Minotaur (22 page)

I bent down and attempted to separate them. I finally pried Theseus’s fingers away from Androgeus.

The events that followed are still a blur. Perhaps time has blunted my memories. Perhaps I just don’t want to remember, unwilling to deal with the pain. Theseus, deranged at the time, has no clear recollection either.

What I think happened is this. I bent down in order to drag them apart. Just as I did so, Theseus gave Androgeus a final push. Rage gave him strength. My head was down.

Androgeus impaled himself on my horns. They slid into his body easily, almost as if they were welcomed. Despite my unreliable memories, I can distinctly remember the terrible soft, wet sound as horn met the flesh of my brother.

Androgeus cried once and sagged against me. Horrified, I lowered him to the ground and withdrew my terrible spikes. His life’s blood gushed forth.

I held Androgeus in my arms. He smiled at me. “It’s not your fault, brother,” he said and died.

I lowered my head and cried like I have never cried before or since, completely overcome with grief and self-loathing. My horrible deformity had cost my brother his life. I loved Androgeus deeply. He was a far better man than I and a wonderful brother. I miss him still.

I don’t know how long I held the dead body of my brother. I was vaguely aware of people coming and going, of the sound of crying, and of voices raised in anger. It meant nothing to me. All I could think was that my brother was dead.

Eventually, rough hands pried my fingers away from him. Despite my struggles, my arms were forced behind my back, and I was shackled. I was dragged roughly to my feet. I howled with despair and anger as the body of my brother was carried from the room.

The chamber was now packed with people. I recognized several faces. Theseus, of course, was still present, his rage subsided, white with shock. King Aegeus was there as was Minos. The rest of my family had gathered, but I only had eyes for Phaedra. She regarded me with a terrible sadness. My heart broke when I saw her look. I can only imagine what she thought at the time. That somehow I had deliberately killed my brother. I desperately wanted to explain, to tell her that it was all a misunderstanding, that Androgeus had died by accident.

I never got a chance. Guards dragged me away. I still remember the pained look on Theseus’s face.

I was taken to one of Minos’s ships bobbing in the harbor and chained within a darkened recess of the hold. And there I stayed. I can’t be sure how long I was in there, but I was given neither food nor water. Not that I would’ve accepted either, deep in the embrace of my private hell.

Finally, Phaedra came to see me. I was a little surprised that Minos had allowed it, but I guess he realized that it would be another form of torture for me. Her face was a picture of sorrow. I wept when I saw her, saddened beyond belief that I had caused such pain.

She regarded me for a long moment before speaking. “Did you really kill our brother, Asterion?”

For a moment, I couldn’t believe that she had asked that. That she had needed to ask that. Did she really think so little of me?

“It was an accident,” I sobbed, overcome with grief. “Theseus pushed him, and he stumbled onto my horns. It was an accident.”

She looked me in the eyes and saw truth there. She did, after all, know me better than perhaps anyone.

“That’s what Theseus said, but no one believes him,” she said. “I spoke to him in private, and he told me the whole story. It doesn’t matter though. It’s much better to believe that a monster killed him.”

“Is that what people are saying?” I asked in disbelief. “That I’m a monster?”

“Yes. The whole city is talking about it. They say that you killed Androgeus in a jealous rage because he sided with Theseus over his marriage to me.”

“Is that what you think?” I asked.

“I … I don’t know what to think any longer. The thought, I confess, crossed my mind. You have changed, Asterion. I know how you loved Androgeus, I know how much he meant to you, but rage does appalling things to a man.”

A terrible sadness filled me. Sadness that even Phaedra, my Phaedra, doubted me. Angrily, I pushed aside the feeling.

“What’s going to happen to me?” I asked. I didn’t really care at that moment, too busy dwelling on the death of my brother and Phaedra’s words, but I felt like I had to ask.

“Minos is taking you back to Crete. You will be imprisoned for your crimes.”

“But I haven’t done anything wrong!” I pleaded.

Phaedra nodded sadly. “Regardless of what happened, Father was waiting for an opportunity like this. He came to Athens for you, and you, it seems, have played into his hands. He may have lost his favorite son, but he has his revenge.”

