“Even seeing Sir Arthur Evans is incredible,” Dad continued his animation waxing, “but I guess compared to seeing King Minos and Daedalus it’s nothing!”
Despite their heightened enjoyment and tension, however, they still found nothing that might indicate a disguised cavity or opening leading to anywhere secret or special among these well-trodden ruins. They passed through halls and hallways, inspected room after room and, although the girls were often able to reconstruct the purpose of each space by visiting its functional past, they started to despair of ever finding a hidden chamber or passageway that could contain or lead to the Wings of Daedalus.
There was only one moment when their hopes soared and it was because of Leda. They were descending some stairs down another of these light wells that were used to illuminate rooms in the lower floors of the palace, and Leda had scouted ahead. Suddenly, up the stairwell, came a little shriek of excitement. She had clearly discovered something very special. However, after tumbling down the stairs they found her standing in the middle of a room pointing to the wall over a doorway.
“Dolphins!” she cried. The sparkle in her eyes was nearly enough to light the room all by itself. She was pointing at a very colourful blue fresco that depicted a number of dolphins. Dolphins are her favourite animal.
“Oh Leda!” groaned Danae, who had not inherited the dolphin-amour gene. She was bitterly disappointed. “We thought you’d found something!”
“But I did!” she protested.
“Yeah right.” Danae was having none of it.
“This must be the Queen’s chamber,” Dad said with interest, standing beside Leda to admire the beautiful fresco with her. He then looked around. “I read about this room. The fresco is very famous. Arthur Evans first described it as being the Queen’s room, as it has a separate toilet and a bathroom with a lovely bath.
“En-suite?” Ilia remarked, nodding with approval. “Impressive for 2000 BC!”
They had only a moment of peace to admire the room before a great drawl of loud voices came down the light well, which were quickly followed by a large group of tourists with their guide. Once 30 or 40 people were in the room chatting and taking photos and asking their tour guide questions, it no longer seemed a room fit for a Queen. The hard surfaces bounced the noise around so, after a methodical hunt around the room and those attached, the girls and Dad, having found nothing, moved on.
By the time they finished in the East Wing they were in need of some lunch, so they ascended from the lower floors, only to find the exposed palace at ground level was now a crucible in the early afternoon sun. It was oppressive. The heat actually seemed to have weight as it pushed down on them. They were engulfed by the hot air, like stepping into a dry sauna room. Any exposed skin tingled as if they could feel the sun’s rays burning them. They could not sweat fast enough as it dried almost instantly into their clothing, leaving them stiff with the salt.
“Phew!” said Dad, speaking for all of them. “Let’s get out of this! Shall we call it a day, go and get some lunch and find a beach somewhere?”
The girls should have been torn between disappointment at abandoning the search for the day and excitement at the prospect of cooling off on an idyllic beach, but it was so hot that the beach won hands down. At that moment, any disappointment seemed immolated by the scorching sun. They were united in their agreement and voted unanimously for an afternoon at the beach.
“And maybe some ice cream too?” Leda did not really feel she was pushing her luck with this suggestion, as Dad never refused them ice cream when on holiday, but she did like to sound like she was cheeky at times, so on this occasion she assumed her most mischievous demeanour.
“Of course, Maleeks!” Dad responded, with yet another of the ridiculous pet names he reserved for his youngest daughter. “What would the beach be without some gelati?”
So they wound their way back through the ruined palace and down the Royal Road towards the exit and the car, agreeing that they would come back and resume their search the next day.
When they got back to the villa that evening, they all agreed that, in fact, the afternoon had been much more pleasant than the morning, despite the relative lack of excitement. For a start, as soon as they left the palace the shadowy apparitions were no longer to be seen, which was a relief for the girls. And stomping around roofless dusty ruins is not much fun in forty-degree heat, whereas cliff jumping into deep cool turquoise water and chasing schools of fish while snorkelling – these activities are quite well suited to a Mediterranean summer day.
One of the beauties of staying in a villa, rather than a hotel, is that, if you enjoy that sort of thing, you can cook. Dad did enjoy cooking – especially for his girls – and he had a number of signature dishes that the girls looked forward to when they were together, and he tried to cycle through all of these whenever they were.
One of their favourites was a unique recipe that he had learned from a B&B host in Trapani, in the far west of Sicily, many years previously. Since he had learned it, Dad said that he had never encountered it on a restaurant menu, or met an individual who knew of the recipe, nor had he been able to find it with an internet search. Indeed, it was so unique that he sometimes doubted that the recipe existed anywhere outside the heads of either the woman who taught him or his own and that, with no other source of reference but a very old memory, it may have morphed over time into something unrecognisable from that which he was first taught. Nonetheless, it is a delicious dish, particularly suited to the fresh ingredients that are prolific anywhere in the Mediterranean. Now, in the event that Dad may not survive this story, then this recipe might endure nowhere other than in the mind of an unnamed Trapanesi woman who must, by now, be very elderly. In order to ensure its survival, therefore, I will record it here. Unimaginatively Dad called it Spaghetti Trapanesi.
