
THE CNOSSOS TRILOGY
The Moon Maiden
A tale of love, ambition, passion and betrayal set in the long-vanished society of Minoan Crete
© Copyright 2003
S V Peddle
The right of S V Peddle to be identified as Author of
this work has been asserted by her in accordance with 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 or in accordance
with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended).
Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to
this publication may be liable to criminal
prosecution and civil claims for damage.
First published in 2003
Revised 2012
A CIP catalogue record for this title is
available from the British Library
Contents
The Keftiu are Coming to Get You! 1
The Keftiu are Coming to Get You!
The Keftiu were coming to get him. Thasos was sure of it this time.
At first he thought the strange voices were part of his nightmare. He was having that terrible dream again -- the one where the Keftiu came to his room in the middle of the night and dragged him off to their island of death.
But this time it wasn't a dream. It was real. When Thasos woke up, the voices didn't go away; they seemed to be getting louder. Terrified, Thasos expected, any moment, to see those long-faced, leering demons of nightmare clamber through his window, encircle his bed and grab him with their hands, which were scaly and slimy like snakes, according to his brother Manthys. Rigid with fear, Thasos whimpered a prayer to Zeus.
"Oh Zeus -- please.... Don't let the Keftiu take me away. I can't bear it. Oh, please. Let me die first..."
Zeus must have answered his prayer because Thasos then woke up properly and came to his senses. He realised that the chanting wasn't outside his room at all. It sounded as if it was coming from the town of Patras. If the Keftiu really were coming to get him, they would not go shouting through the town first. What was going on out there?
He then noticed that the voices were still getting louder, as if they were approaching his home. Thasos had the uneasy notion that that the chanting was perhaps aimed at him after all; that the people of Patras, rather than the Keftiu, were coming to get him. Soon the chanting was so loud that it sounded like a huge crowd had arrived at the house. Thasos could now hear what was being shouted; it was a unison scream of: "Out!" "Out!" "Death!" "Death!" "Kill!" "Kill!"...
Then there was a sharp rattling sound, as if stones being hurled at the wooden walls of the house, followed by a banging and thudding as people beat at it with fists and feet. The house was being attacked. It was only made of wood; it would soon fall down. Then there was a hammering on the main door and a splintering, rending sound as it was kicked to the ground.
He could hear strange noises inside the house: men were shouting at his mother, Arete, who was shouting back in a voice that sounded low and hoarse, as if she was shouting and weeping at the same time. Thasos couldn't hear her words, except for a repeated, frenzied cry of "You're not taking him away... You're not taking him away..." He heard another man's voice speak roughly, and then his mother's voice subsided into a desperate sobbing; a terrible sound quickly drowned by the growing clamour from outside.
Thasos realised that he was completely alone. A huge crowd had come to take him away and no one could save him. His big brothers weren't in the house, his mother was crying helplessly and he had no father. He would have to try and save himself, but how? He put his hands over his ears to hide the noise and buried his face in his pillow. Perhaps if he made himself invisible, then they wouldn't be able to find him. He started climbing inside his bed coverings. Soon no one would be able to see him, maybe then he'd be safe...
He felt himself roughly snatched from his bed. He cried out, but it was only his weeping mother, grasping him in her arms - big boy that he was - trying to hide and protect him. Why had she done that? He had been quite safe where he was. "Put me back," he tried to say. "I was safe where I was. Put me back." The only sound he could make was a wordless mumble. Staggering under his weight, his mother lifted him to a corner of the room, and almost collapsed there, covering Thasos with her arms, sobbing: "You're safe, my boy; my baby. You're safe. They won't take us both away."
At that moment there was a lull in the chanting outside. Thasos thought he could hear some solitary shouts, followed by a brief massed roar of anger, the sounds of a violent struggle and some other screams. The voices of several other men could now be heard shouting inside their house. The door to Thasos' room was violently kicked open. "She's in here." he heard a voice call out. By the light of a single sputtering torch, he saw two men standing in the doorway of his room, brandishing spears. "I see she's got the boy," one of them sneered.
"I'm with my baby." Arete cried out. "I can't leave with a baby... I won't go. You can't make me go with a baby."
The two armed men laughed. "Baby?" one of them scoffed. "Look at the size of it."
"He's my baby. You leave him alone," cried Arete again. "Get out of my house...."
"Be quiet, you stupid whore, and stand up. And let your overgrown infant stand up too." A third man stood in the doorway. He was unarmed but the guards respectfully made space for him. "You ought to be glad to see us. We're taking quite a lot of trouble over you. We could easily let those barbarians outside kill you right now and you know why we don't?"
"Because we don't want you to have a quick death, that's why," sniggered one of the other guardsmen.
"It would put the city to the expense of burying you and you're not worth it," jeered his companion, jabbing with his spear with threatening intent at Arete and Thasos.
"How dare you talk to me like that," shrieked his mother, with a return of her defiance, while Thasos started whimpering again. "I'm High Priestess of one of the holiest temples of Zeus...!"
The soldier nearest to her spat in disgust, "High Priestess??? You are just a temple whore...."
"Be quiet!" roared the unarmed man. The authority in his voice immediately quelled Arete's scream of rage. He then turned calmly to the two guards.
"Are you in charge?" he asked them coldly. There were mumbled denials. "Then shut up. Keep your tongues still and your minds empty. Leave the talking to your superiors."
Having silenced the guards, the man turned and spoke again to Thasos and his mother.
"I am Diocletan, member of the Chief Triumvirate..." he began haughtily.
Arete dropped to her knees and pulled Thasos down with her. "My lord and master, spare us. Save us in your great, enlightened mercy..."
"You can stop that grovelling. It won't save you. Get up." Diocletan looked contemptuously at the mother and the small boy, as they struggled to their feet. "You know, we've gone to a lot of trouble to help you. We even consulted the Oracle, and it has advised us to leave you in the hands of the gods. Until then you are under our protection. Get dressed boy," he said curtly, then turned abruptly toward the door.
Shivering and whimpering more with confusion than fear, Thasos pulled on the rest of his scanty clothes. Diocletan shouted an order through the door and several more armed guards strode into the room, grabbed Arete and Thasos and dragged them roughly to the door.
"Don't worry -- I told you. We're here to protect you, at least for now," Diocletan said, as Arete gave a low wail of apprehension. "Without us you wouldn't get more than three steps outside your door. Can you hear the mob? Howling for your blood like a pack of ravening wolves."
Thasos and his mother were hustled, in brutal haste, through the house and almost dragged, stumbling, over the broken door outside. A low growl from a waiting mob greeted them as they emerged into the night air. In the murky fire of flickering torches the crowd seemed to howl and sway like demons; shadowy flames exaggerated the fury on their faces. Some of the crowd raised clenched fists which they hurled outwards, and stones and small rocks scattered on the ground around Thasos and Arete. One flying stone struck Thasos painfully on the shoulder, another with excruciating force, on the ear.
"Keep that crowd under control!" roared Diocletan. "If they're so fond of throwing stones, tell them we'll take ten of their men outside the city and stone them to death! And their families can watch! See how much they like throwing stones then!"
The mob was being restrained, chaotically and with great difficulty, by guards using spears. Some used them as barriers, others as sticks to beat people back. Diocletan shouted at several of the guards, who were energetically beating people to the ground.
"Stop hitting them like that! Have some self-respect! You're carrying spears, not shepherds' crooks! Don't beat them; stab them through the body!"
Obediently, the guards started stabbing their writhing victims repeatedly and randomly, while they shrieked, howled and groaned.
"I said 'through' the body! Not all round it! Great Zeus! You're not stoking a fire!" Diocletan looked hastily away. "Not a pretty sight," he muttered to a guardsman. "I'm glad I'm not clearing up the mess. A really skilled spearman can fillet a man with a single thrust. Like a fish!" He made a single vicious slitting upward movement with his forefinger. "These village boys are more used to pig sticking."
He turned and spoke to another member of the military, who was standing attentively outside the house. "These two are the last out of this old shack. Tell the mob they can burn it down. It's isolated; it won't set fire to anything else. And tell those savages that that's the only thing they can burn tonight! If anyone else sets fire to as much as a single tree or tuft of grass, we'll make him put it out by dancing on it in his bare feet!" He then muttered to his military companion, "Give this mob a free hand, in the mood they're in, and they won't stop until the whole republic is ablaze!"
To hoots of ferocious merriment, several members of the crowd rushed at the small house and pushed lit torches through the tiny windows. Very soon flames were licking through the windows and spurting through the slats in the roof. Moments later the house was fully ablaze, glowing like a crimson aurora, illuminating the narrow lane, the few straggling trees and the jeering faces of the exultant crowd. Thasos watched his childhood home tumble to the ground, destroyed for ever in a brief eruption of smoke and sparkling dust, and an almost terrifying roar of triumph from the crowd. In a very little time nothing remained of Thasos' life but a red glow of crackling embers.
"Right. That's finished now," said Diocletan briskly to one of the guards, as Thasos and his mother were jostled and shoved impatiently down the narrow uneven lane and back into semi-darkness. "Tell that mob they can watch what happens to the family, and then they must all go home. Spread the word that there will be a strict curfew, and anyone caught running around the streets causing mischief afterwards will have his legs chopped off!"
Thasos could not see where they were going in the sputtering torchlight. He staggered along blindly, trying not to fall, but otherwise too bewildered to think. Eventually they arrived at a brightly lit area and the procession came to a stop. Thasos noticed that the crowd were now mostly silent except for a low buzz of anticipation that showed they were looking forward to whatever horrible thing was going to happen to him and his mother. The sounds and scents around him told Thasos that they had arrived at the port. He heard Diocletan address the crowd.
"My good people, we have consulted the oracle about this degenerate family." Diocletan was interrupted by a few cries of "Kill them!" and a low rumble of approval from the crowd. Diocletan ignored the interruptions and continued speaking.
"The Oracle has advised us not to let their blood stain our land. That is why they are under our protection until they are in the lap of the gods." He gave a short, dry chuckle as the crowd groaned their disappointment. "You need not fear that we will be lenient. We have chosen a very harsh god. When death eventually comes, it will be a relief for them, I promise you that." He turned and faced the guarded Thasos and Arete. "Take them away," he said brusquely.
Thasos and his mother were pushed towards another group of sentinels, who parted for them as they approached. Thasos noticed that eight well-armed men had been carefully guarding an old boat, battered and rough-hewn, hardly larger than a raft. Thasos also saw, with no emotion whatever, that his two elder brothers were already sitting dejectedly in it. Arete's raucous cries of joy at the sight of her two sons were quashed by the realisation that she was expected to get into the boat with them.
"Get in, whore," said a voice behind them, "and take your whelp with you."
"Why are they cramming us all into such a tiny boat?" Arete asked her other two sons.
"Because they couldn't find a smaller one," replied Manthys gloomily.
"The sea god will judge you," said Diocletan, with ceremonial formality, as a larger craft pulled up and began attaching ropes to the family's tiny hulk. "The Sea God is never merciful, but on the present occasion I feel he will be just. We will leave you floating in the god's domain, dependent totally on his bounty."
"You mean, you're going to tow us out to sea and leave us there to drown," Arete accused him, sobbing.
"May the Sea God judge you."
Thasos suddenly found himself violently shoved towards Diocletan. "But my youngest son - my baby..." howled Arete, still determined not to board the boat. "He's a good boy. He's done nothing wrong. And he needs me to look after him." Arete brandished little Thasos almost like a weapon, directly under the face of the baffled official. "Don't send us out on that boat. Let him stay. Let us both stay. He's innocent."
As Thasos looked up into the composed features and the grey eyes of Diocletan, the man's gaze flickered and he looked away. "My duty is to remove you from this land," he said, with a complete absence of his former calm assurance. "I cannot go against the decree of the Triumvirate. It would be most improper." With that he turned and strode away through the crowd. Thasos' mother gave a howl of anguish as Diocletan disappeared into the darkness. "You can't just walk away like that!" she howled "You can't just walk away..."
"All right, we'll let the boy stay," one of Diocletan's military companions said contemptuously. "He can stay. But you go. Get into the boat, harlot."
Thasos was torn from his mother's arms; roars of mirth drowning her cries. Thasos was passed in turn from one laughing soldier to another, until a group of them seized him, manhandled him and held him up high where he could be seen and jeered at by the whole crowd. Then they turned him round so that he was facing the sea. In the dim light, he clearly saw the boat below him, with the huddled figures of his two brothers, and his mother clambering clumsily on board, helped from behind by prodding spears. She collapsed howling into the boat, which rocked dangerously as it was towed from the shore. Then there was another roar of laughter as several of the soldiers holding him shouted out: "Here. Whore. Look here. Catch!"
Thasos was swung vigorously to and fro several times in the soldiers' grip, then he was flying, falling, dizzily through the night air; he felt the freezing impact of water, the next moment he was drowning, wallowing helplessly, and could hear only the constant gravel roar of the sea. Then, with a loud choking gasp, he was breathing again. He was being bundled on board the boat, hauled up by his sobbing mother and 'helped' from behind by a long hooked pole wielded by some soldiers who had strict orders not to let the boy's body beach on their shoreline. In the meantime, his brothers were baling out water with their hands to keep the tiny craft afloat.
"Brother to a rapist and son of a whore," came a shout from the receding shore, "Let the sea god decide whether or not the boy is fit to live."
"The little whelp," muttered Manthys, furiously bailing. "I'm wet through! He nearly drowned us."
"I wish they'd let him drown," muttered Saron, as Thasos was pulled choking and spluttering onto the unstable little boat.
"Don't be so horrible," hissed Arete. "I can't let my baby drown. And don't let him hear you talk like that."
"If he had drowned, that would have been our best revenge against those sons of street dogs," snarled Saron, glaring at the retreating shore. "Imagine them, quivering in their beds every night, waiting for Zeus' vengeance for his death."
"Why don't we just throw the little runt back into the sea?"
"Zeus might just take vengeance on us, if we killed him." Saron pointed out to Manthys, regretfully.
"Pity."
They were towed out to sea for most of the night. Finally the ropes were cut from their boat and the large host vessel departed, taking with it the final vestige of light. They were left, in total darkness, to drift in the open sea.
Thasos did not say a word. He was not afraid. He felt nothing of the pain and discomfort of the forced departure, the destruction of his home, the loss of everything familiar. He could not grieve for his lost home and vanished childhood. He had no feelings at all. Then suddenly, without warning, he was violently sick.
"Are you all right, Thasos?" his mother called to him, concerned.
"You filthy little whelp!" Manthys shouted.
"Leave him alone, Manthys. It's the tossing of the boat. Actually, it's making me feel a bit ill too." Her voice stopped and she could be heard retching.
"Oh, Zeus, mother. Can't you do it outside the boat?"
"It's not easy, Manthys. I can't see anything. Anyway, how do you know I haven't done it outside the boat?"
"Because you've just been sick down my leg."
"How do you know that was me? It could be the sea water."
"Ye Gods, I can smell it, for one thing ... oh no, not again, mother -- I told you! Do it overboard! I don't want it all over me... Oh great Zeus...!" Manthys' voice thickened as he too began to vomit.
After that, everyone's stomach succumbed, and for much of the night, the only sounds in the darkness were the uneasy motion of the waves and the noise of the whole family violently being sick.
Once Thasos' stomach had calmed down, a new question started to turn itself over and over in his mind: Why had this thing happened to them? Why did those people, the people of their own town, the people he had grown up with, hate them enough to kill them?
"Why have we been thrown out of Patras?" He astonished himself by suddenly speaking like that. It was the first time he had uttered a word since being snatched from his bed. His own voice sounded strange to him. Even his family hesitated, as if unsure at first who had spoken.
Thasos gradually found out part of the answer to his question. His family talked of nothing else for the rest of the night. They had to talk about something; it was necessary to fill the alien darkness with familiar sounds. Talk was comforting, even when it consisted mostly of accusations and mutual blame.
Thasos listened carefully to their long and acrimonious conversations. From the despairing accusations of his mother and elder brother, he learned that Saron was to blame for their exile. He had hurt someone and hurt that person very badly.
Thasos learned that Saron had been hurting little girls for years. Previously he had chosen his victims from the hovels of the poor. On this occasion, however, he had hurt the only daughter of one of Patras' most important and powerful citizens. The noble Alcmenes, hearing his daughter's screams, caught Saron in the act and recognised his child's fleeing attacker.
Alcmenes' paternal rage soon spread throughout the entire council, and vengeance was swift. Saron was picked up in the street, kicked and punched, and dragged unceremoniously to a dungeon. He was told that the father of the victim, Alcmenes, would flog him tomorrow and then hang him from the public gibbet.
"And a jolly good thing too," grumbled Manthys. "I'd have come and watched. In fact, I'd have had a jolly good laugh..."
"Oh don't be like that, Manthys," said Arete feebly. "He's your brother."
"So why did they change their minds?" Manthys demanded. "Why did they make us all suffer instead?"
"I don't know," said Saron. "They just came into the cell and told me I was going to the sea god instead of being hanged. Apparently there was a riot, or something, caused by my arrest." He paused, and then added in a brighter tone: "Perhaps the people of Patras were demanding my release..."
"Exactly. They wanted to kill you themselves," replied Manthys with a dry laugh. "You'd probably raped all their daughters."
"I haven't! I haven't attacked that many!"
"Of course I should have guessed you'd been up to your old tricks," remarked Manthys. "I saw you at home just before you were picked up. You'd washed, hadn't you? You always wash after you've done it...."
"You knew that Saron has been going around raping girls Manthys?" wailed their mother. "And you didn't try to stop him?"
"I'm not to blame for what he does. So I want to know why they punished all of us instead of just him." Manthys returned to the question that Thasos had originally asked. "Why did they decide to throw us all out of Patras?"
"I told you, I don't know," groaned Saron.
Thasos realised that none of his family knew the answer to the question he most wanted answered: why his own countrymen had wished him dead along with his depraved brother.
Back in Patras, a sleepless Diocletan reflected on a fairly good evening's work.
When Saron had first been arrested, he was named and accused in the forum. The merciful government would show how much they detested his crimes. The father of the victim himself, Alcmenes, would be allowed to flog the criminal himself tomorrow in the forum and then hang him from the municipal gibbet. The triumvirate thought that this spectacle would be good for public order; that the people would enjoy the grisly entertainment and go home happy. They could not have been more wrong. It was a fatal compromise with public taste. It led to a riot.
The families of every rape victim wanted their own revenge. Why should Alcmenes have all the joy of flogging and hanging Saron? They wanted to have a go too. They found support from other families who had lived with the fear of their daughters being raped. Even families with no children - pious, Zeus-fearing families - saw Saron as the embodiment of the worst sort of evil -- the child molester. They too wanted to flog and hang Saron with their own eager hands, to combat the powers of eternal darkness.
With a swiftness and energy only possible among the powerless, the entire population of the town had become mobilised by the need to kill. They were empowered by a sense of being in the right and convinced they could use this illusion of power to improve their lives. Stirred and inspired with the energy of long repressed anger, they rushed, shouting, into the streets of Patras.
They swarmed round the basilica and demanded that Saron be handed over to them at once. The astonished authorities responded in their usual way by sending out large numbers of soldiers with hefty swords and long spears to attack the crowd and drive them away. When this failed to work, the soldiers grabbed a few people at random, dragged them onto the nearest raised vantage point, and butchered them hastily and clumsily as a horrible example. Even this failed to work. No matter how many acts of frantic ad hoc brutality the soldiers committed, the crowd only became more noisily determined.
As evening fell, the mob in the forum grew larger and even more riotous. Soldiers charged them repeatedly, wearily stabbing and hacking, and although this scattered the mob for a few moments, it only regrouped, more defiant than ever, emboldened by the growing darkness. When it seemed that the only way of clearing the crowd would be to kill each citizen and demolish every single building in the centre of Patras, the horde moved off without warning, and the square was empty apart from scattered piles of corpses. "I think they've learned their lesson," was the proud and rather optimistic judgement of a perspiring army leader.
Diocletan did not share that hope. He knew that the crowd were blinded by an instinct for revenge and were capable of anything. It was ludicrous to think they had dispersed meekly and peacefully to their homes. They were obviously swarming, with deadly intent, to the home of Saron's family.
The mob would not allow their revenge to be taken away from them. If Saron was beyond their reach, his family were not. Many people in the crowd would have known where the isolated little house was and were leading the way, the roaring crowd pouring exultantly after them, chanting words of hate.
Diocletan knew the crowd would probably tear the family to pieces. He did not care about that. However, he cared very much that, once they had a taste of blood and power, they would start tearing other people, like Diocletan himself, to pieces. They had to be subdued, but this could not be done through the sword and the spear alone. Some subtlety was needed.
Diocletan knew he would have to act swiftly. He dispatched ten guardsmen to reach the house before the crowd did. He instructed another battalion to follow the crowd, keeping them in sight. It was essential to protect the family from the crowd's fury, to make it clear that the ruling council was still in charge. At the same time, the family would have to suffer a punishment horrible enough to satisfy the people's blood lust.
He decided to let Saron rejoin his family for their shared punishment. Alcmenes would no doubt be disappointed at not being able to flog and hang Saron tomorrow. That was a pity; Alcmenes was a very vocal statesman who was best kept quiet. He would have to find someone else for Alcmenes to flog and hang. There were plenty of useless members of the council who could be blamed as accessories to his daughter's rape. But the execution should not be a public event this time; Alcmenes should be ask to take the man quietly home, and flog and hang him there. It would be a nice treat for his poor daughter; it would probably help in her recovery. Perhaps she would like to invite some friends over and make it a party?
Diocletan had told Arete and the people that he had consulted the Oracle. He wasn't even sure himself why he had told such a lie. He had not even had time to talk to the council, let alone trouble himself with the archaic complexities of the ancient Oracle. The whole idea of passing the family to the 'sea god' was his own. It had occurred to him in those urgent moments of quick thinking when he had rushed out of the Council House to overtake the crowd on their way to Saron's family house and meet with the advanced guard. Although he was ashamed of having walked away before seeing through the consequences of his idea, he was comforted by a belief that he had, in the long term, acted for the best.
Once the sun rose, no one on the tiny boat wanted to talk any more. The bleak early dawn revealed the dreadful reality that they were out of sight of land, with not a ship in sight. The vastness of their isolation, the hugeness of their calamity overwhelmed them.
The sea was, at least calm; there was no immediate danger of being pitched into the water and drowned. But once the sun had risen to its height, conditions on the still boat became truly dreadful. The night had been uncomfortable because of the cold; now they suffered severely from searing heat. They were wearing scanty clothing, only appropriate for life in a town. They had to move their bodies carefully, exposing different limbs and body parts to the sun; otherwise even their robust, sun-browned skins would have been badly burnt. As the sun reached its height, their suffering intensified; the very sea, shiny and smooth, seemed ablaze. It magnified the scorching rays of the sun and blistered them like the lashing tongue of an open fire. There was not even the slightest breath of a breeze.
They lacked the most basic means of performing body functions with dignity. The vomit of the previous day dried on their clothes and the timbers of the boat, where it cracked and crumbled like ancient lichen. But as the day advanced, thirst became the real enemy. It was first a craving in the throat, then a frantic pounding in the head. Thasos felt his mouth become so dry that his lips felt baked hard - seared and parched, as black as the arid wood of their ancient craft.
As the afternoon advanced, his family lay in the boat, as still as corpses. The only sounds they made were those of his mother's groaning and Saron's sobbing, which sounded like a repeatedly repressed sneeze. Thasos lay silent. His family, engrossed in their own misery, seemed to have forgotten he was there. He had never made a sound, or uttered a complaint all day. However, as the sun withdrew its blistering heat, he knew that neither he nor the rest of the family could endure another day like this. If they weren't rescued before tomorrow, they would all be dead - and they would have died horribly. In the meantime, the sun was setting slowly, like an overzealous torturer reluctant to end even a small part of their agony.
Nevertheless the cooling of the air was a profound relief, and as the night advanced, there were a few half-hearted stirrings of conversation from his family. Through swollen lips and arid throats, his family expressed, in strained and croaking voices, all the reproaches and insults they had not mentioned earlier. Thasos drifted for a while into sleep, and then awoke again, stirred by an angry hoot from Manthys.
"He's asleep. He's actually asleep! Hey, Saron, you fat lump. Wake up and suffer with the rest of us."
Saron groaned, and asked whether any ships had passed them recently.
"What was that, my brother? Were you asking if any ships had passed us?"
"What's wrong? Ears melted in the heat?"
"Oh, of course there have been ships, brother! I've lost count. Scores of them, hundreds of them; all offering to save us! All offering us food and wine and a soft bed! But we waved them on, didn't we, mother? Told them we didn't want to wake my darling brother. You were asleep. We are only concerned that you are comfortable. You are the reason why we're here and we would hate you to be disturbed."
Saron, who sounded too despondent to retaliate, then asked Manthys if he knew what direction their boat was drifting in, and whether or not they would soon find land. "If you can't answer my question, then hold your tongue."
"What a splendid question," replied Manthys. "Unfortunately I don't know. I left all our maps and sextants at home. Careless of me, I know, but we left in a bit of a rush."
"Haven't you any idea where we are?" moaned Arete.
"A long way from Patras - that's all I know."
"Very informative, brother."
"I hope great Zeus sent those hounds a huge storm on their way back," mumbled Arete, with something of her old defiance. "Smashed their ship and sank them in the sea..."
"Oh mother, be quiet. There haven't been any storms. There's hardly any wind. If we're moving at all, the current is moving south."
"What land lies south?"
"Nothing apart from a few rocks. Of course, if we went far enough south, we'd end up on The Keftiu Island."
"Are we getting close to that?" asked Saron.
"I didn't say we were getting close to it, idiot. How fast do you think we're moving? I just said it was in this direction. We'll be dead before we drift that far."
"Thank Zeus," croaked Saron. "I'm frightened of the Keftiu."
"That's my brave brother!"
"But I don't want to die!" groaned Arete.
"You would if you were with the Keftiu. Believe me, mother. There are better ways to die. Even this. Isn't that true, little brother?" There was a taunt in Manthys' hoarse voice as he addressed Thasos. "The Keftiu eat children, don't they?"
Manthys was responsible for Thasos' fear of the Keftiu. One of his brother's favourite occupations, after a night of drinking at the tavern, was to wake Thasos up and regale him with gruesome accounts of blood, human butchery, and hideous death, inflicted on little boys by a race of monsters called the Keftiu. Encouraged by the sight of his little brother cringing and whimpering with fear, he would tell him that the Keftiu came to Patras to catch little boys every few days and soon it would be his turn. They would climb through his window in the dead of night and take him away, and he would never be seen again.
Thasos remembered that tonight's whole ordeal had started with a dream about the Keftiu. How strange that he should end in their clutches after all. It would almost be a relief. Then the cyclical nature of life suddenly struck him as funny; Thasos found himself laughing out loud. How funny if the nightmare turned true after all! Then the thought of Manthys, with all his bold tales of the Keftiu, being caught and eaten by them, was even funnier. Thasos laughed more loudly, more high pitched, until it hurt -- until he felt his throat would crack.
"Thasos, are you all right?" His mother sounded anxious.
"Our little brother's wits have cracked," grunted Manthys. "Throw him overboard. Let the Keftiu find him and eat him."
Thasos' laughter ended in a painful shriek. He lay back, exhausted, yet relaxed; the laughter had hurt, but it had been good for him.
"If he's dying," muttered Saron enviously, "at least he's dying happy."
No, he wasn't dying. He was already dead. That was why he felt no grief for his vanished life, and no sorrow for what had been lost. He had died, along with his dead past.
He knew the exact moment his childhood had ended. It was when the crowd were attacking the house. Thasos knew that his mother could not save him and the flimsy house could not protect him. For the first time in his life, Thasos had felt completely alone, and realised that a person is always alone; there is nowhere to hide and no one to turn to for help or rescue. He had often heard the priests talk vaguely about 'destiny'. He now knew that, if destiny decided something, you could no more escape it than Thasos could escape the angry crowd by hiding under his bedclothes.
But at least he was no longer afraid. He had suffered his last nightmare about the Keftiu. As the afternoon air grew cooler, and his body's suffering eased, Thasos felt at peace. He would submit to whatever destiny and the cool night brought him. The child in him was dead and the man had been abandoned to live or die in the domain of the sea god. Well, he thought, I'm here; let the sea god do what he may.
The Prisoners
Manthys knew at once that it was a Keftiu ship that had rescued them.
In happier times and from the safety of Patras harbour, he and Saron had often laughed at those primitive bow-shaped vessels, with their high prows, low sterns and square sails. They had mocked - from a safe distance of course - the small, dark-skinned sailors on board, with their long hair, jewellery and effeminate loincloths. Manthys did not feel like laughing now.
As several small, dark-skinned crewmembers conducted them on board, he decided that they might as well die on a Keftiu ship as starve to death on their own drifting boat. They only hoped that their captors would cut their throats quickly and have done with it.
To Manthys' surprise, however, their rescuers seemed friendly. As the family struggled aboard the boat, they were welcomed by the crew, who chattered round them with much smiling and friendly head shaking, then gently conducted them to an area of the ship furnished with seats and cushions, apparently placed there in some haste for their comfort.
As Manthys and his family settled themselves down on the ample cushions, various crewmembers turned their almond-eyed faces to them and smiled as they carried on with their duties. If the Keftiu intended to kill them, they were going to be very nice about it.
Manthys was even more surprised when the crew appeared with tall flagons containing drinks, and wide plates stacked high with intriguing multi-coloured food. Why were the Keftiu feeding them if they only meant to kill them? At first Manthys was too ravenous to care. He drank deeply of the cool liquid from the long pots and took panting, ravenous mouthfuls of the food. Immediately he spewed them all up again. As he choked and gasped for breath, could hear the murmuring of some crewmembers, who seemed to be advising him and his family to eat more slowly. Only when the agonies of appetite had subsided, and he heard his mother and Saron congratulate themselves on the extraordinary luck of their rescue, did Manthys feel the need to destroy his family's peace of mind.
"Don't be fooled," he grunted, with his mouth full. "This is the worst thing that could have happened to us. We'll be dead soon."
This desolate announcement immediately ruined everyone's appetites, as Manthys had hoped it would. He could have smirked in satisfaction as he watched his family stare at him in consternation, the food momentarily forgotten.
"What makes you say that, brother?" asked Saron anxiously.
Manthys paused, pleasantly aware of the impact his next words would have.
"This is a Keftiu ship," he said, drinking in his family's dismay with almost the same greedy gratification as the foodstuffs. "We've been rescued -- or I should say captured -- by a Keftiu ship. We're as good as dead."
"A Keftiu ship!"
"Oh, no. Zeus, please no," his mother moaned. "Not that."
"How can you be sure?" demanded Saron.
"Come on, brother, you've seen these ships often enough at port, haven't you? I've shown them to you enough times. This is a Keftiu ship - and that means we're all dead," he said, determined to emphasise this unpleasant fact.
"So why are they feeding us?" asked Arete. "Why are they feeding us if they mean to kill us?"
"To fatten us up. So that there's more of us to eat!"
"The Keftiu don't actually eat people, do they," almost pleaded Saron.
"Probably. But even if they don't eat us, it's still worth their while feeding us. If we're strong, we'll take a longer time to die. The Keftiu will enjoy that." He turned and smiled at his youngest brother, seeing an excellent opportunity to upset him too. "They'll kill us very slowly, you know. They'll probably do it right here on the ship. There might burn us, hang us, chop us into pieces..."
"Manthys," shushed Arete, "Shut up! You'll upset the child!"
But Thasos seemed undisturbed by Manthys' worrying revelation. He looked around the boat, then stared accusingly at Manthys:
"They haven't got long heads or hands like snakes," he said slowly. It was the first time he had spoken since their rescue. "They look normal. They are normal people."
"Exactly! You're wrong, Manthys," said Arete, with assurance. "I'm sure this is a Phoenician boat and these are Phoenician people. We're quite safe."
"Oh talk sense," Manthys exclaimed. "Use your eyes, mother! Where else do you see hulks like this? We've seen them enough times in the port..."
"No - I told you, you're wrong," insisted Arete. "These are Phoenicians. I understood some of the words they said to each other just now. I'm sure this is Phoenician food," Arete added, with her mouth full. "I think I recognise it. I'm sure I've eaten this food before."
"Your memory's very good, mother, considering that you left Phoenicia when you were three days old," commented Manthys sourly.
"I heard my mother talk about the food quite a lot."
"Did she talk to you in Phoenician?" asked Saron.
"Sometimes, yes. Actually, quite often - she spoke Phoenician all the time in fact."
"Well, try talking to this lot in Phoenician," Saron suggested. "If they answer you, then we'll know we're safe."
"I don't think I can actually remember how to speak it."
"Ye gods, what use is that?" exclaimed Saron in disgust.
"Well let's just hope they are Phoenician," observed Manthys, "because if this is Keftiu food, we're probably eating the crew of the last boat they picked up."
Despite this distasteful remark, hunger overcame the family's misgivings and they ate and drank until they were full. When it was clear that they had finished, a crewman approached smiling to remove their empty plates and cups.
Saron said, urgently: "At least give it a try, mother! Just ask this one if they're Phoenician. Put our minds at rest. Surely you can remember how to say that much."
Arete hesitated. "All right. I'll try." She leaned across to the servant, tapped him on the arm, pointed at him and said: "Phoenician...? Phoenician...?" The man smiled politely but looked perplexed. "Phoenician? Phoenician?" Arete persisted, still pointing.
"He doesn't seem to understand very much," muttered Saron, as the servant stared at Arete, then at her jabbing finger. "Is that the only word you remember?"
Arete continued repeating the word 'Phoenician' until the man smiled and repeated the word, even imitating Arete's anxious intonation.
"Did you hear that?" Arete turned to her family, as the servant departed, smiling vaguely. "We're safe. They are Phoenician."
"No we're not!" Manthys laughed at his mother's simplicity. "He didn't understand you, mother. He probably thought you were saying 'hello' to him - or trying to teach him your name, or something. Here - let me try!" He dashed towards the servant and stood directly in front of him, blocking his path, almost causing him to stumble to a stop and drop the plates.
"Me, Achaean." Manthys roared at him. He jabbed his hands firmly at himself. "Achaean ... Achaean." Then, equally stridently, he shoved his hands several times towards the startled man, almost pushing him backwards. "You. You. You!" He then waved his arm in a wide gesture to include the ship and the sea, and jabbed his finger in various directions. "Phoenicia? Egypt? Keftiu? Argos?"
The man uttered what sounded like a cry of enlightenment. He pointed to himself, the other sailors and the ship and said clearly: "Keftiu... Keftiu...Kaftor."
"We're dead," said Manthys laconically, rejoining his family. "They're Keftiu. Let's just hope they kill us quickly!"
"Oh, no!" gasped Arete.
"Ask them to put us back on our boat," Saron said, "or throw us overboard. I'd rather face the sharks than this lot."
Before Manthys had time to savour his triumph, another servant rushed up to them, pointed up at the rapidly setting sun and gestured towards the centre of the boat.
"What is he trying to say to us now?" asked Arete.
"You're the one that's supposed to understand Phoenician."
"But they're not Phoenician, are they! They're Keftiu!"
"He's pointing to the setting sun. That must mean death," said Manthys.
"They're not going to kill us already? Surely they'll let the food go down first!"
Several crewmembers were now making motioning movements towards the centre of the boat, accompanying these with strangely obeisant gestures. They then began to gather in a half circle around the centre of the boat, facing it and circling their arms in what looked like gestures of reverence.
"I don't like the look of that," muttered Saron. "I think they're already planning our sacrifice."
One sailor approached them, pointed up at the rapidly setting sun and then gestured towards the centre of the boat. Several other sailors were now making motioning movements towards the centre of the boat, accompanying these with strangely obeisant gestures. Then they uttered a brief chant, and there was a movement from a covering in the centre of the boat, only partially visible now in the dim light.
A human figure emerged from this covering and stepped into the moonlight, walking in a stately manner, and receiving various gestures and murmurings of obvious respect from the crew. Clearly this was a person of great importance -- probably the captain.
A crewmember could be seen talking to this regal figure, at the same time gesturing towards the foreign party. Then, after a brief conversation and much pointing at the family, sailor and captain both turned and walked towards them. As the deputation drew nearer to them, instinctively the party rose to their feet and even Manthys made an effort to look humble, aware that this person had the power of life or death over them. Despite his bold talk, Manthys was as anxious as his family not to die.
He gazed cautiously, but curiously at this approaching figure, trying to gauge the kind of person he was, or the sort of mood he was in. Did he look like the kind of man who would take delight in murdering them? Or did he have the sort of face that showed that he was lenient, or could be persuaded to be lenient? In the fading light it was not easy to pick out features or expression; the hair was even longer and somehow silkier, and the skin much paler than the rest of the crew. The lips seemed surprisingly round and full.
Then something else attracted Manthys' attention and he forgot the captain's face completely. He had already half-noticed, in the twilight, a sort of bulge or protrusion on the captain's chest and had assumed that it was a sort of protective armour or part of a uniform, or perhaps a rather oversized badge of rank. However, when the captain came closer and stood in front of him, it became clear, even in the dying sunlight, what this bulge was. He was looking at a pair of bare woman's breasts, thrust out on open display above a tight bodice.
Manthys was too dumbfounded to speak. He had never seen a pair of woman's breasts before, outside his private dreams of sexual conquest. To see them displayed in these public and formal surroundings was more than his wits could cope with. He just stared intently at these forbidden emblems of unknown intimacy for what seemed long moments, then found his gaze sidling mournfully, almost penitently, into the face of the woman, as if he had violated her, or intruded into her privacy.
The woman greeted them all with a smile and a strange, curling gesture of the arms, which looked like a formal Keftiu greeting. She spoke a few words of Achaean.
"Welcome to our Keftiu ship," she said. Then she motioned with her arms at the seats and cushions her guests had been occupying, in an invitation to be comfortable. "Sit." She pointed at the rising moon, then at another place in the sky, to indicate a later time. "Eat. Again eat." she assured them. Then, repeating that strange benediction with her hands, she turned and left them, the growing darkness swallowing her up. The fact that she had addressed the family as her personal guests was final confirmation, if any was needed, of her powerful status on the ship.
Saron broke the silence, with a long, low whistle; Arete was the first to speak. "Well," she said, emboldened by the captain's absence, "And they used to call me the whore."
"She had a lovely pair of big ones, though!" said Saron with a raucous laugh, making cupping gestures at his own chest.
"I'm sure they'd have thrown us out of Patras long before, if I'd gone around looking like that," said Arete primly. And they needn't think I'm going to start undressing for them on this boat," she added, throwing a puritanical look around at the growing darkness. "Dirty devils!"
Manthys was still unable to speak. Now that the captain had vanished and her astonishing breasts were out of sight, his bewilderment was hardening into outrage. He was disgusted and scandalised, not by the sight of the bare breasts themselves, but by the fact that a woman was captaining the ship.
A woman was in charge! This meant that, as passenger on this ship he, Manthys, the bold warrior and tireless drinker, was subject to a women's authority. This was intolerable enough. But even worse was the obvious implication: a society that let its women captain its ships must be a society ruled by women. Manthys realised that he had discovered the dreadful secret of the mysterious island. It was an island of women; a place where men were manipulated or worse killed, by women!
Manthys was keen to share his disturbing insight with his family as soon as possible, to eradicate any hopes that the female captain represented a gentler side to Keftiu life. "If the women are in charge," he assured them, "it's even more unnatural than we thought. It means that the women do all the killing. And they'll really enjoy killing men and small boys. But that doesn't mean that you're safe either, mother..." He then spent the rest of the evening terrifying his family with elaborated stories of Keftiu atrocities, in which hideous cackling witch women presided over endless orgies of blood on their island of death.
That night Manthys had cause to regret his spiteful words. He had frightened his family so effectively that he got no sleep himself. He was kept awake by Saron's interminable moaning and his mother's regular staggering steps to the side of the deck to be sick. Only Thasos appeared to sleep peacefully.
The unwelcome daylight made the drowsy Manthys' head throb. The day was wearisome; food was at best only a slight comfort, and at worst a nauseating nuisance. The very smell of it reminded him of the flavour of vomit.
Manthys longed for the journey to end; he did not care where it ended now. He looked despondently at the few small islands they passed; some, displaying large coastal temples and fortified harbours were clearly occupied; others showing only natural coastline and no signs of defence were apparently not.
The long day passed and the boat did not stop. After sunset, the captain reappeared on deck and asked the family, in her basic Achaean, if they were well. They could only give commonplace answers and endured another wretched, sleepless night at sea. The bleak, comfortless, uncertain hours of darkness were now a torture, and fears about what was going to happen to them started haunting even Manthys' sleepless mind like a visible spectral presence. He thought he would certainly go mad if he spent another night at sea.
However, in the early afternoon, after a queasy lunch, he noticed a renewed alertness among the crew. Sailors were looking and pointing ahead, smiling and uttering expressions of what sounded like delight.
"I think we're about to reach the island at last," Manthys said to his family.
They all struggled to their feet, stimulated partly at the thought of journey's end, but also by a powerful curiosity and even some excitement at the prospect of seeing what the KeftiuIsland actually looked like. They stared intently ahead, but could see nothing; only the same unbroken monotonous blue horizon.
One of the crewmembers, noticing them staring ahead, pointed towards the far distance and repeated the word 'Keftiu'. Thasos stared at the continuous blue horizon ahead and could still see nothing. "Keftiu. Keftiu!" repeated the crewman excitedly. He seemed to be pointing above the actual horizon itself. Bewildered, the whole family shielded and strained their eyes, but could only see several puffs of distant white cloud in an otherwise blue sky.
"Keftiu?" Manthys asked the crewman, pointing at the clouds. "Up there?"
The man nodded. He repeated: "Keftiu." for emphasis, then added "Kaftor," before rushing back to his duties.
"Surely the island's not in the sky," exclaimed Manthys.
As he stared at the white cloud, it seemed to grow longer, into a pillar shape, then a wider base emerged, more rock-like than the cloud, and which grew longer and wider, until rock and cloud, hovering above the sea, seemed to merge. The effect was almost celestial. It really looked as if the island were in the sky.
Then Manthys identified what he was looking at. "Great Zeus! Mountains. Of course, we'd see those first. My sailor friends told me."
The mauve base of the snow-capped mountains emerged from beneath their white tips and the rest of the island, a massive canopy of grey earth, rose from the water with the leisurely dignity of a giant sea beast. It stretched and swelled across their view, blocking the horizon on both sides, until only the massive coastline of the island was visible. At this distance a slight mist concealed the detail of the landscape, but as the ship approached, this dispersed to reveal an unbroken canopy of undulating deep green forest. Trees spread in an unbroken cover over the uneven surface of the land, stopping short only at the rim of the white-topped mountain peaks that now reached up out of sight into distant, hazy cloud.
"So that's the KeftiuIsland," exclaimed Arete, speaking their thoughts. She might have added that it was nothing like what they had imagined or expected.
"Zeus could have been born here!" Manthys cried in excitement. "Look at those mountains and trees." He gazed at the landscape in wonder. "You could equip a whole navy from that one bit of coast alone. And it's just standing there; all that wealth just being unused."
As they came closer to the shore, the outline of the forest became more distinct; individual trees of varying height, shade and shape could be distinguished, but apart from that, the coastline seemed to have revealed all its secrets. There was nothing else to see apart from trees and mountains. If the visitors were hoping for any sight of the exotic, savage civilisation that was said to flourish on this island, they were disappointed. Manthys strained his eyes for any other signs of even basic human habitation but saw none. Where were the great sea temples, daunting hill fortresses and other megalithic signs of civilisation that greeted - or threatened - ships approaching other settlements?
As far as Manthys could see, the Keftiu ship was making its way towards a featureless coastline. Where did it intend to dock? There was no clue that any one part of the shore was much different from another. The early beginnings of a sense of disenchantment began to settle upon him. Trees were the same, wherever you were. At these close quarters, the island looked anything but mysterious, legendary, or opulent. It looked empty.
Once he had recovered from his disillusionment, Manthys felt elated again. This untouched landscape confirmed that women could never wield power. They had failed to exploit the magnificence of this coastal approach, which meant, presumably, that they had similarly failed to exploit the rest of the island - and from the size of the coast it was clearly a very large island indeed.
"Do you notice what's missing?" Manthys called out to Saron. "Where are the fortresses? It hasn't even occurred to them to defend this place. Great Zeus, a decent Achaean army could sail straight in here. How has it managed to last so long?"
"The distance, I suppose," mused Saron.
"Don't be silly! Distance? It's no great distance! We've been at sea less than three days."
Soon they were so close to the island that tall trees towered above the ship and the mountains were hidden from sight. Manthys had sight of the first human-made object on the island; a humble round jetty of rough broken rocks that added to the shelter offered by a short natural harbour. The sea continued into an inlet, hidden by the high reach of the forested headland.
As the ship slowly rounded this jetty, Manthys was intrigued again. Perhaps these Keftiu women were cleverer than he thought. A port that was invisible from the sea was easier to defend than one that proclaimed its existence to every passing ship.
"We'll see the port in a few moments," he told them, pointing to the hidden inlet around the jetty.
"I wonder what it will look like?" asked Arete. Again, even Manthys was conscious of a fluttering sense of excitement. What would the port actually look like? Would they now be confronted with sudden, breathtaking grandeur? Glittering temples? Towering palaces? Shining fortifications?
They rounded the jetty and the Keftiu port was revealed. It was a few moments before anyone could speak. Manthys laughed out loud.
There were no temples, palaces or fortifications. There were only a few squat square houses perched on the low cliffs that surrounded what turned out to be a very tiny harbour indeed. The port was empty of other craft, which was perhaps just as well, as two ships could hardly have passed each other in this puddle of a breakwater without colliding. "Is this it?" asked Manthys. "Is this the port?"
He had imagined a lot from their first sight of a Keftiu settlement, but not this. He had expected it to be lavish, gold-gleaming and decorated with the blood-dripping relics of recent sacrifices. He thought it would be opulent and cruel. He did not expect it to be simple, humble, and quiet, and - it had to be said - rather dull.
A few dark-haired people emerged from their small houses, without haste or excitement, to gaze at the passing ship. A few waved and some crew waved casually back. No other activity seemed to result from their arrival; it was clear that the ship had no business with these people in the port. It passed the only landing point on the harbour and continued towards an uninhabited corner of the inlet.
At this point the sail was removed and Manthys noticed that oarsmen were moving into place. While they were finding their positions, another crewmember climbed to the top of the main sail and appeared to gaze out for a few moments across the approaching land. He then attached a long flagpole to the sail - a flag that would be visible for a great distance. Manthys watched these actions in mystification. Why were they putting that flag up now the ship had arrived in port?
He then felt he was losing all sense of reality when the ship, instead of docking in the harbour, was rowed vigorously into a narrower stretch of water. Suddenly the surrounding high land seemed to close in on them and the ship continued moving, without stopping or slowing, into a high crack in the land. This was Manthys' first experience of a navigable river. He had never seen or envisaged anything like it; it was like sailing across dry land. Steep banks of earth and rock towered over both sides of the ship. Houses were scattered randomly at the top of each bank, as if the sparsely populated port had lazily spread itself inland. In parts, the banks rose until it felt as if the land were swallowing the ship up. So perplexed did Manthys feel that he would not have been greatly surprised if the ship had suddenly plunged into the bowels of the earth, or taken a sharp upward turn and started climbing a mountain.
After a short journey, he heard the excited shout of a crewmember. The man was pointing at a section of the riverbank in front of them, and repeatedly shouting 'Keftiu' at them. Once again, Manthys could make out nothing special at first. He noticed an increase in the number and size of houses on the riverbank, but could see no signs of a city - no temples, forts or public buildings. This hill looked like just another hill.
But as they drew closer, Manthys noticed that the hill was more colourful, more bedecked with flowers than the surrounding scenery, with what appeared to be regular tiered avenues of small trees. At first he thought it was a cultivated area, in which the landscape had been tidied up; a royal garden, perhaps? Closer inspection revealed that these trees were, in fact, pillars - coloured and tapered at the base. Above and below these avenues of pillars, cultivated gardens flourished and exuded over white alabaster bases. Manthys suddenly realised that he was looking at the facade of a very large building. It seemed to have no obvious shape or structure, but merged and grew into the surrounding forests and hills. There was a sprawl of ordinary houses surrounding it, some of which seemed even to attach and encroach themselves onto its very edge, as if this strange edifice were part of the fabric of the earth itself.
The ship turned suddenly into a narrower channel of water that created a natural landing point in front of this odd structure. Now that they were near to it, they could see how large it was and curiously intimidating. Its lower pillars were bright red. A cascading avenue of these pillars, enclosing a gleaming white flight of steps, seemed to wind and curl, like a frothing river of fresh blood, down to the broad landing stage, which the boat was now rapidly approaching.
"I don't like this place," muttered Arete. "It looks rather creepy."
The visitors felt their fears returning. Originally, they had been surprised at how unimposing the building looked from a distance; it had seemed to hide its face within the natural scenery rather than draw attention to itself. But from close quarters, for anyone who approached uninvited, its aspect was daunting and threatening. At the same time it was almost wildly beautiful. Wherever they looked, crimson-red pillars glowed in the sun and tapered into night-blue pediments between looming tiers of white-alabaster facades. Flowering vines and creepers, flowing over the verandas, added their own colour to a scene of almost dazzling beauty. The family were receiving a glimpse of the cruel opulence they had expected to see displayed at the port. Clearly the island's deadly secrets were better hidden than they had thought.
The ship docked at the base of the pillared steps. Rope ladders were flung over the side of the ship and the family invited to leave. They disembarked with as much difficulty as relief. Manthys' legs wobbled unsteadily as he climbed down the ladders and he tottered on the narrow promontory as if still expecting it to pitch and sway. It made him look as if his knees were knocking together with fear.
Somewhat to his relief, they were not escorted inside the sinister looking building. Instead they were led away from it, up a steep path and across a high bridge that gave them a brief, dizzying overview of the deep river gorge below, before entering a continuation of the town on the opposite bank. Their guides then led them along a path that followed a winding course round randomly scattered small buildings that looked bizarre, yet drab and unimposing. No individual structure or feature aroused any special interest; every diminutive, squat structure seemed to look the same. The family were oppressed and almost suffocated by a monotonous strangeness in this alien town.
Eventually they found themselves standing in front of a house slightly less unimpressive than the others, with two large entrances, one of them supported by a tapered pillar similar to those on the structure across the river. It looked like an official building - perhaps the Keftiu version of a basilica or courthouse. It might even be the royal residence.
They were led up the white alabaster steps past the pillar and into the dimness of a large foyer that had a wooden door on the far end. Their sailor guides rapped on the door, and it opened to reveal, not the armed palace guards that the family would have expected, but a group of small, dark-haired, smiling women, whose emergence released a powerful perfume into the already herb-scented morning air. The two shipmen spoke to them at some length, indicating the visitors by gesture.
With a brief farewell shout and a final wave, the sailors left the family to the hospitality of these intriguing officials, who emerged from the doorway and gave them smiles of almost seductive welcome. Then one of the women opened her mouth to speak and the family had their first shock since arriving on the island. She spoke in a deeply resonant man's voice. The others nodded in agreement, and added brief words in a chorus of masculine tones. Then they gestured to the family to accompany them into the main building and disappeared inside.
To Manthys, this outrage was worse than the sight of the bare-breasted captain.
"What are they?" he whispered. "Men or women?"
"They must be men," murmured Saron. "They've got flat chests, not like our ship captain."
"That's disgusting. This place gets worse!"
The guides re-emerged at the doorway, to encourage their irresolute visitors to follow them inside the building. They came out into full view, and even in the dim lobby it was clear that their bare, brown chests were hairless and flat. Saron and Arete could barely contain their amusement and they followed the servants, hands hiding their faces, giggling and sniggering. One of the servants attempted to escort the reluctant and grim faced Manthys gently up the steps and Manthys shook off the guiding hand. No man was going to touch him, least of all one that looked like a woman!
However, as they were led through the substantial wooden door the family forgot the servants in their utter amazement at the room that met their eyes. It was the first Keftiu interior they had ever entered and it contrasted forcefully with the featureless buildings outside. Their senses struggled to come to terms with a room that seemed to combine opulent luxury with an overpowering display of colour. Frescoes, tapestries and decorative artefacts bewildered them and almost besieged them. A potent scent, purer and more pungent than the aroma of the herbs on the island, added to an excessive sense of cosiness and sumptuousness.
It was all too much. Manthys knew he could never relax in this gaudy room. Just as excess noise is distracting to the senses, so did this assault of flamboyant colour and powerful fragrance make rest almost unthinkable. They must be in an official reception room; a place where important business was conducted -- not a place for relaxation.
The servants of female appearance pointed to seats and the family sat down on cushioned chairs so soft that they seemed to swallow them up. The same servants then reappeared, bearing trays of long containers, filled with cool drinks. Arete thanked them and they responded, in the guttural, booming voices of full-grown men. Manthys shuddered.
"I'm not drinking that," he announced as the servants were departing, "I don't want to end up looking like them."
The drinks were refreshingly cold. Thasos was happy to drink his brother's glass. "You're fools," Manthys warned them. "You don't know what poison is in that."
"Well, if we're going to die anyway, what does it matter?" asked Saron.
"Well, we don't know what's going to happen to us, do we?" Arete pointed out. "We don't speak a word of their language and no-one apart from the woman captain on that ship seems to speak more than a few words of ours."
"The men look like women and the women act like men," growled Manthys. "This place is completely topsy-turvy."
"Well they seem nice enough," Arete pointed out. "Perhaps they won't kill us after all."
"They could have left us alone in our boat, or fed us and dropped us on any other piece of land. But they chose to bring us here, all the way to their island. I wish I knew why."
"There's no way we can find out, is there?" Arete pointed out. "As I said, no one seems to speak our language here."
"My friends, I am glad to say you are mistaken. Welcome to KaftorIsland."
The family turned their heads in all directions at the sound of the strange voice in the room, speaking perfect Achaean. "Welcome to Kaftor island," the voice repeated. "I understand you have had an irksome journey. I am sorry about that. The divine consort of Kaftor will take it as a great compliment if you will relax and be at ease on our beautiful island."
An elderly man, with pale smooth skin and long grey hair, approached them from the foyer. "Pray remain in your seats," the Keftiu man said, gesturing them to sit. "I am not the Divine Consort; only your interpreter. I am the only person on the island who speaks your language. I am also a priest. My name is Kikerus."
"You speak Achaean very well!" exclaimed Arete.
"Thank you. I was fortunate enough to travel widely in my youth and spent many years residing in your fascinating part of the mainland. I was even so privileged as to receive part of my education in one of your enthralling and instructive institutions." The old interpreter briefly smiled to himself and then continued: "I must apologise for the tardiness of my arrival, but the king has been in consultation with me and we have had much to discuss. I trust you have been made comfortable."
"You have a king?" asked Manthys bluntly. "Is he a man?"
"He is an exceedingly young man, but extraordinarily wise and compassionate."
"What about the servants that brought us in here? Are they men or women?"
"They are men, of course," answered the interpreter, mildly.
"But they look more like women than men," Manthys objected.
"Manthys!" hissed Arete. "Don't be rude."
"My dear friend, they are men of the Keftiu race, just as you are of the Achaean race," the interpreter explained. "In fact, in my early travels in your country, I thought that you Achaean men looked most curious, with your hair that seemed to cover your entire faces. Indeed, at first I thought I had encountered a species of ape. "
"Apes, are we?" growled Manthys.
The interpreter hastily cleared his throat.
"Our king sends you his kindest greetings and most solicitous regards," he continued blandly. "He is most distressed at the unpleasantness of your journey and wishes to be merciful to you, at least for today."
A tremor of unease passed over the whole family at this ambiguous reassurance.
"What do you mean -- merciful for today?" demanded Manthys.
"We always welcome our visitors with exceptional and grave ceremony," the old man answered vaguely. "However, for our guests to be fully welcomed they must also be fully awake. Our merciful king has therefore decided to delay the full extent of our warm welcome until you are feeling more robust."
"Why do we need to be robust, to be made welcome?" Saron asked.
"You are not familiar with the Goddess' gift of death and rebirth?" the old man asked them. "It is a practice that has survived in many of your own institutions, as I have observed. I believe the word you give it is: 'initiation'."
"Initiation!" This was a dread word to Manthys; he knew all too well what initiation meant. Manthys, during his first day in the military, had undergone an initiation ceremony of unspeakable violence. His mind was blurred on the details, but he remembered beatings and several near drownings. The drownings were much worse than the beatings. He clearly remembered floundering in panic through coldly glutinous water that burned his nose and throat - convinced that he was going to die. Once his tormenters had realised how the water terrified him, they had laughingly immersed him in it again and again, frequently holding his head under for long periods.
"What if we don't want to stay?" Saron's voice, falsetto with fear, was speaking for them all. "Will you let us off being welcomed then?"
"You cannot leave this place now," said the interpreter, gently. "The distance from the sea is great and you are unfamiliar with the terrain. If you left, we would have to guide you. This means we would have to remove you from the island ourselves. We are not prepared to do that."
"You mean, we're prisoners here!" gasped Manthys.
"You are our honoured guests. We could not remove honoured guests from our island. We could never commit such an inhospitable act. It would offend against our Goddess. Now, it is clear that you are tired. You have suffered many ordeals. You are in need of rest and repose. I will now show you the rest of your Guest Chambers - starting with the bedrooms."."
"What!" This was an unexpected announcement. "Are we staying here?" asked Arete. "I thought it was a royal palace, or something."
"Not at all. These are our Guest Chambers. You are fortunate that they are unoccupied at present - except by yourselves, of course. You are now sitting in the reception room."
The family looked around themselves with renewed interest. Was this large and luxurious house really theirs? They suddenly felt a little more cheerful. Even the persistently fussy presence of the interpreter - even the disquieting prospect of their own 'official' welcome - could not spoil their delight at this newfound splendour.
"Let me show you your bedrooms," the old man said.
The family had the choice of any number of comfortable looking bedrooms, with pillows and coverings of a softness they could hardly have imagined. Fortunately the frescoes were more restrained than those in the day room and reception hall. The eating chamber and the kitchens, staffed by smiling servants, were plentifully supplied with food and -- to Manthys' hearty approval -- abundant wine. The house also boasted almost innumerable smaller rooms and several courtyards with well-planted garden borders. Of somewhat less interest to Manthys were the bathrooms.
"The house is amply equipped with cleansing bathing as you can see," the old man told them, as he conducted them through a number of rooms whose steamy humidity made Manthys choke. "This room here has large containers where you may immerse your whole body in water."
Manthys looked at the enormous sunken baths - huge enough to drown an entire army of men - in horror.
"Is this some sort of torture chamber?" he asked.
"My friend, you are very droll. Bathing is a wonderful, renewing experience; I am sure you are eager to try it, as your first experience of luxury on our island. The water in our baths is always pleasantly warm."
He gazed uncertainly at the two brothers' stubborn faces and Arete's doubtful expression. Then he noticed the eager face of little Thasos. "Would you like to try it, my child?" he asked.
Thasos was more than willing to try it. He removed his shoes and cloak, then jumped in naked with both feet, squeaking his delight and splashing water everywhere. "It's warm. It's actually warm." he cried in glee. Manthys gave a hoot of alarm.
"Careful, you little whelp. You're splashing me!" He held up his arms defensively.
"Warm water." exclaimed Thasos in delight. "It's wonderful. It's so warm." For the first time since their exile he was laughing. He splashed his arms and legs wildly in the water, laughing, revelling in the warmth and the wet. He fell backwards and his head briefly disappeared bubbling below the surface.
"Good idea, little brother," called Manthys morosely, "why don't you keep your head under for the rest of the day?"
The interpreter smiled benignly at him, then, allowing Thasos to continue his bath in peace, guided them into an adjoining room and showed them a row of circular seats, placed over what looked like a long, continuous trough. "This is the water closet," he told them. "I do not think you have such things in your country."
"Why have the seats got big holes in them?" Arete asked.
"They are for the reception of body waste," the old man informed them. "You sit on the seat and - ahem - relieve yourself in the normal manner."
"What? Indoors?" asked Arete incredulously.
"Water flows fast through the channel beneath and flushes the waste out of the building," the interpreter assured her. "Abundant water flows into this house from the hills by means of channels and pipes. Water also flows out by the same means so you will never be short of water for drinking, bathing and other cleansing purposes. One day I will show you our splendid Fountain Shrine. It is very close to these chambers; you may wish to inspect it frequently and bathe or partake of its healing waters. You may even want to visit the splendid springs and rivers that supply this fine house. Some of our visitors even immerse themselves in those too, although the water is cold up there."
"It seems to me you're determined to drown us," growled Manthys. "Is that why you brought us to your island?"
"Manthys!" exclaimed Arete warningly.
The interpreter blinked rapidly for a few moments, his mouth ajar. Then he muttered to himself, took a deep breath and spoke again, with a gracious smile.
"Well, my friends, perhaps I should now leave you in peace," he said, as he turned and led the way back to the reception room. "You have had a long and trying journey and there is much here that is strange to you."
"I'm sorry," Arete almost stammered. "I'm sure my son didn't mean to be rude..."
"Not at all my lady. You are all tired and this is the season for rest. The moon has yet to grow to fullness and when there is divine blood to flow, we will bring you to the presence of the divine Consort in the Great House for your important welcome. Until then, please relax."
After that brief and rather ominous farewell, the interpreter left the family, who were now feeling less like relaxing than they were before.
"Perhaps we should try and escape," suggested Saron.
"Escape where?" demanded Manthys. "How do you imagine we can get off the island? Swim? We might as well let them drown us in one of their infernal baths, like that suicidal brother of ours."
"Well it's better than just waiting here to be killed."
"I know I won't sleep a wink," announced Arete, and immediately fell asleep on her cushioned seat.
Servants carried her to a bedroom and soon afterwards Thasos, weary after his long bathe, crawled his way towards one of the sumptuously comfortable beds and fell into a deep sleep. Manthys and Saron occupied themselves in the way they knew best: drinking the plentiful wine that was stored in the kitchen.
To drown his secret unease, Manthys drank deep of the strong, rough wine. He did not know why they were being treated as honoured guests on the island. Perhaps the Keftiu treated all guests with similar lavishness, leaving them to enjoy their days in undisturbed ease. But he knew this was very unlikely. Surely these Keftiu would not let them stay on their island, in such comfort, without a good reason. Mantis was certain that the Keftiu would soon extort from them full payment for the hospitality they were now enjoying.
Therefore, he was determined to enjoy his brief spell of luxury in the Guest Chambers as much as he could. It turned out to be, just as he anticipated, a very brief stay indeed.
The Moon and Blood
Saron felt himself being roughly shaken awake.
"Saron! Wake up! Stop snoring, you bag of pigs' lard!" It was Manthys' angry voice shouting into his ear.
"Leave me alone," Saron moaned. His bed was soft and comfortable and he had been deeply asleep after a night's heavy drinking. "Why should I get up?"
"Because everyone else has! The priest is here. He's going to take us to the Great House."
"I don't care -- go away..."
"Well I do. That daft old man won't stop talking. I can't stand it any longer. The only way he'll shut up is when we all leave. So get up quick, or I might end up killing both him and you!"
When Saron tottered into in the eating chamber, queasy after the night's drinking, he noticed that the room was dark; heavily curtained against the outside brightness.
"My friend, a splendid breakfast is served for you, on this important day," the old man said to Saron, gesturing at the well stacked meal table. "Your family, I have to say, have already eaten, apart from your mother, who seems to have strict principles on the subject of food."
"In Patras, the women don't eat at the same table as the men," Arete lied cheerfully, as if pleased to have an excuse to avoid eating.
As Saron gazed at the offering on the table, he wished he could think of an excuse not to eat it too. How he missed the hearty stews and roast meats of his native Patras! This morning his sleepy gaze was revolted by bowls of goat droppings, plates of jagged rocks and one large platter containing great lumps of what looked like dried mud. He blinked again, and realised that he was looking at a display of olives, cheese and bread. There were also several jugs of the fatty Keftiu milk that had already caused Saron many moments of misery at the water closets.
Saron gazed hopelessly at the food on the table, wondering which items were least likely to make him ill.
"If you are looking for the pepper, my friend, it is in the finger bowl next to you," Kikerus assured him.
"Oh, er - thank you," gulped Saron feebly. "How nice." Pepper was definitely something to avoid. It was a large rough-skinned seed that was ground to an ashen-like powder and sprinkled straight onto food. Its sole purpose seemed to make everything taste as if it were on fire.
Saron queasily sat down and nibbled at a small olive, choking on its pungent taste.
"My friend, you need not hurry your breakfast," the old man said, as Saron recovered from his choking fit. "Please relish it at your leisure."
"Sounds like he's enjoying it as much as we did," sneered Manthys.
"It's all right - I've finished," Saron spluttered. "It was delicious."
He had certainly had enough. He had chewed his painful way through two small olives, choked on a third, and almost broken his bad teeth on the bread. He did not think he would ever get used to Keftiu food.
"But you haven't eaten any cheese or drunk any milk."
Saron shook his head. Just the offal smell of the cheese had been enough. He already knew what the milk could do to him.
"That's all right; I couldn't eat another thing," he mumbled queasily.
"Splendid." The old man rose briskly from his seat. "We will walk together to the Great House now. We have been somewhat delayed already and the moon will rise without us if we do not hurry." As he led the way to the inner door, he turned and held out a small coloured package towards them. "I have the scarves, should you require them. Do you wish to put them on before we go out?"
"Scarves? What do we want scarves for? Is it raining?" asked Manthys.
"No, my friend - you may find the sun a little strong after the shelter of the chambers."
"Nonsense. We're used to the sun." said Manthys dismissively. "We do have sun where we come from, you know."
Servants opened the door to the reception room and the family passed though its brightly coloured shelter, into the far more piercing brightness of the street, where the sun struck Saron in the face with the fury of an angry god. He staggered for a few moments, his hands over his eyes. He noticed that his family, Manthys included, were doing the same.
"I warned you, my friends, that the sun may overpower you," he heard Kikerus say. "You have not been exposed to it for some days. Let us make haste to the Great House before we burn."
His own head festooned in ample scarves, the old man led them, with some urgency, along a path that rambled among the winding streets of the featureless town. Eventually they reached the brow of the bank of the harbour river, and the Great House of Cnossos - that half-buried yet malevolently towering structure - lay directly ahead of them. From above, Saron could see that its top walls were crowned by an unbroken frieze of white ridges that, from this distance, looked like bared teeth.
As they descended the bank and approached the palace across the bridge, Saron was struck again by the building's forbidding appearance. Despite the lively colouration of the copious flowers and greenery that overflowed the several tiers, the supporting rows of pillars seemed to imprison a stilled and cryptic dark interior, only parting slowly to reveal its gloomy sunless secret.
They reached the base of the outer wall near the landing stage and Kikerus led them through a simple doorway. They turned a sharp corner and suddenly stepped into a chasm of darkness. Blindly they faltered and fumbled, while the interpreter reassured them that their eyes would soon become accustomed to the gloom.
"Do not be concerned. You are climbing from darkness into light," he informed them, cryptically.
As soon as they could make out the shape and direction of the corridor, they followed Kikerus into the deeper, inner recesses of the Great House of Cnossos, and then up a series of steps. As they groped their way up each step, the darkness seemed to lighten.
Saron had never seen so many steps; he did not know it was even possible to build so many steps. Several times he had to stop and catch his breath. At first Manthys sneered: "Would you like me to give you a push, pig-guts?" But soon even Manthys was wheezing, and the gasping Arete was crying out for more frequent rests. The old interpreter waited for them patiently; his nimble readiness giving the impression that he was capable of sprinting up and down the stairs all day. Little Thasos did not need to rest either; he used the pauses to examine his surroundings with interest.
From the little that their eyes could make out, they were at the edge of a confusing network of pillared passageways that seemed to turn, branch off and turn again, with no apparent purpose or planning; as if the building had grown into the earth like roots or branches. As the light increased, they were given brief glimpses of a varied interior as rich and opulent as the Guest Chambers. They had tantalising views of real splendour: decorated chambers bathed in a soft light that created an idyllic vision of comfort, or darker hallways that glimmered with eerie figurines and frescoes. Each turn of the stair tantalised their senses with glimpses of beauty and hints of magnificence - some enticing, others menacing.
Their climb ended in a spacious room that was illuminated by sunlight and very cool. Three large openings allowed fresh breezes to waft through, and also offered a many-sided outlook of the view that stretched below and all around them. Saron was too tired to notice anything except the cushioned chairs that lined the walls. He flopped into one as if he had been struck dead, and groaned.
"When you are rested, we shall enter the Great House and proceed to the Bull Court," Kikerus explained
"There's no more climbing is there?" panted Saron.
"No, my friend, the remaining walk will be entirely level," he assured them.
The rest of the walk may have been level, but it was no less bewildering. Sometimes they were led through passageways that were brightly sunlit, giving splendid overviews of the scenery outside, while others were enclosed in a more filtered, mellow light. Occasionally, the corridors plunged back into darkness again. The constant variation in light, with the irregular changes in direction of the corridors, added greatly to the visitors' confusion.
Then with no warning, they found themselves in brilliant sunlight again, in a busy and almost normal looking outdoor square, full of people seated on long row of tiered benches, all chattering excitedly, as if they were waiting for something to happen. Dazed and half blinded by the sun, the family were invited to climb up a narrow stairway to their left, which lead to a row of seats that gave them an overview of the whole square. It was a surprisingly elegant place, graced by many pillared buildings of varying height and style; making it a place of geometric order amongst the meandering, twilit chaos that surrounded it.
"Why is everyone looking at us?" Arete asked, aware of the interest that their arrival seemed to have caused among the seated crowd in the square.
"They are pleased to see you," the priest explained, as they all down on their cushioned chairs. "You are honoured gusts, which is why you have been invited into the royal enclosure, where you have the most supreme and unimpeded view of the entire proceedings." He paused, as if to allow this important information to sink in. "This ceremony of the Moon and the Blood is so popular that we have to open the Central Court to the people. Most of the rituals are therefore consigned to a small area over on your sun side. You will be able to watch the whole ceremony with the most perfect clarity," he added, with what seemed unnecessary emphasis.
As if acting on a signal, several men in colourful livery rushed towards them from the square and hurled elaborate garlands of small white flowers round their necks, to cheers and applause from the watching crowd. Arete shrieked with delight. "Ooh, flowers. They're lovely. Thank you." Saron and Manthys gazed down at their floral decorations in disgust. They had never worn flowers before. An overpoweringly sweet scent from the garlands almost choked them.
"What are these things for?" demanded Manthys, his eyes watering in the perfume. "They smell absolutely foul."
"They welcome you to the Great House of Cnossos," the old man said. "You have been adorned with the beauty of the Goddess' eternal spring."
"Have we got to wear these all the time?"
"Only for the rest of the day.Now, my friends. Another kind welcome awaits you."
Several more servants appeared next to them in the enclosure, bearing what looked like bowls of brightly coloured golden fruit. The crowd in the square was now silently watchful.
"These fruit are sacred to the Goddess," the interpreter told them. "They have been blessed by her eternal essence. It is customary for visitors to the Great House to be offered this beautiful delicacy before they are offered any further nourishment. Take one each," the interpreter prompted them. "Eat."
The family took one fruit each, uncomfortably aware that the crowd in the court still was watching their every move. The fruits felt hard and their rough skins were covered in a sort of white dust.
"They don't look very fresh," muttered Saron.
"Oh, they're not sour, are they?" Arete sounded anxious. "I can't eat sour fruit. It gives me wind."
"Have no fear. They are certainly not sour. Oh, by no means sour. They are most luscious." The interpreter gave an enigmatic smile. "Please eat."
Saron bit straight into his fruit and instantly regretted it. Instead of the refreshing, soft juiciness he had expected, his teeth met a dry, viscous texture. Then they sank slowly and - it seemed - irretrievably, into a stodgy mass. The taste was nauseatingly, hideously sweet.
"The fruit has been preserved in honey," the interpreter explained at last. "Honey is the divine essence of the Goddess."
Saron began to panic. His jaws were stuck fast, with his teeth entrenched in a glutinous substance that was hurting them; actually making them sting. Was this some form of Keftiu torture? Were they all going to be left here to die slowly with their jaws prized and gummed open forever in ludicrous expressions of agony? In a supreme effort, he wrenched the object from his jaws. A hard, sticky morsel stayed in his mouth; to his relief, there were no loose teeth embedded in it. He spat it out hastily.
The Keftiu crowd howled at such rudeness. The interpreter, ever patient, explained Saron's blunder to him. "This food is sacred, my friend, and your acceptance of it is both an acceptance of our culture and an acknowledgement of our hospitality."
"I'm sure it's very nice," said Arete politely. "Very, very - interesting. I - I like it very much." She had succeeded in swallowing a whole mouthful and was bravely ready to tackle another. Manthys was examining his fruit strategically, like a commander looking for a weak point in a line of defence.
"Is this what fruit tastes like on the island?" asked the young Thasos, who had been gnawing the fruit greedily.
Saron had now started cautiously licking at his fruit warily, like a watched cat.
"My child, this fruit has been embraced with honey. Preservation cheats the inevitability of decay; it confers immortality. That fruit which you are now consuming with such profound enjoyment, would normally have perished last year. Blessed by the divine essence of honey, it can still be eaten."
Saron looked up at the interpreter, suddenly concerned. "You're not trying to tell us that this fruit is a year old?"
