Minotaur (2 page)

“Don’t I get to put my bags down? Perhaps a small goblet of wine? Maybe rest my legs for a moment or two?” said Ovid irritably. Not that he needed any more wine. Or rest for that matter. He’d had ample on board the ship. But that wasn’t the point. These legionnaires didn’t seem to possess any manners. Perhaps, this far away from the center of Roman power, they’d forgotten what civility they had once possessed.

“The ship leaves again in three days’ time, sir,” said the legionnaire patiently. “If you really want to explore, you don’t have much time. I thought you might want to make a start.”

“Oh, very well,” grumbled Ovid. More wine would evidentially have to wait.

The legionaries led him through the small town of Iraklion. It was a picturesque place with simple white washed cottages. Dotted amongst them were larger wooden and stone buildings with gabled roofs covered in terracotta tiles. Ovid’s delicate nose knew exactly what most of them stored. The air was filled with the heady fumes of sweet, sweet wine, Crete’s specialty. Ovid would’ve loved to have an opportunity to explore the contents of these buildings but it seemed he was to be denied.

They came to a stout structure that, in contrast to the buildings of indigenous design, was clearly of Roman origin. Its walls were tall, comprised mostly of large blocks of stone. Its fortified nature marked it for what it was—the local Roman barracks, home to the garrison.

He and the sailor were escorted inside. A stool was provided for Ovid and the sailor dropped the bags next to it, holding out a hand expectantly. Ovid fished around and produced a coin. The sailor bit it and, apparently satisfied with its authenticity, hastily departed. The legionaries told Ovid to make himself comfortable, promising to return shortly. Ovid complained loudly at this treatment to anyone who would listen but his complaints were largely ignored.

After waiting for an hour, Ovid, thoroughly irritated and more than a little thirsty, decided to take a more active approach. He stood and stalked over to a table where two legionaries were playing with dice.

“I demand to see someone in charge,” said Ovid. “I wish to complain.”

“We’ve noticed,” said one of the legionaries dryly, looking up from his game of chance.

“I have been kept waiting for longer than even the most patient man could tolerate. I haven’t even been offered some refreshment,” said Ovid. He would’ve said more but was interrupted by a voice behind him. Ovid turned.

“My apologies,” said the new arrival—a centurion by the looks of him. “There was an altercation down at the dock that I had to address. I’m sorry that we kept you waiting. Please follow me, sir.” He eyed the two dicing legionaries critically. “You,” he said, pointing to one of them, “get off your lazy ass and bring his bags.”

Ovid, slightly mollified by this, nodded his head curtly. The centurion led him through the barracks toward the rear of the building. They exited through an ancient wooden door that appeared to belong to a much older structure and found themselves out in a large training yard. It was empty save for one man holding the reins of a donkey.

Ovid blinked in surprise. It was the giant that he’d seen earlier.

“Publius Ovidius Naso, this is Ast,” said the centurion, introducing the giant. “He will guide you up the hill to the palace and show you around.”

Ovid extended his hand. It disappeared into the palm of the larger man.

“Greetings,” said Ast, his voice a low rumble reminiscent of boulders grinding against each other. He kept his head down and only met Ovid’s eye for a moment. His long hair shadowed the rest of his face, almost as if he was embarrassed somehow.

“The pleasure is all mine,” said Ovid easily. This, he decided, would be an interesting trip. Ast was clearly a local. Who knew what tales this man had? Perhaps some Ovid had never heard before. He felt his scholar’s intuition and thirst for good, well told stories flare up.

Even if Ast were lacking in conversation, the donkey would ensure an easy climb. Ovid’s wine skin was full. The sky was bright and clear. The sun was shining. Already, his irritation over his treatment by the legionaries was starting to subside.

The legionnaire dropped Ovid’s belongings at his feet. The poet fumbled around in his toga for his purse and extracted another coin. He held it out and then had second thoughts.

“You’ll get triple if you undertake another little task for me,” said Ovid, addressing the legionnaire. “See that warehouse in the distance over there? The one that smells of wine?”

Ω

Riding on the donkey was not as comfortable as Ovid had imagined. The roughly paved path that wound gently up the hill was not well maintained. This, Ovid mused, is what you got in the backwaters of the Empire.

