Kallista

by David Bell

  About the Author

  David Bell is a geologist, Fellow of an Oxford University college and married to an artist. He has seen service in the Western Pacific and carried out volcanological research in various parts of the world including Greenland, Iceland, Ascension Island, Sicily and Santorini where a chance discovery inspired him to write this story. Most of it was written in the house that he and his wife owned in southern France when time permitted between periods of renovation and the work of groups of artists preparing exhibitions.

  Kallista

  David Bell

  Kallista

  Olympia Publishers

  London

  www.olympiapublishers.com

  OLYMPIA EBOOK EDITION

  Copyright © David Bell 2019

  The right of David Bell to be identified as author of

  this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All Rights Reserved

  No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication

  may be made without written permission.

  No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced,

  copied or transmitted save with the written permission of the publisher, or in accordance with the provisions

  of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended).

  Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to

  this publication may be liable to criminal

  prosecution and civil claims for damage.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is

  available from the British Library.

  This is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, places and incidents originate from the writer’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  First Published in 2019

  Olympia Publishers

  60 Cannon Street

  London

  EC4N 6NP

  For Betsy

  Localities Numbered on the Map of the Voyages of the Davina

  Name in the Text

  Modern Name

  1.

  Kallista

  Santorini

  2.

  Gubal

  Byblos

  3.

  Telchina

  Rhodes

  4.

  Tholos

  Christiania Is

  5.

  Kunisu

  Knossos

  6.

  Pelos Cape

  Cape Matapan

  7.

  Halaba

  Aleppo

  8.

  Hattusa

  Bogazkale

  9.

  Damas

  Damascus

  10.

  Tsudon

  Sidon

  11.

  Taphos

  Cephalonia

  12.

  Katane

  Catania

  13.

  Kharron

  The Gironde

  14.

  Crakluz

  St Michael’s Mount

  15.

  Kanus

  Kanub, Nile Delta

  16.

  The Strait

  Gibraltar

  17.

  Isle of Slingers

  Minorca

  18.

  Standing Stones

  Carnac

  19.

  Alefisia

  Messini

  20.

  Isle of Bronzesmiths

  Bay of Naples

  21.

  Buning Mountain

  Mount Etna

  Acknowledgments

  Helen Ganly for her artistic flair; Sarah Gracie and Katie Hambrook for their valuable comments on, and criticisms of, the manuscript; Oxford University’s Sackler Library with its essential treasures for authors seeking recondite information.

  Foreword

  This story tells of events imagined to have happened, and some that are known to have happened, over a period of about twelve years during the latest stage of what archaeologists call the Middle Bronze Age (MBAIIC). By this time advances in navigation and shipbuilding had enabled an extensive mercantile network to become established throughout the Mediterranean and bordering lands such as Egypt and Anatolia. As well as staples, sophisticated luxury goods were traded indicating high levels of technical and artistic skill in their manufacture and affluent and well-structured communities as their market. The so-called Minoan Civilisation of the Aegean provides examples of such settlements in the ‘palaces’ of Knossos, Phaistos and Gournia on Crete and Old Akrotiri, a partially excavated port on the volcanic island of Santorini some one hundred kilometers north of Crete. Bronze was an essential metal and although its principal component, copper, was reasonably abundant in the Mediterranean, tin had to be imported from more distant sources. Recent isotopic analyses of bronze artefacts of this age indicate that one source was Britain.

  At the end of this period, Minoan settlements show signs of a sudden and serious decline that has been attributed by some to the violent eruption of the Santorini volcano whose activity and products have been meticulously documented by recent research. Certainly Old Akrotiri was completely buried by pyroclastic deposits and there is evidence of tsunamis reaching Crete and other places. Shipping may have been destroyed and ash falls may have depleted crops and livestock, causing famine and social breakdown. Yet archaeology reveals that some life went on – though not on Santorini – and perhaps other powers seeing their chance to exploit a natural disaster, eventually became the new masters of the Aegean.

  Some readers will detect a sense of odyssey in parts of this story and they have cause. I have quite shamelessly borrowed from, and even introduced, a blind poet and adapted some of his material in my own very different way. I hope he will forgive me. I am not the only guilty one.

  KANESH

  Sharesh sat up and listened. The wind had dropped. Water was still gurgling down the drain in the street outside but the rain had stopped lashing the walls of the house. He picked up a ragged cloak from the pile of old clothes he had been sleeping on and put it round his shoulders. Quietly he crept up the stone staircase, passed his parents’ room where they lay sleeping and made his way up the wooden stairs and out onto the roof. It was getting light, so he turned in the direction of the rising sun and bowed his head for a moment in the gesture of respect.

  The roof was wet and his feet slid on damp mud, but the thick layers of leaves and reeds and red ash packed hard over the ceiling timbers had kept out the rain and the slope of the roof his mother had specially demanded led most of the water across the overhanging eaves and into the street. It would soon dry out when the sun came up. One day, Dareka had said, he was going to cover the roof with tiles just like the ones that Merida had ordered for the roof of his new house on the cliffs overlooking the Lagoon. The storm had wrecked the canopy of laths and reeds rigged up to give shade so there was a job to do later in the day, gathering what was needed for repairs. Some other boys would be going to the beach for the same reason. There would be a chance to swim, perhaps catch crayfish.

