Lost in the Labyrinth (7 page)

"Speak no more about it. She is gone."

That is all she ever said on the subject, in my hearing at least, from that day to this. When one considered the many years of mourning and the vengeance exacted against the Athenians for the death of Androgeus, who was only a boy and could therefore never sit upon the throne, that fact was remarkable.

There were as many opinions on the subject as there were inhabitants of Knossos. Some said that Acalle, like many a royal heir, had grown querulous and discontented, tired of waiting for the day when she would be given some measure of real power, and had therefore been sent away to learn humility elsewhere. Some said she had died of a dreadful disease and been quietly buried. Others said that Acalle had fled south across the sea without her mother's consent.

For several months before she disappeared, the young king of Libya had been visiting Knossos to negotiate a trade agreement. All could see how my proud sister grew red and white by turns whenever he came near. Libya was a poor and desert land. Acalle would never have received permission to marry the ruler of Libya.

But why, if any of these things were true, would we not have heard after all these months?

I myself believed that our mother in her wisdom had discovered a spell aimed at her daughter and heir by some malignant magician and had therefore sent Acalle secretly away to a place of concealment until the spell was counteracted or the magician was discovered and destroyed.

But then, what would happen when Acalle returned? What a whirlwind that would bring!

I found myself hoping that Acalle was happily married, a queen in her husband's land, without designs on the throne of Kefti. I wished her well, but far away. She too was my sister, but, being so much older and the acknowleged heir, we had never been on terms of intimacy. It was Ariadnes happiness that most affected mine.

Ariadne would not be able to bear the loss of the throne. She had not the temper to accept having high estate snatched away from her. Even this loss of the Athenian slave was a bitter fruit she could not easily swallow.

The keeper of the granaries now entered with a complaint about the way the records were kept, and I decided to remove myself and the children. The need to understand proper accounting practices for all the great store of treasure and goods hidden in the bowels of the Labyrinth was one of the many reasons
I
would not wish to be the next queen. And besides, my wrist had begun to throb, although the doctor Asclepius had given me poppy juice in wine to ease it. Like Icarus, he did not believe that it was broken, only that the small muscles were torn and bruised.

We had been lucky. The arrival of the new Athenians meant that much less attention had been paid to our mishap than might otherwise have been the case. The servants who had been present on the mountaintop would now be dispersed to many households and have other things to think about. And the boy's parents would not speak of it. The child had escaped injury, and Lord Asterius was the queen's son.

So I comforted myself, and so I believed.

"Phaedra, Molus," I said quietly, "let us go to the kitchens and see if they will give us some dates to eat before the Presentation of the Athenians."

"Figs in honey." proposed Phaedra instead.

I shuddered, remembering Glaucus in his thick coating of honey. "No," I said. I picked the baby up with my uninjured arm, and Phaedra and I bowed to our mother and retired. She nodded and went back to listening to the keeper of the granaries speaking in a high, indignant voice about sixteen missing sacks of barley.

We the Keftiu are a people who enjoy celebration. There are many holidays, both major and minor, festive and grave, throughout the year. The Presentation of the Athenians is a modern rite, begun only twelve years ago. Since it is followed so soon after by the Festival of the Bulls, one of the great holidays of the year, it has over the years tended to flow into that celebration. The ritual is a solemn one, being in commemoration of the death of my brother Androgeus.

All of the attending populace wore their best mourning costumes as they gathered in the Bull Court, that central courtyard at the heart of the Labyrinth where most public occasions took place. Years ago, there had perhaps been a little more real grief as well as a good deal less jewelry displayed, but twelve years had come and gone since Androgeus had died in foreign lands, and people could not help but look forward to the festivities of the morrow with a cheerful face.

It might seem odd, this lengthy mourning for the death of a male child, but sons are always useful, and my parents had loved Androgeus dearly. I believe that much of the joy vanished from their lives when he did.

