proffered. He felt nauseous, disheartened. The feasting chamber smelled of stale food, rancid perfume and flatulence. A whiff of urine wafted up from the courtyard. Flies buzzed everywhere. The delicacies stashed in his robes embarrassed him. Had he, the high priest of Poseidon, been reduced to filching table scraps? Kitanetos fought an urge to burst into tears, to flee the chamber, to go home, to shutter all his windows and hide from the world, to be a hundred leagues away from Knossos.

  Once the other guests started leaving, then he should be able to slip away unnoticed. Only, no one else was budging. Now that peace had been restored, the retainers, nobles, and ladies lounged about, torpid in the heat, enjoying the music, refreshments, and the Minos’s hospitality. Kitanetos certainly was not about make the initial move. His enemies would naturally assume he was retreating in defeat, while the Minos would doubtlessly take offense. He stifled a yawn behind his hand. Old men such as he were wont to drowse the afternoons away.

  Piyasema shook him. “Keep your eyes open, Kitanetos. You cannot sleep now, you know. The Minos has arranged a bull sacrifice for later, and has requested that we all be present.”

  “What sacrifice?” The thought alone prompted greater alertness. As Poseidon’s high priest, his authorization and seal were required to remove any bull or heifer from the god’s sacred herd. Any breach of protocol was considered a sacrilege, theft directly from Poseidon himself.

  “Bull Priest Malachos did not tell you anything?” Piyasema directed a puzzled look toward the priest, seated nearby with his wife. “How strange. Perhaps he simply wanted to spare you the arduous task of choosing the animals. Everyone knows you have been tired lately.”

  Not likely. Kitanetos sensed a cloud of dread closing over him. Why would his subordinate not report a request for sacrificial animals? How had Malachos gotten around requiring his seal? “Piyasema, how did you learn about this before I did? Am I being deliberately kept in ignorance?”

  He felt the other priest’s hand reassuringly prod his arm. “No, of course not. Why should anyone seek to hide the matter from you? I only know because I happened to meet Malachos and his assistants with the animal on their way back from the enclosure. I assumed you had granted your seal.”

  Kitanetos’s gaze wandered over to his rivals, then quickly away again when Tanqara acknowledged him with open malice. She saw through his denials, his feigned ignorance regarding the sacrilege done last winter in the Ashera sanctuary, and would never forgive him.

  Flustered, he asked Piyasema, “Have you heard anything further about the Poseidon sanctuary? Apparently the temporary lodging is to be the god’s new home, but it has bare walls.” Kitanetos envisioned scenes such as the magnificent bull leaping fresco that graced a corridor in the east quarter. Could the same artist be employed?

  “I have heard nothing.”

  At length, the atmosphere in the chamber grew warmer, and the conversation among guests started to die down. The gathering loitered under an enchantment of inertia. As he listened to the buzzing of flies, and the susurration of the wooden fan his young attendant plied beside him, Kitanetos fought to keep his eyelids open.

  Then the Minos stood, and with a strident announcement broke through the veil of enchantment. “Let us rise and go outside, and give thanks with a last sacrifice.” Raising his wine cup, he saluted the gathering. “The altar stands ready, the bull is trussed, and Mother Labrys awaits.”

  People moved slowly, stretching numb limbs and discreetly smothering yawns. Kitanetos winced as his spine protested; he needed several moments to regain his mobility. Servants circulated with basins of cool water. Kitanetos splashed his face and hands, and discreetly emptied his pockets of the delicacies he had filched.

  He had to lean against Piyasema on the way downstairs. And how elegant the descent was, too! Broad, colorful, and pillared, creating a stepped portico where a high priest could make quite the entrance. Kitanetos, however, had to manage the stairs one at a time, shuffling like the decrepit old man he was, while the high priestess’s graceful gait and the Minos’s confident stride did honor to the gods of the Labyrinth.

