Knossos

by Laura Gill

  *~*~*~*

  “Stop your fussing, old woman.” Ariadne rebuffed the fur-lined mantle that Myrna attempted to drape around her shoulders. “I am a goddess at the height of health, not some wretch made of glass paste.”

  Myrna dourly folded the garment again. “It is downright common that you are not suffering. Your mother always suffered, on account of the strength and holy substance of the children she bore.”

  Ariadne had never seen her mother with child. Mostly, she remembered Pasiphae as an ailing woman whose breath came so hard that she coughed blood. “I will not suffer,” she affirmed, “because I am an immortal goddess.”

  Had the priestesses of Eleuthia and Rhaya not praised her? Had the Minos and his spiteful, boar-faced wife not paid tribute to her fertility with gifts of costly purple cloth, gold ornaments, and perfumed oil? Ariadne would ripen with the land. She would blossom in midwinter, bringing forth the fruit that would renew the world. Of course, she acknowledged soberly, there could be no life without death, no happiness without suffering.

  Thinking about the sacrifice made her sad, until she remembered that she could wait until the season of Dionysus, when the women mourned the dying god.

  In the shadow hours of the Labyrinth, while her women slept, Ariadne rejoiced with Minotauros. He brought her Egyptian faience beads and a clever clay bull that moved on wooden wheels. “For the little calf in your womb, when he is old enough for toys,” he explained.

  Ariadne stifled a giggle of delight. She liked the heaviness of the beads in her hand. Heavy jewelry, as Myrna always said, was always the most valuable. “Silly Minotauros! The child will not be born with horns and a shaggy pelt like you. Its father is Velchanos, not Poseidon.”

  “Ah, yes, a sacred child.” His hand stroked her unbound hair. She wondered if they would allow him to attend the birth. Childbirth was a strange and terrifying business, the priestesses had warned her, as if she did not already know. A servant woman on her grandmother’s estate had died trying to deliver twin boys. There had been blood and a foul stench, and she had seen the bluish corpses slick with fluid before the midwife had hastily bundled them into a cloth to carry away. She had seen a cow die, too, with the calf’s legs protruding from the heifer’s body. How sad that had been! Ariadne had wept for days afterward, even when her grandmother had patiently explained that sometimes the goddess claimed a life as her due.

  They would not let Minotauros into the birthing chamber, she knew. Men were not allowed, and her women, foolish creatures that they were, would shriek at the sight of him and frighten the child on his way from the womb. “Yes, a sacred child,” she affirmed, “but there will be no blood, no suffering. I will make sure the gods have their libation weeks beforehand. Velchanos always dies in the autumn, so he can be reborn again in the spring. His blood will water the land.”

  Minotauros’s fingers ceased combing through her hair. “You intend to sacrifice the young man?” When she answered in the affirmative, that of course Velchanos must be sacrificed, he corrected her, “But that is not done anymore, child, unless there is plague or famine, and the gods demand blood. Even your own father was not sacrificed, or any of your mother’s other consorts. Surely you were told this during the mysteries. Have the priestesses not explained the matter to you?”

  “I have spoken to the goddess, Tauros. Why, I am the goddess.” She did not like it when Minotauros disagreed with her, for then it seemed as though Poseidon himself moved against her. Of course her father had been offered up. “Did I tell you how I sat on the throne upstairs dressed in the goddess’s robes? All the priests and priestesses, and even that hateful Lady Wordeia bowed and paid me tribute. They covered their eyes because my brilliance dazzled them so, and when they sang the hymn to Rhaya, they were really singing to me. It was so wonderful.”

  Yet troubling thoughts followed her the next day. She was restless, weary of the company of women, and wanted Keos. She wanted to race across the meadow with the noblemen, and ride a chariot, and explore the scrubby hillsides around Knossos for snakes. Instead, no one heeded her wishes. Myrna, acting under instructions from the head priestess of Eleuthia, cautioned her against continuing her liaison with her consort. “This is your first pregnancy, Lady. You must give yourself over to the sacred child in your womb. Devote yourself to the mysteries of Eleuthia, and provide for the infant’s sustenance rather than your own pleasure.”

