The Maze of Minos

by Tammie Painter

  The priestess steps aside. She will stay, but at a respectful distance. When we are done she will lead us out to what I’m sure will be a raucous and ribald crowd of well-wishers.

  I slip off my cloak. My shoulders feel airy after freeing them of the garment’s weight and warmth. I drop my tunic to the marble floor, but have no desire to attempt my sandals’ laces so I leave them on. My wife unfastens her own cloak—a light thing of silk—and I kneel before her to kiss her belly through the dress. As I stand, I pull the dress up and over her head then toss it into the pile with my clothes.

  We climb into the tall bed and I lay on my back so she can mount me. I know I should hold back. I know of the superstition that if I don’t give my wife pleasure in this sacred bed our marriage will be troubled, but the idea of where we are, the sight of her breasts, and the sweet scent of her skin when I sit up to suck them is too much. In only a few strokes I am crying out, giving no thought to my words as I groan the secret name only I can use.

  "Medea, oh gods, Medea."

  CHAPTER TWO

  Theseus

  "YOU CAN’T LEAVE just to go to some wedding," Perseus says. "You’re one of the best of my crew."

  "I’m practically all that’s left of your crew," I say. We left Menelaus in Seattica to continue his perpetual pursuit of Helen. His brother Agamemnon joined him. The twins Castor and Pollux have resumed their self-appointed roles as guardians over their troublesome sister like a pair of unwanted hawks. And, according to what he boasted to me, Paris is now tricking all four of them by sneaking into Helen’s bed under all of their noses. So, of those of us who returned with Perseus after the Argoa’s voyage to Colchis, only myself, Bellerophon, and Perseus himself remain.

  "Yes, but you are the best, which I still find surprising considering you grew up in Helena."

  I hold the letter up. After having been forwarded from Helena to the Docklands, Perseus’s stepfather, knowing where the Argoa would stop next, sent the sealed message on to Seattica. It had been waiting for me when we returned from making a tour of the northern Osterian coastline and the many islands in those waters. By the time I read it, the invitation was already weeks old and the wedding long since over. "I’ve already missed the wedding, but it’s still my duty to pay honor to my father’s new wife."

  "Why bother? Your father left your mother years ago."

  "Yes, but he’s still made me heir to Athenos," I say a little more defensively than I intend.

  "I don’t understand, I thought Athenos was a democracy," Bellerophon says.

  "It is and it isn’t," I explain. "The people of Athenos elect a president who has a term of six years. At that time, other candidates can throw their hats into the ring, but it’s nearly unheard of for a good leader not to get re-elected." I think of telling him the story of a corrupt election in which the ruling president who was loved by nearly every Athenian, lost. It was later revealed the supposed winner had cast false ballots using the names of dead people. But to keep the lesson concise, I continue with just the basics. "A president can nominate someone to rule after him; historically this has been his or her own child or grandchild but sometimes, as happened with my father, the vigiles will encourage the current president to nominate one of their commanders. The president can step down from duties anytime and this nominee will rule until the end of that term. If the nominee has proven himself, it’s rare for him not to win the next election. So, in essence, it’s a monarchy that gets voted in."

  "And you’re your father’s nominee?" Bellerophon asks after a pause to absorb the complexity of Athenian democracy.

  I nod.

  "Oh sure he’s secured your place as the next Athenian ruler, but what has he done for you since?" Perseus chides.

  It’s true. Aegeus has had only a small role in my life. I know he did love my mother, but she was too true a Helenian to leave her polis to marry him. I can’t blame him for leaving; who wouldn’t accept the rule of one of the most prestigious poli in all of Osteria over a life as a nobody in Helena. My mother, Aethra, often told me that before Aegeus left to begin his presidency he begged her to send me to him when I was ready. He left with her his family sword, a blade superbly crafted from the finest Helenian metal. Watching from the center of the sword’s hilt is the face of an owl with eyes of dark topaz. Spreading out from the center, the crossbar had been cast to resemble the wings of a great owl in flight. The weapon, a blend of Helenian and Athenian like me, was named Owl.

