“This little figurine of the musician, despite its small size, radiates incredible power,” archaeologist Eirini Galli whispers to me as we stand before a display case at the back of the temporary exhibitions hall at the Heraklion Archaeological Museum. Indeed, the musician’s open mouth and the way his body leans forward, fingers touching the lyre, create the illusion that you might actually hear a note from the melody he is playing. This bronze figurine dates back to the 8th century BCE and, as the archaeologist explains, reflects one of the most captivating aspects of Crete’s archaic cities: the power of storytelling. “Sharing food and stories is the most effective way for people to form bonds and connections.”
Moving to the next case, we see some of the utensils once used in the andreia, the communal dining halls where all male citizens of a city would eat together, each contributing to the cost of the meal according to his means. The entire exhibition, as envisioned by the museum’s director Stella Chrysoulaki and curated together with the head of the Museology and Exhibitions Department, Eirini Galli, is filled with small objects that vividly bring to life the daily existence of a time once considered a blank spot in Crete’s history – the so-called “archaic silence.”
Built on a Myth
Absolute silence still reigns at the site of ancient Rizinia, also known as Patella of Prinias, one of the hundred archaic cities of Crete, located about half an hour south of Heraklion. The only visible clue to its presence is the white Chapel of Saint Panteleimon, dramatically perched atop a tall gray tuff rock. With Manolis Piperakis, better known as Mastromanolis, a seasoned stonemason from nearby Ano Asites, we climb the stairs leading to the ruins of the ancient city. At 650 meters above sea level, the fortified city had a breathtaking view; to the north, the Cretan Sea glistens, and to the south stretches the Asterousia mountain range. In every direction, vineyards and olive groves cover rolling hills dotted with purple irises resembling miniature orchids.
“All of Crete, and all of Greece, is built upon a myth, a story,” Mastromanolis says as we walk along a steep slope toward the white chapel. “But the story is so enchanting, it still gives us food for thought.” Every so often, we encounter low mounds – collapsed remnants of ancient buildings. The Italian archaeological mission at Prinias is working to restore some of them. As we find some better-preserved wall sections, Mastromanolis explains an unusual characteristic of Cretan dry-stone masonry: “Because the land is full of small stones, the masons always found ways to use them in tandem with larger ones.” He points to one of Mt Psiloritis’ curved peaks in the distance, explaining that he and his team once built a chapel there using only the stones they found on site. To their surprise, they discovered an ancient temple nearby, likely built the same way.
Rizinia had two ancient temples, and we try to locate their remains among the piles of stones. At one point, Mastromanolis exclaims emotionally, “Ah, my fellow craftsman! How did you make this?” In front of us lies a finely carved cornerstone from the rectangular foundation of one of the temples. I ask him how much the craft of stone masonry has changed since the time of his ancient “colleague.” His disarming answer: “Very little.”
The rest of the temple, however, is long gone – except for parts of a grand frieze, now kept at the Heraklion Archaeological Museum, that depicts a procession of horsemen; that frieze, Eirini Galli had told me, dates from an era when cities had moved beyond the ideal of the mythical hero and began fostering solidarity among fellow warriors. It was a time when Crete already had a sophisticated legal system, and its maturity was recognized by cities of mainland Greece.
Every Stone Has a Story
The tuff stone used for the frieze is abundant in Prinias and was also used for funerary steles, some of which were found just outside the ancient city. One ancient funerary stele depicts an aristocratic woman holding a distaff. Women in archaic Crete played an active role in the community. It’s telling that the word for “homeland” on the island was “mitrida” (from mother) instead of the more common “patrida” (from father).
As we descend toward the site’s exit, Mastromanolis picks up a dry plant stem about a meter long, with small offshoots at one end. Because of its shape, women used it as a natural distaff to spin wool. Men, on the other hand, used it in jest, gifting it to village fathers of newborn daughters.
Driving toward Ano Asites, Mastromanolis reflects on the stories locked within the stones of old buildings: “Every stone set in a wall holds a person’s story. It’s a shame to remove them. Many old stone houses are considered beyond repair by engineers. But, in most cases, if you intervene in the right places, these buildings can be saved, and so can their stories.” He has restored many such structures, both in his village and throughout Crete.
One striking example is the Venetian Chapel of Saint Anthony in the Ano Asites Gorge. A gradual shifting of boulders once threatened to push the building off a cliff. With the right interventions, the chapel was stabilized and restored. Parts of its façade, including a Venetian coat of arms and a stone relief of a lion’s head, seem to come from other buildings but now form a harmonious whole with its other unique elements: a carved stone basin by the entrance, and a bell made from a German shell left behind after World War II. Mastromanolis rings the bell, and its sonorous tone lingers in the air for an unexpectedly long time, reminding me of these ancient stones, survivors that testify to a vanished past.
