The Minoan Cipher

PART I — CATACLYSM

The gods were angry. There could be no other explanation for the quaking ground and the fire that rained down from the heavens on the hapless inhabitants of Kalliste, a small volcanic island located one-hundred-twenty miles north of Crete.

The island’s high cliffs formed an open ring that enclosed a deep lagoon big enough for dozens of ships. The protective bay and the island’s strategic location on the trade routes attracted cargo vessels from all around the Mediterranean. The island had prospered. The fruits of those riches could be seen in the thriving settlements that lined the harbor. The islanders celebrated the bounty of the sea in their art and architecture. Graceful frescoes of dolphins and flying fish decorated the interior walls of the two- and three-story houses that lined the bay.

The riches came with a price. Kalliste was home to restless volcanoes, below and above the sea, which occasionally triggered earthquakes and blanketed the island with choking ash. The islanders had become used to what they saw as divine temper tantrums. After each disturbance, there would follow a flurry of sacrifices and ceremonies to soothe the gods. When things quieted down, the islanders swept the pumice dust from their thresholds and rebuilt the houses that had collapsed. Commerce was restored and life went on. But the impending calamity about to hit the island would be greater than anything in memory. The natural forces soon to be unleashed from deep in the earth were more powerful than even the gods could have imagined.

Kalliste’s fate had been preordained millions of years earlier. The island sat astride what geologists today call the South Aegean volcanic arc. The volcanic chain extends from Turkey to Greece, forming a line where the continents of Africa and Europe come together as they drift on a sea of molten rock known as magma. Where continents collide, cracks form in the earth’s crust and volcanoes are born. The massive magma chamber under Kalliste was like a gigantic pressure cooker. When the molten forces fractured the rock above, the blast that followed was one of the most violent natural explosions in recorded history.

A black plume churned more than twenty miles into the stratosphere, causing dramatic colors in the sky and climate changes around the world. Super-heated air flowed over the rim of the caldera with a fury hotter than a thousand blast furnaces. The turbulent cloud of ash and dust rolled horizontally across the sea at more than sixty miles an hour. The fiery shock wave pummeled ships standing in its way.

The increasingly violent tremors leading up to the eruption had made the island practically uninhabitable. Fleets of ships had carried most of the population to Crete. Many refugees settled in or around Knossos, the bustling town on the north coast that was the home port to the far-flung Minoan empire.

The day the world ended for Knossos had been filled with bountiful promise. Sweating longshoremen toiled on docks piled high with trade goods. Pedestrian traffic streamed past the boat sheds, construction yards, warehouses, cafés, taverns and brothels that served the needs of ships and the crews that manned them.

From the balconies of the houses built into the hill behind the harbor, wealthy merchants could look out on a forest of masts sprouting from scores of wide-beamed sailing galleys. Some ships were more than a hundred feet long. More vessels were anchored to the east and west of the port or clustered in the natural harbors and bays that indented the island’s one-hundred-sixty-mile-long coastline.

Ships sailing out of the island ports traveled to Africa, Asia and Europe, even beyond the Pillars of Hercules into the Atlantic Ocean. The merchant fleet carried the staples of a thriving civilization: olives, wine, and fine crafted goods to trade for copper used in the manufacture of bronze. Knossos was at the peak of its wealth, power and affluence. But in an instant, all that was about to change.

Along the waterfront, eyes turned to the north at the rumble of distant thunder. Refugees who’d fled Kalliste recognized the sound of a volcanic eruption. Some heaved a sigh of relief at their escape from their doomed island. But their destiny was only delayed. The volcanic eruption created an earthquake that in turn spawned a tsunami. And Crete lay directly in the path of the deadly wave.

The tsunami raced across open water in the form of a heaving sea, but when it encountered land, the wave released its full destructive force. It clawed the water out of the harbor, exposing the muddy bottom, then reared up in a moving brown wall more than twenty-five-feet high. Millions of tons of roiling seawater inundated Knossos and branched out in death-dealing tributaries that carried bodies and debris miles from the harbor.

