unlikely,” said Reed. “The myths are so convoluted and contradictory—even the Greeks struggled to make sense of them when they tried to write them down.”
“What about Homer?”
“Homer was a poet.” Reed’s tone, normally mild, suddenly took on unexpected strength. “Myth was the yarn he used to weave his creation, but the result is pure . . . poetry.”
Muir yawned. “Is this relevant?”
Reed muttered something under his breath about barbarians, while Marina drank her coffee and made a sour face.
“From a crudely teleological perspective, all that need concern you is that the Mycenaeans—probably—came to Crete in the latter half of the second millennium BC . If they followed the usual practices of invading armies, we can perhaps assume that they carried off a number of treasures. Including, possibly, the baetyl—the meteorite. Certainly, some of the pottery we found in the cave shrine seems to be Mycenaean in origin.”
“That explains the picture on the tablet,” said Grant, glad to have something useful to say amid all the academic argument. “The waves,” he added, answering the quizzical looks he drew. “They’re in the foreground. It’s drawn as you’d see it from the deck of a ship. In fact . . .” He picked up the tablet and stared at it. The picture of the valley filled most of the space, but in the bottom right-hand corner—just by the jagged fracture where the tablet had been broken—he could make out a dark brown blob. He might have mistaken it for a stain or a smudge of earth, but the edges were too distinct.He showed it to the others. “This could be the prow of a ship.”
“Or the tip of another pair of sacred horns,” said Marina doubtfully. “Or—anything. I told you, you can’t assume that ancient artists saw the world the same way you do.”
“We seem to have done all right so far.”
“Let’s hope your luck continues.” Muir tossed a cigarette butt over the ship’s side. “Anyway—the Mycenaeans came to Crete and did what invading armies usually do: knocked down the palaces, helped themselves to the women and looted the treasure. Then they took away our sacred meteorite—where? Why not Mycenae?”
“They could have—but I think not.” Reed glanced around. That late, most of the passengers had found space inside, but with Easter only three days away the ship was overladen with islanders travelling home. Dark lumps broke the line of the deck where men and women curled up to sleep, while further forward a group of conscripts knelt round a bollard playing cards for cigarettes. A graybearded Orthodox priest sat on a bench under a bare light bulb and spun a string of silver worry beads in his hand. Slap—against his knuckles; slap—against his palm. It was a timeless sound, as natural as the creak of the ship or the lapping of waves.
Reed leaned forward. “The Mycenaeans had nothing against the Minoan religion. The whole idea of a war of religion—fighting someone because he worships a different god, then giving him a choice of conversion or death when he loses—is a much more modern invention. Another innovation for which we have Christianity to thank. The ancients were far more broad-minded and acquisitive in their dealings with the gods. If you defeated an enemy, the only logical thing to do was to take away his relics and his holy objects and use them for yourself. No point letting divine power go to waste.”
Three long blasts from the ship’s horn underscored his words, as if the gods themselves bellowed out agreement. Grant looked over the rail. Across the water a red beaconwinked against the sea; ahead, a straggle of lights rose in the darkness. The flat deck began to come to life: men rubbing their eyes; women wrapping their shawls round them and stroking their children. Conscripts stuffed cigarettes and cards into their pockets. Only the priest sat still, forever whirling his beads.
“Here we are.” Muir drained the last of his
“What about Homer?”
“Homer was a poet.” Reed’s tone, normally mild, suddenly took on unexpected strength. “Myth was the yarn he used to weave his creation, but the result is pure . . . poetry.”
Muir yawned. “Is this relevant?”
Reed muttered something under his breath about barbarians, while Marina drank her coffee and made a sour face.
“From a crudely teleological perspective, all that need concern you is that the Mycenaeans—probably—came to Crete in the latter half of the second millennium BC . If they followed the usual practices of invading armies, we can perhaps assume that they carried off a number of treasures. Including, possibly, the baetyl—the meteorite. Certainly, some of the pottery we found in the cave shrine seems to be Mycenaean in origin.”
“That explains the picture on the tablet,” said Grant, glad to have something useful to say amid all the academic argument. “The waves,” he added, answering the quizzical looks he drew. “They’re in the foreground. It’s drawn as you’d see it from the deck of a ship. In fact . . .” He picked up the tablet and stared at it. The picture of the valley filled most of the space, but in the bottom right-hand corner—just by the jagged fracture where the tablet had been broken—he could make out a dark brown blob. He might have mistaken it for a stain or a smudge of earth, but the edges were too distinct.He showed it to the others. “This could be the prow of a ship.”
“Or the tip of another pair of sacred horns,” said Marina doubtfully. “Or—anything. I told you, you can’t assume that ancient artists saw the world the same way you do.”
“We seem to have done all right so far.”
“Let’s hope your luck continues.” Muir tossed a cigarette butt over the ship’s side. “Anyway—the Mycenaeans came to Crete and did what invading armies usually do: knocked down the palaces, helped themselves to the women and looted the treasure. Then they took away our sacred meteorite—where? Why not Mycenae?”
“They could have—but I think not.” Reed glanced around. That late, most of the passengers had found space inside, but with Easter only three days away the ship was overladen with islanders travelling home. Dark lumps broke the line of the deck where men and women curled up to sleep, while further forward a group of conscripts knelt round a bollard playing cards for cigarettes. A graybearded Orthodox priest sat on a bench under a bare light bulb and spun a string of silver worry beads in his hand. Slap—against his knuckles; slap—against his palm. It was a timeless sound, as natural as the creak of the ship or the lapping of waves.
Reed leaned forward. “The Mycenaeans had nothing against the Minoan religion. The whole idea of a war of religion—fighting someone because he worships a different god, then giving him a choice of conversion or death when he loses—is a much more modern invention. Another innovation for which we have Christianity to thank. The ancients were far more broad-minded and acquisitive in their dealings with the gods. If you defeated an enemy, the only logical thing to do was to take away his relics and his holy objects and use them for yourself. No point letting divine power go to waste.”
Three long blasts from the ship’s horn underscored his words, as if the gods themselves bellowed out agreement. Grant looked over the rail. Across the water a red beaconwinked against the sea; ahead, a straggle of lights rose in the darkness. The flat deck began to come to life: men rubbing their eyes; women wrapping their shawls round them and stroking their children. Conscripts stuffed cigarettes and cards into their pockets. Only the priest sat still, forever whirling his beads.
“Here we are.” Muir drained the last of his
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