Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume Two (23 page)

This was exactly what he wanted—for the mere sound of his name to strike terror into the hearts of everyone, to have the mere sight of a Cretan ship or a Cretan chariot freeze an enemy with fear, making him flutter helplessly as a dove before a diving hawk.

The Minotaur, who had just enjoyed its first orgy of murder in the maze, would now serve the king. It would not lack for victims. There were still those suspected of treason. Or, if not of treason exactly, of dissent. Or, if not quite of dissent, then of insufficiently enthusiastic approval of everything Minos did, had done, and would do. In other words, there were still those whom Minos disliked, and this was enough to qualify them for residence in the Labyrinth and the attentions of the Minotaur.

Still, domestic victims were not the big issue. They were only something for the Minotaur to practice on. It would be upon the occasion of the next Spring Sowing, when again the flower of Athenian youth would be brought as sacrificial tributes to Knossos, that the monster could be most profitably employed. The Minotaur would replace the ordinary wild bulls and go into the arena against the beautiful young people. Their blood would dung the roots of royal prestige and make the name of Minoan Crete shine darkly forever.

The king's daughters drank in the rumors. The word
Athens
held a special resonance for them. It was Theseus, a young prince of that land, whose name had been sung by the bones. By twisting ways, then, the Hag's prophecy was coming true. Theseus would come to Crete. Once there, he could be persuaded to change his destiny from victim to husband.

Ariadne, of course, did not know that her sister had been promised a share in this fiancé, and Phaedra was careful to keep her secret. Being very much Minos's daughter, she had begun spinning plans of her own.

7

Theseus Embarks

When the third spring rolled around, Theseus was ready to go to Crete, but not as a sacrifice. During the past year he had prepared himself for mortal combat by roaming the dangerous parts of the Hellenic Peninsula posing as a harmless traveler with a heavy purse. He had invited the notice of the most savage bandits who infested the mountain roads, had been bush-wacked many times and sliced and battered, but was young enough to heal rapidly, especially while enjoying himself so.

Theseus had learned much from his journey through the mountains. “This I now know,” he said to himself. “To learn about your enemy before the fight, not during it; never to accept his terms of combat, but to impose your own; and, above all, to avoid doing what he expects. The key to victory is surprise, surprise, surprise … especially when your foe is bigger, which he always is.”

So it was that when the next spring tribute came, Theseus did not sail to Crete with the other young Athenians. He went to the port at Piraeus in the garb of an apprentice seaman, and
he shipped aboard a merchant vessel bound for the southern islands of the Middle Sea. He did not mean to stay with the ship. His intention was to sail with it until it reached Cretan waters, then dive overboard and swim ashore. Once there, he would pose as a shipwrecked sailor from a land other than Athens and scout around Knossos, learning as much as possible about Minos and the Minotaur.

That same night, Minos, who after a string of victories was sleeping more or less dreamlessly, had his rest broken—not by the livid pictures of a dream, but by a voice speaking out of the darkness. It was a soft, melodic voice, but full of authority:

It creeps ashore, the danger.

Your land to be cursed,

maddened by thirst.

Beware the stranger.

When you have passed away,

Crete will be ruled

by a castaway.

Burning sky,

fountains dry.

Take care,

Beware

the castaway.

Minos took the voice very seriously. He issued orders to his coastal troops to keep close watch and seize any shipwrecked sailors who came ashore.

“Be vigilant,” he told his captain. “I have learned that spies, very dangerous ones, are attempting to sneak ashore and probe our defenses. If a single one gets past the beaches, the company patrolling the area can report to the Minotaur.”

One dawn, Theseus leaped overboard and swam toward a land dimly hulking on the horizon. Threading his way among rocks with the fluid skill of someone spawned by the sea, he made his way to the beach and waded ashore. He lifted his face to the kindling sky and said: “Thank you, whoever you are, wherever you are, for bringing me this far.”

Then he turned to the sea and spoke: “Oh, Lord, who is supposed to be my father, if you really did steal my mother from her husband, you can repay us both by helping me now. I cannot tell you exactly what I want, but with such vast oceanic powers as yours, you should be able to do something.”

