Goddess With Snakes The Incipit

1.

"...and so, the frescoes at Knossos--those vibrant scenes of dancers, bull-leapers, and sea creatures--reveal not just a modern aesthetic sensibility, but a world where women stood at the center of ritual and spectacle. Leaders. Priestesses. Maybe Queens."

Eirene paused, stepping from the lectern to the display table where the statuette stood, glazed and gleaming under the overhead lights.

"This," she said, lifting the small but potent figure for all to see, "is the Goddess with Snakes."

The students leaned forward.

She held the statuette high--a bare-breasted woman in a flounced skirt, arms raised, serpents coiled in each hand, one even slithering up from her headdress.

"Power is not quiet," Eirene continued, voice smooth as poured honey. "Not when it's embodied like this. She doesn't whisper. She stares you down. Look at her posture--assertive, unapologetic. She knows she's the center of the scene. She is both spectacle and sovereign."

She looked up from the figure and let her gaze travel over the room. Then, her tone dropped--quieter, almost private.

"She says: I AM the Goddess with Snakes."

She placed the figure down with care, her fingertips lingering for a heartbeat. Then, she turned back to the room and smiled at her small class. Just five students. Four women. One man.

"Questions?"

Nahla raised her hand immediately. Of course.

"Go ahead, Nahla."

The young woman sat with her ample bosom lifted high, her kente-print wrap skirt ending just above the knee, the rich golds, reds, and greens glowing against the deep, smooth tone of her bare legs, her notebook a triumph of color-coded ink and post-it flags. Her glasses had slid to the tip of her nose, and her gaze, sharp as obsidian, didn't flinch.

"Professor, don't you think what we're seeing in those frescoes isn't just symbolic? I mean--if women are leading ceremonies, holding snakes, standing unflinching beside charging bulls... doesn't that suggest real power? A society shaped by women, not just decorated with them?"

Shaped versus Decorated. A whole feminist theory in two words. Eirene tilted her head.

"That's the real question," she said, stepping forward. "We don't have historical records--just the echoes in art, burial practices, architecture. But, indeed, women appear again and again in commanding, visible roles. And that doesn't happen by accident."

Nahla's eyes flicked briefly to the chalk-stained hem of Eirene's blouse, then back up, unapologetically. It wasn't the first time Eirene had caught that look. But it was the first time she didn't quite know what to do with the flicker when it sparked in her chest, echoing down there. Not discomfort. Not exactly. Something warmer and wetter. Something inconvenient.

"But Nahla," Alejandro added, his gaze challenging the Black girl as usual, "don't you think there's a danger in projecting modern feminism onto ancient societies? I mean, visibility doesn't always mean authority. You can elevate women in ritual and still keep the real power elsewhere."

Elsewhere. In the Dean's office, for example. The elevation of women promoted by the Patriachal academic top management was just a ritual, indeed.

Nahla leaned forward, a short glare at Alejandro, addressing Eirene again.

"But don't you think it's worth imagining, Professor? A society not just influenced by women--but organized around them? Minoan Crete as a matriarchal blueprint... not just some wishful thinking from the sixties."

Eirene swallowed, just a little too hard. The way Nahla said "Professor" lingered in the air like intoxicating perfume.

"I think," Eirene said carefully, "that if such a society existed, it would have left traces. And maybe--just maybe--it did. We just haven't learned how to read them yet."

The silence that followed felt a little heavier than it should've.

She glanced at the semicircle of students before her--only five enrolled. The Dean didn't grasp the reason why she loved this group so much, of course. Yet, it was easy to understand: they were brilliant, and strange, and made the air around them hum with the sense that something important--something forbidden--might be unfolding beneath the surface.

Nahla and Alejandro, Ellen and Alice.

One by one, they stood and filtered out, murmuring and stretching as they left the room behind.

Nahla lingered a second longer than the others. Eirene pretended not to notice. Or tried to.

"Great lecture," Nahla said softly. "You make the past feel... alive."

There was something loaded in the way she said it. Something dangerous. Not quite innocent.

"Thank you, Nahla," Eirene replied, her voice smooth, her heart betraying her with a low pulse she refused to acknowledge. "I'll see you tomorrow."

As Nahla's figure disappeared through the doorway, Eirene found herself wondering--again--what it would feel like to be seen through Nahla's eyes. Not as a professor. Not as a mentor. Not as an archaeologist.