  Now would be a good time to see if the storm had brought in any useful driftwood. He padded back downstairs to the ground floor, took a handful of olives from the jar next to the hearth and, slipping through a back window, dropped into the street. A second later, his dog Tika joined him. They trotted through the gardens on the edge of the town, heading away from the harbour and towards the beach below the Red Cliffs. Everybody knew that the bay on the other side of this point was a trap for flotsam when the spring winds blew onto this part of the coast and he wanted to be there first and get the best pieces. Small branches were good for firewood and some of the bigger ones could be used for joinery in the
house or even sold to carpenters. Once he had found planks and splintered poles that must have come from a shipwreck. More like that would be very welcome.

  He stood on the point while Tika scurried about among the rocks sniffing for goat droppings or the smells left by other dogs, and looked down into the bay. With the sun now above the horizon behind him he could see all along its curving length almost to its farthest point. On the dark sand and shingle he could make out some paler streaks that must be what he was hoping for. Jumping over rocks and tussocks he dropped quickly down to the beach with the dog racing excitedly ahead of him.

  Driftwood: there was plenty, broken boards and splintered rails, even a ragged piece of net and some rope. It had to be from a wreck lost in the storm. He picked up one piece of planking with blue paint on it, bright paint in curved lines, like the curve of an eyebrow. Where was the rest of the eye? He scanned the dark blue waves and saw other pieces bobbing among the white tops. There was too much for him alone so he decided to pile up some of the best pieces, put a mark on them, and go back to get help to gather up the rest. The carpenters would surely pay for some of this treasure.

  The sounds of the dog barking broke into his thoughts and he looked up to see her further along the beach nosing at a dark heap of something, backing away and then rushing back to it and tugging with her teeth. He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled for her to come but she ignored him and kept prancing and yapping around her find. He shouted at her to come away. He wanted to gather up his wood and get back home with the good news. What was she worrying among that pile of what he could now see were black rocks and splintered logs? He splashed through the waves, shouting her name.

  When he reached the place she was lying full length on the sand, motionless and silent. A hoarse voice said, “Your dog was disturbing me. I had to quieten her.”

  Slumped against the rocks and bent nearly double was a man wrapped in a sodden black cloak. His thick black beard streaked with grey was sprinkled with sand and his long wet hair was plastered over his face. His eyes were closed. A length of rope was coiled around his waist with the other end lashed to what had looked like a splintered tree trunk, but Sharesh now saw must be a broken section of a ship’s mast. His fingers curled round the hilt of a sword of grey metal held by a leather strap around his wrist. The blade was mostly hidden in the sand but he could see it was patterned with gold axe heads: the weapon of an important man, a ship’s captain, perhaps, or a chieftain. Tika, quiet as death on the sand; had he…?”

  “I haven’t killed her. I stroked her and spoke to her.”

  “Who are you? Are you from the shipwreck?”

  The man began to cough and sway, but before he could fall the boy caught him and held him steady.

  “Wait,” he said. “Don’t talk.”

  He ran up the beach to where storm water was pouring off the cliff edge and held his cloak under the stream until it was soaked. He carried it back to the man, tilted back his head, opened his cracked lips and squeezed water from the dripping cloth down his throat. He had to do this several times before the coughing and retching stopped and the man began to swallow freely. Finally, his eyes opened painful slits and he peered mistily at the boy.

  “I am Kanesh.”

  “I am Sharesh, son of Dareka.”

  “Sharesh. You are thinking you must tell your father. Go. Leave your dog. She will look after me.”

  Sharesh rolled up his damp cloak and put it behind the man’s back to support him. His leg stuck out in an awkward way.

  “Your leg is broken. My father will come with some other men to help carry you. Here, eat these while I’m gone.”

  He bit the stones out of the three olives he had left and put the pulp in the man’s mouth. Without another word he ran off along the beach and headed back towards the town.

  Sharesh never forgot that morning and the days that followed. Dareka sent for four men from the harbour warehouse to join him on Red Beach and to bring wine, clean water, oil, dry rugs and rope. Kanesh was sitting as Sharesh had left him, propped against the stones, but now the dog was standing close by him, on guard. She growled as the men approached, warning them off, persisting even when Sharesh called her name. Kanesh slowly lifted a hand to touch her back and she sat down gazing intently at him while the men set about their work. They made a rough litter with driftwood and rope while Dareka washed sand and dirt from Kanesh’s face, gently massaged oil into his dry skin and got him to swallow a little wine.

  “What do we do about his leg when we lift him?” said one of the men. “That broken bone might cut a vein and he could bleed to death.”

  “You make a frame to fit round the broken part and tie it on tight enough to stop his leg moving when you lift him onto the litter,” said a woman’s voice.