Now Poseidon was good-natured when not offended and had always been entertained by this smallest and most combative of his sons. However, he was used to doing things in a big, gusty way and had no mind for detail. Those he wished to reward, he heaped with gifts of pearl and galleons full of sunken gold. When he wished to punish, he sent drought or tidal wave. Hearing his son's prayer, then, he decided to withhold his waters from the thirsty spring sky over Crete. And no rain fell.

Theseus turned from the sea and began his journey inland. But he didn't get far. Almost immediately, he was intercepted by a squad of armored men who wordlessly knocked him over the head with their spear shafts, bound his unconscious body to a mule, and took him to Knossos.

8

The Castaway

Theseus was shackled to an iron ring set in rock, and left in the stinking darkness of the smallest cell in the dungeon system forming the cellars of the Ax-House. The cell was so loathsome that he rejoiced when the guards came for him, thinking that he would now be led out to execution, and hoping only that he would not be tortured first. Instead, he was led up a marble stairway to an enormous sunny chamber, where a little man sat on a throne of ivory and gold. The captain of the guard prostrated himself, wriggled forward, and kissed the king's sandal. A soldier rammed the haft of his ax between Theseus's shoulders, pressing him to the tiled floor. He lay prone, hoping he was not expected to kiss the royal foot himself. With his face against the floor, he heard the rattle of arms and the shuffle of boots as the guards departed.

“Arise,” said a voice.

He arose and faced the throne. It was a warm day, but the king wore a robe of Egyptian weave called byssus, dyed purple and embroidered with the double-ax in heavy gold thread. Trying to forget his stinking rags, Theseus stood tall as he could and waited for the king to speak.

“You are a spy, of course.”

Theseus shuddered when he heard the little man's thunderous voice.

“No, Your Majesty.”

There was a silence. Theseus stood with his head bowed, but he knew the king was studying him. He raised his head and looked into the king's eyes, then looked away again. Minos's eyes were flat black disks. They rotated slowly on their axes. Theseus could not bear their gaze.

“Prisoners are not ordinarily questioned by the king, you know.”

“I am grateful for the honor, Your Majesty.”

“Do you know what happens to spies in Crete?”

“I repeat, my lord, I am no spy, but a shipwrecked seaman.”

“A castaway?”

“Yes, sire. A castaway.”

“However you describe yourself, I think you came to spy. The penalties for that are severe.”

“For the third time, I am no spy.”

“Why did you come to Crete?”

“Not by intention, sire. I was shipwrecked.”

“No vessel has foundered recently in these waters. I am kept informed of such matters.”

“It was a Mycenaean trading vessel. It broke up on a reef about ten miles offshore. I caught a spar and drifted in.”

“You're not a very skillful liar.”

“I lack practice. I'm accustomed to telling the truth.”

“Be careful, now. Every additional lie will cost you several hours of agony. Have you never served as an officer aboard a foreign galley docked at Knossos?”

“No.”

“Perhaps you served as a member of the crew, concealing your station, as a spy would.”

“I swear by all the gods that I have never before set foot on Crete. I am a voyager, true. I have traveled much, but never to Crete.”

“Well, you have made your last landfall, voyager.”

“So it seems … and I wish it had been in any other place than this miserable slaughterhouse of an island.”

“Are you trying to act demented to escape the penalties of the law? It won't help you, you know. Maniacs who commit crimes here are simply considered crazy criminals. They receive no privilege denied to sanity.”

“Hear me, Minos,” said Theseus. “You have the power to order my death. Then do so. I had rather perish under the double-ax than be bored to death by your dreary, malevolent tirade. Young though I am, I have met
real
killers—evil men, to be sure, but brave—who did their own killing. And I am not to be intimidated by a poisonous little toad who happens to wear a crown.”