“And what about Theseus? What’s going to happen to him?”

“Nothing. I think he has been punished enough. He grieves as much as you. Androgeus meant nothing to him, but he knows the pain his death has caused you.”

I wanted to blame Theseus. It was all his fault. It was his injured pride that had caused this. His push had caused Androgeus’s death. But I couldn’t. I knew it was hard to blame Theseus for his actions. His rage controlled him. He wasn’t himself when he was like that.

“And the marriage?” I asked. It was a selfish thing to ask, especially in light of my brother’s death, but I felt compelled.

Phaedra shook her head. “I don’t know. I guess that it will be called off. My father now has another goal—I suspect he always did. He would rather dominate Athens than forge an alliance. You’ve done him a favor. Androgeus’s death has put him in a far greater position of power. Androgeus was under Athenian protection during the games. Minos blames King Aegeus for Androgeus’s death and demands they pay the price. He has issued a threat saying he will destroy Athens unless tribute is paid.”

“So,” I said bitterly. “Androgeus’s death will only make Minos richer.”

“No,” said Phaedra slowly, unable to meet my eye. “The tribute will take another form.”

It was not until we had returned to the island of my birth that I began to understand exactly what the tribute was, when the terrible nature of it was finally revealed.

Ω

We sailed back to Crete, Minos having settled the terms of the tribute with King Aegeus.

Minos ventured down into the hold once during the voyage. It was almost a repeat of my boyhood encounter with the man. He said nothing, just glared at me with his cold eyes. This time, he didn’t bother hitting me. He got his guards to do it instead. They beat me so badly I almost died. But the god in me made me very difficult to kill.

Besides, Minos didn’t want me dead. He had other plans for me, plans that involved the tribute from Athens. You, Ovid, a poet and scholar, are of course aware of what the tribute was. Many stories have been told about it, and for a change, they are, for the most part, truthful. But for any who read this recount of my life and have not heard or can’t quite remember, indulge me for a moment.

King Minos, as I have explained on several occasions, was a stupid man, weak and mean, despite his power. He could’ve demanded any amount of gold from Athens to compensate him for Androgeus’s death. Instead, he chose to do something dreadful.

He demanded that seven young men and seven maidens were to be sent each year from King Aegeus to Crete as tribute. There, they would be fed to a terrible half bull, half man creature. The creature later known as the Minotaur. Me.

I later discovered that Minos had planned this for some time. He was obsessed with me. He would stop at nothing to get his revenge. Rumors and his spy network ensured that he had known I was in Athens. He’d planned to capture me there and imprison me underneath the palace at Knossos. Then, he was going to prove to the world what a beast I was by feeding me the unfortunate human victims. A starving man, it was said, would resort to cannibalism eventually. If he fed me nothing else, then I wouldn’t have a choice.

By the time of the Panathenaic games, the prison he had specially built for me was almost complete. Daedalus and Icarus had worked on it for months. Minos had spared no expense, importing thousands of slaves to ensure it was completed on time.

It was called the labyrinth. It was to become my home for many years.

Of course, the death of Androgeus had been completely unseen. But it did serve Minos’s ends. He had planned to conquer Athens at some point; the death of his son had merely served to hasten his plans slightly. I believe that Minos had originally intended to throw me other prisoners to feed on. Athens subjugation made him rethink. He had always hated Athens and King Aegeus. Gleefully, he decided that the tribute should take human form.

And thus it was shortly after our arrival on Crete that I was taken, bloody and bruised, and forced to kneel before Daedalus. My helm, the helm created for me by Icarus, was thrust back on my head. Daedalus, with his son hostage, was required to make a number of alterations against his will. All of them painful.

Daedalus only once met my eye during the whole procedure. I knew how he felt: trapped and helpless. Toward the end, I saw him mouth the words “I’m sorry.”

And then I was thrown into the labyrinth.