"No. It has lasted for a Great Year in which the moon has passed one hundred times, making eight turnings of the seasons."
"Eight? Did you say it was eight years old?" Saron gazed at his well-licked fruit with distaste. He started to wipe his mouth with his sleeve.
"Possibly more. This fruit may well belong to the previous Great Year."
"Great Zeus! So it could be sixteen years old. Are you trying to poison us?"
"This fruit, as I said, is steeped in honey. Honey is immortal; it is the essence of the Goddess and has no age. It is the same sublime substance in which we preserve our dead bodies."
A series of gasps from the family greeted this disclosure. The interpreter's next statement did not make his guests feel any better. "We employ the process on every deceased person who qualifies for immortality. They have recently completed the preservation of our belated Moon Goddess, Perseis. She and her dead baby are now lying in the Chambers of the Moon, preserved with that identical honey."
He leaned forward confidentially.
"Their flesh has taken on much of the same colour as those fruits."
Unheard above the sound of the family's choking was the interpreter's mild assurance: "We do not preserve fruit and corpses in the same vat, you understand..."
The old man was interrupted by a chorus of cymbals giving a simultaneous crash. The ceremonies had started. Manthys used the distraction to dispose of his honeyed fruit; tossing it over the rope barrier into the court. After a moment's hesitation, Saron did the same, although he couldn't help noticing that little brother Thasos had almost finished his.
Then there was another deafening crash, which made Saron jump. At first he thought that the Great House had collapsed, but then he noticed that a group of musicians had appeared in the square, quite near their enclosure. They seemed determined to make as much noise as possible. After the cymbals had given their first ear-splitting clang, they struck out a slow beat, which sounded like the crunch of human bones crushed underfoot. This was soon accompanied by a despondent shriek of the lyres; a wail of raw anguish. Several drums then began battering a rapid tattoo that thundered with the ominous rumblings of an earthquake. Refusing to be outdone, the cymbals then repeated their crashing sounds, in an apparent attempt to drown everything else.
A group of scantily clad men appeared in the court, wearing horns on their heads and clutching long-handled double-headed axes that they sliced through the air as though rehearsing for slaughter. Then a number of unarmed horned men pranced onto the arena and bowed their heads submissively. The axe men turned round on them, then made a vicious dash, clasping the axes with murderous intent. Without pause they swung their weapons at the necks of the unarmed men.
The axes sliced through the air and the unarmed men fell backwards and lay inert. There was a short, stunned silence, then the Kaftor audience gave a roar of laughter. At this cue, the nine dead men leapt to their feet again. In response, the axe men lunged their fearsome weapons at them again, but by falling skilfully under the blows, the unarmed men always managed to escape injury while appearing to have been struck dead. It was a miracle of timing and co-ordination. As the victims pirouetted away, laughing at their would-be killers, the audience rose to its feet, wildly gesturing its raucous approval.
"That, my friends, was the first ceremony of the seasons." It was the interpreter's voice.
Saron noticed that his heart was pounding. "It was very exciting!" he muttered.
"It was ridiculous!" This was Manthys' scornful judgement. "When we kill people in Patras, we don't keep missing."
"My friend, you were not witnessing an execution. The mock fight between the kings and challengers does not end with the expected death. It is the unexpected, the reversal of fortune, which expresses our rituals. Did you not find the display humorous?"
"No," replied Manthys bluntly.
"Ah, you should never exclude humour from your life," the priest admonished him. "Humour helps you accept the presence of death, yet deny its ascendancy. That is why many of our ceremonies appear so dangerous; they place the participants close to death and let them escape it. Now if you look at the square again, you will observe another seasonal ritual. Hopefully you will find it more entertaining..."
As it happened, Saron found the next dance much less interesting. To another outburst of cacophonous music, a number of men in animal masks pranced around, and then performed a series of chaotic manoeuvres that usually ended up with everyone falling onto the ground. The Kaftor audience were audibly amused, but Saron watched in some puzzlement and growing boredom. He did not know what it all meant, and neither did he care much.
Then his wandering attention was distracted by a commotion in their enclosure. His mother had leaped from her seat and was shrieking, her large body rigid and awkwardly contorted; her hands flapping like a flightless bird. Fortunately her noises were drowned by the raucous music.
"What's wrong with the silly woman?" Manthys exclaimed.
"Ooh, keep off. Keep away." Arete shrieked in panic. "It's after me. It's after me. Whoop."
"What's the matter, mother?" Saron called out.
"Eeeek. It'll sting me. Get it off."
In the heat of the afternoon, the foreign party had found themselves bothered with gnats and flies. Saron saw that a huge fat hairy bee was now patiently orbiting Arete's head.
"Great Zeus, that's a big one." Manthys sounded impressed. Arete waved her arms around her head, slapping at the circling bee, shrieking ever louder. "Keep it away. Keep it off."
"Madam, please be calm," Kikerus called across. "Do not attack the bee, if you please. You will annoy it..."
"I don't care if I annoy it. I just want it to go away...."
"Don't worry, mother. I'll save you." Manthys leaped to his feet and removed one of his sandals. He strode stealthily towards his mother and the hovering bee, holding his footwear like a weapon, in a determined grip. Kikerus watched his actions in dismay.
"What are you going to do to the bee, my friend?"
Manthys aimed a mighty swipe but missed and knocked his mother howling off her seat. The bee flew off in a slow, erratic zigzag along the enclosure and Manthys chased after it; still swiping, scattering flowers from his garland and narrowly missing the heads of several eminent spectators.
"Stop, my friend.Stop!" Kikerus cried out. "Please leave the creature alone. It's a honey producer... it is sacred..." Several people in the enclosure watched Manthys' assault on the bee with growing distress.
"Hades. It's gone." panted Manthys, looking round in vain for the now vanished bee. "It's escaped. You must have frightened it away, shouting like that..."
There was a high-pitched scream from Thasos. "Oww! It's stung me."
"Great! Try and keep it there." roared Manthys, eagerly dashing towards Thasos. "Where is it? You've let it escape. Why didn't you keep hold of it?" He gave Thasos a rough push and the howling boy fell to the ground. "Why didn't you keep hold of that bee? Where has it gone?" Manthys peered round the writhing, bawling Thasos and his empty chair. "Where did it go?"
"You are standing on it, my friend," said Kikerus mournfully.
"Oh." Manthys leaped aside rather hurriedly, then laughed. "That's all right. At least it wasn't my bare foot."
"The creature was already dying and could not have stung a second time," observed Kikerus with a sigh. "Now it has been flattened."
"Well, might as well finish it off properly," said Manthys briskly. He replaced his sandal and then stamped on the bee, jumping on it, twisting his heel on it, grinding and staining it into the white woodwork of the enclosure. Saron, from his seat, saw an extraordinary expression appear on the faces of Kikerus and the other spectators as they watched him.
"There." exclaimed Manthys, with a grunt of satisfaction and a final stamp. "That bee won't sting anyone else again." He became aware of the displeasure on the faces of the people round him. "Why? What's the matter? I was actually trying to help. It's only an insect."
Kikerus spoke like the chief mourner at a wake. "My friend, was it necessary to obliterate the creature with such - with such extraordinary violence?"
"Of course. It stung my poor little brother. And my mother -- and it could have stung one of you too. I was doing you a favour." Thasos had now returned his seat and was still wailing in pain. "Oh, shut up." Manthys roared, giving him a hefty slap and knocking him to the ground again. "Stop crying. Be a man."
"I think I will take the child for a little healing," said Kikerus, bending down to help Thasos back onto his feet. He spoke a few words to the servants before leading the sobbing boy away. Between them the servants produced a piece of soft material and, with meticulous gentleness, scraped up the shattered remnants of the bee and carried it out of the enclosure with all the formality of a royal entombment, glaring with disgust at Manthys as they went.
"Strange people," observed Manthys, as he returned to his seat next to Saron. "They couldn't have made more fuss if I'd killed a baby." Then he started slapping his hand irritably at the air around his head.
"Zeus, these flies," he exclaimed, "It's not just bees, you know. There are all sorts of gnats and things around here. I think it's these stupid flowers they've given us." He stared down with scorn at the elaborately woven white garlands around their necks. "Let's get rid of them. I'm sure they're attracting the insects."
"Are you sure we should?" Saron asked.
"Of course." Manthys threw his own garland to the floor and stamped on it, then reached across and yanked Saron's from his neck, breaking it and scattering heads and leaves in all directions.
"Come on, mother. Get rid of your flowers," Manthys called across to Arete. "You don't want to be stung by any more bees, do you? I can see another big fat one coming for you right now."
Arete shrieked in panic and began to wrestle clumsily with her garland. Manthys reached across to help her, and tore the ring of flowers to pieces.
"Am I safe now?" she called out.
"You're fine, mother!" Manthys called out. "Just throw it to the floor!"
Saron noticed that their destruction of the garlands had now attracted the attention of some of the audience in the square.
"I think we've upset the Kaftors again. Look -- they're glaring at us."
"Don't worry, they'll get over it," snorted Manthys. "Anyway, they're too busy watching this silly dance to care about what we do."
By now the dance was coming to an end. To a final hoot of derision from the wailing pipes, the masked performers completed their pointless antics and dashed out of the square, to the sound of much laughter and raucous cries of approval from the audience. A sudden relaxed informality then descended on the square; clearly the dancing had ended for the moment. Among the casual conversations that broke out around them, Saron heard the interpreter's voice speaking in tones of dour displeasure.
"You have destroyed your garlands." He turned and saw the old man gazing at them with cold reproach. "Why have you done that?"
"We didn't like the flowers," Manthys answered bluntly. "They were attracting the flies. We had to get rid of them." He swatted at his face as he spoke and Saron did the same. The flies were still drawn to them for some reason.
"Did you wash this morning?" asked the old man austerely, his nose twitching.
"What's that got to do with it?"
"My friends, I have to say that your behaviour is beginning to cause distress. You have rejected everything we have given you so far. I can understand you killed the sacred bee in ignorance. But you also ejected the Goddess' sacred food. I saw you throw your honeyed fruit across the bull court."."
"Of course we did. It was disgusting," exclaimed Manthys. "Fancy giving us sixteen-year-old fruit that's been near dead bodies!"
"I have had to explain to the people that the act of throwing food is normal behaviour for the Achaeans during celebratory meals," continued the interpreter crossly, "but they will never believe that your destruction of the carefully woven garlands was an act of respect or gratitude for the trouble they have taken."
"We're sorry -- we won't do it again," Saron assured him, in an attempt to be conciliatory.
"We didn't realise they were so important," said Arete, as she scrabbled on the ground, trying to retrieve the fragments of her garland. "We don't want to cause offence." She sat on her seat with two handfuls of broken flowers and started patiently sprinkling them around her shoulders and arms.
"I see that tearful little whelp is still wearing his flowers," snorted Manthys. Thasos, his hand now covered in a kind of swathing bandage, had returned to the visitors' enclosure, still wiping his eyes. "He needs another good slap," growled Manthys.
Kikerus stared sourly at him. "As you take such a distinct pleasure in violence," he said pointedly, "You may actually enjoy the next spectacle. It is called 'boxing', and is a contest of fighting skill."
"Did you say fighting?" asked Manthys, gazing out at the square, suddenly interested. "You mean - you know how to fight in this place?"
"I am not sure of the origin of the entertainment," the old man continued huffily. "It possibly grew out of ancient land rituals between competing consorts. Nowadays it is a pleasant and unceremonious entertainment. "
"Oh, good. We're going to see some real fighting at last," said Manthys eagerly, forgetting the flies and rubbing his hands in gleeful anticipation. "What do they use to hit each other with?"
"Boxing is undertaken with no weapons, apart from the combatant's own skill."
"No weapons?" Manthys sounded disappointed. "So they just kick and bite each other, I suppose."
"You will soon be able to observe the sport for yourself," snapped the interpreter rather irritably. "The fighters are now arriving."
Cheers from the crowd greeted the arrival in the square of two diminutive looking men, with arms like saplings. Their heads were completely hidden by protective helmets and they wore thickly padded gloves.
"Are those your boxers?" asked Manthys scornfully. "What have they got on their hands? Some sort of weapon?"
"Their gloves are stuffed with soft material to prevent excessive injury."
"To stop them hurting each other? What's the point of fighting if no one gets hurt?"
"Observe the contest and you might find out."
"I suppose you'll tell me next that they wear those silly hats on their heads to protect themselves too."
"That is correct, my friend."
"Great Zeus. Some fight this is going to be."
A third athlete, acting as adjudicator, lined the combatants opposite each other, where they started running on the spot, and waving their arms in a rapid wheel-like motion.
"What are they doing now?" asked Saron. "Trying to fly?"
"Getting ready to run away from each other," answered Manthys, with a snigger.
At a shout from the referee, the combatants moved into the centre of the court, where they hopped and pirouetted in a slow circle, their arms making odd jerking rotational movements into the air. Once, perhaps twice, a boxer's clad fist would spring out with the speed and nimbleness of a lizard's tongue, usually encountering fleet resistance from a rapidly raised guard. After another shout from the referee, the combatants stopped jumping and gestured to each other in mutual respect.
"When does the fight start?" asked Manthys impatiently.
"It has just finished," the interpreter replied mildly.
"What?"
The referee called out to the crowd, and then one of the fighters raised his arms, to a cheer.
"He has won the contest," the interpreter explained.
"How can he possibly have won? He hasn't done anything."
"It is a difficult job to adjudicate the winner," the priest informed him proudly; as another boxing pair appeared in the court, and started another preliminary warm-up skip. "It is necessary to consider so many aspects of the conflict; the speed of the responses, the agility of the approach, the effectiveness of defence, the originality and creativity of the attack. I cannot pretend to have acquired any adjudicating skills myself."
"It's so much easier in our fights at home," Manthys sneered, as the two opponents waved their gloved hands at each other like feebly probing antennae. "The winner is expected to knock his opponent out flat on his back and make sure he stays there."
Kikerus shuddered. "I am surprised you bother judging at all. The sole purpose of your fights seems to be to relish the spectacle of pain and injury."
"Well, it's more fun than this games of girls' skipping you lot play here."
While Manthys continued making rude comments about Keftiu sport to an increasingly taciturn Kikerus, Saron found himself giving more attention to the audience. They were completely absorbed in the boxing, watching the effete antics of the fighters with an enthralled and critical attention. Occasionally they muttered to each other, pointing at the combatants, and gesturing expressively with their heads, imitating movements with their hands and sometimes their whole bodies. Saron, in his own way, was a puzzled as Manthys at the interest they showed. What did they see in it?
Then Saron began to realise that there was something rather strange about the audience itself. It wasn't just their outlandish dress or their odd interest in this feeble fight. There was something about the audience as a whole; or rather, there was something missing. Suddenly he realised what it was: there were no women.
Flat masculine chests met Saron's eye as far as he could see. Apart from the ship's captain with her bare breasts, they had not seen a single Kaftor woman since setting foot on the island. Manthys had insisted that Kaftor was an island of women. In that case, where were they?
"Is that the end of the boxing?" he heard Manthys ask.
"It is, my friend," he heard Kikerus' tired reply, as the last boxing pair strutted from the court. "I am sorry it did not entertain you."
"Oh, it's not that. It's rather a dangerous sport to watch, you know; you're in danger of yawning to death. What's the next sport going to be? Babies fighting each other with feathers? Hey! Where are you going priest?"
But Kikerus seemed to have had enough of Manthys' company. As he moved off, he gestured wearily towards the mellowing evening sky. "The sports will end soon - as soon as the sun has left the square. Then the women will appear and the most important part of the evening's rites will commence."
"What? The women will come?" exclaimed Manthys in interest. "You mean the women haven't arrived yet?"
"You had not noticed that there were no women in the audience?" Kikerus asked him, with a wry smile. "Did you think there were no women on Kaftor?"
In the setting sun, the oil lamps around the Court were now being lit, flooding it with dancing light, illuminating the columns until they pulsated with blood red. In the forested hills around the palace the strident shrillness of the cicadas had given way to the whispering of crickets. Breezes wafted the heady scent of herbs to mingle with the perfumed flowers of the palace grounds until the air was surfeited with their fragrance. It now seemed as if the very air too had stopped moving, that nature was also holding its breath with excited expectation.
The arrival of the women was not a formal or festive event. As the sun ducked behind the lintels and portals of the Great House, they simply trickled into the audience, their pale skins mingling like spilt milk among the darkly complexioned men, bringing an eerie quality of brightness to the dusk that was slowly obscuring the Bull Court. Then the lamps were lit, revealing the women's bare breasts, jutting out in front of them like a biological badge of status.
At first, Saron stared fascinated at rows of breasts; blotches of pink on white skin like poppies emerging through fresh snow. After a while however, this mass nudity began to repel him. A woman's nakedness should be secret, except as a trophy of conquest or theft. Saron told himself that the women of Kaftor were tarts and cheap whores and felt that a mature woman's body would never be attractive to him again while he was on this island.
When the last of the women had sat down, a large wooden barrier was carefully erected between the audience and the now brightly lit square. Nine athletic young men skipped into the court and stood motionless, as still as columns. The only sound was an excited murmuring from the audience, which quickly gave way to a breathless silence. Everyone seemed to be staring directly at the visitor's enclosure.
Saron felt uneasy when a strident, ear-splitting blast from several horns from the musicians' chamber evoked a corresponding shout from everyone in the square; men and women raised their clenched fists to their foreheads and lowered them with another loud cry. It was a forceful, energetic and rather alarming gesture, apparently aimed directly at the foreign visitors themselves.
The voice of Kikerus behind them offered an explanation. "The people are greeting Asterios, the king and Consort of Cnossos."
"The king? Where is the king?" asked Saron.
"He is standing behind you. You are seated in his enclosure."
The family turned round and saw, standing next to Kikerus, a fair skinned young man dressed more plainly than the colourfully clad audience in the square. He descended the enclosure and stood at the roped fence, returning the greetings of the crowd with a brief wave and a melancholy smile, before ducking out of sight on the nearest seat.
Kikerus introduced Asterios to his foreign guests and they were astonished by his shy, almost boyish manner. The King of Cnossos could not have been much older than twenty years.
"Oh, he's a sweet little thing," Arete exclaimed. She greeted the young king with a huge embrace and a kiss on his cheek. Asterios almost staggered under the heavy impact of her affection, and invited her by means of gestures to sit next to him, turning with a wry smile to Kikerus, who did not smile back.
"You are about to witness the investiture of the Moon Maiden," he told everyone grimly, "the full moon sacrifice that we have been waiting for."
"You mean, this is the moon and the blood you were talking about?" Saron heard his mother ask.
"That is correct..."
Their words were drowned by a crescendo of thunder from the drummers. The noise filled the whole court, echoing around the gates and walls, and then reaching an earth-shaking climax, which seemed to imitate the pummelling of gigantic hooves.
With a shocking suddenness, and accompanied by a shout from the crowd, into the raised arena, behind the barrier, burst a ferocious and magnificent black, sleek bull. It stood poised in the centre of the court, surveying its surroundings, then charged straight into the group of dancers, who scattered swiftly from the powerful rush. Again and again the bull stampeded with baffled rage towards the athletes, lunging at them with sharp tapering horns, cantering and tamping in all directions all round the square. Every single charge risked serious injury and death.
When the bull paused briefly in its murderous charge, a group of dancers quickly formed a human ring round it. They danced rapidly round the bull, causing the animal to pause and then almost scamper around in a confused, semi-circular motion. Then the bull stamped and snorted, tossing its head in increasing uncertainty, its charge halted. Then several dancers held the head down, some draping themselves across the animal's back to restrain its movement. The other acrobats now grouped silently behind the bull, and stood in a small half-circle, poised, it seemed, in readiness.
At this moment of stillness, a small, pale and scantily dressed girl skipped into the arena. She stood and faced the bull, her lean diminutive body poised and taut with readiness.
"This is the Moon Maiden," they heard Kikerus whisper again; the tone of his voice making it clear that this was a very significant moment.
After a brief stare at the exposed horns, the child started a running dash right towards the bull's head.
It was over very quickly. Saron heard all around him a sharp intake of breath, which from so many throats sounded almost like a muffled scream. Then, after the briefest of silences, there was a distant plop, and the sound of a body hitting the ground, at which there was an almost deafening roar from the crowd, followed by a clamour of cheering.
Very slowly Saron opened his eyes and saw the little girl skip around the Bull Court with childish complacency, obviously unhurt and receiving the plaudits of the crowd. He saw the bull, recaptured in a large net, being decorated with flowers and ribbons and led through the gate it had recently thundered through.
"What happened?" Saron asked. "I had something in my eye. I didn't see it."
"Oh, it was a trick," replied Manthys disgustedly. "It looks like she somersaulted over the bull but that's impossible. No one can do that; certainly not a girl. It was done with ropes, or something."
As the girl approached their enclosure to receive a bow from Asterios, Saron noticed that her clothes were similar to the garments worn by all the women; designed to expose a pair of mature breasts, which merely emphasised that she had no breasts as yet. She had the body of a young athlete - a tiny prepubescent figure adorned in a costume more suitable to displaying full-blown sexuality.
Asterios rose to his feet, bowed to the girl and then they embraced; a gesture that Saron observed with keen interest. Asterios then took the girl's hand, turned and introduced her to his guests. The interpreter gave a baffling resume of his speech.
"This is Pasiphae. She is very young to be our Moon Goddess, but we are happy to say that the flow of her bodily rhythm is now in harmony with the moon. She has given her first spontaneous issue of blood. However, she has still to attain the full title of Moon Goddess as Cow, as her milk producing breasts have not yet grown."
"Oh, that's what you meant when you said blood must flow," exclaimed Arete, her remark drowning Saron's snicker of delight.
Seemingly unaware of the effect his remarks had had on the family, Asterios made another brief disclosure, during which he gestured towards Pasiphae and gave her another, more formal bow. The priest translated:
"Asterios has told Pasiphae that he is the now lesser light, and she is the greater, now that she has been born from the bull." He paused, then offered an explanation: "Asterios' name means 'starry' only. 'Pasiphae' is a newly given name, meaning 'all-shining'; an appropriate name for the Moon Maiden."
The maiden, who was only a little girl, solemnly eyed the strangers in speculation, then, as Saron stared at her, stared back in cool self-assurance.
"What a fetching little thing she is, your daughter." Arete commented, smiling at Asterios, forgetting that there could have been no more than eight years' difference in age between the king and Pasiphae.
Kikerus turned a reproving gaze to Aphrodite.
"We do not speak here of fathers of children," he informed her, in an almost scolding tone. "In any case, Pasiphae is not the daughter of Asterios. The consort who conceived her has long since achieved immortality. Pasiphae belonged to the preceding Moon Goddess before her marriage to Asterios. Her mother died in childbirth a short while ago. That is why Asterios is reigning alone."
"Oh, you poor thing," said Arete in pitying concern. "Are you all alone, then? Are you looking for another wife?" The interpreter looked horrified and, ignoring what sounded like a translation request from Asterios, hastily offered the family some more information.
"After another five years Asterios too must depart as consort in due season so that the Moon Goddess may marry the incarnation of the divine bull and have new daughters," he told them. "Such are the traditions of Cnossos."
Marry a bull? This made no sense to Saron and he thought no more about it. Instead he tried to catch Pasiphae's eye, but she turned from the enclosure and ran down the square, receiving further shouts of approval, finally departing rapidly through one of the many exits from the square.
"Pasiphae must leave us now, as it is time for the moon ceremony," Kikerus explained. "If you give your attention to the central court, Pasiphae will appear again, this time in her guise as the Moon Maiden."
As the priest spoke, the brightly dancing liquid light that had flooded the courtyard flickered and dimmed as the oil lamps were extinguished. The light became rarefied, as the Court was now lit only by the full moon. Its cool radiance blanched the colours of the palace murals and the riotous gaiety of the costumes into a glacial sheen; in and around the palace the trees and wild flowers became pale ghosts, as if nature herself were refined by a spiritual essence and all life petrified to a frozen permanence.
An eerie chant, from a male voice, could be heard from the darkened centre of the square. It was strangely, hypnotically repetitive - a combination of mystic gentleness and power.
Then, across the chanting boomed a low, sustained blare from the roof of the opposite building, decorated with white alabaster horns that glowed in the moonlight. Between the central set of larger horns stood a small figure in a high conical hat and a bell-shaped skirt, blowing through an enormous Triton shell. The sound was uncannily similar to the lowing of a cow. Then the lowing stopped, and with a sleight of hand assisted by the darkness, the triton disappeared and was replaced by something that could not be clearly seen at first. As the young girl raised and extended her arms outward, a shiny, twisting object could be seen in each clenched fist. Arete almost let out a scream:
"Snakes!"
Voices around her hissed her into silence. The crowd remained silent as the figure stood, firmly grasping the writhing snakes, sleek skins liquid silver in the moonlight. Her unblinking eyes, also caught by the ethereal light, gleamed down with a hypnotic glare which expressed the power symbolised by these dangerous creatures; a power that she seemed capable of hurling onto the crowd as a divine judgement. For the first time, the four visitors were engrossed. The image resonated with their judgmental rituals of the mountains. It was Zeus wielding his lightning bolts.
The girl continued brandishing the snakes with elbows bent outwards, like a white bird on the wing. The girl and her snakes were poised in motionless flight, bathed in the moonlight for a moment of complete unity.
At this point, another disembodied voice could be heard near the roof of the shrine; a female voice that seemed to emanate from the night air itself. First it sang a single sustained note - a single thin beam of sound, sounding impossibly distant, as if coming from the moon. Then the voice became louder as the single note thickened and spread into a dense harmony of female voices singing a mellifluous yet eerily discordant, and very slow chant. The effect was beatific, chaste - and yet one of deathly cold. The phrases seemed to rise and fall with the repeated, rhythmic ebb and flow of the sea, like moonlight dancing on the surface of rippling waves.
At the same time, to this eerie, slowly pulsating music, the moonlight itself seemed to surround the young girl, forming a shimmering aura around her. This heavenly light then appeared to emanate from the girl herself; a bright, white glow crowned the head, then spread out towards the audience in both a blessing and a reflection of the power of the moon, until she appeared to be glowing in the dark. Still the measured hypnotic chorus of voices bathed and surrounded her like an aural vision of water and pure light.
Then the lights were relit and the figure with the snakes was revealed as Pasiphae, the Moon Maiden; the girl who had jumped over the bull.
With a broad gesture, Pasiphae lowered her hands as if to part her dress, and expose her naked genitals to the world. Instead, a set of curtains at ground level burst open to reveal a mass of dancers, bedecked in flowers, pouring into the square as if born from the womb of the Moon Goddess herself. Then Pasiphae disappeared from view.
The brash light of the torches banished the cool spiritual remoteness that had enthralled the square. Then the silence was broken further when lyres started playing vigorous melodies and the drums beat out a wild rhythm. The audience joined the dancers from the shrine and soon the whole court was alive with dancing. The music grew even louder and its rhythm simpler, faster and bolder. The whole band of musicians seemed to be seized by this rhythm, and played brisk repeated phrases, over the rapid, repetitive pulse. Soon every person in the square and enclosures was dancing to this pounding, irresistible tempo.
None of the Achaeans had ever heard music as wild as this before. Admittedly, their military marches took place to a quite vigorous beat. But this was much faster than a march. It was faster than a sprint; it was faster than flight. It was maddening, it was blood racing, it pounded in the head, it coursed through the limbs, and it possessed and stirred your very body. It was impossible to sit still to this music. It grabbed you, picked you up and demanded that you move.
Soon Arete was on her feet, shrieking with mirth, stomping a clumsy, lumbering version of the rapid rhythm in the enclosed space, stepping on a lot of people's toes and forcing them to form a hasty circle round her. She was persuaded to move to the dancing area in the square, where she started bouncing and spinning like a creature possessed. Then she turned to the enclosure again and gestured to her sons and Asterios to join her.
The rhythm invited Saron to celebrate his sexual desire for Pasiphae. He dashed into the square shouting her name and making pelvic eager thrusting movements to the music. Then he noticed that carafes of wine had appeared on some large serving tables, under a sheltered area at the edge of the square. He joined Manthys, who was already drinking deeply from one of the largest containers.
"At last, brother, a drink at last!" Manthys said, draining his cup and immediately refilling it. "I think I've earned this."
The wine was warmly and sensuously sweet; far sweeter than the sour wines of the Guest House. Saron savoured its delicate sumptuousness in his mouth and the warmth it imparted to his loins. He drank to feed his cravings. He drank of the deep red liquor until all senses were subsumed in a vague glow of well-being and he felt content. All around him Kaftor women were shaking and twisting their bodies to the vigorous beat of the music; their bare breasts quivering and flapping above their tight bodices. What strange people these Kaftors were! They were certainly not priggish. Perhaps they regarded carnal desire as the same thing as religious homage. As he joined the dancers again in the main court, he could hardly wait to find out.
An Abduction
It seemed impossible to the priest Kikerus that his day could get any worse, but he was wrong.
Kikerus had been looking forward to the induction ceremony of the Moon Goddess. It took place so rarely and he knew he may not live to see another. But the two foreign brothers had ruined it for him. They had treated the Goddess and her rituals with derision and had then got obscenely drunk. They made no attempt to dance during the final musical Chora, but staggered with wilful clumsiness around the Central Court, barging dancers out of their way, laughing at the mayhem and occasional injury they caused.
Saron eventually had to be carried, retching, out of the Bull Court, declaiming, in between vomiting, his undying love for Pasiphae. Manthys, red-faced, defiant and insolent, had only agreed to leave when Kikerus had assured him - untruthfully - that stronger wine would be available in the privacy of the Guest Chambers.
No servant would consent to guide the disorderly brothers through the Great House and town, so Kikerus had to take them home himself, to ensure they did not get lost and end up trying to sleep, vomit, or urinate in the sacred chambers, or the streets of Cnossos. In silent chagrin, Kikerus conducted the two noisy, drunken wreckers of his happiness to the Guest Chambers, longing to be relieved of their company. When they arrived, he almost shoved them through the door in his haste to be rid of them.
"Please give these men a glass of wine each and make sure it is heavily drugged," he bellowed to the astonished servants inside.
He then rushed back to the Bull Court. He was anxious to rescue Asterios from that absurd woman Arete, who had insisted on remaining in the square to dance with him. It should be easy to persuade her to go back to her rooms -- and take her young son Thasos with her. Then, with that atrocious family out of the way, Kikerus could salvage some pleasure from the day in being able to talk, without interruption, to Asterios - his lord and dearest friend.
But when Kikerus returned to the Bull Court, he could not see Asterios. He was almost ready to call out his name -- a most unseemly act -- when he spotted Asterios in the centre of the square among the dancing crowds. Arete was clinging to his neck in a loose embrace as if using him for support, and they were both lurching around like a pair of drunken wresters.
Kikerus tried to catch the king's eye and gesture that he should leave the dancing area at once and stop looking foolish. As soon as Asterios spotted Kikerus, he smiled in noticeable relief and managed to pull himself out of the crowd, but - to Kikerus' intense irritation - Arete was now hanging limply, but determinedly onto his arm.
"Shall we sit together alone in a quieter part of the square, my lord?" Kikerus asked him, glaring pointedly at Arete. He really did not want the woman around any more.
"Yes - let us sit together," gasped Asterios. Arete, now murmuring endearments, had again draped her arms around his neck.
"Shall I ask that ridiculous woman to leave?" Kikerus asked.
"No, pray don't do that," laughed Asterios, grappling gently with Arete's arms and trying to half guide, half carry her to a quiet table. "She means no harm and will not intervene in our conversations, I am sure."
"She is drunk."
"She is merely tired. It has been a long day and she has overexerted herself. I think she only wants to rest."
"I have no objection to her resting but if she snores I will have her conducted back to the Guest Chambers," grumbled Kikerus, following Asterios and his strange new companion to a quiet corner of the square.
Asterios was wrong about his guest's tiredness. As soon as they had sat down, Arete revived and started flirting with him again.
"Oh, you are so lovely," she cooed to the young king, just as an exasperated Kikerus was about to speak. "I would marry you tomorrow. How would you like me as your queen, eh? You need company, you poor lonely thing." She gave a little giggle as she ticked his cheek. "You'd have a whole new family. My sons would be your sons. They would be the sons of royalty. What a wonderful thought."
"What does the lady say to me?" asked Asterios, with an embarrassed laugh.
If Kikerus had not been so fed up, he would have been wary of answering that question. As it was, he unthinkingly construed Arete's proposal word for word, before realising the significance of the offer he had just passed on to the Consort.
"Oh, how charming," Asterios said. "The lady wishes to be my queen. What a charming request."
"Oh no. Oh no, my lord." Kikerus felt his stomach tighten with dread. "I am sure she did not mean it. She would not even think of such a thing ...."
"But her words were clear."
"No, my lord, they were not. I mistranslated her words most badly and I apologise for that. The lady was merely speaking an Achaean formula that - that expresses respect for your divine status. That is all."
"My divine status? That is even more charming," said Asterios in delight. "How respectful and modest these Achaeans are."
"Ahem! Oh, indeed, my lord," gasped Kikerus, with relief.
"Then it is my duty as host to grant such a respectful wish. To refuse would show great disregard to a guest. Whatever a guest asks, a Kaftor must grant. I wish to tell the kind lady that I would be charmed to marry her."
"Marry her? Oh no, my king, no. You know you cannot marry this woman - or any woman. You are the Consort of the deceased Goddess. You must think of your position in Cnossos, your role..."
"I am aware of my role, Kikerus," interrupted Asterios, calmly. "And it is a lonely one. The lady knows this. She wants to keep me company. We will not have a Kaftor marriage. It will be based on the noble lady's own foreign wedding traditions, not ours. However, it will enable me to give my guest what she desires: to marry her and adopt her sons."
"Adopt her sons!" Kikerus almost shrieked. "Please, you cannot do that... please, not those awful men... not them..." Dismay deprived Kikerus of further speech. He had been hoping to send those ruffians away from the island. Now, as Asterios' adopted sons, they would be able to live in Cnossos forever.
"But why not? Kikerus, you told me that you believed that this family had been sent to us by the Goddess, to test our love and hospitality. If the Goddess sent them, they are divine. We should receive them in the love of the Goddess and what better love than marriage?"
"But please consider what you are doing, my lord. How can you marry such an unsightly woman? She is so gruesome. Are you without sight?" In his desperation to change the king's mind, Kikerus forgot his manners. "She is ugly and a foreigner. She is a hag, a harridan, a monster. She reeks. She pours Keftiu perfumes all over her unwashed skin, where they turn rank and stale. Have you no nose, my lord..."
"Kikerus, clearly your wisdom has deserted you completely. Is it the action of a good Kaftor to insult the Consort and speak so discourteously of guests of the Goddess?"
"I am sorry my lord, but..."
"Tomorrow may be a little soon for the wedding, of course," Asterios said thoughtfully, while Kikerus sat in wretched, tongue-tied silence. "If it cannot take place tomorrow, as the dear lady asks, then it must take place as soon as possible. You will kindly convey to the lady my immediate desire to grant her wish of marriage."
"I think she is asleep, my lord."
"Then kindly awaken her and inform her."
Kikerus, nearly weeping with vexation and choking on the words, woke Arete and told her, to her great astonishment, that Asterios would be happy and proud to marry her. Arete had forgotten her earlier casual remarks on marriage, and naturally assumed that the handsome young king had fallen wildly in love with her. This was more than she could ever have hoped for. She was about to acquire a handsome young husband and be queen.
"Oh, how wonderful. When are we going to get married?" Arete asked, forgetting her tiredness.
Kikerus hesitated. He seemed to have some difficulty in breathing. "I think his lordship said tomorrow," he almost groaned.
"Tomorrow." she squealed. "Ooh, he's so keen."
"But that may be a little too early to arrange. His worship will marry you when - as soon as possible - as soon as the arrangements can be made..." He held his head in his hands.
"He doesn't waste any time, doesn't he?" Arete grabbed the young king and enveloped him in her vast bosom, smothering him with kisses until he struggled for breath. Kikerus covered his eyes and shuddered at the sight. "Can I go and tell my sons now?" Arete asked happily, releasing the gasping Asterios. "They will be so excited and proud of their mother. I've never been married before."
"What form will this unspeakable marriage take?" demanded Kikerus as soon as Arete had trotted cheerfully out of earshot.
Asterios was still breathless. "By the bounty of the Great Goddess, that woman has an affectionate nature," he gasped.
"Your misfortunes do not concern me," said Kikerus shortly. "That woman's affectionate nature is a burden you have inflicted upon yourself. As High Priest, I repeat that I need to know what form this disgraceful wedding will take."
"I have told you that I wish it to be an Achaean ceremony," Asterios said. "I do not know what an Achaean wedding is like, do I? We need to speak to the family and find out."
"I think her family will need to recover from their own astonishment first," muttered Kikerus, as he watched Arete hug Thasos, having presumably just told him the joyful news. The boy swayed in Arete's ample embrace, like a sapling in a strong gale. Kikerus could see his face clearly even in the torchlight and it wore a look of numb shock.
"I wish everyone to be happy in this arrangement," said Asterios.
"Then I suggest you look at Thasos. He does not appear happy."
"Thasos is just a boy," said Asterios with a smile.
"How true, my lord - and of course Pasiphae is just a girl. She also happens to be our Moon Maiden and future Goddess. Will you ignore her feelings too?"
Asterios made a dismissive gesture. "Pasiphae will be busy with her new duties. She need not come."
"My lord, how can your wedding bring happiness to the community if the Moon Goddess is not invited?"
"I'm not talking about the community. I'm talking about my happiness." exclaimed Asterios. "Don't you understand why I am doing this? Can you really sit there and say that you do not understand?" Asterios' boyish smile had vanished. He seemed to be trying to repress a strong emotion.
"What are you saying, my lord?"
"Kikerus, I am a young man - and I have a young man's appetites. I cannot marry a Kaftor. No girl pr woman will even look at me because I am the Consort of the Goddess... the dead Goddess. I am lonely, Kikerus -- terribly lonely. My duties are onerous and I must face them alone." He hesitated again, and added almost timidly: "I need a woman and this woman has offered her company."
"I must ask you to regard other people's happiness first," Kikerus almost snarled, disgusted at such self-pity. "When the Goddess selected you for the role of consort, you undertook certain duties to the community of Cnossos. You knew what these duties were. You expected not to seek your own gratification first, but to..."
"I didn't expect Perseis to die." exclaimed Asterios wretchedly. "I didn't expect that!"
"My lord," said Kikerus quietly, "no one expected that to happen..."
"You do not seem to understand or care how I have suffered since she died."
"Cnossos still suffers, just as you do. You cannot say you are lonely in your grief. But you cannot replace Perseis, my lord."
"I don't want to replace her." Asterios' grief burst out again. "Of course I can't even think of replacing her. But I need to live. I need a piece of life back, away from Perseis. That's all I ask."
There was a brief silence, while Asterios stared at the ground and tried to calm himself. He had no tears left; only the piercing pain of irreplaceable loss which the company of an older woman might mitigate. Kikerus was moved to pity for the incurable misery of a young man he was deeply fond of.
"Kikerus, I must ask that you never divulge what I have said to the good lady and her family," Asterios said quietly.
"Of course not, my lord." Kikerus also spoke quietly, but with fervour. "And - my lord - I promise to administer your wedding and to ensure that it is accomplished with success and dignity." This was a generous promise, made in the throes of compassion, but almost as soon as he had made it Kikerus wanted to take it back. He had an unpleasant feeling that he was going to regret it.
There was a noisy interruption. Arete, fortunately unaware of the nature of the king's feelings for her, and blind to the raw anguish on his young fresh face, had reappeared, still breathless, still happy, giggling like a flattered little girl, pulling a mulish-faced Thasos along with her.
"Oh Asterios, my dear, I'm so happy that I don't even know what I'm doing. I was just going to tell my other sons the news, but of course they've left, and I can't find my way out of here. Isn't that silly? I'd have got lost in the palace. All those dark winding corridors. You'd have had to come into the palace and rescue me." Her tone became teasing. "I wouldn't have minded getting lost if I could be rescued by you, if you were alone. Tell you what - shall I run in there now and get lost - and you come and find me?"
While Thasos' eyes bulged with incredulity, Kikerus translated only the barest gist of this speech to Asterios. The thought of Arete starting an erotic pursuit down the sacred corridors of the Great House gave him a headache. "The lady needs guidance in quitting the Great House," he said shortly, "in order to inform her sons of her marriage, although I hope she will find them in a profound sleep. Nevertheless I will conduct her and Thasos back to their accommodation."
"We will all meet tomorrow in your house and discuss the arrangements," said Asterios, fortunately blind to the blankly incredulous expression on the face of the young boy looking up at him. "Remember, I wish it to be a completely Achaean wedding," he added cheerfully.
Manthys and Saron were delighted at the prospect of being the sons of a king. Kikerus suspected that they just saw an opportunity to spend the rest of their lives lolling in luxury and giving orders to people. However he was pleased when they offered their cooperation in the planning and gave him an enthusiastic if rather jumbled account of what an Achaean wedding was like. To Kikerus it sounded like an excuse for a drunken debauch. It was clear that that many vats of wine would be needed.
When Arete asked if she could change her name to a title worthy of a Kaftor queen, Kikerus chose a name for her: Europa. He told her it meant 'Moon Maiden' but did not tell her that it was a name used by the rough forest hunters and also meant 'fat moon cow'. He kept his amusement to himself while Arete expressed her pleasure in her new name, adopting it immediately. Then she asked about her wedding clothes.
"In our weddings at home, the bride wears lots of flowers on her clothes. This means she is a fresh flower about to be plucked by her husband. Can I have lots of flowers made for my clothes?"
"Why not use real flowers, my lady? We have plenty in the gardens..."
"Real flowers stink," Manthys pointed out. "You don't want any smelly rubbish spoiling your wedding, mother. They attract flies."
"Certainly not," Arete agreed firmly.
Kikerus refrained from pointing that the stench of the family's unwashed bodies already attracted scores of flies. "I will do my best to get some flower clothes made," he said vaguely. It might be possible to ask the weavers of the Great House to knit something together, although there was no time to produce anything of worth. "Now, do you have any other special desires or wishes for this wedding?" he asked, hoping that the answer would be no.
"Yes," replied Manthys, and with his next demand caused the interpreter untold distress. "I assume we're holding the ceremony in that big square, aren't we? That place where we saw the bull?"
"Are we?" almost squeaked Kikerus. "Are we holding the wedding in the sacred Bull Court?" This was the first he had heard it.
"Of course." said Manthys. "Where else would you have it?"
"I - thought we would ..." Kikerus realised he had actually given no thought to where the wedding should take place. "Well, I am sure we can find somewhere nice..."
"But the Bull Court is where you hold sacred things, isn't it? Well this marriage is sacred."
"Of course, my friend. Oh, dear. Well, I - I see no objection - I suppose." Kikerus decided he would have to make sure that no one else went near the Bull Court while the foreign wedding was taking place. It would cause grave offence.
"Good. Well we have to have a sacrifice to Zeus there first. I was thinking we could burn one of your bulls. How about the bull that the girl jumped over? It would make quite a good bonfire."
Burn the Sacred Bull? Kikerus was struck dumb with shock. The suggestion that the sacred arena should be used for a burnt sacrifice to an alien god, that the pure and holy portals of the Moon Goddess should be defiled by the stench of foul smoke, was outrageous enough. But that the Divine Bull itself should be slaughtered for this purpose took Kikerus' breath away. He needed several moments to regain the power of speech, not only because he was appalled, but also because he was uncertain what to say next. Clearly Manthys had not intended any offence and Saron was smiling in the belief that his brother's suggestion was a reasonable one. He even made his own happy suggestion:
"As it's her bull, perhaps Pasiphae could come and light the fire," he suggested. "I'd like to see her at this wedding. I want to see much more of your Moon Goddess. Perhaps she'd like to dance round the fire with us?"
Kikerus had to choose his next words with caution. He dared not translate a single syllable of these incredible proposals to Asterios.
"My - my dear friend, we are delighted to accommodate you, and we will happily attempt to grant all your requests, with the greatest of pleasure. Of course the sacred Bull Court will be available for your sacred wedding. However, I fear it would be - ah - quite impossible to burn any bulls. Such practices are..." Words failed him again; he stuttered: "such - such things are. ... it - it - really could not be done, my friend."
"But surely you've got some cows you don't want. Or calves."
"My friend." Kikerus composed himself with some difficulty. It was necessary to think quickly. "You may safely leave the matter of burning the animal with us. I am sure your god will approve of our choice." He had a sudden inspiration. He remembered that there were a couple of goats, dying of old age, wandering around the neighbouring scrubland. They would be ideal for the brother's revolting sacrifice.
"However my friends, there is one other matter, however, of equal delicacy, which is very painful to express." Kikerus cleared his throat tremulously. "Happy as we are to accommodate you, and much as it grieves us to refuse you in even the smallest matter, I fear that the - hem - sacrifice itself may not actual proceed within the Bull Court." He raised his hand as Manthys opened his mouth to protest. "The wedding may take place there, but not the sacrifice. For such - er - sublime practices as burning animals there is an especially sacred place, an area of exceptional holiness, more holy than the Court, outside the grounds of the Great House, where such sacrifices are always carried out." Kikerus astonished himself with his own powers of invention. "We call this place the Sacred Land of Zeus," he added.
He was pleased with that brilliant touch. Kikerus had already decided where this 'sacred land of Zeus' was going to be. There was another rough stretch of hill scrub well beyond the Sacred Way, much visited by foraging swine; it was not only outside the grounds of the Great House, but also downwind; the young men could go there, indulge in their malodorous excesses unheeded by the Great House and hopefully get attacked by wild boar. They would offend no one; they might even (blissful thought) never return.
"And what about Pasiphae? Can she come?" Saron asked eagerly.
Kikerus waved the dreadful question away and changed the subject.
"Tell us more about the actual wedding, my friends. What are your requirements there?" He had no objection to making the Bull Court available to the visitors for their more harmless antics.
"Oh, our weddings are very amusing," Manthys told him, and then gave the astonished Kikerus a summary of the rather violent Achaean marriage rites. As a prelude to the nuptials, he told the priest, the groom was expected to grab his future wife from the street, countering token resistance from whichever man was chaperoning her; usually her father. The bride was usually chaperoned by another woman too, a sister or a cousin, who was also free to enter the fray. After a fight between two families, the groom was supposed to subdue his bride and defeat her family through superior strength, then carry his booty home, over his threshold.
"You mean that your weddings are basically a fight?" asked Kikerus, startled.
"Not a serious one," Saron assured him. "Usually people are laughing too much to hurt each other. But it can get a bit rough sometimes."
"My friends." Kikerus exclaimed, "I must remind you that the Bull Court is a sacred place, and fighting is not...we cannot allow..."
"Why not? You have boxing there, don't you?" protested Manthys.
"Oh, don't worry," said Saron reassuringly. "We won't put up much of a fight. After all, we want our mother to marry your king and she wants to marry him."
"Is that the case? Then forgive me, but I am little puzzled. You say that you wish the ceremony to be, as far as possible, a traditional Achaean nuptial rite. Yet from your admirably clear account, it seems to me that an Achaean wedding can only be a successful event if - ah - if the bride and her family do not wish it to take place."
"That's just Achaean tradition," explained Saron. "I think in the old days we had to fight for everything, including our women. Nowadays the fighting is just for fun."
"Fighting... for fun..." muttered Kikerus, his mind trying to assimilate this new concept.
"Oh, the abduction is a very old tradition," Saron added confidently. "And one of the traditions is that the bride has another woman to defend her."
"Oh, yes," agreed Manthys, turning to Kikerus. "We need another woman with us to defend our mother's honour - that spotless honour that is about to be so brutally besmirched by your king."
"It's all right." said Saron brightly. "I've already thought of someone. A Kaftor, of course."
"Which Kaftor woman do you have in mind?" asked Kikerus, aware that he already knew the awful answer.
"Pasiphae." Saron suggested brightly, and Kikerus groaned, his worst fears realised. "Pasiphae can help us protect our mother. She might enjoy that. She needs to have a bit of fun sometimes. She's only a child, after all. We won't be too rough with her. Of course," he added, with a confidential leer at his brother, "If she does collect a few bruises or scrapes we can always kiss her better. What do you think, priest?"
Words failed Kikerus. This was too much. That the Moon Goddess should take part in a free fistfight for the entertainment of foreigners, and then be kissed by them.... For the first time in his long life the High Priest of the Keftiu felt hysterical. He tried to speak but only a few staccato bleats babbled through his lips.
The brothers stared at him in puzzlement. "Is that a 'yes' or 'no'?" asked Manthys.
Kikerus plunged his head in his hands and breathed deeply, waving away almost brusquely Asterios' demand for a translation. He peered up at the brothers through bloodshot eyes. His voice, when it came, was low and guttural:
"My friends, the time is late. We had better terminate our discussion on the wedding ceremony until tomorrow. I can only tell you now that Pasiphae will be busy - much too busy - to attend your ceremony. I can say - and Asterios will confirm this - she has not even been invited."
An even more forceful and blunt debate took place between Asterios and Kikerus later that evening.
"We cannot tolerate such barbarism in our sacred Bull Court." Kikerus was emphatic. "I don't think we can even tolerate it on the island."
"Kikerus, I cannot cancel the wedding now and nor do I wish to. It would be most inhospitable. The lady expects marriage and I have agreed to provide it. It is not the Kaftor way to withdraw gifts that have been promised. Such you have always taught me..."
"If I may speak bluntly, your worship, I am a little weary of being constantly blamed for your lack of wisdom. You have your own reasons for marrying this outsider and they have nothing to do with the traditions of hospitality or the needs of the community. They bear no relation to anything I have taught you."
"Kikerus! You have already agreed to help and officiate..."
"I know. I know I have promised to support you in your foolish marriage, but these arrangements are appalling.... quite appalling... the ritual details her sons are insisting on are vile. Forcible abductions ...... fighting ... coerced copulation... How can you involve yourself in such evil?"
"Kikerus, I am only the star, the 'Lesser Light'. The Moon Goddess will not be defiled by this ceremony. I should remind you that it is not in my power, as a consort of the Goddess, to refuse any request made by a visitor which it is in my power to grant..."
"Any reasonable request, my king..." Kikerus was tempted to mention the brothers' far from reasonable request to be allowed to burn the sacred bull and take it in turns to kiss the Moon Goddess.
Then an uncharacteristic oath burst from Kikerus' lips. "By the bounty of the Great Goddess, I had forgotten. Her outlandish and unspeakable sons will expect to live in the Great House. O, Great Goddess of wisdom, spare us from that perpetual winter. Have you seen what they have done to our beautiful Guest House? They have wrecked it; they have despoiled it with their filth; they have turned it into a cattle stall - a refuge for swine. They have turned the exquisite garden into a reeking dung-heap because they will not use the water closets. They will commit the same outrages in the Great House. They will besmirch the Goddess' beautiful chambers with their loutish, unwashed bodies. They will sing drunken songs in our holy sanctuaries and defecate in our fragrant gardens..."
"But I do not plan to live in the Great House," said Asterios soothingly. "I had intended telling you earlier. When I have married the foreign lady I will reside in the Nether Chambers. They are simple and cannot be much spoiled."
"The Nether Chambers?" Kikerus repeated in surprise. "They are only used for ritual purposes. Would they not be rather austere living quarters for Your Highness?"
"I am no longer the Greater Light. The Chambers will be more than sufficient for my needs, which are very basic now. We can furnish it primitively. Even the two brothers cannot ruin it. They cannot defecate in the gardens either because there are none. The chambers are surrounded by public streets and lustral basins. Living in the ritual centre will also facilitate the performance of my remaining duties as Divine Consort, as it is located at the head of the processional way."
"This is true. However, we will have to think of a better name for the house than 'Nether Chambers'. I suggest we call it 'The Little Palace'. Yes - that has a certain graceful resonance in the foreigners' ugly language." The priest permitted himself a grin. "You have been inspired by the Goddess in this choice of dwelling. How disappointed the family will be. This so-called new 'Little Palace' is far less spacious or luxurious than the Guest House. They will hate it, which is very gratifying. I will show them their new accommodation myself and will enjoy their chagrin."
"You will, of course, live with us in the Nether Chambers, Kikerus?"
"What?" Suddenly the austerity of the foreigners' living accommodation was no longer a joke.
"Your duties require you to be a resident of the new royal domain - the Little Palace. I want you to live there with us - with my new family."
"But I already have an excellent house in outer Cnossos," Kikerus almost howled.
"It is too far. I wish you to leave it and reside with me in the Nether Chambers, as adviser, companion and interpreter."
"Leave my beautiful house?"
The thought of abandoning his handsome and comfortable house for the confinement and squalor of the Nether Chambers, with that horrible family, made Kikerus want to end his life in the KairatosRiver. He refused to consider the idea for a moment. He and Asterios then bickered like little boys until their flexible minds enabled them to compromise. It was agreed that Kikerus would spend only part of the day and every mealtime at the Little Palace, and return to his own house in the evenings.
"So now everything is arranged satisfactorily, isn't it? The wedding can now go ahead in the Bull Court?"
"No, the wedding cannot take place there, my lord," said Kikerus resolutely, thinking of the violent abduction that the brothers were insisting on. "That is impossible. We cannot have men fighting in the sacred Bull Court. The Great House will be forever defiled if such a vicious ceremony is performed there. Indeed, I can think of no place on the island that will not be forever defiled by it."
"Where do you suggest the wedding should take place? In the sea?"
The priest smiled, like one who had just seen a beautiful vision. "What a splendid idea. That would give the family a much-needed bath. If your holiness were not involved in this lamentable proceeding I would insist on it. I think, however, we had better utilise the sacred land of Zeus."
"What is that, my teacher?"
"An area of barren wilderness, out of sight but conveniently close to your Nether Chambers. We will hold the ceremony there, where no one will see it."
"Why are you letting this marriage happen at all?" Saron demanded, when Kikerus returned to the Little Palace and informed the family of the changed arrangements. "It's meaningless to you, isn't it? Why are you going ahead with it?"
"It's an insult," Manthys raved. "An insult to our dear mother."
"So much for being the sons of a king."
"It's a trick - they're not going to adopt us at all. The whole thing's a filthy trick."
"What does he think I am - his concubine?" Arete sobbed. "Am I just his whore? His plaything?"
"Don't cry, mother - don't cry," exclaimed Saron, hugging Arete with ostentatious affection, glaring at Kikerus as if he had just assaulted her.
"How dare you treat us like this?" Manthys roared. "Promising us wealth and then snatching it away and laughing at us?"
"My dear friends, you are greatly mistaken in your judgments." Kikerus eventually managed to make himself heard above the shouting. "We Kaftors are fully aware of the sacred nature of marriage; we would never conduct such a holy ceremony as a trick. That is why we have tried our best to be amenable to your suggestions and plans..."
"But you won't let us have the wedding in the Bull Court, will you?" Manthys demanded. "And that's because the whole thing's meaningless, isn't it? That's why you want it out of sight."
"Of course not, my friend." This, at least, was true. Kikerus wanted the ceremony out of sight, not because it was meaningless, but because it was offensive. Luckily he had thought of an explanation that the family would find more acceptable.
"We decided to move the ceremony from the Bull Court, not to protect our sacred traditions, but your own," he said carefully. "As far as I understand, the basis of your Achaean sacred marriage ceremony is the abduction. Abduction means that a person is removed from one place to another, quite different place; there is a change in location."
"I suppose so. But what..."
"Therefore, my friend, it follows that the ceremony cannot take place in the Bull Court. The Bull Court, my good people," he smiled gently at his proposition, "is only one place. Abduction cannot take place from one location to the same location."
"But Asterios was going to carry her from the Bull Court to his chamber here," objected Manthys.
"You know how far the Little Palace is from the Great House, my friends," said the priest. "From the Bull Court it is distance of half a league and much of the journey is up a considerable gradient." The priest stopped talking and cocked his head at Arete. "Our king, as you remember, is only nineteen summers old and of typically slender Kaftor build." He said no more, but his meaning was clear.
"Are you saying I'm fat?" demanded Arete indignantly.
"I see what you mean," admitted Manthys, nodding, oblivious to his mother's feelings. "Quite a big lump for him to carry. But we could help. Four of us could carry her - just about."
"Thank you very much." spluttered Arete.
"But, forgive me, my friend," interposed the priest, "that would not have been a genuine Achaean ceremony either. Another element in the forced abduction, surely, is that it takes place without the consent of the bride's family. For the family to aid in this abduction would corrupt its nature. Again, my friend, we are thinking of the integrity of your own sacred traditions."
"Well, when you explain it like that..." murmured Manthys.
Kikerus pursued his advantage. "With this solution, a pure and ideal Achaean ceremony may take place, with a perfect abduction of your mother. It will be only a short distance from the Sacred Land of Zeus to the Little Palace, and the blessed couple will be conveyed in an elegant carriage that we will provide. By this means Asterios may abduct your mother to his home domain, where he will - ahem - forcibly claim her as his wife. Is that not an excellent scheme?"
"No it isn't," insisted Manthys. His interruption cut across his mother's murmurs of assent. "I think it's a stupid scheme."
"What is your objection now?" asked Kikerus crossly.
"You say it will be a perfect Achaean ceremony," Manthys said. "But you're not Achaeans and this isn't Patras. So it won't be a ceremony sacred to the Kaftors. And if it's not a real wedding for the Kaftors, how do we know we'll become sons of the king?"
Kikerus gritted his teeth. He felt tempted to storm out of the chambers and tell the family to hold their wretched wedding in a snake pit. Then he remembered his rash promise to Asterios to ensure that the event took place to everyone's satisfaction. In his agitation, he then made another, equally unwise promise to the family.
"What can we do to prove that the ceremony is a real one; real to us as well as to you? What do you want us to do?" he almost begged. "I promise that if it can be done, it will be done."
"Well, what do you do in your weddings?" Manthys demanded. "What normally happens in a Kaftor wedding?"
"Well, the Consort always wears the sacred bull's head at the sacred marriage, but that is only..."
"That's it. That's what we'll do," cried Manthys excitedly, while the priest wished he could bite his tongue out. "Asterios should wear that sacred bull mask when he carries off our mother. That would prove the marriage was real. What do you think?"
Kikerus had to sit down. He was dumbstruck. Was there to be no end to the shocks this family would give him? "Asterios.... Wear the bull mask... " he gasped.
"That would prove the wedding was real and that you weren't tricking us." insisted Manthys. "Anyway, you promised to do whatever we wanted."
"Ooh, I'm going to be abducted by a bull," Arete squeaked delightedly. "How exciting. I can't wait."
Kikerus covered his head in his hands and groaned. No, no, no, no. Asterios wear the sacred bull mask in his false wedding to this foreigner? The idea was even more terrible than holding the ceremony in the Bull Court. The situation had got beyond him. He admitted that. He would leave the matters to the Goddess and his king. Asterios had started this hideous mess; he would have to clear it up.
Kikerus got up slowly. "I will speak to Asterios," he said, again in a low, guttural, almost drugged voice, "and I will tell you what he says." He walked wearily out of the Nether Chambers and towards Cnossos. He felt he had aged a great deal in the past few days.
"I am willing to wear the mask, Kikerus," Asterios reassured him. "I wore it on the happy occasion of my marriage to dear Perseis and will be wearing it again at the blessed moment when I am reunited with her. It is a mask with fond associations for me. It is perfectly right and proper that I should appear as the sacred Bull Consort again at my own wedding; I see no blasphemy in that."
"There is a risk that the mask will be lost or damaged if it is removed from the Great House."
"Then would it not be better if the ceremony took place in the Bull Court after all?"
"My lord, the only place for such a disgraceful ceremony is the wilds near the Nether Chambers where it can not be seen. If you wear the mask there, at least no one will observe you - apart from a few servants, who have been strongly requested not to look."
"Isn't there a danger that the wild men of the woods might see me wearing it?"
Kikerus shuddered. "Britomartis' people seldom venture so close to Cnossos. I think we are safe from them. That is, however, another good reason for keeping the ceremony brief."
"Kikerus, I have a request. I wore the mask during my sacred marriage to my dear Moon Goddess, but have never actually seen it. May I see the Bull Mask now?" asked Asterios, with some eagerness. "May I hold it?"
"Very well, my lord -- but please handle it with great care."
At a request from Kikerus, an attendant priestess departed and returned with complete bull's head, which she handed carefully to Asterios. The head was so real and natural that it almost looked alive. The sleek black hair and sharply tapering horns were preserved as if the animal had been transfixed in its youth; the face of the beast even wore an expression of energetic but puzzled belligerence.
"It is a beautiful object," remarked Asterios, admiringly.
Kikerus looked at him sharply. "You must treat it with care. I trust you will also remember the perils involved in wearing it. You will not be able to remove it yourself; only those close to the Moon Goddess can do so. You really must take extreme care when wearing it," Kikerus warned the king again.
"I know, Kikerus. You have told me before. Many times, in fact."
"The delicate mechanism of this mask will be activated by any impact to your head. I have convinced those insane brothers that the mask is too fragile for their demented children's games and they have clear instructions not to fight you. Your simple task is to climb inside the litter and be carried to the Little Palace with the maximum of speed, where a priestess will be awaiting you to remove the mask and return it speedily to the Great House. After that..." Kikerus closed his eyes; not even wishing to think about what Asterios would be required to do after that.
"I never expected to be wearing this mask so soon, and on so happy an occasion."
"Did you say happy, my lord?" Kikerus exclaimed in disbelief.
Asterios stroked the mask gently. "Wearing the mask gives a blessing to an occasion that I hope will bring me joy."
Kikerus refrained from pointing out that Asterios had that joy all to himself.
When Kikerus showed the brothers their new living accommodation, they were as disgusted at the cramped, rustic plainness of the 'Little Palace' as he had hoped they would be. They complained about the small rooms, the low ceiling and hard chairs. Kikerus was so amused he hardly noticed their smell, even in the poky little rooms.
"Call this a palace? I've seen bigger peasants' huts." Manthys roared. He bumped his head twice on the low lintels and also toppled off his narrow bed several times, landing on the hard stone floor.
"There's only just room for me in that tiny bed." Saron complained. "What happens if I want to get a woman in there as well?"
Kikerus could not suppress a grin. Even Manthys laughed at this. "A woman in there with you?" he laughed. "There's plenty of room in your bed for the woman of your dreams - especially as she only lives inside your head."
It was all as entertaining as Kikerus had hoped. But Kikerus' happy mood vanished when the brothers were shown the wash chambers.
"Well, you can tear those out for a start," Manthys announced decisively. "Why don't you get rid of those useless pots and build in some extra rooms for us? Or a bigger and better kitchen."
"Or room for some concubines?" suggested Saron.
This was no longer funny. Kikerus stood and stared aghast at the unwashed brothers as a horrible thought occurred to him.
Although he did not have to live at the Nether Chambers, he was still expected to take all his meals there. That meant he would have to eat in close proximity to those two men's vile, stinking bodies. The very thought made his stomach heave. Somehow he would have to persuade the brothers to start washing, if he wasn't to die of slow starvation. It was a delicate matter, but it had to be raised.
"My friends, the washing facilities here are as excellent as those at the Guest House," he told them, with a deferential smile. "As it happens, the water is now most comfortably hot; there is also an abundance of healing, fragrant oils ready. And a thought has occurred to me. Why don't you try the baths now? You will love them."
"I never use baths," replied Manthys gruffly.
"Neither do I," agreed Saron. "We're soldiers, not women."
"But your brother takes great pleasure in immersing himself in warm water and you will feel much better if you..."
"Don't compare us to him," Manthys snapped back. "He's a snivelling little whelp."
"But how can I convince you of the divine nature of water, the Goddess' first element, the medium of renewal, the spring of life and health..."
"Oh, don't start spouting your Goddess at me again." Manthys grumbled, leading the way to the kitchen and grabbing a flagon of wine. "All this worshipping your Goddess, all this bathing in water, all this useless stuff in gold, is out of date, it's not practical...." He started walking towards the small dining chamber, swigging from the flagon as he went.
"Ah, but many of the domestic arrangements in the Little Palace are eminently practical," replied the priest, following him and eagerly seizing on the word. "Our flowing, cleansing water pipes, our drainage system for removing waste, as well as our wonderful spacious baths are the most practical..."
"Will you stop babbling on about those disgusting baths?" growled Manthys, sitting down cautiously in a wooden chair. "I told you, I'm not going near them."
"Nor am I," yawned Saron, sliding down in his chair and scratching his groin. "Living in water -- it's not natural. I told little Thasos -- all that covering himself in water will be the death of him one day."
"Exactly. Do you think we look like fish?"
Manthys laughed at his own joke, then started drinking noisily from the flagon, which he then passed to Saron. Kikerus stared at them almost hopelessly. Despite his eloquence, he could not make them understand the need to wash. They sprawled opposite him, unwashed, uncaring, unpersuaded. What else could he say? Even now the priest could not bring himself to tell the brothers that they stank.
"I do wish you would wash," he almost pleaded.
"Why should we?" demanded Manthys.
"Because -- because you'll feel much better if you do."
"Look, I'm sick of this!" Manthys put down his flagon, turned and waved Kikerus away, like a lord dismissing a servant. "Listen priest, we've had enough. We want to get drunk. You are dismissed now," he added, in a tone of unbearable insolence. "Come back away when you've sorted everything out. Remember: bigger beds, lots of cushions -- and you can tear those silly washrooms out while you're at it. We'll never use them. Good bye."
He then laughed openly in the priest's face, entertained by the sight of his baffled rage. Even Saron started openly sniggering at him. Defeated, with a burning face and smarting eyes, the high priest of Cnossos strode from the room without another word and fled the Little Palace, the sound of Manthys' drunken laughter ruthlessly pursuing him.
Back in his house, Kikerus almost wept with fury. Those men were appalling, impossible, inhuman! How dared they speak to him like that? He was strongly tempted to straight to the Cnossos guards and ask them to force their way into the Chambers, drag the brothers from their chairs and douse them repeatedly in warm water until they either drowned or were reasonably clean. With great reluctance, he resisted the idea, aware that it would lead to the sort of unseemly riot that would disgrace the consort's household for ever.
"What terrible wrong have I done you?" Kikerus begged the Great Goddess during his prayers that night. "What has been my offence, that I deserve these dreadful men in my life?"
A Ravishment
The marriage ceremony was due to begin at midday, when the sun was at its height and most of the residents of Cnossos would be indoors and out of sight. Kikerus wanted as few people as possible to witness Asterios' wedding. He had no intention of watching it himself, in fact.
He stayed long enough to supervise the destruction of the brothers' disgusting sacrificial bonfire and ensure that Arete's small litter-carriage arrived safely. Then, while Arete disappeared behind some bushes and joyously bedecked herself in her new, colourful 'flower' clothes, he took the chance of giving Saron and Manthys very clear final instructions; it was the third time he had given them these final instructions that morning.
"I wish no mistakes to take place," he told them sternly, while they yawned and fidgeted. "Please remember that there is very little you must do at this event, except watch. Once your mother has dressed, she will be carried a few steps in that litter carriage, and then it will be set down to allow Asterios to climb inside with her. It is essential that you offer only very gentle resistance to Asterios; in fact," he added firmly, "you are not to touch Asterios at all. Do you understand? You may attempt -- briefly - to rescue your mother, but do not touch Asterios."
"Yes, priest, you've already told us I don't know how many times, though I don't see why we can't..."
"A priestess will be waiting at the Little Palace to remove Asterios' sacred Bull Mask," continued Kikerus doggedly, "and she will return the mask to me at the Great House. I trust - I sincerely hope -- it will be returned unspoiled."
"Isn't it time we started?" said Manthys restlessly. "I'm bored with all this talk."
"In that case, I will now leave you," said Kikerus, tersely. "May you enjoy your - ah - your little ceremony."
"Oh, aren't you staying, Kikerus?" called Arete from behind her bush. "I'm sure it will be beautiful."
The priest coughed. "Thank you -- no," he muttered. "Very kind of you, but I must ... I must go -- ahem -- I must go and wait at the Great House for the return of the Bull Mask."
"What about the wedding feast afterwards?" Saron suggested brightly. "You can have a good old Achaean feast and get drunk with us."
Kikerus gave a nervous little laugh and promptly fled.
Thasos was glad not to be involved in his mother's wedding. Anything that his brothers planned was certain to be disastrous -- or at best an embarrassment. As soon as Kikerus had left, therefore, he climbed to a nearby raised area at the edge of the clearing, to give himself a good distant overview of the proceedings. From his vantage point he could see the smoke still rising from his brothers' recent malodorous sacrifice, and the small litter, held by four gloomy looking Kaftor servants who clearly longed to be elsewhere. Shrieks of laughter from somewhere beyond the clearing indicated that his mother was still changing into her 'flower' clothes and probably having a final 'little drink' to calm herself down.
After a few moments, Thasos became aware of movements and voices in the trees surrounding him. At first he thought that some of the citizens of Cnossos had sneaked out to have a secret laugh at the ceremony. To his surprise, however, he found himself surrounded by a group of rough, almost grubby looking strangers, scantily clothed in animal skins and wearing antlers on their heads. They were gazing down at the clearing and muttering among themselves in tones of aggrieved astonishment. As soon as they noticed Thasos, they gathered round him and bombarded him with questions in rapid Keftiu.
"I'm sorry, I'm Achaean. No Keftiu," Thasos said. "Achaean -- Achaean."
A woman, dressed more amply than the men in thicker animal furs, stood up and gestured first towards the clearing and then at the surrounding woods. She held her nose and contorted her face into an expression of disgust, as if at some vile smell. Then she pointed at the thin plume of smoke rising from the fire. Clearly the burnt sacrifice was the alien scent that had attracted their curiosity and brought them to the clearing. The woman gestured elaborately and spoke; she seemed to be asking a question.
The only words in Keftiu that Thasos knew were names. "Asterios," he said, and "Cnossos," he added, for good measure. "Asterios and Cnossos."
The priestess seemed taken aback; she pointed at the smoke again and repeated "Asterios?"
"No, no." Perhaps she thought that Asterios himself was being burned. Thasos did not know how to mime 'wedding'. He made a gesture that suggested two people standing together, like bride and consort. "Asterios and Europa. Together. Here." He pointed at the clearing, repeated the two names and enacted some loving gestures.
"Europa." The woman closed her eyes. "Europa," she said again, reverently, emphasising the gentle music of the word. "Ah, Europa." The horned men also closed their eyes and began raptly murmuring and humming the name 'Europa' until it became a hypnotic chant. Clearly it was a name they were familiar with.
A rougher commotion of voices in the clearing below made it clear that the sacred wedding was starting. The woman spoke a word to the horned men and they all lay on the ground. Thasos hoped they would continue to watch the ceremony in silence. He remembered, uneasily, that Kikerus had wanted the whole affair to be a secret.
The ceremony was even more ridiculous and embarrassing than Thasos had expected. He watched his mother, laughing and half drunk, supported by her two elder sons, sway and stagger towards the waiting litter. The weavers of Cnossos had interpreted her request for 'outdoor flower clothing' carelessly, and had merely supplied her with a patchwork of coloured off-cuts. As Arete tottered across the clearing, bits of this cloth fluttered petal-like to the ground, or quivered on her arms and shoulders like maimed butterflies. She had also put on quite a lot of weight since her 'engagement' (she had been celebrating for days) and had to be squeezed by her sons, with some difficulty, into the litter.
Arete managed to get the top half of her body through the small opening but her wobbling behind still stuck out. As her sons attempted to push her in, she shed further fragments of cloth, speckling the ground in a brightly coloured pattern.
Then, after a final desperate shove, Arete shot into the litter; her two sons almost losing their balance with the suddenness of it. The litter was then picked up by the groaning Kaftor carriers and carried in a panting, perspiring circle around the glade. Arete screeched with laughter all the way, and waved out of the window, calling to her two sons who were strolling casually alongside.
At that moment Asterios skipped into the clearing, his large bull's mask perched incongruously on his slender shoulders. The effect of his arrival on the horned people was extraordinary. They leapt to their feet with a chorus of shouts, and made elaborate circling gestures in the air with their fists, before clutching each other around the shoulders and setting off on a spontaneous, chanting circular dance. Thasos was afraid this would disrupt the wedding, but luckily their brief frenzy, severely quelled by the woman, was drowned by the sound of Arete calling to Asterios, her arms waving though the window:
"Yoo-hoo. Asterios. Asterios. Come and get me, you mad bull."
She leaned her head and shoulders further out in her eagerness to grab hold of Asterios and the litter listed sharply; the carriers wrestling with the handles like desperate sailors riding a sea storm. At this point, Manthys and Saron leaped precipitately onto the opposite side to pull Arete out of the litter and rescue her. The litter rocked like a skiff in a gale then crashed sideways to the ground, hurling both brothers across the clearing and burying Asterios underneath it. The carriers fled, wailing with terror. Thasos gazed horrified while the horned people hooted with approval. Without giving them another thought, Thasos dashed to the aid of his mother. As he approached he could hear her groaning from underneath the upturned litter.
"Help me get this up," panted Thasos, struggling alone while Manthys and Saron, apparently unhurt, sat around grumbling and whining to themselves. "Mother's underneath it. Help me, for Zeus' sake."
"Great Olympus. I think I've broken all my bones," muttered Manthys, feeling himself all over.
"What happened to me?" asked Saron, rubbing his head. "I think my skull's smashed to pieces."
"Never mind that; there's nothing wrong with either of you. We've got to help mother." Thasos sobbed in vexation as he heard Arete's muffled howls under the litter. "She might be really badly hurt ..."
