The sea lapped against the ship’s hull; the vessel swayed languidly as the salted air whipped through Amya’s auburn hair. She narrowed her eyes against the sea-spit, half-staring beyond the water, half into the noonday sun.
“We’ll make land in two days,” she said to the Athenian.
He tugged at his robes, adjusting them around his midriff. She glanced at him, remembering his age. The man was ten years her senior, the owner of the vessel and, more importantly, the means by which she could express her needs to the ship’s Greek crew.
Tucking his fabrics once more into his belt, he asked, “Are you certain?”
She nodded. These eight weeks had been arduous, the journey long and leaving much of the crew with little more than salted meat and growing tensions to distract them from the laborious task of maneuvering the ship through the seas. As days turned into months, the crew’s animosity piled atop their mistrust at receiving orders from a former slave like her, and a foreign one no less.
Amya knew better than to tempt the crew with promises she couldn’t fulfill, so when she nodded to the Athenian she did so with certainty. “I studied the methods of Ionian philosophers,” she explained, “and measured the direction of the setting sun each day. For four days, it’s steered our course toward the island.”
She placed her hands upon a large sheet of paper, and beckoned to the man. A gust of sea air buffeted the vessel, and he placed his palms down aside hers to keep the paper still. For a moment, he marveled at the paleness of her skin; more like milk than his own, or marble.
“Stop staring,” she said, “and hand me the quill.”
Grabbing it from him, she hurriedly sketched their route. The islands around this region were all but uncharted; great explorers had writ tales and poems of such journeys, often to receive the adulation of their audiences in Athens or Crete. Amya had no such notions. Across the blank page, she sketched line after line, etching cross-sections in smooth motions, intersecting with one another to show in exacting detail both the vessel’s location and their imminent destination. She jabbed her forefinger at this small, unnamed isle and stated, “Star fall.”
Six months prior, the light had burned through the sky. A blazing star, bright as the sun itself, crested through the night as it fell. For a moment the midnight streets of Athens had glimmered, stirring light sleepers from their rest. Eyes had turned to windows, and none more keenly than Amya, who rushed to her balcony to watch the falling star fade into the ocean’s distance. She’d prayed for this, ushered soft pleading to Athena at the shrine to guide her.
She hadn’t been the only one to set out to raise a ship for the journey. Many others had done the same; but for her, she’d paid all her life’s savings, every meager earning she’d scraped together. It had taken half her lifetime to gather enough tetradrachm to buy her freedom, and her work in fishing trawlers brought her only a few more coins each day. She’d handed each of them, eagerly, to the Athenian in the hopes of sailing into the unknown to find the fallen star, and with it her dreams.
That night, she set a candle on the ship’s prow. Silently she lit a taper to it. The wax slowly melted, releasing the scent of honeysuckle. The vessel bore several such candles, their wax pooling in thick trails. Often the crew murmured discontentedly at her practice, seeing the reverence of any god other than Poseidon as insulting while at sea. Amya, though, etched thin symbols of the hunt in each candle she offered, proffering them not to the pantheon the crew worshiped but instead to what fleeting memories she had of her own people’s beliefs. She’d been only a child when she’d last laid eyes on her homeland, although she knew it was far to the north, across distant lands and over a cold sea. She remembered dense green forests, and days filled with her mother’s teachings. Amya learned to hunt, killing deer and rabbit, and for much of her adult life applied those same lessons to fishing. If any asked, she said she revered Artemis, which she reasoned was close enough to Vosegus and was enough to quell unnecessary questions. She set the candle down among the remnants of its siblings and prayed her hunt for the fallen star would be fruitful.
Two days passed, and a resounding call from the deck stirred Amya awake. She emerged to find the crew abuzz with excitement, eagerly pointing toward the faint glimmer of land. One of the crew, a young man she’d seen working the oars with great strength, hurried up to her and spoke in loud, excited words. Interjecting himself between them, the Athenian chuckled good-naturedly. “They didn’t truly believe they’d see land,” he explained. “They think perhaps you’re an oracle.”
By midday the isle had grown large, trees dotting smooth clifftops. However, as the ship drew close, a tremor of anxiety crossed through the crew; the cliffs gave way to a small bay, in which were docked three other ships. One rower released an oar and quickly spoke to the Athenian. Amya turned her head, inviting him to meet her at the prow. “Those ships,” he explained, “their sails bear many colors. Crete, see. And there, Minos.”
“More will come,” she said, shielding her eyes from the sea wind.
The Athenian nodded. “I hope this prize of yours is worth it.”
Amya hoped so too. She thought of the falling star, shimmering like golden fire as it tore through the night. She’d expected others would come, bearing sails, banners, and swords, just as eager as she was to claim whatever lay at its fall.
As the ship entered the bay, Amya felt a chill. Crewmembers quickly lowered rope ladders, allowing them to dismount and walk upon sandy shores. She hung back, hand resting on her bow, nervous at the silence. No life stirred in the other ships, and the beach was bereft of people. She wondered why other travelers would leave their ships unguarded. The crew spread around the sands, enjoying the spacious freedom and clambering for a point from which they could survey the isle.