Theseus broke off. The king had toppled from his throne. He writhed on the floor uttering broken shouts. Foam flecked his mouth. Guards rushed in. The king arched and spat and beat the back of his head on the floor. The captain of the guard knelt to take the king in his arms. His men had surrounded Theseus with drawn swords, hiding Minos from view. But Theseus heard his strangled shout break into words: “Don't kill him … don't kill him.”

They returned Theseus to his cell and shackled him. He lay on the straw listening to the rats. “I'm sorry he spared me,” he said to himself. “I'd rather be dead than rot in this filthy hole.”

He prayed to Poseidon then, very fervently, but received no answer. A rat came while he slept and bit off half his ear. He hoped to bleed to death then, and tried to encourage the bleeding by digging at his wound, but the pain was too intense. “No use torturing myself,” he thought. “I'll leave it to the experts.” He fell asleep again, and by morning the bleeding had stopped. The wound festered. He tossed and burned.

When the girl appeared, he thought she was fledged by his fever and waited for her to disappear. But she did not. Was she another joke of the capricious gods? He shook his head trying to rid himself of the vision, but he couldn't shake her away. Her eyes were burning holes in the murk. She had ivory-brown legs, cascading black hair, a curly mouth. He dragged himself to his hands and knees and faced her with his head raised. She did not disappear. She stood there silently, her dainty white feet spurning the dirty straw. She was dressed in court fashion—in a long, full skirt, and naked above the waist save for the drape of her shining hair. The girl was small and slender, not yet nubile.

“Who are you?” he whispered.

“I am Ariadne.”

“I greet you, lovely maiden, whoever you are.”

“I just told you who I was,” said Ariadne. “What did you do to my father?”

“Have I the honor of knowing your father?”

“He's the king. You threw him into a fit. He'll never forgive you.”

“I had nothing to do with his fit.”

“He says you're some kind of wicked sorcerer, employed by his enemies. He's going to do dreadful things to you, unless you vanish or something. Can you do that?”

“Not without help.”

“In your opinion, am I marriageable?”

“Well … perhaps not quite yet,” said Theseus.

“Almost?”

“You'll be very lovely when you do grow up.”

“How can you tell about what you can't see?”

“Because what I can see is beautiful, and the rest of you will surely match.”

“Good-bye now.”

“Don't go,” said Theseus.

“I'll be back.”

Darkness swarmed. Red pain flared.

She was back. Taller, long-legged, coltish—an ivory wand of a maiden, the coolest, cleanest thing he had ever seen. She smelled like the snow-freighted wind blowing off the mountains of Greece. She stood erect, smiling.

“Well, am I grown up?”

“By the gods, I don't believe it! How long have I been here?”

“Little girls grow up fast.”

He lay back on the straw. A wave of sickness broke over him.

“What's wrong with you?”

“Nothing much. I'm probably dying.”

“So soon? We have prisoners who've been here for twenty years—some of them without hands or feet because the rats ate them off.”

“Why don't you run along, Princess? It can't be pleasant for you here.”

“It stinks, if that's what you mean. But a lot of interesting things do.”

She knelt swiftly and touched his ear. He jerked his head away.

“What happened to it?” asked Ariadne.

“One of those rats you were talking about.”

“It looks dreadful. Say a spell and make it grow again.”

“I'm no sorcerer, I told you. Please now, be on your way.”

She knelt on the straw. Her ivory knee almost touched his face. He felt himself reviving in the piny fragrance of her young body. She seemed to cleanse the foul vapors. He pulled himself up to a sitting position.

“I know who you are,” she said. “You're Theseus, Prince of Athens.”

“Nonsense! Princes aren't found in prisons.”

“That's where you're wrong. Most prisoners here are of very good family. So tell me the truth.”

“Why is it important to you who I am?”

“Because I'm destined to marry Theseus, Prince of Athens.”

“Has he asked you?”

“Wouldn't you remember if you had? I'm destined to marry you, and you're destined to marry me.”

“How did you learn of this destiny?”

“From a reliable witch. A very magical one. She gathered bones from the killing ground in the maze and hung them on the western slope of a hill where the wind blows. The bones danced and sang. They sang: