Authors: Tracy Barrett
I begin to see, and what I see I do not like at all.
"Aegeus had another son, but he died of the fever, and a few years ago, shortly after he married Medea, a boy turned up at the palace claiming that Aegeus was his father." She gazes at me thoughtfully. "You look something like him. You both resemble the king."
"Where is he now?" I ask.
"He disappeared one night, about a moon after he arrived. That was before King Minos ordered Aegeus to send him a son, and Medea—well, Medea saw the boy as a threat to her own child, who had just been born. But now they have a king's son in you." She raises her eyebrows. "Were you about to say something?" I shake my head hastily. "Surely a hero such as you will have no difficulty when you go into the maze and meet the Minotauros."
"
Me?
A hero?" But then I remember the tales I told, about the giant turtle and the innkeeper who cut off his guests' feet and all the rest of it, and I know I am defeated.
And so it is decided. I have arrived in Athens just before the boats are to sail, and the priests agree that this is a sign that the gods have willed me to go—not that the holy men would dare say anything else once the king's mind has been made up.
It's some small satisfaction to learn that Prokris is to be one of the seven girls going as tribute. If I am to be exiled to the strange land of Krete, so is the person who engineered that exile. The king is to make her his wife—one of many, I understand—and since she is a distant relation of Aegeus's, the two kings will become allies after my death has satisfied Minos's desire for revenge.
It is a dark morning several weeks later when we sail, with clouds hanging so low over the horizon that it's hard to tell where they end and the land begins. I stand at the stern of the ship and watch the cliffs retreat, rage against my father battling with the fear in my gut.
THE FEW TIMES that I've been to sea, the bobbing waves, the sun beating down on my head, the stink of rotten fish and unwashed fishermen, have sent me to hang over the side, retching. But those were Troizenian fishing boats, and this Athenian ship is something else entirely. Its prow slices through the waves with great speed, whether under sail or powered by oars. The only smell is the clean, briny scent of the ocean, familiar to me since childhood, and awnings and sunshades keep the late-winter sun from being a bother.
I do spend a fair amount of time at the rail, but not in sickness. Instead, I search the horizon for a sign of land. As soon as we put into a port, I'll find some way to escape. The Kretans must think me dimwitted if they imagine that I'll calmly allow them to lead me through the twisting corridors of the maze to be tortured and devoured by that monster.
But we pass by the small islands without stopping.
The sea is so smooth that the children are allowed to play on deck, and I quickly become a favorite among them, as the sailors are uninterested in joining in their games. I knot a piece of rope into a rough ball and show the boys how to kick it into a bucket that has been tipped over onto its side. The game soon turns into one of trying to keep the ball away from Artemis, who romps and frisks on the deck like a puppy. I later find that one of the girls has rescued the rope and tied a piece of sailcloth around it, turning it into a makeshift doll that she sings to and tucks into her pallet next to her when they go to sleep.
The full horror of my situation returns to me at night. I lie awake, trying to imagine what the Minotauros must look like, but without success. I kept a brave face when I walked down to the harbor near Athens, dressed in the finest robe I had ever touched, and oiled and perfumed like a prince—
or a sacrifice,
I thought sourly as I climbed onto the ship. There was no honorable way to refuse to go, and even if there had been, the king's heavily armed soldiers never left me alone from the moment my father decreed my voyage.
My father stocked the vessel with experienced sailors and gave me a fat purse bulging with coins. He was determined to show King Minos that although the king of Athens was subject to the Kretan monarch, Aegeus was a man of wealth and power. He also provided an honor guard, supposedly to escort me, but I suspected that they were really there to make sure I didn't try to escape. Not much chance of that. Out in the sea, I had nowhere to escape to. I raised my hand to the people cheering me for my bravery even as I felt the cowardice in my heart.