"She wouldn't be making that much noise if she was badly hurt," grumbled Manthys.
Arete's head suddenly popped out through the upturned side of the litter like an emerging tortoise. Seeing Thasos, she redoubled her howling. "Oh, get me out. Get me out of this... get me out... I'm going to die... Why don't my sons help me?"
Thasos offered Arete his hand and she grabbed it in both of hers, then clambered onto his shoulders, as if he was a mule, until the boy crumpled slowly to his knees under her weight. "You're breaking my back, mother," he hooted. "You're breaking my back." He collapsed to his knees.
"Oh, you horrible boy." Arete screeched as she sprawled over his shoulders and rolled across the ground. "Are you trying to murder your mother?" She struggled to her feet and started slapping him across the head. "Where's my husband?" she shrieked. "What have you all done with my husband?"
"Stop hitting me, mother. Asterios is still in the litter. I think you've been sitting on him."
Thasos dodged away from his mother's blows and peered down the open side of the upturned litter. It was soon obvious why his mother was unhurt. Asterios had cushioned the impact of her fall and was lying motionless under the litter.
"Asterios!" screamed Thasos. "Oh, no! Help me. Get this thing off him. Come and help me," he cried to Manthys and Saron, who were still sitting around and minutely examining their own bodies for injuries.
Even after Thasos, with prodigious effort, had single-handedly toppled the empty litter away from Asterios, there was no sign of life from him. Arete started wailing and howling. She flung herself on his prostrate body, manoeuvring and manipulating his limbs and torso in a frenzy of grief. "Oh, my darling's dead. He's dead. And after a few moments' marriage! Was ever woman as grieved as me?"
"Mother -- please. Leave him alone." Thasos tried to drag his mother away from Asterios' body, while she shrieked and hit him. "If Asterios is hurt, you'll only make him worse."
"Oh Zeus! What's wrong with Asterios?" It was Manthys' voice. "Is he dead?"
Rather belatedly, Manthys and Saron realised that the outcome of the day's calamity might be more serious their own discomfort. They shuffled across and knelt over the supine body of the divine consort.
"Well, we've done it now," Saron muttered, while Manthys examined Asterios' head; lifting it and groping it and turning it around. "I don't think the people of Cnossos are going to be very pleased when they find out we've killed their king."
"Don't worry. It's quite all right." Manthys let Asterios' head flop back onto the ground and smiled.
"Is Asterios alive?" asked Thasos, panting with relief.
"I don't know about that -- but the Bull Mask is undamaged."
"Oh, thank Zeus for that."
"What? The Bull Mask? Is that all you can think of?" shrieked Thasos.
"Well, we did promise not to damage it. At least they can't blame us for that. I can't seem to get it off his head, though," Manthys added, again manhandling Asterios' unresisting head. "They can sort it out at the palace when they collect his body."
"But what are we going to do about mother?" Saron pointed at Arete, who was now lying out on the ground, whimpering with grief. "Don't forget she still has to be abducted - otherwise the wedding isn't real and we won't be the sons of kings."
"We'll only be the sons of dead kings," Manthys pointed out. "And there doesn't seem much point in abducting mother now. She isn't a bride -- she's a widow." This remark caused Arete to start howling again.
"Great Zeus, this noise is enough to wake the dead!" exclaimed Saron.
"Interesting you should say that, brother," said Manthys, whose sharp eye had caught a slight movement from Asterios. "It seems to have worked on her husband. He's alive after all."
Thasos turned round and, to his joy, saw that Asterios was now writhing on the ground. However, his joy was quickly diminished by concern. "Is he all right? He looks hurt."
"Of course he's all right," said Manthys confidently. "Look -- he's moving about isn't he? Let's get his bride to the palace; we've wasted enough time messing around here."
Arete bleated in feeble protest when Manthys and Saron picked her up by the arms and feet. "I need to bury my husband."
"No need, mother. He's not dead and we're going to abduct you. Aren't you lucky?"
"Not dead?" she whimpered, and immediately started crying again.
Without another glance at Asterios, Manthys and Saron staggered in the direction of the Little Palace, their wailing mother swaying precariously in their grip.
As the sounds of their swearing and their mother's howling faded away, Thasos turned to Asterios again. The man was still rolling around in obvious distress and seemed unable to sit up. He waved his arms in the air as if fighting an invisible enemy and was calling out for help.
"What's the matter, Asterios? What is it?"
At the sound of Thasos' voice, Asterios lay silent and still, then slowly sat up and carefully turned his head towards him. He spoke urgently again, this time pointing towards his masked face. The glass bull eyes stared out sightlessly at Thasos.
"Is it your head, Asterios? Have you hurt it? Can't you take the mask off?"
As he reached out to touch the masked head, he heard a woman's voice call out sharply in Keftiu. Thasos turned round. The horned hunting men he had met in the woods had now joined them in the clearing.
The woman gestured at Thasos dismissively. She spoke a few words to Asterios, who answered in agitated tones, again pointing at his masked head. She replied soothingly, and some horned hunters helped him to his feet. At another word from her, the rest of her men surrounded Asterios and guided him towards the edge of the clearing and into the forest.
"Hey! Where are you taking him?" Thasos called in panic. "He needs to get back to Cnossos." He followed them out of the clearing. "Cnossos," he repeated; a word the woman might understand. "Cnossos!"
The woman turned shouted another order. Several of her horned hunters rushed towards Thasos and gripped him by the arms and neck so tightly he could do little more than choke for breath. When they released him, they pushed him to the ground, before running off into the forest. Gasping and winded, Thasos rose unsteadily to his knees and realised that Asterios had had been taken.
"Great Zeus, she's heavy!"
"I never realised it was so far to the palace," gasped Saron.
"Lazy little brat," panted Manthys, referring to Thasos. "I'll give him a good slap for leaving us to carry her on our own."
By the time they reached the Little Palace, the brothers had dropped Arete accidentally several times. It took all their strength to pitch her over the threshold, where she rolled over and moaned peevishly.
"That's a relief," panted Saron, rubbing his arms.
"Better get the epithalamium over with," suggested Manthys, "and then we can eat."
The epithalamium was a traditional Achaean song of nuptial praise, sung to the bride and bridegroom just as they were about to consummate their marriage.
"Isn't it a bit soon for that?" asked Saron. "It's not their bedtime yet. And Asterios isn't back."
"Oh, we'll be too drunk to sing it later. Mother won't notice anyway."
Arete had wanted the ritual epithalamium to be sung by her three sons outside the door of the bridal chamber, at the moment of consummation, in the hope of goading Asterios to heroic efforts. Instead, Manthys and Saron ran outside the door of the palace and gabbled it - or as much as they remembered of it - in the heedless sunny open air; tunelessly and not very solemnly. A lone Kaftor woman wearing a low goatskin dress, her head bedecked in ample scarves, stared at them in astonishment. She tried to speak, but Manthys waved her away with a brief "No Keftiu. No Keftiu." and dashed back into the palace.
"Right. Where's the wedding feast?" he demanded, tripping over his mother. "Oh, sorry. Did you enjoy your hymn?" he asked her casually, as she writhed and grumbled in protest.
"Hadn't we better wait for Asterios to arrive before we eat?" demurred Saron. "It is his wedding too, after all."
"No. I'm hungry -- or rather, thirsty. Come on. Let's get started. We've worked hard for this." He rushed into the banquet chamber then stopped, gazing in disgust at what he saw on the long table.
"What is this?" he roared. "Some sort of joke? I thought I said no Kaftor food."
Manthys had taken charge of the food arrangements and had been quite clear in his requirements for the wedding feast. He had told a startled Kikerus that the family wanted Achaean food only -- 'no Kaftor messes' was the phrase he used. There should also be no 'disgusting slimy Kaftor sauces' as he called them. Honey and pepper - ingredients that Manthys particularly loathed - were 'an abomination of Achaean religion', and he forbade those too. Drinking milk, he also decided after a moment's thought, brought bad luck to an Achaean wedding, and vegetables - for some reason that Manthys could not make clear even to himself -- all vegetables were taboo. When Kikerus had asked Manthys, almost piteously, what sort of food was left, Manthys had told him that the only wedding feast the family would accept was roast meat -- and plenty of it; piles and piles of roast joints, quarters and haunches. He ignored Kikerus' protest that roasted flesh was anathema to the Keftiu except on a few sacred occasions. "This is a sacred occasion," Manthys insisted. "It's your king's wedding. So we want roast meat."
The Kaftor chefs withdrew their services in disgust. Manthys then suggested that chefs were unnecessary; that Kikerus should cook the family's wedding meal himself. "Roasting meat is easy," he had told the Kaftor high priest reassuringly: "Any idiot can do it," and had failed to see the angry glint that had appeared in the old man's eyes when he said it.
Kikerus had thought of an ingenious way of supplying the brothers with their iniquitous roast meat. He simply retrieved their earlier sacrifice and dumped the grisly, charred carcase of the ancient goat onto the meal table. In the enclosed chamber, it looked and smelled foul. To Manthys' further disgust the priest had omitted to supply any wine.
"I suppose Kikerus thinks he's being very funny," he growled. "Let's go back to the Guest House. I know where the wine is kept there."
"Asterios? Where's my Asterios?" moaned Arete, struggling into the room. "Where's my husband?"
"Asterios? Asterios?" Another fretful female voice echoed Arete's complaints. The Kaftor woman, whom they had seen outside, had now followed them into the meal chamber and was staring at the brothers in bewilderment, repeating Asterios' name.
"Who is that ugly woman?" Manthys demanded. "Does she want to marry Asterios too?"
"Asterios? Asterios?" the woman asked again, almost pitifully. She gestured vaguely to her head and appeared to mime some sort of horned shape on it.
"Oh, I know - she's the priestess who's come to take off Asterios' mask." Manthys suddenly remembered Kikerus' final instruction that morning. "Well, she's wasting her time." He gestured back at her, sweeping his arm in a large motion that included the Little Palace and the empty area outside. "Not here. Not here," he enunciated clearly. "No Asterios. Gone. He go. Asterios finished."
"Oh, dear," muttered Saron. "Do you think we should go back and look for him?"
"Of course not. He can find his own way. He knows where the Little Palace is; he hasn't broken his legs. Come on. I want a drink."
Ignoring their mother and the anxious, chattering priestess, the two brothers dashed out of the Little Palace.
"Two women asking for him now. Lucky Asterios," Manthys chuckled. "Does he realise how popular he is...? Oh no, what do you want now?" he snapped at the priestess, who had pursued them out of the palace and was clutching at Manthys' shoulder. She stood in their way, one hand fumbling with her thick headscarves, the other gesturing vaguely in the direction of the clearing. "Asterios?"
"Why should we care?" roared Manthys. He pointed towards the distant river. "We're off -- to the Guest House for a drink."
"Asterios?" repeated the priestess more hopefully, now waving her hand in that direction.
"No, no. Guest Chambers. GUEST CHAMBERS!" Manthys roared, remembering the Keftiu word that Kikerus had taught them -- the word they were to use in case they ever got lost. He made gestures indicating eating and drinking, then pointed again across the town towards the river. "Guest Chambers," he said again. The priestess seemed to nod slowly with understanding. "Guest Chambers," she repeated. "Asterios, Guest Chambers."
"She's understood at last," Manthys said. "She's obviously not very bright. Come on -- before we die of thirst."
The two brothers dashed towards the river, the Guest House and the promise of wine.
"You say the brothers have taken Asterios to the Guest Chambers?" demanded Kikerus incredulously, when the priestess returned to the Great House with her odd news. "Why in the grace of the Goddess have they done that? And why has Asterios agreed to go with them there?"
"I could not understand what the foreigners were saying, Kikerus," the priestess replied plaintively. "When I repeated the name of our lord and Consort, they laughed and said the word 'Guest Chambers' many times. I presume our lord has gone to the Guest Chambers to celebrate his marriage with the sons of his wife."
"What an extraordinary thing to do. But then, I suppose our Consort will do anything to delay the moment when he must be alone with his bride." Kikerus chucked, while the gentle priestess gazed at him with incomprehension. "Have you seen her?" he asked, with a grin. "Even the iniquitous brothers might seem attractive company in comparison." He chuckled again, but receiving no response from the blank-faced priestess, he composed himself. "Of course, this marriage is no longer my concern," he said, becoming brisk and efficient again. "I will now put away the Bull Mask and return home to rest...." He gazed in wonder at the priestess, noticing for the first time that she was empty-handed. "What? What have you done with the Bull Mask?"
"I do not have it, O Kikerus."
"I see that you do not have it, my girl," retorted the priest sternly. "I rather presumed you might at least have removed the mask from Asterios' head before returning here..."
"I have not seen Asterios."
"You have not seen Asterios?" Kikerus barked, in growing irritation. "Did you not wait for him at the Nether Chambers as I asked?"
"Asterios has not been to the Nether Chambers..."
"Great Goddess! Are you telling me that the Consort has gone straight to the Guest Chambers wearing the sacred Bull Mask?"
"Is that a cause for concern, Kikerus?"
"A cause for concern?" Kikerus almost choked at the stupidity of the question. "Are you serious? To reach the Guest Chambers he will have to pass through Cnossos; he will walk directly through the centre of the town, in daylight - in the Bull Mask."
"Oh, I see," said the priestess lamely. "I suppose that is a problem for him. He will feel very hot in that Bull Mask."
Kikerus gazed at the priestess in disbelief. At first he suspected her of exhibiting humour in very poor taste. Then he noticed that she had a grave, gentle face, respectful and compassionate, but devoid of humour -- indeed devoid of all sense.
He remembered having chosen a particularly stupid priestess to carry the Bull Mask so that she would ask no questions about the dubious circumstance of Asterios wearing it in the first place. It was clear now that he had chosen too well; this woman was so stupid she could not actually perform her task, nor understand the dire consequences of not performing it.
"If Asterios is seen in that sacred mask, seen as the lord incarnate, there will be outcries," Kikerus exclaimed. "Don't you see? The ignorant will see it as an omen. The superstitious will see it as an evil portent. And Asterios is bound to have been seen in the town -- bound to have been." Kikerus held his head in his hands. Would the tribulations of this terrible wedding never end?
"I am very sorry, my teacher. Perhaps if you tell the people it is Asterios in the mask they will not think it is so bad."
Kikerus gulped. He wondered how anyone close to the Goddess could be so idiotic. "We must go to the Guest House immediately and you may remove the mask there," he said hastily. "There is no time to speak any more. Let us go."
The priestess' gentle moon-shaped face crumpled slowly into an expression of grief. "Oh, my divine teacher, please do not ask me that. I cannot go a step further outside. The sun is at its height. Already I have walked from the Nether Chambers in its direct and ferocious light..."
"But you have your head coverings, haven't you?" Kikerus snapped. What was the matter with the woman now?
The priestess spoke in a monotonous, self-pitying moan. "The sun, my lord, is too strong. My head is aching and my eyes have lost their keenness, my hands have lost their dexterity and my ears have lost their sharpness ..." Her small, pale hands accompanied her litany with limp gestures, flapping around her body to indicate the progress of her many ills. "My shoulders, my arms, my back and my legs all pain me and cause me suffering..."
"All right, all right ......"
".... and the priestess Aridela wishes me to plait her hair before sundown... and after that I must mix the herbs and honey for the fruit harvest and then I must attend with my peers to the incantations of the Goddess Pasiphae, and then I must scrub the floors. How can I mix herbs if my hands have lost their dexterity and my eyes their sharpness? How can I scrub floors if my knees have lost their rigour and my..."
"Very well - very well." Kikerus gave up. "You need not trouble yourself with this matter any further. I will go to the Guest Chambers myself and try to bring Asterios back to the Great House. I am afraid it will not be easy to get him here unseen," he added despairingly. Short of chopping off Asterios' head, Kikerus could not see how he could possibly hide the Bull Mask from curious eyes.
"Oh, thank you my teacher, thank you O kind, wise Kikerus. You do not know what your kindness means to me, O compassionate sage, you are unaware of the beneficence of your boon..." Kikerus twitched with impatience. From being shy and taciturn, the priestess had suddenly become infuriatingly talkative. Perhaps the sun had gone to her head after all. "O teacher, I praise your Goddess-inspired compassion, your sympathy with every ill and suffering, your pity with all manner of distress..."
Clearly nothing would shut the woman up; Kikerus decided to leave her talking to herself. Without another word, he fled from the room and the Great House in such haste that he forgot to take a scarf to protect his head from the sun. He also realised, with a gasp of vexation, far too late in his journey, that it would have been sensible to bring a second covering to hide Asterios' horned head on the way back. In the full glare of the sun, baking in the searing heat and cursing the brothers with every panting step, Asterios made his fretful way to the Guest Chambers, where he found a group of servants almost dancing in agitation at the entrance.
"My lord," they greeted him, "the big smelly drunken ones have come back. We were wishing to restore some order and beauty to these chambers that they have wrecked, but now ..."
"Is our lord Asterios not with them?" asked Kikerus, his stomach heaving with trepidation. "Is he not here? Has he not come?"
"No, Kikerus. We have not seen the lord and Consort Asterios at all today."
"Ah, I have remembered. You will not recognise Asterios today. He was wearing a...." Kikerus stopped himself just in time. On no account should he discuss the Bull Mask with these garrulous servants. "Did you see any one -- err -- somewhat unusual in appearance?" he asked carefully. "Has any one arrived looking -- ah -- slightly strange today? Ahem."
"My lord, we do not understand you... the hairy brothers, of course, always look strange. We have seen no one else with them..."
Without a further word, Kikerus rushed through the reception area and into the family's messy, disorderly day room, where he found Manthys alone, sprawled across cushions and noisily slurping wine. The priest strode towards him with the calmly urgent purpose of an assassin. "What -- what - why are you here?" he asked, his voice husky with repressed rage. "What have you done with our king?"
"Oh, hello, priest." Manthys drank deeply from his glass. He gave a long loud belch. "Aaah. I needed that." He poured himself another drink, spilling some of the red wine on the once exquisite, pale-coloured cushions. "If you're looking for Saron, he's in bed. Can't take his wine..."
"I am not remotely interested in your brother."
"Oh, all right then. It's just that if you were wondering where he was..."
"What have you done with our sacred Consort?" Kikerus repeated, through clenched teeth.
"You mean Asterios?"
"Yes," said Kikerus, battling with a sudden strong urge to kick the reclining Manthys in the stomach. "I mean Asterios. Who else could I mean? Where is Asterios?"
"Oh, isn't he back yet?"
"Back? Back from where?" Kikerus hooted. "Where have you taken him? You shouldn't have taken him anywhere. He is still wearing the sacred mask, you... you....!" Kikerus took a very deep breath. It was essential to stay calm and he did not want to give away too many ritual secrets. "Please -- please, my friend, tell me where you have taken Asterios..."
"We haven't taken him anywhere -- except to that place where we had the wedding... that's all."
"Then where is he now?"
"Isn't he at the Little Palace?"
"No, no, no." howled Kikerus in vexation. "If he were at the Little Palace I would not be asking you where he is now..."
"Oh, I remember now; we lost him."
"You -- you lost him." Kikerus gulped. He could feel his throat tighten. "My friend how is that possible? How could you lose our king?"
"Well, the wedding didn't quite go according to plan..."
"Why not?Why not? It was an absurdly uncomplicated plan. I repeated instructions of a childlike simplicity that I thought even you could have followed, even you, just this once ...."
"Hey. I don't know why you're getting so cross with us," Manthys protested. "You should be grateful, you know. At least Asterios isn't dead."
Kikerus thought he must be going insane. "Did -- did you say we should be -- be grateful that Asterios is not dead?"
"We thought he was dead, you know, when the litter fell on him ..." Manthys chuckled at the memory. "It had our mother in it too, so it was heavy. Completely flattened him, poor swine. He just lay there not moving..."
Kikerus made a prodigious effort to speak clearly.
"I hope you are trying to tell me that Asterios was not killed..."
"No. It's all right. He soon started rolling around on the ground without any difficulty at all."
"And what did you do, while our divine Consort was rolling on the ground?"
"Well, we had to carry our mother to the palace -- it was part of the abduction."
"So you abandoned him there?" almost gibbered Kikerus. "You left him alone in that clearing, writhing in obvious agony on the ground?"
"We couldn't carry both him and our mother, could we? Those stupid servants had rushed off. The carriage was broken. So we took our mother to the palace and carried her over the threshold, just as she had wanted, and then we sang the epithalamium for her. It was very moving..."
"And you haven't seen Asterios since?"
"No. He didn't come back to the palace. Of course we searched for him, naturally we searched ...."
"And then, having failed to find him, you came back here for some wine," said Kikerus with bitter humour.
"That's your fault," Manthys accused him. "We couldn't stay at that palace. The wedding feast was horrible; there was no wine and what sort of food was that for a royal wedding..."
But Kikerus was in no mood to listen to a single word of Manthys' whining complaints.
"Do you realise our king could now be dead after all?" he hissed. "Dead -- because of you?"
"What?" Even Manthys sounded a little worried at this. He twisted round and gazed at up Kikerus in heavy-eyed confusion. "How do you work that out, priest?"
"He is wearing the Bull Mask." exclaimed Kikerus in passion, careless of what he said, careless of what ritual secrets he divulged. "He is blind. Don't you understand - it is dangerous for him to wander off alone. He could be lost forever in the forest; he could fall -- perhaps off a cliff - he could be lying injured far from help - attacked by forest beasts..."
"Blind, you say?" Oh well, that explains why he married our mother." Manthys said with a chuckle.
"Don't you even care?" the priest shrieked.
Manthys gazed blearily at Kikerus. "I must say it's a bit silly having a blind king. How can you have a king that's blind...?"
"He isn't blind all the time, you idiot!" Kikerus was almost ready to scream. "It is a result of the blow to the head - caused by your stupid fat mother falling on him..."
"Manthys chuckled again. "So that blinded him? You Kaftors are feebler than I thought."
"No, no, no -- he will regain his sight once he has returned to the Great House and seen the priestess..."
"What on earth are you talking about priest? Seems to me you're talking a load of rubbish. One day your king's blind and the next he's not. Today was his blind day, was it? Blind kings." he added, with a combined hiccup and laugh. "What a place."
He started drinking noisily and sloppily from his flagon. Kikerus noticed another rivulet of wine cascade from the corner of his mouth and splash and spatter the already deeply stained cushions round him. Those once beautiful cushions would have to be thrown away.
"Hey." Manthys turned woozily to Kikerus. "If it's so important that you find him, why aren't you out looking for him now, eh? Instead of just standing there wasting your time nattering on. Do something useful for a change. Go and find him and stop bothering me, you chattering old nanny goat."
Rage -- manic, murderous rage such as Kikerus had never felt before -- thrilled through his body. He closed his eyes, expelled his breath with ferocious force and only just managed to restrain himself from kicking Manthys to the floor and jumping all over him.
Instead, he spoke with breathless calm. "You are a pig," he said.
Manthys almost fell out of his chair. The priest had never spoken like to him this before. "What?"
"You are worse than ten filthy, stinking pigs."
Manthys rose unsteadily to his feet, snorting with rage. "Now, you listen here," he growled indistinctly, swaying and waving his forefinger laboriously at Kikerus, "Now you apologise and -- and you take that back at once."
"I apologise unreservedly for my remark. I was wrong in calling you worse than ten pigs. You are worse than a herd of putrid mud-wallowing pigs."
"Eh?" Manthys collapsed back in his chair as Kikerus ranted and raved at him.
"Look at what you have done to this beautiful room!" he roared. "You have ruined it with your mess and squalor -- made it unfit even for swine. I do not wish to live in the Little Palace with you. I do not even want to eat anywhere near you, and you know the reason why? It is because you smell. You stink. You reek. You are abominable. You are foetid and vile. That is all you have contributed to our community; a defilement of the air we breathe, a poisoning of our divine ether. Otherwise you are useless -- hopeless -- worthless - ineffectual. You have less grace than foraging vermin, less beauty than a stinging gnat. Can you not see how vile you are? My nose twitches in disgust; my stomach churns in loathing at your stench. I would rather share a house with piles of dung than with you. Good afternoon."
Kikerus left the Guest Chambers, Manthys gazing at him, helpless in his chair, open-mouthed in astonishment. As the priest strode across the bridge leading to the Little Palace, he sang a lively spring chant. Asterios may still be missing, but for the moment, the priest felt content.
Kikerus' contentment was short-lived.
As soon as he arrived in the main town of Cnossos, Thasos ran up to him with the most appalling piece of news Kikerus could have imagined in his life. A few questions elicited from the boy the dreadful thing that happened.
"No, it's not your fault," Kikerus assured the boy, all the time gasping and wheezing with panic. "N --n --n - not -- not -- not your fault at all. Oh, Great Goddess! No -- do not worry, my child. Return to the Little Palace and -- and comfort your mother. Tell her Asterios will return soon -- by the grace of the great Goddess."
Once Thasos had gone, Kikerus stood, distracted, blinking tears of terror from his eyes. What was he to do now? What could anyone do now? After all his careful planning, after even hiding the wedding from the citizens of Cnossos, Britomartis' hunters - these roving followers of the old religion - had seen the whole thing from start to finish. If that was not bad enough, they had captured Asterios; captured him, moreover, while he was still wearing the sacred Bullhorns of the partner of the new moon.
It was beyond prayer and redemption. It might even mean the end of the Great House. It felt like the end of the world. The capture of the consort of Cnossos would be a huge victory for the hunting people -- an omen of the growing power of the wilds. They would never give Asterios back. They might even be so emboldened as to group all their savage hunters together to try to attack Cnossos and everyone in it.
Kikerus dashed back to the Great House, swallowing his fear. He called for help and support from every available servant. The surrounding woods and clearances must be scoured in search for the lost consort. It might even be too late. Britomartis' hunters could have taken him and hidden him anywhere by now, anywhere in the vast forests. Every man woman and child from Cnossos must assist in the search, even if every tree had to be felled in the process. Asterios must be found and, when found, brought back to the Great House, by force if necessary.
Luckily, Asterios and his abductors were still in the clearing when Kikerus and his band of servants arrived on their rescue mission. The hunters and their priestess were still eagerly questioning their captive about his strange wedding to the Xhora Moon Maiden from Phoenicia and arguing amongst themselves whether he was their horned god or simply a lost exile from the Cnossos palace of artifice.
"Asterios is here!" Kikerus cried to his servants, almost hysterical with relief. He pointed with trembling hand at the horned figure standing in the middle of the group of hunters. "Now! May he be seized this moment! Now!"
The servants dashed into the clearing and what followed was the nearest to a punch-up that Kikerus, or any other Kaftor priest, had ever been involved in. Fortunately the element of surprise made it easy for the servants to grab Asterios and whisk him out of the forest clearing before the hunters had a chance to resist. But they still had to be restrained, sometimes violently, to prevent them making pursuit. A brief but ugly fight followed, which resulted in the outnumbered, blooded hunters fleeing from the clearing in the opposite direction, uttering howls of pain and rage.
It was a hideous, shameful scene and Kikerus blamed the Achaeans; they had brought their vile customs of conflict and division into the normally peaceful world of the Keftiu. But far worse than the violence were the curses screamed out by the priestess, an outraged witness of the fighting.
"Thieves! Murderers! Haven't you enough gods and goddesses in Cnossos that you need to steal ours too?" she howled at Kikerus, while the servants fought her hunters. "You call yourself a priest, yet you invade Britomartis' sacred shrines, assault her priests and abduct her holy beings. Is there no theft you will not commit, no destruction you will not cheerfully inflict...?"
"But Asterios is our Consort," Kikerus protested. "He belongs to Cnossos...."
"This consort belongs to Britomartis and the forest. He has abandoned your House of Death and Artifice and returned to his domain of the wild. He is Zeus, god of the woods, consort of Britomartis and he has ravished the moon maiden, Europa, from far away Phoenicia. This ravishment is a sign that your Great Houses will crumble and the Goddess' eternal domain of nature and the living tree will reign supreme again..."
"Your threats are meaningless. We do not believe in your omens," Kikerus told her, as he turned away to follow the victorious servants. "And you should not attempt to enter Cnossos or our people will repel you."
"Flee then, if you will!" the priestess cried after him. "Flee from us while you may! You may cower in your wooden dens from the conflict you have brought today. But conflict and division will strike at the heart of your stagnant little lairs. And our omens will recur, until they signal our final vengeance and victory, the victory of great Britomartis!"
As Kikerus left the forest, he heard a chorus of furious chanting from the horned hunters, from their hiding place in the surrounding trees. Even though he claimed not to believe in their omens, it was a chant that haunted Kikerus' dreams for months afterwards:
"Europa Zeus! Europa Zeus!"
"To the forests, groves and glens!"
"To the caverns, springs and gorges!"
"Division come to the house of Cnossos!
"Britomartis will take the consort again!
"The Maiden will be ravished anew."
"She will be ravished soon!"
In the days that followed, it seemed to Kikerus that the curse had come true.
The hunters had threatened Cnossos with conflict -- and Asterios' new family brought dreadful conflict into the once quiet Nether Chambers. Every horrible day was dominated by squabbling and shouting between the brothers and their mother, which turned the cramped confines of the chambers into a sort of Achaean Hades. Kikerus was so harassed that he did not even notice the brothers' smell; it was not as bad as the noise they made.
Then he realised that the new royal family were fighting each other because they were bored. The Little Palace was not luxurious; unlike the Guest Chambers it was not a pleasant place in which to be idle. It would be necessary to find the family an occupation of some sort. This became clear one night when Arete complained about the limitations and boredom of life in their Little Palace.
"If I am the Moon Goddess Europa, then why am I never seen in public?" she complained. "Why will Asterios not take me out? Is he ashamed of me?"
"Madam," said Kikerus, ignoring Asterios' demand for a translation, "it is not the role of women in Cnossos to be 'taken out' by men. Women appear outdoors only during the periods of sunset and twilight..."
"That's terrible. Why are women only allowed out at night?"
"My dear lady," said the priest patiently, "there is no question of women being allowed to do anything. The ladies of the Great House choose to shun the daylight, because the sun would quickly burn their pale moon skins if it touched them. Of course, as a non-Kaftor," the priest added, pointedly, "you are at liberty to go where you wish, either by day or night..."
"Well, I can't go out on my own," Arete was still dissatisfied. "Men might approach me. After all, I am the Moon Maiden...."
"Actually madam, Pasiphae is our Moon Maiden. Your title is Moon Mother..."
"Well, I'm sure Pasiphae never goes out alone, so why should I?"
"As it happens, I can correct you on that matter," replied Kikerus, happy to defeat Arete in argument. "Pasiphae always takes a regular walk before her evening consultations. Why don't you do the same right now?"
"Are you sure about that?" asked Saron, with interest. "I've never seen Pasiphae on the streets, even in the evening. I often go for a walk at that time..."
"You will not see Pasiphae among the women in Cnossos," Kikerus told him. "She prefers to take a solitary walk, near the hill woods, from her private entrance to the Great House. I have frequently advised her not to venture out alone, but that appears to be her wish."
"Well, I'm still not going out on my own," interrupted Arete, annoyed that her grievances were being forgotten. "If Pasiphae holds consultations, then I should too. I want lots of men to be brought here to me."
"Er-you want men brought to the Little Palace? For what purpose, madam?" asked Kikerus, wearily.
"I want them to come and worship my beauty." Arete insisted, "as their Moon Maiden......Moon Mother, if you like."
"I beg your pardon, madam?" asked Kikerus, almost choking. "I'm afraid I do not know of any blind men in Cnossos."
This tactless remark led to howls from Arete and nagging protests from Asterios. Finally it was agreed that Arete should be given two rooms of her own, for the purpose of offering herself as Goddess to anyone who wished to visit the Little Palace and worship her. Asterios seemed almost relieved to find an excuse to stop sharing his rooms with his new wife and, from that day, began to spend his nights at the Great House. The increasingly lonely Arete had few worshippers, but over the coming months she learned to take comfort in the company of the Keftiu Raki, a volatile alcoholic spirit.
A few days after Arete had set herself up in her rooms as drunken moon Goddess, Saron surprised everyone by finding himself a useful occupation: helping with the deliveries to the custom house and the workshops near the processional way. His work took him all over the outer rooms of the Great House where his quietness and polite cooperation were often commented on favourably. Kikerus gave thanks to the Goddess for this sudden miracle. Two members of this family, in their own way, seemed to be settling down to life in Kaftor. There was no more squabbling in the nether chambers. This meant that the hunters' curse was meaningless after all.
Kikerus was now eager to give his attention to Thasos. The boy urgently needed educating. He was in danger of becoming as stupid as his brothers. Kikerus wanted to guide and instruct the boy in Keftiu ways, before he was lost to ignorance forever.
But first he had to deal with the troublesome Manthys. At first it seemed that Manthys, like his mother, had found a new occupation in drunkenness. The sweet ritual liquor of the Nether Chambers was stronger than the rough new wines of the Guest Chambers and Manthys started drinking himself into a peaceful trance every day. Kikerus was grateful to the divine qualities of the Goddess' own good wine and ensured that Manthys was allowed an unlimited supply.
Then, Manthys started disappearing from the Little Palace during the day and early evening. At first, Kikerus welcomed his absences, until one dreadful evening the blissful quiet of his own house was invaded by a series of visits from agitated townspeople, who were anxious to tell him what Manthys was up to during these drunken outings.
"Oh, Kikerus! The murderer of the Bull Court has started swatting sacred bees," some distressed apiarists told him. "He pursues them with sticks, making buzzing noises. We think he is pretending to be a large killer bee!"
"That is not all! The Xhora Manthys is also urinating in the Lustral Basins," another man complained.
"What? Are you sure?" gasped Kikerus. "Have you seen him?"
"Seen him?" the man howled, still trembling at the memory. "I was in one of the basins!"
"And he has done many other more terrible things, such as defecating in the moon shrines..."
"Last night near the KairatosRiver, during our lunar meditations, Rhadamanthys appeared on his hands and knees and started howling at the moon like a dog," another citizen told him sadly.
"Please don't tell me any more," Kikerus begged.
"Why is this man living in Cnossos?" another apiarist challenged him. "What can he contribute apart from misery, conflict and desolation?"
"Oh please, let us not talk of conflict..."
"What name would you give it, Kikerus, when this man attacks and demeans every aspect of our sacred lives?"
"He brings waste and division to our holy unity in the Goddess!"
"And if you do not do something about this Xhora," the man from the Lustral Basins warned him, "we will approach the Lawgetas and ask why this man is being offered hospitality when he can offer nothing but schism and misery..."
"Please -- please do nothing rash -- please do not approach the Lawgetas yet!" Kikerus pleaded. He did not want to disclose to the Lawgetas the melancholy truth of Asterios' marriage. "I will speak to Manthys myself and attempt to reason with him. If the man is bringing conflict to our community, I will bring that conflict to an end. I promise you that."
Kikerus decided that there was only one way of ending the conflict that Manthys was causing: Manthys himself had to go. He was the only member of the family who refused to accept Keftiu ways and his behaviour was a threat to the peace and unity of Cnossos. As long as he remained, the threat of the hunter's curse held true.
The position of guest was sacred and so the Lawgetas would expect him to speak to Manthys first and win his approval for his own departure. Kikerus knew he would have to persuade Manthys, very gently, that Kaftor was not a good place for him. Perhaps the man could find contentment on one of Kaftor's colony islands - one of the more distant trading centres. These places were ruled by men. Manthys would be happier and would find ample employment in one of their small armies.
So early next day, before Manthys could get too drunk, Kikerus sought him out and tried to discuss his future with him. He knew, of course, that he might be wasting his time. He had tried reasoning with Manthys before about the pleasures of washing and got nowhere.
"Are you saying you don't approve of my drinking?" Manthys snorted scornfully, when Kikerus raised the delicate issue of his recent behaviour.
"No, that that is not why I wish to speak to you," Kikerus explained soothingly. "I am not here to scold you, but to place a proposition to you, one that you may find of interest. My friend, you are clearly not happy here."
"No, I'm not happy when you're droning on at me like a damned irritating bee. Get to the point, priest and leave me alone, damn you."
"Have you ever considered a life away from Cnossos?" asked Kikerus, with an ingratiating smile.
"Are you trying to throw me out?"
"Not at all. But you do not like it on this island. You will be more contented in a society where Keftiu traditions do not apply. You feel happier under the rule of men, and may even attain a modicum of potency in such a society."
"What are you trying to say, priest?" Manthys growled, gazing suspiciously at him.
Kikerus realised he would have to speak very carefully now. It was essential to keep Manthys in a cooperative mood. He scoured his mind for positive things to say about him. To his surprise, he actually found one.
"You are a man of considerable energy, my friend," he informed Manthys, with sudden confidence, "and on this island your energy is being wasted. I am sure that your energy could win you influence, prestige and many women in a different society. You will beget children. They too will be energetic. I can see the entire world of men being transformed by you and your family's - ah - enormous energy."
Kikerus paused for breath. He was very pleased with himself. His adversary was even beginning to nod agreement with each word.
"Yes," Manthys replied. "I could teach you lot something about energy. And toughness, and self control, and self discipline..." His remarks terminated in a loud belch.
At that point, however, Kikerus became overconfident and went too far. "Indeed, I was only saying to Asterios yesterday how much we admire your... your...."
Unfortunately, the peace-loving Kikerus could think of no alternative word to 'energy' or 'potency.'
"...your great potency, and our The Great Consort agreed that he admired it enormously. He said that he had never seen or imagined anything so large, although, of course, he had never seen it in action, possibly as a result of your excessive drinking, but we are all sure that it is very impressive..."
To Kikerus' surprise, Manthys gave a roar of anger, sprang out of his chair and grabbed him round his collar.
"All right! There's no need to be funny!" His perspiring red face, held close to the priest's, was contorted with rage. "You're trying to have a laugh at me again, aren't you?"
"Laughing at you, my friend?" babbled the priest, astonished by the incongruity of the charge. "How - how very humorous," he muttered, tactlessly. "I assure you I have only the most enormous respect for your energy and that I could not possibly express this respect with anything as degrading as humour, I promise you that I could only...."
"Blah, blah, blah, blah ..." Manthys offensively imitated open-close mouth movements with his free hand, still looming belligerently over the priest. "Don't you ever shut this? Do you even know how? Great Zeus! I believe that's one thing I could show you!"
"You are very kind, my friend." Kikerus almost gibbered, gazing up fascinated by Manthys' drunken fury. His smile of appeasement had become an almost frantic leer. He desperately looked for soft words to placate Manthys and failed miserably: "You are extraordinarily considerate, my friend. I can barely find words to express my appreciation; such kindness, such benevolence..."
Manthys uttered another loud roar. "I ought to throw you out of the window, you cheeky old goat!"
But to Kikerus' profound relief, Manthys released him, abruptly turned away and half fell into a chair. He poured himself another drink, snorting and muttering to himself: "You are extraordinarily considerate, my friend ... You're very kind my friend," in an imitation of the priest's singsong voice. He then began drinking again while Kikerus crept towards the door, profoundly glad to escape and hoping Manthys might simplify matters by drinking himself to death.
Failing that, Manthys' appalling behaviour had given Kikerus the excuse he needed. He went straight to the Lawgetas to tell them that Manthys had mishandled and threatened one of the Goddess' chosen priestesses and should leave the island at once. There was no need to consult the drunken Xhora about this sudden exile. Manthys would be sent to a destination chosen for him, whether he liked it or not, even if the servants had to carry him to the boat and the sailors had to tie him to the mast once he got there.
The Lawgetas, of course, did not agree with this, or even reach a decision about what they did agree on. They never did. "Let us consider what you have told us, and we will pray to the Goddess for wisdom," the melancholy spokesman intoned. "Then we will decide if the Xhora Manthys, whom you once called a gift from the Goddess, is no longer such a gift to our island."
Kikerus ignored the rebuke implied in the Lawgetas' promise. He was determined not to be defeated. As long as the foreigner Manthys remained on the island, there was a risk that the hunters' curse still held true. Kikerus was resolved to make Manthys leave. He would look out for further evidence of the man's horrible behaviour and keep presenting it to the Lawgetas until they were sick of hearing about it and agreed to exile Manthys, if only for a quiet life. For the first time in his life, Kikerus was fixed and determined on a course of action. That dreadful Xhora Manthys had to go.
The Moon Maiden
Deep below the various layers of the Palace, under the Chambers of the Moon, Pasiphae sat alone in the darkness of her personal LustralBasin and wept for her mother.
She knew she was being foolish; the Moon Maiden should not weep for the dead. She was the intermediary with the after-world. She, of all people, should know that life and death were two labrys faces of the Goddess; that the earth, which now contained her mother's body, was both her tomb and a womb, the domain of growth and rebirth. Death, she often told her grieving petitioners, was merely a brief respite in the Goddess's endless cycle of renewal.
If she believed that, why was she weeping? What would her petitioners think if they could see her mourning her own dead?
Pasiphae tried to quell her tears. She told herself that it was perfectly proper for her mother to die in childbirth, as this expressed the unity of the womb and the tomb. She even made an effort to thank the Goddess for such a poetic end to her mother's life. But her stumbling words of thanks only contained a darker, bruising edge of anger and bitterness. Her gratitude was not only insincere, but also cruelly disloyal. Thanking the Goddess because her mother was dead? It was a lie -- a brutal mockery of everything she had loved. Pasiphae felt the loss of her mother, not as a passing phase in the Goddess' turning wheel - not as a seasonal winter that would lead to the joyous renewal of spring - but as a black abyss of despair, a desperate blind craving, a searing pain that would not go away.
Why, she asked herself bitterly, did the baby - her little brother - have to die too? How did the Goddess' seasonal rhythm express that? The poor child had barely been born. It was death without life; it was incomplete; it was an error.
Pasiphae knew she could not commune with the Goddess or meet with her petitioners today, and she had them all sent away. "The Moon Goddess is sick," the priestesses had to tell the bewildered and troubled women who had been waiting until sunset to benefit from her healing powers. "By the grace of the Great Goddess she will be cured tomorrow."
Once her petitioners had been all dismissed, Pasiphae had retreated to her LustralBasin, where she had started weeping. Without her mother's help, her duties were becoming a burden and she was failing at them. So far she had only failed to communicate with the Goddess when she was alone. Her greatest fear was that her powers would desert in the Throne Room in front of her petitioners. What would happen then? The people saw her as the intermediary between themselves and the great earth Goddess, the pathway to the divine, the healer; the source of renewal and rebirth. To them she was infallible and all powerful. Yet she knew she was weak and alone -- utterly and hopelessly alone.
When her mother was alive, the Great Goddess had seemed as real as her own family. She, her mother and her grandmother, had appeared together at consultations as the Triple Goddess: Maiden, Mother and Crone. They had shared the afflictions and burdens of their petitioners; their united pronouncements and acts of healing had been inspired by love, poetry and even laughter.
On the day of Perseis's death, amidst the welter of general mourning and Pasiphae's unbearable private grief, her grandmother Eileithyia had told Pasiphae that the Triple Goddess was dead. The old woman had abruptly left Cnossos and hidden herself away in local caves; eventually settling in a small grotto near the Cnossosport of Amnisos, half a morning's walk away.
To Pasiphae this had been a cruel desertion. She was only twelve years old and had lost her mother and grandmother in a single day. Once the period of mourning was over, she had found the role of Moon Goddess thrust suddenly on her shoulders alone. Pasiphae could never have imagined such confusion and wretchedness. She was only a child. She should have been enjoying her childhood, romping around the underworld of the Great House with her friends and her new brother. Instead, she was isolated in her underground LustralBasin, which seemed to symbolise, not her closeness with the Great Earth Mother, but an abyss of loneliness.
Although Eileithyia sometimes returned to Cnossos to officiate at rituals of death and rebirth, she refused to spend a single night inside the precincts of Cnossos. She always claimed that the community of Cnossos was incomplete since Perseis's death and that she was now seeking a new unity, a new wholeness outside the Great House among the original worshippers of the Great Goddess who inhabit caves and woods.
"My child," she would often say, "We should seek greater union with Britomartis' hunters."
"But they're murderers and savages, grandmother."
"Nonsense. They are followers of the Old Religion. I admit that their ways are not the gentle ways of Cnossos, but we are all unified within the embrace of the Great Goddess and we should not divide ourselves from our kin. If we do, the invading Xhora, the enemy of the Goddess, will easily destroy us."
Pasiphae was puzzled by Eileithyia's sudden desire to be close to Britomartis' forest people. From her earliest childhood she had been taught to distrust and fear them; their recent attempt to steal Asterios away from Cnossos only confirmed these old suspicions.
Britomartis' people were creatures of the outdoors - wild, nomadic and unconstrained. To them the divine consisted, not in LustralBasins and scented dimly lit shrines, but in natural sites such as caves, a spring, a grove of trees, or a river. They created no art, they sang no songs and they forged no pots or jewellery. There was no dignity, poetry or divine laughter in their coarse acts of piety. To them, all divinity was centred in the hunt -- a hectic chase after a horned animal, or hapless human figure, which they usually tore to pieces. These savage seasonal hunts were the nearest they came to sacred ritual and they were passionate about their observance, resisting fiercely any attempt by the settled communities to curtail them.
Apart from the hunt, the only other ceremonies the forest people understood were mirthless orgies of drunkenness, violence and lust. They drank deep from the testes of the vine until they could neither speak nor stand. They feasted on the warm blood and raw flesh of their prey and vented their sexual appetites randomly on man and beast alike, until all energy was spent. When not murderously drunk, or pursuing some poor creature to death, they treated the random world of nature as a private arena of prophecy, seeing signs and omens of the future in quite meaningless chance events, such as the grouping of a flock of birds, a crack of thunder, the shape of a cloud, or the unexpected appearance of particular animal, such as a civet, or wild dog.
Yet Britomartis' people believed that the symbols and locations of their own religion were permanent and indestructible. "Palaces may fall and perish," they were fond of saying, "but the river, the forest and the gorge will endure for ever." They also believed that the Great Houses were about to be destroyed and were watchful to the point of obsession for omens of the cataclysm to come. They worshipped those signs with the fervour of the doomed.
Eileithyia also believed that a catastrophe would one day destroy the Great House and community of Cnossos, and that it would take the form of a foreign invasion. All over the civilised world, she often told Pasiphae, the warrior Father Sky gods had invaded and destroyed the domain of the Goddess wherever there was disunity.
If Eileithyia was right, it was already too late; the foreign invasion had reached Kaftor's shores. An Achaean family had recently arrived on the island.
Pasiphae's brief introduction to this family, in the Bull Court after her Bull Leap, did nothing to ease her anxieties. The two men, especially, confirmed everything nasty she had ever heard about foreigners: they had huge ungainly bodies and hairy brutish faces. One of them had small, pig-like eyes that seemed to blink inertly at the world around him with a blank, almost bestial incuriousness; the other one never stopped staring at her. Even in the spacious arena of the Bull Court she noticed how they both stank.
Nevertheless, despite her distaste and her grandmother's fears, the wise Kikerus regarded these visitors as beneficial. They had been discovered lost at sea by one of the Kaftor trading vessels and had been brought to Cnossos via the tiny port of Poros and the KairatosRiver.
"They were starving when we found them, my lady," Kikerus explained. "They came to us in dire need, and in the bounty of the Goddess we must receive them. From their death we have resurrected them; renewed them with the immortal essence of the Goddess."
"Are they grateful?" asked Pasiphae suspiciously.
Kikerus avoided answering this question. "We have offered them the same bounty that we crave from the Goddess ourselves," he replied vaguely. "We give what we hope to receive. That is the Keftiu way."
She had never seen the foreigners since the day of her investiture, but she was still oddly aware of their smell. It was more than a memory. The smell seemed to hover around Cnossos like an evil presence. Even the open fields and woods where she walked at night seemed tainted by it, as if the presence of these Xhora foreigners had entered her life. Perhaps their presence was a sign of her failure. Maybe the Goddess was losing her ascendancy and Kaftor was about to be invaded and ruled by the sun and the sword.
Pasiphae dried her eyes. If that was true, she had to be strong. Her selfish weeping was the only weakness she had to fight against. The sun had long set and it was time to take her usual walk. She did not really know what comfort she obtained from these walks, alone, outside the Great House. Perhaps it was a need for freedom and privacy, an escape from the demands of her role. Also, when she was walking, she felt able to think more clearly than she could inside the confinement of her sanctum or lustral basin.
But this evening, as she walked in the deepening dark towards the wooded hills, her random thoughts became so clear that they disturbed her. What did her role of Moon Maiden really mean? What, for example, could it possibly mean to the foreign visitors, men who had not been raised in Keftiu tradition, who did not know about the life of the Great House and wanted to destroy it?
She had learned her role through the many hymns and chants that had been sung to her, and which she had learned to sing herself before she could understand them, or even speak properly. The melodious mantras, the exquisite poetry, the ancient rubrics, which had been handed down over thousands of years from Crone to Mother to Moon Maiden, were as familiar to her as the colourful frescoes and well-wrought artefacts in the Great House.
But Pasiphae realised that it would be very difficult to explain any of this to someone uninitiated, or living outside the Goddess. It was so complex that it could only be expressed through the labrys language; that ancient magic speech in which the everyday world of facts and actions could be transcended. She tried repeating the mantras to herself, in the normal, fragmented speech of the outdoors, but then they seemed to make no sense.
"I am daughter and partner to the great bull, the source of all earth's power and fecundity," she muttered self-consciously, as she walked along. "I grew from the bull, danced with the bull and will partner with the bull..."
It was no use. The words sounded trite - almost foolish. Ideas that merged together effortlessly and gracefully in the poetic ambiguity of the Keftiu labrys, that world of moonlight and dreams, seemed fragmented and meaningless in the blank language of the brash everyday.
"I am Moon-Goddess because ...... I am Moon-Goddess because...." For a terrifying instant she felt she did not know. Then she continued, in stilted sentences: "The moon expresses the divine feminine in all creation. Her monthly cycles are paralleled in the monthly blood letting of recurring life. The moon also shares and transcends our common mortality. She dies and is reborn. The horns of the young moon, the maiden moon, represent the horns of plenty of the returning spring to the new earth, the horns of the divine all giving bull. As moon maiden I am partner of the divine bull..."
She gave up. Even if she were able to speak these men's rough language, she would never be able to make them understand. She would never make Britomartis' people understand either. In the face of such blithe incomprehension towards what she considered divine and beautiful, Pasiphae felt lost.
As she walked through the wood she tried to sing the chant that had been sung at the time of her initiation. How lovely it had sounded, in that tranquil court, with the voices of the people blending and merging in the repeated refrains. She stared up at the moon, now visible, but obscured among a tangle of branches, and started softly singing:
"Let us sing the eternity of your silence,
And let your light of the darkness shine within me..."
She choked back sudden tears.
"....... Your gentle light
That destroys not the darkness and the dreaming
And gilds with its divine mystery all it touches,
As moonlight blesses but does not reveal,
Enlightens but does not burn,
The gentle light from which I need never turn my eyes,
The cold and gentle glow, as weak as me...
Her nose caught a sharp stench and in that brief terrified instant she heard the sound of panting and footsteps running towards her.
His hands were on her like a blow from behind. He flung her to the ground, and then pushed her face into the stinging undergrowth, forcing her mouth hard into the ground. She choked and almost suffocated as her lips and tongue tasted dust and dry soil. Then he twisted her head round and roughly manhandled her limbs so that she was facing upwards and her legs were forced apart.
She screamed and he pressed his damp, clammy hand hard onto her mouth. She twisted her head and bit the hand, which was snatched quickly away with a howl. One of her arms was free; she bunched her fingers into a fist and flung it upwards, as hard as she could, towards an approaching face. She heard another muffled howl.
Before she could struggle free, a heavy blow struck her hard across the face, and another one. Blows and slaps rained down hard on her head and shoulders, until it seemed he would never stop and she would die. Then he grabbed her hair and yanked her head back hard; she screamed as searing pain shot through her scalp. Then his other fist, like a blow, was thrust between her legs; rough fumbling fingers found her vagina and jabbed into it, sending a sharp agony juddering into her. Then he hurled his full weight upon her, and the rough fumbling hand reached up and jabbed and pressed into her vagina again. The torment was unbearable; it was like gouging an open wound. She gasped and wept, her whole body recoiling from the pain, but his weight had pinned her down and could not move.
She had very little strength or breath left now and with the oppression of the raw pain, the choking smell of the man's unwashed body, his hotly puffing breath, and the weight of his writhing body crushing hers, she suddenly felt beyond the fight for life.
As consciousness faded from her, the ground around her pounded to a rhythmic, throbbing beat; she thought she heard excited ghostly voices emerge and surround her from the tumultuous, pulsating forest:
The Goddess is ravished.
The Goddess is ravished.
She will be ravished again.
She has left her palace of artifice.
She has returned to the wilds.
Amidst these thrusting palpitations, she heard a frenzied scream. Was that really her scream? She hardly recognised it. She did not recognise her own pain either; the grinding agony receded as she started to leave her own body behind. For her, the fight was over. In her dying reverie, she could still hear the chanting of voices that now seemed to be uttering a final prayer:
We are sorry, O Goddess....
Please forgive us, O Goddess....
We have done wrong....
Please forgive us, O Goddess, for we have done wrong....
As her strength dwindled away, the rhythmic pounding and the voices faded, and Pasiphae lay lifeless on the forest floor.
It was turning out to be a bad evening for Kikerus.
The Lawgetas and committee were still not convinced that Manthys was too evil to remain a welcome guest of the Kaftors, despite all the evidence that Kikerus had tirelessly brought to them, including further accounts of Manthys urinating in lustral basins and killing sacred bees.
"We must continue to give this matter deep thought," the Lawgetas insisted with a sigh. "We have no experience in dealing with issues like this. We cannot terminate a guest's welcome on the island, especially a guest once deemed to be sacred, without deep thought and the clearest guidance from the Goddess."
Then another committee member made matters more uncomfortable for Kikerus. "What about Asterios? he enquired austerely. "Have you spoken to him of this?"
"Ah, no - I have not yet mentioned this to his lordship -- no," admitted Kikerus.
There were a few tuts of disapproval from the committee. The Lawgetas looked sternly at Kikerus.
"Really, Kikerus. I know that Asterios spends much of his time at the Nether Chambers, but it is most improper to be meeting like this without his knowledge. Do you not see him daily? Does he express any disquiet at his beloved guest's behaviour?"
"He has not yet expressed any dissatisfaction to me -- I must confess."
"Then you must gauge his opinion -- seek his advice. Please do not return to us without conclusive evidence that the foreigner does not belong on this island and that this has resolution been approved and consolidated by the good will of our divine consort. Without that, we may not -- nay, must not act."
Kikerus had no choice but to accept defeat. His ruse of overwhelming the Lawgetas with evidence had not worked. they seemed impervious to evidence. Worse than that, the meeting had been a long one and the deepening dusk told Kikerus that he was late for the evening meal at the Nether Chambers. Asterios would scold him for being late. He hated being left alone too long with his honoured guests.
Kikerus sighed as he made his slow, reluctant way to the Little Palace. Asterios was his lord and dearest friend but he had become very fretful since his marriage to Arete, partly because he knew that Kikerus had never approved of the marriage, and partly because Arete's company drove him mad. Asterios' manners had changed, in a matter of months, from those of a pleasant, modest youth, to a pernickety fussy man, always criticising, always complaining, never smiling. He was not good company any more.
When Kikerus arrived at the Little Palace, Manthys was sitting at the brothers' table in the meal chamber, staring with distaste at a large bowl of thin bean broth. Kikerus gritted his teeth at the sight. That dreadful man was still here; he would always be here.
"Kikerus! Where have you been?" It was Asterios' thin, querulous voice. "Why are you late for the meal? Why do you spend so little time in my Nether Chambers with me? Why do you neglect your duties?"
"I'm sorry, my lord." Kikerus turned and gave Asterios a disconsolate smile. "I was with the Lawgetas. I regret the delay."
"Why were you talking to them? What can you say to them that you cannot say to me?"
"I would rather speak to you at leisure and in private my lord ..." he said, looking with distaste at Manthys, who was noisily spooning the thin broth into his mouth, much of it trickling in discarded droplets down his chin. Surely Asterios could see that the man wasn't fit for decent society!
But Asterios only seemed interested in scolding Kikerus. "No, you will speak to me now, while you are actually here," he admonished him. "I know you, Kikerus. You will disappear for days on one of your many foolish jaunts and I will never see you. Evening after evening I have to sit in his house alone and listen to my family talking in a language I don't understand and you are never here to translate for me. You are failing in your duties Kikerus."
"What?" Kikerus thought this very unfair. His every waking moment was taken up with Asterios' disorderly domestic life. "How can you say that?" he almost gasped. "It might be true that I have little time for my proper priestly duties, but that is because I am too busy helping you ..."
"You are hardly helping me, Kikerus, by staying away all day, arriving late for your meal and then quarrelling with me when you do finally appear."
Kikerus muttered a brief prayer to the Goddess, then answered Asterios as patiently as he could: "Very well, my lord. You are right of course, as always. I will try to help you all I can..."
His attention was distracted by Manthys, who grabbed a platter of dry grilled vegetables and crammed as much into his mouth as he could, snorting with disgust. "Vile, as usual," he muttered with his mouth full, spitting fragments of food all over the table and onto other people's plates. "Call this food? Wouldn't give it to a dog."
"What is he saying?" Asterios demanded.
"He says the food is delicious," Kikerus replied distractedly, gazing at Manthys in disgust. He wished the Lawgetas could see the man eating like that.
"That is good," replied Asterios, with approval. "Tell our guest I will send for a second helping."
But Kikerus was saved from having to translate by the late arrival of Saron. At the sight of Saron entering the chamber, Kikerus forgot all about Manthys and Asterios. In fact the whole room turned silent and every eye was fixed inquisitively on the latecomer.
Saron was limping. His sullen face was more than usually morose and he seemed reluctant to meet anyone's eye. At the same time, there was something else in his appearance and manner, something invisible yet tangible, that attracted instant attention.
Saron did not speak but shambled to the brothers' table, slumped into a seat as if exhausted and -- ignoring the food - poured some wine. He finished his cup of wine quickly and poured himself another.
"My brother has lost his teeth," Manthys announced to the company at the main table. Kikerus dutifully muttered a translation as Asterios demanded it, causing puzzled looks to be directed at Saron's mouth.
"Would you please confirm that last remark?" asked Kikerus. "According to our observation, your brother appears still to be in possession of his teeth."
"Don't worry," said Manthys with a chuckle, "It's an Achaean expression. When someone decides that he will take a liquid meal, if he decides to drink wine instead of eating, then we say that he has lost his teeth and can't chew solid food."
For once, Kikerus was pleased by a remark made by Manthys. To the Kaftors, loss of teeth was also associated with lack of virility. Some giggling from the attendant servants greeted Kikerus' somewhat mischievous translation.
"If I see your teeth again Manthys," Saron replied, speaking for the first time, "I will remove them for you."
There was more muttering at the Consort's main table. Kikerus spoke again to Manthys, "Can we infer from that expression that your brother is offering you a drink...?"
"Hardly," said Manthys with a laugh. He gave Saron a wary look. "My brother is feeling quarrelsome tonight. He has already been in one fight and seems to have lost some teeth. Perhaps he wants to lose some more."
As Saron glared at Manthys over his wine glass, Kikerus noticed for the first time that the man's mouth was swollen, and that there were traces of scratches around his face. Had he really been in a fight? Kikerus was about to ask him, when, with a start, he realised what it was that was so strange and different about Saron; he understood the real cause of the alien aura that hung around him.
"My friend, I am glad to see that you have washed," he said cordially. "It is a further sign of your continuing acceptance of our ways."
Saron looked up with a guilty start. "I haven't washed," he muttered hastily. "I -- I haven't."
Manthys gave a hoot of laughter. "So that's it. I thought there was something strange about you. Have you been chasing women again? Did some of their men folk catch you at it? When you walked in here I could tell..."
Manthys suddenly stopped talking. Kikerus saw the mocking grin vanish from his face and a flicker of alarm pass across it. Saron's gaze faltered and shifted under his brother's gaze, then he lowered his head and shook it, as if trying to forget an unpleasant memory.
"Leave it, leave it," Saron murmured indistinctly.
"All right -- we'd better not say any more," Manthys said, also in an undertone. His eyes had become swift and wary. Without looking up, he poured himself another goblet of wine and drank it quickly.
"Please continue speaking, my friend," Kikerus called across to Manthys. "You had not finished your entertaining remarks and Asterios wishes to share them. You claim that your brother has been chasing Kaftor women."
"No he hasn't," Manthys asserted hastily. "He's as harmless as our little brother Thasos. Saron wouldn't know what to do if he did go near a woman. He probably wouldn't even know a woman if he saw one..."
"All right," muttered Saron. "Don't overdo it..."
"I'm sure he never gives a thought to women," Manthys continued ruthlessly, as if enjoying his brother's discomfort. "He'll never find a woman who'll sleep with him because he has no charm and he is very ugly."
"Whereas you're so irresistible to women, they sleep with you every day," sneered Saron.
"That's right, my brother." Manthys could not help boasting. "I have women all the time. I just go out on the streets and pick them. Any woman I like. I want I have several women a night, and they always come back, panting for more..."
Kikerus leapt to his feet. He finally had the evidence he needed. "So you have been imposing your depraved and disgusting intimacy on the women of Cnossos," he exclaimed, trying to keep the gratification from his voice.
"That's right," jeered Saron. "He's always boasting about it. And I've seen him. Night after night. Conquest after conquest."
"You are condemned out of your own mouth," Kikerus cried, while Manthys' mouth dropped open with dismay. "I will find out every suffering woman who has endured your poisonous intrusion into her sacred life and will repeat every word of their misery to the Lawgetas and committee. You will remain a prisoner here in the Little Palace until I have gathered all the testimony from every one of your wretched victims. I will ask the servants to detain you...."
Kikerus turned eagerly to Asterios. "My lord, the Xhora Manthys has just boasted about ravishing Kaftor women. The Xhora must be expelled from the community for this abomination..."
He was interrupted by the sound of Arete howling in distress. "Oh, no. No. My son. My poor son. You leave my son alone. You don't touch my son..." Sobbing, Arete and rushed towards Manthys as if to protect him. "Asterios -- you tell him to leave my son alone..."
"Hey, priest," Manthys roared in a voice that mingled rage and panic. He pushed his weeping mother roughly away. "I haven't done anything. If any of your women have been attacked, it's nothing to do with me. It's not me that attacks women, it's him!"
Manthys gestured at Saron with the conviction and energy of a man with nothing to lose. "Do you know the sort of things he got up to in Patras? Don't you know why we got thrown out of there...?"
"Shut up!" Saron hissed. Kikerus saw the fear in his eyes. "Shut up!"
"You remember the last time Saron washed, mother?" Manthys shouted. "Thasos remembers, don't you Thasos? Tell them what happened, last time he washed. It's nothing to do with me..."
In panic, Saron hurled himself at Manthys and pushed him against the meal table, sending plates and cups crashing and clattering to the ground and knocking Thasos sprawling off his seat. It was such a violent struggle that the servants hesitated to intervene. While Thasos tottered away to safety and Arete continued screaming, the brothers fought until Manthys, who was the stronger, held on to Saron and twisted him round by the throat, pushing him face downwards on the table until his scarlet face was pressed flat on the surface. Saron gave a savage backward kick, the table toppled over with a deafening crash and the two brothers sprawled over the ruins of the evening meal, still fighting.
"Hey, priest," roared Manthys, again holding down a terrified, struggling Saron, "Ask him. Ask him what he's been up to tonight. If any of your women have been attacked, it's not me..."
Arete was now staring at her sons in dismay. Kikerus saw an answering look of fear on Thasos' face. The nightmare voices inside Kikerus' head began chanting again. "The maiden is ravished. The Goddess is ravished...!"
"Pasiphae." he hissed, without knowing why.
"No!" Saron howled, still struggling under Manthys' restraining hand. "If anything's happened to Pasiphae, it's nothing to do with me. It wasn't me."
As Manthys released Saron, a cry from Arete echoed through the stunned silence that had descended on the chamber. Like a living fresco the room froze into a series of still figures, transfixed by horror.
The Lustral Basins
We are sorry, O Goddess....
Please forgive us, O Goddess....
We have done wrong....
Please forgive us, O Goddess, for we have done wrong....
The foreigner was attacking her again. He would never stop until she died. Pasiphae screamed through her dry throat as a pair of arms grabbed hold of her and held her, quelling her struggles in a tight, all-embracing grip. The wind stung her face and she heard voices, interspersed with a woman's sobbing, echoing around her. Her body was stiff with pain and she couldn't take any more. "Please. Not again. You're hurting me. Please kill me first. Oh, please kill me..."
"My child... Please be calm...."
A woman's voice spoke softly in her ear. She opened her eyes and could just make out her grandmother's face hovering over her in the flickering light, her white hair waving in the breeze.
"You are safe now," the old woman whispered, and even in the dim light Pasiphae saw tears glinting in her grandmother's eyes; tears which the old lady quickly wiped away with the back of her hand. "You are alive," she muttered. "Oh, thank the Goddess you are alive."
"You're hurting me," Pasiphae managed to say.
"Oh, I am sorry, my child." Eileithyia gently released her hold on Pasiphae and laid her back on the ground. She then started muttering to herself, in a voice that sounded broken and defeated. "What are we to do? Oh, what are we to do?"
Pasiphae shivered with cold as a harsh breeze whipped again at her hair and face. There was a low moan and murmur of despair in the swaying trees far above; their branches waved uneasily in the deep murk around her as if the whole forest was in mourning.
Then one of the trees moved closer, bent lower and spoke to her. "Please forgive us, O Goddess." Pasiphae noticed that the some of the branches were horns, crowning men's faces that gazed down at her in the gloom. "We have done wrong."
"Who are these men?" she asked.
"They are the wild people of Britomartis," replied Eileithyia. "They found you here and came to my cave and told me...."
"We are sorry, O Goddess," one of the men said again. "Please forgive us."
"We failed to detain your ravisher," another man explained. "We pursued the man all through the forest. He fell over many times and we nearly caught him. But he escaped. We do not know who he was..."
"He was a foreigner," said Pasiphae, with a great effort. "A foreigner living at the Nether Chambers."
"What?" Eileithyia stared down at Pasiphae, her wrinkled old face contorted with disbelief. "You mean -- you know the man who attacked you?"
There was a wail of anguish from the horned men. "We told you, O lady. He was the god from Cnossos. It was a divine event."
"How can you call this a divine event?" Eileithyia howled at them. "What god would do this?"
"Oh lady, we have waited long among the hills and woods of Cnossos for another sign since the abduction of the Cnossos Moon Goddess under the plane trees..."
"You are foolish!"
"It was in the omens that the Goddess would be ravished again," another man said, "And so it has happened. The Goddess is ravished. The Goddess is ravished!"
"Enough!" There was cold rage in the old woman's shrill voice. "Do you not understand that this is an act of evil? Can you not see what that monster has done to her? He has ruined her -- and ruined us all." She dropped to her knees beside Pasiphae and began mumbling rapidly to herself again. "Oh, what are we to do? I must try and get her back to Cnossos. The poor little girl. I don't know what healing we can do now..."
"What has the man done to me?" Pasiphae asked, frightened by the despair in her grandmother's voice. She knew that he had tried to kill her. Had he hurt her very badly? She only knew that she ached all over and could not move without something hurting. Her mouth felt dry and her head was thudding with pain. Her skin felt unclean, and her body misshapen. There was an ache in her groin and she had no strength left. She also knew she had failed -- failed the test that the Great Goddess had set her. "Have I lost the blessing of moon light?" she whispered anxiously. "Has all divinity left me? Am I ugly now?"
"No, my child." Eileithyia bent down to her; cradling her in her arms as if she would do anything to heal her hurt. "You are never ugly, my child, never -- whatever happens to you, you are always beautiful. Please always remember that." She wiped her eyes again, turned to the horned men. She spoke in a whisper, so that Pasiphae would not hear.
"I must also beg you not to speak to anyone of the terrible thing that has happened. Pasiphae is too young yet to understand her ravishment, and we do not want others knowing..."
"Ravishment?" the horned man exclaimed. "But I thought you knew. That is why we begged you to forgive us."
"What do you mean?" exclaimed Eileithyia.
"Venerable lady," his companion explained. "We destroyed the divine event by venturing too close with our chants and dances. The abductor saw us and screamed like a woman. Then he ran off with howls of terror before he even started."
"You mean -- you mean.... it did not happen?" There was a short pause filled with what sounded like slow murmurs of assent. "How can you be sure?" asked Eileithyia again, in a fierce whisper.
Pasiphae thought she heard one of the men reply: "My lady, we saw it all. It was very brief. The man did not disrobe or properly perform."
Then Pasiphae heard the astonishing sound of Eileithyia's cackling laughter.
"You are not angry, O lady?"
"Angry? No. You have saved Pasiphae and Cnossos," Eileithyia exclaimed. "May eternal summer and the bounty of spring bless your endeavours. May they bring potency and boundless fertility to your people, with the promise of the Goddess' divine wealth. And you can pass on my regards to Britomartis too. To her, Cnossos now holds out the arms of reunion."
"Thank you my lady. She'll be very pleased."
"Now you may go and hunt the Xhora in the knowledge that this man, this ravisher of the Goddess, wants to destroy her domain on this island. If he succeeds, all will be destroyed. Our Great Houses will be wrecked, our towns razed, our priestesses slain, and all our trees chopped down..."
There was a howl of fury from the horned hunters. By mentioning sacred trees, Eileithyia had roused the righteous anger of Britomartis' forest people.
"This foreigner chops down trees?" they howled, in outrage and disbelief. "And we thought he was our god!"
"He is abominable!"
"He should be killed."
"We will kill him now!
"You should not kill the Xhora, but try to find him," Eileithyia warned them. "It is possible that he has fled Cnossos after what he has done and may even try to leave the island. He might even be hiding in these woods now. He must not be allowed to escape."
"We should treat him as he treats the trees. Hack his feet and hands off."
"No, no. The Goddess forbids it..."
There was a moan of chagrin and disappointment.
"At least let us chop off one of his legs," one of them pleaded.
"No," said Eileithyia wistfully but firmly. "It is not appropriate that the invading Xhora even be hurt. He is still an unworthy guest of the Goddess. But you must hunt him as he hunted our Moon Goddess, and then pursue him, with great threats and menaces, all the way to Cnossos, where I promise you a true retribution will meet him. Go now, seek the intruder and may the Goddess speed your hunt!"
With a deafening cheer, the crowd of horned men charged into the woods, shrieking and hooting like wild dogs with the excitement of the chase. Soon the frenzied sounds of the hunt subsided, and the sparse, dark forest was empty and still.
Eileithyia fussed excitedly around Pasiphae, as if she were a newborn child.
"We must get you back to the Great House, my dear," she said. "It is dark now and many women will see the marks on your face, but they will not see the bruises on your body. These will hurt for a while. But you will be healed, my child. You will return to the radiance of the moon. You will be Moon Maiden again." She took a deep breath, then seemed to utter a chant to herself. "There is nothing wrong. Thank the Goddess, nothing has happened."
"What did you think had happened?"
"I will explain to you. I will explain everything when we return to your chambers."
With her grandmother's help, Pasiphae struggled unsteadily to her feet. She could not share her grandmother's elation. She felt dizzy; her body ached all over with the memory of her attack, her groin hurt badly and she could hardly stand upright, let alone walk, without her grandmother's help. Worse still was her sense of having disappointed the Great Goddess.
"I have failed, grandmother," Pasiphae managed to say, as they hobbled through the wood together. "What happened tonight was my fault. It was a test - a true labrys and I failed."
"What are you talking about? This was not a test." Eileithyia almost barked out the words, her harsh tone belying the comfort of her words. "How can you be so foolish? You have failed in nothing. You should know that the Goddess has no need to test anyone - she already knows; she has only to select. She selected you many moons ago, my child."
"But the Goddess has been so distant recently," Pasiphae protested. "I am often unable to achieve communion with Her. I have had many failures and doubts. One day I am afraid I shall fail in front of my petitioners in the Moon Chambers. If I fail, the community fails. Invaders will oust our Goddess, just as they tried to destroy me tonight."
There was a brief silence as they emerged from the darkness of the wood, then Eileithyia spoke again - more kindly.
"My child, you have been very unhappy," she said. "Why did you face your unhappiness alone? Why did you not share it with your family and friends?"
"Because I am Moon Goddess and it is my destiny to fulfil my task alone."
"What nonsense." The old woman sounded exasperated by this answer. "Who told you that you had to face your role alone?"
Pasiphae had to think for a few moments, to collect her words. "You did, I think, my grandmother. Before you left me."
"I said the unity of the Triple Goddess was finished; I did not say you were completely alone in the world, you foolish child," Eileithyia almost snapped. She stopped walking, and pointed ahead to the distant lights of the Great House. "If you look ahead now, you will see how foolish you have been. The Great House is your home -- it is a very large home; and it contains your family in the Great Goddess. You must never face your unhappiness alone, my child. The Great Goddess seemed distant because you distanced yourself from your family. One day you will be partnered with the fertility of the earth, the triple Goddess will be reborn and I will return to Cnossos in the unity of the restored Goddess and we will be together...you, your daughter and I."
"And you will return to Cnossos, grandmother?"
"I will then return to Cnossos."
Eileithyia burst into a peal of singing, to a regular limping beat, as she and Pasiphae hobbled towards the Great House together. Eileithyia sang in the full poetic glory of the poetry of the labrys, of all the beauties that had transfigured Pasiphae's inner life since childhood.