  “And you talk too much, old woman.” Ariadne did not want to hear about some commoner’s experience with childbearing; as a goddess, she did not have the same natural functions. Nor did she care about weaving baby blankets or fashioning talismans against demons. What she wanted was to go upstairs to the sanctuary and dance by torchlight before Rhaya’s altar. She liked baking goddess-shaped cakes for the offering, even though Myrna scolded her for trying to filch one of the sticky honey treats.

  She wanted to handle the Labyrinth’s house serpents and commune with her sister-goddess Ashera. Maybe the snakes would lick her ears, whispering to her about the future, revealing her child’s sex.

  She could scarcely eat from all the dishes that Myrna set before her at supper. The woman was trying to fatten her like a heifer with sweets and blood-red meat, which always soured her stomach. And why was her wine watered? Was her consort not also Dionysus, Master of the Vine? Wine was the communion of his spilled blood, and his blood would strengthen the child inside her. Myrna balked, of course, claiming that drinking the god’s blessing neat would overwhelm the infant. Ariadne slapped her, and refused to eat until her women brought her strong wine.

  Twilight fell. Daphne and Evadne lit the lamps in the main hall so the women could work their wool. Phaedra amused herself by sewing gold-leaf spangles onto a new skirt. Ariadne chafed. The day’s restlessness had given way to a different kind of stress. While sunlight had roused a desire to roam free, darkness brought dread. For the first time in two months, the walls aspirated. The mass of the building above and around her breathed, and she sensed the spectral presence of women who were not her attendants but others who had once inhabited that lower level. An invisible hand imparted a chill as it brushed her cheek. A whiff of stale incense tried to mask undercurrents of sickness and fear. From the corner of her eye, Ariadne thought she saw the smoky visage of a woman pass up the side stairs to the reception chamber above.

  Her entire body trembled. Now she was very cold, and suddenly wished she had the mantle she had refused yesterday. “Does no one else see?” Her voice sounded unsteady. “Spirits.” She hugged herself with both arms as her teeth started chattering. “There are demons.”

  At once, Myrna hustled to her side to drape her in her own woolen shawl; it held her musty, old-woman scent and was warm from her body’s heat, but not warm enough to drive away the bone-deep cold. “What has come over you? There are no demons here. We have made the offerings, remember? The goddess protects you.” She rocked Ariadne against her slack breasts, stroked her hair, and Ariadne clung to her. The other women were starting to gather around, to murmur, and to ask questions. Even Phaedra was there, her inquiries going unanswered.

  In the midst of her shivering, Ariadne felt a sudden dampness between her thighs, and then there was a rumbling, not from the earth where the Great Bull and the Mother dwelt, but from somewhere deep inside her. Then a sharp pain lanced her womb, as though Diwios’s thunderbolt had struck her, and she screamed.

  *~*~*~*

  “I do not know what you are complaining about, Husband,” Wordeia said good-naturedly. “Daikantos is an absolute marvel. When I sent him a message, he was not only courteous enough to send workers to repair the landing as I asked, but he is going to have painters brighten the porticoes of the entire sanctuary block. I tell you, there is nothing that gracious man cannot do.”

  What was his wife doing commissioning work directly from the priest-architect? Argurios wondered. Only he could authorize new projects. “Everything except follow instructions.” He raised a hand when Wordeia started to in
terrupt. “If you must know, you irritating heifer, Daikantos is not refurbishing the sanctuary block because you smiled and fluttered your eyelashes at him. The work is being undertaken for the goddess on Lady Ariadne’s behalf.”

  Wordeia’s smile vanished, but, alas, the woman herself did not. “I know a lie when I hear one, Husband. Ariadne has lost the child, and she is not about to be proclaimed high priestess. Furthermore, you have not assigned Daikantos any work except to dismantle the scribes’ old quarters.” She laughed harshly. “Look, you are gnashing your teeth even now! I doubt Daikantos will even consider starting on that project while your subjects continue their protests.”

  That morning’s petitions had seen elders from the Knossian damos appeal to him to reinstall the evicted scribes and not touch the sacred temenos of the Labyrinth. Did they understand nothing? Had they not heard High Priest Aktaios’s announcement earlier in the week? The precincts to be salvaged were not attached to the sanctuaries, and the scribes themselves had been rounded up and assured that they would retain their positions. Argurios rubbed his temples to forestall a headache. Why must his subjects be so dull-witted, and his servants so intractable?