Today, however, both of my parents looked well content. The restoration of Glaucus almost on the anniversary of Androgeus's death seemed to have made gloom impossible. I wondered if this would be the beginning of forgetting for them both.

My mother wore her traditional mourning garments, but like many in the crowd she had decked herself with jewelry, and her eyes shone behind the mask of the Grieving Mother with a brightness not due to tears. My father, I noticed, bent down his head to speak with her, and she lowered her mask and smiled up at him. I could not catch the words, but the tone seemed unguarded and cheerful, as if they were exchanging family pleasantries. My spirits rose and I rocked the whimpering Molus on my knee to quiet him.

The musicians began to play a sorrowful dirge as a sign that the ceremony was about to begin. The crowd, recognizing its cue, groaned and cried and bewailed the death of Androgeus. Those who most hoped for royal favor tore at their elegant costumes. Some fell down on the ground and rubbed dirt into their faces and hair.

The new Athenians entered the Bull Court under guard.

Remembering what Icarus had said, I wondered what this must be like for them. If they believed that they were victims to be sacrificed to some dreadful beast, they would be terrified indeed. All were young, of about my age or a little older. I watched one. a girl with brown hair and small, delicate hands and feet. At first glimpse, I saw no signs of fear, but then as I studied her I realized that she had traveled far beyond fear, into that country where death comes as a welcome friend. I pitied her, and blamed the captain of the ship for not telling these wretched people their true fate. How long and sorrowful the journey must have been!

And now this great, mourning crowd was hardly a cheerful introduction to their new lives. I for one would be glad when the brief ceremony was over and I did not have to think of their dread any longer.

The young woman I had been watching was pushed forward by two guards, each carrying a sacred Labrys, the double-bladed ax consecrated to the Goddess. The Labrys is to be found everywhere in the palace, both in reality and in representation. It is carved, over and over again, into the walls of the Labyrinth. That is what the word labyrinth means: "Hall of the Double Ax." The girl stumbled and was steadied by one of the guards. She was made to come and stand before the queen.

Once before my mother, each guard rapped the Athenian girl smartly with the butt end of his Labrys—not the glittering blade end, but the blunt shaft—first on the back of her neck and then on the back of her knees. The rap on the back of her knees caused her to fall prostrate on the floor. It was a symbolic execution, payment for the death of Androgeus. In prior years my mother had received her tribute in silence, motionless behind her mask. Today she nodded her head, as though to hurry the ritual along.

The girl lay motionless for a moment until prodded by the guards. She lifted her head slightly and looked warily about, as though awaiting the final stroke of the Labrys, this time with the blade end. One of the guards prodded her again and motioned her to get up. Slowly she climbed to her feet and lifted her eyes to his. He pointed to a place by the wall away from the other prisoners and she fled, half fainting.

After a few of the Athenians had been thus presented, I thought I could sense a slight lessening of tension among those remaining as they realized that the ones who had gone before had come to no actual harm. They seemed glad enough to cooperate with the guards, to mimic death, since death had passed them by.

The last Athenian, a man a little older than Icarus, was brought before the queen. As the ceremony was so nearly over I turned my attention to Phaedra. After our fright of three days ago, I was determined not to lose her in the crowd as it dispersed. I was preparing to lead her away when a sudden interruption in the ceremony occurred.

The young man refused to fall down. He stood erect before my mother and called out something loudly in his own language. It was not. by the tenor of his voice, either a plea for mercy or a threat of violence. Outraged, the two guards struck at him furiously, over and over again, until he fell.

I took a firm grip of Phaedra's hand and hurried her away, wondering what the man had said. I knew some words of the Hellenic language through listening when Icarus spoke to the Athenians, but these words I did not recognize, and they were pronounced with a mainland accent. He was a great fool if he thought that any words of his would alter his fate, save for the worse. And why. when the others had safely survived the Presentation, did he seek to cause trouble?

That night at the feast, I sought to have myself placed near the captain of the ship that had brought the Athenians. I should have remained at the high table with the royal family, but no one objected. Compared to Ariadne I was unimportant and therefore allowed greater liberty.