  A scaffold surrounded the west facade where the portico opened onto the central courtyard. Priest-Architect Daida’s crews had started work on a tripartite shrine destined to enhance the Labyrinth’s public rituals. Thousands would be able to observe the rites from the porticoes and rooftops surrounding the court. What a brilliant idea! Kitanetos had not understood at the time, but, seeing the first phase of the work being carried out now, he embraced the novelty.

  There was no breeze, and the white limestone of the courtyard reflected the blinding daylight. Kitanetos raised an arm to shield his eyes. The pavement’s heat radiated through the worn-out soles of his sandals, causing him to hiss and shuffle from one foot to the other.

  A triton sounded from a nearby rooftop just as his eyes adjusted to the brightness. Alektryon, holding the steatite rhyton from before, approached a makeshift altar facing the unfinished shrine. His booming voice filled the courtyard. “To Mother Rhaya, to Father Poseidon, to Great Velchanos-Diwios, and to all the gods of the Labyrinth, receive this libation of wine. Attend our offerings. Grant us your divine favor.”

  Blood-red wine splashed the channel before the altar. Holding the rhyton aloft, Alektryon continued addressing the deities. “Here we have a bull, the most magnificent specimen of our herd. Now we dedicate him to you, an offering of blood with which to consecrate the Labyrinth.”

  Kitanetos appraised the spotted white and brown bull. Bull Priest Malachos certainly possessed an eye for quality. But then, he focused on the mallet in the bull priest’s powerful hands. What was this? Kitanetos blinked to make certain he was not seeing things. No, Malachos was holding the sacrificial mallet, when protocol clearly dictated that whenever the Minos offered a bull sacrifice, the high priest, if he was available, must deliver the stunning blow.

  First, Malachos had selected the animal without his seal of authorization, and now he wielded the mallet. Kitanetos searched his memory. There was also the relocation of the Poseidon sanctuary. The Minos was excluding him, shunting him aside, even on this most auspicious of days. Age played a part, certainly, but after all his years of service Kitanetos thought he deserved better.

  Acolytes of the Labyrinthos shrine brought forth the instrument of sacrifice, whose bronze butterfly blades gleamed molten in the late afternoon light. Kitanetos would have recognized Mother Labrys anywhere. He had held her many times, and through her had communed with both his predecessor-ancestors and the deities. Minos Alektryon had wielded her before, yet to Kitanetos’s eyes there was something sinister now about the way he held Labyrinth’s most sacred heirloom aloft, something...

  “Fire!”

  Even while the alarm spread through the crowd, as heads turned and fingers pointed toward the thick black smoke palling the sky to the southeast, Alektryon continued with the sacrifice. Without waiting for the priestess to sprinkle the meal between the bull’s horns, without even signaling to Malachos to stun the animal with the mallet, the Minos swung the labrys hard, delivering a deep blow to the bull’s spinal cord. Blood sprayed. The mortally wounded beast l
owed in anguish. Kitanetos observed without really seeing. The scene possessed a certain hazy, nightmarish quality. Acrid smoke filled his nostrils, and his head whirled.

  Umpara shrieked, “My house!”

  A glint of metal at his periphery caught his attention. Hellenes in boar tusk helmets wielding spears and carrying waisted shields formed a bulwark against which the onlookers found themselves trapped. Kitanetos jumped in his skin. Armed warriors in the temple courtyard, where none were permitted. And there was the Minos, still holding Mother Labrys red with blood. Umpara floundered about, turning this way and that, seeking escape, and realizing to her horror that there was none.

  Kitanetos started to open his mouth, to stammer a query, when out of nowhere a solid object crashed into the back of his head, and his world suddenly went dark.

  *~*~*~*

  Umpara was distressed, as Alektryon had known she would be. “With these dry conditions, an overturned lamp or untended cook fire must have set the spark,” he said, channeling into his tone a sympathy he did not feel.

