"Unless you have a death wish, you’re going nowhere," I say pulling him back like a misbehaving mongrel.
"I’d rather just get it over with. I’ve made my peace with the gods. I’m ready for Hades to come take me to the Chasm."
I roll my eyes and push him back toward the stairs with the others. I go back to teasing apart the knot.
"First off, there’s nothing for you to get over with other than a bit of waiting. Second, it’s Hermes who takes you to the Chasm. Hades just checks you in."
"And Athena?" he whines. "She leaves the polis at a time like this? Isn’t it obvious she has forsaken us? She has no sense of justice if she would allow us to come here for slaughter." As he speaks the whine turns into mounting panic. I’m tempted to slap him, not only to bring him back to himself, but also because it would be a terrific way to release some of my tension. But I don’t want to cause trouble. Still, he needs to be shut up before his panic infects the others.
"Damn Athena and damn you," I curse both at him and Ariadne’s knot. "We will get out of here, but only if you trust me."
"I suppose you think you’re going to save us all." His tone has switched from fear to insolence. Mr. Peevish sure has his mood swings. It’s annoying, but at least I’ve snapped him out of his panic.
"You think that just because you’re good in the arena that you can do anything," a woman says. Her harsh voice makes me feel sorry for any man who ends up marrying her. "You’re not even Athenian. You’re just a Helenian bastard."
"I’m a bastard Helenian who not only is the son of your leader, but who has his backing and will likely rule over you one day." A wave of relief hits me as I finally feel the knot loosen. "And yes, I do intend to save us, even you. Although if you keep up your attitude, I’ll let the minotaur rape you before I kill him. Now, where is Agata?" I ask, slipping the belt from my waist.
"Here," she says as if I’ve just called roll in school. I step toward her voice and don’t mind that I step on a few toes as I do. Ungrateful idiots.
"Hold out your hand." It’s full dark down here, but already my eyes are adjusting to it and picking up the faintest hint of light. I can see the vague shape of her hand at level with my waist. My other senses seem to be waking up as well and I can feel the heat coming from her. Unfortunately my ears have always been sensitive and have been detecting growls and heavy hoofbeats from somewhere in the maze. In the back of my mind I tune in to where they are coming from, hoping I can start by heading the right direction.
Only now do I wonder what will happen if the minotaur makes his way to my group before I find him. They will be dead and my guide line back to this spot will be lost. But I cannot risk fastening the chain to the bars of the gate at the top of the stairs. Some guard or passerby might untie it. Nor can I waste time groping around down here for something to tie it to. Someone must hold it. I place one end of the belt in her hand. She takes it from me with cool, steady fingertips.
"Hold this and do not let go. I need you and the others to stay here. You are in charge. Do not let them wander off." I want to tell her again not to drop the chain, but repeating my orders will demean her and will reveal the seed of fear growing within me.
Without a word, I grip my end of the belt and step into the darkness. In little time I can no longer detect any light. I could have my eyes closed and it would make no difference, but fear has them wide open. I walk with one hand grazing along the wall. It feels damp, not wet, but as if a deep moisture from the bowels of the earth is slowly working its way to the surface. My other hand grips the belt. I know I should relax, that I shouldn’t wear out even the smallest of my muscles, but I dread dropping the line that will be my only way out of this engulfing darkness.
I slip around a corner, turning right. I’m lead straight to a dead end, I curse under my breath. Tension and fear tremble through my legs, but this is the test isn’t it? This is why I have the belt. I feel my way back along the cool metal, following the niche out and around to my original direction. Only when my back starts to tire do I realize I’m crouching forward, subconsciously avoiding knocking my head on any low ceilings.
