text: [Themes: Historical, Mythology, drama, matriarchy, drinking, religion, mystery, island, espionage, female protagonist]
  
  Isle of Aeaea, the eastern Aegean.
  3,500 years ago.
  
  "What tidings from the northern wastes?" asked the High Priestess.
  
  Her elderly eyes were glued to the north, across the moonlit lagoon, beyond the cliffs on the other side, towards the great sea. Deep in though, she didn't notice a human shape silhouetted against the glistening waters, scurrying along the clifftop.
  
  "Alas, my potnia, the Achaeans have taken Tiryns", said the other woman, her voice so quiet her Egyptian lilt was almost unrecognisable "They are spreading through the Argolis like wildfire."
  
  "Wildfire", echoed the High Priestess. "The Achaeans have a new Wanax, do they not?"
  
  "Be truer to say their new Wanax has them - lined up like pieces upon a game-board. Hear me, Circe, I have not the slightest doubt that he had a part in my sister's murder."
  
  Circe turned with a placating gesture.
  
  "Before we publicly accuse the most powerful Wanax of the northern wastes of sacrilegious killing..."
  
  "My potnia, you and I know full well that my sister was all that stood between Achaean greed and the palace of Tiryns. Wake up, Circe. Palace after palace, they are bringing their sky-gods southwards and they care not an iota for us or the Goddess. Today it is Tiryns and tomorrow perhaps a closer port, and before we react they shall have a foothold in Crete. Perchance my potnia is growing soft in her old age? Maybe the Goddess needs a more... youthful vehicle for the fulfilment of her designs?"
  
  "Oh, let me guess, one of you Avaris women? Do you reckon I cling to this life just to spite you?"
  
  "Kindly give us your candidates for evaluation, then. One of your nieces, I suppose?"
  
  "In due time. Phaedra shows potential but she is still too young. And concerning Ariadne..."
  
  The other woman let go a short, hearty laugh.
  
  "Ariadne! We Thebans always love a good joke, but it is high time we made a serious move, my potnia."
  
  "Very well. I shall send for her in the morning, and we shall reach a decision before sunset. In fact, you can go fetch my niece yourself."
  
  "Pray tell, which one, my potnia?"
  
  "Oh, very droll, very droll..."
  
  Ariadne in Aeaea by Víctor Ojuel
  
  Art by Ara Carrasco.
  
  The author wishes to thank those who kindly (and bravely!) tested this game in its infancy, namely Ara Carrasco, Matthew Holland, Liz Mercuri and Andrew Schultz.
  
  how to play.
  Type ABOUT AUTHOR to learn more about the author.
  Type ABOUT GAME to know more about the game and its historical/mythological setting.
  
  You wake up from a dream of winding passages and a beast chasing you, to a morning which is little better: no labyrinth but a tangle of limbs, no beast but a pulsing headache and a concert of snores. A pale, blueish light filters through the wooden ceiling.
  
  Which is odd, because the living quarters of the palace are all stone, and the other priestesses are rarely this physically affectionate and come to think about that...
  
  You open your eyes and bolt upright.
  
  This is not quite the palace's living quarters, more like a ragged wooden shelter. Your memories of yesterday are vague: you remember waiting until the other novices fell asleep, climbing down the outer wall of the palace, sneaking along the clifftop to meet the shepherd boys, and then all is a blur.
  
  An empty jug lies on its side against a wall, abandoned where it stopped rolling. Just like the human occupants of the hut.
  
  [Author's Note: Isle of Aeaea, the eastern Aegean. 3,500 years ago. In the northern wastes, the Achaeans have a new and warlike chieftain. Palace after palace is falling to his armies. On the shores of Crete, the Minoan civilisation awaits at the eve of extinction. At her sanctuary of Aeaea, the cunning Circe struggles to coordinate a political counteroffensive... And somewhere in the sticks, a young Minoan priestess named Ariadne wakes up to a hangover of mythological proportions.]
  
  > Instructions
  These are all the actions you need to complete the game:
  
  Use N, S, E, W, NE, NW, SE and SW to move in the cardinal directions. Use ENTER and OUT to get in and out of buildings.
  Use INVENTORY to see the objects you carry and the clothes you wear. Use LOOK to see your surroundings.
  Use EXAMINE  to learn more about a certain object or person.
  Use TAKE  to pick up objects and GIVE  TO  to
  interact with humans.
  Use WEAR and TAKE OFF to don and disrobe pieces of clothing.
  Use TALK TO  to interact socially.
  Use PUSH and PULL to move heavy objects.
  And if you get stuck and would like a hint, use THINK to switch on your grey cells!
  
  > look
  Now that your vision has cleared a little, you take better stock of your surroundings. The hut is little more than a rough wooden shack, and the only furniture is a rudimentary rack on one side of the entrance. Most of the space is taken up by the... bed, if you could call it that. Two boys are sleeping there, snoring drunkenly. There is an Ariadne-shaped empty space between them.
  