  Dust motes floated down from the rafters, irritating his sinuses as did pollen and everything else in the late springtime air. How many times had he chastised Master Scribe Anormedes for not keeping the cubicle swept? Papyri and sun-dried clay tablets covered the surface of the table before him. If there was anything he despised more than his busybody spouse, it was having to attend to the mundane administration of his kingdom, even though there were documents requiring his personal attention and official seal.

  And where was Anormedes, anyway? If that bloated, flatulent old fool was in the kitchens fondling the young maids and filching sweets again, he would be in for it. “The Labyrinth is not your concern.” Argurios dismissed Wordeia with a flick of his wrist before reaching for the wine jar Aithalos had fetched. “Priest-Architect Daikantos does what I command.”

  “And that is going so well.” Wordeia smirked on her way to the door. “Shall I have Aithalos fetch more lamps? Gods forbid you should strain your eyes trying to decipher Akkadian.”

  As she went out, Aithalos entered. “Apologies, Minos, but Bull Priest Kinata waits outside.”

  Argurios’s patience ebbed yet further. Rather than send his subordinates, High Priest Aktaios usually came in person to discuss the business of the Labyrinth and Poseidon’s sanctuary, which meant that Kinata wished to consult on other, more secretive matters. The Minos did not want to deal with Ariadne’s miscarriage at that particular moment.

  Yet once the thought burrowed into his mind, it refused to leave him with the same alacrity. What had that stupid girl done to lose her baby? All she had had to do was obey the instructions the priestesses of Eleuthia gave her and not tax herself; it was not as though she was a common woman laboring in the fields. Mule-headed as she was, she must have eaten the wrong food or not bundled herself properly, or perhaps her consort’s inferior blood should not have mingled with hers.

  Alaia was to blame, then. Idiot woman. After the debacle of the river excursion, Argurios had not summoned her to his bed as often as before. The novelty of plowing a commoner’s wife had begun to wear thin. Moreover, she had begun to reveal flaws that had once escaped his notice: breasts that were not as high or firm as he preferred, strands of gray threading her black hair, and spider-fine lines radiating from the corners of her eyes. Bedding her had been a mistake. While she herself was tactful, her neighbors passed judgment. Her kinsmen complained, gossiped, and presumed. They expected court postings and gifts of land and livestock? Amphidaitas and his sons would have done better with a midnight rap on the door and a dire warning.

  Aithalos ushered in the bull priest. Despite his advancing age, Kinata was a powerfully built man possessing the confident demeanor one needed in order to work among the god’s cattle. He had been handsome once, if one looked past the weathered flesh and crooked nose. Argurios had never inquired how he had broken it. “I did not summon you,” Argurios said. “As you can see, I am busy.”

  Kinata nodded respectfully. “Then I will be brief, Minos. The sanctuary of Poseidon wishes to convey its sympathies to Lady Ariadne. I have come to ask your permission to approach—”

  Argurios waved him silent. “Spare me your feeble lies. You are not here on behalf of Poseidon’s sanctuary, but for your own interests. Your cousin Aktaios visited the girl this morning.”

  Even caught in a lie, the bull priest remained neutral, unapologetic. “There are restrictions on my movements.”

  “For good reason, as you well knew when you agreed to become Pasiphae’s consort,” Argurios told him. “What makes you think I would grant you permission at such a time?” He scratched his nose.

  “Because it would do her good to have someone who cares close to her,” Kinata protested. “Look at me. I am an aging man with a barren wife. My only child, touched by Dionysus, immured in the Labyrinth, and I cannot freely visit or speak with her except as Minotauros.”

  “If you want children, then put your wife aside and take another woman.” Argurios wiped his snot-encrusted finger on the edge of his tunic. “You are being a sentimental fool. Ariadne values Minotauros more than a bull priest she only ever sees at a distance during festivals.”

  Kinata ground his jaw. “The charade has gone on too long. It was one thing after Pasiphae died and Ariadne needed a friend to counter her fear of the dark and the stories her mother’s servants tried to frighten her with, but she’s a woman now, beyond such games. Continuing like this damages her mind.”