As a woman.

She shook the thought away.

It would pass.

It always did.

...Wouldn't it?

2.

Eirene turned to wipe the board clean, but before she could reach for the cloth, the door creaked open.

"Professor Elefterakis?"

It was Marta--the kind janitor. Late forties, but still striking: high cheekbones, proud posture, streaks of silver glinting through her braid like lightning caught mid-strike. Her eyes, though--those were tired. Wary. A woman who had learned to look over her shoulder even when sweeping an empty room.

She held out a cream-colored envelope.

"This was left on the front desk. Marked urgent."

Eirene took it, recognizing the Dean's official stationery.

Professor Elefterakis,

Please stop by my office at your earliest convenience this afternoon.

--Dean Hayworth

Polite. Slippery. Dangerous.

Marta hesitated. Her grip on the mop shifted. "I used to clean his floor. Just... don't let the nice paper fool you. He is not a nice man."

Their eyes locked. No gossip in that look--just one woman warning another.

"Thank you, Marta," Eirene said.

The janitor gave her a small, weary nod and backed away down the hall.

3.

The Dean's suite sat at the top of the main hall like a throne room: rich walnut walls, overstuffed leather, thick rugs that swallowed footsteps. Portraits of dead white men lined the walls. No women. Eirene paused at the door, then knocked.

Inside, Dean Hayworth looked up slowly, like a man annoyed by the interruption but pretending not to be.

"Professor Elefterakis," he said, savouring her name like a slow pour of syrup. "Come in. Shut the door behind you."

She pretended to do so, but left it ajar.

He rose from behind his desk--tall, still trim for a man in his sixties, but with that loose-hipped arrogance of someone who thought charm and power were interchangeable. His tie was loosened, shirt unbuttoned just low enough to show a yacht-captain tan line.

"I wanted to speak with you before the semester ends," he said, gesturing to the chair across from him. "It's about your position. Your future here at our University."

She stayed standing.

"I assumed the department was satisfied with my performance," she said evenly. "Student feedback has been strong."

He waved one hand like swatting a gnat. "Oh, I'm sure your little fan club adores you. Especially that Black girl, Nahla--always perched on the edge of her seat. And Alejandro. He watches you like you're an Olympic goddess. But Latinos, you know..."

The Dean stood, circled the desk, and stopped uncomfortably close. "But you know what the board cares about: enrollment. Numbers. And those aren't in your favor. But I am the Dean, they owe me a couple of favours."

She said nothing.

He moved toward the door and secured it, dropping the key in the pocket of his tailored jacket.

"There are unwritten rules in Academia.." He moved even closer, his musky perfume hitting Eirene's nostrils. His hand brushed the front of her blouse, fingers grazing the curve of her breast as he reached to adjust her collar. "...and I am sure you know them, girl."

Girl. It happened fast. Her body responded before her mind caught up.

She dropped her weight slightly, grabbed the collar of his jacket--not hard, just enough to steady him in position--and drove her knee upward, straight into his groin.

The contact was solid, perfect.

He crumpled instantly with a muffled groan.

Eirene stepped back, heart hammering in her chest.

"I took a self-defense seminar last fall," she said, mustering all the calm she could. "The student you don't like too much--Alejandro--was the instructor. He is a Kraft-Maga master, you'd be surprised how much I learned in three weekends."

He looked up at her, red-faced and stunned, "You little... bitch." he gasped.

"The key, Dean, please, or should I repeat the concept?" she said, proffering a hand, her knee poised. A flicker of fear crossed his eyes, and he obliged. She turned and walked out, heels tapping against the floor. While hurrying toward her office, she dropped the Dean's office key in a dustbin, nonchalantly, en passant.

4.

Eirene closed her office door gently, then she leaned against it for a moment, eyes shut, as though the quiet might cushion the storm pounding in her chest.

Her office. Her little sanctuary, She sank into her chair, closed her eyes and breathed three times, inhaling slowly, exhaling even more slowly.

She opened her eyes. Her books, her papers, her lecture notes. Her promising career, ruined. She has just ruined it.

She exhaled sharply, jaw tight. Angry. Angry at the Dean, at herself, at the patriarchal dominance of academia. I shouldn't have done it. Maybe a less violent answer would have been enough.