  An empty jug lies on its side against a wall, abandoned where it stopped rolling. Just like the human occupants of the hut.
  
  > About yourself
  You are Ariadne of Knossos, daughter of Minos, of the royal line of Pasiphaë the Sun-Maiden. At your formidable seventeen springtimes, you are an initiate priestess of the Isle of Aeaea, holiest of priestly orders of Potinaja, the Great Goddess.
  
  And right now you are not exactly at your brightest - hungover, hungry and naked after a deliciously rough night. But the poets don't need to know about your early years when they sing your praises for the centuries, do they?
  
  > check your inventory
  You are nude.
  
  You are empty-handed.
  
  > examine the boys
  The boys are snoring loudly. One of them is really worth it, the other one only passable in the mercilessly sober light of the morning. So they even out and it's fine. (You understate things. You always do. As befits a sophisticated lady of royal lineage.)
  
  > examine jug
  It is a stylish round design with a small flat base, red clay with a striking black many-tentacled octopus. Such a modern and expensive model can only be imported from Crete and way above the means of a goatherder, so it was probably you who brought it from the palace.There lingers the faint perfume of fine wine, but it is completely empty. You probably had more than your fair share of it last night.
  
  > take it
  You lift the jug with one hand: unsurprisingly, it's empty. A pity - by the Goddess, you could use a drink. And some breakfast... Then your eyes catch the glint of something metallic. You squat again, screwing your eyes in the half-light. There was something behind the jug... a pin? It seems to be a sort of golden brooch. You can guess it was carefully hidden somewhere, until last night's whirlwind of men and clothes ended up with the little golden bauble thrown in a corner. Now this is a surprise...
  
  > take the brooch
  You take the brooch.
  
  > examine the brooch
  You take a good look at it, from all sides. It is gold indeed, and the device is a lion sitting on its hind legs. You have no idea what it means, so at least it's not Cretan. Not from one of the great palaces, at any rate, or you'd know, but it is an expensive piece of art, and not from Aeaea either. Only the Goddess knows how it came into the hands of a rustic goatherder. Well, obviously it was the Goddess' will that you'd find it. It will look better on you anyway.
  
  > wear the brooch
  Wear it where? Pin it in your skin? This kind of jewelry without clothes is not just kinky, also painful. Better put on some clothes first, then wear the brooch.
  
  > examine rack
  A simple wooden platform to hold the meagre posessions of the goatherder. The only interesting ones are a loaf of bread and a pile of discarded pieces of clothing.
  
  > examine the clothing
  Someone undressed hastily here. You might have had something to do with the undressing. Or with the haste.
  
  > Wear clothing
  (first taking pile of clothes)
  Your clothes should be somewhere around here. Now, let's think, you were wearing a tunic, right? If only you could remember where you left it... Rifling through the clothing (raw woollen shirts, leather pants, ragged boots) yields no result, except for a stench of sweat and seawater (now how do shepherds get wet with seawater? Are they so rustic that they bathe dressed?). You drop the lot with a weary sigh. Now where did you take off that bloody tunic, really?
  
  > look at the bread
  A hard piece of coarse, stale bread, perhaps adequate fare for shepherds but utterly unedible by humans.
  
  > take it
  Feeling your stomach churning, you snatch away the piece of bread. Too much wine and no dinner, time you ate something solid.
  
  > examine the bed
  The boys are lying on top of what probably was a nice and fluffy pile of straw a few hours ago. After last night's activities, the straw has been evenly spread through the hut and they are practically sleeping on the floor.
  
  > search the bed
  You have already done all you felt like doing with, and on, that bed.
  
  > look
  Now that your vision has cleared a little, you take better stock of your surroundings. The hut is little more than a rough wooden shack, and the only furniture is a rudimentary rack on one side of the entrance. Most of the space is taken up by the... bed, if you could call it that. Two boys are sleeping there, snoring drunkenly. There is an Ariadne-shaped empty space between them.
  
  > examine the floor
  Girl, you are seriously confused this morning. Maybe time to cut down on the wine a bit?
  
  > search boys
  You have already done all you felt like doing to him/them last night. Possibly. Memories still a bit hazy, but you've had your fun. In any case, you feel like breakfast without conversation, so better get a move on.
  
  > go outside
  Shielding your eyes against the light, you step outside. It takes you a few moments to adjust to sunlight, and your headache doesn't particularly like it. When you open your eyes again, the grand landscape of the Isle of Aeaea unfolds against a crisp blue morning sky.
  
