The Lost Sisterhood (20 page)

My heart at a nervous gallop, I took out the map Rebecca had drawn for me and began picking my way down the precarious steps. Vacillating for a while at the bottom of the stairs, I explored the fusty darkness with my flashlight, trying to figure out which way to turn the map.

Stretching into the darkness on either side of me, this ancient hallway—more of a long, jagged cavern than anything built by man—was apparently only a small part of the enormous complex of storage facilities beneath the old palace. Seeing how claustrophobic it was, and how confused it had already made me, I finally understood why Rebecca had given me the ball of yarn.

Taking it out of my bag, I knelt down to tie the end piece to the bottom step of the staircase as instructed. Then I started down the tunnel in what I hoped was the direction of the tablet room, pointing the flashlight ahead of me as best I could, unwinding the yarn as I went. It took all my self-control to stay focused on the map and the few illuminated feet before me; more than once I had to speak my errand out loud to block out the shrill, competing voices of my untamed fears. “Clay disk. Tablet room.”

Although I had been brought up to scoff at ghosts and monsters, I couldn’t help feeling they were everywhere around, waiting for me to acknowledge them. Every time I turned another black corner or walked past another gaping doorway, picking up a waft of mold or rot, I found myself bracing for a terrible sight. Over dinner, it had been easy enough to dismiss the old legends about a man-eating ogre lurking in the Knossos labyrinth, and to speak in rational terms about masked priests and
gruesome rituals. It was quite a different thing to be down here on one’s own, tiptoeing through the timeless grottoes that had given birth to such beastly myths.

W
HEN
I
FINALLY ARRIVED
at the tablet room there were only a few feet of yarn left in the ball. After unlocking the heavy wooden door with Rebecca’s secret key, I tied the end piece of yarn to the door handle and stepped tentatively into the room, pointing my flashlight around.

Following my hunched trek through the dark maze, I was comforted to find myself in a fairly large, angular space with stone shelves covering every wall from floor to ceiling … shelves full of clay tablets, hundreds of them, leaning against one another like books in a library.

When I turned on the ceiling lights, I was momentarily blinded by the halogen work lamps hanging from a metal grid by adjustable poles. Most of the lamps were pointing directly down at a table made out of two sawhorses with a large blue door resting on top. This was clearly the rather prosaic workstation for anyone handling the tablets, and yet it was impeccably clean. No papers, no pens, not even an empty water bottle had been left behind, but that was hardly surprising. According to Rebecca, the team leader did an inspection round every morning at sunrise.

After checking the scribbled instructions on my map, I began my search for the clay disk on the shelves in the remotest corner of the room. It sat exactly where Rebecca said it would: comfortably within reach. Wedged between other tablets of a similar size, it was nonetheless quite distinct from them, as it was one of the few round tablets in the entire collection.

Holding it in my hands at last, I took the disk back to the table and put it down on the blue door with extreme care. The reddish clay was chipped around the edges, and a hairline crack halfway down the middle might well turn disastrous if the disk was subjected to vibrations or sudden changes in humidity. As a matter of fact, I thought with a twinge of guilt, I should not be handling it without protective gloves and a portable dehumidifier.

Leaning over the table, I carefully inspected the tiny symbols that had been embossed in the clay in a spiral pattern. Despite the halogen lamps, the writing was hard to make out; it was no mystery why Rebecca’s photos hadn’t done the job. And yet, it didn’t take me long to confirm that she and Mr. Telemakhos had been right; these symbols matched the ones in Algeria and in Granny’s notebook.

Unable to resist, I took out the notebook with trembling hands. I had promised Rebecca not to linger in the tablet room longer than absolutely necessary; I would copy the inscription onto a piece of paper, that was all, and not attempt to decipher it until I was safely back above ground. But … now that I was finally here, aflutter with excitement, I simply
had
to get a little taste of my catch.

Riffling through the notebook, I scrambled to decipher the first word engraved in the clay. After working with these symbols as intensely as I had, they all felt familiar to me … and yet this first word was one I hadn’t come across before. “Aha!” I said out loud, when I finally found what I was looking for. “Queen.”

The second word, however, was far more elusive. “Queen what?” I mumbled, as I leafed through the notebook once more. “Queen who?”