Turning another corner, my foot catches on something. I stumble over it and one knee comes down hard, crunching the object underneath. I tell myself to hold onto the belt, hold onto the belt. I take a moment to steady my shaking legs. The stumble has unnerved me. Even before I reach down to feel what’s strewn across my path, I know what it will be. Still, I’m compelled to run my hand across the smooth long thing that, if I were foolish, I could imagine was nothing more than a branch. But I know by the knobs at the end and its length that this is a femur, the leg bone of an Osterian I may have met once. And I know, although I try to push the thought away, that if there are bones here, the minotaur must spend time in this portion of the maze. He could be only an arm’s length away and I wouldn’t know. A hollow spot develops in my stomach. I slowly stand. I have to command my legs to move forward before I can continue my way deeper into the maze.
With my eyes blinded, my ears pick up every thud of my heart. I swear I can even hear the belt’s metal links stretching.
How far can it go? Can it really extend throughout the entire maze?
But it’s my sense of smell that bears the brunt of this heightened awareness. Over the musty scent of damp stones hovers a stronger scent of animal sweat and waste and flesh that has gone putrid. It’s a smell as if someone took a pack of starved dogs, locked them in with horses that were still sweaty and dusty after a hard ride, left the beasts for several weeks, then returned to find the horses in pieces, the dogs full to bursting, and the waste from both animals fouling the space. It’s this smell that—more than the dark, more than even the bone middens—breaks my resolve and makes me want to turn back. This is a wild, feral smell proclaiming that, although this place was made by man, no mortal belongs in these depths. Cold sweat trickles down my chest and I clench the belt for a minuscule amount comfort.
The next time my foot encounters something, I pat my hand gingerly along the floor praying I don’t dip my hand into the rotting flesh of a fellow Osterian. Thankfully, I find only a pile of dry bones. The monster has picked them clean but none feel broken. He's clearly getting enough meat to not bother with the marrow or at least not the marrow of this one. Fighting down the revulsion at the thought that I may have known this person, that I may have been in vigile training with him, I feel bone after bone looking for a femur. Although the dagger will be handy—I think how in daylight I would be able to hurl it straight into the beast’s throat—in the dark I'll have to be close to my target. And the only way I can get close safely in this blinding darkness is to knock the monster senseless.
Angled across a rib cage I find one femur. It’s no club of hardwood. In truth, it’s a poor weapon and likely to shatter after one blow, but wielded correctly I can hope to hit the monster in the jaw and drop him as I've seen Castor and Pollux do with their fists in boxing matches.
After turning three more corners I'm hit with the pungent stink of animal dung and human sweat more intensely than before. I pause, not knowing if the beast is within reach or if I’m just nearing his lair. Although pointless in this darkness, I close my eyes as I would do above ground to better focus my hearing. Except for the swish of blood drumming through my ears I hear nothing. Still, the hairs on my arms and neck jerk upright making my skin tingle in the damp, chilly air.
But all is quiet. Giving a reassuring tug on the belt, I start forward again. I take one step. As I raise my foot for the next step I hear it: the heavy, huffing exhale of a bull. I pause, my foot hovering mid-stride. Even though the first breath sent shivers along my spine, I need him to breathe again. I need to pinpoint where and how far he is from me. I grip the femur more tightly.
A growl sounds from my right. It's not a growl from the throat, but from the belly. The beast is hungry. Before I can wonder what I might taste like, heavy hoofbeats charge towards me. I whirl around, raising the femur. Just as I can
feel the heat of him near me I step aside. There's a rush of stinking air and I follow it with the bone. It connects but I can tell from the sound I’ve only hit flesh. I grip tighter to my makeshift weapon.
The blow hasn’t caused any advantageous harm, but it has pissed off my opponent. Perhaps he's not used to his meals fighting back. His breathing huffs faster now and the stench of sweat throbs from him. I wonder how well he can see down here. Better than me, that's obvious. And that's all that matters. I need to focus on my ears, my nose, and my skin’s ability to detect his warmth. Again, I close my eyes as if to remind myself they are pointless down here.