Then, she saw Alejandro at the self-defense course--striking eyes, short beard, calm like a coiled spring, "Women, your attacker will be stronger. Always. And he will attack you when he believes he is safe, and you'll be unbalanced, and he believes you eventually yield to his dirty intentions. That's why you need to master the finishing move. The Finishing Move. Grab his lapels, smile, and drive your knee upward, directly at his balls."

We practiced the move, and I was pleased by my proficiency. But Alejandro was not. "You see, Profesora, you are fit and strong and fast. Your body is ready. But your mind is not. You hesitate. Your mind should be as ready as your body. No hesitation. No proportional response. No mercy. Certain situations--let's call them red flags--require immediate, automatic reaction."

As the other students shuffled out of the gym, we stayed. Alejandro pinned my wrist and stepped in close, his forearm brushing the swell of my chest.

"Twist out, Profesora," he said, voice low, beard shadow rough and tempting near my cheek.

I nodded, heart thudding. His grip was firm, dominant. His scent--leather, sweat, something male--wrapped around me like heat.

I moved, but not fast enough. He caught me again, one strong thigh between mine, his chest grazing my nipples through the thin fabric of my tank top. No bra. I'd told myself it was for mobility.

"Too slow," he murmured, eyes dark.

God, the way he looked at me--like he knew I was imagining him pushing me against the mat, yanking those yoga pants down, making me beg in Spanish.

"Again," he said, lips so close I almost leaned in.

I swallowed. "Yes, Alejandro."

His smile was slow, dangerous. "Good, Profesora. You're learning."

Well, I have learnt--she was thinking. Alejandro would be proud of me now, woudn't he? But am I? He is a man, and violence is the way men solve their problems. Is there a women's way?

She stared at her half-revised submission to The Journal of Mediterranean Archeology. The Snake Goddess--Power, Ritual, and the Feminine Divine in Minoan Crete.

The first figure was the classic representation of the Goddess with Snakes. She looked at her. And the Goddess stared back--those twin serpents coiled around her hands, her face composed, regal, terrifying in its calm. And then, Nahla's voice echoed back to her, sharp and sure:

"What if Minoan society wasn't just unique, but revolutionary? A woman-led civilization--fluid, sacred, powerful.

Eirene's throat tightened. Nahla--brilliant, unapologetic, fire-bright Nahla--had looked right at her when she said it. God, the way Nahla watched her--fierce and warm at once, like worship with a pulse. Eirene had dismissed it at first as student crush energy. But the truth was harder. Sharper.

She hadn't wanted to admit how it made her feel.

Seen. Desired. Loved.

She shifted in her chair, suddenly aware of her own skin, the memory of Nahla's laugh, the slope of her neck where her African braids fell, the glint of intelligence behind those glasses. It was impossible not to remember the way Nahla had leaned forward in class, how her gaze had lingered--not on the slides, but on her.

Eirene closed her eyes, and what she saw was not the man in the power chair, nor the impossibly handsome Latino instructor, but the young woman in the first row with a notebook full of fire.

The Snake Goddess. That eternal, unbothered stare. The bold curve of her breasts, the snakes held aloft not in fear but in command.

Fight back.

No shame.

No retreat.

5.

The next morning, Eirene arrived early.

She had dressed with intent. Cream silk blouse, deep at the neckline. High-waisted, flared maxiskirt in Mediterranean colors. Around her neck, the gold chain her grandma gave her. Her curls wild and free, haloed in morning light.

Nahla was already in her seat. She looked up--and froze.

Eirene saw it: the breath caught in her throat, the hunger in her eyes. Something passed between them. Unspoken. Undeniable.

She stepped to the front and switched on the projector.

"The Snake Goddess of Knossos is not modest. She is not maternal. She is not here to comfort," Eirene began, voice low but cutting through the air like a ritual blade.

"She is here to be seen as a woman. To hold feminist power. A power devoid of violence."

Unexpectedly, Ellen and Alice extracted their cell phones and started punching away. What were they doing? Social and successful as they were, they were never distracted. But Eirene was already carried away by her own vision.

"The Goddess stands with serpents in her hands. Not symbols of healing--but dominion. Control. Command. Her breasts are bared not in submission, but in declaration."

She moved as she spoke, slowly pacing the front of the room. Her chain glinted. Her hips shifted with purpose. "She doesn't explain. She doesn't ask. She commands."