The path followed the river Kairatos, which was pleasant enough. The cool air from the rushing waters kept the worst of the heat from stifling the two men as they ascended. The path was shaded in parts by large cypress and oak trees.

“I take it you live around here?” asked Ovid, more to pass the time than any great urge for conversation.

Beside him, Ast nodded his great head. “Yes. I live in a cottage not far from the ruins.”

“And what is it you do? I mean other than get into fights at the docks and act as guide to drunken poets?”

Ast looked surprised for a moment. “I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said slowly. “It was—as I said at the time—an accident. The aggrieved party didn’t concur with my worldview and decided to take his complaint to the garrison commander. The only reason I am not currently residing in one of their cells is because I agreed to guide you. As for what I do—I tend goats. I grow olives. I maintain the gardens of the palace. It is enough.”

“Why didn’t you hit that man?” asked Ovid. “He had it coming.”

Ast shook his head. “I have discovered that violence rarely solves problems. Years ago, I might’ve responded differently, but not now.”

“And what were you doing down at the docks?” asked Ovid.

Ast turned to stare at Ovid for a moment and the poet felt a little intimidated by the intensity in that stare. “You ask a lot of questions, poet, but if you must know, I was picking up supplies. And waiting,” said Ast, somewhat mysteriously.

“Waiting for what?” asked Ovid. Ast did not respond.

Ovid decided to change tack. “Was it the Romans who built this road?” he asked.

“No,” said Ast. “This is the remains of the royal road which led from the port to the palace itself.”

“Ah,” said Ovid. Maybe he couldn’t blame Roman engineers after all.

It was clear that the huge man was not inclined toward conversation. Ovid was content to let the remainder of the voyage pass in silence, guessing that Ast preferred to be alone with his thoughts.

It was over a league from Iraklion’s port to the top of Kephala Hill—where the ancient ruins of the palace of Knossos sat. It took the two men almost two hours to reach it, by which time Ovid had had enough. His body ached. The donkey, although well fed, was bony enough to cause his rear great discomfort.

He dismounted with a sigh of relief.

“Here you are,” said Ast, without preamble.

Ovid was surprised. He knew he would find ruins but he hadn’t quite expected this. The palace, scattered over a huge area, had well-tended gardens. Clearly, it wasn’t as neglected as he’d been led to believe. Ast must have been busy.

They tied the donkey to a nearby cypress and Ast led the way into the ruins. They passed under a covered stairway, which led them into the palace proper. Entering a massive courtyard, Ovid followed the giant, picking their way over fallen columns, some blackened by ancient fire. A shattered wall offered a vista over the valley.

“To the south there is the ancient site of the Caravanserai,” said Ast, pointing. “Further south, there used to be many houses. Once, a bridge crossed the river Vlychia. It collapsed during the last earthquake.” Ast pointed at the opposite shore. “That is Gypsades Hill,” he said. “The limestone for this palace and what lies beneath was quarried there.”

“And what exactly lies beneath?” asked Ovid. “Are you referring to the labyrinth, the home of the mythical Minotaur?”

Ovid saw Ast stiffen for a moment and wondered what he had said to offend.

“Yes,” said Ast. “We stand above the labyrinth.”

“Can I see it?”

Ast hesitated for a moment. “Why would you want to see it?” he asked.

“I am a scholar and a poet,” said Ovid. “Myths and legends of all sorts interest me. I am particularly interested in the tale of the Minotaur. You’ve heard of him, of course?”

Ast nodded. “Yes. Every Cretan has.” Without another word, he turned and began making his way through the myriad ruined rooms of the palace. Ovid had to confess that it was all very confusing. The palace itself contained over a thousand rooms. If he hadn’t had Ast along, he surely would’ve become lost.

Eventually, they came to the lowest floor of the palace. A large part of it had collapsed, tumbling massive limestone blocks down into the darkness below.

“This is the way into the labyrinth,” said Ast. “Come.”

“Don’t we need a torch?” asked Ovid. He’d always been a little scared of the dark.

“There is no need,” said Ast. “I know the way better than any other. Inside, other parts of the roof have collapsed allowing light to enter.”