The elusive light, the pure light,
That transfigures but does not reveal,
That gilds with mystery and enchants with dreams.........
Pasiphae sang along with the chant, as heartily as her tired voice would allow. She understood it perfectly now; she believed it. It was, every word, beautifully, utterly true. How could she have doubted? How could she have questioned the divinity of her role?
Once within the night-lights of Cnossos, Eileithyia reassured the many anxious women gathering round them, that the moon maiden had been hurt but that her wounds were not serious.
"The Great Goddess has returned Pasiphae to us," she told them. "And she has brought the communities of Cnossos and Britomartis together for an act of great goodness. Britomartis' people have repulsed the evil Achaean who tried to destroy her. May the town and the forest be united forever in peace. May we now together destroy the Xhora invader that tried to ravish our Moon Maiden!"
Eileithyia then uttered a celebratory chant, in which all the women, priestess and servants sang together in celebration:
"The goddess be praised. The Goddess is good.
The moon is reborn.
Disunity healed.
Pasiphae is saved
Pasiphae is saved."
Thasos shivered in the cold. The bitter dry wind scoured the bare paved ground, made a melancholy moan around the walls of the Little Palace, and blew fleeces of clouds across a flickering pale moon that looked as frigid as the wintry wind itself. This is what it felt like to have no home. There would be no home for him now on this island after what Saron had done.
He was as guilty as Saron. He should have told Kikerus what his brother had done in Patras. But he had remained cravenly, stupidly silent and now the Moon Goddess -- the beautiful, divine Pasiphae - had been attacked. It was an act for which there could be no forgiveness. His life here was over.
Tears stung Thasos' eyes at the thought of being thrown out of his home a second time. He didn't want to leave the island. He loved it here and he wanted to stay. To be thrown off now would be worse than the expulsion from Patras.
He would never forget the look on Kikerus' face at the moment he understood what Saron had done. He had just stared at the whole family, his face crumpling up like a small child about to cry. Then he had dashed out of the Little Palace, too distraught to explain to Asterios and the servants what had happened. They ran anxiously after Kikerus, leaving the meal room empty apart, from the family.
Manthys and Saron had leaped to their feet. "I think we need to get out of here, brother," muttered Manthys. "Let's forget our differences. We're both in trouble."
Arete cried at them from the head table: "Where are you going? Don't leave me, my sons..."
"Don't worry, mother. You'll be safe."
"Well, they're not going to defeat us," Manthys assured her. "We're Achaeans. We'll beat them. We could try getting a few weapons ..."
"We'll burn the Great House down."
"Or how about the whole town?"
"We could take a few hostages and threaten to kill them..."
"We could always start fires and take hostages..."
"Don't worry mother -- you'll be perfectly safe."
Unable to remain an instant longer in the room, Thasos fled out of the Little Palace. Once outside he stopped running. Where was he going? Where was there for him to go now? He felt he should warn the people of Cnossos about his brothers' evil intentions, but did not know how to make himself understood. He had no idea where to find Kikerus either. While wondering what he should do, Thasos started roving aimlessly around the precincts of the Little Palace.
His wanderings took him to an area used by Asterios and Kikerus for their mystifying moon ceremonies. Thasos had been curious about these strange outbuildings for some time and had always intended asked Kikerus what they were used for. Now, he reflected sadly, he would never know.
"Our LustralBasin interests you?" The boy leaped round with a gasp at the voice. Kikerus had appeared silently next to him.
"Yes...." Thasos hesitated, unsure what to say. "What did you call them?"
"You must have heard me mention the Lustral Basins before," Kikerus said. "We have a considerable number in the Great House and they also exist inside many houses -- including mine."
"What are they used for?" asked Thasos timidly. He was surprised at Kikerus' willingness to discuss Lustral Basins with him at such a time.
Kikerus paused briefly, as if to take thought. "It is not easy for me to summarise to you their purpose. Basically, a LustralBasin is a place of healing and renewal. We come to a LustralBasin whenever we feel troubled." He paused, and seemed to continue speaking with some difficulty: "We also come if we have been injured and wish to avoid the consequence of causing similar injury to others. Similarly, any person who has inflicted harm, or acted somehow contrary to the love of the Goddess, may spend some time in this place of healing. It is appropriate, my boy, that you should have come here."
"I'm sorry, Kikerus -- I'm sorry about Saron." Thasos blurted out guiltily. This, he decided, was the moment when Kikerus would condemn him. "Did he really hurt Pasiphae?"
Kikerus sighed. "No men have been admitted to Pasiphae's chamber. But we have all been told that her injuries will soon heal. The great Goddess has protected her."
"I'm so sorry. I know it's my fault. I should have told you about Saron. I'm afraid he's done this before."
There was another pause before the priest replied.
"My boy, I know you have already suffered for your brother's crimes." He paused. "Is that the reason your family were cast out of your home - in that small boat?"
"We were all forced to leave Patras," Thasos said despondently. "One of the rulers, Diocletan, threw us all out. Please, I -- I don't think I could go through all that again," he added.
"What did you say that official's name was?" asked Kikerus, ignoring Thasos' plea.
"Diocletan."
"Diocletan of Patras?" Kikerus repeated, in a voice of astonishment. "Well, there are many towns of that name, but it seems that your own Patras is among the places I have resided at."
"What? Have you actually lived in Patras?" exclaimed Thasos.
Kikerus did not reply. He glanced at Thasos for a moment and looked thoughtful. Then he seemed to reach a decision. "Follow me, my child," he said. He strode towards one of the outbuildings of the Little Palace; a part of his family home Thasos had never ventured into before. "I think we should look inside a LustralBasin," he said.
Puzzled but intrigued, Thasos followed Kikerus inside one of the unfamiliar buildings. Inside it was almost completely dark, until Thasos noticed a flickering light from a fixed torch near the ceiling. By this guiding light, he could see down into a square pit with a series of steps, circling down into depths too gloomy for his eyes.
Then the darkness lightened and Thasos noticed that the pit was walled and lined with the same beautiful, grey-veined gypsum that was used throughout the Great House. As he peered again into the pit, a sudden cold shiver down his spine told him he would never fully understand this island, much as he loved it and wanted to stay. The symbols and rituals of Cnossosperplexed, frightened and profoundly attracted him at once. The light of the torch continued to offer flickering, tantalising glimpses of the bottom of the pit and Thasos noticed some strange barely visible movements on the dimly lit floor.
"What's going on down there?" he asked. Kikerus reached out picked the torch from the ceiling. He shed its light onto the floor of the basin and Thasos saw everything clearly.
With a cry, and his heart thumping, Thasos dashed out of the chamber and collapsed on the ground outside, trying in vain to suppress and hide his shaking. It was clear that the priest had taken him to this place to test him - to find out whether or not he deserved to belong to Kaftor society. He had failed the test. They would not let him stay on the island now. He did not belong here. He had no place in the bizarre world of the Kaftors. It was all too frightening for him.
"I am sorry." He heard Kikerus speaking gently to him. "Perhaps I should have warned you first."
"Why?" Thasos gasped, almost hysterically. He could not help asking the question, however stupid it made him look. "Why - snakes? And why were they...?" He could not describe what he had seen; that the floor of the basin was covered with snakes. They were devouring small live animals, obviously placed there for that very purpose.
"But surely you remember?" said Kikerus in what sounded like mild reproach. "I have told you this many times. The snake inhabits the underworld domain of the Goddess. The Goddess offers healing - death and rebirth -- and the snakes are her divine medium, offering death and rebirth."
"But I thought Pasiphae gave consultations in her chamber..."
"Sometimes people need more than a promise from the Moon Goddess. Sometimes it is necessary to commune directly for longer periods with the chthonic powers themselves."
"Are you saying that people go down into these...snake pits.... and stay there? For a day... a night?"
"They frequently stay for months."
"Months? And that makes them better?"
"Unless it is time to die, of course. Then the snakes bestow a swift and painless death. Please do not distress yourself, my child," said Kikerus serenely, as Thasos uttered a groan. "For many people, death is preferable to living outside the bounty of the Goddess -- to living as a Xhora. In your society you might call this a punishment. Here we prefer to speak of renewal." The priest paused, as if choosing the right words with which to continue. "We seldom feel angry for long with those who have offended the Goddess. Usually her serpents in these basins devise the most appropriate outcome for them; death and renewal."
"You mean - is that what's going to happen to Saron?" Thasos, with a shock, suddenly understood the dire warning behind Kikerus' words.
"My child," replied Kikerus, "Both of your brothers are Xhora, so it is improbable that a period of meditation amongst the agents of the Goddess would achieve anything more than their instant death. Nothing will be decided until your brothers have given an account of themselves to the Lawgetas and the committee."
Thasos heard his own shy, high-pitched voice say. "And what will happen to me and my mother?"
"Your mother is a bride of the Consort. She is still welcome here."
"And -- and what about me?"
There was silence for a moment. Then Thasos felt the priest's hand on his shoulder.
"My child, did you expect us to behave like Achaeans and expel you too?" Kikerus' voice sounded astonished. "You are the adopted son of the consort. You will stay."
"No, of course not. But thank you anyway," Thasos gasped. "Thank you...." He was breathing with difficulty but he was elated, overawed with relief and exultation. They weren't going to banish him from the island. They were letting him stay.
"Your delight fills me with great hope, my child, that one day you will achieve true communion with our Great Goddess. When your brothers have been dealt with I can start to teach you properly and ....."
At this point, an outburst of cries could be heard coming from the direction of Cnossos. At first it sounded as if the town had been attacked and the citizens were fleeing for their lives, but it was soon clear that the commotion was caused by a small group of servants, who signalled frantically to Kikerus as they rushed towards him.
They swarmed like fretful children and shouted all at once. Thasos thought he recognised the names of his brothers, Saron and Manthys, repeated several times in the general babble. Kikerus responded with occasional sharp, even ferocious questions and Thasos could see, in the dim light, his face darken with anger. A sick dread hit Thasos at the pit of his stomach. He had let the Kaftors down again. He had forgotten to tell Kikerus about his brothers' dreadful conversation in the meal chamber. Had they already set fire to the Great House? Had they killed some Kaftors?
Without another word, Kikerus turned from the Little Palace and strode briskly away; followed at a half-run by the frantic servants.
"Kikerus." called Thasos, running after him. "What's the matter? What's happened?"
"It is your accursed brothers." Kikerus snapped back. "They have taken drastic steps to avoid punishment. I forgot to ask the servants to restrict their movements. I must inform the Lawgetas at once."
"What have they done?"
"They've disappeared." Kikerus replied shortly.
Arete was inconsolable.
"Oh, they're dead. They're dead," she howled, when she was told the news.
"Madam," almost snapped Kikerus, "I fail to see how your sons could possibly be dead."
"Do you think they've been eaten by wild animals?" asked Thasos brightly, oblivious to his mother's distress. "Or perhaps they have been killed by the palace servants."
"Please do not upset your mother," Kikerus reproached him. "We would have found their corpses -- or part of their corpses -- if they had come to any harm. But your brothers have completely disappeared."
"You've eaten them -- that's why." screamed Arete.
"Madam," hooted Kikerus, "please calm yourself. I can assure you that it is not Kaftor practice to eat our guests."
"You've fed them to snakes. I know you have! It's part of a savage punishment. Oh, why did we come here? How I have suffered since I came here...."
"No madam. Your sons have not been punished. They have not yet appeared before the Lawgetas. Please listen, madam. I think I can guess what has happened to your sons. Please sit down and I will explain."
Still moaning her belief that her sons were dead or eaten, Arete was finally induced to sit down. She repressed her sobs and moans and tried to listen. Kikerus spoke to her clearly and patiently.
"Madam, it is my opinion that your two sons have gone to a better place..."
A prolonged scream erupted from Arete at this ill-phrased announcement. "Now who's upsetting my mother?" demanded Thasos disapprovingly. "So you do think they're dead. Why can't you just say so?"
"No - no. I expressed myself badly." exclaimed Kikerus in some agitation. "I mean that your brothers have departed -- left the island.
"Left the island?" exclaimed Thasos. "But how? They can't sail a boat -- they can't navigate. They'll drown in no time."
"Oh, they've drowned, my sons have drowned," wailed Arete, finding a new cause for grief.
"Many of our boats leave the KairatosRiver at night for distant ports," Kikerus continued, raising his voice above the sounds of Arete' renewed distress. "It would be easy for your brothers to hide themselves on board and remain undiscovered until they are many leagues from the island. Their departure would have been easy to arrange. Madam!" exclaimed Kikerus, almost shouting now above the din of Arete's grief, "I am convinced your sons have come to no harm. They might even prosper. They will be happier away from this island -- in a place where Kaftor customs do not apply."
"Kikerus is right, mother," said Thasos, encouragingly. "That's what he meant when he said they've gone to a better place. They've left the island -- gone somewhere else."
"Oh, they've left me, they've left me," wailed Arete. "How could they abandon their poor, loving mother?"
"I think she's understood at last," said Thasos, confidentially to Kikerus.
Arete started lamenting again. "How can my family neglect me like this? Where is my husband? Has he left me too? Has he also abandoned me? I want my husband to comfort me. I want my dear Asterios with me. Where is he?"
Kikerus whispered hastily to Thasos. "I will ask Asterios to return here, as he is no longer required on the committee. I suggest you too attempt to sleep, my child -- once your mother has quietened down." He raised his voice to address Arete. "My good lady, Asterios is coming. Asterios is coming..."
"Tell him to come and comfort me." Arete screamed, "Tell him to comfort his suffering wife."
Kikerus fled from the Little Palace, feeling a profound pity for Asterios. Not for anything -- not the combined riches of Kaftor and her wealthy colonies, would he have wished to offer a single moment's comfort to Arete.
As the days and months passed, it was generally assumed that Manthys and Saron had stowed away aboard a Kaftor trading vessel; an assumption that persisted despite the fact that no returning trading vessel reported finding them on board.
"That is quite understandable," Kikerus later explained. "Your brothers would not have wanted to be seen by a Kaftor crew. It would be just as easy for them to leave a vessel undetected in a foreign port, as it would have been to board it here. Much of our trade is conducted under cover of darkness and often the boats are left unattended at night if the harbour is friendly."
The two brothers were condemned, in their absence, to exile from Kaftor. As Kikerus remarked, their disappearance was a most desirable outcome.
Pasiphae soon recovered from the obvious signs of her attack. The disfiguring marks faded, and her lingering aches and twinges gradually eased; but even when she appeared again in public and returned to her Goddess role, Kikerus knew at once that the attack had changed Pasiphae forever.
It had left her with a fear of solitude. She now only conducted her duties in the company of priests or priestesses, and would join the women on their evening walks in the populous streets of Cnossos rather than venture out on her own. She became a less remote and aloof figure and was eager - almost anxious - to cultivate new friendships.
Kikerus rejoiced in the change and communicated his joy throughout the town.
"The Great Goddess inflicts the winter only to award the spring," he announced happily. "Pasiphae is restored to the life of the community. Pasiphae is ours. She belongs again to the hearts of the people."
Pasiphae ceased to suffer doubts and fears for the future of Cnossos. No longer did she need to send petitioners away and weep alone in her LustralBasin. Laughter and merry company now enlivened her Moon Chambers, as they had done when her mother had been alive.
The Initiation
It was Kikerus who decided that Pasiphae and Thasos should meet.
He used all his charm on Pasiphae to encourage her to invite the foreigner Thasos to visit her in her chambers in the Great House.
"My good lady, it will do Thasos good to meet you. The sight of your beauty will convince him of the perfection of life in the community of the Goddess and he will never want to leave Cnossos again."
"But I am not beautiful, Kikerus," Pasiphae said sadly. "My face and hands are still marked by the attack of his brother. He will find me spoiled, and may hate me. He is more likely to flee from Cnossos at the sight of such ugliness. Can he not wait a year?"
"No, my lady. I want Thasos to observe the terrible results of his brother's actions and feel deep shame. That way we can assure that he will never be attracted to violent Achaean ways and we will keep him here forever in the loving embrace of the Goddess."
Kikerus paused, and read the question in Pasiphae's anxious face.
"My lady, Thasos is not like his brother," he reassured her. "He takes daily renewing baths and scours his body with oils. Thasos is a pleasant, sweet-smelling young man."
"But he is still the brother of my attacker."
"Exactly, my lady. His presence will help you to recognise the restorative face of your enemy and accept the transforming, dual nature of your misfortune. This encounter will be a healing route for both of you."
Kikerus did not bother to use the same persuasive charm on Thasos. At the end of a lesson one day he merely barked at him, as if Thasos was being offered a treat he did not deserve: "You will visit the Moon Maiden Pasiphae in her chambers tomorrow. I hope you are humbled."
Thasos was more worried than humbled. "Why should Pasiphae want to see me?" he asked.
"The Moon Maiden wishes to know that you are different from your brother Saron," Kikerus replied, as if the meeting had been Pasiphae's idea in the first place.
Thasos knew that he was still being blamed for his brothers' behaviour. The servants would not speak to him or look him in the eye. He received hostile glares and whispers as he walked the streets of the town. Winning Pasiphae's approval was one way of gaining the trust of the community. But he knew that to win her approval at the meeting, he would have to do everything according to the complex etiquette of the Great House. Even the smallest error -- a single wrong word or action -- would be disastrous.
"Of course - you'll come with me, Kikerus -- and translate for me - and explain things -- won't you?"
"No. I do quite enough translating for your mother and Asterios," Kikerus replied, as though he regarded the request as impertinent. "I have other duties to attend to. I have taught you all you need to know. This will prove you have been listening to me."
Thasos was so frightened of doing the wrong thing that when he was conducted into Pasiphae's dimly lit public chamber, in front the high-seated Moon Maiden, he could only mumble a thickly indistinct greeting. Then he looked up at the small young girl perched on the raised seat and was so appalled at what he saw that he forgot his own worries. Thasos never forgot his first sight of Pasiphae's injuries.
There were shadows of dark bruises and fading cuts on her small face. Her tiny arm moved stiffly when she made the formal moon greeting at him, and she grimaced in pain. Then she lifted herself and unsteadily from her chair, and hobbled like an old woman towards Thasos, holding out a white hand that had a marking of dry blood on the knuckles.
He wanted to hold her tight and protect her, like a father or elder brother. He was no longer afraid of her. In that short first visit, he had glimpsed the core of Pasiphae's human vulnerability, and she had touched his heart forever.
He was delighted when Pasiphae issued further invitations to visit her. He was even more delighted when, her injuries healed, she started coming to visit him at the Little Palace. Thasos discovered that Pasiphae had a sense of wicked fun that had not been crushed by years in the shadows, or the attack by Saron. She had a smile that transformed that serious, troubled face and revealed a hidden bounty of kindness and love. He felt happy in her company. She was the divine Moon Maiden and she was now also his friend.
Kikerus was also pleased at the growing friendship.
"Well my boy, you have obviously conducted yourself well in Pasiphae's company, because she now trusts you completely. You have great gifts in the Goddess and a fulfilled life awaits you here in Cnossos."
Pasiphae's trust and friendship also meant that he was now accepted in Cnossos. He no longer received hostile, suspicious looks in the streets, and the servants in the Little Palace were now almost fawningly affectionate in their manner towards him.
However, there was one difficulty:
He and Pasiphae could smile at each other, or communicate in simple pictograms and actions. Pasiphae would sing to him and teach him some basic Keftiu words and ritual dancing steps to music, and Thasos once daringly taught Pasiphae the first few measures of an Achaean drinking song. But there were always times when the laughing, acting, singing and dancing came to a stop and they could only stare at each other in friendly inquisitiveness and mild embarrassment.
"The trouble is I don't speak Keftiu," Thasos said to Kikerus. "And Pasiphae doesn't speak Achaean."
"I should hope not," replied Kikerus with distaste, "and she will never learn Achaean. Do you expect a divine human to learn to grunt like a pig?"
"Kikerus. This is my language you're talking about."
"My child, it is time you learned Keftiu, the language of music, wisdom and divinity. You will find Keftiu so beautiful that you will never want to speak Achaean again. You will feel that it will dirty your tongue; it will be as dry and tasteless as a mouthful of sand. Besides, speaking Keftiu is your only path to greater closeness to Pasiphae and the Goddess. I am sure that is what you want?"
"Yes Kikerus, I'd like that very much."
So in the hope of getting closer to Pasiphae, Thasos agreed to take lessons in Keftiu from Kikerus. His problems with the language started from the very first lesson.
He was very keen to learn, yet he found Keftiu discouragingly difficult. Every word in Keftiu had so many different meanings. As soon as Thasos had learned a particular word or phrase, Kikerus would cheerfully inform him that it also had another, very different meaning, which he would teach him another time.
"What's the point of all this?" Thasos finally demanded, in exasperation. "How do you ever know what you're talking about if all the words mean different things?"
The priest smiled, enjoying the superiority that the knowledge of his own tongue gave him. "Keftiu is not an easy language, my boy. To speak and understand it, you must be alert and aware. You cannot be lazy, like your speakers of Achaean. Every word spoken and understood in our language is the result of intense feeling and thought. When you speak to a Keftiu, my boy, you speak to him or her with your whole heart and soul."
There was worse to come. One day Kikerus told him that there were words in Keftiu that contained, within themselves, completely opposite meanings -- and that these were the most important words in the whole Keftiu language.
"Unless you know these words, you will never know our language. These are the labrys words that express a person's closeness to the great earth Goddess."
"Labrys words? I thought the labrys was the name of the big double axe that you're so fond of."
"It is, my child, it is. Labrys words are like double axes; they have two equal and opposite faces -- they cut both ways. Labrys language allows us to skim across normal ideas; to meander between paths of thought, where vast and complex truths can be conveyed with beautiful brevity."
Thasos wondered, in some despair, whether the Keftiu language was worth the trouble. "I'll never learn all that," he moaned.
"But you have already learned one labrys word. Xhora, for example, which means 'outsider', or 'dweller in the wilds. Xhora also means the complete opposite of 'outsider'. It means to be part of the harmonious group of singers to the Goddess, and a member of the united dance that celebrates of the heartbeat of the earth..."
"It means all that, does it?" asked Thasos gloomily.
"It means that and much, much more. Like all words in Keftiu it has many diverse meanings," replied the priest raptly. "A wonderful rich diversity of meanings, like the whole of life itself. Our words in Keftiu grow and develop like buds in the spring, like newborn babes. Oh, it is a multi-faced, varied and beautiful language."
"Well, I don't see how you can talk to each other if your words have different meanings. If I called you a Xhora now, how would you know if I was calling you an outsider or -- or the opposite?"
"As I told you before, when you speak to someone in Keftiu, you must engage that person in your soul and take him into your heart, so that when you utter a labrys word, he will understand exactly what your meaning is. You must always establish the context of your discourse with great care, before moving off into the ambiguities of labrys talk. We have an expression for it in Keftiu: Only with both feet firmly on the ground may you take flight."
Thasos realised that this was why the Keftiu always talked so much; they had to establish the context and background of everything they said with meticulous, care; dwelling at length on the time of the day, the weather, or the state of the vegetation.. Much Kaftor art, Thasos had noticed, celebrated a similar fascination with the details of normal life; it was crammed full of insignificant detail.
But labrys language was beyond him. He was so afraid of using the wrong labrys word that he hardly dared open his mouth. After months of learning he could hardly utter more than a few mannered sentences. He wished he had never started learning the wretched language. He had communicated with Pasiphae more effectively when using gestures and pictograms. Instead of being a path to greater closeness with Pasiphae, the Keftiu language seemed to be putting up barriers between them.
The main problem was that Kikerus was a terrible teacher. He seemed more interested in emphasising the complications of the Keftiu language than showing Thasos how to surmount them. Another reason why Thasos' progress was so slow was that Kikerus insisted on teaching him Keftiu writing at the same time.
"You have learned the easy graphics of ephemeral life," Kikerus had said to him one day, entering his room clutching a pot. "It is time now to learn those divine pictograms that allow you to speak with the Great Goddess."
"Why should I want to speak to the Great Goddess?"
"My child, everyone in Cnossos speaks to the Great Goddess. Not only must you learn to use these divine symbols -- you must learn to possess them. We create our symbols to communicate with the Goddess. Each person creates the Goddess within him or her self."
Thasos never saw the point of learning divine pictograms. He didn't want to speak to the Goddess; he wanted to speak to Pasiphae. Besides, the lessons were boring.
"We can express the divine snake by a simple squiggly line," Kikerus would say eagerly, while Thasos vainly suppressed his dismal yawns. "You may have seen this sign around Cnossos. Because the sign is so simple, it can also express a similar shape, such as running water. It embraces two meanings at the same time, like labrys language. We have now left the world of everyday objects and are now in the realm of the Goddess...."
After several mornings of listening to this, Thasos did not think he could take much more. Did Kikerus have nothing better to do? Why were the energies and duties of the High Priest suddenly devoted to driving him, Thasos, half mad with boredom?
"Now, having brought two seemingly separate ideas together - water and the snake - we can express more abstract notions, associated with snakes and water, such as 'cleanliness', 'rebirth' and 'renewal'. We have now left the world of everyday objects and are now in the realm of the Goddess..."
It was these pictogram lessons that made Thasos think that he did not want to live in Cnossos any more. Kaftor was a big island, waiting to be explored. Why should he sit in this dismal room, listening to all this rubbish?
"We can express the divine Moon Goddess by this curved line," Kikerus prattled one fateful morning. "These are the horns of the bull. They can be simplified and modified slightly, to express the shape of the new moon. You will have seen this shape around Cnossos and the Great House. The horns embrace the fecundity of spring, the fruits of the soil, and the Goddess' divine vessel, which contains and offers, for all humankind, the wealth of the earth ... Where are you going, my child?"
Thasos had had enough. He left Kikerus to chatter to himself about vessels, wealth and fecundity, and went for a long walk.
He wandered aimlessly until the bright pillars and bordering autumn greenery of the Great House were out of sight, the sprawl of houses was behind him and Kikerus' chatter cleared from his buzzing head. His mind was soon full of a deep and satisfying silence, filled occasionally with the melodious twittering of birds. He could hardly remember what silence sounded like. He walked though sparse woodland, enjoying the stillness, fresh air and the freedom, when he suddenly emerged into sunlight, and found himself at the edge of an extensive vineyard.
One or two of the workers in the vines hailed him from the middle of the field and invited him to join their lunch. Thasos noticed that these men did not eat with the same fussy caution of the people of Cnossos. They devoured their food with the gusto and appetite normal to those who work outside. While Thasos ate with them, he also found he understood most of their conversation and was able to speak to them with surprising fluency.
They spoke a different kind of Keftiu; simpler and less ambiguous than the Great House. They didn't ramble on about the Goddess, the labrys, renewal and death. These practical land workers spoke of visible tangible things, like the crops, the task of harvesting, the taste of food, the weather -- and spoke about them simply. To his astonishment and delight, Thasos found that his command of Keftiu was better than he had thought.
When their work recommenced, he stayed and helped them, still talking, hardly aware now that he was speaking a new language. All too soon the men told him that the sun would soon set and the day's work was over. They thanked him for his efforts, called him a good land worker, and offered him as a reward more food than he could carry, with a generous container of the local wine.
In great reluctance, Thasos returned to Cnossos and a furious Kikerus.
"It's all right, Kikerus," Thasos said in Keftiu, before the priest could start pouring out his reproaches, "I've been learning Keftiu today. I've been at a village called Archannes speaking to the workers and helping them harvest the vines. It was the best day I've ever had. You can hear how my Keftiu has improved."
Kikerus was not impressed. "You speak Keftiu like a villager," he growled in Achaean. "I do not wish you to become a land worker. You have missed today's lessons, so I will have to give you a double lesson tomorrow."
So very early next morning, before Kikerus arrived at the Little Palace with his tedious pictograms, Thasos sneaked out of his room in the palace and fled back to the Archannes vine harvest.
"Why do you always leave us, Thasos? Why do you abandon Cnossos? Do you not like being with me?"
"It's not you, Pasiphae." They were sitting together in the Little Palace. Thasos had spent another happy day at Archannes and on his return to Cnossos, had been informed by an icily censorious Kikerus that Pasiphae had been waiting - actually waiting for him - in the Little Palace for a substantial part of the afternoon.
"Of course I like being with you, Pasiphae. But Kikerus never leaves me alone."
"You prefer loneliness, Thasos? That can lead to hurt, as I have learned very well."
"I like to be with people too."
"With people? Then is my companionship not pleasant?" Pasiphae asked sadly. "Is the friendship of others more rewarding? Do you not enjoy my company?"
"Of course I enjoy your company. I -- I really like your company, Pasiphae -- you know I do."
"Then why do you not stay in Cnossos? Why do you always leave me?"
"I don't leave you, Pasiphae. I leave Cnossos - sometimes."
"If you leave Cnossos, you leave the Goddess and you leave me. We are one and the same, of a unified heart; the Great Goddess, Cnossos and me. Here in Cnossos you will find the Goddess and all her works. What do you seek that is outside the Goddess? Do you seek to be Xhora?"
"Pasiphae," said Thasos in sudden exasperation, "Don't you believe that the Goddess can also be outside Cnossos? Do you not think she can be everywhere -- in nature - all around us -- not just here?"
"Of course the Goddess is everywhere, Thasos, but she can only be found and approached here in Cnossos. She can only be spoken to through her true medium, the cusp of life and death, the power and renewal of the navel of earth, the sanctuary of her hidden plenty, the living dead and the dying birth..."
She was speaking in labrys language and Thasos could not understand any more. He could still only speak in the curt, rather brusque idiom of the land workers, while she revelled in the cyclic repetitiousness of the ritual language of the Great House. Again and again, their conversations drifted into the dark realms of misunderstanding. With growing sorrow, Thasos realised that, although he cared deeply for Pasiphae, they could never be close.
As soon as Thasos had accepted that unhappy fact, he became more convinced that he should leave Cnossos altogether.
He knew Pasiphae would never understand his need to go so he never mentioned it to her. Kikerus, on the other hand, understood all too well - having travelled widely himself - but that did not make him more tolerant.
"You wish to leave the true Goddess in Cnossos? Then why do you not leave the island altogether as I did? I can arrange a boat for you."
"I don't want to leave the island."
"You must make a choice."
"I have made a choice. You should be happy for me," Thasos felt exasperated by Kikerus' unbending attitude. "I'm looking after myself. I'm learning to work and feed myself. The people of Archannes need me too."
"Not for much longer. One day very soon, my boy, the vine harvest will finish. There will be nothing for you in Archannes and then where will you go? The Goddess, however, never turns her petitioners away. She is always welcoming and loving and...."
"I can find another harvest to work on," Thasos broke in, determined not to listen to another sermon. "There must be different harvests all over the island."
The priest glared, resentful at being interrupted. "Very well, my child. If you are so interested in harvests then tomorrow I will take you to one of our own harvests in Cnossos. It is a holy harvest. Its crop represents the very essence and divine substance of the immortal Goddess and her healing powers."
"I'm fascinated, Kikerus. What harvest is that?"
"It is the harvest of honey. Perhaps working in the beehives will provide a proper role for you here in Cnossos and you can forget all this talk of leaving."
Kikerus was wrong. Thasos attended the harvest of honey, but hated it.
A single day among the hives convinced him that bees were evil. It was as if they blamed him personally for his brother Manthys' violence in the Bull Court, and stung him on sight. In vain did the harvesters demonstrate the gentle patience of their craft. The bees would not hurt you, they explained, if you were not afraid; they sensed fear as an intention to attack. It was no use; Thasos could not hide his terror of bees. Every time he tried to remove a comb from a hive, his hands would shake and his head would be enveloped in a thick, buzzing swarm. He would dash off, howling with terror, smacking and swatting frantically at the pulsating cloud around his head, to the pitying smiles of the apiarists.
"Do not smite the bees," they would urge him. "You will only make them more furious."
Thasos could not help himself. His hands would slap at his head with the irrational energy of a drowning swimmer; trying to drive off the buzzing and the tickling of insect bodies on his face and neck, and collecting countless stings in the process.
After only one day, Thasos vowed never to go back to the gathering of honey at Cnossos again.
"My boy, I am trying to find you practical tasks that will give you a useful role at Cnossos," Kikerus argued.
"I keep telling you," said Thasos in exasperation, "I want to leave Cnossos."
"At least attend the Bull Chase tomorrow," the priest urged him. "The Bull Chase is one other sacred duty that Kaftor men are involved in. Come and watch it before you make any decisions. You may find your destiny there."
The Bull Chase was even worse than the honey harvest. In disbelief, Thasos watched from a safe distance as a group of young men ran towards a grazing bull and hurled a flimsy net over it. The enraged bull leaped and charged within the twisting net, dragging some men along the ground; kicking out and butting at the others who were holding on, and nearly trampling to death those men who were dangling and staggering near its thundering hooves. Eventually, after much limb-wrenching effort the tossing bull was finally controlled and dragged -- bellowing with rage - into a nearby enclosure, where it continued to protest. The perspiring men then laughed and embraced, presumably delighted at having cheated death.
"Forget it Kikerus," Thasos told him firmly. "I'm too young to die."
"My boy, Britomartis' people undertake much more dangerous hunts, as you will see if you ever venture out into the wilds. Our pursuit of the bull is completely safe."
"Safe for the bull, perhaps," muttered Thasos.
"I assure you, my boy, that no one has ever been hurt during the Bull Chase."
Thasos was unimpressed. He remembered that the smiling apiarists had similarly promised him, repeatedly and with a tactless disregard for truth, that no one ever got stung during the bee-harvest.
Unfortunately, one of Kikerus' predictions proved correct. The day after his experiments with the honey harvest and bull chase, Thasos rushed eagerly back to Archannes, only to find the harvest complete. They had no need of his help; the fruits were picked and trampled. "However, my friend," they told him, pointing towards the distant hills, "if you go to the village of Vathipetros, half a morning's walk away, you will find their harvest just beginning. I am sure they will have need of a worker as keen as you."
Thasos took their advice and walked further to Vathipetros, where he worked on the harvest of vetch. He was too tired for the long walk back to Cnossos that night, so spent the night in the village. The next day he was too afraid to face Kikerus' tight-lipped fury, so he spent another night there and then another night, until he ended up living at Vathipetros until the harvest was over.
After that he moved on to the next harvest, where he made his temporary home, and the next one after that, and so on. In a very short time he had broken his link with Cnossos and was following the seasonal harvests wherever they occurred throughout the cycle of the year. He decided that his fate was to live on the island as an agricultural worker and resolved never live in Cnossos again.
The Goddess of the Wild
Three years passed.
In that time, Thasos had become a roving farm worker, moving from harvest to harvest, enjoying the freedom and simplicity of a life lived close to the earth. He knew he could never settle down and belong to any of the island communities. His very appearance proclaimed that he was a foreigner - and the older he grew, the more foreign he looked.
Thasos was happy being a wanderer. He liked the land workers, but they bored him. They were modest, practical people who wanted no more from life than their crops to grow. They had no sense of beauty or the sacred. As far as they were concerned, it was the task of the Great Houses to carry out those mysterious ceremonies that appeased the Goddess and guaranteed her returning bounty. They, the land workers, had the more practical task of tilling the land and planting the seed. Devoted to farming routine, they lived unadventurous lives and never travelled outside their own villages.
Thasos, in the other hand, had travelled across the whole island several times. He loved the intense and varied beauties of the scenery, from its radiant panoramas to its exquisite cameos. He felt a mystical exultation at every part of the diverse and astonishing landscape.
He knew the delight of standing by a roadside in the spring, the ground at his feet carpeted in wild flowers. He would stare up at the rolling greens of the retreating forests that receded at the foot of the distant mountains, crowned with the luminous white of their snow caps. He would turn and gaze at the sea, whose intense blue contrasted and blended into the riotous and varied natural colour around him. What a beautiful island this was! He would breathe in the warm, scented air, feel the sun on his face and be glad just to be alive. At times like this, he was convinced he had achieved full mystic communion with the Great Goddess; that he felt her actual presence in the earth, and her benign creative power thrilled like a zest for life through his body. Standing aloft on the mountains, or down in the fertile basins, was like being embraced by the living, all surrounding earth.
Thasos gradually became a toughened, well-bronzed creature of the outdoors and loathed the thought of being enclosed or restricted in any way. Kaftor houses, with their windowless lower stories and dark basements repelled him. Even the sun-lit upper floors of the houses seemed oppressive, with their frescoes, their clutter of pointless ornaments, and those soft cushions that seemed intent on swallowing you alive. As a creature of the outdoors, Thasos had no desire for the enclosed luxuries offered by the houses. He always declined offers of hospitality and whenever he could he ate and slept in the open, only taking shelter in farmhouses or barns on cold nights.
Rain held no terrors for him. Indeed, he revelled in the cooling summer rains and took delight in spotting the signs that rain was coming. First he would notice a haziness in the hot air blurring the outlines of the scenery, gradually crystallising into white dots of cloud over distant mountains. Soon these white cloud puffs swelled into patches of darkness that gradually quenched the brilliance of the sun. As the air became heavy and the light more insipid, the farm workers would squint up at the gloomy sky and head muttering for the farm houses, where they huddled discontentedly, anxious for the rain to pass. But Thasos would venture laughing into the tangible air and sweat so copiously he was unsure if it was his own sweat or the rain that was dripping from his head and body. The cicadas were quiet, and the sense of unease all around him was heightened by the desperate scurrying of small animals seeking the shelter that Thasos avoided. Then stinging cold drops of water on his bare shoulders and arms would tell Thasos that the rain had started. It was followed by a sharply drenching downpour, bracing and clean as a mountain torrent, that invigorated, cooled and cleansed him of the stickiness that had covered his body, purifying him inside and out, and nourishing him as it nourished the thirsty soil.
After the rain had gone, the sun emerged, cleaner and kinder than before, awakening the pungent scents of the revived herbs and flowers; creating aromas so intense that Thasos, breathing in the heady aroma of the outdoors, became quite light-headed. He looked around with delight at nature, beautified with the returning sun, in the new clean greenness of the trees and shrubs that covered the quenched soil, and the multiple colours of the forgotten wild flowers that had leaped to renewed life in the brief intense rains. There were no words in Achaean or Keftiu to express how beautiful it all was.
At times of such intense delight, Thasos scorned the farm workers for wanting to hide from it - and then remembered with pity the people of Cnossos, who buried themselves away from it. Why, he asked himself over and over again, were these people exiled from all this natural beauty and splendour? Why did Kikerus and his kind seek petty solace in baubles such as frescos, figurines, pots and artificial scents? Why did the women hide from the sun and seek out the realms of darkness?
Thasos was still happy to visit Cnossos, but he would only visit the Little Palace and refused to stay the night. Kikerus protested objected and even raged, but did not turn him out.
"You may return to Cnossos any time," the old man had almost pleaded at last. "I only pray that one day you may return forever."
Thasos had no intention of returning forever, but he had enjoyed his visits and accepted Kikerus' plea as an invitation to be a non-paying guest whenever he wanted. He still felt attracted to the town of Cnossos and the memories it contained; he had a wistful affection for a place that had once been his home.
Cnossos and the Little Palace also had one other important attraction: the warm baths. It was the one luxury he always missed, however long he stayed away.
Of course his mother still lived in Cnossos and she should also have attracted him back, except that she was hardly recognisable as his mother any more. She moped in her room all day, refusing all nourishment except Raki. When she wasn't moping, she was an irascible, dishevelled old stranger, shrieking garbled curses from her disorderly chamber, appearing in public unkempt and unstable, singing raucous and indecent Achaean songs. Her taste for the pungent Raki seemed to have entirely replaced her appetite for food and sex.
On his most recent visit, his mother had refused to emerge from her room at all. "We have little communication from your mother," Kikerus had told him, when he had eventually asked after her. "Usually now she is too drunk to speak. Even I cannot understand her. Asterios will not enter her chamber now; it is so dirty."
Poor Asterios, Thasos thought. He was a pleasant man who never uttered a word of complaint against Thasos' mother. But he was a dismal companion. He spoke very little and his brief, weighty utterances were limited to the minute details of his unvarying and dull private daily routines.
Then there was Kikerus. He was becoming an increasingly censorious father figure, always criticising Thasos for his abandonment of Cnossos and attacking any notion that he was a real Keftiu. Thasos frequently came away from his encounters with Kikerus confused and angry. What was the old man trying to do: drive him away from the island completely?
The main attraction of Cnossos was, of course, Pasiphae. Pasiphae was still a small girl, radiantly pale and fragile, although her body had now developed to an exquisite roundness. Thasos sensed that her discreet clothing hid a womanly voluptuousness that occasionally haunted his dreams.
To Thasos' delight, Pasiphae often visited the Little Palace when she knew he was there. These visits encouraged his life-nurturing belief that there was a special emotional and physical bond between them.
But despite Pasiphae's presence there, Thasos always avoided the Great House. His terror at the LustralBasins and Potnia Shrine made the Great House at Cnossos a dark, sinister world of writhing snakes and gloomy rituals.
The Cnossos Earth cult repelled Thasos. It was subterranean - the domain of the dead. This dark, sunless kinship, this unhealthy, claustrophobic realm, along with its chthonic snakes made his skin crawl. This was the dark side to Kaftor life that Thasos had always avoided; a dank underworld presided over by the pale bloodless moon. It was something he did not like and would not accept.
He desired Pasiphae, but he was content to live in the warm, nourishing confidence of her distant affection. In the meantime, Thasos wanted to live out in the open. He was a man, and he believed that the man's true domain, his real place in relation to the Great Earth Goddess, was under the bright sun-blessed sky - not buried under the earth, closeted in darkness with the generations of the dead. He was content to worship the Goddess in the landscape, partake of the cheerful field rituals of the seedtime and harvest, and treat Pasiphae with an occasional visit.
Then one day Thasos saw something that destroyed this careless freedom forever.
He was resting from his work when heard a commotion at the opposite end of the field. He looked up in time to see a fleet female figure, running ahead of a line of men in stag's horns, some of whom were blowing into short curved pipes. They were accompanied by dogs whose yelps blended riotously with the high-pitched hoot of the buglers. Work in the fields stopped when this joyous convoy appeared, and Thasos stared in fascination at the woman at the head of the hunt; a transitory vision of the wild, who moved with the slender grace of the distant deer she pursued. She ran, she leaped, and in an instant she was gone, blending again with the forests; her envoy's festive clamour echoing into the hidden horizons, her elegance and untamed beauty just an alluring memory.
"Who's that?" asked Thasos dashing back into the fields, his heart bursting with excitement. "Who's that leading the chase?"
"She's Britomartis; Goddess of the Forest and the Hunt," he was told despondently.
"She's wonderful." Thasos panted.
"She's dangerous. She kills men."
"What do you mean - kills men?" demanded Thasos.
"She is so desirable that men die for her. Men fight each other to the death for her. She and these wild men live in the forest. The forest is a dangerous place too."
"But the forest is all around us. How can it be dangerous?" Thasos asked, with a laugh.
"It's best not to know too much about the forest," he was told. "It's a vast and treacherous place. Once you're inside, you never find your way out. There are no tracks or paths to guide you. You are lost forever and you die."
His fellow workers gave sidelong glances at the distant forests; those swathes of lovely green that covered the familiar hills around their homes and fields, and shuddered. "We don't go there, except to the edge sometimes to get wood and fuel; it's no place for us," they said, from the safety and comfort of their work in the fields. "The forest is beautiful from a distance; and so we keep our distance."
To Thasos the forests had always been as familiar a part of the landscape as the mountains and the sea. Now he began regarding them with a new curiosity and respect. He realised that those vast woodlands, so brightly verdant in the sunlight, harboured secrets as dark as the underworld of Cnossos. Primeval untouched regions, as ancient as the soil in which they were rooted, contained a divine female presence; Britomartis, the spirit of the groves, the Goddess of the Wilds and of hunting. Thasos longed just to see her once again - just one brief glimpse.
He was becoming bored to distraction by the cautiously humdrum lives of the agriculturalists. He hungered for adventure and novelty, for an encounter with life in the raw, for the sharp excitement of a more dangerous and risky experience of the divine.
One day he decided to visit the forest for himself.
He told no one where he was going. He walked alone, with some embarrassment as if he were being watched, to the nearest, pine-littered fringes of the forest where the birdsong was shrillest, and strode into its towering, gloomy and silent interior. If he had hoped to see Britomartis, he was disappointed. What he did see startled him.
He thought he already knew what a forest looked like. Trees had grown in broken clusters in his homeland and there were a number of patchy woods around Cnossos that he had sometimes explored when he was younger. He soon found out that those were mere thickets compared to the endless primeval forests of the west of Kaftor.
He walked a few steps until the sunlight was cut off like the silent shutting of a green door. He then stood in a dimly haunted realm in which the light danced and flitted far above like an ancient spirit of mischief, and dismal shadows seemed to whisper and groan like ghosts of the primal dead. The air, in contrast to all this uneasy movement, had a tangible stillness, as if Thasos had just walked inside a vast cushion; it was warm and damply scented, tangy with the sweetness of new growth, and dank with the canker of decay. After a few moments Thasos ran in blind panic towards the guiding gleam of sunlight in his backward track that showed him the way out. Once safely in the open, he breathed in the clear fresh air with relief.
The next time he was braver. He carefully familiarised himself with the features of his track into the forest and ventured further in. Nevertheless he did not linger too long in its dense, watchful heaviness and was glad to escape back into the fresh air again, feeling the sun smite his face with a feeling of grateful familiarity.
A third time he penetrated further still and, after a few more tremulous steps on the crisply carpeted floor, with the exiled sun winking indulgently down at him, he found himself standing in a little clearing. He looked around the sheltered open space, with its scanty carpet of flowers. It was just big enough for him to sit, or lie down in. Had the mysterious denizens of the forbidden forest made this clearing? Had Britomartis herself been here?
He came more and more often to his glade; his own little secret piece of the forest. He eventually decided to sleep there. On his first night in the forest he sat awake; terrified by the chorus of sounds that hooted, screeched and roared in the dark around him. However, nothing approached his little niche and he soon recognised these unearthly sounds as part of the forest's throbbing heart, its brooding, observant awareness that was bigger than the sum of human life, yet from which human life has emerged and may one day return. Soon he was sleeping in the forest every night.
Then one day, perhaps by chance or perhaps not, he finally met Britomartis face to face.
He had ventured deeper still into the forest this time, away from his familiar clearing. As he gazed in growing panic at the canopy of tree trunks and greenery that enclosed him, aware that he might be lost, he found himself standing in the path of the charging hunt. Britomartis, at the head, stopped the chase with a sharp cry, and, in an instant of frenzied stillness, she and Thasos stood and stared at each other. He realised that he was looking directly into the face of the Goddess of the Wild.
In that snatched moment, Thasos was transfixed by the cruel passion of the dark face that was partly visible behind its veil of tangled hair, a lean, almost gaunt face that contained surprisingly full and fleshy features: a broad nose and tightly stretched cheekbones that expressed a fervent appetite, and a wide voluptuous mouth that beamed with the joy and mischief of the chase. Then Thasos' eyes took in her slender body, poised in the fleeting pursuit, elegant in its taut strength. He could sense the softness of her bare, tanned skin, enticingly revealed by its sparse covering of furs. She let him explore her body with his eyes; when he looked into her face again she grinned at him, before springing off with a joyous cry, pirouetting in circles before him, leaping, somersaulting, displaying her lithe and athletic beauty, before vanishing again into the cover of the trees. One of the horned hunters called out to him as they disappeared into the forest: "One day she will hunt you, my friend."
She did - but Britomartis first hunted Thasos alone and under cover of darkness. Britomartis - that Goddess figure of the Old Religion - that leader of men and the warlike women of the wilderness, the woods and the caves - sought Thasos out in his forest glade and instructed him in her own ways of love.
She beguiled him awake with the most exquisite gentleness. Thasos' dreams became transfigured by delicious sensations as she skilfully enticed him into readiness. He awoke to the wonderful realisation that he was laying next to Britomartis; that fascinating laughing face was close to his and her slender hands were exploring his body. "Am I dreaming?" he gasped, trembling. "Is this real?" She silenced him by running her finger lightly over his mouth, and then her sensual lips were on his; he breathed in her body warmth that smelt and tasted of the throbbing energy of the forest, and suddenly an almost volcanic longing surged and swelled within him. He reached out and grabbed Britomartis, holding her tight with a desperate craving, then, in a rage of passion, ran his hands clumsily over her arms and breasts, forcing his fingers with panting excitement beneath her tight clothes. Soon they were naked together, and in the frenzy of Thasos' unchecked passion, he learned the craving and almost agonizing struggle to complete ecstasy that was her greatest gift.
After the intense and nearly terrifying bliss of that wild first encounter, he did not see her again for almost a month. He was asleep in a forest near Kydonia, when his whole body was again ignited into throbbing life by her presence. She came, smelling of the hot sun-baked pines and the pulsing blood of the hunted hinds, and soon he was almost sobbing with the excitement and gratification offered by her elegant and sinewy body. A month later, she came to him again on the sands, near her islands at Elaphonissos and the gentle chorus of the waves merged and blended with their cries of passion.
He had become Britomartis' lover. At first, the deep thrill that her very presence brought made Thasos forget its dangers; that strong men fought and died for those same pleasures that he was now so freely enjoying. After a while, the very thought of fighting to the death for her favours terrified him.
"You silly boy, you don't have to fight for me," Britomartis purred one evening, when he expressed his fear. "You've already got me. You're different from any of the men I have hunted. You are a big white bull."
"I'm what?"
She giggled. "My mother remembers you well. It was your mother that was abducted by the Zeus bull, nearly half a great year ago, wasn't it? She and her hunters watched the whole ceremony, with you. Apparently your mother took all her clothes off and climbed onto the bull..."
"I remember your mother took Asterios away and I tried to stop her. Her hunters nearly choked me to death. Does your mother know that we -- that you and I ..."
"No. My mother is still angry that the Cnossos people took away her black bull. If I tell that that I have now found the woman's son, a white bull, she might not let you leave the forest again." She giggled. "Thasos, did you know that the next Great Year in Cnossos is the year of the White Bull? She would probably want to take you as her consort. I am waiting until a good moment to tell my mother you are my lover."
"When will a good moment be?" he asked, frightened at the thought of being confined in the forest.
Britomartis laughed - a warm, rich laugh of the ancient trees and soil of the forest. She ruffled his fair hair affectionately. "You will always be my white bull, my son of Europa," she said, then placed her warm, sweet-scented mouth over his. "My new Great Year begins next spring, but for now - let us enjoy the moment."
So Thasos enjoyed the moment with Britomartis and tried not to think about what might happen the following year.
However, one hot afternoon Thasos was introduced to more of Britomartis' sacred animals. While he sheltered half asleep in the sacred forest, she burst into his small clearing accompanied by two restless, growling lionesses.
"Do you like my pets?" she asked him.
With a hoot of panic, Thasos started scrambling up the nearest tree, succeeding only in snapping off the thin branches, slipping down the trunk and grazing his arms and knees.
"You needn't worry - they won't hurt you."
"Wh -- wh -- why have you brought those things here?" Thasos gazed at the snarling lionesses and clutched the lower parts of the tree trunk with both hands and feet, as if it were the mast of a sinking ship.
"They're sweet. They only want to be friendly." The lionesses arched their backs, roared at Thasos in weary disgust and then slowly advanced towards him, licking their lips. Thasos whimpered and grasped his tree trunk again.
"I didn't know they had lions in the forest!" Clearly it was a more dangerous place than he had realised. He would never sleep here again.
"Oh, these aren't from our forest," Britomartis explained. "We don't have such beautiful things here. They were a present from Egypt after I sent their king a really good batch of honey. It was sweet of Ptolemy to call me his Sun Goddess and give me two lionesses. Mind you, they were only cubs then, weren't you my sweeties? .... Thasos - don't you wish sometimes you lived in Egypt where they have such wonderful creatures as these wandering free in the wild?"
A snivel was her only answer, as Thasos shook his head vigorously.
"Why don't you say hello? They want to smell your hands." Thasos quaked as the creatures approached his tree. As their whiskers started to tickle his clenched hands, he tumbled to the ground, picked himself up and backed up against the trunk, flattening himself against it, thrusting his hands behind him where they could not be reached. The creatures then began to sniff speculatively at his stomach.
"Why are you being so cold to them, Thasos?" Britomartis reproached him. "They're trying to be friendly."
"They're trying to eat me."
"No, they're not. They only want some love. They want you to stroke them; you must tickle the backs of their ears and scratch their throats."
"T-touch them, you mean? Are you quite mad?"
"Look, I'll show you." She coaxed and patted one of the lionesses away from the tree, and then started scratching it behind the ear - quite hard, it seemed to Thasos. The creature gave an ominous roar.
"See - Irene's enjoying it."
"Irene?"
"That's her name. She's the Goddess of Peace." The lioness then rolled on her back and flailed her limbs in the air, growling and roaring angrily. "You see? Now I think Zoë expects you to do the same for her."
"Is that brute called Zoë?"
"I don't think you should call her a brute, Thasos. That's rude. See how she's looking at you? She's very upset now." The creature's eyes were fixed on him intently, yet incuriously. She yawned, showing a vast, dense cluster of long and sharply tapering white teeth.
"Thasos, I mean it; you'd better tickle Zoë's ear, or she might get angry."
"You mean - this beast will get angry if I don't touch her?"
"That's right -- and please don't call my little darling a beast."
With trembling hand, uncomfortable at being close to so many teeth, Thasos awkwardly leaned forward from his tree and started to fumble at the animal's flickering yellow ear. The fur was surprisingly soft to the touch. He had half expected it to be prickly and harsh like a porcupine. He ticked with more confidence and energy and, to his surprise, the creature rolled over, in an endearing gesture of submission, languidly spreading her thick limbs out.
Averting his head from the creature's heavy flailing paws, Thasos, breathless and perspiring in the heat with the effort, valiantly continued to scratch. The lioness raised her head and exposed her neck.
"You're doing well, Thasos," Britomartis said encouragingly. "She wants you to scratch her throat now." In trepidation, Thasos shifted his hand to the beast's throat, aware that his hand was now even closer to those teeth. He started scratching and could feel the powerful rumbling of the animal's pleasure - or was it anger? - somewhere from the depths beyond her throat, vibrating through the tips of his tremulous fingers. Then without warning the creature rolled forward, twisted her head round and gripped Thasos' arm firmly in her teeth.
"Zoë that's naughty," said Britomartis in a scolding tone. "Put it down, please." Thasos was too terrified to scream and dared not move. "She's only being affectionate," Britomartis assured him.
Thasos was not reassured. He thought he could see a glimmer of distant hunger in those yellow unfocussed eyes. The creature's face now wore a look of sullen cruelty; the face of the predator, not the playful pet.
Britomartis rushed over and ticked the lioness' chin. "Zoë can play rough sometimes, but it's only her fun," she explained. "Now, my lovely sweet little girly," Britomartis said, addressing the lioness, which was now growling perilously, "you shouldn't be so rough with Thasos. He's not used to it. It's time to let him go now."
Somehow she prised the creature's jaws open and Thasos snatched away his throbbing arm, hotly wet, deeply imprinted by the pricks of the creature's pointed teeth.
"Look at what that brute's done," he hooted. Trembling, he held out his tooth-pocked arm for sympathy. Britomartis examined it and smiled.
"That's all right," she said. "You're completely unhurt."
"Unhurt. Can't you see my wounds?"
"Wounds? Where's the blood then, Thasos?" Britomartis jeered, as if rebuking a little boy. "Zoë doesn't mean any harm. She's a sweet little girl."
"Sweet little girl? She tried to chew my arm off." Thasos stroked and massaged his smarting arm.
"You'd have no arm left if she had. She bites me all the time. She nearly had my leg off the other day."
"What are you doing with such dangerous animals anyway?"
Britomartis gazed up at him; a look of distress on her face. "You really don't like my lovely lionesses?"
"No. I think they're horrible."
Britomartis gazed at him in sorrow and disappointment, then sighed, bent down and spoke cooingly to the two beasts, which were now sitting erectly, staring fixedly and speculatively at Thasos, as if observing and contemplating distant prey. She gently held them by the ruff and eased them away into the forest.
"I'll come and join you later, my little darlings," she said wistfully, as they stalked their way into the cover of the trees, still growling and roaring intermittently.
"You're surely not letting those dangerous animals loose in the forest?" wailed Thasos. "They could attack someone."
"I told you, they're harmless - unless I tell them otherwise," Britomartis insisted. "You are being very childish, Thasos. What's the matter with you? Don't you want to ravish me today?"
Britomartis forgave Thasos his odd dislike of her beloved lionesses and came to him more often; both at night, and during the afternoon when he was resting from his work. To his relief, she didn't bring any other animals with her; he was afraid that she might come accompanied a pack of hunting hounds. Nevertheless, Thasos never lost the apprehension that those lionesses had aroused. He knew they were more than pets. In some more frightening way, the lionesses expressed the nature of Britomartis herself.
Thasos could sometimes see, in the hard bright eyes of Britomartis, a reflection of the ancient, cold brutality of the gaze of the feral cat. She showed the same energetic affection as a cub. There was a kittenish playfulness about her that could be naïve, harmless and even helpless, but which masked a danger as deadly as the boisterous play of the grown lioness.
Britomartis, in fact, loved to play violent games - and her favourite game was the hunt.
In this game, she encouraged Thasos to run away and lose himself in any part of the sprawling outer forest that he liked - and she would promise to track him down before sundown. She always found him in a few moments - with an unerring directness that began to terrify him. How did she do it? She seemed to have no need of her dogs, horned assistants, or lioness to hunt him. Once, in desperation, he had almost buried himself alive in a thick mound of soil and pinecones and she had laughingly disinterred him in an instant.
"You silly boy, I have learned to track you with my nose. Do you think I don't know your smell by now?"
"I hope I smell nice," he said.
"You smell gorgeous, Thasos," she assured him, with a raucously seductive laugh. "You are my favourite food. You make me feel so hungry I'm going to tear you to pieces."
Whenever she hunted him down, it was part of her game to pretend to rend him apart, as if Thasos were her captured prey. "Imagine I'm a pack of hungry hounds now, Thasos," she would say in a high-pitched throaty snarl. "I'm going to eat you." Then she would wrestle and grapple with him, all the time growling and shrieking with combined aggression and excitement. She was nimble and surprisingly strong, and more than capable of hurting him. She always encouraged Thasos to fight back and as he did so, the struggle became sensual; he and Britomartis mangled and manipulated each other's limbs, gripped each other in fiercely tight embraces, revelled in the close skin contact between them, until the fights became slower and more searchingly, audaciously intimate. She would still pretend to eat him, but now he was excited by her gentle, well-directed bites, and the fact that her tongue explored various sensitive parts of his body. He would pretend to 'eat' her in return, laughing with pleasure as his mouth tasted and savoured the musty salt tang of her wood-scented skin, until the struggle ended in a prolonged act of love that could either be frantic or languorous, depending on their mood. As much as he enjoyed it, Thasos knew that the hunt was not a game for Britomartis. To her it was a sacred ritual; she was the Goddess of the Hunt.
But after a few months, Thasos began to feel safe in Britomartis' company. They were spending more and more time together, but not only in the ferocious, striving passion they still enjoyed. Their lovemaking became more leisurely - they spent much of the night performing the act in a slow exploration of their intimacy - a pleasurable, almost dreamlike state. Britomartis laughed often during these sessions; a robust, deep, guttural laugh that contrasted strangely with her taut, slender body.
To Thasos it seemed that when Britomartis laughed, as was if the earth itself were laughing. If the earth had a mouth and could laugh, he told Britomartis more than once, it would laugh as she did. Every time he said this, she would laugh again; a laugh even deeper and more rumbling than before - a laugh as primeval as the very ground on which they lay. "If I am the earth, then you are my tree," she would say, as he lay with his groin pressed hard against hers, his member nestling comfortably inside her familiar wet warmth. "You are planted in me, my dear Thasos - forever. I don't ever want you to leave me. Please don't ever uproot yourself from your Britomartis - your earth."
As their physical intimacy became a comforting, almost customary state, a growing trust grew up between them. Thasos, as he became intimately familiar with Britomartis' body, shared all his thoughts with her, telling her of his early life in Patras and Cnossos. While their loins and warm bodies writhed and flowed together with a tender rhythmic harmony throughout the night, and Thasos gently expelled his seed into her again and again, Britomartis told him things that he was sure no man had ever been told before. One night she confided her dislike of the Great Houses, and Cnossos in particular.
"I hate all the houses; Phaistos, Malia, Zakros, and especially Cnossos," she murmured, in rhythm to his gentle thrusting. "Our ways are better. We worship the landscape. We seek the Goddess - where she belongs - in caves and gorges - in waterfalls and rivers - in the landscape she created. Why build Great Houses - just to contain her? And as for their moon Goddesses - they think the Great Goddess speaks through them. Have you heard such blasphemy?"
For no particular reason, Thasos suddenly found himself wondering how differently Pasiphae would feel, lying beneath him on the floor of the forest, her pale body dewy with warm passion, her small limbs frenziedly clutched round him, her voice groaning and sobbing with yearning pleasure in the cool night. At that moment he unexpectedly came again, for the third time that night, and quite deliciously too. He lurched forward with an abrupt and blissful spasm, emitting long, low moans of pleasure as his body glowed and tingled all over, then he sank down with his head on Britomartis' breast, gurgling and drooling with contentment.
"You haven't finished already have you?" asked Britomartis, rather sharply. "That was far too quick."
"That's three times," he burbled, glowing with pride and complete well-being. "How much more do you want in one night?" He just wanted to go to sleep now, having achieved perfect fulfilment and utter peace. His thoughts drifted towards Pasiphae.
"Three times? Is that all? Well that's more than I've had." She started pulling his ears and hair. "That's not fair. That's not supposed to happen - you're supposed to think of my pleasure, you know, and I'm not getting enough. Hey," she protested again, shifting her whole body underneath him. "You needn't think you're going to sleep in me again, either. If you do I shall leave, Thasos. The forest floor is for sleeping on. Not me."
"Oh, Britomartis. I'm just happy now..."
"No you're not. You're just proud of yourself. Three times? That's nothing to be proud of. You've done better than that before - and I haven't finished. I expect you to get to work again after a bit. No more going to sleep."
A spluttering groan was her answer. "Oh, I can't."
"You will, Thasos," she insisted, "Or I won't come back to you for months."
Everything was spoiled for Thasos after that night. He had always assumed that he was satisfying Britomartis as much as he was satisfying himself. But he soon realised that he was not fulfilling her, because she was insatiable. He remembered, with a tremor of unease, that her men tended to be physically large -- in more ways than one.
As the nights came and went, he still found her body desirable, but had lost his confidence. He discovered that there are limits to a man's appetite; he cannot gorge himself incessantly on even the most delectable foods. Britomartis never felt tired and was never, never satisfied; she drove Thasos on every night onto repeated efforts until he did not think he could take it much more.
Then a possible escape occurred to Thasos, although it was several days before he had the courage to ask the question and was almost frightened of what the answer would be.
"Britomartis," he said wearily, late one afternoon, as she was poised above him, her ample shapely breasts playfully pummelling him across the face, demanding that he show a little more energy, "Aren't you pregnant yet?"
She shrieked with laughter; she laughed so much she fell off him and rolled naked on the ground. Thasos moved away from her, with rather more energy than he had shown for a long time. This was a perfect chance for a rest. He leapt to his feet. It was quite a relief to stand up.
"Oh, you funny boy," she said, as she lay on her back, looking up at him with laughing eyes and pushing her legs temptingly apart. "You needn't worry about that. When I am ready, I will have a child. One day I will need to have a daughter - a beautiful Goddess of the wild, like me. Perhaps you will give that daughter to me. But all you need to know now, my dear Thasos, is that a child will come when I want it to. Until then I want fun."
Thasos had been hoping for a rest. "You mean - you can stop yourself getting pregnant, even while you're ... while you're doing it?" he asked "Is that possible?"
"Of course it's possible."
"Well, it's rather strange, you must admit," he said sulkily. "A woman not getting pregnant?"
"Why? Why is it strange? You won't get pregnant Thasos, no matter how many times you ravish me, you mad ox. And no one thinks that's strange. Why shouldn't I have fun too without getting pregnant - just like a man? You need more lessons in woman's love. Perhaps I should show you my arts of contraception, and allow them to administer them to me. You might enjoy doing that. It needs gentle nimble fingers." She reached up and pulled him face downwards on top of her. "But right now you can stop being so gentle," she said raucously, slapping him hard on the buttocks, while he lay and groaned. "Now that you're on top of me again, I want you to ravish me until I scream for joy."
After that, hardly a day passed in which Britomartis did not prove her determination to enjoy lovemaking to the full. She came to him every night and some afternoons as well. Thasos found that flesh and blood could not stand it. In desperation, he tried thinking of Pasiphae during the act. This revived his interest for a short while, but soon the nights became an eternity of grinding effort; a panting and often painful task that he felt was beyond him. He was getting no sleep and, as a result, soon found it difficult to do a day's work.
When he complained of tiredness, Britomartis encouraged him to stop working. "You can save all your energy for me," she said cheerfully, "instead of wasting it out on those boring fields."
"Fields are a source of food," Thasos protested.
"Yes - boring food from boring people."
"The farmers are not boring people," Thasos objected loyally.
"Of course they are. They're just slaves to the Great Houses. I can bring you better food than that. I'll start feeding you." She started bringing him meat from her recent kills; freshly roasted, or braised venison, goat or boar, seasoned deliciously with herbs, along with plentiful fruits of the forest. Sometimes she prepared meals in the clearing, constructing a tripod and skewer from fallen branches, skilfully lighting a small fire, draping a joint or part of a carcase over it, seasoning it and finally roasting it to perfect succulence.
"This should arouse the animal in you, Thasos," she said with her earthy laugh, as she served him. Certainly the red meat was more flavoursome and satisfying than the beans, cheeses and fish he was used to receiving in the farming communities. It even revived his energies for a while, and he was able to recover some remnants of pleasure and self esteem in his exploration of Britomartis' body.
However, his intimacy with the Goddess of the Wild was soon to come to a very abrupt and unpleasant end.
The Horned God
The forest was a place of impenetrable mystery to Thasos and he was happy for it to remain that way.
He knew that Britomartis ran back into its pitiless depths every morning. He did not know where she went and he never asked her. Defensively, he remained on the fringes of the forest, grateful that Britomartis never asked him to accompany her further into its shadowy, furtively brutish heart. She had not told her mother and her priestesses that she had found him, and Thasos was glad that the spirits of the untamed forest left him alone.
But one evening a part of the wild covert life of the forest came to Thasos. He was visited, not by Britomartis' priestesses, but by a group of horned men , who burst noisily into his clearing and performed a drunken dance around him. They waved huge wooden clubs, with which they beat the ground to a steady rhythm, and chanted a limited repertoire of insults at Thasos.
Just when he thought the dancers might surround him and beat him to death, they were overcome by fatigue - or drunkenness - and one by one they fell over, rolling on the ground laughing, flailing their fat limbs and gasping for breath. Then the tallest and fattest of them, who appeared to be the leader, got up and ambled over to Thasos. He stood gazing down at him with a wondering contempt, while the other horned men watched eagerly. Thasos gazed up at the huge man in a mixture of annoyance and fear, hoping for an explanation of this intrusion into his peace.
"So you are Thasos," the horned man snarled.
"That's right."
The man gave a low-throated roar, and then spat energetically.
"Do you know how many men I have killed today?" he asked, wiping his mouth and bringing his perspiring face closer to Thasos.
"Oh, I don't know," Thasos bleated. "Lots, I'm sure."
"I want you to tell me how many," the man growled. "If you refuse to guess I will be offended. And when I am offended I kill people. The day is not yet over and I can easily add to the number of men I have killed."
"Oh, I should think you've killed about - at least five men today," said Thasos, hoping to pacify the big man with flattery.
"Five?" the large man howled, as if Thasos had insulted his manhood. "Is there so small a number as five? I spit on the number five." He spat again, another deep, loud, throaty spew. "I welcome you to spit on me if I kill only five men. If I have killed only five men I will let you remove my divine horns and use them as an arse-scratcher. Five men?"
"I thought five men quite a lot to kill in one day, actually."
"Hah! I had already killed seven men before breakfast. Now, I will ask you again. How many men have I killed today?"
"Well, how about fifteen? Or twenty?" asked Thasos wretchedly. "I don't know."
The man uttered a rasp of disgust. "Yuch. Twenty, eh? If I had drunk an ocean of wine, then stayed awake all night and made love to fifty women then I might kill only twenty men the next day. Last night I only drank about five flagons of wine and made love to ten women, so today I was not so tired. So how many men did I kill?"
"Forty? Fifty? Sixty?" squawked Thasos.
"That is the wrong answer, my friend," the large man answered with a throaty chuckle. "And you know why? It is because I do not know the right answer myself. I have killed so many men today I cannot count them."
He gave a roar of laughter, turned round to his friends while they laughed too, and then he turned to Thasos again, his face leering with contempt.
"Now my friend. You will tell me how many men you have killed today."
"Ah." Thasos gulped, as the man's eyes seemed to pierce his craven soul. "That is a difficult question. I haven't actually - um - got round to - yet...."
"You've let a whole day pass without killing anyone?" the horned man roared.
Thasos writhed awkwardly. "In fact, I've never actually killed anyone - ever...in my life."
"Shameful! Shocking!" roared the big man, while his followers whistled and tutted their condemnation. "Why are you infecting our living forest if you have never killed anyone?" He took a club from one of his friends. "This is a disgrace - it must not continue an instant longer." He hurled the club at Thasos. It only just missed his head.
"You may kill me, my friend." He clasped his own hefty club and started to wave it near the top of Thasos' head. "You need no longer cower in bloodless disgrace. I am being very kind to you." He lowered his club and stood with his arms and legs apart in a kind of submissive readiness. "I will even let you strike the first blow. I am waiting for you to kill me right now."
"But I don't want to kill you."
"You have no choice. You must kill someone. And I tell you this," the horned man added, jabbing his club at Thasos, "if you are to remain in the company of the divine Britomartis, you will have to kill me - or I will kill you. That is the way of things here in the forest. Kill me or be killed. You might as well get it over with now."
"But I need practice," babbled Thasos. "Can you come back tomorrow - and - and perhaps I can try and kill you then?" he suggested politely.
The horned man shoved the tip of his club hard against Thasos' chest and pressed until Thasos was pushed backwards, and pinned him on his back, on the earth.
"Very well. I will return - maybe tomorrow night," he said, glaring down at Thasos. "I will expect you to fight me then. You cannot escape it any longer. If you are to be with Britomartis you must fight me for her."
He removed his club from Thasos's chest and allowed him to sit up.
"Of course, you won't stand a chance," he said, almost casually. "I have wallowed in the blood and waded though the shattered bones of countless rivals to Britomartis' love. I have slain whole tribes - whole clans - in her name and you my friend, you have not killed so much as a goat. Yours will be just one more smashed up body to add to the huge pile. I am looking forward to it."
He gave Thasos' stomach a final hard prod with his club, then he and his companions rushed out of his clearing, with a final growling and shaking of clubs, just as an astonished Britomartis arrived.
"What was Dionysus doing here?" she asked.
"Those men are some of my horned hunters - men of the wood," Britomartis explained, when Thasos complained about his unwelcome visitors. "Dionysus calls himself their King of the Wood. They accompany me on hunts and attend my forest rites. Perhaps you should start attending my tree ceremonies if you want to get to know them better."
Thasos did not want to get to know them better. He never wanted to see them again. "Dionysus threatened to kill me," he protested.
"Dionysus is very naughty," said Britomartis reassuringly. "But he just wanted to meet you. I've told my hunters that you're my new Horned God."
"You've told them - what?"
"I had to tell them something; I spend so much time with you."
"They think I'm your Chosen Consort," babbled Thasos. "They'll expect me to fight for you now. Dionysus certainly expects me to..."
"You do not have to fight if you do not want to, Thasos. I will tell Dionysus and my hunters that they must never approach you again when I am not here. I know Dionysus wants to be my consort, but I'm not interested in him and he knows that really. Anyway, now that my horned hunters have seen you, they probably won't be back again."
She was wrong. Dionysus and his companions returned to his clearing the very next evening, luckily when Britomartis was there. When she asked them, grimly, what they wanted, Dionysus told Britomartis that he had come to dance for her.
"We will have music too, my Goddess," announced Dionysus. Several of his friends proudly brandished crude wooden pipes. "I have killed a hundred and fifty men in your name today and so I am ready to dance for joy at my victories."
"Only a hundred and fifty?" asked Britomartis. "Why so few? Is the forest running out of men?"
"My lady, you are the centre of my life," Dionysus continued, unabashed. "My dance will express my powerful and potent love. Your little rabbit companion can watch if he wishes. He might learn how a real Consort is expected to show obeisance and ardour to the Goddess of the wild."
"All right, you may dance if you must," Britomartis sighed. "But please make it short and go. I want to make passionate love to Thasos."
"My Lady," Dionysus promised, like one offering a costly gift, "When you have seen my dance, you will send this pixie of the towns away. I expect you to faint with rapture at the sight and want to make love to me for the rest of the day."
Britomartis shrieked with laughter. "I'm looking forward to this, Dionysus. I'd better sit down so I don't hurt myself when I faint with rapture."
She sat in the centre of the clearing, crossing her slim, elegant legs. Thasos remained on the edge, looking on with some apprehension. Dionysus gestured to his friends who, after great panting effort, produced a feeble cacophony on their simple reed pipes. The horned god of the woods then began his erotic dance.