The pounding of hoof against stone comes again. This time I spin aside as I strike. I hit something bony. The minotaur lets out a satisfying yelp, but I also hear the femur crack. Feeling along the length of the bone, I find the fracture is toward the top. I grip the bone, break off the weakened end, and hurl it toward where I can hear his angry breaths. It hits him and he lets out a grunt that is both agonized and annoyed.
I whirl the femur around so the other end can serve as my mallet. I’m clutching the belt so tightly my hand aches. I have to stop doing this or one quick move will jerk the chain right out of Agata’s hand. With the shortened bone in my right hand, I ease the grip on my left hand and tell myself to maintain this. Not an easy task when one's mind is occupied with not becoming a monster’s snack.
Having just been struck twice, the beast is more cautious now. His vision can't be perfect down here if he can't tell how poorly I'm armed and this thought encourages me to inch forward even though every part of my body wants to flee. Just the smell of him is enough to make me want to retreat. If death had a smell it would be the odor that clings to this creature. The warmth emanating from him tells me I'm close. But I need to know where his head is if I'm to make use of the femur. I wish I knew more about this monster so I knew better how to fight him. How tall is he? Does he stand on his feet like a man or does he go on all fours like a bull?
Another wet huff of air rushes over me. The breath grazes across the top of my head and down my back. So, he’s taller than me. And he's within reach. Just as I'm about to jut the head of the femur upward, his stench smacks me with its proximity. I move to duck aside. Before I can complete the motion, I’m jerked off my feet. A searing pain flares through my shoulder. Every ragged breath I try to take overwhelms me with pain and with the putrid smell of his breath and body. Hot saliva dribbles down my back as his teeth sink into me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Briseis
I NUDGE JASON with my toe. He’s passed out.
Not again.
I’d gone to stretch my legs after an afternoon of standing before a class of Osteria’s elite children when, not far into the woods, I found Jason slumped against a tree. I’d stupidly hoped he was only napping, but in my heart I knew better. This is the third time I’ve found him like this. I have no idea where he got the wine, but I hate whoever has given it to him. When my nudging doesn’t stir him, I think of kicking him. I want to kick some sense into him. Instead, I leave him and storm back to the Fields itching to unleash my frustration.
"Did you give him the wine?" I accuse Achilles the moment I step into his cabin. His mother, Thetis, is there and she hisses at me. Literally hisses and makes to stand to defend her son.
"Sit down, mother. She’s not going to attack me." He then looks at me, notices my rage and asks, "Are you?"
"Did you give Jason the wine?" I repeat. The first time, Jason had gotten drunk on four bottles he’d hidden in his travel bag all the way from Illamos Valley. A waste of such high quality wine. The last time I found him sloshing around in the woods, barely able to stand, he told me Achilles gave him the drink. A bottle of strong wine meant to be well watered, but Jason had guzzled the whole thing straight. After that, Achilles was sworn to only give Jason wine with his evening meal, the one cup a day he is allowed.
"No, I want him to get better as much as you do. Okay, maybe not as much as you do, but quite a lot," he says with plenty of cheek. I blush when Thetis laughs at the insinuation.
It’s true though, I do want him to get better. When he’s sober I enjoy our time together. He’s kind and gentle and it’s hard not to feel for his loss. And yes, I’m attracted to the dark features he inherited from his father, and the lithe, athletic frame he inherited from his mother.
"Then where did he get it? It’s not like there’s a tavern or wine shop nearby and there’s no fruit in season for him to make his own." This is something I’ve worried about since I saw the first wild strawberry in the woods a few days ago.
"I gave it to him," Thetis says in her slinky voice that always carries a mix of seduction and threat regardless of who she’s talking to.
"Why would you do that?" I ask, then immediately regret my harsh tone. She’s not a woman to be yelled at. She’s not a woman at all, but a nymph, nearly a goddess but without the rules that restrict the gods from killing humans. "He needs to get better," I say more calmly.
