“Are you saying that both subjects go back to Lassithi?”
“Their genes do. In fact, they go back to the Neolithic people who first settled the island more than seven thousand years ago. These were small settlements. Families intermarried, so it’s entirely possible the subjects were related. I can’t confirm that. You’ll have to go back along the maternal line. We’ll try to refine the search and see if we can come up with anything that we didn’t pick up with the initial analysis.”
“Thank you, Senor Flores. May I keep these charts?”
“I printed them out for you to keep. I’ll be looking forward to the Paris werewolves. Please let me know when the program airs.”
“I’ll do that,” Lily said, forcing a smile.
After a quick handshake Flores headed back into the hotel and Lily sat down again and studied the pie charts and maps. The skull sample produced no surprises. Minos could trace his Cretan ancestors back for centuries. But the chart based on the hair sample from Kalliste Kalchis really intrigued her.
The Cretan section indicated that Kalliste and Minos both descended from inhabitants of Crete who had arrived on the island in Neolithic times. The king’s daughter had moved from Crete which accounted for Spanish and European DNA in the genetic profile of her descendant.
One pie slice caught her eye. It was much thinner than the others and constituted only a small percentage of the chart for Kalliste. The sliver showed that she had a distant ancestor from the Caucasus. Lily tapped out Caucasus in the Google space of her phone. The northern part of the region on the coast of the Black Sea in ancient times was known as Colchis.
She Googled Colchis. As she read further, her pulse began to race. Colchis was the home of Medea, daughter of the king who lost the Golden Fleece to Jason and the Argonauts. Medea had a niece named, Persiphae. Lily looked up Persiphae and confirmed what she already knew; Persiphae was the wife of King Minos. How could she have missed it?
Names often change over time. Even her own, Lily, came from Lil-ee, the sacred flower of the Minoan goddess Britomartis, who went back to the Neolithic era. But Lily’s ancient name was not Porter, but Portina, Minoan Mistress of the Animals.
Colchis. Kalchis.
It was no coincidence. Kalliste was descended from the daughter of King Minos.
She had to bring Kalliste to her long overdue fate in the Maze. The decree from the High Priestess whose mummy sat on a throne in the Maze had been passed down through the centuries. The spawn of Minos must be given to the Mother Goddess if the Way of the Axe were to prosper.
Lily silently mouthed the old chants, murmurings that had their roots in the primitive rituals when men lived in caves. The past seemed like a river rushing through her brain, but the sound it made was not water but a chorus of voices. An image flashed before her eyes. The photograph on the wall of Kalliste’s apartment. White cubical houses set against black ashen cliffs. The Mother Goddess was leading the way.
“Would you like more coffee, Madame?”
The waiter standing at her table had come over to see if Lily needed anything. She snapped out of her trance, gave him her playful TV producer smile, then scooped up the graphs and stuffed them into her pocketbook. She rose from her chair.
“I’m fine, thank you. I’m very fine indeed.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Miguel picked up Hawkins and Abby at Malaga Airport and drove them to the Santiago apartment in an upscale part of Cadiz. Captain Santiago greeted the visitors with effusive bear hugs and introduced his wife, Louisa, a pretty woman with the broad smile that had been passed down to her son.
The sturdy dining room table groaned under the weight of the Spanish appetizers known as tapas. The dishes included meatballs in spicy tomato sauce, garlic prawns and olives of every size and color. All washed down with an oak-aged Rioja wine.
After lunch, Captain Santiago led his guests to his dark-paneled study. He pointed out the painting of Cervantes hanging over the fireplace. Photos of the salvage boats that had given the captain and his family a comfortable living hung on the walls.
Hawkins recognized a photo of the Sancho Panza. Santiago noticed his pained expression. “It’s all right, Matt. The sea giveth and the sea taketh away. So make sure you have insurance.”
“Words of wisdom from Cervantes?”
“No.” The captain jabbed his chest with a forefinger. “From Santiago.”
He unlocked a desk drawer and pulled out a large mailing envelope. Inviting his guests to take a seat, he settled into a stuffed leather chair. He opened the envelope and extracted a print-out of the document Hawkins had sent him.
“I must ask you a question,” he said to Matt. “Where did you get this?”
“From an Englishman named Robsham. It was among papers he inherited that once belonged to his great-uncle. Do you know what it is?”
Santiago nodded. “A deed of penance. Basically a real estate transfer that dates back to the 16th century, regarding the transfer of property in the Castilla La Mancha.”
Hawkins glanced at the portrait of Cervantes. “As in ‘Man of La Mancha’?”
“The very same countryside where the Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance roamed. It’s a region in the central part of Spain. Very flat and desolate. Known for its windmills, like the one Don Quixote battled, while imagining they were giants. I’ve traveled there a number of times. I’ve seen the property described in the document. It’s a medieval castle, surrounded by abandoned vineyards and farmlands. No inhabited villages or towns lay nearby.”
“You would think that the vineyards would generate local commerce,” Abby said.
“Perhaps at one time; long ago,” Santiago said. “According to the legends I’ve heard, the area has long been plagued by strange happenings that drove people away.”
“What sort of happenings?”
“People disappeared. Mostly young and mostly female. The villagers suspected the disappearances had something to do with the castle, which was home to a secretive order of monks. Many of the locals moved away. After some people were killed by some huge creatures who attacked them in church, the remaining inhabitants decided that even the Almighty couldn’t help, so they deserted their village.”
“What sort of creatures?” Abby said.
“They were said to be demonic dogs. The story goes back to the mid-1500s. It was on a Sunday and the people were at worship when two massive dogs burst down the doors and ran among the kneeling congregation, maiming and killing. They ripped the throats out of six people. Churches could be targets for brigands, so the villagers always carried weapons under their cloaks. Some attacked the animals with their knives and swords. Witnesses heard a whistle and saw one dog go to a man standing outside the church. He appeared to be a monk from the castle. He left without a word with the dog at his side. The other animal ran off, leaving a trail of blood.”
“Tell us more about these dogs,” Hawkins said.
“The animals were as tall as a man and had eyes that were flaming red; or bright yellow, depending on the storyteller. Their heads were skull-like, with a thick ruff around the neck, and they had long, narrow snouts.”
“Good thing it’s only a legend,” Hawkins said.
Santiago hiked up his thick eyebrows. “Maybe not. A few years ago researchers digging near the foundation of the old church found the bones of a gigantic dog lying in a shallow grave. The dog would have stood more than seven feet on its hind legs and weighed more than two hundred pounds. Its skull shape matched the descriptions and led the researchers to believe that it was a hybrid of some sort.”