He had oiled his torso and the bulging outline of his huge physique gleamed and furrowed like waves in the light of the fire. His movements emphasised his strength and the snake-like sinewy rippling of his body. Then the dance became animated and Dionysus tottered and stamped, thrusting out his pelvis and waving up his short skirt, exposing his very ready and rampant masculinity.
A confident grin appeared on Dionysus' face as Britomartis swooned onto her back, flailing and twisting her shapely legs, her arms tightly embracing her body. Thasos could see that her eyes were closed and her mouth wide open. In despair, Thasos watched his horned adversary gyrate confidently towards Britomartis lying helpless and writhing on her back. Only when she sat up and pointed at her dancing suitor did it become clear that she was helpless with laughter.
Dionysus stopped dancing. The pipers wheezed into silence. Britomartis shrieked and thumped the ground and struggled to control her hilarity, while the horned man stood dejectedly, his whole body appearing to sag.
"My Lady," he growled, "I have spent days -- months - practicing that fertility dance."
"Is that a fertility dance, Dionysus?" gasped Britomartis, wiping her eyes. "Then you must be the most infertile man on the Goddess' good earth."
"Oh, my Lady..."
"By the Great Goddess, what were you thinking of, Dionysus? Even if I wanted to be ravished by you - which I don't - I would not do it under a tree in front of your drunken friends. And as for your member - why do you expose it like a little boy who has just discovered he has one? If I were interested in looking at your organ, which I am not, I would expect you to use it like a real man and not a shy little youngster that handles it for private gratification."
"Oh, my Lady!" His voice growled low and guttural, as from an anguished soul. "My lady, how can you be so cruel? I am the great Dionysus, the God of the Wood, master of the hunt..."
"You?Master of the hunt? You are a useless hunter, Dionysus. You are much too fat. You wobble around on the chase, puffing and panting, trying to catch up and I am tired of making my hounds wait around for you and letting the prey escape. Your body may be big, but your energy is small. Now I wish to be alone with my dear Thasos, whose member is so much bigger than yours, even when it is limp."
"Your dear Thasos?" Dionysus asked, in an almost beseeching tone, "If he is so dear to you, why isn't he amongst our secret circles in the woods? Why does he never lead our hunt? My Lady, he should be in the centre of the forest, in the sanctuary of your temples, helping your priestesses, learning the secret of your cult and killing plenty of men. Why does he cower and hide outside in the fields and the clearings and do nothing?"
"Dionysus, the forest is not the world. My domain includes the whole of nature. I have secrets outside our tree dances and your silly boy fights that you have never seen or dreamed of. I have not taken you to those sacred domains that breathe and thrive beneath the struggling tree roots, or tower above the wood temples and groves, because you are too stupid to understand them."
"Thank you, my lady. And have you shared these wonderful places with this clever foreigner yet?" Dionysus scoffed. "Or do you let him cringe and hide from these too?"
"No. As soon as Thasos agrees to be my Consort, and has met my mother and priestesses, I shall take him away from the forest to my sky sanctuaries and there we shall live for an eternal season."
The other horned hunters all drew in a deep, sharp breath at this extraordinary disclosure. For a few silent moments, Dionysus stood as still as a stone statue. Then he bent down towards Britomartis as if he had not heard what she had said. "As soon as Thasos ... what?" he asked, in a voice hoarse with astonishment.
"As soon as Thasos has consented to be my Consort, I will take him to my sacred regions outside the forest and there we will always be together."
Dionysus turned his shaggy, horn-crowned head towards Thasos, his face blank with incredulity.
"Are you telling me, my lady, that you have already chosen this man to be your Consort?"
"I have."
"And you are saying he hasn't consented yet." Dionysus spluttered on the words, like a child choking on dry bread.
"Yes. That is why I have not brought Thasos into the forest domains ..."
"My lady, this is unspeakable," Dionysus' courage and defiance were revived by his indignation. "It is not for him to decide if he is Chosen. It is for you to choose. This is against nature. You allow this man to spurn and insult you. He is the bringer of waste and shame..."
"He is my darling Thasos and I love him."
"Your darling Thasos?" mocked Dionysus, and his horned followers echoed his scornful laugh. "My Lady, you have been conjured upon. You are not behaving like the true Goddess. I was born to be your Consort. I stand here as the deserved sole challenger, the assured victor, for your Consort. I am worthy to stand beside the potent vine, whose divine juices have given us the sacred dance, the holy song, the gift of laughter and the appetite to breed. I am worthy to stand...."
"Dionysus, please go away..."
"I am worthy to stand beside the fine sacred oak of our forests, whose strength and manly vigour I so proudly embody. All this - and more - I offer to you, my lady. And I find you have instead chosen this sapling, this sprouting weed," Dionysus gestured with vicious scorn at Thasos. "This chaff, this clump of hay. You see how pale his hair is? His blood must be of the same colour. He is a mere sprout of sap and water. I will uproot him. I will crush him as I crush a blade of grass." Emboldened by his followers' mutterings of support, Dionysus began to rouse himself to a state of excitement. "It is an evil thing that you have chosen this interloper, this wicked magus, this warlock of the towns. We will kill him when you are not here, any time when he is alone - here at night or in the fields by day, we will find him ..."
He turned to Thasos and brandished his wooden club with deadly intent: "You have bewitched her." he roared. "You have taken her from me. You have corrupted our Goddess. You will die. You are the enemy of fertility, the foe of life. You will die!"
Dionysus' followers began accompanying his threats with a slow rhythmic chant. Dionysus was now pacing out an elaborate and graceless war dance to his followers' crescendo of chanting, uttering ever more dreadful threats against Thasos. In his excitement he threw his club to the ground.
"This is beyond mere clubs," he roared. "This is a time for teeth and claws and talons. We will come to you in the night. We will bring rocks, knives and axes of horrible bluntness. And you will die - you will die slowly and agonisingly and there will be nothing left of you. Your voice will expire forever in screams, and wild beasts will consume your blood-soaked remains..."
While Dionysus, possessed by his own rage, made cutting and clawing gestures at Thasos, Britomartis picked up the discarded club, held out her long slim arm like a benediction or a tall bird intending to take flight, then swiftly swung it round, and struck Dionysus a tremendous blow on the side of the head.
Dionysus howled, and then collapsed like a man dead. He floundered and shuffled clumsily on the ground, while his followers' chanting petered out into terrified silence. Britomartis threw the club away into the distant bushes.
"Do you defy me?" she cried, in a strident, piercing voice that chilled the blood in Thasos' body. "Do you dare to choose my consort?" she demanded, her foot on Dionysus' head. "Who are you, a mortal man, to declare - to define - to dictate - the real religion?" She pressed harder on his head while Dionysus gave a suffocated sob. "You may lie on the ground a little longer, to remind yourself of where you came from, you man of dung - and where you are going to, you creature of clay."
With her foot still on Dionysus' head, she turned and glared at the other horned men, whose faces expressed mute terror. At a single downward gesture from her, they dropped on their knees.
"Let me look at you all," she said, now in a calm voice. "Let me see which one of you will raise a violent hand against my Consort Thasos. Which of you wants to be hunted to death? Hunted until you sob for mercy, hunted until your lungs burst - until your feet are bleeding and blood spurts from your noses and ears? Hunted without rest or respite, until all your blood drains from your body? And then, when you think you have found rest, when you sob because you have at last found refuge and peace, I will find you and chase you again, and then, when all sight and sense leaves you and your legs break under you like twigs, you will be captured and sacrificed; skinned and eaten slowly, bit by bit, until you scream out your last breath. Do you want that? Do any of you want that?"
Thasos gazed at Britomartis in horror as she stared down at her cowed horned hunters. Her face looked gaunt, and wore a cruel grimace that made it unrecognisable. Even more frightening were her eyes; there was no anger or animation in them, just a cool vague remoteness: the passionless cruelty of the hunting lioness.
None of the men dared speak. Transfixed, they gaped at Britomartis.
"Will you answer me?" she screamed again, with terrifying force. "Answer me if you want to live!"
They babbled their terrified denials. "None, Goddess. None. Not I; not I...." She made a contemptuous, curling gesture with one hand, and they turned away, muttering in humility and crawled from the clearing on their knees, like shrunken insects.
"You may leave us Dionysus," Britomartis said coolly, as she removed her foot from his head. The God of the Wood gave a groan, rose and began to creep after his friends. "No - you may not get up," she called to him. "You wish to be my consort, so you can imitate the action of earth's consort - the snake. I want to see you wriggle out of this clearing on your stomach." Dionysus toppled forward onto his face again and writhed and squirmed his way towards the surrounding column of trees, grunting like a man dying of a mortal wound.
"And don't come back," Britomartis called after him.
"Have you - have you ever done that to anyone?" Thasos asked Britomartis hesitantly, once Dionysus had wriggled his groaning way out of the clearing. "Have you ever hunted anyone to death and killed them slowly?" It was a question he felt he had to ask.
"Of course I haven't," Britomartis assured him, with gentle conviction, as she pulled him towards her. "I always hunt for a quick kill; the Goddess does not allow needless suffering. But I would do that - I would do much worse - to anyone who hurt you." Thasos looked at her face and saw that it was now wearing a tender, wistful smile; there were even tears lingering behind those affectionate blue eyes. She leaned down and kissed him softly and lingeringly on the forehead. "I want you all to myself, Thasos," she said quietly. "I won't let my hunters join us any more. You will never have to see them again, I promise."
"But Dionysus is still threatening to kill me. He kills lots of men - he told me..."
"Oh, you didn't believe him? Thasos - if Dionysus had killed half the number of men he says he has, the forest would be a very empty place indeed. I would have to borrow men from the villages, or start hunting with sheep. Dionysus loves to talk, but his talk is foolish bluster. I doubt whether he has killed a single man in his life. He won't bother you now. He knows he has no chance of being my Consort."
"As long as you're sure."
She embraced and squeezed him tightly, as if he were a small child. "You are mine," she whispered in his ear. "I have secret places to share with you. I will show you those holy sites I have not shown Dionysus - those places outside the forest I have not shown any other man. I understand that you do not wish to be the Horned God of the Wood, Thasos, but I can make you Lord of my other domains, my white bull. Together we will grow wings and visit my realms of the sky."
Thasos would have been very grateful for a set of wings when Britomartis took him to what she called her realms of the sky.
He had assumed that these shrines would be on hilltops, offering the sort of beautiful views of the island that he had always enjoyed on his long walks between farms. He would have been happy to worship at shrines like these. They offered an experience of the divine, the presence of the Goddess in the landscape, which he knew he could share.
But Britomartis' shrines, her caves, tree shrines and rock pools were not situated on pleasant hillsides. They were as secret and arcane as the deepest underground chambers of The Great House. Instead of being located inside the earth, as in Cnossos, they were located high above the earth; over ravines, perched on the edge of cliff faces, or half way down dark, plunging potholes.
After his first visit with Britomartis to a cliff top shrine, Thasosdiscovered he had a terror of heights. This made it hard for him to express appropriate admiration for the places she took him to. Every time they arrived at spring or cave that it had taken half the day to reach, Thasos could barely suppress a shiver at the dizzying view. All he could think was that it would take another half day to climb back down again. What was the point of risking his life in this way?
"Yes, it's a very nice shrine," he would say, with a weak smile, often with his eyes shut. "Yes, it's very peaceful and cool too. Very, very pretty." He was afraid to say the wrong thing, yet was anxiously aware that he was not saying the right thing either. He could see, from her sometimes sullen face, that Britomartis was becoming disappointed in her chosen Consort.
Then one day the dreadful thing happened. On one especially long and dangerous expedition, Thasos said something unforgivable to Britomartis.
It was a very windy day. Thasos hated the island's strong winds and, over the years, had become adept at hiding from them. When he had awoken that fateful morning to the unseasonable coolness of the air and the dreaded roar of the trees jerking and nodding above his forest bed, he had resolved to find a shelter, roll into it and cower there until the storm had blown over. However, Britomartis had appeared as usual, and dragged him out of his hiding place into the billowing tempest.
"The omens are perfect, Thasos," she had said brightly. "We will visit my great temple of Holy Wisdom today."
She took him to the worst possible place for a windy day: a deep narrow gorge, which funnelled the gale's rage into a concentrated ferocity that almost blew Thasos' head off. In sheer perversity, it seemed, she insisted on walking this ravine against the full energy of the gale, singing cheerfully.
Thasos found it almost impossible to stand up, let alone walk, through the tornado that hurled through the deep channel of this gorge. Indeed, he was afraid that the wind might even pick him up or propel him back down the slope. Occasionally his tear-clogged eyes allowed him a glimpse of the looming ravine around him. It towered higher and more starkly every time he peered up. Stunted shrubs and trees stretched and strained from their shallow roots, as if eager to fly from their precipitous anchors and land on his head. Rocks and boulders loomed and teetered above him on lofty ledges, ready to fall to the earth and crush him. Birds squawked, swooped and dived almost at his face. Dust and gravel was flung into his eyes. Winter rains had left rocky pools and streams into which he constantly stumbled up to his knees. Great Zeus, this was a terrible place.
"In the name of all that is sacred, Britomartis, what are we doing here?" Thasos stopped walking, in order to protest. He had to shout over the thundering of the wind. "Why have you chosen to walk along a gorge on a day like this?"
"Did you think my sacred places should be snug and cosy?" She screamed back, her voice fiercely penetrating the windy blast. "Did you think they should be places where you can relax? This is not a Cnossos bedchamber, Thasos. The Goddess is accessible, but she is all-powerful. You must approach her through strain and striving, not prayers and sleep. This is the passage to birth - the striving to new life."
It's a striving for death, Thasos thought bitterly. But he had no chance to argue, because Britomartis was calling to him again.
"We are in the Goddess' body now. Soon we will enter her womb. Now we are in her windpipe. Is it not wonderful? Can you not feel her breathing?"
"How can I miss it? Oh, Britomartis, how soon do we get to the womb?" He hoped it would be quieter than the Goddess' windpipe.
Britomartis gestured him to keep following. "First you will emerge from this birth channel and feel the sunlight on your head. Then you will enter the Goddess' womb."
When he had finally staggered behind Britomartis to the end of the ravine, Thasos found himself standing right under a sheer cliff face. He stared at it appalled, as Britomartis started nimbly climbing its impossible slope.
"Is the womb up there?" he asked, blankly.
She turned to beckon him upwards. "I told you that you would feel the sun on your head, didn't I?" The wind had now dropped - or perhaps it was less noticeable out of the gorge - and the sun was blazing down, just as Britomartis had promised, directly down on Thasos' unprotected head. He was now sweating, his legs were stiffening up after the fight against the wind in the gorge, and he had what looked like a punishing climb ahead. This was clearly going to be the most sacred - and therefore most dangerous - of all Britomartis' sacred sites.
It took Thasos a long time to climb that mountainside, not only because he was tired and the way was steep, but also because many of the protruding rocks on which he trusted his weight were dangerously loose. One large rock came away in his hand and Thasos nearly performed a backwards somersault off the mountain. Terrified, he spread his arms frantically, grabbing divots, anchoring his fingers and knees in shallow clefts.
Britomartis grabbed his arm and had to help him up - pulling and almost dragging him, as he almost whimpered with panic, to within sight of her own most sacred cave - the cave of Holy Wisdom - perched at a vertiginous height at the edge of the cliff face.
"We're nearly there, Thasos," she assured him, pointing up the dizzying slope, as he gasped to regain his breath. "Look - you can see the Goddess at the entrance to the cave." Thasos looked up and saw a crudely carved wooden figure, blackened with age, protruding at a small opening in the bleached rock above. Its hideous face leered toothlessly under thickly knotted hair that resembled bunches of fighting snakes. It looked revolting enough to discourage all but the rashest visitor to venture any further. "What is that thing?" Thasos asked blankly.
"This represents the Great Goddess, standing guard at the entrance to the cave; indicating that her divine presence is within," Britomartis explained, in a voice of pride.
Thasos gazed up at the roughly hewn, vindictive-looking object in bewilderment. "Is that supposed to be you, Britomartis?" he asked without thinking.
An uncomfortable silence followed. Britomartis released her protective hold on Thasos and he began sliding down the slope.
"Britomartis." he squawked, "I'm going to fall." He clung to the crumbling mountainside with his body, trying to save himself.
"What do you mean - is it supposed to be me?" Britomartis asked. "Is that meant to be a joke?"
"No, no. Not at all," he panted. He had clearly said the wrong thing. "Not a bit of it. Not at all," he gasped. His fingers and toes were aching with the strain of clinging on. "I didn't mean it."
"How can that figure be me, Thasos?" Britomartis asked, in a voice hoarse with emotion. "It's very old. It was here even before my mother was born, probably my grandmother too. It is so old it is timeless. We don't know who made it - only that it expresses the eternal presence of the Great Goddess, the ancient power of the divine feminine, the spirit and energy of the earth and the wild domains. It's not supposed to look like me."
"Look, Britomartis, I'm really, really sorry..." He was hanging for his life on a sheer mountainside and Britomartis, perched a few feet above him, could prise him off as easily as if he had been a loose rock. He was completely in her power. The thought was terrifying.
"It's not meant to be a beautiful figure," Britomartis continued. "It doesn't express nature's beauty, but her toughness, her durability - yes, and her harshness and cruelty too. I suppose, really, you could call it a very ugly object indeed. Is that how I look to you, Thasos?"
"Of course not..."
"Then why did you ask if it looked like me?" she asked mournfully. "Do you think my people are bad artists, or do you just think I am so very ugly?"
His feeble grip on the ledge was now weakening. Little crumbs of earth were trickling from under his whitening fingers. He had chosen a very unfortunate time to upset Britomartis. "Oh no, darling - my darling. You know I think you're absolutely beautiful - the most beautiful woman in the world.... I love you, I love you, I love you..." he babbled. "I adore you..."
"In that case, you must think we are bad artists." She was clearly unimpressed by his avowals of love. "Well, I'm afraid we can't make beautiful things like your people in Cnossos. Pasiphae is very beautiful, isn't she," she asked meditatively. "I am sure she has lots of statues and figurines that look just like her. They're good at that sort of thing in Cnossos, aren't they? They're real artists. Not like my people."
"Oh Britomartis - I'm going to fall any moment... really and truly, I don't care about the artefacts and pictures in Cnossos. They mean nothing to me. I really don't care about them at all... I think they're horrible."
"What about Pasiphae? Do you think she's horrible?"
Thasos managed to choke the hesitation out of his voice. "Their art means nothing to me - the pictures and vases and things, I don't care about any of them. They're quite useless. I hate them... I hate them...." Earth shifted suddenly under his body and, with a howl of terror, he scrambled desperately among an avalanche of soil and stones.
Britomartis reached out and gripped his hands, and dragged him up to a firmer ledge. "I am glad you think the Cnossos artefacts are useless," she said, as he staggered for a foothold. "But of course you are wrong. Cnossos artefacts are not useless at all, Thasos."
"Aren't they?" he panted.
"They're worse than useless. They're blasphemous."
"Oh, are they? I mean, of course I'm sure you're right, but why?"
"Because the people of Cnossos think that their artefacts express the divine creativity of the Goddess. They're wrong. The Goddess didn't make such things. The Goddess made trees and flowers and mountains and caves - if you look around you, Thasos, you will see what the Goddess has made."
Thasos did not dare move his head at all, but he muttered his agreement. He would have agreed with anything Britomartis said at that moment.
"The Goddess made all this and she made us," Britomartis continued. "She didn't make vases and jewels. And now these Cnossos people are in love with the objects they have made. They are in love with possessions; they worship false appearances."
"Oh yes, you are right, of course."
"I have given you an insight today into the true procreative process, Thasos. It is strain, pain and self-denial. It is rebirth and renewal. It is the effort of climbing up to this cave. It is not making pots."
"It certainly is." Thasos agreed warmly. "I won't argue with that. I feel very creative today."
"I'm glad to hear it." She smiled and reached out her hand again to him. "Let's go inside the cave now. I feel that you are ready to enter my holy domain at last."
Once he had struggled into the high cave and regained his breath, Thasos looked up at the vast high domed chamber where doves and pigeons flew, and appreciated the cooling condensation that dripped onto his perspiring head from its ageless rocks. It was like being outside on a wet day -- except that it was inside.
"You should look at all the beauty around you, Thasos," Britomartis said, gently. "And ask yourself why the people of Cnossos feel the need to build such a cumbersome Great House when the Goddess offers everything here. We are standing in the womb of the earth, blessed by the clean healing waters of renewal and the airborne spirits of the Goddess' winged creatures. Nothing that those people in Cnossos can build is so miraculous - so perfect - as this. And they know it, too. That's why they always return to the caves at the times of birth and death." She chucked gently to herself. "They certainly don't like cluttering up their smart palaces with dead bodies. They don't want anything to spoil their pretty pictures and artefacts."
She seemed to muse for a moment, then turned to him with her broad, sensual smile and suddenly asked him, without warning, the question he had always dreaded. "I have brought you to my most sacred cave, although I have not shown you everything it has to offer yet. The new Great Year is about to start. It will soon be my springtime. Will you be my very first Consort, Thasos? I am asking the question here and now in this sacred place. I want to see you wearing the horns of my chosen Consort - my own God of the Wilds. You can be my white bull. Will you do that for me?"
Thasos could not answer. For long seconds he looked pleadingly into her face. Eventually her smile faded as, briefly, her eyes sparkled with her sense of hurt, after which her face hardened into a look he had seen on it before. It was a warning: she was not used to having her wishes ignored. Again he was reminded of the lioness gripping his arm in her teeth, and Pasiphae's own cold, murderous fury at the horned hunters. When he still didn't answer, she spoke in a sudden fierce whisper, "Men have killed each other for what I am offering you."
"But Britomartis, I don't want to kill anyone. And I certainly don't want to be killed myself."
"Thasos, I told you that you'd be safe if you..."
"I know, but you are always talking about killing, aren't you? How can I be really sure that one day it won't be me you come after?"
"I promised I'd never do anything to hurt you..."
"I suppose I don't want to take the risk."
Britomartis suddenly exploded. "You don't want .......? Are you saying I'm not worth taking the smallest, tiniest risk? You've had so much pleasure from me. You think life like that - all pleasure and no pain? You think that is how the Goddess should be worshipped -- by taking and taking and never giving? Do you really think that is how I worship the Great Goddess?"
"Well, yes actually; that's exactly how I do think you worship your Great Goddess," replied Thasos frankly.
"Thasos!"
"Well, it seems to me that you have all the fun. It's the poor man that gets hunted, or has to fight to the death. You don't have to do much else, but chase him and watch him get killed, then stand around and look beautiful."
She gazed at him in silence for a few moments, as if unable to comprehend what she had just heard.
"I can't believe you've said that to me after all we've done together." There was a tremor in her voice. "I don't know how you can even think it."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. But I don't see why I should be your consort, just because -- well, you know; because..."
"Why don't you say it, Thasos?" Her tone was harsh and bitter now. "Are you ashamed of it? You've taken me - lots of times. It means you are already my consort in all but name."
"Yes, but you came after me; I didn't chase you."
"Oh, thank you very much. I didn't notice you running away. If you hated it so much..."
"No Britomartis, I enjoyed it. Of course I did."
"And that's all you ever wanted; just enjoyment, no commitment. I told you, the way to the Goddess is..."
"Oh no, Britomartis, not that again. You can't blame me for any of this." He was speaking recklessly now. "I didn't ask you to come bursting into my clearing that time, did I? You were the one who started all this." He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth.
"Do you remember when we first met in the forest?" Britomartis said, after another long silence, "Do you remember that very time you saw me on the hunt - and you couldn't take your eyes off me?"
"Oh, yes. I was lost in the forest, I remember..."
"Well, I knew you had been sent to me in the forest that day. The Great Goddess ordained it. We were meant to be together, Thasos. It was in the omens."
"I remember that day very well. But I chose to come to the forest myself... it was my own idea...."
"Yes, but what made you choose? What was it that sent you to the forest in the first place? It must have been the Goddess, it can only have been..."
"It was you, actually," Thasos admitted. "The very first time I saw you, you were hunting across our field. I - well, I came to the forest to look for you, I suppose..."
"You see?" she exclaimed excitedly. "In that case you did start it, Thasos. You came to my forest to see me. You told me so."
"No I didn't. I only came because the men in the field, those boring villagers, said the forest was dangerous - that you were dangerous. I wanted to prove them wrong. It looks like they were right all the time," he added, almost casually. He seemed to have acquired an uncanny skill for saying the wrong thing.
"So I'm dangerous, am I?"
Thasos did not answer, and could not look at her.
"Would you rather have never met me, Thasos?" she asked him. Her voice sounded plaintive again; she seemed to be choking back the tears. "You don't believe the omens brought us together, you are sure it wasn't the work of the Goddess and you won't say that you came looking for me either. That means you think I forced myself on you, don't you?"
Thasos still refused to look at her.
"Do you wish we hadn't met?" she asked again, in a voice that seemed to break.
"I was happy before," Thasos muttered. "Happy and at peace." He was astonished at himself. Where had he acquired the ability to cause so much hurt so easily?
There was no reply. Thasos noticed, from the corner of his eye, a movement that caused the light in the opening of the cave to flicker. He turned towards her again but Britomartis had gone.
He dashed to the entry of the cave and gazed out over a view of the gorge and the long sweep of tree-covered hills that surrounded it. There was no sign of Britomartis; it was if the landscape had swallowed her up. He called out her name, over and over again. When she did not reply or reappear, he crouched at the elevated entry to the cave and his tears blurred the panorama below him into a hazy watery vision, like a fresco damaged by rain. He hadn't meant to say those things to her. And he had left unsaid the one thing that he longed to tell her now. He wanted to cry it out to the empty landscape, like a prayer to the Goddess herself: "O Britomartis, I was happy before we met and I might have stayed happy if we had never met, but I will never be happy again if you have left me."
She never came back. He missed her warmth, her protective embrace, her fresh smell, her laughter, and her warmly voice with the soft words of love she had showered on him over and over again, like petals gathered from rare forest flowers. Britomartis had given herself to him, had loved him with her whole being; and he had pushed her away, not in anger, but with cold words. He had hurt her so deeply that she had left his life without reproach, or argument. He had told her that he would be happier without her, and because she loved him, she had given him his wish and left. He had hurt her more than if he had repulsed her with kicks and blows. He returned to his work in the fields hating himself; feeling a wretched mixture of yearning, grief and guilt.
A few days later Thasos' grief turned to fear. Britomartis was a hunter and she would not suffer in silence for long. She would come back to avenge her hurt - with her baying hounds, roaring lionesses and those strong horned men, she would hunt him to death. She would know exactly where to find him. Wherever he was, on the island, she would smell him out.
Even if Britomartis did not find him, Dionysus certainly would. What was to stop him killing Thasos now? Britomartis wouldn't protect him any more. Dionysus and his friends would probably sneak into his clearing in the depths of the night, just as they had threatened to, and lay murderous hands on him. They would drag him to a place deep in the forest where his screams would not be heard and then...
They would savour every precious, lingering minute of his suffering. Once he was dead, and his manic, tormented screams had cease to rend the night air, they would feed his horribly mangled remains to Britomartis' dogs and lionesses. There would be nothing of him left - nothing. Not a trace - not a hair or a bone. The thought made him shiver with terror.
Thasos dreaded the nights now. He could no longer sleep in the open but took refuge in village houses, paying part of his surplus for the use of a room. His nights were peaceful again and he became accustomed to sleeping indoors.
But his days were dreadful. He would emerge from his room in fear, convinced that Britomartis and her hordes must be waiting for him, trembling with silent eagerness to pounce upon him. All day at his work he scanned the horizons for unusual sights or movements. His ears ached with alertness for the distant sounds of barking, the dreaded high-pitched hoots of the hunters' horns, the shouts of those leading the trail. At every unfamiliar sound, however slight, he would stand poised, alert for flight, his heart pounding, even though he knew that flight would be useless, that running away would be part of his punishment. He remembered Britomartis' dreadful curse: 'Chased until your feet are bloodied, until your heart bursts, until your legs break like twigs...'
He dared not mention his fears to anyone in the fields; he could expect no sympathy from the cautious villagers. Any contact with the wandering Goddess of the Wilds was abhorrent to them and they would say that Thasos deserved everything that happened to him. They might even cheer Britomartis on when she chased him. This isolation from his old friends increased his wretchedness. He wondered miserably whether he would ever find pleasure in anything ever again. Would he ever be able to enjoy a simple meal, a sunset, or a story with friends? Would he ever laugh or even smile again?
Summer came and Britomartis still did not appear, either in love or vengeance. With resigned melancholy, Thasos watched the wildflowers that had been fresh when he had last seen her, turn dry and crisp in the heat until they were arid memorials of their living freshness.
As summer passed into the breezier days of early autumn, the first few spots of rain scented the baking earth, and his seasonal work took him away to the later harvests of the east, Thasos tried again to take delight in the mountains, the scent of the herbs and the freshening of the gentle winds in the cooling season. But he could not worship the landscape as before, or commune with nature as a divine name and presence. He no longer felt safe in the open air. Whispers of hate were borne on every passing breeze, the stench of blood wafted in the sharp scent of the herbs, and the warmly candid sun flushed with anger and threats of vengeance. Thasos was not welcome in the wilds any more. He was a hunted man.
It was during the vine harvest at Archannes that he thought again of Pasiphae.
His long travels had started at Archannes. Cnossos was only a short walk away. It would almost a relief to revisit a place that hid its face from the excesses of nature, and where there was another woman on the fringes of his life; a small, gentle woman of graceful manners and methodical routines - a woman of mysterious gifts and subtle powers. He realised he had not seen Pasiphae since meeting Britomartis.
One day, while he was considering visiting his old home and seeing Pasiphae again, he was approached in the fields by a man wearing the colourful livery of the Great House of Cnossos.
"Lord and brother Thasos?" the man asked.
"How did you know it was me?" asked Thasos, in surprise.
The servant did not answer. "I am empowered to inform you that Our Lady the gracious Goddess Pasiphae wishes to see you today in the Great House of Cnossos," he said.
"Pasiphae wants to see me?" Thasos felt a sharp flutter of excitement in the pit of his stomach. "When?"
"Immediately, my lord - in her Throne Room," the servant answered. "I am to accompany you there now, if you are free to leave your work."
The Chambers of the Moon
Why did Pasiphae want to see him in the Throne Room so urgently? Thasos felt a twinge of uneasiness, despite his excitement.
"If you accompany me now, I will guide you into her presence," the servant repeated. For some reason, he was anxious to conduct Thasos to the Throne Room in person.
"That will not be necessary. I can find my own way to Cnossos."
"It will be more appropriate if I accompany you there." The servant was gently but firmly insistent.
"Why are you in such a hurry?"
"Pasiphae is now communing with the Great Earth Goddess on behalf of her male petitioners. There is time to reach her Throne Room before these ministrations cease. We must therefore depart now. I am to be your guide."
"I don't need a guide. I know where Cnossos is." Thasos' uneasiness increased. He sensed that something strange was happening. "What's the hurry?"
The servant repeated his earlier assertion. "It will be more appropriate if I accompany you..."
"That will not be necessary..."
"Our Lady is very insistent."
"All right. All right." Thasos tried his best to remain polite to the servant. It was the only way of getting rid of him. "I wish first to say goodbye to my friends, obtain some decent clothes and commune with a little water before I go. Will you be so kind as to wait for me here?"
"Very well, lord and brother. I will wait for you. Please make haste."
Thasos dashed off on a hurried circuitous walk around the vines, picking up some changes of clothing and his one possession: a silver drinking-vessel. Then he joined the road to Cnossos further down from the fields - well out of sight of the servant. "You'll have a long wait, my friend," he muttered to himself, as he walked on alone to Cnossos. An uneasy intuition warned him that there was something unpleasant behind Pasiphae's summons, so he had decided to avoid the Great House and call at the Little Palace instead. For the last five years, his brief visits to Cnossos had all been to the Little Palace and he saw no reason to change now. Pasiphae could visit him there, as usual.
Then, as he breathed in the warm herb-scented air and gazed round in contentment at the low forested hills, he admitted to himself that, despite his dislike and dread of the Great House, he was quite pleased to be returning to the town of Cnossos. Today he even felt mildly elated when he entered the sprawling ill-planned rash of houses that comprised the outer reaches of the formless town.
Cnossos was certainly not an attractive place. Thasos remembered his hometown of Patras and its planned municipal centre, with its marble temples, basilica and palace, plus its high defensive wall - all of which represented an attempt by an unimportant settlement to impress friendly visitors and deter unfriendly ones. Cnossos, on the other hand, made no attempt to impress or deter anyone. It had not been planned, but had just grown; and the absence of a restraining defensive wall meant that it carried on growing and spreading like a neglected orchard, becoming more sprawling and disordered with every year.
No - the town's appearance could not account for the flutter of excitement and the warm feeling in his stomach that Thasos felt when approaching Cnossos. It was Pasiphae. Why did she want to see him so urgently? Perhaps, he thought, with a return of his earlier feeling of pleasant anticipation, it was love. Maybe Pasiphae could not contain her yearning for him a moment longer; she had heard that he was working in the Archannes vines and had begged that he be brought straight to her.
For a moment Thasos even considered going to the Throne Room as Pasiphae had asked, until he remembered that, among the tortuous tangle of corridors that comprised the Great House, he had no idea where the Throne Room was. He decided it would be simpler to go to the Little Palace as usual and wait for her. If it was love that made her call him back, she would not keep him waiting long.
Thasos had expected Cnossos to be quiet at this daylight hour. Yet in the empty outer streets there was a bustle - a surging excitement - pulsing from the town's core. Something was clearly happening in Cnossos today - some celebration or festival; an impression that was confirmed by distant sounds of music, then as Thasos turned into one of the main streets the encroaching sounds of jollity erupted into the sight of a group of dancers cavorting in richly colourful costume. Impromptu entertainers, jugglers and gymnasts also lined the street in a rampant confusion of merry activity. The throng of men and boys was so dense it was difficult to pass. Thasos managed to ease and pry his way through the mass of people until he entered the west square that fronted the Great House and, to his further astonishment, found it full of merchants' stalls, offering goods of all descriptions. The streets leading off this square were lined with other entertainers and further stalls. The town was chock-full of activity. What was going on?
Thasos wandered around the stalls, fascinated at the abundance and variety of goods on show. There were useful items, such as lamps, jars, bowls, buckets and tools. There were also objects of no use, such as jewels, pendants, and little models of animals. There were complex carvings in beeswax, decorated seal rings and pendants. Groups of boys clamoured eagerly round vendors of honeyed fruits. A few merchants in foreign dress were offering intricate work in ivory and gold.
There were items that ought to have been practical but were not, such as double axes that were either too small, or too large, to be functional. There were also a large number of pots decorated with a fragile delicacy that completely negated their usefulness. Some pots, for example, had flowers moulded all around their rim; others had elaborate patterns in seashells embedded into them. They looked almost too delicate to touch. Then there were vessels that had been cleverly wrought into the shape of bull's heads, or twining snakes. What use were they? Thasos shook his head and smiled at the thought of the days of wasted work that must have gone into making those impractical items.
He had not been truthful when he told Britomartis that he had no interest in Cnossos artwork. In fact, Thasos was vastly entertained by what he saw as the elaborate pointlessness of Keftiu art. On his visits to the town he would call at shops run by artists and craftsmen, and laugh at the ornate designs they produced. At the same time, there was puzzlement mixed with his amusement. Why did people want these things at all? Why did they fill their homes with them? Why restrict their limited space by cluttering it up with these useless objects? Britomartis was right; the people of Cnossos worshipped possessions, not for any practical purpose, but simply because they existed. What strange people they were.
Thasos felt no need to acquire possessions. His wandering, solitary life never enabled him to accumulate sufficient surplus to use for trade, so he had never accumulated property and had never felt the need to.
However, the multiplicity and diversity of goods on offer in the town today exceeded anything Thasos had seen before, and even he began to be affected by the joy that celebrates a profusion of riches. At the same time, he found the cramping proximity of so many people together in one place oppressive, and certain individuals in the crowd were beginning to annoy him.
"Take a pot, sir. Just one pot - for the Goddess at this important time."
A number of itinerant salesmen were eagerly offering humble clay pots and tiny terracotta figurines for sale. They wandered from person to person and, despite the rather crude nature of their wares, seemed to be doing a brisk trade. Several of these tradesmen importuned Thasos.
"Take a pot, sir. Very cheap. Just a little of your gold will buy it."
"I haven't got any gold," snapped Thasos.
"Yes you have. You are wearing it, sir."
"What?"
"On your head, sir - in your head. We don't ask much. Just a lock of your golden hair."
Thasos soon found that many of the less gifted traders were attracted to his fair hair and wanted to purchase it; offering him badly made goods in exchange for what they called 'a piece of his gold crown', or 'a slice of the sun'. Soon Thasos found himself at the centre of a small, excited group of traders, avidly discussing the market value of his hair and bargaining for its possession. Thasos decided it would be wise to leave the square, in case these traders joined forces and tried to scalp him. He squeezed his slow way down one of the narrow streets that led away from the Great House to the Little Palace.
This street was lined with stalls offering what looked like graven images of the Goddess. They showed the Goddess in conventional and familiar attitudes: offering a crescent arm-curl, clasping a boy infant, or holding out a horned-shaped vessel. Thasos gazed at these figures without interest. They were not even entertaining. The faces were without expression, character, or in some cases, human features. These objects were worse than useless - they were ugly. They reminded him of Britomartis' crude wooden figure outside her cave. Why would anyone want to live with such things?
Then, as he passed another stall, he had a glimpse of a quite different type of figurine that instantly excited his interest, before the milling crowds hid it from sight again. In a frenzy of curiosity, Thasos almost fought his way to the stall to get a second look at this figurine. Was it true? Had he really seen it? Yes - there it was -- and it was magnificent.
Among six or seven other statuettes of equal elegance, was a figurine of a young woman, clasping a small writhing snake in each hand, with a bird perched on her flat-topped conical hat. Her small breasts were pushed out from above the rim of a multi-folded, layered dress. The subtle silver hints of colour in her clothing were exactly those pale hues that would shine in full moonlight. Thasos gazed at it in a mixture of wonder and disbelief. It was beautiful. It was a miracle. It was Pasiphae!
It was Pasiphae, exactly as Thasos had first seen her on that memorable night, five years before, on the roof of the tripartite shrine, clutching her snakes in the moonlight. There was one difference: the artist had carefully recreated Pasiphae exactly as she looked now, in her alluring but delicate fullness of body.
Thasos forgot where he was or where he was going. His eyes hungrily absorbed every detail of this incredible figurine. Even the face was Pasiphae's; it showed her pale smooth skin with a slight hint of chubbiness around the cheekbones, and her small but fully rounded lips. It was a revelation of eternal beauty. It was Pasiphae.
He wanted it. He had to have it. "What will you take for this little figurine?" he exclaimed, trying to catch the craftsman's eye.
His tremulous, high-pitched voice was unheard in the general babble of praise and appreciation from other passers-by. So popular was this figurine stall that the craftsman was desperately imploring people not to touch anything; all the items on his stall were fragile and represented his best work. They could never be replaced - never. Questions, commendations, even benedictions, assailed the harassed craftsman: "How did you manage to capture the Moon Goddess in your work? ...You have defeated time. You have immortalised a divine moment. ... May your work live for ever...The Goddess truly lives in this figure..."
"How much? How much?" Thasos' voice, strident and shrill, was still unheard. "What do you want for it? What will you take? How much do you want?" He began to feel frightened. He had to try and attract the craftsman's attention before it was too late. So much interest was being expressed in the Pasiphae figurine that someone else was certain to buy it. It was astonishing that it was still unsold. In desperation Thasos screamed out at the top of his voice:
"What do you want for this figurine?"
"My boy?" The merchant was staring at him in some concern. There was an embarrassed silence around him now. Thasos' shriek had drawn the attention not only of the craftsman, but also everyone else in the street.
"That figurine," Thasos panted, in the tense silence, pointing to it with a trembling finger. "What will you take for it? What do you want?"
A sympathetic but weary smile passed over the man's face. Clearly he had been asked this question many times already. "My boy, I am not eager to sell my items. The figurines that I am displaying represent my best work and I am only anxious that they give pleasure to others. If my work is loved then I am happy."
"But you're here to trade, aren't you?"
"Not necessarily, my child. Some craftsmen wish to trade their goods, others not. If you look around you, you will find plenty of other figurines for sale. Many of my fellow craftsmen are willing - indeed eager - to sell their work."
"But they're not as good as this."
"You are very kind, my boy, and of course you are right. My work is the best in the town. That particular figurine is perhaps the best in the world. I doubt you have the wealth to purchase it. Already a visiting Egyptian has offered me much gold. A rich Mesopotamian has offered me his house." He looked speculatively at Thasos' light baggage. "Are you carrying gold or a large house in your little sack, my boy?"
"No, I have no gold in my sack," responded Thasos, eagerly. "But I have something as rare and precious as gold, and perhaps more beautiful."
"I am enthralled. What do you have, my child?"
"Can't you see? My hair, of course," said Thasos, pointing to his head. "I'll let you have all of it," he added generously, "for that figurine."
The craftsman and his admiring viewers whooped with laughter. "Are you one of the street clowns?" the man asked delightedly.
Thasos glared at him. "I'm offering you a piece of the sun," he said, pointing to his head again with proud dignity, as if the man had not seen it properly the first time. "Are you refusing it?"
"My dear boy, if I want some straw I will cut it myself from the upper meadows." he said. "Unfortunately your hair is not so useful; I cannot feed it to my cows."
Thasos ignored the hoots of merriment. He was oblivious to everyone else around him. He had eyes only for the figurine.
"I will give you everything I have," he said desperately, aware that he did not have very much. "I have clothing -- I have brought some clothing to Cnossos and I have some finer clothes in the vines. I have also produced a surplus on the vines this season - I can get my surplus to you. I have a silver drinking vessel..."
Chuckles followed this meagre offer. The craftsman gave him a slightly uncomfortable smile. "You ask so much, my child, and offer so little. To begin with, what place do you have in the Great House? What stake have you in this town?"
"I have no place here. I do not actually belong here." Wretchedly, Thasos realised the powerlessness of his position, as the crowd around him muttered their disapproval of a man who did not belong to Cnossos. The craftsman still looked sympathetic - but he was not going to part with his treasure for a few rags, bunches of grapes and a goblet. Then another thought occurred to Thasos. Of course he had a stake in Cnossos - his birthright. His mother's marriage.
"I am the adopted son of Asterios." he exclaimed, with confidence. "I am a member of your royal family. You must therefore let me have the figurine."
"Wha-at?" The craftsman looked more baffled than impressed. "What are you talking about?"
"I have a bigger stake in this place than anyone here," Thasos asserted, looking boldly around at the silenced crowd, as if emphasising his point. "You should trust me to pay you. Besides, as a member of your royal family, you should be honoured to let me have the figurine anyway. I am Asterios' son."
"What is he saying? ... It is nonsense, madness. ... How can he speak of the sons of men?" There was much bewildered, even outraged muttering among the people. Then the craftsman's look of bafflement turned into one of sour displeasure. "He is speaking Xhora babble," he said coldly. "Only an outsider can talk of the children of men. I have heard that Xhoras think men have wombs and can bear children."
The crowd was now buzzing with rumour and counter-rumour. There seemed to be as much incomprehension as anger at Thasos' shocking royal claim. They all seemed ignorant of the fact that Asterios had adopted a foreign family. Too late, Thasos remembered that Kikerus had told him that his mother's marriage was a closely kept secret.
"Asterios offered hospitality to an Achaean family many years ago," one man commented. "My mother used to assist the priestesses in the Great House and she heard some nasty talk among some of the crones of a marriage to the ugly mother. I never believed it."
"A marriage? Surely not." Many people reacted with distaste to the idea. "The Consort of the Goddess - marry a foreign woman. And you say she was ugly too?"
"And old, apparently."
"Impossible."
"And she drank."
"Disgraceful."
"And stank."
"Ugh. Unheard of."
"It is true," came another voice from the crowd. "Then as soon he married this frightful woman, her sons tried to destroy the Moon Goddess. They attacked and ravished her. Only the Great Goddess saved our divine Moon Maiden from certain horrible death."
"What? Oh, blasphemy. Oh, profanity. Oh evil!"
"For this the men were exiled from Cnossos," the man announced. "And here," he added dramatically, pointing accusingly at Thasos with trembling forefinger, "is one of those vile sons. He is one of the murderers. He has returned to try and kill the Goddess again."
Howls and gasps greeted this horrible revelation.
"What is he doing here?" demanded several angry voices. "Why is he not banished?"
The craftsman frantically snatched up the figurine, holding it like a baby protectively in his arms. "He will destroy my work... The monster will destroy my work... he must be expelled...!"
"I won't. I won't. That was my elder brothers." hooted Thasos. "I'm Thasos - the younger brother... I'm innocent -- please don't throw me out...."
"Innocent, are you? Then why were you exiled from Cnossos?" one man challenged him.
"I wasn't exiled from Cnossos."
"You said you have no stake here."
"All right. I wasn't exiled; I exiled myself," Thasos tried to explain, to the uncomprehending and sceptical faces around him. The Kaftor crowd were not placated.
"He has exiled himself from the Goddess."
"What an extraordinary thing to do. He is obviously Xhora." said the craftsman, repeating his assertion.
"He must be Xhora." There was nodding and general agreement on this matter. "He may not be an enemy, but he is Xhora; a lost outsider."
Faces, grim and disapproving, surrounded Thasos on all sides. The craftsman scowled suspiciously at him as he carefully replaced the Pasiphae figurine as far as possible out of Thasos' reach. Rage overcame Thasos. He'd only wanted to buy a statuette. Why did that make him an outcast?
It was obvious that they weren't going to let him have it. Not one person here - not one censorious, muttering, head-shaking, interfering little stranger in the crowd - was prepared to let Thasos so much as touch the figurine. He felt a wild urge to destroy it. He wanted to snatch it up and kick it all the way along the street until all elegance was chipped away. He wanted to grasp it in both hands and hurl it to the earth, then stamp and crush its fragments into the ground - then look the craftsman straight in the eye and laugh at him. If he could not have the statue, then no one else should have it.
He stood for a moment shaking in every limb, and then his body started burning with humiliation and disappointment. He turned abruptly away from the stall and started jostling and barging ill temperedly along the street, followed by what sounded like jeers from the stall. He had no eyes now for the activity around him. He was nursing an aching sense of loss and frustration. He had wanted something very much and could not have it. It was the first time he had experienced feelings like this. Why couldn't he have the statuette? It wasn't too much to ask for, was it?
He had always looked on Cnossos as home, but the place had rejected and humiliated him. He was tempted to leave at once, but decided that he may as well have a warm bath and a rest before setting out on the long walk back.
So he trudged in the direction of the Little Palace, keeping to the quieter streets on the edge of the town. He was glad that the Palace and the Processional Way were deserted, the crowds being gathered in the central streets and squares at this time. As the familiar roofs of the palace appeared at the top of the gentle incline, Thasos' spirits lifted a little. Even if Pasiphae was not waiting for him, at least he could have that warm bath - perhaps followed by a drink.
As he plodded towards the doorway, a large number of servants, all wearing the livery of the Great House, danced towards him, shouting with joy.
"Greetings, lord and brother Thasos. It is wonderful you have come."
"Oh, friend and son of the god, Thasos. Your arrival is a great boon."
"Our day of joy is complete now that lord Thasos has arrived."
Thasos was flattered and cheered by the warmth of their greeting. It was clear that the people of Cnossos loved him after all. To his surprise, the servants started spinning him around like a nimble dancing partner, disorientating him and painfully tugging his arms about in their excitement. One of the servants appeared with a zither, which he began to strum vigorously. Another patted nimbly rhythmic fingers on a small skin drum.
"Thank you very much, but you can stop now," Thasos cried. He was pleased by their welcome but he was tired. "I want to sit down. I'm carrying things and I want to rest...."
"We will deposit your possessions in your room for you. You need not trouble yourself with that." His possessions were snatched off him and vanished somewhere into the prancing throng. "We will conduct you to the Great House," they told him. "We will take you into the gracious and loving presence of the Goddess Pasiphae and she will weep with rapture."
"I don't want to go to the Great House."
"But you must go. The Goddess Pasiphae expects you."
His protests were ignored and he was virtually pushed, with laughter and song, on a chaotic march along the Processional Way towards the Great House. Despite his growing irritation, Thasos felt a certain awe at these people's anarchic, mirthful energy. Presumably they had been given instructions to take him to the Great House, if he were to turn up at the Little Palace, and had had decided to do so with as much good humour as possible. What a contrast all this mad fun was to the dull misery of Asterios, the death-like gloom of the Keftiu's earth rituals and the mean-minded contempt of the townsmen earlier. What contradictory people these Kaftor were. Would he ever understand them?
The procession arrived at the north entrance of the Great House, and then came to a shambling, chaotic halt. There was a brief bustle of whispered debate among the palace servants, while Thasos considered his chances of running off.
"We have no nets or flowers," one of the palace servants said, "but we can convey our brother to the Goddess, blessed but unadorned, through the North Entrance." Then, to his disbelief and rage, Thasos was picked up from the ground in a dozen loving pairs of hands, and carried bodily through the narrow entrance.
"What are you doing?" he roared.
A chorus of breathless voices answered him.
"We will convey you to the Throne Room, my lord. We will bear you."
"You will fly like the bird epiphany of the Goddess. We are your wings."
"We are your conduits to divinity."
"We are your fortuitous snakes of transformation."
After being rushed up a long open corridor at a dizzying speed, Thasos found himself carried across a large sunlit court. His guides then released him at an entrance in one of the surrounding buildings, almost dropping him in their haste, and set up a ragged chant.
"This is the shrine of the Moon Goddess."
"Let the power of the sun god be slaked."
"May his rude intrusion be tamed by the gentle power of the moon."
"May his vulgar strength be restrained to the service of the kindlier light."
"May the sun now set at the entry to this chamber of the dusk."
Despite his bewilderment, Thasos was quite shocked at the din these people were making. Surely, even by informal Kaftor standards, such shouting at a sacred shrine was disrespectful. Several pale priestesses, with low multi-coloured dresses and bare breasts, appeared at the canopied entrance to the outer chamber of the sacred throne room, no doubt drawn out by the clamour. Yet, instead of the frowning disapproval that Thasos expected to see, their faces only expressed delight.
"We convey the lord Thasos to you." the servants roared. Thasos found himself picked up off the ground again by several hands and almost brandished at the priestesses in the covered doorway.
The priestesses made a gesture of blessing. "We express our thanks for the conveying of the expected lord to the Goddess' chambers," intoned one of them.
"May the Goddess send you blessings as portions of the gracious Pasiphae's great joy," responded the other. "You may leave his worship with us now."
With noisy joy and hilarity, the servants dropped Thasos again by the doorway, rushed across the court and disappeared through the north entrance. In the resulting calm, Thasos found himself surrounded by a number of ravishing bare-breasted priestesses. As he rose to his feet, they pulled him under the shelter of the canopy and brushed the dust from his clothes with their clean white hands, staring at him in smiling curiosity.
"We have often heard the gracious Pasiphae speak of you with great love. Now you are here," one of them said.
"You are very beautiful," another said, fondling his arm.
"Your body is finely formed," said a third, fondling his other arm.
"Your face has the innocence of a child," said a fourth, her fingers lightly stroking his face.
"Your hair is blessed by the light and grace of the moon," said a fifth, running her fingers through his hair. "Pasiphae's happiness is indeed well placed."
Thasos felt a glowing sensation of excitement. These priestesses were a pleasant contrast to the sinewy energy of Britomartis. He had been foolish to stay away from the Great House for so long if this was what it had to offer. He was tempted to tell these demonstrative priestesses, who were still fondling his body, that he was rather proud of his legs too.
"We are entering the domain of the moon now," a sixth priestess told Thasos, as she took his hand and massaged it. "You will enjoy the comforts of the antechamber," she added, in a low, almost seductive tone.
Several pairs of white hands almost wafted a blissfully happy Thasos into the hushed, darkened and gently scented room. They patted the cushions and smoothed the covers on what looked like a long covered seat lining the wall. Thasos was manoeuvred into this chair into a half-seating, half-lying position. The cushions were soft, the coverings silky. Then he reached out and touched the bare breast of one of the priestesses.
All life and movement seemed to freeze. The priestesses stood still, faces blank, eyes fixed unblinkingly on Thasos' hand reposing on the exposed breast. Shame burned through Thasos' body like fire. He head and face glowed with mortification. He removed his hand abruptly.
"Oh, sorry," he said, with a feeble laugh, "I'm very clumsy."
Very slowly the smiles reappeared on the priestesses' faces, though less warmly than before. "You may relax, oh lord," one of them said. Thasos lay down on the long seat. "Are you comfortable, oh sun-god?" another asked him, tenderly. Thasos smiled and closed his eyes. "Oh, yes. Oh, yes," Thank Zeus he had been forgiven! This was the women's own palace, after all. From now on he would only touch breasts when invited to.
"The Goddess Pasiphae will see you shortly. Hopefully there will be no more male petitioners today, as the sun will soon be setting."
"Rest in peace; the Moon Goddess will soon be available."
"She need not hurry," Thasos thought. "She can take as long as she likes." What did he care about Pasiphae, with nine gorgeous maidens for company? He would lie here and revel in the delicious sensation of nine pairs of soft female hands gently stroking his body. When nothing happened, he opened his eyes. Then he opened them wider. Even in the half-light, he could see the room was empty. The priestesses had vanished like a beautiful vision. He uttered a cry of anguish.
"Please come back. Where are you?" His disappointment was unendurable. Frantic, he wandered round the dim chamber, searching for openings or dark corners, hoping to find the priestesses again, calling out for them: "Where are you? Please come back. Please. I want you. I want you."
Kikerus' face appeared round the doorway of an inner chamber, gaunt, austere and forbidding, framed by flickering candlelight. "Shhhh." he hissed fiercely, "The Goddess is busy. She cannot see you yet." Then his head vanished abruptly inside the inner chamber again.
Thasos glared resentfully at the doorway then sat down, alone and crestfallen, on the long wall seat, wishing he hadn't come. He'd had a terrible day. On two occasions, something lovely had been offered to him, placed within his grasp, and then snatched away. First that figurine, then those priestesses. It was so unfair. It was cruel.
Why had they called him to the Great House anyway? He had been told this visit was urgent, and yet he was being kept waiting, ignored, disregarded, in this dark, horrible room. How much longer would he have to wait here? Great Zeus, this really was a terrible room. Why did it have to be so dark, when the courtyard outside was basking in brilliant sunshine?
As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he also noticed that the walls were covered in the most frightful frescoes. Pictures of double-axes, snakes and bulls were all jumbled together in a violent confusion of images. Overshadowing these horrendous visions were a number of winged animals with fat hairy bodies and bushy brows lowering grimly over eyes that seemed to glare with vicious, concentrated spite. What were these ghastly creatures? Did they really exist or was the painter suffering from some sort of drunken nightmare? Then Thasos noticed, behind these strange beasts, a background of many-sided shapes that resembled a honeycomb. So these creatures of sick fantasy were bees. He looked away in renewed distaste. He didn't like bees and liked them even less when they had been enlarged to such nightmarish proportions.
Why, Thasos thought to himself as the long moments passed, were the Keftiu morbidly obsessed with dangerous animals? Animals that stung, bit or gored - they seemed unable to live without them; they incorporated them into their rituals and even worshipped them. As well as snakes and bees, there were bulls - more especially, the frantic idiocy and senseless danger of the bull chase. What was wrong with the Keftiu? Why couldn't they restrict their reverence to harmless flowers and butterflies? Not for the first time, Thasos wished it were possible to live on Kaftor and enjoy the beauty of its landscape without the violent traditions of the hunters, or the frightening Cnossos earth cult. The island would be so much better without them.
More long moments passed. Thasos fidgeted on his seat and groaned. The faint sound of chanting and the occasional whiff of incense told him that the consultations, or whatever they were called, were still going on. Surely they must finish soon. Those priestesses had promised him that there would be no more petitioners today.
They were soon proved wrong. Thasos' gloomy reverie was interrupted by the sound of howling from the entrance to the court outside. Into the chamber limped a middle-aged weeping man, supported by another man, who was sobbing in sympathy. "Oh, she is gone," the man sobbed. "She is reborn. Oh, convey her, O Goddess, of the divine snakes, transform her. Renew her. I will wait here and see the Goddess Pasiphae." The two men sat down on the divan, opposite Thasos, and started to utter a repetitive, lachrymose chant. Indeed, they seemed to grieve in concert; as one man faltered or paused for breath, the other man would wail, to fill the ensuing silence.
Thasos gazed at these two men in loathing. If they had come to see Pasiphae, it meant he still had a long wait and he had to listen to their appalling noise as well. It was so unfair. Why were those silly men allowed to make this din, when Kikerus had scolded him, Thasos, merely for speaking too loud? Besides, it was disgusting that grown men should cry like this. Great Zeus, these babies wouldn't last very long in Patras.
"Shut up!" Thasos shouted, in exasperation. He could not think of an equivalent to 'Shut up' or 'Be quiet' in Keftiu so he reverted to Achaean. "Shut up! Stop crying! Act like men!"
His shouting had no effect; the crying continued unabated. It was too much -- too much. Just how much more was he expected to take today? In sheer frustration, Thasos started hitting his palm with his fist. "Shut up!" He roared again at the two men. "Shut up!" He brandished his fist at them. "Do you see this? Do you want something to cry about?"
A hoarse bark came from Thasos' left. Kikerus, his shaggy face unusually severe, was glaring from the entrance to the Throne Room.
"Leave those poor men alone. They have grief enough in their lives without you giving them further cause for weeping," he barked in Achaean. "Why have you made them cry?"
"I didn't do anything to them," exclaimed Thasos, outraged.
"Because of your cruelty, Pasiphae will be busy comforting your poor victims," he growled, still waving dismissively at the exit. "I will speak to you when I have conducted them into Pasiphae's merciful presence. I dare not tell Pasiphae of what you have done. It would grieve her. Go outside into the square."
Thasos was at least glad to escape from the gloomy chamber, but as he left its protective shelter harsh sunlight blackened his vision for a few moments and he staggered helplessly and blindly around, holding his hands over his eyes. "I do not know why you ventured straight into the sunlight, you foolish boy," came Kikerus' stern voice, from the shelter of the awning. "Return to the shade and wait until your eyes are adjusted."
Once Thasos had blinked the blindness from his eyes, he noticed, from the cover of the shade, a number of men standing in line in the sunlit square, muttering to themselves, their faces pinched and puckered with woe. They were all carrying clay pots or vessels, very similar to those currently being sold in the town's squares.
"Are all these men waiting to see Pasiphae?" he asked appalled. If so, she would be busy with petitioners for the next month.
"They are making offerings," the priest answered curtly, "for which it is not necessary to speak to the Moon Maiden."
"Why are they carrying pots?" Thasos asked.
"You need not speak."
"What?"
"If you came more often to the Great House you would not need to ask foolish questions."
"Kikerus, have you just invited me to the Great House to insult me?"
Kikerus gazed at him coldly. "I will ask the questions. You will answer them. And we will do it in private."
The old man strode briskly along the awning in the wall. As he followed him, Thasos suddenly recognised the building on the opposite side of the square. Was it the Tripartite Shrine? If it was, then this was the Bull Court - the very place where he had seen Pasiphae for the very first time, just as she had looked in that beautiful figurine. That must be the roof where she had stood with her snakes and glowed in the dark...
"Is that the Tripartite Shrine?" he asked with interest, pointing towards it.
"That question does not deserve an answer," Kikerus almost growled.
"But I'm interested..."
"Come in here." Kikerus said abruptly, in Achaean. He led Thasos through a small door into a darkened room. The shrine and Bull Court vanished from Thasos' sight. Kikerus then turned and faced him. He spoke again in Achaean.
"Answer me one question," he almost barked. "Where have you been for the last three months?"
"What ...... what? ..." Thasos could only stammer at the unexpected question. "I've been all over the island, Kikerus, as you know. I've been working on the harvests..."
"Who have you spoken to?" snapped Kikerus.
"Well, I've spoken to lots of people," he said, carefully avoiding all mention of Britomartis. "Land workers, housemen, priests, a few women... I mean women in the settlements, of course, and just ordinary conversation, that's all..." His voice tailed off.
"And in which language did you speak?" Kikerus snapped again.
"What?" Again, Thasos had not expected this question.
"Just now, next to the Goddess' sacred throne room, I heard you speaking - or shall I say shouting - in Achaean. Have you, in your travels around the island, spoken - or more typically shouted - Achaean to anyone else?"
"No, I'm sure I haven't. I haven't needed to."
"Then I do not understand why you needed to speak Achaean in the Goddess' chamber just now."
"I - I couldn't think of the words in Keftiu."
"Which words were you trying to think of?" asked the priest grimly.
Thasos stammered and hesitated. "They - they were ... they were..."
"I am aware that they were words of abuse and spite; words that cannot be found in Keftiu, like the many other words of cruelty and hate in your ugly language..."
"Look, I'm sorry, Kikerus," Thasos exclaimed, in sudden exasperation. "Is there a new rule, or something? Am I not allowed to speak Achaean on this island any more?"
"It is not only the things you say, Thasos. It is also what you do. Just now in the Goddess' chamber you were striking those poor men. You made them cry."
"I never touched them." howled Thasos.
"I heard your fist beating them repeatedly."
"I was just hitting my palm."
"A clear signal of violent intentions. You wished to attack those men in the presence of their Goddess."
"I wouldn't have done that. I just became annoyed with them..."
"You became annoyed in the Goddess' sacred chamber. Am I to believe you can better control your temper in places less peaceful and calm?"
"Those men weren't being very peaceful and calm, were they?" protested Thasos. "They were crying when they came in..."
"They were in pain. Does the sight of pain rouse you to anger too?"
"I was angry because I was being kept waiting. I was bored. And I'm not used to being in the Great House, am I? I don't know what to expect..."
"I am well aware of your unfamiliarity with the Great House. I am grieved to hear that you consider the presence of the Moon Goddess Pasiphae boring."
"Oh, I never said that...."
"But that is not what concerns me now. You have not yet answered my question. Apart from the disgusting example which I have just witnessed, have you at any other time in the last few months spoken or behaved like an Achaean?"
"Why? What have people been saying about me?"
"Just answer my question."
"No. I haven't spoken Achaean to anyone. No one else on the island understands more than a few words. And I've learned Keftiu now so I don't need to speak Achaean to anyone."
Kikerus stared at Thasos, his face eloquent with scepticism and doubt. Thasos stared back at him in resentment. He doesn't believe me, Thasos thought. The old fool doesn't believe me.
"Look, Kikerus, I'm getting a bit tired of this," he exclaimed, the frustrations of the day pouring out of him. "I've had a very difficult afternoon. First I got laughed at in the town because I wanted to buy a figurine and couldn't afford it, then the people got angry when they thought I was my brothers, and...." He stopped speaking, at a sudden thought. "Are people mistaking me for my brothers? I know I'm beginning to look more like an Achaean... is that the problem?"
The priest did not answer this question. To Thasos' surprise he smiled, albeit rather sourly, and began speaking to him more kindly:
"Thasos my boy, for the last five years I have watched you grow up, with interest and pride, almost as if you were my own son. You and I are very alike. You have spent your youth learning about my culture and my people. I too spent my youth exploring your colonies and outposts. I learned your language and I learned about your people. This makes us very close, Thasos."
Thasos was touched. He forgot his many recent bitter conflicts with the priest. "I feel I belong here. I've been so happy," he said, and he believed it; despite his recent troubles he realised that he had been happier during the last five years on the island than at any other time in his life. "I've loved the freedom - the sunlight, the forests and the mountains, and - and everything else," he said and he could hear the conviction in his own voice. "This is a beautiful island."
To Thasos' bewilderment, Kikerus spoke coldly again. "You speak without true knowledge or understanding. Nothing that you say about the beauty of the island has any relevance or importance at all. Our dreams - our nightmares of chanting and hate - might yet turn to destruction, my boy, unless you learn to change your ways."
Thasos was hurt and mystified. Great Zeus, these Kaftors had contorted minds! They were always changing from one mood to its opposite, from one meaning to its contrary. You needed two heads to understand them.
"You say that you love the beauty of the landscape of this island," Kikerus continued. "My child, ours is a very ancient, rich and complex civilisation. There is more to it than working in the fields. We have long since advanced from being an agricultural community. I hear disturbing rumours that you are now mixing with the hunters and have a quite inappropriate knowledge of the person of their Goddess figure: Britomartis."
Thasos started, and then felt himself blushing hotly. "Oh, you - you know about that, do you?" he stammered.
"I once heard them say Britomartis would take the consort away again," Kikerus muttered darkly. "And you have let it happen!"
"I don't understand. What do you mean?"
"My boy, the life of our culture is invested in our Great Houses," said Kikerus, ignoring the question. "It is more momentous and rigorous than the aimless, migrant freedom you say you have enjoyed. It is more sophisticated than the rough life of the hunters you have mixed with. You have no understanding of the real life of the island at all. Your ignorance is woeful."
Thasos felt that this was unfair. "I thought you said we were alike. Now you're saying we're not."
"We are alike in entirely the wrong ways, my child."
"Are we?" asked Thasos glumly. "I see. Sorry."
"Like you, I loved the foreign landscapes that I saw. I thought the harsh barrenness of your land magnificent and I could even appreciate the beauty of a simple sunset among your bare mountains. But I did not penetrate into the heart of your culture. After my youth of freedom and wandering I came home. Will you now do the same? Will you return to Patras?"
"Of course not. I was thrown out of my 'home' five years ago. I have no home to return to." Thasos paused and said, more wistfully, even pleadingly than before, "This is my home."
"The fact that you have no other home to go to does not convince me that you have found your rightful home here," said the priest, coldly again. "In fact, it convinces me that the opposite is the case."
Thasos could hardly believe his ears. How could the old priest talk to him like this? "All right. I'll just go and jump in the sea then, shall I?"
"My child, you are being foolish. I am trying to tell you that you must cease your life of wandering. This rootless existence cannot last. You are achieving nothing, building up no wealth, attaining no wisdom. It is an empty life, Thasos. I understand that you are attracted by its freedom. But freedom can become a trap. It will imprison you. Soon you will not be able to escape from your wandering life, never have a roof over your head when you need it, never have a companion when your soul cries out for it. You will look at the faceless world around you and realise that not one single part of it expresses you, or belongs to you. You will seek yourself in vain, Thasos. You will no longer be there."
Thasos looked up and was surprised to see a look of concern on the face of the priest. "My boy, it is time for you to come home - and whether that home is Patras, or the Great House of Cnossos, you must choose. One or other destiny calls you - and it will either be the warrior call of Zeus in Patras, or life in the embrace of the Great Goddess in Cnossos. You will have to choose."
In the silence that followed, Thasos knew that, for some unknown reason, his life was about to change forever.
"Something's happened, hasn't it, Kikerus?" he asked.
"It is a simple choice, my boy. Either you return to your old Achaean tribe, or you make your life here in Cnossos. Which is it to be?"
"If you put it like that, the choice is simple. Of course I want to stay here; I made that choice five years ago."
Kikerus smiled. "I am glad you gave me that answer," he said. "Let us return to the Throne Room."
"What's going to happen there?"
"You will see Pasiphae -- that is all. She is looking forward to it. You will have a chance to speak together, like old friends."
As they walked along the sheltered walls of the Bull Court, Thasos noticed that the pot-bearing men were still lining up outside an ornate entrance. He heard the sounds of crashing from within.
"Why are they smashing up those pots?" Thasos asked Kikerus.
"One day I will complete those lessons that I started teaching you about the pots, pictograms and offerings to the Goddess," Kikerus said, reminding him of his original desertion five years before. "First, however, you must speak to Pasiphae."
The Prophecy
Thasos stumbled over the long seat in the waiting chamber as his eyes were confronted again by thick darkness. "Accustom your eyes to the light in this chamber before you enter the Throne Room," Kikerus told him. "I will await you in there with Pasiphae."
Thasos spent a few moments blinking in the gloom of the waiting chamber, until his eyes could make out the now familiar detail of the room: the ornately coloured cushioned seating, the polished hard gypsum flooring and those baleful frescoes on the walls. He was now ready to venture into the deeper darkness of the throne room, yet he hesitated, aware that he was about to enter one of the most mysterious regions of the Kaftor Moon Goddess; the heart of the unfathomable and troubling life of the Great House. Only when Kikerus reappeared and beckoned at the entrance did Thasos, with a sense of dread, walk hesitantly through the opening, into the region of hushed chanting, feeling that this short walk was a rite of passage into another world.
As Kikerus guided him into the chamber, Thasos could see nothing, apart from some fleeting movements in the intense darkness, while the combined powerful scent of burning herbs, oil and incense made his head spin, much as the reawakened scents in the rain-drenched fields and mountains had often done. Then, after a few moments, the chanting petered out and Thasos' peering eyes could dimly make out in the gloom the familiar outline of Pasiphae, surrounded by what might have been bare-breasted priestesses, bestowing her final blessings to a small group of petitioners seated below her. A dimly glowing torch in the lustral basin in front attested to a ritual that must have been recently conducted down there.
Pasiphae then put her hands together at her breastplate, drew them out in circles under her breasts and then raised her palms in the gesture of benediction that Thasos remembered from the roof of the Tripartite Shrine nearly five years previously. In the eerie light that now seemed to emanate from her, Thasos could see that she was dressed in full ceremonial regalia and, unlike the first time he had seen her in the formal apparel of the Moon Maiden, the costume fully fitted her mature body. He gazed at her full-grown breasts, which in honour of the Great Goddess, protruded full above her bodice and at the face, usually so ready to break into a smile and a girlish giggle, now set pinched and hard in her own cool light. This was his first direct encounter with regal Pasiphae wearing the mantle of the reigning Moon Goddess.
The men and the priestesses then departed into the waiting chamber. Kikerus lit a few torches, which added a little tentative light to the murky Throne Room, without revealing any of the sacred chamber's secrets. It lit up Pasiphae, who lowered her arms, smiled at Thasos, then left her throne and walked with lively eagerness towards him. She was again the relaxed, companionable Pasiphae he had always known. She reached out and her smooth cool hands clasped his. The limited torchlight forced them to stand quite close together.
"Thasos, thank you for coming to see me in the Great House," she said with surprising formality. "We have persuaded you to visit us here at last."
Thasos refrained from pointing out that his arrival had nothing to do with her powers of persuasion; the servants of the Little Palace had actually carried him there. Then once he had returned her greeting, there was an awkward silence, despite their proximity, as if Pasiphae was not sure what to say next. Perhaps, like Kikerus, she had something disagreeable to tell him. If so, Thasos wished she would say it quickly and get it over.
"Is it bad news?" he asked. He decided to prompt her. "Is it mother?" he suggested. She was the most disagreeable thing he could think of.
"No, Thasos. Your mother is slightly better than usual. In fact, she wishes you to join her for a meal in the Little Palace this evening. But your mother is not the reason I wish to speak to you."
Pasiphae then paused and seemed to hesitate again. Thasos waited, puzzled and a little uneasy. He noticed that Kikerus had now joined them in the circle of torchlight and was staring distrustfully at him again. Neither he nor Pasiphae seemed sure of what to say next, and Thasos sensed that they both seemed to be judging him, in their minds, of some imagined crime.
"I have spoken to Thasos, my lady," said Kikerus, "and he assures me that his loyalty belongs to the Goddess, the Great House and to you."
"Oh Thasos, is that true?" Pasiphae was now gazing up at him with a look that was both mutely questioning and hopeful, making her look as vulnerable as she had after Saron's attack. Thasos immediately felt protective and, in a wild emotional impulse, decided he would do anything for her.
"Of course it is, Pasiphae," he said, almost fervently. "Of course my loyalty belongs to you. I will do my best to serve you. I'll - I'll do anything for you."
To his astonishment and delight, Pasiphae threw her arms around him. "Oh, Thasos... My dear Thasos ...... thank you... thank you ..." She held him in a tight embrace. "You have come back to us at last."
He was in her arms. He felt a deep, comfortable warmth burn within him, from the pit of his stomach to his loins, as he clasped her. He wanted to hold her forever. He wanted to stay with her forever. He would do anything for her. He could happily leave his wandering existence if it meant linking his life and destiny with Pasiphae. Oh, he loved her - he loved her. As Pasiphae gently pulled away, he clasped her by the shoulders, and looked straight into her eyes.
"Pasiphae," he said sincerely. "I will stay with you and always be with you." He swallowed hard and forced the words out: "I love you, Pasiphae."
The momentous words sounded inept but they had at last been said. He forced himself to look at her face, to try and understand what she was feeling. Was she offended? Was she delighted? He was surprised to see her smiling at him in vaguely polite gratitude.
"You are very kind, Thasos. And I love you too. You know that. I love you very dearly. It is so important that I have your love and support; this is an important time for me. My life is about to change, as you know."
"Why? Why is it about to change?"
"Oh, Thasos, did you not notice the happy celebrations in the town when you arrived?" Pasiphae gave a bright, almost girlish smile and clasped her hands together. Her next words sent a piercing chill to the pit of Thasos' soul. "Tomorrow I shall be with my husband and Consort in the Goddess. I shall be married."
"Married?"
"You look surprised, Thasos. I cannot believe you know so little of our life here. Yes - I am to be married. Now is the end of the Great Year and my Sacred Marriage is now due."