Ovid put down his quill and stretched. He felt his back click. The fingers of his writing hand ached terribly. He felt old—much older than his fifty years, almost like the span of time he was writing about was pressing down on him—and exhausted. It was difficult to listen to a story that seemed to be one tragedy after another. Depressing. Outside, the day was fading fast. They’d have to light the lamps again soon.

“So, that’s the truth of it then?” he asked. “Minos put you in the labyrinth for killing Androgeus, not because you were some beast?”

Ast nodded his great head. “It happened exactly as I’ve told you. It may have been a long time ago, but certain events I will never forget. Minos would’ve found some excuse to put me in there eventually—the death of Androgeus just gave him a convenient excuse.”

“I can see how the legend of a half bull started now,” confessed Ovid. “It makes sense. The helmet, the mask.” He paused to gather his thoughts. “How did you get it off?”

“Not very easily,” said Ast drily.

Ovid suspected that the huge man was joking with him but it was hard to tell. If Ast had a sense of humor, it was well disguised.

“And so the Athenian youths demanded in tribute were because of an accident caused by you and Theseus?” asked Ovid.

“It pains me to say it, but yes,” said Ast. “Androgeus’s death was unnecessary and unfortunate, and it broke my heart. Not a day goes by when I don’t think of him. Over the years, I have only drawn comfort from the fact that one day, I will see him again.”

This, Ovid assumed, was some reference to the afterlife, but he let it pass. “And what became of Theseus? Clearly, he didn’t kill you. Did he actually come to the labyrinth at all, or is that another myth?”

Ast paused, deep in thought. “He came. Eventually. But it did not go the way the legends say. I think you will be surprised.”

“I think,” said Ovid slowly, “that I will. Few things surprise me these days, but I believe this will be one of them.” He reflected for a moment. “Just so I’ve got the story straight so far, allow me to reiterate,” he said, ticking the points off on his fingers. “You aren’t half bull, merely have the horns of one, and you were put into the labyrinth because of an accident involving your brother, which Theseus was partially responsible. Is any of the legend actually true?”

“Some of it is based on fact, but there is much that isn’t,” said Ast.

“What about you eating people? Is that part true?” Ovid, if he was being honest with himself, was not looking forward to that aspect of the story. If it turned out that it was true, what then? Had he been sleeping under the roof of a cannibal? Perhaps Ast was planning on killing and eating him once they were finished here? Maybe while he slept. It was certainly possible. How else could someone survive in the labyrinth for the amount of time Ast apparently had? This sudden surge of fear gave Ovid a remarkable insight. Any lingering doubts as to this man’s true identity evaporated. The realization was startling.

“Ah,” said Ast, evidentially savoring Ovid’s obvious discomfort. “I see that you finally believe. But you will just have to wait now, won’t you? Ready?”

Ovid nodded nervously. Steeling himself with another gulp of wine, he picked up his quill once again.

For some reason, his hand trembled ever so slightly.

Ω

Thus began my imprisonment in that place. The labyrinth, like many other aspects of my story, was not exactly what others would have you believe.

Shortly after Daedalus made certain necessary adjustments to my helmet, I was dumped unceremoniously through a trapdoor on the lowest level of the palace into the very center of the labyrinth.

I fell into darkness. The fall wasn’t great, perhaps twice the height of a man, but it was sufficient for me to sprain my ankle. The trapdoor above me slammed shut.

I despaired then and huddled on the ground sobbing, clad only in a loincloth and my helmet. Not exactly the actions of a monster. The darkness seemed absolute at first, especially with the trapdoor now closed. I had thought it the only source of light, but as my eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, I began to realize that was not the case.

Daedalus and Icarus built the labyrinth. They must have had some idea about what it was going to be used for. Even if I hadn’t been placed inside, both men had obviously given some thought to the fate of those unfortunate enough to be imprisoned. Renowned craftsmen like those two can’t have been supervised throughout the entire construction period. Even if they had, their guards and overseers would have little comprehension of what they were seeing.

Limestone was a common enough building material, much like it is today. It was readily available in Greece and the islands around Crete. As a result, Daedalus and Icarus used it extensively when constructing the labyrinth. Other than being a useful material, limestone has another, more interesting property. It glows in the dark.