  In all directions, the hills climb up and down, reddish earth embroidered with dark green shrubs and a few small pine woods, sometimes broken by white, sheer rock. The land slopes downwards, from the cliffs in the west to the eastern beaches. The shepherd's hut is the only visible shelter. The isle narrows to the north and broadens to the south, where a few smoke columns indicate the location of the palace. The shepherd's hut is nearby.
  
  A herd of goats is roaming the pastures nearby, grazing on the short, tough grass.
  
  > look at the goats
  A nearby goat is breakfasting on something that looks like a piece of textile of some so... oh by the Goddess, it's your tunic! You try to shoo the beast, or frighten it in some way to discourage the munching of your clothes, but it seems to love the change in diet. Damn...
  
  > give the bread to the goat
  You wave the bread in front of the stupid animal's eyes. Eventually you catch its attention, and it approaches and reluctantly stops chewing your tunic to munch on the bread.
  
  > take the tunic
  You swiftly snatch away the tunic, lest the animal changes its mind. It's not exactly clean, and part of a shoulder seems to have been bitten off, but surely asymmetric shoulders must be the fashion in some faraway island? And it beats showing up naked in the palace.
  
  > Wear tunic
  You pull the tunic in place, and hold the torn shoulder while you pin it with the brooch, then smooth the torn edges under it. It holds, and possibly even adds a fanciful highlight to the otherwise plain garment. Can't wait to be ordained a full priestess and do away with these rags. Anyway, for the moment you are decent again, or decent enough to sneak back into the palace. And head straight for the kitchen, adds your rumbling stomach.
  
  > examine the tunic
  Fine linen, fashionably pleated like the Egyptian girls from the Avaris chapter, but edged with embroidered dolphins and saffron crocus. It is one of the pieces Mother sewed for you before your departure for Aeaea (which is goatshit. Your know full well Mother could never sew to save her life.) The torn shoulder has been repaired with a flashy golden brooch, and the effect is rather fetching, if you do say so yourself.
  
  > go to the north
  You really don't fancy going cross-country through these solitudes like a goat. Better do like a human and follow the clifftop path to the west, or go back inside the hut.
  
  > go to the west
  A narrow path on top of the cliffs follows the crescent shape of Aeaea. The isle's rocky arms stretch like the horns of a bull piercing the sea. The Saffron Bay occupies most of the view, sheer cliff faces the height of a hundred men plunging vertically into the waters below. The palace complex shines across the bay like white teeth on jagged, blackened gums.
  
  The path clings to the clifftop, coming from the civilised south and stretching towards the sharp edge of the isle to the northwest. To the east lie the hilly scrublands frequented only by shepherds and goatherds. As you know full well.
  
  > Exits
  Let us hope this is not what the poets will remember you for...
  
  > go to the south
  This is where the elegant curve of the Saffron Bay becomes wider and the downward slope is more benign. Most of the productive fields of the isle are around here, tended by peasants indentured to the palace, a few free settlers and scores of slaves. The olive trees, vineyards and farms of this side provide most of the local foodstuffs. The path follows the clifftop to the wild north and it becomes a proper paved road to the southwest, towards the entrance to the palace.
  
  > Go southwest
  The ceremonial road ends in an ample paved space before the grand entrance to the palace. Men and oxen come on go along the road like ants and mill around the vast plaza, transporting all manners of goods from the palace stores to the port below, overseen by administrative-rank priestesses and keen-eyed archers. The great complex is three stories high, fronted with a majestic row of crimson red and marine blue tapered columns.
  
  A couple of archers wink at you (old "friends", so to speak), and quite a few priestesses frown (older "friends", so to speak).
  
  The ceremonial paved road snakes descends towards the southeast and the harbour. The palace lies west, blocking the view of the bay. A narrow path leads northeast, following the clifftops, towards the wilderness.
  
  Well, finally here you are. Now, if you can only slip unnoticed to the side wall that is never guarded, and just climb up to the first floor terrace, then it should be easy to...
  
  "Why, if it isn't the wayward Ariadne!" booms a female voice behind you, grating on your hungover brains.
  
  You close your eyes, hard, taking an extra moment before turning around to face her. Oh sweet Potinaja, fair lady, let it not be old Circe...
  
  And the Goddess must have a perverse sense humour, because the offending lady is indeed not your aunt... but your sister.
  
  > look at the sister
  Your younger sister is considerably smaller than you, of slighter build, and is wearing the complete paraphernalia of a confirmed potnia - ruched and tiered red-and-blue longskirt, ceremonial apron, fitten open gilet and headdress. Her eyes and breasts are heavily made up with kohl and crushed coral. You used to look after her when she was just a bawling toddler... and now she has been ordained a potnia before you. Curses.
  
  "Phaedra." you say, in an extremely friendly way. The sight of her is the very last thing you needed right now and... oh by the Goddess, what is she wearing?
  