"I hope you'll be very happy," muttered Thasos glumly. He felt dead from the inside and incapable of any feeling except despair.
Pasiphae laughed; a clean, silvery laugh as lucid and distant as the moon. "Of course I will be happy, Thasos - wonderfully happy. I will soon be Full Moon Incarnate, with a Moon Maiden of my very own. Then my grandmother will return to me and the Triple Goddess will be reborn. When that happens I will be very, very happy. The Triple Goddess reborn." She sighed and her eyes glazed and seemed to shine in some remote ethereal domain, as if she had forgotten he was there.
"Who's your husband going to be?" asked Thasos, unsure why he had asked the question. He didn't really want to know the answer.
"Oh, Thasos, what a very strange question." Her eyes, fixed on him again, were almost scornful. "How do you expect me to know who my husband will be?"
"But you said you're getting married tomorrow," he almost babbled. "You must know who you're going to get married to."
Pasiphae stared up at him and Thasos saw his own blank astonishment reflected in her eyes.
"No, of course I don't know who my Consort is, do I, you foolish boy. The Goddess will select him tomorrow, through the celebration of the Bull Dance. How could you forget something so important?"
"What's the Bull Dance?"
"Thasos! You really astonish me. You have lived on our island for five years and you have never heard of the Bull Dance?"
"Bulls are dangerous," muttered Thasos. "I try to keep away from them."
"I have frequently told you, my lady," said Kikerus in a censorious voice, "that Thasos is sadly ignorant of much Cnossos belief and custom."
"You are right," said Pasiphae to Kikerus, after staring at Thasos for a moment in bewilderment. "I never believed you until now. Thasos really is ignorant. He knows nothing about life in the Great House. Well, I think now he should start to learn," she added, turning to him with good-humoured briskness. "Thasos, you have promised to be loyal to me, and when my daughter is born you can pay homage to the Triple Goddess. You will enjoy that, I am sure. Kikerus and I will also devise some tasks that will make you useful in Cnossos; perhaps you can help out the priests in the snake shrine of Potnia, or learn some of the basic arts of preserving corpses."
Thasos didn't reply. He promised himself that, whatever Kikerus said, or whatever he had said to Kikerus, he would leave Cnossos at the first chance and never return.
"And now I must prepare for my evening consultations," Pasiphae said, hurriedly, turning almost dismissively from him and scurrying back into the surrounding darkness. "The sun is setting and the women will be here to see me soon. Kikerus is going to take you to the Nether Chambers now, where I understand a meal has been prepared for you."
"Perhaps Thasos would like to watch the preparations for Bull Dance when he has eaten," Kikerus suggested, apparently blind to the misery on the young man's face. "He would enjoy seeing the various fortunate men who are competing to be your Consort."
"Yes, that's a good idea." Pasiphae reappeared like a bright spectre from the shadows and her pale face gazed eagerly up at Thasos. "Would you like to come and watch the men practicing to be my husband tonight? I shall be there myself when I have finished my consultations. I am looking forward to it."
Her eyes, which looked past him again, seemed to sparkle with anticipation in the flickering light. "I am told that the man who marries me will be strong and athletic," she said. "He will have to be strong - to be able to leap over a bull. My friends also tell me that he will be beautiful, and of course he must be beautiful to marry me. Perhaps I will identify the handsome man that the Goddess has selected for me. What do you think, Kikerus? Will I recognise my future husband tonight?"
"Are we leaving now, Kikerus?" asked Thasos abruptly. He did not want to stay or speak to Pasiphae an instant longer. He felt as if it had turned to stone and his face had set in a permanent expression of moroseness; his eyes were sore and blinking. He desperately wanted to be on his own.
"Of course. It is time for us to go," agreed Kikerus brightly. "There is pleasant company in the Little Palace tonight and a meal will await us later. There will be much laughter and good cheer."
"I'm not hungry," said Thasos shortly.
Food was the last thing that Thasos wanted. Without another word, he turned and walked out of the Throne Room.
"Aren't you going to say goodbye, Thasos?" Pasiphae called after him, almost playfully.
"Oh." Thasos turned round. "Goodbye, Pasiphae," he said dully. He nearly added: "Forever."
"Goodbye, Thasos," she replied, with a giggle and a brisk Kaftor arm gesture. "I will see you later in the outer court, shall I?"
Thasos didn't answer. He walked blindly through the corridors to the West Exit. Once he and Kikerus were outside, the town seemed livelier than ever in its celebration of Pasiphae's imminent marriage. Torchlight illuminated every building in sight. A lively, hilarious babble of voices assaulted Thasos and mocked his feelings of desolation. He found he had difficulty in breathing.
"It's all right, Kikerus," he said. He did not want to meet the priest's keen eye. "I know the way to the Little Palace. I'd like to take the walk alone, through the town, if you don't mind."
"Alone? You will not be alone if you walk through the town tonight, my boy," the priest answered, with a chuckle. "It is full of people, now that the women are emerging. The Processional Way will be much quieter and more solitary. Let us walk there together."
"Please, Kikerus. Please - I can't...." His voice broke. He fled away from Kikerus, into the town and stumbled down the nearest dark, quiet alley he could find, where he wept; all the wretchedness of five years' tainted, disappointed desire pouring out of him.
"Why am I so upset?" he asked himself. "What did I hope for? It's silly to feel like this."
He did not know what he had expected or hoped for. He only knew that he had lost something; a bedrock faith in himself, a secret source of delight, an extra reason for living. Earlier that day the town of Cnossos had rejected him. Now he had lost Pasiphae. She did not love him. She had never loved him.
His grieving over, Thasos emerged from the quiet alley wiping his eyes and found himself once again among the indifferent laughter and music of the merry, celebrating town. The crowds were even larger than before, but now there was a greater calm and dignity in the mostly female gatherings. The women walked with less resolve or sense of destination than the bustling, scurrying men of earlier. They talked confidently and calmly, enjoying the temperate cool of the evening and the knowledge of their own beauty. Their painted faces glistened and shone with the light of clusters of moons glinting garishly through tinted crystals.
Thasos fled such daunting splendour; he needed to avoid women for a while. He took refuge in darker, quieter streets and tried to cope with the violent emotions still evoked by his disastrous return to Cnossos. There was now a yearning inside him that he could barely understand, let alone fulfil. It was more than an urgent, potent, liquid longing for Pasiphae; his desire was expressed in Cnossos itself - in the houses, artefacts, the beautiful figurine and the people around him. He wanted it all. After years of simple contentment in the fields, he realised that he wanted it.
And he could not have any of it. He tried to tell himself that it was not worth having; that Cnossos was an ugly little town - a place of affectation. The people here hid from the real world in their closets of comfort, they were blind to the beauties of nature in their hunger to create and possess things, and above them all, the malevolent Great House controlled and regulated every detail of their lives.
Yet, at the same time, Thasos envied the citizens of Cnossos their poise, their calm self-conceit, the gentle yet unfussy purposefulness of their every action. Kikerus had once told him that each person in Cnossos belonged to the community of the Goddess and yet was a perfectly self-contained and fulfilled individual too. Thasos knew that he was a shabby, unformed creature who belonged to no community; even the wandering wild people of Britomartis had rejected him. He was Xhora, outside the Goddess - and Xhora he would remain.
He was about to leave Cnossos when he remembered that those absurd servants had deposited some of his few possessions in the Little Palace earlier. There were some good pieces of clothing and several items of jewellery amongst them as well as his cup. They were too good to leave behind; he would retrieve them quickly and leave. Hopefully his mother would be too drunk to notice he had been.
He blundered his way in the direction of the Little Palace, when his senses were afflicted by a sour, stale smell. At first, Thasos thought that the waste pipes in the town might be leaking. Then he realised there was something familiar about the smell, and gradually this slow sense of dread familiarity poured from his memory and flooded his whole being. He knew that this tainted, grimy smell had been the pervading emotional background to his childhood. He was a frightened, weeping twelve year old boy again.
"Hello, my little brother. I've been looking for you." A voice addressed him from behind, in Achaean. The voice moved round and the man, in the light of his torch, looked Thasos squarely in the face. Manthys' fleshy, brutal face was broader and fatter than before. He laughed, without warmth, then said: "You're late, you little whelp. Hey, I can see you've been crying. Haven't you stopped crying once in the last five years?"
Thasos turned and fled.
They were back!
What would Pasiphae think? How would Kikerus react? He would have to be told right away. As Thasos ran towards the Little Palace, he saw Kikerus standing alone at the entrance to the palace, staring out. Seeing Thasos, he beckoned to him.
"Kikerus!"Thasos cried, almost stumbling towards him in his haste. "You won't believe this. My brothers are back. I've just seen them."
The old priest's eyes widened. "You are sure?" Kikerus seemed less surprised than keen to have a suspicion confirmed. "You saw both of them?"
Thasos hesitated. "Well, I definitely saw Manthys. In fact, I've spoken to him."
"Ah." A look of disappointment clouded Kikerus' face. "We already know that Manthys is back. He has been staying in the Little Palace for over a month. When I arrived here without you just now, he went to look for you..."
"What? Why didn't you tell me?"
Thasos saw the trace of a slight smile on Kikerus' face. "That is why you were kept away from the Little Palace until now. I wanted to observe how you would react to seeing your brother in the flesh." He looked happily into Thasos startled eyes. "Your surprise and distress are a great relief to me."
"Oh, I'm so glad you're relieved," Thasos said bitterly. "That's all right then."
"Your anguish proves you had no knowledge of Manthys' presence. That is good. My only regret is that I missed the highly entertaining expression on your face when you saw your brother for the first time." He chuckled softly to himself.
"This is all a big joke to you, isn't it?" Thasos spluttered.
"My boy, it is not a joke. Pasiphae and I were not joking when we spoke to you in the Throne Room earlier. We had to convince ourselves of your loyalty to Cnossos. You see, we need to find out why your brother Manthys has returned. We are sure his intentions are harmful. Why else would he come back to an island whose customs and traditions he always claimed to despise? So, now that you have assured us of your loyalty, I want you, as the first expression of that loyalty, to befriend your brother Manthys and win his love."
"What?"
"When you have won Manthys' love, he will divulge to you his real reason for returning to our island."
"But I don't understand - why are you letting him stay here at all? He was banished five years ago. Why don't you just throw him off the island again?"
A look of sour disapproval flickered across Kikerus' face. "I regret that Manthys - and your mother - have persuaded Asterios that five years' banishment is ample retribution for his misdeeds. Manthys has convinced the Lawgetas that I am partially to blame for his behaviour - that I gave him inadequate guidance and led him into error and divergence." Kikerus took a deep breath; clearly the accusation had annoyed him. "Consequently, your brother is allowed to remain in Cnossos, as long as he causes no conflict. However, I do not trust him. He vanishes every evening to a mysterious location." The priest sighed again. "We have tried following him, but it would be unwise to arouse his suspicions. He may disappear completely and become more dangerous. That is why your return to Cnossos is so favourable. Manthys will certainly take you to this secret location and then you can come back and tell us where it is and what Manthys does there."
"So the only reason you wanted me back in Cnossos was to spy on my brother?" asked Thasos bitterly. "Is that it?"
"My boy, it was not I who wanted you back in Cnossos but Manthys himself. In fact, he claims that you are his sole reason for returning to this island. That is why it is so important that you befriend him. He is ready and willing to talk to you and wants to take you into his confidence. Your task of betraying your brother will therefore be easy."
"So it wasn't Pasiphae that wanted me back at all? It wasn't her that sent for me?" Thasos had not known it was possible to feel more wretched than he had that day. Then he heard Manthys' gruff, raucous voice calling him from behind and felt worse still.
"Thasos! So you've scuttled back here. Don't run off like that again you little runt or I'll come after you and clout you."
"Your brother has now arrived and is ready to win your love," Kikerus murmured.
"Please don't leave me alone with him, Kikerus."
"Hey. Little brother. I'm talking to you. You'd better not ignore me or else."
Thasos turned reluctantly and saw his brother rapidly approaching the entrance to the Little Palace, brandishing his torch and shaking his fist with the other hand.
"Hello, old priest," added Manthys, with a wave. "Still talking? How's your loving Goddess? Bet she's got earache."
"I will leave you to your brother's delightful company," muttered Kikerus, abruptly walking away.
"Don't go, Kikerus." Thasos pleaded.
"No, you run away old priest. I want a private conversation with my brother. I don't want your influence spoiling him like you spoiled me."
Kikerus strode towards the town without looking back, only calling out: "May you walk in the ways of the Goddess my friends."
"May you walk off a cliff," Manthys roared after him. Then when he had finished laughing he turned and spoke brusquely to Thasos.
"You're coming on a walk with me, little brother."
"I thought we were having a meal?"
"I've eaten. You can eat later. I want you to meet someone first."
Torch in hand, Manthys pulled Thasos by the shoulder and led him away from the Processional Way and the environs of Cnossos, into the surrounding darkness. Thasos realised that he was being taken to Manthys' mysterious location - the place that Kikerus was reluctant to follow him to.
"We're going to one of the dark places of the island," he explained. "Don't worry - it won't take long. We can take a nice direct route. No one from Cnossos is going to follow us to this place, that's for sure."
After a short stumbling walk through stubbly undergrowth and scattered trees, Thasos soon found out why.
Even the flickering torchlight showed Manthys' hideout was a wretched, derelict structure hidden among thickly grown brushwood. It looked as if it had been deserted for generations. Thasos followed his brother through a tree-choked doorway, and found himself standing inside a very bare large room or small hall, now open and exposed to the weather. The floor was covered with thickly abundant weeds and littered with overturned slabs and rocks.
"I believe something nasty happened here about two hundred years ago," said Manthys, in explanation. I don't know what. It must have been something terrible if the Keftiu won't come near it. It doesn't bother us, though."
Manthys sat down on one of the cold stones and gestured to Thasos to sit too. "As you can see, it's not a very comfortable hideout, especially at this time of year, but it's private," he said. "Even the wild hunters keep away. Sit down, little brother."
Thasos looked around the bare, draughty room, but there was no clue as to what dreadful thing had once happened there. A little light penetrated the cracks in the stone walls and starlight was clearly visible through open patches in the broken roof. Thasos was accustomed to sleeping in the open; the night held no terrors for him. Yet, in the mild Autumnal evening, he shuddered as if he had been plunged into an icy mid-winter. He was reluctant to sit on one of the fallen stones. He felt uncomfortable in this place of despair, from which all human warmth had long been banished.
There was a movement towards them in the dim interior of the ruin and the rapid shadow of a man's figure silently approached. "Oh, good. You've brought another light," a man's voice said. "Who's that you've got with you?"
"You wait until you see." Manthys held the torch up and the man gave Thasos a smirk of recognition. "Well, hello, little brother," he said cordially. "Nice to see you again. You haven't changed much."
"Saron!" Thasos exclaimed. "Does anyone else know you're back?"
"No one - not even mother knows. And that's the way we want to keep it," he added, moving closely to Thasos and gently pushing him towards one of the fallen stone blocks, so that he had no choice but to sit. "So now that you're here, little brother, we want to make sure you don't tell anyone about me either."
"Well, I really don't want to hang around here too long..."
"You're not leaving us yet, little Thasos. We brought you here for a purpose."
He noticed Manthys had been loitering near the entrance to the dim shrine since they had arrived, as if to prevent him from escaping. Saron, who was standing overbearingly close, now put his hand on Thasos' shoulder and kept it there. Thasos tried to wriggle out of his brother's grip but Saron pushed him harder, further restricting his movement
"I told you -- you're not going anywhere, little brother," he said. "You already know too much. You might be naughty and tell people what you know."
"I won't," Thasos promised uneasily. "I promise I won't tell them anything. I couldn't find this place again if I wanted to and I'll say nothing about seeing you..."
"We're not stupid, little brother," Manthys sneered, strolling over to him. "We know that Kikerus is waiting at Cnossos right now for you to go and blurt out everything you've seen. Has he sent you to spy on us?"
"No - no. Of course not. Why should you think that?"
"Well, we still need to persuade you to keep your mouth shut," said Saron, still holding him down. "And we know you'll never betray us once we've finished with you."
"And don't bother crying out," said Manthys, putting his hand on Thasos' other shoulder. "No one ever comes near this place - I told you."
"What are you going to do to me?"
"My dear brother," said Manthys, bringing his face closer to Thasos. "We'll explain all that in a moment. But before we do anything else, we've got some questions for you and we want you to answer them honestly -- no lies this time."
"Of course. Wh-what questions?" Kikerus, he remembered, had also had some questions to ask him. Why was he so important to everyone?
"We've got a few questions to find out how much you've learned about Cnossos and Kaftor in the last five years - that's all."
"Regard it as a kind of lesson -- for us," said Saron, genially.
"All right. What - what do you want me to tell you?"
"Well, to begin with, tell us everything you know about Asterios. Everything, mind -- don't miss anything out."
"Asterios?" asked Thasos, surprised by the question. "Why do you want to know about him?"
"Never mind that. We want to know what you know," insisted Manthys. "Just indulge us, brother. Tell us everything you know about the glorious king of Cnossos."
"Well, Asterios is the consort of Cnossos, not the king," Thasos said cautiously, still aware that his brothers were holding him down on the stone seat. "He married our mother. He lives in the Little Palace. He doesn't do much apart from attend deaths. That's all I know."
There was a short pause.
"Is that it?" Saron demanded.
"Well, what else is there? What more can I say?"
"Is that really all you know?" Manthys sounded astonished. He and Saron exchanged swift glances and released their hold on Thasos. "Are you being honest with us, little brother?" Manthys asked, suspiciously. "You don't seem to know very much at all."
"Well, there's not very much to know, is there?" protested Thasos. "Asterios doesn't do very much. He's not a king in the sense we know; he's got no real power. I must say that's always puzzled me..."
"All right, little brother. Well, if what you say is true, you ignorance is very interesting -- fascinating, in fact. I think it's time we ended his state of ignorance, don't you, brother?"
"Quite right," agreed Saron. "Let's educate him in Keftiu ways."
"Right little brother. Well, there's one important thing about Asterios that we think you should be told and it might come as a shock to you. As from tomorrow, he won't be king of Cnossos any more."
"Why? What are you going to do to him?"
"It's nothing to do with us! Tomorrow, Asterios comes to the end of his eight-year reign, and someone else becomes king in his place."
"Remember their Great Years are eight ordinary years long, so this is how they celebrate each new Great Year," Saron added. "But that's not all. You see, we haven't told you the really frightening thing about Cnossos yet; and I warn you - this is going to be a real shock."
"What is it?"
"Well, the reason that Asterios stops being the king tomorrow is that he's going to be sacrificed." Saron explained.
"Sacrificed?"
"Every eight years they kill the Consort and choose a new one, with the Bull Dance," said Saron calmly. "Then eight years later, he gets killed too, there's another Bull Dance and so it goes on - like the seasons."
"And it's not only him. All the men in Cnossos get sacrificed - eventually. They hold these horrible ceremonies, usually at sunset or sunrise, and every time at least one man gets slowly sacrificed. One day it will be your turn, little brother."
"I seem to remember having heard this before and I didn't believe it then..."
"This time it's real. One day you're going to be killed, little brother. There's no escape from death at Cnossos, if you're a man."
"Why else do you think women have ruled this island for thousands of years?" Saron added, earnestly. "It's because they kill all the men. They make sure men never get any real power."
"But - the agriculturalists - the men in the fields I work with - I've never seen any of them get sacrificed..." Thasos protested. "Most of them live to be old men."
"They're different. They belong to their own communities. You don't belong anywhere, do you? We heard that you're always wandering around the place, moving from one farming village to the next. Well, the powers of Cnossos don't like that one little bit. Why else do you think they're trying to get you to go back to Cnossos all the time? They want to kill you."
With a shock, Thasos remembered what he had heard about Britomartis. She was known to sacrifice her horned god every few years; he had nearly been a victim himself. Did they observe the same savage practises in Cnossos?
"Basically, my brother, this whole island is a dangerous place to be a man," Manthys continued as if reading his thoughts. "There's no escape from ritual death. All right, if you don't want to be consort, there's another plan we can put into action. We've got a wonderful idea that will make you escape death and let you live in Cnossos in comfort until you are an old man."
"Wait a moment - is that the only reason you've come back to the island - just to save my life?"
"Of course it is, Thasos." Even in the dim torchlight, Thasos could see a look of sickly benevolence on Manthys' face. "You're our dear brother. What other reason would we have but to help you and care for you?" He simpered at Thasos with almost suffocating piety. "We love you."
"What?" Thasos nearly fell off his stone. Manthys had never used language like this before. He remembered, dizzily, that Kikerus had asked him to win Manthys' love. He appeared to have succeeded.
"I know we haven't always shown our love, little brother," Manthys continued in the same cooing tone, while Thasos gazed up at him in revulsion. "We want to repay you for the wrongs we did you in the past. We just want to make sure that our little brother, whom we wronged so badly and cherish so dearly, prospers too. We just want to serve you, dear brother - serve you...."
"All right -- that'll do," muttered Thasos hastily, afraid that Manthys in his present gushing mood might kiss him. "Whatever you say... I believe you, I suppose." It was the first time he had ever known his brothers think of anyone but themselves.
"Don't forget our dear mother too," said Saron, with sterner piety, as if realising that Manthys was overdoing it. "Remember our darling, cherished mother. At the moment she's the wife of the king - that makes her the Goddess. Well, what will happen when there's no more king? You don't think they'll let our beloved mother carry on living here once Asterios is gone, do you? I'm sure they've wanted to get rid of her for years."
"I'm not surprised - she's a disgrace. But she's still our mother and deserves our protection," added Manthys. "That's why it's important you get some influence here and make sure dear mother's looked after. You owe it to mother you know, to do the best you can to make sure that she still has a place here; you owe it to our poor dear mother to... "
"All right," said Thasos again, wearily. He didn't want to hear the same arguments over and over again. He was, however, curious to hear all about his brothers' big rescue plan, that would allow him to live his life in Cnossos, enjoying its luxuries, protected from death.
"Tell me your great idea then," he said. "What do you think you can do to save me from certain death?"
"You'll have to listen carefully little brother, said Saron, a little self-importantly, "and make sure you understand every detail of it."
"Of course I'll listen," replied Thasos. "I'm intrigued now. Tell me all about it."
"Right, well - earlier we told you that men are all sacrificed in Cnossos. Well, that's not quite true. Some men escape the sacrifice. A man can live all his life in Cnossos quite safely, if he can prove that the Goddess has chosen him."
"What do you mean - 'the Goddess has chosen him?'"
"A man who is chosen by the Goddess is a man who has a special talent," Saron explained. "For example, the craftsmen are respected in the Great House and they will not be sacrificed. The physicians, the musicians, the priests, like our revered Kikerus; those men are important in Cnossos. They also will not be sacrificed. The Goddess has chosen them and they must not be touched. That is what we think you should do; convince the people of Cnossos that their Goddess has chosen you."
"Well, how am I supposed to do that?" Thasos objected. "I'm not a craftsman, I'm not a physician, I can't play music, and I can't become a priest..."
"We've thought about that, my brother. We have decided that you will become a prophet. A prophet is a person that predicts what'll happen in the future. Now you, my little brother, will predict something so wonderful that the Keftiu will love you forever and you won't ever need to predict anything else ever again."
"I see. So what is this wonderful thing I'm supposed to predict?" asked Thasos sceptically.
At this question, his brothers became a little coy. Manthys spoke hesitantly and even seemed to change the subject.
"They're very fond of their poetry on this island, aren't they?" he asked, with overdone casualness. "Well, there's a piece of poetry you need to learn, my brother; some poetry that we've made up."
"You've made up some poetry?" asked Thasos in disbelief. His brothers were full of surprises tonight.
"Yes, and it's very beautiful. It makes me cry every time I think of it. Now, you must go round repeating this poem - in Keftiu of course - and the people will believe your prophecy."
"Can I hear your poem?" asked Thasos, fascinated.
"All right." Manthys looked solemn, then closed his eyes, cleared his throat and chanted reverently: "Those who discover the bull in the moon are chosen by the Goddess." He sighed. "Isn't that beautiful?"
"It's a bit short," said Thasos.
"It doesn't matter. They'll love it. The people are weird here. Haven't you ever listened to their Moon Chants? Someone once translated one for us and it was one of the most idiotic bits of babble we ever heard. Most of the words didn't have any meaning at all, but one thing that stuck out was a phrase like the 'moon living in the bull', or 'cow in the moon', or something. So, if you translate this into Keftiu they'll think it's wonderful. They'll want you to repeat it again and again, and they'll cry their eyes out. Then, when it all actually comes true, well, they'll probably bow down and worship you on the spot..."
"What do you mean - when it all comes true?" demanded Thasos. "How can it come true?" He looked up at the moon, which was just visible among the mesh of twigs and branches that formed much of the roof of the building. "How can a bull appear in the moon?"
"You don't need to know what's going to happen, little brother," said Manthys curtly. "Leave all that to us. Just go away and translate our little poem into Keftiu and go around chanting it. Pretend you're in a trance, or something. Chant it at the moon, chant it at the flowers, chant it at the birds..."
"They'll think I'm mad. They'll throw me straight into a Lustral basin."
"No they won't," insisted Manthys. "They'll love it. They'll probably join in."
"Well, I'm not doing any chanting until I know what I'm chanting about."
"Well, it's up to you, brother," said Manthys resignedly. "If you'd rather just be killed, there's nothing else we can do..."
"I don't believe a word of this," said Thasos, remembering again the scare stories of his childhood. "I've never seen any sacrifices at Cnossos. Besides, you once told me the Keftiu had long pointed heads and ate people. This is just another of your silly tales..."
"All right; you can ask Kikerus if you don't believe us," Manthys challenged him. "Go on! After we've finished talking to you, you can ask that priest tonight if it's true that Asterios will be sacrificed tomorrow. And when he tells you it is true, perhaps you'll believe what we say."
Saron shook his head in honest bewilderment. "I'm just astonished he hasn't told you himself. You've been here five years and he's kept something so important from you. That's terrible."
"Just promise us one thing, brother," Manthys said earnestly. "If Kikerus tells you that Asterios really will be sacrificed will you go along with our moon bull plan?"
"I might," said Thasos, after a brief hesitation, "but you've got to tell me what your plan is. I want to know exactly how a bull is going to appear in the moon. I want to know what's going to happen. I can't go chanting about it unless I do."
There was another silence, then Manthys spoke reluctantly: "Very well, little brother, we'll tell you what'll happen, but you'd better not breathe a word of this trick to anyone else - least of all that old priest. We don't want him getting involved."
"You mean it's a trick?"
"Of course the whole thing's a trick. But that doesn't matter. Cnossos is full of tricks. What about that trick that your Pasiphae played, pretending to leap over the bull, then holding out those bits of rope that looked like snakes?" Manthys snorted with derision. "They weren't real snakes, any more than her jumping over the bull was real. It was all a trick."
"You don't know that," objected Thasos, wishing to defend Pasiphae.
"Oh yes we do, little brother. We've met people who told us it's all a trick. Oh, of course they believe in it all here," Saron conceded, "but that's because they want to believe it. They love their poetry and they love their magic tricks. Well, now you've got some poetry for them. We've got the magic trick: a white bull we bought from the people of Thera. We need to make the people of Cnossos think it's divine."
"A white bull? Did you say a white bull?" asked Thasos, startled by the coincidence.
"That's what we said, little brother. The white bull is going to be your very own sacred animal."
Thasos walked back towards the Little Palace, puzzling over his brother's extraordinary idea. The plan was that he should go to Amnisos with a few minor priests and priestesses the next morning and 'find' his magical white bull waiting for him on the sand, as predicted.
"It's in a cave near the beach at the moment," Saron told him. "We'll bring it out before sunrise and leave it there."
"It won't go anywhere. It's quite docile and it won't hurt you," Manthys had sneered, "but you needn't go near the animal yourself."
"Just take a few minor priests or servants down with you," Saron told him. "No one important will come; they're all far too busy with the Bull dance and Sacred Marriage. That's why we chose tonight. Nobody important enough will be around to question our miracle."
Thasos' mind was in a whirl. A white bull! It was the name Britomartis had given him. The coincidence was amazing. Perhaps there was some truth and purpose in his brothers' plan after all.
But he had to know for sure his brothers were telling the truth about Asterios. That meant he had to talk to Kikerus, while keeping Kikerus ignorant of his prophecy, even though he was expected to go around chanting that silly poem. To add to his woe, he knew that, even as a prophet, he would be expected to watch Pasiphae's Sacred Marriage -- watch his beloved Pasiphae get married to someone else. And he had to look pleased for her. It was all too much.
Thasos was just wondering whether or not it would be better to run away and forget all about the bull dance, his prophecy and the Sacred Marriage, when Kikerus approached him out of the darkness. "Ah, there you are my boy!" His voice sounded eager. "There is much that we need to speak about. Let us make our way back to the Little Palace."
"Actually, I've got a question for you, Kikerus."
"That is fine. But first, you can tell me everything that has Manthys told you..."
But Thasos was impatient to ask his question.
"Manthys has just told me something which you should have told me years ago if it's true," he said, as he followed the priest towards the Little Palace. He tried to sound calm, but found that his heart was thumping. A lot depended on the priest's answer.
"What has Manthys been saying?" the priest asked, while Thasos still hesitated to ask his question.
"All right - Manthys told me..." He almost blurted the words out. "He told me that Asterios is going to be sacrificed tomorrow."
Thasos heard the priest give a heartfelt sigh.
"Is it true?"
"I knew I should have spoken to you about this before now," Kikerus muttered dejectedly. "Now it might be too late."
"So it is true, then?"
They walked for a few moments in silence.
"My child, I will show you one answer to your question now. We are now standing at the beginning of the Processional Way."
Thasos stood with Kikerus on the bank overlooking the entrenched paved road, lined by its unusually fine houses; the road that the servants had playfully driven him along on his way to the Great House earlier that day; the road that Saron had often followed five years before on his predatory quest of Pasiphae.
"The street is quiet now," the priest said. "But tomorrow it will be paved with wealth and the risk of death. There will be more emotion here than the festivities now taking place in the town. There will be laughing, shouting, some crying, perhaps. A whole range of powerful feelings will be expressed, from joy to despair."
"Why?" asked Thasos, curious despite himself. "What's going to happen here tomorrow?"
"Come with me and I will show you, my child."
They walked back to the Little Palace. Kikerus led him past the entrance and to the rear of the building, where the Lustral Basins were situated. Thasos thought he could hear strange noises; a kind of desperate groaning and high-pitched wheezing coming from one of the outbuildings.
"You ask me about the sacrifice of the Consort - and I will now show you what that sacrifice means."
He opened one of the doors and the strange groaning became louder -- from something alive and confined within the chamber. Ripe, rank smells that also issued from the room told Thasos what he was looking at.
"Come closer, my child. You may even walk right into the room. There is no danger."
Slowly Thasos approached and stood looking at the cage enclosure that contained the prowling, powerful presence of a captured bull. Instinctively, he retreated backed the open doorway again. "All right, I've seen it. You can close the door now," he muttered.
"This is the sacred beast that will be used for the Bull Dance tomorrow."
"Why are you keeping it here?"
"The Processional Way is the route to the Bull Dance. Tomorrow, my child, this sacred bull will be released along that street and will run his untrammelled way to the open forum; the site of the Bull Dance. Some people - the braver souls or those most urgently needing the Goddess' bounty - might still leap into the street and attempt close contact with the bull himself."
"Isn't that dangerous?"
"It is safer than it used to be. In earlier times it was customary to allow the bull to charge through the main town, in order to confer his gifts on as many individuals and households as possible. Many unnecessary deaths and some destruction often resulted. That is why we have now this single, defined route. The bull, you see, represents the bounty of the earth. To be close to him at this time gives wealth and eternal spring to all who are near him..."
"Mad fools. You wouldn't find me going anywhere near that wild bull."
"Thasos." The priest's voice sounded stern. "Do not express derision, my boy. The events that will take place along this street have a particular relevance for you."
"Why is that? Are you saying you want me to jump into the street and try to touch this brute myself?"
"Not at all, my child. I believe that you will not be a mere spectator tomorrow. That is why I was so anxious to find you. I have become convinced that you have been chosen by the Goddess to be the next Consort of the Moon Goddess."
"What?" Thasos nearly fell down with shock.
"After I left you this evening, I still doubted whether you could be trusted to betray your brother Manthys. In consequence, I consulted one of the Lustral Basins and it gave me a very clear and extraordinary message. It told me that you, Thasos, shall perform the Bull Dance tomorrow. You will succeed and become the next Divine Consort of Cnossos."
The Miracle
Thasos stared at Kikerus in disbelief. On impulse, he edged even further away from the building that contained the caged bull.
"Kikerus, I'm not jumping over that savage animal."
"My boy, I am convinced that you have nothing to fear from the Bull Dance. The Goddess has chosen you."
"I don't care if ten Goddesses have chosen me. I'm not going anywhere near it. I don't like animals. I get stung every time I see one of your bees. I dread to think what will happen if I hurl myself at a wild bull..."
"My child, you will not, as you describe it, 'hurl' yourself at the wild bull. First you will perform a series of dance steps intended to perplex and tame the divine creature. You will then approach it without danger. You see, my child, the Bull Dance is the emerging of the soul to new life, like the growing seed struggling through the ground..."
"Kikerus, I don't even know what you're talking about, so how can I possibly..."
"Then you should open your ears and your mind to what I say, my child. Come and let us eat now, then I will give you the guidance you need for the Bull Dance. I will prepare you and stay by you while you meditate and sleep."
"Mediate and sleep. Meditate and sleep? What sort of training is that? You really do want to see me killed, don't you?"
"But you will not be killed during the Bull Dance if you listen to my instructions..."
"It's not just the Bull Dance, for Zeus' sake." Thasos almost hooted with vexation. "I mean the sacrifice afterwards. Even if the bull doesn't gore me to death, I'll be killed in a few years' time, won't I?"
Kikerus stood silent, his head drooping in a stance that Thasos interpreted as one of guilt. The sight, if anything, made him angrier.
"You haven't mentioned sacrifice to me in the last five years. When were you going to tell me?" he demanded. "Were you going to wait until you were sharpening the knife and stoking the fires? 'Oh, King Thasos, there's one little thing we forgot to mention. You're just about to be brutally put to death...'"
"I was never sure when you would be ready to be told," the priest interrupted him, wearily. "I was so afraid that a frank disclosure would repel you and prevent you from ever returning to Cnossos again. Of course I should have told you of it before tonight. It seems that Manthys has now told you of the sacrifice in a most insensitive and brutal manner..."
"He simply told me the truth..."
".... And this is a pity because you are, as it happens, uniquely placed to understand the nature of sacrifice."
"How do you explain that?"
"Because you have been a sacrificed Consort in your life already."
"I've been a ...?" Thasos was dumbfounded. "What do you mean?"
"Do you remember your expulsion from Patras? How the mob sought your life and then consigned you to the sea? Do you remember your puzzlement at the injustice of it and at the strength of the hatred shown to you, although you had committed no crime?"
"I'm not likely to forget that."
A gentle smile appeared on the priest's face. "I think I may have an explanation of the crowd's behaviour, my child. The good people of Patras were performing an ancient ritual in honour of the Great Earth Goddess."
Thasos blinked at him. "What in the name of Zeus has the Goddess got to do with the people of Patras? They don't worship the Goddess there."
"Every community, across the whole earth, once worshipped the Goddess," the priest asserted. "The Goddess is the foundation of all cooperative settlement. She defines our common humankind. She is the source of all love and kindness."
"But what happened to me in Patras had nothing to do with love and kindness."
"My child, when the Goddess is ousted and her rituals suppressed, the results are frequently very ugly. You are right - those people did not seek you out in kindness or justice. They wanted a sacrificial victim. The human urge to sacrifice is as powerful now as when such practices were carried out as seasonal rituals."
"I still don't understand."
The priest's eyes became dreamy as he spoke. "It is quite simple, my child. Every year the earth is laid waste by winter and will yield no food. In early agricultural times this was a time of terrible fear because it could lead to starvation. So the people killed the old Consort or king, who represented nature's lost bounty and replaced him with a new king, representing the spring and new fertility. This act, it was hoped, would be imitated by nature. It would ensure the return of the crops and fruits of the earth in spring. That, in very simple terms, is the reason why we carry out sacrifices."
"What's all this got to do with me?"
"Don't you see, my child? The urge to sacrifice is still at the very core of the way we respond to adversity or loss. Every time we suffer a personal misfortune, we feel that we have lost the earth's fertility and winter has entered our lives. We need to perform a sacrifice to bring back the spring. We need a victim to suffer punishment and ease our loss. That is what happened to you in Patras. You bore the cost of the people's calamity; the rape of their daughters. You were their sacrifice."
"But I wasn't sacrificed. I was only thrown out of Patras."
"The ancient sacrifice took many forms. In some primitive cultures, the Consort was hunted and torn to pieces, like an animal. Here, the community at Malia sacrifices their Consort more gently, by putting him into a boat and pushing him out into the open sea. A harsher variation of this sacrifice, practised by Diktynna's people at Phaistos, involves throwing the consort - as Goat-King - from a great height; sometimes from a sea cliff or the top of a mountain. You have already endured all three forms of the sacrifice. First the crowd at Patras tried to tear you to pieces, then they hurled you into the sea from a height, and finally they pushed you out in a boat into the open sea. Three times sacrificed, yet you still live. You are immortal. That is why I am sure the Great Goddess has chosen you. Why will you not trust yourself to the fate of the Bull Dance?"
Thasos had a sudden vision of the terrifying LustralBasin that Kikerus had once shown him, a place where snakes consumed small live animals placed there for that purpose. At the time he had fled from the sight, sobbing with terror. Yet, he reflected, perhaps it was better to accept life's murky side, to admit the dark Lustral chambers, the predatory snakes, the spilling of blood, than to pretend it did not exist. It was this hidden ugliness, this expelled forgotten darkness, he realised, had erupted with such dangerous, destructive force on the coast of Patras that dreadful night.
"Thasos, come back with me, to my own house, where we will eat together." There was a beseeching tone in the priest's voice. He was almost begging Thasos now. "Then I will take you to my own LustralBasin and we will commune with the Goddess. I will give you all the help and guidance you need. The Goddess desires it."
As Kikerus looked pleadingly at him, Thasos felt a sense of deep sadness. He respected the old man and felt close to him; Kikerus had been the father he had never had. But he could not - would not - go with him to the LustralBasin. He would not perform the bull dance. He was certain of that.
"I won't become the Consort, Kikerus." He spoke calmly, in a tone of finality and conviction.
An expression of grief spread across the old man's face. "Please, my boy; please accept your fate." Thasos was aghast to hear signs of tears in his voice. "The Great Goddess has chosen you," the priest insisted. "I know it.... I have been vouchsafed it. You must come."
"I can't, Kikerus. I just can't." Thasos hated being the cause of the old man's grief but he would not even consider for a moment the idea of performing the Bull Dance.
"Thasos, if you turn your back on the Goddess now, I dread to think of the evil consequences that will befall you." The old man was now speaking with something of his old stern authority. "Your life will be over. You will have no place in Cnossos, and you cannot return to the fields. We cannot have a Xhora wandering the island, with no fixed place and no role. You have had plenty of time to explore the island and find your true identity, and it is time for you to settle down. I foresee great perils for you if you continue to wander as you have done. If you defy the Goddess, the consequences will be even more terrible. I cannot save you, my son, from those consequences."
Thasos felt frightened. The priest's reproach, virtually a threat, repeated almost exactly what his brothers had just told him. Were they right after all? Would his life be changed forever by Asterios' death?
"I think you should return with me to my house, my child, where we can meditate on this matter more deeply." The priest spoke more firmly, in a voice that would brook no argument. He turned away from the Little Palace, putting his hand on Thasos' shoulder. "Your time has come; of that I am sure. I cannot - I will not - let this moment be lost. You will come with me now and be the next Consort of the Goddess...."
"Kikerus!" On a wild impulse Thasos decided to ask the priest a totally different question. "Kikerus, is it true that some men - not consorts - are chosen by the Goddess? Is it true that some men have a special gift and a position of importance in the Great House, without actually being a consort?"
"Yes, of course that is true, my child," answered the priest, staring at Thasos in some uncertainty. "The men who are priests, healers and artists are specially chosen by the Goddess. Like myself, they have a place in the Great House. But I do not see what..."
"Well, it's possible that the Goddess has chosen me," Thasos said urgently. "She has not chosen me for the Bull Dance - I am not to be the Consort. But I have made my choice - or rather, I have been chosen for another role in the Great House." His heart was pounding. He realised he was not only committing himself to his brother's secret plan, but also divulging it to Kikerus.
"What role is this, my child?" Kikerus asked.
"I feel - I feel that I may have the gift of prophecy." When Kikerus merely blinked at him in astonishment, Thasos added hastily: "I feel very sure that soon I shall receive a sign from the Goddess. Something will happen that will be a direct sign that I have been chosen - as a prophet."
"A sign? It seems to me my child that you are talking of an omen ..."
"That's right - it's an omen," said Thasos, in relief. "That's a very good word. It's directly from the Goddess."
"My child, we do not believe in omens here."
"What?"
"The Great Goddess does not communicate to her petitioners though omens. All omens are false. It is clear that you have spent too long with Britomartis' wandering savages." There was contempt and even anger in the priest's voice now. "What you say only confirms that you should return with me to my house now and prepare yourself for the Bull Dance..."
"Maybe I was wrong about the omen, Kikerus," said Thasos hastily. "It isn't an omen after all. I -- I just dreamed something - that is, the Goddess came to me in a dream and in this dream the Goddess told me that I am going to make a prediction..."
"My child, are you saying that that you are going to make a prediction?" asked the priest scornfully. "Are you predicting making a prediction?"
"No, what I mean is I will predict - I mean," he added in some confusion, "well, the Goddess told me that I will predict it - that is, she actually gave me the words of my prediction in this dream..."
"My child, what are you trying to say?"
"These are the actual words. Let me tell you." Thasos cleared his throat, closed his eyes and hastily babbled out a Keftiu translation of his brother's poem. "These are the words of my dream: He who discovers the bull in the moon is the Goddess' own chosen." He stopped speaking and swallowed heavily, waiting for Kikerus' reaction.
"Say that again, my child," said the priest quietly.
Thasos repeated his brothers' chant a little more confidently.
"A Moon Bull?" For the first time, the priest sounded interested. "You are predicting that a Moon Bull - a rare white bull - will be found by a man who has been chosen by the Goddess. And are you saying that you will be the man who discovers this divine creature, my child?"
"Yes - yes. I believe so," mumbled Thasos miserably, realising that he had told Kikerus far too much. "I am the one chosen by the Goddess to find the bull."
"What an extraordinary vision. I have never heard anything like this before. You are both predicting the appearance of the bull and asserting that you will find it. It is no mere omen you are predicting now, my child. It is not even an oracle, but a rare combination of the two."
"What's that?"
"A miracle. You are predicting a miracle. This really is unheard of. Tell me, my child," Kikerus continued, with the calm confidence of one determined to get to the truth, "where will your miracle occur?"
"I don't know that," said Thasos cautiously, determined not to divulge any more.
"You don't know?" Thasos flinched at the sudden contempt in the priest's voice. "You have been vouchsafed no sign as to the sacred location for this miracle - you have no idea where your pilgrimage should take you to witness it? You do not know where you will find this bull? I suppose you expect to be walking on the street and the bull will introduce itself? Or perhaps you expect it to emerge from under your bed and greet you one morning?"
"I - I suppose the Goddess will lead me somewhere tonight... I haven't really thought about it...."
"Tonight? The Bull Dance takes place tomorrow, my child." The priest was now almost laughing at Thasos. "And the Bull Dance is where you must be. You cannot escape your obligations by inventing such foolish nonsense as this so-called miracle. I will be very angry if you ever attempt such deceit again. It was not even clever deception. You must forget it now."
"Please Kikerus, it - it - the bull will appear tomorrow," Thasos hardly knew what he was saying any more. "It will be seen tonight before dawn. That is quite clear in my dream."
"You are sure of the time, and yet you do not know the place?" Kikerus almost sneered.
"It will be at Amnisos," Thasos moaned. He was now utterly defeated.
"Where at Amnisos?" barked the priest.
"Somewhere on the beach. Before the Bull Dance - a long time before the Bull Dance."
"Ah." Kikerus looked triumphant. "So the bull will appear near our main seaport?"
"I don't know -- yes, I do know. It will be at Amnisos."
"Then why did you not say so before, my child?"
"I -- I wasn't entirely sure, but now that I think about it -- I -- I am sure..."
"Well, no matter. It is a long walk to Amnisos, but I will certainly come and look for your miracle. I am anxious to witness it."
"What? You're not coming to see it? We - we thought - that is, I thought you'd be far too busy."
"Not at all, my child. Even priests are allowed to sleep. I shall cut short my rest and come to Amnisos beach tomorrow at dawn and observe your miracle with interest. Watching a bull emerge from the sea should certainly be a fascinating experience."
"A - a - a bull emerging from the sea?" Thasos almost whimpered. "Oh, Zeus. I - never said it would do that..."
"Well, how else would it appear on the beach? Unless, of course, it flies there?" Kikerus looked up hopefully at the night sky. "Does it drop down from the moon perhaps, like a little shaft of light?"
"No - no. I suppose it will emerge from the sea - somehow," said Thasos miserably.
"I know exactly what will happen." Kikerus closed his eyes, his hands vaguely enacting the vision. "I imagine the bull will emerge from below the surface like an etherised bubble, then float like sea-foam on the surf, before leaping on the beach with all the nimble grace of a descending wave. It will be a wonderful sight..."
He opened his eyes abruptly, as if an important idea had occurred to him.
"I think Pasiphae and her closest priestesses should be there to see it too," he said.
"Oh, no," Thasos almost sobbed.
"I shall speak to the gracious Pasiphae for you. She will be preparing herself for her Sacred Marriage, so it is better if any petition comes from me." Kikerus looked at the wretched Thasos with a slight glint in his eyes. Did he know that Thasos was trying to trick him? "Have you anything else to tell me, my boy?" he asked sharply.
"No, Kikerus. I've already said too -- I've already said everything that -- that is important."
"Excellent! Well, this could be the purpose for which you were chosen after all. I very much look forward to being enlightened. You had better go and eat now, my child, so that you are strong enough for your miracle later."
"Thank you, Kikerus," Thasos muttered abjectly. "See you -- see you in the morning." He rushed off, aware that the look of horror on his face must be obvious to the priest, even in the dim light. Back at the little palace he managed to force down a hurried late meal, glad to be alone with his anguished thoughts, wondering how, in the name of Zeus, he was going to arrange for a bull to emerge, like froth and bubbles, from the sea at Amnisos.
More frightening still, what were his brothers going to say, when he told them how much Kikerus knew?
Back at his brothers' secret shrine, Thasos was afraid that Manthys might hit him.
"You idiot! You fool. What did you go and tell the priest all that for? I knew we shouldn't have told the little whelp anything," he raved at Saron. "I knew we should have kept it a secret. And I was right. Look what he's done. Look at what the stupid little whelp has done. He's ruined everything!"
"I couldn't help it," wailed Thasos. "He's got a way of talking to me that makes me confess everything. He controls me. He's like a father to me. I just say what he wants..."
"Don't be stupid. He's just a chattering old idiot..."
"He's not. He's cleverer than you think. He's sharp. He can sense things..."
"In that case you little babbler, if he's so clever and sharp, why didn't you keep your silly mouth shut? And if he's so clever we certainly don't want him nosing around tomorrow watching us. And even if he's not there tomorrow, he'll find a way of ruining everything now. You've roused his suspicions. He's a menace. Oh - there's nothing we can do now," he added in despair, to Saron. "I give up. We'll just have to let the little tyke get killed, that's all. And I think I'll help them do it too. I think I'll borrow one of their double axes and start hacking at him myself..."
"Calm down, my brother," said Saron, who had been silently thoughtful during Manthys' outburst. "If the bull is actually seen to come from the sea, then it will look more divine - and they're more likely to believe it..."
"But how in Zeus' balls are we going to get that bull to come out of the sea, fool?" raved Manthys. "How in Zeus' thundering bollocks are we going to do that, idiot? You tell me, nincompoop. Do you know of any floating bulls?"
Saron made a dismissive gesture at Manthys and turned calmly to Thasos. "Little brother, can you get hold of a boat?"
"Yes - from the boat people, of course..."
"Good. That solves that little problem. Go and get a boat now."
"What do you plan to do?" sneered Manthys. "Teach the bull to row?"
"We'll have to bring the beast in on a boat and say we found it out at sea."
"What are you talking about, nitwit? You can't let Pasiphae and her crowd see you rowing boats around the place - you're not even supposed to be on the island, flea brain."
"Well, we'll get one of our friends to row the boat instead; Miletus or Diripus, or someone. It'll be too dark to see our faces anyway. And stop calling me names or I'll drown you when we get out to sea."
"Who are these people?" asked Thasos, puzzled. "I didn't know you had any friends here on the island."
"Never mind that, young Thasos. We can't trust you with any more secrets. Just get a couple of boats - or a boat and a raft; that might be better. Yes; we'll put the bull on the raft and have it rowed along the coast a bit - then towed back to shore further down at the right moment. The land juts out at the part near the cave, doesn't it -- it'll be quite easy."
"How am I going to explain all this to the boat people?" objected Thasos. "They're very talkative. They'll gossip it all over Cnossos if I ask them to lend me a boat and a raft..."
"Great Zeus, little brother," said Saron in exasperation, "can't you just steal them? It's the middle of the night - they'll all be asleep. I don't suppose they mount guard when everyone's asleep, so you can bring that boat and raft down to that big sea cave at Amnisos tonight. Then when your priests and priestesses turn up, take them a bit further along the beach and we'll tow the beast to you. We'll detach the boat from the raft and leave your bull floating there. They may have to go out and rescue it, but that won't matter -- so long as the bull is there."
"But won't they see the boat when you tow the raft along?"
"We'll do it all before sunrise. It'll be dark, they'll only have eyes for the white bull. They'll see that all right -- it almost glows in the dark."
"It may all go wrong."
Great Zeus, little brother, we know it may all go wrong," Manthys exclaimed. "Thanks to you it may go disastrously wrong and we've had our trouble in vain. We don't need you to tell us that. So stop whining and go and get those boats quick."
"Oh well" said Thasos, seeing a bright side, "at least I don't have to go and chant my poem tonight, do I?"
Manthys glared at him. "Is that meant to be comforting to us, little brother?"
"I wouldn't say anything else right now, Thasos," Saron advised him. "Just go, will you?"
He turned to Manthys. "We'll need to talk to the others. We won't get any sleep, but that can't be helped. Thanks to that little whelp, we've got a lot to do tonight."
Pasiphae sat on the square terrace near the Processional Way, in the brilliant torchlight, watching the rehearsing bull dancers as they practiced their frantic leaps and pirouettes prior to the great contest that was to decide which of them was to become her Consort.
She might have expected these men to feel anxious. The Bull Dance was a hazardous trial in itself, and the successful candidate faced an even greater number of frightening ordeals, culminating in his own ritual slaughter after a reign of only eight years. Yet not one of these eagerly practicing men looked even slightly anxious.
It was Pasiphae herself who felt apprehensive about her imminent Sacred Marriage. She was a virgin; the Moon Maiden was always a virgin until her marriage, when, decked out in the pure white of the full moon and the cow mask, she became the bride of the bull. Her sole experience of a man's closeness had been the violent attack by Saron. As Pasiphae gazed on these men, all looking much alike in their well-developed neat, sinewy bodies, she felt a growing dread. The Sacred Marriage was the one duty of the Moon Maiden that she was not fully prepared for.
She had learned and understood most of her duties almost as naturally as she had absorbed the nourishment of her mother's milk, and grew up instinctively living and feeling her role, cherishing it as the most essential and valuable part of her whole being.
However, her mother had died before she could tell her about sex. Pasiphae had had very little loving support when learning about this more adult aspect of her role. Kikerus, and occasionally Eileithyia, had fed her a few dry precepts and bleak maxims, placing the act within the context of the fruitfulness of Mother Earth and the passage of the seasons. Pasiphae only learned fully about the sexual nature of her role after Saron's rape. Her grandmother had tried to explain it all gently to her, yet all Pasiphae could feel was a shuddering horror at what Saron had done to her. Five years later she was still not ready for this part of her Moon Goddess role; she was not sure she could ever accept it in her heart. It was such a brutal act -- an assault. Why could she not choose for herself the man who was allowed to do this thing to her? Why could she not choose when to marry? Why must this all be decided for her, by a combination of ancient tradition and the chance outcomes of an athletic contest?
"Beautiful, aren't they?"
Aridela, one of the high priestesses and close friend of Pasiphae, had arrived in the terrace, attracted by the gymnastic display. Aridela was not a virgin and could fully appreciate, with a mature and considered desire, the muscular bodies of the young athletes. "What a shame you can only marry one of them."
"I am sure you will be able to enjoy any who fail," Pasiphae said, sadly.
"I'm sure you want to marry all of them."
"No. I don't want to marry any of them," said Pasiphae, passionately and unexpectedly.
"You don't mean that."
"I do. I don't want to marry. I don't desire any of those men. I don't know them. I only fear them - I fear the act. I know it will hurt."
Aridela draped her long, slim white arm around Pasiphae's shoulder.
"You should never let a man hurt you, Pasiphae. You are the Moon Goddess."
"How may I prevent it? I am told it is part of the Goddess' divine outcome. The pain suffered by the woman and her issue of blood is the counterpart of the bloodshed of the sacrificed consort. It is only fair."
"What man has told you this nonsense, Pasiphae? Is it Kikerus? Asterios? Let me tell you a little secret," she said confidentially. "None of that is true. You will feel no pain during the Ritual Coupling. It has been devised with the purpose of reducing the bull god's unbridled aggression. Indeed, I have heard that often the man cannot perform it at all and never really recovers his forcefulness afterwards, because the ceremony is so humiliating. It is a very gentle start for you - and afterwards, in private, you can control and temper your man to your wishes. Pasiphae - there will be times when you want your man to be assertive and energetic, just as often as you will want him to leave you alone - and your Consort must do both at your bidding. Now, my happy Pasiphae, let us look at all these lovely men and decide which one you want to enjoy for your consort, then pray to the Goddess that he will succeed."
"Will the Goddess listen to such a petition?"
"Of course. You are her sacred conduit to the community. If she does not listen to you, then who will she heed?"
"Which one?" Pasiphae asked herself, as she watched, one by one, the many nimble athletes. She could not feel any interest in the answer. Not one of them left any mark on her feelings and her memory. If she could really decide the outcome of the Bull Dance with a prayer, then it was a prayer she hardly dared to utter.
It was while her doubts and her desires warred silently within her that Kikerus approached her with an invitation to attend Thasos' mysterious miracle on Amnisos beach.
Asterios' melancholy reign was entering its last hours.
Kikerus knew that it was his duty to be a companion to the reigning king on the last night of his life. Tradition, kindness and long acquaintance usually dictated that the Consort should receive as much of the priest's time as he needed. But Kikerus knew that Asterios did not really need or want him. On the dreadful day of Perseis's death, much of the purpose had left Asterios' Great Year of kingship. He had continued in his role over the years, supporting Pasiphae as far as he was able, but his very presence as reigning king of Cnossos had been incongruous. It had been as much through loneliness as the desire to please a guest that he had taken Arete as his companion - a decision that Asterios had endured five bleak years regretting. He and Kikerus had often quarrelled over this marriage, and Kikerus could offer Asterios little in the way of comfort now. At the Consort's own request, and to his own relief, he had left Asterios' presence early.
Kikerus made his way to the LustralBasin at the rear of the Little Palace. He urgently needed to seek his own guidance from the Goddess. He had a strong foreboding that Thasos' predicted miracle on Cnossos beach was a terrible error from which the community might never recover
Earlier that evening at his house, just as he had been getting ready to attend to Asterios, he had received a ludicrous visit from Manthys. The man had tried to dissuade him from attending the beach ceremony, suggesting, with nauseating affability, that his duties in Cnossos were already too great and that he should not tire himself with trivial matters such as Thasos' little revelation. "I'm only thinking of you, priest," Manthys had said, with an insincere smirk that had sent shivers down Kikerus' spine. "I don't want you to overwork yourself, you see."
So inane were his attempts at persuasion that Kikerus knew at once that Manthys was up to something. He did not, of course, express these suspicions; he sensed the dangerous anger that lay behind the man's odious charm.
"The Goddess will guide my footsteps," he had assured Manthys, as he showed him out of his house. "Once my duties at the Little Palace are finished tonight I will make my decision. You need not worry about anything."
"May the Goddess guide my footsteps." He spoke the words aloud again now, as his slow tread led him through the entrance to the LustralBasin behind the Little Palace. If the Goddess offered him no answer, Kikerus resolved to put an end to whatever false trickery was being planned at Amnisos.
Five years ago, after he had rescued Asterios from the hunters, the Goddess had ceased to speak to him in the Lustral Basins, instead tormenting him with terrifying dreams. Kikerus had ignored the dreams. As a result, Pasiphae had been attacked and her sacred virginity nearly destroyed. The nightmares had now ended but the Lustral Basins had become places of dread to Kikerus. They offered frightening messages, and an aura of evil seemed to hang over them, especially when they were deserted, as this one was now, with all supplicants attending the celebrations in town for the Bull Dance.
Repressing his fear, Kikerus forced himself to walk down the steps of the basin. As he did so, a new image formed itself in his eyes. He saw, not the familiar dark basin, but the dusky interior of an Achaean temple in Patras. He remembered an encounter with a fair-haired priestess. A brief act of physical gratification had followed, after which had followed shame at the meaningless and joyless deed. From that deep disgrace had grown the resolution that had driven Kikerus from the lands of the Achaean and back to Kaftor. From that day he had avoided all contact with the sun, and his skin was now as pale as that of a virginal priestess.
An apparently wanton act of lust in a foreign land had driven him back home, and now maybe it had brought his family home too. Perhaps the Goddess had actually guided him to that despoiled temple in Patras, to a fumbling quest for feeble pleasure that he had long assumed had been misguided. The Goddess had now sent that woman, and her family, back to him. Kikerus now in the LustralBasin, and muttered his plea into the bowels of the earth.
"Thasos my son," he whispered. "I now know the Goddess has brought you back to me. The Goddess has chosen you. Please leave this falsity that you have devised and complete our holy family, in the divine grace of the Goddess, and join the Bull Dance..."
The empty chamber offered him no further answers, apart from a growing sense of unease. Kikerus made his decision; Thasos was about to commit a dreadful error and must be stopped. Emerging from the basin, Kikerus, firm and calm in his resolution, strode away from the Great House and into the surrounding blanket of darkness.
On the beach, just before sunrise, by the flickering light of a few torches, Manthys and Saron were having trouble persuading the white bull to climb onto the raft. They had managed to lead the docile animal out of the cave and down as far as the beach without any difficulty. But at the first sight of the boat and raft wobbling unsteadily on the dark troubled waters it had uttered an emphatic moo and refused to move a step further.
As the long moments of the night passed and the bull still refused to budge, Manthys hated it; he cursed the bull - he slapped it, he kicked it, he searched for sticks to thrash it with. Manthys had already been angry when the evening started. Their friends from Thera had flatly refused to involve themselves in such a foolish, dangerous scheme. He and Saron had no choice but to row the bull out to sea themselves.
"I don't believe this!" Manthys raved. "After all we've done. We come all this way from Thera, we persuade the ship's crew to let us deliver a gift of a white bull to Pasiphae, we find a nice secret cave for it, we even think of an idea that saves us from our little brother's dangerous idiocy - and then we get stopped in our tracks by the dumb animal itself. Get on that raft, you horrible brute," he raved, slapping and thumping the creature's rump in a fury. "Do as you're told, or we'll roast you instead. Hey - I've just had an idea," he said, in sudden inspiration. "We haven't tried pelting it with rocks yet. There must be plenty of rocks round here," he said, peering eagerly round in the darkness. "A few rocks thrown at its head will soon get it moving. If not at least it'll make me feel better when we knock its stupid skull off."
"There's no point in killing the animal," muttered Saron in disgust. "The Kaftors aren't going to be impressed if we show them a bloodstained white carcase, are they?"
"What are we going to do then?" shrieked Manthys, giving the bull's rump several final kicks as it stood, calmly unmoving, staring at the bobbing raft. "It's nearly dawn. Those idiots from Cnossos will be arriving soon. This bull might as well be dead if we're going to let them find it like this, just standing stupidly on the beach like a stray cow. They have to see the animal coming from the sea. That's what that little whelp told everyone."
The faint dullness of the approaching sunrise was hovering over the horizon before Saron had the bright idea of transferring the creature's meagre store of food from its cave and onto the raft. Even then, it was only after much shouting, pushing, slapping and kicking that the bull was finally induced to step clumsily aboard.
The bull's cooperation had come too late to give Manthys any cause for joy. By now he was tired and hungry. As he and Saron waded out and climbed gingerly inside the pitching boat, Manthys' teeth started chattering. He had suddenly realised the sheer idiotic impossibility of what they were planning to do. Tow a bull out to sea and then tow it back again? No wonder the others had refused to help. They knew they would almost certainly get drowned. Too late, Manthys remembered how much he hated water.
"If I die," he hooted in vexation, "it'll be the fault of both you and that little whelp. I must be mad to agree to this. Mad! The things I do for both of you." As Saron waded out to sea, pushing out their boat, Manthys saw himself as a victim sacrificed for the sake of his family. He shivered again as he felt the wetness of the sea ooze through the timbers of the boat into his cold limbs and chapped skin. He could have wept with self-pity. Was ever a brother more imposed upon than he was? Was ever a man more preyed upon by an ungrateful family than he was?
"Be careful, you little rat," Manthys roared at Saron, as the boat wobbled slightly in his struggling grip. "If you get me wet I'll get out and drown you myself."
Fortunately the bull, studying his earlier refusal to move, stood calm and still on the attached wobbling raft, and eventually, by some marvel, Manthys and Saron actually stabilised the boat and rowed it efficiently and safely away from the coast, towing the raft with its bull cargo out without further mishap. In fact, they were too successful; to his horror Manthys noticed, in the dawning light, that they were caught on a rapid outgoing current and were speeding towards the open sea.
"Stop the boat! Start rowing," he screamed in panic to Saron. "The current's carrying us the wrong way. We'll never get back. Start rowing!"
"Which way?" asked Saron helplessly.
"Towards the land, you fool."
"Which way is the land?" asked Saron forlornly.
"Oh, don't say that," moaned Manthys. "Please don't say that. Look - the sunrise is over there. Just get the sun on your side of the boat and start rowing for your life."
"We've got to turn the boat first, haven't we," Saron roared back, "before we can tow the bull back to the coast?"
"Oh, by Zeus' breath, how are we going to do that?" It hadn't occurred to Manthys or Saron, until now, that the boat and its raft would need to be turned round in the middle of the open sea, which was much choppier than they had thought it would be. As they desperately tried to twist their boat sideways in the strong current, a sudden swell set it wobbling again. Their frenzied attempts to row only made it wobble even more.
"Row properly you idiot," screamed Manthys to Saron. "Stop pitching it all over the place. Are you trying to move the boat or catch fish?" In the toppling swell, the bull became agitated; it could be heard lowing miserably, its hooves clattering on the raft's bare timbers.
"Stay still you stupid brute," Manthys shrieked as the boat pitched and some water sloshed inside and drenched his feet. "You'll have us all overboard if you dance around like that. Oh Great Zeus," he moaned, "what are we going to do?"
Manthys jabbed the oars in the sea in a desperate attempt to turn, but the boat now refused to move at all. Instead, there was a shuddering motion from the raft, and then the clattering of the bull's hooves skittering sideways across timbers. The creature gave a low moan, and then there was a thick, heavy splash as it fell into the sea.
"Great Zeus! The bull!" Saron shrieked in panic. "It's gone. It's gone. Save it. Save it!"
"Don't talk rubbish. How can we possibly save a bull from drowning, you fool?" panted Manthys. He was only grateful the boat hadn't capsized. "Let's get back to land and forget all about this."
"We can't do that," hooted Saron. "Where is the cursed animal? I can't see it." It seemed that the huge white creature, too big to miss even in the ominous twilight of a cloudy dawn, had vanished under the water. "What are we going to do?" Saron screeched.
"It's dead, you fool; a monster like that probably sank like a stone. And I don't care."
"We've killed it. We've killed a sacred Thera bull." Saron moaned. "Oh, no. By Zeus' towering member, we've made some big mistakes in our life. But this one..... What are they going to say in Cnossos when the bull doesn't appear? What will happen when they find out we've drowned it? What are they going to do...?"
"Well, they're not going to know it's drowned, are they?"
"Of course they are. That bull won't stay at the bottom of the sea, will it? It'll float to the top and get washed up on the coast. Those people on the beach are waiting for a living bull miracle and all they're going to get is a bloated carcass. What do you think they'll do to us then?"
"They needn't know we had anything to do with it. Let's get out of here."
"Do you think it's possible to row to Thera?"
"Don't be stupid. You sneak back to the den and I'll get back to the Little Palace and pretend I've been there all the time."
"What about the boat and raft?"
"Once we get back to land we'll smash them both up."
Meanwhile, on Amnisos beach, Thasos could not look at the sea any more. He found it even more difficult to face his disillusioned audience, who had been gazing expectantly at the empty horizon.
In the clouded early dawn, it was clear that Thasos' miracle was not going to happen. People were getting restless and mumbling about going back to Cnossos to escape the rising sun, complaining about hunger and the waste of a good night's rest. Pasiphae, her upturned face disappointed, emerged from the crowd.
"Thasos," she said to him in an anxious whisper, "you must talk to the people now and convince them of your good faith. Otherwise they will think that your prophecy was a lie and an affront to the Goddess."
"But you believe in me, don't you Pasiphae? You believe I wasn't lying..."
"Yes, I believe you," she said pensively, her unhappiness at his failure plain to see. "But I still think you should speak to the crowd."
Thasos was grateful to Pasiphae for having faith in him; he also realised that her advice was good. If he talked to these people and convinced them of his sincerity, they might be persuaded to return to Amnisos another day. Perhaps he could make his dream simpler next time and say that they would find the bull just standing on the beach?
Fear flamed briefly in Thasos' stomach at the thought of speaking to the hostile crowd. Memories of the murderous mob at Patras flashed in front of him, but he told himself these people were gentle Keftiu, not rough Achaeans. He clambered onto a nearby rock, stood up and tried to smile down at them. They glared back up, clearly having decided that his miracle was a hoax. Trying not to look at Pasiphae, Thasos raised his gaze above the heads of his audience and tried to speak.
"My adopted people and my family," he began to say, then stopped. His voice had come out as a feeble croak. He cleared his throat; he would have to do better than this. The large crowd started to murmur resentfully in the dawning light.
"My wonderful adopted people and my darling family," Thasos said, with more confidence. "Blessed servants of the Bull Cult." At last his strengthening voice had silenced the crowd. "Thank you for coming. I am sorry things did not go quite according to plan."
A hundred pairs of eyes seemed to turn despairingly to the empty sea behind him. Thasos cleared his throat again and took another deep breath. This was going to be the difficult part; persuading them to come back.
"Even if the revelation does not appear this morning - indeed it is becoming increasingly clear that it might not - I crave your patience, my people of the Moon. I ask that you return again - yes, maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after, when your sublime expectations will be fulfilled and we will all be blessed by this gracious acknowledgement from the Goddess. The bull will appear. Maybe next time the bull will be waiting for us on the beach, or perhaps...."
He stopped speaking, because his audience were muttering again and their eyes appeared to have glazed over with boredom. Then Thasos suddenly realised that one person was missing from this audience; a person whose presence was almost as important as Pasiphae's.
Where was Kikerus?
He scanned the crowd; Kikerus was definitely not there. At first Thasos was relieved that the priest had not witnessed his failure, but then his absence made him anxious. Why had Kikerus not come? He had promised to - and he never broke his promises without good reason.
Then, with a shock, Thasos guessed what had happened. The old man must have realised that the ceremony was a trick, and had managed to ruin it - he had stopped the miracle from happening. By some means Kikerus had intercepted the bull, condemned Manthys and Saron to fresh exile or worse, and was on his way to Amnisos now, breathing wrath and outrage, to denounce Thasos in front of Pasiphae and the crowd.
Thasos suddenly realised the terrible danger he had placed himself in. He had tried - and failed - to hoodwink some of the most revered religious figures in Cnossos, deliberately mocking their rites and rituals, and demeaning their Goddess, and enticing them out on a false pilgrimage. In Patras, a man would be horribly put to death for such wickedness against Zeus and his priests. In a panic, Thasos almost fell off the mound and dashed towards Pasiphae.
"I think you should talk to the crowd," he gasped. "They won't listen to me."
"I thought you were doing very well, Thasos...."
"Good. In that case I'm off. Goodbye."
"What?"
Ignoring Pasiphae's startled cry and a gasp of astonishment from the crowd, Thasos dashed away from the beach. He didn't care what they thought. It was essential he spoke to Kikerus before Pasiphae returned to Cnossos and heard from the priest herself. In his anger and disappointment, the old man was quite capable of condemning him to Pasiphae, the Lawgetas and anyone else who would listen. He was more dangerous than a crowd of priests and priestesses.
Thasos almost expected Kikerus to be hidden amongst the crags and rocks surrounding the beach, preparing to hurl himself Zeus-like on the crowd with thunderous denunciations. However, there was no sign of him and none of the people in the vicinity of Amnisos that Thasos questioned had spotted a wandering priest in their midst.
While he rushed with painful haste on the long walk back to Cnossos, anxiously scanning the landscape, Thasos had his back to the coast and did not see what his brothers, struggling with their boat and empty raft, could see clearly. A floating white bull, its head and horns clearly visible above the foam, was swimming sturdily in the lea of a wave directly towards Pasiphae and her petitioners on the beach.
Thasos did not know it, but his patient audience, after waiting so long, were about to get their miracle after all. Before their astounded, ecstatic gaze, a white bull was emerging gracefully from the sea, exactly in the way Thasos had foretold.
Impatient of the winding path, Thasos struck across scrub and woodland and completely lost his way. By the time he staggered into Cnossos from the distant south side, the early winter haze had lifted and the sun was shining in a jewel-blue sky. He was very late.
Even the southern reaches of the town had woken up to the excitement of a morning of celebration. Thasos ignored the lively discussions about the Bull Dance. He knew that Kikerus lived in this part of the town. Panting after running in the growing heat, he arrived at the familiar house but found, to his almost sobbing vexation that it was empty; there was no sign of Kikerus or his household.
Thasos decided to try and find Kikerus in the Little Palace. It was his last chance. If the priest were not there it meant he was already in the Great House. In that case it would be too late -- Pasiphae would be there by now and she would have been told everything. Thasos ran through the southern town and as he crossed the KairatosBridge, the Great House sprawled in all its sinister splendour below him. Avoiding the stepped portico, he hurried, sweating, up into the main town.
He strode down the same streets he had taken the day before, which were now a buzz of activity. There was much animated, even frenzied discussion and argument among citizens and traders about the outcome of the Bull Dance. Very little buying seemed to be taking place at the stalls, however. Then a loud and rather drunken cry caught his attention.
"My lord! O Xhora Man with the hay on his head. Oh foreign lord with the yellow scalp."
Thasos turned round rather impatiently and, to his surprise, saw the craftsman with the beautiful figurines hailing him. The man was grinning rather ruefully, holding a carafe in one hand and swinging the Pasiphae statuette in the other, as if he intended throwing it for a bet.
"My lord, I am so glad you have come," he exclaimed, with a loud hiccup. "I will be honoured if you will accept this," He held up the beautiful model of Pasiphae and swayed on his feet slightly, nearly dropping it.
"What?"
"Please take this figurine, my lord. It is - it is most apposite that you should possess it."
"Are you sure? Well, that's very kind of you." Thasos rushed up to the craftsman, then hesitated. "How much do you want for it?"
"Oh, my lord, I speak not of such dross," the craftsman said, brandishing the statuette as if he meant to hit him with it. "Accounts are of no honour any more. Objects are of no significance now. I must turn my sights to the divine enlightenment of the numinous."
Thasos held out his hand just in time to catch the figurine, as the craftsman swung it downward into his open grip with a heavy smack.
"It is yours, my lord, with my profoundest apologies," said the man slowly and solemnly, giving Thasos an elaborate moon gesture and almost falling backwards. "I am deeply sorry for my inappropriate and horrible laughter at you yesterday. It has been a judgement on me and I must make the sacrifice. Will you forgive me, my lord? Will you forgive my mockery and scorn of yesterday? Please, please forgive me." Tears of penitence began to roll down the man's cheeks.
"Well, of course I forgive you," said Thasos, restraining a chuckle of delight.
"My lord, your bounty is more magnificent than the mountain, more profound than the ocean, more beautiful even than my art." The craftsman tottered back to his depleted stall and empty carafe. "How can I hope to surpass such human kindness with my art?" he cried out in despair to the sky. "How can I hope to exceed the Goddess' seasons of renewal with my fumbling figures? How can I hope...?"
Thasos decided to escape with the figurine before the craftsman sobered up and demanded it back. He waved a brisk farewell and hastily rushed down the street, almost tripping over in his haste.
