This man-eating monster, which his mother loved if nobody else did and would not allow to be killed, could obviously not be given free run of the palace at Knossos or its grounds. Minos therefore ordered his master craftsman Daidalos, who had made such a success of sculpting the wooden cow that the bull was repeatedly deceived into mounting it, to design a safe environment where the Minotaur would have room to run about without endangering the population of Knossos. Daidalos came up with the brilliant solution of a labyrinth, which the Minotaur could explore without ever quite getting the hang of it and into which his victims could be introduced so that he would have fun hunting them down through the innumerable winding passages.
Theseus had hardly settled into his new life as the heir apparent of Athens when the time came round for the third annual payment to Minos. Lots were to be drawn as usual and fourteen pairs of unhappy parents would learn that their sons or daughters were to be shipped to Crete to feed the Minotaur. As soon as he heard about this, Theseus went to his father and protested.
‘This cannot go on,’ he said. ‘Send Minos the money if you must, but no more of our children!’
‘If I don’t,’ said Aegeus, ‘the Cretans will be back. I am trying to build up our military strength, but this is still a small city and it will be many years before we shall be strong enough to defy Minos. Meanwhile they will obliterate Athens and enslave us all. The loss of fourteen lives a year – painful as it may be – is surely the better option?’
‘Then I will be one of the fourteen,’ said Theseus.
‘That I can’t permit. Besides, it’s a lottery.’
‘Rig the lottery! No one’s likely to object.’
‘You’re already past the age …’
‘Who’s going to complain about that?’
‘I’m complaining. I shall lose my son and heir. You might as well have drunk Medea’s poison.’
‘I don’t intend to be eaten by the Minotaur, but to destroy it, as I destroyed all those monsters on the road from Troezen, and to return safely to Athens with my thirteen companions.’
‘This is a far more dangerous and difficult undertaking. Even if you kill the Minotaur, how will you escape from Crete?’
‘The ship returns to Athens, doesn’t it? Let it wait in the harbour on some pretext – repairs, sickness among the sailors, whatever – and we will contrive to board it.’
‘And Minos’ ships will swiftly follow to wreak revenge on Athens.’
‘The first thing is to kill the Minotaur. After that we’ll see.’
Very reluctantly, but with a sense that this fearless and decisive son of his, conceived long ago on a drunken night in Troezen, already admired for his deeds on the road to Athens, was no ordinary man, but a true successor to his cousin Herakles, Aegeus gave way. Theseus was entered for the lottery, his name was drawn and he went aboard the ship with black sails that was to take him to Knossos with six other youths and seven girls. There were the usual mournful leave-takings on the quayside at Peiraias, where most of the population of Athens had assembled, but also an unusual lift of spirits as Theseus appeared and embraced his father.
‘They are all counting on you,’ said Aegeus. ‘As I am. If you fail I shall have nothing to live for. But if you really succeed in killing the monster and returning, do me the favour of changing those black sails. I have had white ones stowed below decks and I shall have watchmen permanently scanning the sea for the ship’s return. I shall know long before the ship reaches port what fate it brings me.’
‘I am not afraid,’ said Theseus, loud enough for those at the front of the crowd to hear, ‘and you shouldn’t be either. Look for the white sails!’
And as those who had heard what he said passed it on to those behind, his words were repeated again and again, so that all along the quayside ‘look for the white sails’ was echoed and re-echoed, while the ship with black sails slowly drew away and headed for the open sea and the island of Crete.
It should have reached Knossos in a few days, but was forced by a storm to take shelter in the harbour at Troezen. That at least was the excuse Theseus made to Minos a month later, when Minos was on the point of launching his navy to punish Athens for the ship’s non-arrival. Theseus took pleasure, of course, in seeing his mother and grandfather again, and they were overjoyed to see him, but his real purpose in Troezen was to put his thirteen fellow hostages, the girls as well as the boys, into training with his own teachers. They had time only to learn the most basic routines of attack and defence, both unarmed and with weapons, but at least they were fitter and in better heart by the time the ship with black sails moored in the harbour of Amnisos, close to Knossos.