  "Oh, I can see you have noticed..." she purrs in triumph. You roll your eyes.
  
  > talk to Phaedra
  You take a deep breath for your next reply:
  
  "What are you doing, all tarted up like that?", you ask, trying to sound not at all taken aback.
  
  "You watch that tongue when speaking to a potnia, dear
  sister, specially while you are still an initiate", Phaedra
  says, savouring each word. The realisation comes late to your fried brains: has she been ordained yet? Before you? But you're at least two springtimes her senior! And you shed first blood at more or less the same age, so...
  
  > talk to Phaedra
  You take a deep breath for your next reply:
  
  "I see. Grovelling at Aunt Circe's feet has finally paid up".
  
  "Pay? Circe, like all us potnias, is just a conduit for the designs of the Goddess, praise be the fair Potinaja," she recites, doing a little dance around you, presumably to rub in the offence, "And talking about payment, how does whatever you do pay? What a lovely brooch, sister. A little trinket from a client of yours?"
  
  > Continue
  You take a deep breath for your next reply:
  
  "Oh, sweet lady, does it come to this? Come, come, sister, be not so bitter", you smile in sympathy, taking her arm sororally, "Is it my fault no sane man was ever interested in you?"
  
  "Men, is that so?" she brushes your hand aside "I hear you sleep with goatherders."
  
  "Oh, I hear you sleep with the goats."
  
  "Oh very droll..."
  
  "Potinaja wept, you even got the rancid mannerisms...!"
  
  Her eyes become linear slits, snake-like under the copious makeup. "I shan't have you profer blasphemies, least of all in presence of a potnia. You shall go see Circe and send my regards..."
  
  "Oh, that I shall..."
  
  "...and if I do learn later that you have not, or have not used the proper formula and respect, I shall ask the High Priestess to have you seconded to my retinue, to do my hair and prepare the potions. Understood, initiate?"
  
  > Keep going
  You take a deep breath for your next reply:
  
  You shut your mouth in time. Normally no priestess would be on a position to do that, but Phaedra is a royal as well, and of Pasiphaë's line, and her standing with your aunt is obviously better than yours. (Actually there are at least three slaves that Circe regards higher than she does you...). And then again, you'd sooner jump into the sea and try to make it back to Crete swimming than go through the humiliation of being your little sister's handmaiden.
  
  "Understood."
  
  "Understood what?"
  
  "Understood, my potnia."
  
  "Oh, I am so loving the sound of that. I shall see you later, initiate, do make haste", she sing-songs as she walks away. You pull a face at her back and quietly tell the Goddess how much you love little Phaedra.
  
  Well. Perhaps you really, really should have not stolen that toy crocodile when she was five.
  
  > look
  The ceremonial road ends in an ample paved space before the grand entrance to the palace. Men and oxen come on go along the road like ants and mill around the vast plaza, transporting all manners of goods from the palace stores to the port below, overseen by administrative-rank priestesses and keen-eyed archers. The great complex is three stories high, fronted with a majestic row of crimson red and marine blue tapered columns.
  
  A couple of archers wink at you (old "friends", so to speak), and quite a few priestesses frown (older "friends", so to speak).
  
  The ceremonial paved road snakes descends towards the southeast and the harbour. The palace lies west, blocking the view of the bay. A narrow path leads northeast, following the clifftops, towards the wilderness.
  
  > go to the west
  You enter the palace unchallenged by either priestess or archer patrols.
  
  The main megaron is flanked with tapered red columns, centered around a central great hall that opens to two long wings. The western wing contains the workshops, stores and administrative dependencies. The north wing is mainly taken up with living quarters for priestess in the upper floors, and servants and slaves in the lower ones. But the definitive majestic piece of the megaron is the monumental gipsum stairway leading up, to the High Priestess' dependencies.
  
  The megaron is in full swing, with dozens of priestesses of diverse rank coming and going about palace business.
  
  > go upwards
  The residence of the High Priestesses is less sumptuous than what you had imagined the first time. It is nevertheless the most luxurious room in the whole island, somewhat in spite of Circe herself. The focal point of the room is a great wooden table, strewn with a thousand little objects around a map.
  
  The High Priestess is studying something intently at the great table, stopping only occasionally to gaze out of the window, never quite bothering to look in your general direction.
  
  > examine the map
  It is surprisingly difficult to identify the landmasses. This one must be Aeaea; the bottom-heavy crescent is unmistakeable. Crete must be big and west of here, so it should be that vaguely rectangular block over there, with Knossos and Phaistos marked prominently and a dozen smaller palaces dotted around. South lies the Egyptian coast, so the symbol there must mark the position of Avaris. And far to the northwest, in the wastes beyond the sea, there's a cluster of black figurines. All of them are modelled in the likeness of a sitting lion.
  
  > talk to the circle
  You are so lost it would take a big ball of twine to get you out of your confusion.
  