The figurine was his! It was actually his. Once in the West Square, safely out of sight of the craftsman, Thasos fondled the figurine gently and reverently; turning it over in his hands. The piece was beautifully made and its facial likeness to Pasiphae almost uncanny. He stroked its tiny, smooth face with his finger, consoling himself with the thought that, whoever Pasiphae married, he, Thasos, would be able to touch and speak to her when he liked. He ran his finger over the perfectly constructed breasts and down the torso, lingering at the top of the wide dress...
Then he looked up, suddenly noticing how quiet the street had become. The conversations around the stalls had ceased, and people were standing still with troubled, even grave expressions on their faces. Thasos thought at first they were all staring at him, but then he realised that they were listening to an emergent sound - a sombre chant moving towards them, though still hidden from sight by a bend in the Western Procession Way. Thasos hesitated, puzzled by the sounds and the strange new sombre mood in the town. Had he stumbled upon one of the Great House's rituals? Was he about to witness a sacrifice at sunrise? He could pick out certain distant woeful cries:
"He is ready for renewal."
"The Creature of the Day has yielded him."
"The Goddess has taken him."
"O may she immortalise him."
Around the turn of the road a shambling group of women appeared, festooned in scarves and white coverings, and chanting the bleakest of death dirges. They were followed by another line of doleful, muttering priests. Some of the wailing women were holding aloft a wooden slab on lay which a human figure, possibly a corpse. Thasos felt a chill run down his spine.
As the procession moved closer, Thasos saw that the body was stiffly contorted, as if some limbs had been broken. Blood had clotted into the hair and matted it from the rear, and the hands and face were bloated and red; clearly the body had been partially burned. Several of the women accompanying the procession carried containers of water, which they sprinkled over the body, and there was a gasp from the watching crowd as it writhed and shuddered. A high-pitched wheeze, like a muted scream of agony, hissed from the fixed-open mouth. The victim was still alive!
Terror gave Thasos' limbs speed. Dropping the figurine in his haste, he raced away from the Processional Way. He tore through the town, past the Little Palace, then of sight of Cnossos and did not stop running until he had hidden himself behind the thick avenue of trees that bordered the main route to the north coast. Once concealed, Thasos fell to the ground, still sobbing for breath, and tried to cleanse his vision of the horrible sight he had just seen.
What sort of horrific place was this? He didn't want to be in Cnossos any more. Pasiphae or no Pasiphae, he was going to get out of this evil place as quickly as he could. Besides, it could be his turn next to die like that. Kikerus must have told Pasiphae about the white bull by now. It was probably unsafe for him to remain a moment longer.
He would call quickly at the Little Palace, grab his things, and get out of Cnossos for ever. He stumbled out of the wood, and down the hill towards the town paths. As he made his stealthy approach, he was pleased to see that the palace looked empty, with no sign of any lurking servants from the Great House. He hurried through the entrance, dashed into his old room - and found it empty. His change of clothes, drinking vessel and jewels were all gone. Had the servants made a mistake and put them in the wrong room? This was impossible; his was the only vacant room in the Little Palace with a bed.
There was a movement at the doorway and Thasos turned as he heard his name called. He saw Pasiphae at the doorway of his room, her head amply swathed in thick scarves. She had been crying, as if some terrible experience or disclosure had disturbed her. Thasos saw that even the rims of her eyes were red with weeping.
"I'm sorry, Pasiphae..." he gasped. "Look ... Kikerus..."
"I know." She waved her hand dismissively. "Please don't tell me. I am just glad you have arrived, Thasos," she added, a sob in her voice. "I have waited here for you since I heard. We have a grave duty to perform...." Her voice broke briefly into another sob, but she recovered herself. "Kikerus is waiting for us. We must go and see him together."
The Sacrifice
Thasos hesitated, and then blurted the question out.
"Have you seen Kikerus this morning?"
The grief in her face seemed to deepen. "Yes. I'm afraid I have already seen him," she replied, and fresh tears flowed down her face. "He is in the Great House. That is why I came here to bring you to him."
"Is he angry with me?"
"I am sure there is no anger in his heart for you, Thasos. Why should there be?"
"Oh good -- I mean, I don't know. What has he told you?"
"He has not yet spoken to me," Pasiphae replied sadly. "He spoke a few words to my grandmother, before... before.... She is with him now, and he is waiting for us to go and see him together. I realise this will not be pleasant for you," she added, sensing his reluctance, "but after the awful thing that has happened, it will be a healing experience for both of us. Please come to the Great House with me now."
She looked sad, alone, vulnerable - and more beautiful than she had ever looked before. There was no anger in her voice or manner. She spoke meekly, even pleadingly; and Thasos found himself unable to withstand such an entreaty from the woman he loved.
"I'm sorry, Pasiphae," he said uneasily, hoping for a chance to justify himself. "I didn't want this to happen."
"Of course you didn't, Thasos." Pasiphae slipped her hand into his and led him out of his room and towards the palace exit. "None of us wanted this to happen, Thasos, but it has happened and there is no changing it. We will see Kikerus together in the chamber of immortal wisdom, and there, in the grace of the Goddess, hopefully he will enlighten us both. Perhaps he will judge us both."
Something in Pasiphae's manner warned Thasos to say no more. There was no accusation or blame in her voice, at least not yet, but it was clear that he was not going to enjoy his coming encounter with Kikerus. What was the old man saving himself up to say to them both?
Bravely, Thasos accompanied Pasiphae to meet his former teacher; now his judge.
As she led him though the winding streets to the West Square, Thasos noticed that the town had now become silent. There was no sign of the vivacious and noisy street entertainers, their enthusiastic audience and the lively trading that had filled the town with so much life and colour the evening before. Indeed, there was even no trace of the angrier, anticipatory bustle he had noticed in the SouthTown earlier that morning. Some of the stalls had disappeared, and those remaining had only a few bored customers; a sense of lacklustre defeat seemed to hover over the whole scene. There were many silent gestures of respect for Pasiphae, but Thasos fancied that the people were looking at him with a suspicious unfriendliness in their eyes.
Pasiphae took Thasos into the Great House through the West Gate. After the usual perplexing walk along interminable winding corridors, he found himself descending an enormous staircase with double flights of broad shallow gypsum steps that seemed to spiral downward to the centre of the earth. Thasos had heard about this enormous staircase. It was in the South Wing of the Great House - the mysterious realms that were built into the fabric of the earth. He had never before verntured so far into its secret heart; he reflected that he was probably being taken to the judgment seat - the underworld domain of the Lawgetas. Presumably this was where his brothers would have been taken for judgment five years before -- if they had not run away first.
Elegant colonnades stretched down a well of light into a cool twilight realm. The blood red posts and midnight blue platforms of the public upper house gave way to the midnight blue columns and blood red plinths of the women's territory. Thasos tried to observe all the details of what he saw, but he was mostly aware only of its strangeness. Fresh, but potent herbs smells began to tickle his nostrils, as well as a distant, subtle essence of burning. He began to feel uneasy about what awaited him at the end of this strange journey into the mysteries of Cnossos.
They reached the bottom of the stairwell and, at the end of a long corridor, approached a broad ornate entrance guarded by a closed wooden door; the door of the judgment chamber.
Pasiphae knocked, the door opened and an old woman with long white hair floating free stared out at Thasos with frank dislike.
"Kikerus has been ready for a long time," she said to Pasiphae in a harsh, even vicious voice. "Now that the Xhora has arrived, we may commence."
Thasos was led into an enormous, dimly lit chamber that echoed and resounded with the sounds of doleful singing, its air pungent with sweet scents. Then in the hazy light, Thasos saw Kikerus sitting upright on a long raised throne in the centre of the room. A loose robe was draped over him, and his hands were clasped around his raised knees. His face looked sternly judgmental and was looking directly at Thasos. There was no human gentleness or warmth in his cold gaze - only a long, unblinking glare of condemnation.
"H-Hello, Kikerus," stammered Thasos. The old man did not reply.
Clearly the moment of judgement had come. His old guardian was looking merciless; all forgiveness and understanding had left his face. Thasos had defied the Goddess and Kikerus had warned him what the consequences could be. "I cannot save you from the consequences, my son," he had once told him.
But surely Kikerus still loved him, in spite of what he had done. Thasos decided that his only hope was to throw himself on the mercy of his former teacher and beg for forgiveness. He tore himself away from Pasiphae's guiding hand and dashed to the long throne. He fell to his knees at the feet of the stern judgemental figure of Kikerus, once his familiar and trusted teacher. Then the frank confession poured out without further thought. He had nothing to lose now.
"Oh, Kikerus, I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. I'll never do anything like this again. It was my brothers - my brothers made me do it. I wouldn't have gone through with it, I promise you. We'll send the white bull back. It wasn't a real miracle and we won't keep the bull here any longer, I promise you..." Kikerus' gaze remained fixed stonily on the entrance to the chamber; he refused even to look down at Thasos. "Don't be angry," pleaded Thasos. "I'm so, so sorry. Say you'll forgive me. I promise I'll change. I'll be a good citizen of Cnossos from now on - I won't play tricks again..."
There was a clamour from the surrounding women as Thasos reached out and grabbed Kikerus' hand. It was stiff and cold. White powder came away on Thasos' fingers and under the coating of powder, Kikerus' skin was burned bright red. Close to, under its coating of whitish powder, Kikerus' crimson face suddenly became recognisable as the burned, swollen face of the dying man that Thasos had seen carried up the processional way earlier that morning.
Several pairs of hands hurried Thasos away from the bier and he stumbled to a corner of the room and tried not to be sick. In front of his faltering gaze, a large man carried a huge clay pithos, and poured the contents into a tub near Kikerus' body.
He saw the wailing women pick up the stiff body of Kikerus, still rigid in its crouching position. The loose robe fell off and they put the naked corpse, in the same foetal posture, on its side into the tub. The large man tipped the giant pithos and filled the tub near to the brim, covering Kikerus and hiding him from Thasos' sight for ever.
"From the mother to the mother," the women chanted. "From the womb to the tomb. From life to life..."
The ceremony continued, but Thasos fainted and saw no more.
He had confessed everything! He had confessed to a dead man.
He had divulged every detail of his guilt at the top of his voice. It was too late to take it back or deny it. They all knew about his brothers' plan; the stolen white bull, the false prophecy, the trick to get him into the Great House. He had betrayed himself and now he had to take the consequences.
In his dream he was confessing again -- pouring out his guilt to the corpse of his old teacher, unable to stop, condemning himself with every word:
"I didn't mean to trick you. It was my brothers. We'll send the white bull back. I'm sorry. I won't do it again....."
He awoke suddenly and opened his eyes to soft daylight. He found that he was lying on a large comfortable bed in an ornately decorated chamber. Sunlight filtered through many windows, revealing, to Thasos' muddled gaze, a number of doors leading from each wall to various mysterious destinations. Despite the presence of sunlight, the room felt as if it were at the very centre of the network of endless corridors that comprised the Great House. He realised that it would be very difficult to escape from this room.
"Thasos. I am sorry to waken you." Pasiphae was standing beside the bed, smiling down at him. "My grandmother told me you were talking in your sleep."
Thasos sat up abruptly. "Did you hear what I was saying?" he gasped.
"Of course I heard, Thasos. I clearly heard every word you were saying." She gave him another rueful, forgiving smile. "They were same words you said over Kikerus' body."
"Oh, Zeus!" Thasos groaned, laying back on the bed in despair. "Oh, great Olympus. Oh, huge searing thunderbolts, what have I done, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry...."
"Oh, please don't apologise, Thasos. I forgive you. My grandmother was angry that you touched the body, but I told her that you were singing a beautiful Achaean death chant over Kikerus' body, and maybe you do things differently in your religion. She accepts that and is angry no longer."
"W-what?" Thasos sat up again. His heart almost burst with relief. Of course -- he had spoken in Achaean! "You didn't understand what I was saying?"
"Of course we didn't understand. But, oh Thasos, your prayer sounded so emotional and energetic - and then you fainted with grief. You should not grieve, Thasos. Kikerus will always be with us. Perhaps one day we will hear his voice again in my Lustral Chamber. Maybe you could sing him your death chant. Why don't you sing it to me now?"
"Oh - ah - you would hate that death chant, Pasiphae," muttered Thasos, still almost breathless with relief. "It is - it is full of the images of worship of Zeus and father sky and smoke and burning bodies - and - and horrible things like that. You would not like the song at all."
"Oh Thasos, I know it was full of love for Kikerus." She reached across to a nearby shelf. "I know, because you offered this to him. You dropped it by his body in the Processional Way."
She held up a small statuette and Thasos' eyes gradually recognised the beautiful figurine of herself that he had carelessly discarded in the West Square when running away. To his anguish, Thasos saw that it was badly cracked and chipped.
"Oh, it's got spoilt. That's a pity... I'm really sorry..."
Pasiphae gave an unhappy little laugh. "Oh, Thasos, you needn't be sorry. Of course a figurine is always damaged when it is relinquished. That is the nature of sacrifice. People offer me beautiful pots and figurines every day in the Bull Court, knowing that the act of sacrifice will destroy them. I am sure Kikerus would be honoured that you gave up something so fine for him. It must have cost you so dearly." She placed the figurine gently on a shelf and smiled down at him though moist, bloodshot eyes. "Thank you, Thasos, thank you - so much for making such a wonderful offering to Kikerus. It is a further sign to me that you have been chosen."
Thasos' feeling of relief increased. "Oh - so you're not angry about the White Bull, then?"
"Oh Thasos, that's the other thing I have to tell you about. You disappeared from Amnisos so quickly this morning. You did not see the White Bull. It appeared on the beach - just as you said it would. It was beautiful -- a miracle."
"What? Are you saying it actually turned up in the boat after all? And were my brothers there?"
"Brothers?" She looked blank for a moment, and then frowned down at him. "What about your brothers?"
"Oh, no reason - no reason at all..." Thasos cursed himself for not holding his tongue. "Please forget what I said..."
"Are both your brothers here? Is Saron here?" She now looked anxious and fretful. "I was unaware that Saron was even on our island. And what are you saying about the bull being on a boat? I don't understand, Thasos...I did not see any boat when the bull emerged from the waves..."
"It's all right, Pasiphae. I'm still half asleep. I was just thinking of a bad dream I had, that's all ... There's no boat, no Saron, just a dream. I've forgotten it already. Please tell me about the White Bull. What happened?"
"Oh Thasos, it was a beautiful sight." Her face became rapt again at the memory. "The bull emerged from the sea; then it swam to shore and walked across the beach. Why did you not stay and watch your miracle? It was wonderful. It proved to me, just as it proved to the community of Cnossos, that the Goddess has chosen you."
At these words, Thasos felt almost glad that Kikerus was dead. He couldn't spoil anything now. Nevertheless, there was one question he had to ask. If the Goddess had chosen Kikerus, why had the poor old man been sacrificed so horribly?
"Was Kikerus chosen by the Goddess too?" Thasos asked cautiously.
"Of course he was chosen," Pasiphae replied. "That is why his body is being saved. Usually when a person dies, the body nourishes the earth - gives life to the womb of eternal life. However, Kikerus is immortal, so we preserve his body in the Goddess' eternal honey. When he appears in the full glory of his new union with the Goddess, when the ceremony of rebirth has been performed, we may hope to speak to Kikerus again."
"So - so if Kikerus is immortal, why did he have to die?" Thasos asked, aware that the question might be dangerous.
Pasiphae gazed down at him in what looked like astonishment. "What are you talking about, Thasos? Kikerus did not have to die. His death was an accident. He seems to have fallen down the high bank of the main north route near to the Little Palace this morning. His head was broken - and many of his bones too."
"What? But - but he was burned.... I saw him..."
"That was caused by the sun. His skin was pale, like mine, Thasos. The rising sun burnt him. He must have died in dreadful pain. We cannot understand how it happened. It is so strange that he could have fallen. It is possible, but unlikely, that he jumped."
"Do you think that maybe he..." Thasos stopped himself just in time from mentioning the white bull again. Nevertheless, he began to fear that Kikerus, in despair at his treachery, might have killed himself.
"What, Thasos?" Pasiphae asked urgently. "Has the Goddess vouchsafed another vision? Please tell me if you know what this all means. Do you know why Kikerus had to die?"
"No, ...no...." Thasos reflected, with despair, that he would always be asked for prophecies after his success with the white bull. "I think - I think he - I mean, I will try and have another dream to find out what happened to Kikerus," he said, in the hope of avoiding answering. "I am sure the Goddess will vouchsafe me that vision, as she has many others."
"I am sure she will, Thasos." She clasped his hands more firmly, her face came suddenly closer to his, and to Thasos' astonished delight, she kissed him, full and lingeringly, on the lips.
"Oh Thasos, you are my White Bull - and you are beautiful." She spoke with sudden, almost intense warmth. Thasos felt his loins begin to tingle; these were the very same words Britomartis had once said to him; her white bull. For one wild moment he thought that Pasiphae might climb onto the bed with him. Instead she seemed happy to discuss Kaftor funeral rites.
"The initial preservation of Kikerus' body has to be completed quickly, before it starts to rot," she explained happily. "They had already removed his inner organs when you saw him in the chamber of renewal." Pasiphae continued explaining the useful preservative properties of honey on the human body at such graphic length that Thasos felt an urgent need to interrupt her.
"So Kikerus wasn't joking when he told us your mother had been preserved with the same stuff that you preserve your fruit in," Thasos said hastily, before realising the inappropriateness of such a remark.
Fortunately Pasiphae was delighted by it. "My dear mother. Of course. It is so long since I last visited her. She is now in a state of extended preservation and her body is now completely visible. And her son, my little baby brother, is in her arms. Oh, Thasos - you've never met my mother and brother, have you? We can go and visit her together. Maybe you can try and speak to them, as you hoped to commune with Kikerus earlier today."
Thasos answered without thinking. "Oh, not more corpses! I suffered enough horrible sights for one day?"
"Thasos!" Pasiphae's eyes filled with tears. "How could you? She is my mother."
Thasos realised he had been offered a great honour and had reacted as crassly as his brothers would have. "Pasiphae, I'm sorry." He sat up hastily and took her hand. "Of course I'll come. I'm very flattered you should have asked me."
She snatched her hand away. "Flattered, Thasos?" She seemed to regard the word as an insult. "Why should you feel flattered?"
"I mean - I'd be honoured to see your dead mother."
Pasiphae sighed. "Honoured? Flattered! You choose such cold words. I don't understand you. When the beautiful White Bull appeared I had no doubt you had been chosen. But you seem to speak to me with no understanding or sympathy at all. What am I to think now, Thasos?"
Thasos was perplexed. What was he meant to say? He could not understand what Pasiphae wanted from him. In one sense, she was affectionate almost to the point of arousal. Yet she also seemed to be practising the early stages of some complex ritual that Thasos had no understanding of. Once again, the ambiguous Keftiu language was a barrier between them. While Thasos struggled once again in the awkward silence for something to say, there was a welcome interruption.
"O Moon Goddess." A servant appeared at the door to the chamber, and spoke to Pasiphae with some timidity. "There is a - a person in the reception chamber who wishes to speak to Lord Thasos."
"Lord Thasos?" asked Pasiphae in tones of disbelief. "Does this person not wish to consult with me?"
"No, my lady. The visitor has asked most pressingly to speak to lord Thasos."
"This is a most undesirable interruption. Thasos and I were having a very important discussion about death." Pasiphae's voice betrayed strong resentment. "Who is this annoying and unwelcome intruder?"
Cowed by her manner, the servant seemed to hesitate.
"It is a lady who wishes to see lord Thasos."
"A lady?" Pasiphae almost yelped. "Are you seeing ladies in my Moon Chambers now, Thasos?"
"No - No. Perhaps it's my mother?" suggested Thasos.
"No, my lord. It is a young lady. It is ..." The servant cleared his throat painfully. "My Lady Pasiphae, I fear that I must inform you with extreme reluctance that the visitor who wishes to speak to Lord Thasos is none other than the Sweet Maiden, Britomartis."
A painful jolt of excitement from his heart almost winded Thasos. Britomartis was here! Britomartis was here right now in the Great House and wanted to see him. Thasos could feel his heart painfully in the silence, while Pasiphae glared at the servant.
"Did you call Britomartis a 'Sweet Maiden'?" she asked, in tones of barely repressed fury.
"That is what she calls herself."
"She calls herself many things. She also has the boldness to style herself 'The Source of Divine Water.' Perhaps you would like to call her The Source of Divine Water in my presence?"
"Not at all, my lady."
"Britomartis has even," added Pasiphae, raising her voice in memory of the offence, "gone around the island calling herself the true Moon Goddess. Do you wish also to worship her as true Moon Goddess?"
"Absolutely not, my lady. Such an idea would repel me..."
"Then you should not grieve and insult me by usurping these titles on this woman's behalf while you are addressing me..."
"I am profoundly remorseful, My Lady," muttered the servant, hanging his head in shame. "I did not consider my words fully..."
"This woman has more male companions and consorts than my entire entourage of servants. And what terrible men she chooses! She has gutless, spineless craven men, which I would never admit into my sight."
"So I understand, my lady... however, I must remind you, my lady..." The servant hesitated again.
"Remind me of what?"
"She is insisting on seeing Lord Thasos. She will not leave until she does."
Pasiphae turned and glared at Thasos. "What do you know about this frolicking nymph of the glades?" She spoke in tones of real malice. "Well, Thasos? I am waiting for your answer. What do you know about this wandering pariah?"
"We met a few times when I was outside - in the fields; that's all," muttered Thasos uncomfortably. Why was Pasiphae making herself so unpleasant all of a sudden?
"You met her? What do you mean by 'met'?"
"We spoke a bit," mumbled Thasos.
"You only spoke? Well she need not think of speaking to you in my chambers." Pasiphae turned decisively to the servant again. "Kindly tell the wood nymph that she must never speak with Lord Thasos or even think of him. Let her return to her own useless men. She must be sent away - if necessary, thrown out of the Great House."
"My Lady." The servant appeared to shuffle his feet with some embarrassment and unease. "I fear - I fear the lady is crying most copiously. We cannot adequately deal with her. She is very strong and we dare not manhandle the Goddess of the Wild. I fear I do not know what we will do if she starts screaming again, which she will certainly do if we deny her access to Lord Thasos. She has a very strident scream, my Lady," the servant added, massaging his ear pensively.
"Whose Great House is this?" asked Pasiphae, with a scream to rival Britomartis'. "Does that woman think she can just walk in here as if it were one of her dirty forests? How dare she treat the holy Chambers of the Moon as if it were the moss-infested domain of insects and rats? I will not tolerate her contempt. I want her thrown into a snake pit..."
"It's all right, Pasiphae. I'll go and see her," muttered Thasos hastily. "She'll go away if I talk to her. I'll make sure she never comes back again."
Pasiphae gave him a bitter glare.
"Very well, Thasos. You may go, but only if you promise to speak roughly and rudely to her. You should shout, harass and torment her to ensure her rapid departure. As an Achaean, you should find all that very easy."
"I will do my best," Thasos assured her. He rose from the bed and began to follow the servant through one of the doorways. "I -- I'll be really cruel to her."
"And Thasos - please remember that your duties and responsibilities lie in the Great House now. You must spurn this woman then return to me quickly. We have much to discuss and prepare for."
"Of course, Pasiphae," Thasos muttered, as he followed the servant. "I'll come back soon - I promise."
At first glance, Britomartis was still the same wild, excitingly unkempt creature of the outdoors, whose appearance offended against every tidy dress code of Cnossos. She was clothed in scanty animal skins that revealed her shoulders and most of her long, finely boned legs, while her breasts were carefully trapped inside a tight swaddling, further disguised by an additional loose dangling pinafore. Her whole body seemed to glow and pulsate with the carnivorous blood energy of her flesh-eating diet. She brought with her the freshly brackish smell of the forest, but this subtle fragrance was corrupted by the perfumes of the scented waters that servants were rather blatantly sprinkling around the room. Britomartis' wildly disordered hair, which had spread so softly under Thasos' embrace on the earthy floors of their passion, merely looked dishevelled compared with the discrete and skilfully tied-up hair of the servants. In the forests she was a creature of breathtaking beauty and grace. Within the restrictions and restraints of the Great House she was still a powerful and disturbing presence, yet somehow grotesque, gawky and defeated within these discreet yet stately surroundings.
A second glance, however, revealed a profound change: the misery in her face. She looked as if she had been crying for days. Her eyes were red and swollen; her generous, laughing mouth was now contorted into a drooping leer of grief, and deep, tense creases scored her high narrow forehead and lean cheeks.
"Thasos." Her voice sounded painfully hoarse. "You've come. I thought they were going to stop you."
Thasos turned to the servants. "Kindly leave us," he said. "You need sprinkle no more water here." He spoke to the servant who had conducted him to the chamber. "I will call you when I wish to return."
The servants all flicked a few scattered drops of scented water directly at Britomartis, before rushing out, pointedly holding their noses. Britomartis did not seem to notice the insult. "Return, Thasos? Return to Pasiphae? You can't..."
"Britomartis, I've - I've got to stay here."
"But you can't stay here. They'll kill you. They'll kill you here..."
"You don't really believe that..."
"It's true. Thasos, I've come to rescue you, before it's too late. I'm sorry I left you in my cave of Holy Wisdom. But you said I was making you unhappy and I don't ever want you to be unhappy, Thasos. But you must come with me now, away from this place. You're in danger..."
"Britomartis - I'm in no danger. Please believe me. I know this place can be dangerous for men, but it's safe for me." He quickly glanced around, in case any servant might be listening, and hastily closed the door. Then he bent and whispered in her ear. "I've arranged things so that I'll be safe here. I've managed to fool them all. It was quite easy. You don't have to worry about me." He told her that his brothers had organised a deception and that the Kaftor people had accepted their false miracle, although he did not mention the white bull. He expected the news to comfort her, but it did not. Britomartis merely stared at him, through her bloodshot eyes, a look of sullen resignation on her face.
"You love her, don't you?" she said mournfully. "You're staying here because you love Pasiphae."
Thasos hesitated. It was difficult for him to deny it.
"It's true, isn't it?" she added. Her voice sounded dejected. "I've come here to save you, but it's no use if you love her."
"It's - it's not that I love her, Britomartis..." He suddenly thought of a lame excuse. "I suppose I just wanted to be near my family - you remember I told you I was brought up here in Cnossos. And my brothers have come back."
"But you hate your brothers. You were delighted when they left the island."
"Oh, let's be honest, Britomartis." Thasos decided to be frank instead. "We couldn't - we really couldn't really have stayed together for ever..."
"We could..." sobbed Britomartis. Her voice sounded weak - almost childlike. "Pasiphae can't marry you - she can't have any partners except for her Consort and that you can never be. Today she will marry her consort and she will be close to him -- as close as we were. Maybe you can be near Pasiphae, you can see her often, but you can never be with her. What sort of life is that for you? I accept that you love her - I accept that; but you can never have her. But you can have me, Thasos. You can have me now. We can run away together now and live for ever."
"Oh Britomartis, no one can live for ever...."
"Yes they can. People live forever, if they live only in the present. We will live together in the present, you and me, and we will live for ever. Let me tell you something, Thasos; Pasiphae isn't the only one who can speak in poetry. I have my mantras too, you know. Would you like to hear one? One that expresses our immortality together?"
Before he could reply, she began reciting to him tenderly, in a singsong voice:
"Not in vast works and journeying
Or appetites and fears
Can I enjoy infinity
Outdistancing the years,
But in the all-embracing moment
The Goddess will endow
The vastness of the present,
The eternity of now.
She stopped reciting, seemed to hesitate, and then spoke to him with an almost furtive desperation. "Thasos, I have never, never said this to a man before. If you come with me now, no one will ever oust you; no one will ever replace you. You will be my Consort forever. My first and only. You will never die. We will be together forever."
She looked pleadingly at him and Thasos saw a last light of hope fade from her eyes as she read his face and understood that her beseeching was in vain and that he was going to stay in Cnossos.
"What is Pasiphae saying about me, Thasos?" she asked miserably, turning away from him.
"Nothing. She hasn't spoken about you at all," Thasos answered uncomfortably, remembering the vicious outburst that Britomartis' arrival had evoked from the usual placid Pasiphae. Suddenly he wanted to leave this room - to escape from the misery - the hurt - the useless suffering that he was causing and could not cure. As if sensing this, Britomartis smiled sadly at him and walked slowly to the door.
"I don't believe you, Thasos. But I am grateful for your kindness in not repeating what Pasiphae has said. It shows you have some love left for me, even if it is not enough to want to come with me. But I am making you unhappy again, and so I must leave you."
"Britomartis," exclaimed Thasos urgently. "I do still love you and I really don't want to make you unhappy either. I really don't..."
She turned from the door and smiled wanly at him again. "I know that, Thasos. I know why you have decided to stay. I understand you very well, you see. You have shared things with me that you have never shared with Pasiphae - and never will. I must be content in that."
Thasos was conscious of a feeling of deep relief. She was letting him go. "I'm so glad that you are content, Britomartis..."
"No, Thasos. I did not say that I was actually content." Her smile hardened a little. "I have lost you. Even worse, you have lost yourself. I suppose I should be grateful that I am not leaving behind the man I love." She smiled at him again, and Thasos thought he even saw some pity in her eyes. "I came to rescue you from here, not just for my sake, but for your own. But it's too late. I think they've killed you already."
"Britomartis..."
"Goodbye, Thasos." She leaned forward, lightly touched his cheek with her lips and was gone. Thasos waited a few long moments before calling a servant to conduct him back to Pasiphae.
He had chosen to stay in Cnossos and be with Pasiphae, even though she was going to marry another man. He was staying because Pasiphae wanted him to. She had a purpose for him, and Thasos realised that he had to find out what that purpose was. To leave now and return to Britomartis and his old wandering, uncertain life would be to lose forever an opportunity, a promise of enchantment and mystery, a share of Cnossos' elegant comforts, the tranquil assertiveness of its people and most importantly - the company of Pasiphae. He wanted the things that only Cnossos could offer; they would never be offered again if he left.
Of course he was sorry to see Britomartis go. He had enjoyed the thrill of his encounters with her. However, he now knew that, even when their lovemaking was at its most achingly beautiful, when the gorgeous friction of their warm bodies had ignited into explosive, liquid joy under the cool canopy of the forest, it was not Britomartis but Pasiphae who had later visited and enchanted his dreams.
Pasiphae was waiting impatiently.
"I cannot believe you took so long to send that woman away," she said harshly. "I hope you were cruel to her. Did you make her cry?"
"Yes I did -- little. She certainly cried. And she won't come back, I promise." A nagging thought expressed itself in words. "Why do you hate her so much, Pasiphae?"
"Because she steals my titles and is trying to steal my family. She has already taken my grandmother away. She tried stealing Asterios once. Now she wants take you. She will not be happy until she has emptied the Great House of everyone I care for."
"She won't take me. I told her I had made my choice, and that I belonged to the Great House now. I told her that you needed me - that you wanted me here for some purpose."
Pasiphae blinked at him, as if she were both bewildered and offended. "I wanted you here for some purpose? Is that what you told her?"
Suddenly Thasos was confused. He realised that this was not what he had said to Britomartis at all.
"Thasos." Pasiphae spoke with a serious, stilted formality. His latest word blunder seemed to make her forget all about Britomartis. "This is another of your strange Achaean expressions, isn't it? What purpose do you think I have in mind? What exactly is this purpose that you say I have for you? Please explain exactly your understanding of the word purpose."
Faced with such a coldly direct question, Thasos flushed with shame. He might be forced to mention the unmentionable. "I didn't mean anything at all, Pasiphae. I'm sorry. I've made a terrible mistake..."
"You keep saying 'sorry' to me today," she interrupted. "What terrible mistake have you made this time?"
"I know I'm expecting too much," Thasos babbled. He dared not admit his real desire to Pasiphae: that he wanted to sleep with her but knew he never could. He could never confess that. "Well, I'm not really expecting it at all. I mean - I've got no right to expect it. It's wrong. I just want friendship," he said desperately, finding what he hoped was a harmless word. "That's what I meant. It was friendship I had with Britomartis and I want friendship - with you..."
He stopped speaking. Suddenly Pasiphae had taken hold of both his hands and was smiling up at him, in an expression as much relieved as delighted.
"Thasos, you have no idea how happy I am to hear you talk of friendship. It is so important to me that you are my friend - it is the most important thing to me. You know the terrible deaths I had to face when I was young. At one time, when we were both children, I used to see you as my dead brother brought back to me. But now you represent new life; the Moon Maiden born, the Mother reborn, the Triple Goddess restored. We have already suffered the death of Kikerus. We must get ready for Asterios' death tonight - another death that will bring us closer together."
Thasos sighed. He really did not want to talk about Asterios' death. It was such a bore. He'd actually forgotten all about it. Surely they wouldn't make him watch it?
"Are you ready for Asterios' death tonight?" Pasiphae repeated.
"Oh yes," Thasos replied vaguely. Why was Pasiphae making so much of it? "I already knew that Asterios was going to die. That's different; I can accept that." He hesitated. "As long as I don't have to watch it, of course. I don't mind watching the bull leap and I suppose I can watch you getting married if I have to. But I don't really want to see Asterios die."
To his astonishment, Pasiphae gaped at him, as if she could not believe what he had said. Then her face melted into laugher and she embraced him. "Oh, Thasos, you are amusing." she exclaimed, still laughing, her firm little body pressed against his. "What an extraordinary Achaean humour you have. It shows me again that the Goddess has chosen you, foreigner though you are. You are my beautiful white bull."
As Thasos felt the warmth of her firm little body pressed against him, exaltation poured into the pit of his stomach like a hot tidal wave. He had never made Pasiphae laugh before. He wasn't quite sure what he'd said to make her laugh now, but he was enjoying it. Audaciously, he hugged her more tightly. He liked her calling him a white bull. It reminded him of Britomartis.
"It must be an Achaean labrys joke," Pasiphae said, giving him a final squeeze with her arms, staring up at him affectionately.
Thasos was baffled. "Labrys joke?" he asked, grinning vaguely.
"Yes - to talk of performing the sacrifice tonight without being there." She pulled herself towards him again, still merrily chuckling, and Thasos felt a coldness in his stomach harden into a knot as he understood the implications of what he had just heard.
"What - what - what did you say?" He gazed down at her in disbelief. "Perform the sacrifice? Me?"
She stared back at him and her amused smile abruptly vanished.
"What? Oh, no - you're serious," she gasped. "Oh Great Goddess, you're not joking at all." Thasos saw his own feelings of horror reflected in her wide, dilating eyes. "Are you saying you didn't know?"
"Didn't know?" babbled Thasos. "Didn't know what?"
"I thought even you knew this, Thasos. It is your task - the first task of the new Consort - to kill the old Consort in combat ..."
"New Consort?" panted Thasos, weak with fright. "I'm the New Consort?"
"Yes, Thasos. Yes... You're ... you're my....my..." her voice petered out into a very long silence. In Thasos' flickering vision, Pasiphae' face, suddenly unrecognisable, became as blank and expressionless as a death mask.
"You didn't even know you were to be my Consort?" Her voice sounded low and lifeless, as if all hope had departed from it. "Oh no, Thasos... oh, no ..."
Terror drenched Thasos' body like scalding water. He looked rapidly from side to side. Escape! Escape! He craned his neck, twisted his shoulders, looking from one chamber door to another. Which one? Which one should he go through? He had to get out. He bounced rapidly on the balls of his feet, panting rapidly, like a runner waiting for the signal to start. Flight. Flight... without a word he fled towards the largest of the chamber doors and dashed out into an endless network of winding corridors.
The Death of the God
He had to get out! In blind panic, Thasos barged people out of the way; servants, officials, even priestesses.
As he ran down endless corridors the changing light confused him. Sometimes it brightened, convincing him he was near an exit, and then it would plunge again into semi-darkness. Alien sounds afflicted his ears; the smells of fragrant burning and the hot scent of distilled herbs drowned his senses. From a distance he heard eerie chanting, a lone voice singing, or the brief discordant cries of laughter. He stumbled up and down steps, staggered in and out of dead-ends, dashed through vast empty halls, and once burst unwittingly into a tiny, colour-drenched shrine where a pale priestess stared at him from her sacral table in astonishment. "Thasos." she cried. "Thasos!" He fled from the chamber.
He heard his name being called constantly; sometimes it was Pasiphae's voice and sometimes the voice of the pursuing priestess. They called to him, coaxed him, appealed to him. Hands seemed to wave at him, clutch him, or try to bar his way. He ran and ran, without sense or reason, believing that if he never stopped running they would never catch him. Gasping, choking, he ran through darkness, though densely filtered colours, through mists of smoke; the mirage of distant sunlight and escape taunting him, goading him on, maddening him.
There was a fierce cry, then something struck him hard across the whole body, and soon he was staggering dizzily, while rough hands shook and hit him repeatedly across the head. "You beast," the voice cried. "You brute, you wretch!" Someone much stronger than him was trying to beat him to death, and he was unable to defend himself.
"Thasos!" It was Pasiphae's voice. "Oh Thasos, you're back. Oh grandmother, please stop hitting Thasos. He did not mean to run into you."
"Wretch! Tyrant! Brute!" Dizzily, he recognised Eileithyia's voice. Pasiphae's grandmother was assaulting him with a quite terrifying energy. "Would you attack me? Would you kill the Crone? Would you murder the Goddess and a helpless old woman? Wretch. Monster. Beast. Goddess-killer!"
"No, no. Please, grandmother. Thasos did not mean to hurt you. I need to talk to him now. You can come back in a few moments with the garments. And please stop hitting him."
"Why do you defend your own grandmother's attacker?" Eileithyia screeched. "He is a slayer of the old and helpless!"
"I wouldn't say you were that helpless, grandmother!" Pasiphae pulled Thasos from Eileithyia's grasp and almost dragged him back into her chamber. She slammed the door on the still shrieking Eileithyia and held Thasos tightly in her arms. "Please don't leave me again," she whispered gently. "Please stay with me."
Thasos began to panic again and started shouting wildly in Achaean. "Let me go. Let me go! Get me out of here...." He tried to struggle out of Pasiphae's embrace but she too was strong. She held him more tightly, calming him, holding him still, and whispering in his ear. "Please, don't go. Please stay with me. We must talk. Please, we must talk.... Please..."
As she held him, he started trembling. He begged repeatedly and cravenly to be released - to be allowed to go free. She held him, stroked his neck and his back, kissed and whispered softly to him, like the hurt, frightened child he had become.
"What have I done?" he moaned. "Oh, what have I done?"
"Shh. Shh. Calm, Thasos - calm, calm. Please let us talk first, before you go, Thasos." She released him gently and looked steadily up into his face. "You at least understand that, Thasos? We have to talk before you go. You must allow me that. Please. Then you can go."
"Yes, yes," he gasped. "But quickly, please; please be quick...I must go ...please let me get out of here...Oh Zeus ..."
"Are you calm yet, Thasos? You must be calm before we can talk."
"Yes, yes, I suppose so...yes ... yes...." He swallowed with difficulty. "Yes. I'm calm now."
"Then can you answer me one question?"
"W-w-what is it?"
"You predicted the sign of the White Bull, didn't you?"
Thasos swallowed hard. There was no denying this. "Yes, I suppose I did..."
"And yet you didn't understand what the sign meant? Didn't you know that the Goddess' Consort is always a horned animal - and when I called you my White Bull I was calling you my Consort?"
"What? White bull consort? Is that what you meant? Oh, Zeus!" Of course he should have known! He could have cursed himself. Britomartis had wanted him to be her white bull consort and he had run away from her to avoid it. "The white bull consort," he said again, wretchedly. "Oh, Zeus."
"So you did know?"
"No. No - I didn't - didn't know that."
"Then what did you think the sign of the White Bull meant?"
He swallowed hard again. "I - I thought I'd just predicted that something would happen - something that would show I was chosen by the Goddess."
"You have been chosen by the Goddess, Thasos. You are the Goddess' own selected, her chosen; supreme above others in her love. You are to be partnered with the Moon Maiden..."
"I didn't mean 'chosen' like that." He cursed the ambiguity of the Keftiu language. "I thought it meant I was chosen for something else."
"Chosen for what, Thasos?"
"Chosen to be a prophet." He almost choked on the word. He deeply regretted his brothers' clever little plan now. "I didn't know it meant I was chosen to be Consort. It's all your fault too." he exclaimed, suddenly turning the blame her. "Why didn't you say something earlier? You were babbling on about white bulls and death, and all the time you were talking about marriage ... why didn't you make it clearer?"
"Thasos." He fancied he saw a brief flush appear in Pasiphae's face. "I used all the usual words - words which I thought you understood. Besides, I don't find such things easy to talk about. Especially after what your brother did to me...." Her voice petered out.
"You can't keep blaming me for what Saron did."
"Thasos, please listen to me. This is important. You must understand what I am saying. There must be no misunderstanding between us now. Before your white bull appeared, you told the people at Amnisos that you had been chosen. After we had returned to Cnossos, I also told the Lawgetas - the ruling committee - that you were the new Consort. The news will now have been delivered all over Cnossos and will already have spread to the neighbouring villages. Already you are well known, Thasos. It is the first time a born Xhora has ever been chosen as Consort in Cnossos. You are unusual for another reason; you did not perform the Bull Dance. I annulled it. This has never been done before. The townsmen are very upset. It has been very bad for trade."
"There was no Bull Dance?" asked Thasos blankly.
"I believed that the Goddess had chosen my consort in a new way, and Kikerus' death gave me an excuse to abandon it anyway. I cannot turn to my people and tell that that I have cancelled the Sacred Marriage too. Don't you understand? We must proceed with the sacrifice and the Sacred Marriage."
He gazed at her in dismay. "You said I could go."
"You can go, Thasos, but there is nowhere for you to go. You are still my Consort. Everyone will recognise you as my Consort, even if you leave. Your fair hair is unmistakeable. You cannot escape. You cannot return to your old life."
"Are you saying I have to be your Consort whatever happens? Whether I want to or not?"
Pasiphae looked at him, her pretty young face gaunt and wretched. "Oh, Thasos, if you only knew how much you have hurt me today - how much and how often your words have wounded me, you would not speak like this. I understand you do not wish to be my Consort. But I beg of you, please do not tell me you do not love me. I could not bear that, Thasos. Of all the unnatural things that have happened in the last day and night, the death of Kikerus, your obvious desire for Britomartis, I could not bear to hear that you no longer love me."
She turned away and covered her face. "I thought the Goddess had been so good to me." Her voice sounded muffled and unusually low. "You have no idea of how much I dreaded my marriage. After what your brother did to me I was afraid of letting another man touch me. I wanted my Consort to be someone nice and gentle that I liked and could trust - a friend. And when it seemed that the Goddess had chosen you, my dear Thasos, I was so happy." She turned, uncovered her face and gave full rein to her distress. "But now you tell me that you don't want to be my Consort, that you don't love me. Oh, what am I going to do, Thasos ... the Bull Dance is annulled, I haven't got a Consort - oh, what am I going to do..."
She simply stood in front of him, looking helpless, wretched, defeated. Tears streamed down her face. Thasos could not bear it. This was the second time that day he had watched a loved woman cry for him, and he could not endure it again. But he was going to leave her, just as he had left Britomartis. He would not be her consort.
"I can't stay, Pasiphae. You know that." He hoped she would let him go, as Britomartis had let him go. "I just can't be your consort. I'm sorry."
She wiped her eyes and looked up Thasos again, her face a picture of grief. In a hoarse, bitter voice, she called the name of a servant.
"Please conduct lord Thasos to the west gate," she said, in a weak voice. "He is -- he is leaving us for a while."
"Shall I wait and conduct his lordship back?" asked the servant.
"No!" exclaimed Thasos, rather too eagerly.
"No, that is not necessary," Pasiphae answered in a low, defeated voice. "His lordship will return -- when he is ready."
"Thank you Pasiphae," said Thasos, as he turned to follow the servant. She did not reply, but just stared at him, her face baffled, despairing, defeated. Thasos took with him the memory of Pasiphae watching him leave, her bloodshot eyes staring blankly at him, as if he had already gone.
The door closed on her. A brief shiver ran down his back, but he was free. With a light step he followed the servant down a series of corridors.
But he would not be free for long. As Pasiphae had warned him, everyone knew he was consort. Soon it would spread across the island. He could not return to his old life. Even Britomartis would not touch him now. He had to get off the island, as his brothers had done before and planned to do again. His brothers were his only hope of escape. The sooner he spoke to Manthys the better.
He and Saron intended to return to Thera soon. Well, they could take him with them. It was the least they could do after their plan had gone so badly wrong. How astonished they would be when he told them that, because of their bungling, he was the consort of Cnossos! Even his brothers, selfish as they were, would feel obliged to get him out of this mess they put him into.
As soon as he reached the west exit, Thasos dashed into the bustling square without saying goodbye to the servant. He had to try and find his brother's hideout. It seemed to him that everyone's eyes turned on him, probably surprised at seeing him out of the Great House at this time. Trying to ignore the staring eyes, Thasos strode across the square to find the road that led him away from the river to the woodlands and his brothers' hideout. As he did so, someone hurried towards him and called out his name."
"Thasos. What are you doing here, little brother? Where do you think you're going?"
Thasos had never been so pleased to see Manthys before.
"Ah, there you are. I was going to find your hideout. Now that you're here, you can take me there right now. You'll never guess what's happened to me today," he exclaimed, with a comradely chuckle. "You just won't believe what's happened. It's all your fault, too. You've got to help me get away."
"You're not going anywhere, little brother white bull. You're the new consort of Cnossos. Your place is in the Great House with Pasiphae."
"What? You mean -- you know?" babbled Thasos, bewildered.
"Of course I know. I also guessed you'd be running away at some point in the day, so I waited for you here in the square and stop you."
"But - but Manthys, you've got to help me get out of here. I don't want to be consort. It's up to you to rescue me - today if possible."
Manthys looked at Thasos in pitying amusement. "How do you expect us to rescue you, little brother? Put together an army and fight a war with the Keftiu?"
"Don't be silly -- just take me to Thera with you. You're planning to go back anyway. You've got a boat all ready, haven't you?"
"Of course we haven't got a boat. How rich do you think we are? Look little brother, we'd love to help you, but I'm afraid you can't run away. For one thing, everyone knows you. But even if these Kaftors did let you get on a boat to Thera with Saron and me, then there's no point in any of us going back."
"What do you mean?"
"We enjoyed ourselves on Thera," Manthys explained. "The people there have accepted us as the adopted sons of the Consort of Cnossos and we've had an easy time of it. They've even accepted Saron's rape of Pasiphae as an overzealous act of homage and love to the Goddess."
"You're joking!"
"Oh, they're very understanding people. But they're still Goddess sops. As soon as Asterios dies we won't be the divine sons any more and we'll have to leave, or start working really hard for a living. That's when we had the big idea. If you're the Consort of Cnossos, we'll be the brothers of a Consort, so we can be safe on Thera for another eight years at least."
"So -- you planned it all along..."
"Of course we did. We heard that the next Great Year at Cnossos is the year of the White Bull. We pretended we wanted to deliver a white bull as a present for Cnossos in honour of the New Year and they let us buy one. It took a few months' work to save up, even for us; these white bulls are very precious. But it was worth it -- the plan worked out so much easier than we could have guessed."
So now Thasos had the answer to Kikerus' question, although the old man did not live to hear it. The priest had always suspected Manthys of having a secret plan behind his return to the island, but he would have been astonished to learn that it was the same as own plan - to make Thasos the Consort of Cnossos.
Unlike Kikerus however, Manthys and Saron's motives were completely selfish. In order to give themselves an easy life, they had arranged their own brother's early death as casually as if he had been a sacrificial goat.
"Don't glare at me like that, brother," said Manthys. "We've done you a favour. That's the other part of our plan. Just remember - you're going to be king of Cnossos. Kings have power. Kings have influence..."
"Are you completely stupid?" Thasos hooted. "I'm not a king, I'm a consort. The Consort has no power here at all and gets sacrificed every eight years. You told me that yourself..."
"But things can change, little brother," Manthys insisted. "Think about it for a moment. For the last six years there's been no ruling Goddess in Cnossos. Asterios had to reign as king on his own; he's had powers that a Consort never usually has. The Kaftors have got used to having a reigning king. They are more likely to let you become one as well. You can have real influence. You can change things here. And when you're all powerful, I hope you'll remember your brothers, who gave you that power."
"Well it's not going to happen. I'm not going to be Consort...."
"You already are, as good as. I'm afraid you have no choice but to go ahead with it, little brother. You can't leave the island."
"Why not? You and Saron escaped easily enough."
"But they're watching the ports right now, my friend. And they're watching you. You see how they're all looking at you in this square? They're ready to grab you the moment you try to run. They won't let you escape. They'll pick you up and carry you into the Great House like a child if they have to. If these Kaftors don't want you to go anywhere, by Zeus you won't be able to go."
"But why should they be expecting me to escape?"
"Well, we have our spies around here little brother, and we did sort of drop the word you might get confused and try to run off. As I said, that's why I'm here now -- to make sure you stay and see sense. Go back to Pasiphae. Be her consort. You won't be sacrificed. We'll see to it. When you're reigning king, you can start changing things and we'll help you. We can give you lots of help, with all the important friends we've made in Thera."
"I can't imagine anything changing in this place."
"You know, they haven't sacrificed men in Thera for generations," said Manthys reflectively. "They're quite surprised that it still happens over here. It's possible that human sacrifice would have ended in Cnossos by now, if Asterios hadn't been so keen to die, the silly fool. Now it's your chance to influence things. You can prevent your own sacrifice. You can even abolish sacrifice altogether."
"That's all very well," panted Thasos. Another nasty thought had occurred to him. "But if I go back I've got to kill Asterios tonight."
Manthys gave a disbelieving groan. "Is that all that's bothering you? My brother, it's only one tiny little death. If you were a soldier in the Achaean army, you'd be killing hundreds by the day. Don't be such a coward."
"But in the army you kill enemies. I like Asterios. He's not my enemy."
"Brother, Asterios is expecting to die. He wants to die. It would be cruel to disappoint him. It will be arranged for you so that you can kill him easily. They don't like real fighting here. Come along; there are plenty of servants waiting to conduct you back to her sanctum. Don't worry about sacrifices. And don't try to run away again. There's no escape, you know."
Manthys gently marched him back to the west entrance of the Great House, where a number of watching servants converged eagerly on him. Thasos looked round at their smiling faces, and sighed. There was no point in fighting his fate. That was the lesson he had learned in his bedroom at Patras. There was to be no escape.
"All right. You may take me back to Pasiphae," he said to the servants, then followed them into the west entrance with a sigh.
When Thasos entered her room, Pasiphae was sitting near the bed on which he had recently been lying. She stroked at the soft cushions and the still dented pillows, as if he were still there. She did not hear him enter. But a movement must have caught her eye, for her head spun round towards him. Her eyes were still red, but without tears. She stared mutely, startled for a few instants, as if she did not recognise him. She even frowned briefly, in puzzlement. Then she found her voice.
"Thasos! Thasos?" her squeaked, her voice rising in disbelief. "You've come back?"
"Yes, I've come back, Pasiphae. And I'll stay."
"Oh, Thasos!"
She leaped to her feet with a cry of joy, and ran towards him. He put his arms round her and hugged her. She sobbed on his shoulder and he held her tight, kissing her gently on the head, comforting her as she had recently comforted him.
"I've come back, Pasiphae. I said I would. I love you. I've come back. And I'll be your consort."
"Thank you Thasos! Oh thank you, my darling..."
At this moment, a harsh voice interrupted them from the entrance to the chamber. "Pasiphae! Kindly control yourself. This is very touching but I must ask you to remember that you are not married yet." The old woman Eileithyia shambled into the room, limping rather obviously and pointedly rubbing her limbs and joints as if she was still suffering from Thasos' recent savage attack. Ignoring him, she continued speaking sharply to Pasiphae.
"My child," she said, "we must prepare for the enthronement of your strange new consort." She then glared at Thasos with what looked like hate. "I hope we have raiment sufficient to fit his rather oddly shaped body. What is he - a goat or a sheep?"
"Grandmother, he is my white bull," said Pasiphae smiling and wiping her eyes. "See his beautiful fair head."
"Your white bull?" The old woman uttered a shriek of derision. "So that is why he is charging round the corridors like an unfettered brute, butting feeble old ladies out of his way." She stared more keenly at Pasiphae. "I see you have been shedding tears, my child. Is it with laughter at the sight of your peculiar Consort?"
"No, grandmother. I am just happy in the Goddess' choice, that's all."
"Happy?" The old woman tossed her head in disdain. "The Goddess' choice? There is every sign that the Goddess has acquired a most disagreeable sense of humour." She gave Thasos another glare of hostile mistrust, then after sighing resignedly, spoke to Pasiphae. "I will discover later what arrangements can be made for this outlandish person. Are you sure he's not a goat."
"Oh no, grandmother. I promise you, he is definitely the white bull."
The old lady turned and stared at Thasos again, then sighed and shook her head, as if in incomprehension. "The Goddess' ways are sometimes strange," she muttered, resignedly. She hobbled towards a row of double axes, picked one up and started brandishing it, with seeming deadly intent.
"My grandmother is showing you the labrys axe," Pasiphae told him, with an encouraging smile. "You will use it to chop Asterios' head off. The Double-axe is the implement of rebirth and transformation."
To avoid looking at the axe, Thasos looked at the old woman; briefly flinching at the long glare of questioning hate she gave him. He noticed she was wearing the ceremonial dress, which, like Pasiphae's, put her breasts on display. Unlike Pasiphae she was old. Her breasts were not attractive; they bobbed around like two apples dropped inside loose bags of wrinkled skin. In his opinion they were a disgusting sight. The Crone noticed the direction of his gaze, probably read his thoughts, and glared at him with almost deadly rage. She then began to speak, melodiously and in a set rhythm, as if quoting from memory:
"The King Consort must always remain in vigour. He is the fullness of life which accompanies the dead on their journey to the abyss. When his time is over he must die. The King must die!" Thasos thought he detected a malignant relish in her voice. "The Royal Consort must die, so that the people will live. As darkness is always followed by light, so death is always followed by rebirth. The cycle is eternal. The Goddess is immortal. The King must always die."
The old woman approached Thasos and flourished the axe recklessly, glaring at him with malevolent eyes. She raised the axe and intoned again, in an eerie shriek.
"Long live the king. This is his labrys, his rod of transformation, and his route to eternity. It is also very sharp." She made a chopping motion with the axe and then raised it again. "This has been his divine route for hundreds of great years. It has seen the passing of hundreds of kings. It will see the passing of hundreds more."
Just as Thasos thought she was about to deliver the deathblow herself, she waved the axe aloft. "That the seed may grow let the head be hewn. That the bow may flourish let the branch be lopped. That the forest may thrive let the tree be felled." She put the axe down again and moved briskly off, muttering to herself.
"I don't think she likes me very much," Thasos whispered to Pasiphae.
"That is a silly thing to say, Thasos. She is only trying to explain your role. Just think of Asterios as a tree and you, the new tree, have to grow from his severed trunk." Her voice suddenly became anxious. "For Asterios' sake make it as clean as you can. I want him to die quickly."
The old woman approached again, and thrust a club towards Thasos as if she intended to beat him with it.
"You should strike the old king over the head first, before the moment of transformation," Pasiphae explained. "Asterios will be armed with a sickle with which he will cut you. I doubt whether he will cut you a great deal. He does not intend to offer much of a fight. Let him cut you a few times, just enough to bring out some blood, then strike him with the club and chop his head off."
"I suppose there's no chance of Asterios changing his mind and deciding to chop my head off instead?"
At this suggestion, the old woman gave a loud, sustained manic shriek of delighted laughter.
"No, Thasos," said Pasiphae impatiently. "I have told you. Why do you never listen? Asterios is the waning moon king. You are the waxing king. It is not fated that you should lose the contest."
"Your grandmother seems to like the idea," he pointed out. Eileithyia was still cackling merrily to herself.
"Not at all. She merely considers the idea of your losing the contest absurd. Of course you will win."
"That's all very well, but I've never cut anyone's head off before. I'm not even sure how to go about it. I might miss."
Pasiphae smiled sadly.
"Thasos, the Bull Court will be empty now. I strongly recommend that you go there and practice swinging your axe. Accustom yourself to its weight and the follow-through of its swing. You will find that it is very efficient and needs very little force or effort. You need not fear missing Asterios' head when the moment comes. He will be lying on the ground."
Determined not to miss Asterios' neck when the moment came, Thasos practiced axe swings with an obsessive, almost manic determination, until the servants came and gently removed the axe from his blistered fingers, and conducted him into a small waiting room near the Bull Court to rest. Then, as time slowly passed in this sombre, cheerless room, Thasos became overwhelmed by the monstrousness of what lay ahead of him. He felt he could not go through with it.
Any pleasure in knowing Pasiphae's body had been killed by the thought of what this pleasure would cost him. First, he had to commit murder, and then pay again more highly for the fleeting delight of Pasiphae's body by being murdered. Even eight years of uninterrupted carnal bliss would not compensate for that.
He suddenly felt daunted at the thought of sleeping with Pasiphae at all. Would he actually succeed in performing the act? If he failed, would they just kill him anyway? Even worse, was Pasiphae going to start emitting that eerie white light of hers as soon as he got started? He did not want to go to bed with a woman who glowed in the dark. How would he ever get to sleep?
He spent the remainder of the miserable afternoon in a quaking fever of trepidation. He was going to have to kill someone. That was what upset him most at the moment; he had to go out, in a crowded square, in front of a crowd of people, and kill someone. He was hopelessly unprepared to commit such a violent act.
His heart would not stop pounding. A pulsing ache in the pit of his stomach made him sick. He had already vomited until he could vomit no more. He was like a man dying from some slow, agonising, wasting illness.
The preparations for the awful event were soon completed, and he heard the sounds of bustle among the servants and the shouts of anticipation from the crowds gathered in the Bull Court. Then the gruesome music started. Even from his place of shelter, the percussive, random cacophony of the ritual music was audible. Terror tugged harder at his aching bowels. All these people were coming to watch him perform a murder.
His first visitor at this terrible time was the old crone Eileithyia - and she did not come to him with words of comfort. She stood at the door of his dressing chamber for some moments, a leer of delight spread over her wizened face, her pointed nose wrinkling with suppressed laughter at the sight of his misery. Then she spoke in her screeching voice:
"The king must die. The king must die." She gave a loud cackle then glared at him in gleeful malevolence. "In order that the king must die, you must get ready to kill him. It is time to don your heroic clothing. It is time to wield your transforming axe. It is time to get to the Bull Court and perform the deed. Hundreds are waiting to see you kill the king." She threw him a set of goat's horns to place on his head, then departed, cackling again at the top of her shrill voice. "Kill the king. Strike off his head."
Her visit left Thasos feeling worse than ever. His hands started shaking too much to hold an axe, or put on the horns - even too much to dress properly. Soon he was shivering steadily like a man dying in an extremity of cold, although the autumnal air was warm. He heard the sounds of festive revelry outside, the lively, more melodic music from the Bull Court that was now accompanying the ritual dancing. He was suddenly convinced that he could not go through with it. With a groan, he sank from his small bed to the floor and rolled onto the floor. He just wanted to die.
His door opened and a small, white haired man walked in, carrying a small clay pot in both hands.
"Have you come to call me?" asked Thasos, lying on the floor, panting. He felt dizzy now the time had come, and sick. His body felt heavy and useless.
"No my lord, I have not come to call you." The old man looked at Thasos and smiled; a warmly compassionate smile. "My name is Polyeidos."
Thasos gazed up at Polyeidos in his misery, sensing that here was a friend. He spoke an appeal from the depths of his wretched heart. "Please help me," he begged, panting. "Oh, please help me."
"What do you want, my lord?"
"I just want to die."
Polyeidos nodded. He handed Thasos his small pot, still cupped in both his hands. "I offer you this," he said. "You may wish to drink it now, to end the suffering you are unable to bear." Thasos sat up, grabbed the container in both his own trembling hands and saw it contained a clear liquid, with what looked like green herbs sprinkled on the surface. It gave off a faintly sickly smell.
"It will give you the power of renewal," Polyeidos explained.
"You mean, it will kill me," Thasos thought. He did not care; he was grateful to escape the fight and his own blood-drenched sacrifice. He drank the bitter liquid in a single, shuddering draught. He took a deep breath and waited for death to come. He wondered what it would be like to die. Would there be any pain? A strange, numbness eased his taut, trembling body. He lay back in his chair with a smile, breathing more gently as a swooning calm soon descended on him. He expected any moment to collapse in a lifeless heap on the floor.
"How much longer have I got to live?" Thasos murmured indistinctly, slumping further in his chair.
"About eight years," the old man answered cheerfully.
"What?"
"May this potion give you regeneration," Polyeidos began to chant. "May it bestow on you the power of the living Consort. As the snake is renewed so are you."
"You mean, this drink isn't poisoned?" asked Thasos, feeling suddenly alert.
Polyeidos smiled. "It will ensure your own renewal - the rebirth of the divine snake. Your fear is ended, my lord."
Even the mention of snakes could not spoil Thasos' growing self-assurance. Whatever ingredient had been in the strange drink, it had made him feel strong enough to face his ordeal in the Bull Court. He felt confident - ready to laugh at the bloody task ahead of him. He was grateful to this enigmatic little man and his miraculous potion.
"May the Goddess send you infinite riches," he called after the departing Polyeidos. "And if she doesn't, I will -- as soon as I'm king."
A moment later, a woman arrived at his chamber. Thasos smiled at her. He did not mind being taken to the fight now.
"Good pre-moon to you," he greeted her.
"Good pre-moon, Lord Thasos. You are showing great courage now," The woman took both of his hands. "Soon these two hands will perform the miracle of the rebirth of the new potent year. What potent hands they are. What a potent body you have. You are the embodiment of potency and fertility."
"Thank you very much. Have you come to call me to the sacrifice now?" asked Thasos cheerfully.
"No - I haven't come to call you," she answered, with a smile. "It is not yet the moment for that."
It was obvious, from her dress, that the woman was one of the many priestesses in the Great House. Her head was thickly covered in scarves against the dying sun and he could see that her face was kindly, if rather plain. He would have preferred a more beautiful priestess for company, but he was prepared to be polite to her.
"Thank you for your visit, in the name of the Goddess," he said, releasing his hands and giving her a rather uncertain formal wave. "I feel braver already."
The woman returned the greeting and her lips parted widely in a sensual smile. "You entered my holy secret place today," she whispered. "You entered it while you were running away from Pasiphae earlier today, you naughty boy."
"Oh, sorry," said Thasos, remembering his brief intrusion into the tiny shrine during his flight. "Sorry. Did I damage anything? Did I chase any spirits away? Did I annoy any of your worshippers?"
"O Consort," the woman said, in a voice that was coyly teasing. "Why did you leave the Goddess? Why did you flee from her grace and love? Many people saw you, but no one knows why you fled - but I know why. I was in my shrine. I was in a state of grace. I read the desire for escape in your eyes. You tried to abandon the Goddess." The smile faded from her face and a look of severity replaced it. "Do you think Pasiphae should know that you tried to forsake her?"
"She knows that I left, and I came back to her," Thasos gazed down anxiously at the grave faced priestess, and sensed something sinister in her visit. What did she want with him?
The smile returned slowly to the woman's pale face again. A new audacious keenness was visible in her eyes.
"After years of patient service for the Moon Maiden, of cleaning out Lustral Basins, mixing herbs and scrubbing the floors, I am only happy to have met the divine Consort face to face." She grabbed him round the waist with both hands in a hard, tight grip. Then, to his amazement, her soft wet lips were on his and her tongue clumsily explored his mouth in an act of hungry intimacy.
"What are you doing?" exclaimed Thasos, as soon as he could draw breath.
"May I always live this eternal moment." she panted. "May I hold you in my hands for ever." She gave a grunt of excitement and her hands gripped his head hard. Her breathing became more rapid; she gave him another ample, sucking kiss on his mouth, while her hands groped wildly through his hair as if she were drowning. She rubbed the inside of her leg against his thigh. On an impulse Thasos held on to her bare leg that was crooked round his body, astonished and excited at the white smoothness of the skin.
At the sound of approaching footsteps from the Bull Court, the priestess clumsily extricated herself from him, closed her eyes and made an effort to calm herself. Then, her brief, inexpert and rather undignified experiment with passion over, she looked up at Thasos again, her face flushed; he fancied that her smile was mischievous again. "My name is Paria. You entered my holy, secret chamber today," she panted. "If ever you wish to flee from Pasiphae again, you may enter it again, whenever you wish." She gave him a discreet pinch on the arm and disappeared, just before the delegation of servants finally arrived to take him to the Bull Court.
"My lord," they announced solemnly, "we come to bring you to rebirth."
"Yes, I'm ready," said Thasos airily.
Picking up his axe and club, Thasos followed his guides with confidence. It was all he could do not to laugh. His two extraordinary but welcome visitors had shown him that he already had some useful friends in the Great House.
With their support and the help of his brothers, he would dominate this cumbersome burrow of ancient secrets called the Great House. He would reshape his humble role as Consort into that of reigning, dominating king, and make Cnossos part of his own glorious destiny.
He would conquer this place. He would become the King of Cnossos and rule forever. He could not fail. He would not fail.
Eagerly, he rushed ahead of his guides. They called after him to wait, but he ignored them. He did not need their direction. He knew where the Bull Court was.
He stood near the entrance to the Bull Court, waiting for the final celebratory dance to end. He was strengthened by a deep inner conviction. This fight was his lonely destiny. It would enable him to confront and change his future with the conviction and courage of the Great. He would be a hero and a king.
The dance ended and the performers swiftly left the Bull Court through a far exit. It was his turn next. The animated and perpetually chattering crowd reminded Thasos of the lively audience at Pasiphae's bull dance. It was now time for him to enter the square. He pulled up his shoulders with the same conscious arrogance he had seen on Kaftor performers, put on his goat's horns and strode boldly into the empty raised area of the court. The audience's chatter rapidly dwindled into a rather uneasy silence at his appearance.
He heard his brother Manthys shout out: "Come on, brother. Give us some blood!" A vicious chorus of hushing from the outraged audience followed this outburst, and Manthys quickly subsided into silence.
There was as yet no sign of Asterios. Thasos waited, leaning on his double-axe in a rather overdone show of casualness, as if killing the king was an everyday occurrence. The bright rays of the setting sun glared into his sight and tinged the court and its eager audience with an aura of deep red. Nothing else happened. Thasos thought he could hear Manthys' voice again, muttering about how long it was all taking to start. Once again, his brother's attempts to speak were firmly and noisily discouraged by the crowd.
In the increasingly uncomfortable silence, Thasos realised that he had come into the court too early. The light of the sun had not fully disappeared from the court; they were not ready for him. He should not have rushed ahead of his guides like that. Thasos stood awkwardly in the mellowing light, feeling foolish; wondering whether it was possible to slip away and make a second appearance later. Just as he was hesitating, the rays of the sun vanished behind the portals of the western walls and in the sudden dusk the women spectators silently trickled in. Pasiphae emerged from one of the two other open rooms of the Tripartite Shrine, leading a stumbling bullheaded figure by a piece of rope tied around the neck.
At the sight of Pasiphae, the crowd muttered a greeting and gave their curious salute of fist to the forehead. There was what sounded like a raucous hoot from Manthys, which ended in a squeal, as if someone had clapped a hand over his mouth. Pasiphae acknowledged the audience's gesture of respect, then removed the rope from Asterios' neck and handed him a sickle-shaped spear. She then left the arena, leaving Thasos and Asterios warily confronting each other. There was no further sound from Manthys. Thasos hoped that someone was sitting on his head.
The audience's expectation hung heavily in the warm evening air and Thasos was unsure what to do next. Should he make a reckless charge at Asterios, howling with murderous wrath, or approach him with more sidelong, cautious hostility? He decided to wait for Asterios to make the first move; it would be easier to defend himself than try to make the attack first. It suddenly dawned on Thasos how impossible it was to rush up to a man in cold blood and just kill him, even if that man was disguised by an animal mask. He realised again that he was hopelessly unprepared for his new role as homicidal opponent.
He waited, but Asterios did not attack. Thasos could not understand what he was doing; there seemed to be something wrong with the man. He was stumbling round the arena, occasionally thrusting his sickle at nothing, as if he were drugged. Thasos imitated his lurching, circular movements, thinking this might be expected of him. Thasos and Asterios both staggered around for a while in this bizarrely aimless dance like two lame combatants in the last stage of drunkenness.
Thasos could hear the faint rustling and murmuring of an audience getting restless. They wanted a tense, dramatic spectacle, not this blundering children's game. The Kaftors were gentle people, but it was inevitable that a certain amount of bloodlust was running through the crowd; it would soon be demanding satisfaction and Thasos did not want it to be demanded at his expense. As the assured victor, it was up to him to make the contest exciting, but he still could not bring himself to charge at poor old Asterios with murderous intent. He tried to imagine that the horned figure in front of him was his brother Manthys, but even that could not goad him to the kind of reckless fury needed to kill.
Thasos had been told to expect a few perfunctory slashings with Asterios' knife. Well, why wouldn't the man just come over, slash him a few times and goad him into some sort of counter attack? Why was he tottering around like this? Was he hoping to drop dead from exhaustion?
In desperation, Thasos decided to pirouette around Asterios in a threatening manner, encouraging him to show aggression. He started making mincing, swinging dancing movements towards the masked Asterios, calling out to him hoarsely: "What are you doing? Why don't you put up a fight?" At that point, as if in answer to a signal, Asterios made a sudden dash towards his opponent, sickle held high. Thasos struck him with the club in self-defence and Asterios tumbled elaborately to the ground, landing at his feet. The crowd roared and chanted: "Long live the king. The king is dead. Long live the king."
It was over. He was clearly expected to make the deathblow now. Thasos stared down at Asterios, as he lay unmoving and unresisting at his feet, and grasped the handle of his axe. His hand immediately started shaking, but he resolutely raised the axe half aloft, still staring down at the immobile Asterios. He was going to kill him now, he told himself; he would have to kill this man. The axe felt heavy and unwieldy in his grip; he felt too feeble to hold it up any longer and it clattered noisily to the ground. There was a low groan from the crowd.
Thasos shivered in the mild autumn air. His courage had oozed away. He simply could not kill Asterios. He stood helpless over the recumbent Consort, as the crowd started grumbling in disappointment and derision. What was he going to do?
He felt something touch him on the foot. Asterios, still lying on the ground, had reached out and gripped Thasos' foot with his free hand, almost as if trying to comfort him. Suddenly a fierce, blinding pain seared through Thasos' body like fire. Asterios, with his other hand, had stabbed him straight through the ankle with his sickle. Without warning he stabbed again, and this time the point of his sickle went deep into Thasos' calf. With a shriek of terror and pain, Thasos leaped and stumbled backwards; Asterios scrambled to his feet and lunged at him again and again, fortunately missing him this time. Thasos howled and dodged wildly; horrified at these attacks, while Asterios pursued him and kept stabbing away at thin air. The audience rose shouting to their feet, clearly enjoying the spectacle even though it was not what they had expected to happen.
Thasos stumbled and tottered to the other end of the raised court, abandoning his axe. Warm blood from his wound soaked his foot; pain in his ankle pulsed and flamed. He turned to face his attacker and saw that Asterios had not chased after him, but was still running around the other side of the arena, shouting insanely, stabbing and slashing wildly at nothing. He occasionally ran into the wooden side barrier and members of the crowd shoved him back into the arena again.
Then he ran straight into a wooden pillar - his head and body hitting it with a loud, thick sounding smack. He recoiled and staggered for a few steps, before tumbling to the ground and lying shuddering on the stone floor. Asterios was helpless again. This was his chance. Thasos crept back and stood over him as before, again uncertainly grasping the axe. The audience were starting to shout with impatient encouragement. "Kill! Kill! You must kill. Now!" This was the moment - he had to - he had to.... He grasped the handle and raised the axe resolutely. He began to feel dizzy. Could he do it? Could he....? His head throbbed. He knew could not. He lowered the axe again and the heavy tip struck the gypsum floor. The audience gave another groan of disapproval.
Asterios then stumbled to his feet and started grappling with Thasos, grasping the handle of the axe, trying to snatch it off him, as if determined to give Thasos the deathblow instead. A surge of fear gave Thasos courage; he struggled and fought and managed to twist the axe out of Asterios' grip again; he then roughly pushed Asterios away, making him fall backwards and hit his head hard on the gypsum floor. Thasos stood over him and grasped the axe with a new resolution. If he did not kill Asterios, it was clear that Asterios might kill him instead. The audience, after the shouting excitement of the struggle, were tense with anticipation. Then, in the silence Thasos heard the sound of sobbing.
It was Asterios. Asterios was weeping at Thasos' feet. In compassion, Thasos hastily put down the axe and knelt down to speak to him.
"I'm sorry, Asterios - I don't want to kill you. I really don't - and I don't think I can do it..."
"Please," Asterios sobbed. "Why won't you kill me? I can't wait any more. Must I take the axe and kill myself? Why must I suffer like this? Please - I beg you.... Oh my Great Goddess - it hurts..."
To his horror, Thasos noticed a rivulet of blood trickling from under the bull mask; he also saw, for the fist time, Asterios' injury from his fall. He had gashed the skin from the whole side of his leg and arm, making them look like part of a butchered carcase. Thasos drew a deep breath and, sensing he had better act before he had time to think, grabbed the Double-Axe, shut his eyes, raised and hurled it, with every ounce of his strength, at Asterios' neck.