But the word wasn’t there. Disappointed, I turned back to the clay disk, ready to skip to the third word. But there was something about that second word—possibly a three-syllable name—that kept nagging me….

In the end I opened my laptop to check my notes from Algeria. And there it was, among the many unsolved mysteries of the buried temple: the same three-syllable word, appearing near the bottom of the last wall. According to my notes it was almost certainly the name of the priestess who had taken charge after the raid, but whose further actions, unfortunately, had been lost in a lacuna of crumbled plaster.

Yet here she was again at the Knossos palace. Now a queen.

Bubbling over with agitation, I broke out my camera and took several photos of the disk before diligently copying its spiral of symbols onto a sheet of paper. Then, mindful of Rebecca’s demand that I hurry back, I put the fragile tablet exactly where I’d found it and packed up my things. My thoughts miles away, or at least back in the guest room,
translating the rest of the text before morning, I took out my flashlight and walked over to the door. As soon as I opened it, however, I was pulled rather abruptly back to the present.

For the end of yarn I had so meticulously tied to the door handle was no longer there.

ISLAND OF CRETE

T
HE TROJANS WERE MOORED IN THE EASTERN HARBOR, RIGHT BE
side the beach where Myrina had won her five copper tokens. As she and her sisters followed the messenger through the evening crowds, she could not help feeling a growing unease at the prospect of being once again face-to-face with the young man who had teased her so in front of his mates. Even worse, she feared his only reason for inviting her back was to be able to sport with her more.

Be that as it may, she had been helpless to refuse the summons. The Trojan messenger had painted an alluring picture of food and drink, and after so many days at sea, and so much disappointment, Myrina knew her own comfort must give way to that of her sisters.

“Look!” Pitana nodded excitedly at the prodigious ships looming ahead. “Did you ever see anything so marvelous?”

The three Trojan ships did indeed dwarf most of the other vessels in the harbor. As tall as they were wide, with curved bows painted in intricate patterns, they were capable of flying massive sails and each carried what looked like a house in the stern. “This way, please.” The messenger led them to the middle ship and started up the gangplank ahead of Myrina. “Fear not; it is quite safe.”

He was obviously referring to the long wooden board they were walking on, which shook a little whenever someone took a step. But Myrina was less concerned with the gangplank than with the cluster of stern-looking armed guards awaiting them on deck. “Welcome on
board,” said a tall bearded man, whom Myrina recognized from the beach earlier. “Your weapons, please.”

It was clear that the guards expected the women to disarm before the promised banquet, and Myrina could feel her sisters staring at her, anxious to know how they should respond. They knew their leader was loath to put down her bow, and certainly her knife, but these were unusual circumstances. “I don’t like this,” whispered Animone. “Maybe they are slave traders.”

“Maybe.” Myrina glanced at the bearded man, sensing that behind the armored attitude a kind heart could be found. “But I doubt it.” She unfastened her own bow and quiver. “Do as he says.”

When they had finished, a pile of weapons lay on the deck, topped by Myrina’s imposing hunting knife. “Right,” said the messenger, whose eyes had bulged with surprise at every spear and hidden dagger that had been tossed into the pile. “Come with me.”

He took them to the house in the stern, which turned out to be a tentlike structure made up with a sturdy fabric attached on either side to the ship’s opposing railings and held high in the middle by wooden poles. The result was an open, triangular room lined with low benches and covered in finely woven carpets. Upon those carpets sat dish after dish, overflowing with food, and upon the benches sat a dozen well-dressed men, staring at the women with great curiosity.

At the apex of the room, with his back to the rising bow, a regal form dressed in blue sat comfortably on a chair of his own, golden drinking cup in hand. So it was really him, Myrina thought with a rush of heat as their eyes met across the generous spread of food. The man who had chased her through town for nothing but a glimpse of her grimy face was a highborn prince, and as he sat there nodding his condescending welcome, gesturing at them to sit down, his expression told her he took great pleasure in setting her straight about his status and, more than anything, observing her reaction.

“Go on,” hissed Egee, pushing her forward. “I am starving.”