  “What am I going to do?” Separated from her supporters, and intimidated by the presence of his household guard, the high priestess was not as formidable as she would have liked her enemies to believe. “My handmaidens, all my belongings...” She kept shaking her head in disbelief, as she had done ever since Priest-Architect Daida, grimed with soot and appearing seemingly out of nowhere, had informed her that her house was a loss. “Merciful goddess!”

  Alektryon forced himself to remain patient, calm, when he would have preferred to reprimand her. She had brought this on herself, after all. “I have had word that your handmaidens and servants escaped unharmed.” His mouth tightened against the ingratiating smile he felt compelled to maintain. “As for your living arrangements, let me offer you a suitable alternative while you rebuild.”

  “Thank you, Minos, but, truly, I could not possibly impose on you or your family.” Umpara’s voice was unsteady, and she was staring at the pavement where Kitanetos had collapsed less than an hour ago. He had since been conveyed back to his residence, to revive from what the royal kinsmen assured the priests was stress and heat exhaustion. Did the high priestess suspect that the old fool was already dead? Alektryon doubted that, because his retainers had assured him that she had been staring horrified at the climbing smoke and panicking over the sudden, aggressive blockade by the household guard when his younger brother Andronikos had clubbed Kitanetos over the head.

  As for imposing on Alektryon’s household, the high priestess in her thoughtless arrogance was presuming upon his protection, when she should have humbled herself as a supplicant, and even then... Great Diwios, no. Not for anything would he have inflicted her presence upon his family. “If you will allow me,” he suggested smoothly, “I will show you something that will relieve your burden.”

  Proffering his arm, he escorted her across the courtyard toward the east quarter, and descended the steps. As with the outside, little air circulated in the portico giving onto the landing of the broad, multistoried staircase, but the light was dimmer, bluer, and less harsh. Alektryon’s eyes needed a moment to adjust, while he steeled himself for the next step. With Umpara’s house reduced to smoldering ashes, he could not go back, only press ahead, into a corner of the Labyrinth reserved for a select few. The bull had been for the Labyrinth’s restoration, yes, but the animal’s blood and the high priest’s would secure his safe passage, and consecrate his actions now. For every step he took in consolidating his power, there must be blood.

  Would the gods condone this, though? He breathed deeply, inhaling the lingering odors of plaster and pigment; the last frescoes had been completed not twelve hours ago. Was he not the Minos, the priest-king of Kaphtor, he whose power had gone uncontested since his usurpation four years ago? Had he not honored the gods at every turn, and been blessed by them? What he was about to do next was a small thing—insignificant, really—hardly sacrilegious, after everything else that he had already done.

  Umpara hesitated before the stairs leading to the upper stories. “Minos,” she croaked. “If you are suggesting I abide in the Rhaya sanctuary, I cannot. Such a thing is strictly forbidden.”

  “Ah, you misunderstand.” Alektryon urged her toward the other stairwell, this one leading down into the basement. “Were you not listening earlier when I told Kitanetos that Poseidon’s sanctuary had moved? Priest-Architect Daida has refurbished the lower levels. It will be quite safe for you and your handmaidens to enter.” When she made no reply, but continued to dither, he forced a laugh. “Come! Are you not curious about what lurks down there?”

  “I have heard stories, Minos.”

  The quaver in her voice told him everything: that she actually believed a bull-man haunted the lowermost levels. “Exaggerations,” he scoffed. “Daida has investigated every corner of the old sanctuary, and there is nothing to fear. There are no spirits, no bull-man. Absolutely nothing. Hold onto my arm, Lady.” Alektryon patted her hand where it rested against his bicep; her skin was ice-cold. “At most, we may encounter one of my household guards.”

