People walked to the church from all four villages of Elefsis. Some came down the hill from Pano Elefsis, each riding sidesaddle on a donkey. The Mimosino was well attended, and by Orthodox custom, the serving of koliva at the end of the service would help the dead find life everlasting. No one willingly missed the service, feeling their lack of attendance would hinder Pharmacos’ passage to heaven. Even Steffanakis would arrive, carrying mountain flowers to place near the boy’s photograph. And so did Aristides, who once proclaimed that to prefer the comfort of his morning dreams over a dead man’s resurrection day would not look good on his scorecard in God’s eye. “It would not be helpful when my time comes to pass,” he told his wife.
The story that Pharmacos had been offered sea-washed pebbles by the gods on a narrow mountain ledge created a rush of stone-gathering from the shoreline near Eleus and the canal. There were now claims and counterclaims that some of the stones had really caused the wind to blow. Aristides said that the only air that stirred was the wind of their own farts. Outside the church young children were running about clicking stones, pointing to the sky, saying, “Look! I made the air move.” The piercing noise could be heard within the quiet stillness of the Church of St Constantino and Eleni. It visibly distracted Father Dimitrios, who sent two robed altar boys to chase the children and confiscate their troublesome stones. The squealing and clicking continued until an indignant Demetra stepped out of the church and grabbed one of the boys with one hand and lifted him high in the air from the back of his shirt. She looked like a giant in her unfamiliar black dress. That single hoisting gesture brought every one of the children to heel, placing the stones at her feet where she pointed.
The memorial service finished with the solemnity it deserved. It was followed by the sermon. Father Dimitrios used it as a lecture against pagan thoughts and superstitions, claiming the events of the past few months were making a mockery of Jesus Christ, the Lord and Saviour, and of His Church. He chose this moment to announce the physical closure of Oaxsa to all Cretans and visitors. Only those with permission from the Ministry of Culture or the Police at Agia Eleni would be allowed to go beyond the garbage tip.
Mimis Steffanakis appeared unmoved by the announcement of the closure, though he could sense the burden of a hundred eyes upon him. Inwardly his lungs felt hot and starved of air and his heartbeat raced. This was the first he had heard of the closure and the mere mention of “permission from the Ministry of Culture” made his jaw tighten. He struggled to hear another word of the sermon. In his mind, Skoulis appeared to him with the dry eyes of deceit and skin the colour of congealed lard. It was the image of a dead man except for a lip that suddenly moved; a lip pulled to one side in a twitch of mockery.
The congregation looked to Mimis for his reaction. His heart was pounding so hard he was certain the entire church could hear it thumping. He tried to conceal any nuance of displeasure. He remained motionless, unmoved, as though the words of the priest were preordained with his blessing. Soon the focus shifted away, lifting the weight, releasing his strangled heart.
He closed his eyes while remembering the voice of Father Dimitrios on the phone four days earlier, when he had suggested a coffee together after this Sunday’s memorial. He had offered the courtyard of his home as the meeting place. It would be a perfect opportunity to discuss the temple dig on Oaxsa and visit the storeroom of unearthed artefacts. It would give Father Dimitrios a better understanding of his work.
As Mimis stood in the church he wondered what purpose a meeting with Father Dimitrios would have now? He speaks of false gods, false hopes and smooth stones. He speaks of the atrocities of mere mortals, yet not once do his eyes find mine. Though I try to find his, he refuses to look my way. The words, “closure of Oaxsa to all those without a permit,” have the smell of rotting matter. They give off a stench that claims no source. Why should I guess what treachery is at work? We will share our coffee and our thoughts. The source will reveal itself soon enough.
“We have a paradox,” said Father Dimitrios, continuing his sermon. “Many of you drink up superstitions like you do potions or raki. Even the Church has done the same for nearly two thousand years, absorbing pagan rituals. This is the nature of human curiosity. We forever try new ideas, or old ones to see if they fit. One of you, who I will not name, walks out of his house backwards for good luck. Many of you put charcoal crosses above your door to avoid bad luck.”
