The Maze of Minos Read online

  When I fled Illamos Valley, I wandered for weeks until I ended up at my Aunt Circe’s home. I couldn’t go to my own home in Colchis. After what I had done, my father would never allow me through the sea gates that guard his kingdom. I had to prove myself worthy, to find a way to regain the power I had lost by leaving Jason, and to breed the heir my father yearned for.

  But the story of my crime blazed through Osteria. I had no idea if any man of power would risk taking me in, but Circe did her research into the bachelor men of Osteria’s ruling class and found Aegeus. Like most Athenians he prides himself on logic and justice. The people of Athena’s polis listen to all sides and make their own judgment rather than letting the rumor mills dictate their thoughts. She urged me to go to him, to take advantage of his desire for justice and to appeal to his manly needs. A tale of betrayal and an innocent face might have been enough, but I also played into Aegeus’s protective instinct and when I repaid his protective kindness with a few clumsy kisses—I had to seem an innocent, not a seductress—it wasn’t long before Aegeus was mine body and soul.

  I have to admit, Aegeus is a good person—kind, intelligent, handsome in a mature way—but I will never give my heart to another man. My only love for him is my love of his power. I love that he is leader of one of the strongest poli in Osteria. I love that he is besotted enough with me to believe anything I tell him. I love that he will make my child powerful and, in turn, force my father to respect me. Nothing more.

  I made sure to secure him to me by getting pregnant as quickly as possible. He may have left the mother of his first child, but only because she was a dull Helenian; I doubt he even thinks of her now. I am determined be everything he needs: wife, political ally, bedmate. And when the time is right, I will convince him that Athenos should convert to being a full monarchy. After all, the people have never asked for an election against him and his advisors always go along with whatever he proposes.

  Once the politics are changed, my child will be heir to a powerful polis and my father can be proud of me once more. He has in fact already sent a terse letter, not of congratulations, but to state that, after the legal hassle of removing Jason’s name from the Colchian line of succession, he would bide his time before jumping in a second time with the gift of inheritance.

  All had been going well. When Aegeus proposed, he worried over the issue of my still being married to Jason. Using the story Circe and I had come up with, I explained to Aegeus my rushed wedding, saying that since it wasn’t a true marriage cloth that bound our hands, we couldn’t be truly married. Aegeus, a fool for me by this point, claimed that he had heard another case like mine and saw no barrier to our marriage. The wedding sealed me as Aegeus’s true wife. When Theseus didn’t show up for the wedding I thought I had nothing to worry about. A son who won’t even heed his father’s invitation is a son that does not deserve to be heir and could easily be forgotten when the time comes to reevaluate who should be Aegeus’s nominee.

  But here he is, sipping our wine. The baby in my belly gives a kick as if he knows his rival sits only two paces from him. I will remove this threat before my child ever learns to speak. But to do that I must watch my tongue, especially regarding who I do and don’t know.

  "I suppose it’s good Paris has stayed away," Aegeus says.

  "Why is that?" Theseus asks, crossing his long, lean legs. Aegeus’s muscular legs are more stout than long. Theseus must have inherited his lengthy limbs from his mother. My legs have always been too short in my opinion and a stab of feminine envy pierces me as the baby gives another kick.

  "Paris may think he’s only playing a game of hearts, but Helen has the eye of many influential men who also have vast numbers of vigiles behind them. If he angers the wrong one just to part Helen’s thighs, will Demos have the resources to fight? The Demosians are farmers, not fighters."

  "But they have the favor of Aryana," I say.

  "Only because Aryana wants to control Demos. They want to own Demos—and the rest of Osteria—not partner with it," Theseus says.

  "Well, we are debating something that hasn’t happened yet," Aegeus says. "While I agree it’s good to be aware of potential problems, we can’t predict the future. Not without an oracle anyway. Now, tell me of your adventures on the Argoa."

