Page 8 of Minas (Dying Gods #4)

Sira

For three days, Britomartis comes to me nearly every morning.

One by one, I tell her all my secrets. She takes them, hoarding them as if they are precious jewels, gathering them up, but all the while begging me not to be so trusting.

It only makes me trust her more.

“I had heard that your sister was restricting silphium,” Britomartis muses, after I tell her of Aletheia’s visits. Of the many daughters and granddaughters desperate for the safety just a few seeds can bring. Of how I had been giving her the rations meant for me, knowing that I would be unlikely to require them. “I hadn’t realized—I had thought perhaps it was still being provided at Diktynna’s temple.”

I shake my head, leaning back against the low wall of the rooftop terrace. Behind me, Knossos stretches on in cream and grey and red, covered in a smoky haze from a morning of cooking and baking bread. Beyond that, somewhere, is the sea. But it has been many cycles of the moon since I last saw it.

“Xenodice must still be importing it,” I say, flushing at how little I know of my sister’s doings, or of my people’s trade. “It comes from the south, doesn’t it? I forget which port…”

“Cyrene.” Britomartis is patient as always. At least with me. I get the impression she is not so patient with others. “It is to the south, near Egypt. Cyrene has always been a willing trade partner with us.”

“Us?” I ask. “You mean with Akrotiri?” I suppose that could be why there isn’t enough silphium—perhaps Crete’s trade relations with that distant city have grown strained. Perhaps our men no longer wish to sail that direction. Perhaps they go north instead.

Britomartis gives me an unreadable look. “No, I mean us. All us people of these sacred islands.”

She turns to face me more fully, her knees pressing against mine. I close my eyes at the feel of her warmth, at the contrast her body makes against the cold stone tiles beneath me. We haven’t been alone since that first day—at least, not alone enough to venture into my room again. Even now, Malia fusses over something in the temple down below, and I can hear her voice mingling with some of my sister’s guards. Perhaps they will leave, and I can lead Britomartis down below again…

“Do you… did your mother teach you about how our trade works, Sira?”

I bristle, pulling my knees back from hers, and cast my glare at the distant rooftop wall. At the little dove perched there, preening its feathers in the sun. It can fly off at any moment that it chooses.

“She spoke of some things,” I hazard vaguely, unable to meet her eyes.

Go and play, my flower. Do not worry yourself about these matters. A gentle pat on the hand, a soft kiss on my temple. I can hear the little children in the courtyard—I know they love you best. Do not keep them waiting…

And, fool that I am, I had obeyed her.

It had not been difficult. Not when all my heart longed for was the laughter of those sweet children, to gather them up in my arms, to pour my love into them. All the while, my head had been filled with dreams, with fantasies of my sister’s future children. Of the children I would raise and love, who would run to me first for every scraped knee or bruised heart or injured pride.

“I was a third daughter.” That in itself should be explanation enough for my ignorance, shouldn’t it? I run one finger over the rough grouting between the stone tiles, back and forth, back and forth. “I was my mother’s baby, with two sisters fully grown. There was no need to teach me all the things a minas or a priestess ought to know…”

I trail off, because saying it aloud, I realize how unwise that decision had been. Nothing in life is certain, except that Potina will claim us all for herself.

My mother had been wise in so many things, but not when it came to me.

“You would at least have heard of the trade oath? The bond that ties our sacred islands together?”

I shake my head. Britomartis sighs. The dove on the wall startles, then lifts to the air and is gone.

“Years ago, many, many years ago, the first lawagetas decided that one woman should rule them. Should act to settle their disputes, should be the hinge between them and the priests and priestesses. A servant, a doulos, in a sense, with no land for herself. A mother to all.”

Britomartis’ voice has the sing-song quality of a seasoned storyteller and I find my full attention drifting back to her, despite my earlier peevishness. Winter sun dances behind her, lighting the loose strands of her hair in gold, until she is sparkling as bright as the precious threading woven through her over-tunic. As bright as the golden axe pendant against her chest, but softer. Britomartis’ hand brushes my arm, and just like that, all my earlier irritation melts away, my body relaxing against hers once again.