Start by frying half an onion in a fruity olive oil, then add copious crush cloves of garlic. Throw in a kilo of fresh, shelled King Prawns and lightly fry. Next, half a litre or more of white wine and a couple of handfuls of ripe, cherry tomatoes and start to simmer this down. Add salt and cracked pepper and cook for several minutes until the sauce is about the thickness of olive oil. Despite the tomatoes, this should be a white sauce, so do not cook the tomatoes for too long – they should be just starting to break down. If you like a bit of spice you can add a few pepperoncini. Finally, when it is ready, turn off the heat and throw in a handful of fragrant basil. Whilst cooking the sauce you should try to multi-task – something Dad never mastered well. Fry half a cup of crushed almonds, again in olive oil. Cook some durum wheat spaghetti al dente, and if your timing is right all three of these should be ready simultaneously. Mix in the sauce, serve and sprinkle generously with the golden brown almonds. The ingredients testify to the mixed heritage of Sicily: the almonds from the Carthaginians; pepperoncini from Calabria; the other ingredients ubiquitous to Sicily. It is scrumptious and best served with chilled white wine on a terrace overlooking the twinkling Mediterranean sea – but if you cannot have that, then just eat it at home and use your imagination.
Stuffed from dinner they played some cards whilst they waited for it to settle, then interspersed dips in the pool with more cards and board games. They talked a lot through the evening about their exploration of Knossos and, now that they were removed from the palace, they started to imagine all sorts of possibilities as to where the Wings might be hidden. They agreed that there must be a secret door somewhere and that this was the key to progressing their quest. And a hidden door must have a catch or trigger of some sort.
“I still think it’s probably a sliding stone or something like that,” rationalised Ilia “because nothing else could have survived three and a half thousand years.”
“Ilia, it’s your deal,” Leda interjected, on a completely different and slightly exasperated wavelength.
Danae was still in Ilia’s conversation:
“Well, a stone is a fair bet because there is nothing but stone in the
palace!” she retorted. “But there are about a billion stones or more. How are we meant to find the right one?”
“Your deal Ilia!” Leda’s irritability was rapidly escalating; but Ilia ignored her.
“There must be a clue. A marking…something!”
“Ilia!!”
“We could ask Apollo?” Danae suggested, also ignoring her younger sister.
“Ilia! Ilia!”
“No I don’t think so,” Ilia responded with typical caution, and as if Leda didn’t exist: “we have to do at least some of this by ourselves. This is our quest after all. We might need Apollo for more important favours.”
“Agreed,” said Dad. “Well, we’ve still got the south wing to explore and there are parts of the others we need to return to. We’ll just have to keep looking. If we find nothing by the last day you can use the brick to ask for help.”
“Dad!” Leda exploded; she had expected some support from her father in her quest to get the cards dealt. Dad looked at her blankly for a moment, then seemed to come around.
“Yes, you’re right Leda; Ilia – your deal! A quick game is a good game!”
The next morning they left early for the ruins. The plan was similar to the day before; they would search until it became too hot, then make for another beach. Dad was concerned that they might search every day for the entire vacation and find nothing, then their summer together would be over and one of the highlights of the year wasted getting sunburnt in dusty ruins. A day or two was fun, but two weeks spent that way would be tedious. At least this way their hunt was interspersed with cool, clear water and sunscreen and melting gelati and evening meals watching the sunset over the Mediterranean.
As soon as they were through the entrance gates and looking up the Royal Road, the girls saw the ghostly shadows were as plentiful as the day before – perhaps more so. Most were on the road itself, drifting through the trickle of tourists who were heading for the ruins. It was strange to see these shades mingling with the waking world, and everyone but the girls oblivious to this phantasmic juxtaposition. Again, the girls could make out the shapes, whether it be a single person or a group, or a mule and cart moving up or down the road. One shadow they struggled to identify, until Leda recognised it as one of those things that slaves carry a person on:
“…You know, with the curtains all around?”
“Oh of course,” echoed Danae and Ilia.
“A litter?” said Dad at the same moment.
Yes, they agreed, it was a litter.
“Must be a rich person then,” concluded Dad, his expression clearly conveying the disappointment that he could not witness the same spectacle.
They must have been an odd troupe to watch, those three girls. It was even strange for Dad – and he knew the reason for their behaviour. Everyone on that Royal Road walked, meandered or strode in the one direction, their pace varied yet steady depending upon their relative urgency to reach the ruins. Some people just have to rush everywhere and be first in everything, whilst others live their entire lives completely oblivious as to where they are in someone else’s order. But, whatever their tendency, they are consistent.
The girls, however, were erratic. They moved forward at a pace, then slowed as if reluctant to catch something, then sped up and swerved as if to get around something else. They moved over to the side of the road and paused, watching, as if waiting for something to pass, then resumed their advance towards the palace. In short, they moved like people do through a crowded space. Once they even started and scattered to the edges of the road in an inexplicable rush. It was to avoid a galloping horse and rider, they later explained to Dad. No one else could see the context of their sheep-like movements, and many of the trudging tourists looked at the three sisters with curiosity as they passed them. Dad observed it with amusement as his landscape was as clear as that of the rest of the tourists there, so he could see how ridiculous his girls appeared.
