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.
Chapter 16
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 tr
esses. 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.
"They'll be well taken care of," says my escort as I watch them depart. "Our monster has no need of them."
"He doesn't? Why not?" I blurt before thinking.
The guard turns his unblinking gaze on me. "Why, because he has you."
ARIADNE
Chapter 17
I HAVE NEVER believed she was the daughter of Velchanos, you know." The thin, sour voice was familiar, but what it said was so strange that for a moment, I wondered if I had dreamt it. It was followed by an answering murmur whose words I didn't understand but which sounded shocked.
I pushed myself up on one elbow, being careful to remain hidden on the long couch in one of the palace's many sitting rooms. I had fallen asleep there after yet another late-night birth. My mother had grown so heavy and awkward that she had allowed me to deliver the baby, a sweet little girl, by myself, and even when we returned to the palace I was so excited that I barely slept.
The first woman went on. "Remember how poor the harvest was before she was born? Velchanos let hardly any rain fall, and the people would have starved if the fish hadn't been especially abundant that summer. Surely he was showing us that he had nothing to do with her conception." The speaker was Damia, the oldest of the priestesses now that her closest friend and ally, Thoösa, had been removed from her post when I became a woman and took her place.
The other person spoke again. "Have you said anything about this to She-Who-Is-Goddess?" This voice, too, was now familiar: Perialla, another of the priestesses. She was close to my mother's age and was a quiet, somewhat dull woman who had always been kind to me.
A snort in reply. "More than once. She dismisses the idea, says she couldn't have been mistaken. She just knew, she says, that she saw the god in Kilix that spring."
"But you don't think so?"
"You know how she is, how she has always been from girlhood. Can't bear to be wrong. Never could. Velchanos punished her by hiding himself—still is punishing her."
"Oh, surely not." Perialla sounded almost pleading. "It's been so long, and she was so young when she offended Goddess. And you of all people should hope that Kilix was the correct choice."
I held my breath. With any luck, they would talk about why Goddess was angry with my mother. But luck was against me, for Damia said only, "Her offense was too grave; it can never be forgiven. He punished her with the boy, with Minos-Who-Will-Be. No question about his parentage! The crops have never been so abundant as they were that year. No, he's the son of Velchanos, all right. Remember the feasting the fall after his conception?"
Perialla must have nodded, for Damia went on, "She-Who-Is never showed the baby, kept him bundled away, and then when she finally had to reveal him on his first birthday, she refused to see what everyone else did, that he was a monster and should have been exposed at birth." Perialla's horrified gasp didn't stop that bitter voice. "That was what the god wanted. It was a test for her, one she failed by keeping him alive, the same as she failed her earlier test."
"What test?" I longed to ask.
Damia lowered her voice, and I strained to hear. "I've heard rumors that the Minos is training an apprentice. Of course, he'd have to keep this secret—if She-Who-Is were to hear of it, she'd say it was sacrilege, since a true son of Karia and Velchanos is alive."
"Who is this apprentice?"
Before Damia could answer, the voice of my mother's maid broke in. "Mistresses, She-Who-Is-Goddess is waiting for you in her chamber." Iaera managed to sound respectful while still expressing urgency. Skirts rustled as the two women rose and hurried out, their shoes tapping on the floor. I knew I should follow after them, but instead I lay back on the sofa.
They doubted me? They thought that I was not the daughter of the god, that my mother had been wrong when she said she saw Velchanos manifest himself in the shepherd Kilix at the Planting Festival before my birth? The crops had been poor in the year of my conception, but so many things could explain that: a misread omen, an irreverent act in the god's cave, even the whim of Velchanos. It didn't have to mean that my mother had chosen wrongly, that the man who was my father had been just that—merely a man, and not Velchanos made flesh. And even if she had made a mistake, no shame falls to She-Who-Is-Goddess; it is up to the god to reveal himself. If he doesn't, She-Who-Is-Goddess must try to guess which man's body is housing Her husband. It's not her fault if he has hidden himself too cunningly. How like a man, I'd always thought of the way Velchanos disguised himself. Capricious, unreliable, wanting to surprise, like a little boy.
But if she had been wrong, then who was I?
I fought back the panic rising in my throat. I had to tell my mother what I had overheard, and she would make it right. She would punish Damia for her evil words and would assure me that I was the legitimate daughter of Velchanos. Then, even as I rose, I remembered that Damia had claimed she had already spoken to my mother, who had denied the accusation. I sank back
and chewed on a fingernail.
This was just one more new piece of information that confused me about our customs on Krete. The first had come in my conversation with Theseus. Obviously, our ritual at the Planting Festival was not followed in Athens. Perhaps they did not even sacrifice the god every spring and yet they had fertile fields with a yield of crops in the fall, so why was it necessary here?
Was it necessary here?
And what was my part in it?
The sun moved to a new section of the sky, and one of his rays pierced my vision, reminding me that the day was passing. The priestesses would be waiting for me in my mother's chamber to instruct me in the rituals of the dark of the moon. But I couldn't face them now, especially poison-tongued Damia. How many of the priestesses thought that I was merely a girl born to my mother as a mortal woman and not as Goddess, and to Kilix and not Velchanos? That would make Kilix my father, and Kilix's daughter, who worked in the palace as a weaver, my sister.
This was a strange thought, and an even stranger one followed it: if I was the daughter of Kilix but Asterion was the son ofVelchanos, he was not my brother.
No. Not possible. None of it was possible. I loved Asterion more than I loved anyone except my mother. I could not lose him, and I knew it would be even worse for him to lose me.
This time, I didn't care if other people were in the corridors as I ran, then walked, then ran again to the Minos's quarters. I reached the inner courtyard and stood in its entrance to catch my breath. It was a sunny, open space, large enough for several trees whose fat, tight buds showed how close we were to the Planting Festival. Birds in the small cages that hung from the boughs were singing, their odd little faces showing nothing of what they felt as their beaks opened and shut and notes came out of them. I always wondered if the Minos's birds were happy to be safe from hawks and cranes or if they were sad to be locked in those cages, secure and comfortable though they were.
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