Prokris and the six other girls of the tribute disappeared below as soon as they were rowed to the ship. I expected to see her often, but she doesn't show herself until the second evening. I hear that she is not handling the sea voyage well. I step out onto the deck after finishing a supper of fresh fish and dried fruit and see a shape against the rail. I hold back until I'm certain what it is; I've heard of sea nymphs who take human form and lure sailors over the sides of their ships to drown. Then I hear an all-too-human sigh, and so I approach to see that it is Prokris resting her elbows on the rail and her chin in her hands.
I've rehearsed over and over what I'll say when I see her. I plan to ask her what she was doing, interfering back there in Athens, interrupting my very first meeting with the father I'd never known. I mean to accuse her of murder, for suggesting to the king and queen that I be sent to the lair of the Minotauros in the place of their brat. I harden my heart at the memory of the little boy. Yes, he was a handsome child, and yes, he was so small that he would have stood no chance against the monster. Still, he's nothing to me, and I don't see why I should die in his place.
I might even push the treacherous girl into the sea. I feel some satisfaction at that thought, but my heart fails me as I approach, and instead I join her at the rail. Like her, I stare out at the gray-green expanse. The brilliant blue water of yesterday has disappeared along with the sun, and the low clouds allow barely a glimmer of yellow light through.
The girl doesn't look up right away, and when she does, I'm surprised. I expect her to be crying or at least to look sad, but instead her face wears a calculating expression. After a moment, she smiles.
I don't smile back. It was her idea, after all, to send me to the monster to be eaten. My hand strays to the sword that I wear hidden under my cloak. It's short, and nobody has noticed it. Weapons are forbidden on this ship, and I hold a thread of hope that it will give me a chance of survival when I face the monster.
At least she's not weeping. I don't know how to deal with a weeping woman. The silence between us grows uncomfortable, and I don't like the appraising way she's looking at me, or how she appears to have seen the hilt of my sword. I rearrange my cloak around it and cast about for something to say. All I can come up with is the conventional "Are you well?" I curse my stupidity while trying to keep my face expressionless.
"Quite well," she says in a conversational tone. "I've just had to leave my home and I'm crossing the sea to go to a strange place where I'll marry an old man who already has a dozen wives, so as junior wife I'll have to serve all of them as well as him. Oh yes, and this morning one of the girls was sick all over the bag containing my wedding robe, and when I come out here for some peace and fresh air I'm asked if I'm well."
"Sorry I said anything." I try to sound haughty, but I'm afraid it comes out whiny. I firm up my voice. "It's not like
you're
going to have to face a monster that eats people."
She doesn't answer, and I assume she either hasn't heard or doesn't think me worthy of a response. I'm about to leave, when she surprises me with a question. "What do you know of Krete?"
"Not much." I fumble for an answer. "It's an island, a very big island, and it's ruled by a king named Minos. Uh..." I think. "They grow saffron. And Zeus was born there."
"The Kretans call him Velchanos," she tells me, "but you're right, it's Zeus. Their Velchanos is also our Apollo and they call their goddess 'Karia.'" I can understand how one god would take the place of two—Apollo rules the sun, and Zeus the sky. But I've never been much interested in religious matters, and I don't know why this girl is telling me about Kretan customs.
It seems that one of Prokris's brothers married a Kretan woman, and Prokris has learned a great deal about the place. "The king's sister must have two children, a boy and a girl. The boy becomes the next king and the girl becomes the priestess."
"What? The son of the king doesn't take over after his father dies?"
She shakes her head.
I've heard of all sorts of ways of running things: rule by conquest, rule by inheritance, even rule by lot, but a leader coming through the female line—I don't like it.
Before I can say anything, Prokris leans close in. She speaks in a low voice, and her words bring me first a chill and then a tingle of excitement.
For Prokris has a plan. If her plan works, everything will change on Krete.
And everything will change for me, too.
I'VE VISITED the palace of my grandfather, King Pittheus, several times. I was always astonished at its twelve rooms—eleven more than any other house I'd ever seen—and its magnificence, with its whitewashed walls and hard stone floors. Then, when I saw the palace of my father in Athens, I realized that Pittheus's palace is as a shepherd's hut compared with that magnificent building. Five or six of my grandfather's palace could fit inside it, and its dining hall is as large as the entire village square at Troizena.