The watery destruction swept several miles inland and finally ebbed at the foot of the sprawling palace that was the heart of the Minoan empire. When the wave receded, a muddy curve of shoreline was all that remained of the great commercial port of Knossos. All was silent. The only sound was the whisper coming from the blizzard of gray pumice flakes falling softly from the sky.

PART II — THE LABYRINTH

The squat-bodied man sat on a rock at the top of the hill, the dark wide-set eyes in his bovine face fixed on the horizon in a tight squint. He was dressed simply in a blue kilt; his muscular chest was bare. A bandanna protected his shaven scalp from the intense rays of the mid-day sun. He had come to this place every morning for the past few days, ever since he’d awakened after a sleepless night with the feeling that something was wrong. He didn’t know what it was, but he had learned from his many years as a soldier to heed his instincts.

From his hard perch he had a good view of the harbor and the sea beyond. The nauseous stench of rotting corpses and dead fish still poisoned the air several weeks after the giant wave had wiped out the port, but the curtain of dust no longer blotted out the sun. Tides had thinned the gray blanket of pumice to reveal patches of violet-hued water.

The feeling of unease was stronger than ever when his chariot passed through the palace gates earlier that day. He traveled to his rock perch along the remnants of a paved road that was matted with seaweed and covered with ash. The morning was uneventful. Then, shortly after noon, a speck appeared on the horizon. The object moved closer until he could make out a striped red-and-white sail of the design favored by Mycenaean shipbuilders. It was exactly what he had dreaded. A scout ship from the mainland.

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.”

“The people still mourn their dead. Even in the villages, the thick dust makes it difficult to plant the fields. My subjects will remove me as king if she can convince them that I am to blame for their continuing misfortune by my refusal to give up my daughter. The priestess stokes their fears. She prays for another calamity to light the fire of rage within them.”

“Then her prayers have been answered,” the commander said. He told the king about the Mycenaean ship.

“How long before an invasion?”

“Once the ship reaches the mainland, a matter of days — an armada will be assembled. They can place five hundred warriors on shore within weeks. More will follow. They are fierce fighters and will be thirsting for blood and booty.”

The king weighed the commander’s words.

“News of the scout ship’s visit will spread to our cities and villages,” he said after a thoughtful pause. “The priestess will offer the people a way to save themselves. She will profess, ‘if the king makes his sacrifice, the Mother Goddess will repel the Mycenaeans.’ If I refuse, the people will storm the palace. Some of the marines will join them.”

“The governors of the other cities will stand by you.”

“My governors, even those close to me, will have no choice but to turn against me.”

“My men will fight to the death to defend you.”

The king waved his long fingers in the air. “I have other work for them. The priestess and her brother can’t be allowed to gain control of the treasury. It must be moved out tonight, as soon as darkness falls, while they lay in a trance after the sacrifices.”

“So soon?”

“No better time. I have prepared for this day. I will join you in the gardens after darkness falls. Now go!”

The commander followed a pathway that ran through an olive grove bordering the elaborate gardens behind the palace, to the barracks and stables used by the Followers. Couriers instructed the men scattered around the palace to assemble in the gardens as soon as the sun rested. Horses were brought in and a handful of sentries were posted in the gardens.

The commander led two dozen of his strongest men into the palace along a corridor that was high and wide enough for the horses to pass through.

The passageway ended in a wall decorated with a fresco that showed a school of fish in exuberant flight. The commander pushed with the tip of his sword against the third fish eye from the left. A lock clicked and the wall swiveled open to reveal a wide doorway. He and his men stepped into a huge vault and used their guttering torches to light wall lamps. The smoke escaped through an ingenious ventilation system.

The Minoans had amassed vast wealth, but most of that treasure was invested in the fleet of warships and merchant vessels, often one in the same, and in the buildings and infrastructure that were the hallmarks of a great empire. The jewels and gold accrued from commerce were scattered among the prosperous port cities. Aware that the delicate balance of power between the king and high priestess could be upended at any moment, Minos had secretly diverted the finest gems and precious metals to his own treasury secluded deep in the bowels of the Labyrinth.

The treasure was contained in dozens of bronze chests stacked on wagons that were ready to be hitched to the horses. Some chests were empty, in anticipation of riches yet to come. If any of the men thought it odd that the commander ordered them to hitch the wagons with both the empty and full coffers, they kept their questions to themselves.