  Sharesh knew they would do what Akusha his mother told them; most people usually did. She had arrived unnoticed and stood now looking keenly at Kanesh, appraising everything, his face, his cloak, the weapon he still held. Sharesh saw Kanesh returning her gaze through half-closed eyes. Did something more than a look pass between them? Did his mother now seem a little more wary?

  “Cut him free from the mast and strip that wet cloak off him or he’ll get the fever. Give it to me. Now, carefully, onto the litter; rug first, man. You, there, hold his leg. Now, put the other rugs over him. Lift. Follow me.”

  All this was done without a word from anyone else.

  News had now got round about the shipwreck and the man washed up on the beach, and the enterprising and the merely curious were arriving to make sure of their share of the pickings, or simply to stare at what was going on.

  “Who is he, Dareka? Where’s he from? Is he still alive? What’s he got on him?”

  They were beginning to crowd around, getting in the way of the men carrying the litter.

  “Why don’t you look along the beach? The sea’s still washing things up from the wreck. There could be other bodies along there. Or in White Bay.”

  The thought that they might be missing out on bounty from the sea sent most of the crowd hurrying off along the sand, and the litter party resumed its journey towards the town. The men struggled and sweated on the steep rocky slope that led up to the Red Cliffs, constantly chivvied by Akusha to be careful and not jolt the injured stranger. Eventually they reached the level ground below the cliffs.

  “Put him down here; he needs to rest,” said Akusha. “Let me look at him.”

  “Let me look at him.”

  Dorejo, the Town Guardian pushed past the others and looked down at the litter. He was wearing his guardian’s uniform of long embroidered tunic and elaborately patterned kilt and had two Men of the Watch carrying spears as his escort.

  “This is no man of Keftiu,” he said. “See that beard; this is a barbarian. What’s that he just said to you?”

  Kanesh had looked up to Akusha and whispered a few words to her. “He is not speaking in our tongue.”

  “I was right. A barbarian. Take him.” He signed to his escort.

  “Wait.”

  Everyone turned to look at Akusha.

  “This man is no barbarian. Look at the sword he carries. He has power about him. Think: what if his ship were carrying gifts for the Palace of Keftiu, or if he had important business there, and we, you, stood in his way…”

  She allowed the thought of official displeasure to linger in Dorejo’s mind. He hesitated. “I will care for him. Amaia will help me. The Lady Mother will decide if he is to live.” She spoke sharply to the bearers.

  “Carry him to my house. Carefully.” Turning to Dorejo she said:

  “He will come to the Governor when he is ready. You will be told when that is.”

  Dorejo watched her lead her party along the cobbled road towards the harbour ignoring all the curious onlookers. He felt his authority had been slighted. He should take steps… but then, as always, whenever the Lady Mother was mentioned, he felt uncertain. He turned to the Men of the Watch.

  “
Get down to the beach. See what has been found. I want a list of everything.”

  At least the share of the pickings from the wreck due to the town authority would commend him to the Governor. He would wait for a while before saying anything about the bearded foreigner. What if he were an ambassador? Well, he would say he had thought it best to entrust him to the care of Akusha, servant of the Lady, and known for her skill with the sick, until he should be fit enough to be presented to the Governor.

  Akusha avoided the harbour area and led the party along pathways through the gardens near the edge of the town. Although the air was fresher after the rain, the litter bearers soon began to sweat under their load and had to stop several times to rest. During one of these stops Akusha said to Sharesh:

  “Go find Amaia. Tell her she’s needed and she’s to bring her basket of medicines. Not a word to anyone else on the way.”

  Amaia’s house was near the little harbour, not far for a boy like Sharesh. He ran along narrow side streets as far as the Dyer’s House then turned down a passageway which opened onto Telchina Street in front of Crocus House where he nearly always stopped because of a memory that never left him, and this time also to catch his breath. He squinted up at the high walls with their windows shaded by blinds of plaited reeds against the bright sunlight.

  When he was very small his mother had once brought him here and left him sitting on a bench in the entrance of this great building. She gave him some figs and told him to wait there and then went up a staircase and stayed away for a long time. He had wandered into some other rooms that had big doors open so that they all joined up into one long hall where there were lots of lamps burning with sweet-smelling smoke and flowers in big pots, and paintings on the walls. He had liked the pictures of blue monkeys playing harps, and the swallows swooping to feed their babies just like they did in the fields near his house. There was no one to stop him so he looked through another door and crept into a room which had more pictures, of ladies in long robes and veils, and crocus flowers, and one lady was sitting down on the grass holding her foot which was hurt and bleeding. And there were some pictures of boys carrying bowls and jars and they had no clothes on. He ran out, dropping his figs on the way when he heard someone coming and nearly fell into a big basin full of water with flower petals in it that was sunk into the floor. When his mother came down the stairs he was sitting on the bench again. As they were leaving, a lady dressed like those in the pictures came towards them and looked down at him and smiled behind her veil. She said someone had left a little offering of figs for the Lady Mother and and the Lady Mother was very pleased. Afterwards his mother took him to the beach to play in the sand, so he didn’t mind losing the figs too much. He had never been inside Crocus House again but he knew his mother went there sometimes, although not as much as she went to the Lady’s House higher up in the town.