  "When he can wield this, I would like him to come to me, if he wants," he had said, placing the weapon next to my cradle. My mother, usually misty-eyed by this time in the story, said I gripped Owl’s hilt’s as best I could with my tiny fingers.

  When I was a toddler, Aegeus would show up for a day or two when he found time to escape his presidential duties, but with each re-election, his opportunities to leave politics behind to visit his child grew slimmer. I was twelve the last time I saw him. He’d just won his second six-year term and wanted me to join him in Athenos for the summer to teach me the ways of my polis, but of course, as he was not my mother’s husband, Aethra had the final say in whether I went or not. Although in some poli I would be his property by right, women in Helena retain all rights over their children and he could not command my mother to give me up. I wanted to go. Gods, how I longed to get out of Helena. Although I’m half Helenian and should have been born a homebody, I think my father’s blood has given me an Athenian’s curiosity about the world. At his request, my mother simply pointed at Owl.

  "Go on, son. You’ve been practicing haven’t you?" Aegeus had said, hope filling his grey eyes. I knew the rule: Only when I could wield my father’s sword would I be untied from my mother’s apron strings.

  I had practiced—or tried to at any rate—but the sword was so big and as a boy I was on the small side. It would still be many years before I hit the growth spurt that would make me taller and stronger than most men. Owl was a true warrior’s sword and I oiled it often just to feel the weight of it in my lap. Using the metalworking skills every Helenian learns in school, I honed the edge once a year—although with no use it never needed it. Still, I thought it good to get in the habit of keeping it sharp. But, with my small size, to do this routine task I had to drag the scabbard off rather than pulling the blade from its sheath then scoot the weapon onto my lap to work with it. Every day I tried to lift my father’s sword. Every day certain this time I would find Owl’s balance and swing the blade like a vigile in the battlefield. But I couldn’t even get the tip off the ground. I’d strained my wrists more than once by pushing my efforts too far.

  Still, the hope in my father’s eyes on that last visit had filled me with a foolish confidence. I knew this day Owl would come ringing from its scabbard and I would swing it in a whooshing arc that would ring across the courtyard of our apartment building. In my head I could hear my friends’ oohs and ahhs at the sight of my strength and skill.

  I grabbed the hilt. Although she always encouraged me and was never unkind, my mother shook her head then passed a scolding look to my father. Aegeus missed the glance as he watched me with expectant eyes.

  "You can do it," he said in his big, yet gentle voice with its melodic northern accent. "Just find the balance and center yourself."

  I knew this. I knew swords. Every Helenian knows swords. Even if we aren’t natural born fighters or adventurers, we are the ones who supply Osteria with the blades that win battles and become legend. Since I could walk, I’d played with wooden swords and engaged in mock battles with metal short swords that had been cooled of the forge’s heat but had yet to be honed. I knew where my center was.

  Tightening my small torso, tensing my shoulders, and taking my stance, I heaved on Owl. For the first time ever I felt the tip leave the ground and I thought, "This is it. I’ve got the momentum behind me. I’m going to spend the summer with my father."

  The momentum wasn’t behind me, though. It was in front of me. Lifting Owl’s point meant losing my
center and losing my center meant losing my balance. I tumbled back, the hilt slipping out of my sweaty hands.

  Aegeus bent down to help me up, but I pushed him away. With tears burning my eyes, I ran from the apartment and up a tree where I stayed until I saw him ride off with his three companions. Aegeus wrote me every week, but he never seemed able to find the time to pay us a visit again. The embarrassment and the idea that I had shamed myself so much that my own father couldn’t face me filled me with determination. It wasn’t enough to polish the sword and try to lift it, I had to train my entire body.

  By the time I was sixteen, I had put on height and muscle. I was finally able to heft the sword, but I couldn’t rush off to show my father, which was probably for the best since I could do nothing more exciting than pick up the weapon and make stabbing motions with it.