One-by-one the wagons were pulled through the passageway to the gardens. Shortly after darkness fell, the king emerged from the olive grove. He wore a hooded cloak and carried his sleeping daughter over his shoulder. The nanny trailed behind them.

“All is well, I trust,” he said in a low voice.

“The treasure is ready to be transported at your word,” the commander said.

“Good. I want you to go to the south coast where a great ship will be waiting. Sail to Egypt and use the treasure to build a new navy. Each chest has more than enough for a great ship, its crew and contingent of marines. I will stay here.”

The commander scowled in disbelief. “You must leave with us, sire. It is too dangerous.”

Minos rose to his full regal height and pushed the hood away. “I am still the king. I will reason with the people.”

“The priestess has whipped them into a fury. They are beyond reason.”

“I am not the first King Minos, nor will I be the last. At the very least, if I stay, you will gain time to escape with my daughter.” He slipped the sleeping girl from his shoulder and held her body cradled in both arms. “I entrust you with my greatest treasure. On your life, keep her from harm’s way!”

The words came not from the monarch of a wealthy empire, but from the mouth of a stricken father saying farewell to his child forever.

“As you wish, sire,” the commander said.

He lifted the slumbering girl into his brawny arms.

The king removed a leather pouch from under his cloak and looped the strap around the commander’s thick neck. “Fill this scroll with your words. Write every day. If you or I are lost, it will show those that follow the way to the treasure. It must never fall into the wrong hands. Promise me!”

“I give you my promise, sire.”

The king lifted the hood back onto his head and vanished into the shadows.

The commander stared into the darkness until he became aware of the heat of the girl resting in his arms. He told the nanny to get into a supply wagon, then handed the girl up to her. With a heaviness in his heart, he ordered his men to move out.

PART III — FLIGHT

The commander and his men marched under the stars, following a road that ran between rugged mountain ranges and across plains covered with agricultural fields. At dawn, he ordered the group to stop and rest in the shade of some hearty trees so his men could dine on bread, cheese and water.

The march continued under the blistering sun and well into the evening. Spurring him on to even greater urgency were the pinpoints of light moving along the royal road from the direction of Knossos. His instincts told him that the high priestess had recovered from her drug daze and rallied her followers much faster than he’d expected. The commander had lived through many battles by thinking far ahead of the enemy. His orders from the king were what the high priestess would expect him to do, so he did what he had prepared for when he ordered his men to transport empty chests from the treasury along with the full.

He split his men into two groups. One group would take some wagons and continue on to the coast. The nanny and the child would go with them. The commander led another contingent of men, horses and wagons onto a dry river bed through the rugged hills.

When the commander caught up with the procession the next morning, the weary faces of his men were smeared with sweat and dirt. The string of horses they led no longer hauled wagons. The commander spurred his men along the coastal road which gradually rose, passed through a narrow gorge and descended a series of switchbacks to a small harbor.

Tied up to a stone quay were four vessels. The largest, a cargo ship, had a narrow stern and an upturned prow carved into the head of a bird. The vessel had a graceful crescent profile. Towers at each end were designed to provide archers defending the ship with elevated battle stations.

The wagons were wheeled up a gangway onto the ship. The bronze chests were slid down ramps into the hold. Stalls were set up on deck for a few horses while the rest were given to a nearby village. The chariot was taken apart and stored in the hold.

The commander pondered the fate of the other vessels. Two were mid-sized trading craft. The last was less than a third the length of the great ship and its narrow white hull was painted with images of leaping blue dolphins. He recognized the king’s yacht which had been on its way back from a competition in Egypt. The yacht had stopped at the southern harbor and the crew headed north on foot after learning their home port had been destroyed.

With its out-sized sail of red wool, and wave-cutting hull design, there was nothing on the water that could touch the yacht for speed. The commander ordered the yacht towed behind the ship. It would slow them, but he could never allow the king’s boat to fall into enemy hands.

Dusk was settling. The wise course would be to torch the other vessels, but the commander hesitated. Every Minoan ship was precious. By the time he had reluctantly decided to destroy the ships, it was too late.