From his pocket he retrieved the two stones Angalia had given him and lifted them in the air. “Now some of you smash stones like these together and some climb Oaxsa, thinking this will get you closer to God. Why should you choose to be foolish when, all the while, the Lord is here – right here? He is here in this church today. He will be with you when you return home. Don’t you see how much you cause Him pain when you refuse to listen to His words? When you refuse Him entrance to your soul? Oh yes, because you chose the devil’s temptations instead. The devil can only go to hell and the angels only to heaven. But you, my brethren, are free. Free to choose whichever you please.
“This church is God’s home, not the mountain up there. And it hurts my very soul because I know the pain it causes our Lord when he sees what you are thinking. And it should pain you all, too. He gave his only begotten Son for us and what have we given Him in return? What sacrifices do you make for Him in your life?”
The church was silent but for a few coughs of embarrassment. Father Dimitrios had finished but not before announcing that in the weeks to come, he would be delivering a sermon that would be titled, “What should we sacrifice?”
A loud cough from Paki Pilofakis stirred the priest’s memory of having promised the painter – and now the Freedom Day play director of all Elefsis – that he would announce to the congregation that the October play would not be held on the platea, but beyond the canal bridge in Eleus at the site of the sunken Minoan city. It would begin with a walking procession from the water’s edge below Dacktilo, past the church, through Elefsis and around the isthmus, where the play would be held on the old Byzantine mosaic.
As the priest finished the announcement concerning the play, Pikofakis stepped forward to address the church. “This year’s special Freedom Day play will be held next month on Oxi Day. We will be performing Iphigenia by Euripides,” he said, almost overwhelmed with excitement. “If you have forgotten the story, it’s about Agamemnon, whose armies and ships are marooned on land for lack of wind to fill their sails. A soothsayer tells Agamemnon that he has offended the gods and the winds will blow the wrong way for eternity unless he appeases them with a sacrifice. The soothsayer hears the voice of the gods declaring death to the people unless Agamemnon serves up his daughter, Iphigenia, in sacrifice. Only this would set armies free.”
The priest, sensing Pilofakis was going to relate the entire play, stood up from his chair and thanked the director, wishing him well with his play. Under this breath he muttered, “Though I fail to see what Iphigenia has to do with freedom.” He motioned for the trays of bread and koliva to be brought to the steps in front of the altar where the congregation would walk in an orderly manner to receive the blessing. With his left hand he offered a small piece of bread and with his right, a bag of koliva. In one hand he gave the sacrificial body of Christ and in the other, life everlasting. People came to the altar in single file from both sides of the church and left by the centre aisle while eating the offerings.
Steffanakis waited so he would be the last person in line. When his turn came, he received his gifts, making the sign of the cross and a comment. “That was a memorable sermon,” he said, “and I will surprise you and come back to hear the continuation. Will I see you for coffee today?”
“Well, yes, of course,” said the priest.
“Good. I will look forward to it.”
Outside, Angalia’s husband, Perdos, was embracing and kissing the cheeks of everyone near him. He had drunk his fill of raki and felt tenderness for all. People poured from the church smelling of incense and welc
omed the fresh air with the relief that freedom gives. They would still have to endure Perdos’ unshaven face upon theirs and his smell of fat and garlic. Everyone seemed to be filled with God’s courage and happy to swallow Pharmacos’ koliva to help him on his way.
Aristides met up with Stratis, the baker, and commented on how good the bread was today.
Stratis looked from side to side with guilt, whispering: “I forgot and put too much salt in it. I’m hoping the priest can’t taste the difference.”
Miropi, the pereepterro woman, stood at the church door handing out sprigs of special herbs she had found on the mountain. “Rejoice,” she said to everyone who passed. “Rejoice and may you see God even better tonight.”