  At that age it was time for me to begin my two years of training to become a vigile. This training gave me the strength to not only lift Owl from the ground but to swing it, thrust it, and wield it as if it were an extension of my own arm. Each time I won a sparring match, I wished Aegeus could see me. My mother, although proud of me, could not muster the happiness I felt bursting from my pores. I suppose I could have insisted she let me finish my training in Athenos with the vigiles of my father’s polis, but I didn’t want to hurt her feelings and so remained in Helena to complete my two-year training. When I graduated, my mother surprised me with an open-ended travel pass to go to Athenos, to go to my father.

  Before I could use the pass, however, a call came up from Portaceae from a vigile named Odysseus. I’d never heard of him, but the commander of my troop was a close friend of his and rallied us behind Odysseus to protect our southern neighbor from an Arean invasion. Owl only devoured a handful of Areans, but he enjoyed the taste of them.

  I suppose I should have gone to Athenos then. My travel permit had no dates on it and would be valid for an entire year, but at the end of the fighting, Perseus was gathering a group of men who were ready for adventure. After learning that Perseus captained the Argoa, I worked my way into the group. I may have been young, but I wasn’t foolish enough to pass up a voyage on board that legendary ship. I have to admit there were times I wasn’t sure if we’d make it back from Colchis alive—of course, not all of us did. But since our return, I have continued to be a terrible Helenian by remaining on the Argoa with Perseus and sailing to places that most Helenians haven’t even heard of.

  Now, with many adventures under my belt and my father beckoning me to him, I know it’s time to give up my wanderings and head to Athenos to pay homage to my stepmother.

  "My father is giving me a polis when he retires," I tell Perseus.

  "Well, you better get there and stake your claim before his new wife gives him a legitimate son. Bastards walk on thin ice when it comes to inheritances," Perseus replies. I can’t say the same idea hasn’t crossed my mind, but it’s nothing I’ve wasted time worrying over. My father has made his will known and I trust his honor would keep him from ever going back on his word. I make my farewells to Bellerophon, a Tillaceaen who has become a close friend over these past months.

  "When you get tired of smelling cow dung, come to Athenos," I tell him.

  "Tillaceae isn’t all cows," he says, even though the main export from his polis is milk and cheese from the herds of dairy cattle that deliver a pungent welcome when travelers exit the Low Mountain Range and enter his home polis.

  "No, I hear they have floods as well." I pull him into a hug and restate my offer to come to Athenos whenever he likes.

  "I’ll come as soon as I make sure Proteus’s cows haven’t been swept away in one of those floods. That’s assuming Perseus lets me leave," he says with a smile. Although he was raised as a ward of Proteus—a governor of Tillaceae—Bellerophon has a great affection for the man who was more father than warden to him.

  To avoid the portage fees in Athenos Harbor, Perseus drops me off at a small dock just outside the city limits. Accustomed to the rolling of the ship, I step awkwardly across the wooden platform that is missing a few boards. Perseus laughs at my gait and I, as a final goodbye to the cocky captain, make a rude gesture with my middle finger. It takes nearly half a mile before my legs stop trying to adjust for the motion of the sea and my body accepts that the ground isn’t going to rise to meet each of my steps. In little time, I am finally walking the streets of Athenos City, my father’s home that I have imagined since I was a boy.

  Athenos amazes me. I’ve seen much since leaving Helena where a tall building is one with two levels and where the only source of energy comes from Hephaestus continually stoking the underworld fires of Mount Helena. Still, I’m thankful I’ve gained some worldly experience before coming here as I would hate to look like a backcountry tourist walking around with my mouth gaping.

  I know from letters my father has written me over the years that the city, which simply goes by the same name as the entire polis, is built on a theme of balance to symbolize justice. Nothing is asymmetrical here, not the agora, not the buildings, and not even the plants since the trees have been trimmed to a perfect symmetry. This gives the city a clean, precise look, but to my eyes it’s overly formal and after only a few blocks begins to wear on me. I’m tempted to shift a few of the flower-filled ceramic vases that line the sidewalks just to add a touch of spontaneity to the scenery.