“No one knows which island was first, but one by one, a minas was appointed to each of them, until each island was united, just as sisters must be united under the care of a watchful mother. And like sisters working together, the lawagetas grew wealthier. They no longer sent their sons out to bargain against one another at foreign shores, but joined them together in fleets. They listened and learned what their neighbors wanted—saffron, pottery, finely woven linen, well-crafted bows and blades—and they worked together so their island’s offerings wouldn’t be cheapened in trade. Wealth poured into the islands, first to the hands of the minas, and then to her people. Cities grew, shimmering like jewels against the sea.”

As Britomartis speaks, I find myself shuffling to be closer to her, until my hip and thigh are pressed against hers, my shoulder against her shoulder. Until I can feel her warmth soaking through me, warmer than the weak winter sun. Her speech falters, just long enough for her to give a stuttering breath and a wordless sigh. When she continues, her voice is softer, almost strained.

“But like all mothers, the minases were prone to pride. And, bound to the land as they were, they were often ignorant of the needs of those on the islands around them. Our neighbors to the south and to the east, they saw this and they used it. And once again our traders cheapened their goods in an attempt to out-trade each other.”

I let my eyelids flutter shut and imagine these men on distant shores. Men like my brother, Asterion, burdened with the goods of their islands, ever hopeful of bringing home something worthy in exchange.

Asterion always used to bring me back some treasure. Golden earrings shaped like honey bees. A tiny glass bottle that sparkled like the sea. The pelt of some small animal, with fur so soft, it felt like the brush of bird feathers against my fingertips. Once, he even brought me the pelt of a wolf, and I had stared at him wide-eyed as he described the fearsome creature, like a monster from a legend.

I had never considered what such gifts had cost him.

“While we were busy scrambling to best each other in trades to the south and the east, a third neighbor was waking up in the north. The Acheans. Mycenae. Some of our men had traded with them too, of course, though not as often. Their goods were inferior, their people unruly, wild. Some of them barely more than wild beasts.”

I hum and turn to rest my cheek against Britomartis’ shoulder, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breathing.

“Our men laughed as the Acheans traded away grain and forests for trinkets, as they traded their own sons and daughters for a bolt of linen or a bow made of goat horn or a bronze blade.” There’s an edge to Britomartis’ voice now, a bitterness laced with sorrow. “While our men profited of the barbarians, they did not realize all they had unknowingly given away. Not until it was too late.”

Overhead, a cloud dances across the sun, casting us in shadow and blotting out the ephemeral warmth. I frown, pressing closer to Britomartis, until her arm is lifting from between us and wrapping around my shoulders. I can feel her softness now, those breasts that I haven’t yet tasted, her feather-light hair tickling my cheek.

“They came in summer. When the sea was gentle and our men away. Our women rushed to the shore, thinking the ships were the ships of their brothers, of their lovers, of their fathers. Children too, ran laughing, their bare feet carrying them faster than their mothers and aunts.”

I feel more than hear Britomartis swallow before she adds, “Potina’s halls were full that night.”

I shiver, my stomach twisting sickeningly as her words sink in, as they settle over my skin like the winter cold.

“At first, it was only the islands to the north. Naxos. Kos. But then they attacked Thera. And Karpathos. And Crete.”

I startle at the name of my own island, sitting upright to stare wide-eyed at her. Britomartis’ arm drops away from my shoulder, and she takes my hand up in hers instead, giving me a sad, almost pitying smile.

“Each time it was the same. They would attack like thieves in the night, in the early hours before dawn. They would kill and take—stealing away in their ill-crafted ships—ships they had learnt to make in a mimicry of our own. Filling the hulls with weapons and saffron and children and whatever else they fancied. Leaving the beaches blood-stained behind them.”

“But, our women?” I say, thinking of the women like Britomartis and my sisters. The warriors and priestesses who guard Knossos, as fiercely as a wildcat guards her young. “Surely they would not let such a thing happen?”

She gives me another pitying smile and I find I do not like it. I would rather have more of those looks she gave me that first day we met. Hunger. Appreciation. Awe.

“We had not yet learnt to worship Astarte,” Britomartis says simply. “Not as we should. Our hands had grown strong at the loom and potter’s wheel, our backs strong from tilling the soil and harvesting its fruits. We had built cities and clothed and fed our children—but we did not know how to protect them.”