Someone yelled and pointed to the hill overlooking the harbor. A light crested the ridge. Then another and another. The lights flowed down the road leading to the harbor, moving back and forth along the steep switchbacks.

The commander ordered the captain to get underway. The crew cast off the dock lines and unfurled the sail. The pursuers swarmed along the quay. A hail of arrows from shore fell short of the departing vessel. In the light of the gathering torches, the commander saw a man wearing a plumed headdress. In his confusion, the commander thought that the king had succeeded in winning over the people.

Then the man removed the feathered crown to reveal his shaved blue scalp. The priestess stepped up beside her brother. The commander couldn’t see her features in the waning light but he could sense her anger.

As soon as the ship cleared the harbor, the commander found a cabin for the king’s daughter and her nanny. The girl threw a fit of anger when the commander said that the king was busy and would come later in another ship. The noisy tirade was short, thankfully, and she soon fell asleep.

The commander curled up under a cloak on the stern deck. He awoke at first light, rose to his feet, and cursed himself for not moving faster to torch the other ships.

Two sails followed in their wake.

Minoan ship designers had sacrificed the space needed to quarter a crew of rowers to gain more cargo room. The great ships relied on a highly efficient sail that allowed the ship to run close to the wind, but it was still slower than a fully rowed vessel with sail.

The captain suggested cutting the yacht loose. The commander told him to wait.

The pursuers had halved the distance by the end of the day. The captain estimated that they would catch up the following morning. With their superior maneuverability, the smaller ships would run rings around them. Archers posted on the fighting towers could keep them at bay, but only for a while.

The commander’s jaw hardened in determination. The priestess would assume that he planned to seek safe haven in Egypt, long a friendly port of call for Minoan ships. Again, he would do the opposite of her expectations. As soon as darkness had fallen, he told the captain to change course.

The captain relayed the order to the helmsman. The ship swung around, and the bird figurehead pointed its beak toward the place where the sun had set. When the sun rose the next morning there wasn’t a sail in sight. The commander brought out the vellum scroll the king had given him and dutifully summarized the flight from the island. Over the next several days he kept a running log of the voyage to the western end of the Mediterranean and around the coast of what one day would be a country known as Spain. The commander wanted to put distance between his ship and Crete.

They might have escaped if the wind hadn’t died. With no rowing capacity, the ship lay almost motionless in the water. By the time the wind freshened, it was too late. A sail was sighted behind them. The high priestess must have figured out that the commander had detoured. She would have sent one ship to Egypt while the other headed west. Powered by a full crew of rowers, her ship grew closer.

The commander ordered his men to take defensive positions, but they could do little as the smaller, faster boat dashed in and shot off a barrage of fiery arrows. With its sail ablaze, the great ship came to a halt. The smaller vessel drew closer in preparation for boarding.

The cargo vessel’s captain rushed up to the commander, and said, “You must take the girl and abandon ship.”

The suggestion went against every molecule in the commander’s body. “I can’t leave you or my men.”

“You must. We will stay and fight. The king ordered you to keep his daughter safe.”

A second flight of arrows landed on the deck and the ardent flames quickly spread. The ship was doomed. The commander dashed below, scooped up the girl in his arms, and told the nanny to follow him back onto the deck. The captain was at the stern, where his men had hauled the yacht alongside. The commander climbed down a rope ladder into the yacht. The girl was tossed down to him. Then the nanny followed.

He cast off, raised the sail and took the tiller. The fast yacht was well away when the commander looked back and saw that the attacking ship had edged close to the flames. Both ships were enveloped in a billowing black cloud. A puff of wind cleared the air for a second or two, and in that brief instant the commander saw the high priestess at the rail.

Her mouth was open wide in an inaudible scream. Her clenched fists were raised high in the air, held in the same position he had seen when she did the serpent dance. The demonic expression on her face was seared into his memory. He turned his eyes away and looked at the girl in the arms of the nanny. Keep her from harm’s way, the king had pleaded, but she wouldn’t be completely safe until she was beyond the clutches of the priestess forever.

He took a final look back and saw only a thick curtain of smoke. Then he brought the yacht’s sharp bow around and sailed toward the unknown.