Sighing theatrically, Ovid gingerly picked his way over the tumbled blocks and down into the darkness of the labyrinth. The things he did for his muse, he reflected.

Ω

“So, this is where it all happened, is it?” asked Ovid, squinting in the gloom. As promised by Ast, the destruction wrought by the earthquake over a thousand years earlier had opened up enough of the ceiling to see. Just. “Not much to look upon, is there?”

“This was the home of the Minotaur,” said Ast, leading the way into the darkened depths. Amazingly, the huge man seemed utterly confident and at ease within the ruins, picking his way through the rubble as if born to it.

“How much time do you actually spend down here?” asked Ovid.

“More than I should,” said Ast. “Less than I used to.”

“You’re not being terribly helpful,” complained Ovid, puffing as he struggled to keep up. Ahead of him, Ast simply shrugged his great shoulders.

True to Ast’s word, there was just enough light to see by. The labyrinth was made of massive limestone blocks, which seemed to glow ever so slightly. Many of the blocks lay toppled on the ground before them, shattered and broken. Ovid suspected it was more a maze now than it had ever been.

Ast paused at a branch in one of the corridors. A spear of light, produced by a rift in the smashed palace above, illuminated what appeared to be ancient scratches on the blocks. Ast regarded them thoughtfully, almost sadly.

“What are those?” asked Ovid, squinting at the marks.

At first, it appeared that Ast had not heard him, lost in his own thoughts. Finally, he spoke.

“Marks left by the old inhabitant. Marks he used to count the passing of days.”

“You mean the Minotaur?” asked Ovid.

Ast nodded once. “Yes,” he said.

“And how exactly do you know that?” asked Ovid scornfully. “All this,” he said, indicating the ruins around him, “happened long, long ago. How could you possibly know what transpired here?”

“I know more than you think, poet,” said Ast. “More than you would dare to ask. Even if you did know the truth, I doubt whether you would believe it.”

“You’d be surprised,” said Ovid, smiling now. “Poets have a reputation for thirsty minds. And throats.”

They continued walking in silence for some time. Ast did not once hesitate, moving through the labyrinth with a familiarity that was slightly unsettling. Much like Ovid had in his large home back in Rome. Ovid followed nervously. Something was out of kilter here. Something wasn’t quite right. His poet’s intuition told him so and he had long ago learnt not to ignore it. He just wasn’t sure what it was. With a growing sense of unease, he continued to follow the giant.

“And this is where Theseus slew the great beast?” Ovid asked eventually.

“Some say that,” said Ast. Ovid couldn’t be sure, but there was something in the big man’s tone he didn’t recognize. Something dangerous.

“That’s what they
all
say,” said Ovid. “Every single scholar and poet before me says that Theseus cut off the monster’s head in this place.”

“Don’t always believe what you read,” countered Ast.

“Oho,” said Ovid, laughing gently. “Did you know I have written about this very subject before?” Ovid considered himself somewhat of an expert on the subject. He’d mentioned Theseus and the Minotaur several times in his work.

Ast turned and faced him. He was completely motionless, as if made of the same stone that comprised the labyrinth. His eyes met those of Ovid’s. It was a little frightening to be confronted by such a look. Ovid began to feel slightly intimidated.

‘“
The bones of my brother he crushed with his triple-knotted club and scattered o’er the ground; my sister he left at the mercy of wild beasts.
’
I am aware of who you are and your work. Your
Heroides
is a work of pure fiction.”

Ovid was taken aback. Ast had quoted directly from his work. In fact, from the speech written by Phaedra—the Minotaur’s supposed sister—referring to the death of the monster at the hands of Theseus. “So you know more than scholars and poets now, do you?” asked Ovid, unable to control the amusement in his voice.

“Perhaps I do,” said Ast finally.

“And how would you know that?” said Ovid, intrigued now.

“Because I was there,” said Ast simply.

Ovid’s mouth fell open in surprise. And then he began to laugh again. “You were there? Don’t be ridiculous. We are talking over a thousand years ago.” Clearly, the man was deranged. He didn’t look any older than his third decade. Ovid began looking around as casually as he could, trying to remember the way out. He’d make his escape, return to port, and complain about Ast. He’d have him arrested and get those stupid legionaries at the garrison to give him a guide who wasn’t mad.