  Although it’s been weeks since my father’s wedding, the city is still decorated for the celebration with garlands of pink and yellow flowers; congratulatory messages remain hanging from the doors of people’s homes; and as I pass through the agora I notice vendors continue to sell small wedding cakes and trinkets that bear inscriptions to honor my father and his new bride.

  Athenos is the crown of technological achievement in Osteria so it's no surprise to see solar-powered lampposts with electric lights starting to come on even though it’s only early evening and daylight still brightens my way. Even the buildings have lights outside them and I can see light that does not have the warm glow of candlelight coming from more than one window. While I’m impressed with the technology, I do wonder why the people don't simply go outside if they need more light. Still, if they're willing to pay the electricity tax the Osteria Council imposes, who am I to criticize?

  Following the directions of a signpost, I continue along this portion of the Osteria Road that within the city limits is known as Athena Way. To one side is what appears to be an immense lake with a portion roped off for children to row tiny vessels in. I ask a passerby where the royal palace is and am greeted by a chastising look.

  "We've no palace here. This is a democracy," he says in an accent that resembles the heavy Seattican brogue, but with a more lyrical sound to it.

  I don't bring up the point that Athenos is a democracy only in name and that I am heir to the supposedly nonexistent throne, but I let his correction slide.

  "Apologies. I meant, where does the president live?"

  "Just there near the lake. Follow this path around to the villa," he says, adding special emphasis to the final word as if trying to teach a very dim child.

  I thank him and follow where he has indicated.

  At its northern end, what I thought was a lake turns out to be a calm bay at the edge of which is a lock—the one Perseus would have had to pay a toll to pass through. Within the bay are a few pleasure boats, but outside the lock are several cargo vessels. At the dock are the usual activities of hauling, loading, cursing, and fighting. Following the path I head toward the most prominent building in the city. I have heard it looks quite similar to the palace in Salemnos, but this building’s domed center juts up higher and the wings look more severe, more imposing than the drawings Jason made of the graceful palace of Salmenos. I think this has to be the royal villa, but huge letters carved in the facade announce it is the Temple of Justice, which I remember my father telling me is what Athenians call their courthouse.

  Eventually, I come to a huge house, not a palace, but it could easily b
e categorized as a mansion. It’s certainly bigger than anyone would need for daily life, but not as vast as the courthouse, nor as cold. Although the front has a square porch lined in columns, a balcony with curved railings softens the angular entryway. The parklike setting and the gabled roof gives the place a warm appeal. Still, the closer I get to the portico and its row of marble columns that gleam in the sunlight, the more I’m reminded of a temple to one of the Twelve. I even hesitate a moment before climbing the long marble steps to the main entry. Only priests and priestesses, or those they invite, are normally allowed to enter the confines of a temple. But sense returns to me, I am technically heir to this house. I continue my way to the main door.

  A guard with pale blonde hair and wearing a breastplate embossed with an owl stops me.

  "Do you have an appointment?" he asks in a tone that’s snobbier than I expect. He glares at me with stern hazel eyes.

  "I didn’t know I needed one."

  "You’ll have to make an appointment and come back. His Presidency is quite busy." Something about the man is familiar.

  "When is the next appointment?"

  He pauses as if flipping through the pages of his own mental calendar. As I watch him think, I picture him on a horse riding alongside my father. Could this be one of the companions he brought with him that last time he visited me? "On the Hermesday after next."

  Fourteen days? There’s no way I can make my drachars stretch far enough to rent rooms for fourteen days. I reach for the pouch at my belt. The motion is very much like someone reaching for a sword and the guard’s hand drops to the hilt of his own weapon.

  "I’ve a letter," I say, slowly moving my hand past Owl to my pouch. The guard’s face loses its expression of snide derision as his eyes go wide at the sight of Owl’s hilt.