“That was sort of fun!” declared Leda, when they had reached the ruins. The others agreed.
Here it was obvious that the shadows were more numerous than the day before and, as they tried to explain to Dad, somehow denser – almost identifiable. They could make out the shapes of clothing, whether it be robes or cloaks, tunics or long dresses. Even suggestions of long or short hairstyles and headdress could be made out. The shades moved about the palace ruins, as apparently oblivious to their cohabitation with the 21st Century tourists as the latter were of them. It was a strange mix to observe.
The first thing they did today was return to the Throne Room, before it got too busy. They were not lucky enough to have it to themselves again, as they had the day prior, regardless as to whether you want to class company as other tourists or ancient phantoms. But they did get to explore it well, if somewhat unsuccessfully. One feature of the complex which quite impressed them was the light well. They had seen several of these the day before; flights of stairs that descend around a central mezzanine square that allows a great shaft of light to illuminate what would otherwise be gloomy lower levels. It was in this way that the Throne Room was lit, creating very bright but still indirect illumination. Danae decided she would have at least one of these in her house when she built it.
Something else they had not appreciated the day before were the number of frescoes on the upper level at the top of the light well. There were a number of paintings fixed to the walls here and Dad became predictably animated; when he noticed one in particular he simply could not help himself.
“Oh my God!” he declared. “That’s the Bull-Leaping fresco!”
When Dad got this excited it was usually – but not always – something at least slightly interesting. Not on a par with the Black Friday sales of course, but worth a look. They followed him and clustered around as he spoke.
“This is one of the great mysteries of the Minoan world, girls. The bull is clearly very important to the Minoans, you know that? It’s obvious isn’t it?” They were nodding, but Dad was too excited to notice. “There is King Minos and his white bull and the minotaur, and bulls and bull’s heads appear everywhere on stone work and in little cult statues and pictures like these. Also, they feature in jewellery and on ceramics and…all sorts of things. It was almost certainly a sacred animal and might have been an important part of their religion. Bulls are about the greatest sacrifices that the ancients made to the gods in almost all civilisations. It was always a pure white bull with gilded horns that was sacrificed in the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus on the most important occasions in Rome. In the Iliad you’re always reading about bulls being sacrificed to the gods. In the British Museum are a lot of Persian and Assyrian artefacts with bulls appearing prominently. They appear in just about everything.”
“Hercules captured a bull didn’t he? One of his 12 tasks.” Leda had been studying these at school.
“That’s right,” agreed Ilia, before turning back to her father. “And the MacLeods, Dad, the Clan crest is a bull.”
“Oh yeah of course. I forgot that. A bull’s head, of course, and it is explained by the stories of the heroic bull-slayer. So that’s another example but from the Celtic world. In the old Celtic myths the bull is extremely important. The Book of the Dun Cow is probably the most important Celtic saga and narrates the legends of the hero Cu Chullain and the war that was started because of a dispute over a couple of bulls. They are linked to fertility and strength and …well, all sorts of stuff. Wealth as well, because they were considered a type of portable money in the Celtic world, and young warriors were initiated into manhood by going on a raid to steal cattle…”
“Back to the picture Dad!” Danae interrupted, trying to assert a little focus. Dad paused a moment, seemed to realise what he had been doing, and smiled.
“Ok, of course.”
“What are they doing Dad?” asked Leda. “That one is doing a handstand or something on the cow’s back.”
“Well firstly, it’s not a normal cow. Have you ever seen a cow that big?” The
y shook their heads. Dad continued. “It’s an ancient breed of cow that is now extinct, almost a giant cow. It is called an Aurochs, and the bull Malcolm MacLeod reputedly killed was meant to be an Aurochs also. And the Cretan Bull that Hercules captured – actually that shows how closely the bull is linked to Crete,” he added as an afterthought, “the fact that the Bull came from this island. Must be linked to older legends…”
“Dad, this picture?” Danae was sounding a little exasperated, but in a light-humoured way.
“Sorry!” he apologised. “I just keep getting carried away.”
“We didn’t notice.” Dad smiled at Danae again.
“Right, so this picture! What do you see?” Dad turned to Leda. “You said he looks like he’s doing a handstand?”
“Yeah,” she responded, getting a little animated herself at the opportunity to describe what she saw. “So there’s this huge bull and three people. The one at the front is holding the bull by the horns to keep him still while that one,” and here she pointed to the figure inverted halfway down the bull’s back, “seems to be doing a handstand or tumble on the bull. The one at the back,” and here she paused, considering it for a moment, “well it looks a bit like a ballet dancer.”
“Why do you say that Leda?”
“Because he or she is up on her toes like a ballerina and…the arch in the back and posture, they just look like a ballet dancer.”
The Progeny of Daedalus Page 9