Theseus’ six male companions were taken away to prison, but the seven girls were kept in the women’s quarters of the palace. Minos, astonished that King Aegeus had sent his own son and heir as an offering to the Minotaur, ordered that Theseus be given a room in the palace and that he should be the last to enter the labyrinth.
‘On the contrary,’ said Theseus. ‘I must be the first. Athenian princes do not lead from behind.’
‘You seem to be a bold fellow,’ said Minos, ‘unless you’re just a boaster, but let me warn you that no one comes out of that labyrinth alive. My stepson is a simple killer and I doubt whether even Herakles could match his strength. You may escape him for a while by hiding in the passages but you will be quite lost yourself in all the twists and turns and he will find you eventually.’
‘I know the fate that awaits me,’ said Theseus, ‘and I would be ashamed to put it off for as long as your stepson takes to devour my thirteen companions. But I would be grateful if, before I enter the labyrinth, you would show me all the wonders of your palace and city. The whole world has heard of them but few have seen them.’
His aim was partly to flatter Minos and partly to give himself the time and local knowledge to plan a successful escape.
‘That’s easily arranged,’ said Minos, ‘since we have a day or two of celebration, with feasting, dancing and bull-jumping, before we introduce the first victim to the Minotaur.’
There are different versions of what happened next. The Athenian version in which Minos’ daughter Ariadne helps Theseus is the best known, but the Cretan version denies the existence of the labyrinth and the Minotaur and substitutes a Cretan general called Tauros (‘Bull’) whom Theseus defeats at wrestling, after which Minos gives him the hand of Ariadne in marriage, remits all the penalties and is reconciled to Athens.
But this story would be nothing without the Minotaur and the labyrinth. Across the Gulf, as night falls on our terrace in Arcadia, I can see the flashing light that warns low-flying aircraft – or gods – of the row of wind turbines on the ridge in front of Mount Didymo, beyond which is Theseus’ native Troezen. Pondering the conflicting versions of his most famous adventure, it comes to me in a flash that the key is Minos himself.
Minos was no mere Mugabe or Saddam with sadistic tastes and a terrorised population, but an outstanding ruler. He unified Crete, gave it laws, created such a formidable navy that it became the most powerful state in the Aegean, put down pirates, built magnificent palaces – whose excavated remains are still among the wonders of the world – commissioned painters and sculptors, ran an efficient bureaucracy, presided over a sophisticated and cultured court. History and archaeological evidence mingle with myth in our uncertain knowledge of that distant time in the Bronze Age before the rise of the Mycenaeans and the Trojan War. Minos’ mother, the stories tell us, was the lovely and lively Phoenician princess called Europa – she gave her name to our continent – who playfully jumped on the back of a white bull and was carried off across the sea from Asia to Crete, where the bull turned out to be Zeus. Their child Minos belonged to that early generation of privileged mortals who still had close relations with the gods, since the gods were so often their parents. By the time Theseus met him, he must have been at least as old as Theseus’ grandfather Pittheus, perhaps even a generation older still, and when h
e died he became immortal and was made one of the judges of the dead in Hades.
This was the man whom the young and self-confident Theseus came intending somehow to outwit and it hardly seems that ridding the road to Athens of a few not very bright brigands and monsters was anything like sufficient preparation. He soon began to realise this himself as he was conducted round the palace by its architect. Daidalos came originally from Athens and had fled to Crete after being condemned to death for the murder of his apprentice Talos. He admitted that he had killed Talos, who was also his nephew, but claimed that it was an accident. He had been angry with Talos for spoiling a fine piece of marble he was carving into a statue of Aphrodite, had clouted him a little too energetically and knocked him backwards against a small bronze figure of Poseidon. However, the evidence suggested that Daidalos had picked up the bronze figure and brained Talos with it, and his accusers said his motive was not a momentary fit of anger but professional envy. Talos, they said, was already a better craftsman than Daidalos and had not spoiled the piece of marble he was carving but on the contrary was making it smoother and more lifelike than Daidalos had been able to. Daidalos countered that it was his enemies who were guilty of professional envy and that they wished to destroy him because they could not compete with him. What with his short temper, his very high opinion of his own talents and his contempt for the intelligence of his accusers and judges, he did not make a good impression at his trial, though it is his view of himself as the most brilliant craftsman and inventor of that era which has prevailed, chiefly on account of the work he did for Minos. Yet just because he rated himself so highly and was always sensitive to slights and signs that he was not sufficiently appreciated, by the time he met Theseus he had become very critical of Minos, at least behind his back.