  I stand before Theseus can begin. He and my husband rise when I do. "No, please sit," I say congenially. "I am tired and would like to rest. But tell your father your stories, he can catch me up on them later." I’m all smiles, but as soon as I leave the courtyard the false cheer drops as quickly as an owl shot with an arrow. I will not sit and listen to any tales of the Argoa. I will not relive my time with any of its crew, especially not Jason or his cousin Odysseus.

  * * *

  Although I try to get out of it, the following day Aegeus insists we all take a quick tour of Athenos. Personally, I don’t see why Theseus should be made familiar with this city when my child will rule it, but I have to play along if I am ever to get my husband to change his nomination in our child’s favor.

  After a stroll around the harbor, we pause at the vigile training ground—a large open area with racks of wooden swords, a running track, and straw dummies who face death several times a day. I can’t say I mind this stop. Even in the chill of the early spring morning, the men exercise wearing only a cloth over their loins and many of them are deliciously toned. Two groups of six men are fighting a mock battle while another man, older and fully dressed, delivers warmhearted insults to the victim whenever a blow is landed.

  "Glad you no longer have to put up with that?" Aegeus asks.

  "I never had to put up with too many tongue lashings," Theseus boasts.

  Aegeus gives a proud laugh and puts his arm around Theseus. My stomach churns. "I’ll bet you didn’t. It was probably you putting your commanders in order."

  "I don’t know about that, but I was known for my fighting skills and I was the top of my class against the bull."

  "The bull? Is that what you call the pommel horse in Helena?"

  "No, don’t all vigiles do it? You have to face a bull in a ring. We don’t kill it, Helena isn’t wealthy enough to give up a bull to every vigile trainee, but we prove we could kill it if we wanted to by tagging it in a vital spot."

  "Tagging it?" Aegeus asks. I’m staring at a tall man whose torso ripples with muscles. I had been imagining what it would be like to sponge him clean from head to toe after his workout, but Theseus’s story is kicking up an idea that’s preventing me from fully enjoying my fantasy.

  "Hephaestus designed a clip that attaches to the end of a wooden sword so when you stab the beast, instead of piercing him, the clip snaps shut and holds the sword in place to show where you’ve made your attack. If the judges deem that it would have been a fatal wound, or at least a disabling one, you win. The clip hurts a bit—we all have to experience what it feels like so we sympathize with the creature—but it’s no more painful than a bee sting. Still, the bulls don’t like it and do their damnedest to avoid you."

  "I’d like to see that," Aegeus says with a hearty chuckle. And then the idea solidifies.

  "As would I," I say brightly. "Can we arrange it? It would be a way of showing Theseus off to everyone."

  Aegeus kisses me on the forehead. "My dear, that is a brilliant idea."

  It takes a couple days to make the arrangements, but Athenos is an efficient polis and soon announcements are being made across the polis of an event in the capital’s arena. Telling Aegeus I’ve had experience with bulls—although the two we had in Colchis were fire-breathing monstrosities (if only I could get my hands on them)—I’m given the task of hiring my stepson’s opponent. By asking subtle questions in the agora—after all, one can’t simply walk up and ask which breeder has the most deadly bull in the polis—it isn’t too difficult to find who has a bull that can barely be handled. The man, hope filling his eyes at the prospect of getting the wild beast off his hands, eagerly accepts to deliver his bull to the arena by noon the next day.<
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  On the morning of the event, I wake with a sense of lightness I haven’t felt since Theseus’s arrival. I dress and meet the bull’s owner in the lower portion of the arena. There, mechanics long ago built a system to raise a beast from under the arena floor. The animal—enclosed in a crate—comes up through a trap door, the walls of the enclosure then fall, and the beast is free to attack. Even though an animal hasn’t been used as entertainment for decades in Athenos, the system has been kept in place for humans who want to make dramatic entrances during plays and other performances.

  The bull’s keeper leaves the moment I pass him a small purse of drachars, but I stay, watching as the animal snorts and kicks so hard at his stall that it seems as if the wood might snap. I gained a little practice casting spells on animals during my training with Aunt Circe. I say a few words that will calm the animal just long enough to keep him from tiring himself. The spell is such that, once his enclosure is raised into the arena and its walls drop, this beast will return to being a ball of deadly fury. When I hear the bells calling people to the event, I climb the stairs to join my husband in the royal box that overlooks the arena.