I thought that once I had seen that palace, I had seen the utmost in splendor, but when I catch glimpses of the palace of King Minos in Knossos, I realize that Aegeus is a nothing, a gnat. I can't imagine how such a building as the Knossan palace can exist and how powerful must be the man who lives in it.
It is not only huge, although it certainly is that. It is also magnificent. It sits on top of a hill that isn't as high as the sacred hill in Athens but is much broader. Since I am still working my way up to the palace, I can't see the entire structure at once. The road twists and turns, and by the time we pass through the gate, I've seen enough to know that the Kretan king's residence is as large as an entire city. Enormous, fat red pillars support terrace after terrace, and white steps lead into countless entrances. I wonder which one goes to the maze with its bull-headed monster.
The port of Knossos was jammed with ships and with sailors loading and unloading them when we arrived. Vendors busily hawked roasted meats, fruit, bread, cheap sandals, and local good-luck charms, which are odd clumps of knotted yarn. I bought one. I don't think it will do me any good.
We pushed through the crowd, the king's men keeping careful watch over us. This is pointless, as there's nowhere to run to and we'd be easily discovered. Athenians look quite different from the locals. Most of the Kretan men we pass wear nothing but a white loincloth. They are all short, most of them are slim, and all of them wear their hair in long black tresses. Some are elaborately coiffed; these I take to be the nobles. Others wear white capes marked with one, two, or three black stripes. Soldiers, I find out, most of them palace guards whose rank is indicated by the number of stripes.
"Where are the women?" I ask one of our escorts, whom I suspect to be heavily armed but hiding his weapons under his cloak out of courtesy.
"You saw women down at the dock," he says.
"True. But do none live in the palace?"
He doesn't answer, and as we walk I lean forward to look at his face. He's scowling. "Never mind," I say. "Forget I said anything."
We walk on. It's already odd not to feel my sword under my cloak. It's forbidden for foreigners to carry weapons within the precinct of the palace. Fearing I would be searched, I managed to slip it to Prokris, who has hidden it among her clothes. No one would touch her belongings, and I will need that sword if her plan is to succeed.
The road is steep. Behind us, one of the little girls is whining, and I turn. Prokris is already carrying a small boy who is sucking on his thumb, his head on her shoulder, so I wait for the little girl to reach me, and then I scoop her up and settle her on my shoulders. She grasps my hair with her small fists and stops sniffling.
My guide waits for me at the next turn. "Look," he says, "you're a foreigner, a barbarian." I start to object but think better of it. "Still, you seem like a good sort, and you
are
a prince." He looks at me doubtfully, and I nod in confirmation. "Three kinds of women live in the palace. There are the servants, who are all local girls with brothers and fathers nearby, ready to defend them and to avenge any wrong done to them. Then there are the wives of the Minos. You will not see them, except in his presence, and then only if he invites you." We walk on. Finally, he says, "And then—then there are the others."
"What others?"
"There are two of them. You probably won't see them, but if you do..." He trails off and lays a hand on my shoulder. "Well, if you do, be careful. There's no telling what will make them angry, and they are very powerful."
He refuses to say more, and soon we climb steps and pass through wide doors, and we are in the palace. I try not to gasp like a peasant at the sight of the painted walls. Some show leaping dolphins in impossible colors so joyful that despite my dread of what is coming, my heart lifts; some show flowers growing in all directions; others, blue monkeys harvesting saffron blossoms. On one, boats sail on an ocean with waves cresting in every color the ocean never was, red and orange and bright yellow. We pass through chambers decorated with paintings of double-headed axes. My escort tells me that this is a holy symbol called the labrys. It gives its name to the entire palace, the labyrinthos.
Finally, we are in the heart of the palace, where no sunlight falls. Torches are lit, their light bouncing off the shiny stone floor and showing walls painted a solid red. Hands reach up and take the little girl off my shoulders. She clings to my hair briefly, protesting, and then surrenders. She and the five other little girls are led off by women who seem kind enough. In the next room, men coax the little boys along in gentle voices.