  > talk to Circe
  You put your left fist to your left temple, performing the adoration gesture. Circe pays no attention to you. You ahem-ahem a little, still to no reaction from the High Priestess, so you just chatter away.
  
  "My potnia, I come on behalf of my beloved sister..."
  
  "Now, that is a droll one", she mutters, still not looking at you. She rereads a line from a tablet, then moves another figurine over the map.
  
  "I bring my beloved sister Phaedra's respect and best wishes for the High Priestess, on the occasion of my noble sister's ordainment..."
  
  "I am sure you must be very proud of her, are you not?", she says dryly.
  
  "Very" you reply with equal enthusiasm, "As proud as if it was my own and belated induction into the Goddess' mysteries", you drone on monotonously.
  
  "Do I hear a complaint?"
  
  "Actually..."
  
  "Shut up, it's a rhetorical question. Because I hear many complaints every day, and quite a few have something to do with one of my nieces being somewhat unruly."
  
  Being essentially a sensible young woman despite what certain uncharitable individuals might think, you let that one pass and force a smile.
  
  "Anything else?", she asks. You are biting your tongue, hard.
  
  > Continue
  "Auntie Circe," you try, affectionately "when is my ordainment going to take place? I yearn to serve the Goddess and I am already old enough for the mysteries..."
  
  "Age has nothing to do with it, child," she interrupts, still contemplating her map, "Maturity has. Just as some women shed first blood earlier, the Goddess blesses certain minds sooner than others..."
  
  "So the lesson today is patience..." you sigh boredly.
  
  "...and some she does not touch ever at all. What, patience? The Goddess and I have wasted ours with you, Ariadne."
  
  "Auntie, I promise, if this is about the drinking and... uhm, merrymaking, I swear I shall just..."
  
  "Oh shut up, girl. What am I now, one of those bloody Lukkan puritans? Shut up, it's another rhetorical question. Merrymaking, the
  goatshit one has to hear! Mark my words, I do not give a fig if you fuck each and every fisherman in Aeaea while drunk as an Alassian sailor..."
  
  "Auntie Circe...!"
  
  "...and don't you Auntie Circe me as if I was some senile
  spinster! What, scandalised? Oh, the irony! Listen, you might well despise your sister because she is a bit stupider than you (which is no small measure), or because she is quite insufferable (not to say you are not), or just because she is your sister, which is reason enough... Bugger me, did I hate your noble mother when we were your age, did I! And she was just like you, chasing men and women and whatnot, and the Goddess and I could not care less because she was also useful, and that is the whole point. Pasiphaë is and was useful, and thus she is Wanassa of Knossos. Your sister Phaedra doesn't have her political vision but she's fanatical and ruthless, and one day she shall be Wanassa of Phaistos. Now tell me, wench, what are you
  good for?"
  
  > continue
  "Is it another rhetorical question?"
  
  "Very, very droll", Circe sighs, fingering one of the figurines on the map. "An easier one, then. What do we export, here in Aeaea?"
  
  "Saffron and potnias?"
  
  "Very well. You might not be Wanassa material since you have no political wits... or an officiant priestess, given how obviously the Goddess chooses not to speak through you, but we might at least make a store administrator out of you yet."
  
  "Stores?" you gasp, horrified "Sitting downstairs all day, counting measures of olive oil? Aunt, I'm begging you, send me back to Knossos rather than...!"
  
  "It was not a rhetorical question, girl. Dozens of palaces rely on us to provide suitable potnias as Wanassas," she says, making a broad gesture over the map, "and we do deliver. I need not remind you who brokered your mother's marriage to the Wanax of Knossos, or why he and thirty other dinasties send me their daughters for education and ordainment. In due time, your sister will be Wanassa of Phaistos. The Wanax shall get a powerful priestess to take care of divine affairs while he wages wars. Your father shall get a reliable alliance. And the Goddess and I shall get an influent agent in southern Crete, same as Pasiphaë has been in the north coast for decades."
  
  "I am still a royal of the Pasiphaë line, I can marry..."
  
  "Marry as you please. The world is full of bloody royals, do you know how many new siblings you've gotten since you came? Every petty warlord has two or three score bastards, and do you know what a nightmare genealogy has become? I should know, my father is the bloody Sun. Anyway. Princes and princesses are a fig a dozen. Potnias are scarce and precious. Should I send you back unordained, Minos would be offended and Pasiphaë's position weakened. I shall not undo the work of a generation for your sake."
  
  She waves you away and concentrates on the maps, moving another of the lion-shaped thingies.
  
  > examine the lions
  Your head is killing you.
  
  > look at the lion
  A golden brooch representing a sitting lion, of unknown origin. You found it at the shepherd's hut, which is quite a mystery. Perhaps you should look into it.
  