Following Myrina’s example, the women sat directly on the carpeted floor, nervously squeezing together like hares cornered by foxes.
Although she tried not to look at the men sitting on the benches, Myrina felt their curious, lustful stares, and when she saw Egee reaching out for a proffered basket of bread, she snapped forward to push the girl’s hands away. “Do not touch anything,” she whispered to her companions, “before we understand our roles here tonight.” Then she rose to her knees and bent her head at Prince Paris, saying, “Thank you for inviting us. We do not deserve your kindness, I am sure.”

He smiled in response, as if to her alone. “We have a saying in my country: If you must strike, make sure to follow the hurt with a kiss.”

The words hung in the air for a while, thrown back and forth between the laughing men. But only Myrina knew Paris’s true meaning; the kiss was hers to bestow, since she was the one who had struck at his dignity by running away and pulling a knife on him.

“I understand,” she said, sitting once more, warm waves of embarrassment pulsing in her cheeks. “And this is why I must apologize. You see, we are not women with whom any man should expect to exchange kisses. We are holy sisters and as such we have come. Therefore, unless you take pleasure in hearing sacred hymns”—she made a regretful gesture at the food—”we would never be able to properly thank you for this.”

Paris’s handsome features contracted in irritation. “Once again, your aim is impeccable. Were I a lesser man, I would call myself insulted. But”—he smiled and opened his arms—”I am not. So calm yourselves, ladies, and enjoy our homage to your holiness. Fear not”—he looked directly at Myrina, a teasing challenge in his eyes—”that we seek to fill you with anything other than food.”

With that he let them eat in peace, and the chamber filled with the sounds of spoons scraping against clay bowls, and of creaking ropes and sloshing water whenever the surf tugged at the massive ship and tested its mooring lines. Now and then the men exchanged a few mumbled words, but Prince Paris remained silent, his bright eyes fixed on Myrina with the patient vigilance of a resting predator.

Halfway through the meal, two boys came quietly through the room to light a myriad of small clay oil lamps, and the twilight murk
was immediately dispelled. The men now reached for the sweetmeats and honey bread, and a brass pitcher with a dark, strange-smelling liquid was passed around.

Although every dish was delicious, Myrina barely paid attention to what she ate. She was too curious about the men not to study them with stolen looks—their language, their appearance, their behavior. Wherever their land of origin, the Trojans were clearly a civilized lot, and their features were as handsome as their manners. Everything about them spoke of wealth and ease—the ships, the furnishings, the food—and the more Myrina listened to the calm tone of their conversation, the more ashamed she was at her initial fears. To think she had sensed lechery and calculation when she entered the room … clearly, it had all been in her mind. No matter how long these men had spent crossing the ocean, and how much they longed for a woman’s touch, they were not likely to violate the sacred rules of hospitality; nay,
she
was the one who had failed in her duties as a guest by allowing herself such fears.

Toward the end of the meal, Myrina looked up and spoke to Paris in what she hoped was a voice of apology. “You have been more than kind to us,” she said, pressing a hand to her chest, “and I cannot bear the thought that we came and went so ungraciously. Will you allow us to sing a hymn of gratitude?”

The prince looked amused at the offer, but managed to turn his smile into a stately frown. “Spare your hymns, dear ladies. You owe us nothing.”

Myrina struggled to come up with an alternative. “We must thank you—”

Paris cocked his head. “Will you give me your bow?”

The frank question made Myrina recoil with shock. Politeness demanded that she grant him his wish, but despite her urge to be generous she found herself struggling to speak the word.

Seeing her so flustered, Paris threw back his head and laughed heartily. “Fear not! I should rather tear the heart from your bosom than take your bow, for I believe you would miss it less.”

Myrina stared at him, unsure of his meaning.

Still smiling, Paris held out his golden cup to one of the serving
boys, who instantly refilled it with wine. “Do not look so mortified. What would I do with another bow … or another heart?” He looked around appealingly, and a few of the other men chuckled in accord. “No, holy archer—or should I say archeress? Is it even a word, I wonder?” Paris pursed his lips as if contemplating the issue. “What do
you
think?”

This time, Myrina was not fooled. She understood that Paris was genuinely keen on talking with her … yet he could not be perfectly sincere with her in front of his men, lest they think their master a soft and silly man.