  "Ah, there you are. I worried you wouldn’t want to watch," Aegeus says. His warm kiss breaks away suddenly when the crowd cheers. "It’s Theseus," he says as enthusiastic as a girl over her favorite actor. He drops into his seat, eyes riveted on his son. I sit beside him, ready to console.

  For his part, Theseus shows no signs of worry. It will be good to see this cocksure bastard gored on a bull’s horn or crushed under all four hooves. In his hand is the clip-tipped sword an Athenian metalworker crafted to Theseus’s specifications. At his calf is the dagger all vigiles wear. If things get bad enough in there, could he use that against the beast? Theseus struts around the arena, waiting for the bull to appear.

  "Did you find a good bull for him so he can really show off?" Aegeus asks, taking a handful of roasted nuts from the dish a servant presents.

  "I’m afraid they were all rather tame," I say with a disappointed sigh.

  "Too bad, I wanted everyone to see what he can do."

  "What if Theseus himself can’t see?" I say, the idea blooming in my head like the most beautiful flower in all of Osteria. "What if he was blindfolded? I’ve heard of bull fights that add that challenge." I haven’t heard any such thing, but maybe we will start a trend.

  "I don’t know. It could be too dangerous."

  "Let’s ask him. Give him the chance to make his own name."

  Aegeus writes a quick note. Looking over his shoulder, I read what Aegeus writes: Don’t feel you have to, but what about a blindfold during the fight? Only if you feel safe. A servant hurries the message down to Theseus. After reading it he looks up, a broad grin on his face that says he’ll do anything to make his father proud. A few exchanges of words and Zethros eventually finds a sash to tie over Theseus’s eyes. The audience cheers at the new aspect of this show.

  They quiet though when the trap door opens, raising a cloud of dust which gives a dramatic flourish as the bull is raised to the arena floor. Theseus angles his head toward the sound. The walls of the cage drop and the bull, placid as an old cow only seconds ago, charges straight at Theseus. Aegeus claps his hand over his mouth as if holding back a scream. The bull grazes Theseus with a horn, but the damned boy spins away in time to avoid serious injury.

  The bull gives out a growling bellow and charges again. This time I can feel the pounding of his hooves. The grin that had been on Theseus’s face, changes to a hard line of concern, but he holds his ground. Just as the bull is nearly on top of him, he tucks down and rolls to one side. The audience roars with delight.

  I have to give him credit. Theseus could take the blindfold off to see what he is really up against, but he leaves it in place as he strides cautiously around the arena, cocking his head now and then to listen for his opponent. To my annoyance, he avoids another couple charges, each one more aggressive than the last. I didn’t select this bull for his athletic ability and already he is showing signs of tiring. Theseus, using what senses I do not know, stalks his way over to the animal. Just as he’s about to make a thrust with his sword, the bull whips his head around knocking Theseus to the ground. As expected, the audience makes a collective gasp. Aegeus is gripping the rail of the royal box so tightly his fingers have gone white. I reach to take his hand, offer my comfort, but just as I touch him he jumps up and thrusts a triumphant fist into the air. I look back to the arena floor. Theseus, far from being smashed into the sand by the bull’s hooves, is now on the beast’s back.

  "Did you see that? He leapt up there," Aegeus exclaims. "He rolled away, circled the bull, and leapt. Gods, what a show!"

  I don’t need to watch any further, I would know what was happening below by the reactions of the audience. But I play my part and pretend interest, relief, and joy when Theseus jabs the clip into the back of the bull’s neck—a move that if made with a real sword, would have severed the animal’s spinal cord.

  Theseus, still on the animal’s broad back, yanks off his blindfold. The animal hangs his head, exhausted from his failed efforts. My stepson pats the beast on his neck, ties the sash to a horn, then slides off. As workers with real weapons guide the creature back to his enclosure, Theseus stands before the royal box and makes a bow to his father. Thankfully, the applause is so loud, no one can hear my groans of disappointment that this interfering Helenian is still alive and of annoyance that I now have to devise another way to rid myself of him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Helen

  "HERE IT IS."