Aristides spoke loudly and laughed as though he wished to swallow the entire village. His tinted glasses and shiny gold front tooth reflected the sun’s glaring attention on himself.
The congregation outside had divided into chattering groups. The wind was whirling empty koliva bags in circles and up in the air, as if one bag was playfully chasing another. Mourning Pharmacos and thoughts of Christ in heaven were replaced by the more mortal matters of roasted lamb and growling stomachs. Perdos slipped into the church, returning with two more bags of koliva. He poured one in his mouth, claiming his son needed extra strength to get to heaven.
Paki Pilofakis pulled uncomfortably at his bowtie, coyly refusing to say who would be acting in his freedom play amidst questions of who would be Iphigenia or Agamemnon. Paki tossed his head back in defiance, zipping his mouth with two fingers.
Kolikos kept interjecting, “I’m the soothsayer. Did you hear me? I’m the soothsayer.”
Mimis watched as Aristides approached with his gleaming golden smile. Their handshake was brief, though forceful.
“Mimis! It takes a miracle to get you in church.”
Steffanakis looked at him, expressionless and without a reply, which erased the smile off the businessman’s face.
“I was only in Athens yesterday having lunch with the Minister of Culture. He told me the Government has asked every department to pull the razorblade from the drawer and make cutbacks. If Greece is to become part of the greater European union, we cannot keep on spending the way we have in the past. Looks like they will be cutting back on archaeological projects all over Greece. Especially Crete, he tells me.” He paused, waiting for a reply that was not forthcoming. “Well? Do you expect this to affect your work?”
“New work, possibly,” said Mimis.
Aristides raised his wild bristly eyebrows. “Well, maybe not. The Minister claims to be postponing existing excavations as well.”
Mimis’ nostrils flared with rage. “That would not be a desirable decision from anyone with experience in these matters, particularly excavated sites left unattended and open to the elements … thieves and tourists. I don’t think that will happen.”
Aristides nodded as if he understood. “Humm. Well, I guess for your sake, let’s hope not.”
Mimis excused himself. He knew Aristides took delight in asking questions when already privy to the answers. “Judas,” Mimis snapped to himself while walking away. He knew he must prepare for more razors. He knew the knives were on their way.
Elefsis and Oaxsa
Sunday, September 14, 1980
T
he golden tooth of Aristides still glistened in Mimis’ mind as he walked to his home, smoking three cigarettes in succession. Aoide quietly followed him. He felt the pain of collusion and betrayal stab into his spine. The knives had entered. A storm of thoughts blew through his head, ideas rushing, bumping into one another. He arrived home unaware of how he got there, the people he passed or Aoide walking behind him. Only while unlocking the gate did he see her warm, trusting face approaching. Never had he gazed at her with the fondness he felt now. She was much more that a caretaker of twenty-five years. She was loyal beyond reproach and did not entertain loose and wagging tongues or frivolous conversation. He held the gate for her with a broad but somewhat quizzical smile.
“I’m sorry, Professor. The priest tells me he will be here shortly, so I thought I would prepare the coffee.”
“Aoide? This is Sunday. You have other things to do for yourself.”
“Ah! They can wait. Besides, I brought the mail.”
“Sweet Aoide. Then I am glad you came. I need your sweet songs in my house.”
“Don’t make love to me with those eyes. I’m too old to appreciate it.”
Mimis laughed. “You are never too old to be kissed by the eyes of an admirer.”
“Bah!” she said with a hint of embarrassment, flicking him away with both hands, “Take your mail.”
“It’s Sunday. There is no mail.”
“You have not had any mail for over a week. I notice these things. So I visited Kleepsos, the mailman, thinking he has stolen everyone’s mail like his father used to do and flown to Athens with the rewards. I found Kleepsos under his house beside his sick donkey. He was crying because he could not leave Zeezeekus . So I took your mail and a few others to deliver.”