The elegant prince struck Myrina as being as different from her as any civilized person could be. Not in terms of strength and ability, for he, too, was tall and able, but rather in terms of spirit and demeanor; where she was dark, he was wonderfully light. His hair and eyes had almost the same coppery brown hue as the wildflower honey her mother had taught her and Lilli to collect, but more significantly, he appeared to be completely unburdened by fate. Even at this hour, with darkness advancing, there was an utterly mesmerizing glow about him. It was as if his body retained the radiance of the sun … as if this young man, overflowing with daylight still, was determined to singlehandedly keep the night at bay.

“Surely,” she said to him at last, “the word will exist if you allow it to.” Seeing she had managed to surprise him, and pleasantly so, Myrina went on more boldly, saying, “Now be kind and disclose what it is you want from us. For you want something, I am sure of it, and yet I cannot guess its nature.”

Paris sat back on the chair, impressed by her demand. “Very well,” he said with a nod, “I want your story. Where is your home? Are you from a nation of women? Where I come from, the power of the Great Mother has long since waned, and man, proud man, rules heaven and earth.” He held out his hands as if to ask her forgiveness. “Can you blame me for being curious?”

“If there exists a land without men,” replied Myrina, glancing at her sisters, “we above all should like to know where it is. As you can surely see, we have suffered much, and expect to suffer more, for this world
of ships and journeys has not been kind to us.” She bent her head as images of the temple raiders passed before her eyes. “Happiness has long since run its course in us. We are now left to choose between danger and regret, neither of which can ever restore the lives we have lost.”

When she finally dared to meet Paris’s eyes, Myrina was relieved to find that mischief and mirth had given way to an earnest desire to understand the tragedy that had befallen his guests. Leaning forward in his chair, the handsome prince seemed to have temporarily forgotten the men around him; even the wine in his cup was left untouched as he waited for her to continue.

Sensing his sincere interest, Myrina decided to lay out the entire map of their misery before his feet, with all its knowns and unknowns, no grisly detail spared. As she spoke, her sisters came to her aid more than once, reminding her of this and that horrifying moment, or completing a woeful sentence when the dreaded words became trapped in her throat.

“So you see,” Myrina concluded at last, wiping a tear from her cheek, “we have no hopes of our own, save to stay alive. Our pulse is beating for those who were stolen, and who are surely suffering far more than we. Where they were taken, we do not know. But we have sworn to find them at any cost.”

A deep silence followed her tale. There was not a man in the room who did not look at the women with pity, and Paris now sat hunched, brooding, tapping a pensive knuckle against his chin. “I suspect the raiders were Greek,” he said at length. “The tarred ships, the excellent weapons, the language you describe.” He looked around at his countrymen and saw nothing but grave agreement. “We share the northern sea with them and know their manners only too well.” A murmur throughout the room supported this claim and made it clear Paris had not spoken a compliment.

“The northern sea,” said Myrina. “Is it far?”

He gave her a wry look. “It is not the distance. Anyone may sail there when the wind is right. But the Greeks are an ambitious and jealous race. They have founded many cities and guard them fiercely—none more so than Mycenae, home of their great king, Agamemnon.
Perched on a hill well inside a protected bay, it is, I would say, untouchable. Unless, of course, you have a mighty fleet and a land army to spare, which I am guessing you do not.”

Myrina’s disappointment made a response impossible.

“To the Greeks,” Paris went on, “women are little more than livestock, and foreigners are considered more brutish still. This is why Agamemnon’s pirates think nothing of attacking a foreign temple and laying hands on a priestess, and why I urge you to forget this quest of yours. If your friends are not already dead, they will be soon. Why add more bodies to the pyre?”

Myrina was so shocked by his words that her growing respect for Prince Paris almost lost its footing. “If I were a man,” she said, straightening, “you would not have spoken to me thus. Because I am a woman, you assume my aim in life is comfort, and that my honor lies in my chastity alone. I can’t blame you, for you are merely saying what you think I am hoping to hear. But you are wrong. We have higher goals than that—goals that guide us like stars through the darkness, and our endeavor cannot be so easily discouraged.”