  “We have had this discussion before.” Argurios’s sinuses twitched. He held back a sneeze, then succumbed. “Aithalos!” The young man poked his head through the doorway. “Go find Anormedes. Drag him back here by his jowls if you have to. I grow weary with waiting.”

  Once Aithalos vanished, Argurios switched his attention back to Kinata. “Ariadne is headstrong. Her affliction makes her dangerous. She refuses to be guided by anyone but Minotauros.” He spread his hands. “So you see, Kinata. The Minotauros deception must continue.”

  Kinata frowned. “No, I do not see. Toying with her sanity is no less dangerous, especially now. Minotauros reminds her of the ancient ways, when the high priestess ruled Knossos. She speaks of sacrificing her consort, and of being worshipped as a goddess.” He sighed heavily. “Diwios and Poseidon know, I have tried to urge her toward a more sensible course, but her flowering has unleashed forces that Minotauros cannot counteract.” His gaze wandered as he grew more thoughtful. “I do not know whether she understands yet, but Dionysus holds her more firmly in his grasp than Minotauros ever did.”

  *~*~*~*

  Ariadne stared at the dolphins swimming across the shallows of her bedchamber’s ceiling, then at the bronze bull standing on the ebony table beside her bed. Pasiphae had owned the little incense burner, a present from the clever Priest-Architect Daikantos. When Myrna used to bring her and Phaedra for an evening hour at her mother’s sickbed, Ariadne used to watch bluish frankincense smoke exhaling through miniscule perforations all along the bull’s back. Her delight in the object had made those grim visits bearable. When her mother died, she had contrived to conceal the bull among her clothes to keep it from vanishing along with Pasiphae’s other treasures into the tomb. Everyone had scolded her, but she did not care. Daikantos might as well have made the bull for her, so thoroughly hers had it become.

  She had forbidden Myrna to add more frankincense once the first granules were consumed; the smell reminded her of her mother lying stiff and cold in her funerary larnax.

  Her womb ached whenever she tried to move, and then, remembering what had happened, she started to cry once again. Great, silent sobs wracked her body. Her tears offered no release, instead magnifying the torment.

  Her womb had expelled a fish. The midwife had tried to prevent her seeing the dead child, but she would not be held back. There had been blood, so much blood
for such a premature birth. And in the midst of that, so small that she could have cupped it in the palm of her hand, there had been a grayish mass that looked like a misshapen seahorse. Daikantos had once shown her and Phaedra a seahorse, brought back in a barrel of salt water from Amnissos. Poseidon traveled the seas in a chariot drawn by dolphins, he explained, but there were tiny water nymphs that got around in shells drawn by seahorses. He had even sketched a scene for her with charcoal on an ostrakon that she kept.

  Had a seahorse sired her child? That sounded absurd. Ariadne had not visited the seashore or waded in the ocean for many years, not since before her mother’s death. Once, a fisherman’s wife on the beach had shared with her a mystery: the curling white sea foam caressing the shore was Poseidon’s seed. She thought she understood the rest. Poseidon was also the Lord of Horses. Could he have sent a little seahorse-seed that had crept into and hibernated inside her warm woman parts until she flowered?

  “What do you think, Myrna?” She would rather have asked Daikantos, who knew everything.

  “I do not know, Mistress. Perhaps the river god impregnated you when you went sailing.”

  Ariadne tried to wrap her mind around the possibility, but in her foggy state found it difficult to concentrate. She could not remember having waded in the river that afternoon, because she did not relish the reeds and mud of the Kairatos as she did the foaming sea. Keos had lain with her that night, and he was Velchanos and Diwios and Dionysus—or was he Poseidon?

  “Bring me Daikantos.” Her eyelids were growing heavy again. How many days had passed? She had lost count of the changes in light and shadow.

  Myrna insisted on arguing. “Priest-Architect Daikantos knows nothing of the female mysteries. Now, you should rise and get some fresh air. The Minos has sent word that when your impurity ends and you are clean again, you may leave the Labyrinth to visit your grandmother. He will even take you out in his chariot and introduce you to his sons, the princes.”