  > look athe lion-shaped thingies
  Sweet lady Potinaja, what do you mean?
  
  > talk to Circe
  "I shall prove to you I am useful to you and the Goddess."
  
  Without looking up from her maps, Circe waves you away.
  
  "Pray be not a nuisance, niece. Go do as you please but bother me no more."
  
  She is obviously concerned with something, very much unrelated to your tribulations, and somehow related to the many lion-shaped figurines she keeps herding around the map.
  
  > examine the figurines
  A black piece of stone. Obviously Circe is using them to signify some sort of kingdom or faction over her map. Each is shaped like a sitting lion. Now where have you seen that before?
  
  > show the brooch to Circe
  Holding the torn shoulder with your fingers, you undo the brooch and throw it on the table. It lands squarely among the black lion-shaped figurines, sending them on sudden expeditions across the sea. Circe looks up, startled.
  
  "How dare you...?", she starts.
  
  "Answering your next, non-rhetorical question, I have my own sources, just like you, aunt dear. I thought this might interest you, since you seem so fond of little lion figurines."
  
  "Do you know what this is?" Circe says, as she takes the brooch and looks at it intently before staring back at you. "Its meaning? Where does it come from?"
  
  "Let's see - yes, no, kind of. It's a brooch. I have no idea what it stands for. It comes from somewhere in the northern wastes, since you are piling all your toys there?"
  
  The High Priestess takes a deep breath, obviously pondering whether to discuss important matters with you. Finally, she sighs and looks away. Was that a little chuckle?
  
  "Young Ariadne, what do you know about the Achaeans?"
  
  > talk to Circe
  "Achaeans. Northern barbarians, a few sad excuses for palaces. No fleet worth of the name. The only thing they are good at is making cheap copies of every piece of pottery Father sells them at outrageous prices. They are desperate for some culture. Are we sending them many potnias?"
  
  "Not a single one. They have their own unsavoury gods. And a very unsavoury new Wanax. With very, very unsavoury methods."
  
  "You sound jealous, aunt." Circe waves a finger at you.
  
  "Do not get cocky, child. If you have found this in Aeaea, and I can only imagine where or how, it might mean we have a little spy problem. Now, I do not have enough archers to keep a patrol on all shores at all times, and sending them to search every ship and warehouse in the harbour would alert the spy... So...", she says, looking up and down at you with a critical eye.
  
  "So" you echo, tossing your hair dramatically, "You got yourself a secret agent, auntie."
  
  She hmphs. You smile. Then remember something.
  
  "Ah, my potnia? On an unrelated note, can I have that brooch back? Holding this thing in place all day is tiring."
  
  The High Priestess of Aeaea mutters something unpleasant about your generation while fumbling about her things, then slides a clay token over the table towards you, together with the brooch.
  
  > take the brooch
  You take the Achaean brooch.
  
  > wear the brooch
  Are you still hungover? Do you think it is a good idea to hunt around for an Achaean spy while wearing this for all the world to see? Perhaps Circe was right about your true calling after all...
  
  > take the token
  You palm the little piece of clay gleefully. Circe is notoriously stingy with supplies.
  
  "The price of saffron is down and imports are killing us, Ariadne." she says warily "Take better care of your clothes from now on. And do not get anywhere near goats."
  
  "By the Goddess, how do you...?"
  
  "I have been your age. Just avoid rumiants in general."
  
  > look at the token
  A piece of fired clay, bearing three symbols - the glyphs for "priestess tunic", "high quality" and the personal seal of Circe. A requistion order for the palace stores, from the highest authority.
  
  > look
  The residence of the High Priestesses is less sumptuous than what you had imagined the first time. It is nevertheless the most luxurious room in the whole island, somewhat in spite of Circe herself. The focal point of the room is a great wooden table, strewn with a thousand little objects around a map.
  
  Circe is looking at you, appraisingly.
  
  > Down
  The main megaron is flanked with tapered red columns, centered around a central great hall that opens to two long wings. The western wing contains the workshops, stores and administrative dependencies. The north wing is mainly taken up with living quarters for priestess in the upper floors, and servants and slaves in the lower ones. But the definitive majestic piece of the megaron is the monumental gipsum stairway leading up, to the High Priestess' dependencies.
  
  The megaron is in full swing, with dozens of priestesses of diverse rank coming and going about palace business.
  
  > West
  The chambers are filled with the hustle of a few dozen workers carrying goods into our out of the stores. Slaves bring in copper ore and oil pithoi in carts, checked and accounted for by palace administrators. Throngs of artisans from the workshops bring their finished crafts for inspection, and receive clay tokens in exchange. This is a part of the palace you seldom visit willingily, except to pilfer some baubles or chat with your friend. If you don't manage to fulfil your quest, you might well be spending the rest of your days here... The mere idea makes you shiver.
  