Amya approached the other ships and stared at their hulls. Aside from barnacles, they were unscathed, bearing no marks of battle. Turning, she walked until the sand turned to dry soil, and called to the Athenian. “Where are they all?”
A scream tore from the far end of the beach. Intuitively her fingers closed around her bow. Narrowing her eyes against the mid-morning sun, Amya hurried to two of the crew who lay broken on the sand. Several other men darted back; between them a large bull, larger than any man, stomped hooves the size of dinner plates against the ground. Her eyes grew wide at the beast’s size, fearstruck.
Moving swiftly, Amya pulled and loosed an arrow at the beast. It stuck in the bull’s hide. Ignoring the blow, the bull turned and snorted. Then, a vast pair of inky wings erupted from its powerful back, like those of a black swan. It charged, its hooves dashing at the crew as it lifted into the air, its hind legs cracking an oarsman’s skull. The bull turned, trampling another, as the crew turned to flee. Amya hurled herself against the sand, barely missing the bull’s charge. Its gargantuan horns drew a thick scratch down her upper arm.
The bull rushed upward, turning in the air and hovering like a falcon spying its prey. Its eyes glimmered and erupted with flame, searing long rakes through the sky as it charged again. Amya loosed another arrow. This one found home in the beast’s eye. Unflinching, the bull roared and rushed at her, horns lowered, while the arrow’s shaft burned to cinders. Another scream rose from the deckhands, yet the cry was lost in a deafening crack. A forked arc of lightning tore through the bright mid-morning sky, colliding with the bull. Startled, the creature buckled in mid-air, spiraling to the ground.
The beast rose, its flank smoldering. As it turned to flee, Amya rubbed the afterimages of the lightning from her dazed eyes. One of the crew shouted, pointing to the far side of the beach where a robed man with dark skin and a thin-cropped white beard stood. Stumbling to her feet, she approached warily. “Who are you, who can hurl lightning at his foes? Zeus himself?”
With a smile, the man shook his head. “No,” he replied in a thick Minoan accent. He spoke with a calm, wistful manner. “I’m no god, at least, no more than that bull. I came on the ship yonder.”
“What was that beast?” she asked. “And where are your fellows? Slain? What of the others? And...”
He held up his hand. “Calm yourself. You’ve come a long way, chasing the falling star like the rest of us. Come, I’ll show you to your prize. Gather your crew, those who are well enough to make the journey. Let the injured rest. Don’t worry, the bull won’t soon return, and my fellows have healers who’ll see to them.”
Amya nodded, lowering but not sheathing her weapon, and bid the Athenian to join her. Together they amassed a small group, and fell into step behind the Minoan. They set off, across fields beyond the beach and toward a small set of hills, which soon gave way to a thin descent.
As they clambered down the shale-speckled path, Amya glanced up and noted banners flickering in the distance. She peered, struggling to make out the colors.
“Keep your head down,” whispered the Minoan. “We’ve been here but eight days, and already factions hold one another at blade-point.”
“They fight over the star?”
The Minoan nodded. “In a way. It was no star that fell.”
Pursing her lips, Amya glanced to the Athenian, hoping for guidance. The old man simply shrugged, clutching his staff tighter as he shuffled down the incline. Soon, the group passed beyond the banners and reached a sharp ravine. Amya saw how the ground had ruptured, shattered by something massive. It continued onward, leading into a large crevasse of upturned land. Fog hung thick around the region, and as they proceeded they found the ground marked with tooth-like shards of metal.
“What is this?” she demanded.
“Try not to inhale too deeply,” said the Minoan. “The animals did, and that’s what turned them to beasts like the bull.”
She reached out to touch one of the jagged, ruptured pieces of metal. “That doesn’t answer my question.” As her fingers touched it, she found the surface to be warm. “My father worked a forge, and I’ve never seen metal shaped like this. It’s too large to be a weapon...”
“It is a chariot,” said the Minoan. “Look.”
Cautiously, he motioned further. Beyond the clouds, at the bottom of the chasm, sat a gargantuan object. It resembled a grand vessel, but torn and ruptured, its exterior rent open. Around the enormous structure, amidst scorched grass and blackened soil, thick beads and droplets of golden fluid glistened. Amya reached down to touch it. “It’s this, isn’t it?” she asked. “This substance, it gave you the might of the gods, didn’t it? What is it?”
“I don’t know,” said the Minoan. “None of us do. A few of us, we’ve left the warring factions to join together in the hopes of understanding this.”
“What makes you think anyone can understand this?” she asked. “This is the stuff of the gods; it’s beyond our knowledge, surely.”
The Minoan smiled, and motioned to the large, half-submerged side of the structure. “Perhaps, perhaps not. You see, the gods who sent this chariot to us, they left us a message.”
Amya looked up, and through the dust-shrouded fog realized she could understand letters etched upon the metallic surface: LION.