“I know the Astarte story,” I say sharply, lifting my chin haughtily. Because I am not some child to be schooled at Britomartis’ knee. “I know how Poteiden brought her to us from across the sea.”

Of all the stories, Astarte’s is my least favorite. Poor, beautiful, Astarte, pursued across the sea by Velchanos. When the women of our islands granted her refuge, she repaid them with her gifts—a battle passion to rival that of all our enemies, and the drugging power of love. In exchange for our worship, of course.

“Good,” Britomartis says simply. “Then you know the part the gods played in making our islands what they are. But you do not know the part played by mortals.”

I give Britomartis an offended look. Of course I know the part played by mortals. Our lot in life is to live and die and hope the gods do not weave too much pain into the tapestry of our existence.

“The blood oath,” Britomartis says without preamble, giving me a searching look. “Perhaps you have heard of it?”

I stare at her blankly, mind racing as I try to recall hearing of any blood oath, cursing myself when I fall short.

Britomartis gives a tight-lipped nod, as if unsurprised by my ignorance. “Fighting off the Acheans was good, but it was not enough. We still suffered too many losses, and while Potina’s halls grew full, the halls of the living grew empty. The loss of a woman is a heavy price, even if that woman is only a second or third daughter.”

She gives me a sharp look, as if silently daring me to challenge this proclamation, but I don’t. She is right. How many times did I hear my own mother tell me that I had value as a third daughter, even if I was not inclined to fight? That there was always linen to be woven and children to be cared for and taught and things to be made.

When your eldest sister has children, there is no one she would trust with them more than you. She will rule, Xenodice will protect Knossos, and you will raise Knossos’ future.

“…So all the minases came together. Legend has it they met on Thera, not at Akrotiri, but at the sacred mountain island Kameni tucked along Thera’s side, so that all the gods would bear witness. They agreed not to help the Acheans learn to improve their ships. And they agreed not to supply them with copper.”

Something uncomfortable tightens in my stomach at her words, the whisper of a memory snaking over my skin at the mention of copper. An argument, the crashing of pottery against stone, the shouts followed by low voices seething with anger.

You would see Knossos beggar itself for its neighbors? Akrotiri can trade its olive oil and saffron wherever it likes. Kos trades its pottery and armor along the northern shores. And yet we—one of the few islands blessed with copper—we cannot trade as we like?

Ten days later, my eldest sister and mother had fallen ill, along with my sister’s closest friend, Clio. Clio, who my brother Asterion was pledged to. Clio, whose stomach was just starting to round with the hope of a child.

My mother survived, only to fall to the same illness four winters later.

Only Xenodice emerged untouched. Xenodice, and myself.

“Our people prospered under the oath,” Britomartis continues. “The Acheans still came to our shores, but we were better prepared, and they could hardly face us with their rudimentary weapons and their poorly-made boats.” She pauses, giving me a searching look. “Until now.”

I swallow, dropping my gaze to the flagstones. To where our skirts pile together around our outstretched legs. I draw a circle in the dust, pick at some loose grout between the tiles.

“This autumn, they bathed the shores of Thera with our people’s blood. They nearly succeeded in taking Akrotiri.” She gives a sharp, mirthless smile. “I myself nearly fell to one of their bronze blades.”

I gape at her in horror, blood draining from my face. “No,” I gasp, my eyes frantically roving over her form, as if I’m expecting to see some mark, some scar.

She squeezes my hand.

“I was uninjured, praise Astarte. Or, rather, thanks to Adrienne,” she gives a sad, wistful smile at the name.

“Adrienne?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even.

Britomartis’ cheeks color at my question and she tugs at the double-headed axe pendant between her breasts. “She’s… a friend.” Britomartis frowns, her gaze going distant. “No. She’s more than that. She’s…” she gives me a beseeching look, and my heart drops to my stomach.

She’s her lover, I realize instantly. Or if not her lover, then someone she desires. A skilled warrior too—someone brave and strong. Not like me.

“I have to go back. To the start.” Britomartis shakes her head, frowning. “It’s a story that deserves telling.”

I swallow and contemplate asking her not to tell it. I don’t want to hear about some other woman. But I also don’t have it in me to silence Britomartis.

“At the start of last summer,” she begins, “my brother pulled a woman from the sea…”