  One of of the administrator catches your eye. It's Satiah, one of your last friends. She nods slightly in your direction while she keepts doing calculations on her abacus and counting tokens.
  
  > examine Satiah
  Satiah is more or less your age. She has the darker skin that identifies her as coming from the Avaris chapter, which is somewhere in the Two Lands, on the delta of an incredibly big river, far to the south. She wears the full pleated linen favoured by admininstrative priestesses when they are not facing the public, decorated with the insignia of a mid-junior priestess - quite a promotion for accounting duty.
  
  > talk to Satiah
  "Why, bad girl Ariadne is back. What tidings, love?", she greets, with her unmistakeable Egyptian lilt.
  
  "Hey, Satiah. My sister is such a bitch."
  
  "We have had this conversation already.", she observes, looking at you sideways.
  
  "Oh. So, you want to hear about last night? It was like a dream. I
  met these two satyrs under the moonlight..."
  
  "And that one as well. You Keftius are like trained songbirds who only know two songs."
  
  "Fine. You tell me about your fascinating adventures, then. How many measures of olives? Did someone, gasp, forget to record a few copper ingots? Tell me about your night of wild passion with your abacus."
  
  "Ari, love, why are we always talking about men or pouring goatshit about other women? Can we not have a relevant conversation, like priestesses are supposed to? Do you reckon this is what the Goddess wants to discuss through us?"
  
  "I... never thought of it that way, honestly."
  
  "Well, I mean not to offend, dear Ariadne, but perhaps that is one reason why you are still only an initiate at seventeen? While the rest of our year-sisters have their own shrines on the other shore of the Great Green? Even Phaedra is prancing around with rouged boobs and acting like she is Circe reborn."
  
  "Oh, my hangover. Catch you later."
  
  > give the token to Satiah
  Satiah takes the token and gives it a cursory glance, then a double take.
  
  "Aha. Somebody's connections are starting to pay off?"
  
  "Thank you for your kind words, Satiah. I am so glad I can share this very special moment with a good friend."
  
  "All I am saying is," she shrugs, "it is quite unusual to see two of these within the same day, both for nieces of the High Priestess. And I have been a witness to Phaedra's initiation in the third mysteries, but you I have not seen since you talked me into pilfering that wine jug for you."
  
  "So I am working my way to ordainment a different way, does that make me a worse priestess than my dear, dear sister?"
  
  Satiah smiles sympathetically, says nothing (because she is an amazing friend) and sends a slave for the goods (because she does not trust you alone in a room filled with valuable stuff). She inspects the garments when they arrive, nods and drops the token in the appropiate jar.
  
  "All yours. And congratulations. You must have done something quite impressive, given your record, to impress the old girl so. Care to gossip about it, or you're too important now for your old friend, my potnia?"
  
  You give her a conspiratorial wink.
  
  "Secret mission. High priesthood business. Can't talk", you whisper in a mysterious and alluring way. Satiah tsk-tsks and shields her eyes in mock shock.
  
  > check your inventory
  You are wearing:
  tunic
  
  You are carrying:
  an Achaean brooch
  wine jug (empty)
  
  > take the garments
  With the appropiate reverence, you take the ceremonial garments
  
  > Wear garments
  You should get rid of the tunic first, or it will look ridiculous.
  
  > give the jug to Satiah
  "You did not smash it this time? Good. Keep it for now. If I take it I shall have to account for it and I am all out of pottery tokens. Call it inventories adjustment."
  
  "I was not giving it back, Satiah. I was asking for a refill."
  
  "Potinaja wept, Ari, you have a drinking problem."
  
  "The boys drank almost all of it, I promised. Pretty please?"
  
  She frowns, calls one of her helpers and mutters some instructions in his ear. He takes the jug, disappears and brings it back after a while. Satiah smiles and hands it back to you.
  
  "There."
  
  > look
  The chambers are filled with the hustle of a few dozen workers carrying goods into our out of the stores. Slaves bring in copper ore and oil pithoi in carts, checked and accounted for by palace administrators. Throngs of artisans from the workshops bring their finished crafts for inspection, and receive clay tokens in exchange. This is a part of the palace you seldom visit willingily, except to pilfer some baubles or chat with your friend. If you don't manage to fulfil your quest, you might well be spending the rest of your days here... The mere idea makes you shiver.
  
  Satiah smiles at you from behind her desk, fingers flying on the abacus.
  
  > Go east
  The main megaron is flanked with tapered red columns, centered around a central great hall that opens to two long wings. The western wing contains the workshops, stores and administrative dependencies. The north wing is mainly taken up with living quarters for priestess in the upper floors, and servants and slaves in the lower ones. But the definitive majestic piece of the megaron is the monumental gipsum stairway leading up, to the High Priestess' dependencies.
  
