Ours is a society much addicted to washing. Our bathing facilities are renowned all over the civilized world. No one has devised a more elegant and ingenious method of cleaning the body and carrying away its wastes, and I do not believe that anyone ever will. The Queen of Egypt has not a bathroom so fine, even though it is said that she bathes in asses’ milk and honey for the sake of her complexion.
I am especially fond of my own bathtub. Well, to be truthful, it is not mine alone but belongs to my sisters as well as myself. Icarus’s father, Daedalus, made and decorated it for us, and Icarus helped him, though he was but a child at the time. For this latter reason it is doubly dear to me, but I love it mostly because it is beautiful and clever, like everything that Daedalus makes.
Since it is the bathing place for a princess who will someday rule an empire, the bathtub is designed to give information to the mind while the body sheds the dirt and odors of the day. It is a perfect model of our world, or as perfect as it can be and yet retain the shape of a bathtub.
We are the Sea People, or so we are often called. We live at the very center of the world, at the very center of the sea. Painted on the floor and sides of the tub is a map of the sea, with the Island of Kefti in the middle of it and along the rim the lands that border upon the sea. So, after Maira has released rainwater from the catchment reservoir on the roof into the tub, added a basinful of boiling water to make it hot, and poured in the fragrant oils, I climb inside and find myself sitting squarely on my own homeland, on top of a tiny representation of the Palace of Knossos.
As is fitting, my back is to the ignorant Ligurii in the west. (I have heard that still farther west lies an even greater sea than our own, with lands unimaginable lining its shores, but I care nothing for them; that which is not represented in my bathtub does not interest me.) My left arm lies on the northern shores of the sea, from whence come the Athenians and other Hellenes. My left knee presses upon the land of Anatolia, where the Hittites live. My right arm curls about the southern coast: arid Libya, where my sister Acalle is said to have gone.
Far, far to the east, above the drain hole and almost entirely out of the tub, lies Babylon, where they understand the secret pathways of the stars. Nearer, underneath my right foot where it rests on the rim, is the ancient land of Egypt. And scattered across the face of the sea, underneath my body where I cannot see them, are the many colonies of the Keftiu: Kamikos, Thera, Naxos, and others.
Painted dolphins and squid swim in the sea, camels lope across Libya, the inscrutable Sphinx guards the mouth of the ancient Nile—oh, it is a beautiful bathtub!
I have sat upon my mother’s throne often, and once or twice worn my mother’s crown. Never have I wished to be queen except, occasionally, in my bath.
And yet to be Queen of Kefti is to be queen of the world, or nearly so. We the Keftiu have no rival in the world, save Egypt. Alone among the nations of the eastern seas, we pay no tribute to Pharaoh; we are equals. The Keftiu do not begrudge Egypt her wealth. Why should we, when so much of it finds its way into our storehouses by means of trade?
Our people are makers and merchants. We have small heart for conquest, though we will do what we must to protect ourselves. It is in our best interests that the sea shall be peaceable and free from piracy; therefore, our ships patrol the waters far and wide, punishing those (Athenians, as often as not) who would attack and plunder honest merchants.
But our greatest joy is the making of things: things of beauty and usefulness, things to amuse and entertain, things of power and wonder. We make so many things that in the end we have not room in our houses and temples and palaces for them all, so we ship some of them to neighboring countries. In return, our neighbors send us lumber and metals and precious stones from which we make yet more things: vases and urns and libation cups, medicines, charms and magic rings, ornaments of gold and silver, finely wrought swords and jeweled ostrich eggs.
We the Keftiu are very clever and very, very rich.
CHAPTER THREE
Lost
SOMETHING DREADFUL HAS HAPPENED. MY BROTHER GLAUCUS is missing. No one can tell where he has gone.
Soaking in the bathtub, I heard the beginning of the uproar. I sent Maira to see what was going on while I dried myself off She returned, wailing and keening as though already mourning his death.
“The poor little boy! He’s wandered off by himself. He’s surely been eaten by lions!”
“Don’t be stupid, Maira,” I snapped. “There are no lions on Kefti.” Maira came from Anatolia, where these ferocious beasts are often heard roaring in the waste places.
“There is the lion in the Queen’s Menagerie,” she pointed out.
A chill washed over me in spite of the lingering heat of the day. Glaucus was just such a plump, round little boy who might be expected to appeal to a hungry beast of prey.
“Go and look, then,” I commanded.
“Oh, but—what if the lion is still loose, prowling around? I must stay and help you dress, Princess.”
“I am perfectly capable of dressing