  Coaxing her down two flights of stairs took more patience than he truly wanted to exercise. How much easier it would have been to sling her kicking and screaming over his shoulder, and carry her the distance! He had no doubt that, centuries ago, in the time of the first Daidalos, the sanctuary’s foundations had been consecrated with the blood of sacrificial bulls, and that the stones were regularly replenished with fresh blood. But to believe that the level of the lower sanctuary was haunted? What priests would have tolerated the presence of shades before exorcising them? Poor high priestess. At this point, she had far more to fear from mortal, breathing men.

  When they reached the lowermost level, he saw how, in the darkness, some might imagine ghosts and angry gods. Generations of building, destruction, restoration, and refurbishing had resulted in an aggregation of corridors that turned or ended abruptly. Doorways appeared in unexpected places. And then, as Daida had explained when asked about the sanctuary, the subterranean level was not silent. The weight of the building above was constantly settling, shifting from regular seismic tremors and the creeping, infinitesimal movements of the hillside in which the foundations had been rooted. And then there was the ever-present gurgling of water flowing through the refurbished network of drainage pipes under the pavement.

  But the space was not bare of adornment. The hall into which Alektryon escorted Umpara was outfitted with frescoes of dolphins and dancing women. Rosettes framed the doorways. A motif of running spirals decorated the ceiling. Daida’s artists had exceeded all expectations. Not that the high priestess would care, once she understood her situation, but, given enough time, the aesthetics of the place would make surrender a less threatening proposition.

  A chorus of female voices greeted them. “Mistress!”

  “Look,” Alektryon said to Umpara, “your women are safely here, and all your belongings.” Releasing her arm, he gestured to the furnishings, chests, and other odds and ends evacuated from the mansion.

  Umpara stood motionless, taking in everything. “I do not understand. Priest-Architect Daida said the house was a complete loss. And yet, if there was enough time to rescue my belongings, then...” Her eyes narrowed, she frowned hard, trying to piece together the puzzle Alektryon had given her to unravel. “Then there should have been enough time to save my house.”

  “Except I did not order that your house should be saved.” Alektryon decided that the time was right, that he had no further need for falsehoods. He heaved an inward sigh of relief. Thank the gods he had gotten through the last bit of playacting his scheme had required. Another hour of catering to the priesthood, especially to this troublesome woman, and his patience might have snapped altogether.

  Eyes wide with astonishment, Umpara rounded on him. She started to speak, to heap scorn upon him, to demand further explanation, but he was done listening to her. “Be quiet, woman. Did you honestly think I would allow you and Kitan
etos, and your warring factions to undermine my authority and interfere with the restoration of the Labyrinth?” With each word, he raised his voice another degree, so by the end his shouts echoed off the frescoed walls. The handmaidens cowered, whimpering.

  Only Umpara stood defiant. Alektryon saw her nostrils flare, her teeth set, and it enflamed him yet further. “You will not curse me, Priestess, or call me usurper or Hellene savage. You have no idea what courtesies I have extended to you.” A sense of self-righteousness surged through him. He moderated his tone, however, hoping Umpara might unclench her jaw and listen. “You might have restored the Labyrinth decades ago had you ceased your infernal squabbling with the high priest and his faction. Now Kitanetos lies dead, and if you are not careful, you will follow.”

  Her dark eyes widened. “Dead? You said he fainted from sunstroke.” Pointing a trembling finger at him, Umpara shook her head once again. “I am the high priestess of Knossos. You would not dare!”

  “To kill you? Who will stop me?” Alektryon advanced a step, and she, stiffening, clasped both arms over her breasts in a gesture he knew well. He chuckled at the absurdity. “Please! If I wanted to rape you, you would already be lying under me. Your musty charms hold no interest for me.” The handmaidens, too, were clutching their bosoms, and huddling together for protection. Foolish girls. Did they think he, a man alone, could take them all at once? “Nor, I think,” he added with a smile, “should I have to force myself upon you to persuade you.”

  “The Lady will punish your insolence,” Umpara hissed at him. Though she still trembled, she lifted her chin defiantly. “She will emasculate you, and send worms to gnaw your—”