Since the day of the disaster, the few ships that had ventured to Knossos were Minoan, returning from voyages to distant places. Unable to navigate the wreckage and pumice clogging their home ports along the northern coast, the ships had sailed around to the south side of Crete which had escaped the full force of the volcano. The black-hulled vessel approached Knossos harbor and made a lazy pass along the outer edge of the pumice line. The observers on board must have seen enough, because the ship turned and headed out to sea. Oars sprouted from the sides, the vessel picked up speed and soon became lost in the sea mist.
A cold sense of foreboding flowed through the man’s thick body. The mainland inhabitants had long chafed under Cretan rule. They paid tribute and accepted the onerous trading conditions enforced by the invincible Minoan navy. News of the destruction of Knossos would have spread to the mainland. The ship had been sent to assess the damage. An invasion would follow. As commander of the palace guard, known as the Followers, it would be up to him to stop the invaders.
The commander rose from the rock and climbed into the wicker chariot. He flicked the reins of the two piebald ponies, urging the pair to a gallop.
The chariot quickly covered the five-mile distance to the gates of the sprawling palace. The wheels clattered on a spacious stone-paved plaza where the commander then turned the reins over to a waiting guard. As he stepped out of the chariot he heard the sound of flutes, the musical prelude to a sacrifice.
The flute players flanked a procession moving across the plaza, headed by a half dozen young priestesses. They were leading two goats chosen for sacrifice to an altar in front of the massive sculpture known as the Horns of Consecration. At least a hundred people had joined the parade.
The commander frowned in disapproval. The crowds attending the ritual blood lettings were growing in size. The piping of the flutes faded as he strode between massive rectangular stone columns into the cool interior of the palace. He descended a stairwell several floors to a passageway. In the flickering light of sconces that lined the walls he saw two people step from a doorway and walk in his direction. He recognized the high priestess of the Mother Goddess sanctuary, and her brother. The priestess wore a long flounced skirt and a blouse with an open bodice that bared her breasts. On her head sat a tall, layered hat. She carried a clay urn that held the gold-hilted sacrificial dagger.
The commander stood with his back to the wall. The priestess brushed past the commander, her skirt swishing in the quiet passageway. The fragrance of oil made from flower petals filled his nostrils. Her eyes were fixed in a stony gaze. She was under the influence of a narcotic intoxicant used to heighten the sacrificial experience and paid no attention to the commander.
He had known the priestess when she was an alluring young woman of breathtaking beauty. Her physical and mental transformation began after she became emissary to the Mother Goddess. Her shoulder-length raven hair was streaked now with silver. Seductive eyes that had been inviting warm pools in her youth now burned with the intensity of smoldering coal.
Although she was barely thirty, her once soft features were as hard as marble. Her lush lips had thinned to a tight line. Hours spent away from the sun in dark temples and cave shrines had imparted a bloodless pallor to her face. The heavy use of kohl on her eyelids emphasized the whiteness of her skin. Her power rested on her success in dealing with the whims of a capricious deity. She allowed herself no life beyond the rituals.
The commander was a tough and fearless soldier, but the priestess made him nervous. He had seen her dance with poisonous snakes in her hands. He had witnessed sacrifices where she had slashed the throat of a two-thousand-pound auroch bull that stood more than six feet high at the shoulders.
The brother was tall and willowy like his sister, but where her face was beautiful his was feral, with a pointed chin, aquiline nose and yellow, almond-shaped eyes. His scalp had been shaved and painted blue, as was the fashion with elite Minoan males. He wore a jeweled girdle that thinned his waist to an unnatural size that emphasized his chest.
He shot the commander a glance that brimmed with hatred. The commander was used to hostile looks from the brother, knowing he resented his authority as second in command to the king. But this time the man’s frown turned to a smile. Almost as if he was keeping a secret behind his yellow eyes.
The stunning architectural complexity of the palace had earned the building its name: The Labyrinth. The commander was one of only a few people who could navigate the maze-like passageways. He quickened his pace. Something was going on and he wanted to know what it was. He followed the passageway to an exit that took him out to the palace gardens. The sound of a child’s laughter came from a pavilion built in the shade of tall palm trees.
The source of the laughter was a young girl. She bounced on the knees of her father, King Minos, who sat on a carved wooden stool. He was bare-chested, his lower body covered with a white kilt. The symbols of his power came in the form of the double-headed axe design embroidered on the hem of his kilt and the plumed headdress covering dark hair that hung over his left shoulder in a long braid. His daughter’s linen dress was edged with a similar axe pattern, indicating her own royal status.
The little girl stopped bouncing and grinned when she saw the commander. She was a true princess; imperious, quick-tempered and fearless. She had become even more spoiled by the king since her mother had fallen ill and died. She was not put off by the commander’s physical appearance like some in the court who referred to him behind his back as the Minotaur, a monster that was half-man and half-bull.
The king’s daughter smiled and reached up to play with her father’s crown. The king untied a blue ribbon in the girl’s auburn tresses and replaced it with his headdress, which slid down over her eyes. Her fingers went to pinch her father’s aristocratic nose. He groaned with exaggerated pain and handed the giggling child off to a nanny with instructions to take her to the nursery. The king gestured at the commander to take a seat on a stone bench. The smile on his face vanished.
“Did you encounter the high priestess and her brother?” he said.
The commander nodded. “They were on their way to make another sacrifice.”
“I know. She came to tell me that the Mother Goddess is angry at the meagerness of our sacrificial offerings.”
“There are goats and bulls for sacrifice to be found in the interior villages.”
The king’s lips tightened in a bleak smile.
“The priestess says animals are not sufficient gifts. She says that the Mother Goddess speaks through the mouths of the serpents who whisper in her ear the mother’s wish for greater sacrifices.” He paused. “As was done in the old days.”
The commander had heard the dark tales of the barbaric rituals the priestesses had practiced when the empire was young.
“Human sacrifice?”
The king nodded. “I have tried to discourage this idea. The priestess reminds me that my power comes from the Mother Goddess. She who must be pleased.” Lowering his voice, he added, “I am told that as the king, I must offer the greatest sacrifice a man can make.”
He held up the blue ribbon he had taken from his daughter’s hair.
The commander’s eyes blazed like hot coals. “The priestess must be mad from the potions she ingests.”
“Perhaps. But I believe she wants to replace me on the throne with her brother.”
“The people would never allow that.”