  The megaron is in full swing, with dozens of priestesses of diverse rank coming and going about palace business.
  
  > go to the east
  The ceremonial road ends in an ample paved space before the grand entrance to the palace. Men and oxen come on go along the road like ants and mill around the vast plaza, transporting all manners of goods from the palace stores to the port below, overseen by administrative-rank priestesses and keen-eyed archers. The great complex is three stories high, fronted with a majestic row of crimson red and marine blue tapered columns.
  
  A couple of archers wink at you (old "friends", so to speak), and quite a few priestesses frown (older "friends", so to speak).
  
  The ceremonial paved road snakes descends towards the southeast and the harbour. The palace lies west, blocking the view of the bay. A narrow path leads northeast, following the clifftops, towards the wilderness.
  
  > go to the west
  You enter the palace unchallenged by either priestess or archer patrols.
  
  The main megaron is flanked with tapered red columns, centered around a central great hall that opens to two long wings. The western wing contains the workshops, stores and administrative dependencies. The north wing is mainly taken up with living quarters for priestess in the upper floors, and servants and slaves in the lower ones. But the definitive majestic piece of the megaron is the monumental gipsum stairway leading up, to the High Priestess' dependencies.
  
  The megaron is in full swing, with dozens of priestesses of diverse rank coming and going about palace business.
  
  > go to the north
  You start towards the living quarters, but you stop after a couple of steps. What's the point? You have already been caught, and in the worst of ways, so why pretend? Better carry on with your own business.
  
  > take off the tunic
  You shimmer out of tunic.
  
  > Wear garments
  You put on ceremonial priestly garments.
  
  > go to the north
  A narrow path on top of the cliffs follows the crescent shape of Aeaea. The isle's rocky arms stretch like the horns of a bull piercing the sea. The Saffron Bay occupies most of the view, sheer cliff faces the height of a hundred men plunging vertically into the waters below. The palace complex shines across the bay like white teeth on jagged, blackened gums.
  
  The path clings to the clifftop, coming from the civilised south and stretching towards the sharp edge of the isle to the northwest. To the east lie the hilly scrublands frequented only by shepherds and goatherds. As you know full well.
  
  > go east
  In all directions, the hills climb up and down, reddish earth embroidered with dark green shrubs and a few small pine woods, sometimes broken by white, sheer rock. The land slopes downwards, from the cliffs in the west to the eastern beaches. The shepherd's hut is the only visible shelter. The isle narrows to the north and broadens to the south, where a few smoke columns indicate the location of the palace. The shepherd's hut is nearby.
  
  > enter the hut
  Here you are, back in the hut. The boys are gone, it is marginally tidier than it was this morning, and there is still nothing but a wooden rack and a miserable bed.
  
  > examine rack
  The rack is empty. No bread, no clothes (at a guess, the shepherds must be wearing them)... You stop for an instant, look at it twice. Wasn't it a bit further away from the wall, this morning? It might just be the shepherd boys tidying up after your tryst, or there might be another reason for pushing the rack against the wall.
  
  > look at the bed
  The bedding has been half-heartedly remade after last night, but still consists of loose straw piled on the floor. You kick it around a bit, but you find no more brooches or anything else but dusty straw.
  
  > pull the rack
  You take both ends of the rack, plant your feet firmly on the ground and pull. It is not terribly heavy, and you manage to separate it a couple of handspans from the wall.
  
  > examine rack
  The rack is empty. No bread, no clothes (at a guess, the shepherds must be wearing them)... You stop for an instant, look at it twice. Wasn't it a bit further away from the wall, this morning? It might just be the shepherd boys tidying up after your tryst, or there might be another reason for pushing the rack against the wall. Pulling the rack away from the wall has revealed a small hole in the ground.
  
  > look at the hole
  What a surprise, a small cache. Now this goatherders are much more mysterious than you thought.
  The hole contains a small but finely made daidala.
  
  > examine daidala
  It is a little statuette of a bull, cast in bronze and lacquered in black, with lovingly carved ivory horns, small enough that it can stand on your open palm. The head is articulated, so that the horns can point up or down - either menacing, as during the ritual bulldancing, or towards the earth, in worship of the Goddess. Very, very clever, and so finely detailed it looks almost menacing. This belongs in a major shrine. You have very seldom seen works of similar craftsmanship... and all of them were tributes sent from your native Crete. You examine it carefully again. Yes, without the shadow of a doubt - this is no Achaean artifact. Only Cretan masters can produce such perfection.
  
  > take it
  Surprised, you take the statuette with careful fingers. What a place to find a holy piece. Really, what were these lads up to? Depending on its origin, they could be guilty of a most blasphemous crime.
  
  Well, well. Now you are really, really interested in having a conversation with those two. Where are they gone?