I had not forgotten Icarus's dreams, you see, and I wished to hear them disproved. He had revealed only one to me. That one was ominous enough, and yet I thought that I disliked even more the other dream, the one that made him smile, and the one he kept secret from me. I thought that if one dream were proved false, that would refute them both.

The captain was flattered to be sought out and was soon talking about the voyage.

"No," he said, puzzled. "There was no great storm, Princess Xenodice. The weather is usually untroubled at this time of year. There was a little delay in loading some of the supplies, which made us later than we might have been, but otherwise..."

Feeling much happier, I then demanded, "And was there a weather witch on board with you?"

"Well, no. We had the usual charms on bow and stern, of course, as well as several wind catchers on the sail, but no witch. There's not a great deal of space on a ship like mine for passengers. In wintertime, of course, we'd welcome her, but as it was ..."

"I meant one of the Athenians."

He shrugged. "Frankly, your Highness, I don't know. I don't speak much of that Hellenic tongue. I've got an oarsman who knows it pretty well, and he translates for me when I have need. They're just cargo to me, you understand: I see to it they're fed and watered and none of them escapes or tries to kill himself or anyone else, and that's the end of my interest in them. I have other duties and little leisure to spare."

"Then," I said, struck by another thought, "I suppose you don't know what that young man, the last one to be presented to my mother the queen, said? That was strange."

"Oh, him!" growled the captain in disgust. "I know which one he was. Self-important young rooster! If I hadn't known my own life would be forfeit, I'd have tossed that man overboard and slept easier at night. Always talking, lecturing, arguing. My guess is that he's the son of someone important in Athens. Or somebody they think is important, anyway. They all look the same to me, even that King Aegeus. They call him King,' but he looks more like a dirty, toothless old dog to me."

"Did you see King Aegeus, then?" I asked, feeling some curiosity about the man who had caused my brother's death and so much misery to my parents.

"Not this time, my lady. Other years I've gone to collect tribute he's been there, striding up and down on the shore and cursing and shaking his fists at us, as though the whole thing wasn't his own fault to begin with. He doesn't come too close, I notice—my men are armed. No, as I say, this year I never caught sight of him. They seemed more upset this year. They always are, of course, but this year ... I suppose that man you asked about was somebody from one of the landed families and that got everybody more riled up than usual."

"But then, why would he be chosen to go? I know my mother demands the best beloved children, but surely that is a mere matter of form by now. Would not the wealthiest houses bribe a poor family into sending one of their children?"

"They choose them by lot, or so I understand. I suppose the rules about cheating are strict. After all, even they must fear the wrath of the Goddess, ignorant savages that they are."

I nodded.

"I tell you what, Princess," said the captain, with the cheerful unconcern of one who has successfully handed over a tedious responsibility. "I don't envy the family that ends up with that Theseus as a servant when his year of palace duty is up. Give me a slave who knows his place and how to keep his mouth shut."

"Theseus?"

"That's right, my lady. If there is one thing I do know about that man, it's his name. He kept saying it over and over all the way here, along with some other gibberish I couldn't understand. I am Theseus of Athens!' That's what he kept saying: I am Theseus of Athens and Troezen!'"

O
NCE, WHEN
I
WAS A LITTLE GIRL, THE GROUND BENEATH THE
Labyrinth shifted. Pots and jars fell to the floor and splintered, the roof of a jeweler's studio on the eastern side of the palace collapsed, and several minor fires blazed up where furniture or cloth had fallen into open fire pits.

It frightened me, but my nurse, Graia, assured me that it was nothing. "Only a bit of temper, no more," she said, and she told me this story.

"Deep within the Island of Kefti," she said, "below the deepest caverns, below even that realm where the dead people dwell, down in the darkness and the heat of the earth, there lives a gigantic bull. The Bull in the Earth is the dearly beloved husband of the Lady Potnia, She Who Made All Things.