She had been a mother then, in her mid-twenties, and gone by a different name. The wife of a fisherman with two children, a boy and girl, native ‘Kunisu ’ people, living on the northern coastline of Crete, about a day’s travel from the grand palace at Knossos.

  And what a grand palace it was! Adorned with bright yellow ochre walls; crimson columns; and beautifully painted frescos depicting dolphins, ships, and bull- leaping. The women in the palace – priestesses, the high-born, wives of administrators – strode along with laughter and joviality, dressed in luxurious brightly coloured patterned gowns.

  Antechambers were filled with skilled artisans creating beautiful clothing; ornaments; and jewellery from ivory, bone and precious metals.

  She had visited the palace on several occasions with her family for religious ceremonies and festivals. But that was before the waves, before she lost everything. Before the collapse.

  The first wave came in the early morning. She remembers walking near the beach, carrying a clay jar of g aros, a fish paste, with her children next to her, laden with baskets of molluscs. They were making their way to a town further inland to sell their wares in the market. But there would be no market today.

  There had been talk of course for several months. People were muttering about the Gods being displeased. They had heard stories from traders: first of the ground being shaken at Akrotiri, buildings falling and people leaving the settlement in fear. Ash had fallen from the sky. The priestesses were consulted, offerings made, but life carried on as before.

  She remembers hearing the explosion some minutes before. Like a huge clap of thunder. The ground seems to wobble for the briefest of moments. She looks out but everything appears calm for the moment. She thinks that it’s just a normal storm and gathers the children before leaving the house.

  Minutes later she turns back to look at the sea, as if some instinct told her of impending danger. She sees the water suddenly recede, swept back out into the ocean, then the towering wave coming directly towards them.

  She doesn’t remember anything else. Not the wave hitting them, nor being dragged and churned around and deposited amongst gorse bushes at the foot of a cliff. She assumes later, thankfully, that she was knocked senseless from the impact.

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  When she regains consciousness her first thought is for her children. She knows her husband is lost. He was out at sea, fishing, a couple of miles from shore. He would have had no chance. But the fact that she’s still alive gives her hope and she spends the coming weeks frantically searching for her children, questioning other survivors, before accepting her loss.

  The ground shakes. Three more waves come; each brings more devastation. Their homes are broken, the beaches littered with the smashed pieces of their once proud Navy. Each high tide brings more debris ashore. The sky turns orange and dark; and an immense column of smoke can be seen far out to sea, towering into the heavens.

  After a few weeks boats begin to arrive once more, bringing ever more frightening reports of death and destruction. An expedition is arranged to what remains of the island of Thera, finding that it has been largely destroyed and Akrotiri obliterated. It is as if the Gods had smashed their fists down upon it.

  All around her the once great civilisation, the jewelled centre of their world, is paralysed for a moment, before commencing a painfully drawn-out two-hundred-year decline towards collapse.

  It was unnoticeable at first, but once started proceeded with an unstoppable momentum. It becomes obvious that ‘those-in-charge’, the King Priest and Priestess, religious leaders, and palace officials are overwhelmed and incapable of the enormity of the task facing them. For years the efficient bureaucracy of the state has guaranteed their prosperity and safety. Now it acts as an encumbrance, thwarting the task of rebuilding.

  Survivors along the coast move inland, seeking food and shelter, in fear of more devastation. The people who live inland close their settlements to outsiders, refuse to trade or share resources, and violently attack strangers. Orders from the Palace are ignored.

  The coming winter will be the coldest they have ever seen. Starvation, exposure, and disease rise as crop yields collapse and outside trade dwindles to a trickle.

  Eventually the people turn upon their rulers. Many have already fled months before and attempt to hide. Most are quickly discovered and unceremoniously and brutally battered to death by crowds. They are the obvious targets for blame. The right offerings hadn’t been made; prayers left unsaid. Rumours circulate that offerings intended for the Gods have been stolen, sold, or stockpiled by corrupt priests.

  The Great Civilisation tries to repair itself, tries to climb back to its glorious heights, but they are not the same people anymore. They are a people who have been knocked down and now lack the confidence to rise back up. No longer a community but individuals vying against each other for survival.

  Across the sea the Mycenaeans see the opportunity and grasp it, greedily. They arrive, install themselves in the palace, and impose their culture and rule upon the island. Archaic Greek replaces the Minoan spoken language, and the writings change their meaning to match.