Behind her, the Snake Goddess glared from the projection--wide eyes, serpents raised, chest bare, unrepentant.

Then the door opened at the back.

She didn't turn.

But she felt it.

The energy changed.

More people entered. Ellen and Alice's social cohort. Someone took out their phone and spread the word. Then, not just students. Faculty. Grad assistants. Admin. Some peered in from the hallway. A whisper passed from one face to another: something's happening.

She looked directly at her students.

"I told you," she said softly, "she didn't beg to be understood."

And then--without hesitation--she undid the buttons of her blouse.

One. Two. Three.

The silk parted.

Her breasts were bare.

There was no gasp. No laughter.

Just a collective intake of breath. Like the room exhaled and forgot how to inhale again.

Eirene stood tall, arms slightly out, eyes fixed forward. The living echo of the Goddess behind her.

"I AM the Goddess with Snakes."

6.

Eirene was feeling the cold air on her bare breasts, but wondered if the hardness of her nipples was due to that. I am a madwoman. What now?

And then--Nahla stood.

She walked to the front of the room, eyes locked on Eirene like there was no one else.

She didn't say a word.

She kissed her professor.

Hard. Honest. Deep.

Her hands were on Eirene's waist. Their mouths colliding in heat and hunger and unfiltered need.

Eirene froze.

Just for a moment.

And then--she saw the Dean.

He had entered the room silently and was looking at her tits, his expression triumphant as he took some pictures.

And Eirene kissed her back.

The blouse hung open. She made no move to close it.

She turned to the room--her students, the onlookers, the witnesses.

Still smiling, the Dean shuffled out of the room.

She didn't button back up.

She gathered her notes, turned off the projector, and walked from the room--head high, breasts bared, eyes blazing.

Behind her, the silence was no longer empty.

It was sacred.

The rite was completed.

The reckoning, just beginning.

6.

Eirene sat alone in her office, the late afternoon sun falling in slanted bars across the floor. Her satchel was already half-packed--books from the shelf, the small ceramic goddess from her desk, a framed photo of her and her half-sister at Knossos, both laughing, wind in their hair.

She hadn't heard anything yet. But the Board meeting had been scheduled for that morning. And the Dean didn't strike her as a man who let grudges go quietly. Especially not when they came from women who said no. And hit back.

She checked her email, again. Still nothing.

Maybe they were letting it sit a day, letting it cool, waiting for some "neutral" phrasing to land right--an HR-approved dismissal, bureaucratically worded but perfectly clear. Your services will no longer be required. Due to restructuring. Thank you for your contribution.

She had already rehearsed what she'd say. What she wouldn't say.

And still--she didn't regret it.

Not the blouse. Not the lecture. Not the kiss.

Especially not the kiss.

Nahla's lips, fierce and soft at once. The taste of audacity. The moment she leaned in, bare-chested and unflinching, and claimed something in front of them all--before Eirene even realized she'd wanted to be claimed.

She looked at her reflection in the darkened window. Tired, yes. But upright. Whole.

She could leave like this. With her spine intact. With her breasts into the sun.

Then--her inbox pinged.

Undergrads from departments she'd never taught were begging for overrides into her class. Grad students asked to audit, citing "intellectual pilgrimage" like it was a sacred rite. One email simply read, "ICONIC," subject line all caps, no punctuation.

So good, to fall like a star, burning bright to the end.

7.

Last lesson of her course. Ellen and Alice were reading an issue of the university students journal, titled Aletheia--unveiling truth. The journal ran a profile: The Professor Who Became the Goddess. The lead image was a still from the lecture--her silhouette, arms outstretched, serpents mid-flicker on the slide behind her. The piece called it "a radical reclamation of ritual space, merging scholarship with embodied defiance." Eirene snorted. She hadn't planned it that way.

But she had not planned it, either.

The Women's and Gender Studies department had invited her to speak at their spring colloquium. The classics department--previously cold, occasionally condescending--now called her "trailblazing." A feminist student collective had left flowers on her office chair: lavender, iris, and a dramatic twist of snake grass wrapped in recycled gold foil.

Unexpectedly, Marta entered her classroom.

A memo from the Dean's office.

No header. No warm salutation this time. Just a line of text:

"Your position has been confirmed for the upcoming academic year."

To Be Continued