Mimis shuffled through the week’s mail. “That donkey is older than Kleepsos,” he said. He paused at one envelope from the Ministry of Culture. It was postmarked nearly two weeks before. He tore open the envelope with a scowl and read.
Dear Mr Steffanakis,
The Department wishes to advise you of the cessation of the funding to all works in central Crete, including the Oaxsa excavation site. These harsh measures are due to the accelerated budget restrictions by Treasury. As Ephor of the region, your salary will be maintained but, until further notice, all other capital and wage related expenditures will terminate eight weeks from the date of this letter.
All sites affected by these measures are required to be properly secured.
Sincerely,
M. Rombakis
The signature at the bottom meant nothing to Mimis. This is preposterous, he thought. He read it again. The letter stank of Skoulis. The words effused an acrid, bitter smell that Mimis could taste. He felt his heart sink, giving way to the gravity of collusion and the weight of this man sitting on his chest.
The archaeologist walked to his office while the keen eyes of Aoide followed him. He placed the letter on his desk next to a thick pile of his written notes. He sat as he began to read his notes. The first page read:
When it began, the excavation seemed to be a simple one. A collapsed Minoan temple had been buried on a mountain ledge. It was once a shrine built to praise the Goddess of the Earth. By honouring their deity through secret sacrificial rituals, the Minoans believed they would be blessed with fine harvests and abundant animal life. This small building faced north toward Thera, like other peak sanctuaries throughout Crete. Beneath the rubble, we discovered three small rooms in the rear, each opening into one long room located in front of the shrine. The long room served as a corridor and entranceway. It served no sacrificial purpose.
The rear room on the eastern corner was filled with over a hundred storage jars, each containing seeds and vegetation to be used as burnt offerings to the Goddess. No animal fragments were uncovered here.
The small middle room was most important to the Minoans. Along the back wall of this room were the two clay feet of a xoanon on a raised platform. Its wooden body had decomposed long ago. In front of the deity was a rock protruding from the earth. This natural stone was a Minoan conduit to the Earth Goddess. It is believed that the blood from sacrificed animals was collected in open-neck rhytons and was then carried to this room to be poured upon the half-buried rock where it would seep into the soil.
The west corner room was designed for animal sacrifice. It contained the skeletons of two humans found lying on the floor. Nearby, the badly crushed bones of a small sacrificial bull, or possibly a human, rested on a raised stone altar. All three appeared to have died from the building collapsing on them.
Another human skeleton was lying face down in the long, north-facing corridor. We believe this person ha
d been carrying a sacred rhyton of the style used for libation of animal blood.
To complete the destruction, flames had swept through the temple ruins. Earthquakes and conflagration went hand in hand in ancient Crete. The fires were caused from oil lamps that were used for internal lighting.
The skeleton found near the altar was of a man who had fallen with his hands raised, as if warding off the falling timber. He was a large man, approximately six feet tall, and he wore the ornaments of the wealthy class. His ring was made of silver and iron, the latter being a rare commodity in the Bronze Age. On his wrist was tied a stone seal decorated with a slender boat being poled by a man. It was a symbol of gliding toward the palace beyond the sea, the other side, eternity. Beside this man was a once razor-sharp bronze knife of eighteen inches inscribed with the head of a wild boar that had long been a symbol of sacrifice in the eastern Mediterranean basin. The bones of this man are the bones of a special Minoan. He is the key to events here. A priest? A priest-king?
We have yet to determine the origin of the crushed bones on the altar. Might they be of a goat or a small bull? The bones were so crushed it could be either. There was evidence of both being used. Or is it the remains of a sacrificed human?
No such evidence has ever been found. Regardless, the excavation yields the first victim of a earthquake, one of the many that plagued Minoan Crete for centuries.
Mimis selected a single page from his notes and placed it on the desk in front of him, locking the remainder securely in a drawer. The letter he had just received was also placed on the desk. Then he left this room to return to the house for a rest before the priest’s visit.
Digging at the Crossroads of Time Page 10