The palaces Theseus knew, his father’s in Athens and his grandfather’s in Troezen, were little more than large houses amongst other houses, all packed into a few streets within the defensive walls of the cities. Minos’ palace was at least the size of a city in itself and several storeys high, with huge porticos, grand staircases and spacious courtyards, long corridors and pillared halls. It was all decorated in bright colours, with cheerful frescoes of court life, sports and religious rituals painted by Daidalos himself or his pupils, full of air and diffused sunshine from clever light-wells and windows that gave sudden views of the surrounding gardens and villas and the range of hills to the south; while the houses of Minos’ courtiers and subjects spread out into the valley around without any constricting city wall. The sea and his navy were Minos’ defence and the whole large island of Crete, with other sumptuous palaces in other parts of it, his sovereign territory. Theseus was dumbfounded and humbled. This was a level of civilisation he could not have imagined.
Daidalos was pleased with Theseus’ reaction, but not inclined to give much credit to Minos.
‘Luxury he understands,’ he said, ‘though he doesn’t like the cost of it. Size and display he appreciates. But elegance, taste, no. Many’s the time I’ve had to head off hideous vulgarities on the walls and fight for better proportions and more expensive materials for the rooms. And he didn’t like the cost of the drains and waterpipes I insisted on, though he appreciates them now. There was a palace here before, of course, partly destroyed in an earthquake, which had been constructed piecemeal like a rabbit’s warren with horrible poky rooms opening into each other. Some of that I’ve demolished or opened out, some of it remains. As a matter of fact, it was such a ludicrous muddle that it gave me the idea for the Minotaur’s labyrinth.’
‘Well, I have been thinking about that labyrinth,’ said Theseus. ‘Is there any easy way to get out of it? Supposing one were able to overcome the creature inside?’
Daidalos laughed.
‘Are you asking me to betray the man I work for?’
‘You don’t sound as if you have much time for him. And, after all, you’re an Athenian.’
‘I have no love for Athens and, whatever I may think of Minos, I owe him my life and living. Am I to risk becoming an exile all over again by helping you, to whom I owe nothing?’
‘Any city in the world would be proud to receive Daidalos and make use of his unique talents.’
‘True.’
They walked on for a while in silence, then stopped for Theseus to admire a large reception room decorated with full-length, figure-of-eight shields.
‘Good defence,’ he said, ‘but surely a bit clumsy in attack?’
‘There is an easy way to get out, of course,’ said Daidalos, with a sly smile.
‘But you’re not going to reveal it?’
‘Use your head, boy!’
‘You mean, remember every turn I take as I go in and reverse them coming out?’
‘Even I wouldn’t be capable of that.’
‘Perhaps you have a plan of it which I could study in advance?’
‘No, I made a rough sketch but added complexities as we built it.’
‘So what use is my head?’
Daidalos gave him the same enigmatic smile, but said nothing more until they reached the great central courtyard.
‘It’s a handsome head,’ he said, sitting down on a stone bench with his back to the courtyard’s eastern wall. ‘If you were going to be with us longer I’d even ask you to model for a fresco. Behind this wall, I should tell you, is a part of the palace I haven’t been able to show you, a little labyrinth in itself. That’s where our demented Queen Pasiphaë lives, with her ladies-in-waiting and her two unmarried daughters, Ariadne and Phaedra, who will soon go mad themselves if they are cooped up there much longer with a mother who cares nothing for them and dotes only on her bull-headed son.’