  I reach eagerly for the parchment my father holds out to me, but I'm not fast enough and he yanks it away just as my fingers graze it.

  "Father," I say scolding him, "you’re delaying my happiness." I purse my lower lip into the pout that usually caves in my father’s resolve, but he remains resolute, holding his delivery just out of my grasp. I'm quite tall, but I inherited my height from him and I have to look up to meet his eyes. From his stern expression—his business face as I call it—I can already see this is leading up to one of those talks about duty and responsibility when all I want is to find Paris’s name on that list and wed my lover as soon as possible.

  "This is not happiness; this is marriage," he says and I think I show amazing self-restraint when I keep from rolling my eyes. "You need a strong alliance, a wealthy polis to join to ours."

  Yes, yes, I've heard this since I was a child. Vancuse is the most beautiful polis in all of Osteria. While we are the destination of most for-pleasure travel permits, we don't have a vast army of vigiles nor a great deal of power. This was why I was engaged to Jason when I was a girl—Illamos Valley is the wealthiest polis with renowned vigiles and a strong influence on Osteria’s economy and politics. But after Jason hastily wed some Colchian woman named Medea, I was released from our engagement. Even though his wife ran away, he’s still technically married to her, so I’m off the hook of wedding my childhood playmate who, while I like him, I don’t feel any passion for.

  My cheeks flush as an image of Paris rushes through my mind. I thought Jason’s reneging on our contract would mean I’d finally be free to marry whomever I wanted, but no, of course not. Why would I ever think it could be as easy as that?

  Instead, my father has pondered over a list of men in Osteria who have applied to wed me. Applied! Did Paris apply when he disguised himself one day and met me in the agora? Did he apply to secret me off to a private nook in Vancuse City’s vast arboretum? Did he apply to kiss me until I was so weak with desire that I could no longer stand? The only application Paris needs to submit to make me choose him over any other man in Osteria is the application of his lips to my body.

  If I could tell my father of my feelings for Paris, it would have saved him a mountain of paperwork—something I think he might have been grateful for. But the old-fashioned Tyndareus would rather sift through letters of intent from every person in Osteria than learn why my trips to the agora tak
e so long and why I return in such a good mood. So, from the applications, he plucked and discarded names like a fussy old woman sorting cherries at the market to come up with a list of suitors I may choose from. I’m curious to find out who besides Paris made the cut. Of course I’ll pick my Demosian lover, but I must pretend to ponder the list for a few moments so I don’t seem too eager.

  A sudden pang of worry hits me. What if Paris’s name isn’t on that sheet my father holds just out of my reach? Then I chide myself for being silly. Why wouldn't he be? Demos is a huge polis with enormous importance since it supplies the majority of Osteria's grain. Paris’s father rules the polis and sits on the Osteria Council. Even if, as I hear, he hasn't got the firmest backbone amongst the group, a seat on the Council is a huge bit of the type of power Vancuse needs to ally itself with. Of course Paris will be on the list.

  "One can be happy in marriage even if it does serve to boost us politically," I say with a mix of devotion and distance, what I call my politician’s voice. After all, the running of the polis will be in my hands one day and I’ve been practicing to play my future part as convincingly as possible.

  Finally my father grins. "I knew you were a wise girl." He presents the envelope to me and just as my fingers touch it he adds, "Just remember your duty as you look this over."

  Forgetting myself, I rip through the seal and toss the envelope to the floor. Then I remember I am supposed to pretend to be composed, aloof. More calmly, more regally, I unfold the paper and scan the names written in my father’s angular block lettering.

  Twenty-seven names. A surge of prideful vanity washes over me. Twenty-seven men made it onto the list. I wonder how many applied and were rejected. Which men were left longing to be with me only to be turned aside before even making it through round one of the competition? Poor souls.