"I don’t care about that. He takes up my son’s time. Better that he gets drunk and leaves my boy alone."
"Mother, I like Jason. You must accept that. He’s my friend. Briseis is my friend. My having friends is not a threat to my love for you." I want him to add that she should keep her slim nose out of our business, let her son be a man on his own, stop meddling in things, but that is too much to wish for.
"Will you help me with him?" I ask Achilles. We need to get him back to his cabin without Chiron seeing him. Although I would love Thetis to get in trouble for her part in this, after the last time Jason was caught inebriated, Chiron said if there was another incident, Jason would have to go. I don’t want him to leave just yet. I want him to heal. And I want to be there when he does.
Achilles shrugs and we go back to the woods, hoist Jason up between us, and start back. Thankfully, Jason’s cabin is next to mine at the forest edge of the Field. There’d be no way to hide his condition if we had to cross the central yard.
"What about Chiron?" Achilles asks.
"He’s got a rhetoric class until sundown."
Achilles grimaces at the memory of those long classes of debate—pointless chatter, as he calls it. Easy for him to say. People would agree with him simply because of his good looks, or to avoid the threat of his mother. When I first arrived here six years ago, I too was enamored by his beauty and found myself agreeing with him on everything. Despite my attraction to him, I never considered winning Achilles as a boyfriend; I don’t think I had the confidence to think he would be interested in me like that. Still, it’s hard not to get swept up in Achilles’s love of life and I couldn’t resist being around him.
It was the day I finally stood up to him, the day I demanded we do something I wanted to do instead of following blindly along with his wishes, that our friendship finally became one of equals, of two people who could banter and tease and debate, not one person leading the other around like a pet. Thetis didn’t like it. She never liked it when her son portioned any attention to someone other than her, but Achilles ignored her complaints until the jealous nymph grudgingly accepted the situation.
By some luck, we get Jason into his cabin without notice. Achilles passes me a sly grin and I know what he wants to do. I nod. Jason deserves a little discomfort. Holding our Illamosian king by his arms and legs, we swing him to one side, swing back, and on the next swing forward let him go, flinging him onto the bed. He bangs against the wall the bed is against and is jolted awake. I fill a large cup from a jug of fresh water.
"Drink it," I command.
"No," he says lolling his head back and forth so drunkenly it looks as if he has no bones in his neck.
"Drink it, you drunken sot!" Achilles bellows. Jason scrambles for the cup and drains it. And then promptly throws it up. Achilles looks away pretending he hasn’t noticed. I sigh and grab a rag to clean up the mess, trying to think of why it is that I think of Achilles as my best friend, almost a brother. An annoying
little brother, I suppose would be accurate.
"What are we going to do with him?" Achilles asks, and the tone of sincere concern in his voice proves that he can be a decent person at times. I toss the dirty rag into a hamper, then grab a clean one and wet it.
"He needs a distraction," I say, wiping the fouled spot with the wet rag. "He needs to be kept busy."
"Did you have something particular in mind," Achilles asks in a tone bursting with innuendo.
I give him a scolding look. Not that I would complain, but Jason doesn’t need a relationship right now. He needs to find himself again. "Exercise, chores, anything to keep his hands so busy he doesn’t have time to drink and his body so tired he doesn’t have the energy to seek out wine."
"He could run with us."
Achilles and I love to race, we love to run. While I love working and living here, the Fields have strict rules about behavior, including not running through or around them. It makes my legs twitch just to think of it because I adore running. I love feeling fast. If I were a centaur I swear I would gallop half my days away. It was what I had insisted on doing that day when all Achilles wanted to do was lounge by the lake reading poetry or some such drivel, the day we truly became friends. Achilles loves anything physical and has joined me in my runs ever since, even though Thetis thinks it’s undignified. In her opinion, a person of Achilles’s status should only ever move swiftly on horseback.
"You’ll need to keep your mother from giving him any more wine."
The Maze of Minos Page 19