‘But can she ever set eyes on him?’
‘She spends half the day doing nothing else.’
‘How can she do that?’
‘Parts of the labyrinth are open to the sky. The Minotaur needs light and air like the rest of us. Pasiphaë sits on a terrace on the palace roof in the full sun – she claims to be the sun’s daughter, you know. From there she gazes down at him, uttering shrill cries of pleasure and encouragement as he pursues and catches and tears up his victims. You may catch a glimpse of her and you’ll surely hear her when you’re in there yourself.’
‘If parts are open, then it might be possible to climb out?’
‘Do you imagine I didn’t think of that? This is a man, though he has a bull’s head, and he’s taller than you. If you could climb out, so could he.’
Theseus sighed and looked glumly at the paved floor.
‘You said there was an easy way to get out. But how could there be? A man with your brain will have thought of everything.’
Daidalos smiled again.
‘Of course, but if you used the brain inside that handsome head you’d conclude that all you need to get out of the labyrinth is a simple ball of thread. Possibly two balls, in case the first runs out. Attach one end to the door as you go in and unwind it as you go …’
‘So simple!’ said Theseus. ‘What a mastermind you are, Daidalos!’
‘But, of course, having found your way back along the thread, you will still need to get through the heavy bronze door, bolted on the outside. For that you will need help. Someone so keen for you to escape that he – or she – will risk the anger of Minos by pulling the bolts back.’
‘And how shall I discover this person?’
‘I leave that to you. But do you really think you can overcome the Minotaur? No one ever has, not even the strongest prisoners of war or hardened criminals.’
Minos held a banquet that evening for his principal courtiers, inviting Theseus to attend and seating him beside him. Theseus gave an enthusiastic account of his guided tour of the palace.
‘You live like the gods,’ he said, ‘or at least as we imagine the gods live. People in Athens will not believe what I tell them.’
‘Do you expect to be able to tell them?’ asked Minos.
Theseus blushed.
&n
bsp; ‘Your kindness and hospitality, the magnificence of your palace made me forget my predicament,’ he said.
And to cover his embarrassment he went on to ask Minos question after question about his kingdom, how it was governed, how justice was dispensed, how the gods were worshipped and which gods in particular, how the ships were built and the sailors recruited and trained, how and with whom they traded, how the people were taxed and how above all the innumerable small enclaves cut off from each other by mountains, just as in his own country, had been united here into one great kingdom.
Minos answered all his questions in detail and at last, as the banquet was ending, said:
‘What a shame that you will not be returning to Athens! You are evidently a serious young man and I’m sure you would have done much to turn that primitive city of yours into something with more of a future. You know, in other circumstances I would have considered you a suitable husband for one of my daughters.’
The guests were now to be entertained by acrobats, dancers and musicians, but first the court ladies, accompanied by servants carrying flaming torches, descended the staircase from an upper floor where they too had been dining. Before taking their seats at the side, the dark-haired women in their multi-coloured swirling skirts came one by one to pay their respects to the king. Theseus was again astounded. He had never seen women dressed and coiffed with such sophistication, he had never seen women who wore their breasts bare above their tight, wasp-waisted bodices. The women were led by Queen Pasiphaë and her two daughters and all stared as admiringly at this Athenian prince with his long, soft fair hair and blue eyes as he at them. As they turned to go to their own places, Pasiphaë, who never troubled to lower her voice for an aside, was heard to say to her daughters:
‘He looks just like Apollo.’
The entertainments were as much more polished and skilful than anything Theseus had seen before as everything else in Minos’ palace, but he was not so completely absorbed in them that he did not glance frequently towards the row of bare-breasted women at the side. And whenever he did glance that way he saw that the princess Ariadne was looking at him. So was her younger sister, Phaedra, but more shyly, looking away quickly if their eyes met, whereas Ariadne simply stared.
Arcadian Nights Page 28