He had missed; he knew it at once. The blade met a hard resistance, so solid that the impact of the blow hurt Thasos' wrists and he nearly dropped the axe again. Then, startled by a roar of excitement from the crowd, he opened his eyes and saw that, although the axe had cracked the floor of the court, it had also severed Asterios' neck as effortlessly as if it had been a fresh honeycomb. The bullhead had rolled a few feet from the body and blood now gushed from beneath it, forming a large pool that was starting to soak into the stone.
Thasos staggered a few trembling steps forward, gazing at the head. The old woman Eileithyia pushed past him and, like a hungry scavenger, dived at Asterios' severed stump of a neck, which started shooting blood across the whole length of the Bull Court like a crimson spring. She grabbed the neck and thrust a jug under it to collect the spurting blood, as if determined to waste not a drop.
Several other women, including Pasiphae, also came up, jugs at the ready, as Thasos stood by, still shaking, swallowing bile. Very quickly the fountain of blood dried up and a group of men entered the court and tenderly collected the battered body. Another healer rushed into the court and cleaned and dressed Thasos' painful foot, placing on it a mixture of herbs and odorous liquids that made it sting even more. The audience, meanwhile, chattered merrily on. It had been an unusual fight but the outcome was very satisfying to them.
Pasiphae then picked up the bloodied bull mask that had been Asterios' head. She removed the mask and handed the severed head to one of the women, who departed, brandishing it proudly. A loud, manic woman's scream could be heard from the area of the audience, repeated again and again, punctuated with hysterical shouts of 'murder' in Achaean. Pasiphae brandished the bull mask, giving Thasos a rather grim smile as if she were enjoying a macabre private joke. Then she walked up to him, snatched off his goat's horns and slipped the bull mask over his head.
A rank odour of blood and sweat from the mask almost suffocated Thasos. He struggled for breath while Pasiphae pulled at the mask, adjusting some ties and strings at the back, affixing it firmly to his head. When she had finished, he shook his head in the sudden darkness. "I don't think it's on properly," he said. "I can't see."
"Neither could Asterios," whispered Pasiphae.
He felt a rope draped over his shoulders and, with a sharp tug that yanked painfully on his neck, he was led out of the Bull Court like a captured animal.
Very soon the festive sounds of the Bull Court faded, as Thasos was led away, limping painfully on his wounded foot. He stumbled blindly along winding corridors as he was taken deeper and deeper into the dark and mysterious heart of the Great House.
"What's going to happen?" he kept asking, through the mask. "What are you going to do to me?"
His questions were ignored. He was led into a room and guided to a small bed. As he sat down, he heard the door firmly secured and Thasos realised he was completely alone. He called out but no one answered or came to him. He got up from the bed and blundered around the room. Apart from the bed, there was nothing else in his cell apart from a small wooden table. He was a prisoner in the Great House -- blind and helpless.
The Sacred Marriage
It seemed to Thasos that he had been alone in that comfortless room for days. When Pasiphae arrived later that afternoon, he was in no mood to be polite.
"Good morning, Thasos," she said cheerfully. "Did you have a pleasant rest?"
"Where have you been?" he asked irritably. "And when are you going to take off this stupid mask?"
"I thought I had explained, Thasos," Pasiphae said after a brief silence, her tone expressing annoyance at the question. "The eye holes of the mask have been closed. You are the victorious Bull God, but for now you wear the mantle of the defeated Consort. Your sight will be returned after your rebirth. Asterios had to wear the mask at his own investiture and rebirth. Your family made him wear it during his false marriage to your mother. Possibly you remember how your brothers' accident caused the eye mechanism to close."
"Is that why he let Britomartis' people take him away?" Thasos asked.
"I don't think we need to talk about that unfortunate occurrence - or you own lamentable part in it, Thasos," said Pasiphae coldly. "Asterios is now dead."
"Yes. It was me that killed him. And by the way, why did you collect his blood?" This gruesome aftermath of the killing suddenly returned to Thasos' mind - partly because it was one of the last things he had seen. Unfortunately his question seemed to annoy Pasiphae even more.
"Oh Thasos, do you remember nothing I tell you? At tonight's feast some of the blood will be mixed with the milk and honey of the Moon Goddess and served from the Bull's Head rhyton. It is the season of the moon and blood."
"You mean, we drink his blood?" Thasos could not keep the disgust out of his voice.
"Only a small amount is put into the drink," Pasiphae explained patiently. "The rest will be dried in the sun and shared out to the farming communities to sprinkle on the fields. Renewal and rebirth, my dear Thasos; Asterios will be returned to the bounty of the Goddess' good earth."
"Just like I will be in eight years' time," Thasos observed gloomily.
"It is a pity you have no understanding of your role, Thasos, but I will try to explain everything as the ceremony progresses. We will return now to the Bull Court where the feast has been set out. Various people will pay obeisance to you first. You need not worry - you are much respected. You will keep this mask on throughout the Celebration. I will lead you through it."
At least Thasos enjoyed the celebratory meal and ate well. In addition to the usual vegetable fare of fresh greens, mashed peas, asparagus in yoghurt and thickly sauced beans, there were rare delicacies as fresh mussels and prawns, filleted fried mullet, octopus in lemon oil, and even pieces of goat meat, marinated and slowly cooked to a glaze in a variety of delectable honey preparations. It was Thasos' first taste of animal flesh since Britomartis had left him, although he preferred his meat roasted.
Eating blind made him appreciate the Kaftors' tendency to finger food and Pasiphae made sure his plate and cup were topped up and within easy reach. Although he could not watch the dancing and acrobatics, he could understand most of the conversation around him, except when it slipped into the frenzied ecstasies of labrys talk. Pasiphae occasionally explained aspects of the more mystical conversations that applied to him. Thasos was mildly curious to hear himself described as the 'sprouting seed of the new year', the 'sacred reservoir of divine potency' and - less appealingly - the 'living embodiment of the sacred snake'.
Amidst all the animated chatter that surrounded him, however, one intensely disagreeable sound dominated: the distant baying of his brother's inebriated laughter. When not laughing, his voice could often be heard intoning loudly on matters he knew nothing about. He had nothing but scorn for the finger food and demanded that he be supplied instead with a freshly roast ox "with a nice priestess concubine for company". Fortunately his words were incomprehensible to the Kaftors and mostly drowned by the noise of the lively conversations around him. In an attempt to forget his brother and his own discomfort, he decided to get slightly drunk himself.
"I advise you not to drink too much wine, dear Thasos," Pasiphae gently advised him, "otherwise you will not appreciate the unique flavour of the milk, blood and honey drink."
"When do they serve that?" Thasos asked.
"It is being served now, Thasos. The rhyton is passing among the guests. It will soon reach our table and I will pass you a full cup."
Despite its gruesome contents, the flavour of the drink was surprisingly pleasant; the sweetness of the honey clashed pleasantly with the sourness of the blood and the sharp tang of the alcohol. He finished his cup with pleasure, and with some grim amusement at the thought of how Manthys would respond if he learned of the gruesome contents of this drink, poured from what people were describing as a beautiful Bull's Head rhyton.
"Can you see my brother, Pasiphae?" he asked her.
"Yes," she said, with a flat intonation to her voice. "He is at the far end of the long table. You need not worry. He has not completely disgraced himself yet."
"He has annoyed a considerable number of people," one person pointed out. "The far table is almost empty now; people have been leaving it one by one in disgust. Only Xherisos is still there and that is because he is asleep. I do not know how it is possible for a man to be so offensive without being able to speak our language."
"The servants say that lord Manthys has been drawing rude pictograms on the table."
"I will ask them to take his charcoal from him," Pasiphae said. "If he becomes any more raucous or lewd the servants will add a draught to his wine that will send him swiftly and harmlessly to sleep. Then he can be carried off to bed."
"Pasiphae, I wish to speak to my brother for a moment."
"Why, Thasos? He has already seen your bull's head at close quarters and - and admired it."
"Manthys admired my mask? Are you sure?" Thasos remembered, among the tributes and words of homage, a burst of laughter and sounds of mooing that he recognised as coming from Manthys, before he had been presumably hustled away. "Anyway, I don't want to talk to him about the mask. It's about this drink."
"He is able to share this drink, in company with everyone else. He appears to be enjoying it; I notice he is requesting a second cup."
"I think it is his third or fourth," commented another voice at the table.
"That's wonderful." Thasos chucked. "I would like him to have another cup. I would like him to have ten cups. I want to see his face when I tell him what's in it."
"Thasos, you are not in a position to see anyone's face at the moment," Pasiphae gently reminded him.
"Oh, yes. That's a shame. Never mind; I suppose I can tell him later, although it would have been more fun to tell him while he was actually drinking it."
"Thasos, what ..." Pasiphae seemed to hesitate. "What reaction were you expecting from Manthys when you conveyed to him your valuable piece of information regarding the contents of the sacred drink?"
"Let me speak to you words of poetry, Pasiphae," said Thasos. He was rather drunk. "Manthys' reaction would be a poetic experience."
"Please continue."
"I would expect his face to turn as bright red as a Kore poppy..."
"I see."
"...Then turn as green as an Archannes olive...."
"I understand..."
"Then he would spew it out all over the table. The colours of that unique stew can be described in words of no language. How it would shock everyone. And even my brother Manthys would die of shame."
His cackling laughter died away. There was a brief and ominous pause. He then heard Pasiphae say to the people at their table: "I request your kind indulgence, but I wish to speak to Lord Thasos privately for a moment." Then with a sudden, neck-jerking pull of the rope, he was yanked away from the table and dragged, choking, for several staggering steps. A wall seemed to hide them from sound and sight, because the buzz of conversation suddenly ebbed as if a door had been shut. Then Pasiphae spoke to him in a ferocious whisper and with a disconcerting assumption of authority, while Thasos fought for breath.
"Thasos. I do not wish anyone else to hear what I am about to say to you. It should not be necessary for me to remind who you are and where you are. You are the partner of the Moon Goddess and this is a sacred feast, in your name. Even at an ordinary meal it is not seemly to irritate guests, or to encourage them to behave in a way that brings shame upon them, distress to others and disorder to the table. That you could consider doing so at the Sacred Bull ceremony is a matter of severe distress to me. If I am to believe that the Great Goddess has chosen you and that you are not an impostor, you will forget your repellent Achaean ways immediately. I do not wish to have to speak to you on this subject again. Do you clearly understand what I have said?"
Confused and disoriented, slightly drunk and still emotionally weak after having killed Asterios, Thasos could only mumble. "Yes. All right. Of course, I agree. Yes. All right. Sorry. Yes, all right..."
"I am already very angry with you after your disgraceful performance in the Bull Court today," she added, to Thasos' astonishment. There seemed to be an even more bitter edge of anger to Pasiphae's voice as she said this.
"Oh. Well, I - I'm sorry - I did my best..."
"Your best, Thasos?" she hissed. "In that case I cannot conceive of what you would do if you tried your worst. I have never even imagined such cruelty."
"Cruelty? Me?" Thasos bleated. "I didn't want to kill the poor man..."
"Why did you not give Asterios the deathblow quickly as I asked? Why did you have to torture him so horribly first?"
"What? I didn't.... It wasn't...." Thasos was aghast at the accusation. "I didn't torture Asterios ..."
"I saw the state his body was in. It made me sick. His head was broken in two places and the poor man had been flayed horribly on one side of his body. The skin was hanging loose in places. How could you have inflicted such brutal injuries on him, Thasos? Did you enjoy yourself? I only hope that one day you will feel shame at having wreaked unnecessary suffering on a poor human creature, and when the time comes for your own sacrifice I trust you will remember your own viciousness when facing your opponent...."
"Pasiphae - it was an accident. I didn't touch Asterios - he hit a pillar and fell... it wasn't my fault he couldn't see..."
"It was your fault, Thasos," insisted Pasiphae sternly. "If you had given Asterios the deathblow properly, as I begged you to, he would not have suffered at all. I accept that you did not mutilate him intentionally, but your behaviour today has been a great disappointment to me. However, your final test tomorrow should make it clear to me if the Goddess has really chosen you or not."
"Another test?" Thasos felt intensely miserable. "Oh, no. What test now?"
"If you pass that last test and become my Consort, we will find a new name for you," she said. Her voice sounded gentler now. "It will be a name worthy of the partner of the moon and the rampaging white bull." She gave a little giggle, then started leading him back to the Bull Court, holding him by the hand this time. "Let us return to the feast, my husband and moon man." The babble of voices increased as they approached the square, and Thasos thought he could hear the sounds of wild and raucous laughter.
"What test is this? What test will I have to do tomorrow?" Thasos complained. "Why won't you tell me now?"
They stopped walking for an instant and Pasiphae gave his hand a warning squeeze. "I advise you to enjoy the food and drink tonight Thasos, while you can - and perhaps you should speak less for the rest of the evening."
Despair almost overcame Thasos as they returned to the festive mirth of the Bull Court. He would have to perform yet another test tomorrow. He had already publicly chopped a man's head off; wasn't that testing enough, for Zeus' sake? What, in the domain of the Olympian Pantheon would they make him do now? Lop the limbs off a baby? Swallow a live snake? Climb inside an erupting volcano? And what was everyone laughing at in the square?
"Where have you been, O Moon Goddess and lord?" Their reappearance was greeted with eager hoots of glee. "You have missed a most entertaining sight; the most amusing sight of the evening. Oh, the Goddess is good to us. What a beautiful comical sight we have all seen."
"What have I missed, my gracious friends in the Goddess?" Pasiphae asked.
"The brother of our lord Thasos, Manthys of the blotchy face and bilious hair, has indulged himself rather freely in the potation of our late Bull Consort."
"After drinking his eighth cup, and while calling for his ninth, he demanded to know the contents of so excellent a beverage."
"And the servants informed him, by means of a brief, but graphic tableau and a few pictograms, that one important ingredient of this drink was the newly spilt blood from the severed neck of the lately decapitated consort, Asterios."
"It seems that lord Manthys did not anticipate such an answer. Much water is required to clean up his puking."
Pasiphae gave a girlish squeal of delight. "How wonderful! Was he sick over anyone?"
"Xherisos got some of it on his shoe," someone at their table said, and there was another general scream of hilarity. "He awoke with furious haste. Indeed, I have never seen a man of fifty summers move so fast, nor curse so loudly."
Pasiphae shrieked with amusement and asked the servants to repeat their excellent tableau for her benefit. Having joined in the crowd's renewed laughter with an almost childish lack of restraint, she asked what would happen to the nauseous Manthys now that they had carried him out.
"My Lady, we will repeatedly douse Manthys in warm water to heal him," he heard a servant reply courteously.
"How wonderful. He will detest that. He hates water."
"That is not all, my lady. We will then souse him in cold water to clean him."
"Oh, this is getting better and better. The Goddess is good to us."
"After that we will then leave him soaking in tepid water to sober him."
"Wouldn't it be easier just to drown him?" asked a voice at their table.
"This isn't fair!" Thasos heard his own voice, petulant and fretful, above the laughter of the crowd.
"Did you speak, Thasos?"
"Yes! When I suggested telling Manthys about the drink, you told me that was a terrible thing. And now you're all laughing at it, saying it was a gift of the Goddess. I think you're all very unfair, dishonest ..." His protest came to an abrupt end as Pasiphae placed her hand over his mouth.
"The two faces of the Goddess, which you will never understand, Thasos." Pasiphae's voice, again in a whisper, hissed into his ear. "It was the gift of the Goddess that your brother should suffer so amusingly. It was not for you to decide such an outcome for your guest. The Goddess may have chosen you as my Consort, Thasos, but you are not a direct conduit to her wisdom and bounty, nor ever will be. That is my role as Moon Goddess. Kindly never forget that. I think perhaps you had better not speak any more. You are making your ignorance very clear to everyone." She gave his head a discreet smack and ignored him for the rest of the evening.
Silenced, discouraged and miserable, Thasos did not speak again, nor, to his growing despondency, did anyone attempt to speak to him. He started making furtive rebellious attempts to loosen the ribbons that tied the mask to his head, but his attempts were vain. He was unable to work out the intricate knots and dared not struggle too openly with the mask in so public a place. On one occasion Pasiphae broke her silence to ask him, rather tartly: "Is the mask too loose, Thasos? Would you like me to tighten it for you?" Thasos resolved to make a more sustained attempt to remove it later, when he was on his own.
Long before the feasting had ended, he was led away back to his empty room. Once alone he made a determined attempt to remove the mask, but his fumbling interventions only seemed to make it tighter. It had been designed to thwart desperate fingers and like many consorts before him he had to give it up; he could not unravel the secrets of the ties. He lay down to get whatever sleep was possible in the cumbersome mask.
It seemed to Thasos that he had only just closed his eyes in sleep when a bowl of food was thrust into one hand and his other hand was guided towards a pile of fresh clothes lying next to him.
"Are you going to take my mask off now?" he asked, munching a handful of honeyed figs in soft wheat cake.
No one answered. A rope was put over his neck.
"Not again. What are you going to do this time - hang me?"
"Shhh." Every attempt to speak was suppressed. He was led along like a bull on a lead, along more winding corridors in the Great House. Suddenly, the air felt fresher and he heard the soft chirruping of cicadas.
"We are about to climb into a small sheltered litter, Thasos," he heard Pasiphae say. "Please do not speak."
With her help, he clambered clumsily into the conveyance. A silent, bumping and unspeakably tedious journey followed. When the litter stopped and he was led out, the air still felt cool, as if the sun had not yet risen.
Thasos was led on what seemed a very long walk. The air became warmer and gently fragrant, as if the sun had started to rise. Eventually, Thasos noticed that they were climbing up a slope. The air became uncomfortably warm, despite the fact that they were climbing and Thasos' masked head began to sweat. His wounded ankle started to ache. Soon the only sound he could hear was his own gasping breath, which in the enclosed mask sounded like sobbing. Still they carried on climbing.
At long last, they came to a stop on top of what Thasos thought must be a very high mountain. The air felt fresher now that he was standing still and the wind blew gratefully around his perspiring neck. While several pairs of hands held him, Pasiphae spoke out in the confident tones of the public-speaking voice of the Moon Goddess:
"This is the sacred shrine of darkness. Here you will undergo a ritual death and be reborn as the Consort. You will now descend from this great height and plunge into the very depths of the earth, in the womb of the Great Goddess."
"No!" With a scream of fright, Thasos started struggling with his restrainers and the ripe tightened around his neck. He lashed out with arms and feet, trying to escape. He understood now. They had brought him here to kill him. This was a mountain sacrifice; the sort Kikerus had once told him about. They were going to push him off the top and he would plummet to his death, smashed to pieces as he bounced among the rocks and trees hundreds of feet below. There would be nothing of him left. They would probably just bury what few fragments remained of him and forget him. He howled and struggled, but hands skilfully restrained his movements, and Pasiphae whispered to him: "You are in no danger, Thasos. When I pull on the rope, you should start walking."
Then he heard Pasiphae's voice, in the valedictory tones used for formal ritual announcements.
"Thasos, you will be reborn as the Bull Consort of the Moon Goddess. This means you are about to be inducted into the mystery of the feminine - the source of life itself. No man may see within the mystery of the divine labyrinth. When you, Thasos, look at the entrance to your Goddess wife's vulva, you do not see the womb. The source of all conception and growth is hidden from men's eyes. O Consort, you have had your sight - the light of your sun - extinguished, because you are now about to enter the dark labyrinth of the feminine mysteries. You will enter the region of life and death, where you will die and reborn as the consort. Before you plant your seed in the Moon Maiden, you, as the living seed, must be planted in the Great Goddess earth."
Thasos then felt another tug on the rope around his neck. As he started stumbling down a gentle slope, the sounds around him started to change. The birdsong became sharper and louder, as if the noise were being funnelled. The slow crunching sound of their footsteps became more distinct, until they seemed to echo. At one point, the birdsong stopped, as if the arrival of unexpected human visitors had interrupted it, then it gradually resumed - even louder than before.
Suddenly the sunlight was cut off and the air felt cold and tasted damp, as if it had never once been touched by the sun. At one point a beating of wings around Thasos' head startled him. "Where are we? What's happening," he called out. His voice seemed to boom and reverberate, as if he were in a huge chamber. Still he and his captors carried on descending, the path down now becoming rather more slippery. The bird noises were quickly receding and the air was full of strange, dank smells. Thasos had the sense of entering a vast tomb.
He had to rely on the guidance of the rope as the path started to wind and turn almost torturously around low jagged rocks. He was manipulated around some twists on what now seemed like a walk to the centre of the earth. To Thasos' relief however, the path eventually became level again. A few moments later they came to a stop and Thasos knew they had reached their destination when the rope was lifted from his shoulders.
Pasiphae's voice rang out in a declaration, in strange labrys words, which echoed and re-echoed, deeply resonant, in that vast cold chamber: "From darkness to light, the womb to the air, from enclosure to freedom, now man who would be consort to the Goddess let the Great Goddess herself direct and guide your striving from her womb and to rebirth. As the seed emerges as the flower, and the child is born from the womb, let the Consort defeat death and triumph in the heroic struggle for new life."
Echoes were followed by silence. Thasos gradually realised that the last sounds he had heard, apart from Pasiphae's voice, were the light, padding sounds of retreating footsteps.
"Help. Hello." he called out. "Hello. Help. Are you there? Anyone."
His voice boomed and reverberated, testifying to the sheer size of his underground cavern.
"Pasiphae!" he called out frantically. "Pasiphae."
He lost his balance and almost fell face down on the rocky floor. He righted himself and stood, panting, his heart pounding. He was being punished. His trickery with the white bull had been discovered and he had been left here to die. Probably they had filled this underground cave with snakes. Possibly the very floor of the cave itself was a sea of snakes; all ready to eat him, like those little animals in the serpent Lustral Chamber.
He dared not move or speak. Every small sound he made ricocheted and echoed, making the hugeness of his enclosing darkness more oppressive, probing and awakening the hostile hidden secrets of that rocky enclosure that contained the endless waste of emptiness that had now become his world.
Then he remembered Pasiphae's final words. "From darkness to light ...... from enclosure to freedom... Let the great Goddess herself direct you..." He realised that this was the final test that she had mentioned in the Bull Court the night before. He was supposed to find his own way blinded out of the cave to daylight. If he did not reappear at the entrance, if he was never seen alive again, they would say the Goddess had ordained his death and forget all about him. It was certain that no one would ever come to rescue him.
Hesitantly, he took a few stumbling steps along the craggy, uneven rock floor, and kept bumping painfully into low rocks. Throughout his slow progress, he would walk for a few hesitant steps and bark his leg or stub his toe agonisingly against a lurking stalagmite or boulder, or a protruding piece of sharp rock would jab him in the thigh or groin. He continued bravely, despite the bruises that were covering his body. Then the path became smoother and Thasos started moving forwards with more confidence, until a searing lightning bolt of pain shot through his head: a sharp piece of protruding rock had struck his forehead through the soft mask. He reached out carefully and discovered something worse than the pain -- a sheer rock wall. He had been walking in the wrong direction all the time and had reached the far edge of the cave wall. He was as far from the entrance as ever.
He forced himself to think clearly. He remembered that Pasiphae and her maidens had brought him downwards; therefore, to reach the sunlight and freedom he would have to climb upward again. "Like the seed from the ground, let the hero struggle to the light..." At the moment, the ground he was walking on, although treacherously uneven, was flat. He became impatient to find sloping ground, but the more hastily he blundered around, the more frequently and painfully he fell or was hit on the head by more jutting rocks.
After more painful lurching and staggering, he managed to walk in a straight line for a few steps - then stopped as he felt a slight upward pressure on the side of his shoe. The ground was sloping up that way. Trembling with eagerness, he turned round slowly until he was facing this upward slope and then started to walk with new confidence. Unfortunately, he was too confident; he collided hard with yet another low rock and this time he fell over, striking his head and limbs on uncounted sharp rocks.
As he lay on his back, bruised and defeated, he felt something warm slip into his hand. He gave a scream; the snakes had got him at last. Then he felt his back being embraced and gently raised, and his shoulder supported in what felt like a firm human grip.
"Shh. Thasos, you are safe now. I have come to guide you out of here."
He was helped to his feet and allowed to stand, still panting, partly supported by the hands, and partly by a nearby rock.
"Pasiphae?" he almost howled.
"No, Thasos. I'm not Pasiphae. I'm here to rescue you. I told you I would save you from death, didn't I?"
"Britomartis!"
"Come with me, Thasos, and you will be safe."
"I will come with you anywhere."
"Well, let's get you out of this cave first." She eased him gently on a twisting path, weaving among and around the many treacherous rocks.
"Does Pasiphae know you're here - that you're helping me?"
"I don't care if she knows or not. The cave is my domain and she cannot prevent me from entering and doing what I want."
"Your domain? Does Pasiphae know that?"
"Of course she does."
"Then why is she using this cave? I thought you two hated each other."
"I told you, Thasos. At the times of Renewal, Birth and Death, Pasiphae still needs my caves. Not even her cleverest architects could construct a labyrinth as splendid as this one. One reason why Pasiphae hates me is because she has to work with me at her most sacred seasons and she's afraid of my power."
"I despise her too, Britomartis darling," Thasos wailed. His self-pity knew no bounds. "You're right about these Cnossos people. They tried to kill me. They were going to leave me alone to die in this cave. To die, Britomartis! Can you imagine that? And you won't believe the things they've done to me - the things they've made me do... terrible things - horrible things.... And look at my poor ankle."
Britomartis giggled. "At least you didn't have to perform the Bull Dance - although what you're doing now is just another form of the Bull Dance. Do you realise that the Consort usually has to spend months learning the route out of here - all the curves and turns out of the labyrinth - in the form of a dance. It's called the labrys dance and it's all part of the training."
"I don't even know the dance." Thasos yelped. "I could have died in here."
"You'd have found your way out eventually - but it would have taken you much longer than the time it takes to do the labrys dance, my poor darling." She brought him to a halt and released him. "Now, from here you can easily find your own way out. I will leave you now."
"Britomartis -- you can't leave me. I want to run away with you."
"Oh, Thasos." Britomartis seemed to hesitate. "I would love you to come with me, but it is too late. To the people of Cnossos, you are the divine Consort. Nothing can change that now."
She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "Keep walking upwards. The path is straight now. There are no rocks."
"I want to come with you, Britomartis."
"Thasos, you made your choice. Pasiphae has won you from me. I accept it. I do not forgive it, but I understand it and will have to act accordingly. Now you must make your own way to the entrance and meet your bride."
"Why can't you be my bride?"
"In that bull mask?" She laughed. "Surely you remember? My people once took Asterios away in his bull mask and the good people of Cnossos assaulted my priests and threatened to burn our forests down."
"I don't care about Cnossos. I'll marry you instead - I'll even be your Horned God."
She laughed again. "How can I marry a dead man? You've been reborn to a new life." She kissed him briefly on the neck and was gone.
Thasos walked slowly up the slope and cursed himself, with all the bitterness and of his lost love. He had made a terrible mistake in rejecting Britomartis - a mistake that could never be undone. He had discarded a life of companionship, laughter and freedom for humiliation and captivity in Pasiphae's dark world of affectation and ritual. He had destroyed his own happiness and had killed the one thing most precious to him: Britomartis' boundless, unconditional love. Then, as he continued to climb, he heard the faint strains of distant birdsong in front of him and knew he was about to enter his new life as Pasiphae's Consort.
The birdsong became louder and the scent of herbs wafted towards him. Finally, he could feel warmer air against the skin of his arms and legs, with a breeze that was clean, nourishing and exhilarating. He knew he had entered daylight when he felt the sun swamp his body in a blaze of warmth, with all the splendour and glory of a sunrise in spring. Even the darkness inside his mask glowed a little. The sun consoled him, it healed him - it blessed and welcomed him into new life.
Suddenly the light was shut out again, as there was human movement around him and he heard the sound of chanting.
"Welcome Consort, to rebirth."
"From the womb into the sun."
"From the earth to flowering growth."
"Welcome my Consort, my risen Lord, welcome to Rebirth." It was Pasiphae's voice. "The Great Goddess has guided you out of the womb into the air, from enclosure to freedom...from darkness to light." Then she spoke to him in a more natural voice. "You may wish to turn round now, Thasos. You will find the sunlight rather overpowering."
Several hands turned him round, then his mask started moving lightly and he realised that hands were moving across it. Suddenly he had to close his eyes as fierce, burning light penetrated the open eyeholes. Pasiphae must have made some secret adjustment to the mask to alleviate his blindness. After some deft manipulation of the strings, she took off his mask completely. The feeling of release was beyond mere relief. It felt as if his scalp had been removed and icy breezes were whipping and stinging his skinless head. He blinked though sore and watery eyes at the surprisingly small vertical hole in the rock face he had just emerged though. He noticed that the edge of the entry to its impenetrable darkness was red; like the opening of a woman's vulva.
Pasiphae was speaking to him again. "Welcome to your new life. Reborn in the womb of the Great Goddess you are renamed as her Sacred Partner. I now name you Minos."
"Minos?"
"That is your new name."
"Welcome Minos, Moon-Being, Consort of the Moon Goddess," a priestess chanted.
"Welcome Minos, Sun King of the Great House of Cnossos," echoed another one.
"Welcome Minos, Bull king of the fecund and fruitful earth," sang a third.
"Welcome Minos," Pasiphae repeated, less formally. "I told you that we would choose a name that would express your radiance. You are Minos - Moon creature. Asterios was the lesser light. But you, my husband, share my light; the light of the moon and the light of the Goddess." She came close to him and hugged him briefly around the waist. "The name also means white bull," she added, in a whisper.
Thasos, or Minos as he was now to be called, watched Pasiphae move swiftly away from the entrance to the dark cave, and in a more formal manner again, thrust a hand out towards the open spaces, while remaining inside the shadow of the overhanging rock. Instinctively he moved towards her.
"No. You may go now, Minos," she announced. "You may walk in the sun, gaze at the earth, breathe in the air, and bathe in the sea, then return to Cnossos." She stopped and smiled at him. "You really are free to go now," she said, more casually. "I hope you enjoy yourself. I'll see you back in Cnossos in three days." She walked up closer to him. "You can kiss me first, if you like," she said, mischievously.
Pasiphae was once again the laughing, affectionate friend he had known for so many years. They embraced and kissed, and she gently massaged his rather tender ears and temple. As Minos continued holding Pasiphae, and she gently massaged his head, he felt a warmth stir through his loins. She was his wife. An enticing thought occurred to him. Could they make love before he went?
"So - we are married, then, Pasiphae?" he whispered.
"Yes, my Moon Man. We are married. You are the Consort of the Moon Goddess. You are my Horned God."
"So when ..." Minos was not quite sure how to ask the question. It seemed so very delicate all of a sudden. He tried speaking again, rather hesitantly, as she gently eased herself from their embrace.
"Pasiphae, we are married."
"That is still true, my Moon Man. You can keep repeating it if it makes you happy."
"Yes, but - forgive me, Pasiphae, but we are married and married people - well - married people do certain things, that is - well, usually they do, I mean...."
"Minos. What are you trying to say?"
He swallowed. He was finding it surprisingly difficult to say. "I mean, if you do not want to, Pasiphae, then that is all right. I will not insist if you don't want to. It is entirely your choice when - and where - I don't want to - I don't want to, but I was just thinking..."
He stopped, blushing hotly. He was too embarrassed to look Pasiphae in the eye. She seemed to take a very long time to reply.
"Minos, I think I know what you are saying. But the ritual coupling cannot take place here, can it? Even if it were allowed, it is neither convenient nor appropriate. The mountainside is windy and the paths are dusty. We must first return to Cnossos. We will perform the ritual coupling in three days' time, in the evening, at the Great House."
Ritual coupling. That was a strange term for it. "So we have to go back to Cnossos first?"
"Minos, it is traditional for the Consort to enjoy three days and nights of liberty. I have to return to Cnossos to lead the mourning for Asterios and the internment of his body. That must be completed before the new Consort arrives. When you return to Cnossos, servants will conduct you into my presence. May the Goddess guide your footsteps." She gestured almost dismissively at the magnificent sweep of scenery that was clearly visible from the mountainside, then gave him a formal farewell gesture.
It suddenly occurred to Minos that, for the first time since his ensnarement in the Great House, he was free. He walked away from the narrow orifice of the dark shrine, where the women were still clustered in its protective shadow, and with a sigh of relief, started the long climb down to the fertile plains below; warmed and elated by the light of the sun. The priestess' cries of benediction followed him.
"Walk well, Minos."
"Many the sun bless you, Minos."
"We await your return, Minos."
For three days, with a mixture of joy and longing, he revelled in the beautiful landscape that he had missed for so long. Never had the island, even in the parchedness of late autumn, looked so magnificent. After his recent confinement, open areas overwhelmed him with the eternity of vastness and space. After his blindness, every hill, tree, and even every yellowing blade of grass enchanted him; he observed each subtle variation in nature's colour and shade like a man shortly condemned to die. Was he going to leave all this beauty behind? Why could he not continue to enjoy it with the innocent delight of his old, uncomplicated life - of the simple man he used to be: the young man Thasos, land worker and lover of Britomartis? Must he really say goodbye to the Kaftor landscape as much as he was to his old name and self?
He found an answer to this question when visited his old friends in Archannes and was both astonished and saddened to find that the news of his divine status had already reached them.
"Greetings, O Moon-Man," they hailed him. "Praise to the Goddess' chosen.... ... Welcome, O Partner of the Snakes...."
"Welcome, O White Bull. We are greatly honoured."
"This visit from the Divine Horned One will bring great fertility to our lands."
"Tell us, O Potentate, what is it like to be the Consort of Cnossos?"
Minos avoided their eager questions and shrugged off their praise. "How did you find out so soon?" he asked sadly.
"Oh Divine Consort, the messengers from the Great House have told the communities near Cnossos, and messengers from those communities have already told villages along the coast. Then we sent our own messengers to tell the villages nearest the mountains. You are well known to all the farming communities, O Minos, and every one of them will soon know you are Consort. Soon the whole island will know."
So he could never escape from his new role. The news would reach the furthest communities far faster than he could travel there. From Elaphonissos to Zakros, they would recognise him as Consort.
For the next three days of precious freedom Minos tried not to think about the future. He moved around, partly on foot and partly cadging rides from passing donkeys and litters, sleeping in the open and being fed in passing villages and farms, all of whom were delighted by a visit form the Moon Consort. He moved vaguely and reluctantly in the general direction of Cnossos.
On the third day of his journey, a group of passing donkey riders greeted him reverently as the God incarnate, and offered him a ride to the gates of Great House. Minos accepted the ride gloomily and looked at the familiar scenery as it unfolded before him for the last time. He tried to console himself with the thought that he would soon be king of this land and ruling it as his realm. He wasn't saying goodbye to all this beauty; he was going to possess it. Somehow, after the humiliations he had suffered over the last few days, it was harder to believe in that, but he kept trying. Somehow he would avoid his sacrifice in eight years' time -- somehow. His fate had been chosen by the gods. They wanted him to rule Cnossos.
Then another happy thought occurred to him. He remembered how often he had travelled this route and experienced a fluttering of anticipation at the thought of seeing Pasiphae. It was the same feminine presence, the allure of the Moon Maiden, which still tempted his steps towards Cnossos now, as it had so many times before. He loved this landscape, but he realised he loved Pasiphae more. Despite the humiliations and terrors she continued to inflict on him, he knew he would never escape her allure and fascination.
Pasiphae was the reason he continued his journey to Cnossos, instead of leaping from the donkey and running for the distant open spaces, his beloved island, freedom and Britomartis. He was returning to Pasiphae - this time not as a hopeful visitor, not as a wistful admiring Xhora, but as her true husband. He was going to possess her that very night.
He had made his choice, even though in some ways the choice had been imposed on him. But, as the final day of his journey came to an end, he smiled at the formless, whitened sprawl of the approaching town of Cnossos, felt again that warmth stirring in his loins and was content.
Servants conducted Minos down the usual tangle of corridors to some footbaths, where he rinsed himself perfunctorily, before being shown to a small and sparely furnished room, where Pasiphae was waiting for him. Although she greeted him with a smile and an embrace, there was still a curious formality about her manner; the embrace over, she invited him, rather imperiously he thought, to sit down. There was still that unbridgeable distance between them that Minos did not understand, or have the courage to try and breach. Even at such an intimate and private moment as this, she still seemed to be enacting some mysterious ritual, which he had not had a chance to rehearse.
"Now, Minos, we must prepare ourselves carefully for the ritual coupling," she said serenely.
"I see." He still thought that was a strange name for it.
"Are you sure you are ready for it now?" she asked, as if it were an onerous and inconvenient task. "You are not too tired after your journey? We can always delay our preparation for parenthood if you are too tired."
"No, of course not." It seemed rather a cold way of inviting passion, but he was willing to oblige her. "I'm not too tired, if you're ready for it."
He smiled at her and she smiled back, but she did not make any move towards him. Perhaps, he decided, the obligation was on him, as the man, to induce the Moon Maiden into the joyful mysteries of love. He got up and walked rather uneasily towards Pasiphae, his throat dry, his arms opened stiffly in readiness to embrace her, feeling awkward, as if about to hug a stranger. When he reached Pasiphae's chair he looked down at her, and was taken aback by the look of displeasure in her face.
"What do you think you are you doing, Minos?" she asked.
He fell clumsily to his knees and lurched his body forwards towards her, feeling as embarrassed as any young man touching a woman for the very first time. "Darling," he muttered, prising his arms round her shoulders. "You are beautiful."
She recoiled, fought herself out of his embrace and twisted away from him as if he had been an assailant. She gave him a sharp push and he fell onto his back.
"How dare you touch me like that?" she cried. "I am not your concubine."
"But I thought we were married." He stumbled gracelessly to his feet, feeling wretched and worthless. What did she expect him to do?
"That does not mean that you reach out and grasp me whenever you wish. I am not your possession, Minos. I am the Moon Goddess and you are my Consort. We must perform the act of procreation correctly." She composed herself, got up from her seat and calmly offered him her hand. "I forgive you your ignorance and clumsiness, Minos. I will instruct you in the correct procedures. I will expect you to follow these exactly when the right time comes. You are not in the forest now."
Minos remembered the ferocious, impulsive fun of his union with Britomartis and felt miserable. How was it possible for two women, both calling themselves the Moon Maiden, to have such drastically different feelings towards the act of love?
At that moment, two priestesses entered the chamber, carrying what looked like bull masks. Minos recognised one of the priestesses as Paria -- the woman who had so memorably introduced herself to him near the Bull Court. She gave him a fleeting smile, while she and her graver companion placed the masks on a table and left. Minos repressed a strong impulse to run after Paria.
"You may recognise this mask," Pasiphae said grimly, picking up the fine black silky looking head. "You have worn it before."
"Oh, no - it's not the same bull mask is it? Have I got to wear that wretched thing again?"
"Thasos. Please show more respect. The Sacred Marriage is not complete until you have procreated as the victorious bull. I, as your partner, will wear the cow mask," she added, picking up the other smaller horned head. "You're the mating bull and I'm the willing Moon Cow, being fertilised by you, in order to create lots of babies." Suddenly Pasiphae was unashamedly frank when discussing details of the sexual act.
"Won't those masks get in the way?" asked Minos, worried at the thought of negotiating his way in a bed with such an unwieldy covering on his head.
"Of course not. We perform the divine act of coupling in the same way as the Goddess' own creatures. You mount me as a bull would a cow. I bend over for you, and you climb onto me...."
"What? No!" He and Britomartis had never done that to each other, even on their most unrestrained nights. "That's disgusting!"
"Minos! How can you use such a word? The Sacred Marriage is the union between the earth Goddess and the fertilising consort. It is performed to the benefit of the new season and the welfare of the community. It is an act that belongs to the people - not to us. That is why it must be performed correctly; our audience will expect nothing else."
"Our audience?" shrieked Minos.
"Of course. Our bridal chamber is the top of the Tripartite Shrine and opens onto the Bull Court. The same audience that witnessed your killing of Asterios will now witness our Sacred Marriage. Why are you laughing, Minos?"
"I'm not laughing. I think I'm crying."
She gave him a kindly smile. "There is no cause for worry. The public ritual will soon be over. After that, our love becomes a personal act. You can wait for me in our chambers tonight during the public celebrations and I will join you as soon as I can. Then we will celebrate our union in private."
Pasiphae' promise of intimacy was the only thing that sustained Minos throughout the unspeakable humiliation of The Sacred Marriage.
He found himself standing in the open room of the Bridal Chamber, overlooking an enthusiastic and hilarious audience in the Bull Court. Minos was sure he could hear Manthys hooting and caterwauling his lewd encouragement. The eye holes of his mask allowed him to see Pasiphae standing opposite him wearing a cow mask, with the lower half of her body discretely covered by a short white dress.
The Moon Goddess in cow's horns and her Consort in his bull's mask were expected to dance a ritual courtship, with the Moon Cow performing various acts of bovine sexual submission to tempt and allure the bull, until he was satisfactorily rampant and ready to perform the act to the satisfaction of the community of Cnossos.
To Minos, nothing could have been less arousing than the sight of Pasiphae in an animal costume plodding and bobbing around him in a feeble imitation of a coquettish cow. Besides, he had no chance of becoming aroused in front of a large group of riotous spectators. He was proud of his young body and his physical vigour, but he knew that he would never be ready to perform the sexual act here, even if he and Pasiphae pranced amorously around their bridal chamber for a month. But he had to end this torment somehow, even if he had to cheat. Frantically grasping his hopelessly limp member, covering it with his fist to make it look big, he signalled with his other hand to Pasiphae and shouted out: "I'm ready. I'm ready."
Pasiphae hesitated, then turned round and exposed her small round buttocks to him. The audience became silent, apart from some sporadic, sly tittering. Thasos almost limped towards his bride, and then stood behind her, baffled, while the audience's tittering grew louder. He poked and prodded desperately at Pasiphae's stooped rear. He was not even sure he could find the right place, or that his limp member would penetrate it if he did. He fumbled angrily, while the audience's tittering gradually swelled into laughter.
He would just have to pretend. He quickly grasped Pasiphae with both hands round the waist and pulled himself to and from her repeatedly, as one enjoying the sexual act to the full. The crowd started roaring with delight and approval. Thasos began to feel excited. His thrusting became more energetic. The audience whooped and whistled, goading him to greater effort. Minos felt a stirring at his loins. Nimbly he grasped his awakening member and, with some luck, wriggled it somewhere into Pasiphae.
He was unable to perform with passion; he simply wanted the ordeal to be over. He closed his eyes, thought of Pasiphae's body lying in soft moonlight in her pubescent maiden clothing, and hastily forced himself to a premature and unsatisfying climax. He lurched away from her, limp and weary, while the audience rose to its feet and gave a deafening roar of applause. They, at least, had been satisfied. As servants rushed into the chamber to supply him with clothes and take away his horns, Minos longed for the private moment when, alone and stripped of all costume and clothing, he could enjoy Pasiphae's body, in full, at his leisure, as a husband should.
The public celebrations in the Bull Court would probably last half the night. However, the married couple usually left early to enjoy their intimacy in private. Minos asked the servants to take him to the living quarters, where he waited for Pasiphae to come and take him to her chambers, as she had promised. At least, in spite of all the humiliations, losses and disappointments of that day, he would be able to enjoy her soon.
The Death of the Moon
After it seemed that he had been waiting half the night, a group of worried servants entered the room and told Thasos that Pasiphae did not want to see him.
"What? But I was looking forward to..." He stopped himself. He did not feel it proper to express his carnal intentions to the servants. "I've been waiting to see her."
"The Moon Goddess is sick," they replied sadly. "She will see no-one. This has not happened for years. The celebrations have finished early."
"Sick? She seemed all right earlier. What is wrong with her?"
"We do not know. She has sent us all away. Her supplicants depart unsatisfied. Her petitioners weep unconsoled."
"She'll see me. I am her husband."
"I fear not, my lord. The Goddess Pasiphae will not see you. She will see no-one."
"But I'm King Minos. She loves me."
"Of course she does, my lord. The gentle Pasiphae has shown her enormous love for you. The Moon Goddess shows great love for us all," agreed a servant, with a rueful smile. "Nevertheless Pasiphae is sending all her loved petitioners and supplicants away."
"But I'm not a petitioner or a supplicant. I'm her husband. I'm ... I'm special."
"In the divine eyes of Pasiphae, we are all special." The servants' faces were radiant with love for the Moon Goddess. "Each in our own special way, we are unique to the Moon Goddess. But she does not want to see anyone, however unique they may be. You are not alone in your disappointment and perplexity, my lord," the servant assured him, as if this was ample consolation.
Minos felt his whole body twitch with rage. He had been looking forward to enjoying Pasiphae - privately and at his own delicious leisure. And now they were stopping him. He might have known that the Kaftors would do anything they could to ruin his fun. It wasn't fair.
"I'm not one of her stupid petitioners," he exclaimed petulantly. "I'm not one of these weeping, babyish men with a bad arm, or a sore tooth. I'm not a low servant either. I'm the king. Don't you understand the difference?"
"High or low, sick or well, we are all the same to the Goddess and the Goddess does not desire to see you or anyone."
"But I belong with her now..."
"Of course, my lord. We all belong in the presence of the Great Goddess..."
"I wish you would stop saying that." Minos began to experience an almost frantic exasperation with these people. He wanted to scream at them. Their persistent and gentle simplicity was sometimes as unyielding as a wall of rock. How could he get them to understand, without being too graphic, that sleeping with Pasiphae was the only pleasure that life had left for him, and that it was monstrous of them -- cruel of them - to deprive him of it? "Please stop saying that we're all the same; that you're like me. I'm different. I'm the king. I'm more important than anyone. I'm Pasiphae's husband. Pasiphae belongs to me."
At these words, the servants stopped smiling and looked thoughtful. "Now do you understand?" asked Minos, with triumph. He had penetrated their defences at last. He had also wiped the simpering smiles off their faces.
"She's mine," he emphasised. "I've a right to be with her and you can't keep me away. Neither can she. She belongs to me."
There was some muttering among the servants, then they turned and stared at him. On their faces Minos could see a combination of hostility and outrage. He was not quite sure how he had offended them, but one thing was certain: they were still not going to let him see Pasiphae. He had encountered the same gentle obduracy in these people before and he was afraid that they would defeat him as effortlessly again.
Then one of the servants moved forward and pointed directly at him, speaking in an unusually severe voice.
"I fear my lord, that the Goddess Pasiphae does not wish to see you." He jabbed his forefinger at Minos for emphasis. "She requested most earnestly that you, Minos, not be permitted to enter the room. It is because she will not see you, that she will not see anyone."
"What have I done?" he asked helplessly. He hadn't raped her, had he? In fact, he had been the victim in this whole wretched Sacred Marriage. Besides, who were these mere servants to try to hinder and threaten him? He wasn't going to be defeated by servants. He wasn't even going to explain himself to servants. He was their king. He wanted his conjugal rights and he was going to get them. He started to speak out more boldly.
"No. You're completely wrong. She can't do this to me. She's my woman. She owes her allegiance to me. And you can't stop me from seeing her. Do you understand?" Rage began to swell inside Minos and he started to raise his voice. Who did these underlings think they were?
"You're only servants, after all," he cried. "And I will. I'm the king." Then, the middle of his impressive tirade, at this crucial point of command, Minos suddenly found his command of the Keftiu language disintegrating. "Now, letting me pass," he yelped ungrammatically. "I am king and you to do as I am always saying. ... It be your providence to imitate my verbal precept." He stopped speaking; realising that he was talking nonsense. The servants were now staring at him as if he were mad. Minos tried one more time to speak with authority. "Whatever I am ever proposing, you are eternally performing. ... Never to be arguing with me. ..."
They were laughing at him now. Openly laughing! Minos' fury turned to fear. Why was he babbling like this? What was the matter with him? Had the servants somehow drugged him? Was he losing his mind? Then, with a flash, Minos suddenly realised why he could not express himself in the Keftiu tongue any more. He was trying to issue orders, and the Keftiu language had no structure for giving orders.
Not only did the Kaftors not understand his instructions, they found his use of their language funny. In sheer frustration, Minos resorted to Achaean. This was a language he could give orders in. He expressed himself with passion, pouring his anger and frustration into as many ferocious commands as he could express. He used fearful and depraved oaths. He shouted and roared until his face reddened.
"Let me pass. You sons of street dogs, get out of my way. Do as I tell you. Don't argue with me. Move! Go away! Get out. Leave. F\*\*k off! Go to Hades. ...."
The servants were not laughing now; their faces only expressed profound concern. Clearly the Lord Minos was desperately sick - possibly mad. Why else would he behave in this terrible way? Why else would he assert that the Goddess Pasiphae - the Goddess herself - owed allegiance to him and even belonged to him? At first they had been offended by such blasphemy. Their anger had then changed to amusement when Lord Minos began to burble in that charming, childish prattle, like a little baby making fretful demands on its mother. How charmingly entertaining that had been! What a shame he had to spoil it and start raging in this ugly alien tongue.
It was clear that they were witnessing a frightful sight: the new King, Lord Minos, was turning from a gentle king into a wild beast - in front of their very eyes. Whatever strange sickness had affected the Goddess had also spread to the consort, only much worse. Oh, these were terrible times indeed. The Goddess was sick and the consort was mad. This had never happened before.
In the meantime, a cure must be found for the raging Minos at once. He was far too excited to remain safely inside the Great House. He was clearly not amenable to healing balms and poultices, and he was much too violent to consume cooling drinks. It was agreed that the Consort should meditate quietly and alone, in a safe place, and restore his communion with the Goddess in a LustralBasin. That would be his best cure. With some urgency, the servants rushed the now gibbering King Minos along a short route that crossed an endless network of corridors and, with great gentleness and skill, dropped him deftly into one of the empty basins near the workshops.
Inside the basin, Minos fell to his knees, choking with rage. Why were the servants allowed to do such things to their king? What sort of place had he come to live in? It was the worst evening of his life. He had been looking forward to sex with Pasiphae and instead had been thrown into a pit.
Well he wouldn't stand for it. Who was the king, after all? He felt a surge of angry assertiveness. He was Minos. He would stand up for himself. He would take charge. Alone in the LustralBasin, Minos swallowed his mortification and resolved to confront his new destiny.
His brothers were the only friends and allies he had left now. With their help he would regain his lost pride and self-respect, and he would reward their help by giving them a comfortable place in the Great House. At this thought, a sense of purpose suffused Minos' whole body with almost sensual warmth, like liquid fire. He would show the Kaftors who was boss. By Zeus, he would make those servants regret throwing him into this basin!
He decided to go at once to the Little Palace and speak to Manthys. No time like the present. Even if Manthys were not there, he would spend the night in the palace -- just like old times. An impulse of rage twitched though his body. If Pasiphae wanted him to see him now, it was too late. How dared she shut him out? After all those humiliations, trials and ordeals she had put him through today, after everything he had sacrifice for her, to make him sit around waiting half the night until she was ready - and then not even bother to turn up? Well, he wouldn't stand for it any more. He was king now. People would have to start doing what he told them -- especially Pasiphae.
Minos climbed out of the LustralBasin, helped himself to one of the torches and strode purposefully away from the Great House. He walked confidently through the town, ignoring the baffled greetings of the citizens, who expected the Consort to be inside the Great House celebrating his nuptials, not fleeing Cnossos like a guilty Xhora.
He entered the familiar Little Palace, quiet and dark at this time of night, and it suddenly occurred to him that what he wanted more than anything else was a bath. His hunger for vengeance melted away in anticipation at the thought of having that same bath that he had promised himself on his arrival at Cnossos five days ago - the bath he had not yet had.
Five days ago! How unrecognisable his life had become in those five days. Thasos, his routines, expectations and appetites had died, just as Asterios had died. Enjoying a warm bath was one surviving bit of his old dead self; one remaining private pleasure that was entirely his own, even though he had to creep around in secrecy to enjoy it. Feeling strangely excited, almost a trespasser into his former life, Thasos crept in the semi-darkness to the bathrooms. He was just preparing to undress prior to immersing himself in warm scented water, when he saw a light in the corridor outside. Then he heard strange shuffling movements and the sound of a torch clumsily attached onto a bracket.
"Who is there?" a drunken female voice called. "Who is that in the baths?" Minos could barely recognise his own mother's voice. He had forgotten that she even lived in the Little Palace. "Asterios? Is that you, Asterios - my dear Asterios?" the voice croaked. "Have you come back to me?"
"It's me mother," Minos called. A shrunken old hag of a woman, barely recognisable as his mother, shambled into the entrance to the chamber and stared blankly up at her son through wide, uncomprehending eyes. Her face seemed to sag very slowly with disappointment.
"You're not my husband," she croaked, at last.
"No, mother. Don't you know who I am?"
"Who are you?"
"I'm your son."
"What do you want?"
"Don't you remember me at all, mother?"
"Have you seen my husband?" the old woman mumbled anxiously, turning vaguely away from him. "My darling Asterios? He hasn't been to see me today. Asterios always comes to see me." She turned round and stared up at him again, her vacant milky eyes dilated with anxiety. "Do you know where he is? Is he coming?"
Minos was unsure how to answer. The last time he had seen Asterios they were removing his headless body from the Bull Court. Hadn't they even told her what had happened to him? Or was she too drunk to remember anything she was told these days?
"He always comes to me," she droned indistinctly, looking up and down the dark passageway, as if searching for him. "Always. Every day. He gave me my own room, but he comes to me every day. I don't care what they say. He does love me. He's my husband, the god Zeus, and the father of my sons."
"Mother. Asterios is ..... Asterios is ..... Asterios is not here, mother."
"Oh, please, please." She became suddenly importunate and grabbed hold of his hands. "He does not mean to stay away from me. But sometimes he forgets. He goes into his big palace and forgets. He doesn't mean to. It's such a grand palace and he's very busy. I understand. I do understand. He's in his palace now." Her eyes were still fixed on him, pleading and blankly unrecognising. "Can you bring him to me? Please? Can you go into that big palace and fetch Asterios for me? Ask him to come? Just for a short while? Bring him to me now? My husband?"
"Mother, I'm afraid Asterios is... is never coming back...."
Without warning, she screamed. "That's lies. Lies! Zeus knows, lies! They tell me lies. All of them!" Her fury was frantic, almost frightening in its desperation. "They tell me he will never come to me. He always comes to me. He is my husband. The father of my sons."
"But he's really gone this time, mother. I would never lie to you...."
"Liar!" she shrieked. She raised her hands, almost as if she wanted to scratch his face. "You tell Kikerus, you tell your wicked people at the palace. They're liars. All liars. Kikerus! You! All of them... Tell him to come to me!" She subsided suddenly into a violent fit of coughing.
"Mother, don't you know who I am?"
She stopped coughing, and peered at him more closely, breathing gutturally, her pale bleary eyes screwed up in an attempt to recognise him. "You call me mother? Are you my son? I don't know you. Manthys? Saron? My son...?"
"I'm Thasos, mother - your youngest son. Don't you remember me?"
"You're not Thasos," she mumbled. "Thasos is a baby. He's my little baby. You're not Thasos..."
"Well, they call me Minos now, mother, ever since I became the..." He stopped, aware that his explanation was becoming awkward. "I'm your son Thasos - you must know me."
She squinted up at him more intently, through slowly focusing eyes, in what looked like painful dawning recognition. A look of intense agony spread across her rather shapeless face. Her mouth opened, silently and unevenly, in a wordless expression of grief, then she emitted a scream; the scream that Minos now recognised having heard in the Bull Court.
"What's the matter, mother?"
"Thasos. Thasos. Dead ..... dead...." She began howling more loudly. "He's dead..... dead.....Oh, Zeus. Dead."
"I'm not dead, mother. I'm here. I'm Thasos."
Arete suddenly stopped howling and the grief on her face curdled into an expression of concerted hate. She howled at the top of her voice:
"Murderer! Murderer! My own son, a murderer! Would you murder your own father? Patricide. Patricide! Murderer of Zeus, my husband, your father..."
She lunged feebly at him, as if to attack him, lost her footing and fell. She collapsed to the ground and lay there, sobbing. Minos stood over her, dismayed at the sight of so much misery. He remembered how his mother had sobbed that last night in their house at Patras, how she had sobbed when she thought Asterios had been killed at her wedding. For several moments, he stood over her as she continued to make sounds of inconsolable woe. He could not bear the thought that he had brought his unhappy mother to this final extreme of grief. Yet he had no idea what to say or do.
"What in great Olympus do you think you are doing here, you little whelp?" he heard Manthys' voice behind him. "Stop attacking our mother and get out."
"She's very upset about Asterios," Minos explained. "Didn't she know he was going to be sacrificed? Didn't you tell her?"
"Mother doesn't want to see you now. I said get out."
"But I want to speak to you first about..."
"Well I don't want to speak to you."
"What?"
"You can't just walk in here when you feel like it. You're not wanted here."
"But I came here for a bath." protested Minos.
"A bath?" roared Manthys in disbelief. "What do you want a bath for? Don't they have baths in your big palace?" He shoved Minos away from the sobbing Arete. "Get back there at once and start acting like a proper king."
"But I thought you wanted to share power with me," Minos was stunned by Manthys' hostility. "I thought we were going to work out how to escape my sacrifice, and that you were going to help me, and be brothers of a king..."
"You leave all that to us. You go back and just do what you're told." Minos noticed that Manthys' broad red face wore a look that he had once known so well; the arrogant, disdainful face of the big brother who had bullied him for years. "We know what we're doing - you don't. Go back to your palace. We'll call you when we're ready."
"Wait a moment, this my ritual centre," Minos' own anger rallied a little. Why was Manthys treating him like a little boy again? "This isn't your palace. You're here by invitation. Just remember who's Consort, Manthys."
"But you wouldn't have become Consort without us, and you can't carry on being Consort without us. So just remember who's really in charge."
"But I killed Asterios - not you."
"Murderer!" Arete howled out, still gesturing with fury at Minos. "Throw that murderer out. Attack him. Kill him! Chop off his head!"
"You're rather proud of your little death, aren't you - for killing a man who was blind and drugged," snarled Manthys. "Don't forget - Asterios was not the only man ruling the palace - and not the only one who had to die. Kikerus was a more difficult death. He struggled."
"Are you saying you killed Kikerus?" asked Minos, suddenly frightened.
"We didn't actually kill him. He got burnt up by the sun - it was that pale skin of us...."
"But you attacked him...?"
"Let's just say that Kikerus was the first burnt sacrifice this island - killed by the sun god. That's you, my little brother. You're the reason he's dead. And there'll be more deaths too. Lots more, before everything comes right here."
"Murderers!" Arete continued screaming her rage and grief. "All of you. Slayers of Zeus. Patricides! Fiends! Die!"
"Now, I've already told you you're not wanted," Manthys growled. "Go away and stop upsetting our mother."
"What other deaths are you talking about?"
"Oh, get out! It's nothing to do with you. Get back to your Great House."
Manthys seized Minos by the shoulders, marched him forcibly up the corridor to the entrance and threw him out into the night. As Minos tumbled painfully down the steps, suppressing his howls, he heard the door of the Little Palace slam firmly behind him.
At least the wood was private and Minos could feel at peace. He looked around at the phantom-like clutter of trees that stirred and murmured in the breeze. This was only a tiny, meagre portion of the glorious landscape - a whole world of freedom - that had once been his. He had now lost everything precious: his liberty, the beautiful landscape of the island, Britomartis' fierce and tender love, his secret sense of kinship with Cnossos and now he had lost Pasiphae. Somehow - he did not know how or why - he knew he had lost her love forever. She would never come to him, in love, again.
Cnossos had called him home and thrown him out again. The Great House had no room or corner he could call his own. The Little Palace did not welcome him; his mother hated him and his brother Manthys treated him like an intruder.
As he settled into a forlorn fretful sleep, he became vaguely aware of a mournful commotion disturbing his dreams. He woke up, and in his semi-wakeful state, he could still hear a distant chorus of voices. It sounded like the weird, wild chanting he had heard on his last night in Patras.
Minos remembered that the last time he had heard chanting in his sleep he had been a child and believed that the Kaftors had captured him. Well, it was true now, wasn't it? After all these years, the dream had finally come true. He really was in the Keftiu's clutches. The Keftiu had finally trapped him in the very depths of their island and intended to kill him. Like the helpless child in the little bedroom in Patras, no one was going to save him.
Minos did not know the cause of the chanting that had disturbed his sleep. He did not know that something in the night sky above him had distressed the community of Cnossos. The moon was dying. In the fullness of her mature splendour, the very moon herself was dying.
A few late strolling women had been gazing up at a perfect full moon, enjoying the clean glow of her radiance in the night sky, when they noticed a dark shadow appear on her lower face, slowly consuming the moon's brilliance, smudging her brightness like smoke, devouring her splendour until only her crown was still shining. Once this last vestige of her light had disappeared, the only light that seeped through the invading shadow was a dull crimson - a ghostly smudge of her shining self. What had once been the brightly shining moon was now a grubby red smudge like blood from a festering wound. They cried out in lament for the moon; their voices soon joined by other mourners chanting in despair:
"The moon is sick. The Moon Goddess is sick."
"May you Perseis, in your shining wisdom, heal the moon."
"Oh, maiden of the moon, restore her."
"May you Pasiphae, in your shining wisdom, heal the moon."
But then the mourning of people reached a new crescendo as the dreadful news spread. Pasiphae was sick too. Tonight the Moon Maiden would not appear to restore the moon, as her mother Perseis had done before her, which meant that the moon would fade and die.
"The moon is sick. The Moon Goddess is sick." The people chanted, wailed, and uttered rites and hymns. They invented new laments. They beat the ground and wept.
"Oh, mother of the earth, restore her."
"May you Goddess, in your hidden wisdom, heal Pasiphae."
Pasiphae was indifferent to the chorus of voices that were calling for her and grieving for the moon. She continued to shun visitors. She was alone in her own LustralBasin in the Great House, overwhelmed with despair.
Earlier that evening her life had been perfect. She had married the Consort of her choice and her grandmother had returned to Cnossos. The Triple Goddess would soon be reborn. Even the ritual coupling in the Bull Court, intended to humiliate the new consort, had caused her no pain, just as Aridela had promised.
Then, shortly after the Sacred Marriage ceremonies had begun, Eileithyia had approached Pasiphae to announce that she was returning immediately to her cave at Amnisos. Pasiphae was bewildered and bitterly disappointed. She insisted that they both leave the celebrations of the Bull Court to speak about it in the privacy of one of the antechambers.
"Grandmother, you cannot leave now," exclaimed Pasiphae in distress, once they were alone. "You are needed here. I thought you were staying with us. I am married and will soon have a daughter - the new Moon Maiden. I will be Mother and you will be Crone. The Triple Goddess will be reborn. It will be just as when my mother was alive."
"Things can never again be as they were when your mother was alive."
"You promised you would return when I became mother - when the Mother is reborn."
"Yes, but your daughter has not been born yet, my child, so the community is not yet complete. I have said that I shall return with the birth of the Moon Maiden."
"Don't leave now, grandmother. Please."
"I have just said that I shall return with the birth of the Moon Maiden. Not before then. My child, there have been omens."
"Omens?" exclaimed Pasiphae with a laugh. "Oh, grandmother, you have spent too long in your cave. Have you been talking to Britomartis?"
"I need to meditate. I need to commune with the Goddess. I have seen strange and desperate signs beyond all normal omens. There have been unnatural happenings that exceed all imagining and belief..."
"What things, grandmother?"
"I cannot explain."
"Please try to explain, grandmother. I am the Moon Goddess now. I can help you too. What is upsetting you?"
"You are too young to have wisdom in these things, my child and you understand only the ways of Cnossos."
"Grandmother -- I am wiser than you think. I speak with my petitioners daily. I hear and interpret strange messages beyond the realm of the Moon Chambers. Please speak to me."
"Very well, my child. You know that I have officiated at two deaths today. Yet, in some way I cannot yet explain, I feel that they are the same death."
"Asterios and Kikerus? How can their deaths be the same? Asterios was the old consort. He has returned to the earth. His blood and body will nourish the ground. But Kikerus died by accident, and, because he is one of the Goddess' chosen outlets of wisdom, his body has been preserved for ever..."
"I know all that, my child; you are forgetting that I officiated at both deaths. And I am telling you that I feel that they were the same death. I do not know why, so that is one of the questions I must ask in the sanctity of my cave."
"But can't you find your answers here? The Great House is the sacred domain of the Moon Goddess. Where better to find answers? We can work together."
"My child, you are clearly content in your new marriage. I do not wish to take your happiness from you...." She hesitated for a moment. "...however misplaced it may be."
"What do you mean?"
"My child, I hope your marriage may bring unity to the Goddess' island. Otherwise, your Consort is hopeless. I sense from his discourse that he has no knowledge. I detect from his face he has no understanding. I do not see how he could have succeeded at the Bull Dance - he is far too clumsy. I have discussed my uncertainties with no one, and neither will I, until I have communed with the Goddess for a while."
"You have doubts, grandmother?"
"About my relationship with the Goddess - none. But certain signs I have seen confuse me. Perhaps She is working in a new way; a way unfamiliar to me, to bring our communities together."
"Oh grandmother, I already know that the Goddess is working in wonderful new ways. I never had the chance to tell you before, because you always spend the nights in your cave, so let me share this with you now. Thasos did not participate in the Bull Dance at all."
"He did not participate in the Bull Dance? I do not understand, my child. How could he have been chosen as your Consort if he did not even compete for the title?"
"There was no need for Thasos to compete. There was no need of the Bull Dance at all, in fact."
A look of profound mystification clouded the ferocious alertness of Eileithyia's face. "Are you saying that the Bull Dance did not take place?" she asked, speaking very slowly and awkwardly, like one repeating the unfamiliar words of a strange new language.
"That's right." said Pasiphae brightly. "The Goddess chose Thasos in a new and splendid way. I annulled the Bull Dance."
There was another pause. "Annulled the Bull Dance," repeated Eileithyia, like a woman in the throes of a deep trance.
"Oh, you will be as excited as I am when I tell you what happened. Thasos manifested himself to us as a beautiful White Bull. And this is the start of the great year of the White Bull, so I knew he was chosen."
Pasiphae was too delighted by her own story to notice the look of shock and disgust that had appeared on Eileithyia's face. "A white bull?" The old woman seemed to hiss the words. "What persuaded you to accept the appearance of a white bull as a sign from the Goddess?"
"Thasos prophesied that a white bull would appear on Amnisos beach, on a certain day and at a certain time, as an omen that he had been chosen. Thasos called us all to the beach, early in the morning, to witness the miracle. Oh, grandmother, it was wonderful. It just emerged from the sea like the Great Goddess of all creation. I knew then that Thasos had been chosen by the Goddess and that the Bull Dance was no longer sacred. I had been right to listen to my heart."
"You listened to your heart, my child? Your heart?" Eileithyia could not contain her rage any longer. She almost screeched at the dismayed Pasiphae, finding the harshest, most spiteful words that she knew. "You absconded from your duty, you abandoned your guidance, you neglected your people, you scorned the Goddess and you listened to your heart." She glared at Pasiphae almost in hatred. "What are you? What is this false heart of yours? You are not the Moon Goddess at all. You are a wicked Xhora, bringing destruction on us all."
"Grandmother!"
"A white bull!" Eileithyia screamed at her. "The people saw a white bull. This is wickedness. This is deception. It is a revocation of the Goddess, a deliberate destruction of her works. And you know of it; you participated in it. This is an act of evil, my child."
"No, grandmother! What are you saying?"
"My child, I told you that I have seen some terrible omens, some premonitions of future evil. I now know it was no omen, but a wicked deception that I observed on Amnisos beach from the vantage of my cave. Two tall men, obviously foreigners, on a boat, were towing a white bull on a flat raft. The bull was then deliberately tipped from this raft and left to flounder in the water, before the craft was rowed away. I saw the poor beast struggle towards the shore. I watched these actions at the time with the deepest mystification. I gave them no further thought as I was then preparing myself for the walk to the Great House to administer your nuptials. I did not know that some vile, dishonest rite was taking place on the beach; that you were fulfilling your wishes and celebrating a trick."
"A trick." Pasiphae's voice, when she spoke, was low and mournful. "The White Bull was a trick?"
Eileithyia turned away from her and stared bleakly into the middle distance. "I too am responsible. I administered at Kikerus' unnatural death without the slightest suspicion of its true cause and I continued to support your own equally unnatural marriage, when every ounce of my dwindling strength should have been devoted to preventing it."
"Please, grandmother. Please don't talk like this..."
"But my blindness is as nothing compared to yours - your dangerous simplicity. Your marriage to this White Bull, as you call him, is an abomination," the old woman continued mercilessly. "You have married the brother of your attacker and the destroyer of Cnossos. Your progeny will be monstrous. A terrible child will result from this White Bull. In marrying this white bull Xhora you have brought the end of the Goddess in the island. The Triple Goddess is now dead. You are alone now, my child - completely alone. When you die, the Goddess will die!"
Eileithyia paused for breath. Pasiphae was now sobbing, but it was a low, continuous, groaning sob, straight from a wounded heart. Pasiphae would never recover from the grief of this disclosure - she was marked and aged forever by it. She was beyond consolation; immune to any future comfort. Yet Eileithyia did not think she had hurt her granddaughter enough.
"The ascendancy of the Great House is at an end," she exclaimed. "The Triple Goddess is dead because Perseis has died again." She almost seemed to revel in her own malice. "By your unnatural marriage you have killed your mother all over again and I wish that she had died bearing you."
At these words, Pasiphae's sobbing was wrenched into an agonised silence. She sank slowly to the ground as if she had been struck dead, and Eileithyia started intoning above her, continuing her curses: "As your mother is dead, so is Kikerus. So is Asterios, killed for selfish gain - no true sacrifice. So is the Goddess. And the community is dying. You will have killed them all. Death. Death!" As she left Pasiphae's room, her voice faded out on the repeated word: "Death."
For a long while, Pasiphae lay as if she too were dead. Then she picked herself up and dragged her heavy body away from the Bull Court to her private chamber. She spoke to no one, except to say that she was sick. She asked that the nuptial celebrations continue without her and no one was to come near. At the door to her chamber, she turned to the group of concerned servants, fixed her red, bleary eyes on them, and said:
"Please ensure that Lord Minos does not enter the room while I am here. I do not wish to see Minos tonight."
As Eileithyia stumbled across the uneven terrain that led back to Cnossos, she wiped a few tears from her eyes, but remained grimly resolute. She would return to her cave. The triple Goddess was dead. She looked to the failing light in the sky and noticed that the moon herself was also dying. "Death," she muttered to herself. "Death."
As Crone, Eileithyia understood and revelled in death. Death was the labyrinthine passage to new life, the pain and joys of nascent delivery, to which she gave her name. Death was a blessed realm; the cauldron of all sacred energies. Today, however, Eileithyia had had to officiate at two deaths, and she had hated them both. After Pasiphae's terrible disclosure of the white bull, she understood why: there would be no renewal after these deaths.
The ritual death of Asterios ought to have been a cause of celebration; it expressed the turning of the seasons and the rebirth of new life. But today the Consort had not been restored to new strength. Instead, an enemy Xhora had murdered Asterios; and this enemy, this false god, would destroy the community, not renew it.
Even worse had been Kikerus' death. That death had been so dreadful that Eileithyia had first had to grieve before she could solemnize it. Worse even than his death, however, had been Kikerus' terrible final words.
In the few tormented moments before he had died in her arms, Kikerus had cried out, in a harsh, beseeching voice so unlike the calm, measured tones of the priest, some words in a strange language. The sound of the bleak, terrified appeal made Eileithyia shudder to her depths, sensing that she was listening to Kikerus' final vain plea to his murderer.
She was still distressed by the memory of these cries when Thasos made his strange utterances to the priest's body. She now knew that these not were words of reverence or grief, but guilt. Thasos must have been confused by Kikerus' upright posture; the priest had once told her that Achaeans laid their dead out flat. In the belief that Kikerus was still alive, Thasos had been confessing to him; begging him for forgiveness of some horrible crime. There seemed to Eileithyia a dreadful similarity between Thasos' strident words of remorse and those few last terrible cries of agony uttered by Kikerus. The language was the same. Was Minos, the moon man, Consort of Goddess Pasiphae, Kikerus' killer?
She was resolved to discover the truth and would not rest until she had avenged the death of Kikerus and destroyed the invaders and enemies of the Moon Goddess who were now laughing at their victories in the sacred chambers of the Great House. Of one thing she was certain: the chief enemy of the Goddess was the false Consort and White Bull: Minos.
At the mouth of her cave, Eileithyia looked up again at the dead moon. It had lost its pure, gentle translucent light, and was now a dull, dingy red. The dark crimson orb blemished the starry sky like an old, swollen abrasion. It looked soiled; an unclean thing.
"Oh, Pasiphae," she muttered, "There is blood in your house and in your heart; the blood of grief, strife, and shame. The purity of the Goddess of Cnossos is stained.
The people of Cnossos also gazed up in despair at the dull-red moon, their chants and rituals incomplete; now only muttering troubled prayers and broken, distracted entreaties.
They watched alone, in silence and fear. Tonight the Moon Goddess was also sick. Pasiphae had not appeared, in her customary way, as Perseis before her had often done, to restore the dying moon and remove all omens. What would happen now? Would the omens return? Would the Goddess turn cruel? Who could they pray to now? Who was left to listen and answer? The people muttered their prayers to the trees, to the earth, to each other; uncertain where to aim their entreaties and, as the clouds moved in and obscured the moon from sight, they feared that no one was listening - that the moon had died forever.
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The Keftiu are Coming to Get You! 1

